So, I had the cat put to sleep this afternoon.  The kidney issue could possibly have been maintained for a few years, but the anemia he developed as a result of the renal failure was too severe.  When the red blood cell count falls too low, not enough oxygen is carried through the blood stream and breathing becomes difficult. 

When I first noticed a week and a half ago that the cat's breathing had become labored, the vet said that we could try a blood transfusion and a few treatments of EPO (Ironically, had the cat lived, he would never have been allowed to race a bicycle professionally.  Sorry, lame joke that couldn't be resisted since I'm into cycling.  Anyway...).  He said straight out that he couldn't guarantee positive results, or how long the results would last if there were any.  For the first few days afterward, though, it was like having the old goombah back again.  He was alert and hungry, climbed his scratching post, and even ran across the living room one evening when I walked into the kitchen.  By the end of last week, though, there was an obvious decline.  By this past Monday, his rib cage was heaving again and he wasn't eating much.  So, this morning I called the vet's office at 7:45a.m. and said that I needed to bring him in.  Blood and urine samples showed that his stats were worse than before the transfusion.

The decision itself wasn't hard.  As I wrote earlier this month, I've always known what I would do.  What's difficult is dealing with the timing of it all.  You go along with everything fine, then boom, the animal is suddenly sick.  You balance that shock with trying to understand the situation and how to treat it, then boom, the condition is too far advanced and nothing you do will have long-lasting positive results.  Even if the animal's condition drags on for years, I think that final realization is still a sudden thing, no matter how often you've considered or how long you've anticipated it.

The vet and her assistant were very nice, and very efficient, which was what I needed most.  They gave me some private time to hold the cat, but he was too freaked over being at the vet's office to respond to my affection.  The longer we sat together, the worse it would  have been.  When the vet came in, I put him on the table for her to administer the injection.  It took effect immediately, and the cat slumped into a soft, limp bundle.  I stroked him a few more times, then the vet checked his heart and said that he was gone.  It was quick enough that I was able to keep from dissolving into total blubbering and managed to hold my voice steady while I thanked the vet and her assistant for taking care of him. 

I chose to have the goombah cremated, so I left his body there and headed straight up the highway to Sugarloaf Mountain.  Going home would have led to blubbering and brooding, but in the woods and on the mountaintop I can think instead of brood.  I know I'll cry more over the next few days--  when I go to bed alone and the cat doesn't wake me up in the middle of the night to beg for attention and food;  when I clean up his toys and food dish and litterbox; when I go to work tomorrow and have people ask me how I am; and when I begin to think about whether it's time to go out and find another cat.

There is a part of me, though, that feels relieved.  That might seem callous on the surface, but I have to be honest and admit that I'm relieved to not be dealing with the emotional rollercoaster of the last couple of months.  I'm relieved for both myself and the cat that we don't have to go through the twice-daily torture treatments anymore.  And I'm relieved that he's no longer nauseous and laboring to breath. 

My plan for the cat's ashes will involve a hike up another mountain.  When all of this started and I began to anticipate the end, I thought about what I'd do with his remains.  I don't want to bury them where I live.  It's not the only place the cat and I lived together, and I wouldn't want to leave him here if I move.  And I don't want an urn or box of ashes on my bookshelf.  I may have morbid tendencies, but that isn't one of them.  But there's a spot in the Catoctin Mountains called Cat Rock that's reached by a couple of nastily steep, though fairly short, trails.  Back in my younger years, I hiked up there a couple of times and had some great moments of reflection while taking in the view.  And the symbolism can't be denied.  There are tons of beautiful places in Maryland where I could say goodbye to the goombah, but will I remember where I did so in 10-20 years from now?  How could possibly I forget that I scattered the cat amidst the boulders at Cat Rock?

And now I'm at home, trying not to look for the cat out of the corner of my eye and wondering how many days it'll take to be ready to clear out all of his toys and other stuff, not to mention the kitchen counter full of medicines and IV bags.  And, hey!, I can set my alarm clock back to it's usual time and not get up early to administer morning tortures! 

Yippee... 

Ok, so maybe that title's a bit melodramatic, but that's how I felt at 2:00am this morning.

The cat I've lived with for the past ten or so years is sick.  He's been diagnosed with chronic renal insufficiency, which basically means that his kidneys are pooping out on him.  Once a hale & hearty part-Maine Coon/part-Labrador Retriever, he was 19lbs of attention-hogging affection and appetite.  Ironically, the vet had me put him on a diet just a year ago.  Over the last couple of months, though, he's lost over half of his body weight and spends most of his time huddled in a little ball with a woe-be-gone expression on his face.  Trying to pet him causes him to either pull away, or to let out pitifully sad squawks that pass for meows.  I also get to hear these squawks in the middle of the night, when he wakes up feeling poorly and gets right up in my face to let me know about it.  He's gone from being a big, goofy goombah of a cat to a furry, miserable little bit of skin and bones.

Treatment of CRF is tons of fun.  His usual vet went for minimal treatment:  special food (which he won't eat), one medication, and subcutaneous fluid therapy to help maintain his hydration level.  After three members of her staff couldn't hold him still long enough to give him one full sub-q treatment, I knew there was no way I was going to be able to do it alone.  There's no experience quite like holding onto a squirmy, agitated cat that shouldn't be stressed with one hand, trying to insert a needle under his skin with the other hand, and then turning on an IV drip with your non-existent third hand.  Toooonnns of fun.  I gave it up on the first attempt without even poking him once.

So, when he continued to lose weight and the usual vet continued to insist that "some cats with CRF can live up to a handful of years", I took him in for a second opinion.  While being examined, the goombah collapsed.  The new vet immediately put him on oxygen, and collected lab samples once the cat had stabilised.  He finally came out to the reception room to announce to me that "That cat is going to die!"  My response was a stunned pause and then "Uhhh, yeah, I already know that.  What are you really telling me?"  I finally gathered that there's no way to predict how long the cat will hang on, but that he's in worse shape than the previous vet had led me to believe.  His increasing weakness and dehydration has apparently contributed to a heart murmur, and the stress of being at the vet set it off and caused the collapse.  The new vet prescribed a more aggressive treatment of six medications:  three pills, two liquids, and a gel, each to be administered twice a day.  So far, I've been able to get no more than one or two medications into the cat at a time.  If it's in his food, he won't eat it (and he's barely eating to begin with).  If I try to give any of them to him orally, he puts up a hellatious fight for such a weak little thing, and I'm paranoid of stressing him and having his heart give out.  In addition to the six meds, the new vet also strongly recommended sub-q therapy.  Surprisingly, this has been much easier than expected.  The new vet installed a GIF-tube, which is basically a catheter, into which I can insert the IV tube with no needles involved.  The goombah looks like a little Franken-cat with the thing sticking out of the back of his neck, but so far he's been amazingly good about allowing me to remove the cap, insert the IV tube, turn on the IV, then everything in reverse.  He freaks a bit when the fluids begin flowing under his skin, but it's over fairly quickly. 

The big question at this point is how long all of this is going to last.  The cat keeps wanting to pry open the kitchen cabinet and curl up amongst my extra plastic grocery bags and cleaning supplies, and this gives me unhappy visions of sick animals searching for a solitary, quiet place to die.

The other spot he seems to like is a corner of my computer room.  In the middle of the night, I woke up to find him gone from the bed, and got it into my head that I should try to get him to eat something.  I found him in his little corner and gingerly carried him out to the kitchen, where he licked up a few bites of food.  He then wandered back to the computer room, staggering a few times, and straight into the corner, where he huddled up into a ball, staring at the floor and occasionally shivering.  I sat and watched him and convinced myself that every twitch he made was the beginning of the end.  The big thing I wonder about is how I'm going to handle it when he does go, considering my phobia about dead things (can't recall whether I've already written about that or not).  Will I freak and not be able to touch his body?  Would it be better to have him put to sleep?  And, if so, at what point?  I've always believed firmly in quality of life over quantity, so my main concern at this point is that he be comfortable.  If he deteriorates to the point that he's in pain or constant distress, I would have no qualms about putting him to sleep.  It'd be devastating, but so would watching him die slowly or coming home from work to find him lifeless.  I'm gonna be sad as hell no matter when he goes, so it's the how that has me agitated.    

At 3:00am or so, I finally tucked a couple of fleece blankets into the corner around him and went back to bed.  At the moment, he's huddled down there next to me.  Every now and then, he'll curl up like normal and go to sleep with the tip of his tail wrapped over his nose, which is a relief to see.  And I've written way more than I intended to.  My intention for this blog was to briefly say that my cat is sick and his care is taking up a lot of my time, and as a result I'm going to be slow to respond at length to communications.  A few brief posts or comments here and there are all I'm going to be able to manage for a while.  Unless, like today, I have a bunch of mental or emotional crap that I need to unload.

The silly goombah:

Very lazy day today.  I'll backtrack a bit to explain why, then move on:  Friday evening, I drove straight from work in DC up to King of Prussia, PA, to spend the night at a friend's house, then we left her place early Saturday morning to head to NY for a day of adventure--  A visit to Alex Grey's Chapel of Sacred Mirrors, then a reading by another friend of ours from her memoire-in-progress at the Bowery Poetry Club, then a bunch of us from the reading headed to Chinatown for a tasty dinner of vegetarian dim sum.  And then, seven hours, three trains, and 154 miles driven at 80+mph later, I ended up back home in Maryland at 3:00am Sunday morning.  Needless to say, I was a bit tired today.  So, I headed out for a late lunch and a brief, easy meander through the woods at Monocacy National Battlefield Park.   

I wish I could write about Saturday's experiences, but the day was a bit of a blur so I really don't have many concrete thoughts about it.  The Chapel was incredible, but there were too many people there for me to fully absorb it the way I would have liked (which would have been to plop my butt down on the floor in the middle of the room and just sit there quietly for a while).  And the memoire reading was funny and moving and stimulating.  But, sorry, that's about all I can put together about it.  So my thoughts were kind of vague and rambling today as I wandered through the woods along Monocacy River.  

On the train(s) home last night, I began reading Brad Warner's latest book, Sit Down and Shut Up.  His first book apparently describes his own discovery of Buddhism, specifically the Zen kind, and how he became an ordained monk.  SD/SU is an explanation of the teachings of Dogen, an apparently influential 13th century Zen master.  So far, Warner's focused on the idea of reality in Zen, and the process of sitting zazen.  The guy's incredibly irreverent and even talks about how he pretty much hates being a zen monk and teaching the dharma.  It's great stuff, because he explains everything so clearly and meaningfully, yet comes at it with an attitude that I can so easily relate to.  I'd really love to know his take on the whole "loving-kindness" aspect of Buddhism, but I'm not sure whether that's a big concept in Zen.  Guess I'll find out (or not) as the book progresses.  Read this while at lunch and almost cracked up in the middle of the very crowded Golden Corral restaurant: 

Awesome stuff.  Right up my alley.

Found myself at one point while sitting along the river, cursing as I have so many times before that I didn't have my camera with me.  I had glanced downstream along the trail and noticed a very pretty interplay of clouds and tree branches, touched with a bit of gold from the late afternoon sun.  Had the potential to be a great photo, but the camera was back at home.  So I sat and had the debate with myself that I've had all those other times in similar moments:  Should I make a point of always bringing the camera with me when I leave the house, or should I only bring it when I'm specifically in the mood to shoot photos?  There are pros and cons either way.

With the camera, I can capture and keep a concrete memory of, not to mention share with others, all the gorgeous &/or interesting things that catch my attention.  But having the camera with me changes how I move through whatever place I'm in.  My vision is narrowed to the perspective of the view finder, and my perceptions become focused on lighting and composition.  My other senses may as well just stay at home on those occasions.

Without the camera, though, I can allow the focus of my eyes to soften and my peripheral vision comes into play.  I see more.  Without the distraction of composing a picturesque shot, I'm able to have a more intimate connection to my surroundings and feel that I'm a part of the place.  Which, in it's way, makes scenes such as the rosy-gold clouds behind those bare tree branches just that much more special, because I fully experience, yet can't capture, them.  But, as special as those moments are to me, do they become even more meaningful when I'm able to share them with others via my photos? 

Nice little circular argument, there.

And (apologies to anyone who's becoming tired of my Incubus obsession, feel free to read the poetry below but skip my babbling), I'm continuing to find inspiration in Brandon Boyd.  I recently read a wonderful poem by Jane Hirshfield that made me instantly think of the Incubus song Pantomime (the lyrics of which I posted at the end of this blog).  First, here's Hirshfield's piece:

To Speech

This first, this last:
there's nothing you wouldn't say.

Unshockable inclusion your most pure nature,
and so you are like an iron pot---
whatever's put in, it holds.

We think it's the fire that cooks the stew,
but, speech, it's also you:
teacher
of fire-making and stew-making,
orator of all our plans and intentions.

We think we think with a self.
That also, it seems, is mostly you---
sometimes a single spider's thread of you,
sometimes a mountain.

The late sun paints orange
the white belly of a hawk overhead---
that wasn't you
though now and here, it is.

If a hungry child says "orange", her taste buds grow larger.

If a person undamaged says "hungry child",
his despondence grows larger.

You are not, of course, omnipotent.
In fact, you do little unaided by muscle, by matter.
And still, present and absent, speech, you change us.

As Issa changed, writing after the death of his daughter,

This world of dew
is a world of dew.
And yet.

How much of you
was left uninvited in those lines.
That silence your shadow, bringing his grieving to me.

For days
I made phone calls to strangers,
the few words repeated over and over,
between the "please, if you have a moment" and "thank you."

I didn't expect to make a difference, and didn't.  And yet.

Your vehicles are air and memory,
teeth, tongue, papyrus, woodblocks, iron,
signing fingers, circuits, transistors, and ink.
A wheel is not your vehicle, nor an engine.

Terence was your vehicle,
saying in Latin:
"Whatever is human cannot be foreign to me."

Your own truth as well---
For all of our parts, you are our closest mirror,
growing thin or fat, muscular, clumsy,
speeding or slowing as we do.

The wolf-child without you called wolf-child, not-fully-human.

You are held, in the forms we can know you,
only by creatures
able to pass you to others
living often in sadness and tiredness, sometimes in hope.

A friend, who is sometimes sad, said this:
"To be able to hope means that we can also regret."

You rest, fierce speech, in both.
As well as in bargaining, persuasion, argument, gossip,
flirtation, jokes.

Fear, hunger, rage stammer beyond you:
what lives in words is what words were needed to learn.

And so it is good we sometimes set you down
and walk---
unthinking and peaceful, planning nothing---
by the cold, salt, unobedient, unlistening sea.

Only then, without you, are we able to see you completely,
like those wandering monks
who, calling nowhere home, are everywhere home.

I was struck by the contrast between Boyd's idea of gaining freedom by giving up speech and Hirshfield's concept of it as something that is so much a part of us.  "there's nothing you wouldn't say... Unshockable inclusion your most pure nature"  vs. "I've found beyond all doubt, we say more by saying nothing at all".  There's a romantic irony to Pantomime, that vision of someone whose creative career depends on word and voice choosing to give up speech and communicate by less "messy" methods.  Especially considering Hirshfield's contention that "what lives in words is what words were needed to learn".

I'll throw another final contrast into this rambling mess of a blog.  I keep finding myself hitting the "repeat" button of the car's cd player for two specific, yet very divergent, Incubus tunes:  One is the wacky Azwethinkweiz that I posted the lyrics to a few days ago, and the other is 11am, which is one of the most beautiful of the many gorgeous tunes on Morning View: 

7 a.m.
The garbage truck beeps as it backs up
And I start my day thinking about what I've thrown away
Could I push rewind?
The credits traverse, signifying the end
But I missed the best part
Could we please go back to start?
Forgive my indecision

Then again, you're always first when no one's on your side
But then again, a day will come when I want off that ride

11 a.m.
By now you would think that I would be up
But my bedsheets shade the heat of choices I've made
And what did I find?
I never thought I could want someone so much
Cause now you're not here and I'm knee-deep in that old fear
Forgive my indecision
I am only a man

Then again, you're always first when no one's on your side
But then again, a day will come when I want off that ride

12 p.m. and my dusty telephone rings
Heavy head up from my pillow, who could it be?
I hope it's you...

Then again, you're always first when no one's on your side
But then again, the day has come and I want off that ride

To anyone who's read thus far...  I'm not sure whether to thank you for your attention, or to think that you're more obsessively weird than I am 

Had a surprise on today's drive.  After breakfast in Shep'town, I set out to cruise some back roads I first explored a couple of weeks ago.  At one point along this curvy little set of roller-coasters during that October drive, I had to slow down for a young boy of 9 or 10 who was playing basketball in the road.  As he moseyed off the blacktop, I glanced at what I assumed was his home.  There in the midst of farmland sprinkled with nice, somewhat aged, little single-family homes, was a stereotypical West Virginia trailer-cum-shack, complete with junk-strewn front yard.  At the edge of the yard, apparently for the kid's entertainment, they'd erected a basketball hoop facing out into the road.  Having been the only obstacle to an otherwise smoothly flowing cruise, the boy stayed on my mind for a while that afternoon.

So today I'm flying along the same road and remember that, not sure exactly where, but somewhere, I'm going to need to watch out in case that kid's out in the middle of the road again.  Cresting a small rise, I recognize the spot and am taken aback.  Not only is there no boy with a basketball, but the trailer/shack is nothing but charred black bits pointing up at a roofless sky, in the middle of all those piles of junk.

And the basketball hoop is still there, on top of its pole along the edge of the road. 

Another great hike today that inspired a bit of haiku.  Too bad the poem's not as good as the hike was 

Hot November sun
A deer snorts in the distance
Sycamores applaud

Ya had to be there.

Snagged this off the Make Yourself Foundation blog.  Quite thought-provoking.  There are links at the end, if you find it to be worth sharing with others.

In the last handful of days, I've been to two very intense, moving, and thought-provoking exhibits.  It's going to be hard to convey the full impact of them, but hopefully I can get at least some of it across.

First of the two is the latest exhibit at the American Visionary Arts Museum (AVAM), "All Faiths Beautiful" (photos from the opening, apparently).  I had been slightly disappointed by the last two year's exhibits at AVAM, but this one is special from the first step beyond the entrance.  In addition, I had the pleasure of experiencing it with a new internet acquaintance with whom I was very much on the same wave-length.  From the items we reacted to, to the connections we made with pieces, there were repeated moments of synchronicity as we wandered through the galleries.  As I've written here before, I'm often hesitant to share with others things that are meaningful to me for fear that the experience will be diminished by that person not "getting it".  Having this person along definitely made the experience richer and lots of fun to boot (thanks, Leo!).

So, the exhibit begins with a stream of postcards from the PostSecret project, chosen specifically for their reference to the sender's issues with faith.  The secrets shared ranged from hilarious to heart-rending and were very touching to read.  At the top of the entrance ramp, before entering the galleries, a sign explains that this year's exhibit is dedicated to the middle-eastern spiritual poet, Rumi, to celebrate the 800th anniversary of his birth.  I've read about Rumi in the yoga and Buddhism magazines I subscribe to, but I had never been drawn into reading anything from Rumi.  After this introduction to him, it's time. 

Immediately beyond the ramp and across from the stairs, AVAM hung the lone Alex Grey piece in this exhibit, "Transfiguration".  I've seen a few other of Grey's works at the gallery ("Gaia" and "Cosmic Christ", both presented in the same terrific spot by the stairs) and each one has left me in awe.  It's impossible to conceive either the detail or the overall beauty of his work in the tiny images linked here.  The man's work is profound and amazing. 

The walls along the stairs leading to the upper exhibit floors are lined with more cards from PostSecret.  They're a fantastic exhibit all to themselves, but they're only the beginning.  The review in the Baltimore Sun really describes the entire show better than I can, but there were a few highlights that really stuck with me.  One in particular is the art of Fred Kahler.  The detail of Kahler's pieces is mind-boggling.  I've often walked through AVAM and imagined the various artists hunched for hours and hours over their work, compelled to create by the power of their vision (AVAM recognizes this same impression, with a separate exhibit of permanent works entitled "OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Delight").  Just as many hours could be spent inspecting, analysing and comprehending works like Kahler's.  Amazing stuff. 

Another hightlight is the room of Rumi.  The combination of Rumi's words with gorgeous imagery is fantastic.  Being with someone at the time, I didn't take advantage of the pillows along the wall, but on my second visit I may have to pull one out to the middle of the room to sit and soak it all up.

Another excellent discovery of the day was later at the Fell's Point Festival (longest running street festival on the east coast, apparently).  There are always several booths of wonderful photographers, but the works of Christos Palios were the most fantastic I saw.  Very Escher-esque pieces that are as trippy as they are beautiful.  It's definitely worth the time to explore the portfolio area at his site.

Today's incredible experience was attending Bodies, The Exhibit.  At first glance, the exhibits appear to be very thoroughly detailed models.  The colors of the muscles and other tissues have a faded appearance that makes them seem fake (whether this is their true color or from exposure to light, dust, etc, I don't know).  As I looked closer, though, certain details became apparent that drove home the reality:  The hairs on the shin of a human skin laid out sans body; thick, horney-looking toenails on the foot of an otherwise flayed body; eyelashes on another.  From that point on, my thoughts veered between fascination and morbidity through the rest of the exhibit.  The information accompanying the exhibits is very detail and informative, and actually seeing the veins, tendons, muscles, organs and skeletal structures was wonderfully instructive.  But then I'd catch myself thinking that a gluteus muscle looked just like a flank steak, or that a cross-section cut of thigh looked like a slice of ham (with the center bone, marrow, and all). 

The circulatory gallery, though, was more beautiful than morbid.  I don't remember the exact name and details of the process used to create this portion of the exhibit, but in a nutshell-- A fluid is injected into the veins that colors and hardens them.  The body is then immersed in a solution that dissolves everything except the hardened veins.  The result is an amazing mesh of tiny, intricately branching veins in the rough form of a human body, heart, lungs, etc.  It looks as if it can't possibly be real and, if it is, as if there wouldn't be room within the body for all of those veins along with skeleton, muscles and organs. 

As much fun as the exhibit itself was riding the subway home afterwards and trying to picture what was under the skin of the people all around me.  What would that heavy-set person look like in a cross-section cut?  Do that person's lungs look like the healthy ones exhibited, or are they black like the smoker's lungs displayed?   Mind-blowing stuff, and so worth the visit.  See it if you can.

I've ended up the evening sitting in front of the computer tripping myself out over the Win Media Player visualizations dancing along to Incubus' "Calgone". Damn, man, who the f' needs drugs? I mean, really. Experiences such as I've had the last few days do it for me with no controlled substances necessary 

I've let two weeks go by before making time to write about this year's annual pilgimage out to western Md.  Life is freaking busy these days.

So, anyway, the pilgrimage.  I first vacationed in western Md roughly ten years ago.  I had moved into my grandmother's basement apartment as a 6-year relationship was in the process of crumbling (he wanted kids, I didn't), only to find that Grandma had just been diagnosed with cancer.  So, at some point during that chaotic period, I picked up a brochure advertising "The Mountain Side of Maryland".  Sounded damned good to me, so I booked a room at the Cumberland Holiday Inn and mapped a route of back roads through Va and WV up into Md.  I've been in love with that area ever since and have spread my exploration over into Garrett County and up into Fayette County, Pa.  Cumberland remains "home base", and I head in a different direction each day for exploration and adventure via car, bike and foot. 

With so many great options, I usually cross my fingers for good weather and go for 4-5 days.  This year's been another chaotic one, though, and I was only able to arrange a 3-day pilgrimage.  Ma Nature blessed me with good weather, though, so while short, it was definitely sweet. 

Thursday's adventure was a ride along the C&O Canal towpath from Little Orleans to the Paw Paw Tunnel.  I've been riding the towpath in sections for the last several years, and there was one little stretch between these two locations that had been eluding me.  I'd been needing to do this ride to finally link everything up and be able to say I've ridden the entire length from Great Falls to Cumberland (I have no interest in riding the section between D.C. and Great Falls, I'd rather head away from the city).  This is a beautiful, solitary section, and the half-mile long, pitch-black tunnel is a real highlight.

Heading into the tunnel at the downstream end:


Within the tunnel (taken with flash):


Coming back out, heading downstream:


Further downstream:


And even further downstream:


Headed from there into Cumberland, checked into the hotel, then up to LaVale for dinner at the Texas Grillhouse.  The place is a cowboy-themed chain and I wouldn't bother to mention it except that they consistently have the absolute best snowcrab legs I've ever eaten.  Full of dense, sweet meat, and perfectly cooked so that you're able to pull out nice big chunks of meat to dip in the melted butter.  After a good long bike ride, it's a decadently luxurious meal (yet somewhat healthy when combined with a baked sweet potato and applesauce) and I truly look forward to it each year. 

The second day's ride was along the last completed stretch of the Great Allegheny Passage trail from Cumberland to Frostburg.  I've ridden this trail west of Frostburg (my blog of that ride) and up in Fayette County, Pa, but this last 15 or so miles was just completed over the winter of 2006.  It turned out to be a steeper grade than I expected, though, (I'd estimate 2-3%, more in some spots) and I ended up pooping out and turning around just 3 miles from Frostburg.  Took me 2 hours and a whole lot of breaks to pedal 12 miles uphill, but only a bit over a half-hour to head back down (I broke the trail speed limit   ).

In the mountains, along the tracks:


My trusty steed:


The evening consisted of a wander around Cumberland at dusk, then ordering room service and watching Spiderman III on pay-per-view.

Historic downtown Cumberland at dusk:
 

After cycling two days in a row, I weenied out of a third and headed back east a ways to Berkely Springs, WV.  For the past several years, my Cumberland trips have begun with a massage at The Bath House (These pilgrimages may be solitary, but they are most definitely not ascetic).  This year, though, all the time and money spent with the chiropractor made me feel I couldn't justify this particular luxury at this time.  When my thighs turned to lead on the uphill to Frostburg, though, I changed my mind and decided to have myself kneaded into a lump of blissed-out clay after all. 

After that, another indulgence--  Warm Brie, apple and almond salad at Tari's Cafe.  And after that, I chose to partake in a bit of my favorite drug:  Adrenaline, induced by high speed on smooth pavement    Instead of driving the highway back to Cumberland, I turned off to take a run up and down mountainous rural route 9 through WV.  My trusty little Honda Civic flowed through the repeated 'S' curves like water, while Incubus cranked through the stereo.  Brandon Boyd's no Chris Cornell (Edit 11/11/07: I've since changed that opinion), but he's got a sweet, fresh set of pipes nonetheless.  A few choruses of "Nice to Know You", along with a couple of high-speed passes of slower pick-up trucks, and I was quite high.



After coming down, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Rudyard Kipling at a table in front of the Mountain City Coffehouse in Frostburg (with Jasmine tea and Belgian waffle with chocolate chips for dinner).  When I first began these trips, it was the Tombstone Cafe, a funky little coffee joint geared towards the local college kids.  The tiny little building, next door to St. Michael's church, originally housed the town's headstone carver.  It's been through a few incarnations over the last decade, ending up as Mountain City, which seems to cater less to the funky college crowd and more to their yuppie parents.






Funny how the definition of "Yuppie" has expanded, at least in my mind.  Originally coined to describe "Young Urban Professionals", it now encompasses, for me at least, a decidedly vaster age and geographic range.  I find myself appying the term to 40- & 50-somethings piloting mini-vans and Hummers through the suburbs.  What acronym would be more accurate?  M.A.S.T.-ies (Middle-Aged Surburban Twits)?  And how about the SUV-driving, born-again hippies who guzzle gas on their way to Whole Foods?  That bunch makes me feel almost affectionate towards the born'n'bred country locals rumbling around in their pickup trucks.  They seem somehow less hypocritical and disingenuous.

And yet, where do I get off judging the people around me in this way?  Me, who dodges group identification as if it were a plague and fastidiously avoids labeling myself in any way, how can I so easily classify individuals about whom I know nothing but what I imagine I see in a quick glimpse?  Like Camus' "judge-penitent", I'm cynical enough to exercise hypocrisy with impunity (and tongue firmly in cheek).

"[My words] have the purpose of...avoiding judgement personally, though there is apparently no escape.  Is not the great thing that stands in the way of escaping it the fact that we are the first to condemn ourselves?  Therefore it is essential to begin by extending the condemnation to all, without distinction..." (Albert Camus, The Fall)

To shake off the bitter direction my thoughts were taking, I headed out for an evening drive before my last night in Cumberland.  In addition to being a great high, driving's also a meditative and relaxing activity for me.  I often think that if I could just keep driving, all the need for judgement and condemnation would just fall away somewhere around the next bend... 






"Nice to Know You"

Better than watching Gellar bending silver spoons
Better than witnessing newborn nebulaes in bloom
She who sees from up high smiles and surely sings
Perspective pries your once weighty eyes
And it gives you wings

I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you

Goodbye, nice to know you

Deeper than the deepest Cousteau would ever go
And higher than the heights of what we often think we know
Blessed she who clearly sees the wood for the trees
To obtain a birds eye is to turn a blizzard to a breeze

I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you

Goodbye, nice to know you

So could it be that it has been there all along?

A software training class for work sent me back up to Pennsylvania this past weekend, this time to King of Prussia, home to the East Coast's Premier Shopping Destination.  From what I could see, there's almost no town to speak of in K of P, just a bunch of industrial/office parks and that frighteningly humongous mall.  But...  The location of the training class was less than half a mile from the entrance to Valley Forge National Historical Park.  Wow.  I didn't know what to expect, and ended up just blown away by this park. 

I drove up Sunday morning, arriving about noon, checked into the hotel, then immediately drove over to the park.  As with July's Philly weekend, I had considered bringing my bike.  The park map showed a handful of miles of paved multi-use trail, and the Schuyllkill River Trail was smack-dab across the river from the park (back in July, the waylaid plan was to ride from Philly to Valley Forge on the Schuyllkill).  Again, though, the weather forecast was iffy and I didn't feel like worrying about wet bike components so far from home (and from proper cleaning/lubing supplies).  So, the bike stayed home and I ended up regretting that decision.  The park and its trails were fantastic. 

Like the US Civil War battlefield parks closer to home, the landscape is absolutely beautiful.  


Rolling hills rise up south of the river, and in the center of them lies the valley of Washington's encampment interspersed by woods and open meadows.  At the last minute, I did decide to bring my camera in place of the bike.  Unfortunately, though, I didn't think to bring the battery charger.  Went through both batteries Sunday afternoon, and kept finding spots that I was dying to photograph but couldn't.  Knowing that the training sessions on Monday and Tuesday let out at 4:30pm, I was severely tempted to pop into the freaking humongous mall and buy a new camera just so I could shoot those two afternoons, but managed to restrain myself (found out that Sony's discontinued both my camera and the batteries it uses, dammit).  So, I didn't get all the photos I wanted, but did spend a lot of time driving and wandering around the park.  Of note:

-  There were deer everywhere.  Now, I'm used to seeing a lot of whitetails.  I've had deer right outside my suburban front door on several occasions.  So when I say there were a lot of deer in this park, I mean there were a lot of deer.  They wandered in pairs and groups across the road and stood grazing just along the edge as cars and pedestrians cruised right by them.  The most blase', nonchalant deer I've ever seen:




- Drove through the park at 6:30am Monday morning, heading to a breakfast spot recommended by an old-timer working in the visitor's center.  The valley was filled by a thick, cottony-white blanket of fog that had totally dispersed by the time I drove back an hour later.  The breakfast spot was very cool:  A place called the 'G' Lodge, that's temporarily going by the name of "Filbert's".  Apparently, M. Night Shyamalan recently filmed scenes at the restaurant for the upcoming film The Happening, and the owner hasn't yet taken down the signs used for the movie.  The food is unfortunately only mediocre, but the atmosphere was very M. Night.  Very rustic and lodge-like inside, the place has obviously been there for a long time.  It looks cozy from the exterior, but inside is vaguely creepy.  Adding to that sensation were the four regulars at the counter, gentlemen who appeared as old and rustic as the 'G' Lodge itself, and who sat and ate their breakfasts in stone-cold silence.  I've never eaten in a quieter place.  Wanted to get a photo to show that I ate in the restaurant that's going to be in The Happening, but because the camera batteries died you'll just have to take my word for it.

-  Another spot that had me fuming over the camera batteries was the Washington Memorial Chapel.  Wandering over from Varnum's Quarters on Sunday afternoon, I found a very pretty cemetery tucked into the woods behind Route 23: 


Turns out, it's part of the chapel.  And, of course, there were deer:


Wandering back toward the car, I stopped for some photos of the old rectory:




Continuing down the road, I almost gave myself whiplash when the chapel itself came into view.  It was already closed by that time, but the architecture and grounds are the real draw:


It was at this point that I really began cussing.  I managed one single freaking photo of this beautifully haunting statue before the camera died on me:


Reason number 1 that I need to go back for another long weekend: to do a full photo study of that statue.  Reason number 2 is the gorgeous Kennedy Supplee mansion across from the visitor's center.  Apparently once a restaurant, the building now sits shamefully empty and abandoned.  I'd really love to know why.  And, reason number 3 is to ride my bike!!! 

Also of note on this trip was having dinner with a new on-line pal (one of the folks I met at the Philly Chris Cornell show in July).  I've been on quite the friend-making spree this year, between my cycling/kayaking buddies and the people at the Cornell forum.  So far it's been fun getting to know these people and spending time with them, but I still can't get used to the scheduling issues.  My calendar for the next couple of months is getting pretty crowded and I need to make sure I leave some days to be on my own.  All this socializing leaves little time for introspection, which means less self-absorbed blogs.  And that'd be a pity       

Sunday in Philly was much less busy and more focused.  Started out with eggs and scrapple (a Philly favorite!) at the Midtown IV 24-hour cocktail lounge/restaurant.  Let me repeat:  a 24-hour cocktail lounge/restaurant.  In the middle of Center City.  There's character for you.  By the time I was done it had begun to rain, which created the perfect atmosphere for wandering around a cemetery.  Laurel Hill Cemetery, to be precise, a huge, gorgeous hillside spot overlooking the Schuylkill River and Fairmount Park. 

I can't recall where I saw it, but I read an interview not too long ago in which Chris mentioned that one of his regrets is that he and the guys in SG didn't get more joy out of what they were doing at the time. That's definitely not the case now.  From the moment he hit the stage, the show in Philly was a joyous event.  Whether Chris was performing old tunes like "Let Me Drown" and "Spoonman" or new stuff from Carry On, he put his soul into it.  He was so obviously enjoying every moment of what he was doing, and carried the audience along with him.  Whenever he began that signature move of swinging his head and upper body from side to side like an autistic in self-stim mode, you could tell he was totally absorbed in the music.  Being right up front made it a bit hard to hear things clearly, but the man could have been gargling hot razor blades and he still would have been mesmerizing.  But he definitely wasn't having any problems with his voice--  even with a less than clear mix and what seemed to me to be sometimes off-key backing vocals, it was apparent that he was hitting every note with that slightly road-wearied, husky voice. 

Instead of starting out with a rocking number, as he did in Baltimore with "Cochise", Chris shifted gears and began this show with the dramatic anthem "Silence the Voices".  Now, this is one of the songs that I normally skip when listening to Carry On.  The lyrics are actually very meaningful and moving, but the music and vocals are so dirge-like and there's some bizarre keyboards (apparently played by Chris himself) that I just can't listen to.  Live, though, the song lives up to its lyrics.  Without the keyboards and with a slightly quicker tempo, the new band brings more energy to the song, giving it more of an edge to go along with Chris' emotional delivery.  From there, he launched into a head-banging performance of "Original Fire", followed by a tune I was ecstatic to hear, the SG classic "Let Me Drown".

One of the highlights of the evening for me was during his short acoustic set.  He began to introduce one song by saying that he'd never performed it anywhere for anyone, except for his wife.  My first thought was that he was referring to "Finally Forever", but I was delighted when instead he launched into "Roads We Choose" (lyrics n/a), a quirky tune that seems like a love song but that has some slightly strange lyrics.  There's been debate on the fan forum as to whether he sings the word "bed" or "debt" at the end of the second verse, so I was intent on watching him sing the song so I could tell once and for all what the word is.  As he got to that particular line, I was staring at his lips and… he flubbed it, singing the first line of the verse again as a lead-in to the part about "…all you ever do is treat me with respect."  Chris, dude, yer killin' me.  In spite of that, though, I loved hearing the acoustic version of the song.

Another touching moment was when he sang "Out of Exile", after explaining that it was about his wife and the baby girl they had together.  At one point during the song, he walked to the side of the stage and held out his hand towards someone apparently sitting in the wings.  I have to assume that he was trying to lure baby Toni out onto the stage with him, as he's recently done at other shows.  He gave up after a few attempts, but it was funny and cute to watch him keep reaching out to someone who clearly was feeling stage-shy.

The rest of the set held few surprises, but every song was performed with energy and dead-on vocals from Chris.  The crowd ate it up, even surprising him by launching into an a capella rendition of "Be Yourself" when he faked us out by holding out the mic instead of beginning to sing himself.  At the very end, after a three-song encore, many of us refused to disperse even as roadies came out to break down the equipment.  We wanted more, and Chris had better come back soon to give it to us.