To backpack in Canyonlands is for me a deeply moving experience. It is a place that offers opportunity to experience the sensation of setting foot on another planet, and at the same time, moving through a space both comfortable and familiar.

During the past week I thought often about how to share what transpired as Sarah and I rose from sandy valley floors to slick rock, from cool, deep ravines cast in shadow to high, bare, red stone saddles and ridge lines heated by the sun’s harsh embrace.

Every major elevation change, every transition from valley to adjacent valley, even the rounding of a corner left us breathless, saying aloud, “Oh my god. I can’t believe what I am seeing …” only to fall silent again for there were no words worth speaking in attempt to capture what we were experiencing.

An Open Book
Edward Abbey often stated that Canyonlands is like no other place on Earth. Situated in the heart of the Colorado Plateau, it is a geologic anomaly which has exposed a layer-by-layer account of 1.6 billion years history. Mountains rose and fell as many as five times, seas repeatedly swelled to fill the Southwest only to retreat again when uplifting forces caused igneous basement foundations and layers of limestone, sandstone, schist, and shale to rise thousands of feet.

Records of these events are presented to us as an open history book, literally documenting in stone the lifeforms of ancient, warm seas and forests where deserts now lie. More recently, Native American cliff dwellings, grainaries, tools, pottery, and foot paths provide evidence of healthy hunter-gatherer and agrarian societies which traded far south into the Americas, to the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.

A Home to Many
To explore Canyonlands at the heart of the Colorado Plateau is to feel as though you may be the first to ever walk in this place and at the same time to recognize a rich, human history that goes far beyond that of the terribly inaccurate, standard fare text book description of Mormon re-settlers and cowboy rustlers, outlaws, and miners who are too often given credit for having discovered and tamed the American Southwest.

When I walk along spring fed creeks in the shadow of cotton woods, alongside twisted juniper and pinion pine which have experienced two to ten times my own years, I relish the fact that the Colorado Plateau holds a higher concentration of National Parks than anywhere else in a country which protects its wild areas like none other on Earth.

At the same time, I look back to a time when it was not necessary to protect land from overuse and abuse, when the estimated ten to twenty million inhabitants of this continent were living not in perfect harmony as Disney has portrayed, but in numbers whose consumption was incapable of the drastic, large-scale environmental change we now employ.

The first human inhabitants of this land did not come to this place for recreation nor as an escape from their work, but in migration to follow game or to cultivate crops where river deltas provided rich soil and cliff band shelter to seeds for the following year, or to establish dwellings which supported families for many generations.

In “Lies My Teacher Told Me” by James Loewen, it is made clear that American history books fail to teach our children that so many European descendants on the American frontier left the “comforts of civilization” to live with the Native Americans, where they were treated with greater dignity and enjoyed a higher quality of life, that laws were enacted to punish those who were captured and returned.

While it is not my intent nor place to glorify the relatively harsh existence of living entirely from the land as did the first people of this continent, neither would I tell you that I am ever wanting to return to my home on the Front Range of Colorado when living this way. My feet were sore, my shoulders tired, yes, but I was alive in a way that I cannot duplicate here, in my home, with bath, stereo, computer, and mobile phone. I need none of these things when I lie beneath a star field so bright that it illuminates my very dreams.

A Lighter Footprint
In six days and five nights, Sarah and I together consumed less water, in food, drink, and personal hygiene, than that used for an average ten minutes shower; less electric power to light our nights than that consumed by a single 20 Watt bulb burning for just nine minutes; less food by weight or calories than that likely consumed in half as many days given typical American diet and proportions. Yet, we both returned with our bodies leaner, stronger, and far more capable of moving with agility and grace over the challenging terrain while carrying nearly one-third our total body weight. We never fell to sleep hungry nor awoke without energy for the day ahead.

A Simpler Way of Living
Backpacking is for me neither a recreational activity nor a vacation—it is not a departure from the realworld. Rather, backpacking is a return to a simpler way of living, a reminder that the rest of my life need not be as complicated nor as hectic as I often allow it to be, a reminder to breathe deeper, to enjoy food and friends more, to cherish those things left relatively untouched by human hands.

There is no movie, no music, no restaurant, no paycheck that matches the passion I feel, the sense of true joy in simply walking, climbing, eating, and sleeping when I have lost track of the hour and day. It is the rising and setting of the sun, the rythmic flutter of a single cottonwood leaf in the steady breeze which provide endless entertainment, intrigue, and education when I carry all that I need to live from day to day on my back, on my feet.

Sovereign to Slick Rock
Friday evening I arrived to the Willow Springs Road, just north of Arches National Park and Moab. I pulled my mountain bike from the car-top rack, fastened the front wheel, and enjoyed a brief ride on the Sovereign trail, watching the sun set from a high slab of sandstone. My friends David and Becky arrived later that same night.

The next morning I rode on Sovereign again, feeling more able than the night before, riding to the first large drainage and then back to the car, just over one and a half hours round-trip.

Back in town, David, Becky and I road the Slickrock practice loop twice. I am pleased to find that even after more than two months off the bike, I was able to ride the full loop without stopping but for the first, up-hill sandtrap which continues to elude me despite my best effort.

That night I slept on top of a boulder at Big Bend along the Colorado river. Sunday morning I awoke with the sun and climbed for a little over an hour before heading south on 191 to the Canyonlands Needles District back country office where I planned a week-long backpacking trip in November.

Roasted Corn in Tuba City
I returned to 191 and continued south through Bluff, west to Mexican Hat, and then south and west to Kayenta and Tuba City where the Dine Fair was in its final day.

Never have I seen Tuba so full of people, commotion, and life. I ate roasted corn on the cob while I watched Navajo children dance to live drums. I was pleased to witness strong inter-generational support and interaction between toddlers, teenagers, and elders too. I purchased two gifts, just as a storm rolled in and night came on, the vendors quickly packing their crafts and goods.

I drove the remaining two hundred miles through Flagstaff to Phoenix, listening to two breathtaking stories on NPR, one about the role of nurses as holistic healers and the other an interview with the inventor of a synthetic bacterium which fights cancer, HIV AIDS, malaria, and cystic fibrosis.

Cancer Killing Bacteria

From an interview with Ananda Chakabarty by Dr. Moira Gunn on NPR’s Tech Nation

Ananda Chakabarty received the world’s first patent of a life form, giving us a modified bacteria which eats oil which has for more than two decades been used to help clean-up massive oil spills.

This unique bacterium has the inherent ability to thrive in a low-oxygen environment, as do cancer, malaria, cystic fibrosis, and HIV AIDS, the presence of oxygen reducing their growth rates.

It is my understanding that this is why my grandfather, while fighting cancer, was given incredibly high dozes of vitamin C directly into his blood stream in order to invoke the production of hydrogen peroxide which is toxic to cancer cells.

According to Chakabarty, this designed bacterium takes the native intelligence of three billion years of evolution and tolerance of anaerobic environments to the battle front, employing genetic know-how for the destruction of unwanted tissues.

While most modern approaches invoke one or two means of fighting the cancerous cells, this leaves many other channels for growth active and capable. Only with a multi-faceted attack, one that leaves the cancer cells without foundation for recovery, can the cancer be truly removed from its host.

Called “Azura” (spelling to be confirmed) for its blue hue, this synthetic life form may be the saving grace of many millions of lives. While the FDA is supporting this endeavor, the progress is of course careful and slow. As of the interview, Azura is being tested in five humans for whom all other forms of cancer treatment have thus far proved ineffective. Per the radio interview, they are gaining weight and appear to be recovering.

When the interview was over, I found myself nearly jumping from my driver seat, wanting to learn more for my own knowledge and at the same time, thrilled at the unbridled creativity and courage of individuals who see opportunity in the impossible.

The Road to Discovery
While I have driven from Loveland to Moab to Flagstaff to Phoenix many, many times and never I tire of the venture, for there is always something new.

Sometimes over the airways or satellite radio, but usually, immediately outside the car as the low, heavily laden clouds filter the sunset in way that may be described only as a master piece of color and composition; or as a woman quickly parks her on the left side of the road, facing into the traffic in order to give chase to her sheep who have found a hole in the fence and risk impact with a vehicle, a loss to her livelihood.

I long for a winter drive across the Navajo Nation, when thin layers of crisp white cover sandstone, sagebrush, and cacti and the peaks in Monument Valley appear to have sprung from a fanciful dream of a distant wonderland.

I cherish the dozen hours of uninterrupted, intense learning as I listen to half and full hour interviews or books on CD. These are the days in which I find solitude and at the same time, a connection to something greater.

From the South Coast of Turkey to Phoenix’s South Mountain; from Joshua Tree National Park to Red Rocks State Park, Nevada, I have been fortunate to enjoy a tremendous three months of climbing.

Not just climbing, no, but ample time on rock to remain physically strong and spiritually engaged. I entered a gym just a few times, and found renewed passion for the out-of-doors.

I pressed hard, completing problems which had eluded me countless times before. I tried new problems, both succeeding and failing. And I worked through routines which my hands and feet traversed without eyes. The silence and solitude of sitting atop a boulder can be as strength building as the effort to obtain that position.

There were painful moments when too much skin detached from my fingers too fast. And there were elated moments when what felt impossible became possible, even repeatable, the internal wiring of my body-mind forging new pathways which replaced, “I don’t know if I ever will …” with “I can!” and “I did!”.

There were afternoons in which I was surrounded by a multitude of people followed by evenings in which I was alone in my tent. The rain and snow reminded me that the most cherished things in life are often the simplest: warm, dry clothes, nourishing food, and a safe place to sleep. Nearly every night in J-Tree I took long walks seemingly alone but for the coyotes celebrating the rise of the moon over the desert mountain ridges.

During my second trip to J-Tree, I was in the presence of Bennett Scott and Rob Miller, each a master of climbing in their own regard; each climbing from a place of personal power. Most memorable were the intense, stimulating, and truly opening conversations we carried while piecing together Diary of a Dope Fiend high on a shaded ridge. I came away from that time with an improved understanding of the potential in climbing, and a renewed passion to fulfill that understanding with my own ability.

Of course, there was laughter. A lot of laughter. That’s the stuff that binds the entire experience, a funny sort of glue that gives memorable form to the otherwise discombobulated string of events.

Thank you Fulden, Jae, Mom & Dad, Luke, Matt & Adele, Ben, Rob, Mike and Steve. It was a good three months, a good time for climbing.

I was pleased to have the opportunity to once again be engaged by this year’s Native American Hoop Dance competition held at the Heard Museum in Phoenix, Arizona. This astounding event is rich in history, honor, energy, and creativity. If ever in Phoenix in February, I highly recommend you attend. It’s like nothing you have ever seen … or heard before.

East Bay Redwood Park, a photo essay
I enjoyed a brief walk on the main trail which circumnavigates East Bay Redwood Park, Oakland, California, from the Skyline drive staging lot to the Chabot Space & Science Center.

Along the path I stopped to take a few photos (above). In the following I share some of my thoughts for why I captured these, and how they affect me. All were shot on a Nikon D50 with a Nikon 18-55 lens.

In general, the overcast sky between 3 and 5 pm was ideal, presenting limited shadows and an even, ambient light which encouraged the colors to pop. All photos were altered in post, mostly to remove some blue in order to present the photos more as they appeared to me.

moss-2 and 3: I never tire of photographing moss. It doesn’t try to run away. Moss presents a rich texture often wrapped around a surface, offering a dynamic color gradient. The right-most of the two shots is turned -90 degrees as I really like how the dark background sits heavy over the green, as though the two are in battle for the light.

cone: I found this still-life composition along the trail. I knelt in the wet needles and mud and shot this for nearly ten minutes until I felt I had found the right distance and angle. I enjoy the contrast of the texture of the three media: lichen, needles, and pine cone. The color was enhanced a bit beyond that which I perceived on the trail, my effort to reveal the hidden reds which are otherwise lost in what we too readily refer to as a green arena.

bear: Hey, it looks like a bear’s face. I couldn’t help myself :)

flowering: These flowers are just now popping, maybe one in twenty. Very complex structures up close, which work to remind me how much of high school life sciences I have forgotten. To say I recall more than the word “stamen” would be a lie. But what I intended, and did capture, is a very limited amount of material in focus against a backdrop of artifacts created by a short focal length (4.5fs, 30/s, ISO 800).

exposed, fallen-1 … 3: In these three shots I found varying degrees of tree “flesh”. The left-most “exposed” is a healthy, living tree whose bark has peeled back, revealing the hard wood beneath. But it appears to have oosed from some incredible pressure, and if it were not wood, should be soft and gooey.

The middle two are a portion of a massive tree which fell quite recently. Both of these reveal a very vulnerable yet living tissue, the meat of the monster which seems too large, too strong to have toppled. While I have walked passed, climbed on, even climbed into many fallen trees, it never quite feels right. I am reminded that we will all fall, and could fall any day–young, healthy, and vibrant.

“fallen-2” is the most interesting to me for had I simply shown this to you, without explanation, would you know it was wood?

The right-most (fallen-3) is from a place just below and to the left of where the trunk snapped and split, the bark nearly meeting the exposed flesh. It is rich in color and contrast, the overlapping plates of bark a barrier to so many potential attacks, but not against gravity. Gravity always prevails victorious.

leaves and leaf: Two very different kind of leaf structures. One nearly silver and flat; the other dynamic, flawed, and in a state of change. It seemed that if I held the leaf for just a few minutes more I would witness its further decay or spontaneous combustion into brilliant flame.

Today I had the pleasure of meeting two most note worthy people: Hugh Downs and James Alexander.

My brother Jae of BallBoy Productions works with the Phoenix Children’s Museum, a place for play and interactive learning. Today I assisted him with the interview of Hugh Downs, formerly of the evening news program 20/20.

While our time with Mr. Downs was not extensive, there was a distinct honor in meeting him. His face, his voice, his demeanor were all of a man whose endeavors in life have given him a certain presence, and being in that presence for just a moment was an honor.

Thank you Mr. Downs for sharing your voice.

This afternoon SpanAfrica co-Director Brad and I enjoyed an extensive conversation with James Alexander, a gentleman who has devoted twenty six years of his life working through not-for-profits to help people in need. He met his wife in the Peace Corp, both his children were born Africa where he lived for twenty one years, and even now he continues to devote his life to a similar line of work.

Last year Mr. Alexander was a recipient of the Nelson Mandela Freedom, Peace and Unity Award from the African Alliance of Rhode Island, a means of honoring the incredible work he has done.

Even by means of a less than clear phone connection, he instilled a sense of power, peace, and trust through his words. I found that when the call was complete, I desired to meet him, to travel with him, to learn from him, for the vision he imparts is not that of a need for electricity or running water for individuals, rather the needs of entire regions in order that the people as a whole may rise to a higher level. Mr. Alexander understands how to work with people, to raise their capacity as nation.

Thank you Mr. Alexander for sharing your vision.

Driving in the North of England, on the narrow, winding roads is as anticipated–magical. The countryside has seemingly not changed for hundreds of years. Small villages with quaint roadside shops. Dark forests. Roads so narrow it is amazing cars are even allowed, let alone parked or passing. Fog banks rolling across the stone walled farm lands and sheep dotting the landscape as far as the eye can see.

Having checked the prices of B&Bs over local pubs, Fulden and I determined we could purchase a tent, sleeping bag, foam mat, and spork (spoon-fork) from a shop just across the street from The Outside Place in Hathersage for half the price of two nights in the least expensive accommodations. (Certainly subject for another blog entry is the ludicrous cost of everything in this country)

We camped at the Stanage National Forest campground, just below the Plantation. It was beautiful. Past a cattle guard, a single-lane blacktop road takes you twisting down, down along one of the countless thousands of hand built stone walls through a gate and into the open, grassy terrace of the campground. The manager was very accommodating, offering the loan of a map, books, and climbing information. Steaming hot showers are available as well.

At dawn of Saturday morning, the wind was so fierce the tent temporarily collapsed (inverted) and I had to press it back to its upright position, from the inside.

We took the trail from the campground through the forest and to the Plantation, soon climbing in what were most certainly gusts over 50MPH driving sideways mist and debris. But the temperature was tolerable due to the cloud cover, the rock remaining dry on the leeward side of the boulders. By evening, the wind died down and the sun came out. The final two hours of climbing were incredible.

Although colder, Sunday was mostly sunny and replete with what seemed to be half of England at this popular destination. Entire families on ropes, toddlers bundled up and bound at the base of the crags; eager kids in bright red helmets crawled over warm-up boulders like ants over a fallen bowl of icecream; proper boulderer without helmelts but with pads, and those who were just out for a hike along the few miles of trail that run the length of the gritstone ridge.

True to its reputation, gristone may just be the most perfect substance on the planet for climbing. It is neither too sharp nor too smooth, a contiguous surface of friction. It offers decent crimps, incredible slopers, bomber ridge lines and finger pockets that hold from all directions. It is possible to just walk up nearly vertical surfaces without so much as a grain coming loose from beneath the rubber of the climbing shoe. Amazing.

In all, an incredible adventure.

The stories we tell ourselves
Throughout the past twenty years, I have made opportunity to talk to, and sometimes interview people living on the streets, people without a home. In Phoenix, Northern Colorado, and most recently in Austin I have listened to the stories of those who found themselves– or made choices which placed them out of shelter and instead, in a sleeping bag beneath a bridge, in a recess between two buildings or two dumpsters in an alley.

It is not my intent to fix homelessness, for this is a job better handled by far more experienced and dedicated organizations. It is simply my desire to hear the stories, and in some cases to tell the stories to others.

In November of 2008 I was in Austin Texas for the annual Supercomputing conference. Late one night, I was walking down 6th Street to my car which was parked beneath the I-34 overpass. A man stood to my right, also waiting for the light to change. As we walked, I engaged him in conversation. It became readily apparent that he was without shelter that night, for he was looking for a place to sleep. I offered to get a hotel room for him, and he politely refused. I insisted, and he accepted.

That night Luciano and I talked for more than an hour. His voice, his demeanor, and his stories were compelling to me. At the door of the hotel room, I stated that I would return soon, to capture his stories.

In January, I flew back to Austin for two meetings with IBM, and with me I brought a camera and digital audio recorder. I spent two nights and an afternoon recording Luciano’s stories, and those of three other people without homes.

Their stories were familiar to me: family often within twenty minutes, a bad, sometimes violent relationship with a sibling or parent, someone who once said, “I hate you!” or simply a sense of pride stronger than the desire for a warm, clean place to sleep.

But what I have found to be prevalent in all these stories is negative self-talk, words used to describe one self, “My mother loves my sister more than me”, “I fucked up again,” or “My brother, he hates me”; and the vocabulary used to describe others, “My boss was an idiot!”, “I quit my job ’cause the guys in the shop were assholes,” and the most common, “I got fucked over!” or “I got screwed!” –a sense of being a victim to the world around them.

A few weeks ago I received a call from a young man whom I met in Austin when shooting with Luciano. He just wanted to check in with me, to say hello. I knew he had been looking for a job, and asked about his search. He responded, “I just can’t flip burgers any more. It’s money, but it’s hard when someone I know comes in and sees me behind the counter, in the kitchen. They don’t mean to say anything to hurt my feelings, but they ask, ‘Man! You still working here?’ I am 28. I fucked up a bunch when I was younger and sometimes, I still fuck up. I want to get my life straight again”

We talked for an hour, and I learned that he lived in a foster home as a kid. He has experienced instability and homelessness at a few levels, then and now. When I asked what he would like to do, for a job, he said he wants to be a counselor for kids in foster families.

I responded, “Then you didn’t fuck up at all.”

He said, “What do you mean? I have been to jail. I live in a shelter. I don’t have a steady job.”

“Exactly. That’s perfect. You have an education that no school can give you. You have experience to prepare you to be a counselor that cannot be matched by any formal education. Yes, you will likely need a degree in psychology or your basic teaching certificate, but man, you will be good.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Do you think the kids you will work with would rather talk to some guy who is straight-laced, only talking about what he learned in school–or you? Who will they trust? Who will they connect with most easily?”

He paused, considering my words, and then said, “Yeah, I think you are right. I never thought about it that way. I have been there. I understand them.”

“Exactly. Stop telling yourself how you fucked up. Start seeing your experiences in this life as an education. There are no deadlines, no limits to when or how you learn. It doesn’t matter if you are twenty eight or sixty eight, you can start a new life and do what you know you want to do. Your friends who started their own business or have a steady job do not have your experience. They could never help those kids the way you can. So go do it.”

We talked again recently. He is moving from Austin back to San Antonio to stay with family until he can get a job and get back into school.

Words as weapons

A teacher says, “Wrong. Does someone else have the correct answer?”

A classmate says, “You are so stupid!”

A parent says, “I don’t love you.”

And to one’s own self, we might say, “I am worthless.”

I am growing to understand that these simple vibrations of the vocal chords, these sets of sounds strung together are perhaps the most important foundations for who we grow to become in our lives. Independent of how they are transmitted, between mouth and ear or fully internal to our own heads, words received without filters and without boundaries can penetrate deep into the very marrow of our self-identity and framework.

Instead, the teacher says, “No, but let’s work on this together to find the correct answer.”

A classmate says, “Hey, would you like some help with that?”

A parents says, “Right now, I am feeling disconnected and need some time to come back. Please give me this space.”

And to one’s own self, we might say, “I am feeling really low and without hope. But is is ok to be here, now. In fact, this low place is part of a natural cycle that everyone experiences. This low helps me to appreciate the high that is forthcoming. It’s going to be ok.”

Non-violent Communication
In my life, I have been blessed by parents who studied under Virginia Satir and Meril Tulis and by a recent introduction to Non-Violent Communication which has helped me to work through a struggle with tendency toward reaction instead of response.

Through my own work and through listening to others, I have come to believe that the words we hear in our head, the words we say to ourselves and to others, are the most powerful tools for change available to us.

As an avid listener of NPR, I thoroughly enjoy my cross-country travel as a time to immerse myself in focused education and stimulating entertainment. I have this past few years, with the advent of Sirius satellite radio, found my ability to learn via listening alone vastly improved. And with that, I cannot get enough–I could drive for a dozen hours a day for a week on-end if only to have that focused time without interruption to listen and learn.

In recent years I feel as though I have graduated from U.S. Economics 210, Middle Eastern Politics 200, and Culinary Arts 104. While Click & Clack have invoked my laughter for over ten years, Garrison Keillor and Scott Simon have given me stories which I will remember for a lifetime. Michele Norris, Liane Hansen, Diane Roberts, Will Shortz, Nina Totenberg and a host of equally talented, rich voices have woken me each and every morning for as long as I can remember … voices that have accompanied me on countless road trips in the South West and coast-to-coast, across the U.S.

Coming back from Phoenix last week, there was a story which is worth sharing, for it was perhaps one of the most engaging hours of radio I have enjoyed in this past few years. It is the story of Esmé Codell in her first year of teaching in the Chicago public school system. Read by Esmé, it is emotionally moving, thought provoking, heart wrenching, and hilarious. I cried, laughed, and wanted to rewind to hear it all again.

I encourage you to do the same.