Under a Dragon-Clouded Sky

The sky of Chinese dragon clouds and turquoise created an interesting patchwork of light and shadow across the tundra. It caused the temperature to yo-yo, which is to be expected at twelve-thousand four-hundred. Upon Mount Bierstadt and the ominous Sawtooth, there was the thinnest layer of new snow. A given; it's been cooler at night down at ninety-one sixty, so, of course, at fourteen-thousand-sixty-five any precipitation that might fall would freeze.

There was concern we'd get rained out like the last time. Were I given to preying in any other context than the food chain, I might have asked the Long Wang, the Chinese Dragon Kings, the Lords of Rains and Funerals, to spare us the rains whilst we were up. I do not prey unless it's in the context of the food chain, and asking favors of dragons can be a deadly and dangerous proposition.

I've heard...

We re-explored the ruins and trekked to another set further up the bowl. Something to do. It really was a pleasant day up on the tundra. I gritted my teeth when the pristine Backcountry silence was broken by someone firing guns.

"Nice ordinance," I muttered. "Sorry about your dick."

Our first hour was exploring and chatting amongst ourselves. Watching a wolf-hybrid frolic amongst the willows, chasing marmots and chipmunks, but never having a chance of catching one. Then we heard the roars of distant engines across the tundra.

This time, there was thirty people altogether, one hail storm, and an otherwise fun time. We came back down feeling more accomplished than the last time. Due diligence.

Coming home, we laughed at the eastbound tourist traffic. I didn't laugh as hard, because, whatever my feelings toward that ilk, they do put food in my belly. The penance of living where others come to vacation.

It was observed the slate and black over the ridge line of where we had been. Chances were, the dragons came and sky opened up. I would joke that my prayers were answered, but I only prey in the context of the food chain.

Besides, who would want to answer the joked prayers of a heretical Tibetan Buddhist who drinks beer, chugs wine, and swills whiskey anyway?    

Santiago

We'd not been to this set of ruins since our first full summer of living in the mountains. Under monsoon skies we marveled at the remnants of the old mine. A wall of snow that never melts choked the still-open main tunnel, making it nigh on impossible to go more than a few hundred feet down. Of course, there are those who would say crawling into the belly of the earth willingly is tantamount to madness.

Years later, under monsoon skies, there was some new graffiti on the walls. A few things had weathered, and some had weathered away. So it goes. All around the compound were signs stating the site was under reclamation of the Santiago Mill Stewards, and to respect the historical buildings.

It was why we were up there...

I documented only one group, but they were very interested in what we were doing. See, the Forest Service was ready to tear the place down under the auspice of attractive  nuisance-pot hunters and vandals-had some group not stepped up to intervene. Take stewardship. The preservationist got a mess of together for the cause. I've never been one for joining, and causes, other than my own sense of go-my-own-way, have often been a dubious proposition, but this one captured my imagination.

As the storm clouds slithered and coiled along the highest peaks in the manner of Chinese dragons we shared knowledge and stories with a small group of prospectors. They headed down the mountain after giving well-wishes and signing our little notebook when the last of the sun and turquoise was swallowed by slate and the first fat drops of rain started to fall upon the tundra. We waited for the sky to open up.

Those of you playing along at home know I do not believe in good and evil. Such things are human made constructs, attempting to make order in a universe filled with chaos. Be that as it may, when one of our lot made a remark about doing something on the side of light, I couldn't help but smile slightly. Perhaps, in context, good wasn't such a black and white concept, and we were, indeed, doing a good thing. 

Step

Depending upon how well you know me, saying stepping into a person in power's office has rarely gone well will hardly come as a surprise. I could say it was the bullying stories, and how the powers that be who played favorites-despite the lies that didn't-couldn't be bothered and the repercussions from the si lai nan jen for me were like abused children and battered women from film and story-tell 'em you fell down the stairs. Or perhaps it was my solitary/independent  streak a mile wide, despite the fact I am the thickness of wind myself, that might be most easily described as chaotic neutral-fuck you, I do what I do and go my own way, respect is earned not implied, fucking deal. Or, perhaps, when I finally was able to stand up for myself, and I might have gone up against those who would've brutalized a scrawny aberration in the past and won, but needed to understand my place-fuck you, my place is not beholden to you. Or perhaps when I was told I am not a team player-yeh? don't work and play well with others? see the afore mentioned solitary/independent streak. 

So, imagine, gentle readers, how well I'd been coping with the last few days...

It was a combination of a research project, being a bundle of nerves, and getting ready to go toe to toe. I worried I was wasting not only my time, but the time of cats who had earned my respect. A million negative scenarios played in a cinematic magic venue, whilst the positive vignettes were so few and far between.

I had my mantras...

There was Frank Herbert;

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain..."

Sun Tzu;


"The key to victory in a military operation is deception. Though effective, appear ineffective. Though competent, appear incompetent..."

and Henry Rollins;

"Confrontation takes little thought...any one can confront. It's what you do afterward that tells you what you are..."

Horrific dark belligerent things, I confess...  

But as I walked up those stairs, some comforting words from Sabina in mind, there was but one mantra I had in mind, and it wasn't Buddhist;


Tally-ho and away I go...

***

The preservationist has the countenance of my grandmother. Perhaps therein lies reason and rational for not wanting to waste her time. She has power; unspoken, but understood. Here is someone who could make my existence exceedingly difficult if I gave her an offensive glance. And the rub is, I respect her, so why would I want to commit such an affront? I might bare my jugular to no one, but I do have a sense of decorum.

So, I showed up tentatively. Despite my bristling and mantras, I knew I was not going to war. I needed help. In the moment, I was student seeking instruction from a learned master.

"Go ahead and sit down," she said sweetly. We spent a few moments where she explained some ski techniques to me before saying; "So, let's see what you've got here."

"Please understand this is my first rodeo," I said softly. "I'm not completely sure what I'm doing."

I told her how the trouble started. I mentioned a silly, childish fantasy of either living in a museum or a nature preserve, and how, within the borders of our Sahel, here I was; my Kashmir. I spoke of not wanting any of it to be taken away, but for its magic to be more widely enjoyed. Perhaps I was being a little too child-like.

In the manner of a kindly grandparent, of the most encouraging of teachers, she indulged me. She asked questions and pointed out things I'd not thought of. It was encouraging to see that she was interested. Very much so, in fact. Although, I don't actively seek validation, it was cool to see my idea was not a waste of time.

There is now a file started in her office titled World Heritage. I was sent on my way with some homework to do; outstanding questions that require answers, people to talk to who might be of some help. We are to meet in a few weeks, the rational being if we put it off, it'll fall by the wayside.

So now I'm committed, or perhaps should be. This could take a few years to actually accomplish and I might have to learn how to play politics, as loathsome as that seems. The upshot is I know I have at least one ally in this zany quest of mine. As I left, my head swam with kaleidoscope of thoughts, but one thing stood out quite prevalently; that old cliché of the journey of a thousand miles, and that first step.

Well, tally-ho and away I go... 

A Windmill Upon the Horizon

The trouble started somewhere between reading a book about the African bushmeat crisis and National Geographic a few years back. Ain't that always the way? It was from those places I first heard the term World Heritage.

This little bit of Byzantium, along the upper western edge of our Sahel, is designated as a National Landmark District. One of the first in the state, in fact. We're up there with a national park as far as titles go, though I often find labels to be oh so limiting. After doing a little looking into the whole World Heritage thing, I began to wonder if that wouldn't be another neat metaphoric feather in the metaphoric cap.

A couple of years before I ended up on the board of my local historical society, the president, my two doors down neighbor, and I were drinking lemonade and reading the bible-and by that I mean going through a few bottles of wine and starting into some blueberry vodka before our livers screamed out for mercy-and I mentioned my idea. I even listed off a few places as to be used as examples. We resolved to look into it further, but noting really came of it. So it goes.

Fast forward to a few weeks back...

This little seed of an idea regarding World Heritage would fester and grow around some of my thoughts in the manner of southern kudzu. Something filed away in the back of that maggot's nest I call my mind, but still always there. Although, in some ways, the very idea seemed like a bit of a fool's errand-my own bit of windmill titling, perhaps-I began giving it some more serious consideration.

I was at the narrow gage railroad's holiday party when I ran into one of the preservationists of my acquaintance. Being raised with manners, I did help her back up. It was then I mentioned after the holidays were done and over I wanted an audience with her. My reason; I wanted to see what could be done to make this slice of Byzantium into a World Heritage Site.

Just like that, no turning back...

The holidays are done and over and I have a date with a preservationist. I troll the spider's web of cyber for information, getting my facts in line, hoping this isn't just a fool's errand that I'll get a condescending pat on the head for before being sent upon my way. As with a few instances of me saying fuck it and going at it headlong, there's a part of me wondering just exactly what the fuck I've gotten myself into this time.

A grand adventure or a colossal failure? Something to do or a waste of time? In a few days, the cosmic coin will be flipped and fortune's wheel will have been spun. It is then I'll have my answer.

Tally-ho...

Joiner

It has been a long standing joke of mine that I am a member of the National Geographic Society by virtue of a 'zine subscription, and that's the closest I get to joining anything. After all, I am paradoxically misanthropic. I mistrust those half-bald primates, which walk upon two legs and call themselves Man. Even and especially when they're in groups of two or more.

On a more abstract level, I know I am a part of things whether I like it or not. A relationship, a family, a community, a species, a planet, a universe. All things are interconnected in ways that the most brilliant scientists, philosophers, and theologians struggle to find an all-inclusive language for. The words that would shake us all from the gray apathy of egocentricism we all become entangled in at one point or another whether or not we ever want to admit to it.

Upon that more egocentric level, perhaps it was nurture; the bullying I was on the receiving end of growing up. Being picked last. From the zoological standpoint, I know the other whelps we trying to find the shapes of their hierarchies in their packs, but becoming an exile at such a tender age did leave its scars. Things that still haunt me to this day.

But maybe it was also nature; I have always tended to be more solitary. Sometimes, I find myself aggravated when someone, even one of the quadrupeds, wants to share my company. It could be, back then, there were times, as I was trying to find my own shape and come to grips with that paradoxical misanthropy of mine that I might have tried too hard.

And it's not like I didn't try. There was a few years in the Cub Scouts and 4-H. Neither of which I particularly excelled at. From eighth grade to my sophomore year, I tried the history club because it seemed interesting, but never picked it back up after that. At one point or another, it comes up I do not work and play well with others, be it socially or professionally. Nature and nurturer made manifest in the monster that is me.

Lee was part of a biker tribe for a couple years after I moved to the mountains. Whenever we communicated, he neglected to mention this. It only came up when he was considering cutting his ties with group, as to be a better father to his son. The perspective of parenting aside, I chided him for feeling he needed to a part of herd so bad. I know terms like sheep and cattle came up in the discussion.

"You know me," he said. "I'm a joiner."

Despite the exasperation in his voice, he finally told me about his group affiliation for the fact I was not the most social of cats in the best of times. Just as he was the more extroverted and inclined to want to be a part of something, I was more inclined to watch. I like to watch. It's within the framework of this juxtaposition that our friendship functions as it does. 

A few days ago, I was at the Tea Room procuring some Moroccan Mint to help combat my allergies. One of the waitstaff sits upon the board for our funky little township's historical society. She asked me if I would be interested in a position. I bit my tongue from asking what kind of position and if Sabina and her husband would get to watch, but told her I would think about it.

Perhaps I'd be drinking a little bit more wine and whiskey than usual...

"You two are interested in the history and come to most the events we put on for preservation efforts," the museum curator mentioned when I spoke to her on the subject. "Why not make it official?"

The president of the board, my two doors down neighbor, a man you do not meet insomuch as experience, and I stayed up late into a night shortly thereafter. I'd like to say we were drinking lemonade and reading the Christian bible, but all that translates into is we were contemplating whiskey and he was telling me stories spanning from the halcyon times of the mining days to a year of two before Sabina and I showed up on the scene. When my being asked to be on the board came up, he confessed he had wanted at least one of us ever since we moved in.

"If I fucking do this, will it shut ya'll up?" A question I'd put to Lee more than once over the course of our friendship, which has been the source of trouble starting and high adventure.

"You'll make it look easy," my neighbor said.

"Tally-ho," I muttered, taking a sip of whiskey, realizing I was committed, or maybe should be.

The upside to all this is I might be a little closer to having our place in the world declared a World Heritage Site, should I want to be that kind of aggressive in pursuing it. I will perhaps uncover and collect more stories about the ruins, which pepper that mountainsides surrounding our funky little township. Means to an end.

Be that as it may, that paradoxically misanthropic aspect of me wonders just what in the fuck I've gotten myself into...

The Ghosts of Antiquity

"This place is ancient," the man with a Social Distortion tattoo on his forearm said one night before Sabina and I mounted another walkabout to the various ruins along the 730.

We were swapping stories of ghosts and demons. Gods and monsters. The myths, history, and legends in between of our little pocket of nowhere.

He was right, of course. It is something one can just feel in the air, even without seeing all the various ruins that pepper the mountainsides. An almost taste in the thinner air. It could be said one cannot take a step without following the footfalls of someone from another era altogether.

To be fair, I have lived in old places before. Down south, the township I lived outside of once housed a Confederate prison. Only one structure survived when the Union army marched through. In the greater metroplex, I lived in one of its oldest districts. An ancestor of mine designed one of the temples within the monoliths of downtown.

Still, the overall vibe is different here. The ruins remind me of all the books and documentaries I have read and seen about Egypt and India and China and Tibet and the Kingdom of Kush and the Near East. The remnants of structures that were ancient back during antiquity. I see that here; the remains from the Antiquity of the American Empire.

Although, I believe it goes deeper than that. There were tribes of the First Nations who wandered the passes of these mountains long before the mines. And those tribes had their ghosts and demons. Gods and monsters. They told stories of myth and history too. Some of those tales have roots in that nameless primordial time when the world was still encased in ice and the first hominids had taken a walkabout away from Africa. A time of dragons and titans.

The part of me that wanted to be an archaeologist if I ever grew up, whose sucker for the esoteric and exotic from bygone times, loves all this. The very fact we live somewhere that is designated as part of the National Registry of Historic Places is pretty fucking cool. Well, it least to me, but I am just about nerdy like that.

A few years ago, I heard tell of World Heritage Sites. This seems like a neat concept. A small seed of an idea  found purchase in that maggot's nest I call a mind and has slowly germinated into a full-blown scheme. I kick around doing more research and maybe, just maybe, actually work up the gumption to be will talk to those with a little more push and pull.

I've recently been placed in a position where speaking to those kind cats might happen with a little more frequency by virtue of obligation. Perhaps it comes down to whether or not I want to play politics and risk a little Machiavelli. As with a few other things I consider, it may just come down to a fuck it and a flip of a coin to decide my course of action.

Still, perhaps another title on this little pocket of nowhere. Further insurance that all those ghosts and demons. Gods and monsters. All those aspects of antiquity could continue to dance here upon earthly feet for those who are willing to look and listen.