Chaz Sin: One Writer's Sojourn Through An Odd Life
Goðafoss, waterfall of the Gods. Typically don’t include tourists in my shots but there was no shaking these dudes they stood in front of everyone taking pics, oblivious, but hey, it’s their trip, too. Moreover, I’m not inclined to try and Photoshop out their turista bright colors against such a craggy outpost.
One 3 kilometer hike in Northeast Iceland up,up,up. Check. Two major waterfalls: Hengifoss at the top, Litlanesfoss in the middle; you can see both in earlier blog posts here. And finally this sad, little throwaway waterfall at the bottom of the trail, and by the time I’d come back down it was raining like hell, stormy, big gusts throwing water sideways. Fact: Iceland is rife with throwaway waterfalls and drama queen weather that would be major hiking attractions back home. Get here to this geological baby of an island, folks.
This 1890 red engineering marvel is the Forth Bridge at Queen’s Ferry in Scotland, the 2nd longest cantilever span in the world, still carrying a steady stream of rail traffic while two other bridges nearby handle the auto traffic. It doesn’t hurt much that it’s beautiful to look at–I feel reasonably qualified to say that coming from San Francisco, where we have both the beautiful Golden Gate and the LED art piece that is the Bay Bridge. In any case, the water is reflective glass, so it’s yet another point-and-shoot-and-get-great-pic opportunity in Scotland, which continues to be not boring in the least. Feast your eyes, friends. I know I did.
Oh, you visitors to the Bay area who say, “Take me to Napa Valley, let me drink wine.” I indulge them of course, I’m a good host, but eventually, I take them down miles of winding roads that may get them carsick, climb over the hillocks amongst the staked out vineyards and pause there, point to a random small house on the far horizon, then I quote Norman MacLean’s epic conclusion to a River Runs Through It.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
Having said such a thing, some smart ass will always point out that there’s no water in sight, but that’s not the point, is it? My point is that as far as scientists can tell, all brontosauruses are thin at one end, much, much thicker in the middle, and then thin again at the far end. Q.E.D.
Prepping to be off to Africa in the coming day, and then a truly grand trip begins.
Mt Tamalpais, that stalwart guardian looking down on San Francisco, so named from the indigenous Coast Miwok people of the San Francisco area to mean merely “West Hill”. I’m rediscovering its many meandering hiking trails with forest minded friends. Typically, we start in Muir Woods under canopy of towering redwoods and make our way upwards through the forest, and all along the way there are waters that gurgle and flow and fall over rocks. I’ve no capability to meditate in the way that so many do, yet I can say that my head is plenty crowded with good and happy thoughts to the physical tune of of my legs as they churn upwards. The temperature is a crisp 46-55 degrees Fahrenheit, and in the shade of these ancient and mighty forest denizens, the mist keeps a pleasant chill on our skin.
In recent days, I spoke about watching rainstorms drop massive water a few miles offshore while Saba struggles with draught conditions. Here’s the most compelling photo yet (click to make larger, if you’d like) to show you what Sabans see. We ended up getting about 15 minutes of light light sprinkle from this beastie, barely enough to cover an extra hand wash, but something is better’n nothing, unless that something is an angry honey badger.
Exceptionally clear and blue day today with a horizon that went to forever. Click the picture to enlarge it and see the oil tankers lined up waiting on oil products from Statia’s refinery on the hill that faces Saba. I thought about posting the picture of the white bull being led by hand and rope out of St. John’s Flat for slaughter, but this seemed a bit more tranquil, which is my mood.
Just got home from late night karaoke at Scout’s Place and we walked outside and celebrated the rainy wet pavement. Hard to tell if it rained very long, but it was enough to leave the streets and buildings wet…that’s a few millimeters of precious cistern water for the parched Sabans.
A Tangled Mind In Motion 