On the Road Again

Back on the road for five days now, a different state every night. We left home Saturday, after depositing Homer at Doggy Camp (because he's just not fat enough) and headed west on ... ugh ... the freeway as far as Fort Stockton; then went north through Carlsbad and Roswell to Albuquerque, where we had a short visit with my old friend Kilby, who recently moved back there from Pennsylvania. Next morning, up the road to Colorado (completing, incidentally, New Mexico on my County Count, not that that matters). I decided I'd planned too much driving for Sunday, so instead of going up to Pagosa Springs, we went into Colorado at Durango, then up the San Juan Skyway through Silverton and Ouray (where we had lunch at Billy Goat Gruff's Biergarten, with good local beer and reasonably good German food), then around the mountain to the entrance to the canyon where Telluride lies. We stopped at a place called Keystone Overlook and decided not to go into Telluride, which is just another quaint mountain resort town. Instead, we headed south and spent a good chunk of the afternoon touring Mesa Verde.

The Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde N.P.

The entrance road to Mesa Verde National Park is one of the most dramatic drives I've ever made. You start on the plateau; ahead of you is a mesa jutting out from the higher plateau, maybe 900 or 1000 feet high. The road into the park loops into the canyon east of the promontory, then rises in a series of switchbacks until you're up on the higher plateau. From the top you can see a hundred miles, to the mountains we had been in earlier that day. 

The visitors' center is fifteen miles from the park entrance. (I had no idea just how big these western parks are.) There you can arrange a place on a guided tour of several of the primary cliff-dwellings; we opted for the 5pm tour of the Cliff Palace, the largest collection of ruins in the park (which, I believe, is the largest collection of such ruins in the world). Another five miles took us to the place, where we waited on an overlook for the rest of our tour and our guide.

We, it turned out, were the entire 5pm tour, so we ended up with a private tour by Ranger Jo, a woman in her 70s who humped up and down the steep trail like a mountain goat. She pointed out a stand of wireweed and had us taste it; this was, according to her, the only "salad" the indians had. In the spring, she says, it tastes like celery; this time of year it's similar but bitter.

Ranger Jo has been around Mesa Verde a long time, and knows the history of the park from a personal point of view. That made for an interesting and occasionally idiosyncratic tour, which we enjoyed thoroughly; though I could have done with fewer reports of conversations she's had with "Grandfather," a Pueblo Indian of her acquaintance who is her primary source on points of culture. I don't know the man, but from what she told us, he is pompous about Pueblo culture to the point of arrogance, or maybe just utterly ignorant of the culture of the white people around him. (Thinking about it reminds me of a line I heard from some woman doing stand-up on the Comedy Channel: "Somebody called me a racist. That's awful. That's an awful thing to say. That's worse than calling somebody a Mexican.") Anyway, we had a nice hour-long tour and then were on our own. We drove around the park, stopping here and there to get out and see various ruins in the canyons that cover the park.

Monday morning we stopped briefly at Four Corners, a dusty third-world outpost on the Navajo reservation where four states come together. We took the obligatory photographs of ourselves standing if four states at once, had a nice chat with a couple of the stray dogs, and left. 

The road west was under construction. There were crews doing resurfacing work along 100-yard-long stretches of highway, but they closed miles-long sections down to one lane to accommodate them, requiring additional personnel to drive the pilot cars. These drivers were also, apparently, in charge of passing on gossip to flagmen along the way, as we had several times to wait while our pilot exchanged pleasantries. Judging from the body language, he's an amusing conversationalist.

The road took us to Monument Valley, another Navajo tribal park. This one seemed much more developed on the way in, but the paved entrance and modern visitors' center and hotel proved to be just window dressing. The loop road that takes you down among the many fabulously-shaped buttes is not intended for passenger cars. (They don't tell you that at the gate, though the woman issuing our tickets was nice enough to suggest that we might want to put the top up.) The road is rocks and sand, more suited to a beat-up old Land Cruiser than a passenger car, and while I didn't bottom out, I had to attend so closely to choosing my path along this poorly-made roadway that I couldn't enjoy the scenery at all while we were moving. (I've seen better roads in the Congo.) After we'd gone about a third of the way down this 17-mile road, I decided that, since we'd already seen the major sites -- Elephant Butte, Camel Butte, the Mittens, the Three Sisters and one that looked for all the world like Droopy Dawg -- that I'd had enough, and we turned back. And got stuck in the sand.

In the Visitors' Center there's a panel talking about the creation of the park back in the 1950s, over the objection of some of the tribe. The argument that carried the day, it seems, was that if they put in a park it would keep white folk out of the rest of the Res. Every bump and rut in this pathetic road made it clear: they don't really want people to come visit. So, now that I've seen it, I'll never have to go back to the Navajo reservation. And now that I've seen Arches National Park, I won't much miss it. It ain't nothin' in comparison.

Landscape Arch

Arches National Park is one of those places that has to be seen to be believed. We got to the park around 5pm, and after a stop at Park Avenue, a line of impossibly thin vertical rock slabs like skyscrapers lining a city street, and Balanced Rock, we drove to Devil's Garden, at the farthest end of the park, and hiked out to Landscape Arch. This gossamer rock vault is three hundred feet long, and looks like a stiff breeze would topple it. I had seen it pictured on a magnet in the Visitors' Center, and thought afternoon would be the best time to get pictures of it. We were going to go back to the park early the next morning to get photos of other sites.

Unfortunately, Landscape Arch is situated so that by evening it's pretty much in the shade, as you can see. Morning would have been better. Oh, well. But the next morning we went to the Delicate Arch Viewpoint, a climb of about 200 feet from the parking area. To get to the arch itself would have been twice as high a climb and three times as long a hike, so we decided not to do it. Instead we went to the areas called The Garden of Eden and The Windows, both of which were stunning no matter which way you look.

Leaving Arches yesterday morning, we drove across Utah, along one of the better freeway drives in the country -- Interstate 70 across the unusual landscape of the San Rafael Uplift -- and then onto US 50, into the Great Basin. Four years ago I had gone to the Great Basin National Park Visitors' Center to get a passport stamp, but arrived fifteen minutes after closing. My intention in planning the day's drive had simply been to try again for a stamp -- there didn't seem to be any big attraction at the park, which seems to exist only for people who like to hike and fish and stuff. But on arriving in time to get the all-important passport stamp, I found that there's a drive that goes up to view the glacier on the side of Mount Wheeler, and the ranger said it only took about 45 minutes to get up there. It was early enough in the day, so we made the drive.

I'd never seen a glacier before. Now that I've seen one, I'd kind of like to see a real one. Technically I suppose it is a glacier, this paltry patch of white stuff on the north face of the mountain, but it's hardly the kind of thing we southern boys envision when we hear the word "glacier," which usually occurs in the context of grinding out landscape for huge lakes and mountains. This thing hardly seemed adequate for two pitchers of margaritas. Guess I'll have to go to Alaska sooner than planned.

Last night we stayed in Ely, Nevada, an unimpressive little town an hour from the Great Basin park; today we drove across Nevada on US 50 (which Life Magazine once dubbed "America's Loneliest Road," recommending against driving it "unless you're confident of your skills." I guess it's been improved significantly since then, as it's a pretty good road, even through the many mountain ranges it crosses) and are now holed up for two nights in South Lake Tahoe, California. I'm really, really, really looking forward to a day of rest.

The Challenge of Cost-Benefit Analysis In The Public Sector

Driving through New England the other day, I noticed one of those freeway lanes set aside for "high-occupancy vehicles" -- cars with two people in them; motorcycles, buses. This freeway lane was at least 15 miles long, and included specially-built exit overpasses, so that its ecologically responsible users wouldn't have to work their way through the mass of ordinary folk in the other lanes. There was not a single vehicle using that lane in its entire length.

Now: the idea of these dedicated HOV lanes is to reward people who car pool, making their trips faster by getting them out of the gridlock and speeding them on their way. I can see some value in that; we want to encourage people to car-pool. And I would expect that there would be fewer cars in the HOV lanes than in the other lanes -- if there weren't, HOV lanes would be useless. But there were none. Absolutely none. And where I could see the HOV lanes heading the other direction, I saw not one single vehicle over there either.

There still has to be some kind of cost-benefit analysis given to the construction of these lanes. I find it hard to believe that any serious objective analysis was done. How much does it cost to build a mile of freeway a single lane wide? How much does it cost to build 15 miles of it? How much to build the special overpasses for dedicated use? How much to build the added shoulder and guard railings? How much for the carpool parking lots that are part of the system? (Probably not much for that last one, but something.) And how much does it cost each year to maintain all that added infrastructure?

And how much benefit do we get, from the added productivity of HOV users who arrive at work four minutes earlier, or stay later, or are more alert from a more relaxing commute? How much from the pollutants that were not emitted by the vehicles that weren't used? How much from the unspent fuel? (And note that the benefits from using motorcycles and buses are not properly a benefit of the HOV lane, except to the extent that the presumed faster transit on the HOV lane encourages motorcycle or bus ridership. Neither are the benefits of using hybrid or other low emission vehicles, which in some places are allowed to use HOV lanes with only one occupant.) (And, do these expensive-to-build, expensive-to-maintain roadways actually achieve their stated objectives? The one study I found says not.)

I know there are ways to quantify these things in dollars and cents. I would like to see the calculations, but I suspect either they weren't done, or weren't done properly, or were just ignored in the interest of politics. And I suspect something uglier than mere politics.

I've seen these HOV lanes all over the country, and in Canada. In some places, mostly in the very largest sprawling cities, like Houston and Phoenix, they seem to get enough use to justify the cost. I say "seem" because, again, I don't have any quantitative basis for analysis. There are others, as in Tampa and Minneapolis/St. Paul, that are toll lanes ("HOT lanes"), sometimes with no charge to high-occupancy traffic, reducing (or, theoretically (though I bet it hasn't happened since the old Dallas-Fort Worth Turnpike was paid off) eliminating) the cost to the public. But if you take it that frequently-used HOV lanes are worth their cost to society, while underused HOV lanes are not, then I would say from what I've seen around the country that HOV lanes are too often a waste of money.

In a representative democracy, we elect public officials to oversee the answering of such questions. We all know these representatives are subject to all of the failings of ordinary mortals, but still we expect them to husband public resources the way they would their own. We expect them to use due care in deciding what project is a good investment, and what project is not.

Sometimes they will get it wrong in the analysis. Sometimes the information provided to them will be incorrect, or incomplete. Sometimes it will be lies and sometimes they won't catch those lies. Sometimes they will be influenced by the desires of the loudmouth segments of their constituencies: the special-interest groups, the lobbyists, the organized groups of citizens who care a great deal about issues that most of us think only modestly important. Sometimes they will be influenced by corrupt influences, generally either money, power, or sex. Sometimes they will just exercise poor judgment, and sometimes they will just be stupid. They are, after all, ordinary mortals themselves, and in theory their failings will be dealt with at the next election.

Favourite Pictures, part 1

I got one of those digital picture frames for Christmas, and promptly loaded it with a few hundred of the pictures that appear in my Picasa web albums. Today, having not too much to do, I decided I should pick out some of my favourites and at least say something about them. Because, let's face it, not many people are going to prowl through three hundred pictures of a herd of wildebeest to get to the head shot of the lion.

I'm no Ansel Adams, but occasionally I get lucky and come home with a shot that, to my untrained eye, looks purdy damn good. These tend to be the ones I like the best. And so, as much for my own pleasure as yours, here are a few of my favourites.

This is a shot taken with a long lens on the main street of the city of Beni, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, late on a Sunday morning. The streets were filled with people going to church, and there's just something about this woman's look that interests me. Maybe it's the hat; maybe it's the sadness I imagine in her expression, a sadness I saw in the faces of many of the people there, until the camera came out. (From a private web album.)

Paris is a city full of stunning views, with grand buildings at every turning. But there's something innately charming to me about this picture, of Rue Suger, near St.-Germain. (From the web album, "Paris") The area around it bustles with traffic and pedestrians, but this winding little street, despite being entirely paved, is like a park in the midst of trench warfare.

This is a view from the base of the dome of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart -- itself one of those grand buildings mentioned above -- toward the iconic grand building. Yes, it was that hazy in Paris that day, but all the pictures I have when it was clear in Paris were taken before the advent of the digital camera, and I don't own a scanner. (From the web album, "Paris")

I don't know what kind of bird this is, and in many ways it's not that good a picture; but I was so pleased with myself to actually be able to get the camera out, change the lens, and focus on the bird for a change that I include it as a favourite. I also kind of like the way the surrounding vegetation seems to be shimmering. (The picture was taken, by the way, in a pullout in Medina County, west of San Antonio; from the web album, "San Antonio and vicinity")

This is the picture I was looking at when I decided to make this blog post. It's an okapi in the San Diego Zoo. I remember reading an article in Natural History magazine, probably 30 years ago, about the search for the okapi, which wasn't found by westerners until about 1905, making it the last large land animal to be "discovered." The natives in the jungle where the okapi lives, near the Congo River, knew about it, of course, though it is a shy animal; but their descriptions tended to be disbelieved, because it made the animal sound like an accretion of parts from other animals. I just think this picture looks really good in the digital frame, mostly because of the angle of the late-afternoon sun.. (From the web album, "San Diego Zoo")


This is my favourite of all the pictures I took in Africa in 2008, when I went to the DR Congo, Uganda, and Kenya. To me, this image captures the loneliness, the vastness, the seeming emptiness of the savanna. I have a couple of other pictures of a lone tree on a ridge, with a single back-lit wildebeest standing in the shade like guards; those pictures give a sense of the constant danger of the savanna to prey animals, but I think this image is more poignant. (From the web album, "Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve")






This isn't that good a picture, but it reminds me of the most beautiful thing I saw while in Africa. This giraffe stepped out into the road in front of us, keeping an eye on us (wife and the kids were off to the left). When we started forward slowly, he turned away and ran up the road, then off to the right. The motion of a big giraffe running is stunning. He seemed to just float above the ground like a big silk banner, and even though we were going about 20 mph, he hardly seemed to be moving yet stayed well ahead of us. (From the web album, "Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve")


I like this picture because all these wildebeest were lined up as though at attention, and three others paraded in front of them as though inspecting the troops. (From the web album, "Maasai Mara Wildlife Reserve")

This is a field in the southern Ozarks, photographed near sunset on a Saturday afternoon. There's something about the quality of the light that just makes this picture. Much like in the okapi picture. If I ever doubted that the best pictures are taken early in the morning or late in the day, these pictures would prove it to me. (From the web album "Trip to Maine, part 1")

This picture, at the moment, isn't actually in a web album. I was looking at the files on my computer and found that I never put up an album for my trip to Kentucky and Michigan in 2008. I'll get around to it, now that I know. Meanwhile, this is one of many pictures I have of my favourite toy ... well, okay, my second-favourite toy, in a scenic spot. This one happens to be in the Cumberland Gap. I just love this car. Even when it's not running. (They say a Jaguar is the prettiest car you'll ever see ... broken down on the side of the road.)

I'm not going to try and explain what these people are doing in the parking lot of a dam overlook along the Apache Trail in Arizona. Maybe I know these people ... maybe I don't. I'm not saying.

Joining Another Group

I've decided to become a Philistine. The urge came upon me quite suddenly, sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant yesterday, as several thoughts and recent experiences coalesced in a sort of Aha moment.

It started with the politically incorrect observation that the fork is objectively a more useful utensil than chopsticks. The fork is more versatile as an eating utensil, and at least as useful as a weapon. The fork is also much more useful on its own than is one chopstick; and while two forks would work at least as well for lifting food as do two chopsticks, a single fork, alone or in conjunction with a single knife, adds a dimension to eating that two chopsticks simply cannot approach.

Millions -- even billions -- of people do quite nicely with chopsticks, but this isn't really an argument in their favour. Chopstick users in situ make their way with bowls held up directly under their chins, so the food can be shoveled into the mouth with little opportunity for droppage or splashage; which is fine where that is the cultural norm. But here in America, where the traditions are rooted in Europe, and where we consider it rude to shovel food in that way, chopsticks are really more for showing off than eating. You can eat pho with chopsticks if you don't have to carry those slippery noodles very far from the broth. You cannot gracefully eat it, though, with chopsticks while sitting in an upright position with your bowl on the table in front of you. Noodles will drop back into the broth, they will splash, and you will make a mess. So Westerners in Asian restaurants who insist on eating with chopsticks are really just showing off the fact that they have learned a not-too-difficult skill not indigenous to their own culture. 

This thought conjoined with the observation that almost everyone I know with any pretensions toward intellectual accomplishment either has, or pretends to have, a deep interest in spiritual aspects of exotic cultures. Native American philosophies are fashionable throughout the western US and Canada. Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican cultures, or at least a cartoon version of them, are revered in the part of the country where I live; the murderous Aztec culture is viewed as a benign counterpart to Greece and Rome. And superficial south-Asian and east-Asian cultural familiarity has long been de rigeur throughout the country, the more so now that China and India are becoming economic powers in the Western tradition. Maybe knowing a smattering about Confucianism or Buddhism makes their rise seem less threatening. 

I don't have any real problem with people knowing things about how non-Europeans look at the world. And certainly people who are themselves creatures of those non-European cultures are to be expected to know something about them, just as my mother knew something of the Italian culture she grew up in, and just as I know (and care) much less about it. It would be strange if a person whose parent came over from China knew nothing about how the Man On The (Beijing*) Street looks at the world, even if that person can't really articulate a difference between that worldview and, say, Roman imperialism. Exotic spiritual perceptions -- exotic, at least, to my Eurocentric-American world -- can tell us something, if only by comparison, about ourselves, and given a certain critical cultural mass, such as is present in south Texas vis-a-vis the Mesoamerican outlook, can even become a part of the American outlook. American culture, after all, though called a melting pot, is really more a chunky soup than a fondue, and if you put enough cilantro in, the overall flavour will be changed.

This isn't a bad thing. My gripe is with people who feel the need to force a change based on some perception that the exotic cultural outlook is somehow superior to our own. I always think of a woman who was part of a group of law students I went to Mexico with years ago: a middle-aged woman who vociferously and unrelentingly acquainted all within earshot with her belief in the innate superiority indigenous Mexican culture has over whatever version of American culture she grew up with. I am pleased to say I did not tell her to shut the fuck up, the whole time we were in Mexico, though my Mexican friends wondered to me why she was so down on her own cultural heritage, intimating that it was either false, or condescending.

American culture, such as it is, is superior to every other culture. It is a melding, a merger, a combination of cultural attributes from hundreds and hundreds of cultures from around the world. It is better than any other because it has been infused with the best parts of almost every other culture on earth. With our initially north- and west- European heritage, our ancestors (well, not mine, specifically, because they weren't here then, but my adopted ancestors, the Founding-Father types) built political, economic and social systems that are currently the envy of the world, and in the centuries since the first Native American died of smallpox, those systems have been modified by the beliefs and mores of many, many others. When people come to America from India or Syria or Nigeria, they bring with them the culture they grew up with. They, and their children and grandchildren, hang on to those parts of that culture that are important to them, while discarding less important parts and adopting the ways of the people they now live among. They influence the greater culture, and the greater culture influences them. The cream, so to speak, rises to the top, and as a result we have, I assert, objectively the best of all worlds here in our uniquely American culture.

I've lately been reading a book called Empires and Barbarians, by Peter Heather. A well-written book, though, surprisingly, horribly, horribly edited, at least in the book club edition: misspellings, unexplained technical terms, poorly concealed seams where blocks of text have been moved about, repetitive segues, badly-conceived maps, and worst of all, references to plates that aren't included in the book. In it, Professor Heather examines cultural changes in the context of migration, especially in late Roman times. I'm inclined to accept his explanation of how such changes come about, even though I'm only halfway through the book, because I see it happening around me; but that's not why I bring him up. I mention this book because of something I read in it a few days ago, concerning the Anglo-Saxon takeover of England. (He probably wouldn't approve of the word "takeover" here, but I use it denotatively, not connotatively.) What he said, if I understand it correctly (and I think I do) is that the indigenous Roman Britons, upon sufficient contact with increasing numbers of Anglo-Saxons, became Anglo-Saxons themselves. They chose to identify themselves as part of that group. 

I think that is a remarkable thing, and one that I heartily endorse. I see people from all parts of the world choosing to make themselves American, and I applaud them for doing so, not least because of my belief that uprooting oneself and travelling to a strange and distant place is one of the most difficult things a person can do, and so those who do it are just the kind of people we should encourage to join our little group.

And in a perverted support of that concept, of self-determination (a perquisite of our European heritage), I have decided to join another cultural group myself. I have decided to become a Philistine, so that I don't have to pretend to appreciate all the humanist cultural gobbledygook that my fellow Americans inflict on me every day.