Weather Report One

It is overcast here, and a tad wet as the marine air continues to take over our mornings, often burning off in the afternoon. Soon, it won't matter and the subtropical air masses that dominated our summer will be gone, replaced by cool ocean air and the moisture it carries. Then the rain will come. Hours and days and weeks of gray and rain, with glimpses of the sun as clouds break only to cover us over minutes later. Those who work by windows will stop what they are doing and bask in the radiance while they can, returning to their duties when the stratonimbi block out old Sol once again. No umbrella carriers we, and life goes on as normal, biking, driving, walking through the drizzel, thankful for the life giving rain while cursing it just the same. That which was brown will become green again, and the grass and forests will strike a pose against the mist of the sky. Come May, we'll emerge to frolick and stare at the view before us but until then, we'll prepare to pack up our scenery, put it in the summer chest and haul it up to the attic.

Columbia Dawn

It’s a four-part scene, this panorama. Tall forested mountains rise on either side, their peaks but a doorway to grander views beyond. The spiny slopes hold hidden waters, cascading down narrow gullies, carrying the season’s runoff to the valley below. Veiled waterfalls mark the point of stiff resistance the mountains put up to the liquid’s unending assault on their bedrock. In this, the rainy season, the splashes can be heard from some distance, drawing visitors in to the coves that enclose them.

The expanse of forest that mask the streams are but a mass from where I sit; individuality marked only on the ridges where the tops of trees silhouette against the sky, or at lower altitudes, fog. Underneath the canopy is an array of coniferous stands with little underbrush, adding to the majesty of the solid trunks visible therein.

The river rules the valley floor, carrying glacial waters from far away mountains and whisking it away to the distant shoreline that awaits downstream. It is a fast mover, its currents strong and determined; a challenge to the fish that attempt to navigate her on their way home. She was here first, before the mountains. She was too fast to be brushed aside by their rise and she still is. Her channel cuts deeper then the growth of the hills, and her children run down their slopes to greet her, filling her with water from the slopes above. Stony outcrops dot her channel and banks, big rocks that refuse to give in to her power; but they too, will succumb in time.

The icing to the morning is provided by the clouds. The misty banks drift and break as they hug the mountain valleys, rest over the river, and whiten the sky. The sun brightens a spot as it attempts to penetrate the blanket, but can only be a minor player at this hour. They emerge from the hillsides like groggy children waking to breakfast on a school morning. They join the others, floating above the river on the way to the sea as the air from East descends into the gorge, bulldozing its way downstream. There, as the gorge opens to the wide Willamette Valley expanse, they will collide with the winds and clouds from the shore, and meet their end.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat

On Saturday I took the boat from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, Cambodia, home of the Angkor Wat temple ruins. The trip followed the Tonle Sap River NW to the Tonle Sap, a large lake about half the size of Lake Erie. The river is unique in that it runs both directions; during the rainy season (May-Oct), the river runs toward the lake, filling it and vastly expanding its surface area (from 2700 to 16000 square km). In the dry season (Dec - Apr) the river reverses course, draining the lake of much of its water, and much of its wildlife as well. The Khmer (main Cambodian ethnic group) hold a festival each year to celebrate the reversing of the flow.

During the boat ride, I snapped lots of photos, and sat on top of the cabin most of the way. I got a little sunburn on my legs, but it was worth it. We left at 7am and docked in Siem Reap at 12pm. I was viewing the temples by 2pm.

The Angkor cities and temples were built from the 9th to the 15th centuries by the Kings of the Khmer Empire. Angkor Wat is the biggest temple, and started out as a Hindu site, but was later converted to Buddhism. Its image is reflected on the Cambodian flag. Many of the other sites are solely Buddhist, but all have a strong Hindu influence, recognizing the often close relationship between these two religions.

SUNRISE AT ANGKOR WAT

On Sunday, I got up at 5am with the intention of being the @ Angkor Wat at sunrise. As I wandered out the door, the jungle hotel courtyard was silent; the only sounds were birds chirping in the surrounding trees signaling the start of the day. The only people around were the night watchman, Chhean, who is working on his English in class one day per week, and the just arrived concierge. It was then that I realized that I had no way of getting to the temple. I thought it might be walk able, but it occurred to me that my memory of the distance in the car from yesterday was probably not accurate, so I asked for help. After some discussion between the two employees in Khmer, I was offered a bicycle that I happily accepted.

I was not entirely sure of the direction I should be headed as I pedaled out of the gate. I stuck with my intuition and rode off into the darkness, north through the forest. The road was unimproved, a mix of gravel and dirt. I passed many homes, open air shacks really, of locals who were awakening to start their day. Concern began to creep into my bones. How safe was it to ride this road right now? Was it the right road? What would I do if confronted by some locals in the dark? Despite these thoughts, I pressed on. I really didn't think what I was doing was dangerous; it was just dark and I was alone in an unfamiliar place. I was also sweating; while the sun had not
come up yet, it was warm and very humid. To make matters worse, to enter the temple you are supposed to have long pants on and a shirt that does not expose shoulders. I am wearing a pair of long linen pants and a long sleeve t. Big mistake on the latter. My shirt is stained with perspiration in about four minutes.

About ten minutes after I left, things began to look a little familiar and I arrive a checkpoint. I had purchased my 3-day pass yesterday, so I passed upon presenting it. Excitement started to hit - the temple moat was in sight, a full 70+ yards wide, and the sun lay low beyond the Eastern forest about to commence its daily journey across the sky. I was just in time.

For better or worse, there were plenty of other early risers crossing the causeway for the show. There are pros and cons to traveling alone. Pricing favors two or more in sharing rooms, rides, and sometimes food, etc. However, it was times like this when being alone pays off. I nimbly snap my photos and pass by the roaming groups stopping for each other, chatting, and constantly assessing their consensus. Soon I am climbing the various steps to reach the central tower, some 400+ yards from the moat. The steps are steep and worn; sandstone weathers easily in a tropical humid climate such as this. The way up is tenuous and the signs at the base warn of climbing at your own risk. Keeping your eyes in front of you prevents the "don't look down" syndrome that is so often associated with heights. I reach the top, and find just a few visitors have come this far, perhaps less than ten. I pray to a Buddha and light some incense sticks, dropping some local currency to the monk in attendance. A few more photos of the solar illumination of this monument to the ancient empire and it is time to reflect. I find an open stone window space to sit in, overlooking the tropical forest below and its immensely tall trees. I want to feel the energy of this place, soak it in without concern for photos, transportation, or time. I begin to cool down and my sweat stops and begins to dry off my shirt. I fall asleep.

Briefly after sunrise, most of the tourists leave, off to get breakfast. As I awake, the distant causeway across the temple grounds has essentially emptied and the louder groups of visitors have gone. The high temple tower is for the most part quiet. I linger for another 30 minutes or so and begin my descent. The heat and my effort build as I make my way down, and sweat returns. I stop for an omelet sandwich at a courtyard stand off in the tree line of the courtyard, and am immediately hounded by kids selling postcards and other trinkets. I turn them away and make my way back to the bike. The ride back is one of accomplishment. I get back at 8:15am, change, grab a chair at the pool, and relaxing in the rising tropical sun.

Siem Reap, Cambodia
August 27, 2006

Above the Pacific

The sea glistened from 36,000 feet. Small white dots on the blue carpet reflect solar rays, but I could not tell the true origin - boat, wave, or other. Cumulo-stratus clouds interrupted the view of the deep blue, hovering and creating distinctive shadows on the azure seascape. At eye level, alto-cirrus clouds acted as a local ceiling to select areas of the sky. While I admired the ocean - truly in a Pacific state so far - I longed to see an island or atoll below. I need perspective for this panorama. Earlier I had searched for a tropical storm, a typhoon, to quench my thirst for geo-relativity. I knew they couldn't form over these seas (we were off the coast of Kamchatka), but I hoped for a dying beast that still held meteorological wrath as it swept its way north.

As we continue south, thunderstorms grow off to the East. Temporary ivory towers reaching up to our cruising altitude as lesser clouds mill about below, serfs paying homage to the king of the aerial feudal system. Such is the daily ebb and flow of the maritime skyline, contrasting the timeless landscapes we are accustomed to. Within hours, it will all be gone as storms move and dissipate while others grow. Numerous empires collapse, surrounded by lesser white puffs that resemble cottage cheese below, or layers of cake icing suspended in mid air above them.

As we pass over Taipei, Taiwan (ROC), I can see the melding of the city to the rugged landscape of the island. Roads, rivers, and buildings are all visible, and ships exit the harbor on their way to offshore markets worldwide. The interior of the island is a formidable forested mountain range, from which the short but sizable rivers run. Taiwan's population is clustered along these rivers as they emerge from the highlands to show their braided stream channels full of silt from the season rains. The periphery, particularly the western side that my window faces, holds most of the island's residents. The mountains look ominously over the coastal cities through the partial cloud cover that attempts to hide them. The lowlands, however, are not to be underestimated. Industrial sites are well developed, and are surrounded by geometric retention ponds, fish farms, or rice paddies.

Finally, another sight I had longed to see: the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). This line of thunderstorms circles the globe roughly corresponding to the Equator, but migrates north of it in the summer, and south of it during (our) winter. It marks the meeting point of the NE and SE trade winds that bring so much precipitation to the tropics. The line sits just south of Hong Kong today, with consistent cumulus clouds along its path, extending the length of the E-W horizon, and indeed around the world. Towering cumulonimbus monsters are interspersed as well; one particularly large one was easily over 45,000 ft. high. Tomorrow it may move south, en
route to its winter home. Earth is underestimated.

United Flight 869
August 16, 2006 3-4pm
Over the Pacific Ocean off the coasts of Japan and China

Sky Scene

My return flight from Orlando last night was late by over an hour. It was pretty empty, with maybe 10 passengers with a 9:30 departure.

Within about a half hour of Reagan National Airport, the full moon shown through crystal clear skies above, lighting up the sea of the clouds below us. Off to the east, the main part of a storm appeared to be settling, with cloud-to-cloud lightning flashes rumbling like a father into his chair after a full meal. From inside the quiet cabin, it was perhaps one of the most beautiful views I have experienced in my life. Breathtaking. Without sound, the distance and vastness of the scene took on new importance, presenting just a glimpse of the feeling astronauts must get when looking out to the heavens. Pure, dynamic, colorful.

July 28, 1999

Birkenau Walk

I remember listening to the sound of the wind as we ambled through the camp. Most of our thoughts were too frightening to speak, so we shared an occasional affirmation of the view that lay before us. What lay beneath those words was something far more terrifying to confront lightly; the brutality of man.

My companion had been to Dachau, outside of Munich. That concentration camp had been razed to the ground, and all that remained was a memorial landscape. He conveyed this to me expressing the difference he felt while absorbing Auschwitz II, aka Birkenau, the Nazi death camp that we now tread upon. Here, the original buildings still stood, the train tracks still ran, and the fence still encased. Most of the wooden barracks were relatively dilapidated, though a few were modestly renovated by the Polish government so visitors could peek in to try and imagine the horror that they once contained.

As we walked toward the rear of the camp, huge chasms appeared in the ground that in the past held the bodies of those who were brought here to die. The end of the train tracks were marked by a memorial for the victims, and the flames of candles lit in their memory were the only sign that any people had recently passed this way. Beyond the memorial were the cremation ovens that lay in rubble, their backs broken when the Soviet army arrived in early 1945.

October was not the height of tourist season in Europe, especially SW Poland in 1992. The Berlin Wall was a memory, but still fresh was the West’s disdain for the East for all but old relatives seeking their families across the rusted Iron Curtain. We were alone this day, the only others around had left the physical world long ago. The wind was still here, making the same sound it had forty eight years earlier. Only now, we were there to hear the voices it carried through the years, and to try and listen to what they were saying to us.

Driving at Night

Summer is over, autumn is here - the road tells the story. Gone are the tourists of the season that crowded the highways of the west; the mini vans, the SUVs, the stations wagons. Some cars and pickups (both beat-up and new) with local license plates remain, along with cargo vans and semi tractor trailers. This is the North Country. Construction, begun at the height of the summer, is in mop-up stages, but single lane traffic has little effect on one car, all alone. I pass through countless zones with minor difficulty; a moments delay, if any.

Goodbye to population, hello wilderness. The grid pattern roads and farms of Minnesota and eastern North Dakota give way to the hilly "Badlands" topography of western ND and Montana. The interstate begins to twist and turn, passing tiny hamlets and dry creek beds as it grips the shores of the Yellowstone River. Radio stations that had strong signals a short time ago, disappear into static and no replacement can be found. Through a foggy patch of cirrus clouds, the crescent moon pokes through, illuminating the cockpit of my stuffed car. Its light siloulettes the conifers standing tall on the top of the surrounding hills, giving boundary to the night.

110 miles, 90 minutes to go

Off ramps pass, some occupied, some not. These nameless exits lead to empty roads, few or no houses in sight, that in turn provide passage to ranches deep in the interior of the hills where Montana has gone to retire. Its residents are home now, nestled under blankets, bellies full, skin warm, bodies tired, minds fading.

50 miles, 40 minutes to go

A short stop at a rest area finds a surprise; silence. Trucks parked, drivers and engines sleep. A well lit but unoccupied rest station stands as a sentry for the traveler of the northern crossing. The wind is dead, and the desolate highway emits no sound. An engine starts, a truck awakes. A return to the car brings music that contrasts the peacefulness outside. I turn it off and quietly depart.

Arrival

Like an oasis, the horizon comes alive with the lights of civilization. The white bluffs and buttes the locals call rimrock encase the city brighten with the reflection; beyond them is wilderness. The river, too, reflects the city. Pair of deer approach the neon abyss, look down, sigh, and turn away into the night.

Billings, MT, 10:30pm, Mountain Time October 2000