Light at the end of the tunnel?

A good deal of my time so far this summer has been consumed with scanning pictures and preparing pictures for scanning. On June 2nd I reported that another 970 pictures had been scanned since mid-May, plus the 575 pictures of mom's that had been scanned in April.

For the heck of it, I decided to keep track of how much time was spent in scanning. In hindsight I probably should have tracked how much time was spent in preparing the pictures for scanning as well. Once I started on the magnetic albums, it's highly likely that as much time was spent in prep as in actual scanning.

The prep work consisted of removing the pictures from the albums, sorting them into the order in which they were to be scanned, then attaching them to archival paper. After fiddling with trying to put multiple pictures on the scanner bed and getting irritated with them moving when the cover was lowered (due to static), I decided to put the pictures on the pages where I wanted them, add captions as needed, then individually scan the pictures along with their corresponding captions. Too bad I didn't think of that when I was scanning mom's first album. Something to keep in mind for the next one!

Out of the past 48 days, scanning was done on 21 of them, usually 2-3 hours a day but occasionally 4 hours. One day I was on a roll and spent 6 hours scanning! I'm not totally crazy, it wasn't all at one sitting. I did get up a few times to stretch my legs and grab a bite to eat. And yes, I washed my hands after eating and before handling the pictures! Anyway, a total of 70 hours of scanning in 21 days netted another 2278 images. That's an average of 3.3 hours and 108.5 images per day.

That takes care of my personal albums. There are still a few more of Mom's to do. Next up will be the genealogy documents. But, they too need to be sorted prior to scanning. I've mentioned before that with my filing system I put documents of the same type together, regardless of who they are for, whether an ancestor or other relative, giving each document a number. I could find them easily because of the numbering system and the fact that when something was entered in my database the document number was entered for reference, so all I needed to do was look up the person in the database to see where the document was filed. But that system isn't really intuitive and I need to make it easier for whomever will take over my research (assuming there is a family member who wants it or in case it gets donated to a library or society). So that means sorting and putting the documents together for a given person or family. I haven't decided yet whether I'll scan "everything" or just the ancestral documents. "Everything" includes a lot. I think, after I've sorted through stuff I'll do the ancestors first and save the rest for another time. I want to get back to researching! And doing other things. But at the least, I want to get the ancestor documents scanned.

There may not yet be light at the end of the tunnel, but it will be there one day. Soon, I hope.

The picture below was taken in September 1978 while I was stationed in Japan. Above the Clouds. Sunrise from the top of Mt. Fuji. There is a story to tell that goes along with the picture, but it'll have to wait for another time.

Photo Copyright © 1978/.. by Rebeckah R. Wiseman

Georgia Sunrise

Funny thing about how the world turns... for every sunset there is a sunrise. Though ordinary they might be, each one is a sight to behold. I don't often get up early enough to catch the sunrise but on this particular day I was camped along the northern shore of a little inlet on Lake Blackshear in Georgia Veterans State Park and I was awakened by the early morning light. The colors in the sky were magnificent. But, of course, by the time I had gotten around and outside some of the awesome color had dissipated somewhat, but it was still quite nice.






February 1, .. at 7:16 am Central Standard Time.





Taken at 7:29 am.


It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the light changes and the dramatic effects, especially during the times of a sunrise or sunset.

The Grand Canyon :: Navajo Point and Desert View

Navajo Point is the last viewpoint before arriving at Desert View. Quite Spectacular. Indeed.





And a closer view of The River.



And this is how it looks from Desert View. The exterior of the Watch Tower was being renovated the last time I was here and this area was not accessible. I think the little blue wheelbarrow adds something to the picture, I'm just not sure what!





A slightly closer shot of the same view as above.



Each one of the stones used in construction of the Watch Tower was reportedly selected by the architect Mary Jane Colter. She also determined where each stone was to be placed.





I did go inside and was going to go up but after the first few steps, my legs cried out “no way” so I turned around. I was completely enthralled by the interior and took plenty of photos the last time, which you can see here.





The view to the east, looking out over the desert. The Little Colorado Gorge lies a few miles away and the terrain is still quite rugged.



And so, as the road to Desert View comes to an end, so too does this Journey of mine... I've made it safely back to Indiana. I'm Home Again. Thank you to everyone who has followed along, I'm so glad you could join me for the ride...



For those of you who are feeling the need for a bit of adventure, my cousins Sue & Fred will be hiking into the Grand Canyon in a few weeks. Then they will be traveling in the West and in May will follow the coast north and “driving” to Alaska via the Marine Highway. They will be spending the Summer Up North! I wish them well in their journey and will be following along virtually, as many of you have been following me...

Millbrook: Westward Ha! (5.7) & Cruise Control (5.9)

(Photo: Just above the final crux of Cruise Control (5.9). Photo by Christian Fracchia.)




Millbrook is a cliff with a fearsome reputation.




Unlike the other large cliffs at the Gunks, Millbrook has no easy access. A hike of at least three miles is required to approach the cliff. Once there, you have to rap in from above to get to the climbs. All of the climbs start from a narrow, sloping shelf popularly known as the "Death Ledge." Above this Death Ledge is a rotten band of rock; many of the climbing routes negotiate crumbly, loose territory for the first thirty to forty feet. And even if you survive the rotten band, you aren't out of the woods. The climbs at Millbrook are steep, difficult, and often poorly protected. 5.11 X is a common rating at Millbrook.




This is a serious cliff. You need to have a good idea of your limits before you go there. When you climb at Millbrook, you will likely be climbing alone. If something goes wrong, help is going to be hard to come by.




Does this sound like fun to you?




And yet the cliff has very attractive qualities as well. For starters, it is the highest, whitest, most impressive cliff at the Gunks. You might not notice it so much from New Paltz but if you spend any time in the area to the south, in Gardiner, for example, you can't help but feel its presence. We've rented a house on Bruynswick Road, which parallels the ridge, and every time I've driven down to this house from the north, following the road past all the major cliffs, I've been struck by how Millbrook looms over the area in the most appealing and inviting way. It is a beautiful, solemn place.




And there are great climbs at Millbrook. Not just hard man test-pieces (of which there are many), but also great moderates (or so I've been told). The introductory Millbrook route, right at the center of the cliff (next to the rappel tree), is Westward Ha!, a climb some consider to be the best 5.7 in the Gunks. Just to the right of Westward Ha! is a classic 5.9 called Cruise Control. Another reputed classic 5.9, Realm of the Fifth Class Climber, is down at the southern end of the cliff. And there are more, a handful of 5.7 to 5.9 climbs that I hear are well-protected and well worth doing, along with several world-class 5.10's and 5.11's that have reasonable pro.




Above all, Millbrook offers solitude, mystery, and the unknown, things which are in short supply at the other major cliffs at the Gunks. Millbrook provides a chance to get away from the same crowded routes you did yesterday and to step into what feels like a real alpine adventure.




Until this past weekend I'd never been climbing at Millbrook. I've been really wanting to go lately, intrigued by Christian Fracchia's website The White Cliff, which has wonderfully detailed topo photos of the whole cliff, along with updated route information that is more precise than what you'll find in any of the official guidebooks. I contacted Chris when I started thinking about climbing at Millbrook, and he gave me great advice about potential routes to climb and how best to reach them.




This past Sunday seemed like a good day to go. Clear skies and cool temperatures made for perfect conditions for hiking out to the cliff. Gail was willing to troop out there with me. I hoped we could knock off the two most obvious candidates, Westward Ha! (5.7) and Cruise Control (5.9), and still have time to maybe hit another moderate like The High Traverse (5.8 with the variation finish) or Realm of the Fifth Class Climber (5.9), mentioned above.









(Photo: On the trail to Millbrook, with Skytop visible in the distance.)




Dick Williams suggests in his guidebook that the hike out to Millbrook will take about an hour. For us the trip was uneventful but it took longer than that. We were slowed a bit by a lot of wetness on the trail, which I guess was a remnant of some heavy rain that fell a few nights before. The hike is perfectly pleasant, and I bet it is quite beautiful in late May/early June when the mountain laurel is in bloom.









(Photo: The rap tree is dead, Fred! What do we do now?)




Once we dead-ended into the Millbrook Mountain Trail and followed it to the cliff's edge, we had no trouble winding our way down to find the traditional rappel tree atop Westward Ha! Unfortunately, however, this tree is 100 percent deceased, as in dead, i.e. finished. This was a shock to us because everyone apparently still uses the dead tree! I don't know how long it has been this way but man, it is over and has been for a while. The tree is a black hulk. We briefly considered using it anyway, since it is such a huge tree, and it is unlikely to fail under body weight for quite a while. But it gave me the willies. I did not feel good about the idea of using it.




Looking around, we saw other rappel options, so it was easy for us not to use the dead tree. We found two trees that were decent-sized and very much alive, about 30 or 40 feet left (south) of the Westward Ha! rappel. These trees are also maybe 20 or 30 feet higher than the dead tree, but I was confident my 60 meter rope would still reach the Death Ledge, since I knew the rap from the dead tree was only 150-160 feet to the ledge.









(Photo: Rapping over the steepness that is Millbrook.)




I leaned out over the lip from our improvised rappel station to check the rap; it appeared to be a sheer drop to the ledge. It did not seem that there were any obstacles and I was more or less certain that the rope would reach. I also felt entirely sure that we would have no trouble climbing a 5.7 route to get off of the cliff. We would not be trapped down there. Still, I felt very nervous. It took a leap of faith to back my ass off the cliff and descend into the unknown. But this whole adventure was my idea, so I had to be the first one to go. I set up my rappel and off I went.









(Photo: The obvious corner of Westward Ha! (5.7).)




Once we both got down without incident, it was very easy to find the prominent corner ascended by Westward Ha! (5.7). And although the Death Ledge wasn't huge, the shelf was flat and wide enough at this part of the cliff for us to move around without fear that we were about to slip off of it and tumble to the talus some 70 or 80 feet below. (Nevertheless we stayed anchored while on the ledge.)









(Photo: Getting started on Westward Ha! (5.7).)




I had read that you could take any of several independent little lines up the first forty feet of the route to reach the prominent corner system. I could see that the path on the left looked the easiest, ascending blocky flakes all the way to the corner. But I guessed that this collection of flakes also contained a bunch of loose crap, giving this part of the route its reputation for bad rock. So I decided to go to the right, up a line that appeared to have obvious holds and solid rock, leading to a leftward traverse to the big corner.









(Photo: Gail coming up the right-hand start to Westward Ha!, which has nice climbing, good rock, and pretty good pro.)




I thought this part of the route had decent climbing, though the final moves left to the ledge seemed a bit thin to me for 5.7 and required the use of a fragile crimper hold. If this crimp breaks off, I think this start will be much harder than 5.7 in the future. Once I reached the tree at the base of the big corner I decided to stop and belay Gail from there. The short first pitch would cut down on drag and allow us to do the whole rest of the climb in one pitch. Gail agreed that the right hand start was a little stiff for 5.7.









(Photo: In the final moves up the pretty white face at the top of Westward Ha! (5.7).)




We found the rest of Westward Ha! to be superb. The corner is sustained, with one fine move after another. A crack goes up the back of the corner for most of the way, so pro is frequently available, and you can jam if you wish, although there are plenty of edges so it isn't necessary.




From the top of the corner you emerge at the crux of the route, thin moves up an attractive white face. Again the pro is there and the moves are great, and then before you know it you're at the top.




Westward Ha! is a very very nice 5.7. I would not call it the best 5.7 in the Gunks, because to me it lacks the mind-blowing standout moments that you'll find on the very best climbs, like, say, Thin Slabs Direct or CCK. Westward Ha! doesn't really have any one outstanding moment or section, though the whole thing is quite good. I enjoyed it immensely and thought it was well worth the walk. And I would do it again the same way, with the short pitch at the bottom, followed by a longer pitch with all of the great climbing in it.




Back on top of the cliff, it was already late for lunch. We had a bite and then rapped back down to check out Cruise Control (5.9). Like Westward Ha!, this climb is easy to find. If you continue walking right (north) just a short distance from Westward Ha!, maybe thirty feet or so, stepping over a boulder that is resting against the cliff face, you will quickly come to a spot below a small, left-facing corner in orange rock that leads up to a groove/shallow open book. The open book then trends up and right to a roof. This is Cruise Control.




It looked good to me. I had wondered earlier in the day if, when push came to shove, I would feel up to a 5.9 on Millbrook. Before we started Westward Ha!, I was so nervous, worrying about how the rock would feel, and about whether we were really equipped to deal with the climbing at this cliff. I did not want us to exceed our limits. But once we completed Westward Ha! these concerns melted away. The rock felt fine. The climbing was familiar. I knew I could handle leading a Gunks 5.9, and Cruise Control was supposed to be on the easy side of the grade. This was going to be no problem.




The first pitch was a great pleasure. The moves up the initial corner are nice, and the rock quality through the rotten band seemed fine to me. I can't remember any terrible looseness. Then the crux climbing comes at a technical sequence up the shallow open book. The left side of the book forms a beautiful layback flake with solid pro. By the time I was through this sequence I was already telling Gail how wonderful the pitch was, and I hadn't even reached the roof.




The overhang adds another cool dimension to the pitch. It is a solid 5.8+/5.9- affair, again with great gear. After you pull over it the pitch romps up easy territory to a pedestal where there are good cracks for a gear anchor. (You could also continue to the next shelf.)









(Photo: Pulling over the roof on pitch one of Cruise Control (5.9).)




As I prepared for pitch two, I thought the real business of the climb was over. The second pitch is 5.8, and I assumed the groove and roof on pitch one were the main attractions of the climb. I didn't expect much out of the second pitch.




Boy was I wrong. The second pitch of Cruise Control is amazing.




It starts up the obvious right-facing corner that rises above the belay ledge. But after 20 or 30 feet you need to traverse around the corner to the left and onto the face of the cliff. I placed a good nut while still in the corner but felt obligated to sling it really long to avoid the prospect of horrendous drag.




Peering around the corner, I could see good little footholds. But I was blind as to the hands, and the face above looked blank. Would there be any placements out there? Dick Williams rates this pitch as 5.8 G. That would seem to indicate that there must be pro out there, right?




Making the commitment and stepping out onto the face was spectacular. I found myself on a gorgeous white billboard beneath a small ceiling. The rock was solid and I could see the path up and left. The climbing here was easier than 5.8.




But there wasn't any pro. I spied a wide horizontal at the top of the billboard, at the overlap. I hoped my largest cam, a big blue Camalot, would fit. I moved up, easy does it, one exquisite move and then another. Staying focused. By the time I reached the overlap I was surely well into R-rated territory. A fall at that point would have been a long, sideways, swinging affair.




I tried to place the blue Camalot. It was tipped-out and biting into mud in the crack. Not good at all.




What to do? Maybe the blue cam would fit better if I moved it further to the left, off-line?




Looking around, I realized I'd fallen victim to tunnel vision. There was a vertical crack system just above me running upward, the continuation of the route. But in my fixation on the wide horizontal crack I hadn't even seen it. I could get a great cam or nut right over my head. I threw a yellow Alien in the vertical crack and exhaled.




Everything was going to be fine.









(Photo: Topping out on Cruise Control (5.9). Photo by Christian Fracchia.)




Just then, as I breathed a sigh of relief and looked upward, I saw a human head peek out from the top of the cliff.




"Chris, is that you?"




It was! I had told Fracchia I was headed out to Millbrook and he showed up (with his sheepdog) to see how I liked it and to snap a few photos.




While he got set up to shoot I climbed through the physical crux of the pitch, up the fun crack system through another overlap and on to the top. As I finished the climb Chris got the nice photos you see here. Then we hung out and chatted while Gail climbed the pitch. When she topped out she too was thrilled with the awesomeness of the second pitch of Cruise Control.




I think Cruise Control is one of the best moderate climbs in the Gunks. The first pitch is great, and the second is stupendous. If you are cool with the 5.9 climbing on pitch one then the runout on pitch two through easier territory shouldn't bother you too much. But I do think Dick's 5.8 G rating for the second pitch is misleading. It should be something like 5.8 G (5.6+ R).




When we finished Cruise Control it was already mid-afternoon and we figured that including time spent packing up and walking, it would be at least another hour and a half before we'd reach the car. We thought about trying to do one more pitch but decided to call it a day instead. This turned out to be the right call, as I was really drooping by the time we finished the hike back to civilization. After four pitches of climbing and three hours of hiking I was exhausted. Gail was still hiking strong. I could barely keep up with her. I need to toughen up, I think.




I was so satisfied with the climbing we did at Millbrook. Getting to the cliff may be inconvenient, but the isolation gives the place a special atmosphere and a solitude you just can't get at the other cliffs. On this beautiful Sunday, while the other cliffs were surely overrun with gumbies (and I mean no offense to all of you gumbies out there), Gail and I were the only people climbing at Millbrook all day.




I hope it doesn't take me a year or more to go back.There are several other climbs I'm dying to try. Maybe I've got the Millbrook bug.

Better Than New

When vintage bicycle collector Chris Sharp invited me to join a VCC ride in Northern Ireland, he also offered to lend me one of his pre-war roadsters and I gladly accepted. We corresponded about this for some time, and I arrived very curious what my loaner bike would be. Before the ride, Chris took me aside and told me he had something very special picked out. "I'd like to know what you think of it."





When he pointed out this bike across the yard, I admit I was a little surprised. It was certainly a nice bike. But considering some of the other machines in his impressive collection, there did not seem anything extraordinary about it: a plain black step-through with rod brakes.





"It's a 1941 Royal Enfield Sports Roadster, single speed, "Chris explained, studying my reaction. "I think you'll like it." Puzzled, I stood there looking at the bike as our group prepared to take off.






Aside from the original Brooks B18 saddle, I just didn't see anything remarkable about it. The drivetrain was in the right place. Nothing eccentric about the components. Ordinary lugwork. I didn't get it.





Furthermore, it occurred to me that riding a heavy ancient single speed with rod brakes was maybe just a tad ill advised in a hilly area with a group of people I'd never met before. Would I have to walk it uphill? Would I be able to stop downhill? But the ride began before I had time to dwell on these questions.






And that is when I learned what the mystery was, and what made this Royal Enfield so special: This bike was a rocket! A 45lb rocket, but a rocket nonetheless. It accelerated at the drop of a hat.It sailed effortlessly uphill. It plunged downhill.Its maneuverability and stability were impeccable.Riding through a stretch of rough gravel road, it rolled jauntily along as if on smooth asphalt.On top of that, the rod brakes actually worked, no worse than modern caliper brakes. "How are you liking that bike?" Chris would ask with a wink. But the answer was pretty clear, as for the entire ride I was in a state of permanent jaw-drop. How could something so old, clunky and seemingly ordinary handle like this?






Chris's theory is that this 1941 Royal Enfield happens to be an especially successful specimen of what was once known as the Sports Roadster: an upright model designed for leisure cycling, with more aggressive geometry and a shorter wheelbase than the more stately Roadster model. Raleigh made a Sports Roadster as well, as did most other English manufacturers of that time. The ladies' versions had straight step through frames, instead of the loop frames of the Roadster/Tourist bikes.





The following week, I paid Chris Sharp another visit and we went on a ride just the two of us. Once again I was given the Royal Enfield - I had to confirm whether my memory of how well it rode had been accurate. We were spectacularly unlucky with the weather that day, and it began to rain not long after we set off. Soon we were riding in a downpour, and by the time we decided to turn around, the shortest route back was 20 minutes. The rain was so bad we could hardly see in front of us.





I would never have imagined that I could ride a bike like the Royal Enfield in such weather, but it was fantastic. It handled no differently in the rain, and - perhaps most amazing of all - the rod brakes remained perfectly functional.





Really, these must be some magical rod brakes. Normally this type of brake is notorious for loss of functionality in wet conditions.







Overall, to say that I was impressed by this bicycle would be an understatement. "They don't make them like they used to" is a cliche I do not always agree with, but in this case it happens to be correct: I do not know of a modern step-through city bike that handles quite like this. Some come close, but this one wins nonetheless.






While a 1941 Royal Enfield Sports Roadster is a pretty obscure bicycle, my point is really more general. I've mentioned before that I tend to prefer the handling of vintage European strep-through city bikes to that of any contemporary version I have tried so far. In my experience, the older bikes tend to be not only more comfortable, but also faster - despite usually being at least as heavy and made of lower quality tubing. What was their secret? And why, with all our technology, can we not match - let alone improve upon - their ride quality today? It is a mystery that I would love to figure out some day.

Suspended World

Suspended World, originally uploaded by ParsecTraveller.

Taken back when the grass was green and the rain was falling. There will be no rain here for at least 2 more months, probably 3 months. Fortunately for California, the National Weather Service is predicting El Niño for the coming winter, which means above-average rainfall!

Cycling in a Coastal Downpour

On the second morning of our trip I awoke to the sound of vigorous drums, which I soon realised was pelting rain. Outside, the line between sky and ocean was blurred and the patch of rocky beach we occupied was flooded. Inside, everything was damp from humidity - our clothing, the bedding, our faces. We had known that the forecast promised intermittent rain, so this was not a surprise and we didn't despair. We were not planning to cycle every day; we had loads of other things to do. We would see.



But as we drank coffee, the rain appeared to let up. Things were looking good - picturesquely stormy, but calm. It looked as if the downpour had exhausted itself in the course of the night and we decided to set off on our bikes after all, going along the coast for a manageable distance.



The ride started out fine. We made our way up a winding hill, past ominously abandoned beaches. Moody skies hung low over a dark gray ocean. The empty roads were promising. There was only a mild drizzle and we agreed that if things stayed like this, it would be even better than sunny weather - cooler, and less crowded. After cycling for a bit it grew humid and I removed my rain jacket, stashing it inside the handlebar bag. Two minutes later, the skies opened up. There was no build-up; it was as if someone opened a floodgate.



Instead of turning back we persisted, hoping the rain would eventually ease up again. But it only intensified. The amount of water was unbelievable, even compared to the many other times I've cycled in the rain. Visibility became non-existent, with everything turning gray and liquidy. The roads became flooded and soon I was cycling with my wheels partly submerged in water. Roads are terrible in this area, and even on a dry day it is a task to navigate around potholes. Now that they were invisible underwater, I could neither anticipate nor avoid them. My bike bounced violently over ditches at high speeds. This felt distinctly unsafe, especially on curvy descents. On a bike with narrow tires, the ride would have been simply impossible for me.



The coastal road was narrow and winding. As I tried to maintain a consistent line of travel, motorists sped past us, well over the posted speed limit, sending sprays of yet more water in our direction. I had my lights on and could only hope I was visible to them. My jersey - which had started out a bright crimson - was now a dark, dull brown. There are a few tricky spots on this route, where several roads merge on a twisty downhill - so that one must resist picking up speed and be prepared to brake instead. At these instances it became frighteningly apparent that my brakes did not work well under such conditions. I suspended disbelief and did my best, feathering the brakes and trying not to have a panic attack. Climbing up a flooded road while bouncing over potholes was horrifying as well.



Despite my best efforts I found this type of cycling too stressful to enjoy. I couldn't see where I was going, let alone anything resembling scenery, and frankly I had nothing to prove. This was meant to be a pleasant trip and not an endurance contest. I signaled to the Co-Habitant that I wanted to turn around, and we did - making our way back through the unrelenting downpour the same way we came. Before returning home, we took a detour and stopped at a hardware store to pick up oil for the bikes - later spending a great deal of time wiping sand and debris off of them and treating the components to prevent rust - which can form alarmingly quickly in a coastal environment. My wool cycling clothing took a day to air-dry, and my shoes are still soaking wet.



Though I know others enjoy the challenge of riding in this kind of weather, this is not an experience I care to repeat unless absolutely necessary. It is one thing to cycle in the rain, but a trip along the coast in a continuous and forceful downpour - with the roads flooded, visibility poor, and the wind assaulting my face, body and bike with sandy salt water - is not something I can justify, both in terms of safety and in terms of its detrimental effect on equipment. Hopefully there will be better weather ahead... though the forecast remains ominous!