The concept is typically presented as a lifestyle choice – buy fewer things. Declutter. Adopt the spirit, “less is more.” Fight back against the forces of rampant consumerism. You could limit your wardrobe to 33 items for 3 months and see if anyone notices (this is called taking “the Minimalist Fashion Challenge”). You could live in a tiny house. Or out of a pack.
Minimalism is nothing if not pragmatic. Calculate the benefit of owning any consumer good, net of the costs of acquisition, storage, and disposal. You will find the net benefit is often negative… Continue reading “Go Minimalist. Save the World.”→
Heart of Darkness ends with Marlow calling on Kurtz’ fiancée in a dimly-lit mansion in an unnamed metropolis which Marlow calls merely the “sepulchral city.” Still in mourning more than a year later, she wants to know Kurtz’ final words. Marlow tells her that Kurtz called her name. But this is a lie – as he lay dying, Kurtz whispered, “The horror! The horror!”
Marlow’s little white lie was meant to shield a woman’s feelings from an ugly truth. By the end of the narrative, however, the author Joseph Conrad’s made the point that civilization is based on lies – although we may call them faith, beliefs, ideas, or “the great and saving illusion.” And we need these lies, he implies, to shield us from the primeval darkness which lies deep within the soul.
But is this really the case? As someone who spends a lot of time in wilderness, this question nags at me. I recently reread Heart of Darkness, as I was preparing for a trip to Maine, a place that seems plenty mysterious and primitive, if not quite so far off as Africa. Continue reading “The Little White Lie in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness”→
It’s been a long, steep, wet climb up the mountain’s northern shoulder, and now I’m nearing the AMC hut tucked in a col beneath the summit of Mt. Madison. Another 500 feet to go, and I will have completed my quest – to climb all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers, and to do so barefoot, which is how I hike and run these days.
When I first heard of the Barefoot Autism Challenge, I immediately thought of art museums. Not that I am a fan. They make me feel claustrophobic. When I do visit one, I rationalize that there’s only so much I can absorb. So I fly through the place, taking in a handful of paintings and a few sculptures, but all the while, I sense the ticking clock.
Why did the Barefoot Autism Challenge spark the thought of art museums? Maybe when you take on a challenge, it shakes up your thinking. Lets loose some new ideas. Arguably that’s the point of taking on any kind of challenge. In any case, I do remember the first time I ran the Ft. Worth Cowtown Marathon, how right by the starting line there sat a low concrete building with a plaza and a forlorn sculpture. After the race, as I walking back to the car, I looked up and saw the place again. Stared for a moment. Wondered if they’d let me in without shoes (Cowtown was my first barefoot marathon). Maybe that’s where the idea came from.
The Challenge is simple — go somewhere barefoot for the experience and to show support for the autistic community, where barefooting is popular for the sensory input which helps with processing information about the environment. I decided to give it a try at that museum by the Cowtown starting line.
Recognizing that barefoot is an unusual mode of dress, I went out of my way to make a good impression. I dressed up in stylish jeans and an expensive fitted shirt (the kind I used to wear during my banking days). Traded my Yankees cap for one with the logo of the Dallas Cowboys (the better to fit in with the local crowd). Rehearsed answers to all the questions I thought might be asked. And then, on the appointed day, freshly-showered and cleanly-shaved, I strode in confidently through the front door. And was immediately intercepted. And shown right back out.
I demanded to see the manager. A few minutes later, a portly gentlemen emerged wearing a navy blazer. He was courteous and patient. Explained, “It’s the law.” Talked safety, too — when they move the art around, small tacks might fall out from the frames.
I could think of nothing to say in response to such nonsense.
On the way back to my car, a woman observed how lovely Texas weather was, that you could go about barefoot in November. This comment made me smile. But, I am a stubborn man. I vowed I would return.
After due deliberation, I made my decision. The BMW Dallas Marathon, if I successfully completed it, would be my 101st race of marathon distance or longer.
Of course, my mind was immediately filled with images of dalmatians. I made an effort to clear my thoughts of such clutter because these numbers are important.
You see, for an aging marathoner like me, 100 holds this significance — that beyond it there lies no obvious next stopping point. To go past 100 marathons would be like pushing an aircraft to Mach 1 and then breaking the sound barrier — which produces an impressive bang no doubt — but that doesn’t mean you’ve reached the maximum possible speed. (OK, I confess to being fascinated with fighter jets and pilots.) Continue reading “Running the BMW Dallas Marathon”→
How irritating — that they would spread salt so liberally everywhere, not only in the streets, but on the smooth white sidewalks where I’d planned to run (and not a patch of snow in sight). Later I asked my Mom — she didn’t know, but agreed it must have been the City, which forced me to consider the possibility that the local population was so lacking in balance and agility that a late November snow-dusting was seen as potential calamity. In any case, due to the salt I cut my run short at 4 miles instead of 5 and stepped into a favorite coffee shop for my morning cappuccino, only to be confronted by a young woman behind the counter. I saw a pale white face, light-blue surgical mask, and a pair of hazel eyes glaring at me.
“We can’t serve you — it’s the health code.”
With raised eyebrow — “In Illinois. Really?”
“Even if it’s not against the law, it’s our right.”
So I left.
Once back at my hotel, I opened laptop, entered the mileage in my training log, and saw I’d finally crossed the boundary — I’d just passed my 10,000th mile of barefoot hiking, walking, and running. And then I went back out, still searching for my morning coffee….
Flying into LaGuardia, the City shimmering outside the airplane window — labyrinth of light beneath squid-ink sky. Bridges spanning black waters, buildings silhouetted against dark vistas, boulevards radiating in concentric directions. Circuit board of the digital economy.
“City of hurried and sparkling waters!” sang Walt Whitman, “city of spires and masts! City nested in bays! my city!”
Black tarmac slips into view — tires impact — with jolt and bounce we arrive. I’ve left New York behind, and with it, family, friends, routines, familiar places – in a word, I’ve left behind myhome. Traded it for a city with a herd of larger-than-life bronze bulls and a brassy sun. By the way, I like it here fine. For a two-week stay, anyway. The issue is, splitting my time between two places – not to mention other travel too – leaves me feeling spread a little thin. Like Bilbo Baggins, who told Gandalf, “‘Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread.” Then he briefed Gandalf on his plan: to leave his home in the Shire, to see the mountains one last time, to find a place to rest, and maybe finish writing his book. Continue reading “Homeless in Dallas”→
“You’ll be the troublemaker.” Arif gave me a sly look as he guided me to a far corner of the restaurant, and I nodded, because surely life is too short for small talk.
There were six of us seated at the table. Four middle-aged women — each one attractive, intelligent, engaging, successful. A quiet-spoken serious young man with a shock of brown hair. And me, wearing camouflage-colored Yankees cap and a few days’ worth of stubble.
This was an “intergenerational dinner,” hosted by the Hoot Owl, a cozy restaurant in upstate New York with a loyal local following. The event was organized around a series of questions designed to elicit discussion.
After three years and three attempts, this summer I finally completed the 211-mile John Muir Trail entirely without shoes. Whether sensible or not, that was my objective all along. As my friend Mat reminded me, when I ran in to him at Red’s Meadow, “finishing what you start is a good habit to get into.” And then a few seconds later I realized that’s what I told him — in 2021 when he’d seen me struggling on Glen Pass, shortly before I gave up and pulled on shoes. So throughout my 2022 journey, especially when things got tough, I kept thinking to myself how much better it would be to report to Matt a successful outcome, rather than explaining why I failed again.
I’m working on a detailed write-up, which is quickly expanding to book-size length, adding to a great mountain of material that awaits the light of day. For now, this post contains links to a number of short videos I filmed while walking down the trail. You can also access these videos on my YouTube channel. Continue reading “Barefoot on the JMT – 2022”→
The Long Brown Path 