Water, Water Everywhere and Not A Drop To Drink

I rarely read the New York Time, but on the last day of 2011 something drove me to glance to the right upon entering the coffee shop across the street. On the lower right corner, there was an article on fracking in South Aftica. Fracking, or hydraulic fracturing, is the process of using lubrication and pressure to reach previously unreachable oil reserves. If the process is artificially stimulated, there is a risk of permanently contaminating the water supply and sterilizing the land. (I shall resist the temptation to use sexual metaphors to describe the process). The region of South Africa in which American multimationals wish to engage in this practice is the Karoo Desert, the very name of which ('thirsty land') indicates the scarcity of water. The quoted opponent of the fracking, Chris Hayward, is from Beaufort West, and only recently had to slaughter 600 of his 2000 sheep for lack of water. Although I do take an occasional interest in South Africa, the explicit naming of a South African ordinarily would not elicit such a response, much less a blog post. The only son of a South African sheep farmer in the Karoo I have ever met, however, is named Stuart Hayward, a contributor to the South African-themed blog Southernwrite.




How did I meet a shepherd's son? It was a winter, quite a while ago, up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, which this year also lacked the requisite amount of winter water. We were on our way to a ski resort, and all along the road there were young employees from the other hemisphere seeking a ride to work. The long-standing dispute of the wisdom of picking up hitchikers was not an issue, and the young man came into our car. Thus began an association that continues to this day.



Now we ought to return to the Karoo and its dry environs. Water, especially fresh water, is limited throughout the world, as is oil. Human beings, however, cannot drink oil. Although this time the ones who will suffer in Africa are white rather than black, it is the American companies who stand to profit and the locals who stand to suffer. This is the human condition: even the quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles brought suffering and death to the ordinary soldiers. Another unfortunate psychological flaw of humanity is the sacrifice of long-term prosperity in exchange for short-term gain. The most egregious example I have seen lately (taken from the same article) is Indonesia's willingness to drill into an active mud volcano where the last attempt displaced 30,000 people. I do not know where the march of the thirty thousand went after their villages were destroyed, but surely it exacerbated some other domestic issue.



The combination of too many people and too few renewable resources will lead within the next fifty years to resource wars. Since the human race seems reluctant to decrease its numbers in a peaceful manner, we will need all the resources we can preserve. Corporate greed, particularly the unsustainable model of eternal capitalism, threatens the long-term survival of many of our species by poisoning the environment, but that's a post for another day

The Drowned World

On the lake, the water levels varies from year to year, no longer regulated by nature, but by artifice and treaty. The snows of this winter which filled the coffers also filled the lake, so much so that most of the rocky beaches are underwater and the woody plants of yesteryear stand, slowly drowning. Down at Bristlecone Beach, where Christ the King holds its Bible study, where banks of rich purple flowers bloomed last year, there is no longer a peninsula, not even an island, but only green and dying trees and a sign forlornly sticking out of the water like ruined tower off the Anglian coast.

Birthday

That was quite a birthday! My cousin, Zach, and his girlfriend, Katie, came up for the festivities on Thursday. On Friday, we tried for the river, but in the morning the raft company had not opened, so we decided to go on the boat around the lake. Katie had never been on the lake, although her friend had been to Tahoe may times. We went over to Thunderbird Lodge, the stately manor founded by the heir to PG&E and Richmond/Sunset real estate, former circus performer, and 1905 earthquake hero. The old woodie Thunderbird II was nowhere in sight.

We continued down the Nevada side of the lake and stopped at a cove and a group of rocks. Three of us jumped, and as usual, were stripped of our breath by the bone-chilling temperature. Two of us adjusted fairly quickly. We swam to the rocks and climbed up on them. The rocks were as warm as the water was cold; unfortunately, somebody had tagged the back of the rock.

Once we were back on the boat, we went southward, past the clothing-free beach. Since we had enough gas, we headed across the lake to Emerald Bay. The heavy snowfall of this winter, still abundantly evident in the peaks of the Tahoe Rim, had filled Emerald Bay nearly to its greatest extent, so that the water was a marine blue rather than emerald green. The waterfall behind Vikingsholm, usually a trickle at this time of year, was visible from the mouth of the bay as a foaming white spray. As we travelled around Fannette Island, I told the others about Mrs. Knight, who owned Vikingsholm, and her predecessor Cap'n Dick, who used to row to Tahoe City for drinks and rowed back drunk every night. Nobody wanted to swim to the island with me! The one unfortunate effect of the high water was this: the travel lanes in and out of Emerald Bay were not as idiot-proof as usual (and a lot of idiots go on vacation). The return trip was uneventful, except for gas.

Since we had missed lunch altogether, Zach, Katie, and I went into town and got a slice of pizza to tide us over. Later, Mom, Dad, Zach, Katie, Aidan, Kirsten, and I went to the recently reopened Hacienda del Lago. It was nice to have the place back, although the bar that they built for the (former) tapas bar places takes up a lot of room that used to be seating.

After dinner, Zach, Katie, and I went to The Blue Agave to kill some time before the movie, and ran into Aidan and Kirsten. Zach, Katie, and I then watched Captain America, which all of us (even Katie) enjoyed. Marvel is doing a good job of tranferring its interwoven narrative to the screen.

On Saturday, Aidan, Kirsten, Zach, Katie, and I floated down the Truckee (since the rafting had opened the afternoon of the previous day). The extra water that had been added that morning made navigation more hazardous, since the rocks which usually showed were underwater and all the gunk which heretofore had lain on dry, or least slight damp, land, had risen up and headed downstream in the current. Several groups of enormous size hit the river, so we had to avoid the logjams. I got suburnt, but it was a great last part to my birthday "weekend".

The Tahoe Tongue: Phonology and Orthography

I wrote this post about half a year ago, so my knowledge of the Washo language and its current state was considerably less, but the sentiments expressed herein remain authentic.

Several years ago, on one of my many visits to the Watson Cabin in Tahoe City, I bought a slim book labeled Beginning Washo, the language of the indigenous tribe which used to camp in summer around Lake Tahoe (in those days, only white people would be crazy enough to live there in winter). I went through the exercises, although too hastily to absorb them. I am afraid that is a common fault of mine, and one of the reason I discuss Washoe here is to pace myself.

More recently, I decided to redo the exercises (there are only twenty-two, after all) slowly and thoroughly, so that I would know the native language of the basin where I spend so much time. My conscience is rather severe about white men learning Native American tongues, especially when the tribe is still extant (as several members of  my favored fraternity know), but all the data I could find on Washo indicated that it was a moribund language. "Moribund" in linguistics, means that a language will soon lack native speakers (the tribe itself still exists). The only website I could find on the Washo language did mention a training camp for the youngsters of the tribe, but it dates from 2000, and the precedents for attempted language revival are extremely depressing. I would rather know something about the language really spoken at Lake Tahoe rather than pretend it never existed.

Another reason I want to learn some Washo properly has to do with the mythology of the Tahoe basin. When I was a child, I was under the impression that there were no native people of the basin, since the Washo, and the same-named lake were clearly in Nevada, and they had only come up in summer. Some of this perception was perhaps due to my custom of spending summers there and winters in San Francisco. The lack of a native mythology bothered me, so I composed some myths about the origins of crawdads and minnows based on the landscape of my summer home. I found the alleged native stories from the mid-20th century Tahoe City World un-credible as authentic stories, as well as patronizing.

When I was quite a bit older, I learned of some of the genuine traditional tales of the Washo, which I appreciated greatly, but I did not become inspired until I found Beginning Washo. My Classical training has taught me about the tight connection of language and culture, and I would not have received a Classics degree if I were not fascinated with language structure.

Birthday Trip

It's been five days and I have the pictures, so I suppose I should write about my birthday trip.

This year the whole family, minus the younger brother, headed down the hill into the desert towards Pyramid Lake. There was some trouble along Mount Rose, so we went down via Truckee instead, past the old power plant. Once we headed north from Reno, we began to enter the real Nevada and it was easy to see why the region had been settled by family bands rather than larger units. The destruction of the pinyon trees and the consequent desertification of the landscape did no good, either.

We reached Pyramid Lake and I was astonished at the shade of blue. I was assured that it was a frequent color for desert lakes. The eponymous Pyramid, an island-rock, lay next to Anaho Island on which the pelicans (I was initially surprised that Washo had a word for them) lived with many other breeding colonies. I had to indulge my inner anthropologist and take notes on the information sign. The simplistic and inaccurate orthography of the sign, pandering the linguistically illiterate, somewhat annoyed me, but the sign did provide substantial detail for the size of its font. Each Paiute band (since Pyramid Lake was Paiute rather than Washo territory) was centered around a water source and named after a characteristic food. In the case of Pyramid Lake, that food was the cui-ui, an archaic-looking indigenous fish, which was stranded there as the enormous glacial lake evaporated. Puff, who had been somewhat listless from the heat, found the environment of Pyramid Lake congenial, and wanted to explore the doubtless rattlesnake-infested bushes. There were groups of people day-tripping by the lake (which requires a permit from Nixon) and the the road north abruptly degenrated into bone-jarring rocks. I do mean rocks, not gravel. So we turned around.

We went through the surprisingly charming town of Nixon (headquarters of the Pyramid Lake Reservation) and headed east towards Fallon. The towns were conspicuously greener than the surrounding desert, but the area near the road showed evidence of water. It was not deep desert. Before we reached Fallon, we headed back towards the Lahontan Reservoir. It was larger than I had realized, but the outskirts of the adjacent town had a shabbiness typical of Nevada towns. On the way to Carson City - which is the capital of Nevada, not Reno or Las Vegas- we passed the Kit Kat Ranch and the Bunny Ranch, since Nevada is a land where many bad habits can be indulged without fear of prosecution. Dad expressed an urge to take the now-completed railroad line from Carson City to Virginia City. That would be fun, but it will have to wait until next year. Carson City itself is quite charming, and illustrated the virtue of having separate commercial and capital metropoleis. It would be worth a day visit. We returned to the mountains, and celebrated at home in the evening.

The shade of blue in this photo is slightly darker than

in real life.

You can see the Pyramid to the left of Anaho Island

Not a desert dog, but happy nonetheless

Skating on the Holidays

On the day before Christmas, I went with my uncle, aunt, and cousin to skate at the Squaw Valley Olympic rink. Only my cousin and I intended to skate; she is an figure skater, while I use hockey skates. We took the gondola up. I cannot call it a cable car, since 'cable car' indicates something else to me as a San Franciscan. The gondola which was packed tight with a melange of nationalities, including Russian who were either temperamental or merely sounded that way due to the harshness of the Scythian tongue. The gondola scaled the cliff over the houses until it became vertical and swang over the precipice, then dipped slightly, and went over the next precipice. I am profoundly glad that I do not have vertigo, but the tiniest touch of dizziness while staring down at the candid abyss is quite thrilling.

Once we arrived at the open air ice rink, I rented some K2 hockey skates, which were too soft to do proper crossovers, as well as locked in terms of the top fastener, although my inability to skate backwards is entirely my fault. I handed over my camera to my uncle and aunt, but few of the pictures came out, through a combination of sun and ice. Fortunately, I have upgraded to a digital camera, despite lingering Luddite tendencies (the dislike, rather than the smashing), so the surviving pictures were quite sufficient. As my cousin and I circled the rink, always in the same direction - I would have expected that the direction would be changed after the zamboni had smoothed the ice - we had a nice chance to chat. My other, older cousins had a chance to play together up at Tahoe, but this one was too young, and my parents too wearied, to enjoy this experience.

That night, Dad and I went the 9:00 Christmas Eve carol service, which involved candles in a cup and no communion (although Christ the King Lutheran does not celebrate communion as often as the Episcopal Church). Pastor Chip is a good preacher, but his sermon was middling in content as well as delivery. After three other services I can't fault him on weaker delivery, but I can understand why Won Jae Hur, the interim pastor at my church in San Francisco, chose to have guest preachers throughout the Advent season.

Christmas Day itself is a matter for the family alone, so I shall say no more about it.

On the feast of Stephen, or Boxing Day, we breakfasted late but well. I once again went to Squaw with my cousin. Instead of going to open air rink at the top of the mountain, however, we went to the minuscule rink which is part of the Resort at Squaw Creek (over dinner, my brother explained who owned which bits at Squaw). At first I forgot to specify hockey skates, and the apathetic Russian teenage attendant gave me figure skates - I had forgotten that guys who do not skate regularly use generic ice skates, not hockey skates. After two changes of skates, I finally found a pair that suited me. The circumference of the rink was restricted, but I could adjust to that circumstance. The scarring of the ice, however, was so severe that more than one person remarked that the skating was better outside the rink than in it. I tried skating on the inside of the rink rather than the periphery, but it was not much better and it was much tighter - I'm a hockey player, not a figure skater! My cousin took little girls in hand and became absorbed in teaching them. I did a fair bit of skating, but I also watched the Squaw Valley dog sled take off. The dogs were barking and bouncing up and down, but once the signal was given, they disappeared in a flash. We supped that night at the Six Peaks Grille at the Resort, which was considerably fancier than the places I favor, but it was delicious and filling, and what more can you ask of a good meal?

Rain, Rain Go Away: An Economic Perspective

As I sit here, peering out my window at the precipitous skies, I naturally fall towards this thought: my misery here is my benefit elsewhere. My migratory work habits have allowed me to witness this phenomenon. When it rains here in the city in winter, I dislike traveling and try to find bus stops which have shelters and the MUNI feed, but I cannot resent the weather too much on a personal level. The rain which passes over this fair City, casting a kind of melancholic beauty provided one is inside, becomes ethereally beautiful snow in the Sierra Nevada, where shoveling the pathways on the property of my clients provides extra income in a dry economic season.

Birthday Float

This year, my birthday fell on a Wednesday. For most people, this would be an inauspicious time, but I had submitted payroll the day before, and had taken care of the imminent bills, so it seemed a good time to enjoy myself. The weather was less than optimal, despite previously glorious days, so I suspect my dear cousin Zachary or his lovely girlfriend brought the chilly weather with them. My original plan was a boat trip on the lake, since Katie had never visited Lake Tahoe, but that plan hit several logistical logs, so I chose to float down the Truckee River instead. I led my party to the wrong side of the river, where once long ago there was a launching point, so we had to return to the northern bank. The river seemed crowded, although it must be even more so on holidays such as the 4th. The boats on the river contained the expected mix of families and drunken yahoos. I had forgotten how far downstream the River Ranch was, if your craft is drifting glacially. The river was higher than I had anticipated, so many of the shallow parts, which in past years had provided me with formidable obstacles, were drowned. The point of such a trip is relaxation, so relatively little occurred that is worth noting. As we were emerging from the downstream side of one of the wooden bridges that spans the Truckee, two juvenile delinquents dumped a bucket of slightly rancid water on our items stored in the stern of the boat, as well as Zachary. Zachary grabbed the nearest projectiles at hand and hurled them at the brats; he hit both of them, but no adults were nearby, so it's doubtful they learned a lesson.

After we had finished our float, we went to the Blue Agave for a late lunch and a margarita pitcher.

Saturday Morning Hike

On Saturday morning I went on a hike in Meeks Bay with my brother and Olive, his 7-month-old half-lab, half-heeler. Dad and I had tried to reach the first stream of the trail earlier this summer before his feet gave out, and it's a trail we know well from taking the late springer spaniel along it - he, of course, found the destination incredibly exciting. Olive, however, had not yet grasped the idea of an outdoor activity which did not involve throwing anything, so she bounced along the trail, stopping only to stare at us with genial confusion - this behavior explains, if not excuses, the lack of pictures with this post. When strangers were near, she displayed the peculiar attitude of youngsters, in which bravery extends to a point just before the moment contact. When we reached the stream, which was low from summer evaporation, Olive was more interested in splashing than drinking.

The Meeks Bay trail lies between a waterlogged meadow on the left and a series of stony ridges on the right, leading up to the aptly named Desolation Wilderness. The meadow is a favorite spot for bears seeking berries. On either side of the trail grew clusters of wildflowers, purple and white and blue and yellow, but the soil is not fertile, since it is primarily composed of granite sand, and the clusters were farly widely spaced. Most of the water which finds its way into the valley comes from a cluster of lakes high above, descending via the stream which was our destination.

An Attempt At Malay Composition

Saya dudok di-rumah yang besar di-tepi mata ayer yang besar lagi tawar(1) nama-nya Tahoe. Dia di-antara gunong Sierra Nevada. Rumah di-atas kebun senang (2) tempat saya lari ka-sana ka-mana masa saya budak. Dahulu lari, sekarang ta’ senang. Kerja di-negeri nama-nya Tahoe City. Sa-malam keluar dengan bapa ka-pekan ka-kedai tempat beli makan minum (3) beli buah pisang roti sa-keping sa-peti susu. Sudah pulang rumah, simpan.
(1) “lake”- “big freshwater spring” is the closest I could do
(2) “vacation resort”
(3) “grocery store” – ‘pasar’ seemed too broad.

New Digs

I fear I may have confused some people at church today, so I wanted to avoid that situation in a broader context. I am moving to a cottage at Tahoe because my brother has moved to his new house with his wife, but it's a bit more complicated than that. Aidan and I own a property maintenance business at Tahoe: we provide maintenance and supply and manage the summer recreation staff for the homeowners' associations. On one of these properties is a cottage, in which one of the owners of the company may dwell. Aidan has been living there with Kacie, but they have bought a new house and moved into it; so now I am living there when I am at Tahoe - working. When I am in San Francisco, I will still be the smartest man at 8th Avenue.

The Imber-or and I

My entire relationship with rain is sprinkled with contradictions. When I was growing up in San Francisco, I developed a fondness for the morning fog, which has the pleasant habit of remaining for a while, then dissipating. A continuous sheet has no immediately pleasant aspect, nor is the 'drought of March' desirable year-round. I have studied at St Andrews in Scotland and traveled to Newfoundland in Canada: on both occasions I found the fog and the wind commensurate with that of my own hometown. Now, after I have bought a business at Tahoe but remain in the City in the winter, my contradictory relationship with precipitation has grown stronger. When it rains in the City, it will often snow in the mountains. Many of our contracts involve removal of that same snow. The consequence of the conjunction of meteorology and my employ is that while I may suffer the sheeting rain and the treacherous invisible puddles that gather at the slopes of the crosswalks, I also profit from the more heavenly result of the rain that falls to the east of "America's Sodom" (a misinterpretation of the Bible, by the way) in the mountains where my brother and I once played. I no longer say "rain, rain, go away": not only because I am no longer a child, but also because I have come to appreciate the future benefits of a temporary inconvenience and obstacle.

Saturday Road Trip

Today, after a rough start and much discussion, Mom, Dad, and I decided to take a road trip up to Sierraville and places beyond. So we drove to Truckee and across the overpass - I’m against overpasses in principle because they kill the economies of small towns, but in the case of Truckee, that’s not a problem - and continued north.

When we reached Sierraville, a small town once prospering from the cattle industry and now dying, the diners and the Moonie-owned hotel were still in business. The guy from old Hacienda del Lago had in fact moved to Sierraville and started a Mexican restaurant upstairs from the old café. That, however, was not where we ate, but rather we crossed the street to a different café, Crossroads Café, which served the best onion rings I have ever consumed - and I don’t normally eat onion rings! The one depressing thing we learned was that the Sierraville Rodeo was no more, since the sponsors and organizers, who were always the same, had grown weary of the flashier Truckee Rodeo’s sapping of sponsorship. I enjoyed the more true to its roots rodeo!

While visiting the bathroom, we discovered that there was a store in the back of the building. We bought a few presents, and then we hit a bonanza. Dad spotted a rack of doggie treats and bought a “chew hoof” for Puff the American Eskimo. He’s still chewing it as I write this.

Then Dad led us on a tour of regional golf courses, including one at which some of his friends had bought a house recently. On the return trip, we turned in to Hobart Mills, and were surprised immensely to see that the area was being developed. We went down the remnants of old Highway 89, which was incredibly rutted and in disrepair, and hit Prosser Lake. On the way back, ever so slowly, we came across the Emigrant Trail, where we stopped to step in the tracks of pioneers and their wagons.