I am in the library. I have been reading up on Nikola Tesla, Mark Twain, minerals, Iceland spar, solenoids, the temperature in Nevada at night, an environmental consultancy I'm interested in working for, and home rule municipalities. I made to leave but turned around when I realized I could listen to an album that I must be the crowning musical achievement of the young 21st century. Ys, by Joanna Newsom. As she weaves her harp arpeggious and baroque, something quite American shines through: the rare (too rare) three-part female harmony, the banjos, the cowboy's harp, her hi-Appalachian twang. And the great orchestral swells in and out again. And it all blends together beautifully. And it sounds so old, like it's a miracle recording equipment existed that could catch this thing and put this it to (magnetic) tape.
It is the perfect soundtrack to Telluride because the place blends together beautifully too. As I listened, I stared out at a mountain that stitched red rock into evergreens and grass without any visible seams. Waterfalls pass through houses here. The sun seems to take some physical shape when it is long and passes down the box canyon onto Bear Pass. Earlier, I hiked up to the Bridal Falls and stared up at the house with the generator in it. This is the house of a mad American King. There is a rusty gondola to carry everyone up to court. There is a small widow's walk (or is it a window?) for the Queen to lie and wait for her millionaire miner to return from getting her gold and other heavy metals. All their power is AC from the waterfall. They are rich with gravity. Birds fly down the valley and bring them news and berries. The king heads down to the village for his weekly meeting at the Masonic lodge and to look up into the bordello windows. He walks the mile up past the power plant and its green ponds and then up to his wife with wildflowers by way of apology.
I woke up at 6:30 so I could be at Maggie's bakery by 7. A tremendously youthful German geophysicist was there with his son and grandson. The boy called him Opa. They lived in Boulder, which is where he taught. They kindly invited me to eat with them. The grandfather biked across country and got his family hooked. They liked to rotate riding in Europe and the States every summer. They were heading south. He talked about traveling Mexico by car and feeling that it seemed empty at speeds, but would reveal itself on the bike. We could all agree that the bike keeps you riding at the speed of older journeys. When you slowly travel Europe, the languages, food, architecture, and geography can change in a steep afternoon's climb.
I should like to be this man when I'm his age, intelligent, smiling, wildly curious at 7 in the morning.
I went to a coffee shop for a latte and was reminded of why I hate these places. Every barista (I prefer cashier) thinks he or she has the greatest, most diverse taste in music which shuffles around -- too early -- why? -- perhaps to win over the pale girl in Telluride -- the one in the corner -- perhaps to suggest that he is more than a barista (I prefer cashier) -- he was once in a band -- he's working on an album on afternoons off from mountainbiking -- ugh. I stayed there for 2 hours. The coffee was great. I have mapped out most of the rest of my trip.
I will be in San Francisco in two weeks and three days at the latest. I'll be riding short days in the desert because a lot of my options are either 68 miles or 148. I think we can all agree I've made the right choice. I hope to camp out on some vineyards in the Sierras and to put 20 on black in Carson City. If I win that, I'll put 20 on my birthday. If I win that, I'll invest the money in a really hi-quality Elvis costume.
I've yet to figure out how to get from the East Bay over to the North Bay and into San Francisco from the Golden Gate Bridge. I can hit Sonoma and Napa, but I can't seem to avoid San Quentin. Is San Quentin nice this time of year, or should I wait for the foliage?
Before all that, I plan on reading my Twain up the valley and by the river.
But that's all the future-flexible. We did a little bit of the past-todayish. Now let's do the present-now. I'm still in the library, but, don't worry, I'll be in Fat Albert's soon enough. A Mexican man seated to the left of me is updating his Match.com profile and furiously clicking on some girls who, from their photographs, have no need for online dating. Ys has run out. The mountains are still here.
I can imagine Tesla living on the top of the mountain, a mad-American King, thinking magnetism and inventing electricity. There is a bit of that here. The rocks on the way to the Bridal Falls were shiny and metallic. The box canyon seems to trap some energy in it -- no, not holistic energy, man -- but perhaps solar. Perhaps this could be rigged up like a large solenoid. Perhaps we could use this large solenoid to pull comets towards earth and bring back Mark Twain for a brief lecture tour and to collect some hard earned royalties from Hal Holbrook. Perhaps, sadly, it is time to leave Telluride. Tomorrow, I will be back on the road. I will be rested and I will be fed.
Posts
