Ken Burns is a boring motherfucker.

Let's face it.


Ken Burns, he of the mournful cello interludes and soft focus interviews is a uniquely boring individual. Only Ken Burns could take the fascinating sport of American baseball and turn it into a turgid, lifeless mass.

And only Ken Burns could take the single most important event of the Twentieth Century and find absolutely nothing to say about it in twelve hours of carefully crafted footage.

I have to admit. Like so much else in his oeuvre, I couldn't get past three or four hours of his latest claptrap. And I'm fascinated by World War II. Used to have two thousand books on the subject. But I think it's time that we face our memories and recollections of the Good War and have a stern conversation with ourselves.

World War II was a meatgrinder. Pure and simple. We turned a blind eye to the coming storm in Europe and Asia. We abused those countries that became our enemies and acted shocked when they came at us, frothing for vengeance.

We should be justly proud of the young men and women who served in that War. Just like any of our wars. But we should be honest about our reasons for entering the conflict. And the horrible things that happened to the ill-prepared armed forces we sent into battle.

And that's where Burns fall down. There's lots of montages about how this person or that person felt about this or that.

How does he manage to blunt the testimony of E.B. Sledge, writer of "With the Old Breed," quite simply the best memoir of combat ever. Sledge was a Marine at Pelelieu and Okinawa. His descriptions of the war against Japan are horrifying. And awe-inspiring. But apparently his naked depiction of a genocidal war of extermination didn't fit into Burns' carefully crafted narrative. Nor does the personal aftermath of Sledge's war.

Where is the anger at a country that sent barely trained National Guard units to their doom in New Guinea? Where is the sober commentary on the fact that even in 1944 and 1945, we sent young men to die in Sherman tanks, a design already obsolete by 1940? What about the homefront, where angry citizens demanded that the Navy not allow convalescing burn victims to walk the street, lest they horrify our sensibilities?

Where is anything, anything at all, that suggests that World War Two was not a great adventure, but a horrendous, avoidable conflicted started by bitter old men and paid for in the blood of the innocent?

You won't find it in Ken Burns' world. Because Ken Burns, intellectual lightweight, is an exact reflection of our juvenile and adolescent mindset. A country who would prefer to be comforted rather than forced to think. A country that prefers fantasy to reality. And a country that produces not historians, but brandnames.

Do yourself a favor. Read a book by Donald Burgett, paratrooper at Normandy, Bastogne and Arnhem. Read "War Without Mercy" by John Dower. And force yourself to think.

And Jesus, would somebody point that guy to a Supercuts?

Yeah yeah yeah...

I know it's been a long time. But I feel like writing again. So here goes.

The other day I realized I'm never going to be in the band Wire.

Not only that, but I was never in Wire. I wasn't there at the beginning and a bunch of English guys came up with the idea before me.

Man. I'm depressed.

What really bothers me about John McCain...

Is that he seems to have pilot disease.

What I mean by that, is that like a lot of former combat pilots (meaning airplane jocks), McCain seems to believe, deep in his skull, that the application of modern combat technology can win a guerrilla war. He's flat wrong of course. And McCain, who obviously was familiar with the North Vietnamese mindset, should know better.

We didn't lose that war because we didn't bomb enough, because we didn't erase enough targets. We lost because the Vietnamese people were willing to suffer as many casualties as it took to obtain self-determination. We saw the war in terms of a geopolitical contest. They saw it as a revolution.

I fear the same holds true now. Our concerns in Iraq are regional. We don't want a base for Al Qadae. We worry about the rise of militant Shiism. And we don't seem to understand that millions of young, unemployed Iraqi men simply want us out of their country so that they can get about governing themselves.

Watching John McCain I'm sure he doesn't get this. And that is why, although I respect him, I could never, ever, vote for him.

I ain't the brightest.

I ain't the brightest.

One should really concentrate while lifting weights. I allowed my mind to wander while bench pressing. After struggling with rep number seven for thirty seconds, my brain finally snapped in and I realized I was pushing the bar against the rack. No amount of pushing was going to make it go higher. So basically I strained my back.

Brilliant.

Yaqui Easter

So this weekend obviously was Easter, a time of the year I can't help getting cynical about. You know, the whole ritual of the church, and the happy coincidence that Easter happens right about the same time as the Spring Equinox and all the extra stuff the church has welded onto a story that really didn't need embellishment. So anyway, on Friday night when my buddy Jeff said we should ride our bikes down the Yaqui dances, I was less than enthusiastic. But I eventually assented.

The Yaqui are a proud and fierce desert people, whose tribe, like the O'odham, is scattered across both sides of the border. There are three or four Yaqui villages in and around Tucson, including one about a mile and a half from my house. Easter is by far the most important ritual season for the Yaqui. Their religion is a mix of native tradition and old time Catholicism. Easter is celebrated for weeks. The culmination is the final weekend where dances and ceremonies occur around the clock.

So we headed down around eleven o'clock. The ceremonies occur around the village square, one of end of which is dominated by a three walled chapel. The ceremonies for Good Friday were reaching their peak.

On the floor, at the front of the chapel was a plaster figure of Jesus, maybe a foot and a half tall, and very old. Surrounding the figure were twelve kneeling Yaqui teenagers, half men, half women. The men wore robes and white cowls. The girls also wore robes and purple crowns. All of them carried flags. One by one, villagers approached to kneel before Jesus, to ask for blessing from the coming year. They brought their children. They left candles and other offerings. As each knelt before the Son of Man, the attending children raised and dipped their flags in obvious benediction.

Behind this circle, filling the space in the church, the elders of the tribe sat and sang mournful songs. This was a day to reflect on the crucifixion of Jesus, on the sacrifice he made.

There were other people inside. A number of small children were present and kneeling, wearing garlands of flowers in their hair and carrying small sticks. In one corner, a pile of children slept. Obviously, they were working in shifts.

There were flowers everywhere. Photography is not allowed and it's difficult for me to convey the colors. The masks and helmets of the dancers. All the paper and real flowers. The costumes. It all marks the occasion as very serious, not in a dead way, but in one that is both solemn and profoundly beautiful.

Outside the church, people milled about. Observers like us. Masked and costumed figures bearing rattles and bells, clacking sticks in rhythm. And keeping watch were a few dozen members of the Tribe's religious society, clad in black capes and black hats, there to keep order and maintain the solemnity appropriate for the occasion.

These men, and they are all men, keep watch over the ceremony and make sure that visitors approach with due respect. They take the responsibility seriously. Men join the society as their end of a promise to God, a vow usually made during the illness of a small child. Often both child and father swear devotion in exchange for good health.

In any case, Jeff and I were just standing and watching when two of these men approached and grabbed us by the elbow. "Will you help us?" they asked.

Flanked by these men, we were led into the church itself. We removed our hats and knelt among the people. Scattered about the church were flowers and santos, and all of the intricately decorated biers that bore the plaster figures of Mary and Jesus to the church itself. We had no idea what was going on, so we just knelt and watched.

Person after person approached Jesus for their blessing, including a young widow who, as she knelt, burst into sobs and had to be helped up and away. Finally, after about an hour, the songs stopped, everyone stood, and black clad figures motioned us forward.

People dropped a shroud over Jeff and handed him the plain wooden cross from the church. The cross was probably five feet tall. Another person thrust a flickering Coleman lantern into my hand. Facing the courtyard, the crowd parted, making a corridor we were obviously intended to walk down. Members of the society and the masked figures flanked us on both sides as we hesitantly strode forward with the encouragement of a few elders.

Slowly walking forward, the entire village fell into step behind us. We marched out of the courtyard and into the pueblo itself, toward the first fallen cross. Obviously we were going to make the entire circuit of the Stations of the cross.

We walked slowly. Very slowly. The village sang and candles flickered. The men in masks (not unlike kachinas) danced before us, rapping on their sticks. As we passed each station, a young man raised each fallen cross. At the fourth station we paused and faced left, down an empty street.

At the other end of the street appeared another large group of tribal members, led by more masked men. The two groups of masked men rushed and feinted at each other, clacking their sticks and yelling. Suddenly, with a great yell, the groups rushed toward each other as fireworks suddenly exploded into the sky, red, yellow, green and blue. Smoke filled the air, masked figures flashed by us as we strode forward and the singing got louder.

There were two more "battles" on the way back to the church. At the end, they took the cross from Jeff and put it back in the church. A few thanked us for our help, and the ceremonies began again, with a lighter tone, for Jesus had now returned from the dead.

Suffice to say, in the face of such sincere faith, I lost a little of my cynicism about the season. I'm still walking about two feet off the earth.

Did all that really happen? Was it just a dream?

Oracle Ridge to Red Ridge

I have no idea why, but the north side of the Catalinas aren't nearly as well traveled as the south side. Go figure. Because some of my favorite hikes are on the north side. Like this one. I started out on the south end of Oracle Ridge trail. The north end terminates in, drumroll please, the town of Oracle. Oracle is where I'll start my proposed four day camping trip. This day, I walked about three miles of the trail until I came to a saddle and turned west toward Red Ridge. What is Oracle Ridge like? Like this.

Again, this part of the Catalinas suffered in the wildfires of a few years ago. Still, I saw a lot of deer tracks. And deer! A few scattered cougar and bear prints. And a lot trees that looked like this. If that's not a frozen scream of pain, I don't know what it is.


Once on the saddle, it switchbacks down to the floor between Oracle Ridge and Red Ridge which parallel each other toward the summit of Mt. Lemmon. There's a pretty stream here, it runs north, toward Oracle and Pusch Ridge.



There's a secret spot before you get here. A great spot. I'd show you a photo, but some of you idiots might actually go there and do something stupid. So, unless you have the personal initiative to go see for yourself, you'll simply never know. Ha! From the valley floor, the trail turns onto Red Ridge, which runs between Oracle Ridge and Reef of Rock, pictured to the right. The trail runs pretty much straight as an arrow to the top of the summit. You gain about three thousand feet in three miles. Even that wouldn't be so bad, but the trail isn't maintained anymore. It's littered with dead trees and detrius from the fires. Stuff has started to grow, but like the survivors of any holocaust, they're tough and untrusting little buggers, covered with thorns that tug at your sleeves and ankles. The trail is almost impossible to discern at points. I got a little lost a couple of times. And once, when lost, I saw the trail and decided to take a shortcut to it down a fairly steep slope. I took a shortcut all right. On my ass for about sixty feet. It was sort of fun. Until I got home and my buddy said that it wouldn't have been fun to "get cornholed by a stump." Wise words. These are my friends. In any case, here's the high point of the trip, literally, if not figuratively. Right near here, a huge muledeer, a big ass buck just stepped out of the trees to take a look at me. He didn't seem very concerned. I can't even scare a deer. Sigh.

Next week...

Is going to be really busy. I suppose that's a good thing. I have a lot of hearings to get to, and preparation for the next week to do.

I have a pro bono case that's about to explode. The way they always do. I have another one, that I thought I settled, that looks like it's going to get unsettled.

Am I only what I do? To a lot of people yes. "That's Rob, my lawyer." I love the possessive before lawyer. That's MY lawyer. Like MY dog. Or MY handgun. Makes me feel like an instrument. A tool.

Lately, I've felt better about doing the things I like to do. And extending myself enough not let my fear or trepidation keep me from doing things I want to do. Whether that's going to a club, or making small talk with the people at the bar. I'm losing my crippling lack of self-confidence.

Yet I still don't feel like I belong with any particular group. I run out of things to say. Out of interest. I find myself pulling out my cell phone. I'm pretending it rang, but really I'm just checking the time. I want to be in the mountains. I want to be alone.

But really, at base, I'm lonely.

So there's the conundrum. I want to be alone. But I want people with me. Maybe I just want the parade of individuals that wander through my life to be less random. To be more about my choice of who I want around. And less about those who think, or do, need something from me. I have no tribe. In a sense I have a pack.

I'm not trying to be too dramatic. But I think about the lone wolves that roamed this valley before they were hunted down and killed. Three Toes. Old Aguila. Ally. They lost their packs as they were hunted down, one by one. Surrounded by a cloud of coyotes and stray dogs they continued the hunt. But there was no love in the pack. There were no litters. No young to protect. Just an endless forward movement, from one bloody night to another. No wonder there were such spasms of killing. Nights when ten, twenty, a hundred sheep and cows were killed.

All that was left was their JOB. Their LIVES were over. I don't want to be like that. I know myself. I can see myself withdrawing further. Withdrawing with the family I must protect, and a cloud of folks who, for all their good points, are only there to share the kills.

There must be more. There is more. But I don't know where to find it. I don't know how to keep it. But I know, to be happy, I've got to be more than a title on a door. I know all about lawyrrob. It's personrob who baffles me. And at the end of the day, it's personrob I need to get to know. To develop. Unless I allow myself to get pushed further and further into those mountains. To the barest edges of the world. To a place where I am truly all alone. To a place where all that's left is to stand upon a hill and stare at the lights with fear. Knowing you can never, ever, go back.

I've decided to really try. Because I don't really want that to happen.

Whatever...

Scouting!

I'm planning on taking a four or five day camping trip in the Catalinas, a range of mountains due north of Tucson. I figured I should take some exploratory hikes to get used to the mountains again, and to familiarize myself with some segments of trail I'll probably end up using. And of course, the cold keeps most of the semi-ambulant bags of water we call humans at home. So, in other words, little chance of seeing anyone else.

Perfect.

The Catalinas are well traveled. Probably the jewel is Mt. Lemmon, named after one of those hoop-skirted botanists who muled her way to the top in the 19th Century. There's a ski slope that's intermittently open and a lot of cabin owners who moaned incessantly when their expensive, saucer-shaped cabins went up in smoke a couple of years ago.

It was an amazing fire. You could see it charring the mountains from the city. And you could smell it downtown. I drove along the back side of the range one day and individual trees exploded like sparklers on Pusch Ridge.

Just think. If the wind had been right, the entire gated community of Saddlebrook would have been wiped out. Just the thought makes me half-hard.

But, alas, there is no God, and the seeping taupe stain of the subdivisions still lives. Can't always get what you want.

So anyway. I went for a hike in the Wilderness of Rocks. Very. Very. Cool.



Like I said, there was a big fire a few years ago. A lot of the forest looks like this. It's deeply cut through by arroyos however. What happened on one side of the ridge ain't necessarily what happened on the other.








Yeah, I know. Dead trees. Big surprise. But check these things out. I'm not sure if these died in the fire, or more recent lightning strikes.








I got lost more than once. But that's the beauty of canyon hiking. You can't really get lost in a tube. I lost the trail up here twice and went straight up a tough steep hill that seemed to be on the trial, walking all the way around looking for it. I couldn't find it and just wandered into the forest. Eventually, I came out on the face of the Catalinas. I spent some time sitting on a rock, staring into space and talking out loud to myself. After half an hour or so I came to some conclusions. This next one is the view when I stood and turned around. Magnificent mountains. Say it out loud. Magnificent mountains... Sigh...




There was a lot of ice on the trail. A ton of snow. I'll spare you all the bear tracks. Who cares right? Ice is a near magical thing. Check out this shred of water, slowly twisting in the breeze.

A good walk. A very good walk.

I'm not sure where...

I belong. But I'm pretty sure it isn't right here. I don't seem to really jibe with the people around here anymore. And I find this city I once loved to be cloying and much, much too big. There are places I get along. And people I get along with.

They're just not here.

Maybe someplace north of here. Maybe sooner than later.

Stay tuned.

Return to Sky Island!!

I went back to Madera Canyon last weekend. Another great hike. Got there early enough, the whole place was deserted. At one point, I had all the names of these mountains committed to memory. That was some time ago. Ahem. In any case, what does it matter? I had a great time!

Again, there was a lot of snow on the ground. Right around here, I ran into three old guys. Had to be around seventy at least, maybe older. Just out enjoying the woods together. They asked where I was headed, I told them, and we spent a few pleasant moments chatting. I admire guys that age who aren't afraid of the woods. Hope I'm like that when I'm that age.









This is Josephine Saddle, where all the major trails in Madera eventually converge. Near here, in a freak snowstorm, three Boy Scouts lost their lives. I'd like to say I paused and reflected. In reality, I was way too freaking cold to think of anything but the jacket I'd left in the car. (Spot the irony, win a dollar!)




A little farther along the trail. Note the change in elevation from the first pic to this one. These are basically the same mountains. Left me a little breathless. The snow in this portion of the trail was thick and trackless. Not a soul around. Nice. The wind eventually was blocked by the mountains in front of me. Even nicer.





Those far off mountains are in Mexico.








A view back along the trail. You can probably spot it. Again, there was a lot of snow. At this point however, I was no longer cold.







This was another trip where I saw tracks and heard noise, but didn't see much in the way of wildlife. You could feel it out there though. I saw more cougar tracks too. Some bobcat. Raccoon. Etc.






Observatories on Mt. Hopkins. At least I remembered that name!







This is a grove of quaking aspen about three miles from the end of the hike. Beautiful trees. A nice thing to see on the way out. A beautiful day. Will I be back? You betcha. With a jacket!