Beyond the Black Rock

[theCryptofishist]

arrogance and bile-laden hubris

Well phrased Badger! Bravo! Keep firing your Bazooka!

[stuart]

sorry BR, but the reference to the BRD as the holy grail of biodiversity seems to imply a superlative to me and it just aint so. It's that geo-graphically centric POV lacking in humitly thing again. I think there are likely more species in an acre of the Amazon than there are in the entire BRD, perhaps even in all of Nevada.

[Badger]

I think there are likely more species in an acre of the Amazon than there are in the entire BRD, perhaps even in all of Nevada.

You're right Stu.

I have the a list of currently catalogued flora and fauna of the basin and range province - including migratory birds - somewhere here. The entire list is relatively small compared even to the fauna list of some east coast states. A comprehensive listing of Amazonian plants and critters (per square mile) would look like a Gutenberg Bible in comparison.

[Guest]

The quoted verbiage was not about the Black Rock Desert, but about a place in the Granite Range.

And .... so?

Badger.. That one really got you didn't it? I will attempt to get even better at my assumed bile and hubris, kinda fun to see you slickers get all wound up!!

[Guest]

Oh, and Badger, the western horst graben complex is a freakin' desert,, duh,, what lame head would compare it to a rainforest for bio diversity... oh yeah, you and stuart.. jesus h. christ, ya'll finish middle school? I think they cover geography in there someplace.. My 11 year old daughter read your posts, walked over to the wall and banged her head..

[Badger]

Badger.. That one really got you didn't it? I will attempt to get even better at my assumed bile and hubris, kinda fun to see you slickers get all wound up!!

You flatter yourself.

What's becoming most predictable about your posts is, well, your predictability not to mention your myriad assumptions which you wrapped up in that now boring holier-than-thou 'cowboy poet' vernacular.

Personally, I'd like to hope that you'd contribute to the dialogue about the event for which this board was established rather than using it as a sounding board for your brash, provencial biases. You're least boring when you stick to what you know instead of what you assume.

[theCryptofishist]

predictable. . . holier-than-thou. . . biases. . . boring. . .

[Guest]

Most children today have no real work to do in the family/ home.. That is one reason I think they go a little nuts. Children living on farms, or on boats are an integral vital part of getting things done. Gentling wild horses, taking care of the critters, gardening, canning, working on fencelines. Last night, the llamas as they do every spring when they are frisky and there is new grass outside do a jail break. Since they can clear a 6 foot fence it isn't hard. So the oldest and I jumped on our Japanese horses and spent a couple of hours worrying them about. You can't actually herd llamas, it is much like herding cats.. but you keep them moving, and along toward dark they remember how nice it is in their corral. They line up like ships of war and steam on home.. My son before he decided he needed to see what the city was like, did a man's work on the ranch even as a small boy.. My oldest daughter, she too is a good son:) She and the younger work hard and feel a part of things, no interest in rebelling.. (Rebelling on my son's part meant moving to Sacramento and getting a job) Good for kids.. I do feel sorry for people that did not grow up on a farm, there are limits though, my dad had kids because of the 15th ammendment..
Speaking of predictable.. you boys jump through most every hoop I put up. Good entertainment for us hillbillies.

[Don Muerto]

It sure must get lonely up there, BRR.

[blyslv]

How do you prefer your eggs, scrambled or fried? Those are the only two choices, because I'm cooking them.

[Guest]

Don Muerto, Alone and lonely are two different things.

I am lonely in crowds, lonely in cities. . I love aloneness.. Besides I have my family, what else would I need?

oh, I do also have coyotes, Oregon Juncoes, a few ducks, geese, once in awhile sandhill cranes.. pronghorn, wild horses.. The occasional traveler friend who drops by with the latest news from some corner of the world, or the latest jokes from Dubai..

It is a good life, I recommend it. I also recommend large amounts of aloneness, preferably in wild country.

[stuart]

super poor defelction and back pedaling, again, BRR. I am not the one who called the black rock desert the 'wholy grail' of bio-diversity. I believe that came from your post. How unbelievably weak and disengenous to imply, a page later, that it was me. You gotta do better than that. Are you living in a logic free zone? I suppose your eleven year old daughter, perhaps your usual debate opponent, is not overly critical of such things. What a joke. Are you sure your daughter was not banging her head against the wall when she read the conext of her daddies posts?

[Guest]

Huh Stuart, good weed eh? Go back and read the posts, It should not be to hard to figure out who and what I was referring to... It sure twarn't you or your elliptical posts.

[Isotopia]

Waitng for another 'I shore get you city boys riled up' retort from our playa parrot.

[Guest]

Ah Isotopia,, Ifn' I twern't hitched, I be comin' to town lookin' fer ya.. Heaven brought to Earth you be. Couldn't I not intrest, you in blastin' away at Jack Rabbits with a couple O' .44 magnums,, Stew on the spot.. My lNever To Be Love, fate will keep us apart,, sadness grows like lichen on one O' them oak trees in Texas

[stuart]

good weed? haven't you heard? All us city kids are on crickety crack! Weed is for hippies.

my posts eliptical?

you say 'a=b, c=d, then a=d'
I say 'umm what? not quite'
you say 'all you city folk think a=d. get an educashun'
I quote 'brr said ''a=b, c=d, then a=d"'
you say 'my daughter laughs at your posts'
I say 'what? do you think I forget what you posted a page ago?'
you say 'eliptical'

I say I aint holdin my breath for you to make a logically sound defense of any of yer baseless screeds.

a daily reminder that BRR is a self professed liar. And this aint got nuthin to do with screen names or avatars.

[theCryptofishist]

my posts eliptical?

Give the poor fellow a break. It aint easy to think clearly with that sence of being wronged cluttering up his brain.

[Guest]

sense

[Maia]

BRR wrote this,, you may find it interesting.. Then again..

I sat on a rock alongside the trail under the hot Nevada sun. Milo our strong and sturdy palomino llama lay in the trail, his head on the ground. The dust and spittle dripping from his jaw formed mud which clung to his lower jaw. Milo was barely breathing, his eyes were glazed. I sat, knowing there was little I could do. My wife was returning down the trail with Petey, Milo's 3/4 brother, with an empty saddle to take Milo's packs. She also carried the pistol.



I reflected on the events that brought us to this point, this sad place on the trail in the immense Nevada wilderness. We came to the Central Nevada wilderness of Arc Dome in the Toiyabe Range to hike and to camp. We were; myself and my wife Laurie, her friend another school teacher, Keri, my old mountaineering friends Doug and PJ Woodland (Since he was the center piece of most of our trip, and to avoid embarrassing him, I have changed his name). In addition our golden retrievers, Clover and Annapurna Bear and the pack llamas; Milo, Petey, Que Si, Gus and Kingston.



We arrived at the trailhead at the lovely creekside campground of Columbine at 8800 ft in the evening. The llamas spent a pleasant evening snacking on the green grasses just outside the campground fence, a pleasant change from their usual diet of Alfalfa cubes. In the morning we loaded the llamas. My friends, accustomed to backpacking heavy loads of gear and freezedried food into the high mountains were bemused at the four coolers of iced food, the table, the chairs. PJ Woodland, my mountaineering friend, is a self made millionaire, he built his company and ran it without question. He lives alone, always has, loves to wander the the deserts and mountains of Utah and California, alone. We soon learned that that was best for him. When we pack our llamas there is a bulk and weight issue, He brought an additional stuffsack of pile gear, and complained when he had to stuff it all into the 18x6 sack of personal gear we all had to have. He complained that the llama would not let him brush it, he complained about this, he complained about that, the initiation of a never ending litany of complaints. I, reasoning from the 15 emails I had received from him in the week before the trip regarding food, fires, bears... that he may not be happy on our little outing, had suggested that he bring his own car out rather than riding with us, so that he could leave if needed, wise man; I.



Our route led us uphill through pleasant aspen groves including some excellent examples of racy Basque sheepherder silvaglyphs.
We crossed several icy mountain creeks as we ascended the trail. Our final ascent to the pass was a hot series of switchbacks rising from 9,000ft. to 10,400ft. The windswept pass was a cool and welcome break from the strain of the switchbacks. The llamas were happy for the lunchbreak. The vegetation there was typical great basin short sage, resembling a Scottish highland, or perhaps the arctic tundra, but the llamas ate with gusto.



We descended the canyon of the North Twin River, one of those misnamed creeks that eventually after collecting water from their various drainages empties out into one of the infamous Great Basin "flats" and evaporate, their waters never reaching the ocean. Of course, this is Nevada, the upper reaches of the river were bone dry by our trip in the middle of August. As we descended the trail PJ Woodland, accustomed to the broad and well beaten trails of most of America's wilderness, remarked on the obvious lack of use this trail received, which is typical for Nevada wilderness trails. We walked on through an expansive aspen forest, the llamas grunting and groaning down the steep trail, another characteristic of Nevada trails, most of them grown out of Native American use trails.


John Muir's book recounting his wanderings through Nevada is aptly titled Steep Trails. Below the stand were a sequence of springs watering a grassy meadow surrounded by mature aspens. That was to be our destination. Several downed logs within the deep shade of the thick stand gave us a shady and pleasant camp. The lack of nails in the trees, the lack of log furniture and the absence of empty beer cans told us this was not a usual Nevada hunter's camp.

Keri grew up on the shores of Lake Tahoe and hiked the mountains around the lake. Accustomed as she is to the beauty of the Sierra Nevada, she was quite surprised by the high mountain beauty of the Nevada mountains. Most folk think of Nevada as the land that lies aside I80 or Highway 95 from Reno to Las Vegas.

We made our camp, tied out the relieved llamas and settled in for a spot of lemonade touched with Tequila. The heat of the day baked the sage and pinion juniper forest outside the shade of the aspens, but within, it was cool enough to send Laurie for her longsleeved shirt.

PJ Woodland began to surprise me. Men in the wilderness often let a certain ribaldness into their talk. Men in the wilderness (especially mountaineers, I suppose) often often regard each other with a gentle competitiveness, recounting stories of past exploits, however with the presence of women a thin veneer of civilization normally settles over the discussions. In this instance, we had my wife, a veteran of life's campfire talk, on the other hand there was Keri, one of this worlds gentle and perhaps a bit innocent people, only 25, unmarried, perhaps unused to men's dirty socks on the floor and toothbrushing and shaving cream remains in the sink. PJ Woodland had bad manners! I was shocked, how do you know someone for twenty years and not know that rude offensive statements would flow so easily in mixed company. So... I saw the storm clouds rising..

The heat of the day disappeared quickly as the sun dropped over the ridgeline to the west. Supper that night was stirfried ginger chicken and bell peppers over rice. A bright fingernail moon hung for a time casting little light, but great beauty. Then it too dropped over the ridge, Tired as we were from our trek we retired early. and dropped into a well deserved sleep. The dogs patrolled. The great danger to llamas out here is lions, I feel that with the ears and eyes of the llamas combined with the noses of the dogs the llamas are safe. On another trip in the next canyon over, the dogs began barking, the next morning showed lion tracks within 30 feet of our camp. So perhaps the barking dogs prevented a problem.

The next day came bright and early. We had a bit of a problem. One of the goals of this trip was for each person to summit Arc Dome. At 11,775 feet it is the second highest point in Central Nevada and a fair hike. From our camp it would be a 12 mile round trip with an elevation gain of 2,175 feet. We all decided a rest day would be appropriate. PJ Woodland's first comment was, "this will be a long day, I think of camping trips in regard to the miles hiked." Llama packing had yet to sink in. Yes hiking, and yes good books and conversation as the daily cares back home recede. Dinner that night was chicken apple pesto sausages with potato dumpling soup. The dumplings were a great hit. It surprised me that several in our party had never eaten dumplings before. They add welcome bulk to a soup.

The following day was to be Doug and PJ Woodland's day of ascension, however PJ Woodland had a migraine and chose to spend yet another day in camp. Migraines became a source of amusement and some tension. Doug doesn't get migraines and was alternately amused and annoyed at our discussions, Keri has been hospitalized several times because of the pain, Laurie and I get too frequent migraines, yet we continue with life. PJ Woodland stops his world and lets everyone know the progress of the migraine. Since we needed a llama watcher, someone needed to be in camp at all times. PJ Woodland and Doug postponed their hike and Laurie and Keri and I decided to go. The llamas were content to remain in camp with the "guys".

We reascended the trial we had come down, turning south near the head of the canyon. Leaving all trees behind we climbed onto the summit ridge. To the east huge cirques cleft the range with near sheer cliffs falling a thousand feet to the canyons below. There was a bit of snow tucked into the vertical cracks in the cirque walls. The smoke from faraway fires in California and Oregon limited our visibility. On a clear day you can see the snowy wall of the Sierra Nevada, over one hundred miles away, but not today. We could clearly see the foothills of the Toiyabe to the west, gentle rolling sage covered hills cut by stream carved canyons and valleys. The headwaters of the Reese River lay to our south, all begging for future explorations.

We walked the faint trail south. There is such a dramatic feel to walking Nevada ridges. The mountains are nearly all narrow long and high. When you walk the ridges you get a top of the world feeling difficult to find in broader ranges. Off to our east the huge mountain massif of Mt.. Jefferson rose vague in the smoky air. The remains of the highest Indian village found in North America lie at over 11,000 feet on Mt. Jefferson. Beyond Jefferson dimly seen lies the grassy and well watered mesa of Table Mountain. To our north the Toiyabe range, peak after peak as far as we could see. The Toiyabe Crest National Recreation trail snakes 60 miles north following the ridgeline of the range, yet another hike waiting for us.

Arc Dome's great bulk appeared in front of us revealed in parts as we crested intermediate risings of the ridge. Arc Dome is a commanding presence visible for many miles away, we looked forward to summiting. The trail across the stony tundra brought us to the final 1,000ft. push. Zigzagging steeply we ascended, slowly the curve of the dome lessened and suddenly we were there, couldn't go any higher, so this must be the place. The temperature was a pleasant 70 degrees, sharply contrasted with what we knew to be 100 plus in the canyons and valleys we looked down upon. The empty lands of Nevada lay before us. Fewer than 10,000 people could be found within a circle nearly 100 miles around us. Scattered ranches, many now abandoned could be seen tucked into the arroyos along the few year round streams. Out from our aerie several species of hawks rode the ridge wave of wind, seeking their prey.

We descended slowly, knees creaking, we arrive back at camp pleased with our climb, Laurie and Keri particularly. Peak bagging is a newer project for them. Once we had sat with cold lemonade to share the day with Doug and PJ Woodland, I calculated it had taken us seven hours to complete the trek. I related this to the others, PJ Woodland immediately said he expected that he and Doug would do it in six hours. The looks on the faces of Laurie and Keri turned to astonishment, in one simple sentence he had cut their legs off at the knees, had denigrated their great achievement. My level of annoyance increased, I thought, it is a life, not a race. However supper was needed and I began to prep the chicken in feta cheese and onion sauce.. PJ Woodland was suspicious, I had to reassure him that the meat was chicken thighs and not lizard or dog leg or some such. A far cry from the backpackers usual fare of freezedried whatevers.

The next day, a dawn start for my intrepid mountaineer companions, they set off for the summit of Arc Dome. Laurie Keri and I ate a leisurely breakfast, moved llamas to new forage, read books. Doug returned in the early afternoon, pleased to have summited. PJ Woodland decided to hike a loop trail route back, a lovely hike into the canyon of the South Twin River up over the ridge between South Twin and North Twin then back up to camp. Both Doug cautioned him on the heat. He returned about 6:30 , said the heat was hot, but that he had seen worse. He had found a lost black and white cowdog, skin and bones, very hungry. PJ fed it a piece of a power bar and string cheese, but left it in the canyon where he found it. Now, a lost dog in Nevada is in serious trouble, many of the canyons will only get 1 or two parties a year traveling through them. PJ Woodland also left the trail, now admittedly trails in this wilderness are indistinct, but they are there, and they will take you home again. He wound up bushwhacking up the creek bed and was unhappy when I told him the trail he turned off of came straight to camp.

Breakfast the next morning was a leisurely affair of bacon, eggs, pancakes, bagels, coffee, orange juice. As is my routine I let all know that if they want something they better have bowls in hand ready to take what I cook up. Bacon always being the hit, folks stand around like buzzards waiting for it. At some point PJ Woodland wandered off. I cooked all the bacon, it was all gratefully eaten by those present, I made stacks of pancakes, used all the prepared batter. All pancakes eaten, I went on to frying eggs. At about this point PJ Woodland returned, when he saw that the bacon was gone and all the pancakes gone, he was incensed and called us all, including my wife and Keri a danged rude name of a certain body part, in plural. I was quite offended but attempting to mollify I showed him how to make pancake batter so he could make his own.

Keri Laurie and I decided to go rescue the dog. We loaded our day packs with water, snacks and some dog food. Our dogs, Clover and Annapurna Bear got to go on this hike as there would be water. Another great hike down a garden like canyon filled with aspens, wild rose, columbines and clover. With numerous stream crossings the golden retrievers were in heaven. We arrived at "Werdenhoff Pasture" a beautiful meadow where two streams come together. The clover lay deep within ancient aspenlog corrals, insects buzzed in the still air. No sign of the dog. We hiked up a side canyon past a near complete cow skeleton, past a well chewed bird, but no dog. We called and called, but no dog. Disappointed we retraced our steps back up the trail. The heat lay heavy now in the still afternoon air. Our trail (the one PJ missed) took us out of the relative coolness of the canopied canyon bottom and up the open sage brush slopes. Keri began to suffer from the heat and by the time we got back to camp was suffering from heat exhaustion. Laurie played nurse and wrapped her in wet handkerchiefs, got her a bucket of water to soak her feet and wrists in.

Things came to a head that night. PJ Woodland made yet another inappropriate comment to which I replied and told him his offensive comments had ended his welcome in our camp. By dawn he was gone, hiked out, but left his gear for the llamas to carry out. Rather ultimate chutzpah, stomp off in a huff, but leave me to take care of his gear. Leave it? Or take it? Hate being the good guy all the time, but we packed it out. Much to my later dismay.

We loaded the llamas, Milo kushed as soon as his packs were loaded, which was unusual for him. But he seemed ok otherwise. All the boys had light loads and we anticipated an easy walk out. About 3/4 of a mile up the trail through the aspens Milo was breathing heavy with his mouth open and making a strange cracking sound. I thought maybe the pace was too fast and dropped down to a slow measured walk, his symptoms, whatever they were did not alleviate. He kushed. I waited while the rest of my friend made their way up the trail, we tried the usual "get the llama up from kush" stuff, but nothing worked, he was visibly fading. I pulled his packs and saddles off and sent my wife and the others ahead with the other llamas asking her to return with Petey etc. Milo did not lift his head when the others left. And there I sat stunned.

What were my choices? Leave him?, no chance. Put him down? not while I thought he may recover. Sit with him till he recovered or the end, that was the only option. I began to plan how I would have Laurie take the others out, but there was only one stock trailer. As I sat, Milo began to show signs of recovering, he lifted his head. His eyes lost the glazed look. I talked to him, reminded him of all the great hikes we had done. Eventually I attempted to tug him to his feet, no dice. I pulled sideways on the lead he would either spin or stand, he chose to stand. I filled with relief, hugged him. We started slowly up the trail, I sang to him and kept him moving slowly. Sing up hill through the aspens, every step brought him closer to the still distant trailer. Eventually his ears perked and he hummed, I followed his look and saw Laurie and Petey coming down the trail. I explained to Laurie what had happened and asked her to take Milo and the others to the pass, to wait there for me and Petey. She did. Petey and I returned to Milo's packs loaded up and headed back on the trail. We found all at the pass, where we took a long break. Doug the backpacker saw the utility of the llamas when, hot and tired we had drinks of cold milk and ate plum tomatoes from the cooler.

Milo seemed recovered, he was standing and eating, he even spit at Gus. I figured he had to carry something, so I chose the lightest packs for him. We set off. Within a half mile he began the open mouth cracking wheezing and was stumbling as if drunk. I again removed his packs and saddle. I strapped his saddle to the back pack I had on. Only one llama, Que Si could carry an extra pack so we lashed one pack to him and I threw the other over my head, resting it on the backpack I had on. I thought this was just great, now I was humping PJ Woodlands gear out on my back. In addition to whatever else I was carrying. Milo did get up and stumbled down the trail. The upshot was, we made it out, Milo is alive and seems recovered. My back is sore.

So... What happened to Milo? Lupine poisoning is our best guess. What happened to PJ Woodland. He made it home...........

Keri stretched herself to new heights, she became a great llamera and learned a bit about human nature. Laurie and myself? We had a great time. Aside from Milo's dive into the world of being responsible for large animals. Doug? He is Doug, he has had worse camping trips, like last year when he was run over by a bear.. ah but no llamas in that story.

[Bob]

So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

- Carl Spackler

[Zephryus]

Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond,
in a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite
shore-line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the
glassy surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like
a thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and
gleaming against the distant pine woods, separating one stratum of
the atmosphere from another. You would think that you could walk
dry under it to the opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim
over might perch on it. Indeed, they sometimes dive below this
line, as it were by mistake, and are undeceived. As you look over
the pond westward you are obliged to employ both your hands to
defend your eyes against the reflected as well as the true sun, for
they are equally bright; and if, between the two, you survey its
surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, except where
the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its whole
extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable
sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have
said, a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the
distance a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air,
and there is one bright flash where it emerges, and another where it
strikes the water; sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or
here and there, perhaps, is a thistle-down floating on its surface,
which the fishes dart at and so dimple it again. It is like molten
glass cooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and
beautiful like the imperfections in glass. You may often detect a
yet smoother and darker water, separated from the rest as if by an
invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, resting on it. From a
hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any part; for not a
pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth surface but it
manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It is
wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is advertised --
this piscine murder will out -- and from my distant perch I
distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods
in diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (Gyrinus) ceaselessly
progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for
they furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded
by two diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without
rippling it perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated
there are no skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm
days, they leave their havens and adventurously glide forth from the
shore by short impulses till they completely cover it. It is a
soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all
the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on
such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling
circles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible
surface amid the reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse
there is no disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away
and assuaged, as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling
circles seek the shore and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap
or an insect fall on the pond but it is thus reported in circling
dimples, in lines of beauty, as it were the constant welling up of
its fountain, the gentle pulsing of its life, the heaving of its
breast. The thrills of joy and thrills of pain are
undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! Again
the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig
and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered
with dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect
produces a flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo!
In such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect
forest mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if
fewer or rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so
large, as a lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky
water. It needs no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it.
It is a mirror which no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will
never wear off, whose gilding Nature continually repairs; no storms,
no dust, can dim its surface ever fresh; -- a mirror in which all
impurity presented to it sinks, swept and dusted by the sun's hazy
brush -- this the light dust-cloth -- which retains no breath that
is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds high above
its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still.
A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is
continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is
intermediate in its nature between land and sky. On land only the
grass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind.
I see where the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of
light. It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We
shall, perhaps, look down thus on the surface of air at length, and
mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it.
The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part
of October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in
November, usually, in a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to
ripple the surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end
of a rain-storm of several days' duration, when the sky was still
completely overcast and the air was full of mist, I observed that
the pond was remarkably smooth, so that it was difficult to
distinguish its surface; though it no longer reflected the bright
tints of October, but the sombre November colors of the surrounding
hills. Though I passed over it as gently as possible, the slight
undulations produced by my boat extended almost as far as I could
see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. But, as I was
looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a distance a faint
glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped the frosts
might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being so
smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling
gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself
surrounded by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a
rich bronze color in the green water, sporting there, and constantly
rising to the surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on
it. In such transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting
the clouds, I seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon,
and their swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as
if they were a compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level
on the right or left, their fins, like sails, set all around them.
There were many such schools in the pond, apparently improving the
short season before winter would draw an icy shutter over their
broad skylight, sometimes giving to the surface an appearance as if
a slight breeze struck it, or a few rain-drops fell there. When I
approached carelessly and alarmed them, they made a sudden splash
and rippling with their tails, as if one had struck the water with a
brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the depths. At length
the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began to run, and
the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of water, a
hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the surface.
Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some dimples
on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard immediately,
the air being fun of mist, I made haste to take my place at the oars
and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly increasing, though
I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough soaking. But
suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the perch,
which the noise of my oars had seared into the depths, and I saw
their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after
all.

-Henry David Thoreau

[Captain Goddammit]

Empty, unpopulated Black Rock is very beautiful; until you personally own the place, what makes you more entitled to it than anyone else? How many "Burners" actually move out there? They all go back home... what's the problem?

[DVD Burner]

......what's the problem?

envy!

[Captain Goddammit]

(love the plonker)

[DVD Burner]

Thanx

[Isotopia]

(love the plonker)

If only it worked as discussed.

[DVD Burner]

I sent three up to eplaya that work as disscused. the one below is ment for those that have issues.
It is the "go plonk yourself" plonker.
Notice when you click it it says "PLONK"

[DE FACTO]

Iso,
I belive you've just been Plonked.

[Captain Goddammit]

(love the plonker)

If only it worked as discussed.

"If only"?! The plonker is the answer! It solves my daily problems, resolves complicated issues with the press of a button.
Maybe you're not doing it right.

[Maia]

Flying above the Granite Range in a helicopter is a Nevada-style safari, spotting hundreds of wild horses, antelope and deer across the green slopes.

A herd of 10 mule deer race into the aspens at the headwaters of Cottonwood Creek.

A small herd of antelope bucks rests next to a water hole. Females stand off by themselves, preparing to give birth. Hundreds of mustangs of all colors can be spotted in thundering herds.

Over and over, the sightings occur, high above the private lands owned by Sam and Todd Jaksick of Reno, northwest of Gerlach.

The family is offering 18,600 acres for sale to the federal government on the Granite Range, Wall Canyon and the Buffalo Hills.

Wall Canyon is home to the endangered pygmy rabbit, which fits in the palm of a hand; pronghorns; sage grouse and a fish called the Wall Canyon sucker that is found nowhere else.

?This is truly a paradise that should be held in the public trust,? said Alicia Reban, of the Nevada Land Conservancy.

In the Granite Range, the mountains, canyons and draws contain more than 30 streams, dozens of springs and ponds. Jaksick counts 12 streams along the face of the mountain at Granite Creek.

Settlers homesteaded these lands because of the water. And in these rare green mountains in Nevada, they are the source of life for animals on hundreds of thousands of acres of surrounding public lands.

Not just big animals can be seen from the air. A badger pokes his tail out of a hole. A bald eagle flaps its wings, showing off its long white feathers. A flock of sage grouse take off in flight.

Many of the deer and antelope still are farther down the mountain, Jaksick said. In the morning hours, frost coats the sagebrush, giving the landscape a surreal milky coating. Fields of dainty wild irises are just blooming.

Unlike most of Nevada?s mountains, these mountain tops, ravines, hills, gullies and canyons are green, not brown. California bighorn sheep find a safe haven on the west rocky slopes to raise their young, Jaksick said.

Up to 80 sheep are on the mountain in two different spots.

Jaksick has seen as many as 300-400 antelope scampering across the highlands and just as many mule deer. During the fall, the hills are spotted with the orange vests of hunters, he said.

Because the land is private, much of the land still is a mystery to archeologists and other scientists, says Alicia Reban, executive director of the Nevada Land Conservancy.

At Hole in the Ground, an ancient caldera, people built a rock wall around the perimeter. Is it prehistoric? Are there mountain trout or sucker fish in the gurgling brook that flows through it? And who built the neighboring rock wall at Painters Flat?

The inquiry has just begun, Reban said.

For the Jaksicks, these lands are only part of their holdings in the north Washoe mountains. ?Everything is so beautiful up here, people ask me ?Why would you want to get rid of it? We have another property up here where we spend the majority of our time,? he said, when the family is in Northern Nevada?s outback.