Dyspnea S/S ‘2015 look book
Climb Every Mountairiwhenhewas
WM just short of middle age, my pal Dave decided to climb the W W tallest peaks in each of the 48 contiguous states. He talked me into joining him in hiking California’s Mount Whitney at 14,494feet, the highest rock in the Lower 48. A funny thing happened along the way. “According to this map, the highest point in Nevada is just a few miles from here,” Dave said. “We can knock it out by noon, do a bike ride, then hike Whitney tomorrow.” Seven hours later, JEDEDIAH SMITH RIVER, CALIFORNIA. Highway 101 north of Leggett meanders through foothills, goes coastal, and zips under redwoods. Dave suggests hanging a right on 199 for a swim in the sublime Smith River.
CANYON DE CHELLY, ARIZONA. After Dave drove along Route 191 to the lip of this pink sandstone crater by the velvety blue glow of a desert full moon, he starting calling people “grasshopper.”
SCOTTS BLUFF, NEBRASKA. Dave’s not a UFO kook, but approaching we peeked over the top of what the map said was the tallest mountain in Nevada and saw a taller mountain on the other side, also in Nevada. Which brought to mind a Zen adage: “When you get to the top of the mountain, keep climbing.” Or, to conjure Donovan, “First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.” That was seven years ago. Prosperous in his middle years, Dave can now pay other people to climb the wrong mountain while he enjoys the view from his Subaru. Some of Dave’s favorite road trips:
this stunning wall of earth at dusk from the east on Highway 92, he says he got a definite vibe.
LAKE SUPERIOR. Leaf looker Dave got giddy circling this Great Lake in early October. Take Highway 61 in Minnesota, Highway 17 in Ontario, and highways 28 and 41 in Michigan. FLORIDA KEYS. Dave rented a convertible in Miami and tooled down to Key West. Fortunately, there’s only one road. Highway 1 scantchanceofhismistakinghismountains.
Great writing has no limits. It drives and soars, carving out an escape route to places we’ve never been, introducing us to people we’ve never met. It envelopes us in its environment, whether it’s, say, the jovial yet fiercely competitive milieu of a southern BBQ cookoff, above, or startling contrasts on the plains of the Serengeti.
Big peace, said Jason Matus, without hesitation, putting a hand through the air. And the hands met there one the blackest of black, one the whitest of white. Like shaking hands with midnight; like shaking hands with goat’s milk. And the man held on to you, Jason Matus, and led you away from the plane, into his world now, and the crowd parted, these amazing faces, hollowed with high cheekbones, superwhite eyeballs and teeth, foreheads scarred with tribal markings, bodies clean of hair. You didn’t even notice their ribs at first, the ballooned bellies and the bloated hands. At first, you didn’t notice what the Dinka simply call the Hunger, though that’s what you had come for. Just saw their faces, made sure you met their smiles and gazes. And then all those hands reaching for you. Men in sky blue jalaba gowns fluttering from their stick thin bodies like loose sails. Mali madit. Big peace, my brother.”
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