Bison's Eye

Sometimes, you just have to get away. And not on some random airline. I'm talking about a good old fashioned, back of the station wagon kind of road trip. A good family vacation of this sort always produces stories that you can tell for years, or at least it should. Not wanting my kids to miss out on such an experience, last summer we loaded up the van and set forth on that utterly quintessential, cross-country family trip to the Grand Canyon. Holiday Road, anyone?

Long road trips are cathartic for me, especially if I'm driving. I am content to drive for hours in relative silence. While the occasional interlude of music or podcast isn't always unwelcome stimulation, I generally don't find it a necessity. Driving gives me time to process the perpetual jumble of thoughts inside my head. And this particular trip featured quite the collection of jumbled thoughts, as I was wrestling with the doubts not uncommon to a man in his mid-forties. Nothing dramatic, mind you, but the reevaluation of life's general trajectory at the proverbial half-way point seems to have become a frequent preoccupation of mine. After the first two days, I was feeling much better, much more settled in my spirit. But I digress.

The afternoon of the third day found us turning north on Hwy 89 from Flagstaff. The haze was heavy, muting the already earthen desert colors, but I was reveling in the alien landscape nonetheless. We came upon stretches of construction featuring one-lane alternating traffic that for the most part were tolerable, except for one where we found ourselves caught in a sudden, violent dust storm. I suppose there was a thunderstorm nearby, but we saw little rain from it. All traffic was stopped in both directions. As with any storm, sometimes you just have to wait it out until it passes. It always does.

From there, we swung over to 89A, filled up at Marble Canyon, rode along the base of the Vermillion Cliffs, and finally turned south on 67 across the Kaibab Plateau en route to the North Rim. The transformation of the landscape was startling, going from desert and haze to forest and blue sky in the late afternoon sun. Small meadows opened up on either side of the road. It was wonderfully picturesque, and my word don't do it justice. But my momentary reverie was about to be disrupted in a most startling way.

We were on approach to the small gatehouse marking the entrance to the North Rim, when I noticed a line of cars stopped in the opposing lane several hundred yards outside the park entrance. Further left, in an area of shallow meadow, was a herd of bison, about 30-head. That these people were stopped in the road alongside a herd of bison seemed to this traveler as not a wise thing to be doing. And then it happened.

As the gap closed between me and the line of paralyzed onlookers, from the herd came a beast, massive in size, with menace in his manner. He bounded along a path parallel to the road, and with a swiftness that defied his mass, turned toward us with head lowered, his visible eye wide and blazing. Like a movie cut in high definition clarity, slowed to half speed, I hit the brakes. Loose items suspended about me in mid-air, slave to Newton's equations, and slowly flew to the front of the cabin - GPS, phones, cups, snacks, and other various clutter that collects on a long cross-country family trip. But the van responded, nose dipped, and through a windshield that seemed much too close to my face, I watched as the beast passed mere meters in front of me, such that I could see the powerful flank rippling and glistening with sweat. And above all, the eye of my adversary glowering with an unveiled hostility. And then he was across the road, to my right. To my left, the standing line of onlookers, still not moving, jaws dropped in almost witless expressions and still clearly unaware of their imminent danger. As for me, I shifted my foot immediately from the brake to the accelerator, gently but deliberately leaving the scene lest the creature decide to take another shot at this mechanical beast that so threatened his herd. And in those moments after, as the passage of time returned to normal, as my pulse slowed and the nerve endings along my spine ceased to tingle, I could only express: Did that just happen? Did that really just happen? Even now, I can still remember with perfect clarity my close encounter with that thunderous beast. And his defiant, unforgiving eye.

In the year since these events, I have pondered and probed this experience for some deeper meaning, a way to turn what is merely a fun and thrilling tale into some sort of metaphor or allegory that illuminates some portion of this absurd existence. Alas, I have nothing. Nothing that isn't already painfully, ridiculously obvious. News flash: Bison are not tame, they are not cattle. They are fierce, powerful beasts that are highly protective of their herd, and will not shy from attacking anything or anyone they perceive to be a threat.

I have only this: A bison charging across the road always has the right of way. Always.

Words to live by, don't you think?

Thoughts in the Aftermath of a Silly Online Quiz

Some months ago, in a moment of weakness, I succumbed to the most frivolous of digital temptations: a silly online "quiz." No, this was not some examination designed to test my knowledge of world geography, or to measure my understanding of obscure facts in the Star Wars universe. Rather, this quiz purported to reveal secrets about the nature of my personality based solely on - wait for it - what shapes most appeal to me. I've seen different versions of this from various team building seminars, but this particular one appeared to be even less scientific (if that is possible). There were some 20 questions, almost all of which asked me to select an image from a group that most appealed to me. I know you are anxiously awaiting the big reveal, so here it is (in part):

You are most often drawn to shapes that include rectangles, and this makes you the Explorer. You seek adventure and new experiences, and yet sometimes lack the funds or guts to make it happen. You are inquisitive by nature, and courageous too. You are naturally supportive of your loved ones and have tremendous strength and foresight. For those of you that take the risk, and go forth and travel, you love to get to know other cultures and people on your journeys. Explorers have a passion for knowledge, and like to converse with people from all walks of life. You seek harmony and balance in your endeavors, and thrive most when you are able to juggle risk and reward to your benefit. Curious, dependable, determined, and spirited, that is you.

Ah, behold the revelation of my true self, exposed by the selection of images that contain rectangles, above those with squares, circles, triangles, and abstract mishmashes of shapeless colors. Look at me, the Explorer! I am sure that when people see me, or think of me, "Explorer" is naturally the very first thing that comes to mind. Yeah.

Silly online quiz … probably exists only to collect personal data in some way to further enhance or exploit my "digital footprint" to the benefit of somebody else, or to sell me hiking boots.

But I must admit, these results have made me think. My 45th birthday is mere months away, and I have been pondering what to do differently, if anything, with the second half of my life. I've considered going back to school for a Master's degree, as well as the possibility of a career change, but have come to the initial conclusion that right now, I have neither the funds nor the guts to pursue either. In the near term, I'll probably have to settle for picking up a new hobby. Writing online quizzes, for example.

I do wish, sometimes, that I was that Explorer. I was as a child, at least in my imagination. Those days are mostly gone now. But the idea still flickers, deep down, I think, for whenever I give in to this navel-gazing introspection, a snippet of an old John Denver song plays in my mind:

Come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops.
Sail o'er the canyons and up to the stars.
And reach for the heavens and hope for the future
and all that we can be, and not what we are.

I suppose, this is one facet of being an Explorer: reaching for Heaven, hoping for the Future, and looking toward all that we can be, and not just what we are today. I cannot begin to explain how this one verse in an old song speaks to me. Maybe, just maybe, it is confirming that long buried idea that I really can be more like this Explorer character.

Or maybe it just means I like rectangles.

Review: The Killing of History

For the past many decades, even the casual observer cannot help but to see that any activity, approach, or viewpoint that takes on (or has forced upon it) the descriptor of "traditional" is increasingly portrayed in a negative light. The arguments over traditional vs. contemporary (modernism, postmodernism, relativism) play out in almost every venue imaginable, most notably in academia, religion, and politics. Keith Windschuttle's The Killing of History: How Literary Critics and Social Theorists are Murdering Our Past pulls back the curtain on one such pitched battle in the field of historical studies. For the layman who may be largely unexposed to the various positions, theories, and methodologies at play, this book is a difficult read, and will take additional effort and self-directed research to properly interpret and absorb. While Mr. Windschuttle does offer definition, description, and context in his presentation of the issues that form the basis of the argument, what is offered presumes a certain level of preexisting knowledge of the subject matter and the debate.

From the opening pages of Mr. Windschuttle's treatise, it quickly becomes apparent that his work is not so much an intent to introduce the layman to the ongoing philosophical battles surrounding the study of history and its methods, but rather it is in fact a series of salvos directed at proponents of more contemporary theories on the discipline. The layman is unlikely to be familiar with the works of Derrida, Foucault, and a host of other historical theorists, past and present, and so to a certain extent has to trust the author's presentation of their cases and viewpoints. Nevertheless, the reading is a worthwhile exercise, because in doing so one acquires a better understanding of the motivations and the deficiencies behind the movements and initiatives that do reach the public eye, particularly as it pertains to history curriculum in schools, the phenomenon of "cultural studies" as a substitute for the more traditional views identified with Western civilization, and so forth.

As one reads the final chapter and closes the book, the reader cannot help but to sense that an important opportunity has been missed. For while Mr. Windschuttle's aim is to expose as illogical and unsupportable the theories of history that cannot be supported by empirical evidence, his defense of traditional methods of historical study is often limited to the contrast he presents against the ideas and theories he opposes. In other words, he fails to make a strong final case in favor of the traditional model of historical study. This is unfortunate, because he has a case to make. The reader would have been better served if the author had provided a conclusive retrospective that summarized the supremacy of his preferred methodology, instead of a two or three paragraph write-off to close the work. As a result, one is left with the impression that the book is more of a broadside against the ideas he opposes, and less a defense of the ideas for which he advocates. There is fantastic research here, and worth additional study. But it could have been more.

I Will Vote for Whomever I Please, Thank You

Ah, election season. A time for advocates of all stripes to proclaim to one and all why their candidate is the best, last hope in saving this great nation. A time for desperate pleas to join the cause, to stay loyal to the movement, to place my trust in the one who pledges to “take on Washington” and all its corruption. A time to bet on the horses, because really, all that matters is winning, about keeping the lesser beasts from ruining our country.

Advocates are passionate for their preferred candidates, and so they should be. I can stomach most arguments on behalf of any candidate, because such arguments all take on the same form, once you step back and examine them. For any given candidate, the advocate lauds notable characteristics and policy positions while simultaneously dismissing any flaws, all the while augmenting the flaws and downplaying any notable characteristics or positions of another candidate. More simply, it is the parable of the beam and the mote. The politics of destruction is powerful temptation, even among members of the same “team.” Again, this is the established pattern, and by and large I can entertain such arguments, and on occasion even be entertained by them.

What I cannot stomach, however, is the following argument that I see thrown out from time to time, even from friends: “A Vote for Candidate A is really a Vote for Candidate F.” I find such approaches to be unpersuasive at best, insulting at worst. I find it to be both the weakest and most desperate of arguments, logically and factually incorrect on its face.

With every choice, there are consequences. When I cast my vote, I may pick a loser, but in no way can you logically extrapolate that unfortunate result into a plus for the winner. It may seem a “waste” to supporters of another candidate, and they are entitled to that view. Nevertheless, my ballot will lie in the stack of whomever I choose, and only in his stack.

I have the fortunate privilege and responsibility to vote, and I take it seriously. I will vote for the candidate that best fits my view and my values. Absent such a candidate, I reserve the right to make a third choice and not cast a vote for that office. This is a choice I make, and that choice is an extension of what I believe and what I think. No more, no less. I don’t make such choices lightly, and I will never in good conscience vote for any candidate that I don’t consider as sufficiently worthy of my vote. Results may vary, but by and large I hold this to be true. Rest assured, I would no more vote for a tyrant than I would vote for a criminal.

I hold allegiance only to God and Country, not to party, not to any interests but those that align to my views and my values. It is my right, my freedom, my integrity, and my decision.

So, please, spare me such a specious argument as “A Vote for A is really a Vote for F“. I will vote for whomever I please, and if in the end my vote doesn’t matter, or doesn’t make anyone else happy, so be it. But nevertheless, my vote will count, and I will gladly stand to be counted, win or lose.