Oxford

I went to Oxford on monday to give a job talk at the Wellcome Center. Actually its a little outside of Oxford itself, but part of the university. It was kind of a hectic two days, and I am writing this in the airport right now: my first chance to de-stress. I still get pretty agitated before talks, particularly when presenting new material (as I was this time), but things were heightened by the fact that this was Oxford, and I would be talking to a group that just published back to back Nature papers.

I got into Heathrow at 7:30 PM, and experienced the wonderously welcoming immigration area, where you are required to have a card filled in with various information, but there are no pens or pencils to enter the information (exactly like in the US, only with less hysteria). One amusing difference from the US is that there are dozens of signs stating that physically or mentally abusing the immigrations officers is a crime. Signs like this are unnnecessary in the US, because if you even think about stepping out of line, you will wake up in Guantanamo the next morning, naked except for duct tape underpants and Kiss music playing at 105 db

After almost getting run over because I was looking the wrong way for the cars, I found the X70 bus to oxford and walked to the Cladagh guest house in Heddington. It was late and I hadn't eaten, so I found a kebab joint and avoided the english hooligans who asked me "Wheres your lunch, mate?" while weaving in and out of the middle of the road on their bikes.

The next morning I escaped horribly Dull and bleak Heddington, and went to the Center of Oxford. Along the way, I managed to get another taste of the whole "wrong side of the road thing" when I missed my bus because I was waiting on the wrong side of the road.

I got off the bus in the center, and after several more exciting street crossings (although I would start looking in the right direction, force of habit usually made me look the wrong way by the time I was across the street), I found myself at the Bodleian library



A few steps away is the St. Mary the Virgin Church, which you can climb the tower of. The views are nice, and the light was beautiful.

All Soul's College:


Back down in the chapel itself, I was a bit surprised to see that people were buried ounder the church floor. Maybe they do that elsewhere, but I certainly hadnt noticed it before!

The highlight of Oxford for me was Christ Church College, which I stumbled upon by accident when I walked down King Edwards St. and found the exit of the tour. I walked out to the meadow,


in through the official entrance (4 pounds), and up to the Dining hall


which has a strong (almost tacky?) affiliation with Lewis Carroll and his weird obsession with the deans daughter. I found it silly that they made a stained glass window of Alice in Wonderland, but thats just me. The famous fireplace-thingy was cool, though

The really wonderful thing about the hall is the sense of continuity and tradition that it evokes; it is still very much in use, almost five centuries after its construction. Of course, there are some modern additions, like ye olde coffee maker

and ye olde Heinz ketchup

YEAH BRITISH PIGDOGS, LOOK AT WHATS IN YOUR ELITE POLITICIAN FACTORY: AMERICAN KETCHUP! HAHAHA
or wait, maybe Heinz is owned by Unilever? I smirked at the sign warning the young imperialists to "dress smartly", that "shorts are inappropriate for both men and women", and if they should wish to dine less formally, they should go somewhere else. I was so impressed by the dining hall that I left, hesitated and then walked back in again for another round of photos. Incidentally, this is where they filmed the dining hall scenes from the Harry Potter movies.

I followed the signs to Tom quad,

and into the cathedral. The cathedral has some beautiful stained glass windows,

but is otherwise unremarkable. Then again, I'm not really a conoisseur of churches: after a while they all start to blend together for me.

The last thing to see was the Peckwater quad


Which, like the dining hall, is still in use by the cigarette smoking, sometimes barefoot future leaders of the British Empire. I'm very jealous that they live and work in such a beautiful place. I dont think Ive every worked someplace where people had to pay $7 to take a self guided tour of. Then again, Williams was pretty picturesque as well, as was the Salk. I ended up at a map store on High St. to look for something for chloe. The woman who worked there was American, so we commiserated over the election for a bit, and then I started rooting through their selection of French maps. To my amazement, they had a very good selection of the first Atlas Nationale after the creation of the Departments, which are not that easy to find in France. Also, the prices were very reasonable. I guess there's not much demand for French maps in downtown Oxford! The lady gave me a good deal on a 1751 map of the Dauphine in beautiful condition


Another funny thing was that she saw my middle name on my credit card, and turned and asked "You're not related to THE Harunobu, are you?". Of course I'm not, but thats where the name comes from, and it was actually the first time in my life that anyone has known the significance of it. Kudos to mom and dad for coming up with the most obscure middle name on the planet.

After finding a place to buy chocolate and 1.5 kilos (almost $30) of wonderful English Cheddar, I headed back to the bed and breakfast to obsess over my talk a few more times.

I arrived at the Wellcome Center a bit early, and got a WEP key for the WiFi network, sent some stress filled emails to chloe, met the interviewers, and setup the projector. I was put much more at ease when I saw this on the bookshelf in the seminar room.


These were my kind of people.

After some rounding up of people by martin and bob, I gave the talk, which went well, and I think the interview did as well, but you never know. Afterwards, I got taken on a tour of their new protein production facility, and got to see their impressive crystallization tray imaging and storage machine.

They also have a tabletop mass spec for QA etc in one of their back rooms. Swanky. We ended up at a pub, where I of course ordered the fish and chips.

When I got to the airport this morning I wandered around, looking at the overpriced single malts and nice looking food that Harrods sells, when something in my brain woke up. Here is my unedited stream of consiousness: mmmm... caviar... mmmm shortbread.. hmmm.. foood? I have food. I have 1.5 kilos of three of my favorite english cheddars........ WHICH ARE IN THE REFRIGERATOR AT THE B&B. My only consolation is that I'll be going home to berkeley at the end of the week, where I will be able to get some more Neals Yard. I'm sure it wont go to waste, but damn. It made me want to cry.

stress

off to Oxford tomorrow for an interview for a job (which is not in oxford by the way). During a procrastination session I found this amazing video.

Beaujolais Nouveau

Every year, in a testament to both the power of clever marketing and the latent drunken slob in all of us, the nouveau Beaujolais is a big hit. Signs on the sidewalk announce its arrival days in advance. Workplaces are all atwitter with plans being made for the night. SMS messages race through the air with the names of bars. A newcomer to this event can be forgiven for thinking, if even for an instant, that this is a celebration of wine. A quick sip cures you of any such idea, but it really doesnt lessen the experience.

Chloe and I met up with some friends at "Le Bagatel", a low rent bar on place de la Tribunale:



Apparently we only drank 5 bottles of wine, but it seemed like a lot more; especially when I stood up to go home. Heres chloe graciously declining another glass of liquid gold:

and the requisite closing drunken photo (charming, I know.)

rob whaa?

I periodically check out apples trailers site to see all the movies that I wont get to see here in Grenoble. Today I saw this, which looks very disturbing, and not something I'm interested in seeing. Despite the pandering gorefest that this movie is certain to be, I found myself laughing at the end, because its credited to Rob Zombie, of White Zombie fame. I always laugh when I see that guys name; I mean, if youre going to get yourself a really kickass ominous last name, DONT leave your first name the way it is for convenience.

Convincing                         Unconvincing

-----------                         -----------

Devil Vampire                     Robert Zombie

Vlad Lucifer                      Clarence de Mort

Hell Styx                         Ira Armageddon

Death                             Timmy Massacre

Annot

Last thursday was a national holiday. Never ones to miss an opportunity to slack off, we went to Annot with friends from the lab. Earlier in the week, Meteo France had predicted rain every day, but as usual, the forecast was wrong. Despite a little bit of snow frosting the mountains near the Col de la Croix Haut, we had 4 beautiful and sunny fall days:
(photo by mark).

On thursday, we sprinted out to the lower sector to get some exercise after a full day in the car, and gave sandy, dave, amy and mark an introduction to Annot bouldering. Unfortunately, on the way down, I felt somthing strange in the steering, and mark generously offered to drive us up the next day. It turned out to have been a wise choice, as the mechanic told us that some part of the assembly that links the wheel to the suspension (CV joint? I couldnt really figure out what it was) was mostly destroyed, which meant that it could have become decoupled. Add that to a mountain road with a precipice on one side... or an autoroute at high speed, and you have a dangerous situation! Needless to say, we had him fix it, despite the need to get parts by train the next morning. When the mechanic (also named max!) told us that our wheel could have come off, chloe let out a frightened little squeek, since wheel-ejection was apparently one of her car-phobias.

We stayed at the hotel/restaurant La Cigale, and enjoyed a different and excellent meal after every day of bouldering. The first day she served us a terrine, followed by lamb and some unexceptional desserts. We took a gamble on the Vin du Pays, but it wasnt particularly good either. The second day we had small somosa (??? de Champsaur) as appetizers, and then baked Perch on a bed of leeks, with a local A.O.C. white. On the last night, she served us quiche followed by rabbit in a provencale sauce. Still gunshy from the first wine, we ordered the failsafe cote du Rhone. I had the generic "Carte d'or" fig ice cream for dessert.


Here are some of the bouldering photos.. taken with mark and amys EOS 300D:

Mark on a problem in "La Crete"

Amy on the same problem, evidently enjoying it a bit more!




Me on "Le toit du cul du loup"
(photo by mark).

Dave on "Le toit du cul du loup"
(photo by mark).


On the last day, we were soaking the rays and serenity of the blocs in the Crete sector, when a troop of hunters came by. It was a little surreal watching them walk by with a deer tied to a stick!:




strangely, they weren't chanting, "lord of the flies" style.

here are Chloe and I giving "Le toit du cul du loup" roof a few last tries
(photo by mark).
(photo by mark).

It was a great weekend, and I think everyone had fun. Amazingly, three nights at the hotel+three meals+breakfast+wine for two people cost only 200 euro.

419

Although I don't seem to get them anymore, the net has been exploding with mockeries (even tshirts) of 419 scams recently. "419" refers to the Nigerian penal code number referring to this offence, which has been going on for a long time. They typically involve an unsolicited email, like this:



FROM THE DESK OF: MR SAMULL BAYO.
DAIMOND BANK OF AFRICAN COTONOU, BENIN REPUBLIC.
ATTENTION:

I am Mr samull bayo Foreign Remmitance Director of DIAMOND of BANK Africa. in the capital city of cotonou de Benin republic.

This is a very confidential proposition for you. On November 21st 2002, a Brazilian Oil consultant/contractor with the Benenoise Solid Minerals Corporation, Mr.Mauricio Jose De Matos made a numbered time (Fixed) Deposit for twelve calendar months, valued at US$8,000,000.00 (Eight Million Dollars only) in my branch.



It goes without saying that you never get the money, and in some cases wind up dead (people have actually been convinced to fly to places where they are subsequently robbed and killed). So despite the mirth with which the scammers are dealt with these days, its important to remember that there are some dangerous people involved. In any event, this morning I was checking out the web page of MC frontalot, who (I think!) I went to berkeley high school with, who has written a song about it, and it got me thinking about what a strange trajectory this scam has taken.

Its a common misconception that this scam originated recently because of ready access to email, but it actually dates back to the 1920s. Indeed, the first time I heard about a 419 scam was not on the web, but when I overheard a conversation when I was still a grad student in San Diego. A man was talking to his friend about how his father was about to send money to some African guy, and that they were just sending him a processing fee, and the deal would be complete; soon they would be rich (in hushed whispers!). And this is the essence of the scam: what is a $1000 processing fee when you will be receiving millions, right? The scam survived all these years because it is such an effective one. The scammers must have been overjoyed when they discovered the internet: millions of ready customers only a few clicks away. And I think for the first 5 years it probably improved business a lot, but now it would appear that the vehicle of its recent success is also the vehicle of its destruction. There are so many scam the scammers sites, that you almost feel bad for them when you see pictures that they have sent holding signs like "Ivannastiff Kockupmianus". or not.

anyway, we're off to annot(warning, shockingly bad flash animation) for the weekend with some friends to boulder and take in the sights.

E-commerce, French style

Ask any french person what Ebay is, and they will stare at you blankly. Tell them you buy most of your electronics on line, and they will start backing away, since you are clearly a "Fou". E-commerce, a half decade after the dot com implosion, never got off the ground here, and plays a much less dominant role than in the US. In some ways this is good; I like going down to the Guy Degrenne store and looking at their beautiful cookware, and its clearly way better than buying online. HOWEVER, today I was reminded of just how backwards things can be.

A few weeks ago, we received a "taxe d'habitation". This tax is levied upon the occupant (even if he or she is the owner) of an apartment or house. The method with which it is calculated is the result of a complicated formula which takes into account the living area, number of windows, bathrooms, exposure and other attributes. In the end, you have an index that increases with the agreableness of your apartment. This fact in itself is amusing to me because it is wonderfully emblematic of french bureaucracy: not content to stop at "floor space", they have spent countless man hours coming up with a ridiculous formula, which then requires an even more ponderous bureaucracy, which is ultimately paid for by the end user. Anyway, we, or rather I, got this bill for almost $1000 US, itemized with hundreds of little things that I couldn't possibly comprehend. On the bill, in fine print was the text: "You can pay your taxe d'habitation" on the internet at www.impots.gouv.fr. I went to the website, expecting it to ask for my bank card, but instead was confronted with about 6 text fields for various banking items. I sheepishly put my card away, feeling a little bewildered, and Chloe found the numbers from my checkbook. I then tunnelled through a maddening series of pages which can only be desrcribed as the absolute worst kind of prefecture-esque french bureaucracy squeezed into a put-your-fist-through-the-LCD UI. Each time I had to confirm I wondered how many thousands of dollars it was going to extract with each click. At the end of this journey, it asked me for an email address (presumeably for the receipt) or a mailing address. I selected both, clicked "confirmer" a few more times, and closed the window. Magically, a few seconds later (A fact I'm sure they are very proud of), I received an email from the tax office containing not a receipt, but a PDF THAT I AM EXPECTED TO PRINT OUT AND MAIL TO THE BANK TELLING THEM TO PAY THE TAX BUREAU. Et Voila: E-commerce, french style.

end of the week!!

its been a crazy week. I still cant even talk about the election without getting depressed and angry, so I wont even try.

Yesterday I did my first support shift on the beam line, and helped a group from Singapore solve a new structure. It was a lot of fun, and I'm proud that my first shift went so well! It would have been a shame for them to have come so far and not gotten good data.

Fog has been rolling through the valley all day long, coating everything with a fine mist, and generally making it very difficult to stay dry. There is a memorial to the resistance right near where we work at which there are ceremonies a few times a year. Unfortunately for the participants, tonight was one of those occasions. There were two military jeeps and two buses full of french soldiers in full processional regalia with their bizarre looking FAMAS rifles casually slung over their shoulders. They were reluctantly making their way over towards the memorial, where two huge globe shaped lights (almost like hanging japanese paper lights) illuminated a set of misty chairs. No one looked very happy.

nov 2

I stayed up as late as I could last night, watching the kerry-favorable early exit polls, and went to bed feeling pretty happy. This morning, with some dread, I walked over to the computer to see that Bush had won Florida and other swing states. Indeed, this morning it looks like bush has won.

Its profoundly saddening to see that so many people have been duped by the republican PR machine. It is without any hyperbole that I say that I will remember today as a tragedy for the America that I know and love. I hope we can come back soon to do our part to mitigate the damage.

and I suppose theres always hope for a miracle, or short of that: law suits!

eternal sunshine?

The miserable weather continues here, with no sign in sight of a respite; chloe and I both have colds/flus, which is all the more disappointing because we had plans to climb at Ombléze today (and saturday). Its even more depressing because today is a national holiday. Instead of sightseeing or climbing, we've been sitting around, watching frontline, reading about Republican vote suppression and other sad things. Happily, i've found that the precise "clack" of the 19th century iron latch on our armoire has a pacifying effect on me. Outside, a weak drizzle frosts you when you try to walk anywhere, but we made a dash for the movie theatre. "Le Club" was showing "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" in VO (version(e?) originale). It's a cute love story, but I came away vaguely dissatisfied but I'm still not sure why. The weirdest part of the moviegoing experience were the ads (les pubs) at the beginning of the film. There were the usual bizarre french ads with lots of CGI and no apparent connection between the content and what was being sold (is there a law against too explicit a link between an ad and what its selling? I'm being serious here!), but there was one exceptionally strange one. Paris: a young couple are ordering dinner in an intimate small restaurant, while an older woman (next to her disinterested husband) watches. The young man begins speaking, but he's speaking in English with a very strong French accent. He tells her what hes going to order for her, and then says "And then? The eiffel tower. And then? the fly-boat". Meanwhile, there are french subtitles rolling. And, as if it wasn't strange enough that the young French couple were speaking english to eachother in strong french accents in a french restaurant with french subtitles, the old woman elbows her husband and says "No Eiffel tower or Flyboat for me, eh?". But she says it in French, with ... French subtitles.

pics

Again, I realize that most people will find this extremely boring, but you have to understand how beautiful this armoire is! The best way to appreciate it is by checking out the pictures (I guess I'm now officially the guy who shows you the bad vacation photos, but what the hell)

without the cornice or doors or shelves:

and some other views:

armoirification

The antique dealer called on tuesday morning to cancel because of the rain, and since then, I've been more than a little nervous that we were getting ripped off. After all, we had already written a check for half of the money and it had been promptly deposited. I guess I need to have more confidence in my fellow man (and woman), because it was delivered promptly this morning, as promised! I actually had a dream last night that the antique dealer showed up with a faux wood armoire and tried to pass it off as the one that we had bought. When confronted, he admitted that it wasnt the same one, but would we like it for 100 euro?! I know, I need to lighten up a little.

Anyway, two very tired looking guys knocked on our door at 8:15, having carried the damn thing up all the stairs. It made my complaining about carrying a table and wine up seem a little ridiculous. They scooted it in, sliding it under the door with about 2 cm to spare, then brought up the doors, shelves and cornice. Theres nothing else to say really, except that its magnificent. I'll post pictures when I get back from work.

La France

I have had several childhood experiences which I think steered me unconsciously towards living in France. The first was living in Paris for several months in the late seventies during my fathers sabbatical. Although I can't boast the same kind of memory that Nabokov had, I'm certain that at the very least, the croissants, gateaux and pain au chocolat made an indelible imprint on my brain: A bookmark to come back to. There were other bookmarks: the kids who would knock down my sand castles and bury my toys, the vast playground of the UN school that I went to (Somewhat tellingly, I have no memory whatsoever of the inside of the classrooms), the many flights of stairs that we had to climb to get to the apartment and the bright studio in which I would happily paint and draw. As a rule, these memories are hazy and dark, but together they form a content, if a bit confused whole.

Later on, I went to a middle school that had a bit of an identity crisis. Sometimes it was the caring liberal berkeley hippy school with the second grade Poetry class. Other times it was the hyper competitive give-gold-stars-for-memorizing-your-multiplication-tables school. Amd occasionally it was the math-is-grooovey kind of place. As you moved up through the "Levels" (not "Grades"! bite your tongue!) things started getting a little more serious, and I think that the school felt the obligation to at least appear stuffy and focused, even if their approach was to simply hire more teachers with posh english accents. Another thing that started happening around fifth grade,(not sure about this, but it was pretty early) was French classes. We had a troop of French teachers: about one per year, and they ranged the gamut from dour and matronly (Marie) to borderline french prostitute(Crystale). Our classes consisted largely of "Dictation" and memorizing vocabularly, and were remarkable in their lack of effectiveness. Occasionally we would watch the odd Truffaut film. And while I don't remember very much about these classes, other than my friend Andrej Krikovic and I carefully stuffing his yugoslavian fish fillets (never pack fish in your childrens lunch) down through the heating vents, I do remember one moment from one of these movies. The moment, which is actually quite famous, comes from "Small Change" and is when young Gregory falls (or jumps? I dont remember) out of a building, walks away unscathed and exclaims "Gregory go Boum!". For a long time, I actually thought that this movie was called "Gregory go Boum", and it wasnt until reading Paris to the Moon that I found the real title.

and the fish fillets? Well, later that fall when the heating was finally turned on, a putrid fish reek began permeating the building. Andrej and I kept a low profile; we both knew that the heating grate re-filleted fish was sitting in a pile in a bend in the heating duct nearest to the window. Things probably would have gotten worse and worse, if not for the fact that the French classroom was also the Math classroom. And while Crystale was perhaps not the most vigilant teacher, the Math teacher was an entirely different type of beast. Irving Lubliner. My fingers clench just typing his name. He was in retrospect a fantastic teacher, but he was also a fearsome disciplinarian. And, while other teachers might have been satisfied to just deal with the smell, Irving tracked it down like a bloodhound. I'll never forget the day that we were all upstairs in computer class, hunched over our PET computers when Irving burst in through the door. His arm was triumphantly raised, and dripping with the black sludge that had been Andrej's fish and various other less palatable things. "At first", he said, "I couldn't feel anything, but then I got down on the floor, and got my arm into the duct waaaay up to my shoulder, and look what I found". A little bit of sludge dripped onto the floor and I seem to remember a barely perceptable twitch in one of his eyes. It was nice, because earlier in the semester, our english teacher had taught us about "pregnant pauses" (by having the secretary call him a "stupid Irish git"), so we knew what was going on. We were all deadly quiet, and Andrej and I were thankful that no one besides my best friend Keith had seen us jamming the fish into the heating system, because they would have turned us over to Irving in a flash.

hmm. well a post about how I came to france has ended up being about fish sludge. Oh well.

also, no ceuse today b/c I couldnt sleep last night... bleh

Cafés

Grenoble is fairly typical of French cities in its ridiculous number of cafes. Although by no means an afficionado, I am particular about my coffee, and despite expectations, not every café is created equal. Its a little frustrating actually, because you can walk into a beautiful marble floored café in the Hyper-centre of town, and get served the same nasty food service coffee that we get at work (ok, still 500 times better than the typical american coffee, which the French derisively call "Tisanes": herbal teas). But today, I think I made a breakthrough: go to the one without the home depot (Monsieur Bricolage is the French equivalent) plastic chairs out front. Using this highly scientific criteria, we found a cafe in Place de la Tribunale with the unlikely name of "Habanero" that makes great espresso:



mmmm. Tomorrow we go to Céüse for the first time in a long while. Yes, we're living a fairy tale climbers life.

Paris to the Moon

I read Paris to the Moon before I came to France, but I started reading it again recently. Since I first read it, I've seen Gopnik's name in a lot of unexpected places. For example, although I like to visit New York, I have never really been interested in the myth and lore of it, and generally find New Yorkers (except you, mom!!!) too overbearing, and for that reason never felt compelled to read the New Yorker... That is, until recently, when my parents started sending me issues of it. And as most people who have lived abroad for long periods of time can tell you, gifts in your native language are some of the most precious gifts. As a result, I tore into these New Yorkers because were written in my own simple and melifluous English, but soon found to my surprise that I really liked them. This brings me back to Gopnik, who writes for the New Yorker, which was the first surprise. The second surprise came when I read a story by him about a football team that Kirk Varnedoe had coached. Kirk Varnedoe was (he died much too young last year) somewhat of a legend in art circles, and although I never met him, felt a connection to him because of a late spring day in 1994 at Williams College. It was on this day that he gave the best graduation speech I have ever heard. I've tried to find the text of it many times, but havent succeded. I just remember feeling inspired, and thankful that there was no talk of "reaching" or "climbing" or "pushing" or "aiming": just earnest advice, beautifully written, delivered in deadpan. And then I felt cheated because it wasn't MY graduation, but my girlfriends. I don't even remember who delivered my own graduation speech the next year. And now I return to Adam Gopnik, who it turns out was a protégé of Kirks. Kirk was also the godfather of Adams son, who plays a prominent role in Paris to the Moon.

Paris to the Moon is something I'll definitely come back to. Its wonderfully written, and my only complaint is that he's not very careful about equating Paris with France and Parisians with the French. Of course, its understood what hes talking about in the title, but I still find it a little vexing. My second complaint (ok, so there are two) is with the sneaky way in which literary theory pervades his essays. I get the uncomfortable feeling that I am being "educated" when I see Benjamin and Baudrillard used to discuss weather forecasting.

The Jug, May 9 and 10, 2001

this is an account of a 2 day trip Chloe and I took to go canyoneering in grad school.
The pictures here are all digital, so you wont really get a sense of how beautiful it is. Hopefully I will upload some better photos (scans from medium format) soon.



We began what would prove to be an exciting day of hiking, car extrication and canyoneering by cramming our water bottle with ice from the hotel ice machine, reorganizing our dry bags in a somewhat logical manner (rope, harnesses, ATCs in one bag, food in the other). We set out in our chevy Cavalier south along 188 to the A+ road and after a wrong turn were soon making our way in the general direction of the Jug trailhead (according to my GPS). Unfortunately, we soon came upon tonto creek, which was fairly deep and looked impassable in our compact car. Chloe and I both got our water shoes on and waded out to the middle to confirm that we would probably fill the engine with water and have to be winched out if we tried crossing here.


An elderly fisherman (upper right) instructed us to get back on 188 and go north to the Bar X crossing, which we did. Much to our dismay, we found another river crossing:

We watched several old ladies in 4x4s ford the river without any difficulty, and the bottom didnt look exceptionally deep, so I took a deep breath, shifted into low gear and drove across it. We were more than a little relieved to make it to the other side without the engine cutting out. Invigorated by our success, I put the accelerator down and began practicing my rally car driving techniques with only the occasional protest from Chloe. However, our happy mood was soon thwarted by the appearance of another, still larger river to ford!

We stood staring at this one for a while, and then noticed that a lower clearance truck went to the right of the main crossing. He then drove around to us and informed us that it was much shallower where he crossed, so we reversed, shifted into L again, and drove through the water. Heres one of us midway through:


.

After taking a few seconds to mentally regroup, I resumed rally car driving mode, a little nonplussed by being behind schedule (but thankful that we were not stuck in a river). We followed the road for a while, noticing a dirt road leading due east, but passed it in favor of staying on the paved road. Soon the pavement snaked through a camping area, and then turned into a dirt road. The dirt road became a slightly worse pebbly road, which in turn became a cobbley nightmare that skirted the north tip of lake roosevelt. In fairly short order the front wheels got stuck, and after 30 minutes of cursing, hitting of the dashboard with fists, digging, getting hit in the head with rocks shot out by the spinning wheels and sulking, we started hiking out. The decision to hike out came when, during an attempt to dig out the wheels, a small scorpion crawled out of the hole we had just made.

Miraculously, my cell phone started working about 100 feet down the road, so I called Sprint PCS roadside assistance, who, after taking 5 minutes to take down all my information (you have a Gee Pee what?) asked me what state I was in. I hung up, called the hotel we had stayed at, and handed the phone to Chloe (who had been waylaid by the chatty innkeeper earlier that morning), who described where we were, and a tow truck arrived 30 minutes later. The truck pulled us out




and we were on our way again. It was 11:00. At this point I was in full rally car mode, doing big sweeping turns at high speed and catching air off of crests. I was determined to get us to the trailhead in enough time to do the Jug trail. The A cross road looked like a superhighway in comparison to the cobble filled road I had gotten us mired in, and I took full advantage of this fact. We reached the trail head, but the GPS coordinates I had for the trailhead were still about a mile away, so despite Chloes confused looks, we got back in the car and drove to the published waypoint which appeared to be a Saguero cactus (even with selective availability, thats not a very accurate position! My reading, with 16 foot accuracy is closer to lat=33.77124 long=="-111.1356"). At my urging, we drove a little further, but didnt see any trailheads, so we drove back to the one labelled "A cross trailhead" with a sign limiting the number of people and livestock to 15, made sure we had everything and had not gone over quota on the livestock, and started down the trail at a brisk pace at 12:00 noon. I looked nervously back at the car wondering if during our earlier misadventures, I hadn't whacked a hole in some key conduit which was now draining.



This is a picture northeast of the jug, slightly before we cut down to the Salome Creek and started getting wet. Before we entered the creek, we double checked to make sure the cameras were well sealed in their drybag, and started walking down the river, trying to avoid slipping on the abundent algae coating the rocks. Here is where the canyon started closing down a little bit.


From this point on, we were either wading or swimming most of the time. At the eastern end there were a fair amount of cattails and reeds. After this point we slowly made our way down the canyon. I took some decent 6x4.5 transparancies but unfortunately dont have scans of them at the moment (hopefully I will in the next month or so), so here is the sole image I have, about halfway through:




Its incredibly beautiful, and we were completely alone the whole way down. In Europe, a
canyon like this would be mobbed; particularly on the weekend.


Finally, we arrived at the much talked about final (only!~) rappell. The anchor consists of several bolts with tattered webbing in between them (I didnt have a knife or I would have cut it off). We got our harnesses on and Chloe rapped off first.


I knew she was at the bottom by the shrieking (The water was quite cold at this point) that emanated from the canyon walls. "Bah" I thought. "It cant be that cold". I belayed the backpacks down into the water, which chloe retrieved, and then it was finally my turn to go. I was somewhat surprised to find that the water had an almost jacuzzi like warmth to it. Or wait, maybe I'm confusing "Jacuzzi like" with "Glacial runoff like".

We pulled the rope (30 meter rope which reached the water with ~5 meters total in the water.), quickly coiled it, and started the swim for the canyon exit. This last part of the jug was truly spectacular; it is the deepest part, with smooth pink granite walls reaching up almost into a roof. I think I would be able to appreciate it more if I had a wetsuit though. We finally emerged from the canyon and repacked. After dumping out most of our remaining water, I pulled the rope through my ATC to drain some of the water. When we got back to the car at 5:00 pm, and after a brief discussion, decided to try to take A cross south to Globe this time, in order to avoid fording Tonto creek again. I was delighted when the car started with a mild groan. We made it back to Phoenix by 7:30 and found the nearest gas station to the airport, where we refuelled and tried to clean up the by now battered and dirty rental car. In the gas station as we were surreptitiously using the window squeegees to scoop the dirt off the car, the cops rolled up to the corner and arrested a hooker. We were in the good part of town, apparently. At the very least, it provided some contrast with the Jug. A few hours earlier we were completeley alone in a cathedral of water carved pink granite, and now we were surrounded by thugs, cops and prostitutes with heat visibly radiating off the ubiquitous pavement.


Luckily, there was no attendant at the rental car drop off, so we checked in with the guys in
the airport, who thankfully did not go outside to look at their car.