Half Dome Rock

This is the rock I want to climb next weekend with some friends.



Well, actually, we're not going to be "climbing", in the sense that we will be walking, and not scaling, the mountain. There is a well-known trail that goes up the back side...

The climb starts in the valley near Happy Isles Nature Center (4035 ft.) and ends at the top of half dome rock (8836). There is a good description of the trail I found using google on the web.

I have done very little aerobic excercise the last weeks (besides riding my bicycle to work and back), so it will be interesting to see how I and my friends fare.

We want to climb up the whole way on Saturday and then back down. And then we have to find campsites... !

Since this is the most popular trail in the park, and Yosemite is so full of people in the summertime, we could not obtain the needed wilderness permit to camp anywhere near Half Dome. Therefore we will probably have to drive all the way out of the park again to find a spot!

You would think with all the space in Yosemite, finding a place to camp would not be so hard. But, not on a weekend in summertime, apparently!

Well, either way, I'm sure it will be a great experience.

We thought we had problems

This whole Middle Eastern war has me down. I would like to say something clever and funny about the whole mess, but then, there is nothing clever and funny about it. Just sadness, and cruelty. You think you have problems? How about this Lebanese guy in a wheelchair.



Last Friday, I bought a bicycle off of craigslist. Now imagine, how would I ride my fancy bike (even if it is 10 years old, it is still fancy by my standards) in a war zone?

We should feel lucky for roads that are not full of rubble.

On that positive note, I have a poem I'd like to share. It was written by a friend of mine in Milwaukee, John Dubord, who runs a food pantry (Friedens', on Vliet). John is a retired printing executive, Catholic priest, and now, a non-profit director and community activist. Please respond with your comments.

BAGHDAD

He sits, then he stands, hot as
Spit on an angry lip
And doesn’t know how come he rages.

He jettisons his pasts, a pilot
Heading for the crash that comes
At any moment
He jettisons his dreams, and now
The pilot is a Kamikazee.
He casts his planning overboard,
Zips his vest of hand grenades up to his
Chin and enters through the hole.

Outside the hole the dog is dragging by,
Rear legs in the air,
Front legs pawing past the wormholes
In the grass that wipes the ass that
Itches.
The dog surely doesn’t know,
The dog just pulls itself to some
Distraction, satisfaction,
Till the itching goes.

The young man plunges through the hole
And lunges for the trigger,
Just a finger-pull inside his pocket,
Hoping he can focus on the heavenly delights
Until it detonates, he leaves in vapor,
No where angry any more.