Only models with the round "vent ports" and the weird sloping rear deck
Before 49, no ports. By 1953 they were oval.
50 - 52 they were either oval or round with a horizontal bar in the center. Squared off stern.
My "first car" (hand me down from my Dad) was a 47 (with a '48) 248 inch Fireball straight 8 engine. No side ports. The port location had a lever to unlock the hood which opened to one side or the other. Try lifting that unsprung hood when you're a scrawny 16 year old!
My second car (hand me downů..) was a 53 Buick Roadmaster Coupe (oh YEAH). 322 cu in "Nailhead" V8. Oval ports. Hood opened from the front, on springs. Try keeping that 100 lb slab of sheet metal from springing UP when you're a scrawny 17 year old kid. Now that beauty had POWER, Sex Appeal, a plush bench seat (come over here and sit by me baby so I can put my arm around you) and a rear seat big enough for activities I could only dream of.
They lichenate, they get charred, and they rot at their bases and need constant attention, every few decades or so.
Oak, cedar, pine, whatever the locale provides is acceptable for a fence line: a living tree, a tree that's dead, a convenient boulder, and some wire and staples or nails.
I got a million of 'em.
Group shots, a fence running off into infinity, are fun.
Gates are a whole genre unto themselves.
As are bridges.
Then we have stumps, and rotting logs with the possiblility of animals using them as domiciles and storage dumps.
And once-useful things, which are useful no longer.
I have a friend (neighbor "kid") who was on the Hornitos CalFire crew. Now he's in Coarsegold I believe.
A shame to see this cabin falling to ruin. It was inhabited until about 1970. Was very well built by the man who logged this area. The best old growth Redwood. The main structure is still intact. It's a fine rodent domicile now.
The tractor is near the top of Guadalupe Grade on Hwy 140.
This boulder and barn are on Triangle Road someplace in Mariposa Co.
And last, for now, the former home of the Old Brown Cow, a friend of the Dun Crow.
We three, Amy, Richard, and myself, shared lunch at the cemetery. They left for Mariposa and points east.
I headed down to Planada to look for birds in the orchards and on the canals there.
I came across these out there in the groves.
Near old abandoned buildings I can feel the ghosts of the builders, the occupants, and peoples long vanished dreams.
Not quite so specifically, but the first I remember feeling something like this was at an abandoned logging camp in Algonquin Park. The roofs had all gone, the log walls were sagging, grass hummocks were swallowing everything at ground level, and fox cubs played in the ruins unafraid of us.
Part of it was; maybe there is work to be done here but not by me.
Wow, never had the chance to click on this one before. Since its NY day & I'm working & actually have a minute I thought I'd finally see what it's all about. Super glad I did. Awesome stuff, great thread Survival.
Sur, The picture is from above Courmayeur, Italy looking across at Les Grandes Jorasses. The fixed pin and rope is on the approach up to a hut, here's a picture looking south back across the valley from the hut, basically the high country I took the above photo from:
Made me think of this and I looked for the book right away!!
In his account of the first ascent of The West Face of El Capitan,
Royal Robbins comes very close to summing up his friendship with
"Some people are bothered by thoughts of decay and death.
Rather I am obsessed.
Death...decay...decay and death.
Herbert is similarly obsessed. Which is part if the reason we are friends.
I know of no one so aware of human suffering, so conscious of the pitiable
absurdity of the human condition. I know of no man more loyal to a friend,
no one more quick to be outraged and sickened by human cruelty.
But Herbert doesn't dwell on these things as I do.
He reacts by laughing. Or rather, by making others laugh.
He never tries to be funny. It erupts like a spring gushing from the
mountainside. Herbert is a great pop artist, and he was one long before
that neologism gained currency.
He has an amazing ability to distill the essence of contemporary life
and spit at you, and you'll roar until your sides ache, all the while crying
Herbert is like a laxative; he helps you get rid of the excrement of the soul."
One stormy Thursday, not too long ago (okay, last Thursday) I was ambling up the swithback'd trail to my little gem claim up in the grey tuff above town. The wind was whipping and the western sky dark darkening dark. A creak-snap from above drew my gaze to the swaying old Doug fir above. A whizzing widow-maker limb cut loose and cracked into my left eye, dropping me to the ground. Hand over my eye, the warm sticky stuff running over my face, I lay in the duff, my muscles flexioned to the max, it all went black.
Some time later I woke to the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of a creek rushing over rocks down toward the Sea of Kortez. The boulder by my side boulstered a tiny wood hovel above my head. It was drizzling. I reached up to touch my wound to find my hands bound. I groaned. A tiny halfbreed girl with a patch over her eye skipped in, gesticulating at my face. Her hand bore a green pearlhandle folding pigsticker knife. She laid a malodorous poultice over my eyes, nose and mouth. She held it here despite my protest. I lost consciousness.
Some time later I woke up. The girl was gone and the shack in shambles, pine boughs dead and the firepit cold, empty of ash. A tiny Sego flower grew up amidst the circle of stones. Outside on a boulder of Telluride conglomerate lay the knife, crusted with goethite. My eye was healed.
It was burning hot out in St. Catherine's churchyard/wasteland.
It was so hot the colors had fled for the shadows of the locust trees.
But St. Amy ignored the heat and went climbing, just to show her toughness.
There is no decay for the dead. They are dead and insensitive. The heat is a different issue.
Both in the Catholic cemetery.
PRAYER OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace;
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is discord, harmony;
Where there is error, truth;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
In 2006 a flood washed away the just refurbished rail line along the 12345612345 River between Murderer's Harbor and the Timber. Anyway here are some pictures from 2012:
The warning at the start of the spur road to the river...
I am new in town and for the last ten years I have wanted to take photos of places that are falling down. Now some , a lot , maybe seven have been torn down before I was able to capture the slough-off of useful life. I will try not to look as more move on and become
Even though we may only be shadows of...something gone.
If we look behind us we see our shadows produced by our futures, so I've reflected.
Here's more of scenic decaying Hornitos.
That Pillar on the church? It was only just put up with seven others in the thirties to buttress the old falling-down wreck.
This was my old standing wreck of a TNF Vector Tent, the mosquito net version, at Alessandria with what's-his-name.Decayed by mold.
Never let a friend tell you the tent he borrowed is dry when he brings it back...make him show you.
Then take the appropriate course.
This stuff all belongs to a slumlord, but he's an amiable, drunken man who likes to "preserve the past."
Anyone can visit the Ag Museum.
It's on Hwy 140 between Merced and Planada, down the road from Mel's place.
Call ahead. Speak to Charlie.
[Click to View YouTube Video]Connect me to Terrapin Station, please. He could be out talkin' to the night, so let the phone ring till he answers.
There was an old creosote plant in North Portland along the river that the university bought for the land. It was part of the north portland superfund site. They have done the cleanup and will use the property for athletic fields and environmental research.
Before the plant was torn down local kids had transformed it gloriously.
It was known as Pirate Town.
I like this thread. I'm spending many hours in the canyons, mountain, and desert of Northern Arizona. This photo shows a monsoon puddle in Sedona this year. Frogs had egged. Tadpoles were plentiful, but the sun dried out their refuge.
I used to ride bikes a lot but it got so boring I can't make myself do it anymore. I tried different things trying to make it interesting, one of which was photographing road kill. Unless you ride a bike or walk the roads, you probably have no idea how much road kill there is. Mostly ground sqwerls though.
Mouse inspired me to dig out barbed wire pics from the homestead... funny thing... 40 years and it looks the same. Our neighbor Cowboy Dave who erected them was not a competent engineer when it came to fencing. Haphazard was always by by design. :) He had some mad theory about loose wire being better for penning livestock.
Came across this guy two days ago on a bike ride. It surprises me how many woodpecker road kills I see. People who don't ride bike in to country probably have no idea how much road kill there is. In town you see cats but on the back roads I often see.
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on fartherŚand we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a featherŚ
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piledŚand measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
There is some doubt in what's left of my mind
Of how purty things are when they have declined
All is subject to decay eventually.
Most decadence is okay to somebody.
But others may just see a horror show.
This photo would look like quite a prize to a painting contractor, for example.
This is a sodden clump of jasmine blossoms.
These reminded me of TP that's been in the sewer for a bit.
In fact, just up the alley, right under my window, IN FACT, there is [are] a couple of really wet globs of TP coming out of a sewage line that has been giving the management of the building across the alley stoned fits.
Anyhow, the point is that just because something decaying turns you off it doesn't follow that it turns everyone off.
Those eggs they eat in the PI, for instance, called balut.
Now that may gross me out, but Miguel and his family LOVE them.
Taken on the same day as the tree shot above.
On an odd note, that afternoon I found a fire starting to take off on the Old Highway that leads into Mariposa.
I reported it on a rancher's telephone.
The CDF response was three trucks on scene in about fifteen minutes.
This old building, once the Gallatin City Hotel, still stands near the convergence of the Gallatin, Madison , and Jefferson rivers in Montana. As the town died it was turned into a barn; later, sections of it were torn down and carted away to be used elsewhere.
Nearby a small grave site marks the final resting place for four young children with the same last name who died within months of each other in the 1870's from black diptheria.
The three rivers join to form the Missouri. Swimming in the huge moving pool where the rivers come together is unreal.
Traipsing around Nevadistan eh? No wonder you been asking about pistols.
This look about right?
The mines on the other side of the range have a little decay going.
Sometimes you find a little beauty dispersed among them.
Yes, there are.
I'm sort of cobbling together the junk motor that came out of the grader to reinstall into the tractor. It may or may not run; but ought to be more or less complete, anyway. Not a whole lot of hope when the rings are rusted to the pistons and you can feel the wear in the liners. Not to mention valves recessed into the head. Still, given enough time and money you can fix anything. Just not the type of investment the owner wants to make. The grader, on the other hand, is going to be used.
Not beautiful in the classic sense, I suppose.Eye of the beholder and all that...
Henry, according to my sister, had a gold mine.
It was expensive to run but paid pretty well for a time.
Henry had planted apple orchards early on and they were how he supported the mine.
It takes a gold mine to run a gold mine, they said of Fremont over in Mariposa.
But Old Henry knew he could do it with the apples and he did.
Henry was nearly 100 when he croaked, always doing something.
Bagged the good ones. The deer-pigs love 'em.
DMT wears board shorts at all his meetings.
He is often late to them, sneaking in unnoticed on little board feet.
His cologne gives him away every time, but they love the show up in the board rooms.
On a British scale, Dingus, that shot is an HVS plus with a splash of kudo for the backstory.
If there are backstories for these bottles that were displayed at Facelift,
we would have to ask Amanda, the NPS person who is their archaeologist.
Amanda's degrees came from Columbia and from Sheffield in Britain.John was very effective and is now officially dubbed "Amanda Reckonwith."
Minutes before stumbling upon this elk skull, my son and I were discussing how often humans passed through any given piece of land. We figured no more than every few years. I dunno, but this has been here a while.