tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27634947433036388012024-03-13T08:46:01.387-04:00jim wilson blogphotography, charity and cycling -- (c) James R. Wilson, 2005-2024Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-47535920724660961722022-01-02T18:59:00.005-05:002022-01-05T19:16:19.363-05:00Khe SanhAdapted from: George C. Wilson (1927-2014), "THREE DUMB WARS: Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan Killed Millions of Civilians for No Good Reason," April 2012, unpublished manuscript.<div><br /><hr /><br />“Hey, Mistah Reporter,” the tall, muscular Specialist Four shouted out to me in the spring of 1968 as he hoisted up his gear from the A Shau Valley floor in northernmost South Vietnam. He was preparing to move up the steep mountain trail to shoot dead or chase away any North Vietnamese troopers who had infiltrated through our lines on the mountainside during our first night. The bad guys might be lying in an ambush position at the top of the mountain.<br /><br />“Does your newspaper say you have to go with us?”<br /><br />“No,” I answered.<br /><br />“You’re going with us anyway?”<br /><br />“Yup.”<br /><br />“Where’s your weapon?”<br /><br />“There’ll be plenty of weapons lying around if we get in trouble,” I answered.<br /><br />“So, you’re going with us even though you don’t have to go, and you don’t even have a weapon?”<br /><br />“Yup.”<br /><br />“Well, Mistah Reporter, all I can say is that you’ve got shit for brains.”<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>With that, the trooper turned away disgustedly and followed his platoon up the trail. I brought up the rear of the single file column. I had learned from humping around with troopers on previous patrols as a combat correspondent for The Washington <b>Post</b> that a firefight, especially an ambush from North Vietnamese infantrymen crouched into tiny spider holes dug on either side of a woodsy trail, could break out, without warning. The North Vietnamese standard tactic was to let the American troopers at the head of the column pass right by. They would try to kill or wound the platoon lieutenant and his radio man in the middle of the column before they could radio in the dreaded helicopter gunships with machine gunners standing in their side doors or fighter bombers laden with jellied gasoline called napalm. Once the ambushers opened up, previous ambushes had taught me, the lieutenant and his radioman became frantically busy as they tried to save their own lives and those of their men. The last thing they needed in those moments was a reporter asking them questions. So, I usually stayed at the tail end of the column with the medic.<br /><br />A few days earlier, when I had joined a company of Army troopers trying to reach the Marines in Khe Sanh from Fire Base Stud, we got ambushed enroute by North Vietnamese hiding in spider holes on either side of the trail. The medic and I could hear the firing at the middle of the long column but could not see anything as we lay in the tall grass on the left side of the trail threading through dense woods.<br /><br />“Hey George,” the medic lying beside me in the grass had said. “If anybody in our column up there gets hit, you take my bag and do what you can for him. I’ve only got four days to go in country.” He had drawn a calendar on his helmet cover X-ing out each day of his year-long tour in Vietnam. I looked at his helmet and saw he was telling the truth. He really did have only a few days to go in-country.<br /><br />“We’ll see,” I answered noncommittally.<br /><br />Luckily for the medic, myself and the soldiers in our column, nobody got hit despite the closeness of the spider holes to our advancing column. The company commander, obviously after radioing his battalion commander, reversed course, and backed out of the ambush. Tomorrow was another day, somebody on high must have reasoned. I thought to myself that if I had been with a Marine company that day, its commander would have ordered a few of his troopers to go after the would-be ambushers, The Marines approached the Vietnam War as kill or be killed. The Army approach, I had discovered on many patrols, was less militaristic and more civilianized. Why not live to fight another day? That was the Army rationale. My unscientific analysis based on my humping experience in South Vietnam so far in 1968 was that this was why the Marine Corps proudly suffered more casualties per 100 troops than did the Army on the up close and dirty small unit patrols in the jungle that the Pentagon did not track.<br /><br />On this particular spring morning in April,1968, l hurried after the Spec 4 who said I had shit for brains. Thinking back on it, he was probably right. l had my wife Joan at home caring for our two young children, Kathy, 9, and Jimmy, 8, still in grammar school. My rationale was that I could not in good conscience write about the Vietnam War as the defense correspondent of The Washington <b>Post</b> without seeing it up close and personal by humping around with the troops rather than just covering the safe Pentagon. Besides, I loved the adventure of combat and never thought I would be killed in Vietnam. I wanted to see how I would react under fire. So far, I had reacted calmly when I heard enemy bullets flying through the air close to me.<br /><br />I had only walked about 500 yards up the mountain trail when I saw a North Vietnamese soldier lying on his back in the woods off to the left of the narrow trail. His wide-open eyes stared up into the morning sun. I studied his smooth brown skin and freshly combed black hair. He was a handsome young man of about 19. I could tell from his wounds, which included a right wrist which was almost severed, that the machine guns on an Anny helicopter gunship had killed him during the heavy bombardment of the upper part of the mountain earlier this morning. I marveled as I stared down on him at how he had managed to keep himself so clean and neat in the field. What would he have become if he had been allowed to live rather than be killed by a fellow teenager, he never met firing from a helicopter door? His fingers were long and slender. He could have become a musician or a sculptor, I thought to myself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">#</div><br />Like the American teenagers in Army jungle fatigues all around me, the North Vietnamese trooper I was studying from head to toe as he lay dead in the grass probably had no idea why he risked his life this morning. The Geneva Accords old men had drafted in Geneva, Switzerland, called for a “general election” to be held by July, 1956, to let the Vietnamese people vote on whether they wanted to be under the Communist leader Ho Chi Minh of North Vietnam or under former Emperor Bao Dai of South Vietnam. American government leaders knew full well that Ho Chi Minh had won the hearts and minds of most Vietnamese and would win any election whenever it was held. His Vietminh Communist troops had defeated the French troopers holed up on the bottom of a bowl in a base called Dien Bien Phu. As the great columnist Walter Lippmann wrote in the <b>Post</b> on April 20, 1965: “While our government endorsed the Geneva Agreements, and especially the provision for free elections, it opposed free elections when it realized Ho Chi Minh would win them .... Since that time, we have insisted that South Vietnam is an independent nation.” So, President Lyndon B. Johnson and Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara not only went to war in 1964 to avenge a North Vietnamese torpedo attack that never happened – the attack turned out to be an outright lie as McNamara eventually admitted – but the United States government reversed itself and ended up opposing the very free elections it had originally endorsed.<br /><br />McNamara, a Presidential jock sniffer if there ever was one, had lied shamelessly to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee behind closed doors on August 6, 1964, even though he must have known there were growing doubts swirling around his own Pentagon office whether the North Vietnamese attack on American destroyers had taken place at all. Here is some of McNamara’s no-doubt-about-it testimony which he would take 31 years to retract:<br /><br />“At 9:30 pm [in the Gulf of Tonkin on August 4, 1964] additional unidentified vessels were observed on the Maddox radar, and these vessels began to close rapidly on the destroyer patrol at speeds in excess of 40 knots. The attacking craft continued to close rapidly from the west and south and the Maddox reported that their intentions were evaluated as hostile. The destroyers reported at 9:52 p.m. that they were under continuous torpedo attack and were engaged in defensive counter-fire.<br /><br />“Within the next hour the destroyers relayed messages stating that they had avoided a number of torpedoes, that they had been under repeated attack and that they had sunk two of the attacking craft. By midnight local time the destroyers reported that even though many torpedoes had been fired at them, they had suffered no hits nor casualties ... The Turner Joy reported that during the engagement, in addition to the torpedo attack, she was fired upon by automatic weapons while being illuminated by searchlights. Finally, after more than two hours under attack, the destroyers reported at 1:30 a.m. that the attacking craft had apparently broken off the engagement.<br /><br />“The deliberate and unprovoked nature of the attacks at locations that were indisputably in international waters compelled the President and his principal advisers to conclude that a prompt and firm military response was required. Accordingly, the President decided that air action, in reply to the unprovoked attacks, should be taken against gunboats and certain supporting facilities in North Vietnam which had been used in hostile operations. On Tuesday evening, after consulting with Congressional leadership, he so informed the American people ...”<br /><br />Congress obviously believed McNamara’s testimony when he said North Vietnamese gunboats had attacked the American destroyers Maddox and Turner Joy without any provocation by the United States. The Senate passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution by a vote of 88 to 2 on August 7, 1964 – only one day after McNamara had testified while the House the same day passed the measure by a vote of 414 to 0. Democratic Senators Wayne Morse of Oregon and Ernest Gruening of Alaska were the lone dissenters. While Fulbright and others in Congress believed the Tonkin Gulf Resolution represented only Congressional approval of the retaliatory bombing Johnson had ordered against North Vietnamese gunboat facilities and an oil storage depot at Vinh, President Johnson used it like a stretch sock to escalate the Vietnam War whenever he saw fit. His administration leaned heavily on the part of the resolution which said, as enacted, “the Congress approves and supports the determination of the President, as commander-in-chief, to take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack against the forces of the United States and to prevent further aggression.”<br /><br />On August 4, 1964, Daniel Ellsberg was serving his first day at the Pentagon as a top aide to Assistant Defense Secretary John McNaughton, who went in and out of McNamara’s office at will. Ellsberg wrote on page nine of his book <b>Secrets</b> that he was sitting at his Pentagon desk when a courier handed him another flash message from Navy Captain John J. Herrick, commander of the Maddox – Turner Joy two destroyer task force. In the new flash message, Herrick took back the alarming cables he had sent earlier about the alleged North Vietnamese gunboat attack on his destroyers: “Review of action makes many reported contacts and torpedoes fired appear doubtful. Freak weather effects on radar and over-eager sonar man may have accounted for many reports. No actual visual sightings by Maddox. Suggest complete evaluation before any further action taken.” “As negative evidence accumulated,” Ellsberg wrote in his book, “within a few days it came to seem less likely that any attack had occurred on August 4, [ 1964].”<br /><br />But McNamara did not seem to feel under any moral obligation to share the Pentagon’s deepening doubts with Congress. He must have known about them even though Article I, Section 8 of the United States Constitution gave Congress, not President Johnson, the power to declare war and provide for the common defense. McNamara saw himself as working for the President, not the Constitution, as President Johnson pushed the Vietnam War beyond the point of no return with the defense secretary’s full blessing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">#</div><br />My overly long study of the dead North Vietnamese soldier this lovely April morning of 1968 had allowed a long gap to open up between me and the main body of the platoon belonging to the 2nd Battalion of the 7th Regiment within the 1st Airmobile Division. I realized this when I heard shots ring out farther up the steep mountain trail. I could tell they came from a North Vietnamese AK-47. The AK-47 sounded lower than the ping-ping of our M-16 rifles. Was somebody in our column hit by the burst? I asked myself. I hurried to close the gap I had allowed to open up.<br /><br />Late the previous day Lieutenant Colonel Roscoe Robinson, battalion commander, had OK’d my climbing into a Huey helicopter with several of his infantry troopers to assault suspected North Vietnamese units going from north to south down the A Shau Valley floor. We had taken off late in the afternoon from a flat expanse of ground at Fire Base Stud near Khe Sanh. We had flown over the mountains and through the clouds hanging on their peaks. The helicopter pilot, once he was above the clouds and flying through the blue sky, knew he would see any mountaintops before he hit them. He looked for holes in the clouds below his chopper once he knew he was over the flat of the A Shau Valley. The clouds obscured the valley floor so often and so thoroughly that North Vietnamese trucks felt safe from our helicopter gunships and bombers on most days. The North Vietnamese drove north to south on the hard A Shau Valley floor as if they were on a highway, ending up in the Imperial capital of Hue.<br /><br />Our pilot found a hole in the clouds. He followed the blue shaft down toward the valley’s flatness. Seven Army troopers and I sat on the floor in back of the stripped-down Huey helicopter. Seats in the chopper’s rear cabin had been removed so we would not trip over them when we jumped out the open side doors. We knew the pilot would not land on the valley floor. He would hover for a few seconds to give us time to jump out the side doors. Then the pilot would climb into the safety of the clouds. We felt the fast descent of the Huey in our gut. The valley floor seemed to rise up to greet us. We locked arms. I felt the nervous vibrations radiating out of the arm of the trooper on each side of me. We sat arm in arm on the metal floor of the helicopter. We worried about sliding out one of the wide-open side doors every time the pilot tilted the chopper to dodge ground fire. Luckily, there was hardly any of it this twilight. The pilot hovered a few feet above the valley floor. We unlocked our arms and jumped out of the side doors of the Huey. Each man ran into the woods at the edge of the valley floor and lay there listening for the sound of North Vietnamese AK-47 rifles. We heard only a few shots coming from the dense woods on the mountainside. One enemy bullet went clear through the soup pot our cook was carrying. He wiggled into a crevasse on the mountainside and stayed there. No hot food would come from him on this first night in the A Shau Valley. <br /><br />In the middle of that first night a junior soldier on watch thought he heard bushes rustling nearby. He woke up his sergeant. The sergeant said it was just wild animals feeding. The sergeant went back to sleep. The noise was actually from North Vietnamese infantrymen sneaking past the edge of our encampment and setting up mortars above us on the mountain. At first light this morning the North Vietnamese had lobbed mortars on our encampment, I was sleeping on the open ground, not in a foxhole, when they exploded nearby. No mortar shrapnel hit me. Our battalion officers called in helicopter gunships and fighter bombers. The choppers raked the upper part of our mountain with rockets and machine gun fire. Next came the fast movers, the fighter bombers, which dropped napalm and bomb after bomb on the heights above us. Not to be outdone, our battalion’s own 105-millimeter canon sitting on the valley floor turned their muzzles toward the middle of the mountain and fired away. l thought the top of the mountain would be blown off by this Fort Benning moment.<br /><br />The job of the platoon I had just joined late this morning was to make sure no North Vietnamese soldiers had survived the aerial and artillery bombardment. I had learned that the North Vietnamese typically left behind a small rear guard of infantry to slow down the American pursuers so their main force could escape into the jungle. I suspected it was the North Vietnamese rear guard opening up an AK-47 on the middle of our single file column which I could hear but not see because of the dense woods, I broke into a trot and rounded the next bend in the trail. I saw Robert Woods, the platoon’s machine gunner, sitting on the ground. Blood gushed from his neck. A North Vietnamese bullet had gone clear through his neck and out the other side. Hopefully the bullet had missed his jugular vein on the way through his neck. The medic attending him smeared a Vaseline-like substance on a gauze bandage. He pressed the greasy patch into the wound and then tied a bandage around Woods’ neck. He hoped to slow or stop the bleeding and get the tall trooper medevacked by helicopter. The chopper would have to come from Camp Evans, fly over the high mountains, find a blue hole in the clouds hanging over the A Shau Valley and follow it down to the valley floor. Hopefully the rescue helicopter would land near where the platoon I was with had started from late this morning.<br /><br />More AK-47 fire was coining out the woods but nobody else got hit. At least not yet. I figured the lone platoon medic would have other wounded to tend to soon. I told the medic something like this: “Hey, look. You’re going to be busy with other wounded, I’m not doing anything. Why not let me take Woods back down the trail to the valley. He can walk with a little assistance. We’ll find a flat spot where a Medevac can land on the valley floor. We’ve got to get Woods to the hospital at Camp Evans in a hurry or lose him.”<br /><br />The medic agreed.<br /><br />Woods was young and strong. He left his M-60 machine gun with his platoon and pretty much walked on his own down the trail. I worried as I watched Woods. I occasionally helped him clear obstacles on the trail. l knew someone in command would have already radioed for a Medevac helicopter to fly from Camp Evans to rescue him. I worried as we walked down the trail together about those damn clouds obscuring our battalion’s landing pad. Would those clouds cause Woods to wait and wait for the chopper even if I got him to the pad on the valley floor in a few minutes? Would he bleed to death while waiting for the Medevac? I’m not a religious man. But I prayed for God to help the helicopter pilot find Woods and for the wounded trooper to survive the hit in his neck. I also promised God not to exploit Woods’ wounding by writing about it for the Washington Post even though my newspaper had paid to fly me to South Vietnam. My desire to have Woods live through his wounding was that intense. I was determined to have him survive.<br /><br />We reached the helicopter landing pad without any of the bad guys firing at us. I sat in the sun with Woods near the pad trying to make light chit-chat. I asked the usual dumb reporter questions: Where are you from? What did you do before you were drafted into the Army? What do you want to do when you get home?<br /><br />I learned from Woods that he was from [TBD]; had worked in a lumberyard there. He told me he had already been wounded once. The Army sent him back to his old outfit. I asked him what he was going to do when he got back home if this neck wound ended up being his ticket out of Vietnam. His answer still burns bright in my mind: “Live in peace,” the young and brave soldier said softly.<br /><br />Woods looked whiter and more peaked. He was not crying or moaning. We waited together at the edge of the landing zone for the Medevac. It seemed to take forever. We ran out of chit-chat. We heard and then saw the Medevac coining down to the pad on the valley floor. The chopper landed. I climbed in back of the chopper with Woods. He began to shiver. I peeled off my flak jacket and fatigues and wrapped them roughly around the young soldier. I saw he was going into shock. I tried to keep him warm by wrapping my clothes more tightly around him. I was down to my boots and skivvies. The pilot in the left seat up front took off, went through the low hanging clouds. He tried to find a hole in the clouds so he could land on the valley floor again to rescue another wounded trooper.<br /><br />Woods continued to shiver and shake despite my clothes wrapped around him. I couldn’t stand to lose him.<br /><br />To see him die right in front of me. Not now. I got on the intercom radio which went into the earphones the pilot wore. “Look! We’ve got one wounded kid back here we can save for sure if we get him to the hospital at Camp Evans in time. If we keep searching for the other guy we may lose both of them.”<br /><br />The pilot did not respond. But he must have agreed with me. He pulled up, went through the clouds, over the mountains and soon landed at Camp Evans.<br /><br />I pulled Woods out of the helicopter cabin; flagged down a jeep; told the driver we would lose this trooper if we did not get him into the hospital in a hurry. I helped Woods into the hospital tent and found a chair for him. In my emotional state I rushed up to a surgeon in his blood-spattered green operating coveralls and pointed to Woods:<br /><br />“You’ve got to save this kid!” I shouted out.<br /><br />“Look around, Buddy!” he shouted back.<br /><br />I did. The surgeon was right. There were wounded GIs who looked far worse off than Woods, I failed to get Woods to the head of the line. I had tears in my eyes as I took my fatigues and flak jacket from Woods. It was plenty hot in the tent. He was not likely to go back into shock there. I could not think of anything else I could do for him. I think we said an awkward goodbye. I don’t remember. I slowly put my fatigues back on beside the hospital tent at Camp Evans and wondered what to do next. I decided to go back over the mountains and rejoin the platoon I had left. I knew from experience where supply helicopters took off from. Relations between the helicopter crews and reporters were good as long as they saw you, like them, were paying your dues. I told crews I wanted to rejoin the 2nd of the 7th battalion. I waited a long time for a supply chopper going there. It was sunset before I was back with the battalion. Word must have spread through the platoon I had been with on the mountain that this reporter guy from The Washington Post had helped their fellow soldier Woods. The kids during my absence had dug me a deep foxhole. They hung a crude but heartfelt sign on its entrance: “Washington Post.”<br /><br />I slept soundly and safely in that deep foxhole the kids had dug me. The next morning some troopers told me we were leaving the mountain. “But we just got here,” I protested. I sought out Lieutenant Colonel Roscoe Robinson, the battalion commander, to fill me in. He laughed and then replied, “Some general thinks we’re in Laos, so we’ve got to pack up.” I never learned whether he was kidding me or not. But his battalion did leave the mountain we were on. Robinson’s troopers returned to Camp Evans. Woods took a bullet in the neck for no good reason and that dead North Vietnamese trooper I had studied might have thought he was safe from the Americans because his officers kept him in Laos. Laos was off limits to regular American forces but not irregular ones. <br /><br />Thanks to the abundance of helicopters and light CIA planes in 1968, a reporter like me could spend a few days covering a shooting battle near the demilitarized zone separating South and North Vietnam in the morning; then hitch an airplane ride to Saigon, eat fresh artichokes in a fine French restaurant upon arriving in Saigon at dusk, file his story on the battle in plenty of time to make the first edition of his newspaper because South Vietnam was 11 hours ahead of Washington, DC; have a nightcap in the hotel bar or sit on an open porch and see the romantic streaks of light from flares shot off over some distant battlefield; crawl between white sheets and get a good, safe sleep. No wonder the old Asian newspaper hands who seldom risked their lives by covering battles loved their work. Not only did their editors back in New York, London and Paris pay these men a pittance and thus seldom bothered them for stories, but the old hands subsidized their meager salaries by paying their teletypers with black market money but charged their newspapers back home at the official exchange rate, which was always much lower. I was told that editors as well as accountants winked at this practice long before I arrived in Vietnam.<br /><br /> <br /><div style="text-align: center;">###</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<p><strong>Notes --</strong></p>
<br />Khe Sanh <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Khe_Sanh" target="_blank">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Khe_Sanh</a>
<br />Dien Bien Phu <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Dien_Bien_Phu" target="_blank">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Dien_Bien_Phu</a>
<br />A Shau Valley <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Sầu_Valley" target="_blank">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Sầu_Valley</a>
<br />Reconciliation: <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/magazine/1990/08/26/a-meeting-of-hearts-and-minds/20d4b8c1-24ee-4f73-ae8f-f65e42a3ad61" target="_blank">A Meeting of Hearts and Minds</a> (GCW, Washington <b>Post</b>, 8/26/1990)
Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-27740911496869848862018-08-25T08:34:00.004-04:002022-01-05T19:18:15.950-05:00Bridge Building<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v4-7gEN8bgQ/W4FK62M3NFI/AAAAAAAAB70/7V-9BYHGsK0AAyDA-AzgGwWCX361Qp0gQCLcBGAs/s1600/38432212_10217250364313467_4780603826593857536_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v4-7gEN8bgQ/W4FK62M3NFI/AAAAAAAAB70/7V-9BYHGsK0AAyDA-AzgGwWCX361Qp0gQCLcBGAs/s640/38432212_10217250364313467_4780603826593857536_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
I sketched the design, wrote out a bill of materials. I let the drawing sit, revised it, added detail, thought it through, looked at models. I designed a buttress of rock and rebar, one for either end, and measured the gap. It was 20 feet across the pond inlet, bank to bank.<br />
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I debated what type lumber. What type stress will my bridge support? Grandkids jumping up and down? (I dream.) A lawn mower? Snow and ice … Most lumber only goes so long as sixteen feet. How to form a 20-foot-truss? I work alone. How to build, then carry the bridge? I could build it in place, over the water. Maybe. Maybe not. How do I haul lumber to the site? It could be delivered. I asked an expert, a builder friend, Robert, how wide should I make the bridge? “The wider the better,” he said. I chose 32 inches, so I could cut three deck pieces from each eight-foot board, about fifteen long boards in all.<br />
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It was a delightful cogitation, which I stretched and chewed for about six months. I decided to bind two ten-foot wood girders with a sixteen-foot piece. I debated types of stock — 4x4, 2x6 or 2x8 inch treated — the types of bolts, binders, screws and fasteners, and the type of glue. I pulled up bridge designs for the Appalachian Trail and challenged my specs. I considered features like a toe rail but said not. I decided on 2x8 inch pine for the truss frame, topped by 5/4x6 inch deck boards. I fastened the truss beams using brown-enameled carriage bolts, washers and nuts, with a finger-thick smear of all-weather glue snaked between bolted boards.<br />
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My grandfather H.R. Gibbons was a Stevens-educated engineer, working first at Hyatt Roller Bearing and then General Motors, both jobs under Alfred Sloan. H.R. was a man of precision and standards. His woodshop-and-garage was immaculate and well-equipped — DeWalt radial saw, drill press, band saw, automotive tools, and more. H.R. built the rowboat my sister Kathy and I, my mother Joan and I, pulled out onto the Tred Avon which curled around my grandparent’s house, Boundary Point.<br />
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H.R. and my grandmother Dot had two daughters, Lois and Joan. Joan, my mother, took to son-like hobbies with her father. She built furniture, made skilled things with wood, glue and varnish. She was a lab worker at Merck early on and, later, for most of her life, a middle-school math teacher. I loved her. We played baseball catch together on the tarry pavement and on park playgrounds in Washington, DC. We held hands and danced in summer downpours in our galoshes. She served mustard sandwiches and Ovaltine in our small 32nd Place house.<br />
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~~<br />
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I loved Dad, too, but he was different, a disorganized creative, a writer, a disrupter. He took-on and fixed the world on a large scale — the Pentagon Papers, Vietnam War, and Iraq, an embed with infantry soldiers, and more.<br />
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Dad and I built a lot of things together. We made a soap box derby race car from plywood, lath, and fiberglass, with wheels and steering gear from a General Motors kit. We took Mom’s ironing board and used it to draw the pattern of the fuselage bottom on a four-by-eight-foot sheet of three-quarter inch marine plywood. That car, the soap box derby, was the bomb. We had it for many years, racing down neighborhood streets, and pushing it back uphill. I was about nine years old when we drew the fuselage. When I grew too big for the box, Dad and I cut away the car’s rear bulkhead, so I could squeeze my long, lanky teenage frame into the flyer. My neighborhood buds, Russ, Dan, Jamie, Tom and others, would do crazy things in the yellow race car, skidding it across gravel and tumbling into a ditch — and worse.<br />
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None of us died, and all injuries seemed to heal in about a day. That was good. We were cool kids. Dad was a cool dad, “Jungle George.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ik17FchwYLc/W4qR_9n9V3I/AAAAAAAAB8Y/bT5X9VXPE9IU4vJYe7jbaBktTpuHi5A-ACLcBGAs/s1600/10679742_10204950503624637_2389873405884085670_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ik17FchwYLc/W4qR_9n9V3I/AAAAAAAAB8Y/bT5X9VXPE9IU4vJYe7jbaBktTpuHi5A-ACLcBGAs/s640/10679742_10204950503624637_2389873405884085670_o.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br />
I built things for and with my own boys, Nathan and Avery. Some of it was good, some not so. I remember the delight they expressed when I built a chair framed in two-by-fours, with the seat and back “crafted” from their old skateboard decks. “Dad, so cool!”<br />
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Skateboarding was a thing of their youth. We’d hunt out skateboard parks with ramps and “swimming” pools where the boys would loop, whip and hop about. They’d foregather with their friends to perform and perfect tricks. An early project I built was a quarter-pipe ramp, which the kids could roll-up, twist and squirt about — and sometimes crash and fall.<br />
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The initial ramp was a simple wedge made of three-quarter inch plywood undergirded by two-by-fours and scrap wood. It rose from our driveway to about 18-inches. It was pretty good. The kids loved it. They’d roll down the street, into our driveway, then cut a curve and twist across the wedge. Like many things I do, the ramp was subjected to progressive refinement. We made it taller and, using stubs, braces and flexible quarter-inch marine plywood, created a gentle curve, and a top lip, so it genuinely resembled a pipe, not some kick ramp. I coated the surfaces with marine varnish. More kids were attracted to our house (a win in most any child’s esteem). Sometimes, we’d come home and see the ramp in full use, skateboarders training and experimenting. They were very good.<br />
<br />
I saw my own possibility for fun and elevation. I didn’t do skateboards owing to my poor balance, but I rode bikes. I had bought a used ten speed for $15 at a garage sale; it was my commuter bike. I called attention to my boys, put on my cycling helmet, pedaled hard, and launched off the ramp. I had a vision of Evel Knievel on his motorcycle, soaring over a stack of cars or across a river gorge, landing triumphantly, and throwing his arms up in victory as he rolled smoothly out after landing.<br />
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My weight distribution and speed were wrong, so as I came over the ramp my bike nosed-down and dropped away. I continued in the air, at about six feet altitude, and then belly-flopped down to the street pavement.<br />
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I wasn’t dead. It hurt like hell. I moaned. My wife Carolyn came out; the boys said, “Dad are you okay?” I said, “No.” “Should I call an ambulance?” Carolyn asked. “No,” I groaned. “Just hot bath, hot tub.”<br />
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After about five or ten minutes of inert groaning and injury self-assessment, I lumbered-up, aided by family members, made my way into the house, had the bath, and medicated with pain pills and smears of ointment. I was pretty bruised, kind of like a soap-box derby crash of yore. Otherwise, I was somewhat pleased with myself.<br />
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This is how we Wilson boys played.<br />
Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-54339320897458406122018-07-06T20:39:00.002-04:002021-12-28T19:57:01.794-05:00Soot's PondSoot's pond is shaped like a tear, with spring and rain water flowing in across the top, the southern end, and flowing out a rocky bed due north, the direction John Mosby and his raiders famously advanced. At maximums, the pond is about 75 yards end-to-end and 25 yards across. They say it goes three-to-four yards deep, but I haven’t yet swum it and touched bottom. I will.<br />
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On still days the pond water can be clear to near five feet. On rainy days, it is opaque, the color of tobacco spit. Floating in the pond middle, on a sunny day, we may see the swamp monster, a mossy snapping turtle about two feet from snout to tail. He could bite off a toe, or another tender bit. But I think him all-timid — Give me my daily mash of detritus, perhaps a young fish or frog, and move on. Life advances, says the swamp monster, sometimes slow and phlegmatic, sometimes sparklingly fast. There are dozens of black bass and catfish a foot long or so, and hundreds more fingerling, crappie, frogs and whatnot beasts. It is a lovely place. I set there and think, or imagine, or imagine I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m just sating my curiosity with a local whiskey or ale. I watch thoughts and writing snips come in and out, across my brain’s imperfect stage. Great words appear, and they disappear before the laptop is cracked. Writing is best, I guess, when not air drawn, but with fingers on keyboard, or pen to paper. At least it is not lost.<br />
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The pond flows out a small vee in the berm, a shallow channel lined with smooth stones and flagellating mosses, and falls into a swale below. When the water flow is high, after a rain or during most of springtime, a second pond forms in the fen, bordered by the stone fence, and shot through with fallen tree, ferns, mosses, other ancient plant and rot. The lower pond is the more scary place, home to snakes, cottonmouth vipers, thick poison ivies, and cutting bramble. In spring it is a thrumming orchestra of peepers — leopard, bull and tree frogs. Raptors and herons fly in and swoop to dine at Soot’s Camp’s ponds, probe the fen, grab and guzzle a small beast, and fly off.<br />
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Hummingbirds and bluebirds are constant companions on the granite flat, the house and homestead above the pond. My guests and I tend to stay there, lounging in Adirondack chairs or benches I built. Dogs run here and there, slipping into the pond for a drink or swim. They may return mucky, so we soap their coats and hose them down, pulling out an errant tick or bramble when we can.<br />
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A family of coons lives by the pond. I see one or two on occasion, pawing at the algae’d surface from a big rock, maybe grabbing a small turtle or crappie to eat. A large heron swoops in late in the day. She sits in the tree, silhouetted by the gloaming sky. Maybe she’ll swoop down and pluck dinner from Soot’s pond.<br />
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A train whistle blows in the background, a mile off, down Leeds Manor, aside Goose Creek. The wheels thrum over the rails and cross-members.<br />
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My spirit is soft.<br />
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Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0Markham, VA 22643, USA38.9040003 -78.001940813.3819658 -119.3105348 64.4260348 -36.6933468tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-49281888392137813302018-05-15T22:38:00.000-04:002019-04-15T20:48:06.448-04:00Poolesville Road RaceSaturday, May 12, 2018, was magical. I rose early and drove from DC north into Maryland, having volunteered to serve as the medic for the National Capital Velo Club’s (NCVC) Poolesville Road Race. When I arrived about 7:15, there was a purposeful bustle of the race getting organized — police officers, race officials, club members setting-up registration, a bicycle repair tent, port-a-potties, food truck — all told, a crew of about 50 preparing to stage six races ranging from 32 to 74 miles for several hundred men, women and junior cyclists.<br />
<br />
Poolesville is a unique and, for some, most favored race. It traverses country roads for a ten-mile loop in upper Montgomery County across farmland, woods and aside the Potomac River and C&O canal. One section along River Road is hard-pack dirt and gravel. It elevates riders’ thoughts to the cobblestones of Paris-Roubaix, one of the greatest and most grueling races of the European classics. It is also where, as riders quickly descend the paved Edwards Ferry Road and turn right onto the dirt, we see a lot of crashes.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
There was an immense warmth as I stood amidst the race-prep action. I held back tears of joy and nostalgia.<br />
<br />
From 2004 to 2011 almost every weekend morning from March to September I was at bike races with my boys, Nathan and Avery. I served in a number of capacities. Initially, as a flummoxed parent trying to do things right — from pinning the race number on my child’s jersey in the right spot, cheering riders, filling and handing out water bottles in feed zones, to taking photographs as a race photographer, to being trained and working as a race official, to performing medical duties (I was trained as an emergency medical technician).<br />
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It was a full and joyous life. In about 2006, I was named Team Director for the age 18-and-under NCVC squad. We became quite good, winning a national title for the best developmental team, and preparing talented riders who later rose to compete as professionals across the United States and around the world.<br />
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When my children went on to college and beyond, I stopped my intense involvement in the bike racing scene. At Poolesville this day, dressed in my medic garb (purple EMT gloves, gauze sponges, and bottles of saline solution poking out my pockets and backpack), dear old friends came and hugged me. Myron, the lion and long-time president of NCVC, Mimi and Jim, distinguished national race officials, Claudia, Tom, Marc, Bill, Ryan and dozens, racers and friends. Almost all had been captured in my photographs over the years and worked side-by-side with me as a volunteer. Some I had tended to after race crashes. I was “Doc Willy,” my moniker from elementary school, where I cared for buddies who got busted up in the DC schoolyard. This was a nest and community where I raised and supported my boys.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
Serving as medic is like sailing — hours of boredom mixed with moments of “terror and chaos.” I rode in a car that followed the race packs around the course, traveling about 120 miles across the day, at an average speed of 15 miles per hour. I watched as a woman racer, "Marilyn," tried to move up in the peloton of about 30 racers and, by mistake, edged right off the road. She tumbled and flipped over the top of her bike. Her left-side skin, jersey and shorts were shredded, shoulder, arm, and hip. Marilyn’s alertness and level of consciousness was normal. She was in pain. I assessed her as stable and gave her gauze sponges for immediate self-care and returned to the medic car (my duty was to attend to trauma, to save lives, and stay with the race pack). Marilyn returned to the race start area. I later cleaned and treated her with saline, povidone-iodine, and occlusive bandages. I gave her supplies so she could also wash and treat her injury in private areas in a private room.<br />
<br />
While following the later “Pro 1/2/3” race our radio crackled and my cell-phone rang. A rider was down and needed assistance at Corner 5, the start of the dirt section. We pulled in and parked out of the way. A young man, "Thomas" was standing unevenly near his dusted-up bike; other volunteers and officials stood about. I looked at Thomas and sat him in a chair. He was alert and oriented by four standard measures (AO4). Thomas had come fast into the gravel section and, it seemed, flew over his crashing bike in superman position, landing predominantly on his front right-side. He had abrasions and lacerations from head to toe. My assessment indicated that an ambulance was not needed. (None was called.) Most serious, Thomas had an avulsion of skin and tissue on his chin and jaw that exposed a spot of underlying white tissue, which I surmised was bone. Thomas initially reported little or no pain, “just a numb feeling.” Later, he said, as the adrenaline wore off, the injuries hurt. I performed an initial saline wash and povidone-iodine clean of Thomas's wounds over about 20 minutes, checked his symmetry, palpated his thorax, re-checked alertness, and had Thomas transported back to the race start.<br />
<br />
After the race concluded, I returned to the start area and further cleaned Thomas's wounds, applied 4 or 5 occlusive bandages to the larger wounds (excluding his chin, which was not amenable to bandaging, given Thomas's beard), and applied Neosporin ointment to Thomas's unbandaged abrasions. I had him self-clean and treat his chin, given the tenderness of the injury and confusion of flaps of skin and exposed tissue. He salved his chin generously with ointment. I gave Thomas additional gauze sponges, occlusives, saline, and Neosporin, and advised a soon visit to a hospital emergency room or his doctor. His chin would require stitches, and likely debridement and cosmetic surgery.<br />
<br />
We joked that while he did not win a race trophy today, Thomas would have a trophy on his chin for a long time.<br />
<br />
Thomas was very grateful for this care. I learned he is a third-year medical student at Temple University in Philadelphia. I noted that I was honored, a basic EMT treating a doctor, a balancing of skills and need.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
I got home a bit late, 5 PM, and washed and shaved myself thoroughly. (Though I wear medical gloves and protective gear, I always feel a bit tainted by blood, body fluids and medicines after duty.) I put on my good suit, white shirt and blue tie, spritzed with after-shave, and headed to a charity event with high society in McLean, with my love.<br />
<br />
Life is fine.<br />
<br />
<hr />
Ed. -- patient names are changed to respect privacy.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://claudiagm.zenfolio.com/p626684369#hab65f8c3">Race photos by Claudia GM -- http://claudiagm.zenfolio.com/p626684369#hab65f8c3</a><br />
<br />Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-12000281867558568832018-05-07T21:46:00.006-04:002021-04-30T15:48:16.508-04:00Soot's Camp<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Soot’s Camp is Open – Time to Visit</span></b><br />
<b>3596 Leeds Manor Road, Markham, Virginia 22643 </b><br />
<b>571.239.6772 – jamesrwilson@gmail.com</b></div>
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Lots to do – read, walk, enjoy a cup or glass, gaze at the pond or a fire, visit with friends, build something, ride thy bike, paint, write the Great American Novel ... Nearby highlights –<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Stribling Orchard – pick-your-own -- <a href="http://www.striblingorchard.com/">http://www.striblingorchard.com</a></li>
<li>Marriott Ranch – trail rides, B&B -- <a href="https://www.marriottranch.com/">https://www.marriottranch.com</a></li>
<li>Philip Carter Vineyard (2 miles) -- <a href="http://www.pcwinery.com/">http://www.pcwinery.com</a></li>
<li>Chateau O’Brien’s Vineyard (1 mile) -- <a href="http://www.chateauobrien.com/">http://www.chateauobrien.com</a></li>
<li>Linden Vineyard (7 miles) -- <a href="https://www.lindenvineyards.com/">https://www.lindenvineyards.com</a></li>
<li>Ashby Inn – fine dining, B&B --<a href="http://www.ashbyinn.com/"> http://www.ashbyinn.com</a></li>
<li>Orlean Pub (live music Saturdays) -- <a href="http://www.orleanmarket.com/">http://www.orleanmarket.com</a></li>
<li>Front Royal Brewing Co. -- <a href="https://frontroyalbrewing.com/">https://frontroyalbrewing.com</a></li>
<li>Red Schoolhouse Antiques -- <a href="http://www.redschoolhouseantiques.net/">http://www.redschoolhouseantiques.net</a></li>
<li>Downriver Canoe Company -- <a href="https://www.downriver.com/">https://www.downriver.com</a></li>
<li>Washington, Virginia -- dining, antiques, art -- <a href="http://washingtonva.gov/">http://washingtonva.gov</a></li>
<li>Thompson Wildlife Area – <a href="https://www.dgif.virginia.gov/wma/thompson/">https://www.dgif.virginia.gov/wma/thompson</a></li>
<li>Sky Meadows Park -- <a href="http://www.dcr.virginia.gov/state-parks/sky-meadows">http://www.dcr.virginia.gov/state-parks/sky-meadows</a></li>
<li>Appalachian Trail (4 miles), Skyline Drive, Shenandoah River, Passage Creek (trout), Elizabeth Furnace, Skyline Caverns … bike rides – on and off road</li>
</ul>
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We’re out most weekends – Call or text to confirm<br />
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<hr />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Soot’s Camp Directions</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
3596 Leeds Manor Road, Markham, Virginia 22643</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
571.239.6772 – jamesrwilson@gmail.com</div>
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From DC/Beltway (about 45 minutes) –<br />
<br />
• From Beltway (I-495), take Route 66 West to Markham, Exit 18<br />
• At bottom of exit, turn left onto Leeds Manor Road, Route 688<br />
• Stay on Leeds Manor Road (cross John Marshall Highway / Route 55 just south of I-66 … do not turn left or right on Route 55 … even if your GPS says to …)<br />
• Cross small creek and turn right; continue on Leeds Manor Road over railroad tracks and about one mile to Soot’s Camp, at top of hill on right<br />
• Park where convenient on driveway<br />
• If driveway is full, continue up Leeds Manor Road about 75 yards and turn left into gravel road and park where convenient; walk back (be careful)<br />
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From Northern Virginia (e.g., Dulles Airport) –<br />
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• Take Route 28, Route 15 or Route 17 south to Route 66 West, directions as above<br />
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Cyclists –<br />
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Bike pump, water, tools around back ...<br />
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</div>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-41489257992064488502018-04-23T19:33:00.000-04:002019-04-07T20:10:48.074-04:00Ricalton Research -- 4.2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tudKxnQ7k4o/Wt_pcH7RhYI/AAAAAAAABzM/pEFYPD3N9icYwG8PTy--BBLYjLXO54OkACLcBGAs/s1600/ricalton_instudy_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="800" height="330" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tudKxnQ7k4o/Wt_pcH7RhYI/AAAAAAAABzM/pEFYPD3N9icYwG8PTy--BBLYjLXO54OkACLcBGAs/s400/ricalton_instudy_800.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
James Ricalton in his study, Waddington, NY</div>
<br />
Roger Bailey, a retired art professor from Saint Lawrence University in Canton, New York, reached out to me a year or so ago because he is interested in my great grandfather and namesake James Ricalton. James was a great but largely unheralded photographer and explorer. James’ photographs are in many collections, including the Library of Congress, Smithsonian, and Metropolitan Museum of Art. He did much work for Thomas Edison.<br />
<br />
Roger saw this and wanted to explore who Ricalton was. I have a pretty good trove of Ricalton writings and artifacts, from the chest he packed to carry material down the Saint Lawrence, to his diary from his 1909 walk from Cape Town to Cairo, to various photographs, Edison notes, and Kikuyu carvings. I also know Ricalton and his stories through his daughter, Mary, a beloved friend, my paternal grandmother.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
We hit off easily. I picked Roger up at the GWU Metro Thursday evening and we came to my Georgetown townhouse, and poked through various papers, boxes and troves, discovering stuff of which even I was unaware. Then we went to a local pub, <a href="https://thesovereigndc.com/">Sovereign</a>, for dinner and beer. On Friday, Roger spent the day at my house reviewing material, with a trip to the Library of Congress to meet with a curator. The curator, Josie, was wonderful. She showed us various references and, most fantastic, moving pictures Ricalton had made — in Cairo, Egypt, and most likely Canton and Shanghai, China, c. 1897. (Specific provenance of these old but now digitized films requires further research.) My father George had always said we should go to the Library to see Ricalton’s films, but we never did. (Dad, a writer, was much more a man of “should do” than “do.”) So this visit with Roger felt a bit warming for me, akin to a lost father-son activity.<br />
<br />
On Monday, we visited with the senior photography curator at the American History Museum, focusing our insights and interests. In a couple weeks I will meet with a noted antique and old-book expert to gain more knowledge, and perhaps learn other references. Roger and I surfaced a few new Ricalton materials. I am continuing my research into Ricalton’s Africa journeys, in particular, his responses to adversity that ranged from technical inconvenience to medical trauma and death of a young tribesman, to the loss of Ricalton's son Lomond by typhoid pneumonia in British East Africa.<br />
<br />
I remain in search of Ricalton photographs or writings from Abyssinia, what we know today as Ethiopia (where I do <a href="http://www.ethiopiahealth.org/">charity work</a>).<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
Ever to learn. -- James Ricalton Wilson (Jim), 4/24/2018Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-47487746100605206112018-04-15T10:32:00.001-04:002018-12-23T17:18:50.373-05:00The Post (the movie)Steven Spielberg and Amy Pascal’s movie <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Post_(film)">The Post</a> is a compelling depiction of the decisions made by Katherine Graham (played by Meryl Streep) to publish the Pentagon Papers in opposition to the Nixon administration, against the advice of her lawyers and investors, and in support of her news staff led by Ben Bradlee (played by Tom Hanks). Two themes stand out: Freedom of the press against an ill-motivated government and the courage and insight of a very impressive woman, Mrs. Graham.<br />
<br />
Like many documentaries, the movie was selective to fit a complex event into a two-hour film – to paraphrase Mrs. Graham’s husband, Philip, it was a rough draft of history. What was missing included the decisive Bazelon appeals court scene between Pentagon officials with a “top secret” supposedly contained in the Pentagon Papers, which the Administration forcefully argued supported non-publication, and the Washington Post lawyers and experts, highlighted by George C. Wilson’s decisive testimony. This deeper investigation of prior restraint and rule-by-facts is covered by Geoffrey Cowan’s 2008 play <a href="http://topsecretplay.org/">Top Secret: The Battle for the Pentagon Papers</a> and described by <a href="https://www.cbsnews.com/news/reporter-recalls-role-in-pentagon-papers-saga/">CBS's interview with George</a>.<br />
<br />
I had an insight from George, my father, that fit nicely with Spielberg’s movie, which I submitted to Pascal’s creative executive early in 2017. It fit nicely with movie scenes portraying the tension between Mrs. Graham and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara – though it may have been over-elaboration, given the already effective screenplay.<br />
<br />
Here’s part of the bit I offered: “Every time Robert McNamara saw Katherine Graham, Secretary McNamara would jab his finger at her (I imagine at a high society Georgetown cocktail party) and say: ‘George Wilson is the worst reporter in this town.’ Mrs. Graham would turn, smile and say, ‘I know.’ (We like it that way, she'd convey.)”<br />
<br />
Dad had a strong track record taking on the military and Pentagon on many counts, wrote sharply and critically about the Vietnam War, sometimes covering the front page of the Post with three stories of breaking news.<br />
<br />
An amazing thing about Mrs. Graham, Dad later reflected, was that she never told Dad or others about Secretary McNamara's criticisms. She kept the newsroom from this undue or tilting influence. Mrs. Graham was extraordinarily decent.<br />
<br />
In any case, please see The Post, an enlightening and hopeful film. You can purchase a copy of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Top-Secret-Battle-Pentagon-Library/dp/1580813879">Top Secret: The Battle for the Pentagon Papers play on Amazon</a> or learn more from this <a href="http://topsecretplay.org/">USC Annenberg web site</a>.<br />
<br />
-- Jim<br />
<br />
-- originally published on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jamesrwilson.fb">Facebook on January 1, 2018</a><br />
<br />
References --<br />
<br />
-- The Post movie -- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Post_(film)">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Post_(film)</a><br />
-- Top Secret (play): The Battle for the Pentagon Papers -- <a href="http://topsecretplay.org/">http://topsecretplay.org</a> (USC Annenberg)<br />
-- Top Secret (play/docudrama) on Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Top-Secret-Battle-Pentagon-Library/dp/1580813879">https://www.amazon.com/Top-Secret-Battle-Pentagon-Library/dp/1580813879</a><br />
-- CBS New article about George C. Wilson and Bazelon courtroom scene -- <a href="https://www.cbsnews.com/news/reporter-recalls-role-in-pentagon-papers-saga/">https://www.cbsnews.com/news/reporter-recalls-role-in-pentagon-papers-saga/</a>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-62615370465255019352015-11-11T16:00:00.001-05:002016-01-07T22:34:18.234-05:00Those We Serve -- Liver Cancer<b>Liver Cancer</b><br />
<br />
10.27.2015 – I had dinner with Dr. Alemayehu at Rodeo, a cowboy-themed open-air restaurant in Bole, Addis Ababa. It was lovely; wood fires burned ambitiously in large pits about the patio. I had steak and beer; Alemayehu, chicken and rice and mineral water. We coursed over many topics, from the deeply personal to operational matters for our charitable healthcare program, EHN. We spoke of the larger framework of governmental health programs, charity and NGO management, including work by the Gates Foundation. I said I understood that the government’s model is to provide a healthcare worker (a nurse) or two for every 100 households, and one clinic for every 1,000. I thought this was good, and hoped that it would put my small non-profit out of business.<br />
<br />
Alemayehu lamented the quality of care at the large health centers, and said there are still large gaps that EHN and NGOs fill. In fact, today, he said, he saw a man [1] who had terrible stomach pain. He had been to multiple doctors and health centers. He paid 1,700 ET Birr (about $90 USD) for an invasive endoscopy. They had given him medicines and many tests. Nothing improved. Alemayehu touched the man, palpated his abdomen. He felt a mass on his liver. He conducted ultrasound. There was a large mass, a tumor. LeAlem’s lab analyzed the patient’s liver enzymes and function. The numbers were very high. The man had liver cancer, and was going to die. Alemayehu respectfully and kindly gave the accurate diagnosis and prognosis. The man was comforted, thankful, after months of stress and wrong diagnosis and treatment.<br />
<br />
We discussed the patterns where the large health centers perform the function, but do not treat the patient, and as a result they miss things. I’ve seen this in the United States, for example, where my father was on needless chemotherapy (Neupogen) for months, and my mother’s amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease) went undiagnosed by esteemed practitioners. (Even the suggestion of ALS, by my father, was laughed at by our family physician, my wife’s doctor.) So nothing is perfect. But my base sense is the medical care provided by a patient-focused doctor, who seeks to understand the full context, is better. More, I think a community-based physician in a developing country like Ethiopia may be more skilled because he or she has to cope with a broader array of affliction, with less technical intervention and support. In the main, a third-world community doctor, like Alemayehu, is very closely connected to those he treats.<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
[1] The subject is a private patient, not an EHN beneficiary.Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-69909213531861538582015-11-11T15:59:00.002-05:002019-04-07T20:34:20.504-04:00Those We Serve -- Kittens<b>Kittens</b><br />
<br />
10.27.2015 – A few doors down our next beneficiary lived in a similar one-room hovel, a bed, a couple of boxes as chairs, and a box of kittens and mom-cat. She paid about 35 cents US (7.5 Birr) per month in subsidized rent. For the prior four years she had lived on the street under a plastic tarp. She was about 50 years old, clothed in bright colors and beautiful. I insisted she sit next to me, atop her bed, legs trailing down towards the room center. She had suffered so much, but was thankful for the medical care we gave. With the health care, she was now able to get out of bed and go to work, where she could make money to help support her daughter (who had lived under the plastic tarp with her). Her deferential sensitivity struck me. I wrapped my arm around her back. Her husband, her daughter’s father, had died several years ago, of AIDS. She and her daughter are HIV positive. I gave 200 Birr, about 2-year’s rent. Better, I hope, a good meal.Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-16431184571947592702015-11-11T15:51:00.001-05:002018-11-24T16:56:31.976-05:00Those We Serve -- Maggot Head<b>Maggot Head</b><br />
<br />
While <a href="http://blog.jamesrwilson.com/2015/11/those-we-serve-kneeling.html">Kneeling</a> describes recognition and a compassionate response, other recognitions did not yield such kindness. There are many poor, begging on the streets of Addis. Some with grave deformity, young children pressing out before their mothers, old thin women pointing a finger into their mouths, ‘give me food.’ My one-kilometer daily walk from the Jupiter hotel to LeAlem Higher Clinic passed perhaps a dozen sad cases. I did not take pictures. In the first block, a higher sidewalk in front of construction sites, I’d walk past men sleeping on the cement, splayed like fish on a dock. One fellow’s head, face, and neck were crawled over by hundreds of white maggots. This was shocking. I knelt; I thought, should I bring him to the hotel room and have him bathe? Part of me considered buying a bottle of disinfectant alcohol and swabbing and cleaning his head, then bringing him to the clinic for de-lousing and medication. I did nothing but let him sleep. There are limits and one develops filters in such situations. When I was trained as an emergency medical technician (EMT), we learned ‘scene safety’ as a first, most important rule. You have to protect yourself. An ill or dead caregiver is a greater loss than one person’s suffering, than to go forward with an unsafe incident. With maggot head, I considered my own susceptibility (and that of the next person to sleep in my hotel room). Also, I thought about the general structure of the problem. A man without employment, sleeping on the street, covered with maggots. There are many contributing problems that need repair to make a durable solution. My conscience was also eased by the fact that I give so much already, to mothers and children in need, in Addis. Alas, though, it is an important question and urge. We wish we could fix many more things. There is no shortage of need, of the compelling and grotesque that may be improved. But we are mortal, and cannot cure all.Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-53192018509161859972015-11-11T15:47:00.000-05:002016-01-07T22:33:22.892-05:00Those We Serve -- KneelingKneeling<br />
<br />
10.27.2015 – We were at Meseret Humanitarian Organization, a women-focused NGO in Addis Ababa, sub-city Kirkos, to see their tour of capabilities and accomplishment. After, we visited several beneficiaries. The first was a mud-walled, tin-roof home about 12 feet square, with a rear niche that was for cooking. A man, about 46 years old, sat rocking on an upturned bucket for his chair. He was crying gently, “Shee-shee-shee,” as he rocked back and forth. With the oncoming of three social workers and me, his niece, a beneficiary, turned and relocated him to another chair (an upturned box with a towel atop), more in the corner, out of the way. He complied. We learned he was mentally retarded, deaf, and blind in one eye. Assembled in the dark house, we talked our normal business with the beneficiary: How have you worked with Meseret, what has been your experience with healthcare provided by LeAlem? Do you have children? How are they? Are there areas we can improve? The woman answered steadfastly and appreciatively. She had had right leg pain and diffuse stomach pain, epigastric pain. She had been treated well at LeAlem, with respect and good results. (This wasn’t her prior experience at other centers, she said.) Her children had scalp fungus, which was treated with antifungal cream and antibiotics provided by EHN/LeAlem, and cured. We spoke for about 15 minutes. These things passed through. I took a couple pictures. Four healthcare workers. We’d ignored the man. I asked, “Can I touch him?” I kneeled on the mud floor, and reached my right hand to the man’s back, and stroked. I reached and held his left hand, and squeezed gently. I drew a bit closer, and held for a few minutes. His crying and rocking stopped. The man’s older sister, also disabled, had hidden herself behind a dingy curtain in the kitchen. She started to cry.<br />
<br />
We stepped out of the house to the alley. I lingered. The sister came out and hugged me. “Thank-you-thank-you-God-Bless,” she said. I touched her face and said, “Thank you.”<br />
Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-45619810958126192922015-10-17T18:02:00.000-04:002015-11-11T17:14:12.936-05:00Africa 10.17.2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k1PLO76NwRg/VkO9hwl8iNI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/I-1Vr2DySas/s1600/IMG_7854%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k1PLO76NwRg/VkO9hwl8iNI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/I-1Vr2DySas/s400/IMG_7854%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>Saturday, 10/17. Good launch in Ethiopia. Landed 6:40 AM at Bole, cleared customs and got to Jupiter Hotel in Cazanchis about 9:30. (Melaku met me at airport and drove.) Not having slept on plane, after unpacking clothes and gear, I quickly fell to sleep until early afternoon. I then headed over to clinic for visits with Gashaw and Dr. Alemayehu. Spent a couple hours making observations and note taking, including reviewing beneficiaries' case records and developing questions for formative evaluation. Then a couple kilometer walk to Hilton for a late pizza and Amber beer, outside on lower terrace with a small concert underway -- African and American songs. Very lovely. Walked home and continue to read and write. Cape Town looks like a good respite later in the trip. I brought Ricalton's diary of his 1909 time there, including hikes up Table Mountain and trekking the area with his view cameras. (Ricalton subsequently trekked from there to Cairo.)Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-38093690202824669972015-01-25T08:41:00.000-05:002019-04-07T20:41:06.866-04:00Family SkiingTo the top we go, my sons and I, to the Vista Haus, for coffee, juice and muffins. At near 12,000 feet, we look over the high valley to peaks marking the Continental Divide. “Hey, Dad, this is great. It’s beautiful up here, I can see everywhere,” my son declares as he quaffs breakfast. The sun is brighter than ever, set amidst perfect blue. The air is thin, making me feel like an old man, struggling to keep up with my energy-filled boys.<br />
<br />
We push off through the crunchy snow. “Whee!” and “Whoosh!” we go, slanting down a well-named run – Psychopath, High Anxiety, or Crescendo. My boys are shredders, bashing about on snow boards, while I carve and cut powder on 15 year-old skis, still serviceable, shrieking phosphorescent orange from days long gone by.<br />
<br />
It’s a rush! I bend and fall forward, leaning onto the tips of my skis, tossing my back and pelvis up high, shoving my knees out over the toes of my boots. A subtle nudge right, coupled with a stronger push in the knees. I rise and press down and left, and repeat. Seven or eight times, and I stop and look up the hill. Behind me lies a gentle serpent cut in the snow. My boys follow, crisscrossing my tracks. One falls, and leaves a scattered, bright angel in the snow. He pops up and quickly rides down the rest. We three gather and look up at our art. “Awesome,” says my oldest. “Yahoo! That was great,” cries the younger, huffing to recapture his breath. I am inwardly jubilant, wondering at the temporary helix of family DNA carved in the snow.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<i>-- From a lost journal, composed in June 2003, when my boys were in middle- and high-school. Breckenridge, Colorado.</i>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-30008419513695544222014-04-12T07:41:00.000-04:002019-04-07T20:46:35.114-04:00Eulogy for George<table><tbody>
<tr><td><img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s8/v0/p374666745-3.jpg" width="275" /></td><td><img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s9/v2/p329840556-3.jpg" width="275" /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong>George Cadman Wilson, July 11, 1927 - February 11, 2014</strong><br />
<br />
Thank you, so many, for sharing your love and memories of George.<br />
<br />
Dad was an immense man, a man in full, who touched many people, and impacted the course of important human events – He helped end wars.<br />
<br />
I am going to focus on one part of George that you may not know much about, because George was very private with his inner self.<br />
<br />
George Cadman Wilson was the strongest man I ever knew.<br />
<br />
He schlepped and lugged a rifle, armor, and backpack among Mud Soldiers in Vietnam. There he found great dignity, integrity, and selflessness – and, yes, humor.<br />
<br />
At age 75, Dad enlisted as an embedded correspondent in the Iraq War drive to Baghdad. The young soldiers asked and thought, “Hey, how old are you? You must be at least 50.”<br />
<br />
Dad had two major heart surgeries, in 1979 and about 1995. Dad was diagnosed with myelodysplastic syndrome in 2001; this is sometimes caused by Agent Orange used in Vietnam … MDS kills most people in 6-7 years … Dad sailed past that.<br />
<br />
Last March 2013, George and I went to Los Cabos, Mexico. He met an attractive 40-something journalist from Canada, and joined her for a trip to a fishing camp up north … His parting words were, “Jim, I’ll meet you at the airport Saturday.” There was a raw strength and masculinity to George.<br />
<br />
He also had the strength to be sensitive, to cry and feel other’s pain. He certainly did this for me as I struggled from deep coma and traumatic brain injury for 35 dark days in 1977, and for many years beyond. In January, when we had an important family matter, apart from Dad’s cancer, Dad wrapped me in his arms and fought to find reason with life’s events, and we sobbed together.<br />
<br />
The comfort George has given others is greater than any I have known or seen.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, February 11, two days after visiting with dear friends here with us today, Dad could barely communicate as he battled raging fever and sepsis that poisoned his blood. Abeje and I were at his bedside continuously, anointing Dad, providing morphine and other care.<br />
<br />
This Titanic strong man, this New Jersey and Pennsylvania track star, rose to his final hurdle. I held and kissed him, calling my, Kathy's, and all our love into his ear, as he fought with every last fiber the air hunger that in the end took him from us and upward to heaven. I kissed and spoke to George as his breathing ceased, and caressed his wrist and neck until his pulse was no more.<br />
<br />
George was an immensely strong man. His strength is not lost. You see it in his family. Kathy who works a farm, teaches school, and raises a beautiful daughter with Jason. Jim, me, who lived when very few expected him to survive, and fought mightily to gain successful footing in academics, at work, and family. Nathan, his grandchild, who survived a horrific accident when a truck hit him while riding in Tucson; he went on to win and place high in major bike races in the US and abroad.<br />
<br />
The Wilson family is a strong family, not just raw physicality, but a family of deep love and courage.<br />
<br />
My father gives us all a lesson, an example of a life lived quite well, and the strength to be kind. Let us carry this forward. Thank you.Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-74698397357446781512013-10-01T12:22:00.002-04:002015-12-20T22:32:10.300-05:00Where you go ?<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s10/v104/p1895069197-4.jpg" width="500" /><br />
<br />
Out the window, perhaps, but it is not so high<br />
to provide a merciful end, more likely a crumpled<br />
cripple unable to complete the task, dragging<br />
the rest, under a cerulean sky lighting crimson,<br />
bone shards piercing skin. Gasping.<br />
<br />
There is much anger here. I do not fathom<br />
the physics, but view hard-wiring made before.<br />
I dampen dissonance with some stroke of<br />
compassion, pulled from a time I was cruel,<br />
crying and injured.<br />
<br />
Loss unresolved but taken, under quiet trees,<br />
magnolias in sunshine. Old bells ring, high walls<br />
protect the cobbled city, streets damp and<br />
slippery. I do not know which way, but I go on,<br />
meekly hopeful, forces diffuse.<br />
<br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s10/v113/p2072485280-4.jpg" width="400"/><br />
Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-34069713089359017072013-06-03T16:22:00.000-04:002015-10-17T18:04:56.562-04:00Awash and Afar<img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S6VvX7g3Vjc/Uaz2t8RlXuI/AAAAAAAAAa0/hrGhA7Y4C1g/s320/IMG_2808.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<br />
Things have gone well in Ethiopia, sorting through business/political matters for healthcare program, meeting partners, reviewing areas of performance. I'm so impressed by Dr. Alemayehu ... he designed, indirectly, a very nice and effective time for me. He is truly a gifted healer.<br />
<br />
I had a great time this past weekend in Awash / Afar, very restful. Quite a primitive place. All driving in Ethiopia sucks -- sooty diesel trucks traveling 25 MPH on two lane highway, inexplicable traffic jams, all sorts of livestock and people (occasional naked tribespeople ...) ... the lot. That aside, after 6+ hour drives each way (and a fuel filter bypass breakdown on the way back, plus a flat tire an hour later..), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Awash_National_Park">Awash National Park</a> was amazing. Think of a bunch of thatch-roof cabins spread around a waterfall canyon in an area roughly the shape of Yellowstone, but with lions and other African fauna. When we arrived after the long drive, we captured a lounge area on the second floor of a hut dining structure, ordered a beer or mineral water ... I fell asleep in the cool breeze to the sound of the waterfalls, was out like a baby for a couple hours.<br />
<br />
When I woke, Alemayehu said "let's use our time" and we piled back into the big Toyota Land Cruiser and headed north into Afar, a tribal state made up predominantly of pastoralists. (One of our partners provides social and healthcare to the tribespeople, especially for women's enablement, e.g., microfinance, feminine hygiene.) We drove a 'short distance' (compared to the aforementioned welfare program) 30 Km off road, into the volcanic valley where there are hot springs. The springs and water catchment create a jungle-like biome, compared to the arid savannah predominant in Awash.<br />
<br />
When we arrived latish (6 PM) at the hot springs end-of-road, we were chastised by the area ranger for not having hired a 'scout' at the national park to take us about. (A scout is a 20-something kid with an automatic rifle who for a fee escorts you about your hikes, etc. The idea of the rifle is to ward off lions, hyenas or such. I saw no such need, my sharp penknife secure in my pocket ... ). The ranger proved quite convivial, escorting us to the hot springs, an about 1 Km further hike through marshy/sketch paths (I fell in the mud twice, once going, once returning ...).<br />
<br />
As we walked, we saw many animals -- warthogs, water bucks, gazelle, others, many birds -- on the edge of the tree lines, awaiting further darkness before venturing into the waters / marshes. The last couple hundred meters were through deep forest -- jungle, I'd say (picture above). When we arrived at the deep, clear hot spring pool, Alemayehu quickly stripped to his skivvies and jumped into the pool. He urged me to join him. I resisted, but after a couple minutes I joined him. The water was about 130 degrees F, and soft as can be given the decaying vegetation at bottom and such. Squishy mud in the toes. It was great, very great.<br />
<br />
As noted, on the dusky return hike, I slipped into the mud once more (hard dirt crust covers mud holes). (Holy Tarzan, quick sand?) We piled into the truck and made the 30 Km/90 minute return drive to the highway. As we approached the tarmac, Alemayehu hollered, "Praise the Lord." We'd made it. Perhaps some had doubts. We turned left and headed east to Awash town and scurried up some roast chicken and beer for late dinner. (Late being relative, because I tend to think Africa doesn't really have much to do with time, as we've grown to obsess about it in America.)<br />
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I slept like a baby across the night, wind and cataracts roaring. Next morning, the others hiked about while I wrote notes and edited photographs on my Macbook, and slept some more on the outdoor porch. Long drive home with two breakdowns, as noted -- handled with aplomb by our extraordinary driver. He handled the large Land Cruiser with grace and, when the fuel pump proved clogged at the first breakdown, he implemented an engine-running fuel-pump bypass. (I did some lightweight EMT work, helping clean his eye which was splashed with diesel.)<br />
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Amazing. Tonight my hosts took me for a final dinner in Addis, hitting the western-style Lime Tree restaurant, which I last visited with US embassy staff and Abeje. Being so kind, Alemayehu bought me gifts of 5 Kg of Ethiopian honey and about the same amount of Harrar coffees. (I had brought second bag full of medical and technical equipment that I delivered to the LeAlem clinic ... they were intent that I return with the second bag still full ...)<br />
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So it goes. 16 hour flight leaves Addis at 10 PM Tuesday, stops in Rome to refuel, and arrives Washington Dulles at 8:30 AM Wednesday. Back at the office about noon.<br />
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Look forward to getting home, moving on to the next chapter.<br />
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<img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-myR0zumE4Gk/Uaz2h0isvoI/AAAAAAAAAas/ns8YMokB4Mw/s320/IMG_2889+(1).jpg" width="550"/>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-74096412451268010842013-03-28T19:42:00.000-04:002013-03-28T19:42:51.347-04:00Nate @ 22<div style="text-align:center; font-weight:bold;font-size:medium;">Here's to Nate, age 22, racing in Europe, living the dream.<br />
Our wonderful son who has risen above, ever stronger.<br />
May the wind always be at your back.<br />
Happy Birthday!<br />
<br />
L, Mom and Dad<br />
</div><hr/><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s4/v69/p1492332660-6.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s3/v25/p564926238-3.jpg" width="550"/><br />
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<p align="center">Nate Bontrager Kit, 3.2013 ... Nate training, 1.2011 ... Nate and Avery, Block Island, 8.2001 ... Care and Nate, Saint John, 10.1991 ... Day 1, Arlington Hospital, 3.29.1991.</p><hr/>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-15742536979921172602013-03-09T11:11:00.000-05:002018-11-24T17:30:50.760-05:00Vacaciones ...<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v71/p1468974528-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<br />
Vacations are difficult by criteria. We like to go new places ... it's unlikely we'll go back to the same place, certainly not temporally. So I dig planning and detailing it, sometimes only Walter Middy concepts, a lift from the daily grind. It's hard but important work -- work hard, play hard, get the details right. Capture deeply what you do, live for the experience, and enjoy. Embolden and empower your children, your passions.<br />
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We've done many different things, some gifts, some hard-earned. Gift: Flew Concorde to Paris, a week in Hotel du Crillon, Opera House w Rob and Nicolete, our honeymoon. Not gifts: Traipsed Cairo slums, refugee camps in Gaza ... bicycle ventures on Route Verte (Quebec), Bend, Olympic Peninsula, Mallorca, New Mexico, Sundance, Val d'Or, Valloire, Sonoma, Santa Barbara ... touring Prague, San Francisco, Tetons, Cozumel, Saint John, Nova Scotia, Granada, Chamonix, Berlin, Smokey Mountains, Block Island, La Jolla, Athens, Madrid, New York, London, Marbella, Ibiza ... others ... My favorite was two weeks in Ethiopia, quietly occupying a desk in a small office with three social workers, documenting patient care in a maternal and child health program ... HIV site visits ... I was never so engaged, content.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s8/v77/p1469028080-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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This vacation in Los Cabos has been pretty cool, tho' I'll be light on details. Root cause, my 80-something father has been pretty lonely, most contemporaries of his are gone, one way or another. So he proposed a 'bonding' experience, where I could get to know him better. First idea was a sailboat cruise in Greek isles, conceptually cool, but pretty pricey, and truthfully I wasn't terribly keen on spending 8 days in a 2 berth, 1 squatter no WiFi sailboat w Ol' George and a bunch of National Geographic types. Call me picky. Recollecting an impractical notion he had to take his wheel-chair bound high-school girl friend whale watching on the Sea of Cortez, I proposed that (w healthy me). My initial target was <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Tourism-g150772-Loreto_Baja_California-Vacations.html">Loreto</a>, a Jacques Cousteau-lauded place about mid-Baja, very uncomplicated, essentially eco-tourism. Great idea, but 'we' didn't get our act together, and all airline seats were booked (only Alaska Air flies there), so we settled on Los Cabos, specifically San Jose del Cabo (SJC), on the eastern tip of Baja California Sur, the Sea of Cortez.<br />
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I've loved SJC, a lot of wonderful art galleries, restaurants, a scenic preserve/estuary, lovely people, whale watching at Cabo San Lucas. I've read a couple books, swum, enjoyed fantastic Latin jazz, meshed with internationales of many distinctions, improved my Spanish ... hit the local brew pub, ate and drank liberally, enjoyed tremendously <a href="http://www.tropicanainn.com.mx/">Hotel Tropicana</a> and Latin jazz performances there by passionate chanteuse (and new friend) <a href="http://www.rosaliadecuba.com/">Rosalia de Cuba</a> ... ¡Todos! George met a former journalist of sorts (Dad was pretty famous, in his day, at WaPo); she a divorced, wealthy 40-something (with two children, age 2 and 4, in tow) ... so they headed an hour north to <a href="http://www.rancholeonero.com/">Rancho Leonero</a>, a fishing camp on the Sea of Cortez. Sounded wonderful, but I chose to stay put in the <a href="http://www.tropicanainn.com.mx/">Tropicana</a>, to enjoy more jazz, art, pool swimming, reading and relaxing.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s11/v27/p1469096632-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
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Overall, a good trip. I think given the evanescent excitement for George, mission accomplished ... (I'm reminded of W's aircraft carrier banner 'post' Iraq ...) ... I certainly had some fun, enjoyed local culture and artistry, saw some whales, and took a few good pics (above and below). So it goes ... !<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v19/p1469098552-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v54/p1468982156-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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More: <a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/loscabos">http://images.jamesrwilson.com/loscabos</a>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-27001321486976945202013-01-15T21:52:00.000-05:002013-01-21T08:09:48.291-05:00Artist as a Young Man<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s10/v2/p23274053-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
Avery drawing, 8.2000, Jackson Lake Lodge, WY.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v70/p1382461072-5.jpg" width="550" /><br />
1.2013, by Avery. High-res <a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/afghangirl">http://images.jamesrwilson.com/afghangirl</a>.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s8/v0/p66167190-5.jpg" width="550" /><br />
Getty Museum, Avery (L), Nate, 8.2001.<br />
Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-14143475188465858882012-09-22T21:08:00.002-04:002015-10-17T18:16:52.360-04:00Alps (and L'Avenir)<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s4/v67/p1123681142-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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Had a wonderful trip to French Alps, August 26-September 6, 2012. I wanted to recount for fun and to share, so others can enjoy. My mission was tagged to watch Nathan compete in the <a href="http://www.tourdelavenir.com">Tour de L'Avenir</a>, a prestigious race for under-23 cyclists, the 'baby' Tour de France. The race was great, and drove my exploration of places I wouldn't have seen. But my focus was to enjoy and relax, and that I did. This part of the world is among the most stunning I've seen.<br />
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Flew overnight from Washington Dulles to Geneva via Amsterdam on KLM. On arriving Monday, drove a back way to my lodging in <a href="http://www.valloire.net/uk/index-summer.aspx">Valloire</a>. My path took me 26 Km up the Col de la Madeleine, a famous stretch for the Tour de France. On Monday, the hills were green, gold and granite. Several days later, on Friday, August 31, the pass was coated with snow (below), and the Tour de L'Avenir stage over the Col had to be re-routed. Nasty for August!<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v57/p1123704094-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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The bike race week was mostly rain (or snow), but for me it was mellow. I lodged at a ski hotel in the smallish village of Valloire (about 12 restaurants). Slept in a lot, ate breakfast at patisseries, hiked or biked 3 or more hours every day, soaked in incredible scenery, and caught-up with my son and his teammates as I could.<br />
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The mountains and hills in the Alps are gorgeous, special light, verdant, awesome ... many adjectives fit. I liked several hikes I took in or after light rains, like a 12 Km trek about Lac des Cerces, the Col, and other features (top pic, below). Or the crags above Col de la Colombiere, another TdF landmark (middle pic). It was all great and sublime, stretching the lungs and, for me, soothing the soul. After the hike or bike (bottom pic), I'd settle into a nap, a great meal, and wine or beer. Surprising thing, except for the airfare, it wasn't too expensive ... my lodging was usually under 100 Euros, and meals weren't too pricey ... particularly in the rural areas.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s4/v65/p1123697158-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s4/v65/p1123669996-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v61/p1123702202-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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After the bike race first week, I saw my son and his teammates off to Belgium (with a shopping bag of homemade cookies and ice cream), shifted gears and headed to Chamonix for a few days. Chamonix is at the base of Mont Blanc, and a hiker's / extreme sport aficionado's paradise. Everyone is rightly decked out for an Eddie Bauer or Yves Sant Laurent ad, it seems. I enjoyed my time immensely. Comfortable hotel, off the main square, hiked 3 to 7 hours each day (did some major pain, 5,000' descending off the massif). Hiked main routes, bookended by cafes and cold drinks, high altitude sun (up to 12,500') ... astounding views. I could spend a month in Chamonix and be half finished.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v57/p1123685344-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v54/p1123681862-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v56/p1123696106-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
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That said, my favorite place was an extraordinarily comfortable and nicely appointed country chalet, in Les Plens, above Le Grand Bornand (which, itself, is a bit east of Annecy). I was only here two nights / three days, but this was so comfortable, I could have spent my entire trip here (and drove to the race locales, Mont Blanc, etc.). I slept 11-12 hours, took long baths, and mountain biked or hiked to great satisfaction ... ate big meals (pizza like you've never had, local beer, and Genepi digestif), tuned in bike race stages ... repeat ... repeat ... repeat ... When things move to stress back in good old DC, I look over pics of these mountains, and the chalet, and settle back to what is, what will be ... so nice.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v56/p1123705188-3.jpg" width="550" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s4/v62/p1123705168-3.jpg" width="550" /> <br />
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Resources listed below. Allez!<hr/><ul><li>Hotel Valloire -- <a href="http://www.valloire.net/fr/il4-villagevacances,hiver_i1-village-vacances-la-pulka.aspx">La Pulka</a></li>
<li>Hotel Grand Bornand -- <a href="http://www.fermes-pierre-anna.com/index.php?_lngweb=en">Chalet Les Fermes de Pierre et Anna</a></li>
<li>Hotel Chamonix --- <a href="http://www.chamonix-park-hotel.com">Chamonix Park Hotel Suisse</a></li>
<li>Favorite resto -- <a href="http://www.legrandbornand.com/fiche-presentation_restaurant-102-FR-T-sitraRES353023-VIEENSTATION.html">Ferme du Pepe</a>, Le Grand Bornand</li>
<li><a href="http://www.munchie.eu">Munchie</a> -- favorite resto in Chamonix, healthy</li>
<li><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chamonix-Mountain-Adventures-Cicerone-Guide/dp/1852846631/">Chamonix Mountain Adventures</a> hiking guidebook</li>
<li>Lac / <a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?t=h&output=embed&q=http://www.gpsies.com/files/kmz/z/ztcgobemffzmcmmv.kmz">Col des Cerces hike</a></li>
<li><a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/alps2012">More Pics</a> - <a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/alps2012/slideshow">Slideshow</a></li>
</ul>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-50368270087736546032012-07-15T07:24:00.000-04:002015-10-17T18:17:50.553-04:00Elk River<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v47/p51615214-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
Time to go off-grid, about literally. Earlier this week, drove down to Slatyfork, West Virginia, for a few days rest, mountain biking, reading, photography, the like. My job's been intense, with a few 24x7 pinches.<br />
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My wife and I are pretty active, support bike racing with our boys. Care will do one trip -- Nationals in Georgia ... <a href="http://www.cascade-classic.org/">Cascade</a> in Oregon, -- and I'll do another -- <a href="http://www.tourofthebattenkill.com/">Battenkill</a> in New York ... New Mexico's <a href="http://www.tourofthegila.com/">Gila</a> (and many more ...) ... We flip dog-sitting with soigneur duty ... sometimes we do joint ventures, like Vermont's <a href="http://blog.jamesrwilson.com/2011/09/mad-river.html">Green Mountain</a>, which is fun, the best ...<br />
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But, it can be haphazard and tiring. This brief getaway exceeds expectations. Lodging and dining at <a href="http://www.elkriverinnandrestaurant.com/">Elk River Inn</a> is great. A comfy room, lounges, porches, farm fields, hot tub, in the midst of killer (road and mountain) bike rides, scenery and nature ... only $65 a night, private room and bath ... sumptuous dinner, fine wine extra ... $50 if you sleep in the farm house (shared bath, just fine ...) ... or your can camp along the <a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/mnf/recreation/hunting/recarea/?recid=6992&actid=56">Williams River</a> or <a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/mnf/recreation/picnickinginfo/recarea/?recid=6998&actid=70">Tea Creek Campground</a>, $5 or $10 / night ...<br />
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This sojourn I've bootstrapped some fitness work, bike riding each day 3+ hours. Since new job, I haven't been able to ride as much. I've thickened. I also delight in the opportunity to read freely, take pictures, and sleep. I found great beauty at the <a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/mnf/recarea/?recid=9913">Cranberry Wilderness Botanical Area</a>.<br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v52/p908218108-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v48/p918918070-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
As to 'off-grid', this is real: because the area is near the National Radio Astronomy Observatory, we're in a 13,000 square mile National Radio Quiet Zone. To better hear the aliens, and catch the detail of distant exploding nebulae ... no cell phone towers in southeastern WV ... I carry my <a href="http://findmespot.com/en/">Spot emergency tracker</a>, should the unforeseen root catapult my mountain bike towards infinity, deep in wilderness ...<br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v52/p216474244-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s1/v47/p880267292-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
Here are a few photo and resource links ... Gil and Mary Willis have a great program, only four hours from DC ... this is an easy, enjoyable escape.<br />
<hr/><a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/mnf/recarea/?recid=12368">Cranberry Wilderness</a>, large arena of this adventure<br />
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<a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/elkriver2012">Elk River 2012 photo gallery</a> ... Wilson shots with pocket cam and a few SLR ...<br />
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<a href="http://www.elkriverinnandrestaurant.com/">Elk River Inn and Restaurant</a> ... Gil and Mary Willis proprietors; also fly fishing, mountain biking, cross country skiing guides and support<br />
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<a href="http://www.singletracks.com/west-virginia-bike-trails_48.html">West Virginia Mountain Bike Trails</a> ... Trails marked Slatyfork, Richwood, Cranberry, Snowshoe ... are in the zone ... there are hundreds of rides in this area ... I only scratched the surface (using my mediocre riding skills ...) ...<br />
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There are many great road rides, also, which you can find using <a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/">MapMyRide</a> ...<br />
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While I only rode part of it, I like <a href="http://goo.gl/maps/HUqc">this beast ride</a> from Elk River Inn, to the Scenic Byway (Rt 150), and back across Williams River Road through the fish hatchery to Edray ... lots of meaningful climbs, up to 4,500', down to 2,500' and back up again, all within 40 miles ... and great scenery ...Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-34677604318426438302012-06-14T22:20:00.000-04:002015-10-17T18:16:01.115-04:00Simple Photos<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s9/v0/p419261431-3.jpg" width=550 /><br />
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I like taking pictures because they capture things that are dramatic and meaningful in life. I've read a lot about photography -- I had my first darkroom when I was 10 in DC, about 42 years ago; a geeky high-school photo-clubber stinky with Dektol; went to the Nikon school with my father George when I was 12; and spent a lot of time thinking about F-stop, lens depth of field, bokeh, shutter speed, film granularity, camera/lens image quality, composition, background, and lighting. Sometimes this works nicely, as planned, other times it's just dumb luck. The shot above I saw and composed, kneeling in the mud in Addis Ababa. I got about 20 very good shots that day. The shot below I mostly hit it, applied a formula, and a guy rode into it.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s2/v51/p170838990-3.jpg" width=550 /><br />
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Shooting bicycle criteriums for me is pretty formulaic. I don't use the pro-standard 70-200 F2.8L zoom sports lens, instead I use a high-end portrait lens, my 135 F2L (fixed focal length). It doesn't have the reach of the zoom, but it does a great job capturing faces and people's emotions. And it's a lot lighter. In a crit, you basically know the pattern and flow of the race, where the riders will be. I get as close as possible to the riders and then let them ride into the frame. (I sometimes get grazed by racers, but I haven't been hit or in a crash -- yet.)<br />
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I shoot at 1/1250 shutter speed for pros (and 1/800 or 1/1000 for slower categories and uphills), about F8 if the light will have it, and ISO 400 (sometimes 800 if it's darker). I use manual focus. Typically, I'll pick a mark on the pavement like a traffic stripe or a tar blob and focus on it very carefully. Then as a rider is about to ride through the mark, I'll hit the shutter and hopefully I'll capture a sharp image. While I have a good camera with lots of automated composition and focusing gizmos (e.g., sports mode), I generally don't use that.<br />
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That's the capture phase. Most of the work comes afterwards, post-processing on the computer. I spend a lot of time examining picture detail, sharpness, contrast and the like. I'll think about the shape of the picture (i.e., what rectangle) and work to crop the picture. For cycling, I like to have a sense of movement, so I often crop to 16x9 HDTV long-horizontal format, with action flowing one side to the other. Something along the lines of the rule of thirds for the center of attention.<br />
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There you have it.Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-25485320192986130012011-09-10T22:04:00.005-04:002012-09-23T09:01:28.463-04:00Mad River<meta name="keywords" content="mad river glen, stowe, green mountain stage race, biking, mountain bike, gary kessler, 2011, vermont vacation" /> <span style="font-size:medium;"><img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v34/p624961028-3.jpg" width=500 /><br />
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Enjoyed about two weeks in Vermont's Mad River valley, arriving on the heels of a devastating flood caused by Hurricane Irene. Many persons were displaced, long dumpster-sized piles of belongings and house-parts alongside road, in front of homes low and close to the river. Our travel was delayed because bridges and roads were washed out from the north, south, east and west. The four-day <a href="http://www.gmsr.info/">Green Mountain Stage Race</a> (GMSR) was rerouted at the last minute and part-cancelled on day 4 due to more heavy rain. I was moved and impressed by Vermonters' resilience and appreciation for their government -- Hand-painted signs dotted the road with thank-yous to local authorities. (I wish this scaled to the national scene ...)<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v26/p650822613-3.jpg" width=500 /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v33/p230969572-3.jpg" width=500 /><br />
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Son Avery rode intensely in his hardest race series of the year. No podiums, but we'll be back. It was pretty rainy, so we didn't get as much post-GMSR leisure riding as planned, but had lots of fun nonetheless. We visited Ben and Jerry's ice cream factory, scrambled nasty cuts on the <a href="http://www.greenmountainclub.org/page.php?id=2">Long Trail</a>, rode the gondola and hiked Mount Mansfield at Stowe, mountain biked XC ski trails and single track, lunched at <a href="http://www.trappfamily.com/">Trapp Family Lodge</a> (Maria!), and more. A lot of quiet time playing games, talking, reading, dog walks, and meals with friends was a great refresher. Mad River helped to make us un-mad ...<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v27/p310556249-3.jpg" width=500 /><br />
<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v27/p193724417-4.jpg" width=500 /><br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v29/p14223062-3.jpg" width=500 /><br />
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More pics -- <a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/gmsr2011">GMSR</a> and <a href="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/madriver2011">Mad River</a>, FB with <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2397035647606.2143324.1302423584">notes</a>.<br />
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Favorites: <br />
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<a href="http://www.lareaufarminn.com/">Lareau Farm Inn / American Flatbread</a> ... awesome ... Vermont local produce, organic, great beer ... classic !<br />
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<a href="http://www.vrbo.com/305755">Our wonderful cottage</a> -- convenient to GMSR, biking, hiking, dining ... someone should grab it for next year (we'll probably be in Steamboat ...) ...<br />
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<a href="http://www.trappfamily.com/">Trapp Family Lodge</a> -- a great place to mountain bike, dine, pub, amble ...<br />
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<a href="http://www.greenmountainclub.org/page.php?id=2">Long Trail</a> -- many great hikes, shelters ... legendary ...<br />
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<a href="http://www.gostowe.com/">Stowe</a> ... great hiking, shopping about town, skiing in winter, biking ... full-on nature .... </span>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0Warren, VT, USA44.112005 -72.85594739999999144.055667500000006 -72.938029399999991 44.1683425 -72.773865399999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-16850641455942404462011-06-25T15:21:00.006-04:002011-12-29T20:40:59.575-05:00Selling my beloved Kona 29er ... $350.<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:medium;"><p align="center" style="color: red;"><b>SOLD - SOLD - SOLD</b></p>I'm selling my beloved Kona Unit 2-9, single speed 29er mountain bike. I bought it about two years ago (new), and put it through normal paces in the DC Metro area (e.g., Wakefield, C&O, Elizabeth Furnace) and in mountains out west. Unit is dinged per normal usage, but no issues. Great fun, simple, light and reliable. (I've moved on to a Specialized Evo 1x10.)<br />
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Size is 19" (I'm 6'1"), with stock components (Avid disk brakes), plus Time Atac pedals and both road and mountain tires. Here's a spec for the 2011 version: <a href="http://www.konaworld.com/bike.cfm?content=unit">http://www.konaworld.com/bike.cfm?content=unit</a> ... Pictures of my bike below.<br />
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If interested, please email <a href="mailto:jamesrwilson@gmail.com">jamesrwilson@gmail.com</a> or call (6-9:30 PM) 571.239.6772.<br />
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<i>The bike's palmares, such as they are, include rides up to Broken Top, Tumalo Falls and various loops in Bend, round about Sisters, Oregon, Seattle bike parks, Olympic Peninsula, a couple times up and down the length of the C&O Canal, lots of single and double track around Boulder, Colorado, and various ventures about DC and Skyline Drive -- and a Spokes Etc. best 'photograph-your-bike' award ...</i><br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/s9/v13/p54112218-3.jpg" width="500" alt="Jim's bike on Olympic Peninsula, near Sequim." /><br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v11/p704742518-4.jpg" width="500" alt="Jim's 29er @ Lake Washington, Seattle." /><br />
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Thank you.</span>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763494743303638801.post-59593855564271284392011-06-15T18:45:00.007-04:002011-12-29T20:33:11.016-05:00Family<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:medium;">I am honored by great and wonderful sons and wife. Avery, Carolyn, Nathan. Beauty, love, life-long learning, hard work ...<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v26/p754913513-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
Avery and Care, graduation fete ... 6.2011.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v20/p356692886-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
Nate rockin' up Mount Hood ... (red jersey) ... 6.2011.<br />
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<img src="http://images.jamesrwilson.com/img/v6/p604894478-3.jpg" width="500" /><br />
A great victory, Fitchburg ... world class ... 7.2009.</span>Jim Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00156428628557014326noreply@blogger.com0