Back again, usual plea

It's been a week.

Even cutting the list of read journals down to a mere 70 or so, means a lot of stuff is so far downstream I'll never see it without help (because all of the other stuff I read I have to look for).

So, if there's anything you want me to see (and yes, I did hear that Renquist died, and Roberts has been tapped) this is the place to tell me.

The ride

Five days in the saddle. Five nights sleeping on the floor of the horse trailer.

Surprisingly, I don't hurt as much as I thought I would.

We didn't ride that much, not more than 60 miles, and probably more on the order of 50. None of those rides was on level ground. The distance from valley floors to ridge tops was probably about 600 feet, usually. For those of you who don't ride, going downhill on a horse is hard work. Uphill is easy. Lean a bit forward in the saddle and the horse lifts you. He want's to speed up, and the action of his hindquarters is compact, so it's an easy ride.

Downhill, the opposite. He's stretched out, you have to hold with either your thighs/knees (and a small bit of butt, resting in the back of the saddle) or your toes; in the irons. The last puts a lot of stress on the interior tendons of the kneecap, which is to say it hurts. The thighs knees hurt too, but in a muscle pain sort of way, not a ripping the joints out slowly kind of way.

Weather, for the whole trip, was clear afternoons, foggy mornings. The kind of foggy mornings where the Monterey Pines rain on the truck and the tent. Days for lots of hot cocoa, and a morning fire isn't out of order.

We left at some ungodly hour of a Weds. morning, and missed the big hoo-ha ride (special permit, non-members never get to ride in this chunk of watershed pasture, supposed to be pretty, but the real frisson is the chance to ride forbidden territory. Only problem is the whole pack has t ride together. Seventy horses is too many. They get fractious, piss each other off, feed on quirks (Leus, for example has to be in front. All it takes is one other horse to have the same urge, and a race ensues. Leus is in good shape, he can run; uphill and down [bad for the knees, his and yours] for miles. He likes to run... think about this happening where the terrain isn't known and the path a cut on steep slopes. Now imagine 70 different horses, all possessed of quirks and the possibilities for positive feedback). We got in, signed our releases (you could die, it's not our fault) and tacked up. We did about 7 miles, all on trails the instigator of this little trek knew by heart, as Drina used to live in Orinda, and had her horse in this hollow of the hills for eight years before she went away to college.

Back just in time for dinner.

The food was done so-so. First, they have poor attendance control. I suspect one could just crash the whole event, and I am dead certain one can crash dinner. Too many people and no means of accounting for them. After the first night (and never for breakfast) there were no real announcements for chow. Since breakfast varied in the time of it's preparation, Maia and I got to the chuck-wagon late enough we almost didn't eat once. On the second night they ran out of pasta sauce. I think this was because of gate-crashers.

The second morning was a logistical nightmare. This was the travelling day. Which is to say we were going from Tilden to Sequoia, a twelve mile ride (mostly on the ridgetop, but only just mostly, so call it seven miles in along the spine of the Berkeley Hills, heading toward Oakland). The trailers (in which 70 horses arrived) had to be moved as well. They had to be moved first, not just because the gear to tend to the horses is in them (pretty damned important) but because no one can say who will get to Sequoia first, and so one might not be able to get the puzzle which was the arrangement of trailers fixed.

Pat and Maia (the five-horse slant needs a ground guide if it has to make turns into tight places, or back up) left fairly late in the queue, about 0930. The plan was people would start moving trailers at 0730, and everyone would be riding by 1030, so we would all be at the new campground by 1300, and could go for a second ride, in Redwood Park, should we so desire.

They got back at 1200, and we were the last riders out, at 1300ish.

The ride was nice. I was on Tchotchke, and she isn't the best fit for me. Rolls her back end oddly (it feels as though she's moving her rump like a ten-dollar whore looking for trade) which ties my lumbar up in knots. She's also not in the best shape, so she tires easily. And when she isn't gaiting, but pacing, well it's like riding in an unsprung truck on ruts and washboard. But it was a pretty ride. The hills above Arcadia are clear, mostly (at least in the front range of the Angeles Crest) and one can see for miles. Most of the Hill we were on were wooded, and of a variable nature. Anyone who doubts the idea of microclimate is invited to travel the trails we were on. Redwood groves, to dark stands of mossy oaks and fern to open stretches of brown grass and Madrone, with poison oak and yellow star-thistle (a pestilential weed. It gives horses paralytic palsey. A little as one blossom can make them reminiscent of someone with severe Parkinson's. Worse, even if that doesn't happen, the toxins seem to be as slow as mercury to leave the body, and they accrue. It kills them, and all it takes is a moment's inattention to happen. I had to pull a strand of it out of Tchotchke's mouth; which pleased her not at all). One can traverse all these landscapes in twenty minutes easy riding, or an hour and a half of brisk walking.

Sequoia is in Redwood Park. Which meant we got a speech from a guy at Chabot Space and Science Center (it was ok, as speeches go) and then went up to look at the stars. Vega was too bright for the big refractor. It hurt to look at. Spica was nice. As were the binaries (I forget which one it was, blue and orange) M-11 (a globular cluster, The Wild Duck. I don't know who called it that, but I want to know what he was drinking. I didn't see any relation to waterfowl). The 36" Cassegrain was focused on M-13, which was referred to by one of the attendants as, "The Hand Grenade" and by the Austrian woman who first looked at it as, "Oh! My God!".

Outside, a stargazer was pointing to Mizar and Alcor, the visible pair of stars in the middle of the handle of the Big Dipper, (no moon, and fog over the city) with his eight inch cassegrain, and showing the actual binary near it. Those of us who could make out the visible astonished him. Me, i have coke-bottoms for lenses, but it isn't that I can't see, just that I have lousy eyes.

Up in the morning and not going on the 19 mile ride to the EBMUD watershed. Instead we did 9 miles in and around the park. Lots of redwoods, lots of oak, lots of dark and evocative riding. Lots of spider webs on the side of the trails. Huge webs, with medium spiders, spanning the gaps between the redwoods which had grown from the stumps of those harvested a hundred years ago.

The next day was more of the same, then a quick load of the horses, and a short drive to Bort Meadow, nasty road (it took some 20 minutes to jockey the trailer around the bend... the holes to the left and right were fearsome. The truck and trailer combo is a trifle longer than a standard 18-wheeler), and short ride in the new place.

Up again, each day saw a few fewer people. A pair of trailers who made the trip to Bort were gone in the morning (they wanted dinner and the singing [a couple of people who came in. They weren't bad] I guess). A 12 mile ride around Lake Chabot (I don't know who Chabot was, but I like him) which has a couple of nice places for cantering (which is a dream on Leus. He doesn't like being held in, but if you keep him at 2/3rd open canter, it's the smoothest thing, wide open, at full gallop is also nice, but in a "oh my god, how fast and not quite out of control this is. He's knows what he's doing, but you don't have the same impression). The last bit we also ran, that was longer, (though it never feels that one canters long enough). The steady three-point cadence and the even two-point rythm of the saddle and the butt; the give and take of the reins and the sense of scenery going by, just slowly enough to apprehend it (the last is what makes the difference, perceptually, between gallop and canter, at a gallop one has not the time to appreciate, merely to react). A bit of a closed lane, the shrubbery wasn't the sort to overgrow the lane, and some threading of gaps, lest the foliage flay the face.

It was a good end to the trip.

We startled some deer. One young buck stood in the trail trying to figure out what we were, and why were were there. He had a look of offended dignity. Then he bolted, picked up a doe and they bounded off. Another buck (four-point) was disturbed from his bedding-down by us above, and a loud motorcycle below, he flew through the trees.

Some voles, speeding, inasmuch as a vole can speed, in their wobbly-bottomed way, across the road. A huge gyre of young hawks, skimming the trees and looking for voles, some as close as 50 feet, vultures, as close as 15 feet, and below us, and above, and riding the limn of the ridge, views of the bay, between the trees, people on boats, and bicycles (why anyone wants to ride those trails on wheels is beyond me). Trees, ferns, lichens, mosses, streams, fish (well, not really, but I know they were there) rocks, rills and songbirds we never saw.

So we got a lot of riding done (and I read, in the spare time, and the travel time, Volume One of Neal Stephenson's "Baroque Cycle. I'm still not sure what it's about but as with all his stuff I like it).

Five days and a couple of hundred bucks well spent.

The elephant that is Katrina

It may be awhile before posts about Katrina stop.

I've been out of the loop for a week (sort of nice actually, apart from waiting for the phone to ring).

For those who wonder just how bad the aftermath can be, who wonder what it's like to be in the tender arms of FEMA, timiathan has this account of how FEMA is running things in Oklahoma.

All of sudden the landscape changed from picturesque mountainous rural America, to something foreign to me as we approached the rear gate of the camp. Two Oklahoma State Patrol vehicles and four Oklahoma Troopers guarded the gate. We started through and they stopped us.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

I informed him we're here to deliver supplies to *our church's name* cabin. He stood silent and stared at me. My daughter turned and snapped a picture of his vehicle - very conspicuously.

We arrived at our cabin and started toting the clothes in. We finally found a group of men upstairs in the dorms trying to do something alien to them - make beds. They had almost completed the room of bunk beds and told us we could go over to the ladies' dorm room and start on it. We lugged our sacks of clothes back down the stairs. Then we got the first negative message. "You can't bring any clothes in. FEMA has stated they will accept no more clothes. They've had 30 people sorting clothes for days. They don't want anymore." My mind couldn't help but go back over the news articles that have accused FEMA of refusing water in to Jefferson Parrish, or turning fuel away.

We lugged the bags of clothes back to the car. We then turned to bringing in our personal hygiene products. That's when we learned our cabin had been designated a "male only" cabin. Approximately 40 men, ranging from age 13 on up would be housed there. We started resacking the female products and sorted out everything that would be useful for men.

We lugged the bags of female products back to the car. We asked if they knew of a cabin that had been designated for women. The "host" (the hosts are Oklahoma civilians who have been employed??? by FEMA to reside at each cabin and have already gone through at least one "orientation" meeting conducted by FEMA at "BASE" which is some unknown but repetitively referred location within the camp) told us he believed McAlester cabin was dedicated to females. He then explained there were male, female and family cabins designated.

We then started lugging in our food products. The foods I had purchased were mainly snacks, but my mother - God bless her soul - had gone all out with fresh vegetables, fruits, canned goods, breakfast cereals, rice, and pancake fixings. That's when we got the next message: They will not be able to use the kitchen.

Excuse me? I asked incredulously.

FEMA will not allow any of the kitchen facilities in any of the cabins to be used by the occupants due to fire hazards. FEMA will deliver meals to the cabins. The refugees will be given two meals per day by FEMA. They will not be able to cook. In fact, the "host" goes on to explain, some churches had already enquired about whether they could come in on weekends and fix meals for the people staying in their cabin. FEMA won't allow it because there could be a situation where one cabin gets steaks and another gets hot dogs - and...

it could cause a riot.

It gets worse.

He then precedes to tell us that some churches had already enquired into whether they could send a van or bus on Sundays to pick up any occupants of their cabins who might be interested in attending church. FEMA will not allow this. The occupants of the camp cannot leave the camp for any reason. If they leave the camp they may never return. They will be issued FEMA identification cards and "a sum of money" and they will remain within the camp for the next 5 months.

My son looks at me and mumbles "Welcome to Krakow."

My mother then asked if the churches would be allowed to come to their cabin and conduct services if the occupants wanted to attend. The response was "No ma'am. You don't understand. Your church no longer owns this building. This building is now owned by FEMA and the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. They have it for the next 5 months." This scares my mother who asks "Do you mean they have leased it?" The man replies, "Yes, ma'am...lock, stock and barrel. They have taken over everything that pertains to this facility for the next 5 months."

We then lug all food products requiring cooking back to the car. We start unloading our snacks. Mom appeared to have cornered the market in five counties on pop-tarts and apparently that was an acceptable snack so the guy started shoving them under the counter. He said these would be good to tied people over in between their two meals a day. But he tells my mother she must take all the breakfast cereal back. My mother protests that cereal requires no cooking. "There will be no milk, ma'am." My mother points to the huge industrial double-wide refrigerator the church had just purchased in the past year. "Ma'am, you don't understand...

It could cause a riot."

He then points to the vegetables and fruit. "You'll have to take that back as well. It looks like you've got about 10 apples there. I'm about to bring in 40 men. What would we do then?"

My mother, in her sweet, soft voice says, "Quarter them?"

"No ma'am. FEMA said no...

It could cause a riot. You don't understand the type of people that are about to come here...."

The rest of it is more disturbing.

The problems I'm seeing are typical, but typical of central planning, of people who are using bureaucracy to solve trivial problems. The problem with bureaucracy isn't that it can't solve problems, but that it lends an impersonal air to things. Rules become, not useful tools, not even the frame in which to work, but valuable for their own sakes.

Rivka, at Respectful of Otters has some thoughts on how this plays out in missed opportunities here

As if that weren't bad enough, Barbara Bush managed to make the cake eating moments of John McCain's birthday, and those who want to blame people for not being able to get out (yes, Senator, "lets make it impossible for people to see the National Weather Service Info they paid for with tax dollars, unless they pay a private firm for it" Santorum I mean you) said, Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality, and so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them."

Yep, the former First Lady, just said all the people in Astrodome are better off for having had everything they own taken from them, spending time wondering if they were going to die, and then being shipped to a bunch of cots (we won't discuss those who no longer know where the rest of their families are) have things, "working very well for them," because they were, "underprivileged."

Reporters without Borders reports of cops in Louisiana not destroying cameras, stealing memory cards and tearing up press passes, because they don't like what the pictures might have shown.

A second incident involved Gordon Russell of the New Orleans-based Times-Picayune daily as he was covering a shoot-out between police and local residents near the convention centre where hurricane victims were awaiting evacuation. The police detained Russell and smashed all of his equipment on the ground. Russell was forced to flee to avoid further violence and reportedly left the city the same day.

This thing is huge. And it was, mostly, preventable. We live in the richest (or so we keep hearing, I don't know quite how to measure that sort of wealth) country in the world. We knew this was coming. We knew that a disaster of this magnitude was going to cause huge problems for New Orleans, someday.

The Governor of Louisiana called a state of emergency two days before Katrina Made landfall. Meteorologists told people about the scope. Bush was told of this in a conference call, probably too late to do anything, but with the declared state of emergency he could (and a couple of days earlier) ordered trains in to take people out of the projected disaster-zone.

Didn't need to be Amtrak either. A couple of long trains, hauling empty boxcars would have worked fine.

A couple of Nat. Guardsmen on each one, to keep too many people from crowding on, and a half-mile of boxcars, could probably have hauled out almost everyone. If that wasn't enough, just get one more.

China cleared 1 million people out of the way of a typhoon. Cuba (with not much of anywhere to hide) managed to evacuate from a similar sort of storm, and only had a dozen people die.

Us, we lost a city (might have been any way to stop it, certainly not with the way things were, on the say it happened. What New Orleans needed was a long term plan and some real will on the part of the people who have to make it happen, neither seems to have been in evidence), and had a couple more pounded to pulp (Biloxi and Gulfport) as well as who knows how many other small towns which no longer exist (I read was purported to be a letter from the mayor of a town of almost 70,000, which claimed it was wiped off the map). We have thousands dead and a nation which now believes there is damn all which can be done to help those who suffer from such a catastrophe.

This is only the beginning of hurricane season.