Too Sexy For My…

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A lot of people don’t know that Disco is alive and well in Yellowstone National Park. It is so popular in fact that it is nearly the only music you can hear playing when you’re out in the bush. I found this scene as I was stumbling through the  Willows along the Madison river one fall evening by following sounds that were strangely familiar. Against all probability it was the sound of Disco.

For these grouse Saturday Night Fever happens every night all summer long. Donna Summers, the Bee Gees, KC and The Sunshine Band, they’re gods to this dancing ornithological chorus line and these dancing fanatics can always be found at their favorite hot spots like, The Lek, and Drummers, and the infamous but packed, Spandex, dancing their feathery legs off all night long.

I caught up with this John Travolta look-a-like while he was flashing his under feathers to the hit “I’m too sexy for my Feathers” and I can tell you the females standing around the forest floor were riveted to his every move. Some were even throwing some of their Tertiaries at him, not  to mention the keys to the branches they were staying at that night.

And cool, they  don’t come any cooler than this guy. He never cracked a smile or broke a sweat during the entire performance. The glistening egg that slowly rotated and hung above the dance area highlighted everyone with brilliant flashes of light and you could hear the deep drumming of the male onlookers keeping time with the music. The flock was in a frenzy. It made you want to be a grouse.

Even though musical styles have changed for us and Disco has faded far into the distant past, its amazing, not to mention unbelievable, to know that it is still popular somewhere. It was getting pretty dark as I took this photo and even though the disco egg was reflecting light everywhere I couldn’t take the chance of breaking up this party by using flash. I backed away carefully and left them to their glittering, sparkling, whirling, enjoyment. I could hear the sound of the deep base notes all the way back to my car. Soon the sounds of “Stayin’ Alive” slowly began fading away as I left. The Bee Gees will live forever, somewhere, and if these grouse have anything to do with it that somewhere will be Yellowstone National Park. Keep on Dancin’.

Fight Club

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The Rules of Fight Club

1st RULE: You DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.

2nd RULE: You DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.

3rd RULE: If someone says “stop” or goes limp, or snaps off an antler the fight is over.

4th RULE: Only two guys to a fight.

5th RULE: One fight at a time.

6th RULE: No shirts, no shoes.

7th RULE: Fights will go on as long as they have to.

8th RULE: If this is your first night at FIGHT CLUB, you HAVE to fight.

Roxanne LaRue

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Not too long ago we had a visitor here at the Institute. While that itself is not that unusual, we occasionally allow visitors onto the compound, I mean campus, after they pass our screening and background evaluation and they fork up, I mean pay the modest entry fee we impose, it was the visitor herself that was unusual.

She entered the grounds like she owned them and made certain that everyone she met was aware of just how special she was. Some women are like that, they just demand attention at the highest level and while not saying a word the unspoken message here is, if you’re extraordinary lucky I may pay you some slight notice, but don’t count on it. But in the meantime bring me something to eat and make the steak rare. I shall wait here.

One of the indentured servants, I mean staff researchers, made a politically incorrect comment that if she were a person she’d be a stripper and her name would be Roxanne LaRue, which was apparently the name of his high school health and development teacher. Well, as director of the Institute and chief policy maker, I was incensed at the massive insensitivity of his remarks. My immediate reaction was to have the miscreant flayed but in order to try to understand what would make this person say something that judgmental and disrespectful, and to stave off what I was sure was going to be an incredible sexual harassment lawsuit, I asked him as security was applying the restraints, “What would make you say something like that”. His reply was “Look at the way she’s dressed, that beautiful coat, those long elbow length black gloves, the ostrich fans in her luggage, she can’t be anything else.”  Horrified as I was, but thankful for the full news blackout we impose here at the Institute, I thought about the motivation behind his comment. I also made a note to myself to up the protein content slightly at the commissary as the lack of protein has been known to cause people to lose brain cells and appear sluggish and stupid. Seeing that there may have been overriding circumstances that would cause him to make that judgmental and sexist comment regarding womanhood in general, I commuted his flaying and just had his commissary privileges cut to one higher protein meal a day for the next three weeks.

It was fortunate for us that Roxanne, which incredible as it seems was actually her name, chose to be more than understanding about the entire matter and let it drop if we would conduct sexual harassment classes and sensitivity training for our staff. Seeing as how this could save us huge bucks, her suggestion was put into immediate effect. Now every morning at 6:15 our entire staff attends these classes and writes “I will not say rude stuff to women or accuse them of being strippers even if they look like one” 2200 times as reinforcement of attitudes that should be natural in the human male anyway.

As director I feel incredibly fortunate to have dodged this hot potato, the lawsuit, not Roxanne, and breathed a sigh of relief at her understanding and professionalism. Thankfully everything has returned to normal and I’m pleased to note that our income has picked up dramatically now that Roxanne is appearing nightly at the compound’s beer joint, I mean our staff recreation center. In fact reservations are required and we have been able to add a cover charge which goes into our find more strippers kitty, I mean Personnel Development fund.

A side note:  We must state that the name Roxanne LaRue is fictitious and is a stage name created by the performer herself and in no way alludes to, or is in fact a living breathing human who may or may not be a stripper. Any reference to anyone who may resemble this performer or her stage name is entirely coincidental. So don’t get any funny ideas. The lummox who started this entire thing has had his sentence fully commuted and now heads up our entertainment recruitment program. And He gets three high protein meals a day and appears to be noticeably brighter. This just goes to show that we all learn in different ways. Another step forward here at the Institute.

Here Comes the Sun

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It is the break of dawn here in Monument valley. The night gods are fading deep back into the stone where they are safe and the day gods are riding in with their white-hot spears of light. As the invaders they will stick their spear tips into every crevice that harbors the slightest darkness and resume full control of this magnificent valley so there is no place left un-illuminated. Even those spots that appear to have shadows will have light reflected into them so that the darkness is not complete. There is always a brief struggle when the sun first presents itself to bring the new day. The constant battle between light and dark is played out every morning with only one outcome in this eternal conflict.

The darkness is always reluctant to return to its daily slumber, but the sun is relentless. It favors the light and has no sympathy for the desire of darkness to remain a little while longer. To show it will stand no challenge to its supremacy as soon as it sends it first warriors over the horizon, their spears of light brilliant against the darkness, it unleashes all of its army and there is no doubt that day has come. Victory is always complete and total, but however grand it is it only lasts for one turning of the Earth. Then night will begin its slow seduction and day will succumb and fade again into the darkness. This struggle is relentless with neither side gaining the upper hand. Balance and constancy are preserved.

Fortunately for us this cosmic battle enriches our lives and we are willing participants benefiting from the victory of either side equally. The ebb and flow of nature marks our passage along this journey and we barely notice it for the most part, except perhaps when there is a blazing sunset or spectacular dawn. We support both sides equally and find constant satisfaction in its outcome.

The Other White House

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It was a dark and windy day at the bottom of the canyon. We were traveling along in an old half track that must have been surplus after the war, following along the canyon’s floor and the river bed. We tried not to slip into the river because the water was just starting to flow with the beginning of the spring melt and there were pockets of deep water that could trap the half track, even though our Navajo guide and driver assured us if that did happen we’d be found in a day or so. It hardly ever did he said, most of the time another vehicle might come along and if it didn’t get stuck too, they’d pull us out in no time. With that assurance and two bottles of water and a candy bar we weren’t worried in the slightest.

For those of you who have been into Canyon De Chelly you know the canyon starts out fairly wide then begins to narrow. The canyon walls reach heights of nearly a thousand feet so you can be between the light of day and nights darkness in a matter of yards. In the spring the canyon floor is still littered with old snow drifts and it can storm again in a moments notice.

One of the things you begin to notice immediately is it begins to get quiet almost as soon as you get into the canyon. When our driver turned the half track off the silence was like a physical presence. The wind would blow along the canyon walls and often there would be the call of raven gliding past the red stone high above but mostly it was quiet. These sounds seemed to augment the silence rather than break it. They were so natural that they barely registered as sounds but more as a lessening of the silence.

As a photographer you can not look fast enough or close enough to take in everything around you. The stone walls look the same for as far as the eye can see but every inch is unique. I found myself having to restrict my shooting or else I would still be down there in the first quarter-mile, shooting. Each panel in the rippling structure that made up the walls was like an abstract painting that you actually liked and understood. How could you move on when there was this unending collection of spectacular images. You moved on because the driver would start the half track and begin driving away. He’d seen this before and knew exactly how to convince you to rejoin the party. As patient as he was and he was beyond patient, enough was enough.

As we progressed further into the canyon we came to a fork in the river and had to decide did we want to go down the left hand canyon or the right hand canyon. Our decision was made for us by a big obstruction part way down the left hand canyon that made it dangerous to enter. This canyon is named Canyon del Muerto, with Muerto being the operative word here. If the obstruction, which was made up of debris carried down the river forming a temporary dam would let loose, we would become one with the half track, the debris, the sand, and the occasional Red Bull can I noticed. We chose the right hand canyon.

It was the correct choice because soon we came to one of the highlights of the entire journey, the White House. It’s called the white house because the Navajo name “Kiníí’ Na’ígai” roughly translates to “house with white streak across”. It is also home to the “Yé’ii” a form of supernatural beings who are important in Navajo traditions. If you walk away from the stands where todays Navajo are selling jewelry and stop and feel the power of the place you can understand why supernatural beings would choose to live there.

There are lots of new age conversations about places like this and when you scrape away all the trendy crap that is bandied about them being “power centers for the ancient astronauts” and other idiot phrases designed to get the gullible to buy the latest tell-all book, there is a feeling that you experience while you’re here. It is next to impossible to quantify but you are aware of the incredible setting, the stillness, the sense that this is a very special place in its own right and doesn’t need any embellishment. You are drawn here for those attributes and they are enough. I’m going back, let me know if you want to come, I’ll see if I can get that same half track.

State of Grace

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Commitment. There is something so pure, so perfect and so honest about true commitment that when you recognize it, it holds you spellbound. It is like a state of grace. There is no backing down, no changing of the mind, nothing but total complete belief in what you’ve decided to do that nothing in this world can change it. There are many types of commitment and in this case the commitment is in a more literal form. It is everything this bird is about crystalized into pure action. It’s what completes his life.

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The reward in this situation is the fulfillment of what he must do

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And the result of that focus is a completion of a task that satisfies all aspects of his life. If he varied his commitment in any way or chose any other path he wouldn’t get the fish and his life would be completely different and diminished, he wouldn’t be a Kingfisher, which I guess, could be a lesson of sorts for all of us. Perhaps the moral here, if there is any, is, stay true and you get the fish. Don’t, and you emotionally starve to death, which in every case I can think of would be bad. And we all know bad ain’t good.

Saturday Night

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Here it is another Saturday night and he’s stuck on the river bank looking for love. How many more lonely weekend nights will he have to spend before he finds his soul mate. All he wants is a nice quiet dinner, maybe a salad and some twigs and a little branch water down at the Sand Bar. Maybe a little dancing while the moon glances off the Snake River and the gentle fall breeze rustles the golden leaves in the quakey grove. That’s not too much to ask.

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