rock sites

dancing-thru-clouds  asked:

I would like for you to tell stupid tourist stories? Your story-telling style is very engaging.

First of all, thank you very much!

Since flattery will get you pretty much anywhere, allow me to tell you The Tale Of Jar-Jar.

The First year my family moved to Colorado, my family decided to take the annual summer camping trip to Yellowstone, now that we were on the right side of the rockies for it.  So we pile into the car with all my mom’s immortal camping gear from the 70′s (srsly, I still have the Colemann stove and cooler.  They work perfect)  and Cody,The Gentleman Shepherd.  

Due to Wyoming looking mostly like the ugly parts of Mad Max, we got onto the wrong highway and arrived after dark.  Cody waited patiently in the backseat rather than set up in the rain.  Gentlemanly.

The next morning, Mom is doing something miraculous with the Colemann and there is a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon.  The sun is shining.  The birds are singing.  All is serene and beautiful. 

Then the people in the next site pull up.   They arrive in a Brand-spanking new Ford Pickup towing a trailer that looks like it was salvaged of a 50′s atomic test field.  The Husband emerges first and…

I don’t like judging people based on appearance but Man, when a dude walks out of a pickup wearing a confederate flag hat, and half of a mullet one tends to make assumptions.  

The eldest child came out next, a boy of about 12, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 10, with a rat-tail
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 8, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 6, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 4, with a rat-tail.

The wife finally emerges, looking like death warmed over and carrying a boy of about two, with a rat-tail.  It is unclear if she has poor posture or if she is pregnant again.  The Boys capable of standing all immediately do so at the border of our site, staring covetously at my bacon.

Finally, with a loud plop and wheezing noise, comes thier dog, for a given value of dog.  Pugs are not terribly healthy-looking creatures at the best of times, but this poor thing looked like the canine equivalent of a Hapsburg.  One eye was so bulged as to be permanently wall-eyed, and his jaw jutted out in front of him at a distressingly kapakahi angle. 

“C’mere Jar-Jar!” hollers the Husband.

“Good God.” muttered my father.

The adults proved over the course of the next hour to be loathsome creatures- Husband was constant’y screaming at the boys the “fuckin’ get me the thing, you little-”  then getting mad when asked for clarification on ‘which thing?’.  The Wife was a non-stop stream of complaint- the sun is too hot, the shade is too cold, the tent is too far, the birds are too loud, and everything is awful, I’m going to complain to the ranger.  Eventually they got their camp set up, and Husband cracked his first beer of the day as we finished locking the bear box and leaving to hike.  It was about 10 AM.

We return some hours later to a very animated discussion between Wife and the Camp Supervisor about “I have rights you know!” vs. “Ma’am, we are under an extreme fire danger warning, and Fireworks have been banned in the park for ages.”  Jar-Jar, eager to avoid any outbursts, has scuttled under our bear box, wheezing in agitation.  Cody, ever gallant, positions himself between Jar-Jar and his mistress, doing his best impression of a Real Shepherd Who Isn’t Scared of Mice and Snowflakes.  Husband is unseen, but there are several beer cans in the fire grate.

That evening’s campfire, normally a time to listen to nocturnal wildlife and the Quiet noises of wild places, is instead a time to listen to drunken racist jokes, a sobbing toddler and Husband screeching “SAY AI WANNIT” whilst dangling scraps in front of jar-jar, until the dog stood on his legs and danced, garbling “Ai-Wa-War”  in a voice that sounded less like a bark and more like late-stage emphysema, before collapsing on what looked like sore joints.

Late that night, my parents discuss packing up and looking for a site in Teton down the road over the sounds of half-assed drunken sex.

The boys, in spite of their parents, are well mannered, intelligent and engaging to talk to, and seem content to frolic in the woods around the site, examining rocks and plants and the occasional insect.  Dad has a nice time telling them about the Yellowstone supervolcano whilst their parents have vanished to parts unknown.  Jar-jar remains off-lead and un-collared the entire time, huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up.  Still, five boys is perhaps too much attention for an elderly pug, and the too-hard petting and pulling of ears and tail and suchlike is tolerated with an exasperated whine and vacations under our bear-box. 

The second night, Husband was furious about something, cursing up a storm and throwing things and generally having a tantrum.  The eldest boy said something to him and he bore down on him, hand raised and screaming something about ‘useless pieces of shit.”
-When they were interrupted by my mother stepping into their site, all four feet eleven inches of ill-contained fury, staring him down.

“I was wondering.”  She said, eyes not moving from him. “If I could borrow some matches.”
“Ours got wet.” Dad added, immediately behind her, less as support than restraint.

I remember how ghastly quiet the woods got for a moment there, watching the scene unfold from behind Cody, the only sounds the campfire and crickets.

“Uh, yeah.  Matches.”  The Wife muttered, and it was enough to get Husband to back down.

“You have lovely children.”  Dad continued.  “Very smart, very polite.”
“You must be so blessed.” My mother adds, only slightly spitting the word.

My parents take the matches and talk a bit longer but I couldn’t hear.  Husband gave up, flopping down in his chair, but not before giving Jar-Jar a kick.

The next morning, as my family was packing up to head down to Teton instead, The Eldest boy approached us, concerned.

“Sir?”  he asked dad.  “Have you seen jar-jar?”

We hadn’t actually, his gravely groveling notably absent that morning at breakfast.  My sister and I went on a search with the boys through the camp, but to no avail.  We did find Wife, complaining to the campground host that there were too many wild animals around.  In the National Park.  Saddened and trying to give the boys some hope that perhaps jar-Jar had not been eaten by the coyotes, we left.

On the way out the main gate, we ended up behind a Buick with Florida plates, driven by a couple well into their octogenarian period, at about seven miles per hour.  As they stopped at the checkout gate, clearly asking for directions, a dog climbed up to sit in the back window.  A fat, lop-sided, wall-eyed little Pug, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And that’s the story of how Jar-jar escaped the Hell family to Florida.

BOOK OF THE DAY:

Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story by Chuck Klosterman  

So here’s the deal: we have a love-hate relationship with Klosterman. We have been recommended to read this book by friends and followers, so we thought it would be fair to bring it up to any who may be interested. Now, this is not our favorite book in the world or the worst book by any means, but it is interesting and we can imagine many people who would name Klosterman their favorite author upon opening it.

A pop culture writer and whiz, Chuck Klosterman drove a rental car New York to Rhode Island to Georgia to Mississippi to Iowa to Minneapolis to Fargo to Seattlle in 21 days with stops at different famous rock and roll death sites, such as Sid Vicious’s hotel room and Cobain’s crime scene. Although this is an unorthodox approach on a memoir, he uses this vehicle to explore life and love.

He proves to have deep insight into the human condition, while raising a couple of questions on topics of love we all have thought about. He is a bit narcissistic, sad, lovesick, cynical, which he would most likely agree to and support by stating that all intelligent people are sad, cynical, self-centered and hopelessly in love with something or someone.

Read excerpts from the book here!

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Adorned By Hours

[AO3]

“Looking for something?”

She starts at his voice, and the moment she turns to face him, her eyes lock on the watch that he extends to her. She huffs out a shaky breath, and a smile spreads across her face wider than any he’s ever seen from her. He tries not to wonder why the sight of it and the knowledge that he put it there makes his stomach flip.

Two times Bellamy returns Clarke’s father’s watch to her, and one time he doesn’t.


The first time he notices it, Bellamy is kneeling over a sorry looking pile of wood, vigorously moving his hands back and forth over a stick in a futile attempt to start a fire. He’s been at the task for nearly an hour, his palms rubbed raw and colored an angry red, and he can feel frustration pooling at the pit of his stomach. He swears under his breath when the twig snaps against the wood beneath it yet again, and he reaches for a new one.

He doesn’t look up when she kneels next to him.

“Hey,” Clarke says, and he bristles at the amount of pity she’s able to fit into one syllable.

“I don’t want your help.”

He hears her sigh, his eyes never leaving the spot where wood meets wood, rubbing even faster in the hopes that smoke will appear. It doesn’t.

“That stuff is too damp,” she says. “It’ll take a few more days before we stop feeling the effects of that rain storm.”

He doesn’t answer, hands working ever harder and making his shoulders burn with the effort. It’s been a long day, and he can feel the chill in the air that warns of the coming winter. He knows that if they don’t find better shelter, better blankets, more plentiful food sources, if he can’t figure out how to make a goddamn fire, surviving the Grounders won’t matter. They’ll freeze to death before the Ark ever has a chance to make it to the ground.

Clarke places a hand softly over one of his, finally bringing it to a stop.

“Bellamy.”

The glint of sunshine off its glass is what brings his attention to it, reflecting a patch of light onto his own dark skin just next to it. The watch is loose on her wrist, allowing it to slide a bit further down the fair skin of her arm until it catches just above a small freckle that peeks out from beneath her shirtsleeve. Though the fabric of the band is frayed and the glass is cracked, it’s still more luxurious than anything his family would have dreamed of affording on the Ark.

Keep reading

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The Ring of Brogdar is Neolithic henge and stone circle located in Orkney, Scotland. While the site has not yet been reliably dated, it’s commonly believed to have been erected sometime between 2500 BC and 2000 BC. In 2008 an excavation was undertaken to try and settle the dating issue, but the results are still only preliminary.

The ring consists of about 60 stones, only 27 of which are still standing. They are set within a ditch that’s about 3 meters deep and carved from solid sandstone bedrock. The stone circle is 104 meters in diameter, making it the third largest in the British Isles, and is the most truly circular stone circle from the late Neolithic or early Bronze Age.

The first formal survey of the ring was performed in 1849 by Captain F. W. L. Thomas and crew. They were in the area drawing up admiralty charts when they decided to perform archaeological surveys. Since then, surveys and studies are routine, and the site is currently the target of ongoing excavations by Orkney College. Over the course of several years the ring has come to be understood as an area of significant ritual important after discoveries of chambered tombs, barrows, cairns, arrowheads, flint, some fallen stones, and the remains of a 100 meter stone wall. The exact purpose is not known, but in 1999 the ancient monument because a UNESCO World Heritage Site and recognized as part of the “Heart of Neolithic Orkney.”

That said, the site is a complex archaeological find for another reason as well. It was slightly augmented by Nordic invaders sometime around the 9th century during a series of Viking incursions into the British Isles. Various runes and runic carvings have shown up on stones and artefacts at the site, and serve as yet another example of how the Vikings imposed their complex theology onto existing monuments.