Silver Island Campout

Shower after shower crossed I-80. I was nervous about the roads. To my surprise, the road along Silver Island was fine. I took Dad’s Pop tent. You pull it out of the bag and, pop, it is up. I used it years ago when we last came to Silver Island. There had been a wind storm and the fly had been ripped off. Luckily I had had enough foresight to lash it to our van door.

Janalyn, Michelle, Stefanie, Bryson, Nolan, and I roasted Starbursts. We cooked apples and dipped them in brown sugar and cinnamon. We made smores.

The girls decided to cram into one of the small square tents together. Bryson joined me in my large two man tent. We had plenty of space. Nolan slept alone in the other small square tent.

At 6:30 the storm hit. I had just gone back to bed after checking to see if there was any sort of decent sunrise. Suddenly the rain crashed down. I curled up warm in my bag. Then the wind hit. The tent shook and bent. A little water was seeping in the edge of the tent by our heads. That was normal for this tent. Not a big deal; we’d be dry as long as we didn’t go up there to bother the puddle. The wind grew worse. A bump brought my head out of my bag. The tent had come un-staked at our head and the end flapped up against us. That nice puddle of water was coursing through the tent now, soaking into Bryson’s pad, and the edge of my sleeping bag. Oh, and my shirt, pants, and camera.

Things were going down hill fast. By 7:30 our rain fly was giving up its last hold on the tent. The wind caught it like a sail. I climbed out quickly. I felt like a sailor as I clawed out knots in the icy rope attaching the fly. I made a complete circle attaching all the ties but the wind had already whipped my knots free. I circled, tightening again. My hands were frozen. The horizontal rain was hitting me in the face.

I fled to my car to find it already occupied by Janalyn and Michelle. They had gotten wet in their tent and had come to get dry.

The sky did clear up and we had a wonderful day.

We headed out to the caves. In the first I found a small piece of woven basket. I was shocked. It was definitely and Indian Artifact. So the rumors are true: the Fremont Indians did use these caves as shelter. The second cave had somewhat fresh animal bones. It looked like a fox had been in on the soft silty dirt.

Real food sounded great so we packed into our cars and trundled off down the dirt road to Wendover. The rain had been enough to turn it into the slimy goo I remember from my last visit. I was on a slight curve when my car spun. There was no warning. I was just suddenly sliding sideways. I corrected and kept us on the road. We slid and sloshed forward; the car fishtailing eagerly. I stopped my car and jumped out just in time to see Stefanie’s car, facing the wrong direction, slide off the road at the curve. After five minutes we had rocked it out of the trench and back onto the road.

We got out safely, got our food, and made it home just in time to get rained on by a passing thunderhead.

Silence

I fail at describing my emotions while hiking at East Reservoir. There is something incredible, profound, and tangible about true silence. As I fought my way through the snow, up the ridge, I would pause. When the drumming of blood from my exertion subsided in my ears, I was left alone to the wilds that surrounded me. And there was nothing. No planes, no trains, no automobiles. Not even the rustling of leaves or the braying of sheep. There was me. And I was in nature.

The stillness of silence has a veritable weight to it. It is not as if the lack of noise leaves a void. The idea of emptiness is the antithesis of what I experienced. No, the silence was tangible. It was like a blanket wrapped over the ranges of mountains surrounding me, warming me, pulling me close. So close I could feel the earth breathing. The earth, nature, was bare. There were none of the usual separations between us. Its flesh was my flesh.

And then came to my ears the sigh of the trees. They whispered of the approaching wind. The sound was sensational in its delicacy. It was subtle and disturbed nothing of the stillness enveloping me. I’m not sure the sigh was audible; I use the term sensation for that is more accurate. Then, down in the valley their sigh grew solid; still gentle, but now audible. Quickly it grew. It was no longer the trees sighing of the coming wind, but was indeed the first fingers of the wind arriving through the branches. And instantly the roar tore over me. The force was awesome: the wind batted my clothing and pushed hard against me. It bit at my face; its cold nipped at my ears; there was so much energy in the wind..

And suddenly it faded back to the absolute silence without even the rustling of a leaf to serve as a reminder of its fury. Just the calm and peace again as I hiked on my way.

Customer Service

I have just been stabbed in the back by a good friend. Or at least, that is how I feel. Odd, I know. You don’t normally have such emotions for a software company. But Adobe and I have been together for a long time. Back in the 90’s I had the first version of Adobe Premiere the company ever developed. I’ve grown up right along side as it.

My computer was not working well so I finally formatted the drive and reinstalled windows last week. That was trouble enough, but is again running smoothly. I have reloaded my stacks of programs including Adobe Production Suite Premium, CS2. I am back in gear and ready to go.

But no. Something went wrong. CS2 had an error when I loaded After Effects. It loaded half of it and I then had to load the other half on a second attempt. I then activated Adobe CS2. It accepted. I’ve used several programs without problem. But last night I tried After Effects. It would not let me in, saying I “have to personalize my software” giving it my serial number and name. I shrugged, put my serial number in again, and AE rejected it. I’ve tried all variations and work-arounds. I get nowhere. I have discovered that not only can I not use it, I cannot repair, modify, reinstall, or uninstall it. It is in some sort of warped alternate dimension. I deleted it manually and then cleaned my registry. It says it is still loaded and will not let me reinstall. So what now? I format my hard drive and try again? No way.

And this brings us to the title of this journal entry: Customer Service. I figured I would just call Adobe, explain the situation, and get valuable information on how to fix it.

I was wrong.

First, the girl that had the good fortune to answer my call was in India. I have never before had a problem with the concept of outsourcing. Now I do and I'll tell you why. I couldn’t understand her. I had to keep asking her to repeat. Worse still, she couldn’t understand me. She understood most of my English, but the idea of my problem escaped her. We couldn’t communicate. It took five minutes for her to gather my name, serial number, phone number, email, software type. At the end of which I had to clarify again that I had a question and was not just calling in to register.

She did not know the answer and had to ask her manager. Finally, “I’m sorry sir, but we do not support CS2. You must upgrade.”

Silence. I ask: “What do you mean you do not support CS2?”

Silence with some breathing and quiet mumbling.

I continue seeking clarification: “Are you saying ‘not support’ as in Adobe will no longer activate or allow CS2 because it is three years old, or ‘not support’ as in Adobe will just not answer my valid question because they desperately want me to buy their new product?”

With some effort I received, “Adobe will not support CS2. It is no longer active. It will not run.”

“But wait a minute,” I said. “I just told you I installed CS2. I logged it onto the internet and activated the software through Adobe. It works fine. It does run. All except AE. Which means two things: First, that Adobe does still ‘support’ CS2, and second, that I do have a valid problem and need your help.”

Several minutes of quiet jabbering followed. “My manager says you must upgrade.”

I was offended. Adobe was telling me, through this little girl, thanks for spending your $1000 on our software. Now we are forcing you to spend $1599 more on our latest version if you want us to talk to you.

“I think I should call technical support.” I said.

“This, eh, is technical support,” she replied.

And my heart sank as I suddenly realized how hopeless this all was. Oh the problem of outsourcing. She was technical support. She was the last line of help for Adobe issues. She was Indian, young, didn’t speak fluent English; and most of all: I got the distinct impression she had never even used the Adobe software I was having issues with. What a waste of time on two levels: we had failed to communicate on the level of actual language, and second, the level of technical Adobe experience. I had now been on the phone for fifteen minutes seeking enlightenment from a girl who had less experience with the software in question than I had the first day I bought my first copy.

How different this experience could have been had I called Adobe for help, been answered by a young girl in Seattle who spoke English as her first and natural language, and who had years of experience playing and working with Adobe products. How different indeed.

I said calmly, “So instead of tech support answering my technical problem with the legitimate software I already purchased from you, you are telling me to go out and buy your new $1599 software instead of helping me?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Then more jabbering that continued for five more minutes. I realized she must be conversing with her cube mates and manager. After twenty minutes on the call, with no solution, she hung up on me.

Now that is what I call customer service.

Talents

I finished Three Cups of Tea this morning as I rode into work on Trax. I was wrapped up reading, when struck by the dichotomy of Greg Mortenson who had just been caught in the crossfire between two skirmishing bands of drug runners in northern Afghanistan, had not eaten in three days, had lost his laptop, his backpack, and had lost most of his money. All so he could meet and befriend the local warlord so he could build schools in the province. Meanwhile, standing next to me, was a long haired, pudgy man animatedly describing the magical powers bestowed upon an avatar from the various colored manas in some computer game. I stifled my laugh. The two situations could not be more opposite.

The men’s conversation continued as they exited Trax ten minutes later at the U stadium. They were completely absorbed by this game. It was their world, their joy. This game is what they do. But where is the meaning in that? What good does it do?

Greg Mortenson has beautifully demonstrated the true power one man can have when he acts. Look at the good he has done. He has single handedly influenced more than 15,000 children in one of the poorest and dangerous areas in the world. He educates. This is what he does.

The parable of the talents comes to mind (Matt.25:14-30). The Lord sent us to earth and we each have certain talents. Some of us have five, some one. The Lord expects us to return to him having used and developed our talent(s), thus earning interest. He who has one is expected to return with two. He who has five, ten.

Greg has used his. But what about all those of us who are sitting around all day watching movies and playing video games? How is that improving us and helping others? Elder Bednar said in a sacrament meeting held at the Kaysville 17th ward, “you will be held accountable for the good you could have done.” I can’t help but wonder if those of us who whittle away our time with activities that merely distract will be greeted by the Lord saying, “Thou wicked and slothful servant…cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness” (Matt 25:26,30).

This has made me stop and think: How and by what is my life defined? Computer games, movies, writing, the outdoors? What is it I do?

What is it that you do?

Hording

I’ve moved in with Ryan Nilsen. Last week was a little odd. I hadn’t taken everything down yet, so was caught inconveniently between home and the apartment. Now that I have moved ‘everything’ down, I realize how much is still at home. It is really amazing how much stuff I have. Taking Mom’s wheelchair downstairs and storing it last night with Dad, I discovered I have stuff in every closet at home. Craig’s, Janean’s, Robin’s, Kristin’s, the nursery (my old room). How is that possible?

I am a dedicated Thoreau-ite: I follow the admonishment of Thoreau. Live simply and within your means. Seek primarily for food, shelter, fuel. What more does one need than a simple cabin by Walden Pond?

Moving this time, I vowed to cut down, sort, and rid myself of all unneeded accumulations. Having now moved I have yet to thrown anything away. My piles of boxes still crowd Janean and Craig’s basement bedrooms. Carload after carload has been transported to my apartment and efficiently stored; still there is more. But do I really need it?

Probably Not.

But I can’t get rid of it. I might, just might, need it sometime in the future. My piles of stuff may be useful once or twice a year. Half of it I may have even forgotten. Yet when I open a box, the decision to throw out its contents is not even an option. Who knows when I’ll need a broken prop SLR or 8mm movie camera? Or my two old TVs (one of which is European and takes an RF adaptor); or my Panasonic editing monitor I saved from the rubbage pile when I worked for the Church.

I yearn to live a life of frugality and simplicity. I want my own cabin at Walden Pond. But apparently I am a Thoreau-ite by intention only. And my cabin will have to come with a basement with many rooms in which I can stuff all my boxes.

The Good Life

So, I've been living the good life lately. That is why I have not blogged for a while. I am putting in sixty hours of work last week, and this week. Perhaps this is but a little taste of Wendy's life. No end in sight, though. Once I finish this Art On a Grand Scale project I have a wedding to finish and several segments of momumo to edit. This is all good, but exhausting.

This brings me to my quote of the week.

The quality of life depends upon the choices we make, moment by moment, to do exactly what we sense is right...I would like to call [this] a life of goodness (p.319, Bonds That Make Us Free).

Listen to your heart. It will tell you what you really want to do. Do it. It will lead you to a Life of Goodness which, so I hear, really is the Good Life.

Better Than Most, Relived

Bryan Schuurman

Adams Cabin 2006

Introducing you to a new segment you can expect to see from time to time: Old Memories Relived. These will be videos and slides shows from adventures, or entertaining daily life, I have had. I am sorting through my gigabytes of pictures and video clips and realized that I need to share these.

Basketball mishap

I seem to be accident prone. It seems every few weeks I am injuring myself. This is a recent development that I find rather troubling.

This time the injury came while playing a casual game of basketball with a group of friends last Thursday. At some point during the game, doubtlessly after one of my amazing drives and slam dunks (ok, maybe not), I hurt my big toe on my left foot. I remember turning to Amy Schmidt and saying, "Ha, boy that hurt." What is odd is that I have no recollection of what 'that' was. Did I trip over someone's foot (much more likely than slam dunking)? Did I stub my toe? No idea.

Despite the mild pain, I played for another hour or so. When I finally got home I took off my shoe to find my sock red with blood. Uh oh. That generally isn't a good sign. I peeled the sock off to discover my large toe nail could bend way back, revealing the fleshy interior of my toe; also not generally a good sign.

For those of you that saw me at church, this is why I wasn't wearing shoes. I have my toe wrapped and am hobbling around the house. It hurts quite a bit. I am still left with the question: how on earth did I do this while playing basketball?

Davis High Football

This is a quick sample of one of my projects this last year. I did highlights for Tanner Hinds, Davis' star running back. He won pretty much every award you can in one school year. Things are looking bright for him.

The Uphill Struggle

Praying the other night I asked the Lord to help me with my addictions, weaknesses, and sins. I pleaded with him, in essence, to open a doorway and let me pass through to the other side where all my sins can tempt me no more. Lord, remove from me all my shortcomings. This, for me, is a standard plea. Help me, for I know not how to beat the natural man.

But suddenly I saw the truth of what I was asking: Lord, take away my sins and weaknesses so that I don’t have to struggle any longer with trying to overcome them myself. Lord, I want to be strong and good and if you take away my problems, I will be.

But isn’t that a weakness? That is laziness rearing its ugly head. Yes. I am saying that my heart is in the right place but don’t want to develop the self-discipline to get my body and life there. I don’t want to have to suffer or sacrifice. It hurts and is tiring.

The Savior has never said he will remove all our issues simply by asking. We say please, He then not only opens the doorway to overcoming our sins and weaknesses, but clears and sweeps the path, turns on the friendly neon welcome sign, and caries us in so as to not tire our feet.

No. If he did so, how would that benefit us? How would be grow? He is not willing us to be saved in our laziness. We believe in faith and works. Faith: we already know the Savior is strong enough to take upon him all our sins. Works: we need to learn how we can avoid and resist our future sins. Salvation takes work. Salvation and victory over our sin is hard. There is no quick and easy way “for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.” The Lord warns further, “narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it,” (Matt. 7.13-14). The easy way profiteth us nothing.

It is becoming clear. He will not save us by removing our problems, but He will make our burdens light. From the Book of Mormon, “yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease,” (Mosiah 24.15). He will lighten our loads, making them easy to bear. But bear them we must. The Savior will hold our hand and show us what to do, but we must do it. We must walk the path, we must clear the obstacles and debris, we must approach and open the door of the Lord’s Atonement. Otherwise our sins will always have power over us.

American Idol

I worked for American Idol this week. They held a whirlwind audition here in Salt Lake City. I was excited merely for the value of their name. I can now say, hey, I worked on the production crew of American Idol.

I don’t watch the show. I think it is boring and the fanaticism it receives is verging on, ironically, idolism. All most workers cared about on the production was whether or not Simon, Paula, and Randy were going to visit. Would we meet them? Well, I met Ryan Seacrest. He alone came to visit. We were lucky for that. He only comes when he has time and only visits a few of the tryout cities.

But like I said, I didn’t really care. I was more impressed and excited about meeting the producers of the show. For three days I got to work with the people who make American Idol. I mean really make it, and make more than $2 billion a season. They hire the crews, work the cameras, plan the tours, schedule the talent, seek the sponsors; everything. And they work insanely hard schedules. My shift was around fifteen hours a day. Theirs started before mine and ended long after mine. They are just ordinary people. They were nice, funny, tired.

Once again, whether you watch the show or not, love it or hate it—I heard plenty of both, there was something there I hadn’t expected. I had my suspicions about the shallow Hollywood production that seemed the epitome of capitalistic business and marketing driving out what art and purity there was left in the entertainment world. But as I walked the line of thousands of people waiting to enter, I found that something more. They played guitars and sang. They laughed with one another, complete strangers mere hours before. It was a party atmosphere. Everyone was accepted. If you were in line, you were now part of the American Idol family.

The motives of the top executives may be questionable. But the show really has created a movement on the public level. Democrat, Republican, black, white, Jew and Christian; it didn’t matter. The problems of the world drifted away; all that mattered was singing. And for three days I got to be a part of it.

Fear on the Cliff

Saturday morning Tom Powell and I went rock climbing. Tom led and anchored the route that included a huge overhang. I tied in and climbed up to right below the overhang without a problem. The overhang was around five feet. That is pretty serious. It takes incredible muscles just to hold your body to an overhang, let alone move along it and clamber over it. Think of not just holding on to the ceiling now above you, but pulling your body up against it, flat, so you can use your feet along the ceiling. You are fighting gravity and 168 pounds, in my case. The overhang didn’t cut straight across the cliff face; it was jagged so with a little traversing (climbing sideways instead of up) you could then climb into a little cove; in the sense that the five foot overhang was still above you, but also overhung you vertically to your left and right. In this little fold there was a good crack diagonally to your side. From here you could squeeze into this crack and use this thin area of the vertical overhang to get a hold and move yourself around and over. So you didn’t need the strength or skill to go upside down and fight gravity.

I put some chalk on my hands and went for it, deciding to just muscle my way up. I pushed off the wall and up into the crack using just my arms. I ended with my head and right shoulder pinned to the rock hanging above me. The crack was smaller than it had appeared and I was not going to fit so far in. My feet were dangling in the air and unable to touch stone. I would have to move to the edge of this little crack and then try and fit up through it. But to do that I needed my feet. So I frantically pulled my left leg up and clawed at the rock with my foot trying to find a tiny disturbance that I could catch my toe on and hold. I found one and was able to free my head and shoulder and shift my body out away from the cliff to where the crack was wider. I shifted my right handhold exactly as my left toe slipped off the overhang. My body jerked down but my hands held. I was now holding myself by my arms again.

This is when the fear hit. I was hanging out well from the wall. Tom was forty feet directly below me. I was sweating. The wind was gusting terribly and knocking me about. And I realized I had to pull myself up on this thin little corner of rock and slide out and around the overhang. I had no idea what was around the corner; where would I put my hands? I was going to fall. Fear. What if Tom didn’t catch me? What if the rope sawed free on the rock ledge and I dropped? What if I broke my sunglasses? Fear.

But I took a breath and told myself ‘so what?’ I stopped my mind and said, ‘if any of that happened that would be bad. But none of those are very likely. I am not falling. Why fear what is not happening?’

I immediately analyzed my options to move upwards and started attempting them. As soon as I focused my mind on finding a foothold, then shifting my weight so I could lift my left hand over the edge and find a handhold, then getting my right arm over, then bringing my right foot up so it was no longer dangling in the wind, my fear completely vanished. I was left alone on the rock ledge. I felt the wind. I felt the hot sun on my neck. I felt the rock under me. And I moved forward and upward. I didn’t think about how amazingly I had just erased my fear but wasted no more time distractedly thinking about unlikely possibilities. I got to the top and came back down without another problem and it rocked. Pun intended.

A FrontRunner Review

This was written back in May when they had three days of free riding.

I rode FrontRunner today, the new commuter train running from Salt Lake City to Ogden. I figured, why not? I wanted to ride it just for fun and to see the Wasatch by train while it was free. Apparently everyone else had this same idea; the train was packed.

But I am getting ahead of myself. First I must describe the daunting Farmington station. I parked as close as I could and still had to ask directions to the station from fellow commuters in order not to get lost in the seemingly endless ocean of cars. That is awesome. If only they really could keep this many cars off the road daily. Then, looming far above me in the distance I spied what I thought was an observation platform letting people get a birds-eye view of trains as they passed. It turned out to be a crosswalk bridge. Before I could think of any jokes about its enormity, my train pulled in to the station. Ah, the unavoidable last second dash to the train.

I ran up the two plus stories of stairs and started across the crosswalk. This thing was enormous. I quickly realized I had no chance of crossing, descending, and catching my train. That was fine. The schedule said a train arrived every ten minutes.

The schedule lied.

Back on the ground I was forced to ask: why did they put the massive bridge riders are forced to summit to cross to the station completely opposite from the platform crosswalk at the very end of the station? The government’s way to tackle American obesity?

I walked and walked and walked. Finally I crossed. Perfect. It had been ten minutes. Just in time for the next train. Boy, to take the Frontrunner you really have to plan ahead.

I took a seat and waited. And I waited more. Then I read. Then I grew worried about just how much time this was taking.

A cry of joy rose from the crowd on the platform. The train was arriving. The train is beautiful and very nice on the inside too. Perhaps my admiration is a result of riding Italian trains with soot and graffiti covered windows. How long will Frontrunner last until it matches its Italian cousins?

The train was full. I found an open seat on the top floor (yippy!) and was awarded with a stunning view of the mountains, and of the freeway traffic zipping past us. On my return trip it was traffic on residential back streets passing us. Isn’t that only 25 mph?

I rode from Farmington to Ogden, a distance of roughly 20 miles as the train crawls, in an hour and a half. Round trip was over three hours. Not too impressive. But that will improve with time. The trains both direction are sharing one track and so continually stop to let the oncoming train pass. This seems like a bad idea, but hopefully UTA will quickly get the coordination and timing down so the long pauses in the middle of nowhere disappear. One passenger told me, “Well, this is to be expected.” Why is it expected? Can’t you have trains timed correctly or use separate tracks or is that expecting too much? I know that may double the cost of track, but here on the Wasatch front there are between three and four tracks now down side by side. The entire time I was on Frontrunner only one Union Pacific freight train passed on their two or three tracks. I can only assume UTA failed to negotiate successfully with Union Pacific for coordinated use of their lines. Maybe some research on this topic could be enlightening.

Once again, I have cause to compare to the wonderful Italian trains that don’t stop randomly, and are regularly on time. I know that is not fair. To truly compare the two systems, lets give UTA millions of dollars more, and another 20 years to get its feet established and head on straight.

But it is hard not to compare…