Divide and Conquer

"Indeed in nothing is the power of the dark lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him.'

Haldier, of the Lothlorien Elves
The Fellowship of the Ring

The Enemy's strategy, one of many, and arguably the best, is to divide and conquer.  If we can be sidetracked from our purpose and calling by a perceived injustice or a selfish desire, the urgency and necessity of our purpose fades, and our selfishness takes uppermost importance.  The purpose  fades, even in such cases as when it is cited as a reason for holding onto our claim of right; it becomes merely a means to an end instead of the end goal itself.

Donner Pass in May

Six weeks ago we stopped on Donner Pass.  It was a Sunday afternoon.  Snow covered the ground.  Parent types sitting in the parked cars watched as children rode sleds down the snow covered rock by the building and landed on the cleared sidewalk.  Tourists wandered about with cameras.  A lady held a straining Labrador on a leash, preventing it from joining the children at play.  The poor dog was wearing socks on his paws, held in place by rubber bands.  Ah, lady, just let your dog be a dog as God intended!  He can't lick those socks dry, and will be wholly uncomfortable from here on out!

Unfortunately The Passenger has no photos of that day.

But today, after hours of driving through the mountains and into the afternoon sun, the Trucker guided his green Kenworth into the Donner rest area.  The children are gone, as is the snow on the rocks.  The thermometer reads 47 degrees at 7:30pm Pacific Time.  The pond is thawed, though snow still rims the edges.  Snow is also on the mountain peaks, and in little heaps around the building. 

A corner of the building where

sun doesn't shine.

The children had a perfect slide between these rocks to the 

sidewalk in their little toboggans.

Indoors, there is heat, which is lovely when it happens in a rest area.  For those in need, they also have one of these relics, with instructions for use below.

Out on the sidewalk, plaques  to educate on the area's history.

We stood by the pond and watched an osprey soar above the trees, then suddenly bank and drop feet first into the water.  The dive came up empty; not deterred, he soared to a tree top, fluffed his feathers to shake off the water, and fixed a piercing stare on the water's surface.  Supper's got to be in there, he will nab it eventually.

He is up at the very tip of the tree,

blending in quite nicely.  How can he see
into the water from up there??

Here he is, a shot borrowed

from Wikipedia.

11pm EST, and the sun has dropped behind the mountains.  The rest area is quiet but for the low rumble of refrigeration units on the  truck trailers.  The day is done.

Breakfast with the Seagulls

A Monday morning.  Near the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake.  A misty morning, on the edge of chilly.  The smell of salt and the harsh cries of seagulls was in the air.  What attracts them to the Salt Lake?  Are there creatures that actually find a living there?

The Trucker and I had overnighted at the Travel Centers of America truckstop in Tooele, Utah.  Breakfast was in the truck, though this Passenger's appetite seemed to be missing in action.

While the Trucker was in the store, it was noticed that the trucker two spaces over appeared to be sharing his breakfast with the gulls.  

Hmmm.  Baked oatmeal had been on the menu in the green Kenworth.  Might they be interested?

They were.  A bit too interested.  Up close and personal seemed the be their style.  

They were not even deterred by the arrival of the Trucker, who shared his perspective on facebook.  "It seems my wife has been feeding the birds again."

And then it was back on Route 80 West.

Through the Salt Flats.

Past the salt processing plant.

And westward toward the mountains.

Climbing at the Echo Rest Area

Ten PM EST brought us to the Echo Rest Area on Route 80 in Echo, Utah.  Evening light softened the landscape in this pocket between the hills.  The Trucker parked on the edge of the lot, facing a small hill with a narrow path leading to the top.  Could we climb it to see what is on the other side?  He didn't think so.

This night, the Passenger retired to the upper bunk for a bit of reading and study before lights out. Sliding the upper windows open and feeling the cool breeze brush her face was a pleasant way to drift off.  During chill predawn hours, when the thermometer dropped to 40 degrees, the Trucker flipped the heat switch.  While he was comfortably roasting down below, on the upper oven rack the Passenger was broiling, and those little windows were a blessing.  Now what might happen, when the warm air from below collides with the cold air from above?  No thunderstorms here, unless one counts laughter, a rare occurrence, but the more precious for that.

The facilities were welcome n the morning, though brushing one's teeth with no available paper towels, and only an air dryer on the wall was rather tricky.  Add to that the water faucet whose sensor  was confused, causing water to gush out every minute on the minute, whether or not soapy hands were waiting.

The walkway outside held a plaque which educated readers on the construction of Route 80, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway.  It seems we have President Eisenhower to thank for initiating the plan for a nationwide road system.  As a young man in the military in 1919, he was part of a convoy that traveled from Washington, DC, to San Francisco, CA.  That trip took 62 days.

An idea was born.  And in 1956, the soldier turned President signed a bill to set in motion the building of a network of highways to knit this nation together.

Back in the truck, at 8AM EST, day was breaking.  The Passenger was still intrigued by that uphill path.  The Trucker suggested the paved path instead, and was willing for his Passenger to become a Disruption, for a few minutes. Phone with camera in hand, I start up the path, then pause by the curious holes along it.  Gophers??  Maybe.  Snakes??  Hope not.  Further on, more holes.  Front doors, back doors, air vents, some neatly packed, some with signs of recent excavation.

At the top, I meet a trucker in flip flops and gym shorts.  He greets me with a smile.

"Good Morning Ma'am."  Gotta be from the south.  No respect like that elsewhere.
"Where y'all from?"
"Pennsylvania, Sir," I replied with a grin.  This is catching!
Turns out he was from Georgia, and "We don't got no views like this down there!"

Photo by Michael Grass

Together we appreciated the view, red/orange, wind-carved hills, and the canyon below, through which railroad tracks ran.  As he turned to leave, with a wish for our safe travels, he pointed to a second path that led upward to our right.  "Y'all might want to try that one, Ma'am!"

Yes, I would.  "Further up, and further in!" as the Lion said.  Trotting up the steeply curving sidewalk, heart rate accelerating, I come round to the top, and learn what that white object is, that we saw glowing in the moonlight in the night.

Looking back down the path.

First, a paved area, with a bench, a glorious view in all directions.  Mountains, canyons, sky, glowing red, orange, gold, in the sunrise.  No words came to mind, but - "The hand of the LORD has done this!"  Down below, the row of trucks slumbering in the lot looked like my sons' matchbox toy collection.  In every direction a view that defied description.  Did I check out the possibility of an echo in Echo, Utah?

No, this was a time to be silent.  It was a time for silent worship in the still morning.  Not for the first time, gratitude overwhelmed me, and I was bereft of words.  The Psalmist said it for me,

I will lift mine eyes unto the hills.

Where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

And if my help comes from Him, I need no more,

And behind the bench, a life size  statue of an ox, and behind it  a real, original, covered wagon.  With warnings not to climb, sit, or stand on the structure.  Though quite weathered, it was in surprisingly good condition.  The white canvas cover is what we saw reflecting last night's moon.  Wishing for a tape measure while tiptoeing around with camera in hand, I was in awe again of those who packed up family and possessions to make a cross country trip.  With no roads or amenities.  There was less room in that wagon than in the Trucker's bunk. 

Wikipedia says the average Conestoga wagon was 18 feet long,

11 feet long, and 4 feet wide.  Looked right for this one.

My head came up to just below the H.

A bit rusty on the gears, and the caulking 

between the boards is gone.

The canvas and ropes looked nearly

new, except for a few holes worn

on the lower left side in back.

Littering, even here at an historical landmark.

And the high seat was a tad askew.

Then, down the steep, curving, path.  Back to the paved lot, and back to the green Kenworth and the patient Trucker.  Back to the highway, through the canyons toward Salt Lake, with the sun rising behind us.

30 Years Later I Still Don't Understand Why...

....so said the Trucker as we again passed the....unique, to be kind....sculpture on the Salt Flats of Utah.

Meet Metaphor, the Tree of Life.

It stands on the north side of Route 80, forty miles east of Wendover, Utah.

This monstrosity was conceived in the mind of one Karl Momen, a Swedish sculptor.  It seems he was driving through the desert of Utah, and had a vision (mirage??) of a tree.  He arranged for Metaphor to be constructed in the early 1980's as a representation of his vision.  I guess on the Salt Flats of Utah, zoning isn't a really big deal.  Though, this vision of modern art is rather a jolt for conservative Utah.

Wikipedia tells us,

The sculpture, which is constructed mainly of concrete, consists of a squarish 'trunk' holding up six spheres that are coated with natural rock and minerals native to Utah. There are also several hollow sphere segments on the ground around the base. The sculpture currently has a fence surrounding the base to protect people from falling tiles.

From treeofutah.com, I learn that Metaphor is comprised of:

100 tons of chrysacolla rock, 

40 tons of epoxy, 

160 tons of steel, 

15 tons of colored cement and sand, 

18,000 imported ceramic tiles, 

5 tons of welding rods, 

7 tons of timber, and

20 tons of plaster.  

The foundation is supported by 25 steel encased concrete piles, each driven 90 feet down into the loose soil and sand of the desert.  Finished weight is 875 tons, having consumed 21,000 man hours of labor and $1,000,000 of Karl Momen's personal funds. It is built to withstand desert winds of up to 130 miles per hour, and earthquakes up to 7.5 on the Richter scale.  

Interestingly, the Tree of Life was also meant to be a "veiled reference to the concerns with environmental issues prevalent in the 1970's," and "a symbol of preservation and survival."  My mind struggles to line that up with the cost and materials of the construction project.

Karl Momen himself, in one of the 

spheres, during construction.

Metaphor is 87 feet tall.  Just three feet short of King Nebuchadnezzar's golden statute.  

Inscribed on the base are the words of Freidrich Schiller, also used in Beethoven's 9th Symphony.  The last few lines caught my eye,

Brothers, above the starry canopy

There must dwell a loving Father.

Do you fall in worship, you millions?

World, do you know your Creator?

Seek Him in the heavens;

Above the stars must he dwell.

Did Karl Momen know the Creator?  Somehow, I wonder.  Though I do hope he did.

And, I might add, Beethoven's 9th has also been used to put music to words written by Henry Van Dyke in 1907, of which this is the second verse,

1. All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
   Earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,
   Stars and angels sing around Thee,
   Center of unbroken praise.
   Field and forest, vale and mountain,
   Flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,
   Singing bird and flowing fountain
   Call us to rejoice in Thee.

I like these words better.  Anything created by man is a poor attempt to mimic what our Creator has already, in His vast wisdom, done.  

Karl Momen dedicated his sculpture to the state of Utah in 1986, and returned to Sweden, from whence he came.  Though he did reappear briefly in 2011 to suggest that a visitor center be constructed around Metaphor, the funds for which, he thought, could be paid for by donations.

"30 years later, and I still don't understand why," the Trucker said.  He's been driving this route since 1985, and before that, riding it with his father.  He saw the Before, After, and During, of Metaphor's construction.

Through the windshield, May, 2018

The Trucker and I have some huge "Don't Understand Why" giants in our own lives just now.  For some they are curiosities, to visit and discuss on occasion.  For some they are reasons for prayer and fasting.  For some, they are sources of deep grief, and they weep with us.  The giants seem as unreasonable as Metaphor, and just as insurmountable.  

But even in the desert, in the Salt Flats of our lives, God is.  And about the question, is there really a God? we don't wonder if He exists, we know.  If for no other reason than this  in Romans 1, 

18For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness; 19Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them.20For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: 

God has ingrained who He is in the minds and hearts of men and women, created in His image, whether they are willing to acknowledge Him or not.

Someday, we will know the why.  For now, knowing Who He is, is enough.

When You Call Me That, Smile

The Trucker planned a stop this afternoon at the Historic Virginian Hotel in Medicine Bow, Wyoming.  His Passenger would have foregone the food just to explore!  

The kitchen is modern, and the eating area resembles a diner.  The staff is very casual; if they forget part of an order, or a refill, diners stand up and holler.  The soup is self serve, the salads looked yummy, though the salad bar was non-existent today.  Our waiter was a courteous young man in sweatpants and a football jersey.

But the decor and furnishings were Victorian, original, authentic, and very "busy."

The front of the old hotel. Diners enter the second door from the left.

Built in 1911, it still offers Old West hospitality.  It is on the National Register of Historic places.  In the day, it was the largest hotel between Denver, Colorado and Salt Lake City, Utah.

Wikipedia informs me,

The original building is a 3½ story structure.  It is constructed of concrete blocks containing sand drawn from the Medicine Bow River and fashioned at the building site. Along with the significance of the size and architecture of the hotel, it boasts the first electric lights and sewer in town.

The hotel proper is papered in Victorian gold and burgundy medallion wallpaper, has velvet draperies and pressed tin on its 12 foot high ceilings.  The main floor has an "Eating House," the formal "Owen Wister Dining Room," and the "Shiloh Saloon," which still has bullet holes riddled throughout to remind guests of some past shootout.  The rooms have antique brass beds, tulip-shape lights are still heated by steam radiators. Only the suites have private baths, replete with claw foot bathtubs. The other rooms have access to separate bath facilities located in the halls.  True to its time, the rooms in the original hotel do not have modern amenities such as telephones or televisions.

The name is derived from that classic novel, The Virginian, by Owen Wister.  Did Owen Wister ever stay there?  I could not find confirmation of that, though the largest and grandest suite in the hotel is named after him, and appears to be set up for the convenience of a writer.  The Trucker seems to remember his name on the register, and a plaque stating that he did indeed.

The Owen Wister Suite, camera glare notwithstanding.

Those floor to ceiling windows were

wonderful.

The only accommodation in the 

place with a desk.

A closeup of the vintage Victrola.

The bed, with period linens, listing slightly to

the south.  Would not have wanted to Trucker

 to try it!  All beds were single or double size.

The private bath, a plumber's nightmare!

A small sink behind the door.  No space to spare

in these rooms.  Folk must have been smaller back

in the day!

Every room had doors to the adjoining 

rooms on either side  

This room, however, was part of the Owen Wister 

Suite.  The door shown led back into the hall.  All 

rooms had three doors.  One on each side, and one

 to the hall.  Add a large window on the fourth wall,

 and fitting furniture into these tiny spaces led to 

some interesting arrangements!

This one had a vintage Singer (just like mine!)

 tucked behind a door.  Wonder if Owen Wister 

did his own mending?

No AC, but the screened windows could be 

opened at will to admit the dust, heat, and 

noise of the street outside.  And the trains

whistled and roared through town three

times every hour.

The Trucker has read The Virginian several times over the years, and a copy resides on his office shelf.  This experience brought new visuals to the story.

And the quote?  "When you call me that, smile."

It seems that was a phrase an acquaintance of The Virginian was wont to use; he and only he, could get away with using it.  Any other man would risk death.  In the story, another man did.  "When you call me that, smile," The Virginian told this man, presumably so he could discern how the statement was intended.

This Passenger was smiling.  She absolutely loved the stop, the tour, the experience.  In addition to the surprise, as the Trucker had not told her to expect this, and indeed she did not know it existed!  And, he patiently gave her all the time she wished to explore.

The only thing needed was period dress.  Jeans and flip flops just didn't quite mesh with the surroundings.  Oh, and maybe a shootout or two.  Owen Wister's suite was just above the bar, after all.  Maybe he did his best writing, waiting for the 2AM closing time?

The Brady Westbound Rest Area

The Trucker and his Passenger arrived at midnight, EST.  The Brady Westbound Rest Area on Route 80 in Nebraska was full.  The Trucker thought a bit, then created his own parking space at the end, knowing that all trucks entering, and all trucks exiting would still have clear access.

As the lot was long and narrow, and the restrooms were at the far end instead of the middle, a five minute walk awaited.  It was a lovely clear, starlit night.  Trees whispered quietly to themselves overhead, streetlights cast their glow over the extensive grassy lawn under them.  Scattered through out were plaques describing the area's history and local attractions, connected by lovely curved walking trails.  

The Trucker needed a rest before the return walk...his back is still protesting that stint with a weed whacker while at home.  His Passenger wandered, reading about local Indian wars, Buffalo Bill's life, and the Pony express, of which a preserved station was not far away.

Back in the truck, the logbook needed an update.  Then another truck pulled in beside us, in the space left open for others to pass through, and which the Trucker needed to swing out when leaving in the morning.  After a short internal debate, the Trucker walked round and asked if that trucker would mind backing up about five feet to ensure him a safe departure in the morning.  That trucker was gracious and more than accommodating.  Lights out.

With apologies for the red dot.  Still learning...not to take

 photos directly into the sun....

Morning crept over the prairies.  The humans and their vehicles were silent and still, except for refrigeration units keeping their loads chilled or frozen.  The birds, however, were deep into communication and construction projects before the sun rose.  Cheeky robins hopped along the path and through the grass, collecting their next building supplies.

One slender robin paused near the sidewalk, eyeing a discarded Kleenex fluttering in the breeze.  A spry hop landed him within range, and after a few adjustments of technique, he gathered enough Kleenex into his beak to allow for a successful takeoff.  Can you imagine Mrs. Robin's response when that flapped into her nest construction project?  Will it be woven into the structure or reserved to soften the interior for its tiny occupants?

So absorbed was this Passenger that the camera was not thought of.  But down the row, the Trucker and his load awaits.  Breakfast on the roll this morning, past fields of green erupting and cattle grazing, scrubby trees, and praise to our Maker on the radio and in our hearts.