Flakey Business

It's a beautiful day!

I don't need to go anywhere,
and the snowblower is broken,
so it's time to ski!

More fun in the flakes!  Do you embrace or decry?

The monochrome world.
But this picture doesn't properly tell the story.

That's more like it.
The flakes were driven into my face by the northwesterly wind.

Knowing what is close and far is easy
since contrast fades as the distance increases.

Do you also hear the narrow bridge calling?
"You can make it...slide down the hill and across me."

The view from across the bridge and up the hill on the other side.

It's a beautiful sun-shiny day!

Hope I have enough sunscreen on.

One track up, one track down.

Where is everyone on this fine day?

There must be at least 50 shades of gray in this picture.
Perhaps that would be a good title for a book about cross-country skiing.

Time to head back home.
Sometimes gloves are not kind to fingers.
I should have worn my mittens.

Yes, it is snowing, and there are flakes the size of houses.
Some of them look like google-eyed men with long noses.
And a small beanie.

It's always easier to follow your track back home.

Especially when you keep your skis in the tracks.

Interesting how the same narrative can engender multiple reactions.  Some will be glad they can experience this, while others will reconfirm their decision to avoid it altogether.  A few will wish they could share the joy, and yet another group will lament being trapped in an unforgiving climate they don't believe they can escape.

Which group is yours?

Where Is The Dog? And Is He Clean?

This is where you start.
It's the lowest spot on the entire trail.
Shouldn't it be called the trailfoot?

The trail beckons.
Where does it go?

Mary walks fast.
I take a lot of pictures of her back.

Once in a while I make her stop and turn around.

I had never hiked in the desert before this trip.
Pretty interesting.
No snakes this time...too cold.

I guess they don't have creeks here.
This is the "wash," which I suppose is an apt name
for the low spots where the water occasionally carries the rocks down from the hills.
Must be something to see when that happens.

There are some definite differences from hiking in the forest.
In particular, the rocky desert trails let you know immediately
that you should not have cheaped-out on wimpy boots.

And you don't need to look for a clearing to find a view.
Note the impressive snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Mary is sporting a different look on her back.
We were overdressed.

These fellas waved to us as we passed.

We hiked to Taliesin Overlook.
Looking the other way, the McDowell Range is behind Mary.

The Valley of the Sun on an uncharacteristically cloudy day.

On the way back, I stopped to inspect the cacti.
These little guys look cute and fuzzy.

Don't trust the little bastards.

Is this some kind of fruit?
Due to newfound wisdom,
I'll never get close enough to know.

How do the birds get past the spikes to create the hole?
And once it is created, how do they keep from getting impaled going in and out?
I suspect the the flying is more precise than the Blue Angels.

People zip buy on bikes from time to time.
I don't like the way they disrupt the horizon.

This guy didn't need a plurality of wheels.
I can honestly say that a man on a unicycle was the second last thing I expected.
(He wasn't juggling.)

Hard to tell where to look...
at the fork in the trail, the plethora of cacti,
or the distant rocky peak, brightly lit by the sun.

I think he was glad we were leaving.

I was glad, too.
We ambled out of the backcountry just before sunset.
Not sure I'd want to spend the night there.

Looking for Mr. Wright

We went to visit phine phriends in Phoenix.  Actually, they are renting a big house in Scottsdale.  When Becky was driving us there from the airport, I noted a sign on Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard pointing to Taliesin West.

"Taliesin?  Cool!" I exclaimed.  "Let's go."

"Sure," said Becky.  "What's Taliesin?"  Got to give her credit for being adventurous.  

As it turned out, Frank Lloyd Wright, America's best known architect, once spent winters in his residence that was practically their back yard.  

Mary and I popped in the next day.

One of the greeters.

The cacophony of rocks, cement, wood and cacti
that greet your approach.

Frank and I have rock collecting in common.
His don't fit in a suitcase.
They also have native petroglyphs on them.
His favorite was the "whirling arrow," which is the interlocking spirals.

He also liked these creepy ceramic scenes from Asia.

This is the outside wall of Mr. Wright's office.
He inserted local stone, flat side to the form, before he poured in the concrete.
Actually, his students did most of the work.

Our guide waxes poetic.
Our mass-produced doors are pathetically orthogonal.

I am holding the camera completely level inside Mr. Wright's office.
For many years, there was no glass in the window openings...only the canvas roof above.
Finally, his 3rd wife, Olgivanna, convinced him that cleaning up after the coyotes every year
was more objectionable than impeding airflow.

The odd little short-legged chairs.
He was 5' 9" tall...I don't get it.
Perhaps he liked talking down to people.

The main workroom is on the right.
That's where the students slave over their drawing boards, among other things.
Architecture schools everywhere are sadistic to their students.

A nice view of the compound.
Mr. Wright put in the lawn, against his general principle of using native flora,
so that his students would have a place to sit.
After lifting huge boulders for making walls.

Returning from Wisconsin one year, he was greeted by power lines fouling his view.
Understandably upset and unable to convince the politicians to move them, he put up walls
to change the predominant view to the opposite direction. 

The view of the McDowell Mountains is not bad either.

The bronze work of Heloise Crista is all over the place.

Ports allowing light and air into the structure.
Can you guess how much rain they get here?

The orange orchard is up the steps and down the lane.

The breezeway between the residence and dining room
shows the remnants of the rain we brought with us.

The small theater has multiple curious lighting systems.
Mr. Wright once watched John Wayne movies here.
With John Wayne.

More bronze from Ms. Crista.
She is one of Mr. Wright's apprentices still residing at Taliesin,
beginning her residence in 1949.

The woman of many faces.
Mary liked this one.

The cabaret is the smaller of two theaters on the property.
With no parallel surfaces in the irregular hexagon, sound propagates without reflection.
Would be a great place to see....er ah...Cabaret.

More shorty chairs with an equally short table.
I don't think John Wayne sat here.

Love the piano alcove.

The nicely trapezoidal exit from the cabaret.
Why not?
The upper portions of people are also wider.

Students at Taliesin are encouraged to stay in tents
or shelters of their own design.
"Learn by doing," said Mr. Wright, who never obtained any degree.

Our guide provided a parting anecdote.  While on the witness stand, Mr. Wright was asked for his occupation.  "I am the world's greatest living architect," he replied. 

Later, his wife protested.  "Frank, you should be more modest."

"You forget, Olgivanna, I was under oath."