GAMBOLIN' MAN PARSED & GOOGLED: Vox Clamantis in Deserto
If you’ve noticed, I’ve been absent lately - how about you? It's just that I haven't gone anywhere, or maybe it's that I'm not inspired for the moment. How about you? Speaking of you, I have often wondered, who are you? Where are you coming from? Thank heavens for
Most of you, of course, are from the U.S., but many also come from places as wildly varied as Slovenia, Bangladesh, Uruguay and Egypt. I know some of you, in the real sense - loyal family members and friends from my "Amigos!" distribution list. And then, there are those of you I know only in the unreal sense - fellow nature bloggers and outdoor enthusiasts surfing the web who stumble on, were turned onto, or have bookmarked my site. I know one or two of you, in the real sense, but for all the rest of you, even though our mutual acquaintance has been purely virtual, it somehow feels like we really do know one another.
Ultimately, I write Gambolin' Man pretty much for the sake of Gambolin' Man. Which is okay, I gotta have some narcissistic pride. Still, I have to pinch myself after posting a particularly sexy piece and ask what's the point, when the average time spent perusing my site is one minute and a quarter, and not one second longer. Seventy-five pitiful seconds! Just enough time to quickly scan the photographs and ignore everything else except for maybe an opening paragraph or two. Instead of plaudits for my written descriptions, the (paucity of) e-mail accolades and (near non-existent) posted comments are variations on "Great photos!" "Awesome shots!" "Wow, what a beautiful place!" Well, I suppose I should be thankful for the photos, for without them, I imagine that 75 pitiful seconds would wither to about 7.5 seconds. Like with this post, no doubt. (Is anyone still with me?) Such a pity, for the juicy stuff takes at least twenty minutes to get to!
Turning to the grim statistics of my Bounce Rate - egads! From what I hear, if your Bounce Bate is over 50%, your site is a black hole. You want people to linger in your world, pore over your words. A knowledgeable person I know, a marketing analytics expert, recently consoled me by writing, "Interpreting Bounce Rate is a bit complicated for a blog like yours. The intent of Bounce Rate is to measure the correlation between customer intent and the mission for your site. In other words, why the customer came to the page, versus why the page exists. . .the top-secret
My knowledgeable friend then goes on to suggest ways to improve the flypaper effect of my site by "giving people something to click on" such as a mini-book ("The Adventures of G-Man") or a video ("Babbling Brook in Yosemite"). As if this isn't discouraging enough, he goes on to lament, "More troubling is the combination of high Bounce Rate and low time on the page," meaning that readers basically are unable or uninterested in devoting time to finish the entries. This is a painful truism, borne out time and again by the preponderance of "great photos!" comments and very few “great writing” comments. How ironic! And sad. But typical, I suppose. Yet it is my writing, not my photography, that is the source of my greatest pride, warranted or not. My photography skills are like my basketball game, where I just throw it up there and hope for a swish (and often get it). But I am such a rank amateur compared to some of my more polished cyber-buddy auteurs who really know how to capture an image and make it stand out – Dan Mitchell and Leon Turnbull come to mind.
So, maybe people pin ball away from my site so quickly because my writing is too long, or just not that good. I think it has everything to do with the precious commoditization of time, the deluge of information overload, and the glut of articles and posts demanding and competing for one’s attention. I really do think my site attracts people who are looking for interesting places to hike, but end up browsing and looking at the pretty pictures instead – almost like flipping through a dirty magazine. (There is, somewhere on the net, I am 100% positive, without even Googling it, someone's take on nature photography vis-a-vis pornography.) People's inability to get through my posts also has a lot to do with, I’m convinced, people being afflicted with Attention Deficit Disorder - in this day and age of chunked information and 140 character communication, who has time for lengthy posts? (A fellow I know suggested that it's not A.D.D. but rather, he teased, I'm blessed with a speed-reading audience!) Finally, no doubt, people ping-pong off my site because, once there, they have zero to little actual interest in reading about boring old hiking stuff - least of all my rambling floral descriptions and fervid faunal encounters; they could care less about poetic narrative apotheosizing the commonplace, elevating it to the stature of the miraculous. But isn't that G-Man's unique angle? Isn’t that the hook that draws you in and keeps your interest?
Coloring prosaic natural worlds with effusive ebullience:
". . .subtle lighting enhancing every natural detail - phosphorescent green moss carpeting trees and rocks, tiny ferns dancing the hula atop a boulder, bizarrely patterned shelf mushrooms thriving on a rotted log, richly yellow leaves layered like an artistic creation of Andy Goldsworthy, deeply textured, magnificently colored red and blue creek rocks."
Infusing ardor and life into the seemingly pedestrian:
". . .now, the creek widens in a big S-curve, enlivening the forest with whitewater noise as a minor drop in elevation galvanizes the flow into a display of mini-falls and swirling cascades, now channeling into shallow turbid pools eddying up against ten foot high banks composed of some hard clay or mud-like rock bearing ferns, horsetail and other aquatic plants.
Transforming the commonplace into the unrecognizably exotic:
"As the day continues to warm up, a few wildflowers have popped out to brighten things evermore. Lovely Painted Ladies appear out of nowhere in large numbers, fluttering around us in a magical, ethereal dance. Skittish Western fence lizards dart here and there. Birdsong fills the air. Everything’s coming to -- LIFE! It’s a golden moment, you’re fully grateful to be alive, blessed to be healthy, happy to be enjoying the great California outdoors."
I don't know where my propensity for this writing quirk comes from, but in many posts I have invoked kindred philosophies by quoting some sagacious soul or another echoing this inherent truth. But I wasn't aware that in 1627, , one of the great poets of our language, also reflected on the miraculous in the everyday. The following passage is lifted from the 2011 edition of The Old Farmer's Almanac by Robert B. Thomas:
"We experience the world around us, Donne observed, as made up of mundane occurrences that we hardly notice but which, if they were rare, would be accounted prodigies. 'Nay, the ordinary things in Nature would be greater miracles than the extraordinary, which we admire most, if they were done but once.'
"How many events of a June afternoon bear him out? The sky darkens, thunders sounds, rain arrives, passes. A rainbow appears in the east, a vast shimmering arch of light above the valley. We pause to enjoy it, we don't fail to notice it; but then we go on about our business. We've seen rainbows before. If that rainbow were the only rainbow, if it 'were done but once', we would be astonished.
"As the shower passes, a hummingbird returns to the delphiniums, hovering, feeding, zooming off, circling, zooming back, halting, poised on invisible wings. Its movements are so quick that they can be hard to follow, and its brilliant colors make it look like a high-speed gemstone. As with the rainbow, however, though we admire the hummingbird, we don't marvel: It's familiar. If, as Donne reminds us, this hummingbird were unique, we would behold it with wonder."
One solution, my friend suggested, would be to find a way to get readers to spend more time on my posts: perhaps shortening them (Heavens no! Just an analogy, but try telling Jackson Pollack to use just a bit less paint next time); or - here my friend's marketing acumen shines through - I should try creating a strong brand association with what he refers to as my "
For those of you who actually do anticipate my posts and actually do take time to read them (you must work in an office) and actually do enjoy the purple passion of my profligate persiflage - I sincerely appreciate the flattery. I've written over 70 posts during the past five years, and despite the telling tale of
Don’t get me right. I'm not exactly calling it quits just yet, and believe me, I am going to do everything I can to make it an even 100 posts before bowing out gracefully and leaving my humble legacy forever embedded, like fossilized papyri, in the immense unsearchable depths of cyber-strata . . .but, circling back, I must ask myself, who really gives a rat's ass? If the resoundingly empty echo of a response is a lone and humbling, "I do!", then so be it. I will continue to write Gambolin' Man for YOU, and for my own passions and pursuits, and if perchance I bring 75 seconds of joy and
For those of you who DO feel enough of a rodent's rectum to keep coming back, after five years of blogging, it must be the thematic content that draws you in, G-Man's irresistible hook, right?
A repetitious insistence on calling out the simple miracles that abound in the commonplace:
"Barely catching my attention owing to a masterful camouflaging technique, I'm lucky to espy, right in front of me, tucked away on a tree branch protruding above a small brook burbling through Codornices Park in the city of Berkeley, a ruby-throated, green and turquoise feathered hummingbird roosting peacefully in a perfectly constructed, symmetrical nest, fashioned out of tiny bits of grass, mud, sticks and moss."
Broken-record pronouncements, elevating from the depths of obscurity to heights of rhapsodized glory, the grandeur and magnificence of an everyday, ho-hum natural setting:
"It was a day in paradise! Wildflowers in profuse carpets across vast rolling meadows rich with the scent of wet earth and sage. Creeks burbling, waterfalls crashing, lakes placidly shimmering deep impressionistic reflections of bright green forested hillsides and snaky-long trees undulating in the chthonic depths. Long views of rugged wilderness ridges and valleys stretching in all directions, so pulsating with life's renewed Spring energy!"
An endless proffering up of irrepressibly enthusiastic descriptions of Mother Nature's glorious bounty, revealing her many guises:
". . .a velvet-smooth, bullet-shaped acorn which you caress softly between your fingers like a lucky talisman; a veritable hand grenade, a heavy and dense Digger pine cone, sticky with aromatic resin and armored with claw-like scales; the amusing spectacle of metallic blue bellied western fence lizards doing pushups on a lichen-plastered boulder; who-cares-what-they're-called pinhead lavender blooms carpeting an area next to an unheralded stream with pretty pebbles and reflections of glorious clouds; watch out! - a juvenile rattlesnake sunning on a little used trail; and looky there! – camouflaged the color of the redwood floor, an inch-long baby newt creepy-crawling up and over a stick. And of course, you take in the big things, too -- panoramic views atop Mt. Tamalpais of remote Marin watershed lands; at Tuyshtak's (Mt. Diablo) summit you gaze out on a flawless day across the great Central Valley at Sierra snowcapped peaks stretching up and down an azure horizon for 300 miles; you espy golden eagles, northern harriers, red-tailed hawks, kites, great horned owls, and perhaps, if lucky, a regal bald eagle circling overhead in between nesting sites at Del Valle and San Pablo lakes; voles scurrying; ground squirrels scattering; blue jays screeching; butterflies fluttering; a field of wildflower dreams; painterly grasses swaying in the wind; still life cows grazing on a bucolic hillside; a young coyot'l resting, half-hidden up the ridge; stringy moss-draped bay and oak trees evoking swampy Mississippian bogs; ocean waves crashing; tidal pools revealing their sanctuaries of innermost marine secrets; the magical allure of waterfalls and that ineffable sacred quality of simple water flowing through carved channels and bedrock on a homing instinct journey back to its oceanic origins. The protean beauty of the Bay Area’s forests, trees, rocky outcrops, bodies of water, hills, mountains, ridges, canyons, fields, meadows, valleys, and views may not be singularly grandiose, magnificent or spectacular in the sense of Yosemite or Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon embodying monumental grandeur and iconic qualities, but what appear on the surface to be merely modest natural features are, in fact, great and small wonders of nature in our very midst, preserved eternally for all to enjoy in this lifetime and beyond."
Heartfelt love letters to sacred tree friends:
“Trees are among the earth’s grandest and noblest creatures / creations. Some trees are spookily draped in stringy moss clinging from branches like spider webs; others harbor epiphytic creatures in their boughs; some, like the great redwood trees, have VW-sized lumps (burls) you can sit on, and unattainable canopies hundreds of feet skyward with heretofore undiscovered ecosystems thriving in them. The bark of some trees is velvety smooth, the color of chocolate ice cream or pearly beige and peeling in delicate patterns of frill and lace; some, like the nuisance exotic eucalyptus, shred long pliant strips of bark that hang from branches like bizarre laundry; other trees have striated or course integument, mottled with moss and maculated in colorful lichen, an isolated close-up view resembling a 3-D map of a mini-canyon. Some trees’ bark smells sweetly of heaven scent fragrances – bury your nose in the furrowed bark and breathe in the sweet woody body odor – mixing olfactory sensations of vanilla, carmel, pineapple, or butterscotchy scents. California is home to the world’s tallest, girthiest, and oldest trees – redwoods and bristlecone pines. Other trees are merely tall and venerable – spruce and valley oaks, for example. Some trees are short and dwarfed, owing to serpentine soil low in nutrients, yet they thrive in abundance as you can see atop Pine Mountain in Marin County when hiking or biking past groves of Lilliputian Sargent Cypress. Some trees are evergreen, while others turn polychromatic in the fall, transforming landscapes into palettes of earthy red, purple, and yellow hues, and when they lose their leaves, there is something starkly beautiful about their skeletons silhouetted against a crisp, blue winter sky. Even dead tree snags can take on an otherworldly aesthetic, with their weathered, insect-bored, bony protrusions thrusting heavenward like weird sculptural deformations.”
Lyrical homage to special rocks:
“What makes Bay Area hiking such a joy and constant source of wonder is coming upon favorite boulders, rocks and outcroppings which are like old friends awaiting you. Some might say they’re just inanimate things, but they are really more than “just rocks” or the metaphoric skeletal structure of the earth – they are sentient sentinels of time’s relentless passage; they are the sacred, the ganz andere or “wholly other”, or the inexplicable otherness of God / Goddess’ earthy manifestation. And so to come upon them, to bear witness to their existence, is equivalent to approaching a holy relic or shrine, encountering and communing with some force from beyond, living things emanating from the earth, projecting out of sacred ground. . .Aeolian forces have sculpted the boulders at this unique East Bay preserve into fantastic shapes and figures, tinged in chartreuse yellow algae and splotched with vermillion red lichen patterns, situated in picturesque hollows like a Georgia O'Keeffe mirage, a chance to test your Rorschach quotient at every turn – see what you can spot in the sculptural contortions of the wind-carved formations -an eagle's beak, an Indian chief profile, a manatee, a badger, and elephantine figures and other fanciful forms."
Not least, melodious gushings of much highfalutin verbiage in vainglorious attempts to breathe life into sacred water worlds - from imponderably vast oceans to tiny ponds, from thundering waterfalls to trickling rivulets - of our blessed blue planet:
"Yeah, verily I say unto thee, seek it out, and you will discover scenes of water that will amaze, soothe, and inspire; you will chance upon water in its natural element that will never be reported on, admired, heralded or honored -- until now! -- miraculous water that, on first impression, might appear to be nothing more than a simple fountain bubbling up, or an imperceptible seep dripping pure sparkling dewdrops through a filter of lush green moss, or simply a little riffle of a miniature cascade gurgling over rocks in the glinting sun, or a ho-hum stream making its unimpressive way somewhere. Go by your instinct to seek out the unusual and exotic, yes, right in your commonplace surroundings, your own backyard. It could be an urban creek cutting passage through neighborhoods and shopping malls. It could be a small city park pond somewhere. It could be water spilling over roadside rocks like a perfect little zen fountain. It could be a hidden cove at Lake Merritt in the middle of Oakland. In actuality, these secretive, elusive, “insignificant” water settings are beautiful and exotic beyond description. What they do is provide a simple means of experiencing the
So, photos aside, that’s why you return to check out Gambolin' Man! For in 75 seconds, you are able to harken back to and enjoy the simple pleasures of pastoral nature writing (such a quaint thing of the past). I intentionally keep my posts un-political; while I may occasionally express a sentiment railing against the machine that has destroyed trees or despoiled meadows, my real intention is to invite you to come along with me on a stream of consciousness journey through the spirit that moves through all things, of self-discovery and pure joy-in-action, where my narrative is unconcerned with “how to get there” or “which trail to take”, disparaging of outlining for you in detail the contours of my hike using the latest and fanciest
And, not last, I hope to help restore your senses, clear your head, and help to refresh your soul so that you, too, can face the discordant music of society another day without going crazy. Gambolin’ Man, it is my hope, gives you something to look forward to! To say, I’m going to do that! I’m going there and have fun like that! Because extreme pursuits, outré beauty, is not a prerequisite for thrilling adventure – only a passion for enjoying the little things in your midst whilst trapisin’ along on a pretty forest trail.
Admittedly, Gambolin’ Man’s style is Brobdingnagian and sesquipedalian. It may not appeal to everyone’s sense and sensibility. It has been suggested that I tone it down, shorten it, change this, add that, break it up here. Well, if I took all this advice, it just wouldn't be Gambolin' Man anymore, now, would it? (How many of
Finally, dear reader (and photo admirer), it is my hope all along to lure you into an escapist adventure, draw you into a pristine world that still exists and still evokes a time and place - or timelessness and placelessness - that can be found amidst industrialization, overpopulation, urban sprawl and the disappearance of natural ecosystems. Perhaps that is what draws visitors to my site and what keeps me excited about providing new content as often as possible. The idea that you might find inspiration for your next adventure in the great outdoors is motivation and gratification enough for me. That, and find some truth, beauty, love, and avoidably ugly writing.
By the way, did you miss the photos?