Connection Down, Under Reinstatement

Actually, the title would make equal or greater value...I mean sense (too much two-for-one legal copy reading for me) if I were to shift the comma one word to the right, and relocate the first word directly after that displaced mark of punctiation (for those who lack the mental energy to parse the preceding list of modifications (regular expression available upon request), the result would read "Down Under, Connection Reinstatement"). For I pen (figuratively) these words little more than one week following my return from 75 days spent canoeing and backpacking (an activity known to the locals as hiking or treking - backpacking is equivalent to the passtime which we back here in the states call hitchhiking. Although we did pick up a hitchhiker during our final bus ride back to our base camp...but to elaborate any further would be to completely violate the sense of natural progression which readers tend to enjoy, particularly during the expository stages of a written piece) in the wilderness of Australia - for the benefit of those a.)familiar with the area or b.)obsessed (like I am) with specific details, a more specific description of my location would be the Kimberly region, including travel on or near the Drysedale River, Carson Escarpment, Carson River, and Laurie Creek. Indeed, less than 14 days ago, the figurative term "pen" would have been quite literal, but my situation has of course changed greatly. The email backlog has been processed, the pictures are uploading to the web (while simultaneously causing my hard drive to wonder why it suddenly has 12 GB less space), and my fingers are once more accustomed to that text entry system most strongly associated with home computing systems. The time now seems ripe for reflection upon that which I've learned (were this a Veggietales episode, this would be the point at which Larry enjoys the "What Have We Learned" song and the accompanying antics of Bob in his efforts to disable the ~20 second song before its natural conclusion). In such a reflection, I could focus upon the more commonly anticipated fruits such an experience: greater confidence and training as a leader, even greater appreciation for the wilderness, decent proficiency in whitewater canoeing and off-trail navigation, and so on. I could even particularly emphasize those abilities which I can put into practice throughout my daily life back in civilization (associated buzzword: "transferable skills"), such as simple living, self-sufficiency, life in the present, and so on. But then I realize that while those may come quickly to mind, and are certainly useful, a list focused exclusively upon such aspects would read more like a sales brochure (that is, poorly - works of writing in general are not known for their ability to consume vast tracts of literature) than a true reflection which at least tries (even if fails miserably) to capture the essence of these past 2.5 months (such works, inexplicably, scored far higher on the SAT Verbal section - spawning extensive legal battles as to whether this was indicative of deep-rooted flaws in that widely-used standardized test or, alternatively, provided a long-sought defense against accusations that the exam had been written in a manner which discriminated against inanimate objects. Similar suits were subsequently filed against the ACT, on which all written works had exhibited consistently poor performance). What follows is an attempt to enact such captivity (don't worry, it's only temporary - I'll treat the essence very humanely and release it upon the conclusion of this reflective period) in list form. In no particular order (or rather, not organized according to principles which would be understood by any outside - or perhaps even within - the consciousness of the author), I shall now attempt to describe a few (or several - whichever connotation you prefer) observations and lessons from this epic journey.

• The Paradox of (Campsite) Choice: Those who have read Michael Pollan's excellent work of literature entitled The Omnivore's Dilemma (my familiarity with which, interestingly, proceeds from the same root cause as the presence of this blog - both were initially Honors Program assignments) may be familiar with this concept as it applies to food: as omnivores, we can eat almost anything...our problem lies in choosing what to eat. A similar issue arose from the noticeable lack of established campsites encountered while traveling through the most remote place on earth (a title which I am told the Kimberly holds). I have heard it claimed that campsites are designated within other wilderness areas for the purpose of minimizing the impact of overnight guests upon the surrounding ecosystem. However, I know that their true purpose is to protect people from their own indecision; on several occasions my group, lacking such guidance, found it necessary to examine 5 or more campsites (over the course of an hour or more) before locating suitable lodging for the night. Additionally, such designations are often for the protection of local pizza parlors, lest they become swamped with orders from hungry campers who had just spent their past hours evaluating potential locations rather than preparing an evening repast. Thus the loose correlation between formality in site designation and proximity to civilization is demystified. In areas where cell service is available and a such a culinary establishment may be in the vicinity, specific sites are assigned upon check-in at the latest. Whereas backcountry camps, in which coverage by a cell network (much less a restaurant delivery area) is questionable at best, may find that a few wooden posts suffice to indicate those resting places which are considered most suitable.
• Barrels of gold
• Wildlife is a Double Edged Sword: Note: the title of this entry should not be interpreted in a literal fashion. Fear not, PETA: the local wildlife was not at any time made to serve as a substitute for weapons which we were unable to bring with us. Although the spears of cane grass are nearly as sharp, in addition to nicely illustrating this phenomenon. When first "discovered", cane grass fascinated us all; we had found not only a plant which we could eat but also the only sugary snack of which a nearly limitless supply was present. A month passed, the cane grass dried out, we began hiking, and attitudes changed. No longer a delightful treat, this plant through which we were frequently forced to bush-bash (a term which sounds like a popular political activity during much of the last decade, but is actually Aussie for bush-whacking) became a nuisance. Frequent breaks became necessary not due to of fatigue but because we would grow tired of being stabbed by the offspring-to-be of the brush through which our route had recently taken us. Group sentiment regarding the green ants native to the area followed a similar pattern. When initially discovered, they were the subject of much interest and the cause of much joy. For these vegetation-dwelling insects possess an oil whose flavor resembles that of a green Jolly Rancher - we spent many a minute picking the ants up and licking them (discussions later arose regarding the trauma, and resulting boom in business for psychiatrists, that this must cause among the insect community) this must cause among the affected population). However, these same creatures were later encountered on the trail, at which point their tendency to swarm and bite hikers who brushed their nests was noted. Needless to say (a phrase which seems to indicate that the following words are completely superfluous, and from which one may logically conclude that either the preface or the sentence following is placed purely for literary effect), this again led to frequent irritation and equally-frequent removal stops.
• Rain of Terror: The domain of metaphorical sharp-objects-which-cause-incisions-in-both-directions is not limited to animate objects. An equally qualified member of this set fell with some regularity from the sky. The rain (note: the microorganisms which would inevitably be found within those airborne droplets of dihydrogen monoxide are ignored for the purposes of this discussion, less ambiguity arise and I spend precious space and time attempting to explain their impact (or lack thereof) upon my "inanimate object" classification. Which they shouldn't - although it is difficult to separate the two physically without special equipment, it is quite simple to do so mentally, and speak about the water independent of anything contained within it. After all, one can speak of the ocean without including each boat traveling upon it, and in any case it the water is the component of the rain which triggers the experience of dampness so associated with that meteorological phenomenon...and I believe I just had the discussion I was attempting to avoid. If only I had some way...some button I could push...that would allow me to take those words back. But alas, we cannot reverse the mistakes of the past; we can only mitigate their effects in the future by taking action in the present), when first it began to descend from the skies, provided a welcome relief from the heat even when we were traveling on top of the water (see below if the preceding sentence didn't make sense), or while hiking. However, the grass is always greener on the other side of the river/trail (particularly when it's being rained upon), and we all soon tired of the constant precipitation. Now this is a statement which may misfit in a writing of one who is known for walking through the 30 degree (Fahrenheit) Portland, OR rain in lightweight pants, a t-shirt, and sandals (and sometimes gloves - my hands get cold). I would like to state, for the record, that rain is pleasant. However, to hike, make camp, pack, unpack, eat, and sleep in a multi-day continuous rain storm, with only a small tarp and tent for refuge, fully aware that anything which becomes damp will remain in that state until the Earth completes several full revolutions...that is somewhat unpleasant. Especially when, despite these circumstances, the location of water (for drinking and cooking) is still a top priority. The full irony of this situation was made clear to me on that day when, after hiking all day in the rain, we still had to send out a runner party for water because the stream by our camp had dried up).
• Salt for Gold: Those who posses sufficiently vivid memories of African history may recall that salt and gold were once traded in equal quantities. Had the latter been present in larger quantities, such an exchange would probably still have been considered unfair - salt was too valuable. Indeed, in an environment where food is so essential for survival, yet only available in fixed quantities, it becomes tantamount to a form of currency. Wagers are backed by packs of ramen, degrees measured with compasses to ensure that baked goods are divided equally...and rations guarded jealously. Interesting patterns of behavior are soon observed. Only when you're food stressed will you sleep with your wallet outside in your pack, but bring your ration bags inside your tent because your neighbors are running low on food. And only when you're food stressed does a stolen jar of peanut butter represent the most heinous of all crimes. So spare food is gathered, saved by those capable of such extreme self-control...and then consumed freely as the end of the trip draws near and the realization dawns that, upon return to civilization, this "currency" will be worth only slightly more than the Deutschmark during the depression.
• Titanium Chef: After the preceding discussion about the importance of food, it seems fitting that two points should be devoted to this topic. For fear of loss is not the only fruit of our limited rations. Great challenges can also result, compared to which Iron Chef competitions pale. For nothing stretches the imagination like receiving three duffels full of (mostly dried) food and being told that those are the ingredients from which the next ten days' meals will be created. When food is plentiful this is provides great freedom. When over 50 days on the trail have elapsed and appetites are greater, the planning of menus becomes a delicate operation. One must ensure that neither more nor less than the allotted amount is consumed each day, while simultaneously striving to create varied and delicious meals from a fairly-unchanging list of ingredients - a game known by such names as "how shall we use our cheese this week", "what else can we make with lentils", and "please tell me we're done with the rice".
• How do you find a lost GPS? One of the more amusing (to those who find themselves entertained by painful irony) experiences of this voyage resulted from forgetfulness. It was a dark and stormy night...strike that...it was a bright and sunny (ergo rather warm) day, and we were in the midst of a 5 hour bush-bashing session (during which a whopping 2 kilometers were covered. Calculation of our exact speed during this ordeal is left as an exercise for the reader - I don't really want to know how slow we went). Tired and discouraged, we took a brief break to rest and check our location. Shortly after the resumption of forward progress the latter, and to a lesser extent the former descriptive became amplified when it became known that our GPS receiver had been unintentionally abandoned at that point of rest. Too weary to turn back, we opted to record the coordinates at which that act of neglect occurred, and return the following day. Evening passes, and morning comes, and we set out, GPS in hand (to disappoint those who were hoping for a good catch-22 type response to the title question, we simply used one of the other three GPS units carried by the group), to implement Tom Sawyer's "Brother, go find your brother" methodology for the reclamation off lost property. However, the 100 meter level of precision to which we remembered our coordinates proved a significant setback in this quest given the rather large number of similar-looking small hills located in the vicinity. I could elaborate on all the different tactics with which we experimented, but I doubt that such detail - descriptions of how we explored the area at length, individually and in groups, in ordered grids and random patterns, wondering whether we were even at the right location at all, seeing many a distant-location-which-looks-promising-but-proves-to-be-naught-but-a-false-hope, gradually expanding our search area and begging our memories for more clues as to the location which we sought, until we finally found that which we sought - would serve any purpose other than to perhaps convey to the reader the level of frustration and fatigue which we began to feel before we determined that the ultimate answer (to the title question, not to life, the universe, and everything - that would be 42) is simply the age-old adage that If at first you don't succeed, skydiving's not for you try, try again.
• NOLS is all about TLA's (Three Letter Acronyms). And it stands for No Official Lunch Stop (we simply consume trail-mix type foods in small amounts during breaks). I can't think of anything else clever to say about that.
• Whoever said canoes should be paddled? To the city-dweller, the phrase "canoeing expedition" typically conjures images of the intrepid ibex (sorry...I've been following Ubuntu Linux too closely) explorer, paddling h[is,er] canoe down the smooth waters of a river which stretches off into the distance before vanishing around a distant corner. Okay, maybe that's a bit overly poetic...but what is poetry but the closest expression in words of a beauty which cannot be described, only experienced (maybe that justification is a bit overly poetic as well). In any case, my aquatic activities of 38 days of my voyage would by and large (there were a couple days of smooth-water travel) discredit that idyllic image of relaxation. Aquatic bouldering would be a more accurate descriptive; a large portion of the ~220 kilometers on the river were traversed on foot, pulling the canoes (which served more as floating wagons than personal transportation on many a day) over and through what I imagine would be considered class 2 or 3 rapids. If you don't believe me, ask my shins; somehow the submerged rocks with which my legs frequently collided all reach the exact same height. Yet these differences are not enumerated with the rather negative connotation that "different" bears at times. My conception of canoeing has been forever altered, but this change takes the form of an expansion upon, not a replacement replacement of, a preexisting vision.

Well, despite what I may or may not have said in the introduction above (to be honest - would I ever not be - I don't remember its contents all to well myself. For over three weeks have elapsed since I first put fingers to keyboard and commence this work. I apologize for the delay in publication, but take solace in the fact that no general announcement in advance significantly reduces the number of people who wait impatiently for the completion of this document), the above points do not even come close to capturing the essence of such a voyage. There is so much more I could write about (for example, the fact that we traveled further in our final bus ride home than we did during our two months in the bush), and perhaps someday I shall. But I also consider my above comment about the indescribability of certain experiences, and realize that I may be wasting my time already. The only way to fully understand such an experience is to live it. But for those without the time, ability and/or inclination to do so, the above should provide a sufficient approximation to satisfy any curiosity. If I'm wrong in that regard...well, you'll just have to ask me to elaborate.

Broken Record

Readers who have had the pleasure of experiencing the Broadway hit musical Fiddler On The Roof will likely be aware of the importance of “Tradition!” (if only I could depict in type the way in which Tevye so proudly proclaims that word near the commencement of that production). This is likely true of non-readers as well, but I choose to emphasize the former group as it is to them that the following words will bear the greatest significance. For I have recently completed an instance (for lack of better terminology) of a tradition, performing my annual road-trip-home-with-excessive-hyphenation-and-items-that-I-don't-want-to-leave-in-the-trunk-room. The trip itself was at once traditional and revolutionary; most prominently, a mere 36 hours elapsed between the moment of my departure from school and my arrival back at the location of my heart (metaphorically speaking; this was not a Magic School Bus-style voyage through the human body...and even if it was, my biology is not sufficiently recursive to enable my presence within my own heart). This represents a significant reduction in transit time from previous excursions along this same route; the closest contender for this record comes in far behind, occupying an entire 52 hours of my time here on Earth. Upon learning this, the astute reader may begin to observe a connection between the title of this post and the subject matter within. In which case he or she would be...I hesitate to say “wrong”, for such a conclusion is logically valid, and indeed follows, in part, the progression of thought which lead the author to such a brief, yet ambiguous, appellation. However, that two-word phrase bears with it also connotations from days past (yet not entirely gone). I speak of a time when vinyl ruled the distribution of musical entertainment...and when damage to those grooved black platters could result in the repetition of certain bits of audio bits of audio bits of audio...(this sentence terminated by the comic rule of threes).Fortunately for those who have not experienced this phenomenon first-hand, those objects which we know as Compact Discs (despite their attempts to convince people to call them by their acronymic nickname: “CD”...wait. Strike that. Reverse it.) can produce a similar sonic experience given sufficient damage...or sufficient lack of cooperation from that intermediary tasked with the conversion from optical storage to auditory output. The latter, I believe, was the source of the feelings of anger which we began to experience toward our generator of auditorily-pleasing decibels. For upon nearing the conclusion of the CD, it would either play through to the or begin repeating a brief portion of the current song. This choice appears superficially arbitrary, however, I believe I have found a few potential explanations for this variance in functionality. The first is that of fear. While en route to meet me up at UP, accompanied only by my Father, the player exhibited this behavior fairly frequently. When I and my many boxes of “stuff” (to use a scientific term) took up residence within the minivan, full functionality was restored for approximately 24 hours; the “random” malfunctions resumed approximately halfway through the final drive. The first conclusion which one might draw is that the electronics are somehow susceptible to environment factors found only in Southern California. These effects might linger for some time after exposure, which would explain the continued malfunctions as the car drew closer to Portland, as well as the return to normalcy which occurred for the majority of the return trip. However, I believe that a more plausible rational exists for the behavior which I have described: Fear! The CD changer was willfully and maliciously conspiring to deprive listeners of the final tracks of their Compact Discs. My father had made use of it before this trip, so it was familiar with him and did not fear physical injury as a result of angering him. However, when I entered the car, it became more cautious. Perhaps I was simply not as well-known to it, and therefore warranted greater caution. Or maybe it had spoken to one of our old desktop computers, and heard the stories of how I would retrieve a steak knife from the kitchen when AOL refused to connect (a rather effective strategy, as it turned out; the connection would go through about 90% of the time after that. Of course, I'll never know whether that was due to the presence of the sharp metal implement or simply because connection slots would become available while I was in the kitchen comparing serrated edges. I'm assuming it was the former). Regardless, it was afraid of me, and resumed normal functionality temporarily in response However, as the odometer clicked (metaphorically again; it's digital) inexorably upward, it must have performed sufficient observation to determine that I did not constitute a significant threat to its existence, even when angered (little does it know...if only replacement of such devices did not entail a monetary contribution to their manufacturer). Yet an even more pressing scenario in this situation is the letter before 'z'. Why would a lowly piece of standard-issue, factory-installed technology endure such great personal risk for the sole purpose of impairing its users musical experience? I can only conjecture that it dislikes slow songs, and had observed enough albums to determine that such musical compositions typically occur near the conclusion of a collection of songs. Therefore, it took steps to ensure that the final tracks, containing the digital samples of those sound waves, would never be made audible through its interpretation. Interestingly, I know of some who would consider such functionality to be a feature...

These reflections do not stand alone in my recollections from this voyage. Therefore, I have decided to continue a tradition. An astute loyal reader might notice that in this publication this term seems to to denote an action which is being performed for the second time (a category into which such usage of “tradition” may fittingly take up residence). The same entity might recall an entry published in May of 2008. Its Defoe-inspired title name is too long to reproduce here (in the most liberal interpretation, it could be considered to continue for well over one paragraph), but it can be recognized for its numerically-organized summary of a previous such voyage. (I believe it is also third-most-recent entry, which somewhat sadly speaks to my rate of publication as of late). It is this format which I intend to follow in the lines below, recalling some of the more universally-appreciable aspects of this journey.

1. Speed Limits: Despite breaking a personal speed record, this trip was characterized by an adherence to the limitations on rate of travel imposed by those white roadside signs (or rather, by those under whose authority such signs are placed). As the contents of those inanimate messengers-of-the-law varies (not necessarily directly) with local, a keen observance of the values displayed was necessitated. After engaging in this activity for quite some time, I came to the conclusion that the determination of speed limits in certain areas has been left to those with far too close of ties to (a) the corporations who produce such signs or (b) the second song performed in Forever Plaid. Those speeds tolerated on the I-5 in Northern Oregon vary considerably along the interval [55,65], often with no visible change in terrain or surroundings (although for this Southern California native, it is difficult to comprehend the need for speed reductions to 55 MPH or slower when the road passes through a populated area). However, lest I be seen as to hard on ODOT (one of the two signals which Irish telegraph operators might send), I should mention that my native town possesses a stretch of road on which speed limits of 55, 40, 50, 45 can be seen – in approximately that order – over the course of under three miles.

And to allay any concerns which may have arisen with regard to my safety: I am aware of the difference between speed limit signs and those denoting the interstate which one's car currently inhabits. Although such a misunderstanding would have made my time on the I-805 quite entertaining.

2. The Dark Side of The Road. No, this isn't what you get after reversing the old song “The Sunny Side of The Street”. Although the heading does derive from another musical conspiracy theory, The Dark Side of The Rainbow. For the uninitiated, this is a phenomenon (untested by the author, provided as is, no warranty provided except as required by law) created when one inserts Pink Floyd's album The Dark Side of The Moon into one of those musical reproduction devices discussed above, and depresses the button associated with the action “play” at the conclusion of the third lion roar at the commencement of The Wizard of Oz. Reportedly, as the movie is watched and the album played, various phrases will coincide from the two media. A similar situation occurred near the commencement of the second day of automotive travel. The ever-beloved listening apparatus was playing the song “Yesterday” on Paul McCartney's Back in The US concert album, and I received a verbal query to which I lacked the ability to knowledgeably response. Our motives likely differed, but Paul and I responded with one voice, a resounding “I don't know” which filled the vehicle.

A related phenomenon was the way in which song titles and lyrics related to events on the road...in particular the terrain. One does not realize how many songs reference rivers, and the oft-performed act of crossing them, until they all begin playing from the disks preselected that morning to populate the CD changer.

3. A moral quandary arose near the middle of the second day: Is it ethical to close two consecutive rest stops? Unfortunately (or perhaps that syllable “un” is misplaced), only one rest stop was closed, and the others showed no indication that they had been considered for such treatment, so we were deprived of a means by which to determine the state government's moral standing. Which is of small concern, as the high morals of the State of California have never been in question.
4. Continuing along the same topic, an inverse relationship was observed between sales tax and the status of a state's rest areas. Those managed by the State of Oregon demonstrated greater cleanliness and general aesthetic value than those south of the Californian border...despite the ostensibly greater resources which proceed from the proceeds of sales tax. Perhaps Oregon, bereft of such income, is forced to recognize its limitations and is therefore in a better position to fulfill those tasks which it does chose to undertake.
5. A direct relation was also suggested, between latitude and the frequency of cloverleafs in a city's freeway system. This is, admittedly, extrapolated from a mere two samples, generated through observation of the cities wherein I began and concluded my journey along the I-5. However, far more cloverleafs were observed in the former than the latter, and my southward voyage bore me toward lesser latitudes; this seemed to imply the preceding conclusion. (Note to my statistics professor: I realize this is not a sufficient sample size. Please do not reduce my grade in your class.)
6. When naming streets, it seems common practice in many areas to choose titles which coincide with those of cities in other parts of the country. In many cases, these roads are located far from their namesakes, thus avoiding most confusion. The appearance of an Oakland road off the 5 in northern Oregon, and a Phoenix street a bit further south on the same highway, did lead to a momentary consideration of the possibility that a wormhole had been generated and entered on accident...until a realization of the amount of energy required to produce such a pathway through the fabric of space-time soon lead to the dismissal of that theory. However, other naming choices generate far more ambiguity. There is, in Northern Portland, a Vancouver Street. There is, across the Columbia River from Northern Portland, the city of Vancouver, WA. The former does not lead to the latter, despite running North-South. While this street may well have been named for Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada (home of the 2010 Winter Olympics), the proximity of other similarly-named locales should have been considered before such a mentally-taxing title was selected. Given the rate at which new developments are being constructed, I would not be surprised if an enterprising publisher were to release a book full of potential street names, as is currently done for human children (although, given that many streets are named for humans, the existing publications might prove a suitable resource for this purpose).

My other concern in this area relates to a practice in which certain stretches of numbered highways will be given alternative names, often in honor of a significant person. I wonder how long it will be until the remainder of such roads, seeing the titles which have been bestowed upon their brethren, will rise up and proclaim: “I am not a number. I am a Free-Way!” (There is a Highway 6 which traverses the distance between Portland and Tillamook).

7. Confusion related to street names can also arise from unreliable illumination mechanisms. Unfortunately for confused travelers, the Courtyard by Marriott depicted below is actually located on River Plaza Drive.
8. As is the case with many instances of written (or spoken) word, street signs can also provide excellent material for the creation of puns. The practice of seeking, and pointing out, any alternative interpretations of street names is a fantastic way of passing time on long road trips, and one which I highly recommend. (Note: The author cannot be held responsible for bodily injury caused by those who disagree with the above assessment regarding the entertainment value of the aforementioned activities).
9. The AMBER alert system is, overall, a useful contribution to law-enforcement efforts which enables the rapid dissemination of critical information. However, in less “interesting” times, it is used to display more general “public service announcements”. The most prevalent message during our journey read “Share the road. Look twice for motorcyclists”. In keeping with a previously-mentioned practice, we immediately began pondering the true meaning of those words. Could it be that were were only obligated to observe two motorcyclists, after which no further vigilance would be mandated? Were the two statements even related? Perhaps the second component was a marketing message from Harley and Co., urging vigilance and repetition in the selection of my next (or rather, first) motorized transport.
10. Speech synthesis is an extremely useful component of a piece of software designed to assist in navigation; it enables the computer + GPS system to advise the driver as to the best possible course of action when deciding whether to take the road less traveled. However, the variety of options regarding voices, volume, and speeds necessitates the ability to test this feature...including the ability to send arbitrary text through the text-to-speech engine. The choice of text is particularly important when determining the desired rate of speech. Some sentences come across naturally even when spoken at high speed (“I just had three cups of coffee! I feel really energetic! Let's drive 5000 miles today!”). Whereas if you wish to test your system's performance when speaking slowly, I recommend the following sentences for maximum effect: “What was in my orange juice? I feel funny. Can I take a nap?”, followed by several individual words...the more random they are, the better. References to “all those colors” are also quite effective.
11. An ever-welcome and often-sought road fixture is that which may bolster the hope of a road-weary driver, or crush that of those who thought they were far closer to their destination: the mileage sign. It was comforting to watch the distances listed steadily decrease as we made our way down the state (although once California was entered, the freeway mileage signs performed nearly the same function, considering the southerly nature of our destination), but no such countdown is complete without milestones to celebrate. Increments of 100 miles would be traditional but, my introductory remarks notwithstanding, I desired something a bit more out of the ordinary. Given my small amount of computer science experience, a natural alternative seemed to be binary. I therefore celebrated each reduction in the number of bits required to represent our remaining distance. As this essentially amounted to a celebration of half the journey, then half of the remainder, then half of that remainder, then...(stack overflow detected), I was extremely grateful for Isaac Newton's work regarding values drawing infinitesimally close to 0 (and their ultimate equivalence to that mathematical conception of nothingness). Had we been forced to rely upon the writings of Zeno, I am quite sure I would still be traveling half-distances while attempting to catch up with a tortoise and an unmoving arrow.

This list went to 11 (a cultural reference which I have heard used and am repeating here, despite lacking an understanding of its origin and/or significance)!

As may have been inferred by the use of the past tense in many places, Newton did indeed save me from the dire fate described in the final sentence of item 11...and he shall soon save me again. For in order to conclude this collection of verbiage, it was necessary to first produce one half of the prose contained within. From that point, I wrote one half of the remaining words. At which point...the pattern should be clear by this point. Were it not for Newton, this writing would never conclude. I realize that the rather protracted nature of this work may have lead some to fear that Zeno had indeed prevailed (myself included; it is in the third sitting that I am writing these words of conclusion). However, those fears shall soon be put to rest. For while there is much which could still be written, I believe the above to provide sufficient insight into the thoughts which entered my mind while spending 36 hours traveling down the I-5 S.