What was it like to tackle the trail descending into, through and back out of King’s Canyon in the Australian outback? I’m going to get to that. First, though, I want to talk about this idea of being a traveler versus being a tourist.
Bear with me. I’m going somewhere with this.
I think the concept we carry with us when we define ourselves as travelers rather than tourists is of importance only to the people who are actually in transit… because transit is the heart of the experience. We’re not home, and pretending like we are is a big mistake. Certainly to the people who actually bed down for the night, every night, in the places where we are temporarily visiting, tourism versus travel is a distinction without a difference. They certainly do not take the time to rank and collate us based on our self-definitions. To them, it is we who are the temporary blips on their horizon, not the other way around. We can fool ourselves into thinking we “know’ a place, but this is never the case. I use the Utilities Rule. You’re not a grown up until you get your first utilities bill, and you don’t get to claim you know a place until the same thing happens.
One of the pleasures I took from almost fifteen years of calling local newsrooms around the country my home base was that I was actually living in places most people would either only visit or, much more likely, never visit at all. Certainly there is not a booming tourist trade in Sioux Falls, South Dakota or Pueblo, Colorado, no matter how hard the local convention and visitors bureaus try to make it so.
That only made those places all the more appealing to me. I was absolutely enamored with the fact I could tell you where to find the best steaks in Pierre, where there was an ATM in Brookings that would dispense cash in $5 increments and that the Dells was the best place to have a picnic with your girlfriend. I liked knowing that the best Mexican food in Pueblo was (and is) in a converted gas station, that Powers Boulevard in Colorado Springs was in danger of becoming the next Academy Boulevard and that Pike’s Perk was a much more central figure on my radar than Pike’s Peak. I liked knowing that the real Memphis has nothing to do with Graceland and that, gun to my head, I would rather go to Neely’s on the Interstate than the Rendezvous for all my barbecue related needs any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
So now that my life as a filmmaker is based much more on traveling and picking up whatever genuine observations I can in a limited amount of time, the impossibility of my mission troubles me. I have to set aside, as much as I can, the knowledge that I can only come so close to really knowing a place or its people. As far as the storytelling goes, I have to do the best I can and hope it’s better than most.
Like I said, bear with me, I’m going somewhere with this.
During our time in Australia, it was hard to shake the feeling that the Aussies were pulling one over on us. “Just say ‘G’day’ and ‘mate’ as much as you can,” I could imagine them saying to themselves when we were out of earshot. “They’ll think that’s how we really talk.” The stereotype of the cheery Australian, throwing another shrimp on the barbie and wishing you a pleasant “G’day, mate,” and a hearty “cheers,” as you left was so prevalent that I wondered if this was a play acted out on our behalf.
In short… where does truth lie in the midst of travel?
I take these journeys from a rather unique vantage point… that of the visually impaired filmmaker. An oxymoron if ever there was one, and when it comes to barriers, I sometimes feel like I get it coming and going. Being a filmmaker is often the impossible bar when it comes to knowing, really knowing someone. For as much as we in the filmmaking community, especially the documentary subgenre, want to say that our work is all about finding truth, that very loftiness really gets in the way. Isn’t that such a high and mighty thing to say? Seeking truth. Personally, I try to avoid it. If the truth is out there (thanks Fox Mulder, and welcome back to prime time, by the way), it’s not at the top of my hit parade. Anyone who has been in the business for any amount of time will tell you that the truth is not out there. It’s a moving target. My advice, such as it is? Just try to tell the best story you can and hope it speaks to people. That’s my way of breaking down the barriers. My agenda is not to find truth. Just to tell a story. This has helped more often than I can count.
Now add in the visually impaired part.
See? I told you I was going somewhere with this. Hang on, we’re almost there.
I carry a barrier with me every day, whether I like it or not. It’s the fifty four inch long cane I use to navigate most of my world. It might as well be a brick wall rather than a slender graphite stick. I joke about it as much as I can, saying that I’m “doing the Moses thing” when I walk through a crowd, as the wave of oncoming human traffic parts like the Red Sea in a Cecil B. Demille flick. This is at the same time amusing, necessary… and a very lonely way to live. The cane is a barrier between me and the normal human contact that is the normal bustle of simple mobility in a large crowd.
The great unspoken truth of walking with a cane is that, for the brief moment people pay attention to you, there is a wave of pity that is so thick that it almost knocks a person flat. I’ve found that the best way to deal with this is to remember that most people are so preoccupied with their own lives that at least the flash of pity is in fact only a flash. It doesn’t last very long. They tend to forget about you as soon as they pass. I’m glad for that, because if I felt for more than a moment that I was living in a world of extended sympathy and well meaning, but unnecessary caregiving, I’d have a hard time leaving the house in the morning.
You learn to incorporate it and wall it off as yet another barrier. As I write this, I’m a few minutes away from heading to a Marina on the north side of San Francisco to practice for a sailing competition I’m in this September. On my boat will be one other visually impaired person and two sighted crew members. On the way to the pier from where I sit in Noe Valley right now, there will be a predictable routine. There will be someone, or more likely several someone’s who will ask me if I need help crossing the street. At my transfer for the light rail to the Embarcadero, where I will meet my trimmer (the sailor who runs the mainsail), there will be at least one person who, as I board the MUNI, will ask me if I want his or her seat… this although my legs work perfectly well. I’ll do the Moses thing and head to the docks.
And then I’ll step on the boat… and all is, if not forgiven, at least temporarily forgotten. The minute I step on the boat, I’m the helmsman. Not the blind helmsman. Just… the helmsman. There is no question among the crew – sighted and impaired – that I am capable of doing my job… getting the boat where it needs to go. Likewise, I have the same lack of doubt about my trimmer. He knows the sails as well as anyone I know. Our sighted crew, running the jib or calling the obstacles I’m responsible for steering around or through, have their jobs, and I have mine… and it all works.
If only that trust – that elevated bar of accurate perceptions and high expectations worked off the boat as well.
We’re almost there, thank you for waiting. Your call is very important.
I’ve been training for more than a year for something like King’s Canyon. My hiking partner here in San Francisco brings that level of expectation and trust to the game. I am pretty sure that Loren has only a passing familiarity with the word no, and our hikes have taken a “no barriers” approach, but not on purpose. It just always worked out that way. Tackle Montero? Why not? The coastal trail to Hill 82 in the Headlands? Of course. The back side ravines near Twin Peaks? Done and done.
It all led up to the hike in King’s Canyon. Different hiking partner but the same goals, and the same expectations.
Hiking in King’s Canyon does not leave room for error, or turning back. In the words of the immortal Bartleby, he of scrivener fame, if you would prefer not, best to decide this beforehand and enjoy the pool at the King’s Canyon Resort twelve miles up the road… it’s quite relaxing. Nobody will blame you, either. However, if you’re up for a challenge… well then, read on, my fellow traveler.
You scale Heart Attack Hill and from that point on you’re committed. You discover that the rough hewn stone steps offer minimal purchase at best and forward is the only solution. You crest the rim and the full force of a 38 degree Celsius morning hits you flat in the face that the only cold air is either the midpoint spur trail that leads to the Garden of Eden at water’s edge at the bottom of the canyon or the air conditioning in the car at the end of the loop about six miles away from your current position four miles in.
Oh, and you’re doing it with the two pole technique that worked so well in the Bay Area but now is murder on your knees. In a world of fogs and blurs, colors and shadows, you can see the path in front of you,, but the twists and turns… not to mention the drop-offs to the side… are a guessing game at best. That is, though, what the poles are for. They’re your second pair of eyes… or perhaps your first. The switchbacks you were ready for based on your Grand Canyon trek are only a rare gift, appearing in King’s Canyon in a meaningful way only twice during the whole hike. This is a trust your knees and plan your footing well, step after step after step slog, and it lasts for thousands of steps. Tens of thousands, actually. You’re thanking God or whatever deity might be handy at the moment that you and your cinematographer decided at the last moment to go ahead and buy the bear bells – not because there are actually bears anywhere near you at the moment (it’s the snakes and spiders that will kill you) but because the sound of those bells… their rise and fall above and below your sightline (so to speak) help you figure out the angle of ascent or descent. The communication between you and your hiking partner/cinematographer (“sharp turn to the right in ten meters,” “dropoff on your left with no grade,” and so forth…) is necessary, and will probably save your life, and that this is not an exaggeration in any way.
But you’re doing it under your own power, and with the navigation skills you’ve spent a year mastering. Or perhaps you’re only a journeyman at this point, but it’s working. Holy moley it’s working.
And then, time after time, you pass hikers – some going the same direction as you, others crossing your trail. And there’s that point where they’re gauging the situation, trying to figure it out, and it hits them. One of the two of you can’t see. And therees that feeling of cognitive dissonance. But as hard as you’re looking for it, as much as you’re expecting it… where’s the pity?
It’s not there. There’s… dare I imagine… respect? Admiration? Kinship? My goodness, I do believe it’s a hat trick.
And there’s one guy. Clearly an Aussie And it’s not exactly what he says, but the tone of his voice as he says it. What he says is this:’ Good on ya, mate.”
Like I said, it’s the way he said it. I had certainly heard it enough times over the past several weeks to know this phrase is part of the stock in trade for local colloquialisms… or I think it is. I mentioned my suspicions earlier.
This time? Not a trace of pity in his voice. You know respect when you hear it.
I think I’m going to carry that “Good on ya, mate” with me for the foreseeable future. The next time someone insists I take their seat on the bus, the next time someone grabs my arm without my asking, the next time someone says “that’s amazing” when all I’ve done is get out of a cab and make it to the door… or find the door without assistance. These are all people who mean well, but are setting the bar too low. I’ll take that “Good on ya, mate,” as a sign that when you work hard enough for something you believe in, respect and equality is part and parcel of the gig.
I might have been a traveler or I might have been a tourist, but I’ll say this.I can tell you where to get the best steak in South Dakota. I can tell you where to get your alternator fixed without getting ripped off in Pueblo. And now I can tell you where to feel at home in the middle of the Australian outback.
It’s King’s Canyon. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
