Monday, April 30, 2007

Indian Trail Steps geocache finally found


The geocache has been finally found. Pretty stunning that three independent geocachers converged to it at the same time last friday, two weeks after it was published. Here are the logs of all three that went to it:

--

Jigsaw07 found Indian Trail Steps (Traditional Cache) at 4/27/2007

Log Date: 4/27/2007
Decided to try this one after work today. Rode down to the parking spot
and as I started to walk towards the starting point I ran into JimBat
and Mooman56. We all shared some info and made our way down to the first
or was it the second or maybe the third marker?? Not really sure but we
did find some of the old posts. This is a very interesting area that I
never would have thought was here. Continued down towards the cache and
came upon the slide. Hike up a little way and my fellow cachers snapped
some pics. Made our way to ground zero and spotted the cache one by
one. After we all found it I grabbed it from its spot and Wooooooooo
Whooooooooooooo.... OUCH. I hurt myself again. FTF, Yeah me. We all signed
the logbook and I rehid the cache.

Great cache glad I made it down there.
Took FTF Coin
Left Dollar Coin
TFTC I really enjoyed


jimbat found Indian Trail Steps (Traditional Cache) at 4/27/2007

Log Date: 4/27/2007
JimBat found it. When I first started geocaching Mooman56 said check
out this guy's profile picture and it was Sherpes and I thought what a
fruit cake. Over time though I read more about the Hash House Harriers and
the profile picture made sense. FYI I plan on wearing that red dress
soon but I will not be using it as my profile Pic. Anyway I was sitting
on top entering the coordinates for the posts and Moons Passage when
first Mooman56 showed up then Jigsaw07. They did not have these
coordinates so I shared these with them before we started our journey. Alot of
good that was as we some how managed to skip the first 3 post before
finally finding the fourth set after climbing down a steep rocky cliff.
From here I was thinking how bad can that landslide be and wanted to
continue on but decided to head down and go through Moons Passage like the
cache page recommended. The moons passage was probably the hardest part
of the hike but Im glad we went this way cause after making our wa
y through it we came upon the landslide area. From here we continued
on and found the cache only to find out we were the FTFs. How could this
be. Where were all the FTF chasers for this one. The BubbaBuddhaCops
ETC. I guess the 4 star terrain was a little too much for them. Also
while signing the log Im pretty sure we saw the woodland creature that
sprayed ddell99 and I got a picture of it and its in the gallery. I really
liked this cache esp. the picture of what the steps used to look like
and the info on the cache page. Good Job. Took nothing and left a
geocoin and steeler pin. TFTC

---
Mooman56 found Indian Trail Steps (Traditional Cache) at 4/27/2007

Log Date: 4/27/2007
Well, instead of doing all the stuff around the house that needed done
before work today, I decided to go cachin'!!!

I had read about this cache right after it was published and thought, I
gotta go do this one!!! Love the history behind it, love the pics on
the cache page, and who hasn't always wanted to climb down over that
hill???

So, I get to the parking area, and I hear someone holler at me. It was
Jigsaw07! Can't believe I ran into someone that I work with, who also
lives 50+ miles away! Crazy.

As we were walking over toward the cache, we see someone sitting in the
grass, punchin' numbers into a GPS! Low and behold, it was JimBat
sitting on the grassy knoll!!!

Now, I really can't believe I ran into someone else that I work with,
who also lives 50+ miles away! Hard to believe, isn't it?

So, Jigsaw and I walk over to JimBat, or wait, was it JimBat and I who
walked over to Jigsaw, anyway we all compare notes once again, and,
imagine that, we all had the same numbers!

So we found the micro at the top, sign in and all that jazz, then it
was time to head over the hill! Oh yeah, this was cool. We had all the
coordinates for the old posts in our GPSr's but somehow we still
managed to miss some of them, but we also found some of them! Cool!

Well, it's no secret that it's been raining pretty much for the last
month and a half, so needless to say, there were a few slick spots on the
way down. I only really slipped once, but I thought I was going
straight to the bottom! Luckily I was able to use a small tree to stop my
slide and all was good. Later, it sure had the people on the incline and
atop Mt. Washington looking at me funny, being all muddy and all! If
they only understood geocaching...

This was an awesome hike on the hillside, we went through Moon's
Passage, very neat! We made our way around the landslide, and before you
knew it, we were at ground zero!

Jigsaw spotted the likely hiding spot first, then me, then JimBat, only
because that was the order we walked up to it in. We gave Jigsaw the
honor of pulling it from it's hiding spot, so he was the lucky one to
get the FTF coin.
WoooooHooooo! I think he hurt himself amid his frenzied celebration.
I guess we'll all claim CO-FTF's, can we do that?

Anyway, we all signed the coveted FTF spot (on the back of the front
cover of the logbook), hey, Jigsaw started writing there first! We all
laughed as we thumbed back to the blank, lined pages that you are
actually supposed to write on! Oh, well!

I dropped off a YJTB, so maybe that will be incentive enough to get
some other cachers to do this cache.

All in all we had a great time on this one! It's a great cache, nice
job, sherpes!

We went on to ride the incline and walk along Grandview, even though we
were a little muddy! We rode up the incline with a very nice lady
named Pat, who I believe works in the shop at the top. She got a kick out
of what we were doing!

Also met, the VP of the incline, who took quite an interest in the
trail of the steps and what was left. He gave me his email address so I
could send him some of the pics that we took. He has several old pics of
the steps in his office and said he may display a few of our pics of
the old post that are left. Nice guy.

Man, this was a great cachin' day! Thanks, again, sherpes for showing
this to us!

Only bad thing that happened, Jigsaw had a blow-out on the way home.
Luckily, I was there to take pictures, er, I mean, help change the tire,
hehe!

Anyway we changed the tire and I still made it to work on time, so all
was good.

We saw a lot and learned alot, but most importantly, WE HAD FUN!


Visit this log entry at the below address:
http://www.geocaching.com/seek/log.aspx?LUID=e32b55c5-2a57-409b-9ec8-643ed1adf64a

Visit Indian Trail Steps
http://www.geocaching.com/seek/cache_details.aspx?guid=05aceff8-e6a6-4fb0-9594-184b7d96cf70

Profile for Mooman56:
http://www.geocaching.com/profile/?guid=a106349c-d829-471e-97ee-d9dca1acc1ae

Sunday, April 29, 2007

in Memoriam: Nettie Weissmann


At age 80, fourth elementary teacher of PS 28 passed away. She was living in Santa Barbara, California.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Montessori Stamp


The italian postal service issued a commemorative stamp on the centenary of Maria Montessori's first school in 1907, in the neighborhood of San Lorenzo in Rome. The stamp was issued on the end of January of 2007. I happened to travel to Rome just a few weeks later, and someone I knew whose kids go to the Pittsburgh Public School's Montessori school asked me to mail an envelope with that stamp as postage to the school as a memento.

Well, it turned out to be an arduous mission.

Walking by a huge post office in Via Marmorata in the Testaccio neighborhood, I suddenly remembered of my promise, and stopped in to buy that one stamp. There are stamp selling machines, and queues of people. The machines only sell generic stamps, and the queues are for paying utility bills only. Asking around, I got the word that for mail delivery I must exit the building and re-enter from its side entrance, where parcels are accepted. The queues are no longer a staple of italian post offices, now being replaced by people waiting on chairs for their "number" to come up. Ticket-issuing machines are placed at the entrance. One presses a button, and a printout like 'D007" is produced. Then, you wait, reading the electronic board hanging from the ceiling, that informs the next available teller window. I ended up waiting some 15 minutes. It turned out that in the meantime, one guy couldn't find the teller window, so the office worker got impatient, and pressed his "next" button. So, two customers showed up at the window, but the teller would only serve the one with the later-issued number, because that is what "officially" his window is allowed to serve. So, the guy that got "skipped" started complaining. Soon, all the other customers waiting on the chairs started chanting complaints and disapproval of such a Kafkian system, supposedly created to help avoiding physical queues and aggravation, it instead shifted the aggravation from one of physical nature to one of psychological nature.
Finally, it was my turn. "I only need one stamp", I declared politely and quietly. I explained I needed the Montessori stamp that was just issued a few weeks earlier in the year. The employee explained that she didn't have it, and only "philatelic services" could provide it. I then asked where is such an office. She didn't know. It was a strange request to come in and ask for one stamp. Only one. She was caught off-guard, used to complaining pensioners that can't read numbers or count change, and here I am, asking politely for one stamp, and have to leave empty handed. So she called her boss. An elderly figure, he was amazed by my request, and took it in great admiration. Signaled me to step aside, and spoke to me as an elder statement, explaining that such a request could only be done at the Central Post Office in Via della Vite.

I had one more question: how much postage is required for sending a letter to the United States. The employee said it depends on the weight. I said, an envelope with nothing in it. She said she could not tell me without the actual envelope, because to get the amount information, she must place it on a weighting machine that computes and displays the postage needed. So I tell her to place any envelope or sheet of paper she has around, as I was planning to mail an empty envelope. She gets up, borrows an envelope from the employee next to her, and weights it. It's 0.85 Euros, "if weight is less than 20 grams", she would quickly later qualify, as getting the last word on the matter. I was having it way too easy...

Wasn't sure whether all this trouble was worth it, but I figured that since I hadn't seen at the Spanish Steps yet, might as well check 'em out, and in the meantime, shoot two ducks with one bullet and pick up the stamps in nearby Via della Vite. So I used my only remaining urban transportation ticket for the metro ride to "Spagna" station, got off, checked out the tourists at the Steps, and then walked confidently to the post office to get that stamp.

The weird thing is, nowdays, some young social-ladder-climbing consultant in the italian business-ocracy must have decided that, to be cool, one must have an MBA-ish word in the "new" italian postal service. So, here I am, trying to figure out where to go to buy stamps, and from all the signs, directions, arrows, and tableaux on the walls, I finally get it: I must go to a department called "PT Business" window. Yes, "Business", that word is in english. Just like Don Corleone says in The Godfather, "Tis Buziness".

Pressed the button on the ticket machine, got my number, went to the "sportello" appropriate for that service, and, wow! there she was, a young and attractive postal employee with no queue. This is going to be a breeze, I think....

I show her my ticket, and tell her I want this stamp, the Montessori stamp. "Oh, you must go to Philatelic Services". Looks like she's not it. To get there, I must exit from the front entrance in Piazza S. Silvestro, make a left, and it is the first door on the left.

So, it turns out, the guy at the first post office was "almost" right. Via della Vite is the back entrance of the Main Post Office. The front entrance is in Piazza S. Silvestro. But for philatelic collectors and hobbists, the post office has created a separate entrance, that takes directly to a mezzanine floor with wood-decorated walls and carpeted floors.

Inside, several senior citizens discuss the value of stamps when a few of the "teeth" bordering a stamp are damaged. I got bigger fishes to fry... There is hardly anyone. I ask for my stamp. Sure, she replies. Only one? yes, only one. I get my stamp. It's 0.60 Euro. To send the envelope to the US, I need 0.25 Euro more. I ask if she can give me postage stamps that can total 0.25 Euro. She doesn't have any.

So I go back to the PT Business teller, tell her "hey, I'm back", and ask her for 0.25 Euro of postage stamps. She replies: "E se non ce li ho?" [trans: "and if I don't have it?"]. Sounded like joke, but it was real. I said: "then give me the next one up: 0.30, or 0.35". Hey, whatever is closest to 0.85, a few cents extra didn't hurt my budget for this endeavor. Obviously, I am missing something here: she is the designated teller that sells stamps, but she sounded so obvious when she said "what if I don't have any". There must be some secret story behind this. I don't try to think too much. Maybe, someday, when I am older, I'll figure what is really cooking here...

She says she must go to the back room to get them. She takes my coins, goes in the back room, returns 5 minutes later, and hands me the a 0.10, another 0.10, and a 0.05 in stamps.

I lick them on the envelope, and mail it.

Angela, hope you got it.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Getting ID in Italy


Getting an ID

Had to get my Carta D'Identita' renewed in Italy. It expired last year, and I attempted in getting it renewed last summer when I went there on vacation. At that time, got my photos from a machine at a train station (3 Euros) and went to the Anagrafe office ("Servizi Demografici") at about 10:30 AM, but they told me that because they only handle 50 transactions a day, the "numbers" that are given when the office opens at 8:30 AM are gone within the first five minutes after the gates are opened.

This time, I returned prepared. I promptly showed up at 8:20 AM, mixed up with the group of people waiting for the door to open, philippinos, thais, moroccans, sri-lankans. At 8:33, when the gates were unlocked, we all promptly slipped through the opening in the still-half-closed door and started running towards the offices of Servizi Demografici. I had my running shoes on, or better yet, my hashing shoes. I pass one guy. I pass another. It is a race. [did I say the "R" word?] I jump up three steps at a time and pass another. Then, around the turn, one police office of the Polizia Municipale stops us all, and, pointing to us, one by one, yells with authority: "Primo. Secondo. Terzo. Quarto. " and so on.

Obbediently, we all made a queue, the police officer standing next to us. Then, one by one, we walked towards the numbered-ticket issuing machine, and pressed the button, and zzzzt !, a paper slip came out. I was "008".

I am told that for ID renewal, I must get the forms upstairs, at the Cassa Comunale office, the only place where money is exchanged. Upstairs, there is a line. We are all getting some kind of form. From listening the ones before me, I hear that the form is 5.42 Euro. The employee is already complaining that he doesn't have change for people like us that show up with bills of 10 or 20. I better have change. I check my pockets. I have two coins of 20 cents. But not the one cents. I know he wouldn't take my bill of 5 Euro and my 40 cents. I am missing two cents. The gal ahead of me has spare change. I ask her if she could, politely, donate me two cents. At first, she blankly stares at me for the unusual request, and then, consents, and gives me these two european penny-look-a- like aluminum pieces, designated to be valued as one hundredth of an Euro each, value guaranteed by powerful european nations. That buys me a form for renewal: it is a sheet of paper with two graphically iconized figures drawn on the top right corner that resemple postage stamps. One has "Diritto di Secreteria 0.30" on it, and the other has "Tassa 5.12". The drawn figures look like stamps because until recently the request for renewal was done on a special bureaucrat pergament paper called Carta Bollata with inlayed watermark, and one had to purchase "tax" stamps and lick them and paste them on the paper. So now the real stamps are not used anymore, but to keep the history and the iconic reference to its past, the figure drawn looks like a stamp with its toothed edges.

I get my form, and walk downstairs where the photomachine is located. Before traveling to Italy, I remembered I had those photos done from last summer, found them, and traveled to italy with them. And with all the pressure of getting it all right, I forget them on the table at my mom's apartment that morning. I realized it when I got to the gates at 8:20 that morning, but, hey, if I tried going back home to get them and returning back, I risked being denied service if they already handed out the 50th and last number. So, I decided, I was going to get a new set of ID photos.

The machine is working. Fantastic. But there is a problem. It doesn't give change. It's three Euros, but I am missing coinage. I have a 5 Euro bill, but I need three coins of one Euro each. I ask some employees if there is a change machine somewhere. No, there isn't. I know where to go. I know my city. I trek towards the Ghetto, and go to a tobacco shop. I purchase one metro transit ticket, and get my four Euros in change. I briskly walk back to the Anagrafe building. It's good I got my running shoes. I am fast.

Back at the picture machine, there are three nuns that need pictures. They are before me. They slowly, very slowly, get their pictures. The machine snaps three photos, or "proofs", and lets the customer choose one as displayed on a screen display. The nuns are all debating which is the photo they look best. Long conversations ensue. Decision is by consensus. ... and I am there waiting.

Then, the nuns are done, and it is my turn.

Well, not yet. The repair men is there standing and he, too, is waiting for the nuns to finish up. Tells me he's gotta reset the machine and do some quick maintenance. It will only be one minute. He was fast. Finally, I sit down. He notices I am tall. Or at least taller than most customers. He teaches me to spin the spiraling seat so that it descends down quite a bit. My eyes must be aligned to a line on the semi-reflecting glass.

I get my shots. Flash. Flash. Flash. The repairman peeks into the booth. Looks at the images on the display screen. Says that the one on the right is no good. "They'll reject that". I looked perfectly normal to me, but, hey, he's the permanent expert in facial bureau-aestethics here. The second one is OK, but I am slightly looking down. The third one is perfect. Asks which of the two I like. I said the second one, the one where I am slightly looking down. He says that indeed the eyes show up better on that one, and he thinks that it will pass, and hands signs me a gesture that it is OK.

I make the selection and press the confirm button. My pictures come out seconds later. Yeaaah !!

Now, it's time to go to the Servizi Demografici office...

I am missing a pen. That can be serious, potentially fatal. But luckily, met this Thai friendly chap, and he lends me his pen. I fill the paper form that I paid 5.42 Euro with all the necessary personal information. The address must match whatever address they have in their database. I learned that the hard way 11 years earlier when I submitted a form on which the address was different from the one stored in their computers, something that got me yelled at by the government employee. So I just copied the same address that was on my expired ID card: "Lawrence Apts, Princeton USA". I moved outta there in the mid-nineties. Nice place, by the way.
Done with the writing. Now the numbers. Look up the electronic billboard, and check at what number they're at. They are at "020". I am "008". So, clearly, they must have signaled my number some time ago while I was getting forms, exact change, photos. All with the help of a spare two cents, a metro ticket seller, three nuns, and a repairman.

I see a guy standing up front and see his ticket. It says "021". He thinks he's next. When "021" shows up, the teller window numeral is adjacently displayed. Teller window 6. I briskly walk there before mister 021, immediately followed by mister 021, we both want service, I speak quickly and clearly saying I was getting photos, and in less than 10 seconds, the employee signals mister 021 out, an effective example of non-verbal communication. It's my turn. I feel that I'm close to done. Smell victory [but without napalm fumes of Apocalypse Now].

I hand my form, my pictures, my old ID. "Devo rinnova' 'a carta didentita'", I say.

She types my last name. I can read the flat screen display from where I am. Text comes up. It says that I am blocked from further service for "mancanza di accertamenti" [lack of requested information]. Trouble. The employee checks with a collegue. They see I am in the AIRE, Associazione Italiani Residenti all'Estero (Association of Italians Resident Abroad). She tells me I gotta go to the AIRE office, fourth floor.

Run up the four floors of stairs. Ask around the offices bordering the grey hallway. They signal me to the next and next and next hall, side hall, niche here, niche there. Finally second door to the left, walk in. I am in lack of breath. There is one guy, seated, surrounded by paper on three walls. Has one computer. Asks what I want. I am still panting. "Gotta renew my ID".

"What you want from ME? go to the first floor". He's right, what am I doing there? gotta qualify my request: "They sent me up here. Here. Look me up", and I toss my old ID.

He types the last name in. Waits. Then reads. Thinks. Hand on chin. Head forward. Then, seconds later, hand off chin and head slightly backwards. OK, I can tell he figured it out. Here it comes:

"Oh yes, we sent you a letter two years ago, but we got no response". Explains that given all the identity fraud cases, they sent letters to make sure we expats indeed exist. I said no way I could have gotten that letter because I changed address five times in the meantime since last time I registered myself in the AIRE database.

Well, here I am. I got my old ID. I am here. I exist. Can we get myself cleared up?

"Oh no. Only the consulate of Philadelphia can do that". They don't have the authority to intervene. They manage residents of city of Rome, but I am in a different zone, a "twilight zone".


Monday, April 23, 2007

Screw a Lightbulb Hash

trail was 5.2 miles long (map).


Time: Sunday April 22 - Earth Day - 2 PM
Location (hash-start and apres):
Max & Erma's Restaurant 900 Gamma Drive, RIDC Industrial Park, exit 10 from Route 28
http://www.maxandermas.com
it's a Contra-Hash (bring some $$ for beer and food)

April 22 is Earth Day. Traditionally, this day focuses on the environment, polluted rivers, with TV commercials showing sewage coming out of culverts and pipes. More recently, it has been focusing on global warming and the "human footprint on the planet". In the official Earth Day website, you can pledge to Switch Your Lightbulb. So, go ahead and pledge that you will screw this year (btw: the last textfield asks for the "count"):

pledge

REQUIRED: a flashlight with fresh batteries

All you wanted to know about lightbulbs.


Piece of O'Hara preserved for posterity
January 04, 2007

Tony Skotak was an O'Hara old-timer who didn't mind digging into a cranky water pump or, when that didn't work, digging a 125-foot hole so he could build his own mail-order windmill.

It was, after all, not only his farmland but up the hill from Skonojin Road, a composite named after the three families who settled there in the early 1900s -- the Skotaks, the Novosals and the Jindras.

A windmill built in 1929 still spins aimlessly amid the bare trees at the newly named Skotak Nature Reserve in O'Hara. The late Tony Skotak donated the 10 acres to the township.

Today, some things have changed. None of the descendants of the original families live in O'Hara, and most of their land has been sold to make way for the Falconhurst Forest housing development. Even Skonojin Road was renamed Holland Road this summer as another 13-house phase of Falconhurst Forest was approved.

A few things, however, have not changed.

While relatives sold their parcels, Mr. Skotak showed that he could be just as stubborn in the face of so-called progress as he could be with a cranky pump. Holding onto his 10 acres until his death at 91 in 1992, Mr. Skotak donated the land to the township on the condition that it remain untouched.

He officially got his wish in October as township supervisors named the land the Skotak Nature Reserve. A memorial plaque paid for by the Falconhurst Forest developer will honor the original homesteaders, a tribute that relatives, such as Edde Kay Chane, a Jindra now living in Blawnox, can appreciate.

"I think he'd be happy to have his name on the plaque. We're all happy with it. I think it's going to be lovely," she said.

Historian Tom Powers, who's writing a history of O'Hara, said the reserve was significant because "it is on property that otherwise would have been part of a large development. But through Tony's actions, it is now preserved in its natural state."

The Skonojin area used to be called The Almighty Hollow, said Mr. Powers, who should know because his family owned nearly all of it in 1797. The hollow leads up a great sledding hill, he said, up toward Worthington Road and the other historically significant aspect of Mr. Skotak's legacy, his windmill.

Sure, it's rusted, covered with vines and protected by a fence that Mrs. Chane's husband, Richard, built to keep out vandals. But it still is where it's been since 1929, when Mr. Skotak saw the ad for it in Country Gentleman magazine, ordered it from Chicago, then unloaded its parts from a rail car.

"It's been there as long as I remember, and I'm no spring chicken," said Mrs. Chane, 67. "That's Tony's windmill. I was amazed he did it all himself."

Because of the work of Mr. Powers and an assistant, Ruth Weir, Mr. Skotak can speak for himself.

"I put it up all by myself, piece by piece. Didn't ask for any help. I was full of vinegar in those days," Mr. Skotak said in an oral history gathered by Ms. Weir in 1982 for Mr. Powers' book.

Mr. Skotak talked of the days when a ferry ran between O'Hara's Montrose Hotel on the Allegheny River and dry Oakmont and Verona, shuttling patrons to the only bar in the area. "My dad [Anton Skotak] paid for a good many bricks of that hotel," he told Ms. Weir.

Then there was Johnny Kowalsky, who took to flying planes at Rodgers Field on Powers Run Road. "I was about 10 years old then, and I'd watch him. Johnny would build a plane and smash it, rebuild it and smash it again. He could navigate OK, but couldn't tie a shoelace right. ... He never gave up. He had persistence."

No slacker himself, Mr. Skotak's four-page story often returns to the windmill.

"The township should know it's the only windmill in the township and that it should be preserved and maintained," he said. "It needs a place in our local history book."

Friday, April 13, 2007

Stugots



People have asked me what does it mean. It comes from Italian, "Questo Cazzo". But since Tony Soprano speaks in a Avellino-Naples accent, then one must account for Napoletano inflection on italian language in changing the ending vowel "o" to a "u", and abbreviating "Questo" in "Sto", and the latter becoming "Stu". Then "Cazzo" becomes "Cazzu", and you have "StuCazzu". With the silent dropping of an ending vowel that Napoletano dialect often applies, it becomes "StuCazz", and listening it and writing it as an english-language native, there you go: you got "StuGots".

Mental Map of Europe as Seen from a GeoCacher



The higher density green denotes a higher concentration of "finds". The cities in red are capitals.

Manchester United annihilates Roma



7-1

Ronaldo shines, Totti is a statue

Mayakovsky


ORDINE N° 2 ALL'ARMATA DELLE ARTI
(1921)

A voi,
baritoni ben nutriti,
che dai tempi di Adamo
ai giorni nostri
squassate gli stambugi chiamati teatri
con le arie dei Romei e delle Giuliette.

A voi,
pittori,
ingrassati come cavalli,
divorante e annitrente decoro di Russia,
che intanati nel fondo degli studi,
tinteggiate all'antica con sangue di drago
fiorellini e corpi.

A voi,
che, nascosti da foglie di mistica,
solcate di rughe le vostre fronti,
piccoli futuristi,
piccoli immaginisti,
piccoli acmeisti,
impigliati in un ragnatelo di rime.

A voi,
che avete trasformato in chiome incolte
le lisce pettinature,
in ciocie le scarpine verniciate,
proletcultisti,
che rattoppate
la scolorita marsina di Puskin.

A voi, danzatori, sonatori di piffero,
che vi date apertamente
o peccate di soppiatto,
immaginando l'avvenire
come un'enorme razione accademica.
A voi dico
io,
geniale o non geniale,
che ho tralasciato le bagattelle
e lavoro alla Rosta,
a voi dico,
prima che vi scaccino con il calcio dei fucili:
smettetela!

Smettetela!
Dimenticate,
sputate
sulle rime
e sulle arie
e sul cespuglio di rose
e sulle altre malinconiucce
degli arsenali delle arti.
Chi può interessare
che "Ah, poveretto!
Come amava
e come fu infelice..."?
Maestri,
e non predicatori zazzeruti
oggi ci sono necessari!
Ascoltate!

Le locomotive gemono,
un soffio spira dalle fessure e dal pavimento:
"Date carbone del Don!
Magnani,
meccanici al deposito!"

Alla sorgente di ogni fiume,
giacendo con una falla nel fianco,
i piroscafi urlano fra i docks:
"Date nafta di Bakù!"
Mentre ci perdiamo in dispute,
cercando il senso recondito,
"Dateci nuove forme!"
è il lamento che passa per le cose.

Non vi sono più sciocchi ad attendere
come una folla di ciondoloni
che esca una parola dalle labbra d'un "maestro".
Compagni,
date un'arte nuova,
tale
che tragga la repubblica dal fango.

Latina Fascist Architecture

Heard this fascist song in the movie Caterina va in citta'



Popol di destra, che forte adempie e rompe
con ali e fiamme,la giovinezza va.
Fiaccole ardenti sull'are, sulle tombe
noi siamo le speranze della nuova età.
Duce, Duce, chi non saprà morir?
Il giuramento chi mai rinnegherà?
Nuda la spada quando tu la vuoi
gagliardetti al vento, tutti verranno a te
armi, bandiere degli antichi eroi
per l'Italia, o Duce, fa balenare al sol
va, la vita va
così ci porta e ci promette l'avvenir
una vasta gioventù
con romana volontà, combatterà.
Verrà, quel dì verrà,
che la gran madre degli eroi ci chiamerà
per il Duce, o patria per il re
noi griderem gloria e impero d'oltremar.

Sabbaudia architecture






Vatican Steps sign


Coming down from the top of the cupola, walk, don't run.

Arrotino, "mestiere scomparso"


Some thirty years ago, the editor of the newspaper Eleven E did a special report on Rome's vanishing jobs, such as "Arrotino" [knife sharpener], "Ombrellaro" [ombrella repairer], "Ciccarolo" [cigarette butt picker].

That was in the 1970's...

Well, FF thirty years, and as soon as I exit from Stazione Ostiense just having gotten off from the train that came from the airport, and voila', like a surreal image, I see one of those "mestieri scomparsi" right in front of me. There he was, a surviving and rare example of an ARROTINO

.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Hiking Positano

Based in a Sorrento youth hostel, we took the first SITA bus to leave from Sorrento for direction Positano. It left the Circumvesuviana station at 6:25 AM.

After passing Positano, we passed Vetica Maggiore, and immediately after a short tunnel, the town of Praiano. Without knowing anything precise of exactly where to stop, and using only my Kompass map as guidance, I asked the driver to stop at the next stop. It was then 7:40 AM.

Then, we asked around on how to get to Praiano Alta, the upper parts of the town. Locals directed us to a set of steps that got us to gain 200 meters of altitude, and got us next to the town church, more homes in the upper parts of the mountain, and finally the trail head to Colle della Sella

The trail was steep and got us on the ridge separating the gulf of Positano from the gulf of Amalfi. Gorgeous sunny day, the temperature was just right. We are only carrying a small day-pack, with a bottle of water, some extra clothes (just in case if up in the mountains it was going to get colder), and fresh mozzarella di bufala and bread for food.

We reached Colle della Sella slightly past 8:30 AM. From there, we did a round-trip short hike along the Sentiero Degli Dei to Bomerano and back. Then, back at Colle della Sella, we chose to follow the CAI (Club Alpino Italiano) red-and-white trail blazes that took us to what is known as "sentiero alto" of the Sentiero degli Dei. For trail description, I used the information from the Giovanni Visetti website.

After a couple of hours of hiking, we found the perfect spot for lunch and breaked. We eventually reached the group of homes of Nocelle, and asked some locals for the trail that would take us to S. Maria del Castello, and passing by Caserma Forestale. We gained another 200 meters of altitute, walking by a magnificent grove of cypress trees, and connected with the "00" trail of Alta Via dei Monti Lattari. At a nearby stream and waterfall, I skinny-dipped and took a partial bath (water was cooooold).

From the edge of S. Maria del Castello, we looked down, and there it was, our final destination, the beaches of Positano. From an altitude of 750 meters, we descented to sea level, using steps, switchbacking trails, bridges. We rested and relaxed, smelled the sea breeze, mingled with conventional tourists, and then took a 6:30 PM bus back to Sorrento.

For maps, we had a Kompass Karten Penisola Sorrentina map that costed 7 Euro. It is not a good map for hiking because its scale, 1:50000, is too big for precision hiking. Also, it displayed trails that were either non-existent, or its blazes were old and covered by vegetation, and trails that were clearly marked but then suddenly non-transitable. A better choice for general hiking navigation would have been the Monti Lattari map published by the Club Alpino Italiano (CAI), 12 Euro, but while its scale, 1:30000, is adequate for hiking, it is based on a photo survey of 1953, and it only displays the trails managed by the CAI volunteers. Amazingly, there only hiking guide ever written for this area is in english, written, I presume, by a briton what shared his love of walking. These british... lets tip our hats to them, 'cause, without 'em, there would be no hiking guidebook

















Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Indian Trail Steps geocache is published

Went to move it yesterday, and now it is in a crack on the small cliff that is visible on the foreground of the 1911 photo, left of the steps.

cache

Friday, April 6, 2007

Indian Trail Steps geocache will have to be moved

Today submitted for review the recently-placed geocache, and knew that because of "cache saturation" rule, it might be a problem, since it is closer than 170 meters to an existing cache, a micro named "Take the High Road". Well, the reviewer didn't find the justification of a very different elevation and terrain sufficient to have it approved anyway, and requested that it be moved farther away from the existing cache by at leat 70 feet. Luckily, I already know of an "alternate" cache location site, and actually it might even be better, since it is very close to where the Black & White 1911 photograph was taken from, so it is very suited to the subject matter.


Here is the cache description:
From the early 1900's to until they were dismantled in 1935, a public wooden stairway of about 1000 steps allowed pedestrians to reach Mount Washington from river level. Called Indian Trail, probably following an existing trail, they started near the Duquesne Incline, went westward, and after a switchback in a steep section, they reached Duquesne Heights at the intersection of Grandview Avenue and Shaler St.

Some of the original wooden posts¹ can still be found. They are about three feet high, and come in pairs, about two feet apart. From bottom to up, they can be found at (1) 40º 26.385N 80º 01.162W, (2) 40º 26.392N 80º 01.230W, (3) 40º 26.396N 80º 01.278W, (4) 40º 26.409N 80º 01.299W, (5) 40º 26.410N 80º 01.332W. Where the steps switch-backed, there are signs of a relatively recent landslide, the area is recognizable by being clear of vegetation, and boulders and debris on the bottom of a steep section where it flattens a bit to a grassy clearing.

There is a tentative idea/plan of placing a couple hundred night sticks along where the steps used to be for an upcoming Light-Up Night to celebrate this now-gone feature that is characteristically Pittsburgh

Terrain around the cache is difficult, and this cache should only be attempted by expert walkers wearing footwear with strong traction. Weather conditions may increase terrain difficulty if terrain is wet

Do NOT cross the rail tracks along Carson Street. You may be tempted in starting the hike from below. Crossing active rail tracks is dangerous and unlawful. You must start your hike from the top of Mount Washington.

Start location is the same for a nearby micro cache, Take thee High Road. There is a grassy clearing off Grandview Avenue where often many wedding photographs are made, and a small trail begins on the western edge of it, at 40º 26.404N 80º 01.338W.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Dunbar, Pennsylvania


Today's New York Times has a frontpage story on a disabled war veteran. His house trailer was on Hardy Hill Road, that Norm, I, and others traveled many times to get to the Irishtown Sand Quarry, the location of the saturday long run of the Pittsburgh Hash House Harriers "weekend" of June 2004. The last beer stop was in the open pit opening, also the location of a geocache, "Sand Quarry". A couple of times we saw teenagers in their ATVs driving by on trail. Maybe he was one of them.

--
April 5, 2007
Injured in Iraq, a Soldier Is Shattered at Home
By DEBORAH SONTAG
DUNBAR, Pa. — Blinded and disabled on the 54th day of the war in Iraq, Sam Ross returned home to a rousing parade that outdid anything this small, depressed Appalachian town had ever seen. “Sam’s parade put Dunbar on the map,” his grandfather said.

That was then.

Now Mr. Ross, 24, faces charges of attempted homicide, assault and arson in the burning of a family trailer in February. Nobody in the trailer was hurt, but Mr. Ross fought the assistant fire chief who reported to the scene, and later threatened a state trooper with his prosthetic leg, which was taken away from him, according to the police.

The police locked up Mr. Ross in the Fayette County prison. In his cell, he tried to hang himself with a sheet. After he was cut down, Mr. Ross was committed to a state psychiatric hospital, where, he said in a recent interview there, he is finally getting — and accepting — the help he needs, having spiraled downward in the years since the welcoming fanfare faded.

“I came home a hero, and now I’m a bum,” Mr. Ross, whose full name is Salvatore Ross Jr., said.

The story of Sam Ross has the makings of a ballad, with its heart-rending arc from hardscrabble childhood to decorated war hero to hardscrabble adulthood. His effort to create a future for himself by enlisting in the Army exploded in the desert during a munitions disposal operation in Baghdad. He was 20.

He was also on his own. Mr. Ross, who is estranged from his mother and whose father is serving a life sentence for murdering his stepmother, does not have the family support that many other severely wounded veterans depend on. Various relatives have stepped in at various times, but Mr. Ross, embittered by a difficult childhood and by what the war cost him, has had a push-pull relationship with those who sought to assist him.

Several people have taken a keen interest in Mr. Ross, among them Representative John P. Murtha, the once-hawkish Democrat from Pennsylvania. When Mr. Murtha publicly turned against the war in Iraq in 2005, he cited the shattered life of Mr. Ross, one of his first constituents to be seriously wounded, as a pivotal influence.

Mr. Murtha’s office assisted Mr. Ross in negotiating the military health care bureaucracy. Homes for Our Troops, a nonprofit group based in Massachusetts, built him a beautiful log cabin. Military doctors carefully tended Mr. Ross’s physical wounds: the loss of his eyesight, of his left leg below the knee and of his hearing in one ear, among other problems.

But that help was not enough to save Mr. Ross from the loneliness and despair that engulfed him. Overwhelmed by severe symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, including routine nightmares of floating over Iraq that ended with a blinding boom, he “self-medicated” with alcohol and illegal drugs. He finally hit rock bottom when he landed in the state psychiatric hospital, where he is, sadly, thrilled to be.

“Seventeen times of trying to commit suicide, I think it’s time to give up,” Mr. Ross said, speaking in the forensic unit of the Mayview State Hospital in Bridgeville. “Lots of them were screaming out cries for help, and nobody paid attention. But finally somebody has.”

Finding a Way Out

Fayette County in southwestern Pennsylvania, once a prosperous coal mining center, is now one of the poorest counties in the state. The bucolic but ramshackle town of Dunbar sits off State Route 119 near the intersection marked by the Butchko Brothers junkyard.

Past the railroad tracks and not far up Hardy Hill Road, the blackened remains of Mr. Ross’s hillside trailer are testament to his disintegration. The Support our Troops ribbon is charred, the No Trespassing sign unfazed.

Mr. Ross lived in that trailer, where his father shot his stepmother, at several points in his life, including alone after he returned from Iraq. Its most recent tenant, his younger brother, Thomas, was in jail when the fire occurred.

Many in Mr. Ross’s large, quarreling family are on one side of the law or the other, prison guards or prisoners, police officers or probationers. Their internal feuds are so commonplace that family reunions have to be carefully plotted with an eye to who has a protective order out against whom, Mr. Ross’s 25-year-old cousin, Joseph Lee Ross, joked.

Sam Ross’s childhood was not easy. “Sam’s had a rough life from the time he was born,” his grandfather, Joseph Frank Ross, said. His parents fought, sometimes with guns, until they separated and his mother moved out of state. Mr. Ross bore some of the brunt of the turmoil.

“When that kid was little, the way he got beat around, it was awful,” his uncle, Joseph Frank Ross Jr., a prison guard, said.

When he was just shy of 12, Mr. Ross moved in with his father’s father, who for a time was married to his mother’s mother. The grandfather-grandson relationship was and continues to be tumultuous.

“I idolized my grandpaps, but he’s an alcoholic and he mentally abuses people,” Mr. Ross said.

His grandfather, 72, a former coal miner who sells used cars, said, “I’m not an alcoholic. I can quit. I just love the taste of it.”

The grandfather, who still keeps an A-plus English test by Mr. Ross on his refrigerator, said his grandson did well in school, even though he cared most about his wrestling team, baseball, hunting and fishing. Mr. Ross graduated in June 2001.

“Sammy wanted me to pay his way to college, but I’m not financially fixed to do that,” his grandfather said.

Feeling that Fayette County was a dead end, Mr. Ross said he had wanted to find a way out after he graduated. One night in late 2001, he said, he saw “one of those ‘Be all you can be’ ads” on television. The next day, he went to the mall and enlisted, getting a $3,000 bonus for signing up to be a combat engineer.

From his first days of basic training, Mr. Ross embraced the military as his salvation. “It was like, ‘Wow, man, I was born for the Army,’ ” he said. “I was an adrenaline junkie. I was super, super fit. I craved discipline. I wanted adventure. I was patriotic. I loved the bonding. And there was nothing that I was feared of. I mean, man, I was made for war.”

In early 2003, Private Ross, who earned his jump wings as a parachutist, shipped off to Kuwait with the 82nd Airborne Division, which pushed into Iraq with the invasion in March. The early days of the war were heady for many soldiers like Private Ross, who reveled in the appreciation of Iraqis. He was assigned to an engineer squad given the task of rounding up munitions.

On May 18, Private Ross and his squad set out to de-mine an area in south Baghdad. Moving quickly, as they did on such operations, he collected about 15 UXO’s, or unexploded ordnances, in a pit. Somehow, something — he never learned what — caused them to detonate.

“The initial blast hit me and I went numb and everything went totally silent,” he said. “Then I hear people start hollering, ‘Ross! Ross! Ross!’ It started getting louder, louder, louder. My whole body was mangled. I was spitting up blood. I faded in and out. I was bawling my eyes out, saying, ‘Please don’t let me go; don’t let me go.’ ”

A Casualty of War

When his relatives first saw Mr. Ross at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, he was in a coma. “That boy was dead,” his grandfather said. “We was looking at a corpse lying in that bed.”

As he lay unconscious, the Army discharged him — one year, four months and 18 days after he enlisted, by his calculation. After 31 days, Mr. Ross came off the respirator. Groggily but insistently, he pointed to his eyes and then to his leg. An aunt gingerly told him he was blind and an amputee. He cried for days, he said.

It was during Mr. Ross’s stay at Walter Reed that Representative Murtha, a former Marine colonel, first met his young constituent and presented him with a Purple Heart.

From the start of the war, Mr. Murtha said in an interview, he made regular, painful excursions to visit wounded soldiers. Gradually, those visits, combined with his disillusionment about the Bush administration’s management of the war, led him to call in late 2005 for the troops to be brought home in six months.

“Sam Ross had an impact on me,” Mr. Murtha said. “Eventually, I just felt that we had gotten to a point where we were talking so much about winning the war itself — and it couldn’t be won militarily — that we were forgetting about the results of the war on individuals like Sam.”

Over the next three years, Mr. Ross underwent more than 20 surgical procedures, including: “Five on my right eye, one on my left eye, two or three when they cut my left leg off, three or four on my right leg, a couple on my throat, skin grafts, chest tubes and, you know, one where they gutted me from belly button to groin” to remove metal fragments from his intestines.

But, although he was prescribed psychiatric medication, he never received in-patient treatment for the post-traumatic stress disorder that was diagnosed at Walter Reed. And, in retrospect he, like his relatives, said he believes he should have been put in an intensive program soon after his urgent physical injuries were addressed.

“They should have given him treatment before they let him come back into civilization,” his grandfather said.

A Hero’s Welcome

The parade, on a sunny day in late summer 2003, was spectacular. Hundreds of flag-waving locals lined the streets. Mr. Ross had just turned 21. Wearing his green uniform and burgundy beret, he rode in a Jeep, accompanied by other veterans and the Connellsville Area Senior High School Marching Band. The festivities included bagpipers, Civil War re-enactors and a dunking pool.

“It wasn’t the medals on former Army Pfc. Sam Ross’s uniform that reflected his courage yesterday,” The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wrote. “It was the Dunbar native’s poise as he greeted well-wishers and insisted on sharing attention with other soldiers that proved the grit he’ll need to recover from extensive injuries he suffered in Iraq.”

For a little while, “it was joy joy, happiness happiness,” Mr. Ross said. He felt the glimmerings of a new kind of potential within himself, and saw no reason why he could not go on to college, even law school. Then the black moods, the panic attacks, the irritability set in. He was dogged by chronic pain; fragments of metal littered his body.

Mr. Ross said he was “stuck in denial” about his disabilities. The day he tried to resume a favorite pastime, fishing, hit him hard. Off-balance on the water, it came as a revelation that, without eyesight, he did not know where to cast his rod. He threw his equipment in the water and sold his boat.

“I just gave up,” he said. “I give up on everything.”

About a year after he was injured, Mr. Ross enrolled in an in-patient program for blind veterans in Chicago. He learned the Braille alphabet, but his fingers were too numb from embedded shrapnel to read, he said. He figured that he did not have much else to learn since he had been functioning blind for a year. He left the program early.

Similarly, Mr. Ross repeatedly declined outpatient psychiatric treatment at the veterans hospital in Pittsburgh, according to the Department of Veterans Affairs. He said he felt that people at the hospital had disrespected him.

After living with relatives, Mr. Ross withdrew from the world into the trailer on the hill in 2004. That year, he got into a dispute with his grandfather over old vehicles on the property, resolving it by setting them on fire. His run-ins with local law enforcement, which did not occur before he went to Iraq, the Fayette County sheriff said, had begun.

But his image locally had not yet been tarnished. In early 2005, Mr. Murtha held a second Purple Heart ceremony for Mr. Ross at a Fayette County hospital “to try to show him how much affection we had for him and his sacrifice,” Mr. Murtha said.

A local newspaper article about Mr. Ross’s desire to build himself a house came to the attention of Homes for Our Troops.

“He’s a great kid; he really is,” said Kirt Rebello, the group’s director of projects and veterans affairs. “Early on, even before he was injured, the kid had this humongous deck stacked against him in life. That’s one of the reasons we wanted to help him.”

Mr. Ross, who had received a $100,000 government payment for his catastrophic injury, bought land adjacent to his grandfather’s. Mr. Rebello asked Mr. Ross whether he might prefer to move to somewhere with more services and opportunities. But Mr. Ross said that Dunbar’s winding roads were implanted in his psyche, “that he could see the place in his mind,” Mr. Rebello said.

A Life Falls Apart

In May 2005, Mr. Ross broke up with a girlfriend and grew increasingly depressed. He felt oppressively idle, he said. One day, he tacked a suicide note to the door of his trailer and hitched a ride to a trail head, disappearing into the woods. A daylong manhunt ensued.

Mr. Ross fell asleep in the woods that night, waking up with the sun on his face, which he took to be a sign that God wanted him to live. When he was found, he was taken to a psychiatric ward and released after a few weeks.

The construction of his house proved a distraction from his misery. Mr. Ross enjoyed the camaraderie of the volunteers who fashioned him a cabin from white pine logs. But when the house, which he named Second Heaven, was finished in early 2006, “they all left, I moved in and I was all alone,” he said. “That’s when the drugs really started.”

At first, Mr. Ross said, he used drugs — pills, heroin, crack and methadone — “basically to mellow myself out and to have people around.” Local ne’er-do-wells enjoyed themselves on Mr. Ross’s tab for quite some time, his relatives said.

“These kids were loading him into a car, taking him to strip clubs, letting him foot the bills,” his uncle, Joseph Ross Jr., said. “They were dopies and druggies.”

Mr. Ross’s girlfriend, Barbara Hall, moved in with him. But relationships with many of his relatives had deteriorated.

“If that boy would have come home and accepted what happened to him, that boy never would have wanted for anything in Dunbar,” his grandfather said. “If he had accepted that he’s wounded and he’s blinded, you know? He’s not the only one that happened to. There’s hundreds of boys like him.”

Some sympathy began to erode in the town, too. “There’s pro and con on him,” a local official said. “Some people don’t even believe he’s totally blind.”

After overdosing first on heroin and then on methadone last fall, Mr. Ross said, he quit consuming illegal drugs, replacing them with drinking until he blacked out.

Mr. Ross relied on his brother, Thomas, when he suffered panic attacks. When Thomas was jailed earlier this year, Mr. Ross reached out to older members of his family. In early February, his uncle, Joseph Ross Jr., persuaded him to be driven several hours to the veterans’ hospital in Coatesville to apply for its in-patient program for post-traumatic stress disorder.

“Due to the severity of his case, they accepted him on the spot and gave him a bed date for right after Valentine’s Day,” his uncle said. “Then he wigged out five days before he was supposed to go there.”

It started when his brother’s girlfriend, Monica Kuhns, overheard a phone call in which he was arranging to buy antidepressants. She thought it was a transaction to buy cocaine, he said, and he feared that she would tell his sister and brother.

After downing several beers, Mr. Ross, in a deranged rage, went to his old trailer, where Ms. Kuhns was living with her young son, he said.

“He started pounding on the door,” said Ms. Hall, who accompanied him. “He went in and threatened to burn the place down. Me and Monica didn’t actually think he was going to do it. But then he pulled out the lighter.”

Having convinced himself that the trailer — a source of so much family misery — needed to be destroyed, Mr. Ross set a pile of clothing on fire. The women and the child fled. When a volunteer firefighter showed up, Mr. Ross attacked and choked him, according to a police complaint.

A judge set bail at $250,000. In the Fayette County prison, Mr. Ross got “totally out of hand,” the sheriff, Gary Brownfield, said. Mr. Ross’s lawyer, James Geibig, said the situation was a chaotic mess.

“It was just a nightmare,” Mr. Geibig said. “First the underlying charges — attempted homicide, come on — were blown out of proportion. Then bail is set sky high, straight cash. They put him in a little cell, in isolation, and barely let him shower. Things went from bad to worse until they found him hanging.”

Now Mr. Geibig’s goal is to get Mr. Ross sentenced into the post-traumatic stress disorder program he was supposed to attend.

“He does not need to be in jail,” Mr. Geibig said. “He has suffered enough. I’m not a bleeding heart, but his is a pretty gut-wrenching tale. And at the end, right before this incident, he sought out help. It didn’t arrive in time. But it’s not too late, I hope, for Sam Ross to have some kind of future.”

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Placed new Geocache on Mount Washington


While climbing up the steep slopes of Mount Washington just to the west of Duquesne Incline during Moon's birtday hashrun, saw the opportunity of placing a geocache there. There were many interesting sites, cliffs, caves, overhangs, and debris-strewn wooded slopes. Last sunday, purchased a metal case at a flea market and used that to place the cache. Because there was a public stairway (made of wood planks and posts) from 1910 to 1935, decided to name it "Indian Trail Steps". There are still some of the original posts. They are about three feet high, and are easily recognizable by being in pairs (pink dots in map above). One of the posts still has its original metal hinge with three bolts. Explored the entire area just west of the incline, looking for a good location, and think I found a good one, a cliff with a overhang (yellow dot on map above). The area where the steps switch-backed, there is a landslide there now, and it is pretty much clear of trees and vegetation. The geocachers looking for it will have to start from the top, descend about two thirds of the way down, look for the cache, write an entry into the logbook, and climb back up. Starting from the bottow is not allowed, since there are active train tracks and it is illegal to cross them. When placed, the air was summerish warm. With this cold front coming, will wait a few days before publishing to the general public the coordinates. Since my boot tracks are quite visible and recognizable, don't want the FTFers (first to find people) look for it and get the hint from following the trail of shoe tracks on the ground. Instead, since there is some rain coming (and maybe even snow), will wait a few more days to let the terrain surface settle a bit. Probably will publish friday afternoon, so that a saturday morning crowd can be ready and numerous in FTFing the cache. This being Easter weekend, some of the habitual pittsburgh-area geocachers might not be in town, but more likely it will be a weekend where out-of-towners come back to the 'burgh to visit mom & dad, thus might get some geocachers new to this area. Stay tuned.

Monte Mario geocache found

In august 2007, on my visit to Italy, I placed a geocache on the steep slope of Monte Mario, with its thick and dense Mediteranean brush of "ginestre" and eucalyptus trees. I was not able to publish it because I needed a local person to administer it (that is a rule imposed by the geocaching organization). Luckily, someone recently volunteered to look for it, and he found it:

> hello there, sherpes here. you just found two of my caches in
> Rome, Italy. Looked you up, and saw you originated in
> Brairsville. Funny, I was just there sunday at the flea market on
> route 22 looking for ammo boxes for future geocache placements in
> the Pittsburgh area.
> and , I may add, this unpublished cache has stunning views
> good for a photographer

Sent: Tuesday, March 27, 2007 12:02:33 PM
Its a small world isn't it. Do you have any cache recommendations
for Rome?

> respond with the following info
give it a try. let me know. ... and you can FTF the log !

41 55.316N 12 27.201E

it's a tuppleware container, inside a plastic bag, slightly protected from a rock above. The terrain surrounding it is very steep, with mediterranean brush and a few eucalyptus trees. It is in a park, Parco Mellini. From the overlook, there is no need to go walking down the very steep slope. From the overlook, if one follows the trail counter-clockwise, one can eventually find a trail that leads towards the cache, trail of which then becomes a irrigation (or anti-erosion) ditch made of large bricks. The cache is slightly to the left of this ditch (assuming that is the direction you are walking towards it), after having to crawl under some thick vegetation that grew on both sides of the ditch.
Entry points to the park are two:
41 55.435N 12 27.399E
41 55.304N 12 26.979E
One is on Via Del Parco Mellini (you can see it on maps.google.com)
This entrance is already atop the hill, but not well served by public transit.
The other is on Piazzale Maresciallo Giardino, where it intersects with Via Gomenizza (this location is served by many public transit buses, but it is under the hill, and you'll have to hike up the road/trail).

> final response:
I tried your cache today. It turned out to take all day by the time I walked along the river from Ponte Garibaldi (where the 8 tram stops at the river) and hiked up the path to find it and hike back. It was really a surprise. What are you going to rate the terrain? The brush was really thick! I left some USD and took the Gumby (he is going to be a travel bug...I'm going to start him out here and see if he makes it to PA). When are you going to publish this cache? Its a very good one!

Moon's 60th Birthday


Hashers, mountain bikers, roboticists, and friends & family, all converged to Panza art gallery in Millvale to celebrate one of our own. On the wall were memorabilia, old pictures, photocopies of old Navy ID, driver's licences, liquor ID. Food, beer, wine, dessert.

Moon's 60th Birthday Hash Run


The hash-start point was the bottom parking lot of the Duquense Incline. There were about 40 people, and Moon was there giving instructions. There was right away a Turkey - Eagle split: the turkeys went up the incline, and the eagles walked/climbed the steep slope of Mount Washington to reach the point west of the incline where wedding photographers take pictures of the newly weds with the city & bridges as background. There was a check on top on the pavement, and went scrambling to find it. Finally, we found marks, going south, then, eventually, to the western-most tip of the mount, overlooking the West End Bridge. Another steep descent in ravineous terrain of half tree - half brush, and we landed on the railroad tracks that parallel the river. From there, we started climbing another hill, this one leading to the West End overlook. And that is where the first beer stop was.

Next, on trail again, looped around a couple of city blocks, then descended on steps again, only to find a back check 8 on the very bottom. Climbed up half way, but then, a renegate party of hashers came looking for marks, and we guessed (correctly) that marks where coming from the opposite direction. Marks led us to the Saw Mill Creek circling the mount, and after some interesting junk and more junk, and a B mark on a rocky "island". Beer was nearby. At next leg, a couple of parties: one going upstream along the banks, the other on the other side of bank. But only one side had the correct route. To get on other side, it was impossible in not getting wet, so I sacrificed one foot, and hopped once on the water at full immersion.

Gaining the other side of the creek, we then followed an uphill road back up to Mount Washington, and from the road followed a trail that wrapped around the south-west corner of the mount. Eventually, it got us back to the residential area and ball field on the western edge of the Mount, and the last beer stop was on the spot where wedding photographers take pictures.


Some of us took the incline back, and others walked down. The apres was at Moon's house, with plenty of grilled foods, beer, and accusations in the circle.

Orienteering Western Pennsylvania March 2007



A sparking and gleaming sun came out on the morning of Sunday March 24th, its rays cutting through the fog enveloping the roofs and gargoyles of the quaint homes of Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh. "We ARE going Orienteering", I declared to the family, still half-dormant and still wearing PJs. Apparently, it was in the spouse's subneural cortex that if it was raining like the day earlier, "no way". But this time, the evidence, with its early-morning orangy colored rays penetrating through the window's glass, proved to be irrefutable. It was going to be the first time the spouse and children were going to do a course. A first. And it helped that our neighbors, the Malagodi family, was going to be there too with their two children. In fact, Luca and Chris were in the same daycare center years ago, so they knew each other well.

The drive to Yellow Creek State Park was marred by horrible delays caused by multiple construction projects on Route 22 in Murrysville and in New Alexandria [On the return trip, we will be instead traveling by exising from 422 to the exit for Route 286, and following that on bucolic landscapes through Saltzburg and eventually to the "Golden Mile" connector to Route 22 in Monroeville].

Along the way, the spouse specified in clear terms her skepticism in doing this outdoor activity, and that she could have better used her free time by visiting friends in the city, meeting interesting people at the "Blue Slide" playground, etc. etc. I try putting her in ease, and I just say "don't worry: you'll like it". Because of other commitments, we would have to leave at 12:40, so there was just enough time for me to do a long course, and for the spouse and children to do a beginner's course.

We arrived at 11:10, later than we had planned due to the unexpected traffic delays. I start on the Green at 11:24. As I am running the first hundred meters, the muscle cramps on my legs reveal the efforts on the day before, when three of us WPOCers traveled to NorthEast Ohio for that club's first O-meet. "Boy, there must be a better way to enjoy life than this", I am thinking as I am running towards control #1. But I know it will get better. Find the control, and go for #2. Still kind in a rush and without planning or thinking too much, did my first mistake: did a "C" approach, following gravel roads when I could have just went straight to it by crossing open fields, reach the pond, and bordering the pond. #3 was a straight-shooter, and it was about at this point that I am looking at my feet, and notice that I am wearing my "civilian" sneakers, a pair of Nike's city-slicker sneakers that look more appropriate for sidewalk hip-hop, which I purchased for $1 at a garage sale. My mud-laced trail running shoes, a pair of Adidas that I purchased brand new for $79, were atop the console of my car under the windshield, in an attempt to get them dry with the vehicle traveling east and facing the sun. I forgot to change footwear. Oh, well. #4 was next to a house chimney well hidden in a coniferous grove, nice surprise. On the approach to #5, from the gravel road went along the circular fence clockwise, and on the way back, went around the fence on the other side (faster). The mountain where #6 was, was well known to me. Went straight up along the ridge. For #7, should have mentally noted that the control was in the middle of an open clearing. Instead, on the approach while in the woods, stopped and read map for checking, when I was in clear view of the clearing. Should have just kept on running to the clearing, instead of wasting 20 seconds. For #8 there was a decision to make: either go into the woods slightly uphill bordering the clearing and then descending down to the creek from there, or just go east and connect to a trail, then follow the creekline to the control. Hesitated a second, then, since I ran the trail the year before, went for something sure that I knew well, and ran along the fence across the clearing, hit the thick vegetation which I know was only 10 meters wide, and quickly descended on the trail. The control was high above rootstock, and I jumped over the 1 meter wide creek waters to get to it. For #9, I gained the gravel road above, reached the saddle point, then left the road and went to the clearing just NE of it. At the end of the clearing, set my direction to E, and quickly descended into the woods to the creek below, and the slightly sloped up woodlands. Saw the orange flashing on my retina must have been 100 meters away, and wow, my direction was going right to it. Some luck here... The next control, #10, was nearby, kindish SSW, but went too much SW and downhill, and as I approached the gravel road and couldn't see it, I kind of was puzzled, then saw it on my left 40 meters away. Had to run uphill to get to it. So, I realized I made a small mistake. Should have stayed almost level from #9, and then descending slightly to #10 instead. For #11, cut through some vegetation between a gravel and a paved road. And for #12, ran through a grassy path, then gravel road. And from there to the finish it was gravel road/trail. Looks like my time was real good. And while wearing civilian footwear.

Five minutes later, I see spouse and kids. They are just about to complete White. They are enthusiastic. My son says he wants to do another one. My wife says the will plan to come back to more events like this one ("as long as it doesn't rain", she would later qualify). So, her initial fears proved unfounded. Glad to hear.

We quickly eat lunch at the picnic tables, I put a WPOC T-shirt on my son, and tell him that he's now and orienteerer. We had gone geocaching together for some time now, but never with map and compass. We then route ourselves to the parking lot to ready the return to Pittsburgh. A couple of sedans are stuck in the wet and muddy grass, and folks are pushing the out as wheels spin a green soup of mashed grass and mud. From the number of parked vehicles, it was quite a turn-out for this first Sunday of Spring 2007. But one thing I've learned: when looking for those controls, gotta wear hip-hoper shoes.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Orienteering Cleveland March 2007

Saturday morning on March 23rd, we filled up a car and drove from Pittsburgh to the Cleveland area for the first O-meet this year of the Northeast Ohio Orienteering Club. John came over to my house at 9:15, and and 9:30 we picked up Kristaps. Two hours later, we were at Coyahoga Valley National Park, in the Boston area.

The weather during the drive was one of light rain. As we got to the destination, the rain stopped the air humid, but quite warm and pleasant. Of all the clothing I had brought with me just in case, decided that I was going to wear my lighter long pants, and just a T-shirt. No need for warm clothing or rain protection.

The registration process was buzzing with activity. It seems that the bears of North East Ohio woke up after a lethargic winter, and came out in masse for this event. The club has a standardized form to fill in participant information, even with three holes on the margin for safe-keeping in a, I presume, three-ring binder. The form as a detachable control card and results slip for the event director to fill in.

There were four courses available: White, Yellow, Orange, Green. John and Kristaps decide that they will do Green. I will be doing Yellow first, to warm up, and then Green.

At the registration table noticed the foot sticker "On-On" of the Hash House Harriers, and ask, "Hey, who is the Hasher here?". And one fellow standing by the table identifies himself, and we exchange greetings. "Hi, I am Sherpes, from the Pittsburgh Hash".

I start my Yellow. Most of the controls are slightly off a runable trail. Trails have some gravel on it, but it is very wet and very muddy. There are large groups of boy scouts, and they stand and watch as I zip by, find a control nearby, punch the card, and zip out, all this while the troop leader is voicing out to his troop what I am doing, on a second-to-second real-time radio broadcast. I wave my hand as I leave the area.

Made a couple of mistakes, one control in particular caught me off-guard, and wasted two minutes looking for it. Eventually finish in 33 minutes. It was a good warmer-upper. Got my legs in shape again, my lungs elastic, my mind tuned-in again.

My back was covered in mud: descending a wooded slope, took a spill and landed on my behind, plowing down some topsoil. One participant asks how is the ground condition? I simply turn around and show my back.

I go back to the registration shelter and sign up for Green. Then, at the start table, see Kristaps returning and finishing his Green. The weather changed a bit, and it slightly started to rain. I'm off, the terrain this time is definitely off-trail, with lots of ups and downs on steep muddy hills. The area is alluvional, with deep creeks cragging the wooded land. The terrain offers very challenging course setting, and thus very favorable to stage the conditions for multiple decision making.

I see many participants on course, some walking and some running. Had some difficulty on a few controls, and overshot a couple, losing a couple of minutes. My mind is not into it: I am choosing inefficient routes, and climbing slopes when I should have instead followed stream beds around a hill. The alluvional terrain has deep crags left of dry ditches, and my efforts in short-cutting are blocked by these ravines. Should have studied the map closer. Two controls were also on Yellow, thus had immediately the knowledge of where to go. There was a burst of rain at one point, and got pretty much soaked, but, hey, orienteering is an all-weather sport. On the last two controls, recognized John's green jersey ahead of me as he was running along a road. I instead took the trail in the woods, and got to control #11 before he did. At arrival, because of the rain, the table was moved to the back of a van parked nearby, and my arrival time logged.


Changed my wet clothes to dry ones, and went to chat with the other orienteerers as they were waiting for the participants to return, and exchange impressions on the controls and itinerary chosen. Learned a few things from listening. The most effective tip I learned is NEVER staple your map-plastic-card, but instead use tape. Why? staples are magnetic, and if use a thumb-compass, the needle will align with the staple. Bob gave us an immediate demonstration. Very dramatic.

As participants finish their course, their time is computed and their result card posted on a string along a fence. On Green, the results are Stanislav (1st, 46m), Randy (2nd, 48m), Kristaps (3rd, 50m), Alexis (4th, 56m), John (8th, 1h10m). The results are tentative, since we left before all participants finished their course.

It was a good first day of orienteering for the year. Despite the weather, many people showed up. Cleveland metropolitan area has a very large and diverse population, and many nature lovers showed up and participated simply as hikers.

We said goodbye to the organizers and other participants, and started the two hour drive back to Pittsburgh. With highway tolls, and 6.5 gallons of gas to quench the vehicle's thirst of 237 highway miles, the carpooling expenses came up to ten bucks each. Not bad for a fun day in North East Ohio.



results