There is something eloquent about a broken tree. It looks almost human, bent over and hunched, with all its branches stripped away.
I went traipsing up Mount Diablo recently, before it became completely unbearable and you risked windburn rather than sunburn. The good weather has gone away, and it is now goodbye nature and hello gym treadmill, with all its sweaty friends. Disgusting.
For the time that remains, I have scuttled together some pics taken from up high, after dragging myself up rough terrain and down loose gravel (it’s named Mount Diablo for very good reason). The sky was feeling accommodating that day, and it was sunny the entire time. I should have brought a bigger hat.
There were two hang gliders out. First the one, and then a second joined the first. I watched as the second made his way on over to the first and then sort of hovered around the person. It must be faintly irritating, if you’re out hang gliding and this other guy’s hang gliding, and even though you both have the entire sky at your disposal, this other person has to glide next to you and steal your wind.
Then I thought about it. Maybe this was aerial vocabulary at play? If you want to speak to someone in the sky, mayn’t it be a tad difficult to make them hear you? Maybe you can only touch wings? Maybe you throw your shadow over the other person, and that’s how gliders say hello.
For every activity, there’s usually a new set of vocabulary that you have to learn. It’s part of the reason why I like poking my nose into unfamiliar territory and sitting on buses. In rock climbing, if you climb a route for the first time and nail it, you flashed it. You can google the phrase “cashed” and see what you come up with. Over the weekend, I stupidly bricked my phone. So, I wonder if there was some glider speak going on in the sky?