Book Review: Shackleton

At 697 pages (plus notes), it took me almost as long to read Shackleton as it took him on one of his many trips to the Antarctic.  Three expeditions are covered in detail, with the preponderance dedicated to the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914–17. Aside from the last chapter, the book is riveting stuff, never succumbing to hero worship but showing Shackleton's failures and limited successes. 

Ernest Shackleton was born in Co. Kildare in 1874.  By age 10 the family had moved to London and at 16 he joined the Merchant Navy.  His life at sea had begun.  Sometime soon after he was bitten by the exploration bug and in 1901 joined the Discovery Expedition to the Antarctic, alongside Robert Falcon Scott.  There was animosity between the two and their efforts to become the first to reach the South Pole fell short, largely to Shackleton's poor health.  Their trek was beset by elementary errors: wrong clothes, not using ski's, not understanding the impact of scurvy, all compounded by the sled dogs getting sick from tainted food.

These mistakes are repeated again on the Nimrod Expedition of 1907-9 and although Shackleton did set a record in reaching a point furthest south, again he failed to reach the Pole.  In between expeditions, Shackleton tried to make living on the lecture circuit and dabbled in dubious schemes, like bringing Russian soldiers home from their war with Japan...

When the Titanic sank in 1912, Shackleton (now a Sir) gave expert advice on icebergs.  One would think that Amundsen's conquest of the South Pole the same year would have put paid to Shackleton traipsing around the Antarctic.  Au contraire.  He decided that he would lead a party to be the first to cross the Antarctic from coast to coast.  After frantic (read: desperate) rounds of fundraising, so began the voyage of the Endurance and the crew of 28 who comprised the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914–17 (smack dab in the middle of WWI...).

Norwegians whalers stationed at South Georgia (south of Argentina) warned Shackleton that the ice was bad in 1914.  It was over 200 miles north of where it usually was by mid-summer and showing little sign of breaking up.  Shackleton decided to press on and in Jan 1915, the Endurance became trapped in the ice, miles from landfall. The party camped on the ice flow, waiting for the break up that never came.  Instead, the Endurance sank in November and the crew ended up floating / trekking over 300 miles to Elephant Island.

This turned out to be Shackleton's finest hour.  They had no radio, limited food and fresh water and were almost 1000 miles from the nearest humans at the South Georgia whaling stations.  In between lay treacherous open waters, riddled with icebergs, huge waves, gales, whales...  The final third of the book details how Shackleton kept his men united and alive and pulled off the miraculous feat of taking a small lifeboat with a crew of five across the ocean from Elephant Island to South Georgia.  The fact they found tiny South Georgia with limited navigational gear is an awesome feat in itself.  The Norwegian whalers sent a boat back to Elephant Island to rescue the remainder of the Endurance crew. The expedition was an unmitigated disaster; however, Shackleton's ability to lead and not lose a single crew member was nothing short of astonishing.

He came back to a Europe ravaged by war and the English public had little patience for polar explorers.  His time had passed.  Shackleton's finances were in disarray, his marriage in ruins (not helped by his extra-marital affairs). His health was poor but in 192, he mustered up the courage and crew for yet another mission to the Antarctic.  This one was ill-defined and to be his last voyage - he died in Jan 1922, ironically on South Georgia.  He was only 47 but had been plaqued for years by a weak heart.

Beg, borrow or steal Shackleton, it is a brilliant biography of an intriguing but flawed explorer.

Shackelton by Roland Huntford, 1985.

Bonnie & Clyde - The Southlake Connection

A couple of miles northeast of chez Beirne in Southlake stands this simple roadside marker.  I had driven past it countless times, but only recently stopping to see what it commemorated.  Expecting that it was the site of a car accident, I was taken aback when after reading the first few lines on the stone.  It was near this spot on the morning of April 31, 1934 (Easter Sunday) that Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow gunned down and viciously murdered two Texas State Troopers.

The lawmen (Troopers Edward Bryan Wheeler and H.D. Murphy) were on patrol and without suspicion, had stopped to render aid to Barrow's car - which was pulled over to the side on Dove Road.   By this date, Bonnie & Clyde were notorious, having commited numerous robberies and murders on a two year crime spree that took them from Illinois all the way south to Texas.  They were hardened fugitives with neither fear nor respect for the law.  Although it is questionable if Barrow, Parker or their accomplice (Henry Methvin) did the actual killing, the consequences left the public further appalled and raised both the bounty and the efforts to see them captured.

Their run did not last much longer.  A famed Texas Ranger, Frank Hamer, and three fellow officers trailed the Barrow gang into Louisiana.  Hamer, aware of his jurisdiction limits, recruited two local officers and the six lay in wait near Methvin's parants house.  At 9.15am on May 23, 1934, the lawmen emptied approximately 130 rounds into Barrow's Ford.  That was it for Bonnie & Clyde, gone to hell in a hail of bullets.

Apparently the memorable final scene in the movie strarring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway is no exaggeration.

Methvin (whose name sounds like a narcotics and wine conconction), was convicted of murder and sentenced to death in 1935 but through some inexplicable dealings, this was commuted... He was paroled in 1942 and but in 1948 met his maker when in a drunken stupour, stumbled across railroad tracks in Louisiana and into the path of an oncoming train.

Birds of a Feather

By mutual agreement my friend Bruce and I decided to unite his 2004 Thunderbird with mine one Friday.  After lunch it was up to the roof of the garage for the photo shoot.  Aside from sharing the same nameplate, the two do not have much in common in styling or powertrain.

After a 15 year hiatus, Ford revived the T-Bird in 2002 for a four year run and based its looks largely on the First Gen 1955-57.  The last generation (11th) was a modest success, selling 67,518 units and with low mileage can fetch north of $20K today.

By comparison the Third Generation (1961-63) sold 214,375 units and values are all over the map, with mine towards the lower end.

The eight year old with its fifty-one year old uncle.

So the question is: will the 2004 edition still be running and commuting in 2055?  It seems such a long way off.

To quote Billie Jo Spears "They don't build cars like the used to..."

Six Asses

A couple of weeks ago, meself and a few of the bucks from work were returning from a leisurely lunch, riding along in a big old pick-up, shooting the breeze and in no hurry back to the office. While it was hotter than blazes,  the subject was winter weather.  The highway department in New York uses salt to cope with ice, I shared.  Illinois uses a concoction of grit and salt, according to Brian.  Ed announced that Missouri uses ashes. 

"Ashes!!!?" we all exclaimed in unison.  "Where do they get the ashes from?" asked Dave.

It all came flooding back to me, a non-sensical rhyme that had been buried within my head for maybe 30 years. 

"From Mrs. Nash", I answered.  "They get the ashes from Mrs. Nash".  The other looked at me quizzically.  "You have never heard that one?" I asked.  The other three shook their heads. 

Apparently the lyrical waxing the of the poet laureate from Steil never made it to Texas.  I laid out the rest for them:

Six asses

Drawing ashes

From Mrs, Nash's

Ash hole

Instant classic, the laughter resounded for several minutes.  Search Google, it is not there.  So for posterity, Beirne Brightly has now archived Bollocks the Bore* and Six Asses.  They will never be forgotten while Google keeps blogs.

* See entry May 11, 2012

Costa Rica (Part 1 of 3): Manuel Antonio National Park

After the overwhelming success of driving an RV around Arizona and Utah last summer, I suggested an encore for 2012 but was voted down.  Other destinations such as Florida, Northern California, Hawaii and even Alaska were debated but the consensus was it was time to leave the friendly confines of Uncle Sam.  We pulled out the atlas.  Mexico was considered and quickly dismissed. As we went further down the North American continent and over Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua, we came to Costa Rica and the last stop before Americano de Sud.   Kieran has a friend in school who lived in Costa Rica and loved it.  I had a friend who vacationed there and loved it.  Sheila's nieces had both gone there recently and loved it.  So it was settled, then, we were off to Costa Rica.
One of the benefits of Big D is direct flights to many major cities and San Jose, CR was no exception.  We left on July 4th, foregoing fireworks and the most frustrating part of our journey occurred at the get-go when our incompetent cab driver could not find our house or the departures area at DFW.

We got into San Jose in the evening and did not see much any of the city but temperature wise it felt good to be out of the Dallas furnace and into the 80's, albeit a bit humid.  We grabbed a quick dinner at a soda and devoured the inevitable cosada of rice, beans, plantain and choice of meat.  It was bueno.  We stayed in Hotel Aranjuez, a quirky hotel in a relatively quiet residential part of San Jose.  The hotel is comprised of five adjoining houses (former residences) that have been combined over the years.  This leaves a veritable maze of interconnected hallways, alleys, dead-ends, courtyards, reading rooms, nooks etc.  The rooms were clean and comfy, the breakfast was awesome.  Tons of fruits, cereals and an accommodating omelet man. The breakfast setting is a leafy courtyard brimming with all kinds of crazy colorful flowers,  plants, and trees (including hummingbirds flitting about).  We were quickly being introduced to the fact that everything in CR is lush and green.

Senor Colibri @ Hotel Aranjuez

Behind the hotel.  Many of the houses in CR are small tin roofed affairs.

After breakfast we took a quick walk around the Aranjuez area - mainly to see the local church.  At 10am our shuttle to Manuel Antonio arrived promptly.  Our driver, Cesar, was to be a constant as we traversed the country and he was a great guide, friendly and knowledgeable.  He was quick to point out things we would have otherwise missed and had very good English but was also willing to work with Fiona on her Spanish. The drive from San Jose to Manuel Antonio was uneventful, other than the opportunity to see the giant croc's at Tarcoles and partake in eating some of endless varieties of native fruit from an adjacent roadside mercado.

These beasts were about 12 foot long

We could never remember the name of this fruit (not Fiona). When we opened it up it was like a plum without the skin -  so we called them "eye-balls".  They were delicioso.

Coconut(s) drink(ing)

Manuel Antonio is a small but renowned national park halfway down the country on the Pacific side.  We stayed literally 100 yards from the park and about 400 yards form the public beach.  Since we arrived in the afternoon, we hit the town beach first, saving the park for the next morning.  The beach was nice but busy, with lots of natives hawking chairs, umbrellas, drinks, horseback rides, etc.  The sand was great and the water near perfect.  Dinner that night was at El Avion, a restaurant built around a Fairchild C-123 plane.  Its claim to fame?  It was one of two planes involved in the whole Iran-Contra scandal from the 1980's (remember Oliver North?) and this one ended up being abandoned in San Jose and in 2000 moved to MA. Food was meh, view was awesome, historical setting kind of cool.

I'll have the Sandinista Special

Next morning we were rudely awakened at 5am by the raucous antics of Howler Monkeys in the jungle behind the hotel.  We could not see them but such a racket you never heard.  We scarfed down a mediocre hotel breakfast and tackled Manuel Antonio National Park at 7am and within minutes it lived up to its billing.  Sloths, Capuchins monkeys, Squirrel Monkeys, Iguanas, huge butterflies, spiders, etc. all come at you.  The trees were huge and the dense lush jungle goes right down to the beaches.  And the beaches.  They were the epitome of paradise.  White fine sand, turquoise water, hardly anyone there.  It was like Eden, only better.  Our admission was only good for one day but we met several tourista's who planned on going again and again.  It really is that spectacular.

Various images from inside Manuel Antonio National Park

We left the park by mid-afternoon and signed up for an evening boat tour of the mangroves which allowed even more close-up's of the mono's and snakes.  And of course the mangroves, which somehow survive the brackish estuary water, perched high on roots that seem like stilts.   After another cosado, we retired to our hotel exhausted.  The CR sun goes down by 5.30pm so by 9pm it felt like bed time and we knew the Howlers would be at "it" what ever "it" was, at 5am the next day.

Mangroves

Hang 'em high

On more than a few weekends this summer Kevin and I have arisen before it gets too hot and embarked on what has come to be known as the "20 Mile Bike Ride".  Passing through some of the prettier parts of Southlake, Westlake, Roanoke and Keller, we hustle out early and get home by 9am.

Along the route and of particular interest is the Roanoke IOOF Cemetery, which opened for business in 1897 and is still doing trade, sadly mostly infants apparently.  IOOF stands for Independent Order of Oddfellows, an order I never heard of but per Wikipedia (the definitive source for all truth...) has lodges worldwide and counts Charlie Chaplin and Wyatt Earp as members.  Now that would be a fun meeting with those two.  The IOOF's creed to "visit the sick, relieve the distressed, bury the dead and educate the orphan."  Sounds like a solid plan.

Most remarkable about the Roanoke IOOF Cemetery is that an alleged horse thief was hung and buried here in 1906.  That is how they did it back then.  If they as much as thought you stole the hoss, they hung ya.  Better yet, to save time, the hanging was done IN the cemetery - maybe even over an open grave to save further effort.  And that is how they used to do things in Tejas.

Concert Review: Merle Haggard

A subtitle could be "Tonight The Hag Let Me Down".  His visit to Billy Bob's in Fort Worth came about a week after a good documentary on Haggard was shown on PBS and one night after a friend of mine seen him in Austin and proclaimed him legendary.  His status is undoubtedly cemented - he is one of the stalwarts of "old" country music.  But at 75, it might be time to hang it up.  Maybe it was the venue, the crowd or the sound but the performance was flat and dull.

Sure he played the hits like "Okie from Muskogee", "Fighting Side of Me", "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" but it was a 60 minute performance with limited banter and no encore.  I get the feeling Merle was counting the gate and figuring out how much alimony he took in - he is on wife # 5 after all.  Speaking of the current Mrs H; she is in the band, along with two daughters and a son.  Just too bad they couldn't put on more of a "show".

I never did get to see Cash.  But I can say I have seen Willie and now the Hag.  And Willie was way better.