text:
"There's another route up Yari, you know. You won't find it on any of the maps. You won't find any old women or children up there, either. It's a hard route for hard men. I'd reckon not one in a hundred thousand climb Yari from that side. They call it 'The Kitakama' ridge."
From then on, it consumed me.
A year later, I started the climb from Nakabusa onsen, up the steep wooded slope to the Enzanso lodge. The fair weather of the weekend had drawn the crowds, now making their descent after taking in the views from the summit. It's not for nothing that this is known as the Ginza of the Alps. By midday I'm at the top. The weather is fine, but at the ridge a sharp north wind cuts up from the valley on the other side. I pull on a jacket, and start the walk along to tonight's destination, the hut at Otensho. Yari, and the Kitakama, are shrouded in billowing clouds until, quite suddenly, they part for an instant, the enormity of my quest revealed.
It was the first time that I had glimpsed Yari from this side. As impressive as it was from the other direction, nothing could match the view I was now afforded. A middle finger of rock thrust to the gods and man alike, it compelled the eye and made the roundabout peaks seem dwarfish and dull. And there, spilling off the northern side of the mountain, lay the Kitakama ridge, all broken black teeth and dismal spires. As quickly as it had revealed itself, the clouds again took the mountain. I hurried on along the ridge as the wind tugged and threatened.
The hut lies in a saddle between Mt Otensho and the Ushikubi peak, which boasts "Wonderful views of Yari and a 360 degree panorama" according to the map. It was already late afternoon, and I was considering where I might bivy for the night, when the owner emerged. He glanced at the ironmongery on my pack, the helmet and the rope, and asked simply "Kitakama?". I nodded. He had a friendly smile and relaxed air, quite unlike that of many of the hut owners of the Alps, not a few of whom have gone mildly insane.
"You look well kitted out for it. And you seem strong enough. I get a few through here each year, and I try to check 'em out. Once in a while you get a bumbly who thinks the Kitakama might be a pleasant stroll. I try to tell them to turn back. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they get halfway and make it back here in a terrible state. Sometimes they never come back, and I read about it in the newspaper later on… So, where to tonight?"
I tell him I'm looking for a place to bivy. He says that there's no-one else at the hut tonight, and that I'm free to stay for the knockdown price of Y1000.
"As long as you make your own food. Oh, and if you can do me just one favour…."
If you ever stay at the Otensho hut, then know that the English instructions for the chemical toilets are original CJW prose.
The next morning, we climb the Ushikubi peak together to watch the sunrise. He points out the route up the Kitakama.
"Go down the Bimbozawa and cut left up the river to the Kitakama couloir. Careful on the Bimbozawa, it might be frozen this early in the morning. Follow the Kitakama col up to where it forks, and make sure you take the right-hand gully. The left hand is a death trap, people have died in there."
Black clouds roll in from the north. The metallic tang of snow is sharp on the wind now, and presently we are peppered with flakes. The hut owner tells me not to worry, that the forecast is good for the next couple of days, and that this will shortly pass.
I thank him for his advice, and make my way to the notch in the next saddle where a small sign proclaims the entrance to the Bimbozawa. Literally 'Poor Gully', it lives up to its name. The top is a mess of creeping haimatsu pine, followed by a 750 vertical meter, boulder choked decent. It's dry until the bottom section, where a sulfurous waterfall spills from the cliffs above. A crumbling rope leads down a steep, slippery slope at one point; I don't trust it, so I use my own. It's a grueling two hours of work before I reach the river of the valley floor, bruised and cut. I slap a bloody hand print on a nearby rock, a primeval marker, before diving my torn hand into the icy waters.
The clouds swiftly depart as I reach the entrance to the Kitakama col, leaving an azure ceiling flecked with mares' tails. It's a short climb to the fork, where I stop to fill my water bottle. This may be the last place to take on water until I reach the Yari hut on the other side; even so, I can only take three liters with me, a perilously small amount for such a venture.
I climb into the right-hand gully, up over the grinding boulders. In places, house-sized pieces of rock bar the way, compelling me to take off my pack while I boulder to their tops. Hauling the pack up behind me is strenuous work, made no easier by its maddening tendency to get stuck half way up. It's hard work, especially after using so much energy descending the Bimbozawa. The head of the col hovers in constant sight, but seems to draw no nearer, until presently the oppressive walls open out into a grassy slope just below the top. A warm slab of rock makes a welcome seat with views across this lonely valley. Japan is such a crowded nation, and yet in this little corner of the land, I am the only member of my species in this valley and probably the next.
Too quickly, long-fingered shadows creep towards my sunny seat as midday passes. Shouldering the pack once more, I take the final few meters to the ridge proper and for the first time gaze out over the soft contours of Mt Washiba and Mt Suisho to the north, and the Yellow Sand ridge that stands between us.
The wind blows colder here. Icicles hang from the cliffs, and the remains of the morning's snow remain dotted over the ground. A little further on, a rope of reasonably modern vintage snakes down a cliff face. I clip into the end of it, give it a few bounces and it seems secure enough. I'm able to mantle up and round the knoll to the left, where the terrain becomes a little easier. The line of the ridge leads due north for a few hundred meters, before swinging round to the west, for which I'm grateful; climbing on the north side of the ridge, the afternoon sun brings heat even as the chill wind whisks it away.
There's no path to speak of. The scant accounts I'd read of the climb suggested that "route-finding was paramount" and that faint traces of sporadic track may be apparent. The recent typhoon, however, seemed to have scoured the mountain clean of any human activity, so my route would lie with gut and intuition. After traversing several sections, I spot a shiny brass-coloured new piton sticking out the rock. Secure, I anchored my rope to it and moved out across a thin ledge, slinging a solid rock flake on the other side before traversing back to undo the far anchor. Soloing like this is a slow game. Further on, a short chimney was marked by an ancient piece of knotted rope, and a rusting piton more ancient still. It moved horrifically in its crack as I tugged on it. I ignored it, took off my pack again and shimmied backwards up the crack, again hauling my pack up behind me. From the top it occurred to me that I should perhaps have cut the old rope off or kicked the piton out, death-traps that they were, but I was now too high above to reach either.
By mid-afternoon I'd reached a spire with a small, flat top, and pleasing views of Yari and the surrounding mountains. I decided to call this home for the night. I built a small wall from rocks to keep the bitter wind at bay, huddled behind it and watched the sun dip into the clouds that cloaked the horizon.
Yari seemed to fill the sky now, demanding attention. For a long time I gazed out along the ridge, trying to make out the lines of the peaks and spires that graced its length, imagining the route of the next day. Finally, the sun disappeared somewhere into the Sea of Japan, and a pale half moon rose to throw its light over Yari's flanks.
I noticed with alarm that my breath was clouding the air, and that the frost had already started to settle on my sleeping bag; I hurriedly tucked it into my bivy sack. I had a notion to make a small fire, maybe put some warmth into me before heading to sleep, but after half an hour of pointless scrabbling around in the dark for firewood, I realised that I was simply getting colder. The mercury hit minus eight as I burrowed into my sleeping bag, where I lay looking up at the planetarium sky that wheeled overhead, the milky way streaked with shooting stars.
Sleep came in dark, dreamless fits. The wind swung in the night, making a mockery of my carefully built wall, seeking out the small breathing hole in the bivy bag and chilling my cheeks and nose. Around midnight, the need to pee exceeded the need to stay warm. Clambering out in my underclothes, I stood shaking like a loon on this little peak in the sky and unleashed a stream at the setting moon. The thermometer now read minus twelve, and I was more grateful than ever that I'd brought the winter sleeping bag.
An abrupt, sharp red line across the horizon marked the morning, and with it a cloudless sky. By the time I'd finished the contortions of dressing while still in my sleeping bag, I was reasonably warm again. I drank a liter of Earl Grey tea as I watched the sun creep above the distant mountains, throwing beams of copper light over Yari's dark, austere face. Packing quickly, I noted a lightness to the rucksack that was at once welcome and worrying; it meant I was out of water.
The first hour was over easy ground, simple climbing up and down over easy blocks of solid rock. Then came the first serious down climb, a crumbling tower with loose shale, simple enough but a tiring fight against the constantly shifting ground, and punctuated with occasional and unnerving rockfall. The thermometer still showed minus ten on the shaded north side, and the wind ripped in fearsome gusts.
Back on the ridge, I traversed to the sunward side and basked there for a few minutes, letting the heat come back to my hands. An easy crack lead down to a short traverse, and then to a chimney bedecked with aging slings and rope loops at its top. I climbed up it and added one of my own slings to the collection, before rappelling down into another chimney on the other side. The rock here was smooth, white limestone, loose and riddled with cracks. My rope ran out five or so meters from the bottom, and a rising sense of panic started to grip my chest. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths and tried to consider my options. A rope-free down climb was out of the question. Swinging out, though, I could just make out a line a little further along. I pulled off the prussic loops from my harness and laboriously climbed back up to the anchor, traversed over and found a shorter, safer route to the scree below.
Across the talus the going was easier, but the windward side of the ridge was another world . Dark and bitterly cold, the spires loomed above, black against the early morning sky. I pulled out the iPod, but even Jimi couldn't hold up against the shrill tear of the wind. The far off peaks of Mt Tsurugi and Mt Tateyama lay to the north, already cloaked in snow, and glorious in the bright late autumn sunshine.
An icy rime covered much of this side of the mountain. Time and again I had to melt it from the next foothold with my bare hands, which were now swollen and red with altitude and exertion. The pads of several fingers had split on the granite and the cold; every sharp edge now seemed to seek out those very wounds. Yari was close now, and towered over everything below it, an oppressive, omnipotent and uncaring god. At that moment I realised that, as much as I loved the mountains, they did not think one iota of me. At length the last gully of the Kitakama lead me wearily back to its ridge for the final time, out of the darkness, out of the cold.
A flat section of ground marks the Kitakama-daira, where the remnants of old camps lay scattered around; grotesquely twisted, ancient metal tent poles; a few rusting tin cans stuck between rocks; the remains of a broken whiskey bottle. With the end in sight, I moved rapidly over the broken blocks that mark the base of Yari's summit pyramid. A quick traverse to the south side and fifty meters of easy climbing up the face led to the base of two chimneys; the whole face here is studded with ancient pitons, rusting, useless and mostly unnecessary. The southern chimney gleamed in the sun, but with my pack on and climbing solo, I found couldn't wedge my way up it without perilously overhanging the valley below. Reluctantly, I returned to the sunless northern chimney, noting reluctantly the rotting rope that draped down it, and the rusting piton that held it at the top.
Again, the pack proved problematic, but I was loathed to remove and haul it. To the right, however, I spied a better line and quickly squeezed my way upwards to the ledge at the top. Here, though, the rock rose again above me, overhanging, severe. A single nut was wedged into a crack just above head height. Surely not this way, I thought… I moved to the right, and rounding the corner of the ledge found a series of diagonally sloping cracks. My fist dug deep and tight into the first of them, my left foot hopping to a solid placement behind a blue fin of rock. Left hand reached high and found a thin hold that just took the pads of three fingers. A quick, coordinated pull and the right foot was neatly jammed high in the crack. With one more push I was there. A solid flake led up the last few meters where I clambered onto the summit, much to the surprise of the two old ladies who reposed there.
Too dehydrated and exhausted to speak, I could only motion in the general direction of the ridge when they asked where I had come from. They shrieked and jabbered as they peered over the edge, quickly pulling back and gripping their fists with fear. At the little shrine on the summit, newly refurbished, I pulled off my helmet and gave long thanks to the gods. The mountains were arrayed in every direction, crystal clear in the cold air, from Fuji in the south to Tsurugi in the north.
I'd survived.
At the Yari hut below the summit, I stripped off my layers and took off my hat for the first time in three days. A couple asked me where I'd climbed from, and I told them; the wife had read Nitta Jiro's account of Kato Buntaro, the famous climber of the early 20th Century. She knew that he'd met his death on the Kitakama, and excitedly insisted on a photograph. I stood there, wild haired and bemused, drowning in the warmth of the sun and human company.
The old man on the Gendarme was only partly right. The Kitakama is, without doubt, a hard, hard route. And while there may be no children or crones up there, it had in turns made me as scared as a babe in arms and as weary as an old woman, struggling to take the next step.]]>
"Many shall be restored that now are fallen
and many shall fall that now are in honor"
Horace (Ars Poetica)
"All is flux, nothing stays still."
It's hard to write anything that doesn't sound glib recently. I console myself with the voices of those long dead, who remind us that there is nothing so constant as change.
There's only so long you can spend watching footage of the tsunami before you start to die a little inside. I needed eye-bleach, and photos of better times helped. We spent three weeks ice climbing in Cogne in January, and a few days on the ice at Akadake in Japan. It seems like a lifetime ago.
The situation to the north of Tokyo is nothing short of horrific. If you can, then please donate to the Red Cross or other reputable relief agency. The following pictures are extremely distressing, but they give an idea of what people are up against:
New York Times
If you are concerned, need information or any kind of assistance, then Yuka and I will do whatever we can for you. My email is cjw at i-cjw.com, and you can find me on Facebook (search for Chris White Japan), Twitter (i_cjw), Skype (cjw_japan) or Bloomberg (Christopher White, Elmwood Advisors).
"There are no dreams,
For there are no nights of sleep"
10th Century Japanese Tanka poem, author unknown.
Wake up, it's six thirty already.
For two months I'd seen nothing but the dance of tiny numbers on a screen, the gasps and shouts of a world so intangible that it scarcely exists from minute to minute. The real world, where low pressure fronts locked over the Sea of Japan loaded the mountains with deep snow day after day, was far away.
"What's your plan for New Year?" she'd asked.
A warm breeze blows in from the Strait of Malacca, sending beads of condensation down the stem of my glass and into an ever widening puddle on the table. Yuka knew I had plans to get into the mountains as soon as I got back to Japan. The pile of ironmongery under my desk was growing by the day. My Singaporean colleagues would wander over, pick out a piece and carefully twirl it around in their hands, as if they were handling an arcane artifact of unknown power. They'd shudder as I explained what each item did, how each was integral to the calculus of scaling winter peaks, and repeatedly they voiced their opinion that I was crazy.
You do know that Bali is only a 30 minute plane ride away?
"Tsurugi. I really want to do Tsurugi again. We land on the 28th, I'll head up to Toyama on the 29th, and I can probably summit on the 31st or so."
The "impossible peak" stands at the head of the North Alps, the first to be battered by the winds and snow that hose Japan from Siberia all winter long. I've been longing to climb it again ever since I first tested myself in early winter there a few years ago, when I was the only living thing for miles around for three solitary days.
"You haven't seen the forecast?" Yuka said. I hadn't. My mind raced for alternatives, mental maps of safe winter routes pulled from their grey matter shelves, and then…
"There's always… ice climbing…"
Yuka grins, and three days later, she's jabbing me in the ribs, saying Wake up, it's six thirty already.
I drag myself out of bed, up to the onsen hot spring on the roof of the hotel. The bath is curiously empty, and it's only as I am drying off afterwards that I realise she must have been looking at the clock sideways; it was only three fifteen. We decided to forego sleep and head for the mountains anyway.
The car hisses onto the highway like fat on a hot iron plate. I mash the accelerator hard with heavy winter boots, the better to gun us up Nagasaka, the long slope of the highway that leads to the mountains. We're flashing through towns still asleep under their blanket of snow, and towards the high country of the Yatsu-ga-take range. The first rays of sun set fire to the peaks, and with careful eyes you can see thin ribbons of ice in the valleys; they gleam like molten lead. We've got the Stones on the car stereo. It's been a good day, and it's barely started.
The track from Minoto winds through trees lit with early morning sun. The clouds that scrape the peaks talk of snow higher up, but this doesn't bother us. Yuka's flashing through the snow in her new sexy red Aku SL Pro boots, when something fast catches my eye on a parallel track. A pair of clever black eyes fix on me, and we stare at each other with a flash of mutual recognition; there's no mistaking Hana, hero conqueror of the Hundred Famous Peaks of Japan. A split second behind, Julian appears. Hands are shaken, photos taken, tummies tickled. It's good to meet friends in the mountains. They disappear as quickly as they appeared; they're fast.
By the time we reach the Akadake Kosen hut, the clouds have turned grey and heavy with snow, and seem to cruise just meters above our heads. The ice candy, the fifteen meter fortress of ice built outside the hut, gleams nuclear blue. The new Black Diamond Cobras finally come off the pack and take their first taste of the delicate chandelier of ice, hacking, hooking and stabbing their way to the top of the line. The edifice is brittle and each swing of the axe carves off a faceful of shining crystals, many of which conspire to make their final home in the warm layers of my clothes. The chime of the breaking ice finds matching rhythm in the clanging screws dangling from my harness, and for a few moments I lose myself in this weird percussive symphony above the earth.
At a smaller ramp to the side of the main wall, Yuka ties into the rope and gets herself ready. She shoots quickly to the top, and comes back down grinning; worryingly competent. She does a few more laps, working on footwork and then her axe swing. The hours pass quickly; with a start, I realise it will be dark by the time we climb down the mountain and back to the car. We pack quickly and race back below the clouds, as the sun sets on the final day of 2010.
We live in many worlds. Some flicker and boil before us on a screen, phantasmagorical, edifices built from pure thought. Some are hard, cold, seemingly immortal, but will pass to nothing in the warm spring sun. Yet other infinities exist in a kiss, in the worlds that spring from each heartbeat, in those shared moment when the threads of our lives briefly meet and intertwine.
"When can go back up there again? I want to get some more practice in before Europe." Yuka asks over dinner that evening.
I think 2011 is going to be a good year, in all my worlds.
Call it what you want. Boredom. Frustration. Fin de siècle ennui. Tokyo is a white hot skillet, a spitting stir fry of twenty million people, and I needed out.
The Kamikochi bus terminal at the foot of the Alps is as crowded as anywhere in the capital. And it's only 5:30 in the morning. A human log jam of plaid shirts and last minute cigarettes. But speed and bad terrain are your friends when the August weekend crowds show up, and in minutes I leave the masses far behind and work my way up the familiar pan of the river and towards the spires of the Hotakas.
Few places in the Japanese Alps are as breath-taking as the Hotaka cirque. Two large huts and a multitude of brightly coloured tents huddle below the peaks, still streaked with snow. In my mind's eye I trace the route; up the northern flank to Kita-hodaka, cut southwards along the ridge to Oku-hodaka, but my real goal is the dotted red line that the map marks between Oku-hodaka and Nishi-hodaka. That's where I'm going, that's where I'll leave the crowds firmly behind.
By dusk, I'm there. The path has faded away, there are no signposts or markers here, just sheer drops on each side. I thread my way along the Uma-no-sei, the Horseback, and towards the tower of the Gendarme. On a little ledge below it, I unroll the bivy bag and contemplate my room in the sky as I watch the sun dip down through a boiling sky of clouds below.
Dawn comes in the blink of an eye, and I race back up to the peak of the Gendarme to meet it. Oku-hodaka stands directly in the line of the rising sun, black against the vermilion sky. Behind me, it casts a sky-wide Brocken; too large to fit the frame of the camera, a double and triple rainbow that arcs completely, perfectly sited at the summit of Kasa-ga-take on one end and the summit of Norikura-dake at the other. It was for my eyes alone.
The pack is light, and I'm fast. The map tentatively suggests seven hours for the ridge, with plentiful admonitions to the dangers of knife edge ridges and cliffs involved. Eschewing the intermittent ladders and chains, I free climb where I need to and revel in the speed. Just over two hours later, I reach the Nishi-hodaka hut and its crowds, just as the cloud starts to roll in. I've pushed enough for now. It's time to brave Tokyo again.
Call it boredom. Call it frustration. Call it pushing your boundaries. Call it the last days of Rome, that distant thunder of the Visigoth hoards outside the city. I needed out.
The news broke: Japan has fallen from the world's second largest economy, and now lies in third place behind China. The same day, I handed in my residency card at Narita Airport, and boarded a plane for Singapore. It's time to see the sun rise over some different horizons.
For the first time in a long while, there's no map and I have no idea where I am going or where the boundaries are. I'll know once I cross them.
In the meantime, I remain "I, CJW ~ Hiking, Climbing & Mountaineering (mostly) in Japan".
But can we trust the Soviet? Is he really on our side? He's a genius, they say, but your neck is on the line and the valley floor glimmers three hundred meters below the tips of those razor-sharp monopoint crampons. How are we to know it's not just another plot to rid the world of one more 21st century capitalist? The febrile mind of Vitaly Abalakov is all that is keeping me from tumbling into the icy maw of the valley, taking the eternal fall where the sky is never bluer and the rope never goes taught.
It's a lot of faith to place in a dead Russian.
Born in 1905, Vitaly and his brother Yevgeniy would become both prolific first acentionists as well as pioneering inventors of climbing gear and techniques. The first tube chock, the first hauling pulley, retrievable ice screws, tri-cams, indeed much of modern climbing paraphernalia sprung from Vitaly's incredible imagination. Yet this profusion of novelty was to bring him profound sorrow as well as great fame. In 1938, the Soviet Commissariat for Internal Affairs arrested him and many of his climbing team, charging them with the crime of "open public propaganda" in their use of western mountaineering techniques. Several were executed, others faced the gulags. By the 1950's though, as the wheels of cold war realpolitik turned again, Abalakov regained his former status, was showered with accolades and recognised as the true "Father of Soviet Mountaineering".
His greatest gift to me, and every other modern ice climber, was the impossibly simple technique that still bears his name: the Abalakov Thread.
In front of me, I've bored an "Abalakov": two intersecting holes drilled into the ice at 45 degrees, through which a 6mm cord has been threaded. My harness is clipped to this cord, and my whole existence now depends upon the strength of a bootlace thick piece of nylon and the incredible properties of waterfall ice. Lean. Out. On. It. Let the frontal lobes overcome the fearful reptilian cortex of the brain. Trust the Russian. I relax into the harness and hunker down on the anchor. Somewhere down below, the taught jiggling of the rope tells me, Adrian is taking out an ice screw and will shortly climb up to join me on these same thin threads.
It's absurd. What are we doing here?
The helicopter spirals through the air, and in seconds we are at eye level with the jagged peaks of the Remarkables mountain range outside Queenstown. With dazzling precision, the pilot weaves the machine between the snow covered spires and puts us down at the head of Wye Creek in the heart of the range. The walls are thick with columns of blue ice. Seconds later, the helicopter disappears into the early morning sun again, and there is nothing but Adrian, my guide for the next ten days, and me. We walk to a squat, grey rubber tent, the only feature in the barren landscape, and Adrian unzips the heavy door. "Welcome to the office," he says. We drop our packs inside and start to kit up for the first climbs of the trip.
Ice climbing: space age technology combined with medieval siege warfare. Reverse curved axes and vertical point crampons, sharpened to terrifying edges, bite into the brittle ice. Fuck gravity, we're going higher, they scream. Precision bored ice-screws hang thick from our harnesses. The weaponry of our sport. We hunt at the fringes of the world, those cold places where nature conspires to percolate tonnes of dihydrogen monoxide into terrifying sculptures hundreds of meters high. Frozen waterfalls. Rock just sits, unmoving, unchanging, but these mighty edifices are in constant flux. The ice changes by the year, never quite forming the same way. It changes by the hour, as the interplay of sun, wind and temperature collude to alter texture and stability. It even changes as the climber puts his tools to it; stress fractures radiate as the ice screws bite; a swing with the axe will stick with astounding rigidity one moment, and with the next a huge dinner plate of ice fractures off the surface, to crash down to the slopes below.
As dangerous as the job of the lead climber is, perched hundreds of feet up on metal points dug mere millimeters into the ice, the job of the belayer below is arguably more so. He pays out the rope vigilantly, ready to hold it fast in the event that the lead climber falls, and yet is subject to a near continual bombardment of ice from above. Thick dinner plates roar past, followed by milk-jug sized slices of icicle. At the end of the day, the bottom of the route is strewn with glassy fragments of ice embedded in the soft snow. Ever wanted to know what it feels like to be in an air raid? Belay an ice climber. "There are three types of fun," Adrian explains, "Type one is where you have fun at the time, and it's fun when you tell people later. Type two fun is where it's not fun at the time, but it's fun when you tell people later. Type three fun is where it's not fun at the time, and it's not fun when you tell people later".
I suspect most ice climbing is about Type 2.4.
By the end of the second day, Adrian tells me there's nothing left to teach. Like a duck to water. Rock scares the bejeesus out of me, but ice I get. "Let's just go climbing." he says.
Each day we cruise the walls of the valley, picking off lines here and there. One pitch turns to two, two turns to three, before we rappel back to the bottom of the climb and sit on our packs eating humus and crackers. High above the valley lies the Upper Tier, a cascade of ice which tumbles over a lip at the top of the cliffs, leaving a wide cave behind. There's room here to camp even; on several nights we would glance upwards from our tent to see the headlamps of bivouacking climbers shining out from behind the ice. At the far left-hand side of the formation lies a route named Iron Curtain, which starts with a five meter vertical section with a spectacular drop away below it. Adrian leads it twice; a few days later as my confidence builds, I lead it too. A hundred feet higher up, my arms are burning and my head is spinning. Another Soviet ploy.
"There's a formation here that's not shown in the guide book." Adrian says, pointing to a leftward sloping route, like three giant jellyfish stacked upon each other. I duck around the bottom of a rock outcrop and start to pay the rope out as he climbs. A cacophony of ice starts to fly overhead, thudding into the deep snow below. "It's a bit brittle!" comes the shout. The bombardment ceases; I dare to stick my head out. A sniper's bullet of ice catches me straight below the eye. Adrian is teetering a hundred feet up, and his axes are hitting the ice with an ominous hollow thud.
"How's it look?"
"I'm not happy. It doesn't seem to be anchored to anything. I can see a big gap between the rock and the ice."
"You want to lower off?"
A few minutes later Adrian is on the ground.
"I can see why that one isn't in the guide book.."
On the final day, we climb "Trigger Finger", a steep three-pitch route. I lead the first pitch to the tune of "You Are My Sunshine", and the third pitch to the Scarecrow's song from the Wizard of Oz. I would wile away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers, if I only had a brain… The sun arcs across the sky as we look for one final line. A route in the middle of the wall looks unclimbed this season; a cave in the rock some eighty feet above is fringed with thick icicles, a perfect belay point for the second pitch. I cruise up to the cave, drill an Abalakov, and set the anchor. Adrian flashes up behind me and takes the rope taught as I climb out of the comfort of the cave and back into the vertical world. At the base of a three meter pillar of ice, I fire in another screw and clip the rope. Tools high overhead now, gentle kick-taps with the crampons, and I'm there. I reach, plant the axes deep in the sloping ice at the top of the pillar, and step up…
Bang. Both axes pop, and I'm floating in space. Everything's sky blue, then white, then blue again, and then stops as the rope goes taught and I slump in my harness. Looking up, I see Adrian's head poking out of the cave. "Logging some air time there, dude?" he shouts down. "I'm in Queenstown, I figured I might as well do some bungy jumping," I shout back. Someone's dragging a scalpel point around the inside of my skull. I wait for the stars that are streaming before my eyes to vanish, then climb slowly up the slope and back into the cave. "Fingers and toes all wiggle?" he asks. They do. I need to get back on the horse, so again I climb out of the womb of the cave and back into the cold and vertical world outside. The ice screw at the bottom of the pillar has barely moved, and the Abalakov acts as if nothing had happened. I swing the axe, and pain explodes through my right hand. Back into the cave. The adrenaline has worn off. My hand is swelling through my glove.
"I don't think it's broken, but I can't climb on it. I guess this is the end."
"Let's rappel off, then."
"C'est la vie."
"C'est la guerre!" he shouts.
They say that deep sea fish cannot be bought safely to the surface, so pressurised are they that they will explode.
The next day the helicopter reverses its journey, whisking us from the cradle of the mountains and back into Queenstown in a matter of minutes. I catch sight of my reflection in a window. Bearded and glassy eyed, I'm suffocating in the warm, thick air. I'm a deep sea fish in a strange world. Decompression. Back at my hotel, I strip the layers of clothing away for the first time in many days and survey the damage. My right hand is like a baseball catcher's mitt, my knees and elbows are swollen and blue. A huge yellow bruise is rising on my left thigh, and worryingly I have a small axe-tip shaped puncture wound in my left pectoral, which matches a hole in my jacket I'd noticed earlier. I try not to think about it. I pull a beer from the fridge, and stand under the shower for a long time.
"A friend asked me the other day, if I had the choice between never taking another turn on skis and never swinging an axe again, which would I chose? I told him I'd take the axe every time.The sense of achievement is… it's like nothing else…" Adrian's voice trails off in the dark of the tent. But really, why do we do this? This utterly pointless, often dangerous, always strenuous activity? What is it about a mountain, or a cliff, or a frozen waterfall deep in the hills that compels us to climb it, to walk along its ridges or to see what's at the top?
We climb, not because "It is there", but to remind ourselves that "I am here".
With thanks to all the guys at Adventure Consultants, the pilots of Heliworks, and especially to Adrian, his patience, skill and strong belay hand. And, of course, Vitaly Abalakov, without whom our racks would be twice as heavy.]]>
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope, there's no early train, I just called them. Best we can hope for is the 6:24, which puts us in Kamikochi at 8:30″ said the OE.
It was going to be tight. The map shows ten and a half hours from Kamikochi to the top of Yari-ga-take, and that's in good weather. In early May, the snow lies still deep in the Yari valley, the slushy remains of the season peppered with avalanche debris sometimes a few meters high.
Under a peerless blue sky we set out from Kappabashi bridge, through the early morning haze and forests just beginning to sprout new green again. A troop of wild monkeys coo softly to each other as they graze the new buds. A few hours further on, the path steepens and the foliage gives way again to a wild, late-winter landscape. The walls of the valley look neatly combed where small avalanches and snow runs have gouged their innumerable paths.
A small huddle of brightly coloured tents sit at the entrance to the valley, a group of Chinese students lazing around them and soaking up the midday sun. The OE, of course, speaks fluent mandarin. It seems they climbed to the summit early that morning; ominously, they tell us that the going is getting slushy underfoot.
Shortly after the Oomagari, the dog-leg turn in the valley, Yari's summit drifts into sight, a perfect obsidian pyramid still streak with rivulets of late-season snow and ice. So close you could reach out and touch it, deceptively close and taunting. Thankfully, the snow is in better condition than we had expected, and greets each cramponed kick with a solid grasp.
We're soon well ahead of the map, and the sun is still high in the sky as we start the final, steep ascent to Yari's shoulder and the safety of the hut. I find my rhythm, kick-step-breath, and motor up the final slope, and from the top watch the OE patiently kick up it in his own pace. In the shade of the hut I shiver, and it is only then that I realise I'm still just wearing a t-shirt.
In the gloom of the following morning, we turn out of the hut at 4am to climb to the summit. The snow lies plastered across the face of the pinnacle, over the chains and the ladders that usually bedeck the mountain in kinder seasons. Warily eyeing the drop at our feet, we make our way up the most promising route to the small shrine which marks the summit. The sun rises wearily through a sea of clouds, lighting Fuji's flanks to the south and catching the peaks of the Alps along their length. We steel ourselves for the long descent, and make our way towards the hot spring and beer that inevitably mark the end of every good trip.
The Yari valley marks the epicenter of Japanese alpinism. Its roots lie in the mountain priests and the hunters who first explored its depths, one in search of food for the soul, the other in search of sustenance for the body. Our climb fed our friendship.
The sound of my footsteps echoes across the empty Hayakawa valley. No other footprints in snow, no signs of life ahead or behind.
I really am all alone here.
A hundred square miles of wilderness, population density: One.
Pttac pttac, the sound of rockfall from above, and I dive for cover. Close into the cliff, I pull the heavy winter pack up and over the back of my neck and cinch the helmet a little tighter. Forty feet away, a volley of grapefruit sized rocks scar the fresh snow.
I really am very alone up here.
"Sorry, this is as far as I can go."
I'd hoped he'd be able to take me as far as the Yashajin-toge pass. We'd made it to Ashiyasu, the last hamlet in the Hayakawa river valley before the walls of the South Alps, but the wheels of the taxi were starting to skitter on the pre-dawn ice. The walk-in to the bottom of the mountain was already long; this would add another 10km to it. In the cold and dark I watch the taxi trace its way back to civilisation. Time to pull on the harness and pack, start the climb.
On a long summer weekend, the flanks of these mountains are thronged with people. Buses whisk them smartly from Kofu station, up to Ashiyasu and through the tunnel at Yashijin, and safely to the start of the pleasant climb from Hiragawara or Kitazawa-toge. It's hard to imagine, as I walk through the night on these icy roads, that such things could ever happen. A small signpost marks the begining of the old approach trail, the one they used before the road was built; I cut up it and through the forests, intersecting the road at intervals. As the dawn breaks, the small car park in front of the Yashajin tunnel appears. The snow is ankle deep and the tunnel is barricaded for the winter.
Mt Kitadake, the second highest mountain in Japan after Fuji, sits within these walls like the keep of an leviathanic castle. The Hayakawa river spills around its foot, an impassable moat, while Mt Aino, Senjo, Kai-koma and the Hou-ou-sanzan range spiral out around it. Formidable defenses, but with a small chink at Yashajin, where the range dips just enough that a determined burglar might steal his way in. So I went. The storms of the previous week has left a thick cover of snow on the ground, but also coated every branch and twig with a jacket of ice. In the early morning light they shine like chandeliers. A troop of monkeys screeches at my approach before they crash through the trees, sending shards of ice smashing to the ground, and filling the forest with sound of breaking glass.
The map marks the route from from the saddle of Yashajin down to the road below as a dismal dotted line. In reality, it is non-existent; landslide and disuse has all but torn it from the mountainside, and slick ice is all that remains. I pull out the rope and gingerly rappel down from tree to tree, emerging at last at the interior road on the other side of the Yashajin tunnel, and into the sunlight again. Then along the road and through its tunnels, each one as cold and dark as a meatlocker. A few kilometers further on, I cut up and over the icy slabs of Mt Karasu-no-zumi, down again to the lower road that snakes along the very bottom of the Hayakawa valley, and finally I'm there: the start of the Bokonzawa ridge that should take me to Kitadake's summit. Ten hours of work to get here, and the climb hasn't even begun. The siren-like call of a deer down by the river snaps me out of my melancholy. Shoulder the pack once more, put one foot in front of the other, and start to chew away at the mountainside again.
Remind me: why are we doing this?
Get up. Get moving.
It's 1 a.m. It's cold. It's dark. It's dangerous.
Whining about it won't help. Get up.
You're crazy.
Get up.
I wriggle out of the snowhole and shiver for a moment in the cold night air. The moon is no more than a faint glow beyond the ridge. The only light spills from my headlamp. A meter wide pool against the snow, I follow it up and through the trees. It's deep enough for snowshoes here. I carve a knee-high, and then thigh-high, trail. The ridge steepens. I'm swimming through the snow now, gain a few feet then slip back down again. Six hours later I flop onto the hard ice of the crest of Bokonzawa-no-kashira. Brew some coffee, watch the sun breach the horizon and stain the mountains blood red, pink and then bronze.
Kitadake looks close enough to touch. I dig another snow hole, stash my gear and mark it on the GPS. Under a flawless blue sky I make good time across the ice, the ironmongery at my hips beating a hard rhythm in the thin air. The snow hangs impossibly fluted and perfect across the face of Kitadake's eastern flank, the infamous Buttress. I'm so close now, but as I crest a small knoll what I see stops me in my tracks.
I'd heard tales of the Happonba, the eight rocky spires which crown the knife-edge ridge just above Bokonzawa. Each year they take another life or two. Four people fell to their deaths here on a winter ascent a couple of years ago. Cornices of snow cling thickly to the rocks, some lying to the left and some to the right, testament to the variability of the winds that blow up from the cols on either side. It looks desperate. I watch the spires for some twenty minutes, wondering if I should go back, call it quits. Instead, crablike with axes and front points buried in the snow, I inch out and around the first spire across the sixty degree ice. Then up to the tip of the next spire. It's a two vertical kilometer fall on each side and thirty centimeters in between. I bang in a piton, back it up with a sling, and start rappelling slowly over the spires. The wind dies, the sun beats down, and rivulets of sweat trickle down my spine. After an hour of careful work, I'm on the other side and Kitadake fills my eyes.
Before long I'm back on my front points again, hauling myself up and over the mountain's southern shoulder and onto the hard ice of its western flank. Here too, the ground falls away for a kilometer or more. I test each placement before committing to it. A slip here would be unthinkable.
And then, quite suddenly, there's nowhere left to climb. I bash the ice from the face of the summit marker. It reads, simply, "3192m Kita-dake". Fuji sits serenely above a sea of clouds to the east, but my eye is drawn to the wisps of vapour that are starting to rise from the Hayakawa valley below. The day is still bright and cloudless above, but the weather is starting to turn and this is no place to be caught. I retrace my steps with great caution. Back at the Happonba I clip the ascender to the rope I'd left and weave back over the spires. They seem easy now. Was I too cautious before? The answer comes in a flash; the cornice I'm standing on crumbles away and drops into the shadows of the col below. I fall with it for a second before the rope jerks tight, the icy maw of the col stretching away beneath my feet.
At the snowhole at Bokonzawa the cloud has already moved in, and the temperature is plummeting. There's no telling what the weather will do the next day, but there will be no sunset shots this evening. I decide to abandon camp and make my way down to the previous night's snowhole and the safety of the forests below. If nothing else, it cuts a few hours from the next day's walk out. Slipping and skidding through the deep powder, I make it back and collapse into my sleeping bag some nineteen hours after setting out.
The business hotel in Kofu boasts a proper onsen hot spring on its roof. I lie back in its waters, and my head starts to spin as the cold beer makes its way through me. Knuckles bruised and throbbing from being bashed against the ice. There's a mysterious puncture wound in my right thigh. Another toenail lost, every muscle aches.
These are small prices to pay for the treasure I'd gained.
Life is good, but it leaves little time for verbiage.
When I was a small boy, I had a sandscape. In a thick wooden frame, two panes of glass sandwiched a mixture of black and white sand in a viscous liquid. When turned on end, the sand would slowly filter down and form stark monochrome landscapes at the bottom. I would dream of walking through those black moors streaked with snow, the desolate ranges of rolling mountains. But occasionally the sand would funnel itself into a single, impossible cone. An abominable Olympus of obsidian ridges and cruel tongues of shimmering ice. And I would think that no man should ever climb such a thing.
A quarter century later, that same cone stares back at me from behind the window of the train. Fuji's crown stabs at the troposphere, a plume of snow driven by Siberian winds billowing like a pennant from the summit.
I walk from the station to Sengen shrine, the old departure point for the pilgrims who would climb Fuji in clement months. The ascent from here is a long, slow march through the haunted forests of the Jukai. The headlamp casts a small pool of light on the path. John Coltrane drifts smoothly from the headphone and reminds me of warm bars and fiery whiskey, so very far from where I am now. The path steepens at the 1st stage way-point, and the forest closes in above me.
By late evening, the huts of the 5th stage emerge above the treeline, boarded up for the winter. In a snow drift by the path I dig a trench, throw down the bivy bag and start the process of melting snow to drink. My mind wanders to the icy flanks that hang above me. From a distance, Fuji seems so compact and perfect, the size of your fist held at arms length. It's not until you are up close that its sheer bulk becomes apparent, or the numerous scars and cliffs that mar that otherwise perfect shape. There are no tents, no lights, not a single other sole on this mountain tonight. Minus fifteen degrees, but no wind. Good signs.
Dawn casts its glow over the peak, but also reveals strong winds higher up. I take the climb to the 8th stage at 10,000 feet slowly, hoping for a midday lull that will let me race to the summit. A shower of walnut sized stones rattle down like bullets a few feet away. I cinch the helmet a little tighter and climb on.
At the 8th stage, the tenor of the mountain changes with shocking abruptness. The soft snows and easy breezes give way to a howling, unrelenting gale and bulletproof ice. Up above the winds have only strengthened. Great vortices of snow are now being dragged from the summit. Two climbers died here only a few weeks ago, their tent torn from its moorings and sent aloft before crashing them down on the ice below. The place has a cruel, malevolent feel to it.
I excavate a crude snow hole in a bank of frozen snow and crawl inside, out of the wind that is rapidly sucking the heat from my body. Melt some snow, rehydrate, sleep a little, and massage the feeling back into my toes. I read the labels on all the food I have, try to guess which bubble at the bottom of the pan will be first to break to the surface. At dusk, I stick my head out of the hole. The thermometer reads minus 20 and falling. I try to sleep again, hoping for a break in the wind before dawn.
At 3am, the incessant battering seems to have died a little. In the cramped snow hole, it takes almost an hour to get ready. Finally I snap on the crampons and drag myself outside. The stars shimmer in the icy pre-dawn air. It's hard to see where the mountain ends and space begins. Within half an hour, I'm at the ridge that will take me to the summit. The wind blows harder here.
At 12,000 feet, I'm lying prone as the gale whips me with all its strength. A constant express train of wind and ice hammer down from above, while all around me is stained blood red by the first rays of the sun. I mash the front points of my crampons deeper into the ice and pull up a little on the axes. My hands are unfeeling, my forearms are pumped and shaking. An eternity passes. It's clear this gale will not relent. The thermometer shows minus 27; the windchill must be somewhere south of minus 45. I'm struck the very certain feeling that if I went for the summit now, I wouldn't be coming back. Inch by inch, I move down. I'd got within 400 feet of the top.
The descent from the 8th stage to the shrine passes quickly. After two days alone, it's strange to see people again, the way they linger and chat with one another. The wan, wintery sun warms my body, and with the exception of the tips of my little fingers, the feeling returns to my hands. At the Fujiyama hot spring, I strip away the armour that has kept me alive for the past two days and slip into the anonymity of those hot waters.
An hour later and with a cold beer in my hand, I watch the winds batter Fuji's peak as the sun sets behind it. The windows of the restaurant perfectly frame its mighty form, exactly as I'd seen in that snowscape all those years before. That impossibly perfect cone, that tramontane Olympus.
Should any man climb such a thing?]]>


text:
Signs You Should Pursue a Degree in Education
Last updated 2 years ago
If you are interested in getting your undergraduate or graduate degree in education, then you probably know that it takes a special kind of person to succeed in this career field. This is not an area that is right for everyone, and you may be wondering if you are the right type of person for the job. Here are some signs that you should pursue a degree in education:
- You Love Working With Kids
People who have a passion for working with children often do well in the educational field. Loving kids, understanding kids, and being able to relate to them are essential qualities to have if you want to become a teacher or other professional in the educational arena.
- You Want To Help Others
You must have the passion and desire to help other people in order to work in education. If you want to make a positive difference in someone's life, then education may be right for you.
- You Like Working In An Educational Environment
The classroom environment is unlike any other. As a teacher, you'll face unique challenges that someone working in any other field will likely never face. If you love the challenge that the classroom presents and want to spend your life in an academic environment, then a degree in education can give you skills you need to manage your classroom most effectively.
- You Are A Good Communicator
The educational field requires effective communication skills. You must be able to speak with children and their parents, as well as other teachers and professionals. Being able to get a point across in a variety of ways is a particularly helpful quality for teachers to have.
If you are interested in pursuing an undergraduate or graduate degree in education and live in the San Antonio area, then Wayland Baptist University may be the perfect college for you. For more details about our degree programs, call (210) 782-9665 today.
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subset: commoncrawl


text:
22 U.S. Code § 3715 - Establishment of Compensation Fund
Source(Pub. L. 100–705, § 2,Nov. 19, 1988, 102 Stat. 4685.)
References in Text
This Act, referred to in text, is Pub. L. 100–705, Nov. 19, 1988, 102 Stat. 4685, known as the Panama Canal Commission Compensation Fund Act of 1988, which enacted sections 3715 to 3715d of this title, amended sections 3612, 3712, and 3731 of this title, and enacted provisions set out as notes under sections 3601 and 3612 of this title. For complete classification of this Act to the Code, see Short Title of 1988 Amendment note set out under section 3601 of this title and Tables.
Section was enacted as part of the Panama Canal Commission Compensation Fund Act of 1988, and not as part of the Panama Canal Act of 1979 which comprises this chapter.
Effective Date
Section effective Oct. 1, 1988, see section 10 ofPub. L. 100–705, set out as an Effective Date of 1988 Amendment note under section 3612 of this title.
The table below lists the classification updates, since Jan. 3, 2012, for this section. Updates to a broader range of sections may be found at the update page for containing chapter, title, etc.
The most recent Classification Table update that we have noticed was Tuesday, August 13, 2013
An empty table indicates that we see no relevant changes listed in the classification tables. If you suspect that our system may be missing something, please double-check with the Office of the Law Revision Counsel.
|Description of Change
|Session Year
|Public Law
|Statutes at Large
LII has no control over and does not endorse any external Internet site that contains links to or references LII.


text:
Narrow your search
With the Times' announcement that frequent readers will have to start paying for access in 2011, the question becomes, "How much would you pay?"
Site launches a new platform to bring more videos--in HD--to its home page, articles, blogs, and site library.
Verizon Wireless and "The New York Times" team up to provide mobile NYtimes.com content to customers.
This story incorrectly identified the subscription terms for NYTimes.com. The company will charge on a four-week basis instead of for every month.
In today's round-up, Netvibes adds new features to improve the design of its service, and the NYTimes.com hires celebrities to help turn things around.
Ever begin typing a URL, only to have Chrome autocomplete it with the wrong address? Here's a way to prevent that URL from showing up ever again.
NYTimes.com exclusively hosts 'Freakonomics' with Mark Cuban, Jim Cramer as quorum and Q&A guests to the social economics blog
The newspaper's domain name registrar says that someone took over a reseller account on Melbourne IT's systems to take down the Web site of The New York Times.
The hacker group gets administrator privileges for Twitter's domain name record and also appears involved in a New York Times' Web site outage.
It looks real, but the URL is a giveaway that the Web page did not originate from the people of The New York Times.


text:
Theater Games
At a local comic shop — this may not surprise anyone familiar to some extent with comic shops — is a shelf lined with canisters of dice.
One of these canisters is full of emotion d10s — ten-sided dice with either words or faces noting a variety of emotional reactions. Health lessons involving emotions and roleplaying, art practice, writing challenges and character development exercises…the possibilities make me giddy, but because I didn't have a classroom at the time, I never picked one up.
My supervisor wants to try doing some improv and acting games, and all I keep thinking about is this d10. So I may have to invest in one, try it out with the kids, and see how it goes.


text:
If the moderate temperatures (in the Northeast, anyway) and blockbuster fare at the box office have anyone feeling a little confused, well, join the club. It turns out though, that Sony's idea of rolling out their late season tentpole "2012," on this the 46th weekend of the year, has some precedent. In fact, you have to go all the way back to 2002 before you hit a group of new releases that doesn't feature a $150+ million film. So we probably should be thinking of the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving as a mini-blockbuster season.
When are we all finally going to admit it to ourselves: the trailers for "2012" are fucking sweet.
Paris Hilton to guest star on the upcoming season of "Supernatural". I would make a joke about Supernatural being lame, but I've noticed lately that its fanbase is especially rabid when it comes to these things... so I'm putting up the white flag. The show's great! Love it!
"Orphan" comes home on DVD and Blu-ray on October 27th. Wow... that was quick!
Bryan Singer to produce 2012 themed miniseries for Syfy. Wow, that's the greatest/worst sentence I've ever typed. I don't think I'll be able to resist.
News landed today that starting on September 2nd, the unreleased episodes from last summer's "Fear Itself" will be available on FearNET. There will be 5 episodes in total.
On casting news, "True Blood's" Ann Woll joins the cast of Darren Lynn Bousman's "Mother's Day" remake. No word on what character she'll be playing. The production is shooting for a Spring release, so expect production to ramp up pretty quickly as we move into late Summer/Fall.
So Robert Rodriguez's "Machete" has the weirdest cast ever. Robert Deniro, Lindsay Lohan, Michelle Rodriguez... I'm pretty sure this is some kind apocalyptic sign here. Syfy should write this into their miniseries.
This guy's scam to cheat on his wife and swindle women through Craigslist was going really well, until he got caught and they super-glued his dangle to his stomach. Awwwwww shit... I don't care what that guy did, that is NOT COOL.
Newscorp says online news will not be free for much longer. He added, "unless of course you visit bloodygoodhorror.com, that's the greatest site ever and it's totally free". Ya I thought that was weird too, but I thought it best not to question.
1945: At 9:15am, Col. Paul Tibbets releases "Little Boy" over Hiroshima and executes a hard, 159-degree turn. 40 seconds later, the Atomic Bomb detonates, yielding a 12.5 kiloton explosion and a huge, black mushroom cloud. About 45,000 people are killed immediately, and another 200,000 are killed in later years by leukemia and other radiation illnesses.
CC's back, Joe's confused, and we hope you enjoy the new sound!
A movie that has the crew conflicted.


text:
Only | SAMHSA
News Home
By Rebecca A. Clay
A workshop on suicide prevention and mental health promotion
at "The Road Home: The National Behavioral Health
Conference on Returning Veterans and Their Families"
presented some of the military's current strategies for
helping veterans cope.
Richard T. McKeon, Ph.D., M.P.H., Special Expert in
the Prevention Initiatives and Priority Programs Development
Branch at SAMHSA's Center for Mental Health Services
(CMHS), moderated the panel of experts.
In the old days, he said, leaders often wouldn't tolerate
any sign of weakness among the troops. In contrast, today's
leaders make it widely known that they want people to
take care of themselves. "If you're a lousy shot,
you go out on the range and practice," said Col.
Ireland. "If you're having mental health problems,
you work on that."
Each of the Nation's armed services—Army, Navy,
Marines, and Air Force—has its own suicide prevention
program, but they share common elements. "Suicide
prevention is more than just getting people together
and saying, 'Don't kill yourselves,' " said
Col. Ireland.
His own approach emphasizes informality, part of his
effort to make mental health providers more approachable.
He writes scripts of hard-times scenarios and asks volunteers
to act out the over-the-top tales of failing marriages,
troubled kids, and financial woes. By customizing the
scripts for each locale, he helps units visualize what
trouble might look like and how they should respond.
Educating leaders is also key. The Air Force, for instance,
has a "Leader's Guide for Managing Personnel in
Distress," which lists common sources of trouble,
danger signs, and supportive actions leaders should take.
"It's cookbook mental health," said Col. Ireland.
Back to Top
Lawrence E. Adler, M.D., Director of the Veterans Integrated
Service Network 19 Mental Illness Research, Education,
and Clinical Center at the U.S. Department of Veterans
Affairs, then shifted the discussion to the clinical
About 90 percent of people who die from suicide have
at least one of the serious mental illnesses in the Diagnostic
and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition,
said Dr. Adler, noting that such disorders often have
genetic components. Because psychiatric illnesses significantly
increase the chance of suicide, Dr. Adler emphasized,
early identification and intervention are critical.
Other conditions, such as AIDS, brain and spinal cord
injuries, and sexual trauma, also increase the risk of
suicide. So do alcohol and substance abuse. And so does
access to weapons. Signs of potential trouble include
impulsivity, aggression, accidents, and withdrawal. Clinicians
even need to be aware of geographic risk factors, said
Dr. Adler.
He pointed out that rural areas and western states have
higher suicide rates.
Clinicians should also understand that behaviors that
seem illogical may make sense to patients, said Dr. Adler.
He described one patient who had a loaded pistol on the
seat of his car and a disconcerting habit of avoiding
traffic jams by veering into the wrong lane.
"What do I tell him—that we can get him on
medication and relaxed?" Dr. Adler asked. The paradox
is that in wartime such behavior makes perfect sense
for survival. "If this patient stops acting like
that, he'll be in grave danger once he goes back."
SAMHSA's National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(800) 273-8255
Air Force Suicide Prevention Program
Army Center for Health Promotion and Preventive
(410) 671-4656
Navy Environmental Health Center
(757) 953-0959
Marine Corps Suicide Prevention Program
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
(800) 232-4636
National Institute of Mental Health
(866) 615-6464
National Center for PTSD
(802) 296-6300
Photo Gallery »
« See AlsoPrevious
See AlsoThe Road Home: National Conference on Returning Veterans & Their Families
« See Part 1: Community Services Provide Safety Net
for Returning Veterans
« See Part 2: Community Services Provide Safety Net
for Returning Veterans
« Addressing Special Needs of Veterans
Recovery Month Includes Veterans »
Resources for Veterans »
See AlsoNext
Article »
From the Administrator: Employment
Can Enhance Recovery
Addressing Special Needs of Veterans
Preventing Suicide among Veterans
Recovery Month Includes Veterans
Resources for Veterans
Report to Congress Offers Plan
To Reduce Underage Drinking
Substance Use State by State
Therapeutic Community Curriculum
Community-Based Care Helps Children
Updates on SAMHSA Grants
Summit To Discuss Disaster
SAMHSA Hosts HBCU Conference
Older Adult Treatment Admissions
SAMHSA News Information


text:
Cooperations and Certifications
baramundi software AG
This cooperation is based on the integration of the OMNITRACKER IT Service Management Center with the System Management Software baramundi Management Suite.
Hood Group
OMNITRACKER Requirements Management Center is HOOD INSIDE certified.
IT Expert
OMNITRACKER IT Service Management Center certified by IT Expert in Russia.
OMNINET is member of the Microsoft Partner Network as Silver Independent Software Vendor (ISV).
OMNINET is Oracle Partner.
Pink Elephant
OMNITRACKER IT Service Management Center is certified by Pink Elephant.
Friedrich-Alexander-University - Professorship for Software Engineering
OMNINET cooperates with the Professorship for Software Engineering at the Friedrich-Alexander-University in Erlangen, Nuremberg.
Among other things, the objectives of this partnership are the use of the support of modern methods of constructive and analytical quality assurance in software development, through OMNITRACKER workflows, and the introduction of further quality improvements in our own software development projects.
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text:
You will see an additional shipping charge added to your order of either $10, $20 or $25.
The fee assessed is based upon the size of the product. Oversize items are excluded from shipping promotions.
- The Theatrical Quality Queen of Hearts adult womens plus size costume includes:
- Gown
- Petticoat
- Choker
- Tiara
- Earrings not included
[18 of 20 customers found this review helpful]
Comments about Theatrical Quality Queen of Hearts Adult Womens Plus Size Costume:
The petticoat wire went in perfect and you can bend it if needed. I didn't have to works great. I tried on costume it is very long which I anticipated on that. Will be altering. Now the bad thing is whoever made it made the overall costume for plus size but not the arms. The arms are for a "regular" fit. So I could not zip it up since my arms didn't go thru all the way. There is enough material to undo the stitching to fix. Going to go great with my family themed Alice in Wonderland when we go to Disneyland
[23 of 25 customers found this review helpful]
Comments about Theatrical Quality Queen of Hearts Adult Womens Plus Size Costume:
This costume is really beautiful. I am a plus size lady so I ordered this costume. There are a few issues.. The hoop would not work as it is rolled small to fit in the bag. We put it in hot water to stretch it out, didnt work. We put furniture on it and stretched it out for 3 days, didnt work. To make it more authentic it needs the red hair wig. The second issue is that this costume is not a plus size and had to be altered. I bought a real holla hoop and the costume is stunning!
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Shop the three Minnesota Twins Pro Shops located in Apple Valley, Minnetonka, and Roseville for all of your favorite Twins gear. These stores are home for authentic Twins merchandise, collectables, and an assortment of official game used merchandise. The Minnesota Twins Pro Shops feature products for men, women, children, and toddlers. Jersey customization can also be ordered at any Pro Shop location for both authentically stitched and heat press application. Please call the stores for more information on pricing and production times.
The Minnesota Twins Pro Shops are open year round.
Get your gear straight from the source - shop for Twins gear anytime at twinsbaseball.com.
*Twins Pro Shops and Majestic Clubhouse Store are not affiliated with MLB.com online shop.
The Minnesota Twins Pro Shops are the official source for authenticated game-used Twins memorabilia.
Bats, baseballs, jerseys, hats, and lineup cards make the perfect gift for any die-hard Twins fan or as an addition to your own sports memorabilia collection.
Our items are continually changing, so check back often.
If you're searching for something special from your favorite player don't hesitate to contact stores directly, we may have just what you're looking for.
Apple Valley Twins Pro Shop
15050 Cedar Ave Ste 109,
Apple Valley MN 55124
(952) 891-2934
Minnetonka Twins Pro Shop
13037 Ridgedale Dr
Minnetonka, MN 55305
(952) 546-0815
Roseville Twins Pro Shop
2401 Fairview Ave N
Roseville, MN 55113
(651) 635-0777
Pro Shop Hours
Monday - Satu: 10:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Saturday: 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.
Sunday: 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.
(Hours subject to change)


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Student Spotlight
Vocalists Sweep NATS Competition
Voice Majors Esther Rayo, Jenny Thuman, Christopher Trujillo and Katie Barnes placed either 1st or 2nd in the 2012 National Association of Teachers of Singing (N.A.T.S.) competition scholarship held on the Sonoma State Univeristy campus.
Newman hitting all the right notes
"Every time a school showed interest," Newman said, "I went to their website. I wanted to see what they offered in their music programs. Most of the schools put little emphasis on jazz. Mostly classical and symphony. Nothing wrong with that. I love all music. But jazz was my thing." (Read Full Story on Press Democrat)
SSU Music Students Selected for National Band Conference
Emily Moore (flute), Nicholas Cooper (clarinet), Christina Penrose (clarinet), and Casey Jones (bass clarinet) participated in the College Band Directors National Association Intercollegiate Honor Band at the CBDNA Western Division conference, which took place at the University of Nevada at Reno campus.
The students were part of a select group of college musicians nominated by band directors from throughout the western states. The Intercollegiate Band rehearsed a set of challenging wind band repertoire, led by Dr. Thomas Duffy from Yale University.
Works performed included Canzona by Peter Menin, Cheetah by Karel Husa, Chant Funeraire by Gabriel Faure, Tumbao from Sinfonia No. 3 "Salsa" by Roberto Sierra, Dr. Duffy's own Butterflies and Bees, and the Country Band March of Charles Ives. The concert was presented as the culminating performance at the conference.


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Clarinet Care Kit
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Yamaha YSH-411 Series Brass BBb SousaphoneThe Yamaha YSH411 Sousaphone is possibly the best sousaphone around today. Yamaha has done extensive research in developing an improved marching low brass instrument. Upon examination you will find many of the same features on their top line marching equipment that you will on their professional solo and symphonic instruments. These instruments are "best in class".The full brass sousaphone for those who prefer the better sound quality of a brass instrument and don't worry about the weight of the equipment as much. This is a powerful sousaphone that will hold the sound together at all volumes.
Order today with the no-risk assurance of our Total Satisfaction and Low Price Guarantees!
Choose from the folowing Yamaha Warranties:
I am now in my fourth year of marching sousaphone. I have dealt with and marched Yamahas, Kings, and Conn 20ks. First of all, the Conn 20k is not what it used to be. We have a 20k naked lady that is a monster, but our newer series 20k is a piece of garbage. It is low quality and thin brass. The king is a nice horn, but it is small. The hoop is small, making it the most difficult of the three to march in, the brass is thin, making it dent prone, and the bore is small. I like the king, but it seems best suited for younger, smaller players, it is light, and the smaller bore makes it more controllable, however it is limited in the total volume that the horn can sustain. The Yamaha is a beast, it has a fantastic tone, its durable, and it is large enough to let larger players march without limiting their motion, however it weighs considerably more. I have never seen the valves break on one, if anything the other horns have to be repaired much more often than the Yamahas. The larger bore is great for volume, but it can cause some issues with sound quality if the player can't control the tone. However, the decrease sound quality only becomes a factor after you have far surpassed the dynamic wall you hit in the King. The Yamaha is the best sousaphone I have had the opportunity to use, the only real down side to it is It's weight, but that doesn't take long to adjust to.
My high school marches these sousaphones and based on my experience, they are somewhat well built but are prone to valves breaking as mentioned before. My previous band director was lazy and he never bothered to get the valves fixed and the first valves were shot on two of our five sousas. Our band used them for 5 seasons before I got to high school and two of them were quite broken things, with now three of them having broken mouthpiece attachment of varying degrees. On one of them it seems the first valve track thing was drilled incorrectly. The tone is somewhat good but varies by instrument as I suspect some of them have air leaks. I would recommend you not get these and get Conn 20k's instead, although I have never personally used one.
This year marks my second year marching sousaphone and I have no problems with the model. In my opinion, I'm capable of producing both vibrant, deep, and rich sound from it, as well as those other times when I blast the heck out of the bell playing stand tunes like Eye of the Tiger. Though this is the only sousaphone model I've marched before, but I can tell you that there are no problems with this one.
While the playing characteristics of this horn are great (very responsive, resonant, dark as far as sousaphones go, etc) they are prone to valve breakage. Especially in cold weather, the valve ends snap off with very little force. They also bend very easily and start jamming in warm weather. Once that happens, the horn is basically useless. I have 3 years experience marching on them (and I'm the only person who has played my horn from new to now)
* Price guarantee valid on all new in-stock merchandise sold by an authorized U.S. Dealer. Guarantee does not apply to discontinued, blemished, damaged, closeout, open box, refurbished or auction items. You will be contacted via email shortly after submission of request.


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The superior craftsmanship of this buddha in the classic zazen pose is evident in the delicate folds of his robe draping over a lotus-petal throne. Shakyamuni Buddhas hands are in the zazen or cosmic mudra that helps to silence the mind and allows all awareness to be directed inward. Made from bonded stone and coated with a handpainted bronze finish. 11.5 h x 7 w.
Price: $75.00Product Code: SHK-LOTUS
Read more about Buddhist Statues


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There has been a Steve Perry sighting, and it's in a studio! The band AWOLNATION is working on new material, and, according to singer Aaron Bruno, he's been hanging out with Journey's former singer. He told Rolling Stone magazine they became friends because Perry liked their music, and reached out to him. He also says it feels kind of like he's bragging because Perry likes his music.
So this is a good sign. Like I said about Christine McVie and Fleetwood Mac, musical burnout can only last so long....All you have to do is get the music bug started some way again, however small. Hopefully this will get Perry back to recording his own stuff, and dare I say? Something with Journey?
Photo by Alex Mane (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons


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A few pieces of news from Thrashers practice today as I have just arrived at the airport to fly to New York for Wednesday's game against the New York Rangers.
Freddy Meyer missed practice for a second straight day with what coach Craig Ramsay called a mid-body injury. Also, Zach Bogosian will not travel with the team to New York has he continues to be out with a shoulder injury. He will miss his sixth straight game.
With two defensemen out, the Thrashers will likely recall Noah Welch from AHL Chicago in time for Wednesday's game.
Also, Ramsay said today that Ondrej Pavelec will definitely start on Saturday in St. Louis. In the meantime, Pavelec will make a rehab start at AHL Chicago Wednesday before rejoining the team.
Peter Mannino will return and serve as Chris Mason's backup.
Ramsay said he wanted Pavelec's first start back to be on the road although he did consider having Mason start against the Blues, his former team.
I'm running to catch plane. I will update with additional news.
October 26th, 2010
1:29 pm
Can we figure out why Ramsey is so set on Pavs playing against the Blues when it makes so much more sense to let Mason play against all these guys he's familiar with????
October 26th, 2010
1:48 pm
Well, they are also familiar with him.
October 26th, 2010
1:51 pm
Welch…???? Interesting choice. Will go and look @ the Wolves site,and try to get info.
The start in St. Louis…. guess after alls said and done that's how it washes out.
Pavs needs the re-hab, and Chitown is just a short drive down the road, works out ok.
No biggie.
Go get'em Pavs!! Keep a stiff upper-lip,WORK HARD!!!!
Get that first start at home where us Thrashfans can help you thru!
Hockey! the greatest game on Earth!
October 26th, 2010
1:59 pm
Hi Chris – Enjoy reading your blog each day. Lord know's its hard to find objective (or any) coverage of the Thrashers in this town, on TV, Radio or in print.
Was wondering if you'd be interested in some information about the Thrashers fan club (believe it or not, the 2nd largest in the NHL). I write the newsletter article and also run the road trips committee and would love to share some information or bounce some ideas off of you.
October 26th, 2010
2:14 pm
Well J(Z), think about it. Even if he's familiar with all these players, it's still maybe 15 players in STL that know all of Masons weaknesses, have trained with him and learned where to shoot, and will therefore have a big advantage against him.
October 26th, 2010
2:53 pm
Ok, makes sense. Thats why they pay you guys the big bucks
October 26th, 2010
3:04 pm
This article was a missed opportunity to post a picture of Raquel Welch. Shame on you, C-Vivs!!
October 26th, 2010
3:20 pm
Chris- great job with this blog and your up to date coverage of the Thrash. You keep us well informed. Thanks.
October 26th, 2010
4:05 pm
dud sad before season start kulda is the man, he got decent pre-season and now welch what happened? doghouse kovy like, or dud not telling the true don waddell like.
October 26th, 2010
4:31 pm
yeah i was thinking kulda.. of course he has earned a spot on the roster 2 years in a row by my count.
October 26th, 2010
6:08 pm
New Sheriff in town, things are gonna be different around here…..
October 26th, 2010
6:08 pm
yeah i woulda figured kulda seeing as how welch has had a few shots and to me seems more of a lifelong 7th man
October 26th, 2010
6:36 pm
Unrelated question, and I dont' know if it's been addressed on these blogs, but are there any blackout issues pertaining to Fox Sports South or Sports South and DirecTV? I've been hearing that Fox blocked Dish Network from airing the channel, so anybody with Dish as their TV provider is screwed, but are DirecTV subscribers affected? I haven't been able to watch any games yet this season on TV but wanted to watch tomorrow's game against NYR.
October 26th, 2010
9:14 pm
I would prefer to see Kulda as well. Maybe he has an injury? Welch has been playing well in Chicago though.
I agree that Pavs should play a game in Chicago before coming back. I wouldn't want to put him back in raw. Remember he hasn't played a full regular season game since last season.


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From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia - View original article
|Fleming Island
|Unincorporated community
|Orange Park, Fla.
|Coordinates: 30°5′35″N 81°43′9″W / 30.09306°N 81.71917°WCoordinates: 30°5′35″N 81°43′9″W / 30.09306°N 81.71917°W
|United States
|Time zone
|Eastern (EST) (UTC-5)
|• Summer (DST)
|ZIP codes
|(Part of Orange Park, Fla.)
|Fleming Island
|Unincorporated community
|Orange Park, Fla.
|Coordinates: 30°5′35″N 81°43′9″W / 30.09306°N 81.71917°WCoordinates: 30°5′35″N 81°43′9″W / 30.09306°N 81.71917°W
|United States
|Time zone
|Eastern (EST) (UTC-5)
|• Summer (DST)
|ZIP codes
|(Part of Orange Park, Fla.)
Fleming Island is an unincorporated community in Clay County, Florida, United States.[1] It is located 15 miles southwest of Jacksonville, on the western side of the St. Johns River, off US 17. Fleming Island's zip code became 32003 in 2004, giving it a different code than Orange Park. It is not an island, but a former wetland area developed into several golf courses and suburbs. In 1942, when the area was undeveloped, the U.S. Navy constructed four asphalt runways on the site and established a Naval Outlying Field designated as NOLF Fleming Island, an auxiliary airfield to Naval Air Station Jacksonville.[2] The Navy abandoned the auxiliary airfield in the 1960s, its runways too short to accommodate the jet aircraft then in operation at nearby NAS Jacksonville and NAS Cecil Field, and in the late 1990s the decaying runways were demolished to make way for current residential-centric development.
Today, Fleming Island is primarily a bedroom community of nearby Jacksonville. Major developments include Eagle Harbor, Pace Island and Fleming Island Plantation and many more. The only high school located on Fleming Island is Fleming Island High School, which was opened in 2003.
Fleming Island ranks among the richest zip codes in the Jacksonville area, with an average household income of $104,254 and average net worth of $959,951. 32003 zip code placed #2 after Ponte Vedra Beach in the March 2013 Jacksonville Business Journal article. Fleming Island has its own Carmike Cinema 12, Wal Mart, Target, Home Depot, Kohl's, Publix, Winn-Dixie, Michael's, PetSmart and many other types of businesses. The Clay County Public Library Headquarters is on Fleming Island, as are the Clay County Soccer Fields. There is an 8' wide sidewalk running the length of Fleming Island, providing about 7 miles of walking, jogging and biking. Black Creek Park on the South end of the Fleming Island borders Black Creek and affords bikers and hikers nature trails. On the North end of Fleming Island, Moccasin Slough just opened a park for children on Westover Road just off Highway 17.
Nature lovers can visit Moccasin Slough. The Pace family-owned Moccasin Slough at one time and dug a canal almost all the way to Doctors Lake. Area residents can enjoy the benefits of their labor, as it is still navigable among the swampy portions by canoe or small boat.
The population of Fleming Island is 28,350, with over 9,800 households scattered around the Island. The median house value is $260,815 and the median age is 40.40, according to zip-code.com. The elevation is 28 feet above sea level. There are many options for housing, including apartments, condominiums, townhouses, patio homes and single family homes. There are homes for first time homebuyers, empty nesters, and luxury homes in estate neighborhoods and on the water.
Fleming Island is bordered by water or wetlands on all sides - St. John's River to the East, Doctor's Lake to the North, Black Creek to the South and Swimming Pen Creek to the West. There are wetlands from Swimming Pen Creek to Black Creek that are not navigable. Some locals favor opening this to Black Creek but so far, the St. Johns Water Management District has not pursued the idea of doing this.
Former Lt. Governor Carroll
Non-Denominational Churches include:Christ's Church, Cornerstone Community Church at Fleming Island, Faith Church
Baptist Churches include: Berean Baptist Church, Harbor Baptist Church, Heritage Baptist Church, Hibernia Baptist Church, St. Luke Baptist
Catholic Churches include: Sacred Heart Catholic Church
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: Fleming Island 1st and 2nd Wards
Lutheran Churches include: Crossroad Lutheran Church
Methodist Churches include: Fleming Island United Methodist
Anglican Churches include: New Grace Anglican Church
Presbyterian Churches include: Fleming Island Presbyterian Church
High Schools: Fleming Island High School
Elementary Schools: Thunderbolt Elementary, Fleming Island Elementary, Paterson Elementary School


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Banks That Will Prosper in the New Era
Matthew is a member of The Motley Fool Blog Network -- entries represent the personal opinion of the blogger and are not formally edited.
Bank stocks have certainly had a tough time the past 5 years or so. For the most part, investors still look at these companies as poisoned and full of toxic assets, too risky for a long term investment. Even those who will venture into the banking sector rarely look at these companies as long term investments. Now that we are well past the lows of 2009, it may be time to reassess and evaluate whether or not these companies make viable buy-and-hold investments anymore.
Generally, every time there is a major crash in an industry, the companies that survive the crash end up doing extremely well in the long term, to the point of being better off than before the crash. A great example is the tech crash of 2000. In the late '90's, every company that could register a domain name was going to be the next big thing. As the online retail sector got more and more crowded, the bubble burst, and not only did the strongest companies survive, but they were able to gobble up the market share left behind by their fallen competitors. Amazon.com today is worth more than twice what it was at the peak of the bubble. The same can be said for eBay as well.
A similar phenomenon could very well occur in the banking and investment sector. Through acquiring unfortunate competitors for pennies on the dollar, not to mention the market share left by competitors that simply went out of business, the big banks left standing have a unique opportunity to grow their market share and valuation far beyond what it was even at the peak of the mortgage bubble. Here are the companies who are particularly well-positioned to do just that over the next decade:
1.) Bank of America (NYSE: BAC) – The second largest U.S.-based financial holding company, Bank of America has global assets of $2.2 trillion. In 2008, Bank of America acquired troubled competitors Countrywide Financial, and Merrill Lynch & Co. The company did issue 600,000 shares of 5.0% fixed rate preferred stock to the U.S. Treasury in connection with the TARP plan, however the increased market share the acquisitions will ultimately provide will more than compensate for their increased indebtedness. The historically low share price of BAC shares makes for a very interesting entry point for a long-term investment.
2.) Wells Fargo (NYSE: WFC) – Wells Fargo is the 4th largest bank holding company in the U.S. with assets of $1.34 trillion. Wells Fargo made one of the savviest acquisitions of the financial crisis by acquiring Wachovia, which has been severely weakened by bad mortgage loans. Wells Fargo was one of the best performers in the "stress tests" conducted by the government in 2009, and although the company received money from TARP, it repaid the government in full in December 2009. As the foreclosure crisis winds down, Wells Fargo should be well positioned to capitalize on its increased customer base that resulted from acquiring Wachovia.
3.) JPMorgan Chase (NYSE: JPM) – Quite possibly the best-positioned of the three banks mentioned, JPMorgan took full advantage of the opportunities presented to them as a survivor or the crash. In the first major investment bank collapse of the recession, they acquired Bear Stearns in May 2008 for pennies on the dollar. Then, a few months later in September, they purchased all of the assets of Washington Mutual for only $1.9 billion, an absolute bargain considering that they only had to take on certain liabilities of the failed bank. JPMorgan currently has approximately $2.3 billion in assets and has operations in 50 countries.
In conclusion, while there will certainly be some volatility in the sector as the foreclosure epidemic plays out and the credit markets continue to thaw, these three banks are extremely well positioned to capture market share and create value for their shareholders. Just as investors in Amazon and eBay who waited out the tech crash were, holders of these stocks will be handsomely rewarded as the banking sector stabilizes over the years ahead.
Know What You own
To learn more about the most-talked-about bank out there, check out the Fool's in-depth company report on Bank of America. The report details Bank of America's prospects, including three reasons to buy and three reasons to sell. Just click here to get access.
KWMatt82 has no positions in the stocks mentioned above. The Motley Fool owns shares of Bank of America, JPMorgan Chase & Co., and Wells Fargo & Company. Motley Fool newsletter services recommend Wells Fargo & Company. Try any of our Foolish newsletter services free for 30 days. We Fools may not all hold the same opinions, but we all believe that considering a diverse range of insights makes us better investors. The Motley Fool has a disclosure policy.If you have questions about this post or the Fool's blog network, click here for information.


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The Turner Prize-Winner Goes Digital to Capture Instant Encounters on Far-flung Travels
From the stars above Kilimanjaro to Shanghai's neon-lit cityscape, preeminent photographer Wolfgang Tillmans unveils his first impressions of the furthest reaches of the globe. Taking the viewer on a frenetic journey between London, Tierra del Fuego, Tasmania, Saudi Arabia and beyond, Tillmans' latest monograph Neue Welt creates a hyperactive and graphically juxtaposed image bank that conveys the sheer density of information available in contemporary culture. Edited and designed by Tillmans, the Taschen release marks a turning point away from his abstract investigations of the photographic form to a more outward-looking figurative exploration of the world and the camera's ability to record modern-day experience. "Neue Welt is a very inspirational document," says gallerist Maureen Paley, who has represented Tillmans for over a decade. "It flows from micro to macro observations from all over the world with enormous ease, as only Wolfgang can with his generosity of spirit and innate curiosity for all things visual." Staying only fleetingly at each place he visited so as to retain his instant reactions, Tillmans switched to a digital camera for the project and refused to retouch his images in order to capture an authentic vision.


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The 2010 Tony Award winner for Best Musical is taking over the stage at ASU Gammage. "Memphis" is about a young white DJ, Huey Calhoun, who falls in love with rock and roll and a beautiful black singer. The musical is set during the segregated 50s and shows how rock and roll could set off a cultural revolution. The show has eight performances between March 5 to 10. Actress Julie Johnson visits FOX 10 to talk about the show. ASU Gammage asugammage.com
KSAZ-TV & KUTP511 W. Adams St.Phoenix, AZ 85003Phone: (602) 257-1234Fax: (602) 262-0177


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The Grand Teton Whitetail Antler Chandelier
Item # WX2-122686
- Google+
Add an additional $90.00 heavy/bulky shipping charge per each.
This item is shipped directly from the factory. To see the expected shipping date, please add to your Shopping Cart. Sorry, no express shipping available. We are unable to ship factory direct items to Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico or APO or FPO addresses.
This item cannot ship to Canada.
This item cannot ship internationally.
- Details & Specs
The Grand Teton Antler Chandelier. 26 lights placed upon 76 professionally handcrafted whitetail antlers. Add a rustic WOW to your cabin or home!
An impressive "trophy" light fixture that will definitely have your guests talking! And nobody would ever guess that the 76 intertwined antlers on this Chandelier weren't the real thing!
In fact, each of the incredibly life-like whitetail antlers were professionally handcrafted from medium-density polyethylene and individually hand-stained and painted to look exactly like the real deal! The only difference you'll probably notice between these antlers and the genuine article is a much lower price!Features:
- Holds 26 lights (25 watt bulb recommended, not included)
- Antique brass canopy
- 36" of antique brass chain
- Hardware included
- 52 x 66".
- Reviews
Customer ReviewsNo reviews exist for this item....


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Brought to you by the people who occupy wall street. Why will YOU occupy?
OccupyWallSt.org Occupytogether.org somosel99por-ciento.tumblr.com wearethe99percentuk.tumblr.com westandwiththe99percent.tumblr.com
ATTENTION: Documentary filmmaker Bobbi Jo Hart is looking to connect with people who have submitted their stories to We Are the 99 Percent. She would like to bring your stories to life in a new feature documentary film. You can contact her directly at email@example.com if you would like to know more and explore being interviewed on camera.
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I am 62 years old. I have worked honestly and hard my whole life (since I was 14) because that is how you "realize The American Dream."
I was a home builder and designer.
In 1980, the "Savings & Loan Crisis" forced me out of work and out of business. (the government helped the banks survive…) I slowly rebuilt my life and business.
In 2007, the "Sub-Prime Mortgage Crisis" crushed me again. I lost my business, my home, my wife and my belief in that American Dream. (the government saved the banks again…)


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Inspired by a mayfly, who is born in the morning and dies the same evening, much of my work uses the symbolism of a day to represent the span of human life. In those short twenty-four hours I see traits of human life, birth and death. These photographs and animation/video-stills come from miniature sets that I build using cardboard, wood, natural materials, and textiles. Many of them represent the passing of time in existing spaces; for instance, a closed-down bar in Mexico and an abandoned cottage in Sweden. To me these empty interiors tell ethereal stories about people and their lives.


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SPOKANE -- The Gonzaga women's basketball team faces the University of Iowa in the NCAA Tournament on Saturday at 1:10pm in the McCarthey Athletic Center. You can watch the game live on ESPN2.
The other first-round match-up has UCLA playing Montana 30 minutes following the Gonzaga-Iowa game.
Saturday's winners meet at 6:30pm on Monday for the right to advance to the Spokane Regional to be held at the Spokane Veterans Memorial Arena on March 26-28.
Iowa brings a 22-8 record to Spokane after falling to Ohio State 71-61 in the quarterfinals of the Big Ten Tournament. The Hawkeyes were 10-6 in the Big Ten and earned the No. 4 seed into the conference tournament.
Gonzaga is making its fourth appearance in the NCAA Tournament, and third-straight, and first as a No. 11 seed. The Bulldogs were previously No. 12 seeds in both 2007 and 2009 and had a No. 7 seed last season.
Tune into KREM 2 News at 10 and 11 o'clock for all the highlights and postgame reaction of Saturday's games.