Stuff You Missed & Bosque Thru-Hikers Guide, Part I


pond Was there ever a greater mockery of summer than “summer school?” No, there wasn’t.

We have summer school to blame for this very delinquent post on the Rio Grande Bosque. And for most other current reckless behavior in my life (like backing into my driveway wall as I was leaving my house for… summer school.)

But that’s okay, because now instead of a practical, timely, must-see guide to the bosque, I have a nostalgic, too-late-now, retrospective guide to the bosque. mulberry My guide will allow you to lament all of those things you didn’t see in the bosque this spring and yearn to see them next year (while also suspecting that this is an impossible dream, and vaguely wanting to die).

One night in the Jemez, my friend Molly spun us a campfire yarn of a famous thru hiker known as “Insane Dwayne” who lives in a canoe in the Everglades surviving on turtles and alligators (when he is not hiking thru things).

This set in motion a false-nostalgic train of thought that began with: Freedom of Choice(!), veered to Freedom to Ingest Turtles, and ended with: Could I (me??) live in the bosque? (I say false-nostalgic because I have never myself lived in a canoe, but I also somehow feel like I have.) Could I live in the bosque?

No, as everyone who knows how much I hate mysteriously rustling grass can tell you, I could not. But I could hike thru it. That is an attainable goal. The Paseo del Bosque is only 16 miles. I could hike through it this fall and probably survive if I am well equipped and well versed in bosque flora.


This could be a decent place to sleep

For this reason, I am compiling a season-specific bosque reference guide, which I am archiving here on Spartan Holiday. My purpose is twofold: to make you feel false-nostalgic pangs about the majesties of spring that you missed (yet somehow feel like you didn’t), and to ensure my own survival in any season.

Bosque Thru-Hikers Guide: Late Spring

1) Mulberries

mulberry2 The sweetest, most identifiable berry, and nostalgic crayon color. Has there ever been a berry so stacked, luscious, and fiendishly scrappy as the mulberries in the bosque this damp spring? Now they’re past season.

Always be careful who you tell about the locations of mulberry trees in the bosque. Do not tell bored teenagers or Amish people (who in my experience can clean a tree in three minutes) or little girls with buckets.

2) Yerba Mansa


photo credit to Dara Saville

You might still catch the lovely, and deliquescent yerba mansa, but if you pick it, God help you.

This is an endangered flower slated for certain death, but for an entire movement called the Yerba Mansa Project devoted to resuscitating the potent herb in the bosque.

How would you have recognized it if you had seen it? “In the light of the setting sun the white petal-like sepals of Yerba Mansa radiate an iridescent glow that reflects an otherworldly palate of colors,” writes my friend, herbal sorceress, and project founder, Dara Saville.

Oh there is nothing I wouldn’t do for this flower whose roots are (according to Dara) “anti-inflammatory, broadly anti-microbial, astringent, anti-catarrhal, and tonifying to the mucous membranes!”

3) Ravenna Grass

a.k.a elephant grass

Invasive Ravenna grass clusters in grotesque tussocks mostly near the zoo where it escaped from the Africa exhibit, in a way, way more boring version of Jurassic Park. Ravenna grass is locked in a zero sum death match with yerba mansa, which makes it a mortal enemy of the Yerba Mansa Project.

You can still see it; it will never die because it is invasive. Unless we all take it upon ourselves (during sanctioned workdays) to dig them up.

Which we will. Because if there’s one thing we can say about humanity, it’s that we are geniuses at coming together to safeguard the integrity of our ecosystems, especially on hot weekend mornings when we could be eating waffles instead (at least I think that’s what people say).

4) Wild Irises

lastirises Louis, Carry, and I were walking by the clear ditch in late May when Carry noticed this electrifying patch of wild yellow irises. I didn’t know that irises grew near riverbanks. I picture them mostly as the hobby flowers of shrill-voiced English ladies, so I was suspicious and cynical, at first.

But then Louis screamed, “Lemon curd and buttercream!” It put me at ease. Oh, Louis. Never will I have a more resplendent day in the Bosque than that day with Louis (and his mom) and his encyclopedic knowledge of native plants.

5) Bike-In Coffee

bic The Bike-In Coffee food truck, parked on Old Town Farm property (just southwards and eastwards of I-40), is a thru-hikers dream. It will be open until October but never dreamier than in the month of May.

It’s called Bike-In Coffee because, really, it’s for bikers and hikers, not lazy people driving their cars and bounding like spaniels up to the counter. But if you’re smart, you’ll park two miles away and then hike in, loudly announce how hot it is, and how far you walked, so as not to be associated with those people who parked much closer. bic2 After a taxing day of eating only mulberries, you can relax a spell and order an iced coffee and giant slab of recycled chocolate cake (so-named from left-over coffee and spent grains procured from Ponderosa Brewing Co). Or this blue cornmeal cake with farm cherries (which is probably already off the menu).

I think no cake will ever taste as good as this cake in the company of my lone self, pining over memories of my old friends Carry and Louis, who had walked with me there mere days before. bic7 Okay, let’s get real for a second, at this point of my thru-hike, I will probably be tempted to flame out and hide from my sponsors in one of the horse stables with a plateful of cookie scones.

Wasted soup makes thru-hikers mad

Wasted soup makes thru-hikers mad

I want to tell my future self: “No. Keep Going. Those horses don’t like you. And there is so much more to see,” as future installments of this guide will make abundantly clear.

City life is hard–what with its density, urbanity, and impossible Chihuahuas. Sometimes a person just wants to throw off the shackles of civilization/summer school and go AWOL in the Rio Grande Bosque for a couple of weeks. I understand. And so, we shall return in the fall to see what you missed late summer.

Shocking Announcement & Let’s Go to the Bosque!


Did you really think Spartan Holiday was dead? Haaa haa. Oh my god, no.

It’s like your parents telling you that your childhood kitten, Mr. Mitten Face, is dead, when they really just released it into the woods as part of the Cat Re-wilding Movement. But then after time passes, there’s your cat, all grown up, rippling with muscle, ridiculous survival skills, and a faux-hawk.

button eyes copy

That is Spartan Holiday.

Because also, Mr. Mitten Face really wants to tell you about some awesome recent discoveries. Rrroww rroow rrow, he says. That means “Follow me to the bosque” in cat language.


A bosque pond in fall

The bosque is the verdant, watery, cottonwoody, apache-plumey spine of our city (Albuquerque). Right now the Rio Grande is enjoying a brief stint as a full-blooded river due to the freakish amount of spring rainfall. Also! – The mulberries are ripe.

Lately I have been forcing all of my friends to go on long hike-walks in which we often get lost but..have amazing adventures in the bosque! As I am running out of friends to invite, since word is getting around about my bosque death marches, I am inviting you, my faithful readers.

Here’s what it looks like!

canal thingy by the river

canal thingy by the river

Prepare yourself for a whole mini-series on bosque lore: Where did that invasive elephant grass come from? Where can I fortify myself for continued death mar…I mean riverine frolicks, with cold pressed coffee and scookies (a cookie-scone hybrid)? Where can I actually get in the river without awkward consequences?

I know the answers to all of these questions and more!

And I shall tell you soonish.




Fare-thee-well Spartan Holidayers


Yes, I know. What? Could it be? Yes. No, it can’t! But it is.

Wipe away your bitter tears, dear readers; Spartan Holiday has come to a close. This post is the grand finale–a starry burst of fireworks in chrysanthemums and whirly twirlies and crackly sparkle dust.


It’s tempting to blog about how pointless and overrated fireworks are. But I shan’t because–and this is the point–this blog could go on forever. There is always something more to blog about, you see–polar bear swims in the Rio Grande, or some weird thing that happened the other night, like people Christmas caroling while reading lyrics off their smart phones.

And that is the crux of the problem. For I have bigger, better things to write and I mustn’t be tempted by low hanging fruit.

But I did love my little blog, humble and inglorious as it was. It was a solace in some tough times and a good platform for seeing the world anew.

So for my final blog, I think a little retrospective is in order. What do I think was my most attractive post? My most ill-advised? My most under-appreciated? Let us see.

The Best (and Worst) of Spartan Holiday

Best Photo Essay: Shokunin. Spartan Holiday allowed me to explore my new quasi-hobby of photography. I admit that some of my efforts sucked, like the pictures on Persian Sins and Problems In My Neighborhood, which was otherwise one of my favorite posts.

IMG_2260Most Under-Appreciated: Demon Summer: A Work in Progress. Why did no one seem to read this throw-back gothic thriller I wrote only on rainy days? Maybe it was too scary, is all I can figure.


Most Useful: I Can’t Remember What to Do in Cacti Situations.

2013-05-29 15.48.56

Most Self-Indulgent: Yeah, I named a bunch of dogs.


Most Depressing: No Country for Old Men or Anyone Actually:


Most Depressing Runner Up: Why Can’t I Stop Killing Whales?


Most Ill-Advised: Wow, lots of competition in this category. Why I ever thought the modern public would enjoy my rants about Cretaceous-era atmospheric composition or WWII Japanese balloon bombs is a tragic mystery indeed. But the only blog I ever “unpublished” and issued an apology for was the one in which I claimed that the Spartan Holiday offices were in the direct path of a forest fire, causing several overly credulous people to become anxious for my safety. I have republished it here:


Most Clarifying:  First runner up was my dream death post in which I forced myself to imagine the ideal way to die. But the winner is Help, My House is on Fake-Fire! Notice I wrote “fake fire” here so as not to cause any more alarm after the Valles Caldera incident. This blog was clarifying because I was forced to really cull out, once and for all, my most cherished material possessions.


Hottest Post: Eventually I wised up to the fact that the public wants the hot and novel, not one-act plays on the Civil War. Hence the First Annual Spartan Holiday Fall Fashion Issue, The Albuquerque Hawt List and Giving Thanks Where Thanks Is Due.

The excruciatingly long A Virtual Visit to Elmwood Park Zoo, in which I exploited my blood relation to Jonathan Groff, was my third most-read blog of all time. But the winner in this category goes to I May Have Found a Replacement for Magnus Carlsen which just raged with hotness and ranked fourth in overall popularity.


Most Soon-to-be Irrelevant As of This Posting: My 2014 Happy New Year(s) post. I’m pretty proud of these cards I made, being as inept at photo editing as I am.


And finally, My Most Statistically Popular PostDogs I Named. Yes, the very same as My Most Self-Indulgent post.

schopenhauer01_with_poodle450x700pxMy WordPress stats say “Dogs I Named” has accumulated 985 views, which I find really odd, until I stop to consider that dog and cat related content still command a massive share of the Internet.

The take-home message seems to be: Look how all of our world-displacing, cutting-edge technology just serves to reflect our most basic animal selves. The Internet is mostly a platform for sex, social grappling, information hunting, and odes to our inter-species companions.

In Conclusion

Life is a beautiful, absurd, miraculous mess, is it not?

I am grateful to be here. I hope you are too.

Thanks, faithful readers. I shall miss you.


The Story-Lives of Great Composers


Do you know what’s evil? And by evil I mean tempting like evil but without the collateral damage to the human spirit?

Book sales where hardcovers are selling for 33 cents a pop. Because I’m on a pauper budget and these are pauper prices. So, I feel like economic law demands that I walk away with stacks of books, some of which I only like for the campy pictures, or grandma-y smell.


That is how I have come to possess a certain young adult page-turner (in the sense that the pages turn if you have the will to move them) called Story-Lives of Great Composers by Katherine Little Bakeless.

I don’t know what drew me in first–the portraits of mustachioed men with long, symphonic-hair, the words “GREAT COMPOSERS” stamped in maroon capitals across the cover, or the fact that the author’s name includes two sad words: “little” and “bakeless.” Whatever it was, I slammed down my 33 cents and have since been working my way through vignettes about the (western) musical geniuses of the last couple of centuries.

Here is an excerpt from the chapter on Sergei Rachmaninoff:


“Sergei, who was an unusually bright and cheerful boy, was his grandmother’s favorite. How she spoiled him! No matter how mischievous he was, she was delighted with him….Piano was so easy for him that he shirked his practising…he played without worrying. What he liked to do was all together different and surprising. He went to the skating-rink as often as he could. He became a very fine skater, an even better skater than he was a piano player.”


“When he did something wrong and needed punishment, he was put under the piano. This wounded him deeply, for the other children were only put into a corner!”

I also learned that Sergei’s older sister Helena could bend a silver coin “with the fingers of one hand.” And that in 1917 during the Russian Revolution, he and his family had to cross the Russian border into Sweden by sleigh “while a blizzard raged.”

While I find all of these facts useful for boring the person beside me at my next Rachmaninoff concert, my problem is that the book is babyish–written for young adultish children as it were.

What I was really hoping for was DRAMA. The lost loves, depression, fury, grief and page-long accounts of Rachy’s sleigh escape from Russia, and that time Tolstoy told him his music sucked, and all of those other things that rattled his life to such a pounding tonal storm that it came out as this Prelude Op 32, No 1 in C.


But I think I’ll keep reading. It looks like there’s a semi-interesting passage in the next chapter about Richard Strauss in which we learn that he was “above middle height, with fair complexion, sandy hair and very pale blue eyes.”

Apparently he had “a very high, prominent forehead,” but THEN, “the sandy hair grew white and the high forehead became even higher as the white hair receded.”

I hadn’t known that about Strauss.

You’re Doing It Wrong


I might have said that one thing, but I didn't say that other thing


1538-“A man can not have his cake and eate his cake!” the Duke of Norfolk screams in a letter to Thomas Cromwell.

1773-“A great empire, like a great cake, is most easily diminished at the edges,” Benjamin Franklin writes ominously three years before the Revolutionary War.

1789– “The people can go eff themselves,” says Marie Antoinette while eating a huge piece of cake.

1864-“Johnnycakes are awful and not really cakes,” several people admit on their deathbeds during the Civil War.

1900– “What am i even fighting for??!!!” A British man cries and slams his fist into a sponge cake during the Boer War.

1945– “I was just following orders!” claims a Nazi army cook when asked why he doubled the amount of butter in a cake.

1995– “You can’t eat your cake and have it too,” writes the anonymous Unabomber leading to the arrest of Ted Kaczynski.

And now 2014, there are shockwaves in the world of cake cutting news. Last week NPR ran a story featuring Alex Bellos resurrecting the cake cutting methods of a deceased British mathematician named Sir Francis Galton.


Galton, you see, was Charles Darwin’s first cousin and “one of the fathers of modern statistics.” So the man knew how to cut a cake.

In 1906 he wrote a letter to Nature magazine explaining why cutting cake into wedges is total shite.


Basically, unless you eat the entire cake in one sitting the edge pieces swiftly dry out due to the loss of the icing sealant where the cake interior has been exposed.


Instead, Galton implored dessert eaters to cut long slices the entire diameter of the cake from the center and then slide the two sides of the cake back together and bind them together (Bellos suggests rubber bands). Then the next day, you quarter the cake, cut your slice from the middle, and ram it back together again. You basically keep doing that till the cake is gone.


It stays moist that way.

So how does it feel to be told you’re cutting your cake all wrong and always have been?

Is science right again?

Spartan Holiday Is Not Dead


Well, it’s happened. From the nest of Spartan Holiday has  hatched a hungry little cross-eyed blog called Disglossia. Spartan Holiday will be taking a brief hiatus to gather worms and such to feed it.


Meanwhile, I think you will find Disglossia to be refreshing, readable, and completely relevant to your eternal struggle for meaning-making in this cypress swamp of a world.

And that’s good.

Here’s what you can expect:



Words: Lots of them (but not too many).

Timelines: I like history and following lines of history through time all the way into the present tense, sometimes skipping over vitally important things just for revisionist purposes.

And more!

Meanwhile, Spartan Holiday is not dead. If it were, I would not say it was out “looking for worms.” I would say it was killed, murdered, or crushed by army tanks.

Antarctica Myths Unraveled


Finally! Here we are in beautiful Antarctica where scientists roam free as seabirds in the summer and the sun never sets but just keeps circling elliptically.


What’s it like to live in Antarctica? Most of us would like to be told second-hand from our comfy armchairs beside a crackling fire.


So that is just what’s going to happen. Dial up the thermostat. Pour yourself some hot chocolate. Get comfortable. You’re gonna wanna be really warm and indolent while reading about subzero temperatures, and polar winds, and the Frosty Boy ice cream machine. I have compiled below a list of Antarctic myths and then cracked them wide open, beaten them to a pulp and shipped them off continent. We’ll have no dirty Antarctic lies soiling the pristine snow-blanketed land. (Is Antarctica blanketed in snow??! Scroll to #7 to find out.)


How do I know so much about Antarctica, never having been there myself, you ask? Well, I hear about it incessantly from Dave who has gone there every field season (October-January) for the last five years. Turns out Antarctica is sort of the measuring stick and ne plus ultra for every uncomfortable or extreme situation.

Obviously, it is never as cold in New Mexico as it is in Antarctica, a fact I’m reminded of whenever I gripe about the cold. If I say, “Isn’t the landscape desolate and barren here?” Dave would say, “Not as barren as Antarctica.” If I say, “We live in the southwest.” Dave would say, “Well, this isn’t really south. Not as south as Antarctica.”

Stuff like that.

So I’ve learned a lot about Antarctica, actually, some of which I wish I could unlearn, but I can’t. And so:


Antarctic Myths Unraveled

1) It makes total sense to have time zones in Antarctica

At the poles the time zones converge, like stripes on a watermelon at the ends of a watermelon. This means that at the pole proper the time is always all times at once, or more accurately no time at all. It’s crazymaking. (See Myth # 3.) So how are time zones chosen at each of the bases? Some observe the time of the home country. Others, like McMurdo, the U.S.’s base, observe the time of their country’s official port of departure–Christchurch, New Zealand. As you can imagine, it is total bedlam and leads to lots of funny misunderstandings re:times of dinner parties and countdowns at New Year’s Eve, etc.


The view from McMurdo

2) You can pee anywhere you want in Antarctica

False. The overarching mantra in Antarctica is “leave no trace.” You cannot steal rocks or pee on the ground willy nilly or even bury a piece of macaroni with your girlfriend’s name written on it in ballpoint pen for future generations to discover. So if you’re working in the field, you pee into a Nalgene bottle. On a bad day your bladder holds more than a Nalgene bottle does and you need to switch bottles in mid-stream.

Although the waste at McMurdo is treated and then dumped into the sound, the waste from the camps is either incinerated in what is known as a rocket toilet or shipped off continent back to America. Dave says the ships come bearing supplies and leave bearing shit, which could be a metaphor for so many things in life.


Don’t even think about peeing there

3) Impeccable mental health is a requirement for a tour of duty in Antarctica

Scientists who “winter over” at the South Pole station must undergo rigorous mental testing, the average work-a-day summer scientist does not. Almost every year, someone goes crazy, what with the cold and endless daylight and effed up time zones. Sometimes people just wander off into the Antarctic weald. Sometimes people at the south pole snap and the FBI has to go remove them, like the galley cook who attacked another cook with the claw end of a hammer in 1996. Even when you don’t go crazy you may need to do crazy things, like the south pole doctor who diagnosed herself with breast cancer, biopsied herself, and administered her own chemotherapy while waiting for rescue.


4) Rubbing your hands together is a great way to warm them up.

False. Dave says rubbing your hands together is crap. What you really want to do is drop your arms to your side and vigorously jerk-shrug your shoulders to forcefully shunt blood down to your hands.


5) Fumbling, mumbling, stumbling, and grumbling are nothing to worry about in Antarctica.

FALSE this string of behaviors is known as the “umbles” and is a good sign that you are suffering from hypothermia. This is one of the cutest survival tips they teach you at snow school before you are allowed to work in the field.


A scene from snow school

6) The food sucks in Antarctica

While it’s true that “freshies” are a rare delicacy, Lake Hoare Camp (soon to be featured in an upcoming issue of Food and Wine) is a culinary mecca by any standard grace à the impressive skills of Rae Spain, camp manager for the last 18 years. So while I am sitting at home slurping lukewarm soup from a box, Dave will be dining on paella or pad thai or freshly-baked bread.

The food is less spectacular at the McMurdo galley, save for the Frosty Boy ice cream machine.


7) Antarctica is covered with snow

I know this one is especially hard to swallow for those of us who picture an entire continent of shimmering snow drifts, unending as a Texas sheet cake, but it turns out that part of Antarctica is desert which means no precipitation, which means no snow. The Dry Valleys get around 10 centimeters of precip per year, most of which ablates. Here is Dave in what appear to be moon boots rather than snow boots.


8) Antarctica has a ton of polar bears and sled dogs

Wrong. Those things only exist at the north pole, which yes, I know, we should call them north polar bears. Although early explorers used sled dogs to slog from one creaky, frigid little shack to another, dogs are now illegal on the continent because they spook (and eat) seals. You can stop searching for a Puppies in Antarctica slide show on Youtube and instead look at this cute picture Dave took of a seal.


Well! I hope I have successfully identified and obliterated all of your long-cherished myths about Antarctica. Everything else you believe about Antarctica not mentioned here is probably true.

But do you have a question? I invite you to post them in the comments. Remember, no questions are dumb questions except for ones that are really ignorant.