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好贴要转 《New York Time:旅行是否难忘, 与...成反比》
户外娱乐，各取所需。BC省的各个HWY 断断续续的手机信号， 是天朝， 以及山姆大叔， 难以想象的。短暂的密林几天，没有了cellular/WWW/ radio，飞禽走兽为伍，山溪草木为邻。眼前所见，八方所听， 相信/想象 与千万年 远古先人无异？！
.... 日出而作，日入而息，凿井而饮，耕田而食。帝力于我何有哉！
【出 处】先秦《击壤歌》http://baike.baidu.com/view/370977.htm
一上路 ”车震“旋即消失，大道骤然平坦，遥见小镇灯火，炊烟人家，就会有那种 恍如隔世的“回到人间”的感觉。偶读纽约时报一文。颇觉非共鸣莫不是知音不已乎？ 现奉承上
《旅行是否难忘，与到达后手机信号强度成反比 》
《A Case for Getting Far, Far Away
By CHRISTOPHER SOLOMON June 09, 2013》
http://cn.nytimes.com/travel/20130609/c09faraway/dual/
http://world.kankanews.com/JPNtour/2013-06-09/1769843.shtml
十几年来，我一直为美国领土最被忽视的一块土地而深深着迷——一块我从未见过，而你也许从未听过的土地，阿尼亚查克国家纪念碑及保护区(Aniakchak National Monument and Preserve)。阿尼亚查克公园位于阿拉斯加州，是美国401座国家公园中游客最少的一个。去年造访阿尼亚查克公园的游客只有19人，这个数字让榜单上的倒数第二、访客533人的加州芝加哥港海军弹药库国家纪念碑公园(Port Chicago Naval Magazine National Memorial)显得如此拥挤。
当然，我痴迷阿尼亚查克公园的原因是那里的自然环境——一个早年喷发过的大型火山口，状如俄勒冈州的火山口湖，里面有许多橙黄色的温泉，以及一个三文鱼产卵地的湖泊。那种三文鱼吃起来有火山矿物质的味道，每年夏天，棕熊们从2000英尺高的火山壁的洞穴爬出来，尽享这些三文鱼的美味。
但我痴迷那个地方的另一个原因是别处都有但那里缺失的东西：拥挤的人群。阿尼亚查克公园位于安克雷奇(Anchorage)西南350英里的位置，阿留申群岛(Aleutian Islands)与北美大陆的接口。阿留申群岛是北美大陆甩向俄罗斯堪察加半岛的一条冰冷的鞭子。一个旅行装备商曾对我说，美国其他地方的天气很大程度上都由这个区域决定。即使在夏天都会有大雨冲刷纪念碑，沙沙作响的柳枝下常有牙齿硕大的肉食动物出没，视野中看不到任何巡逻人员或土著的温尼贝戈印第安人。这就是我对此地念念不忘的原因。
假期的时候，那么多人都随大流直奔拉斯维加斯、南海滩或美国最受欢迎的大烟山国家公园(Great Smoky Mountains National Park)——去年有将近970万游客手持叉勺在那里争抢公园的野餐桌。我永远无法理解这些人的思维。有几天假期的时候，我会直接飞到与他们相反的方向，远离人山人海的地方。这并不是说我喜欢不知名的目的地。不是的，我只是喜欢深度旅行，越荒芜的地方越好。我对曼哈顿并不反感。在西雅图的酒吧和波士顿的郊区，我也遇到不少有趣的人，落基山脉的高山滑雪小镇也一样。但如果让我去那些空旷之地、废弃之地、那些清风穿过黄松树林的群山，我会立刻感到一阵轻微的战栗击穿我的手指并直通脊椎。
因某些缘故，近期我对美国的未来有许多不满。但有一件事让我对它仍抱有希望，那就是，美国仍有不少被遗忘的角落可以让我们逃进去，探索并享受它们的宁静。我在脑子里为自己想去的逃逸之地建了一个名单。有时我会把它拿出来，细细品味它们奇怪的名字：布鲁诺河(The Bruneau River)、阿布萨罗卡岭(The Absarokas)、熊牙山(The Beartooths)、瓦拉瓦山(The Wallowas)、帕瑟顿荒原(Pasayten)、吉拉荒原(Gila Wilderness)、阿佛德沙漠(Alvord Desert)、冷冻山脊、烧靴河和香烟泉(Freezeout Ridge and Burnt Boot Creek and Cigarette Springs)、阿尼亚查克公园。
我仍记得自己发现地图上那片白色与我灵魂相通的那一天。彼时我25岁，在郊区长大。那天我正驾车首次游览美国西部。10月底的天气，我穿过美国东部，又穿过中部大平原。到达落基山脉的时候，我放慢油门，拿出卷了角的兰德麦克纳利地图，开始探索那片标注为“美景之路”的绵延的茵绿。随着它们在浓绿的国家森林中蜿蜒前行，我体验了一段由安肯帕格里(Uncompahgre)、雅姆帕(Yampa)、尤因塔(Uinta)等陌生地名串成的奇幻旅程，感觉自己手中拿着的简直是一张藏宝图。快到犹他州干旱的城市维尔诺(Vernal, Utah)时，眼前的路标写着另一个名字——弗莱明峡谷国家休闲区(Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area)。我转弯，接着又一个转弯，最后我那身负重担、伤痕累累的大众车终于走入一条颠簸而破烂的泥路。
那天空气清冷，但阳光不错。驾车的时候我将车窗摇了下来，不在乎吹入车内的冷风和灰尘，黄昏的云朵在浓密的鼠尾草丛投下多变的阴影。一群羚羊从草丛中跑过，赶超了我和我的旧大众车。“它们张开嘴巴，”格雷特尔·埃利希(Gretel Ehrlich)在《狂野的慰藉》(The Solace of Open Spaces)中这样写道，“仿佛在畅饮着无尽的空间。”然后道路忽然结束了，止步于沙漠中的一片水域。那就是弗莱明峡谷水库(Flaming Gorge Reservoir)，一座座小山像蒸汽船一样漂在水面，将气象万千的云朵迅速推开，朝着怀俄明州的方向涌去。沙漠之光逐渐暗了下来，劲风在水面拍出声响。我站在那里，孤独一人，孤独到如果汽车抛锚的话几天都不会被人发现，但我却感到一种前所未有的幸福。
从那以后，只要有时间我就想办法探访那些偏远之地。我并不是一个孤僻的人。我经常与三两个好友同行，辽阔的乡野有一种迅速拉近你所选择的旅伴之间感情的功能。这些旅行都由一种未说出的假设来指导：旅行是否难忘，与到达以后手机的信号强度成反比。保持疏离状态，与作家爱德华·艾比（Edward Abbey，一个贪恋孤独的怪人）所说的“过度沟通”保持一定距离，是我旅行中的最爱。
那个假设很有道理。我骑着山地自行车，在海拔11000英尺的山坡爬行，沿着高峻而狂野的科罗拉多小道(Colorado Trail)从君王隘口(Monarch Pass)一直到达泰勒瑞德(Telluride)。我用热切的眼睛观察山脉如何互相交织错落，小溪如何冲下山去寻找其他溪流，然后一起奔流并最终变成江河。
我和几个朋友从主干道走出几英里，到爱达荷州的弗兰克·丘奇—不归河荒原(Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness)去体验慵懒的漂流之旅。在三文鱼河(Salmon River)的米德福克(Middle Fork)，我们将饥饿的三文鱼从水中一条条拖出，直到我们拿钓竿的胳膊累得酸痛无比。然后，我们将胳膊放入营地旁边的温泉，一边泡汤一边畅饮啤酒，天上的星光也因没有城市照明的干扰而格外明亮。
在俄勒冈、爱达荷和内华达三州的交界处气候干燥，风沙弥漫。我和几名死忠的沙漠爱好者沿着奥维西峡谷地区(Owyhee canyonlands)连续徒步数日。那里的风光非常壮观，本应该划为国家公园的，但至今仍然保留着不为人知的状态，画在岩石上的箭头路标仿佛由当地猎人昨天刚刚刻上。
的确，诸如此类的目的地很难到达。但这只能再次验证之前的手机理论：如果一个地方难以到达，我们就会觉得那里的风景格外美妙。
我们比之前所有时代都更需要这种遥远和疏离。当今社会，我们在一个拥挤的星球摩肩接踵。我们与车流作战。我们挤在办公室里。我们在已故作家戴维·福斯特·华莱士(David Foster Wallace)所说的“完全噪音”中沦陷。也许对你来说，这种摩登生活也让人备感压力。如果你像我一样，就必须远离这一切才能抛开俗世的诸多烦扰。在远离尘嚣的地方，世界逐渐缩小，最后只剩下“万事万物最简单的本质：斧头、木头、火焰和平底锅”，正如约翰·格雷夫斯(John Graves)在《向一条河道别》(Goodbye to a River)里说的那样。这本1960年代出版的著作记录了他在得克萨斯州布拉索斯河(Brazos River)一次为期三周的木船之旅。格雷夫斯还说，不要认为只有苦行僧才能品味这些简单的事物。“有些时候，与就着啤酒大口吞吃牛肉和汤团的胖子或身材丰满、揉捏大腿的金发壮汉比起来，你更像一个感官主义者……你抛开那些肤浅的感受，只留下的少数几种感受，也因此更加敏锐更加强壮。”
同时，我承认这种孤僻的生活也必然与恐惧紧密相随。几年前，我和几个朋友在阿拉斯加州一个度假村体验了几天钓鱼之旅。度假木屋位于科尔多瓦市(Cordova)郊铜河三角洲(Copper River Delta)马丁湖(Martin Lake)旁边的森林里，只能坐飞机到达。我至今仍记得那个下午，我们正站在湖里将巨大的红点鲑鱼拖上岸。我忽然发现岸上一只硕大的棕熊正盯着我们，似乎在思忖我们是否值得它费力捕捉。这只棕熊留下的脚印比咖啡罐还大，它咻咻的鼻息贯穿了我们整晚的睡梦。没有哪种刺激能像获悉自己不再处于食物链顶层那样，让我们的后颈忽然升起触电般的刺痛。
格雷特尔·埃利希曾这样描述怀俄明州她所热爱的荒凉裂谷：“它那彻底的无动于衷让我震惊。”我明白她的意思。我们付出许多时间，试图让自己变得伟大。但在无边的荒野中，我们可以再次向渺小臣服，并在风景中找到一个适合我们的位置。在那里，那一无所有的地方能给我们带来最多的教益。
本文最初发表于2013年5月19日。
翻译：纳兰雪野
英文原文 Personal Journeys
A Case for Getting Far, Far Away
By CHRISTOPHER SOLOMON June 09, 2013
For a decade now I’ve been obsessed with one of the most overlooked patches of real estate on the American Monopoly board — a place I’ve never even seen and that you’ve probably never heard of called Aniakchak National Monument and Preserve. Aniakchak, which is in Alaska, is the least-visited of the 401 National Park Service properties. Just 19 people stopped by Aniakchak last year, which makes the runner-up, Port Chicago Naval Magazine National Memorial in California — visitors: 533 — a logjam of humanity by comparison.
I’m obsessed with Aniakchak for what’s there, of course — a blown-out volcano like Oregon’s Crater Lake that today is home to pumpkin-colored hot springs and a lake where salmon that taste like volcanic minerals spawn, and to brown bears that crawl from dens in the 2,000-foot caldera walls each summer to feed on them.
But I’m also obsessed with the place for what I won’t find there when I finally do visit: crowds. Aniakchak lies 350 miles southwest of Anchorage at the base of the Aleutian Islands, that frozen tail of North America that wags at Kamchatka. This is where the weather is made for the rest of the country, an outfitter once told me. Even in summer the monument can be rain-lashed, inhospitable, its willows rustling with big-toothed carnivores, and without a ranger station or a Winnebago in sight. And that’s why I can’t get it out of my head.
So many people on vacation follow the trampling herd to Las Vegas, or South Beach, or Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the nation’s most popular park, where nearly 9.7 million visitors last year dueled with sporks over picnic tables. I have never understood such urges. When I have a few days to spare, I flee in the opposite direction, away from the hive. I don’t mean I simply like lesser-known destinations. No, I love to go deep — and the more remote and vacant, the better. I’ve got no beef with Manhattan. I’ve met fascinating people in Seattle bars and in Boston suburbs and in tiny ski towns high in the Rockies. But give me the empty places, the abandoned places, the mountains where the sound of the wind through the ponderosas draws a shivery finger down your spine.
I am grumpy about the prospects for our country for many reasons these days, but one thing that still gives me some hope is the ease with which we can still vanish here, how many forgotten corners remain to escape to and explore. I keep a list of ones I want to visit in my head. Sometimes I take it out and savor their strange names: The Bruneau River. The Absarokas. The Beartooths. The Wallowas. Pasayten. Gila Wilderness. Alvord Desert. Freezeout Ridge and Burnt Boot Creek and Cigarette Springs. Aniakchak.
I remember the day I knew that the white spaces on the map were the places for me. I was 25, suburban-raised and driving to the West for the first time. In late October I raced through the East and across the Great Plains. When I reached the Rockies, though, I eased off the accelerator, pulled out the dog-eared Rand McNally and began to follow the meandering green dashes that were marked as “scenic routes.” As they wound through the green splotches of national forests and past an Oz of unfamiliar names — Uncompahgre, Yampa, Uinta — I felt as if I was following a treasure map. Near dry Vernal, Utah, I saw a sign for yet another name, Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area. I turned, and turned again, until soon my packed, arthritic Volkswagen was jouncing down a rutted dirt road.
The air was wintry but the day was bright, and I rode with the windows down, not minding the cold and dust as Gõtterdämmerung clouds swept shadows across endless sage. A herd of antelope raced us, the old VW and me, through the grass — “their mouths open,” as Gretel Ehrlich wrote in “The Solace of Open Spaces,” “as if drinking in the space.” Then the road suddenly ended at a sea in the desert — Flaming Gorge Reservoir — where buttes floated like steamships, and those operatic clouds pushed offstage toward Wyoming. The desert light slanted down, the wind plucked at the water. Standing there — alone, not to be found for days if the car had broken down — I don’t think I’d ever been happier.
In the years since, I’ve sought out remoteness whenever I could. I’m no loner. Often I go with two or three friends; big country has a way of sharpening the connections between the people you choose to surround yourself with. These trips are guided by an unstated hypothesis: a trip is memorable in inverse proportion to the number of bars of coverage on your cellphone. Way out there — away from what the writer Edward Abbey, that solitude-greedy coot, called “syphilisation” — is my sweet spot as a traveler.
The premise has held up well. Mountain biking at 11,000 feet on a stretch of the high-and-wild Colorado Trail between Monarch Pass and Telluride, I saw with fresh eyes how mountains knitted themselves together, how creeks dove to seek other creeks, and dove again until they earned the name of river.
Miles from a road on a lazy raft trip through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness in Idaho, friends and I pulled hungry trout from the Middle Fork of the Salmon River until our casting arms grew weary, then soaked those arms in campside hot springs and drank beer beneath stars undimmed by city lights. And we wondered what the rich people were doing that night.
In the dry, dusty corner where Oregon, Idaho and Nevada meet, a few committed desert rats and I clambered for days through Owyhee canyonlands so stunning they should be a national park, yet remain so anonymous that arrowheads lie on the rocks as if native hunters had dropped them yesterday.
True, destinations like these aren’t easy to get to. But that’s only led to a corollary to the cellphone theory: the colors are always brighter if a place draws a little blood first.
We need this kind of remoteness more than ever. Today we brush elbows on a crowded planet. We fight traffic. We hunker in offices. We marinate in what the late David Foster Wallace called Total Noise. Maybe for you, too, this modern life overwhelms. If you’re like me, only getting far away from all that allows you to shake off the dross. Out there, the world shrinks until all that remains are “the rock-bottom facts of ax and wood and fire and frying pans,” as John Graves wrote in “Goodbye to a River,” his classic 1960 account of a solo three-week paddle down the Brazos River in Texas. But don’t think yourself an ascetic for savoring such simple things, Graves added. “In a way you’re more of a sensualist than a fat man washing down sauerbraten and dumplings with heavy beer while a German band plays and a plump blonde kneads his thigh. ... You’ve shucked off the gross delights, and those you have left are few, sharp, and strong.”
I’ll admit, too, to enjoying the fear that can accompany such seclusion. Several years ago friends and I spent days fishing at a fly-in forest service cabin at Martin Lake in the Copper River Delta outside Cordova, Alaska. I still remember the afternoon we stood in the lake and hauled in leviathan Dolly Varden trout, only to see a very large brown bear squinting at us from the shore as if gauging whether we were worth the effort. He left tracks larger than coffee cans, and snuffled through our dreams all night. There are few thrills that quite match the electric prickle on the neck that comes from knowing one no longer stands atop the food chain.
Gretel Ehrlich said of those yawning Wyoming spaces that she loves, “Its absolute indifference steadied me.” I know what she meant. We spend our days trying to be big. In the middle of nowhere, though, we can surrender to smallness again and instead find where we fit in the landscape. Out there, where there’s nothing, is where there’s the most to learn.
引自
http://cn.nytimes.com/travel/20130609/c09faraway/en-us/ |
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