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| Diary |
Magazine | 23 Mar 2009 |
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| Aspen Diary by Sugata Srinivasaraju |
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I felt I couldn’t escape the sanatorium-view of snow that Thomas Mann portrays in The Magic Mountain. The lines: "It always snowed, snowed without a pause, endlessly, gently, soundlessly falling...this world of limitless silences had nothing hospitable" kept coming back in Aspen, Colorado, where snow had acquired the depressing colour of recession that has hit the US. When my co-passenger on the flight said he wanted the slopes to cheer him up before he came out of retirement and set up his psychiatric practice again, I felt that a town known for its skiing holidays had become a therapeutic destination. This co-passenger, about 65, had lost nearly 40 per cent of his pension money in the financial meltdown.
However, I didn’t go to Aspen for a cure or to ski. I went there to re-read Aristotle, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Mencius, Machiavelli and Marx among others and discuss the future of politics. Even amidst enlightened talk, snowy desolation had its presence in the Aspen Institute’s seminar hall. A co-participant, a tenured professor from Arizona State University, confessed that she had been "furloughed". A euphemism to mean you are not fired, but should stay away from work for a prescribed number of days and take a pay cut. On furlough days, the professor can’t use the library, or her office or send e-mails from her official ID.
Rants and Raves
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For someone who has never taken weather reports seriously, the early morning bulletins on local radio became nearly an obsession. The reports divided the prediction to ‘above treeline’ and ‘below treeline’ wind conditions. They spoke of the intensity of snowfall in terms of ‘great powder’ or ‘a teaser’. There were also avalanche warnings, of both natural and human-triggered ones. I could make sense of all this only when I sat down with my friend Benton Kastman, a beekeeper from nearby Snowmass town. The ‘treeline’ is an indication of altitude. Trees grow only up to a certain altitude and as you go down the altitude the types of trees start changing. There are different varieties of pine, other shrub trees and of course the aspen trees with their interconnected roots and silvery feel. The ‘human-triggered avalanches’ are about shooting cannons to bring down natural avalanches to make them less dangerous. If December-March is the ski season at Aspen, April is seen as ‘thaw’ and then there is ‘muddy May’ when the snow melts. Summer follows for three months. September sees ‘leaf change’, followed by a couple of months of hunting.
‘Black ice’ is reason for a special warning for motorists and pedestrians. It is frozen ice on the roadway or pavements that you can’t see. It’s a kind of mirage. People often skid on these and break their bones. Grains that appear like smithereens of a pebble (primarily magnesium chloride) are thrown on the walkways and motorways to melt black ice.
Rants and Raves
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Aspen is about 8,000 feet high and if you went skiing you would ascend another 3,000-4,000 feet—areas which are oxygen deficient with low humidity. In sub-zero conditions at this altitude, if you thought single malts, blends and delicious wines would keep you warm, you are mistaken. The doctor’s advice to a visitor is: "Be sure to avoid alcohol, since it aggravates high altitude symptoms. Also, be careful not to overeat. Even caffeine would work negatively." With a sword of such restrictions hanging on you, the finest indulgence was hot chocolate at 9,400 feet, when I went cross-country snow-shoeing at Ashcroft.
Rants and Raves
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Even as President Obama was signing the $700 billion bailout plan in Denver, just 160 km from Aspen, Colorado’s oldest newspaper, Rocky Mountain News, breathed its last, 55 days shy of its 150th birthday. I had taken to reading it each morning. Holding the final edition of the paper was like holding a dead man. A reader had asked: "Why should only fraud banks and rogue corporates be bailed out, why not my newspaper?"
Rants and Raves
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An evening’s visit to St Benedict’s Monastery in Snowmass had the power to dispel gloomy disaffection and restore serenity. The monks here, commonly known as Trappists, sing without a choir, keep a meditative silence for twelve hours a day, are strictly vegetarian, shun public appearance and make cookies for a livelihood. A long conversation with Fr Michael revealed how progressive they were. From the issue of marriage among Roman Catholic clergymen to the admission of women into priesthood; from arguments about the Islamic world to the problems of the "secular world"; from his past as an agnostic and continued love for Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov—he was willing to talk on any topic. To express my gratitude, I bought a box of cookies. The quality was exceptional. The beautifully designed label on the box read: "By the work of our hands, we earn our living, supporting ourselves in a life of prayer and reflection, our way of making a difference in the world."
Rants and Raves
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More Diaries By Sugata Srinivasaraju
• Manila
(06-Mar-2006)
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