added a backup of old pages that are no longer live

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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Backpacking in the Grand&nbsp;Tetons</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-22T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>22, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Grand Teton National Park</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Wyoming</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">T</span>he sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Meadow near Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" height="309" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollymeadow.jpg" width="550"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry.</p>
+<p>Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Smaller Lake near the exit of Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" height="420" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollylakemouth.jpg" width="280"></amp-img> Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range -- wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho.</p>
+<p>The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you'll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers.</p>
+<p>Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There's not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild -- there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild.</p>
+<p>Of course you probably won't get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you'll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here.  </p>
+<p>That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this <a href="http://www.jhnewsandguide.com/article.php?art_id=6281">harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton</a>).</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Trail through Paintbrush Canyon, Grand Teton National Park" height="266" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollytrail.jpg" width="320"></amp-img> I used to climb, but these days I'm content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone.</p>
+<p>I'm not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It's only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing.</p>
+<p>I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Sunset over Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" height="272" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollylakesunset.jpg" width="350"></amp-img>As evening fell -- late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten -- I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run.</p>
+<p>By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above.</p>
+<p>Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. </p>
+<p>Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it. </p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Backpacking in the Grand Tetons</h1>
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+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Grand Teton National Park</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Wyoming</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(43.79315431684632, -110.79651831037907, { type:'point', lat:'43.79315431684632', lon:'-110.79651831037907'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
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+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-22T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>22, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">T</span>he sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect.</p>
+<p><img alt="Meadow near Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollymeadow.jpg"/> </p>
+<p>Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry.</p>
+<p>Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat.</p>
+<p><img alt="Smaller Lake near the exit of Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollylakemouth.jpg"/> Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range &#8212; wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho.</p>
+<p>The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you&#8217;ll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers.</p>
+<p>Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There&#8217;s not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild &#8212; there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild.</p>
+<p>Of course you probably won&#8217;t get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you&#8217;ll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here.  </p>
+<p>That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this <a href="http://www.jhnewsandguide.com/article.php?art_id=6281">harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton</a>).</p>
+<p><img alt="Trail through Paintbrush Canyon, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollytrail.jpg"/> I used to climb, but these days I&#8217;m content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone.</p>
+<p>I&#8217;m not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It&#8217;s only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing.</p>
+<p>I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left.</p>
+<p><img alt="Sunset over Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/tetonshollylakesunset.jpg"/>As evening fell &#8212; late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten &#8212; I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run.</p>
+<p>By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above.</p>
+<p>Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that&#8217;s very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don&#8217;t even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. </p>
+<p>Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it. </p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0791332
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,49 @@
+Backpacking in the Grand Tetons
+===============================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons>
+    Thursday, 22 July 2010
+
+<span class="drop">T</span>he sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/tetonshollymeadow.jpg" alt="Meadow near Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="picfull" /> 
+
+Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls.
+
+<break>
+
+This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry.
+
+Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat.
+
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/tetonshollylakemouth.jpg" alt="Smaller Lake near the exit of Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpicright" /> Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range -- wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho.
+
+The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you'll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers.
+
+Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There's not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild -- there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild.
+
+Of course you probably won't get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you'll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here.  
+
+That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this [harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton][1]).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/tetonshollytrail.jpg" alt="Trail through Paintbrush Canyon, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpic" /> I used to climb, but these days I'm content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone.
+
+I'm not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It's only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing.
+
+I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/tetonshollylakesunset.jpg" alt="Sunset over Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park" class="postpicright" />As evening fell -- late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten -- I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run.
+
+By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above.
+
+Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. 
+
+Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it. 
+
+
+[1]: http://www.jhnewsandguide.com/article.php?art_id=6281
+
+
+[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.amp
new file mode 100644
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--- /dev/null
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@@ -0,0 +1,189 @@
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Begin the&nbsp;Begin</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-05T22:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>5, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
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+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Gulf Port</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Mississippi</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">W</span>hen I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Rainbow in Gulf Shores Mississippi" height="356" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/gulf_shores_raibow.jpg" width="260"></amp-img>Where Fort Cochin India had <a href="/2005/nov/10/vasco-de-gama-exhumed/" title="Read the luxagraf entry about Fort Cochin, India">cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces</a>, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels. </p>
+<p>About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I've seen is the plethora of rainbows -- double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>We left town on the fourth of July -- what better day to start a road trip around the United States? </p>
+<p>I'm not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you'll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel -- beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles" height="309" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/gulf_shores_morning_light.jpg" width="550"></amp-img></p>
+<p>The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP's oil spill washes ashore. </p>
+<p>Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil. </p>
+<p>Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day. </p>
+<p>Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea -- hurricane Katrina. </p>
+<p>It's been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning.</p>
+<p>And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive.</p>
+<p>I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I've never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It's hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up. </p>
+<p>For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean. </p>
+<p>I return to the truck and head off again, west -- always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs. </p>
+<p>The land may be beautiful, but it's always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It's a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States. </p>
+        </div>
+        </article>
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+
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Begin the Begin</h1>
+                
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+                <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Gulf Port</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Mississippi</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(30.380400296597216, -89.03081058216594, { type:'point', lat:'30.380400296597216', lon:'-89.03081058216594'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+                </div>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-05T22:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>5, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">W</span>hen I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end.</p>
+<p><img alt="Rainbow in Gulf Shores Mississippi" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/gulf_shores_raibow.jpg"/>Where Fort Cochin India had <a href="/2005/nov/10/vasco-de-gama-exhumed/" title="Read the luxagraf entry about Fort Cochin, India">cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces</a>, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels. </p>
+<p>About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I&#8217;ve seen is the plethora of rainbows &#8212; double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>We left town on the fourth of July &#8212; what better day to start a road trip around the United States? </p>
+<p>I&#8217;m not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you&#8217;ll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel &#8212; beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves.</p>
+<p><img alt="Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/gulf_shores_morning_light.jpg"/></p>
+<p>The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP&#8217;s oil spill washes ashore. </p>
+<p>Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil. </p>
+<p>Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day. </p>
+<p>Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea &#8212; hurricane Katrina. </p>
+<p>It&#8217;s been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning.</p>
+<p>And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive.</p>
+<p>I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I&#8217;ve never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It&#8217;s hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up. </p>
+<p>For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean. </p>
+<p>I return to the truck and head off again, west &#8212; always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs. </p>
+<p>The land may be beautiful, but it&#8217;s always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It&#8217;s a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States. </p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..24fe519
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,41 @@
+Begin the Begin
+===============
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/begin-the-begin>
+    Monday, 05 July 2010
+
+<span class="drop">W</span>hen I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end.
+
+<img class="postpic" src="[[base_url]]/2010/gulf_shores_raibow.jpg" alt="Rainbow in Gulf Shores Mississippi" />Where Fort Cochin India had <a href="/2005/nov/10/vasco-de-gama-exhumed/" title="Read the luxagraf entry about Fort Cochin, India">cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces</a>, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels. 
+
+About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I've seen is the plethora of rainbows -- double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found.
+
+<break>
+
+We left town on the fourth of July -- what better day to start a road trip around the United States? 
+
+I'm not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you'll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel -- beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves.
+
+<img class="picfull" src="[[base_url]]/2010/gulf_shores_morning_light.jpg" alt="Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles" />
+
+
+The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP's oil spill washes ashore. 
+
+Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil. 
+
+Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day. 
+
+Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea -- hurricane Katrina. 
+
+It's been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning.
+
+And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive.
+
+I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I've never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It's hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up. 
+
+For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean. 
+
+I return to the truck and head off again, west -- always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs. 
+
+The land may be beautiful, but it's always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It's a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States. 
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Comanche National&nbsp;Grasslands</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-16T13:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>16, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Comanche National Grasslands</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">F</span>rom Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands. </p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Comanche National Grasslands" height="227" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/comanche_grasslands_wideopen.jpg" width="550"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. </p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch lands, wheat fields and open grasslands to a cattle grate and a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun. </p>
+<p>I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands. </p>
+<p>Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it's disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can't help but feel incredibly finite.</p>
+<p>Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="ferruginous hawk, Comanche National Grasslands" height="400" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/comanche_grasslands_ferruginoushawk.jpg" width="259"></amp-img> I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere -- red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl.</p>
+<p>Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch.</p>
+<p>As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I've been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I've been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm. </p>
+<p>It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="My 1969 Ford truck, Comanche National Grasslands" height="309" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/comanche_grasslands_truck.jpg" width="550"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here. </p>
+<p>I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees' seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing -- the Cottonwood's namesake -- floating in the air.</p>
+<p>I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn't much help. I hadn't intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Endless Road, Comanche National Grasslands" height="361" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/comanche_grasslands_endlessroad.jpg" width="250"></amp-img>Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn't consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on. </p>
+<p>In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I'd hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes.</p>
+<p>It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I'd get somewhere.</p>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Comanche National Grasslands</h1>
+                <h2 class="post-subtitle">Exploring a little-known corner of Colorado</h2>
+                <div class="post-linewrapper">
+                <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Comanche National Grasslands</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(37.14748995999047, -103.0095720147768, { type:'point', lat:'37.14748995999047', lon:'-103.0095720147768'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+                </div>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-16T13:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>16, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
+                </div>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <p>From Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands. </p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27_picwide-med.jpg" alt="Comanche National grassland photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I&#8217;ve never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it&#8217;s easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. </p>
+<p>I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch land. Endless wheat fields stretching to the horizon eventually gave way to open grasslands. </p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15_picwide-med.jpg" alt="wheat fields, comanche national grassland, colorado photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>I crossed  cattle grate and came to a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun. I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands. </p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08_picwide-med.jpg" alt="Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it&#8217;s disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can&#8217;t help but feel incredibly finite.</p>
+<p>Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity.</p>
+<p>I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere &#8212; red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl.</p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20_picwide-med.jpg" alt="Red tailed hawk, comanche national grassland, colorado photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch.</p>
+<p>As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I&#8217;ve been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I&#8217;ve been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm. </p>
+<p>It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap.</p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25_picwide-med.jpg" alt="1969 Ford f150, Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here. </p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28_picwide-med.jpg" alt="Chisom canyone area, comanche national grasslands photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees&#8217; seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing &#8212; the Cottonwood&#8217;s namesake &#8212; floating in the air.</p>
+<p>I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn&#8217;t much help. I hadn&#8217;t intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while.</p>
+<p>Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn&#8217;t consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on. </p>
+<div class="picwide">
+        <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1510_04.jpg " title="view larger image">
+            <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1510_04_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1510_04_picwide-med.jpg 1170w" alt="Road stretching to horizon, Comanche National grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1510_04.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" >
+        </a>
+</div>
+
+<p>In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I&#8217;d hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes.</p>
+<p>It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I&#8217;d get somewhere.</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..168f808
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,52 @@
+Comanche National Grasslands
+============================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands>
+    Friday, 16 July 2010
+
+From Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands. 
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_27.jpg" id="image-1921" class="picwide" />
+
+To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. 
+
+I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch land. Endless wheat fields stretching to the horizon eventually gave way to open grasslands. 
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_15.jpg" id="image-1924" class="picwide" />
+
+I crossed  cattle grate and came to a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun. I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands. 
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_08.jpg" id="image-1926" class="picwide" />
+
+Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it's disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can't help but feel incredibly finite.
+
+Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity.
+
+I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere -- red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl.
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_20.jpg" id="image-1922" class="picwide" />
+
+Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch.
+
+As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I've been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I've been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm. 
+
+It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap.
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_25.jpg" id="image-1923" class="picwide" />
+
+Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here. 
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1610_28.jpg" id="image-1925" class="picwide" />
+
+I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees' seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing -- the Cottonwood's namesake -- floating in the air.
+
+I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn't much help. I hadn't intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while.
+
+Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn't consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on. 
+
+<img src="images/2019/comanche_grasslands_Jul1510_04.jpg" id="image-1927" class="picwide" />
+
+In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I'd hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes.
+
+It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I'd get somewhere.
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp
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+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp
@@ -0,0 +1,205 @@
+
+
+<!doctype html>
+<html amp lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta charset="utf-8">
+<title>Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park</title>
+<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park">
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+    <meta name="twitter:description" content="Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best part is not the fossils but the remote and wild canyon country. By Scott Gilbertson"/>
+    <meta name="twitter:title" content="Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park"/>
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+    <meta property="og:title" content="Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park" />
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+    <meta property="og:description" content="Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best part is not the fossils but the remote and wild canyon country. By Scott Gilbertson" />
+    <meta property="article:published_time" content="2010-07-28T17:00:00" />
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-28T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>28, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Dinosaur National Monument</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+                </aside>
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+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--double" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <div class="col">
+<p>Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn't have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there's a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you'd find anything resembling a store.</p>
+<p>While I weighed my options -- none really -- the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.</p>
+<p>You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style -- no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole "Oregon or bust" thing. </p>
+<p>Whatever the case, the steak wasn't half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn't much care what I was eating.</p>
+</div>
+<p><amp-img alt="Evening in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Co" height="173" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinoechopark.jpg" width="960"></amp-img></p>
+<p><span class="drop-small">A</span>fter days of <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/jul/25/endless-crowds-yellowstone/" title="Read about Yellowstone National Park">wading through the crowds in Yellowstone</a> I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents' motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.</p>
+<p>I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it's right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry -- the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument -- was in fact closed to the public.</p>
+<p>That's when I decided to stay. I've never really been interested in fossils. They're pretty much just rocks at this point. There's plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I'm missing something -- sort of like  looking at a Warhol.</p>
+<p>The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you're better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.</p>
+<p>So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country -- some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="" height="281" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinomesa.jpg" width="500"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>Whether it was the the closed  quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don't know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Cliff Walls, Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" height="387" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinocliffs.jpg" width="225"></amp-img> Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area -- maybe five acres -- is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.</p>
+<p>The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I've encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.</p>
+<p>A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.</p>
+<p>Echo Park<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup> is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone's throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="River Entrance to Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" height="354" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinoechoparkriver.jpg" width="257"></amp-img>At some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead -- Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/aug/02/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river/" title="Read about whitewater rafting in Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Park">part two</a>.</p>
+<p>Of course there's no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park -- it's cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it's here and it's quite spectacular.</p>
+<p>It's also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly. </p>
+<p>The people who lived here called Echo Park "The Center of the Universe." It's not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn't, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years -- massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.</p>
+<p>[Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
+<div class="footnote">
+<hr/>
+<ol>
+<li id="fn:1">
+<p>Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something... <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
+</li>
+</ol>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park</h1>
+                
+                <div class="post-linewrapper">
+                <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Dinosaur National Monument</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(40.52063402652926, -108.99388073317648, { type:'point', lat:'40.52063402652926', lon:'-108.99388073317648'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+                </div>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-28T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>28, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <div class="col">
+<p>Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn&#8217;t have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there&#8217;s a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you&#8217;d find anything resembling a store.</p>
+
+<p>While I weighed my options &#8212; none really &#8212; the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.</p>
+
+<p>You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style &#8212; no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole &#8220;Oregon or bust&#8221; thing. </p>
+
+<p>Whatever the case, the steak wasn&#8217;t half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn&#8217;t much care what I was eating.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p><img alt="Evening in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Co" class="picwide" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinoechopark.jpg"/></p>
+<p><span class="drop-small">A</span>fter days of <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/jul/25/endless-crowds-yellowstone/" title="Read about Yellowstone National Park">wading through the crowds in Yellowstone</a> I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents&#8217; motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.</p>
+
+<p>I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it&#8217;s right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry &#8212; the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument &#8212; was in fact closed to the public.</p>
+
+<p>That&#8217;s when I decided to stay. I&#8217;ve never really been interested in fossils. They&#8217;re pretty much just rocks at this point. There&#8217;s plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I&#8217;m missing something &#8212; sort of like  looking at a Warhol.</p>
+
+<p>The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you&#8217;re better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.</p>
+
+<p>So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country &#8212; some of the best, most remote canyon country you&#8217;ll find in this part of the world.</p>
+
+<p><img alt="" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinomesa.jpg"/> </p>
+<p>Whether it was the the closed  quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don&#8217;t know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.</p>
+
+<p><img alt="Cliff Walls, Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinocliffs.jpg"/> Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area &#8212; maybe five acres &#8212; is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.</p>
+
+<p>The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I&#8217;ve encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.</p>
+
+<p>A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.</p>
+
+<p>Echo Park<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup> is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone&#8217;s throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.</p>
+
+<p><img alt="River Entrance to Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/dinoechoparkriver.jpg"/>At some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead &#8212; Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/aug/02/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river/" title="Read about whitewater rafting in Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Park">part two</a>.</p>
+
+<p>Of course there&#8217;s no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park &#8212; it&#8217;s cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it&#8217;s here and it&#8217;s quite spectacular.</p>
+
+<p>It&#8217;s also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly. </p>
+
+<p>The people who lived here called Echo Park &#8220;The Center of the Universe.&#8221; It&#8217;s not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn&#8217;t, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years &#8212; massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.</p>
+
+<p>[Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
+
+<div class="footnote">
+<hr>
+<ol>
+<li id="fn:1">
+<p>Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something&#8230;&nbsp;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
+</li>
+</ol>
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+                </li>
+                <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> 
+                    <a href="/jrnl/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river" rel="next" title=" Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River">Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River</a>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e7b9f54
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,60 @@
+Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park
+===============================================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park>
+    Wednesday, 28 July 2010
+
+<div class="col">
+<p>Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn't have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there's a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you'd find anything resembling a store.</p>
+
+<p>While I weighed my options -- none really -- the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.</p>
+
+<p>You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style -- no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole "Oregon or bust" thing. </p>
+
+<p>Whatever the case, the steak wasn't half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn't much care what I was eating.</p>
+</div>
+
+<img class="picwide" src="[[base_url]]/2010/dinoechopark.jpg" alt="Evening in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Co" />
+
+<p><span class="drop-small">A</span>fter days of <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/jul/25/endless-crowds-yellowstone/" title="Read about Yellowstone National Park">wading through the crowds in Yellowstone</a> I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents' motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.</p>
+
+<p>I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it's right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry -- the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument -- was in fact closed to the public.</p>
+
+<p>That's when I decided to stay. I've never really been interested in fossils. They're pretty much just rocks at this point. There's plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I'm missing something -- sort of like  looking at a Warhol.</p>
+
+<p>The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you're better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.</p>
+
+<p>So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country -- some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world.</p>
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/dinomesa.jpg" alt="" class="picfull" alt="the road to Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" /> 
+
+<p>Whether it was the the closed  quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don't know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.</p>
+
+<p><img src="[[base_url]]/2010/dinocliffs.jpg" alt="Cliff Walls, Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" class="postpic" /> Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area -- maybe five acres -- is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.</p>
+
+<p>The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I've encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.</p>
+
+<p>A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.</p>
+
+<p>Echo Park<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup> is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone's throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.</p>
+
+<p><img src="[[base_url]]/2010/dinoechoparkriver.jpg" alt="River Entrance to Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument" class="postpicright" />At some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead -- Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2010/aug/02/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river/" title="Read about whitewater rafting in Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Park">part two</a>.</p>
+
+<p>Of course there's no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park -- it's cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it's here and it's quite spectacular.</p>
+
+<p>It's also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly. </p>
+
+<p>The people who lived here called Echo Park "The Center of the Universe." It's not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn't, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years -- massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.</p>
+
+<p>[Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
+
+<div class="footnote">
+<hr>
+<ol>
+<li id="fn:1">
+<p>Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something...&nbsp;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
+</li>
+</ol>
+</div>
+
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+            <header id="header" class="post--header ">
+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">The Dixie Drug&nbsp;Store</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-08T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>8, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">New Orleans</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Louisiana</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+                </aside>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <p><span class="drop">N</span>ew Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I've ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="The corner of Decatur and Barracks, New Orleans, LA" height="423" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleansstreet.jpg" width="260"></amp-img> Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct.</p>
+<p>New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport. </p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is.</p>
+<p>The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it.</p>
+<p>Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters -- that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks.</p>
+<p>It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Pharmacy Museum shelves, New Orleans, LA" height="349" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleanspharmashelves.jpg" width="560"></amp-img></p>
+<p>In New Orleans there's also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore. </p>
+<p>If, like me, you've ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked -- for good or bad -- in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914.</p>
+<p>The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Sarsaparilla, for what ails ya, Pharmacy Museum, New Orleans, LA" height="378" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleanssarsaparilla.jpg" width="254"></amp-img>I don't have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act -- it is what it is, and it's far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm. </p>
+<p>The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon.</p>
+<p>Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not.</p>
+<p>Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking.</p>
+<p>We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it's especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different.</p>
+<p>Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don't remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old.</p>
+<p>I even managed to take the same picture:</p>
+<div class="figure">
+<amp-img alt="Angel in 1995" height="372" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleansangel1995.jpg" width="560"></amp-img>
+<span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995</span>
+</div>
+<div class="figure">
+<amp-img alt="Angel in 2010" height="356" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleansangel2010.jpg" width="560"></amp-img>
+<span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010</span>
+</div>
+<p>The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn't use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there.</p>
+<p>No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it's nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are.</p>
+        </div>
+        </article>
+</main>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">The Dixie Drug Store</h1>
+                
+                <div class="post-linewrapper">
+                <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">New Orleans</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Louisiana</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(29.955903613807074, -90.06511865792525, { type:'point', lat:'29.955903613807074', lon:'-90.06511865792525'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+                </div>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-08T17:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>8, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
+                </div>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <p><span class="drop">N</span>ew Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I&#8217;ve ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again.</p>
+<p><img alt="The corner of Decatur and Barracks, New Orleans, LA" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleansstreet.jpg"/> Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct.</p>
+<p>New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport. </p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>New Orleans is it&#8217;s own world. So much so that&#8217;s it&#8217;s impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is.</p>
+<p>The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it.</p>
+<p>Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters &#8212; that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks.</p>
+<p>It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement.</p>
+<p><img alt="Pharmacy Museum shelves, New Orleans, LA" class="postpicfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleanspharmashelves.jpg"/></p>
+<p>In New Orleans there&#8217;s also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore. </p>
+<p>If, like me, you&#8217;ve ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked &#8212; for good or bad &#8212; in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914.</p>
+<p>The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind.</p>
+<p><img alt="Sarsaparilla, for what ails ya, Pharmacy Museum, New Orleans, LA" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/neworleanssarsaparilla.jpg"/>I don&#8217;t have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act &#8212; it is what it is, and it&#8217;s far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm. </p>
+<p>The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon.</p>
+<p>Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not.</p>
+<p>Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking.</p>
+<p>We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it&#8217;s especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different.</p>
+<p>Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don&#8217;t remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old.</p>
+<p>I even managed to take the same picture:</p>
+<div class="figure">
+  <img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleansangel1995.jpg" alt="Angel in 1995">
+  <span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figure">
+    <img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleansangel2010.jpg" alt="Angel in 2010">
+  <span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn&#8217;t use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there.</p>
+<p>No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it&#8217;s nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are.</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..aa5ed28
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,60 @@
+The Dixie Drug Store
+====================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/dixie-drug-store>
+    Thursday, 08 July 2010
+
+<span class="drop">N</span>ew Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I've ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleansstreet.jpg" alt="The corner of Decatur and Barracks, New Orleans, LA" class="postpic" /> Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct.
+
+New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport. 
+
+<break>
+
+New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is.
+
+The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it.
+
+Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters -- that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks.
+
+It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleanspharmashelves.jpg" alt="Pharmacy Museum shelves, New Orleans, LA" class="postpicfull" />
+
+In New Orleans there's also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore. 
+
+If, like me, you've ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked -- for good or bad -- in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914.
+
+The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleanssarsaparilla.jpg" alt="Sarsaparilla, for what ails ya, Pharmacy Museum, New Orleans, LA" class="postpicright" />I don't have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act -- it is what it is, and it's far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm. 
+
+The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon.
+
+Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not.
+
+Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking.
+
+We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it's especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different.
+
+Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don't remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old.
+
+I even managed to take the same picture:
+
+<div class="figure">
+  <img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleansangel1995.jpg" alt="Angel in 1995">
+  <span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figure">
+    <img src="[[base_url]]/2010/neworleansangel2010.jpg" alt="Angel in 2010">
+  <span class="legend">Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010</span>
+</div>
+
+The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn't use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there.
+
+No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it's nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are.
+
+
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">The Endless Crowds of&nbsp;Yellowstone</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-25T14:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>25, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Yellowstone National Park</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Wyoming</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+                </aside>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <p><span class="drop">I</span>t's four o'clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can't help feeling like I'm back in <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2006/mar/21/angkor-wat/">Angkor Wat</a>. Thankfully it's nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it's geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that  are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I've ever been.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Old Faithful" height="301" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstoneoldfaithful.jpg" width="247"></amp-img>People. People everywhere. </p>
+<p>The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from <a href="http://luxagraf.net//2010/jul/22/backpacking-grand-tetons/">the wilds of Grand Teton National Park</a>.</p>
+<p>Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you've ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I'm partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that's just because I can't figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns' The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not "become another Niagara Falls." The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe's late 19th century elite. </p>
+<p>One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn't happen everywhere.</p>
+<p>My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up.</p>
+<p>There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you'll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a "National Heritage Area"), but it's pretty much the same idea. There's a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010).</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Traffic jam in Yellowstone National Park" height="200" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonetrafficjam.jpg" width="300"></amp-img>Old Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it's a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America.</p>
+<p>On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that's within visible range of the road. </p>
+<p>As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a "park" as opposed to any sort of wilderness. </p>
+<p>If you get out in the backcountry you'll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds.</p>
+<p>The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning. </p>
+<p>Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn't to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit -- I saw more.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park" height="309" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonegrandprismatic.jpg" width="550"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you've seen one geothermal pool you've essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences -- the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water).</p>
+<p>The famous colors of Yellowstone's thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well -- from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria. </p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Patterns, Yellowstone National Park" height="362" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstoneripples.jpg" width="250"></amp-img>Beyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures -- the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world. </p>
+<p>In the end there is wilderness here, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale -- the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks -- but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. </p>
+<p><amp-img alt="The Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" height="270" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonefireholeriver.jpg" width="204"></amp-img>Yellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it's geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River.</p>
+<p>To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand -- crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it's great for swimming on an otherwise mild day.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Algae fans in the Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" height="287" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonefireholeriveralgae.jpg" width="250"></amp-img>The river betrays it's strangeness in other ways too -- look a bit closer and you'll find giant fans of algae, something you'd never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains.</p>
+<p>Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns' National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its "upness." It's a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it.</p>
+<p>Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are -- beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there.</p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone</h1>
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+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(44.46180292448713, -110.82196979172171, { type:'point', lat:'44.46180292448713', lon:'-110.82196979172171'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
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+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-25T14:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>25, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">I</span>t&#8217;s four o&#8217;clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can&#8217;t help feeling like I&#8217;m back in <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2006/mar/21/angkor-wat/">Angkor Wat</a>. Thankfully it&#8217;s nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it&#8217;s geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that  are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I&#8217;ve ever been.</p>
+<p><img alt="Old Faithful" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstoneoldfaithful.jpg"/>People. People everywhere. </p>
+<p>The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from <a href="http://luxagraf.net//2010/jul/22/backpacking-grand-tetons/">the wilds of Grand Teton National Park</a>.</p>
+<p>Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you&#8217;ve ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I&#8217;m partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that&#8217;s just because I can&#8217;t figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns&#8217; The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not &#8220;become another Niagara Falls.&#8221; The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe&#8217;s late 19th century elite. </p>
+<p>One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn&#8217;t happen everywhere.</p>
+<p>My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up.</p>
+<p>There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you&#8217;ll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a &#8220;National Heritage Area&#8221;), but it&#8217;s pretty much the same idea. There&#8217;s a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010).</p>
+<p><img alt="Traffic jam in Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonetrafficjam.jpg"/>Old Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it&#8217;s a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America.</p>
+<p>On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that&#8217;s within visible range of the road. </p>
+<p>As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a &#8220;park&#8221; as opposed to any sort of wilderness. </p>
+<p>If you get out in the backcountry you&#8217;ll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds.</p>
+<p>The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning. </p>
+<p>Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn&#8217;t to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit &#8212; I saw more.</p>
+<p><img alt="Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonegrandprismatic.jpg"/> </p>
+<p>I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you&#8217;ve seen one geothermal pool you&#8217;ve essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences &#8212; the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water).</p>
+<p>The famous colors of Yellowstone&#8217;s thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well &#8212; from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria. </p>
+<p><img alt="Patterns, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstoneripples.jpg"/>Beyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures &#8212; the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world. </p>
+<p>In the end there is wilderness here, even if it&#8217;s just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale &#8212; the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks &#8212; but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn&#8217;t about the big picture, the grand scenery, it&#8217;s about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. </p>
+<p><img alt="The Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonefireholeriver.jpg"/>Yellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it&#8217;s geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River.</p>
+<p>To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand &#8212; crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it&#8217;s great for swimming on an otherwise mild day.</p>
+<p><img alt="Algae fans in the Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/yellowstonefireholeriveralgae.jpg"/>The river betrays it&#8217;s strangeness in other ways too &#8212; look a bit closer and you&#8217;ll find giant fans of algae, something you&#8217;d never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains.</p>
+<p>Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns&#8217; National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its &#8220;upness.&#8221; It&#8217;s a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it.</p>
+<p>Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are &#8212; beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there.</p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..408e2bf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,63 @@
+The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone
+=================================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone>
+    Sunday, 25 July 2010
+
+<span class="drop">I</span>t's four o'clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can't help feeling like I'm back in [Angkor Wat][1]. Thankfully it's nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it's geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that  are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I've ever been.
+
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstoneoldfaithful.jpg" alt="Old Faithful" class="postpic" />People. People everywhere. 
+
+The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from [the wilds of Grand Teton National Park][2].
+
+Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you've ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I'm partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that's just because I can't figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age.
+
+<break>
+ 
+One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns' The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not "become another Niagara Falls." The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe's late 19th century elite. 
+
+One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn't happen everywhere.
+
+My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up.
+
+There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you'll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a "National Heritage Area"), but it's pretty much the same idea. There's a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstonetrafficjam.jpg" alt="Traffic jam in Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" />Old Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it's a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America.
+
+On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that's within visible range of the road. 
+
+As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a "park" as opposed to any sort of wilderness. 
+
+If you get out in the backcountry you'll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds.
+
+The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning. 
+
+Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn't to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit -- I saw more.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstonegrandprismatic.jpg" alt="Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park" class="picfull" /> 
+
+I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you've seen one geothermal pool you've essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences -- the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water).
+
+The famous colors of Yellowstone's thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well -- from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria. 
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstoneripples.jpg" alt="Patterns, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" />Beyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures -- the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world. 
+
+In the end there is wilderness here, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale -- the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks -- but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. 
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstonefireholeriver.jpg" alt="The Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpic" />Yellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it's geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River.
+
+To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand -- crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it's great for swimming on an otherwise mild day.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/yellowstonefireholeriveralgae.jpg" alt="Algae fans in the Firehole River, Yellowstone National Park" class="postpicright" />The river betrays it's strangeness in other ways too -- look a bit closer and you'll find giant fans of algae, something you'd never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains.
+
+Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns' National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its "upness." It's a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it.
+
+Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are -- beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there.
+
+[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]
+
+
+[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2006/mar/21/angkor-wat/
+[2]: http://luxagraf.net//2010/jul/22/backpacking-grand-tetons/
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp
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+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp
@@ -0,0 +1,191 @@
+
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Great Sand Dunes National&nbsp;Park</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-17T09:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>17, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Great Sand Dunes National Park</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">T</span>he sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Mountains and Clouds Behind the Great Sand Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" height="309" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsanddunesclouds.jpg" width="550"></amp-img></p>
+<p>It doesn't take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour's time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it's too hot to hike barefoot anymore.</p>
+<p>But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren't many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand -- and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? -- that eventually gets the best of me.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>I climb it.</p>
+<p>Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes. </p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Dunes ridgeline, Great Sand Dunes National Park" height="340" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsanddunesridge.jpg" width="239"></amp-img>The dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here. </p>
+<p>The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes -- maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I've already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I'm tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it.</p>
+<p>I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction -- down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back.</p>
+<p>I give up.</p>
+<p>I'm tired and I've hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you're on. There is only one true exception to this rule -- Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" height="400" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsandduneshighpoint.jpg" width="252"></amp-img>However, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes. </p>
+<p>If you're more like me you wouldn't read the sign until after your hike, when you're back in the parking lot again.</p>
+<p>Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless -- lower -- dunes. It's quiet a view I am told. I wouldn't know.</p>
+<p>Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins. </p>
+<p>For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I've got miles to go before I sleep.</p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Great Sand Dunes National Park</h1>
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+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Great Sand Dunes National Park</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Colorado</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(37.72673718028319, -105.55097578487117, { type:'point', lat:'37.72673718028319', lon:'-105.55097578487117'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
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+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-17T09:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>17, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <p><span class="drop">T</span>he sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet.</p>
+<p><img alt="Mountains and Clouds Behind the Great Sand Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsanddunesclouds.jpg"/></p>
+<p>It doesn&#8217;t take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour&#8217;s time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it&#8217;s too hot to hike barefoot anymore.</p>
+<p>But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren&#8217;t many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand &#8212; and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? &#8212; that eventually gets the best of me.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>I climb it.</p>
+<p>Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes. </p>
+<p><img alt="Dunes ridgeline, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsanddunesridge.jpg"/>The dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here. </p>
+<p>The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes &#8212; maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I&#8217;ve already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I&#8217;m tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it.</p>
+<p>I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction &#8212; down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back.</p>
+<p>I give up.</p>
+<p>I&#8217;m tired and I&#8217;ve hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you&#8217;re on. There is only one true exception to this rule &#8212; Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges.</p>
+<p><img alt="Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/greatsandduneshighpoint.jpg"/>However, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes. </p>
+<p>If you&#8217;re more like me you wouldn&#8217;t read the sign until after your hike, when you&#8217;re back in the parking lot again.</p>
+<p>Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless &#8212; lower &#8212; dunes. It&#8217;s quiet a view I am told. I wouldn&#8217;t know.</p>
+<p>Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins. </p>
+<p>For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I&#8217;ve got miles to go before I sleep.</p>
+<p>[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3802691
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,42 @@
+Great Sand Dunes National Park
+==============================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park>
+    Saturday, 17 July 2010
+
+<span class="drop">T</span>he sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/greatsanddunesclouds.jpg" alt="Mountains and Clouds Behind the Great Sand Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="picfull" />
+
+It doesn't take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour's time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it's too hot to hike barefoot anymore.
+
+But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren't many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand -- and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? -- that eventually gets the best of me.
+
+<break>
+
+I climb it.
+
+Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes. 
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/greatsanddunesridge.jpg" alt="Dunes ridgeline, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="postpic" />The dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here. 
+
+The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes -- maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I've already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I'm tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it.
+
+I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction -- down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back.
+
+I give up.
+
+I'm tired and I've hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you're on. There is only one true exception to this rule -- Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/greatsandduneshighpoint.jpg" alt="Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park" class="postpicright" />However, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes. 
+
+If you're more like me you wouldn't read the sign until after your hike, when you're back in the parking lot again.
+
+Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless -- lower -- dunes. It's quiet a view I am told. I wouldn't know.
+
+Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins. 
+
+For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I've got miles to go before I sleep.
+
+[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the <a href="http://luxagraf.net/projects/national-parks/" title="National Parks Project">National Parks Project</a> page.]
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@@ -0,0 +1,128 @@
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+        <li>July</li>
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+    <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive">
+    <h1> Archive: July 2010</h1>
+    <ul class="date-archive">
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park" title="Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park">Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo&nbsp;Park</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-28T17:00:00-04:00">Jul 28, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone" title="The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone">The Endless Crowds of&nbsp;Yellowstone</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-25T14:00:00-04:00">Jul 25, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons" title="Backpacking in the Grand Tetons">Backpacking in the Grand&nbsp;Tetons</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-22T17:00:00-04:00">Jul 22, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park" title="Great Sand Dunes National Park">Great Sand Dunes National&nbsp;Park</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-17T09:00:00-04:00">Jul 17, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands" title="Comanche National Grasslands">Comanche National&nbsp;Grasslands</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-16T13:00:00-04:00">Jul 16, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks" title="Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks">Why National Parks Are Better Than State&nbsp;Parks</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-15T10:00:00-04:00">Jul 15, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid" title="The Legend of Billy the Kid">The Legend of Billy the&nbsp;Kid</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-11T18:00:00-04:00">Jul 11, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/dixie-drug-store" title="The Dixie Drug Store">The Dixie Drug&nbsp;Store</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-08T17:00:00-04:00">Jul 08, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+        <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2010/07/begin-the-begin" title="Begin the Begin">Begin the&nbsp;Begin</a> 
+            <time datetime="2010-07-05T22:00:00-04:00">Jul 05, 2010</time>
+        </li> 
+    </ul>
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+            <span class="h-card"><a class="p-name u-url" href="https://luxagraf.net/">Scott Gilbertson</a><data class="p-nickname" value="luxagraf"></data><data class="p-locality" value="Athens"></data><data class="p-region" value="Georgia"></data><data class="p-country-name" value="United States"></data></span>, except photos, which are licensed under the Creative Commons (<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="read the Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 deed">details</a>).
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">The Legend of Billy the&nbsp;Kid</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-11T18:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>11, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Hico</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Texas</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+                </aside>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <p><amp-img alt="" height="360" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/billythekid.jpg" width="237"></amp-img><span class="drop">T</span>he legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward.</p>
+<p>In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then <a href="http://www.billythekidmuseumfortsumner.com/">head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico</a>. If you decide it's the latter, then you need to see the <a href="http://billythekidmuseum.com/">Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas</a>. </p>
+<p>Alternately you could do what I did -- just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum.</p>
+<p>The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. "Brushy Bill" Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around.</p>
+<p>For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one.</p>
+<p><amp-img alt="" height="353" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/billythekidmuseum01.jpg" width="550"></amp-img> </p>
+<p>After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn't matter what happened to Billy the Kid. </p>
+<p>Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends.</p>
+<p>Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don't always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper -- the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes.</p>
+<p>That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not.</p>
+<p>Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters. </p>
+<p>Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid's story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look.</p>
+<p>There wasn't much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway.</p>
+<p>[The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the <a href="http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl102.html">Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law</a>]</p>
+        </div>
+        </article>
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+
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+</html>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">The Legend of Billy the Kid</h1>
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+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(31.981920692582488, -98.03087709969479, { type:'point', lat:'31.981920692582488', lon:'-98.03087709969479'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
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+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-11T18:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>11, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <p><img alt="" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/billythekid.jpg"/><span class="drop">T</span>he legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward.</p>
+<p>In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then <a href="http://www.billythekidmuseumfortsumner.com/">head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico</a>. If you decide it&#8217;s the latter, then you need to see the <a href="http://billythekidmuseum.com/">Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas</a>. </p>
+<p>Alternately you could do what I did &#8212; just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum.</p>
+<p>The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. &#8220;Brushy Bill&#8221; Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around.</p>
+<p>For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one.</p>
+<p><img alt="" class="picfull" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/billythekidmuseum01.jpg"/> </p>
+<p>After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn&#8217;t matter what happened to Billy the Kid. </p>
+<p>Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends.</p>
+<p>Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don&#8217;t always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper &#8212; the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes.</p>
+<p>That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not.</p>
+<p>Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters. </p>
+<p>Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid&#8217;s story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look.</p>
+<p>There wasn&#8217;t much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway.</p>
+<p>[The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the <a href="http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl102.html">Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law</a>]</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a66acc9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,41 @@
+The Legend of Billy the Kid
+===========================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid>
+    Sunday, 11 July 2010
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/billythekid.jpg" alt="" class="postpicright" /><span class="drop">T</span>he legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward.
+
+In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole.
+
+<break>
+
+Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then [head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico][2]. If you decide it's the latter, then you need to see the [Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas][1]. 
+
+Alternately you could do what I did -- just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum.
+
+The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. "Brushy Bill" Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around.
+
+For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2010/billythekidmuseum01.jpg" alt="" class="picfull" /> 
+
+After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn't matter what happened to Billy the Kid. 
+
+Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends.
+
+Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don't always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper -- the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes.
+
+That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not.
+
+Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters. 
+
+Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid's story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look.
+
+There wasn't much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway.
+
+[The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the <a href="http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl102.html">Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law</a>]
+
+[1]: http://billythekidmuseum.com/
+[2]: http://www.billythekidmuseumfortsumner.com/
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..18e8df3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp
@@ -0,0 +1,180 @@
+
+
+<!doctype html>
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+<title>Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks</title>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks</h1>
+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2010-07-15T10:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>15, 2010</span></time>
+            <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+                <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <span class="p-locality locality">Amarillo</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Texas</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+                </aside>
+            </header>
+        <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--double" itemprop="articleBody">
+            <div class="col">
+<p>There are many reasons actually, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo. </p>
+<p>Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it's not totally surprising that state parks close then. It's not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time. </p>
+<p>Palo Dura likes to call itself "The Grand Canyon of Texas." It may well be, but I'll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.</p>
+<p>The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here's what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:</p>
+</div>
+<p><amp-img alt="pure black image, since I never got into the park" height="205" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/paloduraafterten.jpg" width="960"></amp-img></p>
+<p>So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night.</p>
+<p>Now it's on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park.</p>
+        </div>
+        </article>
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+                <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks</h1>
+                
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+                <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+                    <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Amarillo</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">Texas</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+                     &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(35.18854030957816, -101.9194793559329, { type:'point', lat:'35.18854030957816', lon:'-101.9194793559329'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
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+                <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2010-07-15T10:00:00" itemprop="datePublished">July <span>15, 2010</span></time>
+                <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
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+            <div class="col">
+<p>There are many reasons actually, but here&#8217;s the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it&#8217;s not, it&#8217;s a state park and so I&#8217;m sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo. </p>
+
+<p>Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it&#8217;s not totally surprising that state parks close then. It&#8217;s not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time. </p>
+
+<p>Palo Dura likes to call itself &#8220;The Grand Canyon of Texas.&#8221; It may well be, but I&#8217;ll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.</p>
+
+<p>The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here&#8217;s what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p><img alt="pure black image, since I never got into the park" class="picwide" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2010/paloduraafterten.jpg"/></p>
+<p>So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night.</p>
+<p>Now it&#8217;s on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park.</p>
+        </div>
+        
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a4c08bf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
+Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks
+==============================================
+
+    by Scott Gilbertson
+    </jrnl/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks>
+    Thursday, 15 July 2010
+
+<div class="col">
+<p>There are many reasons actually, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo. </p>
+
+<p>Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it's not totally surprising that state parks close then. It's not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time. </p>
+
+<p>Palo Dura likes to call itself "The Grand Canyon of Texas." It may well be, but I'll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.</p>
+
+<p>The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here's what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:</p>
+
+</div>
+
+
+<img class="picwide" src="[[base_url]]/2010/paloduraafterten.jpg" alt="pure black image, since I never got into the park" />
+
+
+So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night.
+
+Now it's on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park.
author	luxagraf <sng@luxagraf.net>	2023-07-28 13:43:36 -0500
committer	luxagraf <sng@luxagraf.net>	2023-07-28 13:43:36 -0500
commit	a30c790edea652494e7481f6798047a3bc1fd4ea (patch)
tree	b0936860abd6767716f56c68e305d8f5e0e38bd4 /bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07
parent	9a620cf42bf1fe6977e378bd834b41ff4a593dde (diff)