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This will be a tiny true story in a few minutes. I have to write it. It is going to have a sadder note than most of my stories, kind of a 2 or 3 hankie story, you might say. So, if you don't like any pathos in your stories, then stop right here. The picture right before this will have the same story, but I will only submit one of these photo/stories to the various groups that like them.
The little girl on the guardrail represents me as a child. There are a few problems with her. One is I didn't have brown hair at the age of 5 or 6. I was blonde until age 9 or 10. Two is that my eyes are blue, and hers are not.. Three is that I didn't wear my hair in pigtails. Four is that I was tall, but not that tall. You might be asking yourself, "Self, then why on Earth do you think that represents you?" Well, she looks very sweet, as I did. She has rosy pink cheeks and a cute little smile, as I also did.. She likes bridges as I did from a very young age. She looks very innocent. The main thing that helps her represent me as a little girl is her white blouse and red plaid skirt, which will be the main thing in my story, if you can endure the next 3 or 4 paragraphs first.
I knew my mother didn't touch me very often, but I didn't realize how bereft she was of warmth, giving and receiving hugs and so on until all these years later. Various bouts of poison oak I had were savage. I knew she had tried to prick each horrible blister of poison oak, not getting them all, but trying. She would then apply Calamine Lotion with little cotton Coty brand pads. She still didn't touch me, but she ministered to me. That was when I was 5 or 6. Later when I was 8, 9 and 10 and got other cases of infected Poison Oak, could barely see out of one eye, and my other eye was closed, she did not administer anything at all. She and my Dad left for work 25 miles away. They got home that evening and my mouth was swollen closed all but the tiniest amount. My parents heated Campbell's Vegetable Beef Soup for me, and put it in a Waring Blender so I could manage to drink it through a straw. I shall not forget that. It was warm and comforting and tasted pretty good.
I had thought for most of my life that at least my mother must have held me and caressed me, bathed me, etc., when I was a baby and toddler. No, she held my hand a few times when we walked somewhere, but the family maid, Mildred, took care of me when I was a baby to age 3. After about age 3 and a half, I was left alone with 2 older brothers that my mother was fond of saying had hated me from the day I was born. The pictures of me with my mother show her positioning herself with my brothers, rather than me, or touching me but not close. When I had my own children she sort of held them out from her body, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with them, or as if she felt they might infect her with something. .
Several times when she wanted me to look nice because company was coming, she curled my hair with a curling iron. She, herself, did not actually touch me. The curling iron surely did. It was so hot, and it burned my scalp. I don't believe she was trying to burn me, but she surely did. I would say "Ow" many times. Each time, she'd say "Sorry" but then she would do it again. I did look nice afterward, and have a picture of myself on our patio with my nice dress, Mary Janes (shoes) and my hard-won curls. There were no hugs.
Bath time involved her running the water and me getting in, and then her tossing about a cup of Tide detergent, the large chunky powdered kind, in the water. It didn't dissolve easily either. Very rough on children's skin! Then she left the room. There were other times when she was pretty cold, but they are not the reason for my story. I'm only telling about some of them; so that the one time she was very tender and warm will stand out for me and my readers as a banner moment in my childhood. I'm close to 70 now, and don't kid yourself, your childhood memories, impressions, etc. stay with you. At least mine did and do.
You probably thought I'd never tie this altogether, but I'm going to. There is one time, a time I cherish, that my mother, though not consciously trying to, was warm. What she was doing was so I would "look nice" for appearances at kindergarten or first grade, not because she had decided I needed some affection. I had on my little red plaid skirt with straps and a white blouse. My white blouse was rather carelessly tucked in, which made it look wrinkled. My mother reached up under my skirt and pulled my white blouse downward until it looked very smooth around my waist. To accomplish this maneuver, she sort of "walked" her hands around my tummy, tugging gently on my blouse until it looked neat as could be. Her hands were warm and gentle, so much so that I wished I could pull some of my blouse back out again; so she would gently tug, tuck and pat again. That's it! That's the whole story of why I like this big dolly with all her innocence, and her blouse that occasionally needs to be tucked in.
THE END
P. S. Most people that see her on the bridge, smile and wave. One lady even rolled her window down and wanted to know if I made her.
(IMGP1385MePengraCoveredBridgerealismearlyDAPrealismoilME-flickr042317)
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I was only in Beijing for one morning before I had to catch my flight back home so I tried to make the most of it. I was ecstatic to finally see the famous Temple of Heaven, but the sky was a very flat gray so I got a little creative with the processing. Now it is the Temple of Heaven … in space! =P
I'll write the true story part about why I have had and loved this table for close to 40 years, but right now, the rain has slowed down a bit and I have some pictures to go shoot. This is for the "Our Daily Challenge" group subject of "Tables". The story part is not required, but it is true and I think you'll like it.
Hi Dave, for the Soul of the photo, I think the soul is this little table with such pathos, love & charm attached to it's history.
OK, it is 8:27 P. M. Pacific Coast Time here in Oregon, USA and if you hold your ears up close to your monitor you might hear me typing up my story. I'm starting it, and my stories are usually pretty short. It shouldn't be too long now.
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This table is warped pretty badly, and it has been moved so many times, the thin legs are wobbly, but it has a rather sad, but also romantic and charming history. Not quite 40 years ago, my children and I moved to Baker Bay at Dorena, Oregon. A gorgeous lake/dam had been made there, but flooding over parts of what was left of Dorena. My kids rode a school bus around the lake and many more miles to their respective schools. I met the parents of one of my daughter's first or second grade classmates. Rachel (I'm pretty sure her name was) came on a bus from a different direction, but Rachel and my daughter became friends. There was a baby either just recently born or on the way soon. I don't recall the baby's name. The parents were Bill and Pat Love (fitting surname for this story).
The Love family had meager means with which to live, but they were resourceful. Bill got scrap lumber (thus the table) from Weyerhaeuser Lumber and built their furniture for their little cabin up the river and on gorgeous Brice Creek. They painted rocks and sold them at some sort of craft fair in Cottage Grove, Oregon. Pat nursed their baby so no cost for formula. They had a used van, and the family treat once a month was to go into Eugene, Oregon (I believe over 80 to 90 mile round trip) and watch some sort of family matinee. I recall their allotment was $25.00 for this entertainment. I should know the mileage more precisely because later on I ended up making the trip many times, but it has been a long time.
I didn't know the Loves well, but what I did know of them was very nice. They were genuine and kind. I think it was 17 miles from my place to theirs but Rachel and my daughter meeting almost in the middle for school. Bill was American. I think his family may have been from the Vallejo, California area, not sure. Pat was Irish. I guess he met her over there. I don't know the details of their meeting. They married, and Bill promised her if she didn't like country living in Oregon, USA that he would take her and their children back to Ireland.
So he built other furniture too, a cool bed, and a bookshelf-desk combination that covered a good portion of their bedroom wall. He built a chicken coop, and so they had eggs cheaply. They had a darling and homey 2 bedroom cabin, with spring-fed water. It had a porch around a good part of the cabin and some property and fruit trees. It was absolutely beautiful there. It bordered Brice Creek, a whitewater beauty. It was romantic and scenic, and charming. They had a gorgeous purebred Irish Setter.
One night Brice Creek flooded. The cabin was built up I'm guessing maybe 8 feet from a dirt floor semi-open basement to the wooden floors of the actual cabin. Huge boulders were tossed by the flood waters up toward the cabin. Bill spent 8 hours (I'm pretty sure he said) pacing on the porch, not knowing where or when his family should try to get away, and where on earth they would go. The scenic paradise had become terrifying and treacherous. The chicken coop was flooded completely away, probably down toward Dorena Lake where I lived. I guess you could say their dreams sort of flooded away too.
Bill managed to rent some sort of backhoe (I wasn't there; so I don't know all the details) and build somewhat of a retaining wall with some of the boulders by moving them back toward the edge of the creek. He managed to build a fairly good barrier. He was a large man and apparently a very good worker, but their idyllic life had been badly blemished and threatened. They were both nervous. Pat told Bill she wanted them all to go live in Ireland. True to his promise, Bill said they would go as a family to Ireland.
There were some summer months left, where no one was worried about the creek flooding, and Bill and Pat approached me with the idea of renting their cabin from them. I guess until they could sell it, or until a relative could come up and remove some of their personal effects. Not sure. It was an even longer drive for me, for groceries and gasoline and entertainment, etc., but it truly was a beautiful spot. Brice Creek didn't normally flood there, and it was heavenly. I had encountered some problems anyway, at the place I rented at Baker Bay; so they talked me into it. Thus I became the proud owner of several pieces of economically homemade furniture, still stamped on the undersides with Weyerhaeuser. Now I believe almost 40 years later that company was bought out or absorbed by International Paper in Springfield, Oregon. I don't know the details or the exact year it happened.
I also became the proud owner of the best dog I ever had, Reilly, a purebred Irish Setter. Reilly was kind of deal-clincher.
My two favorite pieces of furniture that Bill built were the bedroom ones. Unfortunately, at least as far as keeping them, I ended up moving back into Eugene, and getting married. My new husband had all the furniture we needed; so those two pieces got sold. The little table you see in the picture could and did frequently go outside; so I still have it, after many moves and life changes.
When I look at that little table, I don't really dwell of on its faults. I can't even count all the times I've moved it and put it to different uses. I see the story of a loving family, a man who kept his promises, and the charm of the whole tale. Their surname of Love is perfect. I'm forever grateful for the short but enchanting time I got to spend in the cabin on Brice Creek in Disston, Oregon.
THE END
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On reflection, I am going to make about 2 corrections in my story. I believe my daughter and the Love's daughter were in first or second grade, not kindergarten. Also the total distance from Cottage Grove up to the place my children and I had on Baker Bay was probably about 10 miles. The total from Cottage Grove to Disston was about 27 miles; so for me to move up to Disston from Baker Bay would have been an additional 17 miles from Baker Bay, not an additional 27 miles. At any rate, it was really out in the boonies.
(20190915_155115WarpedWobblyDisstontableflickr091519)
Actaeon in Greek mythology, son of the priestly herdsman Aristaeus and Autonoe in Boeotia, was a famous Theban hero. Like Achilles in a later generation, he was trained by the centaur Chiron.
He fell to the fatal wrath of Artemis, but the surviving details of his transgression vary: "the only certainty is in what Aktaion suffered, his pathos, and what Artemis did: the hunter became the hunted; he was transformed into a stag, and his raging hounds, struck with a 'wolf's frenzy' (Lyssa), tore him apart as they would a stag." This is the iconic motif by which Actaeon is recognized, both in ancient art and in Renaissance and post-Renaissance depictions.
Among others, John Heath has observed, "The unalterable kernel of the tale was a hunter's transformation into a deer and his death in the jaws of his hunting dogs. But authors were free to suggest different motives for his death." In the version that was offered by the Hellenistic poet Callimachus, which has become the standard setting, Artemis was bathing in the woods when the hunter Actaeon stumbled across her, thus seeing her naked. He stopped and stared, amazed at her ravishing beauty. Once seen, Artemis got revenge on Actaeon: she forbade him speech — if he tried to speak, he would be changed into a stag — for the unlucky profanation of her virginity's mystery. Upon hearing the call of his hunting party, he cried out to them and immediately transformed. At this he fled deep into the woods, and doing so he came upon a pond and, seeing his reflection, groaned. His own hounds then turned upon him and pursued him, not recognizing him. In an endeavour to save himself, he raised his eyes (and would have raised his arms, had he had them) toward Mount Olympus. The gods did not heed his plea, and he was torn to pieces. An element of the earlier myth made Actaeon the familiar hunting companion of Artemis, no stranger. In an embroidered extension of the myth, the hounds were so upset with their master's death, that Chiron made a statue so lifelike that the hounds thought it was Actaeon.
There are various other versions of his transgression: The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and pseudo-Apollodoran Bibliotheke state that his offense was that he was a rival of Zeus for Semele, his mother's sister, whereas in Euripides' Bacchae he has boasted that he is a better hunter than Artemis:
ὁρᾷς τὸν Ἀκτέωνος ἄθλιον μόρον,
ὃν ὠμόσιτοι σκύλακες ἃς ἐθρέψατο
διεσπάσαντο, κρείσσον' ἐν κυναγίαις
Ἀρτέμιδος εἶναι κομπάσαντ', ἐν ὀργάσιν.
Look at Actaeon's wretched fate
who by the man-eating hounds he had raised,
was torn apart, better at hunting
than Artemis he had boasted to be, in the meadows.
In François Clouet's Bath of Diana (1558-59) Actaeon's passing on horseback at left and mauling as a stag at right is incidental to the three female nudes.
Further materials, including fragments that belong with the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and at least four Attic tragedies, including a Toxotides of Aeschylus, have been lost. Diodorus Siculus (4.81.4), in a variant of Actaeon's hubris that has been largely ignored, has it that Actaeon wanted to marry Artemis. Other authors say the hounds were Artemis' own; some lost elaborations of the myth seem to have given them all names and narrated their wanderings after his loss.
According to the Latin version of the story told by the Roman Ovid having accidentally seen Diana (Artemis) on Mount Cithaeron while she was bathing, he was changed by her into a stag, and pursued and killed by his fifty hounds. This version also appears in Callimachus' Fifth Hymn, as a mythical parallel to the blinding of Tiresias after he sees Athena bathing. The literary testimony of Actaeon's myth is largely lost, but Lamar Ronald Lacy, deconstructing the myth elements in what survives and supplementing it by iconographic evidence in late vase-painting, made a plausible reconstruction of an ancient Actaeon myth that Greek poets may have inherited and subjected to expansion and dismemberment. His reconstruction opposes a too-pat consensus that has an archaic Actaeon aspiring to Semele, a classical Actaeon boasting of his hunting prowess and a Hellenistic Actaeon glimpsing Artemis' bath. Lacy identifies the site of Actaeon's transgression as a spring sacred to Artemis at Plataea where Actaeon was a hero archegetes ("hero-founder"). The righteous hunter, the companion of Artemis, seeing her bathing naked in the spring, was moved to try to make himself her consort, as Diodorus Siculus noted, and was punished, in part for transgressing the hunter's "ritually enforced deference to Artemis" (Lacy 1990:42). (Wikipedia).
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See also the album: www.albelli.nl/onlinefotoboek-bekijken/3af1427e-1eae-4620...
This was the entrance to the gardens and villa, right on the lake. The place was built for Carlotta who, sadly, lived here only 5 years and died very young. The decor was delicate and feminine, but to me there was a certain pathos about the place given how it had been inhabited for so few years; it could have been a magnificent family home for generations, given how much love and work went into creating it......
The gardens were a pleasure despite there being little in bloom as it was early March. Winter sun, low in the sky, brightened everything up creating strong shadows at midday.
Now it is thousands of visitors who have the pleasure of seeing the artistry of this spacious villa on a magical lake. The little cherub welcomes everyone equally with his cheerful splashing fountain that sparkles in the light. Indeed lovely!
I'm trying to make a better cow picture than my dad, who created a real cult one that stood the test of time. But for him it was a job, for me it's a stupid side project I do with no real stakes. I'll never top the old man.
"Make a picture that is funny and sad at the same time. A photograph that simultaneously evokes pathos, irony and humour." - Jeff Mermelstein spn 46
Pathos, emotional involvement, passionate participation, is part of the religious existence. The utterances of the psalmist are charged with emotion, are outpourings of emotion. Reading the prophets we are stirred by their passion and enlivened imagination. Their primary aim is to move the soul, to engage the attention by bold and striking images, and therefore it is to the imagination and the passions that the prophets speak, rather than aiming at the cooled approbation of the mind.
-Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Prophets, The Philosophy of Pathos, pg. 38
That's the amazing thing about any of the arts . . . you can "see" the naked soul of the artist/performer. I think any of the arts are "visual" as the humour and pathos is always revealed in some way.
Pothos
Pentelic marble inv. 1914 no. 261
This statue has been identified as a work described for the first time by the Bolognese scholar Ulisse Aldrovandi (1522-1605) who admired it in the garden of Cardinal Rodolfo Pio da Carpi on the Quirinal Hill in the 16th century. On the cardinal's death it was purchased by the young Ferdinando de Medici, probably in 1584. As with the second "Pothos" in the Uffizi, this one too was initially identified as depicting "Apollo with a Swan" before it was recognised in the early zoth century as a Roman copy of Pothos, the god of yearning and desire, after an original by Skopas of Paros, who worked in the 4th century BCE.
Uffizi Visiting Strategy: Book tickets early, use these top visiting tips, follow a 2-hour highlights route, and don’t miss the key sculptures.
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I used to live in San Francisco many years ago, but I never really took advantage of it. I mainly spent my time working and planning my next prank on a particularly patient flat mate*, so I never got out to see the many unique sights around the city. I happened to live a block from Grace Cathedral so it was only because I walked by it each day on my way to work that I even noticed it. This was my little sanctuary away from the craziness of city life and I would spend hours there looking up at the impossibly high ceiling, stained glass windows, medieval architecture and intricately carved labyrinths. That may not sound too exciting but it beats driving around the city for hours in search of a parking spot.
* The poor flat mate was a nice software engineer from Hawaii. He would bring home these little cupcakes and put them in the fridge and late at night I would get hungry and slice the tops off of all of them and enjoy them with some milk. The next day he would find the leftover stumps ... hehe.
Véxoo non demasiado lonxe, véxoo demasiado preto, véxoo dende onte e véxoo demasiado cedo.
Paraíso extinguido, xardín das delicias esquecidas, exército do que non queda ninguén vivo, muros derribados por un puñado de vidas.
Deixa que arda ata os alicerces, que non queden nin as lembranzas, que non vexa de novo este espellismo, que todo antes ou despois remata.
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I see it not to far away, I see it too close, I see it since yesterday and I see it too soon.
Extinguished paradise, garden of forgotten delights, army in which nobody remains alive, crumbled walls for a fistful of lives.
Let it burn to the ground, may not even memories remain, may I not see this mirage again, since everything ends sooner or later.
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Lo veo no demasiado lejos, lo veo demasiado cerca, lo veo desde ayer y lo veo demasiado pronto.
Paraíso extinguido, jardín de las delicias olvidadas, ejército del que no queda nadie vivo, muros derribados por un puñado de vidas.
Deja que arda hasta los cimientos, que no queden ni los recuerdos, que no vea de nuevo este espejismo, que todo antes o después acaba.
From humour (yesterday) to pathos. I can't preach about this because I'm not 100% "pure" - from time to time I fall off the wagon, usually when I get invited somewhere. Although if offered a veggie burger alternative to cow parts, I will opt for the veggie burger.
Photographed near Simpson, Saskatchewan. Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission © 2016 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
"Make a picture that is funny and sad at the same time. A photograph that simultaneously evokes pathos, irony and humour." - Jeff Mermelstein
Si tratta di un'opera composta da sette figure a grandezza naturale in terracotta con tracce di policromia. L'anno di realizzazione dell'opera e l'identità di chi la commissionò sono avvolti nel mistero, così come l'esatta disposizione delle statue. Le ipotesi di datazione più accreditate oscillano tra il1463 e il 1490. Al centro sta il Cristo morto, disteso con la testa reclinata su un cuscino. Attorno si dispongono le altre figure, tra le quali spiccano le due Marie, Maria di Cleofa e ai piedi del Cristo, Maria Maddalena, straziate dal dolore con le vesti gonfiate dal vento. Più composte sono le altre figure, anche se i loro volti mostrano una dolorosa partecipazione. Si riconoscono poi la Madonna, con le mani giunte, Maria di Giuseppe (madre di Giacomo il Maggiore e Giovanni l'Evangelista) seguiva Gesù come discepola, che stringe le cosce in un gesto di rammarico, mentre san Giovanni è rappresentato in un silenzioso pianto, con un palmo che regge il mento. Staccata dagli altri è una figura inginocchiata in abiti rinascimentali, generalmente collocata a sinistra, che rappresenta Giuseppe D'Arimatea e che guarda verso l'osservatore. It is a work composed of seven life-size figures in terracotta with traces of polychrome. The year of realization of the work and the identity who commissioned it are wrapped in mystery, as well as the exact arrangement of the statues. The most credible dating hypotheses oscillate between 1463 and 1490. At the center is the dead Christ, lying with his head reclining on a pillow. Around the other figures are arranged, among which stand out the two Marie, Mary of Cleophas and at the feet of Christ, Mary Magdalene, torn by grief with clothes swelled by the wind. The other figures are more composed, even if their faces show a painful participation. Then we recognize the Madonna, with folded hands, Mary of Joseph (mother of James the Greater and John the Evangelist) followed Jesus as a disciple, who tightens her thighs in a gesture of regret, while Saint John is represented in a silent cry , with a palm that supports the chin. Detached from the others is a figure kneeling in renaissance clothes, generally placed on the left, which represents Giuseppe D'Arimatea looks towards the observer. www.wikipedia
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The North Carolina Museum of Art has a large display of sculptures of French artist Auguste Rodin (1840-1917). This is my favorite. When I was there, the late afternoon sun coming in made every photo almost impossible. Neither the color nor the black and white convey the full impact of this masterful depiction of anguish. I never realized how much emotion can be conveyed in bronze. This viewing experience has enhanced appreciation of sculpture in general and of Rodin in specific.
Edward III, King of England, claimed authority over France at that time. In 1346 he began an 11-month siege of the port city of Calais in an early battle in the Hundred Years’ War. Unable to take the city by attack, Edward decided to starve the city into submission. His plan succeeded. He would spare the lives of the citizens of Calais if six of its prominent leaders would come to his encampment; they would be barefoot and without headwear, nooses around their neck, and hand over the keys to the city and beg for mercy. Six burghers ultimately volunteered in this act of selfless heroism. They expected to be executed but were saved through the intervention of England’s pregnant queen, Philippa of Hainault. She feared the killing of the burghers would be a bad omen for the birth of her child. Pierre de Wissant is one of those six burghers.
To honor this act of self-sacrifice, the city of Calais commissioned Rodin in 1885 to execute a monument. His finished work was The Burghers of Calais (Les Bourgeois de Calais). Rodin used the head of Pierre de Wissant alone in a larger-than life sculpture. The modeling of the head was done in 1884-1885 and enlarged in 1909. The figure in the North Carolina Museum of Art was cast in 1980 by the Musée Rodin.
The bust shows Pierre de Wissant with parted lips, eyes nearly shut, head leaning slightly to the side, and an elongated neck—all features contributing to the pathos of the situation of self-denial and sacrifice. His features reveal the emaciation resulting from the effort to starve out the city. His decision shows in the facial agony to sacrifice his life for his fellow citizens. Rodin remarkably creates a human being in flesh and blood using only bronze.
See also www.flickr.com/photos/universalpops/5714783308/ and www.flickr.com/photos/universalpops/5714221433/
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License
Watch the music video here!
+++German below+++
My new music video for the german band Pathos Legal and their symphonized track “Oh, Du mein Wilder Geist" from their album “Du, mein wilder Geist”.
Get the album here: www.pathoslegal.com
The musicvideo was completely shot in raw on a 5D mark iii (thanks to Magic Lantern!). Post Production was done in After Effects, and the editing in Premiere Pro. Lenses used: Yonguo 35mm and Canon 50mm
Director: Denis Carbone
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Mein neues Musikvideo für die Frankfurter Band Pathos Legal und ihrem Song "Du, mein wilder Geist" in einer besonderen Orchesterfassung!
Regie und Umsetzung: Denis Carbone
Unterstützt diese großartige Band! Das Album, Single und die Orchesterfassung von "Du, mein wilder Geist" gibt es hier:
Großen Dank an die Mitwirkenden im Video:
Tobias Niggemann, Quynh-Anh Nguyen-Xuan, Gabi Schrepfermann, Mariam Städing, Lisa Marie Wichern und am Cello Lea-Christina Hengen.
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I recently visited China’s Yellow Mountains (Huangshan) in the southern Anhui province. This place was tough to get to. I took about ten different modes of transportation and hiked my soul out to get up there for a short weekend visit. The jagged mountains rise above the clouds and are connected by a series of pathways that often times simply hang from the side of a sheer wall. When the weather is right, you can watch a sea of clouds pour into the canyons from every direction. It is an amazing natural wonder.
Unfortunately, I was not there during the right season and I only got a chance to see one sunrise and one sunset which were both … meh. Nevertheless, the place has amazing views just about anywhere you look. I took this photo at the Lion Peak lookout as the sun was rising in the opposite direction. If you look closely, you can see a small rock in the center of the frame that resembles a monkey looking over the cliff. They call that lookout point, “Stone Monkey Gazing Over a Sea of Clouds”. Although, I can never be sure of the names for these places since every map I saw had different names for the same locations. Maybe I will call this place “Kick You in the Nuts Hard to Get To But Worth the Hike” lookout. Yeah, that seems appropriate.