What Happened?

"At 36, the world is our oyster.  By 44, we’re trapped inside the oyster, gasping for air." - Jacquelyn James

How did I get here?

I think my memory after the age of around 13 is reasonably good.  My preteen memory is a disaster, consisting of a scattered group of semi-organized snapshots and movie shorts.  I remember the sand box in the back yard, I remember finding flash bulbs at the base of the Mexican pyramids, I remember walking with the old lady who always walked her dogs by our house - first Tosse, then Erie (or maybe it was the other way around).  I even have one very early memory, from before I was two years old, of eating in our kitchen while my younger sister was being born.  I probably remember the more tragic events better, or at least more vividly.
After about the age of 13, my memory comes close to approaching a more linear narrative.  But I'm sure there are some very serious flaws.  I recognize that the same events visualized by different people, especially siblings, will be remembered differently.  Both memories will be both wrong and right.
So if memories can be imprecise, is it also possible to have them be completely fabricated?  Almost certainly.

I often wonder how memory works.  How in the organic chemical goo between my ears are memories stored.  Anytime I try to read what is known about this, I get technical answers that, even as a chemist, I don't understand and I think the authors don't either, or I get rehashed:  Short term memory is stored in the frontal lobe, long term memory in the hippocampus.  I guess I really do not like biochemistry now any better than I did in college.

Buy the Ticket and Take the Ride
Jerry: "What did you wanna be?" (when you grew up)
Elaine: "I don't remember , but it certainly wasn't this."

What happens to life goals as we get older?  Our youngest life goals are ludicrous, but the most aspirational.  Becoming a superhero or a princess isn't going to happen, but those are some of the loftiest goals that anyone will ever have.
Things change as we get a little older to something slightly more realistic - cowboy (whatever that is and probably still unrealistic), fireman, principal, race car driver.  If we could all just stick to those goals, there would be a lot less paper pushing bureaucrats and middle managers.  Still, there is a phenomenal amount of us who end up as faceless people doing jobs that, frankly, blend into obscurity.
All this makes this commercial from monster.com appear very funny, when in reality it is scary and absolutely tragic.

As years go by faster, the older I get, the goals change too.  Adolescent goals of "being the boss" or "become and astronaut" seem to evolve into "getting a job in the pharmaceutical industry" or "working in a technology job."  The reality is more likely "working in an office" - a nameless, faceless office where Friday afternoon is anticipated by noon on Monday.
Maybe the problem of demoralized expectations littering the floor lies in their origin in employment.  Little kids get asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  We don't ask them, "Who do you want to be when you grow up?"  That may be because it can be too painful of a question to ask internally.  A waiter at a chain restaurant can always aspire to start his own business.  A person who is financially successful, but is really an asshole, will probably always be an asshole.
And time does seem to pass that much quicker with each year - something I've only recently begun to understand.  At the age of eight, one year is 12% of life, and summer seems to stretch on endlessly.  At 44, one year is just over 2% of life so far; that year goes by much quicker than the eight-year-old's summer.  At 15 years of age, almost everything is new.  Every year older makes it harder to experience anything novel.

Life IS good.  But I'm not sure this is the ride I paid the price of the ticket for...

Thoughts for the Next Year
Tim Kreider wrote something recently in the way that only Tim Kreider can.  There is a small quote in this that resonates deeply:
"...the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was pretty much the one I chose."
This might be tough to stomach, but is probably true.  I'm here (we're all here) because of every decision that has been made, both the good and bad.  Some of this is out of personal control, but much of it isn't.  It is a pretty good place, but it is hard not to compare it to some mythical idealized state.  Sitzfleisch.

David Brooks talks about this but not loudly.  He whispers it.  Instead of worrying about whether a tin pot shines or is dented and faded, what is the interesting story, that ends up with a dented and faded tin pot?

As another year has gone by, my hope is that I define myself less and less by what my employment happens to be.
What is important should be what I've done, even things which might seem trivial.

So what will I be when I grow up?  I don't know.

But...
I am a person who loves travel, prefers the company of dogs, loves being outside and living in a rural area, enjoys riding bikes and long contemplative dog walks as well as learning through reading and writing...

Douglas Coupland's Generation X

I resisted reading this book for a long time.  I may have even unfairly disliked it before I picked it up.  There are several reviews of the book which are quite negative, but that alone isn't a reason not to read it since everything has at least some bad reviews.  A bar of gold could probably be offered for free on amazon.com and someone would complain that it was too yellow.
The content of some of the reviews was more troubling.  That and the idea that this book, and the author, was somehow supposed to be speaking for Generation X - a group I fall in the middle of.  This was not the apparent goal of Douglas Coupland, but a role that seems to have been handed to him.  The author was born in 1961, putting him outside of the window of Generation X, or on the raggedy edge between Boomers and Gen-Xers depending on the definition one wants to use.  It is troubling that Mr. Coupland has become "the voice of a generation" he didn't belong to - this is supposed to be a novel, not a documentary.
Perhaps more than anything, I've waited too long to read this, as I may have had different eyes at the age of 22 than I do in 2015.  I wonder if the same situation could be encountered by someone who was a teen in the 1950's, but waited until the late 1970's to read On the Road by Jack Kerouac?

The book is also set in Los Angeles, which is a world away from anything approaching real life.  This is a little unfortunate, since the author is Canadian and hadn't lived in LA very long before writing it.  I actually think the book would have been more interesting if it was set in Toronto.  There is subplot for the book in New York and the last thing the world needs are more books set in LA and NY.  At least a minor portion of the book takes place elsewhere.
While the LA experience probably does not approximate that of most Gen-Xers, I was in Palm Springs for several weeks of the summer before the book was published in 1991.  I was only supposed to go to California and drive a car back, but one thing led to another, as can happen if one is lucky enough as a late teen.  This doesn't bring me closer to the stories of the book, but it actually did help with context.  What I remember most about those weeks, was the absolute dichotomy of the area.  I was staying in a large house in the shadow of Bob Hope's Palm Springs house, while also spending time in a small, poorer, working town called Banning.  This dichotomy is touched on in the book, especially in relation to consumerism and its rejection that the main characters espouse.
Going through some old pictures recently, I've been struggling to envision what my world would possibly have looked like 10 or 15 years ago - or now - if some seemingly minor choices had gone differently in the early 1990's.  Unquestionably, things could be vastly different due to some decisions at the time which seemed minor and almost arbitrary.  But history can only be rewritten once there is a victor.

The book revolves around three main characters, Andy (narrator), Dag and Claire.  A synopsis can be found elsewhere so I won't rehash it here, but the important thing to note is that there really isn't a plot to the book.  This in and of itself is not a good or bad characteristic for a book.  A plot can help push a book along.  Generation X is a very quick read and the book is more about character development than anything else; generic characters to represent a generation.  The lack of a plot does make sense in the context of a book set in the 1980's - there is no plot or narrative that can be distilled from the decade that birthed sport motorcycles, Miami Vice was on TV, Reagan was president, The Breakfast Club was filmed, and big hair bands ruled.

In 2015, the book reads like a conversation with an old acquaintance, possibly a conversation where two people have grown in totally different directions in the ensuing decades.  There are awkward pauses and the discussion is somewhat forced.  The stilted nature of the book isn't totally off putting at times since it allows thoughts to go back to a time of Sony Walkmans, family portraits with awful plastic backgrounds, large shopping malls, and Yuppies.  Do families still take formal portraits anymore?  Is there a 2015 synonym for Yuppies?  The book is completely devoid of cell phones and the internet, let alone Facebook, making the lack of a plot that much more enjoyable.
I wish I had read this book shortly after the book Ready Player One by Ernest Cline.  Ready Player One isn't a terribly memorable book, but in some ways speaks to and about Generation X in a totally different way than Douglas Coupland's book.  When video games were huge wooden boxes that required quarters, who didn't want all that wasted money and skill to go to saving the earth?

Spoiler Alert!
The book ends with an odd bit about a "cocaine white egret" and a burned farm field with some mentally retarded children.  It is too bad that Mr. Coupland didn't start with this descriptive bird as it may have made him eligible for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.  Despite reading and rereading the ending a few times, it feels like a complete non-sequitur.  I have yet to see any explanation of the ending that I think actually makes sense with the rest of the book.  So if the 1980's didn't have a plot, as the book does not, maybe a nonsense ending out of nowhere is appropriate?  I ... found it lacking.
End Spoiler Alert!

Beyond the end of the text of the book are a series of statistics without context.  They seem to want to imply that Gen-X is screwed compared to the Boomers and the Silent Generation.  But few people I know actually lived these statistics, and then it was most often by choice.  Again, LA is not real life.  Looking at the statistics now, they look frightfully similar to what could be compiled about Millennials right now.
And maybe that is the point - the book rails against consumerism throughout the pages, just as Millennials now attempt to do, stating emphatically that, "Advertising doesn't work on me."  Yet ... once Generation X figured out how to sell to Generation X and Millennials are figuring out how to easily sell to Millennials, "consumerism" really isn't going anywhere.  This is despite every generation since World War II vilifying their parents and arguing consumerism's last gasping breath.  Even the subtitle can be transported between generations, Tales for and Accelerated Culture - "Everything happens so much faster now!" opines the Millennial.

Perhaps what really needs to be understood and taken from the book is that while we can recognize collective deviance in others, deviance is much harder to see in the generational mirror.

"You see, when you're middle class, you have to live with the fact that history will ignore you.  You have to live with the fact that history can never champion your causes and that history will never feel sorry for you.  It is the price that is paid for day-to-day comfort and silence.  And because of this price, all happinesses are sterile; all sadnesses go unpitied." - Douglas Coupland

Road Trips and the Return to Work

I recently got back from vacation.  It was a (motorcycle) road trip to somewhere tropical.  Late summer/early fall isn't the typical time to go to these places, but the down season is the best time to travel.  Things are cheaper, hotels more empty, roads less crowded, less kids - there is no down side.

I've toured through 49 states and there have been innumerable stops in towns of all shapes, locations and sizes.  My preference is for moderately small towns.  The really small towns rarely have hotels, or at least don't have a couple hotels and restaurants to choose from.  Bigger cities have very little to offer other than higher prices and maybe ... maybe something more interesting to do.  Smaller areas might require more searching, but the reward is unique sites or discovering hidden jewels.  Historic oddities are everywhere.

One of the things I like about road trips are the longer term connections it creates to places I've been.  Even if it is just a short stop for a meal.  These connections can be tenuous at best, but it makes things more personal when I hear about them, often years later.
Flooding in Minot, North Dakota?  I've been there.
Monkey loose in Valdosta, Georgia?  I've been there.
Wildfire in Lolo, Idaho?  I've been there.
Flash floods in Hilldale, Utah?  I've been there.
Yoga and Beer in Farmington, New Mexico?  I've been there.

Some of these things are not necessarily pleasant, but hearing about these events is more real having been there, even if only briefly.  Hearing about these things also brings back memories of the trip.
A meal in a small cafe in Minot while returning home from Alaska.
Overnight in Valdosta, staying a a great motel, which had questionable reviews, and with a surprisingly good sushi place within walking distance.
Lolo pass has to be one of my favorite motorcycle roads and nearby Missoula a granola paradise.
Being leered at while looking for a restaurant in Hilldale - I guess I asked for that one.
Nice conversation with a cashier in a Farmington convenience store while buying soda and Zingers.

Having driven through areas others avoid also brings serendipity.  Northern Nebraska is extremely pretty.  Situated near the black hills and the badlands, it has some character of both in areas without the dreaded RV traffic.  The vacation paradise of Florida, is surprisingly plain outside of the overcrowded coastal beaches.  I still enjoyed it though.

I was able to mentally break away from work on my recent trip.  The week before was somewhat slow, which made this easier.  There have definitely been vacations where thoughts frequently and painfully returned to work.  I have one candid picture from 2012 which was taken when I am both mentally and physically completely removed form the humdrum of day-in, day-out.  It is probably one of my favorite pictures of me.

But the day before returning to work after the recent tropical vacation was one of near dread.  I could almost see the bureaucratic pettiness of work on the horizon and as I watched reruns of Castle, which would normally sequence the end of a weekend; the end of vacation was imminent.

I've been back at work for a full week and it wasn't too bad.  A few issues piled up and a few unreasonable demands were waiting.  Still, it is amazing how many crises were resolved without any of my involvement.  Manufacturing problems does seem to be a way for some people to justify employment.

I haven't effectively used very much vacation this year.  I've got several more days I have to take before December 31, with more to be carried over to 2016 - and if I ever lose any of it, I'll know my life has gone to a place I don't approve.
That ... will not happen.

Ontario, Oregon?  I've been there.

Orion Rising

We're starting to see the first few tastes of fall.  Daylight is noticeably shortened relative to the summer solstice in June; daylight is predictable, and while temperature is not, the hysteresis in average temperature means we're well past even the typical highs in late July.  Average highs in late August are still solidly in the 80's and the humidity can be oppressive, but there have been a few early suggestions of the impending equinox weather.

I rode the bicycle a few days ago on a morning ride to a town about 20 miles away.  Leaving at the first sliver of the sun, the morning was almost cold, with fog clinging to the fields of soybeans.  A few fields showed touches of yellow leaves already forming in the otherwise dark green sea.  The bike ride, especially the first half, was stunning.  A recent article tries to paint this area of the country negatively, but I'll take the rolling rural agricultural landscape over many of the highly (over)rated and overpopulated areas.  The article propagates the myth of flyover country in graphic form.  Which is fine.  Those in New Jersey and Manhattan are welcome to stay in their natural environment.

Another year is continuing on its relentless march towards its end.

Last year's hunting was better than average with a bear, a deer and a wild boar making it into the freezer.
The bear was very large and there is still some left.  His fat didn't freeze too well, so most of what is left will be carefully trimmed and used for strong dishes like spicy stir fry or with red beans and rice.  Deer seems to last forever.  Most of my 2014 deer was ground into burger and while some slander ground venison with domestic fat, I almost always leave it native.

My early-year 2015 wild boar is now gone.  He was about average size, maybe 150 pounds.  Of all the game meat I've eaten, the wild hog has to be my favorite.  Most of the animal is very lean, making it slightly-less guilty pork.  A wild hog has most of his fat concentrated around the rib cage.  This makes the ribs difficult to cook and eat, but tasty.  It also makes them very messy.  The wild ribs were finished off much earlier in the year.

After the ribs are eagerly finished, the backstraps are finished, followed by the rest of the meat - either through steaks of varying toughness or ground wild pig.  My final wild boar meat was grilled after marinating with olive oil, pepper and ranch spices.

It is a little sad to see the wild game meat begin to be depleted, but it is better then waiting too long for it.
And after eating almost exclusively wild game for many months, the move to domesticated meats is actually a nice change, if a bit less mentally gratifying.  Regardless of origin, fall-off-the-bone ribs, cooked to perfection and finished on a smokey grill are extraordinary.

The constellation Orion is making an early morning appearance to the east just before sunrise.  Soon enough, meat from the deer and bear will be gone.  I find myself looking forward more than most years to the change in season but not for any particular reason.  Or maybe after a summer of days that passed with monotonous similarity, any change is going to be welcome.

Fresh Cut Queen Anne's Lace

I enjoy mowing the lawn.  At least I enjoy mowing the lawn when I have the time to do it.  It is a good thing that I find enjoyment in mowing, as I mow between three and four acres.  My lawn mowing has a split personality between the laughable Weed Eater push mower (cost?  $20) used for the fenced dog area and trim work, and my tank-like, aging 61-inch Snapper zero turn.

While I have always enjoyed mowing, I can vividly recall one of my lows when trying to sell my old house was a lawn mowing episode.  I had just mowed the lawn at my current house, then drove to my old house, despite the threat of intense weather.  With less than half of the lawn mowed, torrential rain moved in, drenching me and making mowing more difficult.  This deluge spawned the death of my rickety riding lawn mower, resulting in needing to finish the now sodden mowing with the slightly less rickety push mower.  This was unfortunately at the same time when selling the old house was seemingly futile - being drenched while finishing upkeep was pouring vinegar on the already distasteful.  I finished, but left the for-sale property feeling defeated.
Every problem has a solution and the riding lawn mower was eventually fixed with a very used ignition coil from Ebay.  I gave that rider away with the house when it eventually sold.
I took better care of the lawn at the old house, at least by accepted US standards.  I used selective herbicides and dutifully fertilized a couple times a year.  That house was near a creek, so the "better" care of the lawn may not have been the "better" choice for the overall ecosystem.
In my current house, the only fertilizer is what the dogs contribute and it is far to expansive to pay for even selective use of herbicides.

My neighbor takes his mowing much more seriously than I do.  He mows a similar overall amount to mine and seems to mow a section of his yard every few days.  This approach probably makes sense, but I can't stand having only part of the lawn mowed.  It is likely a character flaw, but when I mow, I wait until it really needs it and mow the whole thing.  This approach is probably more economical as well.

Thankfully, the area where I live is very tolerant of many mowing lifestyles - so the fact that my lawn is sometimes long, sometimes scalped, isn't met with any visible disagreement from my few neighbors.  Since I often mow when parts of the lawn are very long and potentially wet, it can sometimes "frump" - this is the technical word to describe how the lawn mower will push out a big ball of cut grass, rather than evenly discharging the cut grass.

Even with my tepid care of my grass, I do like the way a freshly cut level lawn looks.  And the smell can be intoxicating.  The scent of early spring cut onion grass brings faith that winter is releasing its grip.

By this date (August) in most years, rain is diminished, taking frequency of mowing along with it.  There have been years when I mowed in late summer, not really to cut the grass as much as to knock down the few high spots of weedy grass and to cut down the Chicory and Queen Anne's Lace, which continue to arrogantly grow long after the lawn has given in.
This year (2015), there seems to be no shortage of rain, and consistent rain.  Mowing this year has been a nearly weekly affair.  The consistent rain has also created a constant quaggy area in my yard's low lying area.  I suspect that old drain tile has plugged as well, resulting in my neighbor's run-off nesting in my yard.  I haven't decided yet, if this could be a long term problem or not.

This swampy area, which is impossible to cut, makes me question why I mow at all.  In a suburban area, social pressures push to maintain a certain standard, but my far back yard is a hay field, with corn growing north of me and soybeans to the southwest.  I suppose keeping the grass cut down for the dogs and to keep ticks and insects at bay makes sense, but I could foresee letting the property go wild, just to see what would happen.

But maybe not.  The few nearby vacant houses have turned to mostly stalky weeds, which is unpleasant at best.  Areas which are not routinely mowed, or at least brush hogged, end up getting choked up with invasive plants like trumpet vine (attractive, but hard to get rid of), bush honeysuckle (can make a decent screen, but I'm sure this stuff could take over the whole earth), and morning glory (an evil plant if there ever was one).  The previously mentioned chicory and Queen Anne's Lace, while not native, do at least have some redeemable qualities.
I have planted many trees in one section of the property, with the hope that one day a forest canopy will evolve, meaning mowing will be only a rare spring need.  Realistically this is some way off.  My tree care mirrors my lawn care and as a result I have a large group of sad-looking trees that desperately wish to survive beyond their current height of several inches.  Many have died, been cut down, only to regrow anew from some remaining roots.  The unbelievably strong will to live does not seem to be something possessed only by animals.

Internet searches on the subject show no shortage of sites which suggest the history of lawns go back to elite European estates and lawn care in the United States currently costs billions to maintain.  Many of us in our area of the township have donated parts of our yards to local farmers who cut and bail it for hay.  I've thought about doing this with more of my property, but indiscriminate agricultural cutting may harm my baby trees, which I do have some emotional attachment to despite their lack of care.  I'd also rather not have excessive vehicle pressure over the geothermal or septic system.
I guess I could use some of the property to grow more of my food, but I must be realistic with myself.  As much as I like to plant things like tomatoes or pumpkins, my care of them mirrors my lawn and tree care.  Once summer turns things hot and humid, nurturing plants with activities like weeding, watering and pest control are less alluring.

Ecologically, a lawn is a pretty dead place unless you include the field mice which make tunnels in the grass in the winter.  Along with the rain, the rabbits seem to be doing quite well this year as well.

Despite the expense and questionable utility, mowing acres of grass serves as a satisfying recreational activity.  As a task which takes little in the way of mental capacity, it is also good thinking time.  And any negative it carries is, frankly, a small price to pay to be away from the concrete jungle of the city or the punky, traffic-infused jungle of the suburbs.
Winter will be here all too soon, bringing with it nostalgia for the past summer's green mowing.

Meteors and Coyotes

The 2015 Perseid Meteor shower occurred this week, with the predicted peak on Thursday morning.
Most of this week has been quiet with clear, cool, cloudless skies.  Mornings are, frankly, one of many great benefits of living in a rural area.  Compared to other places I've lived and many I've visited, things are typically quiet, dark and serene.

I left all the outside lights off as I let the dogs out on Thursday.  I stayed outside several minutes and for part of my morning ritual coffee.  I did see a few short-lived meteors move across the sky.  At the peak, the expected number of sightings was forecast to be in the 50-100 per hour.  This is about 49-99 more than an average morning, but minutes staring up is a long time to wait between meteors, especially since every one will not be seen.  Many will be faint and there is still some light pollution from nearby populated areas and from the few house lights.  Thankfully, nobody nearby had left large flood lights illuminated overnight.

I suppose it was eventful seeing the Perseid Meteor Shower.  But like most astronomical phenomenon, it was a bit anticlimactic.  This is especially so when compared to some historic observations like what is depicted in the wood cut print of the 1799 Leonids.  While accounts from 1799 made it sound impressive, and there was very little light pollution then, it is hard to know if this is a real depiction, or if it contains a bit of historic embellishment.

I've seen a few solar eclipses which are dramatic, the erie light cast by a sun shrowded by the moon on a clear day is something everyone should see at least once.  It is a ways in the future, but I hope to plan to be in totality for the August 21, 2017 solar eclipse that will cross the United States, maybe even at the epicenter in Carbondale, IL or Hopkinsville, KY.  I'd love to plan to see a dramatic meteor shower someday, but luck plays a big part in that ever happening.
Many other stellar occurrences might be rare and of interest to the avid sky-gazer, but planets briefly aligning with stars or objects passing behind the shadow of the moon is interesting only in rarity, not in observation.

The brightest meteor I saw this past week was actually on Tuesday, well before the predicted peak, when I was driving to work.  Headed south, the meteor briefly, but brightly, shot to the north.  It was only chance that I happened to see it and if I hadn't been on my motorcycle, with an unobstructed view up, I likely would not have seen it at all.

One event Wednesday morning was almost more awe-inspiring than the Perseids.  I was letting the dogs in to feed them and two groups of coyotes started howling.  One group to the Northeast began, followed by a group much closer to the Northwest.  This continued for several minutes, as I paused in the cool morning to listen.  The howling, barking and yipping coyotes make is nearly magical.  Thankfully, the beagles are now hard of hearing enough not to have heard (and they probably just wanted inside to their food).  A few years younger, they would have joined in, their canine instincts are not far removed from the cousin coyotes.

While celestial events may often not be all that dramatic, there was one meteor that was unbelievably amazing to observe.  This probably happened somewhere around 1988.  It was in a summer during high school, vacationing with my friend Nathan near Lake Michigan.  In all of our teen-wisdom, we decided to take a canoe out on the lake, very late in the evening.  While in retrospect this was probably not very smart, at the time it seemed perfectly acceptable.  Sitting in the canoe, an unknown distance from shore, a positively radiant meteor shot across the horizon, north to south leaving a brief dim trail it its wake.  Nathan and I were quiet for a few seconds after it, before looking at each other and asking, "Did you see that?"  I don't think the question was as much if the other saw it; it would be impossible not to.  But it was so dramatic that the question was more asking - Was that real?  Sometimes, questionable decisions result in amazing outcomes.

I suppose I'm glad the weather this week was clear and my morning routine has me up early enough to see a few of the Perseids.  It is awesome to think that the light streaking across the sky is a clump of early galactic material from the tail of a comet that elipses around the sun; a reminder how insignificant we are, when we allow ourselves to be.  These clear, cool, quiet mornings should be hallowed for everything they proffer.

Belated Edit (10-22-15):
While not as numerous as the Leonids, the Orionids occurred with a nearly cloudless sky.  On my way to work, an unbelievably bright meteor appeared directly overhead, right out of Orion's belt, and streaked to the south, ending in an bright burst.  Amazing.

That Lion

"But one thing that never changes from decade to decade, century to century, or millennium to millennium, is the struggle between human beings to convince others to follow their vision of the world." - Mark Matthews

Thanks to one human and one lion, hunting has been in the news at an unprecedented level recently.  The human's name was Walter J Palmer.  As an undomesticated animal, the lion did not recognize any name, Cecil or otherwise.  The question must be asked - What is being saved when the 'wild' that some seem so devoted to includes lions so tame that people try to name them?  Are the whitetail deer so immune to predators that they can be photographed from 10 feet away in Cade's Cove really the outdoor legacy that should be left to future generations?

Since the much publicized events, there have been many attempts to demonize and threaten Mr. Palmer.  There have been a lesser amount of attempts to justify hunting, without justifying Mr. Palmer's immediate actions.
I'm not really sure hunting needs to be justified, and it certainly doesn't need to be justified in the context of Walter Palmer any more than my donation to a charity requires justification after your armed robbery of a convenience store.  They both involve transferring of money, but the former has nothing to do with the latter.

This is not really a discussion about hunting as much as it is a discussion about being human, being civilized, and being in touch with who we are and who we might want to be.
In the dystopian future where we are all wearing the same skin-tight, v-neck jump suit and eating soylent green, hunting may leave the conversation permanently.  Until then, those wishing to demonize all hunting need to see hunting remains a necessary part of life, visceral with parts that are unpleasant, but as important to living history, to real health as calcium is for bones.

Johnny Sain writes one of the few sane articles I've seen on the subject.

Beyond that, what needs to be critically understood, is that hunting is not about killing.  If hunting were only about killing, it would be the most painfully boring pastime ever conceived.  For every 10 bears killed, hundreds of hours are spent in preparation and in search of the right bear.  For every 100 deer killed, thousands and thousands of hours are spent in a tree stand.  For every 1000 ducks shot, hundreds of thousands of hours are spent sitting in a cold duck blind.  Individuals who participate only for the trigger time are quickly disappointed, and usually quit soon after starting.
Hunting is not just one thing, yet it is meat.  It is antlers or horns.  It is watching small animals while waiting for the larger ones.  Eating meat from the hunt brings a satiation that goes beyond ending hunger.  Hunted food creates an intimate connection to survival - a recognition that in order to live, something must die.  Mementos of the experience, the entire hunting experience, may come from taxidermy.  Taxidermy is the ultimate in participatory art.
Hunting is a theology - just as veganism is among a different, but just as ardently presupposed group.
And whether that time hunting is spent alone, or as a communion of like minded people, the time is sacred.  Most of it is quiet time for reflection, a chance to take a step back and look at the world as a whole.  A chance to ponder the reason for life, from beginning, and yes, to its end.
Hunting is not a bygone relic, any more than walking or paddling is merely an ancient curiosity in the age of driving and flying.

A disservice is done when we constantly split ourselves into smaller and smaller warring factions.  There is little delusion that the vegan will sit down with the hunter as the lion has done with the biblical lamb.  But once the vegan starts hurling raw beets at the omnivore and vegetarian for their sins, a line has been crossed into fundamentalist intolerance.

It is unfortunate that this conversation must come from one publicized event.  I doubt many of those hurling threats and vulgar insults at Mr. Palmer will be doing much to really help any lions in another 6 months, let alone 18 months.  I doubt that the politically charged atmosphere and international pressure will do much to alleviate suffering in Africa - zoological or human.  I doubt justice will be served by sending Mr. Palmer to face a level of corruption, notable even in the third world.  And I doubt the media, which is good at sharing the same talking points, whether true or blatantly false, will do much to help a more honest conversation about any of this.

What I don't doubt, is that our survival as a species depends on oxygen, water, and food.  And any discussion about future civility first requires civil discussion.