If John McPhee was my teacher (at any point), I might not have been a better student, but I certainly would have paid better attention.
This is a collection of magazine pieces and they're dated, but then so am I. As always with McPhee, there's stuff here you might not even think you'd be interested in, until he grabs you. And, as always with McPhee, it's best if I just tell you what I learned.
Like about firewood: The redwood made the error of growing good lumber. The lumber of the giant sequoia is terrible. Be good for nothing if you want to live forever is the message of the giant sequoia.
I learned about high-stakes races for quarter horses (not thoroughbreds). Inevitably, breeding came up. (This is a sad story, so skip to the next paragraph if you are a horse - or other animal - lover). Anyhow, quarter horses are often bred with thoroughbreds to make a faster, more powerful issue. The stud is kept away, letting "teaser" horses do the foreplay, kind of like fluff girls in porn movies (I've heard; not that I would know). Then it goes like this: Handlers-halters in hand-hold the mares and hold the teasers. A teaser is not restrained as he moves close to a mare. He nuzzles her. He rubs against her. He makes deep sexual sounds. His heart pounds. His blood courses. Her blood courses, too. Nostrils flaring, he tries to mount. Forcefully, he is pulled down and away. He is dragged off to a corral. The mare has ovulated and is ready. Teaser stallions do not last long. In a matter of months, they break down psychologically. I don't think I'll read a sadder thing all year. It's Go Man Go who actually gets to do the honors, and even for him it's kind of artificial in the end.
Scotch: Macallan and J. & J. Grant's Glen Grant together form the baseline triumvirate of malt whisky. The apex above them is George & J. G. Smith's The Glenlivet, the finest whisky made in Scotland. Well, I had to try it then. And I did. Just two nights ago, after golf. I cannot disagree.
While McPhee was in Scotland (with his wife and four young daughters) he went to Loch Ness. They were having a picnic there, and McPhee was trying to explain the geology of it all to them. And failing. But: I thought that if they could understand how such phenomena had come to be, they might in turn be able to imagine the great, long lake now before them-Loch Ness-as the sea loch, the arm of the Atlantic, that it once was, and how marine creatures in exceptional variety had once freely moved in and out of it, some inevitably remaining. And yes, he had me, a certain skeptic, almost believing. Especially when he paints this picture of the Loch itself: The water of Loch Ness is so dark with the tints of peat that on a flat-calm day it looks like black glass. Three or four feet below the surface is an obscurity so complete that experienced divers have retreated from it in frustration, and in some cases in fear. . . . Loch Ness is like almost no other lake anywhere. Its shores are formidably and somewhat unnaturally parallel. It has no islands. Its riparian walls go straight down. Its bottom is flat, and in most places is seven hundred feet deep, a mean depth far greater than the mean depth of the North Sea. In other words, a perfect habitat for a monster. Daddy, I want to see the monster.
We follow, then, McPhee and his wife and children in search of the way From Birnam to Dunsinane. And they found it, with the help of a local: Few people seem to realize that there really is a Dunsinane Hill. Shakespeare, he said, took an "n" out and added an "e," but he did not create the hill. And Macbeth too was real. Quoting an historian, McPhee notes the irony that Macbeth, branded with the stain of blood, was actually a pretty nice fellow. It simply was not in him to shout at an enemy here on these ramparts. Still, The race being what it is, we prefer him the second way, and Shakespeare knew what we wanted.
I learned also about the best roadkill to eat and the weirdest places to play basketball and lots of other fun stuff. But I have to go now and check to make sure about that Glenlivet.