Month: November 2020

’tis better to travel hopefully

First Published: February 10, 2004

Coming as I do from good Scotch-Irish white trash stock, it was inevitable that I would one day heed the call of the wild and like so many of my forebears, pack my belongings into a covered wagon and head out for the wide-open lands of the American West, giddy with excitement over the life of wealth and adventure, which surely awaited.

Although if you want to be technical; I’d travelled west in an aeroplane in 1993. This 2002 migration was north and a little bit east. The covered wagon was more of a Hertz truck and as for giddy excitement…I was bloody exhausted before we started.

I’d been working in Colorado for a couple of months, while The Light of my Life™ stayed in Phoenix, to handle the house sale. When it was time to move, I flew down on Friday night, anticipating that she would have all our worldly goods and possessions packed and ready to go. We were scheduled to close on our new house, first thing Tuesday morning so intended to load up and get a couple of hundred miles under our belts by Saturday night. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. She’s something of a pack rat and after 18 years in the house, had found the task overwhelming so had barely got started. We worked through the night but by the time our helpers arrived on Saturday morning, had still hardly scratched the surface. Leaving them to continue, we went out to collect the hire truck I’d reserved earlier in the week.

Which wasn’t ready. “Nope, sorry, nothing available” said the clerk; making it quite clear he couldn’t give a monkey’s. So, back home and a session with the Yellow Pages before finding a truck 50 miles across town. It was lunchtime by the time we got back so already we were seriously behind schedule. Next task was to collect the horse trailer, which had been in storage. One of the tires was blown. Not just flat, but completely exploded. Reflecting that on balance, it was better to have happened now than on the road, we decided it would be as well to replace all 4 of them. That neatly filled the rest of the afternoon so the planned Saturday evening departure was a complete write off.

We did sleep for about 4 hours Saturday night and on Sunday (most of) the friends showed up once more for an unscheduled continuance of the process. I never realized just how much stuff we owned and even after leaving a phenomenal amount for the new house owners, it was something of a squeeze when we finally pulled shut the door of the truck. Almost exactly 24 hours behind schedule we waved goodbye to our old life and set off towards that night’s target of Flagstaff, which is almost entirely uphill. With a top speed of around 45-50 miles an hour it was nearly midnight when we pulled in.

Up bright and ugly the next morning and our first challenge was that the moving truck keys were nowhere to be seen. We hunted all over the room, in our pickup truck, the horse trailer and the ground around, before eventually finding them in the ignition. A good job nobody else had found them first. We made pretty good time over the next stretch of the journey and at Santa Fe, decided we had time to pull in and eat a proper lunch. Now Santa Fe is a beautiful town and quite rightly, is a magnet for tourists from all over the world. So nice in fact, you can’t leave.

We know now that the while I-25 does indeed head north after passing Santa Fe, it’s quite definitely an east-west route close to town. Which meant that there was no way to access it from the northern end of the city as we were trying to do. Or at least we would have tried to do if we’d been able to get out of the city center. Built in a different age, Santa Fe’s streets are narrow and nowadays, thoroughly traffic choked. No place to be trying to maneuver a 24-foot moving truck when you’re so tired you can barely see. After about 12 circuits of the main plaza and multiple tours of the city’s residential districts (some of the gardens really are spectacular by the way, and you can fully appreciate them when you’re up high) I finally blocked traffic for 20 minutes or so while a friendly native explained the facts of life. After an initial misunderstanding, where I thought I was debating the village idiot (“You want to go south” “No, I want to go north!”) I finally understood he meant “You need to go south”. So we did and hey, lookit! There’s the freeway just like the man said.

One of our dogs was still in Colorado; The Light of my Life™ had the eldest with her, while the youngest was with me in the moving truck. I’m told house moves are just as stressful for animals as they are for humans and in addition, we’d only adopted her a few weeks before I left for Colorado. She hadn’t seen me for weeks, didn’t know me all that well in the first place and now after all these strangers had emptied her house, I’d loaded her into this strange vehicle and was keeping her trapped for hours at a stretch. Perhaps not surprisingly, she began shedding hair at an astonishing rate. So much so that I spent large parts of the journey trying to de-fur my eyes, nose and mouth.

At around 3am we pulled into Pueblo and spent the next 45 minutes searching for a cheap place to stay, where we’d be able to bring the dogs inside without needing a room inspection before checkout. We finally paid $80 for 2 hours sleep and a hot shower and it was worth every penny. Breakfast was eaten at the wheel and after negotiating Denver’s rush hour traffic for the first time and grinding our way up the hill, we finally pulled up outside the estate agent’s office with 40 minutes to spare. Only to find the office locked up and empty because they’d moved. Fortunately the office next door explained they’d simply relocated across the road and we were still able to arrive on time. We looked like death, but we were on time.

Frankly, I have no idea what I signed that morning although should we ever have a child, I don’t believe it will belong to us. I also think I might be married to the village chief’s daughter. However, we must have done something right because after several hours, we were handed the keys to our new home and only a few hours after that, spent the first night, blissfully asleep. Under grubby blankets on the living room floor.

There’s no place like home.

It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive

R.L. Stevenson

Let’s be Thankful

First published: November 29, 2005

Like so many other things in 2020, Thanksgiving Day is a bit upside down this year. No visiting, no friends but lots of good food to come. In the meantime; let’s take a trip back to 2005.

As any American history nerd can tell you, the Pilgrim Fathers landed on what is now known as Massachusetts in 1620. There’s no evidence they actually landed at Plymouth Rock, or carved the date which appears on it today; that was more likely the handiwork of some enterprising member of a later Chamber of Commerce. What is evident however is that the onset of winter is a particularly bad time when it comes to founding a new colony.

Well-meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring even a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English speaking natives who taught the pilgrims how to use a tin-opener and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.

And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the 4th Thursday of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the College Football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.

While I don’t think I’d be up to three days’ worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favorite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.

This year, The Light of my Life™ and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickax, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.

Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.

Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. The Light of my Life™ took along her specialty pumpkin pie, world famous in our house. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it half way round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.

Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the school teacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marveled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.

More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? With the exception of potatoes; there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bed time. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.

We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.

I celebrated Thanksgiving in an old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land.”

Jon Stewart

(A) Wild Life in the Mountains

First published: February 3, 2004

Although our home is rather small by today’s standards, we share it with a number of different critters, 3 dogs and 3 Siamese fighting fish, to be exact. In addition however, a number of other forms of wildlife have chosen to share their lives with us.

Shortly after moving in we became aware that we were not alone and that the scampering noises we heard so frequently, weren’t from squirrels on the roof, as we had hoped, but in the roof. A whole scurry of them, (yes, that is the collective noun) trotting around on the plaster ceiling. Also, mild though the weather was, we were astonished at the number of wasps in the house. Nobody likes being stung by a wasp but The Light of my Life™ suffers from extreme allergic reactions so it simply wasn’t an option for her. The first local serviceman to visit our house was the Pest Control Guy.

He traced the wasps to a hole in our living room ceiling, and neatly sealed it up. End of problem. The squirrels were a bit more of a challenge, but according to the Pest Control Guy, the trick is to catch the female; then the lads will mosey away on their own. A trap was set not too far from the back door and in short order we had a small and apparently female squirrel, neatly caught in the trap. Did I mention we had 3 dogs? Did I mention the trap was close to our back door? I’m not sure who was closer to being driven insane, them or us but it was a long two days before the Pest Control Guy came to take it away.

Before very long however, we learned that the theory of just catching the female is a bunch of hooey. Less than a month later our attic was once more party central for the local squirrel population and the hole, carefully sealed the last time, was now twice as big. We called a new Pest Control Guy this time and he set traps all over the place. In the roof, on the roof, in the trees, everywhere. It took about 3 days but we snagged pretty much every squirrel in the neighborhood and beyond. The pest control guy took them off to a ranch in Montana, where I’m sure they’re living happily to this day. The hole was sealed up again and while squirrels are still frequent visitors to our trees (much to the fury of the dogs), they have yet to seek lodgings in our roof.

Other wild animals have been much more welcome. Mainly because they haven’t attempted to live inside. We live on an unfenced wooded acre, and while houses surround us; the neighborhood still has a very rural feel. Deer and elk are regular visitors to our property and as long as we don’t make too big a deal out of it, are more than happy to ignore us. We need to ensure the dogs are kept under control of course, not only is it illegal for them to chase the wildlife, we don’t want to discourage the animals from coming. On the bright side, we do have our own early warning system to let us know something interesting has wandered into the yard, which is nice when it’s very early in the morning. Even though we’ve been here almost two years now, this is still a terrific novelty and we’re constantly calling each other to “Come quickly, look!”

The deer are the most common visitors, but there have been others too. For a spell we had a little blond fox living nearby. He could be seen quite often, just sitting in someone’s driveway, watching the world go by. As far as I know, no coyotes have come close to the house, although we can occasionally hear a pack of them singing, late at night. If you’ve never heard coyote song, it’s a haunting, eerie and primal sound that makes you wish humanity would just leave this planet and take all their detritus with them.

Probably our most exciting visitor has been a large black bear. As it happens, it’s not really a good sign that a bear is spending time in an area inhabited by humans. If he’s come to rely on us as a food source then he’ll lose the ability to survive in the world. Also, it’s a sad fact that if there’s any conflict with a human, he’s going to end up the loser. Unfortunately, we perhaps contributed to the problem by breaking one of the cardinal rules of mountain living when we accidently left our dustbin out one night. Maybe he was just passing through, maybe the empty pizza box attracted him, but either way, I was headed out to fetch something from the shed when I spotted two eyes shining back in the beam of my torch.

Black bears don’t usually attack humans but either way; I walked sloooowwly backwards to the house. Some idiot once told me that making lots of noise will scare a bear away so I collected some pots and went back outside making enough noise to awaken the dead. I probably awakened the neighborhood at least, but the lure of our garbage was too much for the bruin and he only backed away a few paces. I figured if I at least got the trashcan away from him; that would help, so I bent sideways to pick it up. Of course, you can’t pick up something that heavy one handed unless you’re really giving it your full attention so all that happened was it slid along the ground. Making a noise…not unlike a large, angry, unidentifiable animal. The bear certainly thought so and this achieved what my percussion had not. He hightailed it out of there and our dustbin has lived in the shed ever since.

However, that was in no way the most dangerous creature we’ve had visit. This singular honor goes to a harmless, quite attractive looking dragonfly type flying beastie, which found its way through the insect screens late one night. I know it was late, because I’d been asleep for some time when The Light of my Life™ awoke me to deal with it. Grumbling obscenities I shuffled over; caught the insect in my cupped hands and proceeded to give The Light of my Life™ a lecture about how she didn’t have to wake me to deal with every harmless creature she saw. It was at that point it bit me. I still don’t know what the insect was as it was hard to identify after I’d beaten it to death with a shoe, but it caused my hand to swell up like a balloon for several days.

It’s dangerous up here in the mountains.

Pray for me, I drive 285

First published: January 20, 2004

Said a popular bumper sticker around these parts when we moved in. The reason behind these pleas for divine intervention, was the love-hate relationship many locals have with the picturesque, but overly trafficked and at times, deadly stretch of road known as Colorado State Highway 285, which leads southwest from Denver into the southern parts of the Rocky Mountains, before ultimately making its way down into New Mexico.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when SH285 was nothing more than a meandering mountain trail and old-timers tell how it used to take the best part of a day to drive down into the city for supplies. Not surprisingly, they only made the trip once a month or so. Nowadays, it’s possible to do the same journey in under an hour, a fact, which has encouraged many people to, like us, make their homes in the foothills while making their living in the metropolis of Denver. In fact, the 50 miles of SH285 between Denver and Bailey, the route on which I commute daily, now serves one of the fastest growing commuter belts in the country.

According the 2000 Census figures, Park County where our home is situated, experienced the nation’s 5th fastest growth during the 1990s. Park County residents can also lay claim to the nation’s 5th longest average commute (44.8 minutes). I’m guessing these people work on the west side of Denver because I make my way to the south east of town each morning and would love to talk of a commute so short.

Sitting in a car has never been my idea of fun. Oh sure, like most people, I’ve daydreamed of roaring around the mountain roads of Europe in an open topped, sports car, with a supermodel in the passenger seat. However, I’m also well aware that for most of the time, those roads are choked with tour buses and nose to tail traffic, much the same as the roads here. I spend 2-3 hours a day driving to and from work, but the bulk of that doesn’t involve tearing up the highway, but crawling along at a snail’s pace, beside everyone else.

I consider commuting to be time essentially stolen from me. I’m not earning money, I’m not practicing a hobby, I’m certainly not getting fit – I’m just, sitting there. Audio books help pass the time and if I listen to “intellectual” books I can even tell myself I’m improving my mind, but it doesn’t alter the fact; I spend a large part of my day wishing I was doing something else.

When we first moved here, I worked in downtown Denver, a drive shorter than my current one by only by about 3 or 4 miles. However, I could usually complete the journey in a good 20 minutes less. Curiously, the traffic into the centre of the city moved faster than that heading into the sprawling office park where I work now. However, driving home that summer was a whole new adventure due to the fact the Colorado Department of Transportation was engaged in the painfully slow act of widening large stretches of SH285. You know, to accommodate all these people who like us, were in the process of moving in.

To make matters worse, my little car, which had served me well on the pancake flat, ruler straight roads of Phoenix rebelled when I asked it, not only to pull me up a twisting turning gradient, climbing from 5,250 to 9,000 feet; but to do a large part of it in stop and go, low gear mode. To be blunt, it didn’t like it and expressed its displeasure by overheating every few days and leaving me stranded by the roadside for 30 minutes or so while the radiator bubbled and fizzed. If the summer heat was a problem, the ice and snow of winter made it throw up its hands in horror. OK, it’s a car; it didn’t have hands but work with me here.

I moved to Colorado in April and even though winter was almost done, we still had a few heavy snowstorms and the car just didn’t know what to do. As it happened, the very first snow we had, 3 days after moving in, left me completely stranded. The roads were clear but I was unable to get out of our driveway. That didn’t tend to happen in Phoenix. Another winter was fast approaching and we knew the car would be unable to continue the daily commute once the bad weather really kicked in. So, we shopped around and eventually cleaned out the remains of our savings account by investing in a 15-year old Toyota with 4-wheel drive, big chunky tires and battle scars. Now this is a vehicle for the mountains. His name is Angus, by the way.

I’ll admit, I got a bit of a disappointment the first time I drove in snow when I found my wheels mysteriously spinning and Angus slipping all over the road. After all, the 2-wheel car had handled the snow better than this!  A lesson I learned that day was to check that both the front hubs were turned to 4-wheel drive, not just one. I’m not sure if there’s a term for what I had; 3-wheel drive doesn’t sound right, but for the record, it’s nowhere near as good as 4-wheel, or even 2-wheel drive.

We looked for a car with a stick shift, working on the theory that they would be more reliable than an automatic of a similar age. That certainly made economic sense, but we didn’t allow for the fact that clutches installed in the late ‘80s require a lot more effort to pump than their modern equivalents. What’s the problem there? I hear you ask. Well, as I slide, kicking and screaming, into old fartdom, one of the symptoms I’m experiencing is an arthritis sort of discomfort in my left knee. My clutch knee. Regular shifting when changing gear isn’t a problem, it’s the constant up and down motion required to move along in heavy traffic. Oh, I don’t like heavy traffic at all.

There will come a time when I will figure out a way to live up in the mountains without having to commute down into Denver on a daily basis. As yet, I don’t have a clear idea as to how I’m going to do this, but winning the lottery will probably be involved somehow. In the meantime, “Pray for me, I drive 285”.

A Few Words About Karma

First Published: January 13, 2004

\Kar”ma\, n.[Skr] (Buddhism) One’s acts considered as fixing one’s lot in the future existence. (Theos.) The doctrine of fate as the inflexible result of cause and effect; the theory of inevitable consequence.

The first few weeks we spent in our new house in Bailey, had me thinking a lot about karma. Specifically, bad karma.

Oh, we were thrilled with the move of course. Our house sits on a pine-wooded acre down a dirt road, with the foothills of the Rocky Mountains as a backdrop. After nine years in the concrete wilderness that is Phoenix, Arizona I was amazed at the good fortune that had brought us here and even now, almost two years on, the place we call home is still an endless source of delight.

However, back then, in those early days, I was beginning to wonder if I’d done something seriously not good in a previous life, and was now being required to pay for it. You see, in that first two or three weeks, we had a run of what can only be described as…shitty luck.

The day after we signed the contract on the house, a major wildfire broke out less than three miles from the house. Colorado has been in a state of drought for some years now and wildfires are the inevitable price we all pay for living in an area which was virgin forest not that long ago. Even so, we weren’t quite ready for our first to break out quite so soon. Some kids messing around with matches behind the High School managed to set the fire, which eventually burned over 2,300 acres of forest. After a few nerve-wracking days, the volunteer firefighters had it under control and our house, along with all the others in the area, survived unharmed.

The week after we moved in, a second fire broke out, slightly further away this time but much bigger and more destructive. For a spell it was headed our way, in the words of one firefighter “like a tidal wave”. Over 90,000 acres were lost this time, but once again we were spared. Nonetheless, we learned which news sites had merit and which were junk, then kept the good ones open on the computer most of the summer.

Unloading the moving van was a major project and we couldn’t have done without the assistance of the estate agent’s son and his friend. Two strapping football players, they called The Light of my Life™ “Ma’am” and treated me with a respect usually reserved for people over 70. They wouldn’t let me lift anything heavier than a shoebox and between them, had the entire load in the house within a few hours. Nonetheless, The Light of my Life™ still managed to strain her knee in the process and for several days, was walking with a cane.

The next adventure was when our water ran out. Like most properties in the mountains, our property is served by a well so as part of the purchase process, we paid to have this tested. Or rather we didn’t. You see some previous prospective buyers had already done the honours and as the well passed with flying colours, there seemed little point. Of course, we weren’t to know that the contractor who’d performed the test was a charlatan and his figures were entirely fictional. The well had apparently collapsed some months before and contained no more than a few gallons of water. Having a new well drilled is a costly process but not one that can be rushed. (Something to do with a too fast drill cauterizing the rock and sealing the fissures that replenish the water). So, for several days we had a trailer containing a water tank parked in our back yard, so we could bathe, wash dishes and flush the toilets. We could not however, wash any of the items we were still attempting to unpack.

I nearly ruptured myself loading our fridge onto the van in Phoenix, and then we damaged one of the front porch steps unloading it here. As it turned out, we needn’t have bothered as it had died somewhere on the journey. The delightful avocado fridge left by the sellers froze everything solid, so in short order we had two broken fridges sitting on our front porch. Does that officially qualify us as rednecks Mr. Foxworthy?

The sink, which worked fine during the home inspections leaked like Niagara Falls, as did both toilets. Somewhere between us buying the house and moving in, the sliding back door decided it would rather stay shut thank you very much and requires two hands and a lot of back muscle before it will open.

Our youngest dog, no doubt stressed from all the upheaval, decided to forget the rules of housetraining. The house we bought had very nice carpets. The house, in which we now live, does not. To be fair, she’s not entirely responsible for the carpets. Our eldest dog developed an allergy to the food she’d eaten for years and got into the habit of regurgitating it wherever she happened to be when the mood struck.

Inexplicably, the insect screens developed large gaps around their edges, allowing entry to all manner of curious beasties, including one particularly harmless looking thing, which bit me on the hand causing it to swell like a balloon. The insects were joined by a plague of wasps in the plaster ceiling of our living room and a family of squirrels in the loft.

Our problems weren’t confined to the house either. My car, which had provided 180,000 miles of semi-trouble free service, blew a cylinder head gasket and had to be towed to the mechanic. No doubt feeling lonely, The Light of my Life™’s truck coughed and ground to a halt at more or less the same spot, the following day. It’s not easy living in the mountains and working in the city without transportation. But we managed. Actually as it happens, we’d just purchased a third vehicle. A shiny new mountain bike as a sort of birthday cum mid-life crisis present for me. The first time out on it, less than two miles from the house, something went twang in my left knee and it still bothers me today. I doubt if I’ve put a hundred miles on the bike.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining. I didn’t then and I’m not now. We really do love it here. But considering this all happened in the space of about three weeks, I’m just…. wondering. Karma, hmm. Wonder what I did. Whatever it was, I hope I enjoyed it.

But Don’t You Know It’s Cold Up There?

First Published: January 6, 2004

Came the cry from, well, pretty much everybody when we announced we were leaving the sunny climes of Phoenix Arizona, packing up the dogs and our worldly possessions (or at least, as many of our worldly possessions as would fit in the largest rental truck, a Ford F-150 and a horse trailer) and heading north, to the frozen wastes of Denver, Colorado. Our Arizonan friends genuinely couldn’t comprehend that yes, we knew it would be cold, but really, we were OK with that.

I’d lived in Phoenix for 9 years, The Light of my Life™ for 19 and frankly, we couldn’t wait to see the back of the place. It wasn’t without its good points; prices were generally low, NFL tickets were easy to come by, even on game day, and the nearby Sonoron desert made for good camping and hiking. However, as far as the weather was concerned, you could keep it. Oh sure, being able to play outside while the rest of the country was gripped in winter held a certain attraction, and I enjoy the sun as much as anyone, but like anything else, when you get too much of a good thing it tends to lose its appeal.

I grew up in the North of England and as a child was always mystified when people talked of “blue skies”. The sky was grey; everyone knew that. Every day, summer or winter, always, forever. The only relief from the rain was when it snowed and most of us developed webbed feet. When I finally left to begin married life in Phoenix, I vowed, “I’m not going to become one of those boring British expatriates who complain how they miss the rain. I’ve had rain for 30 years and I will never miss it.” I’d been there about five years when looking through the window blinds at the parched and washed out landscape, I thought, “Hmm, I suppose a little rain would be nice”.

The problem was; I’d gone from one extreme to the other. Built in the desert, Phoenix’s dry and at the time, clean air was popular with invalids suffering from breathing related illnesses. They embraced the heat, even in those pre-air conditioning days and handled the blistering summer nights by soaking sheets in water and sleeping out of doors. Once technology made indoor living a practicality, the place boomed as people from cold climates flocked there in their thousands to take advantage of the cheap housing, open spaces and mild winters. For most, the fact that being outside was physically painful for a large part of the year was a small price to pay. “But it’s a dry heat” they would tell themselves. The same could be said about nuclear explosions, but they had a point. New Orleans, Chicago and Miami may not see the same high temperatures, but are certainly unpleasant in their own ways when the humidity is running high.

However, dry or not, 120 degrees is miserable and in summer, life has to be planned around it. Errands must be run first thing in the morning, groceries must be transported from the supermarket to the fridge within minutes, no other stops on the way home, and forget about getting a healthy tan. Haven’t you heard of skin cancer? The doctors in Phoenix have.

Because the city grew up in the era of the motorcar, it’s an enormous, sprawling wasteland, stretching over 100 miles from one side to the other. All that concrete retains heat, which means that even overnight; the temperature doesn’t drop to a comfortable level. I used to get up at 5am to walk the dogs but the heat would simply radiate off the sidewalk and we’d begin each day tired and cranky. The end finally came when I was driving over to a friend’s house to watch the Super Bowl, and realised I had the air-conditioning on full. Remember, this was on the last weekend in January. Mild winters are one thing; hot winters followed by even hotter summers are something else. It was time to move on.

So for almost two years, we’ve been living in Colorado. Deer Creek Valley, to be exact which nestles in the foothills of the Rocky Mountain, near the town of Bailey, about 50 miles from Denver. And we love it. The reasons are many, but for me one of the most significant is that while summers are warm, winters are cold. Which is how it should be.

The low temperature by our house last night was –3F, the night before was –7F, which is a tad chilly I’ll admit. However, here’s the thing. Daytime temperatures are significantly more comfortable, and yet still within a range I consider acceptable for winter. The Super Bowl will be played in a little under 3 weeks (no, the Denver Broncos will not be there) and unless global warming really picks up before then, I can pretty well guarantee I won’t need the air conditioning on in my car that day.

At first I tried to convince my Arizonan friends that no, Colorado really wasn’t buried under the ice caps for 6 months of the year; that no, the 4 feet of snow we enjoyed during last winter’s 100 year storm did not last for months, but was almost gone in about 10 days; and that Denver averages more days of sunshine than Phoenix. Firstly, they don’t believe me and secondly, the locals don’t want me encouraging people to move here.

The important point is; I have no desire to live in a place where the weather is cold all year round, or even for most of the year. Greenland doesn’t appeal to me, nor does Minnesota. However, I don’t see the attraction in being hot all the time either. Phoenix’s warm winters are attractive to many, but personally I found that when coupled with the seemingly endless, stifling summers, I simply lost my appreciation for them. Rain is a wonderful thing and frankly, Colorado could do with a lot more than it’s had in the last few years. Even so, I have no desire to go back to living in a climate where dry days are a novelty and sunshine a rarity.

“Variety is the spice of life”. Said old Bill Shakespeare. The weather in Stratford-upon-Avon isn’t really like that of Arizona, or Colorado for that matter, so I suspect he was referring to something else. That said, he was still a pretty smart chap.