March 2021 – The Gunsmoke Diaries

Colorado’s Burning

First published: March 30, 2004

We had our first wild fire of the summer this week. A comparatively small one, only 10 acres or so, which started when a homeowner, with a permit, allowed a small bonfire to get away from him. Crews were on the scene within minutes and even despite the gusting winds, were able to contain the fire and bring it under control over the course of the afternoon. No big problem for the firefighters and if anything, a useful exercise for when the inevitable bigger fires come later in the summer.

However, what was disturbing about the Shawnee Fire, as it has come to be called, is that it was on March 22, almost 2 weeks earlier than 2002 when the beginning of April marked the start of the worst fire season in living memory. That was our first summer here and I got into the habit of keeping one Internet browser permanently open at work so I could keep an eye on the fire reports. There had been a couple of smallish fires even before I moved here in mid-April, but the first to really grab my attention, was the Snaking Road fire, which broke out about 8 miles as the crow flies from the house on which we’d just had an offer accepted the previous day. This seemed like something of a bad omen.

It was the realtor who gave me the news, calling my office to say “You’re gonna hear about this soon enough, but there’s a fire raging out of control up by your house.” I hadn’t lived here long enough to learn the geography of the area, and many of the landmarks mentioned in the reports were unfamiliar to me, however one thing was clear. That fire was disturbingly near and getting closer by the hour. No contracts had been signed and from a legal point of view, this house didn’t belong to us, but even so, I didn’t want to see it go up in flames. More pressing was the fact that my friends Kris and Mario, with whom I was lodging, lived equally close to the fire zone and were both out at work themselves. It wasn’t just their house that was in danger, they have animals at their house that would need to be moved should an evacuation prove necessary. Including my dog Wiley. Time was of the essence.

My new employers were very understanding and didn’t bat an eyelid when I explained I needed to take off, but things got more difficult from that point. Highway 285, the only road home was undergoing some major construction at the time. It was backed up most evenings but today it seemed, the entire state was trying to get up the hill. Not only was the traffic tailed back for miles, it wasn’t moving anywhere and the process of covering the 30 miles to Pine Junction took an age. It was a warm day and my little car overheated at one point so I spent an additional hour standing by the roadside until I was confident enough to ease back into the creeping traffic.

As it turned out, the Snaking Road fire did comparatively little damage. No lives were lost, each home was saved and other than a small storage shed, no property was harmed. The forest took a beating, but in comparison to many natural fires, even that wasn’t too severe. The cause of the fire turned out to be three high school boys who’d started it as a prank to get out of class. These future cancer curers had compounded their stupidity by boasting of it to their classmates. Naturally, because they were “only children”, no charges were ever filed. Hey, boys will be boys. And after all, what’s 2,300 acres of forest?

The starter of the next big fire, the Hayman, didn’t get off quite so light. Maybe because she was a grown woman, or maybe just because she was a Forest Service employee and perhaps should have known better. She didn’t inspire anywhere near the same level of sympathy. Despite there already being several dozen wild fires raging out of control around the state at the time; despite the parks and wilderness areas being closed to the public and despite fire bans being enforced to the point that even smoking out of doors on your own property was forbidden, this rocket scientist decided to build a fire in the woods, in order to burn some letters from her ex-husband. Although her case is under appeal, she’s facing some serious jail time.

If we didn’t own our house when the Snaking Road fire started, we did this time and in fact, had been living in it for a whole 10 days. Although the starting point was a good twenty miles away, the Hayman Fire grew at a phenomenal rate. One firefighter likened it to watching a tidal wave as it rolled up the hills and down the valleys. Some homeowners near the danger zone were given a few minutes to grab their most treasured possessions and clear out. I heard one heartbreaking tale of an 80-year old woman, who was given twenty minutes to grab what she could before being evacuated. She took her wedding dress. By the following morning that was the only possession she had in the world. Others were even less fortunate. By the time it was finally brought under control; the Hayman Fire had devoured over 137,000 acres of forest, hundreds of people were evacuated and 133 homes were lost. Much worse: 5 firefighters and a civilian lost their lives., countless numbers of livestock perished and who knows how much wildlife died.

We’ve learned a lot about fire mitigation since buying this house. About how the cedar shingles we have on our roof are pure tinder, about how the debris we have lying on the ground will simply fuel the fire at an astonishing rate and how the trees we have growing so close to the house will probably cause the fire department to drive straight past us and concentrate on the homes they might have a chance of saving. We were spoilt last year following a wet winter and the big hundred-year blizzard, which dumped feet of snow on the area. As a result, we didn’t take care of things the way we should. However, we can’t be so lazy this year and I see a lot of weekends work with a chainsaw.

As we’ve seen, you don’t mess around with wildfires and it’s going to be a long, hot summer.

When Irish eyes are smiling: Cuid a dó (Part two)

First published: March 23, 2004

Last week, I wrote about the St. Patrick’s Day parade, in which I, along with the rest of the pipe band, marched through the streets of Denver. It was all great fun as these things generally are, but the main event, the real deal happened on Wednesday, St. Patrick’s Day itself. No parade this time, but a 10-hour session of playing, drinking and carousing as we were transported by tour bus around the city’s Irish bars to entertain the revelers. A number of the band members took the afternoon off work to attend and most, the following day too. St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawls aren’t known for their moderation.

First stop was the Cherry Cricket. Located in one of the classier areas of town, it’s a not so classy bar catering to people who drink for reasons other than pleasure. It was mid-afternoon when we started and, with most people still at work, things hadn’t really got going. That said; we saw our first fight of the evening, not long after we finished our opening set, when a drunk pushed his girlfriend over before being summarily ejected by the bouncers. She landed pretty hard and sobbed even harder, but even so, the last time I saw them was in the car park where she was comforting him, presumably on his misfortune. Things were shaping up.

Following our two sets at the Cricket, the plan was for us to be driven around the town, stopping to play in a number of different Irish bars over the course of the evening. Budweiser were our sponsors and as such, were providing not only the bus, but also light refreshments to keep us lubricated. Now being something of a beer snob, I had reservations about this, but free is free after all. For reasons that still aren’t exactly clear, no beer appeared on the bus until we’d completed a couple of circuits but at each venue, the two (apparently 12-year old) Budweiser reps were pushing beer on us almost as fast as we could drink it.

It was at the first halt I learned one of the hard lessons of a St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawl. It’s very, very difficult to get to the toilet. To begin with there’s the fact that you’re wearing a very large, heavy and valuable yet delicate drum. And there’s simply nowhere to put it. Then consider that the bars are packed from wall to wall with revelers. Then add a couple of dozen musicians, many of them holding drums every bit as large, or larger than your own. It’s not easy. I solved the problem by selecting a rather large, semi-sober gent standing near me with his girlfriend. I simply volunteered him as my official drum holder, handed it over and set off to take care of business. I think he was quite flattered.

I have to admit, details get a little hazy when it comes to the remainder of the night. I’m not clear if the bus driver was taking us the scenic route in order to give us time to partake of the free beer between stops, or he had very little understanding of Denver’s one way system but I know for sure many of these bars were only a few hundred yards apart, yet it usually took us twenty minutes or more to get from one to the other.

The crowds for their part; were very appreciative. No matter whether we were interrupting their dinners, their pool games or just their drinking, each audience gave us a warm welcome and made it clear their St. Patrick’s Day was now, absolutely complete because the Isle of Mull & St Andrews Pipe Band had shown up to play them a few tunes. Although to be fair, most of them were pretty blitzed and would probably have applauded a couple of guys with combs and wax paper.

The evening ended back where we started, at the Cherry Cricket, as we all blearily made our separate ways home. Being something of a cop magnet even while driving sober, I had no intention of negotiating the 50 miles of winding road that lay between me and my bed. To that end, I’d folded down the back seats of my car, thrown in a sleeping bag and strategically selected a parking spot in the structure of the local mall. I was careful to select a site with a wall to one side, well away from the overhead electric lights and morning sunlight and where I wouldn’t be undisturbed by any passing traffic. In short, I accounted for every eventuality. With the exception of mall security who banged on my window at 3:30am to insist I move on. 45 minutes of sleep had in no way allowed my body to clear out the alcohol, to say nothing of the fact that I was drop dead tired.

Earlier reconnaissance had revealed there was no other public parking within miles of my current location so there was nothing for it but to set off driving in the hope I could find a park or a church or anywhere I could pull over and sleep a little longer without disturbance. Predictably, the only cop who saw me, pulled me over. Clad as I was, in boxers and a T-shirt, barefoot and with no clear idea where in the car the rest of my clothes were, I was very happy to locate my sporran with my driving licence, moments before he arrived at the window. I know I wasn’t speeding and don’t believe I was committing any other offence, so I’m not sure exactly why he pulled me over; he didn’t tell and I didn’t ask. But it must have been pretty obvious I was way too drunk to be driving and as he ran my licence check, I was frantically preparing my sob story. I’d had no intention of driving, (see my sleeping bag there); it was just those meanies at the mall, who wouldn’t let me sleep, blah de blah, blah. However, for reasons known only to him, he chose not to write me a ticket; simply handed back my licence and sent me on my way. Ten minutes later, I was in a railway station car park, back under the covers and sleeping the sleep of the just.

Let’s just call it the luck o’ the Irish.

When Irish eyes are smiling: Cuid a haon (Part one)

Due to the lurgy currently going around, Denver won’t be holding a St. Patrick’s Day parade this year. So why don’t we take a trip back in time to my first experience of it?

First Published: March 16, 2004

The city of Denver boasts the 4th largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the US, behind New York, Boston and Chicago. In it’s 42nd year, it’s a colorful display of music, marching and of course, free stuff, the parade winds through the LoDo district of downtown and takes between 3-4 hours to complete.

As you might expect there are a number of marching bands, step dancers, decorated floats and Star Wars characters. Well, perhaps you might not expect the last group, I know I didn’t, but they were there all the same, in full regalia complete with swords and light sabers. I’m not entirely clear on the link between St. Patrick and Star Wars, any more than I am about his connection to the Hari Krishners who were also in attendance, but nonetheless, they added a little fun to the proceedings.

Being a participant in the parade means you don’t get to see the parade itself so one of the most entertaining parts of the day was watching the other groups preparing. Everybody was out to have fun so there was a lot of camaraderie and joking around. Well, with the exception of a band of scary looking clowns who, standing off to one side, stared unsmiling at us while we warmed up. I don’t like clowns at the best of times and this gang were freaking me out but luckily, once the parade started, we didn’t see them again.

Of all the bands in the parade, there were none so musically talented, so physically attractive or so….big as the Isle of Mull and St Andrews Pipes and Drums, of which I happen to be a fledgling member. We were out in force this year with no less than eleven snare drums, far more than most bands have on their roster and even marching shoulder to shoulder, more than could comfortably fit across the street.

As a general rule, public performances require the band be turned out impeccably, with every uniform accessory complete, shoes polished and cap ribbons ironed. However, St. Paddy’s day is a little different and to the consternation of Big John, the Pipe Major, a number of rules were being broken. Many of the band members were wearing a little more jewelry than normal for example. Kelly Green jewellery for the most part, usually made of plastic and often flashing and/or bearing the name of a beer company. A couple of the drummers were wearing green foam rubber Mohawks and there was one very shaggy, bright green wig. I myself sported a plastic derby hat, but after it blew off my head for the third time, I donated it to a kid in a stroller. Check off my good deed for the year.

The most important factor when participating in a parade is of course, “who are we near?” In most parades, bands are kept a reasonable distance apart, so they don’t interfere with each other’s playing. Sometimes you get lucky and are stationed near a group worth looking at, the parade queen or a troop of cheerleaders for example. However, this time out, for some sadistic reason, the organizers had placed us in front of the Colorado Italian American society. All very nice people I’m sure, but their contribution to the parade was to play songs of a not particularly Irish nature through a low-grade loudspeaker. “Danny Boy” I can sort of tolerate, particularly this day of all days, but “That’s amore” would be bad enough even on a quality sound system. This is why guns are still legal in this country.

Being a rookie, I was stationed next to Megan, the drum sergeant and leader of the corps, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I was playing, at least approximately, the same tune as everyone else. And there were brief periods when I accomplished that although marching and playing simultaneously is a skill I have sadly, yet to master. If someone were to ask me to chew gum too, I’m not entirely sure what would happen. Lets just say I was the only one marching in step, everyone else was somewhat “off”. However, being next to Megan gave me one advantage in that for the most part, I was able to keep in line with her, an all important factor when marching. The rest of our drum line had at times, a distinct “question mark” appearance, a flaw which infuriated Megan, especially in light of the number of drummers with marching band experience.

As if playing a drum, marching AND keeping in line weren’t hard enough, you also had to keep a close eye on where you were putting your feet. Not surprisingly there were a number of horses in the parade and naturally, they were doing as horses do. Several volunteers were equipped with shovels and buckets and they did a sterling job. However, some of the horses must have been eating what I can only imagine was a fiery hot chili because the sheer volume of output was phenomenal. Let’s just say it wasn’t something you’d want on your ghillie brogues, and leave it at that.

Being blessed with longer legs than many, I did have the advantage of being able to keep up without a problem. This was a challenge for Alhana, our youngest and cutest band member. Her tenor drum is approximately half her height and just wearing it at practice is a feat of endurance for an eight year old. Lugging the thing around the Denver streets was almost more than she could manage. As she’s our unofficial mascot we all wanted her to do well but I in particular had a vested interest in making sure she stayed on her feet, as I was marching directly behind her. “If she goes down, you can walk over the top of her, but don’t hurt the drum”, was Megan’s direction on the subject. Megan can say that kind of thing, being Alhana’s mother. But she did just fine, even though she tended to drift out of formation and towards the end, required one of the other tenors to “tow” her along so she could keep up.

I’d been warned the parade would take a couple of hours for us to complete, but in fact, we marched for barely more than an hour. Not too bad, I can handle that. The real test of endurance will come this Wednesday, St. Patrick’s day itself. Beginning in the afternoon, we’re being driven around Denver’s Irish bars, playing until the small hours of the morning. Should be fun. I’ll get back to you.

There’s no place like home

First published: 4 March, 2004

We went down into the big city last night to have dinner with our friends Deb & Rodger. While I’m a confirmed mountain dweller and consider the suburbs to be a living death, I would love to be rich enough to own a place in lower downtown Denver, affectionately known as LoDo, which is where they have their loft. Not so very long ago this was an area of derelict warehouses, dirty and dangerous and only frequented by bums, muggers and others who probably had no idea how they ended up there.

Then the city of Denver embarked on a multi-million dollar renovation plan and over the course of about a decade, revitalized the LoDo area in a manner, which many other cities have attempted, but few have managed so successfully. Without, in most cases, losing the architectural charm of the original buildings, the warehouses and factories have been transformed into brewpubs, shops, restaurants and upscale loft developments. I used to work in LoDo, in a converted gunpowder factory, which oozed with charm. Now, as I sit in my desk in a soulless modern building out in the wastelands, I miss it terribly.

Rodger purchased his first loft in the early days of the revitalization. The building in which they now live was originally a candy factory and was only the second development in the scheme. After marrying Deb, they purchased the unit next door, at a cost approximately 10 times higher than the first. Being blessed with exquisite taste, and no noticeable shortage in the budget, they have decorated their living space in a style, which wouldn’t be out of place in any glossy home décor magazine.

The Light of my Life™ had a hair appointment downtown during the afternoon so we decided to make a day of it and set off down a little after lunchtime. After dropping her off and parking the car, I took a stroll around the streets so familiar to me after 18 months as a LoDo office worker. Even on a cold winter’s afternoon, there is a certain buzz to the streets of downtown Denver you don’t find in too many US cities, at least not in the west. The store windows were bright, the sidewalks were busy and the piped classical music on Larimer Street added to an atmosphere that would have been almost suitable for Christmas if the timing hadn’t been all wrong. Denver is also one of those cities where the pedestrian is wise to remember to look up, because the architecture is often just, if not more interesting above street level.

Once her coiffure was complete, we still had a couple of hours to spare so found our way to one of the many downtown bars and surrounded ourselves by the beautiful people of LoDo. Being two of the less beautiful people, this isn’t our normal environment but tonight, dressed in our best duds, removed from the plastic dry cleaners bags especially for the occasion, we blended like the sophisticated society lizards we are. A couple of martinis always make me feel good, particularly on an empty stomach so it was in a mellow and relaxed mood we arrived at Deb & Rodger’s loft.

With its hardwood floors and exposed brick walls, industrial piped central heating and futuristic lines; it would be easy for the loft to appear cold and clinical. However, such is the skill, with which they’ve decorated, it oozes warmth and comfort. Every item of furniture, electrical equipment and decorative accessory has been carefully selected and positioned for maximum effect and the overall ambience is one of classic style and elegance.

Even the view out of the windows is attractive. Particularly in the evening, the downtown lights sparkle and glow with an intensity that simply pulses with energy. The street noise is audible, but not to the point of being disturbing. And Bose speakers can easily drown out the traffic, even when an emergency vehicle is passing with its sirens blaring.

In contrast to me, Deb is a city inhabitant at heart, and proud of it. She loves being surrounded by buildings, being close to her neighbors and having a wealth of restaurants and bars on her doorstep. In the early days following our move, when we were beset with one problem after another, from wildfires to a collapsed well, to an infestation of squirrels, she regularly reminded me of the perils of rural living. “Are you sure you want to live in the mountains?” She would ask. However, when they visited us a few months ago, and we took her out for a walk with the dogs, even she had to admit the peace and tranquility of our little slice of heaven, was an intoxicating mix.

The party over, we headed out into the night and left the city for the 50-mile haul up the hill. Late February snow was coating the road and hitting the windshield straight on, making the drive long and tiring. My commute forces me to rise early so midnight is way past my usual bedtime. We rarely broke 40 mph and by the time we finally pulled into the driveway, it was well after 1 am. I could think of little but falling into bed. Pulling open the door, I walked into our own familiar living room. Framed with dark wood, and inexpensive furnishings, covered with a fine layer of dog hair and smelling faintly of pee, our house will never grace the cover of any fine living journal. However, it’s our home, we love it and there’s no denying; it’s a comfortable place to come home to.

We have no restaurants on our doorstep and our nearest bar is 9 miles away. The second nearest is 10 miles, in the opposite direction. We drive for twenty minute to reach our nearest supermarket and my office is over an hour away, without traffic. There are no nightclubs, chic stores or sports stadiums. If ever we were to need the emergency services it would take them at least fifteen minutes to get here, and far longer to transport us to the nearest hospital.

We do however; have deer, and elk, and squirrels, and foxes. And at night, instead of the hum of traffic, we get the wind whistling through the trees. We’re so close to the stars, it’s like you could almost touch them. So while the downtown lofts are beautiful, this is where I belong.

Just click your heels and say three times “There’s no place like home”.

Yukon-Ho!

First Published: 24 February, 2004

“You need to hook that dog up to a sled, and let it pull you along!” I’ve heard that a lot, particularly over the last few months when snow has been plentiful on the ground. The suggestion has usually come from the neighbours I’ve passed while my youngest dog Sasha, has been taking me for my exercise. 3 years old and with husky blood rampaging through her veins, she races back and forth along the length of the extend-a-leash with an energy level I’ll never see again.

She’s always enthusiastic when it comes to running, but more so in the winter months when every few days brings a fresh blanket of snow. This is her element and in her mind she’s tearing across the tundra, hunting with her pack. When she’s not racing at full belt, she digs in her back legs and hauls with astonishing force. Then something will catch her attention on the other side of the street and away she goes to check that out. I wonder if I’m setting myself up for future arthritis in the elbow, because every few seconds I get a jolt up my arm as 50lbs of fast moving fur, bone and muscle hits the end of the line.

All our previous dogs have understood the “heel” command and while they may have let their enthusiasm get the better of them at times, they were regularly complimented on their obedience. Not Sasha. She understands the commands perfectly and when it’s in her interest, will obey with a precision that would make a border collie blush. Making us happy does not fall under the category of “in her interest.” Like most northern breeds, if she doesn’t see the advantage in obeying, it’s hardly worth giving the command.

When we took her to training classes at the local Humane Society, from which I might add, she graduated with honours, we quickly learned that this was not afood-oriented animal. Per the instructors, our fellow classmates were busy rewarding their dogs with slices of hot dogs. Sasha would take a couple, mostly for the look of the thing, but after that would either do what we wanted, or not, there was no telling which. “Try microwaving them” said the instructors, “that enhances the smell”. Sure enough, it did, my fingers smelt of hot dogs for hours after each lesson, but Sasha still didn’t eat them.

In the 2 years she’s shared her life with us, we’ve only found one food to which she reacts. Marshmallows. Unhealthy, nutrient free, not found in any pet store, pure sugar marshmallows. She loves them. We discovered this on a visit to a friend’s house, where Sasha, always the free spirit, decided the 6’ fence was no obstacle to her wanderlust and simply went under it. Fortunately our friends live on 5-acres of property and the neighbours are used to dogs roaming free. However, it was time to leave, so the question was how to induce her in.

There were no hotdogs in the house, microwaved or otherwise. No dog biscuits, no liver treats, nothing that would bring even a sane dog back to the fold. All we could find was a bag of marshmallows. I can’t believe Sasha could smell marshmallows, or even hear the rustling of the bag, but she was back to the doorstep in a heartbeat, sitting in front of The Light of my Life™ and wagging her tail fit to burst. Eat your heart out Oscar Meyer, ours is a Stay-Puft dog.

Other than from marshmallows, it’s not entirely clear where she gets her energy. It can’t be from the dog food she eats because as she’s repeatedly shown, this is something she can take or leave depending upon her mood. She also has the most delicate of stomachs, which means that even the slightest variation from the routine requires hours of work with the carpet cleaner. After months of trial and error, we finally got her settled onto a premium, very expensive brand of dog food and things were going swimmingly until the manufacturers changed the formula and once more I was treated to the joys of standing calf deep in snow multiple times through the night while she made the most disgusting noises and smells on the far end of the leash.

Nonetheless, energy she has, in abundance and one of my biggest challenges in life is finding the time to work it out of her. Quite often I’ll drive the car around our neighbourhood at 10-12 miles an hour holding the leash out of the window while Sasha trots along happily besides. We usually do 3 to 5 miles and for most of that, Sasha is straining at the leash wanting to go faster. Even when her initial energy rush has burned off and she settles into the pace, she still has a huge grin on her face. Once we’re done with that, I hook her up to her regular leash and take her for another couple of miles round the neighbourhood, walking this time, just to cool off.

This seems to keep her happy and if we do it on a regular basis, prevents her from getting too nutso in the house. However, I’d always been intrigued by the idea of hooking her up to a dog sled and seeing what she can do. She isn’t pure husky, apparently there’s some collie in their too although if Timmy the Moron falls down the mineshaft yet again, he’ll be in a bad way before Sasha thinks about fetching help. However, most of the best sled dogs aren’t pure husky either, they’re mixed breeds like her. Apparently someone once ran the Iditarod with a team of poodles, and completed a good portion of it too. Also, there is a Colorado musher who runs local races with a team of Irish Setters which must be just plain surreal.

To get us started, The Light of my Life™ came home from a garage sale with a child’s plastic sled the other day. Unfortunately the only harness we have is designed to prevent the dog from pulling so there’s not much point in attempting to teach her with that. However, a couple of experimental hauls along the street, with no weight in the sled showed that she has no problem understanding the commands. A friend of a friend knows some real dog mushers and she’s agreed to ask them if they have an old harness they’d be willing to give us. So if the next time you’re watching the Iditarod, you happen to see a husky-collie mix with a big fat smile on her face, dragging a red plastic sled, take another look. You never know, it might be us.