Month: June 2021

Whitewater

We had a pipe band performance this weekend. This time we were down in Salida, a beautiful little artists’ community about 50 miles south. With the Collegiate Peaks, part of the Rockies as a backdrop, mineral hot springs in abundance and the Arkansas River providing a natural playground, it’s been a popular resort destination for many decades. The event was the 51st annual FIBArk Whitewater festival, and we were to be part of the big parade.

The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and The Light of my Life™ has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from Denver the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.

As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and revelled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.

Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.

The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Cañon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.

Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.

To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.

Most people seem to like pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom The Light of my Life™ has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.

The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.

It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.

Going to a Pow-Wow

First published: 9 June, 2004

When we first moved up to Bailey, Colorado after 9 years in the living death that is Phoenix, Arizona; I made the decision that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into small town life. I was going to follow the high school sports teams, attend local theatre, help with volunteer organizations, you name it. However, after two years as a resident, I’m ashamed to admit that my contribution to the local social scene has been virtually non-existent. Oh, I’ve sunk a few beers in the nearby hostelries, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve attended very few of the local events.

To be fair, this isn’t entirely my fault. The fire danger was so extreme during our first summer that many events were cancelled and by the second year, I was so immersed in my work that there was very little time or energy remaining for fun stuff. But this year’s going to be different. Different, you hear? There’s a lot going on even in a small community such as ours and I intend to do my bit to support it. To that end, this afternoon I went to my very first Pow Wow.

There are several versions of the story as to how “Pow Wows” began and what the term actually means. Some say it refers to a healer or a priest although over time it came to mean a ceremony or event for religious or healing purposes. With the help of Hollywood, the name “Pow Wow” has come to mean a council or a meeting. There is evidence Pow Wows were held in the spring as a celebration of the new stage in the cycle of life. Not only were they opportunities for people to get together, sing, dance, make new friends and meet old ones; they were also used for naming, honouring and memorial ceremonies; events of deep significance to many Native Americans.

This particular Pow Wow was being hosted by one of our local churches. I wasn’t sure why a Methodist church would be holding a Pow Wow and I rather expected to find a bunch of white people trying to imitate the native traditions. Sort of like a scout camp for grown-ups. However like I said, I want to support the local events, so along I went.

And I was most pleasantly surprised. This was indeed a legit Pow Wow; part of a circuit which sees dancers and drummers travelling around the country for most of the summer entertaining crowds and competing for small cash prizes. There were two or three dozen dancers ranging from toddlers, barely old enough to stand on their own, to gap toothed old men, also barely able to stand on their own. I saw people from the Apache, Lakota, Chippewa, Pawnee, Sioux and Dakota Nations although I’m sure there were more.

Each was wearing traditional regalia, not “costumes” as we were advised by the emcee. Some, like the Apache were dressed in comparatively simple outfits, white jackets and pants with only a few decorations; others were wearing more elaborate regalia with fine beadwork and detailing, which must have taken many hours to produce. Apparently a full set of regalia can take years to complete. The Chippewa dancers were dressed in wildly extravagant concoctions of ribbons, bells and feathers. As the two of them were extremely enthusiastic dancers the whole effect was one of swirling colour and light. Many dancers wore feathers and leather which was obviously very old and no doubt fragile so not surprisingly, it’s an extreme breach of etiquette to touch anyone’s dance regalia without permission.

On the subject of etiquette, as the afternoon wore on I learned I committed a couple of faux pas myself. To begin with, you’re supposed to bring along your own seating; lawn chairs and whatnot but as usual I hadn’t thought of that. So once the dancing started, I simply followed the lead of several others and plopped myself down on one of the straw bales conveniently located around the circle. It was only later I learned these were actually part of the circle itself and weren’t supposed to be used as bum support by lazy people like me.

Secondly, entranced as I was by the colours sparkling in the summer sun, I spent a large part of the afternoon with my camera pressed to my face, trying to capture the theatre in front of me. Part way through, the emcee took a moment to remind us that many native people are uncomfortable having their photographs taken and it’s simple common courtesy to ask first. Of course, as they were several dozen people in the circle, I’m not sure how practical that would be, unless I was looking for individual portraits. The camera went back to the car.

Pow Wows follow a structured program, beginning with a Ground Blessing, to consecrate the arena, then Gourd Dancing throughout the morning. The Grand Entry, the official start to the Pow Wow, was in the early afternoon and we spectators were asked to rise as the Eagle staffs and flags representing the visiting tribes were brought in. The drums began a grand entry song, while the dancers entered the arena, led by a colour guard of military veterans. As the emcee reminded us, Memorial Day was last weekend and one of the dancers had just this week returned from Iraq, an honoured warrior. The men, women, teenage boys, then girls and finally the toddlers, children aged six and under until the arena was filled with dancers, each performing in their own unique style.

At one point, someone (not me) was heard to complain that the arena was too dusty and as if in answer, the black clouds rolled in and Colorado received a much needed soaking. It didn’t stop the dancers although the vendors all had to scurry to protect their wares. Although the showers continued all afternoon, they never lasted more than a few minutes at a time and the sun was always along shortly after, to dry everyone out and make the colours sparkle.

So, not only my first local event, my first Pow Wow. But it won’t be my last.

“Mitakuey Oyasin” – “We are all related”

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He’s got a Ticket to Ride

First published: 4 May, 2004

I changed my job last week, re-joining my old company for considerably more money than before, as well as an extra week’s holiday and a handful of other perks including an Eco-Pass for RTD-Denver, our local public transportation system. I’m a big fan of public transport, being a bit of a hippie on the side and one of the considerations when house hunting was whether or not I’d be able to commute by bus.

At 50 miles door to door, my commute is longer than most, but nonetheless, I was able to catch a bus from Pine Junction, about nine miles from my house, to Denver’s Civic Centre, ten minutes on the free shuttle from my office. It was a long commute, a little under two hours from home to work, but I was able to read, work or relax while letting someone else do the driving. The only real issue was that the schedule didn’t allow me to stay in the office much after 5pm, not very practical in my line of work. That apart, I’m no great fan of driving, particularly in rush hour so I was more than happy to ride the bus whenever possible, particularly in the bad weather.

Then I took a job in the Denver Tech. Centre; a desperate place, full of soulless office complexes, strip malls and gridlock. While it was technically possible to catch a bus there, the express portion ended some fifteen miles short of my office so the remainder of the journey had to be completed at a snail’s pace. This was no relaxing journey but a seemingly endless grind on top of an already long day. Driving was the only practical solution but that entailed sitting for anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour each day in nose to tail traffic. If you didn’t know; I have a sore left knee and it has problems working the clutch for that length of time. No fun.

So one of the many reasons I was excited to return to my office in the former gunpowder factory, was that once more, I’d have the option of commuting on the bus, or when it’s necessary for me to work late, by the light rail electric train. This latter option still requires me to drive some thirty miles, up and down the hill but has the advantage of avoiding the cost of downtown parking. I’m already making plans for the books I’m going to read, the music to which I’ll listen and the letters I’ll write; (I’m also the proud owner of a spanking new laptop) – I tell you, it’s a whole new world.

Of course, not every bus trip has been pleasant, far from it. There have been a few doozies, particularly in the bad weather. The first snowfall of last winter caught pretty much everybody off guard. Not just the commuters but the weather forecasters and the snow plough drivers too. I decided it was no weather for me to be driving and smugly hopped on the bus. On balance, it was the right decision because I would have been stuck in the traffic just the same if I were driving myself, and the ride in that day took over three hours.

Uncharacteristically, I’d neglected to bring a book which was a shame, although my fellow commuters were, for once, a chatty bunch. At least, I had remembered to bring my coffee mug and in the early stages of the commute I was thrilled about this. It was only as the time passed interminably by and with my bladder swollen to epic proportions did my joy begin to subside. Perhaps the cruellest blow was when we finally arrived at the Civic Centre and gratefully poured towards the bathrooms that we discovered RTD had as usual, locked them at 9:30am, when the rush hour was usually over. McDonalds did a brisk trade that morning.

Not wanting to get caught in the same kind of journey home, I left the office at 3pm, not too long after I’d arrived. Didn’t do me any good as the return trip took over 4 hours. To be fair, most of that was simply trying to get out of the city, which was experiencing gridlock on a biblical scale, but even once we finally made it onto the hill, our problems were far from over. It seems RTD too, were unprepared for the storm and had yet to outfit their buses with winter tires. So, we were slipping and sliding all over the road along with everyone else.

The windows had long since steamed up and frozen over although occasionally I would try to scrape a porthole to see if I could determine where we were. It was during one of these forays into the outside world I was treated to the curious sight of seeing a set of lights coming inexorably towards us. Now bear in mind, I was looking out of the <em>side</em> of the bus, not a direction in which you’d usually expect to see lights coming towards you, but to make the experience even more surreal, these were taillights, and they were attached to a snow plough. Was it sliding towards us, or were we sliding towards it? It turned out to be the former. The plough driver had lost control and was now sliding backwards down the hill, just as we were in the process of making a left turn in front of him. The commute was extended for another twenty minutes while insurance details were swapped.

That of course, was the exception and most days, the bus trip is a joy. Without having to concentrate on the road ahead, I’m able to take in the scenery and although I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again; this is a beautiful part of the world. Fragments of the old road, when it was little more than a mountain trail, tiny cemeteries, hidden streams and the wildlife are all exposed via the elevation of a bus seat. It tends to be too dark to view much during the winter naturally, but in spring and autumn, we’re treated to sunrises and sunsets, in the full range of nature’s palette, pinks, and reds and of course, Denver Broncos orange.

I never will enjoy commuting but I love where I live and I love where I work, so it’s a necessary evil. And if I have to spend two hours a day just to get to and from work, there are worse ways to pass the time than riding a bus.

Oh Rats!

Let’s get one thing clear – I’m an animal lover. Over the years I’ve worked hard to keep multiple dogs in the lap of luxury, lose sleep over how to deal with the mice that are determined to live under my bathroom sink and choose to believe the Pest Control guy’s explanation of what happened to the squirrels he removed from my roof. (Yes there <em>is</em> a Squirrel Ranch in Northern Colorado, why would he make that up?). However, there are two species of animals for which I have no love whatsoever – mosquitoes and rats. I’ll save my rant about mosquitoes for another day. I can after all, only handle so many traumas at once. Instead I’m going to tell you my rat story.

© Disney

Spending as I did, several months as a hippy in Indonesia one becomes used to the sight of rats. Deep, wide gutters line most roads with open sewage and polluted water running freely. Not surprisingly, rats love this arrangement and can be seen pretty much everywhere. In the early weeks of my stay I wasn’t fazed in the slightest by their presence. Even a visit to a museum in Bogor, south of Jakarta, which had on display a recently caught but thankfully deceased and stuffed rat about the size of a Volkswagen, didn’t cause me any undue distress.

No, it was during a long and terrifying night in Berastagi on the Island of Java, that I developed the phobia which has stayed with me to this day.

I’d met up with a fellow Brit named Michael who, for a few days at least, was following the same route as me, so as was common among the backpacker crowd, we shared rooms as we went. This had the advantage of affording more privacy than the communal dormitories, without the expense of a single room. These accommodations varied tremendously in quality from idyllic beach bungalows with the South China Sea lapping gently a few feet away, to squalid hovels barely fit for habitation even by such impoverished social lepers as us.

At first glance, the lodgings looked better than most. The family run Bed and Breakfast, familiarly known as a “Losman” was clean, the food was good and the owners were friendly. Our landlady showed as a room which, while rather on the pricy side considering its lack of size, looked plenty big enough for us. We weren’t bothered by the fact that the two single beds were pushed together under the same tent-like linen sheet which served as a mosquito net. After all, we’d both been roughing it for months now and of course, were perfectly secure in our heterosexuality. Possibly because we were focused on this, neither of us noticed that as we were below street level, the outside wall was in fact the lining of the open sewer.

All was well until around 1am when, I turned over and momentarily found myself gazing sleepily towards the grey-white wall of our linen sheet cocoon. It moved. In my sluggish state, my brain refused to acknowledge what I was actually witnessing and because of this, I was allowed to remain in blissful ignorance for a few moments longer. However, my innocence was short-lived because almost immediately, I felt Michael stiffen, then leap bolt upright with a scream. Simultaneously, we both let loose with loud, long and expletive laced discourse, the gist of which was “Oh my word, we appear to be sharing our sleeping space with a number of undomesticated rodents. I’m not sure I’m altogether happy about that.”

For it was true. As our brains rapidly shifted from “Park” to “Overdrive” we realised that we weren’t simply talking about one or two rats here, but an entire herd of them roaming freely around the room. Encased as we were, in linen, we couldn’t actually see them, but the numerous bulges moving along the tent walls were all too obvious clues as to the activity just a few inches away. Not only that, but we could hear many more of the little monsters scurrying around on the floor. I’m not the world’s biggest guy and Michael’s no heavyweight either but it was astonishing just what a small area of space the two of us were currently occupying in the centre of that mattress As the rats continued their nocturnal exploration of our bed, our room and our souls, we clung to one another, all the while gibbering in foul-mouthed terror.

“What the hell are we going to do?” yelled Michael at the top of his lungs.

“How about we put the light on?” I screamed back, “Maybe they’ll run away.”

After a few moments’ reflection we determined that while this was a stellar idea, it presented the thorny problem of how to reach the switch, located impossibly far away across a rat strewn floor. Grisly though it was, I had no intention of leaving the sanctuary of our cocoon and neither apparently had Michael. We discussed strategy for a while, (“you f*****g do it!” “no, YOU f*****g do it!”), before I scored the winning goal by pointing out that Michael was nearest the light switch.

I reasoned that if I held his left arm, he could lean out of the bed and albeit at full stretch, reach the elusive switch. It was hard to argue with the logic, particularly as we couldn’t think of a better idea so after encouraging me to take my responsibilities seriously, namely by promising retribution involving rudimentary surgery on my private parts, Michael screwed his eyes tight shut, clasped my hand in his, stretched out his other arm, and flicked the switch.

The hideous noise generated by an army of rats scurrying for cover was almost enough to make me drop him onto the floor but I manfully kept my side of the bargain and in moments he was back under the linen sheet, shivering in horror and cursing up a storm. It was a long time before the sun gradually illuminated our sanctuary, but the light stayed on, our eyes stayed open and we stayed upright. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it was around that time my hair first started going grey.

Michael moved on the following day and I didn’t see him again until a chance meeting several weeks later. I had business in Berastagi however, and needed to stay one more night. I moved out of that awful room of course and into the clean, modern and rat free dormitory where I slept like a baby. Until about 1am, when I was awoken from my slumber by a distant and muffled scream. “OH….MY….GOOOOOODDDDD!”.

Smiling smugly, I turned over and drifting back to sleep, thought,

“I bet I know which room he’s in.”