Month: November 2021

A Walk in Winter

First Published: 28 December, 2004

Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. Breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I must face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.

Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave coffee for The Light of my Life™ by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Old dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighbourhood later today.

The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life-giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.

The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and camo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.

a quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because The Light of my Life™ isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jewelled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.

I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the towbar until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail, and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquillity too.

I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, tummy rumble tones like the inner workings of a whale after a curry. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art.

In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.

“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”

Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.

The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.

Every season in Colorado is my favourite, but winter is perhaps my most favourite.

Let’s be thankful

First Published: 30 November, 2004

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 even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls 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 a few survival tips 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 fourth 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 favourite 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 pickaxe, 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. 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 round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.

Freedom from Want - Wikipedia
© Norman Rockwell


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 schoolteacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marvelled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.

When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewellery designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard-earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realizing I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.

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 bedtime. 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.

Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhoea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.

Wilsons Prom

First Published: 17 January, 2005

I was clatterbanging around in the shed the other day, looking for something which may or may not have been there, when I noticed my camping gear, neatly stowed in its plastic storage box. This caused me a slight pang of guilt because for some time, I’ve been planning on digging this out, sorting through it and setting off on a trip, just like the old days. Despite having a front yard which is as pretty as any campsite, the wanderlust has been tugging at my heart for a while and I’m determined that soon I shall dust off my backpack, dig out the hike tent, my stove, and my trusty old boots, and go spend some quality time in the wild.

It wasn’t going to be this weekend however, as through the shed window I could see the pine trees bending before the bitterly cold wind. I might be enthusiastic about roughing it, but I’m also a wimp, which is an unfortunate combination.

Although….it isn’t like I haven’t camped in worse. Much, much worse.

Australians are rightfully proud of the Wilson Promontory, a scenic peninsula off the Victoria coast, south-east of Melbourne. Affectionately known as The Wilson Prom, it’s the southernmost point on the Australian mainland, comprising 195 sq. m of wilderness; a scenic coastline framed by granite headlands, mountains, forests, and fern gullies. While I was meandering my way through the region in the early summer of 1992, almost everyone I met encouraged me to go visit.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” they enthused, “you must see it”.

I was happy enough to follow their recommendation and the only potential challenge as I saw it, was that the park wasn’t served by public transportation. However, hitchhiking in Australia is safe and easy, and I’d been making steady progress around the country so far. I was confident I’d have no trouble and sure enough, I covered the 125 miles from my previous halt in four lifts without waiting more than twenty minutes between them.

I’d been warned that the sprawling campsite near the park’s entrance was not a good advertisement for the delights to come. Basic, functional, full of oversized motorhomes and mansion-like tents, it was nobody’s idea of a wilderness retreat. But it was late in the day when I arrived and there was little point in setting out into the bush, so instead I pitched my little hike tent, and snuggled in for the night. Just as I was switching off my torch and closing my book, I overheard a know-it-all remark. “There’s going to be a big storm coming in tonight.”

“Yeah, right” I thought, burrowing deeper into my sleeping bag, “there’s hardly a cloud in the sky!”

I think it was about 2am when it hit.

Have you ever been in the path of a steam train as it bears down on you, screaming like a thousand prehistoric monsters? No, me neither but I suspect it sounds a lot like the noise the wind made as it thundered through the trees on its way to our campsite. Wave after wave, carrying raindrops, which lashed my tent like thousands of tiny javelins. Standard camping procedure for high wind nights requires that the tent be pitched end on to the gale. Except I hadn’t expected a storm (clear sky, remember?) so had pitched mine at an angle which now turned out to be directly sideways on.

Hour after hour, I lay there listening to the next round careering its way up the valley. Each time a blast hit, my little tent would rock sideways, sometimes to the point where the wall would cover my face. It stood up pretty well but around 4am, a certain flexibility in the floor revealed that the pegs were beginning to work their way loose. Out I went and in nothing but my boxers, scuttled from pin to pin, securing them as best I could. Even the people in the big rigs were having trouble and several of my neighbours were also out (although more suitably attired than I) attempting to re-set guy ropes and take down awnings and canopies.

Once I was confident my own tent was as fastened as reliably as could be, I grabbed some warmer clothes and set about helping my compatriots. Why this act of altruism? I hear you ask. Well, because I could tell that this storm had no intention of letting up in time for me to begin my planned bush-hike in the morning and would no doubt keep me ensnared on this desolate campsite for at least one more day. And in the afternoon, most of the country would be watching the Australian Rules Football Grand Final. And most of these motor homes had televisions. And fridges full of beer. See where I’m going with this? It was a time for making friends.

I needn’t have bothered.

By 6am the air was rent with the sound of diesel engines firing into life as the pansies in their motorhomes, luxury trailers and comfort-laden cruisers packed up and ran for home. By the time I poked my red-rimmed eyes through the tent flaps, the site was almost deserted. Branches and other debris lay all around; great pools of water were attempting to link into one vast lake and the sky was dark and brooding. Every one of my newly made friends had abandoned me. However, the wind had eased somewhat so the rain was only at an angle of 45 degrees now. Even so, I’d been right in my prediction that I wasn’t doing any hiking today.

I spent that Saturday huddled in the camp’s dreary café, attempting to make single cups of coffee last for hours and for a large part of the time, sitting on a bar of chocolate trying to warm it up enough to break off a piece. By Sunday the weather was showing no signs of let up and reasoning that while hitching onto the peninsula had been easy enough, hitching off a 100-mile cul-de-sac could prove challenging if I didn’t take advantage of the few remaining folks heading back to town, I abandoned my plans for a wilderness hike and turned my feet towards Melbourne.

I got there easily enough and by late-afternoon was sipping a coke in the garden of a Backpacker’s Hostel. Predictably, the sun was brilliantly warm by this time and remained so for the next few months. I continued my way around Australia and never did see The Wilson Prom but for the remainder of my stay, whenever I outlined my route to a local the response was always the same.

“Oh, The Wilson Prom, isn’t it beautiful there?”   

Home Improvement

First Published: 28 December, 2004

Leatherman™ multi-tool pocket-knives currently have a magazine ad running which always makes me feel a little…inadequate. The photo is of a handyman, tool kit in hand, ringing a doorbell while the caption reads something like “Take back your life”. The message being that you aren’t really a man if you need someone else to come and fix things for you and if you simply had a Leatherman™, you’d be able to fend for yourself. I don’t have one although Dear Wife has. (A pink one). However, being realistic, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference if I had. When it comes to those little jobs around the home, I’m what might charitably be called “useless”.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just that through no fault of my own simplest tasks turn into disasters of biblical proportions whenever I try to tackle them. I’m aware of the adage, “Measure twice, cut once”. But for me it’s more a case of “Measure 16 times, cut it too short anyway, spend the rest of the afternoon trying to find another piece”.

Take the time my sister misguidedly decided that as I was living rent-free at her place, I could build a box enclosing the bathroom pipes prior to her hanging new wallpaper. Her fiancé-to-be outlined the plans and they seemed straightforward enough. Four long pieces of wood running from floor to ceiling, with cross struts every foot or so for support.

Putting the uprights in place took less than a day, although the cross-struts proved to be a little trickier. Three of the first four I cut turned out to be about 1/8 of an inch too short, and I was in danger of running out of wood. When I came to drill screw holes, I found the electric cable of the drill didn’t reach and it took me almost a full day’s walk to obtain another. On day three I dropped the chuck key through a hole in the floorboards, spent the rest of the day finding a replacement and had to put the job on hold while I went to visit friends over the weekend. Fiancé-to-be took advantage of me being out of the way to finish the job in about 90 minutes.

In Arizona we decided the outside of our house could do with a fresh coat of paint. This hadn’t been done since it was built, and the yellowish walls with brown trim must have been ugly even then. The first day I learned that not all paint rollers are created equal. A rough surface, such as the stucco plaster of our walls, requires a much courser roller that the (indoor specific) one I was using. Not only that, but after eighteen years of Phoenix sun, the stucco had the characteristics of a bath sponge. It was sucking the paint off the roller by the gallon, without the colour changing in any noticeable fashion. After 8 hours of solid slog, I’d barely covered 2 walls.

The trim was just as bad, with the added bonus of yards of intricate work under the eaves, requiring hours of neck wrenching toil. My weeks’ holiday came and went with the job barely started. I kept doggedly at it although I suspect most people could probably have completed the task in less than the 2 ½ years it took me. (Although technically I never did get finished as the front door was still an unattractive shade of grey undercoat with masking tape accents when we sold the house some four years later.)

One task which almost went well before fate stepped in once more was when I replaced a bathroom tap. This is a comparatively straightforward task, even for me, in that all you need to do is loosen a couple of bolts, lift out the old unit, drop the new one into place and tighten the new bolts. The old metal pipes were to be replaced with modern, flexible plastic ones, but even that was simply a case of unscrewing the nuts at either end. It’s true; I did need to make two more trips to Home Depot after discovering that the pipes were of different lengths, and the one I should have returned was, somewhat predictably, the other one. Even so, in less than a morning, we had a shiny new fixture, installed and functioning and all without a hint of bloodshed. It was perhaps the ease of this project that led me to get a little giddy.

The package came with a new plug attachment, and looking at the old, stained one, I decided it would be the work of moments to replace this too. Quick explanation for British readers (or Americans who’ve never had occasion to look): Here, plugs are usually a chrome disc which fits in the hole. A metal bar runs vertically down from it into the drain and by means of a wee arm, attaches to another metal bar which in turn, runs vertically up through the middle of the tap unit. Lifting or lowering a button on the top allows you to open and close the plug. To attach the arm of the new plug to the bar of the new faucet unit, it’s easiest to simply unscrew the top section of the plastic drain, so you can see what you’re doing. No real problem until I came to re-attach it and discovered that rather than unscrewing, our old, decrepit drain had simply snapped off at the thread. Right on a bend, right by the wall. Several panic-stricken conversations with people who know about these things established that the broken joint couldn’t be mended and the only way to replace it was to dig it out of the wall. As the lowest professional estimate we received was $600, we knocked something off the price of the house when we sold it.

We had a workman in the house this week, as it happens, who for $40, fixed our sliding glass door (without using a Leatherman™) so it opens smoothly once more. We’re thrilled to have it working properly even though it was a short-term fix, and he tells us we’ll need to replace the door eventually. Following this, he endeared himself to me for ever when, without even knowing my track record, he advised we have it professionally installed as “old houses like these can often cause unexpected problems”. Yep, I like the way that man thinks.

As further proof that he and I are kindred spirits; he left his crowbar behind when he went. Now, I wonder what needs doing around the house that I could use that for.

Update: 7 November, 2021
I ‘do’ now have a Leatherman™ and have had for some time. As I predicted almost 17 years ago though; it hasn’t made me any more of an accomplished handyman.