When I got home the other night, The Light of my Life™ was sitting bundled up in scarf and fleece sweater. “I think there’s something wrong with the boiler,” she said “I can’t get the house warm”.
“Well, do you realize how cold it is outside?” I asked “That could have something to do with it.”
Our house is comparatively small, which means it heats up very quickly, but it’s also made of papier-mâché and spit, which means it cools down very quickly too. Our gas fire only has two settings, “On” and “Not On”. When it’s running, it has the living room toasty in no time, when it’s off, things cool down fast. So, we spend a lot of time hopping up and down to meddle with the switch.
However, the fire only heats one room. The rest of the house relies on an ancient and rather frightening boiler which sits in a cupboard and emits loud rattles and clunks at regular intervals. The thermostat seems to operate under its own volition with very little regard for the actual temperature and we’ve spent many a happy night, lying awake listening to it fire up and switch off, fire up and switch off, sometimes several times a minute. We’ve been warned by people who know about these things that it will need replacing soon, but at the moment we’re frittering away our income on food and car repairs so it will have to wait. And to be fair, it does a passable job of keeping the house warm.
Except when temperatures plummet the way they have this week.
Our friends in Phoenix were horrified when we announced our relocation to the frozen wastes of Colorado.
“Don’t you know it’s cold up there?” they asked. Well yeah, of course we did but as I pointed out repeatedly, it’s supposed to be cold in winter. And one of the many delightful things about Colorado is that even in winter, the sun shines most days so while there may be snow on the ground, and ice in the shady spots, it’s usually still comfortably warm outside.
But not this week.
I was spoiled on Monday because I drove the Subaru to work. With its powerful heater, road hugging tires and best of all, heated seats, I cruised down that hill and back up again at night, all the while wondering what everyone else was complaining about – the roads were fine, the snow wasn’t so bad, it wasn’t that cold. Sure, there were hurricane force winds out there (109mph recorded in Golden) but they didn’t affect me. What’s the big deal? I found out on Tuesday when I was back to driving my usual transport, Angus the 4Runner. Now I love Angus to bits, and he’s taken me places I would be scared to attempt in the shiny Subaru, but it has to be said, when it comes to luxury, the car manufacturers have moved on somewhat in the eighteen years since he rolled off the production line.
The heater works, sort of, in that it dries out your eyeballs while making no discernible difference to the temperature. The tires don’t hug the road so much as caress it, in a gentle stroking motion. And worst of all, the seats have to be heated manually, namely by placing your bum on them for 45 minutes or so. Even the tape player refused to be roused from its slumbers, forcing me to rely on the radio, which never helps my mood.
Although the drive through the mountains wasn’t too bad. It was only when I hit the town that things got really gnarly as a winter storm was in full force and traffic at a virtual standstill. Still, I made it into the office eventually, much to the surprise of the city dwellers who hadn’t expected to see me at all. Having arrived late, I had to remain shackled to my desk until well after 7pm, but at least, I thought smugly, the roads will be better now. Wrong again Einstein.
Although the snow had for the most part been cleared, the ground itself was slick and shiny as sub-zero temperatures caused everything to be coated in a film of ice. There’s nothing quite like that exhilarating little thrill when you feel your car begin to slide beneath you, especially if you’re surrounded by much bigger vehicles, often traveling faster than you are. 2-wheel drive, 4-wheel drive, it’s all the same when you’re on ice and I think that’s the best workout my heart’s had since the last time I attempted to go jogging.
Creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. About 1/4 a mile ahead I saw her taillights suddenly begin to zig-zag as she fishtailed across three lanes of traffic. Luckily the drivers around her were driving cautiously and each had time to avoid her so she ended up on the hard shoulder, completely unharmed. As I passed her she was staring fixedly ahead with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. About 5 miles further on, creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. Sigh.
Still, Angus and I made it home unscathed and in no time I was indoors and ready for dinner. There’s nothing like a big bowl of steaming hot, home-made soup on a night like this so it was a shame we didn’t have any. Instead, I microwaved a pizza and munched disconsolately while huddling over the space heater. By bedtime we were, according to our cheapo thermometer on the front deck, down to -13F. I talked to the dogs to see if I could persuade them not to pee until say, May, but it was no dice. So, wrapping myself up like Nanook of the North, I dragged them outdoors for their evening constitutional. It was ear nipping, toe stinging, snot freezing cold out there – the kind of cold that sucks your breath from your lungs. Still, there’s something inherently comically in watching a dog try to pee without putting any feet on the ground.
When I dragged my bum out of bed at 5:30 the following morning, the windows were coated in Jack Frost’s artwork – even on the inside. Cheapo thermometer told me it was -28F, which is bloody cold. I took one look at Angus, buried in a cocoon of ice, another look back at the kettle, and thought.
“Today, I’m going to work from home.”
Category: Colorado
The Way of the Wolf
The Way of the Wolf
“O grandmother, what large ears you have!” “The better to hear you with.”
“O grandmother, what great eyes you have!” “The better to see you with.”
“O grandmother, what large hands you have!” “The better to take hold of you with.”
“But grandmother, what a terrible large mouth you have!” “The better to devour you!”
~ Little Red Riding Hood
I’m not a huge fan of the movement to pad the world in cotton-wool to ensure that today’s children need never have a bad experience. However, I wish Little Red Riding Hood’s parents hadn’t let her make the half hour’s journey through the woods to her grandmother’s house alone. Not only was the wretched child quite obviously uhm, developmentally challenged, her tale and others like it has contributed to one of mankind’s more reprehensible actions. Despite there never being one single authenticated account of a healthy wolf attacking a human, fear and ignorance have led to these beautiful, social and highly intelligent creatures being systematically exterminated almost to the point of extinction throughout the globe.
This thought was weighing heavily on my mind as we drove through the gates of Colorado’s Wolf and Wildlife Center, founded in 1993 by a lady named Darlene Kobobel after she rescued a two-year old wolf named Chinook. Upon receiving 15-20 phone calls a day from people wishing to surrender ‘their’ wolves she realized the necessity of providing not just a sanctuary, but an educational facility as well. Today the center conducts tours and programs that focus on dispelling myths about wolves and other wild canids and helping people appreciate the role wolves play in their ecosystems.
Our tour began with the foxes which Darlene explained had been rescued from the fur trade. Education being the key, we learned in graphic detail exactly what the lives, and deaths, of these beautiful creatures would have been like if they had fulfilled their destinies. With a twist which would have been comical if it weren’t so tragic, Darlene explained that the reason two of the foxes were white in colour, was because they had been bred that way so they could be passed off as arctic foxes and thereby command a higher price.
On then, to the wolves of which there are twelve in residence, two to each one-acre pen. We met Mika and Shunka first. As the weather is cool right now, the wolves are more active than in the summer, but there was none of the frantic pacing that you’d see with caged animals. Instead, these creatures simply wandered around, occasionally coming up to the wire to say hello. We’d all been warned to keep fingers, camera lenses and children well away from the fencing to avoid any playful theft and this was emphasized at the next pen where we were introduced to Troubles and Bandit. Troubles has a habit of snagging visitors’ gloves and shredding them the way our dogs take out squeaky toys. To date he’s snagged 54 pairs but he never managed to score any from our group.
Darlene did tell us though of the time he pinched her watch off her wrist and swallowed it whole. She was mostly concerned about what would happen when the alarm went off in a couple of hours but listen as she might, she couldn’t hear a thing. Until a couple of days later when she noticed a pile of wolf shit mysteriously beeping. After a good wash, the watch was found to be still working and while she declined to wear it any more, it can now be seen in a display case by reception.
Nikita and Princess were next. Nikita was an enormous bear of an Arctic wolf, looking something like a great Newfoundland. He spent the first three years of his life living in a 5’ x 8’ crate and when rescued; his toenails were over two inches long. His back legs had so little muscle he was unable to walk without assistance. However, he fell in love with CWWC’s first rescue wolf, Chinook and the pair were inseparable until the latter’s death in 2004.
Sabin was rescued from a college dorm where he spent his days locked in a bathroom and lived on a diet of cheetos and beer. Darlene didn’t tell us what happened to the future captains of industry who felt this was an appropriate way to treat a wild animal but hopefully it was something unpleasant. Sabin shares a pen with Raven, named because of the birds who visit her daily.
Yukon spent the first 5 months of his life at a photography farm. I was aware that most photographs one sees of ‘wild’ animals are in fact, taken in captivity, (the cost and unreliability of the animals appearing on cue makes commercial photography in the wild impractical) but I had assumed this meant animals in zoos, refuges and sanctuaries like this one. I never knew that most of the images we see on calendars, mousepads, mugs and so on are of animals raised solely for that purpose, then abandoned once they’re no longer photogenic. Yukon was on his way to a roadside zoo before CWWC adopted him.
At the last pen, we met Wakanda an incorrigible ham, and his partner, the painfully shy Akela. Wakanda is the center’s Casanova and loves to kiss the visitors’ hands through the wire. So for a few minutes, I scrunched under his chin and stared deep into those dark, beautiful eyes. I’ve never had the privilege of being this close to a wolf, my spirit animal before, but I’ll carry that moment for ever.
The park also has a couple of coyotes, rescued from a facility which bred animals for use on ‘guaranteed hunts’. Once a vehement anti-hunter, my views have mellowed somewhat, largely due to meeting people who kill for food rather than simply the sport of killing. However, I still can’t imagine what kind of deviant would enjoy a canned hunt.
The climax of the tour was when Darlene led us in a group howl. By us, I mean the visitors and the wolves. She threw back her head and performed an eerie imitation of a wolf howl, which we did our best to imitate. Dakari the coyote picked up the song and in a few moments we were joined by the wolves themselves.
Nobody can hear that primal sound without feeling their hair stand on end. Just like our ancestors did millennia ago. Thank goodness there are people like Darlene Kobobel to keep the wolf in our world.
Working on the Chain Gang
Wayne, the gang boss started out by giving us “The Rules”.
“Watch out for traffic. Make sure you have your orange vest on at all times. And you don’t have to go down steep bankings unless you want to.”
OK so far, but then he went on.
“If you come across any bags containing pipes or bottles, don’t touch them. Apparently, because the polis can trace stuff from dumpsters, the meth producers are now driving out into the country to dump their old equipment. However, if you open those bags, the fumes can kill you. Also, if you come across anything like a human body or a weapon, simply mark the spot and leave it alone.”
Melissa and I both perked up at the thought of finding a gun or maybe a bazooka or rocket launcher by the side of the road. Who knew highway clean-up would be this big of an adventure?
A bunch of us had volunteered to give up our Sunday afternoon by doing our bit for the neighbourhood as part of the “Adopt-A-Highway” trash collection program where concerned citizens wishing to help clean up littered thoroughfares can “adopt” a 1-mile stretch of road. The local government provides bags and reflective vest and twice a year, the volunteers go out and tidy “their” stretch of highway. The programme was founded in Texas in 1985 and since then, thousands of groups have volunteered their time and effort picking up litter on highways all over the country. Forty-nine of the 50 states in the U.S. now have a program like Adopt a Highway.
Suitably kitted out in our orange vests (“Mine doesn’t fit.” “This clashes with my T-shirt.” “What other colours you got?” etc.) and carrying our heavy-duty orange garbage bags and pointy sticks, we split into two groups, and each took a side of the road.
I soon became a connoisseur of the different qualities of garbage. Beer cans were the easiest to collect as a swift stab with the pointy stick speared them easily on the nail. Bottles meant bending over to pick up by hand. Paper was straightforward enough too but the very worst was the plastic bags. Usually, these were tangled amongst the weeds but any attempt to extricate them invariably saw the plastic disintegrate. It didn’t take long to establish that unless the bag was easily accessible, it was best to simply leave it where it was.
It was also a learning experience to discover just how many beer cans and bottles local drivers throw out of their windows. They aren’t beer snobs by any stretch of the imagination – with the exception of a few Corona bottles they were all domestic brews and let’s face it; you’d have to drink a lot of Coors Lite before you got any kind of benefit from its pitiful alcohol content. Even so, it does go a long way to explain some of the displays of reckless driving we routinely see.
The first dead body we came across turned out to have once belonged to a cat. We never did find any human ones but there were plenty more corpses by the side of the road. It was really rather tragic just how many. A couple of them were complete, such as the raccoon and one of the deer. However, most were in a state of disrepair and the majority were nothing more than partial skeletons. (What kind of person would throw a deer skeleton out of a car window while driving?) Here’s a tip kids, write this down. If you’re ever in need of deer bones, skulls, ribs, vertebrae or teeth, just take a walk along any stretch of Colorado highway. They’re everywhere.
With the amount of meat lying around, it was inevitable the conversation would turn to the suitability of road-kill when it comes to making dinner plans.
“Oh yeah, I can just see the look on my daughter’s face if I told her I was cooking up road-kill.” said Mary.
“You should go to Safeway” I told her. “Buy a ham bone and drop it in the pot. Then when she gets home, tell her you aren’t sure what it is, but you found it this afternoon.”
Nobody ever takes me up on my bright ideas.
We also came across the remains of that morning’s serious car accident. Judging from the skid marks it would appear the driver came around the corner too fast, apparently unaware that in Colorado the tradition is that whenever the road goes from two lanes to one, all drivers slam on the brakes and drop to 10 miles an hour below the speed limit. Nobody’s quite sure why; it’s just the way things are done around here. From the fast food wrappers we found at the site, it also suggests the driver didn’t have his full attention on the road but by the damage to the trees, I suspect he got pretty banged up.
On and on we trudged, under the blazing sun. As each bag was filled, we tied them in a knot and left them by the roadside from where they would magically disappear sometime the next day. We also added the tires, lumps of wood and larger car parts such as the bumper Ed found. Ed was particularly attentive when it came to recovering the old tires but we suspected that was because he was checking to see if they were better than the ones currently on his Jeep.
Finally, we made it down to the end of our designated mile where, grubby and tired but feeling pretty darn good about ourselves, we waited for the mini-van ride back to the start. 33 orange bags in total, which wasn’t a bad haul for such a short stretch. And it wasn’t just paper, beer cans, plastic bags and dead animal parts either; we came across some real treasure. A fire extinguisher, a thermos flask, an intact beer glass, lots of socks and several car parts among other things. However, Wayne won first prize with his trophy.
An empty can of “Karma Sutra Honey Dust.”
You have to wonder just how much attention that driver was paying to the road.
To Catch a Fish
The seaweed was biting that day, my friends.
Every few minutes the fishermen (and fisherwomen, and fisherkids) would haul in their lines to find yet another long string of glistening fauna. Come to think, it probably wasn’t even seaweed, seeing as how we were at a lake some 1,300 miles from the nearest ocean. But there was certainly lots of it and they excitedly compared hauls. “Maybe we should take it back to the campsite,” said Mary. “Make a seaweed salad?”
I’ve only been fishing a handful of times in my life. The very first time was off a pier in Tarbet, Scotland where the fish were so easy to catch the whole sport seemed rather pointless. Drop in the line, watch while the mackerel came up to check out the bait, jerk the pole (Note: This is called ‘striking’ – write that down kids!) then haul up the fish. Take out the hook; drop the fish back in the water, lather, rinse, repeat.
Any guilt I may have felt over the lack of sportsmanship on my first fishing trip was absolved on all my subsequent outings when I never came close to catching a single fish.
“I practice cruelty free fishing” I explain to anyone who will listen. “No fish were harmed in the making of this day out.”
Possibly for that reason, I never really got into fishing and if I did go, it was usually to tag along with others who knew more about the sport than I. Although curiously, they never seemed to catch anything either. Maybe I was a jinx who had used my lifetime’s supply of fisherman’s luck on that first day out.
But really, that was OK with me. I like fish well enough when they’re coated in batter and deep fried with chips but getting up close and personal with a wriggly one on a hook doesn’t particularly appeal. Also, I’ve never had a desire to be one of those hardy souls you’ll see up to their privates in icy cold water while they try to trick the fishes into their nets. No, when I go fishing, I want it to be a pleasant day out, preferably in beautiful scenery.
Which was the case today as I sat cross-legged on the shore of one of Colorado’s more picturesque lakes, with the sun on my face and the breeze gently ruffling my hair, simply watching as others went through the motions.
We were pretty sure there were fish in the lake. The campsite host was certainly charging enough for the privilege of attempting to catch them, although as I noted, this would be the scam to end all scams. Charge campers just to fish in a lake with no fish. How neat would that be? Sometimes I wonder why I’m not filthy rich.
Innyhoo, I questioned why Mary was using limburger cheese as bait.
“It may smell like old socks, but one of the old ladies I visit told me it’s the only thing to use. She hasn’t fished in years, but she perked right up when I told her I would be going this weekend and she swears by it.”
“Not doing much good so far, is it?” observed Ed, “Why don’t you try some salmon eggs?”
“I dunno, they don’t seem to be working too well for you so far, do they Hotshot” came the retort.
Ed looked sadly at his own pile of seaweed and had to conclude that she was right. So, he hauled in his line and cast once more out into the big blue yonder. Or at least, 30 feet or so out into it – he was only using a small fishing pole.
After a while, Sophie lost interest and wandered off to chat to the rest of the group who were busy catching seaweed further down the shore. Her fishing pole lay unused near my feet and after watching Ed and Mary for a few minutes longer, I decided I could catch seaweed just as skilfully as them.
I checked to make sure both hooks were properly baited. Sophie had been using a curiously unnatural looking attraction called ‘PowerBait’. These were pea-sized balls of putty like material in a shade of orange not found in nature. I would have thought this would scare the fish away, but what do I know. Everything appeared to be in order, so I laid the pole over my right shoulder and deftly cast out into the deep.
The hook barely reached the water.
It took another two equally abysmal efforts before I noticed that the reel had a wee lever on it, which I discovered, was the brake. Slide it the other way and the line has the opportunity to unwind as well as be reeled in. Probably fairly important, that. Flicking the lever to one side, I tried once more and this time, the line whizzed out across the water. That’s better.
After a few minutes of not very much happening, I decided I would give my new found casting skills another go and hauled in the line. I had to fight the urge to jump up and down when I felt an unmistakable tugging on the line. Could it be? Could I have caught a fish on my first cast while all these pros were hauling in nothing but seaweed? Could it be?
Well, no of course it couldn’t.
I had however, caught a twig. And quite an impressive one too; at least 6 inches long and quite formidable looking. I added it to the seaweed pile and tried once more. I didn’t catch a fish that time either. Or the next time, or the next. But you know what? I caught one on the next.
Oh, it wasn’t exactly a record breaker. At 5 inches or so, it was well under the limit which required me to throw it back, so no visit to the taxidermist for me. And it was an ugly little bugger too.
“A sucker fish” explained Ed. “A bottom feeder”.
OK, so not exactly the sort of thing you’d read about in Hemingway’s work. Melville probably wouldn’t have written a novel about it (although if he had, it couldn’t have been any worse than Moby Dick.) But it was the only fish anyone caught that day. Mr. Rugged-Outdoorsman, that’s me. When civilization crumbles around us, I’ll be able to provide for my family.
So, (lowering voice an octave and hitchin’ up pants) if you need any advice on fish catchin’, I’m your man.
Just don’t ask me what’s in PowerBait.
Let’s hear it for the I.N.S. (no, really)
I’ve said before, both here and many times elsewhere that there is a special place in hell reserved for the employees of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. And not a very nice place in hell either.
To be fair though, this opinion came about from my experiences with the employees of the Phoenix office. In all my dealings so far with the Denver office (two different ones), I have been more than impressed by the politeness, efficiency and overall friendliness of the INS employees. If only I could say the same about all the government departments. No, I’m not being sarcastic here, they really are a pleasure to deal with.
Although…the lady who greeted me at the door this morning and explained that she would be conducting my citizenship interview and civics test was, it has to be said, a little…abrupt. Not rude exactly, but I suspected she had an ice-queen somewhere back in her lineage.
I really didn’t know what to expect at the interview. I wasn’t sure if she would grill me about the intricacies of the Designated Hitter Rule, or my favourite John Wayne film, or ask for the ingredients of hot dogs. As it turned out, that portion of the session was simply a case of her going through my application form and confirming everything was correct. Yes, my name is spelled A-N-D-R-E-W, yes, I’m really from the United Kingdom and yes, that was a mistake where I’d said that The Light of my Life™ had previously been married to herself.
However, then we went onto the civics test. While I’d prepared for this, I still wasn’t sure what was to come. The gubmint sends potential citizens a handy-dandy booklet which not only lists the 96 questions from which the civics test is drawn (and the answers), but also a paragraph of history about each one. It was actually semi-interesting, and I’ll bet many of my fellow Americans could benefit from it. (Especially the girl who told me “Oh we did not fight against Italy in WWII – we like Italy).
Most of the questions were toughies such as “What colours make up the flag” and “Who is the President today” and so on, but others were a little more challenging. Come on, hands up, who can tell me which Constitutional Amendments deal with voting rights? (The 15th, 19th, 24th and 26th). I’d also lost some sleep trying to memorize the original 13 colonies, which are, as I’m sure you know, Virginia, Massachusetts, Maryland, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire, North Carolina, South Carolina, -Take a Breath- New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware and Georgia.
And I’d had to promise myself not to get smart if asked “Which special group advises the president on policy?” Answer – “Whoever donates to his campaign fund.” Baddaboom tsssh! thank you, I’ll be here all week, don’t forget to tip your waitress.
But the thing is, I didn’t know what form the test would take. Would it be written, oral, multiple choice, what was the required pass rate. Nobody had told me this. As it turned out, Ms Frostyface told me she would be asking the questions, and I had to get 6 out of 10 right. No problem then, I had the stuff pretty well memorized and was even confident I could get all 13 colonies. Should be a breeze.
And I did fine, right up until the second question. “Where do congress meet?” That’s an easy one, except I went into panic mode. For some reason I locked onto the word “Congress” and couldn’t think of a anything else. For about a year I simply stared at her while my mind raced “Congress, congress…congress meet in…congress…it’s a trick question…congress is where they meet…I don’t get it…congress meets in…THE CAPITOL!” I really did almost yell the answer, then sat back chuckling with a relieved “Holy Crap!”
At that point she remembered she too, was human and laughed back
“OK, now we have that one out of the way, are you ready for the next question?”
And she didn’t ask me for the original 13 colonies, or the amendments dealing with voting rights. So, I sailed it and it kinda looks like I’m going to become a citizen.
So uhm, can someone explain the Designated Hitter Rule?
Diary of a Pipe Band Contest
Day 1:
Wake at 6am. Switch off alarm and go back to sleep – plenty time yet. Wake again at 8am. Way late; this is going to be problem. Look out window and am disappointed, yet somehow not surprised to see it’s cloudy, wet and grey. With sinking heart, realise this means endless jokes about “Typical Scottish weather”. Race around like mad thing, loading car, feeding dogs and wondering why didn’t get stuff together night before. In and out of shower in record time before beginning battle with band uniform. Kilts not designed to be put on in hurry. Bad mood intensifies while taking dogs out and feeling fat raindrops splashing on clean, white shirt.
Set off down hill driving faster than Highway Patrol prefer. Scan lead grey sky and wonder if weather will keep crowds away. Or at least enough of them to allow parking close by. Problem turns out to be not crowds, but over-zealous parking attendants.
“If you don’t have a parking permit (nobody has parking permit) then you’ll have to drive to the nearby High School and come back on the shuttle bus.”
“Are you kidding me? Look at all the stuff I have to carry! I’m one of the competitors.”
“You can park in the unloading zone for 10 minutes, no more.”
10 minutes! So-called “unloading zone” is more than 10 minutes’ walk from designated band site, especially with heavy drum, full cooler, uniform jacket in dry cleaning bag, folding chair, equipment bag and spare clothing. Loading zone also contains at rough estimate, 100 empty spaces. Spaces remain empty all day while band members struggle to carry gear from designated car park three miles away.
Drop off gear at band tent, move car to official car park and return on shuttle. Grunt “Mornin'” to band mates and set off in search of coffee. Negotiate complicated process of buying tickets from one tent before standing in line for breakfast at another. Vendor has run out of coffee. Explain to vendor that this is hanging offense in any civilised country.
Head back to band tent and huddle with other sodden band members, trying to keep warm whilst whining about parking situation and attempting to practice drums with bloodless hands. Opening ceremony is at noon and by 11:30 mood changed to one of activity. Pipers are tuned, drummers are warmed up, ties are straightened. At 11:55, march in sort-of-formation over to join other bands in central arena.
Opening ceremony even longer than usual. Officials sit under dry tent whilst making interminable speeches, completely oblivious to participants standing in open field, exposed to elements. Official advises spectators of items on day’s program. Neglects to mention band competition, supposedly main event. Guest speaker conducts long prayer to Christian god, whilst non-Christian band members (overwhelming majority), make irreverent conversation. After opening ceremony, make second attempt to purchase coffee. Only decaff available. Wonder just how far up vendor’s nose drumstick would fit.
Not good enough drummer to take part in competition. Instead have official role of cinematographer. Or ‘video-bitch’ as boorish drum-corporal puts it. Take chair and borrowed video camera over to competition area and set up camp, wishing had remembered tripod. Competing bands take turns marching into arena before standing in circle facing one another with backs to audience while playing set, so camera focused mainly on kilted backsides with very little action. Audio more important really, however, did get humorous footage of Youth Band drummers grimacing at each other while arguing wordlessly. Finish filming competition before heading back to band tent to drink beer and make catty remarks about other bands.
March back to central arena for closing ceremony. More interminable speeches enlivened by announcement band has swept board finishing first in all categories. Much back slapping and high-fiving. Point out that good looks of cinematographer probably swung vote but magnanimously concede that band members who actually played in competition also helped in own small way. More beer drinking ensues. Details hazy.
Day 2:
Wake on time to see beautiful, blue sky. Slather self with sun block and head down hill in buoyant spirits. Hit cloudbank at 7,000 feet. Weather below, cloudy, wet and grey. Ignore parking attendants and leave car in little known hideaway, not too far from band tent. Early arrival means have to help set up waterlogged tent. Discover shirt lying on ground, unmissed ’till now. Head over to food vendor to purchase breakfast. Coffee available, but no food. Think murderous thoughts about food vendor. Take sip of coffee and wonder if previously drunk by someone else.
Sun makes weak attempt to shine in time for opening ceremony. Speeches even longer than yesterday, although largely same material. Announcer neglects to mention pipe band competition again. Observe loudly that “Bands required but not welcome” would be good motto for games. Announcer does remember to introduce every single breed in dog show. Remark on what a lot of breeds there are. By end of opening ceremony, food vendor offering limited menu. Menu no longer includes coffee. Reflect once more how should have brought own food. And perhaps baseball bat to encourage better future performance from vendor.
Smaller entrance field for band competition so videotaping doesn’t take so long. Take mean-spirited pleasure at mistakes of rival band, then listen in bemused horror when rival band marches out to own band’s signature tune. Tacky enough but made worse by horrible rendition. Own band plays very well, so can only hope judges overlook early, but rather noticeable mistake. Other serious competitor makes couple mistakes too. Could go either way.
Closing ceremony ninety minutes away so pass time drinking beer, swapping jokes and making more catty remarks about rival bands. Learn parking attendants are arranging to have cars towed from “unloading zone”. Sympathize with band members hurrying off to move cars.
Grumble incessantly over new rule forbidding bands to take beer onto field for closing ceremony. Grumble even more when see official responsible for rule parading around field with beer in hand. “I’m not in uniform, you are.” Says official, with smirk.
Mollified by news that band has won competition again. Good looks of cinematographer must really carry weight with judges.
Pack up soaking wet tent and stare in dismay at amount of crap to be carried to car. Give thanks for helpful steward with golf-cart who carries heavy stuff. On to band member’s house for beer, pizza and more self-congratulation.
Reflect on how last two days have been nothing but cold, wet weather, irritating officials, and minor slights, incompetent vendors and petty annoyances.
Spent in company of great bunch of people while kicking arses of all-comers. What a great weekend it’s been.
First published: 16 August, 2005
Rendezvous with Destiny
“Well, if nothing else,” remarked The Light of my Life™ as we bumped and creaked our way along the forest service road “we’re seeing some good potential camping spots”.
I couldn’t help but agree although the further we drove into uncharted (at least for us) territory, the more I wondered just exactly what we’d find when we eventually arrived at the Mountain Man Rendezvous. It was our first, and we really didn’t know what to expect. 170 years ago, the Mountain Man Rendezvous was basically one big honkin’ party for the fur trappers, and natives who spent the rest of the year living off the land while they collected pelts of all descriptions to sell at this once a year get together. For most, it was the only time of the year they could let rip and have some fun. Not only was it the occasion to sell furs and trade for new supplies, but also to meet up with old friends, swap stories and lies, and most importantly, get roaring drunk on rot-gut alcohol.
Contests were held as the trappers and Indians showed their ability with rifle, tomahawk and knife. There were also running races, jumping contests and horse races. Even better, there was gambling. Exciting times indeed and things only got better when the trading company finally showed up. Now, the trappers and Indians could trade their hard earned pelts for the items that they needed to get them through the coming year – powder and lead, blankets, utensils, clothes, tobacco, food, hats, rifles, knives and other items too numerous to mention. And, once all the year’s necessities had been bought, the rest of the credit could be spent on the serious business of partying. Alcohol and women were available for the asking and by the time things wound down, after about two weeks, few had any money remaining.
Within a surprisingly short time however, the west was settled by pioneers and farmers moving west. Top hats made of Chinese silk became the fashion and the beaver pelt trade disappeared almost overnight. The men who’d made their solitary living by hunting, fishing and trapping became an anachronism although like the cowboy, were still able to show off their talents at the rodeos, many of which survive to this day. Fortunately, historical enthusiasts have revived the traditions of the Mountain Man Rendezvous, and many use their spare time to travel to camps around the west where they dress in period costume, give classes in pioneer skills and as much as is possible in the 21st century, live the way the original mountain men would have done.
There are three rendezvous held each year in our area and while I’ve read a lot about them, have never managed to see one until now so was looking forward to it no end. But I was experiencing a nagging doubt that the whole thing might be overrated, and we were simply going to roll up to a campsite with half a dozen good ol’ boys sitting in lawn chairs and drinking Bud Light whilst wearing funny clothes. So, it was something of a relief to skirt a small hill and see an entire village of tepees, tents and other period looking shelters off in the distance. This, we later learned, was the ‘Primitive Camp’, for those who took their re-enactments seriously. There were two modern camps as well, one allowing generators, the other not, but they were parked discreetly out of sight. A gentleman wearing period costume and a red and white striped shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rodeo clown directed us into the parking area where we took our place alongside the diesel trucks and SUVs favoured by so many modern-day mountain men.
A short hike along the trail took us to the admission tent where a young man with a…’period’ accent directed us inside where a helpful lady gave us a leaflet explaining the rules (Primitive clothing must be worn in Primitive Camp between 6pm and 8am; No post 1840 weapons in camp; among others) and told us to enjoy our visit. That set the tone for the day. One in which we were visiting with some incredibly polite people. Not just friendly in the way that so many Americans are, but out and out gracious. I’m not sure if this was all part of the period act, or if these were simply exceptionally affable people but it became a little disconcerting after a while as we felt the need to respond in kind and each conversation took on an unreal tone. Everybody wanted to know if we were on holiday, or just up from the city for the day. As most were from out of state, few were familiar with our hometown of Bailey although one gent from Nebraska recollected that he got gas there. “What did you eat to cause that?” I asked, but as my humour so often does, it went way over his head. “I didn’t eat” he replied, “but I remember paying a lot to fill up my truck.”
The period costumes were a sight to see, ranging from ladies in gingham dresses to gents wearing anything from Davy Crocket style frontiersman outfits, to Last of the Mohicans type buckskin leggings. (Note to any prospective Mountain Man re-enactors – leather leggings with bare thighs is not a good look for most guys, no matter how dashing Daniel Day-Lewis looked in the film.) And so, we moseyed along the row of vendors selling reproductions of early 19th century goods. Period clothing, hats, knives, eyeglasses, and jewellery as you’d expect but each with that authentic home-made look that distinguished them from the modern day article. A lot of the stuff appeared to be genuine antique, others were obviously new but created with care to ensure it was as close as possible to that which would have been on sale 170 years ago. Sadly, the prices were quite definitely 21st century, and while there were lots of fascinating goodies, none of them quite fit into the ‘have to have’ category. I would willingly have paid over the odds for something to eat, and fully expected to, but it turned out none of the food vendors had arrived yet.
I saw a guy dressed in buckskin leggings working his way through a tasty looking turkey sandwich, but he told me he’d brought that himself. And so it was, that hunger drove us away. Back to our air-conditioned car and the paved road and the town, where food comes pre-caught, pre-packaged and in the fridge ready for consumption. Not very 19th century and I feel we’ve lost a lot of the charm along the way.
Didn’t stop me from eating it though.
First Published: 9th August, 2005
On the Road Again
“To attract men, I wear a perfume called “New Car Interior.”
~ Rita Rudner
So Dear Wife’s truck broke down again the weekend before last. I say ‘again’, because this is becoming an all too common experience. It’s not a new truck and it’s racked up a fair few miles. Not as many as Angus the 4Runner mind you, but a hefty number all the same. Which means that it’s reached the stage where bits are starting to need replacing. Not just fan belts and hoses but expensive parts like the transmission for instance.
We’ve been nursing that particular piece of technology along for over a year now and when the truck left her stranded by the roadside about a month ago, the symptoms seemed to fit. Turned out to be the alternator instead which meant a repair in the hundreds of dollars instead of the thousands, which was all well and good but we know we can only dodge that bullet for so long.
However, common occurrence or not, this last breakdown was particularly unfortunate in that not only was I elsewhere for the day, I had committed the unforgivable sin of not having my cell phone on. Or at least it was switched on, but it wasn’t on my person. When I changed into my kilt for the band performance at the Polo Club, I forgot to transfer the phone to my sporran. Instead I left it in the pocket of my shorts, which I left in the back of the car. Which meant that Dear Wife was stranded in a supermarket parking lot for over three hours before she tracked down a friend to come and pick her up. Meanwhile, I was unreachable.
In a beer tent.
Having fun.
When she originally bought the truck, Dear Wife had a horse and needed something which could haul a trailer, along with bails of hay, saddles and other equine accessories. That hasn’t been necessary in a long time and for all that we love the truck, it isn’t an ideal vehicle for our lifestyle. The gas mileage isn’t that great, it’s a bugger to park and the air-conditioning died some time ago which makes things unpleasant in the summer, particularly with highs above 100 degrees like we had this week. Winter driving is even worse. It handles poorly on ice and snow, even with bags of sand in the bed and being only 2-wheel drive, requires snow tires to get any form of traction on the hills.
So, this week found us only semi-reluctantly, in the market for a new car. Travel anywhere in the 285 corridor and you’re going to see plenty of Subarus. (Generally from behind as they crawl up the hills blocking the left lane. Ha Ha!) No, that’s not entirely true although a large number of older models are still on the road and they don’t seem to have the same oomph as the newer ones. But there’s no denying they’re popular. They appear to be an ideal fit for those who don’t want to go the big truck/SUV route, but want something that can handle Colorado’s mountain winters better than a regular sedan. And they look kinda cool too.
A couple of friends own them, as does Dear Wife’s dad and we’d enjoyed driving his during our visit last month. We were sold on the manufacturer, so no problem there. The only challenge now was to decide whether to go with the Forester or the Outback. I’ve always been a fan of the Outback so it was with a sinking heart I discovered Dear Wife leaning towards the Forester. I don’t often win these arguments, but fortunately, once we’d had a chance to play in them both, she for once, agreed I was right.
I’ve never bought a new car in my life and have only spent a limited amount of time in car dealerships. I don’t mind looking at shiny new cars, but don’t really have much of a clue why this one is so much further out of my price range than that one. I’ve also heard horror stories of endless negotiation battles with tough as nails salesmen. Some people have told me they’ve sat in the dealer’s offices until the wee hours of the morning to see who would crack first. I don’t have that kind of time, and I certainly don’t have that kind of energy.
Fortunately, these days we have easier options. One of the best investments we ever made was membership in AAA. Not only does a helpful phone operator send a tow truck to pick us up whenever we ask, they also offer a car purchasing program whereby they pretty much do everything for you. You tell them the type of vehicle you’re looking for, the bits and bobs you’d like it to have and your choice of colors. They then scour the local dealers to see if what you want is available and (hopefully) call to say when you can pick it up. Not only that, but after using all kinds of complicated arithmetic they determined we could actually afford it.
AAA lent us one in attractive shade of metallic urine and more or less gave us permission to see what it could do. We put it through its paces in the Rocky Mountain foothills where it passed with flying colors so somewhat predictably, we were sold. Which meant that after a whirlwind of phone calls over an astonishingly short period of time; we were handing over the largest check we’ve ever written in exchange for a set of three (comically large) keys. Moments later, we were pulling out of AAA’s parking lot at the wheel of a very shiny and new smelling Subaru Outback. Well actually, it was quite a few moments later because it took some time for us to get acquainted with all those buttons, lights, levers and switches.
I’m old enough to remember when owner’s manuals were about 20 pages long and that included directions for rebuilding the gear box. This one’s thicker than the last Harry Potter book and takes 59 pages just to explain the function of the seat belts. We’ve owned the car for five days now and I’m still only about a third of the way through the darn book. I’ve figured out the CD player, the sunroof and how to make heated seats work – you know; the important stuff. But the boring bits like how to change a tire, or check the steering fluid, well that’s just going to have to wait.
Right now, I’m just having too much fun driving the thing.
First Published: 26 July, 2005
Sport of Kings and Warriors
“On the polo field, where else.”
British gold-digger Sarah Ferguson, when asked where she met her temporary husband, Prince Andrew.
True confession: I own a couple of Ralph Lauren shirts, complete with wee polo player logo. They both came from Costco and so, cost about 1/10th of their normal retail price but what the hey, I look pretty darn stylish when wearing them, if I say so myself. Not only that, I spent this weekend at the Columbine Polo Club, rubbin’ shoulders with the cream of Denver society. It’s true; I was there in my capacity as sort-of-a-drummer for the pipe band. And I was simply providing entertainment for the rich folk, but I was there all the same.
Other than the occasional rainstorm, my car Angus hasn’t had a decent wash since my parents came to visit almost two years ago. With his numerous rust spots, dents and bits hanging off, he didn’t exactly blend in with the gleaming Jaguars, BMWs and Lexuses (Lexii?) already filling up the grass parking lot. But to the credit of the parking attendants, they didn’t bat an eyelid, simply directed me to the closest available spot. A few other band members were already there, and it didn’t take me too long to swap the shorts and t-shirt for kilt and full highland rig ready for a pleasant afternoon in the sunshine.
And dearie me, did we get sunshine. It was a record breaking 102 degrees in Denver on Saturday apparently, and the only way to fully appreciate just how toasty that is, is to wrap yourself in eight yards of wool and go and stand in the sun for a couple of hours. Like any true Scot, all I wear under my kilt is shoes and socks, so I had my own little personal sauna going on down there. Oh dear doG, it was hot! Fortunately, the organizers had found the perfect spot for us to perform. On a patch of baking blacktop, right in front of the already aromatic port-a-potties and miles from the sanctuary of the beer tent. Somebody eventually took pity on us and brought water but mine evaporated with a hiss on the way down my throat.
Fortunately, Saturday’s gig was mercifully short, and we were soon inside the tent, which frankly, wasn’t that much cooler. There were large electric fans but none pointing in our direction, so we had no choice but to replenish our lost fluids by making frequent trips for free beer. There was free food too although it wasn’t until we’d each laden our plates that one of the organizers pointed out we weren’t supposed to be helping ourselves; it was reserved for the paying guests. “You can eat as much as you like tomorrow,” they said, “but not today.” Having been firmly reminded that we were merely the ‘help’, we settled in to an afternoon of people watching.
Now I’m well aware that when it’s over 100 degrees in the shade and you’re dressed in the aforementioned eight yards of wool, with a black hat, tie and vest, and effeminate little bobbly covers on the top of your socks, you aren’t really in a position to critique other peoples’ clothing choices. But that didn’t stop us. Because oh boy, there were some doozies here to choose from.
I’ll never be mistaken for a GQ model, but I have at least seen enough episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to know there are certain combinations which aren’t done. Lime green pants with canary yellow shirts, tailored shorts with black socks and lace up dress shoes, competing stripes, the works. For the most part, the women were dressed sort of tastefully but then, their outfits were often overshadowed by the feats of engineering which had gone into creating their physiques. So impressed were we guys by the plastic surgeon’s art that the girls in the band had occasion more than once to reprimand us for staring. I suppose we were lucky none of us got our tongues trodden on. Joking apart, I’m really not a fan of false boobs but some of these were truly uhm, eye-catching.
Sunday dawned with the promise of slightly cooler temperature and while the clouds kept the mercury down, it was still plenty steamy out there. We had a bit more work to do this time in that they wanted us to march from behind the goals, out to the centre of the field, then turn and head towards the main stand where we could cook a little longer during the singing of the national anthem. Polo fields are pretty big, so this involved quite a hike but at least they didn’t make us stand out there while somebody prayed, as they do at most of the Highland Games. A few more tunes up by the entrance and we were done for the day.
Remember how they told us “You can eat as much as you want tomorrow.” Well, we should have remembered the adage “Tomorrow never comes” because by the time we hit the buffet line, the wait staff were clearing things away. Yep, the food was all gone and while a couple of folk managed to snag a wee prawn salad thing in a wine glass, the rest of us went hungry. Personally, I hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty about snagging a plateful the day before, but I know it was preying on the consciences of one or two band-members. Not any more it wasn’t and suitably chagrined, we fell like a plague of locusts on the beer tent, ready to make up the missing calories.
As I said, we weren’t the only ones in strange attire but perhaps because we were all dressed alike, and possibly because at least two of us had funny accents, we attracted a certain amount of attention. In the same way anthropologists might be attracted to a new and hitherto undiscovered tribe of jungle savages. I didn’t receive any dinner invitations but I did talk to some very charming people including one young lady called Dannell (sp?) who endeared herself to me by constantly replenishing my beer supply, bringing me a fresh glass as soon as the level in my current one neared the bottom.
Mind you, even she put her foot in it as we packed up after our final performance. She asked me when we were due to play again.
“That’s it; we’re finished.” I told her.
“Oh,” she replied “but weren’t you just warming up?”
Ouch.
First Published: 19 July, 2005
Saturday Night at the Movies – Redux
There are many things I haven’t done although I wish I had. I haven’t stood on the summit of Everest. I haven’t played football for Scotland (although if I had, I don’t think I would have been any worse than some of their current representatives), I haven’t seen the Great Wall of China and I haven’t ridden a bicycle across the United States. And that’s just off the top of my head – there are many more things I’d like to do but still haven’t managed. However, this weekend I did manage to mark one more item off my “things to do list”.
I finally made it to my first drive-in movie.
Generally when I tell people that I’ve yet to undergo this life experience the response is one of incredulity. How could I not have been to a drive-in movie? It is after all, a rite of passage for most Americans and almost everyone I know has fond memories of teen weekends spent in the front seat of a car watching the legends of the silver screen in all their 50ft high glory. But the crucial word in that sentence is “Americans”. I of course, grew up on that sceptred isle across the pond where drive-ins never really caught on.
There are a number of reasons for this. Britain doesn’t share America’s obsession with the motor car for one. This is partly because the enduring image of motoring in Britain is not freedom and the open road, but gridlock and congestion. British cars are generally much smaller too so snuggling with your honey takes a lot more dexterity than on the bench seat of a Detroit land ship. Then of course, there’s the weather. The whole concept of outdoor movie-going more or less demands that the weather be warm, and the sky above filled with stars. It’s hard to fully appreciate the nuances of the filmmakers’ craft when you’re freezing cold and watching through a windscreen streaked with rain.
“Ahah!” I hear you say. “But you’ve lived in the USA for over 12 years now – there’s no excuse for you still not to have been to a drive-in.” Yes, but you see, most of those 12 years were spent in Phoenix where the opposite is true when it comes to the weather. The idea of sitting in a car with the engine (and therefore the air-conditioning) turned off while the ambient temperatures hover around the 100 degree mark holds little appeal for me. There was a drive-in there, not too far from my house, but I believe the majority of the patrons were teenagers whose rampant hormonal drives overrode any discomfort from the heat. Even so, after three years in Colorado, where the summertime temperatures are far more conducive to motorized movie-going, and despite passing a drive-in almost every day, I still haven’t made it down there.
The challenge recently has been that they never seem to show films I want to see. I’m not really that big on brainless action movies and those seemed to be the staple fare of the drive-in. However, a friend recently put this in perspective for me when she patiently explained “It’s a drive-in, it’s not a frickin’ art-house. If you’re waiting for ‘Bob le Flambeur’ to show up, you’re going to be disappointed”. This logic was inescapable so I decided that the next time they showed a movie that didn’t actually promise to kill off my brain cells in measurable amounts, I would go.
I still had to wait a while, but this week the main feature turned out to be ‘War of the Worlds’, a Tom Cruise flick which has received mixed reviews. I’ve never been a huge fan of Cruise’s; either as an actor or a human being but some of his stuff has been passable. There are other places on the web where you can find reviews of the movie if you’re interested; suffice to say, it wasn’t as cheesy as I expected, and Cruise as usual, played himself very well. The effects weren’t bad, and Dakota Fanning is rapidly becoming my favourite actress.
But you see; that’s not really point. The movie itself is secondary to the experience; the novelty of watching a film in a setting that was totally new to me. That’s what made it such a fun night. Spoiled as I’ve been by multiplexes, it’s a few years since I’ve queued up to see a movie. However, that’s what we did here. Not shuffling along on foot like in the olden days, but in one, then two and finally three lines of idling cars, inching our way along the street. Little cars park at the front, bigger ones behind and the biggest of all at the back. Just like in school photos.
I was familiar with the concept of the speaker hooked onto the car door (I have after all, seen the opening credits of ‘The Flintstones’ many times) but what I was totally unprepared for was the option of listening to the movie via FM radio. I had never heard of this although I later learned it was introduced in the 1960’s as a way to reduce costs incurred by boneheads driving away with the speaker still attached to the door. Our truck has a factory issue, but quite acceptable sound system so the audio quality was way better than the crackly resonance I expected from the speaker.
A number of folks had brought along lounge chairs, others parked backwards so they could sit in the bed of their trucks or tailgates. I saw two small girls in sleeping bags on the roof of a Ford Explorer and one enterprising couple had brought along a couch which they set up to watch in style. I was more than happy to sit in the cab and watch the show from there although I did wish I’d thought to bring along a bottle of Windex and some paper towels like the folks two cars down from us. Our insect graveyard of a windscreen didn’t exactly enhance the viewing experience.
All too soon the film was over and as nobody else seemed to be in a hurry to leave, we were out of the parking lot and on our way home while most people were still packing up. It was kind of hot and rather sweaty, and I didn’t get as completely absorbed in the movie as I normally do in a theatre. It was also somewhat alarming to have people walking by your head every few minutes, so I doubt I’ll be seeing too many movies in this format.
Mind you; if I ever invent my time machine and get to become a teenager again…
First Published: 12 July, 2005.
Footnote 1: We learned later that we’d paid for a double-feature of which ‘The War of the Worlds’ was simply the first. Yep, we left halfway through. No wonder nobody else was in a hurry.
Footnote 2: Sadly, this particular drive-in was flattened to make way for an apartment complex less than a year after this post was written.
The Gunsmoke Diaries 