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.”
Tag: Colorado
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.
Different Day, Different Mountain
First Published: 17 May, 2005
It always feels odd to me when I realize I’m finally visiting a place I’ve heard about many times through books, or films or television. The first time I turned a corner and saw Sydney Opera House it took a moment to fully grasp that this was the actual Sydney Opera House and not just somebody’s photo. While sitting on a ferry crossing Hong Kong Harbour I had to remind myself to savour the moment, because I’d waited years for this, and it was finally happening. Kuala Lumpur, Golden Gate Bridge, Singapore, Ayer’s Rock, when I set eyes on these landmarks for the first time, it always felt a little difficult to accept that here I was, and this was the real thing. I still feel that way when I remember I live in the Rocky Mountains. The Rocky Mountains, the ones everybody talks about, writes about, sings about. And I had the feeling a couple of weeks ago, while sitting enjoying lunch in a restaurant in Aspen, just over the Continental Divide.
Aspen sprang into prominence during the late 1800’s when thousands of prospectors poured into the area hoping to strike it rich in the silver mines which riddled the surrounding mountains. Like most booms however, it didn’t last and when President Cleveland made gold the national standard once more, the area’s large mines shut down. By the 1930s, Aspen’s population had dwindled to 700 and the town survived only due to its agriculture. Then some bright spark noticed the copious winter snowfall and had the idea of constructing a ski resort. In 1947 Aspen Mountain opened for business, with Buttermilk and Snowmass quick to follow. Before long, Aspen had gained status as an international arts-and-culture stop, an essential part of the jet set lifestyle. Nowadays, the billionaires are squeezing out the millionaires and Aspen is the place to be seen.
Except there weren’t many people to see or be seen by, at least not this lunchtime. The season was officially over, the ski lifts silent and by the looks of things; the beautiful people had all taken off to new watering holes. Which was fine by me. I’ve never really been part of the beautiful people crowd anyway (for obvious reasons) and as I don’t go much for celebrity worship, was more than happy to have the place to myself.
The place wasn’t entirely deserted of course; the locals were still here, going about their business. But other than a spectacularly ugly yellow Humvee Penis Extension on Main Street and a sulky child wearing a ski-jacket, which I suspect cost more than my car, there were few signs of notable affluence. Most of the people out and about in Aspen at this time of year use bikes rather than SUVs, and wear tie die rather than Armani. Having come from a business meeting I was attired in khakis and button-down shirt, so was therefore one of the more expensively dressed patrons of the restaurant.
But the town itself was quite definitely in sleep mode. A large number of the stores stood empty while construction workers refurbished them ready for next season. A good few restaurants had also closed their doors, the owners no doubt relaxing in some tropical clime, while even the streets themselves were in many cases, blocked off as maintenance workers re-laid cobbles, planted flower beds and repaired the drains. There was a certain level of activity, no doubt about that, but the air was mostly one of slowing down and unwinding. The town had its collective feet up.
Of course, you don’t need large crowds in order to people watch. There was the guy in the park playing with his two Australian Shepherds (this year’s de rigueur fashion accessory apparently, although it seemed everybody had a dog of some sort), the Mom ferrying her three kids around on one bike, the bow legged guy in a red kilt with yellow stockings (no, that wasn’t me) and the constant stream of activity around the town’s bus depot. With the gondolas silent, the bus depot is the centre of Aspen’s transport system and the countless mini-busses did sterling service shipping people around town and up and down the valley.
I was staying and working in Snowmass, a resort which was quite definitely closed for the season so took advantage of the bus service to visit Aspen several times. Most of my fellow passengers appeared to be resort employees, making the trip from home to work and back. Others were simply local residents running errands, laden down with grocery bags and backpacks. A very few were sightseers like me but almost all were exceptionally friendly. The bus drivers appeared to know everybody, often by name and unlike so many of their breed, were bright and cheerful.
On one trip two teenage girls sat across the aisle from me and when one remarked to the other, “I have a problem I need to ask you about”, the entire bus perked up in anticipation of the upcoming gossip. She’d fallen out with a third friend apparently and wanted to make up but as she considered herself blameless in the feud, was reluctant to make the first move. In no time we were all offering advice, in general agreement that in this case, it was OK to be the bigger person. Somewhat surprisingly, (at least to me) she didn’t seem to resent this intrusion and in fact, quite welcomed the input from various complete strangers.
On another ride I got talking to Mary who told me proudly that she was 68 this year. She’s just completed a motorcycle maintenance course in preparation for her upcoming bike run to Alaska. Her Harley was now running “sweeter than a bug’s ass” (whatever that means) and she was in the process of adapting her handlebar panniers to accommodate Pepé, the ugly little dog she held under her arm. What a trip that’s going to be.
My home of Bailey is also a mountain town, although even its biggest boosters would be hard pressed to call it a resort. For most people it’s little more than a wide bit on the back road to the ski areas. There are few celebrities to be seen, not too many millionaires and for the most part, any Humvees belong to the flatlanders passing through. But it’s possible to buy a house here, even on my salary, one can drink coffee without giving a prayer of thanks for the expense account and nobody particularly cares what brand of ski jacket you’re wearing.
So while Aspen may have its appeal, at least out of season, I think I’ll stay where I am. Until I make my first billion at least.
A Wuss in the Woods
First Published: 29 March, 2005
I’m meditating.
My mind is calm, my body relaxed, my senses in tune with the music of the cosmos, my whole being focused on the one…ohmigod here comes another gust of WI-HIND!
Damn, it’s cold.
Reluctantly, I give up on the meditation and open my eyes to see Wiley the dog staring back at me. The question on her face is obvious. “Can we go home now?”
A camping trip seemed like a good idea when I initially made my plans. The weather was sunny and warm, with definite signs of spring in the air. Of course, I should have remembered, Colorado doesn’t give up winter without a fight and by the time the trip rolled around, the temperatures had plummeted once more making the whole prospect much less appealing. However, the weather had also turned nasty the last time I’d planned a camping trip, several months ago and to my regret, I’d wimped out. Not so this time. I was going ahead, cold weather or no.
At the last moment I decided not to take my little hike tent, but to sleep in the back of the car. With the seats folded down there’s plenty of room for me and a dog and I figured the ease of set up might be handy. After checking the weather forecast, I also changed my destination, deciding that a high mountain pass might not be the best location to camp during a winter storm. So southbound we were, to the back roads and jeep trails behind Buena Vista. It was one of the many areas in this state I’ve yet to visit so spirits were high as we bowled along the road early Wednesday morning.
It’s a while since I’ve been camping, and it was disturbing how much I’d forgotten when it came to packing. A warm hat would have been nice. And a tin opener. And perhaps that loaf of bread sitting on the kitchen counter at home. And definitely some hot drinks for the evening. I had my coffee of course, and a healthy supply of beer. But I can’t drink coffee in the evenings and even cold beer loses its appeal in sub-zero temperatures. But those concerns were hours away; at this point we were still optimistic of a fun couple of days, getting back to the wild and communing with nature.
It took a while bumping and wheezing along the trail before I found the perfect campsite beside a picturesque rock outcrop, and I jumped excitedly out of the car. Seconds later I was hopping back in to re-organize my attire. As in, to put on every bit of clothing I’d brought. Man, it was cold.
Now I had anticipated the temperatures dropping during the night and had brought plenty of warm stuff. What I hadn’t really allowed for was how to fill the day when all I could think about was how bitterly cold it was. I had some kind of fantasy about getting in touch with my primal spirit, becoming one with nature and aligning my energy with the natural forces of the earth. I saw myself spending time drumming, reading and meditating, with frequent walks among the flora and fauna which surrounded me. I hadn’t really envisaged myself huddling behind a rock in a desperate attempt to avoid having my face seared off by the wind.
And once darkness fell, oh boy did those temperatures drop. I was using The Light of my Life™’s sleeping bag rather than my own, for no other reason than that I came across it first while rummaging through the shed. It was billed as a three-season bag when we bought it, but I think that must have been one season in Florida, one in Hawaii and one in Acapulco. It certainly isn’t warm enough for spring in Colorado. Although to be fair, considering the water bottle by my head froze in the night, keeping me toasty would have been a challenge for sleeping bags a lot more expensive than this. Wiley had already staked her claim to the tartan rug I had intended to use as back up insulation and as she’s eleven now and presumably every bit as cold as me, I reluctantly cut her some slack. Instead, I lay and shivered, and wondered how long it would be until morning.
When daybreak finally arrived it took several mugs of hot coffee to warm my soul but as the sun made its feeble appearance through the clouds, I was feeling less like a popsicle and ready to face the day. All eighteen hours of it.
We went for walks. Lots of walks. And I spent a lot of time reading whilst huddled in the back of the car. This wasn’t much warmer than outside but at least it offered a respite from the wind. And every now and then I would climb outside and stretch my stiff limbs in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. I tried drumming but the percussion hurt my frozen hands. And I meditated; for a few minutes but totally failed to empty my mind of extraneous thoughts, concentrating as I was on the next gust of icy cold wind.
And all the while there was that nagging voice. The one questioning why I was doing this in the first place.
“You could be in town, sitting in a café, or a bookstore, or a bar. You don’t have to stay out here. You could always spend the day in town then come back and sleep out tonight. Or you could stay in that cheap motel you saw. Or, in two hours you could be home. You’re supposed to be having fun. You aren’t having fun, are you?”
Eventually I silenced the voice by telling myself that I’m a middle-aged guy who works in an office. I can barely run a mile and I can’t lift anything heavy. I can’t fix things around the house, and I wouldn’t know how to kill my own food. When civilization finally breaks down, I won’t last five minutes. But I am not going to give up on a camping trip just because it’s cold!”
And I’m proud to say, I didn’t. I stuck it out for the full 2 days before scraping the ice from the inside of the windshield and running for home. Am I a hardened camper or what? Wiley would probably have wimped out though, given the choice.
What, you didn’t think the wuss in the title was me, did you?
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
First Published: 12 April, 2005
They said there was a storm coming. Over and over they said it. On the television, the radio, online, everywhere. Big storm’s a-coming; you better get ready.
Except they’ve said that before, hundreds of times. And they’ve always been wrong. Well, not always – there was the blizzard of ’03 which buried parts of the foothills under 12-15 feet of snow; they did predict that correctly. But all the other chicken-little warnings either haven’t come to pass at all or have been a fraction of what we were told to expect. As a veteran of 3 ½ Colorado winters I’ve come to learn that when the weather service says “Expect a foot of snow”, we can anticipate an inch or so.
To be fair, our house is located in an area which seems to be remarkably well protected from the brunt of Colorado’s winter storms. Known locally as “The Banana Belt” we’re sheltered by the mass of Mt Evans which means the nasty stuff tends to blow right around us. Quite often the worst driving conditions of my commute don’t happen until I’ve dropped a good thousand feet or so towards the plains. Many of Colorado’s world-famous ski resorts are approximately the same height as our house yet they receive five or ten times the amount of snow. But even so, the weather predictions have a tendency to be almost comically unrealistic.
The “big storm” was supposed to hit us on Saturday night, so it was with a weary cynicism I headed for bed after noting an almost immeasurable amount of snow on the deck. Up at 5am to accommodate The World’s Most Irritating Dog who’d refused the opportunity to pee at bedtime and still there was virtually no snow.
“Useless b******s,” I grumbled. (I grumble a lot in the mornings) “I wish I had a job where I could be wrong about absolutely everything and not get fired.”
Pre-coffee crankiness aside, I was really quite pleased. You see I was leaving for a conference later that morning and as the airport is a good 70 miles away, I didn’t fancy having to battle the elements all the way there. Back to bed with a clear conscience and another couple of hours between the warm sheets. 7 a.m., the alarm went off and I hopped semi-cheerfully out of bed only to discover the long-awaited storm had finally got started. Oh boy; had it started.
There was still only 3 or 4 inches on the ground but it was coming down thick and fast so I decided that although my flight would almost certainly be delayed, it still made sense to set out for the airport sooner rather than later. Of course, it never entered my head the flight would be cancelled altogether so I learned about that from the radio when I was only a couple of miles from the house. I’d to drive another mile before finding a place safe enough to turn around and giving thanks once again for 4-wheel drive, pointed Angus homewards.
Like a kazillion other people due to fly from Denver, I had to call the airline to find out what they had in mind for the rest of my day. I expected to be on hold for an hour or more so when a pleasant voice came on the line after about five minutes, it caught me completely off guard and with a mouthful of toast. Yes, the flight was cancelled but not to worry, there was room on a later flight scheduled for the evening, presumably by which time, somebody would have shovelled the runways clear and jump-started the planes.
Which left me with almost a full day to kill. Me, who never has enough time to do the things I have to do, much less the things I want to do. Me, who has a dozen projects to start “whenever I get some free time, even just a few hours would do”. A whole Sunday with nothing planned, nowhere to go, no chores to be done.
And I couldn’t get motivated to do anything.
I’m not sure what the psychology of all this was but it seemed my head was already in travel mode and my brain wasn’t ready to do anything else. My exercise gear stayed in the bag. The pile of photographs didn’t make it into the new album. My drumsticks stayed in the daypack along with my practice pad. And the bills stayed unpaid. Oh, I did allow nutso-dog to drag me around the neighbourhood for an hour or so, but most of the day was spent mooning around the house or standing at the window, listlessly watching the snow come down.
When the airline left a message to say my new flight had been cancelled too, it came as no big surprise. Nor was it any great shock that it took a whole lot longer to get through to the reservation centre this time. I took this in my stride and calmly accepted my fate. I didn’t get bad tempered until I accidentally pressed the phone too close to my face while holding it wedged in my shoulder and disconnected the call after being on hold for 26 minutes.
Then I got really bad tempered some 35 minutes later when I finally got through and found myself conversing with an infuriatingly chirpy automated robot. I’m not sure if the deficiency was on my side or Deep Blue’s but the conversation broke down when it asked me for my confirmation number and was then unable to understand my response. So, it asked again. And again. And again.
I learned a couple of things during this exchange. One is that regardless of how many obscenities you scream at United Airline’s telephone robot, and no matter the volume, it will still respond with “I’m sorry, I’m unable to find that confirmation number. Could you please give it to me again?” The second is that The Light of my Life™ is probably right when she says I should have my blood pressure re-checked.
The conference was at a ski resort high above Lake Tahoe with a breath-taking setting in one of the world’s most beautiful valleys. But I’m afraid I barely saw the view as it was the middle of the night when I finally arrived. I spent the following day blearily taking part in what was left of the conference, and before I knew it, it was time to go home. I’m told it was very nice though. And they had more snow that we got.
Would it have been too much to ask for my flight to have been cancelled in this direction?
In the Headlights
First Published: 8 March, 2005
I saw you up ahead, you and your mate, but only for a moment. I braked but didn’t swerve; stayed in a straight line just like we’re told to do. And if you’d only kept running, I would have passed safely behind you. Your mate had already stopped and was safe. It would have been alright. Instead, you panicked and turned back the way you came. You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time. And you were no match for me. You didn’t even make much of a noise. But I knew how hard I’d hit you. I knew.
The driver behind me stopped as well and the pair of us walked back together.
“What was it?” he asked. I told him and his face mirrored mine.
I’m not a praying man, but as I made my way along the road, I was wishing with all my heart. “Please let it be dead, please let it be dead”.
We found you by the side of the road, much further back than I’d thought. You were lying prone and still, curled up as if you were asleep. As if you could be sleeping, here with all those vehicles roaring by only inches from you. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, you were dead.
Then you lifted your head and those enormous liquid eyes looked right into my soul. You told me of your pain, your suffering, your fear.
“Why?” you asked, “Why did you do this?”
I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, I really didn’t. I was paying attention, honestly, I was. I wasn’t even going fast. It’s just one moment you weren’t there, the next moment you were. And I braked. I was slowing down. But you turned and ran back. And there wasn’t enough time.
Cell phone reception is unreliable up here, but after a few moments hesitation the signal came through loud and clear. The dispatcher was very kind though it was hard for us to talk over the roar of the traffic, so she suggested I get back in my car. And I had to leave you, frightened and in pain. I didn’t want to leave you.
“No, I’m not hurt. No, there are no other vehicles involved. Yes, my car is safely off the road.” Then we started talking about you, the reason for my call. You were off the main highway, I told her, but in a turning lane. Another vehicle could easily hit you in the dark. I was worried about the additional suffering this would cause you. She of course was concerned for the other vehicle.
“I know this won’t be pleasant” she told me, “but could you drag it to the side of the road?”
“No ma’am” I told her, “I can’t do that.”
She hadn’t heard me say you were still alive.
So instead she had me back my car up to you. My car, which had caused you so much misery, was now shielding you, protecting you. In a tragically pitiful way, helping to ensure you suffered no more than you had to for your final minutes in the world.
The local sheriff arrived first. A badge, a uniform, authority. Someone who could take charge. I explained what had happened. I took him to you, and I could tell from his face that he was sorry too. I expected him to unclip his gun but instead he pulled out a baton. A dead weight on a telescopic arm. Could I stand here and watch as he hit you? Break your neck, break your skull? Yes, I would have to watch it. I owed that to you. Squeamish cowardice at this time would be a further insult to the end of your beautiful life. But instead, he merely reached forward and gently touched your eyeball. No reaction. Mercifully, you had finally moved on.
Donning protective gloves he carried you off the blacktop and onto the grass verge. I noticed there was litter by your head and absent mindedly, picked it up and took it away. Just a token effort but I wanted your surroundings to be as close to natural as was possible. We had to wait on the State Patrol; apparently you were their jurisdiction. So, the two of us checked my car; the first time I’d really looked. A light cover was gone, part of the bumper was missing, the spoiler bent back. Nothing much really. Nothing to show how much the damage had cost you. I pulled the spoiler back into place. I can replace the light cover tomorrow. It would be more than the car’s worth to fix the rest, so I’ll need to leave it as is. Which means I’ll see it every day. Which means I’ll see you every day.
State Patrol arrived a few minutes later. He looked half my age, but he carried an air of calm authority I suspect I’ll never have. He’s seen it all before of course, but really at this point, there was nothing more for him to do. I filled out an accident report, which gave me fifteen lines to say what I was able to say in 2. I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you. What else was there to add? That you were beautiful? That you were only in your second or third year? That your eyes were black pools of pain that communicated your feelings to me as clearly as if you spoke my language? That I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my days? I couldn’t write that. So instead, I said what happened. “I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you.”
“Try not to feel bad.” said the sheriff “It happens. It’s part of living in the mountains.”
“It’s my first” I told him.
“I’ve hit three. It doesn’t get any easier.” He replied.
Business done; it was time to go. To leave you like any other piece of highway debris. In the next few days, the county workers will come with a winch and take you away, who knows where. Hopefully you’ll provide food for some other animals, or nourishment for the soil. I took solace from the fact that you of course, were gone. This was just your body; a means for getting around during your short time on earth. You’re running free somewhere now, beginning the cycle yet again.
You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time.
This article appeared in Issue # 114 of Mountain Gazette in June, 2005.
Car Talk
First Published: 1 March, 2005
Angus isn’t feeling well today. Angus is my car and has been a member of the family for almost three years now. He came into the household not too long after we moved into the mountains when it became apparent that my little Nissan, despite having provided many miles of semi-trouble-free service wasn’t going to be able to handle my commute for very long. It’s around fifty miles each way and includes a vertical climb of over half a mile and that starting from one mile above sea level. I’d already spent many a happy evening standing by the side of the road while his radiator cooled down and this was only summer – a Colorado winter with a two-wheel drive didn’t hold much appeal.
So, the Nissan was sold to a high-school student who lives in the city and thinks it’s a Rolls Royce, the “Cars for Sale” ads were scoured and before long, we’d adopted a 1992 Toyota 4Runner and christened him Angus. I’m no fan of the SUV culture but Angus is small by today’s standards, gets a reasonable gas mileage and yet comes equipped with four-wheel drive, chunky tires and enough oomph to handle the Rocky Mountain foothills even in a winter blizzard. Like all old cars he has his foibles, but over the years I’ve come to know and love them. However, he’s racked up almost a quarter of a million miles in his lifetime (that’s 10 times round the world) and is of an age where he needs a little TLC every now and then.
If you’ve been reading the Gunsmoke Diaries for any length of time you’ll know that fixing things isn’t my strong point. My contribution to the business of car maintenance extends to putting the petrol in and cleaning them every once in a while. When they refuse to start, I empty the gum wrappers out of the ashtrays, remove the assorted debris from the floor and wipe the rear-view mirrors. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’m pretty much stuck. Several years ago, we invested in AAA membership and have never had cause to regret it. Tow the car to the shop. Have it fixed by someone who knows what they’re doing. Worry no more.
Two downsides to this system are a) the inordinate amounts of cash that has to change hands before I can have my car back and b) the hours of stomach clenching fear while waiting for the phone to ring. Just what’s wrong with it this time? It’s mid-afternoon as I write this, and I still haven’t heard. Having been the proud owner of a series of old cars, I’ve been going through this my entire adult life.
My very first motor was a Citroen Dyane, in multiple shades of red who went by the name of Wilf. The Dyane was a cousin of Citroen’s better known, but equally ugly 2CV. In case you’re wondering, 2CV comes from Deux Cheveaux as in two horsepower. Yes, you heard – two. And they must have been pretty tired old nags at that. The darn thing was so under powered that unless I got a decent run up, many hills defeated it completely. One rather steep ascent out of town could only be tackled in reverse. A tongue in cheek ad at the time claimed the Dyane was faster than a Ferrari. As indeed it was. Provided the Ferrari driver chose not to go above 68 mph.
However, for a seventeen-year-old it was a delightfully quirky car with all manner of bits and bobs one doesn’t see on modern automobiles. The gearshift was on the dash and rather than the H format with which we’re all familiar, had a more elaborate arrangement based on the number 4. The high beam switch was floor mounted and was operated by foot. Each seat, including the driver’s could easily be removed for impromptu picnics. And it came equipped with cruise control in the form of a coat hanger-like wire extending through the floor by which means the throttle could be locked open. Sadly, unlike today’s cruise control, a tap of the brakes did NOT release it – the wire had to be manually pushed back in. A fact I discovered milliseconds before rear-ending a truck.
Wilf had a canvas roof, which could be unclipped and rolled back just like a regular convertible. It was recommended the car not be in motion when unclipping the roof and with good reason as I discovered when casually releasing the clamp for the first time as I cruised down the motorway. In an instant the roof was hanging down the back of the car, completely obscuring the rear window which, as I had no side mirrors, was the only way of seeing what was behind me. Quite a thrill for someone only a couple of months beyond his driving test.
Britain has an abominable law called the Ministry of Transport Test or M.O.T., which in theory, is an annual road worthiness test to be performed by government approved repair shops on all cars over three years old. In practice it’s a license for unscrupulous grease monkeys to extort money from mechanically disadvantaged teenage boys. When I bought the car, it had already failed its M.O.T. once. “Here’s the three things it failed for.” said the seller. “I can either fix them or sell it to you as is for £50 less.” I chose the latter option and reviewing the faults, found that one was easy enough to fix, one was way too expensive to consider while as for the third – I never did find what the mechanic was complaining about. Neither did the shop that handled the retest. They didn’t mention item two either. But they did fail it for three completely different reasons that had inexplicably escaped the attention of the first guy.
Wilf finally died on the side of the road when his engine block literally split apart. Despite my annual insurance premiums being almost the same as I paid for the car, my coverage didn’t extend to damage to my own vehicle, just those of other people. Still, the scrap merchant gave me enough for a darn good wake in Wilf’s honour.
There have been many other cars over the years and for some, I have fonder memories than others. But I’ve loved them all in their ways. Cared for them, named them and polished them ’till I could see my face in the rust. But for now, Angus is my baby and like any concerned parent, I worry about him when he’s not well. Still, the good news is – at least I’m not trying to fix him myself.
Wardrobe Malfunction
First Published: 22 February, 2005
The Light of my Life™ bought me a new shirt the other day. At least it’s new to me; somebody else owned it previously. No complaints about that; a lot of my wardrobe comes from thrift stores including most of the stuff I really like. Even better, it saved me the trouble of going clothes shopping for myself, something which as far as I’m concerned, ranks right up there with drilling holes in my kneecaps and watching programs on the Lifetime Channel. It’s an all linen number which hangs beautifully, feels great and if I say so myself, makes me look something of a stud muffin.
One downside of thrift store clothing is that no matter how good it looks, you’re never entirely sure of its past history so I added it to the bag of other shirts and dropped it off at the dry cleaners for laundering. It was a small pile this week, so I got something of a shock on my return, when the bill came to over $17. Turned out the cleaners had followed the instructions on the label and rather than simply laundering it as I had asked, had dry cleaned and hand finished it. As this extra service came to almost $10, it made my $5 shirt a little less of a bargain.
But as I said, it does look good, so I simply resolved to be careful when and where I wore it. I always wear an undershirt so if I avoided smoky bars and sweaty environments, I should be able to squeeze two or three wearings between launderings. As I dressed to wear it for the first time, I jokingly said to The Light of my Life™, “What do suppose I’ll spill on it?” “Don’t say things like that,” she replied, “you’re only tempting fate.”
She was right, of course. It was tartar sauce. I great big dollop of it, right down the front.
This didn’t really come as a surprise. Clean clothes and I never seem to get along too well and in fact I’ve often speculated at the mysterious forces that cause food, drink and other messy substances to be inexorably attracted to my outerwear. When I lived in Britain, I wore a tie each day for work and for the longest time I thought the only purpose they served was to keep my shirts clean. When dressing for an important occasion, I often had to ask “Do you think soup stains or chili stains go better with this jacket?”
The bottom couple of inches were usually discoloured after my tie had fallen onto my plate as I sat down so over the years I developed the habit of pressing it to my torso until I was seated. Even though I haven’t worn a tie on any regular basis for several years, the habit is apparently still with me as I learned quite recently while eating lunch with a co-worker. In an interested tone he asked, “Why do you always pat your stomach when you sit down?”
My office in Phoenix was located across the street from an excellent Italian restaurant. Their specialty dish was chicken cooked in a red wine sauce which tasted absolutely divine even though it was a rather unnatural grape colour. I had lunch there one day and as I had a client presentation that afternoon, was impeccably dressed. Anxious to maintain the smart appearance of my snowy white shirt and crisp chinos, I made sure to use my napkin. I’m aware it’s not socially acceptable to tuck one’s napkin into the shirt collar so like a good little grown up; I had mine spread over my lap. Although I should have known what would happen, I ordered my usual chicken-in-purple-stuff and in a matter of moments; had dropped a piece.
Perhaps if I’d simply sat still, I might have got away with little more than a nasty stain or two where it landed. Instead, in my frantic attempts to get out of the way, I did a series of hip-hop style dance moves and as a result, managed to steer the chicken-in-toxic-sauce all the way across my chest, down one arm, over my (now napkin-less) crotch and the full length of one leg before it finally came to rest in the cuff of my pants. The waitress did her best to help but really, only made matters worse. There wasn’t enough time to go home and change so I made my presentation to the clients looking like an extra from a slasher flick. The sad thing was; nobody seemed overly surprised.
It hasn’t always been my fault. One time I was flying on a business trip. My fellow passengers and I were just settling down to the highlight of the flight, namely the plastic glass of soda and the bag of pretzels. I’d taken no more than a couple of sips when the lady next to me spilled her drink over my right leg. The flight attendant raced into action and using no more than a glass of club soda and a paper napkin, did a quite serviceable job of removing the stain while leaving the crease in my pants reasonably intact. My seat mate was mortified and full of apologies. No real harm was done, we had a joke about it and the flight attendant brought her another drink.
She reached for her fresh drink and as we both watched in horror, some malevolent force caused her to throw this one over my right leg too. Again, the flight attendant did her routine with the soda and napkin but this time, my pants were beyond salvation. My left leg was still sporting a fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners razor sharp crease while the right looked as though I’d been swimming. My business trip was a fly out in the morning, give a presentation, fly home in the evening kind of deal and for this reason, I travelled light – just my laptop and my notes, no change of clothes or anything. Still, at least I had an opening anecdote.
Coffee, ketchup, red wine, baked beans, anything that can leave a mess has at some time or other graced my apparel. The cleaner the clothes, the messier the stain – it’s just a fact of life. I’ve never been known as a close follower of the fashion world, but I keep hoping that one day I’ll turn on the news to see some anorexic model strutting down the runways of Paris or Milan wearing a white blouse with a big dollop of mustard on the front. When that trend finally arrives, I’ll definitely be ahead of the game.
Drumming up the Sun
First Published: 21 December, 2004
As you may know, today marks the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest night of the year, the solstice has been celebrated by ancient peoples the world over to mark their gratitude for the fact that the sun has once more risen and the wheel of the year is complete. The Winter Solstice marked victory of light over darkness or the end of the cycle of death and decay and the beginning of a new cycle of light, growth and life. It has traditionally been a time for people to celebrate the gradual lengthening of the days and the regeneration of the earth.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as the Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpt the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theatre. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheatre and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheatre steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, I saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheatre and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an aeroplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition has been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
The Gunsmoke Diaries 