Something Strange Is Going On Here....

Today I did something very strange. I went to Sam's Club and bought a single pair of jeans. Is that weird or what? When the time comes, I don't think I'll need to renew my card.

I'm a good shopper, in a sense. Really. Once I know what I want, I can usually get it wholesale. If you ever need a cheap transfusion, call me. I can make a turnip bleed.

Just give me the type and Rh factor, and I'll get on it.

But I just hate being in a store. I always have. I hate being sold stuff. I hate being told I need something when I know I don't. I hate the omnipresent advertising con.

So I always buy in quantity, just to put off having to go back down there, into Gomorrah. Not all that long ago, I even bought half a calf at a time, and froze it. It made me feel smugly virtuous, secure, and provident.

Like one of the Secret Elect. The Shopper Who Prepared for the Worst. Let the Grasshopper fiddle away the day. I was the Eternal Ant.

That's why Sam's Club suited me for so long. Want laundry soap? Here's a box big enough to move into when it's empty. Which won't happen this year. Dog food? Here's 50 pounds. The little furrball doesn't weigh but 15, so with any luck you may never have to buy this stuff again. Lookit, there's 72 Bic pens, and 24 highlighters - your academic career is all set. Stacks and stacks of jeans and shirts - buy'em by the dozen.

The great thing for me about Sam's Club was that I didn't have to go shopping but once every month or so. Or longer. For a long time I bought clothes only once a year, usually at the outlet mall in San Marcos. 'Course I had to have the suburban equivalent of a barn to keep all that stuff in.

No more. A couple of months ago I moved into this stick and fiberglass chrysalis, and strange things are happening. I'm unlikely to become a butterfly, but I am changing into something other than I was.

I'm evolving, but into what?

I am sensitive to small things that never bothered me before. Take the grocery store. Have you tried to buy a single bar of soap lately? Or a single roll of toilet paper? Half a dozen eggs? A stick of butter?

It may still be possible, but not easily, and not everywhere.

Living in the trailer is giving me the shopping habits of the elderly urban poor, long before I am any of those things. Or even close. Really.

This is the way everyone used to shop before refrigeration. Every day you went to the store and bought for a meal or two or three. More than that wouldn't keep. Ice boxes were tiny.

Well, they still are, in my trailer.

And, oddly, that's okay with me. I just wish I could walk to the HEB. There's less need these days to carry much, either in my wallet or in my arms. It'd be a good excuse to stretch my legs.

I'm evolving, all right. I'm slowly turning into a full time RV'er.

Like any birth, it isn't exactly easy, but there is an inevitability to the process. One day you'll just look up, and I'll be gone. Born again.

Even if you see me go, you won't know me.

I'll hardly know myself.

Bob

RV Rx

You have retired.

Congratulations.

So what're you going to do with all that time?

If you are married, no problem. Your wife will tell you what to do. If you are single, it's a little more complicated.

First you have to grow a beard. Sorry, it's required.

Sean Connery looks good in a beard, why not you? You discover holes in your coverage. Carve around them. God, that thing is white. The sideburns will probably go first. It's still white. This mewling monologue will rise to anticlimax one morning when you will stare blearily into the mirror, hear a strange voice mutter "yuck", and find yourself clean shaven once again.

Michael Jordan looks good bald. Maybe you should shave your head. Of course. Make a virtue of necessity. Whew. Who knew? Too much maintenance. Makes you look like a chubby P.O.W. And you still can't jump.

Important matters like these, and the requisite periods of repentance and repair, should get you through the first few weeks. In the end you will look a lot like yourself again, just in time for the retirement party. There's a reason why they delay those things.

If you should happen to ceremoniously bury your alarm clock in the garbage can, you will find your sleep patterns become disrupted. It may be hard to find a cafe serving breakfast at 2 in the afternoon. Worry not. Eventually the spidery hands of your biological clock will tick back through the day, and you'll end up where you've always been. More or less.

Or you could buy another alarm clock.

All you have to do is get up every morning, do exactly what you want to do, and not a damn thing else. How hard can it be?

Harder than you thought.

You may grow peckish, find yourself picking small fights with inoffensive people. Like the clerk at Walmart. (Good Grief. Would you like me to count that for you?) You will read the paper for hours, though there's no more in it than there ever was. You will fall asleep in the afternoon, and wake up wondering where you are.

You will begin going over your medical records, making pointless doctor appointments, "just in case". This habit will lose its charm during the prostate exam.

You may idly consider useless activities like golf, or water aerobics. You may become a persistent dour presence on newsnet. If you are lucky, you will discover long walks, and lose a few pounds.

You will notice the buzzards circling during your walk. Pay no mind. They have always been there.

You will eat too much. If you smoke, you will become a regular chimney. As you reconsider your finances, you will find that retirement is remarkably ... like more life with less money. You will read books on investing in the stock market, in an attempt to reactivate your bullshit detector. You may succeed.

At times it will all seem just too much for you. Don't worry about it. It always has been.

There is a name for all this. Post Retirement Disorder. Don't look it up, just trust me. You are circling yourself. Unlike the dog, you will catch nothing that way.

There is a cure.

Get up one morning and break the circle. Get moving. Where you go doesn't matter so much as the mere act of moving. Go, go, go. Go until you are engaged, stop when you catch up with yourself. If you find yourself a poor neighbor, move out of your mind in the middle of the night.

It is called vacation for a reason. You vacate yourself. It can be done anywhere. You can escape into books, into music, into teaching, into going back to school. I am told you can even escape into grandchildren, for a while.

But it may be useful to make the metaphor concrete, to actually cover ground. You don't want to become the proverbial goose, and "wake up in a new world every morning". You can end up drooling that way. But you should at least try a new view out the window. You can even honk. Go ahead.

Such mornings encourage the imagination.

Bear in mind that travel should always involve some element of danger: pirates, brigands, love, storms, speed, loneliness. Something that hints of the momentous, something that stirs up the short term forecast.

Fact is, you are just not important enough to take up your time. Find something else. Computers have a reset button. Why shouldn't you?

Move on, past the past. It doesn't take that much. Boredom makes you old. You can't afford to bore yourself. You are old enough already. So get off your ass.

And congratulations on the retirement.


Bob

Living in the Driveway

I spent a lot of money in October and November of '02, after I got back from the Dakotas, on fixing the house in Georgetown up for sale. In fact, after new paint and texture, sheetrock work, and a roof, the darn thing was just too good to sell.

Or so it seems.

I was also neck deep in trying to sell my mother's house, and thus settle the estate. I had more success there. But all the way through Christmas, and much of the spring, despite a few small trips, I was pretty much tied down to Georgetown. And yet....

Pssst. C'mere. Can you keep a secret? Come closer. Let me whisper a little something in your shell-like ear. You ready for this?

It is a little known fact that interesting things can actually happen AT HOME! No kidding. I wouldn't make stuff up.

Of course the travel industry would rather you didn't know this.

So you understand it is at considerable personal risk, and with not a little trepidation, that I am offering the following rare stay-at-home adventures. Cheap, too. Wrapping is extra.

Better hurry up and read them. I think I hear helicopters.

Black helicopters.


Bob

Home Again, Home Again

Wednesday

"The sun has riz,
The sun has set,
And here we iz
in Texas yet."

---Burma Shave


I arrived in Georgetown around 10 pm after a long day's drive from Fort Sumner. I threw some uniforms in the wash for the next day. 9/11. I was afraid we'd have to be in a parade or something. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but after 2 days of driving I wanted only to pay bills and cook dinner.

As it turned out, there was a parade, but it was for us, not by us. Starting at noon, what had to be the entire 2nd and 3rd grades of Widen Elementary came trooping through the station, bearing posters and cookies, solemnly shaking our hands. It was wholly charming, and I began to think it wasn't so bad to be a fireman.

We had our first run at 3 pm. Came in as investigation of a previous fire. I had seen nothing on the log about a fire there. I called Dispatch on the radio and asked if this was Code 3 (full speed with lights and siren) or Code 1 (normal driving). They replied that they had the person on the phone, the fire was out, and there was no hurry. So, we took our time in the traffic getting over there.

As we walked in, we were greeted by a wild-eyed German Shepherd trying to get out, and a distinct odor of gas. There was also an overlay of cigarette smoke. Things started moving a little faster. A thickset mumbling man pulled the dog back as we went by him. The deeper we got into the house, the stronger the gas smell. He followed us into a partly demolished kitchen.

"I was trying to do a little remodeling..."

"Sir, stand over there."

I could hear gas escaping. There were scorch marks on the wall above the stove. It was behind there. Gas was pouring out back there. I got behind it, found the valve, and cut it off at the wall.

When I turned around, the guy had a huge Stilson wrench in his hand.

"I guess I'm not that strong. I was going to use this...."

"Sir, it's not hard to turn. See the way it is now? That's off. If you put that wrench on it, you'll break it. Please don't touch that valve again until someone else looks at your stove and replaces that line."

He turned around and bumbled over to the table. There was a cigarette burning there, in an ash tray the size of a plate, filled with butts. Somehow I missed that in the rush to the stove. He picked it up.

"Sir, put out that cigarette right now. And let's get some windows open in here."

We left him after a while, with more admonitions. We felt sorry for the poor dog, and his neighbors, and worried that we'd be back at 3 am to find a house demolished and burnt body parts everywhere.

This was our day for odor calls. And close calls. When Gaylon pulled out of the station for the next one, lights and siren blaring, he stopped short sharply at the street and leaned on the air horn. A white Toyota was bearing down on us. He leaned on the horn again, but she kept coming. And coming. She passed in front of us, maybe 2 feet from the bumper. Then she stopped dead in the middle of the street, making us go around her.

Dannyjuan and Dan2 were laughing in the back. I was still trying to recover from whiplash and belt burn.

"Woo-woo, talk at her, Gaylon."

"I speak English, not Jerk."

When we got there, we found a slight odor of gas coming from the meter beside a 1950's mobile home. As I opened the gate to the back yard, one of the neighbors said, "There's 3 pit bulls in there." Whoops. We whisked ourselves back outside until the dogs were rounded up, and then shut off the gas. Southern Union Gas arrived, and we left it to them.

At 8 pm, another gas odor. Why do these things come in threes? Turned out to be new asphalt down the street.

Then a psychiatric at 11. A 17 year old chugged 40 ounces of "Mad Dog 20/20" in maybe 5 minutes, and couldn't figure out why her face felt numb. Because she was on psychiatric medications, she was transported to hospital.

When we got back to the station, someone had brought a small potted rose bush and left it with a poster by the front door. "We won't forget. 9/11" .

Flowers for Firemen, once a year. What a great idea. It changed our luck. We slept all night.

The next morning was full of administrative crap, but no calls. We had to take the generator in for maintenance. Thursday is big station cleanup, and Dannyjuan tore the stove apart. And there was a phone call from a hyperventilating acting chief with delusions of competence. Every minor problem is a crisis with this guy.

But all in all it was an easy shift, a simple shift. Boring. And that's the way I like it. Everybody's better off when firemen are bored.

I had lunch with Sean when I got off. He's looking good. And why not? He's 24. He's selling car loans and taking a creative writing class at night. He's got his whole life in front of him.

I ran errands all afternoon. Towards evening I got to sit down, and thought once again about retiring. I don't have to do this. Every month I stay is another few thousand in an account somewhere, but there's only so much that money can be allowed to decide.

On this trip I glimpsed the possibility of another sort of life, another frame of mind. Do I want to lose that to a chainsmoking amateur carpenter?

Or even to the habits of a 30 year man, the narrowing focus that any job brings? I need to decide. I need a new start. I need inspiration.

After 2 years, I need a smoke.

I went down to the HEB and bought a fruit plate for breakfast and a cigar for supper. This last is a step not taken lightly by a man who's had a heart attack. But maybe this is a cigar decision. That is, a moment requiring ritual, formality, in recognition that whatever you do there is no turning back.

You can laugh or cringe at the cigar, according to taste, but everyone has their rituals. This one is mine, or used to be.

So I sat and smoked and invoked an omen in the front yard for an hour or so in the evening, considering the options. The sky above, that in the mountains was an imposing endless black shot with stars, is here almost lavender from the lights of town. Like the milky bottom of a cereal bowl, it merely waits. Opaque.

No omen there.

But wait. There are no stars, but half a moon rises gorgeous from the trees, like a slice of lemon in the sky. Is that a sign? It looks like God's own glowing, knowing smile.

Listen as I might, though, it would not speak to me. Indifferently companionable, crickets were humming golden oldies to themselves. But not to me, tonight. This night is noncommital. Ordinary.

I'm trying too hard. No help here.

Perhaps I should rethink my rituals. In the end, this evening was a purrless cat, a lump in the lap. And now I'm sneezing. Coming down with a cold. Great. And I have a furry tongue as well. Better brush my teeth, and try to dream on this some other time.

But sans Cigar. Definitely sans cigar. Ptahh.

It's hell to be so careful, so sensible. So goddam grown up.

And so back in town.


Bob

The Hanged Man

Monday


The fog lifted around 10 am. Shortly after that a biker blew through. On the road, generally, I've noticed bikers don't hang around long. Except in Sturgis, they just roar up and get off, stagger around a bit, adjust themselves, spit, kick a rock or two. Maybe take a picture, or a pee. Then it's back on the bike and away they go. Actually, that's pretty much the story in Sturgis, too.

All they've got is the ride. It is a great ride. I took a tour a decade ago through Colorado and New Mexico on an aging but game Yamaha 1100. But I don't miss the butt beaters any more.

Moving all the time is a biker's natural addiction.

Listen to me. I'm doing the same thing. But when I stop I have a couch. I have a chair to sit outside. I have a fridge full of stuff. They have....the dirt. And the ride. I don't miss it....much.

Nowadays I like to linger.


On the way down the hill toward Tres Piedras I was undisturbed by the ubiquitous shot-up Elk Crossing signs. But the Hanged Man stopped me.

He was on the north side on a curve, a figure twisting in the wind beneath an arch bearing the sign "We do it the old way". To the side was another sign, "Dad's Dream Ranch", and a name: Gurule.

I rolled to a stop half off the road behind an old green Ford pickup with no tailgate and a half bale of hay in the back. Nobody visible in the cab, but there was a dog sleeping on the hay, and another in the shade beneath the bed. Underdog and Overdog, each lost to the world.

Is this the best we can do these days? Cerberus had nine heads.

Beyond the arch and it's ominous burden there was a wrecked barn and a lean-to with a rusty tin roof, and next to that a patchwork house. There was a lot of rusty stuff around, in point of fact, including a school bus, various wheels and parts of cars, a horse trailer, and a miniature windmill whirling merrily away.

The figure on the rope was old clothes on some kind of frame, with a gimme hat squashed down on top, and the whole thing stiffened with white paint. Just dangling there, moving in the breeze.

I got out to stretch my legs, and when I turned to get the camera, the pickup in front of me started up. Underdog jumped up in the bed, and the truck made a U turn in the road. I hadn't seen the driver get in. He must have been lying in the seat. He looked hard at me as he passed by. Then he turned right, under the arch.

What I saw I have seen before. A scrawny neck, unshaven, sticking out of a dirty shirt. Lots of these guys on street corners in town, bearing a sign like "Everbody needs a little help now 'n then". What stood out here were the coke bottle glasses, which made his eyes into great circles, like owl's eyes.

"Good luck, Gurule." I thought.

The breeze came up a bit, and the Hanged Man blew out toward me.


Bob

Sic Transit Gloria Monday

Monday


I woke from apnea, I guess. Gasping for breath, as though I'd been wrestling, or running. I was dreaming heavy, about work, some screwup long ago. I couldn't get past it, and I pushed and pushed....

I sat up. There wasn't enough air, and yet I kept gasping and going back to sleep. I pushed the covers back, and looked outside. Nothing. Gray fog, so thick it actually rubbed against the window. Or the wind did. Velcro fog. Insistent, like a sullen neighbor who won't stop knocking.

It was like waking from one dream into another. That same cut-off feeling.

I slid the window open. Cold, wet air came flowing in smoothly. Penetrating, shocking. I reached out to close it, and I heard.... crows. Raucous, calling to each other, somewhere out there.

Oblivious of me. If this was another dream, I had company.

I remembered, then. It's Monday. The day I leave the mountains. I stopped short last night, up here in the pass between Chama and Taos, between Tierra Amarilla and Tres Piedras. I stopped, on a level turnout, because it was late, because the road was empty, because the view was breathtaking. Sunset pushing past dark clouds, pink and yellow glowing under and over layers of rain suspended in the west. The earth is not really yellow here, but some of the aspens are brilliant gold.



I stopped to look, because soon there would be no more mountains.

Well, there's no view this morning. It's like trying to see through curtains, or the gradually brightening wall of a tent.

You know, it's odd how little it takes to make a home. A small warm space, a few familiar objects. Some way to shut out everything else.

A door, a window, a light, and suddenly it seems like home. Even if it's only 8 X 20 feet, and a loft beyond. That's more than enough.

Oh, and coffee. Coffee would be good. Somewhere in the back of my pounding skull that suffocating dream is still going on. But I can't get to it.

I'll just have to get beyond it.

Bob

Aaahhhhh!

Lake City, Colorado
Saturday
9:30 pm


Tonight I dined very well indeed. Ordinarily I would have gone to see Bruno at the Crystal Lodge, a transplant from France via Corpus Christi, who is an excellent chef. But when I went by the crafts fair downtown this afternoon, I got to looking over the menu at Jon and Jona's across the street.

Let me share this meal with you. I started with a bowl of yellow pepper soup, a creamy puree accented lightly with cracked black pepper and fresh chives.

Then came an excellent house salad with dijon dressing, and the first of three glasses of Pinot Noir.

Then the entree - a succulent hunk of Salmon Morroco, seared medium rare, lightly flavored with anise and more strongly by the roasted tomato stuffing.

The side was Basil Potatoes.

All this (groan) was followed by a classic Creme Broule, garnished with raspberries, strawberries, and blackberries.

Dark roast coffee finished me off, almost literally.

A meal to remember. And I hope you will, if any of you get up here to Lake City. Alternatively, if you ski, Jona is the chef at the Hotel Telluride during the winter months. These people are charming, and give good value. My bill came to $43. I gave them $60 and considered it money well spent.

A pointless generosity, perhaps, especially since my waiter was Jon himself, but it is a small sin, for which I will happily pay in purgatory.

Lake City is a beating heart in the summer months, pumping Texans instead of blood. But it never seems particularly overcrowded to me, unlike Durango, say, or Ouray. It is a fishing and camping crowd, spread out on the streams and in the mountains. I am surprised it can support over a period of years two very good upscale restaurants, along with the usual assortment of catfish, mexican food, and burger venues.

I am very pleased to be surprised. Thirty years ago, the most you could expect here was a decent steak, and that was problematic.

The entire meal was flavored considerably by a dramatic thunderstorm that shook the front windows while the rain poured. It is the first rain since spring, they say, and I hope a harbinger of things to come. Lake City has at least a decade of drinking water in Lake San Cristobal, but the great cottonwoods that line the streets are suffering.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and I must begin to make my way toward Chama, and thence "home". They say the Rio Grande is a mere trickle south of Creede.

I hope they are wrong.


Bob


BTW, these last few letters have been brought to you via the only Internet Phone Booth in the known universe. Cell Phones are useless up here, but at the Phillips 66 station in town, they ripped out the old pay phone and replaced it with a wall phone sporting a spare jack for the enterprising laptop owner. There is a small desk and a stool. All calls are 35 cents, payable inside. I used my Bigzoo calling card account to surf the web a bit this afternoon for the first time this trip. Maybe this will catch on.

All Day I Rode The Barren Waste....

Saturday


I think the West is slowly beginning to revert to form. Somewhere on this trip I saw a display with a quote from Zebulon Pike, who upon conquering the eponymous peak looked out at the vista, and confided to his companions that it looked like nothing so much as the Sahara Desert.

We've managed at great expense to keep that vision at arm's length much of this century, by trapping every pearly gleam of dew behind a dam somewhere, and drilling deeper and deeper into the waters of the ages.

It has in many ways been a noble effort. But Colorado, and indeed most of the central United States, is still a desert. Many years around here it barely rains in the summer. That's why many people like to come here. But the killer is when it doesn't snow, or not much. The Gunnison Valley is a blooming desert, but that bloom depends on a creaking elaborate clockwork of tunnels, ditches, wells, and reservoirs, and if it doesn't snow none of that is worth a dam.

I mentioned in another letter how the reservoirs of the Grand Mesa have turned into mud flats. But none of that really prepared me to see the great Blue Mesa Reservoir, which I remember as an inland sea, reduced after a few miles to merely the Gunnison River again, and then to a stream at the Lake City cutoff. If you could get a run going, you could jump across it. Someone said it's down 100 feet.

At least. The only dock still operating, the only real place to get down to the water, is near the dam.

A fellow in the store at the Black Canyon cutoff put it well. "What we need isn't just snow. We need a humdinger. We need a winter old folks will shake their heads about 20 years from now. 'Remember the Blizzards of Ought-2?'"

He said the almanac says that this should be a wetter than average Winter. He can't keep that almanac in stock. People buy it as a talisman.

When I came down from Grand Mesa, I stopped along the way to enjoy the tremendous view, and then turned into the first commercial campground I came to, a place called "Aspen Trails". I think that was the name. Anyhow, I told them I wanted to dump my tanks, and they said that would be $4.50. I paid and started the dump. Then I noticed there wasn't a hydrant at the dump.

I went back inside, stood in line again, and asked where the water hose was. There was a pregnant silence.

"You want water?"

"Sure I want water. I'm dumping water, I need to replace it."

"There's a separate charge for that."

"Oh? How much?"

"Five Dollars."

I'll be damned. "You could have told me that up front. I presume you want me to clean up around the hole? You got water for that?"

"There's a hose out front. Be sure and put it back on the wheel."

I refused to pay the extra fee, because I'm sometimes a stubborn cuss. Instead I went on into Cedarview, where I found a much needed car wash. After the wash, which cost $2, I found an unattended hydrant on the side of the building and filled up my tank.

If things stay dry another winter, this sort of stinginess could become the norm.

Think Snow.


Bob

The Scenic Route to Law and Order

"A writer never has a bad day. Everything that happens is material."
---Garrison Keillor


Lake City, Colorado


I want to play catchup and tell you about something that happened back in Wyoming, on the way here. After washing clothes in Casper, I took a scenic road to Rawlins that I thought might save some time. Wrong. It's a 30 mph road.

But if you are in a 30 mph mood, it shows off the high desert to advantage. It's a county road that runs from Alcova to Sinclair, crossing the North Platte right above the Seminoe dam. About a third of it is gravel, sometimes that familiar Wyoming washboard, but it's a lonesome road that runs along the altiplano just under the peaks. Most of it is over 7000 feet, and visits a number of small lakes, as well as the Pathfinder and Seminoe Reservoirs.

I couldn't recommend this trip for motorhomes, but the fiver had no real problems, though there is an unnerving sign I have never seen elsewhere: "This road does not meet minimum conditions for a public roadway. Proceed at your own risk." Of course by the time you see this sign, you have already come 50 miles. Something like that plays with your mind. In the end it was merely steep and narrow for a few miles going over the pass above the Seminoe Dam.

First gear only.

All along this road are perhaps a dozen large mailboxes bearing the message in red lettering: "Grouse hunters place one wing from each grouse here." For a moment I thought it said Grouch, and I feared for my wings. I am sure there is a good reason for this custom, but I can't think what it is. But then I've never been much of a hunter.

They can't treat chickens this way, or else they'd all fly in circles. And there'd be only half as many hot wings.

Later, around 8 pm, I was coming through Baggs on Hwy 789, stretching it to get into Colorado and pull over for the night. The city of Baggs, Wy. is about 3 blocks long. There is no traffic. Nothing is open at 8 pm.

But there is a single traffic light, sitting partially in the road, on wheels, at one of the few intersections. It glowed red as I slowed to a stop behind a car already there. There is a sign attached to the base of this light: "Expect a 2 minute light. Wait for the green."

I waited.

On the other side of this light, a half block away, sat a nondescript green and white police car. It was parked at the nominal curb. It looked empty. Had it been full dark, I might not have noticed it.

It and the car that had stopped in front of me were the only automobiles I observed while passing through Baggs. We all waited. And waited.

Two minutes, my tapping foot.

Nothing to the left or right. Nothing ahead but this cop. It was getting dark.

Tiiime tiickked byyyye.

Then it occurred to me. This light was his life. It was on wheels. He could move it around, like a fisherman changing his cast. Somebody must've made him put that sign on it. It was painfully obvious that nothing ever happened in Baggs, Wyoming. Certainly nothing that could not be served by a simple stop sign.

Except maybe, sometimes, if he's lucky, some tourist or trucker loses patience, assumes the light is broken, and moves on through. And then life is his very own movie. There's a little excitement, and perhaps some income for the City of Baggs.

At last, after I don't know how long, that light turned green. I went through it at 15 mph. Going by the cop, I looked down. A short guy, slumped behind the wheel, playing with something in his lap. He looked up. I waved. He didn't wave back.

Two blocks later I was back on the open highway, having once more done my part for law and order.

I camped in a turnout north of Craig.


Bob

Fishing in a Mountain Lake

Grand Mesa
Thursday

Now for a little brave talk from a fishless would-be fisherman.

Fish have no apparent need of group therapy. Fishermen often do. But I can't claim to be a fisherman. I only started last year. I have always considered it in the same vein as golf. The classic formulation is "a good walk spoiled".

However, I do like to eat fish. I've never developed a taste for golf balls. Last fall in Lake City I paid someone to teach me about fly fishing a stream. He was a good teacher, and I had some success.

It's not such a mystery. You pick your fly according to what you see floating on the stream, on what they are eating right in front of you. You cast into the still pools next to swift water - because fish are as lazy as we are, and they are able to keep their position there with a minimum of effort, while having quick access to whatever nutritious goody comes floating down to them. Like a feathered hook. Yum.

If there are fish there, and the fly is about right and timely, and the water's not too cold or hot, and you float the fly down in a natural manner, the fish will strike. Quod erat demonstrandum.

Sure. And pigs can fly.

A mountain lake is another matter. For one thing the fish have a lot more easy vittles handy than your fly. For another, these lakes are often relatively shallow near to shore, which has two effects. One, the water is warm there, and warm fish aren't so hungry. Two, I can SEE out as far as I can usefully cast, about 30 feet. When I can't see fish, I don't cast, and this gets boring, hiking round and around the lake.

But so does casting into empty water.

From their behavior, the edge of the lake is well known in fish circles as the "zone of death and duplicity".

The people who are catching fish here either have a boat or a long reach with a spinning reel. I have neither. Sigh. At present the kayak is not comfortable to cast from.

The fellow who was actually catching fish at Carp lake and camped next to me used one of those pack-in inner tube things. It's just a matter of getting out to where the fish are.

He bought his from Buck's Bags 15 years ago for about $75, and in all that time he only had one flat. And he uses it all summer, every summer. It comes with straps so he can backpack it in, fully inflated if desired, to remote lakes.

So maybe they're not as dumb as they look.

He said the only trouble he ever had was when a beaver grabbed him from below and tried to pull him down. And when that didn't work, the darned thing chased him clear across the lake, fast as he could flipper.

Bump, bump, bump. Git yer ass outa here, boy.

Those big yellow teeth aren't nearly as comical, close up.

I think tomorrow I'm going down to where I had luck before, and try to find a likely stream with enough flow to be interesting. Flow is a hard thing to find this year.

Unless you have a way to get out in the middle of them, mountain lakes are for sitting by and reading. Just like golf courses.

There, I feel better.


Bob

Late Newsflash: Just got word the Kokonee are running near Gunnison, upstream from the Lake City Bridge. Can't help it. Hope springs eternal. Gotta check that out tomorrow.

I start "home" Monday morning. Work Wednesday. Aarrghh!

Kingdom Come

Grand Mesa
Wednesday


The Land o' Lakes looks great compared with almost anywhere else, but sad compared to it's former self. Colorado is suffering the 3rd year of a drought that doesn't show any sign of relenting. They say the lake reserve is at 28%, which sounds like what I'm seeing. Most of the high lakes like Cottonwood and Big Creek are doing okay, though Neversweat is worrisome. But the lower lakes are almost dry. Young's Creek is a mud flat, and Eggleston is about half lake, half loblolly. You could walk across it from shore to shore in the middle. Only one of the cabins along there is for sale, though, so I guess folks are waiting it out. Or maybe these cabins are actually used more in the winter. Everyone around here is praying for a devastating snow this winter.

I had my second encounter this trip with solid wet stuff in the afternoon. This time it was hail, 'bout the size of your average set of faux pearls. Pretty general, pretty heavy, pretty up high. BTID.

There's something about high Colorado that feels like home to me, though I've never lived here. The alkaline smell of the air at 10,000 feet. The rushing sound of a breeze through quaking aspens. The feeling is sort of "nearer my God to thee", if you know what I mean.

All Karma and no Dogma, though. Nothing petty. It's a good, relaxed, strong feeling, the sort that lets you look on the task of splitting a cord of wood with relish and anticipation.

Thank God there's a burn ban on. Somebody might call my bluff.

But there is energy and contentment here. Everybody has their favorite place, and mine so far is high Colorado. Personally I think everything above nine grand ought to secede and throw up barricades. Right after I get in. Of course you folks are invited. Somebody has to do the dishes.

I wish I could say clean the fish. I haven't seen any fish, up close.

I read somewhere that in the early days of California, a sometime street sweeper got himself officially declared the "Emperor of San Francisco" just by going around with a crown and insisting on due deference. Worth a try. 'Course some thought he was a lunatic, but those people didn't get the better land grants. Don't pay to piss off the Boss.

My ambition is smaller. I'm not cut out to be an Emperor. "King of High Colorado" would do nicely. If you have been here, you owe transit taxes. Cash only. His majesty don't truck with banks.

Wait. On second thought, all taxes are waived. It's good to be king.

Ah, but it's only a dream. That's how senility creeps up on you. While you're blinking at Paradise, lost in a shaft of sunlight.


Bob

Found Objects

Monday


On Hwy 26 between Shoshoni and Casper, for the first time I saw antelope, cringing by the side of the road in groups of 2 or 3, hopping around, awaiting their desperate best chance to get across.

I also saw one that didn't make it. Nothing in their ancestry has prepared them for the maniac speed of the automobile.

Not far away a coyote had also gone under the wheels. The business of life goes on, regardless. Put a million cars in the way, you've still got to get your antelope every day. There's no such thing as a retired coyote, unless it's this fellow in the road.

I've been trying to think how to describe the orange-dirty-gold color of the grass here. It's coyote-colored. Just that shade.

Halfway to Casper, on the south side of the road, I passed by "Hell's Half Acre RV Park". A building, and a circle of empty sites set on a sharp upward slope that ends abruptly at a cliff above a rugged canyon. The earth is bare, and burnt looking. No sign of life.

There is a gate, and a sort of circular containment fence, like a corral, between the sites and the road, but nothing to keep anyone from running right off the precipice. And there was, on this morning, either smoke or a heavy mist rising from the canyon.

I kid you not. It looked like a macabre movie set.

The grounds were empty, and desolate looking. A few tire tracks in the dark sand. I didn't stop. I may even have sped up a bit.

A little farther on, across the Powder River, I pulled over across from what looked like an abandoned service station to let some other speeders by. All the windows were boarded up. Propped up in front was a sheet of plywood painted white, bearing this cheery message:

"Girls! Girls! Girls! Exotic Dancing! "

There were a couple of cheap aluminum worklights clamped to it, and the cords trailed down and ran around the corner of the building to where a battered old Winnebago squatted. It was close to noon. Nothing stirred.

I looked up the highway. Nothing. I looked back. Nothing, again, for miles. Just burnt-looking prairie, and a grey ribbon of highway. Where on earth do they get their clientele? Are there enough bored truckers out here to keep this place going?

Then it struck me. This is it. The end of the road. All those girls, the ones wearing a frilly skirt of dollars in their G-string, the ones I used to go watch in places with names like "The Doll House", way back in my early twenties, back when sex was a mystery you had to get liquored up to solve, this is where they ended up at my age.

This is where they retire. Just down the road from Hell's Half Acre, sleeping in a Winnebago, bumping and grinding in an abandoned building for an audience of 2 or 3, hoping the generator won't quit in the middle of a set.

It's like an old Austin Lounge Lizards song: "I'm at number 667, the Neighbor of the Beast."

I'm not making any of this up. Go see for yourself. Apparently God or somebody has a penchant for pathetic allegory. It's a veritable miracle play, a tableaux dragged together from found objects flung out along the highway.

A mis-en-scene of misery on the Wyoming steppes.

I couldn't make this stuff up. I wish I could.

Then I wouldn't need to travel.


Bob

Breakfast Special

Monday


Nothing like the desert to show you the stars. Last night I saw the "Arch of Heaven" , the Milky way, for the first time in too long. Shows you how long it's been since my last trip.

I doubt it's been gone anywhere. I've just had my head down.

Sixty degrees in the desert, with a stiff wind, feels like forty degrees anywhere else.

I pulled into the Maverick Cafe in Shoshoni for breakfast. I was a little surprised to find, casually wedged behind the non-dairy creamer and the jelly packets, an unusual bit of tableware - an old green flyswatter. It turned out to be useful.

Despite this ominous note, the food looked good, the place was full on a Monday morning, and everyone including me was having a pretty good time. There didn't seem to be a non-smoking section.

Maybe outside.

If you sat in this place long enough, swattin' flies, you could probably learn everything there is to know about everyone in the county. These people don't need no stinkin' phone line to hook up with a newsgroup.

A sampling:

"'Randy,' I said, 'You leave that baby alone. That's his soft spot.' I said, 'Randy, you better listen to me!'"

"When I was a waitress, I was quicker than this."
"Honey, when you was a waitress, they didn't have eggs yet."

"You back for good?"
"Hell no. I'm in Missouri now"
"Yeah? That's what happens when people leave here. They end up in Mis-er-y, don't they?"

"Where's Herman?"
"Ain't you heard? He's in the hospital again. Coughin' his lungs out."

"Shirl! What was the name of those cigarettes you used to smoke? Lord, they was rank!"

"I'm gonna have the steak 'n eggs."
"Don't do that. There's enough bull at this table already."

"Who you writin' Hon? Your mama?"
"How'd you know?"

When breakfast arrived, that slab of ham, with the bone in, had it's own plate. And from the deep yellow look of those eggs, some chicken spends her life pecking away in a yard somewhere. The waitress had a way of making you feel guilty if you didn't take a 4th cup.

"You don't like my coffee? I brewed it up special, just for you."

The price for all this food and entertainment? $4.78, plus a two dollar tip.

I'm heading into Casper. I need to wash clothes, and I ought to find a phone line. I'm building quite a backlog of this stuff. Maybe I can find a Web 'n Wash.

As soon as I left Shoshoni, people were right on my tail. I'd pull over, and three more would show up, coming around me blind, two at a time. And I was going the speed limit.

Then about 10 miles east of town, I came across a Hwy Dept. sign with a couple of yellow lights on it. "Hwy 26 closed when lights are flashing. Return to Shoshoni."

The sun was shining brightly, with only a little high cirrus to mar a perfect blue. For just a moment, the thought came to me: "Y'know, I probably have the tools to start that sign to blinkin'."

But at 70 mph, these moments pass pretty quickly.


Bob

Just Deserts

9/1/02

Sunday


The country between Tensleep and Worland, Wyoming is dry, dry, dry. Badlands. Baaaad. The Moon, with a somewhat breathable atmosphere and barbed wire fencing. I kept getting passed like I was standing still.

Ah well. If you're in Hell, why not drive like it?

I just did a quick accounting. Been gone 14 days and spent $424. Didn't stint, did whatever I wanted to. Comes to $30/day. Course this does not include gas or the blown tire, which may come to an equal amount. I'll know when the Visa bill arrives. But this means I can live indefinitely, traveling almost every day, on around $1800 a month plus taxes. I've been far too conservative in my planning. I could have retired 10 years ago.

That's a decade I'll never get back. Grump.

Well, I have to buy a new truck every now and then. Maybe 8 years ago. And there are other things. I may not always be the splendid specimen I no doubt am today, or perfectly healthy. Hard to imagine. But best to prepare.

Grump anyway.

Hot Springs State Park at Thermopolis is a thoroughly pleasant place to spend an afternoon. You can have a soak at the sulfurous State Bath House, then shower if you like and spread a picnic lunch under enormous shade trees at a perfectly lush and manicured park. With all the water and shade, the breeze is cool, and the temptation to take a nap may become overwhelming.

And for you fans of Silas Marner, here's the salient point: most of it is absolutely FREE.

There are places to spend a little money here. There's a water park for the kids, and a massage spa for us codgers. But you can have a very pleasant time with nothing but a pocket full of wishes. And maybe a sandwich.

The main entrance under the railroad tracks may be tight for some motorhomes at 12 feet, but there is a posted alternate route. You can't camp at the park, but there are several decent looking places in town. I myself went on down the Wind River canyon to Boysen State Park at the eponymous reservoir.

I am assured the nights here get down to 50 degrees, but at 7 pm it is still 81 degrees inside and out. Not good. Down in the Desert again. This sort of thing can turn your comforter into a discomforter.

I may have to make a long day tomorrow and run for Colorado and altitude. In fact, I feel a strong pull toward Lake City - one of my favorite places on earth. If there were only a symphony orchestra anywhere near, I'd buy a cabin there, sell the trailer, and be done with it.

Alas, it is in quite the middle of nowhere. Well, no. Creede is in the middle of nowhere. Lake City is sort of next door to nowhere.

I wonder if Bruno is still cooking up Salmon en croute at the Lodge? Slurp.

At 10,000 feet or so, it should be cool. Annd....I may still have time to squeeze in an overnight hike along the continental divide.

We'll see.

I heard my mother's voice in that. When I was a kid I used to hate it when she said: "We'll see." Put that way, it was a "no" against which there was small rhetorical recourse. Sometimes it even shut me up.

We'll see.

Bob

Lucky Me

Sunday


I've written before about my particular brand of luck, which is Better Than I Deserve. BTID. I've got a couple more examples.

1.Kayak Stuff

A couple of days ago I rolled into Rapid City, looking for a replacement cockpit cover for my kayak. The original, which I bought in Austin for around $30, blew off somewhere back down the road. I'd been advised to go to Sheeles Sports, "in the mall". When I got there, the salesman had a perpetually doubtful look on his face.

"I dunno. It's awful late for that stuff. No, I don't think we have any."

"Any place else in Rapid City I could try?"

He scrunched up his forehead in painful thought. "Wal-Mart?"


I expressed my doubt, and pressed him again.

"Well I guess you could try Adventure Sports, but I dunno.... Hey Jerry!" Someone looked up about three aisles down. "You remember how to get to Adventure Sports?"

It turned out Jerry did, and I got reluctant directions, following which I zig-zagged, wandered, and occasionally wended my way to Adventure Sports on Hwy 44. Last Chance.

"Yeah, we have them. And they're on sale. Wanta get two?" I allowed as how this might be a good idea, but in fact they only had the one. The last one in Rapid City. For $17. Half price. BTID.


2. BBQ

I found some acceptable BBQ. This qualifies as BTID anywhere outside Texas, Tennessee, or (perhaps) one of the Carolinas. I found it at the Flagstaff Cafe in Tensleep, Wyoming, where I arrived around noon today. Purely out of self-defense I have learned to question waitresses extensively about the pedigree of their BBQ. For instance, in Buffalo I was offered the "BBQ Special". When I asked if it was cooked on a pit, she said "Pit?"

That's the sort of thing that gives you a clue.

But at the Flagstaff she said "He's been cooking it out back all night." And indeed, this beef has recognizably known the inside of a pit. It's not bad. I'd rate it as somewhere between "acceptable" and "Fittin'" on a 4 point scale that begins with "Bleah!" and ends with a wordless contented smile.

Their Berry Peach Cobbler with vanilla ice cream ain't bad, either.

The Cafe had a free Pioneer Museum out back, which I meant to visit, but forgot about when my eyes rolled back in my head during the feeding frenzy. BTID.


And why should I think all this serendipity is Better Than I Deserve? Because I question it. I complain about it. I am even sometimes downright ungrateful.

And I suspect I am not alone.


Bob

Labor Day Weekend

Sunday


I woke this morning at West Tensleep Lake, about as close as you can drive to the Cloud Peak Wilderness. At 6 am it was 34 degrees outside, 47 inside. I decided this situation required the judicious application of gas heat, while I went back undercover to keep an eye on the sunrise out the window. This evolution is one of my favorite things about the trailer.

Another is the hot shower, which would be a lot more enjoyable if I could remember to turn on the water heater the night before.

To get here yesterday, I had to drag the trailer 7 miles up a dirt road that redefined, for me at least, the term "washboard". And why, you ask, did I go to all this trouble?

Because this is the dreaded "Labor Day Weekend", when the Public has the disgusting habit of wanting to use the Public Lands, durn'em. I find as time goes on I have the patience to put up with only 4 or 5 of these bush apes at a time, myself included.

No luck. Every campground along the road was stuffed full of pickups, vans, dogs, trailers, 4wheelers roaring around, screaming kids, and assorted small boats. Ah, Wilderness! At length I found a reasonably flat and private "dispersed camping" spot along the road, and managed to back my behemoth in there.

Did I mention the horses? A lot of horses. Or maybe just the same 4, over and over. These were apparently the equine equivalent of the soccer mom's SUV, never driven off road. Actually, never driven off the road in front of my fiver, back and forth, back and forth. Did I mention their ...ah... exhaust?

Later, somewhat mollified by a break in the traffic, I grabbed a Scape Goat Ale and assumed the Required Reading Position: slumped in a fold up camp chair, feet up on a stump. While thus occupied I had a couple of visitors. First, a chipmunk did a Speedy Gonzales imitation (absent the noise) around the stump, finally mantling up on my clipboard, where he gave some of This Very Prose the sniff test, but was not amused.

Then a little later a mule deer doe walked right into my camp, perhaps 20 yards away, apparently to examine an area where I had recently peed. She gave me the patented Doe-eyed look, her great ears flapping. Suddenly her head came straight up, looking west, and she bounded away, never to return.

I could hear what had startled her, an intermittent "thok......thok". Turns out a kid from the next camp over was trying out his Wrist Rocket. I don't think he ever saw the deer, but he was certainly slaying fir trees right and left.

I love people. Really. I just wish there weren't quite so many of us. Why can't I have all this to myself? Huh? Why?

The answer, of course, is that I can, if I wait till Tuesday. When I truly start to do this full time, I think I will try to develop the habit of spending weekends and holidays in town.

From the looks of things, there won't be anybody there.


Bob

Moving On

Saturday


My mother passed away July 10th. She lived 87 years. The last four, since her stroke, she was in a nursing home. Hers was the end many of us are slowly headed for, being a necessary burden to others and hating every minute of it.

"Who would have thought we'd come to this?" she said. "We", not "I", for she thought of herself as part of a family, and her fate was part of ours also. There were moments when dreaming confused her, but she was largely lucid to the end.

Now I am on a desultory trip, moving through the selfishness of grief toward whatever lies beyond it. Aimless travel is pretty good therapy, I guess. Mile after mile after mile, all sorts of memories slip into my mind, pass through like scenery, and leave out the back window. Memories of my mother, my job, my life. Sometimes it seems as though I am really sitting still, and it is the world that moves, steadily, through me.

And as it moves, it changes me. That is all that travel is.

All travel is internal. It is the mind that makes motion into travel.

You can travel far and wide while sitting in your living room. You may be perfectly still, say, looking at photographs. One by one, they slip through your fingers, some familiar, some new. You pick them up, hold them for a while, set them down. Some take longer than others.

Grief is not mourning. Grief is denial, grief is standing still.

When death comes to those we love, at first we may want to leave with them, to stop right there. That's grief. Mourning lets us live.

Mourning has the form of travel. Mourning is moving on.

Speaking of which, it is a beautiful morning here in the Bighorn Mountains. And I am moving on.

Bob

Unraveled, Time to Travel

Wednesday


I knew it couldn't last. It's 77 degrees at 5pm. Entirely too hot for man nor beast. Time to get the hell out of here.

Mike Hendrix told me about Wind River Canyon in Wyoming, on the road from Buffalo through Thermopolis to Casper. Think I'm gonna mosey out that way. I've got another 10 days.

But for tomorrow it's Lead and Deadwood, then up Spearfish Canyon to Belle Fourche, then Hwy 24 over to Devil's Tower. If I get that far.

I've enjoyed doing just about nothing for 3 days. Monday night I slept 12 hours, and that's not the only time lately, so I must have needed it. For those who don't know, my mother passed away July 10th, and that added to the stress of trying to sell my house and approaching retirement....blah, blah, blah, I know, but I think I needed a break, and I got it here at Deerfield Lake.

But you can't trust the critters around here. I got my wool socks wet while at casting practice yesterday. You'll notice I didn't say fishing. I think fishing has something to do with catching fish.

Anyway, I was laying the socks out by my sneakers on the picnic table to dry in the sun, when I noticed somebody was lashing the lake down below. Since this was the last day on my 3 day license, this struck me as a good idea, so I put on my other sneakers, grabbed my rod and fishing vest, and went on down.

I think he became aware of me when I caught a flower on my first backcast.

"Hell of a storm last night, eh?" he said.

I thought back, and shrugged. I could vaguely remember it.

"Yeah. I guess so. It does that every night up here."

He took that news with a grimace. Greg is from Houston, about 45, recently divorced, and on a whirlwind tour of the Black Hills. He'd been planning this trip since reading about the area in the Houston Chronicle back in July of 1999. He showed me the article, folded and refolded and kept in his kit. The storm had made more of an impression on him because he set his tent up on a slope, and the runoff came in and soaked his sleeping bag.

"That sounds uncomfortable."

"Oh, you just scrunch up."

This lake was getting us nowhere with fly rods, because neither of us could cast a line much past 25 feet. At least not without heaving the rod after it, which occurred at least to me.

"I guess fishing is your best chance in life to learn patience..." I said pontifically. I had read that somewhere.

He laughed. "Yeah, if you don't count getting married...."

I finally gave it up around 10 am. I mean, I could see the bottom as far as I was casting, and there was nothing swimming around down there but bait anyway. But there's a lot to be said for casting practice. It may come in handy someday.

I climbed up the hill and checked my socks (remember them?), and went in the trailer to fix chicken fried steak, corn on the cob, and salad for lunch. I offered some to Greg, but he was shaking stuff out, repacking his car, getting ready to leave.

Groaning a bit under the load of eating for two, I lay back on the couch to read one of Jeff Shaara's Civil War novels, and fell asleep.

I awoke to find that Something had shredded my socks. Unraveled them down to a mere tangle of threads. What's left looks like Don King's haircut. I suspect birds. Aren't they always looking for nesting materials? Or else they just ate them.

They left the shoes, though. For now.

Thank God I didn't nap outside. They might have pecked out my eyeballs, or left me entirely too publicly nude for a man of my age and dignity.

I know they suspect I'm not Francis of Assisi. I told people about all the deer and turkey wandering the roads up here. Hunter-type people. That's the problem with cell phones. Sometimes you inadvertently talk in front of the animals.

So I can expect no mercy.

What if I didn't have the RV? What if I was in a mere Tent? The Horror! They're out there now. Watching. I know it. Why isn't there a Witless Protection Program for campers?

O yeah. There is. Motorhomes. "Where camping means you never have to go outside." :o)

Like I said, time to get the hell out of here. I'm bored, and that's dangerous.

During the night I was awakened by the usual barrage of thunder, lightning, and wind-whipped rain. I thought briefly, sleepily, smugly, about Greg and his tent. Then just as I was smiling to myself and sinking deeper into my warm dry bed, under my thick down comforter, I remembered that I had gotten the little Honda generator out to charge up my batteries in the afternoon. And when I was putting it back in the tool box it was still warm, so I left the top open for it to cool...

So I got up and went out in the rain to shut the damn tool box. And yeah, everything was wet in there. Duh. There's no such thing as being so well equipped that stupidity can't catch up with you. Now, in the morning, instead of drinking coffee and listening to the goddam twittering wool-crazed birds, I've got to haul every single thing out of the tool box and wipe it down with an oily rag.

At least nothing was obviously missing.

And that's what I mean about my luck. Good luck would be if I didn't get lost in a book and forget about the tool box. BTID luck (Better Than I Deserve) means I still have stuff to wipe down. Don't try this in a commercial campground in, say, Houston.

Once again, time to get the hell out of here.


Bob

Moose Drool and Woolly Boogers

Deerfield Lake, South Dakota


You know, as a matter of design, I've always disliked floor vents for heaters. They're a weak point in the floor, and they collect dirt and small dust bunnies that are hard to remove. But after 2 hours wading up a cold stream in a pair of sneakers, it sure feels good to rest your blue toes right on top of that vent.

Aaaaaahhhhhhh.

Yeah, I know. I have waders. But I didn't have them WITH me. :o(

Not much luck on the fish. I think that ranger guy was having a little fun with me about "Castle Crick". It turns out to be a stream about 2 feet wide where it dumps into Deerfield Lake. Small pickings.

And woolly boogers? Those things are HUGE. The only action I got was on smaller stuff.

Most of the fishing here is done on the lake. You can see the big ones rising in the morning, flop and flash. I need to find or fashion a light pontoon for the kayak, to make it more stable for fishing. Perhaps a yoke and a couple pieces of conduit, with inflatable bags on the ends. I'm not able to search the web right now, but I'll bet somebody already makes something like that.

There are a couple of special purpose fishing platforms being used here that are small and light enough to be carried in an RV compartment. One is the inner tube with straps and waders contraption, which strikes me as an elaborate way to drown. More promising are the 6-8 foot pontoon boats, with oars, that skitter around out there like waterbugs.

They are very light, all aluminum tubing and air. Maybe 40 lbs. I saw a smallish man lift one easily from the back of his pickup, carry it upside down over his head 40 or 50 feet down a hill, and set it lightly in the water. It rides high on the pontoons, which are inflated bladders zipped up in sturdy rubberized nylon covers. It would take a lot to poke a hole in one.

The neat thing is the way they break down flat for storage. The frame unsnaps, the pontoons deflate and fold up, and the biggest single piece is maybe 2' x 3' x 6 inches. You could store it under your bed. They cost anywhere from $400-$800. At that price you could sell it if you didn't like it, and not lose much. The one I looked at was sold by "Buck's Bags". I think they have a website.

Of course if you're going out on Lake Superior, you need a kayak. Or an ocean liner. I'd rather have my kayak for speed and exploring. But for just getting out on the reservoir and having a stable place to cast from, these things are the Cat's Meow. They'll take a trolling motor and battery if you're feeling lazy. There's even room for a small cooler of Moose Drool.

O yeah. Moose Drool. That's the name of my favorite new beer, a brown ale made in Missoula. Something like Bass ale. When I first saw it down in Hill City, I thought: "That stuff has to be good, or they couldn't stay in business".

Believe me. I have seen Moose drool. It is not a pretty sight.


Bob

Patch, Patch, Patch

"Patch, Patch, Patch!" That's what a friend of mine said one day when I was complaining about some nagging decrepitude. "After you turn 50, it's just patch, patch, patch."


The same may be said of RVs of any age. If not, you haven't been going to the right places. The flex and bounce and strain of travel makes things go boink in the night.

The list so far this trip: a tire destroyed, the cockpit cover on my kayak blown to hellandgone, a bookshelf that descended on one end (spilling Greek Civilization As We Know It all over the couch), a drawer that lost it's rear support (and couldn't be opened without removing everything under the sink), a painting that turned surreal on me and hopped off the wall (shattering glass all over the entryway), and an oven that won't light.

This last is especially mysterious and irritating. I've only used it a few times in almost 2 years I've owned the trailer, and this was going to be the trip I cooked a roast and baked bread. The pilot lights fine, but either the valve won't let the gas pass, or it's stopped up somewhere. Or both.

I did find out you can cook Sara Lee croissants using only the pilot, if you wait long enough. The last batch are rusting in there right now. Supposedly the oven is still in warranty. We'll see. Maybe I'll take it all apart. Like that will tell me something.

Things are cool, quiet, and calm this morning, here at Deerfield Lake. The nearest neighbor is a hundred yards away, and the one beyond that a hundred more. There's nothing to hear but the birds and squirrels, a light breeze in the trees, and the occasional challenging roar of the biggest horseflies I have ever seen. These guys are at least a half inch long, and come at you like little skillsaws cutting into plywood. They are fearless. And slow. Whack.

Fortunately there are not many of them. Fewer now.

That's about all there is to hear. Except Vivaldi, and I've got him throttled down pretty low. A fish just flopped and splashed, down in the lake. Fifty feet up in the pines, something like a pale yellow butterfly, or maybe an albino moth, is fluttering about with surprising energy. From this distance it resembles nothing so much as a bit of old yellowed newspaper, suspended and toyed with in the breeze.

Spreading the bug news, high in the pines.

I guess I'm bored. It's a wonderful feeling. I'd recommend it to anyone.


Bob

Storm Central

Monday Afternoon

I've got a sunburn under my chin.

Everywhere else was either covered or slathered with SPF 45, but under my chin? My eyes are burning,too. The angle of the sun, I guess. Last time I remember looking like this was waaay back when I was 17, working for the Katy Railroad one summer. The sun off the rails barbecued me done to a turn.

I wish I did more paddling at home. It's great exercise, probably good for my back, and if you get too hot you can always practice your roll. But every time I think of it, I think again. That Texas sun is just a killer. I can remember actually liking it when I was younger. Go figure.

There's a peculiar wind that rises on the lake here. You feel it first as a sudden chill. Then you can hear it gathering force in the hills around. It's mostly from the north, I guess. No thunder. Just an almost visible wall of wind that sweeps across the water, over you, through you, knocking the boat sideways, moving it widdershins over the water.

But there's nothing behind it. It lasts maybe an interesting minute or two, then it's gone.

The choppy white caps catch up a few seconds later and bounce you around a bit. You look up in the sky, expecting a storm, but there's nothing there. It's exactly like something powerful, with huge wings, swept by overhead. But again, there's nothing there. The sky is painted china blue, the clouds are still, white, and fluffy, and the sun smiles on everything.



And then you begin to sweat.

It happened twice in the space of an hour, just before noon. Like a breath on the water. Like someone cooling their tea. Spooky.

A real storm blew up around 3 pm, and lightning chased me off the lake. I don't fool around with that stuff. It's a little after 4 now. I drug the kayak up on the grass in the cove below the trailer, but the truck is still way down the other end of the lake.

When the Ranger came by to collect the rent, he gave me some fishing advice: "Go up Castle Creek," he said, " and use the black Woolly Boogers."

Maybe tomorrow. I couldn't face a woolly booger right now.

All the storms I've seen in the Black Hills have been violent, electric, thunderous, relatively dry, and short. Listen to me. I haven't been here a week yet. But it has stormed every day. Maybe this one will let up shortly, and I'll paddle back to the truck.

Or there's always shank's mare.

It's kind of nice, though, sitting in the trailer, listening to the rain. I feel a nap coming on.

Uh oh.

Is that hail?

Bob


PS, later:

It was, but not much. But the TV guy says a little south of here they had "softball sized hail". I never saw such a thing, and don't know whether to credit it, but that's what he said. A thing like that could kill a man, or sink a boat. Not to mention renovate a trailer.

The Sun is out again. Bye.

Messin' Round With Boats

"There's nothing in the World quite like messin'...simply messin'...Just messin' around with Boats."
--Wind in the Willows


Saturday

Was it Mole or Badger said that? Maybe Ratty? I knew I'd regret giving away all my books.

Anyway, I discovered today that somewhere along the highway I lost the cover off my Kayak. Nothing blew out, but of course it was full of water. Nobody around here sells the things, so I'll be bailing for a while, even if I don't get out on the lake.

I went by today and took a picture of those guys up there. Also went to Wind Cave. 104 miles of cave beneath 1 square mile of surface area, or so they tell me. I saw an hour's worth of it, and the best part was the 51 degree respite. My core temp is still too high from a summer in Texas.



Saw an oblivious Buffalo on the side of the road in Custer State Park. People were stopping about a foot from his nose, rolling down their windows, and taking pictures. I thought it was foolish, as he weighed about as much as some of their cars, but this particular bull could not have cared less. He finally did turn around to show them a more expressive part of his anatomy.

I asked a ranger about this indifference later, and she said "The Bulls are exhausted from the Rut. They've all about had their fill."
In other words, the tourists can take snapshots till the cows go home. Big whoop.

The prairie dogs did their sentinel thing, and what passes for a line of traffic around here was suddenly stopped by a herd (covey?) of wild turkeys crossing the road. Silly things look like large brown feathered squash, and appear to have about the same intelligence. I've sometimes thought Wild Turkey might someday get me in a car wreck, but I didn't have to come to South Dakota for that.

And Now, Folks, I wish to announce the End of the Quest. I found my SNOW! Real snow, not hail. I was coming south from Sylvan Lake on Hwy 89 when it first appeared in the ditches. Within a mile it covered the road, drifting 6-8 inches deep. I wasn't lucky enough to catch it falling, but there it was.

I pulled over in someone's driveway. I made a snowball and threw it at a fencepost. I cavorted. I did a little dance. With the slightest encouragement I would have made a little snowman, but there was none to be had, and passing drivers looked at me like I was a lunatic.

So I got back in the truck and rolled stately through the snow. The glistening vapor rising from it hid much of the road ahead for about 3 miles, and then it was gone.



In celebration I ate some prime rib in Custer, which was only so-so, but definitely improved by the moment. I drove back to Hot Springs singing along with Freddie King, through a sunset like the end of the world, and since the bathhouse was open I had a half-hour's soak under a storming sky. Lightning finally drove me inside. I swear if the wrong woman had come along just then, I might have gotten married. storming sky. Lightning finally drove me inside. I swear if the wrong woman had come along just then, I might have gotten married.

But as it happened my luck held. Somehow I got back to the trailer, fell into bed, and slept as sound as Julius Caesar.

At 7 am Sunday morning, it was 47 degrees. Better and better.

Bob

Thar She Blows!

Hot Springs, South Dakota


Ah, Paradise. Last night it thundered up and rained a bit, and at 5 am it was 56 degrees outside, and 64 in the trailer. Even now, at 8:30, it is 61 and 66. I was tempted to turn on the heater briefly to take the chill off. But no, a light chill is a precious thing. I better enjoy it while it lasts.

But I may just put on another pot of coffee and sit here reading all morning.

I was coming into Scott's Bluff yesterday in a sort of impromptu convoy with 8 or 9 big RVs. Fortunately not all of us tried to get into the Monument parking lot at once.

Because of the historical significance of the place, a third of the way along the Oregon Trail, I tried hard to dredge up memories of Ward Bond in grainy black and white, and imagine us all as a modern wagon train.

But again, no. The comic truth intervened, as it often does. We really looked more like a pod of Land Whales searching for a place to beach ourselves. Great White Whales, at that. I feel pretty conspicuous and bloated in my 27 foot Mallard. Why would anyone want a 40 foot Motorhome?

Even if you've got the bucks, there are lots of things to buy. You could get a small hotel in Portugal for what some of these monsters go for. Or turn some awkward adolescent in baggy pants into a skilled surgeon in scrubs. Etc.

And these Whales can fill a street right up. There must be whole towns, perhaps Counties, they have to pass by for lack of a place to light. Most primitive campgrounds, which is where I like to stay, can't easily accommodate a 35 foot trailer. So these guys are like the Flying Dutchman, forever sailing, never finding a place to land. It even says Dutchman on some of them.

And I'm damn close behind at 27 feet.

Slowly, of course, the obvious comes home even to me. It's simple math. I'm a single guy, with 40 gallons of fresh water. If I take a Navy shower every day - in other words, if I am civilized - I can go 3 days, maybe 4, before I have to uproot and find a place to dump my load. That's IF I come to the situation with a full tank, which is rare.

Most people travel as a couple, and some even have (gasp!) kids! That means, in my trailer, they'd get one day and a night here before they'd be in the same shape as the sodden campers I see around me, stumbling sleepily down to the tap with their pots like Rebekah of old.

So naturally they try to find utilities every night, or else they buy the Behemoths, with the 80 gallon tanks, and leave the narrow roads and high camps to me and the campers, and the really great high camps to the tenters alone.

Which is as it should be.

So what is the laborious point here? Well, you've waited this long, so I'll tell you. If I ever find a Boon Companion, by Gawd she better be darn good at sponge baths, or have her own Trailer!

Now is that Too Much To Ask?

:o)

Bob, cooling off at last.

Cold Creek

Friday


Maybe I should have gone for Colorado and altitude after all. The whole state can't be blackened stumps. Can it?

This trip started out as a simple thing. I just wanted to find a cool spot to sit a spell. That prospect has receded before me as I traveled north, like the end of some ragged rainbow.

Where I am now, just north of Hot Springs, SD, ain't much. But it's the closest thing yet. At 8 pm the outside temp is 71 degrees, and inside the trailer it is 81. After driving around all day in the heat, with the windows up, it takes a loooong time for every surface in the trailer to lose it's latent heat. Even with 3 fans going.

Cold Creek is a primitive campground, run by the Corps of Engineers, with a small lake and a swimming beach. The name attracted me. Only $5 a night. I may take a swim in the morning, and hope it's cold enough to test out that stent they put in me last fall.

Uh oh. I had forgotten the weekend brings out the screaming kids, bless'em. Getting here after 5 means I got one of the slots next to the playscape. If they turn out to be night owls, I may leave in the morning. Grump.

Mt. Rushmore tomorrow, and I'll try to find a hot spring in Hot Springs. And there's something called Angostura Reservoir south of town. An alkali lake? Sounds bitter, even medicinal.

Nah, just a reservoir.

Still and all, it will be good to quit dragging the trailer for a couple of days. Hmmmm. Wind Cave. Sounds cool and subterranean. Maybe this place has promise.

Cooked a real meal tonight. Grilled sausages, mashed potatoes, hominy, and a half bottle of Cabernet. Life is pretty good.

And the kids have gone to bed with the sun.


Bob

Click Your Heels Twice, and Say....

Thursday

"There's no place like home."

Or was it 3 times? Anyhow, I'm in Kansas now.

I had been warned by friends that Dodge City was kind of a cross between a theme park and any number of towns in the Rio Grande Valley. That's not far wrong. I arrived late, and after trolling through town I knew I wasn't staying. There's a lot of history here, but it's way too late and too hot to dig down through the kitsch and find it. So after a visit to the Dodge City Public Library to straighten out an email problem, I high-tailed it out of Dodge.

Speaking of which,I'd appreciate it if those who have been emailing me would send it text only. Apparently, in marginal areas, where I am wont to be, my cell-phone connection chokes on pictures and attached graphics. When that happens, I can't get anything until I get on the web and delete a lot of it.

It's sort of like what happens to the black tank, when you don't use enough water. 'Nuff said.

I arrived Wednesday night at Cedar Bluff Reservoir, on the Smoky Hill River, after a 7 mile winding trip down a dirt road in the dark. There was a fortunate full moon. $11.50 for a site on the water, no hookups. About 85 degrees at 9 PM, though it cooled down to 70 by morning. Cool breeze off the water, and birds calling each other out there. There are advantages to opening the windows and turning off the AC. You can hear things.

In the morning I went on up to Ellis, which is a nice little town, the sort of place where you can get a really good hamburger at the bowling alley, which I did. This used to be a railroad maintenance center, and there is a museum, with a huge RO gauge diorama, a lot of authentic tools and memorabilia. A fella in a striped cap, who used to work telegraph for the Union Pacific, showed me an area he had built to mimic his old office. He demonstrated what was meant by a "fist" - a particular rhythm by which you could recognize the individual telegrapher sending a message.

Upstairs is the Doll Museum, with over 1600 dolls. For some reason I didn't get around to that.

Ellis was founded by immigrants from Bakovina, Austria. They stepped off the train here in 1886, and built the place from scratch. One of their number was Samuel Chrysler, the father of Walter Chrysler of auto fame. His boyhood home is a museum now. I didn't go in. In the RR museum, they showed me a pay sheet signed by Samuel in 1892- his weekly pay was $128. Twenty years later his son was making that much every 5 minutes or so. But it must have been good wages at the time. I noticed only two other guys made as much on that sheet.

You can camp in Ellis under the trees along Big Creek for $15.

The Sternberg Museum of Natural History in Hays is a must if you have young kids. It celebrates an earlier era in Kansas history - about 80 million years ago, when all this area was the bottom of a sea. Even now it is nothing unusual for the bones of giant fish to turn up in quarries, and even Mammoth at higher elevations.

I'm having trouble making progress to the North. Every 30 miles or so it seems there is another adventure waiting, whether pioneer museums, mammoth bones, or just a waitress with a tale of woe. As I'm not a farmer, the land itself isn't too interesting to me, but the 2 legged critters on top of it sure are.

I am writing this last from the shores of Lake McConaughy. All along Hwy 30, I wondered what turned the mighty Platte into an irrigation canal, and this lake is most of the answer. There's terrific lightning to the north, and the wind is shaking the trailer. I've got to go lower the bathroom vent before it is torn off. Then I'm going to bed and listen to it rain.

See you later.

Bob

Welcome to Oklahoma, Part Deux

Wednesday


It was after 6 pm by the time I got my flat fixed in Clinton. I looked for the nearest campground, and ended up at Roman Nose State Park and Resort. Several state parks have this "and resort" honorific. Apparently it means there is a golf course and lodge nearby. There's certainly a nice one at Roman Nose. I got a site right on the shore of Lake Waponga, with electricity and water, for $15.

I decided to take a little constitutional along the lake, where I came upon a very large woman who seemed to be stuck in a rickety and trembling lawn chair, facing a sunset which was, as she said, "glorious".

"We've had so much rain. Everything's so green. It's usually brown as toast this time of year."

It was nice, though I noted that the Red River was reduced to a series of puddles where I crossed it.

"God must've known you were coming. He made it so green for you."

I replied that the Almighty doubtless had other things to do than arrange the weather to suit me.

"Oh, no, Honey. He does it for everybody."

She seemed rapt in some private Revelation. I thanked her for the thought, she blessed me,and I went on to the bed.

Next morning, on the way back to 183 (also known as the 45th Infantry Division Memorial Highway), I passed through Okeene, known for its Rattlesnake Hunt, featuring the "Den of Death". In Woodward I passed by a sign that said "Work & Work, Attorneys at Law". I'm not sure if it was a name or an exhortation. In Canton I ate at the only Mexican restaurant I know of where macaroni arrives unheralded on the enchilada plate.

If you can forego golf, I believe Canton Lake is the campground of choice in these parts. It's a large Corps of Engineers Reservoir on the north fork of the Canadian River. The campsites are arranged up the slope of a windy hill in full view of the lake, under a grove of trees. It's where I'd go if I just wanted some peace and quiet. I asked the gatekeeper why the place was so deserted.

"It's the heat. Yesterday I had some people tell me they'd be back when we fixed the air conditioning."

It is 95 degrees F. Plenty hot despite the breeze. It would be lovely here in the fall. Electricity and water for $15.

Back on 183, I passed through Fort Supply, and turned off to see the Historic Site. I was well into the grounds before I realized it is in the middle of a prison facility of the State Department of Corrections. Everybody was walking around in tan and gray jumpsuits. Let's see, do I want to park the trailer here? Upon reflection, I left without viewing the no doubt historic remains of the old Fort.

Going through town, though, I saw a sign that brought me up short. "Custom Knives and Convenience Store". I had about an hour's conversation with a genial fellow named Osa McDowell. All the knives on view were already sold, as he stays anywhere from several weeks to several months behind. We went back to his shop, and he showed me the whole process, and we went through a pile of exotic woods he uses for the handles. Next year Osa is moving to Montrose, Colorado, and setting up shop on Hwy 50 right where you turn off to go to Black Canyon of the Gunnison. Look in, you'll be glad you did.

You can see some of his work at

http://www.mcdowellknives.com

I was particularly taken with the "little skinner".

On to Dodge City, still looking for snow.


Bob

Welcome to Oklahoma

Tuesday


Cordell, Oklahoma has a simple, nice looking courthouse set off by a sweep of bright red steps. I made the tour around the square, then stopped on Hwy 183 on the way out of town to get a beer out of the freezer. Whoops! Somewhere I must have hit a hell of a bump, 'cause one of the large paintings by the entrance has hopped off the wall, and shattered glass fills the doorway. No dumpster around. I gathered it up on the welcome mat, locked the door, and went on up the road.

I pulled into a convenience store south of Clinton and dumped the mess in their trash can. While I was putting my credit card into the pump, a short, stout, red-haired fellow came up behind me.

"You gonna change that right there?"

"What?"

He pointed at the right rear of the trailer. Sure enough. Flat right down to the rim. Great.

"I guess I'll have to."

"Tell you what. I've got an air tank in my barn, over yonder." He waved vaguely at the field behind the store. "Why don't I go get it and air you up so you can move to a better place?"

"You don't need to...."

But he was already moving away. I finished pumping gas, and then started getting out my tools. Perhaps five minutes had gone by. Here comes Red, roaring up. He jumps out of the truck, leaves the door hanging open, scoops an air tank out of the bed and proceeds to air up the tire.

"Man, you're losing it almost as fast as I can get it in. You ready to roll?" Sure. I pulled up slowly to the side of the store. By the time I got out and around to the side, Red produced a floor jack from somewhere, and was raising the axle.

"You don't need to do that."

"No problem. Won't take a minute. You got your spare?"

By the time I get the bicycle off and the spare out from under it, Red has the offending tire dangling from a single lug nut.

"How much this trailer weigh? Ya know, the Goodyear place in town is probably still open..."

I looked at my watch. It was 5:15. "They're probably closed by now."

"Maybe not." He grabbed the flat off the hub and sent it spinning toward me. By the time I lift it into the back of the truck, he has the spare on, talking all the while.

"Tell you what, its only about 3 miles. Why don't you follow me in? How you like that V10? You a fireman? Where 'bouts in Texas you from?" He let down the axle and tightened the nuts. It was then 5:20, and he was already moving back to his truck, carrying the floor jack in one hand.

Okay.

I followed him into Clinton, zigzagging off several blocks to the right of the highway, and sure enough there was the Goodyear place. The bay door was open, but nobody was around. Red marched into the gloom.

"Hey, Al! Al? Al! I brought you some business!" So Al comes walking reluctantly out of the back, and while I'm explaining what happened, Red is on his way again.

"Hey, thanks for your help."

"No problem. Welcome to Oklahoma." And he was gone.

Whew. I looked at Al, who was grinning.

"Who was that red-headed stepchild?"

"That's Butch Beacham. He's an auctioneer."

"He always move that fast?"

"He's right quick."

Turned out I had to buy a new tire. The flat had a puncture about 2 inches long, right through the cord. Al said he could patch it, but he couldn't guarantee it. He called it an "impact puncture", which I guess means I hit something fairly sharp, fairly hard. Or maybe some of that picture glass fell out the door and I didn't see it. Or maybe...

The ST 205/75R15 Marathon ran $101, which is probably a bit high. But hell, this is Clinton, Oklahoma.

That's the kind of luck I have. Not Good, Not Bad. Just BTID. (Better Than I Deserve.) Nothing I would want to take to Vegas. Good luck would be not having the flat at all. Bad luck might involve something like me getting killed when the trailer flips over.

BTID luck just means I run into Butch Beacham, and then make it to the Goodyear store in time.

I'll settle for that. Welcome to Oklahoma.


Bob

Wandering Into Retirement

It was the summer of '02.

Over the previous 7 years, I'd managed to recover slowly from a torn knee, a badly sprained ankle, a broken neck, two heart attacks, and Sean graduating from Wake Forest.

At last, I was feeling like I was in pretty fair shape.

The long recession, which had decimated many a prematurely retired fireman's retirement account, seemed to be bottoming out.

And I was really bored with work. Not with the emergency stuff, just the same old gestures of working in the same place, and with much the same people, for 30 years.

These are fine people.

But after that much time, just showing up for work can be a repetitive motion injury, like tennis elbow or carpal tunnel syndrome.

"Retiree's Mindset". Think Blue Cross would cover treatment for that in, say, Tahiti?

Then in July my mother passed away, at 87 years. Something like that is supposed to make you think. In my case, it had the opposite effect. I just about quit thinking altogether.

What's to think about?

I'm not trying to be profound. I avoid deep water, unless I've got a pretty good boat. But it doesn't take a genius to see that when your Visa goes over 40 grand, debt becomes ludicrous. It's just way over your punkin' head.

You're never going to pay it off anyway. Have a beer. Hell, have another. Go ahead. Charge it.

And you're never going to live forever. Sometimes it's the little things that finally move us off the dime. Not grand plans, ambitious projects, wish lists and labors.

In the end, I vacationed my way right into retirement.

It all started because it was just so damn hot. So I went looking for a place to cool off. I was clear up in South Dakota before I found it, but lots of things happened on the way.

Lemme tell ya 'bout dat....


Bob