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