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
Things That Go Bump In The Day
September 11, 2002
September 9, 2002
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
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
September 7, 2002
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.
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
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. |  |
 |
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
September 5, 2002
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!
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!
September 4, 2002
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.
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
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
September 2, 2002
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
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
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
September 1, 2002
Just Deserts
| |
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
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
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
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