The Gunsmoke Files

2012 - By the Numbers

2012-01-31T23:49:00.001-07:00

Days to St. Baldrick’s - 40

Days to MS150 - 121

Number of Days Cycled - 12
Trainer – 5
Mountain Bike - 1
Touring Bike - 6
% of Goal - 12%

Miles Cycled on Touring Bike - 103
% of Goal – 4.1%

Miles Hiked on Colorado Trail - 0

14’ers Climbed - 0

Number of Nights Camped - 1
Caravan - 1
Outdoors -0

Time between 5pm and Sunset – 22 minutes
Time between Sunrise and 8am – (51 minutes)

Days until Spring – 49
Days until Daylight Savings begins - 39

A Kojak Moment

2012-01-25T21:16:00.006-07:00

OK, so what’s this “Shaving my Head for St. Baldrick’s” thingy that I’ve been on about in my New Year’s Not Resolution posts?

Shaving my head? Sounds like a trip, right? Well, if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to get serious for a bit

The St. Baldrick’s Foundation (www.stbaldricks.org) is a volunteer driven charity that funds research to find cures for childhood cancers. According to their web site, 160,000 children are diagnosed with cancer worldwide each year. One every 3 1/2 minutes. Not only that, Cancer is the number one disease killer of children in the U.S. and Canada.

Now I’ve been blessed in that so far at least, no child I know personally has been stricken with cancer. However, in recent years we’ve had more than enough of it in our family. My Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer but she beat it. Stomach cancer took my Dad in 2010. My father-in-law beat bladder cancer a few years ago but is now fighting prostate cancer.

How messed up is that?

Cancer is a hateful, cowardly disease and frankly, I’m fucking sick of it.

Which is why I have so much admiration for people like The St. Baldrick’s Foundation and the work they do to help efforts to beat it once and for all. If you haven't already, take a look at the web site and see some of their success stories.

Right, I’ll climb off my soapbox now and explain about the head shaving stuff.

Each year, round about St. Patrick’s day, the St. Baldrick’s Foundation coordinates head shaving events at locations around the globe; more than a thousand in 2011. Over 45,000 people (more than 5,000 of them women) volunteered to have their heads shaved allowing the Foundation to award over $21 million in grants to help fight childhood cancer.

One of the volunteers was my mate Robert de Jong and it’s him wot deserves the credit for inspiring me to step up and do the deed this year.

It’s not going to be easy. My head hasn’t been shaved down to the wood since I was about 7 and who knows what we’re going to find under there. Tattoos, shopping lists, old girlfriends' phone numbers, there could be anything. And while they may have more silver highlights than I care to notice, I am somewhat attached to my flowing locks. I mean, I am pretty darned gorgeous.

So what I'm saying is, I’m more than a bit scared.

But what the hey. I've looked like a dork before, I can do it again. And who knows, maybe I'll look badass. (Yeah, right). Still, if me walking round looking like a billiard ball for a few weeks can help some kid with cancer, well then it’s not that big a price to pay now is it?

And if you wanted to help by making a donation, I’d be very, very, very grateful.

www.stbaldricks.org/participants/andrewsmith

Note: I can't get the links to work tonight for some reason, so please just copy and paste.

Giving up already, huh?

2012-01-18T21:05:00.001-07:00

Yep, you got me. It’s only January 18 and already my "Stuff to Do in 2012" list (see sidebar on the right) has shrunk from 8 items to 7. "Run a Half Marathon" is already gone.

I thought about deleting it quietly and hoping nobody would notice, but despite evidence to the contrary, I do have some ethics. That and I’ve already talked about it here so there’s a good chance I would get called out on it anyway.

So what happened?

Well, as I wrote a long time ago, in The Loneliness of the Short Distance Runner I’ve had a love-hate relationship with running ever since attempting to take it back up in middle age. I want to run, I really do, it’s just my legs won’t cooperate. Despite many stops, starts, annual resolutions, teeth gritting, new shoes, new training programs, and who knows what else, it seems my old bones just won’t tolerate the pounding any more. No matter how slowly I take it, how long I spend building up a mileage base, the end result is always the same.

It hurts like hell.

I genuinely believed that this time, this time, I had beaten the demon. I’d been running 2-3 times a week, almost every week for about 4 months. My mileage wasn’t high, just 2 to 3 miles at a time, but I was doing it you see. And more importantly, sticking to it.

And then I ran 4 miles. Not exactly an endurance race. I doubt any Ironman contender would have been losing sleep. But it was a big deal to me. 4 miles. That’s longer than I’ve run without stopping since I was in my early twenties. See me? See Boston? Get ready world. Man, was I feeling good about myself.

But then the next time out, a short 2 miler, and it all came crashing down. Every step felt like someone was hitting my legs with a baseball bat. Achilles tendons, calf muscles, knees, hips.

Hurt
Like
Hell

They say you should listen to your body while exercising and mine was using words which would have made a sailor blush. I made it 1 mile. 1 pitiful mile before calling it a day, and sitting down and feeling sorry for myself. And I haven’t been able to pluck up the enthusiasm for trying again.

So reluctantly and for the umpteenth time, I’m admitting that me and running just don’t get on. And the goal to run a half marathon has been shelved.

For now.

Stuff to do in 2012 - Part 2

2012-01-15T16:44:00.002-07:00

Picking up where we left off last time, here are the details of my remaining goals for 2012.

4. Ride 2,500 miles on my touring bike.
This one is connected to number 4, but bike specific. When I bought my touring bike in February 2010, I rode the thing every chance I had, no matter the weather. This despite slipping and going down hard on ice during my second time out. And fighting ferocious headwinds for most of the spring. I did a short tour in August and then…never rode the bike for the rest of the year. Not really sure why, I just didn’t.

So, in 2011 I set myself a vague goal of doubling my mileage for the year. Not only did I not double my mileage, I barely equaled it. Again, largely due to a several month layoff for no good reason at all.

Not this year though. 2,500 miles is the target and while I accept this is quite ambitious, I pledge to give it a darn good go. No indoor trainer this time, these all have to be outdoor miles and on one bike.

5. Hike further along the Colorado trail, at least to Breckenridge.
A blast from the past now. This has been on my ‘to do’ list for way too long. I first began the 500 mile long distance footpath known as The Colorado Trail back in June 2007. My plan was to devote a week’s vacation each year and hike it in segments. As I wrote on The Gunsmoke Files at the time, the first week was harder than anything I’ve ever experienced. The altitude gain, the weight of my gear, my general lack of preparation, every step was miserable and I’ve never been more glad to see the end of a hiking trip.

It was May of 2009 before I made it back out for the next leg. I was just planning on doing a short portion, not too far from home, over the course of a long weekend. The first 8 miles were terrific, striding out with a pack that felt weightless and a song in my heart. Then I hit the snow. I floundered around up to my dangly bits for about an hour before admitting that I had no idea where the trail was and it was futile to keep searching. Later, I learned that the pass over which I was attempting to hike wouldn’t be clear for another couple of months.

And here we are, 3 years older and no further along the trail. My vacation time is more or less spoken for already this year, so there’s no room for a long hike. However, I should be able to knock of this particular section in a couple of days.

Once the snow melts.

6. Finally climb a 14’er, dammit!
10 years in April. 10 years. That’s how long I’ve lived in Colorado and I’ve yet to scale one of the 53 mountains over the height of 14,000 feet. That’s 4,267.2 meters for those of you reading in foreign.
There’s a couple where you can drive almost to the top, then walk the last few yards and Dear Wife has hinted more than once that she’d quite like to do that. But no! Before I’ll allow myself to behave like a complete tourist I’m going to climb at least one, all the way to the top. It can even be one of the easy ones. The ones known euphemistically as “Beginner’s 14’ers.” I’ll take that.

But this year, I need to climb one. Once the snow melts and the trail is clear.

7. Camp out for 10 or more nights
Last one, and another which sounds easier than it’s probably going to be. 10 nights in a tent. Or not in a tent, but under the stars, or otherwise out of doors. As I’ve said, the bulk of my vacation time is spoken for, so most of these nights probably need to come on the weekends. Maybe tied in with rides on my touring bike. Or hiking the Colorado Trail. Or just getting out into the woods.

I’ve written before, the ground is a lot harder these days, and my old bones don’t react as well as they used to when it comes to parking them on rocks and tree roots. But I still loves me some camping.

So 10 nights it is.

There we are then, my goals for 2012. Progress to be recorded and reported for your viewing pleasure right here on The Gunsmoke Files.
How about you come with me?

Stuff to do in 2012 - Part 1

2012-01-11T16:43:00.001-07:00

Those of you with memory spans longer than that of goldfishes will recall that I promised to discuss my Goals for 2012. These can be found in a box over to the right side of the screen, along with another marking my progress. But what do they all mean? I’m glad you asked.

1. Shave my head for St. Baldrick’s Day:
My pal DeJo did this last year to raise money for the St. Baldrick’s foundation, (www.stbaldricks.org) a group committed to funding research to find cures for childhood cancers. I found out about it a bit too late to take part, but in a moment of madness, I agreed to keep him company this time out. So, on March 11, my flowing locks will be shorn and I’ll be doing the Kojak thing.

There was a time when baldness was a mark of shame, of ridicule. Now guys shave their heads in order to look badass. Last time I had a crew cut was about age 10 and whatever adjectives came to mind back then, badass wasn’t one of them. It will be interesting to see what’s lurking under there and just how ridiculously dorky I look.

The whole point of the thing is of course, to raise funds for cancer research so you can anticipate thinly veiled attempts at begging for sponsorship as we get nearer the time, with links allowing you to make your donations. Come on, who doesn’t want to see me with a baldy heid? Watch this space.

2. Complete the MS150:
The what? Another charity event, this one’s a 2-day, 150 mile bike ride to benefit the 88,000 people in Colorado and Wyoming affected by Multiple Sclerosis. I’m confident I can ride 75 miles without too much trouble but hauling my sorry carcass out of bed to do it all again the next day…bit more of a challenge.

Again, more details will follow nearer the time and again, you can blame DeJo for this one.

3. Cycle 100 days.
This one falls under the catch all of “Ride my Bike more” and basically means that I’m committing to going for a bike ride 2-3 times a week. Silver touring bike, gray mountain bike, red mountain / dirt road bike, whichever. I’m also including time spent on the indoor bike trainer, so no excuses about the weather. OK? 100 times.

I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted already and I'm not even half way through. Time for another coffee, then we’ll tackle the rest.

New Year's "Not" Resolutions. Again.

2012-01-08T08:35:00.004-07:00

Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, you’ve heard it all before.

“Here are my new year’s resolutions and this time I’m really going to stick to them; I mean it!”

Even, I’m sad to say, on these very pages. I’m very good you see, about setting targets for myself. I get all gung-ho and excited about them. I make spreadsheets to track my progress, and bookmark web sites which will help motivate me, and get books out of the library and all the rest. Setting targets? All over it.

Achieving targets? Eh, not so much.

So why will this year be different? Well, maybe it won’t but I’m banking on the fact that when it comes to the targets I’ve set this year, I really, really, really want to achieve them. That has to help, right?

Plus, 2012 is something of a milestone year for me in that it will mark my 50th circuit around the sun. (Whoever thought I would last this long, eh?) So there's a little extra motivation to get stuff done. Espcially stuff which will help the pretence that there's still some life left in me.

Not only that; instead of calling them resolutions, I’m going to call them goals. See the difference? But there’s more. I have a fiendishly clever master plan.

Look over to the right. No, not that far, just to the right of the screen. See those 2 boxes?

“Stuff to Do in 2012” and…here’s the kicker, “Progress on Stuff to Do.”

So there you go. Out there for the entire WorldWideIntrawebz to see. Or at least my readership, which to my knowledge, currently numbers around 3. 4 if you count me.

But still, there’s accountability right there. If I fail to make adequate progress, you’ll all be free to curl your collective lips and sneer derisively. Which maybe you do upon reading my blog anyway, but at least I’ll have the repetitive nudge of seeing the goals and my progress, or lack thereof, every time I log on to update The Gunsmoke Files.

Of course, if I won’t see them if I don’t log on to update The Gunsmoke Files, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.

So, join me next time out, and we’ll take a look at them.

So where the hell have you been?

2012-01-04T20:48:00.005-07:00

I’ve been right here. Here in our odd little house, tucked away in the foothills of the Rockies. Mostly.

So why haven’t I been writing?

Well, I’ve been traveling on business a fair bit too, and have spent way more time in airport lounges and on planes than I would have chosen to. Nowhere glamorous unfortunately. Since the Asian trip I wrote about back in January 2010?, I’ve been nowhere more exciting than Texas. But I’ve been there more times than I care to count. Oh, and Ohio once. For about 5 hours.

Why Texas? Well, it’s where my company’s Corporate Office is located and as I took a promotion early last year, my presence has been required there on a regular basis. What can I say, they need me. In addition to the travel, promotions tend to lead to a lot more work and less free time, which has made it harder to drum up the enthusiasm for writing. That could of course, be a problem this year too but I’ll play it by ear and do the best I can. Sweet readers, I love you dearly but the pay check will always come first.

There have been health issues too. Not for me, although I’ll admit, that miserable old git, Father Time has been breathing a little heavier over my shoulder recently. Dear Wife though, was taken very seriously ill towards the end of 2009 and that sucked up a good amount of emotional energy. Good news is, she’s recovering well, is looking a lot healthier and is exercising more than she has done in years. Back on the negative side, my Dad succumbed to cancer at the end of 2010 but fortunately I was able to spend a little time with him in the summer. Ma is now in an assisted living place and enjoying life, despite getting dottier by the day. But hey, who isn’t?

We have two new dogs since we last spoke. After The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™ died in January of 2010 we went for six months without a pooch in the house and it were ‘orrible. Later that summer we became an Australian Shepherd household again, adopting

Jasmine from a rescue in Colorado and

Marley from a breeder in Missouri. They now vie for our attention 24 hours a day and the house is covered in dog hair once more. Incidentally, Jasmine is world famous round here, being the poster child on the back of the van used by the local Humane Society. See us? See celebrities?

To combat the hours spent shackled to my desk, I’ve been trying to spend as much time as I can out of doors. To that end, I invested in a new touring bike and some lightweight camping gear (how did my camping stuff get so heavy just sitting in the shed for years?) and have been doing my best to rack up the miles. Colorado isn’t an ideal place to get into shape, given that there are no ‘easy’ hills. Everything is up, and up, and up and when you’re starting at a mile and half above sea level, there isn’t a whole lot of oxygen to begin with. Nonetheless, on my last trip at the beginning of June, I was able to ride up hills that my car would struggle to drive so that’s encouraging.

I’ve also started going to the Colorado Rapids football games (real football, not American football). Major League Soccer is on a par with, I would say, the English First Division, so the quality isn’t exactly top rate. And the Rapids tend to be frustratingly inconsistent but when they’re on form, can put together some quite impressive football. Last year they surprised everyone, including I think, themselves, when they came into form towards the end of the season and went all the way through the playoffs to win the championship for the first time in their history. They didn’t come close to repeating that this year, although in their defense, they’ve had a lot of problems with injuries to key players.

We also took another step towards old age by buying ourselves a caravan (camping trailer) this year. I’ve been hankering after one for a while following a series camping trips where the weather has been almost comically bad. When the two of us go together, we take books and iPods and all the paraphernalia but with the big Five-Oh lurking around the corner, lying on the ground for days at a time has lost some of its appeal. The idea of sitting at a table to read and being able to stand up to get dressed is sounding more attractive with each passing year. Like me, the caravan is old and temperamental and it’s so small that truly, it’s little more than a hard sided tent. However, we’ve had a couple of trips in it already and love the thing.

So that’s about it. That’s where I’ve been for the last 24 months. The Cliff’s Notes version at least. But look at this…a whole new year on the calendar with a world of opportunities and adventures to be had.

Want to come along?

You call yourself a Blogger?

2012-01-01T19:24:00.004-07:00

Seriously? 11 updates in the last 2 years? And you call yourself a Blogger?

No, I don’t. Not really.

I can’t say I’ve called myself a Blogger for quite some time now. Work, health, life and yes, death have all thrown up obstacles to my maintaining The Gunsmoke Files over the last couple of years. That and a general lack of enthusiasm on my part. Mostly the last one.

But in my defense, does anybody even read Blogs these days, much less write them? What with Facebook and Twitter and a kazillion other ways to stay connected 24x7, who takes the time to sit and write anything more than 140 characters on any kind of regular basis? And who wants to read what they have to say? Will I even have a readership, if I start this back up again?

Well, based upon the number of people I’ve spoken to in the last few weeks who’ve asked why I no longer update The Gunsmoke Files, there does appear to be a sizeable audience still out there. OK, maybe not sizeable. Three. Three people have asked me in recent weeks why I no longer update the Gunsmoke Files.

Dammit, my audience needs me!

And so, for you three, and you know who you are, I shall dust off The Gunsmoke Files, and step once more into the role of Your Faithful Correspondent. With regular updates. I promise.

Enjoy.

Watch this Space

2011-12-23T11:20:00.001-07:00

It's coming...very soon. The next update of The Gunsmoke Files will appear in just a few days.

Watch this space.

Eating Out - Part 4

2011-02-14T08:21:00.001-07:00

After about a year, I made a break for it and headed back to Joel, still sitting at the table, still completely unaware of what was going on. I put him right. Once we’d figured out how to switch on the burner, our broth was soon simmering nicely. Cheerfully, we emptied the bowl of food into the broth and licking our lips, inhaled the delicious aroma as we waited for it to cook.

It was then we noticed the other patrons stealing glances from behind their hands and smiling. That’s when we realized that other people were cooking and eating their food in installments. Quite obvious really – different meats and vegetables cook at different speeds so we’d just revealed once more, what neophytes we were. Oh well, before long we were pigging into this gargantuan meal.

But we didn’t just have volume to contend with. Remember I said tom yum soup was hot? Well this stuff was really hot. I mean, Chernobyl hot. Toilet paper in the fridge hot. I like my food spicy, and have shoveled down some blistering stuff in the past, but I have never eaten anything as hot as this. In moments we were each sweating, blowing our noses and talking in high-pitched, strained voices. And no matter how many dishes we ate, the level in the bowl just never seemed to go down.

Because Auntie wasn’t done with us yet. Every couple of minutes, she would appear at my elbow with yet another mountain of food. We took what we could but eventually, laughing, we had to push her away.

"No! No more food" we pleaded. But it was still a long time before she got the message.

I’m still not sure how they enforced the “charge for wasted food” bit, but we had a few bits and pieces swimming around the bottom of the bowl when hours later, fat, happy and clear of sinus, we finally rose and waddled away. Nobody called us back though, so I think we got away with it.

The girls were proud of us when we told them. No TGIFridays for a pair of seasoned travelers like us. But now I’m home, microwaved pizza in front of the TV just isn’t the same.

Photos of Taipei

Photos of Singapore

Eating Out - Part 3

2011-02-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

Except when the soup arrived a few moments later, I was more than a bit disappointed. True, the bowl was enormous, and divided down the middle contained both chicken broth on one side, tom yum on the other. But that appeared to be it. Where were the prawns, chicken, fish, mushrooms and other delicious ingredients that typify tom yum? How could they call the other side chicken soup, when there was no chicken to be seen? Were we being stiffed because we were tourists, or what? This was so not what we’d planned.

"Let’s finish this, then try and find somewhere else" Joel suggested and resignedly, we began spooning the broth into our bowls.

"NO, NO, NO!" yelled Auntie and grabbing my sleeve, led me through the throng and into the restaurant proper.

That’s when I realized how this place worked. Our table was in fact a sort of outdoor grill, the bowl sitting atop a gas burner. Inside, we were free to choose from a smorgasbord of meats, vegetables, seafood and other less identifiable foodstuffs.

"You want this?" cried Auntie, pointing at a mound of mussels? "This?" at piles of shrimp. "This? This? This?" When we got to the meat section, she began to mimic the noises the animals made (or at least, made before they were sliced into small pieces) and that was worth the price of the meal in itself. On and on she went. It made no difference whether my answer was "Yes", "No" or "Just a little, please" she piled mountains of meat, seafood, vegetables, everything into an enormous bowl, the kind my Mum used to wash dishes in. It wasn’t long before I began to get really nervous about our ability to finish all this. Hungry though we were, this was a shit-load of food in any language.

A sign in English stated "Please do not waste food – we will charge for any leftovers." Charge how much? I didn’t know. Surreptitiously I began taking food out of the washing-up bowl and putting it back on the buffet, but faster than I could do that, Auntie kept shoveling the stuff back in.

I was starting to panic.

Eating Out - Part 2

2011-02-12T07:40:00.000-07:00

Where to eat then? Chinatown, came the cry. That’s the place for two young(ish) rakes to be on a Singaporean weekend. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones privy to this secret. Saturday night a few days before Chinese New Year and the place was hopping. I mean wall-to-wall bodies, little shuffling steps, noise, color, and not a seat to be had at any of the hundreds of restaurants or food courts lining the streets.

It wasn’t long before we gave up on our goal to find the "best" place to eat in Chinatown.

"I think we just need to find somewhere that has some open seats" said Joel.

It took a while, but eventually we managed it. I saw an empty spot at a sidewalk table and enthusiastically parked my bum. At the time, Joel was a few feet away and almost kept walking, the press of bodies being too thick for him to notice my absence. Fortunately he heard me yell as a few steps further and we would probably have never seen each other again.

In moments, Auntie was by my side. Very old, very small, but with an energy I didn’t even have in my youth.

"You want soup? Tom Yum soup? Chicken soup?"

I only heard the first part. I discovered Tom Yum soup in Thailand, many years ago. Very hot, sour, spicy and delicious, of all Asian food, it’s my very favorite.

"Yes, tom yum" I nodded enthusiastically. Excellent. I couldn’t believe our luck.

"Oh Joel, you’re going to like this!"

Eating Out - Part 1

2011-02-11T14:58:00.004-07:00

"I think we need to call the girls" Joel said "and ask them the Chinese for 'No more food.'"
"No, we need to be more specific than that." I replied. "We need the Chinese for 'In the name of God woman, please stop bringing us food, we’re begging you!'"

We’d been spoiled, you see. For our week in Taiwan, and the first couple of days in Singapore we’d had a delightful harem of co-workers to guide us through every meal. Not only did they order for us, but they explained what we were eating, how to eat it, which implements to use for the process and a lot of the time, even spooned the food onto our plates for us, waiting on us like latter-day Geisha. Oh, I could get used to that life.

Every evening once the business meetings were done came the question

"What would you like to eat tonight?" At first they were concerned we’d be missing Western food but once we explained that we could get Western food at home, and were keen to try whatever they could think up for us, they were happy to show us the best that Asian cuisine could offer.

Oh boy. Vegetarian stuff, pastries, beef, mutton, poultry, fish and other seafood at every level of weirdness. Dumplings, rice and noodles. Chili crab, fish-head curry, bone marrow soup, o· bí-ko (pork blood and rice) and this is just off the top of my head. Korean, Japanese, Malay, Chinese – even French. Upscale restaurants, food courts, street stalls, you name it, we ate it. And it was all good. Unbelievably, deliciously, "Oh man, this is good" good.

Having been preceded by USAian co-workers who visited Singapore only to eat at TGIFridays (hurl) or via Room Service, the girls were thrilled to find Joel and me willing to tackle whatever they served up. OK, I baulked at the stinky tofu. And I’ve eaten durian and testicles before (the latter without realizing what they were until later) so they are both on my "Now I’ve done it I don’t need to do it again" list. But the rest, we attacked with gusto.

But now it was the weekend and we were cast loose on the town. We’d left Regina in Taiwan, Amanda and Serine were off on a business trip of their own, while Sha and Adeline were at home reacquainting themselves with their respective husbands. And in good conscience, we couldn’t ask Emi, the only single girl in the group, to spend her Saturday night with a couple of middle-aged guys.

So it was just us lads.

Adventures in Europe - Part 6

2010-12-31T09:49:00.001-07:00

Still Sunday. And a bit of Monday

Of course it didn’t last. Moments after disembarking we were thrust into a maelstrom of frustrated wannabe travelers. As with Schiphol airport, lots of people were spending their weekend in London’s railway stations, wishing they were on their way somewhere else. Word was, the entire country was clogged like this and for the first time in several hours, I began to worry once more that this might be as far as I would get.

Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and as trains to Glasgow leave from Euston Station, a short-ish walk down the road, I decided to make my way over there and see if there was by any chance, a train leaving tonight. As it turned out, there was. In 45 minutes. Now if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll remember that I had a plane reservation from London City Airport the following morning. So why was I looking for a train? Because I had already established that if there were any hotel rooms available in London for tonight – and preliminary enquiries suggested there were not, they would cost more than the plane I was considering abandoning. Taking this into account, and given there was no guarantee the plane would even get off the ground in the first place, it just made more sense to take the train.

I hummed, I hawed and with fifteen minutes to spare, pulled the trigger and bought myself a train ticket. A whole five minutes before the loudspeaker announced the train was delayed and to wait for further announcements. In my brief time here at Euston station, I’d seen enough examples of “delayed” to know exactly what it meant. A precursor to “cancelled”, that’s what.

Off to do battle once more then with my nemesis awaiting me in the corner. This bank of payphones were even more evil than their Schiphol counterparts. Not only did they not like my American Express card, they no longer wanted anything to do with my debit card. It had worked 20 minutes earlier when I’d called my wife to let her know which country I was in, but not now.

So...I had to find an ATM to withdraw some cash. Then stand in line at the newsagent to buy a bar of chocolate I didn’t really want in order to get change. Then watch in horror as said change was swallowed by the payphone at an astonishing rate, barely giving me enough time to recite the payphone’s number to my wife so she could call me back. She did call me back but due to the phone’s habit of cutting us off every 20 seconds or so, it took me a while to get the message across. “Yes, I know I have a flight booked tomorrow, but I’m going to try and get there by train tonight. It’s just I don’t know when or even if it will leave, that’s all.”

Finally, we were done and I determined to find myself a quiet corner in which to sit, get my breath back and wait to see what would happen with my “delayed” train. I never made it to the corner though. No sooner had I wrestled my way through the throng and back to the notice board when I heard the announcement “This is the final boarding call for the delayed train to Glasgow Central.” Well, what are the odds? Of all the “delayed” trains I’d seen in the last hour, mine was the only one which was really just “delayed”.

The last leg was uneventful. My back was aching now, after far too long in uncomfortable seats, or standing in endless lines. And it had turned dark long ago, so there was nothing to see out of the window. And as on the earlier trains, we had to go slow because of the weather. But we got there eventually, just a little over an hour late. The weather didn’t stop me after all.

I learned later that the plane I had booked for the following day did take, but didn’t arrive in Glasgow until mid-afternoon, which would only have allowed me a few hours with my family. I also learned that another storm hit Amsterdam not long after I left on the train, and had I not done so, I might be there yet. So it was a pleasant surprise to learn I made the right call in taking the train.

But the best surprise of all came just after we rolled into Glasgow, a little after 1am. Standing at the end of the platform was my brother-in-law, who had driven an hour through the snow to come and get me. And my nephew too. And best of all, my 82-year old Mum, bundled up against the cold, with a big smile on her face.

It’s good to be home for the holidays.

Adventures in Europe - Part 5

2010-12-30T09:46:00.000-07:00

Sunday

Banging on the door. Loud banging. And shouting. Lots of shouting. A big Russian man is in my room shouting at me. An angry Russian man.

“I CALL YOU NO ANSWER SHUTTLE IS READY TO GO PEOPLE ARE WAITING I CANNOT WAIT I GO NOW YOU CATCH NEXT SHUTTLE ONE HOUR!”

Moments later he’s gone and I’m sitting up in bed, gradually approaching consciousness and wondering if I have any chance of getting back to the world I know. Or if I’m destined to spend the rest of my life in this surreal, nether-world where everything is recognizable but nothing is familiar.

So, another hour until the shuttle swings back round, which might make things a bit tight for catching my train, but at least gives me long enough to experience the shower, which with its two settings (hot and very hot) made my ablutions more exciting than I normally prefer. I managed breakfast too; sitting all alone in a barn-like dining room, munching on what I’m going to believe was bread. A somewhat depressing experience, but nobody was shouting at me, so it’s all good.

Soon the hour was up and my scary Russian friend and I were heading back to the airport. He deposited me at the curb with a grunt of farewell and it was on to the next adventure. Finding the platform at which my train should be arriving any minute. I found the platform easily enough but given the events of the last 24-hours, I really wasn’t all that surprised to hear a loudspeaker announcement informing me that my train had been cancelled. Resignedly, I hauled my weary carcass back up the escalator and into the line for information. “No, your train isn’t cancelled!” exclaimed the clerk, “That was a different train. Hurry, it leaves soon.”

And leave soon it did. With me aboard. Out of breath and sweaty, but aboard. Maybe I’ll be home for Christmas after all.

The next few hours saw me take one of the smoothest and least stressful journeys of my life. I’ve always been a train geek. Not to the point of standing on windswept station platforms with a notebook, an anorak and a thermos, but I’ve always enjoyed reading about them, looking at photos of them and watching them as they go by. And traveling on them. Oh, I love traveling on them. Spending as I do, way too much of my life cramped in airplanes alongside, beefy businessmen, screaming children and grumpy flight-attendants, it’s a treat to travel in a comfortable seat, with a proper table in front of me and things to look at out the window. Ah, bliss.

Not that there was too much to see of course. The winter storm had hit Belgium and France just as hard as it had Holland and Britain, so visibility was reduced to a couple of hundred yards before the world disappeared behind a wall of white. Still, I had my book, I had my iPod and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps from the buffet. Travel doesn’t get much better.

The weather meant we couldn’t utilize the advertised “high-speed” aspect of the train and we were late into Brussels. But not late enough to matter. I had time for a very pleasant lunch before boarding another train for the next leg, through the Channel Tunnel and on to St. Pancras, London. Not only that, but we were only 1 hour late arriving there. I could get used to this.

Adventures in Europe - Part 4

2010-12-29T09:45:00.001-07:00

Saturday Night

There are many hotels close to Schiphol airport, ranging from the budget to the luxury. It made no difference to me though, because they were all full. It was starting to look as though I would need to head back to the city center when to my delight; I found one that did have room. Not only that, it had a free shuttle “Leaving in three minutes! You go to gate NOW!” barked the eastern-European sounding woman on the other end of the line.

Go to gate now, I did and in less time than it takes to tell, was sitting in the passenger seat of a mini-van, bowling my way through the snow covered fields to dinner and a warm bed. At least that’s what I thought. Oh, how the gods must laugh.

On and on we drove, me and the driver in almost total silence. I learned he was from Moscow but as his English was on a par with my Russian, the conversation didn’t exactly sparkle. After a while I began to wonder if he was driving me all the way to Moscow. Holland isn’t this big is it?

Finally, we pulled into a courtyard of a small hotel, on a residential street, in what appeared to be a hamlet consisting only of residential streets, and I learned that this was where I was to be spending the night. In the proper light, my driver turned out to be a large muscular guy, with a black leather jacket over a black wool polo-neck. Yeah, I’ve seen enough crappy movies to recognize a mobster when I see one. What was a Russian Mafioso doing working for an obscure hotel in the Dutch countryside? My imagination was working overtime. Then it jumped way past union scale when I met his business partner at the front desk. Seriously, if I’d been looking for actors to play two stereotypical Russian gangsters, this pair would have been the ones I’d pick. Mobster # 2 had an angry looking scar running from his close-cropped hairline to his chin and if that bulge under his armpit wasn’t a gun, then...OK, there was no bulge under his armpit, but dammit, it wouldn’t have seemed out of place if there was one.

After checking me into the room, he handed me the key and a TV remote. “You return in morning” he ordered, as if I would dare to forget. I suspect the TV remote had some purpose, but I never figured out what it was. It had nothing to do with the TV, I’m sure because that wasn’t working. Neither was the clock. One thing that was working was the toilet. In fact, I had to turn off the valve at the wall to get it to stop working.

So…no TV, no dinner (the cheerless restaurant had closed hours ago, and there was nowhere else in town), still no Internet access, despite the apparent “good” connection and nothing much about which to be chirpy. Although I had a seat booked on the train for tomorrow, I had heard that the weather had forced many trains to be cancelled too, so this was no guarantee of anything. Not only that, I still had nothing concrete as far as getting from London to Glasgow. And if the British transport network was as paralyzed as everyone was saying it was, well, completing that last leg might be a challenge too.

One of my room’s few working amenities was the telephone, and with this I was able to rouse a co-worker, fortuitously at home on his Saturday afternoon and he was able to look up a number by which the Corporate Travel Agency could be reached from Europe. In no time I was chatting to a delightful Texan lady (“delightful” and “Texan”, now there are two words I don’t often use in the same sentence) who set me up with a flight from London City Airport to Glasgow for Monday morning. If that arrived on time, it would allow me a whole afternoon with my family before heading home. If it arrived on time. And if someone was able to meet me there. And if I even made it to London by Monday. And if my American Express card is working. And if, and if, and if.

Tired, hungry and thoroughly fed up, I climbed between the icy sheets and wondered if I would get any sleep at all.

Adventures in Europe - Part 3

2010-12-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

Saturday Evening

Schiphol airport is wired for the Intranet and a lot of people were logged in via their laptops, exploring the travel sites and looking for alternatives. I wasn’t though. For reasons I still haven’t determined, my normally trusty Dell refused to let me play. Apparently I was connected, and with excellent signal strength, but no matter which site I tried (and boy, did I try plenty), I couldn’t get the page to display.

So, in order to rearrange my travel plans, and coordinate them with my family who had expected to pick me up at Glasgow airport some 5 hours ago, I had to resort to 20th Century technology, namely, the telephone. My cell phone is somewhat primitive, barely one step above 2 tin cans and a string and one of my new year's resolutions is to upgrade to a real one. Or at least one that can operate outside the USA. To the payphones then. Oh, I knew this was going to be fun.

Remember what I said about how calm I’d been all day? It didn’t last.

Me and payphones have never got on and these ones seemed to have been sent from hell for the sole purpose of vexing me. If something could go wrong, it did. First there’s the problem that all our business travel has to be booked via the Corporate Travel web site. Kind of a challenge when you can’t access the Internet. Not only that, but the contact phone numbers I had only worked from the USA. My wife and I had several conversations over the next couple of hours, while she tried to help remotely, but not being able to access the company’s network, there wasn’t too much she could do.

She did her best though and the last conversation we had was when I asked her to contact American Express to see why the phone operator was telling me there was a block on the card. There hadn’t been when I began making these calls, but there was now – I could no longer use it on the payphone, and if the phone operator was correct, the next few days were going to be very uncomfortable. I had my personal debit card with me, and while it was gamely racking up transatlantic charges on the payphones, my bank account wasn’t going to hold up for long if it had to cover all my expenses ‘till I got home.

At around 8pm, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I’d achieved all I could via the telephone. “all I could” being of course “absolutely nothing.”

What next? Well, Schiphol Airport is also home to a railway station. And while planes may not be leaving for the next few days, there was a chance that trains might be. I decided to go and ask.

Of course, I couldn’t just “go and ask”. That would have been too easy. Instead I had to stand in yet another line, for yet another 2 hours just to pose the question. Although technically, I did abscond from the line for about 10 minutes, leaving my bags in the care of a very nice Australian lady whom I had befriended. This was to answer a page from my wife so she could tell me she’d been able to speak to American Express who had confirmed that my card was in order, and there was no reason for it not to work in the payphones. So that was one bit of positive news. Even better, when I was finally able to pose my question as to the availability of a train, I received an answer in the affirmative. Yes, there was a train, leaving tomorrow and it would take me all the way to London. But uh no, sorry they didn’t take American Express. My poor debit card hasn’t worked so hard in its life.

So there we are. After being at the airport for 15 hours, I now had a plan to leave. By train.

Adventures in Europe - Part 2

2010-12-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

Saturday Afternoon

I’d only been back at the gate for a few minutes when we learned that yes, our flight was officially cancelled. We were to collect our previously-checked bags and head back to the main terminal to see about re-booking our flights. Carousel 2 was where they were supposed to come off. At least, that’s what the man said. And for pretty much everyone on the flight, that was the case. Not me though. My bag had apparently made it further than I had and wherever it was now, it wasn’t on carousel 2.

“Lost luggage, over there” said the harried looking airport official pointing to a heart-sinkingly long line snaking around the baggage claim hall. In the 45-minutes I stood in it before having to leave for the bathroom the line moved no further forward. Not...one...step. I might still be standing in it now, but as I re-joined it (significantly further back than where I left it) I happened to glance over at carousel 2 and was overjoyed to spot my suitcase, wending its lonely way round and around the conveyor belt. It took a while, but it finally got back to me.

If I thought the line at lost luggage was long though, it was nothing compared to the one at the British Airways counter where every man and his dog was attempting to find a seat on any upcoming flights. At least I wasn’t flying KLM. They had 6 lines open and I would estimate they were each about 400 yards long. At least. And they were moving even slower than our breathtaking pace, which I measured as 20 feet in 4 hours.

Now as you know, I have many fine qualities but patience has never been one of them. To my credit though, I remained remarkably calm despite the claustrophobia and the molasses-like movement of the line, as did most of my fellow queue-ees. We chatted, swapped travel stories, bitched and moaned cheerfully and at least one couple became so friendly, I suspect they’d be able to save the cost of one hotel room tonight. Over in the KLM line though, things weren’t quite so Zen. Children screamed, old folks threatened to keel over in the stifling heat, tempers and voices were raised and the poor airport staff, who of course could do nothing, must have wished they’d thought to call in sick today.

Either way, it was really something of a relief when around 6pm, a British Airways employee came along the line to advise us that not only did we have no hope of reaching the front of the queue before the desk closed at 9pm, there were no available flights anyway. Not today, not tomorrow, not Monday. Nothing until Tuesday. Which was no use to me because my flight home from Glasgow was early on Tuesday morning. And of course, there was no guarantee I would get a seat on any of Tuesday’s flights either. 3 days before Christmas there weren’t going to be that many seats available and 60,000 other people were hoping to bag one in addition to me. I was starting to wonder if I was going to be spending the holidays in Amsterdam after all.

Adventures in Europe - Part 1

2010-12-26T09:36:00.001-07:00

Saturday morning:

Sleeping in is rarely a good way to start the day. Especially when you need to be up way earlier than your body wishes you to be. In my defense though, it wasn’t my fault this time. The hotel receptionist had taken my request for a wake-up call in person the night before, but for some reason it hadn’t made it to the clerk responsible for handling them in the morning. Which was a problem because I had an early flight scheduled out of Schiphol airport in Amsterdam and the shuttle was supposed to have picked me up 10 minutes ago.

So as I threw my stuff into my bag and pulled on the clothes I was wearing yesterday, I wondered how come, even if the reception desk had neglected to wake me as promised, they hadn’t at least called my room to let me know the shuttle had arrived. I soon learned the answer to that one. The shuttle hadn’t arrived. The winter storm which had brought Amsterdam to an almost complete standstill had been enough to cause the cancellation of the shuttle service. Something which would have been nice to know a little earlier than 30 minutes after I needed to leave for the airport.

Fortunately, at least some of the city’s taxis were still running and we were soon on our way through the near deserted streets. The snow and ice blanketing the city leant an air of peace and tranquility to the scene. With the absence of motorized traffic and Amsterdam’s picturesque architecture serving as a backdrop for this winter wonderland, one could be forgiven for thinking that we’d been transported back to a simpler, gentler time.

But then we arrived at the airport.

Apparently the entire population of Europe was attempting to leave from Schiphol Airport this morning and few were succeeding. The press of bodies was claustrophobic and knowing that I was by now, disturbingly short of time, I tried not to panic as I elbowed my way through the throng. I haven’t yet made it to Calcutta but I’ve seen footage of the melees which occur at the railway station and I suspect the experience is something like this. It was very frustrating to be able to see where I wanted to be but be physically unable to get there.

I needn’t have worried. When I eventually reached the gate, it was to learn that like many others, my flight wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Unlike some of the others though, our problem wasn’t getting out of Amsterdam, but landing in London, which was dealing with the same winter storm, apparently with even less success than Amsterdam. I didn’t even want to go to London; I just happened to be connecting through there on my way to Glasgow, where I planned to spend a couple of days with me dear ol’ Ma before heading home to the States.

“What I’m going to do is take you off this flight.” Said the jug-eared child in the uniform of an airline employee. “You can book a new flight at the British Airways desk.”
“But wait,” I responded “What if there isn’t another flight? I’ll just be stuck here then, won’t I?”
“No flights are leaving Gatwick, so you’d be no better off even if you got there, you’d still be stuck.”

Now I knew that if the entire airport was anything like the rugby scrum I’d just fought my way through, and I suspected it was, then the odds of me getting a seat on another flight were slim to anorexic. And I most certainly wasn’t going to willingly give up my confirmed seat on an existing flight, however unlikely it might be to get off the ground.

“I’ll take my chances, thanks.” I told him, and settled down with my book.

After a little while, the captain came and stood on a chair to address us. He seemed like a kindly soul but even he had no idea whether or not we’d be leaving today. Not the first time he came up. Or the second. Or even the third, although by now, even the slowest among us had figured out that we wouldn’t be dining on airline pretzels today.

For a while, it looked as though we might not be dining on anything, but finally the airline admitted that we could leave the gate for a while and I headed for one of Schiphol airport’s dining establishments to ease my rumbling tum. You know what really goes down a treat when you’ve been up for way too long and are expecting your flight to be cancelled? A nice, frosty mug of beer, that’s what. Not that I was going to be enjoying any though.

“They just made an announcement 30 minutes ago.” The waitress told me. “No alcohol sales within the airport for the rest of the day.”
“What?” I bleated, “This is exactly when we need it!”
“No, some people have been here since Wednesday and apparently some of them are getting violent. So, no alcohol, sorry.”

Oh, the humanity.

The Falkirk Wheel

2009-06-10T14:28:00.005-06:00

In case you haven't figured this out already, I post links to YouTube when I can't think of anything about which to write. Sorry, but I really do lead a dull life.

Anyway, the Scottish football season ended last week and my team, Falkirk FC managed to avoid relegation from the Scottish Premier League by the skin of their teeth. You might think I'm setting my goals rather low if that's something to celebrate but if you'd seen their position in the league table just a few weeks ago, it's nothing short of miraculous. Even better, in the last game of the year, they played the league champions off the field in the Scottish Cup Final before valiantly, albeit predictably, getting beaten.

So, in honor of Falkirk Football Club, here's a video of Falkirk's most famous (OK, pretty much only) local landmark, The Falkirk Wheel.

The what? Well, it's the world's largest boat lift and it allows boats to be hoisted from a canal to another 24 metres (79 ft) above it. This is roughly equivalent to the height of an eight story building. Wikipedia explains it better than I can.

The Falkirk Wheel

So here's the thing in action. It's a very, very cool piece of engineering.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 6

2009-06-04T11:30:00.005-06:00

Kenosha Pass to Jefferson Creek Road
Distance: 6 miles
Elevation Gain: ? ft

Just realized, I never came back to add the update. Once again, I was struck by the the Colorado Trail jinx and I'm not much further along the trail than I was before.

This is my 4th attempt at this stretch, but the first time I've actually made it onto the trail. As it's 33 miles, I figure 3 days, so previously, I've taken a Friday off with the intention of knocking it out over a weekend. Each time I did this, a storm would blow in and either during or right before the planned hike. I'm not an experienced enough winter hiker to even want to attempt that (it isn't simple wimpy-ness, it's dangerous) so I've ended up given it a miss.

For the last 2 months though, other than some wet, cold weekends the winter has been glorious and I figured any remaining snow would be above tree line and easily navigable. I didn't want to wait 'too' long or we'd end up with the brain-baking temperatures I experienced last time. So, as I had a whole week off, I figured I could fool Ma Nature into thinking I was at work and she'd send us some decent weather. I decided to make a 4 day trip out of it, with a shorter first day so that I could camp part way up the biggest hill of the hike, rather than attempting to get over it one go. After a picnic lunch at the trail head, away I went.

And you know what? I felt darn good. I haven't done any long hikes since The World's Most Irritating Dog™ hurt her foot and I was a bit worried about my conditioning but no problems at all. Sure, my pack felt heavy but there was none of that screaming agony ohmydoGIcan'ttakeanotherstep pain of 2007 and I was averaging almost 3 miles an hour which will do me fine. Took a break at around 3:30pm and began the climb up Georgia Pass (2,000 feet of altitude gain over 6 miles taking me almost to 12.000 feet above sea level), which I had been dreading but at this point was feeling so good that I was even wondering if I could pass my day's goal of 9 total miles and continue over the top after all. The only thing that was really holding me back was the late start (this was going to be a short day, remember?).

But then I hit the snow. While still in the trees. Completely covering the trail to the point where I couldn't see where it went. I floundered around for about an hour, often sinking up to me crotch (quite an experience in shorts, even on a hot day) before finally conceding defeat and heading back down. There were plenty of awesome places to camp for the night and the next day, I'd be able to hike back to the highway (about 6 miles away by dirt road) and call for a ride home. But then I figured I could make other plans for my week off and it might be easier if I got home sooner rather than later. So, I ended up at home late that night.

Altogether, about 14 miles hiked, although without too much altitude gain and the following morning my shoulders, legs and feet were a little tender. But not bad really. If I were still on the trail, I think I could have hiked a fair bit again. Looks like the winter hikes, and the irregular trips to the gym have done some good after all. I'm confident I can knock off the remainder of this segment in 2 days, especially if say, I do the 3 miles to my planned camp on a Friday evening after work. I just need to find the convenient window of weather and do it then.

It's going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ The Next Bit

2009-05-17T21:12:00.002-06:00

So in June 2007, I set out on the first leg of The Colorado Trail, a 480 mile long distance footpath winding from Denver to Durango. I covered the first 5 days, starting in Denver and finishing at Kenosha Pass, not all that far from where I live. And if you read The Gunsmoke Files at the time, you'll recall I didn't really enjoy it all that much.

The scenery was awesome of course - this is Colorado after all. But the temperatures hovered around the high 90's (high 30's for those of you reading in Centipede) all week, which sucked a lot of the fun out of it. And, in case you didn't know this, the ground between Denver and Kenosha Pass slopes up. Sometimes quite dramatically. And my pack was too bloody heavy and my muscles weren't there and my back was giving me problems and...OK, you get the picture. I was glad when it was over.

But kind of like how no woman would go through childbirth a second time, if nature didn't make them forget how bad the first one was, I've had almost 2 years for those bad memories to fade. So tomorrow, I'm setting out on the next leg. Just 3 and a bit days this time, from Kenosha to Breckenridge. Only 33 miles which sounds easy enough. Just as long as I ignore all those contours, and the words "Georgia Pass", and those tiny numbers that look suspiciously like "12,000". Feet, that is. Above sea level.

Ah, how hard can it be? This is going to be a piece of cake.

Hummingbird

2009-05-11T15:37:00.008-06:00

The first hummingbirds of the year have shown up, looking hungry. So, I spent my lunch hour filling and hanging feeders. Hope the little buggers are grateful.

Sometimes I get impatient
but she cools me without words
and she comes so sweet and so plain
my hummingbird and have you heard
that I thought my life had ended
but I find that it’s just begun
cause she gets me where I live
I’ll give all I have to give
I’m talking about that hummingbird
oh she’s little and she loves me
too much for words to say
when I see her in the morning sleeping
she’s little and she loves me
to my lucky day
hummingbird don’t fly away

When I’m feeling wild and lonesome
she knows the words to say
and she gives me a little understanding
in her special way
and I just have to say
in my life I loved a woman
because she’s more than I deserve
and she gets me where I live
I’ll give all I have to give
I’m talking about that hummingbird
oh she’s little and she loves me
too much for words to say
when I see her in the morning sleeping
she’s little and she loves me
to my lucky day
hummingbird don’t fly away

Cruelty Free Fishing

2009-04-29T19:47:00.003-06:00

We've been enjoying a run of beautiful weather here in Colorado. Not on the weekends obviously, that's when it snows but whenever I've been shackled to my desk, it's been gorgeous. So, when the quitting time whistle went today, I loaded up my fishing gear, set off down to the lake and slung a line in the water for the first time this year. As usual, I didn't catch anything - the fish were just laughing at me, but as I've done chuff all else of interest this week, I figured that's a good excuse to re-hash an old Gunsmoke File from the archives.

~ Cruelty Free Fishing
Raven is competent at most things and does have some genuine experience as a fisherwoman under her belt so when she offered to get me started with my angling career, I accepted with grace.

I’ve had all the gear for some months now; since the beginning of last winter in fact. However as I’ve explained, standing up to me goolies in ice water doesn’t appeal and I’ve been depressingly busy for the last few weekends so here we are at the end of May and I’ve yet to get the stuff wet. The traditional holiday weekend rain didn’t appear to be materializing and the lake was still open despite a brief-but-nasty local wildfire so after a quick lunch, I loaded rod, reel, tackle box, fishing vest, cooler and Wiley the dog into the car and set off for Raven’s house.

The first step was to load line onto reel and as I don’t recall experiencing any challenges loading line onto reel the last time I owned a fishing rod, some (clears throat) years ago; I suspect it was already on when I bought it. I assumed this would be easy but experienced my first pang of concern when Raven’s SO, ‘storm took one look and said.

"Oh, you’ve bought one of those reels."

By "one of those reels" I learned he meant "open faced reels" whereby the line is wound onto the spindle with the aid of a wee hinged bar called a bail. A manly reel, as opposed to a "closed faced reel" where everything is enclosed – the type favored by amateurs and 7-year old girls.

One of those reels or not, we pushed on, emboldened by the assistance of the instruction book.

"Attach line to reel" it said. Well there you go – can’t get much more straightforward than that. So, attach line to reel we did and in no time Raven was winding furiously while I unrolled yard after yard of nylon thread from the spool. Everything was going swimmingly until we made the mistake of stopping to check our progress and for no reason at all, the line decided to spring back off the reel at a speed much greater than it had gone on. In less time than it takes to type, Raven was holding an armful of tangled twine and looking bewildered.

No matter, this gave me the chance to try out another piece of new equipment; a rather nifty pair of folding scissors and before long we had the snarl trimmed off.

"Before you unwind the remaining line and start over, this might be a good time to practice casting." Suggested ‘storm helpfully.

Good idea that, so after fastening a weight to the business end, we all made our way down off the deck to the open driveway.

"Watch me get it stuck in a tree now." I said; joking of course. The nearest tree was 50 feet away and obviously out of range. So, it was with some surprise I saw the line soar into its highest branches and secure itself there forever. Or at least, until the tree falls over for no amount of pulling, yanking or twisting would free the damn thing. I suspect some squirrel is still massaging the back of its head and wondering "What the hell was that?"

The day was slipping away but eventually we had a good length of line on the reel, along with a new weight and a hook and were bowling up the road to the lake. Quite sensibly, ‘storm decided to avoid any further involvement so it was just me, Wiley, Raven and of course, the fish. And most of the population of Colorado. Not only was most of the shoreline occupied, these people looked like they knew what they were doing. Anxious to find a spot where we could screw up without anyone noticing, we selected a place between the family with toddlers (no competition there) and the group of old folks with tons of gear and professional looking hats (maybe they would take pity and show us how to get started).

My first cast was a beaut. Way, way out over the lake almost beaning a duck in the process. You would think after a cast like that the fish would have been climbing over themselves to jump on the hook, but no, reeling in the line revealed that all I had caught was some straggly looking weed, which I suspect stuck just near the shore. Not to worry, I drew back and cast again. And again. And again. No fish.

As it turned out, that was the least of our worries. This darn line was making it clear it had no intention of remaining on the reel any longer than it had to and whenever the bail was open, it would spiral off into a ball of confusion. I eventually learned the art of snapping the bail closed as soon as the cast was complete, but not before several yards of line had sprung off and made friends with the nearby bushes. What a royal pain in the patoot that turned out to be and I was grateful to have Raven there to help me untangle things. I was less grateful to have Wiley there because the moment she saw us distracted, she would jump up and hop into the lake. She doesn’t smell too good at the best of times and wet she’s insufferable so we spent a lot of time yelling and causing chaos while the other anglers attempted to ignore us.

After a while you begin to wonder if you really want to catch a fish anyway. Let’s face it; fish are rather ugly creatures. It’s one thing if you're scuba diving on some tropical reef where they’re all psychedelically colored and cool looking, but their cold water cousins tend to have expressions that are invariably sour or grumpy looking. That or just plain angry. Maybe somebody should check why that is.

So we cast, and reeled in, cast and reeled in, untangled, cursed at the dog, tripped over and dropped things for the rest of the afternoon in blissful contentment. Remember the toddlers and the old folks? They spent their time reeling in fish after fish, with the youngters holding the lead until the end. Us? Well, we caught a lot of weeds, lost a lot of bait, accidentally threw the rod in the water on one cast and snarled somebody else’s line on another. Not the most successful fishing trip ever.

But who cares. There was leftover shepherd’s pie for tea.

On the Wrong End of a Dog Attack

2009-04-21T08:31:00.005-06:00

It’s been almost two weeks now, and I’m still angry. Still angry that my sweet, docile and loving, albeit sometimes annoying dog got attacked by not one, but two Rottweilers and that I could do nothing to protect her. And I’m still absolutely bloody furious that the Rottweilers’ owner knew they were dangerous, but still let them run loose.

But you don’t know the story, so let’s go back to the beginning.

Sasha the dog and I went for a run at lunchtime a couple of weeks ago. It's a game I play every now and then, where I go wheezing round the neighborhood and convince myself that in just a few short weeks I'll be back to the full marathon-running peak of my youth. Then after 3 or 4 goes, I hurt myself, or my allergies kick in, or I have a hangover or something and it all gets put on hold for a while longer. However, this time things were progressing well, I was following a beginners plan from the Runners World web site and we’d been out a few times with no problems.

Until this fateful day when we were grunting our way up a short hill and were set upon by 2 Rottweilers. I'm not just talking snarling and growling, the fucking things were out for blood. They made no attempt to harm me, but they were both savagely attacking Sasha, biting her repeatedly on the neck, head and hindquarters, one going for her throat, the other for her tail.

And of course, because I was just out running, I wasn’t carrying a walking stick, or a gun or a machete with which to beat them off. It’s many years since I played football, but I can still pack a kick. However, running shoes don’t carry much of an impact and my pounding wasn’t even registering. A month or so earlier, I would have been walking in my steel toes, and I guarantee they would have felt that, but no such luck this time. Now as a reminder, I'm an animal lover, dogs in particular but I'm not kidding, if I'd been able to find a stick or a decent sized rock I would happily have beaten these bastards into piles of mush.

The attack seemed to go on for hours, although of course, it was only a few minutes. Finally, they broke away and I realized that was only because their owner was calling. So, I stomped over and confronted him in his driveway. He was all apologies, and seemed genuinely horrified. Among other things, he promised he would "have them put down today". I wasn't really expecting that but we talked for a few more minutes and I asked him if he didn't have a fenced dog run for them.

It turns out he does but get this...lets them out for a few minutes a day “so they can run around the yard”. When I asked if this meant the dogs had escaped from their fenced run today, he explained that no, he let them out in the open. Uhm yeah, run around the yard and 200 yards up the road where they can attack a dog that just happened to be passing by on a lead.

At the time, Sasha didn’t appear to be badly hurt, but as she was bleeding from the ear, I told him I'd take her to the vet to be checked and he said he'd pay the bill. OK, fair enough, we swapped names, shook hands and I set off home. Except on the way, I was met by a lady who had seen the attack from her deck and had come out in her car to look for me. She explained that to her knowledge, this had happened twice before. In both cases he'd been very apologetic and had promised to euthanize the dogs. She told me she was afraid to walk her own dog in case the two of them came after her.

So, back home and on the blower to Animal Control. Sure enough, they'd had 2 complaints before but in one of them, the complainant hadn't wanted to sign an official statement, so there was nothing they could do. The neighbor lady had already called them however, and had told them she'd be happy to do so this time. Which means that between us, we might be able to make sure something gets done. The story is he's facing a day in court, a big fine, whatever the definition of 'big' is, and will have a restraining order put on his dogs. So, if he doesn't euthanize them (and there's no reason to think he will), but they get out again, they're toast whether they attack anyone or not. He'll also be legally required to compensate me for the vet's bill.

And onto that. The ear puncture was through to the cartilage, and required stitches. Not only that, the vet found numerous other puncture wounds and bruising on her flanks and body. Oh and one eye's bloodshot where they must have nailed her in the face. She ended up being shaved in so many placed she looks like she has the mange, and for a day or two, she did nothing but lie around, looking very sorry for herself. Fortunately, she has long hair, particularly around the neck and that saved things from being much, much worse. Without that, I really think they would have killed her.

Naturally, when Animal Control visited the owner, he refused to let them on his property and is claiming that he has no money and can’t pay the vet bill after all. I suppose it must be tough to get by in a $3/4 million house with 4 cars in the drive.

But we’re not done yet. The Animal Control lady called at the house a couple of days ago to pick up my signed statement, and told me that since Sasha, the Rottweilers have attacked yet another dog. And still this clown lets them run loose. But such is the law, there’s little Animal Control can actually do prior to his court date. Which isn’t until July. Do you wonder how many more dogs they’ll attack before then?

The good news is, Sasha appears to have bounced back quite nicely, and once the stitches come out in a couple of days, she should be none the worse for wear. Which is good, because while I may refer to her as The World’s Most Irritating Dog™, I do love her.

School Dinners

2009-04-07T18:42:00.006-06:00

Bad memories of school dinners still affect the eating habits of many adults, a survey suggests.

Many still refuse to eat certain foods or even look at them after being force-fed at school, according to the poll of over 2,000 BBC Good Food magazine readers and users of the website Friends Reunited.

Half of those questioned who cited school meat as a problem had become vegetarian as a result of their canteen nightmares.

BBC: School dinners haunt adults

I can’t say I’ve ever had nightmares about school dinners, but it’s certainly true that I don’t remember them with any great fondness. While most of the lunch time trauma I experienced tended to be at the hands of vindictive older children and sadistic teachers, it has to be said, the food didn’t help. Me and gristle have never got on and even today, a careless forkful of meat can bring on a quite spectacular gag reflex (oh sorry, were you eating?). Our daily servings of alleged meat tended to be riddled with the stuff, and as in those days we were expected to eat what we were given, gag reflex or not, the lunch hour often seemed a lot longer than 60 minutes. It’s possible that this mystery food product may have once been belonged to an animal, but I’d want to see some proof before going out on a limb.

No, the first course was just something through which we suffered before getting to the real reason for attending school in the first place...pudding. It’s worth clarifying for Murkan readers that just as “dinner” in this context means lunch rather than the evening meal; “pudding” refers to whatever you were served after the first course. Not dessert, not sweet...pudding.

Other than an addiction to Cadbury’s chocolate (the kind made in Britain, not the stuff churned out here under license by Hershey’s – ick, yuck, ptooey), I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth. When I shovel junk into my pie-hole it tends to be salty or spicy and on the rare occasions we eat out, I usually skip dessert in favor of another beer. However, like many people, my fondness for sweet things was greater as a child, and as my school didn’t serve alcohol, pudding was the highlight of the day.

And oh, what puddings we got. Not every day of course. Most of the time pudding was nothing more than some kind of sponge cake smothered in a lumpy yellow goo euphemistically known as “custard”. But sometimes, every now and then, when the planets were in alignment or if the school inspectors were paying a visit, the Dinner Ladies served up a crowd pleaser.

Jam roly poly was my personal favorite. What is jam roly poly? Well, it’s is a flat suet pudding, which is then spread with jam (preferably raspberry) rolled up and baked. Lumpy custard only enhanced this nectar of the doGs. A serving generally weighed about the same as a cinder block and it kept your tum warm and happy on the coldest winter day. Spotted Dick was a similar repast. (By all means, go ahead and insert the joke of your choice at this point – generations of school children have done so before you.) Another suet special, this one had raisins or currants rather than jam. It too, required custard.

In fact, custard was pretty much a standard coating for all our puddings, although it wasn’t always yellow. Chocolate pudding came with brown custard for example, and sometimes we got pink custard (pink?). No matter the color however, the custard always tasted the same and it was always lumpy.

Not everything was smothered in custard though. Lemon meringue pie for example, tended to be topped with a layer of shaving foam which took your mind off the filling, which was so yellow the school had to install Geiger counters by the serving hatch. Prunes showed up fairly often, to keep us regular I suppose, but the best part of getting those was counting off the stones at the end in order to determine your future. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief”...ah, who needed career counselors back then, eh?

Tapioca was another favorite, although of course, nobody called it that. Frogspawn it looked like and frogspawn it was, with a wee dod of rosehip syrup in the middle. Why, I have no idea. Rosehip syrup was also slathered into semolina, or smelly llama as it was known back then. This was a benefit because you could stir it up and make the whole thing pink, which didn’t make it taste any better but gave you something to do while postponing the inevitable. I could never figure out why grown-ups spent good money on expensive wallpaper paste when they could just have used leftover smelly llama. I suppose they wanted to be sure they could get the wallpaper back off again some day.

But in the world of school dinner puddings, the big one, the holy grail, the best pudding ever, rumor of which would send frissons of excitement through the whole school, had to be...chocolate floorboards. Chocolate floorboards? Yep, cornflakes in baking chocolate; cooked in big trays and cut into slabs. Food only a kid could love. The dinner ladies always made about 18 times as much as necessary because they knew what greedy little piglets we were. Chocolate floorboards weren’t served in the slop line like normal food; that would have been too inefficient. Instead the dinner ladies carried around plate after plate of them.

“Take the one closest to you, not the biggest!” they would admonish and of course, we ignored them. It was all about the quantity. “I had nine chocolate floorboards!” we would brag later “That’s nowt, I had eleven” came the retort. Ah, memories. But the best part of chocolate floorboard day was guessing which kid would be the one to bring them all back up an hour or two later.

Trust me, if you haven’t seen a 9-year old barfing half-digested mystery meat, boiled cabbage, cooking chocolate and cornflakes onto a classroom floor, then you really didn’t get much of an education.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

2009-03-31T15:17:00.008-06:00

Last week’s Gunsmoke File about my new favorite pub, “The British Bulldog” took me back to my childhood. No smartypants, I don’t mean because I was hanging out in pubs as a child...I couldn’t afford it back then. No, it got me thinking about a game we played at primary school, the greatest game ever played. Which coinkidinkally, also happened to be called “British Bulldogs”.

“Huh?” I hear you ask (my hearing’s still good), “what kind of game is that?” No, I didn’t expect you to know. You see the funny thing is; I’ve never met anyone who played British Bulldogs, or has even heard of it. And by that, I don’t just mean Americans, even other Brits, even other Brits who grew up in the same town as me, and who were at school at the same time as me, never played it. I can’t believe it was unique to my primary school, but unless someone can set me straight, it certainly seems that way.

“So tell us Andrew,” you ask “how does one play British Bulldogs?”

Well, I’m glad you asked. First off you need a reasonable sized playing area. No indoor game this; you want a big field, yard or playground. 50 yards or so long, 25 or so wide should about do it. Next, you’re going to need a bucket load of kids. I’m not kidding; I’m talking about a lot of kids. At least 40, more is even better. If you can rustle up 60 plus, you’ve got the makings of a classic. You have all that? Alright, we’re ready to get started.

Pick a kid, any kid. His (Note: British Bulldogs was a boys game. The girls were in the other playground skipping and doing handstands and all those other weird things that girls do) his job is to stand in the middle of the playing area. Every other kid stands at one end. Now, at the given signal (a roar of “BRITISH BUUUUULLLLLDOGGGGS!!!!”) all the kids except the one in the middle run like the clappers from one end of the yard to the other. The one in the middle has to catch as many as he can. By ‘catch’ I do of course mean tackle, trip, block, drop-kick, head-butt, or otherwise arrest the progress of. If he’s good, he might catch one; if he’s really good, he might catch more. Any kids he does manage to catch now remain with him in the middle, while the others reassemble at the opposite end of the yard to which they started.

On to round 2. The remaining 98 or so repeat the battle cry and once more, charge from one end to the other, back to where they originally started. Except now there’s 2, or maybe 3 kids attempting to catch them. Between them, they might snag another 5 or 6. Which means that for round 3, there are 8 or 9 kids in the middle. By round 4, there could be 15 to 20. It’s getting much easier to catch the runners now. A couple more rounds and you’ve got more kids doing the catching than you have doing the running. This is where it gets really fun.

Before too long, you’ve only got 2 or 3 kids still running, and they have to jink their way through several dozen other kids, all with the sole intent of making sure they don’t make it. Eventually, there can be only one. By definition, one kid is the last to be caught.

So that one stands in the middle, while every other kid stands at one end. And the game begins all over again. And that’s it until the bell rings and with bloody noses, fat lips, torn sweaters and old scores settled, you make your way back to class.

As I said, other than people who went to my primary school, I’ve never met anyone who has ever played British Bulldogs. I can’t see it catching on today, what with our litigious society and cotton-wool parenting. (What if a child got hurt?) The horror, the horror.

Plus, it’s an unfashionable game. No uniforms, schedules, referees, or league tables. No Dads on the side lines yelling abuse at the coach because Junior didn’t get enough playing time. Instead, it was just a whole bunch of kids blowing off steam and having a helluva good time in the process.

The way games should be.

Down the Pub

2009-03-25T18:06:00.004-06:00

So I’ve had to find a new favorite pub. That’s no easy task here in the colonies where “pub” generally means “restaurant with a drinks license” and if you aren’t ordering food, the wait staff make it clear you’re taking up valuable real estate and it would be nice if you would bugger off.

While Irish themed bars (“theme” bars of any sort, really) generally have me looking around for a vomit bucket, I thought I’d struck it lucky with my regular haunt for the last few years; a cool, dark, rabbit warren of a place where the cares of the day could be soaked away with a pint or 4 of slow-poured Guinness. Yes, it served food but the place was a pub in the purest sense of the word. A long bar, rickety furniture, friendly staff, and a marked lack of yuppies. When I was in town and thirsting for a bevy, this was where I went.

So you can imagine my distress when I drove past it (on St. Patrick’s Day, of all days) and saw that the recent ‘renovations’ were not simply a lick of paint and a vacuum round (which was all it needed) but a full on transformation into something new and horrid. My favorite pub is now a “Bar and Café”, serving “Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner”. It was bright orange, utterly charmless and I hated it on sight. The fact that the parking lot was full of SUVs simply added to my anguish.

What to do, what to do, what to do? It’s not that I hit Denver’s bars all that often; I don’t drink and drive and 50 miles back up into the mountains is one heckuva walk. However, I do occasionally take my bike into town and one of life’s simple pleasures is a long ride with a pint at the end to wash the dust off. Clearly, I needed to find a new watering hole, and soon.

I usually avoid ‘British’ pubs for the same reason I do their ‘Irish’ counterparts. Man Utd scarves tacked to the ceiling, a mug shot of the Queen on the wall and The Clash on the jukebox, do not a pub make. That said; Denver has one with pretty good ale, made on site. Problem is; the service is sketchy. The last time I was in there, I had to track down the waitress to explain that when I gave her a $20 bill for a $12 tab, I didn’t intend her to keep the change. She seemed genuinely surprised and was more than a little graceless about it. Being British, I’m still not used to the idea that I have to pay (certain) people extra to do their jobs and I really don’t like it when they assume I’m tipping 67%.

But as none of the ‘American’ bars I’ve been in (so far) have the ambience I’m seeking, I decided last weekend to check out another ‘British’ place. Although I knew of its existence, I’ve avoided it up to now, partly from my aversion to the concept, but mostly because it’s in an area of town I don’t often find myself.

However, a warm, sunny Saturday saw me engaged in one of my favorite pursuits, on my bike, getting deliberately lost in a neighborhood I hadn’t explored before. I wasn’t paying attention to street names so when I popped out into recognizable territory; I was pleasantly surprised to find myself right beside the aforementioned pub.

I’d ridden a long way and a pint was in order so after chaining my bike to the railing, I stepped inside and was utterly charmed. Dark wood, booths, a homely atmosphere and friendly staff. It was like going home. And better yet, the (British) beer was served just the way it should be. No, I don’t mean warm, I mean cellar temperature rather than with the flavor chilled out of it. And as if that wasn’t enough, happy hour had just started so the prices were reasonable too.

OK, it had some World War 1 propaganda posters as artwork, as well as a Nike advert showing a face-painted football yahoo, and the music was a tad loud for my taste (oh dear, when did I turn into my Dad?). Plus the name, “The British Bulldog” is straying dangerously into cliché territory. However, there was a distinct absence of Union Jacks, no Man Utd memorabilia and not a mug shot of Queen Liz in sight. This was my kind of place.

It’s a long way from home (my actual home, here in Colorado), and not really on the way from or to anywhere I normally go, and I’m not sure how often I’ll ride my bike up that way. But it’s good to know that once more, I have a favorite pub.

So if anyone’s looking for me...that’s where I’ll be.

Blue Monday

2009-02-23T14:52:00.009-07:00

~ Fats Domino

Blue Monday how I hate Blue Monday
Got to work like a slave all day
Here come Tuesday, oh hard Tuesday
I'm so tired got no time to play

Here come Wednesday, I'm beat to my socks
My gal calls, got to tell her that I'm out
'Cause Thursday is a hard workin' day
And Friday I get my pay

Saturday mornin', oh Saturday mornin'
All my tiredness has gone away
Got my money and my honey
And I'm out on the stand to play

Sunday mornin' my head is bad
But it's worth it for the time that I had
But I've got to get my rest
'Cause Monday is a mess

Do you ever have weeks...

2009-02-19T11:07:00.002-07:00

Where you just can't think of a darn thing about which to write? I'm having one of those weeks.

Sorry.

25 Things About Me

2009-02-10T07:55:00.000-07:00

So I don't generally respond to "answer questions about yourself" type memes. The whole "Tag X number of people including the person who tagged you" thing is just a little too close to chain mail and threats of dire consequences if you don't pass it on for my liking. Normally I just hit the delete key or let them slide on by.

However, there's a "Post 25 things about yourself" thing doing the rounds on Facebook right now that seems to have taken on a life of its own and has apparently, even been mentioned in USA Today. So after spending a couple of weeks intending to ignore it if anyone tagged me, then another few days wondering if anyone was going to tag me, I received 3 requests over the weekend.

So what the heck, this time I decided to join in. And if you're interested, here are 25 things about me. (For the record, it was supposed to be "25 things you don't know about me", but if you've been reading The Gunsmoke Files for any length of time, you already know more about me than most people.)

Here we go then.

1. I've walked from one coast of England to the other, and cycled from one end of Britain to the other (Land’s End to John O’Groats). I’ve also hiked the Grand Canyon from rim-to-rim in one day, but despite having been in Colorado for 7 years, have yet to manage a 14’er. This year.

2. Quit my job at age 28, sold everything I owned and set off traveling around the world to seek my fame and fortune. I’m still looking.

3. Have a passion for spicy food. Put the toilet paper in the fridge the night before, and I’m set.

4. I’m a published author

5. Love movies, but rarely like what’s popular. If I had my way, it would be against the law for ex Saturday Night Live cast members to appear in front of a camera.

6. The only time I feel completely calm is when I’m on my bike.

7. I’m always writing. It may not make it onto a page, but it’s always going on in my head.

8. I bungee jumped at Skipper Canyon in New Zealand, at the time, the highest commercial bungee site in the world.

9. I’m getting back into photography and am learning to process my own film. Yes, film.

10. Once drank warm whisky and coke out of a can with a group of Australian aborigines on a beach at sunrise while we wondered how to get their truck out of the sand.

11. I’m a cop magnet while driving and have been pulled over literally dozens of times, only occasionally for a legitimate reason. When I was younger, my friends simply accepted the fact that when I was driving, we would get stopped by the police on some pretext or another. My most recent encounter was when a cop followed me for 3 1/2 miles, before pulling me over. I pointed out that I was perfectly aware she was behind me and had been doing 2mph below the speed limit the whole time. She gave me a ticket and said if my speedometer was faulty, that was my problem. My speedometer is fine.

12. Once played in goal for a soccer team that lost a game 26-0.

13. Completed 6 marathons

14. I suspect I’m the world’s worst gambler. I lose every...single...time.

15. Have hitchhiked or cycled around most of Western Europe.

16. Strongly believe the world would be a better place without mosquitoes, clowns or country music.

17. I’m an incredibly messy eater, particularly when wearing clean clothes. I don’t need a bib, so much as a drop cloth.

18. No two people in my immediate family have the same accent. Mine is an odd hybrid of Anglo-American.

19. I have a passionate love for the outdoors. Being forced to stay inside on a sunny day is the worst kind of torture.

20. I’m only a little over halfway through the items on my lifetime “to do” list. Need to get a move on.

21. I once lost about 50c during an evening playing Connect 4 with a Thai hooker

22. I’m a prolific reader. Having to wait somewhere without a book to pass the time is almost panic-inducing. As a last resort, I’ll even read the newspaper.

23. I’m trying to remove the word “hate” from my vocabulary as I believe it to be self-destructive. However, there are a very small number of public figures whom I despise with a passion.

24. I once spent 5 hours in an Emergency Room while 3 nurses tweezed gravel out of my skin following a bicycle accident. The head nurse said it was the worst injuries she’d seen on someone who hadn’t broken a bone. 20 years on, my spine is still jacked up.

25. Coming up with this list was harder than I expected. There are a number of things I’m just not prepared to share with anyone.

It was 30 years ago today

2009-02-03T08:19:00.002-07:00

Actually it was thirty years ago last Thursday but seeing as how you probably aren’t reading this on the day I wrote it, it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, it was thirty years ago last Thursday that a young, fresh-faced and not especially ambitious young lad (me), set out to make his way in the world, beginning his very first day at work.
OK, that’s not entirely true either. I’d already seen service as a newspaper boy, a stockroom gofer and a milk deliveree but those were just part-time jobs, on the weekend and before school. No, on January 29, 1979 I set out into the big wide world to make my mark in the glamorous and adrenaline-filled field of...banking!

Yep, I thought you’d be impressed.

Ah, thirty years. Where have they gone? I of course, haven’t changed a bit, although the world seems to have moved on considerably. In those days, if you wanted to withdraw money from your bank account, you had to find time to visit the branch office during opening hours (which bore no resemblance to anybody’s work hours, including those of the bank staff), stand in line and wait while a cashier actually counted out the money and handed it to you. Imagine! I can’t remember the last time I set foot inside my bank and I doubt I’ve been in there more than half a dozen times since opening the account. But back in 1979, nobody gave a thought to ATM’s and how they would change our lives.

Or email, come to that. Way back then, if a customer wanted to communicate with us, they either came in to the branch, or they wrote a letter. The boss then hand wrote replies to all the letters we received; a dozen or two a day, before giving them to the secretary who typed them up, put them in envelopes and stuck stamps on them. At around 4:30, the office junior (me again) carried them down to the post office for mailing. If a client received a response in 3 or 4 days they were happy.
But then we started hearing about this wonderful invention called email. Get this…you could type a letter on a computer, hit a button and a few seconds later, the recipient would be able to read it on their computer. How cool is that?

Leisure time.

That’s how they sold it to us. With the implementation of email, we would all have a whole heap of leisure time, to travel, to further our education, to interact with our families. Yeah, how’s that working out for everyone? Nowadays I process 100-200 emails every day and have clients who complain if they don’t hear back from me within 30 minutes. The fact that I might have been in a meeting, or working with somebody else, or lying dead in a ditch somewhere apparently never enters their heads.

But in 1979, email was still just a futuristic fantasy. Who would be able to afford a computer of their own anyway? Actually, the bank for which I worked was quite technologically advanced in that we did have computers, and not just up on the second floor like most of our competitors. No, ours were right there by the tills. Not laptops obviously, or even desk tops – monitors were still some time away. No, these were big, noisy and somewhat scary appliances, about 4 feet high with a keyboard the size of a coffee table and levers, arms and spindles which clattered and banged away incessantly. It was hard enough hearing what the customers were saying through the layers of bullet proof glass which separated us from them without these darn things clanking away. Oh, how we hated them.

Fortunately, they broke down fairly regularly and for a few days at a time, peace reigned until Albert the Mechanic came to work his magic. For a mechanic Albert was, equipped not only with screwdrivers, but with wrenches, rags and oil cans. He also had toxic B.O. and a face like a pizza, but he was a nice guy and we all liked him. As with everything else, computers have moved on since 1979 and I often wonder if Albert the Mechanic was able to make the transition to writing code or if he simply went on to fixing traction engines or steam locomotives or something.

That other labor saving device, the cell-phone, hadn’t been inflicted on us either which meant that when you walked out the office door, you were incommunicado until you walked back in. “He isn’t here right now, can I take a message?” was a perfectly acceptable response to a caller. The idea of having to eat lunch while listening to a conference call was unheard of. No beepers, Blackberries or any other type of electronic leash. Nobody sat in hotel rooms sending messages to customers at 11:30 at night back then and if they had done, the customer certainly wouldn’t respond 5 minutes later as one of mine did a couple of weeks ago. Oh, those were the days. But here’s a funny thing. It’s possible time has fogged my memory, but I seem to remember I had more leisure time in 1979, not less. Go figure.

What will the workplace be like 30 years from now, I wonder. I’ll be 76 by then, and given the state of my savings account and a pension plan which is performing so badly I think I owe it money, there’s a fairly good chance I’ll be wearing a paper hat and interacting with my clients by asking them if they would like fries with that.

Or maybe not. Maybe one of these labor-saving appliances will actually save labor instead of simply adding to it. Perhaps right now Bill Gates is working on a device which really will give us more leisure time and less on the hamster wheel.

I mean, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?

The Pittsburgh Steelers and...who?

2009-01-27T10:05:00.002-07:00

There are certain things in life which can be considered constants. The first cup of coffee in the morning always tastes better than any subsequent ones, the weather is always beautiful while I’m at work, and the Arizona Cardinals always blow big hairy chunks. It has forever been so and I assumed it would always continue to be so. Except this year, the Arizona Cardinals somehow managed to make it to the Super Bowl.

Now back in my day; that simply wouldn’t have happened. When I lived in Phoenix (and for many years before that), the Arizona Cardinals / Phoenix Cardinals / St. Louis Cardinals / Chicago Cardinals / Racine Cardinals / Normals (Normals?) and the Morgan Athletic Club have historically been the worst, or close to the worst team in the National Football League. While other teams cycled through boom and bust years, going through successful decades followed by unsuccessful decades and back again, the Cardinals managed to retain their distinguished status as the league’s most irrelevant team. Year, after year, decade after decade, forever and ever, Amen.

They did win a playoff game once. And it was against the hated Dallas Cowboys too! But one playoff win in 60 years is hardly the stuff of which dreams are made and few people living in Phoenix gave them much of a thought. In fact, such is Phoenix’s demographics, with a high proportion of residents originating somewhere else; there were frequently more fans in the stadium supporting the visiting team than the home side.

That single factor was the reason behind my sporadic attendance at Cardinals games. Playing in their own stadium with the majority of the crowd cheering for the other team? I just felt sorry for them. So, I went to 1 or 2 games a year but the one I never missed, was when the Cowboys came to town. Given that most of the population of Dallas now lives in Phoenix, and given that they’re among the league’s most obnoxious fans, well it just stuck in my craw. I didn’t own any Cardinals clothing (my sympathy for them didn’t extend that far) but I would dig out a red t-shirt and wear that so as the TV cameras swept around the stadium showing a sea of blue shirts, I would stand out as the lone Cardinals fan way up there in the cheap seats.

Another big advantage of being a football fan in Phoenix during the 90’s, was that the local indifference meant the Cardinals never managed to sell out the stadium. So it was easy to drive over on the spur of the moment and purchase a seat in the nosebleeds, wait until the game was underway, then head down to the more expensive section to enjoy the rest of the contest like a rich person.

And I saw some good games too. With me in attendance, the Cardinals beat several defending Super Bowl champions and a good number of other teams that on paper and over the course of the season, were far superior. In fact, of the 15 or so games that I attended, I saw the Cardinals get beat precisely zero times. That’s right; the world’s worst football team won every game they played with me in the stands. Looking back, it’s a mystery why I didn’t think to write to the organization and suggest they give me a free ticket to every home game. That would be 8 wins guaranteed each season, which is 4 or 5 more than they usually managed.

But I didn’t and sometime around 1999, I decided that enough was enough. The NFL’s revenue sharing policy meant that even perennial losers like the Cardinals received a healthy income and apparently this was perfectly satisfactory to the Cardinals’ ownership. While most other franchises were passionate about putting a winning product on the field, they were happy to save money by paying the lowest salaries in the league and putting up losing seasons, year after year after year. Having seen yet another crop of promising young players traded away in exchange for yet another batch of washed up has-beens and never-weres; I decided I was done giving even a few dollars a year to this joke of a team and Phoenix resident or not, I looked around for another team more deserving of my respect.

At that time I had no idea I would soon move to Colorado so perhaps it was kismet that led me to choose the Denver Broncos. Or maybe it was the fact that they were coming off two consecutive Super Bowl wins but either way, this was a team worthy of my support. A team who knew how to win.

Of course, you know where this story’s going. In the 9 years since I awarded them my allegiance, the Broncos have won precisely one playoff game, prior to getting their heads kicked in during the NFC Championship game. A game for which I was in attendance. My lucky-charm winning-when-I’m-in-the-stadium streak apparently didn’t transfer along with my loyalty. This year the Broncos managed to blow a 3-game divisional lead with 3 games to go; the first team in history to do so. Hence, they missed out on a playoff berth again and once more, they’ll be watching the Super Bowl on television.

But amazingly, the Cardinals will not. The world’s worst franchise, perennial bottom-dwellers and league running joke have finally got their act together and put out a team that has not only performed admirably throughout the season, but has chugged (comparatively comfortably) through the playoffs. For the first time in their history, the Arizona Cardinals will take the field next Sunday, to participate in Super Bowl XLIII (that’s 43 in case you weren’t sure). I still can’t say I feel any particular fondness for the team but they’ll be playing the Pittsburgh Steelers; the team that administered the Bronco’s above mentioned head-kicking-in. So I can’t support them.

I wonder if I still own that red t-shirt.

Mad Max and Me

2009-01-20T20:50:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t understand why the booking clerk was laughing.
“No, I want to stay for 2 or 3 nights.” I told him, “So I can take a look around.”
“Trust me,” he replied, handing me my bus ticket. “One night will be plenty long enough for Cooper Pedy.”

I wasn’t totally convinced but admittedly, I didn’t know too much about the place. I knew it had opal mines, and that Mel Gibson had pranced around the area as Mad Max in “Beyond the Thunderdome” , and that the locals lived underground to escape the scorching heat. But other than that, I wasn’t too sure what to expect.

And stumbling off the bus, tired and creaky after the overnight run from Adelaide, I have to say I wasn’t overly impressed. As was usually the way, the touts were there to meet us, in the hopes that we would agree to stay at their particular hostel. However, these ones were uncharacteristically pushy and aggressive, which didn’t give a great first impression of the place. The second impression wasn’t much better. And as for the third…

But I’m getting ahead of myself. There were only 4 of us disembarking - Barbara (a German), Jenny (a Swede) and Dee (a Brit), so following the least obnoxious of the touts, we booked ourselves in to one of Cooper Pedy’s more upscale boarding houses. In keeping with the underground tradition, it was basically just a long corridor dug out of the hillside, with 8’x4’ “rooms” at intervals along each side. A curtain served duty as a door and a narrow cast iron bed completed the furnishings.

I felt a lot better after a short nap and 3 hours later, set out on an explore. The girls had signed up for a ½ day tour of the opal mines, but I was going freelance. The Stuart Highway, which runs from Adelaide on the south coast, to Darwin on the north, had only been paved some 4 years before my visit and people tell me that Cooper Pedy had gone up in the world during that time. I can only imagine how desperate it must have been prior to that because it appeared to be little more than a wasteland as far as the eye can see.

Which admittedly, wasn’t very far, being as we were, in the throes of a dust storm, filling the air, as well as my eyes, nose and throat with gritty sand. Time to follow the locals, I think, and head underground. First port of call was a mine, right off the main street and outfitted with a hard hat, I was soon following a line of middle-aged folk into the bowels of the earth. The hard hat proved to be my best friend because I couldn’t take more than a few steps without smacking my head on the roof. The whole thing was interesting enough, but didn’t take too long, so after a quick hike up one of the few hills to check out what passes for a view, I headed to one of the show homes.

Three ladies dug this one by hand, over the course of 5 years, taking the time to smooth the walls to a marble like finish. They were still working on it but the place already had 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and all modern conveniences including that essential of Aussie suburban life, a swimming pool. It didn’t have any windows, but it had a swimming pool.

By the time I made it back above ground, the dust storm had abated so I took a quick hike up another hill to check out the town’s only visible attraction, “The Big Winch”. The what? Well, it’s a big bucket, the type of which is used in mining. And it’s perched on top of a hill. And uh, you walk up the hill and look at the bucket.

So that was pretty much it; I’d done the place. Interesting enough, such as it was but I could certainly see why the guy who sold me my bus ticket laughed when I said I wanted to spend a few days here. But, as I was here until the next morning I decided to pass the rest of the time sitting in the shade by the hostel, drinking beer and chatting to the girls, now home from their tour. I would have been quite happy spending the rest of my time doing just that, Barbara was fun and Jenny was nice to look at but no, Dee wanted to go to the bar.

I use the term ‘bar’ loosely because it was basically just a big barn that happened to sell beer. Cooper Pedy’s tourist industry was still in its infancy back then and the overwhelming majority of the residents were miners. Men for whom life held little pleasure other than drinking and fighting and uh…that’s about it. They certainly enjoyed little contact with the female of the species so when I walked in with three of them, every nut-job in the place (and there were a lot of nut-jobs in the place) looked me over, decided I was no competition, and set about trying to take them off me.

If I’ve learned nothing else during my time on this planet, it’s that there is no more dangerous situation for a young man to find himself than in a bar with three good looking females. OK, Dee was nothing to write home about but Barbara was kinda cute and Jenny was drop-dead gorgeous. There wasn’t a guy in there who wasn’t filled with thoughts of romance and if taking me out back and snapping me like a twig would smooth the path of true love, well then I didn’t think any of them would be overly concerned.

The thing is, by cracking jokes, buying an occasional round and keeping my back to the wall, I was managing to do a passable job of keeping things on the level. Nobody was swinging punches and if I could hold it together for another ½ hour or so, we could leave with honor intact and nobody (OK, me) would get hurt. But then one guy got a bit overly familiar with Dee and she decided that the best way to handle that was to scream abuse at the lot of them. And they screamed back. Not at her of course, but at me. Oh, the things they were going to do; it would make your hair curl.

But, I declined their kind offers to see how far a pool cue would fit up my arse and decided an early night was in order. Hustling my harem out the door with my bowels dissolving I almost dragged the three of them down the street as the natives bombarded us with beer cans while serenading us with oaths and epithets.

6am the next morning found us standing bleary eyed and shivering on Main Street as we waited for the bus to rescue us, and for once, I was happy to be up that early. I haven’t been back to Cooper Pedy, and I’m OK with that. I haven’t been back to Adelaide either, but if I ever get there, I hope I meet that booking clerk again so I can shake him by the hand.

If it weren’t for him, I’d have been stuck there for two more bloody days.

Traveling on Business is never a "Trip"

2009-01-13T15:08:00.002-07:00

I’ve written before about the uh…challenges I’ve experienced while visiting Dallas; my least favorite city in the U.S. I’m not going to go over them again, suffice to say that I seem to experience problems every time I visit. And this time was exactly the same, only more so.

The first problem was that my flight was at the undoGly hour of 6:00am. Living as I do, some distance from the airport, this would have required me to get out of bed at 3:30am, obviously a ridiculous proposition. Instead, I booked myself a bed in a hotel just a few minutes from the terminal, thus gaining an extra hour of sleep. Even so, that’s no time to be getting up. Like most normal people, I don’t function well in the mornings so I took care to unpack nothing. My clothes for the day were on a hanger and all I had to do was get up, shower, dress and tootle over to the airport. With luck, I would be aboard the plane before I’d woken up.

Except I forgot that two things I should have unpacked, were my toothbrush and razor. The few minutes it took me to run down to the car to fetch it from my made me a little late. Not enough to be a problem – that didn’t happen until I locked the car keys in the room and had to get the night clerk to let me back in. Still not drastically late, but enough to give that little stressful feeling that if anything else went wrong, I could be in trouble. No worries though; I found a parking space close to the terminal, there was no line at check in and security looked to be a breeze.

Until they ran my bag through the x-ray and discovered my Swiss Army Knife. I was momentarily thrilled because I’d lost it a while ago but then it dawned on me that while they may have found it; they weren’t going to give it back. It would only have taken 20 minutes or so to run back to the car with it, but that was 20 minutes more than I had to spare and with sadness, I watched it go into the bin.

The flight was just boarding as I huffed up to the gate and in no time, I was parked in my seat and sipping pseudo-coffee. The pilots seemed to know what they were doing and before I was much further along in my book, we were touching down at Dallas-Fort Worth. It looked as though the glitches were over for this mission. Once on the ground I gave Dear Wife a quick call to get her out of bed (it was still very early in Denver) then hopped in a cab to head over to meet a client. Yes, I had an extra meeting to squeeze in before going to my own company’s office to start the 3-day conference there.

The clients’ office is based in a hotel, albeit far more upscale than the one in which I’d spent the previous night, so as we pulled up, bell-hops scurried forward in the hopes of being allowed to touch my bag and thus earn a tip. Shaking them off, I was soon through the revolving doors and heading for the escalators out the back. At this point I thought of another call I needed to make and started patting my pockets to find my cell phone. And I patted, and I patted and I stopped walking and rummaged, then I put down my bags and searched in earnest. But to no avail.

The taxi firm couldn’t have been less helpful but after calling my phone a few times, the cab driver eventually answered and reluctantly agreed to bring it back. Despite my priming the hotel staff and giving them a number at which I could be reached, the poor guy still sat in the lobby for 15 minutes before some got around to letting me know he was there. He ‘did’ get a tip – a big one.

He would also be able to tell his friends the story of how I then got myself stuck in the revolving doors with a member of the L.A. Clippers basketball team. I was going through the doors, he was in the segment behind me and must have pushed a bit too hard and the thing jammed, trapping me inside for what seemed like days, although it was probably only a minute or two before the security guard came and released me. I’m no basketball fan and have no idea who this guy was but he thought the whole thing was funnier than I did. And he didn’t even offer me free tickets, or a wad of cash, or anything.

Anyway, back to the client meeting, which overran by about an hour. This was OK because we were covering some good material but it meant had now missed the start of my own company’s meeting and as I still had another long cab ride to get there, my hopes of squeezing in lunch beforehand, went out the window. Especially because the cab ride took longer than planned because we couldn’t find the bloody office.
My company’s corporate office employs literally thousands of people, housed in multiple buildings across a large campus. I’d been before, more than once and knew that our meeting wasn’t in the first building off the highway, but another, some 3/4 of a mile away.

Except I got it into my head that I was supposed to be in the other direction and had the driver take me to a different set of buildings altogether. We cruised for several minutes before asking a passing office worker for directions. That would have been a good plan had she not sent us off even further in the wrong direction. The second office worker we asked cheerfully pointed to a large building in the middle distance and as that had my company’s name emblazoned on the outside, I paid off the driver and raced up to the door. To find it locked. Because my company hasn’t used this building in some time and it’s currently sitting empty. And now my cab was gone.

So, here I was, stuck in a faceless office complex, miles from anywhere and with no way of knowing how to get to my own office. My newly found cell-phone was of little use because all my co-workers had their own phones switched off. I know, because I tried calling every number I had. I ended up walking into the reception area of a completely different company to see if they could call me a cab and wondering how long that would take to arrive. One thing was sure, I was verrrrrrrrrry late, sweaty and only a short step away from hyper-ventilating.

Fortunately, I struck gold with two employees who bent over backwards to calm me down. They summoned their own security guard who bundled me into an SUV and in moments, had me where I needed to be. It took another 10 minutes to find the right conference room, a few more to track down a chair (and I dropped that, with a clatter that woke the cubicle dwellers!) But eventually I was ensconced in the meeting room, scarfing down the candy and peanuts and wondering what I’d missed.

Dallas and a 4:30am start all on one trip. I should have known better.

New Years...uhm 'not' Resolutions'

2008-12-30T18:38:00.002-07:00

So as I've said here before, I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I work on the theory that if there's a part of you that needs improvement, you should just get on with it rather than waiting on some arbitrary date. Instead, I set "goals" and while I'm no better at keeping them at least the failure is spread out over the calendar year.

However, last year I went out on a limb by not only setting myself a series of goals, I posted them publicly where my (inevitable) failure to keep them would be displayed for all to see. So as 2008 grinds to a close, let's see how I did.

1. I will update The Gunsmoke Files frequently.
Yeah, that worked out well, didn't it? OK, this year I'll update it frequently, will that work?

2. I will go to the gym regularly.
Acksherly, I did go to the gym fairly regularly. Unfortunately, while "once or twice very few weeks" does qualify as "regularly", the Greek God on the inside me is still trapped by the skinny bugger on the outside. Although to be fair, I did bang myself up pretty badly towards the end of summer and that curtailed my iron-pumping for quite some time.

3. I will take more photographs.
I did carry my camera around a lot more this year than in the past, but I still need to take more photographs.

4. I will work on my drumming.
OK, this one I handled quite cleverly, by retiring from the pipe band. Ergo, no need to feel guilty about not practicing my drumming. Smart, huh?

5. I will climb a 14'er.
You know there was one day where I set off to climb a 14'er. But, I got away far too late in the morning, it took me longer to get there than I anticipated and by the time I got to the bit where the road was washed out 3 miles from the trail head, I realized there wasn't enough daylight left for me to get up and back down again in safety. I did manage a lot of fun hikes, but the highest I managed was around 13,000 feet. This goal too, is carried forward to 2009.

6. I will memorize some knots.
Hey, I actually did learn quite a few. But as I didn't have occasion to use them. I've forgotten them again. Sigh.

7. I will push on along the Colorado Trail.
Wayull, I ended up going to Britain this year and that turned out to be my 'big' vacation. Yes, I could have gone another time but something always seemed to come up. Such as the time I was all set to knock off a 33 mile segment over the course of a long weekend, and an early winter storm blew in the night before. Another one for 2009.

8. I will continue my policy of never watching a movie starring anybody who used to be on Saturday Night Live.
Woo hoo! I got one!

OK, well that was a pretty depressing exercise. You would think I could at least have managed a couple of them, but the only one for which I can claim any real success was number 8 and that involved not doing something. How crap is that?

Ah well, 2009 is a whole blank page.

Have a safe, prosperous and happy new year everybody!

A Walk in Winter

2008-12-21T18:31:00.001-07:00

The Gunsmoke File is shamelessly repeated from January 11, 2005.

Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. My breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I have to face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.

Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.

The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.

The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.

A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.

I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.

I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.

In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.

“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”

Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.

The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.

Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.

This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

2008-12-08T17:47:00.003-07:00

Recycling posts again here folks. This one is a blast from the past from December 2004 but it's sort of appropriate because I was at the Georgetown Christmas Fair yesterday, although having retired from the pipe band earlier this year, this was my first time as a tourist.

As you’ve probably heard, Christmas is coming up shortly. This was always a challenging time when we lived in Phoenix because the temperatures were generally hovering around the 80 degree mark and although the locals tended to walk round in sweaters and ski jackets while bleating about the cold, it’s difficult to get in the Christmas spirit when the air-conditioning is grinding away. Christmas is supposed to be cold and ideally, snowy. Everybody knows that. Which is yet another reason why we’re happy to be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. There’s a very good chance it will be both.

Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.

In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.

Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.

So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?

The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.

I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.

As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.

Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”

Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.

Moving Out

2008-11-12T12:09:00.002-07:00

They say the average length of time people last in the Rocky Mountain Foothills is 3 years. Or more precisely, 3 winters. After that the cold, and the harsh driving conditions, and the distance from the city (and basic amenities) grinds most people down and they scurry off back to the comfort of Denver. We’ve lasted 6 winters so far so yay us. That said, if I didn’t have the luxury of working from home, I think the novelty of that commute would long since have worn off and more than likely, I’d at least be day-dreaming about living nearer to the office.

However, our feat of endurance pales in comparison with that of our friends Paul & Megan. Not only have they been in the mountains for 9 years, they’ve spent those in St. Mary’s Glacier, at around 11,000 feet (3,350 meters), which for those of you keeping track, is more than 2 miles above sea-level. And it’s an area infamous for its harsh winters. Summer comes late and leaves early in St. Mary’s Glacier and Paul, who does commute to Denver every day has long been used to rising at 5am and spending an hour or more clearing snow each morning, just to get out of his driveway. Life isn’t easy up there.

I had a chance to reflect on this on Saturday morning as I turned off I-70 near Idaho Springs and began the grinding climb up into the sky. The moment I left the freeway, the sunshine I’d enjoyed since leaving home disappeared behind the clouds. Soon after, rain began to fall and before long, this turned to snow. The good news was; I was making this trip for (probably) the last time. Because Paul and Megan finally decided to call it quits and head down the hill to the relatively tropical climate of Dumont, just off I-70.

When we moved into our house, our well ran out of water while we were still unpacking. With Paul and Megan, it was the other way round. Their water went out 2 days before the move. And their phone was disconnected. Oh, and their power was cut off 3 days early as well. Did I mention how cold it is up there right now? So by the time their assorted friends and relatives rolled up to assist with the move, nerves were more than a bit frayed and things were not running to schedule. Boxes were stacked everywhere, and the U-Haul was parked in the drive, but it was clear there was a ton of work to be done.

So we opened the cooler, sank a breakfast beer and caught up on the gossip. I would have been quite happy doing this all day, but that doesn’t get the baby’s bonnet bought now does it? We all had our assigned tasks and (eventually) fell to them with a will. Beep turned out to be an expert with the moving dolly and was soon trundling back and forth with ever larger pieces of furniture. Sean had a gift for packing the truck in the most efficient manner possible. 13-year old Alhana who had somehow managed to persuade a school friend to show up and help, was given the job of emptying the fridge (rather her than me; there was some seriously scary stuff in there). 5-year old Clara wandered around looking cute and getting in the way and very pregnant Lauren kept the couch warm until we had to move it. Paul, Patrick and I traipsed back and forth with boxes and assorted bits of furniture, grunting, swearing and despite the snow, sweating all the while.

Megan? She hyper-ventilated a lot and worried about the breakable stuff.

It’s amazing how much crap you can collect over the course of 9 years. I know; we left more stuff at our Phoenix house than Megan and Paul were taking with them, and yet, the truck began to fill at an alarming rate. Cars were pressed into service for the more fragile pieces but still it came. Reluctantly (yeah, right) we agreed the piano would have to wait for another day, along with a few other bits and pieces, so finally, the truck door was rolled down.

Of course, if you’ve ever moved house you’ll know that loading the truck is but just one step. All this stuff has to come back off at the other end. The good news was, the snow stopped and the temperature rose by 10 degrees F as we drove down the hill. Bad news was, the afternoon was wearing on and it gets dark early at this time of year. Oh, and we were all just about banjoed already.

But the new house is bright and roomy and for the moment, clean, without the maze of steps, and corners, sloping floors and low ceilings that had plagued us on the way out. That’s not entirely true, there were steps and lots of them but for the most part, they were wider than the ones we’d left behind giving a bit more room for maneuver. Unfortunately, this didn’t make the furniture any lighter. And curiously, all the really heavy stuff had to go to the top floor. I haven’t sworn this much since the last time I watched Scotland play football.

Darkness fell long before we were done and the last couple of thousand trips were done by instinct and muscle memory. My poor, weedy biceps were screaming for the last hour or so and on a couple of occasions I had to put down the load, take a breath then start over. But at long last the back of the truck appeared and with it, a bottle of wine stashed there earlier. We couldn’t find the corkscrew of course, which led to a discussion of the best way to break the neck of a wine bottle without leaving shards of glass in the vino, but finally we were all parked on the couch like so many boneless chickens and toasting our friends in their new home.

I’m going to have to go back again of course. In the dark I missed a large pottery vase sitting on the passenger side floor of my car. But I don’t mind really. Paul and Megan are good friends and I always enjoy their company.

Plus, I no longer have to traipse up that bloody hill. It’s all good.

Foggy Day

2008-11-02T15:45:00.003-07:00

These were taken 3 weeks ago, but they fit my mood today.

Full Yellow Jacket

2008-09-14T11:41:00.001-06:00

It looks as though the hummingbirds are gone for the year. I have half a dozen feeders scattered around the property and they each draw a fair amount of attention each summer. The most active appears to be the one hanging outside my office window and I get a lot of pleasure from watching their antics while I’m supposed to be working. But, I haven’t seen any visitors for the last couple of weeks and it would appear they’re all on their way down to Mexico to hang out on the beach for the winter. When I get done here, I’ll take down the feeders, give them a good wash; and then store them away till next year.

So I wonder then, if I can take down the yellow-jacket trap. Other than a herd of wasps, which we found living in our ceiling not long after we moved in, we haven’t been too bothered by these pests. Until this year, that is. As far as I’m aware nothing changed in the sugar/water mix I make up for the hummingbird feeders, so I have no idea why the yellow-jackets appeared all of a sudden. Nor have I an explanation of why they seemed to be fixated on the feeder by my office window, but couldn’t care less about the others. If there’s a nest close by, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.

But they’re here all right, swarming by the dozens. Some days there were so many of them buzzing around that the poor hummingbirds couldn’t even get close. Now as I’ve said before, I’m an animal lover, a regular St. Francis of Assisi, that’s me. However, once a critter chooses to inflict pain on me, then all bets are off. If a shark or a mountain lion happens to be noshing on my leg, then I won’t hesitate to poke it with my Swiss Army Knife™ while yelling "I say there, do stop that!" or something similar until it’s no longer an issue. Likewise, when mosquitoes try to bleed me white, as oft they have done, then I suffer no pangs of guilt when I squish the little buggers. In fact, I’ve squished many of them in my time, but nowhere near as many as have bitten me and I’ll happily devote my life to redressing that imbalance.

I have a beautiful back yard and at this time of year, there are few pleasures to equal sitting outside with a beer, or a coffee and a book, enjoying the sound of the breeze in the pines. Everybody knows food tastes better outdoors but nobody enjoys swatting at wasps with one hand while holding a fork in the other. And nobody enjoys being stung by the little buggers either; at least I don’t. The wasps we have over here in the Yooessuvay aren’t quite as vicious as their European cousins, but I’ve long been allergic to pain and have no desire to experience it unless absolutely necessary.

So, a yellow-jacket trap was required. Sure, you can go to the hardware store and purchase a pre-made plastic cage contraption, with a cotton swab to be soaked in wasp bait and a special removable base for hygienic disposal of the carcasses. But not only are they ridiculously expensive for what they are, they don’t work. I know, I’ve tried them. So, Backwoodsman Frontier Guy that I am; I made my own.

Yeah, yeah I know…you’ve read the Gunsmoke Files before and know that Mr. Fixit here can’t make anything more complicated than a sandwich without hurting himself but wasp traps are so simple, even I can do it. Here’s the procedure, write this down.

1. Take a clean empty jar, such as might have been used for pickles or jam or something.
2. Whack a hole in the lid with a nail, and be sure to leave the inside lip rough and raggedy. Use pliers to exaggerate this if necessary.
3. Half fill the jar with a mixture of water and dissolved sugar.
4. Put the jar where the wasps will find it.

People tell me you shouldn’t set it near a picnic table or where kids might play or any place to which you don’t wish to attract wasps, but in my experience, that’s where the wasps will be whether you wish it or not so you might as well put the trap there. Apparently, the trick is to set the trap early in the year, capture the queen and then it’s checkmate in no-time. I didn’t do that because they didn’t show up until mid-August, but I’ll be ready for next year.

The first day saw an impressive haul of 23 yellow-jackets. The day after, another 18. If I keep this up, I thought, I’ll clear out the whole neighborhood pretty soon. 3 weeks on, and I think I’ve played a major part in driving the species to extinction. 178 so far, with another 8 or 9 floating in the jar as I speak. Who knows how many I would have caught if I’d placed multiple traps around the yard, but this all from one 12oz pickle jar hanging outside my window. Certainly, the novelty of cleaning it out has long since worn off, but still they come.

Maybe once I take down the hummingbird feeders, the wasps will sod off too. Or maybe the won’t. Either way, I can sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my bit to stop them harassing the hummingbirds. My wasp corpse collection is testament to that.

Now, does anyone know a taxidermist that specializes in small animals?

Spare Ribs

2008-08-26T16:42:00.001-06:00

Six weeks should be enough, right? I mean, my ribs aren’t broken or anything. They aren’t even bruised. So surely by now, six weeks after I rode my bike through that bush, I should be able to pick up something heavier than a beer bottle without grimacing in pain.

Apparently not.

It didn’t even seem that bad a wipe-out when it happened. I was at the back of the pack (as usual) while we hurtled along a narrow, fast and windy, but not particularly steep downhill stretch. The adrenaline was pumping, the trees were whizzing by and I was experiencing the exhilaration that comes with riding at the very limit of ones abilities. A couple of quick pedal strokes to keep up the momentum and my left foot caught on something by the trail side. A rock, a root, maybe just the slope of the ground, who knows. Either way, it was enough to bounce me a foot to the right, off the trail and straight for that damn bush.

On hindsight, this was probably the best place on the whole ride to stage a crash. Pretty much, anywhere else and I would have gone straight into a tree, or a rock, or over the edge of steep drop to who knows where. So on balance, I was happy it was a bush although it didn’t seem all that positive at the time. I went through it, over it and down the far side of it with a wallop that knocked the wind right out of me.

It didn’t take long to establish I hadn’t done any major harm to myself and in moments I was addressing the real concern – my bike. I’ll heal eventually, but bike parts are expensive. Not to worry though, my bike too appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed and apart from a rather dramatic scar along her chain stay, was ready to ride before I was.

I was still sucking air when the others came back up the trail to see what was keeping me. No worries though, and while the ache in my ribs foretold discomfort ahead, for a dramatic prang like this one, I’d got away fairly light. Take it easy for a few days, maybe pop a painkiller or two in the morning, and I’ll see you next week lads.

Except as I said, that was six weeks ago and other than a few tentative cruises along dirt roads, I haven’t been out on my bike since. I’m no longer vacuuming down the ibuprofen like I was in the beginning and some days I don’t need to take anything at all. But if I didn’t sleep well, or if I’ve done anything even remotely physical with my upper body, I’m reaching for the little magic bottle like any regular street junkie.

But what really ticks me off is that I worked bloody hard this year to get into a state of passable fitness. Sure I was blowing hard on the uphills, and on the bigger ones I still had to stop to catch my breath before continuing. But at least this summer I was making it to the top eventually. Now as a result of this layoff, my leg muscles have reverted to their pre-summer, Wonderbread-like consistency and as there are only so many more weeks of snow free riding left before next winter kicks in, I’m not sure how much more saddle-time I’ll be able to get in.

The 2012 London Olympics are only 4 years away, right around my 50th birthday so if I’m going to give fellow Scot, Chris Hoy, a race worth remembering, I’ll need to get some training in.

So if anybody knows a way to make bruised ribs heal more quickly, please let me know.

Carry on Camping - Part 1

2008-07-26T15:40:00.004-06:00

One of the things which struck me most about marriage was how long it took to pack for a camping trip. Back in my single days I could throw everything I needed into a backpack and be on my way in 10-15 minutes. Drop a wife into the mix and it now takes me that long to carry the things to the front door. I pack only the things I can't possibly do without. Dear Wife packs everything we might conceivably find a use for.

Pete has not only a (charming) wife, Mary, but two kids as well and as I was tagging along on this trip, making everything fit into his truck was something of a Chinese Puzzle. Bikes, a canoe, food and bag after bag after bag - it took a fair bit of head scratching and ingenuity, but somehow we managed it and by late morning we were on our way.

I haven't been to Coniston in many years, although once upon a time I spent every summer weekend here, windsurfing. By that I mean, sitting on the beach, drinking beer and gossiping, and every now and then claiming I would go out "once the wind picked up a bit." It's still as breathtakingly pretty as ever though and the homesickness emotions were on overdrive.

I generally make a point to avoid public campsites, particularly on holiday weekends, and it was with a little apprehension that I noticed just how crowded this one was. There was very little room between the tents and as every group seemed to have a dozen or more kids, I was wondering how I was going to cope with 3 days of this. But you know what? It was great. Everyone was incredibly friendly and as we were meeting up with a group whom Pete & Mary have camped with before; there was a wonderfully social atmosphere.

Putting up the family's trailer tent was an exercise in ingenuity, but I'm sleeping in Pete's (very) old hike tent, which was up in moments. Windbreaks were hammered into the ground, bikes, canoes and other assorted toys were unloaded from the truck and the whole thing brought back long lost memories of caravan trips back in my own childhood. And surprisingly positive memories too. The plastic plates, the wind blowing everything off the table, the hike to the spigot at the far end of the campsite to fetch water…ah, happy days.

Pete had only just bought his canoe and it had yet to take its maiden voyage so I was press-ganged into service as front paddler. Despite the sunshine, the wind was truly ferocious and even with two little boys and a dog in the bottom for ballast, it was hard going. Every few minutes the bow (for all you landlubbers, that's the front) would start to swing, then the wind would catch it and push it further around while Pete and I dug frantically into the water in attempt to pull her back on course. I don't know about the captain, but the first mate was knackered.

Finally, we hove to at the snack bar and treated ourselves to an ice cream to stave off scurvy. Should be OK on the way back we thought, the wind will be behind us. Wrong again, it was just as hard paddling this way because now it was the stern (back end) that wanted to pull round sideways. We learned later that we'd been doing it all wrong of course, but hey, where's the fun of being intrepid explorers if you aren't figuring this stuff out for yourself.

Open fires weren't allowed on the campsite, but Pete the engineer had crafted an enclosed brazier type thing out of the drum from an old washing machine. With its tripod legs, it had room for plenty of wood and gave off a surprising amount of heat. It seemed like the entire campsite was congregated around it, but as everyone was sharing food, and beer, it was one heckuva party.

The last time I slept in a tent on a public campground, I was kept awake by deafening country music and the sounds of rednecks partying. Given how crowded this campsite was, I wasn't sure how loud it would be tonight. But refreshingly, by 10 pm or so, the place was blissfully peaceful and soon, I was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Although being half-sozzled by the time I crawled into my sleeping bag no doubt helped.

Striding Edge

2008-07-16T09:36:00.010-06:00

Hellvellyn isn’t a lofty peak. At 3,117 feet (950 meters) above sea level, it isn’t even the highest in the English Lakes. When I walk up my stairs at home, I’m climbing to a height almost three times as high and Mt. Evans, visible from my back yard and topping out at 14,240 feet (4,340 meters) positively dwarfs it.

So you get the point, it’s not exactly Everest we’re talking about here. Then what brings hikers to Hellvellyn by the thousand, every single year? That would be the view from the top. Located as it is, on the eastern side of the breathtakingly pretty corner of England that is the Lake District, the summit vista looks out across the smaller hills, over the lake known as Ullswater (itself no slouch in the prettiness stakes), and out to the plains of Yorkshire. On the "Wow!" factor, it’s way up there.

Every few years the British summer weather cooperates enough to provide a clear night sky on Midsummer’s Eve and scores of people trek to the top in order to enjoy the (very) early morning sunrise. I did it three times in my life; once as a kid with my parents, the second two fueled by a gallon or so of Guinness from the pub prior to setting out. The sunrise turns the mountains from black to purple, while Ullswater glints like a pool of mercury in the foreground. Each time it was magical and if the person, who has the photographs I took the last time, and subsequently lost, is reading this, I’d very much like them back.

Back when I lived in the Lakes, I covered many, although not all of the peaks. In addition to the night-time jaunts, I tackled Hellvellyn several times during daylight hours and enjoyed each one but one thing I never attempted, was the route known as “Striding Edge”. So when Steve suggested it during my visit, I jumped at the chance. Graeme decided to tag along too and as the three of us spent a good chunk of our formative years in each others’ company; it was just like old times.

Striding Edge didn’t get its name because one can "stride" along it. One would be very ill advised to do so, even if one were physically capable, which one is almost certainly not. No, the term "Striding" in this sense, means "To Stand Astride". In other words, you can put one foot on each side of the knife-edge ridge. What makes Striding Edge different from other ridgeline paths is not only is it a very rocky scramble, but that if you were to stand upon it, and take a good look around, you would see nothing but fresh air.

The ground sweeps away dramatically on both sides and as the path itself is something of a hand over hand scramble, this is not a good hike for a windy day, or for someone afraid of heights, or open spaces, or anyone with balance issues. Nonetheless, each year several nutmegs give it a go and the mountain rescue teams are used to scraping people off the rocks below.

It wasn’t at all windy when we set off from the town of Glenridding, around mid-morning. The day was warm and a shade muggy, which made me feel ever so glad I’d accidentally left my shorts up in Scotland ad was tackling the hike in jeans. I was also a shade concerned at how hard I was blowing during the early stages. What’s all this about living at altitude and reaping the benefits when descending to lower elevation? I consoled myself with the thought that I had got pretty hammered while watching the European Championship (real football) in the pub the night before and that once I sweated the stale beer out of my pores, all would be well.

And indeed it was. By the time we’d stopped for the first bite of our packed lunches and had admired the view for the umpteenth time, I was raring to go. Striding Edge doesn’t arrive until you’re tantalizingly close to the top and when you see it for the first time, it’s with a "Crap, is that where we’re going?" feeling.

"Scary is good" said Steve as a rejoinder to Graeme’s and my whining, uhm astute observations. And that’s true enough – in the right circumstances. On a roller coaster perhaps, or during a horror movie. I just didn’t happen to think that balanced on a rock with nothing but hundreds of feet down on either side was not the right circumstances and each time my sweaty jeans clung to my leg and prevented me from gaining the inch or so I needed to complete the step onto the next rock, I had reason to reflect on this.

Steve on the other hand, was more concerned about his wee dog, scampering along excitedly on the end of its lead. "My wife doesn’t care about me" he explained, "But if I lose the dog, I might as well not go home." Graeme was something of a concern too, being considerably older than Steve and I. (Almost a year older than me and several weeks ahead of Steve) but the decrepit old codger seemed to be doing OK.

It didn’t help that we got stuck in a traffic jam of sorts, behind two ladies who really had no business being up there in the first place. While it was sensible tactics to consider foot placement in advance of each step, this pair were deliberating to a level that would make a Bedouin camel trader weep. I’m not known for my patience at the best of times and I’d already considered a hundred ways to "accidentally" push them down one side or the other but, aware that the two guys watching from up ahead were not only with them, but both bigger than me, I chose not to. See me? See karma points?

Finally, we were able to wiggle past them and in a surprisingly short time were standing atop the summit. A couple of dozen other people were up here already but as most of them had come up the easy way from the west side (hah!), they were of no concern to us. It was cool up here, causing sweatshirts and woolly pullys to be removed from the daypacks and we had to find some shelter from the wind before finishing lunch. And the haze in the valleys meant the view wasn’t quite as crisp as we’d hoped. But it was still pretty darn good for all that.

By the time Midsummer's Eve rolled around this year, I was firmly ensconced back in the States. Views to the east of here look out over the city, and rather than the plains of Yorkshire in the distance, we have the prairie stretching all the way to the Great Lakes, a thousand miles away. I didn't climb a hilltop this year but I did spend some time reflecting on my previous night hikes up Hellvellyn. I wonder if I'll ever do that again.

One thing's for sure though - if I do climb it in the dark, it won't be up Striding Edge.

You can't go home again - Part 2

2008-07-03T11:31:00.008-06:00

So the last couple of Gunsmoke Files dealt with my visits to Bannockburn and Stirling Castle, which both happen to be just down the road from my birthplace of Larbert. What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? Why, it’s famous for uhm...well remember in the Laurel and Hardy films...remember the angry guy with the black moustache that was always on the wrong end of their mischief? Well, he was from there.

Although Larbert isn’t my home town in any real sense of the word. The people who claim to be my parents spirited me away at the tender age of two and transported me over the border to England where I grew up (in the loosest sense of the word) in a little town called Kendal, population 26,000 or so.

I haven’t been back in 8 years and even then it was just a quick visit, so I was looking forward to wandering about and seeing just how much the old place had changed. I was kipping with my friend Steve and his family, but he wouldn’t be home from work for some time so after dropping off my bag, I set out on a wander. Steve’s house sits at the base of Castle Hill, which has some of the best views of the town. Yeah I know, another castle, but don’t worry - this one won’t take long.

It’s a ruin, you see, and has been for some time. The family of Queen Katherine Parr once owned this place and as I’m sure you know, she was the 6th wife of King Henry the 8th and the only one to out live the syphilitic old git. I doubt they’d recognize the place now; it being little more than some tumbledown walls but it’s been cleaned up a lot since I last visited and these days it has plaques and signs all over the place telling you exactly what used to be there. From this I learned that our childhood guesses were apparently way off the mark. What we decided were the stables were in fact the kitchen, the dungeon was merely a storeroom and so on.

The view duly admired from all angles, I took myself down the far side of the hill and into the town proper. And yes, the place had changed. But not quite as much as I was expecting it to have. Yes, the one-way traffic flow had been re-routed so now cars were hurtling at me from the left where I was expecting them to come at me from the right. And there were buildings where empty spaces used to be. But mostly it looked much the same, albeit much sunnier than it ever was when I lived there.

I had a lot of fun trying to remember what used to be in a specific location but was oddly surprised to see certain shops still looking exactly the same. Interestingly it seemed to be the crappy places, charity stores and amusement arcades that had survived, most of the upscale shops had changed. My favorite bookstore for example, had returned to the location it had occupied when I was a child, having moved back from the one it had occupied when I was an adult. Who says you can’t go home again?

In a town of 26,000 people, you get to know a lot of folk, especially if like me, you work with the public. And also when you invest most of your time, money and energy into cultivating an active social life, (OK, by “active social life”, I mean I went out drinking every night, but then you knew that) you tend to become something of a familiar face. So it was entertaining in a mildly frustrating way to walk past someone and find myself wondering “OK, who the heck was that; where do I know them from?” Sometimes I would steal a look over my shoulder to see if I could better identify them and would catch them doing the same thing; obviously trying to recall who the heck I was.

I wasn’t always sure if I actually knew the person, or if I was just used to seeing them around. Occasionally I would be confident enough to exchange the traditional north of England greeting ("Hiya, y’areet?") but even then, I rarely managed to put a name to the face although sometimes I would figure it out a little later along the street. On one notable occasion I realized that the woman at whom I had stared quizzically a little earlier was in fact Mary, wife of Pete, the friends with whom I was going camping in a couple of days. Never the stranger to social awkwardness, me.

Even the jewelry store where I used to work had changed, having expanded into the space next door. I’d been told about this, but it still seemed a little odd to see it. Some of my co-workers were still there though, even though it’s now 17 years since I sold my last bauble. So, I stayed for a while, distracting them from their labors while they brought me up to speed on the local gossip.

I’d called in with the intent of dragging my friend Graeme out to the pub, but somewhat predictably, he wasn’t around. He’s the boss and in true management fashion was off taking care of personal errands while the staff did all the work.

It’s good to know some things never change.

Stirling Castle

2008-06-30T09:15:00.007-06:00

The visit to Bannockburn concluded; it was on then to Stirling Castle, one of the largest and historically most important castles in Britain. Its strategic location, guarding the crossing of the River Forth, and therefore, to all intents and purposes, the highlands of Scotland, made it an important fortification from the earliest times. Surrounded on three sides by steep volcanic cliffs, it commands a strong defensive position.

Even today, getting in proved harder than one might expect, although that was mainly due to my Mum and I being unable to grasp the concept of a ticket counter and trying very hard to purchase our admission in the gift shop. To be fair, the ticket counter was clearly and obviously marked with a large sign saying "Ticket Counter" but that hardly makes it our fault that we walked right past it (twice).

Somewhat exhausted with the effort of getting in, we retired to the café for a quick Irn Bru and a natter, before agreeing to explore at our own speed and meet up a little later to swap notes.

You can't help but feel the history in a place like Stirling Castle. Overrun with camera wielding tourists it may be, (I don't include myself in that category of course, I'm a seasoned travel writer, merely documenting evidence for my loyal readers), every building, every wall, every walkway, simply exudes the whispers of its past. Most of the principal buildings of the Castle date from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, although a few structures of the fourteenth century remain. The outer defenses, the ones fronting the town date from the early eighteenth century.

In addition to that of Edward Longshanks (Braveheart reference again, dang I hated that movie) in the 13th century, there have been several sieges of Stirling Castle, the last being in 1746, when Charles Edward Stuart, "Bonnie Prince Charlie", and his Jacobite force tried unsuccessfully to take the castle. However, from 1800 until 1964 the Castle was owned by the British Army and run as a barracks.

The army made many alterations to the castle, including the Great Hall, which became an accommodation block; the Chapel Royal, which became a lecture theatre and dining hall; the King's Old Building, which became an infirmary; and the Royal Palace, which became the Officer's Mess. Efforts to restore all these buildings to their original state are still ongoing, and evidence of this work was all around.

A group called Historic Scotland run the place today and they had provided a series of helpful signs, recordings and videos to explain exactly what you're observing at any given time. Although I have to say, fascinating though the buildings were, it was the views from the walls that fascinated me.

High atop its volcanic crag, the castle commands an imposing view over the vale of Stirling, the last really flat portion of Scotland before the highlands begin and by strolling around the walls, one is able to observe a huge area of central Scotland. There was a time when Stirling Bridge was the only passage across the river forth and therefore, whoever controlled Stirling Castle, controlled Scotland - hence the numerous sieges. In fact, one of the most famous battles of the Scottish Wars of Independence took place here in 1297.

Wallace was the high heid yin this time, with help from Andrew de Moray and their combined forces were deployed in a commanding position dominating the soft, flat ground to the north of the river. The small bridge at Stirling was only broad enough to allow two horsemen to cross abreast so the Scots waited as the English knights and infantry made their slow progress across the bridge on the morning of 11 September. Wallace and Moray had held back earlier in the day when many of the English and Welsh archers had crossed, (only to be recalled because their leader, the Earl of Surrey had overslept) and now waited, until the vanguard, comprising around 5,400 English and Welsh infantry and several hundred cavalry had crossed the Bridge. Only then did they order the attack.

The Scots spearmen came down from the high ground in rapid advance towards Stirling Bridge, quickly seizing control of the English bridgehead. Surrey's vanguard was now cut off from the rest of the army. The heavy cavalry to the north of the river was trapped and cut to pieces, their comrades to the south powerless to help. With no escape route available, losses among the English forces were enormous, with many plunging into the river where the weight of their armor meant an inevitable death by drowning.

Surrey, who still had a formidable contingent of archers, had remained to the south of the river and was still in a strong position. The bulk of his army still remained intact and he could have held the line of the Forth, denying the triumphant Scots a passage to the south. But his confidence was gone. Surrey ordered the bridge's destruction and retreated, leaving the garrison at Stirling Castle isolated and abandoning the Lowlands to the rebels.

Of course, it hasn't been all doom, gloom and bloodshed at Stirling Castle. It's been the site for the coronations of multiple Scottish Kings and Queens, including Mary, Queen of Scots. And it's been home to many of them. The Great Hall was the largest secular building in Europe at the time it was built and it contains some of the finest architecture of its period.

And here, on a warm, sunny, 21st century day, it's hard to look at these neatly tended fields and truly imagine the carnage that took place all those years ago. It's also hard to imagine how cold, drafty and grindingly touch life in a castle must have been, especially for the serving classes. I suspect there were no helpful sign posts back in the day, or be-tartaned staff cheerfully directing visitors around the castle. I don't imagine there were neatly tended lawns, or central heating, or comfortably furnished rooms back then either.

But still, to stand on these battlement walls and look down over this huge area of central Scotland, and know that you controlled the whole lot and then some, then it must have been pretty good to call Stirling Castle home.

Doon by Stirling Brig,
The Wallace lay a-hiding,
As the English host,
Frae the sooth cam riding,
Lood the River Forth,
Atween them baith was roaring,
Nerra were the sides,
O' the Brig o' Stirling.

Watching frae the the wid,
Wallace and the Moray,
As the English cam,
Wi' the Earl o' Surrey,
Ane by ane they crossed,
As the bridge was birlin,
Still they onward cam,
Ower the Brig o' Stirling.

Wallace gied a shout,
Oot his men cam rinning,
Stopped the English host,
On the Brig o' Stirling,
Cressingham turned roon,
The Brig was sma' for turning,
Moray cut him doon,
On the Brig o' Stirling.

A' the English men,
Ran intil each other,
Nane could turn aboot,
Nane could gae much further,
Some fell ower the side,
An' in the Forth were drowning,
Some were left to die,
On the Brig o' Stirling

Surrey he was wild,
Couldnae ford the river,
Wished wi' a' his micht,
That the Brig was bigger,
Then he rade awa',
Lood the man was cursing,
Wallace and his men,
And the Brig 0' Stirling.

Bannockburn

2008-06-25T17:07:00.006-06:00

Two castles in two days - are we a cultured bunch or what? Today, we're off to Stirling Castle and while yesterday's trip to Culzean makes one think of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen disembarking from carriages rolling up the driveway, Stirling conjures up images of medieval warriors knocking lumps out of one another with swords and maces.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first stop of the day was Bannockburn, site of the battle of. This, as I'm sure you know, was a pivotal battle in the wars between England and Scotland and took place in 1314, when Edward came north with some 2,000 horse and 16,000 foot soldiers. The stated intent was to relieve Stirling Castle, just down the road and currently under siege but in reality, he wanted to knock the rhubarb out of the Scottish army in the field, and thus, end the war. Of course, it didn't turn out like that.

Despite his wimpy portrayal in Braveheart (which for the record, is not a documentary), Robert de Brus was one hard bastard and a brilliant military tactician. His army numbered only around 9,000 but they were in place long before the English arrived. Brus peppered both sides of the approach road with small pits, three feet deep and covered with brush, which forced the enemy to take the route he wanted, away from solid ground and onto a wet, boggy area called the Carse.

Legend has it that one of the English commanders, one Henry de Bohun, saw Brus mounted on a small horse, without armor and armed only with a battle-axe. Bohun lowered his lance and charged his war-horse into history. For Brus, totally unfazed, merely stood on his stirrups, and beaned him with the axe, splitting not only Bohun's helmet, but his head in two. Cheered by the heroism of their leader, Brus' troops rushed forward to engage the main enemy force.

The battle raged for two days, but Brus' tactics, plus his command of the strong ground made the Englishmen's task almost impossible. Time and again the mobile Scottish spearmen were able to withstand the attacks of the more cumbersome English horsemen. The very size and strength of the English army was working against them. It took time to move the forces into position and the Scots were picking them off almost at will.

By the time Brus committed his entire army to an inexorable, bloody push, the English host was a disorganized mass and by mid-morning on the second day, Edward's army had been thoroughly routed. Out of the 16,000 infantrymen, only around 5,000 are believed to have survived, while the Scots losses were almost negligible. Full English recognition of Scots independence didn't happen for another ten years, but Robert de Brus' position as king were cemented by the events at Bannockburn.

The National Trust's visitor center was pleasant enough, with dioramas and wall mounted accounts of the battle. But the experience was marred by the inevitable hord of ill-behaved school children yelling and screaming while their teachers beamed indulgently. That said, I did get a kick out of hearing one of them explaining to the oblivious weans how William Wallace had led the Scots into battle here, "Remember...you saw it in Braveheart?". This would have a feat worthy of Hollywood indeed, considering Wallace was executed some 9 years before the battle took place. Even Mel Gibson didn't distort history quite as much as this alleged teacher.

I escaped into the sunshine, hoping that by standing beside the ugly, modern abstract monument, a few hundred yards away, I might feel a connection to the ghosts of the past, to my ancestors who fought for liberty all those centuries ago. But I can't say that I did. It's certainly a beautiful location for a battle, with rolling green hills sweeping down to the new houses in the distance. But there was no mystical, intangible presence to the place, no sense of the history that took place here. It was just a pretty field.

It wasn't until I was home again, and checking the accuracy of my notes that I learned why that might be. Apparently, there is some dispute amongst historians as to where the actual battle took place. Nobody really knows, but one thing about which they're in almost unanimous agreement is, it wasn't here. Maybe a couple of miles over a bit.

Ah well, Mel Gibson didn't get it right either.

Culzean Castle

2008-06-23T18:11:00.016-06:00

Culzean Castle (pronounced cull-ANE) sits atop a cliff on the west coast of Scotland and was built in stages between 1777 and 1792, mostly by the architect Robert Adams. In 1945, the castle's owners gave the castle and its grounds to the National Trust for Scotland (thus avoiding inheritance tax), but in doing so, stipulated that the apartment at the top of the castle be given to General Dwight Eisenhower in recognition of his role as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe during the Second World War.

He stayed there several times and I could see why. Not only is it down the road from a number of the world's most famous golf courses, it's also an impressive structure with breathtaking views up and down the coast. I'm no golfer of course, but I do like a good view and could happily have stared out of any of the windows for several hours.

However, impressive though the house was, it was the grounds that had me captivated. In times gone by, country people believed that woods contained spirits, and magical forests have been a staple of folk tales since time began. Walking through the woods surrounding Culzean Castle, it was easy to see why.

Not that it was claustrophobic, or threatening in any way; despite being lush and overgrown, the trees had a soft, friendly quality to them. For me, it was just the amount of character the trees had. Each seemed to have their own personality, and features completely different from all the rest. I love pine trees but after a while, one does start to look a bit like another. Here on the other hand, was a veritable smorgasbord of variety, with shades of green too numerous to count. Bluebells were everywhere and the aroma of wild garlic hung in the air.

My sister, the bossy one, is the leader of a Guide (Girl Scout) troop and my 12-year old niece Jenny is one of her pack members. They'd only just got back from a weekend's camp here, and have been here many times before that, but love the place so much they were happy to show us round. Jenny knows the castle better than some of the docents and even has an "in" with the resident ghost; a young boy who occasionally visits his old bedroom. She can't see him, but says she can tell when he's there. Each of the rooms is carefully climate controlled to protect the antiques and apparently his room is always 1 degree cooler than the rest of the house. Apparently he was there when we visited so we each gave him a polite "hello" and continued on our way.

One of the docents actually suggested Jenny get a job at the castle. Not as a guide, although she'd be good at it, but as a serving maid. She explained how this was a comparatively cushy number in that she would have a bed to herself and lots of good food. That all sounded appealing enough but once she learned she would need to get up early each morning, Jenny decided to pursue other opportunities. Smart choice; go with your strengths, that's what I say.

We tried to get my nephew Christopher hired on as a trainee-footman. At eleven, he's the right age. Unfortunately, we couldn't get him to make a decision as to whether or not he was going to grow tall - apparently tall is good when it comes to footmen and if you happen to have an identical twin, you can rake in the big bucks. (Butlers like symmetry.) But, Chris didn't grow by any visible amount while we were there so it looks like he'll have to stay in school for the time being too.

Tour finished, we headed back out into the sunshine and another stroll through those fascinating woods. Jenny plans to get married here one day (she has a shortlist of locations, but no potential husbands as yet) and I can't say I blame her. The place has a magical quality to which the photos don't do justice. What a fabulous place.

I came home from Britain with a £5 note in my wallet, issued by the Royal Bank of Scotland. It wasn't until I'd been back from my vacation for a week or two, that I pulled it out to show someone. And there on the back, to my surprise, was an engraved picture of Culzean Castle. I guess somebody else must like the place too.

If you're interested, more photos can be found by clicking
here:

You Can't Go Home Again - Part 1

2008-06-20T16:40:00.009-06:00

In his posthumously published novel, Thomas Wolfe tells us "You can't go home again." Poppycock, if you ask me. All you need is the fare to get there and a phone call to let them know you're on your way and to can they make sure they have some beer in.

Of course, what he really meant was that once you've been away for any length of time, not only will you find the people you left behind have changed; you'll realize that so have you. The place itself will evolve physically too - perhaps not in a manner that's noticeable to those watching it happen, but anyone who hasn't visited for a while, will see a dramatic difference. Shops that will have changed hands, traffic flows that will have altered, buildings where there were none before, home will no longer be "home".

The first few times I returned to Britain after immigrating to the USA, it really was with a sense of "coming home". Back to the comfortable, the familiar, the known. Which was why it was something of a shock on my last trip, four years ago, to discover for the first time that the place felt...foreign. The driving on the wrong side of the road, the accents, the stuff in the shops, and the buildings, all looked strange. The money was unfamiliar, the telephone system was incomprehensible and as for the expressions the people used...they were just weird.

Interestingly, I didn't experience that emotion at all this time round, even though I was visiting places I haven't seen in some cases, for over a decade. I was on the other hand, struck by how much closer everything was. After fifteen years of the wide open spaces in the American west, and six living in the Rocky Mountains with my twenty-mile drive to the nearest supermarket, ten to the nearest pub, and five to the nearest takeaway food, I'd forgotten just how easy it is to walk to almost anywhere you want to go.

I'd set out for an explore, thinking it would take me the afternoon, and realize to my surprise that I was at my destination within a few minutes. One day I had to carry a heavy bag from the railway station to my friend Steve's house. It was a warm day and the bag seemed to weigh a ton, but I was still debating whether to go back and wait for the bus, when I realized I was 3/4 of the way there.

Every American journalist visiting Scotland for the British Open (they rarely report anything else that goes on there unless it involves football hooligans) reaches into his Bumper Book of Clichés and talks about the weather, the funny money, the ingredients of haggis and the tiny cars.

But the thing is; the cars are tiny! Much smaller than when I lived there. Gas prices that would make an American driver weep have encouraged the British to purchase smaller and smaller cars to the point where many of them now drive vehicles that would fit in the trunk of the average American behemoth. Within moments of leaving the airport we came upon a roundabout (traffic circle) and I had to try not to flinch as all these miniature cars came flying towards us from all angles. And the roads are narrow too. Far narrower than I'm used to.

One time my sister was driving me along a road that was about the same width as the one that takes me from the highway to my house. Mine has a 35 mph speed limit, which the polis enforce rigidly. I'm not sure how they ever manage to write anyone a ticket however, because most of the time, we all creep along at 20-25 mph behind some lamebrain who no doubt wonders why everyone else is in such a hurry. Except here was my sister hurtling along at 55-60 mph, while I tried not to scream in terror.

My parents live in a small town called Largs, on the west coast of Scotland, south of Glasgow. They didn't move there until after they'd kicked me out of the nest so in a sense, I wasn't really returning home at all. But my experience last time round not withstanding, it certainly felt like it. Even though I've only stayed in that house as a visitor, it has a very welcoming, homely feel to it. From the mince and tatties at tea time, to the endless cups of milky tea, to my Dad complaining about the money the local council was spending, and my Mum nagging me to take a nap even though I'd told her I would recover from my jet-lag much quicker if I just stayed awake until bed time (about a hundred times), now that was familiar.

Everyone had a good laugh at my hybrid Anglo-American accent (several good laughs, actually), and my tie-dyed shirt, and my lack of vacation time, and got a lot of mileage out of the slang I use ("goofing off" was a particular favorite) but you know what? I loved every minute of it. I miss my family, I miss my friends and I miss the social network they still have.

Yes, I love Colorado, and am perfectly happy with my decision to become a US Citizen a couple of years ago. But it's fairly clear that no matter how long I live here, visiting Britain will always mean going home.

So Thomas Wolfe? You don't know what you're talking about.

Magic Time

2008-06-06T08:06:00.002-06:00

I am not, and never will be, a morning person. There is a special place in hell for those freaks that get up in the middle of the night and have a million things accomplished before normal people have cracked an eyelid. An ever more special place for those sickos who are cheerful while they’re doing it.*

The words "bright" and "early" make no sense when paired together and if it wasn’t for the gift that is coffee, I doubt I would make it upright until at least lunchtime and pay check be damned. As I used to argue with my early-bird boss many years ago, "I’ll bet I had a lot more fun in the hours between 12 and 2 last night than you did in the hours between 5 and 7 this morning."

You get the picture? I don’t like mornings.

However…as some of you may know, I recently made a pilgrimage back to my homeland to see the folks, catch up with some old friends and pig out on fish and chips and Irn Bru. I had a fabulous time, thanks for asking (details will follow shortly, for anyone interested) and am feeling more than a little homesick now that I’m back in Colorado. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but my house in the mountains lacks certain simple comforts. A decent pub or twelve within walking distance for example.

Now I don’t normally suffer from jet lag. If I can simply force myself to stay awake until bed time, no matter how long that is since I got up, then I usually sleep like a log and am back on track by the next day. But this time around my aged body is taking a little longer to adjust than I’m used to, and I’ve been waking at around 4:30 each morning.

I’m still young enough to remember when that was a time for going to bed, not getting up but nonetheless, getting back to sleep before the alarm goes off has proven to be impossible so instead, I’ve found myself up and about and I have to say, enjoying the early mornings.

There’s a stillness to the air that can’t be found later in the day. Hardly any cars, no neighbors out working on their weekend projects, with loud music playing and power tools a-buzzing. Not only do I have the house to myself, I’ve pretty much got the whole darn neighborhood.

The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™ is up for a walk pretty much any time, day or night so it’s taken little persuasion to get her to join me for a brisk few miles round the neighborhood. Despite us being well into June, the mountains are still capped with snow, which makes them even more spectacular when the sun turns them blazing red. There are a few cars on the road, but far less than when we usually walk after work.

And coffee, my lifeblood, nectar of the Dogs, tastes even more wonderful when sipped out of doors, with a good book and the company of the birds, and deer and rabbits. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but even once my body has adjusted to Mountain Standard Time, I might even start setting the alarm a couple of hours earlier than usual, just so I can get up early and spend a couple of hours quality time with myself before reading my first e-mail of the day.

Mind you, if and when I do, it turns out to be a cold, wet morning. Well, then I reserve the right to pull the covers over my head, roll over with a big, fat smile on my face, and go back to sleep.

Just like any normal person.

* Or if there isn’t there bloody well ought to be.

The Gambler

2008-04-23T16:37:00.001-06:00

I received an invitation to a Kentucky Derby Party this morning. It's an annual event and being something of a social butterfly, I'm used to being in demand. What was a little odd though, was that my company's e-mail blocker refused to let me view it.

I'm not sure which of the forbidden subjects a Kentucky Derby Party would fall under, but as pornography, violence and weapons haven't been a feature of the previous shindigs, I suspect it must have been 'gambling'. Which is a little comical because you see, I hold the official title of the world's worst gambler.

It matters not one whit whether it's a game of chance or skill, the roll of the dice or a study of form, I'm hopeless at it. Uncannily hopeless in fact. Hopeless to the point where other gamblers pay attention to what I do, so they can do the exact opposite and rake in the bucks.

It's not as if I win a little, but lose overall. No, I lose every...single...time. Most other people can happily play the slot machines for hours, sometimes coming away a few dollars up, sometimes a few dollars down, but usually happy with the pleasure they've obtained in exchange for the money they've spent. But me? I might as well just hand over my wallet to the casino owner the moment I walk in and be done with it.

Years ago, my mates and I used to make a bi-annual pilgrimage to the race course at Cartmel. Despite the meetings being held on public holidays, the weather was invariably sunny and warm, while the northern England country setting was impossibly idyllic. Best of all though, the pubs were open all day, which given the archaic licensing laws at the time, was a rare treat. A good day out was invariably guaranteed, but when it came to betting on the races, forget it. The pedigree of the horse was irrelevant. The skill and fame of the jockey mattered not. If I placed a bet, they came last and that was that.

In later years the jockeys used to sit around in the weighing room waiting to see which one of them was to receive my favor. If they learned I'd bet on them, they didn't bother to get changed, they just went home.

My first time in Vegas, that Mecca for the gambling fraternity, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a wee flutter. I was a backpacker at the time though, and every penny counted, so I was pleased to pick up a leaflet that entitled me to $50 worth of free gambling. Free! The word which brings light into any backpacker's heart. This was my kind of gambling.

The deal was you got one pull of a slot machine, one spin on the wheel of fortune, one throw at the craps table and so on, about 10 different chances to win. The catch was, this had to be spread out over 5 hours or so and I suppose the expectation was that you would play with (and lose) your own money while awaiting your next chance to play for free. Not me though; I'm way too smart (and cheap) for that. No, I played my one roll of the dice; then headed back to the hostel to read my book until it was time for the next shot at the prize. Do you know how much money I won from my $50 worth of free gambling? None. Nada. Zip. Not one single penny and I left Vegas the same way I arrived; on the Greyhound bus.

Whether it was my sister crushing me at Snakes and Ladders ("Chutes" and Ladders, for you Murkans) or taking part in the office sweepstakes on Grand National Day, I've always come a solid last when it comes to games of chance and skill. The fact that my sister cheated like a bandit is little consolation - she would have won anyway.

But my most crushing loss came outside the old Wembley Stadium in London, where yer stereotypical Cockney wide boy had attracted a crowd with a game of "Find the Lady", that well-known method of fleecing the unwary whereby 3 cards, one of them a queen are laid on a table and shuffled from side to side at lightning speed. If you can keep track of which is the queen and identify it at the end, you win. £5 a bet, double your money if you're right. Of course it's not that simple. Distraction, deception and slight of hand are all part of the game but you know what? I had this guy figured out.

I stood there for at least an hour, studying his every move. I saw him switching cards while the punters were reaching for their wallets, I observed him slipping cards up his sleeve and different ones out again, I figured out who in the crowd were his plants, I'm telling you, I had his number.

And I had £5 burning a hole in my pocket. £5 that I could easily turn into £10. Never mind that this included my tube fare back to the hotel. I'm telling you, this was easy.

Oh, that nagging voice kept reminding me that I suck at this; that I'd lost countless times before, that I never, ever won when I gambled. But look! There I was right again. If I'd bet that time I would have won. Again and again, I picked the correct card - if only I'd had the courage to put my money down. Finally, I could stand it no longer and after watching the play like a hawk, I pulled out my £5.

"It's that one!" I declared, planting my index finger firmly on the card and keeping it there. No switching cards this time laddie, I'm too sharp for you. Without batting an eyelid, the wide-boy flipped over the card next to it, and to nobody's surprise but mine, revealed that this was in fact, the Queen.

Devastated, I began the long walk back to central London. I swear I must have watched his routine a hundred times and was right on each one of them. Except for the one hundred and first time, when I put the money down. What did he do differently? I don't know. I do know however, that I was beaten by a master.

As evidenced when he swept passed me in a chauffer driven Mercedes. He and his mates in the back seat, each counting a huge wad of notes.

And they didn't even offer me a ride.

Fly like an Eagle

2008-04-14T10:01:00.004-06:00

So on a day reminiscent of The First Bike Ride of Spring, Raven and I took advantage of the spring weather (finally!) and went for a bike ride along the banks of the river Platte. It wasn't warm exactly, but the sun was shining, the grass is turning green and there are definite signs that winter might be on the way out at last. (Don't get me wrong, the winters here are beautiful, but enough already.)

The wildlife were enjoying the mild weather too, so we kept our eyes peeled for anything that might be occurring. The birds in particular, seemed to be out in force, hawks and ravens and crows, many of them simply wheeling and circling in the sky, seemingly just for the fun of it. Before we even began our ride, we spent some time admiring two ravens circling ever and ever higher, apparently for no other reason than that they could.

All awesome stuff but best treat of all came later on the ride. Two golden eagles were playing in the sky up ahead. At one point I thought we'd lost them around a rocky crag but moments later, after a few moments they came swooping towards us, and flew not more than 15-20 feet above our heads before settling on the ground just a few yards away. One of them appeared to have something in its talons but they were obviously aware of our presence because before long, they took off for the tree tops and soon disappeared around the hill.

But not until we'd had the chance to enjoy the blessing of observing these magnificent creatures, from a distance closer than most people are ever lucky enough to experience in a lifetime.

I've seen quite a few bald eagles since moving to the States, but never a golden eagle, and never two at once, and never quite that close.

What a special privilege that was.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

2008-03-16T15:15:00.003-06:00

Although St. Patrick's day isn't until tomorrow, me and the other members of the pipe band marched in Denver's annual parade yesterday, then spent the rest of the day and a good chunk of the night playing for the revellers in the city's Irish pubs. So, as I wait for the hangover to pass, I thought it might be fun to revisit my first St. Patrick's day parade, back in 2004.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

The city of Denver boasts the 4th largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the US, behind New York, Boston and Chicago. In it’s 42nd year, it’s a colorful display of music, marching and of course, free stuff, the parade winds through the LoDo district of downtown and takes between 3-4 hours to complete.

As you might expect there are a number of marching bands, step dancers, decorated floats and Star Wars characters. Well, perhaps you might not expect the last group, I know I didn’t, but they were there all the same, in full regalia complete with swords and light sabers. I’m not entirely clear on the link between St. Patrick and Star Wars, any more than I am about his connection to the Hari Krishners who were also in attendance, but nonetheless, they added a little fun to the proceedings.

Being a participant in the parade means you don’t get to see the parade itself so one of the most entertaining parts of the day was watching the other groups preparing. Everybody was out to have fun so there was a lot of camaraderie and joking around. Well, with the exception of a band of scary looking clowns who, standing off to one side, stared unsmiling at us while we warmed up. I don’t like clowns at the best of times and this gang were freaking me out but luckily, once the parade started, we didn’t see them again.

Of all the bands in the parade, there were none so musically talented, so physically attractive or so...big as the Isle of Mull and St Andrews Pipes and Drums, of which I happen to be a fledgling member. We were out in force this year with no less than eleven snare drums, far more than most bands have on their roster and even marching shoulder to shoulder, more than could comfortably fit across the street.

As a general rule, public performances require the band be turned out impeccably, with every uniform accessory complete, shoes polished and cap ribbons ironed. However, St. Paddy’s day is a little different and to the consternation of Big John, the Pipe Major, a number of rules were being broken. Many of the band members were wearing a little more jewelry than normal for example. Kelly green jewelry for the most part, usually made of plastic and often flashing and/or bearing the name of a beer company. A couple of the drummers were wearing green foam rubber Mohawks and there was one very shaggy, bright green wig. I myself sported a plastic derby hat, but after it blew off my head for the third time, I donated it to a kid in a stroller. Check off my good deed for the year.

The most important factor when participating in a parade is of course, “who are we near?” In most parades, bands are kept a reasonable distance apart, so they don’t interfere with each other’s playing. Sometimes you get lucky and are stationed near a group worth looking at, the parade queen or a troop of cheerleaders for example. However, this time out, for some sadistic reason, the organizers had placed us in front of the Colorado Italian American society. All very nice people I’m sure, but their contribution to the parade was to play songs of a not particularly Irish nature through a low-grade loudspeaker. “Danny Boy” I can sort of tolerate, particularly this day of all days, but “That’s amore” would be bad enough even on a quality sound system. This is why guns are still legal in this country.

Being a rookie, I was stationed next to Megan, the drum sergeant and leader of the corps, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I was playing, at least approximately, the same tune as everyone else. And there were brief periods when I accomplished that although marching and playing simultaneously is a skill I have sadly, yet to master. If someone were to ask me to chew gum too, I’m not entirely sure what would happen. Lets just say I was the only one marching in step, everyone else was somewhat “off”. However, being next to Megan gave me one advantage in that for the most part, I was able to keep in line with her, an all important factor when marching. The rest of our drum line had at times, a distinct “question mark” appearance, a flaw which infuriated Megan, especially in light of the number of drummers with marching band experience.

As if playing a drum, marching AND keeping in line weren’t hard enough, you also had to keep a close eye on where you were putting your feet. Not surprisingly there were a number of horses in the parade and naturally, they were doing as horses do. Several volunteers were equipped with shovels and buckets and they did a sterling job. However, some of the horses must have been eating what I can only imagine was a fiery hot chili because the sheer volume of output was phenomenal. Let’s just say it wasn’t something you’d want on your ghillies, and leave it at that.

Being blessed with longer legs than many, I did have the advantage of being able to keep up without a problem. This was a challenge for Alhana, our youngest and cutest band member. Her tenor drum is approximately half her height and just wearing it at practice is a feat of endurance for an eight year old. Lugging the thing around the Denver streets was almost more than she could manage. As she’s our unofficial mascot we all wanted her to do well but I in particular had a vested interest in making sure she stayed on her feet, as I was marching directly behind her. “If she goes down, you can walk over the top of her, but don’t hurt the drum”, was Megan’s direction on the subject. Megan can say that kind of thing, being Alhana’s mother. But she did just fine, even though she tended to drift out of formation and towards the end, required one of the other tenors to “tow’ her along so she could keep up.

I’d been warned the parade would take a couple of hours for us to complete, but in fact, we marched for barely more than an hour. Not too bad, I can handle that. The real test of endurance will come this Wednesday, St. Patrick’s day itself. Beginning in the afternoon, we’re being driven around Denver’s Irish bars, playing until the small hours of the morning. Should be fun. I’ll get back to you.

A Boy and his Dog

2008-03-07T15:25:00.009-07:00

Nobody came and put their head in my lap as I put on my shoes this morning. Nobody took it for granted that me lowering my head meant I needed a smelly-breathed dog face in mine, or that I should stop tying my laces and administer a good ear scrunch instead. Because today there's a big hole in the house where Wiley the dog used to be, and it's exactly the same size as the one in my heart.

Many, many years ago when we were still desert dwellers, Dear Wife volunteered for one of the local animal rescue shelters. Occasionally, one of the other volunteers would bring a new arrival over to our house and they'd stay with us for a night or two until space opened up at the shelter. This all worked very well until one time we received a call asking if we could foster a dog for a little longer - two weeks this time as she couldn't be put up for adoption until she'd recovered from being spayed. "It's an Australian Shepherd," they said, "just like your other two."

No problem there; we did indeed have a matching set of Aussies in the house, two medium-sized incredibly well behaved dogs, so the idea of having a third for a while was quite appealing. Until the car door opened and this enormous great beast of a dog fell out. We could see immediately that while she was almost certainly part German Shepherd, quite possibly part Belgian Shepherd, and who knows what else, there was nothing to indicate even a scrap of Australian Shepherd in the mix.

No matter, there's always room for one more dog in the house so we welcomed our new guest and prepared to be a three dog household for a couple of weeks. Of course, you know where this story's going. By the time the two weeks were up, this big hearted, clumsy, noisy and incredibly goofy dog had wormed her way into our lives and there was no way we could give her back.

The first thing to change was her name. Her previous owner had, for reasons beyond my comprehension, named her 'Lady'. I have to wonder if they'd even met her because whatever other qualities she might have, a lady she was not. We decided that her scrawny, half-starved appearance made her a dead ringer for the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote and within days she was answering to her new name of Wiley. Lady - bleh.

With love, a healthy diet and lots of exercise she soon filled out and her short, dry, scruffy coat grew long and silky. Her energy level was incredible and despite spending many long days hiking the local trails while she raced back and forth, I never saw her really tired. Everything about her just exuded life, from her habit of talking in a rurr-rurr-rurr voice when excited, to the noise of her tail thumping against the wall echoing around the house, to her endless curiosity and love for all. The concept that some people might not actually like dogs, never entered into Wiley's head and every human was just another friend to whom she needed to introduce herself.

But the most frustratingly endearing aspect of Wiley's personality was her perpetual belief that she was on the brink of starvation. No matter the quality of the dog food we gave her, or how much she managed to steal, or beg from strangers, poor Wiley's hunger was never satiated.

We learned early on that no food was safe. A dirty plate on the coffee table, bread on the kitchen counter, a bag of powdered sugar one Christmas Eve, a whole bag of premium dog food belonging to our friend Kris, whom we were visiting - all fair game. We had the cleanest kitchen floor in the world because dropped food never hit the ground. Wiley wasn't fussy - if it fit in her mouth it was food and it mattered not one whit how long it had been dead or whether something else had already eaten it. The stuff that passed through that dog's trash compacter intestines without apparent harm was phenomenal.

Although there were many scares. The first came early in the relationship when she dug up Dear Wife's newly planted roses to get at the bone meal mixed into the soil. What we didn't think about at the time was the bug poison mixed in as well. That resulted in a late night race across town to the emergency vet, with a thunderstorm crashing around us as we ran every red light hoping that no cops would be around to slow us down. The vet told us she was lucky to be alive, and indeed for several days, it was touch and go. But in a week or so, the spark returned to our new pal, and soon after, the irrepressible joy of life was back.

Another time she snagged an entire 5 lb jar of peanut butter; all but the bits around the dimple at the bottom where her tongue wouldn't quite reach. No, she didn't go to the bathroom for several days, and yes, I nearly threw my back out cleaning it up when she finally did.

As you can tell, learning from experience was never Wiley's strong suit and over the years we spent many worried hours sitting next to her on the floor, massaging her stomach and wondering if the latest ingestion would be the one to do her in. Mushrooms were nearly her downfall on several occasions after we moved to Colorado. We never really learned which were the poisonous ones but in the spring they grow in the yard faster than we can clear them. After finding her drooling and panting too many times, we resorted to putting a muzzle on her before letting her outside.

It's really a miracle she lasted over 14 years especially as that's a ripe old age for a dog her size in the first place. But over the last few years it's been hard to watch this boisterous, noisy and tireless dog grow slow and stiff and old. Eventually, I had to stop taking her on my long hikes and it broke my heart to leave the house with Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™, while Wiley stared at us through the door. Still, most days I walked a mile around the neighborhood, while Wiley plodded gamely along beside me.

I didn't have a dog growing up and the Aussies were in Dear Wife's life before I came along. So while we always talked about Wiley as being 'our' dog, she really wasn't; she was my dog...my first dog. My hiking partner, my camping buddy, my therapist and my best friend.

Wiley passed away, peacefully in her sleep on Tuesday night, almost certainly as a result of something she ate, and I've hardly stopped crying since. And yes, I'm crying right now.

So happy trails and so long Wiley, my greedy, goofy, lively and loveable friend. Wherever you are now, I hope they're feeding you right. Thanks for everything...I'm going to miss you so much.

The First Bike Ride of Spring

2008-03-02T11:38:00.003-07:00

So we've just enjoyed a week of beautiful spring-like weather, with the sun shining, temperatures up in the '60s, and the snow melting fast. Naturally, this was while I was at work and today, Sunday, the snow is falling thick and fast. However, yesterday was fabulous and I even got out on my bike for an hour or so. I managed to blow out an inner tube and pick up two more punctures but why let that spoil a good memory?

Instead, I decided to go back 2 years, to another beautifully warm day when my friend Raven and I took our first bike ride of Spring.

The First Bike Ride of Spring

It’s been warm for ages now. It’s not Spring yet, we know that – and there will be plenty more cold days to come before winter lets go but right now, for day after glorious day, it’s been sunny and mild. Willows are turning red, green shoots are appearing and the geese are choosing mates. Not only that, but it isn’t turning cold on Friday afternoon and warming back up on Monday morning like usual, this warm spell is something special. The stars are in alignment and magic is in the air. It’s time to bring out my bicycle.

My friend Raven and I have cycled together before, and while she’s in seriously better shape than me, she’s equally rusty when it comes to two-wheeling so we make good partners. I was at her house in Buffalo Creek only a few minutes late, as the sun was just appearing above the canyon walls. With his back seats folded down, Angus the 4Runner makes a good bike rack and in no time, both steeds were bungee-corded to the roll bar and we were on our way.

The North Fork of the South Platte River winds its way from South Park through Bailey to Buffalo Creek and beyond before dropping into Waterton Canyon where a series of reservoirs provide water for the thirsty lawns of Denver. Once upon a time the Denver and South Park Railway ran on a narrow gauge track where the road now lies, transporting ice from the lakes which were once near my house, to the dairy, which was once near my office. Buffalo Creek Post Office has been owned by the Green family for generations and the story goes that in his dotage, the patriarch, old John Green would walk outside with his stopwatch to await the arrival of the train; even though the trains stopped running long before John Green did.

The South Platte Hotel hasn’t seen business for many a year, probably not since the railroad was torn up and today it’s a semi-derelict shack with plywood windows and holes in the roof. A sign informs us that this is now the property of the Denver Water Board and that they’re considering a renovation project. Nothing is stored inside, so please resist the urge to try and enter. We resisted the urge, entranced as we were with the beauty of this spot where the North and South Forks of the South Platte converge in a grove of cottonwoods. They weren’t too imaginative when it came to naming rivers in these parts but perhaps the early explorers were like us, simply captivated by the scenery.

Soaring cliffs towered above us, while the river, green-white with ice melt tumbled along below. Pine trees stretched to the porcelain blue sky while the occasional cotton wool cloud appeared, just to make the whole vista too perfect to be believable. What did we do to be so lucky?

Angus was soon tucked under a tree and we were rolling our way down a smooth dirt track deep into the ravine. Sadly, we didn’t get too far before the trail disappeared under a layer of thick, blue ice reaching out onto the water. It wasn’t until I was home and reviewing a map that I saw that this was as far as it went; the real trailhead was some distance away, and didn’t rejoin the river for several miles. Maybe we’ll try that one another day. For now though, we didn’t care; it was worth a short ride just to experience the exquisite magnificence of this canyon. I haven’t made it to Alaska yet, but Raven tells me that when I get there, I’ll find it to be a lot like this.

We were still only a dozen or so miles from Raven’s house, so leaving Angus where he was, we set off back up the banks of the river, following the gentle grade as it meandered towards home. Other than a handful of climbers, hikers anglers, and of course, cyclists, few people come down this way and the small number of houses we passed had an air of charming neglect, relaxing little by little with each passing year as the earth gradually reclaims them.

On through the metropolis of Foxton; half a dozen cabins with the old railway station, its log walls sagging and derelict. Raven is a veteran of 3 wild fires and too many flash floods to count so she knew all the people who’d had to be rescued, or who had lost part of their property. She also had names for each of the rock formations so even though I’d driven this way many times; I was seeing the landscape through her eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

As we rounded a bend, an eagle flapped his way up from the riverbed. A juvenile, but still unrealistically big, his wings flashing brown, white and gold in the sunlight as he headed into the trees. Coming level we saw his breakfast, a dead goat, lying against a river rock, held fast by the current. Its belly slit open, entrails red in the sunshine. In a nearby tree sat a large black crow, waiting his turn to feast. Mother Nature’s recycling program working as designed.

For reasons best known to themselves, the county has spent some time re-grading the road in stretches but it was smoother in the parts they’d left untouched. Still, the deeper gravel gave our legs a bit more of a workout than the gentle slope would have done. Still not too taxing, this is the first run of the year after all, but enough to feel as if we were getting some exercise. Even so, twelve miles go by fast when you’re surrounded by scenery such as this and we were happy to take things slowly.

But, all good things must come to end and too soon Buffalo Creek hove into view. The church parking lot was empty now, the parishioners home for their lunch and the weekend’s chores. They’d spent Sunday morning at their place of worship; we’d spent it in ours. Back to the house and cool water from the fridge, and a sit on the front deck listening to the breeze in the forest and the creek babbling below.

No, the ride wasn’t long enough, and yes, snow is forecast for next weekend. And we may have to rely on the memories of today to last us through weeks of office-bound servitude. But we had our first bike ride of the season, and if any of our future ones are as good as this, 2006 will be a very good year.

Bon Jovi and Me

2008-02-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

I've written before about my disdain for air travel and in particular, the farcical precautions we're now forced to take in the name of airport security. Living as we do under the protection of George Orwell...uhm...Bush's "Department of Homeland Security", those of us who travel frequently have become used to arriving at the airport long before flight time in order to complete the obligatory pointless rituals before being allowed to travel from A to B.

So it was with some relief that a recent trip to Canada revealed that our northern neighbors have adopted a somewhat more intelligent approach. Yes, bags are still checked and questions are still asked, but one got the distinct impression this is done in order to determine whether you're carrying something you should not be, rather than simply to inconvenience people for the hell of it, as appears to be the case in the US.

"Shoes on or off?" I asked the first security guard I encountered in Calgary.

"It's up to you," was the smiling reply. "You can even keep your pants on if you like".

And in moments, I was through. Contrast that to the almost 2 hours I stood in line to have a bored official glance at my passport as I passed through US Customs.

However, even relaxed security doesn't speed things up when it came to the laws of nature. I may have been in the departure lounge much faster than I expected, but each flight I took on this multi-city trip was delayed in some way shape or form by the weather. However, it was only a real problem on the flight where I missed the connection and was obliged to spend a night at a rather smelly and very noisy airport Ramada.

Early, early the next morning, I was back at the airport for my rescheduled flight. I am not, and never will be, a morning person and having been woken at 4:30 am by the screech of my neighbor's shower; I was not at my most chipper. Even with a mug cup of hot, black and very strong coffee in my hand, I was barely able to raise a single emotion at the news that this flight too, was delayed. I simply closed my eyes, scrunched down into my collar, and relaxed into a state of semi-consciousness.

Until they started boarding. This is just another one of the many annoyances airlines put in place to vex me. For one thing, nobody but me pays a blind bit of attention to the boarding numbers. So by the time I get on the overhead bins are full to the brim with backpacks, and duffel bags, and strollers and dozens of other things that aren't supposed to be carried on the first place. This means I have to put my laptop under my feet and while at 5' 10", I'm not exactly an NBA player, this still leaves me with too little leg room.

What really ticks me off though is the whole "pre-boarding" thing. (I'm with George Carlin on this, what the hell does that mean?") I know what it means of course. The people with the baby that will scream for the whole flight can fill up the overhead bins with their crap, and a bunch of fat cats can start pigging into the free drinks while those of us in cattle class wait our turn like the peasants we are. Sorry, but the concept of First Class brings out the socialist in me. "All men are created equal" my ass. Let the rich travelers suffer along with the rest of us and we'd soon see the service improve.

Even worse; on this particular flight we had the added indignity of watching a party of a dozen or so sweep from the Executive Lounge and onto the plane without even having their boarding passes checked.

"Who the hell are they?" asked one passenger, more erudite than the rest.

"That was...Bon Jovi" answered the boarding clerk, with stars in her eyes before returning to the humdrum, day to day world which the rest of us inhabit. If she'd said "That was Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior" she could hardly have been more obsequious. No matter, before long we ordinary people were stowed and on to the next connection.

Now having become accustomed to speeding through Canadian security, it was somewhat surprising to find the next group of officials paying an inordinate amount of attention to my travel documents. As in, almost every one asking to see them. I've been through this before of course, back when I looked like a hippie and had a passport full of Asian stamps. Nowadays, I'm a middle-aged business traveler and wasn't expecting this.

Eventually, after my ticket had been checked for the umpteenth time, I plucked up the courage and asked "Is there a problem?"

"Oh no," came the response. "Bon Jovi and his entourage came through a few minutes ago and that's got everyone excited."

This didn't really explain why my ticket was being scrutinized.

"So what's that got to do with me?" I persisted.

"Well, somebody put the word out you were Barry Manilow"

Barry Manilow? I don't look a bit like him. Harrumph. And I think I'd rather they'd mistaken me for Bon Jovi.

At least he was in first class.

Thursday already?

2008-01-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

Look at that, Thursday and still no new Gunsmoke File. So much for "I will update The Gunsmoke Files regularly". Who knew that 1 particular client out of several dozen could suck up so much time.

Anyhoo, hang on a bit and I'll try to come up with something.

Mad dogs and Englishmen - and at least one Scot

2008-01-23T08:28:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever read my profile over on the left (go ahead and read it now if you need to...I’ll wait) you’ll know that I grew up in one of the damper areas of the already damp British Isles. Add that to the fact that for the last few years I lived there, I tended to take vacations out of season to go hitchhiking or cycling, and it’s fair to say me and the sun and me weren’t exactly on close terms. Although my face looked fairly healthy, the rest of me was, to use the Scots vernacular, a wee bit peely-wally.

Bangkok had been stifling hot, but cloudy and humid so despite having been in Thailand for over a week, I was still much the same putty-color I’d been upon leaving home. Not to worry though, here I was sitting on the cabin roof of a small boat threading its way among travel cliché pretty islands. A whole week before I had to be back in Bangkok for my flight to Australia and nothing to do but lie on the beach and work on my tan. Oh this was going to be great.

The boat ride was only two hours long, not nearly long enough, but as I had neglected to purchase water before leaving the mainland, and as it was rather toasty, I wasn’t too sorry when we finally arrived. I had no accommodations booked, but that was no problem. I just adopted the policy that stood me in good stead around the world and followed the prettiest girl on the bus. (She took off the next day, to join some friends further up the coast but no matter, she picked us out a breathtakingly beautiful beach hut complex.) Within minutes we were admiring the most beautiful beach you’ve ever seen outside a TV commercial.

“Go swim!” called the proprietor, “Unpack later.”

Sound advice that, and with cut-off jeans doing service for the forgotten-at-home swimsuit, I was soon wallowing in the crystal clear turquoise waters of the South China Sea. The water was hot. Not warm, hot. Too hot to be comfortable for more than a few minutes in fact, so before long I was back out again and lying on the beach. OK, here we go, time to start looking healthy. Sun, do your stuff.

Except, I’ve never been much of a beach sitter either (see above re: hitch-hiking and cycling) and it was some time further into my new backpacker lifestyle before I learned to unwind from always-on-the-go work habits. Sitting still wasn’t my thing. So, only a few more minutes passed before I was hopping up again and throwing a T-shirt over my shoulders, strolling down the beach on a mission of exploration. What a glorious life this is.

It wasn’t really until the following morning that I realized just how intense the Thai sun could be. I was burnt, but not only that, I was burnt in…interesting ways. You see on the boat, I’d been wearing a T-shirt, shorts, tennis shoes and socks. Yes, socks...I am British, you know. Then I’d spent around 3 hours walking along the beach with shorts on, and a T-shirt around my neck. Which meant that some bits of me were lobster red, others a glowing hot pink, while in certain areas I was still the same gray-white I’d been when I hopped on the plane at Heathrow.

This was not a good look for me.

I suppose on hindsight, what I should have done was stay in the shade for the next few days, until things settled down, and then invested in some good quality sun-block. But nooooooooooo, that would have been too sensible.

Instead I embarked on a project to try and even up the stripes by strategically placing towels, clothing and other strips of cloth over the parts of me already burnt in the hopes of allowing the rest to catch up and evening out the whole effect. By the following day I looked like the victim of some weird flagellation ritual, with angry red strips criss-crossing my arms, torso and legs. And pain? Oh dearie me, the pain.

I finally learned my lesson and established a routine of retiring to the bar during the peak hours of the sun, from where I sipped mineral water and watched the Germans, Italians and other, better prepared Brits turn themselves the color of tobacco.

We didn’t know much about skin cancer in those days, and looking back, I’ve had way more exposure to the sun than I’ll need for several lifetimes. I really was not at all used to the sun and staying out of it for that week was probably very smart.

Of course, the fun didn’t really start for a few days when all these red stripes began to peel. In case you’re thinking of trying this yourself, trust me...even pasty-white is more attractive than that look.

One Day in Bangkok

2008-01-15T08:17:00.000-07:00

The toilets were playing up at work the other day. Nothing major, we could still use them, but a leak somewhere meant the place had a distinct 'stagnant water' odor. The strange thing was; I kinda liked it. Because every time I walked in there, I was instantly transported back to Bangkok. Bad smell, good memory - go figure.

In Asia, your olfactory glands are assaulted from all sides, every moment of the day. Not the just the ever pervasive stagnant water smell, but spices, and grease, and animals, exhaust fumes and damp vegetation. Some people found it made them queasy. I found it intoxicating.

It was my first day in this most exciting and exotic of cities and I was utterly lost, with a dangerously out of date guidebook and a bandage on my arm having already been biffed by a bus. I was jet-lagged and hungry, and had no clue as to how to find any of the tourist landmarks. I was having a ball.

Someone had told me the only place to buy an English translation map was at the Tourist Authority (not true) but despite the best efforts of the Thais I accosted, nobody could tell me how to get there. It was too far for lefts and rights, and the Thai script of the street names was untranslatable. So after a while, I gave up and resorted to wandering aimlessly. That wasn't as easy as it might sound, because Thais have a habit of falling into step next to you, engaging in conversation and then attempting to persuade you to "visit a genuine silk factory", "meet a nice young lady" or "tour a gemstone factory:. Naïve little twit that I was, I actually fell for this last one and you can read about it here.

However, I took advantage of all my new friends and used them as unpaid tour guides, having them direct me to the places I wanted to see. Using this method, I found the famous Grand Palace, a display of Thai dancing, and ultimately, a river barge tour. In Thailand, every purchase involves haggling, a process many enjoy but which I found wearisome, particularly after several months. ("It's a bar of soap and I'm not paying $20 for it. Just tell me the real price and I'll pay you that and get on with my life!")

The big challenge of course, is that when you've just arrived, you have no idea what the 'real' price is. Apparently $7 is way too much to pay for a river barge tour, or so the German tourist, one of my fellow passengers, told me in smug tones. He was also horrified at how much I was paying for my hotel and completely shocked that I had yet to purchase a map. I felt so ashamed.

But still, a river barge tour is something every visitor to Bangkok must try and in my opinion, it was well worth $7. The Chao Phraya is more than just a river to the people of Bangkok. It's a highway, a home, a grocery store, a Laundromat, and a toilet. (It's astonishing to me how every Thai schoolchild is immaculately turned out in snow-white shirts given that their clothes were washed in water the color of milky coffee.) We saw it all as our barge weaved us up and down the 'streets' on which countless thousands of Bangkok's residents live.

Our first stop was the National Barge Museum, which consisted of 6 barges lined up in a row, all very ornate but not exactly exciting. The next was a snake farm, to which I was looking forward, being something of a snake-ophile. However, the $2.50 entrance fee was "a rip-off" according to our German friend and as nobody but me was willing to pay; the consensus of the boat party was that we should give it a miss. Damn democracy.

Things livened up a bit with the next stop; the temple of Wat Arun. This is an unmistakable Bangkok landmark with a tall, multi-tiered pagoda, up which it is obligatory to climb. One heckuva workout for the calf muscles but the top was crowded with locals, tourists, school tours and pilgrims. I have very fond memories of the place after being swarmed by a troupe of breathtakingly pretty schoolgirls who wanted to practice their English. They each had a questionnaire and frantically scribbled down my answers to their questions.

What's my name, where am I from, how do I like Bangkok etc. Standard stuff but when the conversation turned to sports we learned that like me, they were all fans of (real) football. Now we're talking the same language.

At the time, Liverpool were the undisputed top dogs of the English leagues so I told them that was where I was from, (OK, so that's a fib - sue me), and they were in raptures. Sure I've been to the stadium, many times. Squeals of joy erupted. My German friend desperately tried to get in on the act, but it was me they fancied. He was crushed but I cared not a whit. Hah! Serves him right for not letting me visit the snake farm.

All too soon we were back on the barge and wending our way back to the pier. Pangs of hunger were reminding me that I hadn't eaten since the British Airways fodder over 24 hours ago and while I'd so far resisted the fly-infested charms of the Bangkok street vendors, I knew I was going to be here for some time and needed to eat. I didn't come all this way to seek out western restaurants so local food it was. Carefully, I selected a vendor based on his stall looking marginally cleaner than the others and perused the menu. Naturally, it was in Thai so I resorted to pointing, selecting some green stuff and some white stuff, swimming in some gray stuff.

I don't know if you've ever been to Bangkok yourself, but if you haven't, allow me to pass on the most important lesson I learned on that, my first day in Asia. If you forget everything else I've ever told you, remember this:

If a street vendor ever serves you some green stuff and some white stuff swimming in some gray stuff…whatever you do…

don't eat it!

Taxi!

2008-01-08T08:14:00.000-07:00

BERLIN (AFP) — Michael Schumacher may well be the fastest taxi driver in Germany after the seven-times world champion shocked a cab driver by taking over the wheel in order to be on time for a flight.Schumacher, 38, flew into the aerodrome at the Bavarian town of Coburg on Saturday and took a taxi to the village of Gehuelz, 30 kilometres away, to pick up a new puppy - an Australian Shepherd dog called "Ed". But when the former Formula One ace, plus his wife and two children, caught a taxi back to the airport they were short on time and,after a polite request, cab driver Tuncer Yilmaz watched in wonder as Schumacher took the wheel.

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I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of riding in a taxi being driven by Mr. Schumacher, or any other Formula 1 ace. However, I suspect I’ve been transported by someone who could drive with the best of them.

Several years ago, I found myself in Atlanta on a business trip. In those days I was a Corporate Trainer and spent a good portion of my life sitting on planes, winging my way around the country, spreading enlightenment to the masses. Or at least, to my company’s clients. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this was in any way glamorous. I usually just flew in, worked, slept, worked some more and flew out again; rarely having the time to see any of the places I visited.

Even if I had, the offices at which I was working were usually situated somewhere out in the ‘burbs, in a business park or beside a faceless highway and I was too low on the company food chain to rate a rental car, so there was little to see anyway. And, thanks to America’s headlong rush towards homogenization, one suburban highway tends to look pretty much like another so there was little to distinguishes this week’s trip from the last. Even today, I’m prone to gaze in wonder as I walk through America’s airports thinking “Wait a minute...I’ve been here before; I never knew I’d been here!”

For no particular reason, Atlanta seemed to be a common destination for my business trips, and I’d estimate I’ve been there about 15-20 times, although I’ve yet to see the city center. On the day of this tale, I was heading home after my second visit that month and had a third trip planned a couple of weeks later. I had plenty of time before my flight as I waited for the airport shuttle outside the hotel. The sun was shining and despite it being a Saturday morning (and hence, un-salaried time) all was well with the world. More for something to do than anything else, I pulled out my plane ticket and glanced at the details.

It was then I discovered that the 11:30 flight I was planning to catch was actually for my next trip. For this trip, I was flying at 10am. Exactly 50 minutes from now. And I was 45 minutes from the airport. It was clear; the yet-to-arrive shuttle wasn’t going to get the job done.

Grabbing my bag, I raced across the street, hopped a concrete barrier, and waved down a passing cab.

“I need to be at the airport 10 minutes ago – can you help me?” I asked desperately. The middle-eastern driver shrugged.
“If there are no police, I can help, if there are police...” the sentence required no completion. He was moving before my second leg was in the door.
“Thanks for doing this” I said.
“Don’t talk!” he replied. Obviously, he wanted to concentrate.

Atlanta’s rush-hour gridlock is rightfully famous and having sat in it many times myself, I’m well aware this trip would have been out of the question on a weekday. But today was Saturday and traffic was light. Light, but not non-existent.

Remember those video games at the penny arcades where you sit in a padded seat and pretend to race around a track displayed on the screen? This was kind of like that. Slow moving vehicles appeared in the distance and in seconds would fill the windshield while my boy deftly weaved his way around them. On the left, on the right, on the shoulder, flashing his lights to move others out of the way. If he’d had a siren he’d have been using it. The speedometer registered zero the entire way, but I’d estimate that we rarely dropped below 100mph, and at times must have been well, well above that. The engine roared, the suspension bounced and I don’t think my driver even once touched his brakes.

Me? I just held onto the door handle and tried not to look at my watch.

In what seemed like moments, we were pulling up outside Atlanta Airport and after thrusting an inordinately large tip into his hand with a word of thanks, I was running through the concourse.

The rest of the tale could go on and on and on. How I barged my way to the front of the security line while yelling my apologies (this was pre-9/11) and had to restrain myself from physically pushing the wee train along its tracks. How I took a wrong at the far end and ran 10 gates the wrong way. How the correct gate was naturally, at the furthest end of the concourse. And how the sweat was bouncing off me like a geyser as I panted up the last few yards. But despite the airline staff attempting to close the door in my face, I made the flight.

The connection was of course, delayed and I would have had no problem if I’d left Atlanta on the next plane, but I didn’t know that at the time. I made my flight and that was what counted.

But I wouldn’t have made it without the help of my nameless friend, who drove me across an entire city faster than I’ve ever been driven in my life. And there were no police.

So Michael Shumaker; you may be the greatest Formula 1 driver in history, and apparently you’re pretty sharp behind the wheel of a cab. But if you’re ever in Atlanta, I happen to know there’s a middle-eastern guy there who will give you a run for your money.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-12-31T08:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not really big on making New Year's resolutions. I figure if you're going to change something about yourself, you should just go ahead and do it rather than waiting on some arbitrary date. Instead, I tend to make new resolutions multiple times throughout the year and as I tend to break them anyway (oh, like you don't!), this means the failure is spread out across the calendar, rather than in a rush mid-January. And as January tends to be a depressing enough month in the first place, every little bit helps.

Having said that…I decided that this year I would at least set out certain goals for myself as we head into 2008. Not only that; I'm declaring them here. I figure this will result in one of two things.

Either the fear of public humiliation will encourage me to achieve all of them all or you'll be able to have a good laugh at my failure. It's all good.

Whichever it turns out to be, you'll be forced to keep reading The Gunsmoke Files throughout the year if you want to find out how I did.

So without further ado (drum roll please) my New Year's Resolutions for 2008.

1. I will update The Gunsmoke Files frequently.
Yeah, I know you've heard this before but this time I mean it. I mean it, you hear? I still have a few stories I'd like to tell before I get too senile to remember them.

2. I will go to the gym regularly.
I'm sure this is on everybody's list but my problem isn't going to the gym, it's going back a 2nd or a 3rd time. If I'm going to be mistaken for Brad Pitt by the time summer comes around, I'll need to go more than 2 or 3 times a month.

3. I will take more photographs.
Thanks to Santa and with a little help from e-Bay, I now have a very nice Nikon N90s film camera. (Yeah, I said film - wanna make something of it?) The trick is to carry it with me and get into the habit of using it.

4. I will work on my drumming.
As in, several times a week. Not just the night before band practice.

5. I will climb a 14'er.
Colorado has 54 (or is it 55?) mountains above 14,000 feet but despite living here for almost 6 years now, I've yet to hike above 12,000 feet. I almost got started on my first 14'er this summer but was turned back by the road being washed out. I'll do at least one this year.

6. I will memorize some knots.
Back in my Boy Scout days, the troop leaders despaired over my inability to remember how to tie knots from one session to the next. Even as an adult with super-human intelligence the only knot I can ever remember how to tie is a reef knot and useful though that is, it doesn't cover every eventuality. And if I'm ever shanghaied and forced to serve on a Royal Navy sailing ship, I'll need to know how to tie knots.

7. I will push on along the Colorado Trail.
Despite the first segment being one of the less pleasant hiking experiences of my life, there's a long way to go before I'm done. I just need to pack a little more strategically and cover shorter distances each day.

8. I will continue my policy of never watching a movie starring anybody who used to be on Saturday Night Live.
Hey c'mon, I need one achievable goal.

OK, that's enough to be going on with. Not a huge list considering how many different ways I need to improve myself, but it's a start.

I'll let you know how I get on.

An American Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

Sadly, the real world is still getting in the way of my blogging, so like all good hacks, I'm resorting to recycling old stuff. This is a Gunsmoke File from November 2004. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

As any American history nerd can tell you, the Pilgrim Fathers landed on what is now known as Massachusetts in 1620. There’s no evidence they actually landed at Plymouth Rock, or carved the date which appears on it today; that was more likely the handiwork of some enterprising member of a later Chamber of Commerce. What is evident however is that the onset of winter is a particularly bad time when it comes to founding a new colony.

Well meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English speaking natives who taught the pilgrims a few survival tips and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.

And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the fourth Thursday of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.

While I don’t think I’d be up to three days worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favorite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.

This year, Dear Wife and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickax, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.

Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.

Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. Dear Wife took along her specialty pumpkin pie. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it half way round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.

Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the school teacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marveled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.

When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewelry designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realizing I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.

More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? With the exception of potatoes; there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bed time. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.

We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.

Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.

Gimme Shelter

2007-09-30T10:51:00.000-06:00

"As a society, we like to dehumanize the problem," Len the coordinator told us, "it saves us have to think about it, or feel guilty about it. After all, if we tell ourselves it's their own fault, then we don't need to do anything about it. 'Homeless People'. The very expression suggests that they're 'homeless first' and 'people' second. That's why here at the shelter we use the term 'People who are homeless'."

We were wrapping plastic spoons and forks in paper napkins ready for the people who would soon stream through the door. The tables had already been washed down and by now were set with water jugs, condiments and bread, all items donated by local sponsors. By 11:55, Trevor, Peggy and Clarice were manning the serving hatch; Sean was ready to hand the trays to the guests as they stepped up, while Kim and Tom stood behind a table containing the salad and desserts. Jeff was manning the door with a hand-clicker to control the pace. My job was to hand out mugs of water as the guests filed past.

Did you know that of the approximately 9,000 homeless living in Metro Denver, nearly 60% are families including around 3,600 children? I didn't.

At 12 a bell rang, the door was unlocked and the guests arrived. Many were dirty, dressed in rags and often carrying their possessions under one arm. Others were obviously making an attempt to maintain their appearance, with combed hair and clean complexions. A surprising number were smartly dressed and one even carried a briefcase.

"Oh yes," explained Len when I commented on this later, "Around 25 percent of the people who are homeless have regular, full-time jobs. It just isn't possible to afford a place to live on the wages they earn. Many of our residents work at the baseball stadium; others are car-park attendants. The person serving your food at McDonalds or Burger King is quite likely to be homeless. They work hard but simply don't earn enough to get off the streets."

I thought back to the times when I've heard people claim that the homeless are simply lazy, or stupid. "I've no sympathy for them; there are plenty of jobs for those willing to work!" We've all heard that, right? Remember, 25 percent have full-time jobs.

Some were extrovert and animated. "Thank you sir, thank you sir" we heard over and over. Others, stony eyed and beaten, barely raised their heads as I handed them the water. One elderly gent took the mug and with trembling hands, drained it to the bottom. He held it out to me and in a soft voice asked "May I have another cup please?" How degrading must that be for an old man, to have to ask for a cup of water?

Tens of thousands of poor and needy people come through Denver Rescue Mission each year for shelter, food, clothing, medical care and chapel services. 365 days a year, the facility provides a breakfast, lunch, and a dinner meal. Up to 200 men (110 shelter beds and 90 overflow cots) find a warm bed and a safe place to sleep each night, although women and children have to go to a different facility. Private donations allows the mission to provide clothing to the needy, everything from warm gloves, to underwear, to business attire for job interviews.

"The weather's going to cool down in the next couple of weeks," said Len, "then we'll get real busy." Last winter, two major snowstorms within the space of a few days effectively shut down the city of Denver. "We had 300 men sleeping here back then; on the floors, in the offices, in the corridors. On the third day, we ran out food."

The mission provides trained counselors to help up to 2,000 individuals each month with needs such as food boxes, baby diapers, furniture, clothing, household goods, and referrals to other agencies. The Mission's health clinic provides free medical, dental, optical, hearing, and chiropractic services to the poor. Volunteer medical professionals play an integral part in this clinic program.

And still they came through the door. Young people who looked like they should be in school, old people who looked like they should be sitting on a front porch watching the world go by, and saddest of all, wild-eyed and frantic people, damaged people who looked like they should be in a hospital. The Mission feeds them all.

It was a quiet day all told, with only around 130 guests. Usually it's between 200-300, although this varies with the weather. "Sometimes we have to push them out the door to let others come in." said Len. Today though, by 1 pm the kitchen was serving seconds to the clever ones who knew how the system worked.

Most of the workers at the Mission are homeless themselves; many in rehab for drug or alcohol abuse. Len knew all their names, and prefaced each one with "Mr." "We never forget that some of our guests are not good people" he told us "and many are not well balanced. Some have been in prison and others will end up there. As a result, we have to take security precautions such as having cameras everywhere, including the bathrooms. These folks have little enough dignity in their lives and we're aware that this takes away even more. So we try to treat them with respect whenever we can. It's the least we can do."

I thought back to an old man, looking at me with rheumy eyes and asking if he might have a second cup of water. Then I drove home to my safe, warm house, with its well stocked refrigerator and cupboards full of food. And my clean, comfy bed. And the pile of bills on the desk didn't seem large at all. And I gave thanks for the people at Denver Rescue Mission, doing what they can to help those who have nothing.

I have it so good. And so do you. Please don't ever forget that.

Thanks to Miss Cellania; this Gunsmoke File was awared a Perfect Post award.

Thanks Charlie

2007-08-29T16:09:00.000-06:00

Fifteen hours on a plane, followed by another three trying to find a hotel plus a 7 hour time zone change, meant that sleep didn’t come easily and while Bangkok’s nightlife is famous for many reasons all I needed was some carbonated alcohol. I found it in a beach-hut type bar not too far from the hotel.

I also found a new best friend called Charlie, although it’s fair to say he found me. The pasty complexion and bright white Reeboks marked me as a newbie, and he was walking by my side before I was ten yards from the door. It took a few minutes to convince him that I was on a budget and while I might be brand new to the country, I was tired and cranky and in no mood to be hustled.

Eventually he gave up trying to introduce me to a ‘nice young lady’ and joined me at the bar where, instead of trying to separate me from my cash, shared cautionary tales of previous visitors who’d arrived with romance in mind but left broken-hearted and empty-walleted.

Like, for example, the young Australian who’d recently downed a couple of cold ones in the company of a charming young sort at a nearby hostelry. When the time came to settle his bill, he was alarmed to be charged for not two, but ten beers. Naturally, he questioned this with the management who in turn, brought in two bouncers to mediate. Before long our hero found himself bleeding and crying on the floor of the bar. At his request, the police were summoned, and they drove him to the emergency room, helpfully stopping by the ATM so he could withdraw enough cash to pay the doctor. They even stayed with him while he received treatment; then kindly drove him back to the bar to settle his still outstanding bill. Which had now risen to thirty beers.

Over the course of the next couple of hours I learned that Charlie had one wife and two girlfriends, one of whom was pregnant. When I asked him what he did for a living he told me he got by, doing ‘this and that’. “This and that?” I asked him. “What’s it like having two jobs?” But as is often the case with my humor, it went over his head.

We also chatted about beer, the drug problem and my first love, football. He claimed to be a big fan of English soccer, but couldn’t name any of the teams. He had however, heard of Bobby Charlton* so that suggested at least a passing interest in the beautiful game.

Compared to some of the street hustlers into which I’ve run, Charlie was a pleasant enough guy. When it came time to settle my bill, he insisted on paying half, even though I’d drunk more than him and had planned to pick up the whole tab. He even walked me back to the hotel “to make sure I’m safe”. However, when I surfaced, sticky and grumpy the next morning, I was in no particular mood to see him again.

So it wasn’t surprising that I was barely off the hotel grounds when he appeared from nowhere, wearing the same stained chinos and ripped T-shirt of the night before, all smiles and ready to help me in my quest for cheaper lodgings. At this point I still had no clue whereabouts in Bangkok last night’s cab driver had dropped me. My guidebook turned out to be hopelessly out of date (and in English) so nobody yet had been able to show me where I was.

My plan was to head towards the river and look for lodgings in some backpacker flea-pit. At that stage in my travels, Koh-San Road, the legendary Asian hub of the backpacker world, was at unknown to me. But even then I knew there would be something like that out there if I could only find it.

Instead, before I knew what was happening, Charlie had picked up my pack and was off down the street. For a moment, I thought he was robbing me but no, he was simply doing me the favor of carrying it while he took me to a ‘cheap hotel’.

Compared to the place the cab-driver had dropped me the night before, it was indeed cheap. $6 Compared to $20, but I was budgeting for about $1 - $2, and this was still too rich for my blood. However, the idea of walking around in the Bangkok heat looking for a new place, didn’t appeal so I resigned myself to another night out here, wherever 'here' was was.

How I spent my first day in that most exotic and fascinating of cities is a tale for another Gunsmoke File. I made some rookie mistakes, was overcharged several times, and ate food from a vendor that now owes me a new colon, but all in all, didn’t slip up in any serious fashion.

However, I did almost make one error that would have put a serious crimp in my round-the-world-ambitions.

Remember I said at the beginning that I had no idea where in Bangkok my hotel was situated? I didn’t know what it was called either. Which would have made it very challenging to find my way back. And considering my backpack, my passport and my wallet were locked in my room; that would have been a shade inconvenient. So it was fortunate that Charlie had had the bright idea of picking up a hotel brochure, and stuffing it in my pocket before placing me on the bus that morning.

It took a friendly native to find me the right bus back again, and another to tell me when to get off. But if it hadn’t have been for that brochure, I’d probably still be wandering around Bangkok, looking for that damn hotel today.

Thanks Charlie.

* Bobby Charlton was a demi-god of English football during the 60’s and 70’s…considerably before Charlie was born.

The Squirrel Wars

2007-07-27T12:04:00.001-06:00

The American West has seen a number of bitter feuds over the years. The Hatfields and the McCoys, the cowboys and the Indians, the Broncos (yay) and the Raiders (boo), but none so fierce, so bitter and so relentless as the battle being played out in my own back yard right now.

Man versus Squirrel.

I had run ins with them before; most notably when a herd took up residence in our roof (See Our Wild Life in the Mountains), but for the last few years we’ve been able to live in peace. In fact, since moving into this odd little house in the woods, I’ve very much enjoyed their presence. Standing at the window; watching their antics has passed many a happy minute or thirty when I’m supposed to be working. The Dynamic Duo of Dogdom tend to take a less pacifistic approach, usually trying to eat through the glass door whenever one appears but for the most part, I’ve been more than content to have squirrels as neighbors.

Until one of them figured out how to get into the bird-feeders that is.

We have half a dozen or so bird feeders hanging from various trees around the yard and a good portion of my income goes to keeping them filled. But, it’s worth it because woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees and grosbeaks are among the daily visitors to the yard. This is in addition to the hummingbirds that take advantage of the sugar-water we put out through the summer.

A couple of the feeders are “squirrel-proof” in that they close by means of a spring whenever anything heavier than a magpie lands on them. Which is fine but the birds’ favorite feeder is an ugly big green plastic thing, which holds about ¼ of a ton of feed. This one always saw the most activity and despite being the largest of the collection, required re-filling every few days.

Even more so once Tufty the Squirrel figured out he could climb down, sit on its roof and scoop the seed up with his paws.

That was bad enough but the little bugger spilled more than he ate and as the neighbors’ free-range cats discourage birds from eating off the ground, it was largely going to waste. I’d lobbed a few pine cones up at him, but that only caused him to run away, chattering dismissively and by the time I was back in the house, he was once more at the trough. Round 1 to him. Desperate measures were called for.

Dear Wife came home with a big, clear plastic dome designed to sit above the feeder and prevent assault from above. That was duly installed and it only took the birds two or three days to overcome their fear of it and start eating again. As for the squirrel; it barely slowed him down at all. He soon figured out that rather than climbing down to the feeder, he could just leap onto it from the tree trunk, spilling yet more seed in the process. Round 2 to him.

But, I finally beat him the next time. I strung a length of rope from one tree to another and hung the feeder from the middle. Hah! Even though he can do a balancing act on the rope itself, he can’t climb down to the feeder and our avian friends get the seed to themselves. Round 3 to me.

So then he moved onto the suet feeder.

This is a cage like doohickey into which we put slabs of seed filled suet. The birds in turn peck at it through the bars. Tufty on the other hand, simply hangs off the branch by his back legs and hauls handfuls out with his front paws. I could take the same approach and sling a rope between two trees, but it currently sits in front of the window of my home office, and the rope trick would involve moving it to a position less convenient for viewing. What to do, what to do, what to do.

I’m a pretty fair marksman with a slingshot as the well-aerated photos of G.W. Bush that I use for target practice will show. Still, I didn’t want to kill the little guy, or even injure him so the ½ inch marbles I usually use weren’t practical. I’d already established that pine cones aren’t suitably aerodynamic so I had to experiment a little before hitting on the ideal ammunition.

A bite of carrot, around thumbnail sized will fly straight and true for a good thirty feet or so, but without enough velocity to cause serious damage should I accidentally hit the target. I believe many police forces use carrot pieces for riot control, or if they don’t, perhaps they should.

A few well placed zingers around his head and my squirrel friend was soon scampering off to the neighbors’ yard. Ha ha ha ha! We’ll see who’s boss of this backyard yet. Well, it’s him apparently. The little sod figured out that I wasn’t aiming to hit and within three days he would sit blithely hoovering up the suet while I fired shot after shot within an inch or two of his head. A week on and he doesn’t even do me the courtesy of flinching. Round 4 to him.

I wonder how he would react to a blast of 1oz shot fired at close range from a 12 gauge? Round 5 could get reeeeeeeeelly interesting.

Now, where’s that Redneck Recipe book?

On the 7th Day

2007-07-16T10:54:00.000-06:00

doG decided he needed a hobby. Mrs. doG had been complaining that he was spending too much time around the house, cluttering up the place as it were. So, bright and early on Monday, he set about making himself a universe.

Most of the day was spent creating the heavens and the earth, because he needed somewhere to sit and he figured this universe might be around for a while. Around 3 he called for Mrs. doG to come and check his progress, proud of what he had done. However, Mrs. doG merely sniffed and said

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Muttering under his breath, doG locked the door of his laboratory so he could continue work uninterrupted. It didn’t take him long to create Man; a stomach and a penis and he was about done. Even so, he wanted to take a bit more time over woman. He took a little longer than was perhaps strictly necessary, but hey, you can do that when you’re doG.

On Tuesday he was up bright and early and ready to start on the beasts of the field.

“This is where the fun really begins” he thought. For hour after hour, he toiled happily at his work bench. Lions and dogs, caterpillars and horses, elephants, cats, stoats and cows all rolled off the production line one after another. Zebras and kangaroos, armadillos and oxen soon followed. doG was in the groove and life was good.

But by the time Wednesday morning rolled around. doG was feeling a little fed up. The challenge was gone you see. This was too easy. He scrawled a few sketches on his notepad, and over the next couple of hours cranked out sheep and pigs, tortoises and antelope but when he took a step back and found himself admiring the duck-billed platypus, he realized it was time for a break.

“All work and no play makes doG a dull boy” he told himself and looked around for a diversion.

It was then he remembered that Mrs. doG had gone out for the day. Greedily he scanned the contents of the pantry, rubbed his hands together and thought

“Let’s see what I can make with this lot.”

The de’il makes work for idle hands and it wasn’t long before doG had come up with the formula for hallucigenic drugs. It was a long afternoon, filled with screams and manic laughter and by the time Mrs. doG came home from the shops, our hero was slumped in the corner, drooling slightly and with brownie crumbs on his shirt.

But look at what he had created! Giraffes and butterflies and tropical fish in fantastic psychedelic colors. Coral and salamanders and hummingbirds, oh my. Even Mrs. doG had to admit, she was impressed. But she bundled him off to bed nonetheless and having strapped him down, set about the task of cleaning up the mess he’d left in the kitchen. Sweeping the ingredients of half completed dragons and unicorns into the bin, she shook her head fondly.

“What will he get up to next” she wondered.

If only she had known.

For doG was in a foul mood when he awoke the next day, and with barely a grunt, he headed for his lab and closed the door. Sawing and banging sounds emitted from the room for the rest of the morning and it was nearly dinnertime before he emerged, with a vicious smile on his face and a cage full of…mosquitoes.

“Bwahahahahah!” he laughed, while Mrs. doG looked on in horror.

“Oh, you can’t!” she protested. “Those things are terrible!”

“You just watch me” he muttered and went off to bed.

Friday was a little better. Feeling more than a little guilty about his behavior yesterday, doG worked feverishly for hours without a break. By noon he’d created chickens, tigers, lizards and buffalo. Before the afternoon was done, he was just about finished with the animal kingdom. And, that got him into trouble once more. It was just a simple idea; one that he’d been mulling for some time. What would happen if he took barley, malt, water and hops and treated them just right…

Well of course, you know how beer is made, right? Oh, doG was pleased and decided to throw himself a little party to celebrate. Which went on loooong into the night. Long after Mrs. doG rolled her eyes and headed for bed, locking the door behind her. Long after he figured out the formula for Scotch whisky. But long before he wondered if perhaps he should have invented aspirin first.

Every night is followed by a morning. That’s how it works. And Saturday morning was a doozy. The sun was well up before doG surfaced and even then, he wandered round the house in something of a daze. Mrs. doG was less than sympathetic.

“Don’t think you’re going to be sitting around watching television.” She told him. “You haven’t invented it yet.”

So with a sigh, doG took himself off to the lab and attempted to work. But it was no use. By the time 5 O’Clock rolled around all he’d managed to produce were slugs, worms and snakes. Not exactly big league stuff. He tried to liven things up by making some of the snakes venomous, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Time to give it up” he thought, and wrapped up the project. "No more creations for me."

But when Sunday dawned, bright and sunny, with the promise of a whole day before starting work again on Monday, doG got himself to thinking.

And doG invented football.

And doG saw that it was good.

The Colorado Trail ~ Epilogue

2007-07-06T08:45:00.000-06:00

As I write this, I’ve been home for almost 2 weeks. The raw patches on my shoulders have healed, as have the blisters on my feet. Even the mosquito bites are barely discernable. But the memories will linger on. Sadly, at the moment they’re mostly along the lines of “Oh, that was tough”, rather than “Oh that was beautiful” although maybe that will change over time. Because it truly was beautiful and while the disposable camera I carried with me didn’t really didn’t do the scenery justice, there are hundreds of fabulous Colorado views locked in my brain.

I learned a few lessons along the way. The necessity of packing light being the main one. Even though the bag I carried on Days 4 & 5 was almost half the weight of the one I hauled through Day 2, it was still too heavy. And that Saturday morning strolls with The World’s Most Irritating Dog™ isn’t adequate preparation for long days out on a trail. My feet, legs and shoulders simply weren’t up to the task. Before I tackle the next stretch I’ll need to get in some overnight trips, with some major mileage and elevation gain.

I should also plan my daily mileage allotment a little more carefully. The guidebook divides the trail into segments, but these are merely geographical divisions, not recommended daily hikes. Once I get further from home it isn’t practical to sail through 10 easy downhill miles one day; and be done by lunchtime, only to spend hours grinding uphill the next. And it would be good to know that each night’s planned campsite has water and a flat place for a tent, to avoid fruitlessly walking a mile further along the trail and back as I did on Day 4.

But probably the best advice I could give to anyone planning to replicate this portion of the trip, the five days from Denver to Kenosha would be this:

Do it the other way!

Happy trails everyone.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 5

2007-07-03T16:43:00.000-06:00

Long Gulch to Kenosha Pass
Distance: 14 miles
Elevation Gain: 1540 ft

The end is near (Just not near enough)

Last stage. I can do this. Actually, I have to do this; there’s no other way to get home. No cell phone calls begging for rescue today; the only way out is to finish what I started and walk to Kenosha Pass. It shouldn’t be too big a deal though. I slept unusually well and even though breakfast and striking camp took longer than I’d hoped, I’m shouldering my pack and back on the trail by 8:15.

And there isn’t too much elevation gain today. And it’s only 14 miles. Only 14 miles. Ah, but you forget you’re almost 45 years old my lad, and no matter how much you try, your body just doesn’t work as efficiently as it did back in your hardcore hiking days all those years ago.

And yesterday really took its toll. I’m tired, and sore and aching and driven almost insane by the rash of mosquito bites that cover my arms, and legs and face. The Jungle Juice I’d slathered on at regular intervals never held the little buggers at bay for long and while eating breakfast, several of them feasted on a section I must have missed, up by the hairline. My forehead swelled so badly I got the impression this must be what Botox feels like.

So I was more than a little cranky as I began the first climb of the day, out of the canyon in which I’d slept and only got more so as I discovered just how tough that turned out to be. It looked like another long day after all.

The scenery was beautiful, the scenery was beautiful. I have to keep reminding myself that the scenery was beautiful. Years from now, when I look back on this trip I hope that what I remember is the beautiful scenery and not the endless physical pain of putting one foot in front of the other. Because Colorado truly is beautiful and on these glorious summer days, with blue skies above and the wildflowers in full bloom at my feet, I’m seeing it at its best.

But oh, it’s hard to appreciate that, even on the long downhill portion. My shoulders are rubbed raw, my back, never my most trustworthy body part, is beginning to spasm again and my legs are running on empty.

But, I still had the fortitude to rag on a father and son hiking the other way when I noticed the youth was wearing an Arsenal Soccer T-shirt. I pointed out that I was carrying a large stick and held the high ground and cared not one whit that I was obviously making him nervous. The father hastily explained that this was a youth soccer team from Fort Collins, not the scum of the English leagues and with a smile, I let them pass. I suspect though, they’ll both have nightmares about this wild eyed maniac who came out of the hills and threatened them just like the infamous soccer hooligans of which they’d read.

Johnson Gulch: The bottom of the last hill of the trail. Here I met the two young through hikers I’d last seen asleep on the trail of Segment 2. “Man, that really kicked our asses” they told me. “We almost quit that day.” Yep, I knew where they were coming from and gave thanks once more, that I’d had the luxury of being able to bail and run for home that day. Lunch now and a sit down before beginning the climb. Only 3 miles and a mere 900 feet elevation gain. How hard could it be?

Very hard of course. And…it…took…for…ever. Up and up this endless incline as the temperatures got higher, my bag got heavier, my body got weaker. I’d passed numerous creeks in the morning and deliberately allowed my water supply to get low to lighten the load. What I didn’t realize was; Johnson Gulch, the halfway point, would be the last water of the day and now I was forced to ration my intake. No fun when every breath is a ragged, heaving gasp of hot, dry mountain air.

Eventually I began to meet mountain bikers coming the other way. “I’ll swap you my pack for your bike” I suggested to each but none took me seriously. I was still trying this ruse when the highway hove into sight. Every few hundred yards I had a clear view of the RVs, cars and trucks heading out for the weekend but to my frustration, it never seemed to get any closer. It turned out to be simply a mirage, a torment. The trail was running more or less parallel to it and it was another 2 miles before I began walking towards it again.

And then, and then, and then there’s the gate leading to the campsite and journey’s end. Every single muscle in my body hurts, even the ones I didn’t know existed. But despite that, I found the ones in my face involuntarily lifting themselves into a smile.

I’d made it.

I sat in the shade of the pines, leaning against my pack, and barely moved for an hour until Dear Wife showed up with the dogs in the car, and a cooler full of cold drinks and fresh food.

68 miles in 5 days. Doesn’t really sound all that much written here. But starting at 5,520 feet above sea level, finishing at 10,000, and with an accumulated elevation gain of 10,260 feet, (that’s almost 2 miles, if you’re counting) I can tell you, it’s one hell of a hike.

But there’s less than 400 miles to go. And how hard can that be?

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 4

2007-07-01T13:23:00.000-06:00

Forest Service Road 560 (Wellington Lake Road) to Long Gulch
Distance: 16.2 miles
Elevation Gain: 2840 ft

Climb Every Mountain. And Climb and Climb and Climb

And we're off again. Over 16 miles to cover, mostly uphill but really; how hard can that be?

Well, bloody hard as it turns out. 6:35am found me trudging up a steep jeep trail with barely a half-pint of coffee in my system. It didn't take too long to use all the calories gained from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and much too soon I was heaving and wheezing once more. I couldn't even blame the pack this time; my gear was stripped to the bone and while the tent and sleeping bag alone were disturbingly heavy, I had no spare clothes and only the barest minimum of food.

But uphill is uphill, whichever way you slice it and I was only averaging around 2 mph, which was going to make for a long day. The trail alternated from thick, dark pine trees to light, summery aspen forests, but the only variance in the gradient was from steep to steeper. The trees blocked any scenery so the view was simply the muddy trail rising in front of my face. For mile after mile after mile.

That's not entirely true; one bright spot came when I almost tripped over a very young fawn lying directly on the path. It's common for the mothers to leave new-borns unattended for hours or even days while they forage for food; however usually they hide them better than this. I had to wonder if the little rebel had done a spot of exploring on his own, then hunkered down when I came along. Either way, he didn't so much as twitch while I left the track and took a wide excursion around him.

So on and on I climbed, with the track only getting steeper. Stopping for a breather was no pleasure either because of the mosskeeters that descended upon me with glee if I so much as slowed my pace. "Mosskeeters can't live at this altitude" my ass. There were times when I had to go around fallen trees as they were just too big to climb over and each delay felt like a slap in the face.

I met two middle-aged guys hiking the other way (downhill, what a concept!) and they cheerfully explained that I had a lot of climbing ahead of me. Mutter, mutter, mutter. At somewhere around 10,000 feet I walked through my first snow of the trail. Only a small slushy patch but considering this is the first day of summer, still intriguing.

Much more alarming was the first clap of thunder, which came at 10:05 am. Usually the summer storm clouds don't roll in until mid-afternoon and this was disturbing considering how far I still had to go. Even more disturbing was just how close the storm was. The next clap almost blew my socks off. Fortunately, it never really came to anything because shortly after, I popped out of the trees and into a wide, open meadow. Not the place to be during a lightning storm.

Good news is, the steep climbing was now over and after an early lunch, I set out on the long, slow grind up the valley. Nothing like the same altitude gain, but still climbing, climbing, climbing.

I consoled myself that at least I was lasting 45 minutes or so between breaks, unlike the 4 or 5 minutes I was managing on Day 2, but even so, the head of that damn valley just never seemed to get any closer and I was a weary little hiker by the time I finally crested the summit a little after 3 pm. 2 miles more to go and downhill all the way, but by now I was so utterly banjoed, I couldn't really appreciate it.

16.2 miles is a long haul when 80% of it is uphill and you were starting at over 7,000 feet in the first place. It feels even longer when you end up clocking an extra mile at the end trying to find somewhere flat enough to pitch a tent and then end up having to walk the mile back again to accept a sort-of-OK site you'd dismissed earlier. And when you know that you'll have to walk that mile for a third time in the morning.

Naturally, the rain which had been threatening since this morning finally got going as I was setting up camp. And the mosquitoes followed me there and drove me indoors by 8pm. And the freeze dried "food" I'd brought for dinner tasted every bit as vile as you'd imagine.

But when I put down my book and snuggled into my sleeping bag I was asleep in moments. And I stayed asleep until morning and you can't complain about that.

Even better, tomorrow's the final day. A mere 14 miles. And a good chunk of that is downhill.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 3

2007-06-29T20:21:00.000-06:00

Forest Service Road 550 to Forest Service Road 560 (Wellington Lake Road)
Distance: 12.1 miles
Elevation Gain: 1520 ft

Pain? What pain?

Oh yes, this is more like the thing. Dumped that horrendously heavy pack at home and I'm back to a daypack with nowt inside but a map, the directions, some food and a day's worth of water. I had a good night's sleep, I've got moleskin slapped over me blisters and I'm having fun again. Not only that; today's portion starts off downhill. Even better, but we keep going downhill, for mile after glorious mile. How cool is that?

I could tell it was going to be a good day when the raven serenading me from the tree-tops gave me a gift of a feather before I'd gone more than a few hundred yards. I didn't trust it to stay in my hatband so I tucked it carefully in the side pocket of my shorts and tried not to biff it with each stride.

The forest here is a mix of ponderosa pines, bristlecone pines and aspens which perform admirably as shade from the sun. There's something very Lord of the Rings-ish about it all (but without all the wraiths and scary stuff). Instead, I'm treated to a symphony of birdsong as I stride along, astonished at the time I'm making. The halfway point comes and goes well before 10:00 and considering that yesterday at this point, I'd been doubled over and almost crying in exhaustion and pain, life is very, very good.

Almost made my first goof of the trail though, by not looking closely enough at the sign by an intersection and carrying straight on when I should have made a right turn. Luckily it was only a few hundred yards further that another trail intersection brought this to my attention and it only took a few minutes to get back on track. Could have been a lot worse though so I'll need to watch that on the remoter sections.

Lunch was scoffed on the banks of Buffalo Creek, not too far from where Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™ and I often come on our Saturday hikes. The creek babbled beside me as I lay in the sun-dappled shade and wondered if anything could possibly spoil this moment.

Of course, when you ask a question like that, the gods are sure to answer.

Mosquitoes. F***ing mosquitoes here in my beloved Colorado. What the hell is that all about? When we were looking to relocate from Arizona, one of my primary stipulations was that there were to be NO mosquitoes. Hate them, hate them, hate them. And indeed, in the 5 years I've lived here, I've only seen 2 (and been bitten by both of them), which is manageable. I'd always believed they couldn't live at this altitude, but here was a whole herd of them, swarming all over me and biting lumps of my arms and legs like sodding piranhas. No after lunch nap for me then and I was soon back on the trail, spirits lifting once more.

Not too much other wildlife around today and I didn't even see my first humanoid until I was within quarter of a mile from the end; a mountain biker huffing his way up the rise from the trail head. As I was heading downhill, I politely stepped off the path but he stopped and waved me through.

"You have right of way." He gasped, which was technically correct but under the circumstances, it was a lot easier for me to stop. Perhaps, like me when I'm mountain biking uphill, he was just glad of any excuse to take a break.

So look at this, 12:25 pm and I'm done for the day. If I could, I would cheerfully have continued on and knocked off some of tomorrow's miles too, but there's no convenient way to begin tomorrow's hike except from here. That'll do then. Home to a cold one from the fridge and a lie in the hammock with me book.

Colorado Trail? Easy-Peasy.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 2

2007-06-27T15:03:00.000-06:00

South Platte Canyon to Forest Service Road 550
Distance: 10.8 miles
Elevation Gain: 2200 ft

Welcome to the House of Pain

Remember I was talking about the challenges of packing light? Well, it was apparent very early on in Day 2 that I’d failed miserably. It was true, I probably didn’t need the entire set of encyclopedias, and I could probably have left the outboard motor at home but everything else had seemed necessary when I was cramming it all in last night. Not very much of it seemed necessary now as I crawled my way up the cliff side which began at the trail-head.

It didn’t help that the weather was unseasonably warm, even for June and that on this stretch of the Colorado Trail there’s no shade following the Buffalo Creek fire of 1996. The grasses of the burn area are recovering, but the remains of the trees still stand like so many blackened statues and offered no respite from the blazing sun. In addition, this segment of the trail has no water, which means it all has to be carried. Not just enough for today, but for tonight’s camp and a good portion of tomorrow morning’s hiking too. And water’s bloody heavy.

It was soon clear that I was in trouble. Not just tired, but staggeringly, crying out in pain, how the hell am I going to get out of this trouble. The trail stretched onwards and upwards, with no drop in elevation on today’s schedule yet each step was physically painful. The hotspots on my feet which had concerned me yesterday, had now developed into full blown blisters (I’ve never had blisters from hiking) and the straps of my pack were cutting into my shoulders unmercifully.

It wasn’t long before my plan of “taking a break every hour”, went to “taking a break every thirty minutes” to “taking a break every few hundred yards”, bending double to ease the pain in my back and suck in the small amount of oxygen available at 8,000 feet above sea level.

I tried giving myself inspirational speeches about winners versus quitters; I tried admiring the scenery (which was spectacular, with views of Chair Rocks in the west, down to Pikes Peak in the south – one of the unintentional benefits of being in a forest decimated by fire) and counting my steps to make the journey pass. But it was no good; I couldn’t do this. Before I'd reached the halfway point, I could barely put one foot in front of the other, my feet and shoulders were on fire and my back was beginning to spasm.

But as far as the Colorado Trail is concerned, I haven’t even begun to gain altitude and 90+ degree heat is forecast to last all week. Things are only going to get worse. What finally finished me off was when I passed two athletic looking college-aged guys lying prostrate on the trail, almost asleep. “This sucks man” one of them said, “I don’t think we can do this.” If these two young studs were suffering, what chance did I have? Day 2, only 20 miles into the trail and I was already beaten. How thoroughly depressing.

Have I ever extolled the virtues of cell phones? Oh sure, they’re annoying enough when some yuppie is bawling into one while you’re trying to read the books for free at Barnes and Noble, or when he’s riding your butt on the highway, obliviously nattering into his electronic pacifier. But when you’re out on the trail and in need of rescue, they’re a life-saver, let me tell you. Assuming you can get service that is. I couldn’t, all though by doG did I try. Each time I stopped, which was by now every couple of minutes I would check once more. Still nada, but the thing was, at last now I had a plan.

You see the end of today’s segment, is really quite close to my house. Only about thirty minutes drive away. And at the house was a wife. And a car with an almost full tank of gas. And if I could just get hold of her, I could demand she come and get me, and whisk me off to a shower, and a soft bed, and some beer. But most importantly, the chance to re-pack this damn bag and get rid of half the stuff inside. Then I could start the trail anew. Beaten? Me? Naah.

It was late in the day by the time I finally got through. So late, I was close enough to the end to see the cars on the road I’d have to cross to get to the trail head. But I knew I could make it that far.

And I did. Staggering and wobbling, and so stiff and sore I could hardly lift my arms, and with blisters like throw cushions, and stars in front of my eyes and not even sure if I wanted to puke or to cry, or both. But I made it to the end of the trail. And knocked off the second segment. Only three more to go and tomorrow is another day.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 1

2007-06-26T11:33:00.000-06:00

Waterton Canyon to South Platte Canyon
Distance: 15.4 miles
Elevation Gain: 2160 ft

“The Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Footstep”

Colorado, in my not at all humble opinion, is the prettiest state in the union and the Colorado Trail, a long-distance footpath stretching from Denver to Durango encompasses some of the best scenery the region has to offer. The trail passes through seven national forests and six wilderness areas, traverses five major river systems and includes eight of the state’s mountain ranges. So it is a little disappointing that the first 6.2 miles of the hike head up Waterton Canyon, which isn’t a trail at all, but a broad, dusty dirt road owned by the Denver Water Board. The canyon is pretty enough, and I’ve ridden my bike up here before, but for as a hiking experience, it leaves a bit to be desired.

A railroad once ran this way, carrying passengers from Denver to the cooler climes of the Rocky Mountain foothills. Nowadays it’s a popular route for hikers, joggers, mountain bikers and fisher folk and for a Monday, there were a surprising number of people out and about. Like me, they were all enjoying the bright summer morning. Except for the employees of the Water Board, who turned out to be a bunch of grumpy buggers that never returned my cheery waves. Mind you; they were working and I was not, so I can see where they were coming from.

I didn’t spot any of the big horn sheep for which the canyon is justly famous, but then, I was cranking out the pace and before long I was taking a break at the end of the dirt road and preparing to set out on the trail proper. I was a tad concerned about the hot spots which were appearing on the balls of each foot, but a couple of squares of moleskin should do the trick and I was soon heading into the trees. This is much more like the thing and even though the climb had my calves squealing in protest, my spirits were bouncing.

Up and up I went, telling myself that by definition, every hill must have a top. Pine trees lined either side of the trail and the vistas changed endlessly as I switch-backed up the cliff but after a while, I was beginning to wonder about the whole “Every hill must have a top” thing. However, there comes a time when you notice that the surrounding hills are either lower, or not much higher than the one you’re on and that’s a clue that the summit can’t be too far off, out of sight though it may be.

In fact, the summit remained out of sight until I was a few feet from the top where I popped into a clearing to meet 3 mountain bikers debating where to go next. Unlike them, I had a map so I was soon the hero of the day when I showed them exactly what their options were. Good thing too because they’d planned to head the same way I was going and as that wasn’t the circular route they’d thought, would have meant a long ride back.

It took a few hours to get out of the office workers’ mentality of checking my watch every few minutes and fretting about how much was still to be done. Even so, I was pleased to check the pages I’d photocopied from the guidebook (traveling light, remember?) and see that the miles were clicking away quite nicely. By noon I was well over halfway so took a lunch break in the shade of a ponderosa pine and was even more pleased to see that the only other hikers I’d met on the trail, two young guys attempting to hike the CT in one go (and therefore carrying very heavy packs) were looking a lot more tired than me.

Although things could have gone horribly wrong shortly after when I scrambled up a rocky outcrop to take a photo, then couldn’t remember in which direction the trail was. Taking the wrong route down could have led to a lot of backtracking so I was chuffed to get back more through luck than anything else and was soon on my way. And then I was soon stopping again to pull of my boots and socks to reattach the squares of moleskin which were attempting to crawl up my legs. I think I might just have some problems from these hotspots later.

I had thought I was done climbing for the day but no, onward and upward went the trail, as did the temperature so the shade of the trees was very welcome. Every now and then a horizon would open up and I could get a fix on where I was. This was great until I made the mistake of looking behind me and saw that the eastern plains and Denver were still in full view. I thought I’d come further than that.

But then I popped out on a cliff top and looking way, way down into the valley, saw not only the river for which I was headed, but Angus the Toyota sitting right where I left him. Whoo hoo, that wasn’t bad at all. Even despite it taking me another hour to get down the hill to the parking spot.

I’d last seen the two young through-hikers at the top of the hill, looking for a camping spot. That seemed a little premature to me. After all, tomorrow was forecast to be a scorcher and while the segment is only 11 miles, it involves a lot of climbing and takes us through the burned area from the Buffalo Creek forest fire of 1996. Which means no shade and no water. If I were them, I would be looking for a campsite much further down the trail. Still, their packs were much heavier than mine, and I could see why they’d be ready for a break by now.

So, one day done and other than the hotspots on the soles of my feet, which turned into ugly looking blisters later that night, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Prologue

2007-06-24T17:10:00.000-06:00

Other ageing backpackers have observed that the ground is a lot harder than it was twenty years ago but a phenomenon still new to me is how come it’s impossible to pack for even a short trip, without my bag weighing more than I do. I went around the world with a 35lb pack and spent two weeks hiking coast to coast across England with one weighing even less. Yet nowadays, no matter how much I stick to the Therouxian philosophy of “simplify”, it seems that my pack weighs more every time.

Of course, when backpacking in Britain it isn’t necessary to pack the volume of food and water that are required for basic survival here. There’s usually a store, or a café or a pub within a few miles so why bother? But even so, one would think that as the cost of my backpacking gear has increased over the years, the weight would have gone down, not up and it’s a mystery to me how my pack can be so heavy before I even put the food and water in.

Even though I was only planning on covering the first 70 miles of the Colorado Trail on this expedition; that would still require me to carry five days worth of food, along with a good supply of water in addition to my (surprisingly heavy) water filter to replenish the stocks. I have to say, the thought didn’t appeal.

So it was an inspired moment when I hit on the idea of making the first stage simply a day hike. The first few days of the trail aren’t all that far from my home so it just was just a case of Dear Wife and I getting up ridiculously and dropping Angus the Toyota at the end of the first day’s trail, before heading for Denver in the Subaru where she dropped me at the start. I could then simply walk back to the car, and drive home to a shower and a fridge full of beer. Not only would I not have to carry my backpack for a whole day, I could afford to put less in it, and it was with a smug smile I shouldered my lightweight day pack and walked past the behemoth bag squatting by the door.

With age comes wisdom, and I’m certainly due some.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail

2007-06-14T16:44:00.001-06:00

Stretching almost 500 miles from Denver to Durango, the Colorado Trail is rightly regarded as one of North America's premier long distance footpaths. Meandering over and through the spectacular Rocky Mountains amongst peaks with lakes, creeks and diverse ecosystems, it encapsulates six wilderness areas and eight mountain ranges topping out at 13,334 feet.

And I'm starting it on Monday.

The restrictions of corporate American vacation policies, and my own lack of desire to spend 6+ weeks on the trail make it impractical to attempt the entire trail as a through hike. Instead, like many others, I plan to cover a segment at a time, covering 75 to 100 miles in each trip, with perhaps shorter trips if time allows. At that pace, I estimate it will be about 7 years before I complete the entire trail, and I'll be into my fifties by then.

But, every step will be recorded here on The Gunsmoke Files. doG willing, I'll be done with the first stretch by Friday, June 22. Look for the first installment shortly after.

Thar's gold in them thar teeth

2007-02-07T11:16:00.000-07:00

So I paid a visit to the dentist this week. He poked and prodded and gouged and scraped for about a year or so before telling me something I’ve never before heard from a member of his profession.

“OK, everything looks pretty good. You need to floss more but otherwise you’re in good shape.”

And that was that. No fillings, no root canals, no extractions or any of the other countless procedures dentists have insisted I needed over the years. To say I was shocked is putting it mildly.

As far as I’m concerned, dentists rank right up there with vivisectionists and proctologists in the “Why on earth would someone choose to do that for a living” stakes and I’m sure most of them are simply frustrated sociopaths at heart. Oh, they pretend to be nice, and lure you in with their soft music, and pretty assistants and fresh copies of Sports Illustrated but once they have you back in the soundproof room, away from the other clients, that’s when their true personalities come out.

I know for a fact my childhood dentist’s training consisted of watching Laurence Olivier working Dustin Hoffman over in Marathon Man. He was the one that told me

“It’s your own fault; if you took better care of your teeth I wouldn’t have to hurt you!”

I was eight at the time.

Many years later, a doctor explained that the reason my teeth were so poor was not due to lack of hygiene or too many sweets, (although I’m sure that didn’t help) but from a side effect of the asthma medication I’d taken regularly as a child. Medication which was later taken off the market as a result of said side effect. Had it been prescribed by an American doctor, I could probably have sued and had more money to spend on beer than I do now.

But, that wasn’t much consolation as my childhood dentist was just one of a long string of swines who’ve put their kids through college or made their boat payments as a result of the metaphorical gold they found in my teeth.

It doesn’t help that I suffer from a severe pain allergy and have a very low tolerance for people poking sharp points into my nerve endings. With a mouth chock full of scrap metal and drool running down my cheek (does that vacuum cleaner attachment thing do any good) my imagination works overtime as I trying and guess just what this particular instrument of torture is doing. It came as something of a surprise when a dentist in Phoenix actually explained what he was doing (it never occurred to me to ask) and I learned that despite the horrors I was imagining, he was merely polishing my teeth, or running some floss between them. Until then, I was convinced he was trying to rip my teeth out one by one with rusty pliers, or seeing how far he could push an ice pick into my jaw.

Then don’t get me started on the sadist who had me return again and again so she could work on the same root canal. Her story was that it was such a major project it had to be done in stages “to make things easier on me”. As is often the way, my company changed Insurance Providers before the job was done and I had to find a new dentist. He cheerfully told me the tooth was perfectly healthy, but I needed a ton of other work done and how do Tuesday mornings look for the next two months?

There was also the guy who conspired with Dear Wife to bully me into having my wisdom teeth removed. I was perfectly content to leave them where they were, figuring I need all the wisdom I could get, but apparently they were blocking his access to a different tooth which he claimed needed work. So, against my better judgment, I scheduled a couple of days off work, stocked the house with chocolate pudding and baby food, and went in for the ‘routine’ appointment. Two weeks later, I was still doped to the eyeballs on painkillers, unable to eat anything larger than a thin mint and the sinus infection I contracted via the nostril to mouth hole he left in my jaw still troubles me to this day.

It’s not entirely the dentists’ fault either – medication side effects apart, I think I must have been in the bathroom when they were handing out teeth as my set seem to be particularly poor quality. When I was traveling in Asia for instance, everyone told me “If you need dental work done, go to a Singaporean dentist – they’re the best.” Except when I was actually in Singapore, I wimped out. My teeth were fine, what’s the problem?

Well, the problem was the toothache from hell which fired up the day after I arrived in Indonesia. Constant, throbbing, aching, blinding pain that never let up for a moment. Just the thing when you’re eating the spicy food for which Indonesia is rightfully famous. After three days of torment I made the decision to spend money I could ill afford flying back to Singapore for treatment. And the toothache immediately went away. Until I was on a train heading away from Singapore when it came back. And lasted until I was close to the next major airport, when it went away again.

You would think that once I’d figured out the pain was psychosomatic that would have been the end of it but noooooo. It came and went for the next two months, with the pain level in inverse proportion to my ease of access to a flight to Singapore. And for the record, when I made it home to Britain a year later, my dentist at the time assured me there was nothing wrong with the tooth.

It’s hard to like dentists when even your teeth are vindictive.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to floss.

Sexual Harrassment

2007-01-29T12:22:00.000-07:00

Sexual Harrassment ~
"Hey Carol! Where did you find your new boyfriend?"
"He fell off a charm bracelet. Isn't he adorable?"
And so saying, the wench pinched me on the cheek and hugged me closer to her enormous bosom.

It was all I could do not to spill my beer.

The day had started off so well too. I was hitchhiking out of Bega, New South Wales in Australia and my goal for the day was a fishing village a little further down the coast, with the picturesque sounding name of Eden. It was my first attempt at hitching since arriving Down Under and I was wondering how I would fare. As it happened, I'd barely put down my pack when the first car of the day came by and screeched to a halt. A young, hippy couple, with a very large dog and a very small child sharing the the backseat. Dog and child squished up to make room for me and my pack and we were soon bowling down the road.

"Only 5K mate," said the driver "but we'll put you in a much better hitching spot. I certainly hoped so because it looked like the middle of nowhere to me and a long walk back into town if the hitching turned out to be a bust. It nearly was too - I had to wait a full four minutes before the next vehicle came along but this too, pulled up obligingly. A logger in a pick up truck, which the Aussies refer to as a "Ute". (Nothing to do with "My Cousin Vinnie", it's short for "Utility".) who just happened to be heading to Eden himself.

The road wound us along the coast, and inland, then back again. Forests of eucalyptus gum trees lined both sides of the road and the smell of camphor hung in the air like an pharmacists' convention. Every couple of kilometers my driver would pull over to show me some natural feature, such as a grove of ancient prehistoric looking ferns, a waterfall, or bush trail. He told me to keep my eyes peeled for kangaroos (I was yet to see my first) but the only ones we saw were already providing fodder for the scavengers, the sad results of lost arguments with cars. We did see a team of cowboys, (termed "Jackaroos") rounding up cows on horseback, so that almost made up for it.

All too soon we rolled into the metropolis of Eden. One street, half a dozen shops, a campsite and a pub. I toyed with the idea of pushing further along but as we were nearly on the Victorian border, and I had yet to look at a map of that fair state, and as I was in no rush, I decided to put up my tent and stay awhile. That and lunch occupied the rest of the morning and with the sun high overhead, I set out to explore the town. Pretty though it was, there wasn't really too much to occupy the mind so after a couple of turns along the main street, I decided to check out the single pub.

You've seen the old movies where the stranger walks into the bar, and the piano player stops, a hush falls on the room and everyone turns to stare. This place didn't have a piano but the rest of the effect was the same. Not because the patrons were unfriendly you understand; I just don't think they'd ever seen anyone as...small as me. I swear everyone in there must have been at least 300lbs, all tattooed, mostly bearded. And yes, I'm including the women.
The idea of turning and running away flitted through my head but a shout came out of the crowd.
"Hey look! It's the hitchhiker from this morning! He's from Scotland everyone." It was the hippy couple who had given me my first ride and having received this glowing endorsement, I was accepted into the fold and soon had a frosty beer mug in my hand. The crowd formed a respectful circle around me and interrogated me with questions.

"What's your name?"
"Whereabouts in Scotland are you from?"
"What do you think of Maggie Thatcher?"
"Who were you supporting in the Rugby Grand Final yesterday?"
I can only imagine my answers met with their approval because nobody began swinging punches and before long, I even relaxed my sphincter enough to start enjoying myself.

It was then that Carol appeared.

"Oh, let me get a look at him" she bawled; pushing her bulk through the crush. I don't think I've ever seen a woman quite so large and if it wasn't for the others using her given name, I still wouldn't be entirely sure that she was in fact, female.
"Ohmygooooooooooddd! Isn't he just precious? I'm going to take him home and put him on a shelf."
I wasn't entirely sure she was kidding but I found myself accepting another beer as she perched on a bar stool and hugged me tighter than I'll ever want to be hugged again.

It was a good twenty minutes before I was able to extricate myself. During which time, I was poked, prodded, stroked and fondled with a level of detail that only a few people have attempted on me prior to earning their medical degrees. Once out of the bar I headed back to my campsite and hid in my tent, praying that Carol wouldn't find out where I was. It was a good hour before I ventured out, and even then it was to head in the opposite direction to lose myself on a bush trail for the rest of the day.

Australian men have a reputation of being boorish and chauvinistic, particularly when it comes to their treatment of women. However, I'm here to testify that at least some of the women are more than capable of giving as good as they get.

And I've only just realized...what if she reads this and tracks me down? Crikey!

What does an American look like?

2006-11-25T16:18:00.000-07:00

"I was once in an elevator in Singapore" the Master of Ceremonies told us "when someone asked me where I was from."
"I'm from America"
"Really? You don't look like an American."

"Since that day," He went on "I've often wondered...what does an American look like? Well if you want to know, take a look around the room. Look at the person standing next to you. That is what an American looks like."

So I looked around the room and saw black people, white people, yellow people and brown people. I looked at the Asian man on my right, the African woman to my left. Young and old, male and female, healthy and infirm. The only thing we each had in common, was that a few moments before, we had been officially pronounced citizens of the United States of America.

We'd been told to 'dress respectfully', which for me meant collecting my good jacket from the cleaners and selecting a tie. One gentleman was wearing a tuxedo, most ladies were in smart dresses, but some were in jeans and one muscular gent, the combat uniform of the US Army. A well-worn combat uniform. I had a chance to observe all this as we huffed our way up the hill from the parking lot to the theater in which the ceremony was to take place. I noticed some people were finding this more of a challenge than others and I wonder if it was perhaps the final test to weed out those not fit enough to be US Citizens.

Once inside, we were met with a scene of mild chaos. People stood in lines chattering excitedly, while cheerful staff manned numbered card tables. Having not read my letter properly, I hadn't realized I was supposed to be in line for table # 1, so I took it as a good omen that by sheer chance, this was the table to where my line led. Once there I was given a blue slip of paper (others had red or white), which dictated where in the auditorium I was to sit. "Come back here after the ceremony," the lady said, "and collect your certificate." I was also given a touchingly dorky little American flag, which I was unable to bring myself to wave, although most other people had no such inhibitions.

Into the theater itself, and my allotted seat where for 45 minutes or so, I watched a much larger American flag projected on a large screen at the front while stirring march music played in the background. This included to my amusement, John Paul Sousa's "Liberty Bell", which may be more familiar as the theme music for "Monty Python's Flying Circus".

Finally the M.C. stepped up and the proceedings began. We started out with a short video showing similar ceremonies around the country and I think it was at this point I first began to appreciate the significance today held. Watching the emotions playing out on the screen, the people crying and laughing, praying and hugging, I'll admit I felt a bit of a lump in my own throat and even though Dear Wife was at the back of the hall with the camera, I wished I'd arranged for a few more people to join us for the ceremony.

There were a handful of speeches next; all blessedly short and for the most part, quite amusing. One guest speaker, a teacher originally from China explained that while he was comparatively well off by the standards of his village, his $7 a month salary wasn't enough to achieve the dream of owning his own car. "I wanted the feeling of speed!"

When he finally made it to the United States a friend gave him a Chevy Impala (a very large, boat-like car) as a gift. "That first day, I took it out on the freeway and put the pedal to the metal. I was doing about 25 miles an hour while all the other drivers blew their horns and roared past me but oh, it was great!"

The M.C. explained that we had 291 people here, from 68 different countries, which he then read out in turn, from Afghanistan to Zambia, while we each stood when heard our own country's name. In the interest of time, he had asked us not to clap until we were done; but when he called out 'Mexico' and almost half the room stood up, everyone spontaneously burst into laughter and applause. Almost the entire theater were on their feet by the time he called "United Kingdom" so I couldn't see who else stood then, but the next person up was my neighbor, from Vietnam.

Finally we were down to business, and with our right hands in the air and flashbulbs popping like the Superbowl kickoff, we repeated the lines which make up the oath of allegiance. I hadn't even realized how far along we were in the proceedings until the M.C. announced:

"Congratulations and welcome, to the newest citizens of the United States of America."

People began hugging each other and crying, and as I shook the hands of my neighbors, even I had to wipe a bit of grit out of the corner of my eye. Who knew it would be this emotional?

Admittedly, the mood was almost spoiled when they played a recording of Lee Hazelwood's saccharine musical diarrhea "Proud to be an American", which had me looking around for a vomit bucket, but soon we were outside taking photos in the sun, each proudly holding the certificates confirming our citizenship.

I hadn't been overly excited about today. To me, becoming a citizen was just another step along the road; like obtaining a driver's license, or renewing my passport. Just something one did. If it wasn't for the fact that after 14 years here, I wanted to be able to vote politicians into office, (and out of it), I may never have taken the leap.

My family didn't suffer any political repercussions from me moving here. I didn't swim any rivers, didn't run through a hail of machine gun bullets, or spend days floating on a raft in the open sea. I simply navigated through bureaucracy and while that may have been trying at times, it was small potatoes compared to what some of these other people had no doubt been through.

So to sit in this room and watch people sitting with tears streaming down their cheeks, or smiles splitting their faces, and in many cases both, I finally realized just what a big deal becoming a United States Citizen actually was.

So if you want to know what an American looks like...click here.

Things to do in Bega when you're broke

2006-11-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

There isn’t all that much to do in Bega (Bay-ga) New South Wales, especially on a Sunday. I’d done the usual tourist attractions (walking up the main street, then walking back down again) and that had filled a little under 15 minutes yet the day stretched endlessly ahead of me.

The night had been seemingly endless too, being as it was, one of the coldest I’ve spent anywhere. The youth hostel was cozy enough, small and intimate, with a gas fire in the common room, which easily kept that space comfortable. A “Canadian” couple (Handy Hint: US Citizens abroad can be easily identified by the Maple Leaf patches on their backpacks) had shared their curry and rice with me and chatted pleasantly all evening, or at least until the talk turned to politics and I learned he was a Margaret Thatcher fan. It’s bad manners to insult people who’ve just shared their food with you so I did my best to change the subject and when that didn’t work, headed to the dorm room for an early night.

Even with the extra insulation provided by blankets swiped from empty bunks, it was a cold, cold night and I wasn’t at all sorry when dawn finally illuminated the room and prized myself out to face the day. I’d been in Australia for a couple of weeks now and had been deceived many times by sunny weather. It usually remained cold, even during the day despite spring being well under way and the shorts and t-shirts which I had expected to wear every day, were tucked well down towards the bottom of my pack. After such a night, I was anticipating another cold day so dressed accordingly so I wasn’t at all surprised when this turned out to be the warmest weather I’d had so far. Unfortunately, I was well overdue for a laundry, which meant each of my shirts were a little...ripe and I was forced to keep a sweatshirt on out of consideration for my fellow man.

The pub (singular) opened at 10 and while that’s earlier than I usually start drinking, I was bored out of my brains so stepped indoors for a quick one. Not surprisingly for Australia, the place was already packed. “Look at this fellah” says one character dressed in the Aussie uniform of singlet, shorts, work boots and bush hat, meaning me “He’s dressed for the cold weather!” I explained just why I was anxious to keep my sweatshirt on and this impressed them greatly. In not time I was seated on a stool at the bar, surrounded by a half-circle of locals all fascinated by this rarity – an outsider.

"What brings you to Bega, mate?" asked one.
"A bus" I explained, to a roar of laughter completely disproportionate to the quality of the humor.
"But why Bega? There’s bugger all here!"
"Yeah, I know that now. But it was a place on the map and I’m not in any rush."
"Well, we’ve got the rugby final on the telly this afternoon" explained John the landlord, "You’re welcome to come and watch it here if you like."
As the pub sported a color television, unlike the youth hostel’s portable black and white, this sounded very attractive so after determining that the majority of the people in the pub would be shouting for Canberra, as opposed to Sydney, the favorites, I set off back to the hostel to catch some shut-eye before presenting myself back at the bar a few minutes before kick-off.

The place was packed.

"Listen up everybody" yelled John above the din "This skinny bugger’s a pommie, but he’s alright so don’t give him any shit, OK?"
"Yeah but who’s he rooting for?" (Who is he supporting) came a yell from the crowd.
"Canberra of course" I shouted back, thankful that I’d done my homework earlier. Unfortunately, Instead of the approval I was expecting, this garnered a howl of derision. As I was to learn; in the 3 hours I’d been away, the Canberra fans had all left, presumably to watch the game at home and the place was now wall to wall Sydney supporters.

"Just you and me rooting for Canberra" John told. "But no worries. There’s free steak sandwiches in the back room so help yourself." If there’s one word that backpackers love it’s 'free' particularly when relating to food and/or drink and I was soon stuffing my face.

The game started out promisingly enough, with Canberra taking an early lead so John and I made sure to get our shots in early. Good job we did too, because there was precious little reason to crow in the second half. Sydney came out swinging and by the time the final whistle went, had delivered a trouncing of legendary proportions. Despite the incessant ribbing, I stuck it out to the end and was still protesting that Canberra were preparing for a late surge right up to the final whistle.

You can drink a lot of beer during an Australian rugby game, particularly when everyone around you is getting into the spirit of the thing, and I have to admit, I put away my fair share that afternoon. However, I was on a backpacker’s budget and a day of drinking wasn’t really in the financial plan. As the bar finally began to clear, I approached John with more than a little trepidation.

"How much do I owe you John?" I asked pulling out my wallet.
"No worries mate" he responded cheerfully without looking up from the sink where he was rinsing glasses. "All taken care of."

I never did determine if he’d given me my drinks on the house, perhaps as a show of solidarity for me sticking with his beloved Canberra despite everything; or if one of my other new friends had picked up my tab. Either way, I felt a lot of gratitude as I wobbled my way back to the hostel.

That night I chatted to the uh Canadians who had spent the day at an animal sanctuary, watching kangaroos, koalas and other native Australian species. They weren’t impressed when I said I’d spent the day in the pub.
"I think it’s important to spend our time here wisely" he said, a little sanctimoniously "We decided we want to see as many Australian animals as possible before we leave"

He had a point. Although by the time I departed Australia several months later, I’d seen all the animals they had, and none of them in cages. Even better, I'd spent a day in the natural habitat of that rare and delightful species Australius Egregius.

I think I came out ahead.