Don't ever wanna hear about YOUR potholes!

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A Continuation of Last Week's News:

With half-sincere posthumous apologies to Gustave Doré (whose lithos I have always adored), I could find no more suiting pictorial for ONE of last week's misadventures. This stark image of Dante's Inferno haunted me in consistently humorous fashion from the start of this, my most serious 'bad hair day', last week.
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Mark had wandered up to the mesa top for a meeting with Slim and a rep from one of the big gas field players out here. I had time on my hands. I got restless. This is generally not a good combo.

So, I loaded Brou into my own truck and headed east. Maybe we would check if there were any more renegade cows in our canyon - an event that Brou lives for. Maybe I would just get a wild hair to join Mark and Slim up on top. I would decide as fate presented the options. It sure did ... and fast.

We bumped along the wet Spring-bitten roads, dove into and smeered through a few deep mires of mud along the way. About a mile further out, I ran into the perennially 'iffy' part of the road where the creek gnaws viciously at the 50 foot high banks and the mesa run-off grinds its own determined path over this already skinny road to meet the creek. The erosion of this last unusual year of rain has threatened safe passage but the gas field was already on it as far as repairing the damages of those relentlessly ripping waters. I saw a huge yellow road grader and some other vehicles on that part of the road ahead so rather than disturb the entourage just to turn around on a well site beyond, I decided to unobtrusively back down the road for about an eighth mile to find a good turn-around spot. With my lack of neck and spinal mobility, I don't do reverse well on a good day now but was all sorts of pleased with myself that I managed to stay roughly centered in the road this time. I could see a very promising flat plane of desert intersecting the road coming up ahead, or rather behind in this case, with no severe ditch to drop into. Perfect (or so I thought, sigh).

I jockeyed the Dakota into a good position to address the turn-off and execute an admirable one point turn around. Yes, very nice set-up indeed. I threw it into the big "R" and proceeded backwards. I find myself going through mental steps in anticipation of what will happen next; Okay, we're in "R", the truck will roll backwards, then the little drop into the ditch with a mild roll up backwards, then we shove it into Drive, roll back up forwards and we're on our way. NOPE, not today, kitty boy. That expectation of the roll down into the ditch just kept coming ... and coming ... and coming. I felt like the Captain of the Titanic as the aft of my little red ship dove downwards at an alarming angle, the broad blue sky above suddenly filling the windshield. I took my foot off the accelerator at that point when I realized that something was not completely kosher here - no sense in the front wheels in four-wheel drive further promoting this unexpected disaster. Fortunately, the truck stopped it's descent into this new unknown Hell and I slipped the truck into 'Park' and shut it down. Surprisingly, I was still able to open the door and exit but I left the now utterly befuddled Brou in the back seat to ponder this new and confounding attitude. I am sure he felt like one of the Titanic's mid ship passengers by now as he was now sitting as much on the back of the rear seat as the seat pan.
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Click on the photo for a much larger view.

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Remember my comment in a previous post about how you look around to see if anyone else had seen your most undignified of predicaments? Oh joy of joys ... this time I had a full house audience. Utter mortification set in as the witnesses descended rapidly to confirm what ol' Numb Nuts of the North had just done. I looked around and wondered if I could just drop into the gaping precipice with the truck and completely disappear ... forever, if possible. At that point, I could do nothing more than stand in the middle of the road, fists curled and driven painfully into my sides, and utter a long-winded primal scream that would have made any old merchant mariner proud. I also presumed that the approaching onlookers would not hear it above their own motor noises.

Well, upon their arrival, the first comments offered in unison were "H-o-o-h-L-E-E S- -t .... ohhhh m-a-a-a-n ... N-I-C-E job!" This really didn't dissipate my desire to crawl into that same hole at all. So, what's the first thing real guys do to alleviate the upset of such disasters? Wrong ... likely no matter what you might have been thinking! You have to get out the camera and pictorially document this embarrassment thoroughly. Ahh ... thanks, guys, thanks A LOT. But paybacks are fair enough since I have done my share of teasing and once it was determined that it could have been far worse, we settled into an ongoing laugh fest over the whole matter.

Oh how I love those graders even more now. It wasn't long before the grader was hooked up to the truck with my handy now-defunct tow rope inherited from the field. By the way, Dakotas don't have stunningly obvious tow points up front like the full-sized Rams. It took some conference of the masses to decide which areas could be hooked to without causing new damage. I now regretted that my truck sat nearly at a right angle to the road, fearing that a perpendicular tow out would crush the right side of the body panels in as the truck followed at a diagonal. The grader operator, as promised, put it in 'granny low' and slowly inched east. Three foot into the pull, the Dakota's rear wheels engaged again with terra firma and resumed a more normal stance.

We all circulated around and under the truck to assess damages and the consensus was; "Wow, this thing is undamaged! Would you believe that?" My vicarious pride rose a little as one observer said "Gee, do you think it's too late to order a half ton as my next new field vehicle?" My unspoken thought reply was "Well, only if it is a Dodge perhaps."

But the 'bad kid' fun wasn't over yet, even with the truck now out of peril. One of the operators said "Okay, now I am going to send these photos directly to Mark's e-mail address. So whaddya think of that?" Oh, how we laughed at the prospects. "Whoa ... no, wait a minute, you're right, do that! I won't say a thing about it until he opens his e-mail and I hear a "Holy Moses ... do you mind explaining these photos?!" If he asks what I was doing in his absence this afternoon, I will simply say "Oh, just the usual, dear, you know, a little fussing around in the garden, etc." And we all laughed those rotten kid laughs all over again.

Well, for lack of proper camera patch cords and misspelled e-mail addresses, it took until today for those photos to reach me. In the meantime, I had been on tenterhooks awaiting their arrival. As we sat around at Virgil's farewell luncheon last Friday, Mark brought up the issue of that HUGE hole at the side of the road east of here. It was a good thing that I happened to be standing behind Mark when he said it. Norm nearly blew his last soda gulp out through his nose and I stooped forward in silent laugh convulsions, trying ever so hard not to explode into audible laughter myself or pee my pants. Just wait until he opens his e-mail tonight though!

Today's Update:

Brou has been in very good hands. Had I seen the full extent of the wound that the vet uncovered with his clippers, I don't doubt that I would have wilted away like yesterday's vinaigrette salad. I will give a full report on his progress soon. Just know that he is over the hump on this one, too, even if I won't be with the Nightingale post-op duties necessary.
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All Farewells Are Tough, No Matter What

A Part of Last week's News:

Virgil announced last week that it would be his last week on his gas well run out here. Although we knew all along that they wouldn't keep a sharp kid out here in the boonies forever, we still felt the ice water pang of regret upon hearing his words. He had been our life-line out here, the likely link that made the difference as to whether we would make it or give up in despair in that first harsh year. So what do you do when faced with an emotional moment like this one? You stalwartly offer to cook bratwurst and barbeque pork, that's what. And so we were able to meet one more time officially and, thoughtfully, he brought along his replacement, Norm for us to meet. Norm was a funny and likeable kid but we knew that he just wasn't going to be any in-kind replacement for Virgil. As we were sitting here last night with Slim, I shuffled my feet restlessly into the sand grit on the floor and said "Ah damn it, Slim, I sure am going to miss that Virgil." He shifted theatrically on the big Chesterfield to herald an important revelation and said "Well, ya know, Lin, I feel that same damn way. In fact, when you guys didn't answer the phone all morning yesterday, I just had to call Virgil and ask if he thought maybe I should wander down there on a rescue mission of some sort. In reality, though, yeah, I just kind of found myself missing that kid, too." There just went our lovable and helpful interface to an industry that we might otherwise come to locking horns with in short order. Beyond that, he proved to be an excellent, faithful friend in his own right.

Slim couldn't make it down here for the lunch send-off but it was still an enjoyable last encounter anyway. Like us, Virgil was kind of dreading some kind of all mushy, sentimental send-off moment so he was quick to say "Now don't think that you are getting rid of me for good, okay? We'll be back out to visit every couple of months or so and we can do some more plinking and hiking and stuff. I am also coming back out soon to help you guys finally get some running water in the rat." That was the salve we needed to stay dignified about this whole farewell occasion. It wasn't that easy for any of us on the last day of Robin's presence in the oil patch since we knew that we would probably never see him again once he headed back to Texas. Today, we had all received that stay of emotional execution and were incredibly grateful.

Today's News:

Mark is on an impromptu trip into town. Brou got seriously sliced up while rough-housing with Slim's three dogs last night. It wasn't until later that I discovered the reason for his cowering demeanor when he came back inside. He yelped and nipped at me as I tried to give him a belly scratch. I found a 4 to 5 inch rip in the skin on his groin near his right leg and it went down to the muscle casing. It's likely that he crashed into the discarded metal siding pile as they flew around the yard. Fortunately, it was a relatively bloodless trauma or I would have heaved immediately. He remained deadly quiet through the night, refusing to eat or drink and, this morning, we decided that we couldn't take a chance on such a large wound out here in Septic City. So off to the vets he went.

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Humor of the day (appropriately, from Virgils' Mom)

A New Element is Discovered:

A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named "Governmentium." Governmentium has one neutron, 12 assistant neutrons, 75deputy neutrons, and 224 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of particles called peons. Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert. However, it can be detected, because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium causes one reaction to take over four days to complete, when it would normally take less than a second. Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a certain quantity in concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as "Critical Morass." When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium an element which radiates just as much energy as the Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.

A Spring Fever Hike For The Cats

Current news:

"It was a dark and stormy night ... " Well, it wasn't until Murphy and his laws stepped in again. There was only a 20% chance of thunderstorms called for today. They did not arrive until a few minutes ago which, of course, was not long after Mark asked if I would do the generator shut-down tonight. The heavy rains came without warning so there was no chance to slip out before the ground became slick. I can picture myself tripping into the drainage ditch, doing the splits in the mud and bunging up my bad knee so there is not much incentive to rush out there now. The only other incentive might be to avoid losing the computer in a lightning strike, OH, like that one ... F-L-A-S-H ! ! ! ... one ... two .... KERASSHHH!!! Certainly got the kitty boys' attention that time. So, here I am waiting out the worst of it. Can't dance, might as well write a new blog entry.

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The kitty boys were not to be denied their walk any longer, not this morning. They had seen the dry ground from the big window, felt the unusual warm press of the sun in their fur and they now sat like tall teapots in front of the door as if intense stares would make it open.

With Mark off on a supply run, I would be alone for most of the day and I had not planned anything too exhaustive. Neither of us have recovered our energy since that last bout of illness. The cats' glares were starting to get to me so I finally opened the door to the porch. They both slid outdoors, down the steps and over to the moving trailer in a swift and mercurial motion. They were on a recognizable mission so I found my rubber boots and headed over to the mesa wall. Sure enough, they were on my heels and soon we were all, Brou included, up on the first bench (first lower step of the mesa). We had hiked along this bench many times and it was Beautiful Dave The Cat who decided that we should assault the second bench today. By then we were well west of our known trail up but we started up anyway. It required a little more athletics than normal, a little more energy than I had hoped to invest but the trio were thrilled with the adventure.

We were now so close to the top but the last barrier to success was a solid wall of sandstone over ten feet high. We skirted along its base, hopping from boulder to boulder or occasionally sliding down boulder faces as the ledge changed levels abruptly. It was Brou who found the final path to the top, although in a disturbing way. I happened to look over just as he made a leap over four feet straight up. He missed the unseen target, his toenails audibly scribing the rock, and he fell back down and tumbled for several feet. Fortunately, the ledge was wide enough that he didn't turn into a rolling stone and end up back down at the first bench. As usual, he was back on his feet instantly and grinning merrily. It reminded me of our last outing when it was I who lost footing on some dried leaves, fell right square on my ... dignity ... and then did a lumpy side roll down through the rocks and sticks for fifteen or twenty feet before inertia let loose its claim on me. It's funny how, even though you are miles from anyone, one of the first things you do is look around to see if anyone saw you perform that most undignified descent.

My achy hip and knees winced at that recollection but we were all ready to inspect Brou's potential path. Before I could boost him up, Brou made a second lunge and cleared it this time. Dave and Ming followed immediately behind and now all were staring back down at me impatiently. Not to be the poor sport, I kneed, butted and dragged my ample carcass up, through and over the last boulders. The view was a breath-taking reward. The flat plane of our normal canyon bottom existence expanded upwards and outwards as new mesas and far skies were revealed. The ribbon of our canyon and creek extended for miles more beyond our normal perspective. Even the kitty boys sat down on the rock ledge to contemplate this new view of our world. I cannot describe the feeling of peace and contentment to quietly sit with friends, large or small, and simply exist in such a beautiful place.

I always let the kitty boys set the pace and eventually Ming initiated the homeward descent. As much as he fusses if he thinks we are going on a hike without him, he loves the return trip best. With the help of gravity, it wasn't long before we were all back home at the rat.

As I sat collapsed in the wing chair, I heard a familiar noise just outside the open window and looked up. The first hummingbird of the year had returned, looking for last year's feeder. I realized that even the feeder bracket had disappeared during the re-siding project and felt like a complete heel as he flew away a few seconds later. I curtailed my rest and went in search of the feeders. They are now back in place and ready for the hordes to return. I had once read an e-mail about how 'they' send out scouts so you have to get the feeders up early. Good heavens, what utter poppycock. By that comment, you'd assume that hummingbirds traveled in massive divisions like the U.S. cavalry. Hardly. If you miss the first ones, there will always be more showing up later in ones and twos.

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Humor of the day (this one's from Virgil's Mom)

Take 60 seconds to try this. It's too amusing not to.

1. go to www.google.com

2. click on "maps"

3. click on "get directions"

4. type "New York City" in the first box (the "from" box)

5. type "London, England" in the second box (the "to" box)

6. hit "get directions"

7. scroll down to step #24 (this number might change however so look around in that vicinity if the gag line isn't apparent)

Road Grading and Murphy's Infallible Laws

Current News:

It had been months since the road grader had found its way this far up the creek so I rushed to the window to watch with excitement as it passed by on Thursday. The relatively smooth roads left behind rekindled my wild hair to jump in the Dakota and head towards Albuquerque on an architectural salvage run on Friday.

And then Murphy and his laws intervened. Within 8 hours of the roads being made palatable, the snow started to fall, then hail and finally rain followed. While it started off as my favorite type of rain, the one which falls gently enough to soak in rather than run away, taking the soil with it, this bout persisted throughout the entire dullish gray Friday. Somewhere in the midst of the steady downpour, a curious procession of gas field vehicles passed by, fishtailing in the clay gumbo and bouncing from one side of the road to the other like golf balls in a downspout. The new smooth surface of the road was history that quickly. Fine then, I can take a hint and I will stay home ... hmmmph!

So we tackled hanging a few doors today (Saturday). I will not mince words here - there are few things I now enjoy less than hanging doors but doing it within an unlevel, non-square, off plumb 30 year-old rat trailer and there are going to serious blood pressure moments coming down the pike, real quick. I have worked on Civil War era buildings and not found them quite this annoying. We had previously bought several of your basic luan hollow core doors at Salvation Army and the Humane Society's resale shop for between $5 and $10 each. They were solid affairs, quite unlike most of the ones initially native to the rat which were either missing entirely, bore a few iterations of knob set bores or many impressions of angry knees, feet and fists. We had to make new frames in all cases. I sawed up every bit of scrap material lying around into shims; paneling, 1 by, plywood, paint sticks and ripping debris until I had a sizeable box of shims at the ready. I will cut to the chase here since framing in doors is a tedious pain in the butt that I no longer have the patience for, let alone write about after the fact. We also had the joy of hanging two more bi-fold closet doors today. The factory genius who designed the door packaging lay-out put the overhead rails exactly where the forklifts ram into them. Every last one of the rails had been smashed in on one end, rendering them nearly useless without serious smithing skills applied vigorously. By the end of today, color me a dark shade of surly.

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Aux des VRAI Canadiens:

Okay, for all my Canadian readers, you might want to check out the web link below and add your comments. It concerns one of my favorite New Mexico bloggers (who I am linked to) and an article his QWEE-beck guest wrote. Since the article was published in French, it was translated via computer. The translation results were hilarious and the blogger reaction in Albuquerque was even more amusing. You may wish to add your comments - just make sure to read through to the end of the comments section first. Personally, I found the comments about mayonnaise on fries and ketchup-flavored potato chips just a little inflammatory but you know the current culinary score better than I. If they had mentioned la poutine (or Lucier's "frit ... avec la sauce?"), I might have become vocal myself.

http://www.dukecityfix.com/index.php?itemid=2725

And while we are on a 'hokey' night in Canada roll, here is a little humor (humour) from my old NY state bud Jim (I don't think they averaged in S.Empty's stats though):

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Humor of the Day:

Let's see you beat this MPG!

A 2006 study found that the average Canadian walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found that Canadians drink an average of 22 gallons of beer a year.

That means, on average, that Canadians get about 41 miles per gallon.

Our Hero of the Week

Current News:

The photo is of our friend Slim aboard Crazy Alice.

It's been a rough week for both of us out here in the boonies. Mark's condition went from bad to worse, the roads were less than pleasant from here to the main canyon and both of us were too ill, too depleted, to make the long trek into town for medical help for either of us.

This time, it was our cowboy neighbor Slim's turn to rescue the Pilgrim and clear any score card and then some that he might have been tallying. When he heard of Mark's condition, he endured the rough roads down here last Thursday and left us with his personal emergency supply of meds. While it was clear that I could not take them, Mark could and I was very thankful for that. I gave him the starter round when he retired very early that night. He was shivering so badly that his jaws clattered and I was deeply disturbed by his ashen cyanotic pallor since I had already suspected that he might be slipping quickly into pneumonia, heralded by his painfully tight coughs. Our supply of cough syrups with expectorants were nearly depleted in hopes that he would keep his lungs from clouding up. I had been riding herd on him constantly to do breathing and deliberate rib cage contraction exercises to ward off further breathing deterioration but we had still been losing ground gradually. I just had to hope that Slim's help had come in time.

Mark made it through the night although his tortured moans, ramblings and coughs had me bolt awake many times that night. He remained a zombie for the next couple of days, sleeping almost 20 hours of each day but finally agreed to eat something by Sunday. It wasn't until Wednesday that he ventured outside to "accomplish something, anything". The week of down time had been weighing on him and he was anxious to get back at it. This Thursday, he even made his ritual run to town although he had justifiably run out of steam very early this evening.

So, Slim, wherever you are the next time you get into trouble, know that you have racked up some serious "Get out of trouble FREE cards". Thanks for loving and caring about a couple of eccentric "Pilgrim" neighbors. You are the official hero of the week up the creek. We love ya!

Sundries: Temperature is a couple of degrees above freezing but a light snow has started to come down. Hopefully it won't be too messy out there when I shut down the generator. Brou has accomplished his last outey for the night and is now engrossed in a brand new rawhide bone. He got in two good runs today when he and I jumped in the truck to check out the road grader's new work.

Birds of Prey, Play and War

The kitty boys aren't happy with their new curfews but Spring has brought the return of our raptors. Barely a day goes by now that I won't see one or more in our skies or roosting in our trees. Several weeks ago, Mark was reading an article to me when my concentration was interrupted by a peripheral visual disturbance ... my goldies! At first, I had only noticed one golden eagle making it's classic circular flight patterns just a little west of the rat. I arose with the birding binoculars and steadied myself into the large window frame for better viewing. Before long, it became very apparent that 'he' was courting a lady who finally settled down into one of the high ledges above us. It would appear that the 'chemistry' clicked for this pair and they eventually circled up into the air in, I suppose, a "Was it good for you?" soaring dance of ever widening and ascending circles until even the binoculars could no longer hold them. They have since returned often, taking up a roost in the pines nearby and waiting for tender kitties or cottontails or whatever might present itself as dinner below. And they have allowed me to observe their play moments as well. I watched mesmerized as the male broke off a roosting branch and rose high into the air with stinging speed, only to drop the branch and then practice diving to clutch it up again and again before it hit the ground. Perhaps typical guy "Hey, watch this!" stuff. Eventually the female joined him, probably saying "Yes, dear, that really was impressive. Can we do lunch now? I think I might be eating for more than one."

And today, as I was soothing a fever's heat in the late shade of the porch, a hawk caught my attention. He was large bodied and stubby enough in the neck that I might have mistaken him for an owl had evening's dulling light been any closer. Retrieving the binoculars to aid my failing eyesight dispelled any doubt that this was a hawk of good proportion. To keep him circling within viewable range, I would occasionally 'scree' to him and he would stop midair with chilling accuracy like a kite on a long string despite the winds and watch back intently. Before too long, I noticed another hawk who, at first, seemed to be a considerable distance behind him. It was not until their orbits overlapped that I realized that this second hawk was considerably smaller and probably concerned about an invasion of territory and his nesting grounds. Looking through the 'glass', I had lost all sense of proximity until the two engaged in combat. After a number of glancing intercepts, the larger dropped down onto the smaller and I saw a tiny flash of white feathers and the smaller hawk dropped down into the sage at the base of the mesa. The larger bird dove down into the same area and then took up watch in a tree on the lower mesa bench. When I removed the binoculars, I was startled to realize that this had all happened just ten feet beyond the big moving trailer. I resumed spotting the larger bird. Had I not known his position, I would have never seen him in the top of the big conifer. He rested there for another ten minutes, likely waiting for the re-emergence of his protester but finally flew off to the north east. Brou and I searched the brush for his possibly battered dog-fight partner. I was greatly relieved to look up and see the smaller fellow airborne again and nervously patrolling his territory until the shadows lengthened.

'My' birds are very special to me. They are a part of my life here when I walk away from the rat trailer. The larger hawk may likely be the fellow who came to see me when I was out stalking renegade cattle last summer. Having to herd these cows with nothing more than a broom and a pick-up truck, I had pulled into a remote gas well site and was circling around to drive the delinquent noshers back towards the road. My intent and tactics were utterly dissolved when I heard a distinct 'Scr-e-e-e-e-e!" right over head. I looked up and saw a large hawk circling above me. As I returned his call, he circled lower and in ever-tightening circles and returning my calls until he was, perhaps, just 10-15 feet above my head. Given my awareness of his razor-edged talons, I decided that we need not get any more familiar. I slowly presented my flat palm upwards as if to push him further aloft and he obliged, still calling but flying ever higher until he vanished completely from view into the bright blue sky.

The photo shows not two but THREE golden eagles above the rat trailer just a few days ago. By their actions, it would appear that one of them was a Johnny-Come-Lately hoping to win over the affections of the lady as the third eagle eventually left after a few lofty scuffles and flew off to the north by himself.

Current news:

It's been a tough week out here so far with Mark succumbing to a flu which he likely picked up on the last town run on Thursday. We agreed that he has probably slept 20 out of each 24 hour day since Saturday night. I am hot on his heels for the walking wounded club membership so bear that in mind if another update lags.