The Manhunt

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Retrospect: September 2006
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Finally! This should be the last tale from September 2006. For whatever reasons, that month proved the most lively of our tenure here to date. There was the Home Cummins parts 1 through 4, Val de Mort, Part 2 , Strangers in the Night and The Junk Pile Surprise. What a month indeed. Don't expect a quiet and boring life just because you move out to the middle of nowhere ... just giving you a helpful heads up.
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I had been sitting out on the Rat's porch and enjoying the cooler Fall air when I heard the unmistakable chopping of helicopter blades. I was surprised when I saw a dusty green locust of a helicopter poking and nosing along low over the creek. I never had a camera handy back then but the photo below at least shows the type of bird. I thought to myself "Well, that was certainly odd." and went back to reading the paper, vaguely perturbed at having lost my page in the process.
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About an hour later, Virgil slid into our parking lot and jumped out on a mission. "Where's Mark?!?" "He headed in to town a few hours ago ... why?" Virgil slapped his thigh in exasperation and asked "Have you got any protection?" "Maybe ... if I dig through the trailer for a half day or so. Why?" Virgil sighed loudly "There is a BIG fugitive manhunt going on; Hondo just talked to some state police and wanted me to warn you." "Any details?" "Yeah, a couple of guys in a stolen car got pulled over on the highway south of here, bailed and headed this way." "South!? That's the route Mark took today. Great timing, he hasn't driven that way in almost a year but he did today!" Virgil and I exchanged concerned looks.

Knowing that the kindly Mark would not hesitate to offer a ride to anyone who looked stranded, I immediately shifted into worry mode. Virgil and I hovered expectantly over his cell phone as he dialed Mark. No answer. We both exchanged the customary "It's okay" looks now even though we both had other mental scenarios forming. Virgil was concerned for both Mark and I now and it obviously killed him to leave either of us out here without his help. "Awww, great timing ... I have this appointment I can't miss back in town at 6:00PM and ..." ..I replied "Pwah, don't worry about it, Virgil, we're pretty big kids and can take care of ourselves." Of course, as he drove out of sight, I thought "Ohhhh man, whaddamy ... nuts?" I did a logical survey of my readily available self-defense options; "Oh yeah, they will quake in their boots when I flash my serrated paring knife ... you bet." This is something you should think out and plan for well head of time, always, because occasionally we might run into people who are simply not nice. It is a good idea to consider how you will address such rudeness. I won't condemn pacifism but I personally don't like the idea of being subject to possible unmentionable abuses to myself or those who I feel protective towards. Sort out your thoughts on this well BEFOREHAND and you will be better able to deal with the consequences. Statistically, it is a long shot but, as the Scouts say, "Be Prepared" - the exercise won't hurt you.

Once I adjusted to this situation, it seemed that my priority was to alert the neighbors after confirming the details with the state police and in between my fruitless calls to Mark. The confounding lesson I learned here was that neighbors in the boonies, counter to your assumptions, might not appreciate your old-fashioned value of looking out for them as you would your own. And it was bitterly enlightening indeed. The least pleasant neighbor at least begrudgingly admitted to locking her doors but I received a VERY insulting e-mail from another a few days later in reply to my phone message. So Tip#2; don't expect a broad and mythical Nirvana of neighbors caring for each other just because they inhabit a remote and harsh land with police, fire and medical help hours away at best. Be prepared to go it alone. I can now handle that revelation but many idealists would find it devastating. Your idea of Nirvana should have ever-mutable boundaries if you wish to find it.

But I have digressed here for your own homestead illumination. The afternoon shadows drew so painfully long over the next three hours before I was able to reach Mark by cell phone. Apparently he had chosen to recharge his cell phone in the 'OFF' position as soon as he had left the Rat. The retreat of my adrenaline overdrive flooded in as I heard his unworried voice at the other end. He was still an hour from home but at least now knew not to pick up strangers on the long road back in. Other than listening for unusual noises in our darkening canyon, I could now worry far less about one most infinitely dear to me.

The manhunt? Well, there never was an official and satisfactory resolution to that incident. In the end, I presume that in this age of cell phones, the fugitives dove into our canyon but called for likewise sleazy accomplices to meet and spirit them away from justice.
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The Hummingbirds Have Returned

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This first part of today's post is just for Sharon. She could use some New Mexico good cheer while she wraps up the last frantic days of their big move. Barely two weeks to go, girl, and then these little fellows will be joining you out under the portales for margaritas!
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About a week ago, I heard the distinct sound of a hummingbird diving in and out of the sage brush. A friend describes the sound well; like tiny Volkswagen Beetles.

It wasn't until yesterday that I found our one surviving bird feeder. The other had fallen down late last summer and the UV-beaten plastic shattered, leaving a good quantity of sticky sugar water everywhere.
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So far, this little fellow with just a touch of purple collaring his neck is the main visitor. If he has his way, he will be the only one. He perches up on the cast iron hanger and guards his nectar water intently. But, as you can see in the top photo, the green is returning to our canyon and soon more hummingbirds will join our early bird. You picked the perfect time to migrate, too, Sharon!
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Mark Receives a Big Hand

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I owe our friends and family more details on Mark's broken hand so here it is:

We are finally finishing off part of the bathroom. It took me forever to start feeding and juggling four new electric wires through the ceiling and walls and around the shower and sink. The rework unfortunately required removing the flush mount shower light which we had installed last year since I couldn't access its junction box otherwise.

To reinstall the fixture, I was standing on a crate, trying my best to hold the light up in position and not rip up my arms on the shower's jagged edge screws while Mark replaced the light's mounting screws from within the shower. Easy enough.

Well ... there is bound to be a problem with a six and a half foot tall man working in a shower many inches shorter. It was a good thing that he got the first screw into place, too. The second screw slipped out of his grasp and fell to the drain area. He backed up as he leaned down and startled when his rump hit the shower door. So he lurched forward and nearly lobotomized himself as his head connected with the projecting corner shelf. I almost fell off the dairy crate when I heard (and felt) the sickeningly loud whack.

Having too recently performed a nearly identical move myself in our cozy little waterboard chamber, I empathetically recalled the blinding head pain and screeching of neck vertebrae as they compressed and shifted at horrid, unnatural angles. And I was hardly the one to go "Tsk, tsk" when he hauled off and whacked the offending shelf column in his moment of extreme pain.

So the score now stands at Shower: 2, Big People: zip. It is an amazingly robust and most evilly designed fiberglass torture unit. Although I lived with a mild hand fracture for a week or two after my own bout with it, Mark had obviously broken one or more things of significance since his hand swelled up to impressive proportions. A few days later, I finally found an ace bandage and bound his hand up. If nothing else, the binding reminds him to NOT use that hand. But, ya know, sometimes it feels so good to get in a little revenge at such excruciating moments. Maybe we need to pad the thing with rubber walls next or wear helmets in there next time. Someday I may fantasize about a much bigger shower area but, for now, I just fantasize about a real porcelain throne. Possibly my kingdom for one, in fact. One of these days, I will describe life with a composting toilet and gimpy knees. But first I must finish off that bathroom!
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The Generation Wars

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Update:

Generators: 1.75 / Rat Clan Mechanics: .25

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The gen war score says it all, almost. Somewhere under the dark clouds of obstinate generators, Mark's planned absence for the better part of next week, his broken hand, the killer black pick-up truck conspiracy (grin), the insouciance (being diplomatic here) of certain gas companies and, accordingly, the large gamble of moving 'up top', my normal ease of writing has all but evacuated this week. That ability certainly didn't flee from boredom.
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Here is one of the naughty generators of late. At least it is running, after a fashion. Below it, you can see our version of the mechanic's dolly which lopsidedly straddles the hand-dug rain diversion ditch. After several days of the myopic, ham-fisted horde saying "Let's try this ...", "Okay, let's try this then ...", this blue dairy crate and the generators have bested us. Pre-existing posterior miseries aside (but sorely aggravated), this dairy crate left us each with a serious case of WAFFLE BUTT! This was the ultimate lingering insult to injury after not having corrected the mechanical problems.
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Mark is circumventing the old generator's start-up problem for now by removing the spark plug and priming the cylinder with a few spritzes of gas. While removing the plug for each start-up attempt is a royal pain, it is still far easier than fighting with the air box to squirt gas through the carb throat. The draw-back is in tempting fate blatantly on a cross-threaded head (a la the Kawasaki generator last year).
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After confirming that each unit had spark, we went through the entire fuel system on each; from cleaning out the carb float bowls and jets to cleaning out pre-carb sludge traps and tank filters. Murphy's Law probably also suggests that you will not need to remove the tank filter unless the tank is filled to the brim with gas first. In my ancient and cantankerous state, this whole process was a high blood pressure fest waiting to happen. I had looked for encouraging signs of culprits to keep me going. There were none; no badly clogged filters, only one nozzle jet with two minor holes (of many) plugged, nothing that offered a "Eureka!" moment of satisfaction and encouragement. I am now convinced that trying to establish an off-the-grid homestead goes much better for those without a substantial layer of jade on them. But we're here so no sense in giving up now!
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Once Mark heads off to civilization with the prospects of real flushing toilets and predictable showers, I might just avoid the generator start-up hassles and live by kerosene light until he returns. That means no computer, no on-line access and no further blog activity until he returns. Just warning ya ! I will try to slip in one more post before that happens though.
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Ms. Daisy Finally Shines

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Yes, ditzy Daisy came into her own on Saturday for Mark. And pleased he was. With Slim about to move cattle down into our canyon, they have been working hard to repair fences to keep his cattle from mixing with the somewhat wild stock next door.
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Daisy and Brou alerted us to this stray and I caught her with the new camera's zoom; red-handed with a mouthful of our pasture grass. It was Daisy who chased the stray back down the road at 15mph ahead of Mark in the Ram, a mile and a half back to the fence line. Mark was pleased and surprised at her willingness to help out. She would return to him at intervals and go out to search again at his suggestion. The wily cow had given them the slip at the last moment, doubling back and descending a steep arroyo bank leading to the creek which neither of us would tackle on a good day. These creatures are amazingly agile despite their bulky appearance.

Tired but still not willing to hitch a ride back in the truck, she ran all the way back behind the truck. Brou was quietly waiting on the front porch for them. We had been warned that his nearly fatal bout with parvo-virus would leave him without his original stamina and perhaps he wisely realized that. Normally Mark would put him in the back of the truck but had taken off without him this time. Brou was noticeably bummed out about this oversight, too.

Daisy seemed to fully understand and enjoy what new heights of esteem she had just achieved on her own and was unusually chipper and responsive for the rest of the day. Maybe this will be her Renaissance!

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This is another heads up in case I disappear for a while. It would appear that we are entering into another techno cluster-bung zone. We had not just one but BOTH generators fail on us in the last 24 hours. I am typing on borrowed, limping generator time at the moment. Tomorrow will be taken up with carb, fuel line and filter maintenance. Gee, I can hardly wait. The components are very efficiently squeezed into a space roughly the size of large Coleman coolers and we are a couple of big people with equally big fingers and hands ... and with little patience and finesse left. Wish us luck, please. If it works, I'll be back in no time flat! If I'm not, don't panic yet.
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As the Road Turns

.We took a drive 'up top' last Sunday through our connecting canyon which is Mark's confessed favorite pure leisure drive. In this photo (if you click and enlarge it), you can almost see where we would previously drive straight ahead instead of taking a new curve off to the right. If you attempted that now, you would plunge over a cut a dozen feet deep, probably taking out a high pressure gas pipeline in the process. Ill-advised.

In case you missed the heads up, I am about to get metaphorically obnoxious here so return your tray to the upright position and extinguish all smoking guns.

Just like that road, we have found that what seemed like the clear and obvious path of our plans out here can change in a matter of months or even from hour to hour. The Rock of Damocles was a minor concern but what a gas field rep said yesterday was not. What he learned yesterday was that the five mile road to our Rat Town was not classified as a road used by several gas field operators. What that meant, ominously, was that if the creek gnawed further into the hard rock of the mesa walls in a few places and washed out this elevated road, it could be officially abandoned ... and not replaced. As you might imagine, this was not joyous news to these two people living at the very end of it. The alternative routes are just as seasonally affected (or more so) and would add at least an hour to our established and already prolonged access to civilization.

Now I am wondering if the delay in receiving our pre-fab new buildings was not but more benevolent works of ethereal allies. Having pragmatically ignored such synchronicity in the past to my detriment, I am inclined to have the new buildings delivered 'up top', far removed from these crumbling roads and the The Rock of Damocles . This is where the oddball and the engineer often clash with a brilliant display of sparks, where the unseen and intuitive collide with calculable hard data modeling.

Tomorrow, I would like for the two of us to journey up top once more, to revisit that area which we had both considered a good future home site last August and then compare it with the other possibilities Mark has come across since then. It may well help decide if we should change our time-line abruptly now or remain in the Rat under the Rock until further notice.

I will return in a few days with the results of our exploratory trip. Rat Town might well arise three hundred feet above my lofty dreams of just last month, then again, it might not. So many logistical, natural and human factors to weigh in so little time.
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A Tin Roof and Flat Tires

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Today is the catch-all for all the news too small to warrant separate posts. I don't have photos of any of these items so I am including two unrelated photos to appease the visually focused among us.

Saturday: Our gas field friend Earl limped his truck over to the Rat with a VERY flat tire after Mark had departed for 'up top' to help Slim feed his cattle. That tire was more than a little flat, it was painfully scrunched and bunched to one side of the rim and Earl was hoping that we had a hydraulic jack . His jack would not have been as safe in this snow pack. I painfully remembered that our big hydraulic jack was one of the many useful things that had to be left behind to completely unappreciative recipients in the big move. What we had was even less suitable than what Earl had brought with him. But at least he had ample sympathetic company, including Brou who remembers and adores him.

He eventually chipped out his jack from the deep crusted snow in his truck bed. As he had predicted, the bumper on his Ford proceeded to lever upwards long before he achieved any space between the flat tire and the ground. It took him a bit to wrestle the spare wheel off it's roof-level mount and I thought about his very recent hernia operation with discomfort and concern. But these guys are tough. He chipped and dug a hollow to fit in the spare, got it in place with lug nuts in situ and began to back off the jack. It must have been something about the way I said "Ohhhhhhh m-a-a-a-n!" that had him stop and return to inspect the spare which was flattening out nicely on the bottom with every new drop of the jack. We just kind of looked at each other with that knowing acknowledgment about that poop sandwich factor in life. He said "I don't suppose you guys have a compressor, do ya?" Another bad memory ensued of my shop compressor being hauled away gratis at moving time. It had taken 30 years to become reasonably independent and now all that was gone. I feel like an apartment dweller with a bread knife as my only tool.

A call to Mark located his cheesy 12V inflater picked up since. As I had warned Earl, he would have plenty of time to join me in a cup of Mark's coffee. And then some. That was a shame since he was working both Saturday and Sunday to make a dent in the maintenance of these neglected gas wells. An hour later, and after jumping up and down on the bumper to settle it back down to allow tailgate clearance, he was back on the road but I made sure that he took the cheesy inflater with him - it certainly beat the options of having that tire go flat again even further into the middle of nowhere.
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Mark and Slim finished the feed run by 4PM and Slim joined us for supper around 7PM. I got a late start on my spaghetti sauce but it seemed to go over well anyway. I like to simmer the base for the better part of the day normally. We sat and ate, drank and gabbed as usual; great plans made to conquer the world, or at least this small part of it. And we behaved, as he made us promise, throwing him out before 10PM so that he wouldn't sleep in too long the next morning. It was an unusually early 'lights out' for us, too.
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I love tin roofing! I found an extra reason to love corrugated tin when I saw this thin layer of snow easing its way off the edge and slowly forming a large curl in the thaw.
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Here is what remained of that snow curl yesterday! The sun ate away at the snow until only a lace frame remained but still channeling water down to the original icicles. It was such a delicate structure that I dared not shut the door too firmly.

I was going to write a follow-up entry on hiking with cats and encountering an even more unlikely avian guardian but I am just plain typed out for now.
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Val de Mort, Part 2

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Retrospect: Mid-September, 2006
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It was not even our first full year out here but mid September of 2006 threw more challenges at us than all the months before or since. It was as though unseen forces were playing their best hand in a winner-takes-all game. The only cards we held were faith, determination and optimism. They may not hold a strong suit value to many people but we held that hand doggedly and it won in the end.

Just as with living at the end of the runway of a large airport, everyday noise begins to fall into that deaf repository of your subconscious but oddities still jump glaringly to the fore of your consciousness. I had stepped out onto the porch and into the pleasantly warm Autumn air when a sound caught my attention. I leaned forward off the front of the porch and peered around the front face of the Rat to the West.
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What I saw was no less disturbing than what I had initially heard. Direct atmospheric venting of gas wells is normal out here but this was far worse. Usual direct venting releases small numbers of odorless and invisible assassins but in numbers so small and in such a brief interval as to be a minor threat to life, short-term. What I was seeing now were roiling, over whelming hordes uncloaked by moisture and chemical impurities. I called over my shoulder for Mark to come look and listen. He noted casually that he had heard the noise several hours earlier and paid no attention to it. Fortunately, the clouds were billowing oddly to the North but there was no guarantee that the winds wouldn't return to their habitual trek to the East ... and towards us!
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We walked closer, over to the barn, and realized that this situation would not correct itself. Driving past the clouds to evacuate did not seem a wise choice either by now.
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We decided to creep closer to the fury out of sheer cat-like curiosity, carefully watching the drape of the vapors hissing violently upwards from the ground. The long-absent rains which came back to coincide with our arrival had done much to erode and unsettle the half century old gas infrastructure and the piping had given out near the ground exit below the main shut-off valve.

That's when we decided to look up our field contacts. Our main contact, as fate would have it, was out of state on vacation but he was able to give us phone and e-mail contacts for the pertinent parties as well as safety precautions for the interim. With the photos that we provided by e-mail, they were able to save many needless hours of assessment trips and return trips to town to convene procedure and safety meetings and just get 'er done.

Mind you, even then, it would take time to gather the right hands and equipment along with the two hour trip out here. In the meantime, we watched the heavy clouds of gas sway and meander in the breeze, just hoping that they would not envelope the Rat any time soon. We extinguished the open flame pilots as advised and sat waiting for something to happen for hours, well into complete darkness. There came a point when a surreal sense of fatalism overcame us. We both sat there quietly looking for vehicle lights to pierce the blackness of the canyon until violent headaches got the best of us. Frankly, at that point in blistering cranial misery, we no longer cared if we might wake up the next morning or not. We resigned ourselves to a night's or possibly an eternity's worth of sleep.

We both woke up to the warm touch of sunny rays through the window and blinked contemplatively, eventually pinching ourselves here and there to see if this was a postmortem dream or the beginning of a new day in corporeal existence. Ouch! We were still here all right.
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Arising, stretching and wandering over to the large front window brought us the view above. The sunlight, the mesas and the rest of our familiar world were still there. The gas gnomes had quietly arrived in the dead of night and were completing their mysterious work. Our headaches had subsided, the well had been silenced ... it was obviously going to be another good day ahead for us.
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This event occurred back in those heady first days when we felt as though we had a genuine friend and neighbor relationship with the gas field. Now, only in looking back over the intervening time and events and after sifting through the remains of the old burnt out trailer across the street with its puddles of molten glass and metal, do I realize that few would have mourned our passing had conflagration or gases claimed us that night. The company would have been relieved that no one would likely ever question the circumstances. Cynicism is rarely a child of accidental conception.

But we stay because this place is still our dream come true. The challenges and dangers have been worth the risks and we will now work towards change; to make life easier, more equitable and more joyous for those who follow us. If we haven't given up, don't you dare abandon your dreams either. Take your dreams seriously and fight to preserve them. I will be showing you plenty of reasons why it's worth it.
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Val de Mort, Part 1

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Today's Pre-Ramble: It was with great satisfaction that I did the rounds of my blog friends late last night and found that many of them had touched on the same subject of stopping long enough to smell the flowers along the way, a call to "Carpe Diem". For those of you not as well versed in Latin as I, let me translate: it means "God Fish", not to be confused with "Goldfish" which would likely be expressed as "Carpe Aurum". Do NOT confuse this with "Crap Diem" which has something to do with a sandwich and "Poop du Jour". See? It pays to be well versed in the Romance languages. Considering how many European languages were so heavily influenced by the Roman Empire, how did we end up with our current definition of the English word "romance" or even the French word 'roman' (for a novel)? When I think of the Roman Empire, I tend to imagine vast legions of Italian good ol' boys raping and pillaging their way across the known reaches of the ancient world, lock-stepping in very ugly leather footwear and Fuller Brushes on top of their helmets - hardly what I would consider a romantic notion. But that's just me. Today's title, by the way, is French for 'Valley of Death". Any other linguistic mysteries to tackle while we're at it? But I digress. Just remember to Carpe Diem! a.k.a "Seize the catfish!"

But I am not the Fool of the Tarot deck and realize that someday you will grab the carp and get punctured by its infectious barbs. This profound realization also hit home late last night. Yes, it certainly was a busy night for philosophical indulgence.
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The new invaders by day

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As I completed my blog visits, I glanced at the clock and noticed that it was well past 1AM and that I had sorely tempted the generator to run out of fuel. As I shut down the computer, I heard an unusual bang which also commanded the intense attention of Brou and Beautiful Dave the Cat. I was hoping that something had not exploded in the new addition but when I stepped out there to light the propane heater, the room was in order and quiet. When I returned, the sound had morphed into a curious hissing/mechanical whir which I would expect from a 19th century automaton and was clearly coming through the slightly ajar hall window. This window still opened despite the thick icy condensate and I poked my head out into the cold night air to pinpoint the location of the noise. As my vision adjusted to the scant moonlight offered through a canopy of light clouds, I saw a thick cloud of gas rising unfettered from one of the nearest gas wells. I thought of the open-flame furnace I had just lit and of the many open flame pilots burning in the Rat and I prayed "Dear Jesus, please don't let those billowing death clouds envelope us!". I squinted into the darkness once more and saw that the forming layers of gas were now slowly drifting away to the West, towards the new and unannounced gas drilling rig like a great curtain of menace. I will admit to a volley of conflicting feelings as it drifted away from us and towards our canyon's latest invaders. But they were not feelings of hatred and revenge, more of a great sadness for this entire situation. I cannot feel anger towards the poor souls who eke out their livings in this harsh clime even though I resent the callousness of their corporate masters. In the end, I left it to the wisdom of those with greater insight than mine, shut the window as tightly as I could manage, shut down the furnace and the generator and retired to bed. A few minutes later, the hissing ceased and all returned to the canyon's usual quietude.
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The new invaders by night

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This was the second of our close calls in having to live with the gas industry in our back yard and I will recount that first and more dangerous episode next.
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Blogger Weather Report

See bottom of post for updates!

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I don't want you to worry if I don't post again for a day or two. With satellite as our only connection, we are very much subject to weather conditions. I am typing as fast as I can right now while nervously glancing out the window to the West. The band of snow-heavy clouds which dominate the skies has been slowly drifting this way and the connection is becoming sporadic now. We will be just fine; plenty of food and adequate fuel for a week but we might not be able to connect tonight if the weather conditions deteriorate further. Currently (just after lunch time) there is a very light rain at 41 degrees F. Although we had discussed plans for dinner again with Slim tonight, he has wisely chosen to head north this afternoon. He will take his two horses with him so that none of us have to worry about feeding them during the bad weather and road conditions which might follow.

I should have taken some foodie photos of our dinner last night; Slim's private stock of rib-eye steaks (which he thawed under the Ram's dash heater as he headed down this way) topped with my herbed and butter-fried mushrooms, a hearty pile of sour cream and butter smothered baked potatoes and Slim's perennial favorite veggie, green beans. We gorged ourselves into joyous misery and then kicked back and washed it down with either beer or whiskey. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to us, Slim's extremely disciplined cattle dogs were busy ripping up our elk hanging in the barn. Sum beech! We didn't figure this out until later when Slim got half way back to his camp and realized that his beloved ancient 'Big Dog' had been left behind. Despite being blind and deaf, Big Dog's sense of smell has remained keenly intact and he wasn't about to leave the elk carcass nosh frenzy any time soon. They did a number on that right front quarter by the time they were done. I later found Daisy in the barn trying to get her dibs in on the newly exposed flesh. And here our dogs had been SOOO good about leaving that elk alone, expect for maybe a little gentle gnawing at the shin ends. Aged or not, it might be time to do the abattoir thing on my kitchen table. Sigh.

Given the horrid weather in California and Nevada, I just tracked down Jet Stream maps today. It is my own strange way of telling what's headed our way. So here it is according to blogger location:

Sunday: The Creek will get nailed with a little snow at altitude as the JS (Jet Stream) remains diagonal but shifts Eastward. Red and Catmoves might see a little snow, Buck will probably luck out. Then it heads NW to where people don't read my blog anyway so who cares. Hmphh.

Monday: Sort of the same, just sliding more to the East (more crud for Red, Cat and Buck).

Tuesday: Babzy gets some precip. It passes over Red and Buck as it heads south to the border. It angles back up towards FHB and Phlegmmy on its way back from the Mexico vacation. It will slide over Towanda as it heads almost directly into the northern boonies where Hudson Bay blanket sales will surge. Craver will see some snow. Dirtcrashr and Buck's pal Morgan will get a break on the West Coast.

Wednesday: Northern Cal gets more moisture, Towanda gets a break, it scrubs up against Bruno on the way south, it kinks back up before hitting the Gulf and smacks Mushy and then Goddess. Looks like Lin and carteach might luck out with quick pass-overs of crud. The Atavist might see a little slop, too. Da Moose sees some weather, too.

There, all that said, now I will admit that I don't know a thing about meteorology but I really enjoyed this exercise of including my continental blog friends!

Remember: if I disappear for a bit, blame the weatherman!

Update: 7:30PM Mountain Time - .This is my equally accurate 'step out the door and look up' report: Light snowfall has ended, negligible accumulation. Only one star visible but you know it's not bad when the satellite signals can get through. YeeHaw!

Update: Monday, 3:00PM Mountain Time - I just checked the JS maps again. It confirmed what I was seeing out the window this morning - the JS is right over us and bringing part of that nasty precip from California with it. It was coming down thick enough that the satellite couldn't cut through it just two hours ago (just when we needed it for vital ranch business, of course). The sun just peeked through and we're settled in for now with a 3-4" accumulation. Touch wood.

The updated weather maps now show the JS taking a wild hair twist on Tuesday, like someone snapping a length of garden hose. This one shows Babzy, Moose, Craver and Bruno getting hit with something, everyone else breathing easy for now. Atavist gets a quick something in passing. Phlegmmy and FHB don't get anything with this latest layout and stay that way.

Wednesday's map shows Red and Cat getting some snow with possibly Buck lucking out again, possibly. Towanda and Bruno might luck out, Craver is in the path and Goddess and Mushy might get a little skinned but not badly.

I just realized that Thursday's JS map is from a week ago - glad I don't run an airline according to this site's information. Here, if you want to see what pig entrails I am delving into, go to weather.com - Aviation Maps Index and then look through the menu of jet stream maps available by day and click away, just be aware of the dates shown on each. Find out what the weather has been like in the area of the JS path on its way to you, figure in how the temperatures (hot or cold) along its path will affect it and if it's picking up more moisture (as in over the Great Lakes) or losing it. It's just plain fun and MUCH less messy than dealing with real entrails, without about the same success rate. If nothing else, you will develop a greater appreciation for the poor guy who does the evening news weather report.
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Freeze!

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Here's an update while I am up for it:

Just ask Brou or Daisy - it sure was chili dogs here last night! Mark saw a reading of ten degrees below zero when he got up at dawn to let the dogs out. We later thought about the out-of-state elk hunters up top with Slim. I was getting ready to form a rescue mission when Slim finally returned our call. Apparently all was in good order when we initially called but he had been in the middle of driving his newly arrived herd of a hundred or two head the remaining five miles up to his ranch. He admitted that he was quite contentedly off his horse and settled more comfortably into his pick-up truck for the duration.

We knew that he was picking up the hunters in Albuquerque yesterday and now Slim caught us up on the details. He had to stop and check his cows in the corn lot before heading to the big city. The plane was one hour late so he grabbed a bite to eat while waiting. The hunters hadn't been fed on the plane so they stopped on the way back to eat and fuel up. Notice that I used the term fuel. It was only after he had topped up his Dodge diesel that Slim noticed that he had pulled up to the wrong pump and filled up on gas. Ever had one of those days? Luckily, he noticed the smell of gas as he pulled out the nozzle and hadn't started up the engine. The hunters were a couple of easy-going guys and didn't complain as he secured a number of 5 gallon cans and a pump with adequate capacity to siphon out the half and half in order to start the process all over again.

What annoyed Slim the most was the onslaught of bums asking him for gas money as this embarrassing circus was taking place. "Hell, I offered them a whole five gallons and a can and they still walked away. Would you believe that!?" I guess a real can of fuel, pure or half and half, just won't buy a bottle of booze in the end. Who said beggars can't be choosers anyway? Maybe the ethanol lobby is missing a big offshoot market here.

With temperatures of ten below, our water pipes finally froze up at the Rat. I sighed and dropped my head in resignation as the faucet squeezed out one last drop late this morning. How long before it would eventually thaw out? We fired up the blast furnace in the addition to give the water tank and plumbing there a little heat. A little later we decided to pull up the hatch to the space beneath the addition to heat up the wellhead and other plumbing and fired up the heater again. Mark noted that it was foolhardy to pull up part of the floor in a room with no lighting of any sort.

So the predictable tale of two idjits continues. An hour later, I ask Mark if he would step out and fire up the generator. It wasn't 30 seconds later that I heard a thunderous crash and a stream of ultra-volume expletives. I burst into that kind of grasp-the-wall-for-support hysterics. If you are part of that perfect breed of rational humans, I still don't want to hear any 'tut-tuts' out of you. Having been in the same position previously as Mark was now, I was more than qualified to welcome him into the fraternity of trapdoor idjits. And I had paid my dues right then and there since Daisy's little dance with me earlier had left me in a further deteriorating state of extreme pain. Laughing now has its own torments as does coughing from this nicely timed chest cold. I paid for every laugh today dearly, especially when another stream of cursing arose as he hit his head on the generator room's low door immediately thereafter. We both ended up laughing hysterically in the end - what else can you do sometimes?
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Sorry, I just had to go back and add this Dore litho again. I can never get enough of it. You can see its first suitable blog use here: Don't ever wanna hear about YOUR potholes!
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The good news? The heat allowed into the crawl space freed up the pipes! The forecast calls for a slight warming trend - afternoon highs in the low forties for the next few days so we will hopefully dodge the big freeze bullet again.
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Moi?!

.Here is a photo of Daisy, an impromptu rescue dog who helps run off some of Brou's limitless energy supply. Isn't she just the sweetest thing, lying there innocently with her paws crossed in such a lady-like manner? That dog might just be the death of me however.

She came home with Mark one day last summer after one of the vet's staff e-mailed us a charming, irresistible photo. This dog had spent it's life confined to a small backyard run with no visible signs of interest or affection from the family. The staffer had seen the lollipop symbols on our foreheads and the lavish concern we had expressed for Brou and made her move. Yep, the sucker assessment was spot on. But, like all dogs with that sort of unsocialized history, she came to us 'with issues'. Some bloody irritating ones, in fact, for someone as old fartish and jaded as I.

She will NOT ride in a truck. If you do get hold of her (fat chance) and place her in a truck, you will be cleaning up anxiety barf for the next week. BUT! She loves to follow them down the road, absolutely deaf to your calls to return. Here in heavy coyote pack country, having a dog wander away from camp is not a good idea. We have heard stories from Slim and the locals about how the coyotes will send in one member to play 'come hither, come play with me' to lure a dog away deep into the sage. The rest of the pack will be waiting over the next rise to tear them up. They don't call coyotes wily for nothing. We both like coyotes and don't want to lose that appreciation with a grisly loss of one of our own canines. Our charming neighbor shoots them on sight. Slim, however, shares our view that they are more of a natural eco-balancing benefit in the long run and leaves them alone.

Well, Slim stopped by with his usual truckload of cattle dogs on Tuesday morning to pick up some papers. When he left, I remembered that Daisy was outside and more than likely inclined to chase him all the way out to the main road since he always drives at a relaxed loping pace. Amazingly, she returned to my call long enough that I got hold of her collar and Slim headed down the road. But with her attention still riveted on Slim's truck, I knew that I had to bring her inside for the next twenty minutes. Her freedom any time sooner would have her sniffing the tire tracks like a bloodhound and taking off after it.

I was bent over at a right angle with my hand on her collar and she walked back with me until we reached the steps to the Rat. Social-working didn't do any good so I finally gave a tug on her collar. Without warning, she sprang up the stairs with me still hunched over but barely keeping my footing. Despite this impressive inertia suddenly sprung into action, she decided to cross in front of me and stop dead. I knew there was a severe owie moment heading my way.

Down I went. From Daisy's scale and perspective, she was seeing Babe the Blue Ox felled and heading her way and wisely leaped two foot forward - the limit imposed by my hand still stuck around her collar. My knees hit the deck so hard that I thought I might crash right through the 2x4s. Remember, this is all now happening at the speed of light or at least at the speed of terminal velocity. She had yanked my arm to the left across my chest and I landed on top of her; my right bosom, my right arm and her cement head doing a severe compression into the deck. I will not ask you to guess what gave in that process.

I rarely cry any more but this moment seemed most warranted. My hand was still snagged in Daisy's collar with everything in between there and my shoulder now twisted into Exorcist quality angles and my vision dissolved into an alternative universe of gray with flashing red and yellow supernovas of pain, undoubtedly coming from the discum-BOOB-eration which I had just experienced - forget the knees! My screeches of agony finally brought Mark to the window of the Rat and he asked what he might do to help. "G ... get th ... this ... d-a-w-g inside, pleeeeeeeze??!!!"

I eventually followed behind them and collapsed into my wing chair, still emitting occasional moans and shrieks from the pain leaping out from the right side of my chest. Timing, as always, decided that my brother should make his annual phone call. "Hey, so how's it going?" I stared off at the ceiling for a moment, still bridled with some mild residue of decorum but, between gasps, finally replied "I just found out what it is like for a gentleman to receive a groin kick to the family jewels."

I was concerned that I had cracked a rib but realized that a special trip into town would not be physically pleasant and could only confirm a cracked rib for which there is no suitable treatment anyway but certainly create a pricey, uninsured medical bill. So far, so good ... the pain is finally letting up to a reasonable degree. Oh Daisy ... I don't know if I can handle a few more of those incidents from dogs with issues. But it did seem in keeping with the traditional stream of holiday events.
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Humor of the day: (from FatHairy)
After Buck's quick reply comment, I just had to add this one. It's is only marginally off-color but exemplifies one universal area in which you can expect most men's full empathy:

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The pastor asked if anyone in the congregation would like to express praise for answered prayers.

A lady stood and walked to the podium. "I have a praise for our Lord. Two months ago my husband, Jim, had a terrible bicycle wreck and his scrotum was completely crushed. The pain was excruciating and the doctors didn't know if they could help him."

You could hear an audible gasp from the men in the congregation as they imagined the pain that poor Jim experienced. She continued, "Jim was unable to hold me or the children and every move caused him terrible pain. We prayed as the doctors performed a delicate operation. They were able to piece together the crushed remnants of Jim's scrotum and wrap wire around it to hold it in place."

Again, the men in the congregation squirmed uncomfortably as they imagined the horrible surgery performed on Jim.

She continued, "Now, Jim is out of the hospital and the doctor's say, with time, his scrotum should recover completely."

All the men sighed with relief. The pastor rose and tentatively asked if any one else had anything to say. In the dead silence you could hear only footsteps as a man rose and walked to the podium.

He said, "I'm Jim and I want to tell my wife, ONCE AGAIN, the word is sternum, STER-NUM!"
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For All You Do, This Mud's For You

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Our invasion took a pleasant turn when Slim showed up last Wednesday. I swear, his company could take the horror out of a nuclear winter. I started one of my long simmer spaghetti sauces that morning and we gorged ourselves silly on that and the French bread he picked up before heading into the canyon. He's very good about calling ahead to see if we might need something. As usual, we kept that dear cowboy up far later than he is used to and he headed out late the next morning to do his pasture planning for the coming winter graze and some needed maintenance around his headquarters 'up top'. He came back the next evening and I had marinated and slow-roasted a big chuck roast from his own private beef supply. His reaction was absolutely worth all that fussing around the oven all day. Again we stayed up way too late but you make the most of good company when it shows up here in the boonies.
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It was probably a good thing that we had mentioned Brou's new profound talent with flatulence since Brou decided to bunk in with him in the guest room. You could have predicted Slim's exclamation in the morning; "Well, you weren't kidding about that fartin' hound, were you? I woke up in the middle of the night thinkin' that a couple of your batteries had blown up or something. I mean the hairs in my nose were burning, know what I'm saying? Gawdamighty, it was THAT bad! I almost booted his butt right out the front door right then and there!" I have to admit that we fell asleep at night chuckling about it and glad that Brou had given us those aromatic evenings off for a change.
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We all woke up to the sound of heavy rains hitting the Rat's steel roof. Mark had the coffee on early and we all lounged around over steaming cups before Slim wisely headed back up to his place. Knowing these roads as we do, we were concerned that he had several options for getting stuck in that slick, thick clay mud. He was very good about letting me know when he was eventually back on pavement (I take after my mother when it comes to pacing and worrying).
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The next day brought even more rain and we saw the roads turn to a clinging, viscous slurry. We didn't have to go anywhere so we just sat back and watched the mud bog show. Semis were still coming in and, towards the end, a few of them slid off the road rink and rode the deep bar ditch at an alarming 45 degree angle with their top-heavy loads until the wheels hunted themselves back out. They must have been butt-puckering themselves senseless during that whole process. The truck above (look to the immediate right of the semi cab exhaust stack) fell prey to those inverse railroad tracks into the muck. It was a while before the rescue came in the form of a 'SKYTRAK' which also fish-tailed precariously down the road. The semi cab just happened to be following along close behind. These 'SKYTRAK' type machines are definitely a very versatile little machine and very much fun to watch under skilled operation. You can also see them at work in the photos below.
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Yesterday's entertainment was some poor sod trying to deliver a replacement SKYTRAK. He got stuck BIG TIME in the site access road. The irony was that the replacement unit on the trailer and the existing unit had to both come to the semi's aid, several times. There was a point when the semi made it all the way down to the intersection of the access road and main road (third segment of photo above) before getting mired again and I will admit that I almost hoped that it would stay there, blocking all further ingress and egress. Shame on me ... well, perhaps, kind of, sort of.

By the time the precipitation had stopped on Sunday, our gauge had registered over an inch of rain and we got to see the ongoing mud drags as the ruts got deeper, the fish-tailing more frantic and the plumes of mud getting higher and higher. It helped our viewing pleasure to know that a couple of trucks worth of rig people had blown by one of our regular field guys while he was mired in the creek crossing that they had messed up. This despite his attempts to wave them down. You don't cross 'our boys', period. The downside? We have to get into town soon for a number of overdue reasons, including bringing our supply of windows and antique doors into the people who are constructing our two new buildings. In the meantime, it sure was great to watch God and Nature administer a little poetic justice.
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Rippin' It Up Part 3

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The three of us stood chatting by the moving trailer when I started to feel the tug of a few playful pixie winds. I looked up and noticed some dark knots forming in the light clouds which had been passing over. My nostrils picked up a faint scent of rain which had been poised on top of the mesa, waiting to spring down on us at any moment. Blip - one drop on my arm, blip - another drop on my cheek. I began to consider the prophetic nature of Mark's last comment.

A few moments later found us all sheltered within the Rat and Mark put our coffeepot back on the stove. Quig was an affable man of broad interests so the time and conversation flitted by pleasantly as we waited out the now heavily splatting rains, heavy enough rains that we could see the chocolate torrents spewing off the mesa benches as furiously as we had ever seen them. "Ya got your 'turd-washer', Mark, ya happy now?" Good Heavens, this was certainly a supreme acid test in progress.

After a few of cups of Mark's fine, stout caffeine, we were all getting a little restless so a saunter back to the new porch was in order to assess the new run-off plan. We could see the odd low spot but we were all pleased at the new lay-out forged within a few hours time. Pleasure is never guaranteed to last long though, is it? It was about that time that Quig noticed the new and unusual stance of our two fuel tanks. "Uhm, they didn't install them that way, did they?" Three "Ohhhh crap!" bulbs lit up simultaneously.

I threw on my rubber boots and followed on Quig's heels out to the tanks. A quick look told us that I had not addressed the potential navy effect; that steel boats DO float on water. What we had here were two water-tight 'containment' tanks adrift in the mesa run-off that was now locked behind a new 3' tall berm, their own personal ocean of sorts. The good ship Diesel rode low at the stern, the 'regular' sat precariously low at the bow. Oh joy, the prospects of more water quietly haunted each of us with possibilities, all of them unpleasant. For some reason, I got the odd and uncomfortable image of a counter-intuitive bucking effect when I looked at the 'regular' tank.

Before I could voice those vague theories, Quig planted his arms (which were the size of my legs from years of arm-wrestling big Cats) and jammed the high-side of the 'regular' tank back downward into the swill. We both stood frozen for the long second following the tank's solo leap into the new road. Then we simultaneously issued the very same rude word at volume. Then another silent second elapsed before we both started to laugh.
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Mark broke the giggling stupor when he arrived with "Holy ----, the gas is gushing out the top vent!" The three of us were able to wrestle and rotate the tank quickly into a 'vent-up' position that stopped the torrent. We lucked out in that the fall had snapped off the fuel hose and filter but NOT the main valve at the tank. As it was, we lost about 50 gallons of gas but managed to save the rest. Mark was not amused by our guy-type frivolity but at least we made amends by placing 2x4 supports at the rear of the diesel tank to prevent it from also taking a swan dive.

It was late afternoon by now and it was time for Quig to walk the big Cat home for the day. Although I had been very worried about the downpours reaching and engorging the creek below us, Mark and I were ever so relieved to find Quig's Cat parked on the far side come Monday; there was nothing we owned that could have pulled out a D8R in distress, nothing.

As usual, this story has consumed more words than I expected it to so the final segment with Dilly supervising the remediation will happen in a couple or three days.

To be continued!

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Techno note: Our satellite connection has degraded to a mere 1.5 KB/second for the last few days so please bear that in mind before sending us anything over, say, a 10KB text e-mail. Sun spots? Who knows ... for now, I'm just calling it the end of any real life as we knew it. For that same reason, I am also limiting my blog photo uploads until the situation improves.
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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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Why I Now Seldom Leave The Canyon ... Part 3

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Retrospect: May 2006

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And so we continued to play among the stacks of full dimension lumber, this builder's dream land. The bright, hot weather and our concentration were interrupted by a number of events including a few brief pelting rains, a quick dust storm, a neighbor wanting a stump base for target practice and yet another neighbor wanting to use the phone to report a fire. It was then that Skeeter discovered that they no longer had either phone service or electricity. Under the circumstances, the drone of heavy prop-driven planes became more meaningful. These guppy-bellied planes had been drawn to the ever increasing smoke which I had noticed earlier. Before they flew away, they would circle and finally drop bright red/orange chemicals onto what was now an unmistakable forest fire. After a parching ten year drought, this event was nothing to ignore. Earl fired up the big fork-lift and quickly put our lumber on the trailer before noting that they needed to check on a relative's house right in the fire's path.

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We pulled the heavy trailer out onto the road and realized that we had no choice but follow the two lane highway right through the heart of the fire frenzy. It was a circus of insanity with emergency vehicles screaming past every minute or two and festive gawkers pulling off to the side of the road every few hundred yards. The town we had to pass through was being evacuated, pronto. A wide and heavy load on an unfamiliar trailer being pulled by a truck we were not 100% confident with, in the midst of complete mayhem - we were a little 'on edge', to say the least. Which one of these idiots would be the next to slam on the brakes to pull into a good viewing spot or pull out in front of us with our recent brake job still not tried to the fullest measure? Sure enough, the truck in front of us pulled off abruptly, causing Mark to swing out around him in avoidance. Just when both of us were on the verge of a stroke, an emergency vehicle siren screamed deafeningly to life behind us. Ratchet up the blood pressure another 50 or 60 points. Apparently, the truck in front of us had noticed the silent cop car behind us; the reason for his sudden pull off. Mark, as unhinged as I at this point, had not been looking in his rear view mirrors around the wide load for silent predators. Rather than pass us by as we found the first spot to pull over without capsizing the load into the deep ditches, the officer pulled in behind us. Realization hit us with a hammer blow. Great, Mark, you just cut off a cop, an undoubtedly angry one at that ... we are screwed, Buddy. The officer jumped out of his car and, with spittle flying, launched into the most impressive exercise using the 'f' word in every possible grammatical situation possible. He had covered nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs and more by the time he reached the cab. Mark, now much wiser with age, looked downwards and chose to utter a simple "I am VERY, VERY sorry", despite some arguable points such as the lack of siren use. I don't doubt from the man's beet-red face, language and gesturing that he could have leapt into a violent physical attack and thoroughly enjoyed it. I truly cannot recall seeing anyone, anyone, Barney Fife-ish hyper or not, acting quite that insanely angry. I subconsciously gave him a 10.9 performance score on a scale of 10.

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Whether it was Mark's complete lack of confrontation or seeing my own eyes-closed, ashen pallor is hard to say but he turned on his heels with another barrage of fluent 'f' words and laid a screaming strip of rubber past us without further official formalities. My, that was certainly the right way to encourage us to keep a calm and level head during an emergency. For the next ten miles, we weren't sure if we were going to have the big one or just plain throw up.

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It was a relief to finally see the big main highway again ... clear sailing on four lanes. Hallelujah - homeward bound without any stress now! Beyond the smoke, the sun was intently beaming again, the air and the pavement rippling with heat waves. Free from that nightmare at last!

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About ten minutes later, a small noise and a repetitive light thump crept in. Oh please ... no. We pulled over. Thankfully, it wasn't a flat ... yet. A large piece of one trailer tire tread had left us. No jack on the trailer, none on this truck. The nightmares and despair converged upon us again. Oh, why us and why now? We decided to limp the whole rig slowly to the next stop in hopes of assistance.

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That next stop turned out to be another zoo. The reservation was hosting a 4WD mud fest complete with rock bands. People and traffic everywhere. We limped the rig into a quiet area and looked around for any flotsam which we could drive the wheel of the first axle up on to in lieu of a jack. Parking lots are amazingly clean when you need to find a certain sized piece of junk and we were getting all the more discouraged now. While I went off in search of likely jack donors, Mark was befriended by a very, VERY inebriated Navajo. This tall and portly native rancher would intersperse genuinely well-intended offers of help with brief removals from the scene for public urination events. His brother-in-law, a young 'gangsta' wannabe, was not so gracious and relieved himself directly on our truck's tire. Rod Serling's theme song grew louder with the quickly lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. Another beautiful orange and gold sunset in the making ... but we could hardly give a damn at that point.

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After making the rounds of the security people and the maintenance people several times, I was finally pointed to a gentleman helping an old fart from Flagler Beach change his RV tire. The kindly Samaritan pointed out yet another jack in the back of his truck and off I went, treasure in hand. Mark was happy to have his current company diluted by my return and had that tire off and spare installed faster than an Indy pit crew. We returned the jack with intense gratitude and bade a respectful farewell to Mark's new long-lost best pal.

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Once again, we missed traveling back down the canyon in daylight. Was it now foolhardy to expect anything but? I made yet another heavy mental note about the joys of leaving the canyon.

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Current news:

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A heat wave last night of zero after two days of 15 degrees BELOW zero! Not that the well and pump will free up any time soon.

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