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.

The Luddite meets the cell phone

Consider the word 'cell' for a minute. What definition, what images come to mind? For me, well, I think of a very small space, often punitive in nature. Now that I have dealt with the 'cell phone', I can't say that my opinion has changed much. And their tiny, delicate looks scare me - like putting a painted eggshell in the hands of an 800 pound gorilla. It didn't help that a former neighbor had come over once and said "You're good at fixing things, can you do something with this? Here ... " He showed me what looked like a clam shell with a broken back. Big Bill was a high school linebacker all grown up and the patient was dwarfed by his catcher mitt-sized hand. "Is that a cell phone?" I asked incredulously. "How do you dial anything with those tiny little buttons?!" He grinned "I've got this one finger nail that's a speck longer than the others ... see?" "Okay, then, so how did this broken hinge thing happen?" Turns out that he had picked the phone up in a rush and jammed it into his big Fozzi bear head a little too violently. Luckily there were no connections severed and I happened to have just the right glue around to rehab the device. But it left me leery of the devices thereafter.

A year later, we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere with the nearest phone lines 5 miles away. Solution: those dreaded cell phones. I grimaced as Mark plunked one into my hand. "I will keep this one somewhere as your spare then?." "No-o-o-o ... this is YOURS." Oh joy, maybe I would adapt, eventually.

Full adaptation has still not happened but I did find myself feeling obliged to check in with at least some people. The learning curve began in winter and we found that there was no signal in the rat trailer so I would put on the heaviest hooded parka I could find and stomp out to the junk pile towards the middle of the canyon. If I sat just so on an old steel bathtub, I could get a signal on good days. I sat hunched over hiding from the biting winds. The cold from the steel tub wicked any heat from my buttocks and replaced it with a searing frost ache. I probably looked like an Inuit practicing for the next Hemorrhoid Olympics. I had to shout over the wind and struggle to listen and soon learned to preface every call with "I might lose the connection or the battery may give out. Just remember that if I suddenly disappear, okay?" I would return to the rat with a kink in my neck, a numb hand and frost bite in various places and the thrill of phone chats declining further into simply dreaded events. Content and duration of calls narrowed down to nearly the efficiency of Morse Code if I could help it.

And so this post is my explanation for reconnected friends who would like to chat again someday instead of e-mailing. My typing speed has picked up a little and e-mailing doesn't involve steel bath tubs and frozen body parts. I won't say that I don't long for a good copper-wire connection and one of those old indestructible phone sets that actors used to hurl across the set on a regular basis without ill-effect. Meanwhile, I avoid picking up that flimsy little clamshell when it starts its jingle summons. While the signal coverage has since improved, my attitude has not.

Hail, Mud and Reconnecting with 'Da Moose'

Current News:

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It's been an eventful week out here. Today we saw downpours, hail and the rebirth of serious mud. So much for our big trip into town planned for today. So much for my chance at going to a huge flea market on Saturday. My little Zen drainage ditches were overwhelmed by the volume of water running off from everything and everywhere until the clouds thinned out and lost their bluster. Now just the mud remains to be dealt with and we are hoping for a beaming sun and wind to dry the roads for a revised Monday outing target. The hail has melted away by now but it lingered ever so long and Brou and I just had to sample it all. Oddly enough, the hail appeared to be pea-sized half spheres of ice still nestled around the pales on the porch. Why would they be shaped as half-spheres, I wondered? But they tasted fresh and pure and we helped ourselves, Brou snarfing big mouthful servings and I taking but one morsel at a time. Our large tubs standing at every roof run-off point had long since overflowed with clear water. My new garden beddings had been pounded badly by the torrents of rain and hail but the plants had remained stubbornly rooted into their new home ground. All in all, we fared well today.

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And the highlight of the week was a chance reconnection with two old friends last seen over 35 years ago. It took the Caribbean wanderings of a nephew I barely know and a stranger wandering into the same lounge and performing a bare handed drum solo on a table to cause them to connect. Then it took another relative to pass on this bit of nearly lost grapevine news. I was then able to reconnect with that finger drumming stranger by e-mail and he reconnected me with yet another old friend who we both knew from separate timelines. The latter friend shall simply be called 'Alphonse' after his trademark joke about 'Alphonse da Moose, a weary hunting guide and 'Monsieur Le Hunter'. Whenever he would walk into the room, there would be calls for recitation of his story, "Tell them about Alphonse, they haven't heard it yet!" And we would all settle in for the story with great anticipation. It hadn't mattered that we might have heard the long tale a half dozen times before; we would still follow the story with great amusement, waiting for the operatic calls of Alphonse and then watch the newcomers fall into fits of laughter as the punch line slammed home.

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I was probably one of the first graphics people to consider using vinyl as a medium for lettering although it is a standard in the sign industry now. I carefully close-cut the material and added additional painted detail if necessary. By the time I was done, I had outfitted a surprising number of local stock car racers with vinyl lettering. And, when Alphonse asked for a helmet graphic, I couldn't help but oblige, given all the joy that Alphonse had given us with his infamous story. Much to my great surprise, he now announced that his helmet is still with him and due to become an heirloom for a notable line of drag racers. It nearly always proves to be a great joy to reconnect with old friends who got lost in our rush to conquer life. Alphonse, I am delighted beyond description this week ... thanks!

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My next posting: Most likely about how 'Pilgrim' rescues Slim ... again.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

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I just received a St. Pat's Day bit of humor from a Choctaw/Irish pal. It's an oldie but a genuine goodie that I want to share with all my friends and relatives of Irish descent. It's also to celebrate my reconnection with "St. George" (at least that's how my mother regarded him).

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An Irishman moves into a tiny village in County Kerry, walks into the pub and orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows but serves the man three beers which he drinks quietly at a table alone. An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more.

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The next evening the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time, several times. Soon the entire town is whispering about the "Man Who Orders Three Beers." Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the townspeople. "I don't mean to pry but folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers?"

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"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies, "You see, I have two brothers, one went to America and the other to Australia. We promised each other that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a way of keeping up the family bond."

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The bartender and the whole town were taken with this answer and soon the "Man Who Orders Three Beers" became a local celebrity and source of pride to the village, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch him drink. Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening; he orders only two beers. The word flies around town.

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The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first of all of course, want to offer our condolences to you for the death of your brother. You know - what with the two beers and all...."

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The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear that me two brothers are alive and well. It's just that me, me-self, have decided to give up drinking for Lent."

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Playing in the Puddles

Current News

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Yes, I admit that there has been a conspicuous blog absence. The good news is that some semblance of Spring has arrived, or at least a new absence of this strenuous winter. For the last week, temperatures have started rising into the high 50s to low 70s and the sun is finally climbing further northward, beyond its secretive winter arc behind the north face of our mesa.
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The sun's heat upon the north face has meant the much awaited melting of the snow long hidden in its shadows but that also means run-off and rediscovery of all the low-lying areas wont to collect water. Low spots mean MUD! To that end, I have indulged in a very longstanding pastime; playing in the mud and digging run-off trenches everywhere. I find the task every bit as satisfying as I did when I was eight years old and I have probably created and attended daily to a network of channels and trenches a quarter of a mile long for the last week. The process has left me too tired at night to compose an update but it was worth the effort. Like the Nederlands, the bogs and mires have given way to dry land now, allowing us to abandon the rubber boots and work on the rat trailer without the sloppy, boot sucking impedance.
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I have found a definite Zen in this process, an intense but mindless joy in ushering away the last hints of winter's icy bounty. While you are busily removing sediments from the previous day's water run and incising new channels, you may also find a higher brain function to consider matters more theoretical or esoteric in nature - multi-tier programs running simultaneously, if you will. I find the results most rewarding although it leaves the physical body very, very tired at the end of the day. I suspect that children experience these play functions much more fully than adults do and I find that disparity quite saddening. I've noticed that some adults need children and subsequent grandchildren in order to re-experience these simple joys vicariously. Why should we lose the initial joy of wonderment as we age? Why do we choose to jade so easily if left to our own devices?

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The Lament of Tools Lost

This is a distraction from the usual course of our journal that I just needed to follow. It was sent to me by the much beloved Katlady. I'm just 'funny' about the tools and supplies that took decades to amass and that supported my sense of technical independence. After our move from Hell, it really hit home. Once the thoroughly unscrupulous movers declared that our privately-owned semi-trailer van was full to the gunnels, my treasured shop belongings (along with metric tons of other needed items for our new life) began to bleed out at the seams as acquaintances gleefully departed with the 'excess', the remainder going by default to the house buyer. Now, every time I look for a specific nut, bolt or oddball tool, it comes back to frustrate me. All my unobtainium restoration supplies are gone as well. Sigh. It wasn't until we made room in the rat trailer and started to unload the back end of the van that we discovered that the professional packers had only loaded the rest of the van to half full, that fact nicely hidden behind an impressive wall of floor to ceiling goods that they showed us at the very back end. To add insult to injury, the supposed uncle of one of the movers called the next day to say that he had heard that we were giving away FREE antiques?! Misanthropy is often a well-earned mindset. I still want to cry when I think of all the things that we could have salvaged to make life easier for us now. The budget simply won't allow for replacement of it all, even if it were all still available at any price and we are now two hours instead of 15 minutes from hardware and big box stores. But I rant and digress. I love this following bit of much needed humor regarding my cherished tools. It is all too true:

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Humor of the Day:

TOOLS AND THEIR ACTUAL USE

DRILL PRESS: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the knuckles and flings your beer across the room, splattering it against that freshly painted part that was set aside to dry.

WIRE WHEEL: Cleans paint off bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say "Ouch..."

ELECTRIC HAND DRILL: Normally used for spinning pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age. Also useful for spinning drill bits in reverse until the tip glows red.

PLIERS: Used to round off bolt heads.

HACKSAW: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija Board Principle. It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes. The word 'hack' is very telling here.

VISE-GRIPS: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand.

OXYACETYLENE TORCH: Used almost entirely for lighting various flammables inside the wheel hub you want the bearing race out of.

WHITWORTH SOCKETS: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for impersonating that 9/16" or 1/2" socket for which you've been searching for the last 15 minutes.

HYDRAULIC FLOOR JACK: Used for lowering an automobile to the ground after you have installed your new disk brake pads, trapping the jack handle firmly under the bumper.

EIGHT-FOOT LONG DOUGLAS FIR 2X4: Used for levering an automobile upward off a hydraulic jack handle.

PHONE: Tool for calling your neighbor to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack. Also useful for calling the parts store and complaining that the moron at the counter gave you what you asked for, and it's not the right one.

TWEEZERS: A tool for removing wood and metal splinters. It is made from a magical material that turns invisible when you need it and re-appears when you don't.

SNAP-ON GASKET SCRAPER: Theoretically useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for getting dog poop off your boot.

E-Z OUT BOLT AND STUD EXTRACTOR: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes you absolutely have to have and ten times harder than any known drill bit.

TWO-TON ENGINE HOIST: A tool for testing the tensile strength on everything you forgot to disconnect.

CRAFTSMAN 1/2" x 16-INCH SCREWDRIVER: A large pry bar that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end opposite the handle.

AVIATION METAL SNIPS: See hacksaw.

TROUBLE LIGHT: The home mechanic's own tanning booth. Sometimes called a drop light, it is a good source of vitamin D, "the Sunshine Vitamin," which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading.

PHILLIPS SCREWDRIVER: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and splash oil on your shirt; but can also be used, as the name implies, to strip out Phillips screw heads.

AIR COMPRESSOR: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Chicago Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty bolts last tightened over 58 years ago by someone at Chevrolet, and neatly rounds off their heads.

PRY BAR: A tool used to crumple the expensive metal surrounding that clip or bracket you needed to remove in order to replace a 50 cent part. Also used to bend or break expensive, irreplaceable collector car parts.

HOSE CUTTER: A tool used to cut hoses too short.

HAMMER: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate the most expensive parts not far from the object we are trying to hit.

MECHANIC'S KNIFE: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on contents such as seats, vinyl records, liquids in plastic bottles, collector magazines, refund checks and rubber or plastic parts.

DAMMIT TOOL: Any handy tool that you grab and throw across the garage while yelling "DAMMIT" at the top of your lungs. It is also the next tool that you will need.

A Thank You from Brou

Current News:

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It was stingingly ironic that my next chronological tale after the lumber hauling incident was going to be the story of Brou. When he fell so quickly ill to parvo, I could not bring myself to write the story which was more likely to become a memorial.

Hopefully this site will display the animation, Brou's personal thank you for all the sincere get-well wishes. Click on the photo if the animation doesn't play. The sentiments are truly his and he is nearly back to his old rambunctious self; no sense in walking when a mad dash will suffice. When I looked up "Red Australian Shepherd", I laughed out loud. It must have been a British site for the opening gem of understatement was "They are an energetic breed." and I have repeated that sentiment often when faced with a new and confounding display of his zeal. Ohmigawd ... energetic does not come close to describing Brou's energy level. The only comparison I can come up with is little Ben, the ward of my Australian cousins. Now there was a young lad with Brou-quality energy, quite content to amuse himself in our back lot by playing baseball ... all positions simultaneously. The difference was that Ben had the most impressive manners of any creature I have ever met - this being largely due to my cousins' stewardship. Brou, on the other hand, still needs a little work on the social graces but he is coming along gradually. I was sorely tempted to box Brou up and send him over to Oz for my cousins to deal with and to provide Ben with an equally frenetic playmate. But my cousins are also getting older and tiring of the chase a little now - I can tell by the tinge in their later e-mails.

I had also considered signing him on with Slim's school of cattle dog training. Slim is our grazing tenant (what? ... you think we care to deal with cattle of our own at the moment?!). He is one of the last real Old West cowboys and there will be plenty of stories about our great friendship with Slim down the road. He really doesn't operate a school for cattle dogs but his two faithful companions are examples of someone who has spent some serious training time with them and has a deep and abiding love of their companionship. He talks a good game about being hard-nosed with them but you can tell that they are also spoiled rotten (when no one's looking, of course). What with the unusually snowy and tough winter though, we haven't seen much of Slim in the last couple of months so Brou will remain firmly planted into our own ranch life for now.

I am up early this morning, writing while it is (uhm, was) still quiet. Given that I went to bed way early last night, I felt no guilt about starting the generator and firing up the computer. Mark just arose and did his customary male morning shuffle past to the bathroom in his BVDs. Brou did the customary polite dog thing and excitedly stuffed a very cold, wet nose up into the top of Mark's retreating bandy legs - a far more effective eye-opener than any alarm clock or burly cup of java ... just trust me on that one.

So much for my quiet time to write undisturbed. Mark has now settled himself into the big wingback nearby to put on his socks and Brou is doing his part of the ritual to grab at the sockies with incredible gusto.

The Brou tale will hopefully continue at a quieter time to come. Brou has already announced that this day is off to another boisterous start and that there is no turning back.

All's Well

Current news:

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I was going to describe Mark's return trip on Thursday but decided not to further alarm some readers. The roads are somewhat better now, allowing Brou to return home safely today. He is looking great and his appetite is back. He does tire more easily now so we will take it easy for the next few weeks. I am also watching his outings more closely to make sure that he doesn't wander into coyote scat again. A surprisingly large group of coyotes set up a noisy chorus this afternoon only a half mile away. We silenced them abruptly, that Brou and I did, with our own barrage of howls and barks. Showed them good, we did.

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The photo shows Mark's 'new' truck after this last town trip. Hard to believe that there is a dark metallic charcoal paint beneath the mud. I had originally suggested that we take a handful of mud to a paint shop and have them match the color but the cost of a custom paint job was not in the budget. If you're familiar with the looks of the Dodge Ram, you will notice that the black plastic styling effect beneath the chrome bumper is missing. It lasted all of about three weeks and was then scrubbed off by a sharply eroded bank on the other side of the creek. A neighbor said that she had seen the bumperette in the creek and tossed it off to one side before it got even more abused. The next day, Mark let me out at the creek and I slogged across to pick it up. Mark laughed when I returned with not one but TWO identical bumper pieces. I bet the Chrysler folks see brisk sales on these things. We decided to leave it off given the condition of our commuter roads. Also notice the aggressive BFGoodrich Mud-Terrain tires - one of the best investments we could have made for living out here.

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It's great to have everyone home again!

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"The Big Cojones of the Week Award" goes to ...

Current news:
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So Brou is likely to survive, thanks only to Marks' fortitude and love for that little red dog and to his stubborn full-sized Dodge Ram. The roads were and are still nasty, so nasty in fact that the BLM has banned all heavy commercial trucks from coming out into the canyon until further notice. They are even patrolling the 'roads' and awarding heavy fines to transgressors. This will likely affect the supply of clean burning natural gas heading to green California as many wells drop or cease production. As we say around here at the rat when the kitty boys complain about their hard life, "Oh ... po', po' boys!" Hey, it's hard to work up a good case of sympathy when this ugly and sometimes dangerous infrastructure is sitting in your backyard and you can't enjoy any of its benefits.

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I also credit the journey's success to our procrastination on removing the last load of heavy siding panels from Mark's truck. Without their extra weight, I doubt that he could have made the emergency trek into town and back. The road conditions are such that even the lighter gas field vehicles ceased coming up this far a week ago for wise corporate safety reasons. We have come to understand that if the gas industry considers the risks too great, then we should pay serious attention as well. Before the Brou emergency, we had already decided to wait out the dangerous road conditions, for weeks if necessary.

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Although Mark was able to set off with Brou while the roads were still firmed up a little by the bitter cold of the night, it was a mixed blessing. Ice is just like that, often not any better than the slick clay slime revived by the melting heat of the sun - you may not get stuck but you can still slide off the roads. He would have to face the worst of both road worlds that day.

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He carefully minced his way five miles down our road towards the main canyon. As Virgil had promised, a load of large rocks had been dumped into our muddy creek crossing to sate its muddy appetite. Since the main canyon waterway had already begun to run, eliminating our usual crossing to the main road, he had to use the alternate route on this side of the canyon. We call this route "the goat path". Alternate route is hardly a fitting term. Think of the roads in the Wily Coyote cartoons, those high ledge paths where the coyote always met unexpected oncoming traffic with dire consequences. Even in dry weather, this road can take your breath away as the truck hood noses out and hides the edge of the road in sharp turns, revealing only the landscape and maw of the wash 100 or more feet below. There are turns so sharp that you'd swear you could catch a glimpse of the truck's rear end by looking out the side window as it seemingly twists itself in half to make the bend. Neither of us could imagine meeting an oncoming vehicle and having to decide who was going to give quarter on this barely one vehicle wide road. These thoughts were ever on my mind as I mentally paralleled this part of Mark's journey that morning, ever alert for a cell phone call from him and wondering if he would even be within the cell network's spotty coverage out here if he ran into trouble. Could my lighter, lower Dakota even reach him to perform a rescue? Probably not.

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By the grace of kind fate, he ran the goat path without meeting another vehicle, crossed the small wash which had been thankfully dry and made it over the bridge to the main road. The main road was hardly in better condition and he skipped around, either straddling or being entrained by choppy, icy ruts as much as two feet deep. Just before reaching our third closest neighbor's place some eleven miles away, he slammed down into a small wash so hard that his head jammed into the roof of the cab and he slowed to a stop to see if poor old Brou was still on the rear seat or now plastered to some new and unlikely part of the truck interior.

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After pacing out my estimated two hours to pavement time, I was reassured by his voice that they were already on pavement and headed to the vet's. One half of the ordeal down ... just the really tricky half left now.

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to be continued

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Update: Brou is coming home tomorrow unless the weather turns sour tonight!

Thursday's Trials continued

As much as I dislike cell phones, they have proved their worth out here many times over. I probably wore .002" of glaze off the ceramic tiles, pacing and killing time before I decided that Mark and Brou should have reached pavement ... 2 hours seemed about right considering the roads. Yes, they had made it and were now heading to the vet's office. So far so good.

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Mark checked in as promised as soon as he had some definitive news from the vet. The man listened to the list of symptoms, did some palpation of the abdomen and said that he would like to run another quick test before Brou went off to radiology. Results were quick indeed and Mark called me with the news. Although he was unfamiliar with the findings, my heart sank when he said " ... something called Parvovirus, I think?" I remembered back to my first run-in with it back in the seventies when it was first noticed by the veterinary community. And it was suspected that I had lost the dearest little flop-eared shepherd puppy to it. Those wrenching memories now returned when I needed them least.

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Although no Pollyanna of optimism, the vet did state that Brou had an 80% chance of survival but they would need to hospitalize him for a week or so and our thoughts lightened a little accordingly. The most disconcerting part was that we knew very little about this killer virus. Where and when did Brou get it? The vet presumed that we lived in a populated area and that Brou had poked a nose into infected feces. Mark explained that the nearest dog was 5 miles away and that no one had brought a dog by in a month. The vet wasn't ready to buy into Mark's suggestion that he might have been infected by coyotes. Although the very young gal at the front desk thought that coyotes were not even members of the canine family (?!), there was something in this idea that made sense to me so I did research that night when the generator came on. Yes! There were ample reports on parvovirus exposure within not only the coyote population but that of wolves and even foxes and these reports went nearly as far back as the first reports of parvo back in the late seventies. When testing and studies were done on specific regional populations of coyotes, it was noted that the presence of antibodies to parvo ran as high as 95 to 100% exposure level. Brou's unusually long time to return when called one day has me thinking that he wandered far enough away to run into coyote scat (poop) if not the wily critters themselves. And Brou, being Brou, would no doubt have to investigate and maybe sample this new and exciting discovery. Oh Brou. If only he had stuck to old cow paddies.

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Given that the culprit is a virus, there is no way to kill it off with veterinary medicine. Antibiotics would be used to quell any secondary infections caused by bacteria. Dehydration and malnutrition are the real cause of mortality and these would be addressed by intravenous treatment. The idea is to support the dog while its own immune system develops its own antibodies to fight off the virus. Puppies are more likely to die since their immune system is not fully developed but Brou at least had the advantage of being slightly beyond true puppyhood.

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Friday: Meanwhile back at the ranch (I just love being able to say that literally now), Mark talked with Virgil and gave him the news on his buddy, Brou. As always, Virgil was quick to respond to the problem with a solution. His mother had a dog which she had nursed back to health with a natural compound - he would call her for info immediately. And she responded like the Marines hitting Iwo Jima (selfless goodness must run strong in that family). By the time I finished reading all the info, it occurred to me that I already had 95% of the medicinal herbs used in the medicine. Not only that but I was now inspired to mentally add another few herbs. So ... when Brou comes home, he will be getting the full blown Granny Clampett elixir.

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After talking with Virgil, Mark called the vet's office for an update. Good news! Brou had been responding remarkably well and might be sprung much sooner than they had estimated. It was now a matter of waiting until Brou could keep down foods and liquids. Oh ... but the roads. Mark eventually described his trip into town and back home. He started with "It was a good thing you weren't with me or I would have been dropping you off at the coronary ward first ... " His account will follow next.

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Waiting for doG

No, the title has nothing to do with a dyslexia moment, at least not this time. The weather turned mild and brought a half inch of rain with it. Between the rain and the existing 6" cover of snow, there was a whole lotta water going on ... and it ran towards the creeks as usual. We even made the treacherous trek across the canyon to confirm our suspicions. Yep, running, and running well. It would be very telling that we wouldn't see a single vehicle go by for the next several days.

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The timing was not good, at all, at all. Our exuberant pup, Brou, became ill just before the rains set in. He could no longer eat without vomiting and his tail-less behind became a mess from scouring expulsions. His joys in life and exuberance dwindled rapidly over the following days and we watched with incredible anxiety as the creek ran free. From his dog owning experiences, Virgil seconded my suspicion that Brou had probably consumed something or perhaps a collection of things which had blocked his intestines. We waited and we hoped to no avail as he continued to decline. Not even a kitty passing by or trying to put a sock on would now arouse his old passions.

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A new snow came late Tuesday night and left 4 inches of itself behind. Brou ran off and disappeared Wednesday morning in his last request for a widdle outing. He would not respond to our calls as usual. I paced for a couple hours and then set out to track him down, very grateful for this new snow in that regard. With his declining energy, it was an easy enough trail to follow until it reached the mesa wall. From there, his lighter weight body left tracks ascending up the face. As I followed, I crashed down through layers of snow which had been nothing more than a covering over boughs and vegetation, my ankles and knees breaking through and hitting hard on the jagged rocks below. I finally had to plant my bare hands down into the snow ahead to disperse my weight and steady myself. It was a laborious climb and I was heaving for breath by the time I reached Brou. I had been scanning the likely coyote holes in the eroded sandstone when I finally saw Brou. He was lying out in the open on a snow drift. When our eyes met, his look was one of "Please just leave me alone here to die, okay?" My own tormenting miseries of late and similar feelings came back to haunt me. I pleaded to no avail and then felt compelled to turn back and descend the treacherous path back down to the rat trailer, utterly heart broken. I did not have the heart and hypocrisy to enforce upon him that which I would not have wished for myself. But that could not ease the torturous thoughts ensuing.

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Mark and I spent the remainder of the day in abject but silent misery, both too upset with the possibilities of being stranded here with a little friend's likely fatal illness. It was one thing to rationalize the situation if either of us should became this ill but quite another to consider a little creature who relied upon us for his welfare. The tension was mud-thick with quiet sorrow. Among many thoughts, I angrily recalled the 'prophecy' which the vile creature who bought our house had cast upon Mark. She was a Soviet mail order bride and probably the most unpleasant and self-serving creature we have ever met. No, not probably, she was. Whether in an obnoxious pout for not being the center of attention as we helped her husband prematurely unload their belongings into our house, it's hard to say but when Mark kindly tried to make conversation with her, she offered this charmer: "I hab geefts, you see. For eenstance, when I first see you, I see that you veel suffer a longk and 'orreeble, 'orreeble death". It took Mark a few months to relate this disturbing pronouncement to me but it clearly had upset him. And now it upset me. "What a nasty, snake charmed bit of vitriol to share" I thought, "Even a two bit carnival fortune telling shyster knows better than to say such a thing." This comment would return again and again to haunt us and taint our joy of finally being remote enough to avoid such uncharming entities and their ilk in the future. This moment with Brou's severe troubles rekindled those thoughts of "a longk and 'orreeble death" and they hung like a black cloud over our painful, deep torments.

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Considering the weather circumstances, I was incredibly reluctant to have Mark risk crossing the running washes and roads into town. I too well remembered the stories of the ranch matron neighbor who had lost her husband on these roads. And so we both quietly agonized over the prospects of inaction.

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As the late afternoon forced the sun to dip behind the mesa and the long shadows brought the deep chills, I decided to go for a walk. At least for the previous couple of days, this event would bring Brou to rally and follow. I slipped on the mud-slogging boots and stepped outside, convinced that my departure would lure Brou down from his dying place of choice. No response, just a deafening silence from the wilderness. Then I heard Mark's muffled voice from inside the rat, "B-r-o-u-u-u-u!" and I flung the door open for an explanation. Brou had decided to come down and nestle in the sage just beyond the 45 footer. He looked at the house only furtively as though he was caught in severely conflicting thoughts of either dying alone or being comforted.

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Mark was the one to pick him up and carry him inside despite the yelpings of pain expressed by Brou. I had become personae non-grata with my previous and completely failed attempts at home remedies so was thankful that he still trusted Mark. Mark laid out a number of salvaged old curtains under the coffee table and Brou settled in. He no longer had any interest in eating or drinking but at least he was as content as the situation could allow. It had now been several days of agony for Brou but he eventually accepted my offers of tiny amounts of water. I dared not give him too much at a time now least he immediately expel it all again.

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I awoke unusually early this morning. The greater part of this urge was to see if Brou had survived the night. I was incredibly grateful to see the faint swell of his chest and his head rise a little in acknowledgement. Mark arose shortly after, clearly with the same hurtful question on his mind. We placed a call to Virgil and got a fresh assessment on the road conditions. The recent snow and the normal accompanying drop in temperatures had made the roads safely passable enough for a town trip attempt if Mark hit them before they thawed out.

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Mark warmed up the diesel and then collected whatever items were necessary; tire chains, cell phone, shovel, check book, extra coat, etc., etc.. The last of the items to be loaded was Brou, not that he was a willing tourist but we managed any way. I watched the truck until the very last of the steaming exhaust plumes were lost from sight. And then I pleaded as always for angels to guard their full journey's progress before I turned away to pace anxiously and incessantly thereafter, awaiting further word.
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Our Big Saturday Night Thrill

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You had to know that I couldn't stay quiet this long even though the antibiotics have yet to prove the ultimate panacea I had hoped for in this last miserable episode. It did, however, provide some relief for the creeping staph that threatened to completely block my nostrils with its colonial agenda. Many thanks to those of you who sent the messages "Don't reply - just wanted to send you our best wishes". It really helped boost my thoroughly depleted morale to know that someone out there really cared. I have just swallowed the twentieth remaining pill in a regimen of 56. I am NOT a pill taker so this is a milestone of accomplishment for me and I am patting myself on the back vigorously for being so disciplined.

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Tonight is Saturday night and the highlight of our week here in the hinterlands. It's not that Saturday marks the end of a hard week of M-F, 9-5 but that our favorite on-line radio program comes on. I have to put this into perspective: With no radio signals reaching this far into the wilderness, we have to wait until 'generator time' and satellite access to the outside world. This arrangement might be considered unacceptable in the current world of immediate gratification but it makes the occasion all the more precious to us. Saturday's particular thrill is Randy Bachman's CBC Radio Canada show. Remember Bachman Turner Overdrive, the Guess Who? Randy is now a 60ish old fart but retains a fairly amazing memory for the minutiae of rock background and history of pop music dating back into the 50s. He is promising to do another popular radio lesson on guitarmanship with his Fender in the future so if you have any long suppressed rock star fantasies still seething in your veins, you might want to keep track of that upcoming event. Just be forewarned: he gets preachy about global warming.

We click on: http://www.cbc.ca/listen/index.html#

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Our Saturday night big thrill reminds me of my mother's tales about their first 'crystal set' radio back in a young 20th century when one of the siblings was elected to be the crystal meister, the one who touched the probe to, hopefully, just the right spot on the crystal to bring in exotic broadcasts, oh, maybe as far as 500 miles away. The 'crystal meister' would endure constant abuse for losing a program just as it became interesting. This, in turn, reminds me of television in the 60s when one person would adjust the steel wool pads or aluminum foil on the 'rabbit ears' and have to remain motionless in place until the favored program had finished. This emotional urgency has not changed for us as the spotty satellite reception and this miserable XP operating system choose to fade away for no apparent reason. Then we are like a couple of sullen kids who didn't get a ride down to the ice cream parlor as promised. But some nights are good as this one is proving itself so far.

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Our other auditory treat is tuning into the various programs available through the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. My favorite physicist had turned me on to their web presence and it's been another great blessing, especially if you like classical music. Unlike CBC, you can play a current program at any time. This is a good thing when you don't feel that you can stay up all night to play a program live. Look up:

http://www.abc.net.au

and give it a try. If you like classical or jazz, there are plenty of programs to satisfy your soul's desire.
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An Unexpected Blog Hiatus

Our Spartan situation has bested me for the moment. I have not only become sick with a cold or flu-like illness but apparently I have been brooding a colony of far more vigorous staph germs. Yesterday was one of the more event-free trips out of the canyon with the truck only leaving the road twice in the process - a cake walk compared to some previous trips. There remains one more canyon trip tale, the more disturbing one, but I am in no frame of mind to relay it at the moment. The agony of this latest affliction has me wishing to shear the flesh off my face and head with what remains of my fingernails. I will, therefore, take a leave of my blog entries for a short time, being far too down and demoralized to continue on with reports of our adventures out here. As of yesterday's trip, I have started a two week regimen of heavy duty antibiotics and am desperately hoping for some relief soon. So forgive me if I post no further entries during this treatment time. Until some relief becomes apparent, any writings would be tinged with the odious torments of this latest affliction. Personal e-mails would be likewise tainted so please understand that. When I get this sick, I wish for nothing more than to be left alone. Hopefully my normal love of writing will return soon since there are so many more tales that I would love to share with you.

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Next likely post - better give me a couple of weeks.