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'

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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

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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

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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

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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 ...

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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.

Deere herding - Our New Big Boy Toy Arrives!

A now late associate once told me that a divorce usually meant good news for the auto industry; that people were inclined to reward themselves with a new car after enduring a very ego-deflating process. In our case, I could justify the big splurge on a new toy as a minor salve upon the indignity of surviving the past year without running water, a washing machine, a flush toilet, regular income and many other things which we and most people take for granted as minimum standards of living. The reason we bought new as opposed to used had its very practical side. Since they are pricey new, most people use them until they are thoroughly beaten before replacing them. Neither of us are familiar with working on diesels or hydraulics and we live at least 3 hours from the nearest professional mechanical help. After the used pick-up truck affair, neither of us were going to go there again. We are in a situation in which our isolation forces a very different set of rules and considerations upon us. We have learned the hard way that advice only counts from someone in our same situation since no one is around to help us out of a bind caused by poor judgment, not unless we can snag Virgil on his way by and impose upon his and his company's good will policy. It is a great policy but not one that we care to rely upon.

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This is really more Mark's announcement than mine since he will be using it to re-contour our terrain, auger out new fence and foundation post holes and, in general, just doing stuff that guys feel compelled to do. Remember all that "Vroom-V-R-O-O-M!!" in the sand box with the sturdy Tonkas? I don't think real guys ever quite get over that primordial drive, they just grow up and bury that drive with more practical concerns. After ordering the beast, we chuckled while Mark read a WSJ article aloud on the appeal of the classic "Bobcat" as a much desired big toy for those grown up guys who just want to play around in the dirt again. When asked what special (read 'pricey') present he would like for his birthday, Harrison Ford said that he had all the road vehicles he had ever wanted but that he could REALLY enjoy a skid steer. I suspect that he speaks for a lot of grown up boys. So I will turn the announcement over to Mark now:

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After several delays, the new skid steer was finally delivered on Wednesday. The previous week's delivery was postponed due to a winter storm watch that never quite materialized in our region. Tuesday's delivery was cut short when the delivery truck driver was confronted with the first of two 10-ton limit one lane bridges that lie between civilization and our ranch. This limit was well below the GVWR of the semi that had been selected to make the delivery since the shop had to pick up a much larger piece of agricultural equipment from another farm in the area.

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On Wednesday, the delivery vehicle was a flat bed pick-up truck with a twenty foot gooseneck trailer ... just the right ticket to haul the diminutive skid steer across the limited access bridges and on to our ranch. The delivery team consisted of the dealership salesman in his private pickup truck and the delivery truck driver. The salesman was an hour ahead of the delivery truck and arrived at our neighbor's ranch after I directed him into the canyon via cellphone. I met him there and he followed behind to our homestead where we went through the paperwork over coffee while awaiting the delivery vehicle. When the delivery truck finally arrived, I suggested that the driver unload the skid steer out in the road but the driver cavalierly chose to back the gooseneck trailer containing the machine onto what vaguely constitutes our driveway. This turned out to be a major mistake as he got his rear left wheels off the road surface and into a snow bank-covered ditch. To add to his error, the driver had failed to bring along any tire chains - again against our very specific recommendations. But not to worry ... there was a brand new skid steer on the trailer which would quickly remedy this problem. So the new skid steer was called upon to prove its mettle. We hooked up a tow chain between the truck's front tow hooks and the skid steer and the salesman fired the little beast up. Nothing doing ... the truck's rear wheels dug themselves through the surface snow onto the underlying sheet of ice. I brought out some tire chains to place in front of the truck's rear wheels to give them something to bite onto but these were unceremoniously and repeatedly expelled to the rear of the truck with little if any forward progress. In a last ditch effort, I grabbed a sheet of plywood out of barn and placed it lengthwise in front of the right rear tires. Between that and the skid steer pulling with all its might, the driver was able to get the rear wheels onto the plywood and the truck freed itself. Now we had to get the truck and trailer turned around and headed back the way he came. Since backing up had proven disastrous, I suggested that the driver go up to a gas well up the road a piece and drive around the well and back out onto the road facing the right direction. Although the well was too far ahead to ascertain exactly what had gone wrong, we could soon hear the unmistakable sound of a high revving engine in the distance that told us the driver was stuck again. The salesman took off on the skid steer with plywood and tire chains in the front bucket on a second rescue mission. Apparently, the delivery truck was not as deeply stuck this time and, in a few minutes, the delivery truck was headed back home. The driver paused briefly at our drive to thank us for our assistance and was quickly on his way. We offered to lend him our tire chains in case he got stuck again but the driver declined. He assured us that he wasn't about to leave the tire tracks of the main road for any reason and would NOT get stuck again. After a few rudimentary operating and safety instructions, the salesman followed after him to make sure he got back to the shop some three hours away. When I had initially talked to the salesman the previous month, I was assured that the dealer would deliver the skid steer at no cost even though our ranch was about 20 miles beyond their normal free delivery radius. We suspect that they won't make that mistake again.

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I was too tired to practice with the skid steer much during what was left of the delivery day and, after hooking up the pallet forks and moving the pallet with the auger and auger bits into the barn, called it a day. Anxious to get a few hours under my belt, I did hook up the bucket attachment on Friday afternoon and plowed a path from the road to the barn's front and side entrances. The unit definitely had more power than the two lawn tractors we left behind and was more than up to the task at hand. I found the hand controls to be somewhat less than intuitive and managed to dump snow into the cab by tilting the bucket in the wrong direction but was soon making good progress. Learning to use the auger and grapple attachments will have to wait until the spring thaw arrives in a few months.

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So there you have our exciting 'news du jour' from out here in the boonies. To all my guy buddies out there - go ahead, be honest with yourself... eat your heart out. But that's okay; if you come to visit, we'll let you play with this new big boy toy.

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In the second photo, you will see Brou doing what he does instinctively ... herding. At every opportunity, he herds cows, cats, crows, us (#@%!) and now deer - John Deere, that is.

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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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The Flu Hits Home

Current News:

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My apologies for not writing part three of the trip tales yet. Whatever misery found me on Friday has hit a stunning crescendo this evening. I hope to rally and finish the story by Wednesday.

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The bad news is that the well has frozen up solid again. Not that we ever had running water in the place but it was nice not to have to commute hours to fill water jugs. The good news is that the expected snow storms deposited a mere two inches. The better news is that we now have another 'safe' propane heater installed, just in time to battle the cold air that is moving in. It's late Sunday night and the rat trailer is holding out at 57 degrees inside while the outdoor temperature has already dropped to minus 5F. Like the darkest hour, the coldest temperatures here peak just before dawn so it will be interesting to see how much colder things may be by morning. I feel very sorry for the gas field men who will be up by dawn to spend a day working outdoors in this frozen wilderness. Unfortunately, given the bitter cold settling in, they will also have much more than the usual amount of work awaiting them. We'll keep the coffee pot on, just in case.

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Why I Now Seldom Leave The Canyon ... Part 2

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Retrospect: May 2006

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After that last unpleasant trip out of the canyon, it would be several more months before I would wish to try again. This new outing was a mission for wood, a very practical reason to override the memory of that last adventure. Virgil had since introduced us to Earl, a fellow who seemed interested in buying our big dualie truck. Even though we would be taking a 4 digit hit on it so soon after buying it, I was elated. These roads where single axle utility pick-ups reign with their deeply imprinted ruts was no place for a wide tracking truck. On one earlier occasion, knowing that Mark would be returning to the canyon with the dualie, I stopped repeatedly to clear off the small boulders that the single-axled boys had barely plowed between. Add in the taut suspension that danced and slammed to the cadence of the washboards and I was ready for a change. Earl was looking for a heavy duty hauling truck for his wife's horse trailer but didn't want to lay out that big a sum of cash. On the other hand, he operated a small sawmill ... and we would be needing wood, lots of it down the road.

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Virgil came to the rescue and lent us his large trailer, a well beaten but solid affair so we followed Earl's directions with a short cut through the reservation. The roads were rough but dry, the new scenery pleasing and, in little over an hour, we found ourselves back on pavement and heading to the small mountains that Earl calls home. Earl and his wife Skeeter came out to greet us with a warmth most people reserve for old friends and then gave us a tour around their idyllic homestead. A beautiful log home milled by his father, big boy toys everywhere, a Noah's Ark of animals at every turn. In the fenced yard, I noticed a whirling lapidary of fur with a bright orange patch emerging every now and then from the auburn and white patches. Unbeknownst to me then, Brou was part of that multi puppy tangle mauling a small orange kitten in playfully benign rough housing. His love of pestering and mouthing cats had already been set in stone.

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The big boy toy tour was as equally enjoyable. Earl had acquired all the right stuff to make a guy envious; BIG trucks, BIG loaders, BIG generators, BIG saw mill equipment. Then came the fun part of picking out stacks of wood from his collection. Skeeter was equally at home with the mill operation and tallied her tape measure calculations as we proceeded. About half way through this process, I noticed a cloud of slate gray smoke billowing up from the nearby mountain. With some unease, I asked "Uhm, is that normal, is someone burning garbage?". All being engrossed in our wood seeking mission, I was farted off without fanfare. But there are times when my observations should be heeded.

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To be continued.

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Why I Now Seldom Leave The Canyon ...

Retrospect: February 2006
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While Mark's weekly or often bi- and tri-weekly trips out of the canyon seem to go reasonably well, our joint trips have had some miserable results. As one neighbor said, "Sheesh ... it's like someone is trying to tell you to stay home." It has made both of us wonder at times.

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After we had addressed our priority survival needs, Mark took over the trips into town for supplies by himself and did a yeoman's job of it. In the interim, we had bought a second hand truck despite my long-standing disdain of any vehicle which we did not know the full provenance of. Yes, I regret not voicing those concerns at the time but Mark was quite taken with the beast and we were, after all, helping a kid make a new life by freeing him from a bank payment. I had a grinding sense of discomfort about the arrangement which I chose to override. Sometimes you only learn from experience and, in this case, it was to express a concern before the real rain falls upon everyone's parade. The beast shone less well in the light of day and, even if it had been what we expected, was simply not the right vehicle for our rather unique situation. It was a fairly handsome but generously dinged diesel one ton dualie already well over the 100,000 mark on the odometer. I should have said something but did not.

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At a neighbor's suggestion that we should take some R&R to ward off cabin fever, we decided to do some minor local stops and head up to Colorado for the remainder of the day ... this would be our big play time outing. The drive out of the canyon to pavement with the heavy duty suspension and dualies had every bump and rut reminding me of how much my back hurt on a good day. I was in severe physical agony by the time we reached pavement, Mark a little behind me in discomfort. But this was our big, exciting 'away time' together and we were both looking forward to it.

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We had barely been on pavement and considering the first local errands when the clouds began to spit out a little snow, the first of the season in fact. But it was light and non-threatening, hardly a reason to high tail it back to the canyon. What caught my attention in a far more disturbing way was a sound coming from the right front end of the truck. It ate at me for the next couple of traffic lights before I said something. Mark confirmed that he had heard the noise as well. It was a mild but uncomfortable and vague steel-on-steel noise. Given the rare occasion of us both being out of the canyon, we decided to proceed directly up to Colorado but pay attention to the noise.

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We eventually dropped down into Durango but, by now, we were both listening for the noise with a little more intensity as the roads presented hairpins at alarming inclines and descents. So far, so good - no further disturbing degradation in the mechanical noise - at least that we were willing to acknowledge. We were able to make several of the long anticipated stops but retreated to a motel before dark set in. It was marvelous to take a hot shower, dine on a Pepperoni Lover's pizza and watch a TV.

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In the morning, Mark went out to pick up more list items. When he returned, he announced "Remember that rasp/squeal from yesterday? Well, it's more of a crunch/grind this morning." The dampening bucket of water then fell on us both and we abandoned the remainder of our big outing stops in search of a repair shop. We spent the next several hours in a shop, only to learn that they didn't have the necessary parts on hand. Their branch back where we had come from would. In the meantime, the first snow storm of the season had moved in on Durango. The shop said that we could make it back but advised caution and judicious use of the brakes in the mountains. With the snow now coming down in blinding sheets, we retraced our route back, climbing up the snow-slick hairpins and fully remembering the precipitous drops just beyond their guard rails. Our first idyllic respite had turned into a teeth clenching anxiety fest.

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But we made it back to New Mexico and spent the remainder of the day waiting as the brakes were repaired - a sickeningly pricey combination of pads and entire rotor replacements. I had no complaints with their scope of work - the sound had certainly confirmed the worst of mechanical possibilities. And we were grateful that we were able to bumpty-bump our way back home before the snow could cut us off.

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On the return leg of his next supply run, Mark experienced nearly complete brake failure. The canyon roads are hardly flat-plane coaster roads and his trip was laced with deadly challenges. After some grousing and kneeling in the mud, I noticed that the bleeders on the rear calipers had not been touched in years and I was hopeful that the problem was a matter of trapped air in the system.

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Now here is a heartening tale of some human goodness still at large. When we told the shop manager of our circumstances and the danger of driving the brake-free truck any further, he took it upon himself to navigate the tricky roads out here after hours to attend to the problem. He checked and confirmed that his mechanics had not bled out the rear of the system but, after correcting that oversight, the system still did not come back up to pressure. We could tell that he dreaded telling us that the problem now likely rested in a failed master cylinder and I found no reason to question his conclusion. Our gas field friend,Virgil, drove back out on his weekend off, loaded the truck onto his personal trailer and brought it into town for us without hesitation. The shop manager gave us the part at nearly his cost and did what he could to make the bill more bearable. He was a very decent soul in every way and hopefully we can repay that rare kindness down the road. There are still good folks out there so take heart.

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That was Part 1 of the R&R Hades Chronicles (or "Why I seldom leave the canyon any more").

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Humor of the day (from the Tomato Man)

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I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman "Where's the self-help section?" She said that if she told me, it would defeat the whole purpose.

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