Fajita Night!

.Apologies; this is not part 3 of the Home Cummins tale. This thaw has made the processing of that elk an absolute priority now even though Mark cannot pick up the mail order new freezer until the roads improve. We will have to pack everything in the snow at the shady base of the mesa until then. We will have to empty out truck totes to pack it in so that our domestic carnivores or Slim's dogs don't help themselves. At the prospect, I have lost all concentration necessary to finish off the Cummins stories. I know me; it would read like a grocery list if I even attempted it right now. Again, apologies.

So above is what it looks like around here lately just before Mark turns on the generator for the night. Pretty outside but you haven't been able to read anything in the Rat for the last half hour. The idea is to make up for the few daytime hours we have been running lately - every bit helps.
.But it was fajita (fah-hee-tah) night! I had thawed beef strips and let them lounge around for several hours in the fajita seasoning marinade and squeezings from a lime I found hiding in the crisper. Long slices of fresh red and green peppers and onions tossed into the pan towards the end of frying and we were set. This is one of Slim's favorite dinners, too, although the roads kept him 'up top' this time.
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Dished out on to a tortilla and mine with a few dollops of sour cream and it's a wrap! Easy to make, easy to eat and a great change of pace from the usual.
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I WILL be back when the elk is taken care of, it just may take a few days.
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Home Cummins, Part 2

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Retrospect: Mid-September 2006
Continued from Part 1 (for logical reasons) . If you haven't already done so, please read Part 1 posted below or you will miss the flow of the story.
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There is a reason why I believe in unseen benefactors. While this could not be considered one of their most spectacular saves in my experiences so far, it stills deserves noting.
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When the front wheels broke through the berm as though it wasn't even there, we both closed our eyes, at least on a psychological level. The nanosecond functions of our analytical brains told us that the mass, inertia and lack of friction would make our plummet into the raging wash below a guaranteed result of physics. We were toast.

The front wheels slid completely over the embankment and then the truck simply stopped dead. It took a moment for either of us to acknowledge this strange stay of the inevitable, finally voiced by simultaneous gasps of relief. When both of us returned to normal damage control thinking, I volunteered to get out and apply reverse force to aid any traction the rear wheels might still have.

I stepped out in my 'go to town' shoes and immediately had my feet slip out from under me so that I was at a 45 degree angle to the road, held there only by the grace of a hand clutching the bed of the truck. It was obvious that I had no more traction than the truck did. Despite my new frustration and despair, Mark decided to give reverse a try after I slid myself and my mud-caked shoes back into the cab. How the truck managed to gain traction with the remaining two wheels and free itself on the first attempt still defies all logic but it did.

We made it to the intersection at the second nearest neighbor's house and were tempted to ask them for lodging for the night but remembered that we saw their parking lot full of visitors' cars when we first passed by. So ... we took the turn towards the bridge and what unknowns lay beyond.

There were blessings to be had in that the two washes which lay beyond the bridge had not collected enough rain to run yet. I suppose this could be called a blessing in that this allowed us to commence 'the goat path' run. To imagine this 'road', remember back to the Roadrunner cartoons and the precipitous paths carved into mesa walls where the coyote always met a semi head-on. No, those depicted super-highways in reality. This is a one lane dirt path with climbs, falls and turns so tight that you expect to see the truck's rear-end as you swing back sharply into the skirt of the mesa. The other option is a 30 foot fall into the creek below.

To make the drive more challenging, the rain run-off not only turned the clay into slime but brought down boulders to obstruct the path. There were occasions when I would have sworn that we would leave paint on those boulders as we squeezed by. In this two mile run, the terror of hoping for traction on the steep climbs and again for the steep descents into sharp turns had drained us of all the adrenaline that either of us possessed. Numb floating sensations in the limbs and shallow breathing had become normal now.

I heartily thanked our unseen friends as we finally dropped down into the canyon flats again. We both knew that only one more wash crossing and a few less harrowing rim rides lay between us and home-sweet-home. After a few more fish-tailing blasts through boggy spots in the road, we finally made it to the last wash. We stopped at the top of the approach and rolled down the windows to listen. What we heard sounded like wild applause at Carnegie Hall; the creek was running full and hard. We stepped out long enough to confirm that we were now stranded in place. Despite the seasoned advice that a couple of hours waiting would see the washes slow enough to cross, the creek did not die down that night and so we settled in to our predicament. The black hood of night descended and the temperatures dropped rapidly ... and the rains persisted, everywhere, it seemed.

Eventually we realized that neither of us had eaten that day in the rush to pick up this new truck. I hauled the meager bag of sale groceries into the front seat. "Tonight's menu consists of, uhm, this package of ham, this loaf of pumpernickel and ... these itty bitty pecan tarts!" The prospect of sand dry sandwiches prompted Mark to ask "Anything to drink, I hope?" "Yes! I also bought a case of beer! Mind you, they're 'shelfer' warm. That okay?" As though we had other options. And so we had our cab front supper and talked as though we were comfortably home in the Rat. The warm beer helped lighten the mood but also caused several exits for relief. Each time we did the dreaded potty run, we returned with another pound or two of clay on our already cemented shoes but grateful that we had not lost balance in the ooze and fallen down. The dealer's paper floor mats were soon stuck to our shoes permanently, impeding the comfort factor considerably.

It was around midnight when we abandoned all hope to still make the crossing before morning. The creek had shown no signs of calming at all and the rains kept coming down. We gathered our light jackets over us and pushed the seat backs as far down as possible. And I thought of Brou, the poor young pup who we had left outside since we would be back soon enough. I ached at the thought of him surviving his first night out alone in the company of rains and crashing thunder and, forbid the thought, the coyotes.

With such concerns on my mind and the plummeting temperatures, I would awake shivering and chattering from a cramped and fitful nap every few hours and nudge Mark to start up the truck for more heat. This was going to be a very long and torturous journey to morning, resting in this very place which the native peoples will not venture through after dark.

To be continued
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Humor of the day: It may seem odd to include humor in this post but you fellas will appreciate it given that Mark had to navigate the goat path with 'the help' of a passenger. (sent in by buddy Jim in upstate NY)
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A wife was making a breakfast of fried eggs when her husband burst into the kitchen.

"Careful"' he said, "CAREFUL! Put in some more butter! Oh my GOD! You're cooking too many at once. TOO MANY! Turn them! TURN THEM NOW! We need more butter. Oh my GOD! WHERE are we going to get MORE BUTTER? They're going to STICK! Careful . CAREFUL! I said be CAREFUL! You NEVER listen to me when you're cooking! Never! Turn them! Hurry up! Are you CRAZY? Have you LOST your mind? Don't forget to salt them. You know you always forget to salt them. Use the salt. USE THE SALT ! THE SALT!"

The wife stared at him incredulously. "What in the world is wrong with you? You think I don't know how to fry a couple of eggs?"

The husband calmly replied, "I just wanted to show you what it feels like when I'm driving."
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Home Cummins, Part 1

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Pre-Ramble: Current News
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The roads are still a mess out here, declared an emergency by some estimates. Mark dutifully made the supply run into town even though we were hardly in dire circumstance. The prospects of it deteriorating further made this small window a wise decision. He got out on the freeze but ran into the mud on the way back in. Still, it was great to get fresh supplies and pick up the mail in the process.

In one of the town newspapers, there was an article about volunteers making 4WD supply runs into the boonies, how some people were down to one quart of orange juice in the fridge and their animals already dying of starvation. Is it just me here or have people who have lived out here all their lives lost any common sense about how to be prepared for nature's expected twists in this harsh land? Has every one of us become so nannied that we need to rely on outside help to save us from our own responsibility to think and plan ahead? How prepared are you if your power goes out for almost 70 hours like Bruno's did recently? He had back up plans, do you? Can you keep warm, do you have enough stored food to survive a week while waiting to be bailed out? Please give it some thought.
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Above is one of the few vehicles that made it out here this week. Note the mud covering the headlights and windshield - they had obviously run through some good mud already. I took this photo merely seconds after both occupants stepped outside to relieve themselves well within view of the Rat. Why they couldn't have planned ahead and done so behind the berm of the new well site is an annoying mystery to me. Apparently planning ahead is a vanishing human trait.
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We awoke to another inch or two of snow this morning, a remarkably small accumulation since the storm had disabled our satellite connection last night.

I stepped outside and noticed that Mark's Ram looked great considering the road conditions. Then it occurred to me that this fine beast had endured unusually hard assignments from the get-go and that I was very grateful to have it here. That, in turn, has prompted me to journal the story of its arrival. It experienced a baptism of mud within hours of rolling off the dealer lot. That mid-September of 2006 was loaded with tales and trials, some still untold.

Retrospect: Mid-September 2006

After months of research, Mark found this most suitable truck up in Colorado. We piled into my Dakota and headed up there. Mark hung firmly to the agreed price despite the dealer trying to slip in profitable unannounced add-ons like the $127 piece of chromed plastic they called a bug shield. A quick $80+ profit times a couple of hundred trucks off the lot adds up but we weren't buying into it on principle alone. As they played the 'wait 'em out' game, thick thunder clouds formed and rain started to fall so we set off in a full blown thunderstorm. I will not forget that trip or that dealer for delaying our departure by three hours. Their cheesy profit ploy could have cost us our lives that day. Also, since they wanted to charge us high retail on a set of fully necessary BFG Mud Terrain tires with no credit on the factory installed tires, we still had one more stop to take care of that before heading back in. But without those tires, I probably wouldn't be here now to write this journal.

I followed Mark as we climbed back up the mountain on the steep roads, ever mindful of the sheer drops hidden by the blinding rains and that uncomfortable feeling of greasy pavement beneath the trucks. We raced on to the tire outlet, beating the storm back to New Mexico only temporarily. Now there was no time left to peruse the sale ads and pick up groceries but I was able to dash in and pick-up a few clearance items to salve my thwarted sale-lust while Mark picked up parcels.

The clouds caught up and let loose before we could even run back to the trucks. Mark called down to the nearest neighbor and was told that it was still all clear down there. We might have never attempted the trip back that day otherwise. By the time we began the 35 miles of dirt roads, the rain had already turned the clay into flowing gumbo and my old motorcycle sense threw me into high alert even though I was highly unlikely to hook up and fall down on four wheels. This acute sense of contact with the road and balance is not necessarily a plus in these conditions, at least as far as adrenaline output.

For the next two hours, we gingerly crawled up hills and hugged the inside of off-camber curves to allow for 'side slide' outwards. I didn't start getting antsy until we hit water running down the road at such a rate that Mark later noted that he was almost convinced that he had led us up a running wash in the blinding rains.

With my lower Dakota, the waters rushed beneath and against the body with a deafening roar and I could feel them draining away my connection with terra firma. It is here that our approach to driving departs radically. Mark was slowing down ahead while my urge was to stick a foot in it, fishtails or not, and just get it done. I pounded the dash with a free hand, yelling "Move it, MOVE it!!" like an old drill sergeant as the Dakota started to lose resolve and drift towards the ditches and sage.

Just when I thought I was going to play clam in the undertow, Mark reached the far side of the torrent and booted it. I was now lathered up and hot on his bumper all the way. I had a good twenty minutes to calm down before reaching our mailbox at the neighbor's place. She came out and, without thanks, grabbed the clearance bread I offered and announced that the washes were still not running. That was when I pointed out a very large tree limb that bobbed frantically as it passed by in their normally small wash which stands between us and our main wash crossing. Within another minute, we all witnessed a roiling tawny head of foam vanguarding the brown waters raging down the main wash. We heeded her insouciant command to head back a few miles, take the bridge there and use what we now call 'the goat path'. We hadn't had that pleasure yet. Meanwhile, I made a mental note of how, in her position, I would have treated what she clearly thought and often derisively voiced were a couple of clueless green horns in the neighborhood. I would have been concerned and asked them to stay. Then again, I did not have the poop-chute genes that we later heard have infamously run in that clan for generations. But you eventually learn and that is good.

So we left my Dakota there, unloaded the mail and my small bag of remaining sale groceries into the Ram and started back down the road. By now, the little daylight hinting through the storm was disappearing. While edging down a slick grade, three elk charged out in front of us to add to the already pounding blood rush of adrenalin. We had been rolling on tires now so thickly coated in clay that they no longer had treads to grip, not even ABS brakes would stop us now. The main wash had rushed ahead of us roaring bank to bank, 60 foot across. We had a good view of its fury from this ledge 30 feet above as we approached a sharp right angle in the cliff road. I felt an ice-watery pang when my stomach snapped up against my lungs as I sensed a complete and hopeless loss of traction. We both inhaled the seat covers with our buttocks as the Ram slid helplessly towards the cliff's edge. I vaguely remember saying "Oh, man, we're . . . ." as the truck's front wheels burst through the small grader berm at the edge of the cliff and the murderous waters below came into view front and center.
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To be continued
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Just Plain Funny

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I'm working on cleaning out my e-mail in-box and these gems are too good not to share with you. Maybe this will make up for forgetting to include humor bits in the last several posts.
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For anyone who's ever owned a cat ...

"Instructions for application of oral medicine to domestic feline ... or 'How to give a pill to a cat.'"
(sent in by Connie G in England)

1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of 10.

5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.

6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, holding front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold cat's head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.

7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with its head just visible from below spouse's armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, - force cat's mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.

9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink glass of water to take taste away. Apply Elastoplast to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

10. Retrieve cat from neighbour's shed. Get another pill. Place cat in cupboard and close door onto neck to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessertspoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.

11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put door back on hinges. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Throw bloodied, ripped T-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.

12. Ring fire brigade to retrieve cat from tree across the road. Apologise to neighbour who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.

13. Tie cat's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table. Find heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed. Force cat's mouth open with small spanner. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of fillet steak. Hold head vertically and pour a pint of water down throat to wash pill down.

14. Get spouse to drive you to emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Stop by furniture shop on way home to order new table.

15. Arrange for RSPCA to collect cat and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.
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Glimpses of the human side of Britain's royal family:
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Overwhelmed by her decorations, no doubt

(sent in by Eric U in B.C.)

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Below confirms my theory that flatulence is the great equalizer of the classes. Click to enlarge this one and study the expressions carefully. Did Prince Phillip cut a grand boomer? Severe lip-biting did not restore decorum well. Note QE2's expression in the last clip when she 'gets the drift'.
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I would have been that kid in the back row
(sent in by Ken)

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Dang Fool - part 1

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Pre-Ramble: Rat life is pretty darned good at the moment. The plumbing is holding up (both in and out), the propane man made it in last week just before the roads went bad. Saw the first traffic in a week when Hondo stopped by (he deserves a post to himself someday soon). He had been out checking his well run and his truck looked more mud brown than anything.

Later, I glanced out the window yesterday and saw what first looked like a small Willys-type Jeep. The closer it got, the stranger it looked. Then we saw a collection of dogs and a black cowboy hat inside of it. It was Slim, arriving like the Cavalry with a case of beer in the back end. With neighbors like that, could you want for better? He had been running and repairing the fence lines in preparation for his next load of cattle to arrive and thought to make the extra five miles to our place in the process. He stayed for several hours of socializing before heading back. I just wish that he had given me some warning; I could have thawed out a great early supper. I suspect he figures that goods meals only occur well after dark around here and he wasn't about to stay out that late in an open cabbed vehicle and drive home freezing and half in the bag over roads he was so glad he didn't abuse his truck on. We couldn't fault him on that either.

So why didn't I get photos of our visitors? Mark and I talked about that after they all left. It obviously comes from my own dislike of having my photo taken. I just presume that everyone else feels the same way. I will have to force myself to ask them for the privilege some time and see how they feel about it. They are certainly a very important part of our life out here.
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Yesterday's moon over the Rat

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On to today's post: "Dang fool". This is the first part of a random and happenstance series on what we left behind. This is an important part of the 'leave it all behind' process that we all have to deal with in this circumstance.

Now read this quote from an early sixties program:

Jed Clampett: Pearl, what d'ya think? Think I oughta move?
Cousin Pearl: Jed, how can ya even ask? Look around ya. Yer eight miles from yer nearest neighbor. Yor overrun with skunks, possums, coyotes, bobcats. Ya use kerosene lamps fer light and ya cook on a wood stove summer and winter. Yer drinkin' homemade moonshine and washin' with homemade lye soap. Yor bathroom is fifty feet from the house and you ask "should I move?"
Jed: I reckon yor right. A man'd be a dang fool to leave all this!

"The Beverly Hillbillies" c. early 1960s

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I was very young when I heard those lines but something about them stayed with me forever after. It was a story about a hillbilly who (unlike us) had mineral rights and subsequent sudden wealth. While Mark and I never had great wealth from being in the right place at the right time, we had persevered and developed a comfortable home while still accruing some savings. What's enjoyably ironic is that we are now pursuing a reverse Jed Clampett scenario. For a decade and a half previously, we had pursued a 'no debt' objective and now it was paying off. My ever-ending rehab of the past few houses had yielded gains and we were on our way ... downwards, in the eyes of many. It was a good thing that we never followed the bleating crowds or we never would have made it. We don't live as primitively as Jed by a long shot but many would think so. The standard perception is that we had something to lose and did so. Did we really? I mean really? Prior to this, we dealt with long commutes, theft and vandalism from scum (those poor little victims of society), municipal restrictions and enforcement, neighbors and acquaintances who most often fell short of returning our assistance and generosity and HIGH taxes to support this 'privilege'.

So, how willing are you to give up your conveniences for a greater degree of autonomy and freedom? Can you still free your hand from the philosophical monkey trap by letting go of your fist-full of immediate comforts? It's harder than you might think. Unless you earned your money the old-fashioned way - by inheriting it from dear mumsy and dadda, you have to plan a long way ahead and remain dedicated to your goal. The prime outlands may be under siege from trust fund slugs but we everyday folks can still get our licks in if we plan ahead with determined and genuine intent. What are you waiting for?

So here begins the 'dang fool' series. If your sitting in relative comfort on the grid, I don't want to hear any accusations of whining; such numb-nutted thought-free sound bites will only anger me immensely. If you are interested in pursuing a similar goal, this series will benefit you in understanding these pressures and dilemmas.
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Here is the place we left behind. It is a rambling 3 level 120+ year old farmhouse which we spent 12 years restoring. It was fun, challenging and an awesome place to call home. It was our pinnacle of residential comfort and achievement.
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Tah-dah!!! The Rat!

Take two independent people going from over 3,000 square feet of living space plus a barn with over 4600 square feet of room for work shops, vehicle toys and 'stuff' and jam them into a 910 square foot rat trailer 24/7 for two years. Do the math; you'd both better enjoy each other's company in every way before attempting this. And you both better be able to see and appreciate the benefits from doing so. Still worth it? Put yourself in our shoes and decide.
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Sunday Sundries

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"It's quiet out there ...." .........."Yeah, too quiet."
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Remember that much quoted old Western movie cliché? Well that's the state of the onion out here right now. The snow has been melting and running off. Our creek and the major wash have been running bank to bank at times. The roads are one big mud bog. The BLM has just circulated the 'if you can't drive and leave less than a 6" rut, don't do it' declaration which effectively silences the gas field for the time being. Yep, we are in full rutting season at the moment. It's been a couple of weeks since our last supply run to town and might be another couple before we're able to do it again. Our food supply is holding out well but beer and fuel might become an issue before then. So if I disappear, you'll know that the generator has finally run dry. I'm giving you that techno heads up now, just in case.

With the weather and road conditions, it really is quiet out here. The two new gas wells in progress have become ghost towns. We haven't heard or seen another vehicle in days. The howling winds have been the only source of noise here. Well, except for the fella below.
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I had been hoping for Moose to send down one of Alberta's famous Chinooks, the warm dry winds that pierce the bitter cold of their winters. Above is what I got instead. It was hidden by the mesa's edge but a brawny whup, whup, whupping had me first conjecturing that it was multiple helicopters. I was only able to capture a marginal photo after it loomed into sight well to the east of us. It was an impressive creature stubbornly defying gravity as it plodded along but not necessarily a handsome one. Both ends looked amusingly like cartoon creatures but it's rear end (on the right above) unfortunately reminded me of Barney the Dinosaur grinning down at me. Only that aspect left me wishing for SAMs. Otherwise, it was a very much appreciated air show to punctuate the silence.
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So Daisy here sums up the current mood at the Rat; seen here grinning and lying with her front paws crossed; "Hey, we can't dance so let's just hang out and goof around."
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Saturday night just insisted on some kind of classic comfort food so I dug a loaf of frozen bread dough out of the freezer. Unburdening the freezer remains a priority and good excuse. Found my coveted 16" pizza pan, primed it generously with olive oil and then worked the softened dough forever to spread it out to the edges and applied the pizza sauce. Then a layer of quartered large pepperoni and the inevitable extra herbs and spices. But I had an urge for something extra gooey and a taste for mushrooms so I got out a can of cream of mushroom soup, hand-whipped it into a lighter texture and carefully applied small dollops of it all over the sauce and pepperoni. Shamelessly applied over a pound of stray mozzarella (found in the freezer as well), a light sprinkling of Parmesan and then tamped it all down very gently to spread and incorporate the mushroom soup into the cheese. Then the final layer of more pepperoni, fresh mushrooms and some ancient frozen green pepper slices (those were 'OK' but obviously not as good as fresh ones).

It presented the answer to everything I had hoped to satisfy. Thick and creamy, rich enough that both of us were happy in leaving the second half for another night's treat. I love those meals that don't leave you looking for 'a little something else' to finish off the hunger and even better if they provide a second sitting on another night.
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So, Saturday morning, I'm looking out a Rat window, up at the mesa top and something registers as unusual. I saw what looked like a mound of snow on a small stump. But the stump just seemed out of place so I got out the field glasses. During one of our supper and social evenings, Slim had mentioned how you just get used to what looks normal and what looks just a little off when spotting game. He was right; the glasses revealed the white rump of a mule deer doe. I took out the new camera with the great 12X zoom lens and fired away. The absolutely worst feature of this Canon S3-IS is the view finder. Unlike my adored old SLR where what you see is what you get, you look into the view finder and see some very vague digital image. It's absolutely ghastly so you point in the general direction, cross your fingers, click and hope for the best.
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Fortunately, the auto focus is reasonably efficient and the views above are similar to what my field glasses had revealed. Remember that you can click on any of these images for a larger view but do so especially for these deer photos directly above.

These two does took their sweet time munching around the base of that pine tree. I'd love to find out just what food source they were so enthralled with; they were there for well over an hour. I have a feeling that these were part of the three doe group I had seen just the day before as they grazed down in our canyon bottom. We had discovered a well-worn trail which ascended the 300 foot face during one of our 'all critters of the Rat' outings last Fall. They could flit up the mesa face in five minutes and not even breathe hard. This is an awesome place to quietly exist and observe.
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Our St. Valentine's Wishes

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To make up for yesterday's brutal tour of plumbing joys, I will let the photos do most of the talking today.
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An old copper heart in the wild

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A cookie cutter, its shadowy admirer

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Just goes to show that you can find yourself atop a rusty old burn barrel and still find serenity

Happy St. Valentine's wishes and love from all of us out here at the ranch to all our wonderful blog friends and readers!
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Why I Despise Plumbing Work

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The "P" word (that dreaded catch-all category for anything that involves movement of clean or dirty fluids) is a leading cause of insanity. I will explain why. The word 'plumbing' came to us from the Latin word for lead. We know that the Roman civilization existed slightly before the EPA Empire and so they piped all their water around via lead pipe and even made drinking cups from lead. Some have gone so far as to suggest that lead poisoning from their plumbing was a major contributor to the eventual decline of their Empire. I happen to agree that their plumbing was a major factor although I believe that dealing with any aspect of plumbing, be it in lead, copper, iron or plastic, will cause or encourage complete insanity. Please proceed with that premise in mind.

Somewhere in mid-January, Mark chipped away the ice and removed one of the Rat's skirting panels. The reason at the time was to allow the new warm air to infiltrate the underbelly of the Rat and hopefully thaw out the plumbing which had already left us without running water for the last two weeks. A glorious prospect indeed!

I made the fatal mistake of stooping down to survey the creepy-crawly space. I saw ... I heard .... dripping. At that point, I should have discreetly loaded my bags into the Dakota and left for parts yet to be determined. Perhaps the roads were impassible that day, I don't remember now. Perhaps I was simply in denial with a warped pioneer stubbornness and masochism. Whatever that was matters not; I felt compelled to crawl into that void beneath the Rat to find the cause of the dripping. The water piping had held its own against the subzero weather, it was the drain system which chose to let loose.

Since I am the far more compressible into three or for segments to work under the Rat and the only one still marginally able to see in the dark, I choose at that moment to retreat and declare the drains off-limits until further notice. I needed time to think and form some sort resolve, intestinal fortitude ... something, anything. In the meantime; no water in, no water out.

There was a time when I was an erect-walking Homo Sapiens of the full basement clan. No, I was not fond of plumbing duty even back then but I did not have the oppressive dread of it that I possess now. Folding, crawling, crouching and laying in the mud of disconnected drain discharge has somehow let my disdain bloom fully. Fergawdssake, I don't have much of an immune system on a good day.

A week after the discovery, I made one more exploratory, armed with a tube of silicon just in case some quick fix might present itself. I did locate part of the problem (which I optimistically presumed to be the entire problem, of course). After scrunching around into position, I grabbed hold of the culprit drain pipe. It, in turn, launched a splendid counter attack and squarely dumped a cup of filthy gray water directly into my ear which was invitingly sideways at the time. I will not include the dissertation which followed at great volume but it set every creature within 100 yards of the Rat on high alert. I retreated to the upper Rat, flooded my ear canal with hydrogen peroxide and hoped for the best.

Just like Red, I tend to ruminate and consider all the aspects and consequences of a project until just before Hell freezes over. While Mark loves us both dearly, this is not one of the traits which compels him to do so.
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And so we lived like this for several weeks until yesterday, my next big day of resolve. Mark performed the customary 'freeing of the panel' ritual and I laid out a large piece of plastic which I hoped would be my prophylactic shield against the scum of the earth.
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The sodden forest of mold to the outer edge of one central I-beam told me that I needed to remove the glorified cardboard insulator. I dug in a carpet knife and incised the soggy matting away. That, in turn, released putrid streams of standing water down upon me. The empty kitty litter bucket in the bottom of the photo above was able to capture most of the remaining stream. It also served as a good repository for the wet pink insulation and multi-colored slime that I grabbed down by the messy handful. Then I retreated to let everything drain further - by George, it was Miller time already.
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My target? Right beyond that blackened floor stud showing in the middle of this foul incision. This is where the drain took a right angle up into the Rat. I wasn't about to take a photo looking straight up and chance having that crud leak down on me.
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Above is the other end of my mission on the inner side of the I-beam (marked with a yellow arrow). Mark, in the interim, had removed the bathroom sink and performed considerable drain rearrangements which ultimately led to a little more reasonable length of pipe poking through the floor for me to work with down under. I still managed to drive a knee and elbow into the dodgy ooze and dust the cobwebs and other unidentified flotsam off with my hair but was able to avoid a good buzz from the plastic cement. Not that unholy benediction moments did not occur but with some charlie horse spasms and a little luck, the wayward drain found its mating ends and seemed to hold in place.

Close enough for one day! I scrambled out 'from unda' and declared Miller Time Two. So far, so good! (?) My advice is to avoid plumbing issues at all costs - it is a serious detriment to both physical and mental health. This is one case where you do not wish to 'Do as the Romans'.

Now make sure to come back tomorrow for your Valentines greetings from all of us out here at the ranch!
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A Tin Roof and Flat Tires

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

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

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

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

I was going to write a follow-up entry on hiking with cats and encountering an even more unlikely avian guardian but I am just plain typed out for now.
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The Triumphant Return

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Now that we have discovered this new petroglyph, we look around the immediate area but it is obvious that no more are to be found today. The sun is starting to impose a bit of unwelcome perspiration. Despite the cooler Autumn weather, any movement out under the sun rays will do so as the day progresses. It's time to head back to the shade of the Rat plus a shallow bowl of milk for our feline adventurers. Even so, you regret leaving the thrill of the hunt behind.

But wait! Beautiful Dave the Cat has wondered off while we were busy enjoying the new petroglyph. "Bea-ut-i-ful DA-A-ave!" No answer. For the first time today, I am reminded of the perils of the canyon. It doesn't help that Dave came to us with no appreciable voice. Ming will let you know where he is quite readily, even when he is playing hidden panther games. Dave will not. At best, he will utter something akin to a breathy "Achhh!", a very quiet cross between the call of my crows and a German U-boat Captain. This will not help in finding him. And so we back track, calling and surveying the brush between the high mesa walls and the creek bank cliffs. Still nothing. Now I recall passing an explosion of rabbit fur on the way here, no remaining carcass, just random tufts of fur. An eagle strike, of course! I am suddenly deeply ashamed that I have let the lure of the triangle rock lessen my vigilance for the ever present threat of eagles searching for rabbits, cats and whatever else they can dive down upon. WHERE is Dave? "Bea-ut-i-ful DA-A-ave!!!" I now feel concern seep in as we pick up the pace of the search.
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Finally, ever so thankfully, we see a flash of his white fur as he trots towards us from the creek. "Ohhh Dave, WHERE have you been?" Relief replaces worry as I fling him up into my arms and squeeze him. Once we retrace my steps to rejoin Ming, who has lagged far behind by now, Dave squirms restlessly to be let down. "Now ... you two have to stay with me, okay? We're heading home." Look up now. Any sign of flying predators in these cloudless skies? No? Good, let's head down to the creek then!

There is no doubt in my mind as to why the term "like trying to herd cats" became popular, even though my two little friends are the best of hiking companions. Each still has his own agenda and joyful distractions. This can be a source of considerable concern when eagles are about. Hawks, crows and kestrels are no threat but those eagles are quite another story. I had mentioned this to a visiting Apache woman. She said "Cats? With the size of the eagles I saw up the canyon last month, you should watch out for your dogs as well!" These people don't exaggerate unless they're trying to pull your leg. She wasn't.
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Sorry about that little skid down the embankment. This really was the closest and easiest way down, you know ... honest! See, only the seat of your pants shows any traces of that indignity and I won't tattle. Where are the boys now? The cats join us at the edge of this sandy interstate-wide creek crossing. A look skywards. "Okay, guys, let's go!" Dave is, as always, the first to boldly go where no cat has gone before, strutting casually along in the open without a care. Ming follows slowly, already looking for his next hiding spot on the other side.
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We were about a third way across this broad thoroughfare when my crows appeared noisily with an unrelenting heckling from the mesa at our backs (see photo above; the mesa on the right). First only a pair of crows but ten others joined in as I looked up. They were circling a pair of eagles above us and ruining their silent high vigil. "Thank you!" I shouted as I drove the two cats quickly across to the other side.
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But cats cannot be herded on the best of days and Beautiful Dave was content to stop far short of cover and lie down in the creek bed (see photo above). One person juggling the immediate welfare of two cats does not make for efficiency. Luckily, Brou made one of his frenetic passes and responded to "Get Da Kitty!" He LIVES for such moments. With Dave now driven into the thick rabbit brush, I only had to worry about Ming. I shouldn't have worried, he soon joined us via deep brush cover.

The crows had done their work; the eagles tired of their raucous company and retreated back to the north. I so wished to collapse with relief at that point but we still had a long trek remaining in front of us. The undulating flats seemed more vast than on the hike in as I listened and watched intently for new predators while keeping the cat herd tightly by.

I find little as comforting as twisting the door knob and having a stream of animal friends beat me into the Rat's cool interior after such a good day's adventure. Are you ready for a bowl of cold milk now? The boys certainly are.
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While we're on the subject of cat herding, you might as well go see this video if you have the time and download capacity:

YouTube - Cat Herding

Yep, it will give you a pretty good idea of what Slim and the boys will be doing this Spring out here on the range.

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Sun and Shadow

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Retrospect: Late October 2007
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The sun out here in the high desert does a marvelous job of changing the views in significant ways, not only by the season but throughout the hour. My example below is of a favorite view of mine when I stand on the porch.

I love to gaze across the creek to the far mesa wall and ponder the red and black streaks on this one particular rock formation. If you look beneath the yellow dot in the upper half of the image below, you will see a very unusual triangle of red color. To me, it was an unlikely shape for Nature to form for no particular reason and it held no end of intrigue. Then, late one afternoon last autumn, I happened to look across the creek again (see the lower half of the photo). That triangle was NOT part of the rock face at all but a triangular obelisk of rock unto itself. Could that really be?
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I happen to be feeling pretty good today so whether you're ready or not, put on your most comfortable hiking shoes because we're going to round up 'the boys' (Ming and Beautiful Dave the Cat) and head across the canyon to find out what's really over there; the placid contemplation of this mystery is about to end.
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Once we cross the ups and downs of the sage and chico flats and find a reasonable path down through the steep banks to the creek bottom, it will be surprisingly hard to find the right path up to the target area on the other side. Expect one or two false starts as the ledge at the foot of the mesa runs out abruptly due to massive erosion. We will have to back track down into the creek bed and start all over again. All that huffing, puffing and cat herding for nothing so far.
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Finally we're all up and headed in the right direction. When the scale changes from far distance to 'in your face' macro, it is hard to determine if you have really found the right spot. The bluffs of the creek won't allow for back stepping to regain any part of our initial perspective. Here is a prime example above. You can see Beautiful Dave (in the lower third of the photo) watching Ming (center of photo) who is about to explore the dark crevice in front of him. On the right of that crevice is our target, the red triangle rock! Who would have guessed so at this point?
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The reward! Once we are able to stand at the base of my elusive triangle rock, we look up and see this incredibly ancient and weather-worn petroglyph. Did you feel that little shiver of delight run down your back as you glanced up and saw it, too? Look! One, two, THREE little Indians plus, I dunno, a critter of some sort to their immediate right. Was this rock part of a larger intact work at one time? Did you find your imagination trying to paint in the missing artist scribing away? Did you wonder if they had lived on that narrow bank in front of the rock or were just migrating through with the seasons? What was he saying?

While the rocks mutely testify to a past unfathomably ancient, there is something far more moving in finding a message or expression from a fellow human standing in the same exact spot as you but half a millennium before. There are so many messages in the rocks which we have yet to rediscover. Perhaps you will be right here with us when we do.
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February's Lion Weather

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Sunday morning - snow storm

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Brou and Daisy charge out to greet Mark as he returns from his ice-breaking rounds.
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There was six inches on the ground by Monday morning, another three added by the following morning. .

I had something half-written to go with these photos. I cannot finish it at the moment but wanted to let you see our latest storm before it became old news.
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Missing Michael, part 2

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Thanks for hanging in with me on this so far. Although I can feel my blood pressure building, I don't have quite the same emotional strain on me now as I did in writing the first part. This is very encouraging on the catharsis front, very encouraging.

Please read the first part below this post if you have not done so already.
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When Michael's tone changed so abruptly, it snapped me back closer to reality and I asked "Not that I am not thrilled with this surprise call but since we just talked on the weekend, why are you calling so soon again?" He said "I just had to tell you that I love you, that's all. I have to go now." Being annoyingly pragmatic at times, I took it at face value, returned the sentiment deeply and we signed off.

The phone didn't ring again until the afternoon of the next day. The voice at the other end identified the caller as Michael's aunt. I was delighted that the rest of his family had also wanted to connect with me ... until she cut to the chase to save us both any further torments and delusions. "I'm sorry, Lin, Michael is gone." I tried to think despite a good portion of the roof of the universe having just collapsed upon my being but it didn't work. "But .... noooo, but he ... nooo .... but he talked to me just ... nooooooo! He just talked to me last night, did he commit suicide? What? What was it?" "No, they said he died of a massive heart attack in his sleep." I could not fathom this news or make any sense of it. None! He was only 36! Nothing in the universe made sense at that moment. His voice returned through this fog to reiterate "You mean you hadn't heard of the family curse of the youngest son dying first?" His father, the youngest son and first to die, had obviously passed this on to him. My cerebral synapses would not fire. The pounding in my heart became not only physically painful but deafening as the sound of surging, racing blood filled my ears, cloaking his aunt's remaining words under a sodden muslin gauze of unreality. Somewhere in the murmuring onslaught of painful words, I sensed a silence and I vaguely recall myself saying on auto-pilot "I am so sorry. I will be back in touch soon."

I don't remember hanging up the phone, I have no idea what transpired between then and an unexpected knocking on the back door. I suppose my sense of duty overrode my inclination to ignore the summons and I found my way across the house now dimming with the twilight. A bald head and goateed face peered inquisitively into the dimness beyond the door glass. Trying to hide the mess of tears and swelling that my face had become, I pulled open the door for Harmonica Joe. While he would have normally said "Hey, I was just passing through so I stopped by" he was quick to assess the problem "My God, Lin, WHAT has happened?" "Joe, they took Michael from me!" With that, I could no longer hold back my sorrows and Joe was quick to throw a very needed, comforting embrace around my shoulders. Mark was on a rare business trip away and no doubt some angel had sent Joe to answer the distress call. The evening remains a blur but he faithfully stayed on into the late night until I was talked out and he was nodding off from fatigue. After I settled him into the guest bedroom, I stayed up for several more hours listening to the music fade in and out of my embroiled consciousness, until I could no longer resist the exhaustion and physical fatigue myself.

As my ever best friend, Mark assumed the necessary arrangements upon his arrival home and it wasn't long before we were flying into Denver and then heading north by rental car.

We arrived at the service the next day and settled into seats at the front row quietly and largely unannounced. The small church was packed right to the back aisles. It was all I could do to concentrate on not making an utter sobbing spectacle of myself. Mark's strength and his gentle but firm grasp on my hand helped maintain my composure.

Despite my misery, my analytical brain soon determined that we were two of a total of maybe ten straight people in the entire church. The minister, a rather robust and manly woman, proceeded with the service. Michael's aunt was seated two away from us, his older brother was closer but silent and guarded by his wife who had sat between us at a diagonal with her back rather rudely acting as a barrier between us. At one point, I slipped a memorial card that I had designed between her elbow and lap. Upon seeing my desperate effort to connect and console, she shoved the card off onto the floor with her elbow in disdain with nary so much as a turn to acknowledge our presence. A 9mm round to the forehead would have been much more kind, much less painful. I then realized why Michael and I had found each other and been so ecstatic. His aunt would later tell me that she had never seen him so happy and content as when his father's family found him again.

I could feel the tension of suppressed sorrow mounting in the room as the service proceeded. The lights dimmed until barely little but a podium could be seen at the far right as a hefty woman of great flair flounced confidently up the aisle and stood behind that podium. The rabbit hole widened considerably when I realized that the eulogist was a transvestite. Michael was probably hovering in the wings and chuckling with mischievous delight. But God bless that gal, uhm, fella. His very first words brought laughter and broke the stinging hold of grief. As he went on, we were all able to laugh and cry equally hard without censure and there was plenty of both to embrace. In the end, he told of how he had been contemplating suicide when Michael, who was bar tending that night, starting to talk with him, pointing out his remarkable talents and pushing him to pursue them and feel good about them. He noted that because of Michael's timely intervention that very night, he went on to find his act booked long term in Las Vegas instead of his life coming to an ugly and needless end alone. There were suppressed sobs as he offered an open mic to others who Michael had affected profoundly.

The next hour was the most intensely emotional time that either Mark or I had ever experienced. One by one, his friends and admirers came to the podium. The stories were all the same; Michael had come along at their most lonely and desperate time and given them sincere friendship, love and the reasons and will to go on. While Mark had been somewhat ambivalent given the short time he was able to spend with him, we left the church after the release of the white doves and he said "I am glad that we came here. I feel very privileged to have known him for even that brief time." That was my Michael, my beloved angelic boy.
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I had once wondered if someone could slowly die of a broken heart. Hopefully writing this story will provide the catharsis needed to slow that unintended journey now.
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Missing Michael

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This is not one of my usual stiff upper lip posts so you might choose well to sign off now. I am in a melancholy and deeply reflective mood to be precise.

A pall of untraceable sorrow has been hanging over me for the last few days. It wasn't until late yesterday evening that I realized its source when my cousin drifted visibly into my thoughts. After I did the painful memory calculations, I realized that he had left me exactly six years ago. So this post's for you, Michael, where ever you are.

The prospects of the 2000 family reunion had me engrossed for six months in a family history book to mark the occasion. I researched fanatically and added to what little the family had provided until I had found interesting highlights dating back nearly one thousand years. I would couple this with the bios of the last four or five generations and publish the results in a memento for everyone who attended. In the process, I found a branch which had been curiously absent from my memory and set out to find them via the internet. With the help of my sister's snail-mail follow-up, we located a lost cousin. He was overjoyed at the prospect of a reunion and booked flights as soon as he knew the details. This was my Michael, soon to become my most precious family.

I survived the reunion well enough but spent most of it dodging the dagger-filled glares from at least two family members and the icy countenance from their minions. My only regret is that this lessened my ability to spend any comfortable time with Michael. I made an indelible mental note at that point that I would never go to the expense and effort to rejoin family ever again. Mum had departed two years prior, what incentive was left? I don't go out of my way to smash my fingers with a hammer either.

Michael and I kept in nearly weekly contact thereafter. During the following six months, I realized that I had finally found kin who I adored and felt it returned a hundred fold. It was a new and priceless experience. He was a positive soul without a negative bone is his body. Given his background, I will forever marvel at his loving and forgiving attitudes.

His father had worked for an intelligence agency and was constantly away in far places. Said father went missing completely for a time during the Iran hostage crisis. By the time he did show up at the door, unannounced and with only the clothes on his back and a foreign passport, the stress and strain had become more than Michael's mother could bear and she died not long after. The father then 'retired', later becoming quite talkative about his various exploits and died soon afterwards. The two boys were farmed out briefly within our side of the family before being left to the care of their mother's only surviving family, a much younger sister. But Michael seemed to bear no trace of resentment; it was simply within his remarkable nature, you see. I rejoiced at being openly, truly loved by a blood-related family member. He had a way of making you feel like you were the most special person on the face of the planet and you knew you could turn your back to him and not feel that inevitable jab of a dagger. It was a giddy and sublime euphoria which I suspect people take drugs to achieve.

He called me unexpectedly one night in the middle of the week. I was thrilled to hear his voice so soon again after our weekend call and we talked as usual like those who wish to frantically make up for lost time. I told him of our new plans to head to New Mexico, closer to his Colorado home. He excitedly exclaimed "Maybe I could move down there, maybe we can form our own family of two! What do you think about that?" I replied pragmatically "And wouldn't you get bored in the middle of my desert?" His deep and soothing voice took on a certain playfulness, "Nah, you and I can fight dragons or something. Hey, you aren't the only oddball in the family, you know. I don't mean to brag but I was named for Saint Michael, you know." I could feel his cherubic face beaming at the other end of the phone line and I joined him in his great amusement.

He taunted and pressed me to come visit him soon; "It's a snap, you just fly to Denver and it's a skip and jump from there, c'mon ... please?" "Michael, I love you dearly but I dislike flying immensely and I am certainly NOT flying through Denver, thank you very much." His suddenly serious tone and following words have haunted me to this day "I think you will be dealing with Denver sooner than you care to, whether you like it or not." For the usual and ever frustrating reasons, I did not question that odd remark at the time.

to be continued
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A Great Ice Breaker! Part 2

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As promised, you are now headed into Part 2 of making the morning rounds of the range with Mark. It's still chilly out there but Mark's been working up some body warmth with his ax and shovel and the truck heater is being backed off incrementally as the morning progresses.
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This is work place scenery that both of us find easy to live with.
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This is stop number 5, the second to last. Another set of Slim's ladies anxiously mill around as Mark pokes a hole through the ice for them in an old stock tank. His cows really are lovely and well-mannered. Some out here on the range are not.
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Final stop! Unlock the gate and wander up the road into Slim's cow camp. I tried to get a photo of Slim's four horses with my ailing camera options. I had a great shot framed of all four and then the camera shut itself off. With the prospect of their breakfast at hand, you have to be quick with shutter. By the time I had reached into the truck for the other camera, all four had closed in on me tightly and the most congenial of them was snorting sweet nothings into my ear; giving me goosebumps and raising the hair on the back of my neck. At that point, all I could have photographed was a very large and friendly horse eyeball so I gave up.

They were not interested in Mark's ice breaking at all but fell in behind him like kids chasing the Good Humor man when he headed to the trailer. The hay is kept behind an inner gate in the trailer. After his first day on the feed and water run, he learned to swing the outer trailer gate shut behind him. By not having done so on the first run, he turned around with the hay bale and ran into a solid wall of exuberant horse flesh which had followed right in behind him.
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Above and below are more views from up top as he went from one location to another.
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He'll trade these work day views any day for one of smoggy skyscrapers in the distance.
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Heads up: I might be somewhat sporadic in my postings over the next little while. I don't feel so good right now and the writing does not come easy. If I attempt to do forced production writing, it will lack that element of joy that this place holds for us. Part of that joy is in not feeling pressured to please anyone outside the canyon and, you, my blog buds, have been so good about understanding that pressure. I will certainly write updates when the good days are front and center - I just can't count on them - so please understand that I might disappear for longer than what has been normal up until now .

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