A Wuss in the Woods

I’m meditating.

My mind is calm, my body relaxed, my senses in tune with the music of the cosmos, my whole being focused on the one…ohmigod here comes another gust of WI-HIND!

Damn, it’s cold.

Reluctantly, I give up on the meditation and open my eyes to see Wiley the dog staring back at me. The question on her face is obvious. “Can we go home now?”

A camping trip seemed like a good idea when I initially made my plans. The weather was sunny and warm, with definite signs of spring in the air. Of course I should have remembered, Colorado doesn’t give up winter without a fight and by the time the trip rolled around, the temperatures had plummeted once more making the whole prospect much less appealing. However, the weather had also turned nasty the last time I’d planned a camping trip, several months ago and to my regret, I’d wimped out. Not so this time. I was going ahead, cold weather or no.

At the last moment I decided not to take my little hike tent, but to sleep in the back of the car. With the seats folded down there’s plenty of room for me and a dog and I figured the ease of set up might be handy. After checking the weather forecast I also changed my destination, deciding that a high mountain pass might not be the best location to camp during a winter storm. So southbound we were, to the back roads and jeep trails behind Buena Vista. It was one of the many areas in this state I’ve yet to visit so spirits were high as we bowled along 285 early Wednesday morning.

It’s a while since I’ve been camping and it was disturbing how much I’d forgotten when it came to packing. A hat would have been nice. And a can opener. And perhaps that loaf of bread sitting in the fridge at home. And definitely some hot drinks for the evening. I had my coffee of course, and a healthy supply of beer. But I can’t drink coffee in the evenings and even cold beer loses its appeal in sub-zero temperatures. But those concerns were hours away; at this point we were still optimistic of a fun couple of days, getting back to the wild and communing with nature.

It took a while bumping and wheezing along the trail before I found the perfect campsite beside a picturesque rock outcrop, and I jumped excitedly out of the car. Seconds later I was hopping back in to re-organize my attire. As in, to put on most of the clothing I’d brought. Man, it was cold.

Now I had anticipated the temperatures dropping during the night and had brought plenty of warm stuff. What I hadn’t really allowed for was how to fill the day when all I could think about was how bitterly cold it was. I had some kind of fantasy about getting in touch with my primal spirit, becoming one with nature and aligning my energy with the natural forces of the earth. I saw myself spending time drumming, reading and meditating, with frequent walks among the flora and fauna which surrounded me. I hadn’t really envisaged myself huddling behind a rock in a desperate attempt to avoid having my face seared off by the wind.

And once darkness fell, oh boy did those temperatures drop. I was using Dear Wife’s sleeping bag rather than my own, for no other reason than that I came across it first while rummaging through the shed. It was billed as a three-season bag when we bought it but I think that must have been one season in Florida, one in Hawaii and one in Acapulco. It certainly isn’t warm enough for spring in Colorado. Although to be fair, considering the water bottle by my head froze in the night, keeping me toasty would have been a challenge for sleeping bags a lot more expensive than this. Wiley had already staked her claim to the tartan rug I had intended to use as back up insulation and as she’s eleven now and presumably every bit as cold as me, I reluctantly cut her some slack. Instead I lay and shivered, and wondered how long it would be until morning.

When daybreak finally arrived it took several mugs of hot coffee to warm my soul but as the sun made its feeble appearance through the clouds, I was feeling less like a popsicle and ready to face the day. All eighteen hours of it.

We went for walks. Lots of walks. And I spent a lot of time reading whilst huddled in the back of the car. This wasn’t much warmer than outside but at least it offered a temporary respite from the wind. And every now and then I would climb outside and stretch my stiff limbs in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. I tried drumming but the percussion of the wooden sticks hurt my frozen hands. And I meditated; for a few minutes but totally failed to empty my mind of extraneous thoughts, concentrating as I was on the next gust of icy cold wind.

And all the while there was that nagging voice. The one questioning why I was doing this in the first place

“You could be in town, sitting in a café, or a bookstore, or a bar. You don’t have to stay out here. You could always spend the day in town then come back and sleep out tonight. Or you could stay in that cheap motel you saw. Or, in two hours you could be home. You’re supposed to be having fun. You aren’t having fun, are you?”

Eventually I silenced the voice by telling myself that I’m a middle aged guy who works in an office. I can’t run a mile and I can’t lift anything heavy. I can’t fix things around the house and I wouldn’t know how to kill my own food. When civilization finally breaks down, I won’t last five minutes. But I am not going to give up on a camping trip just because it’s cold!”

And I’m proud to say, I didn’t. I stuck it out for the full 2 days before scraping the ice from the inside of the windshield and running for home. Am I a hardened camper or what? Wiley would probably have wimped out though, given the choice.

What, you didn't think the wuss in the title was me, did you?

Dress for Success

So you might recall, a couple of weeks ago I wrote a piece entitled "Wardrobe Malfunction" in which I catalogued examples of food leaping off my fork and onto any clean clothes I happen to be wearing. In the first paragraph I talked about a new-from-a-thrift-store linen shirt of which I happen to be particularly fond. Somewhat predictably, I spilled food on it when wearing it for the first time and as it turned out it had to be dry cleaned instead of laundered, this little incident ended up costing more than the shirt itself. As a result, I was particularly careful the next few times I wore it and can cheerfully report that I haven't spilled food on it since.

Instead I lost it.

While riding the train to work one morning I managed to leave this and several other perfectly serviceable shirts in a plastic bag under the seat. My plan had been to drop them at the dry cleaners near my office but as they never showed up at the Lost and Found, I can only imagine some thieving b*****d is strutting around wearing my shirts! I hope he gets as big a shock as I did the first time he gets the linen one dry cleaned. Harrumph!

In addition to the pain of losing a very nice, almost new to me shirt, this simple act of carelessness more or less cleared out my stock of work shirts. I didn't have too many to begin with and most of the ones remaining are dressy to the point where they only look good when I'm wearing a jacket and tie. Which is virtually never. So to my horror, I realized I was going to have to devote a day of my precious vacation to descend into the seventh circle of hell. I was going to have to go….clothes shopping. Dah dah daaahhhh!!!!! (If you'd had your sound turned up, you would have heard dramatic music there.)

I've never been a fan of shopping in any form. Not from the days when me dear ol' Ma used to drag me round the town of a Saturday morning. Even in the first few years after starting work when I had almost as much money as I knew what to do with, I was always more interested in using the stuff I bought than actually buying it. Now I'm married and broke, the act of shopping is just simply one more miserable task ranking up there with cleaning the gutters and washing the windows. It has to be done, but I'd much rather somebody else did it. Part of the problem is that the stuff I want to buy; kayaks and motorcycles and 12-year old malt whisky and stuff, is way out of my price range. As a general rule, if I can afford it, I don't want it.

And clothes shopping has to be the worst of all. I don't have the disposable income to drape myself in custom made garments and as my physique is not one commonly seen within the pages of GQ I have challenges finding things off the peg which come close to fitting me. Not only that, but I've always been somewhat uncomfortable in clothes stores of any type. When I was a lad, no matter how down market these places might be, they were always staffed by frighteningly intimidating super-models and as talking to pretty girls caused my face to turn beet red and my tongue to wood, the whole thing was a traumatizing experience.

My usual procedure was to shuffle in, trying to look invisible and furtively rummage through the selection. As soon as I found a garment looking vaguely similar to what everyone else was wearing, I would head straight for the check out. Fit? What's that? I was well into my twenties before I had the faintest idea of my waist or leg size. I do remember one particularly cruel salesmonster telling me "Nobody makes jeans in your size, these are the closest you're going to get". Of course I believed her and walked around wearing jeans half way up my calves for years before learning that several manufacturers make jeans in my size, it's just many stores don't carry them.

But anyway, teenage trauma notwithstanding, new shirts were needed so new shirts have to be bought. Although Dear Wife has done a sterling job over the years in keeping me equipped with skivvies and socks, and was responsible for the purchase of the aforementioned linen shirt, when it comes to clothes buying I generally like to at least have a say in things. So, with a heavy heart I headed down the hill to the big city, check book at the ready.

And I have to admit; it wasn't all that bad. Even though Dear Wife had her own list of things to buy, many only vaguely benefiting me. Even though we left the house at 9:30 and didn't get home until after 6. And even though my bank account is in urgent need of a massage with some liniment, it was about as trauma free as a visit to over a dozen stores could be. I didn't hyperventilate. I didn't start swinging punches. And I even used the fitting rooms a couple of times.

Oh, I'll confess there was a spell where we made the mistake of taking the scenic route to look at an upscale neighborhood and found ourselves trapped in an endless series of red lights which would have taxed the patience of someone far more patient than me. And the temperature in some of the stores could have been a good 20 degrees lower and still been sub-tropical. And a number of screaming kids were in urgent need of the duct tape treatment. And I did get a shade cranky on one of the freeways towards the end when nobody would let me merge. But other than that, it was a comparatively pain free day.

And I came home with several new shirts. And a pair of pants. And a pair of shoes. Oh and a snazzy looking pair of shorts too. Which I think is more new clothes than I've had in one day since I was last kitted out to return to school. So now if I can just refrain from dripping food on them, or leaving them on the train, I should be looking pretty sharp for a while.

We'll see.

The Hustler

We had a leaving do for a colleague at work last week. The do wasn’t actually at work of course, but in a bar just down the street. At 4:30 all pretense of toil stopped and en masse we headed out for a couple of hours of beer, munchies and pool. These are all pleasant diversions in themselves, but even better when paid for by the company. Eating and drinking are two skills I have long since mastered, mainly due to long hours of dedicated practice. Pool on the other hand remains something of a mystery.

Not in the sense that I can’t play or even that I can’t play well, sometimes I play superbly. The crucial word here however is sometimes. And therein lies the mystery. Most of the time, I’m every bit as hopeless at pool as I am at everything else. But sometimes, on extremely rare occasions, when the stars are in alignment and the dice are rolling, I play as though gifted by the Gods themselves.

This was such a night. While my first three or four trips to the table were the usual humiliating display of mile-wide misses, appalling blunders and balls bigger than the pockets, all of a sudden it came together. I was Paul Newman, Tom Cruise and Jackie Gleason all rolled into one. Cuts, banks, combinations, the full length of the table and back. Everything I attempted went in. As I knew they would even before I leant over the table and took aim. I was in the zone. This wasn’t just pool, this was poetry.

People lined up to challenge me and I slapped them down one after another. Conversations stopped. People from other groups came over to watch. I was on fire. I didn’t bother to explain that I hadn’t picked up a pool cue in months; what was the point? Nobody would believe me. In fact they probably all assumed I had a pool table in a hypothetical basement at home, and practiced for hours every night. But I knew when it was time to stop. After sinking my umpteenth black of the night. I calmly handed the cue to someone else, walked back to my beer and took a seat.

“I’m done” I announced. “Someone else can have a turn”.

Beer has never tasted so sweet and in my rare moment of triumph, I reflected how I haven’t always been this wise.

Lakes Entrance is a tiny fishing village on Australia’s Victoria Coast. The curious name stems from its location on a small river which leads from the sea to a network of natural lakes. The ocean beaches are wide, long and largely empty while the lakes are a veritable playground for water sports of all kinds. As such Lakes Entrance is popular with holidaymakers and day trippers. However, once the sun goes down it has to be said, there’s not a whole lot to do. I discovered this in the company of two Australian girls, Lee and Cheri whom I’d met in the local backpackers’ hostel. We were trawling the streets looking for somewhere, anywhere we might sit and enjoy a quiet beer or six. It wasn’t that Lakes Entrance was lacking in hostelries, quite the reverse, but they were all what might be termed...shitholes. After searching fruitlessly for some time, we finally settled on in which the absence of broken glass on the floor suggested it might be less threatening than others.

Australians as a whole are a wonderfully friendly and sociable people but even though I’d only been in the country for a couple of months, I was well aware that in certain circles, my English accent could be a hindrance to social advancement. The fishermens’ bars of Lakes Entrance were just such circles and I was anxious to avoid drawing attention to myself. This was something of a challenge in the company of Lee and Cherie, who were extroverts to the max and wanted to talk to everyone. Cherie’s sprayed on Levis and Lee’s pink fur hat were drawing just the notice I hoped to prevent, contrasting as they did with the rubber boots and rain slickers worn by most of the other patrons. That and the fact that the three of us had more teeth than the rest of the bar put together.

“Let’s play pool” chirruped Cherie, at a point when the stares were becoming most uncomfortable. If I had wanted to distract attention from myself, playing pool wasn’t the method I would have chosen but she was already setting up the table. With a sigh I made my way over, lined up the break, closed my eyes and muttered a silent prayer. Three stripes went in.

And that was just the beginning.

Shot after shot, ball after ball, game after game. Everything I attempted went home. Lee and Cherie were quickly replaced as my opponents while one after another, the local hotshots stepped up to take their turn. Every one retired defeated. Nobody could touch me and they were lucky if they visited the table more than once or twice before I cleaned up the balls. Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” wasn’t playing in the background, but it might as well have been. Far from being bothered by my Englishness, those people worshipped me. At the end of the night, I left that bar a legend.

Weeks later, I met up with Lee and Cherie in their hometown of Melbourne. I stayed with them for a few days and on the weekend, tagged along to a birthday party in a local hostelry. A number of people were there, all friendly souls and before long, someone suggested a game of pool.

“Oh Andrew will play with you” chorused Lee and Cherie, “He’s great at pool!”

While it might be good for the ego to have two cheerleaders boasting of your skills to all and sundry, it makes the inevitable fall all the harder to take when reality sets in. The shark from Lakes Entrance was long gone. Today we were back to the normal Andrew, the real Andrew. I couldn’t hit a barn door at 5 paces with those pool balls. People had come from all areas of the bar to watch this famous pool wizard from Britain and were now standing in puzzled silence as ball after ball refused to go anywhere near where I wanted them to. How embarrassing. The sense of letdown was tangible.

One the way home, Cherie asked me in puzzlement. “So why did you play so well in Lakes Entrance, yet so badly today?”

What could I tell her? “Pool” I said, “is something of a mystery.”

In the Headlights

I saw you up ahead, you and your mate, but only for a moment. I braked but didn’t swerve; stayed in a straight line just like we’re told to do. And if you’d only kept running I would have passed safely behind you. Your mate had already stopped and was safe. It would have been alright. Instead you panicked and turned back the way you came. You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time. And you were no match for me. You didn’t even make much of a noise. But I knew how hard I’d hit you. I knew.

The driver behind me stopped as well and the pair of us walked back together.

"What was it?" he asked. I told him and his face mirrored mine.

I’m not a praying man, but as I made my way along the road I was wishing with all my heart. "Please let it be dead, please let it be dead".

We found you by the side of the road, much further back than I’d thought. You were lying prone and still, curled up as if you were asleep. As if you could be sleeping, here with all those vehicles roaring by only inches from you. I breathed as sigh of relief. Thank goodness, you were dead.

Then you lifted your head and those enormous liquid eyes looked right into my soul. You told me of your pain, your suffering, your fear.

"Why?" you asked, "Why did you do this?"

I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, I really didn’t. I was paying attention, honestly I was. I wasn’t even going fast. It’s just one moment you weren’t there, the next moment you were. And I braked. I was slowing down. But you turned and ran back. And there wasn’t enough time.

Cell phone reception is unreliable up here, but after a few moments hesitation the signal came through loud and clear. The dispatcher was very kind though it was hard for us to talk over the roar of the traffic so she suggested I get back in my car. And I had to leave you, frightened and in pain. I didn’t want to leave you.

"No, I’m not hurt. No, there are no other vehicles involved. Yes, my car is safely off the road." Then we started talking about you, the reason for my call. You were off the main highway, I told her, but in a turning lane. Another vehicle could easily hit you in the dark. I was worried about the additional suffering this would cause you. She of course was concerned for the other vehicle.

"I know this won’t be pleasant" she told me, "but could you drag it to the side of the road?"

"No ma’am" I told her, "I can’t do that."

She hadn’t heard me say you were still alive.

So instead she had me back my car up to you. My car, which had caused you so much misery, was now shielding you, protecting you. In a tragically pitiful way, helping to ensure you suffered no more than you had to for your final minutes in the world.

The local sheriff arrived first. A badge, a uniform, authority. Someone who could take charge. I explained what had happened. I took him to you and I could tell from his face that he was sorry too. I expected him to unclip his gun but instead he pulled out a billy club. A dead weight on a telescopic arm. Could I stand here and watch as he hit you? Break your neck, break your skull? Yes, I would have to watch it. I owed that to you. Squeamish cowardice at this time would be a further insult to the end of your beautiful life. But instead he merely reached forward and gently touched your eyeball. No reaction. Mercifully, you had finally moved on.

Donning protective gloves he carried you off the blacktop and onto the grass verge. I noticed there was litter by your head and absent mindedly, picked it up and took it away. Just a token effort but I wanted your surroundings to be as close to natural as was possible. We had to wait on the State Patrol; apparently you were their jurisdiction. So the two of us checked my car; the first time I’d really looked. A light cover was gone, part of the bumper was missing, the spoiler bent back. Nothing much really. Nothing to show how much the damage had cost you. I pulled the spoiler back into place. I can replace the light cover tomorrow. It would be more than the car’s worth to fix the rest so I’ll need to leave it as is. Which means I’ll see it every day. Which means I’ll see you every day.

State Patrol arrived a few minutes later. He looked half my age, but he carried an air of calm authority I suspect I’ll never have. He’s seen it all before of course, but really at this point, there was nothing more for him to do. I’d to fill out an accident report, which gave me fifteen lines to say what I was able to say in 2. I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you. What else was there to add? That you were beautiful? That you were only in your second or third year? That your eyes were black pools of pain that communicated your feelings to me as clearly as if you spoke my language? That I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my days? I couldn’t write that. So instead, I said what happened. "I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you."

"Try not to feel bad." said the sheriff "It happens. It’s part of living in the mountains."

"It’s my first" I told him.

"I’ve hit three. It doesn’t get any easier." He replied.

Business done, it was time to go. To leave you like any other piece of highway debris. In the next few days the county workers will come with a winch and take you away, who knows where. Hopefully you’ll provide food for some other animals, or nourishment for the soil. I took solace from the fact that you of course, were gone. This was just your body; the vehicle you used for getting around during your short time on earth. You’re running free somewhere, beginning the cycle yet again.

You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time.


This article appeared in Issue # 114 of Mountain Gazette in June, 2005.

Car Talk

Angus isn’t feeling well today. Angus is my car and has been a member of the family for almost three years now. He came into the household not too long after we moved into the mountains when it became apparent that my little Nissan Stanza, despite having provided many miles of semi-trouble free service wasn’t going to be able to handle my commute for very long. It’s around fifty miles each way and includes a vertical climb of over half a mile and that starting from one mile above sea level. I’d already spent many a happy evening standing by the side of the road while his radiator cooled down and this was only summer – a Colorado winter with a two-wheel drive didn’t hold much appeal.

So, the Nissan was sold to a high-school student who lives in the city and thinks it’s a Rolls Royce, the “Cars for Sale” ads were scoured and before long, we’d adopted a 1992 Toyota 4Runner and christened him Angus. I’m no fan of the SUV culture but Angus is small by today’s standards, gets a reasonable gas mileage and yet comes equipped with four wheel drive, chunky tires and enough oomph to handle the Rocky Mountain foothills even in a winter blizzard. Like all old cars he has his foibles, but over the years I’ve come to know and love them. However, he’s racked up almost a quarter of a million miles in his lifetime (that’s 10 times round the world) and is of an age where he needs a little TLC every now and then.

If you’ve been reading the Gunsmoke Files for any length of time you’ll know that fixing things isn’t my strong point. My contribution to the business of car maintenance extends to putting the gas in and cleaning them every once in a while. When they refuse to start I empty the ashtrays, remove the assorted debris from the floor and wipe the rear view mirrors. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’m pretty much stuck. Several years ago we invested in AAA membership and have never had cause to regret it. Tow the car to the shop. Have it fixed by someone who knows what they’re doing. Worry no more.

Two downsides to this system are a) the inordinate amounts of cash that has to change hands before I can have my car back and b) the hours of stomach clenching fear while waiting for the phone to ring. Just what’s wrong with it this time? It’s mid-afternoon as I write this and I still haven’t heard. Having been the proud owner of a series of old cars, I’ve been going through this my entire adult life.

My very first motor was a Citroen Dyane, in multiple shades of red who went by the name of Wilf. The Dyane was a cousin of Citroen's better known, but equally ugly 2CV. In case you’re wondering, 2CV comes from Deux Cheveaux as in two horsepower. Yes, you heard - two. And they must have been pretty tired old nags at that. The darn thing was so under powered that unless I got a decent run up, many hills defeated it completely. One rather steep ascent out of town could only be tackled in reverse. A tongue in cheek ad at the time claimed the Dyane was faster than a Ferrari. As indeed it was. Provided the Ferrari driver chose not to go above 68 mph.

However, for a seventeen-year old it was a delightfully quirky car with all manner of bits and bobs one doesn’t see on modern automobiles. The gearshift was on the dash and rather than the H format with which we’re all familiar, had a more elaborate arrangement based on the number 4. The high beam switch was floor mounted and was operated by foot. Each seat, including the driver’s could easily be removed for impromptu picnics. And it came equipped with cruise control in the form of a coat hanger-like wire extending through the floor by which means the throttle could be locked open. Sadly, unlike today’s cruise control, a tap of the brakes did NOT release it – the wire had to be manually pushed back in. A fact I discovered milliseconds before rear-ending a semi-trailer.

Wilf had a canvas roof, which could be unclipped and rolled back just like a regular convertible. It was recommended the car not be in motion when unclipping the roof and with good reason as I discovered when casually releasing the clamp for the first time as I cruised down the motorway. In an instant the roof was hanging down the back of the car, completely obscuring the rear window which, as I had no side mirrors, was the only way of seeing what was behind me. Quite a thrill for someone only a couple of months beyond his driving test.

Britain has an abominable law called the Ministry of Transport Test or M.O.T., which in theory, is an annual road worthiness test to be performed by government approved repair shops on all cars over three years old. In practice it's a license for unscrupulous grease monkeys to extort money from mechanically disadvantaged teenage boys. When I bought the car it had already failed it's M.O.T. once. "Here's the three things it failed for." said the seller. "I can either fix them, or sell it to you as is for £50 less." I chose the latter option and reviewing the faults, found that one was easy enough to fix, one was way too expensive to consider while as for the third - I never did find what the mechanic was complaining about. Neither did the shop that handled the retest. They didn't mention item two either. But they did fail it for three completely different reasons that had inexplicably escaped the attention of the first guy.

Wilf finally died on the side of the road when his engine block literally split apart. Despite my annual insurance premiums being almost the same as I paid for the car, my coverage didn't extend to damage to my own vehicle, just those of other people. Still, the scrap merchant gave me enough for a darn good wake in Wilf's honor.

There have been many other cars over the years and for some, I have fonder memories than others. But I've loved them all in their ways. Cared for them, named them and polished them 'till I could see my face in the rust. But for now, Angus is my baby and like any concerned parent, I worry about him when he's not well. Still, the good news is - at least I'm not trying to fix him myself.