For several weeks now, we’ve enjoyed day after day of glorious sunshine. Or at least, the people who don’t spend their waking hours in windowless offices have. So, I was hoping that our Memorial Day camping trip would be an opportunity to soak up the rays, get some Vitamin D and perhaps a little color to my skin. (Technically “toad underbelly” is a color, but I was thinking of something a little more...appealing).
Living in Phoenix, camping was our way of escaping the summer heat and winter smog. In a couple of hours, we could be up in the high country, amid pine trees, lakes and cool, clean air so we took off at every opportunity. Of course, since relocating to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, we have our very own campground right outside the front door. Our backyard is as pretty as any wilderness site, without the hassle of keeping the beer cool or loading the truck with crap. Subsequently, we haven’t felt the same burning desire to sleep under canvas and it was with surprise we realized that other than a brief trip I took earlier this spring, it’s now 3 1/2 years since we last used our camping gear.
As a general rule, we avoid camping on holiday weekends. Actually, as a general rule we avoid leaving the house on holiday weekends, but we figured it had been so long since we’d last been, and the weather was so nice, that we could put up with a few crowds in order to get a couple of nights away. That said, I had no desire to spend my weekend sitting in a line of traffic, so we chose to visit Wellington Lake, a breathtakingly pretty site only about 15 miles from our house.
To beat the crowds, we pitched our tent early Friday morning before I went to work. By the time we returned on Saturday morning, the campsite had filled considerably. Even so, our tent site was still one of the better ones. Away from the lake to avoid the mosskeeters (hate them, hate them, hate them) but close enough to know it was there. Near the toilets, but not too near. And with enough trees to shade us from the sun. The other campers were closer than I would have preferred but hey, it’s a holiday weekend after all. We had a brief moment of excitement when Houdini-dog broke the tie-out and introduced herself to most of the neighbors before we caught her, but other than that, it only took a few minutes to set up home. Dear Wife was soon busy arranging the sleeping bags so I took both dogs for a stroll around the lake shore.
And what a crowded shore it was too. Big tents, little tents, camper trailers, trailers on steroids, RV’s in all shapes and sizes, each one packed to the gills with happy campers roasting bratwurst, chugging cheap beer, fishing from the shoreline and generally cramming as much fun as is possible into one three day weekend. Even the lake was full of kayaks, canoes, catamarans and sailboats. The sun glinted like silver on the ripples and I breathed a contented sigh. It was going to be a good weekend.
The rain started a little after lunchtime. Not too bad, just showers but they continued on and off throughout the afternoon. No big deal, we had books to read and CD walkmans to listen to and our tent is quite capacious enough for two humans and two dogs, even when wet. Every now and then I stuck my head through the tent flaps and whenever blue sky, appeared above, hopped out for some exercise. And so the day passed. No lazing about in the sunshine as I’d hoped but disappointing though that may have been, it was a whole lot better than the night.
I figured there would be some noise. You don’t get that many people in one place without some evidence of human activity. Particularly not when most of them are tanked up on domestic beer. But it’s usual for campers to pay at least a passing respect to the curfew hours and tone things down a little after 10pm. Not this bunch. If anything, they got louder. Whoopin’, hollerin’, singin’ and cussin’, on and on and on. The men were almost as bad. Still, things didn’t get really noisy ‘till some helpful soul yelled at them to keep it down. That’s when the car doors were opened and the stereo was cranked up.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being close to nature. Lying on your back, feeling the cool air playing through the gauze window. Noticing the scent of the pine trees on the breeze. Feeling the gentle rhythmic breath of your familiar critters as they sleep at your feet. All the while being serenaded by rap music played at ear splitting decibels. It used to be you could tell white-trash by their mobile homes, junker cars and lack of teeth. Now they haul their $150,000 trailers around behind $50,000 SUVs and have expensive caps. But they’s still traish.
Eventually morning arrived, as mornings usually do. And with it came the rain. Oh boy, did it rain. Sheets of it, sweeping in from the west. Unrelenting and torrential. Very occasionally it would slow enough that I could take the dogs out for a whiz but mostly, we spent the day huddled in the tent which surprisingly, no longer seemed quite so large. By mid afternoon the thunder started and the lake disappeared behind a wall of rain. Any hopes of an evening fire were quashed as the carefully collected kindling was soon soaked through.
Regular readers of The Gunsmoke Files will recall how sheer willpower prevented me from wimping out of my last camping trip, despite barely surviving hypothermia when the weather turned so cold Scott of the Antarctic would have run for home. Since then, I’ve come to the conclusion such stoicism is overrated and had no particular desire to repeat the experience.
So, it didn’t take a whole lot of debate before we threw the gear in the back of the truck and headed for our cozy little house, not too far away. Of course, I feel a certain amount of guilt that a lack of self-discipline caused us to give up. Rather than the wilderness experience I’d envisaged, I spent Sunday evening surfing the web, while drinking ice cold vodka with jalapeno stuffed olives, then sleeping late in a nice warm bed.
That wasn’t quite on a par with shivering in a tent listening to someone else’s rap music, but on the whole, I’ll take it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Shave and a Haircut. (Well, not the shave)
I went to get my hair cut this week and if I say so myself, it came out not too bad. Certainly better than some I’ve had in the past.
I’ve been growing my hair a little longer recently but after several months of constantly pushing it away from my face, came to the reluctant conclusion that it’s really too fine and wispy for such a style. As the weather is warming up now I decided it would be best to go a little shorter.
While it may be floppy, my hair is still somewhat willful and I rarely have any real control over the style it will choose for itself. Sometimes the parting is on the right, sometimes on the left, occasionally diagonally across my head. I never really know for sure until mid morning. I’m fortunate however, in that I’ve recently discovered a more than competent stylist who does a splendid job of bringing order to where once there was chaos. She’s also a very pleasant person so haircuts these days are no longer the torment they were in my younger days.
The first week of the school holidays my Dad would drag me along to the local butcher, uhm barber for the regulation crew cut. It was always a crew cut which was just as well because the old men who ran these places didn’t know how to cut hair any other way. A fitted plank would be placed across the arms of the chair, up I would be hoisted and the battle commenced. Even though I knew how things would end up, I always tried my best to influence matters.
"Just a little off the top, leave the length at the back and sweep it down over my ears to the collar" I would say. The barber would glance over at my Dad who would give a curt nod.
"Skin him."
And that was that. Out came the clippers and in no time the air was filled with the smell of hot metal and clouds of my hair which gradually settled in piles on the linoleum floor. I walked out with my head gleaming white like an ice cream in the sunshine and raced home determined to hide under the bed until my hair had grown again. Crew cuts might be stylish now, but they weren’t in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, let me tell you. I needn’t have worried because every other kid in town had gone through the same ordeal. There were only a few barbers in town you see and they all trained at the same school.
However, if an annual head shave was bad it was nothing to the torment of my early teen years when my dear old Ma, bless her, decided she could save a few pennies by allowing anyone who could hold a pair of scissors to have a go at my hair. My high school age sister got a Saturday job sweeping the floor at one of the ladies’ hair salons so that qualified her as a stylist in Mum’s book. Except of course, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to cut hair which meant the whole ordeal lasted for hours and left me walking around looking like I’d just got off the short bus.
Even so, I forgave my sister everything after the time Aunt Margaret came to visit and Ma talked her into giving me a quick trim. Aunt Margaret isn’t really my Aunt, just a friend of my mother’s and she’s a lovely woman. However, she’s not coming near my head with a pair of scissors again. Not as long as I can still swing a punch she’s not. I didn’t think it was too bad while it was happening; she certainly sounded like she knew what she was doing as she snipped away and she was after all, the mother of a professional hairdresser so how bad could it be? Very bad apparently. That was the one and only time my mother conceded the point and gave me the money to have a professional repair it as best he could.
Even when I was a working man and flush with cash; it was a challenge to find a barber who would cut my hair in a style that didn’t add 70 years to my age. I lived in a small north of England town and fashion arrived slowly. Fortunately by the mid ’80s it became socially acceptable for men to frequent ladies’ hair salons and while the amount of cash I forked over for a trim made my Dad laugh out loud, I was at least able to walk around without looking like him.
Even so, a haircut was still often fraught with challenge. One time my regular girl was on vacation so I was saddled with her very chirpy but exceedingly young replacement.
"Do you know what number razor she uses for you?" She twittered.
"Certainly do," I replied. "A ‘number two’ on the back and sides."
"Are you sure?" she queried "That’s awfully short."
"Yes, I’m sure. But just on the back and the sides."
She wasn’t convinced. "A number two razor is really short. Are you sure that’s what you want?"
I should have recognized the danger signs but I pressed on. "Yes, I’m sure. But you do understand I just mean at the back and sides, not all over?"
We bantered back and forth, while she tried to convince me that this would be very short and I tried to convince her, that it was OK, because I just meant the back and sides. Eventually I won the argument and she set to work with the razor. It was then we learned that while I had been expecting her to trim the back and sides, she thought I was asking her to shave the entire back and sides of my head. By the time we realized our misunderstanding, the damage was done and she had no choice but continue the job all the way around.
For the next month I looked like a mushroom. And I'm told that's not a good look for me.
I’ve been growing my hair a little longer recently but after several months of constantly pushing it away from my face, came to the reluctant conclusion that it’s really too fine and wispy for such a style. As the weather is warming up now I decided it would be best to go a little shorter.
While it may be floppy, my hair is still somewhat willful and I rarely have any real control over the style it will choose for itself. Sometimes the parting is on the right, sometimes on the left, occasionally diagonally across my head. I never really know for sure until mid morning. I’m fortunate however, in that I’ve recently discovered a more than competent stylist who does a splendid job of bringing order to where once there was chaos. She’s also a very pleasant person so haircuts these days are no longer the torment they were in my younger days.
The first week of the school holidays my Dad would drag me along to the local butcher, uhm barber for the regulation crew cut. It was always a crew cut which was just as well because the old men who ran these places didn’t know how to cut hair any other way. A fitted plank would be placed across the arms of the chair, up I would be hoisted and the battle commenced. Even though I knew how things would end up, I always tried my best to influence matters.
"Just a little off the top, leave the length at the back and sweep it down over my ears to the collar" I would say. The barber would glance over at my Dad who would give a curt nod.
"Skin him."
And that was that. Out came the clippers and in no time the air was filled with the smell of hot metal and clouds of my hair which gradually settled in piles on the linoleum floor. I walked out with my head gleaming white like an ice cream in the sunshine and raced home determined to hide under the bed until my hair had grown again. Crew cuts might be stylish now, but they weren’t in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, let me tell you. I needn’t have worried because every other kid in town had gone through the same ordeal. There were only a few barbers in town you see and they all trained at the same school.
However, if an annual head shave was bad it was nothing to the torment of my early teen years when my dear old Ma, bless her, decided she could save a few pennies by allowing anyone who could hold a pair of scissors to have a go at my hair. My high school age sister got a Saturday job sweeping the floor at one of the ladies’ hair salons so that qualified her as a stylist in Mum’s book. Except of course, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to cut hair which meant the whole ordeal lasted for hours and left me walking around looking like I’d just got off the short bus.
Even so, I forgave my sister everything after the time Aunt Margaret came to visit and Ma talked her into giving me a quick trim. Aunt Margaret isn’t really my Aunt, just a friend of my mother’s and she’s a lovely woman. However, she’s not coming near my head with a pair of scissors again. Not as long as I can still swing a punch she’s not. I didn’t think it was too bad while it was happening; she certainly sounded like she knew what she was doing as she snipped away and she was after all, the mother of a professional hairdresser so how bad could it be? Very bad apparently. That was the one and only time my mother conceded the point and gave me the money to have a professional repair it as best he could.
Even when I was a working man and flush with cash; it was a challenge to find a barber who would cut my hair in a style that didn’t add 70 years to my age. I lived in a small north of England town and fashion arrived slowly. Fortunately by the mid ’80s it became socially acceptable for men to frequent ladies’ hair salons and while the amount of cash I forked over for a trim made my Dad laugh out loud, I was at least able to walk around without looking like him.
Even so, a haircut was still often fraught with challenge. One time my regular girl was on vacation so I was saddled with her very chirpy but exceedingly young replacement.
"Do you know what number razor she uses for you?" She twittered.
"Certainly do," I replied. "A ‘number two’ on the back and sides."
"Are you sure?" she queried "That’s awfully short."
"Yes, I’m sure. But just on the back and the sides."
She wasn’t convinced. "A number two razor is really short. Are you sure that’s what you want?"
I should have recognized the danger signs but I pressed on. "Yes, I’m sure. But you do understand I just mean at the back and sides, not all over?"
We bantered back and forth, while she tried to convince me that this would be very short and I tried to convince her, that it was OK, because I just meant the back and sides. Eventually I won the argument and she set to work with the razor. It was then we learned that while I had been expecting her to trim the back and sides, she thought I was asking her to shave the entire back and sides of my head. By the time we realized our misunderstanding, the damage was done and she had no choice but continue the job all the way around.
For the next month I looked like a mushroom. And I'm told that's not a good look for me.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Different Day, Different Mountain
It always feels odd to me when I realize I’m finally visiting a place I’ve heard about many times through books, or films or television. The first time I turned a corner and saw Sydney Opera House it took a moment to fully grasp that this was the actual Sydney Opera House and not just somebody’s photo. While sitting on a ferry crossing Hong Kong Harbor I had to remind myself to savor the moment, because I’d waited years for this, and it was finally happening. Kuala Lumpur, Golden Gate Bridge, Singapore, Ayer’s Rock, when I set eyes on these landmarks for the first time, it always felt a little difficult to accept that here I was, and this was the real thing. I still feel that way when I remember I live in the Rocky Mountains. The Rocky Mountains, the ones everybody talks about, writes about, sings about. And I had the feeling a couple of weeks ago, while sitting enjoying lunch in a restaurant in Aspen, just over the Continental Divide.
Aspen sprang into prominence during the late 1800’s when thousands of prospectors poured into the area hoping to strike it rich in the silver mines which riddled the surrounding mountains. Like most booms however, it didn’t last and when President Cleveland made gold the national standard once more, the area's large mines shut down. By the 1930s, Aspen's population had dwindled to 700 and the town survived only due to its agriculture. Then some bright spark noticed the copious winter snowfall and had the idea of constructing a ski resort. In 1947 Aspen Mountain opened for business, with Buttermilk and Snowmass quick to follow. Before long, Aspen had gained status as an international arts-and-culture stop, an essential part of the jet set lifestyle. Nowadays, the billionaires are squeezing out the millionaires and Aspen is the place to be seen.
Except there weren’t many people to see or be seen by, at least not this lunchtime. The season was officially over, the ski lifts silent and by the looks of things; the beautiful people had all taken off to new watering holes. Which was fine by me. I’ve never really been part of the beautiful people crowd anyway (for obvious reasons) and as I don’t go much for celebrity worship, was more than happy to have the place to myself.
The place wasn’t entirely deserted of course; the locals were still here, going about their business. But other than a spectacularly ugly yellow HumVee Penis Extension on Main Street and a sulky child wearing a ski-jacket, which I suspect cost more than my car, there were few signs of notable affluence. Most of the people out and about in Aspen at this time of year use bikes rather than SUVs, and wear tie die rather than Armani. Having come from a business meeting I was attired in khakis and button down shirt, so was therefore one of the more expensively dressed patrons of the restaurant.
But the town itself was quite definitely in sleep mode. A large number of the stores stood empty while construction workers refurbished them ready for next season. A good few restaurants had also closed their doors, the owners no doubt relaxing in some tropical clime, while even the streets themselves were in many cases, blocked off as maintenance workers re-laid cobbles, planted flower beds and repaired the drains. There was a certain level of activity, no doubt about that, but the air was mostly one of slowing down and unwinding. The town had its collective feet up.
Of course, you don’t need large crowds in order to people watch. There was the guy in the park playing with his two Australian Shepherds (this year’s de rigueur fashion accessory apparently, although it seemed everybody had a dog of some sort), the Mom ferrying her three kids around on one bike, the bow legged guy in a red kilt with yellow stockings (no, that wasn’t me) and the constant stream of activity around the town’s bus depot. With the gondolas silent, the bus depot is the center of Aspen’s transport system and the countless mini-busses did sterling service shipping people around town and up and down the valley.
I was staying and working in Snowmass, a resort which was quite definitely closed for the season so took advantage of the bus service to visit Aspen several times. Most of my fellow passengers appeared to be resort employees, making the trip from home to work and back. Others were simply local residents running errands, laden down with grocery bags and backpacks. A very few were sightseers like me but almost all were exceptionally friendly. The bus drivers appeared to know everybody, often by name and unlike so many of their breed, were bright and cheerful.
On one trip two teenage girls sat across the aisle from me and when one remarked to the other, “I have a problem I need to ask you about”, the entire bus perked up in anticipation of the upcoming gossip. She’d fallen out with a third friend apparently and wanted to make up but as she considered herself blameless in the feud, was reluctant to make the first move. In no time we were all offering advice, in general agreement that in this case, it was OK to be the bigger person. Somewhat surprisingly, (at least to me) she didn’t seem to resent this intrusion and in fact, quite welcomed the input from various complete strangers.
On another ride I got talking to Mary who told me proudly that she was 68 this year. She’s just completed a motorcycle maintenance course in preparation for her upcoming bike run to Alaska. Her Harley was now running “sweeter than a bug’s ass” (whatever that means) and she was in the process of adapting her handlebar panniers to accommodate Pepé, the ugly little dog she held under her arm. What a trip that’s going to be.
My home of Bailey is also a mountain town, although even its biggest boosters would be hard pressed to call it a resort. For most people it’s little more than a wide bit on the back road to the ski areas. There are few celebrities to be seen, not too many millionaires and for the most part, any HumVees belong to the flatlanders passing through. But, it’s possible to buy a house here, even on my salary, one can drink coffee without giving a prayer of thanks for the expense account and nobody particularly cares what brand of ski jacket you’re wearing.
So while Aspen may have its appeal, at least out of season, I think I’ll stay where I am. Until I make my first billion at least.
Aspen sprang into prominence during the late 1800’s when thousands of prospectors poured into the area hoping to strike it rich in the silver mines which riddled the surrounding mountains. Like most booms however, it didn’t last and when President Cleveland made gold the national standard once more, the area's large mines shut down. By the 1930s, Aspen's population had dwindled to 700 and the town survived only due to its agriculture. Then some bright spark noticed the copious winter snowfall and had the idea of constructing a ski resort. In 1947 Aspen Mountain opened for business, with Buttermilk and Snowmass quick to follow. Before long, Aspen had gained status as an international arts-and-culture stop, an essential part of the jet set lifestyle. Nowadays, the billionaires are squeezing out the millionaires and Aspen is the place to be seen.
Except there weren’t many people to see or be seen by, at least not this lunchtime. The season was officially over, the ski lifts silent and by the looks of things; the beautiful people had all taken off to new watering holes. Which was fine by me. I’ve never really been part of the beautiful people crowd anyway (for obvious reasons) and as I don’t go much for celebrity worship, was more than happy to have the place to myself.
The place wasn’t entirely deserted of course; the locals were still here, going about their business. But other than a spectacularly ugly yellow HumVee Penis Extension on Main Street and a sulky child wearing a ski-jacket, which I suspect cost more than my car, there were few signs of notable affluence. Most of the people out and about in Aspen at this time of year use bikes rather than SUVs, and wear tie die rather than Armani. Having come from a business meeting I was attired in khakis and button down shirt, so was therefore one of the more expensively dressed patrons of the restaurant.
But the town itself was quite definitely in sleep mode. A large number of the stores stood empty while construction workers refurbished them ready for next season. A good few restaurants had also closed their doors, the owners no doubt relaxing in some tropical clime, while even the streets themselves were in many cases, blocked off as maintenance workers re-laid cobbles, planted flower beds and repaired the drains. There was a certain level of activity, no doubt about that, but the air was mostly one of slowing down and unwinding. The town had its collective feet up.
Of course, you don’t need large crowds in order to people watch. There was the guy in the park playing with his two Australian Shepherds (this year’s de rigueur fashion accessory apparently, although it seemed everybody had a dog of some sort), the Mom ferrying her three kids around on one bike, the bow legged guy in a red kilt with yellow stockings (no, that wasn’t me) and the constant stream of activity around the town’s bus depot. With the gondolas silent, the bus depot is the center of Aspen’s transport system and the countless mini-busses did sterling service shipping people around town and up and down the valley.
I was staying and working in Snowmass, a resort which was quite definitely closed for the season so took advantage of the bus service to visit Aspen several times. Most of my fellow passengers appeared to be resort employees, making the trip from home to work and back. Others were simply local residents running errands, laden down with grocery bags and backpacks. A very few were sightseers like me but almost all were exceptionally friendly. The bus drivers appeared to know everybody, often by name and unlike so many of their breed, were bright and cheerful.
On one trip two teenage girls sat across the aisle from me and when one remarked to the other, “I have a problem I need to ask you about”, the entire bus perked up in anticipation of the upcoming gossip. She’d fallen out with a third friend apparently and wanted to make up but as she considered herself blameless in the feud, was reluctant to make the first move. In no time we were all offering advice, in general agreement that in this case, it was OK to be the bigger person. Somewhat surprisingly, (at least to me) she didn’t seem to resent this intrusion and in fact, quite welcomed the input from various complete strangers.
On another ride I got talking to Mary who told me proudly that she was 68 this year. She’s just completed a motorcycle maintenance course in preparation for her upcoming bike run to Alaska. Her Harley was now running “sweeter than a bug’s ass” (whatever that means) and she was in the process of adapting her handlebar panniers to accommodate Pepé, the ugly little dog she held under her arm. What a trip that’s going to be.
My home of Bailey is also a mountain town, although even its biggest boosters would be hard pressed to call it a resort. For most people it’s little more than a wide bit on the back road to the ski areas. There are few celebrities to be seen, not too many millionaires and for the most part, any HumVees belong to the flatlanders passing through. But, it’s possible to buy a house here, even on my salary, one can drink coffee without giving a prayer of thanks for the expense account and nobody particularly cares what brand of ski jacket you’re wearing.
So while Aspen may have its appeal, at least out of season, I think I’ll stay where I am. Until I make my first billion at least.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Riding the Rails
If you ride freight trains, you’re going to get dirty. The dirtier the better. If you want to stay clean, take Amtrak or run with the jet set.
Eddy Joe Cotton ~ Hobo
I’ve never ridden a freight train although I’ve often felt the yearning. It’s not something people really do in Britain where hitchhiking tends to be the cheap transportation of choice. Even if one was so inclined, British trains don’t tend to have the same haunting romance I find with American ones. But despite living here for thirteen years, I haven’t tried it yet. I’m told riding freight is a physically dangerous hobby. There’s the obvious hazard of being around thousands of tons of moving metal and impromptu amputations aren’t unheard of. Then there’s the less well-known but very real risk of physical violence from Railroad security, who tend to take a dim view of freeloaders and, in recent years, from other rail riders who are reputed to run in packs, seeking their kicks by attacking the less strong. Still, I commute every day along SR285 so I know all about danger.
Even so, when I had occasion to travel to Glenwood Springs, some 160 miles west of Denver, I chose not to hop a freight train, or even to drive, but to ride Amtrak’s service. I was meeting a client and in this instance, keeping my clothes clean was important. Although I routinely took the train when living in Britain, it was only the second time I’d done so here and I was as excited as all get out. I’ve often driven the scenic portion of I70 through Glenwood Canyon and thought to myself, “One day, I’m going to take the train through here”. The day had finally arrived.
I was also glad of the opportunity to solve a mystery which had plagued me since I first began working in an office across the street from Denver’s Union Station. Where do the Amtrak trains go? I knew they came into the station twice a day; westbound in the morning, eastbound in the evening and had regularly seen passengers arriving and leaving with their suitcases. Yet I had never once seen a train on the tracks running westbound past my office. How did the trains get out?
The same way they get in, apparently. Amtrak rides on other railroad’s lines and despite what I’d thought, the tracks running into Union Station, don’t run out of it. So, the trains turn around somewhere out in Burlington Northern’s rail yard east of downtown, reverse into the station then leave on the same tracks before heading north and west through the suburbs.
Not that I could see much of the suburbs as it happened, due to another late winter storm, which had blown in and reduced visibility to a few yards. Oh I could see the same small houses which line every railway track anywhere in the world, the same scrap yards and the same graffiti. But I couldn’t see my beloved Rocky Mountains so for the most part, I had no real clue where I was, my sense of direction completely shot. Still, there was plenty to see close up. Cars from all over the continent, in the rusted livery of their lines. Rio Grande, Southern Pacific, Burlington Northern and Santa Fe, Union Pacific – all names from my daydreams. I didn’t see any hobos stealing rides, but then, it wasn’t the weather for it.
In time scrap yards gave way to horse pastures, mud to grass and then to snow. Before long we were grinding our way up the 2% grade which led us from the plains and into the foothills. Having given up the idea of taking photographs I was attempting to read but even that became a challenge as we passed through a series of tunnels, 28 in all, which came every few yards as we climbed into the canyons. These culminated in the Moffat Tunnel, completed in 1923 and at 6 miles long, an engineering marvel of its age. The Moffat Tunnel took us officially from East to West as we crossed the continental divide somewhere in its innards. Maybe that was the point where I felt my ears pop.
The snow lay much heavier on the high ground and animal tracks were plain to see, although the critters themselves were apparently all indoors watching television. As we cleared Moffat tunnel we dropped down into the town of Fraser, set in a vast plain and looking for all the world like some Alaskan outpost. I looked to see if there was a moose walking down Main Street but there were no signs of life at all.
So, I contented myself with observing my fellow passengers. The majority seemed to be elderly; the demographic with the leisure time to enjoy multi-day journeys. But several were younger and there were a handful of families including one who obviously practiced the “It takes a village” school of non-parenting by letting their children run up and down the aisle while they drank in the observation car. Other kids were more appealing including a little boy in an engineer’s coveralls and cap. The college aged kid in the seat ahead strummed his guitar softly most of the way, except when he disappeared to the toilet every couple of hours and came back smelling of….exotic tobacco. There was also a Mennonite lady in traditional costume who spent most of the trip with her cell-phone glued to her ear.
The snow gradually cleared as we followed the Colorado River into the high desert country. We passed several isolated camp grounds which, as far as I could see, could only be reached via the river, obviously catering to the rafting excursions that will pack the waters in summer. Less obvious, was how the numerous anglers reached the river. In many cases I could see no sign of roads or vehicles, and it really didn’t appear to the type of terrain one would wish to hike over. Not carrying a bunch of fishing gear you wouldn’t. Finally we rolled through Glenwood Canyon, every bit as beautiful as I expected it to be. Through soaring cliffs, and past tumbling white water, Colorado in all its glory.
All too soon (although 2 hours late) we ground into Glenwood Springs, a toy town station nestled among the red rock hills across from the famous hot springs. Journey’s end. I’ve been on many business trips in my life and often arrived late. Never though, have I enjoyed the travel as I did this time.
If only I had time to take the train everywhere.
Note: By request, I've added a "comments" option to my Blog. Feel free to use it but please remember, I'm very insecure so there's no need to be too uh...constructive.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
I didn't like the TV show either
So we’ve just passed the three year anniversary of my moving to Colorado. And by co-incidence, it’s one year this week since I returned to work for the company that brought me here. I say returned because I had a nine month "grass is greener on the other side of the fence" stint with a different outfit but wasn’t really happy there and was more than pleased when the original firm made me a generous offer to return. As jobs go, mine’s pretty good. My clients are pleasant people, I like my co-workers and I get to spend my days in a funky little office in Denver’s LoDo district. The only real cloud on the horizon (other than that we’ll be relocating to a soulless office park sometime this year – different rant) is that a few months ago, we were bought out by a large conglomerate based in Dallas.
Now I’m sure there are some perfectly good people who live in Dallas, just as I’m sure there are some folks who look on the place with fondness. I’m just not one of them. It’s coming up for thirteen years since I first arrived in the U.S. and in that time, I haven’t had a single good experience with anything Dallas related.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that I harbor a certain bitterness because of how the small company I worked for in Phoenix was swallowed up by a Dallas firm and the employment experience went downhill immediately afterwards. A corrupt and incompetent executive team stripped the company of everything decent and while it still survives, it’s become something of a laughing stock in the industry. And to the day I die, I’ll be angry about the fact that following 9/11 the company accepted a $1.5 million Federal Government handout then promptly laid off 2/5 of it’s workforce before paying the CEO a bonus of (drum roll) $1.5 million. And yes, I was one of the 2/5 – why do you ask?
However, my dislike of Dallas as a city goes way further back than that. The summer of ’92 to be exact when I spent a total of 10 hours there and the residents gave me the distinct impression I wasn’t welcome. Now admittedly, I’d been living out of a backpack for a year, my hair was on the longish side and my clothes were certainly in need of a wash, but even so, I was barely off the bus before it started.
I’d traveled overnight by Greyhound, an experience not to be missed by any self-respecting masochist wishing to observer the seamy underbelly of America and on disembarking, shuffled over to the adjoining diner for a coffee to get my heart started. Engrossed in my guidebook I was munching a piece of toast and barely noticed the beefy middle-aged guy who’d taken a seat at my table. He got my attention by kicking my foot.
“Patrick, I need you to come with me.”
“My name’s not Patrick” I replied. (For it isn’t.) Unfortunately, he didn’t believe me.
“I know you Patrick and if you don’t help me, I’m going to throw your ass in jail. You understand?”
“I understand, but I’m not Patrick.” It was at that point I noticed the police cruiser parked outside. “Look,” I went on “I’m a British tourist, and I just got off the bus half an hour ago. I have my passport in my pocket.” I told him, reaching for it.
“Hands on the table!” he barked causing the other patrons to turn in alarm. Many were already enjoying the show. Here was a real live police bust taking place, right in front of their eyes. The hippy was almost certainly going down. This was great.
“I know who you are Patrick” he told me, “And you’re coming downtown with me. Don’t make me put the cuffs on you.”
“Does Patrick have a British accent?” I asked him and could see from the slight widening of his eyes that this point had hit home. Sherlock Holmes he wasn’t but even with his limited detective skills, he couldn’t help but notice the bus ticket on the table, the guidebook in my hand and the backpack propped against my chair. Without so much as a “Have a nice day”, he sloped off. I’m not sure if he ever did find Patrick, or if he would have recognized him if he did.
Leaving Dallas that afternoon proved to be almost as challenging. Greyhound has a rule stating that nothing can be tied to the outside of any bag going into the hold. I’d been schlepping my way around the States for several weeks at this point and had never known anyone enforce the rule until today. My backpack had a rolled up foam rubber sleeping pad strapped to the base but it had been so long since I slept in my tent, I barely noticed it was there any more. The Greyhound clerk saw it though and refused to take my bag until I’d removed the pad and put it inside. Which meant I’d to spend four frantic minutes rearranging all my other possessions and adjusting the straps in order to make it fit. Which meant I missed the bus by one minute. Which I’m sure was what he wanted. The next direct bus was four hours later but thinking I was beating the system I hopped aboard a local bus, just as it was pulling out of the station. It was only then that I learned “local” means “we stop at every single opportunity”. I arrived at my next port-of-call two hours after the direct bus I didn’t wait for.
I’ve been back to Dallas several times on business since then and never once has the experience been pleasant. From being given the wrong check in a restaurant and having to explain to the manager that I hadn’t eaten four meals, to having coffee spilled on my only remaining clean shirt by a breakfast waitress. From spending two and a half hours in a cab, with the meter running after the driver took a short cut, to having my reservation be “lost” at a fully-booked hotel. From telling a client I’d like to take them out to dinner so could they pick a place suitable for me, a vegetarian at the time, and being taken to a barbecue joint where the only non-meat option was bread. And don’t even get me started on their obnoxious sports fans.
I liked Austin, San Antonio was fine, and I’m told there are plenty of other pleasant places in the state of Texas. But Dallas? You can keep it.
Now I’m sure there are some perfectly good people who live in Dallas, just as I’m sure there are some folks who look on the place with fondness. I’m just not one of them. It’s coming up for thirteen years since I first arrived in the U.S. and in that time, I haven’t had a single good experience with anything Dallas related.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that I harbor a certain bitterness because of how the small company I worked for in Phoenix was swallowed up by a Dallas firm and the employment experience went downhill immediately afterwards. A corrupt and incompetent executive team stripped the company of everything decent and while it still survives, it’s become something of a laughing stock in the industry. And to the day I die, I’ll be angry about the fact that following 9/11 the company accepted a $1.5 million Federal Government handout then promptly laid off 2/5 of it’s workforce before paying the CEO a bonus of (drum roll) $1.5 million. And yes, I was one of the 2/5 – why do you ask?
However, my dislike of Dallas as a city goes way further back than that. The summer of ’92 to be exact when I spent a total of 10 hours there and the residents gave me the distinct impression I wasn’t welcome. Now admittedly, I’d been living out of a backpack for a year, my hair was on the longish side and my clothes were certainly in need of a wash, but even so, I was barely off the bus before it started.
I’d traveled overnight by Greyhound, an experience not to be missed by any self-respecting masochist wishing to observer the seamy underbelly of America and on disembarking, shuffled over to the adjoining diner for a coffee to get my heart started. Engrossed in my guidebook I was munching a piece of toast and barely noticed the beefy middle-aged guy who’d taken a seat at my table. He got my attention by kicking my foot.
“Patrick, I need you to come with me.”
“My name’s not Patrick” I replied. (For it isn’t.) Unfortunately, he didn’t believe me.
“I know you Patrick and if you don’t help me, I’m going to throw your ass in jail. You understand?”
“I understand, but I’m not Patrick.” It was at that point I noticed the police cruiser parked outside. “Look,” I went on “I’m a British tourist, and I just got off the bus half an hour ago. I have my passport in my pocket.” I told him, reaching for it.
“Hands on the table!” he barked causing the other patrons to turn in alarm. Many were already enjoying the show. Here was a real live police bust taking place, right in front of their eyes. The hippy was almost certainly going down. This was great.
“I know who you are Patrick” he told me, “And you’re coming downtown with me. Don’t make me put the cuffs on you.”
“Does Patrick have a British accent?” I asked him and could see from the slight widening of his eyes that this point had hit home. Sherlock Holmes he wasn’t but even with his limited detective skills, he couldn’t help but notice the bus ticket on the table, the guidebook in my hand and the backpack propped against my chair. Without so much as a “Have a nice day”, he sloped off. I’m not sure if he ever did find Patrick, or if he would have recognized him if he did.
Leaving Dallas that afternoon proved to be almost as challenging. Greyhound has a rule stating that nothing can be tied to the outside of any bag going into the hold. I’d been schlepping my way around the States for several weeks at this point and had never known anyone enforce the rule until today. My backpack had a rolled up foam rubber sleeping pad strapped to the base but it had been so long since I slept in my tent, I barely noticed it was there any more. The Greyhound clerk saw it though and refused to take my bag until I’d removed the pad and put it inside. Which meant I’d to spend four frantic minutes rearranging all my other possessions and adjusting the straps in order to make it fit. Which meant I missed the bus by one minute. Which I’m sure was what he wanted. The next direct bus was four hours later but thinking I was beating the system I hopped aboard a local bus, just as it was pulling out of the station. It was only then that I learned “local” means “we stop at every single opportunity”. I arrived at my next port-of-call two hours after the direct bus I didn’t wait for.
I’ve been back to Dallas several times on business since then and never once has the experience been pleasant. From being given the wrong check in a restaurant and having to explain to the manager that I hadn’t eaten four meals, to having coffee spilled on my only remaining clean shirt by a breakfast waitress. From spending two and a half hours in a cab, with the meter running after the driver took a short cut, to having my reservation be “lost” at a fully-booked hotel. From telling a client I’d like to take them out to dinner so could they pick a place suitable for me, a vegetarian at the time, and being taken to a barbecue joint where the only non-meat option was bread. And don’t even get me started on their obnoxious sports fans.
I liked Austin, San Antonio was fine, and I’m told there are plenty of other pleasant places in the state of Texas. But Dallas? You can keep it.
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