Fly me to the Moon

(Just don’t make me go in coach)

As and when I win the lottery ($340 million this week) one of the things I’d like to do with my new found leisure time is learn to fly. Soaring above the clouds, free as a bird, with the Rocky Mountains way beneath me and the wild blue up above. Yeah, I can see myself doing that. I’m an aviator at heart.

But when it comes to commercial flying; well, you can keep it. Oh, it has its practicalities, I know. America’s a big place and there’s rarely enough time to travel across country in any other manner; whether for business or pleasure. It’s just the process itself I don’t like. The claustrophobic seating, the harassed staff, the recycled air and the hours of waiting around all depress my spirit. Invariably, I’m just glad when I reach my final destination.

I don’t have many good things to say about our time in Phoenix but one thing I did like was that we lived about twenty minutes from the airport. Now we’re well over an hour away; nearer to two in traffic and I had plenty of time to reflect on this as I inched my way through the I-70 morning snarl. The fact that my flight to San Diego was connecting through Phoenix was simply another cause for irritation.

If you’ve flown at all recently you’ll know that in an effort to "serve you better" (Read: "Bump up the CEO’s salary by operating with less staff.") the airlines have installed self-check in monitors where by pressing segments of a TV screen, one can handle the process oneself. Except of course, it doesn’t work like that.

If, like most of us, you have a bag to check, you still need assistance from the one remaining, harassed and cranky check-in clerk. And of course, by the time you’ve established this, you’re already out of the line and milling about in bovine fashion along with the other two dozen passengers who like you, are stalled in limbo. It’s chaos and slows down the process no end. I’ll bet a chunk of those potential lottery winnings that America’s airline CEO’s have never once attempted to check themselves in under this system.

I personally have a further reason for resenting this cost-cutting measure. Following the creation of that abomination known as The Department of Homeland Security (sic) my name found its way onto a special list requiring the check-in clerk to disappear into the back, presumably to call Donald Rumsfeld who looks to see what web-sites I’ve visited recently before consenting to let me travel. That’s irritating enough but it also renders me incapable of using the auto check-in and adds a good twenty minutes to the process every time I attempt to travel.

Showing remarkable dexterity, the clerk switched from insincerely cheerful to openly hostile as soon as the red flag came up on the computer, but after making the requisite call, grudgingly consented to let me board his airplane. Which took me down to security; usually another source of vexation. Except this time, it was all plain sailing and I was out the far end almost as fast as if I’d walked through unimpeded. Obviously, that doesn’t make for an interesting story so instead I’ll tell you about the time my mother came to visit us and attempted to take a needle into the departure lounge.

In these paranoid times, transatlantic flights require travelers to be at the airport ridiculously early so to pass the time, she took along her needlepoint. Now she was savvy enough to realize that she wouldn’t be allowed to take the needle onto the plane, but mistakenly thought there would be no problem taking it through security but dumping it before boarding. To nobody’s surprise but hers the officials thought otherwise. She argued the point but being a white haired, 72-year old Scots woman, she obviously fit the terrorist profile and they were unmoved.

Hours later, she was indignantly recounting the tale while unpacking her case at our house. Pulling out her needlepoint to illustrate the story she unzipped the bag to reveal the biggest, baddest, looking pair of scissors you’ve ever set eyes on. Everybody was so intent on the damage this 5’4” woman could do with a sewing needle; that nobody had looked in her carry-on bag to notice she was carrying a set of shears capable of severing a flight-attendant’s jugular faster than you could say “These pretzels taste stale.”

So anyway, back to me.

The flights themselves were remarkably uneventful. Oh sure, the airplanes were possibly the smallest on which I’ve ever flown. The screaming babies were all sat right behind me, although as screaming babies go, these ones weren’t particularly bad. And the flight attendants weren’t even unpleasant. We took off on time, landed on time and other than a challenge with the endless lines at the food vendors in Phoenix causing me to settle for a bag of cashew nuts and an orange juice for lunch, the trip was comparatively pain free.

Certainly not as bad as some of the previous flights I’ve made. Such as the time when the turbulence from a thunderstorm near Cleveland caused the lady in the seat behind to go into a full on hysteria attack, complete with screaming, arm waving and later, projectile vomiting. Or the occasion when we spent 45 minutes in a holding pattern above Geneva and a hitherto unnoticed toothache kept my head pinned to the back of the seat. Or when I flew Air Pakistan out of Singapore and realized as we taxied down the runway, that I was the only person on board observing the “No Smoking” sign. This included the flight attendants and, as I could see through a curtain at the front, the pilot.

The only real negative aspect of this trip was when we finally landed in San Diego and were greeted with torrential rain; the result of a tropical depression which has been sitting over the city for the last few days. It never rains in Southern California, according to the song and I was crushed. Until the next day when I overheard my colleague Jon, staring gloomily out at the beach and complaining.

“Here’s me with my white Speedos™, my wife beater and my cowboy boots and I’m not going to get a chance to wear them.”

As Jon weighs in at a little over 300lbs, I think we should all be grateful for small mercies.

The First Snow of Winter

As usual, the media were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. “Major storm warning!” They told us “1-2 feet of snow expected in the foothills by Sunday night.” People were talking about winterizing their houses, were we all ready for this, did we have enough food, drinking water, spare batteries? Were we going to be able to cope?

Me? As a grizzled veteran of 2 ½ Colorado winters I listened with a jaundiced eye, to mix a metaphor. I’ve heard it so many times before, you see. Our news media, in their endless quest to procure ratings without actually reporting any real news are constantly scaring the bejasus out of Colorado’s populace by predicting storms of biblical proportions which turn out to be little more than scattered showers. Sure, occasionally we will get a decent sized dump, such as the blizzard of ’03 which put 10-12 feet down in some areas (although not ours) but generally when the weather service tells us to expect a foot of snow, we can anticipate 2 or 3 inches.

The ski resorts love it of course. Snow reports this early in the season are good for business and a decent blizzard during the Broncos game on Sunday night TV sets their phones a-ringing. So as the players slipped and fumbled in the rain, the commentators continually reassured us that “this is going to turn into a decent sized winter storm later tonight.”

Whatever.

I’d driven up from town in a steady rain but other than getting to try out the Subaru’s heated seats for the first time (did I mention how much I love our new car?) there was little evidence of winter outside the window. By 6pm it had settled into a sort of lumpy slush and by 7 there were traces of snow on the ground. But by the time I turned in, a little after 10 O’clock, it was raining once more and not showing signs of changing.

The alarm heaved me from my warm nest a little after 5am and bleary-eyed I stumbled to the window to see whether or not I was snowed in (2 hours more in bed…come on! You can do it!) Maybe an inch sitting on the railing. If that. Whoop-de-frickin’-do!

As it turned out, there was a bit more than that on the ground. 2 inches, perhaps three in places as I observed while shivering as the dogs sniffed around the yard making no attempt to pee. Still; knowing this was the first fall in several months, and on a Monday at that, I elected to take the bus rather than deal with the other drivers myself.

Scraping a view port on the windows of Angus the 4Runner took longer than I expected. The snow was much wetter and heavier than we’re used and the “good” scraper was sitting in the truck at the other end of the yard. Still, in time I had a little clear spot through which to peer and before long was creeping slowly out of the neighborhood. Even this pitiful amount of snow was enough to change the landscape entirely. Blanketed in white, the trees seemed to close in on the road, leaving just a narrow tunnel for me to drive through.

Once out on the highway, we inched our way cautiously along in single file, unsure whether ice lay beneath the slush. Well, at least most of us did. There were of course, a handful of cretins in big trucks and SUVs who, still smarting from the recent high gas prices needed to assert their manhood by tail-gating the slower drivers, passing on blind bends and forcing their way into gaps to small for their behemothic vehicles. Still, I arrived unharmed at the bus stop and was soon curled up with my book.

Which was really a perfect way to spend a day like this. Ideally I would have had a fire, a pot of coffee and an open packet of cookies on my lap but that was not to be. I did at least have a mug of coffee and the warm sweater I’d dug out from the back of the closet was keeping me toasty as we ground our way down the hill. Occasionally, I would wipe the steam from the window and attempt to ascertain our progress but with the clouds reaching almost to the edge of the road, and the visible landmarks coated in a layer of white, that wasn’t as easy as it seems.

There was little snow in town, where we arrived only a few minutes late. Just a dreary, wet, early winter’s day. Crises of international importance kept me shackled to my desk for most of the day but on the rare occasions when I found an excuse to visit somebody with a window, I could see the rain coming down in steady sheets. I wondered if this was falling as rain up on the high ground. Maybe we’d get that 1-2 feet after all.

I thought the ride home might take longer than the ride in, particularly if the snow had been falling all day so knowing that I was taking work home anyway, I cut and ran a few minutes early to catch the earlier bus. I needn't really have bothered. Oh sure, there was snow on the ground and it was obvious that if it lasted until the sun comes back out it's going to be really pretty, but 1-2 feet? I didn't even have to scrape anything off Angus' windshield. What a disappointment.

I suppose sooner or later there will come a time when the weather service predicts a big storm and we actually get a big storm. Everybody else will be there with their kerosene lanterns and bags of rice and bullets to fend off looters and whatnot, while I'll be freezing and/or starving to death because I wasn't prepared.

Still, until then, who's up for a snowball fight?

Footnote: I finished composing this Gunsmoke File just before heading to bed. No more than 15 minutes later, our power went out. Not just a flicker like we're used to, but a full blown outage. No heat, no light, and worst of all, no Internet. It stayed out until 3am. Turned out the weight of snow had caused a tree to tip and blow out a power line. Maybe it was a real winter storm after all.

Mosquito Coast (without the coast)

Mustn’t scratch.
Mustn’t scratch.
Mustn’t scratch it will only make things worse mustn’t scratch oh fercryinoutloud OK then perhaps just a little scratch.

Ahhhhhhh, sweet relief.

Mustn’t scratch
Mustn’t scratch.

So I was out walking with one of the pupsters on Sunday morning. I try and get out for a longish hike at least one day each weekend and this spell of beautifully warm fall weather is a perfect antidote to a week spent suffocating in an office. The sky is pure cobalt blue, the aspens are shining in all their golden glory and butterflies are everywhere you look.

As are the insects.

I’ve always had a love-hate affair with insects in that I hate them while they love me. At least the biters do. For some reason, they want to eat me up, piece by tiny piece. I’m not sure if it’s the smell of fear, payback for misdeeds in a former life or if I simply taste good but invariably, if there are nibblers around, they’ll make a bee-line for me. (Bee-line! Get it?)

I’m told one of the early uses for lap-dogs was that fleas were more inclined to live on pooch than a human. Ergo, carry an ugly little dog on your lap and he’ll soon be flea-ridden while you remain comparatively free. Sad to say, it appears my role in the circle of life appears to be that of a Pekingese. In the sense that as long as I’m around, everybody else can enjoy the great outdoors while I slap, scratch and curse as the little devils eat me alive.

I once spent a couple of weeks in the far north of Australia doing volunteer work for a conservation group. We were laying the foundation for an elevated boardwalk which would allow day-trippers to experience the rain forest once ‘the wet’ set in and the land would be under 3-4 feet of water. The work involved digging holes, moving concrete blocks and worst of all, carrying twenty-foot long steel girders called perlons through the trees, sometimes for ½ a mile or more, before dropping them by the side of the path. This wasn’t too far from Kakadu National Park – Crocodile Dundee country but what the movies didn’t show, was just how steamy hot that terrain was.

From early morning ‘till dusk we toiled in the oppressive heat of the jungle, while our begrimed clothes stuck to our bodies and the sweat ran into our eyes. The air was so thick you almost had to swim through it. We smokers found ourselves uncharacteristically popular because our glowing cigarette tips were the perfect solution for removing the leeches which could be found stuck to inappropriate parts of one’s anatomy at any given time.

But no matter how grueling the work days, the evenings were the worst because that’s when the vampire mosquitoes came out to play. And they made straight for me.

Oh, everybody else took a share and the conversation was punctuated by slaps and oaths as we tried to keep them at bay. However, none were so persecuted, so abused and so miserable as I. It was rare I completed a sentence without flailing at some part of my anatomy in a vain attempt to exact retribution. Great minefields of welts sprang up on my neck, arms, shoulders and legs as the little fiends lined up to feast on my blood.

Eventually I could take it no more and began dressing in jeans and a sweatshirt every evening. That’s no picnic in 95 degree weather with 100+ degrees humidity but if I’d owned gloves and a balaclava, I would have worn them too. And still the little b******s got to me. On my wrists, on my ankles and around my head and on one memorable occasion during a late night nature call, on the tip of my willie. The pain was relentless.

After a few days my joints swelled up – the exact symptoms of some hideous tropical disease the name of which escapes me now. "Get into town and have it checked right away." I was told "You don’t mess around with that!" Fortunately, it turned out to be nothing more serious than the sheer volume of bites I’d received on such a small area of skin that had caused my flesh to balloon.

The mosskeeters chased me halfway round Australia and most of Asia and in time, I came to dread that little nasal whine. Usually it came just minutes after lights out and a few moments before I began cursing myself for not paying the extra for a hotel that provided mozzie nets. Even today, over a decade later my stomach still knots up whenever I hear that noise. Mosquito coils, scented candles, repellant with contents-banned-in-most-western-countries, I became an expert in the effectiveness of each. (They’re all useless).

When we were looking to relocate from Phoenix, I had one criterion above all. No mosquitoes. Amazingly we even had a few right there in the desert, mainly due to the influx of easterners and their lawn fetishes, not to mention the golf course which have spread like a virus in Arizona. All those sprinkler systems and artificial lakes brought them running. Bailey, at a little under 9,000 feet seemed to fit the bill and although I have seen a couple of mozzies since we moved here (having been bitten by both of them) they are blessedly rare.

So I’m not entirely sure what was noshing on me this weekend. I’ve picked up a handful of bites each summer, some of them quite painful but I don’t believe I’ve been feasted on quite like this since moving to Colorado. Both arms, my legs and the back of my neck are a rash of little red bumps, each one feeling as though I’ve been stabbed with a needle dipped in Tabasco sauce. And the itching, oh dearie me, the itching.

They tell me that eating copious amounts of garlic will deter the little blighters from coming too near. Sadly, that would also deter most humans from coming too near so it’s not entirely practical. Plus, it isn’t really much good after the event so instead; I resorted to Benadryl, my anti-histamine of choice.

Benadryl is known to cause drowsiness, although it didn’t help me sleep last night. I am however, more than usually tired today as I sit at my desk and pretend to work. The label says not to take whilst operating heavy machinery and while my laptop isn’t exactly heavy, I’m still having challenges driving it today.

So if anybody needs me, I’ll be xvcnxzzzzzzzzzzzz...