New Year's Resolutions

I'm not really big on making New Year's resolutions. I figure if you're going to change something about yourself, you should just go ahead and do it rather than waiting on some arbitrary date. Instead, I tend to make new resolutions multiple times throughout the year and as I tend to break them anyway (oh, like you don't!), this means the failure is spread out across the calendar, rather than in a rush mid-January. And as January tends to be a depressing enough month in the first place, every little bit helps.

Having said that…I decided that this year I would at least set out certain goals for myself as we head into 2008. Not only that; I'm declaring them here. I figure this will result in one of two things.

Either the fear of public humiliation will encourage me to achieve all of them all or you'll be able to have a good laugh at my failure. It's all good.

Whichever it turns out to be, you'll be forced to keep reading The Gunsmoke Files throughout the year if you want to find out how I did.

So without further ado (drum roll please) my New Year's Resolutions for 2008.

1. I will update The Gunsmoke Files frequently.
Yeah, I know you've heard this before but this time I mean it. I mean it, you hear? I still have a few stories I'd like to tell before I get too senile to remember them.

2. I will go to the gym regularly.
I'm sure this is on everybody's list but my problem isn't going to the gym, it's going back a 2nd or a 3rd time. If I'm going to be mistaken for Brad Pitt by the time summer comes around, I'll need to go more than 2 or 3 times a month.

3. I will take more photographs.
Thanks to Santa and with a little help from e-Bay, I now have a very nice Nikon N90s film camera. (Yeah, I said film - wanna make something of it?) The trick is to carry it with me and get into the habit of using it.

4. I will work on my drumming.
As in, several times a week. Not just the night before band practice.

5. I will climb a 14'er.
Colorado has 54 (or is it 55?) mountains above 14,000 feet but despite living here for almost 6 years now, I've yet to hike above 12,000 feet. I almost got started on my first 14'er this summer but was turned back by the road being washed out. I'll do at least one this year.

6. I will memorize some knots.
Back in my Boy Scout days, the troop leaders despaired over my inability to remember how to tie knots from one session to the next. Even as an adult with super-human intelligence the only knot I can ever remember how to tie is a reef knot and useful though that is, it doesn't cover every eventuality. And if I'm ever shanghaied and forced to serve on a Royal Navy sailing ship, I'll need to know how to tie knots.

7. I will push on along the Colorado Trail.
Despite the first segment being one of the less pleasant hiking experiences of my life, there's a long way to go before I'm done. I just need to pack a little more strategically and cover shorter distances each day.

8. I will continue my policy of never watching a movie starring anybody who used to be on Saturday Night Live.
Hey c'mon, I need one achievable goal.

OK, that's enough to be going on with. Not a huge list considering how many different ways I need to improve myself, but it's a start.

I'll let you know how I get on.

An American Thanksgiving

Sadly, the real world is still getting in the way of my blogging, so like all good hacks, I'm resorting to recycling old stuff. This is a Gunsmoke File from November 2004. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

As any American history nerd can tell you, the Pilgrim Fathers landed on what is now known as Massachusetts in 1620. There’s no evidence they actually landed at Plymouth Rock, or carved the date which appears on it today; that was more likely the handiwork of some enterprising member of a later Chamber of Commerce. What is evident however is that the onset of winter is a particularly bad time when it comes to founding a new colony.

Well meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English speaking natives who taught the pilgrims a few survival tips and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.

And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the fourth Thursday of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.

While I don’t think I’d be up to three days worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favorite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.

This year, Dear Wife and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickax, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.

Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.

Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. Dear Wife took along her specialty pumpkin pie. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it half way round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.

Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the school teacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marveled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.

When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewelry designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realizing I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.

More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? With the exception of potatoes; there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bed time. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.

We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.

Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.

Gimme Shelter

"As a society, we like to dehumanize the problem," Len the coordinator told us, "it saves us have to think about it, or feel guilty about it. After all, if we tell ourselves it's their own fault, then we don't need to do anything about it. 'Homeless People'. The very expression suggests that they're 'homeless first' and 'people' second. That's why here at the shelter we use the term 'People who are homeless'."

We were wrapping plastic spoons and forks in paper napkins ready for the people who would soon stream through the door. The tables had already been washed down and by now were set with water jugs, condiments and bread, all items donated by local sponsors. By 11:55, Trevor, Peggy and Clarice were manning the serving hatch; Sean was ready to hand the trays to the guests as they stepped up, while Kim and Tom stood behind a table containing the salad and desserts. Jeff was manning the door with a hand-clicker to control the pace. My job was to hand out mugs of water as the guests filed past.

Did you know that of the approximately 9,000 homeless living in Metro Denver, nearly 60% are families including around 3,600 children? I didn't.

At 12 a bell rang, the door was unlocked and the guests arrived. Many were dirty, dressed in rags and often carrying their possessions under one arm. Others were obviously making an attempt to maintain their appearance, with combed hair and clean complexions. A surprising number were smartly dressed and one even carried a briefcase.

"Oh yes," explained Len when I commented on this later, "Around 25 percent of the people who are homeless have regular, full-time jobs. It just isn't possible to afford a place to live on the wages they earn. Many of our residents work at the baseball stadium; others are car-park attendants. The person serving your food at McDonalds or Burger King is quite likely to be homeless. They work hard but simply don't earn enough to get off the streets."

I thought back to the times when I've heard people claim that the homeless are simply lazy, or stupid. "I've no sympathy for them; there are plenty of jobs for those willing to work!" We've all heard that, right? Remember, 25 percent have full-time jobs.

Some were extrovert and animated. "Thank you sir, thank you sir" we heard over and over. Others, stony eyed and beaten, barely raised their heads as I handed them the water. One elderly gent took the mug and with trembling hands, drained it to the bottom. He held it out to me and in a soft voice asked "May I have another cup please?" How degrading must that be for an old man, to have to ask for a cup of water?

Tens of thousands of poor and needy people come through Denver Rescue Mission each year for shelter, food, clothing, medical care and chapel services. 365 days a year, the facility provides a breakfast, lunch, and a dinner meal. Up to 200 men (110 shelter beds and 90 overflow cots) find a warm bed and a safe place to sleep each night, although women and children have to go to a different facility. Private donations allows the mission to provide clothing to the needy, everything from warm gloves, to underwear, to business attire for job interviews.

"The weather's going to cool down in the next couple of weeks," said Len, "then we'll get real busy." Last winter, two major snowstorms within the space of a few days effectively shut down the city of Denver. "We had 300 men sleeping here back then; on the floors, in the offices, in the corridors. On the third day, we ran out food."

The mission provides trained counselors to help up to 2,000 individuals each month with needs such as food boxes, baby diapers, furniture, clothing, household goods, and referrals to other agencies. The Mission's health clinic provides free medical, dental, optical, hearing, and chiropractic services to the poor. Volunteer medical professionals play an integral part in this clinic program.

And still they came through the door. Young people who looked like they should be in school, old people who looked like they should be sitting on a front porch watching the world go by, and saddest of all, wild-eyed and frantic people, damaged people who looked like they should be in a hospital. The Mission feeds them all.

It was a quiet day all told, with only around 130 guests. Usually it's between 200-300, although this varies with the weather. "Sometimes we have to push them out the door to let others come in." said Len. Today though, by 1 pm the kitchen was serving seconds to the clever ones who knew how the system worked.

Most of the workers at the Mission are homeless themselves; many in rehab for drug or alcohol abuse. Len knew all their names, and prefaced each one with "Mr." "We never forget that some of our guests are not good people" he told us "and many are not well balanced. Some have been in prison and others will end up there. As a result, we have to take security precautions such as having cameras everywhere, including the bathrooms. These folks have little enough dignity in their lives and we're aware that this takes away even more. So we try to treat them with respect whenever we can. It's the least we can do."

I thought back to an old man, looking at me with rheumy eyes and asking if he might have a second cup of water. Then I drove home to my safe, warm house, with its well stocked refrigerator and cupboards full of food. And my clean, comfy bed. And the pile of bills on the desk didn't seem large at all. And I gave thanks for the people at Denver Rescue Mission, doing what they can to help those who have nothing.

I have it so good. And so do you. Please don't ever forget that.

Thanks to Miss Cellania; this Gunsmoke File was awared a Perfect Post award.

Thanks Charlie

Fifteen hours on a plane, followed by another three trying to find a hotel plus a 7 hour time zone change, meant that sleep didn’t come easily and while Bangkok’s nightlife is famous for many reasons all I needed was some carbonated alcohol. I found it in a beach-hut type bar not too far from the hotel.

I also found a new best friend called Charlie, although it’s fair to say he found me. The pasty complexion and bright white Reeboks marked me as a newbie, and he was walking by my side before I was ten yards from the door. It took a few minutes to convince him that I was on a budget and while I might be brand new to the country, I was tired and cranky and in no mood to be hustled.

Eventually he gave up trying to introduce me to a ‘nice young lady’ and joined me at the bar where, instead of trying to separate me from my cash, shared cautionary tales of previous visitors who’d arrived with romance in mind but left broken-hearted and empty-walleted.

Like, for example, the young Australian who’d recently downed a couple of cold ones in the company of a charming young sort at a nearby hostelry. When the time came to settle his bill, he was alarmed to be charged for not two, but ten beers. Naturally, he questioned this with the management who in turn, brought in two bouncers to mediate. Before long our hero found himself bleeding and crying on the floor of the bar. At his request, the police were summoned, and they drove him to the emergency room, helpfully stopping by the ATM so he could withdraw enough cash to pay the doctor. They even stayed with him while he received treatment; then kindly drove him back to the bar to settle his still outstanding bill. Which had now risen to thirty beers.

Over the course of the next couple of hours I learned that Charlie had one wife and two girlfriends, one of whom was pregnant. When I asked him what he did for a living he told me he got by, doing ‘this and that’. “This and that?” I asked him. “What’s it like having two jobs?” But as is often the case with my humor, it went over his head.

We also chatted about beer, the drug problem and my first love, football. He claimed to be a big fan of English soccer, but couldn’t name any of the teams. He had however, heard of Bobby Charlton* so that suggested at least a passing interest in the beautiful game.

Compared to some of the street hustlers into which I’ve run, Charlie was a pleasant enough guy. When it came time to settle my bill, he insisted on paying half, even though I’d drunk more than him and had planned to pick up the whole tab. He even walked me back to the hotel “to make sure I’m safe”. However, when I surfaced, sticky and grumpy the next morning, I was in no particular mood to see him again.

So it wasn’t surprising that I was barely off the hotel grounds when he appeared from nowhere, wearing the same stained chinos and ripped T-shirt of the night before, all smiles and ready to help me in my quest for cheaper lodgings. At this point I still had no clue whereabouts in Bangkok last night’s cab driver had dropped me. My guidebook turned out to be hopelessly out of date (and in English) so nobody yet had been able to show me where I was.

My plan was to head towards the river and look for lodgings in some backpacker flea-pit. At that stage in my travels, Koh-San Road, the legendary Asian hub of the backpacker world, was at unknown to me. But even then I knew there would be something like that out there if I could only find it.

Instead, before I knew what was happening, Charlie had picked up my pack and was off down the street. For a moment, I thought he was robbing me but no, he was simply doing me the favor of carrying it while he took me to a ‘cheap hotel’.

Compared to the place the cab-driver had dropped me the night before, it was indeed cheap. $6 Compared to $20, but I was budgeting for about $1 - $2, and this was still too rich for my blood. However, the idea of walking around in the Bangkok heat looking for a new place, didn’t appeal so I resigned myself to another night out here, wherever 'here' was was.

How I spent my first day in that most exotic and fascinating of cities is a tale for another Gunsmoke File. I made some rookie mistakes, was overcharged several times, and ate food from a vendor that now owes me a new colon, but all in all, didn’t slip up in any serious fashion.

However, I did almost make one error that would have put a serious crimp in my round-the-world-ambitions.

Remember I said at the beginning that I had no idea where in Bangkok my hotel was situated? I didn’t know what it was called either. Which would have made it very challenging to find my way back. And considering my backpack, my passport and my wallet were locked in my room; that would have been a shade inconvenient. So it was fortunate that Charlie had had the bright idea of picking up a hotel brochure, and stuffing it in my pocket before placing me on the bus that morning.

It took a friendly native to find me the right bus back again, and another to tell me when to get off. But if it hadn’t have been for that brochure, I’d probably still be wandering around Bangkok, looking for that damn hotel today.

Thanks Charlie.

* Bobby Charlton was a demi-god of English football during the 60’s and 70’s…considerably before Charlie was born.

The Squirrel Wars

The American West has seen a number of bitter feuds over the years. The Hatfields and the McCoys, the cowboys and the Indians, the Broncos (yay) and the Raiders (boo), but none so fierce, so bitter and so relentless as the battle being played out in my own back yard right now.

Man versus Squirrel.

I had run ins with them before; most notably when a herd took up residence in our roof (See Our Wild Life in the Mountains), but for the last few years we’ve been able to live in peace. In fact, since moving into this odd little house in the woods, I’ve very much enjoyed their presence. Standing at the window; watching their antics has passed many a happy minute or thirty when I’m supposed to be working. The Dynamic Duo of Dogdom tend to take a less pacifistic approach, usually trying to eat through the glass door whenever one appears but for the most part, I’ve been more than content to have squirrels as neighbors.

Until one of them figured out how to get into the bird-feeders that is.

We have half a dozen or so bird feeders hanging from various trees around the yard and a good portion of my income goes to keeping them filled. But, it’s worth it because woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees and grosbeaks are among the daily visitors to the yard. This is in addition to the hummingbirds that take advantage of the sugar-water we put out through the summer.

A couple of the feeders are “squirrel-proof” in that they close by means of a spring whenever anything heavier than a magpie lands on them. Which is fine but the birds’ favorite feeder is an ugly big green plastic thing, which holds about ¼ of a ton of feed. This one always saw the most activity and despite being the largest of the collection, required re-filling every few days.

Even more so once Tufty the Squirrel figured out he could climb down, sit on its roof and scoop the seed up with his paws.

That was bad enough but the little bugger spilled more than he ate and as the neighbors’ free-range cats discourage birds from eating off the ground, it was largely going to waste. I’d lobbed a few pine cones up at him, but that only caused him to run away, chattering dismissively and by the time I was back in the house, he was once more at the trough. Round 1 to him. Desperate measures were called for.

Dear Wife came home with a big, clear plastic dome designed to sit above the feeder and prevent assault from above. That was duly installed and it only took the birds two or three days to overcome their fear of it and start eating again. As for the squirrel; it barely slowed him down at all. He soon figured out that rather than climbing down to the feeder, he could just leap onto it from the tree trunk, spilling yet more seed in the process. Round 2 to him.

But, I finally beat him the next time. I strung a length of rope from one tree to another and hung the feeder from the middle. Hah! Even though he can do a balancing act on the rope itself, he can’t climb down to the feeder and our avian friends get the seed to themselves. Round 3 to me.

So then he moved onto the suet feeder.

This is a cage like doohickey into which we put slabs of seed filled suet. The birds in turn peck at it through the bars. Tufty on the other hand, simply hangs off the branch by his back legs and hauls handfuls out with his front paws. I could take the same approach and sling a rope between two trees, but it currently sits in front of the window of my home office, and the rope trick would involve moving it to a position less convenient for viewing. What to do, what to do, what to do.

I’m a pretty fair marksman with a slingshot as the well-aerated photos of G.W. Bush that I use for target practice will show. Still, I didn’t want to kill the little guy, or even injure him so the ½ inch marbles I usually use weren’t practical. I’d already established that pine cones aren’t suitably aerodynamic so I had to experiment a little before hitting on the ideal ammunition.

A bite of carrot, around thumbnail sized will fly straight and true for a good thirty feet or so, but without enough velocity to cause serious damage should I accidentally hit the target. I believe many police forces use carrot pieces for riot control, or if they don’t, perhaps they should.

A few well placed zingers around his head and my squirrel friend was soon scampering off to the neighbors’ yard. Ha ha ha ha! We’ll see who’s boss of this backyard yet. Well, it’s him apparently. The little sod figured out that I wasn’t aiming to hit and within three days he would sit blithely hoovering up the suet while I fired shot after shot within an inch or two of his head. A week on and he doesn’t even do me the courtesy of flinching. Round 4 to him.

I wonder how he would react to a blast of 1oz shot fired at close range from a 12 gauge? Round 5 could get reeeeeeeeelly interesting.

Now, where’s that Redneck Recipe book?

On the 7th Day

doG decided he needed a hobby. Mrs. doG had been complaining that he was spending too much time around the house, cluttering up the place as it were. So, bright and early on Monday, he set about making himself a universe.

Most of the day was spent creating the heavens and the earth, because he needed somewhere to sit and he figured this universe might be around for a while. Around 3 he called for Mrs. doG to come and check his progress, proud of what he had done. However, Mrs. doG merely sniffed and said

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Muttering under his breath, doG locked the door of his laboratory so he could continue work uninterrupted. It didn’t take him long to create Man; a stomach and a penis and he was about done. Even so, he wanted to take a bit more time over woman. He took a little longer than was perhaps strictly necessary, but hey, you can do that when you’re doG.

On Tuesday he was up bright and early and ready to start on the beasts of the field.

“This is where the fun really begins” he thought. For hour after hour, he toiled happily at his work bench. Lions and dogs, caterpillars and horses, elephants, cats, stoats and cows all rolled off the production line one after another. Zebras and kangaroos, armadillos and oxen soon followed. doG was in the groove and life was good.

But by the time Wednesday morning rolled around. doG was feeling a little fed up. The challenge was gone you see. This was too easy. He scrawled a few sketches on his notepad, and over the next couple of hours cranked out sheep and pigs, tortoises and antelope but when he took a step back and found himself admiring the duck-billed platypus, he realized it was time for a break.

“All work and no play makes doG a dull boy” he told himself and looked around for a diversion.

It was then he remembered that Mrs. doG had gone out for the day. Greedily he scanned the contents of the pantry, rubbed his hands together and thought

“Let’s see what I can make with this lot.”

The de’il makes work for idle hands and it wasn’t long before doG had come up with the formula for hallucigenic drugs. It was a long afternoon, filled with screams and manic laughter and by the time Mrs. doG came home from the shops, our hero was slumped in the corner, drooling slightly and with brownie crumbs on his shirt.

But look at what he had created! Giraffes and butterflies and tropical fish in fantastic psychedelic colors. Coral and salamanders and hummingbirds, oh my. Even Mrs. doG had to admit, she was impressed. But she bundled him off to bed nonetheless and having strapped him down, set about the task of cleaning up the mess he’d left in the kitchen. Sweeping the ingredients of half completed dragons and unicorns into the bin, she shook her head fondly.

“What will he get up to next” she wondered.

If only she had known.

For doG was in a foul mood when he awoke the next day, and with barely a grunt, he headed for his lab and closed the door. Sawing and banging sounds emitted from the room for the rest of the morning and it was nearly dinnertime before he emerged, with a vicious smile on his face and a cage full of…mosquitoes.

“Bwahahahahah!” he laughed, while Mrs. doG looked on in horror.

“Oh, you can’t!” she protested. “Those things are terrible!”

“You just watch me” he muttered and went off to bed.

Friday was a little better. Feeling more than a little guilty about his behavior yesterday, doG worked feverishly for hours without a break. By noon he’d created chickens, tigers, lizards and buffalo. Before the afternoon was done, he was just about finished with the animal kingdom. And, that got him into trouble once more. It was just a simple idea; one that he’d been mulling for some time. What would happen if he took barley, malt, water and hops and treated them just right…

Well of course, you know how beer is made, right? Oh, doG was pleased and decided to throw himself a little party to celebrate. Which went on loooong into the night. Long after Mrs. doG rolled her eyes and headed for bed, locking the door behind her. Long after he figured out the formula for Scotch whisky. But long before he wondered if perhaps he should have invented aspirin first.

Every night is followed by a morning. That’s how it works. And Saturday morning was a doozy. The sun was well up before doG surfaced and even then, he wandered round the house in something of a daze. Mrs. doG was less than sympathetic.

“Don’t think you’re going to be sitting around watching television.” She told him. “You haven’t invented it yet.”

So with a sigh, doG took himself off to the lab and attempted to work. But it was no use. By the time 5 O’Clock rolled around all he’d managed to produce were slugs, worms and snakes. Not exactly big league stuff. He tried to liven things up by making some of the snakes venomous, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Time to give it up” he thought, and wrapped up the project. "No more creations for me."

But when Sunday dawned, bright and sunny, with the promise of a whole day before starting work again on Monday, doG got himself to thinking.

And doG invented football.

And doG saw that it was good.

The Colorado Trail ~ Epilogue

As I write this, I’ve been home for almost 2 weeks. The raw patches on my shoulders have healed, as have the blisters on my feet. Even the mosquito bites are barely discernable. But the memories will linger on. Sadly, at the moment they’re mostly along the lines of “Oh, that was tough”, rather than “Oh that was beautiful” although maybe that will change over time. Because it truly was beautiful and while the disposable camera I carried with me didn’t really didn’t do the scenery justice, there are hundreds of fabulous Colorado views locked in my brain.

I learned a few lessons along the way. The necessity of packing light being the main one. Even though the bag I carried on Days 4 & 5 was almost half the weight of the one I hauled through Day 2, it was still too heavy. And that Saturday morning strolls with The World’s Most Irritating Dog™ isn’t adequate preparation for long days out on a trail. My feet, legs and shoulders simply weren’t up to the task. Before I tackle the next stretch I’ll need to get in some overnight trips, with some major mileage and elevation gain.

I should also plan my daily mileage allotment a little more carefully. The guidebook divides the trail into segments, but these are merely geographical divisions, not recommended daily hikes. Once I get further from home it isn’t practical to sail through 10 easy downhill miles one day; and be done by lunchtime, only to spend hours grinding uphill the next. And it would be good to know that each night’s planned campsite has water and a flat place for a tent, to avoid fruitlessly walking a mile further along the trail and back as I did on Day 4.

But probably the best advice I could give to anyone planning to replicate this portion of the trip, the five days from Denver to Kenosha would be this:

Do it the other way!

Happy trails everyone.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 5

Long Gulch to Kenosha Pass
Distance: 14 miles
Elevation Gain: 1540 ft

The end is near (Just not near enough)

Last stage. I can do this. Actually, I have to do this; there’s no other way to get home. No cell phone calls begging for rescue today; the only way out is to finish what I started and walk to Kenosha Pass. It shouldn’t be too big a deal though. I slept unusually well and even though breakfast and striking camp took longer than I’d hoped, I’m shouldering my pack and back on the trail by 8:15.

And there isn’t too much elevation gain today. And it’s only 14 miles. Only 14 miles. Ah, but you forget you’re almost 45 years old my lad, and no matter how much you try, your body just doesn’t work as efficiently as it did back in your hardcore hiking days all those years ago.

And yesterday really took its toll. I’m tired, and sore and aching and driven almost insane by the rash of mosquito bites that cover my arms, and legs and face. The Jungle Juice I’d slathered on at regular intervals never held the little buggers at bay for long and while eating breakfast, several of them feasted on a section I must have missed, up by the hairline. My forehead swelled so badly I got the impression this must be what Botox feels like.

So I was more than a little cranky as I began the first climb of the day, out of the canyon in which I’d slept and only got more so as I discovered just how tough that turned out to be. It looked like another long day after all.

The scenery was beautiful, the scenery was beautiful. I have to keep reminding myself that the scenery was beautiful. Years from now, when I look back on this trip I hope that what I remember is the beautiful scenery and not the endless physical pain of putting one foot in front of the other. Because Colorado truly is beautiful and on these glorious summer days, with blue skies above and the wildflowers in full bloom at my feet, I’m seeing it at its best.

But oh, it’s hard to appreciate that, even on the long downhill portion. My shoulders are rubbed raw, my back, never my most trustworthy body part, is beginning to spasm again and my legs are running on empty.

But, I still had the fortitude to rag on a father and son hiking the other way when I noticed the youth was wearing an Arsenal Soccer T-shirt. I pointed out that I was carrying a large stick and held the high ground and cared not one whit that I was obviously making him nervous. The father hastily explained that this was a youth soccer team from Fort Collins, not the scum of the English leagues and with a smile, I let them pass. I suspect though, they’ll both have nightmares about this wild eyed maniac who came out of the hills and threatened them just like the infamous soccer hooligans of which they’d read.

Johnson Gulch: The bottom of the last hill of the trail. Here I met the two young through hikers I’d last seen asleep on the trail of Segment 2. “Man, that really kicked our asses” they told me. “We almost quit that day.” Yep, I knew where they were coming from and gave thanks once more, that I’d had the luxury of being able to bail and run for home that day. Lunch now and a sit down before beginning the climb. Only 3 miles and a mere 900 feet elevation gain. How hard could it be?

Very hard of course. And…it…took…for…ever. Up and up this endless incline as the temperatures got higher, my bag got heavier, my body got weaker. I’d passed numerous creeks in the morning and deliberately allowed my water supply to get low to lighten the load. What I didn’t realize was; Johnson Gulch, the halfway point, would be the last water of the day and now I was forced to ration my intake. No fun when every breath is a ragged, heaving gasp of hot, dry mountain air.

Eventually I began to meet mountain bikers coming the other way. “I’ll swap you my pack for your bike” I suggested to each but none took me seriously. I was still trying this ruse when the highway hove into sight. Every few hundred yards I had a clear view of the RVs, cars and trucks heading out for the weekend but to my frustration, it never seemed to get any closer. It turned out to be simply a mirage, a torment. The trail was running more or less parallel to it and it was another 2 miles before I began walking towards it again.

And then, and then, and then there’s the gate leading to the campsite and journey’s end. Every single muscle in my body hurts, even the ones I didn’t know existed. But despite that, I found the ones in my face involuntarily lifting themselves into a smile.

I’d made it.

I sat in the shade of the pines, leaning against my pack, and barely moved for an hour until Dear Wife showed up with the dogs in the car, and a cooler full of cold drinks and fresh food.

68 miles in 5 days. Doesn’t really sound all that much written here. But starting at 5,520 feet above sea level, finishing at 10,000, and with an accumulated elevation gain of 10,260 feet, (that’s almost 2 miles, if you’re counting) I can tell you, it’s one hell of a hike.

But there’s less than 400 miles to go. And how hard can that be?

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 4

Forest Service Road 560 (Wellington Lake Road) to Long Gulch
Distance: 16.2 miles
Elevation Gain: 2840 ft

Climb Every Mountain. And Climb and Climb and Climb

And we're off again. Over 16 miles to cover, mostly uphill but really; how hard can that be?

Well, bloody hard as it turns out. 6:35am found me trudging up a steep jeep trail with barely a half-pint of coffee in my system. It didn't take too long to use all the calories gained from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and much too soon I was heaving and wheezing once more. I couldn't even blame the pack this time; my gear was stripped to the bone and while the tent and sleeping bag alone were disturbingly heavy, I had no spare clothes and only the barest minimum of food.

But uphill is uphill, whichever way you slice it and I was only averaging around 2 mph, which was going to make for a long day. The trail alternated from thick, dark pine trees to light, summery aspen forests, but the only variance in the gradient was from steep to steeper. The trees blocked any scenery so the view was simply the muddy trail rising in front of my face. For mile after mile after mile.

That's not entirely true; one bright spot came when I almost tripped over a very young fawn lying directly on the path. It's common for the mothers to leave new-borns unattended for hours or even days while they forage for food; however usually they hide them better than this. I had to wonder if the little rebel had done a spot of exploring on his own, then hunkered down when I came along. Either way, he didn't so much as twitch while I left the track and took a wide excursion around him.

So on and on I climbed, with the track only getting steeper. Stopping for a breather was no pleasure either because of the mosskeeters that descended upon me with glee if I so much as slowed my pace. "Mosskeeters can't live at this altitude" my ass. There were times when I had to go around fallen trees as they were just too big to climb over and each delay felt like a slap in the face.

I met two middle-aged guys hiking the other way (downhill, what a concept!) and they cheerfully explained that I had a lot of climbing ahead of me. Mutter, mutter, mutter. At somewhere around 10,000 feet I walked through my first snow of the trail. Only a small slushy patch but considering this is the first day of summer, still intriguing.

Much more alarming was the first clap of thunder, which came at 10:05 am. Usually the summer storm clouds don't roll in until mid-afternoon and this was disturbing considering how far I still had to go. Even more disturbing was just how close the storm was. The next clap almost blew my socks off. Fortunately, it never really came to anything because shortly after, I popped out of the trees and into a wide, open meadow. Not the place to be during a lightning storm.

Good news is, the steep climbing was now over and after an early lunch, I set out on the long, slow grind up the valley. Nothing like the same altitude gain, but still climbing, climbing, climbing.

I consoled myself that at least I was lasting 45 minutes or so between breaks, unlike the 4 or 5 minutes I was managing on Day 2, but even so, the head of that damn valley just never seemed to get any closer and I was a weary little hiker by the time I finally crested the summit a little after 3 pm. 2 miles more to go and downhill all the way, but by now I was so utterly banjoed, I couldn't really appreciate it.

16.2 miles is a long haul when 80% of it is uphill and you were starting at over 7,000 feet in the first place. It feels even longer when you end up clocking an extra mile at the end trying to find somewhere flat enough to pitch a tent and then end up having to walk the mile back again to accept a sort-of-OK site you'd dismissed earlier. And when you know that you'll have to walk that mile for a third time in the morning.

Naturally, the rain which had been threatening since this morning finally got going as I was setting up camp. And the mosquitoes followed me there and drove me indoors by 8pm. And the freeze dried "food" I'd brought for dinner tasted every bit as vile as you'd imagine.

But when I put down my book and snuggled into my sleeping bag I was asleep in moments. And I stayed asleep until morning and you can't complain about that.

Even better, tomorrow's the final day. A mere 14 miles. And a good chunk of that is downhill.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 3

Forest Service Road 550 to Forest Service Road 560 (Wellington Lake Road)
Distance: 12.1 miles
Elevation Gain: 1520 ft

Pain? What pain?

Oh yes, this is more like the thing. Dumped that horrendously heavy pack at home and I'm back to a daypack with nowt inside but a map, the directions, some food and a day's worth of water. I had a good night's sleep, I've got moleskin slapped over me blisters and I'm having fun again. Not only that; today's portion starts off downhill. Even better, but we keep going downhill, for mile after glorious mile. How cool is that?

I could tell it was going to be a good day when the raven serenading me from the tree-tops gave me a gift of a feather before I'd gone more than a few hundred yards. I didn't trust it to stay in my hatband so I tucked it carefully in the side pocket of my shorts and tried not to biff it with each stride.

The forest here is a mix of ponderosa pines, bristlecone pines and aspens which perform admirably as shade from the sun. There's something very Lord of the Rings-ish about it all (but without all the wraiths and scary stuff). Instead, I'm treated to a symphony of birdsong as I stride along, astonished at the time I'm making. The halfway point comes and goes well before 10:00 and considering that yesterday at this point, I'd been doubled over and almost crying in exhaustion and pain, life is very, very good.

Almost made my first goof of the trail though, by not looking closely enough at the sign by an intersection and carrying straight on when I should have made a right turn. Luckily it was only a few hundred yards further that another trail intersection brought this to my attention and it only took a few minutes to get back on track. Could have been a lot worse though so I'll need to watch that on the remoter sections.



Lunch was scoffed on the banks of Buffalo Creek, not too far from where Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™ and I often come on our Saturday hikes. The creek babbled beside me as I lay in the sun-dappled shade and wondered if anything could possibly spoil this moment.

Of course, when you ask a question like that, the gods are sure to answer.

Mosquitoes. F***ing mosquitoes here in my beloved Colorado. What the hell is that all about? When we were looking to relocate from Arizona, one of my primary stipulations was that there were to be NO mosquitoes. Hate them, hate them, hate them. And indeed, in the 5 years I've lived here, I've only seen 2 (and been bitten by both of them), which is manageable. I'd always believed they couldn't live at this altitude, but here was a whole herd of them, swarming all over me and biting lumps of my arms and legs like sodding piranhas. No after lunch nap for me then and I was soon back on the trail, spirits lifting once more.

Not too much other wildlife around today and I didn't even see my first humanoid until I was within quarter of a mile from the end; a mountain biker huffing his way up the rise from the trail head. As I was heading downhill, I politely stepped off the path but he stopped and waved me through.

"You have right of way." He gasped, which was technically correct but under the circumstances, it was a lot easier for me to stop. Perhaps, like me when I'm mountain biking uphill, he was just glad of any excuse to take a break.

So look at this, 12:25 pm and I'm done for the day. If I could, I would cheerfully have continued on and knocked off some of tomorrow's miles too, but there's no convenient way to begin tomorrow's hike except from here. That'll do then. Home to a cold one from the fridge and a lie in the hammock with me book.

Colorado Trail? Easy-Peasy.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 2

South Platte Canyon to Forest Service Road 550
Distance: 10.8 miles
Elevation Gain: 2200 ft

Welcome to the House of Pain

Remember I was talking about the challenges of packing light? Well, it was apparent very early on in Day 2 that I’d failed miserably. It was true, I probably didn’t need the entire set of encyclopedias, and I could probably have left the outboard motor at home but everything else had seemed necessary when I was cramming it all in last night. Not very much of it seemed necessary now as I crawled my way up the cliff side which began at the trail-head.

It didn’t help that the weather was unseasonably warm, even for June and that on this stretch of the Colorado Trail there’s no shade following the Buffalo Creek fire of 1996. The grasses of the burn area are recovering, but the remains of the trees still stand like so many blackened statues and offered no respite from the blazing sun. In addition, this segment of the trail has no water, which means it all has to be carried. Not just enough for today, but for tonight’s camp and a good portion of tomorrow morning’s hiking too. And water’s bloody heavy.

It was soon clear that I was in trouble. Not just tired, but staggeringly, crying out in pain, how the hell am I going to get out of this trouble. The trail stretched onwards and upwards, with no drop in elevation on today’s schedule yet each step was physically painful. The hotspots on my feet which had concerned me yesterday, had now developed into full blown blisters (I’ve never had blisters from hiking) and the straps of my pack were cutting into my shoulders unmercifully.

It wasn’t long before my plan of “taking a break every hour”, went to “taking a break every thirty minutes” to “taking a break every few hundred yards”, bending double to ease the pain in my back and suck in the small amount of oxygen available at 8,000 feet above sea level.

I tried giving myself inspirational speeches about winners versus quitters; I tried admiring the scenery (which was spectacular, with views of Chair Rocks in the west, down to Pikes Peak in the south – one of the unintentional benefits of being in a forest decimated by fire) and counting my steps to make the journey pass. But it was no good; I couldn’t do this. Before I'd reached the halfway point, I could barely put one foot in front of the other, my feet and shoulders were on fire and my back was beginning to spasm.

But as far as the Colorado Trail is concerned, I haven’t even begun to gain altitude and 90+ degree heat is forecast to last all week. Things are only going to get worse. What finally finished me off was when I passed two athletic looking college-aged guys lying prostrate on the trail, almost asleep. “This sucks man” one of them said, “I don’t think we can do this.” If these two young studs were suffering, what chance did I have? Day 2, only 20 miles into the trail and I was already beaten. How thoroughly depressing.

Have I ever extolled the virtues of cell phones? Oh sure, they’re annoying enough when some yuppie is bawling into one while you’re trying to read the books for free at Barnes and Noble, or when he’s riding your butt on the highway, obliviously nattering into his electronic pacifier. But when you’re out on the trail and in need of rescue, they’re a life-saver, let me tell you. Assuming you can get service that is. I couldn’t, all though by doG did I try. Each time I stopped, which was by now every couple of minutes I would check once more. Still nada, but the thing was, at last now I had a plan.

You see the end of today’s segment, is really quite close to my house. Only about thirty minutes drive away. And at the house was a wife. And a car with an almost full tank of gas. And if I could just get hold of her, I could demand she come and get me, and whisk me off to a shower, and a soft bed, and some beer. But most importantly, the chance to re-pack this damn bag and get rid of half the stuff inside. Then I could start the trail anew. Beaten? Me? Naah.

It was late in the day by the time I finally got through. So late, I was close enough to the end to see the cars on the road I’d have to cross to get to the trail head. But I knew I could make it that far.

And I did. Staggering and wobbling, and so stiff and sore I could hardly lift my arms, and with blisters like throw cushions, and stars in front of my eyes and not even sure if I wanted to puke or to cry, or both. But I made it to the end of the trail. And knocked off the second segment. Only three more to go and tomorrow is another day.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Day 1

Waterton Canyon to South Platte Canyon
Distance: 15.4 miles
Elevation Gain: 2160 ft

“The Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Footstep”

Colorado, in my not at all humble opinion, is the prettiest state in the union and the Colorado Trail, a long-distance footpath stretching from Denver to Durango encompasses some of the best scenery the region has to offer. The trail passes through seven national forests and six wilderness areas, traverses five major river systems and includes eight of the state’s mountain ranges. So it is a little disappointing that the first 6.2 miles of the hike head up Waterton Canyon, which isn’t a trail at all, but a broad, dusty dirt road owned by the Denver Water Board. The canyon is pretty enough, and I’ve ridden my bike up here before, but for as a hiking experience, it leaves a bit to be desired.

A railroad once ran this way, carrying passengers from Denver to the cooler climes of the Rocky Mountain foothills. Nowadays it’s a popular route for hikers, joggers, mountain bikers and fisher folk and for a Monday, there were a surprising number of people out and about. Like me, they were all enjoying the bright summer morning. Except for the employees of the Water Board, who turned out to be a bunch of grumpy buggers that never returned my cheery waves. Mind you; they were working and I was not, so I can see where they were coming from.

I didn’t spot any of the big horn sheep for which the canyon is justly famous, but then, I was cranking out the pace and before long I was taking a break at the end of the dirt road and preparing to set out on the trail proper. I was a tad concerned about the hot spots which were appearing on the balls of each foot, but a couple of squares of moleskin should do the trick and I was soon heading into the trees. This is much more like the thing and even though the climb had my calves squealing in protest, my spirits were bouncing.

Up and up I went, telling myself that by definition, every hill must have a top. Pine trees lined either side of the trail and the vistas changed endlessly as I switch-backed up the cliff but after a while, I was beginning to wonder about the whole “Every hill must have a top” thing. However, there comes a time when you notice that the surrounding hills are either lower, or not much higher than the one you’re on and that’s a clue that the summit can’t be too far off, out of sight though it may be.

In fact, the summit remained out of sight until I was a few feet from the top where I popped into a clearing to meet 3 mountain bikers debating where to go next. Unlike them, I had a map so I was soon the hero of the day when I showed them exactly what their options were. Good thing too because they’d planned to head the same way I was going and as that wasn’t the circular route they’d thought, would have meant a long ride back.

It took a few hours to get out of the office workers’ mentality of checking my watch every few minutes and fretting about how much was still to be done. Even so, I was pleased to check the pages I’d photocopied from the guidebook (traveling light, remember?) and see that the miles were clicking away quite nicely. By noon I was well over halfway so took a lunch break in the shade of a ponderosa pine and was even more pleased to see that the only other hikers I’d met on the trail, two young guys attempting to hike the CT in one go (and therefore carrying very heavy packs) were looking a lot more tired than me.

Although things could have gone horribly wrong shortly after when I scrambled up a rocky outcrop to take a photo, then couldn’t remember in which direction the trail was. Taking the wrong route down could have led to a lot of backtracking so I was chuffed to get back more through luck than anything else and was soon on my way. And then I was soon stopping again to pull of my boots and socks to reattach the squares of moleskin which were attempting to crawl up my legs. I think I might just have some problems from these hotspots later.

I had thought I was done climbing for the day but no, onward and upward went the trail, as did the temperature so the shade of the trees was very welcome. Every now and then a horizon would open up and I could get a fix on where I was. This was great until I made the mistake of looking behind me and saw that the eastern plains and Denver were still in full view. I thought I’d come further than that.

But then I popped out on a cliff top and looking way, way down into the valley, saw not only the river for which I was headed, but Angus the Toyota sitting right where I left him. Whoo hoo, that wasn’t bad at all. Even despite it taking me another hour to get down the hill to the parking spot.

I’d last seen the two young through-hikers at the top of the hill, looking for a camping spot. That seemed a little premature to me. After all, tomorrow was forecast to be a scorcher and while the segment is only 11 miles, it involves a lot of climbing and takes us through the burned area from the Buffalo Creek forest fire of 1996. Which means no shade and no water. If I were them, I would be looking for a campsite much further down the trail. Still, their packs were much heavier than mine, and I could see why they’d be ready for a break by now.

So, one day done and other than the hotspots on the soles of my feet, which turned into ugly looking blisters later that night, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail ~ Prologue

Other ageing backpackers have observed that the ground is a lot harder than it was twenty years ago but a phenomenon still new to me is how come it’s impossible to pack for even a short trip, without my bag weighing more than I do. I went around the world with a 35lb pack and spent two weeks hiking coast to coast across England with one weighing even less. Yet nowadays, no matter how much I stick to the Therouxian philosophy of “simplify”, it seems that my pack weighs more every time.

Of course, when backpacking in Britain it isn’t necessary to pack the volume of food and water that are required for basic survival here. There’s usually a store, or a café or a pub within a few miles so why bother? But even so, one would think that as the cost of my backpacking gear has increased over the years, the weight would have gone down, not up and it’s a mystery to me how my pack can be so heavy before I even put the food and water in.

Even though I was only planning on covering the first 70 miles of the Colorado Trail on this expedition; that would still require me to carry five days worth of food, along with a good supply of water in addition to my (surprisingly heavy) water filter to replenish the stocks. I have to say, the thought didn’t appeal.

So it was an inspired moment when I hit on the idea of making the first stage simply a day hike. The first few days of the trail aren’t all that far from my home so it just was just a case of Dear Wife and I getting up ridiculously and dropping Angus the Toyota at the end of the first day’s trail, before heading for Denver in the Subaru where she dropped me at the start. I could then simply walk back to the car, and drive home to a shower and a fridge full of beer. Not only would I not have to carry my backpack for a whole day, I could afford to put less in it, and it was with a smug smile I shouldered my lightweight day pack and walked past the behemoth bag squatting by the door.

With age comes wisdom, and I’m certainly due some.

This is going to be a piece of cake.

The Colorado Trail

Stretching almost 500 miles from Denver to Durango, the Colorado Trail is rightly regarded as one of North America's premier long distance footpaths. Meandering over and through the spectacular Rocky Mountains amongst peaks with lakes, creeks and diverse ecosystems, it encapsulates six wilderness areas and eight mountain ranges topping out at 13,334 feet.

And I'm starting it on Monday.

The restrictions of corporate American vacation policies, and my own lack of desire to spend 6+ weeks on the trail make it impractical to attempt the entire trail as a through hike. Instead, like many others, I plan to cover a segment at a time, covering 75 to 100 miles in each trip, with perhaps shorter trips if time allows. At that pace, I estimate it will be about 7 years before I complete the entire trail, and I'll be into my fifties by then.

But, every step will be recorded here on The Gunsmoke Files. doG willing, I'll be done with the first stretch by Friday, June 22. Look for the first installment shortly after.

Thar's gold in them thar teeth

So I paid a visit to the dentist this week. He poked and prodded and gouged and scraped for about a year or so before telling me something I’ve never before heard from a member of his profession.

“OK, everything looks pretty good. You need to floss more but otherwise you’re in good shape.”

And that was that. No fillings, no root canals, no extractions or any of the other countless procedures dentists have insisted I needed over the years. To say I was shocked is putting it mildly.

As far as I’m concerned, dentists rank right up there with vivisectionists and proctologists in the “Why on earth would someone choose to do that for a living” stakes and I’m sure most of them are simply frustrated sociopaths at heart. Oh, they pretend to be nice, and lure you in with their soft music, and pretty assistants and fresh copies of Sports Illustrated but once they have you back in the soundproof room, away from the other clients, that’s when their true personalities come out.

I know for a fact my childhood dentist’s training consisted of watching Laurence Olivier working Dustin Hoffman over in Marathon Man. He was the one that told me

“It’s your own fault; if you took better care of your teeth I wouldn’t have to hurt you!”

I was eight at the time.

Many years later, a doctor explained that the reason my teeth were so poor was not due to lack of hygiene or too many sweets, (although I’m sure that didn’t help) but from a side effect of the asthma medication I’d taken regularly as a child. Medication which was later taken off the market as a result of said side effect. Had it been prescribed by an American doctor, I could probably have sued and had more money to spend on beer than I do now.

But, that wasn’t much consolation as my childhood dentist was just one of a long string of swines who’ve put their kids through college or made their boat payments as a result of the metaphorical gold they found in my teeth.

It doesn’t help that I suffer from a severe pain allergy and have a very low tolerance for people poking sharp points into my nerve endings. With a mouth chock full of scrap metal and drool running down my cheek (does that vacuum cleaner attachment thing do any good) my imagination works overtime as I trying and guess just what this particular instrument of torture is doing. It came as something of a surprise when a dentist in Phoenix actually explained what he was doing (it never occurred to me to ask) and I learned that despite the horrors I was imagining, he was merely polishing my teeth, or running some floss between them. Until then, I was convinced he was trying to rip my teeth out one by one with rusty pliers, or seeing how far he could push an ice pick into my jaw.

Then don’t get me started on the sadist who had me return again and again so she could work on the same root canal. Her story was that it was such a major project it had to be done in stages “to make things easier on me”. As is often the way, my company changed Insurance Providers before the job was done and I had to find a new dentist. He cheerfully told me the tooth was perfectly healthy, but I needed a ton of other work done and how do Tuesday mornings look for the next two months?

There was also the guy who conspired with Dear Wife to bully me into having my wisdom teeth removed. I was perfectly content to leave them where they were, figuring I need all the wisdom I could get, but apparently they were blocking his access to a different tooth which he claimed needed work. So, against my better judgment, I scheduled a couple of days off work, stocked the house with chocolate pudding and baby food, and went in for the ‘routine’ appointment. Two weeks later, I was still doped to the eyeballs on painkillers, unable to eat anything larger than a thin mint and the sinus infection I contracted via the nostril to mouth hole he left in my jaw still troubles me to this day.

It’s not entirely the dentists’ fault either – medication side effects apart, I think I must have been in the bathroom when they were handing out teeth as my set seem to be particularly poor quality. When I was traveling in Asia for instance, everyone told me “If you need dental work done, go to a Singaporean dentist – they’re the best.” Except when I was actually in Singapore, I wimped out. My teeth were fine, what’s the problem?

Well, the problem was the toothache from hell which fired up the day after I arrived in Indonesia. Constant, throbbing, aching, blinding pain that never let up for a moment. Just the thing when you’re eating the spicy food for which Indonesia is rightfully famous. After three days of torment I made the decision to spend money I could ill afford flying back to Singapore for treatment. And the toothache immediately went away. Until I was on a train heading away from Singapore when it came back. And lasted until I was close to the next major airport, when it went away again.

You would think that once I’d figured out the pain was psychosomatic that would have been the end of it but noooooo. It came and went for the next two months, with the pain level in inverse proportion to my ease of access to a flight to Singapore. And for the record, when I made it home to Britain a year later, my dentist at the time assured me there was nothing wrong with the tooth.

It’s hard to like dentists when even your teeth are vindictive.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to floss.

Sexual Harrassment

Sexual Harrassment ~
"Hey Carol! Where did you find your new boyfriend?"
"He fell off a charm bracelet. Isn't he adorable?"
And so saying, the wench pinched me on the cheek and hugged me closer to her enormous bosom.

It was all I could do not to spill my beer.

The day had started off so well too. I was hitchhiking out of Bega, New South Wales in Australia and my goal for the day was a fishing village a little further down the coast, with the picturesque sounding name of Eden. It was my first attempt at hitching since arriving Down Under and I was wondering how I would fare. As it happened, I'd barely put down my pack when the first car of the day came by and screeched to a halt. A young, hippy couple, with a very large dog and a very small child sharing the the backseat. Dog and child squished up to make room for me and my pack and we were soon bowling down the road.

"Only 5K mate," said the driver "but we'll put you in a much better hitching spot. I certainly hoped so because it looked like the middle of nowhere to me and a long walk back into town if the hitching turned out to be a bust. It nearly was too - I had to wait a full four minutes before the next vehicle came along but this too, pulled up obligingly. A logger in a pick up truck, which the Aussies refer to as a "Ute". (Nothing to do with "My Cousin Vinnie", it's short for "Utility".) who just happened to be heading to Eden himself.

The road wound us along the coast, and inland, then back again. Forests of eucalyptus gum trees lined both sides of the road and the smell of camphor hung in the air like an pharmacists' convention. Every couple of kilometers my driver would pull over to show me some natural feature, such as a grove of ancient prehistoric looking ferns, a waterfall, or bush trail. He told me to keep my eyes peeled for kangaroos (I was yet to see my first) but the only ones we saw were already providing fodder for the scavengers, the sad results of lost arguments with cars. We did see a team of cowboys, (termed "Jackaroos") rounding up cows on horseback, so that almost made up for it.

All too soon we rolled into the metropolis of Eden. One street, half a dozen shops, a campsite and a pub. I toyed with the idea of pushing further along but as we were nearly on the Victorian border, and I had yet to look at a map of that fair state, and as I was in no rush, I decided to put up my tent and stay awhile. That and lunch occupied the rest of the morning and with the sun high overhead, I set out to explore the town. Pretty though it was, there wasn't really too much to occupy the mind so after a couple of turns along the main street, I decided to check out the single pub.

You've seen the old movies where the stranger walks into the bar, and the piano player stops, a hush falls on the room and everyone turns to stare. This place didn't have a piano but the rest of the effect was the same. Not because the patrons were unfriendly you understand; I just don't think they'd ever seen anyone as...small as me. I swear everyone in there must have been at least 300lbs, all tattooed, mostly bearded. And yes, I'm including the women.
The idea of turning and running away flitted through my head but a shout came out of the crowd.
"Hey look! It's the hitchhiker from this morning! He's from Scotland everyone." It was the hippy couple who had given me my first ride and having received this glowing endorsement, I was accepted into the fold and soon had a frosty beer mug in my hand. The crowd formed a respectful circle around me and interrogated me with questions.

"What's your name?"
"Whereabouts in Scotland are you from?"
"What do you think of Maggie Thatcher?"
"Who were you supporting in the Rugby Grand Final yesterday?"
I can only imagine my answers met with their approval because nobody began swinging punches and before long, I even relaxed my sphincter enough to start enjoying myself.

It was then that Carol appeared.

"Oh, let me get a look at him" she bawled; pushing her bulk through the crush. I don't think I've ever seen a woman quite so large and if it wasn't for the others using her given name, I still wouldn't be entirely sure that she was in fact, female.
"Ohmygooooooooooddd! Isn't he just precious? I'm going to take him home and put him on a shelf."
I wasn't entirely sure she was kidding but I found myself accepting another beer as she perched on a bar stool and hugged me tighter than I'll ever want to be hugged again.

It was a good twenty minutes before I was able to extricate myself. During which time, I was poked, prodded, stroked and fondled with a level of detail that only a few people have attempted on me prior to earning their medical degrees. Once out of the bar I headed back to my campsite and hid in my tent, praying that Carol wouldn't find out where I was. It was a good hour before I ventured out, and even then it was to head in the opposite direction to lose myself on a bush trail for the rest of the day.

Australian men have a reputation of being boorish and chauvinistic, particularly when it comes to their treatment of women. However, I'm here to testify that at least some of the women are more than capable of giving as good as they get.

And I've only just realized...what if she reads this and tracks me down? Crikey!