New Years...uhm 'not' Resolutions'

So as I've said here before, I don't make New Year's Resolutions. I work on the theory that if there's a part of you that needs improvement, you should just get on with it rather than waiting on some arbitrary date. Instead, I set "goals" and while I'm no better at keeping them at least the failure is spread out over the calendar year.

However, last year I went out on a limb by not only setting myself a series of goals, I posted them publicly where my (inevitable) failure to keep them would be displayed for all to see. So as 2008 grinds to a close, let's see how I did.

1. I will update The Gunsmoke Files frequently.
Yeah, that worked out well, didn't it? OK, this year I'll update it frequently, will that work?

2. I will go to the gym regularly.
Acksherly, I did go to the gym fairly regularly. Unfortunately, while "once or twice very few weeks" does qualify as "regularly", the Greek God on the inside me is still trapped by the skinny bugger on the outside. Although to be fair, I did bang myself up pretty badly towards the end of summer and that curtailed my iron-pumping for quite some time.

3. I will take more photographs.
I did carry my camera around a lot more this year than in the past, but I still need to take more photographs.

4. I will work on my drumming.
OK, this one I handled quite cleverly, by retiring from the pipe band. Ergo, no need to feel guilty about not practicing my drumming. Smart, huh?

5. I will climb a 14'er.
You know there was one day where I set off to climb a 14'er. But, I got away far too late in the morning, it took me longer to get there than I anticipated and by the time I got to the bit where the road was washed out 3 miles from the trail head, I realized there wasn't enough daylight left for me to get up and back down again in safety. I did manage a lot of fun hikes, but the highest I managed was around 13,000 feet. This goal too, is carried forward to 2009.

6. I will memorize some knots.
Hey, I actually did learn quite a few. But as I didn't have occasion to use them. I've forgotten them again. Sigh.

7. I will push on along the Colorado Trail.
Wayull, I ended up going to Britain this year and that turned out to be my 'big' vacation. Yes, I could have gone another time but something always seemed to come up. Such as the time I was all set to knock off a 33 mile segment over the course of a long weekend, and an early winter storm blew in the night before. Another one for 2009.

8. I will continue my policy of never watching a movie starring anybody who used to be on Saturday Night Live.
Woo hoo! I got one!

OK, well that was a pretty depressing exercise. You would think I could at least have managed a couple of them, but the only one for which I can claim any real success was number 8 and that involved not doing something. How crap is that?

Ah well, 2009 is a whole blank page.

Have a safe, prosperous and happy new year everybody!

A Walk in Winter

The Gunsmoke File is shamelessly repeated from January 11, 2005.

Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. My breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I have to face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.

Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.

The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.

The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.

A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.

I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.

I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.

In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.

“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”

Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.

The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.

Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.



This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Recycling posts again here folks. This one is a blast from the past from December 2004 but it's sort of appropriate because I was at the Georgetown Christmas Fair yesterday, although having retired from the pipe band earlier this year, this was my first time as a tourist.

As you’ve probably heard, Christmas is coming up shortly. This was always a challenging time when we lived in Phoenix because the temperatures were generally hovering around the 80 degree mark and although the locals tended to walk round in sweaters and ski jackets while bleating about the cold, it’s difficult to get in the Christmas spirit when the air-conditioning is grinding away. Christmas is supposed to be cold and ideally, snowy. Everybody knows that. Which is yet another reason why we’re happy to be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. There’s a very good chance it will be both.

Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.

In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.

Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.

So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?

The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.

I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.

As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.

Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”

Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.