They say the average length of time people last in the Rocky Mountain Foothills is 3 years. Or more precisely, 3 winters. After that the cold, and the harsh driving conditions, and the distance from the city (and basic amenities) grinds most people down and they scurry off back to the comfort of Denver. We’ve lasted 6 winters so far so yay us. That said, if I didn’t have the luxury of working from home, I think the novelty of that commute would long since have worn off and more than likely, I’d at least be day-dreaming about living nearer to the office.
However, our feat of endurance pales in comparison with that of our friends Paul & Megan. Not only have they been in the mountains for 9 years, they’ve spent those in St. Mary’s Glacier, at around 11,000 feet (3,350 meters), which for those of you keeping track, is more than 2 miles above sea-level. And it’s an area infamous for its harsh winters. Summer comes late and leaves early in St. Mary’s Glacier and Paul, who does commute to Denver every day has long been used to rising at 5am and spending an hour or more clearing snow each morning, just to get out of his driveway. Life isn’t easy up there.
I had a chance to reflect on this on Saturday morning as I turned off I-70 near Idaho Springs and began the grinding climb up into the sky. The moment I left the freeway, the sunshine I’d enjoyed since leaving home disappeared behind the clouds. Soon after, rain began to fall and before long, this turned to snow. The good news was; I was making this trip for (probably) the last time. Because Paul and Megan finally decided to call it quits and head down the hill to the relatively tropical climate of Dumont, just off I-70.
When we moved into our house, our well ran out of water while we were still unpacking. With Paul and Megan, it was the other way round. Their water went out 2 days before the move. And their phone was disconnected. Oh, and their power was cut off 3 days early as well. Did I mention how cold it is up there right now? So by the time their assorted friends and relatives rolled up to assist with the move, nerves were more than a bit frayed and things were not running to schedule. Boxes were stacked everywhere, and the U-Haul was parked in the drive, but it was clear there was a ton of work to be done.
So we opened the cooler, sank a breakfast beer and caught up on the gossip. I would have been quite happy doing this all day, but that doesn’t get the baby’s bonnet bought now does it? We all had our assigned tasks and (eventually) fell to them with a will. Beep turned out to be an expert with the moving dolly and was soon trundling back and forth with ever larger pieces of furniture. Sean had a gift for packing the truck in the most efficient manner possible. 13-year old Alhana who had somehow managed to persuade a school friend to show up and help, was given the job of emptying the fridge (rather her than me; there was some seriously scary stuff in there). 5-year old Clara wandered around looking cute and getting in the way and very pregnant Lauren kept the couch warm until we had to move it. Paul, Patrick and I traipsed back and forth with boxes and assorted bits of furniture, grunting, swearing and despite the snow, sweating all the while.
Megan? She hyper-ventilated a lot and worried about the breakable stuff.
It’s amazing how much crap you can collect over the course of 9 years. I know; we left more stuff at our Phoenix house than Megan and Paul were taking with them, and yet, the truck began to fill at an alarming rate. Cars were pressed into service for the more fragile pieces but still it came. Reluctantly (yeah, right) we agreed the piano would have to wait for another day, along with a few other bits and pieces, so finally, the truck door was rolled down.
Of course, if you’ve ever moved house you’ll know that loading the truck is but just one step. All this stuff has to come back off at the other end. The good news was, the snow stopped and the temperature rose by 10 degrees F as we drove down the hill. Bad news was, the afternoon was wearing on and it gets dark early at this time of year. Oh, and we were all just about banjoed already.
But the new house is bright and roomy and for the moment, clean, without the maze of steps, and corners, sloping floors and low ceilings that had plagued us on the way out. That’s not entirely true, there were steps and lots of them but for the most part, they were wider than the ones we’d left behind giving a bit more room for maneuver. Unfortunately, this didn’t make the furniture any lighter. And curiously, all the really heavy stuff had to go to the top floor. I haven’t sworn this much since the last time I watched Scotland play football.
Darkness fell long before we were done and the last couple of thousand trips were done by instinct and muscle memory. My poor, weedy biceps were screaming for the last hour or so and on a couple of occasions I had to put down the load, take a breath then start over. But at long last the back of the truck appeared and with it, a bottle of wine stashed there earlier. We couldn’t find the corkscrew of course, which led to a discussion of the best way to break the neck of a wine bottle without leaving shards of glass in the vino, but finally we were all parked on the couch like so many boneless chickens and toasting our friends in their new home.
I’m going to have to go back again of course. In the dark I missed a large pottery vase sitting on the passenger side floor of my car. But I don’t mind really. Paul and Megan are good friends and I always enjoy their company.
Plus, I no longer have to traipse up that bloody hill. It’s all good.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Full Yellow Jacket
It looks as though the hummingbirds are gone for the year. I have half a dozen feeders scattered around the property and they each draw a fair amount of attention each summer. The most active appears to be the one hanging outside my office window and I get a lot of pleasure from watching their antics while I’m supposed to be working. But, I haven’t seen any visitors for the last couple of weeks and it would appear they’re all on their way down to Mexico to hang out on the beach for the winter. When I get done here, I’ll take down the feeders, give them a good wash; and then store them away till next year.
So I wonder then, if I can take down the yellow-jacket trap. Other than a herd of wasps, which we found living in our ceiling not long after we moved in, we haven’t been too bothered by these pests. Until this year, that is. As far as I’m aware nothing changed in the sugar/water mix I make up for the hummingbird feeders, so I have no idea why the yellow-jackets appeared all of a sudden. Nor have I an explanation of why they seemed to be fixated on the feeder by my office window, but couldn’t care less about the others. If there’s a nest close by, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.
But they’re here all right, swarming by the dozens. Some days there were so many of them buzzing around that the poor hummingbirds couldn’t even get close. Now as I’ve said before, I’m an animal lover, a regular St. Francis of Assisi, that’s me. However, once a critter chooses to inflict pain on me, then all bets are off. If a shark or a mountain lion happens to be noshing on my leg, then I won’t hesitate to poke it with my Swiss Army Knife™ while yelling "I say there, do stop that!" or something similar until it’s no longer an issue. Likewise, when mosquitoes try to bleed me white, as oft they have done, then I suffer no pangs of guilt when I squish the little buggers. In fact, I’ve squished many of them in my time, but nowhere near as many as have bitten me and I’ll happily devote my life to redressing that imbalance.
I have a beautiful back yard and at this time of year, there are few pleasures to equal sitting outside with a beer, or a coffee and a book, enjoying the sound of the breeze in the pines. Everybody knows food tastes better outdoors but nobody enjoys swatting at wasps with one hand while holding a fork in the other. And nobody enjoys being stung by the little buggers either; at least I don’t. The wasps we have over here in the Yooessuvay aren’t quite as vicious as their European cousins, but I’ve long been allergic to pain and have no desire to experience it unless absolutely necessary.
So, a yellow-jacket trap was required. Sure, you can go to the hardware store and purchase a pre-made plastic cage contraption, with a cotton swab to be soaked in wasp bait and a special removable base for hygienic disposal of the carcasses. But not only are they ridiculously expensive for what they are, they don’t work. I know, I’ve tried them. So, Backwoodsman Frontier Guy that I am; I made my own.
Yeah, yeah I know…you’ve read the Gunsmoke Files before and know that Mr. Fixit here can’t make anything more complicated than a sandwich without hurting himself but wasp traps are so simple, even I can do it. Here’s the procedure, write this down.
1. Take a clean empty jar, such as might have been used for pickles or jam or something.
2. Whack a hole in the lid with a nail, and be sure to leave the inside lip rough and raggedy. Use pliers to exaggerate this if necessary.
3. Half fill the jar with a mixture of water and dissolved sugar.
4. Put the jar where the wasps will find it.
People tell me you shouldn’t set it near a picnic table or where kids might play or any place to which you don’t wish to attract wasps, but in my experience, that’s where the wasps will be whether you wish it or not so you might as well put the trap there. Apparently, the trick is to set the trap early in the year, capture the queen and then it’s checkmate in no-time. I didn’t do that because they didn’t show up until mid-August, but I’ll be ready for next year.
The first day saw an impressive haul of 23 yellow-jackets. The day after, another 18. If I keep this up, I thought, I’ll clear out the whole neighborhood pretty soon. 3 weeks on, and I think I’ve played a major part in driving the species to extinction. 178 so far, with another 8 or 9 floating in the jar as I speak. Who knows how many I would have caught if I’d placed multiple traps around the yard, but this all from one 12oz pickle jar hanging outside my window. Certainly, the novelty of cleaning it out has long since worn off, but still they come.
Maybe once I take down the hummingbird feeders, the wasps will sod off too. Or maybe the won’t. Either way, I can sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my bit to stop them harassing the hummingbirds. My wasp corpse collection is testament to that.
Now, does anyone know a taxidermist that specializes in small animals?
So I wonder then, if I can take down the yellow-jacket trap. Other than a herd of wasps, which we found living in our ceiling not long after we moved in, we haven’t been too bothered by these pests. Until this year, that is. As far as I’m aware nothing changed in the sugar/water mix I make up for the hummingbird feeders, so I have no idea why the yellow-jackets appeared all of a sudden. Nor have I an explanation of why they seemed to be fixated on the feeder by my office window, but couldn’t care less about the others. If there’s a nest close by, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.
But they’re here all right, swarming by the dozens. Some days there were so many of them buzzing around that the poor hummingbirds couldn’t even get close. Now as I’ve said before, I’m an animal lover, a regular St. Francis of Assisi, that’s me. However, once a critter chooses to inflict pain on me, then all bets are off. If a shark or a mountain lion happens to be noshing on my leg, then I won’t hesitate to poke it with my Swiss Army Knife™ while yelling "I say there, do stop that!" or something similar until it’s no longer an issue. Likewise, when mosquitoes try to bleed me white, as oft they have done, then I suffer no pangs of guilt when I squish the little buggers. In fact, I’ve squished many of them in my time, but nowhere near as many as have bitten me and I’ll happily devote my life to redressing that imbalance.
I have a beautiful back yard and at this time of year, there are few pleasures to equal sitting outside with a beer, or a coffee and a book, enjoying the sound of the breeze in the pines. Everybody knows food tastes better outdoors but nobody enjoys swatting at wasps with one hand while holding a fork in the other. And nobody enjoys being stung by the little buggers either; at least I don’t. The wasps we have over here in the Yooessuvay aren’t quite as vicious as their European cousins, but I’ve long been allergic to pain and have no desire to experience it unless absolutely necessary.
So, a yellow-jacket trap was required. Sure, you can go to the hardware store and purchase a pre-made plastic cage contraption, with a cotton swab to be soaked in wasp bait and a special removable base for hygienic disposal of the carcasses. But not only are they ridiculously expensive for what they are, they don’t work. I know, I’ve tried them. So, Backwoodsman Frontier Guy that I am; I made my own.
Yeah, yeah I know…you’ve read the Gunsmoke Files before and know that Mr. Fixit here can’t make anything more complicated than a sandwich without hurting himself but wasp traps are so simple, even I can do it. Here’s the procedure, write this down.
1. Take a clean empty jar, such as might have been used for pickles or jam or something.
2. Whack a hole in the lid with a nail, and be sure to leave the inside lip rough and raggedy. Use pliers to exaggerate this if necessary.
3. Half fill the jar with a mixture of water and dissolved sugar.
4. Put the jar where the wasps will find it.
People tell me you shouldn’t set it near a picnic table or where kids might play or any place to which you don’t wish to attract wasps, but in my experience, that’s where the wasps will be whether you wish it or not so you might as well put the trap there. Apparently, the trick is to set the trap early in the year, capture the queen and then it’s checkmate in no-time. I didn’t do that because they didn’t show up until mid-August, but I’ll be ready for next year.
The first day saw an impressive haul of 23 yellow-jackets. The day after, another 18. If I keep this up, I thought, I’ll clear out the whole neighborhood pretty soon. 3 weeks on, and I think I’ve played a major part in driving the species to extinction. 178 so far, with another 8 or 9 floating in the jar as I speak. Who knows how many I would have caught if I’d placed multiple traps around the yard, but this all from one 12oz pickle jar hanging outside my window. Certainly, the novelty of cleaning it out has long since worn off, but still they come.
Maybe once I take down the hummingbird feeders, the wasps will sod off too. Or maybe the won’t. Either way, I can sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my bit to stop them harassing the hummingbirds. My wasp corpse collection is testament to that.
Now, does anyone know a taxidermist that specializes in small animals?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Spare Ribs
Six weeks should be enough, right? I mean, my ribs aren’t broken or anything. They aren’t even bruised. So surely by now, six weeks after I rode my bike through that bush, I should be able to pick up something heavier than a beer bottle without grimacing in pain.
Apparently not.
It didn’t even seem that bad a wipe-out when it happened. I was at the back of the pack (as usual) while we hurtled along a narrow, fast and windy, but not particularly steep downhill stretch. The adrenaline was pumping, the trees were whizzing by and I was experiencing the exhilaration that comes with riding at the very limit of ones abilities. A couple of quick pedal strokes to keep up the momentum and my left foot caught on something by the trail side. A rock, a root, maybe just the slope of the ground, who knows. Either way, it was enough to bounce me a foot to the right, off the trail and straight for that damn bush.
On hindsight, this was probably the best place on the whole ride to stage a crash. Pretty much, anywhere else and I would have gone straight into a tree, or a rock, or over the edge of steep drop to who knows where. So on balance, I was happy it was a bush although it didn’t seem all that positive at the time. I went through it, over it and down the far side of it with a wallop that knocked the wind right out of me.
It didn’t take long to establish I hadn’t done any major harm to myself and in moments I was addressing the real concern – my bike. I’ll heal eventually, but bike parts are expensive. Not to worry though, my bike too appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed and apart from a rather dramatic scar along her chain stay, was ready to ride before I was.
I was still sucking air when the others came back up the trail to see what was keeping me. No worries though, and while the ache in my ribs foretold discomfort ahead, for a dramatic prang like this one, I’d got away fairly light. Take it easy for a few days, maybe pop a painkiller or two in the morning, and I’ll see you next week lads.
Except as I said, that was six weeks ago and other than a few tentative cruises along dirt roads, I haven’t been out on my bike since. I’m no longer vacuuming down the ibuprofen like I was in the beginning and some days I don’t need to take anything at all. But if I didn’t sleep well, or if I’ve done anything even remotely physical with my upper body, I’m reaching for the little magic bottle like any regular street junkie.
But what really ticks me off is that I worked bloody hard this year to get into a state of passable fitness. Sure I was blowing hard on the uphills, and on the bigger ones I still had to stop to catch my breath before continuing. But at least this summer I was making it to the top eventually. Now as a result of this layoff, my leg muscles have reverted to their pre-summer, Wonderbread-like consistency and as there are only so many more weeks of snow free riding left before next winter kicks in, I’m not sure how much more saddle-time I’ll be able to get in.
The 2012 London Olympics are only 4 years away, right around my 50th birthday so if I’m going to give fellow Scot, Chris Hoy, a race worth remembering, I’ll need to get some training in.
So if anybody knows a way to make bruised ribs heal more quickly, please let me know.
Apparently not.
It didn’t even seem that bad a wipe-out when it happened. I was at the back of the pack (as usual) while we hurtled along a narrow, fast and windy, but not particularly steep downhill stretch. The adrenaline was pumping, the trees were whizzing by and I was experiencing the exhilaration that comes with riding at the very limit of ones abilities. A couple of quick pedal strokes to keep up the momentum and my left foot caught on something by the trail side. A rock, a root, maybe just the slope of the ground, who knows. Either way, it was enough to bounce me a foot to the right, off the trail and straight for that damn bush.
On hindsight, this was probably the best place on the whole ride to stage a crash. Pretty much, anywhere else and I would have gone straight into a tree, or a rock, or over the edge of steep drop to who knows where. So on balance, I was happy it was a bush although it didn’t seem all that positive at the time. I went through it, over it and down the far side of it with a wallop that knocked the wind right out of me.
It didn’t take long to establish I hadn’t done any major harm to myself and in moments I was addressing the real concern – my bike. I’ll heal eventually, but bike parts are expensive. Not to worry though, my bike too appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed and apart from a rather dramatic scar along her chain stay, was ready to ride before I was.
I was still sucking air when the others came back up the trail to see what was keeping me. No worries though, and while the ache in my ribs foretold discomfort ahead, for a dramatic prang like this one, I’d got away fairly light. Take it easy for a few days, maybe pop a painkiller or two in the morning, and I’ll see you next week lads.
Except as I said, that was six weeks ago and other than a few tentative cruises along dirt roads, I haven’t been out on my bike since. I’m no longer vacuuming down the ibuprofen like I was in the beginning and some days I don’t need to take anything at all. But if I didn’t sleep well, or if I’ve done anything even remotely physical with my upper body, I’m reaching for the little magic bottle like any regular street junkie.
But what really ticks me off is that I worked bloody hard this year to get into a state of passable fitness. Sure I was blowing hard on the uphills, and on the bigger ones I still had to stop to catch my breath before continuing. But at least this summer I was making it to the top eventually. Now as a result of this layoff, my leg muscles have reverted to their pre-summer, Wonderbread-like consistency and as there are only so many more weeks of snow free riding left before next winter kicks in, I’m not sure how much more saddle-time I’ll be able to get in.
The 2012 London Olympics are only 4 years away, right around my 50th birthday so if I’m going to give fellow Scot, Chris Hoy, a race worth remembering, I’ll need to get some training in.
So if anybody knows a way to make bruised ribs heal more quickly, please let me know.
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