Colorado's Burning

We had our first wild fire of the summer this week. A comparatively small one, only 10 acres or so, which started when a homeowner, with a permit, allowed a small bonfire to get away from him. Crews were on the scene within minutes and even despite the gusting winds, were able to contain the fire and bring it under control over the course of the afternoon. No big problem for the firefighters and if anything, a useful exercise for when the inevitable bigger fires come later in the summer.

However, what was disturbing about the Shawnee Fire, as it has come to be called, is that it was on March 22, almost 2 weeks earlier than 2002 when the beginning of April marked the start of the worst fire season in living memory. That was our first summer here and I got into the habit of keeping one Internet browser permanently open at work so I could keep an eye on the fire reports. There had been a couple of smallish fires even before I moved here in mid-April, but the first to really grab my attention, was the Snaking Road fire, which broke out about 8 miles as the crow flies from the house on which we’d just had an offer accepted the previous day. This seemed like something of a bad omen.

It was the realtor who gave me the news, calling my office to say “You’re gonna hear about this soon enough, but there’s a fire raging out of control up by your house.” I hadn’t lived here long enough to learn the geography of the area, and many of the landmarks mentioned in the reports were unfamiliar to me, however one thing was clear. That fire was disturbingly near and getting closer by the hour. No contracts had been signed and from a legal point of view, this house didn’t belong to us, but even so, I didn’t want to see it go up in flames. More pressing was the fact that my friends Kris and Mario, with whom I was lodging, lived equally close to the fire zone and were both out at work themselves. It wasn’t just their house that was in danger, they have animals that would need to be moved should an evacuation prove necessary. Time was of the essence.

My new employers were very understanding and didn’t bat an eyelid when I explained I needed to take off, but things got more difficult from that point. Highway 285, the only road home was undergoing some major construction at the time. Tailbacks were usual even on normal evenings but today it seemed, the entire state was trying to get up the hill. Not only was the traffic tailed back for miles, it wasn’t moving anywhere and the process of covering the 30 miles to Pine Junction took an age. It was a warm day and my little car overheated at one point so I spent an additional hour standing by the roadside until I was confident enough to ease back into the creeping traffic.

As it turned out, the Snaking Road fire did comparatively little damage. No lives were lost, each home was saved and other than a small storage shed, no property was harmed. The forest took a beating, but in comparison to many natural fires, even that wasn’t too severe. The cause of the fire turned out to be three high school boys who’d started it as a prank to get out of class. These future cancer curers had compounded their stupidity by boasting of it to their classmates. Naturally, because they were “only children”, no charges were ever filed. Hey, boys will be boys. And after all, what’s 2,300 acres of forest?

The starter of the next big fire, the Hayman, didn’t get off quite so light. Maybe because she was a grown woman, or perhaps because this particular conflagration destroyed forest over an area of several miles and required hundreds of people be evacuated from their homes, or perhaps just because she was a Forest Service employee and perhaps should have known better, she didn’t inspire anywhere near the same level of sympathy. Despite their being several dozen wild fires raging out of control around the state at the time; despite the parks and wilderness areas being closed to the public and despite fire bans being enforced to the point that even smoking out of doors on your own property was forbidden, this rocket scientist decided to build a fire in the woods, in order to burn some letters from her ex-husband. Although her case is under appeal, she’s facing some serious jail time.

If we didn’t own our house when the Snaking Road fire started, we did this time and in fact, had been living in it for a whole 10 days. Although the starting point was a good twenty miles away, the Hayman Fire grew at a phenomenal rate. One firefighter likened it to watching a tidal wave as it rolled up the hills and down the valleys. Some homeowners near the danger zone were given a few minutes to grab their most treasured possessions and clear out. I heard one heartbreaking tale of an 80-year old woman, who was given twenty minutes to grab what she could before being evacuated. She took her wedding dress. By the following morning that was the only possession she had in the world. Others weren’t so fortunate. By the time it was finally brought under control; the Hayman Fire had devoured 90,000 acres of forest. Thankfully, no lives were lost but many people lost their homes, countless numbers of livestock perished and who knows how much wildlife died.

We’ve learned a lot about fire mitigation since buying this house. About how the cedar shingles we have on our roof are pure tinder, about how the debris we have lying on the ground will simply fuel the fire at an astonishing rate and how the trees we have growing so close to the house will probably cause the fire department to drive straight past us and concentrate on the homes they might have a chance of saving. We were spoilt last year following a wet winter and the big hundred-year blizzard, which dumped feet of snow on the area. As a result, we didn’t take care of things the way we should. However, we can’t be so lazy this year and I see a lot of weekends work with a chainsaw.

As we’ve seen, you don’t mess around with wildfires and it’s going to be a long, hot summer.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling: Part 2

So last week, I wrote about the St. Patrick’s Day parade, in which I, along with the rest of the pipe band, marched through the streets of Denver. It was all great fun as these things generally are, but the main event, the real deal happened on Wednesday, St. Patrick’s Day itself. No parade this time, but a 10-hour session of playing, drinking and carousing as we were transported by tour bus around the city’s Irish bars to entertain the revelers. A number of the band members took the afternoon off work to attend and most, the following day too. St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawls aren’t known for their moderation.

First stop was the Cherry Cricket. Located in one of the classier areas of town, it’s a not so classy bar catering as far as I can tell, to people who drink for reasons other than pleasure. It was mid-afternoon when we started and, with most people still at work, things hadn’t really got going. That said; we saw our first fight of the evening, not long after we finished our opening set, when a drunk pushed his girlfriend over before being summarily ejected by the bouncers. She landed pretty hard and sobbed even harder, but even so, the last time I saw them was in the parking lot where she was comforting him, presumably on his misfortune. Things were shaping up.

Following our two sets at the Cricket, the plan was for us to be driven around the town, stopping to play in a number of different Irish bars over the course of the evening. Budweiser were our sponsors and as such, were providing not only the bus, but also light refreshments to keep us lubricated. Now being something of a beer snob, I had reservations about this, but free is free after all. For reasons that still aren’t exactly clear, no beer appeared on the bus until we’d completed a couple of circuits but at each venue, the two (apparently 12-year old) Budweiser reps were pushing beer on us almost as fast as we could drink it.

It was at the first halt I learned one of the hard lessons of a St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawl. It’s very, very difficult to get to the bathroom. To begin with there’s the fact that you’re wearing a very large, heavy and valuable yet delicate drum, and there’s simply nowhere to put it. Then consider that the bars are packed from wall to wall with revelers. Then add a couple of dozen musicians, many of them holding drums every bit as large, or larger than your own. It’s not easy. I solved the problem by selecting a rather large, semi-sober gent standing near me with his girlfriend. I simply volunteered him as my official drum holder, handed it over and set off to take care of business. I think he was quite flattered.

I have to admit, details get a little hazy when it comes to the remainder of the night. I’m not clear if the bus driver was taking us the scenic route in order to give us time to partake of the free beer between stops, or he had very little understanding of Denver’s one way system but I know for sure many of these bars were only a few hundred yards apart, yet it usually took us twenty minutes or more to get from one to the other.

The crowds for their part; were very appreciative. No matter whether we were interrupting their dinners, their pool games or just their drinking, each audience gave us a warm welcome and made it clear their St. Patrick’s Day was now, absolutely complete because the Isle of Mull & St Andrews Pipe Band had shown up to play them a few tunes. Although to be fair, most of them were pretty blitzed and would probably have applauded a couple of guys with combs and wax paper.

The evening ended back where we started, at the Cherry Cricket, as we all blearily made our separate ways home. Being something of a cop magnet while driving, I had no intention of negotiating the 50 miles of winding road that would lead me home. To that end, I’d folded down the back seats of my car, thrown in a sleeping bag and strategically selected a parking spot in the structure of the local mall. I was careful to select a site with a wall to one side, well away from the overhead electric lights and morning sunlight and where I would be undisturbed by any passing traffic. In short, I accounted for every eventuality, with the exception of mall security who banged on my window at 3:30am to insist I moved on. 2 hours of sleep had in no way allowed my body to clear out the alcohol, to say nothing of the fact that I was drop dead tired.

Earlier reconnaissance had revealed there was no other public parking within miles of my current location so there was nothing for it but to set off driving in the hope I could find a park or a church or anywhere I could pull over and sleep a little longer without disturbance. Predictably, the only cop who saw me, pulled me over. Clad as I was, in boxers and a T-shirt, barefoot and with no clear idea where in the car the rest of my clothes were, I was very happy to locate my sporran with my driver’s license, moments before he arrived at the window. I know I wasn’t speeding and don’t believe I was committing any other offence, so I’m not sure exactly why he pulled me over; he didn’t tell and I didn’t ask. But it must have been pretty obvious I was way too drunk to be driving and as he ran my license check, I was busy preparing my sob story. I’d had no intention of driving, (see my sleeping bag there); it was just those meanies at the mall, who wouldn’t let me sleep, blah, blah, blah. However, for reasons known only to him, he chose not to write me a ticket; simply handed back my license and sent me on my way. Ten minutes later, I was in a railway station parking lot, back under the covers and sleeping the sleep of the just.

Maybe we should just consider it the luck o’ the Irish.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling: Part 1

The city of Denver boasts the 4th largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the US, behind New York, Boston and Chicago. In it’s 42nd year, it’s a colorful display of music, marching and of course, free stuff, the parade winds through the LoDo district of downtown and takes between 3-4 hours to complete.

As you might expect there are a number of marching bands, step dancers, decorated floats and Star Wars characters. Well, perhaps you might not expect the last group, I know I didn’t, but they were there all the same, in full regalia complete with swords and light sabers. I’m not entirely clear on the link between St. Patrick and Star Wars, any more than I am about his connection to the Hari Krishners who were also in attendance, but nonetheless, they added a little fun to the proceedings.

Being a participant in the parade means you don’t get to see the parade itself so one of the most entertaining parts of the day was watching the other groups preparing. Everybody was out to have fun so there was a lot of camaraderie and joking around. Well, with the exception of a band of scary looking clowns who, standing off to one side, stared unsmiling at us while we warmed up. I don’t like clowns at the best of times and this gang were freaking me out but luckily, once the parade started, we didn’t see them again.

Of all the bands in the parade, there were none so musically talented, so physically attractive or so….big as the Isle of Mull and St Andrews Pipes and Drums, of which I happen to be a fledgling member. We were out in force this year with no less than eleven snare drums, far more than most bands have on their roster and even marching shoulder to shoulder, more than could comfortably fit across the street.

As a general rule, public performances require the band be turned out impeccably, with every uniform accessory complete, shoes polished and cap ribbons ironed. However, St. Paddy’s day is a little different and to the consternation of Big John, the Pipe Major, a number of rules were being broken. Many of the band members were wearing a little more jewelry than normal for example. Kelly green jewelry for the most part, usually made of plastic and often flashing and/or bearing the name of a beer company. A couple of the drummers were wearing green foam rubber Mohawks and there was one very shaggy, bright green wig. I myself sported a plastic derby hat, but after it blew off my head for the third time, I donated it to a kid in a stroller. Check off my good deed for the year.

The most important factor when participating in a parade is of course, “who are we near?” In most parades, bands are kept a reasonable distance apart, so they don’t interfere with each other’s playing. Sometimes you get lucky and are stationed near a group worth looking at, the parade queen or a troop of cheerleaders for example. However, this time out, for some sadistic reason, the organizers had placed us in front of the Colorado Italian American society. All very nice people I’m sure, but their contribution to the parade was to play songs of a not particularly Irish nature through a low-grade loudspeaker. “Danny Boy” I can sort of tolerate, particularly this day of all days, but “That’s amore” would be bad enough even on a quality sound system. This is why guns are still legal in this country.

Being a rookie, I was stationed next to Megan, the drum sergeant and leader of the corps, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I was playing, at least approximately, the same tune as everyone else. And there were brief periods when I accomplished that although marching and playing simultaneously is a skill I have sadly, yet to master. If someone were to ask me to chew gum too, I’m not entirely sure what would happen. Lets just say I was the only one marching in step, everyone else was somewhat “off”. However, being next to Megan gave me one advantage in that for the most part, I was able to keep in line with her, an all important factor when marching. The rest of our drum line had at times, a distinct “question mark” appearance, a flaw which infuriated Megan, especially in light of the number of drummers with marching band experience.

As if playing a drum, marching AND keeping in line weren’t hard enough, you also had to keep a close eye on where you were putting your feet. Not surprisingly there were a number of horses in the parade and naturally, they were doing as horses do. Several volunteers were equipped with shovels and buckets and they did a sterling job. However, some of the horses must have been eating what I can only imagine was a fiery hot chili because the sheer volume of output was phenomenal. Let’s just say it wasn’t something you’d want on your ghillies, and leave it at that.

Being blessed with longer legs than many, I did have the advantage of being able to keep up without a problem. This was a challenge for Alhana, our youngest and without a doubt, cutest band member. Her tenor drum is approximately half her height and just wearing it at practice is a feat of endurance for an eight year old. Lugging the thing around the Denver streets was almost more than she could manage. As she’s our unofficial mascot we all wanted her to do well but I in particular had a vested interest in making sure she stayed on her feet, as I was marching directly behind her. “If she goes down, you can walk over the top of her, but don’t hurt the drum”, was Megan’s direction on the subject. Megan can say that kind of thing, being Alhana’s mother. But she did just fine, even though she tended to drift out of formation and towards the end, required one of the other tenors to “tow’ her along so she could keep up.

I’d been warned the parade would take a couple of hours for us to complete, but in fact, we marched for barely more than an hour. Not too bad, I can handle that. The real test of endurance will come this Wednesday, St. Patrick’s day itself. Beginning in the afternoon, we’re being driven around Denver’s Irish bars, playing until the small hours of the morning. Should be fun. I’ll get back to you.

Driving in a Winter Wonderland

Living in Phoenix prepares one for many things. An eternity in Hell for example. With summer temperatures routinely topping 110 degrees, few Phoenicians will have much problem with the weather should the bad place really exist, and they end up being sent on the long trip downstairs. One thing for which Phoenix does not prepare you, is winter driving. In Phoenix, driving in winter means you switch off the air-conditioning and roll down the windows. After the sun has gone down that is.

In Colorado however, particularly in the mountains, the same rules do not apply. While it’s not the arctic north many people, particularly those in Phoenix, imagine it to be, Colorado does indeed have real winters, with the snow, freezing temperatures and idiot drivers that go along with the mix.

We figured out fairly early on that our little Nissan wouldn’t be able to handle mountain living in a winter climate. Day 4, I think it was, when a 6-inch snowfall left us totally stranded and unable to get off the property and onto the (already clear) road. We moved here at the tail end of winter, so other than a handful of snowfalls in the first few weeks, we had several months grace. However, before the next winter kicked in, we were the proud owners of a rugged looking, 1988 Toyota with 4-wheel drive. I’ve never owned a 4-wheel drive vehicle before, so this was something of an adventure.

Now I don’t hold a whole lot of respect for people who are convinced they need a 4-wheel drive vehicle the size of a small apartment, just because they have 2 children and need something “roomy”. I’ve seen too many of them sprawled across two and sometimes three spaces at the supermarket, or creeping along in an inch or two of snow, to realize that many of these people have no concept of what they’re actually buying or what’s required to drive them.

However Angus, for that is his name, is 15 years old and while he was probably quite a large vehicle when new, is by today’s standards, positively dinky. Plus, he regularly obtains a quite respectable 20 plus miles to the gallon, which affords me the moral superiority to continue thumbing my nose at the people driving 8 mile per gallon behemoths. Nothing like a clear conscience when you’re looking for reasons to feel superior.

Other than playing around in the driveway however, it was a little while before I got to use the 4-wheel drive in anger. Unlike today’s vehicles, switching to 4-wheel drive in Angus requires the driver to get out and manually turn a dial on each of the front wheels. It’s a straightforward enough process, if not the pleasantest task when the weather’s nasty. There are times when it’s tempting to drive just that little but further in 2-wheel drive, perhaps in the vain hope you’ll make it all the way home. However, the adrenaline rush experienced with an unscheduled detour towards a steep drop off at the edge of the road is generally sufficient incentive to get out and take care of things.

Commuting as I do, for around a hundred miles a day, I’ve had quite a bit of experience of winter driving since then, and one thing I’ve learned is that while 4-wheel drive is a magical tool, it’s not the cure all some people think. Hit a patch of ice and it really doesn’t matter whether you have 4 wheels or more, there’s still a good chance you’ll end up spinning. Curiously, this simple fact eludes many other mountain residents who seem to be under the impression their $40,000, leather seated, VCR equipped people movers will handle anything ol’ Ma Nature can throw at it. True enough, the fact that many of them weigh more than your average office building does keep them on the road, but if you check the vehicles sitting on their sides in ditches during any winter storm, a surprisingly refreshing number of them are SUVs. As a broad rule, people in little cars tend to have a slightly better grasp of the laws of physics.

That said; I’ve had a handful of exciting moments myself. The first, and probably the most dramatic was on one of the first frosty nights of early winter. Not too far from home we have a short downhill stretch with a bend at the bottom. Forgetting momentarily that the normal rules of driving don’t apply on ice, I did what I always do and tapped the brakes to control my speed before the corner. You know what’s coming next of course. In a moment, I was sliding at a ninety-degree angle to the road while heading, at an ever increasing rate of knots, towards a steep banking which dropped some twenty feet towards a grove of trees. I’d probably have screamed if I’d only had the time, but in fact I was too busy wrestling with the steering wheel. I must have done something right because after about a year; I had corrected my skid towards the banking and was instead, sliding the other way, directly into the path of a large pick up truck. More wrestling ensued and soon I was headed back towards the banking once more. Becoming more than a little frustrated by this time, I continued spinning the wheel, pulled out of the latest slide and headed back, across the road again. I finally came to rest, on the wrong side of the road, facing back in the direction from where I’d originally come and sweating in a way I hadn’t since leaving warmer climes. In care you’re wondering, the golden rule of driving on ice is; you don’t touch the brakes.

Of course most of the time, winter driving involves nothing more dramatic than sitting in interminable lines while the traffic inches along painfully slowly. It’s in these conditions I have to admit a luxury vehicle would be an advantage. Angus has all the basic pre-requisites, in that he’s equipped with seats, windows and a roof. But it’s true, there are times when it would be very nice to take advantage of a heater with settings somewhere between freezing and searing-your-eyeballs. A decent sound system would be good too. Actually, any sound system would be good. I currently have a cassette tape jammed in mine, trapping me in the hell that is rush hour radio, but that’s another conversation.

However, for all his quirks, he’s chugged his way through everything Colorado has thrown at him and never let me down yet. This is despite clocking up a respectable 200,000 miles this week. I think I’ll keep him for a bit yet.

There's no place like home

We went down into the big city last night to have dinner with our friends Deb & Rodger. While I'm a confirmed mountain dweller and consider the suburbs to be a living death, I would love to be rich enough to own a place in lower downtown Denver, affectionately known as LoDo, which is where they have their loft. Not so very long ago this was an area of derelict warehouses, dirty and dangerous and only frequented by bums, muggers and others who probably had no idea how they ended up there.

Then the city of Denver embarked on a multi-million dollar renovation plan and over the course of about a decade, revitalized the LoDo area in a manner, which many other cities have attempted, but few have managed so successfully. Without, in most cases, losing the architectural charm of the original buildings, the warehouses and factories have been transformed into brewpubs, shops, restaurants and upscale loft developments. I used to work in LoDo, in a converted gunpowder factory, which oozed with charm. Now, as I sit in my desk in a soulless modern building out in the wastelands, I miss it terribly.

Rodger purchased his first loft in the early days of the revitalization. The building in which they now live was originally a candy factory and was only the second development in the scheme. After marrying Deb, they purchased the unit next door, at a cost approximately 10 times higher than the first. Being blessed with exquisite taste, and no noticeable shortage in the budget, they have decorated their living space in a style, which wouldn't be out of place in any glossy home décor magazine.

Dear Wife had a hair appointment downtown during the afternoon so we decided to make a day of it and set off down a little after lunchtime. After dropping her off and parking the car, I set off for a stroll around the streets so familiar to me after 18 months as a LoDo office worker. Even on a cold winter's afternoon, there is a certain buzz to the streets of downtown Denver you don't find in too many US cities, at least not in the west. The store windows were bright, the sidewalks were busy and the piped classical music on Larimer Street added to an atmosphere that would have been almost suitable for Christmas if the timing hadn’t been all wrong. Denver is also one of those cities where the pedestrian is wise to remember to look up, because the architecture is often just, if not more interesting above street level.

Once her coiffure was complete, we still had a couple of hours to spare so found our way to one of the many downtown bars and surrounded ourselves by the beautiful people of LoDo. Being two of the less beautiful people, this isn't our normal environment but tonight, dressed in our best duds, removed from the plastic dry cleaners bags especially for the occasion, we blended like the sophisticated society lizards we are. A couple of martinis always make me feel good, particularly on an empty stomach so it was in a mellow and relaxed mood we arrived at Deb & Rodger's loft.

With its hardwood floors and exposed brick walls, industrial piped central heating and futuristic lines; it would be easy for the loft to appear cold and clinical. However, such is the skill, with which they've decorated, it oozes warmth and comfort. Every item of furniture, electrical equipment and decorative accessory has been carefully selected and positioned for maximum effect and the overall ambience is one of classic style and elegance.

Even the view out of the windows is attractive. Particularly in the evening, the downtown lights sparkle and glow with an intensity that simply pulses with energy. The street noise is audible, but not to the point of being disturbing. And the Bose speakers can easily drown out the traffic, even when an emergency vehicle is passing with its sirens blaring.

In contrast to me, Deb is a city inhabitant at heart, and proud of it. She loves being surrounded by buildings, being close to her neighbors and having a wealth of restaurants and bars on her doorstep. In the early days following our move, when we were beset with one problem after another, from wildfires to a collapsed well, to an infestation of squirrels, she regularly reminded me of the perils of rural living. "Are you sure you want to live in the mountains?" She would ask. However, when they visited us a few months ago, and we took her out for a walk with the dogs, even she had to admit the peace and tranquility of our little slice of heaven, was an intoxicating mix.

The party over, we headed out into the night and left the city for the 50-mile haul up the hill. Late February snow was coating the road and hitting the windshield straight on, making the drive long and tiring. My commute forces me to rise early so midnight is way past my usual bedtime. We rarely broke 40 mph and by the time we finally pulled into the driveway, it was well after 1 am and I could think of little but falling into bed. Pulling open the door, I walked into our own familiar living room. Framed with dark wood, and inexpensive furnishings, covered with a fine layer of dog hair and smelling faintly of pee, our house will never grace the cover of any fine living journal. However, it's our home, we love it and there's no denying; it's a comfortable place to come home to.

We have no restaurants on our doorstep and our nearest bar is 9 miles away. The second nearest is 10 miles, in the opposite direction. We drive for twenty minute to reach our nearest supermarket and my office is over an hour away, without traffic. There are no nightclubs, chic stores or sports stadiums. If ever we were to need the emergency services it would take them at least fifteen minutes to get here, and far longer to transport us to the nearest hospital.

We do however; have deer, and elk, and squirrels, and foxes. And at night, instead of the hum of traffic, we get the wind whistling through the trees. We're so close to the stars, it's like you could almost touch them. So while the downtown lofts are beautiful, this is where I belong.

Just click your heels and say three times "There's no place like home".