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?

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.

Carry on Camping - Part 1

One of the things which struck me most about marriage was how long it took to pack for a camping trip. Back in my single days I could throw everything I needed into a backpack and be on my way in 10-15 minutes. Drop a wife into the mix and it now takes me that long to carry the things to the front door. I pack only the things I can't possibly do without. Dear Wife packs everything we might conceivably find a use for.

Pete has not only a (charming) wife, Mary, but two kids as well and as I was tagging along on this trip, making everything fit into his truck was something of a Chinese Puzzle. Bikes, a canoe, food and bag after bag after bag - it took a fair bit of head scratching and ingenuity, but somehow we managed it and by late morning we were on our way.

I haven't been to Coniston in many years, although once upon a time I spent every summer weekend here, windsurfing. By that I mean, sitting on the beach, drinking beer and gossiping, and every now and then claiming I would go out "once the wind picked up a bit." It's still as breathtakingly pretty as ever though and the homesickness emotions were on overdrive.

I generally make a point to avoid public campsites, particularly on holiday weekends, and it was with a little apprehension that I noticed just how crowded this one was. There was very little room between the tents and as every group seemed to have a dozen or more kids, I was wondering how I was going to cope with 3 days of this. But you know what? It was great. Everyone was incredibly friendly and as we were meeting up with a group whom Pete & Mary have camped with before; there was a wonderfully social atmosphere.


Putting up the family's trailer tent was an exercise in ingenuity, but I'm sleeping in Pete's (very) old hike tent, which was up in moments. Windbreaks were hammered into the ground, bikes, canoes and other assorted toys were unloaded from the truck and the whole thing brought back long lost memories of caravan trips back in my own childhood. And surprisingly positive memories too. The plastic plates, the wind blowing everything off the table, the hike to the spigot at the far end of the campsite to fetch water…ah, happy days.

Pete had only just bought his canoe and it had yet to take its maiden voyage so I was press-ganged into service as front paddler. Despite the sunshine, the wind was truly ferocious and even with two little boys and a dog in the bottom for ballast, it was hard going. Every few minutes the bow (for all you landlubbers, that's the front) would start to swing, then the wind would catch it and push it further around while Pete and I dug frantically into the water in attempt to pull her back on course. I don't know about the captain, but the first mate was knackered.

Finally, we hove to at the snack bar and treated ourselves to an ice cream to stave off scurvy. Should be OK on the way back we thought, the wind will be behind us. Wrong again, it was just as hard paddling this way because now it was the stern (back end) that wanted to pull round sideways. We learned later that we'd been doing it all wrong of course, but hey, where's the fun of being intrepid explorers if you aren't figuring this stuff out for yourself.

Open fires weren't allowed on the campsite, but Pete the engineer had crafted an enclosed brazier type thing out of the drum from an old washing machine. With its tripod legs, it had room for plenty of wood and gave off a surprising amount of heat. It seemed like the entire campsite was congregated around it, but as everyone was sharing food, and beer, it was one heckuva party.

The last time I slept in a tent on a public campground, I was kept awake by deafening country music and the sounds of rednecks partying. Given how crowded this campsite was, I wasn't sure how loud it would be tonight. But refreshingly, by 10 pm or so, the place was blissfully peaceful and soon, I was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Although being half-sozzled by the time I crawled into my sleeping bag no doubt helped.

Striding Edge

Hellvellyn isn’t a lofty peak. At 3,117 feet (950 meters) above sea level, it isn’t even the highest in the English Lakes. When I walk up my stairs at home, I’m climbing to a height almost three times as high and Mt. Evans, visible from my back yard and topping out at 14,240 feet (4,340 meters) positively dwarfs it.

So you get the point, it’s not exactly Everest we’re talking about here. Then what brings hikers to Hellvellyn by the thousand, every single year? That would be the view from the top. Located as it is, on the eastern side of the breathtakingly pretty corner of England that is the Lake District, the summit vista looks out across the smaller hills, over the lake known as Ullswater (itself no slouch in the prettiness stakes), and out to the plains of Yorkshire. On the "Wow!" factor, it’s way up there.

Every few years the British summer weather cooperates enough to provide a clear night sky on Midsummer’s Eve and scores of people trek to the top in order to enjoy the (very) early morning sunrise. I did it three times in my life; once as a kid with my parents, the second two fueled by a gallon or so of Guinness from the pub prior to setting out. The sunrise turns the mountains from black to purple, while Ullswater glints like a pool of mercury in the foreground. Each time it was magical and if the person, who has the photographs I took the last time, and subsequently lost, is reading this, I’d very much like them back.

Back when I lived in the Lakes, I covered many, although not all of the peaks. In addition to the night-time jaunts, I tackled Hellvellyn several times during daylight hours and enjoyed each one but one thing I never attempted, was the route known as “Striding Edge”. So when Steve suggested it during my visit, I jumped at the chance. Graeme decided to tag along too and as the three of us spent a good chunk of our formative years in each others’ company; it was just like old times.

Striding Edge didn’t get its name because one can "stride" along it. One would be very ill advised to do so, even if one were physically capable, which one is almost certainly not. No, the term "Striding" in this sense, means "To Stand Astride". In other words, you can put one foot on each side of the knife-edge ridge. What makes Striding Edge different from other ridgeline paths is not only is it a very rocky scramble, but that if you were to stand upon it, and take a good look around, you would see nothing but fresh air.

The ground sweeps away dramatically on both sides and as the path itself is something of a hand over hand scramble, this is not a good hike for a windy day, or for someone afraid of heights, or open spaces, or anyone with balance issues. Nonetheless, each year several nutmegs give it a go and the mountain rescue teams are used to scraping people off the rocks below.

It wasn’t at all windy when we set off from the town of Glenridding, around mid-morning. The day was warm and a shade muggy, which made me feel ever so glad I’d accidentally left my shorts up in Scotland ad was tackling the hike in jeans. I was also a shade concerned at how hard I was blowing during the early stages. What’s all this about living at altitude and reaping the benefits when descending to lower elevation? I consoled myself with the thought that I had got pretty hammered while watching the European Championship (real football) in the pub the night before and that once I sweated the stale beer out of my pores, all would be well.

And indeed it was. By the time we’d stopped for the first bite of our packed lunches and had admired the view for the umpteenth time, I was raring to go. Striding Edge doesn’t arrive until you’re tantalizingly close to the top and when you see it for the first time, it’s with a "Crap, is that where we’re going?" feeling.

"Scary is good" said Steve as a rejoinder to Graeme’s and my whining, uhm astute observations. And that’s true enough – in the right circumstances. On a roller coaster perhaps, or during a horror movie. I just didn’t happen to think that balanced on a rock with nothing but hundreds of feet down on either side was not the right circumstances and each time my sweaty jeans clung to my leg and prevented me from gaining the inch or so I needed to complete the step onto the next rock, I had reason to reflect on this.

Steve on the other hand, was more concerned about his wee dog, scampering along excitedly on the end of its lead. "My wife doesn’t care about me" he explained, "But if I lose the dog, I might as well not go home." Graeme was something of a concern too, being considerably older than Steve and I. (Almost a year older than me and several weeks ahead of Steve) but the decrepit old codger seemed to be doing OK.

It didn’t help that we got stuck in a traffic jam of sorts, behind two ladies who really had no business being up there in the first place. While it was sensible tactics to consider foot placement in advance of each step, this pair were deliberating to a level that would make a Bedouin camel trader weep. I’m not known for my patience at the best of times and I’d already considered a hundred ways to "accidentally" push them down one side or the other but, aware that the two guys watching from up ahead were not only with them, but both bigger than me, I chose not to. See me? See karma points?

Finally, we were able to wiggle past them and in a surprisingly short time were standing atop the summit. A couple of dozen other people were up here already but as most of them had come up the easy way from the west side (hah!), they were of no concern to us. It was cool up here, causing sweatshirts and woolly pullys to be removed from the daypacks and we had to find some shelter from the wind before finishing lunch. And the haze in the valleys meant the view wasn’t quite as crisp as we’d hoped. But it was still pretty darn good for all that.

By the time Midsummer's Eve rolled around this year, I was firmly ensconced back in the States. Views to the east of here look out over the city, and rather than the plains of Yorkshire in the distance, we have the prairie stretching all the way to the Great Lakes, a thousand miles away. I didn't climb a hilltop this year but I did spend some time reflecting on my previous night hikes up Hellvellyn. I wonder if I'll ever do that again.

One thing's for sure though - if I do climb it in the dark, it won't be up Striding Edge.