OCCUPY HENHOUSE!!!

OCCUPY HENHOUSE.

I have two words for you this Christmas; chicken soup! As this Christmas season rapidly approaches the anticipated morning I awake and stumble to the tree, only to discover that crusty old curmudgeon in the red suit, Saint Nick, has once again failed to bring me anything on the list I'd carefully prepared and sent him back in March, I feel the need right now for some chicken soup. No, it isn't because I'm sick or under the weather, even though it's been colder than a corpse in the Rogue River, and the wind has been blowing harder than Chinese algebra for the last month.


 
No, but among other things, what's bothering me is Cathy's damn rooster. Now, I know rooster's "cock-a-doodle-do", and I realize they perform this ritual every morning. I'm okay with that. In fact, I'm fine with it for no other reason than along with my singing mules, it annoys my neighbor, Lilburn Merriwether so much; especially when they all begin singing in concert sounding much like a hillbilly band in a tin barn. But I ask you; "Four in the morning?"


 
At any rate, last night I stayed up late, thinking. (I know that's a difficult concept for some to believe, but it's true.) I was contemplating whether or not Santa would bring me anything I'd requested. After all, his track record for bringing me anything other than socks, thermal underwear, or sweaters uglier than a bucketful of armpits, or anything else I could use was poor at best. In fact, aside from that Fort Apache set when I was five, he's been down-right dismal every since.


 
I have been good this year. Well, pretty good. What I mean is; I've tried to be good, kinda. Regardless, I felt I was entitled to my list of requests from Santa. After all, he's pretty much got an unlimited budget, and me, not so much. So why shouldn't I get all those things I really, really, wanted? I deserved them, I wanted them, I should have them!


 
Then I began to wonder if I really was entitled to all the neat things I wanted on my list to Santa. Was I really entitled to that Kimber 1911 .45 pistol I wanted? What about that guided elk hunt in Colorado I've wished for so many years now, or that new four-weight Winston Boron IIx fly rod? I could maybe understand the new Polaris diesel Ranger being a problem, but Santa could always have it shipped, couldn't he? Was it really Saint Nick's responsibility to put that pair of Simms G-4 Pro waders under the tree on Christmas morning; I wondered?


 
Then it occurred to me, maybe, just maybe, if I had saved my money all these years I could have bought some of these things myself. Naw, that was a silly idea, wasn't it?


 
So I wrestled with the moral dilemma I found myself in all evening and into the wee hours of the morning. Finally, somewhere around three-thirty I drifted off to sleep on the couch, resigning myself to the fact that Santa really didn't owe me anything and that if I really wanted something bad enough there was but one thing to do.…I could get off my fanny and get Cathy another job so she could support me in the manner I'd like to be accustomed!


 
Then it happened; somewhere around four a.m., "Cock-a-doodle-do!" Over, and over, and over again, "Cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a…!" Then the mules chimmed in; first Zane, then Emma, and finally Abbey. "Haw-hee-haw…" It sounded like a sasquatch convention. Then the phone rang, it was Lilburn. "Firth, your gol da*# son-of-&%*# animals are a …"


  So that brings me back to chicken soup. After all, I am at least entitled to some sleep, aren't I?   Merry Christmas everybody, Merry Christmas!

 

 

PEOPLE ARE THE FUNNIEST CRITTERS

PEOPLE ARE THE FUNNIEST CRITTERS

My wife, Cathy, maintains that were she not present to drag me around to various functions and events, I would drop off the face of the earth and become a hermit. That is total nonsense, of course. I didn't sleep entirely through school. As I recall; history, geology, and physics clearly tell us the earth is not flat and that gravity would prevent me from falling off; but the hermit part, I like, and her summation is probably true.

While it's not exactly as closely guarded a secret as say the recipe for Coke, or why women scrunch their mouths when putting on eye mascara, most folks are unaware that I am shy; painfully shy, in fact. I'll give you a moment to settle down and quit laughing…

That little secret really is true. Over the years, some friends have stated that when they first met me they thought I was standoffish or stuck up because of my expression and silence. For the record; I'm really neither of those. That goofy look on my face is probably just due to gas.

The fact-of-the-matter is that only a very few of my closest friends are aware of my crippling shyness. I don't know why I have this affliction, and I have spent a lifetime attempting to overcome it. There was a time, in my youth, when beer, bourbon, and tequila worked well in helping me over come my shyness, but suffering the following morning's scull-cramps, hearing bizarre tales of riding motorcycles through the VFW, dancing like a white guy, and other embarrassing exploits that should remain buried forever forced me to abandon that cure. That, and the fact my body will not let me drink alcohol anymore. For these reasons I have been forced to confront my crippling timidness to the point I think that somewhere, over time, I have just learned to accept it; I'm shy and uncomfortable around people, and that's that.

Now as a rule I perform an adequate job of avoiding places where there are large crowds, and especially those places that are located outside of my comfort zone. I can do rodeos, the local 4^th of July parade, and even venture off the hill into the city for a quick visit to Bass Pro if there is a sale on camo; but amusement parks, festivals, and events such as the Do-Dah Parade, or any other large gatherings where I don't know anyone are definitely on my avoid-at-all-cost-list. So imagine the dichotomy I face, not to mention the sheer irony to realize that one of my favorite pastimes in this world is people watching.

I mention this because Cathy has this bucket list of things she wants to do before she kills me, and at the top of this list is that she wants to visit all the national parks in the U.S. I have explained to my sweetheart that there are over 365 national park service areas in this country, and even if we managed to visit two a year, at some point she'd have to share in the driving since I'd be around one-hundred-and-sixty years-old by the time we wrapped things up. I also pointed out that at the rate Senator Dianne Feinstein was going, that list would no doubt double and Bakersfield would probably be a National Park by then. Oh well, we've been there.

This year we visited the Grand Canyon. Having spent time hunting on the North Rim of the canyon in the Kaibab National Forest, I wanted Cathy to see this area for two reasons. The view of the canyon from this vantage is spectacular, and more importantly, because of its remoteness, there are far fewer people on this side of the canyon.

When we reached Jacob's Lake we learned that Hwy 67 to the North Rim was closed for the winter and the road wouldn't open for a couple of more weeks. Upon expressing our dismay with the owner of the cafe, imagine my elation to learn from him that locked gates don't mean much around that part of the country and that there was a way around the large and foreboding, iron gate that was blocking the highway. Forty miles of dirt roads and two hours later, with the aid of twelve napkins of hand-drawn hieroglyphics loosely resembling a map, we pulled up and set the parking brake on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon at Crazy Jug Point; literally on the north rim of the Grand Canyon.

For two days, except for the resident deer herd hanging around our camper, we had the North Rim of the canyon to ourselves to hike and explore. I must admit that bidding ado to the North Rim and the Bambi family was difficult for me, especially since now our itinerary called for driving the two-hundred-fifty-plus miles around to the South Rim and doing the tourist thing I was so dreading because of the large crowds I was certain we would encounter.

Upon leaving the Navajo Bridge near Lee's Ferry we ran the gauntlet of roadside jewelry stands stretching across the Navajo Nation and at last entered the east end of the Grand Canyon National Park. We then proceeded along the rim and spent the day stopping to survey each of the viewpoints along the way.

We spent the night at the RV Park, snagging the last available pull-in, and imagine my elation to be fortunate enough to spend the night in my camper surrounded by several thousand folks in rent-a-rigs; most of which who'd never RV'd before. I must admit I spent an inordinate amount of time, (not to mention an enjoyable one) observing these poor souls attempting to figure out how to level their rigs, hook-up their septic connections, and put out their awnings. (The Germans seemed to do the best!)

The next morning we beat-feet for the small town of Williams, fifty or so miles south of the rim off Interstate 40. This would begin our adventure Cathy had thoughtfully arraigned for us and that would be to take the old Grand Canyon Train ride back down to where we had just been.

The following morning, it was spitting snow and colder than a tin toilet seat, we boarded the train for the South Rim, but before we were allowed to climb aboard we were forced to sit through an old west skit performed by a troupe of thespians who fancied themselves a cross between Butch Cassidy, Jesse James, and the Marx Brothers.

As I mentioned, it was cold. I was keenly aware of this fact because standing near us at the Keystone Kowboys theatrical performance was a young woman wearing nothing but short-shorts, tennis shoes and a splendid-fitting tank top. She had a smile that could sell toothpaste and her assets were such that it was obvious to a keen eye such as mine that she probably didn't suffer from a problem with buoyancy, and I was fairly convinced she could see in the dark by the way her headlights were beaming. The young beauty was accompanied by her teenage son, a six-foot-four lad weighing in at three-hundred-pounds plus at the very least. Junior, who was wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a black Metallica tee-shirt, was a masterpiece of faulty construction whose blood type was somewhere between gravy and Spackle. It was painfully obvious the young man had a difficult time saying no to groceries and I suspected that somewhere upon him, hidden from the world, a button was screaming.

By now the wind had picked up and it was cold enough to make a penguin hunt cover. Mercifully, the acting troupe's attempt at theatrics concluded and we at last boarded the train. The ride to the canyon was, I must admit, a pleasant experience and the entertainment provided was enjoyable, and the fact that Betty the buxom brunette and Junior were parked in the isle across from us turned out to be an added bonus. I think the scenery outside was adequate as well.

After being cooped up on a train for two-and-a-half hours and being fortunate enough not to contact the disease of the week, we stepped off the train at the South Rim depot where we were to jump on a tourist bus and revisit, (along with about two-hundred other folks) most of the viewpoints Cathy and I had seen just the day before. Since we had already been to every view point the South Rim had to offer except the short stretch where the train depot was, we elected to skip the bus tour and just hang out near the Bright Angel Trail and see the sights right there. We bid ado to Buxom Betty, Junior, and the contingency from Japan and set out through the maze of people to see the main tourist trap part of the canyon I had so dreaded.

Upon seeing the incredible views this part of the canyon offered and visiting the venues, we ended up at the El Tovar Hotel. The neat thing about the regal, old, log structure is that it has a huge covered porch that screams, "Sit here in this wicker rocker and relax." I did, and it was here I discovered what a wonderful people-watching place the South Rim of the Grand Canyon really is. The South Rim of the Grand Canyon is basically the United Nations of Wal-Mart on vacation.

For the next hour I was entertained by the comings and goings of what seemed to me to be every nationality on the face of the planet. True I don't get around much, and also true it doesn't take much to entertain me, but this was much better than your run-of-the-mill cardboard box Cathy lets me play with. And while I wouldn't know a Swedish dialect from a Finn's, or a German accent from that of a Pole, I had an interesting time coming up with my version of what folks were saying to each other and where they were from.

Just as it was about time for me to leave my wicker throne at the El Tovar I noticed a familiar pair. Buxom Betty and Junior were making their way back to the train depot. Betty was walking along slowly, reading a canyon brochure she had picked up along the way. Apparently the cold had finally gotten the better of her and she had purchased a souvenir of her visit in the way of a large, hooded sweatshirt. Junior, oblivious of the thirty degree temperature and snow flurries was still sporting the same uniform he had back in Williams. Apparently starving from the strenuous ordeal of shuffling one foot in front of the other, Junior slothed along behind his mother, his flip-flops never fully clearing the ground, twirling a stick of pink cotton candy in front of his face.

Cathy and I made our way over to the depot where our train was located, and in route, I very nearly suffered a hysterectomy as we were fortunate enough to witness one of the funniest spectacles I have seen in a long time. It seems that a misguided, lady tourist, under the impression the resident elk herd roaming the park were tame and placed randomly about the rim of the canyon for tourist photo-ops, had chosen a particular elk cow as her intended subject. As the woman crept closer and closer, she kept the camera held up to her face, framing the elk for the perfect photograph.

The cow, having seen this routine a hundred times before, ignored the woman for some tasty morsels of sprouting grass and showed an admirable amount of restraint as the gal (camera still pressed to her face) closed the gap. Nearly close enough now to share the same toothpick, the cow at last lost her patience with the encroaching paparazzi and without warning, head-butted the would-be wildlife photographer into the Central Time Zone. Call me twisted, but the unscheduled lift off of the surprised photographer was nearly as funny as her landing and in my view, a perfect example of just why the gene pool needs to be thinned a bit from time to time.

At any rate, our vacation was terrific and while I managed to face my fears and muddle through the crowds unscathed I did learn a very valuable lesson I would like to share with you.

Should you ever wake up some morning and get all swelled up about yourself, deciding you're a pretty important person, or maybe you think just the opposite; that your life sucks and what's the point; I urge you to take a few days off and make the trip to the Grand Canyon to see the sights and do a little people watching. The majesty of the canyon will humble you, and the people watching will convince you your life really isn't that bad after all.

And remember; should we someday meet for the first time and you discover a pained or goofy expression on my face; it's probably just gas!

THE SADDLE

Having not prepared anything for this month's nonsense I was outside saddling the horse and mules in a last-ditch effort to get them into shape for a deer hunting pack trip into the Kern in a couple of weeks. As I saddled my horse I gave my old saddle the once over and couldn't help but comment to myself how well she's held up over the years. Then it dawned on me; when all else fails, send 'em a poem. So here's a poem I wrote a number of years ago about this very saddle. Hope you enjoy!

THE SADDLE

 

I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine,

It was new and figured to last a while

And it fit my fanny fine.

 

Constructed with care for detail, its craftsmanship superb,

It was made to stand the test of time

And it stood out from the herd.

 

I brought it home and oiled her up and just in case she squeaked

I rubbed her down with talcum powder,

Every flap and crease.

 

I wrapped the horn with rubber from a tire tube gone flat

And riveted a pouch on the billet

Where my fence pliers comfortably sat.

 

I put her to work immediately and she's never let me down.

We've shared a lot of miles together,

More than either of us could count.

 

From mountain meadows, rocky trails, and hills choked thick with brush,

To sun-baked summers packin' salt

To cows too tough to flush.

 

Over the years she's seen her share of cinches come and go.

A breast collar here, a britchen there,

And gallons of saddle soap.

 

Her bars have covered horses and mules of every type,

From ones as quiet as headstones

To the occasional unscheduled flight.

 

Enough ropes have burned around her horn to start a forest fire.

She's packed out deer and orphaned calves,

And stretched miles of downed barbwire.

 

She's held countless bawlin' baldys at the end of a tight-stretched rope,

And watched as calves got branded,

Doctored, notched, and groped.

 

She's sat and waited patiently out in back of the saloon,

And hauled me home not criticizing

My howling at the moon.

 

She's weathered sons and daughters through gymkhanas and the like.

Now she baby-sits the grandkids

When they come to visit overnight.

 

She's certainly been a dandy and unlike a bureaucrat,

She's been honest and hard working

There can be no doubt in that.

 

Yep, I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine.

It was new and figured to last awhile,

And it fit my fanny fine.

 

 

A PAIN IN THE A…

 

A PAIN IN THE A…

 

Wallowing in self-pity, I knew it was simply a matter of time before the gangrene set in. I could only pray that some sort of miracle might happen and someone would show up out of thin air and rescue me. It didn't seem likely.

The pain would change forms. Sometimes it would be dull, sometimes sharp and electric. At this particular moment my shoulder felt as if a rat were gnawing away at the bone. Heck, maybe it was; I couldn't see in the darkness? It was blacker than a stack of stove lids and I knew that in my predicament, if I moved in the slightest, I'd undoubtedly lose the arm entirely. Maybe death would come quickly, but the way things were panning out, slow and painful was the most likely scenario.

Why me, I wondered? What did I ever do to deserve this? Was it fate, was it karma, or was I just plain foolish? And how would I manage the rest of my life with but one arm? It's not like folks don't notice that kind of thing. Then again, what good would the arm be even if it could be saved? I'd never be able to ride a motorcycle, couldn't be a traffic cop, I'd never conduct the Boston Philharmonic, and I certainly wouldn't be competing in any Olympic swimming events, unless they came up with one where you swam around in circles.

This was no time to be funny, Firth, this was serious business and if I didn't find a way to free myself, I might certainly die. The ticking seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes seemed like hours; continual, never-ending hours. As it was, I wasn't entirely certain the arm could be saved anyway. Even if I were rescued and spared amputation, the limb would no doubt be useless. If I were lucky, it'd be nothing more than a dangling ornament to fill the other sleeve of some god-awful sweater at best. At least I'd have my arm, I suppose.

It had been nearly two hours and the blood flow to my right arm had long, since ceased. My arm was bluer than a Lenny Bruce nightclub act. For a long while there had been the excruciating pins and needles in my finger tips. Mercifully the stinging jabs gave way, disappearing, only to be replaced with the bone-piercing pain I was now suffering. I wondered how I had managed to get myself trapped in such a position. How could I have been so foolish as to allow this to happen to me? Me, Mister Macho Mountain man, Mister Outdoorsman, Mister look-out for número uno, Mister I don't need nobody; especially no dames? I could sure use some help right now.

I couldn't help but wonder should I survive this nightmare how different my life would be. I was right-handed, after all. Now what was I to do about going to the bathroom? Unless you're a southpaw, ever try using your left hand to take care of the paperwork?

The pain in my trapped arm was agonizing, almost more than humanly tolerable. Several times, in fact, I nearly passed out. I knew, however, that I had to stay awake. Easy as it might be to drift off, I knew I couldn't let myself sleep. I also knew if I did; that would be the end.

Funny, the odd things that race through a person's mind when one is trapped and faced with meeting the grim reaper. One moment I was fighting back the pain, telling myself not to give up, struggling just to stay alive. The next moment I was wondering if my fifth-grade teacher, Ms Ridenhour, really rode around after school on a broom, accompanied by flying monkeys, or was it just an uncanny resemblance.

Damn this darkness. If I could only see, maybe I could do something to extricate myself. Maybe I could find a way to break free. Oh, how I wanted to see the light just one more time.

Then suddenly I thought I saw a light. Were my eyes simply playing tricks on me? Was it a mirage? It was faint, but I'm certain it was a light.

There it was again! Almost like a search light scanning back and forth. It was a light, and it was getting brighter. Someone was looking for me.

"Come on light," I said to myself. "Keep comin' this direction." Then the light went out. "No, No, over here, I'm here, HELP!" I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. Then, just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the light flickered on and started moving toward me again. Thank God, they're still looking for me!

The light grew brighter and brighter, bigger and bigger, and closer and closer until my eyes began to hurt when the light scanned past me. Then, as the beam flashed directly into my eyes, it froze, its position fixed on me like a train coming out of a tunnel. Finally, from behind the light I heard the faceless voice I'd so longed to hear.

"Get yer feet off the back of that chair and sit up," said the usher. I'd been rescued at last!

"Excuse me, I'll be right back," whispered Katie, as I abruptly dropped my feet and sat up. Katie glanced silently past me and every fifth- grade girl in the third row of Peasley's Movie Emporium stood and began shuffling toward the isle.

Katie Brusitchell was the prettiest girl at Misery Elementary School, and against better judgment, in a moment of weakness, had consented to go to the movies with me as long as twelve of her girlfriends were along to chaperone. I hadn't actually asked her to sit with me personally; it was more of a request on my behalf through a friend of a friend of a friend. And to set the record straight, I would have asked her myself had I the ability to get my tongue to work and string together a cognitive sentence whenever I was around her.

At any rate, as soon as Katie disappeared in the darkness toward the lobby I leaned forward in my seat just enough for my paralyzed arm to fall with a lifeless thump onto Katie's empty seat. It was as numb as a porch plank. A short moment later the sharp stinging sensation of pins and needles began returning. This was wonderful! This meant that the blood flow had returned and my arm and that my promising career as ace with the Dodgers pitching staff someday was once again on track. Heck, I could even be a traffic cop!

Placing my arms across my chest I slouched back into my seat with a sigh of relief, waiting for Katie to return. No sooner had my feet reached the top of the chair in front of me I felt my shirt tighten around my neck and a hand lifting me out of my seat. "I warned ya once, and once is all ya get," boomed a voice from behind me. "Yer outta here; let's go."

I recognized the voice as belonging to Mister Peasley's son, Vincent, heir apparent to the Peasley grocery store, plumbing supply, and movie house fortune. A junior over at Misery High School, and a no-necked, muscle-bound tackle on the varsity football team, Vincent had the I.Q. of an abalone, accompanied by the super human strength of a silver-back gorilla and wasn't one to be trifled with.

As Vincent bounced me by the collar out through the lobby, we met Katie and her platoon of girlfriends who were returning to their seats.

"Hi Katie," I said feebly, a sheepish grin on my kisser.

"Where are you going," she asked?

"Uh, I've gone to ggcramble and stoff-loff-a- namplifarm," I stammered, my tongue in its usual knot when around Katie.

"Unh," she answered?

I was pretty sure she knew that I meant, "Let's do this again sometime, dollface!"

THE GREATEST DISAPPOINTMENT

They have been dubbed The Me Generation, a moniker I'm not at all sure I'd agree with. In fact; I have long been a fan of this current generation, and every since 9/11 I have been adamant about my admiration for these youngsters.

Next to that of my parents, "The Greatest Generation", who literally saved the world, the Me Generation has my thumbs-up vote as heroes, and they lead me to believe that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for our country after all. Not only are these fine, young men and women incredibly smart when it comes to technology and the likes, but in an era of an all-volunteer military, they are taking the fight to the bad guys and keeping the Bin Nasties out of our yard, as it were. There is no draft, and no one is twisting their arms and forcing them to put themselves in harm's way. I, for one, am forever grateful to these youngsters for their sacrifice and determination, and while I feel a great debt of gratitude to this current crop of young twenty and thirty-something's, there is one troubling item that has come to light recently. An oddity that disturbs me greatly, has me doubting, and I believe is cause for great alarm.

No, it's not these young folk's mind-numbing music. I've long maintained, "You can't spell crap without the rap," and while the Me Generation's music certainly isn't up to the quality of classics such as Bob Dylan, softly crooning Positively 4th Street in the key of R, each generation is, I suppose, entitled to their own music, even if it is, in my humble opinion, nothing more than some yokel grabbing his crotch and yelling at you. (Hey, you, get off of my cloud! Stones 1965.)

No, what bothers me most about the Me Generation is far more disturbing and even loathsome. Then again, maybe it's my generation's fault for not passing along our vast knowledge of what's important in life to these lost souls who have absolutely no clue as to the important things in life.

"No clue as to what," you ask?

Well brace yourself, folks, because it troubles me greatly to inform you that this current generation of techno-genius youngsters has no flaming clue as to how to make a SMORE!

"I knowwwww," he said, clasping his palms to his cheeks, and tilting his head in disbelief.

Just when I thought this group of kids was alright, I was recently forced to sit around a campfire one evening and observe a pair of America's finest attempt to construct a simple SMORE. I felt as if I was at a taping of the Jerry Springer Show. Not only was it heart-wrenching to watch marshmallows being systematically destroyed beyond any recognition, the two young chefs looked more like a pair of monkeys trying to make love to a football instead of a couple of intelligent young men creating a time-honored, culinary delight. In fact, I've seen fewer spontaneous bursts of combustion at a reservation fireworks show.

Now I have sat around enough campfires in my life to know that the perfect Smore requires but three ingredients; a Graham cracker, a marshmallow, and a small chunk from a Hersey's chocolate bar. In fact, the chocolate is so important that eight of us, on an outing in the Kings/Sequoia National Park, once rode fourteen miles round trip to liberate a chocolate bar from a backcountry ranger station at Roaring River to complement our planned evening Smores-fest.

At any rate, for the uninitiated, here it is; the simple process of creating the perfect Smore.

First, a slit or hole is poked into the marshmallow at which point a square, or piece of chocolate, is slipped into the hole. The marshmallow is then carefully positioned onto the roasting fork or stick. This must be accomplished with the greatest of care, lest ye spend the next half-hour watching one of nature's marvels burn like a torch at a Klan rally.

The marshmallow is then meticulously roasted to a golden brown over the coals of a fire, (not the flames). I cannot stress the importance of patience during this step. You are seeking a golden brown, people, not a marshmallow that resembles a Kingsford briquette.

And last, but not least, the perfectly roasted marshmallow is placed between two pieces of Graham cracker, then eaten slowly with gusto, to be savored and appreciated. Not worn on one's cheeks, chin, forehead, mustache, shirt, shorts and toes while the participants scream like the Taliban on a suicide run over their third-degree mallow burns.

There you have it, Grasshopper; I have done my duty to impart just a tiny bit of my vast knowledge of such wonders to the new kids on the block. Use this skill wisely.

So far, I am still a fan of the Me Generation, although come to think of it, maybe my generation was the smartest; after all, we did invent tie-die shirts, the pet rock, and the eight-track!

Next time we will discuss proper positioning and expression for The Captain's pose.

MOVIN’ ON

         The other day I decided to drive into town to the post office. I drove the six miles out to the highway, pulled up to the stop sign and waited to make my left turn toward town. I had to wait nearly half-a-minute for a string of cars to pass. First one car traveling eastbound would zip by, then, taking their sweet time, I'd have to wait for another coming westbound to pass. Eastbound, then westbound, then eastbound; I felt like I was watching a tennis match. When I returned home I informed my bride to get things in order; we were moving. 
         "Move where," she said? "What happened now, you finally make the FBI's most wanted list?"

         "I dunno, I haven't checked yet" I replied, "but we're packin' up and gettin' outta this place anyway. Too many people to suit me!"

         "The neighbor across the road is too many people for you," she said, I think with a bit of attitude.

         "Lilburn Merriwether is a menace to society," I pointed out. "He's always callin' to complain about my mules. He fly casts like he's fighting off a swarm of killer bees, doesn't like to listen to music, and he's always over here goin' through our barn and takin' stuff. No wonder I can never get anything done around here; Lillybuns is always takin' my stuff!""

        "In all fairness, dear, sometimes the mules do sound off pretty early in the morning, not everyone has your appreciation for Ernest Tubb, and the things he takes from the barn are items that belong to him that you borrowed and didn't return."

        "I don't care, he's a menace, and we're movin'. How's Idaho sound? Let's go to Idaho; nobody lives there."

        "Well I'm staying put. By the way, Lilburn called while you were in town and wants his fly-tying vice back."

        Someone once said, "the grass is always greener…yada, yada, yazoo." I'm not sure what they meant by that statement and I don't know what it has to do with people moving, but I think most folks have it in the back of their minds that somewhere down the road is better than where they're presently living.

        Up in the canyon east of town, above the Electric Co-op, there is an old, vacant house. At one time, that old house was no doubt someone's utopia; someone's perfect little piece of paradise. Today, the old house is crumbling and beyond repair; a sad reminder of a better time for someone. What caused that family to move? What brought them to pack up all they owned and seek out greener pastures? Maybe they joined the herd of Californians that moved to Oregon. Then maybe they joined the throngs of Oregonians who fled to Colorado to get away from the Californians, or maybe they became snowbirds who flew to Arizona looking for something better there?

        At any rate, ever thumb through one of those magazines with the article in it, "Best Places in the U.S.to Live"? Pretty soon those places aren't anymore. Everyone seems to want to live where the sun is always shinning, everybody is smiling and friendly, there's no smog, and the fishing is terrific. The problem is; when they get here, these same folks want to bring along much of their old life with them. The no trespassing signs, paved roads, stop lights, and they gotta have a Wal-Mart. That life they were so desperately trying to escape somehow ended up following them. They just can't live without it.

        I suppose we're all looking for something; but what, exactly? As long as we keep looking for that perfect place that really doesn't exist, we'll all just keep on moving to a new home until even the family dog won't know where home is. There are more movie stars in Montana now than grizzly bears, and more celebrities with homes in Idaho than wolves. Even the Hollywood elite are attempting to escape that world they created. I think instead of moving and searching for that perfect place to live, possibly if folks really looked hard enough, maybe, just maybe we could find it right here where we're at. Maybe life really isn't so bad after all, living in a place where you can have a tab at the feed store, folks wave at you even if you don't know who they are, and where folks still gather to support the high school football team on Friday nights, even if they don't have any kids.

       Come to think of it, it's kinda nice to be able to go to the local cafe and say, "I'll have the usual", and I suppose the view of the mountains out my front door really is pretty special. I guess it's also kind of unique these days to have neighbors who keep an eye on your place when you're away, and reside in a place where the winters really aren't all that bad, and you don't need three forms of ID to cash a check. On second thought, maybe I'll tell Cathy to hold off on that packing, not that she listens to me anyway. Maybe I'll just stay put.

       I guess maybe I understand that greener pasture thing a little better now, and it's green enough for me right here where I'm at. But the traffic? Now that's another issue!

San Jacinto Mountains Centennial Survey

 

SAN JACINTO MOUNTAINS CENTENNIAL SURVEY

 

In May of 1908, Joesph Grinnell and Harry Swarth, sponsored by the University of Southern California led an expedition into the San Jacinto Mountains of Riverside County to study its biology. There, they would stay, exploring the area until September, studying the flora and fauna of this unique mountain range.

Traveling throughout the area, from the valley floor of the desert to the mountains' summit, the team collected mammals, plants, insects and birds, taking copious notes and photographs, and ultimately publishing their results (Grinnell and Swarth 1913). This expedition is one of the cornerstones of understanding for Southern California's biology and because this group did such a thorough job, it is considered the gold standard. This was also the only intensive study done of the area, thus, the expedition of 1908 stands as a unique benchmark, giving us the longest historic perspective possible on how the wildlife of southern California is responding to environmental change.

One hundred years later, Phillip Unitt, from the San Diego Natural History Museum, led a similar expedition into the San Jacinto Mountains in an effort to replicate Grinnell's 1908 effort and thereby establish a comparison. As Grinnell himself wrote, concerning the benefit of his work: "This value will not, however, be realized until the lapse of many years, possibly a century, assuming that our material is safely preserved. And this is that the student of the future will have access to the original record of faunal conditions in California and the West, wherever we now work."

On November 16^th, 2008, my wife, Cathy, and I along with a number of other packers from the Back Country Horsemen of California were honored to be asked to help with our animals to pack this historic expedition into one of the original 1908 camp sites located in a remote area of Palm Canyon called Little Paradise. The eight biologists, each specializing in a different area of expertise were loaded for bear, as it were, with traps, cameras, specimen containers and a myriad of other scientific equipment they would need for their week-long stay in the canyon.

Our group of packers managed to guide the expedition into the canyon and on to the group's intended campsite at Little Paradise where, believe it or not, we were able to get all their equipment transported safe, sound, and mostly intact.

We returned a week later to pack the group and their gear back out and they were obviously looking forward to getting back to civilization and a hot shower. This was a great adventure shared with a terrific group of people.

After the snows melted on Mount San Jacinto, in June and July of 2008, we again packed this same group and their gear up into the high country to Taquitz Meadow and then a week later on up to Round Valley to complete their expedition.

We have since packed this same group of biologists and researchers into Palm Canyon again to continue their study of the area. The interesting thing for me is that this is an ongoing study, and we, (the packers) are fortunate to share in the biologist's studies and successes by continuing to pack them into some the more remote areas.

Over this one-hundred year period since 1908, some things have changed, and while time doesn't permit me to list the findings and differences in the two studies you can discover them for yourself on the museum's website at http://www.sdnhm.org/research/sanjacinto/index.php Some of the area's changes are attributed to the difference in time of year the two groups visited the same site. One group visited the area in the spring, the other did their studies in the fall. Some of the differences are no doubt due to the proximity of man and nearby Palm Springs as it pertains to evasive species in the area. And some of the changes may be attributed to climatic changes.

Whether you believe Al Gore's prophecies of doom and gloom and feel the need to rush out and purchase your carbon credits to save the planet, or maybe you side with those scientists who maintain these changes are simply part of the earth's natural cycle, you'll certainly find the San Diego Natural History Museum a fascinating, educational, and entertaining glimpse into our region's past, present, and possibly even our future.

For my part, these have been enjoyable pack trips into a rugged area that is seldom visited. This canyon has its own unique beauty and I highly recommend the trip to hikers and horsemen alike.