The Swimsuit That Wasn't.

THE SWIMSUIT THAT WASN'T

Thomas Wolfe once wrote, “You can never go home again.”  No pun intended, but he was right, as that very thought hit home for me this past weekend.

It’s certainly no locked-in-a-vault secret that as a kid, growing up, I hated school.  As far as I was concerned, it was a waste of my valuable time; time, I felt would no doubt have been better spent anywhere other than the confines of what my warden's called a class room.  Most of my teacher’s no doubt agreed, steadfastly maintaining I was shifty, lazy, disruptive, inattentive, lacked initiative, and failed to apply myself.  But I had other fine qualities as well.  Among them, I served thirteen years of a twelve year sentence in the public school system to become an astronaut.  According to my teachers, I just took up space.

I said thirteen years because during my frequent absentees while playing hooky, I apparently missed a few things that required my repeating the sixth grade.  My teachers were against my repeating it, unanimously voting to advance me right off to high school, but my parents insisted, somehow convincing them I could indeed, be saved.

Don’t get me wrong, there were parts of school I enjoyed.  PE and recess were fun, not to mention earthquake and fire drills, especially the ones I instigated.  Then there was detention, where I mastered the art of writing with three pencils at once, on three lines of paper, “I will not place reptiles in the teacher’s desk again!”

There are forces at work in the universe that defy explanation.  Forces of nature that defy all logic and cause things and events to happen for no apparent reason.  One such instance occurred just last week when, for reasons unknown, I made a conscious decision to attend my high school’s annual, All-class, Alumni Picnic in Huntington Beach, California.  For some unknown reason I took leave of my senses and decided I would attend a function where I would waltz around a crowded, park setting, and attempt to identify former classmates I hadn't seen for a hundred pounds and nearly half-a-century.  Figuring I could kill a few birds with one stone, I’d also swing by the cemetery to visit family and old friends I had neglected for far too many years.  And finally, I wanted to walk out on the pier again, one, more time.  Something I hadn't done for forty-six years.

The morning of the reunion I did my chores early and headed down the hill where I jumped on the freeway.  Two-and-a-half hours later I arrived in Huntington Beach; the only problem was that it looked nothing like the sleepy, mostly rural, little beach town I had left so many years ago.

Still early in the morning, I visited the cemetery as I’d promised, then headed downtown to take that walk out onto the pier and have some breakfast before the dreaded reunion.  It took me nearly an hour of critical driving skills, complex, evasive maneuvers, and assorted hand gestures attempting to find a place to park.  Apparently, parking meters are a big thing in the city now, and hard as it might be to believe, I've never used one.  Now, I’m fairly certain that given enough time, I could figure out how to operate one of the little coin bandits, but there is this stubborn streak deep within that kept telling me, “Don’t do it; you can save a buck-and-a-half and put it toward a beer.”  It soon became apparent that if I were going to park remotely within marathon walking distance of the pier, I would have to pay the city’s ransom and part with my sack of quarters.

On this weekend, the big surfing contest was in full swing and there were more people than flies in a calf pen milling about.  As I strolled out onto the crowded pier, memories of my childhood came flooding back; lazy days surfing, afternoons hunting rabbits on the outskirts of town with my .22, and those creative hours spent layering thermals, gym shorts, and baseball gloves under my school clothes in preparation for my weekly visit to Principle Oger’s office to receive a swat for some minor indiscretion the week before.

During my walk down Main Street and out onto the pier, I discovered that silicone is a hugely popular commodity at the beach these days.  There seemed to be an abundance of ladies who were apparently fearful of drowning and had taken precautions to prevent such a tragedy.  I couldn't help but notice ear rings located on anatomical parts of the body that I hadn't realized jewelry could even be placed.  And I also discovered that there are, indeed, a great number of people on this planet that really should hire a professional to help them dress; someone who would smother their attempt should they ever get the desire to wear a swimsuit

.  Logic dictates that if you put on a swimsuit that makes you look like a popped can of biscuits, maybe you shouldn't – just sayin’.

At any rate, I eventually made my way out to the little restaurant at the end of the pier and had a nice breakfast as I looked out over the coastline and silently reminisced.

Upon leaving the cafe, I hadn't walked very far.  Staring off in the distance at the shoreline, I was daydreaming, (a skill I mastered in grade school) about summer days spent in swim trunks atop a surfboard, when I was passed by a pair of rather handsome, young ladies who obviously had bumps in all the correct places.  Now I may be considered old by the current generation, but I’m not blind, and I couldn't help but notice that these young ladies, both sporting tee shirts that barely reached below their waists, had other outstanding assets as well; no pun intended.  Among these assets were a pair of posteriors that can only be described as something out of Greek mythology.

Because I slept through most of world history in school, I suddenly felt the urge to brush up on my appreciation of the Grecian arts, at which point I picked up my pace slightly to keep up with the pair of art aficionados in front of me.  I should also probably point out that the young lady on the right, appeared to have neglected to don the bottom half of her swim suit, which would explain their quickened pace.

Now I realize swimsuit fashions have changed from the days of my youth when girls wore cast iron, two piece swimwear that would have fit loosely on John Candy, but for the life of me I could see no sign of anything resembling fabric on this young lady, and because now it had become a matter of principle to find out the answer, I devised a plan.

The plan was brilliant in its simplicity.  All I needed to do was to walk slightly faster than the young ladies, reach a comfortable distance ahead of them, stop, turn in their direction, and nonchalantly appear to gaze out in the distance beyond them, allowing me to confirm my suspicion of whether or not she was actually wearing a bottom to her swimsuit.  I should also point out that this is a perfect situation where good, quality eye wear in the form of sunglasses comes in extremely handy.

I knew I had to act fast.  The girl’s brisk pace was quicker than a bookie’s runner and such that I was having difficulty keeping up with them, and while I didn't want to appear to be a stalker, or one of those creepy, old guys, I knew I had to speed it up if my plan of action was going to work.

I began walking faster, keeping a substantial distance of about three to four feet.  Any closer and, well, that would have been creepy.  This seemed to work well for nearly fifty yards until I noticed I wasn't gaining any ground, and in fact, the pair were slowly pulling away from me.  I also noticed I was becoming a bit winded.

Undeterred, I quickened my step to the point I now looked like one of those idiot speed-walkers you see in the city swinging a Nalgene bottle in each hand, spastically waddling down the street.

“Good idea,” I thought, as I snatched up a pair of empty water bottles nestled atop an overly-filled trash can, and I broke into an inconspicuous, spastic, speed-walker’s waddle.  But the girls were still gaining on me.  My legs were burning like a porch plank at a hillbilly bar-b-que, but I was determined to learn the fate of the missing swimsuit bottom.

Now I have two cardinal rules that I religiously live by.  The first; Tom don’t fly - period, end of story.  My second, cardinal rule; Tom doesn't jog; partly because I don’t enjoy stepping on my tongue, but mostly because I tend to spill my drink when I attempt such silliness.  Never-the-less, desperate measures were called for, and fearing I’d lose the beauties in the crowd and never discover the answer to the burning question inquiring minds desperately wanted to know, I broke into a jog.

Somewhere between my sounding like an asthmatic bulldog, and coughing up a lung, the two young ladies disappeared into a sea of tourists ahead of me.  I should point out that the plain-clothed officer who was concealed inconspicuously in the crowd that was gathered on the pier to watch the surfing contest, was firm, but polite when he grabbed my arm, spun me around and glared at me.

Following a thirty-minute background check that included running my name through the FBI, IRS, Homeland Security, the No-Fly List, and a thorough search of the Perverts Are Us data base, not to mention my convincing explanation that I was not a stalker, hadn't even noticed the young girls, and that I was actually hurrying for my high school reunion, and was dangerously close to committing a parking meter violation, the officer escorted me up the street to my truck where he bid me ado, and advised me to see a doctor about my creepy breathing.

At this point you are no doubt wondering if I made it to the reunion picnic.  Well, I’m going to tell you anyway; I did indeed.  Recognizing folks after all these years was a snap.  Name tags are the salvation of antiquated and rusty brains, and in my estimation, highly underrated.  Everyone I had the pleasure of spending time with seemed genuinely happy, and for that, I was grateful.

At one point I was greeted by an old school chum I readily recognized.

“Hey, Tom, good to see you; you remember that time we almost ended up in jail,” he said, laughing as if it were yesterday.

“No, Ray, I can’t say that I do,” I replied, as I put my arm around his shoulder and began slowly walking with him.  “That was a long time ago, but let me tell you about what happened to me this morning; have you ever seen a swimsuit that wasn't?  What I mean is…”

 

OF MULES AND MEN (and cussing.)

GRIP HOIST:  A device designed to rudely awaken all muscles in one’s body that have been comfortably cradled in fat for the last 15 years.  Also used occasionally for pulling things off of a hiking trail at the speed of a melting glacier.  Usually operated by a colony of Silverback Apes; humans with less intelligence than a grapefruit have been known to utilize this medieval torture device.

Yesterday, in the company of Michael Lewis, Danny Sullivan, and Phiefer, (whose last name I can’t recall due to the lack of oxygen at the 8500-plus foot elevation that caused me to attempt acts I normally would have watched others perform from a comfortable distance, well away from the sound of my chortling and laughing.)

At any rate, yesterday we went back up on San Jacinto Mountain to a location on the Strawberry Cienega Trail where a rather large, and robust tree rested comfortably across the trail in an attempt to remove it.  A tree with a rather discernible, if not smug, grin on its face.

Because we brought mules, we decided to unloaded the four-thousand-sixty-four pounds of steel cable, hoists, saws, McClouds, axes, slings, shackles, engine parts from a ’64 Galaxy, and two, small, plastic bottles of Wal Mart water in the off chance we might get thirsty, and carried them three-hundred yards by hand to the tree we needed to cut because…well, because!

While Mike and Phiefer began getting all the rigging laid out and set up to pull the tree off the trail, Danny and I resumed sawing with the cross-cut saw on the downed tree where we had left off the previous week. Three hours later we finished.  Mike pointed out we might have made better progress had we turned the saw the other way with the little, sharp, jagged, pointy things downward.  We will take that into consideration the next time.

Mike demonstrated the operation of the grip hoist for the rest of us by pulling the handle, first one way, then pushing it back the other.  Exhibiting exemplary supervision skills, he then turned the operation over to the rest of his able-bodied crew, pulled out his camera, and strategically positioned himself in a safe, shaded area, and began shouting words of encouragement as we began pulling and pushing on the hoist handle.

 “Heave - Ho, heave - ho; pick up the pace, girls, or we’ll be here all day,” he shouted enthusiastically, as the camera recorded the burly tree’s laughing at us.

Failure was not an option this day; mostly because none of us wanted to make the trek back up the mountain again, and because, quite frankly, the stubborn tree was beginning to annoy us in large degree in its refusal to cooperate.  Then it occurred to me what we were doing wrong; we weren't cussing enough.

Soon we were happily swearing like a ship full of sailors on leave.
“Heave - ho... heave - ho,” Michael encouraged.

“Gol-d%^#ed, sum-a-biscuit-eatin b&#^$,” we grunted, as we struggled with the stubborn hoist handle.  The tree didn’t budge.  Then, one of those strokes of genius I’m so famous for appeared out of thin air.

“What if we direct our profanities at the tree,” I asked Danny?

“Worth a try,” he said, as we commenced cussing at the still grinning tree.

Suddenly there was a loud, “CRACK”, and then another!  It was apparent mine and Danny’s backs weren't happy with our futile cranking on the hoist handle.  Then, several minutes later, the tree began making the same sound; “CRACK!”

“It was moving,” we all voiced in unison.  “It’s moving!”

In closing, as we admired our efforts in getting the stubborn giant well off the trail, and having repaired the tread work, there is something to be said about a difficult day’s efforts and a job well done; but we were all out of profanities so we just silently marveled in what we had managed to accomplish.

In all seriousness it was a terrific day.  Michael did a fine job planning the task, the tree cooperated, nobody died, and we had a blast tackling a tree that was certainly a challenge.  Our bodies, however, might disagree!

 
 

IN A FUNK.

There is something about the wind that puts me in a funk, especially when it blows out of the north.  I can’t put my finger on it and I really don’t know why, but it’s a combination of depression, laziness, lack of energy, and the feeling of looking at my give-a-shit-o-meter and seeing it pegged at O.

This morning I shuffled out to feed the critters in my Uggs and jammies.  Silently cursing the wind, I stacked oat hay in the wheelbarrow and lethargically made my way out to the pasture, tossed the flakes in separate piles, and turned all the stock out to eat.  Knowing it had to get done, I reluctantly grabbed the manure rake and started cleaning pens when suddenly I noticed I had two visitors; Abby and Emma, two of my mules.

Normally when feed is available, my stock considers me invisible and pretty much nonexistent, but not this morning.  Emma gently placed her 200 pound anvil head on my shoulder and gave a sigh, while Abby stood next to me on the opposite side and just silently stared.  They were in a funk as well, and as they bid me ado and began walking aimlessly around out in the pasture searching for something unseen they were then joined by Zane, my third mule; all three wandering about, muzzles to the ground, searching.  They too, were in a funk, and suddenly it hit me; I knew why.

This past week I had the pleasure of joining with a group of fellow Backcountry Horsemen members and dedicated forest service workers (yes, there are still some out there) on a work party in the Sierras clearing trails in the Golden Trout Wilderness of an estimated 180 to 200 deadfall trees with crosscut saws.  Nearly all of these fallen trees were the result of the devastating McNally Fire in 2002.  Twelve years after that fire the charred remains of millions of trees are now falling with predictable regularity.  We heard at very least, a dozen or more crash while in camp at Jordon Hot Springs, and many others throughout each day as we worked.  One trail, the Red Rock Trail from Jordon up to Red Rock is virtually gone; over grown now with buck brush, manzanita, and the maze of fallen trees much like toothpicks tossed from above.

The good part is that we able to clear trail the nine miles from Blackrock Trailhead down through Jordon Hot Springs and down to Painter’s Cabin on the Kern River.  The more disappointing aspect was that we were only able to clear about 1.5 miles of the 41/2 miles of trail up to Indian Head and Red Rock.
All in all it was a great few days working with terrific people who are dedicated to keeping these trails open and passable.  The food was great and the camaraderie even better.  While it was in the low twenties at night, the days were cool enough to make it pleasant to push saw all day.  All twenty-plus head of stock, (mostly mules) were in absolute heaven grazing in the lush, green meadows at Jordon.

For some of us there is something about the high country that silently calls to us.  It’s like a beautiful, sultry siren with outstretched palms, curling its fingers, beckoning us to come to her; and we do, as often as we can.  And while we can’t wait to get to the mountains and be in the midst of some of God’s greatest creations, believe it or not, the mules do too.

So therein lies the mystery of the funk I find myself in; the same funk my mules are suffering from.  We miss the mountains and can’t wait to get back!

EASY AS LICK'IN BUTTER OFF A KNIFE

EASY AS LICK’IN BUTTER OFF A KNIFE

Saddles.... check.  Rifle, license, ammo.... check.  Bedroll.… check.  Cold weather gear.… check.   Groceries.… check.  Toilet paper.... check and double check!

As I ready preparations for this year’s deer hunting pack trip into the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Sierras, nearly everything is ready.  I say nearly everything because one, minor detail is missing.  That, of course, would be Jason’s gear.  Of the six panniers we’ll be taking on our eight-day hunt, the bear panniers are packed. The hard boxes containing camp gear and odds and ends is packed, the saddles, pads, bridals, manties and all the horse and mule tack is packed.  Even one of the leather ends with my clothes, fly rod, boots and such is packed.  All are weighed, packed and loaded into the stock trailer except for one.  

As usual, waiting until the mules are in the trailer and I’m ready to pull out of the gate, I can’t help but wonder what Jase will bring me at the last minute?  What surprise awaits me as he tosses his pile of schtuff in the tack room, crawls in the truck, reclines his seat with a pillow behind his head and says, “Okay; I’m ready.”  

Will his load be too heavy, too light, or will it be just right?  Will I have to rearrange all the panniers to make room for his alligator Gucci hunting boots, Fabio, designer hair-grooming products, or his half-gallon bottle of “Unforgivable” eau de toilette, by Jean John?  Will he remember his tooth brush this year?  Of course this is absurd; absolutely will his load be anything but exact!

Most folks think that what I get to do is fun, relaxing, and easy.  Actually, it’s about as easy as bucking moldy hay and about as relaxing as trying to tie up a bobcat with a six-inch piece of string. The truth be told, it’s a wonder I still have any hair?  If you think I’m exaggerating, consider this.
Organization is key to any pack trip.  Assign this task to an individual, (let’s call him Tom,) who historically is about as organized as a coffee can full of treble hooks and has the attention span of a monkey chewing on a fly swatter.  Then add to this a taskmaster spouse with a question list longer than Schindler’s that she’ll insist upon my answering five minutes before liftoff. 

Following my bride’s Spanish Inquisition that will include an endless list of questions such as, “Did you pack your underwear this time?  Did you check the spare tire?” And my favorite, “First aid and vet medical; you packed it, right?”  After I race back to the house to grab the first-aid kit and vet medical bag I’ll climb back into the truck and race the engine a few dozen times in an attempt to get her to quit with the questions, and following two more treks back to the house, I’ll finally pull out of the driveway at midnight and head down the road, as Jason drools on my pillow in the passenger seat sound asleep.

Then there is Ladd.  Ladd Stokes is a long-time friend of mine who makes this trip with us every year.  A horseshoer of questionable ancestry, Ladd is built like depot stove and nearly as intelligent.  He has the stare of a stalker, is as mild as sweet milk, and wears more do-dads on his hat than a Mexican general and I am often times quite amazed that he has opposable thumbs when I watch him set up a tent.  Then, imagine trying to get any sleep in a confined tent with a guy that all night long makes sounds similar to starting a chainsaw in a water trough.  And then there is his snoring!

At any rate, it will all have been worth it, though, when we finally arrive at our destination and at last get our camp set up.  I can see it now; our bedrolls are laid out, the food is put away for the night in the bear boxes and the campfire blazes away, and it’s then I rifle through the panniers in a panic for the seventeenth time, swearing like a combat marine, “I know damn good and well I packed it!  Has anyone seen the g*%-#^/$d toilet paper?”

THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT THE GRAND CANYON

           

          THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT 
                       THE GRAND CANYON

“You’re only as old as you feel,” someone once said.  “Sixty is the new forty,” touted another.  I’m pretty certain both these statements were spouted forth by some brain-donor lounging in a shaded deck chair on the sands out front of the Aston Waikiki Hotel while working on his fourth pink concoction with a tiny umbrella in it.  I promise you it is entirely possible to feel far older than your chronological age and today, at least, sixty is closer to the new ninety!

Having somehow managed to cheat death once again, and safely returning home from my hiking adventure into the Grand Canyon, I immediately collapsed on the couch in the den like a wet mattress off a roof.  Having now spent a day in a state of complete vegetation I've had a bit of time to reflect upon the experience and have walked away from it with… let me rephrase that; having hobbled away from the adventure still reasonably intact, I’d like to share with you some thoughts about a few of the things I learned while exploring one of nature’s seven wonders of the world.

I learned that crazy people with a sick sense of humor have apparently been around for generations.  Mainly I’d be referring to the twisted individuals who first saw the Grand Canyon and said, “Hey, let’s build a trail down there,” and of course, the other moron, who upon polishing off the last of their jug of whiskey, added, “Yeah, and let’s see how steep we can make it!”  We were told on this trip that a string of five pack mules had been lost over the side of one of these trails just two weeks before our arrival.  “That’s it?” I wondered, in all seriousness.  I now have a new appreciation for the longears who tote people and supplies into, and out of this incredibly rugged area on a year-round, daily basis.  It is impossible to fathom the steepness of these trails, and in fact, steep isn't even an adequate enough adjective to describe them.  There should be another word to convey what can only be described as steeper than a cow’s face.  I’ll work on it.

On my adventure I discovered that ground squirrels are unabashed thieves and masters of opening a backpack in seconds.  A backpack that took somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-minutes and two full-sized humans jumping up and down on it to cram the contents in and get the zippers closed.  These pint-sized pilferers can tear a three-hundred dollar backpack to shreds quicker than a new bride’s nightie comes off on wedding night, and often times, right before your very eyes as you stand in amazement mumbling to yourself, “he wouldn’t dare?”  They would, and they do.  Personally, and I realize this will come as a shock to the PETA pinheads out there, I am of the humble opinion these portly, puff-cheeked criminals would make for fine looking hats.  Not only that, it would create an entirely new industry, providing countless jobs for posterity, boosting the economy, and we could all make a fashion statement in the process by sporting sheikh, stylish squirrel bonnets in the process.

It is said there are about 656 muscles in the human body.  Nonsense!  I have discovered that biologists are incorrect; hacks, really, and that the number is actually far higher than previously believed.  I am confidently certain the number is closer to seven-thousand-and-twelve, and that nearly three-quarters of those muscles are to be found below the waist in ones legs.
     
I have learned that blisters can indeed grow other blisters atop themselves; a phenomenon biologist may wish to look into for future study.  I personally experienced nearly a dozen of these wonderful creations of friction, and in fact, am the proud, new holder of the current Guinness World’s Record for the largest, single, foot blister upon a blister ever recorded; approximately the size of a Hugo.

For the uninitiated, or those wise individuals who have peeked over the wall on the South Rim and wisely said, “I don’t think so, Buckwheat,” the trails in and out of the Grand Canyon are comprised of a series of steps or rock bars; tens of thousands of these gems, in fact.  The National Park Service would have one believe these steps, ranging anywhere from six-inches to three feet in height, were place there to help aid in reducing trail erosion.  Bull butter!  I have discovered that their primary purpose is two-fold; one, they actually aid in allowing the human body to act much as a Slinky would by causing an individual to quickly reach maximum velocity and the downhill momentum of a fighter jet should you stumble head over teakettle while sporting a fifty-pound backpack.  Thankfully, the Park Service and nature have strategically placed numerous, large boulders throughout the canyon’s trail system to aide in halting many of these supersonic tumbles.

The other purpose of these steps, or rock bars, is one of the National Park’s dirty little secrets.  They no doubt figure if you are stupid enough to hike down into the Grand Canyon, you probably should be prevented from breeding.  The NPS actually doesn't want you to leave and are trying to keep you in the canyon; forever!  You see, what they don’t tell you, as they cheerfully take your American Express Card and hand you a back country permit, is that if you are one of the fortunate souls to reach the mighty Colorado River alive and with most of your limbs intact, even though in theory, your backpack will become lighter from using up the four days of food you've hauled down there, gravitational forces of nature take hold and actually make your, now forty pound pack, weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of six-thousand pounds.  At least a hundred time during my four days in the canyon I heard voices screaming, Who the hells idea was this, anyway?”  I finally ran out of breath on my trek out and quit asking.

As Gus McCrae famously said, “It ain’t dyin’ I’m talkin’ about; - it’s livin’!”  That statement sums it up, I suppose.  I’m simply trying to live; to get all those things done I've yet to do, and one by one I’m slowly, but surely, checking those items on my novel-sized bucket list.

In short, I've manage now to check one more off the list, but the truth is, I can’t tell you how many times during my trek out of the canyon I sat down and said, “Screw-it; I’m just gonna sit right here on this rock, feast on squirrel meat for the rest of my days, and make sheikh  little hats to sell to tourists as they pass by on their trek out of the canyon!

Weighing it.

I like it when my wife, Cathy, laughs.  Most of the time her laughing is infectious, but on rare occasion it can be downright annoying; like when I’m standing naked in front of the mirror wondering what happened?    Such was the case when some time ago, upon informing my bride that I had decided to embark upon an adventure of sorts by checking off one of the items near the top of my bucket list and hike the Grand Canyon from rim to rim and back, she began laughing.  Now, considering my track record, a couple of haw-haws could possibly be considered in order, but rolling around on the living room floor like a New York City break dancer is, I think, a bit much.  Wetting herself in the process is definitely overboard.  After her excessive mirth had subsided and she changed her pantaloons, my sweetheart looked me directly in the eye and said, “Absolutely not, Buster; you can get that outta your head right now!”

Eventually, but not without considerable charm and a marathon effort on my part, she finally caved and gave me permission with one condition.  That condition was that step-son Jason must hike along with me for the trip.  I think her belief was that it would facilitate identification of the body by the recovery team.

At any rate, after several tries at obtaining a permit from the NPS, this year I finally managed to snag one of the coveted beauties, and after great anticipation (on my part, not the Park’s), the day has finally arrived, and in the morning we jump in the truck and head for Arizona’s Big Ditch to begin our four-day hike.  I have pared my pack down to forty-six pounds; underwear and an extra shirt are highly over rated anyway, I think?  

But the really odd thing here is that the more I decide I can do without on this trip; the heavier my pack seems to get.  I’m pretty sure that some foreigners are involved, and have somehow cleverly changed our nation’s system of weights and measures by making them much more than they really are.  I’m also pretty certain forty-six pounds didn’t used to weigh this much.  This pack is more like eighty pounds.  If my theory is true; I can’t wait to see how much they've added to fifty-four miles! 

See ya in a week! 

BON APPETIT

BON APPETIT

I am writing this month’s essay high atop Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The temperature is fifteen below zero up here and I’m freezing my keister.  Yes, they do have snow here in Africa, I didn’t believe it either: that’s why I’m here.  Maybe next time I’ll take Lilburn Merriwether’s word for it.  Lilburn is my neighbor, and he’s also a know-it-all.  The worst part is, apparently he really does.  He also told me the natives in this part of the country can get a bit testy at times.  That’s how I got up here so fast; they were in hot pursuit of me, their main purpose being to have me as their special guest for supper.  Damn that Lilburn, yes, he informed me there were cannibals here too.

So as I sit here, huddled behind a large rock attempting to shelter myself from the unrelenting wind, its cold enough to freeze the flame on a lantern and I’m shivering like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit.  I also realize this will probably be my last essay.
You see, the natives are very hungry.  If I don’t freeze to death, the taunting savages below are waiting for me to come down so they might eat me for supper.  I think they have designs of feasting on Filet mig-tom this evening.  Even if I do freeze to death, they’ll dine on my frozen corpse come spring thaw.  Either way, I’m well-done for because in this medium it is rare anyone escapes here alive.  I know, cold as I am, I’ve still got it.

At any rate, none of that matters now.  Oh, how I wish I were back in Anza.  Back home in my den, sitting in my recliner, relaxing in front of the wood-burning stove with my faithful dog, Mutt, at my feet.  It’s also funny how perspective changes when you are about to die.  Right now I’m not quite so upset about being passed up yet again for a Pulitzer Prize in literature.  What do those snobs know anyway?  The Potty Poem is a classic.

Now, more than ever, I look back upon my life and wish I’d pursued my passions and fought my causes a little more fervently.  I wish I’d taken a harder stance on getting those stupid “childs” urinals removed and the big-boy ones reinstalled at so many of the public restrooms one finds these days.  I can’t even count the times I’ve splattered all over my dark jeans at McDonald’s.

I wish now that I’d have left the spray bottle of water in my truck; the one I used to take into the theater and spray a burst on those poor souls who were talking down in front of me, while I pretended to sneeze.

I regret having never starred in a porn movie.  Of course that would have required surgery and I was afraid to travel to Mexico.

I also wish I hadn’t flossed before I went to the dentist.  I should have made them work for their money.

Speaking of dentists; I’m number now than a six-shot root canal.  I think my time has come.  Let me just say these last words before I go; Bon Appetit!  (I still got it...)