Snake in the Dryer

Posted on August 30, 2012 by betunada

I left for work and was halfway there (see map) when Betty started doing the laundry. She opened the dryer …

My cell phone rang.

“We’ve got a crisis at home and you should take care of it.” My heart missed a beat. A fire? or a tree fell on the house? or a pack of rabid dogs banging at the doors …

No. It was worse. “There’s a snake in the dryer.”

“I’ll be right home.” I called my boss, telling him I’d be a little late.

I was just about at the point of no-return on the commute to work. Any further, and I suppose I’d continue on, and hope for the best. But I’d worry. I wouldn’t focus on the job at hand. Reviewing plans for gas (and oil) wells in our region. Ensuring that the governmental regulations were adhered to. I wouldn’t be paying the attention the job warranted and natural gas development would suffer. Well designs would be inadequate. Higher prices at the pump. Citizenry in uproar. Civil unrest. No telling how much worse things would get.

I hurried home.

Betty understandably didn’t survey the situation with quantification in mind. I was relieved. A large snake, an angry snake, maybe even a rattler (not unknown in our neighborhood) would definitely be cause for concern. How did it get there? The dryer vent exits the house into a window well. The poor thing probably couldn’t get out of the window-well, and the more-accessible vent was the only escape. Directly into the dryer.

A few years ago I had ‘rescued’ a rattlesnake which had taken up residence in a fiberglass enclosure over a disposal well up north near Wyoming. I duplicated the procedure, which was to place a bucket near the hapless reptile, and gently persuade it with a stick. Betty demonstrates, above.

Good thing this healthy youngster didn’t unwittingly go through the drying cycle, nor somehow escape into the house. The cats would not be nice to it. And there’d probably be a mess to clean up.

Good-looking little guy or girl, isn’t (s)he? Betty briefly considered adopting it, “keeping it” but she’d have to take care of it. She did say later that she’d get over her fear of snakes with this as a pet.

The first thing I noticed was this wasn’t your usual striped garter/garden snake. Nice diamond-y pattern. Perhaps someone can identify — amateur herpetologists, anyone? Our guess was probably ‘bull snake.’

He/she is probably really relieved to be getting out back into the grass. We made sure it ended up far enough away from the house so as not to end up as a cat toy.

I think the dryer, and laundry room, are back to whatever passes as normal. (Higher gas prices and oil-field chaos and anarchy averted, until some later day …)

( And … Betty told me that last night she dreamt of a snake in the house. Hmmmm….)

en casa, 25 de Agosto (2012)

Posted on August 27, 2012 by betunada

: the inukthingy by the mailbox

¿Alguien quire saber que algunas personas con un nombre apellido español quienes en la clase media hacer un Sabado ordinario? Nada mucho. No somos ricos, no somos pobres. Pero, no nos gustamos los dos partidos polìtico mejor. ♪ Vote partido tercero! (Pero local, vote con su corazon y su cerebro).

Digo que no esta un vistazo significado — esta ordinario (o menos que ordinario).

La primera cosa esta mañana para me fue una carrera (de pie). Corrì bien. Entonces, a casa mi esposa quiere parame a ayudar ella en jardinerìa. Afuera, hace calor, por lo general. Entonces … tiempo por el piscina. Mejor …

Arriba: hay 22 fotos. Mas temprano, son de la piscina. “Betty” esta alado de, con un gato debajo su asiento. Mire los nublados sobre los “BookCliffs” al norte de nosotros.

Hay viente-dos; a la izquierda a derecho, arriba a debajo:

1. Sì. Bookcliffs, nublados, la piscina de Betty … El perro es “Koda.” Estamos cuidado el perro de nuestro hijo.

2. Bookcliffs, nublados … verano despacio y …

3. ¿ Ve el gato debajo el asiento?

4. El gato debajo el asiento …

5. Mas de mismo, y nalgas de RockSea …

6. Nublados sobre del “Book Cliffs”

7. El (la ?) inuk-thingy en frente del casa, y flores, y …

8. Vista al sur de la casa (cerro sin arboles)

9. Nuestro “lago” (estanque) y nuestro canoa esta listo para un viaje corto

10. Nosotros cuidar un niño, no … cuidar el perro de nuestro hijo. Pelota pelota — “ball ball.” (El gusta a traer la pelota).

11. Casa, nublado (sobre el “Grand Mesa”), arbol

12. Bruce dormiendo. Es verano, vd. sabe …

13. Inuk-thingy, Sleven, RockSea

14. Dos inuk-cosas en las afueras de nuestro lugar. Miriendo a sur …

15. Ooh … ¿ ve el rayo láser despues el camión y el buzón ?

16. ♪¿ No paso en la mierda de perro!

17. No caminar en las hormigas …

18. No se la palabra en español por –> inunnguaq — o — inuksuit — o — inukshuk, me llaman los “inukthingies” (inuk-cosas). Este es el inukthingy en frente de nuestro casa, al lado de la buzòn. Mire los nublados sobre de la Grand Mesa …

19. Dos perros (uno es de mi hijo — “Koda”) al norte de nuestro casa.

20. Dos perros negros …

21. Betty es “Wulf-Muthur” (la madre de los lobos) — porque ellos gusta a estar cerca de ella mucho del tiempo.

22. Cuatro perros (y la bicicleta de mi esposa) en el camiòn de ella — sobre el “Grand Mesa” el Domingo pasado — que divertido.

Losing my footing on the spinning bawl

Posted on August 21, 2012 by betunada

so, we

are losing our footing on the spinning ball. yes, we. no, we. i’ve lost it, and it’s temporary, but the sense of feeling the connexion(s) to everything and everyone else is tenuous, at best.

this facet of identification is, like many things, graphically illustrated by the good old sine wave. troughs and peaks. and i’d like to close this ride on the merrigoaround with a grab at the golden ring. it’ll take some werk.

times like this i feel that the canvas is more real than the stuff we put on it. my life as a sketch. as a tapestry. as a potter’s soon-to-be-discarded deformed flower pot. the brief and fleeting melodic phrase, enmeshed in and felt and expressed, but evaporated minutes later. oh, those darn haunting fleeting shreds of dissipating notes …

so it is with seemingly everything. we would all be really very really smart if we remembered everything we learned. mostly, i know that i once knew. we are sliding into the seasonal furnace, the oven is on, we will broil, we will cope in whatever ways, relief at the breezes and rains and storm fronts but basically watch helplessly as the lawn yellows. i hope i can find the time for frequent forays into the high country.

a week at a time, or so, that is how i leap-frog thru’ whatever it is i’m doing, or not, in this coalescence of space/time which, collectively, i think we all call “earth.” my part of it, at least. sometimes i feel my “body” is but a localized collection of particles intertwined with the associated energies serving as either a cage or a trap or the hermit-crab-shell for “my” consciousness. i’m fairly sure it’s mine. either that, or the sense of continuity is fairly convincing. easily fooled. can all of me be fooled all the time? hope not.

i will probably never (until i figure out what doo-wah-diddy means) be ensconced in my perfect life, but if i make some headway in that sort of approach, i’d try to write more. and also organize some of the things already and mostly written. i could take all the hockey stories into a single somewhat long and hopefully not too boring story. well, chapters. the material is there, i’ve just gotta thread it together.

i could dive into “best frenz” a bunch more, as i often think of what seems to be fitting and appropriate (and, a good thing for me to pursue: nice things to say about people, especially if i don’t happen to like whoever at present). that is why i started and think i’m mostly finished with but hope i’ll remember more things to put into “sibling positives.” that essay is/was an exercize and like reciting a litany, the (way)stations of the cross, meditating on calming the beast within, smoothing the ripples at the bottom of the pond. yes, that will be more publicly-promulgated (well, i intend to, some day!) eventually.

the opposite of S P is a thinly-veiled fiction, sometimes called the QuickSandMemo (QSM), or could be called “why Sarah doesn’t like Justine.” there might be more outrages i’ll either remember or will occur in the future. there’s a place to plant those weeds …

and whatever else just happens. pops up. and if the worse does go all the weigh around and comes up on itself (worse comes to …) … groggily, it’s head throbbing, cursing the hangover, seeking absolution in forgettfullness and a deep sleep or perhaps even better, the plunge into the deep cool pulsating pool

ah, heck. i could try to organize the many dozens of chapters of the BLORG. or get an apprentice / secretary to do it, so i can go golf or something.

there should be a hockey outlet. continued running, ruminating, regurgitating of life, rectifying the wrecked-um, and

horngulation on the hongus.

gwadamagontching on the ganges. think evile shaved-heads pony-tailed krishna-phreeks riding the whoarsez uv doom scattering the sacred brahmin cattle among the banks of the ganges.

and meeyoozick. just gotta. will and should we seriously hoard for the always-imminent but possibly-never-to-really-arrive apocalypse? maybe we should collect as many of the end-of-the-whirled moovies as possible: madmax, the postman, eli, omegaman, the road, the time masheen, i am legend, 28 daze, 29 daze, world flesh and the devil, some obscure new zealand last man on earth movie we rented along time ago, when worlds collide, and a dozen others i’ve mercifully forgot. we should hoard a PA system and drums and stuff to continue the jam with. ammunition. (does THAT have an expiration date?) gas generator. a friend told me he doesn’t have to have guns or stuff ’cause he can FIX just about anything. (like the short fellow in madmax/thunderdome who “has the knowin’ of many things.”) ‘cept mike ain’t that short. we’ll ramp up on the hoardin’ of cats. won’t be too many mice in our junkyard! did i mention gas? oil? i’ve envisioned driving around in as large as an RV as i can tolerate, pulling a trailer with the abbreviated hardware store within.

hoarding aside, i think i should un-hoard memories. those knots of seemingly-associated recollections intertwined into what passes as my deepest innermost thoughts. ‘cept they ain’t deep, and they’re innermost only ’cause i can’t retrieve them easily, it’s not ’cause i don’t want to, share, promulgate, express them. ’cause there’s a thing or three there. amusing stuff. funny stuff. coincidental things. ‘the sacred and the profane’ standing on the stage side-by-sighed. nobody’s watching, wonder why i can’t just slip between the seconds of time and

ah luvvs thissshitt

Posted on August 16, 2012 by betunada

We’ll get to the “luvs this” — but last weekend the unlikely duo of Walter and Bruce were, well, just hangin’.

Dee ‘n me had a friend passin’ thru. He’s of Anglo ethnocentricity, but identifies heavily with Western Hemisphere aboriginal. He posited that perhaps these two entities shared a bond way beyond the obvious. Mates (as in Crocodile Dundee, mate) in passed life times? Kindred spirits, none-the-less, it certainly seems.

Betty and her son, and his best friend pose on the sidewalk in downtown Palisade, also last weekend.

Beauty. And the beast.

Today (early this passed evening) the dorgzeneye (thassaKollektive) went to the Horse Mountain 36-Road trail head. Although within 20 miles of our house, this was our first time there. YOU KNOW how things look in veiled, filtered, indirect light. This was EAST Orchard Mesa, the Palisade side of the area. “Ah luvs thisshit” ah sed tew meeself.

It’s … azzyoo kintell, orchard-y. Bucolic. Tranquil. (i hope it’s NOT deceptively tranquil)

The edge of the irrigated lush orchard aggie zone abruptly meets the ‘high’ desert.

We’re nearing the trailhead, down a last lane thru’ the orchards.

The eastern Grand Valley anchor of the Bookcliffs. The Bookcliffs are the north boundary of the Valley but we’re hiking south, into the Horse Mountain area.

THAT’s Mount Garfield, the pre-eminent landmark to the north of the Valley, just outside of Palisade. Things are hazy (the light is muted) ’cause of forest fires in the states to the west of us. Usually the aspect would be direct, unrelenting, soul-sucking, sunlight.

Sleven and Rocksea are Dogs Of The High Desert.

We wander further south, and Garfield recedes — not only with distance, but with haze. I think the haze and other not-so-obvious influences enable extradimensional portals to, ever so slightly perhaps, exert influences, gradually at first …

DON’T step in the ooombah!

Appealing, iddn’t it? I definitely plan on comin’ back, mebbe with a mountain bike, or, heck, run as far as I can (when it’s cooler!). View is to the south, southeast — with “the world’s largest (and highest?) flat-topped mountain” — the Grand Mesa (10,000 ft. high) on the horizon.

Darned oil- (and gas) field pipelyings!

RockSea on the mesa-top.

As the sun sinks into the haze …

NOTHING says End-of-the-Whirled Apocalyptic Doom like a Black Dawg on a bleak high-desert cactus/land-scape with the Red Sun of Futility overhead. Seriously, a coyote was yelling at us. I (gu)estimate ‘yote was about 200 yards away. To their credit, the dawgs did not give chase…

Sleven and Rocksea pause. The straight lying just above R’s head is “B & 1/2 Road” — the way back to my house, about 20 miles away.

XPlorayshuns into the anti-Matter Yooniverse: Garfield Grumble, 2003

Posted on August 7, 2012 by betunada

Xplorations into the anti-matter Universe:

Garfield Grumble 2003

If you go flying back through time and you see somebody else flying forward into the future, it’s probably best to avoid eye contact.

–Jack Handy: Deep Thoughts

Rosco “Atlas” Betunada holds up the whirled, @ Garfield

Shortly before the start, Garfield Grumble 2003: I was wearing a Central High School track singlet, inside out. My son, a discus-thrower, had taken it home after his last season. (Besides, it matched my CHS sweat pants, used as pajamas. My daughter brought the pants home after her last cross-country season). Somebody made a comment, hinting at theft of CHS property.

“No,” I said. “This is from the anti-matter parallel universe – where the GOOD people (including my not-so-evil twin) reside.” Good old Lartnec H.S. Go, SROIRRAW, fight, win.

race die-rector (“BoogidieShoe” Conrad) giving dye-wrexions

The race started. I attempted to assist Joe Schwarz in the traditional musical send-off. He put his trumpet away in his car; I tossed my harmonica in mine. All the other runners were concentrating on the task at hand (they were already running away). Stepping carefully over the Starting Line Snake, Joe and I trotted down the road. My two dogs scurried nearby.

Quantum physics… the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle infers that one can KNOW the position of an object at the cost of NOT KNOWING its momentum; or one could know momentum but not the position. We were spread out in space in time. Not being sub-atomic particles, there was probably a good deal of certainty as to the nature of ALL our physical and energetic properties – but we didn’t really want to know. We wanted to question the obvious, to re-define the boundaries and push the envelope.

Joe talked of relativistic time effects in marathon running. How the last six miles usually seems to take as much or more time than the previous twenty. “The last mile takes forever,” he said. “And the first mile goes by in a blur.”

… Relativistic time effects. And how space, and place, also, are malleable. Joe continued musing, each cycle of the conversational spiral encompassing increasing transitoriness. Transitoriness? Whatever.

Six days later I asked Joe if he remembered what he was talking about.

“Talking while running is just like drunks talking at a bar,” he answered. “It evaporates almost as quickly as you say it. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Joe asked about the following week’s desert trail run, the 5-Mile Triple Jump.

“It ain’t the triple jump no more. No jumping required. Now it’s the ‘Water Tower’ 5-mile.” I mentioned that one aspect of the new Water Tower course had participants negotiating through narrow steep-sided arroyos. The walls were often less than eight feet apart, and about ten feet high. “Running through those reminds me of the rebel fighters zooming through the canyons of the Death Star.”

“It would be fun to make a video of that as you ran. Perhaps while wearing a big Darth helmet, and a cape.”

We discussed a few other subjects. I mentioned how there were not just one or two fast women runners in our area. What might be surprising to the school-age runners was that some of these “older” runners had children – and were STILL really fast. Take Leanne Whitesides, for instance, THIRD in this year’s (2003) Bolder Boulder Citizen’s Race.

“How many kids does Leanne have?” asked Joe.

I told Joe about Betunada’s Observation Regarding Kids, #3: when parents have one child, they outnumber that child and the parenting situation is relatively easy to manage. Two children represent having the parent’s hands full – sometimes the situation is “manageable,” sometimes not. Three kids? – The parents are OUTNUMBERED and it doesn’t matter if there are three, four, or more. I concluded that Leanne (and husband) had “more than two.” You can count, identify the position and momentum of one or two children most the time, but more than that, there is definite spreading-out of the time-space matrix — The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle in Parenting.

“Leanne has more than two,” I answered. There could be four children, or three, or five, but due to momentum and position uncertainties, I could not reliably and/or scientifically be 100% certain.

This reminded me of a tidbit from a collegiate anthropology class. Frequently, so-called “primitive” tribes had been ‘first’ – encountered by professional anthropologists. And, some of these tribes had numbering systems consisting of: ‘one, two, (and) many.’

Joe remarked that elementary school math class should be easy. “What’s two times two?”

“Many.”

“Two plus one?”

“Many.”

Joe then predicted that we would pass “many” runners on the uphill portion of the course, about a half-mile away. I predicted that I would lose “many” places on the downhill.

Just then my dog, Doolie, ran right in front of me. He had violated the International Track & Field “Lane” rule: I had to shuffle to avoid tripping over him as he ran immediately in front of my feet.

“Out of my way, Doolie!” I shouted. After a few seconds consideration … “and stay out of Joe’s way too.”

“Thanks,” Joe quipped.

“summit, then plummet”

I did NOT pass “many” on the ascent, but saw “many” not too far ahead. Beer at the top. Water for the dogs. Joe, stopping occasionally to snap photos, arrived at the summit shortly after I did. The guy who arrived just ahead of us, waiting to become “un-dizzy” before continuing.

Two more runners came huffing up, sipping the obligatory water, shaking another cup over their steaming heads, and the four of us continued towards the descent. “Dizzy guy” kept Top of the Hill Aid Station Girl company for a while longer.

FLAMING FINISH LINE. Well, by the time I tottered down, it was somewhere between flaming and smoldering. Plenty of beer. Boom box. Beautiful Breckenridge MaryBrooke asked, “Are all the local races like this?”

Wish I, in good conscience, could have answered “yes”. On the other hand, “no” – the Garfield Grumble is unique – an entity with it’s own separate and different identity each year. In these uncertain times, we can be fairly sure that the 2004 Grumble will, again, be wierd. (And, of course, a good work-out).

Un otro fin-de-semana que nada mucho ocurre

Posted on August 1, 2012 by betunada

Ay caramba. El ùltimo fin-de-semana de Julio fue difìcil para me porque estuve cansado. Asi que …

Mis perros y yo fueron de caminar cerca de las MicroOndas de Nuevo-Milla-Cerro (“Nine Mile Hill”). Este es “Duallie” en una caverna (pequeño) con un pared de “hornunculuses.”

Es el re-construccìon de “inuk-thingy” de Whitewater. Es un dìa nublado y un pocito magnìfico, verdad?

Dually (y la cola de Rocksea) cerca un otro “Inuk thingy” de Whitewater. (¿Es una lengua grande, sì?)

eddie and his mom brush (or maybe just ‘comb’) the beach at Port Angeles

Mi hija y mi nieto en la playa cerca de Port Angeles, estado de Washington. No, no fui allì — mis hijos fueron … fui solamente cerca de mì casa …

2 excellent high-octane darky cerverzas ..

Son dos de mi favorita cervezas oscuras. Old Rasputin (North Coast Brewing) y Storm King (Victory, de “Downington” Pennsylvania). Recuerde: fue un fin-de-semana que nada paso.

the feral cats in the jungle hog the watering hole

Los tigres buscan y quedarsen en un estanque en la selva …

the bean ranch arch, discovered by explorer dawgz

Un arco (“el” arco?) de Bean Ranch, Whitewater. Hay arcos cerca de mì casa que no estan en Moab !

arco de rancho frijole

Este arco es, mas-o-menos, veinte kilometros despues de mì casa. Hay un arco MAS GRANDE que es diez kilometros (o menos) despues de mì casa.

inukthingy de nuevo-milla palo, numero dos

Es el inukthingy de Nuevo-Milla Cerro numero dos porque construì un otro hace unos meces. Creo que numero uno es muy difìcil a encontrar …

Desafortunatamente, no estoy aqui. Mì yerno y mì hija fueron a Port Angeles mas temprano de este mes. Mì yerno tomò este foto. ¿ Magia, sì ?

ATTACK OF THE TRUCK-O-SAURUS !

Posted on July 28, 2012 by betunada

ATTACK OF THE TRUCK-O-SAURUS ! I had never heard of the truck-o-saurus (also called “robo-saurus”) until Betty and I were engaged (or, more rather, un-engaged) slouched in the couch watching the late night news. An ad for the local county … Continue reading →

He Walked to the Edge of Cold Shivers, and Took Another Step

Posted on July 14, 2012 by betunada

Tim Sewell walked to the edge of a 1000-foot or so precipice on July 3rd and kept on walking. This is not a happy nor upbeat, insightful ‘there’s still hope for the universe’ post. And, thankfully, no photos.

It’s possible I could find a photo with Tim in it, back when we were on the same hockey team.

I read the local newspaper a few times a week, and on or just after July 4th noted in the police reports that deputies were called out to help retrieve a body of someone who had either fallen or deliberately jumped from the Cold Shivers Overlook in the Colorado National Monument.

“Heck,” I thought. “That’d do it. No gray area there.” If someone wanted to check out of this life with a guaranteed 100% chance of success, Cold Shivers would be highly recommended.

It’s about a 1,000 feet from the fenced-off abrupt cliff face to the valley floor. I’ve thought how someone could race a bicycle down Glade Park Road and aim between the rock-&-mortar columns along the road just above this overlook. Too bad for the bike.

Then … in the following Sunday edition of our local paper a sports columnist writes about Tim Sewell, battling who-knows-what personal demons, and putting a face and name on the anonymous jumper of July 3rd.

Definitely not whom you’d think would do such a thing.

Mr. Sewell was a young 47 — leaving his wife and two (teen-aged, I think) daughters. And a seemingly successful career as a financial counselor. Handsome dude, too.

I met him three or four years back while playing in our local ice-hockey league. He was definitely NOT of ‘novice’ caliber. Somehow, he ended up on the same team as I, and after that season was strongly encouraged to play in the upper leagues. Guys would talk about the former fighter pilot, and those who raced bikes held him in awe. He was a Colorado state road-racing champion for his age group.

One day I was driving through downtown and I saw a guy who looked like him standing on a corner. He wore a nice suit, briefcase in hand, waiting to cross the street. Later, in the locker room I joked that I saw a guy who looked a lot like him dressed in a suit downtown.

He briefly fixed me with a gaze and said “Sometimes when I see that guy, I don’t recognize him either.” I think he meant seeing himself in the mirror. In retrospect, this utterance could seem significant. But, it was what it was, locker-room banter.

Still … we will probably never know what prompted his abrupt departure. Whatever certainties I gain in this life are, too frequently, eroded by the mysteries. If there is a lesson to be learned, I should slow down (even further) and try to keep all options open. Nothing profound — perhaps something will come — of it’s own accord.

That’s it for now. Tim, I hardly knew you.

DOGS OF THE FOREST

Posted on July 8, 2012 by betunada

Summer’s here, as it is, presumably, almost everywhere north of the eeek!weightor. Day-time highs have been 100 (f). Good weather for forest fires …

The Pine Ridge fire, only about 10 miles north of our house. It was the largest (17k acres) in our area for quite some time. However, outside of the immediate region, it was un-noticed, due to its larger and more dangerous brethern elsewhere in the state.

We promised our dogs, who hadn’t been getting out much, that they would become DOGS OF THE FOREST. Sunday, July 1, we drove up Unaweep Canyon, turned off and up Divide Road, into the Dominguez (or Uncompahgre) Plateau.

Telephone Trail (near Dominguez Wilderness Area) crosses laFair Creek

We got out at the north head of Telephone Trail. No idea why its called that. It was still hot and dry where we were, but about 20 degrees cooler than at home. I thought we hiked down, along, then across the upper Dominguez Creek — but looked at a map later and we were in the LaFair Creek drainage (a tributary of the upper Dominguez). Challenging trail — posted for hikers and horses only. I suppose real ‘gonzo’ mountain bikers might have enjoyed it …

dogs of the forest, or of the rocks

The dogs appreciate being off-leash, out of the yard, and loose.

Betty’s hat & fir symmetry

Betty notices things I don’t. Like intricacies of flowers, insects, and the pattern of fir-tree branches.

more fir symmetry

Telephone Trail, once we made the steep and difficult-footing descent into LaFair Canyon, and the steeper climb out, actually becomes relatively level. We continued into the forest, lamenting occasionally that the area sure could use some rain.

Bruce is doing well

Meanwhile, back at home, Bruce is doing well. She (Betty insists Bruce is female) eats a pile of food seemingly equal to her body size every day during “eating season.”

inuksuit watches fire

The Pine Ridge fire burned for about a week. As you can see, the smoke resembles cumulus clouds once carried up high enough. And, we promised Rocksea, Sleven, and Dually that they’d be Dogs of The Forest again, soon.

cumulus growing fingers, near Cedaredge

Betty wanted to visit an art gallery, in search of works of a particular artist. On July 4th we drove to Cedaredge, to the Apple Shed Gallery, where she bought a silk screen, reminescent of the Oregon or Washington seacoast. (Artist’s name is mostly illegible — “Houksema”?) Cedaredge is logical as the first part of a Grand Mesa loop.

Island lake (regionally famous) on the whirled-faymuss Grand Mesa

From Cedaredge, we continued UP into (and onto) the Grand Mesa. What we wanted was a trailhead that wasn’t crowded. All the big reservoirs were miniature Coney Islands. Crag Crest Trail, where we had hoped to visit, was pretty popular also.

Lake RockSea Mirror

We stopped at the Mesa Top Trailhead. There were three other vehicles there. We had never heard of this before — and later, when I looked at maps, it must be ‘new’ as it wasn’t on any map I viewed. The Mesa, once you’re on top, is about as “relatively” level as you’re gonna be in the forest … or the glades …

mesa glade

The Mesa Top trail is a single-track, marked for hikers and mountain-bikes only. It was quite a change from “back home, down in the valley” as the temperature was maybe 70 and the area did not appear dry. In fact, it sprinkled, light rain, on us a few times.

rocksea, slevven

And yes, they were DOGS OF THE FOREST. On our way back we decided that the two younger dogs may have gone twice as far as we — what with the weaving back and forth, charging off into the trees, and, as often as possible, into the ponds and swamps.

flower yellow butterfly

As stated before, Betty notices things.

leaf green bug

(This was actually noticed on our Dominguez hike a few days before).

mesa glade, rain cloud

Betty pointed out the red, white, and blue flowers. Pretty appropriate for the day.

the dogs liked this!

This pond was about a mile from the trailhead. A pretty neat camping spot. Later, I found out from a fireman that what I thought was state-wide strict fire-restrictions was relaxed on the Mesa. We could have camped, with a fire.

Dually, cairns

lavender? flowerz

Sleven, amongst the cairns

We turned around at “the cairns” — about 2.5 miles from where we started. Good thing, the black dog has gotten so that this is “far” for him.

ladies of the forest

The ladies of the forest. Usually Rocksea is off and away, looking for small animals to torment. Or strange grunge to either roll in and/or eat.

(axually, this is from the previous hike, top (north) of LaFair Canyon)

We got back to the trailhead and talked to a couple who were looking at the billboard-map. They told us that further out on the same trail, they had seen a moose. I remarked that (1) I had NEVER seen a Colorado moose, and (2) our dogs would have, no doubt, run toward it, only to be CHASED AWAY.

We packed into the truck and completed the loop, through Mesa Lakes, Mesa (itself), and I-70 back home. It was 90+ degrees. The rest of the day, due to fireworks restrictions, was about as quiet a July 4th as there ever was. Oh, and the cat was apparently waiting for the mailman. (He must not have known that there’d be no mail delivery on July 4th.)

The post(wo)man hates this

Our mail delivery-person is sometimes harassed by the dogs. Now he (or she, when he is “off”) has a different problem …

Does he think the mailman has kitty treats?

Mundo Pequeño

Posted on June 30, 2012 by betunada

Temprano en este mes, fuimos a Denver porque nuestros hijos fueron allì, con nuestro nieto. Por supuesto, tuvimos ir, para pasar tiempo con ellos. Especialmente con “Eddie.”

Mientras allì, fuimos a una tienda de jardinerìa. Hizo un poco de lluvia (y algun trueno). La tienda tuvo espacios de afueras y un cuarto grande interior. Mientras “Betty” fue de compras, estuvieron tres mùsicos — mariachis. Fui cerca y llevando mi nieto. Uno de ellos mira Eddie y digame que Eddie fue “el mundo pequeño.” Entonces ellos tocaron un canciòn de “El Mundo Pequeño.”