Half Broke Horses

"As for clothes, I flatly refused to wash them. I made sure we all bought loose-fitting clothes that let us do squats and windmill our arms - none of that tight buttoned-up stuff like my mother favored. We wore our shirts till they got dirty, then we put them on backward and wore them until that side got dirty, then we wore them inside out, then inside out backward. We were getting four times more wear out of each shirt than persnickety folks [in town] did. When the shirts reached the point where Jim was joking about them scaring the cattle, I'd take the whole pile into Seligman [Arizona] and pay by the pound to have them all steam-cleaned."

"Levi's we didn't wash at all. They shrank too much, and it weakened the threads. So we wore them and wore them until they were shiny with mud, manure, tallow, cattle slobber, bacon fat, axle grease, and hoof oil - and then we wore them some more. Eventually, the Levi's reached a point of grime saturation where they couldn't get any dirtier, where they had the feel of oilskin and had become not just waterproof but brier-proof, and that was when you knew you had really broken them in. When Levi's reached that degree of conditioning, they were sort of like smoke-cured ham or aged bourbon, and you couldn't pay a cowboy to let you wash his."

Quote from Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls

* The unique pleasure about reading this book is that parts of it are a bit fictionalized (gathered from their real multi-gen family events of life in Texas long ago), thus the reader does not know exactly when the fact takes a break and fiction takes over.

Boater Boombox

A blissful mid-summer's day at the lake

Our favorite summer activity is joining a core selection of close friends for a day at the local popular 6-mile long lake where we invite several of our friends' families. Hot August baking sunny weather days perfect for relaxing along the graveled shoreline, with a host of endless foods to nibble on, numerous deck chairs in a great oval circle facing the lake, and various water toys to entertain the kids and young adults.

It was late morning at about 11AM; we had been ensconced along the shore since 9AM; the temperature was rising fast, our ladies were merrily socializing aplenty, the kids were testing newly purchased water toys, and a few of our young men were out on a unique gas-powered mini stand-up single user wave runner shaped like a mere squat short surfboard.

After a few sessions of entertainment, everyone calmed down; several of the young ladies grabbed a paddleboard and not being interested in paddling, rather spread their delicate bikini-clad flesh out on the paddleboard to soak up the baking mid-day sun rays with nary a concern on their mind.

The parking area is getting nearly all filled up by now, and the overflow at the far end of the county park was also being rapidly consumed, yet additional pickup trucks hauling a power boat are still arriving, determined to put their monster speed boats in the lake waters too. No problem; there's plenty of lake for that.

Yet after ONE power boater got his boat into the lake waters, with his vehicle now parked in the overflow zone, he then proceeded to slowly steer his boat into the vast blue waters, but opted to follow close in along the shoreline, hugging it just a hundred yards offshore. He was alone this day, for apparently none of this friends wanted to join him on his mega power speed boat.

"Hmm, that seems odd", as I silently pondered the reason why. "Power boater going it alone; has he got no friends who wanted to join him today for a lake cruise?"

In the next moment we got the answer to that question. He turned on his multi-speaker stereo boombox, initially fairly low in a modest sort of way while fiddling with a radio station, then giving up and stuffing a favorite CD into the stereo player.

"Ahhh", he must have thought to himself, "Found my favorite tunes."

And that is when he cranked the volume up into the sky....

Suddenly our entire three family group of friends who were merrily chatting up a jovial session right there along that sand and gravel shoreline enjoying the baking hot summer sunshine, lounging in deck chairs, stuffing our faces with snacks, sipping on thin glasses of wine or other beverage, laying on their paddleboards, knowing and experiencing the grandeur of it all in the most perfect way....

Then, all the friendly shoreline happy communicative chitchat ceased — just as the power boater who was slowly puttering his speed boat along near the shoreline, he changed his TUNE, and he decided that it was time to hammer his multi-speaker stereo system volume way up into the cloudless blue sky.

Yep, he wanted everyone to know about it....and we thought roadside weeds were obnoxious.

No one in our entire troupe could hear themselves chatting with their friends; you couldn't even hear yourself thinking to yourself; you couldn't hear the kiddos playing along the shoreline. You couldn't hear the birds singing nearby in the trees. I couldn't hear my dog barking. We couldn't hear the neighbors dog barking. We couldn't hear a fire station siren blaring even if we needed to in an emergency.

The only sound that you could hear from right here on the lake, and all the way to Thailand and back again, was that power boaters hammering noisy tunes coming from his full-deck multi-speaker stereo system.

Dangbeschniztle we never knew what hit us till it did. Everyone — and I do mean everybody — of our dozen plus friends who were there at the lake that gorgeous blazing hot mid-summer's day, simply stopped doing whatever it was that they were doing (i.e. chatting and socializing, eating and drinking, or playing), and for the next several minutes did utterly NOTHING but sat there in silence, unable to speak a word, unable to communicate with a friend to the right or left, pummeled by the dis-logic of it all; we all just stared silently out across that shoreline lake as the music "NOISE" coming from the sole guy power boater doing his sole lone thing, slowly puttered his "noise-box" machine and boat right smack past our lake-front seating area.

He apparently wanted everyone at the lake to KNOW that he was here — right now, and yep, we certainly did know it!

After two solid minutes had elapsed, and just as he slowly puttered past our beachside zone, he pushed down on the boat's throttle and the power boat took off like a bolt of lightning heading eastward across the lake, stereo volume still blazing to the uttermost reaches of the blue sky above, but quickly the deafening tone of the music noise rapidly faded, and once again we could actually hear ourselves thinking to ourselves.

Ahh, there's that most beautiful, pleasant creaturely sound once again — the ladies in our group have started chatting again with each other about whatever fresh new topic is on their sweet little minds. And the enjoyment of life continues onward at our mid-summer's lake family gathering.

When gettin' older is gettin' old

For evening leisure activity, and for its apparent health benefits, I often take a stroll round-a-bout my favorite smallsville hometown, enroute during the walk I will often strike up a brief chat with various town neighbors along the way, admiring their front yard floral or herb gardening skills that are on display, smartly skipping the politics, keeping it all smiles and courtesy, going for 1-to-2, and sometimes 3 miles town walk.

Enroute I pass through one of the town parks (there are a nice handful of these in town) and on a sunny warm day, it makes logical sense to stop there and sit upon one of the still available park benches (these are popular little town parks especially so in the evening hours when the parents bring their little kiddos over to the playground).

I spy and open unattended bench and sit down. Hours of tedious earlier work hunched over the computer has given me a slight kink in the back, so the hard wood backed bench is not as comfy as it should be, so I opt to swing my legs around the far end of the bench and lay down backside upon the hard wood bench.

Ahh...now my back is feeling the release of the kinks...it just needed a straight plain board to knocks those old age kinks out of the hunched twisted back.

I don't think even a half minute elapsed when I overheard one of the four young children climbing all over the playground equipment.

One of them said from a far distance, obviously aimed at me:

"Hey old man laying on the bench...what ya doin'?"

The young 12-year old kid wasn't trying to 'ask' a 'real' question so much as he thought that the concept of me taking a break upon a wood bench laying down was somehow noteworthy, and especially my age.

But hey, I got the message...he was being a pest. Yep, my time was up from that momentary rest break, so I stood up and departed, homeward bound.

Perhaps that's what they meant by the phrase, "When you're gettin' old...."

It isn't YOU personally notices the age transition sneaking up on yourself so much as it's the younger generation that so plainly does.

Going local bouldering

When most boulderers think in terms of going bouldering they pile into the vehicle and drive somewhere near their home town, then park alongside a road at a pullout, or public parking area, and walk along a trail or path to reach a pile of boulders, whereupon the commence to toss down a hefty brightly colorized crashpad on the ground beneath their next 'project'.

But that's most other boulders for you.

For me though, walking shoes, a winter coat, short knee length short pants (this is a must...no matter how cold it is because pant legs get in the way!), grab a bottle of water, tuck it into my mini fanny pack, and a snappy departure from home, taking either a left or a right route, and briskly march along the town paved sidewalks, going out for a long daily "walkabout" in this neighborly and quaint smalls-ville town.

En route along that multi-mile walkabout march I do make it a habit to stop at any one of a half dozen small town playground areas to check out the bouldering potential. I know, I know...you're thinking to yourself...that ain't bouldering. But I do digress on this fine point.

There are the little town playground one may encounter the usual small kids playing on the playground equipment (various slides, steps, platforms, monkey bars, roped arenas, mini-bouldering wall, mini-tunnels, etc), and yep you sure can see and hear by all the smiles and noisy chatter that the kiddies are all having a blast. And the parent (usually its Mom)...well she is standing there nearby enjoying a relaxed moment, chattering with 1-2 other Mom's who are also there releasing all that pent up energy so very much bound up tight in those little 4 year-old  kiddies that ain't any taller than my waistline.

It's there, among all that friendly noise, that I pick a spot to sit down on the ground, remove my overcoat, plop my fanny pack and water on the ground, untie my tennis shoes, slip out of my socks, stand up, and slowly gravitate over to the starting point.

Yep, the key here (point #1) is BAREFOOT. Ya don't wanna be doing this stuff with shoes on...you can die doing it with shoes on...I should know after attempting it the first two times. Shoes are simply too clunky for this game. And while we're on the topic of "barefoot bouldering" you don't really want to spend time flying off (like you might do when you are out at the real live bouldering area and that big fat orange crashpad is awaiting to catch your feet). Because here at the small town playground area — the ground is indeed soft, and spongy-like, but....its usually composed of bark or sawdust chips, and sometimes big chips. So, if you hit the ground too hard you will certain find a splinter in your sole (key point #2).

Each play area has its own natural starting point for bouldering, and it does take some analysis to find it. This particular one begins at the vertical ropes ( a series of horizontal and vertical tied ropes). I step aboard (yep, it's kinda like getting on a moving Mississippi River paddle-wheel riverboat), and cruise easily along the roped section, then along the mini-vertical bouldering wall, to the rest spot on the outer start of the first monkey bar set. Here we get some stretching in because we are gonna need it soon enough.

Then I lean into the overhang, full body hanging from the slick metal monkey bars of set #1, and slowly cruise upside down, full body hanging along the first set of bars to the far end, then at the last rung, I flip my feet up into the previous bar, until my knees are fully enclosed on that bar, and let go with a woooosh — with hands off that last bar — I swing with a momentary rush fully upside down, like a gymnastics person, and continue to swing fully upside down, back and forth for a series of times, enough to get that blood a pounding in my head, and enough to chill down the fore arms (well not really...).

Then on the last swing, aim for the high bar directly above, muscle it with hands, foot out left on the vertical slick pole, other foot out right on the other slick pole (now bear in mind that this is typical very wide Beacon Rock style stemming!), and gingerly reach over to that far slick metal pole and smartly grab the second monkey bar set, and cut the feet loose, swinging your feet up into the awaiting first two horizontal bars and wrap your legs over it quickly, pull a swift, stylish reversal, all the while hanging totally upside down, then cruise in upside down mode all the way across monkey bar set number two. When you reach the far end of that set, do a very stylish reversal, and cruise the same monkey bar set for 3-4 loop sessions in a row, then at the farthest end of that monkey bar you can finally stop and take a brief break. No, no, no, not by putting your feet on the ground (that means you failed to send the route dude!). You hang there on the metal bars and chill briefly, or if you are not pumped (and technically you should not be here yet!), then you make another very very long stem out with your barefoot to stick it onto another far out there vertical slick metal pole, wrap your hands around it, both feet on it and on a nearby metal vertical bar, then lower yourself into another upside down position, and cruise along a single metal horizontal metal bar across to the far final end flat kiddie landing platform. Then cruise underneath that platform to the far end, grab the vertical metal ladder at that far end, stand up on it...then crawl back under the platform and cruise another horizontal bar hanging upside down, and pull a quick reverse, aim your toe for the center point of the farthest platform, touch it...and done.

That is tour number one. Though each small town kiddie playground offers its own unique set of tours, this particular play area has a total of four quality power lines, yielding measurable technicalities upwards in the V3-V4 range, depending on your skill level (i.e. again reminding you that you get instantly disqualified if you do it with shoes on).

Do note that playing this whole game of town park metal bar bouldering — the weather must not be too cold for obvious reasons! Point number one, your hands and feet will never survive the super cold metal bars. And point number two...if its really cold during the day (in winter), such as 45F, then bouldering is much more difficult on slick metal poles (you need the foot stickiness that occurs on the soles of the feet upon the vertical slick metal poles for viable traction).

After doing a half dozen session you will get the hang of it, and playground bouldering suddenly becomes an exercise friendly, neighborhood walkabout, smile-at-your-neighbor non-motorized virtual necessity.

 

Model T

Harvey Firestone, Henry Ford, Thomas A. Edison and John Burroughs, the famed naturalist, were intimate friends, who found much pleasure in each other's company. On one of the many trips they enjoyed together, they had tire trouble. Fortunately for them, it happened near an auto repair garage. The sign read, "Firestone tires sold here" and they pulled the vehicle into the garage facility for repair.

While a new tire was being mounted, Ford said to the attendant, "It might interest you to know that the gentleman standing behind you is Mr. Firestone, the man who makes this tire."

"Really?" The attendant seem little impressed.

"And...I'm Henry Ford."

"Oh, yeah?" Responded the attendant.

"And this gentleman over here," continued Mr. Ford, pointing to another of his close friends, "...is Thomas Edison."

The attendant rose from his half-finished job. Slowly and exploringly he scrutinized each member of the party in turn. When his eyes found the long-gray-bearded John Burroughs, the garage attendants eye bugged out and his mouth dropped agape. Slowly, he turned back to Mr. Ford, and said....

"If you're gonna tell me that that long-bearded gent over there is Santa Claus, you can mount your own bloody tire."

Quote from the book "Me and the Model T, by Roscoe Sheller.

Canyon Creek

In search of an upstairs 2-holer

"I had went to Burke Idaho in search of a two-story outhouse, led more often by rumors that frequently turned out to be wild imagination run amuck. It was late in the afternoon and the only place open was the local saloon, yet this time, while at the local bar, after being quickly educated by the locals in "local ways and local terminology" they pointed me in the right direction."

"Here in this tiny community I was pleasantly surprised, for many outhouses emptied directly into the creek from both sides for a mile upstream. There were overhangers, trestle jobs, creek straddlers, and on a smaller side creek there was even an impressively unusual bridge plus outhouse combination."

"That unique bridge/outhouse straddler combination piqued my interest, so I opted to return later in the early evening hours when the lighting was better to attain decent photographs of it."

"The outhouse proved quite uniquely designed, for the bridge was built of wood, a single span of about twenty feet, wide enough for one car and two outhouses, that joined in the center to become one long structure accessed by two doors to the privy throne. There was a private residential homestead on each side of the creek (immediately next to the bridge/outhouse combination) so I presumed that both neighbors had access to their portion of the outhouse."

"The resident of one of the homes watched me from his window. He saw me snap photos, then write in my notebook. Soon he came to the conclusion that I was a government man gathering evidence, probably a member of the hated Environmental Protection Agency."

" "He rushed out of the front door of his house, ran to the bridge and hollered, "We don't use it anymore. Ya hear? We ain't used it for mor'n a year!" "

Quote from "The Two-Story Outhouse" by Norm Weis

Peak Bagging in August

My mountain climbing partner and I had picked a weekend in August, yet on this occasion we logically assumed that there would be other peak bagger mountaineers doing the same ascent and that they would arrive on Friday or Saturday, and depart by Sunday. So on our journey we opted to arrive on Saturday about mid-day, make our ascent on Sunday, and depart on Monday.

We spent the first day, Saturday, driving north there from Portland, arriving at the parking lot at mid-day, thus giving us a reasonable half-day to make the initial approach hike up to high camp.

Indeed, up there at high camp were a number of other summiteers camped at the bivouac site at several of the flat landing spots along the moraine near the lower terminus of the glacier.

Early Sunday morning we departed upward summit bound; that same morning everyone else departed downward trailhead bound.

We marched slowly but steadily across the two-and-a-half mile wide glacier, meandering around numerous crevasses, en-route to the final steep snow ravine near the summit plateau.

Above that final snow ravine it was a basic long march across the flat summit plateau to the lone subtly higher real summit perched roughly some 400' higher than the nearby surrounding snowy terrain. It took all day for the adventure but we returned safe to our high bivouac campsite near the moraine late in the day.

At that moment a unique situation clearly struck our innermost senses, for not only were we the ONLY party up there at high camp in the early evening hours surrounded by an entire alpine zone all to ourselves, but we had also managed to pick the perfect weekend of banner blue skies with nary a hint of clouds anywhere in sight. As we relaxed at our bivouac site in cotton T-shirts and cotton pants, there was not a hint of any chill temperature, nor a strong breeze in the air.

And for miles around us at the alpine level, between the deep green forested slopes below us, and the rock and snow peak world above us, lay an immense treeless alpine world of infinite colorful bloom with every imaginable flower available on full bold display.

I had brought my Canon DSLR 40D camera with me, and while my climbing friends proceeded to prepare our evening dinner, I took a long wide slow walking tour amongst all of the very colorful meadow floral beauty that surrounded our campsite, taking many dozens of photographs of one of the most impressively amazing floral displays I had ever seen on the west side of the northern Washington Cascade Mountain range.

Collie Dog

"Among the rattlesnake's worth enemies is the collie dog. On one very hot morning, while Hale and I were talking at the back gate, our collie, Cim, came running down the road toward us. Suddenly he stopped. A coiled rattler was lying in the bright sun on the roadway. Cautiously Cim drew near the rattler. Then he began a dance in the sunshine that would have won applause for a ballerina. On tiptoe, the dog swiftly started circling the snake and every so often dashed in, as the snake, open-mouthed, fangs exposed, struck back. Between strikes, as the snake's head followed the dog's movements, his slender, darting tongue had a hypnotic effect on us. But the collie was too quick for him. He was also having great fun, for he knew when and how to come in for the kill."

"As we watched, fascinated, the dog waited for the precise moment when he could close in and grab the rattler at the back of the head. Suddenly he tossed the snake high into the air. He then trotted smugly over to us, knowing he had put on a great show. Back of him lay the still-twitching body of the dying rattlesnake."

Quote from "Ranch Under The Rimrock" by Dorothy Lawson McCall

Hardy House Plant

My daughter knows that every time I've gotten a house plant, somehow I've managed to 'kill' the poor house plant — either by neglect, or lack of water, or who knows what. I just don't have that key green-thumb nature touch personality, I guess.

About the only thing I haven't 'killed' that has grown up in my home are my six children, all of whom are adults now, married and living a family life of their own.

So...one fine summer season, one of my daughters purchased a new house plant for me, and casually said to me, "Now Mom, don't worry, you can't kill this one. The florist at the store guaranteed it by claiming that this one is a very hardy house plant."

"Well OK, I'll try it," I said, knowing full well where this house plant was going to end up at — a month or so from now, neglected from green-thumb care to keep it alive.

Several weeks later the hardy house plant — a twisty vine odd thing — was still green and growing slowly, with a host of tiny blooms still in full color on the house plant.

A month later I glanced at the house plant again, and yep, it was still green and growing slowly, with a host of tiny colorful blooms still on it.

"Hmm...I thought to myself." That's odd, the blooms sure are lasting a long time.

I have poor vision eyesight, and don't always wear my eyeglasses, but this time I leaned in much closer for an inspection of the hardy house plant and its colorful blooms — stuffing my nose up quite close to the plant.

To my surprise, and with a light chuckle, knowing the quirky sense of humor my daughter partakes in regularly, I realized that the blooms weren't real...they were made of SILK...the blooms were forever blooms.

My daughter was right about this hardy house plant...it's still alive and doing well, silk blooms and all.

War Veterans

I was the crew member of a helicopter team during the Vietnam War, and on one risky mission we flew in to get another ground force team who were in a dangerous situation and in need of quick assistance. When the helicopter landed I muscled speedily to assist in getting eleven out of twelve team members into our helicopter and we flew all of them to safety at the nearest Army base. To this day these eleven Veteran's help each other whenever one friend is in need.

I had recently crashed my six-cylinder small Ford pickup truck into an oak tree (yep the oak  tree is still solidly standing tall unscathed, while my pickup truck was totaled). Within a week the other 11 persons of that rescue situation in the Vietnam War had pooled enough funds to acquire another pickup truck for me, and had it delivered 7 days later all the way across the USA to my apartment parking spot.

That's what a team of life long friends is for....commitment. Families and friends are life long commitments well worth the journey.

My Neighbor's Cat

 I do luv cats.

Some years ago the last of my extensive cat family had departed for cat heaven (I had seven cats), all having lived long adventurous cat-happy lives here on our homestead acreage. Lately I had considered acquiring another new cat for personal company, as well as to help keep the residence rodent population at bay.

As luck would have it my neighbor's cat showed up at my back door on very wet rainy Fall season day searching for something. It's health was a bit dire, for its eyes were weeping from an eye infection and in need of some luv and care, so I let the cat into my house, gave it some medicine (that I still had saved in a side cupboard from my previous cat family), then placed it in my smaller bathroom, hoping to provide it a comfortable place to sleep in a warm environment. It seemed to accept the small bathroom idea quite well, so I carefully closed the door to keep it in there so that I could easily locate the cat again later that day. 

Shortly later I called my neighbor and mentioned to him that his cat had roamed over to my residence and was now in my bathroom resting.

Later that day he drove his pickup over to my residence, whereupon I escorted him to the bathroom and opened the door slowly. We both peered inside, but did not see the cat. It had seemingly disappeared. We both looked around inside the small bathroom but could not find the cat. Earlier I had left the window ajar slightly to let fresh air in, and we thought that perhaps the cat had gone back outside for the evening by exiting out the open window. So my neighbor departed homeward bound...cat-less.

Shortly later I returned to the bathroom for another closer inspection, and with a bit of diligent effort I discovered the missing cat. Mrs. Cat had slipped into the deep wooden clothes hamper basket (that was partially filled with dirty clothes) and it was comfortably sleeping there still, quite peaceably, amongst a pile of dirty clothing.

Next day I again called my next door neighbor, but by this time he had given up on the cat, and decided it was best to just leave the cat at its new found residence...at my homestead, and I've had this pretty cat ever since.

Doggone It Chevy

At one of our favorite local county parks there is a long lakeside paved walkway where the everyone enjoys taking a long shoreside stroll along the lake. Many families come to that lakeshore park and gather around a picnic table, while the kids go play in the refreshing lake waters. 

Of course the county park does have its usual set of rules: don't swim around the boat dock; no sunbathing on the boat dock; all dogs must be on a leash, no fireworks, etc., all of which a fair portion of the tourists who visit the county park tend to ignore those "strange rules".

While relaxing there by the lakeshore with my family on repeated occasion, we have quickly learned the name of at least one dog in particular. There is one local citizen who often walks his two dogs (one is the alert adventurer and the other dog is the obedient one) from one end of the shoreline walkway to the far other end of the shoreline walkway.

The docile obedient dog's name is Cammy (aka CamCam), while the adventurous dog's name is Chevy. Yep, you guessed it right...this guy obviously has a preference for certain kinds of automotive vehicles.

During that long weekly park walk he calls commands primarily to one dog -- the adventurous one -- Chevy the adventurer.

The commands spoken to his adventurous one dog asking it to heel are quite repetitious as he tells that dog for the 'ump-teenth thousandth time to heel, or to stay close to master, or to not wander very far. BUT...like a large portion of the dog walkers at the county park the man never puts a leash on either dog during the entire time he takes both dogs out there for a long walk along the shoreline park trail. 

And surprisingly, both dogs are virtually quite obedient. The dogs stop when he stops walking and says to both, "Stop". The dogs eagerly watch the masters' moving hand for an eventual tiny gibber snacky handout. Thus, during those weekly walks in the park the dogs rarely get truly out of line for the master is always there to remind the two dogs via an ever present verbal command.

So, for the thousandth time it's....

"Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy. Chevy."

And...believe me, everyone who has ever visited that county park certainly knows the more adventurous dog's name by now! 

Yet at the same time...those are the two most obedient dogs I have ever seen walking calmly and smartly, while wearing no leash at all, while walking steadily beside their skillful diligent master in a public park where there were so many minor nearby noisome distractions.

Ya know come to think of it...that might be a viable fitting name for our next pup....

Delivered Dressed Hogs

 "At hog-butchering time one winter Norman sold a couple of dressed hogs to the silver mine located up in the foothills, and he hired me to deliver them on sleighs with a team of horses. When I arrived at the small mining community I drove up to a window at the meat house where the boardinghouse flunky told me just to shove them through the window headfirst. The hogs weighted five hundred pounds apiece, and were frozen stiff. When the first one landed it went right on through the floor, and there it lay with its hind legs sticking straight up in the air. When the other hog slid through the window the man inside, being much more attentive now, carefully eased it down to the floor. I quickly sat down on the wagon buckboard seat, grabbed the reigns of my horse team and coaxed the horses into motion heading back down the trail toward town, for I didn't wait to see how the man got the first hog out of the hole in the floor of the boardinghouse."

Quote from Pan Bread 'n Jerky by Walter L. Scott

Fishy Fish Tales

Ernie, Marcus and I went to the ocean beaches for an overnighter (we were all employed at the same production facility in town) mainly just to get away from the repeat cycle of doing the same old thing outdoor sports activities during the weekends in the valley. One of my work buddies had close kin relatives who owned a second home in one of the small coastal towns, and we were kindly allowed the opportunity to freely utilize that house during that brief weekend coastal journey.

Just before returning to the valley (and then back to another week of work on the job), the team opted to walk down along the local dockside Fish Market located down beside the bay in that small coastal town. The long wharf beside the bay had a number of wholesale and retail businesses there that sold a variety of fresh tasty seafood consumable items of interest (from prawns, to crab, to fish, and much much more). Our eyes were tantalized.

With a little bit of finagling — NO...not over the price of seafood, nor with the seafood seller — but between the three of us guys, debating whether to buy "something fishy" — Eric had managed to convince all of us guys to buy one single fresh fish and bring it back to the apartment, where we would quickly cut up the fresh fish into our own purchased apportion for each person to take home (we didn't reside at his apartment at the time).

Yep...that "fresh fishy fish" was a whole Albacore Tuna. Luckily for us that fish was one of the "smaller" sized fish...for in its whole size it simply did not fit into the refrigerator, but when a series of sharp kitchen knives sliced into that fresh fish, cutting that tasty delicacy into its four apportioned segments — only then did we really appreciated just how "huge" one of the smaller tuna fish that swim in the ocean really is.

Yep, we were eating tasty fresh oven baked fish, and frozen thawed baked hot fish, for a solid month after that one brief weekend venture to the ocean beaches.

Normal Normie

My sister and I were chatting by phone with each other recently. We were talking about a variety of random topics that came to the forefront that month. One topic rolled around the premise that certain people prefer to blend in to the general masses rather than to stand out. Somewhere in the heat of that topic I summed it up as....

"...but even I would, in that particular instance, prefer to fit in with the general masses, and aim to be normal."

She, in her usual snappy responsive way, instantly replied, "Don't worry, Norman, you're anything but normal!"

....which begs the question: "Are climber's normal?"

Three Corner Rock Trail

A strong mountain biker on a casual trail

Jerry and I were mountain biking from the lower parking lot beginning at the 3-Corner Rock Trailhead. He was a virtual pro at mountain biking, and I was a total novice (having only peddled on streets and 1-2 brief minor trails in town). But I was a strong rock climber and an energetic honed mountaineer so I naturally assumed the two activities should help me with the peddling. 

In a mere minute or so after departure from the trailhead, he was gone in a fast ZOOM up the trail in a biking dash, but just a few hundred feet up the trail I quickly found myself pushing the bike....a lot more than I had anticipated, for whenever it went up a steep enough grade I burned out of lung capacity, simply because the concept of how to mtn bike-ology was not ingrained into my skill set yet. That skill set takes years of intense practice.

Each time I did catch up to him he was sitting alongside the trail, waiting patiently for me to catch up, while he casually was lounging about smoking and cigarette and smiling at my out-of-shape condition for this sport activity.

We both eventually crossed the foot bridge over the creek and then continued pedaling up the next long zigzag trail grade till we both eventually reached to the USFS gravel road. I quit there at the gravel road and opted to wait, while he dashed off uphill -- him and his speeding mountain bike -- on up the upper portion of the trail en route to the very summit of Three Corner Rock. Yet this year in early June the summit zone of the peak was still covered in random deep snowdrifts. 

So, at that gravel USFS road junction where the trail crossed over it....I waited, and waited, and waited...for what must have been several hours. It seemed like forever, but eventually I heard a sound of racket coming from the south (on the gravel road), and from around a bend in the road he came pedaling into view, and finally arrived, stepped off his bike and sat down to smoke a cigarette.

He explained that the upper portion of the peak had so many snow drifts that he resorted to pushing his bike the remainder of the way to the summit. He was not too eager to push his bike back down a considerable portion of the same trail, and he glanced southward and noticed that the main gravel road going southward had minimal snow drifts on it. So he decided to pedal south for several long miles, till he reached the 3-way junction, then cut back NW on the west side USFS gravel road that returned past the location where I sat patiently waiting. Hours went by during this whole process, and he did not escape all the snowdrifts, for apparently there were still notable section in the thick forest -- even on the road -- where he had to resort to pushing his bicycle for long distances. Thus it was HOURS while I patiently waited. 

Wow, I thought to myself, he had unlimited physical energy level all committed to the sport of mountain biking....

As a team, we jumped back on our bikes and, from that forest road, we sped off down hill along the Three Corner Rock Trail travelling down to the footbridge, along the lower forested hills trail in fast time on our bikes, racing all the way back to our vehicle parking spot along the Washougal River road.

Jerry pointed out to us that this particular trail (Three Corner Rock Trail) is considered to be an "easy" mountain bike journey for most mountain bikers. I got quite a laugh when I heard that comment....

"Easy for whom?"....

Max vs Buster

No matter where your at, whether it's out rock climbing at the local crag for the day, or out day hiking, it just seems to repeatedly happen. 

One time it might occur during or just after a day hike. Another time it was a day when my friend was up on the sharp end of the climbing rope leading a 5.4 rock climbing route, and his dog begins to roam around the neighborhood near the base of the crag sniffing various artifacts and other peoples stuff in search of who-knows-what. Then . . . .

Dog #1 meets dog #2. After a sniff or two as each dog checks out the opponents backside, one or the other gets into a mental pickle, an invisible overreach has occurred, as one or the other lil mutt has simply gotten too close or looked at the other 4-legged creature with that sneaky sideways glance, then . . . an explosion of fur, barking and dust, and both dogs have erupted in a typical snarling politically motivated dog turf argument. Rufus vs Riley, Max vs Buster, Droolius Caesar vs Fido, Expo vs Sparky -- yep, you get the picture. That's life!

While Out Bouldering

One day while out bouldering with my daughter, a person nearby noticed how well she was bouldering and asked her, "Which indoor gym do you climb at?"
To which she replied, "I don't, I climb on real rock."

A Very Small Climbing World

A (Very) Small Climbing World

Just to illustrate how small the climbing world is....here are several examples, all from Thailand:

I'm walking past a (very) small crag near Railey [in Thailand] when one of the two climbers there said "Didn't we see you at French's Dome a few months ago?"
--- by Dave S

A Seattle couple I climbed with for a couple of weeks [in Thailand] took plenty of photographs and when they returned back home [to the States] they showed their photograph collection to friends. One friend said, "I know him" [referring to Dave].
Seems Dave had worked for his brother back in Vermont many years before.
--- by Dave S

A Typical Day At The Dome

I was belaying Tymun on the Road Face route at French's Dome in the quiet early AM morning hours on a warm Spring day. The trail from the parking lot to the crag is a short one minute walk so climbers tend to let their kids or pups run down first to the crag.
Casually I peered up the trail looking beyond the trees and a minor thicket of shrubs. I noticed a reather large black dog lopping gently down along the trail toward the Dome. Oh great....here come the morning crowds.
As the creature moved a bit closer in my direction my thoughts abruptly sharpened when I realized, "Yeow, that's no dog...it's a bear!"
At just about the same time I realized IT, the bear also realised that HE was not alone either.
Immediately the bear busted off the side of the trail heading south past me and disappeared into the forest and brush. Then, it was quiet once again at French's Dome.
--- as told by Dave S.