Five years ago, I came across the website of a citizen journalist recording his life as a pedestrian in riot-gripped Baltimore. By strange means, I was then pulled into this web of self selected people who value the truth and each other from across great distances. Some of these people have opened their homes to our little orbit's center of gravity, the man himself. Riley was one of these, and James and I had the chance to interview him while James stayed in his remote Colorado castle. Riley was ready for the happening and he got the satisfaction of seeing it start.
Follow this link for our podcast with Riley, sometimes known as the Checkered Demon.
Bob is a dear friend of James' and mine, chief in the exclusive group that has hosted James in his inspired wanderings, and he has this to say about Riley:
I've been staring out the window, snowing again. Thinking about a good friend of mine who passed away last Tuesday. I only knew him a short time, too short in fact. We met on James LaFond's blog site, this is very unusual for me, just as writing to anyone is foreign to me. I'm an aged introvert, damn proud of it. Riley and I met as do most of my friends, arguing, something small as subjects go, I think it was about bears. I realized in exchanging emails, there was something familiar about his style of writing, and speaking, and it was still there later, when we talked on the phone. He was a southern gentleman, and part of my family came to the west from the southern regions. I always had a better rapport with this side of my family, they were my favorite, including my crazy Norwegian uncles. Riley's life stories were warm, hilarious, and sometimes heartfelt, he was a master of telling stories, he was a fine writer also. My wife made a comment while I was talking to him, as he recalled a time of his life on a oil barge. My wife said she hadn't heard me laugh like that for years. He had a love of firearms, as most rural men do. He restored Savage Model 99s, a beautifully and elegantly designed lever action rifle. I have this long gun too, they hadn't made left-handed bolt action rifles for southpaws yet when I got it, and the lever action was comfortable for we freaks, as we are called in jest sometimes. Riley and I had a lot in common, we were raised in a similar environment, I wished we had met sooner. The world will be worse off from his absence. A part of you dies when you lose such a man. Riley I hope we met again someday, I pretty sure sooner than later. He was a real man, a rarity in the world now days , Godspeed my friend, hope we can share a little whiskey again. Bob
Riley was writing a story, I have most of it, but he was still working on the ending. It was a piece of fiction starring James and featuring some other LaFondians. I was helping him edit and format it. He asked me not to tell his friends that he trusted a woman. His last email to me was on Monday, and I have been thinking about it ever since, my time for Crackpot work has been cut way back by the coronapocalypse. It bothered me that I owed him an answer. Turns out he had waited less than 24 hours. I wrote back yesterday, maybe he can see it from where he is.
I saw it in a dream one night, like I’d envisioned it all
before.Many times.The mid-60s Chevy hard-top slowly motored
down my drive as I scrambled into place with the AR-10.
The ‘scope was on 6x and I could see five or so inside the vehicle.I put six rounds of Turkish 308 into the
engine compartment, bringing forward progress to a halt.
Silhouettes moved within the car, and I brought them down with
the 147 grain loads as they exited.Pushing 3,000 FPS, the blood sprays against the snow broadcast unmistakably that a rebel vehicle had been bounced.It was clear in the moon’s light that the time had come to go.
I’d packed long ago, and all the right stuff was there.I slid off down the hill, mixing my tracks
with the deer ones, working down the mountain’s fall.I had told the Wife the police might come
knockin’ on the door.“Tell ‘em I’m all
aged and shit.No more tolerance for the
challenged. No idea where he’s bound, you know?Might be loaded?” Good woman.Kens the men, all right.
So I drift and watch.I
steal people’s shit and eat.They wonder
what hit them.I’ll never tell.
We had trudged out to the truck Sunday morning to dig it free of
the snow it had foundered to a halt in during Saturday’s mini-blizzard.Never forget how much a vehicle can side step
when losing traction on snow.The wheels
were resting within inches of a drop-off.Once again, bailing out had paid off.
I took my abuse for being a dozy old fart and shoveled, muttering
venom.We both muttered and shoveled
like quarry slaves.The upper surfaces
were frozen icy, and came free in ten or fifteen pound chunks to be heaved off
downhill.Square steel shovels
only.We had shed jackets and were
sweating like field hands facing a literacy test.It was plain, old timey, hard work that I can
feel now in my hands, arms, legs and back.
We did it for hours, maybe five, when, though the truck was still
nailed down, we finally agreed that we were done.We began to slog back through and over the drifts to the house.As we shambled along a dog began barking at
us off down hill, maybe a few hundred yards off.We slogged on, but our dog was listening,
looking down hill.
We got home and Wife went in the house.I went into my shop and burned one, sipping
coffee out of a Yeti cup that was still blood warm.The dog was barking outside, so I picked up
the binoculars and walked out by where she sat, ears up, facing downhill.The dog downhill barked again, and my dog
responded and ran downhill some.I scanned
with the glass but saw not much.I tried
to look where she was looking.
Finally, a black Labrador popped up in the glass, and soon she
was in our midst, wagging and polite, my dog with every hackle up, looking all
punk-rock.Wife checked out her
collar and got her name and a phone number.Paonia had strayed uphill, and soon her owner was headed our way.
We met him with his dog back where the truck was nailed.A guy in his 20s or 30s, beard and Carhartts.He was thankful to get his dog, "I was
chopping wood and she was right there. Then, she wasn’t."
Yeah, dogs.Who knows what
a dog might do?Back and forth, small talk, didn’t
know this guy.Meet the neighbor, etc.,then he suggested he might help me
dig out the truck, being neighborly and all.Fact is, Me and Him we finished it out.We did it to where Monday, Wife and I backed it back down the drive
and out. Freed at last from the
Thanksgiving Snow.
Inconvenience will come.It is written.When it does
though, other things occur that present an option that clears the path,
assuming you haven’t pissed off everyone within five miles.
So, the snow came in Monday night. No surprise to anyone, my Wife said lines were long at the grocer’s. The weather guessers were saying foot and a half and up.
At eleven Monday morning, the concrete saw gnawing through my shop slab bogged down and popped every breaker on the place. Modernity ground to a halt, but the carpenters kept up the game with hammer and chisel.
I wandered the grounds resetting breakers, really trying to remember what move worked the last time (was it years ago?) this happened. The carpenters finished up and I paid them off. They left for town. The sky was dark and spitting frozen rain. I found my small light and went into the basement, past the 24-battery bank to the inverter. There, written below it, was the process to restart the system. Ignition.
I cranked the generator set and charged the battery bank up, and my Wife got home with lots of town stuff related to Thanksgiving. We toasted the storm and settled in for the night.
That was Monday, but this is Thursday. We had the nice dinner and lie about stuffed, but we are still snowed in. It is interesting these days to be immobilized in any way, and it has been a torment to snowshoe out the drive through thigh-deep snow. The drive I blithely walk every day of my life? I’ve managed to slog half way over three days. Tomorrow I’ll bust through to the bottom.
First time on snowshoes in years (again) and a reminder of what great exercise tools they are. A man who snowshoes to work doesn’t need coffee. Meanwhile, my Wife is seriously upset to be snowbound. I do think I’d best pull off some break out soon, lest my rib freak out.
You want to know that woman? You want to get down into her nooks and crannies and all that flat-out private stuff? Put up the lubricant. Just go get snowed in somewhere and pay heed.
Some folks get edgy when they realize the exits are dogged off.
Codicil to the Last Will & Testament to Riley of the Mountain Redoubt
In my dotage, an engine and fan strapped to my back misting herbicide into Spring’s weeds, I stop and give Jet the dog a fresh chicken egg cracked in her bowl. She inhales it all but for a few shell shards, being young and still learning. An experienced country dog would have downed it complete, a dog’s gut being a sort of on board disintegrator ray.
So why a puppy now as I head into times when reality has transitioned? Politicians buying votes with embracement of your favorite deviancy rather than half pints of wine. Up being down and all, why start out a new puppy and the investment of time, effort? Feedback from the heart is all the response one could ask, and despite the effort spent, worth it. She outlives me? Well, bless her heart. It’s always in the past been another thing, me burying another dog broken-hearted. I’d just as soon miss that. The same things folks say about birthing children in broke down times.
Took her to the first session of obedience school today, me with four ounces of peanut butter and banana treats and a clicker in my pocket. I could have raked four ounces of dried cat turds out of the litter box and done as well, treat-wise. Dogs are, despite their attributes, nasty creatures at heart and will eat anything! They are sensory connoisseurs and rival the French at chowing down on the unthinkable. Only a chump allows a dog to “kiss” them.
Obedience school is for training owners to communicate with their dogs, using dog-shrink tricks to get their way. To reward the good and discourage the bad, like raising a child but with better results. To teach them to trust your judgment more than their own. To be low key, but insistent and fair. To be consistent and strict, but kindly with it all. To swallow anger and keep the frustration buried. It takes self control to control others.
And that is why dogs pay off. They reacquaint one with their humanity, and all that entails when dealing with innocents. Plus, you get the great ears and a walking burglar alarm. All said, I’ve forgotten people but never a single dog.
James: Let me get this straight, that gay white man made his gay mulatto boyfriend have sex with a quadroon woman so that he could have an octaroon son?
That kid doesn't have a chance. This is what comes of driving the African man out of the house and the European man out of the bedroom.
That poor child.
On Keeping Warm
Riley: Cowboy’s replacement Jet. 7 month old shepherd/Heeler mix. Female. Pointy ears to keep errant boxers in line. One wide awake canine here. Carries her tail in a tight curl.
James: Yeah, she'll have me ditching from dawn till dusk!
On the Dread Grace
Riley: There’s a dearth of males active in this presidential run up. Few dangly bits, even among the tokens. I feel confident the kids will work it out. I will spit at them across the respirator in the ol’ foke’s home.
I am enslaving my female dog, house breaking and such. Female canids are relation-ship-wise far more amicable than their human counterparts. They listen, and learn.
No country for old Men or Women.
James: I would like to form a harem of frustrated female presidential candidates, seriously.
Some people just won't talk to you, and of course they're the ones you absolutely must talk to if you're looking to understand. This was one of those guys, tall and slim, wearing a good suit and a hawk's face scarred by acne. He smiled pleasantly enough, but I could see it wasn't his normal smile. This one would smile after shooting you, watching you slide down the wall leaving a red streak to the base boards.
I was a fat cop, Detective 2 out of the uptown precinct working on my third cheating wife before retiring to Florida. We sat within the green-walled interrogation room with the ceiling fan whacking overhead, roiling the 85 degree air around.
"You don't seem to sweat," I said, mopping my brow with an off-white handkerchief.
"I ain't got nothing to sweat over, officer," he said.
"You shoved a walking stick through the front wheel of a cop's bike, causing her to scrub her beak loose, and what, we don't resent that? We let it slide?" I asked him.
"I would, were I in your shoes. I'd be so embarrassed to be associated with such police-things I'd put me on a bus to Boise just to flush the shame. Besides, police work is risky," he had a point.
"Why did you do it?" He slid down in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching, and again with the smile. "She was riding too fast, and on a sidewalk to boot! I felt endangered, and not just me. The sidewalk was crowded. Just say I made a citizen's arrest."
"OK asshole, let's just take a stroll." That made him flinch a bit, but he brought up the smile again and stood. "Where we off to?"
I took his elbow and steered him through the door and towards the entrance. A high vibration hummed through my hand. "The scene of the crime, that's where."
We left the station down the steps and strolled off along the sidewalk, I let his elbow loose and we had our hands in our pockets, two pals taking a stroll.
After a block or so he looked over. "So what's up?"
I faced him and opened my jacket "see the Glock?" He nodded.
"Grab it and crack me in the head with it, then get on that bus to Boise. I can't even remember why I became a cop in the first place, and it sucks to be one lately."
He smiled and nodded "I won't shoot you."
I came to seeing red, blood in my eyes, mine. Some citizen knelt over me. "Did you see where he went?" The citizen said he hadn't. I keyed my radio and reported myself down. A few lies to LeShawnna the affirmative hire Loot and I was off down retirement lane, a little beat up from my heroics behind the badge, but free, Lord. Free at last. And Portland, Portland can kiss my ass.
Nice looking woman, she raised her brows and surveyed her own face. Oval and fair with a sprinkle of freckles across the nose. "I am so fucking weary of my cute-ass face."
She was lovely, truly. Little fat, and lean with prominent veins against the muscle. Breasts too, though she tied them down. Nothing flashy, but she could drop a Chevy master cylinder, 12-month warranty, into your hand on demand. She was agile. The latest smart woman at Parts-R-Us down on Highway 36. Nothing much at all like Lydia, the receptionist for the county Lawyer-Predator sited in Lovell. She spun a whiskey and rocks on a supple wrist, watching the lights within. She'd meet up with Chancy down by the bar in a little bit. The Mexican girl who cleaned up for the lawyer worked the motel too, and said some city boys came in with a white Indian.
Lydia was a svelte one, with well styled hair doing its job. Her bones were good, and a touch of Slavic showed. Not Trump level Slavic, but for Lovell, Wyoming, hot. She did a line and thought of the lawyer's baby, aborted a month ago now. She could use some city-boy jive, just to pick her up some. Chancy wasn't much help, protecting her hymen as she did, plus her three cheerfully homicidal brothers patrolling around the fringes. "The man who lays that will walk a minefield," she thought. "Still, she's the closest thing to a pal I have. I just wish she didn't love me so."
The bar sign was a neon martini glass, tilted to the universal angle and hung improbably above a door fit for a bait shop. Big City rocked on his boot heels and looked over by Bad City. "That must be night-life here I'd guess." Bad City examined the highway stretching past, looking for threats, glancing back into the lot behind them, at the Fish Belly Lodge where Pale Indian slept. "If you can hear Willie Nelson, in my experience, it's safe to enter. And Willie is what I hear." They scurried across, and sidled on through the door.
Lydia looked in the mirror and elbowed Chancy, "Game time...heads up."
"Oh shit, Lydia. The short one looks mean as a snake!" Chancy said.
"They all fall. Let's just plumb their depths. The big one is checking me out."
Otis Shotwell got up and headed for the head, freeing up Lydia's left side and Big City moved right in, "How is it to be lovely, he asked her. Out here on the plains all alone." It's always lonely for a man, lost in beauty.
"Oh fucking barf Lydia, this is, I'm gagging here."
Bad City noted that beauty is a questionable quest. Chancy eyed him as one might a buzzing rattlesnake. "If I said something like that to you, you'd make me explain it," she said.
"Never explain and never apologize," Bad City said, "Want a drink? Your nipples are looking at me, right through your top. They're staring at me!"
"They've never seen your like before, stranger. They'd like a closer look," Chancy responded. "Bartender, two shots of Jack with a water back." Chancy poked Bad City in the ribs with a gentle finger, "are you as tough as you seem?"
Otis Shotwell had returned, and now sat beside Bad City, "She's a fucking dyke, dude."
"WHAT! You smelly-ass miner trash. I won't fuck your sorry ass and that makes me a dyke?" Lydia said?
"I don't think of myself as all that tough," Bad City said. "I try to stay smooth."
Lydia laid her finger against Big City's nose. "We should walk out to the parking lot. I have a Ford SUV with talented seats. There's room for all." They rose and walked out into the night, Otis yelling something after them. Lydia tripped on the threshold and face-planted on the sidewalk. "Clumsy bitch," Big City muttered. Bad City rolled her over and began staunching her bloody nose. Chancy snatched the handkerchief away and took over, murmuring in Lydia's ear and walking her off towards the new red SUV parked in a dark corner of the lot.
Big City looked at Bad City, and Bad City looked right back. "Our work here is done." It is, you know. And they slid back across the road, over to the Fish Belly, tip-toeing so as to not wake Pale Indian.
Knew this guy, still do I guess, if he still lives. More and more pass these days and you don’t even hear. He was in on the North Sea back in 1970s - 1990s, minded the checkbook and wound up with a good reputation, a destroyed marriage and a Son. I worked with him now and then, never as much as I would have liked to, for he was a pleasant man to work with. A very nice, smart, Lutheran, tall guy from Wisconsin, who loved rock and roll and guitars.
He had one of those places down in Florida, all stucco-Spanish, up under big-leaved trees. An example of every pest known to man lurked in the ditches and tall grass. Maybe five acres, just off the main road. Just enough to be too much for a man who spent 250 or more days a year offshore to manage. He’d broken up with the Wife and she’d moved on, except she really never did. She got so that he was moved to go to court to get possession of his boy for his own good, but boys get a lot of their traits from their Mothers. He just didn’t have the time for a Son.
He had a locked room in his house, stuffed with tasty guitars: Jimmy Page guitars, Elvis guitars, bare-bones Fender Telecasters, the varnish long ago worn through to the wood out in some honkey-Tonk back in some woods north of Mobile, inlaid Gibsons and all the rest. It was the sort of collection a man cranking out a half million a year could amass, and it was what he thought of when he thought of home. He never clicked with his boy, not enough anyway.
Careful how you breed there, randy man. He had current girlfriends living there, and in some cases hired illegal kid watchers, all doing the Mom job on this young lad, while Mom was out greasing up the bitch-pad on some thug’s Harley. He also had the County coming around, the diversity lard but hard-ass chump-hire who hated him from the moment he spoke. He spoke well, you see. Made her feel dumb. Pissed her off. She made him her hobby. The situation was bad alright, but she saw it as such for all the wrong reasons. More inspections, and more demands, as this woman worked overtime to ensure his scene would fail. A half million a year will buy a lot of toys, but peace from the high sheriff and police costs a lot more.
His house became a party house for his Son and his friends, and the Mother would check in, accompanied by some road warrior opportunist, just to see her cub was safe. Really nice guitars started showing up in local pawn shops. The drug crap. He spent his month off running guitars down, all through Florida, Alabama and Georgia. He got perhaps half back. His Son was locked down on some felony. Diving contractors were thinking he was too hung up on safety issues.
The emails bounce back and the 'phone don’t hook up. I picture him sitting in the mouth of a cave, clutching his head with both paws, looking out over the desert moaning “what is it that you want from me?” Or maybe he’s with someone, happy for now and coping. One never knows, and for now wondering will do. I’m sorely worn out from mourning lost brothers.
A blistering hot day it was in Idaho, just across the Tetons from Wyoming, when he uncovered the cowboy up in the rockfall.
He'd been tending the tiny dam most of his years: pulling limbs and such from the trash screen, never fixing any real problems but reporting them. It drove a small generator that had given a leg of power to the little town below since Spanish-American war days. He lived with his wife in a shiny, Company-supplied manufactured home, with a Company pick-up and an ATV. They were way up a dirt road through potato fields and into the foothills. Up on a corner of the old Whistler ranch.
He'd had his eye on a rockfall over on the Whistler place for decades, only 1/4 mile up from the dam in a tiny valley where he always kicked up Elk. A goodly chunk of granite had calved off a rock face onto the valley floor long ago, leaving a spray of perfect little boulders. The ones his Wife thought would make good borders for her gardens and their drive. The ones he'd towed a small wagon up into the valley for with the ATV.
He reckoned it would take a few trips. The wagon had its first load aboard, and he sat in shade and drank iced tea. He could envision a dozen trips before it was done, so he started staging the next one, picking the good sizes out of the spill to set aside. The stones were rounded or shattered by many frigid Winters and scorching Summers, and his boot heels slipped among them, trying to throw him down. "Careful, old man. Help's a long way away!" He went to one knee, then caught himself with his right hand. Looking down at his hand, he saw the old hat peeking up between the stones.
It was a felt hat, smashed flat against the ground, of the type called a slouch hat. It wanted to crumble in his hands, but he got it laid aside in one piece, and moved back into the pile, now with a pinch bar, shifting the covering rocks away. Next was the shattered skull and twisted spine, then a mess of shattered shoulder, rib and arm bones all mixed in with a horse's skull and neck, a skeletal fist still wrapped with disintegrating reins.
The sun was dipping as he finished up his clearance. He thought of what he had found. A rider, carrying percussion weapons had been crushed beneath a rockfall. He'd left the bones lay, but picked up everything else: the hat, belt remains with a buckle, a brass-framed revolver in a few tatters of a holster, a Spencer carbine frozen solid, fully loaded and a military style saddle and bags. Bit, bridle scraps, and a cavalry saber, brass-hilted. A goodly sized Bowie knife.
He'd dumped the stones, and carefully settled all the items in the wagon. He set off down the trail to the house. It was the first thing interesting he'd ever come across. The old Lady was gonna shit straight up.
Man has built bulwarks against the forces of nature since he lived in trees, but the solution was arrived at long ago. Gather up in groups and build structures to cut the wind, stop and divert the rain and flush the shit away. Stay clear of areas not under the control of governments. Kill strangers. Forget the days when enabled monkeys built empires out in the verges. Verges are thin on the ground these days. Costly, 'cause you don't want just any-old-body getting loose out on the edge of control.
The fire came six years in, gobbling trees and brush; cooking stones unto explosion. We sat in a loaned house downhill for almost three weeks not knowing day to day if our place still stood. In the lands still under construction, fire, water and wind have a free hand, like the abrasive on a buffing wheel to remove varnish from a wooden floor. To actually live in nature is to sense fully how far we've fallen in our quest for a bit of benison.
The blessing being sought is to live in the mythic nature that our ancestors fought to escape. A land ruled by tooth and claw, on a clock of seasons. One comes to perceive nature as a sort of drunken bed mate: farting and snoring with various stinks, stealing the covers. To learn nature has not the least appreciation of your deep thoughts and western aspirations. You can visit for awhile, but someone is sure to show up and upset your balance.
With no dog-catchers or cops around, one has to stay alert for rabid skunks, feral dog packs, the ubiquitous adder and two-legged opportunists. Become acquainted with killing. You also have to keep the humming bird feeders filled to keep the tiny things swarming, feeding up for their trip South, around the time the Deer dies. Seasons move in a way clocks don't, as there's some slack built in to allow for surprises. Other than the 'phone I haven't had an alarm clock in years. Something's sure to wake me up if something's really happening.
These groups that organize stuff tighten their grip out of habit, like a Coyote driving its fangs through a Rabbit's skull. I can't help mistrusting them with their smart-meters and concern for my soul and welfare. They won't spray for mosquitoes carrying avian viruses, but build causeways for leaping meadow mice to safely cross roadways. Where does one have to go to escape it, the Moon?
In fact, there is no escape from mankind barring disasters with mass die-off. The hard trick to that one is not dying along with the rest. To be honest, a depopulated world needs vital younger folks and doesn't need codgers, no matter their arcane knowledge. That, sadly, is just a worn novelist's device.
No matter where you might land in a country of 330,000,000+, the chances are that a swarm of others have had the same idea, and are busy turning it into an industry; the one you'll have to deal with who'll steal your data, blow your location and track your ways. In your hide-out.
Good luck in your foxhole. Do watches and practice X ten. Notice.
The Antrim family were first into this canyon, 1905, and have run it as a ranch since. Their old place is at the back. Back where the road ends. Bob is dead and Dorthy is in the old folks home down in town. Someone noticed folks hanging around and called the Sheriff. The house had been robbed of some firearms and tools, and meth had been cooked in Bob's shop. Nature hates a vacuum, and turn your back if you crave challenge.
A late model BMW 7 Series sports sedan with no plates was found abandoned high-centered on a mound of dirt, a dozen feet off the road to the right. Four paws in the air. Front end destroyed, an expensive little drug dealer car shed like a skin flake on a mountain road. I guess these items are write-offs in the drug trade these days. The automotive equivalent of a sneaker. If I had ever twigged to how indescribably weak people are I would have become a drug mogul. I thought weakness was unique to me. See? Self absorbed. Coulda' been a contender.
Meanwhile, while it lives, keep a sentry up. Even if nothing that concerns you comes, other things that bear no malice do, and their ways are lovely.
0 Dark 30 or so, and I arose in order to meet a bus headed South at 0530. For $7 (due to my years on the rowing benches) the bus would drop me at Union Station in Denver. I was to sit and wait the arrival of the California Zephyr, due at 0715. She was late, but government dulls everything.
I walked around a little after daylight seeing the city wake up, figuring out the below-ground bus layout and access from the train. The train was late, due to arrive at nine, and I bought a book to pass time within the upscale restored train station. It was done up like maybe the 1930s. You know, the years our country became infested. I seldom come down this way for a very good reason.
Around nine I was hanging back down by the benches at the end of the line. The spot smokers and drinkers sit is the best view of the Zephyr backing down. I watched until it stopped and the Conductors stepped out, then strolled down the platform past all the cars, watching the folks escaping their ride. No Jimmy-Jimmy that I saw. I turned and strolled back, looking hard now. It had been a year after all, maybe that's him wearing coveralls and a hard hat? No, he was the guy in a boonie hat across the tracks, bouncing on his toes and the balls of his feet. In motion, but standing still.
I crossed over and we met up. There was a bright aura of motion about him, so he stood out from the crowd of people around us. I let him know the first bus North was four hours away, and we ate food, drank beer and coffee and generally kilt time until the time arrived.
The bus was fast and plush: wi-fi, bottles of water and a toilet. An hour later he was planted under a shelter with his gear while I ran for the truck in a downpour. Summer in the Rockies.
The old Ford crawled up the last bit of dirt road and we were at the place. Head of the canyon, hanging off the flank of the mountains like a Swallow's nest. Angles everywhere.
I was three weeks off a sprained ankle and sort of limping about, but James was wide awake and looking at stuff. Energy from hell. Like being with a practicing man-at-arms would be, I'd imagine.
***
It was into the 90s during the days, but with low humidity and a breeze the sun gets aggressive on sea level hide. Closer now with less pollution, folks have died for the lack of a hat. As well, the atmospheric pressure is slightly lower and the air is slightly less inspired. For five or so days one will come up short of wind, until the body learns it.
James had swarmed through my shop, dragging a rubber car mat outside and hosing a year's worth of mud and slush off it, leaving it to sun dry and then be rained and hailed upon. Each gas can, wrench, carton, roll of hose, etc. etc., was set up high on something out of the way, then the whole space was swept out. The reflected light level at least doubled, toning down the drab dungeon vibe. James whacked on the heavy bag with my blackthorn stick. I wandered around wondering where everything was.
***
James told me that he had planned to do several hours a day of "light labor" to try to stay loose and maintain form. I told him his ship had come in. I need a secure footpath across the front of my shop, and the stone apron surrounding the building was trying to head downhill. That is no longer the case. I now have a proper path and James has been altitude tuned. Learned about hydration and getting work done early in the cool. A large toad has moved in under the bridge across some drainage, and a new small sub-world has sprung up. Cowboy the dog has embraced the new path, and the James effect lingers in his wake.
We went to a fairly good liquor store, and I got a bottle of bourbon. James got a jug of Carlo Rossi red and a 12-pack of Aggie beer. Nobody's drunk Rossi red and rum on ice out of a Pyrex measuring cup around me lately. OK, no one had ever done that. Baltimore cuisine right here in the high desert.
I worked him daily, mattock in hand like some white slave in the sun. He's in better shape than me for sure. I could let it inspire me off my ass into industry of my own, but there's no way I will let that sort of thing happen. I like taking two hours to wake fully up.
Ishmael showed up to visit and take the drifter over into Utah. He is a constant, like a human prime number. A lost culture in human form. He slept out on the deck at night in a Mercedes-like folding chair, listening to the cattle wailing down in the valley, buck snorts as the deer boys crept about mossy horned and "something with a fluffy tail that got close." Heard a cow Elk too. Just one, just once. Ishmael was limping around too, but he has two robo-knees and a good excuse.
We held some temperance meetings and shot the shit until we were tongue tied. James had been planning to use Ishmael as a sort of fork lift due to his size, but he was feeling his wounds and had not the LaFond enthusiasm for dirt work. Despite all that, it got done. We'd ride to the store, twenty miles daily for the mail, paper and Gatorade. Zero humidity and temps of 90 allow one to drink liters of Gatorade and water, yet never piss. Mountain Magic! We'd made the store run on Friday, and I realized I'd been a bad host to both James and Ismael. We'd been up at the house all week and I hadn't shown them around much.
I hung a right on Highway 36 out of the store and headed west up the Big Thompson Canyon towards Estes Park. In the Rockies, an open space ringed by mountains is called a park, think South Park. It is a glorious drive up through sheer canyon walls. Bighorn sheep kick rocks down at you as they defy gravity like mammalian house flies, prowling the crags. I turned off the main road at Drake onto the best bike road I know of. World class biker killing curves, always climbing, gaining altitude on up through Glen Haven past the Glen Haven Inn, a virtual English inn run by two genuine English poofs. GREAT establishment! On upward, finally through some of the most devious switchbacks ever, where I nearly dropped my bike more than once, and then topping a pass to reveal Estes Park suddenly like some kinetic postcard 2,000 feet below us.
We coasted on down through the estates and condos. High dollar stuff, and we could go there, if we behaved. The traffic was crawling through crowds of white peoples on vacay. We wound up at the Estes Brewery, where we saw our first Dindu. He had three or four mesmerized white people with him that he was instructing. He only said MF once, so was obviously tamed, maybe even educated. James was over the moon. He felt at home.
We had burgers and beer, then drifted on back downhill on Highway 36 back through the canyon. We held another temperance meeting, and the next day was spent shooting. Ishmael had an old school M14, I had 308 stuff too plus shotguns and 9MM stuff. We shot awhile, and it wound up shooting rocks off fence posts with a 22 target pistol at around 15 yards. Ishmael the sand-bagger, "I hardly ever shoot handguns," damn near beat me with my own pistol.
The next morning, Sunday, James and Ishmael headed off to Utah. Life quieted down to the normal silence, and my Wife emerged from her safe room. Cowboy the dog stared off down hill after the guests, having been charmed by James with beef jerky.
Too much testosterone, three men on the place. That was my Wife's assessment. I thought the level was optimal, me. You can live with folks half your life and all, but don't ever think that means you know them completely.
