The Magic Comes to an End

Summer
It turns me upside down
Summer, summer, summer
It's like a merry-go-round.
--The Cars, "Magic"

This is always a bittersweet time of year for me. Tomorrow is the first official day that teachers are to report for duty. Students will not arrive until next Tuesday, and I have actually been doing some form of "work" or another since last Tuesday, but tomorrow it is official.

On one hand, I am, as I am every year, excited to get back to teaching. I am eager to get to know my new classes and eager to meet all the challenges that a school year brings (some more than others, of course). I am also looking forward to some new challenges, as this year marks my first as yearbook adviser and I have been asked to mentor a new teacher. Every school year seems to bring something new: a new standardized test, a new policy, a new appraisal process, a new administrator, a new class to teach...so much new.

But, as I look ahead upon the challenges that await, I also look back on the freedom that I will lose, again, for nine months. No more sleeping until seven or eight (or later, if I wanted to). No more travel (not much, anyway). No more choosing to do anything without thinking of the five AM wake up on the other end, or the stack of papers to grade, or the lesson to tweak.

In the long run, that's okay. After all, it is a luxury few people have, an eight week layoff with pay. So, I am sad to see it go, but appreciative that I had it.

I didn't really do much professional work this summer, which is fine by me, but that is a rarity. Almost always, I have a workshop or a class to attend, or I read something directly related to my field (besides journals). This year, I did nothing like that. In some way, as an English teacher, every book I read is some small form of professional development, but my choices this summer were selfish. Nothing I might teach as a whole class novel (but plenty I would recommend as personal reading).

So, this summer, perhaps more than any summer since Monkey and I went to Italy, has been a treasure and a joy. It didn't go exactly as I wanted it. My peppers and tomatoes are still lagging behind; I didn't fish as much as I might have liked; I didn't write enough. However, except for the tomatoes, I can say that about every summer.

I'll miss you, my good friend, Summer. I have enjoyed every sweat bead and sun burn, every glass of iced tea and cold beer, every tomato cheese sandwich. I enjoyed crabbing with my nephews and helping them master the techniques of boogie boarding. I enjoyed getting obliterated by post-storm waves in the cool surf of the Atlantic. I enjoyed hiking the Rockies and going toe-to-toe with belligerent rodents. I enjoyed a few lazy days reading with Monkey. I enjoyed the occasional ice cream cone. I enjoyed sporadically interrupted fireworks and a trip to Fenway Park on the fourth of July. I enjoyed it all.

Until Saturday night, but, Summer, I will forgive you a ferocious thunderstorm that breaks my trees and cuts off my power for twenty four hours every now and again. Especially since I also enjoyed a ferocious looking light show after the storm.

Now, it's time to get serious (but not too serious) and get to work. Bring it!

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part The Last: Fairly Treacherous Snow

As evening drew to a close the night before, the batteries died in the camera, so, while others were able to snap pics with their new-fangled iPhones, I was left with nothing to offer in the way of visual accoutrement.

We arose later than I anticipated from our tents along Fern Lake, but, after breakfast and discussion, Laura decided to stay at the campsite, while Mike, Monkey and I trekked the three-quarters of a mile or so up to Odessa Lake. More altitude gain on this hike, but, with a base camp, we were able to walk unencumbered. It was a nice change of pace.

As we made our way, we continued to look back for satisfying views of Fern Lake below. We neared Odessa Lake and passed an older gentleman on his way back down. We hailed him. His report: "There's some fairly treacherous snow up ahead."

Inside, we all laughed. It seemed that at every turn someone was warning us of snow. Not only did it seem ridiculous in late July, but each report turned out to sound worse than it actually was. And this case was no different.

Arriving at the lake, we did have to cross a wide stream on a snow bank under cut by rushing water. It was a large patch of snow, maybe a couple hundred yards, maybe less, but it was solid and only as slippery as any snow one might encounter. So, we conquered that little obstacle and came upon another poster-worthy alpine lake. And more trout (definitely fishing next year). And a couple of better behaved ground squirrel.

We walked around the lake for a little while, then turned and made our way back to camp. We packed up, not forgetting to fetch our food out of the woods, and slung our burdens back up. Of course, most of this hike would be down hill, so a little easier to haul. We made it back to the car in good time and drove back to the brown cabin, where we all had well-deserved showers and porch front cocktails.

And another unexpected visitor: an elderly woman, out for an evening stroll, who promptly invited herself up to the porch to converse with us. After Laura fetched her a chair, she stayed for a lengthy spell. Honestly, not my favorite part of the trip, but she was harmless, and she told a few interesting stories. After she left, we ate, then turned in, trying not to think that tomorrow was the end of our trip.

Of course, Monkey was kind of looking forward to a visit to Chic-fil-a in Loveland on the drive back, so, there was a slight silver lining, I guess.

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part Four: Fairly Aggressive Ground Squirrels, or It Goes in the Bear Can

As these things sometimes happen, yesterday’s debacle of the “lighter” backpack was not to occur today or tomorrow, since we were planning an overnighter, and I was encumbered with far more than just an extra jacket or two. We had purchased a new pack, with a much larger capacity, allowing me to carry tents, sleeping bags, food, and other gear, along with my normal “bare necessities.”

Our destination on today’s hike was Fern Lake, another beautiful destination that required a good deal of “vertical” hiking. The trail was only about three or four miles, so we didn’t head out until mid-day, but that gave us plenty of time to take an unhurried hike and set up camp before any weather might hit.

You might recall our last overnight hike involved a two-stage ascent of Longs Peak, and that the weather overnight at our campsite was pretty horrendous. We spent the bulk of that night huddled in our tents, listening to thunder crash all around us, as rain pelted our fabric roofs without cease. We hoped for better weather this time, and even expected it, since our campsite this year was still well below the timberline and, thus, less exposed to the mercurial thunderstorms of the alpine region.

Regardless of the weather, this year’s hike included a guaranteed new experience: we had to carry a bear can. A bear can, you might think, is a can full of bear. After all, a beer can is a can full of beer. You would be mistaken. A bear can is a container that is theoretically bear-proof, into which backcountry hikers place their food. The bear can is then placed in the woods, far from camp. The can is supposed to contain the smell of the food, keeping the bears from being attracted to it; however, if a bear does smell the food, the can will a) lure it away from camp and b) prevent it from eating your food (but not from a) carrying off your food or b) throwing your food off the nearest cliff or c) coming to look for the joker who put the food in a bear-proof can). I volunteered to carry the bear can, since, you know, I love bears.

We left from the dusty Fern Lake trail head and, for the first two miles or so, enjoyed a pretty easy walk along Big Thompson River. Then, at a trail junction by a place known as The Pool, the trail inclines steeply, gaining over 500 feet in about three-quarters of a mile. With about thirty pounds on one’s back, such a climb can be a sweaty, leg-wearying affair; however, this slog leads to Fern Falls, where the mist cools you and the falling water wows you. We paused here, taking a snack break and temporarily removing our burden.

Back on the trail, it is another mile and a quarter and another 800 feet in elevation. Just when I thought I might have to call a halt, the trail levels off, and the last fifteen minutes of the trail treated me gently. We came to a ranger’s station, which was not manned at the time, and, on the other side, the calmly beautiful Fern Lake appeared. Our campsite was on the other side of the lake.

Crossing the outlet of the lake on a small timber bridge, we could see the poetic form and motion of mountain trout swimming in the current. The water was so clear and the fish so attractively colorful, I thought for a moment I could just reach out and grab one of those piscine treats, but I soon realized that leaning out over the bridge with all that weight would signal a cold wake up to my system—not to mention that those trout are fast and slippery fish-types. Across the bridge and to the campsite we walked.

We set up our tents and took some beef jerky and trail mix down to the lake for a little afternoon snack. Sitting on a large tree fall, gazing out at the few fly fishermen making their last casts of the day, we noticed a ground squirrel come from behind us to survey not only us, but the delectables we had with us. He jumped right and left, forward and back, trying to get as close as he dared, but we shooed him and tried to be as gently belligerent as we could. After several minutes in which we felt that Mr. G Squirrel was overstepping our comfort zone, I playfully stood up and approached him, placing my feet and raising my hands in a Jack Johnson (not the “Banana Pancakes” guy), nineteenth century-style boxing pose. We all fell out when the squirrel appeared to raise his own little mitts and waved them at me in response before he bolted for the safety of his burrow under a nearby stump. Of course, this amusement would not last long, as we were soon visited by other rodents with designs on our goodies.

We unpacked our food, preparing for dinner and packing into the bear can, but, as we continued to develop our campsite, the clouds rolled in and it began to rain. We retreated to our tents, hoping that the storms would be short-lived. They were. About twenty minutes later, the skies cleared. Monkey and I looked out our tent screen and saw a ground squirrel approach our bagged nuts and jerky. Neither of us had shoes on, and, as I groped for footwear, Monkey thought it would be wise to frighten the invader.

“Chippy!”

She screamed from the tent, hoping that the ground squirrel would not notice that she thought she was yelling at a chipmunk of great size. He froze for a second and then crept closer to his quarry.

By now, I was coming out of the tent. I was just in time, too. The squirrel had reached the piled provisions and had his mitts around a bag of trail mix, I saw the bag slide an inch down the log on which it sat just as I reached it, stomping to ward off the camp pilferer. He dropped his booty and headed for shelter. After that incident, we were more concerned with ground squirrels than bears, and we made a concerted effort to always keep everything clamped down in the bear can.

Everyone else joined me outside our tents, and we boiled up some water for hot soup to enjoy along with various other “cold” foods. I had brought along a pre-packed slice of Spam, and my only regret was that I only brought one. It was an exquisite camp hors d’ouvre.

After dinner, we took another walk around the lake, spied many more trout (next year, we’re fishing!), and returned to camp to wind down and eventually settle in. The mosquitoes soon became too much for every one but me (I don’t know why they don’t seem that interested in me sometimes), and I sat on a stump and watched the sun set. Just before I retired, myself, on a final check around camp, I saw what I thought was a domestic cat creeping through the underbrush behind our tents. On close inspection, it turned out to be a snowshoe hare, its brown fur and white boots giving me a distinctly cat-like initial impression. I watched it hop and feed for a few minutes, until it got almost too dark to see. I had never seen a snowshoe hare in the wild. It was no moose, and it was no bear (thank goodness), but for me, it was a highlight of the trip. So, satisfied, I settled in for some fitful sleep in the strangely silent mountain forest. Monkey tossed and turned beside me, and we waited patiently for a new day and a new adventure.

Unexpected Visitors (Another in an Irregular Series of Very Long Stories), Part Three: The Mountain Doesn’t Care About You

When she's on her best behavior

Don't be tempted by her favors

Never turn your back on mother earth.

--"Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth," Neko Case

After the previous day’s hike to the glorious Lake of Glass, I made a disastrous miscalculation that had a detrimental effect on our mid-week hike. I normally take even the shortest ramble with essential gear that might be needed in an emergency. The minimum amount of gear I usually hike with includes: matches, compass, map, fishing line and hook, multi-tool, rain coat, fleece jacket, water, food, and some small piece of rubberized material that could be used for shelter. It is usually a heavier pack than most would carry, but I like to be prepared for at least a chance to survive should the worst occur. Most survivalists suggest you carry more than this, but, to me, this is the bare minimum. Unfortunately, after two great hikes with balmy temperatures and few clouds, let alone rain, I decided to lighten my load and leave my fleece at the cabin.

The lighter pack was a welcome change. Every pound makes a difference when you are carrying it on your back, and today’s hike to the summit of Flattop Mountain featured more altitude gain that our previous hikes. We left early from the Bear Lake trail head, avoiding the cramped shuttle bus this time, and the start of our hike was morning cool. However, from the start, we were on the ascent, and the lighter pack put a little spring in my step.

After about a mile and a half of “upping” through predominantly aspen forest, our first stop was a gorgeous overlook that provided a bird’s eye view of Dream Lake. From this vantage point, we could also look along Glacier Gorge where we had hiked yesterday. The river’s white water, bursting with runoff from the surrounding heights, looked like a line of snow through the middle of the valley.

We continued on, climbing higher still, until, at about 11000 feet, we reached the timberline, where trees became shorter and sparser. Soon, we passed out of the trees. Above, the skies began to darken, and the wind whipped along the ridge. Behind us, I watched as the moist air rose up the windward side of a peak and began forming a cloud on the leeward side. It was an amazing sight, but it made me a bit nervous about the weather.

After a few switchbacks, we came to another overlook, which provided perilous views of Emerald Lake, which seemed to be directly below us. I imagined that, were one inclined, a person could leap from the overlook and do a perfect swan dive into the lake’s dark waters. Of course, that perfect swan dive would be the last dive of that person’s life, but it would be a wild last ride.

Needless to say, there was no diving from our party. But, the wind was picking up in intensity, and the temperature felt like it was dropping quickly. I pulled on my rain jacket, hoping it would act as a sort of wind breaker, but it only provided momentary relief.

We plodded on, through the alpine tundra, reaching heights of about 12000 feet. At one point in the trail, there was a sign, informing hikers of weather dangers above the treeline (lightning and white outs in all seasons). The eye-catching bold print at the top of the sign: “THE MOUNTAIN DOESN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.” No kidding, I thought, blowing on my frigid fingers. The mountain-side view was awe-inspiring, and, as I kept a watchful eye for a possible ptarmigan (an alpine bird) I enjoyed a few peeks at the ever-present, ever-squeaky pikas that frequent the rocks at this altitude. But, boy, was I getting cold.

We continued along the rocky trail, and could see, over at least one more ridge, the summit (which is more like a really flat plain (i.e., the mountain’s name, I guess). As I walked along, I noticed a young girl, maybe 14, huddled in a little rock cave at the side of the trail.

“You okay,” I asked her.

“Yeah. I’m just waiting for my dad. He’s really slow.”

“Okay. Stay warm.”

Which was exactly what I was trying to do.

As we rounded one more bend in the trail, and I saw how much farther we had to go, I had to surrender. I knew now (I had seen it in print) that the mountain did not care about me. I also knew that I had made the worst possible decision by not bringing the proper gear. After consulting with the rest of the party, we decided to chalk this one up to Flattop, and try to tackle the old man on another day.

On the way back, the young girl was still huddled in the cave, looking less than comfortable. I noticed that she only had one glove. I decided to give her some advice. Yes, me, the bone head who didn’t bring a jacket, but still. I suggested that she get up and start walking back toward her dad, since sitting on the side of a mountain in the freezing wind was probably not going to keep her warm. She took my advice, and, after she’d walked about thirty yards, her dad came around the bend. So, its not like I saved a life or anything.

We headed back down the trail, desperate to get back below the timber line and out of the wind. Once we did, it took a while to get the blood moving, but we eventually warmed up. I was pretty angry at myself for being unprepared. Were we disappointed that we hadn’t reached the summit? Absolutely. Were we glad we’d followed the old cliché of discretion being the better part of valor? I was.

Fingers Too Cold to Type Too Much

I will spare you an extended homage to the groundhog. It has been done before, and I don't want to be too predictable. Today, after all, is merely the spectacular end of a long and difficult year for whistle pigs everywhere, a year in which they are mostly disregarded, or hunted and killed, with no real in between. On this day, they are paid tense attention to, with many celebrating, and some berating them. But, on this one day, all their feelings of inadequacy or peril are put away, and they are free to remind us that winter will end, regardless of how much ice or snow we may have endured (or will have to endure).

And that, my friends, is all I have to say about that.

What the Hell?

Yeah, so, January is just clipping along, right? And I am posting, like, every other day, keeping tabs on the ramblings and perambulations of myself, you know? And then, WHAM! Everything just stops. No posts. No nothing. What the hell, man?

It's the same old story, all this stuff that needs to get done. All these other distractions. The other interactivities. But, we can't just let January fizz out like a neglected two-liter of Coke in your grandmother's basement. So, here's some post-y goodness to break the silence.

Except that, I got nothing. It's Friday evening. The State of the Union is old news. JD Salinger is old news. Howard Zinn is old news. Groundhog Day is not until Monday. I can't think of any new news. But, that's the way it is sometimes. Even when you have nothing to say, it doesn't hurt to shout into the abyss every now and again, just so everybody else can be reminded that they are not alone.

I am here! I am here!

Tires, Fowl, and Taxidermy

As I am on Fall break, it was a better idea for me to take the Civic in for new tires than for Monkey to do it. After all, when I checked my calendar, today yawned with a galactic emptiness. When Monkey checked her calendar, she had an eye doctor's appointment (and some other stuff). Of course, that all changed when a co-worker invited me out to lunch with a crew. Mind you, this was no ordinary lunch, either, we were all bound for Unadilla (home of Unadilla Bill), for a chicken dinner at The Bar. I would meet my lunch mates at a local restaurant parking lot, from which we would make the not-too-long drive out to the east.

So, I drove up to the tire place to have four new tires (that Monkey had already ordered and paid for) put on the car. Lo and behold (I am still not completely clear on directions and locations around here) the tire place is right next to the restaurant where I was to meet up with everybody. I figured I could just roll the car from one little parking lot to the restaurant's big parking lot with little fanfare and be off when the time came. I dropped off the car and walked over to a coffee shop/bakery for a croissant, some coffee, and an hour of reading.

Two pages into my reading material, Monkey called me. The tire place had ordered the wrong tires. I'd have to come back some other time. I finished my coffee, marked my page, and picked up the car.

In hindsight, I could have stayed in the coffee shop for a half hour and then went to get the car. Then, I could have simply rolled over to the restaurant. But I didn't do that. I drove home, sat around for twenty minutes, and then drove back out to the restaurant. Stupid and wasteful, I know.

At the parking lot, I piled in with five other teachers and we rolled over to Unadilla (pop. 350ish). The Bar (the actual name of the bar where we had the chicken) was hopping for lunch. And we were by far the youngest patrons on this bright and breezy Tuesday. And the food was good and cheap. Where else are you going to get three pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, lemonade, lemon meringue pie (not awesome) and a cup of coffee for $8.50? That's right, some other small town in Nebraska. But, today, we got it in Unadilla.

And, in a touching (for me) extra to the day's journey, as I paid my tab at the cash register, I saw, above me on a shelf of honor, the preserved carcass of Unadilla Bill, the most famous groundhog in all of Nebraska. It was a beautiful moment, I must say.








Photo from The Omaha World Herald, accessed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25702639@N02/2417277608

A Psychedelic Presence Shining in the Park

In the chill of an early October morning, dark except for the glow of streetlights and their reflections on the low-hanging clouds spitting rain above, a vehicle navigates its way through the desolate streets. Its headlights peel back the night before it, as it passes a hedgerow on one side and a burnt out lamp on the other. Suddenly (as is always the case) a small brown rabbit leaps from the hedge, looking to make it safely to the other side of the street. It swiftly penetrates the cone of light before the vehicle, and, in that moment, frightened and naturally skittish, it realizes that the large black tires of the vehicle are about to crush it. In a split second, it redirects its course just enough to avoid being pancaked, but its back leg has been caught. The momentum of the wheel spins the rabbit up and over, around at a blink-of-an-eye speed. It lands flat on its chest and rolls away from the car. It hops, at first, back toward the hedge, then, realizing that is not its intended destination, it again turns abruptly and zigzags across the street. Safely in the grass, it surveys the damage: a broken leg, broken ribs, probably some internal damage. The prognosis is not good.

Is the moral of this story that we should stay committed to our intentions, even if it means getting crushed under the balding treads of fate? After all, the rabbit’s end is the same—perhaps quicker under the tire than panting in the grass. Or is the moral that we should look both ways before we cross? Is it that speed kills, or that a five pound rabbit has little chance to survive an encounter with a 1000 pound vehicle?

Whatever the metaphor, Matt Bauer might not only see it for what it is, but he’d most likely turn it into an atmospheric song for voice and free time banjo.

Opening for Jolie Holland last night at the Waiting room, Bauer and banjo (or guitar) lulled the audience into attentiveness with an achingly earnest voice and minimalist fingering that sketched metaphor after metaphor involving buffalo, horse, fox, and mouse, alike. Joined for three numbers by Holland and her musical partner Grey Gerston, Bauer’s fleshed out compositions were no less starkly beautiful. And Holland got into the animal act by regaling the small crowd with an amusing joke about two whales sitting in a bar.

Bauer finished his set solo, then thanked the crowd for listening. Unlike many openers, he’d captured the attention of the crowd for his entire set (except for the sloppily drunk quartet in the corner who had lost the ability to modulate their voices at all); this may have been a function of his imposingly shaved head or his fiercely long beard, but, most likely, it was his heartfelt songs, his dancing cascades (or soporific drones) of notes , and his Bonnie Prince Billy-like ability to tell a story of rending from which we can not turn our ears.

After a brief pause for Gerston to tune a few instruments and stock the stage with water and wine, the headliner took the stage—just she and her musical mate—to play a languid and low-key set. The musicians had driven themselves from Denver, where they played the night before, and they looked a bit road weary, but the endearingly partisan crowd was full of encouragement. The set list, about an hour-long, included “Littlest Birds,” “Goodbye California,” “Old-fashioned Morphine,” “Alley Flowers,” and a few others, old and new. In addition, Holland played a cover of David Dondero’s “Real Tina Turner,” and a pair from Michael Hurley (one of which Gerston took the vocal lead on).

While Grey Gerston moved easily from solid-body to hollow-body to bass guitars, Holland was doing the same, as she occasionally laid her beautiful flat black Epiphone down to scratch beautifully on a uniquely-shaped fiddle. The instrumental variation aside, the key instrument to the evening was Holland’s voice, a slurry, sultry, trembling trademark that sounds less like it comes from her lungs than directly from her heart. And last night, despite the bone- and road-weariness, Holland’s voice sounded flawless. She has a sweet gift.

As well, she seems a sweet human being. In between songs, as she tuned her guitar, Holland mentioned that last time she was through town someone had given her a bracelet. “Kim?” she asked to the crowd. There, two rows back, Kim raised her hand. Holland was still wearing the bracelet. And, as can happen at some shows, this sweet exchange stayed a constant.

As Holland stumbled twice through the beginning bars of “The Future,” a song she clearly doesn’t play often live (and is played originally on piano—not guitar), but was, she said, “A request,” the crowd was at its most snuggly sweet. Holland apologized, only to be greeted from a shout from the crowd.

“That’s okay—just more show for us!”

Holland finished up her set and thanked the crowd for being “so freaking sweet.” After whale jokes, smoked-honey-dripping melodies, and earnest musical gaffes, the crowd had the same to say about her.

A Most Brilliant Plan!

Another long week (and it's only Tuesday) got me to thinking about alternate plans...

Where The Wild Things Are, Part Five: The Bear Trap

The start of contract time has curtailed my blogging the past few days, but it is my intention to offer finish this multi part story as soon as possible, beginning today with the story of our hike to Lulu City, a former mining town that thrived for only four years in the mountains of Colorado before succumbing to the economics of the times and becoming a ghost town known mostly for its still-visible bear trap (of which, I neglected to take a photo--I didn't realize it was such a famous bear trap until afterward...hell, I didn't even know it was a bear trap, at the time, but, I digress).

The morning of this hike, we intended to mosey into Allenspark and eat at the wonderful Meadow Mountain Cafe. When we arrived, at exactly the time that they opened, we found the small parking lot full, and the small dining area fuller. Not wanting to wait too long for a table, some coffee, and some food, we decided to head into Estes Park for an alternate breakfast experience.

After a not-so-good-as-Meadow-Mountain-would-have-been breakfast, we drove over Rocky Mountain National Park's Trail Ridge Road, to find the Colorado River trail head, on the other side of the Continental Divide. This trail is relatively level, until the descent into/ascent out of the Lulu City site, and follows the Colorado River for a distance, revealing along the way several mine shaft sites, and the ruined cabins of the man who once owned the mines (I believe his name was Shipler). It was a nice trail through riparian wetlands and wild flowers. Earlier, one of the Ambassadors had purchased a book on RMNP wild flowers, so we had a fine time trying to identify some of the more common flora along the trail. Unfortunately, the wetlands also breeds some local mosquitoes, so we didn't stand still over the flowers for too long.

Once we arrived in the vicinity of Lulu City, we discovered that the only living inhabitants of the site are golden-mantled ground squirrels. We debated whether it was a good idea to feed the squirrels pumpkin seeds (we decided not to), and whether a golden-mantled ground squirrel was any match for a chainsaw beaver (of course, not). Most importantly, we found a beautiful river bank of stones in a river, upon which to have a mid-day snack. It truly was one of the more beautiful places we spent time (of course, there were many of those).

Of course, on our way back to the trail head, it rained. The only difference was that, today, everyone had adequate rain gear. Hooray! The backs of my pant legs did get awfully drenched, however. I think next time, I am toting my rain pants, as well. We stopped by the Ranger's Station after the hike, to get a last check on the weather, but it was not good news. The weather we had been having, we would continue to have, and that, we all decided, was not conducive to scaling any 14000 foot mountains. So, with disappointment, we scrubbed our Longs Peak hike for that trip.

That left us with a decision to make about our last hiking day in the area. Where would we hike? How far? How high? How early? We spent the evening, over dishes of not-very-good Tuscan bean soup (my fault), discussing our options.

Where the Wild Things Are, Part Three: Lost Mines

Our next two hikes were adventures of the highest order, in which the groups survival skills, organizational skills, and ability to sacrifice for the good of others were tested intensely.

A short hike to Lost Lake was our Tuesday hike of choice. We headed through the towns of Nederland and Eldora to the Hessie trail head. In reality, we didn't drive to the Hessie trail head. Instead, we parked along an unimproved road (precariously close to a significant drop off), and walked to the trail head, due to the destructive capabilities of those most industrious of rodents, the beaver (I will spare you the plot of our group's extemporaneously devised feature-length animated "film": Chainsaw Beavers).

Beaver dams had caused extensive flooding in the valley below, submerging the road for a length, and making the auto route impassable to all but those with the highest clearance and/or the most fool hardy. So, our two-mile trek was actually more like two-and-a-half, when all was said and done. And, to tell you the truth, the first quarter mile of the hike was made all the more beautiful by the flood waters of the beaver dams.

On the other side of the flooded road lay a wide open space, the ruins of what was once the town of Hessie. Apparently, the town was the headquarters of those who serviced the mines in the area. One of those mines was at the top of the trail we were about to travel. In the clearing, besides some lovely mariposa lilies, we found an abandoned well, and some foundations, but not much else.

We hiked in a generally upward direction (we gained about 800 feet on this hike), circling around a waterfall, and through some lovely wooded areas. As the trail finally crossed the falls, after a split in the trail, the walk got even more interesting, as the trail followed what seemed to be an old corduroy road, with old logs still lined across it. It is possible that this "artifact" of history has a more contemporary origin, but the idea that mule teams from the vanished town of Hessie below may have trod these same roads added a mythical quality to this part of our hike. Not to mention some more beautiful cascade views.

At about 9800 feet, we came upon Lost Lake. I stopped to take some pictures at the shore. When I was finished, the rest of my party was nowhere to be seen. I proceeded up the trail, expecting to find them around the next bend, enjoying some trail mix and taking a break, but that didn't happen. I walked completely along the shore trail, and didn't see anyone. I walked back, thinking maybe I missed them somewhere along the shore, but where? Finally, I walked back up the trail, stopping to walk down to the shore to several hidden spots. At one, I finally came across two-thirds of my mates, sitting on a rock and shooting the breeze, but where was our final member?

I'll admit, I was a little angry at this point, I maybe was a bit short with my compatriots, especially when they said they didn't know where our fourth was either. The three of us walked up the trail, to no avail. I sent them back to the end of the lake and told them I would be back with or without our fourth member, in twenty minutes.

I double timed it up the trail, arriving at an area we had spied from below earlier in the day. At the top of this portion of the trail, a gigantic field of mine debris was spread along the ridge. Visible from miles away, I was sure that our missing companion had come up here for a little exploration. Which he had. We stayed up top for a few minutes, taking pictures and poking around, before heading back down to reunite the party.

I was still not happy that we had gotten separated, but I was glad that we were all together again. The weather was again building as we crossed the beaver flood and climbed the road back to the car, so, we called it a day, went back to the cabin, showered up and headed down to Boulder for dinner. A nice visit to a hip town, but the most remarkable thing was the snow we drove through on the way home. It was a wacky weather trip.

I'll tell you all about our second "intense" hike, tomorrow.

Where the Wild Things Are, Part Two: Marmots and Downpours and Bears, Oh My!

After some cereal at HQ, we headed for our first foray into Rocky Mountain National Park itself. We planned on hiking farther along the Glacier Gorge trail, where we had taken a short hike on our last day in Colorado, last year. Instead of Mills Lake, a two-plus-mile hike, where we ended in 2008, we planned to push on to Black Lake (and possibly beyond).

Like last year, this was one of the more beautiful hikes we took. It is hard to really assert that one hike is head and shoulders better than another, although last year's hike to Chasm Lake was a particularly magnificent experience, in many ways, the lakes, falls, and views of surrounding peaks in this area of the park are excessively breath-taking at times.

The beauty of Mills Lake was no surprise, having been there before, but the trail beyond was less crowded and equally magically. I fell behind the group on several occasions, taking pictures, or just marvelling at the sights. In addition, we had a close encounter, at one point, with one of the park's ubiquitous, and clearly unafraid (and misnamed) yellow-bellied marmots. We would encounter multiple marmots on this trip, as well as sightings of larger mammals that would trump this eight-pound rock chuck, but, at the time, we all enjoyed our brush with this distant relative of Mr. Chubbs.

At one point on our hike, we came to an open area, a rushing mountain stream beside it, where I had one of those often sensed moments of awe. My first thought, voiced to Monkey, was, this is where I want to live. It is a silly, impractical, and impossible thought, but, in those places of exquisite natural beauty, I sometimes wish to just lie down and stay forever. Instead, we all gathered for a timer-aided group photo.

On we climbed, pausing for a snack at the slightly mosquito-y Black Lake. Another fabulous alpine lake. Miles beyond, we might find Frozen Lake, and Italy Lake, but it was clear that the time of day and gathering weather would probably not allow for that. Instead, a detachment of our party climbed a steep trail alongside Black Lake's feeder stream, which fell some distance from the ridge above. At the top of the ridge, a bit of exploration revealed the impracticality of carrying on, but also introduced us to the not-too-distant beginnings of the rocky slopes leading up to Longs Peak.

At this point, some of us decided that we would try to attempt to scale Longs Peak at some point during the week, weather permitted. This sent waves of excitement (and not a little trepidation) through the group, considering that Longs is a challenging, but commonly attempted and scaled, climb to the top of Rocky Mountain National Park's highest peak (14259 feet).

So, with a forward-looking jaunt in our step, we proceeded back down the trail, toward our original departure point. As we approached Mills Lake, the skies opened up, and we trudged most of the remaining 2 and a half miles in a steady, and sometimes heavy, cold rain. One of our party's members was inadequately outfitted for such weather, and, while she remained stoic, was clearly not enjoying our final hour or so of descent. But, returning to the Penguin, we tried to make each other as comfortable as possible for the remainder of our trip back to HQ (which included a supply excursion into Estes Park).

As we four-wheeled our way up the unimproved road back to our powerless cabin, one of the most magical moments of our trip occurred. Mrs. Ambassador shouted "Stop!" I stopped the vehicle. "Back up," she said. Okay. We had just seen a beautiful orchard oriole at the base of the ridge, so I thought she might have spotted some other interesting bird. I backed up, looking into the yard of a cabin along the road. I didn't see anything. "More," she said. I rolled back a few more feet. There, standing on all fours beneath an array of bird feeders in the front yard of this cabin, was a medium-sized black bear! He stared at us. We stared at him. No one had a camera. Mrs. Ambassador scurried into the way back of the Penguin to get her camera. Just then, the bear turned and casually loped off over the hill. It was amazing, and I am glad we were in the car.

That evening, I kept one eye peeled as I grilled some burgers on the patio of the cabin. We were pretty far from where we sited the bear, and on the other side of a ridge, but I still felt just a little wary about any black bears smelling a juicy burger cooking. I mean, if you spend most of your time eating berries and bird seed, wouldn't a nice burger, followed by the chef, be a fulfilling diversion? I thought so. Lucky for me, Mr. Bear did not come calling.

Unfortunately, we never saw it again, the rest of the week. For those keeping track, that means that last year, Monkey got to see her moose on the Front Range, and this year, she got to see a bear. There is no conceivable way (currently) for her to see a whale there, so she will have to look elsewhere to fill her "Trinity of Wildlife Sightings," but two out of three ain't bad.

Banana Bread? Yes! Chickens? No!

Thursday night, Monkey made banana bread. She makes really good banana bread. But, I couldn't have any. It was for her running club breakfast pot luck on Saturday. Lucky for me, she made an experimental loaf, with peanut butter chips in it, last weekend, so that I didn't feel left out of the banana bread love.

The peanut butter/banana loaf was good. I think we can make it better by adding actual peanut butter to the bread, itself, but then we'd have to adjust some other liquid amount. Maybe we'll experiment at some other date. Also lucky for me, there were leftovers from breakfast this morning. So, I got to enjoy extra banana bread today, after my bowl of Raisin Bran (Kellogg's). It was good.

And a good thing, too, since I was reeling from some serious bad news I had discovered on Friday night. I have, for some time now, been interested in keeping chickens. I was doing some research online about local codes, and I discovered that here in Lincoln, I might keep fowl, as long as they were kept fifty feet from any neighboring dwellings and five feet from all property lines. Sadly, that is an impossibility on our lot. So, I just have to wait on the chickens. The same regulations apply to rabbits, also, so I won't be keeping any of them either. Nor bees. (I think about a lot of agricultural things when I ain't typing at y'all.)

So, the disappointment of the arbitrary capriciousness of the Lincoln zoning board was tempered slightly by some moist and tasty banana bread. It is all good.

That Magical Day

And then a week goes by....

How does it happen?

Today is my favorite minor holiday. I decorated the teachers' office area with pictures of groundhogs, and the names of famous (and not so famous) marmots, like Octara Orphie, of Quarryville, PA; French Creek Freddy, of Buckhannon, WV; Gen. Beauregard Lee, PhD, of Atlanta, GA; and Shubenacadie Sam, of Shubenacadie, Nova Scotia, Canada. Unfortunately, the grandaddy of them all, the "seer of seers and prognosticator of all prognosticators" Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning, leaving us with the six more weeks of winter the calendar has promised us.

As happy as I am for that little tidbit, I am just as (actually more) disappointed with a run in I had with a student today that resulted in his being sent to the office. He was suspended later in the day, but I don't know if that was because of the misunderstanding we had had. I can't imagine that is the case, since our issue was merely a test of wills, but, it's possible that his choosing to go to the office over compliance eventually led to his suspension-inducing behavior. Whatever the case, any time a student is referred to the office, I feel like I couldn't handle my business. But, I gave the student a choice. The student made the choice. It always feels like a failure on my part, though. That's just my mentality.

And, the Steelers won yesterday....

Rocky Mountain High (A Not-Quite-As-Long-As-The-Italian-Story Story, In Its Entirety)

Two Sundays ago, Monkey and I loaded up The Penguin and headed for Estes Park, Colorado. The Ambassadors had invited us to spend a few days with them out there where they spend their summer vacation each year. It was mighty generous of them, but, that's just the kind of folks they are.

The drive out took us a bit longer than we expected, after stops in Ogallala and three other places, most likely because we hit the congested area of I-25 and US 34 at a busy time, but, after an uneventful drive through Nebraska and southeastern Wyoming, we arrived at our destination. We had a nice dinner at a local establishment, walked around the town of Estes Park a bit (nice river walk), and then discussed the next day's plan over some wine.

We planned on a breakfast at a little place in a town just down the way called Allenspark, and then a hike to Ouzell Lake from the Wild Basin Trail Head. Round trip was about 9.8 miles.

Breakfast was tasty, and we were on the trail by about 9 am. It was a great hike, with wonderful views of several waterfalls, glimpses of distant (and not-so-distant) peaks, some good gains in altitude, and a idyllic lake at our chosen terminus (we could have hiked for another five miles if we'd chosen to).

This was my first trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, and it was astounding. It was also my first visit to a place with any altitude since Monkey and I were in Oregon in 2005. It was strenuous at times, not being used to the rarefied air at 9000 feet and above (I think our highest point of the trip was just about 12000). However, even with short breath and a spot of dizziness here and there, this was one of the best hikes I had ever been on.

The only negative to the hike was the thunderclouds that rolled in just as we got to the lake. Our return route (after a short pause for lunch--you guessed it: PB and J!) left us exposed for about three-quarters of a mile along a ridge. It's not good to be exposed in a thunder storm. The rain is a pain, but the real worry is lightning strikes. If you are standing on a ridge with no trees around you, that makes you the tallest thing for miles. Lightning likes to strike tall things. So, we covered that stretch on the ridge pretty quickly. It didn't really start to rain seriously until we were almost back into the tree line, so we also stayed pretty dry as well as avoided the lightning. Beside the danger of being hit by a bolt of lightning and a little bit of rain, it was a great introduction to the Rockies. And, I saw a blue grouse on the trail (that's a bird), and, I'd never seen one of those before!

We made pasta at home and ate copious amounts that evening and then retired early. The next morning we planned to rise at 3 am to try and catch the sunrise at a place called Chasm Lake.

I know I said that the previous hike was one of the best I'd ever been on, but the in-the-dark-of-morning hike to Chasm Lake was head and shoulders above that one! We left the Longs Peak Trail Head at 4 am, and, with our headlamps lighting the way through the trees, ascended pretty quickly to the treeline. The sky was just beginning to lighten as we broke out of the trees and continued to ascend across a broad open area. At one point, as Monkey and I stopped to rest, I looked off to the northeast and saw, silhouetted against the just lightening sky, a female elk and a calf. I pointed them out to Monkey just as we noticed that we were standing not 100 feet from a herd of perhaps forty or more elk. It was amazing to watch them slowly move off to the southwest, but, we were trying to make it another couple of miles before the sun was up, and it didn't look like we were going to get there in time.

We reached the ridge top in full sun, took some pictures and enjoyed the alpenglow on the face of Longs Peak. However, we still had another three-quarters of a mile to go to the lake. We had gotten out pretty far ahead of our companions, but decided (on their assertion) to continue on. We were even higher than we'd been the day before, and I still wasn't completely acclimated, I guess (or maybe I was just hungry). I had to stop at one point and sit down for a few minutes, but, after some water and a Cliff bar, I was good to go.

After my "recovery," Monkey and I were treated to what I think was the most picturesque part of the whole trip. After crossing a thin trail along the side of a ridge, which included a snowbank, we found ourselves in a beautiful alpine meadow, with a creek running through it, columbines and other alpine flowers growing all around, the mountains looming all around us, and a spectacular view into a pond-studded gorge to the east. I wish I could have stayed there forever. It might be the most beautiful place I have ever seen with my own eyes.

We paused just outside a US Park Ranger patrol cabin, smelling coffee and bacon. The lake was close, but our companions were nowhere to be seen. We decided to walk back, hoping to run into them on the way. We might have to double back again, but, at least we would be all together. After getting only halfway across the meadow, we saw them coming across the snowbank. We signaled to each other, and Monkey and I waited for them to come on.

From the meadow, there was one more challenge before we reached the lake. We scrambled up about 100 yards of rocks, accompanied by several yellow-bellied marmots, and there, just below us, at the foot of the peaks, was our destination. It was very cold and windy at Chasm Lake, so, after a snack and a really quick nap (remember, we got up at 3am), we made our way back to the trail head. Today's hike was about 8.5 miles.

After breakfast, we napped for about an hour and then headed to Boulder (about 40 miles) for some wandering and a really expensive dinner. Both were good. We slept well that night.

The next day, we took it kind of easy, making breakfast at the cabin and taking a drive around the park. Old Fall River Road, a one-way gravel road ascends to an Alpine Visitors Center at about 12000 feet, with many unbelievable views along the way. Here we saw more falls, more elk, the Never Summer Mountains, and, on the way down Trail Ridge Road (the other park road), three moose! Monkey was especially excited to see the moose, since that and bears are the two animals she always says she wants to see (I was especially excited we did NOT see a bear). We then toured our way down to Grand Lake, had some ice cream, and then were on our way back to Estes. More pasta at the cabin (good pesto!), and more "what shall we do tomorrow" talk, and we were off to bed.

The next day, Monkey and I were set to depart, but, we rose a bit early (6 am) and headed out to Glacier Gorge Trail Head for a short (5.4 mile round trip) hike to Mills Lake. This was not a better hike than the night hike, but Mills Lake was probably the most beautiful lake I've ever seen (and the second most beautiful place, next to that alpine meadow). This was a pretty gentle hike, just the way to spend your last morning in the park. And, we left early enough that we mostly avoided the huge crowds out and about on our way back--very busy trail! On our hike back down, we saw lots of families hiking using child carrier backpacks to allow their tiny tots to accompany them into the wilderness, and hydration backpacks (Monkey is contemplating getting one of these) and BPA-free water bottles (I gotta get me one of those!) to combat high altitude thirst.

We had another good breakfast in Allenspark with The Ambassadors and The Ambassadors' Children (who had arrived in the wee hours and declined to accompany us on our hike). While we waited for our food, one of The Ambassadors and I walked down to a place called the Fawn Brook Inn, where they have about a million bird feeders out. I was surrounded by hummingbirds (rufous and broad-tailed). I had never seen so many birds in one place in my life. It was amazing!

After breakfast, we packed up and hit the road, departing at about 2 pm MDT. A shorter drive home than on the way out, and we were home by 11pm CDT, certainly tired, but mostly grateful that we had the opportunity to see the Rockies!

For more photos, click here.

In the Footsteps of John Paul II and Killer Hamsters (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Nine)

Our next Tuscan destination, Cortona, took us about as far west as we would go in Italy, and introduced us to many Etruscan wonders. But first, we met a couple of Jayhawks at breakfast. Imagine, travelling halfway around the world to meet people that live about a hundred miles away from you. Strange, really.

But enough of our domestic neighbors. On to Cortona, a town much larger than any we visited the day before, and, it seemed to us, much steeper and higher. We parked on the street at the foot of the Public Gardens, which was really just a shaded park with gravel on the ground and walked a short distance to the Piazza Garibaldi, trying to use one of our guides to walk us through the town. It was a relative success.

The view from Piazza Garibaldi was big, but nothing compared to later views we would get from a higher vantage point. Frances Mayes, the writer of Under the Tuscan Sun lives in the area of Cortona. If you're ever in Cortona, and you're interested, according to our guide, her villa is behind a hill to the left of the view from Piazza Garibaldi. For me, not the most fascinating tidbit of info. I liked the hill, regardless of whose villa is behind it.

The one thing you notice during the first half of your visit to Cortona: you are always walking up. Steeply. From the main piazza, we found some level ground within the walls of the Etruscan Museum. We spent a couple hours in here, looking at clay pots, jewelry, helmets, weapons, rocks, mosaics, and various interpretive videos whose effectiveness was diminished due to our own ignorance of Italian. In addition, this museum also had some works by Severini, a son of Cortona, who gained some fame in the early 20th century as an artist and critic. The coolest thing in the museum, however, was a heavily decorated oil lamp from the 4th century BCE.

Our next stop was Santa Margherita, which is at the penultimate point of the town. As we made our way higher and higher, climbing along switchback steps that seemed to wind through neighborhoods and nowheres, we came across a marker that stated that Pope John Paul II had made this trek in the 1990s. I was impressed. I'm pretty sure they didn't roll the Popemobile up there, and, unless he was ported up in a rickshaw or on a pillow-laden platform, then, he was one fit old pontifus maximus. Of course, in my mind, it is more than likely that he reached the church on the back of some poor, yet infinitely grateful local, huffing his way up the rocky stairway, bearing his heavy-robed burden, and imagining himself on the white-lighted stairway to Paradise, a beaming Saint Peter standing next to an overcome-by-pride Saint Margaret waiting to punch his ticket and welcome him aboard. But, that's just my speculation. The church is not the town's cathedral, but the residents spend most of their time and money on the beautification and decoration of this church, because Margherita is a home girl. It is a very beautiful church, and choc-a-block full of Margherita relics.

From here, we did some backtracking (mercifully downhill), had some pizza, and visited the cathedral (not very impressive next to Margherita's final resting place) and the Diocesan Museum (you know, these church folk got some damn nice art). The museum is mostly the structure of another church (Chiesa di Gesu), reconstructed and with additional pieces from the diocese. Highlights included an Annunciation by Fra Angelico, an elaborate baptismal font, some stations of the cross by Severini, and a wonderfully frescoed lower chapel.

In Cortona, we did the same thing as the day before in Montepulciano, buying some local stuff to eat with the remainder of our pasta and cheese. We brought home a bottle of Cortona Sangiovese, but, we didn't like that quite as much as the previous night's wine.

That night, as I sat on the veranda, a fox walked right past me. I thought that was a nice sight. However, a few moments later, I spied the tiny head of an unidentified animal poke out of the bushes around my chair and seem to look up at me. I looked down at him, and he seemed to be unfazed by my presence. I decided to take that as a hint that it was time for me to go inside and go to bed. This unidentified mammal was dubbed, "The Wild Hamster of Pienza." This later became, after time and the predictable hyperbole that accompanies an unidentified anything, "The Killer Hamster of Pienza." So, future travellers of the Pienza area: beware the killer hamster!

The Ballad of Unadilla Bill

This is a wholly imagined story based on a real taxidermical wonder.

A cold and frosty morn' they stood,
Dekalb brims projected.
Plumed breath billows from underhood.
From the chill protected

By Carhart bibs in rust and green
And johnnies long beneath,
As on the cottonwood they lean
A small evergreen wreath.

"In memoriam" does it read,
But it is not enough
To pay the forfeit on a deed
That took him down so rough.

This wreath is for a whistle pig
Of legendary ilk,
Who laid to waste field and fig,
Who had a taste for silk.

Unadilla Bill was his name,
Scourge of seven counties.
From Idaho to Maine his fame.
Heavy were the bounties

They set upon his head to stop
The pillaging he did.
To whet his teeth--a leather strop,
And then he'd pry the lid

From cans of food or tanks of drink,
And he would drink his fill.
All would shudder whene'er they'd think
Of Unadilla Bill.

But one fine day he met his end,
And met it far too soon,
When he was gunned down by a friend,
The dread Rocky Raccoon.

The Racoon, he had been hired out
By all the town's elite;
They said the deed would give him clout;
They threw gold at his feet.

Ol' Rocky thought, "With all that cash
I'll win back my gal Lil--
McGill--Nancy." Then, with a crash,
He rushed out for the kill

And finished the job by that night.
The town was quite relieved,
But they soon became doubly grieved,
When the black sky turned white.

That night rose a spirit marmot,
A voice big as the sea,
It said, "You shouldn't have harmed it.
Now harken unto me.

"You all shall never forget it,
This day you all reckoned,
So set a day to regret it,
February second."

And so they do, these simple men,
Heavy hearts a-wormied
With guilt, for they have brought this end:
Bill is taxidermied.

They trot him out on his one day
and lay the wreath upon
the spot where he did pass away,
the place where Bill was gone.

Some years he casts a shadow down.
Some years, no shadow be.
But Bill can never look around:
Glass eyes can never see.

And even while the elders weep,
These men are still the victor,
For while Bill's soul lies fast asleep,
He's their spring predictor.

Jersey Midwest?

After a lull on the rodent-terror front (yes, I am placing the little guys on the Axis of Evil--it's the only American thing to do), thanks in large part to the surge in trap strength that has led to the demise of enough mice/Jihadists to make a quincunx, I was today assaulted as I walked out of my school building to head home in the near dark.

Now, don't get too excited. Nobody slugged me. Nobody pulled a weapon on me. I was not, as Uncle James likes to say, a "victim of crime." No, ladies and gents, I was assaulted olfactorily. As the musty smell of manure descended upon my nasal passages (or, perhaps, they ascended up my nasal passages, eh?). I was on the phone with Monkey at the time, and she confirmed that our town smelled like cow shit.

This is not the first time this phenomena has been noted by yours truly, but it is the first time it has been corroborated in real time. I know we are in agricultural-type territory, but one would think a town of this size wouldn't smell like a feed lot (okay, maybe that is a bit harsh, but still...).

So, I guess we need to add a new alert to the scale. Just above (or below) PoP, we have to place....wait for it...PooP.

The Score

Pepino , oh, you little mouse
Oh, won't you go away.
Find yourself another house to run around and play.
You scare my girl, you eat my cheese, you even drink my wine.
I try so hard to catch you, but you trick me all the time.
--Lou Monte, "Pepino, the Italian Mouse"

After a day of no mouse sightings (living or dead), but some evidence of a mouse's existence (e.g., peanut butter clearly licked from an unsprung trap by a very small, very stealthy, lightweight tongue), I woke yesterday to find an ex-mouse in the clamp of sprung steel and wood behind the stove. I was happy to see an end to our mouse problem, but a bit disturbed that I had to have a direct hand in the end of this little rodent's life. After all, he (or she) was just doing what comes naturally, right?

So, with a heavy heart, I cleared the trap. While dropping the body unceremoniously into the garbage, I spied another former mouse in the snap of a trap behind the garbage. I was very surprised. For some reason, even with ample experience with rodent infestation and removal (don't ask), I was not expecting two. And so, "the holocaust was complete." (Please refer to The Great Gatsby).

Until this morning, when I awoke to find another one behind the garbage can. I now have three little meeses on my conscience. How will I sleep at night?

Additions and Subtractions (Mickey Must Die)

Last night, after Monkey and I arrived home from our Turkey Day trip, I was cleaning the coffee pot when I noticed that the carafe was broken. Neither of us know how this happened, but, considering it was the carafe to a nineteen dollar coffee maker that we bought five years ago, it was not much of a big deal. I resolved to drink tea in the morning and stop at Panera on the way to work.

Which I did, but not before noticing that something had entered the house to replace the loss of the coffee maker.

As I stood at the counter, pouring water from the kettle into my mug in the fluorescent-lighted pre-dawn kitchen, a little brown mouse scampered out from behind the pantry shelf and along the base of the counter. When he saw me, he leaped about a foot in the air, did a 180, and hauled ass back behind the pantry shelf. For a moment, I could not believe my eyes. Until I looked behind the pantry and saw it snuggling under a stack of paper bags.

So, this evening, after school, I went directly to Target to buy a new coffee maker...and some mouse traps. Stand by for developments.

Oh, and, if seeing a mouse in my house was not strange enough for me, I noticed that Missouri is #1 in the BCS?! What is happening to my world?