Kim and Kate's beach house is on a peninsula formed by the Murderkill River and the Delaware Bay. There are about 40 residences, most of which are seasonal, and some are abandoned. There are no commercial establishments. Only the full-time residents are here during the week this time of year.
I was raised in the country by city kids who did not allow me to stay home alone overnight until I was 19 (a junior in college). Our home in Addison is on a hilltop, and every door and window could have been breached easily. Once, when I was 16, my father called me to say that two men had escaped from the Steuben County Jail, and they were reported to be in our area. He told me to lock the doors and stay away from the windows. I sat in my parents’ bedroom between the telephone and the closet where my father kept the guns he had inherited from his uncle who had been a priest. Previously, my father had told me that if I ever encountered an intruder in the house, I was to shoot him dead, and then put a round in the ceiling so I could claim that I had warned the potential assailant to leave. (Apparently the State of New York frowns upon the shooting death of mere trespassers.) I could see the driveway, garage, and front door from there, and I stayed put for over an hour until my father came home from his law office in the village two miles down the hill. I do not like being alone overnight in the country. The doors to the beach house have electronic locks, but the locks on the deck doors and windows represent more of a time delay than a real barrier to entry for anyone who wants to get in the house. I always lock my bedroom door when I'm here alone just to make the bad guy work harder to get me. At some point during the blackest hours this morning, I became aware of an alarm sounding. I DO NOT get up in the dark to investigate anything other than why the smoke or carbon monoxide detectors are sounding off (because I'm not going to die unnecessarily). If a security alarm goes off, I'm staying put! According to the movies, whoever gets out of bed to investigate why the security alarm is sounding off gets wacked. Like I said, the bad guy has to work hard to get me: I'm not coming out of hiding. When I was a kid my father tried to convince me that there is nothing in the dark that isn't there in daylight. Being a city kid, he was probably unaware of the activities of nocturnal animals. Regardless, I didn't buy it having played hide-and-go-seek in the dark. At 06h40, it was light enough for me to emerge from hiding (i.e. playing Sudoku in bed), so I sent a text to Kim and Kate to inquire about the beep-beep-beep sound. It seemed to be coming from the shack next door which they also own. Thirty minutes later I removed the failing battery from the smoke detector in the shack. When the batteries in the smoke detectors in my condo failed the sound was so shrill that I flew out of bed and climbed on a step stool to stop them. This detector really sounded like a temperature alarm on a wine refrigerator. If the smoke detectors in the beach house are the same, I'm going to have to choose between burning to death or getting wacked by the bad guy.
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I didn't get to visit the new neighbor on Tuesday because I went to the Dienharts' house with my father, and we were there for two-and-a-half hours. We had cake, coffee, champagne, and conversation. My Jetta is garaged at the Dienharts' because my father would have had to have cleaned his garage for it to live there. I think the Dienharts have room for six cars or 47 SMART cars and an ATV in their garage. Technically, they are contemporaries of my parents, but Irmel is considerably younger than her husband and she makes action figures look lazy, so she feels like more of a peer to me. That being said, if she asked or told me to do something, I wouldn't hesitate to do it without question out of respect per se. When we arrived, she and her friends were making flower arrangements in scooped pumpkins. Before she could ask, explained that I don't do "arts and crafts" just so I didn't have to "respect" her as my parents’ friend. Phew! So, I sat inside with my father and Karl until they decided they wanted to go for a walk.
I HATE the iOS 10.0.2 update: I can't type, and until this release Pages compensated for my lack of talent. Now I have to shift for "I" and add contraction/possessive marks. Bastards. My only hope is that Tim Cook failed to correct the pronunciation of Barbra Streisand's name per her request, and that another remedy will that AND reverse the lack of auto-correction. I looked at the weather forecast yesterday morning when I awoke, and I decided to leave my parents' house in northeast Pennsylvania and head to Kim and Kate's beach house in Delaware a day early. The prospect of rain - breaking camp, driving in it, dumping my black tank, and setting up camp - is never appealing, and my early departure would avoid it. Kim and Kate, however, were en route north to their Philadelphia home as I headed to their “southern” home. It took me almost three hours to move into their house, having lived in BOB continuously for 103 days. (It's not like I have luggage!) Today, I bathed BOB, bleached the sewer hoses and all things "poo," cleaned the storage bins, washed the "grass mat," and filled the fresh water tank with my new regulator, filter and hose. I had to replace my two perfectly good 25' hoses because my father drove over them and crushed their connection. He disconnected and moved my hose the first morning I was in his driveway when he left for the gym, but didn't do so on the second. Somehow, because I was not in BOB on the second morning, it was my fault that he drove over my hose. I stopped at True Value in Sayre on my way to Delaware and replaced the hose. I love True Value and Ace hardware stores – Home Depot and Lowe's, not so much. While I'm not a franchise fan, these smaller footprint stores really deliver “get” customer service for those of us who are neither commercial contractors nor big project DIYers. In addition to BOB maintenance today, I cleaned my jewelry and colored my hair. My jewelry looks terrific but I bought the wrong color for my hair so it's a little dark. My eyebrows have reappeared, so that is a testament to how grey they are. I haven't had a haircut in three months. I either have that hip-skater-boy-grow-out look going on, or I look like an asshole. Probably, the latter, given I’m neither hip, nor a skater, nor a boy. Ron & Liz met me in Albuquerque on the 30th of September, and we headed for Angel Fire, New Mexico the next morning. Of the 30 RV parks in which I stayed this summer, the one in Angel Fire is the best. I am abrogating my first criterion of shade trees because this park had everything else; and, in 10 years, the trees will be tall enough to provide shade. Each site has a concrete pad (therefore level) with ample grassy personal space on either side. The roads are paved, so there is no dust. It was OK to wash BOB because of the time of year, and the Wi-Fi was good (although it may not be when the park is at full capacity). There are eight high efficiency washers and dryers, but at $5/load they were the most expensive I had encountered. The staff was extremely courteous. The view from the park at 8,500 feet is of meadows and coniferous hills, including the Angel Fire ski resort. I could have ridden my bike to town, and I would have if I'd been there alone. There are no dumpsters: trash is retrieved from each site every morning. The bathrooms and showers are luxury hotel quality. Ron said they were nicer than his home's amenities. The shower building also contained a lovely lounge which it led to an outdoor hot tub and fire pit.
It was 24 degrees at seven our first morning in Angel Fire. It was so arid and sunny that it felt considerably warmer. Ron returned from the shower wearing just a t-shirt and shorts; he was dumbfounded by the low temperature and his comfort with it. Shortly after nine, a man approached BOB, and he said hello through the open cabin door. He apologized for interrupting our breakfast. At first I thought he was looking for our trash, but he said that he had seen the dogs, and that he and his wife were contemplating buying a Westie. I took the dogs outside and I spent more than half an hour answering his questions based on my 23 years of experience with the breed. His wife joined us and I offered to let them borrow the dogs at their leisure over the next couple of days. They said they'd like that (me, too!). Two mornings later with coffee in hand, the dogs and I visited the couple in their fifth wheel. The dogs were thrilled to have carpeting and real furniture on which to play, and the couple got a big kick out of them. I sat on the floor and learned about their 40 years of camping and RVing, living all over the US and in Germany, his upbringing on an Indian reservation, and the pros of gun ownership. The next day, two other men stopped me to ask about the dogs: they were very popular in Angel Fire. When I left Angel Fire on the 4th of October, it was 20 degrees. I drove to Wichita, St. Louis, and Columbus in each of the ensuing days, decreasing over 7,000 feet in elevation, and gaining 50 degrees of temperature. BOB killed every bug in Kansas. BOB got a new tire in Kansas, too. I spent two nights in Steve and Karen's driveway in Columbus, then yesterday I drove the final 400+ miles to my parents' house. Our friend Sarkis was visiting from Sacramento, and we had a dinner date last night at the Dienharts' – friends who live nearby. It was the first time in over four months that someone else had cooked dinner for me, and I had only gone out for dinner once during that time (with Kim and Kate). Irmel Dienhart opened a 1987 St. Emilion for me, and served it in a proper glass. (For reference, I drink Bota Box Malbec in a plastic vessel.) After dinner, Irmel opened a bottle of Cognac from 1909 – the year her father was born. She knew I would appreciate it. I don't remember the last time I had Cognac, but it was smooth and lovely, and it was sweet that she would share such a treasure. I've been in Sedona for 48 hours. It started raining around 19:00 Tuesday, and it continued for most of yesterday. I was grateful. I put Jean in an Uber car at 04:30 Tuesday in Las Vegas, and commenced a cleaning fest inside BOB. I rolled out of town at 07:30, and proceeded to make eight stops before pulling into my RV site more than 10 hours later. Jean and I spent 19 days seeing five national parks, two state parks, and Las Vegas, covering at least 60 miles on foot. During those days, I squeezed in the requisite financial and BOB maintenance, one-click applied for a couple of jobs on ZipRecruiter, and otherwise shopped, prepped, cooked, ate, packed and unpacked food, eliminated, bathed, and did a lot of laundry. Red rock dirt does not leave your clothing. My white towels are ruined, but they're more than 10 years old. I'll pick up my other Restoration Hardware towels in Providence next month and proceed to ruin those, too – probably.
I completed about eight things on my list yesterday and added two for each one I completed. This morning's rain allowed me to whittle my list down to four big tasks, none of which I'll complete soon. This afternoon I treated myself to a "Pink Jeep" ride in Sedona. I think I did the same ride 15 years ago; it was certainly with the same company. I didn't take my camera because I have photo fatigue and because it was cloudy. I ended up taking a few photos with my iPhone because the weather cleared. I have to say that I was nonplussed by the experience. Although I dread any tour which involves children, the dad with his four kids provided a source of entertainment for me because the youngest child seemed likely either to jump out of the Jeep or off a rock during a photo-op. The other couple in our group seemed to be on their first trip west of the Connecticut, so that was charming. However, none of them engaged me, although my interrogatories were politely answered. The guide was one of those scripted know-it-alls with canned jokes who most tourists enjoy immensely. I am not one of those. As we embarked, I would have bet that the kids would be the downside to my enjoyment and the driver the upside, but I'd rather play with those kids than listen to our guide’s “pre-recorded” tour. That doesn't mean I'm available for babysitting. Jean arrived at eight last night as we both expected. Dinner was a hit, and we crashed around eleven-thirty. She got a text at six, and I got a phone call shortly thereafter, so we dragged ourselves out of bed at six-thirty. She went to get ice at the RV park's office this morning, and came back with an offer by a septuagenarian to take either of us Jeeping this afternoon at four for free. He said he couldn't charge for liability reasons. Jean thought I should go.
We left the Arches National Park visitors' center a little after ten this morning. We walked Park Avenue – a two mile round-trip. It was shady and cool, so we didn't take water but I think that was a mistake for me. Park Avenue is pretty spectacular and it's the first walking path one encounters. It's easy to envision it the whole pathway as a river, given the floor of the avenue. We were so blown away by the scenery – The Courthouse, Balance Rock, etc. that by the time we got to Devil's Garden it was too late to start the four hour walk. We ate lunch in the car and drove back to Delicate Arch where we did the three mile out-and-back trail in the mid-afternoon sun and heat. There is nothing either technical or challenging regarding the walk until the end – if you have a fear of heights and you want the "money shot." I was dead-tired when we returned from Arches at a little after four. Jean said she should check in with Tom (the septuagenarian) regarding the Jeep ride, since she had made a quasi-commitment for me to go with him. I said I didn't want to go, but she should if she wanted to go (he could only take one of us). The RV park office directed her to his RV, and after a brief conversation, Jean returned to BOB, gathered her things, and walked to Tom's site. I caught up with her on my walk with the dogs, and Tom said he thought he could make room for both of us. I declined, desiring only a shower and some quiet time. When Jean returned 3-and-1/2 hours later, she told me that Tom, the 77 year-old-blind-in-one-eye-nudist, hit on her a la "anything goes." It was Tom's wife who had suggested that he take Jean or me for a "free" ride that morning. What kind of people are they? Jean is big and strong enough to have cleaned Tom's clock, but I might have been in trouble. The lesson learned (once again): NOTHING is free. At the restroom at Delicate Arch I read a sign which said, "If you feel tired, cranky or have a headache, drink water and you'll feel better.' Apparently, it's about the effects of dehydration and how to cure it. But, what if you're going through menopause? You have those symptoms most of the time, but the cure is to drink massive amounts of alcohol (instead of water), which might make you feel better and certainly won't make you feel worse (immediately). I’m in Moab, Utah. This morning I made mashed potatoes and meatloaf for dinner tonight. It's so hot here in the afternoon that I couldn't bear the thought of slaving over the oven and stove even with the AC running. Because I only have three gas burners and limited working space, I have to make dishes sequentially. The mashed potatoes took longer than I expected, so I'm glad to have that behind me. Why am I making a winter meal in 90+ degree weather? To satisfy a craving. I made meatloaf earlier this summer, but six servings were three too many for me. I've held off making it again until I have someone to share it with: Jean is arriving tonight.
We are going to tour Arches and Canyonlands National Parks over the next five days, and we may do one or more of the following activities: ballooning, skydiving, paragliding, flying privately in a helicopter or plane, Jeep touring, Jett-boating, or stand-up paddle boarding. I'll let her pick: I can't wait to see what we do! When I picked up my clothes from the tailor this morning, I asked him whether people bring him dirty clothes. "Yes," he moaned. He said they have a washer and dryer and they will wash anything they deem dirty that is machine washable. He said he's been given pajama bottoms to re-sew complete with skid marks. The two pairs of pants and dress I gave him were clean. I told him that I would re-wash all of them before I wore them because they may have touched other people's clothes. He wasn't offended by my comment, and nodded accordingly. We agreed that he knows too much about the dirty side of humanity. Yuck. For once I’m grateful that I can’t sew.
The tailor opened at nine this morning but Google listed his opening at ten. I delayed my departure from Durango to arrive at his door just before he opened only to discover that Google is wrong. He said his hours have been the same for over twenty years, he doesn't know the source of the Google input, and he doesn't know how to change it. I suggested he "claim this business," but he's not a techie, and I don't know if that will work. On a positive note, I told for him that if it weren't for Google, I wouldn't have found him. One off my friends posted something on Facebook last week regarding the number of states to which the typical American has been. It is eight. My prior Westie littermates, Chloe and Duncan, went to all but Alaska, Hawaii and Alabama. They did forty-six by car, and Florida by air. By the time Addison and Jasper get back to my parents' house in October, they will have been to 35 states. I had been to all of them by 2005 through a combination of vacations, cross-country trips, and work trips. I've spent the night in every state except Alabama and Mississippi. I'll have to rectify that this winter. I had no interesting conversations in the Durango RV park. If I hadn't had the car for five days I would have rated the experience worse than Park City. I could have ridden my bike into town, if I was willing to cross a four-lane highway and ride in the shoulder while vehicles passed me doing 55+mph, but I wasn't. Without the car, I would have been trapped here with a bike, whereas in Park City, I wouldn't have been trapped if I had the bike. Choosing RV parks sight unseen has its perils, positive reviews and ratings notwithstanding, when one doesn’t have a car. "Hi, honey. How was your day?" I don't fucking care. What I want is for you to listen to my day: I returned the rental car; flushed the black tank; bathed the dogs; did five loads of laundry; cleaned BOB; canceled an insurance policy; booked my parents a hotel in Baltimore for my mother's surgical consultation; transferred, edited, synced, and uploaded some photos to DropBox and FaceBook; ironed three sweaters, three linen shirts, and four pairs of trousers; colored my hair; traded mutual funds; downloaded various financial statements; and, packed up for my departure tomorrow. If you're a guy, a woman will want you to listen to this kind of diatribe. You should do it quietly while making her a drink and then say, "Wow, honey, wow!" It doesn't matter what your day was like, even if your testicles spontaneously combusted at noon. When women have crazy-ass-get-shit-done days like this, you should just listen, because it's not a conversation, and she needed that drink at nine.
Yesterday, I took the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad round-trip. I booked the most expensive seat offered which meant I had a window to myself, the same seat in both directions (so I had both views), a hostess-tour guide, complimentary non-alcoholic beverages and banana bread, and the rear platform for my non-seated viewing pleasure. Our hostess-tour guide talked too much and had a loud, annoying laugh which I tried to ignore. I bought a geology map and an Irish coffee from her, and hoped that she didn’t find the transactions humorous. My opposing seat mate is a long-term US resident from Latvia. She was traveling with sisters who are from Riga. When I asked her where she is from, she politely scolded me by asking, "Do you mean where do I live, or from where is my accent?" How do you ask that question without offending a potential emigre? Do you say, "Clearly English isn't your first language, so what is?" and, risk a different offense? I don’t work for the INS; I'm just curious about people from outside the US. Our hostess-tour guide asked the 16 of us not to discuss politics during her pre-departure safety warning. She said that two couples had succumbed to blows regarding such earlier in the season, and that the steward had to break up the fight. My seat mate and I smiled at each other and rolled our eyes. My seat mate was very, very interesting, and very, very bright. It was lovely to converse with her over a variety of topics. She was traveling with a friend of forty years and that woman's sister. I shared my Art Nouveau photos of Riga with them, and spoke to her about my Baltics tour three years ago. When the history of politics in Latvia became a topic and she looked askance, I reminded her that our hostess-tour guide implied caution only regarding current US politics. I spent the entire three-and-a-half hour return trip on the rear platform because the weather had improved, the opportunity for photographs had improved, and I had started to feel a little motion-sickness sitting inside. My seat mate's friend joined me for a while. We chatted about where we both had traveled in the US and Europe, where we wanted to go, and then she said to me, "You are not a typical American." I know! She said that because I've been to Romania, because I want to go to Albania and the other Balkans, because I want to go to Bulgaria, Moldova, Belarus, Ukraine, and the "’Stans," because I'll drive a car anywhere, and, because I live in an RV. A few years ago I had dinner with an acquaintance and her very successful boyfriend (now husband). During the meal, he said to me, "You have an interesting mind." Right: I am not a conventional thinker, and I am not a typical American, and I am just fucking scary to (almost) everyone. When I was in business school I wanted to work for one of those branded consulting firms which the Fortune 100 hires to do "magic." But, the problem for me with those firms is that they are like the military: this is our mission, and these are our rules and thoughts. (The problem for the client is that they get the 80-20 solution which means they jam 80 pounds of shit into a 20 pound sack.) My father went to the Naval Academy, so I grew up in a command-and-control environment. His usual answer to my challenge of his directive was, "Because I said so," which triggered a visceral response from me of, "Why?" No, you don't have to reinvent the wheel, but you also don't have to keep pushing it yourself. Smart people like me from the “outside” can ask questions and learn at a rate which benefits the employer, but most employers and executive recruiters look for the "usual suspects." It's very discouraging that people are afraid of difference and challenge. I am the square peg and everyone looking to fill a round whole. I drove from Durango through Silverton to Ouray and back today. I have now driven the Million Dollar Highway four times (twice in each direction). There wasn't a cloud in the sky today, nor was there any snow on the mountains, which made the photography less interesting. Heading south from Ouray to Silverton on US Rte. 550 was scary the second time, too. I really don't know if I could handle it in BOB. The road is shoulderless in places with sheer drops. There was a lot of traffic, and more than one vehicle descending northbound into Ouray crossed the centerline when passing me. There are places in which the asphalt is crumbling, buckled, or has holes along the white line, so moving to the right is dodgy. I pulled over on a small gravel turnout to photograph an example of the sheer drop, but I couldn't get out of the car: I was too afraid to get closer to it. At a larger turnout, I took a picture of a hole under the white line.
I love the Red Mountain, a triple-peaked caldera with elevations from 12,225 to 12,896 feet. I'd really love to see it from the sky. Although the highway makes me remind myself that I have to use the gas pedal as well as the brake, it is one of the most beautiful places I've been in the US. I stopped at the Red Mountain lookout twice today. If I lived in Montrose, Ouray, Silverton or Durango, I'd drive US Rte. 550 as often as possible. I had a Reuben at the Grand Restaurant and Saloon in Silverton. It arrived five minutes after I ordered it at the bar. It was fine, although the Thousand Island dressing was weak. I walked around town for a bit, then I went to the Durango-Silverton RR to photograph the train. I'm taking it tomorrow, but I don't trust the forecast (which has varied from sunny to thunderstorms over the last week), so I photographed it today. I walked back to the Camaro which was across the street from the train's terminus, and a Spanish-speaking man in his Harley costume said to me, "Good auto!" and grinned. Then he said, "Knight Rider," which made me eject my tonsils in one giant laugh. I never watched the show, but I think the car was a black Pontiac Trans Am as opposed to a navy Camaro. I felt like handing the guy my keys. The RV park is half-empty, yet I can't sustain their Wi-Fi connection. They must be speed-limiting me after my DropBox download coup the other day. Verizon has me in safety mode, and my Jetpack's signal doesn't even appear as an option. So, safety mode means jammed signal. Interesting. Next time, I won't disconnect from the device and see how slow it really is. Fuckers: they make me like AT&T – as much as one can like AT&T. My father sent me an email today telling me that my mother is experiencing breathing difficulties during the night. He wanted me to ask Jean whether they should get an oxygen system or whether he should brush up on doing tracheotomies. My father had never done a tracheotomy because he was a lawyer, not a doctor, although the latter is his new hobby. He won't give me intellectual property advice because that wasn't his specialty, but he's willing to do a tracheotomy on my mother from a DIY manual. Forget that he has the patience and finesse of a three year-old. My mother has an enlarged hiatal hernia which has probably been causing her cough and breathing difficulties. Jean said she should she see her practitioner. What a good idea! I relayed the information. The truth is, my father doesn't want my mother to die, and he is willing to anything to save her. He just wants someone to tell him what he can do. Fortunately, my mother has a surgical consultation regarding the hernia; my father wants to make sure she lives long enough to resolve the problem. "Hi, honey. How was your day?" I don't fucking care. What I want is for you to listen to my day: I returned the rental car; flushed the black tank; bathed the dogs; did five loads of laundry; cleaned BOB; canceled an insurance policy; booked my parents a hotel in Baltimore for my mother's surgical consultation; transferred, edited, synced, and uploaded some photos to DropBox and FaceBook; ironed three sweaters, three linen shirts, and four pairs of trousers; colored my hair; traded mutual funds; downloaded various financial statements; and, packed up for my departure tomorrow. If you're a guy, a woman will want you to listen to this kind of diatribe. You should do it quietly while making her a drink and then say, "Wow, honey, wow!" It doesn't matter what your day was like, even if your testicles spontaneously combusted at noon. When women have crazy-ass-get-shit-done days like this, you should just listen, because it's not a conversation, and she needed that drink at nine.
Yesterday, I took the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad round-trip. I booked the most expensive seat offered which meant I had a window to myself, the same seat in both directions (so I had both views), a hostess-tour guide, complimentary non-alcoholic beverages and banana bread, and the rear platform for my non-seated viewing pleasure. Our hostess-tour guide talked too much and had a loud, annoying laugh which I tried to ignore. I bought a geology map and an Irish coffee from her, and hoped that she didn’t find the transactions humorous. My opposing seat mate was a long-term US resident from Latvia. She was traveling with sisters who are from Riga. When I asked her where she is from, she politely scolded me by asking, "Do you mean where do I live, or from where is my accent?" How do you ask that question without offending a potential emigre? Do you say, "Clearly English isn't your first language, so what is?" and, risk a different offense? I don’t work for the INS; I'm just curious about people from outside the US. Our hostess-tour guide asked the 16 of us not to discuss politics during her pre-departure safety warning. She said that two couples had succumbed to blows regarding such earlier in the season, and that the steward had to break up the fight. My seat mate and I smiled at each other and rolled our eyes. My seat mate was very, very interesting, and very, very bright. It was lovely to converse with her over a variety of topics. She was traveling with a friend of forty years and that woman's sister. I shared my Art Nouveau photos of Riga with them, and spoke to her about my Baltics tour three years ago. When the history of politics in Latvia became a topic and she looked askance, I reminded her that our hostess-tour guide implied caution only regarding current US politics. I spent the entire three-and-a-half hour return trip on the rear platform because the weather had improved, the opportunity for photographs had improved, and I had started to feel a little motion-sickness sitting inside. My seat mate's friend joined me for a while. We chatted about where we both had traveled in the US and Europe, where we wanted to go, and then she said to me, "You are not a typical American." I know! She said that because I've been to Romania, because I want to go to Albania and the other Balkans, because I want to go to Bulgaria, Moldova, Belarus, Ukraine, and the "’Stans," because I'll drive a car anywhere, and, because I live in an RV. A few years ago I had dinner with an acquaintance and her very successful boyfriend (now husband). During the meal, he said to me, "You have an interesting mind." Right: I am not a conventional thinker, and I am not a typical American, and I am just fucking scary to (almost) everyone. When I was in business school I wanted to work for one of those branded consulting firms which the Fortune 100 hires to do "magic." But, the problem for me with those firms is that they are like the military: this is our mission, and these are our rules and thoughts. (The problem for the client is that they get the 80-20 solution which means they jam 80 pounds of shit into a 20 pound sack.) My father went to the Naval Academy, so I grew up in a command-and-control environment. His usual answer to my challenge of his directive was, "Because I said so," which triggered a visceral response from me of, "Why?" No, you don't have to reinvent the wheel, but you also don't have to keep pushing it yourself. Smart people like me from the “outside” can ask questions and learn at a rate which benefits the employer, but most employers and executive recruiters look for the "usual suspects." It's very discouraging that people are afraid of difference and challenge. I am the square peg and everyone looking to fill a round whole. Mesa Verde is amazing! Not for the ruins especially, although the cliff dwellings which are visible from a few pull-offs are interesting (not enough to endure a tour, however). I stopped at the Visitors' Center to get the scoop. The National Park employee at the information desk, whose body odor was as pungent as a raw onion, told me that I should plan to spend three to five hours if I go to Cliff Palace and/or Mesa Top. I doubted it would take me that much time, but I was glad I packed my lunch. The drive from the Visitors' Center to the Cliff Palace Loop and the Mesa Top Loop is 20 miles of hairpin turns and broad vistas. You can see Ship Rock to the south and the San Juan Mountains to the northeast - miles and miles! If you are afraid of heights or have bad brakes, skip the drive.
When Kim, Kate and I were driving around Wyoming and Montana, Kate's fear of heights presented itself. I think she said something about death being all around her which made me think of the Billy Mack character's song in the movie "Love, Actually." His character's song's original "hit" lyrics are, "I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes. Love is all around me, and so the feeling grows." I started singing it, substituting "death" for "love" every time Kate covered her eyes or stopped breathing, because there were a only a couple of feet between the truck and a precipice promising certain death to any mistake the driver (her husband, Kim) made. In the five plus weeks since they left me and BOB, I have driven many "death is all around us roads," some of which have been in BOB, and one of which was today. A very nice bearded man from Enterprise picked me up just before 10 o'clock this morning. He appeared to be wearing a suit, but when we got out of the car I realized that his ensemble was a black jacket with differently textured black pants. Both were mud splattered, and he was wearing peds with his dress shoes. His shirt was hanging out the back. His manager, who was better attired, looked a little like Ryan Reynolds.
The car I was assigned didn’t seem to have any windshield wiper fluid, so I returned immediately to the rental office. The bearded man attempted to fill the well, but the fluid drained onto the asphalt. The manager told me I could have either of his two remaining cars for the same price: one was a foot longer than a SMART car, and the other was a Camaro. I took the Camaro. I like to sit up very straight when I'm driving which tends to annoy other people who drive my vehicles. When I moved the Camaro's seat to my desired position, I couldn't put my fist between my head and the roof's interior. I guess if you are tall, you have to drive a Camaro in a reclined position. I also couldn't see the top of the dashboard, which wouldn’t matter unless I ran out of gas or the car overheated. The blind spots behind the rear side windows were so large that a 747 could sneak up beside the car. Prior to accepting the defective car, I had declined to upgrade to the Camaro citing its "give me a ticket allure." Who buys Camaros and Challengers? People who want to drive fast. I used the cruise control at the speed limits, and I only sped once to pass a car because the driver was traveling at inconsistent speeds. The other people driving through the Navajo Nation know it's lawless so they passed me like I was parked. I drove to the Four Corners Monument from Enterprise. It was about an hour-and-a-half drive. Unless you are either trapped at an RV park you don't like, or going to the Four Corners is only SLIGHTLY out of your way, don't go there: it's a fucking dump. It's part of the Navajo Nation, so your US National Parks Pass is about as valid as your Metro Card in Moscow. The parking lot isn't paved, there are no flushing toilets, and the "monument" is flanked on four sides by permanent kiosks, each of which sells the same "authentic" native wears which are made in China. The "monument" is a brass plaque in the ground at 36° degrees north latitude and 109° west longitude. You have to wait in line to photograph it, and there is a three photo limit. Shortly after I joined the line, an older couple stepped behind me and asked what the line is for. I said, "The Four Corners Monument." I should be a fucking tour guide. They said they knew that, they just didn't know what exactly the monument is. Then they asked me to hold their place in line while they went to get their friends. After they walked away, the man missed a step and went down on the concrete hitting his face. Behind me, I heard a woman ask her off-duty EMT if he should assist the man, but the EMT declined saying he didn’t think the fall warranted medical attention. I was underwhelmed by his lack of compassion. The couple returned to the queue with their friends, and I took pictures of them with their cameras therefore immortalizing his bloody face. I circled back to Durango by continuing southwest into Arizona then east through New Mexico. The landscape was starkly beautiful where it wasn't trashed by poverty. Teec Nos Pos, Arizona has the Navajo Technical University where you, too, can learn to build the wheel. As I approached Aztec, New Mexico, I saw a sign for "Aztec Ruins" and I bit, my lack of cultural knowledge notwithstanding. It's a US National Monument and there's nothing "Aztec" about it: it's a 900 year old Pueblo ruin. I politely took the guidebook from the National Park Service employee. I covered the half-mile trail and set a non-drug enhanced record for the distance while Evelyn-Wood-speed-reading through the book. I then drove through the "historic" town center for further cultural punishment. I haven't been sleeping very well lately. I usually don't complain about the quality of my sleep, but recently it's been considerably worse. On a friend's recommendation, I took two Tylenol PM at bedtime. From my mucous membranes' perspective, it was like taking 100 Benadryl. The net result was that I stayed up most of the night drinking water to rehydrate, then urinating. And, I didn’t feel the slightest bit sleepy. Now I know what to take if I want to pull an all-nighter on the john. Tonight, I cooked the Andouille sausages I bought at Whole Foods in Park City. I've largely lived without Whole Foods since I left Steve & Karen's house in Columbus at the end of April. I have not found another chain which matches the quality of Whole Foods’ fish, poultry, and meat. I also haven’t found one which has pre-pared food like Whole Foods’ that looks even remotely appetizing: it would be nice to get a break from cooking once in a while. Happy Birthday, Kate!
I spent the day editing the 650+ photos I've taken, curating them, and creating a shareable folder in DropBox. I bought the disc format of Adobe Photoshop Elements 14 and it arrived yesterday. The forecast was for thunderstorms all day today so why not stay inside and edit photos? It also rained much of last night, although it wasn't forecast. It hasn't rained at all today. I'm also uploading the entire folder (145 large format, high resolution photos) to FaceBook. I'm using ALL the RV site's Wi-Fi bandwidth! Even my iPad and iPhone can't stayed connected! I guess that makes me a dick, but I'm rationalizing this as recompense for the shitty site. The President of Uzbekistan has died. Job opening! I could be a tyrant – wait, I already am! The President of The United States is up for grabs. Job opening! I could be NORMAL and ETHICAL – both, at the same time. When we went to Patagonia last year, Jean asked me if I thought the other guests would think we are lesbians. I told her I thought that could be an initial suspicion – much like any man and woman traveling together are assumed to be married – but that they would quickly realize that we are straight friends. A couple of weeks ago, she asked me the same question about our upcoming trip to Utah. Both times, she followed with, "Which one of us is the guy?" My response: "I have short hair and you has long hair, but neither one of us is a hair-and-make-up-girl, so it's a toss-up." Jean replied that she wears bright colors and I wear neutrals, so she is probably girlier. I should have said two words, "Calvin Klein," but I didn't. I also should have mentioned that I have spent lots of money on my hair (cut, color, AND highlights), I get regular manicures-and-pedicures, I wear dresses for no reason at all, and I NEVER wear t-shirts with words on them. But, none of that matters because I typically wear a guy-ish uniform (think Katharine Hepburn) and I have short hair. Jean surveyed three people who have met both of us: they all said I am the guy. Story of my life. Enterprise confirmed this morning that they will drop off the car tomorrow and deliver me back to the RV park on Wednesday. I am relieved. I don't know where I'll go, but "anywhere is a better place to be." I love that The Weather Channel apps for the iPhone and the iPad give me different information for the same city when they are sitting next to each other. Why? Is it because IBM owns The Weather Channel? And, neither is right.
I hate my new RV park in Durango. I might hate is less if I were in a better spot (dusty, no trees, little personal space, highway noise) which they have. Or, if one of my sewer hoses hadn't come apart and I needed both to hook-up. Or, if the old crank at the front desk knew anything about the hospitality industry when I asked to be moved because my hose broke and I hate my spot. Or, if I hadn't realized before driving here that I can't ride my bike to town without dying. Or, if Walgreen's hadn't told me that they don't have a relationship with my new Obama insurance provider, so they'd have to transfer my script to Rite-Aid. Or, if I didn't have to wait a half an hour at Rite-Aid to get one-third of my prescription because retail pharmacies won't give 90-days. Why? Is is a concession by the insurance company to drive traffic into the retail pharmacies on a monthly basis? Why is my medicine do much cheaper at CVS? Why do Rite-Aid pharmacies all look like they were last remodeled in the 1970s? And, their employees are so sad. I love CVS. I hate Rite-Aid. Now, I hate Walgreen's, too. Or, is it because I was so looking forward to shopping at an Albertson's again until I walked into the one in Durango which was old, and sad, and tired, and had no hip food, and the people were scary, and the check-out had those circular belts from the fucking 1970s! I almost bawled. I probably have PMS, but I don't know it because I don’t have a fucking uterus (which also means I have nothing else to blame). Enterprise better deliver my car, and bring me back to my fucking RV park on Saturday. I'm going to call tomorrow and confirm the service. I'll ride my bike there and back if I have to, death notwithstanding. I can't be trapped here for a week. Besides, I've prepaid for a round-trip ride on the Durango-Silverton RR: the primary reason I'm here. My trip to the RV park office yielded a visit from an employee who fixed my sewer hose. I had arrived in Durango at 12:30, but I didn’t get to my site until 15:30: Walgreen's, a tailor, Rite-Aid, and Albertson's (including lunch in the parking lot) consumed the three hours. Two hours later, BOB was set up outside and inside, his face was washed, and the dogs were walked twice. Then I fed them, took a shower, and started to feel human again. The drive today was beautiful and that should not diminished by poor retail service, poor hospitality, and insurance carriers, but it's amazing how easily beauty can be erased by life if you let it. Thanks to my barking dogs, I met another Jeeper this afternoon. He was smoking a cigar and chewing tobacco at the same time. His teeth are the color of tobacco – no surprise there. If they were dentures perhaps Shirley McLaine could channel Martha Raye to help him out, but alas they are real. Teeth are the first thing I notice about someone. When I took the dogs to Petco in Missoula to get them groomed last month, the groomer had crystal meth teeth. I was a little worried about leaving the dogs with her, but she was very nice and not at all tweaky. Maybe she had bad teeth genetically, or maybe she'd been poor all her life and couldn't afford prophylactic dental care. Both of those explanations made me feel sad for her and better about leaving the dogs. They were perfectly groomed when I picked them up – perhaps the best grooming job they'd ever had.
The day the dogs were groomed, Kim, Kate and I went to the Triple Creek Ranch in Darby to have lunch. It's a Relaix & Chateau property which combines extreme pampering with extreme activities, if one is so inclined. There were a few obnoxious 212-ers staying there just so they could brag to their friends about having done so. That makes them worse than us because we were only having lunch there just to brag to our friends about having done so. Lunch was $28 pre-fixe for three courses and complimentary wine. Kate and I restrained ourselves from abusing the “free” wine, only because we each had an a la carte Bloody Mary as an appetizer. We walked around the property before lunch then went to the front desk to make various inquiries. As a result, one of the staff took us on a tour which was different from our own, apparently "off-limits," excursion. She said the one-bedroom cabins are around $900/person/night, all-inclusive – all inclusive, that is, of the extreme activities – and, that most people stay three or four nights. The first full day Kim, Kate and I were in Polson, Montana we took a private flight around the area – the Kerr Dam, the National Bison Range, the Mission Mountains and Flathead Lake. I had arranged the trip when I was previously in Polson, and the pilot suggested we lead off our stay at Flathead Lake with his flight because it would be a good surveying tool. He was right about that, and the flight was fabulous. When we deplaned we drove clockwise around the lake. We went to a winery at ten-thirty and did a tasting, then we had lunch at a micro-brewery, both of which the pilot recommended. He was right about them, too. We continued to Big Fork and Kate fell in love with it. I had been there twice before, so I knew she'd like it. We continued south along the eastern shore to Averill's Flathead Lake Lodge. We escorted ourselves around the property and then I went to the front desk to inquire about accommodations. Reservations are made one year in advance for one week at a time. It's all-inclusive (save the liquor of choice which you provide), and about $4,000/person/week. Someday when Extended Stay America isn't my upper price limit for accommodations, I will stay there the week after I stay at Triple Creek. The tobacco-stained Jeeper chatted with me alone for a bit. He had interrupted my pre-departure-black-tank-flushing-toy-put-away routine by going to the trash and alarming the dogs. He said he'd seen me around and hadn't had a chance to meet me. We were joined shortly thereafter by Tom and his wife Phyllis who were on their way to the "Colorado Family Happy Hour." The Jeeper prefers golf these days to Jeeping having driven every road around here many times. Mid-brag, the Jeeper's timer went off: he was flushing his black tank, too. When he returned, I was invited to join the "Colorado Family Happy Hour" crowd for dinner at a barbecue restaurant, but I declined because they were leaving at five forty-five. I explained that I had eaten lunch at two, and that I typically ate dinner at eight. Truthfully, I was hungry because I ate lunch at twelve-thirty, but his spitting had killed whatever appetite I had. Yuck. The Jeeper asked me if anyone had taken me Jeeping, and I said no. He then went on to tell me that his Class A is 45 feet, and that he used to pull a Jeep AND a trailer with a motorcycle which made him 85 feet overall. He said that he was illegal in every state. He's a cowboy – a “Marlboro Man” of sorts. Guess what killed the Marlboro Man? Yuck. I called Progressive which will dispatch Safelite to my parents' house on the morning I requested to drill and fill the crack in my windshield. If that works, I will incur no expense; if it doesn't, and the windshield needs to be replaced, I'm out of pocket $1,000. I called yet another shop in my parents' town to do BOB’s inspection. Yes, the shop can do it, but I have to call the week before to book the appointment. So, the good news is that if I have to replace the windshield (which Safelite can't do), I won't have trouble rescheduling the inspection appointment; the bad news is that I'm trying to schedule a trip immediately thereafter and who knows when I can get the new windshield. Uncertainty is certainly inconvenient! When I left Glenwood Springs last week, I drove through Grand Junction so I could have blood drawn to manage a minor chronic disease. The technician told me that my provider should have the results the following day. My PCP left the practice last summer, so her PA has been taking care of me. I like the PA better than the PCP. Today is the last day of my coverage by UnitedHealthCare, no results were posted to my portal, and I had not heard from the PA. I called my PA’s office this morning, and I was told that outside lab work doesn't post to the portal. I then learned that the lab in Grand Junction didn't send the results. I explained my situation: I'm traveling, my insurance changes tomorrow, I want a 90-day prescription, etc. Several hours later, I called a second time and I went through this with another employee in my PA’s office. I called a third time and left another plaintiff message. My PA called me at the end of her day: she had the results, she would call in the script, and I would need to retest in October. I have Graves' Disease: it is an autoimmune disease which causes the thyroid to become hyperactive. On the night before my 27th birthday, I had plans to have dinner with a friend. On my birthday, I had a date for lunch with one guy, and a date with a different guy for dinner. My friend canceled my pre-birthday dinner, so I ordered pizza from one of those "famous" joints on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. My roommate was out that night. I ate my pizza alone (which was fine), but by ten I didn't feel very well. By the time he came home I had been vomiting for a while. He called an uncle who is a doctor, and he suspected I had food poisoning. My roommate called a cab, and took me to Mt. Sinai Hospital. The cab ride was hellacious, challenging my stomach at every turn. When you walk into the ER in a GSW (gunshot wound) hospital, you are a low priority. So, I sat in the waiting room with the chronic diabetics as the ambulance patients continuously bumped me down in priority. After vomiting for several hours in the ER restroom, my roommate yelled at a nurse who took my vitals: they were finally bad enough to warrant attention. A month later I still felt funny: I would get winded walking up steps although I was fit; I would wake from sleep with a pulse of 130; and, I ate a pound of bacon in 12 hours because I was always hungry. I had been given an anti-emetic and IV to rehydrate me while at the hospital, and the consensus was that food poisoning was the likely culprit, so there was no likely connection between that incident and what I was currently experiencing. That January, after four weeks of bitching to a friend, I had a consultation with his nonagenarian general practitioner. The doctor asked me some questions, poked and prodded, drew some blood (himself), and concluded that I have Graves' Disease. Two months later, I was treated with radioactive iodine which my thyroid absorbed in a suicide mission. Over the next two months I gained 20 pounds as I became hypothyroid, and it is the fattest I've ever been. Once my thyroid was pronounced dead, my endocrinologist put me on a replacement hormone. I was stable for 22 years until menopause. Menopause, peri-menopause, post-menopause! Menopause is defined as the one-year mark after the last period. Peri-menopause is defined as the pre-game. Post-menopause is defined as the post-game. So, by reasons of deduction, menopause is a one day event which no one can pinpoint. I had a hysterectomy (ovaries and tubes are intact) three days before I turned 42. It turned out that I had Stage I adenocarcinoma. I found that out three weeks later in a letter saying: "Congratulations, you had cancer!" Menstruation was artificially interrupted for me, but my ovaries don't know that. I never had that marker of "last period" to define my transition from peri- to menopausal, so I just refer to myself as menopausal and the healthcare professionals say peri-menopausal I suppose that when I'm sixty or seventy and refer to myself as menopausal they'll say I’m post-menopausal. Tomayto, tomahto: let’s call the whole thing off. Verizon charged me $255 for data overuse. I have a 24GB plan, and I was told when I bought the Jetpack that if I went over the 24GB Verizon would “speed limit” me via “Safety Mode.” I received one email from Verizon saying I was being charged $15 for an extra 1GB. Verizon did not send another 16 emails saying the same. It turns out that the customer has to enable Safety Mode via the Verizon app in order to avoid overuse charges. No one told me that. While I was on the phone with Verizon inquiring about their usury, the employee tried to walk be through the Safety Mode selection. I couldn’t do it on my iPad, so she turned it on for me. From a billing perspective, it is easy to see the Baby Bells in Verizon's DNA.
Yesterday, I called the telephone number for the company my father said could inspect BOB when I return to Pennsylvania. The man who answered said his lift couldn't handle BOB's weight and I should call Tom. Tom didn't answer his phone – ever. My father said to try the RV dealer in New York near him. I called, but the dealer doesn’t do Pennsylvania inspections. The service guy said, “Call Joe in Athens, PA.” So, I called Joe, and he said that my windshield chip constitutes an automatic fail. Fabulous. My father emailed another inspection resource for me. He had called and confirmed the windshield chip failure. He also suggested I call Safelite to replace the glass. I did that. The employee said he was "100% sure they did RV windshield replacements, but he could be wrong." Clearly, he never took statistics. He was wrong: Safelite stopped doing RV glass replacement because of the dimensions of the windshields. The math whiz referred me to Duncan Systems - 1-888-RVGLASS. Duncan, unlike Safelite, doesn't act as an intermediary with the insurance companies. I have to call Progressive and open a claim. OK, I can do that. I want to ride the Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad while I'm in Durango next week, and I want to do it on a sunny day. The forecast next Tuesday is perfect, so I called to make a reservation. I booked the Presidential car: it has 16 window-only seats. Hopefully, none will be occupied by children. The ride is three-and-one-half hours each way (~50 miles) plus two hours in Silverton. I asked the railroad employee whether there are any bike racks at the station in Durango. He didn't know, but he assured me that there must be some on the block since Durango is such a bike-friendly city. (He doesn't ride a bike, however.) According to Google Maps (beta), it would take me an hour to cycle from the RV Park to the Durango station. I have to be there at seven-thirty in the morning, so that's a no-go since sunrise is after six-thirty. I called the RV park and asked for a taxi recommendation. Then, I called the taxi service and found out it would cost me $25 each way. I went online to check Enterprise’s car rental rates thinking it might be less expensive to have a car to drive to and from the station. There are two Enterprise rental offices in Durango, and one is three miles from the RV park. The website said the closer office was closed on the day I wanted to rent. I called the office and I was informed that is open a half-day on Saturdays, closed Sundays, and closed for Labor Day. Instead of a two-day rental, I now have one for five days because of the holiday weekend. I'm going to drive to Key West and back just to get my money's worth. I called Jean this afternoon and she made the mistake of asking me what I'd done today: paid bills, downloaded statements, dealt with Verizon, learned that BOB’s windshield chip will cause him to fail inspection, booked the railroad excursion, booked a rental car, and did laundry. We discussed my options since I now have a rental car for five days, but most of them left me unenthusiastic. I am interested in going to the Four Corners National Monument because I’m a geographic nerd. But, I’m not very interested Mesa Verde National Park because Stone Age cultures don’t do it for me (I need the wheel). I sent a text to my aunt yesterday morning to wish her a Happy Birthday. Later in the afternoon I called her cell phone. Someone else has the number now. It wasn’t the new owner’s birthday.
This morning I rode my bike to the airport to pick up my rental car. Enterprise gave me a Dodge Charger. I had to put my bike in the back seat because it wouldn't fit in the trunk. I took the bike back to BOB and drove to Crested Butte which is at 9,000 feet. It didn't break 60 degrees until after one o'clock. I went to the Last Steep Bar & Grill for a burger and a Virgin Mary. Apparently, if you want either, that's the place to get them. On the weekends, they have a DIY Bloody Mary bar. The bartender pours you 14 ounces of vodka which leaves you two ounces for the mix, cheese, onions, lettuce and tomato. My Virgin Mary was excellent. When I finished the first half of my burger I felt full. I choked down the other half as a matter of principle. Maybe it was the Virgin Mary or maybe it was the altitude that made me prematurely full, but it wasn't the burger: I have eaten two cheeseburgers in a sitting and felt less full. There was a farmer's market on Elk Street in Crested Butte which made parking challenging. I parked at the Nordic Center. After lunch, I walked through the farmer's market. Earlier I saw that local peaches and nectarines were available, but after lunch I couldn't bear the thought of buying food. Instead, I opted for a 20 minute, $20 chair massage. It was a small indulgence, and my expectations were low: they were met. Crested Butte is almost two hours from Montrose. I had to go over two passes and endure frost heaves and road repairs to get there. I kept the Charger reined in outbound, but I did 80 mph twice while passing other cars on my return. It was fun. It's a dangerous car, however: it has a lot of power and a twitchy steering wheel, so you could easily make a fatal mistake at high speed. I went to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park on the way back from Crested Butte. I had planned to go there first since it is less than 20 miles from Montrose, but the weather forecast was better for Montrose in the afternoon, and Crested Butte expected thunderstorms by one o'clock. Montrose is at 5,700 feet, and the Gunnison National Park south rim road is at about 8,000 feet. The temperature difference between the two was over 10 degrees. The south rim twists and turns therefore availing the driver of a 360 degree view of the surrounding area. Unfortunately, it was cloudy when I arrived, and from various vistas I could simultaneously see sunshine, socked in rain, localized thunderstorms, and a tsunami. The canyon is dramatic for its narrowness, depth, and pegmatite rocks. It is also fucking scary if you're an acrophobia. The drive is only seven miles, but there are 12 overlooks some of which require several hundred yard walks. I realized by the third or fourth overlook that I was running out of gas. I didn't sleep well last night and dramatic changes in altitude give me headaches. I skipped a couple of overlooks, especially after the Chasms made me want to hold someone's hand to walk back. If the weather is agreeable, I may go back tomorrow morning or afternoon. Also, I would to drive the east portage road down to the Gunnison River to dip my toes into it. I have a friend who used to climb when he was younger. A climber he knows climbed The Painted Wall in the canyon with his girlfriend. It is 2,000 feet, and the highest canyon in Colorado. Apparently the couple was 15 feet from the top when they unclipped from each other. They were standing on a ledge and the remaining climb was simple. Somehow, she fell from the ledge to her death. My friend thinks I would have made a good climber since I have a high strength to weight ratio. I told him that I'm afraid of heights. He said that all good climbers are afraid of falling (which is what height represents). When I lived in Philadelphia, a few of my friends and I did a repelling adventure in Bucks County. I had a hard time walking up to the ledge. I had a harder time stepping backward off of it. But, hardest part came after I stepped off the ledge and my belayer said to me, "Hey, your carabiner is upside down. Can you flip it for me?" I did it and repelled 150 feet. My tall, Italian, gym-body friend got goofed up on his first repel and ended up with his back to the wall hanging like a worm on a hook. He made it to the bottom, walked up, and handed in his gear. My short, non-athletic, gay, Jewish friend Tom repelled ten times! I didn't equal Tom, but I went several times. I loved his lack of fear and faced mine each time. I turned 30 when I lived in Philadelphia, and Tom, Meredith and I celebrated it at a tapas restaurant. Two summers later, in 1996, Meredith and Tom turned 30 and 40, respectively. That summer, Tom while was remodeling his townhouse he realized that neither his cat nor his contractors would survive the experience if they were both in the same house. Tigger was a Bengal, and he stalked Tom and would bite him in the calf when Tom went upstairs, so Tom was afraid he’d do that to one the workers. Tom and I convened, and I called my parents: they agreed to adopt Tigger permanently. Tom and Tigger, Meredith and her boyfriend, and my Westies and I drove 250 miles to my parents’ house in Upstate New York. Tom rented a minivan with a TV for the trip. Tigger howled the whole way. Because Meredith was turning 30 that summer, and because my parents lived near Big Flats, NY, the soaring capital of the US (or New York State), I bought Meredith a sailplane ride for her 30th. Tom thought it was great idea and signed on as well. Meredith's boyfriend went fishing. I forget whether I went up first or Tom did, but Meredith went last. Tom and I watched her take off then land almost immediately thereafter. She ran out of the plane and burst into tears: she was terrified. We are such good friends that the fact I bought her a birthday present which made her cry became a matter of pride for both of us. Tom and I both loved our 40+ minutes of serenity floating on the thermals. We'd do it again in a heartbeat. We gave Tom got a bike for his 40th. He was happy. It didn't scare him, so he didn't cry when he rode it. Sadly, I never get to ask him, “Hey, remember when I bought you the birthday present that made you cry?” I suppose if I had met a guy who climbed when I was younger I might have been able to overcome my fear of heights enough to like it. (I believe in the transfer of confidence – to a certain degree.) I jumped out of a plane in New Zealand when I was 37 in an attempt to conquer my fear of heights, but being at 12,000 feet doesn't create the feeling of “exposure” that standing on a 150 foot ledge does. If I met a guy today who was a climber, I probably wouldn't start climbing. I'd probably expect the worst every time he climbed, but I wouldn't stop him – because I shouldn't. |
Siobhan M. KnoxIn May 2016, I bought a five ton, 25’ long Class C motorhome because I like to drive, I like to travel, and it’s more fun and less expensive than living in a hotel. No prior RV experience was required, and I had none: perfect. I’m writing a book about my adventures which will come to an end when I get a job. The dogs will be sad. Archives
February 2018
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