Tag: mountains

Leanin’

jono55

It’s 1946 and my family is decorating the Christmas tree while Perry Como is crooning songs from his new holiday album being played on an ancient 78 rpm record player which had been rescued from a rummage sale.

I am seven years old and this is the first Christmas that I know there is no Santa Claus. I don’t remember who told me, but no matter, I am still as excited as if that dreadful information had never reached my ears. I have chosen to accept both the literal truth (no Santa) and the imaginative truth (Santa) at the same time. Today, December 24, 1946, the imagination is holding perfect sway, and the power of Santa Claus is everywhere.

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Dreaming My Dreams With You, by Cowboy Junkies

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Came across this short film shot entirely with an iPhone.

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What we have all learned together these past years is that capitalism has a bunch of dirty secrets. One of them is that once you reach a certain level of wealth, you are almost immune to the problems that ordinary citizens face every day. And I’m not just talking about how much money they have. I’m talking about access to the levers of the machines that run the country, the stock market, the court system, etc. I’m talking about access to the politicians who are largely your own creatures, picked to do what you want to have done.

Turns out that the majority of people in politics seem unable to resist the smell of currency and the possibility of one day having piles of it around the house.

When Robin and I moved to Montrose, we considered ourselves Democrats, and once everything was unpacked we began to seek out others of our kind. Each year the local Democratic Party would put on a barbecue dinner for the membership, and we found it a very pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. But each year we would look at the attendees and knit our brows.

Those sitting at the tables were very nice people, but almost all of them were white and either senior citizens or on the brink of becoming one. Youth was absent. People of color were largely absent. All in all it looked like a political party on its way to self-extinction.

And the came the year when the casual barbecues of the past were left behind. Now it was to be a 50 dollar a plate dinner at a “better” venue. That was the point we stopped going to these yearly get-togethers. If anyone needed to see why the Democratic membership was such a narrow slice of the electorate you didn’t have to look any further than the ticket price. It was automatic exclusion of anyone for whom that was a significant amount of money.

So the two of us became Independents, and remain so.

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That’s All You Need, by Faces

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Sunday was my birthday and Robin and I decided to celebrate by taking a hike at the Colorado National Monument. The trail we took wasn’t a long one, and we’re still feeling the COVID effects just a bit, but it was a beautiful day and the scenery was grand. We hiked the Serpent’s Trail, named because within a relatively short distance there are sixteen switchbacks.

We may have overdone it, feeling some mild malaise when we had returned home, but ’twas well worth it. And at the end of the day there was cake. Of course there was cake. You may leave off the gifts, the cards, the well-wishing, the parties. But if there isn’t cake a birthday simply does not happen.

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One of the facts of living at altitude 5900 feet is that we can see winter for weeks before it gets to us here in the valley. Because we have those magnificent San Juan Mountains in view. First a tentative whitening on the mountaintops that goes away with the first sunny day, then a snow covering that remains … at around 11,000 feet … then 10,000 feet … 9,000 feet. Then a few flakes on a chilly morning whistling down the streets of Montrose. A very gradual introduction to the winter season.

With all this warning going on, there is really little excuse for being caught short. If you haven’t got the snow shovels out and placed them where you will need them, if you haven’t winterized your lawn sprinkling system, if you haven’t checked the tread on the tires of your car for seasonal suitability … well, I just don’t know.

And yet every year there is something that I don’t get done. Something that didn’t get put away well enough. I like to think that these minor mistakes are part of a built-in DNA package that keeps me from becoming too satisfied with myself. The question becomes: How could I ever think that I was perfect if I did that? It’s what a boob would do.

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When Bill Withers wrote “Lean On Me” in 1972, toying around on a small piano with only the phrase ‘lean on me’ to guide him, he never could have expected the song — about a rural man’s loneliness in the big city — would become an inspirational anthem to those rising up after tragedy, or a celebratory rallying cry of togetherness and resilience in times of trouble.

Rolling Stone Magazine

Re-listening to this tune 53 years after it was first released I am struck by how well it fits our time. It is a song made for those loneliest moments in life. Simple lyrics but man, what comfort (and solid advice) they have to offer.

Lean On Me (Carnegie Hall concert), by Bill Withers

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Hummmmmmmm …

jono55

At least one of our hummingbird families has moved on to new opportunities. But there are still four birds visiting the feeders regularly. I will miss them when they all leave, as I do each year. I have never tired of watching the way they hover and dart, their endless squabbling with one another, and the swooping zoom-bys as they fly in for a visit. Tiny, tiny creatures. Beautiful.

An addition has been made to our outdoor neighborhood zoo. Yesterday morning, in broad daylight, a red fox trotted across our driveway and up the street. Really a handsome animal who didn’t seem too concerned about its exposure. As opposed to the case of coyotes, owls, large hawks, and eagles, our local pets aren’t much threatened by the foxes.

Red foxes only average about 15 pounds under all that fur and this is only a hair bigger than a household cat or one of those whateverdoodle dogs. I may not be lucky enough to see the fox again, but I like the feeling of knowing it’s out there.

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We’ve finally had a little rain here in the valley, something September promises and usually delivers. By the end of the month snow should appear on the tops of the San Juan mountains to the south of us. Last Saturday I had the pleasure of talking with a new neighbor, a woman who had lived for forty years in Gunnison CO, which is just an hour east of Montrose. She moved here because of grandchildren, who are a common attractant, particularly for senior women.

When Robin and I were scouting locations prior to moving here, Gunnison was one of the towns we looked at. Our impressions were initially positive, although it is a smaller village than this one, until someone told us that it is the coldest spot in Colorado in mid-winter.

Hearing that, we cancelled any plans for a Gunnison move. Coldest spot … no, thank you, not after freezing our patooties off in the Midwest all of our lives. The moderate climate here in Paradise looked much better to us eleven years ago and we haven’t been disappointed.

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Lightning flashing, wind gusting, thunder rolling – all of these came down on us Wednesday night after dark. Some little rain, but mostly that sound and light show.

On one of my trips into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness of northern Minnesota, my companion and I had camped on a small island. We hadn’t traveled very far from the put-in, which was only a few miles and a single portage away, but no matter. Covering large distances was never our goal. We were not voyageurs, after all.

But a storm rolled in after dark that was to continue all night and into the next day, lasting nearly twelve hours. Sooo much lightning … sooo much rain … sooo much wind. All night the elements battered our small tent. The lightning was spectacular and nearly continuous. Sleep was impossible with all the noise, and we played every mind game we could think of lying there in the dark. When our bladders had expanded to our breastbones we were forced to leave the shelter and stand in the torrential rain while we felt like electrical targets all the while.

When the storm was over, all of our gear was wet and we were wetter. We decided to return to the world and get a cabin for the next night to allow our stuff to dry out (did I not mention that we were not voyageurs?). At that point we learned that eleven inches of rain had fallen during the downpour. Which had proven several inches too many for our poor tent, which simply hadn’t been up to the task of keeping the water on the outside.

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Lightning Crashes, by LIVE

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J.J. Cale emigrated from Earth in 2013 and is not expected to return any time soon. This is a guy who never hit a bad note, never recorded a song sloppily. Each tune had a beginning and an end, with tight musicianship in between.

On the album Okie he covered this old gospel song from 1925.

Precious Memories, by J.J. Cale

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There was another political assassination in our beleaguered country this past week, and we are still in the phase where small-hearted people are trying to use the man’s death to score points for their personal agendas. This will go on for another week or two, and then we will move on to the next outrage.

We have a rather a toxic mess of pottage stewing in the US right now, with what passes for leadership pouring gasoline on any fire they can find. Forget about being rational, forget about introspection. Finger-pointing and counter-finger-pointing are the orders of the day.

I am sick of it. The whole episode, from the shooting to the present nauseating debacle of mutual blaming, reveals humans at their worst. Only one thing is certain. When a country has nearly two guns per adult circulating among its civilians, we will continue to see these deaths. I am an old dude who had his first chance to vote in a national election and was lucky enough to be able to choose John F. Kennedy. Three years later an unstable citizen with a rifle took Kennedy’s life. That left a scar on my young psyche that has never had the chance to completely heal, because there has never been a shortage of fresh killings to deal with.

Looking for sanity in a society that so often seems insane is my first order of business. The path couldn’t be clearer. Non-violence is the only road worth following, the only way that offers the opportunity for meaningful change. We are not a highest-order species, but we are all that we’ve got to work with right now. Robin and I are contributing our time and treasure to political groups that are clear in their dedication to non-violence as a first principle. Anything else is madness.

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First snow, San Juan mountains, September 13, 2025. Now where did I put that long underwear, anyway?

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Two Miles Up

jono55

This will be a rather short post due to the fact that Robin and I have been away from home and not in contact with the world and its problems. For two days we camped a few miles south of Aspen CO with daughter Ally and friend Kyle. The internet goes away about three miles before the entrance to the campground, which is mostly a blessing and less a curse.

The place we stayed is called Difficult Campground and is named for the Difficult Creek which flows through it. There is only one hike leading away from it and it is the Difficult Creek Trail. We have no idea why everything is Difficult, we found it quite lovely and not particularly difficult at all.

There are a little over forty sites at the campground which are relatively close together but the trees and underbrush are so dense that you feel quite private even so. I encountered campers from many places in the U.S. and from France and Poland. With mega-rich Aspen so close the clientele is somewhat better mounted than we lowlife cowboys from small-town Colorado. There were some awfully comfortable-looking recreational vehicles sharing the area with us. Big and roomy and expensive.

We encountered a problem that is new to me. These days camping in the U.S. is largely done by reservation, and this campground had been solidly booked for months. But only about two-thirds of the campers actually showed up for to occupy the spot they had reserved. Affluent campers now often reserve spaces at several campgrounds early on in the season at the same dates, to cover the time they had available for recreation. Then at the last minute they could go to whichever spot they preferred. Of course that meant that they were paying $30.00 a night for each campsite they didn’t use, but if you are at a certain place economically this is pretty small potatoes compared to the convenience it affords.

But this means that you are freezing out another camper who would love to have used that site now which was now empty and unavailable. It is a selfish behavior, but I hate to admit it … there are selfish Americans. There, I’ve got it out there. I feel better now.

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The Eagle and the Hawk, by John Denver

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From Aspen to Independence Pass is a distance of 19.7 miles. We spent our second day exploring as much of this area as we could. For me the highlight was the walking about the area surrounding the Pass itself. You are well above treeline and at an altitude of more 12,000 feet. The spot we chose to eat our picnic lunch was at 12,160 feet according to the app on my phone. Turns out that food tastes exactly the same even though the act of chewing can leave you breathless (gross exaggeration here).

This road is classic Colorado mountain driving. Two lanes of steep and tight and twisting curves with no guardrails. There are two short segments where there is no center line because the road is so narrow that you pass an oncoming car v.e.r.y s.l.o.w.l.y with only a foot or two to spare between you. Being an acrophobic, I do not like such passages. Here’s an interesting graphic from a bicycling journal.

And yes, you share this narrow piece of asphalt with bicyclists. Bicyclists with a death wish is what I have come to believe. When you encounter a person on a bike on a curvy stretch you cannot pass due to limited visibility, so you travel at their speed. It is a journey that I simply could not make. The guy on the bike at times is only a couple of feet from the cliff edge and that is about ten feet too little for this timid soul.

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A few miles before the summit is the ghost town of Independence. It once was a gold mining town, established in 1879 and abandoned in 1899. All but one member of the population left at that later date during the worst winter in Colorado’s history, when snow cut them off completely from supplies. At one point many residents took planks from the buildings to fashion skis and in that way traveled back down the mountains to Aspen and safety.

One of the plaques at the townsite discussed a local Elks Lodge having brought new elk in to repopulate the valley, and that herd’s descendants now now still roam the area. Why, you ask, did they do this? Well, because in that isolated and harsh environment the miners and their families had eaten nearly all of the deer, elk, and marmots before they abandoned the town. Yes, even the marmots did not escape those ravenous appetites.

Here’s a few pics I borrowed from the internet. I took none of my own because my phone had run out of gas.

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Rocky Mountain High, by John Denver

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This morning I returned to modern life by reading articles about President Cluck’s continuing war on democracy and decency and wondering to myself … where’s a good heart attack when you really need one?

I know, I know. An unworthy thought. I will give myself a time out.

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Comic Relief: sign found in the bathroom at the top of Independence Pass.