Author Archive for M. Toole

HEROES AND BEARS AT 14,000 FEET

(Summer 1995)

     My silver spurs can lick your golden years. Whenever I get down I go up, and there was Red Cloud Peak reaching toward the sky at the end of the Silver Creek Basin. I had decided to climb the mountain solo so as to have time to slow down that 21st Century noise and clear out the cobwebs that sometimes engulf my brain. In addition I had made the mistake of mentioning my plans to a friend named Popcorn who had recently lost a close family member, a 16-year-old cat named “Dad”, to a dog attack. Popcorn, who conveniently enough owned a liquor store in Crested Butte, handed me a miniature vodka concoction and asked me to drink a toast to Dad on top of the mountain. No more excuses. I now had a lofty mission, albeit a holy one.

Heading up an abandoned jeep road into the forest I began thinking, with the wisdom of humans, how politically correct even the wilderness had become. No jeeps humming, no dirt bikes screaming, lots of little brown check-in posts for hikers, plenty of bear tagging, controlled burns, semi-stocked lakes, and lots of signs prohibiting litter. It’s the Information Age in the Pines. How will the Ponderosas take to AI?

A fitting joust awaits me this Sunday morning, The first part of the hike is taxing, and I push myself up the trail hoping it will level off long enough for my respiration to catch up with my enthusiasm.

Soon I enter dark timber and then catch a glimpse of Handies Peak, spectacular in the morning sun. My mind wanders as my legs do the work.

I can hear Silver Creek crashing down through the rocks now. I wonder what ever happened to my college girlfirend or to that bastard in the Saab that cut me off on Society Turn last week. I wonder how many loyal patrons are attending Sunday morning services at Boo’s down in Lake City.

As I cross the first of three wide snowfields I can barely make out Sunlight Peak in the distance. Realizing that I have been talking out loud I’m relieved that there is no one else in earshot. There seems to be no distinct origin for, or welcome end to mustered  thoughts brandished like blind, charging snowmelt,  rushing through me.

Have I been around too long? Have I seen the same movie one too many times? At 46 years  am I sentenced to the rocking chair? Will I reach mild euphoria knowing that it’s ten o’clock and time for the news? At my age most of the former custodians of this place, the Utes, walked out into the mountains alone to meet their creator. Answers. Honor.

Back when I was in my twenties I was certain that by the time I reached this point I would not only be wise and affluent but that I’d have my emotions in tow. Good luck, sailor. That was in the Sixties. Maybe we all missed something during that time but it’s too late to run the whole decade by again. All we have succeeded in preserving is tie-dyed shirts, lava lamps and gender confusion. It’s not the shock of waking up to find that one has waltzed through 20 years without realizing his goals. The difficulty comes in accounting for the wasted time. I’m talking out loud again. I think about angels.

The thought that Mick Jagger is a grandfather weighs heavy on my mind. I remember a conversation the other day where my friend Terry Starr told me that the only true escape from midlife crisis is to become just that, a grandfather. Another friend bought a bright red Corvette and he’s only 43. What will he do for an encore if this approach falls short? What would Sigmund Freud say, or Carl Gustav Jung for that matter?

Climbing out of the creek bed I am surrounded by wildflowers. The wet spring did its work well and…Wait! What’s that large black, fury thing coming over the ridge? I scope it out with my zoom lens. My God, it’s a black bear. Does he see me? He’s heading in this direction. Now, I’ve read where these bear are quite docile but I’ll bet this one weighs in at 400 pounds!

As the animal methodically approaches I instinctively go into an emergency bear response like the one outlined in the four-color government brochure, produced, of all places, in Denver (or maybe China). He sees me now alright. I wave my arms, so as to appear larger than life and make noises to give him every reason to retreat. He meanders down the slope in my direction. Careful not to look him in the eye I begin to back up but it’s at least three miles to my truck. He comes close. He doesn’t look that frightening but…

“Pardon me,” says the bear, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with yourself, and what’s all the mumbo jumbo about? Do you realize how silly you look waving your arms around and screaming?”

My God, I’ve finally lost it. Voices. Hallucinations. Flashbacks. A talking bear.

“I know I look like a bear but in reality I am the reincarnation of Chief Colorow, of the Utes. Considering my wicked life I am lucky to be here in this form. Being a bear ain’t all that bad. It beats coming back as While I normally avoid humans, especially white ones, I couldn’t resist talking to you.”

“Oh,” I responded.

“I’m not a mind reader, or anything, but your voice really carries in this basin,” said the bear. You are engaged in climbing a mountain. What  is the source of your frustration? When I was your age we had to contend with white folks plowing up our race tracks and gold miners plugging up our hot springs. Look at these wildflowers all around you. They have a life expectancy of about two months and you don’t hear them whining, do you?”

“No,” I responded quietly. “Are you really who you say you are?”

“You don’t believe me?” said the bear.  Ask any marmot. Do you want me to perform a war dance or something? That’s the trouble with you people today, you don’t trust anyone. You people live right here in the Garden and yet you can’t get out of first gear.”

“How did people in your day deal with aging?” I ask. “I don’t recall ever reading about early evening bingo and tubs of jello salad in your lodges.”

“First of all,” he answers, “there weren’t so many of us. We didn’t live as long. While modern medicine pats itself on the back for stretching out the average lifetime, we saw life as a challenging puzzle with an defined end. That end came alone in the mountains.

“Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t, he snarled. “We still have them.”

“Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t,” he snarled. “We still have them.”

“What do you mean? We have heroes,” I protested, becoming a bit antagonized by the pompous nature of this large bruin.

“Name one,” said the bear arrogantly.

“Well,” I began there’s…Uh…there’s…Give me a minute…”

I realized the bear was right. I could not think of a real hero. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Duke Snider had fallen from grace. Even Connie Chung wasn’t what she seemed.

“See,” said the bear. “That’s what’s the matter. You have no heroes. It’s so simple yet so very complicated. Without heroes one cannot break out of the stark, familiar rhythm of life and let his desperate soul go out for a full moon stroll.”

I listened as the he went on thinking to myself that this sounds like a motivational seminar and that this is one receptive, if a bit corporate bear.

“What about you?” I counter. “Who are your heroes?”

“Well there’s Dick Butkus, for starters. Now there was one fine Bear. There’s Geronimo,” frowned the bear, “who fought on when he knew he was whipped and Bella Abzug…”

“Bella Abzug?”

“Hey, growled the bear, “everyone has the choice of who they choose as a hero. That’s the beauty of it all. You choose and no explanation is necessary.”

“Oh,” I say, “so picking a hero isn’t really so hard.”

“No, he responds, “but emulating one is something altogether different.”

At his suggestion I resumed my climb reaching a ridge full of shale that is a bit more difficult to negotiate. I wanted to ask the bear how a 400-pound mammal ascends a flimsy apple tree and gets the fruit before breaking limbs and crashing to the ground in furry chaos. I also had questions about hibernation, berries and bees but they would have to stay on the back burner this morning.

“You are someone’s hero,” said the bear, “or could be with the right moxie. That’s our roll and if it is embraced we have no time to worry about our own problems. Soon they blow away like ashes and we are one with our surroundings, a complete person.”

“What about you,” I retorted. “From what I read that as Colorow you were an overweight bully who drank too much and  never accomplished anything during your entire life.”

“Cruel, but true,” said the bear, “and that is precisely why I’m talking to you now. Once I was a Ute chief and now I’m a smelly, old bear who sleeps in a cave. It could happen to anyone. Accept your potential roll as a hero to someone else and you will quickly overcome all the insecurities and the confusion that plagues you. Inspire someone else and you create more and more heroes as you go. The whole thing is contagious and outrageous,” he said.

Then the bear then said goodbye and disappeared into a muddy stream before I could ask him anything else. I guess he figured that sooner or later I’ll be coming back down and, if further conversation is necessary, that he can catch me on the descent. I continued my trek up the side of Red Cloud, crossed yet another windy ridge and finally plopped down at the summit. I signed the Colorado Mountain register which was filled with the names of an assortment of heroes. Tomorrow there would be one more everyday hero, or at least someone attempting to experience that quiet distinction.   

Kevin Haley, a scratch golfer with an itch to someday break 90,  lives in Colona where he collects Citrons, grows garlic and publishes the sanjuanhorseshoe.com He was once the lead singer for The B-52s.

Candles From Canada Circumvents US

(San Juan, Puerto Rico) It began with a series of blackouts, followed by natural disasters and reminders of what second-class citizenship looks like up close. It was Puerto Rico, a territory of the US that has grown tired of paying taxes up north while hurricane relief and social safety nets go south.

Whether to provide light for victims of power outages or simply to make a political point on the hemispheric stage, Candles From Canada has come to the rescue. Candlestick makers from Ontario and Quebec have been shipping all sorts of wax beacons to the oppressed here who often find themselves quite literally in the dark. Despite the seizure of some 4 tons of candles in international waters Friday, grateful islanders say a substantial number of candles has made it through various blockades.

Candles For Caribs, a subsidiary that delves into organic white rums and rip tides, has taken on the colossal chore of distributing the smuggled candles before hurricane season. The Trump Administration has blacklisted CFC as a terrorist cult due in part to a close relationship with the Open Flame, another guerilla group that demands total freedom from the US and represents El Yunque in faint negotiations and prisoner exchanges. This third armed force has been blamed for the Close Cover Before Striking Massacre in 2014.

“Even with efforts to thwart our movements on the high seas we have managed to amas more than 4 million candles or all sizes and colors and hope to trade the excess for beans and rice,” said a spokesman for the governor’s office. “We just want to keep the light flowing.”

In addition to the candles some Canadian companies are handing out overnight kits (made in China) to many refugees stranded in Mexico and Central America. They are in limbo without a toothbrush,” said an organizer. “It must be a frightening experience but no worse than what they may face in El Salvador or Sudan.

The source went on to illuminate the picture saying that most of those deported have never flown before and no little or nothing about aerodynamics, further befuddling any basic  comprehension of what is happening around them.

One GOP senator insists that Candles For Canada is a front for communist cells and provides distraction, albeit less than clandestine, to shroud Canada’s plan to seize Puerto Rico, Greenland, the Panama Canal and Alaska.

“How much light do these malcontents need?” she squinted. “Most of their favorite past times are conducted in the dark.”

Meanwhile according to a recent poll conducted at El Apagon Stadium in July, more than 78% of all residents of the island favor joining Canada

“A nice tropical island is something we Canadians have coveted for a long time,” joked the official source who demanded animosity.

-Rory Lyons

Celebrity Tour Popular Diversion

(Ridgway, CO  from Miller Mesa Moon and Stars)

          The 2025 Cow Creek Celebrity Tour has been well received and will expand in 2026. Over 20 celebrities, new to the area, have already signed up to view the homes of carpenters, plumbers, masseuses, cowboys and teachers in Ouray County.

     The weekend experience is expected to give celebrities (many of whom are self-crowned) a chance to see how mere mortals live their lives. Organizers hope the visits will give the celebrities a peek at acceptable mountains fashion, interior design and culinary preferences in the Rockies.

     “That was the first time I’ve ever been in a trailer,” said one sweet young arrival from California. “They’re nice.”

     Coming autograph sessions will allow everyone to rub elbows after touring Ridgway Hardware, Billings, Rocky Mountain Jewelry and the local cemetery. These leading businesses will offer wine and cheese and encourage conversation between the two entities.

     Maps to the local’s homes are available at the chamber of comments as well as through The New Chinese Theater, Dogs Are Profitable and the Integrated Shelter for Telluride Refugees, which is under construction above the water treatment plant on Domka Avenue.

     “Things were rough around here before all the celebrities showed up,” said one old timer from his rocker at the Cookie Tree Saddle Shop. “But now we’re all saved.”

– Mario Swervo

WORDS ARE OUR FRIENDS

with Ella Benedictine Rockefeller

from her new book “Adverbs and Ignorance”

Can you define the following words?

1. GOOGOL: a.) Ten to the hundredth power; b.) To stare at someone stupidly; c.) A turncoat lieutenant in the service to Genghis Khan; d.) To purposely goose someone and later pretend the victim was one’s wife or husband.

2. ZONDA: a.) a small Japanese car; b.) The name of Dobbie Gillis’ girlfriend; c.) A hot wind of the Argentine pampas; d.) A cheese made from the pasteurized milk of a adolescent yak.

3. JEHU: a.) A Himalayan rope suspension bridge; b.) Someone who drives too fast; c.) A hayseed, a yahoo or someone from Hooterville; d.) The practice of eating dirt, gravel or yellow snow; e.) All of the above.

4. AGRESTIAN: a.) of the land; b.) A tribe inhabiting Northern Albania; c.) Growing wild in irrigation ditches; d.) Someone who is stupid but thinks he is way cool.

5. BUCKEEN: a.) A young man of lesser gentry aping the manners of the greater; an idle shabby young dandy (Irish); b.) Change for a Ten-spot in Wales; c.) Bad knees resulting from athletic abuse and unfortunate genetics; d.) The habit of jockeying back and forth on the potty in an fruitless attempt to relieve discomfort caused by Xiuhtecutli, the Aztec fire god.

United States Constitution To Appear on Talk Shows

(Washington) The U.S. Constitution and its sidekick, the Bill of Rights, will appear on four talk shows this month so as to remind Americans that it is still in existence (and that freedom is worth fighting to preserve?). Promoters of the event feel that this exposure will insure that the documents are not discarded by politicians in the immediate future. The Constitution, which guarantees almost all the basic rights enjoyed by Americans, will appear on a bevy of talk shows, one virtual reality game show and will be available in its entirety on Tic Toc and Toc Tick (the Chinese version).

Constitutionalists from all walks of life fear that the archive is in jeopardy due the presence of autocratic, right-of-center Presidential candidates and a puppet Supreme Court seemingly hostile, or at very least oblivious to, individual rights. Furthermore they are not convinced that television talk shows offer the best exposure for documents as well as candidates.

“We’ve also made gestures toward Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert, in case we need them too,” said Mel Toole, of the Civil Cheveres Union. Toole’s great-great-grandfather (T. Wright Toole) was invited to sign the Declaration of Independence and several other earth-shattering bills of the day but his alleged preoccupation with boozing, gambling and womanizing always created “irreconcilable conflicts.

“Mostly he signed bar tabs and IOUs,” spat Toole

“He did manage to sign a scorecard during the Whiskey Insurrection of 1794,” offered Tool. “Later in 1801 he signed the controversial Victoria Regia Ordinance which allowed Amazon maidens to compete in interscholastic athletics.”

Joining the Constitution and Bill of Rights on the talk show circuit will be The Code of Hammurabi, The Indian Vedas, The Torah, and the Magna Carta Dancers.

  -H.L. Menoken

The Ant, the Grasshopper, and the Bar Fly

     So this guy comes into a bar…actually the two of them had been lounging for most of the afternoon flexing what was left of their pale muscles, pumping parched wisdom like a tired old well gone slowly dry. Both were heavy into self-absorbed. But swashbuckling tomcats like Don Juan were light on scrutiny, preferring the other side of the looking glass to the mirror.

     These were very important men. Don Juan had an opinion on everything which he shared with the less fortunate like Candy, his drinking buddy who had eager ears, wandering eyes and a keen sense of the irrelevant.

     “Yeah, I’ve damn well got her made,” started Don Juan. “Got my bank roll, my trailer house is paid for, and my pickup is runnin’ great.”

     He turned his neck ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Candy who looked like he was trying to crawl into his cloudy pilsner glass.

     “For crying out loud, man, sit up straight,” he cuffed. “Look at your body language. It says everything about you. It tips your hand.”

     Candy looked at his body. He didn’t see or hear anything but he came to attention anyway following a pattern that had begun early on. Candy was there as a human reaction, to do as he was told. He was all but transparent because it had become easier that way.

     “Look at this,” said Don Juan, scanning the local gazette as he reached for his beer. “They sent a probe to Mars but it blew up when it got close. Idiots! I wonder how much that cost. I pay taxes and I’m damn sick and tired of the government shooting off space ships like they were butterflies.”

     Don Juan thought about what he had just said and smiled at his linguistic flair.

     “I don’t like bugs,” said Candy, “especially flying ones.”

     Don Juan continued to read the paper, his glasses fallen down around his cantaloupe nose. To him the expression on his face while reading was far more important than any information extracted from the experience. He wore a somber frown accentuated by hush puppies and a cap that read Cheyenne Frontier Days.

     “Winter’s comin’,” he soapboxed. “Look here. It snowed three feet in Duluth just yesterday. I’m glad I’m ready…got my wood all in and new mud and snows on the Power Wagon. How ’bout you?”

     Candy looked into the bar mirror. He had a propane heater in his small apartment that was mostly paid for by the Veteran’s Administration because of his collision with the war. He didn’t drive and the last time he tried to can a batch of tomatoes, given to him by his sister over in Delta, he’d almost blown up the place. How could Candy prepare for winter? One season just plowed into another.

     “Oh, I’m fine,” he choked with a uncertain voice, all but drowned out by the television.

     “Fine, huh?” barked Don Juan. “Just like last year when you never got around to taping your windows and your pipes froze. Then you had to sleep on my couch for the whole month of January. Your like the caveman who had a forest of firewood at his fingertips but forgot to discover fint.”

     Don Juan was on a roll.

     “Security doesn’t just wander up into your yard,” he preached. “You gotta go get it. Whether it’s financial, social or romantic there’s a brawl going on and you just as well join in right away. Lead with your left, boy!”

     He slapped Candy hard on the back. The tiny toothless aperture just under his road map nose was not to be stopped now.

     “Take money, for instance,” he continued. “I worked for thirty-five years to get me a nest egg and now I’m gonna enjoy it. I got stocks and bonds, 40 acres up on the Plateau, a great retirement, CDs, credit cards, a fat bank account and even some of them annuities. Everything I got is paid for and I don’t have any kids to leave nothin’ to.”

     Candy stared into his empty glass. Don Juan ordered two more beers and companion shots. He had a captive audience and the four dollars was a well spent investment to keep it that way.

     “You might as well spend it all,” quipped Candy breaking into a smile.

     “Hell, we might just do that this afternoon,” smiled Don Juan who continued to peruse the paper. He was a man smart enough to do two things at once.

     “Yeah, you got to be ready for winter around these parts,” he said glancing in the direction of his doleful disciple who smelled like an empty case of Pabst. “You still got time and maybe I’ll even lend a hand but first let me tell you a story. I know you don’t like bugs but it’s called The Ants and the Grasshopper. It’s by some fella named Aesop. He was a Greek a long time ago.”

     Candy perked up. “That’s a funny sounding name,” he mumbled.

     Maybe you’ll get the connection here. You’ve got to have your affairs in order. You never know when your card will come up. What would you do in an emergency? What do you have to fall back on?”

     Don Juan went on to tell Candy the story of the industrious ants and the lazy grasshopper. Despite the fact that Candy did not like bugs he listened intently. Don Juan told him about the ants drying grain on a fine winter’s day. The grain had been collected over long, hard days throughout the summer months.

     “Then along comes this grasshopper, half starved, begging for a handout,” he explained. “One of the ants asked him why he had not stored up any food during the summer. He says he had not leisure time enough and that he had passed the days singing. The ants scorned him saying that if he had been foolish enough to sing away the summer then he must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

     Don Juan waited for a response.

     “Mean little bastards,” said Candy.

     “You miss the point,” said Don Juan. “The ants worked at getting their ducks in a row while the grasshopper wasted his time. It’s just like you and me,” he added. “I’m the ant and you’re the grasshopper. My house in order while your roof is caving in.”

     Suddenly Don Juan clutched his chest, executing a poignant plunge from his prosaic perch at the bar. A swan dive in a dive. He hit the floor hard, his satellite brew crashing beside him. He was a goner.

     At the funeral a lot of people that Candy had never seen talked about what a great man Don Juan had been. They said he had grit. They said he had enjoyed a full life. They said he’d be missed. What they were really doing was a little preheat jockeying for position with regards to his assets, which ended up going to an uncle and aunt Don Juan had never liked.

     Meanwhile Candy wandered home and spent the rest of the day putting up visquine over the peewee windows of his ratty chamber. Were there no end to the chores? Don Juan’s old pickup sat propped in the driveway, a gift from the counterfeit relatives who didn’t want to haul the thing back to Salida. Now he would have to put gas in it. How would he ever get around to that.

– Kashmir Horseshoe

     

Ouray’s Smoky Joe Wood

Once the best pitcher on the planet    

     29,000 fans crammed Fenway Park on September 6, 1912 to witness the matchup between the Washington Senators’ Walter “Big Train” Johnson and Boston Red Sox’s Smoky Joe Wood. The two fireballers, who admired each other greatly. Johnson and Wood carried with them impressive credentials, each having set records, winning 16 straight games during that season.

     The newspapers loved it. Johnson had remarked, according to The Glory of Their Times by Lawrence Ritter: “Can I throw harder than Joe Wood? Listen, my friend, there’s no man alive that throws harder than Smoky Joe Wood.” Years later in a taped interview Wood said of Johnson: “He was always starting from behind with that ball club. Walter Johnson was the best pitcher that ever lived.”

     That was Boston’s year due in part to Wood’s 34 wins and a .383 batting average by the great Tris Speaker. They finished the campaign with 105 wins and 47 losses. By the time of the historic meeting the Red Sox had already run away with the pennant.

     Back to the game: Both hurlers dominated until, in the third, George McBride hit a lead-off double going to third on an infield out. Wood then walked two batters to load the bases but struck out the next two men to end the threat. In the sixth Speaker doubled down the third-base line and later scored on an error to give the Sox a 1-0 lead. The Senators put men on base in all three of the remaining innings but failed to score. By then Wood’s hummer was blinding. He gave up six hits and struck out nine in the victory. Boston went on to clinch on September 18.

     The World Series pitted the Sox against Christy Mathewson and the New York Giants. In the first outing Wood struck out Art Fletcher and Doc Crandall, with the winning run on base, to end the game. In game 4 Wood, facing Jeff Tesreau for the second time, beating him 3-1 while striking out eight. The game ended with a Giant’s victory at the Polo Grounds. The score stood 3 games to 2 favor of the Sox.

     On October 15 Joe faced more than the Giants. Due to weather and disruption on the part of Boston fans he finished his warm- ups only to wait 45 minutes before the start of the game. He got clobbered  11-4. The next day Mathewson started the seventh game for the Giants with Wood in the dugout. By the seventh it was tied. By the eighth Smoky Joe was once again on the mound. This time he held the Giants to a run while Boston scored the go ahead runs in the tenth to win the Series. That was his third World Series win that year.

     He finished the 1912 season a phenomenal 34-5 after posting 23 wins the season before. He started 1913 on the right track posting an 11-5 record. It was then that he suffered a series of injuries that would ultimately end his pitching career. He went on to a 9-3 record in 1914 and was 15-5 in 1915. Excellent stats for most but not for Wood. Due to arm and shoulder injuries he sat out 1916 saying “I never threw a day after that when I wasn’t in pain.”

     In 1918 he got a second wind. A standout in right field for the Cleveland Indians, he batted .298 through 1922. His career batting average was .283 and he was 116-57 with a lifetime ERA of 2.03 holding 51 Red Sox records. Only nine home runs were hit off him during his entire career.

     With accomplishments like these Wood would certainly be inducted into the Hall-of-Fame, but to this day he is not. Insiders point to the brevity of his career although Hall-of-Famer Dizzy Dean played one less season. Others say it’s because he was never fully cleared of charges related to an alleged run-fixing scandal during an gray era when betting was widespread. An oversight on the part of Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis left Joe’s name out of the mess when he exonerated Ty Cobb and Tris Speaker, who had been “implicated in the impropriety.”

     Wood went on to coach baseball at Yale and was named to the all-time Red Sox pitching staff along with Babe Ruth, Cy Young and Lefty Grove. He passed away in 1985 at age 95.

     The criteria for admission to Baseball’s Hall-of-Fame says: Candidates shall be chosen on the basis of playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, their contribution to the team on which they played and to baseball in general. Wood scores high in all of these considerations and is deserving of honor at Cooperstown.

     Said Tris Speaker in 1958: “Joe, there is no question that you belong in the Hall-of-Fame. Unfortunately you hurt your arm at the height of your career. Your all around ability and the fact that you made yourself into a good big league outfielder should count.”

     Further information on the life of Smoky Joe Wood are available at the Ouray Historical Museum. Thanks to Joe’s son Bob Wood, and grandson Rob Wood for information on Ouray’s greatest athlete.

– Kevin Haley