Author Archive for M. Toole

Medicine Wagon in Ashes

Special from the Ouray Solid Muldoon

(Uncompahgre City –1880) The sale of more than 200 bottles of alleged cure-all elixir has resulted in the destruction of a gypsy medicine wagon and the near tar and feathering of one Doctor Orwadd Chestnut. According to local marshals Chestnut sold his self-heralded mixture to naive townspeople with the promise that it would relieve rheumatism, prevent small pox, treat bunions, prevent pregnancy, fade freckles, improve hearing, reduce stress, and attract the opposite sex. It also proved to be an effective meat marinade and intoxicant according to the doctor, who concocted the juice up in his clandestine Gladstone laboratory last summer.

     Of the 200 persons who paid $2 per bottle for the stuff, about 195 were severely displeased. When the subject came up at the weekly town meeting and continued over at the Blind Horse Tavern it was decided that actions speak far louder than words. That night, under cover of January darkness, an angry mob approached the medicine wagon, parked illegally, we might mention, in the heart of the red light zone on 2nd Street.

     A spokesman for the group, Al Utter, who had purchased two bottles of the elixir, demanded that Chestnut return the money spent on the cure-all. The doctor agreed saying that he would gladly accept unopened bottles in that they were legitimate returns. That would be impossible, said Utter since everyone tried “the worthless potion” and only then did they realize they had been hoodwinked.

     Chestnut smiled nervously and said he could do nothing for them He then attempted to terminate the discussion by slamming the door of his wagon when Utter, aided by a size 13 shoe, blocked his evasive tactics. He grabbed the doctor by the collar and attempted to shake the money out of him.

     “We heard a few coins drop on the wooden floor knowing that this charlatan had stashed or spent the cash,” said Sam Murphy, local undertaker a leading member of the vigilantes. “It was at that moment when somebody yelled Burn him out!  and torches appeared. In moments the brightly colored gypsy wagon was in flames.”

     After watching helplessly while his establishment fried Doctor Chestnut decided that discretion was in fact the better part of valor and that ill gotten gains could cost him his neck. He relented and gave back the $400 (a handsome sum to say the least), spouting apologies, quoting the moralists and begging for mercy. The mob then returned the remaining elixir, those bottles that had not been smashed against the burning wagon. Several eye witnesses insist that they saw evidence of tar and feathers in the wings and that Chestnut was smart to leave town.

     “People just don’t like strangers coming into town fast talking them out of their hard earned money,” said one marshal. “It’s a long winter up here. We’ll just save the tar and feathering for another day,” he smiled.

     Meanwhile up in Highland Mary residents report a severe drop in small pox, freckles and general stress. In addition they informed this reporter that rheumatism was under control and that everyone in town could hear much better after a week taking Chestnut’s recipe. Bunions, too, had miraculously disappeared from the toes of the miners.

     “We don’t know how the stuff works with regards to the opposite sex since we don’t have any women currently residing here,” said one satisfied customer.

Mercenaries Win World Series

(Toronto) The Los Angeles Mercenaries defeated the Toronto Blue Jays last night 5 – 4 in the 11^th inning. A mostly copped squad, the Mercenaries have the largest payroll in baseball. There was a time when the LA franchise had the finest minor league programs in the sport. Now traditional modes have made way for cash.

The absence of an established salary cap in baseball is the culprit here. Until that matter is settled we will watch as the Dodgers along with the Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs and Mets continue to buy instead of develop. The big markets dictate everything including lucrative TV contracts. Meanwhile the fan pays the freight.

Or will these smaller market fans get tired of the imbalances and choose not follow their teams  at all? When a backup shortstop makes millions and many workers struggle on $15 per hour the hardball precipice is quaking and shaking, primed for a fall of some magnitude.

2026 would be a splendid time to boycott Major League Baseball until it comes to its collective sense and saves the National Sport from moolah mode. Maybe then salaries might level off and Americans can enjoy more competitive baseball played on level playing fields and not bags of gold and ledger sheets.

-Pepper Salte

Joint Military Maneuvers Target Canada

Decades ago in the San Juan Horseshoe

(Washington) The Clinton Administration today confirmed rumors that the planned U.S.-Russian joint military maneuvers may involve a little more than summer war games. The exercise will be held on American soil sometime in July or August.

“Yeah, it’s true. We’re planning to invade Canada,” said one Pentagon/White House liaison. “Hell, it’s just sitting there.”

The surprise attack will most likely come early in the morning, and feature assaults by land and from the sea, with both American and Russian units employed over strategic points along the more than 3,500-mile border.

“We have pinpointed certain objectives, such as the locks on the St. Lawrence River, a brewery in Montreal, government buildings in Ottawa, a salmon canning plant on Vancouver Island and the rail yards at Winnipeg,” said the liaison, who is a recognized expert on polar bear, munitions and ice hockey.

Insiders say that the U.S. government has been planning the punitive invasion since 1993, when the Toronto Blue Jays last won the World Series. According to a high source, they simply needed the Russian commitment to disguise the assault as some sort of a United Nations (allied) effort.

“Hell, we’ve been lusting after Canada since the days of Benedict Arnold,” said one paratrooper, “and the Russians are game. They haven’t had a good brawl since they left Afghanistan.”

The White House refused to comment on reports that Alaska might be returned to Russia in the event of a successful campaign, or that the Blue Jays could be moved to Havana.

-Signelle de Bushe

US Residents Can Rely on PSC

(Toronto) Imagine the relief in the lower 48 with the announcement that US citizens, legal residents and even undocumented aliens can employ the Canadian version of FEMA called Public Safety Canada to help the prepare for bad weather and even offer premonitory disaster response.

Canada serves its population through collaborative efforts of the Government Operations Centre, several provincial agencies, PSC and a host of NGOs. With the near-dismantling of the US counterpart, FEMA, many in the United States fear for the worse during hurricane season and the effects of climate changes that have arrived angry and extreme over the past decade.

The current leadership down south has all but shattered and shuttered the very effective agency with layoffs, pilfering and lies while extending  lucrative tax cuts to the already wealthy. Access to often life-saving information is no longer available or has been severely derailed by reduction of staff and the flight experts he see a fascist future in full regalia.

“Our neighbors are welcome to use weather stats and data as well as emergency disaster forecasts since FEMA has been hobbled by Il Douche,” said Paul Galaski, of PSC. “Preparation is imperative to survival in many cases. Hurricane monitoring (not directly affecting our Commonwealth) has been in place for almost a century. We seek to prevent natural and man-made catastrophes, calamities and debacles wherever they occur.”

The White House has accused Canada of furthering global warming propaganda calling the on its base to decipher fake news from real news with a sip of kool aid news. It further claims that blue states will be given preference from the “left-leaning land” up north. Canadian chat suggests that no one is working at FEMA apart from janitors and an expanded security force to keep nosy citizens away from the formerly functioning facility.

“We will offer a helping hand even to red states such as Texas and Florida to prepare for the worse and build resilience against future events,” said Galaski. Canada will serve as the preventative wheel and not the after-the-storm response.”

Meanwhile the average American is at risk despite the kind offer of brotherhood exhibited herein.

-Kashmir Horseshoe

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