All Entries in the "Featured Peeks" Category
The Running of the Kokanee
continued from Page 2
and couldn’t see what harm it would do. Sure, I’ll take my chances, I’ll run with the salmon!
All a person has to know about swimming upstream, or down for that matter, is to watch out for rocks and overhanging trees. The high walls stretching down to the powerful current were chocked full of spectators. The participants began to bunch up, a turn in the river, the current swift, then peaceful, now tranquil as we float out at a snail’s pace to engage the Kokanee.
There…just off the right bank…spawning salmon and lots of them! Kokanee for sure, angry pent up emotions from the long hot summer flaring out through their lethal gills. They are moving toward the swimmers, bunched up still now breaking in panic at the sight of the fish.
I remember reading about this type of thing going on in Pamploma when I was a boy but not since the Heeny Tick Festival Flea Circus have I witnessed such brute bloodlust squatting on our sacred Colorado soil.
Sadly the stragglers are dead meat in minutes, dragged to the depths of the cold, heartless stream like marshmallows at the mercy of a hungry black bear, like chokeberries toasting on a goldbrick fire. The survivors scurry back and forth into the water, clutching banks and willows vowing to stay on dry land forevermore.
It’s a lot like body surfing except that the salmon are the waves. Sure, there were moments when I was scared to death but, hey, everyone needs a little peril, a bite of fright in their lives. The icy cold water, the flags and banners of the crowds, the slimy Kokanee bent on death in the afternoon…it’s a lot different than TV.
If you simply use your head and concentrate…
What! I’m cut. I can feel the blood and see red in the water. I’ve been finned! Oh my god…I’m going down, the hooves of the beast cracking my scull like a shellfish in a blender, like keilbasa about to go under the knife. Trampled in the backwaters of the Slate, the East…what’s the difference now. Left for dead by fish with a morose, senseless agenda. Gored by the scale of it all.
Suddenly a surge of water lifts me. I pull myself out of the water and flag down a tuna boat and hop on.
That night in the ship’s stateroom the captain and his seductive wife told me of the hundreds of souls lost to the spawning each year.
“And they’ll be back for more next fall, them that survived the onslaught.”
IQ Pop Quiz Awaits Voters in November
(Washington) Going to the polls in November? Be advised that you could be tested on basic knowledge before being allowed to vote. This new approach to validating elections, a simple IQ test, will be administered randomly by non-partisan voter behavior experts to try to determine why the electorate is so easily manipulated and why our choices are so pitiful.
The quiz is in no way meant to suggest that the voting population is stupid and uneducated on political matters according to a source on the ground here.
“When we read that 17% of the voters think Obama is a Muslim and 22% don’t know where Mitt Romney was governor, we have a problem of credibility,” said the source. “This lack of savvy often dictates how a politician campaigns and why the two political parties keep nominating mouthpieces instead of brain trusts.
The questions on the quiz will run the gamut from Constitutional workings to American foreign policy to theories on democracy. It is not a trivia game and could represent a last ditch effort to reward intelligence and responsibility in the country.
There is no way to cram for the test and those failing will not be punished or made to feel bad.
The Night I Met Kenny Stabler
Editor’s note: Alabama All-American Kenny Stabler is a former quarterback for the Oakland Raiders. On one Saturday night in 1974 he was sitting at the bar in the Brown Palace Hotel preparing a game plan for Sunday’s game. With him was good friend and fellow conspirator, Fred Biletnikoff, a sneaky receiver with more guts than natural talent. Neither of the men were strangers to a good time.
Bobby and I had disguised ourselves as gentlemen, ala herringbone sport coats, shined boots and wallets bulging with one-dollar bills. If not blue-blood portraits of affluence we looked to be brown tin types of cowpuncher chivalry. Two taxi-delivered hayseeds grasping for an evening of sport or at least a mild diversion from the never-ending cattle drive of the Gunnison drywaller.
“There’s the bar,” said Bobby. “Every man for himself.”
We grabbed a stool at the end of the mahogany barricade that stretched around the stately tavern.
“Good evening,” said the bartender wiping away the sins of our thirsty predecessor. “What would you like?”
“Scotch with a beer back,” said Bobby. “It’s only Saturday night once a week.”
The bartender smiled. He was well polished like the oak floor and as eloquent as the market would bear.
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same but with a Bud.”
“What’s an Irishman doing drinking Scotch?” started Bobby, the red-haired outrigger of a longshoreman and a chowder chef. “What’s the matter with the Jameson? Has it gone bad?”
We survived several toasts, secure in the fact that our safe return to the Pig N Whistle was cinched by prior prudence and the good fortune that a praetorian cabbie would still be lurking in the wee hours.
“I’ve got the cab money in my left pocket and the brannigan funding in my right,” laughed Bobby. “Two-fifty a beer, damn this must be a nice place,” he mumbled.
I looked around the bar stopping short of stare in the direction of two men sitting in an adjacent booth. They were overcome with laughter, slapstick tears in their eyes rising from the complexion of their banter. They ordered another, tipping the barkeep with wave of the hand.
“I know that tall guy,” I whispered. “And the little guy looks familiar too.”
“I think he used to be President of the United States,” chided Bobby. “I think I saw him on a ten thousand dollar bill.”
“You’ve never seen a ten thousand dollar bill,” I responded. “You’re lucky if you’ve seen a hundred.”
Bobby turned in his stool, frowned, and looked compulsively in the direction of the pair. His brass texture charged ahead like a fumbler with one last match looking for a lantern in the dark.
“He’s Kenny Stabler. It’s Kenny Stabler!” Bobby shouted gaining the attention of most of the patrons and the glance of the Oakland quarterback.
“You win!” snapped Stabler, not offended, in fact entertained by the remark. “And who are you?” he asked in a muddled Alabama twang.
We exchanged introductions and, as I had calculated, the other guy was Fred Biletnikoff, the enchanted receiver, built more like an ballet dancer than a football player.
“It’s nice to see the two of you uptown,” said Bobby. “You look larger than you do on television.”
Stabler told him it was all done with mirrors and that he really should buy a TV with a larger screen, at least for the playoffs.
“Can we buy you guys a drink?” I asked.
That’s how it started. We talked about football, and women, and living in the Bay Area. We talked about Bear Bryant and Gulf Shores and Pat Sullivan in the Auburn game back in 1970. Fred told us Sullivan, who had won the Heisman that year was out of football altogether.
“I think he’s selling cars or insurance in Mobile,” said Biletnikoff. “And the no name left-hander from the Crimson Tide is sitting here at the downtown Brown Palace surgically dismantling yet another defensive backfield while he masterminds the collapse of yet another set of brain cells.
“Where’s Floyd Little when you need him,” teased Stabler. “Get him on the phone, Fred…Fred, Get him on the phone. I want to talk to Floyd,” slurred Stabler. “Bartender: Get Floyd Little on the phone and get us another round while you’re at it.”
The other patrons smiled.
“And get me George Blanda too,” demanded Stabler as the bartender scoured the phone book in mock response to Stabler’s sudden request.
Kenny held up a menu in false desperation.
“I have a secret message for Daryle Lamonica. Please. Clear the area. I must speak to Daryle. We’ve broken the code.”
“Daryle Lamonica. Now there was a quarterback.” drooled Biletnikoff, swimming in his bourbon and water.
“Damn, Fred, you’re old. I can hardly remember back that far. I was a just a boy…”
“Oh, shut up, Kenny or I swear I’ll forget to block for you tomorrow,” said Fred. “It’s hard enough catching those flimsy passes thrown from the wrong side.”
“Your brain is on the wrong side,” said Stabler, “but what can we expect from a sawed-off Cossack surfer masquerading as a wide receiver. Besides the last time you threw a decent block was in high school.”
Although it was entertaining to listen to the two it was also difficult for Bobby and I to keep our mouths shut especially with the tonnage of alcohol that miraculously orbited our table through the evening. I still had cab fare and, considering the importance of the meeting, ordered some shrimp and potato skins.
“I thought pro athletes had to stay in training,” said Bobby fueled by libation. “Don’t you guys have a curfew?”
“Oh, I think so, don’t we Fred?” he laughed, “but once Madden’s asleep we can pretty much do as we please. What are they gonna do? Trade me for Craig Morton?”
Stabler stopped his windy rambling long enough to sign an autograph for a man who wished him good luck in tomorrow’s game. Caustically sketching a conglomeration of Xs and Os on a bar napkin he covered up his work accusing us of spying for the Orange and Blue. His cloak and dagger shenanigans continued pressing the shrimp and potato skins into service. It then culminated with an offer to sell out the entire Raider game plan for another drink.
Someone at the bar sent over another round.
“What time you getting up tomorrow, Kenny,” asked Fred suddenly squinting at his watch.
“What time is the game, Fred? laughed Stabler attempting to return our attention to his pigskin schematic.
“It’s at two, or three,” answered Biletnikoff now returning to a more jovial mood. “Is this Rocky Mountain Time?”
“What time does the bar close?” continued Stabler.
“Two or three,” quipped Fred which brought another chorus of whoops.
Just then a voice from across the room interrupted our rare silence.
“Hey Kenny, the well-oiled man bellowed. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Thanks for the reminder,” joked Stabler, “but Al Davis should be by to pick us up in a minute.”
“I wouldn’t wait if I were you,” continued the drunk. “You look as if you need a little sleep before the game tomorrow.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” quacked Stabler. “We’re only playing the Broncos!”
The bar grew quiet. One could hear a mouthpiece drop. Everyone gazed in disbelief. This ruffian from Oakland via Alabama had insulted our sacred Broncos. Seconds crept by. The drunk stood up, walked to our booth, staggered once more trying to say something to Stabler, he then fell head first over into a large Boston fern minding its business in the corner.
That was enough to bring an explosion of laughter and more drinks.
“I didn’t mean to insult your team,” smiled Stabler in our general direction.
“That’s no problem,” said Bobby, “the plant got the worst of it.”
“Yeah, we’re Raider fans anyway,” I swilled. “You’ve been buying most of the drinks.”
“There’s still hope for you provincials,” said Stabler as he and Biletnikoff headed for the door at last call.
“We’ll be watching you tomorrow,” said Bobby. “We’ll be in the South Stands.”
“I’ll throw you one late in the fourth quarter,” said Stabler as he hopped into a cab.
The next day the Raiders beat the Broncos 42-6 with Stabler tossing three touchdown passes to Fred Belitnikoff, who ran his pass routes with uncompromising precision, although he did look a little shaky on the team bus at the end of the game.
– Melvin Toole
Howdy Law Amendment Travels to Senate
Bill expected to sign bill
(Barnacle-on-Potomac) Western hospitality is alive and well after three weeks in the House of Representatives. That’s where the populist Howdy Law has been hanging its’ Stetson since mid-April.
Originally bulldogged into law by the Montrose (Colorado) City Council and quickly approved by the County Commissars, the Howdy Law has received quite a little press since it’s virgin implementation at this Western Colorado town in 1994. Lots of other municipalities and counties have adopted the legislation. Some have written it into city and county ordinances while others have simply encouraged the local population to live by the simple do unto others creed that is inherent to a healthy society.
The Howdy Law, as originally written, simply calls for outward signs of friendliness by saying Howdy to people one might encounter on the street. It endorses gregariousness as a way of life and the result is a happier, thriving population. For old timers it’s the only acceptable way to be, and is therefore comfortable in all social exchanges. For the urban refugee it is restorative and hygienic. It allows the soul to bloom in its new environs.
Now the federals are on the verge of passing legislation that would adopt the Howdy Law as the edict of note and quite possibly the prescription for what ails us as a nation. In most cultures, a greeting is basic. Here in the suburb-choked, dollar days USA we are more likely to run someone over with our shiny new car than to belt out an amicable hello.
At first the local Howdy Law was based on the honor system but after a few months a person could expect a toothless summons for any sign of animosity in the face of such a greeting. To be sure, there were those who said their right to be anti-social was being eroded and the civil libertarians jumped into the fray. A lawsuit was filed and people got hot and haughty. Fortunately the paperwork was mysteriously misplaced, the court records allegedly remain stashed under a pile of dog-at-large citations, and drunk driving plea-bargains in someone’s basement.
In 1996 then Governor Roy Romero signed a breakthrough bill that adopted the Howdy Law all across the state. It became the bible for the tourist industry with dude ranches teaching their little dudes and dudettes to employ it on trail rides and ski areas demanding that their close-cropped employees say Howdy to visitors as many as 200 times per day.
What these greenhorn mercantilists often don’t remember is that the whole thing started here on the banks of the Uncompahgre River where the concept of Howdy is as natural blue skies as and as sure as sagebrush. Despite rampant growth and questionable land use over the past years Montrose remains a friendly place. Even the cops say Howdy, and then they put on the cuffs.
Do some of us think friendly is not cosmopolitan or sophisticated enough? The other evening in what was once a small town I stood in the checkout line at the grocery. There were many people there that I had never seen. No one spoke. Were they all from California? Suddenly in my advanced state of Holy Joe judgment, I realized two things, 1.) I was the only guy in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops 2.) In my attempt to get on with the purchase of whipped cream and salsa I didn’t say anything to anyone either.
Estrangement often precipitates violence as the disaffected act out their fatal frustrations. We don’t have to bring up road rage or kids with guns to illustrate that point (the man on TV does that for us every hour on the hour). Maybe a crisp Hello in There, as songwriter John Prine puts it, could defuse the situation. The feds seem to think so, and isn’t that entity infallible in matters of benevolent dictation, o’ sumpin.
Enough preaching. If all goes according to plan the Senate will vote on this matter of mandatory greeting tomorrow and the Howdy Law will be in the books (allow six to eight weeks for delivery) before the fireworks light up the skies for the Fourth.
The Ball Court
“Can you hear me? I’m on the other side. Look through the holes in the rock wall. They brought you here last night from Uaxatun, after the battle. Are you Mayan? Can you hear me?”
The recipient of this information could not stand. He sat up in the cramped cell and peered through the opening in the thick stone wall. He could see daylight. His prison was on the ground level of what appeared to be a large structure not seen since visits to Quirigua. One ball court was in full view. It was much smaller than the one at Copan, where gods and giants once entertained the visitors from the stars.
“I can hear you but I cannot see where you are,” he whispered instinctively not knowing who else was in earshot.
“Why do you whisper, my friend? What else can they do to you?”
CURE FOR MAD DRUGSTORE COWBOY DISEASE MANY YEARS OFF SAYS DOC
(Ridgway) Researchers throughout the West have spent decades pouring over related data. Hospitals have built wings dedicated to finding a cure. Pickups have more than doubled in price. Cow pies are still cow pies. A horses’ ass is still a horses’ ass.
Local medico, Efram Pennywhistle, a former PRCA rodeo trainer, says the Mad Drugstore Cowboy Disease will be around for years.
