All Entries in the "Fractured Opinion" Category

TWO UTES FISHING

It was one of those classic Rocky Mountain mornings in the early 1700s. It was a time that would be captured on some future picture post card that would be mailed back East or to Europe summoning the hordes, luring the White man West, defining someone’s concept of civilization. It was one of those cool, crisp spring mornings where fish leaped skyward and the forests teemed with game. It was quiet.
Two Ute braves, Crooked Sky and Curious Eagle sat contentedly at the confluence of the mighty Yampa River and its overachiever cousin, Mad Creek. They were dug bait and carried long poles fashioned from the limbs of a less than enthused quakie which had the unfortunate luck to be rooted on a nearby bank. They harvested fish like their brother the Grizzly but with a few human amenities. That evening hundreds of trout engage in a feeding frenzy oblivious to the uninvited dinner guests who stalk them.
“There, the big ones hang back by the bank hoping to elude predators like us,” started Crooked Sky. “Caste out farther and you will distract them with a grasshopper. T”hose fish can’t resist a fresh grasshopper.”
“They are far too well fed to be snapped up,” said Curious Eagle. “It’s as if elk munch on the grass beneath my lodge or drink the water hauled by my wives.”
Both braves sit quite still, staring into the water. If the fish do not bite this morning there is always tomorrow. Many pounds of berries are still stored away and there is enough buffalo jerky to last well into the fall. The two anglers are simply more interested in trying out their new poles than in catching a fish.
“It was that big-nosed Pawnee that showed us how to fashion the pole,” laughed Curious Eagle. “He could finish the job and hook a fish for us at least! I did not like him much and after he had gone I noticed that I was missing my lucky arrowhead that I had carried for many years.”
“Maybe his magic is only in design,” said Crooked Sky. “He was a strange one, especially considering his stories of the square house builders from across the great water,” frowned Curious Eagle. “He says the whites shoot game for sport. He says they crop their hair and wear too many clothes, especially the women, even in the summer. This can not be true. Why would someone do that?”
“If this is true then they appear to be a very unhappy people,” Curious Eagle mused. “I just hope they are content to stay where they are. Our hunting lands have no need of their footprints. These whites, if they really exist, appear to be bad medicine. They have little honor,” he continued, “and are said to cut down the forests, bleed the rivers, trap animals for money and pierce the skin of our mother, the earth.”
“I think that Pawnee was pulling our leggins, either that or he’s smoking too much kinick-kinick,” stressed Crooked Sky. “Why would these whites come here? What is here for them? How could they ever get here? The mountains will protect us from these devils just as they have protected us from the Cheyenne and the Arapaho .”
“The Pawnee insists black-haired whites in armor have already stirred up trouble throughout the land of the Bannock, the Shoshone and the Navajo,” said Curious Eagle. “It is only a matter of time before they come over these mountains. He says they seek the yellow rock and dig for other treasures. I have seen such rock,” he added. “They also carry idols on crosses and diseases.”
Crooked Sky then smiled and told his friend not to worry.
“I thought we came here to fish,” he said.

********

One hundred years later, lodged in a small clearing in the shadow of Gore Pass are mountain men William Sublette, Jim Bridger, Thomas Fitzpatrick and John Colter. While waiting for the arrival of compatriots Old Bill Williams and Jedediah Smith they have become distracted by a large jug of corn whiskey which serves as a spirituous campfire. The fur trade is at its height and it was rendezvous time in the Rockies.
“Where the hell are the Utes?” asked Bridger as he spat a wad of chew from somewhere behind his long, shanty beard.
“They don’t like to show up too early,” answered Sublette. “They always get into a fight with the other tribes. Those guys are spooky but they aren’t much at haggling. Last year over on the Green River I traded them three broken down horses for a slew of beaver pelts. Then a few of them got mad and wanted their pelts back,” he said. “I had to whip three of them just to get back to my camp!”
The group looks up to observe the arrival of about twenty Sioux warriors loaded down with an assortment of furs and provisions for at least a month. The contingent carefully picked its way down a steep ledge and meandered into the clearing.
“They’re watching us,” whispered Colter, “out of the corner of their eyes. Warriors watch that way. They never look straight at anything, be it game, horses or adversaries. That’s the best way to deal with women too,” he laughed.”These Lakota are masters at life.”
“Here comes Old Bill and that sawed off Kit Carson,” said Sublette. “That bastard Carson is all dressed up in his soldier outfit. He thinks he runs these mountains. What a clown.”
“Where is Jedediah?” asks Bridger. “He hasn’t missed a rendezvous in years.”
“I hear he’s having trouble with his Cheyenne squaw,” explains Sublette. “She wants him to give up his wandering and stay closer to home. I think he’s getting old.”
“That’s why I change squaws every year whether I need to or not,” smiled Bridger. “It keeps life more exciting. The last thing I need in the summer is some squaw on my ass. I had this woman in St. Louis who was crazy about me but…”
“We’ve heard it all before, Jim,” sneered Fitzpatrick. “Tell us something new.”
“I’ll tell you something new,” offered Sublette. “When I was in St. Joseph last spring I saw at least 20 wagon trains packing up and headed our way. It’s gonna get tougher to stay out of the way of progress,” he added. Pretty soon we’ll have to go back to Europe, since they’ll all be over here..”
“From what I can tell the fur business has peaked anyway,” said Fitzpatrick. “Silk hats will soon be in vogue in Paris and London and the dirt farmers are cutting down the forests and chasing the game north to the Tetons anyway.”
Carson and Williams arrive at the campsite and exchange greetings with the other trappers. Williams appears already quite drunk and his mumbling something about city folk. Carson begins a cavalier monologue that describes the situation on the plains.
“On the other side of the Missouri the roads are packed with Conestogas and pilgrims from the east,” he said. “Sooner or later they’ll arrive here and ruin it for the rest of us.”
“So what!” mimics Colter. “We’ll all be six foot under by then. The sod busters can have the place if they want it. Just let them try to grow anything worth eating, the fools!”
“You’re all nuts,” says Fitzpatrick waving his arms in rebuttal. “This country is too severe for those pansies. They haven’t got what it takes to survive these winters or get along with the Indians. They’d starve after a month.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, Tom,” says Carson. “You haven’t been back east for a decade. Those folks have their eye on land, my friend, and will continue to come West until the entire frontier is harnessed and plowed under.”
“Different kind of folks, ain’t they,” quipped Sublette. “Once they find what they think they’re looking for they do everything they can to change it back to what they left behind. Quit hoggin’ that jug, Bill.

*******

Three tired coal miners have just completed their respective shifts and are sitting in a small bar on Lincoln Avenue in downtown Steamboat Springs. It is September of 1939 and they are preoccupied with developments in Europe. The Germans have invaded Poland and the Japanese, who have already colonized Manchuria and carved up China, are on the move in the Pacific. The nations of the world are choosing up sides and the much-feared conflict is on. Being of draft age the three are concerned with a lot more than the war’s affect on the price of coal.
“We’ve had it pretty easy here, compared to a lot of those people in Europe,” said one miner, a red-headed man named Jim Noyce, whose uncle was killed at Belleau Wood in 1917. “This valley is only for those who call it home. The rest of the madmen don’t even know we exist, and I like it that way.”
“I hear there are about 200 miners moving here as part of mobilization and the war effort,” offered a second man, named Milo Kopcek who voiced concern over relatives still living in Moravia. “I see this war spreading all across the globe. The coal companies have already announced plans to strip mine that country west of Oak Creek and down into Twenty Mile Park. We could be in for the long haul,” he frowned.
“And some of them are even talking about skiing,” said a third miner, a tall, thin Swede who had lost his small ranch near Phippsburg during the those bad times they call The Great Depression. “Not just skiing to get around, mind you, but skiing for recreation. It’s big in Europe and they say we have much better snow than the Alps.”
“That’s crazy,” said Noyce. “Who in their right mind would travel all the way to this valley to ski down a hill or two? I think these skier types will all be back in Denver by spring. This is a mining town and that’s all it will ever be,” he added. “Take it or leave it but you’ll never change it.”
*********

Brightly clothed figures stack firewood outside an abandoned shack near where Mad Creek meets the Yampa. Although they look ragged they take pride in the fact that they are surviving off the land with an occasional subsidy from a worried parent back east. It looks like snow.
“Steamboat is the ultimate rejection of the urban experience,” said one long-haired man in his early twenties. “The world won’t find us here. Just look at the dilapidated shacks, the grimy dirt streets and the brutally cold weather.”
It was 1968 and another war was raging, this time in Southeast Asia. These were the children of the Fifties that had begun to descend on Steamboat Springs, and the Rockies in general. They had arrived with a few belongings crammed into micro buses and Jeeps, Walden Pound imprinted securely in their psyche. They were mesmerized by the mountains and quickly engaged in systematic squatting despite the grumbles of longtime residents who saw them as an annoyance.
“It takes a certain kind of person to live in the mountains,” added a young girl who appeared to be stuck in her teens. “But we must preserve this beautiful place. I’m worried about people coming here and ruining it for those of us that are already here,” she sighed. “When I was in Denver for the Dylan concert last weekend I heard lots of people talking about establishing a large commune up Quarry Mountain.”
“So what,” snapped a beaded, bearded man who tried to look like John Lennon. “As long as they are hip they should be welcomed. We need people who think like us in this valley if we are to take control of our destiny here,” he explained. “Things must first change in the Rockies before they will change on the rest of the planet.”
“How many more?” asked the first man. “How many more before the place turns into another circus?”
“That’s an absurd question,” answered the bearded man. “There’s plenty of room here for everyone if we live right and work together for the common good.”
“Right on!” shouted the teenage girl. “Together we can build a utopia where everyone has enough to eat, enough dope to smoke and a house to live in. Sooner or later even the old timers will come around.”
“The key is to encourage a society right here where greed is given no quarter,” said the first man. “If we are committed we will reap the harvest of peace and harmony for all. It is attainable here, far away from the insanity. Just look at the river. It hasn’t changed since the Indians first fished it,” he stressed. “Our future is only as bright as we will allow it to be.”
“It is our future,” said the girl. “We can carve a perfect society, like the Indians had, out of the wilderness. Look,” she chirped, “I found an arrowhead!”
*****

Just a stone’s throw away sit the ghosts of Crooked Sky and Curious Eagle. Both just shake their heads.
“These whites are as silly as the first ones who came here centuries ago,” said Crooked Sky. “They still think they are the first to discover this valley and they still think everything is oh so pristine. They will learn like those before them,” he added.
“Hey, I think that young maiden found my lucky arrowhead,” said Spread Eagle. “I lost it fishing right here a long time ago.”
– Kashmir Horseshoe

Boogeyman Gets Chair

(Nightmare Chronicles — September 25, 2015)

(Wimpton) The infamous Boogeyman, the nemesis of every child at bedtime for decades, has been executed according to a copyright story in Bars and Stripes, a correctional industry mouthpiece. The unrepentant hobgoblin was in good spirits according to eyewitnesses, as he arrived at his last roundup at approximately 4:16 am Thursday.
He is believed to be the only character, cartoon or otherwise, to have expired within these pages in 38 years of publication.
Sources within the penal system confirmed reports that the Boogeyman refused the traditional blindfold so that he might “lock eyes with his executioner” at the time of his demise. He also refused a cigarette for health reasons, it was disclosed. All bereavements and condolences (if there should be any) should be directed to the Nightmare House, a rest home for retired fiends, monsters, demons and really big spiders.
Survived by close associates Ms. Bugaboo, Mr. Spook and the Your Own Shadow Brothers, he is best remembered for creating unfounded fear in the hearts of children. His habit of hiding behind drapes, lurking in closets and under beds has to be considered the classic fright meter of the century!
Although gone, it is unlikely that he will be forgotten.
Many rejoiced after a gubernatorial reprieve was denied on Wednesday, while the Boogeyman’s enthusiastic supporters called for “the closing of all abortion clinics and the construction of more prisons lickety-split.”
Meanwhile the shadow governor was last seen exploring the dark, dreary dungeons of his mansion on the hill. It is common knowledge at the state house that he has not ventured into those cellars since his election in 2002.
– Bunny Trimble

Talking Baseball in Ecuador

Nobody gives a damn about baseball in Ecuador unless you are eating lunch at Café Hatuey.
A small marble staircase divided the plaza from the upstairs Cuban restaurant with its shady balcony and high ceiling fans. It was a perfect redoubt for a dining-alone gringo wandering the colonial streets. One could watch the entire plaza from up here.
The black bean soup experience would have been sufficient invitation.
The waiter, a handsome Cuban of 24 years, brought me a Havana Club and a menu. I asked for his recommendation. He nodded. There was a soccer game on the television. I asked him who was ahead.
“I don’t know,” he flinched. “I’m a baseball fan and it’s Opening Day up in America. Is that where you live?”
I told him that I lived in Western Colorado and that despite the six-hour drive I made it to several Rockies’ games over the course of the season.
“The Rockies, huh?” he said. “A streaky team, prone to injuries with questionable relief pitching and a strong fan base.”
“You’ve done your homework,” I acknowledged, apologizing for my limited baseball jargon in Spanish.
“Then let’s speak English,” he snapped saying he had learned my language from his old baseball coach named Adolfo Luque, who had enjoyed a brief career in the Big Leagues prior to the Revolution.
“The food came out and we shared a feast of past Cuban players who had excelled it to the Majors. Tony Taylor, Luis Tiant, Jose Canseco and Rafael Palmeiro accompanied my Fabada Asturiana (beef and bean stew), three tamales, a cup of black bean soup, plantains and fried yucca. Then he brought rhubarb pie and asked why a heated argument on the baseball field was called a rhubarb?
“I think it’s something like a catbird seat or the bull pen,” I said. “Most of those terms came straight from the lips of tobacco chewing bench jockeys waiting around for the next pitch. After a few seasons these words became the jargon on the diamond.”
He said one of the cooks had met Hank Aaron in Miami after the Braves’ slugger had broken Ruth’s home run record.
“All three of the cooks are baseball fans. Come and meet them!”
We walked into the kitchen and returned to speaking Spanish. I told the first cook that I too had met Aaron and that I had his autograph on the same score card with the signature of Pete Rose and Tony Perez.
“Perez was a great one,” offered the second cook who was patiently monitoring the progress of a large pot of pintos. “He was one of the great players to escape Cuba after Castro. “He came to the United States along with Tony Oliva, Camilo Pacscual and Bert Campaneris. The Cuban government was not happy about this heralded exit from its socialist paradise.”
“Castro was quite a pitcher too,” offered the third cook who wore a Yankees’ hat atop his baldhead. I saw him play in Santiago de Cuba while on the Las Barbas team where all the players wore a beard. He might have played pro ball except for politics. The Cleveland Indians were after him in the Fifties. He could hit too.”
But what about Minnie Minoso?” chided the waiter. “How can we talk Cuban baseball players and not mention Minnie?”
“And Sandy Amoros and Tito Fuentes and Cookie Rojas!” yelled the bean watcher from the corner of the kitchen.
“What about Jose Canseco, Rafael Palmeiro, and Orlando Pena,” chimed another cook.
“Don’t forget Leo Cardenas,” I said and the kitchen went silent.
“Wow,” said the waiter. You do know your baseball.”
“I grew up in Southern Ohio” I admitted, “and Cardenas played shortstop for the Reds for fifteen years.”
Now that I had the floor, I asked them if they thought Fidel Castro would have been a better baseball player than a President.
They all laughed,
“Fidel is Fidel,” one said. “The United States is the United States. Castro is eating well even if the rest of us on the island are not. So much for punishing the Communist Party with the Great Cuban Embargo.”
All of the cooks had family back in Cuba and they missed them very much but opportunity was better in Ecuador.
“If you didn’t go along with party ideas there was no future in Cuba,” frowned one.
“My daughter is a doctor in Havana and barely makes enough to survive, said another.
“My son is twelve,” offered the waiter. “He’s the best hitter ever to come out of Trinidad (Cuba). I hope some day that he can come to the United States and play for the New York Yankees. He stands proud at the plate and waits for that big, fat pitch.”
Everyone smiled and nodded in agreement.
The restaurant was filling up. The owner stuck his head in the kitchen and frowned at his employees then smiled at me since I was spending money. I returned to my table. The lights are coming on in the plaza. – Kevin Haley

Herbivores Busted by DEA

(Cerebral Pines Stifled Press – August 25, 2015)

Law enforcement agencies have rounded up more than 4000 suspected herbivores, charging them with meatless acts of insurgence, sabotage, plant abuse and, in rare cases, of mutiny.
In custody are leaders of Leafy America, Fruits of the Loom and The Black Sprouts, three known terrorist cells suspected of operating fruit and vegetable stands from underground bunkers on the Uncompahgre Plateau.
“We haven’t located their bunkers yet but it’s just a matter of time before one of them spills the beans as to the whereabouts of the hideouts,” said Officer Lamb, of the Colorado Beet Growers. “Then the frost will clearly grace the pumpkin.”
An attorney for the herbivores, Jay Cornking, says his clients have not broken any laws and that it is not mandatory to consume animal flesh in Colorado.
“If a person prefers to chew on a piece of kale rather than a rib bone he ought to be left alone to pursue his ends,” said Cornking.
Herbivores, or vegetarians as they are often called, pay taxes, volunteer for community organizations, do not strain social services and educate their children according to date collected at elevated levels. Often perishable, these fringe groups are severely misunderstood by carnivores and pot roast barons.
“Just because we don’t build feedlots for peas and carrots doesn’t mean we’re bad people,” said one cowperson. “We’d just rather have a rib-eye than a radish on the grill.”
“Old fears die hard,” laughed Cornking. “Eating greens here in Colorado is legal by way of an amendment to the state constitution. Who cares about a lot of misdirected pontificating in Nebraska and Utah.
– Manual Flushe

Syrian Taxi Driver’s Academy Falls to Advancing ISIS Fighters

(Al Bamm) A strategic taxi driver’s academy logistically linked to three border crossings, six refineries and an abandoned military base, has fallen under control of ISIS militants a senior Iraqi security official said.
The facility, one of the largest in the Mideast, was set to graduate 500 students on Friday. Most of these move to the West and drive cabs from London to Green Bay.
“It was out ticket out of this hell and now it’s gone,” cried one former student, who told of ISIS treatment of prisoners, especially anyone who spoke English.
“May Allah help the cabbie that failed to turn on his meter,” he gasped.
In addition to gains in the North, the Muslim extremists have now shown their teeth in Wawa, Annbar and Al-Bamm,” said the official based in Wawa but on his way out the door for more secure digs.
Border towns are always a prize. They provide strongholds and allow a certain amount of security due to hazy frontiers and strong cultural considerations. No matter the degree of squabbling and contentious line drawing the sand, sooner or later, covers everything over once again.
“It’s not like we’re worried about pissing anyone off,” said Mohammed “Mickey” Sheeke, a tribal warlord who has been engaged in the fighting for over to years. “It’s a little too late for that. We just don’t want to drag Turkey, Iran or Saudi Arabia further into this civil war.”
It was not clear how this defeat would affect transportation in the region or how more U.S. military advisors, expected this week, would get around. Oddly enough it is often safer to take a cab than a jeep when traversing these sand dunes.
“It’s not like they lost a fleet of cabs to these immoral monsters,” said one U.S, Army corporal. “They only had three to start with and one didn’t start. What’s a whole ‘nuther matter is the tanks and missile launchers that ISIS inherited when the Iraqi Army deserted the neighborhood base.”
A squad of rogue Baghdad bus drivers is still holding the entrance to Al-Bamm’s International Airport, which has been contested since early on in the conflict. Concerned as to their fate if ISIS prevails, these fighters have fought off repeated attacks by an ever-expanding force. Bus drivers and Baath Party members (Saddam’s boys) have been at odds since Hussein nationalized transportation back in 1995. The ISIS group (led by many of the same Sunni extremists) wants revenge.
“Much of the stress here is tribal in origin,” said State Department spokesman Wally Handgunne. “What we have here are some angry folks who aren’t getting enough to eat and have no opportunity to improve their lives. Then throw in the constant wind and choking hot weather. We’ve met a taxi cab drivers and a radical mullahs from the same family. It gets very complicated, even to them.” – Merci Plaines

Toothpaste and a Buff Could Save Your Life

After perusing this periodical for a set of decades, one might begin to wonder: Will this paper ever present anything worthwhile? Something functional, beneficial and instructive for the 21st Century?
Embracing socially redeeming values and rubbing up against the common good of the great unwashed, we proudly present the first in what promises to be an endless series of condescending hints that have never been solicited from our readers. These people, just like the editors, seek the bottom of the social experiment, preferring a familiar old chair, a wisp of mountain air and a large snifter of cognac to local beer specials at the local bash roundhouse.

Buff it out!

Now then…we will undress the subject of murky automotive headlamps and one very effective way to look good and improve vision on the highway. Our engineer, Dr. Craig Mernitz of Wisconsin Institute of Mandatory Recreation, will show you how to turn fogged up, dirty headlamps into a stream of conscious light that does the job when the sun goes down.
First Mernitz shows us how to apply the toothpaste to the headlights. (Figure One) taking care to use only enough to cover the glass with a thin sheet of dried paste. Circular motion works especially considering that the light is round. Suggested time 10 minutes. (Figure Two)
After the toothpaste has dried to a crunchy crust we scrape the area with a rough sponge or course pad. Anything that creates tension but does not scratch a glass surface will work here.

Rub it in and watch the yellow disappear!

After another 10 minutes of applied scrubbing the headlamp is ready for the buffer. Simply apply tension along fault lines and the calculated radius of the bright or dim function. In no time the glass will be shining allowing for a more attractive vehicle and better vision on the highway. Alternate mechanics, clarity of purpose, along with folklore remedies and the embrace of shade-tree survival, can lead to hours of enjoyment and the elusive joys of curious accomplishment…a rousing emotional life for most of us.