All Entries Tagged With: "San Juans"
Highway 550 Shipped to Denver
(Colona) Colorado State Highway 550 will be transported to C-Dot bunkers in Denver as part to a plan to repair the road before tourists begin arriving in May. The principal artery will be hauled away in 5-mile increments and restored “in just a day or three months” according to officials familiar with this sort of excavation.
What this means for motorists accustomed to using the thoroughfare was not particularly clear this morning. Royal bridge builders and road maintenance engineers have already begun stockpiling massive piles of beetle kill near the roadway leading observers to believe that material will substitute for the more traditional asphalt. Until we know more it is apparent that venture brain trusts will persevere and the people will endure.
That stretch of highway from Montrose to Ouray has always given us trouble,” said Willy “The Pirate” MacLeish of C-DOT. “And that says nothing of its bastard cousins “The Three Saints” – Red Mountain, Molas and Coal Bank Passes on the way to Durango.
There was no mention of conduits further south to Farmington since C-DOT does not recognize the sitting government in New Mexico and prefers to ignore all reference to the state, much like the EPA, which is allegedly engaged in a giveaway of public lands and the ED, which offers equal and inferior education to all.
The whole damn highway needs a lesson in humility,” continued MacLeish. “The highways in The Pale (The Confront Range) come first and these hick paths can just wait their turn. So what if thy were built based on traffic in 1965.”
– Kashmir Horseshoe
AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL CANADIANS:
from Seamus McGinty, Skibbereen, Cork, Republic of Ireland
Please be careful with Harry and Meghan. Centuries ago when we allowed English gentry, not to mention royals, to land on our coast, things went bad fast. Cheers!
Bibliophiles must register in Montrose County
(Simms Mesa) Persons convicted of literary crimes must register with local law enforcement agencies after February 15. These generally well-read, often erudite offenders will remain on a Colorado database for 6 months.
After that time these bookish felons must renew/update vital information including address and telephone number so as to earn a safe conduct passage, dismissively referred to as a library card during more archaic periods of book burnings and pious interdiction.
Person deemed guilty of risk levels higher than 1.5, on a scale of 1 to 10, will be monitored for indications of loud talking, loitering and in some cases destruction of checked out items. Overdue fines could be levied and usually are when the person fails to honor his/her contracted responsibilities according to Penal Code 86R-Y, established in 2008.
Furthermore, the much-maligned Bookends Project demands that suspect persons must submit to indiscriminate ordeals and surgical diagnosis if behavioral patterns persist. Physicians may then prescribe colorful pills and failsafe injections (inoculations, vaccinations, flu shots) in hopes of driving out the parasitic demons of these so-called bookworms.
Bibliophiles who ignore this warning could face fines (compiled daily), loss of inter-library privileges and banishment to the Dark Ages.
-Tommy Middlefinger
For more turn to Celtophiles- Scourge of Connemara in your prayer books.
County Votes on Changing Era Milestones
“Before Marie and After Marie”
(Ridgway) Long-accepted era abbreviations BC and AD may soon become BM and AM around these parts if voters here have their way. The new designations, honoring the late Marie Scott, a legendary rancher in Pleasant Valley, will be adopted immediately if the referendum passes.
The proposed measuring tools BM (Before Marie) and AM (After Marie) are expected to have an impact in a community where the many of the new residents are not familiar with the generous Scott who ran a tight ship, managing her large ranches hands-on. In so many ways she lived a lifestyle akin to the 19th Century.
“If she liked you, you could have anything she had,” said Bill Domka, a former neighbor who grew up around Scott. “If she didn’t like you, you best not come onto the property.”
The icon of it all, Marie Scott outside her home near Ridgway the 50s
The secular time capsules, indicating centuries before and after the Christian era are generally well balanced. The new eras are lopsided since Marie wasn’t born until 1896. (She passed in 1979). Before and during her life of Ridgway was still a wild place. Then, following her death it began to change – some for the good – some not, depending on one’s perspective.
“That’s only 83 years to the outsider but when one considers the impact she had locally it all makes sense,” said another rancher who worked with Marie for over 6 decades.
It is hoped that the new era milestones will encourage newer residents to embrace the rich local history of the region rather than settling for a transitory status in a poor man’s Telluride. Woman in particular don’t have to look far for inspiration. No saint, Marie exhibited the qualities necessary for survival in what was certainly a world and vocation dominated by men. She was tough enough to win and kind enough to help a lot of people along the way.
Those of us who knew her remember her fondly in her cowboy duds with that red hair and rouge on her cheeks. She wore Levis or Wranglers but never washed a pair. When they got dirty she simply bought more giving the old pairs away or throwing them in the garbage. That was her very own brand of extravagance, her luxury. Not the least bit eccentric she talked to her dog a lot, delivered steaks from Safeway to needy families at Christmas, and loved to drive her red jeep all over her land, checking cows, inspecting ditches and giving the forest service hell for one thing or another.
A classic original, she and her world will never be replaced.
– Kevin Haley
FREE SKI AND BOBBY MCGEE
from a few years ago…
…when Crested Butte offered free skiing during a few days early in the season.
with apologies to Kris Kristopherson
Busted flat in Gunnison
waitin’ for the dump.
Been feelin’ bout as jaded
as my means.
Bobby flagged a pickup down
just before it snowed.
Rode it all the way
to Crested Butte.
Held onto my goggles
and my dirty red bandana
banking curves
while Bobby sang the blues.
Hungry magpies
makin’ time
holding Booby’s hand in line
We sang every song
that lift op knew.
Skiing’s just another word
for nothing much to do.
The skiing ain’t worth nothin’
‘less it’s free.
Feelin good was easy, Lord
when he missed a tree.
Feelin good was good
enough for me
Good enough for free ski
and Bobby McGee.
One day near East River
Lord, I let him slip away
He’s lookin’ for those bumps
and I hope he finds them
And I’d trade all my adventures
for one single powder day
to be holdin’ Bobby’s body
next to mine.
(Repeat chorus).
AVALANCHE BOLTING RESULTS
January, 2020
Grif Gnat Powder Bowl, Utah
Toole 7:333.7. Only finish.
Summer Seed Foursomes, Alberta
Toole 5:224.9; Toole 5:223.8;
Toole 5:198.6; Toole 4:996.8
Eversore, Montana
Toole 5:933.8
Mud Meadows,Montana
Toole in the lead at 5:119.3
Cracked Corn Snow Bowl, CO
Toole 5:299.4
Figures compliments of Runner’s World
and Spatula Pavement Inc.
For more Sports see the
2020 Major League Baseball predictions
on the Financial Page.
“So many vermin – so little dynamite.”
From Skewers and Sewers by Carlos Rodentia
Testosterone Brothers, New York
Elkin and his brother (s)
A few years ago a guy named Elkin came up to me in front of La Tampa in Jardin and tried to make my acquaintance. This abrupt behavior (especially here in Colombia where things tend to be a bit more formal) sent up a red flag but he was just a little feller and I figured I’d humor him for a while.
He said (surprise…surprise) that his brother was down in the hospital and he needed money to visit him and bring him a few things. I said I was sorry about his brother but had no spare cash. He kept on.
“I want to go and see him. It could be the last time,” he squawked.
“Oh, it’s serious then?”
“Yes, he boinged, “could you spare 50,000 pesos ($17 or so)?
“No, Elkin, I already told you I wasn’t going to give you any money.” But I am sorry about your brother.”
“But he has cancer, señor! He’s my only living brother. The others dropped dead of tuberculosis and the measles years ago. Please…just 20,000 then?”
“Elkin, I’m beginning to think that you only want my money,” I jabbed, “because you think I’m a rich gringo and such.”
“Oh no señor. How could you think that? I’m just stretched thin and need to visit him before it’s too late. If you…”
“Where is he? Which hospital is he in?” I counterattacked.
Now I could see scammer’s wheels spinning inside that all too transparent cranium. This loutish hoodwinker! I did not know these accusing words in Spanish or I would have crucified him right on the spot. I had to hear more before I struck, plus I was mildly impressed by this little man’s brash hullabaloo.
Sly without the trump card, lacking even a butterfly net, catching caterpillar collapses without wings – This is your man Elkin. A myriad of minute conscience, delusional deception with grandiose cajones? Perhaps. Delicately, like the sound of heavy coins dropping into a metal bucket from the roof of a 5-story building, he went on.
“Just 20,000?” he asked flinching at this stubborn gringo. Most of his marks were either afraid of him or just wanted him to take his leave. That could translate into beer money or maybe even a bottle of Aguardiente on the weekends when business zipped along at full throttle.
“Ave Maria!,” he must have thought. “This was getting involved.” He hesitated, analyzing the state of affairs. This could quickly get sticky and complicated. He could tip his hand if not careful.
“In this hospital, here in Jardin,” he nodded, taking my hand with false intent and not letting go until I gingerly pushed and more forcefully pulled, escaping from his grip without shifting weight. I bent his wrist ever-so-slightly in a rear-guard maneuver. He winced.
He was beginning to aggravate me, to the passing attention of some people I know in town, who were nursing cold beers nearby. Even his smile had now become annoying. It was yellow, maybe for all the lies.
But I am a guest in this country and should conduct myself as one.
“Elkin, I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s both go and visit him right now,” I said taking his arm this time. “It’s only a short walk away.”
He stopped, stuck like Br’er Rabbit to the tar baby, caught like a rat in a Pompeii of peanut butter. He looked from side to side as if someone in the plaza crowd might rescue him before he drowned.
“Oh, no, señor, he recanted…not now. I can’t. I have an appointment. I cannot….”
Then I heard my friend bellow from his perch in front of the bar:
“Hey Elkin: Enough,” he pleaded. “You croon the same song with different lyrics! And I, in all these years don’t remember you having a brother. You never even had a pet fish. Now if you don’t back off, your next “appointment” will be in the hospital. Se va! (go away!)”
And off slid our warped warrior, the champion debater, the fiscal wizard of Antioquia who could bamboozle these gringos with just the turn of a phrase. He seemed not the least bit offended by the inglorious banishment, keeping his eyebrows lurched and his posture tense for other los cadidos (naive ones) on the street. It’s a numbers game, heh Elkin?
Nonetheless we drank an acerbic toast to Elkin with tragos de anejo (shots of aged rum) lightly peppered with heart-of-sarcasm. We had another, after enduring an impulsive obituary about a deceased logger that I had never met.
*****
One afternoon, two years later, Elkin again approached me up on Calle 12 and told me he was suffering from cancer. I had already seen him coming down the sidewalk and crossing the street to my side. This time I was ready for this jackal of all trades.
Sadly and dramatically, as he wove fantastic, his story was concocted: He now had cancer. He had barely a week to live. As proof he removed his sombrero and showed me his close-cropped hair. It didn’t look chemo-radiated. It just looked like a howler monkey had gotten ahold of some dull scissors. He didn’t remember me from years ago because all gringos look the same.
Amused, and somewhat impressed with his blubbering, I went along avoiding any remote reference to finances. He kept up crisp dialogue, quite politely getting to the meat of the issue. He continued trimming the fat until I stopped him like a hurled, ripe mango hitting a steadfast garden wall.
“So, Elkin,” I began “How is your brother, you know the one that was in the hospital with cancer a few years ago?”
“Who?” he blurted out, taken aback by the shift in the dialogue and my familiarity with his name. His con confronted, his armor extinguished, his plan now plummeted like clown pants tumbling down to his boney knees.
“Your brother…your brother, man. You said you had to see him for the last time and asked me for money to bring him a few things. Don’t you remember me?”
Now he was perplexed. He looked around for familiar redoubts. He shifted his stance.
“I don’t have a brother señor,” he frowned. “But I do have an uncle with diabetes. He is in the same hospital in Andes where I am getting treated. Maybe you could spare a few pesos so I could bring him a few things.”
“No, but I’d buy you a bus ticket out of town if you promise never to come back,” I mumbled.
“OK,” he smiled.
– Kevin Haley