All Entries Tagged With: "Western"

House Votes to Raise Ceiling

(Denver) The Colorado House voted overwhelmingly today to raise the ceiling in its historic Molly Brown Chambers. The blueprint calls for an extra three feet to be built into the existing framework giving elected officials more room to dramatize, wave their hands about, point the finger at opponents, and even filibuster.

“It takes a lot of room to filibuster,” reminded Rep. Gwenne Sprawl (R- Aurora). “Our task is difficult but everyone here favors expansion of one kind or another.”

Contractors, double-dipping as trades lobbyists, suggested that the creation of extra space will allow  Representatives more room in which to leave issues up in the air. In addition the new anatomy will allow for the display of Native American artifacts and photos of such Colorado standouts as Kit Carson, John Evans and the late Red Miller.

“And the acoustics are far better which might come in handy when someone wants to make a point or play a tune on the old trombone,” laughed a Finnish carpenter attempting to manipulate the over 500 yards of Latvian lattice trim implants that will cap the erection.

I hope we don’t run into structural problems,” continued Sprawl. The first estimates clearly indicate that the whole project would require a simple retaining wall covered up with drywall and a few coats of paint. Our budget cannot withstand any more surprises.”

While debate rages as to the color of the new paint, the House has tabled discussion on such tired topics as crime, pollution, dogs at large, education standards, the Bronco pass rush, overflowing landfills, the price of gasoline, water issues, chuckholes and a UN sanctioned invasion of Wyoming.

“We’re working on a strict deadline here and hope to complete construction by July 4th,” said an aluminum blinds contractor. “We may have to work right along with lawmakers on this one.  We’ll try not to make too much noise while the legislators are in session.”

– Small Mouth Bess

Now you can vote at Wal-Mart

(Montrose) Registered voters wishing to do their duty this election can simply cast their stones at the local Wal-Mart rather than wasting precious shopping time at the polls. Along with voting, citizens are reminded that they can open credit accounts, get married, have children, pay taxes and be buried here too.

It sets a convenient precedence according to sources within this framework and “can only lead to more mindless consumption and greater profits for everyone.

“We want to help the average Joe stay very damn average,” smiled one part-time greeter who does not qualify for company benefits.

The Wal Mart voting booth will be open for a week prior to election day so that citizens are not forced to change their schedules and focus on just one day. Information as to how to vote and who to vote for will be provided at the entrance. Persons who have not as yet registered can do so with their Wal Mart credit card.

“People can easily forget that it’s Tuesday…election day. We’re doing our part for this great democracy!” whines an in-store announcement. “And after you vote don’t forget to check out the seasonal items on aisle three.”

Meanwhile down in sunny Arizona corporate militias have succeeded in apprehending some of the last ma and pa operatives in the Phoenix area. At press time there are only a few of the “unaffiliated” holdouts remaining. On the site of what was a great kosher deli is now a chain burger place. It’s the same all over the place. The city without a city has been transformed into chainland. The Phoenix has crash landed.

Although the status of the former self-employed radicals was not completely clear a police spokesman said they “are being de-programmed and retrained for positions as cashiers at a chain gas station. Persons who do not adapt to the masterplan are taken to what’s left of the desert and left to fend for themselves. Some of the unlucky ones will end up pushing lead within their government.

“We’re not at liberty to talk about the situation in Arizona,” said a Wal-Mart voice. “We have a strong economy here too and it will continue to boom just as long as everyone cooperates,” said the stooge.

– Melvin O’Toole

WILSON PEAK ON MEET THE PRESS

(Ames) Local standout and member of the 14er Club, Wilson Peak, will be the featured live guest on Meet the Press Sunday morning. The mountain, which recently shed an amazing 85 pounds in just twelve weeks, will appear as part of a weight-loss reading list promotion.

     (Break for ice cream commercial).

Joining her on the popular talk show will be her half-sister Mount Wilson who also lost a substantial amount of weight (45 pounds) during the same time period. The two will talk about their victory over fat and lingering  snowfields.

Wilson Peak (right) is shown in the attached photograph with her half-sister Mount Wilson. The almost twins were named after Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and are no relation to the late President Woodrow Wilson as local legend records it.

“I remember when we had to dress Wilson Peak in mounds of white just so she wouldn’t look so very obese,” said Mount Wilson. “All of us full-figured mountains soon discover that lighter colors are far more flattering and make us look smaller.”

(Break for ice cream commercial).

If all goes well during the filming of the program both mountains are sure to be invited back for a follow-up on chronic complexion problems slated for late August. That show will also celebrate a recent Department of the Interior decision to approve the construction of trophy homes above 14,000 feet by 2002.

The chore of traveling with and delivering mountains to a set in New York or Los Angeles is a daunting task, one that often requires more muscle than intellect and more diligence than common sense.

Network spokespersons refused to comment on the proceedings until after the snow melts in June.

“We’re expecting great things here,” said one broadcaster. “Weight loss with a touch of wilderness is a sure winner in these days of reality television, concussions and your simulated breathing experiments.”

Rip-Snortin’ at Animas Forks

The soft autumn sunlight hung on the edge of the porch toasting the cabin in coveted warmth. The nights had turned flat cold since the August rains had quit, leaving Eliot T-Bone wondering what winter would bring.

At 74, he hardly made it over to American Basin anymore, where he had toiled for some 45 years in search of the big bonanza that was always at the end of tomorrow’s pick and shovel. With the Finns he had mucked out enough rock to build a city larger than any in Hinsdale County. When claims played out they had survived working for wages at larger mines and tending to their placer digs on Henson Creek. Hand to mouth and back to work. It was worse over there in Europe according to the Austrians with wars overlapping wars and peasant sons plugged in for cannon fodder on the battlefields while kings grabbed glory and gold.

After a edgy lifetime he had accumulated worthless piles of ore, shafts almost to China and tobacco stains on everything. Living on beans, flour biscuits and elk meat had taken a toll on th

e system but there were few vegetable gardens at 9500 feet. Sure, his claim was secure and they couldn’t run him off, at least today. He still had his mules and the friends who hadn’t died off yet. He had this fallen down cabin at Animas Forks. Living off the land he was, or wasn’t it the other way around. He just didn’t see any reason to travel up over Cinnamon to Lake City anymore.

Silverton was another matter. He still made weekly trips to Howardsville for supplies, and then traveled on for a night on Blair Street with all the desperate Silverton miners and the far more desperate Silverton whores.

When the weather was bad he would just stay home by the fire soaking beans, making jerky, firing up his dutch oven. He had been home on one such night last winter when one of the prostitutes went mad killing three miners with a butcher’s knife accentuated by sticks of dynamite. That was some big excitement and he almost wished he had been in town to see the blood and the fireworks. Yes, things were that boring out in Animas Forks now that everyone had deserted the place and morbid rock faces stared him down every morning and night.

He scratched his ribs under a dirty union suit and stretched. The deer and the whistle pigs didn’t worry or fret about this life. They just lived it happy to survive another afternoon. Why were people so damned difficult? He had become a near recluse but still welcomed several of his old friends to the porch Emil Turlough, the local doctor, long retired came by every Thursday on his way back from Gladstone. Stan Celkirk still ran sheep up toward the pass in the summer. Oral Stishnik and Peter Leary quit guiding hunters up and down these mountains some time ago. Now their sons did the deed while the old men gave advice and smoked their pipes. They still stopped in and he visited them in a town that boasted electric lights and carriages straight from Paris, or so they said.

The rest of them could pretty much go to hell. Pistol wielders, flimflam men and painted women, and let us not forget the righteous out to save souls and make a profit too. The Utes and Chinee were mostly gone. Murdered and disappeared in the dust of progress and comfortable living. What about the souls of these dead? Where do they hang their ghostly hats?

Most of the newcomers in Silverton had no connection to the place…except money. Were things really that bad other places? They had the combined charm of a pan of burnt eggs and the warmth of a basket of rattlesnakes. Flatlander bastards. They didn’t know a thing about life as it once was in the boom days. They wouldn’t have been able to make it back then. They didn’t pay him any attention, much less a sprinkle of respect, when he wandered into town. They only stared at his bad teeth and skinny string of mules with saddles that didn’t fit any of them. They all dressed up like they were going somewhere, but there was nowhere to go. The mindless march of lemmings served well by the presence of so many convenient cliffs and deep ravines.

Don’t matter anyhow…since most don’t journey far from town except in the summer. They leave us fellows out here alone and we should return the favor. That new preacher from Mancos said he’d pick up whatever I needed from town and haul it out here but I’m afraid there are celestial strings attached. Before you know it this boy will be holding services and singing psalms right here from the porch. Too much.

My few neighbors, the deer and the bear wouldn’t have any of that. They get by without all these fairy tales. They don’t even know where they came from or where they’re going. They just live. The marmots in the ground, the hawks in the sky, the ponderosa stretching up toward the heavens. They just exist without all the trimmings, the dogma.

He remembered when he had come to this country, seeing the glory of the San Juans for the first time. All the enthusiastic unbroken bodies scrambling for their fortunes in gulch camps and tent cities that sprang up after the Great War. Refugees from the madness embracing another kind of insanity far away in these ragged mountains. The snow covers up the mess. It’s clean and fresh for a while.

The years go by. More elk stew, beans and biscuits and more dreams of striking it rich. He stared at his pile of firewood, then out across the dim light. There had been bighorn sheep crossing over about a mile down toward Silverton. He had seen the tracks in the snow. He wondered if he had the energy to shoot one and pack it back up here. The price of solitude.

Having never married, he had no family to care for him in his old age. He remembered courting and heartbreak, custom brides from far away Missouri and escapes from the entanglements of it all. Sure he’d gone shopping for a wife in Durango back some 30 years ago. He even brought one curious prospect up the hill but by late afternoon it was clear she would grow to hate him and the mountains. Better left alone.

It was quiet here and he had no one to make happy but himself. He went to slept when he pleased and got up when he damn well wanted to. He snored and wore socks to bed. He ate elk stew that he couldn’t taste anymore despite the peppers that he bought in Hermosa the summer before. Every day was pretty much the same.

Just then a sudden explosion ripped through the evening causing bull elk to raise their heads, sending fuzzy marmots scurrying into rocky holes. Fish stopped swimming, eagles stopped soaring, sows looked around for their cubs.

This was no mere elk bugle. It was an excurrent discharged, an outburst expelled as if from a buffalo stampede, a bonafide T-Bone bugle that surprised even him. A highly audible sonic boom from the vicinity of his drop-drawers. Thunderous repercussions! Burgeoning landslides! Curious windbreaks! Gaseous dynamite in the digestive tract. The flatulence ripping with major magnitude that echoed down the valley. Inadmissible punctuation quite relevant for the times, or so he thought. He laughed out loud a little surprised, a little proud of himself. The world stopped for a flash.

     Eliot T-Bone stretched, scratched his ribs, yawned and walked into his cabin.

– Kevin Haley

Regional Shorts

with Muffy Hollandaise

Use of Elk DNA chumming says DOW

(Norwood) Hunters using elk and deer DNA to aid in tracking specific animals could face up to $500 in fines says the Colorado Division of Wildlife. In addition using cow elk DNA to attract bull elk in the woods is likewise illegal.

The emergence of DNA as a legitimate tool in law enforcement in no way allows private citizens to employ the technology in their own lives adds the DOW.

“It’s basically chumming,” says Dr. Efram Pennywhistle, animal behaviorist and all around party fool who is employed by the Fish and Game this season. “It’s not fair. Everyone knows bear baiting with candy and tempting boy mountain lion with girl mountain lion urine is questionable but this DNA thing — It’s not sporting.”

Pennywhistle went on to say that hunting with the aid of deer and elk DNA is “like shooting coyotes from an airplane or ducks with a machine gun or chipmunks with hand-held missiles”.

The DOW will be checking hunters for signs of molecular detection devices of all kinds this season in addition to the normal course of checking other credentials.

 “Anyone we catch with elk DNA in their possession, without an accompanying animal, will spend the night in jail,” he warned.

Chamber to show Fall Colors

(Manana) The local chamber of commerce will present a slide show entitled Fall Colors for anyone afraid to go out in the woods this time of the year. The film will be shown every afternoon from 1:30 to 3:30 pm and is free of charge.

Highlights include aspen trees in full gold decor, oak in red (some imported)  and pine in green. Along with this spectacular sight will be blue skies and mountains dusted with early snow. Even a bear gets into the act as he chases photographer Melvin Toole down a one-way deer path near Twin Peaks.

Although the presence of hunters and international terrorists has created a sub-culture of Americans who spend 24 hours a day indoors, this slide show is for the rest of us…people like you and me who don’t have time to drive around looking at trees and bushes.

Fall Colors is available on DVD for $19.99. To order call Finn McCool over at the Manana Chamber.

Gelding Survives Lightening Strike

(Crested Butte) A six-year-old gelding is in good condition after a direct hit by a rogue bolt of lightening yesterday afternoon. The quarter horse, owned by Slim Tinkleholland of Quantum Sunset Ranch, said his charge is responding to oat therapy and seems to have regained his faculties after the traumatic exploit.

“Actually he doesn’t look any different than he usually does ,” said the rancher. “He spends almost everyday staring into space. We think he’s trying to recollect his days as a stallion when mares were fair game and all.”

Readers may recall a similar incident involving a Hereford cow last year when lightening struck her twice in the same pasture on the same afternoon. In that case the cow returned to work the next day with no measurable loss of mental capacity. The result was quite different back in 1996 when a Holstein bull was struck by lightening at the entrance to a metal barn while standing in a bucket of water holding a seven iron between his teeth. Although he survives to this day he has never been the same.

“People think cows are flat stupid,” said Tinkleholland, “and they’re right.”

Howardsville Votes Wet

(Silverton) Voters in Howardsville rushed to the polls Wednesday to cast their votes on whether to allow alcohol consumption within the town limits. The final tally: 7 for…1 against, succeeded in approving the measure which goes into effect immediately.

Almost upon cue hundreds of thirsty residents of nearby Silverton, Gladstone and Eureka descended onto the town and drank it dry in less the four hours.

“What good’s a wet district when we’re out of whiskey?” asked one old timer who voted for the measure.

Meanwhile voters in Hinsdale County have until the weekend to decide on the status of intoxicants in their neck of the woods. An amendment has been introduced calling for the termination of alcohol sales during the winter months. According to angry citizens, there the bill was first presented by a second home owner from Fort Worth who spends his winters in Sapinero, Florida..

“That flatlander drinks like a fish all summer then tries to ruin it for those of us that spend our winters here,” said Lake City native Bambi LaRue, a former Playboy centerfold model who lives alone in a plush crushed velour and marble double-wide near Lake San Cristobal.

Opponents of the dry county referendum hope that Hinsdale County will reject bluenose notions and join with locales in San Juan County who are now legally wet.

“If we all stick together we can form a voting block all across the San Juans which should in turn protect and insulate the miles of stills that currently grace Cinnamon Pass,” purred LaRue. “It’s nice to see all those thirsty people come out and do their civic duty. We certainly have deep throats in these parts.”

Poodle, eaten by bear, had just been to groomer

(Ouray) The toy poodle which was attacked and consumed by a hungry sow black bear last week had only that morning returned from an extensive grooming session. Although still in shock, the dog’s owner, Lucy Cannon, of Enid, Oklahoma told The Horseshoe that she was out walking her poodle named King along the Portland Trail when a large bear, estimated to weigh over 300 pounds jumped out from the brush, snarled, dragged the dog off and was gone.

Cannon intends to sue the Division of Wildlife for damages, hoping to recoup losses estimated to be in the neighborhood of $115.

“I spent that much having him clipped and shampooed and that doesn’t count nails and teeth,” cried Cannon. “Now I’m out my poodle and the groomer’s fees.”

Although the groomer, Fur Thee Well Paradise, a chain out of Buckeye, Arizona, did not return our calls we did speak to a ranger who patrols in that region.

“She didn’t have the dog on a leash so she was breaking the law anyway,” he said. “She’s lucky we don’t press charges. She’s damn lucky we’ve had rain and the bear have berries to eat. Last year she might have been the main course with her little dog as dessert.”

MATH TODAY

If your Uncle Sam saved $55.6 billion dollars by suspending operations in the wake of a flurry of hurricanes last month what tax cuts could be enjoyed by the already wealthy among us? How much could the rich then save if Puerto Rico or St. John experienced a tropical storm once a month? What about twice a month?

Write answer on a photo of Mike Pence and promptly discard.

Thanks for playing MATH TODAY

The Escort

The days were getting much shorter. The Sun barely made himself known, bouncing for just a moment off the corn snow then charging back into the clouds. Much like a young boy at play.

He had walked only a mile or two when his aged body surrendered to thirsts’ demands. The small creek was only a short walk through Willow Draw, in summer a botanical delight, full of ferns and large leafed plants that even in then appear to have been lost on a journey somewhere tropical. They were nowhere to be seen on this cold, faint day. He reached the spot, overcome by winter’s blanket of drifted snow, pocked by an occasional cottonwood branch or a gob of leaves welded together by soil, shadows and wet.

Many elk have moved through here he thought as he came on to a set of singular tracks headed away from the water across a jagged rock slide and up to a sunny ledge. Mountain lion. He looked around instinctually, hunching his shoulders a bit, searching the cliffs above. The hair on his neck bristled and stood up at attention. Listening for a fallen boulder or crunching snow. The tracks were fresh. He knew that. The people of the Shining Mountains would all know that. The cat was near.

The irony of death. Once a great chief, now walking alone to the wilderness of another place, the next level of life. A destination long ago written into the story. Honor. The old man had asked for company, maybe even in the form of this panther, who may very well be hungry enough for this old Ute.

He sat and rested for a moment, remembering the days that he had run through these woods in pursuit of game or to elude his friends in the games of the warriors. He felt his heart pounding away in his chest like that monster on the steel rails that he had once seen near the Great River. Again the thirst was getting the best of him. He arose and picked his way through the shale and up onto a flat spot above the stream. Just as he began his descent he saw the cat, alert, standing vigil on a outcropping fifty feet above timberline. The animal had seen him and watched with the intensity common to these creatures. Was he hunting?

White Goat had been named by his mother some 46 years ago. She had watched mountain goat and bighorn sheep traverse these mountains with uncanny skill, hanging off ledges, scampering up morsels of rock, disappearing from predators through metamorphic pyramids. The creatures were in complete harmony with their world, natural and at peace for the short stay. She wanted her son to be like the animals. Some ten years passed before they saw their first White man. It was then that they knew the old ways would soon disappear.

He wished he still possessed the agility of a warrior as he stumbled through mangled aspen, battered by boulders spat out with the scowl of some ancient avalanche. Among these pathetic stumps sprouted new branches, not knowing what else to do but grow tall in the face of their smothered predicament. He reached the water and drank. Satisfaction short lived, his eyes scanned the ledge above but the cat was gone.

Perhaps he is stalking me from a hiding place in the pines, thought White Goat. But there is plenty of other, more appetizing game about. Why would the lion want an old man? Bones and a little hair are all that’s left of me. Not much of a meal for a mighty panther. I am only a minor player in my own death. I must deliver my spirit and I am tired.

The old man stretched out under some aspen trees in a glen that would be full of water in the spring. It was frozen now with icicles dangled like dripping daggers all about the alpine thicket. He wrapped himself in his blanket and fell asleep dreaming of the bright simple world of his father, Red Buck, and the dark, blue-eyed future in store for his beloved children. Tears accompanied him to sleep.

During the night he heard something moving in the woods. A younger man would have investigated the intrusion. But White Goat just rolled over away from it, exposing his back to whatever it may have been. He was on his final journey. No reason to fight it. Maybe it would be concluded there.

In the morning he awoke refreshed in a way that had eluded him for many years. He felt that he would make it a long way before the next night fell. He peered through the forest, down the stream and up into the high mountains. There was the lion once again, eyes fixed on him. The animal did not snarl, nor did it move for a few moments. Then it turned in one swift motion and bounded upward and out of sight.

Although not entirely certain why, White Goat followed climbing effortlessly up the steep path, over snowfields and into the open. He got a whiff of the cat, still ahead of him. It stopped and looked back, then hid from the old man’s gaze. If he fails to catch his intended prey he might circle back and jump me from the rear, thought White Goat. He looked around the silent domes, his name condemned to the dance card of this feline predator. White Goat took refuge in a small cave knowing feeble attempts to hide from the beast would be fruitless.

He was growing hungry but there would be great feasts where he was bound. The cat was nowhere to be seen and he resumed his trek. His path took him down through heavily wooded banks that he once embraced as redoubt from the angry Comanche after Ute raiding parties picked the plains dwellers clean. Horses and slaves. Further on would be the great park where he had traded with the Apache and the Arapaho during rendezvous. To the east were the boot-black smokestacks of the whites.

The west hosts the plateaus of the Paiutes, the Wasatch Mountains and later the Shoshone and Bannock. As a young chief he had traveled to the Salt Lake for a great pow wow with these tribes. He had seen Crow and Nez Perce. All sought refuge against the whites, their mines and railroads but the wise ones knew it would not be.

The lion appeared again standing softly in a small clearing near the approach to a tight valley. It had once been summer’s lush, green bottomland. Now it was suspended in frozen sleep. The cat was preening itself contentedly. Then it was gone again.

What a lovely valley this has always been, thought White Goat even though the game is far below and the weather quite severe up this high. He walked to the tree line where he could view the silver mountains. Then he sat down. There was the lion perched, only yards away watching. The trip had exhausted him and he reclined on one elbow, his breathing was heavier, more desperate. He realized he would never sit back up again. Pulling in the thin air became an impossible effort. His eyes closed. The wind picked up. His spirit passed and the beast went back down the mountain, another soul safely home.

– Kevin Haley