Pickin' beats subbing at the post office any day, without question, in a breeze, in a walk, hands down. Get it? I'd much rather be pickin', so pick I did this morning from about 9:45 until 11:15. I wasn't really sure where I would go as the whole town is crying out for attention, but ended up on Hiway 34 just west of the Donut Haus. My goal was to go up one side for 30 minutes and return on the other side to the light pole where I had locked my bike. I never made it. Looking down at the Big Thompson as I walked along, I kept seeing a ton of junk: bags stuck in trees and bushes, cans, alcohol bottles, cardboard boxes and what was that--a bike light? "Don't look," my head told me, "river cleanup day will come soon enough." Heart: "But some of that stuff is going to get washed downstream. What if the river rises before cleanup day?" Head: "You can't go down there. It's too steep, and besides, you'll need hip waders." Heart: "I'll look for an easier spot." Head: "You should ask the boys (Jonathan and Luke) to do that part while you take the hiway." Heart won.
It was tough slogging. Trying to get me, bare tree branches, bushes and tree roots popped out of hiding. Right away I found an 18-inch square piece of insulation in the river. Let me tell you that stuff holds water! Wrestling it ashore, I used my feet to squeeze out the water. Presto (pun intended) soon the insulation was trapped in my black bag instead of the river. There were the usual wrappers of every description, cans and those heavy, glass alcohol bottles. They are such pretty colors--mostly greens and browns, that I would like to collect them, but that would never do! Overall, the winner was plastic bags. It's easy for them to get blown from the hiway, down the embankment, toward the river.
I filled one bag and hefted it just below the asphalt on the dirt, and turned to go back. Soon after passing the point where I started pickin' about 30 minutes earlier, discovery was made of a huge (2 feet x 4 feet) brown double paper bag from ACE Hardware. Perfect--or so I thought. It ripped easily, but no worries, not 10 feet away was another big black bag with not so much as a tear. It filled up easily. That bag didn't willfully go up the hill and onto the highway, but I insisted. Watching for an opening in the cars, I left it on the opposite side of the street and went back for the first bag. That was the bag with the wet insulation, which was still pretty heavy. Hearing truck breaks, I looked up to see the familiar bright orange Larimer County truck stopping (and holding up traffic, but they're allowed) to pick up my 2nd bag of trash! It was Michael McCleary. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah! With an eastbound car waiting for me, I scurried across the road with the 2nd bag. I was not about to miss this opportunity! Mike tossed it up to the truck bed along side the first one. As I thanked him over and over, he asked what I was doing and told me to watch out for traffic, because "they don't like to slow down."
Even though I do enjoy going through the junk to pick out cans and bottles to recycle, I smiled all the way home thinking how very nice it was for Mike to stop, and how thanks to him, my job was completely over for the day.
Always,
Winter
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Ezekiel
Jack and I indulged in a 7:00 walk this morning. With such a happy pink sky and little wind, I decided to do my first spring (which, let me be clear, hasn't started yet) bike ride as soon as I returned home and got the breakfast dishes washed and put away. Before changing into my biking gear, I began a new campaign in the ongoing war I've been having with my new bike helmet. I'm trying to attach the mirror from my old helmet to my new one, which isn't really new, but at least a decade newer than the one I've been wearing.
When you get old, you have to own something over ten years before it is no longer new. It's the same way with people. Pity the poor newcomers in town. In my mind they are going to be "new" until I read something in the paper about their retirement. Take Larry Gamble for example. Larry is Chief, Branch of Planning and Compliance for Rocky Mountain National Park, a job he has had since 1993. But every time I see him in town I think, "Oh yeah...Larry works for the Park now." I have a black sweater I think of as "new," but while organizing a few hundred photographs last week, I noticed I was wearing it in a picture taken 8 years ago. This is part and parcel of growing old. However, it does have its advantages, and that is you don't have to buy stuff as often. (If any old person is reading this, let me know if you concur.)
Back to my bike helmet. It's pretty old, and it's green, so that's why until recently, I wasn't even considering a new one. Okay, so it has a crack. I didn't crash--it just got old like me. I have wrinkles, my bike helmet has cracks. But a really cute guy at the Trek shop in Loveland told me that the foam liner deteriorates over time, and a helmet should not be worn more than 5 years. Obviously, HE'S never been old. But he did convince me to trade helmets with Jack, whose bicycle is currently residing in Montana. Jack's helmet is also more than 5 years old, but it doesn't look like a mushroom and has no cracks. It's so fandangled new that I can't find a flat spot to attach my mirror. Once you have biked with a mirror, there's no going back. I absolutely must have my mirror. I wore my old green helmet.
I did my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop this morning which is about 12 miles round trip. A little more than half way through the ride I pass a fairly new (remember the definition) horse complex that includes a large tree structure for the kids, several barns, paddocks and the main house. Somebody was out in the corral right next to the road with a beautiful red roan. The horse had a rope halter and was just running circles around the guy. I've noticed horses being trained in this manner before, but really had no idea what was going on. As usual, my curiosity got the best of me. I turned around and went back. "Can I watch?" seemed an appropriate question. He quickly answered in the affirmative, and then motioned me toward the horse. "You want to try?" "Who me--the goofy mushroom-hatted biker?" Without thinking, I headed to the gate, slid the heavy bar through the metal loop, squeezed inside and made my way over to the horse guy. Without a word, he handed me the rope and slapped the roan on the rump so the merry-go-round action would continue. Round and round I went with the horse. "Hey, I could get dizzy," I called to him. He motioned to me to hold the rope over my head and keep stationary while the horse keep doing circles. This went on for a few minutes, and then the guy left. I mean he just left. No "I go now," or "Be back later,"--he just left. "Oh, great. What if all 1500 pounds of horse decides to run AT me instead of AROUND me?" I wondered. The only pet I ever owned was a parakeet. Shouldn't OSHA be involved here? An Animal Control Officer? The ACLU? (For the horse, of course.) In about ten minutes the guy came back with another horse and introduced himself as Ezekiel. I guess he was just taking advantage of a second pair of hands so he could get his work done faster. Or maybe he wanted to see what a complete gringo would do if left alone with a rather large animal. Ezekiel concisely explained to me that the horses just needed to "exercise--run around" and the brown horse's time was finished. "See?" he explained, touching the neck of the horse that had begun to lather. So now we had a brown horse and a black piebald. Ezekiel tied up Brownie, for lack of knowing his real name, and switched halters so Blackie, who was about to take his turn at running circles. Ezekiel told me in his somewhat broken English that he would take Brownie back to the barn for some water. Feeling a little weird at this point, I thanked him for an experience I never would have had if something had not urged me to turn around. In his very easy way, Ezekiel told me to come back any time--that he was always there.
I have ridden my bike past that place a zillion times and have never seen anyone, let alone Ezekiel. I rode away feeling very thankful that a 40-something Hispanic guy would invite a 60-something white lady to peek inside his life in Estes Park, if even for only a few minutes. It's going to be a great day.
Always,
Winter
When you get old, you have to own something over ten years before it is no longer new. It's the same way with people. Pity the poor newcomers in town. In my mind they are going to be "new" until I read something in the paper about their retirement. Take Larry Gamble for example. Larry is Chief, Branch of Planning and Compliance for Rocky Mountain National Park, a job he has had since 1993. But every time I see him in town I think, "Oh yeah...Larry works for the Park now." I have a black sweater I think of as "new," but while organizing a few hundred photographs last week, I noticed I was wearing it in a picture taken 8 years ago. This is part and parcel of growing old. However, it does have its advantages, and that is you don't have to buy stuff as often. (If any old person is reading this, let me know if you concur.)
Back to my bike helmet. It's pretty old, and it's green, so that's why until recently, I wasn't even considering a new one. Okay, so it has a crack. I didn't crash--it just got old like me. I have wrinkles, my bike helmet has cracks. But a really cute guy at the Trek shop in Loveland told me that the foam liner deteriorates over time, and a helmet should not be worn more than 5 years. Obviously, HE'S never been old. But he did convince me to trade helmets with Jack, whose bicycle is currently residing in Montana. Jack's helmet is also more than 5 years old, but it doesn't look like a mushroom and has no cracks. It's so fandangled new that I can't find a flat spot to attach my mirror. Once you have biked with a mirror, there's no going back. I absolutely must have my mirror. I wore my old green helmet.
I did my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop this morning which is about 12 miles round trip. A little more than half way through the ride I pass a fairly new (remember the definition) horse complex that includes a large tree structure for the kids, several barns, paddocks and the main house. Somebody was out in the corral right next to the road with a beautiful red roan. The horse had a rope halter and was just running circles around the guy. I've noticed horses being trained in this manner before, but really had no idea what was going on. As usual, my curiosity got the best of me. I turned around and went back. "Can I watch?" seemed an appropriate question. He quickly answered in the affirmative, and then motioned me toward the horse. "You want to try?" "Who me--the goofy mushroom-hatted biker?" Without thinking, I headed to the gate, slid the heavy bar through the metal loop, squeezed inside and made my way over to the horse guy. Without a word, he handed me the rope and slapped the roan on the rump so the merry-go-round action would continue. Round and round I went with the horse. "Hey, I could get dizzy," I called to him. He motioned to me to hold the rope over my head and keep stationary while the horse keep doing circles. This went on for a few minutes, and then the guy left. I mean he just left. No "I go now," or "Be back later,"--he just left. "Oh, great. What if all 1500 pounds of horse decides to run AT me instead of AROUND me?" I wondered. The only pet I ever owned was a parakeet. Shouldn't OSHA be involved here? An Animal Control Officer? The ACLU? (For the horse, of course.) In about ten minutes the guy came back with another horse and introduced himself as Ezekiel. I guess he was just taking advantage of a second pair of hands so he could get his work done faster. Or maybe he wanted to see what a complete gringo would do if left alone with a rather large animal. Ezekiel concisely explained to me that the horses just needed to "exercise--run around" and the brown horse's time was finished. "See?" he explained, touching the neck of the horse that had begun to lather. So now we had a brown horse and a black piebald. Ezekiel tied up Brownie, for lack of knowing his real name, and switched halters so Blackie, who was about to take his turn at running circles. Ezekiel told me in his somewhat broken English that he would take Brownie back to the barn for some water. Feeling a little weird at this point, I thanked him for an experience I never would have had if something had not urged me to turn around. In his very easy way, Ezekiel told me to come back any time--that he was always there.
I have ridden my bike past that place a zillion times and have never seen anyone, let alone Ezekiel. I rode away feeling very thankful that a 40-something Hispanic guy would invite a 60-something white lady to peek inside his life in Estes Park, if even for only a few minutes. It's going to be a great day.
Always,
Winter
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Siren Song of the Counter Culture
I HAD to go pickin' yesterday. The stuff alongside the highways and byways must have been calling me. That's it! Maybe among things junk, it is considered an honor to get picked up. Can't you just hear the trash, "Pick me! Pick me!" On the other hand, do you like it when someone puts YOU in your place? That's exactly what I do, after all--aluminum cans in one sack, recyclables No.1-6 in a bin, glass in another bin, cardboard in the truck bed, gloves in that plastic sack hanging by the back door and everything else in a bag destined for the dump--unless it's something really nifty that I want to keep like a humongous bolt, or something I can't identify. Later on, Jack will tell me what it is. Anyway, it was such a lovely morning, I broke the Golden Rule. Oh, not THAT Golden Rule. My Picker's Golden Rule: "No pickin' over two hours." The primary reason for this self-imposed mandate is not that I'm too busy and have other more pressing matters to attend to, but that inevitably at the 2-hour mark, the trash bag is too heavy and unwieldy to carry. Never the less, I picked for 2 and one-half hours.
My feet kept taking me away from the house instead of toward the house. The price was paid later on as I had to propel my bag in a rhythmic swinging motion with my right leg pushing it as I walked north on Hiway 7. (I have this move perfected from many times of ignoring my Golden Rule.) Speaking of rules, I don't think they are made to be broken, do you? Rules are made to be kept; records are made to be broken--like the 3-way tie among Tom Dempsey, Jason Elam and Sebastian Janikowski for the longest NFL field goal--63 yards. Man I love football. OK, Winter, concentrate.
Turning west on Scott Avenue and just up the road a bit there is easy access to Fish Creek. All the cans and cups know that and somehow throw themselves into the water at that location. Noticing a styrofoam cup in the center of a quiet pool, I carefully picked my way down the rock-strewn creekside to its rescue. Too late, I realized the pool was so utterly quiet because it was frozen and so was my styrofoam cup. Not wanting to make a total waste of my effort to reach the cup, I retreated in a different direction and was rewarded with these finds: 2 tissues, a newspaper, a plastic bag and a CSU cup from McDonald's. Continuing west on Scott, I noticed a kiddie pool in the drainage area of Perch Pond. (Named by my grandsons for that plentiful freshwater gamefish.) It blew there from who-knows-where along with 3 plastic plant pots and several plastic bags. Abandoning my big, black bag and picker, I navigated the slippery, partly frozen slope to the blue plastic wading pool. I couldn't resist salvaging the pots as well, and nearly lost my balance dragging everything up to the street. Hmmmmm...I honestly think the wading pool was wider than our Honda, and I sure wasn't going to drag that thing over a mile back to my house. Enter Jack. He answered the phone at work and didn't seem a bit surprised to hear that I was leaving a pool at the intersection of Baldpate Court and Scott Avenue. Before I could walk another 20 feet, he came grinding his way up the street in the company truck. Yay! He made the big, blue, broken tub disappear. Thanks, Jack.
Quickly passing three mama elk with that what-do-you-think-you're-doing-here look in their eyes, it wasn't long before I warmed up enough to unzip my winter jacket and even my Nebraska sweatshirt. Sometimes I wonder why homeowners aren't interested in picking up the trash in their own yards, but while wondering, I reached Hiway 7. Lots of folks use the bike/walking path on 7, and one lady thanked me for what I was obviously doing and also warned: "Be sure to check for ticks when you get home."
All in all, it was a lovely spring-like day--almost inconceivable that one week earlier I had nearly frozen in less than a quarter of the time. As I walked along, my black bag, which wasn't in very good shape when I left home, kept slipping and ripping, so it was great timing when I found a large clear bag stuck in a bush. It was the perfect salvation for my holey, ripped black bag and allowed me to stuff even more stuff into the doubled sack. Besides all the normal trash, I discovered a big, red Christmas bow, 3 ever-present Marlboro cigarette packs, a gas cap, golf ball and a really cute polaroid picture of what I'm guessing was an 11-year-old kid in a striped tee shirt at Lake Estes Marina holding his 2 lb. 17-inch catch. Too bad this event is no longer recorded for posterity, as the picture made its way to the bottom of the bag.
Oh! Also found: 2 CDs. The first was 13 Moons by Charles Frazier, published in 2006. This is apparently a kind of coming of age novel about a boy who is adopted by Bear, a Cherokee Chief. Fascinating, I'm sure, but it went into the bag. The second was a copy of "Siren Song of the Counter Culture" by Rise Against. I just wish somebody would rise against littering and careless corralling of trash. Good grief, what was a empty Raisin Bran box doing on Hiway 7?
Always,
Winter
My feet kept taking me away from the house instead of toward the house. The price was paid later on as I had to propel my bag in a rhythmic swinging motion with my right leg pushing it as I walked north on Hiway 7. (I have this move perfected from many times of ignoring my Golden Rule.) Speaking of rules, I don't think they are made to be broken, do you? Rules are made to be kept; records are made to be broken--like the 3-way tie among Tom Dempsey, Jason Elam and Sebastian Janikowski for the longest NFL field goal--63 yards. Man I love football. OK, Winter, concentrate.
Turning west on Scott Avenue and just up the road a bit there is easy access to Fish Creek. All the cans and cups know that and somehow throw themselves into the water at that location. Noticing a styrofoam cup in the center of a quiet pool, I carefully picked my way down the rock-strewn creekside to its rescue. Too late, I realized the pool was so utterly quiet because it was frozen and so was my styrofoam cup. Not wanting to make a total waste of my effort to reach the cup, I retreated in a different direction and was rewarded with these finds: 2 tissues, a newspaper, a plastic bag and a CSU cup from McDonald's. Continuing west on Scott, I noticed a kiddie pool in the drainage area of Perch Pond. (Named by my grandsons for that plentiful freshwater gamefish.) It blew there from who-knows-where along with 3 plastic plant pots and several plastic bags. Abandoning my big, black bag and picker, I navigated the slippery, partly frozen slope to the blue plastic wading pool. I couldn't resist salvaging the pots as well, and nearly lost my balance dragging everything up to the street. Hmmmmm...I honestly think the wading pool was wider than our Honda, and I sure wasn't going to drag that thing over a mile back to my house. Enter Jack. He answered the phone at work and didn't seem a bit surprised to hear that I was leaving a pool at the intersection of Baldpate Court and Scott Avenue. Before I could walk another 20 feet, he came grinding his way up the street in the company truck. Yay! He made the big, blue, broken tub disappear. Thanks, Jack.
Quickly passing three mama elk with that what-do-you-think-you're-doing-here look in their eyes, it wasn't long before I warmed up enough to unzip my winter jacket and even my Nebraska sweatshirt. Sometimes I wonder why homeowners aren't interested in picking up the trash in their own yards, but while wondering, I reached Hiway 7. Lots of folks use the bike/walking path on 7, and one lady thanked me for what I was obviously doing and also warned: "Be sure to check for ticks when you get home."
All in all, it was a lovely spring-like day--almost inconceivable that one week earlier I had nearly frozen in less than a quarter of the time. As I walked along, my black bag, which wasn't in very good shape when I left home, kept slipping and ripping, so it was great timing when I found a large clear bag stuck in a bush. It was the perfect salvation for my holey, ripped black bag and allowed me to stuff even more stuff into the doubled sack. Besides all the normal trash, I discovered a big, red Christmas bow, 3 ever-present Marlboro cigarette packs, a gas cap, golf ball and a really cute polaroid picture of what I'm guessing was an 11-year-old kid in a striped tee shirt at Lake Estes Marina holding his 2 lb. 17-inch catch. Too bad this event is no longer recorded for posterity, as the picture made its way to the bottom of the bag.
Oh! Also found: 2 CDs. The first was 13 Moons by Charles Frazier, published in 2006. This is apparently a kind of coming of age novel about a boy who is adopted by Bear, a Cherokee Chief. Fascinating, I'm sure, but it went into the bag. The second was a copy of "Siren Song of the Counter Culture" by Rise Against. I just wish somebody would rise against littering and careless corralling of trash. Good grief, what was a empty Raisin Bran box doing on Hiway 7?
Always,
Winter
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