Cowboy Family in Colorado

Cowboy Family in Colorado

November 15, 2016

We guessed that it might be fun to observe a modern-day cattle drive.  So, I asked Pat’s great grand niece — Lynda Gleason — if we could come to Delta, Colorado to watch such an event.  The cattle were to be driven about 50 miles from their summer range in the Uncompahgre National Forest down into the Gunnison River Valley.  The operation required several days because the Cowboys do not push the cattle hard.  They drive them slowly so that the cattle can graze and drink along the way — and not lose much weight.

Lynda and Jeremy Gleason

 

Lynda is a modern-day super-woman — who works at a local feed store and also keeps the books for the cattle operations.  She hunted and shot the Mule deer buck, dressed it out, cut up the backstrap steaks, fried them and served them for dinner to us guests and family.  They were tender and tasty.  Then she cleaned up the kitchen.  One woman surrounded by four guys who wear their cowboy boots in the house.  In this house, Lynda is the boss and doesn’t take sass from the boys — well, at least in theory.  While cooking dinner, her son Kenny teased her about something so Lynda chased him across the kitchen, threatening him with a large cooking spoon.  A few minutes later, he sidled up to his mom and put his arm around her waist and they hugged.  The affection was palpable and it was all just good fun.

Lynda’s husband, Jeremy Gleason is a modern day cowboy.  He manages a herd of about 400 cows that summer in Uncompahgre National Forest above their hometown of Delta, Colorado.  The cattle graze on government land so the governmental bureaucrats dictate the terms.  Last year the grazing fee was $1.50 per head per month but this year the fee has been increased to $2.50.  Cattle prices are down so Jeremy works on strategies to keep the operation profitable.

Not anybody can obtain a grazing permit on government land.  To obtain a permit, it is necessary to own or rent land adjacent to the government land where the cattle can spend the winter.  According to Bureau of Land Management regulations, the cattle cannot spend the winter on government land so must be out by sometime in mid-October — before the winter snows arrive.  But, this year the snows are late because they are having a warm “Indian summer” — defined as an autumn that is warmer than usual.  However, south of Delta, the taller of the San Juan Mountains show white evidence of some recent snows that announce the inescapable fact that winter is coming.

Not all the cattle in the mountains could be found in the rugged mesas and canyons during the round-up, so they wait for the arrival of snow to help find them.  Cow tracks in the snow make the task easier.  

Delta, Colorado is a town of about 9000 folks at an elevation of around 5000 feet.  Here, the Uncompahgre River joins the Gunnison River which flows out of the majestic Black Canyon of Gunnison National Park and eventually joins the Colorado River in Grand Junction — about 40 miles downstream.  One of the primary attractions of Delta are the walking trails along the Gunnison River and around the lake in Confluence Park.  It is a very special place.  The town is nestled between Grand Mesa, Green Mesa, and the Uncompahgre Mesa.  Corn is one of the dominant crops in the area so — after the corn is harvested — cattle from their summer range in the mountains are sometimes kept in these corn fields where they feed on residual corn seed and corn plant fodder for winter food.  At least, that’s where Jeremy will hold his cattle during the winter.  

Winter is a busy time for a cattleman.  Cows drop their calves during this time and during winter storms a wise cowman keeps careful watch over his herd.  A newborn, wet calf can tolerate some cold but can freeze to death when it is very cold.  So, when a newborn calf is found when winter conditions are bad, it is brought into the barn or house where it is warmed and protected.

Family

Nick is a high school freshman who broke his right arm a few years back in an accident, so can’t throw a baseball or football.  When we first arrived at the Gleason home, Nick was carrying a deer head by holding its antlers.  Evidently, it was developing an unpleasant aroma or something and Nick was a little upset because he could not decide what to do with it.  Lynda told him to just leave it alone — it doesn’t matter.  “Wash your hands and get ready for dinner.”

Near the kitchen cabinet lay a pair of shiny cowboy spurs.  The buckle on the spurs is made of leather that Nick had made to his personal taste.  A lariat hangs on the railing post on the top of the stairs that lead down into the basement. 

Of course, Nick is an accomplished horseman and we watched him handle the corral gates and the cattle passing through with the expertise necessary to demand the respect of the older cowmen.  

Kenny Gleason is a charismatic teller-of-stories who seems destined to become a politician, radio announcer, auctioneer, tour guide or salesman.  A fifth grader who pitches for the baseball team, Kenny plans to play on the football team.  I learned this when he readily agreed to ride with me while following Lynda from our motel to her country home.  If cowboys tend to less talkative than others, Kenny must be an exception.

Wyatt is a fifth-grade friend of Kenny’s who currently stays in the Gleason home so often that he is almost considered to be part of the family.  Jeremy ruffles his hair affectionately — as he would his own sons.  Wyatt is a wannabe paleontologist who might specialize in microraptors and has thoughts of attending Michigan State University.

Cattle Pens in the Desert

When the cows and their calves are driven down from their mountain graze, they are herded into a portable, metal pen beside the permanent loading chute.  These pens are on a hill-top named the “Desert” which is located on the Richard Gore Ranch — not far from the Gunnison River.  This pen is large enough to hold the cattle and for using cutting horses to separate (cut) the calves from the cows.  Smaller pens hold the cows separate from the calves.  So, there is a constant sound of calves bawling for their moms.

To my eyes, it was an almost incredibly smooth operation.  The cutting horses did not move around rapidly chasing calves.  Every movement was slow and deliberate to keep the calves and cows as calm as possible.  When I arrived, I asked if it was OK to photograph the operation and the people.  “As long as nobody complains, go for it” — I was told.  I was also advised not to wave my arms or hat and not to shout because it might disturb the cattle and make their job harder.  

Of course, these are not wild cattle — they are manageable, cross-bred cattle of Beefmaster, Herford, Angus, etc. breeds.  Jeremy said “We don’t want wild cattle, but crossing the cattle results in a smarter animal that can survive in the mountains during the summer.  Black Angus can be really dumb animals that may become stranded on the end of a mesa, see the water below but not be able to descend and die of thirst” — rather than head back up the mesa to safety.

Neighboring cowmen and woman assist each other during these events so there may have been about twelve men and two women working the cattle.  They all seem to be very knowledgeable cow folks with a knack for handling cattle.  After the calves have been cut, driving animals through the chutes and from pen to pen can be done on foot.  After the calves were cut, a cattle buyer arrived, examined the calves, made an offer and the deal was made.  It is preferred not to use the local cattle sale yard, partly because they charge $15 per head.  These calves are then loaded on a cattle truck and taken to a feedlot someplace.

On the second day, we were lucky to observe the cow pregnancy testing operation.  A veterinarian palpates each cow — feeling for the calf's head, a pulse in the artery supplying blood to the uterus, and the shape of the cow's uterus.  The main benefit of this test is to detect non-pregnant cows — which receive a large circle painted on her back and has the switch of her tail removed (banged).  Often these cows are sold from the herd because it is expensive to maintain a non-productive cow.  The vet can also determine the approximate age of the calf in the pregnant cows.

We watched as a small group of cows were cut from the outer pens to be driven through the chutes and ultimately into the squeeze chute apparatus.  When a cow is driven into the chute, she sees a large opening at the end and tries to escape through it.  But, as soon as she sticks her head through the hole, the chute operator operates a clamping device which catches the cow behind the head so that she cannot move forward or backward.  Now, she is in position for palpating, painting, worming, injecting antibiotics and “banged.”  Each cow is identified by a tag in her ear on which is recorded the number and color of the tag.  Being the bookkeeper, Lynda handles the duties of recording all this information, while simultaneously pouring worming liquid on the cow’s back, injecting the cow, or slapping a second cow on the snoot to make it back up when two cows try to enter the squeeze chute at once.  She is good at her job — as are all the participants.  

It is a very well-run operation and cows pass through the process one at a time — until one cow decides to escape the wooden holding chute by trying to jump out and breaking the top chute board.  The chute operator quickly convinces her that real escape is impossible and she settles down for her turn in the squeeze chute.

Many thanks to Lynda, Jeremy and the boys, Mr. Gore and other team members for taking the time to visit with us and to answer the questions needed to write this two-day snapshot in their lives.  I feel lucky and inspired to visit with this busy, hard working, loving family and their friends.  Thanks also to all for putting up with my ever intrusive camera.

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Finding God in France

Finding God in France

October 29, 2007

From somewhere in the sky the words came to me.  “Go around the circle and turn left at the third exit.”  It was magical!  So we drove around the circle, turned left at the third exit, checked the map and sure enough, the words from heaven were perfectly accurate and we were headed to our preplanned destination.  From then on, I named our TomTom GPS mapping system “God.”  Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

As we left Charles DeGaulle Airport in Paris, “God” directed us onto a series of small roads that lead through the countryside toward Calais.  We knew that the A-1 freeway leading north of Paris would take us to Calais quickly, but “God” was directing us through small towns on small roads.  We were moving slowly, but the scenery was worth it.  It was then that I realized that my supplications to “God” had included the wish to exclude toll roads.

The girl that checked out our Renault Kangoo had instructed us to make sure that we filled up with diesel as soon as possible because a full tank was not part of the deal for leased vehicles.  She provided a map showing the location of the closest gas station, but “God” figured a route that excluded this station, so on the small French road, we could find no gas station.  Finally, in desperation, I reprogrammed “God” to include the freeway and he quickly found a gas station.

We took the ferry across the English Channel, drove around London and “God” gave us perfect guidance – warning us about upcoming turns in a deep, masculine voice that I could hear clearly.  (Whoever said that God is a she, hasn’t heard my version).

But somewhere near Cardiff, England, “God” died.  Apparently, the 12-volt cigarette lighter connection had come loose and our Lord was no longer being charged – so the battery died.  I reset the plug until it was clear from the green light on “God” that it was being recharged.  We drove for an hour or more, but I could not resurrect “God” from his slumbers.  We drove all the next day, stopping at various shops for an expert who might give us advice, but to no avail.  In the evening at a B&B with WiFi, I went online to the TomTom company and they advised pressing the reset button.  Shazam!  “God” came back to life and has given us expert guidance and direction ever since.

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

 

Almost Pinkerton Detectives

Almost Pinkerton Detectives

August 7, 2017

After graduating from Edinburg High School in 1955, Charles Alexander, Jerry Kaml and I were having some problem deciding on our future courses of action.  What were we gonna do with our lives?  I asked my Dad if maybe I could join with him to become partners in his farming-ranching operation but he was adamant.  “Farming is a huge gamble  One year the weather is right, you produce big crops and the price paid for your crop is minimal.  Or, the rains don’t come, you produce a small crop and the prices are high”  he said.  “Go to College, get a degree, get a job so you can have a dependable source of income.” 

OK, I thought Dad’s advice was probably good, so I registered for classes at Pan American College in Edinburg — majoring in agriculture.  But my heart was not in it, my grades were unexceptional and I quit after a semester or so.

Jerry, Charlie and I hung out together and somehow came under the influence of an older fellow named Terry Cave — who was maybe 30 years old.  He brewed his own beer, mixed Seagram 7 & 7 Ups and shared them both generously.  He claimed that he was a Pinkerton Detective but had a job as a watchman or something on the Pan American College campus.  He sported a very nice pistol and told lots of stories that I can no longer remember.  But, one of his stories was that he was gonna take a job in Mexico protecting gold or silver shipments — or something — and that he needed assistants.  So, if Jerry, Charlie and I could acquire some guns, maybe he could get us well-paid jobs and we could live exciting lives in Mexico and might also become Pinkerton Detectives.  After waiting for a few weeks for the jobs to materialize, Terry finally admitted that there were no such jobs.

So, we had dropped out of college, were almost certain to be drafted into the Army and we fell under the influence of another older guy — a local Marine Corps Recruiter.  He explained that if we were drafted into the army, they would decide what kind of menial job we would have and most likely be carrying a rifle and polishing boots.  But, if we voluntarily joined the Marine Corps, we would be in control and could choose some specialty job with our own MOS (Military Occupations Specialty).  I chose to be an Aircraft Flight Controller — which sounded much better than being a lowly rifleman or something.

Anyway, our recruiter convinced Jerry, Charlie and me to join the Marines.  However, he had already filled his quota for this month so he asked that we wait another month to sign up to help his quota for the next month.  No problem — we had nothing better to do.  A month later, we caught a bus to San Antonio where we were sworn in, then flew to El Paso — where we were delayed long enough to have a few drinks across the border in Ciudad Juarez. 

When we finally arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, CA we found that they had just filled a platoon and it was necessary for us to wait a week until we could be placed in Platoon 296.  During that week we did KP duty such as cleaning up in the Mess Hall, hauling trash and such.  We soon excelled at mopping, sweeping and swearing.  We quickly learned that we were the lowest form of life on earth and that it would be necessary for us to receive a promotion in order to exceed the status of an earthworm.  There we no gentle voices offering instruction — even the simplest of orders came in a loud, demanding voice filled with expletives and insistent upon an instant “Yes, sir” while standing at attention.  Failure to carry out the simplest of instruction very rapidly carried the threat of spending some time in the brig (Marine Corps jail) or some other form of punishment.

For a kid who had grown up in a family of nine kids and whose parents often had no idea where I was, I had led a very carefree life with incredible freedom.  All that came to a screeching halt in Boot Camp.  I quickly learned what it was like to live in a completely totalitarian system where we lived in a virtual prison and were forced to instantly obey commands and “Big Brother” was always watching.  Although I realized that a little discipline in my life was likely a good thing, the amount we got in Boot Camp turned my life into a living “hell” — at least for a while.

I will spare all the details of life in Boot Camp but explain than after graduation, Jerry, Charlie and I were sent to Camp Pendleton where we were separated into different outfits.  I was placed in the Second Battalion, Jerry in the Third Battalion and Charlie someplace else — where he took an exam to qualify for NavCad (Naval Air Cadets) to become a Marine Corps pilot.  Passing that test changed Charlie’s life forever.  From that time on he was associated with flying jets in combat and folks started calling him Chuck instead of Charlie.  After retiring from the Marines, he flew commercial airliners, taught in flight schools and worked for Aramco.

Neither Jerry or I got the jobs we had been promised by our recruiter in Edinburg.  We were handed a rifle and a pair of boots to shine.  Oh well!

Terry Cave shot himself in the head — or so we heard.  We wish our Marine Corps recruiter well — or maybe not.

Jerry obtained an early release from the Marines to attend college, got a Ph.D. at the University of Michigan and taught school in San Luis Obispo much of his life — and where he has been a pillar of his church and city.  My time in the Marine Corps made me realize that I did not want to spend my life in the military.  So when I was discharged after 3 years in California, I returned to Texas, learned how to study, got married, obtained a couple of graduate degrees and spent almost 30 years of research and teaching at Texas A&M University. 

Anyway, none of us became Pinkerton Detectives but we all have achieved various degrees of success with our professions and families.  At least, we all three finally decided what to do with our lives and never ended up in the brig.  Now in our 80s, we have come a long way from drinking Terry Cave’s homemade beer and listening to his wild stories.

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/1264159645185875922?hl=en

Adventure in Coryell County

Adventure in Coryell County

When Pat and I wish for "high adventure," we go for a drive in the country. On our last drive, we packed enough clothing for several days and then decided which direction we might wish to go -- with no destination in mind. Since Houston was under water, the easy choice was west. We got away bright and early at about 10:30 AM, drove slowly on country roads, stopped frequently for snacks, lunch and whatever. As we approached Gatesville, we decided that we were tired and checked in to the Holiday Inn Express.

We were told that the Coryell County Courthouse in Gatesville is the second most beautiful in Texas -- second only to the one in Waxahachie. But, the locals in Coryell County know full well that their own courthouse is best.

Well, London, Paris, and Rome may be great tourist attractions -- but Gatesville is the Spur Capital of Texas, if not the world.

We were delighted to find the Coryell Museum and Historical Center in Gatesville and spent several hours wandering through the displays.

A fellow named Lloyd Mitchell started his collection of spurs and established a reputation as a fine collector of spurs so that other folks would send him spurs to add to his collection. The centerpiece of the museum is the Spur Collection.

He even collected spurs from some well-known folks like Pancho Villa and Jackie Kennedy.

A little fine Texas art doesn't hurt.

A few of spurs in Mitchell's collection -- that he donated to the museum.

One of our major finds in the Museum sales area, was this map of a couple of tours that can be taken in Coryell County

Having nothing planned for the next couple of days, we bought this two-CD set of driving instructions and local history that we could play while we drove the recommended routes. Now, this was our kind of "high excitement."

Nap Time in the Shade

Much of the route was on small, country roads where we crossed through some rough cedar breaks, then open, green prairie pastures containing cattle, horses, deer and exotic animals. We found many small towns like Pancake, Turnersville, Coryell City, Oglesby, Leon Junction, Ireland, Evant, Bee House, Pearl, King and Pidcoke. Many of these towns were in some stage of decline and Fort Gates and Grove were ghost towns. To stay fresh, we parked our car and took a nap. The above photo depicts our napping spot under a shady walnut tree by the St. John's Lutheren Church near Coryell City. This area was settled by German immigrants and grew lots of cotton back in the 1920's or so.

Grove city ghost town.

We drove through Mother Neff State Park that has suffered badly from floods of the Leon River in recent years. The have solved the flooding problem by building a new office, roads and camping areas on higher ground. 

This tour took two full days and we ended at Copperas Cove. OK, maybe the tour was not really "high excitement," but it was fun and our kind of enjoyment.

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Miracles Happen

Miracles Happen

Raymondville Water Tower

October 27, 2017

Brother Scott Sterling reached into his pocket and found that his wallet was missing. He and my brother John had just driven 25 miles from John’s home in Port Mansfield to Raymondville to pick up a few groceries and visit an ATM. Without his wallet, it would be necessary to drive back to Port Mansfield to retrieve it, return to the HEB store then drive back home again — a trip of 75 miles. But, the solution to this problem was obvious. They could use the credit cards or cash in brother John’s wallet.  So, John reached into his pocket and — behold, he too had forgotten his wallet. "Maybe I placed it in another pocket," he reasoned. A careful search of all pockets and the seat of Scott's F 150 pickup also yielded no wallets. Impossible! These two guys never left home without any money -- not to mention their driver's licenses. And Scott didn't even have his Texas passport — being from Georgia and all.

So, there they sat, disconsolate in the parking lot of the Raymondville HEB store while a pack of about 10 dogs of various sizes and mixed-breeds loitered unleashed while waiting for their owner to emerge from the store. Then, a miracle happened. John received a phone call from his brother Winfield. “John, we are in Raymondville and are wondering if we could pick up some groceries before we drive out to your house in Port Mansfield.”

“Well, no,” John replied. “Linda has lunch planned, and she is expecting you and Pat, sister Peggy and her son Sterling to show up. But, we do have one small problem — we forgot our wallets, and we need to pick up a birthday cake to celebrate sister Peggy’s birthday. Where are you?”

“We just drove over from Edinburg, passed the HEB store and are in a parking lot a couple of blocks away,” Winfield replied. And, would you believe it? I left my wallet someplace too and can't find it.”

Of course, John knew that Winfield was just kidding, so they agreed to meet at the HEB. A satisfactory cake was found for Peggy, and the dogs wagged their tails as the cake passed by.

But really, what are the odds that Scott and John would both forget their wallets and that Winfield would show up at the exact time to save the brothers from an agonizing, long drive?

Maybe miracles really do happen.

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Hog-Dog World Series

Hog-Dog World Series

November 22, 2017

OK, it may not actually be a “World Series” but it is claimed to be the home of the largest hog-dog trials in the world.  Oh yes, a hog-dog trial is the use of dogs in hunting wild hogs.  The sport was made famous in Louisiana by Earl Long — the three-time elected, reprobate, governor of Louisiana who loved to hunt wild hogs for food and fun.

Our “high adventure” tour had taken us by accident to the small Louisiana town of Winnfield where we decided to explore the town.  We found the Earl Long City park where at statue old Earl stands, then we found the city museum in the restored Louisiana and Arkansas Railroad depot.  We were lucky to find it open because it is usually closed for much of the week.  Three local volunteer ladies were busy inside preparing for some holiday event and they seemed genuinely happy to have visitors.  We were the only visitors so we got their almost undivided attention. 

They claimed that their museum is one of a kind — a “Political Museum and Hall of Fame”.  The walls were lined with niches with each containing information and various doodads about each politician.  They attempt to cover almost all major political figures in Louisiana history.  It is a remarkable achievement for such a small-town museum.  But, what is even more amazing is that this small town produced there Louisiana governors — Earl Long, Huey Long and Oscar Allen.

The largest displays are those of Earl and Huey Long.  Earl with his campaign car and Huey’s office.  You can even push a button and hear Earl’s voice as he talks Louisiana politics.  Fascinating stuff! 

Anyway, our visit triggered my interest in the Longs.  All I remembered was that they had some sort of reputation as political rascals.  So, now I’m reading “Huey Long’s Louisiana Hayride” by Harnett Kane with a forward by Sam Jones.  To say that Kane and Jones are not big fans of Huey Long would be a massive understatement.  Under Huey Long, Louisiana “became a dictatorship not only in theory but in fact.”  Huey boasted that he bought the Legislature “like a sack of potatoes.”

Amazing the kind of stuff you can find while wandering around the country.  Maybe we will even return to Winnfield for the Hog-Dog world series at the fairgrounds in the fourth full weekend of March.  Maybe!   

http://www.lapoliticalmuseum.com/virtualtour.html

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

New Mexico Wreck

New Mexico Wreck

September 7, 1994

Guess where we are?  We are supposed to be in Wyoming, but we are still in New Mexico.  We are at El Vado Lake, between Espanola and Chama.  Were at Heron lake for 3 days.  It is a "quiet lake" where boats are allowed to go at only trolling speed.  It has lots of rainbow trout, salmon and sailboats.  We came Friday evening, and it rained all night and all day Saturday.  There were people everywhere, most with boats since it was Labor Day weekend.  I'm sure they were as glad as we were to see the sun on Sunday.  We have been riding our bikes around, and yesterday we hiked on a 14 mi. (roundtrip) the trail along the Chama River to lake El Vado.

Back to why we are here:  Leaving Espanola on Sept. 23, the bumper and car hitch pulled off the Suzuki, and it sideswiped Aristotle a little, then went flying across the highway, through a fence, and hit a tree. We were very lucky that it didn't hit another car, and that it hit a small tree.  The tree bent as it was hit and the Suzuki climbed it a few feet before it came to a halt.  A few feet away, it would have gone down a steep embankment, and been demolished.  A guy working nearby pulled it out and we pulled it into Ojo Caliente.  They couldn't fix it, so a wrecker took it back to a body shop in Espanola.  We were told they could probably get it out for us by September 2, but "parts didn't come in, etc." and Labor Day didn't help.  It is repairable but will cost us about $3500.

So we have been seeing more of N.M., but not wanting to go too far.  We spent a couple of nights on a high bluff overlooking Santa Cruz Lake, hiked down along the Frijoles River, then back another way, along a dry creek that ran into the river.  W. had his trusty contour map and compass, otherwise, I would have rebelled.  It turned into quite an adventure!  There was no trail, so we had to push through the underbrush, and we hit a couple of steep drop-offs and had to play rock climbing.  Actually, that was pretty scary.  The whole trip took us almost 12 hours, and we were all scraped up and bruised.  We also stayed a couple of nights at Nambe Falls and at the Tesuque Pueblo R.V. park.  Didn't like Tesuque because there was no place to hike or ride bikes, but got the washing done.

We had a wonderful time with Jimmy & Shenda and those precious babies.  We stayed at Bandelier most of the time, so hiked & biked around there, also around Los Alamos & White Rock.  Took Audrey (the au pair) & the kids on a few short hikes and to the museums,  went to the Baker family reunion at Peggy's cabin, took Audrey with us on a Sunday to Santa Fe Ski Basin, and back into town and ate at The Natural Cafe.  I had my first bike wreck in the forest above Los Alamos.  I was riding in between the car tracks, but it was gravelly and the tires just slipped, and I went down. The heel of my right hand is still sore; the gloves saved me from a big scrape, but I got my worst bruise ever on my left hip.  W. had a fall too, when he was riding in his hiking boots, and couldn't get his foot out of the toe clips quick enough.  That was when we had left the bikes at the Ponderosa Campground, drove to Bandelier Visitor Center and hiked up the canyon (where J. & S. run sometimes) about 7.5 miles, got the bikes and rode down to the car.  Anyway, he just doesn't bruise as beautifully as I do.  If this is how retirement is going to be, I'm going to beat up all the time.

We have discovered roasted green chiles in Espanola.  They are wonderful on almost anything.  Will have to stop at the roadside stand in Espanola when we go back and get stocked up for the rest of the trip.  We will also stock up on a few dozen vegetarian tamales from Chimayo.

The mail forwarding is working pretty well.  We should have some waiting for us when we get back to Espanola.  We have to call in our location by Thursday because they send out the "S's" on Friday.  We missed calling in time (2 hr. difference) once, so it has been 2 weeks since we got the mail.  Anyway, if you want to mail us something and get it to us in maybe a week instead of two, you could send it directly to the above address.  The suite number is our member number.

The cellular phone isn't working well as a replacement for the home phone.  Like right now we just aren't in a cell and don't have the car to drive to a pay phone.  Sometimes we don't have the phone plugged in because it drains the motorhome batteries.  We have been trying to use pay phones because it is much cheaper.  We have to dial about 30 numbers to get our messages - to use AT&T, passwords, etc.

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Golden Eagle Combat

Golden Eagle Combat

 

July 29, 2004

On a long, high-mountain, gravel road, over the Buzzard-Muddy divide that connects Rifle and Redstone, Colorado, we spied what appeared to be a Turkey Vulture circling above.  The bird was dark and about the same size as a Turkey Vulture, but somehow I sensed a difference.  So, I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed my binoculars and quickly identified the critter.  The golden nape and pale bars on the upper wing were distinctive and together with its buteo-like appearance, identified it as a Golden Eagle.   Well, Golden Eagles are not terribly uncommon the western mountains, but it is always fun to find one.   From our roadside vantage overlooking a valley consisting of pasture land at the bottom, Quaking Aspens and assorted conifers on the ridges, the eagle was taking advantage of the updraft from the valley to float around lazily in the afternoon sun.  By now, Pat also had her binoculars on our subject bird.  

Our bird suddenly dove down on some flying object below.  That object was identified as a second Golden Eagle which also dove down among the aspen trees to escape the attack.  At the last second, the target eagle twisted and turned and we could not tell if the two had made contact.  But when the aggressive bird sailed back into the air, it reached with its beak to remove something (maybe feathers) from its talons.  The target bird did not seem to be badly injured because it flew up and began to circle near the aggressor bird.  Several times we watched the similar scenario of aggressor and target bird.  I wondered if it might be some kind of mating ritual where pairs meet in the air, grab each other’s talons and swirl like a helicopter toward earth.   But this never happened.  I also considered that the target bird might be a young eagle that had recently fledged from the nest and the mother or father bird was trying to drive it away from the parent’s territory to find one of its own.

Then, 2 more Golden Eagles appeared.  Again, the aggressor bird dove on the target bird.  This time, the target bird landed on the branch of a tree and when the aggressor dove at it, the escape tactic was to hang, upside down from the limb.  At this point, the two new eagles joined the “game.”  They both dove rapidly toward the seemingly helpless, upside-down bird.  All of this action was taking place several hundred yards away from us so I could not tell if the birds had made contact.  But, after all three attack birds had passed, the target bird, still upside down, dropped from the limb, head first, toward the ground.   Low shrubbery and trees prevented us from seeing the ground where the eagle had dropped so we could not determine its status.  But my impression was that the 3 attack birds were not intent on some avian game, but their attack seemed murderous.

I considered hiking to the spot where we had last seen the target eagle to determine its condition.  But, it was private ranch land and I was doubtful that I could even find the exact spot where the attack took place.  We watched the 3 remaining eagles as they glided over a ridge and out of sight.  They appeared and disappeared several times.  Sometimes catching an updraft and soaring high in the sky.  We continued to watch them for maybe 10 minutes and never again saw 4 birds.  Our assumption is that the target bird was either injured or killed.  

The location of this action was about ½ mile west of the locked-gate, main entrance of the Lazy CF Ranch.  

At least two of the four eagles were young based on the presence of white patches on the undersides of their wings.  I did not notice the age of the target bird but assume that it was likely a younger bird too.

Since I am not an eagle expert, I do not know if this behavior is common practice among Golden Eagles or whether this was an anomaly.  However, it was fascinating to watch and a little horrible too.

 

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Defining Work

Defining Work

 

July 3, 2005

My dad knew how to put me in my place.  During one visit, I complained about how hard I was working.  You know, coming home late from work, writing proposals and papers on weekends, not taking enough vacation, etc.  Dad looked at me and said “you don’t really work.  You don’t know what real work is like.  Here on the farm, I do real work.”

OK, so he hurt my feeling a little cause I felt that I was working very hard.  But in a sense, Dad was right.  I did not do any real hard physical work.  My “work” was mostly mental.

Dad’s view was understandable because he had done much hard physical labor in his life.  He grew up on farms in Kansas where children were required to work.  As a young man, he worked in the wheat fields in Canada.  When he moved with his father and mother to Edinburg, he and his dad cleared 20 acres of brush by hand.  He continued to “work” the rest of his life.

What brings all this to mind is the fact that Pat and I are currently preparing our 20 acres of woodlands near Bryan, TX for a little manufactured “cottage” that will arrive soon.  We have owned this property that we dubbed “Woodvine” for over 30 years and have often thought about building on it, but it was just too far from town.  Taking our kids to band or track practice from 12 miles out in the country would consume too much time.  But we really love this little property with its large trees, Wixon Creek, lots of animals and quiet.  Most of the time we can hear no human sounds.  Thirty years ago we had very few neighbors but now there are more.  So the noise level has increased, especially since the road nearby was paved.  But it is still incredibly quiet compared to most other places we might choose to live.  During the last 10 years, when we lived in a motorhome, we would spend a month or two here even though it was necessary to haul water from town.  

Every year when we came back to this place, it was necessary to clear last years growth from the driveway and remove any fallen logs.  The driveway snaked about 1/4 mile through the large oaks of several species, white ashes, winged elms, cedar elms, American elms, black hickory, dogwood, redbud and a few assorted shrubs and vines.  It was just wide enough for our motorhome to enter and no more.  So when we ordered or new home and found that it comes in two sections, each 16 feet wide.  That means that the driveway would have to be widened to a minimum of 18 feet wide to allow passage of the home.  The fellow who would deliver the home visited and pointed out trees that would have to be removed.  Remember that one of the main reasons we are infatuated with this place is because of its beautiful trees.  Thus, we do not enjoy cutting these trees.  Anyway, he pointed out 12 of our beautiful trees that would have to be removed.  Ouch!  “What I would recommend,” he said, if for you to hire a dozer to take out these trees.  They are really too big for you to take down with a chainsaw in time to receive the house.”

“Well maybe he is right,” we thought.  “After all, we are no longer young, strong folks.”  But then I remembered that few dozer operators can distinguish between an oak and an elm.  Thus, our dozer operator might come in doze out trees we wished to save.  Then, what do they do with the trees after they have knocked them down?  Well, in my experience, they push them into piles which also destroys more of our woodlands.  So, Pat and I thought it over and decided that we could “surgically” remove the trees with a chainsaw and while causing minimal harm to their neighbors.  We could then cut up the trunks for firewood and cut and pile the limbs carefully so as not to damage other trees and shrubs.  We had three weeks to complete this project before the house arrived and if we found that we could not finish this project in time, we could always call in the dozer.  Of course, it was also necessary to clear a large enough area in our woods for the home itself.  The cottage is 32' wide and 48' long so it would be necessary to clear an area large enough for this house and for the equipment used for delivering the home.  We had chosen a site on the peak of a ridge so we would have excellent drainage but there was one problem.  There was one very large White Ash tree where we wished the house to reside.  The tree was very old and sick, so I did not mind losing it, but it was gonna be a lot of work to remove.  There were also several other smaller oaks, elms, grape vines and briers to be removed.  

So I bought a new Poulan chainsaw with an 18" bar to help out my very old Mac saw with has only a 14" bar.  That way, when one saw would not start I always had another one to rely on.  

Justifying “work.”  Our ancestors worked.  As they moved across the Appalachian Mountains, they carved little farms out of the native timber with an ax.  As a young man, I once helped my father on our farm, sometimes using an ax to clear fence lines or take out a tree.  But it had been a long time ago, and I began to wonder what it would be like to actually remove a large tree with an ax.  OK, so I cheated some.

 

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Walk In The Woods

Walk in the Woods

 

Carolina Chickadee

December 19, 1998

Shafts of sunlight filter down through the canopy of oaks, white ashes, and elms to the leaf surface of the ground.  Like a spotlight in the theater, they focus our attention on fallen leaves.  The outside temperature today is 66 degrees and the sun is shining.  It is one of those near perfect fall days.

When we arrived here at Woodvine (our wooded, winter home at College Station, TX) over a month ago, the leaves on the trees were still so thick that our satellite dish could barely penetrate them to find the satellite.  Now we get a good signal with little difficulty.  Most of these brown, auburn, yellow and red leaves now carpet the forest floor.  These dry leaves function as a burglar alarm for deer -- they can hear the neighbor’s dogs or coyotes coming by the sound of canine feet on crunching leaves.  The dogwood trees retain most of their light pink leaves that stand in contrast to the dark green background of yaupon and holly leaves.  Dogwood leaves provide almost a perfect match for the color of the western sky at sunset.  

We were due some good weather because when we first arrived, we were met with several days of rain and hoards of mosquitos.  Subsequently, we have had several weather systems that moved through – each providing heavy rains.  At times we wondered if our motorhome might either sink into the mud or float away.  After the rains, Wixon creek flooded over the low bridges leading to town, so that a normal 12-mile trip required a 30-mile detour.  In time the numbers of mosquitos have declined to the point of almost non-existence and the soggy, sandy soil has dried enough to support the tires of a moving 20,000 lb. motorhome.  We realize the advantage of living in a climate where it actually freezes and kills some of the insect varmints -- at least during the winter.

A walk in the woods this morning was delightful.  The usual congregation of birds was present.  Above the treetops, the turkey vultures soared on semi v-shaped (dihedral) wings as they searched for the remains of deer that local hunters shot and could not find.  In a distance, we heard the loud, raucous “wuck-a-wuck-a-wuck-a” calls of the pileated woodpecker.  But it is the small, hard-to-see birds that were abundant.  Both golden and ruby-crowned kinglets flitted about as they foraged from ground level up into the canopies of the largest trees.  (A feminist might complain that some man named the ruby-crowned kinglet, because only the male sports a red crown patch; the crown of the female is yellow.)  The striking black cap and bib helped identify Carolina chickadees.  They worked in pairs as they searched -- sometimes hanging upside down – for spiders under leaves.  A pair of Carolina wrens entertained each other on the woodpile, probably waiting for spring so they can build another nest in their favorite spot -- next to the radiator of our motorhome.  A handsome pair of tufted titmouse showed off their orange sides and black crests in the morning sun.  I can hear the “peter peter peter” vocalization if they are very close.  

Golden-crowned Kinglet

 

But like an astute preacher, I noticed that somebody was missing from the congregation.  Then, finally, it made its appearance.  Almost always seen as a single, shy individual, the brown creeper landed low on the trunk of a large oak and began its spiraled search for spiders up the trunk of the tree -- using its tail as a prop to keep from falling over backward.  Its color patterns closely match the bark of the post oak so that it is almost perfectly camouflaged until its movement gives it away.  When threatened they may flatten, spread their wings and remain motionless to improve the camouflage.

This gang of small birds form some sort of loose alliance when foraging, maybe to help watch for sharp-shinned hawks that have recently migrated from Canada and need a little-feathered protein.  Sometimes we can search for hours in our woods and see very few birds.  Then we come upon a congregation of them and if we do not scare them, they will ultimately come out into the open where a ruby or golden crown color or some other marking give away their identity.  Their alarm system is not triggered by our voices as we chat about characteristics and behaviors, but one sudden movement and they are all gone.  Although humans are likely their worst enemies because of the destruction of mature woods by human development, these birds do not appear to be attuned to the sound of the human voice.  It is quick movements like those of accipiter bird hawks that scare the bejesus out of them.

Pat and I return to these woods every winter while we visit with our friendly dentists, doctors, dermatologists, surgeons, nurses, radiologists, oncologists, optometrists or anyone else who wishes to inject, probe, thump, inspect, scrape, quiz, sample blood and stools, freeze skin, rob or humiliate us.  Every year we return for more!  But while we are here waiting for our appointments, we get to stay at Woodvine – it almost makes this maltreatment acceptable.  Dentist fixed a broken tooth and filled a cavity.  The doctor could not find anything seriously wrong with either of us.  Optometrist found evidence of early stages of glaucoma and cataracts while Pat was obtaining a new pair of glasses (with progressive lenses).  The mammogram was clear.   My high platelet count seems to have undergone a spontaneous remission.  Hooray! Now we are free to enjoy some carefree travel and exploration until we return next year and start the process all over again.

Next week we will unhook the electricity and telephone connections that sustain us in these woods, stow the awning, outdoor rug, and table and head for New Mexico.  Christmas and New Years will be spent on the ski slopes of Taos with children, grandchildren, relatives, and friends.  Pat and I hope to be able to keep up with our three and five-year-old grandkids.  After Christmas, there is a wedding in Colorado, another in California, and a baby in Virginia – guess our next year has been planned for us.

As we enjoy the company of our family and friends during the holidays, we hope that you will also be in the company of friends and family.  May your holidays be a time of excited relaxation, good times and great friendships.  Merry Christmas and a happy New Year!

 

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