Adventures in the Mexican Sierra Madres

Adventures in the Mexican Sierra Madres

 

January 8, 2002

Iguana on Coconut tree

  A family of five Iguanas live in a hole high on a coconut tree beside our motorhome.  They warm on the south side of the trunk where the afternoon sun strikes.  They are reasonably tame because the American RVers who live here do not pester them.  Some Mexicans would catch and eat them.  Others would take them to the beach where they would pose them for photos by tourists. 

Mazatlan Beach

  

Mazatlan is a fascinating Mexican town with beautiful beaches and a great winter climate -- sunshine and shirt sleeves every day.  The beach water is a little cool for swimming in January, but many natives and tourists swim anyway.  Of course, there are the colorful tourist traps, hotels, restaurants, fishing and RV parks.  Ours must have been sensational about 30 years ago but is now showing its age.  The owner does not invest seriously in upkeep, but it is quiet and the facilities are adequate.  Across the road from the park is the beach.  We can hear the surf at night.  Some campers in the park have returned every year for nearly 30 years.  The sites in other RV parks in the city are crammed so closely together that (it is said) you can hear your neighbor’s heartbeat.

But Mazatlan is not the best birding site in the area.  So we left our motorhome at Mazatlan to climb up the Sierra Madre Occidental to find some exotic Mexican birds such as the Tufted Jay.  We had heard the trip across Hwy. 40 from Mazatlan to Durango was “challenging” and it was.  Leaving town was also a challenge.  The toll road we had driven all the way from the US border ended abruptly.  There were no clear signs informing us of how to best access highway 15 south of Mazatlan.  We somehow guessed correctly.

At one of the main intersections near the airport, we stopped at a stoplight.  The “windshield washing kids” descended on us like a Turkey Vulture to a dead skunk.  I had just washed the windows of our Honda the night before, so they were nearly spotless.  To ensure that my windows needed washing, one kid squirted water with something like chocolate or mud mixed in.  I frantically tried to wave him away, but he was relentless.  When he was half-finished cleaning, the light turned and I left without paying him.  I wanted to pay the poor kid, but if I told you what I wanted to pay him, you would not think me very nice.  Anyway, I stopped, cleaned my window and we continued our journey.  The locals find that it is easier to pay off these petty gangsters than to have them mess up their windows.

Once out of town, we started a slight climb almost immediately through the dry, thorn scrub countryside.   The morning traffic was light and we enjoyed the sights as we passed small villages.  Our first stop carried the unromantic name of  “Panuco Road.”  This rocky road wound steeply up the mountain and carried rather heavy traffic that provided another layer of dust to our clothing every time a vehicle passed.  But the birding was exciting!  The long-tailed Squirrel Cuckoo, Yellow Cacique, and Violet-crowned Parrot highlighted our morning and we added about nine new species to our list.  But we had lots of hard driving ahead for the day, so returned to the highway and continued the climb up the mountain.

Violet-crowned Parrot

 Our main goal was Barranca Rancho Liebre (Ranch Rabbit Canyon) high near the tops of the Sierras.  To get there required some intense driving while avoiding 18-wheel trucks coming into my lane on tight curves.  We hoped that the fools who passed me and the truck in front on a blind curve would not take us with them when they had a head-on accident.   

The scenery changed gradually from scrub brush to pine forest.  As we passed over the 8000-foot crest, a vast, multi-valleyed canyon appeared before us.  I was overwhelmed!  It was a work of art on a grand scale --.well worth the hard drive.  Now the highway wound its way along the side of a long sinuous ridge that is known locally as the Spina del Diablo (Devils’ Backbone).  An auto leaving the road here might tumble a few thousand feet to the bottom of the canyon before coming to a crumpled rest.  I drove carefully.

Sierra Madre Occidental

Red pickup trucks seem to be in great popular demand.  At first, we thought that maybe they were red because they tend to drive at red-hot speeds.  But this theory was disproved when we saw them parked in town and they were still red.

By early afternoon, we found our birding site at Barranca Rancho Liebre.  We parked our car in a handy roadside pull off;  three boys agreed to watch our car and we hiked up a couple of miles along a creek to a rim that separated two humongous canyons on each side.  The climb was steep, so we were breathing hard and heard no birds as we climbed in the shaded valley.  When we finally found the crest, the view was great, but birds were scarce.  We saw an Eastern Bluebird, a Spotted Woodcreeper, and a Brown Creeper.  A breeze on the ridge brought a chill and we decided to descend and hoped we had enough time for the return trip to Mazatlan.  Back at the car, we paid the boys their propina (tip) of a couple of pesos each.

Pat Birding

 

 Then, for some silly reason, we decided that we should see more of the canyon before we left.  As we headed east, away from Mazatlan, we soon realized that there was not really enough time to return to Mazatlan before dark.  So, wishing to avoid driving on Mexican highways after dark, we decided to find a motel somewhere and drive back the next day.  We passed a couple of small motels that the truckers use and decided to continue on till we found a better one.  By now the sun was beginning to set and the red sunlight covered The Sierras with a reddish glow.  We began to realize that the next town of any size was 30 miles away – at least an hour drive and Durango was more than two hours away.  We debated whether to return to the small, cruddy-looking motels or to take our chances on finding a better one further east.  We hoped to find some kind of resort motel in the mountains, but none appeared.  Headlights of oncoming traffic now made the driving more difficult on the narrow, mountain road.  Within about an hour of nighttime driving, we entered the town of El Salto, found a motel, checked out the room and decided it was satisfactory.  The elevation was still about 7000 feet and it was cold.  We double- checked to make sure the room was heated and had a working bath, paid 270 pesos and settled in for the night.

The bed was hard and lumpy, but the room was clean and the bed was covered with heavy blankets.  We hoped for a night of restful sleep but instead were subjected the noise of trucks every time we dozed off.  The main highway passed downhill directly below the hotel and truckers used their exhaust brakes that produce a loud machine-gun noise as they descend.  At about 10:00 P.M. the gas was apparently turned off, so our stove went out.  From then on, we were either too hot or too cold the remainder of the night and sleep was hard to find.  The fried tacos we ate at a small, local restaurant were resistant to digestion but finally settled down after only three Maalox pills.  Nighttime trips to the toilet were cold!  Giggling and talking by folks walking by outside the thin walls were also not the soothing sounds we needed.

Restaurant in El Salto

 

Sometime during the night, Pat nudged me to remind that we had failed to attach “The Club” to the steering wheel to prevent theft.  “Fogetaboutit,” I said.  No way was I going to go out in that cold.  However, we finally got some sleep and the gas was on by morning, so the room warmed while we ate the sweetbread and bananas we had picked up at the local Super-Mini the night before.  The Honda warmed quickly as we drove out of El Salto -- which depends mostly on logging for its livelihood.  Outside of town, on a cliff with seeping springs, a wall of ice held testimony to the nighttime temperatures.

Icy Seep

 

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the air warmed quickly as we turned off the main highway to bird in a local canyon.  Driving maybe 10 miles produced only one Kestrel falcon, but the scenery was excellent.  We drove back along the Spina, stopping often for the grand views.  Then, upon returning to the Barranca Rancho Liebre, we decided to drive up the rough, rocky trail that we had hiked the previous afternoon.  The Honda strained as all four wheels tried to grip the loose rocks and boulders.  About halfway to the top we spied some bird movement and stopped.  We were rewarded with four new lifetime warblers within a few minutes.  Red Warbler, Red-faced Warbler, Crescent-Chested Warbler and Hermit Warbler all gave us excellent views so that identification was relatively easy.  A flock of Stellar and the striking black and white Tufted Jays made an appearance.  In the excitement of seeing so many new birds, the effects of sleep deprivation from the night before disappeared and we were content.

Red Warbler

 

 

The drive back to Mazatlan was relatively uneventful.  We were even undaunted as a small herd of cows crossed the road slowly in front of us.  At night, these cows could have spelled disaster.

Cows on Highway

Back in the RV Park, the experience of the night at El Salto gave us an appreciation for the relative luxury of a comfortable bed in the motorhome.  The food was much more agreeable too!  That night we slept well, content in the knowledge that we had enjoyed an exciting and productive trip.

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

Mexican Cloud Forest

Mexican Cloud Forest

 

March 18, 2001

Mountain Trogon

 

After a rather uneventful trip from Donna, TX. to Cd. Victoria and an overnight stay at the Best Western Hotel ($80/night), my wife Pat and I reached the foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains in Northeast Mexico.  A quick stop by the small town of Nacimiento yielded a few warblers and Social Flycatchers along the small river before we started the climb up into the mountains and the cloud forest of El Cielo Biosphere Preserve.  The first ridge revealed the quaint, little town of Gomez Farias where we filled an entry form for the Preserve (no charge) and explored the mostly one-street town.  (So far, my ragged Spanish – mostly unused for the last 30 years or so – had been sufficient to obtain whatever we need.  Our luck was holding!)  The major activity in town was the play of schoolchildren in their blue uniforms and the harvest, packing and hauling of new, edible, cactus leaves (nopalitos).  At least two nopalito packing sheds appeared in competition on the main street.  Mango trees lined the road.  The pavement ended on the far side of the town and we started on a rocky road up the side of the first mountain.  This road had been built by loggers who had harvested the cloud forest timber about 30 years ago.  A maintenance crew with shovels and wheelbarrows met us about halfway to the top of this second climb.  A young worker pulled their camionetta (pickup truck) close to the steep edge so that we could pass.  We smiled, waved and extended our  “buenos dias” and they replied “andale” or something similar.  The views of Gomez Fairas far below and the agricultural fields of edible cactus, sorghum, sugar cane, citrus, mango, etc. provided dramatic scenery – enough to excite the dedicated landscape painter.  Smoke from a couple of small, burning sugarcane fields rose in tall plumes above the level plains. 

The climb continued up and down – but mostly up – till the small ejido of El Cima appeared in a scenic mountain valley.  Ejidos sprouted like weeds all over Mexico after one of their more socialistic revolutions and the government confiscated land and gave very small allotments to the poor.  Usually on the poorest of land and in such small acreages that survival was dicy.  They were mostly “goat and ax” type operations.  I once read somewhere that the destruction of nature on this earth is not mostly by giant bulldozers and logging operations, but by poor, small families with goats that eat almost anything and an owner with an axe to cut down anything that got in his way.  I don’t know whether this statement is true or not, but it is believable.  But do we blame these poor folks for the destruction that they do?  They are just making a living like the rest of us.  Most have no idea of the cumulative harm to the planet that their small herd of goats and their ax cause.  Those who fought for and developed the El Cielo Preserve believe that it is only through education that the preservation of this particular portion of our natural environment is possible.  Signs in the preserve encourage the conservation of the flora and fauna, but the goats and axes still operate on a small scale.

Anyway, at El Cima community we passed another guardhouse where our entry permit was reviewed.  We planned to stay at the small hotel there and understood that we might find guides at the local café who could show us some birds.  The first person we met in the town was a fellow gringo named John Drawe.  He was very friendly, informative and was supervising a group of high school students from the USA, who were doing some sort of missionary project to help the local Mexicans for a couple of days. They were to hold services later if we wished to attend.  We declined their kind invitation.  John informed me that he was “Special Projects Manager” at the Experiment Station in Weslaco and a friend of Fanny and Buddy Ross.  Turns out that we knew many of the same people since I had once worked for the same outfit. They suggested that we should park our car and spend the night at the local hotel because the road on up the mountain was too rough for our 4-wheel Honda CRV.  It likely did not have enough clearance to make it over the larger rocks in the road.  I took a photo of the whole group and we parted company.  We met a fellow named Marcello a little further up the road, sitting on a log outside the small El Cima Hotel.  He told me that the hotel manager was gone, but would return soon.  When I mentioned that we were interested in birds, he suggested that there were many birds at the Cabanas of the El Canindo Station four miles further up the road where the rooms were much better.  The Station had an abundance of vacancies so reservations would not be needed.  His son-in-law, Hector would be coming by in his camionetta (pickup) shortly and we could hitch a ride.  Almost immediately, a black Toyota pickup appeared, we met Hector and he was more than happy to take us.  He spoke fairly good, but broken English and explained that he had entered the USA three separate times, had never been caught by the Border Patrol, and had worked on oil rigs in Louisiana.  

We loaded our gear in the back of the pickup, parked our car in the yard of a local who promised (for a 20-peso regallo) to guard it, and climbed into the front seat.  The Toyota’s front seat was far too small for the three of us, so Pat suggested that she would rather walk the steep, rocky, four miles than ride so uncomfortable.  So Pat got the good seat and I climbed in back of the Toyota with Marcello.  We started up the rocky road, holding on to the side boards.  Marcello and I engaged in a lively conversation and I found out that he lived at Ejido San Jose and that we were both the same age – which seemed to form a small bond between us.  He lived only about one kilometer from the cabanas where we would stay.  He had first come to the area as a logger and liked it so much that he has continued to live there for the last 40 years.  He said that everyone in the Edjido is related, many were his offspring and that he would be happy to show us around.  Sure enough, the road was very steep and very rocky, so the trip was made in low gear and it was necessary to hold on tight to keep from being banged around.  About halfway to the top, Hector stopped, added some water to the radiator and retied the ropes that held his pickup battery under the hood.  

Now we were up in the cloud forest.  The lowland, dry bosque (forest) had given way to a semi-rain forest.  The bromeliads with bright red stems grew in profusion on the oaks, magnolias, maples and other trees that we could not recognize.  After we passed through a wooden gate, the long bunkhouse-like cabins with big front porches of El Caninde Station came into view.  We met Javier Villegas Ruiz, the manager of the station, and he showed us the rooms which were all vacant.  We had our choice for 100 pesos ($10) per person per night.  Each unadorned room contained three single beds, and two rooms were joined by a hallway by the toilet.  I inquired about eating arrangements and Javier replied that his sister, Teresa Villega would be happy to prepare food for us.  We had brought some food but would need some supplementary meals.

We settled in one of the cabins and reviewed our rules of sanitation in Mexico: no fresh uncooked vegetables, no water from a tap, no bread touched by human hands, no drinks containing ice, etc.  Then we set about to break most of our own rules.  The local water comes from a pure, mountain spring in a large cave up on the mountainside and is very safe to drink – at least according to the missionaries.  

When Hector insisted that we visit some of the homes of his relatives, a small alarm went off in my head.  Maybe Hector had not picked us up as a couple of hitchhikers – maybe this was an unspoken business deal.  So I approached him on the subject.  “Oh yes,” he replied, “I charge 200 pesos per person for the ride up and the same for the ride down.”  Quick calculations revealed that I was expected to pay about $80 US for the privilege of us riding up and down in the back of Hector’s pickup.  “When will you wish to return down the mountain?” he asked.  

“In about three days” I replied.  

“You may pay me then,” he replied generously.

That evening, Teresa served a meal of eggs mixed with dried beef and tomatoes, a very large stack of hot, corn tortillas (to die for), a large bowl of mole and the usual refried beans.  There is no electricity in the community except for that supplied to 12-volt batteries from a solar panel, which supplies the small, dim, 12 volt florescent bulbs that light our cabins at night.  Consequently, there are no refrigerators, air conditioners, toasters or such.  Any meat must be dried, canned or fresh.  Hot coffee or chocolate were available, but no cold drinks.  We worried about sanitation but ate anyway.

Javier was quick to show us the birds.  Although mostly deaf, even I could hear the loud bird songs that came from several directions in the forest.  “That is the canta (song) of the bandera bird,” Javier explained.  It displays all the colors of the Mexican flag (bandera) – red, green and white.  We stalked the forest to catch a glimpse of one in the thick, green forest canopy.  Finally, we got a great view of a brown bird with a long tail and red on its sides.  I opened the book of Mexican birds that my niece, Sally Ross, had so kindly loaned us, and found a bird that looked like the one we had seen in the tree.   It was a female (hembra) Mountain Trogon.  The next morning, Javier again took us out birding and we got a clear view of the male (macho), which was a particularly pretty red, white and green bandera bird.  As we began to see other birds and to find them in Sally’s book, it became obvious that maybe the only bird that Javier really knew was the Bandera Bird and that we would likely be better off birding alone.  He hinted that a small “propina” (gift) might be appropriate for his services.  I gave him 100 pesos (about $10) for his services, although he tried to seem reluctant to take it.

The next day, Pat and I birded and explored locally.  We passed a couple of kids on a mountain trail on their way to school and exchanged greetings.  The boys were shy but very open to suggestion.  When I asked if one would point his “resortera o hule” (slingshot/niggasoota) up into a tree as if shooting a bird, he did so without hesitation.  The boys obviously enjoyed the instant digital photo that I showed of their pose.  

We observed a group of birds attacking a small blob of a bird in a shrub near Ejido San Jose.  Upon close inspection, the “blob” turned out to be a Northern Pygmy Owl.  It appeared to have very large eyes for such a small bird – until it turned its head and revealed its true, small, beady eyes.  Like many other owls, this bird is capable of swiveling its head around 180 degrees so that it can look in all directions without turning its body.  Of course, the “large eyes” are really fake eyes, maybe evolved to keep attacking (mobbing) birds from sneaking a peck at the back of its head.  The most persistent attackers appeared to be White-eared Hummingbirds (Chuparossa).   Also attacking was a beautiful little Yellow-Throated Euphonia and a couple of Greater Peewee Flycatchers.  We watched the little owl for about 45 minutes to see if some other birds might join the attack – with no luck.  We were getting a little better at hearing and seeing the birds in the forest and added several more species that day.

Yellow-throated Euphonia

 

The next day we started a slow, birdwatching hike to La Gloria – another Ejido almost 3 miles further up into the mountains, where Javier had suggested the bird fauna was different. Javier called ahead on his cellular phone to inform the locals that we would like to have a chicken (pollo) dinner upon our arrival.  (Can you imagine a more interesting, cultural contrasting scenario than a Mexican riding a skinny burro while talking on a cell phone?)  The mosquitoes were fairly bad, but our repellent kept most from biting.  Pat kept hearing a bird she thought might be some species of Thrush.  It had a very pretty voice (according to Pat) and was very abundant.  But try as we may, we could not see it.  Pat was intent on finding the bird, so we searched the woods for quite a while.  “Don’t worry,” I suggested, “we may see one by accident before the day is out because they are so abundant.”  (I felt that we might be missing other good birds by spending too much time on this one.)  But only minutes later, Pat heard its voice very close to the sendero (rough road) we were hiking.  It was singing much higher in the trees than where we had been looking and fit the characters in Sally’s bird book exactly.  The book suggested that this Brown-Backed Solitaire exhibits “a remarkable cascade of silibant yet musical notes.”  We identified some other birds and as we passed over the cima (highest point) on the sendero, a large flock of noisy parrots flew, high overhead in large circles like vultures on a thermal updraft.  We could see them only through the small openings in the tall cloud forest trees, so were unable to make a positive identification – not even a rough guess.  We had been told that we might see the large, blue winged, Military Macaws there, so were especially alert.

We met a boy on the road who informed us that there was to be no pollo for our lunch in La Gloria today.  Apparently, the entire population of maybe 20 folks in La Gloria knew we were coming.  As we approached a wooden gate, we could see the large opening and homes of the picturesque La Gloria.  The forest was now composed of mostly large, regrowth pine trees.  We met Chotero Lopez Medina who took us to his daughter’s (Adelina Lopez Cruz’s) cocina (windowless kitchen).  She cooked on a wood-burning, clay fireplace.  While we waited outside I questioned Chotero about life in La Gloria.  “Life is good as long as I have my pulque” he said.  “Do you want some?”  Curious, but reluctant, I agreed to a very small amount.  He entered the cocina and poured a  half glass of murky, white liquid from a pitcher.  Pulque had an “interesting” taste, which remotely reminded me of warm beer with some sugar in it.  To show my appreciation, I drank it all but declined more.  Chotero filled another glass and drank it down with great gusto.  Adelina served a very large meal of eggs cooked with onions, chiles, and tomatoes, and black beans and a huge pile of flour tortillas which she continued to cook as we ate them hot off the stove.  It brought back memories of similar meals I had enjoyed as a child in South Texas.  The smoky, small cocina with the dirt floor had a very homey and warm feel.  Adelina refused payment for the meal, but I insisted.  So she gave Pat an embroidered tortilla warmer as a gift.  She claimed that she loves to cook.  I replied that I love to eat so that we were a good match.  At least, that’s what I think I said.

Tortilla Warmer

 

Of course, we ate too much of Adelina’s excellent cooking, so that on the way back down the mountain, a short siesta in the thick layer of forest leaves was deemed appropriate or even essential.  There, where dangerous animals such as black bears, pumas, and leopards have been reported, I slept my power nap unworried and very soundly.  That evening, we arrived back at the cabin tired but happy.  

By the third night in the cabins, we began to question whether the beautiful days of birding were worth the long nights.  Usually, we were tired at night, so went to bed by 8 or 9.  From 8 PM to 6:30 AM, when the morning light began to creep over the mountain into our valley floor, meant that we were virtual prisoners in a cold, foam rubber bed for about 10 hours.  After sleeping on the foam mattress a while, it formed-fitted an indentation the shape of our bodies, so that to roll over, it was necessary to roll up out of the hole to begin a new one with the other side of our bodies.  As I looked up from the bed during the night, I could see stars through the cracks in the walls and the floor had large openings between the boards – little hindrance to a hungry mosquito.  Although the nights were cold, the mosquitos still used my ear as a runway for making “touch and go” landings – buzzing as loud as possible during takeoff.  Pulling the sheet over my head gave some relief, but the nights were very long and sleep was sporadic.  Morning made everything OK again.

The last night, a young couple arrived in a large, 4-wheel pickup.  They were very friendly and invited us over to their cabana for wine after dinner.  Turns out he was an emergency room physician and she was a dentist, who lives in South Padre Island.  They had no idea that they were in a Biosphere Preserve.  He just happened to take the road and kept on driving till they found the Preserve Cabanas.  My kind of people!  Luckily, there were vacancies and she was very pleased that they did not have to sleep in their tent.  We chatted easily as the darkness descended while enveloped in their incense mosquito repellent.  He explained that they were very cautious about being bit by mosquitos because malaria is still present in the area.  They had been married only a little over a year and she asked if we would recommend having children.  “What can I say?” I replied. That led to a major bragging session about our offspring.  We parted with promises to exchange email addresses in the morning.  But in the morning, their door was still closed when we left about 9 AM, so I slipped a note containing my email address under their door.  

We found Hector, paid him for the trip up the mountain, then hired a burro for 90 pesos to haul our luggage back down the mountain.  We decided that it would be better to bird while hiking than while riding in the noisy pickup -- not to mention saving 310 pesos in the process.  A light rain had fallen during the night, so the rocks were slippery and both donkey and people walked with considerable caution on the steep road.  Teresa’s (our cook at the cabanas) handsome young son, Miguel Angel, led the burro and with our luggage banging on it side, and soon left us far behind as we birded slowly down the mountain.  He had tied our new luggage with rope by the handles and I worried that the handles might break.  Not to worry!  When we met at the bottom, the luggage was in good shape except for a little burro sweat and a few burro hairs. 

Aplomado Falcon

It was good to be back to our car.  We drove back down the mountain to the plains below, where we observed many hawks following a large combine through the sorghum field.  A handsome Aplomado Falcon landed on an electric line very close to our car.  We watched as it plucked the legs and wings from a large grasshopper and consumed it.  Pleased with our trip to El Cielo and  Mexico, and a little sore from the hiking, we took a nap.

 

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

Medicine: A Blood Letting

Medicine: A Blood Letting

December 15, 1997

Amphitrite, named after Greek god Poseidon’s wife, quizzed her doctor -- “Do you really think that “letting” some more blood will cure my husband, Parsimines?”  The doctor sat down, placed his head in his hands, faced the floor and shook his head.  Then he raised his head, looked straight into her eyes and said, “I have been your doctor for 20 years and have cured over 15000 patients.  I have a medical degree from Plato’s Academy in Athens and it is a universally accepted practice to let blood to cure illnesses.  What qualifies you to question my professional decisions?  Do you want your husband to get well?  Letting blood is known to be the best treatment for your husband’s condition.”  “But,” she replied, “I read a report claiming that simple rest and drinking plenty of fluid is the best treatment for the cold.  The authors claimed that survival was much greater when patients were treated with rest and fluid than when treated by letting blood.  The authors even suggested that letting blood may increase the number of patients that die.”  “Hogwash!” the doctor interrupted.   “That study you mentioned was conducted by a young bunch of ‘ivory-tower,’ theoretical, wannabe doctors who have very limited experience treating colds in the real world.  As I understand, they are not even members of the Greek Medical Association and none of them serve on the Ethics Committee of which I am the chairman.  For your information, I have treated about 13000 patients with symptoms like your husband’s, and most of them were cured and have lived long and healthy lives.” 

Amphitrite's stubborn streak was still not satisfied --  “But doctor, you have been treating Parsimines for this cold for about a month with weekly blood-lettings.  He seems to grow weaker and weaker.  Don’t you think that maybe he could rest for another week before letting blood again?”  Now the doctor was furious but restrained himself as best he could.  “Amphritite, you just don’t seem to understand.  It would be very risky to attempt any radical new treatments before they are recommended by the Association.  We really know what is best for you and your husband.  I suggest that you find some better way to occupy your time other than reading radical medical literature.”

Amphritite was overwhelmed, and in her gut felt that something was wrong, but had run out of arguments.  She finally agreed with the doctor - who reasoned that if letting a little blood was good, then letting more blood was even better.  Parsimines died almost instantly.  In considerable anguish, Diana again confronted the doctor.  But, the doctor was prepared --  “Diana, it is very unfortunate that Parsimines died - you must accept it as the will of the Gods.  I did my absolute best to make sure that the most modern surgical technique was used to let the blood.  I used a clean knife and the incision into his vein was accomplished with considerable expertise and precision.”  Then assuming the posture, presence, and voice of a confident and authoritative professional, he stated, “His blood was not allowed to run onto the dirty floor as was once fashionable among primitive doctors.  There was really nothing that I could have done to save him - his condition was so poor that it is remarkable that he lived as long as he did.”

Diana was suddenly filled with a great sense of relief.  “Thank goodness,” she reasoned to herself, “just think how bad this experience might have been 50 years ago, before the Greek Association established procedures and helped pass laws to ensure that the “quacks” could no longer practice medicine.”

 

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

Maryland and Lost Cell Phone

Maryland and Lost Cell Phone

 

August 2, 2009

You know the drill.  You wake in the morning and look for your cell phone.  Usually, it is plugged into the charger, but this morning it is nowhere to be found.  OK, don’t panic; let reason prevail.  Where did I last use it?  After a while, we remember that Ellen called my phone yesterday afternoon before we went to the pool party.  So, my cell phone and my clip-on holster could be somewhere around the pool.  We checked with the pool manager and no phones had been found.  

OK, OK, still no need to panic.  My 5-year-old granddaughter, Kira and I went for a bike ride through the woods on a popular cross-country biking trail the next morning; maybe I lost the phone as we were lifting our bikes over the logs across the trail or as we pushed them through the mud puddles.  (That little girl was a real trooper.)  The trail snakes through the woods, down along Lake Loch Raven in a large loop back to my daughter Ellen’s home in Towson, MD.  So, somewhere on that 3-mile trail my phone might by lying in a pool of water, under a bush or (hopefully) in full view on the dirt trail.

But, not really knowing where to start looking for the phone, we (14 members of my family) decide to postpone the search till we return from a planned trip to Harper’s Ferry.  “Maybe some other biker will find the phone on the trail,” we thought.  Sometime in the afternoon, Pat decided to check her cell phone for messages.  “Someone found your phone!” she announced.  

The message on the phone was from a woman who explained that she had found my phone about half-way along the Loch Raven trail and she had placed it on a tree.  Well, that was good news indeed.  Pat had used the time-tested method for finding cell phones.  She called my number to see if we could hear my phone ring – just in case it was in the house someplace.  Apparently, the lady heard my phone ring as she was biking along the trail. But, by the time she answered, the call had been transferred.  So, she returned the call to Pat’s phone and left a message.  However, her description of the phone’s location left much to be desired.  “About half-way” on a 3-mile trail was far from an exacting description.  And, she did not leave her name or phone number so we could not phone her for more details.

My son-in-law, Tony suggested that we should return from Harper’s Ferry and put on a search for the phone that evening because rain was expected overnight.  However, by the time we returned to Towson, darkness had fallen and none of us wished to walk that trail to search for a phone with a flashlight.  So, Pat and I decided that at first light in the morning, we would bike the trail and try to find the phone on the tree where the lady had placed it.  A light rain fell during the night, but we hoped it was not enough to drown a cell phone.  We again biked that slippery, root-covered trail and stopped and searched more carefully at locations where my granddaughter and I had dismounted to walk our bikes over trees, pools, rocks or steep climbs.  After completing the loop, the cell phone was still missing!

We decided that a little coffee and breakfast might allow us to recover our energy enough to try again later.  In the meantime, our sons, Jimmy and Brian and our daughter, Ellen decided to search for the phone.  A short time after they left on their bikes, a very heavy downpour of rain started.  Lighting and thunder filled the air.  We knew that our kids were being soaked – but probably enjoying riding through the deep trail pools and down the slippery trail anyway.

After a while, they returned soaked to the skin and carrying some extra weight of mud on their legs, etc.  “No phone!” they announced.  “The trail was a river of water.”  As they biked the trail, they asked other bikers if they had seen a cell phone.  They had not.  But one person announced that they had found a water bottle.  It turned out to be Tony’s prized water bottle that had been lost a week or so ago.  So, the trip was not a complete loss.

Jimmy and Brian decided that as long as they were already wet, they should go for a run in the rain.  So they ran off down the hill and disappeared.

Now I think it is likely that the heavy rain destroyed my phone.  However, there is some hope that another biker found my phone after the lady placed it on a tree and are now in the process of trying to find it’s owner.  By now, my phone will likely have a dead battery.  So, it may be necessary for the biker to recharge it before they can determine ownership.  I will also post a sign with our phone number at the trail entrance – just in case.

I am prepared for the eventuality that my phone will never again be seen by me.  But sometimes, strange things happen.  Right?

 

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

Kentucky and A Matter of Conscience

Kentucky and A Matter of Conscience

 

July 23, 2009

It may appear to some that we are wandering about the face of this earth in our little motorhome with no real goal in mind.  Actually, one goal is to find how to accidentally discover something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely unrelated.  Wordsmiths even have a name for it: “serendipity.”  We found some yesterday.

After exploring the Cumberland Gap National Park and learning how maybe 80,000 Americans climbed up and over this gap on the way through the Appalachian Mountains toward making homes in Kentucky, Texas, and the rest of the West, we decided to head north up a small country highway to find a small RV park that I had seen advertised someplace.

After an hour or so of passing through small Appalachian communities along a river valley bordered by the Cumberland Mountains, we arrived at the town of Lynch, KY. – a coal mining town started by the US Steel Corp during WWI.  The mine was deserted many years ago, but the old town has been partly kept alive due to lots of governmental welfare.

In the center of this deep valley town, we found the small RV park I had seen advertised.  We searched for an office to no avail.  I asked one of the inhabitants about where I might find someone to pay for a site for the night.  He said I could retrace the route over which we had just traveled for about 5 miles down the winding road to the Coal Museum where we could pay. 

“I wonder if they would mind if I pay in the morning?” I asked.

“No problem,” was the answer.

So, we hooked up in the little park and walked around the town reading signs about the history and taking a bunch of photos.  

The next morning, we backtracked to the Coal Museum.  The sign on the front door read “Open 10 AM till 5 PM.”  It was now 8 AM and there was no way I was gonna camp by their front door and wait till they opened.

Then, I noticed a front-end loader tractor stopping in front of a neighboring building.  The tractor-operator left his vehicle running as he entered the front door.  A small, sign with peeling paint indicated that the old building was the home of city offices.  Several workers in the hall were very friendly as I entered.  In the back was a large office with two robust women behind a long counter.

“May I pay for the RV park here?” I asked.  

“Certainly,” answered one of the women.  “Do you know how much it costs?”

“Well, no,” I answered.  “I thought maybe you could tell me.”

“Sorry, I don’t know,” she replied.

“How about I pay you $1000 for the site – would you take that?

“Try me,” she said.

Another fellow in the office spoke up and said that I could certainly pay him if I wished.

“Tell you what,” she finally said.  “Go across the street to the Inn and you can pay the girl at the front desk.”

“Is the ‘Inn’ the old school house I noticed up on the hillside?” I asked.

“Yes,” she responded.

“Many thanks,” I said as I headed out the front door and up the hill.

As expected, the old stone schoolhouse had been converted into an Inn.  I entered the front door and found myself in the kitchen, where there were unwashed dishes in the sink.  Deciding that it was not likely the office, I searched down a hall where I found the office.  Another rather robust girl behind the desk asked if she could help me.

So, again I explained my mission and asked, “How much do I pay?”

“I don’t know,” responded the girl, “but let me call somebody who might know.”

She called two different authorities who claimed ignorance on the subject.

“Look,” I said, “why don’t I just pay you $20 and I can be on my way.”

“I actually think it is only $15 dollars,” she said.  “But let me call one other person who might really know.”

After completing the call, I was informed that the correct cost was $15.

I thought about offering to pay with a credit card till I remember how often in similar circumstances I have waited and waited when some clerk tried to communicate with my card company over a very slow phone line.  So I forked over the 15 bucks in cash, thanked her, and started to leave.  

“Wait,” she said before I could make my escape. “ What site number were you in?”

“I have no idea,” I replied.  “Is it really important?”

“Well, I need it for my records.  OK then, what is your last name?”

I gave her my name and left.  At this point, I was questioning my sanity.  Where is the world does all this honesty come from?  We could easily have left the park this morning without paying and probably no one in Lynch, KY would have known or cared.  We could have already driven up the Black Mountain highway, over the Cumberland Mountains, and be in Virginia by now.  But no!  I remember how many campground owners have trusted us over the years.  There is no way I could leave without paying.  Besides, my wife Pat would never let me hear the end of it.

OK, enough virtue-signalling.

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