August 21, 2013
As will often happen, I found myself outside a bar speaking
with a hippy panhandler discussing literature.
He recommended Loren Eiseley, a famous anthropologist and philosophical
memoirist from the Lincoln, Nebraska area with whom I had not been previously
acquainted. That was about 10 years
ago. Last week I finally made it down to
my local library where a book of his entitled The Night Country caught my
eye. There is even a library named after Dr. Eiseley located in Lincoln, but I haven't been there. One of his childhood memories
involves him jumping on the back step of a salesman’s horse-pulled cart and
riding out of town and up the hill to a rich man’s manor. Inspired by this venture as well as an urge
to take a minor leave of absence from Baby Snot, who has become increasingly
demanding in his actions and defamatory in his remarks, I fled heedlessly into
the back of this man’s pickup truck.
Luckily
the 11 hour ride was pretty relaxing and we eventually ended up at a place
called Summit Lake where I was discovered asleep in the back of the luxury
cruiser/pickup truck. I explained myself
to this man, who I will hitherto refer to as “Bob,” and was not shot or
incarcerated. Instead we did some hiking
and backpacking in the Steamboat Springs, Colorado area. We took a day hike on the Continental Divide Trail (as far as our flatlander lungs could painlessly take us [up to some scenic overlooks, but not all the way to Luna Lake] and an overnight backpack trip on Newcombe Creek Trail [not far off the CDT]).
It was quite enjoyable.
I took some photographs of some animals
and plants
and tyre tracks upon
a trail.
Further investigation has convinced me that this is the questionably named "Red Dirt" trail. Although Bob and I did not bring any mountainous bicycles to experience this dirt, we did discover some
artifacts.
 |
| Bar None Syrup! circa 1960s or thereabouts? |
 |
| Perkins Pickles of Denver, circa of life! |
There was some lovely
scenery, which was slightly hazy, possibly due to a fire in the vicinity of
Salt Lake City. I also danced, strummed
my mandolin and dug privies in an attempt to ingratiate myself to my erstwhile
benefactor. I met up with these two
men
and attempted to become a stowaway in their lama’s
panniers/saddlebags. I was, however,
this time detected whereupon I was spat upon by the men and kicked by the
lama. Or was it vice versa? Luckily the long-suffering Bob was amused by
these asinine antics and generously threw a pretty rock he had picked up along
the trail at my fool head. As I carried
on and gamboled away the days in this carefree and wanton manner I was reminded
of Jerry Jeff Walker's classic “Mr. Bojangles” song, performed here by Mr. Sammy Davis, Jr.
I jumped into the refreshing Summit Lake. Then Bob generously took me back home and unceremoniously
booted me out of his majestic conveyances and onto my stoop after I had drunk
most of his coffee and all of his beer in several fits of anxious spasticity at
the thought of returning home to my diminutive tyrant of a baby and the rest of
my family. Although disgusted by my
shirking of my duties, my family's anger was somewhat ameliorated by my gifts of
pretty rocks with which they pelted me to show their acceptance and
forgiveness.
Ah, it's good to be home! Let's bicycle!
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