Dispatch 37

Field Notes - Dispatch 37 – Palm Desert– California, USA

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Greetings Fellow Adventurers!

My harsh life in the desert continues. I just stumbled in from outside and feel very discombobulated. While enjoying my Sunday cup of coffee out in the front yard sitting in the warm sun reading the newspaper, I fell asleep. I kind of tipped over and ended up looking like a snoring garden gnome for all the world to enjoy as they strolled by on their morning walks. Also, the sun baked the left side of my face so now I look like a croûton and I don’t feel very well. This is the sort of risk that lurks at every turn for Old Trout.

In addition to the physical peril, I am experiencing a crisis of faith. Scout took me to a lecture (free cookies!) at the university last week entitled, “Are We Alone in the Universe?" After teaching in the public school system for years and looking at numerous freshmen I had become certain there were aliens among us--maybe even in my second-hour class. Anyway, the guest speaker, an eminent scientist, explained that, statistically speaking, there is almost certainly life on other planets but that it may only be at the microbial level. After Scout explained to me what microbial meant, I experienced an existential earthquake. My whole reality had been based on the assumption that aliens would be big enough, and smart enough, to have excellent and numerous bakeries, that they would conquer humans, not with laser weapons, but with superior baking technology, thereby save humankind from itself by pelting us with excellent bread and cakes. When I heard that we only had tiny bugs to look forward to, I felt the earth crumble from beneath my feet like a peanut butter cookie, metaphorically speaking. I have been in a state of angst ever since.

So now I find myself sunburned, without faith, and the laughing stock of the neighborhood-- a fried gnome without a spiritual home. That's me.

I hope this Sunday is finding you in a more placid state of mind and that your face has not suffered from the skin peeling rays of solar radiation.

Dispatch 36

Field Notes - Dispatch 36 – Rose Cottage– American Falls, Idaho, USA

Sunday, December 29, 2017

Greetings Fellow Adventurers!

This afternoon the local cavalry troop used their freight wagons to transport our safari equipment down to the railhead. The steam train puffed into our small town right on time. (A branch line reached our hamlet only this spring.) The men worked hard loading dozens of wooden crates, filled with our scientific instruments and padded with straw, into the boxcars as I supervised their work. It was reassuring to hear the snap of the locks after the doors were rolled shut. Finally, we are ready for our adventure.

Yes, this year we travel by rail going South, down out of good old Idaho, through the Mormon country of Utah and then cross the wasteland of the Nevada Mojave Desert to our base camp in the sands of Palm Desert, California. There, for our sixth season, our fieldwork will continue. Under that blistering desert sun, I am sure, one day, we will discover and excavate fossilized dinosaur eggs. And prove beyond doubt that cavemen possessed omelet technology.

We will leave at first light in the morning. Or, more likely, around tenish after I have a coffee and Danish. I am not one to risk my health getting up early in the dark. I might trip over a cat. We will spend our first night in the capital of the Utah territory, Salt Lake City, and then the second night in the lonely, snow-encrusted, mountain outpost of Cedar City, Utah. Next day, onward to our final destination.

Barring derailments and Mormon train robbers, we will arrive at our safari camp January 1. I understand the local tribes are preparing a welcome feast and celebration for us. It will be good to taste bush meat once again and see my faithful camel, Spitster.

This will be the last telegram you will receive from Scout and myself until we reach our palm tree-lined oasis. I hope this missive finds you and your tribe greeting the new year in good health and spirits.

Over and out for now.

Dispatch 35

Field Notes - Dispatch 35 – Rose Cottage– American Falls, Idaho, USA

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Greetings, Fellow Adventurers!

A person might think that after decades of changing car oil, I would have developed a knack for it. Unfortunately, the person would be wrong.

I was under the “Faithful Subaru Adventure Wagon” the other day, wrench in hand, thinking about how few of my pals change their own oil anymore. It used to be everyone did. Now it is just me. As I was thinking these moribund thoughts the dang wrench slipped on the drain plug and I barked my knuckles on the cross member of the car’s frame. Will I ever learn to use a socket for this job? No, of course not. Why take the time to look for the proper tool when the 12 inch crescent is handy. After all, I’ve got things to do. No time to waste.

With bleeding knuckles I continue. I start spinning out the oil pan drain plug. Of course, my fingers slip on my own blood and the dang plug falls out and rockets to who knows where. Instantly the hot, molten, motor oil comes cascading out, runs into my hand, down my arm and pools like burning lava in my armpit. I yelp in pain, snap my head up and plant my forehead on the same steel cross beam that almost took my fingers off a few minutes earlier. At this point, I begin to once again question my commitment to self reliance and “can do” attitude.

All of this pain and I have not even started thinking about removing the oil filter which is placed in a location only a highly trained expert could find, let alone access.

Anyway, as I lay under the car bleeding and blistering I was thinking about how few fellows work on their own cars and trucks anymore. This makes me sad and somewhat envious. They never get the opportunity to mix their blood with used motor oil or have old mud fall from the car's frame into their eyes. They don’t get to swear a blue streak or enjoy the satisfaction of watching the new oil flow into the motor in a golden arc of sunlit wonderment.

How can we expect our young people to defend democracy and the American way when they cannot even change the oil? It’s downright worrisome.

Of course, MR is always telling me I should have the car taken care of by mechanics who know what they are doing. I tell her that any city slicker can lay down a bank card, but to pick a wrench and go to work is what made this country great! She retorts that those chaps, cloaked in history, knew what they were doing and that I don’t. “Humph,” I reply eloquently as I head for the garage.

Well, eventually I get the task completed. I may look like a sea otter after an oil tanker spill, but I get to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. Of course, it took me thirty minutes to find that drain plug and about the same amount of time to clean up the tools and the mess but so what? This is one American who is ready to defend democracy one quart at a time!

Over and out.

PS. MR got Brownie and snapped a photo of me working.

Dispatch 34

Field Notes - Dispatch 34 – Trout Camp – Boulder Mountains, Idaho, USA

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Greetings, Fellow Adventurers!

After concluding our kayak tour of the Teton National Park lakes we transitioned home, reconfigured the mountain gear, and one week ago established our season here at Trout Camp 2017. It has been a week of disappointment for this years freshman fishing class. As a consequence of last winters enormousness snow fall the streams are still high and the trout scarce to none existent. Everyday the regions professional guides come to me for guidance and reassurance. I tell them in a fatherly manner that the life of a true fly-fisherman is fraught with disappointment and not only that but sometimes there is not a thing you can do about. This is called hard luck. I tell them that at these crossroads of life you can chose the dark path of natural philosophy, give up fly fishing and become a birder and perhaps study wild flowers or, as I have done, build large camp fires each evening and, in a humble manner, prefect your own gin and tonic recipe while gazing up at the milky way. My course of action will not necessarily bring the trout back but it will dull the pain. Well, at least until an burning ember falls on your nylon pants they instantly catch on fire. My pants on fire seems to be this summers reoccurring theme.

So life goes on as it often does. Why the sad face. We are, after all, camped in a wonderful forest meadow next of an trout stream reading, napping, and eating. Life could be worse.

On the more sophisticated side of things we have been attending the Sun Valley Symphony. So far it has been a program of Russian composers. Now, as you know, I am not a fan of the red commies that stole our nations last presidential election and these composer chaps, while not being commies, were no barrel of laughs. Apparently they composed very sad symphonies to commemorate their impending departure to a Siberian stalag or because their best fishing pal just committed suicide for pretty much the same reason. Not many toe tapping tunes with that crowd. Where is Gershwin and his American In Paris when you need a bit of cheering up?

Well, as you can see I am a bit down in the dumps. Wouldn’t you be if you were contemplating going to a lake and fishing with bait just so you could see a trout? Yes you would be. I know you. MR seems to be taking all of this disappointment in stride, as usual, and loves the Ruskie composers. One can only wonder when patriotism fell out of fashion. Anyway, she is having a great time and while sympathetic toward the freshman class she honestly believes they will get over it. It only it were so. I am afraid we my be on the brink of losing a whole class of fly casters if thing don’t improve soon.

Well, that is all I the ink I can put to paper tonight. It is difficult to write through tear filled eyes now what I am thinking of all those poor little fly casters. It is enough to break even a Russian’s cold heart.

I hope your summer adventures including landing more trout than mine. I will watch the streams and keep you posted on the flow projections.

Over and out.

Dispatch 33

Field Notes - Dispatch 33 – Rose Cottage, American Falls, Idaho, USA, Northern Hemisphere

Thursday, May 29, 2017

Greetings, Fellow Adventurers!

You may have seen the report about me on the local news, but for those who did not, I may as well confess that on a recent camping trip I managed to ignite a fire in my pants.

MR and I safaried down to the Wasatch Mountains of Utah and, generally speaking, had a great time. For years I mispronounced the name of these mountains. I called them the Sasquatch Mountains and no one ever corrected me because, as usual, people are not very nice to me.

Anyway, before we left I asked MR if she thought it would be a good idea to purchase an off brand, imported, electric power inverter for the camper hut. That way we could, in theory, charge up the ham radio right there in camp from the four old car batteries I have duct taped to the back bumper. She said that any technology that might put a spark back into our relationship would be a good investment and slid the $12.00 over to me.

A day or so later, off we drove and safely arrived in camp. It was a wonderful spot near a small meadow complete with butterflies, lots of oak trees for shade and even an icy mountain stream running right by our camp. Perfect. All was well until the second day when I decided to try out Mr. Sung’s “Most Easy to Use” power inverter. I would attempt charging the cell phone as a test case.

I carefully read the instructions about three times. The document, written mostly in North Korean, inspired more questions than it answered but eventually I was pretty sure I understood the general protocol for the successful operation of the device. Now, I said to myself, time for the practical application component of the lesson, the stuff fellows like me excel at!

First off I attached the red alligator clip (alligator?) to the positive terminal of the DC (Demonic Current) battery array and clipped the black alligator (alligator?) clip to the little finger of my left hand, just like Mr. Sung’s instruction manual suggested. This apparently inverts (flips) the electricity’s spirit personality to AC (Angelic Current). The energy field created in my body then would radiate power into the phone located in my pants front pocket. Mr. Sung was very specific about the phone’s location. Why, I asked myself? Oh well, carry on!

I know this all sounds complicated, but remember I have been to college and am an American male so I inherently know what I am doing. At this point, I was feeling a tingling sensation throughout my body and I could feel the phone heating up so I knew it was charging. Unfortunately, a bit of trouble manifested itself at this point.

This is embarrassing to recount, but it has been reported on the local news so most of you already know what happened. The EMT at the scene reported that apparently, the electromagnetic field emanating throughout my body caused a biological anomaly that resulted in a complete loss of, well, “control.” Instantly the gushing liquid allowed electricity to arc from the my Samsung Galaxy 7 phone’s lithium ion battery to the frame of the camper, completing a circuit that resulted in the phone, as well as my pants, exploding in a brilliant eruption of yellow flame. (Note to self: As a safety precaution do not charge phone in FRONT pocket!)

MR, who was reading under the shade of a nearby tree during these few moments said that as I streaked by her in a beeline for the stream I appeared to resemble a large, howling, 4th of July bottle rocket--yellow flame propelling me at near mach 1 speed, a plume of black, acrid smoke marking my trajectory. I made a landing in the creek like an Apollo space module at splashdown but without the parachute. It was at this point that MR called 911 on the ham radio. This is not an unusual occurrence for the poor kid when camping with me.

Well, several hours later, after the local news film crew and EMTs left our campsite, MR asked me what I had learned from the day’s events. I replied that the next time we went on safari I would leave all electronic devices at home and instead use my time to perfect my s’mores recipe.

Me and a camp fire, what could possibly go wrong?

Dispatch 32

Field Notes - Dispatch 32 – Rose Cottage, American Falls, Idaho, USA, Northern Hemisphere

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Greetings, Fellow Adventurers!

Who doesn't like a wedding? What is not to like? Happiness abounds, there is lots of laughter and free food. Just the the ticket as far as I am concerned. This week I attended a wonderful spring wedding of a niece who lives over near Boise. It was held outdoors in a beautiful tree lined venue with a professionally barbecued hog (an Idaho specialty) and free beer (two of my favorite words in the English language.) So why was it such a difficult trip?

You must remember that Boise is on the the other side of our great state from American Falls, my village. Now that is about 3.5 hours of travel one way as fast the Pony Express can go. My math skills are not everything they might be but I reckon that comes close to eight hours travel for a round trip. Most of you don't know my sisters (all four) but they are not like me. They like to talk, and talk they do. If they had a gold medal in the Olympics for talking they would be as famous as Mark

Spitz is for swimming. Anyway, I was tossed into a car (seemed like a phone booth size), two of my talkative sisters were added and so was MR. My sisters locked MR into “chat fest loud mode” and we set off on the adventure. Also, please know that we were being bounced up and down like bronc riders in a four wheel drive SUV because the stage coach road to Boise is very primitive to say the least. Many hours of this bouncing and “conversation” and I was certainly ready for some free beer.

We did arrive, and like I said, I do enjoy a wedding. MR always cries at weddings and people always come up, put their arms around her, give her a hug, and ask what the problem is. Invariably, she looks my way and begins sobbing even harder. Then everyone starts looking my way and when they realize I am her hubby they start weeping for her and continue to pat her on the back. Sometimes they shake their fists at me. Well, this always makes me feel like a real fish but what can I do? By this point I am usually on my fourth mug of beer and dancing like a Comanche with a couple of the bridesmaids. This all happens well before the wedding ceremony even starts. I am not much of a looker but I know how to have a good time.

The bride and groom were everything a fairy tale requires and the guests were congenial. After the nuptials I met most of the groom's extensive family and they were astonished at meeting me. Well, you know how charming I can be and I like to think I was at my best. I pledged loudly, and often, to all present that I was their best pal and would fight to the death any snake who said different. It was about at this time I was locked in the car.

I really don't remember much of the ride home except that the chatting never stopped and I was the object of much of it. As I recall the general theme was, “What is to be done about Old Trout?” Fortunaetly, I missed most of the chatter as I spent the majority of ride in the back seat sing Roy Rogers songs to myself and dozing on and off.

That was my adventure for this week. I hope I get invited to another wedding soon but MR says the probability is remote at best. There is a better chance of me being hit by a meteorite. So, optimistic me, I keep looking up!