Field Notes -
Dispatch 31 – Rose Cottage, American Falls, Idaho, USA, Northern
Hemisphere
Tuesday, December
27, 2016
Greetings, Fellow
Adventurers!
The astonishing
thing was that it happened so fast. First, there was no wolf in the
backyard and then “poof” there it was, standing rock still in the
moonlight, fangs glistening. Apparently all of this Idaho snow is
driving the wolf critters down out of the timber and into our
village. Wolves add a whole new dimension to taking out the garbage
after dark. Now that MR has seen the wolf she wants me to take out
the garbage every night about 9:00 pm. She has also coated my house
slippers with ham fat. She says it is a good waterproofing. I
suppose she knows best. Still, it makes a person wonder.
Despite the wolf
problem, I am happy to report that I have survived another holiday
season of stuffing myself silly and lounging about if front of the
fireplace with a cat firmly ensconced on my chest while I read a book
about Shackleton’s adventures. I don’t know if the cat saw the
wolf, but she has not been in the snowy outdoors for weeks. I say if
a cat cannot keep wolves out of the backyard what is the point of
owning a pet? She is not much of a mouser either.
Speaking of
stuffing, my family and friends have been busy cooking up very tasty
vittles the past month and feeding me copious amounts of high fat and
sugar delicacies. It has been wonderful. I don’t care what my
doctor says; what is Christmas without my aunt’s rum sauce on real
English pudding? (MR got the lucky dime once again this year.) I
hope all of you have also put on a few Christmas pounds to get you
through the dark winter.
Which brings me to
the point of this informative dispatch. We have the rustic wagon
packed and are setting the compass for 180 degrees south. The next
time you hear from this fellow he will be in Palm Desert enjoying the
sand dunes and palm trees surrounding the oasis. MR and I will be
attired in our khaki desert garb and I will have a Jim Brown
cartridge belt around my waist with a .38 Colt revolver holstered on
my hip. MR will not give me any cartridges this year because of my
unfortunate accident with a camel last season that left us one animal
short. I managed to shoot my own faithful camel while dismounting.
I still miss Sindbad. Unfortunately, these accidents happen to me
with alarming frequency. Remind me to tell you some time about the
night I inadvertently burned down the tent of the Bedouin tribal
chief. Gosh, what a ruckus.
As is our habit, we
will be gone for three months of field archeology and exploring. I
hope to find an ancient temple in the wind blown, remote dunes. MR
hopes to find a bigger Pottery Barn. To each his own, I suppose.
Once again, I find
myself looking forward to studying the habits and customs of the
indigenous people of the sun-baked Palm Desert. My they are an
interesting group. In my ethnological studies I have discovered they
have almost nothing in common with the people of Idaho. They labor
under the misapprehension that this is a good thing and are almost
proud of it. Poor, ignorant, desert savages. They lack all
knowledge of making elk jerky, or moonshine, and must import most of
their spirits from France and Italy. Imagine!
Well, for now I
must bid you adieu. I will send you a telegraph message from the
oasis if the lines have not been cut by Bedouin tribal warriors whose
chief apparently does not forgive or forget.
