If the spirit of the west is disappearing, it has not vanished. A chili cook-off led us to the Bozeman, Montana Fairgrounds, which included the additional offerings of a livestock sale, craft fair, and local adult ice hockey.
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
On the Road 001
An intermittent vegetative state has descended, resulting in a dearth of fecundity in the blog department. Several restful but uneventful days in Virginia morphed into a hectic departure in advance of impending weather. A marathon 16-hour drive ended in Topeka, KS, where I had the serendipitous fortune to dine in a sports bar at the exact moment the Kansas State Jayhawk basketball team (main campus in Topeka) was shellacking the University of Kansas for the first time since John Quincy Adams ascended to the presidency.
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
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