Local Animal Shelter Updates by this animal lover (and former AVHS Board President and occasional volunteer)
Animal lovers can soon look forward to "window shopping" for cats and a retail center offering a variety of pet supplies and animal related gifts. The Ark-Valley Humane Society (AVHS) plans to open a satellite shelter in Poncha Springs in the near future. Having this facility will give Poncha Springs and Salida area residents direct access to AVHS’ many services, as well as to immediately address the need for care imposed by the large number of homeless cats in Chaffee County. The satellite shelter will be located in Poncha Springs on Highway 285, near the intersection of Highway 50.
“AVHS is excited for the opportunity to do more for all the residents and animals it is dedicated to serving,” explains Shelter Director Michelle Wayland. As the shelter director since 2003, Wayland has witnessed many positive advances in serving the local homeless animal population. In 2006, Chaffee County residents voted to provide operating funds to AVHS through increased taxes. As a result, AVHS operational expenses are covered, enabling the expansion to serve a greater number of county animals and residents.
To begin operations of the satellite facility, major renovations and the addition of a small dog wing are needed, at the cost of $275,000. Currently, AVHS and Mountain Shadows Animal Hospital (MSAH) combined do not have the capacity to accommodate all homeless cats in our county. Stray cats and dogs found in southern Chaffee County will be brought to the satellite facility for potential reclaim. Lost and found services will aim to reunite lost pets with their owners, and unclaimed animals will be assessed and placed up for adoption. Stray dogs will be kept at the satellite facility five days for possible reclaim by an owner. Unclaimed dogs will be transferred to the Buena Vista facility to be offered for adoption. These dogs will be housed indoors in a room with sound proofing and will only be permitted to exercise in an outdoor yard one or two at a time, under staff supervision, for short periods of time.
The satellite facility will serve as a no-kill adoption center for unclaimed stray cats. (A no-kill shelter will decide to euthanize an animal only if it is too sick to be treated or too aggressive to be suitable for adoption.) AVHS currently saves 96% of pets in its care, which is exceptional compared to the majority of other Colorado shelters. Prior-to-adoption services will include medical care, vaccinations, micro-chipping and spay/neuter. The satellite shelter will also be a resource to provide pet-related services to south county residents. Pet licensing and microchipping will be available. Low-income Chaffee County residents will be able to pick up discount coupons to spay or neuter their pets. Feral cat information and Trap/Neuter/Return (TNR) program support will be available. The TNR program offers free vaccinations and spaying or neutering of feral cats living in Chaffee County. Pet owners will have access to pet behavior information and support.
You can reach Shelter Director Michelle Wayland at (719) 395-2737 shelterdirector@chaffeewireless.net or visit the AVHS website at www.ark-valley.org
Published in the February 2010 Colorado Central magazine
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Goats are Out!
As winter progressed, the solid blanket of snow stayed for one month, two, three, four - and then entering into March, finally began to thaw on warmer days. So now it was mud season. While it was wonderful to see a different color other than the absence of color, the deep brown/black squishy sticky substance presented new challenges in our driveway expeditions. But as the snow receded, there were signs of grasses, yucca plant and other plant life that had made it through the winter. As we had run out of hay in early March, we decided to take the goats for a walk to give them the opportunity to find some roughage for their diet.
So off we went down the driveway in a warm, sunny, snow-melting afternoon, with five goats, two dogs and the cat traipsing in tow. We stopped at plowed and cleared out areas to let the goats graze and gallop around. Jack and I tossed the stick for Maya, while Kharma and Machka chased and tackled each other in the soft slush. We saw a few trucks pass by and waved, but evidently one driver only noted the herd of goats.
When we returned to the house and the goats raced into their corral, Jack received a phone call from the ski area where he worked. “Your goats are out,” his co-worker said anxiously. “Amber, a friend of yours who owns the Villa Grove Trade (General Store) called and said that someone called her to report seeing your goats out on your land.” Jack laughed and reassured her that all was OK; we had just got back from a walk with them. After hanging up, we heard a truck coming up the driveway and Neighbor Dave knocked on the door.
After inquiring where the goats were, he relaxed and said that he had come by to check because Amber had called him to see if he could herd them back in. Never having herded goats (an East Coast city boy), he was curious to learn how – and was game to try. Dave also shared with us that there had been mountain lion activity right above us on another neighbor’s property – that was why he rushed over. We thanked him profusely and marveled at the effectiveness of the Villa Groovy Help/Crisis Line Network.
This is an excerpt from my book-in-progress - "Little House On the Modern Prairie".
So off we went down the driveway in a warm, sunny, snow-melting afternoon, with five goats, two dogs and the cat traipsing in tow. We stopped at plowed and cleared out areas to let the goats graze and gallop around. Jack and I tossed the stick for Maya, while Kharma and Machka chased and tackled each other in the soft slush. We saw a few trucks pass by and waved, but evidently one driver only noted the herd of goats.
When we returned to the house and the goats raced into their corral, Jack received a phone call from the ski area where he worked. “Your goats are out,” his co-worker said anxiously. “Amber, a friend of yours who owns the Villa Grove Trade (General Store) called and said that someone called her to report seeing your goats out on your land.” Jack laughed and reassured her that all was OK; we had just got back from a walk with them. After hanging up, we heard a truck coming up the driveway and Neighbor Dave knocked on the door.
After inquiring where the goats were, he relaxed and said that he had come by to check because Amber had called him to see if he could herd them back in. Never having herded goats (an East Coast city boy), he was curious to learn how – and was game to try. Dave also shared with us that there had been mountain lion activity right above us on another neighbor’s property – that was why he rushed over. We thanked him profusely and marveled at the effectiveness of the Villa Groovy Help/Crisis Line Network.
This is an excerpt from my book-in-progress - "Little House On the Modern Prairie".
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Rowing Rocks!
The physical reminders are fading, but thankfully not the afterglow and memories of a “trip of a lifetime”. My heels have healed from the painful cracks, which subsided after I superglued the worst of them. The calluses on the palms of my hands softened and peeled, separated once again from the oars and daily rowing. Not too long ago, I was suntanned and harder muscled when I extended my Colorado summer into mid-October – no small feat when the snow was already on the peaks. As the only female “boatman” on a Grand Canyon river trip – 21 days on the wild whitewater of the Colorado River – I experienced one of the most sought-after river trips in the world. It was my second pilgrimage to this Mecca for river runners – and I cheerfully dismissed the scrapes, cuts and bruises experienced alongside the Colorado River bed.
When sixteen people are thrown together on an adventuresome three week trip, (most who had never met - and had no idea of each other’s experience with whitewater), it makes for interesting group dynamics. The majority of the guys were respectful and friendly, keeping comments and conversations appropriate and for the most part – female friendly. Since I would be out there rowing big water with them, most of them included me as part of the team, just another person who could row a boat – gender neutral.
I enjoy the physical act of rowing a raft; I find that there is no better exercise for strengthening your abdominal, shoulder, back, leg and arm muscles. It’s an all-over body work-out. Rowing makes me feel strong – and gives me actual upper body strength and muscle definition. Plus you burn serious calories while at the oars, especially in flat water.
Having been a certified commercial whitewater guide for a few seasons on the Arkansas River in central Colorado, I knew how intense the work-out would be in big water. Knowing that fear manifests itself in me by the feeling that I want to “puke,” I felt nauseous pretty much the entire time on upper class rapid days. On the plus side, I did lose almost 10 pounds during those three weeks (even while eating peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches) and could fit in my “skinny” jeans again. In fact, I could literally put my pants on – zip them up – then just slide them off without unzipping. That was a thrill in itself.
I came late to boating; it was a major lifestyle change for me. At age 34, I left the cushy (read: chubby) corporate world - and a secure paycheck - to become a river and rock climbing guide. These professions did not come easily to me; learning to tie knots, handling the oars and climbing ‘real rock” that wasn’t in a gym, were not skills I excelled at - by any means. Plus I hated being cold – on the rocks or in the water. It took many days and perseverance for the training and “mileage” to pay off. Initially I was frequently worn out by being physical all day and frustrated with my performance under pressure. It was challenging to be on the move constantly.
But the best part of all the outdoor exertion was that I could literally eat anything I wanted – and more! I kept losing weight – no matter what I consumed. (My grocery bill was not congruent with my tiny paycheck. Yet a girl’s got to eat!) Hunger pains would wake me up at night during river guide training. Some nights I had to get up and down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream just to get back to sleep.
Facing down big water is scary, challenging, and definitely adrenaline pumping. The rating system for rapids in the Grand Canyon is different from the standard Class I to V (1 to 5). Rapids begin at Class I (1) and peak at Class X (10). My personal goal was to row or paddle all the rapids over Class VI (6) on my second trip in the Canyon.
The easiest part of being a “boatman” was rowing the rapids. Successful runs are based on the set-up and keeping the boat angled straight up to the huge waves. (Staying in the current and “following the bubble line” was the biggest challenge for me. I worked harder than most to maintain forward movement.)
I wanted to hold my own on the river trip. That meant rowing steadily to keep up with the group and avoid getting stuck in the eddies, managing to lift heavy gear that a guy could pick up easily, successfully self-rescuing after a paddleboat flip in a Class VII (7) rapid, and in addition to “no primping”, you definitely did not look for help or complain about being tired or the lack of sleep.
Having suffered through four months of intense pain from a “nerve compression injury” earlier in the year, (which took me off my snowboard for almost the entire ski season), I had concerns about my neck, shoulder and arm strength holding out for this trip. I was only able to start getting back in shape in late July, and our trip put in the river on Sept. 23. I turned 42 on that day and wore my “Birthday Tiara” proudly as I rowed, even if I was feeling rather decrepit at the time. It had been seven years since I had been a full time river guide, and I had to prove to myself – and the others – that I was up for a trip of this magnitude.
And I was! Rowing the rapids was only part of the unforgettable adventure. My boat came through upright and carried me safely through the Seventh Natural Wonder of the World. Feeling buff, browned, and beautiful (but in desperate need of a hot shower), I returned home – and it was back to life – back to reality. Less than two weeks later – now back in “civilization” - my life situation had shifted from rowing Class X (10) rapids to recuperating in a hospital bed. I endured an emergency hysterectomy due to an endometrioma (tumor) on my right ovary that had partially ruptured while I was on the river trip. The source of the chronic mysterious pain was identified as an ovary that was five times its’ normal size. The intense pain I felt at times was related to the partial rupture of the tumor, which could have been life-threatening on an extended river trip in the backcountry. Just as in rowing the rapids, medical issues turned out to be about “luck” and timing.
Life lessons learned were:
Expect the unexpected.
Expend the effort.
Row hard - for fitness and adventure.
Rowing reminds me that life is good - on and off the river.
Submitted and pending potential publication in Chicken Soup for the Soul – Exercise & Fitness - submitted Jan. 2010
When sixteen people are thrown together on an adventuresome three week trip, (most who had never met - and had no idea of each other’s experience with whitewater), it makes for interesting group dynamics. The majority of the guys were respectful and friendly, keeping comments and conversations appropriate and for the most part – female friendly. Since I would be out there rowing big water with them, most of them included me as part of the team, just another person who could row a boat – gender neutral.
I enjoy the physical act of rowing a raft; I find that there is no better exercise for strengthening your abdominal, shoulder, back, leg and arm muscles. It’s an all-over body work-out. Rowing makes me feel strong – and gives me actual upper body strength and muscle definition. Plus you burn serious calories while at the oars, especially in flat water.
Having been a certified commercial whitewater guide for a few seasons on the Arkansas River in central Colorado, I knew how intense the work-out would be in big water. Knowing that fear manifests itself in me by the feeling that I want to “puke,” I felt nauseous pretty much the entire time on upper class rapid days. On the plus side, I did lose almost 10 pounds during those three weeks (even while eating peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches) and could fit in my “skinny” jeans again. In fact, I could literally put my pants on – zip them up – then just slide them off without unzipping. That was a thrill in itself.
I came late to boating; it was a major lifestyle change for me. At age 34, I left the cushy (read: chubby) corporate world - and a secure paycheck - to become a river and rock climbing guide. These professions did not come easily to me; learning to tie knots, handling the oars and climbing ‘real rock” that wasn’t in a gym, were not skills I excelled at - by any means. Plus I hated being cold – on the rocks or in the water. It took many days and perseverance for the training and “mileage” to pay off. Initially I was frequently worn out by being physical all day and frustrated with my performance under pressure. It was challenging to be on the move constantly.
But the best part of all the outdoor exertion was that I could literally eat anything I wanted – and more! I kept losing weight – no matter what I consumed. (My grocery bill was not congruent with my tiny paycheck. Yet a girl’s got to eat!) Hunger pains would wake me up at night during river guide training. Some nights I had to get up and down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream just to get back to sleep.
Facing down big water is scary, challenging, and definitely adrenaline pumping. The rating system for rapids in the Grand Canyon is different from the standard Class I to V (1 to 5). Rapids begin at Class I (1) and peak at Class X (10). My personal goal was to row or paddle all the rapids over Class VI (6) on my second trip in the Canyon.
The easiest part of being a “boatman” was rowing the rapids. Successful runs are based on the set-up and keeping the boat angled straight up to the huge waves. (Staying in the current and “following the bubble line” was the biggest challenge for me. I worked harder than most to maintain forward movement.)
I wanted to hold my own on the river trip. That meant rowing steadily to keep up with the group and avoid getting stuck in the eddies, managing to lift heavy gear that a guy could pick up easily, successfully self-rescuing after a paddleboat flip in a Class VII (7) rapid, and in addition to “no primping”, you definitely did not look for help or complain about being tired or the lack of sleep.
Having suffered through four months of intense pain from a “nerve compression injury” earlier in the year, (which took me off my snowboard for almost the entire ski season), I had concerns about my neck, shoulder and arm strength holding out for this trip. I was only able to start getting back in shape in late July, and our trip put in the river on Sept. 23. I turned 42 on that day and wore my “Birthday Tiara” proudly as I rowed, even if I was feeling rather decrepit at the time. It had been seven years since I had been a full time river guide, and I had to prove to myself – and the others – that I was up for a trip of this magnitude.
And I was! Rowing the rapids was only part of the unforgettable adventure. My boat came through upright and carried me safely through the Seventh Natural Wonder of the World. Feeling buff, browned, and beautiful (but in desperate need of a hot shower), I returned home – and it was back to life – back to reality. Less than two weeks later – now back in “civilization” - my life situation had shifted from rowing Class X (10) rapids to recuperating in a hospital bed. I endured an emergency hysterectomy due to an endometrioma (tumor) on my right ovary that had partially ruptured while I was on the river trip. The source of the chronic mysterious pain was identified as an ovary that was five times its’ normal size. The intense pain I felt at times was related to the partial rupture of the tumor, which could have been life-threatening on an extended river trip in the backcountry. Just as in rowing the rapids, medical issues turned out to be about “luck” and timing.
Life lessons learned were:
Expect the unexpected.
Expend the effort.
Row hard - for fitness and adventure.
Rowing reminds me that life is good - on and off the river.
Submitted and pending potential publication in Chicken Soup for the Soul – Exercise & Fitness - submitted Jan. 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Bridesmaid from Hell
Usually when you fly thousands of miles to be in a wedding party, someone (maybe not the bride) is willing to pick you up. Especially when cash flow is tight and taking a taxi or airline shuttle in New York City is prohibitively expensive. Taking into account that you are expected to shell out $400+ for the coast (CA) to coast (NY) airfare, $300- 400 bucks for the generally hideous gown you will only wear once, $30-40 for shoes dyed to match, $50 or so for a manicure and hairstyle, plus the gift that has to, at the minimum, pay for the cost of the per person dinner plate fee ($100+), and it’s a costly endeavor. Never mind the time off from work and flying to NYC in January – the bride is a childhood girlfriend and I was honored to be asked to stand up for her at her wedding.
My parents were out of town being snowbirds in Florida, all of my girlfriends were busy with work and kids, brother and sister were unavailable; and so somewhat miffed (“Doesn’t anyone want to see me?!), I contacted a former boyfriend and he was kind enough to pick me up at La Guardia airport and take me to my parent’s dark empty house. Ok then, the bride-to-be lived directly across the street – she’d be happy to hear from me. I was excited to be back home and ready to meet up with my long-time friends.
Maryann (MA) was happy enough to hear that I had arrived – the rehearsal dinner had been a few days before, so I missed that – but nothing was really planned until the wedding two nights hence. Well, should we plan to get together? After all, I was here for her and to help out with her “Big Day.” With a lackadaisical “Oh, OK – guess you can come with me to the mall tomorrow” response, I hung up and called a few of my other friends in the wedding party. Plans were made to meet after the trip to the mall for manicures and female bonding time. I knew that I had to fit social time in with picking my parents up from the airport in the late afternoon, but it all seemed “do-able”.
My brother arrived home late that night and left me a note saying that I could borrow his car in the morning to go visit MA, but had to have it back by 2 p.m. so he could go to work. He needed his EZ toll pass to cruise over the Throgs Neck Bridge to his job in the Bronx. Ok – this was going to be tricky – but I guessed I could be back in time and take my parent’s car to pick them up at the airport. Then rush over to get my nails done with the girls, a little late, but hey, it could work. Of course, I would need to get back from the mall to my friend MA’s apartment where I planned to park my brother’s car, but I could work that out. It was still a strong possibility of a plan.
So the next day I drove over to the MA’s new apartment, two towns over in Long Island traffic. I checked out her soon-to-be-married shared living quarters and then we jumped in her car, chattering away, and headed to the Roosevelt Field mall. After arriving at the mall, I looked at a clock and realized that my time there was going to be a lot shorter than I had thought originally. Ok, so now I needed to leave the mall in an hour and the bride had just started shopping for her wedding night lingerie. Fortunately, her fiancée showed up just in time to help her with the not-so-unpleasant task, and I had to beg to borrow MA’s car so that I could get my brother’s car back to him on time. This was becoming a logistical nightmare.
None too happy with the prospect of lending me her car, MA handed me the keys and asked me to park directly in front of her apartment, so she could find her car quickly and head to the nail salon. The last thing I heard as I raced out of there was “Do you remember where we parked?”
Of course I did, I thought, while doing the mall speed walk. Directly outside the entrance to Macy’s, a few rows over from the middle. No problemo. Quick as a bunny, I’d get to MA’s place, and then return my brother’s car and everything would be peachy.
Except I couldn’t find her car. Anywhere. I searched every row, every spot, looking for that green Buick Skylark with the fuzzy stuffed animals in the back window. Walking miles outside in the gray chilly day searching, time ticking away, me tearing my hair out, and with feet heavy with dread on the cold pavement, I made my way to Mall Security, certain that the unthinkable had happened – someone had stolen the bride’s car the day before her wedding! There was no other rational explanation. I had walked for hours, and then Mall Security had driven me up and down every row in the enormous parking lot, all to no avail. Stolen cars were a common occurrence at L.I. malls, so the officers did not overly question my rationale.
Somberly realizing that my brother was going to be pissed, my parents left stranded at the airport, MA unable to get her nails done, and my friends upset when I didn’t show up as planned, I was completely stressed and sobbing by the time the policeman approached me to fill out a stolen automobile report. I reported her green Buick Skylark as stolen, gave the police her name and address, had no clue what the license plate number was and asked to borrow the phone to let my family know what had happened. My brother had left already, having taken my parent’s car to work and was not happy about being stuck in the toll lines on the bridge. I had to page my parents waiting at the airport. “Well, it seems as if you have more important things to worry about than picking us up right now,” my mother commented. I then had to track my sister down at school (Special Education teacher) and tell her she had to go to the airport to pick up our parents. Then I had to leave a message for the bride that her car was stolen on the eve of her wedding day. And me? I was stuck there until someone could work it in their schedule to pick me.
Not having eaten in hours and having hypoglycemia to boot, I was shaking & extremely upset when the security officer approached me again and asked if I wouldn’t want to just try one more time to look for the car. The stolen car report had pulled up a different car on the computer – a new forest green Nissan Sentra with the license plate number. I stared at him blankly. “Is this guy serious? Does he think I don’t know what car I rode in to the mall? This is crazy.”
And so to humor him and having nothing else to do but wait, I got back in the security car and watched silently as he searched the aisles. He pulled behind a small green Sentra, looked at the keys in my hand and gently suggested I try the key in the door. “No, that’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. He told me to “just try it.” I stumbled out his car and numbly approached the unfamiliar green car. I put the key in the lock, looked back at him to say “I told you so” and the key turned. I fell against the car in total shock.
Did MA get a new car and I didn’t even realize it the entire ride to the mall? Apparently so. “I’m an idiot!” and “Oh, no – this is bad. Everyone is going to be mad at me now,” were my first thoughts. I turned to wave weakly at the ever-helpful security guard and he drove away smiling. How was I going to explain all this? I half–wished at that point that the car had been stolen, so I wouldn’t look like a total fool.
I climbed heavily into MA’s new car and drove it to her apartment – four hours late – and as she wasn’t home, I parked her non-stolen automobile and headed home in my brother’s car. Wiped out from the ordeal and lack of food, I was weeping as I pulled in the driveway. This was a classic idiot trip. My family was actually pretty nice, all things considered.
My friends were not. As I started to make my apology phone calls, one of my close girlhood friends called in a rage. How dare I stand her up, with her waiting with a three year old at a nail salon for hours? And then put the bride-to-be in a panic, telling her that her new car had been stolen? The bride’s father (a policeman) had heard the report and called her in a fury. How could I be so stupid? So inconsiderate? What was wrong with me?
And just for good measure, she informed me that I was now uninvited to the next day’s bridesmaid’s breakfast and our ritual of getting ready together with the bride. Because I had upset everyone so much, I could just plan to join them later for the staged photos. In short, don’t bother to call anyone else, no one wanted to hear from me that night.
I spent the rest of that night with my parents, silent and picking at the food on my plate during dinner. I went to bed in tears and called my (now former) husband sniffling. He was sympathetic and somewhat angry with how my friends had reacted. My Long Island friends were not always known for their kindness and understanding. The worse thing you could be to this group of friends is an inconvenience and a burden, and that day I had been both.
Having had minimal sleep, I walked across the street to MA’s family house the next day and joined the bridesmaids. Those not directly involved in the previous day’s fiasco were friendly enough, and MA gave me a somewhat forgiving smile.
To make up for my unintentional transgressions, I resolved to be the best bridesmaid ever. I’d been in this role before and knew that I could pull it off perfectly. Super-attentive to the bride and accommodating to everyone else, I pasted a big smile on my face for the photographer. We soon finished with the photos and headed to the church in the cold rain and darkening gloom. Husbands and partners arrived in their finery and smiled as the beautiful bride and her maids lined up to make that long walk down the aisle. My husband had just flown in and gave me the “thumbs up” signal as my turn approached. I had two groomsmen on each arm as I walked towards the altar and we were moving as a team, smiling and inclining our heads to family and guests. I performed flawlessly in my role, not even teetering on the high heels I wasn’t accustomed to wearing. More photos and then off to the limo for the ride to the reception.
Now that the major stress was over, it was time to make toasts, drink and be merry during the limo ride. (Sort of like going to the prom again with these girls, although this time we were of legal age.) It turned out there was too much time to party. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Southern State parkway, eastbound in heavy rain and dead on in rush hour at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday night, the 20 minute trip took an hour and a half.
Since my one friend was still shooting me daggers and giving me the cold shoulder, I chatted it up with Mike, MA’s older brother. He had been a good friend of my brother and I’d known him since MA and I had played Barbie dolls together. A big guy at 6’6” and a New York City Transit cop to boot, , Mike was tossing down various cocktails and generously pouring me an endless stream of cheap champagne. I figured the best way to survive this tension was to get drunk. I was planning on the “happy- dancing on stage with band” alcoholic intake. Instead I stumbled out of the limo drunk off my butt, well into the “getting sick” stage of drinking. Not cool.
I headed off as inconspicuously as possible to the ladies room, lurching with eyes closed as my helpful husband supported me. I faintly heard a few catty remarks, to which my husband shot back “This wouldn’t have happened if you all hadn’t been so mean to her.” In the bathroom, I suffered at the porcelain altar, sobbing incoherently, with makeup running down my face and my stunning hairdo in shambles. One of my long time friends Monica, who’d been in this position with me numerous times before, sighed and helped me not to be so completely pathetic.
The wedding party members were being summoned en masse, to be presented to the crowd by the DJ as they entered the reception hall. There was no way I was in any condition to be seen, and someone dragged me to a tiny coatroom/parlor, where there was a loveseat that I collapsed heavily on. I remember being told to stay there and covered up with a coat. As the night wore on, the door would open and various coats were tossed over my inert form. Once in awhile, a family member or friend would come in to check on me and I heard Mike snickering in the hallway with my brother in tow.
I heard snippets of various conversations through the painful haze that was my reality. “Can you believe this? I thought we got this out of our systems in college. Now look at her – she’s 28 and still can’t hold her alcohol.”
“Some bridesmaid. Thank God she’s not in my wedding party.”
“First she freaks out the bride, telling her that her car is stolen; now she passes out at her wedding. Great friend.”
I groaned inwardly – and probably outwardly as well. This was the worst. Someday I was going to have to laugh about this, but that would be a long time in coming.
Finally having rid myself of enough alcohol in one of the most unpleasant ways possible, I managed to stumble out for the last twenty minutes of the reception, which mainly consisted of avoiding friends and family members and saying good-bye to the bride and groom. I’m sure I appeared before them as the wedding hag, no photographs of me necessary in the wedding aftermath.
The next day I was on an early flight, winging my way back to California with many regrets and nursing a deadly hangover. There had to be some kharmic foreshadowing in my latest fiasco. I couldn’t forget that no one wanted to claim me at the airport before my legendary slide to bridesmaid hell began.
Pending Publication - January 2010
My parents were out of town being snowbirds in Florida, all of my girlfriends were busy with work and kids, brother and sister were unavailable; and so somewhat miffed (“Doesn’t anyone want to see me?!), I contacted a former boyfriend and he was kind enough to pick me up at La Guardia airport and take me to my parent’s dark empty house. Ok then, the bride-to-be lived directly across the street – she’d be happy to hear from me. I was excited to be back home and ready to meet up with my long-time friends.
Maryann (MA) was happy enough to hear that I had arrived – the rehearsal dinner had been a few days before, so I missed that – but nothing was really planned until the wedding two nights hence. Well, should we plan to get together? After all, I was here for her and to help out with her “Big Day.” With a lackadaisical “Oh, OK – guess you can come with me to the mall tomorrow” response, I hung up and called a few of my other friends in the wedding party. Plans were made to meet after the trip to the mall for manicures and female bonding time. I knew that I had to fit social time in with picking my parents up from the airport in the late afternoon, but it all seemed “do-able”.
My brother arrived home late that night and left me a note saying that I could borrow his car in the morning to go visit MA, but had to have it back by 2 p.m. so he could go to work. He needed his EZ toll pass to cruise over the Throgs Neck Bridge to his job in the Bronx. Ok – this was going to be tricky – but I guessed I could be back in time and take my parent’s car to pick them up at the airport. Then rush over to get my nails done with the girls, a little late, but hey, it could work. Of course, I would need to get back from the mall to my friend MA’s apartment where I planned to park my brother’s car, but I could work that out. It was still a strong possibility of a plan.
So the next day I drove over to the MA’s new apartment, two towns over in Long Island traffic. I checked out her soon-to-be-married shared living quarters and then we jumped in her car, chattering away, and headed to the Roosevelt Field mall. After arriving at the mall, I looked at a clock and realized that my time there was going to be a lot shorter than I had thought originally. Ok, so now I needed to leave the mall in an hour and the bride had just started shopping for her wedding night lingerie. Fortunately, her fiancée showed up just in time to help her with the not-so-unpleasant task, and I had to beg to borrow MA’s car so that I could get my brother’s car back to him on time. This was becoming a logistical nightmare.
None too happy with the prospect of lending me her car, MA handed me the keys and asked me to park directly in front of her apartment, so she could find her car quickly and head to the nail salon. The last thing I heard as I raced out of there was “Do you remember where we parked?”
Of course I did, I thought, while doing the mall speed walk. Directly outside the entrance to Macy’s, a few rows over from the middle. No problemo. Quick as a bunny, I’d get to MA’s place, and then return my brother’s car and everything would be peachy.
Except I couldn’t find her car. Anywhere. I searched every row, every spot, looking for that green Buick Skylark with the fuzzy stuffed animals in the back window. Walking miles outside in the gray chilly day searching, time ticking away, me tearing my hair out, and with feet heavy with dread on the cold pavement, I made my way to Mall Security, certain that the unthinkable had happened – someone had stolen the bride’s car the day before her wedding! There was no other rational explanation. I had walked for hours, and then Mall Security had driven me up and down every row in the enormous parking lot, all to no avail. Stolen cars were a common occurrence at L.I. malls, so the officers did not overly question my rationale.
Somberly realizing that my brother was going to be pissed, my parents left stranded at the airport, MA unable to get her nails done, and my friends upset when I didn’t show up as planned, I was completely stressed and sobbing by the time the policeman approached me to fill out a stolen automobile report. I reported her green Buick Skylark as stolen, gave the police her name and address, had no clue what the license plate number was and asked to borrow the phone to let my family know what had happened. My brother had left already, having taken my parent’s car to work and was not happy about being stuck in the toll lines on the bridge. I had to page my parents waiting at the airport. “Well, it seems as if you have more important things to worry about than picking us up right now,” my mother commented. I then had to track my sister down at school (Special Education teacher) and tell her she had to go to the airport to pick up our parents. Then I had to leave a message for the bride that her car was stolen on the eve of her wedding day. And me? I was stuck there until someone could work it in their schedule to pick me.
Not having eaten in hours and having hypoglycemia to boot, I was shaking & extremely upset when the security officer approached me again and asked if I wouldn’t want to just try one more time to look for the car. The stolen car report had pulled up a different car on the computer – a new forest green Nissan Sentra with the license plate number. I stared at him blankly. “Is this guy serious? Does he think I don’t know what car I rode in to the mall? This is crazy.”
And so to humor him and having nothing else to do but wait, I got back in the security car and watched silently as he searched the aisles. He pulled behind a small green Sentra, looked at the keys in my hand and gently suggested I try the key in the door. “No, that’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. He told me to “just try it.” I stumbled out his car and numbly approached the unfamiliar green car. I put the key in the lock, looked back at him to say “I told you so” and the key turned. I fell against the car in total shock.
Did MA get a new car and I didn’t even realize it the entire ride to the mall? Apparently so. “I’m an idiot!” and “Oh, no – this is bad. Everyone is going to be mad at me now,” were my first thoughts. I turned to wave weakly at the ever-helpful security guard and he drove away smiling. How was I going to explain all this? I half–wished at that point that the car had been stolen, so I wouldn’t look like a total fool.
I climbed heavily into MA’s new car and drove it to her apartment – four hours late – and as she wasn’t home, I parked her non-stolen automobile and headed home in my brother’s car. Wiped out from the ordeal and lack of food, I was weeping as I pulled in the driveway. This was a classic idiot trip. My family was actually pretty nice, all things considered.
My friends were not. As I started to make my apology phone calls, one of my close girlhood friends called in a rage. How dare I stand her up, with her waiting with a three year old at a nail salon for hours? And then put the bride-to-be in a panic, telling her that her new car had been stolen? The bride’s father (a policeman) had heard the report and called her in a fury. How could I be so stupid? So inconsiderate? What was wrong with me?
And just for good measure, she informed me that I was now uninvited to the next day’s bridesmaid’s breakfast and our ritual of getting ready together with the bride. Because I had upset everyone so much, I could just plan to join them later for the staged photos. In short, don’t bother to call anyone else, no one wanted to hear from me that night.
I spent the rest of that night with my parents, silent and picking at the food on my plate during dinner. I went to bed in tears and called my (now former) husband sniffling. He was sympathetic and somewhat angry with how my friends had reacted. My Long Island friends were not always known for their kindness and understanding. The worse thing you could be to this group of friends is an inconvenience and a burden, and that day I had been both.
Having had minimal sleep, I walked across the street to MA’s family house the next day and joined the bridesmaids. Those not directly involved in the previous day’s fiasco were friendly enough, and MA gave me a somewhat forgiving smile.
To make up for my unintentional transgressions, I resolved to be the best bridesmaid ever. I’d been in this role before and knew that I could pull it off perfectly. Super-attentive to the bride and accommodating to everyone else, I pasted a big smile on my face for the photographer. We soon finished with the photos and headed to the church in the cold rain and darkening gloom. Husbands and partners arrived in their finery and smiled as the beautiful bride and her maids lined up to make that long walk down the aisle. My husband had just flown in and gave me the “thumbs up” signal as my turn approached. I had two groomsmen on each arm as I walked towards the altar and we were moving as a team, smiling and inclining our heads to family and guests. I performed flawlessly in my role, not even teetering on the high heels I wasn’t accustomed to wearing. More photos and then off to the limo for the ride to the reception.
Now that the major stress was over, it was time to make toasts, drink and be merry during the limo ride. (Sort of like going to the prom again with these girls, although this time we were of legal age.) It turned out there was too much time to party. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Southern State parkway, eastbound in heavy rain and dead on in rush hour at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday night, the 20 minute trip took an hour and a half.
Since my one friend was still shooting me daggers and giving me the cold shoulder, I chatted it up with Mike, MA’s older brother. He had been a good friend of my brother and I’d known him since MA and I had played Barbie dolls together. A big guy at 6’6” and a New York City Transit cop to boot, , Mike was tossing down various cocktails and generously pouring me an endless stream of cheap champagne. I figured the best way to survive this tension was to get drunk. I was planning on the “happy- dancing on stage with band” alcoholic intake. Instead I stumbled out of the limo drunk off my butt, well into the “getting sick” stage of drinking. Not cool.
I headed off as inconspicuously as possible to the ladies room, lurching with eyes closed as my helpful husband supported me. I faintly heard a few catty remarks, to which my husband shot back “This wouldn’t have happened if you all hadn’t been so mean to her.” In the bathroom, I suffered at the porcelain altar, sobbing incoherently, with makeup running down my face and my stunning hairdo in shambles. One of my long time friends Monica, who’d been in this position with me numerous times before, sighed and helped me not to be so completely pathetic.
The wedding party members were being summoned en masse, to be presented to the crowd by the DJ as they entered the reception hall. There was no way I was in any condition to be seen, and someone dragged me to a tiny coatroom/parlor, where there was a loveseat that I collapsed heavily on. I remember being told to stay there and covered up with a coat. As the night wore on, the door would open and various coats were tossed over my inert form. Once in awhile, a family member or friend would come in to check on me and I heard Mike snickering in the hallway with my brother in tow.
I heard snippets of various conversations through the painful haze that was my reality. “Can you believe this? I thought we got this out of our systems in college. Now look at her – she’s 28 and still can’t hold her alcohol.”
“Some bridesmaid. Thank God she’s not in my wedding party.”
“First she freaks out the bride, telling her that her car is stolen; now she passes out at her wedding. Great friend.”
I groaned inwardly – and probably outwardly as well. This was the worst. Someday I was going to have to laugh about this, but that would be a long time in coming.
Finally having rid myself of enough alcohol in one of the most unpleasant ways possible, I managed to stumble out for the last twenty minutes of the reception, which mainly consisted of avoiding friends and family members and saying good-bye to the bride and groom. I’m sure I appeared before them as the wedding hag, no photographs of me necessary in the wedding aftermath.
The next day I was on an early flight, winging my way back to California with many regrets and nursing a deadly hangover. There had to be some kharmic foreshadowing in my latest fiasco. I couldn’t forget that no one wanted to claim me at the airport before my legendary slide to bridesmaid hell began.
Pending Publication - January 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Bill Forrest – Inventor Extraordinaire
Greetings, all! Through the research of this article a few years back, Bill and Rosa became my friends - and solid community members in the wonderful world of Salida. We have had an epic snowshoe adventure together - complete with me getting my Subaru stuck in snowdrifts, not once but twice. Both Bill and Rosa were kind enough to dig me (and my German Shepherd "Ponyboy") out, with patience and the grace not to mention my "rookieness" in the world of winter transportation. Together they make a fantastic team, and are devout and talented individuals who bring much to the world around them.
Ask Bill Forrest – inventor of world-renowned climbing gear and current designer and field tester of Mountain Safety Research (MSR) (a.k.a. Cascade Designs) snowshoes what his take on good gear is and he’ll insist it’s all about performance. “As a user,” Forrest says, “I hate for gear to fall apart on me, especially in the back country. I want my gear to function. Who wants to skitter off a traverse in a snowshoe? I can do better.”
Note the emphasis on “I”. Forrest’s statement is not just ego-serving – he has done better. He’s created some of the best gear on the market – uses it – and gets paid well for his designs. He designed MSR’s “Lightning Ascent” snowshoe with the patented “Televator” (wire heel lifter designed to ease the strain on your calf muscles on ascents), which is currently a hot model on the snowshoe circuit. The preferred Women’s model is popular as well. It’s designed to meet the particular needs of women, as it’s tuned to a woman’s gait and anatomy.
“Customers love gadgets, whether they work or not,” says Forrest. “That’s why getting it right is so important, especially if you’re manufacturing equipment for people to hang their lives on.”
Your life may not be hanging by the traction blade of a snowshoe – yet -- but Forrest has adapted and improved numerous equipment designs, so that if you were left hanging on any of his gear, you’d be in a good position.
This genius gear head doesn’t want to just change the world – he’s determined to make it better. The kick ass climbing gear he created was only the beginning. Forrest’s six snowshoe model designs in the last decade certainly improved the overall snowshoe situation on the trails and in the backcountry. (MSR’s breakthrough Denali design was one of his brainchildren, which American climbing legend Jim Bridwell endorses as “the one that outperforms all others”.) Forrest is also pretty hip on the marketing end of the outdoor industry, which he says affects what recreationists buy and wear. “The marketing pitch has to be successful – it doesn’t matter how good your gear is. Without good marketing to the right audience, it won’t sell.”
Forrest was the founder, owner and director of Forrest Mountaineering, a company that specialized in designing high end equipment for technical mountain climbers that was in business for 20 years. He reveled in his own hands-on learning environment and manufacturing process plant. He literally absorbs materials information – and if he can dream it up – it can usually be made with the materials and connections he envisioned. In 1968, he started his company in the basement of a huge old rambling house in Denver that he ran as boardinghouse/think tank for climbers – all the better to run field trials with. Climbers needed the gear – and he needed the feedback. “I knew I wasn’t the only one having these gear issues,” he explained.
Forrest maintains a low profile for someone who’s been developing new inventions in the world of gear for nearly 40 years. His climbing equipment designs won international design awards, with some of the gear now on display in the Smithsonian Institute. He’s a legendary climber with numerous first ascents on several continents; ULI BIAHO in the Himalayas – regarded as “the hardest sustained rock climb in the world”, the East Face of Baboquivari Peak in Arizona, where he hacked his approach with a machete and confronted a mountain lion on a tiny ledge; and in Colorado -- the intimidating Painted Wall and Wild Bill’s Wall in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, as well as the first solo ascent of the Diamond – the East Face of Long’s Peak –- all of which give you a glimpse of this man’s imposing climbing credentials.
“I want the gear to work better. If I take a fall, I don’t want to get hurt,” Forrest explains his motivation for designing gear in pursuit of his climbing passion. As a former English teacher and writer turned inventor, Forrest doesn’t exactly fit the archetypical gear designer/engineer type – but his linear thinking process does. First he identifies the problem – such as why early snowshoe designs didn’t have a real grip on the snow situation – then his creative problem solving mode kicks into high gear and he starts designing a solution – a better product that actually works the way it should.
“I tinker with it until I get close to what I want. Then I make a prototype and build it to suit my specs,” Forrest says. This is a man who knows materials – how to make stuff – and how to test it for safety –so you can trust his expertise.
Those who get to play in the outdoors as professionals -- and the rest of us – appreciate Forrest hanging his rear on the line for our safety. Forrest Mountaineering gear that he invented, designed and produced 30 years ago is still in use – and in demand – today. Jim Bridwell’s endorsement continues with: “That without a doubt, Forrest Mountaineering equipment is unexcelled in both functional design and durability. It’s a great relief to not have to worry about my equipment breaking in a life or death situation.”
As Gerry Roach, who summited Mount Everest in 1983, succinctly stated, “When I’m going for the summit, I want Forrest gear; it’s already been there.”
Just so you know who to thank when you’re stepping into that comfortable climbing harness while you plan your route up the rock – Bill Forrest is the man. He came up with the swami belt with adjustable leg loops made of nylon webbing after he began climbing in Germany with the standard safety harness of the time – 17 ft. of 1 inch tubing wrapped around his waist. A few good eye-opening “whippers” later, and the climbing community started seeing a newly designed harness showing up on the rock.
“The answers always come if I know what the problem is,” Forrest explains. He lives by the quote; “To believe in your heart that what is true for you is true for all mankind – that is genius. “ Roughly attributing the source to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Forrest pauses. “Mankind may not recognize the gear for what it is initially, but they come around.”
“Necessity is the mother of invention” -- Forrest followed that quaint adage as he invented the Pin Bin – the first piton and nut gear “rack” (with a coat hanger and a sling design) - because his gear was tangling up on climbs. He also spent one hellacious night in a hanging belay seat on a big wall climb and came back to his shop and designed a hammock that worked for actual dozing during overnight bivouacs. Having had a wall hammer break mid-climb, he replaced original wooden hammer handles with a fiberglass design that was lighter and wouldn’t get trashed. Forrest’s Daisy Chain design came to him when he was struggling with haul bags on a big wall climb. He needed an “infinitely adjustable” nylon wedding chain that enabled him to anchor quickly and haul efficiently. He’s a man who can see the need and fill it.
Safety and comfort were his big motivators in improving the climbing experience. Never wanting to have an adventurer get hurt in his gear, Forrest subjected his inventions to rigorous testing by hardcore climbers, including himself. He’s quick to credit his climbing partners, along with the engineers and designers he’s worked with, for his success as a product designer.
Ray Jardine, world class adventurer, inventor of the “Friends” and early climbing partner and housemate of Forrest, describes him as “a landmark in the history of Colorado climbing … on the walls he was virtually unstoppable. He is among the era's greatest manufacturing minds, [having] developed many new and original products.”
Jardine worked for a short while in Forrest’s basement making the first few batches of Foxheads and Copperheads for commercial sale. He credits Forrest for teaching him “to think outside the box -- to think of possibilities beyond the norm.” He added, “This mindset set the stage for my own inventions, including the Friends, which Bill very kindly allowed me to prototype in his shop.”
Field tests – a source of excitement of the unknown – could be epic, as when Forrest tested the first harness design on a multi-day climb in Zion and discovered that the buckle on his leg loops wouldn’t stay cinched. Upon his return home, he designed his own buckle that exceeded the Union of International Alpinists Association (UIAA) standards and is the only one fully rated for safety with a single pass.
In 1969, Forrest’s creation of the Copperhead, a single cable climbing nut with a malleable copper or aluminum head, changed big wall aid climbing forever. He wanted to control the head of the nut with a stiffer wire, since the supple slings were too limp for his liking. This “bashie” was originally designed as protection in thin cracks for free climbing, but became internationally recognized when climbers – mainly the infamous Yosemite wall rats - began smashing the heads into shallow cracks (“Copperheading”) for aid climbing.
In 1985, Forrest Mountaineering came out with the Triton – one piece of gear that functions as a combination nut, belay plate and rappel device – which evolved from Forrest’s desire to minimize the amount of gear he carried.
Go to the rockclimbing.com web site and you’ll find climbers waxing poetic about their Forrest gear or looking for a Mjollner hammer or the Lifetime ice ax with interchangeable picks – both released in the 1970’s and early 80’s.
“Bill Forrest was way ahead of his time,” writes Gambler – Lead Climber - in the rockclimbing.com web forum. “His harnesses, hammers, hammocks and copperheads were definitely state of the art.”
Having sold his company to Olsen Industries in 1985, and ready to embark on a new adventure, Forrest started up ForrestSmith with a partner and developed a new snowshoe design that got some immediate notice. Two weeks after introducing the snowshoe at a trade show, the president and Research and Development manager of MSR contacted him with an offer to buy the design rights and hire him full time to focus on snowshoes in their R& D department.
The desire to “build a better snowshoe” spurred him to leave Denver after 30 years and find a place with better access to the mountains. “I hated being in the heavy traffic on the Front Range – it was hard to get out and back in the same day for field trials. Now I can be up at a trailhead in twenty minutes. You can’t beat Salida – good clean air and easy access.”
With the Gear Muse hovering nearby and his belief in a higher power that has carried him through hundreds of close calls, Forrest is ready to sketch ideas with pen and paper by the bed at night and has a steadfast conviction in their success. He’s positive that with enough thought process and a strong belief system, he will solve the problem. “I’ve got certain design ideas constantly cooking in my head,’ he confides with a smile. “Part of my religion is being in the mountains with wide open spaces and fresh air – that helps a lot.”
Long, lean and lanky at age 69, Forrest has been married to petite Rosa, his hiking and snowshoeing partner, for 17 years. His work in Research & Development still intrigues him – and with over 100 product designs on the market and 17 patents with one pending, it’s no wonder that Cascade Designs tried to hang on to its R&D guru. His recent retirement from MSR means more time to play in the mountains.
With his vitality and activity level – he recently hiked all the fifty-four 14ers and the 500 mile Colorado Trail – while living in and telecommuting from his “Happy Trails Hacienda” in Salida, Colorado, Forrest isn’t anywhere near grizzled old age. He knows he’s living the good life – complete with a true vegan diet. Forrest always has his eye out for the possibility of climbing new routes – why mess around with the old ones, he asks – and sees retirement as an adventure he can share with his friends and the artistic Rosa. He’ll be repeating the “Salida Slam” – climbing the 22peaks visible from his home, and plans on authoring a book and more climbing articles.
Pending Publication - January 2010
Ask Bill Forrest – inventor of world-renowned climbing gear and current designer and field tester of Mountain Safety Research (MSR) (a.k.a. Cascade Designs) snowshoes what his take on good gear is and he’ll insist it’s all about performance. “As a user,” Forrest says, “I hate for gear to fall apart on me, especially in the back country. I want my gear to function. Who wants to skitter off a traverse in a snowshoe? I can do better.”
Note the emphasis on “I”. Forrest’s statement is not just ego-serving – he has done better. He’s created some of the best gear on the market – uses it – and gets paid well for his designs. He designed MSR’s “Lightning Ascent” snowshoe with the patented “Televator” (wire heel lifter designed to ease the strain on your calf muscles on ascents), which is currently a hot model on the snowshoe circuit. The preferred Women’s model is popular as well. It’s designed to meet the particular needs of women, as it’s tuned to a woman’s gait and anatomy.
“Customers love gadgets, whether they work or not,” says Forrest. “That’s why getting it right is so important, especially if you’re manufacturing equipment for people to hang their lives on.”
Your life may not be hanging by the traction blade of a snowshoe – yet -- but Forrest has adapted and improved numerous equipment designs, so that if you were left hanging on any of his gear, you’d be in a good position.
This genius gear head doesn’t want to just change the world – he’s determined to make it better. The kick ass climbing gear he created was only the beginning. Forrest’s six snowshoe model designs in the last decade certainly improved the overall snowshoe situation on the trails and in the backcountry. (MSR’s breakthrough Denali design was one of his brainchildren, which American climbing legend Jim Bridwell endorses as “the one that outperforms all others”.) Forrest is also pretty hip on the marketing end of the outdoor industry, which he says affects what recreationists buy and wear. “The marketing pitch has to be successful – it doesn’t matter how good your gear is. Without good marketing to the right audience, it won’t sell.”
Forrest was the founder, owner and director of Forrest Mountaineering, a company that specialized in designing high end equipment for technical mountain climbers that was in business for 20 years. He reveled in his own hands-on learning environment and manufacturing process plant. He literally absorbs materials information – and if he can dream it up – it can usually be made with the materials and connections he envisioned. In 1968, he started his company in the basement of a huge old rambling house in Denver that he ran as boardinghouse/think tank for climbers – all the better to run field trials with. Climbers needed the gear – and he needed the feedback. “I knew I wasn’t the only one having these gear issues,” he explained.
Forrest maintains a low profile for someone who’s been developing new inventions in the world of gear for nearly 40 years. His climbing equipment designs won international design awards, with some of the gear now on display in the Smithsonian Institute. He’s a legendary climber with numerous first ascents on several continents; ULI BIAHO in the Himalayas – regarded as “the hardest sustained rock climb in the world”, the East Face of Baboquivari Peak in Arizona, where he hacked his approach with a machete and confronted a mountain lion on a tiny ledge; and in Colorado -- the intimidating Painted Wall and Wild Bill’s Wall in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, as well as the first solo ascent of the Diamond – the East Face of Long’s Peak –- all of which give you a glimpse of this man’s imposing climbing credentials.
“I want the gear to work better. If I take a fall, I don’t want to get hurt,” Forrest explains his motivation for designing gear in pursuit of his climbing passion. As a former English teacher and writer turned inventor, Forrest doesn’t exactly fit the archetypical gear designer/engineer type – but his linear thinking process does. First he identifies the problem – such as why early snowshoe designs didn’t have a real grip on the snow situation – then his creative problem solving mode kicks into high gear and he starts designing a solution – a better product that actually works the way it should.
“I tinker with it until I get close to what I want. Then I make a prototype and build it to suit my specs,” Forrest says. This is a man who knows materials – how to make stuff – and how to test it for safety –so you can trust his expertise.
Those who get to play in the outdoors as professionals -- and the rest of us – appreciate Forrest hanging his rear on the line for our safety. Forrest Mountaineering gear that he invented, designed and produced 30 years ago is still in use – and in demand – today. Jim Bridwell’s endorsement continues with: “That without a doubt, Forrest Mountaineering equipment is unexcelled in both functional design and durability. It’s a great relief to not have to worry about my equipment breaking in a life or death situation.”
As Gerry Roach, who summited Mount Everest in 1983, succinctly stated, “When I’m going for the summit, I want Forrest gear; it’s already been there.”
Just so you know who to thank when you’re stepping into that comfortable climbing harness while you plan your route up the rock – Bill Forrest is the man. He came up with the swami belt with adjustable leg loops made of nylon webbing after he began climbing in Germany with the standard safety harness of the time – 17 ft. of 1 inch tubing wrapped around his waist. A few good eye-opening “whippers” later, and the climbing community started seeing a newly designed harness showing up on the rock.
“The answers always come if I know what the problem is,” Forrest explains. He lives by the quote; “To believe in your heart that what is true for you is true for all mankind – that is genius. “ Roughly attributing the source to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Forrest pauses. “Mankind may not recognize the gear for what it is initially, but they come around.”
“Necessity is the mother of invention” -- Forrest followed that quaint adage as he invented the Pin Bin – the first piton and nut gear “rack” (with a coat hanger and a sling design) - because his gear was tangling up on climbs. He also spent one hellacious night in a hanging belay seat on a big wall climb and came back to his shop and designed a hammock that worked for actual dozing during overnight bivouacs. Having had a wall hammer break mid-climb, he replaced original wooden hammer handles with a fiberglass design that was lighter and wouldn’t get trashed. Forrest’s Daisy Chain design came to him when he was struggling with haul bags on a big wall climb. He needed an “infinitely adjustable” nylon wedding chain that enabled him to anchor quickly and haul efficiently. He’s a man who can see the need and fill it.
Safety and comfort were his big motivators in improving the climbing experience. Never wanting to have an adventurer get hurt in his gear, Forrest subjected his inventions to rigorous testing by hardcore climbers, including himself. He’s quick to credit his climbing partners, along with the engineers and designers he’s worked with, for his success as a product designer.
Ray Jardine, world class adventurer, inventor of the “Friends” and early climbing partner and housemate of Forrest, describes him as “a landmark in the history of Colorado climbing … on the walls he was virtually unstoppable. He is among the era's greatest manufacturing minds, [having] developed many new and original products.”
Jardine worked for a short while in Forrest’s basement making the first few batches of Foxheads and Copperheads for commercial sale. He credits Forrest for teaching him “to think outside the box -- to think of possibilities beyond the norm.” He added, “This mindset set the stage for my own inventions, including the Friends, which Bill very kindly allowed me to prototype in his shop.”
Field tests – a source of excitement of the unknown – could be epic, as when Forrest tested the first harness design on a multi-day climb in Zion and discovered that the buckle on his leg loops wouldn’t stay cinched. Upon his return home, he designed his own buckle that exceeded the Union of International Alpinists Association (UIAA) standards and is the only one fully rated for safety with a single pass.
In 1969, Forrest’s creation of the Copperhead, a single cable climbing nut with a malleable copper or aluminum head, changed big wall aid climbing forever. He wanted to control the head of the nut with a stiffer wire, since the supple slings were too limp for his liking. This “bashie” was originally designed as protection in thin cracks for free climbing, but became internationally recognized when climbers – mainly the infamous Yosemite wall rats - began smashing the heads into shallow cracks (“Copperheading”) for aid climbing.
In 1985, Forrest Mountaineering came out with the Triton – one piece of gear that functions as a combination nut, belay plate and rappel device – which evolved from Forrest’s desire to minimize the amount of gear he carried.
Go to the rockclimbing.com web site and you’ll find climbers waxing poetic about their Forrest gear or looking for a Mjollner hammer or the Lifetime ice ax with interchangeable picks – both released in the 1970’s and early 80’s.
“Bill Forrest was way ahead of his time,” writes Gambler – Lead Climber - in the rockclimbing.com web forum. “His harnesses, hammers, hammocks and copperheads were definitely state of the art.”
Having sold his company to Olsen Industries in 1985, and ready to embark on a new adventure, Forrest started up ForrestSmith with a partner and developed a new snowshoe design that got some immediate notice. Two weeks after introducing the snowshoe at a trade show, the president and Research and Development manager of MSR contacted him with an offer to buy the design rights and hire him full time to focus on snowshoes in their R& D department.
The desire to “build a better snowshoe” spurred him to leave Denver after 30 years and find a place with better access to the mountains. “I hated being in the heavy traffic on the Front Range – it was hard to get out and back in the same day for field trials. Now I can be up at a trailhead in twenty minutes. You can’t beat Salida – good clean air and easy access.”
With the Gear Muse hovering nearby and his belief in a higher power that has carried him through hundreds of close calls, Forrest is ready to sketch ideas with pen and paper by the bed at night and has a steadfast conviction in their success. He’s positive that with enough thought process and a strong belief system, he will solve the problem. “I’ve got certain design ideas constantly cooking in my head,’ he confides with a smile. “Part of my religion is being in the mountains with wide open spaces and fresh air – that helps a lot.”
Long, lean and lanky at age 69, Forrest has been married to petite Rosa, his hiking and snowshoeing partner, for 17 years. His work in Research & Development still intrigues him – and with over 100 product designs on the market and 17 patents with one pending, it’s no wonder that Cascade Designs tried to hang on to its R&D guru. His recent retirement from MSR means more time to play in the mountains.
With his vitality and activity level – he recently hiked all the fifty-four 14ers and the 500 mile Colorado Trail – while living in and telecommuting from his “Happy Trails Hacienda” in Salida, Colorado, Forrest isn’t anywhere near grizzled old age. He knows he’s living the good life – complete with a true vegan diet. Forrest always has his eye out for the possibility of climbing new routes – why mess around with the old ones, he asks – and sees retirement as an adventure he can share with his friends and the artistic Rosa. He’ll be repeating the “Salida Slam” – climbing the 22peaks visible from his home, and plans on authoring a book and more climbing articles.
Pending Publication - January 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Seasonal Effects
In the high country, Fall sneaks in with a coat similar to a tawny tiger, striping the leaves yellow and orange and red. Following its’ slightly subversive arrival, Fall achieves perfection by contrasting the comforting earth tones of sage green and tawny grasses here in the San Luis Valley (SLV) with dramatic color. The oak brush streams along in blazing crimson glory and the golden ribbons of aspens and fiery cottonwoods light up the landscape.
Add to this a brilliant blue Colorado sky and sunshine with pleasing warmth, yet a slight reminder chill that lingers and spreads into a crisp cold evening. Welcome to the change of seasons. It’s all downhill from here.
I’m still recovering from the effects of the chilly carnage of 2008, the first “real Colorado winter” – one that the SLV old timers hadn’t experienced for twenty years or more. Three feet of snow on the level for four months surrounding our home, the bare blinding blanca landscape a constant presence - an adversary - in our lives. Sub-zero temperatures were no longer a novelty, but a fact of life. Denial did not work. It just left me stranded without a shovel and the undercarriage of my Subaru firmly wedged in a snow bank at the beginning of my driveway.
Apathy did have some benefits. What did it matter that the plow was sideways in the ditch blocking the drive? It’s not like we had access in anyway. So what if the raging storm had winds up to 45 mph which blocked us in and made it impossible for the propane truck to drive to our tank so that we were in imminent danger of freezing pipes (and ourselves to death). Whatever.
When I made the move from Boulder to the “Banana Belt” of Salida in the Arkansas River Valley in 1998, I wasn’t overly concerned with seasonal hardship. Colorado was experiencing a lengthy drought period and snowfall was light and manageable for years. But then came the winter of 2007-08 and the brutally cold sub-zero temperatures and record snowfall accompanied my first winter out of scenic Salida and living in a higher, drier and colder valley. What a wake-up call.
Try moving to the wilds of America’s West and attempting to live and thrive in the sparsely populated San Luis Valley for a humility test. Colorado’s SLV is “not a place for the timid,” as Salida naturalist and author Susan Tweit writes in her book, “The San Luis Valley – Sand Dunes and Sandhill Cranes. “Sizzling hot in the summer, frigid cold in winter; the San Luis Valley is a remote expanse about the size of the state of Connecticut that lies forgotten between two major mountain ranges in south-central Colorado.”
Having been born and raised on Long Island, some of my New York edge still remains, even while road rage remains in the not so distant past. I have a general impatience with life’s burdens and general maintenance, and as the dreariness of winter wears on my nerves, my annoyance level and sense of “frustration and unfairness” usually culminates in me buying a car, getting a tattoo or piercing in February or March of each year. I am not a true winter person and it shows...
Try making it through one winter here in the freaking frigid high alpine plains and attempt to keep your sanity in negative 26 degrees while attempting to start at least one of your vehicles after hiking a third of a mile out your snow-drifted driveway in the crackling cold – day after day. Try post-holing through 3 foot drifts wearing a headlamp in the frigid darkness and pulling groceries and 50 pound sacks of alfalfa pellets and chicken scratch on an expedition sled that was last used on a climb up Denali. The initial excitement of donning snowshoes to make the trek to the mailbox got old pretty quickly. Welcome to the San Luis Valley in winter - where zero degrees actually sounds like a reasonable temperature -- and any temps over 15 degrees Fahrenheit feel like a heat wave.
Wake up each morning and stress over what charming challenges Mother Nature has in store for you that day. Daily life becomes a production. Commuting is a nightmare. Wind is to be feared and despised for the havoc it can wreak. Basically, when the wind blows, we pay – cold hard unbudgeted cash to cover the costs of plowing the driveway. (Which "blows".)
Even as this new life here on the farm/ranch continues to be challenging in the way of everyday survival and comfort, I still feel reassured that my partner and I are in it together. (Sometimes he more than I, depending on my physical discomfort level.) Creating the “Blue Moon Homestead” (named for our wedding date in July 2004 on the night of a rare second full moon in the month) from the dirt up was in no way possible without the energy, drive and commitment of my husband Jack.
We are living in a modest 1580 square foot papercrete palace on the prairie. Also known as “fibrous adobe” – a mixture of concrete and recycled newspaper – papercrete has excellent insulation properties with an insulation value relative to R30. Our rustic adobe-like home is complete with large windows showcasing the Sangres, two wood-burning stoves and an enclosed green house, and is warm and comfortable, if not quite finished. It was built with energy efficiency in mind, one level with in-floor radiant heat under stained and sealed concrete floors and solar powered hot water and electricity. We are tied into the grid, but are selling back kilowatts to Xcell Electric.
Our “papercrete palace” is far from “Done” but it’s fairly comfortable. With walls a foot thick, we hardly hear the high winds that sweep across the prairie and its passive solar design keeps the house warm even without turning on the in-floor radiant heat as the evening temperatures dip below freezing. The southern-facing greenhouse soaks in the solar rays and radiates heat through an open door and window into the house. It’s barely cooling down when we arrive home after the sun sets. By lighting fires in the woodstoves, we cut the costs of heating with propane and can almost make it through the coldest months with our 125 gallon tank.
One frigid morning the temperature hovered at -26 degrees below zero and none of our three vehicles would start. An engine heating block might have helped, but that didn’t materialize until after this latest frozen fiasco. (Even then we would have to have been able to drive the car up the driveway to an electrical outlet – hah!) We went for months without any access to our driveway and carport.
After having attempted to start the car and truck down at the end of the driveway, Jack trudged back through the frigid pre-dawn light in a weary way – knowing that even if the Subaru did start (which it didn’t - as I found out later,) it would take awhile to dig it out from the four foot drifts that had blown in the night before.
I was of the mindset to call it a “freeze day” and huddle in next to the wood stove for the day, but winter-loving Jack was insistent that he needed to be at work – dedicated Monarch Mountain employee that he is. It was time to call the Villa Groovy help network – and miraculously one of our neighbors had his truck garaged and his driveway plowed enough to be able to reach us. It is a beautiful thing to have friends and neighbors willing and able to help out – and for us to be able to return the favor at a future time.
Winter in the high country is always challenging, but more so when you have farm animals to take care of. There are drifts of snow to be shoveled, so the goats can reach their feeder and ice has to be broken in the water trough. Biting winds blow hard and scatter hay and keep the chickens huddled inside the doorway, away from their grain and water. Buckets with ice need to be chipped out and filled with fresh water to bring inside the barn, so the animals can drink before it freezes solid. There’s the added expense of heating the water trough and leaving the light and heat lamps on overnight in the barn. The precious few eggs need to be gathered before they freeze.
Lots of effort, very little pay off. Braving the minus zero temperatures to feed, water and muck out the barn, buying and transporting the feed, trekking up to where the alfalfa hay is stored and carrying few armloads back, using the pump to haul buckets of water – all of it takes time – and some days all we have to show for that extra work is an egg or two.
I’m committed to taking care of my animals, but with little daylight and below freezing temperatures, my enthusiasm for “living the farm dream” wanes. I empathize with the chickens which are tropical birds – “What are we doing out here in the frozen Yukon?” Laura Ingalls Wilder – I am not. I may have the little papercrete “palace” on the prairie, but some days I am less than enchanted.
Unless I’m out on the ski slopes and being buried in powder. Our Villa Groovy Neighbor Ski Day was epic – over 3 feet of freshies in five hours at Wolf Creek. Every visit to Monarch was pure powder pleasure - swooshing through a few feet of fluffy flakes on my snowboard with a smile. Memorable times snowshoeing with neighbors and the majestic snow-capped Sangres in our backyards. Dragging sleds filled with holiday feasts up the impassable driveways of next door neighbors and Winter Solstice parties that never end because a blizzard has set in and we can’t make it a quarter of a mile back home.
So it’s a trade-off. Creating all kinds of winter hardship memories with friends and neighbors have served to create a close community and give us lots to chat about during our social gatherings.
“It took over 2 hours to go one mile home in the beater Toyota pickup truck – no heat. The chains kept slipping off and we slid off into the ditch. Had to catch a plane to Honduras the next day. Took six hours to get to DIA. People die in that kind of weather…”
“Negative 13? Well, at least it’s a dry negative 13. No, seriously…” and voices will trail off.
The premonition of winter comes early here in the Valley. Nighttime temps have been known to plummet to 11 degrees in mid-October. It is what it is.
I’ll try to focus on the positive. It’s the season for fires in the wood stove, hearty soups, baking bread and playing in the snow. My dogs are thrilled with the accumulation of white stuff to roll around and burrow in. I’ll be looking forward to the impromptu socialization with shovels and jumping cables on the road and in driveways with neighbors and friends - our comrades in the cold.
>Pending Publication - Jan 2010
Add to this a brilliant blue Colorado sky and sunshine with pleasing warmth, yet a slight reminder chill that lingers and spreads into a crisp cold evening. Welcome to the change of seasons. It’s all downhill from here.
I’m still recovering from the effects of the chilly carnage of 2008, the first “real Colorado winter” – one that the SLV old timers hadn’t experienced for twenty years or more. Three feet of snow on the level for four months surrounding our home, the bare blinding blanca landscape a constant presence - an adversary - in our lives. Sub-zero temperatures were no longer a novelty, but a fact of life. Denial did not work. It just left me stranded without a shovel and the undercarriage of my Subaru firmly wedged in a snow bank at the beginning of my driveway.
Apathy did have some benefits. What did it matter that the plow was sideways in the ditch blocking the drive? It’s not like we had access in anyway. So what if the raging storm had winds up to 45 mph which blocked us in and made it impossible for the propane truck to drive to our tank so that we were in imminent danger of freezing pipes (and ourselves to death). Whatever.
When I made the move from Boulder to the “Banana Belt” of Salida in the Arkansas River Valley in 1998, I wasn’t overly concerned with seasonal hardship. Colorado was experiencing a lengthy drought period and snowfall was light and manageable for years. But then came the winter of 2007-08 and the brutally cold sub-zero temperatures and record snowfall accompanied my first winter out of scenic Salida and living in a higher, drier and colder valley. What a wake-up call.
Try moving to the wilds of America’s West and attempting to live and thrive in the sparsely populated San Luis Valley for a humility test. Colorado’s SLV is “not a place for the timid,” as Salida naturalist and author Susan Tweit writes in her book, “The San Luis Valley – Sand Dunes and Sandhill Cranes. “Sizzling hot in the summer, frigid cold in winter; the San Luis Valley is a remote expanse about the size of the state of Connecticut that lies forgotten between two major mountain ranges in south-central Colorado.”
Having been born and raised on Long Island, some of my New York edge still remains, even while road rage remains in the not so distant past. I have a general impatience with life’s burdens and general maintenance, and as the dreariness of winter wears on my nerves, my annoyance level and sense of “frustration and unfairness” usually culminates in me buying a car, getting a tattoo or piercing in February or March of each year. I am not a true winter person and it shows...
Try making it through one winter here in the freaking frigid high alpine plains and attempt to keep your sanity in negative 26 degrees while attempting to start at least one of your vehicles after hiking a third of a mile out your snow-drifted driveway in the crackling cold – day after day. Try post-holing through 3 foot drifts wearing a headlamp in the frigid darkness and pulling groceries and 50 pound sacks of alfalfa pellets and chicken scratch on an expedition sled that was last used on a climb up Denali. The initial excitement of donning snowshoes to make the trek to the mailbox got old pretty quickly. Welcome to the San Luis Valley in winter - where zero degrees actually sounds like a reasonable temperature -- and any temps over 15 degrees Fahrenheit feel like a heat wave.
Wake up each morning and stress over what charming challenges Mother Nature has in store for you that day. Daily life becomes a production. Commuting is a nightmare. Wind is to be feared and despised for the havoc it can wreak. Basically, when the wind blows, we pay – cold hard unbudgeted cash to cover the costs of plowing the driveway. (Which "blows".)
Even as this new life here on the farm/ranch continues to be challenging in the way of everyday survival and comfort, I still feel reassured that my partner and I are in it together. (Sometimes he more than I, depending on my physical discomfort level.) Creating the “Blue Moon Homestead” (named for our wedding date in July 2004 on the night of a rare second full moon in the month) from the dirt up was in no way possible without the energy, drive and commitment of my husband Jack.
We are living in a modest 1580 square foot papercrete palace on the prairie. Also known as “fibrous adobe” – a mixture of concrete and recycled newspaper – papercrete has excellent insulation properties with an insulation value relative to R30. Our rustic adobe-like home is complete with large windows showcasing the Sangres, two wood-burning stoves and an enclosed green house, and is warm and comfortable, if not quite finished. It was built with energy efficiency in mind, one level with in-floor radiant heat under stained and sealed concrete floors and solar powered hot water and electricity. We are tied into the grid, but are selling back kilowatts to Xcell Electric.
Our “papercrete palace” is far from “Done” but it’s fairly comfortable. With walls a foot thick, we hardly hear the high winds that sweep across the prairie and its passive solar design keeps the house warm even without turning on the in-floor radiant heat as the evening temperatures dip below freezing. The southern-facing greenhouse soaks in the solar rays and radiates heat through an open door and window into the house. It’s barely cooling down when we arrive home after the sun sets. By lighting fires in the woodstoves, we cut the costs of heating with propane and can almost make it through the coldest months with our 125 gallon tank.
One frigid morning the temperature hovered at -26 degrees below zero and none of our three vehicles would start. An engine heating block might have helped, but that didn’t materialize until after this latest frozen fiasco. (Even then we would have to have been able to drive the car up the driveway to an electrical outlet – hah!) We went for months without any access to our driveway and carport.
After having attempted to start the car and truck down at the end of the driveway, Jack trudged back through the frigid pre-dawn light in a weary way – knowing that even if the Subaru did start (which it didn’t - as I found out later,) it would take awhile to dig it out from the four foot drifts that had blown in the night before.
I was of the mindset to call it a “freeze day” and huddle in next to the wood stove for the day, but winter-loving Jack was insistent that he needed to be at work – dedicated Monarch Mountain employee that he is. It was time to call the Villa Groovy help network – and miraculously one of our neighbors had his truck garaged and his driveway plowed enough to be able to reach us. It is a beautiful thing to have friends and neighbors willing and able to help out – and for us to be able to return the favor at a future time.
Winter in the high country is always challenging, but more so when you have farm animals to take care of. There are drifts of snow to be shoveled, so the goats can reach their feeder and ice has to be broken in the water trough. Biting winds blow hard and scatter hay and keep the chickens huddled inside the doorway, away from their grain and water. Buckets with ice need to be chipped out and filled with fresh water to bring inside the barn, so the animals can drink before it freezes solid. There’s the added expense of heating the water trough and leaving the light and heat lamps on overnight in the barn. The precious few eggs need to be gathered before they freeze.
Lots of effort, very little pay off. Braving the minus zero temperatures to feed, water and muck out the barn, buying and transporting the feed, trekking up to where the alfalfa hay is stored and carrying few armloads back, using the pump to haul buckets of water – all of it takes time – and some days all we have to show for that extra work is an egg or two.
I’m committed to taking care of my animals, but with little daylight and below freezing temperatures, my enthusiasm for “living the farm dream” wanes. I empathize with the chickens which are tropical birds – “What are we doing out here in the frozen Yukon?” Laura Ingalls Wilder – I am not. I may have the little papercrete “palace” on the prairie, but some days I am less than enchanted.
Unless I’m out on the ski slopes and being buried in powder. Our Villa Groovy Neighbor Ski Day was epic – over 3 feet of freshies in five hours at Wolf Creek. Every visit to Monarch was pure powder pleasure - swooshing through a few feet of fluffy flakes on my snowboard with a smile. Memorable times snowshoeing with neighbors and the majestic snow-capped Sangres in our backyards. Dragging sleds filled with holiday feasts up the impassable driveways of next door neighbors and Winter Solstice parties that never end because a blizzard has set in and we can’t make it a quarter of a mile back home.
So it’s a trade-off. Creating all kinds of winter hardship memories with friends and neighbors have served to create a close community and give us lots to chat about during our social gatherings.
“It took over 2 hours to go one mile home in the beater Toyota pickup truck – no heat. The chains kept slipping off and we slid off into the ditch. Had to catch a plane to Honduras the next day. Took six hours to get to DIA. People die in that kind of weather…”
“Negative 13? Well, at least it’s a dry negative 13. No, seriously…” and voices will trail off.
The premonition of winter comes early here in the Valley. Nighttime temps have been known to plummet to 11 degrees in mid-October. It is what it is.
I’ll try to focus on the positive. It’s the season for fires in the wood stove, hearty soups, baking bread and playing in the snow. My dogs are thrilled with the accumulation of white stuff to roll around and burrow in. I’ll be looking forward to the impromptu socialization with shovels and jumping cables on the road and in driveways with neighbors and friends - our comrades in the cold.
>Pending Publication - Jan 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The MF Hay Truck Story
Back in the day of my “fresh from the East Coast” mentality and when I worked as a full time ski and snowboard instructor at Monarch Mountain, I lived my life at a much more frenetic pace. Driving down Monarch Pass after a long cold day pulling “flat-landers” off the snow and constantly chanting “Pizza – French Fries” to warm weather kids at the Monarch Ski & Snowboard area, I was hungry and tired (deadly combination) – and late for my next work gig – the “sand-wench” server at Bongo Billy’s Salida Café.
After a bend in the road, my boyfriend, (now husband), Jack had to hit the brakes hard, and fell in line with a creeping train of cars that had suddenly appeared.
“What the hell…” I muttered, scanning the horizon for the possible cause to this traffic meltdown. No weather to speak of, no construction – sure, there were the Texans driving like little old ladies around each curve, doing 25 mph in their gas-guzzling SUVs – but that’s pretty standard around this area during ski season. Then there’s the RVs creeping over the pass in the off-season, but this was January, the roads were clear and we were heading downhill. And I was late and ravenous and in no mood to be trifled with.
Far off in the distance you could see the outline of the first vehicle leading the pack, doing 15 in a 65 mph no passing zone. “What’s the deal – what kind of truck is it?” I asked Jack, who was straining his eyes to see.
“It’s a hay truck.” He answered, eyeing me warily.
“A hay truck? A HAY TRUCK?! “I responded, knowing what that meant time-wise on this road.
“What the f***k are we doing stuck behind a goddamned motherf**king hay truck in January?” I spouted angrily. I fumed, I fidgeted, and I used the four-letter words gained from my youth in Long Island, New York, liberally. (I have yet to meet anyone who can say the word “f**k” with the right amount of emphasis and creative use as a native New Yorker.) My native Colorado husband looked at me first in alarm, and then began to laugh and encourage my vociferous stress release.
And still we crawled along behind this motherf**king hay truck with over 50 cars trailing it on Rt. 50 down Monarch Pass late on a clear, dry January afternoon.
Checking the time, I realized I was already a half an hour late and we weren’t even near Salida yet. I asked Jack if it was illegal to back up traffic on the highway – isn’t there a law that says the slow-moving vehicle driver must pull over and let the other drivers pass? He concurred – yes, there was such a law, but obviously this driver’s side view mirror must be so obscured by chew stains that he couldn’t see, much less count, how many cars were behind him.
It was time to make a phone call. When we reached an area where cell phone service was available again, I called 911 to report this traffic transgression. Actually, I called 911 to get the non-emergency number for the police department, but the signal died. So then, the cell phone rings and it’s the dispatcher needing an immediate answer whether my earlier phone call was an emergency before she sent out the officers. I answered that it depends on the definition of emergency, but no one was in a life-threatening position (except possibly the motherf**king hay truck driver). She gave me the other number, which I dialed, and eventually got an officer on the line.
“I need to report a traffic infraction that is causing some major problems here on the pass,” I informed the officer. I gave him the details – location, number of vehicles in line (that I could see) and a description of the truck. When he requested a more detailed description of the truck itself, I paused, thought briefly, and told him, “It’s a truck – with hay on the back of it.”
Jack, under his breath, muttered, “It’s the only ‘motherf**king hay truck’ on Monarch Pass backing up a gazillion cars.”
When I asked the officer if the driver was breaking the law, he answered in the affirmative. He was very serious and direct – a fine example of our small-town police force. He was going to send out a patrol car right that minute and thanked me for reporting this traffic transgression.
I hung up, very smug and satisfied, and feeling vindicated - having done my civic duty. What would have been a quick half-hour trip was now taking over an hour, thanks to that goddamn truck. That driver needed to be held accountable. Jack, with an air of incredulousness, was choking back laughter, saying “That driver of that old blue motherf**king hay truck is not going to be happy when the cops pull him over. Go, Patty!”
After finally passing -- and flipping off -- the evil inconsiderate truck and driver in Poncha Springs, we saw a patrol car headed his way.
“Do you really think…?”
“Seriously.”
“Whatever – he deserved it.”
“Last time he’ll try to stop a New Yorker in traffic like that again.”
“Oh, and Coloradoans think that’s ok?! Next time he’ll pull the f**k over.”
He muttered what sounded like an endearment under his breath. I had to lean real close to hear it.
“Goddamn motherf**king hay truck from hell.” He grinned and kissed me.
Later that night, I received a voicemail message on my cell phone from a purported Officer Johnson from the Salida Police Department, (sounding suspiciously like Jack.)
“Ma’am, I’m following up the reported motherf**king hay truck incident on Monarch Pass earlier today. We need a little more information from you to be able to prosecute this case to the fullest extent of the law.
Can you give us a better description of the motherf**king hay truck? Was it a blue or red motherf**king hay truck? Did you get the license plate number? We will assume that since you determined it was actually a motherf**king hay truck that it had to be from somewhere in the south.
We appreciate your willingness to come forth in reporting this crime. Any further assistance you can provide to help insure that our society is protected from the insensitivity and general lawless nature of motherf**king hay truck drivers would also be greatly appreciated.
Thank you.”
Pending Publication - January 2010
After a bend in the road, my boyfriend, (now husband), Jack had to hit the brakes hard, and fell in line with a creeping train of cars that had suddenly appeared.
“What the hell…” I muttered, scanning the horizon for the possible cause to this traffic meltdown. No weather to speak of, no construction – sure, there were the Texans driving like little old ladies around each curve, doing 25 mph in their gas-guzzling SUVs – but that’s pretty standard around this area during ski season. Then there’s the RVs creeping over the pass in the off-season, but this was January, the roads were clear and we were heading downhill. And I was late and ravenous and in no mood to be trifled with.
Far off in the distance you could see the outline of the first vehicle leading the pack, doing 15 in a 65 mph no passing zone. “What’s the deal – what kind of truck is it?” I asked Jack, who was straining his eyes to see.
“It’s a hay truck.” He answered, eyeing me warily.
“A hay truck? A HAY TRUCK?! “I responded, knowing what that meant time-wise on this road.
“What the f***k are we doing stuck behind a goddamned motherf**king hay truck in January?” I spouted angrily. I fumed, I fidgeted, and I used the four-letter words gained from my youth in Long Island, New York, liberally. (I have yet to meet anyone who can say the word “f**k” with the right amount of emphasis and creative use as a native New Yorker.) My native Colorado husband looked at me first in alarm, and then began to laugh and encourage my vociferous stress release.
And still we crawled along behind this motherf**king hay truck with over 50 cars trailing it on Rt. 50 down Monarch Pass late on a clear, dry January afternoon.
Checking the time, I realized I was already a half an hour late and we weren’t even near Salida yet. I asked Jack if it was illegal to back up traffic on the highway – isn’t there a law that says the slow-moving vehicle driver must pull over and let the other drivers pass? He concurred – yes, there was such a law, but obviously this driver’s side view mirror must be so obscured by chew stains that he couldn’t see, much less count, how many cars were behind him.
It was time to make a phone call. When we reached an area where cell phone service was available again, I called 911 to report this traffic transgression. Actually, I called 911 to get the non-emergency number for the police department, but the signal died. So then, the cell phone rings and it’s the dispatcher needing an immediate answer whether my earlier phone call was an emergency before she sent out the officers. I answered that it depends on the definition of emergency, but no one was in a life-threatening position (except possibly the motherf**king hay truck driver). She gave me the other number, which I dialed, and eventually got an officer on the line.
“I need to report a traffic infraction that is causing some major problems here on the pass,” I informed the officer. I gave him the details – location, number of vehicles in line (that I could see) and a description of the truck. When he requested a more detailed description of the truck itself, I paused, thought briefly, and told him, “It’s a truck – with hay on the back of it.”
Jack, under his breath, muttered, “It’s the only ‘motherf**king hay truck’ on Monarch Pass backing up a gazillion cars.”
When I asked the officer if the driver was breaking the law, he answered in the affirmative. He was very serious and direct – a fine example of our small-town police force. He was going to send out a patrol car right that minute and thanked me for reporting this traffic transgression.
I hung up, very smug and satisfied, and feeling vindicated - having done my civic duty. What would have been a quick half-hour trip was now taking over an hour, thanks to that goddamn truck. That driver needed to be held accountable. Jack, with an air of incredulousness, was choking back laughter, saying “That driver of that old blue motherf**king hay truck is not going to be happy when the cops pull him over. Go, Patty!”
After finally passing -- and flipping off -- the evil inconsiderate truck and driver in Poncha Springs, we saw a patrol car headed his way.
“Do you really think…?”
“Seriously.”
“Whatever – he deserved it.”
“Last time he’ll try to stop a New Yorker in traffic like that again.”
“Oh, and Coloradoans think that’s ok?! Next time he’ll pull the f**k over.”
He muttered what sounded like an endearment under his breath. I had to lean real close to hear it.
“Goddamn motherf**king hay truck from hell.” He grinned and kissed me.
Later that night, I received a voicemail message on my cell phone from a purported Officer Johnson from the Salida Police Department, (sounding suspiciously like Jack.)
“Ma’am, I’m following up the reported motherf**king hay truck incident on Monarch Pass earlier today. We need a little more information from you to be able to prosecute this case to the fullest extent of the law.
Can you give us a better description of the motherf**king hay truck? Was it a blue or red motherf**king hay truck? Did you get the license plate number? We will assume that since you determined it was actually a motherf**king hay truck that it had to be from somewhere in the south.
We appreciate your willingness to come forth in reporting this crime. Any further assistance you can provide to help insure that our society is protected from the insensitivity and general lawless nature of motherf**king hay truck drivers would also be greatly appreciated.
Thank you.”
Pending Publication - January 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Duck Tape to the Rescue
My appreciation for Duck Tape evolved with my latest lifestyle. I moved to central Colorado to live in a high mountain desert on a mini-ranchette. My husband Jack grew up in a cattle ranching family near Trinidad, Colorado. Duck Tape was standard ranch equipment throughout his life.
Our dairy goat Patch had given birth to three little nannies: Mocha, Latte & Cappuccino. The babies were healthy enough, although two seemed a bit premature and their hooves & ankles were too weak for them to stand properly. Their ligaments were not strong enough to support their weight. Although Jack was of the mind-set that some kids just shouldn’t make it – natural selection and all that – he agreed to make splints for their crippled legs.
Out came the Duck Tape and stiff paperboard drywall shims from the current construction on our papercrete home. While I held the wiggling, squealing kids, Jack wrapped up their tiny legs in silver Duck Tape to give them the support to stand. As they hobbled off, Jack shook his head at the loudly bleating Latte. “That one is coyote bait for sure,” he stated quietly.
Two days later the casts were off and the babies cavorted freely around the corral. The Duck Tape was supportive and tough enough to be coupled with paperboard and take the place of plaster casts. Having Duck Tape on hand prevented ligament damage and enabled the nanny goats to thrive and walk on their own.
Our dairy goat Patch had given birth to three little nannies: Mocha, Latte & Cappuccino. The babies were healthy enough, although two seemed a bit premature and their hooves & ankles were too weak for them to stand properly. Their ligaments were not strong enough to support their weight. Although Jack was of the mind-set that some kids just shouldn’t make it – natural selection and all that – he agreed to make splints for their crippled legs.
Out came the Duck Tape and stiff paperboard drywall shims from the current construction on our papercrete home. While I held the wiggling, squealing kids, Jack wrapped up their tiny legs in silver Duck Tape to give them the support to stand. As they hobbled off, Jack shook his head at the loudly bleating Latte. “That one is coyote bait for sure,” he stated quietly.
Two days later the casts were off and the babies cavorted freely around the corral. The Duck Tape was supportive and tough enough to be coupled with paperboard and take the place of plaster casts. Having Duck Tape on hand prevented ligament damage and enabled the nanny goats to thrive and walk on their own.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Silence is Significant
Quiet Use Areas (QUAs) – Now is the Time.
I’m a little tired of being quiet – particularly in regards to my need for silence and tranquility when I’m in the woods. I go to the forest and hike in the mountains when I’m seeking the silence and solace of nature. It calms me. Soothes my jangled nerves. Keeps me sane. It’s why I came to live in Colorado in the first place. New York City/Long Island was just a little too … busy. Too crowded with people and full of non-stop noise. I head for the hills when I need to get away – even from the rural life here in the San Luis Valley. Face it, I didn’t move to a town of 80 people to become a socialite.
My hikes bestow me with a sense of peace – and hope for the future of this earth, along with the species which inhabit it. Except ours. Especially when I see some yahoo revving his or her ATV motor and ready to tear up the land on a designated non-motorized trail. A trail specifically set apart from the multitude of others that permit mechanized recreation. When I see this sorry sight, I’m not feeling so peaceful – interruptive motor noise annoys me. It detracts from my experience in using our public lands. It’s inconsiderate. I want to tell these motorheads to go find their own place to play – where the noise and rough roading are welcome. There’s a time and a place for everything. Not everywhere. Your rights as a motorized recreationist should not trample my right to quiet recreation. Have your fun elsewhere. Show a little respect to the quiet crowd.
Quiet is My Right -- I Need a QUA!!
A QUA (Quiet Use Area) is an area of significant size, (not just a trail), set aside for a wide variety of quiet traditional recreational uses on our public lands. Picture, if you will -- areas in our national forests and Bureau of Land Management (BLM) lands designated for “Quiet Use.” Quiet -- meaning without excessive user noise -- to ensure the experience of a natural soundscape. Think hiking, trail running, mountain biking, Nordic skiing or snowshoeing in an area free of motorized vehicles. Recreationists, hikers, campers, families, etc., can enjoy their outdoors experience unconcerned with the whine of motors, or facing a motorcyclist head on upon a tight switchback. There would no fear of canine companions run over by four-wheelers, no loud engines racing as an assault on the ears, no noxious exhaust fumes polluting their respiratory tracts – just silence, serenity and a peace of mind that stays intact.
The Antonym to Quiet is Noise.
Personal Motorized Recreational Vehicles (PMRVs) – i.e., dirt bikes, snowmobiles, ATVs, jet skis or similar vehicles -- would not be permitted in a QUA. Why not? Because as the owners, operators and individuals recreating on our public lands and waterways can attest to: machines make noise. Intrusive noise. Motorized sounds that can carry miles to others who flock to the forests and lakes seeking silence and solitude in the face of todays increasingly motorized modern society.
Multiple Use – Shared Use Areas – no Longer an Option.
From the standpoint of noise intrusion, the multiple use – or shared use - concept of land use is a farce. Motorized noise intrudes on all other land users activities – it has long-ranging capabilities to nullify the natural sounds, and to degrade a traditional recreational user’s experience.
Quiet users and motorized recreationists have been compared to “smokers versus non-smokers.” Each is unable to co-exist peacefully with the other – separate areas and restrictions had to be constructed for a peaceable existence in the smoking situation – why not in the recreational arena?
Massive growth in the PMRV industry is negatively impacting our dwindling public landscape and soundscape. The Quiet Use Coalition (QUC), (www.quietuse.org) a conservation-based organization which supports preserving and promoting traditional use and enjoyment of quiet areas on our public lands and waters, is concerned that unregulated motorized use on public lands will continue to degrade the outdoor experiences that are a vital part of many lives here in Colorado and elsewhere.
The QUC foresaw the growth of motorized recreation and the ensuing conflict of interest between PMRV and traditional users coming years ago. Public land agencies have been painfully slow to address these issues. The QUC has been working to restore balance to our public lands and waters through promoting the concept of Quiet Use Areas with the Forest Service, BLM and public officials on local, state and national levels.
Questions arise concerning the criteria for designation of a QUA. While a Wilderness Area would be the ultimate in quiet use, a broader perspective of recreation needs and uses had to be addressed. The difference between a Wilderness area and a QUA is that the establishment of a QUA would not require the more rigid pristine land attributes necessary under the Wilderness Act. QUAs are for walking, hiking, biking, hunting, fishing, horseback riding, climbing, wild life viewing, canoeing, backpacking, nature photography, etc. They would be off limits to PMRVs. QUAs would be more accessible than wilderness areas by using 4-wheel highway-licensed vehicles -- one could drive a car, truck or SUV into a QUA to access trail heads and points of interest.
The Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management are well aware of conflicts between motorized and non-motorized users and have been contacted by many individuals who comprise the “Quiet Use Movement”. This movement is gaining support and national exposure as concerned citizens organize to send a message to our legislators and public land managers that they will take action to prevent assault by noise, pollution and environmental devastation, while recreating in our national forest and public lands and waterways.
Fortunately, there is a middle-ground that can be reached between motorized and non-motorized recreational users of public lands. Separate use areas are only one answer. Another way to mitigate potential user conflict is be involved in your local Travel Management Planning process with the BLM and Forest Service officials. Personal user input provides vital insight for the land use managers to consider in trail designation and whether a trail stays open or closed to motorized vehicles.
For years, conservationist groups, including the Quiet Use Coalition, have identified the unmanaged use of dirt bikes, ATVs and other off-road vehicles as one of the greatest dangers to the integrity of America's public lands. As the noise and resource damage have grown, organizations have urged the Forest Service and other public land management agencies to impose sensible controls on dirt bikes and four-wheelers.
Initially it appeared that these requests were ignored. Now, Forest Service Chief Dale Bosworth has identified unmanaged recreation, particularly off-road vehicle use, as one of the four great threats to our National Forests. In this assessment, Chief Bosworth joins his predecessor Mike Dombeck, who singled out ATVs as among the major threats to America's forests and other public lands several years prior.
The National Forest Service is currently in the process of rewriting regulations governing the use of dirt bikes, ATVs and other off-road vehicles on National Forests and Grasslands. Travel Management Planning meetings are taking place across the United States as land use managers update their XXX
Meanwhile, local grassroots groups are joining up with state and national conservationist organizations such as the QUC with The Colorado Mountain Club, The Southern Rockies Conservations Alliance (SRCA) and The Wilderness Society to further the Quiet Use movement. Non-traditional allies such as long-time ranchers and bow-hunters have swelled the ranks, and two landmark conferences have been held to address Quiet Use issues. In February 2005, the Quiet Use Coalition, the Colorado Mountain Club and the Southern Rockies Conservation Alliance sponsored a weekend conference at the Monarch Mountain Lodge in Chaffee County. In this forum, 57 conservationists representing 25 organizations and concerned citizens from across the Rocky Mountain region joined forces to discuss ways to protect and preserve quiet recreation on our public lands.
More recently, the Quiet Commotion was held in Crestone, in the San Luis Valley, in October 2006. More than seventy quiet use supporters participated in the two-day discussion, brainstorming and strategy planning that culminated in a Quiet Use and Responsible Motorized Recreation campaign. A national steering committee was formed and the drive for specific quiet use areas continues.
As for my recent experiences in the woods lately? Besides collecting the tossed beer bottles and obliterating illegal campfire rings at a nearby trailhead of a favorite hike, I’ve treaded lightly enough to catch a red-tailed hawk circle in mid-flight, watch a burnished red-brown coyote sprint through the (unfortunately) brown, beige and dusty plains, and also rounded a bend by a creek and surprised a medium-sized black bear in the wild. The deer and the antelope really are out playing here in the Valley. That’s as long as the visiting dirt bikers don’t continue to chase and scatter the herds for fun, as I saw on a recent hike near Hayden Pass. Rest assured that the Division of Wildlife Hotline number ( ) was called and the wildlife harassment incident was reported.
Be the “Eyes of the Forest” – keep the land and the wild creatures safe – and free of motorized intrusion.
Published in the July 2006 edition of the Colorado Central and on the Quiet Use Coalition website at http://www.quietuse.org
I’m a little tired of being quiet – particularly in regards to my need for silence and tranquility when I’m in the woods. I go to the forest and hike in the mountains when I’m seeking the silence and solace of nature. It calms me. Soothes my jangled nerves. Keeps me sane. It’s why I came to live in Colorado in the first place. New York City/Long Island was just a little too … busy. Too crowded with people and full of non-stop noise. I head for the hills when I need to get away – even from the rural life here in the San Luis Valley. Face it, I didn’t move to a town of 80 people to become a socialite.
My hikes bestow me with a sense of peace – and hope for the future of this earth, along with the species which inhabit it. Except ours. Especially when I see some yahoo revving his or her ATV motor and ready to tear up the land on a designated non-motorized trail. A trail specifically set apart from the multitude of others that permit mechanized recreation. When I see this sorry sight, I’m not feeling so peaceful – interruptive motor noise annoys me. It detracts from my experience in using our public lands. It’s inconsiderate. I want to tell these motorheads to go find their own place to play – where the noise and rough roading are welcome. There’s a time and a place for everything. Not everywhere. Your rights as a motorized recreationist should not trample my right to quiet recreation. Have your fun elsewhere. Show a little respect to the quiet crowd.
Quiet is My Right -- I Need a QUA!!
A QUA (Quiet Use Area) is an area of significant size, (not just a trail), set aside for a wide variety of quiet traditional recreational uses on our public lands. Picture, if you will -- areas in our national forests and Bureau of Land Management (BLM) lands designated for “Quiet Use.” Quiet -- meaning without excessive user noise -- to ensure the experience of a natural soundscape. Think hiking, trail running, mountain biking, Nordic skiing or snowshoeing in an area free of motorized vehicles. Recreationists, hikers, campers, families, etc., can enjoy their outdoors experience unconcerned with the whine of motors, or facing a motorcyclist head on upon a tight switchback. There would no fear of canine companions run over by four-wheelers, no loud engines racing as an assault on the ears, no noxious exhaust fumes polluting their respiratory tracts – just silence, serenity and a peace of mind that stays intact.
The Antonym to Quiet is Noise.
Personal Motorized Recreational Vehicles (PMRVs) – i.e., dirt bikes, snowmobiles, ATVs, jet skis or similar vehicles -- would not be permitted in a QUA. Why not? Because as the owners, operators and individuals recreating on our public lands and waterways can attest to: machines make noise. Intrusive noise. Motorized sounds that can carry miles to others who flock to the forests and lakes seeking silence and solitude in the face of todays increasingly motorized modern society.
Multiple Use – Shared Use Areas – no Longer an Option.
From the standpoint of noise intrusion, the multiple use – or shared use - concept of land use is a farce. Motorized noise intrudes on all other land users activities – it has long-ranging capabilities to nullify the natural sounds, and to degrade a traditional recreational user’s experience.
Quiet users and motorized recreationists have been compared to “smokers versus non-smokers.” Each is unable to co-exist peacefully with the other – separate areas and restrictions had to be constructed for a peaceable existence in the smoking situation – why not in the recreational arena?
Massive growth in the PMRV industry is negatively impacting our dwindling public landscape and soundscape. The Quiet Use Coalition (QUC), (www.quietuse.org) a conservation-based organization which supports preserving and promoting traditional use and enjoyment of quiet areas on our public lands and waters, is concerned that unregulated motorized use on public lands will continue to degrade the outdoor experiences that are a vital part of many lives here in Colorado and elsewhere.
The QUC foresaw the growth of motorized recreation and the ensuing conflict of interest between PMRV and traditional users coming years ago. Public land agencies have been painfully slow to address these issues. The QUC has been working to restore balance to our public lands and waters through promoting the concept of Quiet Use Areas with the Forest Service, BLM and public officials on local, state and national levels.
Questions arise concerning the criteria for designation of a QUA. While a Wilderness Area would be the ultimate in quiet use, a broader perspective of recreation needs and uses had to be addressed. The difference between a Wilderness area and a QUA is that the establishment of a QUA would not require the more rigid pristine land attributes necessary under the Wilderness Act. QUAs are for walking, hiking, biking, hunting, fishing, horseback riding, climbing, wild life viewing, canoeing, backpacking, nature photography, etc. They would be off limits to PMRVs. QUAs would be more accessible than wilderness areas by using 4-wheel highway-licensed vehicles -- one could drive a car, truck or SUV into a QUA to access trail heads and points of interest.
The Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management are well aware of conflicts between motorized and non-motorized users and have been contacted by many individuals who comprise the “Quiet Use Movement”. This movement is gaining support and national exposure as concerned citizens organize to send a message to our legislators and public land managers that they will take action to prevent assault by noise, pollution and environmental devastation, while recreating in our national forest and public lands and waterways.
Fortunately, there is a middle-ground that can be reached between motorized and non-motorized recreational users of public lands. Separate use areas are only one answer. Another way to mitigate potential user conflict is be involved in your local Travel Management Planning process with the BLM and Forest Service officials. Personal user input provides vital insight for the land use managers to consider in trail designation and whether a trail stays open or closed to motorized vehicles.
For years, conservationist groups, including the Quiet Use Coalition, have identified the unmanaged use of dirt bikes, ATVs and other off-road vehicles as one of the greatest dangers to the integrity of America's public lands. As the noise and resource damage have grown, organizations have urged the Forest Service and other public land management agencies to impose sensible controls on dirt bikes and four-wheelers.
Initially it appeared that these requests were ignored. Now, Forest Service Chief Dale Bosworth has identified unmanaged recreation, particularly off-road vehicle use, as one of the four great threats to our National Forests. In this assessment, Chief Bosworth joins his predecessor Mike Dombeck, who singled out ATVs as among the major threats to America's forests and other public lands several years prior.
The National Forest Service is currently in the process of rewriting regulations governing the use of dirt bikes, ATVs and other off-road vehicles on National Forests and Grasslands. Travel Management Planning meetings are taking place across the United States as land use managers update their XXX
Meanwhile, local grassroots groups are joining up with state and national conservationist organizations such as the QUC with The Colorado Mountain Club, The Southern Rockies Conservations Alliance (SRCA) and The Wilderness Society to further the Quiet Use movement. Non-traditional allies such as long-time ranchers and bow-hunters have swelled the ranks, and two landmark conferences have been held to address Quiet Use issues. In February 2005, the Quiet Use Coalition, the Colorado Mountain Club and the Southern Rockies Conservation Alliance sponsored a weekend conference at the Monarch Mountain Lodge in Chaffee County. In this forum, 57 conservationists representing 25 organizations and concerned citizens from across the Rocky Mountain region joined forces to discuss ways to protect and preserve quiet recreation on our public lands.
More recently, the Quiet Commotion was held in Crestone, in the San Luis Valley, in October 2006. More than seventy quiet use supporters participated in the two-day discussion, brainstorming and strategy planning that culminated in a Quiet Use and Responsible Motorized Recreation campaign. A national steering committee was formed and the drive for specific quiet use areas continues.
As for my recent experiences in the woods lately? Besides collecting the tossed beer bottles and obliterating illegal campfire rings at a nearby trailhead of a favorite hike, I’ve treaded lightly enough to catch a red-tailed hawk circle in mid-flight, watch a burnished red-brown coyote sprint through the (unfortunately) brown, beige and dusty plains, and also rounded a bend by a creek and surprised a medium-sized black bear in the wild. The deer and the antelope really are out playing here in the Valley. That’s as long as the visiting dirt bikers don’t continue to chase and scatter the herds for fun, as I saw on a recent hike near Hayden Pass. Rest assured that the Division of Wildlife Hotline number ( ) was called and the wildlife harassment incident was reported.
Be the “Eyes of the Forest” – keep the land and the wild creatures safe – and free of motorized intrusion.
Published in the July 2006 edition of the Colorado Central and on the Quiet Use Coalition website at http://www.quietuse.org
Monday, January 18, 2010
Transition Towns
Is the Greater Arkansas Valley ready to join forces with a multitude of towns, cities, and counties who have signed on to become leaders in the growing global task force to address peak oil, climate change and economic stability?
Considering the number of concerned citizens who are connecting in Salida, Buena Vista and surrounding areas to adopt the “Transition Model” (www.transitiontowns.com) – all with the intention of engaging a significant proportion of the people in their community to kick off a “Transition Initiative” – it appears that the local community is ready to commit to change.
In the global Transition scenario, community change requires a small collection of motivated individuals who come together with a shared concern: How can our community respond to the challenges, and opportunities, of peak oil, climate change and economic instability?
In Salida, citizens Denise Ackert and Merry Cox, along with David Bowers, started the local Transition Initiative as a book group reading The Transition Handbook by Rob Hopkins. Forty people showed up for the first meeting, all expressing their interest in a more locally-based and sustainable energy and food system for their community.
The group has completed the Handbook and has met numerous times, including the screening of two films; Farms of the Future and The End of Suburbia. The Transition group has also hosted two tours; the Tour de Coop (about chicken coops and raising chickens) and the Tour de Jardin (a look at local organic gardens and food forests). Their next two events will be a sheet mulching workshop and the Tour de Soleil, a tour of local solar homes, which will include information about adding solar to your home, costs, and rebates.
On the official Transition Towns website, a Transition Initiative is defined as “a community working together to look peak oil, climate change and economic instability squarely in the eye and address this BIG question:
"For all those aspects of life that this community needs in order to sustain itself and thrive, how do we significantly increase resilience (to mitigate the effects of Peak Oil) and drastically reduce carbon emissions (to mitigate the effects of Climate Change)?"
Coordinated community efforts involve a comprehensive and creative process which includes raising the community awareness of the issues, forming groups to look at key areas of life and ultimately designing and implementing an “Energy Descent Action Plan”. The end result is a coordinated range of projects across all these areas of life that strive to rebuild the resilience individuals and communities have lost as a result of cheap oil, as well as drastically reducing the community's carbon emissions.
In addition, the Transition movement addresses economic instability and focuses on creating local sustainable communities. Keeping local economies more stable and desirable is key to the movement's goals.
Transition town/city/village communities also recognize two crucial points:
· That humans used immense amounts of creativity, ingenuity and adaptability on the way up the energy up slope -- and there's no reason for us not to do the same on the down slope.
· If humans collectively plan and act early enough, there's every likelihood that we can create a way of living that's significantly more connected, more vibrant and more in touch with our environment than the oil-addicted treadmill that we find ourselves on today.
Local activist Ackert explains,“The Arkansas Valley has the potential of becoming a role model for other communities. We have lots of arable land, water, sun, and very walkable/rideable towns.”
Ackert adds, “What we need to work toward is a coordinated community effort to reduce our dependence on energy sources that are hard on the environment and that emit large amounts of carbon into the atmosphere. To achieve that, we must commit to a more locally-based food and energy system that has sustainability as its foundation.”
In adopting the Transition Towns model for our community, the criteria for becoming an "official" Transition Initiative team involves an honest appraisal of where the community stands on these three main tenets:
· Climate change makes carbon reduction transition essential
· Peak oil makes it inevitable
· Transition initiatives to make it feasible, viable and attractive
The Transition Towns organizers also have a “cheerful disclaimer” posted on their official website:
“Just in case you were under the impression that Transition is a process defined by people who have all the answers, you need to be aware of a key fact.
We truly don't know if this will work. Transition is a social experiment on a massive scale.
What we are convinced of is this:
· if we wait for the governments, it'll be too little, too late
· if we act as individuals, it'll be too little
· but if we act as communities, it might just be enough, just in time.
Everything that you read on this site is the result of real work undertaken in the real world with community engagement at its heart. There's not an ivory tower in sight, no professors in musty oak-paneled studies churning out erudite papers, no slavish adherence to a model carved in stone.
This site, just like the transition model, is brought to you by people who are actively engaged in transition in a community. People who are learning by doing - and learning all the time. People who understand that we can't sit back and wait for someone else to do the work. People like you, perhaps...”
This holds true for people of the Arkansas Valley who believe in thinking and acting together and designing systems based on localized food production, sustainable energy sources and resilient local economies. People engaged - with an enlivened sense of community well-being - will make the upcoming transition to a more resilient way of life into reality.
Find out more by accessing the Transition Towns website at: www.transitiontowns.com or by checking out the Transition Salida blogspot at www.salidatransition.blogspot.com.
Local Chaffee County contacts: Denise Ackert at deniseackert@yahoo.com or (719) 539-2906 or Merry Cox at merrycox@msn.com or (719) 539-1198.
Published in the August 2009 edition of the Colorado Central.
Considering the number of concerned citizens who are connecting in Salida, Buena Vista and surrounding areas to adopt the “Transition Model” (www.transitiontowns.com) – all with the intention of engaging a significant proportion of the people in their community to kick off a “Transition Initiative” – it appears that the local community is ready to commit to change.
In the global Transition scenario, community change requires a small collection of motivated individuals who come together with a shared concern: How can our community respond to the challenges, and opportunities, of peak oil, climate change and economic instability?
In Salida, citizens Denise Ackert and Merry Cox, along with David Bowers, started the local Transition Initiative as a book group reading The Transition Handbook by Rob Hopkins. Forty people showed up for the first meeting, all expressing their interest in a more locally-based and sustainable energy and food system for their community.
The group has completed the Handbook and has met numerous times, including the screening of two films; Farms of the Future and The End of Suburbia. The Transition group has also hosted two tours; the Tour de Coop (about chicken coops and raising chickens) and the Tour de Jardin (a look at local organic gardens and food forests). Their next two events will be a sheet mulching workshop and the Tour de Soleil, a tour of local solar homes, which will include information about adding solar to your home, costs, and rebates.
On the official Transition Towns website, a Transition Initiative is defined as “a community working together to look peak oil, climate change and economic instability squarely in the eye and address this BIG question:
"For all those aspects of life that this community needs in order to sustain itself and thrive, how do we significantly increase resilience (to mitigate the effects of Peak Oil) and drastically reduce carbon emissions (to mitigate the effects of Climate Change)?"
Coordinated community efforts involve a comprehensive and creative process which includes raising the community awareness of the issues, forming groups to look at key areas of life and ultimately designing and implementing an “Energy Descent Action Plan”. The end result is a coordinated range of projects across all these areas of life that strive to rebuild the resilience individuals and communities have lost as a result of cheap oil, as well as drastically reducing the community's carbon emissions.
In addition, the Transition movement addresses economic instability and focuses on creating local sustainable communities. Keeping local economies more stable and desirable is key to the movement's goals.
Transition town/city/village communities also recognize two crucial points:
· That humans used immense amounts of creativity, ingenuity and adaptability on the way up the energy up slope -- and there's no reason for us not to do the same on the down slope.
· If humans collectively plan and act early enough, there's every likelihood that we can create a way of living that's significantly more connected, more vibrant and more in touch with our environment than the oil-addicted treadmill that we find ourselves on today.
Local activist Ackert explains,“The Arkansas Valley has the potential of becoming a role model for other communities. We have lots of arable land, water, sun, and very walkable/rideable towns.”
Ackert adds, “What we need to work toward is a coordinated community effort to reduce our dependence on energy sources that are hard on the environment and that emit large amounts of carbon into the atmosphere. To achieve that, we must commit to a more locally-based food and energy system that has sustainability as its foundation.”
In adopting the Transition Towns model for our community, the criteria for becoming an "official" Transition Initiative team involves an honest appraisal of where the community stands on these three main tenets:
· Climate change makes carbon reduction transition essential
· Peak oil makes it inevitable
· Transition initiatives to make it feasible, viable and attractive
The Transition Towns organizers also have a “cheerful disclaimer” posted on their official website:
“Just in case you were under the impression that Transition is a process defined by people who have all the answers, you need to be aware of a key fact.
We truly don't know if this will work. Transition is a social experiment on a massive scale.
What we are convinced of is this:
· if we wait for the governments, it'll be too little, too late
· if we act as individuals, it'll be too little
· but if we act as communities, it might just be enough, just in time.
Everything that you read on this site is the result of real work undertaken in the real world with community engagement at its heart. There's not an ivory tower in sight, no professors in musty oak-paneled studies churning out erudite papers, no slavish adherence to a model carved in stone.
This site, just like the transition model, is brought to you by people who are actively engaged in transition in a community. People who are learning by doing - and learning all the time. People who understand that we can't sit back and wait for someone else to do the work. People like you, perhaps...”
This holds true for people of the Arkansas Valley who believe in thinking and acting together and designing systems based on localized food production, sustainable energy sources and resilient local economies. People engaged - with an enlivened sense of community well-being - will make the upcoming transition to a more resilient way of life into reality.
Find out more by accessing the Transition Towns website at: www.transitiontowns.com or by checking out the Transition Salida blogspot at www.salidatransition.blogspot.com.
Local Chaffee County contacts: Denise Ackert at deniseackert@yahoo.com or (719) 539-2906 or Merry Cox at merrycox@msn.com or (719) 539-1198.
Published in the August 2009 edition of the Colorado Central.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Sweet Sadie – The Predator
When my stepdaughter comes to stay with us for a visit, she brings along her “designer dog” Sadie, a Japanese Chin. This 8 pound black and white yapping excuse for a real dog appears to be scared of her own shadow, never mind the other dogs and cat as well.
So I had no real concerns when I let her out with the big dogs to run around by the house and do their business. Until I heard the squawking ruckus in the hen house, that is. The little purse pooch had snuck her way under the fencing and was terrorizing the chickens.
Not truly convinced that Sadie’s little “smashed in” face with its incredible inbred under bite could actually chew on or harm a chicken, I walked over to the chicken yard and was stunned to see a chicken down – huddled protectively against the cold earth with her tail feathers scattered and back torn open. In shock, with her eyes glazed over, this hen was on her way out. Of course it was one of my favorites – a pretty tawny red Leghorn.
“Damn it,” I muttered as I unlatched the gate and chased Sadie out with a poorly-aimed kick. I scooped up the wounded hen and took her bloodied carcass inside our house.
Now chicken first aid was called for. Thanks to the PBS special “The Natural History of the Chicken”, I knew of individuals who had performed CPR on chickens and they (chicken and human) survived. I’ve doctored many of our animals since we’ve moved out here – an hour from my favorite veterinarian – but this was a first.
I had to rinse off the wounds and get an idea of the extent of the injury. So off to the bathtub we went, the chicken lying quiet and passive in my arms. Placing her in the tub, I ran hot water into a mug and mixed in equal parts of hydrogen peroxide. Then I poured two cupfuls over the gaping wounds on the hen’s back and tail area. There was some “sizzling” and then the blood and gunk began to run clear. Wow. I saw more of a live chicken then I had ever wanted. (As a former vegetarian who recently began eating fowl and fish, I think chicken will be off the menu again.)
Then I placed the hen on newspaper in a cardboard box and placed it in the warm sunny greenhouse. I added a small container of water and some fresh lettuce greens, but wasn’t expecting much in the way of recovery. A few hours later, I went in to check on my chicken and she seemed… better. Less in shock and having eaten her greens, this chicken was turning out to be a survivor. This progress warranted another H20 and Hydrogen Peroxide baptism and a fresh box change.
The hen is now recuperating in the small half-bath, calm and content in her box. Her wounds seem to be healing and her appetite remains good. I wonder if her little hen friends are missing her and fearing the worst. Her recovery is truly amazing as I’ve found chickens to be such delicate, warm weather creatures.
As for Sadie, little unsupervised “recreation” time exists for her out on our land. It was a lesson to be learned; predators come in all shapes, sizes and inbreeding. Making her into a little “Miss Priss” of a pooch still can’t conceal the true nature of canines. My dogs and cat were trained to control their instinctive natures at young ages, giving rise to a false sense of animal harmony that prevails over here on an everyday basis.
In remembering the Bible quote - “And the lion will lie down with the lamb”, I believe that would have to depend on exactly which individual lion was actually going to be lying next to the naïve little lamb.
Published in the Feb. 2009 edition of the Colorado Central.
So I had no real concerns when I let her out with the big dogs to run around by the house and do their business. Until I heard the squawking ruckus in the hen house, that is. The little purse pooch had snuck her way under the fencing and was terrorizing the chickens.
Not truly convinced that Sadie’s little “smashed in” face with its incredible inbred under bite could actually chew on or harm a chicken, I walked over to the chicken yard and was stunned to see a chicken down – huddled protectively against the cold earth with her tail feathers scattered and back torn open. In shock, with her eyes glazed over, this hen was on her way out. Of course it was one of my favorites – a pretty tawny red Leghorn.
“Damn it,” I muttered as I unlatched the gate and chased Sadie out with a poorly-aimed kick. I scooped up the wounded hen and took her bloodied carcass inside our house.
Now chicken first aid was called for. Thanks to the PBS special “The Natural History of the Chicken”, I knew of individuals who had performed CPR on chickens and they (chicken and human) survived. I’ve doctored many of our animals since we’ve moved out here – an hour from my favorite veterinarian – but this was a first.
I had to rinse off the wounds and get an idea of the extent of the injury. So off to the bathtub we went, the chicken lying quiet and passive in my arms. Placing her in the tub, I ran hot water into a mug and mixed in equal parts of hydrogen peroxide. Then I poured two cupfuls over the gaping wounds on the hen’s back and tail area. There was some “sizzling” and then the blood and gunk began to run clear. Wow. I saw more of a live chicken then I had ever wanted. (As a former vegetarian who recently began eating fowl and fish, I think chicken will be off the menu again.)
Then I placed the hen on newspaper in a cardboard box and placed it in the warm sunny greenhouse. I added a small container of water and some fresh lettuce greens, but wasn’t expecting much in the way of recovery. A few hours later, I went in to check on my chicken and she seemed… better. Less in shock and having eaten her greens, this chicken was turning out to be a survivor. This progress warranted another H20 and Hydrogen Peroxide baptism and a fresh box change.
The hen is now recuperating in the small half-bath, calm and content in her box. Her wounds seem to be healing and her appetite remains good. I wonder if her little hen friends are missing her and fearing the worst. Her recovery is truly amazing as I’ve found chickens to be such delicate, warm weather creatures.
As for Sadie, little unsupervised “recreation” time exists for her out on our land. It was a lesson to be learned; predators come in all shapes, sizes and inbreeding. Making her into a little “Miss Priss” of a pooch still can’t conceal the true nature of canines. My dogs and cat were trained to control their instinctive natures at young ages, giving rise to a false sense of animal harmony that prevails over here on an everyday basis.
In remembering the Bible quote - “And the lion will lie down with the lamb”, I believe that would have to depend on exactly which individual lion was actually going to be lying next to the naïve little lamb.
Published in the Feb. 2009 edition of the Colorado Central.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Life — It’s All Good
I have always viewed employment as more than just
work to earn money. My belief is that you should work to
live, not live to work. Your job should not completely
define the person you are, but since it will be the activity
you spend most of your time at, you should find meaning
and enjoyment in your work.
I lost sight of my perspective in exchange for
respectability, prestige and the lure of a good paycheck.
Having joined the workforce with a degree in sociology
and a background in physical education, I initially jumped
into a position as a recreation counselor with “at risk” adolescents
in a residential facility. It was hard, draining work,
but rewarding and meaningful. I felt similarly about my
next position as the Teen Talk/Crisis Line director at a suicide
prevention and crisis center. I enjoyed making a connection
and “being there” for the teenagers, but the
emotional involvement and constant availability wore me
out physically at an early age. My decision to return to
school to pursue a graduate degree in journalism was
based on my dream to write and perform communications
work for a nonprofit organization whose mission I could
support wholeheartedly.
Instead, I found myself at I.B.M., first as an intern, then
five years later as a Web site manager and corporate communications
writer/editor. While my position at I.B.M.
afforded me the realization of dreams such as travel to
exotic destinations and a large home on acreage in the
Rocky Mountains, it did nothing to inspire me or feed my
soul that I felt was in the process of slowly shriveling. So,
on the verge of the breakup in my ten-year marriage and
the recovery from a major mental meltdown and depression,
I opted to take a severance package and “find
myself.”
Two weeks later, a flyer advertising for white water raft
guide certification training caught my eye as I found
myself alone at the library on a Saturday night. The rest,
as it is said, is history.
At age thirty-four, I discovered a new calling. I became
the one female raft and rockclimbing guide for a company
known as “Rock-N-Row.” My cushy corporate life with a
secure paycheck became a distant memory as I spent my
days outside in the sun, wind, heat, cold and snow. I
learned to row, to read the water, to steer the paddle boat
and call commands with authority, to rescue “swimmers,”
to tie appropriate knots, to belay safely and entertain the
adventurous folk who came to play.
My sense of self, severely undermined in the years preceding
the divorce, became stronger, and my self-esteem
grew as each day passed with new experiences—
successes and disappointments. I learned not to take life
so seriously, and to be able to laugh at myself. My physical
self benefited from the outdoor challenges and I liked
the person I was freeing myself to be. The new man in my
life – my best friend - appreciated my inner and outer qualities and we
enjoy skiing, climbing, rafting, hiking and even sky diving on occasion.
To emerge from the soft, safe, corporate computer world
into the sometimes brutal realities of outdoor life was a
wake-up call. Two near-death experiences—one as a result
from a flip in a Class IV rapid at high water and the other
from a rock shelf breaking loose above me as I belayed a
climber - taught me that if I planned to take risks, they
should be calculated. I carried my motto of “No Fear” into
my professional and personal life and learned to trust in
me—my decisions, my emotions, the person I am. The
winter before my dramatic life changes was one of discontent,
yet the time since has been one of affirming life and
reawakening my soul. I can honestly say, no matter the
situation, “It’s all good.” For what is the alternative?
Patty LaTaille
Published in Chicken Soup for the Working Woman's Soul, 2003
work to earn money. My belief is that you should work to
live, not live to work. Your job should not completely
define the person you are, but since it will be the activity
you spend most of your time at, you should find meaning
and enjoyment in your work.
I lost sight of my perspective in exchange for
respectability, prestige and the lure of a good paycheck.
Having joined the workforce with a degree in sociology
and a background in physical education, I initially jumped
into a position as a recreation counselor with “at risk” adolescents
in a residential facility. It was hard, draining work,
but rewarding and meaningful. I felt similarly about my
next position as the Teen Talk/Crisis Line director at a suicide
prevention and crisis center. I enjoyed making a connection
and “being there” for the teenagers, but the
emotional involvement and constant availability wore me
out physically at an early age. My decision to return to
school to pursue a graduate degree in journalism was
based on my dream to write and perform communications
work for a nonprofit organization whose mission I could
support wholeheartedly.
Instead, I found myself at I.B.M., first as an intern, then
five years later as a Web site manager and corporate communications
writer/editor. While my position at I.B.M.
afforded me the realization of dreams such as travel to
exotic destinations and a large home on acreage in the
Rocky Mountains, it did nothing to inspire me or feed my
soul that I felt was in the process of slowly shriveling. So,
on the verge of the breakup in my ten-year marriage and
the recovery from a major mental meltdown and depression,
I opted to take a severance package and “find
myself.”
Two weeks later, a flyer advertising for white water raft
guide certification training caught my eye as I found
myself alone at the library on a Saturday night. The rest,
as it is said, is history.
At age thirty-four, I discovered a new calling. I became
the one female raft and rockclimbing guide for a company
known as “Rock-N-Row.” My cushy corporate life with a
secure paycheck became a distant memory as I spent my
days outside in the sun, wind, heat, cold and snow. I
learned to row, to read the water, to steer the paddle boat
and call commands with authority, to rescue “swimmers,”
to tie appropriate knots, to belay safely and entertain the
adventurous folk who came to play.
My sense of self, severely undermined in the years preceding
the divorce, became stronger, and my self-esteem
grew as each day passed with new experiences—
successes and disappointments. I learned not to take life
so seriously, and to be able to laugh at myself. My physical
self benefited from the outdoor challenges and I liked
the person I was freeing myself to be. The new man in my
life – my best friend - appreciated my inner and outer qualities and we
enjoy skiing, climbing, rafting, hiking and even sky diving on occasion.
To emerge from the soft, safe, corporate computer world
into the sometimes brutal realities of outdoor life was a
wake-up call. Two near-death experiences—one as a result
from a flip in a Class IV rapid at high water and the other
from a rock shelf breaking loose above me as I belayed a
climber - taught me that if I planned to take risks, they
should be calculated. I carried my motto of “No Fear” into
my professional and personal life and learned to trust in
me—my decisions, my emotions, the person I am. The
winter before my dramatic life changes was one of discontent,
yet the time since has been one of affirming life and
reawakening my soul. I can honestly say, no matter the
situation, “It’s all good.” For what is the alternative?
Patty LaTaille
Published in Chicken Soup for the Working Woman's Soul, 2003
Greetings
Hey now, Friends, Readers, "Followers",
hope these vignettes are entertaining and worth the read. It's definitely a gift to be able to share my stories with you all - and the proverbial masses ;-).
Enjoy - and keep the comments/feedback coming!
Peace,
Patty
hope these vignettes are entertaining and worth the read. It's definitely a gift to be able to share my stories with you all - and the proverbial masses ;-).
Enjoy - and keep the comments/feedback coming!
Peace,
Patty
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Barnyard Attachments
Caring for farm animals in today’s ultra high tech and modernized age can be a refreshingly innocent and unpretentious past time. Raising baby goats can actually help reduce your trepidation and profound cynicism of the world’s current state of affairs down to manageable levels.
I now know where the expression “Jumping for Joy” originated. I’ve been the mountain for numerous “King of the Mountain” games with three nanny goats competing to climb on top of my head and shoulders. Not many newborns are as cute and friendly as little kid goats, racing around within hours of their birth. Rubbing their little nubbins – tiny horns beginning to sprout on the heads of month-old kid goats – is similar to petting a dog; those tiny goats like to nuzzle in so sweetly.
These baby goat scenarios had been completely outside of my realm of knowledge or experience until recently. Having been born and raised on Long Island, close to Queens (a New York City borough), I might have seen a goat maybe once - on a visit to the Catskill Game Farm. I remember being slightly terrified of all the tame “wildlife”, and sure enough, there exists aging photos of my brother, sister and I crying our eyes out on that family vacation.
Strange to think that I now live on mini-ranch – 121 acres of flat prairie land with stunning views of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range – in the San Luis Valley of Colorado. My husband Jack, a native of the state, grew up in a ranching family near Trinidad. Life didn’t seem complete to him without acreage, a flock of chickens, a couple of geese and dairy goats to milk and make cheese from.
I was one of those “city girls” who always wanted to live on a farm. I had the romantic dreams of living in an old farmhouse surrounded by bucolic beauty, with cows and goats and lots of chickens -- and of course, gentle steeds for me and my farmer/cowboy sweetie to ride off into the sunset with. As a vegetarian and animal lover, I had looked forward to pastoral peace, hay rides, sweet tempered and well-cared for livestock and a pig named Wilbur. No animal would die on my farm unless it was due to natural causes.
Along came the reality check. Factor in the cost and expense of feed along with your time investment, and gentle horses that respond to my whistle are still a dream away. Our first goats were Lido and Patch who were purchased from neighbors up the road. Jack surprised me with the gift and I accompanied him to choose my goats. Lido the white La Mancha turned out to be unafraid of anyone or anything, and was aggressively friendly to humans, and literally a “butthead” to all other barnyard inhabitants. Timid Patch, the burnished brown Nubian with big white floppy ears, became Mama to three hungry nanny goats – Scout, Sally and the runt Bambi.
Lido lost her babies two months shy of her due date, so Patch had been our only hope for kids and the accompanying milk to make goat cheese. Since I had never even heard of the 4H program before moving to Colorado as an adult, the entire goat breeding, pregnancy and birth was a source of wonder and mystery to me. Bringing in Bandit - the stud Billy goat – was interesting. Not only did we have to feed his big appetite and smell his stink for a month, but he got to chase our girl goats around all day, looking for the right opportunity to mate. I considered this to be high times at Camp Goat Go Have Sex, and I was shocked to find out that we actually had to pay for his privilege.
I was impatient waiting for Patch’s pregnancy to end. Dutifully we fed her alfalfa pellets, beat pulp, alfalfa hay, table scraps and bread (she likes bagels most of all). We would take her and Lido for daily walks on our property for them to munch on their cottonwood (goat candy) leaves. Feeding them was expensive and time consuming and Jack threatened that they would have to go away if they didn’t “produce”.
Producing pets? That was a concept I was unfamiliar with. I’d always shared my life with companion cats and dogs and various pet rodents and a fish or two, but never with animals that were under the pressure to “produce.” Patch did extremely well for a yearling, giving us three nanny goats and producing almost a gallon of milk daily. I had argued for Lido to stay in spite of her shortcomings.
When Spring finally arrived – and with it came warm temperatures, green grass growing, more eggs to hunt for, daily swims for the geese in their kiddie pool – and baby goats!
I missed the main miracle – the actual birth – while fidgeting in a community meeting during my workday. Jack notified me by phone that the babies were here – two fine and healthy and the little “pinko” (runt) that might not make it. He asked me to pick up bottles and nipples so that we could bottle feed her. Off I raced to the store, wildly excited that Patch’s pregnancy had finally come to an end and I could now experience the little kids.
“Bambi” (the runt) arrived as a damp pile, left in a forlorn heap in the corral with the rain and sleet pelting her tiny newborn self. Patch was too busy to care for her as she continued to birth the remaining triplets that were now arriving in a warm barn with Jack’s assistance.
As he left the barn, he heard a faint noise over the storm and searched for the source of the tiny bleats, finding the runt hypothermic and barely hanging on to life.
Jack carefully picked up the tiny two pound “pinko” and cradled her under his sweatshirt to keep her warm. Later he wrapped her in a towel and placed her on the dog bed in the back of our green Subaru Forester.
By the time I arrived home, Patch was exhausted but eating, Sally and Scout were wobbling around on their newfound legs and the little runt was still alive, so fragile and making little mewing kitten noises. We took her home and placed her in a cardboard box in the warm kitchen. Getting her to drink from a bottle when she could barely stand upright was a challenge. Her hooves were clear gelatinous lumps at the end of her spindly legs – legs that played out and sent her sprawling, reminiscent of Bambi on the ice pond with Thumper.
I marveled at her delicate mocha brown-colored form and petite little features. She was tiny and frail as I cradled her in my lap, determined that she was going to live. Overnight her hooves hardened and turned black. She tried her best to stand without swaying.
Her sisters were strong and sturdy and appeared to be thriving in comparison to Bambi’s puniness. Patch ignored Bambi after the second day, no longer recognizing her smell, and we fed the baby when we milked Patch, helping her stand and brace herself to latch onto her mama’s teat. She was still too weak to butt her head or “punch” Patch’s bag to bring the milk down, but we made sure she drank her fill and tottered away with a huge pot belly full of rich mama’s milk.
Too delicate to leave with aggressive Lido and her rambunctious sisters, Bambi joined our household in a human/dog/baby goat capacity. Bottle fed and cuddled similar to a human child, she soon slept in her box amidst the dog beds and spent her days in the yard with Maya, the black and white border-collie lab mix, and Kharma, the jealous four-month-old tan dachshund and Mexican beach dog puppy mix. None too pleased with the attention being showered on Bambi that had most recently been hers, Kharma spent her days trying to terrorize our mini-goat.
Having been severely reprimanded to leave Bambi alone, along with the ubiquitous command to “Be Nice”, Kharma harassed the baby goat on the sly. I responded to many bleats of distress, most of which seemed to come from the shallow window well where Bambi always seemed to end up. After scooping out the baby goat to put back into the yard, I wondered why Bambi kept falling in there when she knew there was no way to get out.
After observing Kharma’s antics one day, I realized that the puppy actually herded the baby goat to the edge of the window well and then nonchalantly “hipchecked” her in. Bambi would cry, I would pick her out of the well and then Kharma’s harassment tactics (including racing alongside and biting on her legs as well as jumping on top to dominate) would begin again. After awhile, Bambi began jumping in the window well on her own to avoid contact with Kharma. Smart goat.
Bambi was better house-trained than the puppy for the first couple of weeks. She would be taken outside at night for a final pee and then placed in her box until the next morning. She learned to hold it through the night and would take care of her business outside in the morning.
Then Bambi got bigger and Kharma mellowed out. They all rode together in the back of the Subaru going on trips as far away as Ludlow (2.5 hours away.) Bambi visited the Big R Feed Store in Alamosa, where she was petted and even kissed by customers and employees. She became a very social goat, racing up to see us and hanging close to her human herd during house construction.
If lap space was available, Bambi was in it. She competed with Kharma to see who could get in my lap first and stubbornly kept her place, even with Kharma lying on her head. Jack warned me that while it may be cute now, it would cease to be so amusing when the goat weighs 100 pounds.
The deal was that she could keep coming home with us at night as long as she fit in her box. At one month old, Bambi could still fit, but she wouldn’t stay in her box. One night she cleared the four foot doggie gate and wound up in our bedroom. Jack marveled at her athleticism as she was only 18 inches tall at the time. But that was her last night here at her human home. Then she overnighted in the barn with the other goats, but still spent the days with Jack, entertaining him as he worked by demonstrating her “Matrix moves” off the walls and by spontaneously leaping sideways for joy.
One afternoon I was gathering eggs and watching the babies run, jump and play after our daily goat and dog walk. Out of the corral, away from big mean Lido, they were constantly butting heads and rearing up in a playful manner. I placed the basket of eggs carefully on top of the Subaru, meaning to put them away as soon as I finished the chores. A few minutes later, Jack stepped into the barn and asked me if I had left the egg basket on top of the car. When I nodded, he sighed and held the door open, inviting me to come view the devastation.
Have I mentioned that goats like to climb? Especially little curious baby goats who find climbing on cars and leaving scratches and hoof prints on the hood especially entertaining.
With remnants of eggs dripping from the roof and green exterior of the Subaru, little Sally was now bucking and kicking and racing down the driveway, with the basket firmly affixed to her head and shoulders.
Not having realized that those silly goats would immediately hop on the car to investigate the basket, I laughed at my naiveté and at the baby goat still trying to free herself from the wicked wicker. Now that was a lesson learned – and all goats were kept inside the corral when cars parked in the driveway from that point on.
When Patch became “knocked up” again, she was pretty feisty and always ravenous. One morning, I had opened the barn door to let the “hungry hordes” out and she appeared with a feed bucket slung around her neck. It took awhile to corner her and yank it off – she was a bit freaked out by that scary thing attached to her.
Bambi’s winter coat grew in. She was a fuzzy little one and still cute and small enough to ride in the back of the Subaru with the dogs. Bambi had figured out how to help me round up the chickens at night. With her bucking and leaping and racing around, she managed to run the chickens inside the barn. She continued to play hard while accomplishing the objective.
Along with Patch’s girth and appetite increase, we noticed a size increase in little Bambi overall. She metamorphosed into a real (albeit still small) goat, seemingly overnight. When Jack noticed her little bag getting fuller and her midsection expanding, we realized that Bandit had accomplished his mission only too well. Now we had two preggo goats, with one being a high-risk situation. We watched Bambi carefully – there was no way this tiny goat could have a number of kids safely.
Patch gave birth to three little nannies, whose coloring prompted their naming: Mocha, Latte & Cappuccino. The babies were healthy enough, although two seemed a bit premature and their hooves & ankles were too weak for them to stand properly. When I came home to this latest miracle, I immediately scooped them up and asked Jack to please do something, especially for the sweet white Latte, who could barely stand. Although Jack was of the mind-set that some kids just shouldn’t make it – natural selection and all that – he agreed to make splints for their crippled legs.
Out came the duct tape and stiff cardboard from toilet paper rolls. While I held the wiggling, squealing kids, with Latte giving true meaning to the expression “The squeaky wheel gets the grease”, Jack wrapped up their tiny legs to give them the support to stand. As they hobbled off, Jack shook his head at the loudly bleating Latte. “That one was coyote bait for sure,” he said quietly. Patch seemed to agree as she took Mocha & Cappuccino to nurse and warded off little Latte. We had to put Patch’s head in a stanchion so the little runt could nurse.
Two days later the casts were off and the babies cavorted freely around the corral. It appeared that they were all going to make it just fine, with a little extra TLC for Latte. She took to being a lap goat in no time. With a soft white coat and long eyelashes, she was like a little fawn and loved to be cuddled. When it was “Lap time” after chores, Mocha & Cappuccino loved to jump right in as well. Luckily Bambi was merely curious and not aggressive to the kids.
While we enjoyed the baby goat games, we continued to watch Bambi carefully, anxiously awaiting the big day. My close girlfriends – the Goddess Girls – stopped by on their way to Joyful Journey Hot Springs to pick me up and spent a few minutes admiring our new barnyard critters. As we stood in the corral petting baby goats, Danielle looked at Bambi and commented, “It’s show time!” Bambi was leaning against the fence, panting and straining. My first reaction was denial, because Jack was out on a long hike with the dogs and what did I know about birthing baby goats?! But I knew it was time, and as I watched, Bambi’s yellow-tinted amniotic fluid sac popped out and splashed as it hit the ground. With none of us having given birth, we still knew enough about the process in that the water had broken and birthing had begun. But something seemed wrong. Bambi was in distress and no little creature seemed to be coming out.
As the girls gathered around Bambi, now lying on the ground and straining mightily, we looked at each other with anxious expressions and out came the cell phones to call Jack. He answered and I excitedly told him that Bambi was giving birth but it seemed to be a crisis situation. He was twenty five minutes away and I knew that Bambi could wear herself out and the baby die if something wasn’t done sooner. Shannon no sooner said “She looks like she needs help,” and there I was pulling off my hoodie and lying down behind Bambi, trying to see a sign of the baby. There was a teeny hoof poking out and I tried to grab it, hoping mightily that the kid was turned face forward and not breech. After managing to catch hold of two slick hooves, I tugged gently and a little snout appeared. So far, so good - as I kept guiding the little baby goat out of the birth canal with blood, fluid and the embryonic cord trailing out on top of me. As the complete baby goat finally made her appearance, a collective “Awwww…” came from the girls as digital cameras kept flashing and we all shared in the miracle of birth.
Once the nanny was out and amazingly already trying to stand, I laid her next to her mama’s head, hoping Bambi would accept her. Then we stood there watching uncertainly until Jack appeared and grabbed my sweatshirt to rub her down and warm her up. Then Bambi started to sniff her baby and lick her clean. A sense of relief flooded through the group and I had an inspiration. “She’s the Goddess Goat,” I announced with joy. Murmurs of agreement marked the moment.
Jack gave me a sideways smile and said “Your first birthing experience – you did well. Not bad for a city girl.” Proud of my accomplishment, I spent the next few days announcing to friends and family that I was now a goat Doula and I watched with pride as the Goddess Goat grew into our sturdiest kid of show quality.
Bambi became a conscientious mama goat and took good care of Goddess, in addition to providing plenty of milk for all of us. It was comforting to see them together – Bambi finally had a friend in the barnyard. Not much older that the kid herself, Bambi would play and cavort with Goddess, even as Goddess grew at a rate that would soon surpass Bambi’s diminutive size.
Nearly three months passed before we came home to drama, and then trauma, with Goddess Goat. That beautiful strong healthy creature had blood dripping down her left leg from a deep gash just above her knee. She favored the leg, barely putting any weight on it – it looked nasty. Jack took one look and said that she had severed her tendon and that was basically it for her. I insisted that he hold her still while I washed off her leg with antiseptic to see how serious the wound was. It was deep, but healing, and just seeing how her leg swung almost uselessly, I knew this was bad. Within a few days, I noticed that the wound had healed, but Goddess was still limping badly and Jack did not seem optimistic. Fortunately, a few weeks later we had the animals out for a walk – six leaping jumping silly goats – and Jack remarked that Goddess goat would never be healed, but she was learning to live with her disability. One could barely notice her affected gait.
During winter preparation and maintenance in the barn/shed, we found out too late that there was a hole in the fence big enough for a goat to squeeze through, especially a little runt goat who’s specialty was breaking and entering. I found Bambi gorging herself literally to death after removing all four feed bin lids and helping herself to flaked corn, chicken scratch, alfalfa pellets and sweet mix. Not having the knowledge of the ramifications to this act, I chased her outside and admonished her as a “Bad goat”. I informed Jack when he came home and he looked concerned, saying that if she makes it through the night, she would probably live. I looked at him in horror. “What do you mean, If?” I questioned. “How do you die from eating too much?” Sure – bloating – an upset stomach – that all made sense. Where did the specter of death enter this scenario?
Jack explained that goats have four stomachs and if they eat too much rich grain or feed, the digestion slows down and the natural enzymes are overcome by the growth of bacteria that are common in their stomachs but go haywire in this case. The condition is known as
Enterotoxemia and is often fatal.
The next day Bambi was still with us, but obviously very ill and in major discomfort. Her baby Goddess stayed close and I watched them together. Bambi didn’t join us for our nightly walk. I patted her and her baby and brought them inside the barn for the night.
The next day I entered the barn and saw Bambi’s head and neck at an unnatural angle and knew immediately that my favorite goat had died during the night. Goddess, however, didn’t realize that her Mama was gone. She bleated and cried the whole day, confused and wandered around searching for her. The other goats shunned her presence, except Latte who on occasion seemed almost grateful that now there was another pariah to take her place.
This was almost too much to bear. To lose my precious Bambi goat and have a little crippled orphan nanny to take care of was breaking my heart. Then to find out that that there does exist a vaccine to administer directly after an overeating incident which could prevent the bacterial overgrowth was a final kick in the heart.
While I realize that these losses are a part of life – and for animal lovers such as me – one of the more difficult life lessons that we learn at some level – my overriding reaction was “I am not cut out for this.”
To have formed such a strong attachment with a barnyard animal – not technically a pet – but not the usual livestock creature either – was a risk. Every relationship – every human-animal bond - becomes a leap of faith. Thankfully many human and animal friendships turn out to be longer in length and intensity. Bambi lived with us for 18 months and her death – while not a tragedy to many – is a significant loss in my life.
Excerpt from my book "Little House on the Modern Prairie" (in progress) and published in the January 2008 issue of the Colorado Central magazine.
I now know where the expression “Jumping for Joy” originated. I’ve been the mountain for numerous “King of the Mountain” games with three nanny goats competing to climb on top of my head and shoulders. Not many newborns are as cute and friendly as little kid goats, racing around within hours of their birth. Rubbing their little nubbins – tiny horns beginning to sprout on the heads of month-old kid goats – is similar to petting a dog; those tiny goats like to nuzzle in so sweetly.
These baby goat scenarios had been completely outside of my realm of knowledge or experience until recently. Having been born and raised on Long Island, close to Queens (a New York City borough), I might have seen a goat maybe once - on a visit to the Catskill Game Farm. I remember being slightly terrified of all the tame “wildlife”, and sure enough, there exists aging photos of my brother, sister and I crying our eyes out on that family vacation.
Strange to think that I now live on mini-ranch – 121 acres of flat prairie land with stunning views of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range – in the San Luis Valley of Colorado. My husband Jack, a native of the state, grew up in a ranching family near Trinidad. Life didn’t seem complete to him without acreage, a flock of chickens, a couple of geese and dairy goats to milk and make cheese from.
I was one of those “city girls” who always wanted to live on a farm. I had the romantic dreams of living in an old farmhouse surrounded by bucolic beauty, with cows and goats and lots of chickens -- and of course, gentle steeds for me and my farmer/cowboy sweetie to ride off into the sunset with. As a vegetarian and animal lover, I had looked forward to pastoral peace, hay rides, sweet tempered and well-cared for livestock and a pig named Wilbur. No animal would die on my farm unless it was due to natural causes.
Along came the reality check. Factor in the cost and expense of feed along with your time investment, and gentle horses that respond to my whistle are still a dream away. Our first goats were Lido and Patch who were purchased from neighbors up the road. Jack surprised me with the gift and I accompanied him to choose my goats. Lido the white La Mancha turned out to be unafraid of anyone or anything, and was aggressively friendly to humans, and literally a “butthead” to all other barnyard inhabitants. Timid Patch, the burnished brown Nubian with big white floppy ears, became Mama to three hungry nanny goats – Scout, Sally and the runt Bambi.
Lido lost her babies two months shy of her due date, so Patch had been our only hope for kids and the accompanying milk to make goat cheese. Since I had never even heard of the 4H program before moving to Colorado as an adult, the entire goat breeding, pregnancy and birth was a source of wonder and mystery to me. Bringing in Bandit - the stud Billy goat – was interesting. Not only did we have to feed his big appetite and smell his stink for a month, but he got to chase our girl goats around all day, looking for the right opportunity to mate. I considered this to be high times at Camp Goat Go Have Sex, and I was shocked to find out that we actually had to pay for his privilege.
I was impatient waiting for Patch’s pregnancy to end. Dutifully we fed her alfalfa pellets, beat pulp, alfalfa hay, table scraps and bread (she likes bagels most of all). We would take her and Lido for daily walks on our property for them to munch on their cottonwood (goat candy) leaves. Feeding them was expensive and time consuming and Jack threatened that they would have to go away if they didn’t “produce”.
Producing pets? That was a concept I was unfamiliar with. I’d always shared my life with companion cats and dogs and various pet rodents and a fish or two, but never with animals that were under the pressure to “produce.” Patch did extremely well for a yearling, giving us three nanny goats and producing almost a gallon of milk daily. I had argued for Lido to stay in spite of her shortcomings.
When Spring finally arrived – and with it came warm temperatures, green grass growing, more eggs to hunt for, daily swims for the geese in their kiddie pool – and baby goats!
I missed the main miracle – the actual birth – while fidgeting in a community meeting during my workday. Jack notified me by phone that the babies were here – two fine and healthy and the little “pinko” (runt) that might not make it. He asked me to pick up bottles and nipples so that we could bottle feed her. Off I raced to the store, wildly excited that Patch’s pregnancy had finally come to an end and I could now experience the little kids.
“Bambi” (the runt) arrived as a damp pile, left in a forlorn heap in the corral with the rain and sleet pelting her tiny newborn self. Patch was too busy to care for her as she continued to birth the remaining triplets that were now arriving in a warm barn with Jack’s assistance.
As he left the barn, he heard a faint noise over the storm and searched for the source of the tiny bleats, finding the runt hypothermic and barely hanging on to life.
Jack carefully picked up the tiny two pound “pinko” and cradled her under his sweatshirt to keep her warm. Later he wrapped her in a towel and placed her on the dog bed in the back of our green Subaru Forester.
By the time I arrived home, Patch was exhausted but eating, Sally and Scout were wobbling around on their newfound legs and the little runt was still alive, so fragile and making little mewing kitten noises. We took her home and placed her in a cardboard box in the warm kitchen. Getting her to drink from a bottle when she could barely stand upright was a challenge. Her hooves were clear gelatinous lumps at the end of her spindly legs – legs that played out and sent her sprawling, reminiscent of Bambi on the ice pond with Thumper.
I marveled at her delicate mocha brown-colored form and petite little features. She was tiny and frail as I cradled her in my lap, determined that she was going to live. Overnight her hooves hardened and turned black. She tried her best to stand without swaying.
Her sisters were strong and sturdy and appeared to be thriving in comparison to Bambi’s puniness. Patch ignored Bambi after the second day, no longer recognizing her smell, and we fed the baby when we milked Patch, helping her stand and brace herself to latch onto her mama’s teat. She was still too weak to butt her head or “punch” Patch’s bag to bring the milk down, but we made sure she drank her fill and tottered away with a huge pot belly full of rich mama’s milk.
Too delicate to leave with aggressive Lido and her rambunctious sisters, Bambi joined our household in a human/dog/baby goat capacity. Bottle fed and cuddled similar to a human child, she soon slept in her box amidst the dog beds and spent her days in the yard with Maya, the black and white border-collie lab mix, and Kharma, the jealous four-month-old tan dachshund and Mexican beach dog puppy mix. None too pleased with the attention being showered on Bambi that had most recently been hers, Kharma spent her days trying to terrorize our mini-goat.
Having been severely reprimanded to leave Bambi alone, along with the ubiquitous command to “Be Nice”, Kharma harassed the baby goat on the sly. I responded to many bleats of distress, most of which seemed to come from the shallow window well where Bambi always seemed to end up. After scooping out the baby goat to put back into the yard, I wondered why Bambi kept falling in there when she knew there was no way to get out.
After observing Kharma’s antics one day, I realized that the puppy actually herded the baby goat to the edge of the window well and then nonchalantly “hipchecked” her in. Bambi would cry, I would pick her out of the well and then Kharma’s harassment tactics (including racing alongside and biting on her legs as well as jumping on top to dominate) would begin again. After awhile, Bambi began jumping in the window well on her own to avoid contact with Kharma. Smart goat.
Bambi was better house-trained than the puppy for the first couple of weeks. She would be taken outside at night for a final pee and then placed in her box until the next morning. She learned to hold it through the night and would take care of her business outside in the morning.
Then Bambi got bigger and Kharma mellowed out. They all rode together in the back of the Subaru going on trips as far away as Ludlow (2.5 hours away.) Bambi visited the Big R Feed Store in Alamosa, where she was petted and even kissed by customers and employees. She became a very social goat, racing up to see us and hanging close to her human herd during house construction.
If lap space was available, Bambi was in it. She competed with Kharma to see who could get in my lap first and stubbornly kept her place, even with Kharma lying on her head. Jack warned me that while it may be cute now, it would cease to be so amusing when the goat weighs 100 pounds.
The deal was that she could keep coming home with us at night as long as she fit in her box. At one month old, Bambi could still fit, but she wouldn’t stay in her box. One night she cleared the four foot doggie gate and wound up in our bedroom. Jack marveled at her athleticism as she was only 18 inches tall at the time. But that was her last night here at her human home. Then she overnighted in the barn with the other goats, but still spent the days with Jack, entertaining him as he worked by demonstrating her “Matrix moves” off the walls and by spontaneously leaping sideways for joy.
One afternoon I was gathering eggs and watching the babies run, jump and play after our daily goat and dog walk. Out of the corral, away from big mean Lido, they were constantly butting heads and rearing up in a playful manner. I placed the basket of eggs carefully on top of the Subaru, meaning to put them away as soon as I finished the chores. A few minutes later, Jack stepped into the barn and asked me if I had left the egg basket on top of the car. When I nodded, he sighed and held the door open, inviting me to come view the devastation.
Have I mentioned that goats like to climb? Especially little curious baby goats who find climbing on cars and leaving scratches and hoof prints on the hood especially entertaining.
With remnants of eggs dripping from the roof and green exterior of the Subaru, little Sally was now bucking and kicking and racing down the driveway, with the basket firmly affixed to her head and shoulders.
Not having realized that those silly goats would immediately hop on the car to investigate the basket, I laughed at my naiveté and at the baby goat still trying to free herself from the wicked wicker. Now that was a lesson learned – and all goats were kept inside the corral when cars parked in the driveway from that point on.
When Patch became “knocked up” again, she was pretty feisty and always ravenous. One morning, I had opened the barn door to let the “hungry hordes” out and she appeared with a feed bucket slung around her neck. It took awhile to corner her and yank it off – she was a bit freaked out by that scary thing attached to her.
Bambi’s winter coat grew in. She was a fuzzy little one and still cute and small enough to ride in the back of the Subaru with the dogs. Bambi had figured out how to help me round up the chickens at night. With her bucking and leaping and racing around, she managed to run the chickens inside the barn. She continued to play hard while accomplishing the objective.
Along with Patch’s girth and appetite increase, we noticed a size increase in little Bambi overall. She metamorphosed into a real (albeit still small) goat, seemingly overnight. When Jack noticed her little bag getting fuller and her midsection expanding, we realized that Bandit had accomplished his mission only too well. Now we had two preggo goats, with one being a high-risk situation. We watched Bambi carefully – there was no way this tiny goat could have a number of kids safely.
Patch gave birth to three little nannies, whose coloring prompted their naming: Mocha, Latte & Cappuccino. The babies were healthy enough, although two seemed a bit premature and their hooves & ankles were too weak for them to stand properly. When I came home to this latest miracle, I immediately scooped them up and asked Jack to please do something, especially for the sweet white Latte, who could barely stand. Although Jack was of the mind-set that some kids just shouldn’t make it – natural selection and all that – he agreed to make splints for their crippled legs.
Out came the duct tape and stiff cardboard from toilet paper rolls. While I held the wiggling, squealing kids, with Latte giving true meaning to the expression “The squeaky wheel gets the grease”, Jack wrapped up their tiny legs to give them the support to stand. As they hobbled off, Jack shook his head at the loudly bleating Latte. “That one was coyote bait for sure,” he said quietly. Patch seemed to agree as she took Mocha & Cappuccino to nurse and warded off little Latte. We had to put Patch’s head in a stanchion so the little runt could nurse.
Two days later the casts were off and the babies cavorted freely around the corral. It appeared that they were all going to make it just fine, with a little extra TLC for Latte. She took to being a lap goat in no time. With a soft white coat and long eyelashes, she was like a little fawn and loved to be cuddled. When it was “Lap time” after chores, Mocha & Cappuccino loved to jump right in as well. Luckily Bambi was merely curious and not aggressive to the kids.
While we enjoyed the baby goat games, we continued to watch Bambi carefully, anxiously awaiting the big day. My close girlfriends – the Goddess Girls – stopped by on their way to Joyful Journey Hot Springs to pick me up and spent a few minutes admiring our new barnyard critters. As we stood in the corral petting baby goats, Danielle looked at Bambi and commented, “It’s show time!” Bambi was leaning against the fence, panting and straining. My first reaction was denial, because Jack was out on a long hike with the dogs and what did I know about birthing baby goats?! But I knew it was time, and as I watched, Bambi’s yellow-tinted amniotic fluid sac popped out and splashed as it hit the ground. With none of us having given birth, we still knew enough about the process in that the water had broken and birthing had begun. But something seemed wrong. Bambi was in distress and no little creature seemed to be coming out.
As the girls gathered around Bambi, now lying on the ground and straining mightily, we looked at each other with anxious expressions and out came the cell phones to call Jack. He answered and I excitedly told him that Bambi was giving birth but it seemed to be a crisis situation. He was twenty five minutes away and I knew that Bambi could wear herself out and the baby die if something wasn’t done sooner. Shannon no sooner said “She looks like she needs help,” and there I was pulling off my hoodie and lying down behind Bambi, trying to see a sign of the baby. There was a teeny hoof poking out and I tried to grab it, hoping mightily that the kid was turned face forward and not breech. After managing to catch hold of two slick hooves, I tugged gently and a little snout appeared. So far, so good - as I kept guiding the little baby goat out of the birth canal with blood, fluid and the embryonic cord trailing out on top of me. As the complete baby goat finally made her appearance, a collective “Awwww…” came from the girls as digital cameras kept flashing and we all shared in the miracle of birth.
Once the nanny was out and amazingly already trying to stand, I laid her next to her mama’s head, hoping Bambi would accept her. Then we stood there watching uncertainly until Jack appeared and grabbed my sweatshirt to rub her down and warm her up. Then Bambi started to sniff her baby and lick her clean. A sense of relief flooded through the group and I had an inspiration. “She’s the Goddess Goat,” I announced with joy. Murmurs of agreement marked the moment.
Jack gave me a sideways smile and said “Your first birthing experience – you did well. Not bad for a city girl.” Proud of my accomplishment, I spent the next few days announcing to friends and family that I was now a goat Doula and I watched with pride as the Goddess Goat grew into our sturdiest kid of show quality.
Bambi became a conscientious mama goat and took good care of Goddess, in addition to providing plenty of milk for all of us. It was comforting to see them together – Bambi finally had a friend in the barnyard. Not much older that the kid herself, Bambi would play and cavort with Goddess, even as Goddess grew at a rate that would soon surpass Bambi’s diminutive size.
Nearly three months passed before we came home to drama, and then trauma, with Goddess Goat. That beautiful strong healthy creature had blood dripping down her left leg from a deep gash just above her knee. She favored the leg, barely putting any weight on it – it looked nasty. Jack took one look and said that she had severed her tendon and that was basically it for her. I insisted that he hold her still while I washed off her leg with antiseptic to see how serious the wound was. It was deep, but healing, and just seeing how her leg swung almost uselessly, I knew this was bad. Within a few days, I noticed that the wound had healed, but Goddess was still limping badly and Jack did not seem optimistic. Fortunately, a few weeks later we had the animals out for a walk – six leaping jumping silly goats – and Jack remarked that Goddess goat would never be healed, but she was learning to live with her disability. One could barely notice her affected gait.
During winter preparation and maintenance in the barn/shed, we found out too late that there was a hole in the fence big enough for a goat to squeeze through, especially a little runt goat who’s specialty was breaking and entering. I found Bambi gorging herself literally to death after removing all four feed bin lids and helping herself to flaked corn, chicken scratch, alfalfa pellets and sweet mix. Not having the knowledge of the ramifications to this act, I chased her outside and admonished her as a “Bad goat”. I informed Jack when he came home and he looked concerned, saying that if she makes it through the night, she would probably live. I looked at him in horror. “What do you mean, If?” I questioned. “How do you die from eating too much?” Sure – bloating – an upset stomach – that all made sense. Where did the specter of death enter this scenario?
Jack explained that goats have four stomachs and if they eat too much rich grain or feed, the digestion slows down and the natural enzymes are overcome by the growth of bacteria that are common in their stomachs but go haywire in this case. The condition is known as
Enterotoxemia and is often fatal.
The next day Bambi was still with us, but obviously very ill and in major discomfort. Her baby Goddess stayed close and I watched them together. Bambi didn’t join us for our nightly walk. I patted her and her baby and brought them inside the barn for the night.
The next day I entered the barn and saw Bambi’s head and neck at an unnatural angle and knew immediately that my favorite goat had died during the night. Goddess, however, didn’t realize that her Mama was gone. She bleated and cried the whole day, confused and wandered around searching for her. The other goats shunned her presence, except Latte who on occasion seemed almost grateful that now there was another pariah to take her place.
This was almost too much to bear. To lose my precious Bambi goat and have a little crippled orphan nanny to take care of was breaking my heart. Then to find out that that there does exist a vaccine to administer directly after an overeating incident which could prevent the bacterial overgrowth was a final kick in the heart.
While I realize that these losses are a part of life – and for animal lovers such as me – one of the more difficult life lessons that we learn at some level – my overriding reaction was “I am not cut out for this.”
To have formed such a strong attachment with a barnyard animal – not technically a pet – but not the usual livestock creature either – was a risk. Every relationship – every human-animal bond - becomes a leap of faith. Thankfully many human and animal friendships turn out to be longer in length and intensity. Bambi lived with us for 18 months and her death – while not a tragedy to many – is a significant loss in my life.
Excerpt from my book "Little House on the Modern Prairie" (in progress) and published in the January 2008 issue of the Colorado Central magazine.
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