Emmitt, my new best friend

Its about the funniest thing Ive ever heard.
I was sitting in the Ennenga’s living room. Typing away on a blog piece, early in the morning. I thought that Steve’s wife, Shannon, was gone to work. Steve was still in bed.
Shannon’s voice, to me: Good morning.
I look up. No Shannon. I see the source of the voice. I laugh.
Later, I hear the phone ring, and I hear Steve’s voice answer. Hello. Uh huh…okay, good, man. Okay, man. Uh huh. Okay, man, Talk to you later, man, Alright man. Bye. Bye.
Beeep, and the phone goes off.
Then I hear laughing, chuckling, and more phone conversation, definitely Steve’s voice, and the chuckling, a whistle, a “come here, you” command, and more talk, followed by knocking sounds and a few words I couldn’t make out. I heard the dogs barking and a stern reprimand from Steve for the dog to be quiet. Except…….
No sign of Steve. No sign of Shannon. Steve was indeed sleeping. Shannon was indeed at school, where she works. It was just me, and my new little buddy, Emmitt, their African Gray parrot, whose gift of mimicry is,in a word, priceless.

I go to the mountain, mountain comes to me

So what is it like to be 14000 feet up?
It’s exhilarating. It’s cold. And it is, in a word, fun.
And it is exhausting.
I didn’t walk up. I’m resting, remember? I rode up to the top, or near the top with Frank Turner, Sandy Butler and Bette Mathisen, in Frank’s Jeep Cherokee. We rode for what seemed like hours, following a narrow but paved roads to the parking area near Summit Lake at the top of Mount Evans. It is the highest paved highway in the USA and it seemed like it. As the smaller hills fell away, the reality of climbing up almost 20 miles of twisting and winding hairpin turns hit. One second, I’d be looking out my window at rock walls, the next, after a hairpin turn, a sheer drop of hundreds of feet, and not a guardrail or fence in sight. Nervous drivers need not apply here. The cars are only allowed to go so far, and then a winding switchback walking trail takes you the few hundred feet further to the summit. It’s still almost a mile of walking, I estimate, and it’s a tough mile. But with proper rest, it’s easily do-able.
There were a surprising number of people who paid 18 dollars to enter the road up to the mountain top. Many were on bicycles, and they were, to a person, noticeably wheezing and huffing and puffing. It was not that they were out of shape, just not used to the altitude. The altitude, to a “flatlander” like myself, can be daunting and a huge obstacle. Signs warning of altitude sickness were present in several places. What happens when you climb ever higher is that the amount of oxygen in the air isn’t what your body is used to, and your brain, when deprived of its usual amount, begins to play tricks on you. You might feel dizzy and lightheaded. You might feel nauseous, get headaches or nosebleeds. You might even pass out. And you definitely will get tired quickly. I found that by breathing deeper, and more slowly, the symptoms went away fairly easily. And by the time I was at the very peak of the mountain I was good to go, as they say. The other factor that didn’t affect me, but did others, was the cold and wind. A little common sense goes a long way here, and though the temperature didn’t get much below 45 degrees at the top, there were a lot of shorts-wearing tourist types, shivering, and schlumping around in inappropriate sandals or other skimpy footwear, risking a bad fall or slip at each step. This mountain, while easily accessible, does not do it for you. You need to be prepared, and a little bit of planning goes a long, long way. It’s not a place to prove how tough or daring you are. You need to know your limits, listen to your body, and act accordingly.
The above said, I did listen to my body, and when I got lightheaded, I drank water, a recommended step, as well as breathed in a bit deeper and rested a bit longer. And eventually I left my companions behind, and made it to the summit, where a brass marker is embedded in the rock. The wind was strong but not terribly so. The cold was tolerable and the view was spectacular, too much so to describe, except to use the words of my friend Steve Ennenga---It’s like you are looking out of an airplane. He was right. Snowy peaks to one side, green forested hills to the other, and a lot of glacial lakes to see, some still iced over in spots, some rippled from the winds. White hairy old mountain goats grazing on the hillsides, mountain sheep doing the same, large birds throwing shadows from the sun, as they passed in front of it, beautiful mountain wild flowers, and in the distance, small cars climbing the winding snake roads and little ant sized people strolling about. And , save for the winds and the slight sounds of awe from fellow peak climbers, a beautiful silence, 14000 feet above the din and hubbub of everyday life.
I’m fortunate to have had this moment in the sun and wind, in the company of friends and strangers. Damned fortunate.

The road not taken, yet

It’s looking like my journey is about to take a turn, about to evolve into something a bit…different.
Apparently the desert just does NOT want me to cross on foot, so I may have to change my plans.
I have been in contact with several people who live in the areas that I plan to cross through, and to a person they have told me that walking across Utah at this time of year, or almost any time of year, is a very, very bad idea. I, of course, wanna prove how tough and manly I am and wanna just scoot across, dealing with the heat and desolation of the Utah desert, the hundred mile stretches of road with no services, the rattlesnakes crawling into my tent at night as I camp, and who knows what other obstacles I might encounter. Add to that the statement by a guy who would know that I wouldnt even be able to physically carry enough water to sustain me. I wanna prove all of this wrong.
But I won’t.
I was almost convinced to take a different route, up north, through Wyoming, but that is a logistics nightmare as well, and not do-able. Then I was talking to a bike rider named Andrew Statyoo, or Statchoo, and he had ridden through the Indian reservations in northern New Mexico, and felt that while a bit desolate, it was cooler and a good option for me. But…he was on a bicycle, able to cover seventy plus miles a day. Ken Johnson, an old comrade from my school daze/days, is pretty knowledgeable about the area, and has friends who live in this section of the country as well, feels that northern Arizona and New Mexico, while difficult, are a bit easier due to still being part of the plateau that Colorado is on and is cooler. Still a very, very tough way to go, and when I get to southern California I would be near or in Death Valley, where I might be able to catch a ride. Unfortunately, there are massive forest fires in the exact spot where I would be travelling, and there is a good chance that I would not be able to make it through the area. And then there is the Indian situation. It is a sad and pathetic commentary on the state of those poor souls, who were once so noble and proud, but who now are apparently a bunch of drunken louts who mix up their mystique with alcohol, drive around like loaded guns, killing innocent people and animals, and who do not really want intruders on the land that they have been almost forced to live on by the government. A young lady of my acquaintance, who recently spent a year working as a nurse on the “rez”, as the reservation is colloquially known, has stated that my walking through there is a bad idea. There was concern about the drunks, for sure, and also something about an Navajo legend of the Skin Walkers, which is, according to Wikipedia, a type of shapeshifter that turns from human to animal, especially if you look then in the eye. I don’t understand how that concerns me, or is a danger to me, but the young lady in question lived there for a year and I trust her judgment. My friend Steve Ennenga also recently drove through there and told me that the number of crosses along the sides of the roads is unbelievable, each one representing a dead soul, human or animal. It is his opinion that it isn’t safe for me there, and would be the most dangerous place for me to go. I don’t have any other pure options, sadly, so I think I have come up with a solution that might work. And here it is: I will continue to walk westward on route 50, which dead ends in Grand Junction, Colorado, and becomes Interstate 70. From Grand Junction, I will continue westward through Utah, but on a bus or by some other conveyance, stopping where they stop, as in Salt Lake City, and will carry on this way through the deserts, until I reach California. There I will continue on my way to San Francisco, and once there will either stop, or will make a turn north towards Oregon, walking enough miles to make up for the bus rides through the desert. I know it is a compromise of sorts but I do not have a death wish, and while I do trust in the good nature of people, when alcohol and decades of bitterness are mixed in, it’s a volatile and dangerous mix. I really did want to try the reservation route but when “them that know say I better not go”, I don’t go. Hopefully my solution/compromise won’t be too much of a downer for people following me, but it is the most viable option I have, and frankly, after 500 miles of Kansas and eastern Colorado, and heat induced heart palpitations on several occasions, I have had enough hot weather. The added factor of no phone service through much of the area really puts a fine point on it for me. I’m sure some would take me to task a bit but, hey, it’s my walk. Ive come 1600 miles this far and have nothing to prove, and if I wanted to disappear like Everett Ruess, I would just walk away into the canyons and washes , and that would be that. But I don’t want to disappear. I want to finish this thing, write a book about it, move to Colorado ( I really can’t believe that I have never been here before—it seems like the one place I was meant to be) and live out the rest of my life among the sheep, elk and good friends.
So I hope this compromise works for those folks who are supporting me, encouraging me, and enjoying what I am able to send out there in words and images. I thank you all for everything. Truly.
As the song says, ”The road goes on forever…but the party never ends.”
Wait!!! There’s a party??????? Where’s my invite?

Frank, a raccoon coat and the hummingbirds....

Add one more name to the list of interesting people and places that I have met and seen: Frank Turner.
Who is Frank Turner? Well, that IS the question, isn’t it? Frank is a retired postal worker who also put in many years working for Levitz Furniture. Originally from Stratford, Connecticut, he has lived in Foxton, Colorado, just down the road a piece from Conifer, where I have been staying, for many years. Frank’s house, which we visited recently, is a small appearing and modest wooden structure high up on a hillside on a road that I can only describe as one of the most beautiful pieces of asphalt ribbon that I have yet seen in my life. As the movie and book were titled, a river runs through it. The South Platte river winds along the side of the road, past, and even underneath some of the houses on it, as it does a house owned by Frank’s lady, the lovely Sandy, a woman whose age I will not divulge, except to say that if everyone of her years looked as good as she does, our later lives would not be as depressing as they seem to be nowadays. But, I digress.
The steep hillsides and their thick stands of trees and rocky cliffs on either side of the road hide many houses and structures. Truly a wondrous place. But back to Frank Turner.
Frank is a collector, in his own words. If you are wanting an elk skull, complete with full rack, Frank has one. If you are looking for an Eskimo shaman mask with wolverine claws and hair from a different critter, he has one of those as well. Stacked in a corner in his house is a pile of deer antlers that any hunter would drool over. Frank found them all while walking in the woods near his house. There is a display case with small ivory carved tchotskes, including a frog carrying a little person (I don’t have one of those. Do you??) An ottoman made from deer antlers and fur, a raccoon coat, a rubber alien, an M&M candy phone, artwork made from butterfly wings, a ram’s horn, huge rocks that look like someone took quartz crystals and dropped them ina mixing bowl with jello, Indian arrows and artifacts, a Yoda Pez dispenser, an Austrian nutcracker that looks like a butler carrying a tray…it was all too much for me to process, but Frank has them all, and much much more.
What really fascinated me about Frank, the man, is his good nature. He is a funny and interesting man with as many stories, which he loves to tell, as he has interesting things in his house. Oh, did I mention the deaf, blue eyed dog with three pupils in his eyes? Or the furniture set that looks like Adirondack furniture on steroids? Or the table made out of one solid piece of wood? Or the zillion Tweety bird collectibles?
Speaking of birds…the most fascinating thing about Frank’s house, and by extension , Frank, is the hummingbirds. With a half dozen or more feeders hanging outside near his patio, hummingbirds by the dozen buzz and flicker and float in midair while humans stand around talking. There is a sound almost like electrical impulses in the ozone, snapping though your brain…..zzzzzt zzzzzt, all around, and when you look up, the air is thick with them. Frank says that if you stand around long enough and put your hand near the feeders they will land on your finger. I wasn’t that fortunate, but as I stood next to a feeder, they were landing on it and drinking, not afraid of me or my camera. All around the sound of other ones buzzing by my head was nonstop. Words to adequately describe the experience escape me, but it was magical.
Frank told me that one year he went through 90 pounds of sugar feeding them. He doesnt bother with red food coloring. Just water and sugar in a clear mixture. The hummingbirds actually will linger outside his kitchen window while he is mixing the stuff up for them, little redthroated, hyperactive kids, waiting for candy.
So cool, so beautiful and so memorable. And another reason for me to return someday soon.
As I said, Frank Turner is a collector, and a very very unique and interesting guy. Im proud to know him. And his lovely Sandy. And his birds.

Rocky Mountains...sigh.....

Of all of the states that I was planning to pass through on my extended little vacation, Colorado was the most exciting prospect. There were many reasons, but there was one in particular, stemming from an incident that took place a time long ago, going back to my somewhat difficult childhood.
My parents divorced when I was only about 11 years old. Their fights were legendary, and loud. There was one particular incident that comes to mind that really had a big effect on my life. It was a weekend, I think, and they were having one of their awful shouting matches, maybe there was glass breaking, and so on. Our neighbors, the Million family, two adults and two boys that I played football and wiffle ball with all the time, were going to go to a concert at Saratoga Performing Arts Center. They were getting ready to leave, and they heard the fighting going on at my house. I was outside sitting by myself, and they saw and heard all of the ruckus, and made a snap decision. I don’t remember all of the finer details of how I ended up in their car on my way to a John Denver concert, but there I was. The Millions had seats inside the amphitheater, but I had to sit outside on the lawn, where I ended up next to a family that had a really big picnic basket full of fried chicken, which rthey shared freely and gladly.
Now, John Denver was just becoming a huge star at this time, and still had his country boy schtick going on. He talked of life in Colorado, sang songs like Rocky Mountain High, and was generally the goodwill ambassador for the state, a role he carried out well, and effectively. It was one song in particular though, that really got through to me that night on the lawn: Eagle and the Hawk. After talking about the beauty of the mountains and the life that flourished there, he launched into the song, not one of his major hits but a powerful (and loud) song that rang out from the big speakers outside at Saratoga. I was sure that he could be heard for miles that night, and the memory of sitting there on a blanket, hearing the words “I am the eagle, I live in high country, in rocky cathedrals that reach to the sky” has burned itself into my psyche.
I am among those rocky cathedrals now. I am staying with Greg and Bette Mathisen at their home in Conifer, Colorado---a beautiful little place where the ugliness of the world cannot easily reach and where I think I might want to live someday.
When Bette picked me up in LaJunta yesterday for the two and a half hour ride to her house, I was still in the midst of cowboy heaven, with prairies, feedyards, cows and their attendant smells, Mexican restaurants galore and flat, dry and hot as hell terrain to cross. Driving up the mountains, it all began to sink in. And when we stopped at a rest area, and Bette showed me a map that had a little star on it, labeled “You are Here”, I breathed in the mountain air and it started to dawn on me where I was.
And then a few hours later, when we were leaving to go to dinner at a place called the Bucksnort Tavern, and a massive elk casually sauntered, fearless, into Bette’s yard, then I knew EXACTLY where I was: Colorado, baby. Colorado.

Hasty, Colorado...Nice!

Now this is what I’m talking about! Hasty, Colorado.
If you want to venture back in time, to a place where everyone knows everyone, where the heart and soul of small town America are on full display for everyone to see, you can not do better than this.
Last night, I, the traveling stranger, wheeled into town. I had been wanting to get to the grocery store that I had heard was in Hasty, so I could get some necessaries. I got there with an hour to spare before closing. I asked about a place to sleep for the night, as in a park, or a church. Colleen Piatt, the owner (but not the boss, as she stated)of the store, told me that there was a nice pavilion a couple of blocks away.
I headed to the pavilion, where, after a strange conversation with a local teen, I settled in for the night. Colleen had told me that I could use the outlet at her store to charge my phone, so I was waiting around for the sun to set and for my tired self to relax a bit.
I walked back to her shop an hour later. I plugged in my phone and sat there, just absorbing the small town atmosphere. A few cars passed, but by and large all was quiet.
Once the phone was charged enough, I headed back to the pavilion and went to sleep. Prior to that I had filled out a few postcards that I wanted to send from the post office across the street from the grocery store, in the morning. I needed to buy stamps though, so figured Id wait til it opened.
I woke early, got my gear packed and ready and headed to the store, which opened at seven. I was a bit early, so was prepared to wait. I noticed a giant stuffed pillow shaped like a fish hanging next to the door of the store. I didnt see it there the night before. It was very funny.
I heard a sound and turned around. An older, overall clad man was sitting next to the post office on some steps. The front door of the post office was open. I asked him if it was open, and if he worked there. He said that he was waiting for the mail truck to come, and that he was the mailman. I told him I needed stamps for postcards, and he walked to his truck, gave me the stamps I needed, but would not except my money for them. “Put it back in your pocket,” is what he said, actually.
He introduced himself to me as Mutt Markham. I asked him if he had put that fish up across the street, and le laughed and said no, but he might have seen who did. We both laughed.
Just then, Colleen Piatt pulled up in her truck. She was carrying a large tray of donuts, which she makes herself every morning. I said good morning and thanked her for her electricity the night before. And then I had a donut.
Ive had good donuts before. Deising’s Bakery in Kingston, New York is as good as it gets, but this donut, a honey glazed plump beauty, was as good as anything Deisings ever baked. Supremo!!!!
A small crowd gradually gathered and settled around a table inside, eating and gossiping and carrying on a tradition that I hope will never go away---Americans, real, small town folks being small town folks, with no pretensions to anything else, with no concern for the big city nonsense that grows ulcers and stress and makes life something to endure instead of something to be enjoyed.
Hasty, Colorado. As Mutt Markham described it to me: “It’s a long way from nowhere, but it’s a pretty nice place to live.”
And a great place to visit.

Patrick and I talk about....nothing.

In not sure if an entire conversation can be a non sequitir but this one qualifies.
I had arrived, hot, thirsty and sore, in Hasty, Colorado, the smallest functioning town I have yet seen, I think. A post office and a grocery store, and not much else. After buying a bunch of food at the store, I headed to the local park, where a nice new pavilion would be my home for the night. As I arrived, I noticed a basketball court next to the pavilion. I had not even fully settled into a sitting position when a four wheeler driven by a young man pulled up. He had a basketball strapped down with bunjies and was going to shoot baskets. Or so I thought.
He looked over at me.
“Where’s your car?”
Patting my cart, I said, “THIS is my car.”
“How’s you get here?”
I walked.
“From where?”
“Tybee Island, Georgia.”
“I know where Georgia is. Do you have weapons?”
“I’m well protected, lets just say that.”
“Do you have a knife?”
Yes.
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
Yes.
“My dad’s got a sawed off shotgun. Have you ever fired a machine gun?”
Yes, I said, lying.
Wow, were you in the army?
No.
Oh, it was just you and your friends fooling around?
Something like that.
“Ever drive a big rig?”
Yes, I said, lying again.
“How many gears did it have?”
Ummm, eighteen, I said, fumbling around for a reasonable answer.
“Ok, my friend’s dad drives one with fifteen gears. “
He finally shot a few baskets.
“Why are you walking across the country? Does your wife yell at you?”
Laughing out loud, “Something like that.”
“OK…well, have a good trip.” He then stuck his basketball back under the bunjies and fired up the four wheeler.
"Do you want to buy a Ford? I have one for sale for five hundred dollars!"
"No thanks, I cant afford it."
"Its a standard."
OK.
He gestured to the four wheeler.
“This is an automatic,” he said, showing me the levers that put it in gear. He started to pull off.
“Wait, what’s your name?” I yelled to him.
“Patrick Crozier,” he shouted. “Im fifteen years old.”
And then he was gone.
Huh?

Camp Amache

As a country the United States has done a lot that we can be very proud of. Amache, Colorado (among other places like it) is not one of them.
At one time, for about three years, Amache was the tenth largest city in the state of Colorado. There and then, in the early 1940’s, there were 7,500 people, crammed into a single square mile, surrounded by barbed wire, as prisoners. Their crimes? That’s the funny thing—they weren’t criminals. They were American citizens, of Japanese ancestry. And they had done nothing wrong.
One of the most egregious mistakes that this country has ever made happened during World War II when President Roosevelt ordered the eviction from their homes and subsequent internment of approximately 110,000 Japanese-American citizens living on the West Coast of the United States. These citizens, approximately two thirds of whom were BORN here, were hustled off, thrown into hastily built camps that were no better than POW camps, and were generally treated like evildoers. All because of their heritage. Over 110,000 were placed in ten locations throughout the midwest and the west coast. The most famous of these is Manzinar, but the others are just as shameful by their very existence. The numbers varied for each location, and the smallest of these populations, 7500, were sent to Camp Amache, in Granada, Colorado.
Im not here to tell the whole story of the internment camps, though. They are written about pretty thoroughly. I am here to tell you about a small but very nice little museum in Granada that does a good job of presenting the facts as they were, with displays, photos, artifacts and more. I passed by today as I was walking through town. A group of young people were painting the building, sprucing it up, I suppose, and it looked nice. I saw the sign, crudely painted, outside (I hope they will replace it with a nicer sign that does the museum and the town justice) and headed in to see what it was about. I had never heard of Camp Amache, and was delighted to see that someone had set up a fitting tribute to the place and to the people whose lives were stolen out from under them all those years ago because of the stupid paranoia that war brings.
There were informational displays and literature. A scale model of the camp with its buildings and setting occupied a large table. Art that the internees made was on display, as were some of the US military(!) uniforms that some of them had worn during the war. Traditional Japanese garb, photos and other memorabilia were also on display. The museum is free, but donations are gladly accepted. Again, it is not a big museum, but it is an important one and Im glad I stumbled across it on my journey.
For more information, there is a website that will fill you in on the more intricate details and let you sign up for a newsletter. It’s important to NOT forget that this nonsense happened. A country is only great when they can own up to their mistakes, as America has done. And this was one of them.

The Horse Straightener, or An Aligned Horse is a Happy Horse

One sees the most unusual sights when walking through the countryside.
Like today, for instance. I saw a chiropractor. Now, that in itself isn’t unusual, but this time the patient, who weighs in at around 1500 pounds, was. She was a horse.
There they were, in Lamar, Colorado. Three men and a horse. One man was standing on a platform doing something to a horse, who was just standing in one spot, held on a lead by a second man. A third man was standing near the horse’s left rear leg. I approached, told them what I was doing and asked if I might watch, to which they replied in the affirmative.
They told me that the man on the platform was a horse chiropractor. When I made a joke about a name for that job, he looked up from the horse’s back with a smile, and said, “Call it ‘equine skeletal alignment'”. I was mesmerized.
I watched as he demonstrated what he was doing. He began by gently but firmly tracing a path along the horse’s spine, pushing down, and almost palpating the area, with about as much force as one would use to knead pie dough. When he hit a spot that was affected the horse would react by raising her head, or by making a pained little sound and jumping around just a bit. The “equine skeletal aligner” then proceeded to place the heel of one hand over the sore area, and the placed his other hand on top of that hand. In a motion very similar to CPR, he would count out “One two three” and push down hard, apparently shoving whatever was protruding back to where it was supposed to be. He did this several times as I watched, and each time the horse’s head popped up and then she was fine. It did seem to have a positive effect on the animal. The man in front of the horse with the lead didn’t have a hard time of it but the fellow at the horse’s rear had a tough job. He had to hold the horse’s leg up off the ground while the pushing down was going on. This was to keep the horse from running off or jumping too much, I assume.
After one last check of the spine the horse was led around for a test walk. Im pleased to report that she walked a nice straight line with no visible discomfort. I even posed for a picture with her afterward.
Now, those of you who follow my Facebook page know I take a lot of pictures of horses as I am walking. There is something about them, the most intelligent and noble, not to mention beautiful creatures on this green earth, that makes me feel akin to them. Many, many times when I walk by a bunch of horses in a pasture or field, I ll hear them call out in a whinny---calling to me, I like to think. They look at me, make motions with head and feet that seem to be beckoning calls to come over and see them. They also follow along as Im walking and when I look in their eyes I feel the intelligence burning inside. When they are happy, they LOOK happy. When they are sad…..
I never want to see a sad horse. The young lady who I had the privilege of watching get “aligned” today walked around looking happy, so I have to believe she was. Good job, Doc.

Alex and Yvonne....a 50 year love story

I’m a sucker for a good love story. Not anything written by pulp writers, but the real life kind you don’t see much anymore.
Yesterday, twenty one miles in the rain and hail led me to a rest area, a mere mile into eastern Colorado. I was sitting under a tiny pavilion, drying off a bit. I had the place to myself for a while and was just relaxing, sprawled out over two tables. An SUV pulled up, and an older looking couple got out and walked toward the pavilion. The woman carried a small wooden tray with coffee supplies in it.
“Do you mind if we use one of your tables?” she asked in a lovely British accent. Embarrassed that I was hogging both tables, I sheepishly moved my stuff over for her. She set her tray down and asked if Id like a cup of coffee. I politely declined, just as the gentleman arrived. There was a bit of small talk, and I discerned that he too had a British accent.
“I KNOW you aren’t from here!” I joked. The man, Alex Roberts, laughed and said that no, they weren’t. They were originally from England but they lived in Oklahoma now. I asked “How did a couple from England end up in Oklahoma?” He told me a story about how he had been in school to learn medical research. He had wanted to work in Australia or New Zealand but an offer had come to work in the “states” and he decided to go for it, and they had been here ever since. That was the ho-hum story. While his wife, Yvonne, excused herself to venture off a bit, he told me the next story. The story of how they came to be married for 50 years come September of this year.
He had left England in 1955 and was living in Uganda, Africa, then a “protectorate” of England. She was living in Nairobi, Kenya. At some point they were working in the same place, or nearby each other and fell in love. After several months of dating, they decided to get married. As Alex put it, “I stole her away from her family and now its been fifty years.” I asked him what happens after fifty years---does he have to give her back? He laughed a genuine laugh and said, “No, its too late for that now, Im afraid.” He then proceeded to tell me that at the rehearsal for their wedding the vicar had them stand in their positions as if it was the real deal, and began going over all of the lines that each would say. Alex stopped the vicar and said, “Are we doing the entire ceremony?” to which the vicar replied, “Yes, we want to make sure we don’t have any mistakes.” Alex stood firm, telling the vicar, “Listen, marriage is a sacred vow that I take very seriously, and I am only going to do it once, so I don’t need to rehearse the whole thing.
Its now been fifty years. He’s not giving her back, and they were on their way to Keystone, Colorado, where all of their children will be waiting for them. The “kids” are all professionals in the medical field now and this is the only time their schedules line up so the wedding anniversary will be just a little bit early this year. All the better, for they can savor it long after the party is over.
A happy 50th to Alex and Yvonne Roberts, passing, but lovely strangers I met in my first ten minutes in Colorado. I hope the next 50 years are as good to you as the first ones were.

Hail, hail, walk and roll

So it was like this today:
I “slept” in a municipal park in Syracuse, Kansas last night. Actually, I lay there like a frozen slug, because after the heat of the day, 27 miles in 105 degree heat, a cold front blew through and it got very very cold, and the winds were around 35 to 40 miles per hour all night long. I was ensconced on top of a picnic table to avoid bugs, and all night long just could not get to sleep, with a heart heavy from things on my mind. Because the time zone changed at Kendall, from Central to Mountain time, the sun rose extra early, at around 4:45, and so I was just lying there watching I come up. If I had not been so much the zombie, it would have been a nice sunrise. As it was, my glazed eyes only saw bright light.
I headed out of town. I did not get more than a few miles when the already cold air got even colder and some very impressive dark clouds began to appear on the horizon. I was not privy to any weather forecast, but had seen a few days back that it was looking all clear for several days. I should have known better.
I was amazed at the the cloud formations taking place. I was running around clicking away with the camera, getting all kinds of great shots, when I realized that there was an “oh crap” moment coming and the storm was heading my way.
I grabbed my rain suit, and had just put the jacket on, and began putting the pants on. I heard a sound like slapping, first one then a bunch of them. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that someone had thrown something at me, and when I turned to see it, it looked like a baseball. I was puzzled at the contextual problem with that scenario, and then it occurred to e that it was hail. Very, very big hail, the size of baseballs, and it was falling all around me. Pop, pop, pop, it was exploding on the road., I turned around to face forward to grab my hat and “bang”, a ball of ice the size of a lemon slammed into my left temple area, raising a large bump. I dove to the ground as the hail fell harder and more profusely. I was trying to shield my head from any more of them, and was successful, but my arms and back and legs got hammered pretty hard. Ive never seen anything like it. The road soon became full of balls of ice , some large but most of them the size of marbles. It was raining down like gumballs, clattering loudly and in increasing intensity.
A car stopped across the road from my position. The driver opened his window and asked if I wanted to get in. I told him I was okay where I was, and I was. To get up would have meant getting hit in the face or head by more of it so I figured I was better off where I was, safe under my cart. The driver told me that he had seen some as big as grapefruits up the road a bit and to be very ,very careful.
Later, after it was over, and I was walking again, I saw some of the large ones he was referring to. They had melted down a lot but were still huge. I ate one. Tasted like ice.
In the end, I did 23 miles in a steady and cold rain, with the temperature around 55 degrees. What a difference from the day before. It was the single worst day of this entire trip, weatherwise. Worth mentioning, I guess. I hope never to repeat it.

The Smell of...MOOney

Easterners like myself have never seen a feedyard.
No, it’s not another term for Chinese Buffet, or for Golden Corral. A feedyard is a uniquely western invention, and its exactly what it sounds like. Here is the definition from a website:
Feedlot - Definition
A feedlot or feedyard is a type of confined animal feeding operation (CAFO) which is usually used for fattening cattle prior slaughter. They may contain thousands of animals in an array of pens. Most feedlots require some type of governmental permit and must have plans in place to deal with the large amount of waste that is generated.
Prior to entering a feedlot, cattle may spend some period of time grazing on a range or on immature fields of grain such as wheat. Once cattle obtain an entry-level weight, about 650 pounds, they are transferred to a feedlot to be fed a specialized diet which may be made up of hay, corn, sorghum, various other grains, by-products of food processing, such as sugar beet waste, molasses, soybean meal, or cottonseed meal, and minerals. Feedlot diets are usually very caloricaly dense, to encourage the deposition of fat in the animal's muscles; this fat is desirable as it leads to 'juiciness' in the resulting meat. The animal may gain an additional 400 pounds while at the feedlot.
Once cattle are fattened up to their finished weight, the cattle are transported to a slaughterhouse.

Trust me, if you like the smell of cow manure, (and I do, in a country boy farm way) you’ll be in heaven. In Kansas, the farmers call it, (only partially joking) “The smell of money” There is a bit of overkill though, and the smells are actually overpoweringly bad, with thousands upon thousands of cattle all crapping and pissing, all the time and in close quarters. The many feedyards that Ive seen here in Kansas are where I have seen the real working cowboys, riding their horses up and down the lines of cows and occasionally having to round up a few strays. Yesterday a couple of small cows got free and I heard the cowboys before I saw them , yelling at the top of their cowboy lungs. It was kind of like a scene from a bad western. Or maybe a good one.
In Georgia, the Chic-Fil-A people have a funny ad campaign for their chicken sandwiches. The ads feature cows imploring the world to eat more chicken, or “chick-in”. Here in Kansas, where beef is king, the feedyard silos often have big lettering that just says Eat Beef, or some similar slogan.
After a few weeks of this aroma, I think I wanna smell a broccoli.

In Cold Blood.....

On the evening of November 15, 1959, two animals named Perry Smith and Rickard Hickock, with knowledge given to them by a man named Floyd Wells, broke into the home of the Clutter family, in Holcomb, Kansas, just outside Garden City, and in a very secluded and rural section of an already rural state.
Wells, who had shared a cell with one of the other two, had worked for Herbert Clutter at his farm prior to being locked up. He told Smith and Hickock that Mr. Clutter kept a large amount of cash on hand in a safe in his house. Looking for the quick and easy score, Smith and Hickock drove all night to reach the Clutter home, driving down the long driveway surrounded by Japanese maples. When they reached the house, four of the six family members were at home. Herb, his wife Bonnie, and their high school aged children Kenyon, 15 and Nancy, 16, were all at home. What wasn’t there was cash. Herb Clutter did business by check and kept less than 50 dollars at home.
Hickock and Smith tied up the family. When constant pressure on Herb Clutter to tell where the safe was didn’t get results (since he had no safe—the information was wrong) Perry Smith cut his throat and then shot him in the head with a shotgun. The other three members of the family were killed with shotgun blasts to the head.
The two killers were quickly captured through the good work of a police photographer, whose crime scene photos were so good that they revealed a bloody shoe print not visible to the eye. They were rounded up and eventually went to trial, where they were found guilty and were sentenced to die by hanging, sentence carried out in 1965.
When the news of the murders hit the press, writer Truman Capote, still just getting started in his career, took the assignment of going to Kansas to write about the murders and the trial. He interviewed both killers, and formed a very controversial relationship with Perry Smith, although this is still speculation to this day.
His book on the case, In Cold Blood, was the first nonfiction novel to gain mass publication, and was released the year after the executions.
The case had always fascinated me. I read the book, a masterpiece of suspense that saves the gory details until the end. I saw the movie with Robert Blake, and wondered how evil could just come to the heartland like that. The Clutters were an exemplary family—self made and well respected around town, with no enemies. How something so random, and yet so pointedly evil, could happen to nice people still mystifies me.
Ive always had an interest in visiting crime scenes, especially famous houses, and also the graves of noted people, not just crime victims. Ive been to Jon Benet Ramsey’s grave, in a nice little cemetery in Marietta, Georgia. Ive been to Ty Cobb’s crypt in Royston, Georga, Shoeless Joe Jackson’s grave in Greenville, South Carolina and more, including the Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, Massachussetts. Just something I like to do.
So, when I saw rthat I was going to be right next to Holcomb, Kansas, I knew I had to see the house, and the graves of the Clutter family. I did my research and found out that the Clutters are buried not in Holcomb, but in Garden City, a few miles east and where I am staying for two days.
I decided that since I am in resting mode, I’d make the short trip to the Valley View Cemetery, where the Clutters are resting for eternity. I walked up to the entrance, a beautiful cemetery it is, and looked at the acres and acres of headstones and knew that I would be all day trying to find the family’s markers.
I went to the office, where a lovely man named Rusty Richardson took the care and time to give me a detailed description of where the graves were located and how to get there. He also took the time to draw me a diagram of Holcomb, with the location of the Clutter’s house, and also a small park that was dedicated to their memory in recent years. It seems that the killers got all of the attention and for decades the victims, good people, have all but been forgotten. I am hoping to help to keep their memories alive a bit here, as I write this.
I found the gravesight. Three stones, one for Herbert and Bonnie, and flanking their stone on either side smaller stones for Kenyon and Nancy. Terribly sad. Terribly senseless.
I walked around. Not far from the Clutters, by coincidence, was the grave of a policeman named Dewey, who solved the murders. Now he is feet away from the people whose deaths he helped avenge. Life is funny like that sometimes.
It was a heavy day. As I cross the country, trying to make sense of life, mine and in general, and I meet all the damned fine people I have met...the Don and Donna Laymans, the Bill McKenzies, the Jody Thomases and the Jodi Cochrans, Suzy from the Hilltop Rest area, Cricket, Terri Pribeck and all the others, it occurs to me that all it takes is a wrong turn or a chance encounter with a desperate man and I could be just a memory for others to come and pity as they gaze at my stone, in a cemetery somewhere.
When my time comes though, I want to be cremated. There is a special spot in Dingle, Ireland, where a statue of a dolphin sits near the sea wall, and where the wind blows hard and constant. I want my ashes to be tossed in the air, where they will mix with the sea air, and where there are no thoughts of Perry Smith or Richard Hickock, destroyers of human life, and where my molecules will just blow in the wind for my eternity.

The Rain on the Plains Is Really Such a Pain

Theyre big and theyre vast, and stretch out for miles
The wheat fields of Kansas that I so revile
But my dander gets worse whenever there forms
One of these damnable Plains thunderstorms.
The clouds barely there, suddenly rise and take shape
Like a cumulus thug or a big nimbus ape
The wind starts to blow and before you realize
You’ve got twenty six pounds of dirt in your eyes.
Youre walking along with no shelter in sight
The lighting bolts love to strike someone your height
The winds pick up speed and the rain starts to blast
And you only can hope that this crap is done fast.
And five minutes later its all gone away
Except for the very bad curse words you say.
You’re soaked to the gills, and much to your sorrow
You know another ones probably coming tomorrow.


The above poem does not claim to be very good, nor does its author.
Ive been in three of those suckers now and it is amazing how fast they can form. A little cloud all of a sudden grows, the winds, already about 30 mph, all the time, suddenly hit 60 or 70 mph, you’re blown sideways, and then the unexpected. Dust, from the surface of the fields, comes at you like a train, fast and furious. Big clouds of it, and its choking and it gets in your eyes and mouth, and the grit stays for quite a while. Then the rain hits your face like buckshot, sometimes a slushy substance smacks your face too. Ive had that happen twice, and was under shelter once when hail the size of grapes fell.
The lighting is really the most frightening aspect of the storms on the plains, save for the tornado possibility. I did see the forming of a twister the other day but it dissipated before it got to full funnel shape. The lighting reminds me of the lightening on the ocean, where it strikes unseen things at ground level, or goes like a spiders web from cloud to cloud. With literally no obstructions for 360 degrees, it is breathtaking to behold, and you have a perfect view.
The clouds are also amazing. Veils of rain fall from them in the distance and it's such a beautiful sight. However, when things turn, and the beautiful veils of rain come your direction, the words that go through your mind are something along the lines of “Oh, crap!” or “Uh oh, Im gonna get a wet ass!!”
The above notwithstanding, I actually look forward to maybe being in one more good one. It is exhilarating, to say the least, and as long as I don’t get hurt and have my rain suit on, what is the harm? Two nights ago, outside Cimarron, I didn’t have the rain suit on, and got soaked through and through. The winds following the storm dried me as I walked to the next town, Ingalls, where I slept a chilly night away in the yard of a Catholic church there. I figured that I would not get hit like that again. Boy, was I wrong.
C’mon, Mother Nature! Try again. Im still on my feet, you old bat! Just kidding.

Ghosts in the Wind....?

I must categorically state that I don’t believe in ghosts.
That said, this is what happened the other day after leaving Dodge City.
I was walking westward, about 7 miles or so from Dodge. Rolling fields, low, full of a khaki colored dry grass, were on my right. As I was walking, listening to music, I looked to my right and, in the distance across the fields saw a stagecoach type vehicle, hazy in the heat and dust, with a woman sitting in it, in period clothing from the late 1800s or so. It was travelling, pulled by horses. There were actually several of them but this one was clear. And then, in an instant, they just weren’t there, and I stopped, turned off my music and just stared at the spot where I saw them. The wind was blowing, no cars were around, the train was not running to my left. It was silent, and I was alone.
A bit confused, but thinking maybe I had seen some sort of re-enactment or something—Dodge City was full of them---I walked on. About two miles later I encountered a big sign announcing that there was an historical marker located up a hill to my right, where the Santa Fe Trail ruts could still be seen. I was not aware of this previously and headed up the hill. Out in the field, several plaques stood. I walked to them, on a sidewalk especially built for the purpose, and read.
The Santa Fe Trail was a 900 mile “road” that settlers travelled from New Mexico to Dodge City for over 40 years back in the mid to late 19th century. There were no roads so they rode their coaches and horses across the land, and the ground became rutted and worn in the course of the years. It was a hard trip and these people, men and women and children , were tough.
As I walked back to a gazebo on the edge of the field, I was, all of a sudden and without warning, hit by a most powerful wave of emotions and began to cry, loudly and for no reason explainable. Was it my own exhaustion? Was it from some unseen forces? I don’t know, and will likely never understand exactly. But I do not believe in ghosts. I don’t.

What's Going On?

There remains a topic that I ve not really touched on too much here, and that is the medical issues that I face as I walk.
In recent days Ive had some things happen that have caused me some degree of concern, but I have made it through them okay. I am , however, still concerned.
Kansas, mid-June. It is a flat, unforgiving landscape, and unlike other states that are already behind me, it has nothing to offer between towns. In every other state Ive been in thus far, there were always places to sleep for the night, be they fields with trees, or random churches, or just homes for sale where I could hit the back yard unmolested for the night. Here in Kansas, it is all fields, and many of them are fenced in. There are often literally no trees in sight and it is so desolate and flat that the eyes play tricks when it comes to perspective. Water towers for approaching towns seem to be a mile away but two hours later they are no closer that they were when first spotted. It is so flat that approaching cars appear to be silent, until they are within two hundred feet or so and then all of a sudden you hear them. It is very very much like watching a movie with no sound and then all of a sudden the volume gets turned up. And after they pass, the sound goes away again and you see a silent car disappear behind you. The flatness and lack of anything for the sound to bounce off of is what causes this, I suspect.
So, back to the topic at hand.
A few days ago, as I was roughly halfway between two towns twenty miles apart, I began to experience a fluttering feeling in my chest. I have felt this before, and usually a small cough results from it. I know now it is an irregular heartbeat that occurs to everyone occasionally at some point, and its nothing to worry about. On this day though, it got worse instead of going away, and I had to stop walking for a moment. I thought it would cease, but instead it kept going and before I knew it I could feel myself about to pass out. I coughed intentionally, trying to get it to stop, and even pounded on my chest, and it kept getting darker in the outside of my world.
I had a bottle of Sunny D juice drink with me, and in the moments before I was going to black out grabbed it and drank deeply. After a few moments the fluttering stopped, and I began to feel better. Then it came back, not as bad, and went away. I have had short recurrences since but nothing too bad.
I suspect it was caused by my electrolytes getting all screwed up, but I do not know for sure. I have been drinking water constantly, having had to walk for a total of 8 or 9 days in 100 plus degree heat. And because of the towns being so far apart, I have had to make sure I get to the next one by nightfall, causing me to have to walk longer than normal. Winds over 40 mph constantly make it a struggle to walk. As I said, this is an unforgiving landscape.
Yesterday, trying to make it to Garden City, 27 or 28 miles from Ingalls, where I spent the night before, I was forced to lie down on the side of the road, by heat and just plain exhaustion. I spread my tarp out and was just resting on it, with my hat over my face. I heard a motor running, and looked up. It was a patrolman who had heard a radio call that someone had dispatched an ambulance for me after seeing me on the road. He verified that I was okay and cancelled the ambulance but told me that other patrolmen would be watching me to make sure I was okay, and indeed, as I continued on several vehicles slowed up and looked at me to make sure I was in good shape.
The other issue is, or are, my feet. I no longer suffer from blisters but the pain inside my feet is so bad at times that I have to stop walking, but as hot as it is, stopping is almost as undesirable as the pain. It really sucks the life out of me to have this much pain still going on. I know it must be just from the constant pounding, but Ive tried everything I know of to make it stop to no avail. I cannot afford, money wise, to keep staying at motels. I know a few days rest will probably help but its too expensive to do very often.
That said, I will of course continue on. I am looking forward to getting out of Kansas in the next 4 or so days, and into Colorado. I already know that Colorado, in the eastern part of the state , anyway, is very similar to Kansas, but Ill work through it. I cant wait to hit the mountains. I know my training will get me up them thar hills in fine shape, if a bit winded.
Other than the above issues, medically, I am fine. Psychologically, I am okay, though a bit weary of being out here. I miss my life in some ways, but this is a once in a lifetime adventure that I wouldn’t want to stop now. Im slightly over halfway, and will finish strong.

Elisabeth is a sweetheart.

Elisabeth works two jobs. One is at a Mexican restaurant in Dodge City, Kansas. She should be good there because Elisabeth is from Mexico. She also works at the Maytag Laundromat on 4th Avenue in Dodge City. She is 20 years old, is married to a nice man and has a one year old son. We talked idly as I was doing my laundry. I mentioned to her that I was walking across the country. She didn’t believe me. I showed her my arms, where the tan meets the pale white skin at the sleeveline. She became a little less skeptical. I showed her how my outer shirt surface was severely faded. Then I showed her the inner surface, as dark blue as the day I left Tybee Island almost three months ago. “Do you sweat a lot?” she asked, wondering because she knows construction workers whose sweat fades their shirts in a manner similar to mine. When I avowed that I did indeed sweat a lot, she finally realized that I was telling her the Gods honest truth. She asked me a lot of questions, not just to be polite but because she really wanted to know. Where do I live? Where do I sleep? Where am I going next? When I told her Colorado, she told me that she recently went to Denver, six hours away by car, for a soccer match between Mexico and New Zealand. I asked her who won, and she broke into a big smile as she told me that Mexico had triumphed 3-0.
I asked her about her little boy. I tried guessing his name. Tomas? Miguel? No, no. Alejandro? Its close to Alejandro, she said but it’s a name you’ve never heard before. Try me. Axel. Axel…? Isnt that a German name?
She told me that there is a beef packing plant in town called XL, and friends call her son XL. Elisabeth gets mockingly indignant at the thought that people thing her son is named after a beef plant. We laugh.
When its time to go, she gives me a brand new cloth laundry bag, with pull string, almost as big as a bed roll. “You cannot sleep in it though,” she jokes.
I ask if I can take her picture. “Am I gonna be on your website?” she wants to know, and I tell her maybe. Likely.
She makes me wait for her to take of her purple latex glove to shake hands goodbye when its time for me to go. I say its okay, I can shake her gloved hand. She will not hear of it. The glove peels off, she wipes her damp hand on her apron and we shake hands. We part, with best wishes for each other.
Elisabeth. What a sweetheart.
Buena Suerte.

Wyatt Earp, Bob George and Me....Dodge City...

Who knew? In a cluttered but neat den, in a non descript house in a non descript neighborhood in Dodge City, Kansas, there exists a remarkable collection of some of the most interesting crime memorabilia Ive ever seen. No, Im not referring to Old West lore, although there is a lot of that here in Dodge, as there should be, since this was such an important stop along the Santa Fe Trail. Im referring to notebooks full of letters and drawings and other mementos from serial killers, even a check endorsed by Jeffrey Dahmer.
The collection is owned by Mr. Bob George, retired history and psychology teacher at Dodge City High, where his old room, first room on the ground floor to the right of the blue awning, he notes as we drive past, still stares out at the road past the school. I met Bob a couple of days ago as I was walking along Route 54 towards Mullinville, Kansas. He was going fishing (he fishes like most men breathe---constantly---and to stay alive.) He pulled over on the side of the road and waited for me to pass. He beckoned me over and asked me if I needed anything, thinking I was in dire straits. We talked a few minutes and he offered to take me around Dodge City, where he lives, when I got to town, if I wanted. I got his numbers and we parted.
Arriving yesterday, I called him. He came right over and we went out for a drive. The very first place we went, and I was not expecting this, was…fishing. I was just in town, hot as hell, and thought we were gonna drive all over and see the sights. Instead, I got about a half hour of watching Bob trying to drown a rubber worm, and I even tried to drown one for a few minutes. Then it was over. We left and went to Bob’s house, aka the Museum, where he let me peruse his notebooks, all meticulously arranged and neatly ordered.
Inside I was amazed to find several handwritten letters from Charles Manson, with whom Bob had a running correspondence for several years. Manson is tricky though---to get a letter from him you need to pony up some dough for commissary or for hobby supplies at the prison in Corcoran, where he is a guest of the state of California. He knows his signature has value, and makes sure someone does not get something for nothing.
There were also letters from David Berkowitz, (Son of Sam), Arthur Shawcross, John Wayne Gacy, and many others, including one in the neatest handwriting imaginable, from Charles Harrelson, convicted killer and father of actor Woody Harrelson. It was really an amazing set of notebooks, and I feel privileged to have seen them. He also at one time requested hand tracings from notable murderers, like Richard Ramirez (the Night Stalker) and Susan Smith (who killed her babies by allowing them to drown in a car), and he received them. There is something creepily giddy about a serial killer like Ramirez tracing his right hand, like a child’s drawing of a Thanksgiving turkey. Incredible.
Bob’s collection and knowledge of the serial killer set is so respected that authors have come to him for information for book projects, and Bob has also been invited to speak at schools about the topic, where he once did a presentation in the first person : “I am Dennis Rader” (the BTK Killer) which awakened any of the dozing kids in the class. “What? He’s out already??”
After a quick spin around the downtown part of Dodge, Bob dropped me off at my motel. He gave me a number for a man who knows more about the history of Dodge City than anyone alive, in Bob’s opinion. Im heading out to get a tour from him now.
SIX HOURS LATER
Well, I don’t know if the man, Charlie Meade, knows more about Dodge City than anyone alive but it’s a close bet that no one knows more than he does. What a treasure trove of information and stories! I need to describe Charlie first, though. He stands maybe 5’2” tops. He is 76 years old, and has been a deputized Dodge City Marshall since 1964, and for the past 5 years has been a US Marshall. I suspect it to be ceremonial because he seems too nice a man to arrest anyone. He met me today wearing a full gun belt, with a large revolver in the holster, spurs (the first time in my life Ive seen real spurs) and a large ten gallon hat, which he never took off.
He took me, and another fellow we picked up along the way around downtown Dodge City. He explained that Dodge City's Front Street, the original one depicted in the movies and recreated in the Boot Hill Museum, had burned down, since almost all of the buildings that lined Front Street were wooden contruction. Gradually things were rebuilt in a different way, and the city was thriving. Then in 1969 came the advent of Urban Renewal, and the city was given two million bucks to spruce up. Instead, as Charlie said, “We self-destructed” and instead of fixing up the buildings that needed it, the city tore down ALL of them and made a big parking lot. A faux western façade was added to some existing buildings to try to capture the feel of the old west but it didn’t match the buildings and is now scheduled for demolition or removal.
Charlie took us around a few blocks, where we saw a Walk of Fame dedicated to both Old West lawmen and television and film stars, mostly people who had been in the show Gunsmoke, including the recently deceased James Arness “A giant of a man, 6’8’’ tall, and quite a comedian,” says Mr. Meade. “When we were doing the Walk of Fame a few years ago we had someone fly out to his home with the concrete so he could sign it and put his handprints in it.” Arness’ ill health in recent years was cause for enough concern that the committee was not taking any chances, apparently. One former Gunsmoke star that has not been to Dodge is Burt Reynolds, and Meade speculates, with a laugh, that the reason Burt has not been back is because he has to keep busy making movies to keep up his alimony to Loni Anderson. Old Charlie Meade is quite a kidder, and a character. When it came time to part, I reached for some money for a tip for him, but he waved me off and said, “You don’t owe me a thing. Just be careful on your trip.”
It was not the last I would see of Charlie Meade though. Another thing that Bob George had told me about was a new book by an author named Jeff Guinn. The book, called The Last Gunfight, details the alleged, and legendary Gunfight at the OK Corral, in Tombstone, Arizona. As it turned out, Guinn was scheduled for a book signing right here in Dodge City on this very day, at 4 pm, and I decided that I wanted to go. And who should I see there but Charlie Meade, wanting more info to impart about Wyatt Earp and his times.
Now, Wyatt Earp lore has always been of interest to me, and I thought it would be interesting, although I was not going to buy a book with my limited budget.
A Wyatt Earp primer: Earp was a deputy marshall in Dodge City in the 1870’s. Bat Masterson was the Sheriff. The south side of town, which was divided by railroad tracks, was the rough side of town and the north was the more socially appropriate, shall we say, side. Earp, an imposing figure who would not hesitate to “buffalo” a ne’er do well, a reference to a whack on the head with his long Buntline pistol, was a tough enforcer of his own laws, and in a few short years had Dodge City, once known as the naughtiest little city in the west, running so straight and narrow that there was nothing for him to do any longer. So he, his brothers and a friend “Doc” Holliday, a dentist, and a damned good one, according to both Guinn and Meade, moved to Tombstone, Arizona, where an arrest gone wrong ended up with a lot of dead outlaws and some lawmen brought up on charges. It was a turning point of the old west and soon the whole scene was gone, its final chapters being written by the advent of the railroad and the Industrial Revolution.
Guinn, who is working on a book about Charles Manson, had been out to Bob George’s house to interview him, and to make copies of a lot of Bob’s material. I mentioned Bob to Huinn and we had a nice talk about the collection, writing and my walk. After a short talk about the book, and the Kansas Cultural Center, where the signing was held, and where Guinn found a treasure trove of material never before seen, he surprised me with a copy of the book, as a gift. I was not expecting that at all and I was and am very grateful. I told him about my own failed publishing experience (my publisher died mid-book) but he just told me to keep writing and things would fall into place. His own experience was that he wrote several books that “sold in the dozens” of copies each, until a book about Christmas, told through the eyes of Santa Claus, and now published as the Christmas Chronicles , sold a half million copies, and he has not had a day job since. I can only hope to follow that luck train.
Dodge City, a smelly old cowtown, a city in search of its identity, and far more sophisticated than popular perception would allow---it has been a delight to visit here. The cheesy gunfight recreation at the Boot Hill Museum, the lousy smells of cow crap from the empty cattle trucks, (17000 head of cattle are delivered and killed each day at the two main facilities here. THAT is where the beef is, Clara Peller!
And somehow, for me, despite the 60 percent latino population and the loud mufflers and the fake saloons, the tough guy spirit of old Earp still roams the place, keeping the bad guys on the straight and narrow.

The world is green with envy.....

I’ve now had the rare experience—I won’t say privilege---of having been in two different cities that have been destroyed by level F-5 tornadoes. I was in Joplin, Missouri, four days after their city was hit by a massive mile-wide twister that killed almost 200 people and destroyed several neighborhoods and huge commercial areas as well. Walking through that mess, one cant help but get the feeling that they will never rebuild. But all one needs to do is go to Greensburg, Kansas, a few hundred miles west of Joplin, to see what can happen.
On May 4, 2007, Greensburg was hit by their own F-5 tornado. Incredibly, it was almost twice as wide as the one that hit Joplin and it leveled 95 percent of the city. There was almost nothing left but the wreckage. Oh, and a grain elevator.
Grain elevators are massive structures. They look like silos, which they basically are, but better. Thick concrete and steel, reinforced to the hilt. When the tornado was finished with Greensburg, their grain elevator was unscathed.
And it was an inspiration.
Judy, whose house was one of the 5 percent not destroyed completely, gives tours. During the tour that I attended, she recalled that after the twister, she looked out at where her neighbors and the city used to be, saw only the grain elevator still standing, and knew it was not a good situation. Incredibly, only 12 people perished, but the property losses were staggering and crippling. Then something remarkable began to happen. The city began to rebuild. Not only did they start putting up buildings, but they made the conscious decision to “go green” and focus on making the city the first environmentally friendly city in the country.
Ten wind turbines power the city. Another separate turbine powers the hospital, and there are huge solar panels all around that augment the turbines and help to heat water .
A neighborhood is just getting underway, and all of the homes in it are going to be Eco-Homes. It was at the Silo Eco-Home that I saw the tour that Judy was giving, and got to see the home of the future.
Based on the design of the grain silo, the home is round, with 6 inch concrete reinforced walls. All of the materials used to make the home, or most of them, are recycled materials. Molding is recycled Styrofoam, and is as heavy and workable as wood, and the price is the same. I felt it and could not believe it was Styrofoam. Some of the “wood” used is actually bamboo. It was used for the flooring and can be seen in the photo of the stairway included here. The countertops were made of recycled bits of tile, all molded together to make a new surface.
The coolest thing to me was the toilets. Called Dual Flush, there are two buttons on the tank. One for lighter flushes and one for, as Judy put it, heavier loads.
There are many many more interesting things about the house, and the website for info is www.greensburggreentown.org. Check it out, and see if you can’t steal an idea or two.
I know the above sounds like an advertisement for the place, and maybe it is. It was really inspirational to see how a city that has no right to even be still around is flourishing on the Kansas plains, but they are, four short years after being knocked down by mother nature. I know Joplin will be able to rise up as well, and that is a good thing.
Reflecting on the Kansas experience thus far: its flat. And hot. And long miles between towns/cities. Miles and miles of farmland and not a tree insight at times, and then voila! A town appeareth. It reminds me of Europe quite a bit. Villages appear out of nowhere, and then disappear and nothing but countryside. But Europe doesn’t have armadillos, so how can it be better there?
Next up for me: Dodge City.
When I was a kid, there were two human subjects, after dinosaurs generally, that I read everything I could get my hands on, about them. Ty Cobb was one, and Wyatt Earp was the other. The years have not been kind ot my memories of old Wyatt, though, and a lot of what I read I have forgotten. He was THE law in Dodge City, though, and I relish the thought of re-learning as much as I can about him and his brothers Morgan and Virgil.
Stay tuned, Earp fans….

Just another Friday night in Haviland, Kansas.

I had an interesting talk with four local boys, aged 21-ish, here in Haviland, Kansas. They were all just hanging out on Main Street, smoking and skateboarding a bit. Apparently that is what passes for a rowdy Friday night here—hanging out in front of the hardware store. Since they were right smack dab in front of the only soda machine in town, and I was wanting a soda, I had to interact with them, lest they think that the stranger in town as standoffish.
The scene here is that of a movie set, after the lights are out. It’s a nice and cool 72 degrees, at midnight. A breeze blows down the street and in the distance the rumble of the grain elevators at the local coop can be heard clearly. The only other sounds are the boys talking and the occasional skateboard wheels on asphalt. There is virtually no traffic.
I approach. They look at me with indifference.
“So this is what the incorrigible youth of Haviland Kansas do for fun on a Friday night?” I ask, with as much humor as I can muster in my voice.
One replies,” Are you kidding? Usually by now we are all shitfaced.” We all laugh, and the ice is broken.
I tell them of my trip and they don’t believe me. When I show them my tan lines on my arms, they are convinced. More ice is broken.
As we talk a little about the city, and the state of Kansas in general, I can’t help but think about the fact that back in Georgia, where I live now, kids are not having this conversation. Back there they are probably playing video games, getting high, or watching TV. Here, the conversation almost always turns quickly to farming, because as one of the young men, Rance, told me, “It’s our life, it’s in our blood.”
I asked them about the Farmers Co-ops, and gave my take on them. It seems I was pretty much correct---the farmers all bring their harvested crops in and get paid for them. That’s it. The Coops are owned by a group of the wealthiest farmers who now are into reselling the wheat and other crops in big deals, like the way that oil is sold, from barrel to the finished products. The boys started to get into the minutiae of the way they work, but it was more than I needed to know. What they did say that stuck with me is this: farming is worse than gambling. You never know if, or when it is going to rain. There are no guarantees that the temperatures will be good or if the price of the grains will be high enough to make it profitable. “Going to Las Vegas is a better deal than being a farmer anymore,” one of the young men, who is actually going into the Army soon to learn demolition.
Be that as it may, the sheer size and quantity of the wheat fields I have been walking past indicates to me that there are a lot of gamblers out there still, and the full grain trucks and trains that pass me every day tell me that something special and integral to our heartland and to our country is happening on a daily basis. At the end of a long hard day, it is our nature to kick back, blow off a little steam, complain about our jobs, and get it out of our system. Then the next morning we get up and do it all over again.
It is, after all, in our blood. It is our life.