The Wright Christmas/ Winter Letter of a Few Years

This posting is a bit odd in that it is a series of photos. One has to hit the top page and t will come up in larger form and then can be scrolled down to see the next page. It is the best I could do at the moment. Still, it might be fun and a learning experience. Good luck and have a nice holiday. DW

Harley----The Dog

Harley is a dog and not a motorcycle. In truth, that takes a little explaining because Harley the dog has a number of attributes similar to the cycle. He accelerates with his front end lifted, runs like the frantic lightening, while zipping back and forth in the field of play.

The dog, a Pudelpointer, admittedly does not have the wonderful sound of the twin V motor but rather he runs silent like a submarine going full tilt on batteries. Yes, both Harleys can be comfortably warm, but the dog is less metallic, softer and loves to recline on a sofa----I will note my brother parked his vintage BMW in his living room but not on the sofa------I don’t think.

Harley lives to hunt, and I suspect even dreams of it while in recline, and once turned loose in a field of wild grasses and tall rushes, takes off like the other Harley on full throttle. It is his nature to hold his head high like a snooty Englishman and not pushed to the ground for he is a detector of game birds. Once his powerful nose snares even a few molecules of pheasant, he locks in a ridged, elegant stature. I visualize the hunters earnestly sauntering up, then signaling him to make the flush.

It is a marvelous sight as he ranges out fifty yards in all directions almost oblivious to us, but, in reality, clearly has an inner sense of our place. His tail whips in joy. There is a canine anticipation as he nears his quary, a suddenness of movement, a jerky intentness. He jumps from side to side, testing the air. Then in an instant he locks, the tail is straight out, his nose glaringly forward. The dog is in his field of dreams.  

In the vision, Ken and I, the attending hunters, move in, all full of prowess intending to reward the dog with a retrieve and ensuing praise. It is all a game and really a beautiful one. The wind pushes the fall grasses and here and there a faint hint of horse mint, and fading sunflowers. This is a fall ritual going back to my Neanderthal background. We are providing.

On a recent globally-warmed day, Ken and I set out with Harley to exercise our Paleolithic desires and bring back a fat pheasant while reveling in the glories of the White River Marsh. Harley was equally in love for here was his dream, the world of his upbringing.

Early on Harley found himself flustered, possibly because, we, the aging hunters, were not keeping up but simply waiting for him to bring the birds to us. As a result, when he located a rapidly moving bird, he inadvertently bumped it up. We shot wildly as the vibrant pheasant glared at us in terror. If I am not mistaken, Harley lifted his paw making an L sign over his forehead.

We moved on into the area we felt the fleeing bird had gone, thinking we might have a second go of it. The terrain became more brutal but Ken in his young spirit disappeared into the alder thicket like a bull moose, maybe like an older bull moose but still-----. The dog with the spirit of an all-terrain vehicle followed, probably wanting to make sure Ken didn’t get lost or bogged down. In the distance tangle I could hear Ken talking to the dog with a small blast of a whistle. They were communicating and I was confident the two of them would find the bird and maybe Ken would miss again making room for me in my more comfortable position to save the day.

Then out of nowhere, the dog appeared in front of me, rather taking stock. Ken beeped a few times off in the bog, even calling his name. Harley looked up the hill to my right and saw a figure, obviously thinking it to be Ken and took off in that direction as any well-behaved dog would do. I was a little surprised because normally the dog would know where we were by our distinct odor and the guy up the hill did not smell like us.

Harley lit out fully wanting to make Ken pleased with his always-obedient behavior. Up on the hill, and very much next to the other guy, Harley instantly proceeded to locked up in a Point. Unfortunately, we were back in the scrub picking sticks out of our noses. Directly across from the pointing Harley was a very attractive English Setter also on point. The uphill hunter, appropriately dressed and fitted with a fine over-and-under shotgun stepped forward and called for the flush. The bird rose in classic cackling form, where upon the well-served hunter missed two shots. The bird flew off to Russia and we got little more than a fleeting glance.

Harley was thrilled but I suspect he didn’t realize he had just pointed for the wrong guys. We chatted up the embarrassed hunter as he noted how he and his dog had been chasing that one bird all across the fields and not until Harley arrived and put on a pincer move would it flush. How could we fault the dog and when I saw the beauty of the English setter, a female, it seemed possible maybe Harley ventured up the hill to make an impression on something more than us.

Moments later he was off roaring about like the Harley machine we all know. What a great ride. 

An odd partnership---I think.

I am not one to ordinarily pick on any specific bird species. Generally, I like them all for any number of reasons, including how some taste on my plate. While some folks complain of the noble Canada Goose, and even refer to them as Sky Carp, they are magnificent in grace and beauty---even if they do tend to leave small traces of their beings on shorelines and lawns.

Juncos are a bird of winter, it seems, and swarm feeders and the ground under them, busily foraging for seeds. They might be seen as flying mice, but with a cleaner demeanor. The Oregon Junco has a snappy coat, a dark covering of tiny feathers all rather formal if not regal. They are almost impossible to not like.

About the time Juncos arrive, or at least arrive in winter numbers, it is also time to look after winter tasks like making sure all the windows are tightened up, the bulbs are dug, the potatoes comfortable in the basement and the heating systems are up and running. Most of the tasks are referred to as winterization and that does include making sure the bird feeders are ready for the flights of arriving birds like the Juncos.

In the process of performing these efforts it was found by my renters that their furnace was not working, simply would not come on. Not wanting them to freeze off in the coming season, and wanting to avoid a small lawsuit, I did the usual examination thinking it was a loose wire or a simple abnormality, but no. In frustration, I called Mike and started making the usual inquiry, asking him why am I such a loser (that is what the little light on the furnace said) and he tried to lead me through a process of simple deduction to find the problem as opposed to just running over here and charging me a cool $100 . I listened and then realized it is hard for me to even kneel down, so I gave up and invited him over for what I know will be some nonsensically simple repair.

I'm sure that on the other end of the phone he was grinning and shaking his head saying, “These Wright brothers are basket cases, cleaver maybe, but slow.”

He showed up in short order, still rather amused, probably knowing he had told me how to fix it but due to situations out of his control, me, he would need to save the day. Down in the basement he went through the usual rapid, very linear process with his various electrical testers and deduced the pressure detector on the exhaust fan was not tripping, meaning the exhaust pipe was compromised----pretty much what he told me from the comfort of his office.

He then removed the exhaust pipe from the furnace and looked inside. With a sly grin, he looked over at me and gave a subtle, but meaningful, gesture for me to take a look. There at the entrance of the pipe were the remains of a small gray bird, a bird that was well dried, very dead as in deceased, and obviously blocking the vent.

Mike makes a remark about the value of Ornithology and the unfortunate habits of some birds all the while cleaning out the vent and reassembling the furnace. He is amused by it all and makes note of other similar experiences he has had including finding a massive paper wasp's nest in a vent.

Me, I was having other thoughts including thinking he has an arrangement with birds and wasps to work for him on the side to generate work and thus stimulate the economy even if it costs them their lives.

I also saw dollar bills flying out the window, or was it out the vents.

I asked, “What the hell is this Junco doing in this vent?” Mike, in his deep radio voice, and under a small concealed smile said , “Damned if know, obstructions just happen.” He surely would not admit that he has either trained them or paid them in seeds to obstruct the vents of reasonable humans, ( heating vents).

My mind was reeling with questions for which Mike offered no solutions, but he was clearly entertained by the unfolded events. I then saw it as a Darwinian mistake because the bird in it's wisdom probably wanted to make a statement about my polluting the atmosphere with CO2 and thus plugged the vent. However, in the small bird's act of defiance, he lost his life (I assumed it was a he) and thus would not be able to breed and make more defiant Juncos, who in turn may have had a profound affect on bad human behavior.

Briefly, I was concerned because if other animals got the drift of this act they might take it to another level, like having chipmunks crawl up my exhaust pipe of our VW. Worse yet, Pelicans might drop down stacks on power plants and or even in a fit of desperation, shove a nasty raccoon up the discharge pipe of the sewer plant. Well, maybe I am over reacting, or racked with guilt when in fact, Mike really was in league with the juncos.

Mike treated me well and I forgave the Juncos. I will continue to feed birds---- but will maintain a watchful, but thankful eye on both.

Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

I once had another life in another place. What I mean is we lived in a different place, spending some 23 years  in a one-horse town, raising a family and running a couple of businesses.

Almost 50 years ago, it was a different time when there was in this small town, old folks who had arrived many years prior by covered wagon.  Many also had worked on ranches primarily using horses. I might add, it was still not totally uncommon to go into a bar in Kiowa, Colorado seeing some patrons wearing spurs--it wasn’t a specialty bar in no stinking city.

It was a different time but some things were the same, I suspect. One was that I also wrote a column for the local newspaper taking on some of the same old issues, well, not issues, but daily activities. The column was called The Backyard Journal, and like here, it featured those everyday events that had a touch of education, charm, and local color.

In a recent nostalgic turn, I was going through some of the now-ancient pieces, so it seems fitting to bring out one of ditties of that time.

 Elizabeth, Colorado was a relic of the past, dirt streets 120 feet wide, constructed to allow large herds of cattle to be driven down them, say from 1880-1932. It was a cow town that had been sitting idle for forty years. In 1970 and later, new-comers arrived including a colorful assortment of hippies and Denver commuters. It was all cool, a touch on the rustic side, but a comfortable mix with a strong flavor of the old west.

My piece in the Elbert County news was titled Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

I think I went down to the tack shop to get a bridle for one of my racing chickens. I’m not sure being how its been a few days. Got a good memory and all, its just a bit short.

 A person doesn’t really need a good reason to go down there, just going there is reason enough.  Its probably the best place in town to solve problems and exchange the daily goings-on----not to mention the fact that it’s just easy down there, easy to sit around and stare at the walls or to get in on a few stories.

 Last week it was Ed.  He showed up and we talked about Ronnie Evans chasing his buffalos up in the sand hills by Valentine.  Seems he found one of them in Kansas. We took a few shots at politicians and went over how Tom’s buckskin was almost identical to the one in “Dances with Wolves.”

 Week  before though, we hardly got going before Dorothy came running in, all in a dither about how one of her ponies had managed to get itself upside down in the water tank.  She needed help, now!  Well, Tom, he’d seen a horse or two having been a wrangler in these parts.  Me, the racing chickens were as far as my experience went.  Oh, I’ve had a few nasty roosters and was sorta in on raising two tasty, but obscenely overweight hogs…but an inverted horse in a water tank?

Dorothy told me, in buffalo hunter language,  to get my behind over there and help before old Jeremiah hurt himself trying to give the horse mouth-to-mouth.  I didn’t argue. Dorothy knows horses like Bo knows football because she and the Cliff had been running a string of misfit ponies for years.  Even though she was diminutive in stature and rough around the edges, if she said I was needed…I was needed.

I could already see that Tom was thinking.  He got serious and said something to the effect that if a horse gets upside down, it only has a certain amount of time left.

We headed across the street, watching for Dorothy’s attack geese and who knows what else in her ramshackle holdings by the river.

 There were a few, now liberated colts running around in the yard, taking the opportunity to get into the fresh hay that was normally out of reach.  They were clearly indifferent to the plight of their fallen comrade.

 And, fallen he was - on his back in this metal tank, feet in the air and neck wrenched around. Not a pretty sight. No water in the tank, thank God, but there was 1,200 pounds of horse flesh flailing there trying to “swim“.

Jeremiah was running hither and yon.

Tom looked it over and started making a decision.

 I just saw those hooves a punching in the air and realized that they could hit worse than Ali.

Tom managed to get a rope around the four feet-- I think there were four-- and pushed and pulled the legs down to the side so that they were not sticking up in the air like four Scud missiles.  Jeremiah kept its neck forward.

What we had was a giant sardine packed in a round tin waiting to be shipped.  Dorothy tossed out encouragement in every form imaginable, and some not mentionable.  No question how much she cared for her horses.

We had our sardine, but couldn’t get it to stand as it was too packed in to move.

I think it was Dorothy who suggested we just dump him out of the tank.  1,200 pounds?…not to mention that a fence blocked the tank.  The fence came down in a flourish of hammers.

The three of us (I was finally doing something) tried to get under the tank and lift.  We pushed and grunted, and I complained about my back.

 I don’t know if Dorothy kicked us or what, but somehow the entire contraption lifted and the tank kind of fell apart on the bottom end.  It all went up and the horse went out in a cloud of Dorothy’s dust and profanity.

That was one happy cowpony…but do you think that for one moment it hung around to give us a kiss, like Champion or Trigger would have done.

I mumbled something about Dorothy needing to train her herd in a little courtesy.

We headed back to the tack shop, which of course had been left wide open, where Tom could put another mark on his tally string.

And, I was just looking for a little loose talk and a chicken bridle!

Blackberries---In League with the Devil

Blackberries---In League with the devil


Every year there is great anticipation of the blackberry harvest, a harvest that is always, for one reason or another, rather up for grabs. It seems that seldom is there really a good year where we can walk along a well-traveled trail and fill our containers with ease.

This year the rains came in a comfortable interval, the blossoms were abundant and the canes strong, if not imposing. It looked good as we set aside and cleaned ample jars while dreaming of cold winters where Blackberry jams were laid across great bowls of ice cream. The excitement was everywhere---but like each year here in Wisconsin, there was apprehension as things can go wrong.

So on the advice of Tom, I set forth to secure a winter’s store. “The best ones are up higher and in the sun”, he suggested as he left town. Optimistically, I climbed the trail heading west while noticing some immature berries hidden in the brambles. Not far up, I reached for the first-sighted ripe berries only to find my shirt sleeve, and a portion of my flesh, had been impaled on a first-year cane the size of  tropical bamboo and armed with blood thirsty spines. I must have thought it was a small tree when reaching into the thicket and not an armored guard cane. As I slowly withdrew with a couple of meager berries, another guard cane grabbed my hat flipping it to the ground. The slight vibration of the bramble, or was it the profanity, wakened the mosquitoes who realized a target had arrived. They joined the Deer Flies who were doing the usual kamikaze stunts.

I thought of the can of DEET I left in the car but in a flash realized I had been told not to get it on my hands as contaminated berries would certainly cause some heinous disease. I tightened my collar, checked the buttons on my sleeves and proceeded up the hill to the good spots.

Higher up the berries were more abundant but generally low down under the bramble, meaning they were well guarded by those nasty canes, the ones that have been put there, not to produce fruit, but simply to hurt people.

As I worked my way thorough the better areas, it appeared many of the ripe berries were rotting on the vine. They were so far gone as they were touched, they spilled their juice all over my now sore hands. At least half the fruit was not salvageable. It seems a small fly had the pleasure of plopping an egg on many of the berries and within one day the little buggers had violated the new fruit and introduced bacteria. Now the berries were fermenting and the smell of Blackberry wine was everywhere, but I was after fat ripe berries, not some stinking bacteria-ridden grub’s idea of cheap wine.

As a result of the rotting, grubbed-up berries, my hands were now a permanent deep red color, or so it seemed. On close examination it was also obvious some of the red was actually blood from the wounds inflicted by the guard canes. This was not going well.

After some forty minutes of effort, I looked into the pail to just take stock of my take, which at this point was little more than a cup. There sitting on top of the collection were two unhappy stink bugs, which very much like to emit a putrid smell when disturbed. They, like me, were frustrated, pacing and partially covered in the cheap wine. Possibly they were finding the experience pleasurable and were ripped to the nines on this Mad Dog brew, making them unlikely to anoint the berries----but maybe not.

By now the late morning heat was growing, the wine was brewing and my constitution was failing, along with my commitment and dreams of winter sweet delights. It was then it occurred to me I could be blindly picking along, then looking up through this thick tangle only to see berry-covered, and possibly unhappy bear feasting in the now ripening patch. This was an easy visualization because of the short field of vision caused by the thickness of the vegetation. Maybe I would just see this juice-stained, puzzled, tongue-lapping face staring at me as if I was an stumbling intruder. This would be a call for a resource war worse than those in the middle East. I didn’t even have a knife nor a suicide explosive vest. What was mostly berry color on me could easily be changed to mostly blood.

This hallucination was the final straw---probably caused by the fumes coming off the fermentation---alcohol being volatile and all. I thought “Would the bear only be eating the fermented berries, getting lousy drunk and then be bar-fight belligerent?” Would he slap me around, take my berries, take my ball hat and head off to catch a nap at Tom’s only to be later found smiling, but hung over with my ball cap on backwards. I’d be found some time later unconscious, if not expired, creating a headline for the Spirit  newspaper, “Older Man found in berry patch, scratched, berryless, and with his favorite Brewers ball cap missing.” Things once more were turning uncomfortably wrong. It was then it occurred to me, Blackberries are in league with the devil, nice to desire but all to often forbidden.

The Big One

The Big One.

I recently found myself floating down the Yellowstone River for the sole purpose of catching trout.  As each foot of fly line slid through the eyes of my rod, ultimately placing a flashy woolly bugger on the clear cold water, my mind thought mostly of one thing, and one thing only, catching the big one. It was more like a dream, possibly a very visual dream where one can see themselves fighting the creature of the deep.

It is so strange to be fishing, watching the fly zip through the water and actually sensing the flash of a giant trout. The strike is almost written in my memories, memories that may not even be true, or so distant it would seem impossible to recall but the vision is there as I fish.

It seems I fish with such intensity, or should I say focus, that all other aspects of my life disappear to the back of my aging mind. I watch the fly and want so badly to see the hit, to possibly see the fish, maybe to know its size and beauty. I want to be a part of that moment, that instant where there is contact with the prey.

This dream state is why many people go angling. We want to catch the big one. We want the fight. We want  to have a memory, a story, an imprinted vision in our night dreams, a victory possibly of man over nature.

Yes, the big one is part of the dream, an aspiration one has which almost seems to be embedded in our very genetics. The hard pounding hit and the fight, like Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea. The rising open mouth of the trout, maybe the huge gaping jaw of the musky that follows the lure to the boat and then crashes on the huge spinner, that is the dream. This vision for me never seems to go away for even after having numerous days of failure, I still have the burning desire to fish again, always just hoping beyond all hope this will be the time, the time of the huge tug and the victory of the fight.

It would seem that possibly this primal focus, this genetically embedded focus, is in me as a drive to provide food for my tribe or a mechanism to impress a female member of my tribe thus making me selectively cool. Still, this is the modern age and it might be possible that there is more to the story as a result of advanced learning and education.

While I may be a Neanderthal savage for fishing it would seem there are other beneficial possibilities that now go along with floating down the Yellowstone River or standing on the edge of Boulder Creek.

There is a saying by Thomas Huxley that goes like this, “To a person uninstructed in natural history, his country or sea-side stroll is a walk through a gallery filled with wonderful works of art, nine-tenths of which have their faces turned to the wall.” Does this imply that even though we may have this urge to be a provider, buried deep in our genetics, our educations may have indeed taken us to a new point so that I, for one, no longer totally want the large fish as food, or to impress my wife,  although I have tried that.

What it comes down to is, I have had to reassess my “Agenda of the Gene” as a friend Nate Hagens calls it. Yes, I have the primal desire, the dream of wanting the big one. I can’t seem to shake that. But I have gone beyond that at least some, realizing there is more than the agenda to just survive for I am a modern man---at least a portion of my brain says I am.

In an effort to go beyond the hunter/gatherer I am programmed to be, or shall we say hard wired to be, there is a need to explore what might be out there in the valley of the Yellowstone or up on Boulder Creek other than food and an impressively large fish?

While I cannot consume it as sustenance, there is unimaginable beauty, not just in the cold pure water but in the willows that bounce in the afternoon breeze, and the shadows on the many river-worn rocks that line the edges of the rivers. There is midsummer Wild Bergamot, Columbine, the obnoxious Knapweed in purple hues, Figworts, Spiderworts and a thousand other flowers all bent on holding ground. There are Fritillaries of many makes, Painted Ladies, an occasional Monarch and Sulfurs, maybe an Admiral or two, all fluttering about as butterflies will.

The Mule Deer sneak in and out of the thickets and bounce across the low ground while the antelope lounge on the hillsides watching out of glancing eyes. Everywhere there is beauty, none of it really needing to be consumed but only observed and seen maybe as paintings on nature’s wall.

Still, I cannot forget the fish but I found that they too are paintings to be observed. And resting there in my cupped hand a small West slope Cutthroat Trout is almost unimaginable in its design and grace, a magical species perfectly adapted to this steam. To just look and then release was a momentary prize, a really big one, the big one.

Some may think this rationalization is simply a way of covering up the fact I did not get a “big” one---but this is not true.




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Local Handyman Saves Money with Older Equipment Restoration.

In my retirement I have the liberty to mess around with some pretty silly things, some bordering on ridiculous according to some individual’s observations. Still, while there are questions of sanity, in some incidences it would seem there is also a chance to learn---assuming I still can learn.

I have collected things, not like a hoarder, but items of esoteric interest for some time, thinking with a little ingenuity and stunning insight I might solve a problem or unravel a mystery.

Some “treasures” have been fetched from one auction or another, or from wayward antique dealers and even “found“ rotting in a friend’s discard lot. At the moment, I have in my possession a “few” hundred-year-old single cylinder stationary engines and at least one bulbous, but interestingly attractive, water pump. For reasons not fully known to me, this massive bulb, much like the cranium of a commonly imagined space person, was attached to this pumping device. While I suspect it was put there to maintain a constant pressure on the exit hose, it seems excessive in size and weight, but rather aesthetic. That’s right, aesthetic. It is a thing of beauty.

In a moment of ingenuity, it was decided to combine my Associated Chore Boy 1.3/4 horse power cast iron engine, weighing in at 300lbs with a Reliable, made by Sears, water pump. Coupled with the three hundred pound majestic throbbing engine, the seventy five pound piston pump makes a very handsome configuration almost reflective of American innovation and industrial power, the type of which laid the groundwork of this fine country---even if the pump looks like an alien.

The idea of this assemblage was to be able to pump the water out of my three hundred and fifty gallon rainwater storage tank and flood it on our sometime thirsty garden. Rain water is, of course, better for the garden than chlorinated city water as it has more nutrients and, in this case, lots of mosquito larva which will add some needed protein and wiggling compost to the soil.

Most importantly and part of my rationalization for spending untold hours on this effort, was to also save money by keeping the water bill down. By doing the math, it seemed the savings was close to five dollars over the summer---but I didn’t take into account the cost of the fuel for the engine which has a piston the size of a coffee can because fuel for the summer was given to me by the neighbor who couldn't remember if he had added the two stroke oil to his container. The Chore Boy simply didn’t care but it does prefer cheap whiskey better know as ethanol. Then there is also the possibility of using left over fry oil from the Ambrosia restaurant. It is all about innovation here in Amurika.

 Ya,ya, ya, there was the cost of the “pile” of cast iron and the parts that had to be made or found.  This portion, like the infamous wood pile, was written off as adventure, and educational gain. So, there was, with creative conjuring, the huge financial gain of five dollars to consider. I say this with great pride because there have been individuals who in their need to be critical, have scoffed and said this was a fool’s errand.

These very exciting, and notably aesthetic symbols of the industrial revolution were  hooked together by a number of pulleys, jack shafts, line shafts and belts to ultimately make the seventy-five year old pump run at an appropriate 250 rpms. One belt runs to a large wooden pulley attached to the ceiling of the shed and then from the other end of the very rustic jack shaft,  made artistically of cast iron with babbitt bushings, drops down to the elegant pump some five feet away.

Once fired up, with oil flying about and belts pulling in full muscle, it is a tremendous spectacle that even if the outfit could only pump ten gallons a minute, the day would be made brighter from raw show-casing of American ingenuity. The act of walking around applying oil to various exposed bearings and spinning gears is in itself an opportunity to dip into our glorious history.

I suppose it would be easier to just to hook up a 120 volt half Hp Chinese motor to a shinny Chinese centrifugal pump and just plug it into the wall. Maybe invest in a 12 volt Mexican motor and plug it into my Japanese photo voltaic system. No noise, no smells, no mining----here in town at least. Oh, I did learn a few things maybe not what I thought I would, but I did learn.