Boondocking 101

BoonDocked
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

August 2001

Last month my brother from St. George, Utah summoned me to assist him in relocating his household to Salmon, Idaho. This meant, I would have to drive from Powell, Wyoming to St. George, follow him to Salmon from St. George and than make the return from Salmon to Powell. As some may know, driving from Powell to St. George is a long, long one-day drive. The punishment of such a drive seemed inconceivable so, I decided to stretch it into two days and find out for myself what all the recent hoopla was regarding boondocking (overnight camping in a Walmart parking lot). I reckoned that the Walmarts in Rock Springs or Evanston would be the most likely "camps" depending on what time I left Powell.

While passing over the great expanses of Wyoming’s high desert, I wondered about my boondocking status—i.e., if I was good enough. There’s no silver bullet Airstream trailer parked in my backyard nor the big rig required to pull it. I don’t even have one of those pop-up tent/trailers. Nope, just a Mazda 626 equipped with a padded cot that folds up to fit in the boot and an old quilt for bedding. If rain came, the back seat of the Mazda and the little comfort offered there would have to do. And what if the Walmart authorities kicked me out of their lot for not having enough recreational mass according to their definition of a boondocker? What would they think of me—actually sleeping outside of my “rig” on my fold-out cot in the open air? Would that be taking the boondocking concept a wee bit too far?

Before reaching Evanston, I’d been contemplating my arrival under the cover of darkness. Would there be any signs of “camp” camaraderie and if so, would it be present at this late hour? I feared any social activity from the evening would have ceased in preparation for the various early departures in the morning. After all, who would really want to prolong the camping experience in a Walmart car park—as if the store’s staff would come by in the morning knocking on RVs and offering them a continental breakfast?

Some four hundred miles from Powell, I arrived at the Evanston, Wyoming Walmart—around 10:30 p.m. I stumbled into the Arby’s next door and treated myself to a meal of fine fast food; it seemed like the right thing to do after a day of nothing but bagels in my diet. This late arrival was not determined by fate alone. I had purposely chosen the later hour of arrival in Evanston over the earlier one in Rock Springs. If I had been so determined to check out the pre-camp atmosphere during the early evening, I could have opted for the Walmart at Rock Springs. But my fears of becoming a boondocker outcast outweighed all the other factors in my decision.

Simply put, I didn’t want to make my formal and obvious entrance into the fraternal order of boondockers with such a modest display of camping gear; I felt better about arriving at a later time and thus drawing less attention to my deprived recreational state. Perhaps on another day I would make a second entrance that included all the recreational stuff worthy of boondocker status.

Before I go any further, I just want to make sure that anyone who reads this drivel knows that I’m by no means partial to Walmart. Yeah, I shop there sometimes but I’d hardly consider myself a dedicated fan. Be assured, they haven’t made their mint from people like me.

So, there I was in the Evanston Walmart car park—plenty of campers to report, but there was no activity. To say that the parking lot was well lit would have been an understatement. I was wondering if anyone could sleep in this environment as it reminded me of the lighting that is used for interrogating a suspect in a crime. At this time, I started to rethink my idea of setting up the cot on the surface of the car park next to my Mazda. For one, it was noisy, thanks to the refrigerators and engines idling from the various semis parked there. I hadn’t counted on this strain of boondocker. Secondly, I decided it might be interpreted as disrespectful if a boondocker slept out on the deck of the car park. If someone else had set up a tent, or constructed a hammock between the lighting structures than surely I would have set up my old cot. Later that night, I pondered the rebel status directed at me from others as I considered my cowardliness in sleeping out on the asphalt. I felt unworthy of such character.

Nevertheless, I set up my bed by folding down the back seats in the 626, allowing my legs to expand into the boot. By midnight there were nine RV parties that I could identify and nine semi trucks. There may have been a few scant cars like myself but short of actually going up and looking in the windows to determine if they are camping or just local teenagers making out, I couldn’t be sure. For all I know, the scattering of sedans may only be those that have been left behind after a day of business. I’m sure Walmart  always has a car or two remaining everyday from those customers who return to their car following a shopping spree only to find it won’t start.

The Morning After
Well, it wasn’t exactly like a one-night stand where the involved parties feel guilty and slip out before the day’s light. For one, I couldn’t get myself out of the car before 7:00 a.m.; long after the sun had been trying to shine on me through my car windows. In a quick survey of the anticipated vacant lot, I discovered more RVs and semi trucks had arrived following my retire. From this perspective, it also appeared that no one had departed early as all the RVs that were present the night before when I made my survey were still present at this hour. So much for my theory of not wanting to hang around in a Walmart car park.

After restoring my “rig” back to it’s usual travel mode, I moseyed on over to McDonald’s for a light breakfast and most important, a strong cup of coffee. Walking across the “campgrounds,” I expected to see more rubbish and other discarded material left behind by the boondockers but, for the most part, it was minimal. I suppose the oil and radiator fluid leaking from the cars of Walmart shoppers on any given day is no better than the night’s refuse associated with a band of boondockers.

From a quiet booth in the McDonald's next door, it came to me like an epiphany; that the string of fast-food establishments near the Evanston Walmart and other stores like it must profit from the boondocker fallout in the same way Walmart profits—and they don’t even have to worry about cleaning up the car park. And what of the gas station/convenience store just down the road? Is their business deprived or blessed as a result of the boondocker factor? Further, what is the “break-even distance” from a Walmart for any given business? Does it matter what kind of business it is? Now I know what to write about for my dissertation if I ever seek out that illustrious Ph.D.

Butte, Montana
In my return trip from Salmon, Idaho, I decided to drum up a discussion or two with fellow boondockers about their views on the Cody Walmart boondocking controversy. I reckoned the more-seasoned boondocker might shed some light on the issue in ways I hadn’t thought about.

The new Butte, Montana Walmart Super Center turned out to be where I would make my second attempt at boondocking. My early arrival assured me that I would have plenty of daylight to seek out fellow boondockers for their viewpoints on why overnighting at a Walmart isn’t such a bad idea.

Admittedly, I was a bit uncomfortable when I walked up to the back of a pick-up with a full-size camper hailing plates from Ontario. I’m sure they found me a bit out of place at first and were likely a bit cautious as to why I was asking them questions about their camping choices—probably thought I might be from the IRS. Another couple were corralled in the car park as they were making their way toward their thirty-five footer with a trundle full of Walmart goods. They turned out to be from Rhode Island by way of Texas. From these two parties alone, I learned quite a bit about the everyday concerns of RVers as well as clearing up some theories in my mind. So, to those kind folks, I’m thankful for their time and consideration.

Here are a few things I learned about RVers and why they choose to overnight (boondock) in a Walmart parking lot.

• Walmarts aren’t the only businesses that offer free overnight parking to RVers. Several other stores around the U.S. and Canada encourage free camping as well including Fred Myers and Flying Js. Some even offer free dumping of an RV’s on-board waste.

• For the same reason that so many of us go to McDonald's when travelling across country, RVers stay at a Walmart and others like it. There won’t be any surprises. Think about it, how bad can one mess up a parking lot? Though their needs are minimal when they choose to overnight at in a store’s parking lot, they can be sure of a consistent experience (or lack thereof). Sometimes when they are pressed to find a place to stay, Walmart can be their safety net. One RVer told me about pulling into a Walmart, “Sometimes it’s like coming home.” (Yup I know, so sweet it hurts your teeth.)

• There are many variables to overnighting in a campground from the perspective of RVers. Besides paying for something that they may not really use much of—water, electricity and sewer (if they are just pulling in to get a night’s sleep), they are also paying for something that they are uncertain of until they claim their space.

Variables include: on-going conditions of toilets and showers from the time they pull in until they leave; space surrounding their RV to other RVs; noise from unruly neighbors such as their animals, children or partying; maneuverability (especially a concern for the bigger outfits); and access to other businesses such as supply stores and restaurants. One RVer told me, “This one campground we stayed at, the RVs were so tightly packed that my neighbor had to step over my sewer pipe when he walked out his door.”

• Some campgrounds may have nice settings but minimum provisions in their little on-site stores. Then you have Walmart with it’s base provisions as far as a space goes but you have this on-site store that has everything you would ever need and in the case of the Super Center stores, they’re open twenty-four hours. Keep in mind, all boondockers want is a safe place to camp. Ambiance isn’t a consideration, so any old parking space will do—especially if there is plenty of room.

At some point, even the biggest and most contained RVs have to pull up for the night in a campground and recharge their batteries, dump their sewage and take on more water. But as in the case of Bob and Carolyn and their 35-footer from Texas, they can go almost a whole week on their own provisions—that includes a washer and dryer on board! So what’s their incentive in staying in a campground every night if they really don’t need to? Are they really cheating the taxpayers in Cody and other communities in North America out of their rightful duty? If we ban boondocking in a car park, than why should RVers be permitted to park anywhere for free?

Here’s my opinion, for whatever it’s worth: If the various businesses that profit from the RV crowd object to boondocking, then perhaps they should offer more pricing choices based on the needs of the perspective RV customer. For example; offer a free or minimum rate for just a parking space—no electric, water or sewer. Even in this scenario, I suspect Walmart would still win out—having that big store with everything they need so close is simply too tempting to pass up.

No doubt it must be tough to be a campground owner these days. Not only do you have to fight the usual capitalistic fight with other campgrounds but you also have to contend with this growing trend in RV development that keeps on making them more self-reliant. And have you had a look inside the newest RV’s lately? Man, you’re gonna have to have a hell of a nice campground to make them want to stay with you when they have so much luxury on board. Perhaps today’s campgrounds and RV parks should concentrate on attracting “real” campers—those that still sleep out in tents and (God forbid) cots. Wouldn’t it be cool to be travelling up a road and come across a campground sign (in neon no less) that declared, “No RVs.” I’d go out of my way to stay there. Let’s face it, it’s hard to feel good about “living close to the earth” when your RVing neighbor in the next space is watching satellite TV in the comfort of his leather recliner with a bag of microwave popcorn making all that noise.

Nevertheless, I reckon Walmart and other stores have set a pretty good example for us to follow. What a better world it would be if all of us who had the extra space in our lives made it known to the RV folks that they were welcome to park at our place overnight—free. Reminds me of that song Louis Armstrong sang, “And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.” Face it, it’s just a good neighbor policy. Surely there are a handful of you out there right now saying to yourself, “All you’re doing Morgan is inviting trouble to show up at your front door.” But really, have you seen the people who typically drive around in RVs? It’s not like they’re going to show up, transform their RV into a meth lab and never leave your property. One RVer was telling me that it is almost an unwritten policy amongst the RV crowd that boondocking is only a one night stay in any given location.

So in Butte, Montana I did it—at the newly opened Walmart Super Center. I parked the Mazda on the perimeter and set up my cot between the curb and the car so I was hidden from the Walmart store. Like all the other Walmarts, it was extremely well lit, even on the outskirts of their parking area. I positioned the head of the cot in the shadow of my "rig" so no big, bright lights were raining down on me. It was cold that night. I still felt a bit “trashy” or cheap as I crawled out of my cot the following morning. Anyone who would have seen me, must of thought I was homeless—and a ten-year-old Mazda isn’t a far stretch for someone who is homeless. Regardless, I could really get this boondocking thing down over time. I started thinking about the other equipment I might have along in the future and how I’d outfit my 626 to make the most of space without becoming too cluttered. Than my mind took it a step further: I thought of a mini-van I could travel and camp in and then the next thing I knew, I projected myself in a full-blown 35-foot RV touring the country and writing about life on the road.

Quickly and quietly I gathered up my things early that morning and made my way to McDonald’s for a badly-needed cup of coffee; besides, I just love those little plastic coffee stirrers they provide for mixing the milk into your coffee.

I choose Quark

Most people in the graphic arts profession know of the page layout war between Adobe InDesign and QuarkXPress. In fact, most of us know the basic history of the page layout wars: In the beginning there was only Aldus Pagemaker. Then along came QuarkXPress as a competitor. A mass exodus to Quark followed its 3.0 version and Pagemaker never really recovered—not even after Adobe purchased it from Aldus and attempted to revamp it.

Well, to say that it "never really recovered" might be a bit misleading in that there were more licensed copies of Pagemaker than any other desktop publishing software. Even in Quark's zenith of success, they never matched the sales of Pagemaker. While most of the high-end operations were based in Quark, the small businesses, printers and publishers were content with Pagemaker—who were the lion's share of page layout users.

Nevertheless, in the end, not even mighty Adobe believed it could reconfigure the old codes of Pagemaker. So, they did the unthinkable—they built a completely new page layout "factory" from the ground up—enter InDesign.

And a better program InDesign was—even in the early stages. Now that it's in its third major edition, ask anyone in the "biz" today whether they prefer QuarkXPress or InDesign, and there's a good chance they'll answer, "InDesign. Quark is old school."

The tables have turned indeed. Like Pagemaker's early reign of desktop publishing, Quark is no longer king of the hill. Having been accused of customer service neglect and resting on its laurels, Quark is now in the battle of its life. A new upgrade is due out any day now that will better rival InDesign. Some say it's too little and too late. Perhaps.

War no more
Up until recently, another heated software war was constantly brewing in the industry, only this one had to do with the illustration/drawing programs of Adobe Illustrator and Macromedia FreeHand. Like the page layout wars, this one was another one of those great "Ford vs. Chevy" conflicts. Each side was adamant about the superiority of their illustration program over the other offering. And thanks to the heated status, both software products drove the other to greater performance levels.

But, this war took an odd turn when Adobe bought out Macromedia and its entire line of print and web-based publishing software which included FreeHand. And Adobe's response to the illustration prisoner of war? Kill it.

What an odd response to let an established program die on the vine (PageMaker) or to outright discontinue its offering after purchasing the rights to it (FreeHand). It's nothing new to hear of a particular desktop publishing application to be sold and revised under another company's name—that's what initially happened to Pagemaker when Adobe scooped it up from Aldus. And FreeHand was an Aldus product before it was purchased by Macromedia years ago.

But how is one gigantic software company suppose to behave if they already own one of the major illustration programs, and then acquire its major competition? What would happen if Coke acquired Pepsi? I'd like to believe that Coke would continue to produce Pepsi for all the faithful Pepsi drinkers. I'd be more than a bit pissed off if I was a Pepsi drinker and Coke announced to the world that they were discontinuing Pepsi simply because they owned it.

So, despite the volumes of FreeHand users throughout the world, Adobe chose to thumb their nose, and simply say, "It's Illustrator or nothing at all." (Ummm, that's if one doesn't consider Corel Draw a major player). I'm sure I know of at least one group of disgruntled FreeHand users in the world; the good folks of Christchurch, New Zealand. When I was there in 2001, FreeHand was everywhere and they used it for everything—page layout and imposition.

Then there is of course the swelling popularity of InDesign. Once again Adobe didn't do the page layout community any favors by eliminating PageMaker. One has to wonder how popular InDesign would be today if Adobe hadn't let Pagemaker die on the vine. Nevertheless, it was another one of those, "It's this or nothing at all" scenarios. In this case they said, "Well, it's InDesign or QuarkXPress, but we'll give you a sweet deal if you choose our product." At the same time, Quark's shelf price remained considerably higher. Quark's major blunder may have been that they didn't match Adobe's offer as everyone was abandoning the Pagemaker ship when they realized no upgrades would follow. Who can blame a page layout community if they are forced to move to another program—pick the one that's the cheapest because there will undoubtedly be some pain in any kind of transition.

At one time I had hoped that Pagemaker would resurface under another company's banner—Adobe would sell Pagemaker to someone like Corel or Macromedia after they felt everyone that could be lured to InDesign was hooked. Not so. Instead, they simply bought Macromedia. My crystal ball has grown dark.

Yet (and this is undoubtedly a stretch on my part), I still wonder if many of those Quark users who have now migrated to InDesign were simply moving back to Pagemaker (a.k.a. "Pagemaker on Steroids") because years ago they were forced to move, or felt compelled to move to Quark when they would have preferred to stay with the Pagemaker environment. Perhaps they've been waiting to jump off the Quark ship for a long time now, they were simply waiting for Adobe to build a decent rescue ship.

Adobe… the new Microsoft
I'm starting to think that the folks at Adobe are no different than any other money-hungry corporation. They're not too keen on competition especially if the competition is ahead of them or keeping up with them. If they have it their way, they'd just assume snuff out any formidable competitors (i.e., FreeHand) regardless of any ethical business considerations (i.e., the elimination of Pagemaker; desktop publishing's charter software).

However, things aren't as bad as I over-dramatize here. Thankfully, Adobe has a pretty decent record when it comes to the business of running a monopoly—consider Photoshop. Nothing comes close to this powerful image-editing software… not in donkey's years. And the application gets better with each revision. Let's just hope they do the same when it comes to Illustator—Adobe's newest monopoly.

By the way, let's not forget Adobe's other unchallenged powers. Most notable is Postscript itself. Every software company has an umbilical cord leading back to Adobe—yes, even Microsoft. You want to use Postscript in your application, you need to have a little chat with desktop publishing's godfather first. And don't forget, Acrobat is the king when it comes to anything to do with PDF (portable document format).

Be careful for what you wish, you might just get it.

I choose Quark
Some say the writing is on the wall. Quark is a very, very small company based in Denver, Colorado. They're no match for Adobe on Wall Street. It's only a matter of time before they buy out Quark as well. So some say.

If the unthinkable does unfold, the Adobe noose tightens a bit more as our options in desktop publishing software dwindle. In turn, Quark users will find plenty of comfort in the multitudes of former FreeHand users as they are forced to move into the trenches of InDesign.

In the meantime, I'm staying with Quark. I don't doubt that InDesign is a better program at this point in time. Yet, that's not enough to make me rule out Quark. Years ago when Quark had clearly beaten Pagemaker, some people still chose to stay with Pagemaker. Maybe they were lazy or maybe they truly liked the environment better. I never looked down on them for their decision regardless of their rationale. If Pagemaker melted their butter, who was I to say that they could be happier with something else. Besides, how fickle is that to jump to another program just because it has taken the lead. Talk about fair-weather fans. And mind you, I'm an active supporter of Adobe in so many other departments—Photoshop, Acrobat, Postscript (and now Illustrator I guess). They need nothing else from me.

As I see it, the decline of Quark's popularity will either lead to its demise or the company will become hungry again and meet InDesign's appeal. Hopefully it will be the latter scenario. Besides, with Quark still hanging around as that proverbial thorn in Adobe's side, we are all guaranteed two quality programs for years to come—and there's plenty of users out there to go around.

Three Years of Shame

KC Head On
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

The three year anniversary of the war in Iraq has come and gone and what have we to show for it? The first thing that comes to my mind is that over 2,000 of our own young men and women are dead along with a growing and uncountable number of Iraqi civilians who have also been claimed in the all-about-oil fiasco.

Many people believe Iraq was better off under the iron rule of Saddam. Well, at least it was stable. Nevertheless, I'm not from Iraq, so my opinion is pretty shallow on this subject. But wouldn't it be an interesting poll if we could get all the Iraqi citizens to tell us which country was better—the pre-war Saddam Iraq or the post-war Bush Iraq.

To put it lightly, I'm amused to know that the person who put us there (our President) keeps telling us to be patient and that "we are implementing a strategy that will lead to a victory in Iraq." As I consider his request for patience, I find myself considering the lies, half-truths and blunders of the man and his administration that have lead us to this point in time.

First there was the "axis of evil" Dubya coined regarding Iran, North Korea and Iraq. This proved to the President's best attribute as a leader—spreading fear among his own countrymen. I've never doubted the potential harm any of these countries could bring to the world, but I never saw them any worse than China, India, Pakistan, Israel, Russia, or other nuclear-armed states. His rhetoric (as usual) was simply over-the-top and unnecessary.

Next, Wyoming's very own, Dick Cheney, went on the record to say, "There is no doubt that Saddam has weapons of mass destruction" to use against the United States and its allies. "No doubt." Is that right, Dick? Don't people get fired for making such asinine claims in other occupations?

Then it was back to Dubya and Condoleeeeeezzzzzzza Rice and their visions of a smoking gun in the form of a mushroom cloud—no doubt their vision included the diabolical cloud lingering over a large metropolitan city of the United States. Terrorism, terrorism, terrorism! (Our leader's most popular and worn-out word.)

Our war-bent leader was next standing before the United Nations (because it wasn't enough to just tell us) claiming that Iraq was "a grave and gathering danger." Oooooooo! He went on to say that Saddam and al Qaeda were working together on bomb-making projects and developing poisonous gasses. The administration continued to insist that there was "solid evidence of al Qaeda in Baghdad"—training in chemical and biological weapons.

At the same time, United Nations weapons inspectors were coming up empty-handed and refuting some of the President's claims regarding Iraq attempting to purchase uranium in Africa. Dubya also concluded that a discovered cache of aluminum tubes was "suitable for nuclear weapons production." As it turned out the African uranium was based on forged documents and the tubes were only being used for a small rocket project. Still Bush insisted on Iraq's desire to obtain nuclear weapons. No one listened to the United Nations inspectors, everyone listened to our fire-breathing President.

As we prepared to invade Iraq, Dick Cheney told us that our troops would be welcomed in Iraq as "liberators." Ahhhh... excuse me Dick, did you mean the same kind of liberators that freed France and other European countries during WWII? Right...

Finally, I thought President Bush looked pretty dumb on the deck of the Abraham Lincoln after his fighter-jet-arrival with the "Mission Accomplished" banner waving in the background as he spoke. Looking back on it now, I think he looks even dumber. The man seems to redefine the term every time I turn on the news.

Two years later and several investigations and commissions (including one appointed by Dubya himself) we've learned two distinct things:

1. There were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
2. There was no relationship between al Qaeda and Saddam Hussein

So, basically we went to war based on two false premises, and now we're stuck there. The ultimate quagmire. And we thought Vietnam was bad.

And things aren't getting any better in Iraq since our arrival no matter how much President Bush sugar-coats his anecdotal accounts. Consider the city of Basra: Many considered this to be the first major city of Iraq to get on its feet because it is mostly Shiites and there was very little conflict when the troops moved into this coastal town. Yet today, three years after the invasion, sewage runs freely in the streets, unemployment is catastrophic and electricity is still iffy at best.

Civil war in Iraq? This just in…

BAGHDAD, Iraq - Insurgents stormed a jail around dawn Tuesday in the Sunni Muslim heartland north of Baghdad, killing 19 police and a courthouse guard in a prison break that freed at least 33 prisoners and left 10 attackers dead, authorities said. As many as 100 insurgents armed with automatic rifles and rocket-propelled grenades stormed the judicial compound in Muqdadiyah, about 60 miles northeast of the capital. The assault began after the attackers fired a mortar round into the police and court complex, said police Brig. Ali al-Jabouri. After burning the police station, the insurgents detonated roadside bombs as they fled, taking the bodies of many of their dead comrades with them, police said. At least 13 policemen and civilians and 15 gunmen were wounded.

In defending this accusation of civil war in Iraq, President Bush said that the country's army is still united and hasn't broken up into sectarian divisions. I'm not an expert on civil war, but if this isn't civil war, surely Iraq is only one step away.

Here's what gets me. People get fired from their jobs every day for a number of reasons—some of which are quite petty; reporters loose their jobs for getting the facts wrong, cashiers are turned loose for dipping into the till and lawyers are collecting unemployment because they can't win enough cases. So, it seems like a no-brainer to me that if someone starts a war that was based on lies and/or faulty intelligence they've collected, I'd say that's good enough reason to give them the pink slip. How is it that this bozo is still in charge?

I know one isn't suppose to say this, I suppose it's rather unpatriotic, but thanks to the country's leadership and dreadful foreign policy, I'm quite ashamed to be an American. There, I said it. Big deal, so what? Nevertheless, I haven't given up on America even if I gave up on George Bush and his cronies long ago.

Time and time again, George W. Bush props himself up on the target range—and what an easy mark to hit. Can anyone blame me or others who keep on returning to this colossal bull's-eye?

Coming to a Halt

Otto Unknown
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

2 April 2003

Yesterday was an eventful day in Powell history. The first combat casualty of the war with Iraq was laid to rest here in this small town of just under 6,000 residents. Of all the places to claim the first loss of life in the war, Powell’s name came to the top—what a lottery to win. Although the Lieutenant did not grow up here, his parents have been residents for several years and thus, Powell ended up in the nation’s headlines.

The funeral for 2nd Lt. Therrel Shane Childress was held in the college gymnasium with an estimated 1,200 in attendance. The town turned out like he was truly one of their own. The funeral was short and simple. Following the services, Lt. Childress’ remains were taken to Crown Hill Cemetery on the outskirts of town for burial including full military honours. I did not attend the burial due to an afternoon class commitment.

That evening after night class, I jumped on my bicycle and headed home while thinking of the Lieutenant. Every time someone is laid to rest that I know (or at least know beyond the news), I always find myself thinking about them on that first evening following their burial. A stark and blunt epiphany finds me, “This will be the first night of an eternity that he will spend in the cold, dark ground.” The idea or thought comes to me as if that person were still alive or aware of their surroundings. As if they were sentenced to an eternity of camping out in the same place and being totally self-supporting. Even in death, Lt. Childress’ body was cared for and watched over up until last night. Resources were consumed. I was told by one reporter at the funeral that a lone marine stands guard over another marine’s body twenty-four, seven until he is finally laid to rest.

And so yesterday afternoon, all the inertia related to this fine soldier came to a final and definite halt. While the dynamics of the world beyond his tomb continue to move about and change, nothing will change within that tiny, confined space of a coffin that is now the only world of what remains of Lt. Childress. And nothing is needed from beyond that tomb for the remainder of the soldier’s journey wherever it may lead—not even the basics of food, warmth or companionship. Barring the catastrophic destruction of the earth, relocation of the cemetery or some future law that will abolish and call for the destruction of cemeteries, what remains of Lt. Childress can and will always be found in the same place here in (of all places) Powell, Wyoming—you can count on it.

The Gas Pump Blues

Joplin Pump & Bus
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

When I was growing up, one of the things my father instilled in me was how dangerous it is to play with matches and, worse yet, the dangers of including gasoline in such frivolity. Everyone gets that lecture. And rightly so, as anyone who has ever worked with gasoline can attest to this everyday fuel’s extreme volatility.

Naturally, this is the rationale for the warning signs posted at gas pumping facilities stating it is forbidden to smoke or leave your engine running while one is fueling. And as big, bold, and numerous as these signs are, that should be enough to discourage anyone from doing otherwise. However, a population amongst us appears to have anointed itself exempt in following such safety precautions.

In the past year, when filling my gas tank on three different occasions, I noticed someone who was smoking and/or running their engine as they fueled their vehicles. In fact, two of these incidents happened last summer on the same day—once in Evanston and the other, later that evening, in Riverton. To no surprise, the offenders were both young men (under 30) reeking with invincibility as if they were a super-hero comic book figure.

After the Riverton incident, I headed toward Powell in dismay, wondering if the laws had changed regarding the handling of gasoline or if the oil companies (unbeknownst to me) had recently changed the chemistry of gasoline so it was no longer flammable outside an internal combustion engine.

In the first two occasions, I pointed out their dangerous “oversight,” and asked them to quickly correct their action, without sounding too offensive (but really, who is offensive in this scenario?). I half-expected them to acknowledge my vigilance—if not outright thank me—but instead the young man in Evanston gave me a sly smirk as if to say, “Whatever old man,” and slowly leaned out of his rig and snuffed the fag out on the concrete of the petrol station. The young man in Riverton didn’t even acknowledge what I’d said, but walked away to the cashier’s box, flicking his cigarette to the concrete slab without snuffing it out.

Maybe it’s not that dangerous anymore to smoke while pumping gas. I thought it was. And what of the danger associated with running your engine while pumping gas? I reckon that’s just a bit of pump station hysteria. So then, what gives with the signs?

I decided to call around and talk with those who might know the truths and laws related to fuel handling and the dangers associated with the activity. My first calls went out to the local petrol stations in town to see if they could fill me in. Yes, they all reassured me that gasoline is indeed highly flammable and that the signs posted are not just there to make peoples’ lives more difficult. What struck me odd, however, was that no one really knew for sure if disobeying such signs was a violation of any law(s). One manager told me that if they see someone smoking, they’ll request them to put it out, while another said they were to shut off the pump immediately. None mentioned a course of action that would involve reporting such violations to law enforcement officials.

I decided to call law enforcement here in Powell to see what they knew about this. At first, no one had an answer for me, but they’d check into the matter and call me back. I called later in the day after not receiving a response. They seemed a bit annoyed, but I pressed them.

I asked, “What would happen if a police officer pulled up to a petrol station and observed someone pumping gas into their vehicle as they were smoking or their vehicle was idling away?” Both Powell and Cody officials (including one officer) “didn’t know of” or “didn’t believe” there was any law against such activity.

“Didn’t believe.” “Didn’t know of.” How’s that for getting it from the horse’s mouth?

One police official told me rather matter of factly, “If a person wants to have a cigarette while they fuel their car, I guess that’s their business.”

I questioned both departments about the consequences of discharging a .22 from my back porch into the blue yonder above. They didn’t have to do any research on that question. Without hesitation, I’d be ticketed and fined.

Am I the only one who finds all of this a bit odd—I can risk the lives of several people by simply ignoring safety notices at the pump and not be fined or ticketed? Yet, I’ll receive a fine for firing a tiny piece of lead into the air that won’t lead to anything catastrophic (unless it lands in the middle of a gas station where some careless individual has spilled gasoline all over the island). Better yet—how would speeding down Bent Street at 50 mph be any more dangerous to the general public than smoking while pumping gasoline?

If the gas station management is unsure about any laws that address negligence at the gas pump and local law enforcement “doesn’t know of any laws,” why are those annoying signs posted all over the place? What leg does some peon like me have to stand on if I wish to stop such careless actions?

Well, thankfully, I hooked up with an official at the state fire marshal’s office in Cheyenne. In that little phone call, I learned what all gas station owners, operators, employees, and law enforcement officials should already know: Those signs aren’t just for safety matters only. They are state law, according to the 2003 International Fire Code (IFC) which was adopted by the State of Wyoming and is considered law. Violations can be a misdemeanor and punishable by fines and/or jail time.

What was really disconcerting for me in our little visit was the laws regarding gas station attendants. You know the people who take your money, stock the shelves, clean the toilets, sweep the floor, make the coffee and all that. Section 2204 of the 2003 IFC spells out the following: “Attended self-service motor fuel-dispensing facilities shall have at least one qualified attendant on duty while the facility is open for business. The attendant’s primary function shall be to supervise, observe and control the dispensing of fuel.” From my experience, this primary function appears to be way down at the bottom of their list of job duties.

I also learned that all the regulations of the IFC are the result of someone seriously injured or killed related to the listed violations. In other words, we learned the hard way that smoking at the gas pump and leaving your engine running is has some serious consequences.

When I shared my findings with the fire marshal’s office regarding law enforcement’s ignorance on this topic, they showed no surprise in this lack of policing at the pump because local police do not deal with IFC violations very often.

Perhaps this local-level confusion regarding one particular state law explains and illustrates the series of intelligence blunders resulting at the federal level regarding the events of Sept. 11, 2001.

In defense of local law enforcement, we can’t expect them to stay up with every fire code that’s out there, but this particular one is directly related to the responsible operation of a vehicle and, in my mind, should be policed no less than violations for speeding or failure to stop at a controlled intersection.

Despite this ambiguous and apparently obscure law, I suppose if someone wants to flirt with exiting this world in a blaze of glory at the local gas pump, who am I to stop them, all I ask is that they not include me in their science project. Does anyone else object?

No doubt, some of you out there are probably saying to yourself, “So what? Who cares? I see this stuff all the time and nothing ever happens.” This is just another one of Morgan “Tyrade’s” rants.

Well, maybe we are all a bit lucky to date, but keep this in mind: If and when a gas station does go “poof,” I doubt the resulting injuries will be a little scratch or a bump on someone’s head. There is approximately one “gasoline incident” per month in the state of Wyoming alone. Not all of these lead to an ignition, but the potential outcome in these spills is considered hazardous enough to report.

If all of this isn’t enough, earlier this month, on my way out of town and topping off my tank at the Maverick Store, a late-model pickup truck attended by yet another young man pulled up and started pumping gasoline while his engine was chugging away. Surely he didn’t notice my family sitting in the car in his approach. In dismay, I looked around and sure enough, there were those darn signs about not smoking and turning off your engine while fueling.

What is it about these guys? Is showing a lack of caution while fueling your rig a part of proving one’s manhood now, or is it just dumb luck on my part that carelessness at the gas pump seems to be practiced by young men in pickup trucks? I suspect such wrecklessness extends beyond this demographic—for better or worse.

Like last summer’s incidents at the pump, I confronted this latest young man asking if he was aware that a vehicle’s engine is required to be off while fueling. He confidently looked at me and replied, “Yep.”

I sounded off again, “What then, do you think you’re better than everyone else around here?”

“Nope,” said the monosyllabic homo-habilis.

And that was it. He climbed into his daddy’s idling truck after the tank was filled and away he went.

I walked into the Maverick store and informed the cashier of the incident as he drove off. I’m sure nothing became of it because attendants are likely no better informed than law enforcement in this violation of fire code.

As I returned to my car, I reasoned that this was the ultimate rationalization for reinstating mandatory gas station attendants who work the pumps as well—as in Oregon. Maybe big government is the best thing for everyone because the masses can’t be trusted to be 100 percent responsible. Think Enron, think Columbine, think Halliburton. “Trickle down” is a great concept, but there will always be those who abuse its inherent lack of accountability—ruining it for everyone else.

Too bad I’m not more confrontational than my series of spineless questions. I recalled how my Uncle Earl would have handled this in his day. Nothing would have been said. No, my Uncle Earl would have walked over and simply punched the “homo-yungmanis” square in the chops and then reached into his truck and turned off the ignition. And that would have been the end of it.

Of course, that’s not how things work in this day and age. Assuming I didn’t get beat up for attempting such an act and actually succeeded in duplicating the feats of Uncle Earl, no doubt I would have ended up in jail for several days, fined and sued for over $100,000—and of course dismissed from my job.

Finally, here’s the irony of it all—anyone can fill up his vehicle while the engine idles and he has a smoke with the potential outcome of disintegrating any number of innocent folk along with him. Assuming nothing catastrophic unfolds in this gamble of lives, (at best) these offenders will likely only be reprimanded by schmoes like myself in such modest confrontations or editorials. Yet, there would be a stiff penalty to pay if someone had given him a deserving and—for the most part—harmless fat lip for his total wrecklessness and disregard of others.

One morning in the near or distant future, I’ll awaken to the news of some families cremated while they sat inside of their cars at a gasoline station. Surprise will unlikely overwhelm me.

Stale Justice

Give it up for California Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger and his efforts in making sure justice continues to be served—albeit a stale and moldy serving of it in his denials for clemency regarding the former Crips member Stanley "Tookie" Williams and 76-year-old Clarence Ray Allen.

This whole spiel reminds me of a refrigerator that has been unattended and all the food in it is... well, it's not food anymore. It's something else. And when justice in this form starts to stink this bad, I start to wonder if capital punishment is worth it.

I suppose there would be nothing to write about if those guys had been given their just sentencing when it was timely.

Yeah, I feel so much better knowing that my hard-earned tax dollars aren't keeping their sorry butts alive any longer… ahh, even if it has been over 20 years since their conviction. So much for a swift justice system. Who is really benefiting from a wheel-chair-ridden and nearly blind 76-year-old's execution? How many of us are walking around feeling like the world is so much better off now that he's finally dead?

So, who is to blame when it comes to the delays in carrying out a convict's execution order?

Lawyers? Probably.

The system itself? I suppose.

Can it be fixed? Doubt it.

My take on it is, that if it takes longer than a year to execute someone who has been given the death sentence, their sentence automatically is turned over to life imprisonment without parole. Simple as that.

And then I start to wonder if that's moving things along too fast. What if evidence turns up later that clears your name if you had been given that final one-way ticket not long after your trial? How good would you feel about that? That's quite a bit worse than driving all the way home and finding your take-out order is completely wrong.

So, now I'm thinking, perhaps capital punishment isn't such a good idea, period.

Why is that? Well, for one, people change. Even nasty ones. I'm certainly not the same person I was 10 years ago and I doubt anyone else is either. And when one is locked up behind bars, well, there all kinds of transformations that happen to a person—starting with finding Jesus in the big house. So, who the hell are we to put another down once their life has come back around for the good?

I find it hard to believe that the Stanley "Tookie" Williams who was executed last month is the same person that killed four people 25 years ago? I've subscribed to the idea that when in prison, prisoners were often subject to rehabilitation. Apparently not as far as Arnold is concerned—one has to show more than just writing a handful of children's books that send a positive message about staying away from gangs.

I won't argue that these guys didn't kill anyone. All I'm saying is that after 25 years in prison, I'm sure they're not the same people anymore. Who is after 25 years—however they spend that time.

And if it were me... say some bloke killed my sister 23 years ago and finally, his execution orders are in place, how would I feel? Well, I can only project myself into that situation, but I'd like to think that I'd feel rather hollow about revenge after all that time. Sure, I could have pulled the switch myself in that first year following the trial. But after 23 years, I can't imagine I would be too passionate about greasing the dude.

Cold War Warm Thoughts

Sometimes I wish the cold war with the Soviet Union could be brought back. This seems to be the only thing that keeps America's "bully" attitude in check. It's a tough call: Russian ICBMs continuously hanging over my head or knowing at anytime I could be labeled a terrorist (without my knowing), wisked away, imprisoned (and tortured likely) indefinitely and unknowingly by anyone else. I can see me sitting in my orange jumpsuit contemplating a novel... Postcards from Guantanimo: Cuba's Real Hell.

Shooting Proves Wolves Out and About

By JUSTIN R. LESSMAN
Powell Tribune News Editor

The recent killing of a wolf north of Cody proves the animals are out and about in residential areas of Park County, a federal wildlife official says, and hunters need to be aware of their presence.

"It's just time to get the word out and let people know that wolves are out moving around," Tim Eicher of Cody, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service special agent, said Wednesday morning.

Eicher is investigating the apparent accidental shooting of a yearling male wolf by a local man hunting coyotes. The incident occurred around noon on Dec. 9.

"He was out hunting coyotes alone," Eicher said.

The wolf was shot about four miles north of Cody near the Newton Lakes on Bureau of Land Management land west of Wyo. 120, Eicher said.

The name of the hunter is being withheld pending investigation, Eicher said. No charges had been filed as of Wednesday, but the case will be sent to a U.S. Attorney in Casper for review.

Eicher said the hunter did "everything right after the incident" by calling his office immediately and leading him to the scene of the kill.

Eicher said the wolf was from the Absaroka pack and might have wandering in search of a mate.
----------------------

Editor:

Regarding Justin Lessman’s article on the recently killed wolf near Cody; I would like to know how is it that a guy who kills a wolf while out hunting coyotes is proof that wolves are “out and about in residential areas” as reported? Is this not spectacular if it is indeed true? I’m not sure which is more spectacular though; a wolf that is shot in a residential area, or a hunter firing off shots in a residential area. Might this be an illustrated case of sensationalism found in your publication?
----------------------

Morgan:
For your edification, by "residential," the article was simply referring to the general occupied area of the county (near Cody) as opposed to the vast uninhabited areas of the county, not the more vernacular definition of "city neighborhood" as you apparently understood it. Just thought I'd offer this comment prior to publication of your submitted letter.

Regards,
Justin
----------------------

Justin,
Understood now. Too bad this wasn’t articulated in the story for everyone to read.

Morgan

Mardi Gras & Bush

In the eyes of those who are not fortunate enough to be residents of the United States, most people from around the world will tell you that no one is better at patting America on the back than Americans themselves. We love to tell ourselves and the world how much we love… well, ourselves—whether it be the rhetoric of our incompetent leaders, the story lines of any given mainstream Hollywood production or the advertisements found on commercial radio and television.

You may not believe it after reading this, but I love this country, yet I can hardly bring myself to patting it on the back these days and blurting out something like, “Keep up the good work.” Sometimes I feel like a disgruntled “believer” in a church—and such folk often move on to another church. But, you know, that’s so 21st Century American—simply discarding something and acquiring a newer version rather than replacing the old and reliable model. So, I’m going to hang around with my unpopular 20th Century American viewpoints and take advantage of my freedom of speech. And if someone tells me, “Hey Morgan, it’s America—love it or leave it,” I’ll counter them with another worn out cliché by Johnny Paycheck when he was sick and tired of his job.

So, just what is my problem with America today?

Why not start at the top—that’s where the buck stops, right?

I wouldn’t want the man’s job, but I predict a day will come when George W. Bush will be proven to be a much bigger crook than Richard Nixon. It’s just a matter of time. Once the American public stops believing he’s a good man because he and his staff hold prayer meetings, the truth of him shall be revealed in his propaganda-breathing, born-again-Christian, sabre-rattling facade. In my mind, Osama bin Laden and Dubya are twin brothers of different mothers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the two have prayer conferences via chat software over the internet.

It’s too bad we can’t dump George, Osama, Dick Cheney, Al-Zarqawi, Saddam Hussein, Pat Robertson, Hamas, al-Qaeda and the Moral Majority into one of those big WWF survival cages in a “Battle of the Righteous Slugfest.” Hell, I’d pay good money for that. They may pray to different Gods in their respective corners, but they all look the same from my upper deck perspective—self-centered, fundamental idealist with no compassion or tolerance for others beyond their little insecure circles of fellow “believers.” They see themselves as patriots and/or servants of God, while those who don’t subscribe to the same narrow viewpoints are looked upon as infidels, evildoers and/or residents of San Francisco. Their world is sooooo black and white in their minds that even today’s grey areas are crosshatched with a dense black pen.

And then there is the three dollars per gallon gasoline prices (here they come again). Isn’t it ironic that the leader of the free world is also a member of an affluent “oil” family? Yet in less than six years, gasoline has more than tripled at the pump! What would we think if the owner of a local electrical company was mayor of our city and suddenly we started experiencing massive and frequent power outages—serviced by his company? Is there a greater example of self-serving, incompetence to be found? The man who touts freedom for the entire world is the same person who is incapable of doing anything about the strangle hold on one of freedom’s primary ingredients. Perhaps President Bush sees all of us as a free people, as long as we ride bicycles. Hey, I’m OK with that, but is everyone else?

By now the mentioning of “New Orleans” has brought something else to mind rather than Mardi Gras, Jazz music or Cajun food. I don’t get it... there’s a category five hurricane bearing down on one of our major cities that has more than it’s share of homeless and poor people. Five days after we leave them hanging out to dry, we finally send in the national guard (what remains of it that isn’t in Iraq). I heard one federal administrator explain that it took some organization to mobilize the national guard—i.e., getting people off work, gathering up supplies and equipment, etc. Seems to me that all of that should have been in motion once the hurricane was heading for Florida. Oh sure, there were warnings for everyone to get out. And those that had the resources did just that. Writer and commentator Leon Wynter said it best, “…the official evacuation looked like nothing more than the start of a very long weekend—people with available credit, mostly white, stuck in traffic.” Why wasn’t the national guard on hand to assist those who didn’t have the means to get out? Simple. The feds dropped the ball… again. Its plan for a disaster of this magnitude was that of a group of boy scouts planning for rain on their next camping trip. One radio commentator put it best, “Every presidential administration has its weaknesses and downfalls, this administration has never quite caught on to the idea of ‘aftermath.’” As of late, the term “homeland security” sounds like a dirty word in my ears.

As we all know by now, Hurricane Katrina was linked to the ridiculous prices at the pump because gasoline was in such short supply… yeah, right. Have you ever heard of gasoline stations running out of gas? How is it that they always seem to have plenty even though it’s in short supply? And when hurricanes where walloping the southern coast in the 70s, 80s and 90s, I don’t recall anything in the news linking escalating prices at the pump and hurricanes. Now days all is takes is a hurricane brewing way way out at sea or some kind of unrest in any given part of the world—preferably a oil-producing country to send gas prices soaring. The gasoline shortages the government has been spoon feeding us are likely concocted by the same goons that came up with Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction.

And we swallow all of it—whole. “Thank you very much Uncle Sam, may I have more?”

To add insult to injury, the oil companies—showing no signs of shame or remorse—are reporting record profits. Wow, do they have us where they want us or what? You’d think they’d all get together (oh wait, they do that all the time don’t they?), and say, “You know… for one week, where going to sell petrol for the same price as we did way back when… oh say, 1999.” Golly, even I would start to doubt that they were totally heartless.

I keep overhearing ordinary people of my small town complain about the rising cost of gasoline, but everyone seems to simply accept it as if there’s nothing they can do about it. As a people, we are as pathetic as our leaders. In a cloud of apathy we sit back and accept without question everything a small group of white, old, rich guys tell us. I suppose that’s the easy thing to do. God forbid we question the Man and his administration—after all, they hold regular prayer meetings.

As a colleague of mine pointed out, what this country needs is a mandate for an alternative energy program that equals the Manhattan Project or the Apollo Program. Nevertheless, I’m not holding my breath for such to happen with a sitting president who reeks of oil.

Perhaps we should take it upon ourselves to alter the course of running America into the ground as the current administration seems intent on carrying out. Is it possible for us to truly transform our lifestyles voluntarily—to live modestly, humbly, but still comfortably like Americans did during WW2 and before? Does America in its self-appointed greatness of the 21st Century even know the definition of “modesty” or “sacrifice” anymore? Can legions of quad-cab 4x4 pickup trucks, theatre-like “entertainment centers” in every home (gotta have it, right?), and common homes with 2,500 square feet of living space all fit under modesty’s umbrella? Is it possible for us to live a good life without mindless consumption (and waste—especially when it comes to oil)?

And imagine—just imagine—the entire world might just pat America on the back when gasoline prices plummet because demand is so low, and we “stayed the course” (in the words of our incompetent leader) rather than return to our “over the top” lifestyles. Only then will we break the greedy “axis of evil” oil companies and their owners—forcing them to the same modest living we all choose to embrace.

Not long ago I read a sign in the garage window of one of my rebellious neighbors that said, “Wear it out. Make it do or do without.”

I thought to myself, “Yeah, now that’s what this country needs to adopt as a mantra."

Naaaah! Never gonna happen—forget about it! It’s every man, woman and child for himself/herself (America’s true motto).

The Atrophy of an American Symbol

Back in the ’60s, Independence Day on Stevenson Avenue in Akron, Ohio was probably no different than it was in any other town throughout America. In fact, I suspect it wasn’t much different than it is here in Powell today. More than the fireworks, I remember the Fourth of July and the American flags that suddenly appeared in the early morning hours on almost every front porch in our neighborhood. Back then, the simple act of displaying the flag on Memorial Day, Flag Day, Independence Day, and Veterans’ Day was a show of patriotism.

I suppose Old Glory’s popularity has grown since my childhood. The flag, its likenesses, and colour scheme have appeared nearly everywhere—matchbook covers, clothing, lapel pins, shot glasses, ball point pens, football helmets, notebooks, bumper stickers and used car lots. And these days it seems the flag is getting more exposure than ever, thanks to the events of the Gulf War, September 11, Afghanistan and most recently the evolving boondoggle in Iraq. Yet, back in the ’60s when the Vietnam War was producing more occupied American body bags than any other conflict since, I find it hard to believe that the country’s barometric pressure for patriotism was any less than it is today.

So, what’s with the flag and the deluge for displaying it everywhere on anything at anytime?

Has flying the American flag beyond the flagpole become a trend? Have we become paranoid, thinking that if we don’t display Old Glory in some form we might be thought of as un-American? Are we so insecure that we need to constantly remind ourselves that we are Americans in these tasteless presentations of our national colours?

Every time I see the likes of a Ford Taurus with a little American flag (in multiples at times) waving frantically above the car’s roofline, I’m reminded of a circus or parade. I say, let’s leave such tacky decoration of our vehicles and other personal belongings to the Shriners in their tiny cars that ebb and flow in any given community parade. Further, it’s disheartening enough to see Old Glory burned in the streets of Baghdad let alone ripped to shreds as the result of 500 miles of Interstate driving at 70 m.p.h.—regardless of its size.

Is it a wonder why we hear of America and Americans being despised throughout the world? We constantly wear our patriotism on our sleeve with relentless visual and verbal reminders of America’s greatness to the world even when they surely know of it. What great person remains great when they keep on reminding everyone around them how great they are?

If Jesus dwelled amongst us here in America now, would his pickup truck have a “God Bless America” bumper sticker on it? While sitting under a giant cottonwood tree just off of Lane 8 all day, would Buddha wear a sleeveless t-shirt with a big American flag on it? And finally would Plato quote Socrates as he sipped from his huge, 48-ounce insulated coffee mug with Old Glory screenprinted on its plastic exterior? Perhaps we would all do well if we were to contemplate the fine line between patriotism and narcissism the next time we are overcome with a sudden urge to show our national pride.

I often ponder the sacredness of the flag when one can buy it (in numerous sizes) at places like Wal-Mart. And it seems the more available they are, the more irresponsible we are regarding their proper care. Once I found a soiled and tattered small flag that probably broke off from one of those “flag-decorated” cars at a busy intersection in Gillette. It was laying on the side of the road with all the other litter that was mindlessly discarded from cars occupied by thoughtless drivers and their passengers. Where is the reverence in this scenario? What if the sacred and consecrated holy eucharist was found right next to the Milky Way candy bars at the local mini-marts? Would it be as sacred? Surely no priest would stand for that.

Most of us will never forget JFK’s famous speech about how we should ask what we can do for our country. I wish our President today would deliver a message with the same impact, challenging all of us to monitor our national enthusiasm and to speak softly especially when travelling abroad. I’m reminded of a joke I heard in New Zealand: You can always tell an American, but you can’t tell him much.” Sometimes our fanatical patriotism reminds me of an oversized TV set in a tiny living room.

Like those summer days on Stevenson Avenue, I still enjoy the home front show of flags on these national holidays despite their worn out use everywhere else. I don’t have an American flag for my front porch and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get one assuming the current glut of red, white and blue continues—America need not shout any louder. Nevertheless, I am hopeful that this country will continue to be blessed as it has been in the past, especially our troops who loyally serve without questioning the judgment of our national leadership. More importantly, I hope other countries that are currently experiencing turmoil, genocide, and economic strife are blessed through it all, especially those where our own less-than-perfect foreign policy has failed them.

Barking Dogs

The arrival of summer is always a welcomed event with the exception of two elements that I’ve come to associate with the season and living in the city proper of Powell. It would be wonderful to go on writing about all the positive things of summer and living in this part of Wyoming, but no one wants to read about nothing that isn’t happening. So, it’s on to the business of complaining.

Besides the fact that we have a considerable mosquito population here in the middle of a desert, I see another problem that gives me even more concern than the excessive water consumption in a desert town that could be plopped down in the middle of Indiana and not one Hoosier would notice.

Although everyone has been going on about SARS lately, the epidemic of dog ownership is bringing me to my knees. Everyone seems to have a dog. In particular, a barking dog. And so my real concern is directed at those citizens who turn their dogs loose in their tiny, fenced-in city lots so it can bark and bark and bark. Although summer is still down the road, my bedroom window is finally and permanently cracked open (at least) until late September. Yet, on this particular Sunday morning (April 13 to be exact), I was awakened by a neighbors excessively barking dog at 5:00 a.m. I repeat, summer isn’t even here, not a mosquito have I seen, and I’ve already encountered the true scourge of summer—barking dogs on early Sunday morning. I think this is a bad omen.

And when I hear such a dog violating my quiet time, I instantly start referring to it as “stupid dog.” Yet we all know who is really stupid in this scenario.

Laying in bed in an attempt at the novel idea of sleep once again, all I can think of is, “What kind of person can allow their dog to go on with a litany of barking and not be annoyed themselves? A stupid and inconsiderate one to be sure.”

Perhaps it’s the person who has big plans (or not so big plans) for the day and needs to get an early start for work or recreational purposes. Sure, they know it will be a nice day so the last thing they do before they jump in their pickup is leave the dog in the backyard and forget to consider the neighbors whose bedroom window is only across the street, alley or small strip of yard that separates the two homes. I suspect these are the same people who believe their children are the smartest in their class and would never do anything wrong.

Than their are those dog owners who let their dog out at a civil time in the evening to take care of its business only to forget about it as they proceed to get themselves tanked that night inevitably leading to their passing out on the couch with the TV or stereo still blaring. Ah yes, ignorance truly is bliss in this scenario. Barking dog? Hell, they don’t even hear the police banging on their door when someone like me complains. My question here is, how many six packs does it take to make a dog (seem) quiet?

I often wonder if I’m just overly sensitive about this subject. Are their others like me who are fed up with barking dogs? Whatever the fines are, whatever law enforcement there is about barking dogs, it’s not enough.

Maybe I dreamed it or maybe I read it somewhere, but isn’t the amount of barking by any given dog indirectly related to the intelligence of its given owner? That being the case, perhaps anyone who has the police called on them because of a barking dog should automatically be forced to take the G.E.D. exam on site. I suspect many would fail it. And given the fact that they would fail, along with a stiffer fine, I propose they be stripped of any titles, certificates or degrees in their possession at that time—including their driver’s license.

The sad thing about my letter is that the community of barking dog owners probably won’t or can’t read this—hopefully the former.

I used to like dogs when I was a kid, in fact my family had one too, but it never barked excessively or on and on into the early morning. I’m trying not to be prejudice about dogs. I still like them, but these days it’s getting tougher. Lately they remind me of rap music—annoying, obnoxious and in my face.

Seems like I remember a few years ago where someone was going around poisoning the local dogs in Cody, was it? I didn’t give it much thought back then, but now I suspect I understand how that unfolded. Although such acts are wrongful and despicable they are mostly misdirected.

Postscript: About a week ago the home next to mine exchanged owners. The new owners have two dogs that bark at me everytime I step out into the back yard. I sure hope they get used to me.

Postscript2: Two years later and no such luck regarding the situation next door. Their dogs are as retarded as they get while their owners are beyond inconsiderate. There went the neighborhood. The only reprieve is they don't leave the hounds out all night, but on several occasions have let them out early on weekend mornings to give the neighborhood an unappreciated wake-up call.

A Secret Place

21 March 2002
Powell, Wyoming

Everyone needs to get away from it all now and then. Often this results in some isolated location where one can find quiet and calm. For me, the high desert expanses of Polecat Bench address this occasional need. However, finding a suitable replacement in New Zealand wasn’t easy but I did find it, in the strange form of a racetrack—Addington Raceway.

Living in a major city like Christchurch and not having an automobile translated to a restrictive status when it came to “getting away from it all.” I was fortunate to have the famous racetrack practically in my backyard. In five minutes or less, I could walk from my flat to the abandoned venue and contemplate every sad country song my mind could drum up. The visits weren’t often, but they were meaningful. Days when I was homesick, days when work got the best of me and days when there was the need for major soul-searching, I would gravitate to Addington Raceway—always at night when it was empty and still.

Sometimes I would sit in the stands and look out beyond the fenced-in racetrack—into the heart of the Canterbury’s famed city. Other times I would meander along the one mile plus dirt track and despite the emotional weight I was carrying, I would contemplate the ghosts of famous horses that had stirred the same earth I was trekking over—Lyle Creek and Farlap were two that always came to mind. When I was on the other side of the gigantic oval, I never felt further away from Wyoming.

During those introverted moments, there was usually a camera along for the ride. It seemed like the thing to do with my hands as my mind processed whatever it was that brought me there in the first place. When the horses or dogs were in town, I never went near the premises because I feared its sanctuary would transform and take on a different meaning in my mind and thus, I would never seek its refuge again.

Addington Raceway will always be my getaway while everyone else in Christchurch will just think of it as another racetrack. And now, each time I return to Polecat Bench and its isolated sanctuary, I always think of Addington and that faraway bend on the other side of the track.

All Black

17 August 2000
Auckland, New Zealand

If you go to New Zealand, take plenty of black with you because it is everywhere—women in black, men in black, kids in black, black trousers, black tops, black jerseys, black shoes and socks and I can only guess, black undies too. At first I thought it might be only an Auckland thing, but not so, I’ve seen an abundance of black in Nelson, Wellington, Rotorua and Christchurch. Maybe I’ll come to know the rationale in wanting to look like a relative of Johnny Cash before leaving the country next year.

Maybe the popularity of black attire has to do with Rugby—New Zealand’s favorite sport (I know, sounds like a stretch already). The national rugby team of New Zealand is known as the All Blacks—and as one would expect, their uniforms are nothing but black. Yet I have to wonder if rugby fans and fashion fanatics go hand-in-hand. Perhaps its a fashion from years past that has evolved into a low-grade New Zealand custom—some color trend that carried over from New York, Paris or London awhile back—kind of like a fashion “hiccup.” I’ve some nerve; writing about fashion after coming from Powell, Wyoming, where flannel is king.

In all of this fashion for the dark side, there are the “black shops” (as I like to call them). These stores cater to the darker dressed individuals and are everywhere in Auckland. For the most part, black shops all look the same too—a stripped down shop staffed by a twenty-something, black-clothed fashion victim with a bare-bones selection of, you guessed it, black clothing on the shelves. All accessories are black too. I just can’t figure out if this minimalist environment for a clothing store is considered sheik or is it the result of a limited bankroll that keeps inventory to this reduced state. I find them absolutely fascinating, yet I can’t say why. Seldom do I ever see customers in such stores, but surely they find their way in as I consider all the black on the streets. From my multiple observations, the clerk is always sitting at the front counter for a good part of the day mulling over fashion magazines or sending out email to friends because there is clearly nothing else to do in the store. Maybe these stores are a front for some kind of illegal operation.

If I had my way, I’d loiter in one of those stores for the good part of a day as an invisible man so I could be mesmerized by the listlessness of activity; contemplating the under appreciated, dressed-up clerk while enjoying the tranquil setting of a store stocked with a thinned selection of black attire.

Nelson John

15 August 2000
Auckland, New Zealand

I said goodbye to John a few hours ago at the bus station in downtown Auckland. John was one of the first Kiwis I came to know here in New Zealand. We met up in the TV room of the hostel where we were both staying at the time. We connected as a result of our mutual interest and humor found in professional wrestling.

In some ways I feel as though I’ve known John for years and in other ways, he still seems a stranger to me. Perhaps we never came to know each other’s peculiarities as good friends often do, however I think there was an understanding between us that such details weren’t that necessary. All we needed to know is that we both enjoyed professional wrestling and movies—good and bad ones alike.

As we were walking to the bus station this afternoon, I still felt a need to know more about John despite his knack of evading questions that revealed too much information about himself. So, I asked him to tell me about a favorite childhood memory. He spoke of a cousin that came to visit his family one summer when he was eleven. She was from Australia. He told me how he developed the biggest crush on her and acted like a typical goofy kid—trying to be interested in the things she was interested in just so she’d be impressed. He never saw her again although he still hears about her through his family. He recounted a Saturday afternoon when they attended the local movie house—“Jaws” was showing. He hid on the theater floor during several scenes because he was so squeamish despite her ability to watch the entire film without a blink. His voice was sincere and confident when he told me that there was no better place to grow up than Nelson—his hometown. We compared notes of our childhood and once again found we had other things in common as we recounted our earliest memories.

John kept odd hours at the Ponsonby Backpackers. Most of the time, he would stay up well past 3:00 a.m. and he didn’t think it unusual to stay up until dawn. I think he was disappointed that I could never make it too far past midnight before I felt the need to retire. As a result of his late-night TV vigils, John was never seen during the normal breakfast hour around the kitchen—not even during the later morning hours of the day. He usually appeared after 1:00 in the afternoon. I would often join him in the early evening hours for a walk to the market where he would often purchase a box of Choya tea and Watties Baked Beans for his evening tea. John told me that he probably drank up to 12 cups of tea per day—always with milk.

John’s knowledge about America was impressive. I don’t suppose it is that unusual for a Kiwi to be fairly informed about the United States due to its high profile in the world, but John seemed especially interested in America and my life as an American—as if he was comparing the things he learned from me and my life with what he knew (or thought he knew) about the States. A couple days ago, I was stunned when he made a reference to Montgomery, Alabama, as the capital of that state. Less than a year ago, I couldn’t have told anyone whether Christchurch was on the North or South Island of New Zealand.

I suppose John doesn’t have much money. Although he is staying in places that are associated with travellers, he only appears to be living day to day with little resources—doesn’t have the look or the talk of a true traveller. During my days spent with John, I only saw him in one other pair of pants, which was a ripped up pair of jeans—he would wear them when he was washing his regular pair. John always wore the same sweater too but he never appeared dirty as I’m sure he bathed and shaved almost everyday. Not long before he left, his sweater had ripped where the sleeve meets the chest-area of the pullover. He struck me as odd in his determination to have it repaired as opposed to purchasing a new one. I would later learn that such resolve in resourcefulness is a common and admirable trait in many New Zealanders.

John’s shoes were also very worn and when he had them on, they were seldom laced—or only half laced—as if he was never going anywhere too far. However, today when we left the hostel for the train station by foot, his shoes were as they always were—half laced—just as if he was going out the back door to have a cup of tea or going down to the market at the bottom of the hill.

Because I suspected he was on a tight budget, I bought a six pack of beer on occasion and shared it with him—opting for Mac’s Ale, one of the domestic beers that is brewed near his hometown of Nelson. He was always grateful anytime I “shouted” him a beer or some other treat like a Ponsonby pie or a Memphis Meltdown ice cream bar. Upon handing him one of these items he simply responded, “Cheers.” I’ve never known anyone to express their thanks so well and so simply as John. For this reason alone, I’m grateful to have known him.

John expressed having mixed feelings in leaving. I’m not sure why he had to leave or if he even had to leave at all. I didn’t press him for more information, I just accepted it from him. He caught one of the busses going north toward the Bay of Islands. He would go as far as Orewa for the $7 bus fee and then hitchhike farther north to Whangarei. From there and further north, he told me he would be looking for work at one of the many organic farms found throughout this country that hire general laborers for four hours per day and in return supply them with free room and board. I think John will do well since he is a man of simple means and requires little to keep himself going.

I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see John again. I’m hoping to catch up with him someday—maybe up on the North Shore before I make my way South; and if not there, perhaps down in Nelson when he returns home, whenever that is. More than anything, I hope John will have the opportunity to visit me in Wyoming. I think deep in his heart, he’d like to visit America and now that he has a friend there and in—of all places—Wyoming, I suspect it is even more desirable for him to travel there.

Snowfences

September 1, 1997
South Pass, Wyoming

There are places all over the world that pride themselves in great construction feats. The pyramids of Egypt or India’s Taj Mahal come to mind. In America, the skyscrapers of New York City and Nevada’s Hoover Dam top my list. Driving from Farson to Lander one day via South Pass, it dawned on me that Wyoming’s claim to construction fame lies in the miles and miles of snowfences shadowing its highways.

Perhaps you’re not familiar with the snowfence. It usually parallels a highway but not necessarily right along side of it. A snowfence line can be a hundred yards or so away and for that reason is often unnoticed. I suspect that some out-of-state observers have mistaken them for fences used to contain an oversized strain of cattle. However, most folks probably don’t give snowfences much thought as they cruise by at 65 mph. I imagine the typical Wyomingite sees them in the same light as an oversized boulder or lone cottonwood tree—just another forgotten reference point in the state’s desolate landscape.

Though idle in the summer months, these barriers work hard in the winter to keep the blowing snow from drifting over the highly-elevated byways in the Cowboy state. “Blowing” is the operative word here. It would take a great deal of snow to come straight down and overcome the Wyoming Highway Department’s efforts in keeping the roads clear. But, throw a typical Wyoming wind into the equation and all it takes is six inches of the white stuff and the road will disappear before the plow has time to turn around. Enter the snowfence. Its defiant profile stops the drifting snow, causing it to pile up next to the fence rather than along and over the highway.

On a lighter note, sometimes I can almost convince myself that snowfences are nothing more than a convoluted prank generated by the Wyoming Highway Department—poking fun at modern art. And if the truth be known, snowfences don’t make a damn bit of difference in keeping the snow off the highways.

I’ve pondered the life-expectancy of a snowfence. How many winters can you get out of a neglected snowfence before it starts letting the snow through? I would imagine that even in a state of dilapidation, its broken down heaps of wooden boards could still carry out a snowfence’s mission with a high degree of effectiveness.

Like sentinels, the snowfences are always there watching over the highways no matter what time of the year. And you can see a line of them from miles away. I’ve envisioned a day when I become lost in Wyoming’s high country; about the time I’m ready to expire, I spot the woven basket patterns of a snowfence and my state of surrender will be replaced with ecstasy knowing there is a highway nearby leading to my rescue.

Reminiscent of the apes gazing at the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, I was standing before a snowfence one day. I sensed harmony and beauty in its structure. Perhaps it doesn’t blend in completely with the landscape but its ongoing pattern has a certain quality that enhances one’s visual experience in the great vastness of Wyoming.

I recommend a visit to a line of snowfence. Yes, even touching one. Examine its construction closely. Consider the workers that travelled to these remote sections of highway in the summers and labored in the hot sun to build something that doesn’t kick in until the winter. Maybe it’s not as resilient as the Great Wall of China, but make the time to take in a ribbon of wood that follows the contour of the Wyoming landscape and tell me you’re not awestruck.

Moving Forward, Looking Back

February 21, 1997
on the road to Billings, MT

My dad bought a brand new Ford station wagon in 1966. It had a 289 V-8 with a dark green body—sans the wood paneling down the side. Somewhere between the ages of six and ten, I remember riding in the back of the wagon, facing the rear window. I always liked riding in this fashion no matter where we were going. At first it was a little awkward in tight traffic or at a stop light because I was forced to look directly at the car behind us and its forward-facing passengers who couldn’t help but look at me. However, once I mastered a couple of silly faces, I didn’t even mind the stop lights and heavy traffic.

Often I pretended the car was a World War II bomber. As its tailgunner, I watched the world rush up and around my head and slowly disappear into the horizon’s infinity. But, no matter how carried away my imagination would get, I would eventually stretch out and fall asleep as the world continued to shoot by. Sleeping in the car was easy and became an enjoyable experience for me. I would venture to say that the best sleeping I’ve ever experienced was in the family wagon on long vacations out West.

Today I traveled to the city with a large group of students in a full-blown, Greyhound-like bus. This particular model has a row of seats in the rear facing backwards. I unconsciously selected one of these seats for the two-hour journey. I was astonished by the comfort I found in this location of the bus. Yes, it did remind me of my childhood, but my thoughts drifted far beyond the old ’66 Ford. I started searching for the source of my contentment. Why was I so comfortable in this particular orientation of travel—moving forward, looking back?

While muddling over my attraction for riding backwards, a sense of contentment came over me as we rambled down the road. I was reminded of romance as the whining resonance of the anterior-based engine became as intimate as a lover’s breathing. It didn’t take long to tune in to the delicate variations of frequency and pitch as the bus moved through its gears resulting in the slightest changes of velocity. After a while, the whine transformed into a lullaby—seducing the community of riders into a blanket of sleep.

It’s rather surreal to watch the world go by when you’re looking back. Here you don’t see anything coming—there’s no time for preparation—it just hits you. Without warning, a huge billboard demands your full attention, but slowly—even the obnoxious oversized advertisements blend into the landscape until it is reduced to a single point on the horizon. I’m reminded of how we sometimes fall in and out of love. We never see it coming but often we have plenty of time to watch it fade slowly and eventually out of our lives.

Most of us probably prefer to see something coming so we can prepare for its arrival—I guess this is why our eyes are mounted in the front of our head. However, living in a world that changes everyday with blinding speed, I suspect we have grown accustomed to things springing up on us out of nowhere. And it is only after the surprise attack that we have the luxury of watching its aftermath drift slowly out of our lives.