Friday, January 27, 2006
Life in the Fast Lane!
It is Saturday morning and you are all snuggled up in a nice, warm bed and not quite yet in what you would call a conscious state. You are vaguely aware of a voice: “Get him, Winkie!” And before you can gather your senses and mutter “Crud!” there is a little black and white dog running painful circles over your torso—an experience that could never be described as a soothing message. Such was the life of a teenager back in the fifties.
That experience would in no way prepare you for what was to befall Daryl Hollingsworth in January at Chugiak. He was breezing along in the 28-mile Chugiak Dog Mushers Association's Eagle River Classic when his dog team suddenly veered off course in an unexpected detour. Determined to get them back on course, he overturned his sled and then everything went white. The huskies, unable to grasp the meaning of this maneuver and unable to distinguish “Whoa!” from “Go!” put the peddle to the metal so to speak. Hollingsworth, who now was hanging on to his sled for dear life, looked “like a loose rug blowing in the wind.” After being dragged about two miles, he finally decided discretion was the better part of valor and let go of his sled. While he was still lying flat in the snow, thankful to just be alive, he felt paws bounding over his body and then wham! Another musher had just run over him with his sled. Such is the life of a competitive musher here in Alaska trying to pick up a little pocket change.
A similar fate befell Nero in 67 AD. Somewhat bitter because the masses were beginning to believe the rumor that he had fiddled while Rome burned, he decided to take extraordinary measures to redeem his reputation. He pressured Olympics officials to stage an off-year version of the Olympic Games. Not content with a single laurel wreath, he introduced new forms of competition to ensure that he would pad his win total. He won the artsy competition sweeping the prizes in drama, oratory and poetry reading. Although no one had ever heard of quidditch and the rumor that quidditch referees who missed a call were mysteriously vanishing—only to show up months later in the Sahara, the officials of the first century AD knew quite well on which side their bread was buttered. The six-horse chariot race was supposed to be the grand finale of the games. The referees probably suspected that something was not quite right when Nero showed up with a ten-horse chariot. However, they never questioned the fairness of his souped-up racing machine. He was after all paying all their expenses and then some. Soon after the race started, Nero became dislodged from his fancy new set of wheels and was busy plowing up the dirt in a not so tidy little furrow with his all too bountiful body. When he finally crossed the finish line a tad behind the other competitors, the judges were in a quandary as to what to do. They conferred and decided to award him the first place laurel wreath. They ruled that on the basis of a technicality that he would have won had he not fallen and therefore he was deserving of the prize. Naturally, none of the other participants filed a protest because they too knew on which side their bread was also buttered. Thus Nero returned triumphantly to Rome with five first place finishes in his own Special Olympics. And the judges lived comfortably as well until they were compelled a few years later to give back their officiating stipends.
After almost two thousand years from the time of those tainted games, I was engaged in my own titanic bicycle race with Hoyt on the rarely used old El Dorado Highway just west of his house. He had a new three-speed bike and was determined to show me just how fast it was. There were to be no referees or other officials there—just the two of us. This was to be a gentlemanly competition. To make matters slightly fairer, he agreed to spot me a 20-yard lead on my traditional bike. As I neared my 20-yard headstart, I discerned a distinct wobble in my front tire. As I glanced down it became obvious to me that my front tire was going to fall off the bike in the next few seconds. As I grappled with the decision of what I should do under the circumstances, Hoyt came flying by on his three speeder. In the process of leaving me in his dust, he struck my wobbly front tire. My bicycle careened widely out of control. I too careened wildly out of control as I flew over the handlebars and saw something flash before my eyes. No! It was not my all too brief life. It was flying pea gravel. It was everywhere! And I was body surfing slap dab through the middle of it. We somehow or the other made it back to his house with my flesh-deprived body barely in tact where his mother proceeded to remove the remainder of the embedded pea gravel. She tore up a sheet and bandaged me from head to foot. When she finally finished, I looked a bit like a disheveled mummy. Thus is life in the fast lane.
It is Saturday morning and you are all snuggled up in a nice, warm bed and not quite yet in what you would call a conscious state. You are vaguely aware of a voice: “Get him, Winkie!” And before you can gather your senses and mutter “Crud!” there is a little black and white dog running painful circles over your torso—an experience that could never be described as a soothing message. Such was the life of a teenager back in the fifties.
That experience would in no way prepare you for what was to befall Daryl Hollingsworth in January at Chugiak. He was breezing along in the 28-mile Chugiak Dog Mushers Association's Eagle River Classic when his dog team suddenly veered off course in an unexpected detour. Determined to get them back on course, he overturned his sled and then everything went white. The huskies, unable to grasp the meaning of this maneuver and unable to distinguish “Whoa!” from “Go!” put the peddle to the metal so to speak. Hollingsworth, who now was hanging on to his sled for dear life, looked “like a loose rug blowing in the wind.” After being dragged about two miles, he finally decided discretion was the better part of valor and let go of his sled. While he was still lying flat in the snow, thankful to just be alive, he felt paws bounding over his body and then wham! Another musher had just run over him with his sled. Such is the life of a competitive musher here in Alaska trying to pick up a little pocket change.
A similar fate befell Nero in 67 AD. Somewhat bitter because the masses were beginning to believe the rumor that he had fiddled while Rome burned, he decided to take extraordinary measures to redeem his reputation. He pressured Olympics officials to stage an off-year version of the Olympic Games. Not content with a single laurel wreath, he introduced new forms of competition to ensure that he would pad his win total. He won the artsy competition sweeping the prizes in drama, oratory and poetry reading. Although no one had ever heard of quidditch and the rumor that quidditch referees who missed a call were mysteriously vanishing—only to show up months later in the Sahara, the officials of the first century AD knew quite well on which side their bread was buttered. The six-horse chariot race was supposed to be the grand finale of the games. The referees probably suspected that something was not quite right when Nero showed up with a ten-horse chariot. However, they never questioned the fairness of his souped-up racing machine. He was after all paying all their expenses and then some. Soon after the race started, Nero became dislodged from his fancy new set of wheels and was busy plowing up the dirt in a not so tidy little furrow with his all too bountiful body. When he finally crossed the finish line a tad behind the other competitors, the judges were in a quandary as to what to do. They conferred and decided to award him the first place laurel wreath. They ruled that on the basis of a technicality that he would have won had he not fallen and therefore he was deserving of the prize. Naturally, none of the other participants filed a protest because they too knew on which side their bread was also buttered. Thus Nero returned triumphantly to Rome with five first place finishes in his own Special Olympics. And the judges lived comfortably as well until they were compelled a few years later to give back their officiating stipends.
After almost two thousand years from the time of those tainted games, I was engaged in my own titanic bicycle race with Hoyt on the rarely used old El Dorado Highway just west of his house. He had a new three-speed bike and was determined to show me just how fast it was. There were to be no referees or other officials there—just the two of us. This was to be a gentlemanly competition. To make matters slightly fairer, he agreed to spot me a 20-yard lead on my traditional bike. As I neared my 20-yard headstart, I discerned a distinct wobble in my front tire. As I glanced down it became obvious to me that my front tire was going to fall off the bike in the next few seconds. As I grappled with the decision of what I should do under the circumstances, Hoyt came flying by on his three speeder. In the process of leaving me in his dust, he struck my wobbly front tire. My bicycle careened widely out of control. I too careened wildly out of control as I flew over the handlebars and saw something flash before my eyes. No! It was not my all too brief life. It was flying pea gravel. It was everywhere! And I was body surfing slap dab through the middle of it. We somehow or the other made it back to his house with my flesh-deprived body barely in tact where his mother proceeded to remove the remainder of the embedded pea gravel. She tore up a sheet and bandaged me from head to foot. When she finally finished, I looked a bit like a disheveled mummy. Thus is life in the fast lane.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
“Necessity, the mother of invention!” William Wycherly, 1671.
Every bumblebee that I have ever encountered came with an attitude—somewhat akin to road rage, only worse. If you have been peacefully walking across your lawn and had one of those convict stripped beasts suddenly wham against your head, you know exactly about what I am talking. They consider themselves to be the masters of the great outdoors—every single inch of it. You are the culprit and they are the innocent victims even if you looked both ways before trying to cross the lawn. They behave like kamikaze pilots. Brzzing around in tight circles right around your head, or where your head is supposed to be, intending to inflict bodily harm on you just as soon as they can pick the most sensitive spot for their dastardly deed. Anyone, who has ever survived a close encounter with one of these marauding insects, quickly assumes a defensive posture for dealing with these lawless renegades. You drop to the ground and crawl away. If you care to take a final glance at your nemesis, you will discover that he is still flying those tiny, tight loops around where your head is supposed to be. After all he cannot fathom that anything that big simply can vanish just like that. You can almost hear him spouting out between those angry Brizzes, “Where did he go? Where did he go?”
Few people in life can honestly lay claim to being the inventor of a new sport. While Naismith is noted for the invention of basketball, my claim to fame is that I invented wasp ball. This catchy-named, new sport accidentally originated one day when my friend Hoyt and I were walking around a stock pond barefooted because we did not wish to get our good shoes (our tennis shoes) all muddy or even slightly muddy for that matter. Suddenly a couple of wasps took offense that we were tramping in their private little mud pit. Hoyt, being rather quick of foot, sprung off like a bolt of lightning, leaving me to fend for myself. For reason unknown to me even to this day, I just happened to be clutching in my hands a one inch strip of an old apple crate which was all of about two feet in length. It wasn’t much to be sure but it was all I had. I took the apple-crate bat and swung wildly at a wasp that was bearing straight towards me and missed him but the wind shear, fortunately for me, threw him off course. He veered around and came at me again. Another swing! Another miss! When he came back for yet the third time, my Whiffle Ball experience suddenly unexpectedly surfaced and the wasp went down like a flamed-out Red Baron. Then the second wasp that had just been waiting to mix it up with me came at me fast and furious. Wham! He too was done for! Thus was born wasp ball. Thereafter, whenever I ventured into strange territory I always carried my apple-crate bat in my right rear blue jeans pocket.
On some occasions the two of us needed more excitement than that afforded by wasp ball. On those days Hoyt and I would take our Red Ryder BB Guns and venture out looking for trouble. Actually I think that we only had one gun between the two of us. We would sneak around the neighborhood looking for our prey. We checked every eve until we spotted a wasp nest. Then one of us (I think it was usually Hoyt) took dead aim with the Red Ryder and fired. If one of us missed the other one took a shot at it. Since we were always fairly close to the target—generally no more than ten or twelve feet away—it was hard to miss. The main problem was that you did not want to be standing directly behind the other person in case he successfully bushwhacked the wasp gang. Neither of us ever got stung during one of these daring raids, although we did accumulate a few bruises along the way because one or the other of us was directly behind the other when the bushwhacking commenced and generally the one with the gun was in such a haste to get out of Dodge ahead of the wasp posse that he did not wish to be burdened about who had the right of way. We both grew to adults without either of us feeling any remorse for our outlaw ways.
Years later when I was mowing my own front yard, I just happened to mow over a yellow jacket nest beneath the ground. Suddenly I was swarmed by a horde of the critters and I beat a hasty retreat with my arm throbbing from several stings. I suddenly had fond memories of my wasp-ball bat. But then I realized that I did not need it. My mower was one of those now obsolete models that did not cut off when you removed your hands from the handle. It was sitting atop the yellow jacket nest, still running and completing the mop-up work. By the time it had run out of gas, the yellow jackets were no more.
Every bumblebee that I have ever encountered came with an attitude—somewhat akin to road rage, only worse. If you have been peacefully walking across your lawn and had one of those convict stripped beasts suddenly wham against your head, you know exactly about what I am talking. They consider themselves to be the masters of the great outdoors—every single inch of it. You are the culprit and they are the innocent victims even if you looked both ways before trying to cross the lawn. They behave like kamikaze pilots. Brzzing around in tight circles right around your head, or where your head is supposed to be, intending to inflict bodily harm on you just as soon as they can pick the most sensitive spot for their dastardly deed. Anyone, who has ever survived a close encounter with one of these marauding insects, quickly assumes a defensive posture for dealing with these lawless renegades. You drop to the ground and crawl away. If you care to take a final glance at your nemesis, you will discover that he is still flying those tiny, tight loops around where your head is supposed to be. After all he cannot fathom that anything that big simply can vanish just like that. You can almost hear him spouting out between those angry Brizzes, “Where did he go? Where did he go?”
Few people in life can honestly lay claim to being the inventor of a new sport. While Naismith is noted for the invention of basketball, my claim to fame is that I invented wasp ball. This catchy-named, new sport accidentally originated one day when my friend Hoyt and I were walking around a stock pond barefooted because we did not wish to get our good shoes (our tennis shoes) all muddy or even slightly muddy for that matter. Suddenly a couple of wasps took offense that we were tramping in their private little mud pit. Hoyt, being rather quick of foot, sprung off like a bolt of lightning, leaving me to fend for myself. For reason unknown to me even to this day, I just happened to be clutching in my hands a one inch strip of an old apple crate which was all of about two feet in length. It wasn’t much to be sure but it was all I had. I took the apple-crate bat and swung wildly at a wasp that was bearing straight towards me and missed him but the wind shear, fortunately for me, threw him off course. He veered around and came at me again. Another swing! Another miss! When he came back for yet the third time, my Whiffle Ball experience suddenly unexpectedly surfaced and the wasp went down like a flamed-out Red Baron. Then the second wasp that had just been waiting to mix it up with me came at me fast and furious. Wham! He too was done for! Thus was born wasp ball. Thereafter, whenever I ventured into strange territory I always carried my apple-crate bat in my right rear blue jeans pocket.
On some occasions the two of us needed more excitement than that afforded by wasp ball. On those days Hoyt and I would take our Red Ryder BB Guns and venture out looking for trouble. Actually I think that we only had one gun between the two of us. We would sneak around the neighborhood looking for our prey. We checked every eve until we spotted a wasp nest. Then one of us (I think it was usually Hoyt) took dead aim with the Red Ryder and fired. If one of us missed the other one took a shot at it. Since we were always fairly close to the target—generally no more than ten or twelve feet away—it was hard to miss. The main problem was that you did not want to be standing directly behind the other person in case he successfully bushwhacked the wasp gang. Neither of us ever got stung during one of these daring raids, although we did accumulate a few bruises along the way because one or the other of us was directly behind the other when the bushwhacking commenced and generally the one with the gun was in such a haste to get out of Dodge ahead of the wasp posse that he did not wish to be burdened about who had the right of way. We both grew to adults without either of us feeling any remorse for our outlaw ways.
Years later when I was mowing my own front yard, I just happened to mow over a yellow jacket nest beneath the ground. Suddenly I was swarmed by a horde of the critters and I beat a hasty retreat with my arm throbbing from several stings. I suddenly had fond memories of my wasp-ball bat. But then I realized that I did not need it. My mower was one of those now obsolete models that did not cut off when you removed your hands from the handle. It was sitting atop the yellow jacket nest, still running and completing the mop-up work. By the time it had run out of gas, the yellow jackets were no more.
Monday, January 23, 2006
All’s well that ends well!
Several years ago the residents of Haines, Alaska, were all in a dither when the remains of a garter snake were found along side a road. At least it was supposed to be a garter snake, but it had been abused by an automobile tire and was scarcely recognizable in its flattened mummified state. It was news because snakes are a rare commodity in Alaska—so rare in fact that Alaska does not have an official state snake. It does not matter that there are no snakes in the state because there are no wooly mammoths either and the wooly mammoth is the official state fossil. But if there were an official state snake it would probably have to be the flattened mummified garter snake because while a snake in that condition is not a pretty sight, it is the only snake you got!
Over the years snakes have earned a horrible reputation—partly due to the Garden of Eden mess. In recent years JK Rollins has help to perpetuate that stereotype in her Harry Potter series. But sometimes looks can be deceiving. For instance, take the garter snake. A few years ago I was in my small garden picking Kentucky Wonder pole beans. As I reached for one particular bean, it suddenly moved. It was a garter snake that was enjoying sunning itself high atop the beanpole. Probably harmless unless someone reached into the basket of beans and mistakenly tried to snap off its head. And then who knows? How do you explain to a doctor that you were bitten by a bean? Just look at those bean marks on my fingers!
Snakes love trees and boats. I remember watching a documentary on Caddo Lake. One memorable night scene showed hundreds of water moccasins lounging in the shoreside shrubs just waiting to drop into your boat. It could have been a difficult landing. If you have ever gone fishing in the South then you know enough to approach your overturned jon boat with a paddle in your hand because overturned jon boats are a favorite haunt for moccasins. Once my older brother and I were running a trotline in the dark of the night when we suddenly accosted by one of those critters valiantly swimming straight toward our boat. We paddled a little faster and then focused our flashlight toward where he had been. He was still on our trail. We had to resort to zigzag tactics normally used by ships to avoid submarines to lose him.
Dad related the fact that when he was a young man he and some of his cousins went for a swim in an old swimming hole in the creek. They soon tired of swimming and begin to muddy the creek in an effort to catch a few fish. One of his cousins grabbed a fish behind the gills only to discover that it was not a fish but a water moccasin. The problem he faced was how to turn a very obviously angry moccasin loose. He yelled out for all to hear. “Someone come help me turn it loose!” The reponse was: “You caught it! You turn it loose!”
A decade or so ago my younger brother and I spent a week in a cabin up in the mountains just outside Denver. There were no problems until we tried to turn on the water in the well house. Something moved! Something just happened to be about a three-foot rattlesnake. It darted back into a large stack of wood that offered ample hiding opportunities. It finally took two of us to turn the water on. One to shine the flashlight and keep an eye pealed for the snake and the other to flick on the switch. When our week was up we switched off the water and left a penciled note on the door. “Beware of the rattlesnake inside the well house!” We hoped the next guests would have the same adrenaline rush that we had experienced and that they would all live to drive off into a peaceful sunset just as we were doing. As we drove off we thought all’s well that ends well!
Several years ago the residents of Haines, Alaska, were all in a dither when the remains of a garter snake were found along side a road. At least it was supposed to be a garter snake, but it had been abused by an automobile tire and was scarcely recognizable in its flattened mummified state. It was news because snakes are a rare commodity in Alaska—so rare in fact that Alaska does not have an official state snake. It does not matter that there are no snakes in the state because there are no wooly mammoths either and the wooly mammoth is the official state fossil. But if there were an official state snake it would probably have to be the flattened mummified garter snake because while a snake in that condition is not a pretty sight, it is the only snake you got!
Over the years snakes have earned a horrible reputation—partly due to the Garden of Eden mess. In recent years JK Rollins has help to perpetuate that stereotype in her Harry Potter series. But sometimes looks can be deceiving. For instance, take the garter snake. A few years ago I was in my small garden picking Kentucky Wonder pole beans. As I reached for one particular bean, it suddenly moved. It was a garter snake that was enjoying sunning itself high atop the beanpole. Probably harmless unless someone reached into the basket of beans and mistakenly tried to snap off its head. And then who knows? How do you explain to a doctor that you were bitten by a bean? Just look at those bean marks on my fingers!
Snakes love trees and boats. I remember watching a documentary on Caddo Lake. One memorable night scene showed hundreds of water moccasins lounging in the shoreside shrubs just waiting to drop into your boat. It could have been a difficult landing. If you have ever gone fishing in the South then you know enough to approach your overturned jon boat with a paddle in your hand because overturned jon boats are a favorite haunt for moccasins. Once my older brother and I were running a trotline in the dark of the night when we suddenly accosted by one of those critters valiantly swimming straight toward our boat. We paddled a little faster and then focused our flashlight toward where he had been. He was still on our trail. We had to resort to zigzag tactics normally used by ships to avoid submarines to lose him.
Dad related the fact that when he was a young man he and some of his cousins went for a swim in an old swimming hole in the creek. They soon tired of swimming and begin to muddy the creek in an effort to catch a few fish. One of his cousins grabbed a fish behind the gills only to discover that it was not a fish but a water moccasin. The problem he faced was how to turn a very obviously angry moccasin loose. He yelled out for all to hear. “Someone come help me turn it loose!” The reponse was: “You caught it! You turn it loose!”
A decade or so ago my younger brother and I spent a week in a cabin up in the mountains just outside Denver. There were no problems until we tried to turn on the water in the well house. Something moved! Something just happened to be about a three-foot rattlesnake. It darted back into a large stack of wood that offered ample hiding opportunities. It finally took two of us to turn the water on. One to shine the flashlight and keep an eye pealed for the snake and the other to flick on the switch. When our week was up we switched off the water and left a penciled note on the door. “Beware of the rattlesnake inside the well house!” We hoped the next guests would have the same adrenaline rush that we had experienced and that they would all live to drive off into a peaceful sunset just as we were doing. As we drove off we thought all’s well that ends well!
