11 March 2015

Crap. Crap. Crap. [Updated]

[13 March 2015] After 48 hours of fretting, several members of our faculty insisted today that I contact my dermatologist's office and ask for my lab results, "It's Friday," they insisted.  "You call them.  Right now."  So I did.  

A pleasant RN named Jennifer returned my call about an hour later.

"It's benign," she told me.  I asked her to repeat it.  


Best. News. Ever.

(Warning: biopsy image below)

I was, no exaggeration, no more than one toe away from being done with my annual strip-for-it full-body skin-cancer screening today when my PA found this on my left Greek toe.

What the heck?

Gosh dang it.

She's good.  I've had at least a half-dozen basal-cell carcinomas removed over the years, and I've become rather adept at identifying them.  But I'd never seen this spot before.  Wasn't there last time I trimmed my toenails, far as I can recollect, and that was just about a week ago, before the snows came.

Hate to ski with long toenails.

biopsy 15x macro

Anyways, the biopsy's off to the lab... five to seven days, I'll have my answer.  Though I'm pretty sure I already know what it is.

Looks like melanoma to me.


How does that happen on your toe?

23 February 2015

The wild telegraph poles of Dry Lake Hills (part two)

Telegraph  F
Some time ago I wrote a blog-post about a set of old telegraph poles I'd found near Rocky Ridge Trail and the Elden Lookout Road.

Out riding this past Sunday, while passing through an area of the woods that recently underwent a large-scale prescribed burn, I spotted another old telegraph pole not too far off the north-side of the trail I was riding.  

It was quite charred on one side, but still recognizable as a pole, despite the damage it had recently incurred.

Telegraph G
Having found one "new" pole (F), I decided to bush-whack up the hillside, heading generally in the direction of the other poles (A-E) to see if I could find any additional, as-yet-undiscovered poles to add to my collection.

I only found one more (G).  That might be because I missed them, or because all the other ones were burned-up by the fire.

Anyway, I think these old telegraph poles are sorta cool.  As I said in my previous blog-post about them, "I've always assumed that [these] pole[s] followed the original alignment of the mule trail and functioned, long ago, as a communication line, and perhaps also as a power line, for folks staffing the [Elden fire-lookout] tower."  

Kinda neat.  I'm going to keep looking for more.

Below is a Google Earth screen-grab showing the location of the poles I know of so far.

Click to enlarge

12 December 2014

What would Lura Do?

I'm not "in love" with my job, a reality that bothers some when I tell it, but which seems to me an acceptable self-assessment of the work I do.

Truth is, I'm not sure "love" is a necessary emotion when it comes to being satisfied with one's work.

That's not to say I hate my job.  No.  I don't hate it either.

I am often pleased with the work I do.  In fact, at times I find myself quite proud of it.

But there are also times when I wish I could shut my office door, crawl beneath my desk, and hide.  Or not go into the office at all on a given day and just stay home with the shades drawn and disappear into a good book.

But I can't.  Because I do important work.  And lots of people count on me to be ready to do it.  Every day.  Regardless of how I feel about it.

Up high on the wall behind my desk I keep a picture of a stoic, gray-haired old lady in wire-rimmed glasses and a smart blue suit.  I am greeted by her thoroughly humorless visage each morning as I unlock my office door and switch on the light.

Her name was Lura Kinsey.

Lura was the first principal at the school where I am now the principal.  She served in the front office at Marshall Elementary School for eight years, from 1953, when the school first opened its doors, until she retired at the tail-end of a long career as a public educator in Flagstaff, in 1961.

Her obituary ran in the local paper just four short years later in 1965.

Lura, a Flagstaff native, began her teaching career in 1914.

She got her first job at Flagstaff's Emerson School after graduating from the Northern Arizona Normal School.  She taught elementary and middle school grades there for several years and eventually became the school administrator, a post she held for 18 years.  In 1951 she became the principal at John Q. Thomas School (then just a "wing" at Flagstaff High School), before transferring in 1953 to become the principal at the brand-new Eva Marshall Memorial School in what was to be her 39th year in public education.

Flagstaff Unified School District's Kinsey Elementary School is named in her honor.

A few years ago, during the tenure of a school librarian eager to cull the dust-collecting "chaff" from our school library's shelves, I rescued from the discard-pile William H. Cummings authoritative text, A History Of The Flagstaff Public Schools 1883-1950.  The tattered volume (with its badly rendered cover-drawing of what must be Flagstaff's first schoolhouse, which would have been occupied by none-other than Flagstaff's first teacher, the aforementioned Eva Marshall) now resides on a bookshelf in my office.

Aside from finding Lura's name among several of the many chronologies within, there are few direct, personal references made by the author or those he interviewed about Lura Kinsey.  The index lists only six references to her name in several hundred pages of history.  Of the few references to her at all, almost none make mention of her character or make statements that reveal anything of her personality.  Just one interview subject observes that "she had meticulous handwriting" and recollects that she was well-known as a stern task-master.  Neither implication is very revealing.

Nor are they very surprising.  Not to me.

I feel like I know Lura pretty well.  And it doesn't surprise me at all to read that she was stern.  Her no-nonsense attitude is apparent to me each time I glance in her direction.

"Suck it up, sonny," That's what she tells me.

"Back to work.  No time for feeling sorry.  You school's likely to run right off the rails if you don't get up and get going."

I look up at her a lot, especially when my days start feeling long or lonely.  And I imagine all that she must have seen and endured in the course of her 47-year career.

Lura's not smiling.  She doesn't strike me as someone "in love" with her job.  Not one bit.  But she doesn't look angry, or discouraged, or disappointed either.

To me Lura looks like a woman who understood fully the scope of the important work she had to get done.  And I like to think, for 47 years, she probably got it done.   Well, too.

What would Lura do?  That's what I often wonder.

And then I go and do it.

08 December 2014

This is just to say

Waited 21.5 months for my name to finally rise to the top of the build-queue at Coconino Cycles.

Took receipt of my new signature model singlespeed on Saturday, the sale of which was completed with a high-five, a few beers, and a quick test-ride on the Coconino Cycles World Headquarters test-track just before sundown.

Still on the chilly side, trail conditions were double-plus good on our inaugural ride this past Sunday morning: tacky from the rain, even greasy in spots. Rode up to Newham for pics.  Natch.

Rides so well.  Awesome.  Amazing, in fact.  A full day later, and I still haven't been able to let go of the sense of it...

Had trouble staying focused at work.

15 October 2014

Archival footage: That's right, I'm JohnCoe

The following post was originally published in BiOpic, a semi-regular publication of FlagstaffBiking.org's, in January 2007.

My old friend Chris studies fish in Canada. He is not fond of Atlantic salmon raised in Pacific hatcheries.

He's the reason I never buy farm-raised salmon anymore.

His name came up the other morning, while I was driving out to ice-skate with some friends at Lake Mary. We were talking about Navajo sandstone and riding bikes out on the reservation as we drove along through the pre-dawn twilight.

"The worst crash I ever saw happened out on rez slickrock," I recalled.

"We were riding near Chinle in the middle of winter on this section of rock that Wade, who was living out at Many Farms with his girlfriend who was a teacher, said the locals call Slickrock Right . All these big waves, bowls of rock, arches hidden in giant coves.

Wade, riding Vulture #1 on Slickrock Right
"It's neat out there; no one around, no trails to follow. Not like Moab. Totally empty of people. And on this trip, the rock was about half-covered with snow, too.  Super cool.  Sometimes we'd come across a sheep camp or a stock tank out there; but otherwise, there was no reason to believe that anyone was ever around.  No man's land.  For sure.

"We'd been riding all day, across miles and miles of bare rock and snow, when we stumbled upon the biggest bowl of slickrock we'd seen.  It was an absolutely massive 360-degree depression in the sandstone. Huge, probably 30-plus feet to the bottom, smooth steep sides, with a scary wall-like entry and exit. It was fast going in, and you had to be going fast if you were going to hope to get out.

"We're all riding into this thing, one at a time, Wade, Huge, Chris, and me, whooping and hollering at each other, shouting out 'Yeah! That was rad!' and stuff like that.

"At the bottom of this bowl there was this maybe 6-inch-tall little rock blip, like a long, low ripple running right across the bottom of the bowl, right in the middle of the thing.

"When you got to the base of this bowl, because of your speed and the steep angle of the bowl, there was quite a bit of compression as you bottomed out, and that little blip was right there, right in the way, at the very lowest point.

"So Chris, who's this super good, naturally skillful rider rides into the bowl again, for maybe the third time, and angles toward the bottom like he's on rails, crouched over his bike, he's flying! And right there, at the bottom, he just nails that ripple.

"Bam! It throws him over the front of his bike and he gets launched, like Superman, and augers into the far side of the bowl full-speed.

"He hits hard and crumples. His helmet completely explodes! Pieces fly in every direction. 

"And Chris is lying there and he's not getting up. He's just sorta quivering, twitching, his whole body is quietly spasming with his arms and legs splayed out randomly at all kinds of wrong angles.

"Everyone, all three of us around the rim bail into the bowl, sliding down on our feet, our knees, our butts, to get to Chris fast as we can. We get there in seconds and nothing's changed, he's still unconscious, twitching.

"We've all got our hands on him; saying, 'Chris! Chris!' But we don't have a clue what to do. We're all just kneeling around him, at the bottom of this bowl, isolated from the entire world by red stone walls, a clear blue sky, and silence, waiting for something to change, for one of us to get a clue what to do.

"Eventually, Chris begins to moan; he starts to come around. He opens his eyes groggily. 

"Wade says to him, 'What's your name?' Chris says, 'I don't know.' 

"Eugene asks him, 'What year is it?' Chris says, 'I don't know.' 

"Then I ask him, pointing at Eugene, 'What's his name?' Chris says, smiling, 'Huge.'

"After a while Chris seems a little better; he can't move his right arm at all, but he says he thinks he can walk. We pick him up, what's left of his helmet and his bike, and we carefully climb back out of the bowl, the four of us arm-in-arm, and together we begin to limp across the slickrock on foot, pushing our bikes beside us, toward the road. Along the way, we're asking Chris, 'What year is it? What's your name? Who's the president?' and slowly, one at a time, he gives more answers. 

He remembers Wade's name, his name, Bill Clinton's name, that it was 1990-something.

But not my name.

He has no idea who I am.

"We get to the road together, and I remind the group, 'I've got the keys to the truck.'  So I hop on my bike and ride back up the road a mile or two, throw my bike on top, and race back down the road to where I find them. We get Chris loaded in; he's all kinds of bloody, still can't move his right arm, says he has a headache. And we high-tail it down the hill to the Chinle hospital.

"The place is queued up for hours, people are even waiting outside in a line to see a doctor. 

"So we rush over to Wade's friend's house. He's a doctor. He comes out, gives Chris one glance, goes back into his house, brings us a small bottle of Tylenol, give Chris a pat on the back and says to me, 'Drive him to FMC,' which is hours away.

“We made record time across the rez. We take Chris straight to the hospital ER and wait around until his mom and his sister show up.

“The x-rays show that he's completely busted off the end of his elbow; and he's got a serious concussion.

“They kept him at the hospital overnight and scheduled a surgery for the next day.

“He's all healed up now. I don't think he's any the worse for wear today.

"But it was kinda funny. While we were speeding across the rez into the setting sun, with Chris sitting there holding his arm gingerly and asking for more Tylenols every 5 minutes, no one talked much, and there's no radio or CD player in my truck so it was quiet. It'd been a sobering day.

“We'd been on the road for hours: passed a few lonely outposts, some weather-beaten horses and homes, and we were getting close to Leupp just as the sun went in.

“And then I hear Chris' voice, hoarsely, out of the darkness say, 'JohnCoe,'

“'What?' I ask.

“'That's your name. JohnCoe.'

“'That's right, Chris. I'm JohnCoe.'”

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