"It has been reported that I was seriously ill..."

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"It has been reported that I was seriously ill -- it was another man; dying -- it was another man; dead...
As far as I can see, nothing remains to be reported." - Mark Twain

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Whenever I stumble back upon a blog I've not read in some time, only to find it has languished, unposted to, since my last visit, I tend to wonder.  I wonder what the reasons are that the blog has not seen words, that posts have gone unmade for so long a time.  And I worry.  I worry that perhaps some tragedy has struck in said blogger's life, and that this is the reason for their absence from the 'net.

Just about a bike: Panasonic Mountain Cat 7500 [UPDATED]

The way to work

UPDATE: This Panasonic Mountain Cat served me well for many, many years but was officially retired and disassembled in August 2023 due to frame-cancer (see below). Many of its organs were donated to aid in the resurrection of other bikes, most essentially this Breezer Lightning.

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I'm all about taking the long-cut.

I'm a proponent of riding the wrong bike.

And I believe you should do your best to run-what-ya-brung.

Over the years, I've owned many bikes which have equipped me to practice these ideals, utilitarian bikes, which I've always purchased for never-more than fifty-bucks and often less, bikes with big heavy wheels, fewer-than-optimal gears, and often with fenders, racks, and large bags attached.

Leyland's Bones

Leyland Tweed Engleman was named after his father’s favorite jacket. 

And his mother always said he had his grandfather’s nose.  

Leyland was a saver. A keeper. A boxer-upper. A legendary collector of rare and unusual things. 

Beneath his bed, in nearly a dozen large black plastic hide-away boxes, Leyland kept his things. 

Things like... 

...thirty-eight differently shaped pinecones, some open, some still sticky and closed-up tight. 

...and the front headlight and chrome retainer ring assembly from a 1979 Volkswagen. 

...and a thick brown bag nearly bursting with exactly eleven dollars and forty-three cents in antique pennies that had wheat sheaves on the back where the Lincoln Memorial usually was. 

...and an old Ant Farm that still contained the remains of Leyland’s last great ant colony: nearly 300 dead red worker ants and their queen. Leyland had made a post-mortem count of them many times; he still felt badly for the role he had played in their demise. He knew better now: ants need only so much water and no more. Guilt, and an unspeakable attachment to his old ants, kept him from establishing a new, and much dryer colony between the Ant Farm’s clear walls and green frame. 

...and nine yo-yos, including one special free-spinning silver yo-yo that came with a 55-page How to do Yo-yo Tricks instruction book. It was supposed to be excellent for impressing friends and family. Busy with his collections, Leyland had never taken the time to learn anything more difficult than Rock the Cradle. 

...and an assortment of rusty bolts and nails found in various vacant lots in his neighborhood and during his summertime travels with his family. 

...and an old bottle with an unusual Pepsi logo on it, a couple of old license plates, the shards of several old ceramic plates and cups, and a few pieces of ancient Indian pottery, light brown with black lines still painted on the surface. 

...and a heavy box of rocks of different sizes and varieties labeled with their geologic names like “basalt” and “granite” and “schist” in black marker on aging masking tape. 

...and, in one small box, which he kept always near the center-most point of his under-the-bed cache, labeled in loud red pen to warn pokers and prodders to “Beware the contents!” Leyland kept his bones. His magic bones. 

Leyland’s rocks, they were just rocks. And his yo-yos were just yo- yos. Likewise, his Ant Farm was just a terrarium for dead insects and could never be returned to the store for a refund, especially not in its present condition. His bolts would never spin again and his nails were beyond straightening. His headlight and retainer assembly, worthless without a car to go behind them. And as for his pennies, he had been told by a collector at a coin show that they were worth little beyond their face value, with only a few possible exceptions. 

But Leyland’s bones, they were magic. Or they were almost magic. Or they could be magic someday. But of their magical potential at least, he was nearly certain. Just as certain as he was of the worldly worthlessness of all the other treasures in his collection. 

Few knew of Leyland’s bones; fewer believed in their magic. One who did believe was Leyland’s best friend, a heavy, redheaded, freckled, and oft-teased boy named Norman. Norman was a true believer; The Letter had convinced him, though it had failed to convince many others. 

And also because, Norman had helped Leyland collect some of his bones.

to be continued...

Archival Footage: Jimmy

[audio]

Back around the turn of the century, my then-favorite print magazine, Mountain Gazette, held a "1000 Words" writing contest to see who among their readership could produce the most compelling story with this word-limit as a constraint. I submitted the following work of fiction just before the deadline.  

I got an email reply from the editor, M. John Fayhee, a short time later wherein he stated something to the effect of, "Our editorial board was, in truth, fundamentally split between your story and one other. Yours is a good piece of writing. But in the end they went with the other. Apologies."

I am pleased to report, however that after this rejection, over the course of the next few years, they nevertheless later picked up a few of my photos and also an essay I wrote for publication.

And, some years later, after Mountain Gazette was done as a print mag, Fahyee also used a quote of mine in his book, Colorado Mountain Dogs, too. A fact I discovered only after stumbling quite fortuitously into a author-reading/book-signing he was holding at a small bookstore in Salida, Colorado, a summer ago. He kindly inscribed the book I purchased "to a mountain gazette alumni."

Anyway, for the record, here's my runner-up "1000 Words" short story, adapted from the first few chapters of a heretofore yet unpublished work that I've been slowly pecking away at for years now which still bears the simple title: Jimmy...

Archival Footage: The Eastern Sedimentary Block Of Mount Elden

Heart Trail

The following graduate term paper was written and submitted by me "in partial completion of the requirements" for a Geology For Teachers course I took at Northern Arizona University in the summer of 2004, during what is probably best characterized as the second-phase (of four, I think) of  my post-baccalaureate academic career.

A significant addiction

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.” – Edward Abbey.
Looking at the last few months of my Instagram and Facebook accounts, I've noticed a theme, and I believe it reveals a significant addiction which I have acquired over the course of many years.

To trails, as seen over the handlebars of a bicycle. And also to the tracks I've left behind. #BLE

Arizona Trail

Crap. Crap. Crap. [Updated]

(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.

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.