A Jog in the Snow

Fitness is important to me. I don't want to be a fat old goat. But keeping my weight in line is getting tougher all of the time. Granted, I am still within 15 pounds of my high school weight, and there is not a belly problem, so I shouldn't worry so much about it. But I do. That's why I jog. But to many of the young guys who blast by me on the trail, "jog" may be a poor use of the word.

Sam used to jog everyday. He was the captain I flew with in my young pilot days. We use to laugh at him becuase his jog was nothing more than a fast shuffle. I watched him run from my hotel room and I am sure I laughed. Just like some of the guys, ladies, and maybe even dogs on the trail laugh at me now.

I am paying dues for laughing at Sam. He was out there for the same reasons I am.

But there is an art to winter jogging. We are very lucky in Lincoln because we have one of the greatest trail systems in the country. For the most part, they are paved. They also get plowed within hours of the end of a snowstorm. Sure, there are going to be patches of ice here and there, but for the most part, they're in great shape.

Except for last night.

I was on the fence about jogging. It started to snow about 6:00pm. It was a pretty snow--big flakes with and no wind. Do you remember that crunch under foot from a fresh snow? Do you remember a time when you were all alone in while a pretty snow fell gently on your face? It was irresistable. I layered up and went out.

There was only one other set of tracks on the fresh snow. He was half gazelle about 22 I would guess, because he made one stride to my three. Screw him. I was enjoying my time and watched the bunnies run along the trail with me. I was catching a crippled one until he made a serious right turn. There are some that just can't stand to fall behind.

When I am in the groove because I can barely hum the USC fight song. (That's the best one for jogging because you can slow it down or speed it up to suit your mental and physical state.) The band was a little slow tonight. I made the turn and started back home. The gazelle's tracks were starting to fill in with snow so I image he was home, showered, and drinking a beer. No one was out there but me. I owned the night, and the light, fluffy, beautiful snow. Dah dah, *foot crunch* da duh da dah *foot crunch* da dopie doo, *foot crunch" da doopie dooooo.

Then trouble.

About a block in front of me, everything disappeared. I suddenly realized I hadn't seen a bunnie in a while either. And, in just a few seconds, I didn't see anything. (In case you are wondering, my view would look like the margins on this blog so that's why no picture. I know. Jip.)

It's called a white out. The little snow storm had suddenly turned into a blizzard and I was the blizzardee. My mind raced. What if a Mexican wolf was lurking in the bushes and mistaked me for Little Red Taco Head?

What if I slipped and fell and broke a hoof? I would lay there and feeze to death. (Bunnies don't pack cell phones.) It was suddenly colder. My mustache iced up. That's a bad sign for an x-pilot because that could mean his brain might stall.

Blowing snow also means drifting. Jogging was out. Mountain climbing was in. I jogged. I climbed. The SC fight song was not the right song for climbing. Then I knew my mind wasn't working right because it served up the Texas fight song. I would rather face the Mexican wolf, illlegal or not, than rely on the Texas fight song to get me through this. Plus, the hook 'em thing might scare the Mexican wolf off and he might be my last hope unless I could convince a bunnie to risk it and take an emergency note to Wendys somewhere out there in all of that white.

I am sure there were little sets of eyes starring at me from under little piles of branches and leaves. I am sure they wondered why this old goat was out here in this awful weather. Do bunnies only eat frozen leaves or during winter, do they mutate and develop a holiday taste for fat old goat?

I was alone with the Texas fight song going in my freezing mind. Help me Jesus.

Then, just as suddenly, the wind died down. I could see the lights of the Wendys again. My mind filled with the smell from the fast-food store next to my tin house.

I knew I was going to make it. I wasn't going to fall and freeze to death, only to get plowed into the ditch by the city. My family wouldn't have to identify me in the spring with that horrid expession on my terror-filled face and that hook 'em sign frozen into my hand. Would they know that the fitness devil had put the Texas fight song into my frozen, dying mind as I fell to the ground in bunnieville?

No one would be looking for me here, hell, it's a fitness trail. "Why was he on a fitness trail?" they would wonder.

"Gimmer a triple with the works, biggie fries,and a biggie frosty," I told the Wendys guy.

Screw it. After all, I am only 15 pounds heavier than I was when I was in high school.

The day for kids...

It's snowing right now. It's kind of a light grainy snow. The kind of snow where you can take a little three or four step run and slide for a few feet. Arms out of coure for balance. That's important background info for you because today is Star City Parade day in Lincoln. Downtown will be full of families with little kids watching a discount version of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There will be small balloons with people trying to control them in the wind. There will be bands, including the band of bands in Nebraska....ladiesssss and gentlemen......the Pride of Alllllll Nebraskaaaaaa....The University of Nebraska CornnnnnnHusker Marching Band!

I still get chills watching them. When they play Hail Varsity and Dear 'Ole Nebraska U, I remember who I am and where I am from. That's cool on an otherwise cold snowy day. (Might not be all that bad to be from Florida, though.)

I was in a band once so I know what it is like to march in snow and freeze to death. The uniforms can look cool but they are not the stuff of the North Face. And speaking of face, there is nothing worse than having a cold coronet mouthpiece stick to the wrong part of your lip. Nothing but air goes through and not enough of it to make any interesting noise that approaches music.

Little kids don't get air. They understand "honk honk honk." And they ask such honest questions...."mommy, why isn't that guy making any music?"

Good question. Hence the keyboard.

So to all of the little kids along the snowy parade route, enjoy the cold weather. Drink some hot chocolate. (If you are REALLY cold and can't find any hot chocolate, ask your dad for a belt of his schnapps.)

Don't bitch about having to come to the parade. There will come a Christmas when your parents are old and you and your sibs can say..."remember when we went to the parade and drank all of dad's schnapps?"

Keep warm by rubbing your mittens together. Brush the snowflakes from your face. Curl up your toes inside of your boots and when the band of bands comes along....clap your hands and enter into your heritage as a loyal Cornhusker.

If you don't have to go pee before Santa goes by, you'll have a warm memory from a cold snowy day etched in your mind and you'll have earned the right to whine about going to Disney World in Orlando.

Oh, and don't try to sneak a pee in your pants. It only stays warm for a little while.

I need to go to Florida

The hurricane season is over. For most folks, that would suggest a trip to somewhere sunny. It's 12 degrees in Lincoln. That would suggest a trip to somewhere sunny. There is snow on the ground. That would suggest a trip to somewhere sunny. The snow has been rearranged from God's idea to man's idea which means it is no longer like a fluffy white blanket, but is piled up in dirty piles. That would suggest a trip to somewhere sunny.

But none of those reasons are the reason I should go to Florida.

Dannie is the reason. She had her surgery and they removed another tumor about the size of a golf ball from the back of her brain. A few years back, they removed a softball size one and she recovered 100%.

This time is a little different. She has some work to do to get back to that 100%. I have no doubt she will do it but I want to go down to Florida and spend a little time with her and see for myself.

Struggle is the best character builder there is. I had to struggle with my polio and most people who know me say I am a character. Everyone will give you the "you're still just as good as anyone else."

You know, deep down, you will never be just as good as. You may come close. You may over-achieve. You may become a character or develop same. But there is a bigger struggle going on inside. It just takes so much more for the bird with a broken wing to learn how to fly.

And the last thing you need is to have a Tom Cruise type tell you they understand. You're kidding. They don't understand. The only people that understand are people who have had to go through the struggle of coming back.

That's why I need to go to Florida. I want to look Dannie in the eyes and let that speak for itself. I will never know the no-polio me. I will only know the one who battled it. Polio made me a warrior. I fought battles that I may not have needed to flight. I did things that I didn't need to do. I completed projects that I didn't need to start. My life isn't about making money. It's about making tracks. My tracks sometimes end at the top of the mountain because I fell down the other side. But, if you look carefully, you will see more tracks on the next one.

Dannie is learning how to make tracks. She is learning about struggle. I imagine her heart is crying because of what was. She may not know about what will be.

But she is making new tracks and I want to see if they are going up the mountain. My guess is there are, so it is best that you get the hell out of the way. She is a warrior, too.

Just keep spreading your broken wing little bird. The hand of God will create the lift.

At the movies...

Well, kind of at the movies. I am not a "go to the movie" kind of guy. I don't like crowds and like them even less when they yap while you are trying to watch a movie. In fact, I don't even rent movies very often. But this weekend, I did. War of the Worlds and Ladder 49.

So the review...

I saw the original War of the Worlds way back when. It was black and white as I remember and Orson Wells did the voice over. It scared the crap out of me. My little brother Roger was with me and we were both, well little. My parents were somewhere and we snuck off to the Lyric theatre to see it.

When Mom and Dad got home, they found us sitting in the middle of the family room surrounded with butcher knives. We were scared to death.

Maybe that's why I don't go to movies. But anyway, the modern version wasn't all that appealing to me even though I kind of knew what was going to happen. The "new" followed the "old" fairly well, san butcher knives.

Ladder 49 was something different. Powerful. I welled up a couple of times. It kind of made me want to call my fireman nephew John and tell him to get a safe job at Wal-Mart. But, this is Lincoln and not Baltimore so there aren't that many tall buildings here. None the less, one of the young stars fell through the roof on a two story fire and they had to summon the bagpipes. During my CERT training, our volunteer fireman instructor told us..."if you want to know what it is really like inside of a burning building, watch Ladder 49." Lesson understood.

Look close at Lincoln's finest with Ladder 5 as it were. It's truck 5 in Northeast Lincoln. That's a pic I took of a fire in the neighborhood last year. Looks pretty nasty, doesn't it.

Maybe you can walk out of Ladder 49 and say, "it's only a movie." Then again, you may hear a distant siren howling in the night. You may see flashing blue and red lights in the distance. And if you stand still for a moment, Ladder 5 will blow on by on their way to God knows what. Raise your index finger when a firetruck goes by. We don't need anymore young families in the first pew and somebody warming up the bagpipes.

God speed Ladder 5 and all of Lincoln's finest.

It's here...Ugh

Ok, it's here. My least favorite time of the year. Winter. Ugh. In fact, double ugh. I hate snow and cold. Once you get by that first fluffy, pretty snow, it's well, just ugh.

Plus, it's "that" season. The season where you over-eat and over drink and well, fall over.

The older I get, the less I like this "festive" time. I am not festive anymore. I hate crowds. I hate small talk. I don't drink. I don't have a cool sweater and yuppie pants and cool shoes. I like jeans and t-shirts. I look like old jeans and old t-shirts with a bad attitude. Worst of all, my muscles and bones hurt from the cold. (They tell me that is especially true of former polio people like me.) Triple ugh.

I need to go somewhere warm and sunny. But, all of the warm and sunny places are destroyed this year. Hurricanes. Is that season over now?

I guess I could go to California. It's sunny. It's full of marachi bands. Maybe I could learn do a California triathlon...run through 100 yards of brush...scare a rickity fence...run across some open land...jump into the river and swim across...run through some open land...sneak around a dark green pickup...run into more brush...spike a bean burrito and give the touchdown sign.

The ground under me would tremble. Oh God. Earthquake.

I knew there was a good reason not to go to California.

So go ahead. Enjoy the snow and the cold. Go Grandma's house. Eat too much turkey. Eat an extra piece of pumpkin pie with Cool Whip on it. Drink too much. Fall over. Nap. Have left-overs. Nap. Eat some Tums. Drive home and half nap on the way.

After all, that's why all of those people are doing the California triathlon, isn't it?

The small town life

I took a little drive out west of Lincoln last Sunday. I didn't take the Interstate. Instead, I chose to take a two laner and ended up in Seward, Nebraska. (For those of you who don't know, Seward is the "4th of July City" and was named after the folly guy.) Seward folks go all out for America's birthday and their population goes from 3,000 something to 30,ooo something. Not a good place for a crowd-hating recluse like me to be.

But Seward was the perfect place for me last Sunday. Beautiful day. Still a hint of fall in the air. A little wind to whip the brown dried leaves around. And a Main Street just as Main Street as America gets. The Seward County Courthouse dominates the center of this little town. Yellow ribbons are tied to the light poles with the signs that tell you to obey this or that. There is a statue of a Civil War soldier standing on a tall white pedestal. Next to the pedestal is a flag pole with both the US and Nebraska flags flapping around in the light breeze. When was the last time you stopped to listen to flapping? When was the last time you looked into the stone face of a soldier and thought about those kids who fell then, and the kids who fall now? It was all right there. From flapping to the stone face to the yellow ribbon. Seward has it right. Seward let's you sample freedom in silence any time you want.

The heart of America is alive and beating in little Seward. God bless it.

A walk down an old path

I haven't been on a personal photo trip for a long time. (That's when you say the hell with everything and everyone and toss your best camera over your shoulder and go somewhere just to take pictures.) In my case, the camera is my trusty Nikon 8008 and the place is about an hour away...Nebraska City.

Nebraska City is Nebraska's hidden treasure. You probably don't think about apples when you think of Nebraska but that's where they grow 'em. You probably don't think of trees when you think of Nebraska but that's where Arbor Day started. You probably don't think of a world class resort when you think of Nebraska but that's where the Lied Lodge is and well...it is!

I shot a couple of rolls there, ate a freshly baked piece of apple pie with ice cream and walked and listened. I had forgotten the sound of leaves and dried twigs crumpling under foot. I had forgotten the sound of the wind as it shakes the top of a giant cottonwood tree. I had forgotten the sound of a distant crow making claim over me for territory.

And if that wasn't enough, there are other things there, too. Including the Mighty Mo...the Missouri River. It's beautiful this time of years and the folks down there make it easy to see in all of it's glory--especially if you climb a tree to get a little better look.

It was a great day for me. I was very comfortable being myself with nothing more than the trusty Nikon, freeing myself from the nagging voice that said I should be using that camera more often. So here ya go. A path less walked.

See if you can do without football for a Sunday like I did. Let your kids see you climb a tree. Teach them to listen for the crow and the sound of crunching leaves and breaking twigs. Let them hear the the sound of the wind talking to the trees.

Find a path and walk it more often. You might even feel your soul smile, just like mine did.

This week in Washington

This could be a very busy week in Washington.

Karl Rove could be charged with something. Scooter Libby is in the same boat. Did his dad make it big canning peas? The President's Supreme Court choice, what's-her-name, is out of the boat and sinking according to Sen. "Swallow the closest Microphone" Schumer. (And no, I don't know if I spelled all of their names right nor do I care.)

That's the key word. Care. Out here in what they call "fly over country" I don't think many of us do care. The exception is that growing number of our finest who are giving their lives in the service of freedom. Don't you guys dare pull another Viet Nam and that includes you, Senator Hagel. (He's one of our locals who went to Washington and got the big head that he was big stuff.)

The fact is, we don't care. Let them fly over. Let them fight. Let them swallow microphones in Washington. Let them choke on those microphones or whatever else they like to swallow out there. Even the cows are mad well errr...sick of them.

I have a solution, however. No, it's not a new party. That won't work. As soon as the new party leaders find the microphones, it will be sameo. We need something more dramatic than a new party. Perhaps we need a new city for the heart of government. I nominate Boise. The west is still alive out there and they have a nice long runway for Air Force One. Plus, they can give a new "spin" to corrupt politicians and "life is all about me" reporters.

Just hang 'em. I think the founders would like that.

Ah...to be a leaf

There is a little Henry David Big T in my old soul. I loveth the outeth doors. Especially in the spring because of tornados--but also in the fall because of majesty. Fall is when nature calls the great things of the earth to cometh fourth. No, really.

Fall is when the harvest begins. The great Nebraska fields of tall green corn turn to brown and the combines create great clouds of brown dust as they turn the rows into mounds of yellow golden nuggets. Pay up Department of Agriculture. We hath doneth it again and filleth the elevators with more #2 yellow corn that nobody wanteth. Unless gas gets any higher.

The pumpkins and the gords reach deep into the black Nebraska dirt and search for that little bit of something that will turn them from green into brilliant shades of gold. Neateth. This is the time of year when we can teach children how to skillfully use a sharp knife to cuteth a big smile. Double neateth.

And, for those optimists amoungeth us, the knights of the plains, those majestic cottonwoods turn to all kinds of colors...gold and red and brown. And the sugar maple creates an even more impressive stew of color. Free no lesseth.

Slowly, the grip of summmer goeth as the winds of the North turn natures air conditioning well below the comfort level. The leaves fill the air with changing color and blow into piles of laugh creating crunch.

Then..."whack." A sound of steel on steel? A threat? Should I run Henry David Big T?

No, alas. It's the human ending this great and grand color spectacle with a common rake. All of the glorious color is soon stuffed into giant brown bags with Wal-Mart written on the side. Soon, a truck comes along and crunches the great color scheme even more before depositing this most grand of paintings in a giant mound with empty tuna can, junk food wrappers, and dirty disposable diapers.

I understand now, Henry David Big T. The bitter cold of winter is what nature gives us when we treat her beautiful fall like thisith.

Thought I would NEVER do this!

I had a chance to go to the Nebraska-Iowa State football game today and I passed. (As in decided not to go instead of well...passed -vs- run.) I am not that football nuts anymore.

That, folks, is absolutely amazing. I used to be as football nuts as they come. You can tell a football nut, a Nebraska football nut, by the way they talk about the game. Nebraska never loses a game to a better team. They lose because they made too many mistakes. They lose because the ref made a bad call. They lose because the moon is full.

They lost me. Too much money. Too much time. Too much Rattletrap Rose.

I have fallen in love with other things. Sure, I am happy to see them win but it is not a big deal when they lose.

It used to be.

I would mope for days. I would get angry. I would see the season slip away into the Independence Bowl. Those were tough times. I would get on the band wagon when a player got arrested for something. "He's just a kid, let him play."

Truth is, some kids need to go to jail not to a bowl game.

I don't miss those arguments, either.

So I am going to learn some new things today. Lately, the new things have to do with Red Cross training. I learned how to do CPR and run a defibulator.

It wasn't too long ago when this Husker fan might have needed those things.

Ah...fall

It's kinda cold outside. Fall is here! At least for a day, anyway. Back in the 80's today. This really is a great time of year. No, it's not the "best" time of year. Remember, I am your friendly neighborhood storm spotter so I reserve best time of year for the rough and tumble of a Nebraska spring. Fall is the settle back and enjoy it part of the year. Go bike in the country. Take a gun if you really do think there are lots of hungry mountain lions out there.

And if gas wasn't so high, a trip to Nebraska City would be in order. What a gem of a little town this is! The Arbor Day Foundation is there in the J. Sterling Morton mansion. (He had something to do with TV dinners and ended up the hondo of the plant a tree business.) And do they have trees! Lots of them have apples on them. So Nebraska City comes alive in the Fall with caramel apples, apple juice, apple eating apples, apple pie, apple cobbler, dried apples, apple cider, apple fig cake...I just threw that one in there. I am sure the folks in Nebraska City are appled out by Thanksgiving. Have you ever seen a montain lion eat an apple?

If you are into a little color, take your camera along. Wait a couple of weeks though. This is the first cold day so we need a freeze to get some genetic thing to do the color whamo inside of the tree and tell all of the the leaves to change color and well...leave. Any dummy can aim a digital camera at that countryside and get a breath-taking picture. (It will only be breath-taking if you happen to get a mounntain lion eating an apple.)

Besides the color, fall has another REALLY big bennie. The snakes head for the holes. You can stomp around all you want and not worry about a little rattler laying in wait. I hate snakes. Save a bullet for the mountain lion but go ahead and unload on the snakes. They should be in the holes anyway.

Pheasants start to get a little paranoid about now. It won't be long before grown men with bad taste in clothes stumbled through picked corn fields to try and get them. If they do, some wife has to try and fix them. And if she does, some kids try and eat them. All to make a dad feel good about his ability to hunt and provide. These guys won't find the mountain lion, however. They make too much noise stumbling through the fields. The hunting dog might lose a few years growth if he comes face to face with, well you know who.

I used to work for Remington Arms Company. God, that was a long time ago. I could almost be retired and weathly by now but I decided to hunt in different fields. Remington taught me about color because I had a chance to work with the GREAT outoor artist, Bob Kuhn. I even started to paint back then and wasn't too bad. If I had stuck with the paintinng, who knows?

Maybe I could be sitting on a hillside in Nebraska City painting a beautiful fall landscape with a mountain lion in it and add to the apple indigestion.

That was an interesting week

In fact, it may have been one of the most interesting weeks of my life. I went to CERT school which stands for Community Emergency Response Team. We are now the guys that will be roaming the disaster areas that your local fire department can't search, reach, and treat.

No, we are not going to get all that heroics but we are trained in lots of stuff including...small fire supression, first aid, search and rescue, extraction, not the dentist type; and communications. It took 20 hours to complete the course and graduation was a moch disaster in the totally dark basement of the Nebraska Capitol building. Your's truely was in charge and to be honest, I didn't do all that great of a job but learned a bunch. We all did.

I now have a disaster pack full of gear. A green helmet that makes me look like a Pez dispenser. And, lots of confidence that I can help out big time. I also got a day's worth of CPR/AED training from the Red Cross.

Sound interesting to you? I encourage you to take the training. It really is great! Call your local emergency management office and they should be able to give you more information. By the way, it's FREE!

And in this day and age, it's more important than you will ever know.

PS Dannie had her surgery last week. She made it through it. I talked to her and she is improving but has a big hill to climb. If you have some prayer space, please put in a good word for her.

Facing the knife

OK, I have more stitches in me than a cheap Sears suit. I know the routine. I have done a mask full of ether to get me under and the more modern shot with the count back system. (Never made it past 97 I think.)

The being said, I have nothing to offer my favoritest, yes faroritest, non daughter in the world. (No she isn't my daughter but she may as well be.)

She had a tumor removed from her brain. It was the size of a grapefruit. Think about that for a second. Hold a grapefruit in your hands and think about checking it into your head and having someone whack it out and nothing bad happening. Amazing.

But, she is amazing. Got more fire in her than an exploding Colorado fir during a forest fire. She's creative, and funny, and pure hell for the first half of the morning. Animals follow her around like there is a second coming of Noah's Ark and she isthe one handing out the tickets to the first class section. She scuba dives and takes on the gritty challenges of the day like a Jew walking across Gaza. She is a a pretty good writer but doesn't much. That is a loss.

And she grows tumors. Again. Not as big, mind you, but again.

There is a growing hush starting in my mind as the day approaches when the latest little lump will come out. I am worried and I wish I was there.

But I am not and worse, I have to be in school all week while this goes on.

I should be there, really. But then again, she just has to take a look at all of the hounds around her and know the old dog is there, too.

Cowboy up, babe. Let the sun rise in your soul.

The cost of clearing

I just heard it is going to cost the US taxpayers four billion dollars to move all of the Jewish settlements out of Gaza.

Excuse me? How did they pull the wool over are eyes on that one? We have to pay about $1000 per person to remove Jews from Gaza?

The cost to us for other people's problems is getting just a bit out of sight. Just what do those idiots in the State Department think we are made of...cheap gas and and expensive corn?

And while we're at it, what is the cost to the American taxpayers to house the poor of Mexico? (Someone on the radio suggested we quit paying foreign aide to Fox and maybe he will get the flood stopped.) By the year 2016, there will be enough Mexicans in this country to permanently control the government of the United States, including electing a President. Think about that super power?

It doesn't do any good to write senators and congressmen and it certainly doesn't do any good to talk to them. If you listen to them, they have no clue what an honest answer is. What do we do? What options do we have?

Perhaps we should start at home. I suggest Nebraskans start squatting in Colorado because the secenery is more in tune with our Indian vision of Mother Earth and that if Colorado wants to move us, they will have to pay us $1000 a head and build energy-efficient teepees in Arizona. Then, the senators and congressmen from Colorado can slip the cost of the program into an amendment on the national highway safety bill.

If they don't, we'll just keep crossing the Colorado border until we can elect a Nebraskan, Governor of Colorado.

If that doesn't work, let's move Washington to Idaho and leave the press in DC. That will fix 'em.

To catch a trout

I could be a little early on this one. But, I think the worst of summer is probably over. The "worst" of summer in Nebraska are those days when the temp in near 100 and the humidity is not far behind. You feel like you are stuck inside of a hot washcloth. Yuck.

It's during those days that my mind turns to trout fishing. No, I am not taking about trout fishing in Nebraska. I am talking about trout fishing in the distant hills...Colorado or Wyoming. It's been a while since I have been trout fishing. In fact, it has been so long I can't find my pole. That's sad and also a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his pole. And, I can't find my flies either. That's sad and a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his flies. Do you suppose I could find Colorado?

That's not all that easy, either. No, I can find the state. And I can find the mountains. And I can drive right through Denver without getting shot at or returning fire. It's finding a trout stream that is getting to be the problem. Or should I say, finding access to the stream.

Up around the Vail area, the streams and small rivers bubble along the Interstate rushing along to their meeting with the soon to be mighty Colorado river as it heads for the thirsty mouths of Californians and soon to be Californians about half dead in the desert between the river's bank and Old Mexico. Hopefully, the big trout put on their turning motors before they get swept into the muck of California living and politics. (Yes, I know the river has to do some battle with Arizona and the Grand Hole but I am not a tour guide for the great West. This is Colorado trout story.)

Where was I? Oh yes. Access. That is the problem today. Access. The once grand mountains now are covered with homes. Where the fires once raged and burned out the brush, now they burn out a California Brie and her forth husband. The own the land. They become the stewards of the land. The block access to the trout streams and somehow, they become far superior in their stewardship of the land than folks like me who have been going to Colorado since Boy Scout days.

They get it your face.."Hey, you can't park there. Hey, you guys are ruining the moutains and you make the fish suffer."

If you do find it to a nice little stream, the California backpackers come along and start giving you grief about what is the "right" way to take care of the rivers and the fish. The right way, of course, is to ban fishing so everyone can see the beauty of a big rainbow swimming along in Gore Creek. Where is a bear when you need one? Sick 'em snaggle tooth! Sick 'em.

I can only imagine what Colorado is going to be like in 10-20 years after all of the California outdoor experts move their because they are tired of climbing over mountains of illegals and want to climb mountains of mountains.

I guess iff I wanted to be remembered for my gift to conservation, I need to find a way that will make living inside of a hot damp washcloth appealing to a California no-it-all.

Here fishie fishie...

Summer

Wow. It's summer already. And how! Lincoln is in the mid 90's today and may flirt with 100 tomorrow. The humidity is higher than a Arizona State fan in Omaha. (Yes, they beat the Huskers in the College World Series. Hell of a game!)

I could either choose to stay in and stay cool or go out and fry. Fry won. Rebel, my old red z-24 storm spotter car overheated again so I had to walk down to the shop to get it. I guess I even missed storm spotting in my month or so off. I have been out three times and the last time was the most fun. It was about two weeks ago on a Friday night that the ole' ham radio went off, sounding the alarm for spotters. I was South of Lincoln over by a little town called Hickman. Radar indicated a possible tornado in my area so I put the glasses on the storm overhead and sure enough, it was rotating. (You need that ingredient to generate a good tornado.) No funnel was evident but it could drop at any time. Rebel was in the "ready" position and running in case we had to bolt out of the way of Mother Nature's super broom. I had my back to the car and when I turned around, it looked like it was on fire--lot's of white coming out from under the hood. Fortunately, it was just steam from overheating but what a time for that!

I can jog a little, but these conditions would call for a bolt out of the gate like a Saudi race horse near the Crete horsemeat plant. But, no tornado. Just a tornado spotter with car trouble.

The problem was a broken wire between the fan and the gauge which wasn't working anyway.

It is now and the problem is hopefully solved.

The only other problem is there are no storms to go watch. It's beastly hot and there is a "cap" in the atmosphere which stops the development of super cells--the best of the thunderstorm best--which are the breeding gounds for tornados and an instant ticket to fun.

I guess the only steam you'll see from me is the steam coming out of my ears. I went for a 20 mile bike ride. Heck, it is only 95.

Have a happy summer and enjoy yourself.

Cell phone spam

I heard it was coming. It already has become as popular as poached liver overseas. But, so far, not one little half ring on my trusty Cingular phone until today. It happened about 4:oopm. Willie started singing "On the Road Again." There is a reason I have that ringtone. I answered. Nothing. I looked at the ID and it said "unknown." Finally, a little message started to play about the Republican cantidates in the local election and why I should vote for them. 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes. BOOM!

That's enough. I don't need a stupid cell phone call from the Republican party, even though I am one, telling me to vote for some of the lamest critters in the known world. Plus, those minutes are minutes I pay for, not the Republican party. They deserved a response.

"I would like to speak to whomever handles your telephone calling program," I asked the male voice who answered at the state party office.

"I guess that would be me," he answered.

"I am calling about your practice of spamming cell phones for local cantidates in the Lincoln city election."

"I am not sure that is us," he said.

"Well, the call was from the Nebraska Republican Party. Would that be you?"

"Yes, that would be us."

"So you admit you do that type of rude marketing?" I asked.

"Well, if you mean do we do telemarketing, yes we do," he said.

"Did you know it was illegal to make a telemarketing call and not have your organization identified in caller ID?" I asked.

"No, it isn't illegal," he answered.

"You're sure?" I asked.

"Yes, pretty sure."

"99% sure?"

"Yes, pretty sure."

"Well," I suggested, "let's try your knowledge with the Federal Trade Commission and see how good it is."

I hung up on him and filed the complaint. Even if you list your telephone number on the DO NOT CALL list, you can still be legally called by a political party. Nice touch from the lawmakers, don't you think? I am not sure they can make that call and not identify themselves on caller ID, however.

Most important, the call is even worse than a standard telemarketing call. It's to a cell phone and up until now, my cell phone had been spam free.

Just for that, I am going to vote Democrat this time. The Republicans have lost their class and have gone from steak to spam.

Toranaders

Yesterday was one of those Nebraska days that you could safely bet the farm on a good chance of a tornado watch. Warm. Very humid. More milk in the sky than in the cows.

Sure enough, around noon, the watch box showed up on my computer, now hooked up and purring in my car as I sat in a truck stop south of Lincoln. (I was playing work hookie because I was so sure that something was going to happen!)

I scanned the skies looking for a thunderhead, as we used to call them. We don't call them thunderheads in storm spotter school--they are build ups with features like overshooting tops and mammus under the anvil and flanking lines and lowerings and of course, wall clouds. A wall cloud is a tornado's nest. If you find a good wall cloud, your chances of seeing a tornado improve dramatically.

The key word is "chances." I am almost 60 and have spent most of my life in Nebraska and have never really "seen" one. In my flying days, I have seen the famous "hook return" on radar that indicates one, but as far as seeing one actually form and roar down from the sky like a freight train and destroy a barn or tie a pivot irrigation system into a perfect sqare knot, put me in the nada column.

Not for him.

We had a debrief, which is code for "let's go get something to eat" at the local Village Inn after the all clear came from emergency management. I decied to attend the debrief for my first time. The head dog had signed me out with lots of praise on what good reporting I did for the day. No, there were no tornados today--just build-ups with overshooting tops and flanking lines and rain foots and hail shafts. Interesting but boring.

"Seen about sixty of 'em," the spotter across the table from me said. "Ya don't want to see one." The guy next to him knodded in agreement.

"Why not?" I asked. "That would be a kick!"

"They're loud, it's dirty when ya get close, and they'll scare the hell out a ya," he said as he turned his pointing fork from my face and back to his hot beef sandwich. He is a tradesman--kind of a simple, salt of the Nebraska earth kind of guy--no bull except what waited under the bread covered with brown gravey on his plate. He didn't care if I believed him or not. I did.

It takes a special breed of alley cat to volunteer to go sit on top of a hill and wait for Mother Nature to throw some of her best stuff at you. Don't expect any credit. This is a blue collar guy's volunteer job or a weather scientist or a nut like me. The guys looking for credit and a story with pictures in the paper praising their vounteer work, are not found in this group.

"Was out where you was several times," he continued. "Good spot for one to set down. Was looking back South from there onces when they called and asked if could confirm a funnel sighting. "No, clearing South," I said into the mike.

"Then it dawned on me that there was a little something going on," he continued. "It was getting loud and the stop sign was twisting sideways so fast I couldn't read the stop. I had one of them moonroofs and looked up just as the tornader came down and touched down in the field right next to me. It was loud and dirt was flying everywhere. I punched the mike button and told 'em I had a funnel on the ground next to me and got the hell outta there."

I smiled. He put the fork back into the mashed potatos.

He told me about other ones he had seen. Big F-4's. Skinny rope ones. Conical ones that jumped out from behind a rain foot to surprise him. We compared notes about the monster that ate Grand Island many years ago. He was on the ground. I was in the air. We both saw it but I was looking at it on radar and he was on the ground dancing with the single-legged devil.

"Patterns are changin," he said. They are movin more East."

He explained the places that usually had some tornado action each year. He laid the tracks out as if they were maps to his favortie fishing holes. He drew visual lines in my mind across the Nebraska countryside. He backed up his case with dates and tornado events I recalled instantly. When he was through, I had no doubt my spotter position was the yellow line on Nebraska's tornado highway. If he was right, Lincoln's time was running out. It was just a matter of time.

"Your spot should be a good one if ya wanna see one," he said as he finished his cherry pie. "Personally, I seen enough." The other guy nodded again.

Maybe I have seen enough, too.

Everything finally worked!

I love technology especially when it works. No, I am not a Microsoft fan by any stretch, but they are a necessary short in the whizzing circuits of a great mind like mine. :o)

Anyway. Last night everything worked just great. Best of all, the tech stuff was inside of my little car out on a Nebraska country road on the top of a hill in a lightning juiced spring thunderstorm. No, I wasn't stuck. No, I wasn't courting an old babe on a starry night gone south. I was there because I wanted to be there--right in the raging middle of it.

I love weather, especially thunderstorms. I love it so much that I even endured getting a ham radio license just so I could become one of the storm spotting crew for Lancaster County Emergency Management. I was trained for the job even though I had over 3,000 hours of professional flying experience and flew over the massive things. None the less, I endured stuff I really don't really care about just so I could be out on that lonesome hill with juiced arrows hitting everywhere and the rain pounding my little car. I was nice and calm inside and dissecting the monster with my laptop, hooked up to my inverter, hooked up to my cell phone, hooked up to the live radar. I looked at the radar and reported what I saw on the ground. It all worked great!

I haven't had that much fun in years! No, there was nothing of significance to deal with but I am sure the folks in the little town just a mile or so away may have felt a little better that me, and 41 other volunteer storm spotters, dotted the countryside looking at the skies.

Good night little Hallam. No need to worry tonight.

Not enough engines

The intersection of 48th. Street and Vine Street is one of the busiest intersections in Lincoln. I am not for away from it because I am so regular at the Kinkos store they call me Metamucil. Over the last couple of years, I have been at or near the Kinkos front door when that wrenching sound of of whap, crunching metal, and screeching tires fills the air. This intersection is the home of the whopper--not the sandwich--the car accident kind.

Yesterday was that kind of day. I was just getting out of my car when those all to frequent sounds filled the air. I looked and saw a pickup about halfway through the intersection and an old white Buick sitting on the median, smoking and crushed. The pickup won this contest.

With cell phone in hand, I dashed to the Buick. Two ladies, both dazed, were in the car. The passenger was in the most pain and rolled around in the seat. Another man soon was at my side. Thankfully, he was a volunteer fireman with some paramedic experience. He jumped into the back seat and we made a quick evaluation of what was going on. Diver would be OK. Passenger needed medical help. She complained of side pain and held her head.

I called 911 and gave them the necessary and what seemed at the time, alot of unecessay information. Help was on the way. 10:37 am.

One of Lincoln's finest was on the scene pronto. The young policeman hopped out of his car and put his car in a protective mode in the intersection. He made some notes, identified the drivers, collected their insurance information and had the pickup drive move his truck from traffic.

Where are the nice folks from the fire department? In past times, Engine 9 or Engine 2 and in a couple of really bad cases, Engine 7 or Engine 5 could already be heard off in the distance or they were already here. Not today. Not even a hint of one.

"Did fire get the call?" I asked the cop.

He punched his microphone and soon looked back at me. "Yup, they are on the way."

Strange.

I looked to the South down 48th Street and their was a fire department ambulance about 100 yards away. The unit was just sitting there. No lights or sirens. Just stuck in backed-up traffic like a ton of other Lincolnites.

Then, the unit suddenly came to life.

I am sure there were a few sudden surges in blood pressure as the ambulance made itself known. I waved at the officer and pointed at the ambulance. Unfortunately, he had parked his car in the one place that would have allowed the ambulance to zip right up to us if the cop waved a few folks through. With a few waves, a zig and a zag, the ambulance was on scene. It sure would have been nice to have some firemen and a big pry bar to get the passenger side door open and get the lady out. As it was, she would be coming across the driver's side and out. Still no sound of siren or blarring air horn off in the distance.

The paramedics relieved the volunteer fireman who had been holding the lady's head to reduce any cance of neck damage until a collar could be put on here. I am sure his arms ached. It had been quite a while.

Finally, off in the distance, just coming over the top of the hill on Vine Street, a fire truck emerged with full lights and siren. His air horn blasted away. Engine 1 pulled into the intersection and stopped.

Engine 1? That company was from the downtown Lincoln station. No wonder it took so long.
Where were the neighborhood guys? Engine 2? Engine 9? Engine 7? Truck 7? Engine 5? Truck 7?

I zipped an email off to the chief expressing my concerns about response time. I got an email back that the response was within limits. I remailed and wondered about where all of the above were that they had to send Engine 1 from downtown. Busy he said. I waited a day and checked the fire department run logs. They must have been called out for training at stations 7, station 5, and station 2. Engine 9 had a call.

Had the ambulance not happened along, the poor lady would have waited a very long time. So would the volunteer fireman. Her ambulance was sent out under code "Bravo" which means the fire engine is coming with blarring air horn and lights and siren. The ambulance, head injury or not, was just coming.

At least for one day in Lincoln, there were not enough engines.