Longing for North

It's hot here still. Like 100 degrees everyday hot. Our A/C has been hit and miss since last week. It is over 90 in my office during the afternoon most days. I'm sick of it. Sick of the heat. Sick of the dry. Sick of the flat boringly mundane beiges, tans and sandstone colors. We had a torrential downpour and subsequent flood and apart from the destruction,it was marvelous, marvelous I say. The desert was alight with life, puuuuuurples not plain purples. And green, oh green, how I've missed your verdant liveliness. All that life. I'm am not a desert dweller. Nothing in my midwestern upbringing has prepared me to face this day in and day out, unrelenting. The mountains, they are beautiful, but are missing something, something that other mountains have, oh there it is, a tree line. yes, trees, or rather, here, no, no trees, treeless. arborial less.

A lone poor bison. Buff. Ta Tonka. Alone. in the heat of the sun. Why?! How?! I want to free him from his pen but to where, dry desert death until he becomes a bleached empty erratic skull creating question marks of their own. Better he suffer with hay and hose than dessicated in the sun.

Northern climes. I dream of northern climes. Fall creeping in to turn greens to a rainbow of autumnal beauty. Good burnt oranges, not the bright ones of Vols and Tigers, but of pumpkins jack o'lanterns. Deep bloody reds. Even jaundiced yellows still clinging boldy to summers carefree happiness and photosynthic sweetness. Glorious. Gently falling to create a soft crispy blanket muffling the hardening ground then natures murmurs crawling to a crescendo of raspy cocktail  voices windswept. Warmth giving way inch by inch to pillowy cooling rains and angry booming storms drowning out the last gasps of long days and warmer nights.

This place pales in comparison. Boring continuity. Hot with a chance of hot followed by, well, more hot. It's football season for goodness sake, where are the crisp nights of warm drinks, the scarves, the hats and knitted gloves. Where, I ask, where?!!!

Poet Laureate of the North

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service 1874–1958

 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Be the ball Danny. Be the ball.

Saturday was our second annual fort irwin golf tourney held in Apple Valley. I helped with registration then headed out to the links with the boss and our AER director Bob. Bob and Doug both are guys without filters, you know the old crotchety types that grumble and mumble a lot. Constantly casting aspersions on your mother and what not. Fun to be around as long as you don't get offended too easily. In other words, men's men. Thick skins only please. I was off the clock, so I gave as bad as I got for the most part. The three of us are fairly bad golfers, okay, we sucked. luckily we picked up a ringer for our fourth. A guy that lived on the course and just wanted to golf. It was hot, not by Mojave Desert standards but still cooking in the upper 90s and scorching in the sun. I was constantly encouraging Joe to park us in the shade. Which he obliged more often than not. There were some notable shots throughout the day. I sunk a 50 put from the short grass off the green. We got a couple of 'tosses' as part of the tourney. One toss I did out of a bunker found its way into the hole giving us an Eagle for the hole. I had a hell of a chip that ended up within 3" of the cup from about 40' out. We also played a handful of my drives, pitches, chips and putts as well. Not bad for loaner clubs and not having played golf in a number of years. All in all, there are much worse ways to spend a Saturday. Ever hear of 'yard' work. Ick.

Carted up in the shade. 

All of the holes are pretty straight affairs, no serious doglegs here. 

Bob

that green green grass.

Every bit as grumpy as he looks.

Doug and Bob. Scowls of contentment.

The 2 Colonels and CSM in front of us spent a lot of time looking for their golf balls, we eventually played through on our twelfth hole. 

Sitting in the shade.

Too many cervezas.

The crew stocking back up on cervezas and red bulls.

Thank goodness for carts. 

Pretty little trees. 

Take all the Dam pictures you like.

Ryan, a good friend since high School, his wife Lori and their friends from CAT Ron and Lara (sp?) all headed out to Vegas to celebrate Lori's 40th birthday, or better known as the 11th anniversary of her 29th birthday. I picked them up at Caesars and we headed out to Hoover Dam. We took the power plant tour and checked out the old bridge. It's a pretty interesting place if you've never been, it is worth the stop while in Las Vegas. After the tour, we hit up Pawn Stars for a look around then off to Fremont Street for a little gambling and ambling. Then it was back to Caesars. For dinner, we hit up Forte, a little Bulgarian tapas joint, for lots of tasty morsels and a few drinks. They had tickets to a Cirque show so I dropped them off at New York, New York and headed to my hotel. Saturday, I cruised around checking out some of the crap Vegas has.Ii looked in a go-kart track, one of the many machine gun shops, and Bass Pro and gambled at the Silverton Casino before getting a hold of Ryan. I caught up with Ron and Ryan and we found the girls in the Atrium shops at Caesars and did some shopping. We stopped at one of the random drink shops and I grabbed an absolutely wonderful mojito. Oh so tasty. We played some slots then chilled out for a short bit before it was time for dinner. Fogo de Chao was awesome as only a Brazilian steakhouse can be. The highlight in my opinion were the lamb offerings. For those that have never been, you start with an amazing salad bar with all of the goodness from around the world. Artichokes, Lox, salamis, mushrooms, cheeses, excellent salad makings. Then the servers start to hover with their large skewers of meat. Beef cuts, lamb, pork, chicken, all roasted marvelously, polenta sticks on the table, yum, yum and more yum. You eat until you burst, then eat some more. Then the meat sweats come from devouring so much protein. No wonder Brazilian cowboys had no problem sleeping out on those chilly South American nights. It's a dream for anyone who actually use their canine teeth for their intended purpose. Nom nom nom, good.

After dinner, they were headed out to a club since they are married and don't get to do that stuff too often but my liver had had enough for the weekend, so it an I headed to a blackjack table at the Jokers Wild near my hotel. Sunday, everyone slept in. I hit up a little coffee joint in my neighborhood and then did some walking and shopping. I saw a Williams Sonoma and stopped by to look at hand hammered Italian copper pots well out of my price range. They're pretty but I'll never need them. Just nice to look at. I happened to be there when a cooking demonstration for some sauted chicken dish started so I watched that with the other old ladies. Finally, I decided I'd give Ryan a call to see if lunch was a possibility, but they had already eaten, something about Lori not feeling bad after a bottle of vodka and staying up until dawn. Probecito. 

I hit the road instead and straight into LA traffic. I could tell it was a pain so I pulled off at Whiskey Petes and played about 4 hours of blackjack, at one time going up around $250. I ended up only winning about $150 which put me even for the whole weekend at the gaming tables. Not a bad trip all around.