Hunting Fun Guys

Story: Greg
Photos: Trina and Greg

Since the bliss of riding mountain bikes together is temporarily lost to us, we had to go seeking other fun. We loaded up our two dogs and our three functioning arms and headed up our big local mountain. Our quarry: food for the pot and savory winter flavors. Wild mushrooms!

Trina and I stalked amid pine and aspen trees along the edges of small mountain meadows and near the soggy fringes of a lake. Zeek and Sprocket frenzied all around, trying to help and/or get in the way. The monsoon moisture of recent days had tempted lots of different mushrooms to poke their heads up through the dirt and pine needle duff.

We limited our harvest to the beautiful bolete mushrooms, whose rusty domed caps and bulbous white stems seem to sprout up out of fairy tales. But we visually enjoyed the odd and lovely forms of other forest fungi, some shyly brown, others glowing with color. And it was fun to have a bit of purpose for wandering through the forest like we often wander anyway.

The feel of the forest is changing with the season. Trina says she can smell autumn in the air, even in town. I cannot, or am in denial of it. But in the high country, there is a definite sense of, perhaps, preparedness. The rush of Spring is long past. The fullness of summer is fading. The greenery that paints the wider spaces between the stolid pines has become weighted with a tiredness. There is a sense of buttoning up soft-worn flannel as the tasks of the season are nearly completed, as tools are gathered, ready to be put away in a dark wooden shed.

We picked many pounds of wild mushrooms. Trina squealed with delight at each new discovery. At the sight of each new variation of cap and curve, stem and swell. At the strange and fabulous phenomenon of food pushing itself up through the forest floor and into the dappled light. We gathered a portion of the richness we found there and took it home with us, hoping, perhaps, to close our eyes and linger again in the summer forest of our imaginations as we slurp winter soup.

--Greg

Flash Flood Part II, III, IV, V...!

Summer monsoon weather is normal in mid August in Western Colorado. Cooler wetter weather pumps into the state triggering thunder showers and bringing relief from the heat. This year's monsoon seems longer and cooler and wetter.



A couple days ago, instead of seeing a storm's results amid desert sandstone and slickrock, we were in town amid pavement and houses. The afternoon storm was downright wild! Flash-crack thunder got closer and closer. Wind and a heavy downpour seemed to arrive at the same time, thrashing through the garden, slinging sunflower plants around. Small hail fell briefly, knocking holes in the leaves of our vegetables.



Within minutes the gutter was full, then overflowing, then the sidewalk was running a swift stream. Streets were full of water. Young birds were washed from the trees and left shivering on lawns.

The sidewalk is under there.




Within a few more minutes, the storm had passed, the sun was shining, the pavement was draining and the birds were drying out and chirping. The garden was in some disarray, but overall was fine.

Before things returned to normal, though, another storm rolled through and hit us again. Then another. Then another. Each one preceded by a blink of calm sunshine. Each a little less wild than the one before. Each one sending a flash of flood through the city.

--Greg

The Breaks

The first break speaks to the heart of the gardener. There's always an element of chance in growing one's own food. With weather, disease, grazers, and in this case, insects, there are plenty of opportunities for disaster, or at least heartbreak.

Trina had read about "the world's most delicious squash" this winter, and had done some sleuthing and managed to find seeds for the heirloom Italian Marina di Chiogga squash -- which we hoped was the one. We planted this spring and watched it grow wildly (amid our several other varieties) and then watched the warty fruits expanding into grotesque vessels of -- we hoped -- ambrosia squashiness.




Then, heartbreak. In the space of a day-and-a-half, the leaves wilted and stems and leaves started turning yellow. Trina found the culprits: squash bugs! She did some quick research and found the best organic solution was to spray with pyrethrins. Organic, yes, but it kills bugs. She sprayed. Bugs died. The vines have recovered a bit and we hope that there will be enough gusto to finish ripening the squash so that we can have winter food. And the world's tastiest squash.



Anything mean enough to kill the insect pests is also mean enough to kill innocent critters, too, and we were sad to see this katydid among them. That, I suppose, is the breaks.

***

In other news of Breaks, there was an incident involving me flying over the handle bars of my mountain bike. Everything was going surprisingly well during the flying part, especially the surprise. There was, however, some difficulty during the landing phase. The primary landing gear (wheels) being at that time higher in elevation than the fuselage, and the secondary landing gear (feet) not yet disengaged from the pedals, there was a rapid deployment of the emergency landing gear.

The emergency landing could be considered a success. All passengers survived and the main body suffered only minor scuffs and dings. There was one complication. One strut of the emergency landing gear snapped on impact, which is why I had to drag my bike to the nearest road and ride myself to the urgent care center. And why I'm now sporting a blue cast that will allow my busted right wrist to heal.



Some notes:

• This is my first ever cast, and after decades of active life, I'm counting that as a positive thing.

• Cameras are designed for right hands.

• Most activities are awkward and slow with my non-dominant single arm, but using a pepper grinder and shucking corn top the list.

• I'm maintaining my sumptuous lifestyle with as little physical help as possible from Trina, since I'm somewhat stubborn that way. I'm not making any plans to go mountain biking, but I'm riding around town on my townie-bike with one arm, running errands and meeting and greeting. Riding is the one thing that doesn't take twice as long to accomplish.

• I ride around town with my arm raised. I'm elevating my arm for medical reasons, not waving "Hi!" Though I might be waving "Hi!" too.

*This dramatization photo is based on actual events, however some details have been modified to fit your screen. Er, like, I was on a mountain bike on a narrow trail. And I didn't have a cast on my arm yet. And I'm pretty sure the rocks I landed on were sharper and more dangerous looking.

Historical note:

Eight years ago I was mountain biking with friends on a frightful cliffside trail near my then-home in Hawaii. The trail was rough and root-infested and muddy and slick. Vibrant green vegetation crowded the trail and spilled hundreds of feet down the valley walls. Did I fall down one of these cliffs and hurt myself? No. On a safe section of the trail, away from the cliff, I bumbled on a small rough spot, lost my balance, and stepped off the trail into the wild ginger plants to catch myself. Except that it was just a tiger-trap-like layer of leaves over a deep hole.



I fell into the unknown depths, and managed to get off my bike and get my feet under me, such that when I did finally hit the bottom seven feet down, I landed all agile and cat-like. (Or as we around here prefer to say: Jack-Russell-like.) Except that my ankle turned sharply and popped. As we rode out, it swelled enormously, and I ended up on crutches for five weeks.

That could keep a guy off his bike. And it did. For two days. On the third day I took one pedal off, strapped my crutches to the frame, and rode, one-legged with one foot clipped to the remaining pedal, back into a semblance of my regular life.



Conclusions?:

It seems that removing the use of just one of my limbs is not enough to keep me off my bike. Is this some kind of macho tough guy act? Or some misplaced act of stubborn independence?

Perhaps it is this: I have woven the bicycle so deeply into my life that I'm unsure of my place in the world without it. So I will swap shifters to the other end of the handlebar, I will raise my damaged arm into the air, I will grab on tightly with the other, and for as long as I can, I will ride, ride, ride.

--Greg

A Flurry of Inactivity

After flash floods, dog drama and vacation fun, we've re-entered something like our regular active lives. Lives which remain, I'm sure, filled with interest and intrigue, but which lack a certain narrative thread. Thus we shovel forth this small heap of photos from which you, gentle reader, can extract what narrative there may be. Or just enjoy the view along with us.

--Greg









A local ride Greg took with Landon.




Summer monsoon season brought cooler temperatures, lots of moisture, thunder showers, and some dramatic weather.




The rain worked well for the garden, the wind, less so. The largest butternut squash we've ever seen is growing, still!


Five color chard, with stems of green, white, pink, red, and yellow -- all of which taste equally delicious.


The boys got to go shopping for rodents. Window shopping only!


We see these nearly two-inch-long wasps. burning with cold blue iridescence, as they root around under the leaf litter along the fringes of the garden. When their hunt is successful, they'll emerge with a big, black cricket slung underneath them, climb to a high point like the top of the garden fence, then leap off and fly heavily and clumsily toward...? We have yet to see an arrival, but have seen one moving in and out of a secret underground lair where we suspect the hapless cricket is serving as a meal for a hatching clutch of wasp larvae!










The very common electric blue morning glory - common but still stunning!



The much less common, itty bitty red morning glory - having this one in my yard feels like having a secret. (Thank you, Kenton, for the seeds!)