As the sun set over the west rim of the Chama Canyon that late May evening, we all were a mess. Tracy, having almost drowned, was now smiling more than anyone. She was undoubtedly happy to be alive.
Attention turned to me and what we were going to do about whatever was in my knee. Various attempts to pull the thing out with tweezers were unsuccessful. It was firmly lodged in there, just out of sight. I still had full range of motion in my knee and had already resolved myself to somehow walk out of there early the next morning and begin searching for a road. Infection was my number one concern. If we went on downstream, it would be another day or two before we would be able to reach a hospital. That just wasn't going to happen if I could help it.
The group met and decided to cancel the remainder of the float down the canyon. A plan was made: first thing in the morning two people would climb out of the canyon just above our camp and hike back to the cars parked at the put-in point. No one was sure how far that would be, but they figured it was at least a ten mile walk. They would return with cars and be met by the rest of the group who would have by that time packed all the gear and carried up and out of the canyon. The entire plan rested on a road being found somewhere nearby at the top of the rim.
Someone had brought along a bottle of single malt scotch to celebrate our completion of the run down the canyon. Being the well-healed alcoholic aficionado that I was, I totally bought into the "get 'em drunk to fix 'em up" myth. The fine scotch was broken open and immediately served to me first. After getting me sufficiently buzzed, another attempt was made to grab that stick in my knee, but it failed. It was simply too far down under the skin to reach.
As morning broke, Kip and Jenny departed on their mission. The raft and kayaks were deflated, all the gear was prepared for removal and we began the arduous task of moving hundreds of pounds of gear up a steep mountainside. It was decided that if I was good for a single trip up and out of the canyon, I could also move something while I was underway. The deflated raft weighed more than any single thing, so I volunteered to help move it up.
Others in the group had to make several trips each up and down the canyon wall to move every last thing we had brought. It took most of the morning to complete this task. By the time the last of the items were being moved, Jenny and Kip returned, led us to the two cars they had retrieved, and off I went to my next adventure -- the ER in Tierra Amarilla, New Mexico.
When we arrived I was surprised at the facility. Although it was small, it appeared to be well kept and professionally run. I was almost immediately escorted into an ER. Kip and Jenny were allowed to stay with me, and we tried to keep the atmosphere light while the doctor was performing a procedure on a patient about ten feet away in the open ER. Turns out the other patient was an ambulance driver who had torn ligaments in his knee on a run earlier in the day.
"TWO knee cases!" The Doctor exclaimed. "Guess knees are the popular thing."
After I explained the situation and told the doctor that the injury had happened almost 24 hours before, he shook his head and tried what we had been trying to do from the beginning -- pull the damned thing out. As he leaned over and inserted a surgical instrument into the opening, I suddenly realized that he looked very familiar. Very, very familiar. I couldn't place it and I didn't want to talk to him while he had a metal instrument stuck into my knee, so I watched and tried to recall. Nothing!
He too was unsuccessful with his first approach. "OK," he said, "let's try something else. Looks like that thing is jammed in there, so I need to get a good look at it. Mind if I take some pictures?"
"You mean x-rays?" I asked.
"Yep."
"Sure."
"It'll help me see what I'm up against. If I can pull it out, I'll do that, otherwise we're going to have to cut it out" the doctor concluded.
X-rays were taken and the doctor showed them to me. The stick had bent around all the vital tendons and ligaments without damaging any of them. But it was bent down and had a small protrusion that had already been snugly sealed during our 24-hour wait. "We're going to have to cut it out."
The doc left momentarily and came back with a bottle of gas and a mask that fit around my nose and mouth. "Breathe in deeply for a while," he said. It was laughing gas. "This will help me get you ready. By the way, are you really into your looks?"
"What?" I asked as the gas began to take effect.
"Well, I'm really going to screw this pretty knee up. It's going to look like hell."
"Who cares?" I chuckled. The gas was working.
Suddenly I recognized who the doctor looked like. "Hey! I know you! You're Jerry Garcia! The Grateful Dead, right?"
The doctor looked at me, laughed and turned around to deal with his other knee patient.
Time stopped, sped up and stopped again while I waited. The doctor warned me not to watch while he worked. I didn't. Still, he had to have Kip, Jenny and the ambulance driver hold me down on the bed as he administered anesthesia and thereafter surgically removed an inch-and-a-half long piece of tree buried in me.
The day-old nature of the injury meant that the wound had to be left open. No stitches today. After waiting to make sure that I didn't have any negative side-effects from the anesthesia, he led me into a large closet that doubled as the pharmacy, gave me antibiotics and pain medications and discharged me.
As I left the hospital that day, feeling no pain whatsoever, I had two things on my mind: (1) Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead -- the doctor -- was amazing because he was EVERYTHING: the doctor, the radiologist, the anesthesiologist, the pharmacist, the nurse, the surgeon and a great musician and entertainer; and (2) when I went to the payment window at check-out the TOTAL bill was $180. Although the hospital could not take or file my insurance, they were surprised when I took out my credit card and asked if they would take it.
"Yes, we take credit cards. How much do you want to pay?"
"The whole thing, I guess."
"The WHOLE thing, really?"
"Yes. Is that OK?"
"Sure! Just to let you know, we give a 25% discount to anyone paying in full at the time services are rendered."
"You're kidding?" I said as my jaw refused to shut.
"That'll be $125, Mr. Malone."
[When I got back home, I followed the doctor's orders and immediately went to a medical professional. Because my doctor's offices were closed, I had to go to an ER. They visually examined my knee, gave me a new prescription, which I would have to fill somewhere else, and sent me away. The total bill came to over $1000! Since I had insurance at the time, the visit was covered 100%.]
We rejoined the group about an hour later. They had decided that the trip should not be -- was not -- really over. At the end of the Wild and Scenic part of the canyon are various semi-improved camp sites along the river. That's where we had intended to wind up our trip anyway, so it was decided to go there and raft that part of the river. We spent a glorious three days in that part of the canyon.
If you've never been there, it is without a doubt one of the most beautiful and spiritual places on earth. I encourage all of my readers to go -- and take me with you each time. I'll be making future blog entries about my other white water trips down the beautiful Rio Chama in the Piedre Lumbre of New Mexico.
Although I could not get on the river again on that trip, I promised everyone -- and we all agreed -- that we would return the next year, when the water was lower, and conquer that river once and for all. That's just what we did 14 months later. I promise a funnier story and a happier ending for that future blog entry.
Tracy eventually went to a doctor and discovered that her finger was broken and she had injured her collar bone. It's possible that it had become separated but had popped back into place during that harrowing time under the raft. She, Scott and Jenny were the real heros of this trip. When crunch time came -- sorry about the pun -- each of them acted with clear-headed smarts and got us out of worse trouble. Let's face it, only a group of complete idiots would have continued down that river after what happened against that wall.
My knee injury took over three months to heal. Based upon doctors orders, I got to wear shorts to my "suit and tie" job for about eight weeks. Thinking back to the doctor asking me if was "into my looks," only once since then has anyone asked me about the huge scar on my knee -- a football player who had one very similar to it on his knee. I can always rest assured that my knee injury wasn't white-water-rafting "career" ending.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Chama Rama, Part II
It was a warm afternoon when we finally boarded our raft and kayaks that day. Temperatures climbed quickly in the high mountain sun. Although the water was cold, we were warm in our wetsuits and life vests.
On the raft that day were myself and four others. Scott was the oarsman and captain. He was in charge. Allison sat beside me near the front of the raft. Behind us were Jenny and Susan.
Also on the raft that day were several hundred pounds of gear, including several large containers of fresh water. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink, as they say. Looking back, I believe that the boat was too heavy to easily maneuver in the fast current. The fresh water alone probably weighed as much as another person.
Those on the inflatable kayaks were having a great time. Relatively lightweight and compact, they are quick and easy to maneuver. On the kayaks were Tracy, Kip, Ian, David, and a couple of experienced boaters who attended law school with Scott. The kayakers were having so much fun, some of them had gone ahead on the river while others laid back behind us relaxing. They were also behind us in case something happened -- a standard safety precaution in case someone or something falls out of the raft.
Scott knew something was wrong with the raft almost immediately after we got on the river. He began giving orders for Allison and I to use our paddles to help him maneuver the overloaded raft. We gained speed quickly and shot down river. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was concerned. He's smart and experienced and I would have been a fool to do anything but let him lead.
To this day I know Scott feels bad for what happened next, but I have to tell you -- everything in life contains an element of risk. We all hopped on that river knowing that our "risk factors" were jumping exponentially. Nothing that happened is anyone's "fault" but our own. We assumed the risk, as they say.
A few miles downstream the river took a hard left turn at a high rock wall. Scott started barking orders for us to paddle while he attempted to steer us clear of the obstacle. I didn't really look up or see the wall until we were on it. The speed of the current and the weight of the boat -- inertia -- propelled us sideways right up to that wall.
I can't describe the physics of the water against the wall or the physics of the water, the wall and boat for that matter. But suffice it to say that when we hit that wall, the boat stopped suddenly and didn't move. We had hit it side-on with the full length of the boat. The current pinned us there instantly.
Water rushing downstream piles up against any obstacle before it finds its way around. In the case of this wall, water hit it, bounced off and ran left. In the case of the raft against the wall, water began hitting the raft, piling up and rushing over the side and into the boat. The 40-something degree water started swamping us almost immediately. The raft began leaning into the water on the upstream side.
Scott issued orders for us to get toward the wall -- the downstream side of the boat. We had to dislodge ourselves somehow, so he told us to begin pushing. He even coordinated the pushing with 1-2-3 counts.
In the meantime, upstream on her kayak was Tracy, another former law school friend of Scott's. She's very athletic and has been on this river before. She's also smart, very smart, thankfully. Because on this day, when our luck had turned very bad, hers got even worse and her brains saved her.
Tracy quickly paddled toward us asking for one of us to throw our raft's rope to her. She intended to help pull us off the wall. I can see it all in super slow motion to this day. As she approached us, the current caught her kayak and it accelerated quickly toward us. Water splashed up into the raft as it began to "climb" up the wall. We were about to capsize if we didn't get off this wall immediately.
As the wave crashed up and into the boat, Tracy's kayak was pushed sideways and her boat slammed against the raft. The impact threw Tracy out of her kayak and into the water where she was immediately pushed and sucked under the raft.
In every boat, including kayaks, safety ropes are tied so that you can throw it to someone or so that you can hold onto it if you fall out. Tracy grabbed her rope as she went under the raft.
The raft is 16 feet long. It is pinned completely against a large rock wall. There is no air underneath it, just very cold rushing water pushing and holding the raft, and now Tracy, agains the wall. I feel Tracy's fists beating against the bottom of the raft. Everyone is screaming, the raft is just about to capsize, and for the first time in my life I felt raw panic. The first thoughts in my panic-stricken mind were "Tracy is pinned under the raft, drowning, and we're all about to be down there with her."
Her fists beat again against the bottom of the raft. In that instant the panic vanished. It was time for action. I remember the thoughts going through my head at that moment. They were something like, "NO! This is not the way this trip is going to end. This is not going to happen. We are not going to lose this fight! We have to get off this rock so Tracy can come up."
Still screaming, we all climbed quickly up against the wall and began pushing off, pushing off, pushing off. The boat had started to creep up the wall as it prepared to capsize, but our weight brought it down and it began to settle as the water we had taken on redistributed itself.
To my left, I saw Tracy's head bob up out of the water. She had the kayak's safety rope in her hand. Then she quickly disappeared around the corner of the wall and was gone.
"We can do this," I screamed inside my head. The rocking of the boat had begun to work, we were inching slowly to the left and were about to round the corner. Another wave rushed over the side of the boat and it actually help propel us off the wall. We were clear.
Now, with an overloaded boat of exhausted rafters, we had to get to the side of the river. There was at least 8 inches of water in the bottom of the raft so we started bailing. Scott started looking for a place to take the boat out. He was working furiously to control the boat at this point. Panic had quickly changed to exhaustion and we needed to get out of this current.
We looked for Tracy and there she was on the side of the river, shivering, wet and scared. Someone on a kayak was rushing to her aid. We knew she was OK, so we got back to the task at hand -- bailing huge amounts of water out of the raft and following Scott's orders to turn the boat. What we didn't learn until later was that Tracy had broken a finger and injured her collar bone. She never once complained that I recall.
Scott found a place for us to take out. This procedure, known as "eddying out," involves turning the front of the boat upstream and moving cross-currents to come alongside the bank of the river. But we had fast water and high water. We overshot the place Scott had identified and before we knew it, we were crashing into tree limbs and branches along the flooded bank.
Allison and I were in the front of the boat again. She was looking right as the trees approached from the left. "Lookout!" I screamed and jumped over her to grab a limb headed straight for her head. I pushed the limb down and away from her. I felt it scrape my knee, but didn't feel anything more. We didn't stay in this spot for long, however. We couldn't hold the boat against the trees in the current.
Back into the current we went and then downstream we found a better take out and pulled in there to rest and bail the remainder of the water out of the boat. Scott went to check on Tracy. We bailed water. While I was doing this, calming down a bit, I began to feel some pain in my knee. I looked down a couple of times and saw that it was bleeding a little from what looked like a scrape. "Damn!" I thought. I better get that thing covered up before it gets dirty and infected.
I asked Jenny if she had a first aid kit on the boat and she started looking for it immediately. Allison, in the meantime, looked at my knee and saw something I didn't. She told me to sit down and began inspecting the "scrape."
"What's this?" she said.
"What's what?" I replied.
"Looks like you've got something in there."
"What?" I said as I reached down to feel it. "Oh, damn! There's something in there!" I'll skip the expletives, but suffice it to say that I was pissed at this point.
Adrenaline and cold water mix well, as it turns out, to deaden pain. I still didn't feel a thing in my knee, although I felt pain at the point of the "scrape" where it had entered. But my fingers could feel what had to be a part of a tree broken off under the skin on the left side of my kneecap.
"Let's get it out of there. Got any tweezers in that First Aid Kit, Jenny?"
"I think so, just a minute. Here!" She handed the tweezers to Allison.
Allison bravely started to try to help. She poked and prodded around trying to grab onto whatever it was. Just as she started, however, a cold wind started howling down the canyon. Suddenly a thunderstorm rose up over the canyon walls. Thunder, lightning, gale force winds and heavy rain came quickly over the canyon and upon us. We huddled and slowly started getting colder and colder as the storm passed. We were all shaking from the cold.
Trying to get that thing out of my knee was useless at this point.
We waited the storm out. Within 45 minutes it was gone.
Scott returned and a decision was made that we needed to get off the river to assess the damage to the boat and to our ourselves. It was late in the afternoon by this time and we were miles downstream in a wilderness. The nearest road was an unknown distance away. Darkness had begun to fall.
It was soul-searching time. The question was presented: Do we stay on the river or do we try to get out of this canyon?
Next: Is there a doctor in the house?
On the raft that day were myself and four others. Scott was the oarsman and captain. He was in charge. Allison sat beside me near the front of the raft. Behind us were Jenny and Susan.
Also on the raft that day were several hundred pounds of gear, including several large containers of fresh water. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink, as they say. Looking back, I believe that the boat was too heavy to easily maneuver in the fast current. The fresh water alone probably weighed as much as another person.
Those on the inflatable kayaks were having a great time. Relatively lightweight and compact, they are quick and easy to maneuver. On the kayaks were Tracy, Kip, Ian, David, and a couple of experienced boaters who attended law school with Scott. The kayakers were having so much fun, some of them had gone ahead on the river while others laid back behind us relaxing. They were also behind us in case something happened -- a standard safety precaution in case someone or something falls out of the raft.
Scott knew something was wrong with the raft almost immediately after we got on the river. He began giving orders for Allison and I to use our paddles to help him maneuver the overloaded raft. We gained speed quickly and shot down river. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was concerned. He's smart and experienced and I would have been a fool to do anything but let him lead.
To this day I know Scott feels bad for what happened next, but I have to tell you -- everything in life contains an element of risk. We all hopped on that river knowing that our "risk factors" were jumping exponentially. Nothing that happened is anyone's "fault" but our own. We assumed the risk, as they say.
A few miles downstream the river took a hard left turn at a high rock wall. Scott started barking orders for us to paddle while he attempted to steer us clear of the obstacle. I didn't really look up or see the wall until we were on it. The speed of the current and the weight of the boat -- inertia -- propelled us sideways right up to that wall.
I can't describe the physics of the water against the wall or the physics of the water, the wall and boat for that matter. But suffice it to say that when we hit that wall, the boat stopped suddenly and didn't move. We had hit it side-on with the full length of the boat. The current pinned us there instantly.
Water rushing downstream piles up against any obstacle before it finds its way around. In the case of this wall, water hit it, bounced off and ran left. In the case of the raft against the wall, water began hitting the raft, piling up and rushing over the side and into the boat. The 40-something degree water started swamping us almost immediately. The raft began leaning into the water on the upstream side.
Scott issued orders for us to get toward the wall -- the downstream side of the boat. We had to dislodge ourselves somehow, so he told us to begin pushing. He even coordinated the pushing with 1-2-3 counts.
In the meantime, upstream on her kayak was Tracy, another former law school friend of Scott's. She's very athletic and has been on this river before. She's also smart, very smart, thankfully. Because on this day, when our luck had turned very bad, hers got even worse and her brains saved her.
Tracy quickly paddled toward us asking for one of us to throw our raft's rope to her. She intended to help pull us off the wall. I can see it all in super slow motion to this day. As she approached us, the current caught her kayak and it accelerated quickly toward us. Water splashed up into the raft as it began to "climb" up the wall. We were about to capsize if we didn't get off this wall immediately.
As the wave crashed up and into the boat, Tracy's kayak was pushed sideways and her boat slammed against the raft. The impact threw Tracy out of her kayak and into the water where she was immediately pushed and sucked under the raft.
In every boat, including kayaks, safety ropes are tied so that you can throw it to someone or so that you can hold onto it if you fall out. Tracy grabbed her rope as she went under the raft.
The raft is 16 feet long. It is pinned completely against a large rock wall. There is no air underneath it, just very cold rushing water pushing and holding the raft, and now Tracy, agains the wall. I feel Tracy's fists beating against the bottom of the raft. Everyone is screaming, the raft is just about to capsize, and for the first time in my life I felt raw panic. The first thoughts in my panic-stricken mind were "Tracy is pinned under the raft, drowning, and we're all about to be down there with her."
Her fists beat again against the bottom of the raft. In that instant the panic vanished. It was time for action. I remember the thoughts going through my head at that moment. They were something like, "NO! This is not the way this trip is going to end. This is not going to happen. We are not going to lose this fight! We have to get off this rock so Tracy can come up."
Still screaming, we all climbed quickly up against the wall and began pushing off, pushing off, pushing off. The boat had started to creep up the wall as it prepared to capsize, but our weight brought it down and it began to settle as the water we had taken on redistributed itself.
To my left, I saw Tracy's head bob up out of the water. She had the kayak's safety rope in her hand. Then she quickly disappeared around the corner of the wall and was gone.
"We can do this," I screamed inside my head. The rocking of the boat had begun to work, we were inching slowly to the left and were about to round the corner. Another wave rushed over the side of the boat and it actually help propel us off the wall. We were clear.
Now, with an overloaded boat of exhausted rafters, we had to get to the side of the river. There was at least 8 inches of water in the bottom of the raft so we started bailing. Scott started looking for a place to take the boat out. He was working furiously to control the boat at this point. Panic had quickly changed to exhaustion and we needed to get out of this current.
We looked for Tracy and there she was on the side of the river, shivering, wet and scared. Someone on a kayak was rushing to her aid. We knew she was OK, so we got back to the task at hand -- bailing huge amounts of water out of the raft and following Scott's orders to turn the boat. What we didn't learn until later was that Tracy had broken a finger and injured her collar bone. She never once complained that I recall.
Scott found a place for us to take out. This procedure, known as "eddying out," involves turning the front of the boat upstream and moving cross-currents to come alongside the bank of the river. But we had fast water and high water. We overshot the place Scott had identified and before we knew it, we were crashing into tree limbs and branches along the flooded bank.
Allison and I were in the front of the boat again. She was looking right as the trees approached from the left. "Lookout!" I screamed and jumped over her to grab a limb headed straight for her head. I pushed the limb down and away from her. I felt it scrape my knee, but didn't feel anything more. We didn't stay in this spot for long, however. We couldn't hold the boat against the trees in the current.
Back into the current we went and then downstream we found a better take out and pulled in there to rest and bail the remainder of the water out of the boat. Scott went to check on Tracy. We bailed water. While I was doing this, calming down a bit, I began to feel some pain in my knee. I looked down a couple of times and saw that it was bleeding a little from what looked like a scrape. "Damn!" I thought. I better get that thing covered up before it gets dirty and infected.
I asked Jenny if she had a first aid kit on the boat and she started looking for it immediately. Allison, in the meantime, looked at my knee and saw something I didn't. She told me to sit down and began inspecting the "scrape."
"What's this?" she said.
"What's what?" I replied.
"Looks like you've got something in there."
"What?" I said as I reached down to feel it. "Oh, damn! There's something in there!" I'll skip the expletives, but suffice it to say that I was pissed at this point.
Adrenaline and cold water mix well, as it turns out, to deaden pain. I still didn't feel a thing in my knee, although I felt pain at the point of the "scrape" where it had entered. But my fingers could feel what had to be a part of a tree broken off under the skin on the left side of my kneecap.
"Let's get it out of there. Got any tweezers in that First Aid Kit, Jenny?"
"I think so, just a minute. Here!" She handed the tweezers to Allison.
Allison bravely started to try to help. She poked and prodded around trying to grab onto whatever it was. Just as she started, however, a cold wind started howling down the canyon. Suddenly a thunderstorm rose up over the canyon walls. Thunder, lightning, gale force winds and heavy rain came quickly over the canyon and upon us. We huddled and slowly started getting colder and colder as the storm passed. We were all shaking from the cold.
Trying to get that thing out of my knee was useless at this point.
We waited the storm out. Within 45 minutes it was gone.
Scott returned and a decision was made that we needed to get off the river to assess the damage to the boat and to our ourselves. It was late in the afternoon by this time and we were miles downstream in a wilderness. The nearest road was an unknown distance away. Darkness had begun to fall.
It was soul-searching time. The question was presented: Do we stay on the river or do we try to get out of this canyon?
Next: Is there a doctor in the house?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Chama Rama, Part I
We're going to take a break from the political commentary for a little bit so that I can tell the story about a certain white water rafting trip I took down New Mexico's beautiful Chama River canyon some years ago. I should warn you in advance that the story is full of heroism and harrowing details, certainly not for the faint of heart.
The story begins early one Friday morning in late May. At the top of the canyon sits a concrete dam behind which sits El Vado Lake brimming full with snow melt. After a beautiful night's encampment on the lakeside, we head down past the dam to start our journey. Ahead of us we have 35 miles of an untamed river that has slowly carved its way deeper and deeper into the sandstone walls of the canyon. It is known as the Chama River Wild and Scenic Recreation Area, one of just a very few such places remaining in the United States.
At several points along the way the sky becomes little more than a blue ribbon above bounded by sheer rock walls rising hundreds of feet on either side. It is a truly magical place that is untouched by the hand of man -- except for the water levels which are rigidly monitored and controlled. During the summer only those with special permits may take the trip down the river. Before Memorial Day, however, no permits are required. It was then that we had arrived.
Water is unique among all Earthly substances. It is a liquid, but has the properties of a solid when moving. In the world of river rafting the standard basic measure of a river's flow is one cubic foot of water per second. A cubic foot contains about 7.5 gallons of water.
On a typical summer day the Chama River flows past Gauging Station Rapid above Abiqui Lake at about 150 cubic feet per second (cfs). At this rate, water drops below the tops of the boulders and makes for a relatively benign rafting trip -- sometimes even some walking.
On this morning we heard a siren wail up and down the canyon walls alerting us that water levels were going to rise suddenly. The flood gates of the dam about a mile upstream were being opened to release the swelling snowmelt behind the dam. The water temperature was below 50 degrees.
We weren't really prepared for what happened next. Don't get me wrong, we were ready for the water to rise. And that it did. But the water also began to flow faster and faster. It quickly rose out of the stream bed up into the trees adjacent to the river. It swallowed the rapids and boulders. It looked almost placid as it swept quickly past us. It flowed so fast and high that it appeared much safer than it was.
What we didn't know then that we know now is that water was suddenly being released downstream at historic levels. I've checked the official records online recently and found out that since this trip in 1995, water has not flowed down the Chama River canyon anywhere near the levels we encountered that day. It was being released at 4,490 cubic feet per second. Put another way, there were 33,675 gallons of water flowing underneath us each second. Other than one day in May 1995, the river has never flowed more than 1,456 cfs in the twelve years since.
But we had come prepared that day -- we thought. We had all the gear, including wet suits to protect from hypothermia. We had life jackets in case someone fell in the water. We had lots of food and fresh water. Loaded into a 16-foot raft were enough supplies to last the 11 of us a week if necessary. We had shelter and clothing in abundance. Other than a few items taken by individuals who were on inflatable kayaks, all of it was loaded into the raft.
We didn't jump on the river right away either. After we heard the siren, it was decided that we would take as much time as we needed to double check all the gear and to take a refresher safety training course on the river bank. It added two hours to our departure time, but we weren't going to rush safety.
We were overconfident, though. We were inexperienced for the most part. There were lots of novices on this trip, including myself. There were some experts, but they could not watch over all of us all of the time. Mistakes were undoubtedly going to be made. The safety training was intended to limit the impact of those mistakes. Unfortunately, the extra time didn't prevent the disaster that awaited us a few miles down the river.
A river that normally flows at 150 cfs is nothing less than at flood stage when it flows at 4500 cfs. One government pamphlet I read recently said this about a flooding river: "Floods are deadly. Stay away from flood waters. Do not attempt to cross flood waters in your car or on a boat. Never attempt to swim across a flooded stream or river. Many preventable deaths occur every year . . ." You get the drift.
As a peaceful stream, the Chama enjoys its life at the bottom of a river channel. Tree-lined banks offer a home for Canadian Geese and their goslings, deer and other wildlife. When the river is low, the banks are dry and pleasant places. Willows and beavers abound. When the water is low and the rocks are visible, you can see the wakes and eddys -- little currents flowing downstream.
On a raft, steering the boat around these rocks becomes one of the biggest challenges of a wild river trip. Rapids form around the rocks and at places where the elevation of the river suddenly drops. They become a white water obstacle course where sudden drops and turns push a rafter around like a toy unless the person performs certain counter-actions and takes precautions against being thrown out of his boat.
On this day, there were to be no rapids. The water was so high that all of the rocks were submerged several feet under water. The rapids has been washed out. This was going to be a float trip. It might have been simple but for two things: trees and current. The trees along the riverbank were now in the river. The obstacle course for the river rafter on this day was to stay out of the trees. Because the water was flowing so fast and so high, decisions regarding trees had to be made quickly. They had to be avoided at all costs.
Before we jumped on our boats and headed downstream, I decided to take a look at the water coming out of the dam. We stood atop a steep, narrow gorge and looked up at the dam. It looked like a minature version of the Hoover Dam. It was old. But the dam couldn't hold my attention for long.
The story begins early one Friday morning in late May. At the top of the canyon sits a concrete dam behind which sits El Vado Lake brimming full with snow melt. After a beautiful night's encampment on the lakeside, we head down past the dam to start our journey. Ahead of us we have 35 miles of an untamed river that has slowly carved its way deeper and deeper into the sandstone walls of the canyon. It is known as the Chama River Wild and Scenic Recreation Area, one of just a very few such places remaining in the United States.
At several points along the way the sky becomes little more than a blue ribbon above bounded by sheer rock walls rising hundreds of feet on either side. It is a truly magical place that is untouched by the hand of man -- except for the water levels which are rigidly monitored and controlled. During the summer only those with special permits may take the trip down the river. Before Memorial Day, however, no permits are required. It was then that we had arrived.
Water is unique among all Earthly substances. It is a liquid, but has the properties of a solid when moving. In the world of river rafting the standard basic measure of a river's flow is one cubic foot of water per second. A cubic foot contains about 7.5 gallons of water.
On a typical summer day the Chama River flows past Gauging Station Rapid above Abiqui Lake at about 150 cubic feet per second (cfs). At this rate, water drops below the tops of the boulders and makes for a relatively benign rafting trip -- sometimes even some walking.
On this morning we heard a siren wail up and down the canyon walls alerting us that water levels were going to rise suddenly. The flood gates of the dam about a mile upstream were being opened to release the swelling snowmelt behind the dam. The water temperature was below 50 degrees.
We weren't really prepared for what happened next. Don't get me wrong, we were ready for the water to rise. And that it did. But the water also began to flow faster and faster. It quickly rose out of the stream bed up into the trees adjacent to the river. It swallowed the rapids and boulders. It looked almost placid as it swept quickly past us. It flowed so fast and high that it appeared much safer than it was.
What we didn't know then that we know now is that water was suddenly being released downstream at historic levels. I've checked the official records online recently and found out that since this trip in 1995, water has not flowed down the Chama River canyon anywhere near the levels we encountered that day. It was being released at 4,490 cubic feet per second. Put another way, there were 33,675 gallons of water flowing underneath us each second. Other than one day in May 1995, the river has never flowed more than 1,456 cfs in the twelve years since.
But we had come prepared that day -- we thought. We had all the gear, including wet suits to protect from hypothermia. We had life jackets in case someone fell in the water. We had lots of food and fresh water. Loaded into a 16-foot raft were enough supplies to last the 11 of us a week if necessary. We had shelter and clothing in abundance. Other than a few items taken by individuals who were on inflatable kayaks, all of it was loaded into the raft.
We didn't jump on the river right away either. After we heard the siren, it was decided that we would take as much time as we needed to double check all the gear and to take a refresher safety training course on the river bank. It added two hours to our departure time, but we weren't going to rush safety.
We were overconfident, though. We were inexperienced for the most part. There were lots of novices on this trip, including myself. There were some experts, but they could not watch over all of us all of the time. Mistakes were undoubtedly going to be made. The safety training was intended to limit the impact of those mistakes. Unfortunately, the extra time didn't prevent the disaster that awaited us a few miles down the river.
A river that normally flows at 150 cfs is nothing less than at flood stage when it flows at 4500 cfs. One government pamphlet I read recently said this about a flooding river: "Floods are deadly. Stay away from flood waters. Do not attempt to cross flood waters in your car or on a boat. Never attempt to swim across a flooded stream or river. Many preventable deaths occur every year . . ." You get the drift.
As a peaceful stream, the Chama enjoys its life at the bottom of a river channel. Tree-lined banks offer a home for Canadian Geese and their goslings, deer and other wildlife. When the river is low, the banks are dry and pleasant places. Willows and beavers abound. When the water is low and the rocks are visible, you can see the wakes and eddys -- little currents flowing downstream.
On a raft, steering the boat around these rocks becomes one of the biggest challenges of a wild river trip. Rapids form around the rocks and at places where the elevation of the river suddenly drops. They become a white water obstacle course where sudden drops and turns push a rafter around like a toy unless the person performs certain counter-actions and takes precautions against being thrown out of his boat.
On this day, there were to be no rapids. The water was so high that all of the rocks were submerged several feet under water. The rapids has been washed out. This was going to be a float trip. It might have been simple but for two things: trees and current. The trees along the riverbank were now in the river. The obstacle course for the river rafter on this day was to stay out of the trees. Because the water was flowing so fast and so high, decisions regarding trees had to be made quickly. They had to be avoided at all costs.
Before we jumped on our boats and headed downstream, I decided to take a look at the water coming out of the dam. We stood atop a steep, narrow gorge and looked up at the dam. It looked like a minature version of the Hoover Dam. It was old. But the dam couldn't hold my attention for long.
The ground was literally shaking as if from an earthquake. It was the water. Clear dark water dropped down out of an opening 1/3 of the way from the bottom of the dam, into a concrete channel that curved first down steeply and then upward and outward at a 45 degree angle. When the water reached the end of the channel, it exploded into a massive white spray reaching 75 feet into the air. As it fell, it rained down into the river with the sound of a rocket engine. It was an unending explosion that created a constant roar.
What I saw was nothing less than one of the most awesome displays of power I will ever see in my life. It made me a little weak in the knees. The ground shook. The noise was deafening. The spray of water reached out hundreds of feet. It was AWESOME.
As we left, I snapped a few photos. I had butterflies in my stomach, but wasn't terribly frightened. "Awesome," I kept hearing in my head. I was a little intimidated, but I was also confident that we could safely navigate this river.
Shortly after one o'clock that day we all boarded our boats and began our ill-fated trip down the river. We were smiling and laughing. Our adventure vacation had officially begun. Within the hour the smiles would be gone, two people would be seriously injured and one of us would be trapped several feet under our raft in 40-something degree water pinned by the current against a rock wall.
As we left, I snapped a few photos. I had butterflies in my stomach, but wasn't terribly frightened. "Awesome," I kept hearing in my head. I was a little intimidated, but I was also confident that we could safely navigate this river.
Shortly after one o'clock that day we all boarded our boats and began our ill-fated trip down the river. We were smiling and laughing. Our adventure vacation had officially begun. Within the hour the smiles would be gone, two people would be seriously injured and one of us would be trapped several feet under our raft in 40-something degree water pinned by the current against a rock wall.
Next in "Chama Rama II" Crisis and survival on the river.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Quick Post-Show Note (Better Nate Than Lever)
Hey folks. Sorry it's taken me so long to update after the GO! show, but things went well and we've been VERY busy since. My partner, Michael was chosen to be an artist in the Downtown Contemporary Art Center (DCAC) here in Albuquerque and we've been busy moving him into Studio 16. It's nothing less than a major leap forward for Michael and his art.
The GO! show was a total success. We met hundreds of people who were among the thousands who stopped by our booths in the three days of the show. This year's extravaganza was well attended and had great entertainment. For those of you who could stop by, thanks! For those who missed it, we look forward to seeing you at the next show.
Most exciting, we met a few "art types" who buy lots of art for various TV and film productions being completed here in New Mexico. Those folks expressed an interest in our stuff and want to meet with us when they're back in the state during the upcoming flurry of productions being completed. For those who don't know, New Mexico is one of the major movie production locations in the world these days. The state has matched the perfect weather and scenery with huge tax incentives, so things are busy here on that front.
Looking forward, beyond this event: with the holidays approaching, we intend to stay busy with one or two holiday shows. If you have looked at my website and would like an original of something you liked, I promise you that I can make it an affordable gift for you and yours.
What I learned about my art from this year's show is that I'm never going to repeat something from year to year (I only repeated three pieces this year from last). That's good for anyone who wants something of mine. Anyone who purchases one of my pieces can be assured that it is a one-of-a-kind work of art. Full disclosure: there are a few exceptions, namely the World Trade Center Montage. But that piece is going to be limited to 100 prints. Everything else will be numbered 1/1. It makes for more exciting art-making for me and it makes each piece mean a little more.
I'll be updating everyone on the DCAC news in a future blog. Suffice it to say, that it's a big, big deal for Michael to now be one of the artists in that prestigious community. I'll include a link to some of their stuff, but feel free to Google them.
Finally, the first actual voting in the presidential election is not far away. Time for the political commentary to crank up a bit. Of course, if you disagree with my views, please post a comment (REALLY!). That's what democracy is all about, right folks?
Best to you and yours.
The GO! show was a total success. We met hundreds of people who were among the thousands who stopped by our booths in the three days of the show. This year's extravaganza was well attended and had great entertainment. For those of you who could stop by, thanks! For those who missed it, we look forward to seeing you at the next show.
Most exciting, we met a few "art types" who buy lots of art for various TV and film productions being completed here in New Mexico. Those folks expressed an interest in our stuff and want to meet with us when they're back in the state during the upcoming flurry of productions being completed. For those who don't know, New Mexico is one of the major movie production locations in the world these days. The state has matched the perfect weather and scenery with huge tax incentives, so things are busy here on that front.
Looking forward, beyond this event: with the holidays approaching, we intend to stay busy with one or two holiday shows. If you have looked at my website and would like an original of something you liked, I promise you that I can make it an affordable gift for you and yours.
What I learned about my art from this year's show is that I'm never going to repeat something from year to year (I only repeated three pieces this year from last). That's good for anyone who wants something of mine. Anyone who purchases one of my pieces can be assured that it is a one-of-a-kind work of art. Full disclosure: there are a few exceptions, namely the World Trade Center Montage. But that piece is going to be limited to 100 prints. Everything else will be numbered 1/1. It makes for more exciting art-making for me and it makes each piece mean a little more.
I'll be updating everyone on the DCAC news in a future blog. Suffice it to say, that it's a big, big deal for Michael to now be one of the artists in that prestigious community. I'll include a link to some of their stuff, but feel free to Google them.
Finally, the first actual voting in the presidential election is not far away. Time for the political commentary to crank up a bit. Of course, if you disagree with my views, please post a comment (REALLY!). That's what democracy is all about, right folks?
Best to you and yours.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
GO Downtown Art Festival: Part II, Just Do It
Impasto Burnt Orange Array
by Brad Malone 2007
As the first day of the GO Art Festival approaches, we've been furiously preparing all of the final pieces of the art puzzle that will be our booths. As I said in my last entry, staging an art show is like opening and closing a small business in a matter of a few days. There are so many little chores to do that you might lose sight of the forest for the trees.
So, here's the list of To Do's leading up to the show as presented in my last entry:
1. Make art
2. Find a show to do
3. Submit your art to the jury
4. Design a booth
5. Take care of business items.
All the work necessary before the show even begins is a bit daunting. What I have decided to do is to relax. First and foremost is the art. The business side of decisions will work themselves out. Although lots of money would be nice, I'm not doing the art show to satisfy some kind of economic need. I'm showing my art.
If people love my art, that's wonderful. Hopefully someone will buy something. If people think my art is mediocre, that's too bad. I'm not so much a narcissist to believe that everyone will love what I do.
Critiques and criticisms will undoubtedly happen. Will they prevail? No. It is what it is. No one can take the pure joy of creating art away from me.
Continuing the discussion of "How to Stage an Art Show," we get to #6: Decide what pieces you're going to put into the show. In the final days leading up to the show the actual creation of art slows to a crawl or stops altogether. I've got lots of artwork that I want to show, but it can't all go into the 10 by 10 booth.
This ain't' easy. I like everything -- sort of. But, a few pieces haven't turned out well. They haven't printed as I thought they would. The color is off. They're fuzzy. They are mediocre. They're out. Bye-bye.
Some pieces are too good to leave out. Put them in.
The final consideration in what art goes into the show is: are you going to confuse people? Have your art been progressing from one style to another? Has it transformed from one thing to another? You might confuse your audience with that transition. Show your older pieces carefully or not at all. Stay with the new.
Last year I made the mistake of trying to have too many pieces of art in my space. It created a sense of confusion and looked unprofessional. So, this year, I'm limiting my total number of pieces to no more than 30.
One of this year's rules is that I will only show one (maybe two) things that I had in last year's booth. Everything else is new. Out with the old.
The seventh step is staging an art show is: Get your art ready. Unfortunately, for me to stage everything the way that I want to, some of my pieces will have to be printed in large format and framed. That's going to cost a lot of money. I don't have a large format printer. So, I've had to research who does that sort of thing and how much they charge.
For the last two years, I've used a great printer in Dixon, New Mexico who is completely Internet savvy and can do most everything digitally. Jeff Spicer at Oil & Electron has been instrumental in helping me get large format pieces into the show at affordable prices. He makes giclee prints in sizes above 20" across. Giclee is a digital printing technique that uses dyes instead of inks. These are considered archival, museum quality prints. Last year, I used Jeff to print my Twin Towers Memory piece. This year, I used him to print a 30" by 50" print of Manic Marigolds.
Since it wouldn't be wise to clutter my booth, I know that I can limit my expenses by framing a certain number and leaving a small number unframed but mounted and matted.
Getting the art ready can be a purely financial process unless you make some tough choices. For example, if I could only afford to have two pieces of amazing art in my booth versus a dozen so-so pieces, I would only have two pieces. As I've said before, don't let the pure business side of things govern your art. Show your art.
The final step in staging a show is simply this: show your stuff, baby. GO! Enjoy yourself. Welcome people into your booth. Talk to them about your work. Give them space and watch them react to your stuff. Answer their questions. If you're a salesman, then sell. Otherwise, let the art do the selling.
My next post will be pictures only. Hope you enjoy some of them.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
GO Downtown Art Festival: Part I, Getting Ready
A few years ago I started getting serious about making artistic images out of my photographs. This meant that I scanned my photos, slides and negatives -- thousands of them -- into my computer and began applying special effects and other digital techniques to them. It was a lot of fun and a few of the images really turned into art.
Then came my move to New Mexico. People in the art world know this: New Mexico is an art capital. It's where famous artists have lived for years to make their world renowned art. It's where famous artists from around the world come to sell their art.
There are dozens of art festivals and hundreds of art galleries in a state with less than 2 million people. Santa Fe claims that it is the #2 or #3 art market in the United States (depending upon who's counting).
More than that, New Mexico is where art is an integral part of the daily fabric of life. Until I moved to Albuquerque, if I had told anyone that I was pursuing my art, the reactions would have been overwhelmingly negative. "Really?" they might have said. "Art? Starving artist and that whole thing, right?"
Let's face it, in most parts of this country telling someone that you're an artist is the same thing as saying "I'm a lazy slob with no dreams and no ambitions. I'm hoping to live off of my parents until they get sick of me and throw me out. After that, I'm going to flip burgers or sell electronics in a dead-end job and stay stoned all the time." The very moniker 'artist' is a euphemism for 'loser' to most Americans.
Not so in New Mexico. Artists in this state are respected and loved. People here can tell the difference between a real artist and an alleged artist. They know because of the spiritual connection everyone in this state has to art itself.
If New Mexicans cannot see or feel that art in you, they know you're just another lost soul still seeking. When you tell someone here that you are hoping to become an artist, they enthusiastically quiz you about it. "What kind of art? Oh, that's so cool. Have you ever heard of so-and-so? They do something similar to that. A friend of mine / family member / neighbor is an artist. They do the New Mexico Arts and Crafts Show every year."
You can't escape it. You can't deny it. Art is part of life itself in New Mexico.
Last year, Michael and I decided we wanted to do an art festival. What we didn't realize was the all the money and work that went into actually staging a booth. I'm not complaining, mind you. Instead, I thought I should share some of the ups, downs, ins and outs of the experience for anyone who is thinking about doing an art show anywhere in the United States.
To summarize the experience: having a booth in an art festival is like creating an entire small business venture that intentionally opens and closes within a few days. You're striving for some measure of success, but you know that everything will be over quickly. You seek a balance between the personal reward of showing your art and the financial reality of covering your expenses.
For me, the primary reason that I entered my first art festival was to show my art. It was not to make money. If ever you find yourself primarily interested only in the financial aspects of your art, you're in trouble. No doubt about it, art is big business involving big money, but art festivals are about exposure. You're not going to become a multimillionaire at an art festival.
You might, on the other hand, make contact with a broker, dealer or gallery owner who will help you stage shows in galleries or find people who want to collect your art. That's where the money is. Don't rush it. Do the festivals. Have fun.
Then came my move to New Mexico. People in the art world know this: New Mexico is an art capital. It's where famous artists have lived for years to make their world renowned art. It's where famous artists from around the world come to sell their art.
There are dozens of art festivals and hundreds of art galleries in a state with less than 2 million people. Santa Fe claims that it is the #2 or #3 art market in the United States (depending upon who's counting).
More than that, New Mexico is where art is an integral part of the daily fabric of life. Until I moved to Albuquerque, if I had told anyone that I was pursuing my art, the reactions would have been overwhelmingly negative. "Really?" they might have said. "Art? Starving artist and that whole thing, right?"
Let's face it, in most parts of this country telling someone that you're an artist is the same thing as saying "I'm a lazy slob with no dreams and no ambitions. I'm hoping to live off of my parents until they get sick of me and throw me out. After that, I'm going to flip burgers or sell electronics in a dead-end job and stay stoned all the time." The very moniker 'artist' is a euphemism for 'loser' to most Americans.
Not so in New Mexico. Artists in this state are respected and loved. People here can tell the difference between a real artist and an alleged artist. They know because of the spiritual connection everyone in this state has to art itself.
If New Mexicans cannot see or feel that art in you, they know you're just another lost soul still seeking. When you tell someone here that you are hoping to become an artist, they enthusiastically quiz you about it. "What kind of art? Oh, that's so cool. Have you ever heard of so-and-so? They do something similar to that. A friend of mine / family member / neighbor is an artist. They do the New Mexico Arts and Crafts Show every year."
You can't escape it. You can't deny it. Art is part of life itself in New Mexico.
Last year, Michael and I decided we wanted to do an art festival. What we didn't realize was the all the money and work that went into actually staging a booth. I'm not complaining, mind you. Instead, I thought I should share some of the ups, downs, ins and outs of the experience for anyone who is thinking about doing an art show anywhere in the United States.
To summarize the experience: having a booth in an art festival is like creating an entire small business venture that intentionally opens and closes within a few days. You're striving for some measure of success, but you know that everything will be over quickly. You seek a balance between the personal reward of showing your art and the financial reality of covering your expenses.
For me, the primary reason that I entered my first art festival was to show my art. It was not to make money. If ever you find yourself primarily interested only in the financial aspects of your art, you're in trouble. No doubt about it, art is big business involving big money, but art festivals are about exposure. You're not going to become a multimillionaire at an art festival.
You might, on the other hand, make contact with a broker, dealer or gallery owner who will help you stage shows in galleries or find people who want to collect your art. That's where the money is. Don't rush it. Do the festivals. Have fun.
Caged by Brad Malone, 2007
This year's show is September 28, 29, and 30 on Gold Street in Downtown Albuquerque. My booth will be between 4th and 5th Streets.
First things, first. Make art. Have fun feeding your soul. Make more art. Experience personal growth. Find your spiritual center. DO NOT think about what other people are going to say or think or feel. If you're new, simply do your thing. Whether someone likes you or your art should not drive your production of art. You are a creator first and foremost. The business side of things comes later.
Second, research the shows in your area. Most major metropolitan areas have several art festivals a year. For example, here in Albuquerque, the major shows are the Weems, the Rio Grand Arts and Crafts Festival, and the New Mexico Art and Crafts Festival. But you don't have to do the big shows. In the Albuquerque metro area of just over 800,000 people, there are literally dozens of other smaller shows staged by organizations as diverse as elementary schools and neighborhood associations.
Third, almost all festivals are "juried" to protect those staging the event. This means that you'll have to submit three or more images of your work for a jury of artists to review to make sure that you're for real. The big shows require that you submit a picture or a drawing of your booth design as well. This is where the dollar signs start appearing before your eyes.
Fourth is design. Yep. If you're required to submit a picture of your booth, the festival organizers are telling you that they don't want amateurs. They want professionals who will take the time and spend the money to set up a miniature art gallery. You can spend a few bucks with plywood or pegboard or you can go 'first class' with a professionally built booth costing thousands of dollars. Ask yourself: Am I planning on going on the Art Festival circuit? If not, get something less expensive.
In my first year I chose pegboard. I hung it from the frame of the booth and hung my art from the pegboard. It cost under a hundred bucks. This year, however, I've moved up a notch or two to something known as gridwall. Amazing stuff. Steel grid that can hang, be mounted to walls or be set up on stands made specifically for the product. It's a more polished look and the prices aren't that much more than sheets of high quality plywood.
Next year, who knows? Fabric lining behind gridwall? Special lighting? Red carpet?
Fifth, is the pure business stuff. In most locations, you have to get a business license, meaning you have to get a tax ID. These two things are rarely issued at the same place. One might be a State agency and the other a City agency. Get those taken care of and you're on you're way to conducting actual business at that festival. Unfortunately, you'll have to pay fees for the business license. Don't worry, keep your receipt -- licensing fees are tax deductible.
My next entry will dig a little deeper into my own personal experience staging a booth in this year's GO Downtown Art Festival. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Art Show Break
It's been about ten days since I've posted an entry. But with good reason: the GO Downtown Arts Festival is upon me. The month of September has required my full-time attention to the show.
This brief blog entry is to let my faithful readers know that I'm still committed to sending Notes from the Hinterland into the world of the web, but I'm a little distracted. Please forgive me.
My next few entries will detail the work involved in staging a booth at an art festival. It's amazing. Plus, I'll be posting a few of my pieces here for the world to get a better look at.
Come on down to the show. September 28, 29, 30 on Gold Street, Downtown Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA.
I've been watching with great interest the recent developments regarding the former Fed chairman and the name-calling going on back and forth. You can count on a few comments upon that situation.
Also, I've gotten fed up with the commercials running on TV lately regarding "surrender" in Iraq. I want to know who is in favor of surrender. Do you know? Oh, that's right, the enemy wants us to surrender. What about Americans in favor of surrender? Do you know any? Please post their names in a comment to this blog entry. That way, we'll all have a chance to look into the matter -- the truth of the matter, that is -- when I return.
This brief blog entry is to let my faithful readers know that I'm still committed to sending Notes from the Hinterland into the world of the web, but I'm a little distracted. Please forgive me.
My next few entries will detail the work involved in staging a booth at an art festival. It's amazing. Plus, I'll be posting a few of my pieces here for the world to get a better look at.
Come on down to the show. September 28, 29, 30 on Gold Street, Downtown Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA.
I've been watching with great interest the recent developments regarding the former Fed chairman and the name-calling going on back and forth. You can count on a few comments upon that situation.
Also, I've gotten fed up with the commercials running on TV lately regarding "surrender" in Iraq. I want to know who is in favor of surrender. Do you know? Oh, that's right, the enemy wants us to surrender. What about Americans in favor of surrender? Do you know any? Please post their names in a comment to this blog entry. That way, we'll all have a chance to look into the matter -- the truth of the matter, that is -- when I return.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Sightings: Steamroller Mama
It was one of our first "Sightings" here in New Mexico. Remember, Sightings require that everyone's jaw involuntary drops and that at least one witness does a double-take. Words like "Did you see that" and "What the . . ." are also mandatory for official Sighting status.
Driving east out of Albuquerque, IH-40 winds its way through Tijeras Canyon. It's the old passage used by Native Americans and early settlers to get from the High Plains on the eastern side of the Sandia Mountains to the Rio Grande Valley on the western side.
Construction is ever-present on our nation's freeways and the miles through Tijeras Canyon are no different. One day on a trip through the canyon we encountered Streamroller Mama.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl in the construction zone. With only one lane open in each direction, cars and trucks were lined up for miles. Slowly, slowly we inched along talking and listening to music, catching the occasional glimpse of an actual highway construction worker.
At one point we spotted everyone's favorite comic relief piece of heavy machinery -- the steamroller. Its huge "wheel" has mashed, squashed, pressed and flattened many an actor or comedian over the years. It's always good for a giggle.
I sometimes imagined myself driving a steamroller just to see what I could mash. I think I would start with dozens of watermelons and work my way up to my old Ford Explorer sitting with a broken transmission in my driveway.
But this is a Sighting, remember.
Steamroller Mama drove the steamroller. When we saw her, though, we didn't necessarily envy her as much as wonder how the heck she got up on the thing. You see, Steamroller M. weighed at least 300 -- possibly 400 -- pounds.
She was sitting, we presumed, atop a seat that was not visible. Her huge arms extended over a steering wheel. She wore a hard hat, but her features were unmistakably feminine.
She, too, was driving east. Because she was driving behind the construction barricade where there was no traffic to slow her down, she passed us. Our Sighting that day passed within ten feet of us -- that's right -- on a steamroller.
But wait. There's more! It wasn't enough that the fat lady was driving. No. . . she was singing. Yes, singing at the top of her lungs. We couldn't make out the song, but she was clearly enjoying herself. Life on the steamroller appeared to be good for Steamroller M.
How do you quickly describe what we saw without being offensive? Not easily. I understand the power of words to be hurtful, but I'm sorry this was an extremely fat lady singing on a steamroller.
The opera was officially over, folks. The fat lady sang. She sang and drove by at what must have been a whopping ten miles per hour. She was the star in an opera of the absurd happening right before our eyes. No tickets required.
We inched along on our side of the barricade and encountered Steamroller M. again as the construction zone ended. The steamroller had stopped. She was sitting atop the giant comedic machine staring straight ahead as we drove by. Singing.
Driving east out of Albuquerque, IH-40 winds its way through Tijeras Canyon. It's the old passage used by Native Americans and early settlers to get from the High Plains on the eastern side of the Sandia Mountains to the Rio Grande Valley on the western side.
Construction is ever-present on our nation's freeways and the miles through Tijeras Canyon are no different. One day on a trip through the canyon we encountered Streamroller Mama.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl in the construction zone. With only one lane open in each direction, cars and trucks were lined up for miles. Slowly, slowly we inched along talking and listening to music, catching the occasional glimpse of an actual highway construction worker.
At one point we spotted everyone's favorite comic relief piece of heavy machinery -- the steamroller. Its huge "wheel" has mashed, squashed, pressed and flattened many an actor or comedian over the years. It's always good for a giggle.
I sometimes imagined myself driving a steamroller just to see what I could mash. I think I would start with dozens of watermelons and work my way up to my old Ford Explorer sitting with a broken transmission in my driveway.
But this is a Sighting, remember.
Steamroller Mama drove the steamroller. When we saw her, though, we didn't necessarily envy her as much as wonder how the heck she got up on the thing. You see, Steamroller M. weighed at least 300 -- possibly 400 -- pounds.
She was sitting, we presumed, atop a seat that was not visible. Her huge arms extended over a steering wheel. She wore a hard hat, but her features were unmistakably feminine.
She, too, was driving east. Because she was driving behind the construction barricade where there was no traffic to slow her down, she passed us. Our Sighting that day passed within ten feet of us -- that's right -- on a steamroller.
But wait. There's more! It wasn't enough that the fat lady was driving. No. . . she was singing. Yes, singing at the top of her lungs. We couldn't make out the song, but she was clearly enjoying herself. Life on the steamroller appeared to be good for Steamroller M.
How do you quickly describe what we saw without being offensive? Not easily. I understand the power of words to be hurtful, but I'm sorry this was an extremely fat lady singing on a steamroller.
The opera was officially over, folks. The fat lady sang. She sang and drove by at what must have been a whopping ten miles per hour. She was the star in an opera of the absurd happening right before our eyes. No tickets required.
We inched along on our side of the barricade and encountered Steamroller M. again as the construction zone ended. The steamroller had stopped. She was sitting atop the giant comedic machine staring straight ahead as we drove by. Singing.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Sightings: Goat Rider
Although much continues to happen regarding the mortgage industry meltdown, the house flipping and mortgage discussion will have to wait until after a "Sighting" entry or two.
Albuquerque has over half a million people in its metro area. Two major interstate highways intersect near downtown. There are miles of what might be considered urban freeway through the area.
So, I'm driving down IH25 from work one afternoon last March. It's another pretty day in a long line of beautiful days. Traffic, as usual, is relatively light with the occasional crazy Indy-driver wanna-be.
The radio is playing garbage mixed with commercials.
The Sandias move past on the left as I drive south. Jumping skyward a mile above the city, they dwarf this man-made world along the highway. I promise myself that I'll hike up there again soon.
Just ahead in the right hand lane a old white truck is pulling a flat-bed trailer. The trailer is about 18 feet long. It has metal-framed sides about a foot high.
There's something on trailer, but I can't tell what for sure. I pull into the passing lane and begin approaching the truck and trailer.
It's coming into focus. It's head is down. Ropes are tied to each of its four legs from each of the four corners of the trailer. It's got horns.
It's a goat. It looks really pissed.
Travelling at least 65 miles per hour down the freeway is a truck pulling an open flat-bed trailer with a goat --head down -- riding in the middle.
A goat.
As I pass the truck, I glance at the driver. He's simply driving the truck. Oblivious that something is amiss, he's simply driving.
Did he know that he was driving along an urban interstate? Did he know that what he was doing was wrong? I think not.
Where was he going? Did he make it to his destination? I'm asking about the goat. I hope he made it safely.
I wanted to follow the Goat Rider that day, but I thought better of it. Still, witnessing this "Sighting" really got my goat.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Sightings: Joe Thirtypack
I first heard about Joe and Mary Sixpack in 1982 when I was taking a political science class from Professor Hal Barger at Trinity University in San Antonio. Since that time, cable news commentators have begun to throw the term around like they invented it. Wikipedia defines Joe Sixpack on its page describing John Q. Public: John Q. Public:
Further according to the Wikiwikis, Joe Sixpack, is a term of deprecation. It seems to those making the Wikipedia entry, Joe Sixpack does not rise to the level of respect due to John Q. Public, John Doe or John Q. Taxpayer, to name a few. Too bad for the snobs at Wikipedia.
Joe and Mary Sixpack live in Hometown, USA. They have a median income and own their own home of median value. They have the statistically average number of children, cars, pets, and friends. Their very ordinary-ness makes them rather uninteresting to anyone other than demographers. Other ordinary Americans know the Sixpacks. They know them by many names. They are the neighbors that we know just well enough to say "Hi" to when we see them in their driveway. They are the neighbors whose kids are always coming and going from some kind of kid-thing (soccer, baseball). They're OK.
Lost in the all the naming and labelling of our neighbors the Sixpacks, is who they really are. From time to time I will address the perspectives of Joe and Mary Sixpack. With an election year coming up, I believe that their voice will ultimately be drowned out by shape-shifting candidates and their paid parrots. Regardless, we'll keep the Sixpacks centered on our radar screens.
Before we ever get to the politics of Joe and Mary Sixpack, however, I wanted to give you a little background. What we all forget is that the Sixpack's, just like all of us, have an extended family. And that extended family, just like all of ours, is pockmarked with colorful characters of all sorts. Some of us have crazy aunts or uncles, for the Sixpacks, it's their alcoholic cousin who I met last July 4th. Here's the story:
Michael and I were sitting on the front porch of our home near downtown Albuquerque relaxing and enjoying the sunset on our greatest national holiday. It was a warm Tuesday night and the front porch brought a cool breeze. The big beautiful blue sky was beginning to turn sunset colors. Every now and again someone walked by with their dog or rode by on a bicycle. A car hadn't passed by in over an hour.
Around 7 pm a particular bike rider caught our attention. He was moving kind of unsteadily as he approached from the south. In fact, he was pretty much wobbling northward as if he were going to lose control any moment. One hand was on the handle bars of the bike, but it was something else that really caught our eye: in the other hand and perched in between the bicyclist's legs was a 30-pack of beer. That's right -- a 30-pack!
Ever seen a 30-pack? It's bigger than a 12-pack by far. It's bigger than a case by six. It's a giant box of beer meant for the serious volume beer drinkers in this world. When you go to put a 30-pack on the counter at the store, you use two hands. When you put the 30-pack in the car, it's a two-handed affair. It's not something you'd normally see being transported on a bicycle.
But as our intrepid bicyclist rode by he held the 30-pack between his legs. Wobbling. Wobbling by he went, an intense look on his face. He was and became in that instant Joe Thirtypack. Slowly, unsteadily, but most earnestly, Joe disappeared down the street and -- we thought at the time -- out of our lives.
"Did you see that?" Michael said as he turned his head away from the street.
"I think so. Another sighting, I suppose."
"Sighting? What?"
"You know. How many times have we seen something out here that defies explanation? Giant lizards, for God's sake? A bicyclist with a 30-pack of beer between his legs? Sightings. That's what they are. Like aliens, UFOs, and liberal gay Republicans. If you admit to seeing one anywhere else in this country, people think you're crazy. But out here, they're all normal."
"We have seen some seriously crazy stuff out here, haven't we?"
"The problem is there's no context, ya' know. How do you describe that guy? That. . . that was. . . I don't know, I've heard of Joe Sixpack -- you know the average American? -- but this guy was . . ." The name popped into my head. "Joe Thirtypack. Anywhere else in this great nation we would never have seen him. But there he went."
"Weird somewhere else, normal here."
"Exactly. Oh, well, where are we going to watch fireworks?"
We like our front porch. It's a refuge from the phone, the television and the computer. It's western view is great for peaceful sunsets. So, it wasn't that odd that exactly one week later we were out on the porch again watching the sky. It was 7:00 or so -- Tuesday the 14th -- when Joe Thirtypack rode by on his bicycle again.
Just as last time, Joe rode by with only one hand on the handlebars. This time, he didn't have a huge box of beer between his legs. It was a sixpack. But something was still wrong: he had a cast on one arm. The arm he had been holding the 30-pack with the week before was in a cast from the top of his elbow down to the top of his hand.
"Another sighting?"
"A pretty good one, I think. How do you think he broke it?"
"Transporting a 30-pack?"
"Joe Thirtypack!"
It's hard to remember all the sightings out here in the Hinterland. It's a great place to live, believe me.
We remembered Joe Thirtypack and even told our friends about him after the second sighting. Everyone got a chuckle out of the story. None of us really knew Joe, but we let our imaginations run wild and came up with all kinds of scenarios involving Joe, his bicycle and that 30-pack of beer. We weren't trying to be mean. There was just too much irony. Too many hilarious possibilities. As with the first sighting, we never thought we'd see him again.
Tuesday, July 21. 7:00 pm. The front porch. Nice sunset. Calm, quiet neighborhood. A bicyclist approaches from the south.
"You're not going to believe this."
"Don't tell me . . ."
It was Joe. One hand on the handle bars. A sixpack between his legs. But something new: the cast on his arm had changed -- dramatically. It's called an "external fixator." "Scary immobilizer" is a better term. This cast ran from his shoulder down past his bent elbow to his fingers. It had a bar running from his chest to his wrist. Pins were visible running from one side of the cast, through the arm, and out the other side. It was nothing less than an emotional earthquake to see.
Joe pedalled by. He disappeared down the block just as he had before. Beer in between his legs, one hand on the handle bars. Arm, permanently immobilized at a right angle to his body, turned at the elbow.
We didn't -- couldn't -- say a word. Nothing came out of our mouths for over half an hour. I looked at Michael and he at me. Have you ever wondered what someone's face looks like when they've been simultaneously -- instantaneously -- horrified, shocked and amused to the point of peeing? It's a queer look, trust me. I can only imagine what my face looked like.
The "real" world melted briefly. It collapsed into a small speck on top of a rock in our yard. A different world came into focus. Momentarily I lived on a different planet. Planet Albuquerque, where giant Iguana's run toward oncoming traffic, goats ride atop open trailers on the freeway, rainbows lie flat upon the horizon, and torrential rain falls but never reaches the ground.
Whooosh. I was back.
We were out of town the following Tuesday and missed Joe. Sadly, we haven't seen him again. It's a shame, really.
It was a sighting. And here's the "so what?" Sightings open us up to questions. They make us briefly step outside our own worlds and into those of others. You can't think about them too much. But you do have to tell other people about them.
Finally, after it's all been said and done, here's what I've been able to definitively figure out about Joe:
"is a generic name in the United States to denote a hypothetical member of society deemed a "common man." He is presumed to have no strong political or social biases relevant to whatever topic is at hand, and to represent the randomly selected "man on the street."
Further according to the Wikiwikis, Joe Sixpack, is a term of deprecation. It seems to those making the Wikipedia entry, Joe Sixpack does not rise to the level of respect due to John Q. Public, John Doe or John Q. Taxpayer, to name a few. Too bad for the snobs at Wikipedia.
Joe and Mary Sixpack live in Hometown, USA. They have a median income and own their own home of median value. They have the statistically average number of children, cars, pets, and friends. Their very ordinary-ness makes them rather uninteresting to anyone other than demographers. Other ordinary Americans know the Sixpacks. They know them by many names. They are the neighbors that we know just well enough to say "Hi" to when we see them in their driveway. They are the neighbors whose kids are always coming and going from some kind of kid-thing (soccer, baseball). They're OK.
Lost in the all the naming and labelling of our neighbors the Sixpacks, is who they really are. From time to time I will address the perspectives of Joe and Mary Sixpack. With an election year coming up, I believe that their voice will ultimately be drowned out by shape-shifting candidates and their paid parrots. Regardless, we'll keep the Sixpacks centered on our radar screens.
Before we ever get to the politics of Joe and Mary Sixpack, however, I wanted to give you a little background. What we all forget is that the Sixpack's, just like all of us, have an extended family. And that extended family, just like all of ours, is pockmarked with colorful characters of all sorts. Some of us have crazy aunts or uncles, for the Sixpacks, it's their alcoholic cousin who I met last July 4th. Here's the story:
Michael and I were sitting on the front porch of our home near downtown Albuquerque relaxing and enjoying the sunset on our greatest national holiday. It was a warm Tuesday night and the front porch brought a cool breeze. The big beautiful blue sky was beginning to turn sunset colors. Every now and again someone walked by with their dog or rode by on a bicycle. A car hadn't passed by in over an hour.
Around 7 pm a particular bike rider caught our attention. He was moving kind of unsteadily as he approached from the south. In fact, he was pretty much wobbling northward as if he were going to lose control any moment. One hand was on the handle bars of the bike, but it was something else that really caught our eye: in the other hand and perched in between the bicyclist's legs was a 30-pack of beer. That's right -- a 30-pack!
Ever seen a 30-pack? It's bigger than a 12-pack by far. It's bigger than a case by six. It's a giant box of beer meant for the serious volume beer drinkers in this world. When you go to put a 30-pack on the counter at the store, you use two hands. When you put the 30-pack in the car, it's a two-handed affair. It's not something you'd normally see being transported on a bicycle.
But as our intrepid bicyclist rode by he held the 30-pack between his legs. Wobbling. Wobbling by he went, an intense look on his face. He was and became in that instant Joe Thirtypack. Slowly, unsteadily, but most earnestly, Joe disappeared down the street and -- we thought at the time -- out of our lives.
"Did you see that?" Michael said as he turned his head away from the street.
"I think so. Another sighting, I suppose."
"Sighting? What?"
"You know. How many times have we seen something out here that defies explanation? Giant lizards, for God's sake? A bicyclist with a 30-pack of beer between his legs? Sightings. That's what they are. Like aliens, UFOs, and liberal gay Republicans. If you admit to seeing one anywhere else in this country, people think you're crazy. But out here, they're all normal."
"We have seen some seriously crazy stuff out here, haven't we?"
"The problem is there's no context, ya' know. How do you describe that guy? That. . . that was. . . I don't know, I've heard of Joe Sixpack -- you know the average American? -- but this guy was . . ." The name popped into my head. "Joe Thirtypack. Anywhere else in this great nation we would never have seen him. But there he went."
"Weird somewhere else, normal here."
"Exactly. Oh, well, where are we going to watch fireworks?"
We like our front porch. It's a refuge from the phone, the television and the computer. It's western view is great for peaceful sunsets. So, it wasn't that odd that exactly one week later we were out on the porch again watching the sky. It was 7:00 or so -- Tuesday the 14th -- when Joe Thirtypack rode by on his bicycle again.
Just as last time, Joe rode by with only one hand on the handlebars. This time, he didn't have a huge box of beer between his legs. It was a sixpack. But something was still wrong: he had a cast on one arm. The arm he had been holding the 30-pack with the week before was in a cast from the top of his elbow down to the top of his hand.
"Another sighting?"
"A pretty good one, I think. How do you think he broke it?"
"Transporting a 30-pack?"
"Joe Thirtypack!"
It's hard to remember all the sightings out here in the Hinterland. It's a great place to live, believe me.
We remembered Joe Thirtypack and even told our friends about him after the second sighting. Everyone got a chuckle out of the story. None of us really knew Joe, but we let our imaginations run wild and came up with all kinds of scenarios involving Joe, his bicycle and that 30-pack of beer. We weren't trying to be mean. There was just too much irony. Too many hilarious possibilities. As with the first sighting, we never thought we'd see him again.
Tuesday, July 21. 7:00 pm. The front porch. Nice sunset. Calm, quiet neighborhood. A bicyclist approaches from the south.
"You're not going to believe this."
"Don't tell me . . ."
It was Joe. One hand on the handle bars. A sixpack between his legs. But something new: the cast on his arm had changed -- dramatically. It's called an "external fixator." "Scary immobilizer" is a better term. This cast ran from his shoulder down past his bent elbow to his fingers. It had a bar running from his chest to his wrist. Pins were visible running from one side of the cast, through the arm, and out the other side. It was nothing less than an emotional earthquake to see.
Joe pedalled by. He disappeared down the block just as he had before. Beer in between his legs, one hand on the handle bars. Arm, permanently immobilized at a right angle to his body, turned at the elbow.
We didn't -- couldn't -- say a word. Nothing came out of our mouths for over half an hour. I looked at Michael and he at me. Have you ever wondered what someone's face looks like when they've been simultaneously -- instantaneously -- horrified, shocked and amused to the point of peeing? It's a queer look, trust me. I can only imagine what my face looked like.
The "real" world melted briefly. It collapsed into a small speck on top of a rock in our yard. A different world came into focus. Momentarily I lived on a different planet. Planet Albuquerque, where giant Iguana's run toward oncoming traffic, goats ride atop open trailers on the freeway, rainbows lie flat upon the horizon, and torrential rain falls but never reaches the ground.
Whooosh. I was back.
We were out of town the following Tuesday and missed Joe. Sadly, we haven't seen him again. It's a shame, really.
It was a sighting. And here's the "so what?" Sightings open us up to questions. They make us briefly step outside our own worlds and into those of others. You can't think about them too much. But you do have to tell other people about them.
Finally, after it's all been said and done, here's what I've been able to definitively figure out about Joe:
I live down the street from Joe Thirtypack. He rides his bicycle in the evenings. He drinks a lot of beer. He broke his arm around July 4. He broke it again about a week later.
I'd like to tell him this: "Hope your arm gets better soon, Joe. Say 'Hello' to your cousins back in Hometown. See ya' next Tuesday?"
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
House Flipping Files, It's the Bomb, Conclusion
Please read, Parts I and II of this story. You'll enjoy yourself more that way. Also, posting a comment is easy: just click on the link between chapters with the word "comments" in it. You don't have to give your real name -- comment anonymously.
Last year, Oprah made "The Secret" famous when she had several shows about it. If you're not familiar with it, the concept involves something known as the "Law of Attraction." To some, The Secret is a repackaging of "The Power of Positive Thinking." To others, it's hooey.
Regardless, we asked ourselves and our friends, if you only get what you "attract," then how on Earth did we end up becoming responsible for disposing of a home-made bomb? The answer, like the Secret itself, depends upon who you ask. Those who believe in the Secret told us that it was the universe's way of solving a problem. The universe delivered us to the bomb because it knew we were the ones who would figure out the answer before anyone got hurt. Those who don't believe in the Secret simply told us that we were lucky to be alive.
We got home late after faxing the list to "Bill" and Googled "Picric Acid." The results were shown in Part I of this saga below.
What was our reaction to the Google Search findings? How many sayings are there for this type of thing? Our jaws dropped. We nearly peed our pants. We pinched each other to make sure we weren't having a nightmare. My personal favorite: I tasted a little vomit in my mouth.
After "Bill" didn't call back as promised and didn't immediately return my follow-up call, we decided that this was something that couldn't wait. By this time the morning of the next day had passed. Events had already been set in motion involving contractor visits to the house.
We decided to go back to the phone list. This time, Michael made the calls. The first person he spoke to gave him another number to call. This Michael did. Turns out the second number was to the New Mexico State Environment Department. Michael called the number and got through to a gentleman who was very helpful. Let's call him "Ted." Michael briefly explained the history of the problem and what we had found.
Just as had happened with Bill on the phone, when Michael began reading the list to Ted, there were audible gasps. Ted, it turns out, was a state employee who had knowledge of what these things were, but wasn't used to receiving calls from the public asking about how to dispose of them. His gasps quickly turned to cries of shock and alarm. Within seconds, Ted's reaction to what Michael was describing had escalated into an outright panic attack.
Michael had to stop Ted at one point and ask him to calm down. "You're really scaring me," Michael said. "I'm going to cry if you don't stop. Please just tell me who I need to call."
Ted calmed down long enough to give Michael the name of a disposal company and the conversation ended. Michael took a breather trying to calm down before he called that number. Ted also calmed down long enough to tell his boss in Santa Fe about the conversation he had just had with Michael.
Cooler heads prevailed and Ted called back immediately with new instructions: call 911.
Hindsight, baby. 20-20 as they say. Call 911. Of course. 9-1-1. Duh!
Who cares what Bill said? He hadn't done what he said he would do. We looked the stuff up online and saw it was more than simply dangerous. When we found this out, we should have immediately called 9-1-1. Hindsight. 20-20.
Michael hung up from Ted and took a deep breath. The phone rang.
"Hello, this is Michael."
"Michael! This is Lieutenant "Smith" from Albuquerque Police Department. How's it going? You doing alright today?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Thanks for calling. I was about. . ."
"What the hell's going on down there? What are doing with this stuff? Do you know what kind of trouble you're in?"
"Woh, ho,ho. Hold on, sir, we found this stuff in an empty house. No one lives there. We just walked in yesterday and found it. We've been trying to figure out what to do with it. . ."
"No one lives there?"
"No sir. It's been vacant for a long time. Yesterday was our first day there."
"There's no one there?"
"No."
"You're not there right now."
"No, sir."
The conversation calmed down after that. After verifying the address, the conversation ended with an incredulous cop telling Michael that a Bomb Disposal Team had been dispatched to the house and that someone needed to go let them in.
The Remotec Andros 5ABomb Disposal Robot
The scene: a quite neighborhood a few miles from downtown Albuquerque. The homes are nice, the yards are well kept. Families are coming home from school and work. It's a perfectly normal beautiful spring day. Birds are chirping. Puffy white clouds form and dissipate overhead. The streets are blocked off with dozens of squad cars. Helicopters are circling overhead. Fire trucks are lined up down the street.
A strange truck arrives and a ramp is lowered. Out of the back and down the ramp comes a robot on wheels. It is followed by another of its kind. The two robots roll down the street and turn up the driveway of a nice little house in the middle of the block.
Crowds gather and are dispersed at the roadblocks down the street. An unknowing resident steps out of his house with his dog on a leash and walks right up to the scene. Before anyone sees him, he is at the foot of the driveway. He stands there while his dog pees on a bush. He is oblivious.
Someone yells at him. "Hey, you! Get out of there."
It takes him a moment to look up. The shout jolts him out of his quiet little world. He first sees a firetruck off to his left. He staggers backward as his head turns to find dozens of cops and firefighters staring at him. Panic strikes. He is frozen. Someone runs up to him and escorts him away.
The garage door to the house is now open and a robot has entered it. The camera mounted on its arm focuses on the wooden box and its contents. The second robot enters and slowly approaches the box. With extreme caution and with the skill only extensive training can give, a police bomb expert manipulates the robot's grappling device until it grabs one side of the box. Slowly, slowly. The box is lifted and the robot is brought out of the garage.
Everyone is motionless. The quiet stillness is broken only by the noise of television helicopters circling, circling overhead. A truck resembling an above-ground bomb shelter has arrived and a door in its rear has been opened. The robot crawls toward it and the box is placed inside. The door is closed and the bomb is driven away. The Dead Hand goes with it.
Reporters are swarming the ends of the block, trying to get around the barricades and down to the scene to interview someone. An unsuspecting passerby suffices as the on-the-scene expert for one television station. "Gosh, a bomb down this street? That's the last thing you would expect around here. I'm really scared. I hope they don't find one on my street."
All four local television news programs air the story that night with aerial and ground footage of the robots at work. Each reporter says essentially the same thing: "The bomb squad was called out to a residence where a bomb / bomb-making materials were found. Streets were blocked off. Residents were alarmed. Fear gripped the community. No information on where the materials came from or how they got there. Stay scared for more news."
By the way, "Bill" called me on the third day after we spoke and told me that his company would come by and get the chemicals out of the house for $3000. The money had to be paid in advance or his team would not even enter the house. They were ready to get to work the next day, but if we didn't immediately engage them, it would be a month before they could come back. What a crock.
I told Bill that time had run out and that the Albuquerque Police and Fire Departments had taken care of the problem two days before. He didn't sound in the least bit embarrassed or apologetic for blowing us off. Why had he told me not to call 911? Why did he not honor his promise to call me back that night and then not return my subsequent call? Why were the terms he offered for his company to remove the materials so onerous? Simple: he thought he had me over a barrel. He knew that if I considered him the expert and if I didn't use my own common sense, he could do whatever he wanted with me. Wrong, Bill. Hope you're not making too much money doing what you do. Thief!
The cost of calling 911 and having the Police and Fire Departments perform this work in a most heroic and professional manner: Zero point zero dollars. That's right, Bill. Zero point zero. No C.O.D. No attempted deception or theft. Nothing but honest to goodness professional services rendered by the best. Heroic services, by the way. The kind you, Bill, probably think that you deliver. Total cost: Zero point zero dollars, Bill! Okay, I got some gray hairs and my bald spot expanded a little, but otherwise, heroes don't charge for their work, it seems.
The house was "cleared" by the Police and Fire Departments and renovations began a few days later. By the end of May we had completed a top-to-bottom facelift on the place with electrical upgrades, new windows, doors, carpet, and refinishing hardwood floors. It was a real gem if I do say so myself.
In the end, love triumphed. Honesty prevailed. We chose to not be deterred by the circumstances and things turned out nicely. The best part of the whole thing, besides not being blown into tiny fleshy fragments: I will always have an incredible story to tell about the day that I encountered the Dead Hand and lived to tell about it.
Next Up: Joe Thirtypack. Come back soon, ya' hear.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
House Flipping Files, It's the Bomb, Part II
Note: Please read House Flipping Files, It's the Bomb, Part I before proceeding with this chapter. You'll enjoy the story a lot more that way. Thanks for visiting!
When last you left the intrepid incompetents (that's me and Michael, by the way), we had just stumbled upon some interesting old bottles and one very interesting pretty little blue one. What we did not know at the time was this: the contents of the little blue bottle marked "Picric Acid" was actually what some would call a "trigger." If that trigger had been pulled I would not be telling you this story.
What scares me even today to think about is how close we came to accidentally "pulling that trigger." In the previous post a quotation briefly described that the stuff was "shock sensitive" and that dropping something into it would produce a blast more forceful than TNT. This means, my dear readers, that dropping IT -- that pretty blue bottle -- would produce that same blast.
This explosive, it would seem, was meant as the trigger to ignite or combust all of the other chemicals we found in the house. Here's a brief listing of some of the others: Ammonium Nitrate, Sodium Nitrate, Potassium Hydroxide. . . Sorry, I've got to stop. I'm getting a little woozy.
Crazy, silly, stupid, ignorant, me decided (at first) that all of these things were really little more than a nuisance. They were in our way and would prevent us from getting work underway immediately. Therefore, I made the executive decision that all of the various bottles throughout the house should be brought together in the garage and placed in the nifty little wooden box sitting there with six or eight others inside it. Great idea, right?
Wrong, Brad! Bad Brad. Bad. Very, very bad. Ignorant me had just assembled all of the bomb-making materials into one nifty little package -- one convenient location as they say.
I was still in the land of the innocent and naive thinking that this was nothing. I was still thinking about all those people who had seen these same things and done nothing. I was still unaware that God, or fate, or some higher power had decided that Michael and I were to take care of this. Finally, I was still unaware that sometimes someone has to give a shit and that someone was Michael and me.
In the legal world there is a legal term of art known as the "Dead Hand," or, sometimes, the "Mortmain." Translated, it is the hand reaching from the grave to control various property interests in the present and future. There are Dead Hand Statutes and long old lines of court cases against control by the Dead Hand. But did they stop this Dead Hand? Not for an instant.
Because the moment I touched the little blue bottle and gathered all of its exciting, strange-named friends together in the garage, I was under the control of a dead hand. The person who had brought these things to this house was long dead. To be sure, he could never again assemble them as I had just done. But when an ignorant house flipper trying to tidy up came along -- yes, that's me -- the dead hand reached from the grave and a bomb was one step closer to being born.
Evil was afoot. All that dead hand had to do now was to get someone to pull the trigger. Was that going to be me?
Here's the spooky part: the Dead Hand tried its best that day. After picking up the blue bottle once and setting it back into the box, I gathered all of the other bottles together and went about my business. Several times after that -- I mean at least three, if not four times after that -- I went back to that box trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with it. Each time I went back I picked up that little blue bottle and tried to process what it meant. "Explosive When Dry. . . Do Not Touch to Metal" What did this mean. What was I supposed to do with this?
Luckily, I'm not completely ignorant. And, luckily, I care about the environment. You see, if I had thought that these were nothing more than household chemicals or something inert or harmless, I would have gleefully tossed the entire wooden box, bottles and all, into the large blue-green trash can provided by the City of Albuquerque for regular pickup on Wednesday mornings. If it didn't blow up the instant I tossed it into that container, it almost certainly would have gone "Boom" when it was compacted in the back of the City's trash truck. If not then, it would have done so at the landfill where the 20-ton compactor on wheels got to work.
I also believe that all the aforementioned people -- dozens of them -- who had been in that house before us had known that these bottles were dangerous and had simply told themselves it wasn't their job or their responsibility. They knew that they couldn't throw these things in the trash either or they would have done so. They were lazy, or irresponsible, or incompetent, or afraid. They did nothing because they hoped that eventually someone else would. They obviously had no thought or care for the consequences of a simple accident involving these bottles. It's a shame, really. And it's a damned good thing that I'm able to tell you this story today.
So, I found a phone book. I looked up listings in the Yellow Pages for "Hazardous Waste Disposal" and "Environmental Waste." I found a few companies and started calling them on my cell phone. Turns out that none of them are actually based here in Albuquerque. They all have answering services who will only contact someone immediately if it's an emergency. I said it was, and after about a half dozen calls and about an hour of waiting, someone finally called me back.
"Bill" wasn't his name, but it'll work for now. He was on his cell phone, standing at the Albuquerque Sunport waiting for a plane to Denver where his office actually is. "I understand you have an emergency of some sort. Tell me what you've got," he said calmly.
"I don't know for sure what I've got, Bill. All I know is that I probably shouldn't throw this stuff in the trash. I mean, one of them has a funny sounding name -- Picric Acid, I think. . . "
An audible gasp comes through the airwaves. "What? Where are you?"
"I'm at a house. . ."
"A HOUSE?" he practically screams. "What house? Here in Albuquerque?"
"Yes, we're getting ready to start renovations and today's our first day here. We found a little bottle marked Picric Acid and some others like Ammonium Nitrate and stuff I can't remember off the top of my head. Is this something you guys can properly dispose of?"
His words are rushed now. "Well, yeah, but I'm trying to figure out what it's doing in a house. I mean, that's some pretty nasty stuff there, Brad. Have you handled it? I mean, have you touched it? Did you open it? Is there something in that bottle?"
"I don't know if there's anything in it. I can't see through the blue glass. . . "
"Glass, good! Does it have a metal lid?"
"Don't know."
"Look. . ." There was a long pause. "I'm at the airport getting ready to fly home. Why don't you put together a list of all the stuff you got there and fax it to me. Here's my number. . . OK, when I get to Denver, I'll go to my office tonight and look at the list. Can I reach you at this number later tonight?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Fax me that list and I'll call you later."
"I was wondering, is this something your company usually handles? I mean, should I call someone else, and if so, who?"
"No, no. You don't need to call anyone else. We can do this. You haven't called the fire department or the city or anyone like that have you?"
"No, you're the first person I've talked to."
"Good. Don't call the City. You'll have a major mess on your hands if you do."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, Bill. You're the expert. I'll fax you that list right away. Talk to you later."
We hung up. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew," I told Michael. "Looks like this guy can take care of this stuff. Although he did ask some funny questions. I wonder why he was worried about whether we had handled it? He also said don't call the City."
So, I went BACK into the garage and picked up each bottle AGAIN and read off the names and spellings of each chemical as Michael wrote them down on a sheet of paper. I set each one back down AGAIN. As I look back now, I realize that The Dead Hand was working furiously now. It was trying it's damnedest to trigger that bomb.
But it didn't happen. Thank God! Not then, at least. Not in my presence.
Unfortunately, "Bill" never called me back that night. Nor did he call me the next day. Three days later, in fact, I finally heard from Bill, but by then it was too late. God, Fate, the Higher Power, intervened. You see, we didn't wait for Bill. When he didn't call back as promised, we didn't sit on our hands. I called his number, got the answering service and got no return call.
I remembered that audible gasp of his. I remembered his strange questions and his "instructions" not to call the fire department. I knew that something BIG was wrong and I knew we couldn't wait. We weren't going to wait. That's not who we are.
Tune in next time for the conclusion.
Monday, August 20, 2007
House Flipping Files, It's the Bomb, Part I
"House Flipping Is Fun," the billboard should read. It's fun, it's hip, it's cool and for the last few years it's been one of the "in" things to do. It's high risk and often high reward. It's an entrepreneurs dream to find that diamond in the rough and polish it to a brilliance that no one can resist. There are lots of TV shows about flipping houses on cable these days. For example, there's Bravo's "Flipping Out", A&E's "Flip This House", Discovery/TLC Channel's "Flip That House, and others.
Until last April, the only risk I ever imagined associated with flipping houses was financial. You know, the house can't be turned around, it stays a dump and you lose money. Or, the market goes south and you can't sell it. It's a huge risk when credit markets are tight and housing sales are flat. But, the major payoffs come when the renovations happen right, the lenders are lending, and the buyers are snapping everything up at higher and higher prices every day.
As I said, that was what I thought until last April. Seems there was something I hadn't really thought about when it comes to flipping houses -- explosives! Yes, that's what I said, explosives!
Before I get too far into this tragi-comedy, I'll have to explain a couple of things. First, houses are easier to flip for a profit when their initial purchase price is below market value for the neighborhood. Let's face it, if a house sells substantially below market value, there's something wrong with it. Almost always, this means that there's something physically wrong, like a leaky roof that caused damage inside the house.
Joe and Mary Sixpack simply don't want to buy a house that they can't move into right away. House flippers do the dirty work -- fix it up into "new" condition -- and sell it to Joe and Mary Sixpack. The flippers deal with all the contractors and pay all the bills while the repairs are being done. Joe and Mary get their new house with no strings so they can happily raise their 1.7 kids and drive their 2.4 cars.
So, almost always the problem with the house -- the reason it's a great house to flip -- is the physical condition. But, sometimes the house may be in OK shape, but something else is wrong: there's no clear title. No one will lend money on them because they're in the no-man's land of legal paperwork. Joe and Mary Sixpack want to move in ASAP, not a day later.
It's this second, title-trouble house that we were "lucky" enough to flip with some friends starting last April. It had been tied up in probate for some time and the court would not release it for sale until all the legal "i's" were dotted and "t's" were crossed. It was finally released, the sale closed and we happily entered sometime after the first of the month.
But we didn't really "see" the bottles right away. They were interesting diversions as we walked from room to room making our checklists. We were curious about them, but they didn't attract our undivided attention. They looked "cool" and we figured that the previous owner had been into collecting old bottles. As we gathered junk up to throw away, we found some old paperwork indicating that one of the owners had been a professor in the Pharmacy Department at the University of New Mexico Hospital here in Albuquerque.
"Oh," I said to Michael, "this guy was a pharmacy professor. He must have been into all these old bottles as mementos or something."
Michael nodded, agreeing to point. "Then what are these powders and liquids inside of these bottles? I hope they're not the chemicals listed on the labels."
"Hm, don't know. We probably shouldn't open them or anything just in case. We can just gather them all up, figure out what we got."
"I saw a box of more bottles out in the garage," Michael said.
"Let's check it out."
Life had been a happy, exhilarating, "New Day" kind of thing that day. It had been filled with the promise of a new house flipping project and great profits ahead. The day was perfect.
Perfect, that is, until we got to the garage and found a wooden box with no lid. Inside the box were six large brown bottles and one little translucent blue bottle. It was pretty, this little blue gem. It was the only one with handwriting on it. The letters spelled out: "Picric Acid -- Explosive When Dry" and "Do Not Touch to Metal."
Google this: Picric Acid. In the top five choices you will find the following link: www.tc.gc.ca/canutec/en/articles/documents/picric.htm. In the document behind that link you will find the following statement:
You have the benefit of this knowledge now. At the time we found the pretty blue bottle, we knew nothing about it. I have to admit that at the moment I found the bottle and for a few moments thereafter I was still living in the happy land of ignorant bliss, unable to believe for even an instant that someone would have a dozen bottles of bomb-making materials in their house. It just didn't register in my brain that the handwritten words I was reading was real or that it had any meaning in my world.
I really thought at this point, folks, that the previous homeowner, being a pharmacy professor, had known these things weren't dangerous and had brought them to his house as part of a collection of some sort -- a trophy case, if you will. I had also figured out by this point that many, many people had been in this house as part of their jobs before me and they must have seen the same things that I was seeing. None of them had become alarmed, right?
It took a while for it to sink in: I wasn't going to be able to do what dozens and dozens of people before me had done. I wasn't going to be able to ignore these bottles. Shit! I was going to have to take charge and do the right thing, wasn't I? Wasn't I?
The only problem was, I didn't know what the right thing was. What do you do with someone else's bomb-making materials? Who do you call? Where do you start?
We're out of time for today, but tune in next time to discover the answer to these and other burning questions like: "What do robots do for a living, Brad?" and how do you answer a cop who asks you "What the hell is going on down there?" when you honestly don't have a clue what the hell's going on down there?
Until last April, the only risk I ever imagined associated with flipping houses was financial. You know, the house can't be turned around, it stays a dump and you lose money. Or, the market goes south and you can't sell it. It's a huge risk when credit markets are tight and housing sales are flat. But, the major payoffs come when the renovations happen right, the lenders are lending, and the buyers are snapping everything up at higher and higher prices every day.
As I said, that was what I thought until last April. Seems there was something I hadn't really thought about when it comes to flipping houses -- explosives! Yes, that's what I said, explosives!
Before I get too far into this tragi-comedy, I'll have to explain a couple of things. First, houses are easier to flip for a profit when their initial purchase price is below market value for the neighborhood. Let's face it, if a house sells substantially below market value, there's something wrong with it. Almost always, this means that there's something physically wrong, like a leaky roof that caused damage inside the house.
Joe and Mary Sixpack simply don't want to buy a house that they can't move into right away. House flippers do the dirty work -- fix it up into "new" condition -- and sell it to Joe and Mary Sixpack. The flippers deal with all the contractors and pay all the bills while the repairs are being done. Joe and Mary get their new house with no strings so they can happily raise their 1.7 kids and drive their 2.4 cars.
So, almost always the problem with the house -- the reason it's a great house to flip -- is the physical condition. But, sometimes the house may be in OK shape, but something else is wrong: there's no clear title. No one will lend money on them because they're in the no-man's land of legal paperwork. Joe and Mary Sixpack want to move in ASAP, not a day later.
It's this second, title-trouble house that we were "lucky" enough to flip with some friends starting last April. It had been tied up in probate for some time and the court would not release it for sale until all the legal "i's" were dotted and "t's" were crossed. It was finally released, the sale closed and we happily entered sometime after the first of the month.
NOTE: for many months the house was in probate, it was legally in the possession of a Probate Court in Bernalillo County, New Mexico. This means that the Court appointed someone to take care of the house - you know, pay the bills, mow the yard, clean it, make sure it wasn't falling down. I am confident that a court-appointed caretaker was paid to make monthly visits to the property and to report back to the Court about it's condition.
Before we ever stepped foot in this house, I would estimate that dozens of people had been through it not only performing caretaker duties, but inspecting it, appraising it, showing the house, or seeking to buy the house. So why, why, WHY on God's green Earth did I walk into the house after all this time and all these people had passed through it and find bomb-making materials laying around in plain sight?
It's a shame, really. The tragic part of the story is that the previous owners had both died while they were in the midst of a divorce (thus the need for probate). I'll spare you all the gory details, but it is now clear that not only had all the aforementioned people been through the house, but the Albuquerque Police Department, Fire Department and Bernalillo County Coroner had been in the house at least once after one of the owners passed away there.
So, again, I ask you: Why, why, WHY were there explosives in plain sight sitting around on the floors of several rooms and the garage? Had NONE of these people seen what I saw within a few minutes of my arrival? Had NONE of these people wondered why clearly marked bottles of bomb-making materials were in the bedroom, dining room, kitchen and arage? What the. . .? I mean, really, folks.
On a beautiful spring day in April of this year, Michael and I walked into the house and began making a list of repairs and likely contractors to use for those repairs. There were some papers lying around in the bedrooms, a couple of pieces of useless broken furniture here and there, and some bottles of chemicals clearly indicating that something was terribly wrong.
But we didn't really "see" the bottles right away. They were interesting diversions as we walked from room to room making our checklists. We were curious about them, but they didn't attract our undivided attention. They looked "cool" and we figured that the previous owner had been into collecting old bottles. As we gathered junk up to throw away, we found some old paperwork indicating that one of the owners had been a professor in the Pharmacy Department at the University of New Mexico Hospital here in Albuquerque.
"Oh," I said to Michael, "this guy was a pharmacy professor. He must have been into all these old bottles as mementos or something."
Michael nodded, agreeing to point. "Then what are these powders and liquids inside of these bottles? I hope they're not the chemicals listed on the labels."
"Hm, don't know. We probably shouldn't open them or anything just in case. We can just gather them all up, figure out what we got."
"I saw a box of more bottles out in the garage," Michael said.
"Let's check it out."
Life had been a happy, exhilarating, "New Day" kind of thing that day. It had been filled with the promise of a new house flipping project and great profits ahead. The day was perfect.
Perfect, that is, until we got to the garage and found a wooden box with no lid. Inside the box were six large brown bottles and one little translucent blue bottle. It was pretty, this little blue gem. It was the only one with handwriting on it. The letters spelled out: "Picric Acid -- Explosive When Dry" and "Do Not Touch to Metal."
Google this: Picric Acid. In the top five choices you will find the following link: www.tc.gc.ca/canutec/en/articles/documents/picric.htm. In the document behind that link you will find the following statement:
"Picric acid or Trinitrophenol is, by far, one of the more dangerous chemicals being used today. Classified as a flammable solid when wetted with more than 30% water (UN1344, class 4.1) and a class A high explosive with less than 30% water (UN0154, class 1.1D), it has some very interesting properties. It is explosive but also highly shock, heat and friction sensitive. In fact, detonation with a speed and power superior to that of TNTcan occur by a 2 kg weight falling onto solid picric acid from a height of 36 cm. Picric acid is toxic by all routes of entry, it’s also a skin irritant and allergen and will produce toxic pro-ducts on decomposition."
You have the benefit of this knowledge now. At the time we found the pretty blue bottle, we knew nothing about it. I have to admit that at the moment I found the bottle and for a few moments thereafter I was still living in the happy land of ignorant bliss, unable to believe for even an instant that someone would have a dozen bottles of bomb-making materials in their house. It just didn't register in my brain that the handwritten words I was reading was real or that it had any meaning in my world.
I really thought at this point, folks, that the previous homeowner, being a pharmacy professor, had known these things weren't dangerous and had brought them to his house as part of a collection of some sort -- a trophy case, if you will. I had also figured out by this point that many, many people had been in this house as part of their jobs before me and they must have seen the same things that I was seeing. None of them had become alarmed, right?
It took a while for it to sink in: I wasn't going to be able to do what dozens and dozens of people before me had done. I wasn't going to be able to ignore these bottles. Shit! I was going to have to take charge and do the right thing, wasn't I? Wasn't I?
The only problem was, I didn't know what the right thing was. What do you do with someone else's bomb-making materials? Who do you call? Where do you start?
We're out of time for today, but tune in next time to discover the answer to these and other burning questions like: "What do robots do for a living, Brad?" and how do you answer a cop who asks you "What the hell is going on down there?" when you honestly don't have a clue what the hell's going on down there?
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