Archive » September 2014 » Columns

In the rain and fog, the Old Men of the Mountain on Sept. 16 met at the Middleburgh Diner in Middleburgh. Trudging to the Middleburgh Diner through muck and mire is what the OFs are good at; trudging is what the OFs do.

The OFs are experts on trudging. To see many of us OFs disembark from a vehicle is a lesson in trudging. Many of the OFs unfold out of a car and stand for a few seconds before moving; this is to get their knees, hips, and backs in proper alignment from sitting in order to take the first step.

Then for the next 10 or 12 steps, it is the Tim Conway shuffle for these joints to creak into shape; the pain then becomes the familiar and bearable one that the OFs are used to. Then the backs may straighten up some and the gait increases until, by the time the OFs reach the door of the restaurant, they are not in bad shape.

Of course, the reverse is true when it is time to leave the restaurant.  The process starts all over because now the OFs have to get out of their restaurant chairs, and trudge their creaking joints to their vehicles.

Autumn angst

’Tis the season for allergies, the end of summer nostalgia, and for political signs to start sprouting up. These things pop up all over the place, according to the OFs, they have been well fertilized and ready for a new season of lousing up the beautiful fall colors.

The continuous bombardment of nasty attack ads on TV from both sides of the aisle, as one OF said, is a great reason for the use of the mute button.  He said if only he could make it automatic: That is that, on that.

Energy concerns

The OFs spoke again about solar panels (this topic is coming up more often; this scribe thinks that this type of power is coming more into vogue) and how there are pluses and minuses to this energy source.

One OF mentioned that many of these installations require the use of power from the grid. If the power goes out, so does your solar panel. Then an OF added that there are systems that collect the power and store it in batteries so, when that does happen, your need for power converts to the batteries.

To most of the OFs, all this sounds rather expensive. One OF brought up the question of how much natural resources does it take to build one of these things and maintain it.

“You can’t build a battery out of thin air,” the OF said. “Let me burn wood, at least I can grow another tree, but what can I do with a huge battery when it wears out and I have to buy another one. Where does that battery go?”

“The same thing can be said of just about anything,” another OF said. “Oil takes the same steel to build the pumps, and the offshore rigs, and what happens to those big rigs when the oil runs out?”

The other OF said, “I can still grow a tree.”

One OF had an answer for the rigs — turn them into condos.  “I bet tons of people would love to live on the ocean,” he said, “and make the parts of the rigs that go down into the water apartments. I think that would be great to live in for a while, anyway, under the ocean. I bet it would be quiet at night.”

One OG who was familiar with diving said, “It is pretty quiet all the time under the water.”

The OFs wondered if the big oil companies have thought of this.  These OFs are quite an entrepreneurial group. 

The tree OF said, “I don’t care what they do; I can still grow a tree, and I do.”

“Not all people live in the woods like you, you OG,” an OF responded. “Millions live in the city and don’t even know what a tree is. Well, wind and solar isn’t going to handle that, if you want to cut out oil and coal, there is always nuclear, and I for one think that is the way to go, plus cars, trains, and trucks that run off magnetic strips powered by nuclear generators.”

Wildlife gone wild

Again, the abundance of wild life around this late summer was another topic. The hunters won’t have much hunting to do; it looks like the turkey and deer are going to be coming right up to nuzzle the muzzle of the gun.

Besides being abundant, the OFs think, they are almost tame. The OFs know many of the fifth- or sixth-generation of deer are road-wise.

Many of the OFs report seeing deer stop at the edge of the road and check for traffic in both directions before crossing. Watching a deer try to scurry across a paved road gives the appearance that the deer is on ice.

An OF wondered how much weight is on a deer hoof. They are small and sharp.

A Clydesdale horse has very large hoofs so per square inch that horse isn’t putting much pressure on the ground, but that deer must be placing all its weight on just a couple of square inches of ground — no wonder they skid all over the place on a paved road.

“Yeah,” an OF said, “a fat, beer-drinking, redneck with clod-hoppers on is putting less weight per square inch on the ground than some skinny broad in high heels.”

“Right,” was the reply. “Who would you want to step on your foot, a 300-pound man in size 14 work boots, or a 100-pound broomstick lass in six-inch heels?”

The OFs’ advice: Go for the 300-pound guy.

The OFs who made it to the Middleburgh Diner in Middleburgh via the normal means of transportation were: Bill Bartholomew, George Washburn, Steve Kelly, Harold Guest, Jim Heiser, Roger Shafer, Miner Stevens, Glenn Patterson, Mark Traver, John Rossmann, Robie Osterman, Dave Williams, Lou Schenck, Jack Norray, Mace Porter, Don Woods, Henry Whipple, Ted Willsey, Bob Lassome, Rich Donnelly, Duane Wagonbaugh, Elwood Vanderbilt, Gill Zabel, Harold Grippen, Jim Rissacher, Mike Willsey, Bob Donnelly, and me.

Location:

A little over a year ago, I took time off from work to accompany my wife to a doctor’s appointment. I'd been to plenty of these over the years (we have three kids) but somehow I knew this one was going to be different.

Sure enough, the doctor wound up telling us my wife had stage-one breast cancer. That was a life-changing visit.

When I heard the news, I didn't flip out or anything. Turns out stage one (later they determined it was really stage two) means the cancer was discovered early. That means, if you are lucky, some kind of treatment like chemotherapy or radiation will work. But, even at this early stage, I just felt that somehow my wife would get through this. She's tough.

It was determined that chemotherapy would be needed. To facilitate that, "minor" surgery would be needed to install a port for the injections. This surgery supposedly has a 1-percent failure rate. However, during the procedure, they punctured my wife's lung, which required a long and painful hospital stay. No surgery is ever really minor.

I had heard of chemotherapy but I never really knew what it was until seeing it up close with my wife. What they basically do is inject you with poison in the hope that it will kill the cancer without killing you

My wife was scheduled for four doses, but could only manage two and a half as it was literally killing her with general pain, nausea, neuropathy (extremity pain), and more. Fortunately, it looks like the process still worked, as here we are a year later and she is currently cancer free. Notice I said currently. "Aye, there's the rub" to quote the Bard.

My wife says we all have cancer to some degree — it's just a question of how much it grows. As a "survivor" now, she just has to keep getting checked and hope that it doesn't come back.

Survivors talk about being "clean" for five years as a goal, but cancer can return at any time; it's a wicked beast for sure. We had a counselor who had been a survivor herself, but then her cancer returned with a vengeance.

Her funeral was a real tearjerker as she was a terrific person with many great friends and a loving family. That's why, when you have cancer and are supposedly cured, you always have to be realistic and stay focused. Sad but true.

One of my responsibilities during this trying time has been to update my wife's Caring Bridge web page. This is a site where you go to follow up on people undergoing various treatments.

For a while, I was updating it all the time, with information on the chemotherapy infusions, the many doctor visits, and her overall wellbeing. I did get in trouble a couple of times for putting too sensitive information out there.

I mean, I was trying to deal with it as a real journalist would, but, as you can imagine, there are a lot of intimate personal details involved with breast cancer. Overwhelmingly I've been told I did a good job, and it sure saved making a lot of phone calls. I hope I won't have to do much more of it.

As if having cancer isn't bad enough, there's the added struggle of trying to keep your main doctor, your oncologist, your breast surgeon, and your plastic surgeon all on the same page, along with keeping track of all the medications, appointments, and related paperwork. It's a cliché but it's truly adding insult to injury.

Fortunately, my wife is very organized, but, as she'll tell you, having "chemo brain" doesn't make the endless record-keeping any easier. Truly, being sick is one thing and then administering the sickness is another.

And be sure to sit down when you look at the bills! We have good health coverage, thank goodness, but it still takes your breath away.

Lance Armstrong has fallen out of favor for his lying and cheating over so many years, but the organization he founded for cancer patients, now called The Livestrong Foundation, continues to do great work for cancer patients.

My wife got into an exercise program the foundation sponsored, and it was terrific. The instructors really cared and really knew what they were doing so it was just tremendous. Big "props" to Livestrong.

Another group my wife has found great comfort in is Bravehearts. This group for female cancer survivors goes on retreats to the ocean and the mountains where the ladies get pampered and supported by people who care.

My wife has gone on several of these weekends and has had a great time every time. If there's one good thing about cancer, it's that it brings out the best in so many different people from all walks of life. A friendship made through cancer survival is like the lovely silver lining on a dark gray cloud.

By far the most difficult aspect of the whole ordeal for me has been accompanying my wife to her infusions. If you've not been to something like this, you should be told it's quite a reality check: There are many people in that room hooked up to chemotherapy drips who may or may not be there the next time you go.

Most have no hair (my wife still looked beautiful even when bald) and many are so gaunt and frail you wonder how much time they could possibly have left. Still, the staff at our place, New York Oncology and Hematology, were always upbeat and competent.

You could even say it was a pleasure to see them each time; that's how nice they all were. Once my wife found a comfy, heated recliner and started the process, she could look out windows with picturesque views, strike up a conversation with a fellow patient, or just read or pray.

Mostly it's quiet and serene in there (except when a loud personal cell-phone call lasts too long or the always-on TV is too loud). Being that you have to be there whether you like it or not, it means al lot that it's as nice as it is. Again, something about cancer just brings out the best in people. It's very inspiring.

Getting cancer later in life is one thing; you've lived for a while so there's that. What really unnerves me is cancer in children.

Sadly, it's not that uncommon. Seeing little ones, bald and attached to a chemo-drip, is enough to make even the toughest of us melt. It just gets me right in the gut. All we can do is hope the researchers keep working hard on a cure.

None of us who are cancer-free can really know how those who are suffering with this dreadful disease truly feel. They may put on a good public face in trying to do their normal routine but inside they may be tired, or in pain, or just feeling drab.

You know when you're not feeling good it's hard to get excited about anything. I still have to check myself, as there are so many things I want to do that I don't give a second thought about, but for my wife or my mother (she has a form of cancer, too), these things are not so easy or not doable at all. I need to just be happy they are both still around.

Recently, we had a combination cancer survival and birthday party for my wife with lots of friends and relatives attending. What a good time we all had. My wife thoroughly enjoyed catching up with everyone, running around all day to meet and greet and give hugs.

If you'd seen her, you might have found it hard to believe she was ever sick at all. How great is that. Miracles do happen.  A life saved is a wonderful thing.

Let's hope my wife's blood tests keep coming back negative. There's a lot left we have to do together. With any luck at all, we'll be able to do them, and for a long time to come.

The next time you see a pink ribbon magnet on the back of a car, or a big burly football player wearing pink sneakers, just stop and think about what it really means. I know I do.

Location:

On Sept. 2, the Old Men of the Mountain met at the Home Front Café in Altamont, and the countdown to Christmas begins.

This scribe feels safe in assuming that these words are being read because the reader is reading The Enterprise. The OFs discussed reading and learning to read. None of the OFs at the scribe’s end of the table remember learning to read.

The mental process was not something the OFs could bring back. This scribe is in the same boat. When did any of the OFs realize they were reading, and when did it become a routine in the thought process?

We did have one OF say he remembered learning to read because, on the farm where he was raised, there were no books. The occasional newspaper did come to the house — but no books.

This OF definitely learned to speak because he does talk, and he learned to talk before he attended school. The OF said he did not learn to read until he went to school in the first grade, but did he realize he was reading after doing a few things by rote? When did it sink in, “Golly, I am reading?”

Some OFs are still voracious readers; some read occasionally, some read magazines, some read trade journals, some read the comics; however, none of the OFs seem to read instructions.

This scribe did think of this conversation later on when he was in a small group outside the OFs with younger people (and that is not hard being an OF) and asked the question based on the OFs’ discussion.

No one there actually could remember when they realized they were reading. Again, one had a mental association of learning to read along with another person, but picking up something and realizing they were reading did not sink in. As the OFs suggested, we can all thank a teacher even if that teacher in some cases was a parent.

Tough skins

and sweet corn

The OFs do not know how prevalent this is, but those who have gardens and who are beginning to partake of their labors in the form of harvesting what was planted have noticed how tough the skins on some of the vegetables are this year. Some of the OFs said that the skins on their tomatoes took a chainsaw to cut through and get started.

On some of the squash, the skins were so thick and tough that, to have fried squash, the vegetable had to be parboiled first in order to cut it in slices for frying, and then all that was edible was the center.

One OF said he had only one apple on the tree, so he and his wife would have to share it. This is just that one OF though, because driving by Indian Ladder Farms, we see many apples on the trees. Maybe it is the elevation of Hilltowns that causes problems.

All the OFs know is that Whipple’s corn is so sweet that sugar runs down the OFs’ arms with the butter when eating it, so some of the vegetables are turning out OK.

Eating better than kings

One OF said that rich people, and kings and queens don’t know how to eat. They eat fancy food, where all you get to eat will barely cover a fork.

They should come to the Hilltowns and get a couple of juicy, red hamburgers from the grill, a couple of ears of good sweet corn, and hot apple pie with some vanilla ice cream, or a piece of cheese, along with a good cold Bud, and heaven can’t be too far from that.

Pheasant under glass with truffles, two small pieces of celery, and half a carrot stick, with an olive or two and a glass of fancy champagne is what the devil serves up.

One OF said, “Just picture the aroma of both meals wafting through the air — that bird doesn’t stand a chance against the air filled with smoke from the grill, with hamburgers or chicken, or hot dogs or kielbasa flavors mixed in.”

The OFs have spoken.

Insights from joints

When the OFs were not so old, many of them pooh-poohed the idea of various joints of the body being able to predict the weather. Now that the OFs are OFs they have found that this is true.

Many of the OFs say their bodies are better forecasters of the weather than a meteorologist. One OF said that he can predict almost two days in advance of what the weather is going to be like just by the degree of his joint pain, and in some cases not much pain at all indicates nice, dry weather.

No pain, the OF said, will mean he is dead.

One OF said he thinks this idea still is a lot of hogwash because his joints hurt all the time. Another said he has so much metal he can only really tell the temperature. If it is really cold, he thinks some of the metal he has in him has frost on it.

One OF offered the suggestion that, when it becomes cold, the OF should drink some good old-fashioned hot toddies.  They’ll warm you up on the inside and get those steel rods warm too and the frost won’t form.

Old school

Many of the OFs attend plays and concerts that their grandkids are in, and they marvel at the new schools. The schools the OFs went to are a far cry from what schools are today.

The OFs were relating stories of their school days when there were four or five classes in one room, and one teacher taught all. Kids showed up for school on horseback and even tractors.

Some kids even had a job that required them to get to school early in the winter months because they had to get the fire going for the one-room schoolhouse. Yet most of the Industrial Revolution, and the basis for some of the technology of today, was developed by OFs who received their early education from schools like this.

Yes, the OFs even learned to read, spell, and cipher.

Those OFs who made it to the Home Front Café in Altamont, and who did not arrive on horseback or drive their tractors to the restaurant, were: Robie Osterman, Miner Stevens, George Washburn, Karl Remmers, Dick Ogsbury, Henry Witt, Roger Chapman, Art Frament, Bob Benac with guest Jack Benac, John Rossmann, Frank Pauli, Roger Shafer, Steve Kelly, Bill Bartholomew, Dave Williams, Harold Guest, Mark Traver, Chuck Aleseio, Otis Lawyer, Glenn Patterson, Jack Norray, Mace Porter, Lou Schenck, Joe Loubier, Duane Wagonbaugh, Bob Lassome, Ted Willsey, Rich Donnelly, Andy Tinning, Carl Walls, Bill Krause, Jim Rissacher, Henry Whipple, Elwood Vanderbilt, Harold Grippen, Dick Vanderbilt, and me.        

Location:

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

From a distance, the ruins of Penasco Blanco resemble natural rock outcrops protruding from the top of the mesa.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

A “doorway to nowhere” in Penasco Blanco is part of  ruins that have stood unoccupied for nearly a thousand years.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

From a distance, the ruins of Penasco Blanco resemble natural rock outcrops protruding from the top of the mesa.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

Fragments of Anasazi pottery: In some areas, they lie in thick layers, evidence of centuries-long occupation of the ruins.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

This ancient pictograph is believed to show the supernova of 1054 A.D. with a crescent moon and what may be the artist’s handprint above it.

Bordered by sagebrush and other sparse desert vegetation, the washboard-surfaced road to Chaco Canyon traverses a barren, waterless landscape.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

Huge boulders, like this one, exhibiting honeycomb weathering, are common in arid landscapes.

The Enterprise — Mike Nardacci

A barren talus slope is topped by sheer cliffs along Highway 550 in New Mexico.

By Mike Nardacci

The term “geopoetry” seems to have been coined by Scottish poet Kenneth White to describe geologic writing that shows “the relationship of the Earth and the opening of a world.”  The idea is that the few known facts of a situation are combined with intelligent speculation to evoke its mystery and wonder — but not necessarily to provide definitive answers.

I have always believed that anyone who aspires to an understanding of geology needs to have a vivid imagination: To stand, for example, on Route 156 between Voorheesville and Altamont and look at the Helderberg escarpment rising above you and envision it 20,000 years ago buried under the mile-plus-thick continental glacier.  Or to project your mind farther back into the Devonian Period 400 million years ago when this part of New York lay under a warm shallow sea dotted with low coralline islands that, through the fantastic processes of plate tectonics, would rise up into the looming, fossil-rich plateau we see there today.

Over the past decade, I have made several trips to Chaco Canyon in New Mexico, a spectacular preserve about a hundred miles northwest of Albuquerque off of Route 550, but often described by visitors as being “a hundred miles west of Nowhere.”

The highway passes through some of the bleakest terrain in the United States, though some of it is starkly beautiful, as arid landscapes tend to be, bordered by miles of desert plants: sagebrush, cactuses, and cholla, towered over by angular mesas and buttes formed of dusty, pastel-colored rock.

Chaco is then accessed by a truly horrendous 13-mile-long washboard-surface dirt road, which surely is intended to discourage all but the most determined of visitors.   Although designated as a National Historical Park, Chaco has no facilities beyond a campground that offers rather primitive camping (though it does feature flush toilets), and a visitor center, which is, as they say, “under renovation.”

It is air-conditioned and has a small shop selling a variety of books that theorize about Chaco’s human history, but had — as of this past June — no exhibits at all, which is a shame considering that a few years back it had a museum featuring fascinating displays and presenting information about Chaco’s spectacular Anasazi ruins and the ancient people’s stunning architecture and pottery.

Mystery and miracle of water

In June of this year, I was again hiking in Chaco with a friend, Mike Whalen, who is a filmmaker living in Boulder, Colorado. The temperatures were somewhat lower than we had expected: mid-80s in the late afternoons but relatively cool and dry early in the days, and so we chose one particularly clear morning for a hike to a pueblo ruin known as “Penasco Blanco,” the most remote in the immediate vicinity of Chaco and one that we had never managed to visit on previous trips.

It lies atop a mesa at the end of a relatively flat three-and-a-half mile trail that leads out over the dusty floor of Chaco Canyon through vast stretches of sagebrush and cactuses, some of which were late blooming in exuberant shades of red and yellow and orange in the wake of the spring rains.  The path at first follows the base of the canyon’s North Mesa and has some shady stretches, but the last mile-and-a-half or so are out in the open.

Frequent examples of honeycomb weathering may be found in the boulders at the base of the cliffs.  This phenomenon — fairly common in extremely arid environments — seems to occur when salts within the rock migrate toward the surface and form crystals that shatter it.  The shady recesses undoubtedly provide respite from the blistering sun for desert birds and reptiles. Though the temperature was still in the 70s, the high sun shining through a cloudless sky soon became oppressive and we found ourselves gulping down our water faster than we had planned.   

And it is true that, among the great mysteries of Chaco Canyon, one of the most perplexing revolves around the subject of water.

The people of many ancient cultures thought of water as something spiritual — even sacred. Temples were built over springs, which must have been regarded as connection points between the world of the gods and that of humans.

It is not hard to see why and it is on the subject of water that this essay ventures into geopoetry. Consider the appearance of the landscape on the road from Albuquerque to Chaco: Much of it consists of plateaus and mesas composed largely of shale and siltstone but capped by hard sandstone forming steep escarpments above the crumbly talus slopes.

The situation is rather comparable to the stratigraphy of the Helderberg plateau, where the shale- and soft-sandstone talus slopes towering above Voorheesville and Altamont are capped by the hard Manlius and Coeymans limestone layers that form the vertical cliffs of Thacher Park.  But the Helderberg area is a very wet climate and the slopes — and indeed, every fissure and hollow in the cliffs — are green with massive amounts of vegetation.  As the song says, “The hills are alive….”

The New Mexican talus slopes show signs of the occasional turbulent movement of water — but then, so does the surface of dry and dusty Mars.  Yet, aside from pinyon pines and junipers on the valley floor that somehow manage to find enough moisture to thrive, the slopes in the New Mexican scene are nearly devoid of life, whether plant or animal, and the changes brought by abundant water verge on the miraculous.

Doors to nowhere

The trail to Penasco Blanco crosses a small dry wash just before it makes the final steep ascent of the mesa, and in a sheltered alcove above the trail is an ancient pictograph — one of the most remarkable ever discovered.  It seems to record the appearance of a crescent moon and next to it a supernova that was observed in other parts of the world as well in 1054 A.D.

Clearly, the ancient inhabitants of Chaco Canyon took a keen interest in the stars and one of them made the effort to record the stellar explosion; the handprint may well be that of the artist.

On this mid-June day, the wash was indeed very dry and probably had not had any flow since the sparse spring rains following the melting of whatever light snow cover had fallen on the canyon. Beyond the wash a series of exposed switchbacks led to the top of the mesa, and, as we climbed up to the crest, we were presented with a view of the Penasco Blanco ruin a thousand or so feet away.

The ruin is immense; ovular and greater in area than a football field, it was subdivided into hundreds of rooms and passages and courtyards — home, it is believed, to perhaps many hundreds of puebloan people.

A dozen or more of the sunken, circular pits known as kivas — which served as places of worship and socialization — are scattered about it.  The ruin is mostly unexcavated, so the tumbled-down walls and doors to nowhere stand picturesquely on the windy mesa as they have for centuries, and in places the ground is littered with fragments of the Anasazi people’s beautifully decorated pottery.

The low hills around it reveal the partially exposed walls of other, smaller “satellite” pueblos that were built as Penasco Blanco grew and expanded.

Questions persist

Surveying the ruins, built so deftly from millions of rock fragments, we were confounded by a number of questions. The first had arisen a year ago when Mike and I hiked to another ruin called Pueblo Alto, remotely situated on Chaco’s North Mesa: What was the source of all the rock fragments from which the ancient pueblos were constructed?

The landscape around the ruins is covered with shattered rock, though it is likely that the vast majority of these have weathered from the walls of the ruins themselves.  Undoubtedly many more lie buried in the dry soil, but excavating them in that sometimes scorching heat would have been agonizing.

The bases of the various mesas are littered with innumerable fragments of the needed sizes — but transporting them up the cliffs to the building site in the thousands of tons needed would be an appalling task even with modern technology.  From all evidence, the ancients had nothing to rely on but arm- and leg-muscle power — and this fact is one of the major aspects of the Chaco Canyon mysteries.

But, as we stood there draining our canteens under the glaring New Mexican noon sun, another even more provocative question arose in our minds: How did the ancient people supply the builders with water?

We tried to envision great teams of workers engaged in construction activities that in some ways must have posed many of the same challenges that faced the builders of the Egyptian pyramids. But the pyramid builders had the Nile River at their feet — an endless supply of water for drinking, cooking, washing, and probably bathing when the heat became unbearable.

Southwestern museums often display hollowed-out gourds and huge ceramic pots that are believed to have been used by the ancient people for water storage.  But to store water, one must first obtain it, and, here in the vast dry stretches of Chaco Canyon, the only source of water other than rare precipitation is the Chaco Wash — a narrow streambed incised into the compacted soil of the canyon floor that, except for brief periods in spring and the occasional August gulley-washer, is never more than a sluggish, muddy trickle, and it is over a mile from Penasco Blanco.

Clearly, it could never have provided enough water for this pueblo’s builders let alone the construction teams raising the other pueblos of Chaco Canyon.

And that fact raises another major question: How were the workers and the inhabitants of the pueblos fed?

The builders of the great Egyptian monuments had the well-watered and incredibly fertile fields of the Nile Valley to provide their food.  But, although for millennia the inhabitants of the Southwest have been expert at what is called “dry farming” to raise the “three sisters” crops of corn, beans, and squash, one can only wonder how the ancients managed to produce enough food for the teams of workers building Penasco Blanco as well its inhabitants — and one must keep in mind that Chaco Canyon holds over a dozen other large pueblos and innumerable smaller ones.

But even “dry farming” requires essential amounts of water, so once again the question arises: What was its source?  And how was it transported to the top of the mesa in sufficient quantities to allow Penasco Blanco to expand and flourish?

A survey of the literature both popular and more technical on the subject of Chaco Canyon shows researchers with wildly differing interpretations of the reasons for the construction of the pueblos of Chaco Canyon, of estimates of its population, and of the enormous problems that revolve around the source and quantities of food and water.

But one fact is critical: Water is life.

Hence, scientists today are excited by the discovery that, in the far reaches of our solar system, the moon Europa, orbiting Jupiter, and the smaller satellite Enceladus, orbiting Saturn, show evidence of being the repositories of gigantic quantities of water in both liquid and solid states: beckoning targets for future exploration.

And yet here in one of the most hostile environments in the United States, a thousand years ago a great culture grew and flourished, reaching startling technical and artistic heights that evoke admiration and even awe today.

What made it possible was water.  But where that water came from and how the ancient people obtained and transported it are questions that science is nowhere near answering.  “Geopoetry” indeed!

Location:

Many of the older gents of the Hilltowns and their environs look forward to one particular day of the week.  This day is looked forward to by many of the ladies of the Hilltowns and their environs also.  The day is Tuesday! The older gents, now known as OFs, look forward to Tuesday because that is the day they get out of the house and the ladies are glad they are gone.

So this Tuesday, Aug. 26, the Old Men of The Mountain met at the Chuck Wagon Diner in Princetown. The diner is right on Route 20 where Giffords Church Road runs into Route 20 at Princetown.

The OFs remember when Route 20 was the east-west road, prior to the Thruway being built. There was a time after the Thruway was built that Route 20 had only the occasional local car or truck on it, and was like a back-country road, but now it seems to be making a comeback with more travel being noticed, and with much of the traffic being travelers and not locals.

The buzz on bees and frogs

This column has mentioned many times what a wet spring and summer this has been, and how few bees the OFs have seen. Some of the OFs that have grape arbors say that there is nary a grape on any of their vines.

One OF mentioned that it is not only the cultivated grapes but the pesky wild grapes (the Hilltowns equivalent to kudzu) that have no grapes. The OFs say it is the lack of bees and no pollination, except one OF explained these grapes were not stressed out so the plant wasn’t worried about reproducing. (There is always one with that different view.)

In contrast to the lack of grapes, was the abundance of the tree frogs. Those little critters are all over the place.

One OF says that, when he is on his tractor mowing the lawn, he is now scouring the grass ahead of the mower looking for these small frogs hopping in the grass so he doesn’t run over them with the mower.  This OF says these frogs like mosquitoes, and mosquito larva, so he wants them around.

Another OF answered, “Yeah, but these frogs are food for snakes,” and this OF doesn’t want any snakes around.

Then another said, “Yeah, you do, because not only are frogs on the snake’s plate, but so are mice and moles. I would rather have the frogs for snakes, and the snakes for controlling the mice. Snakes don’t carry diseases or ticks and other nasty things; they are quiet, and do not eat the wiring in the house that can cause a fire. Give me a snake any day; keep those frogs coming.”

Learning patience

This scribe does not know how to approach this next topic, but it is interesting.

This was not any of the OFs making wise remarks to the waitress in any way, but in the normal routine of refreshing the coffee, some of the OFs, without looking at the waitress (or even breaking a sentence, if speaking), would say, “Thank you,” or “Thank you ma’am,” or “Thank you, young lady,” to which one OF picked up and said, “Right — the lady part for you must be a few years away.”

To which the waitress just answered as she kept pouring coffee, “Not too many” and kept right on going.

This simple exchange of routine banter led to a discussion on how far back in time would a particular OF want to go if he could go back. Would he go back to 40, 50, 18 years of age?

This scribe was surprised at the answer. None of them wanted to really go back although some said maybe go back to when they were 50 or so.

One OF said that, except for the aches and pains, and the doctor visits, he likes the age he is now. This OF said, if he could go back, it would be maybe to 50 or 60 years old but he would like to know what he knows now.

This OF said what he did maybe even prior to 50 was the “git 'er-dun” approach. Now the OF has learned to be patient and do things right. The OF said he now knows he is not the only one on the planet and there are tons of really deserving, and needy people out there.

This OF has learned to see and listen and it means a lot to him. The other OFs nodded in agreement but didn’t say much.

Envying Dr. Dolittle

The OFs discussed how they are surprised by animals — ducks, fish, birds, dogs, etc. — and what they can do, and it all seems to be natural, to the animal anyway. The OF mentioned fish coming out of the water to feed — these were not weird, exotic fish but regular carp.

The occasional left-handed duck, and birds that eventually realize they are not going to be hurt and can almost be touched. Skunks that adopt a house and hang around for a long time, years even, and leave no smell. The OFs wondered why a few animals have these seemingly unnatural quirks, but most animals don’t.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could be like Dr. Dolittle, and talk to the animals? The OFs think, in many cases we do, and are not smart enough to know we are doing it.

 Vive la différence

The OFs were eating in a diner, the Chuck Wagon Diner, so the OFs began to discuss restaurant food and hot coffee. The OFs have a round robin of restaurants that are in the gun sights of the OFs. We do this to spread the wealth (yeah, right).

Let’s say that in all the restaurants on a Tuesday the OF would order French toast. One would expect the French toast to be basically the same — well it is not.  Each restaurant is different. French toast at A is completely different than French toast at B.

Coffee at restaurant A is completely different than restaurant B, and A’s coffee might be so hot it is necessary to let it cool down before drinking, and B’s coffee may be drinkable right away. One OF said his theory on this is that the cup (and not the coffee) determines how hot or tepid it will be. It looks like the coffee is made on the same machine. Just like a home, each restaurant has its own aroma; most are inviting.

Oats are oats.  How can oatmeal taste different in so many different places? Not that the OFs are connoisseurs or anything like that.

The OFs do not sniff the wine and comment on how delicate it is. Most OFs think the wine out of a cardboard box is great stuff but they do wonder at times how the same thing can be so different.

Back to the French toast: An OF said some restaurants take a couple of slices of regular bread, slap it in some batter, throw it on the grill, then put it on a cold plate and serve it, while others take the thicker bread, place it in the batter, put it on the grill, add a little cinnamon, place it on a warm plate, sprinkle a little powdered sugar on top, some even add a little garnish, then serve it. The funny part is that both places charge about the same.

One OF said everything is like the guys who come to clean your furnace. One is covered in oil with old oil-covered work shoes, while the other comes and is clean, puts on plastic shoe covers at the door and then goes about his business, and both charge about the same.

An OF said, “Yep, one cares about what he is doing, and to the others it is just a job.

“It is true in anything,” the OF went on. “From your mechanic, to the doctor that has to chase the cat off the examining table.”  

Those Old Men of the Mountain that were at the Chuck Wagon Diner in Princetown and did not have to chase any cats off the table were: George Washburn, Robie Osterman, Roger Shafer, Roger Chapman, Karl Remmers, Dick Ogsbury, Andy Tinning, Henry Witt, Art Frament, Bob Benac, Roger Fairchild, Herb Sawotka, Otis Lawyer, Mark Traver, John Rossmann, Frank Pauli, Harold Guest, Lou Schenck, Mace Porter, Jack Norray, Duncan Bellinger, Duane Wagenbaugh, Rich Donnelly, Joe Loubier, Jim Rissacher, Mike Willsey, Harold Grippen, Elwood Vanderbilt, Gill Zabel, Gerry Chartier (with guests who were not frightened the last time and will be headed back home, Olga Zeir, and Mario Schneider,) and me

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