Nanny McFree

Posted on July 14, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

We are in the middle of our annual monsoon season here in Colorado. What that means is everyday around 2 to 3 o’clock in the afternoon, although it sometimes happens sooner, or sometimes later depending on the whims of Mother Nature, it clouds up, the skies get dark, thunder rolls in from the west and it rains. Little gentle rains where things slowly get wet, the air smells fresh and moist and you sit by the open door and drink a nice, slow, hot cup of tea as the entire experience washes over you. A Camelot kind of rain.

On the other hand when some poor misbegotten soul has done something to irritate Mother Nature we get something else entirely. Instead of the Camelot rains we love and wait for, we get the full wrath of weather that you only get in the high mountains. Torrential rains, 30 -40 -50 mph winds that drive the rain against everything in its path with the power of a force 5 hurricane. And if you’ve done something particularly heinous you can have hail, which as you know from your experience of being alive, is really hard rain packed into the size of a BB all the way up to size of a steamer trunk. This falls from the sky and breaks things. That is bad when that happens. Stay indoors. Then because Mother Nature rarely holds a grudge, the storm passes, the sun comes out to shine it golden rays down upon you, the bluebirds return and all is right with the world again.

So what? you say. Well first that’s kind of rude and you might just keep an eye on the skies above in case Mother Nature heard you. The monsoon affects everyone and everything here in the mountains. Even the Mountain Goats on Mt Evans. They and anyone else unlucky enough or unfortunate enough, to be above tree line when one of these big storms hit are in imminent danger of being struck by lightning. Lightning is a whole bunch of electricity, like all the D-cells and other batteries you have in your house, even the ones in your smoke alarms, all wired together at one time, all stuffed into a very narrow place in the sky and when it’s good and ready it shoots down to the ground and incinerates what ever it hits. This can have adverse effects on your ability to remain alive. This is called “Being Struck By Lightning” or as we know it “Bad Luck.” Every year people are struck by lightning and killed. Like totally. It’s over and that’s that. This is unfortunate and not a laughing matter but it is a fact.

But you rarely see Mountain Goats struck and killed. Why is that we wondered. If anyone is at risk it should be them. They live above tree line, they stay out in the weather even when they shouldn’t and they do not carry any life insurance, nevermind health and accident. So how does that work then.

It turns out that over time, at least over the last 8000 years since the world was created, they have evolved a system that helps them stay alive and well during inclement weather. First the big ones run like the devil and hide. But if you look at your average herd of Mountain Goats you’ll see a large percentage of them are young ones, the kids. Like most kids they are not smart enough to come in out of the rain and so, and here’s where it gets cool, the mother goats got together and devised a plan where everyday one of the mothers is chosen to watch over the kids and if it looks like it’s going to rain, or especially lightning, she gathers them up into a bunch and stuffs them in the crevices between the rocks and guards them until the storm passes. Nobody gets struck by lightning, they all live and the group survives. Neat, right? Well the mother of the day is called a nanny. Just like Nanny McFree in the image above.

This was documented yesterday as a couple of us trudged up to the top of Mt Evans, all 14,265′ of her, to stand there in the rain and lightning with our tinfoil hats on, and steel toed boots, to see if this was true. It was.

When Bears Go Bad

Posted on July 11, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

This is a bear highway. It is used primarily by the resident Institute Black bears as they come and go on bear business. It is the equivalent of Hwy 287, the local highway that was built to service the Institute by the grateful state of Colorado. It is an idyllic looking place, rather like a scenic highway but for bears. One time we sent an intern in there on his hands and knees because you can’t stand up in there it is more like a bear tunnel, to see if he determine the amount of use it got by counting tracks and to see what it really felt like to be on a bear highway. He backed out with very moist pants and wouldn’t talk for three days. All he would say when he finally spoke was “Please Sir, Don’t make me go back in there.” So we figured it must feel kind of scary.

When bears are good and behave like good Institute citizens they have the run of the Institute’s grounds. Like this fellow who likes to sit on rocks, take long walks in the meadows below and compose Haiku in his spare time. He is a known as a “Good Bear”.

However there are also what we call “Bad bears” which are similar in appearance to the Good bear above but are the ones that steal in under the cover of darkness and tear up the garbage you forgot to take down to the dumpsters and rip open the door of your RV and eat all your Oreos plus tearing open the glove box and eating the registration to the Enola Gay, your 2002 Dodge Powerwagon, so that you have to sit for 4 hours at the DMV to get it replaced and they charge you 50 dollars for the privilege. These are known as Bad bears.

When you are a bad bear you have to go and visit Mr. Rattles in his little enclosure. Mr. Rattles, although not an elected official like a judge, acts in fact, as an Institute judge and handles all manner of high crimes and misdemeanors occurring among our animal citizens and sometimes an unruly intern or two. If you have ever heard of Judge Roy Bean then you have some idea of what it is like to visit Mr. Rattles. If you’re in Mr. Rattles little enclosure then you’re guilty. End of story.

Usually Mr. Rattles will listen to your story then after careful consideration, bite you. Shortly after, you turn to stone and are put out on display as a warning that we don’t tolerate “Bad bears”, such as this one below.

The morale of this story is “Buy your Oreos at Wal-Mart like everyone else. If you find important paper work when you’re ripping open vehicles, Don’t Eat it. Better yet don’t rip open the vehicles. Be a good bear.”

Red Chaps In The Sunset

Posted on July 10, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

This post has been moved to OpenChutes.com. All future postings of Powwows, Indian Relay Races, Rodeos and Rendezvous will be posted there from now on exclusively. So if you’re looking for new images and posts for all those events attended this year, plus all the old posts posted on BigShotsNow.com check out OpenChutes.com. See you there!

As we were sitting here planning our activity schedule for the rest of the summer it occurred to us that we had not checked in with our sister city, The Hampton’s, to see what they were up to this year. As you know we rarely spend any time there, and although we have few to none important ties with our neighbors on the East Coast, it’s always fun to see what the cousins are doing.

Now THEY have got a busy summer planned. You wonder how they find time to attend all these events let alone plan them. Here are just a few we’re sorry we can’t attend. In July alone there is the “Opening Day of Polo for the Monty Waterbury Cup”, “The 26th Annual American Picnic with Grucci Fireworks!”, “The 28th Annual Garden Tour & Wine Tasting”, we took Aunt Pheeb and Uncle Skid to that one last year. That didn’t work out so well. “Cocktails at Holly Hall”, “The Midsummer Party at the Parish” That was black tie and all of ours were tie-died so we couldn’t get in. And the always rough & tumble anything goes “Annual Hampton Designer Showhouse Gala Preview Party” Man oh man, that’s one you gotta attend. Those guys really know how to throw a party. You pair up a wine sizzler with a watercress sandwich and you’ve got way too much excitement. I for one was glad they had security on hand that night. We were at it to nearly 10 o’clock before saying goodnight.

I know, right, how do you even compete with stuff like that. Then I had a thought, why not check our summer event schedule here in the West. Well, am I glad I did!. We got stuff going on. Out here lots of people keep horses as a part of their everyday life. They ride them, feed them, clean up after them and some even use them for work. So it’s not surprising that we should have organized events celebrating one of the symbols of the West. And by symbol I mean the horse. We call these events Rodeos and they take place all over the West. You can see one in small towns and large cities almost all summer long. It’s kind of like “The Season” as they call it in the Hampton’s and they’re very popular with people who like to drink beer, wear jeans with gigantic buckles and never take their hats off, unless they’re talking to a lady, or some one mentions John Wayne.

For instance, we have “Bring your Saddle Bronc to Work Day” where proud cowboys bring their favorite Saddle Bronc to work and show off some of their jumping skills. The cowboy’s jumping skills that is. The horse has to try and stay under him for 10 seconds or he loses and has to herd sheep for the next week.

We have one of my favorite parties of the year, the annual “Red Chaps at Sunset” event where they put red chaps on a cowboy then ask him to ride a horse that hates the color Red. This can make for some hilarious moments as the two of them work out their differences. It’s a cloud pleaser all right.

We also have big charity events where money is raised for many worthy causes. There is the “Ground Pounder for Mental Health” to name just one, a charitable event where sponsors sponsor a cowboy and his horse and pledge a certain amount of money for every time the horses hooves ‘pound the ground’. All monies raised are used to care for bull riders who have developed cognitive problems, or no longer can remember who they are, or need plastic surgery to remove the hoof print from their faces, or remove chunks of horn they didn’t get out at the clinic. It’s a worthy cause and many bull riders have benefited from their generosity. In fact new ones almost every time they try and ride bulls.

These are just a few of the things going on out here. I plan to visit more of them as the summer goes by and let you know all the terrific events we have. Now you don’t have to travel back to the Hampton’s to have summer fun. Stay right here, go watch Rodeo events, drink beer, and remember to take your hat off if anyone mentions John Wayne.

The Maiden Voyage of The Bokeh Maru – Day 14

Posted on July 9, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

Day 14 Final Day

Well, I’m heading down the road on the last day of this epic journey. The sun is shining, there’s virtually no wind, the endless horizon stretches before me calling me homeward with the promise of a night in my own bed, a hot home-cooked meal and a little time to rest and contemplate my life before the next great adventure beckons. The Bokeh Maru is purring along the roadway with the lithe gracefulness of a cheetah with a fleeing Tommy in her sights, her pistons the size of 5 gallon buckets, each pulling in a quart of fuel per cylinder with each rhythmic stroke, a gentle but guttural roar emitting from her exhaust system telling me not to worry she’ll get me home, even if it takes every last dollar left in The Institutes fuel budget this year.

My thoughts are turned to the various experiences and incredible sights I have witnessed on this trip. And if pressed I would have to say that the experience of viewing and being amongst the wild horses of McCullough peaks in the Wyoming wilderness was absolutely the most incredible memory I have. The image above of the stallion surveying his territory sums up everything I think about the West, its wildness, animals, nature, and most of all, its freedom. If you had to come back as something in another life I think being him would not be a bad choice.

As I point the Bokeh Maru southward towards home the circumstances couldn’t be more different this day, from the day we started this journey. We had embarked with an international crew of 31 souls, all with a desire to go forth and see just what this world had to offer. All of them eager for adventure and the lure of the open road. As Director of The Institute and Captain and Commander of this new vessel, The Bokeh Maru, I was probably the most excited of all.

We had Sherpa’s from Nepal and Tibet to scale the highest peaks and tell us what they saw, a crew of sailors led by my head of Security, Big Lemon Kowalski that had been lent to me my Far East Affiliate, Batchu Sen, owner and CEO of South Seas Acquisitions, a firm that specializes in obtaining goods from various sources in the South China Sea at very reasonable prices. We had our Ethno-Botno-Archaeologist, a young woman who wouldn’t provide her name for most of the journey as she felt that someone knowing her name would not grant her the respect she felt she deserved as a ranking member of our party. She became known as ExcuseMeMs for lack of anything else to call her. Later in the voyage when she became romantically involved with Big Lemon Kowalski and her entire personality changed, we learned that her name was Candace Flavours an exotic dancer from Detroit.

Then there were all the rest, bearers, packers, signalmen, E.M.T.’s spending their two-week vacation to help with any medical emergencies that might arise. Our meteorological crew to map out our weather, linguists for those times when communications might be a problem, fry cooks, sous chefs, farmers, hunter-gatherers, animal trainers, mechanics in case of trouble along the road, the list goes on and on. Sadly they’re all gone now, victims of the vagaries and circumstances that occurred along the way, scattered along the roadside like human litter. Many with No Deposit, No Return, stamped on their lives and little hope of redemption. But that’s the way it is in the big city. Too bad, too sad for them.

The two I miss the most though and the two that seemed least likely to connect are the ones I wonder most about. That is of course Candy Flavours and Big Lemon Kowalski. After the night they went missing in Livingston, Montana when they entered that strange building and never came out again I can still see that other-worldly look on Candy’s face, her eyes glowing bright red like two cigar ends on a stormy windy night as she literally dragged Big Lemon through the doorway. I had attributed that to lust but now I think differently. The look of apprehension on Big Lemons face, a man who was unafraid of anything natural on this earth is still burned into my memory. I’ve had a lot of time to think about that as I have driven these lonesome highways and I am beginning to believe Candy may not have been an exotic dancer from Detroit after all. She wouldn’t give us her name because she didn’t have one, not one you could pronounce with a human tongue anyway. The Institute is always wary of stating there has been interaction or interference from an extra-terrestrial source before we have undeniable proof, lest it damage our reputation amongst serious scientific types, but it is beginning to be pretty clear that agents from another Galaxy have been up to their usual tricks and Candy may have been involved in it up to her pretty little false eyelashes. I should have been more suspicious, who wears four sets of false eyelashes anyway.

But that is all blood under the bridge as they say and I’ll mark that down in my journal as something to think about tomorrow. Today is what’s on the menu now and I’ve got a job to do. Since the loss of my crew I have had the daunting task of piloting and maintaining the Bokeh Maru alone. It has been a grueling job but what it has shown me is, I can do this on my own. Sure its hard. Sure its difficult. Sure its dangerous. Sure its … well you get the idea. Next time I’m not taking a crew of 31 or even six. I’m going alone, like Stanley and separately Livingston, or those two guys who went to the North pole, without each other and froze their Fuon-buey-bueys off, just me against the road, against the danger, against the world. I can’t wait.

That’s it. Journey’s over. The Bokeh Maru has earned her place as a valuable member of the Institute’s fleet of vessels and will be our choice to carry us on to new and better things. Watch for further adventures as The Institute goes back on the road again sometime in the future.

The Maiden Voyage of the Bokeh Maru – Day 13

Posted on July 7, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

Today my goal was to reach the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge in Utah. It was my third visit here and I was anxious to see if there had been any changes made while I was gone. You know that this is a federally funded, federally managed, tax dollar supported organization under the strict control of the Federal Government, who rigidly sets the standards by which it is run and although occasionally there are errors that severely impact the users, they are here to help you. Wait… that ‘s the IRS. I meant to say that this is a wonderful place run by the state of Utah and free to the public. It caters to birds of all types without thought of race, creed or color. Having said that I must point out that this is a managed refuge and there are regulations in place to make this a better place for both birds, and the people that watch them. In this case there has been and ongoing problem with undocumented birds using and abusing the system. Consequently the powers that be thought it would be prudent to build a fence to limit the number of users that can be in the park at any one time. One of the most abusive groups that need to be managed are the Canadian Barn Swallows, a raucous but law-abiding group shown here waiting for their permits to be issued before they can enter the refuge and abuse it. They will line up on this fence for miles squawking and ruffling their feathers demanding that the fence be taken down and they be granted full use privileges. so far their demands have not been met. To better inform the public about birds and bird related species, each week the refuge chooses one bird to feature. The bird of the week this week is the Black-Necked Stilt, a largish shore bird closely related to the Not-So-Black-necked Stilt or as it is colloquially known here, the Grey-necked Stilt. It eats small stuff that it finds in the water, roots and berries and lasagna. It’s call is a soothing “HeyyyyyyyyyyWhatttttttsForDinnnnnner” followed by a chkk-chhkkk-charump. This week the refuge is absolutely saturated with them. The typical Black-necked Stilt has many personalities. This one reminds me of that guy you see at the fairgrounds, you know that guy, the one just standing there with his hands In his pockets looking around. Probably waiting for his wife or maybe for the kids to get off the Tilt-A-Whirl. He’s there because the kids like it and his wife can shop the booths along the midway. He’d rather be home sitting in his chair with a beer watching Wild Kingdom or Birds in Flight or something on the box. He could be a moult inspector or have some kind of 8-5 job and this is how he spends the week-ends. Basically a good guy. This is another kind of bird. They’re Grebe’s, there’s about a dozen different kind. This is this kind. They swim around, eat stuff, get married, have kids, and winter in the warmer parts of wherever. One is the male and the other is the female. I know, they kind a look a like, the way old people who have lived together for 70-80 years do. This might be a Grebe Egg. Their numbers are diminishing because they’re too lazy to build nests and lay their eggs instead in the middle of the road where dump trucks drive back and forth and you can see what happens. In doing the forensic work on this egg we determined that the egg fits perfectly between the spaces of the lugs in the dump truck tire and as the truck drove over the egg it broke it, but didn’t crush it. It is entirely possible that the chick was stuck between the lugs and after a certain number of tire revolutions was thrown free, dizzy but intact. Whether the youngster was ever reunited with the adults is unknown. Apparently Grebes have short memories and may have even forgot they laid this egg. There is talk of limiting dump truck travel in Utah during the Grebe breeding season but so far there has been no action in the Utah legislature. Lest you get the impression that life is harsh in a forbidding setting I want to reassure you that t here is beauty here too. This is the White-faced Ibis shallows where you see the calm serenity that can be found here on alternate Thursdays. Of course in a place as large and diverse as this refuge is, you can always find diversity amongst the flocks. This is the melting pot of Birdland as it were, and anything is possible in a biological way. Apparently there was a large meet and greet and a Jamaican oil-drum steel band was playing there and this young but naïve coot spent some time with the parrot who played lead drum and later as will happen, she was blessed with several chicks who seemingly took after their father. There are no value judgments here, after all this is nature, and there is no right or wrong in nature. Remember we talked earlier of the quota system being imposed on certain species of birds, well this is why. This is a distinct sub-group of the Canadian Barn Swallow, the Mud-Pluckers as they’re known, and their abusive use of the resources here at Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge. They are the primary reason sanctions are being imposed on these birds. Here they are caught red-handed, plucking mud out of the shoreline and flying off with it. Thousands, if not a bunch of thousands, of these mud stealing little birds have been depleting the shore line of its life-sustaining mud and disappearing. No one knows why. Mud just disappears, one beak full at a time. It is thought that the ponds and rivers in the refuge have been lowered by as much as 16 feet by the constant, continuous excavation of the shoreline by these Mud-Pluckers. If this isn’t reversed we may see nothing but giant sinkholes with a little water a the bottom. What’ll happen then, eh? We may have to stop these birds at the border. I don’t even want to think of what that might do to the already shaky relationship we have with our mud less neighbors to the North. Even after showing the dark side of the refuge it is still a hauntingly beautiful place. If you have any interest in birds or nature or life in general you must visit. If you don’t, nevermind, it’s just a flat place with some ponds, a ditch or two, and a lot of mosquitos, in fact I heard there’s a good movie playing down at the multiplex you should check it out. But if you are one of those who revel in nature and all that she has to offer, then you’re in luck, because the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge is just down the road in Utah. See you there next time. Tomorrow I point The Bokeh Maru homeward and back to civilization as we know it.

I must go down to the roads again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is the Bokeh Maru and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the roads I face, and a grey dawn breaking,

See you tomorrow .

The Maiden Voyage of The Bokeh Maru – Days 11 & 12

Posted on July 6, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

New headquarters of the Oregon chapter of The Institute

Day 11 Rest & Rehabilitation

Today was spent in cleaning out and burning the few personal effects left from our missing crew members. Old ginseng wrappers and cans of open beverages with unreadable labels. Remains of old unidentifiable meals that looked organic in nature but frankly could have been anything. Even a few pitifully constructed weapons in the form of sharpened sticks and socks filled with gravel that had been hastily constructed for the ill-fated mutiny that was put down by my trusted but now missing head of security, Big Lemon Kowalski. Remembering the carnage brought about by that big toothed but lovable lug, brought a warm glow of remembrance.

I found a few poems written by our Candace Flavours, known to us as ExcuseMeMs for most of the trip, that she had written to Big Lemon. They were so warm and caring they nearly brought a tear to my eye. Thinking her cold and callous and well, just plain mean, I would never thought her capable of harboring such tender feelings. Here is a partial excerpt from one.

My dearest BLK I love you mostly for your big yellow tooth

And not because you won’t wear your shooths

and tho I love your tattooed feet

they are less fragrant, but you know that, my sweet

I want you always to be mine

Or I will kill you

Love, your candy buttons

There was more, running on page after page ad nauseam, but they are personal and I shan’t share any more of them with you even if you were to pay me money in the form of cash, check, or money order, as I have too much respect for her now that she is gone. They were tender and moving and in some cases extremely explicit in nature, with many of the acts so detailed and graphic that they could only have been Chinese because of all the perverted stuff that comes out of that godless mis-begotten country, but no matter how much you beg, cajole or send me large amounts of money in the form of cash check or money order, I won’t budge. I mean it, so don’t ask.

Now that I seem to be bonding with my new site manager and his lovely wife I am beginning to feel the loss of my last two crew members, less and less each moment . In fact our new Mrs. Assistant Site Manager made us an extraordinary home-cooked meal tonight in which I may have over-indulged somewhat, and being in the throes of calorie saturation found myself unable to remember what, old what’s her name looked like. Or that monkey-faced big toothed baboon she had been mooning over.

Perhaps I’ll think about that tomorrow.

Day 12 New Digs

Today was a new day and a fresh start. After convincing our newest major employee to give up that tissue sample and DNA material, I assured him that we would cover all his legal expenses if any thing were to come of our future business dealings. Fortunately he didn’t ask me to sign any documents attesting to that fact so we headed off to look for a suitable site to create our new headquarters. It wasn’t long before we noticed this incredible find. It was remote, had a single power-line coming in, and seemed mostly abandoned so we proceeded to acquire it under the Oregon law of Finders Keepers.

Giddy with our initial success we immediately began to make plans to get started with the remodeling needed to keep wild animals out until winter made it too difficult for them to brave the storms and attempt to gain entrance.

First on the agenda, besides breaking down the front door to gain entrance, was to begin making notes for the materials needed to secure the premises from, like, the afore-mentioned wild animals and possible old owners who may be testy due to their poor planning and could be lurking around to cause mischief in one way or another. So it was lots of fast scribbling and quick note taking as the ideas poured forth in a flood of enthusiasm. Luckily our new assistant site manager knew how to write, so much progress was made this morning. Soon trucks bearing loads of flattened cardboard boxes to replace missing window glass and magic markers to write warning messages on the cardboard saying “Don’t Even Think of Coming In Here” and “Stay out! We mean it” and other cryptic messages such as

“The State of Oregon allows the use of deadly force in the protection of private property if the new owners, hereafter called the squatters, deem it necessary to keep out previous owners, hereafter known as previous owners, who didn’t think it was a good idea to leave someone home to protect the property they have now lost.”

would be arriving if they could ford the creek and climb over the snow fence. Of course the drivers would have to be blindfolded to protect the location of our newest headquarters but that was a surmountable problem.

There were many other tasks to be taken care of such as finding out why there were so many bleached bones lying about the well, and what was that black crust around the edge, and why there was that persistent scratching sound coming from behind that locked door leading to the basement. We decided that it was nothing as the low guttural moaning that accompanied the scratching was receding, and it appeared that what ever it was seemed to be going to sleep for the night. We decided to leave the new Assistant Mrs. Site Manager there overnight to guard the place as we needed to get back into town and round-up some of these supplies and to make sure we had a hot meal in preparation of the next days activities. We left her with a flashlight, the .22 with the few shells we had left, a power bar and the warning not to open the door to the basement.

I had few qualms about leaving them in the morning as I had to continue my journey homeward the next day. They seemed more than capable and I was sure if Mrs. Assistant Site Manage was ok in the morning all would go well and the newest site would be up and producing useful data soon.

The journey was soon coming to an end and I was already waxing nostalgic about it but there were at least two more days to get home yet so anything could happen. Tomorrow I would enter Utah and head South. Stay tuned.

Nature’s Fireworks

Posted on July 4, 2014 by Dwight Lutsey

BigShots Now

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Monthly Archives: July 2014