Tag Archives: Denver

We’re In For It Now

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These are actual living trees. Notice anything different about them? That’s right they’re camouflaged. “What’s the big deal?” you might ask. Well, I’ll tell you the big deal. They’re camouflaged! You can’t see them because they blend in. You had trouble identifying them when you first looked at the picture didn’t you? That’s what camouflage does. You can walk right up to them and not see them until it’s too late and you’re laying there on the ground with busted glasses, bark in your teeth and your nose all out of joint.

Sometime back we wrote an expose about Camouflage, or Camo as it lies to be called, and fortunately posted it right here on BigShotsNow.com under the title “Camo – It’s Not Just For Wearing To Wal-Mart Anymore”, you can find it here:  http://www.bigshotsnow.com/camo-its-not-just-for-wearing-to-wal-mart-anymore/

We thought things were getting bad then but now it looks like we may have underestimated the danger. These trees pictured above, are living and proliferating right in the middle of downtown Denver. I’d tell you where, but they’ve blended in so well we cannot relocate them at the moment. We’ve been watching for unconscious people lying about on the sidewalk and have been checking various hospitals for increases in admissions with facial trauma, and other than the usual uptick after a Bronco/Raiders game it has been quiet. We’ve been querying local dentists to see if they’ve been plagued with bark removal cases from front teeth yet. They’ve responded there have been a few extra cases but we can’t triangulate the center point yet given the spotty response. We need to relocate these trees, so we can at least mark them with police warning tape.

The Institute believes this is becoming an insidious problem and cannot just be laughed off as a bunch of near-sighted, pot smoking Denver-ites walking into trees because they’re too baked to see where they’re going and that’s what stoners do. No this is too serious for that. What if a wind storm blew down some of these camouflaged trees over a roadway, like maybe I-25, you’d still be hearing cars crashing into each other up in Cheyenne. Would your insurance company pay off because you deliberately drove into trees lying across the road because you just “didn’t see them”? We think not. Well there you go, that’s just one problem. What if this malady spreads to other trees. Like fruit trees for instance, how would you even know when the fruit was ripe to pick? Worse yet how would you be able to buy it if you couldn’t find it in the produce section of your favorite Piggly Wiggly because it was camouflaged? The problem just gets worse the more you think about it.

Yes it is a problem. And problems need solutions, and of course that is what we do here at The Institute, we fix problems, even if the public doesn’t recognize that there is one  yet. We are going to be much more reactive in locating these trees and once we’re sure of where they are, we are then sending out teams of taggers, mostly gleaned from halfway houses and juvenile detention halls, with specially formulated Tree Tagger Paint that sticks to trees and glows in the dark, to paint warning messages on these obstacles to public health. Messages like “Whoa, Dudes! Watch it, Camouflaged trees here!” this would be for the stoners or burners, as one of our experts in Urban Street Slang likes to call them. Or possibly “Say, careful there, Camouflaged trees here, you wouldn’t want to have to replace those pearly whites right up there in the front of your face, Would you?” This would be from our friends in the Dental community. We know it’s a little long for a slogan but then you have some fairly educated people in Denver who like to read and would appreciate the erudite warning.

This is a battle we’re just beginning to fight and we know there is going to be an uphill struggle to get everyone on board with this. Public education is paramount if fighting this new threat. We need hotlines for people who have received unexpected whacks to their face to call in and give us the details so we can determine if one of these camouflaged trees was responsible or if you simply shouldn’t have replied to that drunk in the bar. We need your help in this ongoing effort to combat camouflage. So help us, so we can help you. Remember, We’re from The Institute, and we’re here to help.

Crow Lodge Morning

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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!

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Last August I had the pleasure of attending the largest gathering of tipi’s in North America, a yearly event sponsored by the Crow Nation, with over a thousand lodges set up along the Little Bighorn River just a long rifle shot from the Little Bighorn Battleground. I woke early one morning wanting to see the Crow camp in the early morning light. Slightly after dawn I set out to roam quietly through the camp, the sun was just beginning to rise sending its streaming light into every corner of the encampment.

It was still quiet, the people just beginning to stir. Horses tied to posts near the tipis whickered softly to those in nearby makeshift corrals. The ravens, those earliest of risers called back and forth, asking each other raven questions in their own raspy tongue. Far off in the distance people were splashing in the river, their shouts of delight echoing among the trees. Morning is a special time. A time for quiet observing, a time for listening to all the sounds that get buried in the days activities but are so prominent in the early hours. It’s normally chilly but not cold, a jacket wasn’t needed but still cold enough to send a shiver through you as you entered a shaded spot. The sun was rapidly rising and it soon took the chill off.

There was a smell of wood smoke here and there as the people slowly went about their morning routines. A good smell, one that made your mouth water even though the cooking hadn’t started in earnest yet. I was fortunate and met some people who, although members of the tribe, lived in a suburb of Denver. We talked, exchanging thoughts on things like what it was to be a Native American and yet live in an urban environment and how much it meant to them to be able to reconnect with their heritage. I must have looked hungry as they invited me to breakfast, introducing me to their extended family. At first I didn’t even notice how at home I felt with them, it was just “pass the sausage please” and “damn that tastes good” and the realization came later as I began to process the experience.

After breakfast and yet more talk I left to continue my wanderings along the winding convoluted roads that sprang up as the different lodges were set up. At first it looked like a totally haphazard system until you looked closer and saw that the placement of the lodges was designed around family groups being together and not for the ease of driving a vehicle through them. I saw that you had to get your head in a different place to make sense of the surroundings but once you did it made sense, just not the kind we may be used to.

When I look at the image above it brings back that morning with a vivid clarity that deeply satisfies me and it makes me want to be there again. So next August that’s where I’ll be if they’ll have me. I want to hear and see and listen to that incredible experience again. And maybe even take some more pictures.

Note: If you’re interested in seeing more about this event check out the original series of posts about it beginning with http://www.bigshotsnow.com/2014/08/21/  and ending with  http://www.bigshotsnow.com/2014/08/27/.

This Old Door

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This old door has stood the test of time. Rain and snow have blown against it. The hot searing sun has dried it out until slivers of itself hang loosely from its skin. Its rusting hinges still let it swing freely though, opening and closing with the same solid wood against wood sound as its latch fits into the socket, it too worn with age, that it has since it was installed so many years ago.

When it was new it arrived first by train from St. Louis to Denver, then up the eastern side of the Rockies on a spur line to the young and vibrant city of Jackson hole in Wyoming territory. A clerk from the Jackson hole livery and hardware store helped another young fellow load it into his wagon for the trip up the side of Kingston mountain. It was bound for a construction site where he was building a home for his soon to be new bride. It cost four dollars and was considered a huge extravagance by his father who thought he should have built one himself and saved the money.

After they were married, and the house was finished, Wallace and his bride Hetty decided to paint the door the brightest white they could find so folks traveling up the road past the house could see it coming for miles. Hetty wanted them to see it and know good hard-working people lived there. People that cared for their home and each other and to use the door as a marker for the love they had for each other. It took a lot of effort on her part to keep the door white and clean, especially as they had so much else to do. But Hetty thought it was worth every minute she spent on it. They were happy and the house was a joyful one, full of promise.

Years passed. Hetty bore seven children, three of which lived, and the door began to lose its luster. It wasn’t that the love it sheltered was ebbing, it was just hard to keep the door bright when her life was getting so dark. She missed those children. Life showed so much promise then. Young Wally drowning in the creek that last spring was almost enough to make her give up. Before that the others she lost were mainly due to sickness and there wasn’t anything that could be done about that. Little children died back then. But she wished with all her heart that she had told that boy not to go to the creek with it running so high. But he was like his father, headstrong and stubborn. He went anyway.

Her pride and joy were the two girls, Arletta and June, both of which married well. Arletta and Jess went to live in Denver, and June and her husband started a haberdashery in Cheyenne. They came home every so often but that had slowed now that June had two of her own. Hetty’s remaining son Stiller, the quiet one, stayed home to help Wallace keep the place going but she could see that he was getting restless. One morning Wallace came in and said he’s gone and that was that. She didn’t get up that day. It was also the last day she scrubbed the door.

The house was empty now again except for the two of them, and dinner time was a quiet time. Wallace didn’t have a lot to say and Hetty was lost in her own thoughts more often than not. Wallace had pretty much quit working the place after that young colt got in a lucky kick and shattered his knee. Hetty did some mending and took in laundry but soon that got to be too much and they were having a pretty rough go of it. June came and got them one bright summer day in 1927 and moved them into their place in Cheyenne. She and Bill had room and she could use the help with the kids. They both missed the old place but this was Ok. Hetty liked the gentle chaos of having a family around her again, although she often wondered if she would ever see Stiller before her time was gone. Wallace never brought it up but she noticed he still carried that old pocket knife he had given Stiller on his twelfth birthday. For some reason Stiller had left it next to his bed when he left. When it was Wallace’s time to go she made sure she put it in the casket with him.

The door began to show the ravages of time. The final flakes of white paint had long ago been swept away by the wind. The family, now June and Bill, and Arletta and Jess kept the place so they’d have somewhere to take the kids in the summer. The door still opened and closed with a satisfying thunk and they saw no need to paint it again. Arletta in particular like the way it had weathered and there was a small but short-lived argument about whether they should fix the place up so they could rent it and maybe take care of the taxes. June and Bill wanted to but Arletta fought for it staying the same as it was the only reminder they had of the folks now that Hetty was gone. Arletta won, at least for now, and so far the door has stayed natural.

If you go up there now, on the side of Kingston mountain where Wallace built Hetty her first and only home, you can still see the old door. It is still weathered, but Arletta finally gave in and now the place is rented out to summer people. If you’re there and lucky you may hear the satisfying thunk of the door being slammed as one of the kids runs in and out. The sound of a mother yelling “Don’t slam the door!” is lost on the kids. That’s what doors are for. Hetty never yelled, that time was too precious to waste it on yelling at the kids.