What really goes on when all those old guys meet for breakfast at the local cafe?

The time is early morning in early December 2012.  The election was decided nearly three weeks ago but I am still paying the price for holding a few political thoughts that differ from my breakfast companions.  They have already left the Pueblo, CO area restaurant.  Only Lord Northrup lingered on to talk politics.  I am tired of talking politics with Lord Northrup!  He is a friend, so I endure what has become a continued assault on my peace of mind.  By the way, I assault him too.

As I walk out the door of the restaurant into an unseasonably beautiful warm Pueblo morning to my pickup truck I have to ask.  “Whatever happened to free speech?”  This is a rhetorical question and no one hears me.  I mumble to myself.  “I’ve never been an original thinker, but I am cursed by being an independent thinker.” 

Certainly, not all twelve of those guys that come and go to the Pueblo area restaurant think exactly alike about politics.  Are they all Republicans?  Some don’t talk about politics at all repeating the old caveat, “my mom told me not to talk about politics or religion.”  Could it be that they are simply afraid to speak up?  Maybe they know they will lose friends.  Some of these old guys are pretty sharp.  They don’t seem to be too concerned about losing business, like that barber in Missouri I read about.  He was the guy with a big mouth who ran-off all of his customers with his political ranting’s and ravings while he sharpens his razor on the old leather strop. Most of my breakfast companions are retired.  So I suspect they just want to hold onto their friends.

The peer pressure to conform seems to be just as strong at seventy years old as it was when we were all in tenth grade.  Hell, if the pressure to conform was just a little bit stronger all of the men at the coffee clutch would be calling each other to see what to wear today. 

The phone rings, “Hey Jimmy, are you wearing the ratty Levis with the imprint of the Copenhagen can in the right back pocket and your blue socks and red plaid shirt today, or are you going with that outfit that your wife usually makes you wear on Monday?”

  

A guy I thought was my friend just called me a socialist.  Then he jumped up and shoved aside his chair like he was ready to kick my ass.

I am the guy with the differing opinion.  Sometimes I forget what mom told me about politics and religion.  All of the rest of the guys at the table fall right in line. They either agree with each other, or they keep their mouths shut.  They’re like a flock of Starlings on a utility wire.  The breeze blows a bit and they all dip their beaks in unison.   

I want to implore Lord Northrop to listen to my point of view, but he is gone and my political thoughts bounce around in my injured cranium.  What would I say to him?  Perhaps I would say what I have been saying all along.

“Lord Northrop, as much as I sincerely enjoy your company most of the time, the rancorous political discussions have to come to a halt.  The election is over pal.   As I have said numerous times lately, I am tired of talking politics.  The right to political dissent and discourse is inherent in our way of government.  Why can’t you accept the fact that I have a right to my own point of view?   We are firmly into our geezer hoods and what either of us thinks isn’t going to matter too much of anyone other than the two of us.” 

But, it’s too late for that.  The gauntlet has been thrown.  He has called me a socialist and the way he shouted at me in the restaurant was beyond your garden variety democracy.  Everyone looked at me like I was Hannibal Lector.  The only way I can patronize the place again is if I’m strapped to a chair in a strait-jacket with that hideous mask over my face.  How will I possibly eat?  

Maybe Lord Northrup will read what I have to say, so I keep writing.

So once more, Lord Northrup, allow me to state what I think and then I’ll put it to rest and I hope you are willing to do the same. 

I think that reaching another 30 million people with medical care that they didn't have in the past is a triumph for the current administration.  If nothing else it is a starting point.  If they can't get it to work financially, at least they tried to do something.  It may fail like many other great experiments, but our democracy has been an experiment from the very beginning and I suspect we will weather the storm. To me, medical coverage for a large number of people is a moral issue.  There are other moral issues to be sure. I hate the mere thought of abortion, but Roe vs. Wade has taken a back seat to other current issues. Politics comes down to issues that are important to each voter, whether that voter is purely practical or a dreamy-eyed ideologue.  I pick one or two issues and pull the lever.  That works for me.   

My vote is not a vote for socialism. Your charge that I am a socialist is particularly egregious to me.  The Supreme Court has plainly stated that the money to cover the cost was obviously a tax.  I never saw it as anything other than a tax.  Check out any dictionary for a proper definition of socialism before you start aligning your friends with Stalin and Marx.  “Hey, Lord Northrup, why won’t healthier people work for America? 

I am a registered independent, but I voted for the Democrats this time (and last time) for two reasons. The first I have mentioned above.  The second is my perception that the Republicans consistently show a patent disregard for any attempt to keep the countryside clean.  I don't care how many holes the oil and gas companies punch in the ground as long as they engineer the wells correctly and the crews do the work as it should be done.   This serves not only the safety and health of the nearby residents but also the financial well being of the energy companies.  I don't have to remind you of all the billions of dollars that British Petroleum has spent on cleaning up their mess.

Gas is cleaner to burn than coal and I am all for it until someone comes up with a method to clean up dirtier hydrocarbons or go to renewable energy entirely. If you don’t think that cleaning up the atmosphere is important I will simply point to the latest study on the melting of the Arctic ice cap which is, by good scientific measurement, melting at a much higher rate than previously measured.  Keep in mind that scientific theories can never be entirely proved, but they can be disproved.  So go ahead and disprove it.   

Thirdly, believe it or not, I don't really care about politics all that much.  I am not an adversarial personality. Hell, I really don't care if the Broncos win from week to week (as long as they make it to the playoffs).  When I watch a football game it is for the beauty of the logistics and the prowess of the athletes.  What concerns me most is my family’s health which is impacted by poorly delivered health care and lip-service environmental regulations and enforcement.

I really regret that the Republicans don't get it.  They were my party for most of my life and I would like to return to the fold.  My parents were loyal Republicans and most of my friends are still Republicans. I like all that talk about motherhood, apple pie, and bootstraps.  They are going nowhere unless some devil in an expensive suit runs for office and convinces the real fools to vote for him. I also regret that they feel they can write off the Latino/Hispanic vote, even though by doing so they helped ensure a Democratic win.  Open your eyes Republicans. 

When I think of the Republican Party I see something akin to General George Armstrong Custer leading all of his troops bravely to their deaths at the hands of a superior force with inferior weapons. (The guys with money vs. the guys with no money)  The popular general didn’t understand what he was up against simply because he didn’t take the time to understand what was going on.

General Custer is said to have been very popular in his graduating class at West Point and in the final analysis, his popularity was his undoing because his time should have been spent on study instead of his social life.  He was long on personality but he lacked substance.  Does the lack of substance begin to make sense to you?   By evidence, I can point out that he was the ‘Goat’. The Goat is the student who graduates last in his/her class at the Point. To this day, the West Point Cadets still glorify the Goat of each graduating class. The Goat sometimes goes on to achieve an amazing military career, but the odds are not with the goat.  The odds are with the people who pay attention.  The Republican Party does the same with the candidates they have picked recently.  They pick the long-shot goat.  The Republican Party needs to worry less about influencing members of their own party and spend more time on figuring out what is going on. They need to pick someone who can tie all of the diversity and real problems in this nation together and make all of it understandable to the populous. Goats bleat and pander.  Leaders have a vision and a sense of altruism and compassion for all the people.  Lord Northrup, have you ever met a goat with compassion?  The climate change problems are much more ominous than the big tribe of Native Americans that Custer faced.  The goats just can’t get these thoughts to square. 

To be sure, I am concerned about the current fiscal problems.  However, in my opinion, the morality of health care and the environment trumps the money problems.  We are still the richest country on earth.  It seems to me that the Democrats like to tax and spend, and from all indications of recent history the Republicans are fond of spending and borrowing, but reducing taxes.  When it's time to pay these huge deficits and the debt, we as a nation will have to bite the bullet and cowboy up. The sky is not falling. Both parties spend too much money. The end doesn't have to be lurking behind the next hill waiting for us to charge by, following the guy who graduated last in his class.

The Tea Party accomplishes nothing but damage by holding up approval to pay the bills for items that were voted on long ago.  I can't decide to stop payment on a car that I bought last year without severe consequences.  Where did the Tea Party get the idea they can throw a monkey wrench into the cogs of our capitalism without causing a catastrophe? 

You are frightened about your future because there are many in your political party who want to keep you frightened and in their back pocket.  

Let us get back to the discussions without the drama.  There are very few socialists in Pueblo County and I am not one of them either. 

To a good friend,

I enjoyed your comments on the Journal Nature article.  I also found the article to be exceptional.  My views are somewhat different than your views on global warming, or, at the very minimum, climate change.

Forty years ago while finishing up college at Ft. Lewis College my major professor in the field of anthropology was a Harvard Ph.D. by the name of Dr. John Ives.  He had impressive credentials and all of the students enjoyed his classes, although many were intimidated by his outspoken demeanor.  The four to six week (can’t remember exactly) archaeological dig in the four corners region was a hoot.  By that time I had become a serious student and paid attention to what he had to say.  His seriousness was offset by good camaraderie in the evenings when the students would all forgo the trip to the local bar which was more than a few miles away by dirt and gravel roads.  On nights we stayed in camp he would allow us to take pot shots at soda cans out back of the mess shack with his 44 magnum revolver, or entertain us with something equaling enthralling.   I was more impressed with his ability to supply the expensive ammunition than his ability as a marksman.   I think he especially enjoyed the company of some of the Viet Nam era veterans including a pal and fellow student by the Jon Bellar, and yours truly.

On several occasions Dr. Ives attacked several of the budding environmentalists for their “Berkeley” views which were nascent then, but quite prevalent today.  He would inform us in no uncertain terms that every organism on the planet has an effect on every other organism and simultaneously on the environment.  He may have been an early proponent of the Gaia hypothesis without his or anyone else’s knowledge.  His major point was always anthropological as one might expect.  He asked more than once, “why should it really matter if we destroy the environment?  What difference does it really make?”  

This was always followed with the statement that he saw evidence for our wanton destruction everywhere.  Our evolution (he was not fundamentalist) is tied intrinsically to the earths in every possible respect.  We evolved here and we will end here unless space travel across immense distances becomes possible for a handful of our species.  “If we should happen to destroy the earth with billions and billions of people and take all of its resources, THAT IS OK.  We have every right to take everything because we are part of the earth’s history and the earth produced us to consume everything in our paths.  When we are all gone there will be other species to take our place.”  The earth and its environment allowed us to evolve and therefore we have no duty to anything or anyone because we have evolved to do exactly what we were doing at that very moment.  In the case of our little archaeological summer dig, we were digging up graves, making love with whoever would have us and shooting the big revolver at beer cans.   He sometimes went on to point out that as a species our “collective intelligence” was an oxymoron.  Our actions around the camp that summer seemed to bear this out. 

Then he would bring up obvious points for the 1960s and 1970s. He talked of the Chaco Canyon Culture in Northern New Mexico.  He would point out that they denuded the forests for hundreds of square miles around to build their villages, maintain warmth in the winter, manufacture their pottery and cook their meals. This caused flash floods and ruined their irrigation canals, etc., etc. Finally, they picked up and went elsewhere.  The exodus, most likely to the south, wasn’t without tribe to tribe carnage.  As we continued our exploration of the Native American prehistory the signs of violence started to emerge everywhere.  I for one found a human mandible with an arrow head deeply embedded dead center.  I can’t imagine the pain that individual suffered. 

“But Dr. Ives,” asked one of the co-eds, “what happens when there are so many people that there is no longer a place to move.” 

He would answer with something like, “well Judith, you can figure that one out for yourself.”

At that point his argument would not expand much because the expansion points of a warming atmosphere, rising atmospheric moisture, heat waves, drought and extreme rainfall had not progressed beyond 1970. Dr. Ives solution was to simply use up everything and let the species go the way of the Doo-Doo bird…  or maybe that wasn’t his solution.  Maybe the good Dr. was simply trying to get us to think for ourselves. 

I don’t think I have to paint a picture of what is likely to happen beyond a larger group than the Ancestral Puebloans.  When the population has stripped all of the resources, dirtied the atmosphere and pissed off all the neighbors, you can’t simply pick up and move south like the Indians did. 

We have all heard of scientists who would go to any lengths to get more money for the research projects they are working on, or new projects they would like to work on.   I am sure this must happen now and then.  Greed and treachery are part of the human condition.  However, there are so many scientists who claim that we are in trouble that I don’t think they can be ignored.  Last count for the professional scientific believers that we have drastically impacted our environment in the last several hundred years since the industrial revolution’s roots in Great Brittan is running at 97%.  That is right.  An overwhelming number of scientists are convinced by data that we have a problem. 

I imagine that there are also just as many people on the other end of the spectrum who would deny global warming for personal gain.  Personal gain for some people is a powerful motivator regardless of any ethical considerations.  The talking heads, the pundits without hearts and souls, the extreme narcissists are not equipped to interpret any of this scientific data.  They are rebel rousers and their only cause is to line their own pockets with cash.  Can you imagine Rush Limbaugh’s physician saying, “here are the results of your colonoscopy Rush, take a look at them and get back to me and tell me what you think.  You are so full of shit that we couldn’t get a very good view of your colon in some areas.   We have decided to leave the interpretation up to you.”

“But Dr,” (no pun intended) I don’t have the credentials to interpret scientific data, especially when it comes to my own health.”

Why is there a sudden spike in all of the climate conditions I have just mentioned?  Why have these changes been so dramatic in the last 40 years when we have had general warming trends and less dramatic variations over the last ten thousand years?  To be sure, the changes could all be totally natural.  They could be caused by anything from the sun to volcanism and heretofore undreamed of phenomena. 

However, everyone should stop to consider the trillions of pounds of carbon that have been released to the atmosphere over the last several hundred years since the beginning of the industrial revolution.  Coal, oil and gas have been liberated from the ground where these ancient carboniferous forests have been safely sequestered for millions of years.  I have flown over vast open pit mines in Colorado and Wyoming where the extraction fills a thousand coal cars a day from a single mine.  There aren’t just a few mines.  There are dozens of them.  I have walked through abandoned oil fields in east Texas and Wyoming through what seemed like a forest of oil and gas dereks. 

If carbon dioxide was at 315 parts per million on Maun Loa back in 1960 and it is nearly 385 and climbing right now, isn’t that a bit of a red flag.  Not long before that the CO2 was around 250 parts per million.  I have read more than once that an increase in carbon dioxide, as well as methane, is a simple matter of physics.  There is a direct correlation in a test chamber when heat trapping carbon dioxide is increased.  Why wouldn’t the same thing happen to the atmosphere when these gases are added at much the same percentages? 

Take this example.  Say one family lives comfortably on a $100,000.00 per year.  Dad and mom do not overspend.  Everything is fine.  Life is good.  Theoretically they can continue comfortably through life for decades.   Say the guy down the street spends $110,000 per year.  He also takes in $100,000.00 per year.  After ten years he owes someone $100,000.00.  In 30 years he owes someone $300,000 plus interest on his foolishness.  Putting mom to work might cure the problem.  What do you do with the atmosphere?  Who is going to cure the problem?  What does that extra 10%, 5% or even 2% do to the globe after a long period of time?

I could go on.  The fellow, who wrote the Journal Nature article didn’t seem to have an ax to grind.  But he did hit the nail on the head in regard to which peer group a person was likely to side with if his welfare, living and identity was tied up with a certain group.  The problem becomes sociological and anthropological.  If you don’t have a scientific background the whole thing comes down to belief systems and politics.  If you or anyone else has a different view than their personal politics, belief system or peer group, any course of action will eventually be deadlocked. 

Another factor is a lack of science and math in our backgrounds.  Many of our policy makers are lawyers.   How many lawyers have you met who understand anything at all in the way of science?  I often think of lawyers as having pursued “extended education for the ambivalent.”  They got a BA one bright sunny day and then looked around and said, “oh shit, what am I going to do now… guess I’ll go to law school.” 

Science still produces fear and loathing among non-scientist.  Scientists are modern day Galileo’s fencing with the Roman Catholic Church. 

To write off the whole idea of global warming being caused by humans in the last 200 years as simply “bullshit” is failing to give careful consideration to a lot of scientific inquiry.  Serious ideas should not and cannot be dismissed by a statement that is nothing more than thinly disguised partisanship and a sprinkling of bravado.

One of the giant leaps of humankind in the last 50 years has been our ability to carefully measure, record and analyze vast amounts of data.  I am simply asking my friends to take a look at this wonderful new ability to look carefully at our world and see for the first time what is going on with the aid of devices that are far more precise than Galileo’s finest telescope. 

At the very least, everyone in every city on the planet is entitled to air that is clean enough not to make one ill.  The statistics that measure illness’ caused by airborne pollution are paraded past us often enough that no one should balk at the EPAs insistence on scrubbers for coal producing electricity. 

My thoughts on this could go on and on.  If I had a scholarly bent, I would provide footnotes for the few hypotheses I have cited.  I do not have a scholarly nature so I will decline.  However, anyone with any real interest can go straight to the science in reputable journals and read the science for themselves.  Before any one does this they should reacquaint themselves with the guidelines for the scientific method so they understand what is really being said.  I think most of us were exposed to the scientific method around 5^th grade.  A lack of knowledge of the ground rules for interpretation of science is unconscionable in a democracy where everyone is empowered with a vote.

From:P Frank Wolfs, University of Rochester.

 I. The scientific method has four steps

1. Observation and description of a phenomenon or group of phenomena.

2. Formulation of an hypothesis to explain the phenomena. In physics, the hypothesis often takes the form of a causal mechanism or a mathematical relation.

3. Use of the hypothesis to predict the existence of other phenomena, or to predict quantitatively the results of new observations.

4. Performance of experimental tests of the predictions by several independent experimenters and properly performed experiments.

If the experiments bear out the hypothesis it may come to be regarded as a theory or law of nature (more on the concepts of hypothesis, model, theory and law below). If the experiments do not bear out the hypothesis, it must be rejected or modified. What is key in the description of the scientific method just given is the predictive power (the ability to get more out of the theory than you put in; see Barrow, 1991) of the hypothesis or theory, as tested by experiment. It is often said in science that theories can never be proved, only disproved. There is always the possibility that a new observation or a new experiment will conflict with a long-standing theory.

What do I really think?  It’s far too early to simply pick a side.  This is not a heads or tails issue.  It’s not a flip of the coin.  Yes I believe in global warming or no, I do not believe in it.  Reacquaint yourself with the premise behind the scientific method and begin looking at the data and what those who have the education to interpret the data have to tell you. 

Redneck hate mongers

Letter to my Extreme Right Wing Republican, Redneck, Fundamentalist, Mindless Buddy.  Who says I ain't tolerant?  P.S. Centrist Republican is OK with me.

Before we become overly excited about Chick-Fil-A and their anti-gay stance, one should reflect on the fact that the military has been a great refuge for gays over the expanse of human history. As an Army officer, some of the men under your personal command were no doubt gay. They probably served the country well. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender are an undeniable fact of life. I take the Wall Street Journal. Several weeks ago, after astronaut Sally Rides sexual orientation was made public, several CEOs of major corporations joined in the fun and also "came out." They are everywhere!

All of my children are straight and I am as pleased as punch about this fact. None-the-less, you and I have no idea how the cards were shuffled for the genes of our grandchildren.  However, I have a few gays in my extended family and the family is for the most part fond of them.  I, in-fact, am fond of the gays in my extended family.  A gay friend of mine in high school turned out to be a very valuable member of society. His accomplishments far exceed mine. LGBTs add value to the dynamics of our little world in a number of ways. I haven't completely jumped on the gay bandwagon, but I think of gays much the same as many people think of insurance salesmen.  "Insurance peddlers can be annoying, except that is, for my own insurance salesman. My insurance salesman is A OK."  I am pleased to count some LGBTs as friends.

Here is a fairly serious thought from Gore Vidal, who as you know, passed on to his final reward today. I wonder how wide the gates of heaven swung to admit this highly entertaining individual. He has reportedly said the following. I didn't check it out on Snopes.com. This is copied out of Wikipedia and not directly from the pages of one of his books or essays.  Some people might think it blasphemous. 

"We are all bisexual to begin with. That is a fact of our condition. And we are all responsive to sexual stimuli from our own as well as from the opposite sex. Certain societies at certain times, usually in the interest of maintaining the baby supply, have discouraged homosexuality. Other societies, particularly militaristic ones, have exalted it. But regardless of tribal taboos, homosexuality is a constant fact of the human condition and it is not a sickness, not a sin, not a crime ... despite the best efforts of our puritan tribe to make it all three. Homosexuality is as natural as heterosexuality. Notice I use the word 'natural,' not normal."^[37]

I tend to agree with Gore Vidal.

Several days ago you referred me to Romans, Chapter 1. True, I agree with you; the Episcopalians tend not to give too much credence to that particular chapter. Now that I think of Romans, chapter 1., I wonder if the apostle Paul was not just a wee bit more homophobic than the Lord who seemed to show a great deal of tolerance for all kinds of personalities and human frailties in the four gospels. Perhaps the Good Lord does not care for those who participate in the LGBT life style as much as He likes those of us who are straight, but I doubt also that the Lord cares for his favorite book to be used as an instrument of hate.

Why does sitting on a church pew in a fundamentalist church for a few hours a month give you ,or anyone else, an overwhelming desire to treat our fellow human beings with bigotry and hate?  Maybe these attitudes are due to the hard board seats.  Maybe this mindlessness can be attributed to attending to many church potlucks.  These feelings of self-righteousness could not possibly be attributed to large blocks of time spent under the steeple, because I know very few fundamentalists who spend any more time in church than they do on their ATVs or in front of the television set. 

I would be very interested in your personal thoughts on many of today's subjects and a little less interested in all of the political blather copied from questionable sources and distributed like so much confetti, mindlessly to everyone who is packed into the email address books. The blather seems to come from all directions and I would like to weed it out. I am especially tired of the racial hatred that seems to abound around the Obama presidency. I may not vote for him in the upcoming election, but he does hold the office of President. Solid political discussion is welcome, but blind hate is discouraged. I see an overabundance of these "hate emails" because I have an excessive number of redneck friends and acquaintances.  (I admit I like some occasional light porn, nothing too objectionable mind you:) I have never received light porn from you and would find it refreshing. Just enough to remind me of the good old days is quite all right. I feel the light porn is far less injurious to our psyches than all of the hate I see dispensed on a daily basis. I can't tell you how many emails from various people go straight to the trash bin without opening them because I already know what they contain. The blather of each individual tends to take on a personality that is remarkably similar, email to email. The emails give me the impression that all of us are assigned a fairly strict role on the stage of life that we are not allowed to deviate from. Bill sends type Z-32 emails on a regular basis and Jim sends type K-22 emails and rarely do any other types of emails make it into the mix. Most of my redneck friends are stuck on auto pilot.

Nothing personal, but it is time that we all start thinking for ourselves a little more. Its time we stop running blindly with the crowd. I assume your degree from Stanford puts you at an intellectual advantage. If you have made it this far through my rant, I thank you.  Here's hoping for a little more praying and a little less loathing. 

The Golden Eagle

Time has flown.  Years have passed.  Most of our memories consist of vague patches of fog drifting lightly over mountain valleys.  The valleys are obscured by time and in some instances the veil of lost memories is our ultimate guardian.  But what can be said of the truly intense memories that remain with us always?  Some may be dark, but some memories are truly wonderful and remain with us forever.  Some of our wonderful memories are of family and friends.  Some are of adventure.  The sport of soaring provides the opportunity for what I call "mini-adventures."  When the release lever for the tow-line is pulled, there is always the potential for adventure.  Here, on blank paper, is a chance for me to re-live an aviation adventure that is unforgettable.

I'm certain that the old logbook with the original entry is still around the house.  I have never known of an aviator who would discard a treasured log book.  I was always fond of carefully printing highlights of my flight in the remarks section of the log, such as, “towering cumulus to the north,” or, “passenger Gary Duncan was along for the ride,” or,  “the rear seat in the Czechoslovakian Blanik popped up in turbulence and became jammed against the stick.” (another story)  An FAA district agent examined my log books once and chuckled at my remarks.   Should I find the logs, I could verify the dates and altitudes exactly.  There is just the matter of looking for them, or waiting long enough, and somehow they will turn up on their own volition.  However, the story demands to be told now.

The single entry that I remember in the remarks section of the log was, “golden eagle.”   The workday began in suit and tie in a dark dreary office in Grand Junction, CO.  A few hours into mid morning, suffering from that cooped up feeling that I imagined were similar to the pains of incarceration felt by prison inmates and residents of the Soviet Union, I called an important client who lived sixty-five miles to the south.  I needed to see him in person within the next several weeks, and I hoped that he would deliver me from the oppressed white-collar bondage that very morning.  Alas, though I was still engaged in business, I was free from the office and on my way to an early afternoon appointment.

Most sailplane pilots are sky gazers.  Many of us keep a weather eye cocked at all times. We are Captain Ahab’s, looking for the great white whale of a wonderfully formed cumulous cloud.  Like Captain Ahab, our adventures are very real, but never vindictive like the captain’s.  As soon as I was in the car, I suspected that the day would turn out to be an unusually fine day for soaring.  The problem was, I worked Mondays thru Fridays and I felt that soaring during the work- week was just out of the question.  Saturday and Sunday would come around soon enough.  As I neared Delta, Colorado enroute to Montrose, Colorado I could no longer contain my excitement.  Conditions, I judged, would be absolutely perfect in the next hour or so for a wonderful ride and as a bonus, I would not have to compete with a gaggle of my fellows for stick time like I did on the weekends.  In fact, often I found myself behind the controls of the tow plane rather than the sailplane.   I stopped at a pay phone and tried to reach the soaring operation in Crawford, Colorado.  There was no answer.  I tried again a few minutes later.  No answer.  Then I lost all sense of propriety, called my client, politely cancelled with some inane excuse and headed to Crawford with the prayer that I could find the proprietor of the airfield, Delta County Judge, Lynn French.   If his court was not in session that morning, he might be out and about the airfield on his tractor.

His honor was just where I hoped to find him.  It didn’t take long to convince him to drop everything that he was doing and give me a tow. Soon, I was strapping into the Blanik L-13, giving Lynn the signal, and off I went.  As a newer soaring pilot, with lots of power time, I often found myself scratching for altitude, trying not to embarrass my self with abbreviated flights, while one of my children or one of the other glider pilots children sat in the back seat.  We always tried to take a kid if they were around. The uninitiated adults were often left to pay hard earned dollars for the privilege to soar like an eagle.  Often, as I watched the vario needle droop, I would beg over the radio to one of the big guns that frequented the field, like Bill Hill, or Hill Billy as we fondly called him, for the best place to hunt for a thermal.  Some how he always knew where to look.  This time I was alone.  I released from the Belanca Scout at one thousand feet agl, which was about six thousand five hundred msl.  Instantly I was on an express elevator.  The twenty-eight to one glide ratio that always paled in comparison to the glass ships gave me every thing that I needed, and then some.  The variometer was solid up, up, up.  I worked my way over the beautiful countryside and soon found myself at fourteen thousand feet over a National Park, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison.   From the vantage point I looked directly down, a mile or so below into the dark shadows of one of the deepest gorges in North America.    And then I saw it.  Just a dark spot really, not much more, but obviously a bird, most likely an eagle.  We were circling at the same altitude and the same direction.  How far away was he?  Who could tell?  How big would an eagle look at an eighth mile, or a quarter mile, or even a mile away?  And the big question to me was, what on earth is he doing up here?  He certainly can’t spot game at this altitude.  Even an eagle can’t see a rabbit from this elevation, and if he did see a rabbit it would take a minute or more to descend and catch it.  The only answer that seemed reasonable was that he was here for the fun just like me.   As I gazed at him, he seemed to be getting a little bigger, a little closer.   We flew together, at a still respectable distance, for perhaps two or three minutes, then suddenly, with no apparent provocation on my part, or so it seemed, the eagle closed in on me at what seemed like supersonic speed.  The Blanik suddenly seemed to be the target of a high-speed aircraft.  Incredibly, and instantaneously, the golden eagle stopped directly over my canopy, its talons only inches above my baldhead and its fierce eyes looking straight into my eyes.  I flinched uncontrollably, ducked my head, but managed to hold the stick steady.  Its colors were magnificent and its wingspan seemed to extend a good four feet on either side of its body.  To be honest, it could not have stayed with me for more than five or six seconds.  But close your eyes and imagine seeing something truly wonderful for the first time, and while your eyes are closed count to six. Those six seconds left an indelible image on my mind forever.  The eagle rocketed away as quickly as it arrived, in total control, with supreme confidence the likes of which I have never seen before or since.  Was the animal issuing a warning or was it just curious?  Did it want to fight the big Blanik, or did the bird know, as it looked me in the eye that a human being had intruded into its realm and the Blanik was just the human’s humble vehicle? 

I flew along for some time after it left, perhaps fifteen minutes, a half hour, just day dreaming about the encounter.   Suddenly I noticed that the bright afternoon with all of its sharply defined cumulous had become very, very dark.  The vario needle was pegged straight up to its limit.  I was being sucked into the base of a huge cumulous cloud, the equivalent to a stellar black hole for any glider, and in a few seconds would be flying in IMC.  The cloud was just about to become a big thunderstorm.  I deployed the spoilers about half way and only slowed the climb, then full spoilers and a dive allowed me to escape the impending maw of the cloud, about ten miles in circumference, and I headed back to the field.  I went back to my office and spent a good week, off and on, daydreaming of my close encounter.  I talked to my friends, Hill Billy, Lynn French, John Linke and others about the experience.  I believe it was Bill Hill, who also happens to have some great soaring credits to his name, told me the experience was not totally unheard of in the realm of soaring pilots.  Bill advised that if it ever happened again to be sure to hold the stick steady, just as I had done.  Not to do so would risk serious injury or death to one of nature’s most magnificent works, and who knows what it might do to a glider pilot without a parachute. 

I’ve been fortunate to live in the wilds of the Rocky Mountain West for a good part of my life.  Last summer, 2002, I spent most of my time with a crew of Native American wildfire fighters.  I got to know and respect members of the Lakota, Dakota, and Oglala Sioux tribes along with firefighters from the Navajo Nation and a few people from the pueblos of the southwest.  Laguna Pueblo in New Mexico was well represented.  I was fascinated with the respect that the Native American people have for the environment and animal life.  Many of these people are given an animal totem at some point in their life.  Perhaps an elk, a deer or a bear is chosen to watch over them.  One evening several of my new friends announced to me that my totem was to be a golden eagle.  Maybe they were serious, and maybe they were just enjoying good camaraderie.  I had never told any of them of my close encounter with the eagle.   

 Some of our best soaring sites have disappeared due to development and Crawford, CO, the last I heard, is no longer making a concerted effort to keep glider pilots happy.  I drove by, looking for old friends and a place to soar in the summer of 2002.  Hung high in the rafters of a fairly new hangar was a beautiful old Slingsby Swallow.  She was still bright green under the accumulated dust, and the birds were using her for a perch.  With a little care she could be flying again in no time.  Maybe the eagle would like to meet the swallow someday.    

The Apparition of Cooper's Mills 

The rain fell gently from an overcast sky.  The cooler air, after a long spell of summer heat was a gift; a mid-summer treat, an ice cream cone from the heavens.    I was a boy of 16 years and the damp cool tasted delicious on my skin.   I had ambled keys in hand, without a serious care in the world, half way across the street from my parent’s car.  The car was a big pink boat of a Detroit made Mercury, a gas guzzling family behemoth.  That’s when I saw her.  Between me and the barber pole stood a pretty young girl, slight of build, which I was certain to this day, I had never seen before, or sense.  She smiled brightly as I passed near her on my way for a haircut.  Her face, her smile, her eyes danced in a near supernatural radiance.  She couldn’t have been more than 14 years old, far too young for a fellow with a new driver’s license to chance a second glance.

Then she spoke to me.  She said only two words, and those two words have perplexed me and left me in wonder for the past 50 years, when on occasion my mind indulges in the flights of fancy to the carefree years of my youth. 

She greeted me with my name, “Hi Shep”, just a casual hello from a pretty young girl.  I took a few more steps toward the old wooden sidewalk, stepped through the thresh hold of the barber shop and turned to ask her name.  She was gone, into the afternoon rain.  I inquired about her of the friendly old barber with his round belly and no tails to his un-tucked shirt.  He answered in the clipped New England accent that I could barely imitate and he said, “Ayah, I never noticed her in the first place, and as far as I know, all of the children in the neighborhood have grown up and left the village.” Before I left the tinny two block long settlement, I asked an old women wearing a broad brimmed hat and holding a garden trowel, then a young boy about the girls age who the young girl might be.  No one knew her, which was really quite odd given the size of the town.  I came back the next day and inquired of several more people.  There was not a trace.  I never saw her again. Oh, I have looked for her many times.  Over the years I have detoured well off the beaten path back to the tiny village of Cooper’s Mills, Maine.  Well into my twenties, and even my early thirties, I was sure that I would recognize her on seeing her again.  But I never saw her.

 She lives in my heart, a lovely apparition, born in an instant of time, yet woven into the fabric of my mind for as long as I shall live.  Her face is only a vague recollection, a faded Daguerreotype wrapped gently in lace, and laid carefully away in the old attic trunk with other keepsakes from a bygone era. 

Then one night shortly after my 50^th birthday, the mystery was solved.  First I should tell you that I often find myself alone with only my thoughts and my Siamese cat.  My wife is gone, the children raised and scattered.  The television has become an incessant bore, and my social life, while adequate, is not compulsive.   The changes in my life have come upon me recently and have left time and energy to explore new avenues.   Very late one recent evening, well past midnight I drifted into a meditative state, a centering prayer.  Without conscious direction I suddenly found myself in the tiny village.  At first I saw only the chrome door handle on a background of Mercury pink.  My eyes downcast, as I walked from the car, fell on the wet gravel road.  My field of vision widened slightly to encompass a lush but poorly manicured lawn with islands of bright daisies.  I looked up, “where am I?”  Tall oaks and huge maples were an umbrella against the rain and the cool dampness felt good on my skin, roughened by years of the dry climate on the Colorado Plateau.  There she was, unchanged by time, standing in front of the barbershop.  I approached her, still unsure of what to say, even after 50 years.  I said, “hello.”  She didn’t see or hear me.  An overwhelming rush of emotion came on me and my skin covered with goose bumps that lasted longer than I had ever before experienced, and then I knew she was Linda Duncan, who had never been east of Denver until she was well into her twenties when I took Linda Duncan, my new bride, to Cooper’s Mills for the first time in her life.  I was just 26 and Linda was 24. 

On that day when we were still young,seemingly as long ago as my first encounter with the lovely apparition, we drove into the tiny village one rainy afternoon and parked the car across from the spot the barbershop had once stood.  Even as a happy newlywed, I wistfully hoped to see the pretty girl once more, never dreaming that pretty young girl had become my wife.  The fabric of time has woven us inexorably into the same magical tapestry.

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me. 

Christina Rossetti  1830-1894

Sunday Morning

My dues seem too much.

The tithe is steep for the penurious.

The redemption factory must meet expenses.

Candles, copiers, staff, incense, vestments- the crumbling structure.

The list lengthens in my mind,

His trips abroad.

From the nave, I gaze at the priest, facile,

my thoughts no more than glimmers on a sunlit pond,

blend sin and the payments for salvation – placed haltingly in the wicker basket.

Costa Rica, Winter, Dry Season 2012

The story

Ben and Shep met January 20th at Denver’s DIA Airport Holiday Inn. We got a few hours of sleep and were up at 3:00 AM to catch a flight to Costa Rica punctuated with one stop in Dallas, TX. In retrospect, we didn’t need to arrive the requisite two hours ahead of time for the international flight because the airport was nearly deserted and the bells and hoops were easy to jump through at that early hour. The automated ticket dispensers were not working and this baffled the American Airline ticket agents. This caused a delay of about twenty minutes, but after that things went fairly smoothly.

But, it’s impossible to predict what kind of problems are lurking anywhere a TSA employee is assigned. We hope the TSA does not employ the bipolar. Mania, paranoia and other pathologies perpetuate the agencies excesses. This is bad enough. A mild depression almost always results in a senseless delay, but deep depression creates a situation in which everyone can file through the metal detectors almost unnoticed. I don’t like this scenario much more than one with excessive scrutiny.

January 21st, Ben’s birthday was the big travel day. Not surprisingly, I remember exactly where I was 37 years ago. Older children are not generally comforted to hear the details of their birth, so I spared him once again. The two flights totaling 6 hours were far easier to endure than a trip to Europe or Asia, (ugh). The coach seats on American Airline were a wee bit more spacious than on United Airlines. That extra inch or so made all the difference! It’s the one to fly! Around the time of the flight American Airlines announced that they would lay off about 13,000 people. I can’t imagine how anyone can begin to decide who will stay and who will have to go. I have always found a way to employ myself, even to the point of accepting the lowliest positions if I had to, but many people simply collapse. Thirteen thousand people seem like an immense number, but there are people who say there are thirteen million people without jobs in the United States. Here Ben and I go running off to a beautiful country tucked up fairly close to the equator.

Tiny Bees in a sawn off log at the zip line adventure

There are simple calculators on the web to determine ones carbon footprint at home, on the road and in the air. They also provide a way to buy carbon offsets. If you have enough scratch, you can buy an offset for your dorm room. If the military draft is ever reinstituted, I believe anyone possessing a dorm room carbon offset should be drafted immediately, especially if the war has no logical merit. They will be gullible enough to be turned into fine soldiers in very short order.

A company by the name of TeraPass provides the following figures. The carbon footprint for the big jet to travel 4,672 air miles round trip was 4,544 pounds of carbon dioxide for both Ben and me. This amounts to about a pound per mile. No one on the flight traveled carbon free. Even the poodle in the baggage hold was guilty. Everyone produced their equivalent share of carbon dioxide and contributed approximately 2,270 pounds of carbon per person. I am left somewhat bewildered because I really don’t know, with certainty, what a pound of carbon gas looks like, feels like or tastes like. If I could somehow put it in a baggie and weigh it on the scales at the post office, would it weigh 16 ounces? What would be the post office charge for mailing it, say airmail, and would it disappear if I bought a carbon offset? The 2003 Chevy S-10 would have transported both Ben and me about 6,000 miles on curvy roads to get there and back, but would produce roughly the same pound of carbon per mile and come in at a grand total of 6,133 lbs. of carbon dioxide. Did we make the right decision to fly, or should we have driven? Obviously driving would have been prohibitive in the short span of a week and would have exposed us to unnecessary dangers ranging from theft and beak down to encounters with the murderous drug cartel. You name it! A paranoid guy like me can come up with all kinds of things that could go wrong. In addition to paranoia, there is also magic to consider. The question remains, how can 6 lbs. of gasoline ( one gallon ) turn into 20 pounds of carbon dioxide? It’s obviously magic, at least to those who won’t bother to look at science. It’s magic to most people who are leaning right, or just blowing to the right in the wind.

I often look at the airliners overhead and am dismayed at the amount of pollution they pump out. Perhaps that’s just sour grapes. I wanted to continue my flight career when I was young but felt it unwise due to my strong proclivity to ask the flight attendant for a barf bag when the plane hit some light turbulence. (We called them “stewardesses” back in the day.) Asking the stewardess is embarrassing enough, but imagine asking the captain, or worse yet, the copilot for a barf bag as you continued a final approach into O’Hare International.

It’s important to understand that most of the trips humans take are totally unnecessary. The choice should include; going by car, going by air; going by trains or most importantly not going at all. It’s my curmudgeonly thought that if we live near 38 degrees North latitude --104 degrees West longitude we should stay near those coordinates. Let’s be honest here. Everyone except the air crew and I should stay where they live.

I have a solution for wanderlust. In an ideal world, allowance to travel by sailboat could be made after a person graduates from high school so they could take a few trips early-on and see how others around the world live. Perhaps they would encounter people far poorer and in a few cases wealthier. When they are done with their adventures, they would be finished with their frivolous traveling, unless they have the time and money to go by sailboat once again, on their own resources. People would become accustomed to travel as simply another right- of- passage, no more important than a high school prom. Should a person not graduate, then they should be allowed two trips instead of just one, because they are not as likely to have the financial wherewithal to add great amounts of carbon to the planet later in life.

Now that technology has given us video conferencing, many business trips are completely superfluous. Business meetings should be held in front of a monitor. If one must sit through a meeting, wouldn’t it be better to yawn in front of a monitor where the chance of being seen isn’t as great?

We must also consider recreation. There are indoor pools, saunas and hot tubs. We don’t have to run off to the tropics for a week. We can stay home and play video games that trick us into believing we are in the tropics. If you must have a sunburn to feel like you have had a genuine experience there are tanning booths everywhere. The profession of Dermatology wouldn’t have to suffer any revenue losses.

People like Steve Jobs have given us the ability to save ourselves with technology that can mimic real life and real time. Would the electricity for the tanning salon come from coal, nuclear or wind generation, or something new and unimagined?

The topic of the birds and bees must also be addressed. One of the big draws to any vacation away from home is sex, or the hope of an amorous adventure. Certainly, a genuinely virtual experience of love is in the nearby future. There would be extended benefits to virtual sex, not the least being easier family planning.

The only reason that the planes are packed with fun-seekers is that fuel is still very cheap despite the ravings of the talking heads on the evening news. Should I buy carbon offsets on one of the various internet sites such as TeraPass? I know my religiously inspired original guilt would be assuaged, but would off-sets really benefit the environment. Should we plant our own trees in the backyard? Should we start another foundation? Perhaps a foundation to feed, clothe and shelter third world citizens in South America would offer real merit. We would offer them a free ride if they simply promise to refrain from cutting down the rain forests. If you believe this will work, please send me the cash to offset the carbon produced on your next trip. I make light of many subjects I care to explore, but I should not be making light of this. Government regulation will not be enacted in our lifetime. Only economic and cultural forces, which are always excruciatingly uncomfortable, can get this immense frivolity under control. As I become increasingly hypocritical about taking long trips, just after returning from a long trip, let me point out that this hypocrisy is the hallmark of our generation. Many of us indulge in this dangerous hypocrisy. Did Ben and I really wait until Volcan Arenal was dormant before we made the trip, as I jokingly told several friends? After all, volcanos leak an extra 130 million to 230 million tons of CO2 into the atmosphere each year. Will that knowledge ease my conscience? But wait, you can buy a one year airline carbon offset for a mere $50.60 on the web from TeraPass. Before you do, be sure and talk to me. I’ll sell the same thing for $45.99, plus I’ll throw in the offsets for an extra trip to Europe for nothing. I think I understand the principals behind carbon offsets, but the offsets can never catch up with the ever increasing pollution. It’s tiger balm for conscience. It’s big dollar revenue for the exchange. You might as well simply see a priest and ask forgiveness, then send your church offering to a company like TerraPass just in case the apocalypse doesn’t arrive as the fundamentalist hope. Whew, a bead of sweat. March 16, 2012 and the temperature is 82 degrees here in Pueblo, CO. One record hot day does not make for global warming. Is global warming a fact, or is this heat just a natural spike? You can have your own opinions, as the professor once told me, but you can’t have your own facts. Let’s worry about it tomorrow.

Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Nothing left to eat, no place to lay your head, nothing to look at but a carbon laden sky. Nothing but Carbon. When I was very young, I knew only of carbon paper. How bad can warming be?

The British Petroleum oil spill spewed nearly five million barrels of crude oil into the gulf. To me, that’s beyond comprehension. That is around 210 million gallons of crude oil. The average gasoline tanker that you see delivering gasoline to gas stations around your town can legally haul around 8,500 gallons, depending on gross weight limitation laws for the various government entities. The oil spilled in the gulf could have been transported by 24,700, eighteen wheel tanker trucks. Parked end to end, with a little cushion to help avoid a rear end collision, (we don’t need another tragedy) the line of tankers would stretch out for 370 miles. The line might start somewhere in northern New Mexico, go through the state of Colorado and terminate with the lead truck in southern Wyoming. The truck tire companies would benefit because 444,600 tires would be required to support the trucks. The few truck stops along the way would also benefit, and most importantly, ecologically minded truckers would spend millions of dollars on carbon offsets.

Air travel amounts to only three and a half percent of all the energy we use each year. The oil spill looks big, really big to me. Let’s put this in further perspective. Current oil consumption around the world is 1,400 BP oil spills per day. That’s probably why the BP chairman referred to it as no big deal. We are only talking about oil. Forget about everything else from coal to firewood. We are burning up our world. Much of the carbon which has been safely sequestered under the ground for millions of years is now being released into the atmosphere and the oceans. Where are my carbon offsets when I need them?

Pick up a new book by David Owen, The Conundrum. It’s a fast, easy read, because he has had plenty of time getting difficult ideas to people as a staff writer for The New Yorker. He explores ideas I only touch upon in depth for the non-scientist. I must admit, he does get a little carried away. Who doesn’t get carried away when they are writing the sequel to the book of Revelation?

Sunset from the catamaran

Sorry for the digression. Let’s get on with the trip.

We talked with an interesting guy from Toronto. He had friends in Costa Rica who wanted to have him visit. As I sit here I wonder if he bought carbon offsets. I judged him to be Ben’s age, and for a Canadian, worldly wise, an opinionated chap indeed. I’ve always appreciated that the edge on our Canadian friends is not quite as finely honed as is ours. As stereotypes go they are more polite, more politically correct, and indeed more civil. Our new friend proved to be somewhat more “USA American” than I was used to finding in our northern neighbors. At some point I suggested that Ben and he exchange emails, which they did with a promise of a future encounter. As the flight descended over Nicaragua my thoughts drifted to President Daniel Ortega, The Sandinista National Liberation Front and the exceptionally striking dormant volcanoes scattered north to south.

Flying into Liberia over the coast we had the chance to look into the calderas of several large and ominous appearing volcanoes. To be fair to both Costa Rica, and Nicaragua, we also looked into some very benign looking craters sporting lakes and vegetation. The day was beautifully clear and held a fine promise for a tropical vacation. We had arrived during the dry season.

I have always taken notice of volcanos. I find the palpable feeling of impending violence attractive. Human beings are attracted to violence, at least from a distance. Take for instance any of the great movie actors. There is always that edge, the thought that they could explode at any moment. Their ability to turn on the proverbial dime, in a heartbeat, keeps you from falling asleep in your seat.

I have driven my rental car up the flanks of Mt. Fuji to the popular ski area. I have fished in the sea near Mt. Augustine while it smoked, not far from Homer, Alaska and I have peered at the massive glaciers atop Mt. Baker in the Pacific North West from the copilot’s seat of a small propjet. I have barreled my bicycle down the road from the top of an extinct cinder cone in Northern New Mexico. I hit a pot hole near the bottom and bent the front tire-rim. The next morning, while trying to ride the damaged bike, I fell over and embarrassed myself in front of a gaggle of Episcopalians just after a very affable coffee hour in the basement. Thus, a volcano that has been dormant for hundreds of thousands of years inflicted damage to my ego and my aging body. Capulin is the name of the cone should you ever decide to visit. If you decide to ride your bicycle to the top you have to wait until after the Nat’l Park Rangers go home in the evening. No bikes are allowed, but you can defy federal rules and regulations and just barely get around the gate and the edge of the cliff with your bike on your shoulder if you are careful. I didn’t dream this subterfuge up on my own. The nice park ranger lady suggested I wait for her to go home and told me where to access the trail.

Upon arrival at the Daniel Oduber International airport we cleared customs and were hustled to the rent-a-car van. Everyone who aided us had their hand out. We had been told en-route that workers don’t expect tips, and when I returned and read several Costa Rican travel guides the earlier information was confirmed in print. “Workers don’t expect tips. Tip only if you feel the service has been exceptional.” Someone forgot to tell many of the indigenous folks about their uncorroborated behavior. Did I mention indigenous people? The people were one of the most wonderful treats of our visit.

At the Economy Rent a car company we were hooked up with the little Toyota. A young American (this too was America, but you know what I mean) of the ugly persuasion was yelling at the rental agent, demanding to know why the rental prices were so high and telling the agent that he wasn’t going to buy an extra $50.00 per day in insurance. In a hushed voice I asked a nattily dressed gentleman standing next to me, “what gives.” He tipped his straw hat with the pink band and told me to buy all of the insurance I could get. “The last thing you want is to be held in a jail in this country while you dial for dollars to cover an accident expense.” These are shades of Mexico for certain. When I looked at the U.S. State Departments web site on my return home, they confirmed the man’s thoughts and said, “be sure to buy adequate insurance.” I often forget to look at State Department communiques before the trip. Perhaps too much information is not good for the paranoid among us.

Our time share for the week at El Coco, Costa Rica

We had the best intentions of going into the town of Liberia, but the beach was on both our minds. The town is well known for its picturesque colonial whitewashed buildings. Oh well, they will have to wait for another visit.

We found the time share apartment quite attractive and comfortable. While in the compound it was exactly like south Florida. “Why come this far,” I asked myself. The kitchen was far more than we had hoped for, or even given a second thought to during our typical non-planning phase. My three children and I take great pride in planning nothing. Things like world travel and big game hunts happen with the least involvement and foresight. Fortunately, some of the planning is done by Brenda and Bree. In fact Brenda made the reservations for flights, accommodations and rental cars with my credit card. My father was a scrupulous planner and I can see obvious benefits in every area of one’s life, but planning takes discipline, even for the fun events of life.

On January 22, 2012 we were led to a red platform sea kayak by a restaurant employee. The time share people had hooked us up with a first hour free deal. The waiter did a fairly good job of hiding his annoyance at our persistence in getting the show underway. He pointed to the boat and through a few life preservers on it and said in Spanish, what we kind of thought translated to “have at it.” One of the great parts of the five hour trip was he wasn’t around to collect when we returned and no one else paid attention to us. Just to ease our consciences we returned to the scene of the crime twice. Returning was not my idea. It was Ben’s idea. I felt entirely sure that Ben’s subconscious was talking to him when he suggested we go there once again to dine. No one wanted the money for the kayak on that visit either. We returned to the same restaurant once again to attend a semi-mandatory time share pitch by some high pressure wound up expats. Texan’s they were. But that is a story best untold. There is much more pleasure talking about our first snorkel experience in the area.

The sea life wasn’t as abundant as either of us had encountered on the Caribbean, but what a treat none the less. We picked up puffer fish and chased eels with very evil looking teeth. On one dive someone set a living starfish on my shoulder as I stood in shallow water. A living star fish moves its long appendages much like an octopus moves is tentacles. The eels were small, to be sure, but we marveled at their mobility and unpleasant dentition. Ben had no problem diving to the bottom of the deep green sea and staying for forty-five seconds or so. I, on the other hand had to fight to get to the bottom. My girth had become an inner tube. Drowning in salt water would be absolutely impossible for me, especially with mask fins and a snorkel. Schools of fish swam in near perfect circles. Now and then I found myself surrounded by their sparkling bodies as if I were the black hole in an immense galaxy and the fish had nothing better to do than orbit me forever.

After several hours snorkeling, we paddled back. My self- diagnosed stenosis hurt as I pulled against the paddle, but the seas were with us when we returned. Going back to the shore was far easier than our trip out of the bay against the rising tide to the diving spot. I am getting old and if it’s not one ache, pain or some other type of Veterans Administration hospital recognized malady, it seems to be something else. I am not a war veteran, so please don’t shed pity on me. Because I served in the Viet Nam Era, the word “era” being operative, I get medical treatment at a phenomenally low cost. The VA deal far surpasses anything Medicare can offer. If some anti-pork barrel junior congressman tries to take this plum from me I’ll be genuinely outraged. Putting up with that nasty red-faced southern bully of a drill sergeant for the eight weeks (maybe only six) of basic training was enough to justify free room and board for life. His breath was bad and his attitude was even worse. To be fair, he was just trying to help keep us all alive by teaching us to obey orders, but he enjoyed his job with us Yankee boys a little too much. Pardon my paranoid random man comments. No seque.

Brown sugar-cane for your coffee?

El Coco was four or five blocks of densely inhabited humanity. Brilliantly colored bill boards, ladies dresses of every hue and imaginative signage beckoning us to find a parking spot and walk into a store were seen everywhere. There was very little horn honking, as everyone knew it did no good. Driving up the street past the restaurants and mini-casinos was a Central American adventure. Nothing but bumper to bumper would do. Pleasant looking women’s derrieres gently swayed directly in front of the Toyota’s hood. I wanted to get around them, but then again I didn’t mind being blocked. One morning at the local Subway Shop in downtown El Coco, while eating red beans and rice, ham and eggs we met Karen, a lovely woman from Raleigh, NC who had retained the southern drawl that so many lose. She knew exactly where Hobgood, NC was located. She was evidently a well know tennis player in the area and commented that she was competitive to a fault, no pun intended. Someone told us later that her last name was Rembrandt and her husband owned the Casino. This fit, because she invited us to play poker Wednesday night. We had the best of intentions to go and drop fifty thousand Colones ($100.00)but we didn’t make it. Subway was our only concession to Unites States of America cuisine. (wheat is trigo, or pan) No es possible trigo, senior. )

I have traveled between 61 degrees north to 10 degrees north latitude in the northern hemisphere. I have traveled in Asia and Europe and can make a few cosmopolitan comments now and then, but with my lack of skill in segue recognition and clumsy construction, I only sound awkward. I would love to go to Peru and extend my degrees further south with Scott Hodges, but it’s not likely considering old age and annoying infirmity is approaching quickly. At this point I am fairly sure I will not add to my degrees either academically or globally.

Karma is active in Costa Rica far from the Buddha. Costa Rica is largely Catholic and Protestant. I feel comfortable lumping those two approaches to life as Christian. Buddhism had not made much of an appearance thus far. There is an old joke that goes something like… The Roman Catholics and evangelical protestants arrive at a new colony first, then once things are fairly well established and the infrastructure is in place you might expect an Episcopalian or two. I suspect that the eastern religions tend to appear in the west with their Karma when the economy has grown to lucrative levels. I mention Karma because it was operative the day we took the red kayak that we didn’t pay for. The fishing line nearly snared us as a giant catamaran trolled past at a fairly high speed with about 100 people on board. The line was between the bow and me only two feet from my naked torso. You should see a 66 year old man back paddle a kayak. The speed was motivated by extreme necessity. The inescapable thought of being impaled by a big marlin hook and drug through the water behind a large sailboat under full sail is not a pretty picture. It’s the sort of incident that our state department and even the Sandinista’s to the north would want to sweep under the rug. The next day we learned the sail boat was fishing for marlin. The single line trailing from a party boat was simply an adjunct to the tourist experience and the person closest to the seat was the person who got to try and reel it in. I saw one marlin jump completely out of the water and it was a very impressive sight.

The preceding paragraph demands some further veracity. I noticed in our various adventures that I was growing timid in various activities. Timid is probably not the correct word. Very uncomfortable is probably a bit more honest. Ben was ready to brave any wave, approach any reef with waves breaking upon them that we came upon, and dive where God only knew where the sharks lurked. He was brave. I have become cowardly. It’s an old age quandary. One would hope that the bravery phenomena of youth versus old age would flip-flop. After all, I have lived my life, raised my children and had my fun. Why would it really matter if I got sucked into the maws of the deep by a passing leviathan? Ben on the other hand is overly brave and has a family to look after until he is about sixty years old. Go figure! That’s about as profound a two word sentence as I can come up with in this situation. Other writers have done better. Jesus Wept? Nuts!

These shrimp didn't lose their heads

I approached the crew of the catamaran the next day and complained, ominously, seriously and steadfastly of the incident. The fact is, I was not intimidated at time of the incident, but slightly offended. I thought I would have some fun with dragging it out. One plussage was piled upon another. The skipper took the complaints very seriously. He apologized profusely, both at the time I complained and when we disembarked from the catamaran. We believe they will refrain from such temptations in the future, even though it gives the guests a cheap thrill. The complaint may save someone who doesn’t know how to back paddle.

Monday, January 23, 2012. We either lounged around condominiums, restaurants and bistros or drove around and then caught the very catamaran that we had the incident with the previous day and joined them for a sunset cruise. Shep paid $182.00 to the same fools who almost impaled us. This amounted to 94,000 Colones. The catamaran, under full sail, cruised out near the “monkey head rock.” It’s large enough to be shown on a large scale map of Costa Rica. On the cruise we met Victoria, Chris and Moe, and also Victoria’s sister. The ladies ran a hospice and made out quite well. I danced with Victoria. All of us had consumed several alcoholic beverages and our tongues were lose. Many of us reverted to the easy patter of bar the room parlance we had learned in our late teens and early twenties. I love bar room patter. It’s easy and flows freely. It’s honesty grows with each drink. Enough can’t be said of it. I miss it. They own the Villa Casa Blanca at the resort settlement in Ocotal. The little area of Ocotal was perhaps ten minutes from the town of El Coco, but took twenty minutes to reach during the pedestrian rush hour. We snorkeled for an hour or so and only then headed back to the catamaran for dinner with 51 other people. A handful of people actually snorkeled. I had too many margaritas before snorkeling and after. The catamaran was large, as catamarans go and able to host a hundred people. The wind was fair and we soon found ourselves under canvas once again. She was sloop rigged, and everything was automatic. The crew got a wee bit nervous when we inadvertently drifted near the jagged rocks and scrambled to unfurl the sails and start the two 300 HP diesel engines. To think, the foolish captain on the Italian Cruise ship never had to contend with sails, yet he ran aground. Can you believe the beauty?

Benjamin on Vacation

Tuesday, January 24, 2012, We went to Ocotal. We became fond of “Father Rooster Restaurant” Ben and I quickly adopted this fairly Plain Jane hangout beach dive as favorite for food and clear water snorkeling. To get to Father Rooster’s we had to pass through a gate with a guard. Our car had no sticker allowing entrance to the gated community, so we assumed we had to possess only the proper degree of whiteness to pass. The guard had a great smile with beautiful teeth. He had not sucked on too much sugar cane. In modern cultures this is attributable to good mothering . The restaurant menu featured a lot of trashy, pithy sayings. Ben was non-plussed, but I enjoyed them. The waiter liked us because we tipped well. Always tip especially well when you are going to adopt a place on the planet as your temporary own. We stopped and saw Moe and Kriss once again, but I didn’t get to see Victoria. At the end of our third day Benjamin was sporting a very red tint to his back. He never once complained, but did pay attention to trying to protect himself from that point on. I really had to laugh when he told me that he had applied sun – screen and didn’t understand why he got burned. In the field of red on his back were two small white spots the size of a person’s hand. The two small spots were the only place the sunscreen landed. My hide wasn’t affected until Thursday night. I tried not to whine.

On one of the several days at Father Rooster’s we met an intrepid 60 year old sea Kayaker who owned a $5,500 fold up boat. I am sure he gained admittance to the gated community only by the fact that he came by sea. His tan was far too good to pass as a tourista. The name of the amazing boat was a “Feathercraft.” The Feathercraft Company has a nice website with a video demonstration of assembly and tear-down. It is really very impressive, but the type of item that could be found on eBay or Craig’s list for much less money. He said it folded and fit into a backpack and weighed only 37 pounds, perfect for the airlines once a light weight tent and sleeping bag were added. He bragged that none of the locals were interested in stealing his equipment and he simply left it on the beach when he wanted to snorkel. I hope this held true for him as he continued his intrepid journey down the coast of Central America. The gentleman was entertaining himself by paddling the west coast of the Pacific Ocean south to Panama and through the canal. He had tide programs built into his smart phone and emergency locator beacons fastened around his neck. I was excited at first to put myself in his shoes, but now that I am 66 it doesn’t seem to appeal to me quite as much as it would have a few years ago. The man was from British Columbia. We all introduced ourselves but I don’t remember his name. Is this a comment on society, that our memory for material goods is better than our memory for human beings? None the less, our friend caused us more problems than not. He lost his snorkel in the surf and three or four people spent a half hour searching for it. The man who found it is the subject of my next paragraph. The sea kayaker reminded me of a fellow I met at a wave soaring site north of Ft. Collins, CO. He asked for a few quick moments to help put his sailplane back in its trailer. The help was required for about an hour.

The fellow who found the snorkel was a handsome young man who learned to spearfish off one of the Polynesian islands with one of those deadly looking spear guns. (I want one just like it) He told us excitedly in a European accent that the fish became very frightened when he was in an excited, predatory mood, and he could not get near them, but when he forced himself to relax and simply floated in place, he was successful, bringing in more than he wanted. He expanded on the hunting methods using several philosophical terms. I remember him saying one of my favorite words, “transcendental,” but I couldn’t follow all of his thoughts due to his thick accent. His prey was a fish called a “Lisa” by the locals. I didn’t see one of his fish, except from a distance, but I believe he was talking of a type of fish which swam near me in fairly large circular schools. The images of these encounters remain in my mind. They are framed in beautiful days with brilliant blue skies. One doesn’t always need a photograph.

I indulged myself with an hour long professional massage on the beach. I justified the massage by the fact that my left hip was in pain, which caused a moderate disability in walking. The pain was a set back because I had wanted to hike into the forest with Ben. Ben snorkeled as I was given a good work over in plain sight of the public. After I got off the table, fat old Caucasians lined up one after another for the rest of the day.

I have an attachment to this article covering expenses. My estimate of $4,200 was very close to the $3,920.00 I actually spent. Becky and I spent $4,300.00 on a trip to Barcelona, Spain. I didn’t keep track of two trips to Alaska.

Construction demolition work awakened us on several mornings. The hammering started at 7:00 AM. I would not have minded had they started at 8:00. What about the people who were there to party all night and sleep in all day? Time shares are a trade-off, just like everything else in life. You pays your money and you takes your chances.

The life of a baby Howler can be dangerous. The locals call monkeys “Tree Dogs.” They are annoyed by the fact that a monkey will take one bite out of a mango, throw it to the ground and then defecate soft feces from the trees, the size of dog poop. I saw it and it was unpleasant. Hey, they were in America before us by several million years. How can I complain? It occurs to me I am a geezer, becoming set in my ways. Let’s get the damn monkeys trained to use a bathroom.

A baby monkey fell from a tree only 30 feet from Father Rooster’s restaurant as we dined. It remained motionless on the ground for a half hour. After ten minutes, the restaurant patrons were fairly sure it was dead. A male Howler with an enviably large scrotum clung to a vine about 4 feet above the grounded monkey. He patiently waited and looked steadfastly around to warn people not to approach the fallen creature. I mention his scrotum, unlike most travel writers would do because it was out of all proportion to his size. After observing the male Howler, I have decided tighty- whiteies are obviously not the answer for human males. Looking on a howler would induce most American males to switch to boxers, once and for all. This is very much a scientific observation and I feel entitled to make note of it given my Bachelor of Arts major in Anthropology. Whether the male was guarding the baby or waiting for it to improve, no one could say. Finally, when the baby started to move, two females climbed down the weighted limb, over the male, and retrieved the little guy. He seemed no worse for wear when he was finally rescued. The human drama was nearly as intense. A crowd of 15 or so humans kept their distance and watched the drama. The expressions of the people and their reactions gave me hope for the welfare of the planet.

The male monkey guarding the fallen baby

Wednesday, January 25, 2012.

We took a wonderful trip in our Toyota Yaris to see Volcan Arenal. First of all, a digression to mechanical conveyances is in order. The acceleration of the Yaris was absolutely Yariffic. The Central American varieties are stripped down with very little insulation and sound dampening like the new one that Ken and Carol Grunkemeyer have in the good old USA. If I lived in Costa Rica, a little heavier car might be called for in self- defense of all the bad-awful drivers. I will never again think of Los Angeles drivers as being below par again. The Yaris had a good Costa Rican mix of performance and gasoline efficiency.

As for the trip to the Volcano, it was magnificent! It rises to an elevation of 1,633 meters, 5356 ½ feet above mean sea level. It has very steep sides and it can be viewed both in my pictures (along with the monkeys) and on general websites. It was a King Kong Volcano look alike. It was quite active prior to 2011, but not very active recently. Our route took us from El Coco, via hwy. 151 to Comunidad to Capulin, then south east at Liberia onto C1 the Pan American Highway past Bagaces to Canas. The Pan American highway was very crowded with big slow 18 wheelers and many high risk drivers trying to pass the trucks. The accordion of tail gating quickly developed anytime we became sandwiched between vehicles that wanted to pass a slow truck up a long grade. Past the town of Canas we went east to Tilaran then North to Guadalajara. We stopped for lunch in the German bakery at the town of Arenal overlooking very large Lake Arenal. At this point, most travel literature would mention the very nice artisan shop next door to the bakery. Ben bought some good stuff, including a vase for Linda and some coolio things for the children. The lake was roughly twenty miles long and 3 miles wide. Actually it was a reservoir that had been dammed up earlier, but the vegetation grows so intensely in this part of the world that the Lago looked as if it had been there for eons. The vegetation around the lake harbored large Boa Constrictors, Pythons, and poison Coral Snakes. Five percent of the earth’s biological diversity is said to be in Costa Rica. It has 16 bio zones in an area the size of West Virginia, by God. To put this in perspective, I believe that the very large USA has 26 bio zones. Personally, one of my very favorite zones is the large Colorado Plateau sitting over the four corners area of Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico. The population of Costa Rica is about four and a half million people. Ohio, not much bigger than West Virginia or Costa Rica, has a population of around 8 million people. There is still much un-trod land. For the most part, the populations are centered in the large cities like San Jose. Dense populations produce smaller carbon footprints. The inhabitants of New York City have a carbon footprint that is only a third of the rest of the United States population. Costa Rican’s evidently enjoy a “middle income.” The CIA and State Department websites regarding Costa Rica are fascinating. Check their sites whenever you have an interest in taking a trip. There is a good discussion of economics.

Volcan Arenal

Speaking of economics, what little I have read about the history of Costa Rica indicates it was very difficult to settle. The Spanish attempted settlement at roughly the same time they colonized other countries in the region, but malaria and dense jungles made colonization nearly impossible. Many Europeans moved to Costa Rica at the end of WW I. We went through a village which was primarily German, and prior to that, through an area that featured large Swiss Villas. They were authentic, not simply theme parks. One farm struck me as especially impressive. Someone labored heroically to clear the original jungle and keep it cleared. I suspect we were passing coffee plantations, but I didn’t take the time to find out. As I write these notes this evening on Feb 11, 2012, I can report a magnitude 4.8 earthquake in Costa Rica today at 1:43 MST. The earthquake took place 2,383 miles from where I sit as the crow flies, which probably puts it in Northern Costa Rica, and probably on the Pacific Rim, the rim of fire. I do not have web service, other than the iPhone, due to the loveable, but destructive chocolate lab that Linda agreed to take on. He bit our phone/computer line in half.

The jungle approaching the Volcano is increasingly dense. We doubted that anyone could step more than a foot into it. The Germans and Swiss who settled the area must have had to hack and burn the forest for years to establish a place to grow coffee. We came to the town of Mata de Cana, through the edge of the Parque Nacional, then to the town of Fortuna. Near Fortuna there is a “Zona Emergencia Volcan Arenal.” Just north of Arenal is the Volcan Chato. There are said to be a hundred large volcanos, mostly extinct, in Costa Rica. This morning 2/7/2012 as I type, there was an earthquake in nearby Honduras at 9:16 AM 1,927 miles from me according to an iPhone app, that I am fond of. There are no roads into the jungle park, but there are many hotels on its edge and at least several zip line tours. What seemed to me to be excessive development is economically sound when Arenal is erupting. Everyone wants to see it, and be exposed to a little danger, but not too much. They say Arenal was active 6 months ago, but I can’t find any evidence on the web of activity after 2010.

As I mentioned, people tail gate horribly. There were several instances when I doubted our judgment for renting a car.  By the time we left, we both qualified for defensive driving skill medals.  We left the country knowing that the Central American people are very brave and obviously not afraid of El Muerte (death).

At one point near the northern most end of the lake we were 22 miles from Nicaragua. I wanted to go, but the state department suggests we stay away. Wanting to go, however, was a moot point because there were no roads to Lago Nicaragua through the dense jungle for many, many miles around. That wasn’t the only deciding factor, however. Most of the Latin American Countries that I know of charge a tax upon leaving the country. For instance, Costa Rica’s tax is $28.00 per head. It cost me $56.00 to get Ben and me out of the country. One time, upon leaving Mexico with Linda, I didn’t have the USA Dollares to pay the exit tax. I generally have loathed using my size to be a bully, but I wasn’t about ready to miss our flight, so I pushed and shoved my way through the dense crowd of Norte Americanos to get to the bank teller. Boy were some people upset. Surprisingly, no one challenged me directly. There was only timid mumbling. Perhaps I should have been more pushy in life. The land feature twenty-six miles north was Lake Nicaragua (Lago de Nicaragua). Did I say land? Actually, it is surrounded by hundreds of miles of fresh water swamp and a forest of palms. The lake is fully contained in Nicaragua. It is a very large fresh water lake very close to the ocean in some areas.

Lago Arenal

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Thursday I found myself exhausted. We went to Father Rooster’s, hung out a while on the Beach and snorkeled. A little yellow fish, much like a goldfish seen in any goldfish bowl decided to school with me. I suspect the diminutive creature was attracted by my yellow diving fins and my checkered Polo shirt with many yellow squares about the size of the little guy. It followed me when we were swimming over the coral reef where it had plenty of protection. At some point I headed for the Beach, perhaps 300 yards away and the fish followed me. Now and then I thought I had lost it in a burst of speed, but it would show up once again directly in front of my face mask. Ben thought this was quite amusing. I felt badly for it when I dragged myself onto the sandy beach, knowing it would most likely be eaten before it was able to find the shelter of the coral reef. A few minutes around a reef will convince anyone that it is a fish-eat-fish world under the sea. Speaking of the sea, I often hear that we have depleted 90% of the big fish in all of the world’s oceans. We are even more voracious than all of the sea creatures and I am more certain than ever that we will put a speedy end to the Holocene. We have entered the Anthropocene. The last I heard there are eight billion of us.

I went home, (the time share condominium) and was too tired to eat, so I went to bed. I awoke at 2:30 AM as old guys like me are susceptible to doing. Ben was not in his room. My first thought was one of safety. I am, after all, Paranoid Random Man, the original Jewish Mother. Of course, Ben had the car. We were a half mile from town, so at 3:00 AM I walked to town. Ben was the first person I saw, sitting at an outside bar with our new found friends ( a Father Rooster Waiter, Miguel Javier … , …) from the previous several days. They were all pleasantly juiced. I spent the next two hours with them and enjoyed them very much. Ben is a great judge of character, so I should never have been concerned. I did not tip him off to my concern either. I told him I was simply there to have a good time and in fact I had a great time flirting with the girls. Ben has Miguel’s email address. I suggested he might be a good guy to deal with if Ben sells his business for a lot of money. Perhaps asking Miguel to run a business would be a good idea.

Yummy Chayote (Sechium edule) West Indian vegetable

We both slept in Friday morning. When we came too, we went to a nearby place with eleven zip lines, three hanging “dridges” (a misspelling in their glossy brochure) and five platforms, high above the forest floor. I like the word dridge. We should find a use for such a word. For the uninitiated, a zip line is a steel cable that runs from one high tree to another. The distance can be a hundred feet or several thousand. A person, normally a novice, suspended in a rock climbing harness is attached to a ball-bearing coupler and sent flying over the jungle at high speed. What a hoot! For a little variation Ben hung upside down on one zip line and did the “Superman” on another. Our tour was through a two canopy forest. Had we taken a zip line tour earlier, around Lago Avenal, it would have been in a three canopy forest. “So much to see and do and so little time,” as my son-in-law, Devin would say. The zip guides were great fun.

Ben doing the near impossible

Our little tour was joined by five people who normally traveled back and forth from Manhattan to Miami. One was a dead ringer for Bernie Madoff. I actually suspect that Bernie had cut a deal with the prison warden and was released on personal recognizance to the jungles of the equator. None of these people were slackers and I suspected that all of them learned to work hard so there mothers would cook dinner for them every night. There is one sad note. One of their party was an excessively timid lad, about thirty years old. He was afraid to do the “Superman” and he was afraid to hang upside down like one of the nearby Howler Monkeys. He attributed his obvious fear to a strong desire to always project a distinguished demeanor, proper deportment and aplomb. He was with his girlfriend and became increasingly agitated by his inability to impress her. She, on the other hand was very brave. She would try any of the acrobatic positions that the guides suggested.  Her ability to impress everyone ranked up there with the stars of the Olympic gymnasts.  Ben and I both hoped that the young man’s money made up for his shortcomings as a zip-line aerial artist. As for me, you can bet I took the safe way every time. The only person present for me to impress was Ben. He figured me out about the time he entered middle school.

Our companions were a bit cliquish, being denizens of Manhattan and Miami. Once I got over the very strong impulse to ask them where they bought their carbon offsets I started to eves drop. Listening in on their conversations was interesting, as their conversations placed a great deal of importance on a lifestyle that is entirely foreign to me. Big money, big houses in Miami, and bigger Manhattan apartments were the topics of conversations. Nothing less than a six-thousand square foot home, and a three thousand square foot Manhattan apartment was mentioned in their audible gab. One of them was complaining about the big tip he felt induced to give the door-man during the holidays. He was the man with the slightly warn 1950s style tennis shoes. I am far more comfortable with Texans. Although they are fond of bragging about their big state, their large homes and expansive spreads with numerous head of the latest popular brand of cattle, their favorite big thing to talk about are most often publically seen in establishments such as Hooters restaurants. Speaking of Texans, I recently saw a bumper sticker that said, “If you’re from California, please go home and take a Texan with you.” That still doesn’t beat a popular one from the 1970s I saw in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. “If assholes were trees, Aspen would be a national forest.” As far as I am concerned, Texans are welcome.

Some specifics. The zip line Tour was called “The Congo Trail Canopy Tour.” It was billed as “the best tour in Guanacaste.” (Guanacaste Province). The name of the nearby settlement was Nuevo Calon.

Claudia & Gloria Restaurant, not far from our condominium was our embarkation for the catamaran.

Central American Jay Bird

A type of Jay, found in Central AmericaMy feathered friend took food from my handMuch like a Whiskey Jack in the San Juans

Our own lodging was at the Coco Sunset near the little town of El Coco. The big Catamaran was owned by Bret. They are found at Plya Tamarindo and Playa Del Coco. He had them specially built. We took the “sunset tour.” Ours was 66 foot in length. As mentioned earlier, many of the roads are beyond downright unsafe. What are the locals thinking when they enact the traffic laws. To be caught without a seatbelt is a $400.00 fine, but to pass on a yellow line seemed OK.

The last day of our visit we snorkeled once more, for an hour. The tide was out and the water was crystal clear. What a joy! The tide on the tide chart indicated a standard range of about 10 feet on average. The words of the extreme Masonic curse often come to mind when I am near the ocean… “and should you reveal any secrete, you shall be buried up to your neck on the beach by the sea where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty four hours.” Ben and I had no secrets. After looking at the tide table I found that the twenty four hour part was not always the case, because the tidal changes seem to lag or advance slightly beyond the twenty four hours. Next time I look at a tide chart I’ll get an answer. Do you think the tides might be caused by the moon?

And why, oh why, is the Pacific Ocean higher than the Atlantic by three feet? (Or possibly vice-versa, more-or-less. Nature’s mysteries are sublime. I believe I have just enough science under my belt to answer many questions like this on my own.

We got to the airport three hours before flight time, just as demanded in a terse warning from the flight attendant when we landed. We spent an hour and a half clearing customs, etc.

Benjamin and Sheppard near Monkey Rock

The image of the clear water and sea life will remain with me for a long time to come. So will Ben’s exuberance. He has the true gift of joy. While it is not always there, it can bubble to the surface at any time when I least expect it. I have not mentioned the Coco bay. Most of the boats moored there were fairly small. There was at one point a very rusted hulk of what appeared to be a shrimp boat. I saw someone come out of the deck house who looked like he could have served on an 17th century pirate ship. On another day there was another fishing boat painted in a soft blue, but covered with vast quantities of bird poop, or so it seemed. The “poop look,” was so real, Michael Angelo could not have produced it even with the aid of the most modern scaffolding. On another day a huge four masted schooner coasted south several miles out to sea. She was white as snow and as pretty as a postcard.

Most of the people we encountered seemed happy, visibly so. They sported bright smiles and quality footwear. Nike, New Balance, Keen, etc., etc., Most folks looked good from head to toe. I couldn’t help but notice I was normally one of the older people in the vicinity wherever we happened to be. Age and infirmity has arrived. The key is to keep it to one’s self. Please excuse the obvious narcissism in this little travel document. After all, travel is a very self-indulgent enterprise. My advice to you is…travel when you can. If carbon offsets will help you enjoy the trip, buy them.