“Have you no sense of decency, Sir?”

Was the question asked by Joseph Nye Welch to Senator Joe McCarthy on June 9, 1954. 

The confrontation happened on Day 30 on what would become known as the US Army-McCarthy hearings. The dialogue took place during the heady times of “McCarthyism.” The Red Scare was everywhere. In McCarthy’s hard drinking inspired imagination Commies were deeply imbedded within the Federal Government  Finger pointing and waving sheets of paper was his purported evidence. 

Many historians consider this Joseph vs. Joe slap down to have been the demise of McCarthyism. Joe M. was later censured by his fellow Senators. 

On December 6th, 2022 the midterm elections have finally been concluded. Once again Georgia came through in a Senatorial runoff election. Mr Walker (A Trump endorsed candidate) can now ponder the benefits of being a werewolf instead of a vampire. 

Trump’s  “Red Wave” never materialized. For the GOP it was similar to an oozing paper cut. A tiny trickle of blood easily stanched.

Since the dawn of Trumpism, our Nation has been flooded by flawed Republican candidates. Many hitched their wagons to the runaway Trump train where reality takes a back seat to Q’Anon theories, so-called rigged elections, gun rights over human rights, White Supremacy and the opportunity to undermine democracy itself. 

George Santos with other Republican officials after Election Day in November.

When it comes to alleged widespread election fraud there’s no need of proof or evidence. Just click those ruby colored slippers three times and repeat. “I do believe in Trump. I do believe in Trump…” All the while wearing a “Lions not Sheep” T-shirt. Just like McCarthyism but more dangerous.

For the sake of blog brevity, I’ll nuke the 2020 rigged election notion. A few of you may recall the February 3rd, 2020 Iowa Democrat Caucus. To put it bluntly it was a fiddle f—k. The caucus results dribbled in. It took an inordinate amount of days (in a state where potential pork products outnumber Democrats) for the final tallies to be announced.

Of course, Trump the Tweeter King texted.

“The Democrat Caucus is an unmitigated disaster. Nothing works, just like they ran the Country,” 

Isn’t it amazing nine months later, the same screwball Democratic Party was able to steal the election results in Pennsylvania, Michigan, Arizona, Wisconsin, Nevada and Georgia. Of course that didn’t happen. Yet, it doesn’t matter. Delusion and Fake News are so much more exciting than reality and truth. Facts are real coup/party poopers.

For the record, approximately 200 Republican election deniers were recently voted into office. Source NY Times.

Speaking of coups. In many countries, POTUS 45 and his traitorous sheep would have been corralled into a pen. Then led blindfolded against a wall. There the last thing they would have heard would be “Ready! Aim! Fire! Not the ceremonial 21 gun salute they were hoping for. 

The Constitution they seemingly disdain (and want “terminated”) saved their sorry asses.

By now you’re aware of Trump’s pitching his MAGA hat into the ring. Many of you might be thinking, “He can’t win.” Bullshit! This was what the pundits said in 2016. If there’s anything anyone who has been paying attention to this fat sycophant is this. Trump is slipperier than snot on a banana peel. He doesn’t go away. Rule of Law doesn’t apply to this shameless excuse for a human. The old system of checks and balances has been derailed. Since the advent of Trumpism, we’re in a fine mess.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/01/an-open-letter-to-all-reasonable.html

So where’s the present day Republican version of Joseph Nye Welch? Answer. He/She doesn’t exist. The Republican moderates have gone into severe hibernation since 2016. Now the Crazies are calling the shots.

Please don’t  count on any repercussions from the final report of the January 6th investigation either. (Bummer. I was hoping for a worldwide televised, “Ready! Aim! Fire! moment.)

There’s really only one end to Trumpism. It’ll happen when the Demon of Death makes a house call at Mar-a-Lago. A true final solution.

Last thought to the 30% JINO sheeple (Jews In Name Only) Republicans. 

Cheers to the continuation of democracy in 2023 and beyond.

“Jeffie! Be a Mensch.

Do the right thing.” was Sid’s (my father) admonishment whenever my personal performance was less than stellar. (For those who need a Yiddish refresher: Mensch. A person of integrity and honor). 

Honestly, screwing up in the Sambur household wasn’t worth it. Sid had no qualms of issuing severe punishment. Jewish Guilt. One transgression was worth a billion verbal tuneups. There was never a pardon for our “crime.” I learned quickly to do the right thing. OR! When I was doing the wrong thing, (like smoking pot in the house), don’t get caught. There’s a reason incense sticks were so popular in the 70’s. 

As I age, I realize the unstated purpose of Jewish Guilt was to get me to consider friends, family and stranger’s needs and feelings. To look outward instead of always inward. That simple gestures count. Empathy, generosity and kindness can go a long way in a world which seems to be growing more impersonal, uncaring, and chaotic by the day. 

Now I believe trying to make a difference carries more weight than ever before.

Tikkun Olam is a beautiful Jewish concept. Although I’m sure all religions sport versions of it. Here’s the definition: 

Few Hebrew idioms are so well known in the American Jewish community as “Tikkun Olam”, “repair of the world.” The term is understood in modern America as the idea that Jews are called upon to make the world more just, peaceful, tolerant, and equal, through acts of charity, kindness, and political action.

Source Jewish Funders Network. 

Being a Mensch or Mensch-ette is a calling. 

I heard the call awhile ago. Fortunately I have the time, energy and finances to look beyond myself. Being a minimalist with little baggage doesn’t hurt either. 

When an acquaintance is sick/injured or going through a rough time. Bring him/her a meal or run errands for them. 

When someone is keen on fundraising for a non-profit charity, hand them a check.

If replacing a stolen Buddha can make a neighbor happy. Do it! 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/02/what-would-buddha-do.html

Are you an advocate for literacy? Become a member of the Friends of the Library. Help spread the gospel of reading. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/01/for-love-of-learning.html

Perform gigs as a Trail Angel. Distribute sandwiches to hungry CDT and CO Trail hikers. Listen to their stories of perseverance and battling through the hardships. You will get inspired by the simple act of handing over a simple PB&BOYSENBERRY sandwich.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/08/its-830-in-morning-and-youve.html

Right now my passion/crusade is collecting food and or check donations for our Durango Food Bank. Of course there’s an old blog as to the why:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/12/we-always-have-food.html

BTW. There’s hungry folks in La Plata County! When I stopped at the Food Bank to get signage for the Parkside Terrace Food Drive. This is what I saw. People queuing to pick up boxes of food. The need is there.

This Holiday Season do the right thing. Give whatever you can. It can make a difference. 

Sid and Clara would be proud of you.

Happy Holidays to you and yours.

Jeff

It’s Rut Season.

It’s Rut Season.

No! No! No! I’m not blogging about bugling bull elk. Nor am I referring to  Rocky Mountain or Desert Ram’s horn smashing battles to ascertain who wins the affections of the neighborhood ewes. (Because as we all know, there will never be another ewe.) 

I’m speaking personally. I’ve fallen into a rut. An unexciting routine. I’m now officially a restless Home Body. 

Camping season is over. Sniff. Sniff. Sanctuary Too is hopefully winterized and ready to handle the onslaught of below freezing temperatures. Brrr. 

Me? I’m methodically transitioning to temperature reductions and early dark-thirty hour. No more camping means staying in place in Durango. It means going from an outdoor lifestyle of crowd avoidance to a mostly indoor lifestyle of attempting  to mingle with my fellow locals. 

A definite sea change for a guy who gets sea sick.

To be honest,  socially I’ve been on reduced rations. It’s not like I’m not trying! Just not succeeding. Much.

Since January 2022, I’ve slept in Sanctuary Too more often than at Basecamp Durango. The reason is simple. When I go camping, I’m making things happen. I’m engaged in the planning, preparation, anticipation and finally the early dawn departures. My campsites generally have big views, the sounds of silence and plenty of solitude. When I’m reading at Happy Hour (with an IPA cradled in my left arm), I’m practically purring. Now that’s  happiness and contentment. 

Out there, I’m not noticing all the couples, cliques and the too many folks who have substituted canine companionship for Homo Sapiens.

I’m performing a classic example of out of sight out of mind. 

During my time in Durango, I’m waiting for things to happen. Whether it’s a volunteer gig, a community event or a rare social engagement I’m impatiently in Stand By mode for the date to arrive. In between those appointments theirs just-me Happy Hours, solo hikes and too many hours spent alone between these four walls of my home. 

Don’t get me wrong! I’ve been to many fun local events and gatherings. Yet I still come away with a sense of being socially unsatiated. All that being said, I’ll continue to plug away in my efforts to become more involved in my newish community. 

See? I’m trying!

Bottom line: When I’m camping, I’m feeling quite alive. Here in Durango, so far I’m going through the motions. That’s a big difference. 

Do what makes you happy. Just so you don’t hurt anybody. 

Cheers,

Jeff

Final Photo: A rare social engagement. Another Happy Hour schmoozing with Colorado Senator Michael Bennett. He’s got my vote. 

Climate Change. Now it’s Personal.

One would have to be taking up residence in a Fox Fear Network/Q’Anon misinformation cave to believe Climate Change is nothing more than a Chinese Hoax.

Not me. 

I believe in the statistics, data and science. I believe my nephew Justin who happens to be a notable scientist and Colorado State University professor.

One day while we were off on a hike, I asked him. “J-Man! (No need for me to call him Doctor J-Man. We’re family.) “Is climate change real?”

“Yes UJ! (Uncle Jeff) It’s real. The studies are out there. No true scientist wants to have a BS flag tossed at his/her work. It’s happening.”

That’s good enough for me. But I’ll add in another postulation even though I’m not a scientist nor do I play one on Facebook.

If Humankind is capable of causing fellow species extinctions, I reckon we can influence the oceans, atmosphere and weather. When was the last time anyone saw a Dodo bird, a Passenger Pigeon or a Carolina Parakeet? From Encyclopedia Britannica: 

“Human-induced extinctions: 

Many species have become extinct because of hunting and overharvesting, the conversion of wetlands and forests to croplands and urban areas, pollution, the introduction of invasive species, and other forms of human-caused destruction of their natural environments.” September 9, 2022.

All this being said, I still Polly Ann-ed climate change would be more of a game changer for my nephews offspring than me. OY! Was I wrong! 

I notice weather. I always have and most likely always will. My High and Low moods and seasonal migrations are weather dependent. I guess you can say I’m a human barometer.

This is what I observed. In April and May, the temperature was above normal,the precipitation was below normal (as in none) and the winds were non-stop annoying. For me the tempest was the worst part of our weather. Do you know how aggravating it is to require two hands to hold down a outside Happy Hour IPA? Trust me, it’s aggravating.

That all changed by the late June’s arrival of the monsoons. At first the rains were well mannered. People in the know played early in order to avoid the afternoon thunder boomers. Evenings were pleasant with puffy cloud sunsets. On the occasions when the sun appeared, there was a new local weather phenomenon. Humidity. As the saying goes, “We needed the moisture.” The fire danger had been mitigated in the southwest of Colorado. Some of the runoff might have trickled down to Lake Powell which is at a record low capacity. (24%. September 2022. Source CNN)) Any lower and the Hydroelectric generating scheme of the dam would be in jeopardy. 

How would those Phoenicians of Phoenix be able to  power their AC’s in the increasingly sweltering summers? Maybe it’s not a great idea to plant a metropolis in the middle of a desert. Just sayin’!

 Ahhh. But in July, it was still relatively warm. By August the rains continued on my mud bowl camp outs accompanied by a chilly damp. My arthritic knees were throbbing. Fleece sweatpants, fleece shirts and a down jacket became appropriate Happy Hour attire. I was concerned about condensation creating a mold outbreak inside the camper. It was too wet and cold at night to leave the windows ajar.

“Jeffie! Did it really rain that often and hard.” YES! On one downpour, I went out and checked if the drug addled Ginger Baker was performing a drum solo on top of my camper. That was the time I had to dig a ditch to release the six inches of water my truck was dog paddling in. I was afraid it would float away into the Mighty San Miguel River. 

All that rain created rutted roads with rocky debris and mudslides.  Trails degraded to become obstacle courses.

The deluges weren’t just local. They were regional in nature. In late August, a 100 year flood inundated downtown Moab. Utah Highway 211 (the road to the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park) got washed out. Many 4X4 roads in the Park are still deemed “Impassable.” Drive UT Highway 211 now and you’ll notice two-three foot piles of sand adjacent to the road. It took heavy duty equipment to nudge the beaches off of the right of way.

By early September I looked forward to drying out in Nevada’s Great Basin National Park. It was dry alright. A record setting heat wave had parked over a multi-state area. It was HOT! 

The Park Service had shut the campground spigots off as a water saving effort against a multiyear drought. 

It’s one thing after another…

Now I’m looking at a full moon in Canyonlands Needles District. It’s unseasonably warm, but I’m not complaining. On hikes and in the campground I’m noticing too many senior citizen Piñon Pines dead or dying. 

For them the rains arrived too late. 

Once again, I implore you to vote responsibility. Climate Change is real. Humans donning rose colored glasses won’t make it go Bye-Bye. This planetary problem requires planetary solutions. 

There’s no time like the present to begin.

OY! That was a wet summer!

A Change of Seasons…

A Change of Seasons…

Recently I surrendered to another case of itchy feet.

There was a personal geographic knowledge gap I needed to fill in before the onset of winter. That’s the reason I pointed Sanctuary Too towards northern New Mexico. There were National Wildernesses and one National Monument that was calling out. “Sambini! Come and visit. You can even stay for awhile since you are low maintenance and quiet.” 

So that’s what I did. I headed to the Rio Grande Del Norte National Monument first. (Established by Obama in 2013.) I received positive intel from reliable sources about its beauty and solitude. Correct on both counts. I spent two nights at a BLM campground which possibly was one of my favorite campsites EVER! My pad sat off on its own, including a  personal pit toilet. Since I had no neighbors I was able to Solar Shower naked. A real plus. The downside? It’s a bit pricey. For two nights (with my senior discount), the rent was $7. Another example of BIGLY Gubmint sticking it to the people.

Which brings me back to A Change of Seasons. Wild Rivers Recreation Area’s campgrounds were nearly full. Gone were the multigenerational families accompanied by multigenerational dogs. Gone were the college kids playing techno music. The sites were occupied by senior travelers and the Nomadland crowd.

Read all the Nomadland crowd:

  http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/08/in-america-if-you-dont-have-address.html

It was a sedate crew in which there’s no crime in just “hanging out.” I didn’t meet many fellow campers on the trails. Mostly they were campsite homebodies. I’m OK with that.

My distant neighbors were of the “14 day stay” category. They weren’t in any particular rush and for the Nomadland crowd, no particular place to go. 

I could actually see myself staying there a whole lot longer, (Think how many books I’d be able to read in two weeks!)  but my curiosity got the best of me.  Away I went to give a looksy to the Columbine-Hondo Wilderness and Wheeler Peak Wilderness. 

Well…there was a lot of uphill through dense forests and wet feet creek closings without the BIG VIEWS! Or as I say, “Not much bang for my buck.” Heaps of Schvitz (sweat) and hard work with little payout. Although I did see a pika at 12,000 plus foot Lobo Peak. 

The Carson National Forests campgrounds were underloved for the two out of three I stayed at. One was so underloved, the Forest Service charged nada! Free! The price was right for my fellow neighbors: two seniors and one young dreadlocked dude in an old tent. Actually it turned out to be fine (even for a guy who could afford to pay like me).

I tried another area of hiking and camping outside of Taos. In the campground along BUSY US Highway 64, I encountered Helen, a 60-70ish old newbie to the Nomadland lifestyle. She acted as the unofficial campground host meeting and greeting us new temporary residents. She resided in a Van which was reminiscent of my old Barley van. After asking her how long she’s been on the road, her story poured forth.

“I’ve been at it for five months. After reading Nomadland and seeing the movie, I decided to give it a go. I got advice from Bob Wells (made famous in the book and movie. ) and off I went. I’ve been at this campground for five nights. I’ll be here another five nights until I join a caravan of full time women RVers. They have an itinerary of places to go in order to get through the winter.” 

(Here’s Bob and his book. He’s a year younger than me. All that “Freedom” must have aged him.) 

“Where will the caravan be spending the winter?”

“They mentioned going to Pahrump, NV by next month.”

“Have you ever been to PahTrump? There’s more gun shops and casinos than grocery stores. It’s not a spiritual place. Where else will the caravan be going?” 

“Quartzite and Yuma. New places to me.” 

It was then I confided in Helen that I lived the Nomadland life for 6.5 years. 

“I’ve been to Quartzite and Yuma. Once! For a reason. There were too many people in those towns for my tastes. They weren’t natural areas that appealed to me either. For those 6.5 years, I was exploring. It wasn’t about the inexpensive lifestyle. I was checking out areas that might be my next Happy Place. Deep down inside though, I was always searching for a location to eventually settle down in. It wasn’t aimless wondering, although it seemed like that every now and then.” 

With that, I handed Helen a half dozen cookies and three oranges. She thanked me profusely. For Helen and the rest of her caravan, it is about the money. I wished her luck and safe travels.

After filling in the “Northern New Mexico Empty Spaces” of my personal map, I turned north towards Colorado’s Rio Grande National Forest and it’s South San Juan Wilderness. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. All the campgrounds were shuttered for the season. This seemed excessively early to me.

Somehow the summer season yielded to the hunting season. The dirt roads were rife with ATVs driven by well-armed camouflaged garbed folks on the prowl for Bambi. I felt out of my element and wasn’t comfortable setting up camp just anywhere. 

Yet, I wasn’t ready to call it quits, so I set my sights on the USFS Lower Piedra campground. It was my first overnight there, although in the past I’ve done plenty of disbursed camping along the Mighty Piedra River. I’ll sum it up quickly. There were around 20 campsites containing two other extremely quiet campers. Nothing but the sound of the gurgling River. 

Perfect. This campground too was about to close for season.

Internally, I’m registering the shorter days, the brisk mornings and the exaggerated shadows. I’m not pleased with knowing summer (my favorite season) is on the wane. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/08/a-season-to-savor.html

Autumn is beautiful. Still I become verklempt with the reality of the lurking “Here’s Johnny!” behind the door. That’s Winter. AKA my least favorite season. 

 https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/03/winter-guilt.html

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/02/for-me-winter-is-third-great.html

The change of seasons is complicated! 

Summer vacations yielding to retirees and full-time Nomads. Then the hunters appear. Public campgrounds begin locking their gates. 

Before you know it, the Jewish New Year arrives! 

Which brings me to this last photo. In this, the year 5783 (Jews have been around longer than the oldest Bristlecone Pine tree. That’s ancient.) I decided to perform a traditional  Tashlich on the banks of the Mighty Animas River.

What’s a Tashlich? It’s a symbolic Jewish Guilt ritual in which the sinner (me) cast whole wheat bread into the surging Mighty Animas River, thereby tossing my past transgressions away and beginning 5783 with a clean slate. 

Personally I think it’s all about fattening the fish before the Passover Gefilte Fish harvest. 

Enjoy the seasons whichever one is your favorite,

Cheers

Jeff