Gun Shops vs. Yoga Studios

Gadsden Flags (Don’t Thread on Me) vs. Tibetan Prayer Flags

Bud Light Pubs vs Brewpubs

ATV’s vs. Mountain Bikes

Fast Foods vs. Whole Foods

Resource Extraction vs. Preservation 

I’ve been traveling a majority of my life west of Interstate 25. I’ve become a subject matter expert on getting a feel of a town or city on a quick walk or drive through. The above are just a few examples of the quiet battles raging between Old West vs. New West values. 

I’m an aging Hippy. My comfort zone is more aligned with the New West. 

Don’t get me wrong. I admire those Old Westerners who eked out a living space. They had to combat the elements and the Wildness. The pioneers had to fight the Native Americans who held claim to the same chunk of space. There were a lot of atrocities and gun slinging done on both sides of the cultural chasm. White Folks eventually prevailed. 

In 1890, the US Census Bureau declared America’s frontier line was no more. The reason? There were more than two people living per square mile of land. Pioneers had done their job of “taming” the Old West. 

However, it came at a price.

Native Americans were moved off their ancestral territories and confined to reservations.

Lands where once the deer, antelope and buffalo played, are now fenced in with cattle and sheep. 

Rivers no longer flowed free to the seas. They were corralled by dams. 

Short grass prairies were dug up and planted over with wheat, maize, soybeans and cotton. Poor soil conservation practices led to the Dust Bowl years of the 1930’s. 

Wolves, grizzlies, coyotes and other competitors were either made extinct or had their numbers greatly reduced. Ecosystems became discombobulated. 

Ancient old growth forests were whittled down in a geological nano-second. 

Unregulated mining operations led to tainted waterways. The ecological messes that were left behind became EPA Superfund sites. IE: Summitville, Colorado, Uravan, Colorado and the UMTRA project near Moab, Utah. 

 

All in all, Mother Nature was looked upon as something to be exploited or feared and loathed. There’s a reason so many western place names start with Hell, Desolation, Devil’s and Death. Those Old West folks wanted Nature to bend to their will. Many still do.

Which brings me to a point. The Old West ideas of Nature aren’t sustainable. What’s worse is the strange bedfellows Old West is now attracting: the Sagebrush Rebellion folks, the Tea Party, the NRA supporters and anti-Federalists. To me it’s a free-for-all way of thinking with a slice of anarchy. It’s intimidating.

All this being said, the New West ideas aren’t sustainable either. Only for different reasons. New Westerners are loving the Wild West to death. 

I left the Bronx in 1978 for all the possibilities and potential the West had to offer. I came for the BIGLY views. I came for all those mountains, canyons, plateaus and places devoid of people. I came for all those luscious acres of National Parks, Monuments, Forests and Wilderness Areas. 

I came for all that Public Land that belonged to “We the People.” Others followed for the same reasons. A lot of others. (IE: Colorado’s population has more than doubled in 40 years). 

In our New West Lovefest, we are now trampling the very places we came here to ogle. 

It’s all very sad, but I’d  still rather see a gang of nature lovers than an open pit mine, a herd of cattle, a Jeep rally, a gun show, a forest clear cut or a dammed river. 

For living examples of what Old West and New West looks like. I suggest a visit to Pahrump, NV and Ashland, OR. 

Which place would you’d rather live in? 

From Scottsdale, AZ which claims to be “The West’s Most Western Town,”

I don’t think so...

Ch-Ch-Changes...

Pretty soon now you're gonna get older

Time may change me

But I can't trace time

I said that time may change me

But I can't trace time”

Lyrics by David Bowie

A month ago I completed a road trip that settled a BIGLY question. 

My route shuffled east, west, north and south. I touched down in Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, California, Nevada and Utah.

There was plenty of drive time for a sociable hermit to think. 

It was two distinct journeys in one. There was the pre-Barley the Van breakdown phase. That was the life is good stretch. The weather was warm to hot, the scant clouds shed no moisture. It was a glorious time to camp and hike, but an awful time for the western states. Fires were breaking out, smoke obscured the views and “Thank You! Firefighters” signs became lawn ornaments. 

Then Barley the Van morphed into the infamous turncoat-Benedict Arnold the Van. A botched repair job in Pinedale, Wyoming led to a cascading effect of engine damage. A repair bill of $11,000 plus greeted me in Wenatchee, Washington. Apparently that Evergreen State repair shop noticed my green Colorado license plate and saw the green of money. 

But wait! There was more bad news. 

Two long time buddies called to tell me they were battling cancer. 

I dropped a propane fuel canister onto my defenseless I-Phone. The damage was beyond thoughts and prayers. 

I sliced off a nub of my thumb.

The unoccupied apartment I usually occupy in Fort Collins, Colorado had been flooded. Its use was no longer available to me. I’d have to depend on the kindness and generosity of friends and family for a roof over my head. In other words, I’d be couch surfing at the age of 63. Not an easy thing for an independent sort who hates imposing on others. 

The usually mild autumn weather of the West became nasty, cold and rabid.

Benedict Arnold the Van’s mechanical woes continue. (Transmission fluid leak and a new alternator.) Thank you Lyndel S for your continued mechanical wizardry. 

After these setbacks and hassles I feel weary and worn down from the constant motion.  I miss the idea of home and hearth. I want to cook comfort food other than macs and cheese prepared on a Coleman stove. I want my own space (although there will be ample room for a First Lady). I want cable TV. I want a break from funky RV Park bathrooms and showers. I want a base camp to hunker in when my internal battery is putting out low voltage. (Like now). I want a real address in lieu of a license plate. I want central heating and air conditioning. I want four walls and a roof that doesn’t move. 

For all these reasons and then some, I’ll be settling down within a calendar year. 

But wait! Does this mean an end to the Wandering Wondering Jew? Not at all. On my 64th birthday, I’ll have a temporary bachelor pad in Scottsdale, Arizona. On January 3rd, I’ll fly to Australia for four months. When I return in April, I’ll do a lap in the Southwest. From then on my schedule is dependent on whether or not I score tickets to the Yankees/Red Sox series in London in late June.

All I know is by the Fall of 2019, I’ll be giving up the full time wandering and wondering. I’ve been at it for six years. Some years have been better than others. I learned heaps about places and about myself. I’ve become more introverted. At the age of 64, it’ll be time to transition back to a home and community. Maybe I’ll become sociable again and not just a sociable hermit. 

“Ch-Ch-Changes

Turn and face the strange

Ch-Ch-Changes”

All the photos were taken from this past western tour. It’s a great lifestyle when all the cylinders are firing.

Cheers,

Jeff

When Strangers Asked my father...

his nationality, he didn’t name a country. He answered, “I’m Jewish!” 

As I grew older, I began to understand my father’s dissociation with his native land of Poland. 

My father immigrated to America due to a human low pressure system of nationalism, hate, bigotry and racism. He had to leave or be murdered. It was as simple as that. 

To read more of my father’s immigration please click on:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/06/in-1937-my-grandfather-bought-my-dad-a.html

When Sid arrived in New York City, he discovered he didn’t leave Anti-Semitism behind. He had to face daily prejudices in the New World too. It made him gravitate toward his own kind. Sid’s friends and acquaintances were mostly Jewish. He trusted them after experiencing first hand how others of different faiths mistreated the “Chosen People.”

All this being said, my father was civil to everyone he met. He was just more wary around non-Jews.

If a Gentile (non-Jew) treated Sid with respect, a smile and good manners, that person was fully accepted into his fold. I noticed the transition when he’d exclaim to my friends, “Please! You don’t have to call me Mr. Sambur. You can call me Sid.” At that moment in time, they too were honorary Members of the Tribe. 

My favorite example was when Sid was visiting me in Colorado while I was working for the US Forest Service. On my day off, I took Sid to the Devil’s Head fire lookout tower. Dave Martinez was on duty that day. Dave was a toothy, funny, easy going and friendly Mexican-American. He gave my father a class on how to be a fire lookout. He wowed my father in minutes. When it was time for us to leave, Sid went over and shook Dave’s hand. He looked Dave in the eye and said, “It was my pleasure to meet you.” I knew he meant it.

When we were driving away, my father said to me, “Jeffy! I’ve never met a Mexican-American before. Are they all as nice as Dave?” 

So here’s my point. We all harbor prejudices. We can overcome these human frailties by following the Golden Rule. A little bit of civility can go a long way. Teach your children well. My father did.

Final point: Recently in Joseph, Oregon a stranger asked me what my nationality was.

My answer? “I’m a Jewish American.”

He came back with, “That’s not a nationality.”

It is for me.

Make America Civil Again.

Jeff