“I know that a man ain’t supposed to cry…”

Lyrics from “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” by Whitfield and Strong

My last verklempt moment occurred at a Sambur family gathering in Boulder, CO. We were hovering around the kitchen counter pre-Happy Hour time when my nephew Keith innocently asked, “So UJ (Uncle Jeff) how’s it going in Durango?.” 

Like a shaken, not stirred IPA my thoughts and emotions gushed out. “Well, it’s been over four years since I settled there. I really like the town. It’s progressive with a liberal vibe. There’s always community minded events going on. Most of them have been a lot of fun to attend. 

I’m still in awe of the interesting and beautiful places within the Four Corners region. It’s really superseded all my  wild lands expectations. It’s the most incredible  area I’ve ever seen or lived in. I love the campouts, hikes and my exploratory trips. Best of all, Durango is at the epicenter.” 

I sighed and continued with the glum part, “Socially it’s been a bust! Sure, I know a few dozen “Hi, how’s it going? Nice day if it don’t rain” acquaintances, but no real consistent Happy Hour/Dinner or hiking buddies. I spend most of my time alone and feeling lonely. I’m not happy about this. In fact I get depressed!” 

With that, I started to weep. Apparently, I looked so pathetic my nephew’s  daughters lined up to give me reassuring hugs.

On my long drive back home to Durango, I relived that sad moment. It was time for me to go introspective. 

“Face it Jeff! In Durango I’m an outlier. A harmless misfit. 

I’m one of the handful of residents without a dog/fur baby. (Or as I say, Durango is a  city of 19,582 people with 23,174 canines) Below is my dog Fido.

I hike instead of mountain bike. (Less chance of injury)

I’m  a small man with BIGLY opinions which I’m not shy about expressing. I ask a lot of questions too. Do you know what you get in a room of ten Jews? Eleven opinions. 

 In a laid back mountain town like Durango, where I’ve overheard, “I don’t give a shit about anything!” (Said while they were vaping from a product purchased at one of the over dozen dispensaries) I could come across as being a bit of a pushy New York Jew.. 

I’m  not a joiner or follower  in a “the more the merrier” type of town. I have a tendency to slide to the side, the bigger the crowd gets. 

I don’t possess a Polly-Anna or Pauly-Andy personality.. Unfortunately I’m too aware that bad things can happen for no apparent reasons or at anytime. Although I’m also aware that the same can be said about good things.

Throughout all this somehow I maintain a steady smile though.”

For whatever the reasons are, despite my volunteering gigs, helping to organize neighborhood get togethers (Like Durango’s first Kwanhanumas party) and holiday food drives,  being seen at festivals, fundraisers, concerts, movies, brewpubs, local hiking trails and coffee houses, I’m not meeting potential buddies or significant others. 

This was getting to me in a bad way. I felt depressed about my social situation. 

Sure, I’ve read the studies about senior loneliness. That spending this much time alone is poison  for my physical health (I just had a heart monitor glued to my chest for two weeks) and well being. But this much I know. Being depressed/unhappy about it is far worse.

I knew about the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I had been unhappy about the my social scene for awhile. It’s  time for me to move on.

So I took a deep Zen-like breath, and I decided to accept my fate. I’ll cease stressing about my lack of Durango human interaction. I’ll stop forcing the issue of trying to meet people and allow situations to develop  organically. All the while continuing to pursue scenery in the Four Corners region while utilizing Durango as a basecamp. 

I’ll run this chapter of my life as long as my Mojo, muscles and innate wanderlust allows me to. 

Then who knows? Maybe by then, I’ll meet a few people to hang with. If not I’ll move to Boulder where there’s heaps of Outliers and weird people. 

All the photos were taken within a long days drive of Durango. 

See why I live here? 

Cheers,

Jeff

For extra credit readings on senior aging, please check out:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/07/this-buds-for.html

My Too Extreme Four Corners Labor Day

 Motorcycle Rally Escape.

When I moved to Durango in August 2019, I chose to hunker down for the long Labor Day Weekend. The same weekend as the Four Corners Motorcycle Rally. After all how bad could it be?

 It was bad. Over three days of excessive noise, excessive machismo/testosterone and too many red MAGA hats on Main Avenue. I made a silent Sambini vow. “Never Again!”

In 2020, I drove across the state of Utah and settled down in Nevada’s Great Basin National Park.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/09/my-great-basin-escape.html

In 2021, I won an online auction item for a ticket to the “Yampa Valley Crane Festival.” 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/09/my-greater-sandhill-crane-escape.html

In 2022, I made a repeat performance at Great Basin NP.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/10/climate-change-now-its-personal.html

This year with gas prices hovering over $4 plus/gallon, I decided a getaway closer to home was economically speaking the correct escape plan. 

That’s why I signed on for a volunteer trail maintenance gig on a nearby over 14,000 foot mountain. (Depending on the source, there’s between 53 to 58 of these stoney behemoths in Colorado). In this post, I’ll leave the mountain and the non-profit organization unnamed.

About a week before the gig, I received an email from the non-profit on where we’d meet followed by a rudimentary game plan for the Labor Day weekend. The message turned out to be classic hooey/Fake News. The note was a far cry from the reality of what transpired on that long weekend.

Me being me, I arrived 1.5 hours before the starting time. I figured this would be a great way to meet my fellow volunteers and organizers as they drifted in. Here’s what happened:

Two volunteers were surly, the rest were friendly and all were incredibly younger than me. (Fourteen years separated me from the next “light senior.”) The three crew members representing the non-profit were half an hour late. 

A bad omen.

We gathered around the late arrivals, who dispensed little information except for “Wear lots of sunscreen!” 

I glanced at my watch and realized we were getting dangerously close to Happy Hour. It’s then when I blurted out, “Are we camping here or camping to our work site?” 

“Find a place to camp nearby and meet here at 6am tomorrow” was the reply.

I popped my camper up while popping a can of IPA. All volunteers and crew members retreated to neutral corners. So much for the social aspect of this campout. (I even packed extra beers and boxes of cookies for sharing.) I this point I began to have serious misgivings over my choice of volunteer gigs. 

It was a crappy nights sleep between the night owl ATVers and the 14er hikers slamming vehicle doors at 3:5O am. There were more sleepless nights to follow. That first morning  I became conscious, somewhat oriented and alert around at 5 am.I figured the crew was late for the meetup so a 6 am start was a Jewish 6ish. OY! Was I wrong. At 6:03 we were told to “load ‘‘em up, and move ‘em out.” This was quite shocking to me.

At the worksite trailhead, we met the crew leader for the first time. (You didn’t need to be a management consultant or play one on Facebook to realize there was dissension in the ranks). 

We were told to grab some tools and amble up the trail. Which we did. Eventually we got to work. The gig was both Herculean and Sisyphean at the same time. Let’s just say we moved a lot of rock (including an estimated 640 pound hernia inducer. ) On the first day in the first hour, I made a vow to myself. “Self! Don’t get hurt! Self! See this gig through and don’t EVER think of volunteering for these guys again.” 

And that’s how I spent my Too Extreme Four Corners Labor Day Weekend Escape. Good thing I had a hefty supply of aspirins and IPAs. 

All in all we created three steps, and one nice retaining wall. My advice. Read the fine print before you volunteer. 

All in all I’d rather be a Forest Ambassador or a Trail Angel.

Cheers,

Jeff 

My Midsummer Stonerfest Retreat…

OK, so the name isn’t the Carbondale Stonerfest, it’s the Carbondale 52nd Mountain Fair. 

Stonerfest is my nickname for the yearly celebration of old Hippies, aspiring new ones and everyday people. There’s even families. Plus! All varieties of music. (From Grudge to Gospel). It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an all-inclusive event.

The price of entry? Free. Nada. Zilch. 

The Stonerfest happens on the last weekend of July. By this time, I’m in need of a three day hiking break. My legs are worn, scabbed over and feel like anchors. The long weekend is 72 hours of under indulgence of exercise combined with an overindulgence of unhealthy food choices, an OD of IPAs, lots of people watching and a few chewable gummies for good measure. 

It’s also my time to mingle with Carbondale’s Endless Honeymooners Martha and Jim Jim. A twosome I’ve known for over a quarter of a century. They are gregarious “more the merrier” types. An unstated goal of theirs is to meet and greet every human on our planet. I believe they’re half way there. (In other words, they are just like me only different.) 

Typically I arrive early Friday afternoon. Since I have an “in” with the JJ Mart RV Park owners I set up in their driveway. It’s definitely a five star urban campground. Free WIFI, an electrical plug in, free bicycle rental, hot showers and kitchen privileges. The campsite fee? 1.5 cases of IPAs which Jim Jim and Martha say isn’t necessary, but I insist upon because it’s the right thing to do. (Never take advantage of peoples generosity. It’s very un-mensch like).

The Stonerfest launches at 4ish Friday afternoon. (Give or take multiple minutes), with a Native American blessing. Brevity wasn’t part of this benediction and somehow my mind drifted. (Could have been the IPA and half a gummy). 

Then my favorite part of the Stonerfest. The very primal citizens drum circle! This hour long sweaty performance reminds me of that old Todd Rundgren song. “I don’t wanna work, I just want to bang on the drum all day.” Personally, as far the music scene goes, the rest of the weekend seems anticlimactic. After a greasy slice of pizza and a few more IPAs, my performance came to an abrupt curtain call.

I woke predawn on Saturday drank lots of coffee, had a BIGLY veggie and egg omelette to prep for my volunteer Peace Patrol gig. It’s a dirty job but someone has to imitate Barney Fife at Woodstock. Might as well be me. (And others). The orientation meeting informed us of the few  attendee constraints. Most of it was common sense rules. No glass, (protect those barefooted Hippies), no dogs, (so those barefooted Hippies don’t step in dog poop), no outside alcohol and no weapons.

A newbie Peace Patrol volunteer needed clarification on the weapons ban. “What if someone arrives with a 9mm and a AR-15 and claims they are “Service armaments”? You know there’s Americans who feel naked without a weapon.” 

The volunteer coordinator thought this over for a minute. “If they can show “Service armament” paperwork from their Gun Shop or the NRA, I guess we’ll make exceptions. Just be sure to say “Have a Happy Mountain Fair!” 

This is sort of the vibe of Stonerfest. Don’t ruffle any feathers.

I assumed by position at a main gate playing Walmart greeter with a Barbie themed pink  Peace Patrol T-shirt. It’s an easy gig. The only incident I encountered were the two pierced, tattooed women attempting to sneak a “service cat” in.

 

What’s next? Service gerbils?

By 11:30 my replacement Peace Patrol officers came by. I gave them a report and passed the baton of peace patrol authority to them. Whew! I needed a break. This past July was the hottest worldwide month in recorded history. (Source NASA).I returned to the JJ Mart RV Park for some shade, a shower and some reading time.

Before sunset (after a few IPAs and half a gummy) I was ready to Mountain Fair once again. 

For me, the Festival isn’t about the music (although every now and then I’ll tap my toes) it’s about the people watching. I’ll hang on the outskirts like a voyeur looking through a window of humanity. True entertainment. When the crowd fills the outskirts, it’s time for me to fly. (It’s not fun being 5’4” and feeling lost in the sauce.)

By Sunday am, I was back to my early shift Peace Patrol gig. With the wails of Gospel singers in the background, I said “Good Morning!” to many families. The partiers would arrive later. By 11:30 I was done. 

Martha then went on duty at another gate. I removed my pink Peace Patrol shirt, donned a loose tank top and joined her. It was a total undercover assignment in case she needed muscle and backup. Martha knew EVERYONE coming through so we chatted in between her acquaintances.

By 1:00ish, it was time for me to do a heat retreat. I headed back and prepared Sanctuary One for my reentry back to Sambini’s Summer of Hiking and Camping. 

Later on I made a half hearted return to the festival after a few IPAs. (sans gummies though). 

Just as I was about to call it, I received a Martha text. “We’re at Beerworks! Come join us for dinner!”

My reply. “On my way!”

By this time our conversations degenerated into a Cheech and Chong skit. It was that kind of weekend. After hugs, those Honeymooners headed to the festival. I returned to their quiet neighborhood.

By 6ish on Monday I was gone. Here’s where I went.

As always, the Stonerfest never disappoints. Yet, I’m always ready to get back to the wild places of Colorado.

I’m already booked into the JJ Mart RV Park for 2024.

Thx Martha and Jim Jim for being such great hosts. It’s always a pleasure.

Cheers

Jeff

Chapter Two: As I Ponder the Paucity of

Pikas

Last summer I was on a campout with long time buddy Brad. In the morning he and his truck headed downhill toward promising trout waters.  I headed uphill to add intel to my expanding Rolodex of San Juan Mountains knowledge. There was a trail in need of a checkout. 

The monsoons had arrived. The air was chillingly damp. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to rain as much as when. I made my way up the trail balancing on slimy rocks and roots. Above tree line I glanced at acres and acres of talus slopes intermixed with grassy vegetation. I began to smile. Pika Country. 

Sure enough, I heard the squeaks and shrieks of the little fur balls before I saw them. Then I began counting. From 11,800 feet to the top of the 12,400 pass and back. I spotted approximately 50 pikas. It was the highest concentration of Ochotona Princeps I saw in the summer of 2022.

On my way down the rains came, the temperature plummeted and the wind kicked up. I donned layers of fleece, a wool cap and a pancho. Once back in Sanctuary One, I cranked the heat up en route back to camp.

Brad was already warm and toasty in his camper. He stated the obvious, “Turned out to be a pretty miserable day of weather, didn’t it?”

“Yes! But I saw about 50 pikas!” I was practically glowing.

Needless to say a 2023 personal goal was to return to that concentrated stretch of Pika Country. 

But first I’ll backtrack. I notice weather. The western winter of 22/23 was abnormally cold with an inordinate amount of white stuff in the mountains. My least favorite season seemed to drag on for five months. Spring was cool and cloudy. There wasn’t much melting in the high country until mid June. (For comparison shopping, normally I’m camping and hiking snow-free above 11,000 feet  easily by June). 

I guessed it would be a late start for the pikas to harvest grasses, cure them in piles and tuck them into their dens for the future winter of 23/24. (Pikas don’t hibernate like slacker Marmots do.) 

Then a climatic shifting insult . Record setting heat in the Southwest for the month of July. Pikas wilt above 78 degrees. 

With all this in mind, I was wondering on what I might find. After slip sliding across a steep snow bank which quite frankly scared the shit out of me, I was in the pika paradise of 2022. There  I was met by a silent summer. I slowed down and glanced for those scampering furry guys. I counted only eight to the top of the pass. 

There I met a young family who has ascended from the western side of the pass. After small talk, I asked the matriarch, “Did you folks notice any pikas?”

“We saw two.” 

I then relayed my sad story of how many I had seen the previous summer. 

She took it all in and remarked, “You definitely have a passion for pikas!”

I looked up at her and replied, “Depending on the news cycle, I’d say I like pikas a lot more than people at times.” 

I began my descent all the while keeping an eye out for any pika motion. Instead I came across a young woman and her skittish unleashed dog. 

More small talk. I then innocently asked, “Does your dog chase wildlife?” 

“She does but she doesn’t hurt them.”

“Well honestly, chasing the marmots and pikas are hurting them. The long winter and hot summer has probably  stressed them. They don’t have the energy to be playthings for your pet.”

My comment went over like a turd floating in a community pool. Somehow I doubt we’ll be exchanging Hanukkah cards this year.

At the terminus of Pika Country, I saddled up to Pika number fourteen. We were making interspecies eye to eye contact. 

For those who read “As I Ponder the Paucity of Pikas” Chapter One, you may recall one of my few talents (besides hiking and drinking IPAs) is being a “pika whisperer.” I began the conversation.

Here’s Chapter One:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2022/07/as-i-ponder-paucity.html

“How’s it goin’?”

“OY! Jeffy! Not so good. Pikas didn’t intend to become a climate change indicator species. (Source National Park Service) You have to be mshuge (crazy in Yiddish) and schmucks (fools) to would live at high altitude, low oxygen, short growing season, cold and fur ruffling windy places. Pikas never aspired to be the Earth’s canary in the coal mine. We just evolved this way!

We thought climate change only happened to the lower attitude species. Flooding, wildfires, hurricanes, tornadoes and heat waves wasn’t our concern.  Way up here, we thought we were immune to the affects of a planet going off kilter. OY! Were we wrong!”

I then interjected, “Yes, I can see in my unscientific survey, this colony took a hit. I’m bummed. Seeing you guys brings me joy. I don’t want you little furry underdogs going the route of the Dodo birds, Tasmanian Devils or Passenger Pigeons. What can I do to help?”

“Jeffy! We know you are a FOP (Friend of the Pikas) and thanks for chewing out that woman with the over-caffeinated mongrel. We’re in survival mode. We don’t need the extra tsrus (troubles) to be hounded by canines. 

“Here’s what you can do. Keep writing pika posts. Maybe a few readers will take notice and become “Woke” that climate change is real. It’s here. Everyday, Earth gets closer to the tipping point of no return. From our high country perspective, the future stinks like spoiled Gefilte Fish.”

There was a short lapse in the dialogue. Then the  fist sized fur ball looked up and said, “OY! Where’s my manners. I’m Izzy.  You can tell your readers to vote responsibly too” 

Listen to Izzy.

Vote responsibly. (Not for a Party whose platform is trying to make LGBTQ lives miserable) 

Cheers

Jeff

Now I Get It.

In my rookie month (August 2019) of residing in Durango, Colorado I was on the fast track of exploring my new neighborhood. I headed up nearby Kennebec Pass knowing Barley the Van (this was before my purchase of Sanctuary One) wouldn’t make it to the top. 

I juddered along as far as possible, parked then hoisted my backpack and started hiking uphill. 

Sitting above the Mighty La Plata River at 11,683 feet is Kennebec Pass (which offers up some of Colorado’s best views.) It’s also part of the 567 mile Colorado Trail linking Denver to Durango. After two hours of sweat labor I earned the Pass. Why not mosey up the Colorado Trail toward Denver? So that’s what I did. Of course it was all quite beautiful with a bouquet of wildflowers augmenting the rugged La Plata mountains. Once I crested Indian Ridge, I knew it was time to head down. Kennebec Pass is a dead end road. Knowing this I decided to hitch back down to Barley the Van sparing my arthritic knees a round of aspirin. 

I noticed a gentleman accompanied by two octogenarians women. They just finished their scenic picnic lunch. I asked politely if they had any spare room in their Toyota Tundra. The gentleman said “Sure! But I hope you’re not in a rush.” I wasn’t so I piled in.

As we bounced our way down, every once in awhile a duet from the back would exclaim, “Stop the truck! There’s wildflowers here.” So the nice gentleman pulled over. Out (very slowly) the women would emerge. They’d wander over to the wildflower display, take photos and discuss the particular arrangement. They were in the zone. When this particular spot had satiated them, we moved down. That was until the next, “Stop the truck!”

Now almost four years later, I get it. I’m not as spry as I once was. I’ve lost a few quick steps on the uphill. I’m well aware I might be close to the two minute warning of my active life. I’m noticing my surroundings more with the notion of “how many years can I keep doing this?” Recently I’ve been  looking at hikes and campouts in a new light. 

I’m collecting data now  as I wander around the incredible Four Corners region, Is there a clean, quiet US Forest Service, BLM or National Park campground nearby? If not how are the “boon docking” options (free dispersed campsites on Public Lands) OK? Is there sufficient sunlight for my solar panels to charge the batteries? (Very important consideration for keeping my IPAs cold ) Lastly, are there gentle amble hikes instead of brutal calf burners? 

In other words I’m creating a future game plan. All these thoughts are geared toward extending my outdoor career. I know by now whatever befalls me, my passions lie in being outside (except in winter and inclement weather!) After all how difficult will it be to cook a few meals, pack plenty of IPAs and books and go? 

And yes, I will “Stop the truck!” whenever I come across a particularly beautiful  display of wildflowers.

Cheers,

Please don’t  forget to stop your truck, just so nobody is tailgating you.

Chasing Memories.

Chasing Memories…

It had been over 1.5 years since the Wandering Wondering Jew last touched down on the Front Range of Colorado. A Sambur family reunion (just like an Irish Catholic family reunion only heaps smaller) was the reason. With this in mind, I made a game plan for my return to the flatter and more populated part of the Centennial State.

In order to break up the long drive I decided to stop for an overnight in Salida, CO. 

Salida is a cool mountain town which sits on the banks of the Mighty Arkansas River. It’s a artsy community with a youngish liberal bent. It’s also home to the Victoria Tavern. 

Ahh! The “Vic” was a notorious, famous/infamous dive bar made legendary by Team Bar2Bar on Ride the Rockies. RTR was the Denver Post sponsored bicycle tour through the passes and mountain towns of Colorado.

Team Bar2Bar was a collection of drinkers with a cycling problem. Before you think “what a bunch of low rent dirt-bags.” (Well maybe just a little). Let me tell you about a few of our members.

1. A HIV research Doctor for the CDC
2. A cable guy

1. A pilot for a commercial airline 
2. A librarian 
3. A High School principal 
4. Two managers from Fortune 500 Insurance companies.
5. A massage  therapist 
6. A liquor store manager 
7. An accountant 
8. One Jewish firefighter
9. Two Cybersecurity experts who worked on “if I told you, I’d have to kill you” projects for the Gobment.

I was the CEO and social director.. From 1988-2008 I rode each and every mile and drank pretty much whatever decent beer was handed to me. 

They were simpler times. People got along despite educational, political and social differences. All it took to become a member of Team Bar2Bar was to buy a round and not be a putz. See? Simple. 

With a feeling of nostalgia for those Good Ol’ Days, I stopped at the “Vic.” Alas, it was shuttered. It too, had made an untimely departure from this world. BTW. Three of the original Team Bar2Bar members have started a heavenly version of Team Bar2Bar.

RIP:

Jack:The High School Principal

Joe AKA “Trauma”: The liquor store manager.

Paul the Pilot

Next stop was Boulder, home to my nephew Keith and his effervescent wife Courtney. They lead frenetic lives centered around their children Sydney and Dylan. This being a Sunday was no exception. Dylan was acting in a play to a sold out audience. Cortney scored the last ticket for me.I was expecting scalpers when I arrived, but fortunately not. The mini Meryl  Streep’s and Robert De Nero’s  were extremely talented. The crowd of mostly adoring parents went wild at the curtain call. I’ll admit it, I really enjoyed the show. Afterwards we all went out for Happy Hour and dinner. That for me was the real standing ovation.

Next stop was Fort Collins. For a little over three decades, the “Choice City” was where I worked, purchased two residences, threw huge parties in them, made friends and acquaintances and fell in love a few times. As a life-long restless by nature kind of guy, Fort Collins came closest to that elusive concept (for me) of “Home.” 

In 48 hours, I met former colleagues and buddies at a Happy Hour gathering. The venue  wasn’t conducive to deep conversations. Although I did manage to ask each and every one of them. “Sure you don’t want to move to Durango? I could use a few buddies there.”

On the second day, I had more in-depth  visits with Nelson (for a hike) and Paul and Robin for dinner and Happy Hour. Between the three of them that’s over a hundred years of friendship. That’s not easily replaceable. Before these meetups, I made breakfast for my nephew Justin. A whirlwind stopover.

Remember the reason for me being on the Front Range? A family reunion! 

The best brother and sister-in-law in the World (AKA Mike and Robin) were flying into DIA. I happily volunteered to be the Uber driver, concierge, bellboy and guide for the inaugural “Tour de Acclimatization to Thin Air.” (No need to go into details, but fortunately the end result was positive).

Yes! We’d be turning our backs to those boring mountains, high altitude passes (with a view) and brewpubs to the west. 

Our goal was the lower Oxygen laden tablelands of eastern Colorado where’s there’s grass! And cattle hanging out in stinky cow-pie rich feed lots! And windmills! And tornado watches! And a few pockets of humanity where the locals call home like Sterling (3,875 feet) and Fort Morgan (self proclaimed “Oasis of the Plains” at 4,324 feet.)

Yes! Those were our vacation destinations.

All kidding aside, this was my 72 hour adult quality time visit with Mike and Robin. We made the best of the situation, had some laughs, caught up on family gossip, visited the revitalized downtown of FM (Paris! Rome! New York! Fort Morgan!) and ate way too many breakfast buffets at our hotels. 

You see when M&R are with their children and grandkids, they morph into the best parents and grandparents in the world. A gig they take seriously and which I fully understand.

My mission was complete when I dropped Mom/Dad, Grammy/Grampy off in Boulder (5,318 feet).  My chasing memories tour was at its end. As usual, I’ll miss them all. 

Now back in Durango, my new memories have been place based instead of people based. The Four Corners region has superseded my wildest expectations of beauty and interest. Sadly for me, the social scene has been lagging behind. Between trips, I’ll keep plugging away and putting myself out there. 

Wish me luck!

Cheers to all your fine memories whether they are old or new,

Jeff

PS. Before I left the Fort, I made a quick stop at my former Old Town home. I was shocked by what I saw. The landscaping I lovingly planted and nurtured had gone feral and overgrown. The house itself was painted over replacing the bright sunny yellow and blue trim with a military olive green low lighted by poop brown trim. The insult was the new owner never asked me for permission! The overall vibe was dark and menacing. I imagined this is what Boo Radley’s  pad looked like in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I sulked off feeling sad.

The author Thomas Wolfe was right, “You Can’t Go Home Again.”