A belated Arbor Day...

Post and an early Father’s Day one. 

Here’s an Oldie but Goodie on this sunless, cool Sunday morning in Colorado. (Great day to plant a tree!)

 Planting a Tree...

My father, a survivor of Hitler’s insane concept of human genetics, planted a tree at our house in the Bronx. The sapling was a two-foot white pine that my father appropriated from the Catskill Mountains, AKA in the “Big Apple” as the Jewish Alps. “Jeffy, watch! This tree will one day be taller than our house,” he proclaimed. Like a faithful son, I believed him.

One winter, a Nor’easter blizzard blew down along the eastern seaboard. The heart-attack-heavy snow broke the tiny, white pine in half. My dad, a tailor by profession, but whom Uncle Sam trained to be a medical assistant in WWII, sprang into action. He fashioned a splint made of a few sticks, a side order of rags and a lot of twine. With these meager tools and devices, he made the wounded tree whole again. He reasoned, “It works for people, why not trees?”

In 1978, I escaped the hassle and hustle of the Big Apple and moved out West. Now I, a son of a son of a tailor and graduate from the Syracuse College of Forestry, nurture trees at my home in Fort Collins, Colorado.

I can’t take all the credit; I get a lot of help from Mother Nature. Neighborhood squirrels burrow acorns into the mulch and forget where they placed them. A white-oak sapling will arise a season later. My furry friends do the same with apple cores and cherry and peach pits. I have a virtual fruit stand growing in my yard. We haven’t had much luck with avocado pits yet. When the oaks, peaches, apples, cherries and ashes grow too close together, I’ll go in and do a “thinning operation,” and rearrange some saplings. Once in awhile, I have to place a few up for adoption.

Letting go of my green children is always a difficult process. First I have to find a suitable “parent.” Then the lengthy application process begins. With questions such as, “Are you aware that Colorado is now in a drought?” Then a follow-up query, “Will you be able to provide an adequate supply of water for this young plant?” After that, I quiz the applicant about his or her general knowledge on such diverse topics as soil conditions, fertilizers and peat moss. Only when I am satisfied with their answers will we venture out in the yard with a shovel in tow. As we dig up the adopted seedling, I make sure the new owner understands that I get visitation rights. It’s never easy to let go.

In the fall of 2000, I went back east to visit family and friends. I borrowed a car and drove out to see my childhood home in the Bronx. I was glad that I had faith in my Dad. He was right; that white pine tree is now taller than the house.

Do yourself a favor; plant a tree. It’s good for the soul.

Lessons my Mom taught...

me.

“You can observe a lot by just watching.” 

Yogi Berra

Clara Sambur was called back to Heaven when she was just 52. I was a distraught seventeen year old when she was taken in 1972. I always felt cheated in losing her at such an impressionable age. 

Yet my diminutive Mom made a major impact of me in her subtle understated ways. I learned a lot by watching her. Her classes were mostly visual instead of tutorial. 

Here’s a few examples of Mom’s lessons:

Begin each and every human encounter with a smile. (Unless it’s a totally inappropriate situation. IE. A funeral.) 

Always offer food/drink to anyone who enters or approaches your home (or Van.)

Hugs are an acceptable form of greeting with family and friends.

Public displays of affection are fine too.

Be polite.

Value Education.

Savor silence.

To check a child for fever, tenderly place your cheek against their forehead. 

Read a book in quiet times.

Keep smiling.

Thanks Mom for all that you taught me. I wish the lessons didn’t end when I just a teenager. 

I still miss you.

Last photo: Deep down inside I’m really a Jewish Mother in a short man’s body.

Happy Mom’s Day to all you Motherly Mentors.

Cheers!

Jeff

Seeking Contentment in the Land of...

Thirst and Desiccation.

I’ve been on a protracted tour of my personal Happy Places. Beginning with Grand Canyon National Park, I took time outs in Zion NP, Kodachrome State Park, Grand Staircase/Escalante National Monument, Capitol Reef NP and Canyonlands NP. My sprint journey finished up in Great Sand Dunes NP. 

I made a five night R&R stop in Durango, Colorado as well. 

For the most part, the weather was mild to marvelous. I slept with Benedict the Van’s windows ajar. All my campsites had enticing views. My neighbors were respectful and quiet. I saw a few new gorgeous places and got reacquainted with Old Buddy hikes too. My Utah contraband stash of IPAs stayed cold. I expelled many sighs of contentment. Once again,  my World was silent and serene. Happy Times.

There’s a commonality to all these sublime low humidity landscapes. They are all a few hours or a day’s drive from Durango, Colorado. Location, location, location. Did I mention the San Juan Mountains (Colorado’s most beguiling Range) are practically straddling Durango’s lap? Armed with a 4x4 pick-up truck with a camper topping it,  a wanderer can explore for ages. There’s heaps to see around here. Most of it is Virgin Territory to me. 

It’s for the above reasons and scads of others, I’ve plunked down a deposit on a tri-level townhouse beginning on August 1st. It’s a walking distance to Durango’s restaurants, brewpubs, library, pot dispensaries, movie theaters and grocery stores. The unit has an east facing balcony which will be a perfect fit for a Weber Grill. The place is already furnished in a Macho Southwest motif. ( I reckon, I’ll start wearing a cowboy hat.) There’s two bedrooms and three bathrooms with flush toilets.  There’s hot and cold running water. The kitchen is equipped with more than a Coleman Stove and Cooler. (That’s a good thing) The unit has a washer and dryer. There’s over 100 TV channels to veg out over. It has loads of storage space which I won’t come close to filling. 

I’m still a Minimalist. 

After existing for seven years in the Van’s 66 square feet of living area, the townhouse will feel like the Taj Mahal with electricity. I’m joining the World of Grown Ups. I’ll now be a home owner by choice. No longer will I have to stammer an answer when someone asked me, “Where do you live?” 

This might take some getting used to. 

Wish me luck.

Cheers! 

Jeff

“Jeffy! You have to be your own Doctor”

were the wise words of advice Sid Sambur imparted upon me time and time again. Recently, I  paid attention to what my Dad once said.

If you’ve been following along, one needn’t be a Doctor Joyce Brothers to figure out my mindset has been off. Sure, I get the Blues, the funk and feelings of melancholy. (Doesn’t everybody?) 

Yet, this episode had been different. This duration outperformed the 2010/2011 almost back to back sedans vs. bicyclist accidents which left me hobbled mentally and physically. I stressed if I was ever going to get my active life back. Fortunately it takes more than being smashed by two sedans to really debilitate me!  When I realized I would fully recover, my mood brightened immediately.

On this go around, I left America with a few months of feeling lowdown above the neckline. I went to Australia (a place I always enjoyed in my previous five visits) with hopes of hiking to pretty places and meeting more of those laid back locals. I thought the trip would provide me a needed attitude adjustment. It didn’t happen. I wasn’t getting my minimum daily requirement of exercise or “Oo Ah!” views. I was dropping a lot of coin to lose fitness, gain fatness, and spend inordinate amounts of time alone. After awhile I capitulated to the greasy fish and chips and Aussie IPAs. I set my feel good sights on the Grand Canyon and beyond. 

In the meantime, a few observant friends picked up my vibe. They showed genuine concern and asked me, “How’re you doing?” When I answered “Not so good.” They heaped me with well intentioned advice. IE: Prozac, Valium, Ambien, seeing a therapist and to get a dog. I told all those nice people, “Wait awhile. Wait awhile.I think the Grand Canyon backpack trip with Brad (my Brother from another Mother) will fix me.” 

But first! I had to deal with a still gimpy knee. How would I go up and down dicey trails with a dodgy knee? By modern chemistry, that’s how. God Bless titanium strong anti-inflammatory meds, and shots of fresh squeezed cortisone. At this point, I was more concerned about my mental well being than exasperating a knee injury. 

As Brad and I descended into the “Big Ditch” (into pummeling winds and a short burst of White Death), I felt my angst and worries begin to fall away. On day three, I sat by the Colorado River and watched and listened to it’s soothing sound. By day five, I gazed at the stars and a rising moon. By day six, I suffered up the Tanner trail with a wring-your-shirt-out sweat. 

That was a good thing. 

After parting ways with my mellow non-judgement Bro, I headed to a cheap hotel with a soft bed in Kanab, Utah. There I slept extremely well. When I awoke, I looked at a stranger in the mirror. I was legitimately smiling for the first time in months. I was back! 

Sid was right. You have to be your own Doctor. 

Now the Public Service Announcement part of this blog. 

We now live in harsh times of bluster, bravado and bullying. Basic human traits such as humility, empathy, generosity, honesty, politeness, compassion and civility are almost looked upon as weaknesses. Personally. I think it’s a shame. Maybe everyone is too BUSY to take the time to be more humane and caring. 

I’ll end this with a simple suggestion, and it won’t cost you a thing except a little of your time.

If someone you know seems a bit “off” and wants to talk. (I mean really converse, not text) It’s probably not the time to look up at the sky and say, “Nice day, if it don’t rain!” in a lame attempt to change the subject. Hear them out. Most of the time they aren’t looking for advice or answers. They just need to vent. Remember, one day you might be the one who is “off.”

For those of you who allowed me to recently vent. A sincere Thank You. 

Choose kindness.

Cheers!

Jeff

My Aussie Trip of...

Meh. This Down Under journey was one for the books. Although it wouldn’t be a best seller.

My time here plodded along in a sameness of coffee, veggie omelettes, PB&J sandwiches, hikes when I could find them and get there and fish and chips pub meals. Eventually, all this was washed down with a solo Happy Hour. The trip felt forced. There was little natural flow. I was traveling by habit. I felt isolated and alone.

So I asked myself, “Self! Why did this happen?” 

Here’s the best answer I can come up with. Somehow since my last trip here I changed from being a free spirit on a push-bike to an invisible Grey Nomad driving the World’s smallest rental car. Socially it was a let-me-down visit. I reconnected with less than a hand-full of old acquaintances and made nil new ones. A first for me. I’m not proud of this.

Since the hikes were mostly short, my days were long. I’m a terrible tourist. I can’t make a day of walking around a town window shopping or sitting in a groovy cafe drinking cappuccinos and eating delicate sandwiches. I’m good for about an hour of this.  

On a positive note, with all this Down Under Down Time I consumed fourteen US/World history books since I arrived. Ask me and I’ll recommend a few.

My trip here has reconfirmed what I already knew. I’ve hit the wall on solo traveling. I’m tired of my own company. For a majority of my life constant motion was my prescription to ward off the feeling of loneliness. That pill isn’t affective anymore. I need a new prescription. 

With all this being said, you’d think I would be looking forward to returning to the United States of the New Dark Ages.

 I’m not. 

America isn’t the joy-joy happy place it once was for me. We’ve become a Nation where civility has been replaced by rounds of fist pumping and posturing. I see evil on the horizon. I’m scared of what we are becoming and where we are going. I wish this wasn’t so. I hate feeling like a stranger in a strange land. 

I’ll now unveil my game plan to get me through to November 3, 2020. Here’s my next read.

If that doesn’t work I’ll switch to Double IPAs. If that doesn’t work I’ll move to Nimbin, NSW. (The Stoner Capital of Australia.) How do you think I’d look in dreadlocks? 

BTW. Today (in Australia) will be the start of my seventh year anniversary of being Homeless by Choice. This will be the year USS Wandering Wondering Jew will furl the sails and cut the engines. 2019 will be the year I find a base camp. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/04/homeless-by-choice.html

Be well,

Cheers

Jeff

“You’re not from around here..

are you?” 

was the innocent question the tall, young Aussie asked me in a crowded Cann River, Victoria pub in 1994. Warwick was on a solo motorcycle tour. I was doing the same on a push bike. At the time, Warwick’s future was to stand up in a church and stammer, “I do!”

This wasn’t the same as my future.

We made beer/small talk about destinations and life in general. Warwick figured out my route would take me close to his “Redbank” family farm in Greenethorpe, NSW.

“Would you care to drop by and meet the family and Kristie my fiancé? I’ll show you around the farm too.”

When I realized Warwick was being sincere, (he always is) I answered, “Sure! I’ve never been on a Australian working farm before.” 

A few weeks later, I had the pleasure of meeting his sweetheart Kristie, Warwick’s parents and the original Red Dog. I received a tour of the 3,000 acre dry land Redbank farm too. (Dry land farming means no irrigation.) 

Since then, I’ve visited their spread four other times. Redbank seems timeless. Outbuildings and farm implements lay scattered about since the days of Warwick’s grandfather. In the front yard of their home, an out of place palm tree ekes out a living. Warwick’s father planted it in 1940. Warwick himself has discovered ancient aboriginal stone tools in paddocks. There’s heaps of history here.

What isn’t timeless are the human inhabitants. I’ve seen Warwick and Kristie’s three children grow from being polite, healthy and smart tykes to polite, healthy and smart young adults. The kids have now flown the coop to university,. Their career paths will more than likely steer them away from Redbank. 

In place of human children,  there’s now six dogs, four peacocks, a gaggle of geese, two horses, one donkey, two alpacas, two nocturnal cats and numerous hens and cock-a-doodle-doo roosters. Warwick also feeds possums while he feeds himself dinner. All in all, their real children were better behaved.

There’s been other changes as well. 

When I first started showing up, Warwick was growing vegetable matter. Namely wheat and canola. Now he’s growing animal matter, sheep and cattle. On my last visit in 2014, Warwick ran about 750 sheep. Five years later, he’s managing over 2,500 four-legged vegetarians. His only helpers are the six dogs in various stages of training. It’s body aching work. (Warwick required a back surgery years ago.) In Aussie lingo, “It’s hard yakka.” 

It’s an Olympic endurance event without a finish line. There’s no time clock to punch or days off. One chore seems to begat two-three others. It’s a long day spent opening and closing gates, moving mobs of sheep from one paddock to another, feeding them grain when necessary, fixing fences, spraying invasive weeds, repairing water lines, being a Veterinarian to injured or sick livestock, shearing the wool and countless other tasks.  

Yet, through it all Warwick and Kristie maintain a stoic Zen-like attitude.

The village of Greenethorpe has undergone changes as well. When Warwick was attending school, he had 49 classmates. Now there are 15 students total. Fellow farmers are cashing in their properties and moving to greener pastures. They are selling out to corporations who are driving up the price of a hectare. The real coup de gras has been the shuttering of Greenethorpe‘s one and only pub. 

Even an Ex- city bred New Yorker noticed the difference. So I asked, “What happened?” 

“Jeff, our summers have gotten hotter and drier. This year we already had over 30 days of above 40 degree Celsius (104 F) temperatures. Our last measurable rain was in the second week of January. It’s been going on like this since before you were here last. Our harvests were becoming too unreliable. We adapted to sheep because they handle the extremes better than the grains. Unfortunately, tending sheep is a lot more labor intensive than sowing, weeding, fertilizing and harvesting grains. Somehow we’ll manage.”

See? Zen-like. 

Then I broached the 800 kilogram kangaroo in the corner. “Warwick? Do you think climate change is happening?”

Warwick rationalized it this way, “Yes! All that carbon that was locked up in ancient dinosaurs and vegetation is now being burned. It has to have an affect on the planet. I’m seeing it at ground level.” 

Side note: Warwick is probably one of the wisest human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure to have met.

After a few days, I grew restless. (Story of my life.) it was time to say “until we meet again” to Redbank’s inspirational couple. 

From the brackish river town of Moruya, I noticed a large low pressure system descending upon the region. There was a high probability of rain associated with it. That wet stuff was supposed to even hit Greenethorpe.

I emailed Kristie in the morning and told them I was doing a rain dance for them. When showers began in Moruya, I emailed again and asked, “did the you get rainstorms?”

Kristie replied back later, “No. Dust storms.”

“Damn!” Was all I could think.

Last photo to all my faithful readers including those wannabe hackers from Russia, Ukraine and the Unknown Region, there will never be another like ewes.

It’s all about the...

BIGLY views.

It always has been with me. That is why I dawdled a bit more in the Australian Alps. There, I made it a point to hike to the tall stuff. 

I didn’t need much of an excuse to hang there. I never tire of seeing areas Zip Codes away. I like breathing thinner air. I smile more at altitude. Mountains are my Happy Places. 

Mount Kosciuszko was calling my name. “Jeffy! Get your kosher butt up here. I don’t care if you have a dodgy knee. It’s going to be a beautiful day.” 

When the highest point in Australia gives a “shout out”, you listen. But Jeffy! Why does this 7,310’ Australian prominence have a Non-Anglo name? 

Because Polish explorer Pawel Strezelecki scored naming rights by being the first recorded White dude up it in 1840. That’s why.

It’s cool. Mr Kosciuszko was a Polish-Lithuanian freedom fighter. He fought the good fight under many flags including the wannabe United States. Yes, he and George Washington probably exchanged High Fives.

Back to current events: With an assist from the World’s smallest rental car, I arrived at Charlotte Pass. A nice National Park employee had told me about the Main Range trail. She said, “You’ll be above tree line the whole way. From there it’s a short detour to Kosciusko.” She was right. 

So what if the hike was about fifteen miles long and the no-ozone  layer Aussie sun burnt my flesh to the color of beet root. Look at these photos!

I know a few of you might be snickering at the idea of a 7,310’ peak being the tallest point on a continent. (Why Colorado’s foothills are taller than Kosciusko!). Remember Australia is the oldest, flattest and driest continent on Mother Earth. 

All mountains deserve respect.

To prove my point the following photos display a morbid sight. Here’s a National Park Service crew removing the bodies of a mob of selfie stick wielding hikers who were caught unprepared in a sudden summer white out.

OK OK. That’s Fake News. Although people have died on these mountains. Mostly in the season of White Death. I implore hiking neophytes to refrain from saying, “I conquered the mountain.” I prefer to look at it as the mountain granted the hiker safe passage.

Last photo: This will be the site of my final resting place. I’ll get to look at the above tree-line views from Colorado’s Handies Peak for eternity. It might be cold and lonely in the winter though. 

Cheers! From Tumut, NSW

Jeff