I’m suffering from Covid...

Fatigue. 

I’m guessing I’m not alone. There’s probably around  331,000,000 of my fellow Mericans somehow affected by this malady as well. 

Here’s my symptoms:

I’m worn out by walking halfway into a grocery store then perform a quick 180 degrees when I discover I left my mask behind. (Only to find many “It’s my rights!” folks are unmasked in the same store.) I’m sick of the smell and feel of hand sanitizer. I’m burnt out from repeating my new mantras. “Don’t touch your face, eyes or nose.” and the ever popular  “Wash your hands!” I miss summer blockbuster movies and mindless brewpub patio Happy Hours. I’m tired of pondering “where have all the hugs gone?” I’m over the lameness of watching baseball (when their aren’t Covid cancellations) without real live fans in the stands. I’m exhausted of thinking about a future with more questions marks than answers. Most of all, I’m disgusted with Merica leading the World in total Covid cases and body count. (Shouting “We’re Number One! We’re Number One!” seems inane and inappropriate.) 

Covid has grown weary to me.

So how am I coping with this daily assault on my senses? I leave, that’s how. I say a silent “Bye Bye” to the endless news and possible sources of contamination. I head up gnarly roads with my 4X4 “New Toy.  I find isolated spots to camp. I hit the hiking trails early while others are still in “snooze mode.” I see incredible 100 mile views. I stay unmasked and mostly to myself. With any luck, I lack cell phone coverage. I eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired and take solar showers au naturel. My Happy Hours consist of IPAs, a bowl of mixed nuts and a NY Times Bestseller non-fiction book for company. The days go by in a simple and basic way. I feel stress less. I smile inwardly often. 

You might be thinking I’m Robinson Crusoe. I’m not. Sure, it would be nice to share the solitude with like minded folks. I’ve gone fishing  for company, however most of the time I return with an empty creel. I suppose everyone is dealing with Covid Fatigue in their own way. 

Good thing I had those 6.5 years of experience living alone in a Van down by the river! 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/04/the-stigma-of-single-man.html

So Fellow Sufferers, hang in there. Maybe we can meet for a drink on the other side of Covid

Until then,

Stay safe, somewhat sane and healthy,

Jeff

Rowing near...

Nirvana.

In my first year of living in Durango, I noticed the moment when Spring morphed into Summer. 

“How’s that? Jeffy“ Well, I’ll tell ya. Mountain bikes began to yield to watercraft on vehicles and trailers. All of a sudden my fellow Durangoans were schlepping rafts, pontoons, kayaks, duckies, and SUPs (stand-up paddleboards. I just learned the acronym a few weeks ago). Alas, there were no rowboats. Not even the inflatable kind. 

Rowboats! Who the heck cares about those cumbersome craft in the adrenaline junkie town of Durango? 

Me. I care.

When I made inquiries on where I might find a small slow rowboat, the locals gave me grief. “Dude! You need a whitewater kayak! Where’s the challenge of taking a rowboat on flat water?”

I patiently explained to my listeners. “When I wake up in the morning, I extend my left index and middle finger onto my right wrist. If I detect a palpable pulse, I’ve passed my daily challenge. The rest of my day is bonus.”

If they question my manliness further, I’ll follow with “how many burning buildings have you made entry into?” That usually stifles them.

There’s a reason I own an infatuation for those barely moving vessels. It’s sentimental. That’s why. 

When I was still a fledging under my parents wings, springtime would eventually settle upon the Big Apple. A cadre of buddies and me would take the Lexington Ave #5 train downtown to 77th street. We didn’t carry much except a pot-induced smirk, a few bucks and a return subway token. 

We’d dawdle our way to Central Park while enjoying the uniqueness of of our fellow New Yorkers. Our sojourn was usually around the Easter/Passover weekend. Of course, we’d see Jesus look-a-likes decked out in flowing white robes and sandals. But what really caught our attention was his nascent followers bowing at his feet! We never saw a Passover Moses though.

Our ultimate destination was the rowboat rental kiosk in Central Park.  Once we placed a deposit on a rickety, leaky craft, we’d perform a watery lap around the 22 acre Central Park Lake. For a bunch of teenagers born and raised in the Bronx, this was nearly a Wilderness Experience. We’d see carp, turtles, ducks and swans. We fixated on the green water, the vegetation and not the nearby canyons of skyscrapers. It was quiet and peaceful for NYC standards. This made a lasting impression on me. Enough to realize residing in the Big Apple wouldn’t be in in my future.

Nearly a half a century later, I found myself in Durango’s Big 5 sporting goods store. There I was waiting to pay for a pair of trail runners. The customer in front of me had a sizable box on the counter. I noticed the words “Inflatable rowboat.” Off I went to check the product out. Hmm. Two person boat, three inflatable chambers and holds up to 440 pounds. Why that’s 3.18 times me! On the box there was a photo of a GQ looking man chivalrously extending a hand to assist an attractive young woman aboard the boat.

Wow! Potential dates for a mere $59.99. SOLD!

Ionically, the manufacturer named the model “Challenger 2.” On my maiden voyage I rechristen it the USS Sambini. (My old fire department nickname. Much more preferable than being called “Hey A—hole!“ ) 

Now,  you’ll find me on the mighty (47 acre) Pastorius  Reservoir. (Just like Lake Superior only different). I’m there a smidgen after sunrise. It’s just me, the birds, the silence and the placid waters. The only skyscrapers are the nearby La Plata Mountains. While I’m putzing around along the shore, I feel content and happy.

Ahoy Mateys!

“I’m Popeye the Sailor Man...”

Stay safe, sort of sane and healthy. 

Cheers in our time of Covid.

Admiral Jeff 

I wasn’t born in a small town...

Well I was born in a small town

And I live in a small town

Probably die in a small town

Oh, those small communities

Small Town 

Lyrics by John Cougar Mellencamp 

Unlike John Cougar M, I never lived in a small town, until now in Durango, CO. (Population 19,000). 

In 1978, I chose to take the purported advice of Horace Greeley to “Go West, young man, go West and grow up with the country.” I left the chaos of New York City behind along with its 7.8 million inhabitants. Let it be known I never agonized over my life changing decision to leave the “Big Apple.” 

I moved to Fort Collins, CO where the population was about 62,000. At the time, it felt sort of puny. I remember all the hubbub when it’s first Target store opened on the outskirts of South College Avenue. The common comments one heard was “who’s going to go all that way to shop?” Now it’s location is considered less than midtown. When I moved away in 2009, Fort Collins’ population had grown to 141,000.

Next stop was Tucson, AZ with its 525,000 inhabitants. My furniture were barely in my rental’s door when I knew it wasn’t a right fit. I felt like a small Gefilte Fish in a big pond. On top of that Tucson was far from thriving. The “Old Pueblo” felt... well old, worn and in dire need of a makeover. The streets were rutted, litter was as prevalent as cactus and petty theft seemed to be the rule of the land. I made very few human connections there. (You know who you are.)

Alas, due to a lower than average cost of living and a recession fueled degradation of my 401 pension, I was economically stuck there for four winters of discontent. 

Then in July 2011, the “Poop Happens” dart of fate intervened. Harshly. I was rear ended on my bicycle by a sedan. I woke up in a ditch. I broke eleven vertebrae and sternum. My face was made messier than usual. It took me a year to heal.

Eventually I received a monetary settlement. Financial Freedom. I wouldn’t advise this as a way to bolster your retirement savings. I sold, tossed or donated all my worldly possessions in my final winter of discontent in Tucson AZ. In April 2013, I became “Homeless by Choice.” 

Leaving Tucson wasn’t a decision I agonized over either.

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/06/i-never-thought-of-myself-as-a.html

For over six years, I traveled. By the spring of 2018, the rootless lifestyle had lost its new Barley the CamperVan feeling. 

I wisely chose Durango, CO to settle in. 

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

I moved to this regional center of Southwest Colorado primarily for its location to so many square miles of Wild and Scenic places. (All these pretty photos except a few were taken within a few hours drive from my home). The city might be small but the views and surrounding landscapes are BIGLY. 

But there's another thing that’s HUGE about my new hometown. Durango is a petite city where people have San Juan Mountains sized passions. Since moving here, I’ve had the pleasure of attending two meetings of Durango Green Drinks. What’s that you might ask?

Straight from the website: Durango Green Drinks, a fun, informal monthly gathering organized by the Sustainability Alliance of SW Colorado. A fantastic group of sustainability-minded local non-profits sponsor the event and rotate hosting responsibilities. October is being hosted by our friends and partners at Mountain Studies Institute and The Wilderness Society. It is a fun and relaxed opportunity to connect, chat, network, and be inspired. Brief announcements are followed by short presentations by host organizations, which rotates monthly. There is plenty of time to network and catch up with friends. Green Drinks is non-partisan.

After a lively Happy Hour, a handful of people got up on soapboxes and spoke about their passions/causes. Here’s a few examples:

An earnest young Mother was seeking signatures to present to the Durango city council. She wanted to place distance restrictions on how close microwave towers can be to a residence. “My children got sick when a cellphone tower was placed near our home. We moved. Now they want to put another tower near my new home. I don’t want my kids to get sick again.” Whom was I to doubt her? I signed her petition.

An older gentleman was asking for people to participate in a silent protest to raise local awareness of the “Climate Crisis.” 

A member of “Conservation Colorado” spoke at length about environmentally friendly politicians running for office. He held the crowds attention. 

A member of the “Great Old Broads for Wilderness” talked about the non-profit’s advocacy program pertaining to wilderness preservation issues. She went on to state the GOBOW aren’t all talk. They sponsor hands-on mitigation projects as well. I’m a dues paying member of this organization.  I attended a fen restoration project. They call me a “Great Old Bro for Wilderness.”

Throughout all these presentations, I sipped my “Yankee Boy Basin” IPA and grinned. I too, have my passions. I burn at a higher than 98.6 body temperature when it comes to these environmental/wild lands sensitive issues. I might have found “my people.” They were speaking my language. 

I’m feeling at home here. 

Just wish Durango had a Target Store.

Cheers from the prettiest part of Colorado,

Jeff

PS. The bartenders in the brewpubs know me by name. They pour me an IPA without me asking. Not sure if this is a good thing!