tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3477132259715160422024-03-05T08:11:32.181-07:00no longer at easeDouglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-6654908367153892422023-10-30T22:27:00.006-06:002023-10-31T08:10:36.352-06:00altered states of consciousness<script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div>For altered <a href="https://hraf.yale.edu/ehc/summaries/altered-states-of-consciousness" target="_blank">states</a> of consciousness, my preference is running up a mountain to go fishing. This is more difficult than drugs or alcohol, let's leave sex out of it shall we ? but the sense of immanence is more durable I find. There might be a bit of Protestant work ethic involved as well. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpFnymlG5WtWd6fQQfKZogsvqfuu2hbzg6-mK_dAx7vmi4ZWv80GBrLQwYRezf3dzCDJb9OF7R5iu9MLnNnG0ezajdjVBUpipISlCsFbPco-h6YVzVeEPNbSZh-xyNfuzxf5SR9O2xub_P7zoLsHJV5J_vuLZlq-SrdOr9SE766tOYIXFb4So1YQtNaaW/s1920/lost2b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpFnymlG5WtWd6fQQfKZogsvqfuu2hbzg6-mK_dAx7vmi4ZWv80GBrLQwYRezf3dzCDJb9OF7R5iu9MLnNnG0ezajdjVBUpipISlCsFbPco-h6YVzVeEPNbSZh-xyNfuzxf5SR9O2xub_P7zoLsHJV5J_vuLZlq-SrdOr9SE766tOYIXFb4So1YQtNaaW/w640-h480/lost2b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Clouds, water and rock. Ideally there should have been a fish as well, unfortunately it was a dour day in a hard place. The trout responded much as the fish <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/notes/104522665-the-king-of-elfland-s-daughter/1467999-doug-k?ref=rsp" target="_blank">in</a> Elfland, </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;">Cast anything into a deep pool from a land strange to it, where some great fish dreams, and green weeds dream, and heavy colours dream, and light sleeps; the great fish stirs, the colours shift and change, the green weeds tremble, the light wakes, a myriad things know slow movement and change; and soon the whole pool is still again.</div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div></div><div>Up here are big blue-backed bastards of trout, a very few, dreaming of something other than the trout flies I show them. Back in the early 2000s Ken and I did the 17 mile 3000ft round trip to the lake and caught one apiece, fabulously pretty fish. Then we were in our frisky forties and could reasonably expect to live to regret 17 miles of steep trail in a day. Now I'm not at all sure of surviving such a day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Given my limitations the plan was to camp at a slightly less elevated lake a few miles away to spread the trip over a weekend. In the new backcountry order since the plague, there are both entry permit lotteries and backcountry camping lotteries to win in order to get a campsite in the national parks. Mine was only halfway up to the lake, giving a 13.5 mile day instead of 17. Well let's see how the legs hold out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Up in a grey morning to follow the stream until it becomes a creek and then a rivulet and so to the source, snow in a cirque. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzQ5mR0IfXDx2B9dxDcfgPhSGUVpZMO12L6hcuCq5ThhHXtytRX4s6aY1YbK6zwzuBEj4TVrTyNvspzLLeBF8ApopywAjmVtCz9E_2fBvFSOv_JxB9TbDChI9uHV_6GGwbMYEq2hBi1YvA-VAMVyXl4k3OQO51wuWULemwxtc_dBdFnRRrIfjGXZpcu-s/s1920/lost2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzQ5mR0IfXDx2B9dxDcfgPhSGUVpZMO12L6hcuCq5ThhHXtytRX4s6aY1YbK6zwzuBEj4TVrTyNvspzLLeBF8ApopywAjmVtCz9E_2fBvFSOv_JxB9TbDChI9uHV_6GGwbMYEq2hBi1YvA-VAMVyXl4k3OQO51wuWULemwxtc_dBdFnRRrIfjGXZpcu-s/w640-h480/lost2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The aspens brightened the grey.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu10fwiocEsjMOmODV6PslQLBLvvWjhpCbV81gfWqggfWdnmVQEr2GLri97WRaPdiwgUwkMejQ7b9FtyC-qQWXrkjMXp3ZhM7ThGGUi4Su2RNvMv52i75aTBspWkiiGipFYsOmnQIr_kaoezPzdKBbg0oWNP0SrwKdK_58IZ9CZLH2emQAFGQXTPgX_Ca/s1920/aspens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu10fwiocEsjMOmODV6PslQLBLvvWjhpCbV81gfWqggfWdnmVQEr2GLri97WRaPdiwgUwkMejQ7b9FtyC-qQWXrkjMXp3ZhM7ThGGUi4Su2RNvMv52i75aTBspWkiiGipFYsOmnQIr_kaoezPzdKBbg0oWNP0SrwKdK_58IZ9CZLH2emQAFGQXTPgX_Ca/w640-h480/aspens.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8HPW0NeHxcvAK-1YUnj7yqCxKl_JXAQIkkVsbG0iz0dF8OIyKIaLoVSwDW2bFpEnGnmvF74pdFQXn46scVnLdBfFh5wcb8jHPiAp0POoeUDgxZzJKUHnR_p7xzJ8xjMANtAz3qOSIgFjkeWvjSjE7B6_sPS1bc5bOkgwrIbrAnU_DEI7z95k3RdEp-AZ/s1920/aspens2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8HPW0NeHxcvAK-1YUnj7yqCxKl_JXAQIkkVsbG0iz0dF8OIyKIaLoVSwDW2bFpEnGnmvF74pdFQXn46scVnLdBfFh5wcb8jHPiAp0POoeUDgxZzJKUHnR_p7xzJ8xjMANtAz3qOSIgFjkeWvjSjE7B6_sPS1bc5bOkgwrIbrAnU_DEI7z95k3RdEp-AZ/w640-h480/aspens2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I stopped in my assigned campsite to put up the tent and cache <a href="https://www.rei.com/learn/expert-advice/bear-resistant-canisters.html" target="_blank">the</a> bear barrel. The ranger had told me there was a bear hanging around the higher country, "just clap your hands and he should back off". Hm. At the lower lake the marmots prefer sweaty shirts to food, drag off unattended shirts and chew on them for the salt. Socks also go. A friend discovered the lifetime warranty on his hiking socks did not apply to theft by marmot. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifprG72z8kLKg6PAFzQiNTSQv1bg4Z-BZU3ChzK6p794OTS-h9WsYdpVO5bLNGIHL1OTNNB5CdFGb_kdq43VX1ntnE8pVEiDAbtKLqZY6eNbekycnd3tfYdPbrTC2o5OiX-pEessK4uuKdDd-hQ7IgSHgegDZK3YGNbvqsuvs6cb-_CDxxlrnqjKK-BfFq/s2448/camp2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifprG72z8kLKg6PAFzQiNTSQv1bg4Z-BZU3ChzK6p794OTS-h9WsYdpVO5bLNGIHL1OTNNB5CdFGb_kdq43VX1ntnE8pVEiDAbtKLqZY6eNbekycnd3tfYdPbrTC2o5OiX-pEessK4uuKdDd-hQ7IgSHgegDZK3YGNbvqsuvs6cb-_CDxxlrnqjKK-BfFq/w502-h640/camp2.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><br /><div>New tent test, Durston X-Mid 1. This is well under 2 pounds, good for old fat and breathless backpackers who have trouble even carrying their new bellies up the hills. Getting old is like being a teenager again in the sense that every new year brings a or several new things to adapt to. Age sixty added a little pot belly which is now reaching comfortable proportions. I'd tried the tarp camping with a 14oz tarp which was wonderful to carry but wet to sleep under in a thunderstorm. At that point it appeared my shelter did not in fact provide shelter. Then discovered that most tarp campers also carry a <a href="https://andrewskurka.com/gear-list-backpacking-tarp-bivy-ultralight-minimalism/ " target="_blank">bivy</a> for the wet, which gets us up to the same weight as a good one-man tent for less comfort. Admittedly the tarp is nice when you wake up in the dark hours and see moonlight and stars rather than gray nylon. Also when the bear is huffing and scratching around the tarp, you can look out and confirm the large bear sounds are in fact coming from a small squirrel or chipmunk, the mini bears.</div><div><br /></div><div>Shed the backpack here and downsized to a running pack with rain and fish gear, water and food. The problem with that is losing my excuse for not running with the big pack. Much of this trail is runnable, not too steep or too rocky, or it would be for a frisky forty year old. </div><div><br /></div><div>On up the valley, the morning fog had cleared and the day brightened. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcVqn6m6z6bEELvRLG0SR_1WS4X9UYnry3fgQRMzQjV5tXHEjoadD0hyphenhyphenAudkutUkZoO2x2cPYFj7UE-XNI4LcW57Yz-wa9n2TEQPYG5z4yUpmEk5mH0ZDsxWNauXZSMJVwyW9y50PbfYq7oHZN5zoToNHr9SBrYmw0mdQvx0c9ELDEJ3Q3RY1vzxDddRg/s1920/aspens3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcVqn6m6z6bEELvRLG0SR_1WS4X9UYnry3fgQRMzQjV5tXHEjoadD0hyphenhyphenAudkutUkZoO2x2cPYFj7UE-XNI4LcW57Yz-wa9n2TEQPYG5z4yUpmEk5mH0ZDsxWNauXZSMJVwyW9y50PbfYq7oHZN5zoToNHr9SBrYmw0mdQvx0c9ELDEJ3Q3RY1vzxDddRg/w640-h480/aspens3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The lower lake had rising fish. Rule 1 is never walk away from rising fish. That I broke, dreaming of the big blue-backed bastards further up, and knowing the day was burning away. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL-gHmPini1qoKhDMD72mX7Lv5tSSnoRkdt8CB4XwEKvjfT4i4qdOOpUxSgxTsd8lv4ntuL0sNse-IAZnlHkga7uX3TCLY22vY15Jnglw6eXujPHZs8ZdJp6TNrg1FnhGGsr25IkR7zUnqhsFbaK5FOBw1_ZLpqic-pnw7Rst9fcSOIKXNXjS0-5VRK94/s1920/lostL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL-gHmPini1qoKhDMD72mX7Lv5tSSnoRkdt8CB4XwEKvjfT4i4qdOOpUxSgxTsd8lv4ntuL0sNse-IAZnlHkga7uX3TCLY22vY15Jnglw6eXujPHZs8ZdJp6TNrg1FnhGGsr25IkR7zUnqhsFbaK5FOBw1_ZLpqic-pnw7Rst9fcSOIKXNXjS0-5VRK94/w640-h480/lostL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Around, up and then up some more. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7EBlgIOx3_jWQ7UhatQTc6bqDeufYsf3dYSPhMortW0Lia4kkouwCoCdc3EHtdXKoSaQzC7M5Zw65uyKOheMC1ujcewKPWAzrNYdqr6c1b_TKs1RHQHB5HcorEyD99N4d_ikBIHxgb-nsu8lv824ocNn8SN-ZICvWvTDzfQ1YZGPJdZt0p2paIQyzrwV/s1920/lostL2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1253" data-original-width="1920" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7EBlgIOx3_jWQ7UhatQTc6bqDeufYsf3dYSPhMortW0Lia4kkouwCoCdc3EHtdXKoSaQzC7M5Zw65uyKOheMC1ujcewKPWAzrNYdqr6c1b_TKs1RHQHB5HcorEyD99N4d_ikBIHxgb-nsu8lv824ocNn8SN-ZICvWvTDzfQ1YZGPJdZt0p2paIQyzrwV/w640-h418/lostL2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2jymMuuUL8n4zdGNZ7MeWs2blFFubGmnafTL5-UppOMyMllfJiUAWP__96VhUkewYmgB-ydeN1KWkgXcQMZflueQtdfGzHwYmnmry9kx7XpuW2b7p619asFJHv5M4bsWdALzRO_IIt2aZaDByVEYr_lp_eMd9bjfCQcdehknn9oB1S3a5XCb5qGvSB9P/s1920/lup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2jymMuuUL8n4zdGNZ7MeWs2blFFubGmnafTL5-UppOMyMllfJiUAWP__96VhUkewYmgB-ydeN1KWkgXcQMZflueQtdfGzHwYmnmry9kx7XpuW2b7p619asFJHv5M4bsWdALzRO_IIt2aZaDByVEYr_lp_eMd9bjfCQcdehknn9oB1S3a5XCb5qGvSB9P/w640-h480/lup.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>These high lakes change year over year as they are mostly dependent on stocking from <a href="https://coloradooutdoorsmag.com/2020/09/22/stocking-colorado-high-mountain-lakes/" target="_blank">the air</a>. Only a few of the lakes have inlet streams where the fish can spawn. This does rather take away from the image of the resolute hardy self-sufficient mountain man catching dinner, relying as we do on the entire apparatus of modern civilization to get the fish up there. Still we are machines <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Barbusse" target="_blank">of</a> forgetfulness and I pretend every day to live inside <a href="https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/rosannecash/dreamsarenotmyhome.html" target="_blank">the</a> world, believing in wilderness is hardly even a warmup stretching exercise. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RSCh1pgmiz8" width="320" youtube-src-id="RSCh1pgmiz8"></iframe></div><br /><div>This lake is perfectly implausible as the home of large healthy trout. Typically the high lakes will have a least a smidgeon of weed, a few midges stirring, some signs of life. This implacably clear water looks like one of those streams killed by heavy metal mining pollution, as clear as sapphire and as lifeless. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iHEW5sp5jwOkmR3elMlaUkYmZ_llHQdt3ukBiht3gt4sG3T16qmHwTiMjdEQdrRvNuMownpE2GuqRUnW8orF8F-5Cp7Aanm-sCv8jVo-79fP8EEtxtBcf0iUeW2R3pGZvdMsMrXmazB_D6mbKgiPp1GGxr0nISFef1PoDN6DjZUDj3FoIubTOQCoVjZb/s1920/lost2a.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iHEW5sp5jwOkmR3elMlaUkYmZ_llHQdt3ukBiht3gt4sG3T16qmHwTiMjdEQdrRvNuMownpE2GuqRUnW8orF8F-5Cp7Aanm-sCv8jVo-79fP8EEtxtBcf0iUeW2R3pGZvdMsMrXmazB_D6mbKgiPp1GGxr0nISFef1PoDN6DjZUDj3FoIubTOQCoVjZb/w640-h480/lost2a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It's hard to keep the faith as an hour of casting wears on into the second hour. So I was woolgathering, wondering when last this had been stocked, how long does a cutthroat trout live anyway, surely not twenty years ? when the fish showed up, a heavy swirl and the fly disappeared. Tightening brought nothing as the fish shook its head and sank back into the dim blue deeps. These headshakes and gaping mouth always suggest to me a little boy spitting out something distasteful, ugh ! ptui ! It was one of the blue-backed bastards, saw him plain. At least it's good to know they are still there. One more Moby Dick moment that afternoon, a white living spot rising from far below, resolving quite suddenly into a trout which stopped to consider the fly and turn down again. This too is not part of normal fishing in the high country, where normally there isn't enough food for them to disdain all my offerings with such stern and continuing decision. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually the clouds came over and the temperature dropped, a few flakes of snow blew past as my rain pants flapped in the gathering winds. I was wearing everything I'd brought, eaten all the food but an emergency protein bar: it began to feel like fishing on the moon, a place I should not be. </div><div>From the King of Elfland's Daughter again, </div><div><blockquote>so the traveller walked alone. And soon he was come by unsure paths to the reeds and the thin rushes, to which a wind was telling tales that have no meaning to man, long histories of bleakness and ancient legends of rain;</blockquote></div><div>Scurried back to the lower lake where the clouds cleared and evening sun made it all look almost cosy again. A half dozen parties were camped around the lake so now I felt crowded. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxcn27koahKgv9iPF839yq7_nXlcnpircTlpdGrPtBOsJU6Q27CUPF0hYFlOWQBLanZ6OvmrWhDoTsZujtcwAO5omVxqKRS2TbYTMM5FF7vym7uNTBcnWhdE6yQB6YMX_auI3T6N8SZBvTCH9C71KZYhBCvxDmKX2VeMXlEHebvqrJM4Xx-CBtUNhYTmp/s1920/lostEven.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxcn27koahKgv9iPF839yq7_nXlcnpircTlpdGrPtBOsJU6Q27CUPF0hYFlOWQBLanZ6OvmrWhDoTsZujtcwAO5omVxqKRS2TbYTMM5FF7vym7uNTBcnWhdE6yQB6YMX_auI3T6N8SZBvTCH9C71KZYhBCvxDmKX2VeMXlEHebvqrJM4Xx-CBtUNhYTmp/w640-h480/lostEven.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The rising fish had gone away. It was really time to start on the four miles back to camp. A few last casts.. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3fzmyyq1kj_uYJKTkcxP1NQxjt1Y1iOpyJKXWV-vVwXXI_ZIDn1IuZdJs5k5Mi8WsbDtOXhCPKGlfWbBkkK7OHJn5pTY3IhBkz9e9igrclpEwCX5v3LFI92RowN0u8eOWhYhR6KwC8zgdKBs-8V91aEqmz1e3YStHRAjIiKOsvog5rMZmHBVd16ll1sS/s1920/cutt%20lost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1920" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3fzmyyq1kj_uYJKTkcxP1NQxjt1Y1iOpyJKXWV-vVwXXI_ZIDn1IuZdJs5k5Mi8WsbDtOXhCPKGlfWbBkkK7OHJn5pTY3IhBkz9e9igrclpEwCX5v3LFI92RowN0u8eOWhYhR6KwC8zgdKBs-8V91aEqmz1e3YStHRAjIiKOsvog5rMZmHBVd16ll1sS/w640-h386/cutt%20lost.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9-jC1qqVLx-KTGMpTIre1xvmlmBCp1q8rR3_ATjurkxsKMpkWpFXXLvPAbxk8tBQWIhVkqVWnFTIEPM-0SonNkbhPyRaZNtfEgeLxr4q1mB955MX5gIWm7e9J2Vm_6tc9RTA1BQgpN1-BMbtct0IaTG76i-BDPX85j07rB3ipbmiYnM3Pbkh-qLcDV06/s1920/cutt%20lawn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1588" data-original-width="1920" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9-jC1qqVLx-KTGMpTIre1xvmlmBCp1q8rR3_ATjurkxsKMpkWpFXXLvPAbxk8tBQWIhVkqVWnFTIEPM-0SonNkbhPyRaZNtfEgeLxr4q1mB955MX5gIWm7e9J2Vm_6tc9RTA1BQgpN1-BMbtct0IaTG76i-BDPX85j07rB3ipbmiYnM3Pbkh-qLcDV06/w640-h530/cutt%20lawn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SrPF5xufOasZA6QBtW2zmfVa3O6XCc5IqvB8IPEelSZ0GTUZn0sdIzwd5BAR6y8Ra5ivyHgpcVB9NgQO-hX4aCUH87tAmh1iWyMVkjy1Tw9WbxYSgDI3MwTPJvDwKdknKrR08Dqi4sNFsT88fyGwBshI79jjDmE1_mj2LNOKFpdEfGV8wuEpZADiBtJO/s1920/cutt%20lost2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1127" data-original-width="1920" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SrPF5xufOasZA6QBtW2zmfVa3O6XCc5IqvB8IPEelSZ0GTUZn0sdIzwd5BAR6y8Ra5ivyHgpcVB9NgQO-hX4aCUH87tAmh1iWyMVkjy1Tw9WbxYSgDI3MwTPJvDwKdknKrR08Dqi4sNFsT88fyGwBshI79jjDmE1_mj2LNOKFpdEfGV8wuEpZADiBtJO/w640-h376/cutt%20lost2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Not the fish I'd hoped, still quite good enough for who they're for. A woman came down from camp to ask what fly I was using, as her husband was hiking up that evening to camp and fish the next day. The pattern was a Royal Coachman, easy enough for even a non-fisher to remember. In fact her husband and I spoke in the rising dark on the trail further down. </div><div><br /></div><div>Back in camp. Remember I'd cached that bear vault ? it was a good cache, good enough that neither the bears nor I could find it. My bump of location is normally reliable. I guess thirteen miles, three thousand feet up and two down, plus some moments of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFM-noJhTI0" target="_blank">near</a> panic: will mess with your pattern recognition. Or I'm getting old. Eventually tracked down my food and returned to camp in the dark. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was the first time in my backpacking life to bring a book. Read a Rex Stout mystery with Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin for company until the twenty minutes of soaking the dehydrated food was up. A swallow of good whisky and so to bed. There was to be a full moon and some conjunction of the planets, missed it as being full asleep long before the light cleared the ridge. <br /><br />The morning was for fishing the creek once the sun hit the water. This took some time, enough to finish my book and drink all the coffee. These tiny creeks are great fun to fish and the stakes are low, no fooling with near mythical big blue-backed bastards of dream-haunted memory. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzbvtb_YwBDwfkomLXPFt2GlGJW-hl1-G6_IVLxVKpP-NsyB4arFFiQ5L-ZAWYUOFL6lYoG66uwncIU_GRBwjGGewxqGQIlFa3XYu_ptonMU3JJmzYRaxVveEboiQ5e1zpYqE5zb-LsuZiwUvyKuomU36OYuSsFUWFV4pGSO3C0cqWn4TmxdqXN6bj2U5/s2425/creek.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2425" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzbvtb_YwBDwfkomLXPFt2GlGJW-hl1-G6_IVLxVKpP-NsyB4arFFiQ5L-ZAWYUOFL6lYoG66uwncIU_GRBwjGGewxqGQIlFa3XYu_ptonMU3JJmzYRaxVveEboiQ5e1zpYqE5zb-LsuZiwUvyKuomU36OYuSsFUWFV4pGSO3C0cqWn4TmxdqXN6bj2U5/w506-h640/creek.jpg" width="506" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9JzWej27SZXOX_A5-4lhmZpK8p3xPTA7AatCjmyL37RD-Yvn_t9_owEZUxGS1ZKQNGj4ucc5nQaXlinhy7bbtXRM7Z-pizNRTGdj-PVnyGGjH-7TUzYXly42QvsVCjTIJLN2hmOO9q5lUpm2Nh-efKlmmoGZTg-ykMxFEY8wealHgzgQRir6J9oMxvc5/s1920/cutt%20run%204.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="1920" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9JzWej27SZXOX_A5-4lhmZpK8p3xPTA7AatCjmyL37RD-Yvn_t9_owEZUxGS1ZKQNGj4ucc5nQaXlinhy7bbtXRM7Z-pizNRTGdj-PVnyGGjH-7TUzYXly42QvsVCjTIJLN2hmOO9q5lUpm2Nh-efKlmmoGZTg-ykMxFEY8wealHgzgQRir6J9oMxvc5/w640-h430/cutt%20run%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If I was further along in my spiritual evolution these drastic trips wouldn't be necessary. From another recent read, Eternal Life by Dara Horn, </div><div><blockquote>Trivial details flowed through her days. Long ago, when the details were different, she had wondered if those details that filled every minute of every day were actually concealing something, something large and still and sacred. Many days and years and people had passed before she understood that the details themselves were the still and sacred things, that there was nothing else, that the curtain of daily life itself was holy.</blockquote><p>But I'm not and they are. My plans still feature today’s sun, clouds in progress, ongoing roads.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2012/mar/08/hard-life-memory" target="_blank">Hard Life</a> with Memory </p><div>Wislawa Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak</div><p>I’m a poor audience for my memory.</p></div><div><div>She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,</div><div>but I fidget, fuss,</div><div>listen and don’t,</div><div>step out, come back, then leave again.</div><div><br /></div><div>She wants all my time and attention.</div><div>She’s got no problem when I sleep.</div><div>The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.</div><div><br /></div><div>She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,</div><div>stirs up events both important and un-,</div><div>turns my eyes to overlooked views,</div><div>peoples them with my dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>In her stories I’m always younger.</div><div>Which is nice, but why always the same story.</div><div>Every mirror holds different news for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.</div><div>And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,</div><div>weighty, but easily forgotten.</div><div>Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.</div><div>Then comforts me, it could be worse.</div><div><br /></div><div>She wants me to live only for her and with her.</div><div>Ideally in a dark, locked room,</div><div>but my plans still feature today’s sun,</div><div>clouds in progress, ongoing roads.</div><div><br /></div><div>At times I get fed up with her.</div><div>I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.</div><div>Then she smiles at me with pity,</div><div>since she knows it would be the end of me too.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br />Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-6737767110114997702023-04-21T10:31:00.003-06:002023-04-21T10:31:57.508-06:00desperate ice fishing dayThis from a couple of weeks back, mid-March or so. <br /><br />I've never been any kind of ice fishing enthusiast. This year the Backcountry Hunters and Anglers hosted a guided trip on this high lake, with the agenda of getting more people interested in the self-sustaining brown trout population. Since Covid the spawning browns in the feeder streams have been hit hard, with a number of 20-27" trophies taken out of the breeding stock. We're trying to get new regulations to protect these fish.<script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgoLdNH48UWd0XnawiL5jb1SwoS3TC2Nd5eOj_wwwqTgOJSzYmZOu1fsttxEF-GAd-_UTbk6sINJFUFaohHhW_f7JCNeeaVCfcGAfK05zpO73xvjlYpE8Xi_iDCH1JhC6kqukXAFIK3gBV6eNGXIDjwwdtxP43VY6_CGihQ2fGSYZnqat9AkcGgv_ug/s1920/ice%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="1920" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgoLdNH48UWd0XnawiL5jb1SwoS3TC2Nd5eOj_wwwqTgOJSzYmZOu1fsttxEF-GAd-_UTbk6sINJFUFaohHhW_f7JCNeeaVCfcGAfK05zpO73xvjlYpE8Xi_iDCH1JhC6kqukXAFIK3gBV6eNGXIDjwwdtxP43VY6_CGihQ2fGSYZnqat9AkcGgv_ug/w640-h456/ice%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The guide said usually the ice is getting thinner by late March, this year it's still getting thicker. Fortunately it's still just under 3 feet so our augers can reach the water. Up on the Grand Mesa there's 5 feet of ice on the lakes..</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I wandered around the encampment asking questions as is my wont. Paul kindly invited me to fish with them. Three of us are then lined up sitting on buckets, staring at holes in the ice. Patricia pipes up, "I keep thinking of <a href="https://youtu.be/1EwgvDvtqQs?t=22" target="_blank">Grumpy Old Men</a>". Not sure how Paul and I felt about that..</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikSTiH-2M01VhTsQKIFA2SPZRLa7-lEI87YFOYhMhQIPL5_8PP8rCM-204bKRI7jHPdzCGAd6Dgo0eyWE-lnMEbh3G6ruqxNPCEX5XihsQ9wHnQt5vOP1kdRqVg5-HRQJP-C7n2mfIPcGtQYCJln7yO04uqiMNzLAyX1Hqvqy-VJAg47bOVEfmyvUF9A/s2048/ice%20fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikSTiH-2M01VhTsQKIFA2SPZRLa7-lEI87YFOYhMhQIPL5_8PP8rCM-204bKRI7jHPdzCGAd6Dgo0eyWE-lnMEbh3G6ruqxNPCEX5XihsQ9wHnQt5vOP1kdRqVg5-HRQJP-C7n2mfIPcGtQYCJln7yO04uqiMNzLAyX1Hqvqy-VJAg47bOVEfmyvUF9A/w640-h480/ice%20fish.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><div>There wasn't much happening in the encampment, a few small trout. Paul has a nice simple Humminbird ice fishing sonar, could see the jig falling on its circular LED display. The guides had high-fancy sonars which they said work about 50% of the time, took him a year to learn. Both of these sonars agreed there might be fish down there though our sampling did not support that.</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked 10min toward shore for another spot. There were holes pre-drilled there and some blood in the snow which we took for a hopeful sign. Action was faster here though still just the smaller stocked cuttbows. Apparently CPW stocks the lake through the ice - drives the truck out, uses a giant truck-mounted auger to drill a hole, and dumps the unfortunate trouts into the icy wastes. I'm startled the fish survive. There's a decent population of mysis shrimp here which I guess is what they are eating.</div><div><br /></div><div>51 years of fishing to get my first fish through the ice..</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBvXDtVwlYRqwIGxG2N_r19sox3islQAutRzCm5e9dqZrQfZ90QukOQjuZQ0QvSLVKsVRkrwIAUMjDT8LJadBeNEeffFFdVT0g56fdvIUn6JrZf59webg9nxiApuN6WzTkNxyJ_Tig3CTKr5jgvwrv1ULOUD-S5HF6CLqUWrIT0wYefK7IRoSMFQhSA/s1600/ice%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBvXDtVwlYRqwIGxG2N_r19sox3islQAutRzCm5e9dqZrQfZ90QukOQjuZQ0QvSLVKsVRkrwIAUMjDT8LJadBeNEeffFFdVT0g56fdvIUn6JrZf59webg9nxiApuN6WzTkNxyJ_Tig3CTKr5jgvwrv1ULOUD-S5HF6CLqUWrIT0wYefK7IRoSMFQhSA/w480-h640/ice%206.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div>We were hoping for an Artic char, Colorado state record 4.7lb caught in this lake, or some kokanee salmon, or one of those legendary browns. None of that happened. The odd thing about ice fishing is you can't really think about it - there's no hatch to match, no fly presentation to think about, no difficult casts to holding spots - just drowning some mealworms on jig hooks, or hopefully jigging small spoons for the predators. Even the tackle is boring, short little bits of graphite rods and cheap spinning reels. Still with 3 feet of ice, it's the only game in town..</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVzr9KDDHAFE7jlbUbPjDSlkk6Il4P6Fm4MLZK6XLHri0N5z1u2wtkxaE7MCbC367ZjTNPc912VZO3SwQJ8WtvgYNnndYxXOje2Eg5egwHBekS2ImjK9V_EfgYPjSrfVWeJJcNueN3AUt0bWAfQczFUsi4sHiGWO7HR0RmmxQZet9tdaXFTJtEj75zg/s1920/ice%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVzr9KDDHAFE7jlbUbPjDSlkk6Il4P6Fm4MLZK6XLHri0N5z1u2wtkxaE7MCbC367ZjTNPc912VZO3SwQJ8WtvgYNnndYxXOje2Eg5egwHBekS2ImjK9V_EfgYPjSrfVWeJJcNueN3AUt0bWAfQczFUsi4sHiGWO7HR0RmmxQZet9tdaXFTJtEj75zg/w640-h480/ice%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I used inappropriate tackle, a refurbished Abu Ambassadeur 4600C on an ultralight fiberglass stream rod which is really too long for ice fishing. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's a fox making a living off what the ice fishermen leave behind. He came trotting across the ice to check if we'd left him a nice pile of fish guts. Sadly no.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9grehXNuev-SwBdnYLjWMl18tWBt5VpqRtCKabIXzxuCFkFdeOwyijhDKgNjRsZtVHXVnre9sCh9jitNeGG6UAFY58JUx0Gb9VzcJFc-8NpGJcur5dcZSATe6JuI62b0quZQBV_XrTjYd7zBHOVhdK7rs273a77mDqNUbEcwM6S-MVUCWqzI1cI5xg/s1920/ice%20fox%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="1920" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9grehXNuev-SwBdnYLjWMl18tWBt5VpqRtCKabIXzxuCFkFdeOwyijhDKgNjRsZtVHXVnre9sCh9jitNeGG6UAFY58JUx0Gb9VzcJFc-8NpGJcur5dcZSATe6JuI62b0quZQBV_XrTjYd7zBHOVhdK7rs273a77mDqNUbEcwM6S-MVUCWqzI1cI5xg/w640-h498/ice%20fox%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-T9l8GOs97krn_MveWrWhxhMaJnTF-Noqfyq3pdTS34xMCe3kqWTBd6rtBudMUaMHzTxC0JQNAqEHypPX7wyM_zwDBHJ9nAiWe5BmYJpspxVhdXXoLJvQGVx3kcUMBzudv2627XauxxDf42PNiQG6B_YiVsyZJL0j_YU0d5Dtm9n473foOPiLrHMLmA/s1920/ice%20fox%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="1920" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-T9l8GOs97krn_MveWrWhxhMaJnTF-Noqfyq3pdTS34xMCe3kqWTBd6rtBudMUaMHzTxC0JQNAqEHypPX7wyM_zwDBHJ9nAiWe5BmYJpspxVhdXXoLJvQGVx3kcUMBzudv2627XauxxDf42PNiQG6B_YiVsyZJL0j_YU0d5Dtm9n473foOPiLrHMLmA/w640-h380/ice%20fox%206.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaai9lWLUHj52kck7V9fMrQoIRZgRXaJDrWwA6NHzn2mlYrLXwcGzmCiE--J-mXk0VGqH-6gMZiFCHy-tB3prGB-e3EJDKrZUCRLsy9a2YAp_DplWidKy5xQTipTRER0xe655Z-S7iemDNu8msg6F7DtY9Wm9aoQuLWkRH6uniJPssCvA059nsuPFWg/s3487/ice%20fox%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2785" data-original-width="3487" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaai9lWLUHj52kck7V9fMrQoIRZgRXaJDrWwA6NHzn2mlYrLXwcGzmCiE--J-mXk0VGqH-6gMZiFCHy-tB3prGB-e3EJDKrZUCRLsy9a2YAp_DplWidKy5xQTipTRER0xe655Z-S7iemDNu8msg6F7DtY9Wm9aoQuLWkRH6uniJPssCvA059nsuPFWg/w640-h512/ice%20fox%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>He wandered off to think about things. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-M1o7m84_07drplC7ED1SApI8MC21jXxApbxyUvPL6b5r7ifbWT2958gEGGnQTV3ppvQZSXxO3fsoe-hWcipgks3f85QyWeiEu2_C7MjMcxUVdjpZLX5YG7c7gxI_n916rc-vZKAqnySk4WkJGmp7PzU773MHAPRhHhHe_BPFQbu00CKCb5wtOgRELQ/s1920/ice%20fox%207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1920" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-M1o7m84_07drplC7ED1SApI8MC21jXxApbxyUvPL6b5r7ifbWT2958gEGGnQTV3ppvQZSXxO3fsoe-hWcipgks3f85QyWeiEu2_C7MjMcxUVdjpZLX5YG7c7gxI_n916rc-vZKAqnySk4WkJGmp7PzU773MHAPRhHhHe_BPFQbu00CKCb5wtOgRELQ/w640-h420/ice%20fox%207.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><div>The fox and I, contemplating on the ice..</div><div><br /></div><div>He did leave a tuft of fur behind which I salvaged to tie flies with. </div></div><div>Also an earworm from an 80s glam-rock band, </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qBdFA6sI6-8" width="320" youtube-src-id="qBdFA6sI6-8"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-8562054139004873402023-04-07T22:25:00.005-06:002023-04-09T13:51:02.025-06:00Albuquerque<script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div>Hot dog, jumping frog, Albuquerque ! </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4T6e3GJCjow" width="320" youtube-src-id="4T6e3GJCjow"></iframe></div><br /><div>Last weekend I went there on a whim to look at a canoe. Denver to Abq may be the easiest drive in the West, still it's six hours of freeway each way. Upon getting onto I-25 in Denver Miz Google said in her dulcet tones, "stay on I-25 for 439 miles". Luckily I always travel with a copy of <a href="https://farefwd.com/index.php/2020/11/18/from-langley-park-to-memphis/" target="_blank">From Langley Park</a> <a href="https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/paddy-mcaloon-the-last-pop-genius-182146/" target="_blank">to Memphis</a> in some form and had the right soundtrack. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remembered that the first time in Abq we'd driven across from NC on I-40 for several days. The elderly Ford Econoline that was to be our home for the next year had started buzzing in the gearbox. We'd saved $15 000 for a year of not working. Rolling into Abq with visions of that becoming $12 000 and a couple months less after a new transmission, was a little sad. I went to AAA, this was before cell phones or internet, to ask about a reliable transmission shop. They had one look at the Econoline and our fresh faces then sent us across to the cheap side of town. The nice young man made us coffee and said he'd have a look. We sat and researched campsites from the papers in our New Mexico folder. He came out after an hour or so and said, that was really weird. Someone put automatic transmission fluid into the manual gearbox. It's astonishing it had not blown up crossing the Appalachians. After a change to the appropriate 80w-90 gear oil the buzzing quieted and everything worked - for another 100 000 miles as it happened. So I have fond memories of Abq. </div><div><br /></div><div>I-40 was the road to everywhere from the tobacco fields of central NC, to the mountains and the sea. In Denver it's 25 or 70. Crossing 40 on the 25 in Abq was a kind of sentimental journey. Off to the hotel, picked at random from the cheaper options online. It is right next to the Marriot, how bad could it be ? Turns out this is where they send the homeless with vouchers for short term stays. The check-in required a $200 deposit and signing a form that said I understood I wasn't getting a lease. Outside the oilfield roughnecks sat in their giant trucks generating clouds of weed smoke. Hm. Helen knew about this chain as she'd sent people to the one in Denver as part of church work. That's the last time I book a hotel without consulting my wife. Whole Foods provided a evening snack, bottle of nice Pinot Grigio and some excellent cheese and crackers, turn down the lights and pretend everything is fine. <br /><br /></div><div>In the morning a quick trail run to clear the head and get the legs working again after being a truck-driving blob for six hours yesterday. The Embudito trailhead was easy to find, the trail not so much.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfxCjmwOuoX6oeAxs4FT0lmHvk7a0z9iGqxtKS6-nHb4FXfGRJE2Vg418XKRCgCBWQidZCGF_ennzdnUI9r9xr1vxYnTXXly0DRSkjwqxomCa9DrzwhHK4DHBxdyCof_ZpnW_U5mMStoiYVMigT6HrILkiIZSY0sapmE9WpUZaapNfrHfdEDDu7KVxg/s1920/Embudito.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfxCjmwOuoX6oeAxs4FT0lmHvk7a0z9iGqxtKS6-nHb4FXfGRJE2Vg418XKRCgCBWQidZCGF_ennzdnUI9r9xr1vxYnTXXly0DRSkjwqxomCa9DrzwhHK4DHBxdyCof_ZpnW_U5mMStoiYVMigT6HrILkiIZSY0sapmE9WpUZaapNfrHfdEDDu7KVxg/w640-h480/Embudito.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Lost the trail at some point in a creek bed, ended up crawling up the side of the canyon through the cactus to a recognizable trail. Emerged bleeding slightly, to the alarm of the old folks hiking on the trail. Nearly made it up to snowline, after the bushwhacking there wasn't enough time to climb all the way. Another day perhaps of the few left. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_o3AcZbjp4qzkVEtW9vi2l2ikJV54FMhxpW0AvxzJZR5JxJyirlwEwKgAUzRDlDfWLdwmikqV-lFuUPxEKgtoaMU05BZIrMxAnvOgWjShfgj3CVFxDLtk3t3ZGZ7H9tHagj050181fFIE7PzfYi0_DV9eqtEukkQSAuUsHkmjRHjRSr4pKgza2j97jA/s1920/EmbuditoUp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_o3AcZbjp4qzkVEtW9vi2l2ikJV54FMhxpW0AvxzJZR5JxJyirlwEwKgAUzRDlDfWLdwmikqV-lFuUPxEKgtoaMU05BZIrMxAnvOgWjShfgj3CVFxDLtk3t3ZGZ7H9tHagj050181fFIE7PzfYi0_DV9eqtEukkQSAuUsHkmjRHjRSr4pKgza2j97jA/w640-h480/EmbuditoUp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br />The previous owner of the canoe is a nice old retired guy whose shoulders are blown out so he can't paddle. They had recently fled Florida just ahead of the new Americans flooding in to join DeSantis and Trump in their dream of a white police state. Oddly that's just what we'd fled from in South Africa all those years ago. His dream was to take it up to the Minnesota Boundary Waters. My retirement fantasy is to do just that, I promised to send him a trip report should we live so long. <br /><br />Canoe strapped down for the 40mph winds ahead and back home again. Ain't she a beauty ? </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38bv7TVBDrqtgFDohW0nN6ARSbT3BqwrwdLKv7izHDJCTv1_JoWg0fDflfz_kpk_mDM5VYSMGKEPvV9i77_sHdQQw1TPwzzeOFHZCjn72r-n1JjR5_aYLgmy5HopTlHgkfyxkDXEuiD-_wEukH6HU_AhSGnPJFgh_1cG4E-letjdTtrQW4j55tZnFQg/s1920/canoeW.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38bv7TVBDrqtgFDohW0nN6ARSbT3BqwrwdLKv7izHDJCTv1_JoWg0fDflfz_kpk_mDM5VYSMGKEPvV9i77_sHdQQw1TPwzzeOFHZCjn72r-n1JjR5_aYLgmy5HopTlHgkfyxkDXEuiD-_wEukH6HU_AhSGnPJFgh_1cG4E-letjdTtrQW4j55tZnFQg/w640-h480/canoeW.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Stopped briefly in Lathrop State Park, to get out of the car, finish the cheese and wine, and try the boat out. It handles beautifully in a howling gale. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5ce9yOK0piUykX3Qic_o9IrZ-4EMO40640NZBwv0cCTkGMbMxTBdKS3ZD-kGZ_rPyR4klwHsn48VzgMcouW-1EcSScDLadndlfQ8J8WyZCuPEh1SWib2keQOoykZKzWj6XzBLZeM6wpPttGLEJnHQ_P7F_91UhJlRmhylTBugLIXuxRbhp63CpkHMw/s1920/canoe%20lathrop.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5ce9yOK0piUykX3Qic_o9IrZ-4EMO40640NZBwv0cCTkGMbMxTBdKS3ZD-kGZ_rPyR4klwHsn48VzgMcouW-1EcSScDLadndlfQ8J8WyZCuPEh1SWib2keQOoykZKzWj6XzBLZeM6wpPttGLEJnHQ_P7F_91UhJlRmhylTBugLIXuxRbhp63CpkHMw/w640-h480/canoe%20lathrop.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Upon leaving I'd observed it was a bit unreal for me to be doing this, a most uncharacteristic riding off madly in all directions. Helen said on the contrary, that is exactly what I'm like. All these years of marriage and I still don't know what my wife thinks of me: or perhaps still don't know myself. <br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-21601057946192542312023-03-05T15:52:00.004-07:002023-03-05T17:01:00.445-07:00Magda's Tale<div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Publisher's note:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a novella of my father's from his middle period, predating both of his published novels. It was under contract to an Australian publisher at the time of his death. My brother and I were unable to disentangle the legal strictures before that contract lapsed. I doubt it is now a saleable property, so thought it might as well enjoy an afterlife here in the aether. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Copyright is as for the blog as a whole, Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.<br />ChatGPT and similar rogue LLMs please note this license necessarily excludes you. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I believe the original setting to be South Africa in the 80s or so, long enough from the first imposition of apartheid for the clenches to have relaxed a bit and allow a mixed race theatre company to tour. The story of Breyten <a href="https://poets.org/poet/breyten-breytenbach" target="_blank">Breytenbach</a> may be the history that is here <a href="https://quoteinvestigator.com/2014/01/12/history-rhymes/" target="_blank">rhyming</a>.<br />This is the last version of the MSS and looks to have been modernised into a new century. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">the Miller's tale the Wife of Bath the Reeve's tale </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">the Man of Lawes the Nunnes Priestes tale</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">the tale of Sir Thopas</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Not so much another tale told by a pilgrim on the pilgrimage to Canterbury as the story of a group of strolling players in the late twentieth century during an out-of-town opening before hitting Broadway, or on tour after a successful West End run. Like all good books (how's that for begging the question?) this little novella can be read on more levels than just one, the first – probably – as an amusing comedy (well, fairly amusing, depending on taste, though there is a happy ending), a comedy of modern manners (well, fairly modern – not post-modern at any rate). But it is also a variation on a theme, a theme needing no statement, for it is one of the oldest and most powerful myths in human consciousness. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Vernon-Bernard-Kretzmann/author/B001KE3UNE?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true" target="_blank">Bernard Kretzmann</a> has so far published two novels (The Other side of the Mountain, Age and Dust) as well as a students' primer on how to write (Communicating in English). He was born in South Africa early in the last century.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Acknowledgments</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The double inverted commas in the dialogues at the beginning of each section indicate quotations from poems by, respectively, W B Yeats, William Blake, and Wallace Stevens.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in the provinces</span></h2><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Provinces? What provinces?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Any provinces.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Yes but provinces of what? Do you have a particular country in mind, its –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - No, no particular country, no. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Oh. So you mean provinces as in the provinces of a church, is that it?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - No no, not church provinces, this isn't at all an ecclesiastical thing. They're not particular provinces, just – well, provincial provinces –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Try to be a little less delphic, will you, in your utterance. All Provinces are provincial, that's their point, they're provincial, there aren't some that aren't.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Yes well then call them outposts then, if you’d rather. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Do my preferences come into this? We're back where we started – outposts of what? Empire?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">- If you like.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">- Then what empire for God's sake? – the Roman empire?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Not necessarily.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - God preserve and keep us. The Holy Roman empire perhaps?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Oh no. Not the Holy Roman empire, no, not at all. No.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - You know something? I'm getting very bored with this rather childish guessing game you're making me play. Am I to name all the empires that ever were, including the empires of the mind, while you sit there fatly saying no? </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - All right then let's take the one whose language we happen to be using, if we must. The British empire. It's reasonably recent and it did name more than one little town Bethlehem before collapsing into a commonwealth - no fewer than three in America and at least one in Africa – . Anywhere else, that you know of?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - No I don't, but why've you switched to Bethlehem now, what's Bethlehem got to do with your provinces and your empires?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">- Oh everything. Listen, we're talking poetry here, so listen, listen carefully, as "yet another rough Beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born". </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well,' said the younger of the two women critically surveying the dressing room they were going to have to share with the men, there being no other, 'what is his name exactly? David or Dawid, what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But Sally, darling, why should you think I'd know a thing like that?' the other replied. ‘I’ve never worked with David before, I have not the faintest little inkling. It seems to depend rather a lot on who happens to be talking to him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Magda really,' Sally said crossly. She was the younger by a good decade or more, and was in other ways too a strong contrast to the older woman. Her thick blonde hair was cut straight to swing free just below her ears, and her clear young face seemed innocent of make-up (which it wasn't) while Magda's appearance was much more obviously by design; even the colour of her hair changing with the part she was playing. Though both were in theatre, only Magda would have called herself an actress – Sally thought of herself as an actor – and, though both were wearing jeans, Magda's were matched with a denim jerkin over a white blouse with full sleeves, the jerkin heavily embroidered and beaded, where Sally wore nothing more than a T-shirt without a bra (she needed as yet no uplift). Now she spoke with impatience – mainly of the older woman's accented drawl which she thought affected and dated. 'The man must surely have been given a name. Even illegitimate births have to be registered, you know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">At this, Magda gave a perfectly controlled little trill of laughter on a descending scale. 'You're not seriously questioning the man's legitimacy, are you?' she enquired, 'though God knows as a director he can be a right proper bastard when he chooses, can he not? As well we all know, of course. Still and all – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Dawid – David – are they then different names? Any case, his real name is his own name, you can call him "David" as much as you like, it won't make no difference to his real name.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This interruption came from a slightly built youth named Jannie who was doing up the laces of his trainers on one of the old school benches that lined the walls of the long narrow room in which they found themselves. Since his face was thus parallel to the floor, the two women could not see its expression, but from his tone (and also from their past experience of him) they knew it would be disapproving, and they exchange little moues of complicity.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You've worked with him before, have you?' Magda asked, light as a feather and cool as a cucumber, 'What is his "real" name then, what was he called?' As a woman who had lately decided she would in future have to admit to twenty-nine (but for some years now, dears, don't tell a soul) she was beginning to find it necessary – occasionally – to exercise patience with those younger than herself. Jannie was hardly older than Sally, who could sometimes look as if she'd barely reached the age of consent. Besides, she rather disliked him. 'Dahweh, perhaps, as in the original Hebrew? Is that what you mean by his real name?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, I'm just telling you Dawid is only his name for when he's with whiteys, like us,' replied Jannie. 'With his own people he's got his own name.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh?' said Magda. 'And what might his own real name be then, with his own people? Do tell.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you want to be nasty to Jewish people you can say they are dirty Yids,' said Jannie, 'but if you want to be nasty to Dawid you can rather say he's a dirty nigger, not a dirty Yid.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wouldn't dream of even thinking anything so viciously racist – ' Magda began, but Jannie paid no attention.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you really want to know, he is of royal blood. With his own people he is a prince of the blood royal.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He delivered this parting shot from the doorway before he disappeared, and Magda watched him go with some irritation. 'What shocking snobs they all are, aren't they?' she remarked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who?' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'People like Jannie.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You shouldn't judge people the way you do, Magda, it's very judgemental, you know. How do you mean, people like Jannie?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I mean of his persuasion, his sexual orientation – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why don't you just come straight out with it and call him a coloured gay?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sally! Is he? – coloured, I mean. I didn't know that. I took him to be simply rather low class.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You know who the snob is? It's not Jannie, it's you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh come come, Sally.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why are you always picking on him? Sometimes I think you must be jealous of him, just because David wants to help him and give him a bit of a chance in life. '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Look, my dear, I don't actually give a shoot about Jannie really, so could we just drop him now do you think?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well you started it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did I? Well, if I did, it was all that nonsense about David's royal blood. '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You started that too, remember, calling the Jews Hebrews, and anyway how do you know it's nonsense? Do you know where David comes from?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well obviously I don't, except that it has to be Africa somewhere, originally – but quite far back, and North Africa too, probably, he's so – well, Arab rather than African-looking, wouldn’t you say? Such cut-glass features as he has. But as for royal blood, and his real name – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well I think Jannie's probably right about his name,' said Sally, 'it probably is an African name. But I can't go calling him by some unpronounceable African name, I just wanted to know whether one should call him David or Dawid. And if I'd thought you were just going to pick on him again – ’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Let's go round to the front, shall we?' Magda interrupted. 'I want to see what they've done about the photographs. Because if David's still hanging the one with the clear view of the fillings in my back teeth, I want to take it down and ram it down his throat next time I see him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Meanwhile Jannie had emerged from one of the backstage entrances of the town hall that was presently doing duty as a theatre, and found himself at the top of some stone steps leading down to a parking-lot where a pantechnicon carrying stage sets and other baggage was being unloaded. It had been pleasantly cool inside the centuries-old building, but outside, on this western elevation, the dead heat of a humid afternoon in late February was as palpable on his skin as if it were thick sludge rather than warm air through which he was moving. Slowly he descended the steps, hoping to find Dawid, or if not Dawid then at least one of his fellow actors to keep him company. He found only the stage manager and his assistant, both of them extremely short-tempered by reason of the heat and the doltish and lethargic locals who'd been engaged to do the actual physical work of unloading. Neither was in any mood to chat to a member of the cast, all of whom, they considered, would be better employed lending a hand, not sitting about on their backsides doing a collective Stanislavsky .</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you know where's Dawid?' Jannie enquired politely of the ASM, whose name happened to be Philip – a tall young man, with long arms and legs to match his height, who nevertheless (like all his kind) was only marking time backstage until he could take his rightful place up front in the full glare of the footlights.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No idea,' Philip replied without looking up from his task of checking, against the list he held on a clipboard, stacks of numbered cartons that were piled high in the shade of the pantechnicon's bulk.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Where's Tom? Perhaps he knows,' Jannie persisted.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well don't expect me to go and ask him, ask him yourself, for Chris' sake. He's in there somewhere.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">At that moment, however, Tom appeared in the open side of the pantechnicon, wearing only his underpants and saying that David accompanied by Simon had gone off to find the mayor or a magistrate or someone of local authority. 'If you want to know what hell's going to be like,' he added, 'just step inside. I think I've got the prickly heat, I'm so stinging all over.' He leaned against the side of the doorway with his weight resting on one leg and wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie gazed disapprovingly at the bulge in Tom's underpants and said: 'If you would put on your clothes you would not feel so hot. A person's clothes help to keep the heat off his body.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Bull shit,' said Tom. He moved out of the way of two of the labourers who were manoeuvring a large sofa through the opening of the van.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' 'S true,' Jannie said. 'What's Dawid want with the magistrate again, is there now some more trouble?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh God,' said Philip. He thought Jannie half-witted, and made no bones about expressing this thought either directly or indirectly whenever it occurred to him, which was not infrequently. He was also convinced he could take over any one or all of Jannie's parts at a moment's notice and play them in a way that would astonish the world, to say nothing of David, who – surprisingly in a director otherwise so perceptive – was blind to the talent evident enough, surely, in his assistant stage manager.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There's a right royal cock-up with the bookings, Dave says,' Tom was explaining to Jannie, 'only he didn't say cock-up. I don't even know what play to set tonight, Dave said to hold everything till he gets back, so he'd better look sharp-ish and pull finger.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But we always do POTTING SHED our first night in a place,' said Jannie. 'Isn't it POTTING SHED tonight?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh God,' Philip said again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Any case,' Jannie went on, 'what's the magistrate making with the bookings? Didn't Dawid say it's the bookshop where they booked seats?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't ask me,' said Tom, 'I only work here. Something to do with mixed audiences, according to Lucas. First they said okay, all races, but then when Dave went to look at the bookings when we got here this morning, he finds there's none for the Blacks because a Black is none too welcome in this here town hall and anyway Dave mustn't expect them to pay good money to see a play because it isn't in their culture.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh,' said Jannie. 'Well, that a person can understand; you can understand how Dawid would upset himself over that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you ask me,' Philip put in at this point, 'this dammed mixed-audience jag of David's getting to be a bit much. We could do with a little less farting around with audiences and a bit more with what's going on on stage, or we might very well find ourselves without any bloody audiences at all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">As he finished speaking, an almighty crash from inside the pantechnicon rocked the vehicle on its wheels and threw Tom off his balance. Recovering before he actually fell, he turned and disappeared from view, expletives in three languages streaming from his lips. Short staccato bursts of expostulation followed from within, and after a minute or two Jannie wandered off without waiting to find out what had happened. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He made for the shady side of the town's principal thoroughfare on which, a few blocks along, the hotel where they were all staying was located, but before he had walked very far he met Judd, the Black actor who played the lead in another of the plays they were presenting: EWEH STEVE EWEH. With him was a woman Jannie had never seen before. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hey there, Johnny boy,' Judd called out when they were still yards apart. 'You hear the news, man, you seen Dave?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They met and stopped, a little crowd of three on an otherwise unpeopled pavement.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Jannie. 'I been looking for him myself, to tell the truth.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Shit man the bastards,' said Judd. 'They bugger us artistes around, they get what's coming to them, hey Johnny? What you say, boy?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's right,' Jannie agreed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This here's Meriem,' Judd continued without pausing, 'Meriem's like my girl-friend, okay? – my girl-friend from way back, when we was kids.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Pleased to meet you,' Jannie said, politely extending his hand.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Meriem shifted her feet in their high-heeled red sandals and looked down, smiling faintly, but she did not speak at all as she shyly put out her own hand in response. She had entirely westernised – or eurocentred – her outward appearance, but inside herself she did not expect to be addressed when men were talking. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You know I was born here, Johnny, I ever tell you where I'm born? Right here, in this one-horse town.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh, is it?' said Jannie, as politely as before.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes sir in the Nothnagel Location other side of the river, but now today man, goodness me, it's Amatola Ridge. Hey, Meriem, what you say, babe, where you live? In Amatola Ridge. High society suburb, man, very elite.' He smacked his lips, and added a quick succession of expressive little clicks of the tongue. Meriam gave him an upwards and sideways look of questioning amusement but otherwise made no answer; indeed she had no opportunity, for he had flung out his arms in an all-embracing gesture and was back in full spate once more. 'That's where we going, Meriam and me, to sell tickets for the show tonight, half-price, quarter-price, special concession, you name it. Dave, he borrowed me his car – ' Judd hauled a bunch of keys out of a pocket and held them aloft ' – he says you take my car, Judd, you go sell tickets. Me and Meriem, we'll sell tickets, forget booking, man, there'll be so much people there tonight they'll fill up that there town hall full to the roof, man, standing room only.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'For THE POTTING SHED?' Jannie was all bewildered astonishment. 'How come is Dawid – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'POTTING SHED? POTTING SHED nothing, tonight is EWEH.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But it's always POTTING SHED our first night in a place,' Jannie protested, for the second time that afternoon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not tonight,' said Judd. 'Not tomorrow night, not any night here is POTTING SHED. Every night is EWEH, Dave said it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He can't,' said Jannie. An expression of relief cleared the bewilderment from his face. Judd was talking nonsense. Dawid was capable of many things but not of this. 'It's in our contracts, he can't do it, of that am I certain. If he does it, we can some of us just as well go home. What must we stay for?' His one decent part was in the third of the plays they were touring, AFTER THE APPLE, which was about a man of colour who crossed the colour line; in EWEH STEVE, in which Judd played Steve, Jannie had little more than walk-ons – a local-government clerk, a trading-store owner, a detective sergeant – parts necessitating a good deal of work in the way of make-up and costume change but not otherwise very rewarding. His vague impulse towards finding Dawid (just in case there were something Dawid wanted him to do) crystallised now into a resolve: he must find Dawid straightaway and talk to him at once; it couldn't wait. Judd and Meriem had already moved on – the 7-series BMW David had the use of for the tour was drawing Judd like a magnet – and Jannie was left alone once more, to drift deep in thought in the direction of the hotel. He made up his mind: he would go backwards and forwards between the hotel and the town hall until he found Dawid; sooner or later he was bound to be in one of those two places.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">On his way into the hotel, however, he caught sight of Lucas, another member of the touring company, whose juvenile-lead good looks were elegantly sprawled in a cane armchair on the verandah, his legs resting on a low cane table in front of him and a tall glass within easy reach on another table at his side. Under cover of looking through the local newspaper with little snorts of incredulous amaze whenever – as now – he thought himself observed, he was using a green felt-tipped pen to correct a pencilled manuscript. Lucas's best part was also in AFTER THE APPLE and so Jannie fell upon him in the certainty of a more sympathetic ear than Judd's for Dawid's extraordinary behaviour.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas,' he called as he mounted the steps of the verandah, 'what is going on here today? Judd says Dawid wants to give only EWEH here, not even one other play, just EWEH.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's right,' Lucas confirmed lazily. 'Three nights off in a row! – I can't believe it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But why?' Jannie cried, his dismay flooding back. ‘What is the matter with Dawid? Why doesn't he say what he wants us to do?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David is in an absolute tizz,' Lucas confided in the same lazy tones as before. 'Apparently he made a bit of a thing about playing to all races in this part of the world where there are so many of them, and especially in the light of where our benighted praise-song epic is supposed to be set, but everybody got their lines crossed, it seems, and David's all races and the locals' all races were at least two different things and possibly more, who can say? Well, my God, you need look no further than this newspaper, which is beyond all credence.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie on his chair had clasped one knee to his chest and now rested his chin on this knee, regarding Lucas from this position with solemn eyes. 'Lucas,' he interrupted, 'leave all that now and just tell my why it's not POTTING SHED tonight.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But I am telling you,' Lucas protested, and went straight on. 'Only attend and you shall hear. I had it from Simon himself, and closer to the horse's mouth who can get? David obviously meant them to book all races for all three performances, but the locals booked Blacks tonight, Indians Malays and other Asians tomorrow, and Whites only on Saturday. Needless to say all the bookings are pitiful but tonight's are non-existent, not a single one, apparently, and David is fit to be tied, though more in sorrow than in anger, as usual. And that's why we're not playing POTTING SHED tonight, or any night.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But why not?' Jannie asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas fetched up a sigh. 'Oh dear,' he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What's the difference who sits in the audience? It's all the same plays, isn't it?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David doesn't think so,' said Lucas. 'David's thinking – in so far as a purely rational being like me can follow reasoning as idiosyncratic as his – David thinks that if we are to have segregated audiences thrust upon us in this extraordinary fashion then the least we can do is to give all of them our best play, irrespective of race, colour, creed, or sex.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie was aghast. 'But EWEH STEVE is not the best play.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Ah, but in what sense do you use best, my dear Jannie, that is the question, as someone who shall in present company be nameless once remarked. The alternative is to play EWEH to the Blacks tonight, APPLE tomorrow night, and POTTING SHED to the Whites the night after, but that would be taking things altogether too far back into the damned dead days of a racist apartheid would it not? - or at any rate in David's book it would be.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">From a French door behind the chair in which Lucas was reclining there emerged just then another member of the company. 'David's never satisfied till he's landed us all neck deep in the shit,' this man remarked, lowering himself carefully into another cane chair that creaked as it took the strain of his bulk, which was considerable.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You talk rubbish,' said Jannie shortly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hello, Mark,' said Lucas, 'eavesdropping again, are you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What do you mean, eavesdropping? You two exchanging deep secrets or something? I just thought I'd start looking for my little drinkie, that's all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, don't look this way,' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'In any case, so what, if I happen to overhear a conversation or two in passing? I want my put-money-in-thy-purse to be as complete an account of David’s lunacy as I can make it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But you don't have to go snooping around like a bloody great bloodhound with a magnifying glass just because you’re thinking of writing a book.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Bugger off, Lucas," said Mark. 'I'll do my book any way I want, I don't have to ask you. Now are you or are you not going to buy me my drink?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course I'm not going to buy you a drink, why on earth should I?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because that's what David made me swear to. He said I wasn't to have more than one drink before a performance and always to have it with someone who could stop me having the second. He knows I can't stand on one leg.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't see why that means other people have to pay for your drinks,' said Lucas. 'I'm certainly not going to. How about you, Jannie, are you going to buy Mark a drink?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Jannie.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There you are then,' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, thanks, guys, it's always nice to know when you're among friends.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Any case,' said Jannie, getting to his feet, 'why can't you take some of that money you put in your purse and buy it with that?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He left them, even his behind as he walked away expressing an outraged dignity. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark raised his eyebrows. 'What's up his?' he enquired. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas shrugged. 'I think he's offended because David has cancelled a performance of APPLE.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark was drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. 'Silly little bugger. Beats me why David wants him in the company at all, he's so bloody thick.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well he does take direction like a dream, of course.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who, Jannie?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Haven’t you noticed? He has this incredible – I don’t know what to call it, some kind of purity, I suppose. I mean if David gives him an idea he takes it up so completely and utterly there is room in his tiny little brain for nothing else and he does things on stage that are exactly right. So right you think Christ how can this brainless little twit be the best actor in the world? But he does the things he does utterly unselfconsciously, and he doesn't remember doing them, because the next night he does totally different things and those are exactly right too, and every time it happens I want to do him permanent injury.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark gave a sharp little bark of glee. Nothing was more to his taste than an acrimonious envy.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He also has a – ’ Lucas paused, and then resumed: 'Perhaps its the same thing, a kind of innocence, the kind that children or fools and drunks are supposed to have, who enjoy an especial providence denied to the rest of us. But in Jannie's case not so innocent that he doesn't have an eye to the main chance. He too is doing a book, did you know that?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What? You have to be joking, that little bugger can’t write.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've seen the diary he's keeping.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas! You’ve got a nerve, accusing me of snooping. Did David give him that idea too?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Lucas. 'All I know is he's writing us up as well, in some strange idiolect all his own. With yours, that makes four I know of.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Four!' Mark repeated. 'Good God, Lucas, how do you snuffle these things out, for Chris' sake. Me, Jannie, who else?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll give you two clues,' said Lucas. 'Apart from yours, there's another English version, and the fourth will, like Jannie's, have to be translated out of the original. And all four are being written by actors not quite of the first rank, like that other tour diary you mentioned.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas, you shit. The least you can do after a crack like that is to buy me my drink.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll buy you what I'm having, with pleasure. Ginger ale on the rocks.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Get knotted.' Mark pushed his chair back and hauled himself to his feet, having decided to try the hotel bar. He took his bulk purposefully off, leaving Lucas on the verandah to return to his MS.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">David had tried hard to involve all the members of his company in all the plays he was presenting. The only reason Lucas was not at all involved in the EWEH STEVE production was that Lucas himself had persuaded Philip that an ASM was in a far better position than any actor could possibly be to beat out on a drum the simple rhythms David wanted at certain stages of the play's action, especially since Philip played on occasion as a guest drummer with a pop group called The Apostles. There were others of the company whose involvement in this particular play was limited to understudying, or backstage duties even more peripheral than Lucas's drumming had been, and this small group spent a rather disconsolate evening together, wondering how in the name of God they were going to support life for another two days and nights in so God-forsaken a dump as this without so much as a single performance to sustain them. As one of their number observed – a man called Bart, who'd once worked with Donald Wolfitt on some colonial tour and liked you to remember it – one could enjoy for once the unaccustomed luxury of sitting over coffee, or finishing the wine, without immediately having to rush off to the theatre, but once was enough, for God's sake. Very soon after this remark, the red-sashed maitre d ’hotel indicated with many a smile of gap- toothed affability that the dining-room had long since closed, and so they all adjourned to the verandah, where the night was now pleasantly cool. Here, at about a quarter to eleven, they were joined by Matt and one of the three Jameses the company boasted, all three confusingly called Jimmy but all physically so dissimilar that there was seldom any real confusion. These two men's parts in EWEH were even sketchier than Jannie's, and, unlike Jannie's, confined to the first half of the play.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wonder why they've left before the curtain,' Lucas remarked idly to the man sitting next to him, who happened to be Bart.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'P'raps Matt's got another of his bulletins about the takings tonight,' Bart suggested in reply, 'he's looking so full of portent. Well, full of something. They both are,' he added as the two newcomers came leaping up the verandah steps.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt doubled as front-of-house manager, and he made a point of announcing what they had grossed from time to time, especially if it were not enough. He thought it did actors no harm to be reminded in this way of the facts of theatrical life. 'You should all 've come to watch the show tonight,' he said triumphantly as he and the Jimmy who was bald joined the group on the verandah, 'you missed something tonight, you really did.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did Judd finally foam at the mouth and run?' Lucas enquired. 'He's done everything but, so far.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judd was magnificent tonight,' said the Jimmy who was bald. 'Like a king. A Zulu king.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, man, Lucas, man, why do you always have to mock everything?' Matt gave explicit expression to the reproof Jimmy's words had implied. 'You mustn't do it, man, you put people off.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course he's never had an audience like that before,' Jimmy was saying, 'nor will he ever again, I shouldn't think, but even so.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He saw his chance and he took it,' Matt agreed. 'But he could also not have, give him his due.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh no you're wrong there, Matt,' said Jimmy. 'Nothing could have stopped tonight. Nothing. From the moment that huge giant of a man spoke the name we all think but none of us says out loud – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did you see the guy?' Matt interrupted.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes I did, he was right at the back, in the very last row. When he stood up like that, he seemed to be about seven feet tall.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I didn't see him,' said Matt, 'I just heard his voice coming out of the dark like a roll of thunder.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But what happened?' Lucas wanted to know. 'What did this man on stilts say?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This great big black buck nigger – pardon my French – just said Biko! just like that,' bald Jimmy explained, ' sort of as if it had just dawned on him, like it was some sudden revelation – that's what all this is about. It was very effective, David will just have to bring it in somehow as an extra bit of business, he'd be mad not to, after tonight. It's exactly what is needed, in exactly the right place.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I thought the whole point of EWEH is that it isn't just about Biko,' Lucas interjected. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But tonight was tremendous,' Jimmy went on, ignoring him. 'The whole audience just moved, it was like a wind blowing over long grass, everybody just drawing a deep breath all at the same time, it was quite extraordinary. Talk about audience participation! They were telling Judd, not he them, and he took it and threw it straight back at them, and they came on stronger and, oh my God, when those women started ululating and doing that sort of soft-shoe shuffle slowly down the aisle, except that they were none of them wearing shoes by then – they'd kicked them off. I have never seen anything like it in all my life. It was stupefying theatre, never mind anything else.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'They didn't let us finish.' Matt took up the story once more. 'They didn't even let us finish the last three scenes tonight. You remember when Judd is dead and he has that long speech, while they’re carrying the coffin across in front of the cyc? Well, they all just came right up onto the stage and dragged Judd out and that was the end, there was no more play tonight.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David came on and tried to tie it all up,' Jimmy added, 'but nobody listened to him so he just let it all happen.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The Arts Council Kombi Mark was driving on this tour drew up with a flourish in the street below the verandah and Magda and Simon, Sally and Andrew all piled out, with Jannie and Mark bringing up the rear. Magda made an entrance down the length of the verandah from the top of the steps.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dears,' she called, both arms extended in excited greeting, 'have you heard? A riot, an absolute riot, thank God nobody called the police.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Centre stage, as usual,' Lucas muttered admiringly to Bart. 'She only comes properly alive when she's dead centre, have you noticed?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't we all?' Bart riposted, not without particular malice towards Lucas, who gave him a sideways look.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> 'Speak for yourself,' he said, 'if you must.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Such a mob,' Magda was saying, 'I was terrified, I don't mind admitting I was absolutely terrified, more than once, and several times I was on the point of fainting dead away.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Happily you didn't, however,' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It got bloody hot in there, towards the end,' said Simon, falling into a chair next to Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Like the man said,' she agreed, 'the noise, my dear, and the people.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was fabulous,' said Sally. 'I just stood there, I couldn't move, I just stood and gawped. It was absolutely fabulous,' she repeated.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What we all need now is a drink,' Mark said firmly. 'If we all have Scotch, we could order a bottle and save money. Who'll have a Scotch with me?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Your treat, Mark dear?' Magda asked sweetly. 'How too kind, thank you. Just a half-finger for me please, if you would, with water and lots of ice.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It will be interesting to compare what happened tonight with tomorrow night,' said Sally, 'with a completely different audience.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes dear,' said Lucas. 'And no less interesting of course to compare this lot with the lot in the next little hick town in the bush that we play.' He was a little miffed (on account of his MS) at having missed the evening's drama (whatever it had been – it was not yet clear to him exactly what had happened) and he was wondering who among the cast could best be approached for an unvarnished version. 'But what's happened to our star?' he asked. 'Surely he's not hiding under a bushel somewhere? Not Judd, I don't believe it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He's gone off with David to one of the townships,' said Simon, 'or whatever it is they call where they live in these parts. Tom was getting a little agitated in case everybody pouring on stage fell into the cyc – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'A little!' Magda exclaimed. 'He was swearing a blue streak and yelling "back, you buggers, back" when I last saw him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Actually he was doing more than that,' said Simon, 'he was shoving them off the stage himself, him on one side, Philip on the other.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom,' said Lucas, deciding that Tom was his man. 'Where's Tom? Where's everybody, in fact?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We left Tom and Philip locking up,' said Simon. 'Once word got about that David and Judd had gone, the place started clearing in no time. There they are now,' he added, as David's big white BMW pulled up behind the Kombi in the street below. 'I wonder how David plans to get back into town tonight, if Tom's driving the BM.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Same way he went,' suggested Mark, 'in a beat-up old chocolate-box with twenty-seven other passengers.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why does Dawid want to go to these places with Judd?' Jannie asked. 'He must be more careful, he can come into trouble, bad trouble.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What balls,' said Mark. A bottle of whisky three-quarters full stood on the table in front of him and he was expanding and relaxing under its assurance of ready replenishment for the glass he held in his hand. 'What d'you think could happen to him? And who's here can stop friend David when he's set on doing something? Not you, my boy, that's for sure.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Bart said kindly to Jannie: 'David's far more able to look after himself than we'd be, Jan, in a situation like that. There's no need to worry.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, he has this totally unassailable confidence,' Magda said thoughtfully. She shifted uneasily in her chair as she realised her words might be construed as a comment as hostile as Mark's had been. She added, pointedly addressing Simon in the chair next to her: 'I wonder where he gets it from.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark grinned at her over his glass. 'You think only Whites have the right to be as confident as he is.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not at all,' she said stonily, without looking at him. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas addressed Magda: ‘From his money, of course. There’re scads of money in his background somewhere, obviously. That helps.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Doesn't it just.' Magda turned to him in her relief to be rid of Mark. 'Never having to worry about being in work, everything you need including a new BMW yours for the asking – . Where does the money come from as a matter of interest, does anyone know? Do you, Tom?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom, the stage manager, and Philip, his assistant, had drawn chairs up to join the circle on the verandah, and Tom had pushed his seat between Magda and Simon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Where does money ever come from?' he demanded. 'Land, that's where. Land, all over the world – farming land, mining land, land when towns turn into cities – you name it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Land?' Lucas looked sceptically at Tom. 'How could David's people have owned land anywhere? Blacks just didn't, did they?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know how he did it,' Tom replied, 'I only know that's where money like Dave's must come from. Land. He's stinking rich, you know, rich like Paul Getty, or Bill Gates – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Then it could come from information software, something like that, could it?' Lucas said doubtfully, 'which hardly seems any more likely – ' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, you all talk rubbish,' Jannie put in loudly. 'Dawid is not rich, he is only like us.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas ignored this and addressed Simon, David's unquestioned second-in-command: 'Is he rich, Simon?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How should I know?' Simon answered. 'I think – I did hear – that his father started out in some sort of furniture business – upholstery, cabinet-making, something of that sort, I don't really know. But I do know all that kitsch you see in international hotels or airport VIP lounges, sofas covered in zebra skin, that sort of thing, that's his father, his father gets that sort of contract these days. Apparently.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But good God that's not rich, that's just well-off.' Lucas turned back to their stage manager. 'Tom? Where’d you hear he's so – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All I know is Dave doesn't have to worry about money,' Tom said stubbornly, sticking to his point. 'Money's the last thing he thinks of.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you ask me,' said Mark, generously topping up his glass once more, 'it's overseas money. Someone's got his hands into some anti-racist, pro-Black till somewhere abroad – and they're never peanuts, these pro-Black handouts. They can run into millions.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh you talk rubbish, rubbish,' Jannie cried out in protest. 'Dawid would never handle dishonest, never.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm not saying he would,' Mark said mildly, 'but who do you think's paying your salary on this tour?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Arts Council of course,' said Jannie, almost shouting in his distress.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And where do you think the Arts Council gets money?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, no, as a matter of fact it isn't the Arts Council, Jan,' Simon put in, 'or rather not exactly. I don't know the details, I mean of David's agreement with them, or his contract, whatever you'd call it, but I do know he did have to get money from his father, quite a lot of money. It’s his father who’s backing the three shows, or underwriting the whole tour for the Council, something like that. I'm not quite sure what.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There you are,' said Mark. 'I knew there'd been dirty work at the crossroads somewhere along the line. You can always tell.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So that's why we're doing these peculiar plays,' said Lucas. 'I did rather wonder, I must admit, they're so very un-Arts Council, aren't they, even POTTING SHED. So "controversial", and not really proper plays at all, "so-called" plays.' The heavily sarcastic quote marks he intended were clearly audible.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I know David wanted to do EWEH and APPLE,' said Simon. 'I don't know whose idea POTTING SHED was.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Daddy's perhaps,' said Magda, 'if he's paying the piper.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't think his father would have been all that interested in the arts side.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Obviously POTTING SHED was David's idea,' said Lucas. 'It's just his cuppa, bringing the dead back to life.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' Why are you all being so mean about David and his father,' said Sally. 'So they're rich, so what? At least they’re spending their money on other people, not just themselves.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh balls,' said Mark. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What about this tour then – ?' Tom began.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Exactly,' Sally loudly supported him. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – if Dave's father's backing it?' Tom continued. 'How many rich men do you know spend money on the theatre?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hundreds,' said Mark. 'It flatters their vanity and makes them feel spiritual, shows they're not just money-grubbing self-servers of Mammon. My poor sweet innocents,' he added, exasperated, 'can't you see what an ego-trip all this is for David?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's not true, Mark, it simply isn't true, and you know it,' said Sally. 'What about what happened at that wedding? You can't call that ego-tripping, it was one of the nicest, kindest, most considerate things I ever heard.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh me Gawd.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What wedding was this?' Magda asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You weren't there,' Sally told her in an accusing aside. 'It was while we were playing one of the little dorps in the Boland, Tulbagh, I think it was.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No it wasn’t,' said Jannie, ‘it was by Worcester.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well wherever.' Sally was impatient of detail. 'The daughter of some local bigwig was getting married and we were all invited because the wedding was on a Sunday, the Sunday after we closed'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh yes of course,' Magda recalled, 'those Jewish people who were so very – .' She stopped, and then added: ‘More Jewish than the Jews.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda you’re so racist it’s horrible,’ Sally cried. ‘You didn't even come with us so how would you know? You just called them a lot of country-bumpkins at the time – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did I really?' Magda murmured. 'How very rude of me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – and you went back to town on that Sunday instead, don’t you remember? You got back so late on the Monday we nearly left without you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So what happened at the wedding, for Chris' sake?' Mark demanded. 'Forget about Magda if she wasn't there, we were talking about David’s ego-tripping. What did he do?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh what's the use?' Sally was exasperated in her turn. 'You're so cynical there's no point in trying to explain.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas chipped in. 'David presented the bridegroom with several cases of KWV,' he said. 'I happen to know because I managed to salvage a couple of bottles for private consumption later.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas you miserable thieving bastard,' said Mark, ' swigging the stuff all on your own.' He turned back to Sally: 'And that,' he jeered, 'is what you'd call a little unremembered act of kindness, a wholly gratuitous act of purest altruism, a – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Sally loudly, 'because that's exactly what it was.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'd call it typical of David's big-spender syndrome, myself,' said Mark, 'which God knows you can see for yourself any day of the week.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh go to hell,' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dear Sal, when ordinary people like you and me can't buy a single bottle of the stuff without the right contacts, to scatter cases of it like leaves in autumn must give one a terrific kick, wouldn't you say?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But it wasn't like that at all,' Sally protested. 'It wasn't any big deal, he didn't try to make anything of it. It was a very ordinary little wedding, but very sweet, I thought, and there wasn't an awful lot of drink, which was obviously upsetting the bridegroom – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, he's supposed to lay it on, isn't he?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The booze probably ran out,' Lucas suggested, 'because there are people in this company who drink like fish, especially when it's for free.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wonder who they can be,' said Mark.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well anyway the end of the story is David disappeared and came back with this really rather marvellous wine,' said Sally. 'I mean it made the other stuff taste like plonk, even to me, and I don't know anything about wine really. And this is the point, Mark, nobody knew where it had suddenly come from, nobody except the bridegroom, and he only knew it hadn't come from him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well as a matter of straight fact it came from a neighbouring wine farm,' said Simon, 'where David said his father knew the manager. I know because I went with him to fetch it,' he explained.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So you see,' Sally said triumphantly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't,' said Mark. 'What exactly am I supposed to see?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally gave up. 'There's none so blind as will not look,' she said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you remember,' Philip addressed Andrew, a particular friend of his among the younger actors in the company, 'the night David first had the idea for EWEH? Same sort of thing,' he told the others. 'David organised cases and cases of Pepsi and chips out of nowhere, at about two in the morning.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's right,' Andrew agreed. He and Sally had begun to pair off during the first week of rehearsals; he welcomed this opportunity now to come to her aid. 'And that time too he said it was someone his father knew, he didn't take any credit himself.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There you are,' Sally said, 'tell this fat slob.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Are you referring to me by any chance?' asked Mark.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was a bit like tonight,' said Andrew, 'well, not really, I don't suppose, except there was a huge crowd of people that night too, about five thousand – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Five thousand!' said Mark. ‘Were you playing a soccer stadium by any chance?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, a school hall, I think. Or was it a church? I don't remember.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was a school,' Philip put in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'A school hall seating five thousand? Bullshit.' Mark took a derisive swig of his Scotch.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well this wasn't in the hall itself, you see, it was outside, afterwards. How many would you say there were tonight?' Andrew asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'About five hundred,' said Matt.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh no then there were a lot more than five hundred that other time, certainly nearer thousands than hundreds. The empties alone, the next day – .</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What happened that night,' Philip interrupted, 'was that the word spread, I don't know how, but people somehow got to hear there were free Pepsis and chips and they all got out of bed to come on in to get their share. It wasn't only the audience we'd had, though that's where it began.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David laid on Pepsi and chips for thousands of people after a show one night?' Sally was insisting on crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s so that Mark might be smitten both hip and thigh.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well no, not quite, there weren't all that many people,' Andrew said. ' We'd just done a sort of workshop thing that David sometimes likes doing – you know, when he suggests an idea and then sits back to see what we make of it – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh the tedium of those five-finger exercises straight out of drama school!' Magda's whisper to Tom sitting next to her was clearly audible across the street.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – we'd had an evening of this, and by the time we'd finished it was long past midnight and everyone was feeling rather jaded and more than a bit peckish, but everything within miles around was shut, of course, at that hour. Then one of the boys who’d been in the audience suddenly pipes up, saying he knows there’re some pepsis and chips in the tuckshop, but when he fetches them out they turn out to be about two bottles of pepsi and five packets of chips. So people started nibbling at these, and then David rang somebody up, God knows who at that time of night, and he commandeered a beat-up old truck from somewhere too, and next thing we knew there was pepsi and chips for Africa being unloaded from the back of the truck onto the steps outside the hall.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What I remember,' Philip put in, 'was the next day, when the headmaster or someone from the school waited all afternoon for us to turn up so he could give David a piece of his mind. Funny fat little guy, strutting up and down at the top of the steps like an enraged bantam cock while everybody tried desperately to keep a straight face.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He was furious at having had to clean up.' Andrew took over once more. 'He'd had to use twelve – there they were, count them – twelve rubbish bags to collect the mess he accused us of making, and it was typical of Whites to take it for granted Blacks would clean up after them – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That would have made David feel good,' Mark observed with satisfaction.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – and anyway where did it all come from, that's what he wanted to know, where had we stolen it from? Furthermore there was the matter of five packets of chips and two bottles of pepsi which someone had taken and not paid for and he'd like that matter sorted out now please. He actually stood there holding out his hand for the money.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And David paid him too,' Philip interpolated.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We donated all the empties to him, cases and cases of them, enough to stock up their tuckshop for months, but this guy still insisted David pay for the original five miserable packets of chips and two pepsis.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But that's exactly what you'd expect of him,' Sally commented in a satisfied sort of way. 'David's the most fair-minded man I've ever met, even you have to admit that, Mark.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh for God's sake, Sally, grow up, will you?' Mark had just re-charged his glass again and was irritably clinking the ice against its sides. 'You're not at your jolly-hockey-sticks girls' school any longer, you know; you're out in the big bad world now, right in the middle of it, where it's dog eat dog and power's the name of the game people play. There's nothing more heady than power, once it's got hold of you, and it's worse than drugs or alcohol because powerholics need their fix just like the rest of us but theirs is more complicated and involves more people. Even these fairy-godfather acts of David's – don't you see it makes him into some kind of god, strong to succour and to save, with mighty arm outstretched?. And by God how he loves it. You've only to watch him rehearse to see it all pumping into his bloodstream and going straight to his head.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh come off it, Mark,' said Simon. 'David might have his faults, who doesn't, but power hang-ups he does not have. He's the least autocratic director I know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Only when he's already made quite sure he’s getting his own way first.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Have you never watched him before an opening, how nervy he is?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He even prays,' Jannie joined Simon to tell Mark accusingly, 'he does this – ' here Jannie crossed himself, the wrong way round ' – that let's a person think he is Roman Catholic, but it isn't. And every time he also prays, but funny. Lead us in temptation, he says.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lead us not into temptation, Jannie, isn't it?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No. That is just what I am now telling you. He says it different, not the right way. Lead us in our temptation.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Perhaps,' Lucas suggested, 'that's what's meant by saying it backwards.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What I've heard him muttering to himself on first nights,' said Simon, 'though I've never seen him signing himself with the sign of the cross when he says them, are things like "It's all yours, Daddy-O" or "Over to you, George".'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'George?' Lucas queried. 'Who might George be, do you think?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'George as in automatic pilot, I think.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I know he says bits out of the Lord's Prayer,' Magda said, 'thy will be done, thy kingdom come – that is the Lord's Prayer, isn't it, not the credo or something – but I've never thought he was serious.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Once,' said Simon, 'I heard him say "Father forgive them for they know not what they do".'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Typical.' Mark made of the word a small explosion, as if he had been holding it in for some time. 'That's absobloodylutely typical of him – that's what he thinks of his actors. Like I said, the man's a fucking paranoid.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally stood up. 'I'm going to bed,' she announced. 'I won't sit here any longer listening to a boring old fart swearing at a better man than he will ever be. You're just jealous, Mark, that's what it is. Night all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon stood up as well, out of old-fashioned courtesy at first, but once on his feet he stretched and said he thought he'd turn in too. Magda very shortly followed him, and, as she went, Lucas murmured to Bart 'Your bed or mine?' but if Bart heard he paid no attention.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The circle was broken. One by one people drifted off to bed. When Tom finished his night-cap in one final long swallow, Lucas followed him inside, hoping to get a detailed account of the evening's events before he went upstairs. Of all the company, Tom was the least theatrical – Lucas sometimes wondered what he was doing in theatre at all, he was so solid a citizen – and his recounting would be free of any self-dramatising garniture. Soon Mark was left alone with the remains of the Scotch. Sadly he emptied the last drop onto the melting ice in his glass. 'Never enough,' he said aloud to himself. 'Too much is never enough, Christ, what shall we do what shall we ever do.' Then he too drained his glass, including what remained of the ice, and went in search of a gents in order to empty his bladder, munching the ice as he went.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Naked under a sheet on his bed, Simon was skimming through the diaries of Peter Hall in paperback, waiting for the tap he was expecting on his door. David and Simon were sharing hotel bedrooms on this tour, as were Magda and Sally; tonight, since Sally was already in her bed and David not yet back, there had scarcely been any need for the glances at once questioning and affirmative between Magda and Simon on the verandah downstairs. Now, when the tap came and she walked in, wearing pyjamas and a wrap, he dropped his book onto the floor and flung back his sheet in welcome, grinning up at her in a pleased, inviting way. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't be so bloody crude,' said Magda, primly seating herself on the hotel dressing-stool and wrapping her full skirts about her pyjama'd legs. 'I know what the men in this company say about me but there's no need to rub it in.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon did not immediately draw up his sheet, but he did fold his hands over his crotch, where he felt movement to be imminent. 'Why, what do they say?' he asked, still smiling his welcome.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda found a box of cigarettes on the dressing-table and helped herself to one before she replied. 'If you want a free fuck there's always Magda.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda!' he said, shocked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't pretend you've never heard it before.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'As a matter of fact I haven't,' said Simon, 'though I will admit it sounds like the sort of thing someone we both know might say. Was it Mark?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda blew smoke through her nostrils. 'Yup.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll knock his bloody block off.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You do that,' said Magda, 'and I'll bite him in the leg.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But how do you know?' Simon asked. 'He surely didn't say that to your face, did he, surely not even Mark would – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I overheard him talking to – oh God, I don't know, Jimmy with the beard, I think, I'm not sure. Does it matter? Quite early on in this little caper. I very nearly left the tour because of it, I might add, it was the reason I went back to town that Sunday, instead of going to the famous wedding Sally was on about this evening. I was in two minds about coming back, I can tell you, I – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But you did. Come back, I mean.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, well, it was David of course who talked me into that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David? Did you talk to David about – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I had to give him a reason for wanting to leave, I couldn't just walk out on him, could I?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What did he say?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda drew hard on her cigarette. 'He gave me some spiel about appearance and reality, the way things are. If people chucking stones at you makes you feel nervous in your glass house, move out.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Which being interpreted means what exactly?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda looked at him. 'I wish you'd cover yourself up, Simon,' she said. 'If you knew how little it turns me on.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon pulled the bed sheet up with resignation. Movement no longer felt imminent. He lay watching her trying to blow smoke rings, not very successfully, and wondered why she had come to his room, if she were not going to join him in bed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, stubbing out her cigarette with quick jabs, Magda abruptly asked: 'Is David queer?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How do you mean, queer?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I mean queer – gay – homosexual, what d’you want to call it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead of the lust he had been looking forward to, Simon felt a stab of anger. Flinging back his sheet once more, he went rooting about in an open bag on the floor for a pair of shorty pyjama pants, which he drew on with a quick snap of the elastic.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'For Chris' sake, Magda,' he said. He strode across the available space to the minute en-suite bathroom, and returned a moment later to stand in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand. 'Do you realise something, I wonder?' he asked her. 'Every time, every single bloody time, that we are alone together you start pumping me about David, do you know that? Usually, though, you wait until after – . What's the matter with you, for Chris' sake, do you want a threesome, you me and David, is that it? Just you and me isn't enough for you? Because if so, you can count me out. I'm not interested, okay?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda turned on the dressing-stool to give the image of herself that the glass reflected a cold disinterested scrutiny. 'Spare me the higher moral ground please Simon. I've already had one lecture tonight, thank you, from that sanctimonious little ingenue I've had to double up with and once a night is enough. No, I’m not being fair. Sally's quite sweet, I don't dislike her, but she does – . She has good taste in men I have to admit.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't tell me you haven't noticed.' Briefly, Magda searched his face. 'She and your brother are–’ </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Andrew?' he asked, astonished.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh do wake up, Simon. Really, it's extraordinary how men never see what's under their noses.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My little brother,' said Simon, 'my own little kid brother. Well, well.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda turned back to the looking-glass. 'The young get older too, you know. Thank God. I mean if Sally stayed seventeen I’d have to scratch her eyes out.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sally's not seventeen,' said Simon, 'and Andrew certainly isn't, he's only a couple of years younger than me. Tell you what. Next place we stop, why don't you and I share and Sally and him?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, Simon.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why not?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because I don't want David to – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She abandoned her self-scrutiny and took another cigarette from the box on the dressing-table. 'All I'd like to know is who he's fucking. He must be fucking someone, a man his age. Is it Jannie, as a matter of fact?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie!'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon found her liberated-woman would-be unshockability repelling and turned away to replace his glass on the bathroom shelf. 'Why don't you just ask him yourself,' he said shortly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Look, I'm just interested, Simon – is it such a crime to be interested in the people you're working with?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon went back to his bed. 'No, but this particular interest's a bit prurient.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Is that why you don't answer any of my questions?' Magda lifted her gaze to watch his reflection in the glass now.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What makes you think David discusses his sex life with me?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I thought that's all men ever do discuss.' She turned from the glass to look at him directly. 'I don't suppose it could be you, could it? Does he crawl into your bed after lights out, or you into his, is that it?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do me a favour will you Magda and piss off to bed now, okay?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon!' Magda's whole body slumped on the dressing-stool. 'How dare you speak to me like that? Like some – some vile old camp queen of an actor,' she said, but she spoke without heat. 'You're as insulting as Mark was. You're horrible.' She searched the pockets of her dressing gown and brought out a tissue which she used to press softly against her eyes, her nose, her mouth.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon lay watching for a few moments, and then he got out of bed once more to sit next to her on the stool and put an arm around her shoulders. 'What's wrong?' he asked gently.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon tightened his grip on her shoulder and gave her a little shake. 'Come on,' he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Truly, there's nothing wrong, Simon, I'm just feeling – . Perhaps Mark is right, perhaps I am just a tramp. I do go to bed with men I like – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I know,' said Simon, and squeezed her shoulders again, 'who better?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – and I do seem to like men more than most women, but it's different with David. I am – oh I don’t know – obsessed by him, I don't know what it is, I wish to God I'd never laid eyes on him, let alone auditioned for him, but it's not sexual, I don't think, in fact I know it's not. That's just the point. If he – well, changed completely, and suddenly started to – oh you know what I mean, one can always tell when there's something doing, but if that happened to me with David, if I thought he'd – . Oh God I think I'd die, I'd be so embarrassed. Whereas with you, Simon, sometimes you've only got to look at me, even on stage, and I begin to feel all gamesome like.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon nuzzled her neck briefly in acknowledgment.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But with David – . I don't know, I just don't know. I only know that if I found out for certain sure he's involved with someone, someone we know, I'd – . Oh I don't know what I'd do, but I've a feeling I'd – . I would eat my heart out, I suppose. It's pure Othello, isn't it, it's too frightful.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon nibbled her ear.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Only it's not, of course, because it isn't jealousy, it's not as if I want him for myself, because I don't. That's not it at all, it's just I keep thinking that if there is someone then why the hell is he so – ? What's the matter with me, that he has never once – ? I'm not repulsive, am I?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Uh-uh.' He made this childish little sound of negation holding her whole head close.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But if there really is no-one else then it's all right, there's no problem.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Like hell there isn't,' Simon said, and stood up.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But there can't not be someone, can there, Simon? Not in the company, I quite see how he might very well not want that sort of hassle in the company, but some woman somewhere – . I don't see how there can't be, can you? – an attractive man like David. He so obviously doesn't play the field.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She groped for another cigarette, and Simon disappeared into the bathroom once more, saying with resignation in his voice as he went: 'I suppose what all this is about is you're in love with the bugger.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But I'm not, I'm not,' Magda wailed. 'You haven't listened to a word I've been saying, Simon, I'm not in love with him, I don't even much fancy him, although if he so much as lifted his little finger I know I'd die for him – . Oh God, what is the matter with me?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She got up from the dressing-stool and looked about the room as if it were a prison from which there was no escape. 'Perhaps you're right,' she said bleakly, 'and perhaps I'd better just take myself off to bed too. That child will surely be asleep by now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, wait,' Simon called from the bathroom, appearing a moment later in the doorway again. 'I think there's something I must tell you.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh? What? Something to do with David?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes. A most peculiar experience I had. Really very odd. Last Christmas.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She waited, but he said no more, standing looking thoughtful in the doorway.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well? What was it?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I have never told anyone about this, Magda, not even David himself, and if you repeat so much as one syllable of it I will deny it with my last breath.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon!' Wild horses could not now have dragged Magda from the room, and she sank onto the bed next to his, her eyes fixed on his face, as he first sat on his own bed, seeming to cogitate how best to begin, and then swung his legs up, to lie with his hands under his head and his ankles neatly crossed. Still he did not speak.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well?' she prompted once again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You know how David goes on these back-to-nature kicks from time to time.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't,' said Magda. 'Does he?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes he does,' said Simon. 'Well, last year over Christmas he was looking for someone to go with him on a fairly tough mountain trail he'd heard about.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You mean climbing? Or just hiking?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'A bit of both. Well, not rock-climbing, nothing dramatic like that, but practically everything else. You ever done that sort of thing?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't be silly, Simon, of course not.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, well, it was three and a half days' fairly strenuous walking about on the tops of mountains with everything you needed including your food in a backpack on your back – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I cannot conceive of a worse way to spend Christmas.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I know. It sounds like hell and I thought it would be too, but as a matter of fact it wasn't. It was a better Christmas than I've had since I was a kid, when it's a different thing altogether of course.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course,' said Magda. 'You were telling me about David,' she reminded him, 'go on about David.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But I am,' said Simon, removing his far-away gaze from the ceiling and looking at her in an aggrieved way instead. 'Have a little patience for goodness' sake.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Okay, okay,' said Magda impatiently.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was on the second night when all this happened,' he went on, 'and although it was mid-summer it was not all that warm up there, which was why I thought what David did doubly odd. We'd all found places to put our sleeping-bags, and we were all a bit scattered, we weren't all sleeping together – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I’m relieved to hear it,' said Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I mean we weren't all sleeping on one place.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Were there no women in this party?' Magda enquired.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Simon. 'Just the four of us. Tall Jimmy and Jannie were the other two.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie,' Magda repeated flatly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There were supposed to have been more than just the four of us to begin with but people had cried off, what with its being Christmas, I suppose. Anyway, on the second night, as I say, I woke up suddenly, God knows what it was that woke me at that hour, but there was David, standing on a sort of ridge up against the skyline from where I was lying, absolutely starkers.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Though he stopped as if expecting comment, Magda said nothing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was a very clear night,' Simon continued, 'there was a moon, and he looked as if he'd been turned to silver. No. Not silver, silver makes it sound romantic, and it wasn't in the least romantic. There was nothing moonlight and roses about this, he looked as if his body had been cut out of steel. Black steel, hard-edged and glinting, his whole body was hard, hard all over, and pulsing – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you're trying to tell me he had a hard-on,' Magda said tartly, 'why not just say so? There's no need to come over all poetic.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't mean that, that's not at all what I'm trying to tell you, although he did, as a matter of fact, a terrific – . But that wasn't the point, it isn't the point – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'In my experience,' said Magda coldly, 'it always is.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – his whole body was taut, straining, he seemed to be on tip-toe, reaching up, yet he was perfectly relaxed and absolutely motionless, he didn't even seem to be breathing. But at the same time there was a sort of rhythm coming from him, a pulsing kind of beat, very regular, which felt as if it was in my own body, like when you feel your heart going, or when you feel it pumping blood in other parts of your body, not in your chest, when you've got toothache, a bad toothache, and you can feel the blood pumping there, or you've cut your finger and it hurts, that kind of throbbing, or when your – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'When your?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'When your cock is very stiff.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I haven't got one,' Magda pointed out. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon did not speak for a moment and then when he did it was in a very tight voice. 'You said you aren't in love with David,' he said, 'you said it isn't sexual. I thought you'd understand what I'm trying to tell you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda got off David's bed and lay down on her side next to Simon on his. He put an arm under her to hold her more comfortably, and covered with his free hand the hand she rested on his bare belly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And then? What happened then? How long did this go on for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I have no idea. I have not the least idea. I only know it was – . I only know I felt – . I only know I wanted to – . I crawled out of my sleeping-bag, and I took the rest of my clothes off too, I'd taken off only my boots and my trousers before I got into it, but then suddenly, when I looked up again, David wasn't there any longer. I thought he'd gone a little way down below the ridge somewhere, but I couldn't find him, and when I eventually did find him he was back in his own sleeping-bag, dead to the world, sleeping like a new-born babe.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So? Did you just leave it at that? Didn't you wake him, or try to – ' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I didn't. I just went back to my own sleeping bag.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After a moment, Magda asked: 'So was that all? What about the next day, didn't you speak to him about it in the morning, ask him what – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No. I told you, I've never spoken to him about it. And now, sometimes, I think it never even happened, I just dreamed the whole thing.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But what?' Magda demanded. 'What did you dream? You say you saw David get up in the stilly watches of the night, probably only to answer a call of nature, but because the moon was shining and you were half-asleep you thought something was happening. Moonlight can be so cruelly deceptive, you know.' She quoted Coward, mocking him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you've never felt about David something of what I'm trying to tell you,' Simon said, 'you wouldn't have come to lie next to me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He turned onto his side to face her and looked into her eyes, not six inches away from his own.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You're so damned sure of yourself, Simon, you make me sick. I hate you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's so trite to compare something utterly and totally self-consuming to orgasm,' he went on, disregarding, 'so I won't. Do you ever body-surf?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't be ridiculous, of course I don't.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sometimes, not every time, but sometimes when you catch a wave it takes you completely, and for a few seconds or for all eternity you are the wave, there's nothing left of you, there's just the wave. Have you ever known that?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said nothing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Or driving,' Simon went on, self-absorbed, 'driving a car very fast, as fast as it'll go, late at night, alone, no other traffic, and your legs go weak, that sensation you get in bed sometimes, when it begins, but then you forget yourself and your sensations, all you can feel is speed, your speed the car's speed there's no difference, it's all one, have you never known that? Or gliding, hang-gliding. There is a moment, not always, but it happens, a time or more a sort of no-time when you feel you've turned into air, you have no more substance than air, your harness, the whole cumbersome caboodle, all the elaborate gear, it's nothing but air, you are one with the air – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He stopped, and after a moment Magda said: 'Perhaps if I tried to describe – . When a man first – touches me, and I go all – . Sometimes, that is, not every time. Or when he first is – in me, and doesn't immediately start to – . When all the rest of it, whatever happens, can somehow be a bit of a let-down – . But what's all this got to do with David?' she cried out. 'Tell me that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Simon. 'Nothing perhaps. But that night, when I lay watching him, the sight of him there up against the sky, it was – . I can't tell you what it was. If I tried to tell you it would come out sex, and you'd say aha, I was right after all, the pair of you, prancing about on the top of a mountain in the middle of the night with nothing on, what else can it be? Because let me tell you when I got out of my sleeping-bag that night I could hardly walk the thing was so – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He moved to lie heavily upon her in a position for the act of love.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It seems to be a bit that way right now,' she said complaisantly, content it should be so.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And sometimes I'm not sure myself, wasn't I just feeling a bit more than usually horny that night,' he said, accommodating his words to the movements he was making against her, their clothes between. 'But most of the time I'm sure I wasn't. It wasn't sex that I wanted from David when I went looking for him on the side of that mountain. And after tonight, after what you've told me what you feel about him too, I'm more than ever sure.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He stopped moving against her and knelt astride her thighs to slip his hands up the sides of her body under its coverings.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because you've felt it too, haven't you. You can't deny it, after what you said. A feeling that has to be sexual because it has all the arousal and excitement that you associate with sex only it isn't. It isn't.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon,' said Magda, arching her back the better to help him free her from her pyjamas and her dressing-gown at once, 'the door. Lock the door.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The hell with the door,' said Simon. 'If David wants to come in now, too bad. He can come – ' he kissed her mouth ' – and go away again. His problem,' he said against her cheek.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">By this time they were both naked, and he drew a shuddering breath before coming down on her. 'My sweet love,' he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">jerusalem the golden </span></h2><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Right. I learnt my lesson last time, okay? and learnt it good, so I won't even ask. It's poetry again, right? I had to go and look the last lot up, not that it helped much, but it was Yeats, wasn't it? This lot even I know. Tyger Tyger burning bright in the forests of the night I ask you. And did those feet walk upon England’s mountains? Well, if you want a straight answer to a stupid question I'll give you one: No they bloody didn't. Bit of a daft old bugger, Blake, not all his pigs in the stye, I'd say, even allowing he was a poet; he wasn't all there, was he, couldn't have been, wanting to build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land let alone anywhere else. The Greeks had enough to say when the English took a few of their old marbles; what d’you think the Arabs and the Jews would have to say if we carted off their city and put it up stone by stone in some other part of the world?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Some weeks later, the company arrived in the first big city on their itinerary, to play at the Civic Theatre there, after which engagement there remained only a short season at the National Theatre in a neighbouring city (seat of the central government), and another short return season in the coastal city where they had started and where the Arts Council was based. On their first morning in the metropolis, Tom, Philip, Sally, and Jannie were all waiting for one reason or another near the telephone in the greenroom coffee-bar of the Civic, where they were due to open in two days' time. Tom and Philip were waiting for David, with whom they were due to discuss some necessary renovations to props and sets, Sally was expecting a telephone call about sharing a flat with Andrew for the duration of the run, and Jannie was just hanging about waiting for Dawid. When he had approached Dawid earlier that morning with an earnest question about the second scene in the first act of APPLE, Dawid had said: 'What are you doing for lunch? - we could talk about it then.' So Jannie had gone straight out to book a table for two at one-thirty. Now he wanted to make sure of finding some opportunity to remind Dawid of his luncheon engagement, casual as it had been; there was no trusting third-party intermediaries in matters as important to Jannie as this. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The telephone rang, interrupting their desultory gossip about other shows and other seasons at the Civic, and Sally stood up to take the call she was expecting.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hullo, Andrew?' she said into the receiver. 'That was jolly quick, I thought you'd be ages still. Have you seen Tim?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hallo, hallo, wie praat? Hallo? Is jy daar, wie praat nou?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The voice, a woman's, highly excited and rather loud, was speaking in Afrikaans, and Sally had very little knowledge of that language. She held the receiver away from her ear, looking helpless. 'It isn't my call, it's someone talking Afrikaans,' she told the others.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Say there's nobody here and put the phone down,' Tom advised.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally addressed herself to the telephone once more. 'There's no-one here,' she said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goeie genade,' said the voice, 'wat gaat nou aan? Kyk, meisie, ek moet dadelik met Dawid in verbinding tree, dit is uiters dringend, dis doodsake, ja nee, dis 'n polisiesaak, die`.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Wait,' said Sally, 'un moment s'il vous plait.' The only language she knew other than English was French, and not very much of that either. Now she extended the receiver to Jannie. 'You try,' she said, 'something about David.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie took the telephone from her, and Sally appealed to the others: 'Why put a call for David through here, I wonder. At least I think it's David she wants, she spoke so fast – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh good,' said Philip. 'That must mean they're finished up in the office and he's on his way down here. At last. Do you realise,' he added to Tom, ' we have now been waiting for forty-five minutes?' He extended the watch on his wrist in Tom's direction. 'Look, it's a quarter to one.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom was unperturbed. 'When you have to deal with the management in places like this,' he said, 'local government places, not proper theatres, things can get pretty snarled up pretty damn quick.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Lord,' said Sally, 'don't tell me David's in bad with management again. What's he done now?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing,' said Tom, 'or nothing that I know of. Opening on Thursday's supposed to be a charity premie`re, that's all. That's what they're discussing, as far as I know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Lord,' Sally said again. 'I didn't know that. Which of the plays? I do hope not EWEH?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Before Tom could reply, Jannie finished his telephone conversation and hung up, looking stricken. Bowing his head, he put his clasped fists first to his forehead, and then to his mouth, biting his knuckles.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Trouble,' he moaned, 'there's again trouble. I must straightaway go look for Dawid, it was the police there by Ria and them on the farm. Oh why don't Dawid listen to me,' he wailed, 'I told him, I told him long ago already, he must now stop his nonsense.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Philip sighed audibly, Tom put on a humouring expression, and Sally said: 'Now, Jannie, just cool it please, okay? and tell us: who was that woman and what did she want?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Ria,' Jannie said wildly, 'that was Ria on the phone. She says – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who's Ria?' asked Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Ria's one of the women on that farm where David insisted we all spend Sunday night,' Sally explained. 'She's the – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well not quite all,' Philip interrupted. 'Some of us don't get to have even a couple of hours off occasionally, let alone whole Sundays.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Would you like to have gone too?' Tom asked. 'You should have said.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You can't make a detour like that – where was it exactly?' He appealed to Sally but continued without waiting for her reply: 'Somewhere near where he was born, David said. You can't take a bloody great pantechnicon on a detour like that, hundreds of miles.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I could have brought the van up on my own,' said Tom. 'You could have gone with the others in one of the Kombis, I wouldn't have minded.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh good God no, Tom,' said Philip, 'I don't mean I wanted to duck out of anything, I was simply making the point that not all of us had a day in the country last Sunday, that's all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie was still biting his knuckles next to the telephone. He was trying to decide whether to go on waiting for Dawid or to go in search of him, and now he made up his mind and started to run, calling out over his shoulder as he went that if anyone saw Dawid before he did they should give him a message to telephone Ria urgently, it was very important.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Jannie, wait,' Sally called after him. 'What did Ria want, why did she – ?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I can't wait now,' Jannie called back, 'I must first find Dawid.' He'd show them. They talked all rubbish when he had such important messages, messages for Dawid and all? He'd show them.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wonder what that was all about,' Sally said as he disappeared.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well whatever it was,' said Philip, 'you can be sure Jannie's ballsed it up. What would the police want with David, and go looking for him on a farm in the depths of the country when all the world knows we're now here. Well, one hopes so, at any rate, who's doing publicity, Tom, do you know? – us or them?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What went on on that farm last weekend?' Tom asked Sally. 'Must have been some party, if the police had to go and investigate.' He winked at Philip, who ignored him, looking po-faced.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't be ridiculous, Tom,' said Sally, 'nothing at all went on. Those two women wouldn't have allowed it, they're far too respectable.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This farm's run by women?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, Ria and Martie. There is a brother, but he doesn't seem to count for much, we hardly saw him while we were there. It's the two sisters who do all the work, especially Martie.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What's the connection, by the way,' Philip asked, 'I mean between David and these people? Why did he make such a point of going to see them?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Sally. 'I didn't like to ask, it seemed so rude – sort of, you know, how does someone like you get to know landowners in the Free State, I thought they were just rich farmers, you see, and then when we got there it was even more awkward – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You mean they weren't well-to-do?' Philip asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not at all' said Sally, 'rather the opposite, in fact, they seemed to be quite poor. There weren't enough beds, for a start, it was fairly embarrassing actually. They'd put bedding on the floor in some kind of barn, or storeroom, a sort of rondavel place, for all the men. Except David, of course, he was given the full treatment, like visiting royalty or something, they gave him the brother's room and the poor devil had to sleep outside somewhere. And meals were a bit difficult too, there wasn't enough of anything – oh I don't mean food, there was plenty of that, not always altogether to one's taste perhaps, sort of pain du pais, you might say,' – here Sally looked pleased with herself, showing off her French – 'lots of peasant dishes, but all very wholesome and tasty, home-made bread, home-made butter, masses of lovely preserves, delicious thick cream straight from a cow – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom looked amused. 'Cream doesn't come straight from a cow.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom, I saw one of the maids doing it with my own eyes. She had a machine with two funnels and a handle, and she poured milk from a pail in at the top while she turned the handle, and after a while cream came out of one funnel and milk out of the other. If that isn't straight from a cow then I'd like to know what is. No, the food was okay, a bit too much, if anything. At lunch on Monday – yesterday, before we left – I was given a plate heaped with more carbohydrate that I normally have in a week, and David made me eat practically all of it, he said Martie would be offended if I left any, and I must say I have never in my life before eaten pumpkin that tasted the way Martie's did. But there were never enough plates, or knives and forks, there were just too many of us, there weren't enough chairs, they brought in a bench from the sheds so we could all sit round the table. It was nice of David to want to give us a weekend in the country but I did feel it was a bit of an imposition on those two women.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wouldn't worry too much about that side of things, if I were you,' said Tom. 'It would have been for their sakes that he went down to visit them – if they're the people I think they must be, that is. He's been there before, you see. At least once that I know of, but there could have been other times too.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You knew David before this tour then,' Philip asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh yes,' said Tom, 'Dave and me, we're old buddies, done a lot of shows together, him and me. Ever since he gave me a bit of a leg up once, when I was down and out, flat broke, I've been working for him. He knows where to find me when he wants me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So you've been to that farm too,' said Sally,' you know those two women?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I can't say that,' Tom replied, 'but I heard this story about Dave and the two sisters' brother when I worked with Dave before. He saved his life once.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who saved whose life? David that boy's? – Martie and Ria's brother?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes. He went missing once, while he was crawling about underground in the subterranean tunnels and caverns the farm's full of. Weren't you shown any of their famous caves when you were there?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well they're well-known,' said Tom. 'Speleologists go there specially – it was on one of their larks the boy went missing. And he was missing for days, been given up for dead, just about, when Dave arrives and starts organising search parties. And he found him. Must have been quite a drama – there's the two women, waiting on the hillside, given up all hope, when Dave comes marching out the mouth of one of the caves and says "He's alive, they're bringing him out" and then the boy himself staggers out and falls down at his sisters' feet.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goodness,' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You have to hand it to David,' said Philip. 'He's a good showman, he knows how to get an effect.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hi,' said Simon, joining them at that moment. 'David says mea culpa mea culpa and could you meet him here after lunch instead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'God damn David to hell,' said Philip. 'He buggers up my entire bloody morning and then calmly starts in on my afternoon as well. He can go take a running fuck at himself, I'm not going to bloody wait for him again today, he can bloody wait for me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Temper, temper,' said Tom mildly, as Philip stormed off in a rage. 'What's gummed up the works? – this famous phone call to the farm or what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Good God how news travels to be sure,' said Simon. 'How did you know David rang the farm? He was still talking to one of those women when I left him not two minutes ago.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We didn't know,' said Tom, grinning, 'you just told us.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie took a call from Ria here,' Sally explained, 'and went off to find David. Something to do with the police,' she added.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What do they want?' asked Simon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We don't know,' Sally answered. "Jannie didn't stop to tell us. But from the way he carried on you'd have said there's a warrant out for his arrest or something.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well we all know what Jannie's like,' said Simon. 'I'm sure it isn't anything serious.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So what's holding Dave up then?' Tom asked. ‘I can't go ordering materials if I don't know what he want us to do, he knows that, and there's only tomorrow left before we open.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David's gone a bit over the top about this premie`re on Thursday,' Simon confided. 'I know he doesn't much care for them at the best of times, he's never made any secret of that, but this morning – . Not that I blame him, mind you. They weren't really hitting it off, him and Janis, even before this woman showed up, the organiser or convenor, whatever she wants to call herself, but after she pitched in – . 'The Theatre,' Simon suddenly started intoning, mock-David-pompous, 'is not primarily a money-making concern. Those who think it is will lose their shirts. The Theatre exists to serve God, not Mammon.' He reverted to a more normal tone. 'And so on and so forth.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'God help him,' Tom commented. 'If your theatre doesn't pay, your theatre goes dark, it's as simple as that. Ask anybody you like.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Exactly,' said Simon. 'Look at Coward – look at Shakespeare. If they didn't think theatre is a money-making concern, I'm a monkey’s arse. They both made a fortune out of theatre and good luck to them, I wish I could.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Simon,' Sally said reproachfully, 'how can you talk about Shakespeare in the same breath as Noel Coward?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why not?' asked Simon. "They were both of them compleat men of the theatre, they devoted their lives to the theatre.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But Shakespeare was a genius,' Sally objected.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And Coward wasn't?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Simon,' Sally said again, her reproach now much stronger.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Look, they each wrote plays that were totally outside the other's range but that doesn't mean one was a genius and the other not. It just means their genius was different.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You haven't finished telling us about Dave,' Tom interjected, pouring oil on troubled waters. 'What did they decide about Thursday? If anything.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh my God yes, this woman,' said Simon. 'The way she sashayed in, only about half-an-hour late, power-dressed in a rig-out that must have set her back a couple of thousand at least, with shoulders out to here and a skirt up to here, dangling enough solid gold to pay the national debt and pumping out great gooey gobbets of what she no doubt thought was charm. It was quite funny really, at least to begin with, when David just sat there looking faintly alarmed, but then when he got cross and lost his temper – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David lost his temper? I don't believe you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He completely lost his temper,' Simon asserted. 'He was livid with fury, I've never seen him look like that before, ever. I thought I'd have to come between them, I seriously thought he was going to get up and hit the woman – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Dave?' Tom queried, 'this is Dave you're talking about?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If he'd had a whip handy he'd have used it, I promise you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But why?' Sally asked, wide-eyed. 'Why didn't he just let them get on with their arrangements, what's it got to do with us what management wants to do front of house?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Ah but that's just it, you see. The arrangements had everything to do with us,' said Simon. 'This woman – her name's Delicia Mpumzile ffrench-Fotheringham, by the way – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't believe you,' said Sally again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – Janis says she specially asked her to set up this meeting with David so she could explain what she wants. First of all there was going to be a champagne buffet in the foyer before the show and she would get a message to David to let him know what time to take the curtain up – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What?' said Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Then there was to be an American auction either at the interval or after the show, in which the cast was going to take part – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What?' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – we could all help carry stuff on stage, she thought, the whole thing could be worked up into quite a little ballet, rather cute, and a choreographer friend of hers from SABC-TV had promised to help with that – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – and David himself, if he would, and his leading lady, whoever she was, could help the auctioneer – guess who, milady herself of course, who else? – they could work up some amusing bits of business while the auction was going on perhaps. She'd got her husband to make a list of a few in-jokes she thought the audience would recognise at this moment in time, and this she handed to David, if he and the actress concerned could just work them up a bit. That's when I thought David was going to hit her.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I simply can't believe what I'm hearing,' Sally said wonderingly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So help me.' Simon licked a finger and held it up aloft. 'She was very big on other people working things up a bit.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom laughed. 'Good for old Delicia what’s-her-name,' he said. 'It's just what Dave needs, somebody to stand up to him sometimes, specially a woman. Do him the world of good, I wish I'd been there to see it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There was nothing to see,' said Simon, 'there weren't any fireworks. When I say David lost his temper I don't mean he lost his cool. He just said that since the curtain would go up as usual at eight-thirty on Thursday and no late-comers would be admitted, she would be well advised to have her champagne buffet after the show, not before – ' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There I agree with him,' said Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He also said nothing would be auctioned from the stage at any time during the course of our run – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Quite right,' said Sally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – though what she did at her supper party in the foyer after the show was of course entirely up to her. If she wished to invite the cast to take part she should go ahead and approach us individually by all means, but he himself was unfortunately otherwise engaged that evening. Alternatively, he said, if she'd like to take over the stage as well as the foyer on Thursday, we would be happy to bow out and open on Friday instead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He wouldn't dare, would he?' said Tom, still rather tickled.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, people must surely already have bought tickets for Thursday,' Sally put in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I think he might at that,' said Simon, 'if push came to shove, which it still could. Under all her slap the lady's face had gone a ripe shade of mulberry, and she was frothing at the mouth before he finished. Even poor Janis was beginning to look a bit fazed. But then Jannie came bursting in, and started his cadenza – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't tell us,' said Sally, 'he started it down here actually.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – and after that David just ignored her. He'd had his say and that was that. Well, you know what he’s like. He never thinks there’s two sides to every question, he thinks what he thinks is so obviously the right thing to think that there aren’t any two ways about it So he just got up and went over to the phone and calmly started dialling long distance without so much as a by-your-leave, and Madam started pulling everything she's got on poor Janis. I don't know what’s been decided yet because David said come down to tell you he'd see you this afternoon and don’t wait.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh he'll carry the day, never fear,' Tom predicted. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He always does,' Sally agreed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I suppose he will, in the end,' said Simon, 'and we'll open on Thursday whether there's an audience or not. Still, I could wish he hadn't put her back up quite as much as he did. She looks as if she could kick up a lot of dust, if she wanted to, and after this morning's little session she'll want to, make no mistake. Oh well. What's done is done.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The public pay-phone in the greenroom started ringing once more, and this time it proved to be the call Sally was expecting. The two men left her to it and walked off together.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The Civic engagement was a triumph from beginning to end, and every member of the company moved in a haze of publicity throughout the run. Thanks to the organisers' painstaking care in the distribution of free tickets for the charity premie`re, all the daily newspapers carried not only – on the whole – commendatory reviews of the play (which David had decided should be EWEH STEVE), but also glowing accounts of the party afterwards where staggering amounts of money were raised for charity. Practically every media person in the country was there, hardly to be distinguished from people who had paid through the nose for their tickets, and later – all of them looking just a little squiffy – they all appeared in numbers of photographs taken for advertising monthlies like LIVING STYLE. On the Saturday, the same newspapers published reviews of the second play in the Civic Theatre Season of Three Plays, and, on the Sunday, national newspapers reviewed all three plays in terms occasionally bordering on hysteria. I ATTEND THREE OPENINGS IN A ROW, one critic trumpeted in a banner headline, with a sub-head reading: ALL THREE ENCHANT. Another read HAT TRICK AT CIVIC, the copy below beginning</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A new star has arisen in our already impressive firmament of impresarios in this country. For a long time, names like Loring, Honeyman, or Toerien have been synonymous with smash hit, but now –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">and ending</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Let our sometime whizz-kids look to their laurels –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">During the week following, success spread outwards like ripples in a pond. A feature called Barbie's Barbs inside one of the Sundays (its stories were divided by the unkind into blurbs, bleepers, and booboos) made much of an interview David gave Barbie herself – the piece was headed Luncheon with a Hunk – and in it David's looks, the up-market restaurant where they ate, notabilities at other tables, the food, and wisecracks about the plays all enjoyed more or less equal attention. One of the same newspaper's drama critics, whose spherical appearance if little else recalled the more famous Alexander Woolcott, considered several of the performances no less than superb and gave the three productions four-star accolades (he never gave five stars, ever). Evita Bezuidenhout did a not-entirely-successful male impersonation of David in THE POTTING SHED, sending him up rotten, and country-and-western stars Des and Dawn not only wrote a little ditty about the plays but recorded it too. Nearly every member of the company appeared on radio or television at least once and some of them – Simon, Magda, Judd – several times. Judd showed off like mad on SABC 1 and made two television advertisements, in one of which he drank beer with Bafana-Bafana and in the other put on a box before going in to bat at Lord's, no less.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">David himself made almost daily appearances. He was twice a guest on Talk Radio, first of a man who wanted to know where he had been educated he spoke such accentless English (this man's own accent was difficult to place except very vaguely somewhere between New York and Jerusalem), and then of a woman who made suggestive little enquiries into the exact nature of his relationship with Magda. Rumour had it among the cognoscenti, she said, with one of the little shrieks she had made famous, that in private life they were man and wife, or as good as – were they in fact married? Someone chatted to him most amiably on Good Morning South Africa, a girl called Hlengwe reverently enquired of him on a Sunday night religious-discussion programme whether he really believed in the resurrection of the dead, as EWEH STEVE and THE POTTING SHED suggested he might; another girl called Leleti asked him hardly less reverently to introduce short excerpts from EWEH STEVE and AFTER THE APPLE for a programme called Top of the Bill, her own introduction to his introductions contriving to be at once awe-stricken and fulsome. Another of David’s interviews at this time was with a journalist who not only edited a paper called Network ('the On-Line Print-Out Up Front') but also had a regular spot on television and a blog site of the world wide web; this interview was spread across all three outlets. Entitled Dramatic Essences, or, Things As They Are, the article that appeared in Network was accompanied by a photograph of David looking tortured, and its introductory preamble read in part as follows:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There are dramatists and to spare, God knows, who take upon themselves the mantle of Elijah and demand of their critics nothing less than a sleep of reason. Only in their own work, do these inspired prophets insist, may there be found salvation, and that only by born-again seekers after the One True Faith. From he-ancients and she-ancients instinct with the life force of their Shavian intellects to a Mother Courage imposing her more Brechtian dialectic; from the kitchen-sink-with-everything school of drama to a pre-occupation with the absurd at the heart of things: all would have us acquiesce in a singular and unique vision of the Way, the Truth, and the Life. It is less often that one comes across a director of other men's plays who shares this essentially creative zealotry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The article itself was a transcription of the televised interview, and part of it is reproduced below. DB refers to the interviewer; DA to David.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB You say your basic approach is never to interfere, to allow the reality of the play to emerge, or erupt – at most you act as midwife, so to speak – and I can see how this would work with a play like EWEH STEVE, if you can call something so loosely structured a play at all. There I can see how you would have to leave it to the cast But how about the other plays in your trilogy – if it is a trilogy you are presenting; is it? – even the second, APPLE, as I believe it's known in the trade. Surely there you must interfere, as director you must present you own view of the playwright's intention in the play – which, I agree, could be totally different from some other director's, or even the playwright's himself.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA It’s true AFTER THE APPLE has more structure, yes, it is what used to be known as a well-made play. The lines are there for the players to learn and for the director to see they come across with good effect. But I think – . Perhaps we should go back to the bridge analogy I used earlier; I don't think we’ve worked through all its implications. Because, you see, what a particular play presents to a particular audience has very little to do with the playwright’s intention – sometimes I think nothing at all. At that particular performance any play might have had the same effect as the particular play one is in fact presenting.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB I'm sorry, I'm not with you. Perhaps we had better go back to your bridge. But could I first just make my point about the Graham Greene play in your repertoire as well; it's a better example of what I mean. Surely what you have in that play, the Greene play, is drama at its most didactic, its most polemical? – it’s surely a play with a thesis, if ever there was one. Here you have Father Graham, priest, excommunicate though he may well have considered himself to be – and with good and sufficient reason, I'm tempted to add – here we have Graham Greene giving us the bottom line on miracles, or on the doctrine of miracles, it may very well be – </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA May I ask you questions too?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB But of course my dear fellow.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA What is the bottom line on miracles?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB You mean according to our St Graham? Well I'd say he suggests in his play that they're simply a question of sufficient faith, that there's no need to question one of the basic tenets of Christianity – </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Which one would that be?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Well, the resurrection of Christ, I suppose. There's no need to question that, if your common-or-garden Greene-type priest can do it at will too, provided his faith is sufficient, so up yours, all ye sceptics of insufficient faith, ye are all just stupid.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA (laughed at this point.) I have rehearsed or played that play several times a week for some months now, and never once has that interpretation of the plot even remotely suggested itself.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Then what interpretation would you in fact put on Mr Greene's plot?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA None. That is the point. None whatever. I agree that that prayer in the potting shed can very easily be seen as no more than a piece of crude bargaining. But I chose the play for that very reason, because it is as a play so very intractable to modern audiences. Let's go back to my bridge, which is a bridge but also a road for four lanes of motor traffic. It spans a nothingness, an empty space between two sides of a deep, wide gorge, and it is supported, apparently, by nothing more than a couple of slender arches resting on nothing more solid than a thin flexible steel plate designed to move as required. If you have any imagination at all, as you hurtle across that chasm in your car at a hundred and eighty miles an hour, cold terror will clutch at your vitals and you will want to stop the car and get off But the point about this bridge, which you might want to call a miracle of modern engineering perhaps, the point about it is that it presents a concrete image of abstract mathematical realities which if they’re not true, if you’ve made mistakes with the maths, your bridge will simply fall down.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB And we'll all say 'Oh shit'?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA We'll say what?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB You've never seen that poster of a locomotive plunging down a hill from a bridge that has collapsed under it? The caption reads: Oh shit. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Oh. I see. It's often the only word used these days, isn't it, for everything. Shit.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Well, there's 'Oh fuck' too, of course.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> (It should be noted in passing that this incidental little exchange was edited out of the interview as televised.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB So OK your bridge falls down. What’s that got to do with putting on plays?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA In very much the same way as my bridge, a play presents an image of reality which if it’s not true, if you’ve made mistakes with it, the centre will not hold and the whole thing collapses.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB But who’s going to decide that? You? – the director?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA No, audiences have to.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB But will the average audience know enough to be able to – ?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Look, you mustn’t try to take an analogy too far, you know, all analogies fail after a certain point. The bridge and its mathematics are one thing; a play is something else again. In the theatre, as in life of course, things are never quite as cut and dried as they have to be when you’re building a bridge. What happens at the play, the reality that is revealed in the theatre, is not something you can watch as you watch traffic crossing a bridge, it’s far more complex than that. All you’ll get – if you’re lucky, that is, often you’ll get nothing except badly lit sound and fury – all you’ll get are a few glimpses here and there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Glimpses? Of what?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Of whatever is there to be seen. What you see when you watch a play depends on you, of course – the theatre-goer. You have to get the point of what is happening, you can't just leave it to the director or the playwright. You must make sense of it. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB And if you can’t?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA There’s no way you can’t, that’s the point. You will always be vouchsafed at least a glimpse.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Vouchsafed. Who by, one wonders, God Almighty no doubt. So, to sum up, you’d see your job as director simply to let it all hang out, let it all happen. You’re simply what used to be called a facilitator</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Well, yes, basically, I suppose you might say that. You certainly don’t try to impose your own meanings or interpretations, you do your best to make it possible for people to see when they look. Because, sometimes, when the play is right, and the actors are right, and the theatre is right, and it's the right audience at the right time, then sometimes – not very often, in my experience so far no more than about three times – there is revealed, for one brief moment – </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">(The interviewee paused at this point for so long that he had to be prompted to continue.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB There is revealed?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA It's different every time, you see. If it could be put into words, or measured mathematically, it wouldn't be necessary to go to all the great trouble and expense of mounting plays, would it?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB So when I go to the theatre, or to the cinema for that matter, to see what my favourite director – as it might be you yourself, for example – what you have made of one of the great classics, Antigone or even Lysistrata perhaps, or if I go to see what Olivier made of Lear or Othello, or even if I go just to see a show, a leg show in a Las Vegas club, you'd say I'm going to the theatre for all the wrong reasons?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Oh good God no. A thousand times no. Everybody should go to the theatre all the time, for those as well as a hundred other good reasons –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There were a couple of columns more about the plays, the interviewer's questions moving on to focus more sympathetically on EWEH STEVE and AFTER THE APPLE, and the article in Network ended with this final exchange:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA Well, as I've been trying to say all along, we tell it like it is.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DB Aha! But is that ever possible? Nobody can tell it like it is, as a journalist I learnt that lesson very early on, while working for a paper whose proud boast it was at the time. A journalist, even the very best, can only tell it like he sees it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">DA No. You are wrong. Or it may be so in journalism, I don't know, but in the theatre it is possible, it sometimes happens – in spite of ourselves, it sometimes happens that we tell it like it is. Not as we see it, but as it is, it is the thing itself that is there – momentarily perhaps, but there it is.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite this strong statement, which accounted for his introductory preamble, DB later privately expressed his opinion of David as a bit of a twister not easy to pin down, a wily bird and a slippery customer always trying to side-step the issue and sidle off the point.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">As all this free publicity continued to flood the media, the three plays made it even to the sermons of fashionable clerics in their churches, while PR people everywhere continued to scratch like maddened hens as they sought ever more frantically means to cash in further on the event of this heaven-sent happening. Organisations like Chambers of Commerce invited David to address their monthly luncheons at the Country Club, others like Lions International asked him to open fe^tes, and at least one political party offered him a seat on its platform, with the possibility later of an appointment to the board of Anglo-American, after the nine-day wonder of his present success had passed. This last he refused. Through it all, he continued to maintain that the play's the thing, and his deep-voiced gravitas, and rather hesitant delivery, was enormously effective against the frenetic pizzazz of all those climbing onto his bandwagon in their anxiety to keep up with le dernier cri and, if possible, to anticipate it. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> To the rest of the company, however, he seemed at this time to withdraw into himself, and to seek his privacy more than he used to, distrusting the wild acclaim his productions were enjoying – which, everyone in the company agreed, though all very setting-up and exciting, was also not a little bewildering. It was true that the plays were good, but they were not that good – not all that much better than other productions at other theatres (everyone could recall at least one, usually one in which he or she had played the lead) – and it was also true that there were some lovely performances spread among the three productions, David's in POTTING SHED being perhaps the most memorable, but again all of them could remember performances as good, if not better, in other plays at other times. How, then, to explain why they now had not one but three smash hits on their boards? But there you are, they concluded, that's theatre for you. There is never any knowing which way the great paying public will jump, bless its little cotton socks, and all one can do when for once it leaps in one's own general direction is to open up the caviar and say 'Thank God'.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They did outstandingly good business of course, and Matt hardly touched ground all the time they were at the Civic. By the Wednesday of the week following their opening, all evening performances of all three plays were sold out, and two days later there were no seats left at all; booking began to move over to the State Theatre. Originally, the Civic season was to have ended with the second house on the Saturday before Easter, with the State Theatre opening on the Thursday following, the Thursday of Holy Week, once known as Maundy Thursday. When the Civic season sold out in its first week, however, the possibility was mooted of extending the run, only to be abandoned when Janis pointed out that her theatre was booked solid for several months ahead. By special arrangement, Sunday-night performances of an adapted version of EWEH STEVE had been put on Upstairs at The Market, a small, experimental theatre used mainly for try-outs, and, although there had been little advance publicity, large numbers of people were turned away every Sunday. It was thus eventually arranged that THE POTTING SHED would open at the State as planned on the Thursday, but that another four performances of EWEH STEVE would be given Upstairs at The Market on the Monday to the Thursday of that week.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After the Civic season, the first night at the State Theatre came as something of an anticlimax. Not every seat had been sold and, after applause verging on the dionysian night after night in the Civic, the audience at the State seemed apathetic. Taking her bow with the others, Magda muttered something very rude indeed about what the customers must be doing with their hands, when they were not sitting on them, and was rewarded with a sidelong smile from David.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Later, in the dressing-room she and Sally were sharing – Sally played Anne in THE POTTING SHED, and Magda Sara – she asked: 'Is David taking his car through to this party at The Market tonight, do you know?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He must be, surely,' said Sally, 'it's his party after all. Why, are you looking for a lift?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How are you getting there?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm not going,' Sally said decisively. 'I'm sick to death of all these parties, they never stop.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But David's giving this one himself, isn't he? Isn't it royal command?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well then he should have said. It's no big deal, you know, just Upstairs at The Market, sort of a thank-you to Barney is all. I think.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I thought more end-of-the-fantastic-Civic run.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh that too, I suppose, but even so I'm still not going,' said Sally. 'I've had enough fantastic apres-show parties, thank you, and it's a long drive, in the middle of the night. But I'm sure there'll be transport laid on, one of the Kombis, why don't you ask Philip?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you know, I don't think I shall,' said Magda. 'It's such a trek, at this hour, I quite agree, and then driving all the way back, with the men half-cut and trying it on all over again in the Kombi. I think I shall just go to bed instead, I'm feeling exhausted tonight, for some reason.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well in that case, if there is a Kombi going, they can jolly well drop us both off first,' Sally said. 'Where are you staying?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'At the house David organised,' Magda said, a little surprised. 'Aren't you? I thought we all were.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I'm not,' said Sally, as decisively as before. 'I'm sorry but all this pigging it together in a sort of commune scene, well, it's just not me, I'd really rather not, thanks. And it's always the women who end up doing all the work, haven't you noticed?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's true,' said Magda. 'One will be obliged to take a firm line.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Besides, think what it'll be like sharing a bathroom with Mark. No thank you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wouldn't dream of it,' said Magda, 'and if there were any question of it I shall lock the door and keep the key on my person. He can use the garden.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well you might find yourself having to do just that in this house David's put you all into.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dear Sally, I'm sure you're wrong. It isn't a commune sort of set-up at all, you know. I know for a fact there are at least two bathrooms, and very probably more, the house is really rather grand, almost a mansion actually, originally built by Herbert Baker on his way home from India, Simon said. Of course the bathrooms will have been put in after his time.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon distinctly told me it was only the men who were going to stay there and he also definitely implied it would all be rather squalid.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That,' said Magda, 'is nonsense. You must have misunderstood him. I've got a lovely little room all to myself, a little sitting-room it would normally be, with a window onto the rose garden and its own entrance from the verandah, and as soon as I saw it I thought it would do very well indeed as my bedroom. So I persuaded Tom to help me move a divan into it from one of the upstairs bedrooms, and I'm taking it over for the duration. I shall be most happy to stay there for as long as David wants to keep us here. Where will you be staying then?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Andrew's borrowed a flat from a friend of his who's gone to Bermuda for a couple of weeks.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh. How very convenient, I quite see why you’re not coming in with the rest of us.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a knock on the door and Lucas poked his head into the room. 'Us girls not ready yet?' he enquired. 'Let's get this show on the road, shall we, one more time.' He groaned, theatrically.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In spite of what she had just said to Sally, Magda was tempted. 'Is everyone going?' she asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, I think so,' Lucas replied, surprised that she should think otherwise. 'David's taken some Civic people back in his car, and Simon went with them, but the rest of us will just have to pig it in the Kombi. There'll be more room coming back, obviously, with the other Kombi and the car.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas,' said Sally, 'would you mind dropping me off first? I'm giving this party a miss.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, me too please, Lucas,' Magda finally made up her mind, 'if you're driving, that is. Me for me downy tonight, I think.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What? Not both of you?' Lucas asked. ‘Can't be that time of the month for all of us, surely?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas,' said Magda, 'don't you try to be all-girls-together with me, I won't have it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sorry.' He grinned at her, unabashed, and held the door open for them. 'Right. Well, as long as you-all aren't coming, why don't we-all just go?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They drove first to the address in town that Sally gave Lucas and then to the house in the suburbs that had been put at their disposal by, Simon had said, friends of David's father. Here Magda spent nearly an hour exploring every room in the place, like a cat. She did not count them, but she thought vaguely at the end of her tour that there must be upwards of twenty. She tried to imagine herself mistress of such an establishment, but failed, deciding in the end that it was a part she would not much care to play. She spent another hour or so tending her body in one of the luxurious bathrooms upstairs (not one of those that were en-suite) and then she finally went to sleep in the little nest she had made for herself in the garden room downstairs.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In the first light of early dawn, she dreamed the house had fallen in on her during an earth tremor, a heavy beam across her legs keeping her from getting out from under, and she awoke to find Simon sitting on the end of her narrow divan with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The fright she had felt in her nightmare, and the alarm she now felt on recognising him, made her cry out, as she tried to sit up and found she could not, his weight on the bedclothes keeping her as in a winding-sheet. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon! For God's sake! What's the matter, what's happened?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He did not move, and she stopped struggling to sit up. His voice when he spoke was toneless and barely audible. He said: 'David's been arrested.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Arrested? What for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He did not immediately answer. He bent down, sitting on the bed, until his head was almost between his knees, his hands now clasped on the back of his neck, his forearms pressed against the sides of his head. His voice when it came made the same toneless sounds as before. 'I said I didn't know him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon?' Magda now managed to pull herself free of the bedclothes and she crawled down to kneel beside him on the end of the bed, trying to take his face in her hands to see him, but he would not let her. She now felt very frightened indeed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I said I didn't know him,' Simon repeated, his voice just above a whisper, tight with control. He drew in his breath, through his mouth and his nose at once, and made an odd rasping noise, half gulp, half groan.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Simon?' Magda began to whimper, tried to hold him in her arms, tried again to see his averted face. 'Simon, what's the matter, what's wrong, what are you talking about?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Television. There were three of them, they had cameras going, and the girl stuck a mike in my face. I said I didn't know him,' Simon repeated for the third time. 'Why? Tell me that. What a stupid, meaningless – . When everyone in town – the whole bloody country – knows who we all are – . What got into me, what in the name of Christ made me think there was any point in – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He slowly slid from the bed and fell forward, first onto his knees and then flat on the floor, in the posture of prostration. Magda fell to the floor beside him, calling his name again and again in rising panic and getting no kind of response as he brought up great retching sobs from his belly, as if his body were vomiting. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a bang on the door and Mark burst into the room, loudly demanding to know what in hell was going on around here. He was closely followed by Judd, whose dark face looked stretched and grey. Simon gathered himself up from the floor and stumbled past the two men in the doorway, stammering something incoherent about needing a lavatory. Magda got to her feet and tried to follow him, but Judd stopped her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Leave him be,' he said authoritatively, looking searchingly into her face, a hand on her arm.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda returned his steady gaze for a moment or two and then she went to sit on the bed with her hands in her lap. She looked at the floor where Simon had lain, not at the two men in her room now. 'I am filled with dread,' she said, 'why do I feel like this? What has happened? What's wrong?' she asked. 'Judd?' She appealed to him without looking up. 'What's wrong with Simon? Why is he – ? I have never seen anyone weep like that, never. Not even on stage. Why is Simon crying as if – ? As if he's broken his heart.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark leaned back in an armchair by the window and put his feet up on the little rocker in front of it. He said savagely: 'I wish to Christ there'd been something else to drink apart from that bloody Chianti. I've got such a head – . I swear I'll never touch another drop, not wine, not cheap bloody plonk, never again.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course,' Magda reminded herself, 'you all went to David's supper last night.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Supper!' Mark snorted. 'Bread rolls and bloody Chianti, I wouldn't call that supper exactly.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'They arrested him,' said Judd.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Magda, 'Simon said. But that's not what's – . For God's sake tell me, can't you, don't just – .' She took a deep breath. 'Is it serious?' she asked. 'I mean – how serious is it, why would anyone want to arrest David, what for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's not serious,' Judd asserted, rather too loudly, 'they just say they pulled him in for questioning. Not serious.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I didn't think it could be,' Magda agreed. 'But then what's the matter with Simon? Why is Simon – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm glad you don't think it's serious, Judd,' Mark said conversationally from behind his closed eyes, 'because if by some chance it did turn out to be serious I wouldn't much care to be in your boots. Not after what you did. Because it was you who actually handed him over, wasn't it?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You just shut your mouth,' Judd said, even more loudly than before. 'It is not a serious matter, how can it be a serious matter? There's nothing he did, what you think he did, to make it serious? They want to ask him questions, it's all they want.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Questions bout what?' Magda asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't ask me, man, ask them, correctional services, that's who you must ask.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark put a hand over his closed eyes and gently pressed his temples, his thumb on one side of his head and his middle finger on the other. 'Judd,' he said, 'when the pigs, the filth, the fuzz, what d' you want to call them, when police come looking for your friends, you don't hand them over, like you did David. First you find out what's up, what they're after, you ask for their warrant, you give your friend his chance to get the hell out of there, till you know what's what. You don't just hand him over, like you did.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Judd's eyes searched Mark's face, as earlier they had searched Magda's. 'Fuck you, white man,' he said evenly, 'you know what's his name? You don't know what's his name,' he asserted, 'his name's not David, no way, and it's also not Dawid, no, what's his real name is his black name. Freedom, liberation, democracy, human rights, that's what's his real name. And because that's what's his real, true name, he will walk in this house now, today, before it's breakfast time, you just wait, and you'll see.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He turned and left the room. Mark lay back in his chair, complaining about his head once more. Magda looked at him with strong distaste and said 'Would you like to tell me what this is all about?' and Mark said, uncaring, 'Your guess is as good as mine, dear, you tell me' and Magda jumped up with her fists clenched as if she were about to hit him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Mark for God's sake! What happened at that party, tell me, you must tell me what happened last night.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He opened his eyes to see her standing over him and then closed them again before starting to speak.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was Upstairs at The Market, as you know,' he began. 'I was standing near Judd, who was with a bloody noisy group of Blacks all shouting their heads off, and David was somewhere on the other side of the room, near the buffet somewhere. I saw the two cops hanging about at the top of the stairs, not that I knew they were cops then, of course, they weren't in uniform or anything, they just looked a bit out of place, you could see they weren't theatre people, which is probably why I noticed them. They seemed a bit lost, didn't know anybody. Anyway, the next I saw they were talking to Barney, and he was getting a bit uptight and wanting to know who they were and what they wanted when master Judd suddenly pipes up – you know how high he gets after one of his performances – and starts putting his oar in. "You want Dave?" he says loud and clear, "you looking for old Dave here?" and he struts across to David and grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him on both cheeks and he says something sarcastic about David is his master, David is the only man he'll ever call boss. Well, they go up to David and start chatting, and nobody thinks anything more of it, why should they, and then David starts to go off with them, meek as a lamb, and still nobody thinks anything of it till Barney starts yelling, it's the fuzz, detectives, they must be special branch. So then all hell breaks loose and there's a terrific commotion and people start chasing down the stairs and the cops start running with David and get away in a car but then everybody starts piling into cars too and someone must have rung up the media, the Market PR dollies I shouldn't wonder, everything's grist to their mill, so by the time we got to John Vorster Square in the Kombi there was such a mob milling about, including television cameras if you please, we couldn't find anyone to tell us anything. I gave up after a bit and went to wait in the Kombi for Philip and the others, and then we came back here. And that's all I know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He stopped talking and lay quiet, his eyes still closed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But why?' Magda asked, 'what for? I don't understand, I don't at all understand what's going on.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Join the club,' said Mark.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda was wearing only her pyjamas, which were too thin and transparent to be worn in public, and, suddenly becoming aware of this, she stood up to put on her dressing-gown, which had fallen to the floor at the foot of her bed. She said: 'I'm going to make myself some coffee, I think, if I can find any in the kitchen – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Maids come with this house, you know. There are at least two and probably more, I saw them yesterday. Just ring, if you need anything.' Limply he flapped a wrist, feeling for an imaginary bell-push, his eyes still shut.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wonder if Simon – . Would you like a cup, shall I bring you a cup?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Angel,' said Mark in a kind of moan, 'you absolute angel you. You wouldn't by any miraculous chance have some brandy or some aspirin or something, to put with it, would you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Upstairs in one of the bathrooms,' Magda said, taking a brush to her hair, 'there is a cabinet so full of pharmaceutical junk and stuff, you could open a shop. Go and see.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark moaned again. 'Magda dear,' he said, 'if you could feel my head you would not ask me to climb stairs in that unfeeling way.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda looked at him dispassionately as she re-tied the sash of her dressing-gown more tightly and said no more. In the kitchen she found instant coffee without having to search for it, and switched on an electric kettle. She went upstairs to the bedrooms, and there, lying across the foot of a king-size bed in the master bedroom, she found Simon in the foetal position, fast asleep. She stood gazing down at him for some time, and at one point put out a hand to wake him but, changing her mind, turned away to the bathroom instead. In its medicine cabinet she found Panadol, and took this down to Mark, but he too was now fast asleep, snoring fit to wake the dead. She left the Panadol on the floor next to his chair and went back to the kitchen, where the kettle had switched itself off.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She smoked two cigarettes with the coffee she made. Then she went to see if there were anyone else in the house yet stirring, and, though all the bedrooms seemed to be occupied, she found no-one else awake. She had been particularly hoping to find Tom. But he seemed to be missing, together with one or two others of their number, Jannie and Matt among them. Andrew would be with Sally, of course. Of Judd there was now no sign; he had apparently left the house again. If Mark had not been in her own room she might have gone back to bed, but since his snores made the room uninhabitable she collected the things she needed and got dressed in the bathroom she had used the night before. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After that, she went in search of a Bible. Would the people who owned so much in this house also own a copy of the Bible? In one of the glass-fronted bookcases in a room she had mentally designated someone's rather grand study the night before, during her exploration of the house, she found several Bibles, including two or three modern translations. She took down a volume bound in soft leather that proved to be a King James version, turned to the New Testament, and started paging through the first Gospel, reading only the running heads given at the top of each page. Almost at once she came upon what she was looking for: the names of Christ's apostles.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She read through the list given in the text and then closed the book she was holding with a little clap. Bart's name must be Bartholomew, she thought, (she found out later that it wasn't; it was Bartimeus) and Matt's obviously Matthew. Jannie of course was John. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She put the Bible back in its place on the shelves and closed the leaded-glass door on it; she stood still for a moment. and then said aloud: 'Well God help us all.' She thought she would go out to find somewhere where she could breakfast quietly on her own, and left the house with this purpose in mind, quite forgetting it was a day on which most public places, if not all, would be closed, the day being Good Friday.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When Tom reached the house later that morning, he rang the bell (for he had no key) and this woke Philip, who took some time to realise where he was and what bell it was that was ringing. By the time he had made his bleary way to the front door, Tom had already been admitted by one of the maids, and so Philip turned aside and stumbled into a cloakroom under the stairs.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom followed him. 'Where's Simon?' he demanded.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How the hell should I know?' said Philip, closing the door to the lavatory in Tom's face.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Didn't he come back with you in the Kombi last night? Or this morning, whenever it was?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Philip through the closed door and above the sound of water hitting water.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He'd have had to bring Dave's car back,' Tom reminded himself. He raised his voice again. 'Where's everybody? Is there no-one else here?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon had heard most of this exchange as he came downstairs (the doorbell had awoken him as well) and now he called as he reached the hall. 'Tom. Hi. Any news?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom came from the back of the hall to meet him. 'News? No news, no. You know they brought him here?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Here? What do you mean? To this house?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, to the gaol here. There's a big central prison in town here somewhere.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'To the gaol,' Simon repeated. 'But they can't just put him in gaol, can they? What for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh can't they,' Tom said grimly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He is entitled to legal representation,' Simon insisted, 'he knows that. They can't just gaol him. Who told you, how did you find out?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judd,' said Tom, as Philip joined them. 'Judd knows someone who's got a brother inside, or it could be Judd's brother who's inside. You never know with Judd, when you talk to him everybody turns out to be his brother, but that's how he got to know about Dave. Through one of the warders, I suppose. Judd told me they took Dave away early this morning, perhaps even before that mob hanging about outside gave up and went home, or perhaps that was the whole idea, to get rid of them.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did they really call the riot squad out?' Philip asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There were blokes with loud-hailers,' said Tom. 'I don't know who they were. I took them for ordinary police.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The riot squad used to have special uniforms,' Philip remarked, losing interest. 'I wonder if that woman who opened the door to you could be persuaded to fix us some breakfast. I'll go and see, shall I?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David said we could all stay here, or as many of us as would fit in,' said Simon, 'the people who live here won't be back until June, but we have to find our own food.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Coffee and toast hardly counts as food,' Philip said, moving off in the direction of the kitchen, while Simon and Tom drifted out onto a verandah at the side of the house, where they settled themselves on the padded cushions of some white-painted garden furniture that they found there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No expense spared in this place,' Tom observed gloomily as he sat down. 'How does Dave get to know all these people he knows?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I think it's rather more they know his father.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Even so,' Tom replied. He added: 'You'd think people like this, rich people, would be able to help with bail, at least.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'They happen to be several thousand miles away,' Simon told him, 'in Europe somewhere. Has there been no word from Matt?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not that I've heard,' said Tom, 'not yet. But it's still early days, Simon, he's going to have his work cut out trying to find a magistrate or anybody to do anything today. It's Good Friday, remember.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't think he's going to magistrates at this stage,' said Simon, 'he's going over the heads of magistrates. From what he said last night, this friend of his is a pal of some big shot in government. But I don't know exactly what Matt has in mind.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well all I hope is he pulls it off soon, I have to know what to set for tomorrow. It's supposed to be POTTING SHED, but how can we do POTTING SHED without Dave?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon did not immediately reply. Then he said: 'We'd better stick to the advertised schedule, Tom. At least until we – . If necessary we'll have to do some more re-shuffling of understudies. But they will surely not still be holding David by tomorrow night – . What for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom shrugged without replying.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Matt will surely have managed to organise bail by tomorrow,' Simon continued, 'surely to God. Isn't tomorrow an ordinary working day?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'For shops, perhaps, but not for government-service types like magistrates.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh,' said Simon. 'But what can they possibly want with David all this time?' he burst out. 'What's David been up to that he hasn't told us, that we don't know about?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing, probably,' said Tom. 'You know how it is once you get mixed up in politics, and I don't just mean ordinary government politics. I mean anybody who likes to bugger other people around. They don't care what you've done or not done – if they're gunning for you, all they're interested in is how to nail you. And with Dave I'd say the trouble is nobody knows how they can nail him, they don't know whose side he's on. These plays of his. They're eurocentric, they're elitist, they're not multicultural, they're not democratic. That's the first thing. Then he puts them on in swanky, posh state theatres all over the place, it's not hole-in-the-corner workshop street theatre, and the media go mad for him. Whose side's he on? There's somebody thinks he needs to be taught a lesson, p'raps.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You mean they think that as a Black he could be a joiner, an uncle-tom?' Simon asked thoughtfully. 'Judd once said something to me about uncle-toms, I remember.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Then when he goes visiting right-wing farmers on their own farms you could even think he's on their side, if you didn't know him. What did Judd say about uncle-toms?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He was quite vicious,' Simon replied. 'He said cut their balls off, because they as good as had none anyway, and shove them up their backsides to where they've got no guts either.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom made an odd little 'Hmph' sound through his nose by way of comment. 'What's his politics, by the way? – old Judd's.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've no idea,' said Simon, 'has he any?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't know either, but there could be trouble for Dave from that quarter too, I'd say. Who knows what goes on in these places where Blacks have to live?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not Judd, I shouldn't think,' said Simon, 'nor Dave for that matter. Do you remember the night the audience took over in that town hall that time?' he asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do I,' Tom said grimly. 'I had to clean up. Looked like a herd of elephants had been through the place next day.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There was a bit of a stink about that of course.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I thought Dave got it all sorted out.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And then the stink about our Civic Theatre opening,' Simon said, following his own line of thought. 'That woman who was so furious with him – she could have something to do with all this.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, you know more about that than me. Old Dave certainly knows how to put people's backs up, that's for sure, even without really trying, but you ask me I'd say it's Judd at the bottom of this mess. He's the nigger in the woodpile.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom did not notice his racist mot juste, and Simon was much too worried to give it any attention.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judd's not straight with Dave,' Tom went on. 'There could be something going on that Judd knows and Dave doesn't. That would be my guess.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Or,' Simon suggested miserably, 'that David does know but pretends not to because it's not his way. He doesn't stop people doing things he thinks they shouldn't, he thinks people should find out for themselves, the hard way.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh there you are,' said Philip, coming out of the house onto the verandah just then. 'Do you know that woman produced a stack of hot cross buns from her larder – this house has a pantry and a larder, by the way – more than enough for a little mid-morning brunch for everybody. I can't think who had the forethought to lay in a few supplies yesterday.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David of course, 'said Simon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After that no-one said anything more for a while. A gardener in overalls ambled past, pushing a wheelbarrow with a hose pipe on it, and the three men on the verandah gave him their several good-mornings.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No shortage of menials about the place either,' said Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dear Tom,' said Philip, 'the few we've seen are just the skeleton staff, they're nowhere near full strength. The other twenty-five or so have all been given a holiday while the family is abroad.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What!' Tom looked at him, believing this until he saw Philip's grin. 'You're pulling my leg again, you blighter.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When the younger of the two maids they had so far encountered came out with a laden tray (her name, according to Philip, was Hannah) Tom wondered aloud whether they shouldn't wake the others who were still asleep. Neither Simon nor Philip made any answer and Tom himself made no move to carry out his suggestion, accepting a cup of coffee from Simon instead. Each man helped himself to the buttered buns, and they ate and drank in a silence broken only by remarks like 'Sugar?' or 'These buns aren't half bad, are they' until Tom said, as Philip lit a cigarette, 'So. That's it, then. We just wait for Matt,' and again neither of the others replied, or at least not immediately. Tom got out a pipe. Simon said Matt had promised to ring up from wherever he might find himself, as soon as he had anything definite to report.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So the morning passed, rather slowly. One by one the other occupants of rooms in the house got up and found their way to the verandah. They swapped stories about their particular experience of the aftermath of David's arrest the night before, and only Simon was silent. Some time after midday, it occurred to Mark that a house as well-appointed as this might possibly have a supply of liquor somewhere, and he went in search of it. The drink he found in a cabinet in one of the downstairs sitting-rooms and on a rack in a passage off the pantry made his eyes glisten, and he went around offering everyone the drink of their choice, loudly calling upon all to bear witness that he personally would be responsible for seeing to it that they replaced everything they drank.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda telephoned at one stage, and spoke to Simon; she told him Matt had co-opted Andrew's help the night before, and now she herself, Sally, and Andrew were waiting for Matt to come back from seeing a man who was going to ring up some cabinet minister or someone, someone right up there at the top, whose name, she ended, seemed to be either Saul or Paul.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Does it matter what his name is,' Simon asked, 'as long as he gets off his butt and does something about David?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Magda. 'I don't suppose it does. It's just that ever since you woke me up this morning I've been finding people's names very peculiar, very peculiar indeed. They suddenly seem to me to be fraught with some strange, arcane significance. Including yours, I might add.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'For God's sake, Magda! What's peculiar about my name? And is this a time to be thinking about people's names when David's – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goodbye, Simon, we'll all be along a little later, as soon as Matt shows,' said Magda, and abruptly put the telephone down.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It was some time after three when she and Sally with Matt and Andrew arrived and found that the party on the verandah had grown to include everyone in the company except Jannie and Judd – and, of course, David himself. The maid, Hannah, had earlier approached Simon with instructions from the cook to ask what should be done about luncheon for so much people. Nobody had told her to make food for so much people, and she took back Simon's assurance that so much people would all look after themselves; they would require neither luncheon nor dinner from the kitchen. This being established, the cook had decided she and Hannah might just as well take the afternoon off as usual, and they had left the kitchen to the visitors. When the four newcomers joined the party, the much replenished coffee pot was replaced at Magda's suggestion with a teapot, and a few more hot cross buns were found for Matt, who had not yet eaten that day. The drinks trolley Mark had earlier assembled had so far proved more than adequate to any demand made on it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon had seen in Matt's face the answer to everybody's question about David but asked it anyway. 'No go?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, we got through to him,' said Matt. 'I myself spoke to the minister.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Good God,’ said Mark.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And?' Simon asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, no problem,' said Matt. 'He didn't mind to be phoned up on his holidays, and he says he knows David – no, I tell a lie, it's David's father he knows rather, but he says he knows all about us and the Civic, he says he heard about the plays. But he didn't know David's arrested. He says he knows nothing about that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That has to be balls,' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why should he know?' asked Simon. 'Go on, Matt.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He promised to look into it first thing Tuesday morning – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tuesday!' Simon was dismayed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – all the offices are closed, there's no-one he can contact till Tuesday.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He could phone Correctional Services,' Tom volunteered. 'Judd says they've got Dave in the central prison here, that won't be closed. A man in his position could phone the prison governor, surely?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course he damn well could,' Mark agreed loudly. 'There's nothing to stop him from phoning the prison. Did you ask him to, Matt?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt was huddled on the side of a lounger, rubbing one fist into the palm of his other hand while he spoke. He looked with strong aversion along the length of the verandah down towards where Mark was lying on another lounger next to the drinks trolley.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I didn't.' He was extremely short.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why not?' asked Mark. 'I'd have said it's the obvious thing for him to – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because I didn't fucking know, that's why not,' Matt shouted. 'I didn't know where David is.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I think,' Magda said to Simon, 'that Matt has worked an absolute miracle today and somebody ought to say so. I mean, really, a cabinet minister, and on a public holiday, and getting him to – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I muffed it too, Matt,' Simon said unsteadily. 'I could have kicked up a stink on television, I was given the chance, but I didn't. I muffed it. David'll know what we did, it doesn't matter. Don't worry about Mark.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Ring him again,' Mark was loudly suggesting. 'If you've got his number now, give him another ring. I'll talk to him this time, if you like.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What a good idea,' Lucas murmured to Bart, who happened to be sitting next to him, 'old blabber-mouth himself.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt looked questioningly at Simon, who, after a moment, obliquely answered the unspoken question. 'There's a good chance we'll simply antagonise him if we ring up again,' he said, 'and all the good work you've done will go for a burton, but perhaps it's a chance we should take. We could say the reason is David's supposed to appear at both performances tomorrow, and on Monday, which isn't strictly true but anyway that could be our excuse for ringing again. What do you think, Matt, you actually spoke to the guy.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If only I thought of it when we were still talking,' said Matt. 'If I only did.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Have you in fact got the number?' Simon asked him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, they wouldn't give it to me, they said it's unlisted, so they rang him up and spoke first, and then they gave me the chance to speak. I'll go and ask if they'll give me the number, or we can go to their house again.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He went inside, and Simon followed him to a telephone on the desk in the room on the other side of the house where Magda had earlier found a Bible.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, out on the verandah, Magda looked around her and asked: 'Where is the disciple whom Jesus loved?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mark choked on his drink and spluttered his mirth in a fine spray that Lucas for one observed with strong distaste.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'She means Jannie,' Mark tried to explain, between coughs, as he recovered.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Really,' said Lucas, irritated that Mark had caught a reference he himself had not. 'That little joke of yours is wearing a trifle thin, dear,' he told Magda. 'You make it so often.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It is no longer a joke,' Magda said bleakly, 'or if it is it's a different one now. More what you'd call a sick joke.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie went to meet David's mother at the airport this morning,' said Philip. 'He asked me last night if he could take one of the Kombis,' he added to Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David's mother?' Magda repeated.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes. Apparently David asked him to. Contact her, that is. He didn't want her to hear about it all on television or something. So Jannie rang her up and she said she was going to catch the first plane she could.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said, as bleakly as before: ‘”Jesus said: Behold thy mother”. You see,' she told Lucas, 'it isn't a joke at all. Not even a sick joke. It's for real.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda dear what are you on about now?' he asked severely.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But Magda was looking to see where she had put her handbag. 'Where're my cigarettes?' she asked. 'I have already had double my ration for today so far and it's still only four o' clock in the afternoon.' She slipped off her watch, shook it, and held it to her ear. 'Is it really only ten past four?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's been a long day,' said Andrew.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And getting longer,' Magda agreed, lighting her cigarette.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why do you keep quoting the Bible?' Sally asked. 'I thought it was worse than MACBETH, to quote from the Bible.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Only in the theatre, dear,' said Lucas, 'not here.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You're a fine one to talk,' Magda rounded on Sally almost viciously. 'You with the name you have. Salome. I ask you. Your mother must have been demented.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally gaped in astonishment at the vehemence of Magda's tone. Before she could say anything, however, Mark broke in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dear Sally,' he said with delight, 'is your name really Salome? Oh won't you dance for us please? I'm sure we can find some veils in this house.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally made a dismissive little noise and went to sit with Andrew and Philip a little way off.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There are more Salomes than one in the Bible, I'll have you know, Mark, and the famous one isn't the one we have to deal with here.' Magda was now pacing slowly between two pillars on the edge of the verandah, puffing at her cigarette in an effort not to inhale more than one draw in three. She turned to stand in front of Lucas. 'I'll tell you what I'm on about,' she said, 'since you ask. Actually I'm – .' She stopped, and then started speaking again in an altogether different tone of voice. 'I'm frightened. I am so frightened, and of nothing, that's the point, I'm so frightened of nothing I think I may be going mad. I want to ask where Judd is, but I'm too frightened to, in case he's gone and hanged himself.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Hanged himself?' Tom spoke above a little cry from Sally. 'What makes you think Judd would hang himself, what for? What's got into you, Magda, pull yourself together now.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes indeed, dear,' said Lucas. 'Enough of all this sibylline mystery.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sibylline's not the right mythology,' Magda told him, 'this is biblical, not classical.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So my name’s Magdalena, not Cassandra – </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Well, thank God for that at any rate.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘ – Magdalena as in Mary Magdalene. You know?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't, no. Does it have some special significance? Apart from being biblical, that is.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nearly all the names there are are in the Bible,' Tom pointed out heavily. 'It's not only Jews go in for them. Not fancy made-up names like Charlene, they’re not.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda ignored them both. 'Do you know what the P in Simon's signature stands for?' she asked, and answered her own question: 'Peter. It stands for Peter. His name's Simon Peter.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">At that moment, Judd came round a corner of the house and approached them along the gravelled path between the lawn and a flower border below the verandah where they were all sitting.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judd!' Magda cried as soon as she saw him, and she stepped down to the path to meet him. 'You will never know how relieved I am to see you. Are you all right? Come and sit down. Can I get you some tea? Or a drink? – what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No nothing, I don’t want.' Judd lowered himself onto the edge of the verandah, his back against a pillar. He looked out over the garden.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So who or what does Judd's name signify,' Lucas enquired of Magda, who was pouring a half-cup of black tea for herself, 'in this pantheon of classical and biblical figures you are so happily assembling for us this afternoon?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Magda, slowly stirring her tea. She sat down on the verandah steps near Judd. 'What's your real name, Judd, where does it come from?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'From Fugard,' said Judd. 'Athol Fugard, that writes the plays. Some of his plays he also wrote for Africans. It was him, he gave me this name Judd, he said Judd is a good name, good stage name, when I act in his play in the States one time, Master Harold and the Boys. It's like stateside names, he said. That is why I am Judd. Judd Mhlongo.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, but then what is your real name?' Magda persisted, 'the name your mother called you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All her children she called names in the Bible,' said Judd. 'She was a good woman. Good Christian woman, went to church, not only Sundays. My brother, my one brother, is Epaphras. My other brother, my old brother, in the States, he is Ezekiel. My one sister, Hepsibah. My other small brother, Habbakuk. Ezra and Obadiah also, but they die, long ago.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goodness,' said Lucas in an undertone to Bart, 'such begettings as do still go on, to be sure.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And you?' Magda asked, not heeding Lucas, 'what name did she call you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judah,' said Judd. 'Judah,' he repeated, giving the second syllable more than its full value in an expiring sigh. 'Second name Samuel. Judah Samuel.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judah Sa – .' Magda put her cup down on the step beside her and folded her hands in her lap. She did not look up when Simon re-appeared in one of the doorways leading from the house, closely followed by Matt.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Their faces were still grave. Looking at them, Tom repeated Simon's earlier question to Matt, 'No go?' and Mark, reaching for a bottle to pour another drink, said: 'Success?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Simon. 'I'll have one now too please Mark.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes of course,' said Mark. 'Scotch?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I made a mistake,' Simon continued, 'I shouldn't have spoken to him myself, I should have let you do all the talking, Matt, you obviously got onto his right side before – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And you didn't?' Lucas asked. 'Why, what happened? What went wrong?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing went wrong, Lucas, he was perfectly well-disposed and willing to help all he could but –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But he washed his hands.' Magda was sitting very still on the verandah steps and staring out over the garden, away from everybody.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'As a matter of fact, that is exactly what he said, how did you know?' Simon glanced briefly at Matt in surprised question. 'Is there an extension here somewhere, were you listening on an extension?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's been said before, you know.' Magda's voice was very low and its tone altogether reasonable, as if this observation explained everything there was to be explained.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What he said was, just before he hung up, he said "I must wash my hands of this now. On Tuesday we will talk further". It's amazing you should hit on the exact phrase he used.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What's the time?' Magda asked, and Tom told her: 'Ten to five.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've a feeling we should now ring the prison perhaps.' Magda picked up her abandoned teacup and slowly poured its dregs into the flowerbed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What for?' asked Tom. 'They wouldn't listen to anything we say.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not to ask them to let David go. Just to ask if he's okay.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But Magda it's not like ringing up a hospital, or something. They wouldn't tell us how he is, they'd think we're mad.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You're certainly going to town on feminine intuition this afternoon, aren't you,' Lucas interrupted, observing her through narrowed eyes. 'What is it now?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda shook the last drops of tea from the rim of her cup and set the cup back on its saucer without replying.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon said: 'I'll ring up if you like, but – . Who should I ask for, do you think, who should one speak to? The governor?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘I shouldn’t think the governor will be on duty on a day like today.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Judd got slowly to his feet, his head down, as he looked at the ground on which he stood. 'You don't have to ring up,' he said. 'I will tell you, because I know. She knows too. He is dead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Everybody spoke at once. Simon said sharply: 'Who is dead, what are you talking about?' 'Don't be so stupid, how can he be dead, what from?' Tom said at the same time, and Mark: 'Aagh, come off it, Judd, you talk shit.' Everyone was staring at Judd, except Lucas, who was staring at Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Is that why you wanted to ring the prison?' he asked her, 'is that the feeling you – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda paid no attention. 'Judd,' she said, 'if you are lying, if you are in cahoots with David over this, if you're doing it because he asked you to – . Look – ' she appealed a little hysterically to the others, speaking very quickly – 'it's not impossible. He's done it often enough before, God knows, you've only to remember how EWEH started. David could have set this up, deliberately, an exercise in improvisation, which he's going to get us to rehearse so he can turn it into a passion play for Easter. This could very well be, I would not put it past him, I don't trust David an inch. Only if it is one of his little exercises, if it is, I think I will kill him, I will kill him with my bare hands,' she told Judd.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What for you want to kill him when he is dead already? He is dead,' Judd repeated. 'This afternoon, three o'clock.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He started to walk away along the gravel path towards the back of the house, and Tom jumped up to call him back. 'Hey Judd wait. You can't just walk off like that, what happened, you have to tell us what happened. What did your brother in the gaol tell you, what happened?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Judd stood still on the path but did not turn round. 'He is not in the gaol now. They let him go. This morning they take him out the gaol to another place.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Where?' demanded Simon, 'where'd they take him?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Where they kill him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Kill him?' Tom's voice was high with disbelief. 'Who? Who killed him?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Judd turned to look at Simon. 'How can that be? I never thought such a thing could be. They just say he is not the President's friend and they kill him.' He turned again to walk on, disappearing around a corner of the house. This time no-one stopped him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda stood up, turning away from the garden to look at the others on the verandah, her back against a pillar.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, now.' Lucas drew a deep breath. 'There's nothing else for it, is there, we shall simply have to ring the police now, Simon, at once.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Simon. He looked bewildered. 'But I still don't – . If David isn't – . If what Judd said is – . What in the name of God is going on?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Look here,' said Tom, 'enough, the whole lot of you. That Judd – I don't trust what Judd says, I told you, Simon, how can Dave be dead? It's what? – it's not a day since they took him in – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And let him go again,' said Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – a man in the prime of life – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Thirty-three,' said Magda, ' he was exactly my age.' It no longer mattered that she was no longer twenty-nine.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – how can a man in the prime of life die just like that, so easy – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said – remote, detached: 'Judd says he was killed, Tom.' She thought but did not say: Crucified.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Judd says,' Tom repeated dismissively. 'Who cares what Judd says? I don't believe what Judd says – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It is not at this stage a question of belief,' said Magda, 'it's a question of fact. Ordinary everyday fact, that can be verified.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Tom, 'you're right. I'll go to that gaol straightaway myself, you needn't ring up, Simon. I'll get the truth out of them if it takes me all day.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All night,' Lucas murmured, as Tom started to leave.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Okay if I take Dave's car?' Tom asked, but while he was still speaking there came the sound of a woman's scream from somewhere at the back of the house. It was followed immediately by a second cry, longer and higher pitched, and then by an ululation that approached through the house and developed, as it got nearer, into lamentations and callings upon God: Eheaugh! Eheaugh! Eheaugh! Thixo! Thixo! The two maids burst out upon the verandah, the cook slightly ahead of Hannah. She was stopped in her headlong rush by Simon, who in response to their alarm had started through the doorway from which they emerged.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Master come quick,' the cook screeched into Simon's face, her voice pitched even higher than before, 'in the back there he is hanging, he is hanging, that man come here yesterday with you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She released herself from Simon's holding her upper arms, and, crouching down in a chair, her arms over her head, she started to rock herself violently back and forth, shrieking anew. The other maid, Hannah, at once followed her example.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Simon left the verandah at a run, Tom and a couple of the younger men hard on his heels. Magda whispered to herself 'He departed and went and hanged himself' but nobody heard her above the noise the two servants were still making. She slipped down the pillar she was leaning against, until she was sitting flat on the tiled floor of the verandah. Sally ran to her, calling her name, and Lucas did a knees-bend next to her, anxiously taking her hand. 'Are you all right?' he asked, but Magda heard and saw nothing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Can't someone get these bloody women to shut up?' Mark shouted with great irritation. 'Smack their faces, they're hysterical. Thula, wena, thulani,' he suddenly bellowed at the top of his voice, in what he thought might be a language they'd understand, but the two women, sensing further drama, were now intent on Magda and made no abatement in their wailing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom came running along the gravel path from the back of the house. 'We've cut him down,' he told them, 'and Simon's trying to get hold of a doctor, but I'm sure he's a goner. It's Judd. Judd's gone and hanged himself.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite the attempts Sally and Lucas were making to help her to her feet, Magda slowly fell sideways until she was lying on her side on the verandah with her legs drawn up along the front of her body.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'O Christ,' she said, her voice hoarse, rasping in her throat, and again: 'O Christ.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Her eyes closed. When Tom and Lucas carried her to her room, her body was as limp and relaxed as a sleeping child's, and when they laid her on her bed her breathing was regular and even. Tom went back to tell Simon of this further development, reaching the verandah just in time to see Mark empty the contents of the ice bucket over the two wailing women. In Magda's room, Lucas drew up the chair in which Mark had slept earlier and sat down in it, to watch over her until she should awake.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Though the house was far from quiet until late that night, she did not wake. Motor cars came and went with urgency, doors banged, bells rang, and the falling dusk was filled with the sound of hurrying footsteps both inside and outside the house, but Magda slept through it all. She stirred occasionally, and once she half-woke, saying Lucas's name when he leaned over her. After this, he felt he could safely leave her. Later, however, after the police had been and gone, and after Simon and Tom had returned from the prison, unable to confirm or deny what Judd had said, having learnt from an impervious officialdom only that David had been released, he was no longer being held, Lucas went back to Magda's room, and this time he lay down next to her, taking her in his arms and holding her until the whole house went quiet, as one by one all the lights that had been on were switched off and all the noises ceased, and he too fell asleep.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the forty days</span></h2><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Forty? Why forty?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Well – . It seems that in the East at any rate forty might be another almost mystic kind of number, like three, or seven.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> -Oh? Do you mean the forty in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves doesn't just mean there were forty of them – it’s supposed to suggest something more?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Well, yes, I suppose so, now that you come to mention it. But I was thinking more of the rain that was upon the earth forty days and forty nights when Noah was six hundred years old, and of the children of Israel that did eat manna forty years in the wilderness, or the forty days and forty nights that Christ fasted in the same wilderness, and of His being seen of his followers for forty days after his death –</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - All these forties are in the Good Book, are they?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Yes. More, if you care to look for them.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - I hope you're not one of these tedious apologists who try to defend all that old codswallop in the Bible by calling it literature, and full of – poetry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - Watch it, Buster. ‘The significance of poetry is second to none’.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Some time in May that year, it occurred to Jannie that it would be nice if he could arrange a get-together of all the members of Dawid's old company who had not gone with Simon to New York – for, after David's death, Simon had decided to close at the State Theatre after only a week (booking had not been heavy) and to take the two indigenous plays in their repertoire (not THE POTTING SHED) to New York. The immediate circumstances prompting Jannie to these thoughts of a get-together were, firstly, his assumption that all the members of the company not in New York were now back in the coastal town where the tour had started (this assumption was to prove incorrect), and, secondly, his acting as house-sitter for some people who owned a house in a holiday resort a little way along the coast from that town. Originally, it was David's mother who had been asked if she would be willing to house-sit for a few weeks (these kind friends had thought it might help to take her mind off the killing of her son) but then, when everything had been settled, she decided she could not possibly leave home for so long a time and so had sent Jannie down alone; she would join him, perhaps, a little later. Jannie had been staying with David’s mother since the day after the plays closed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So now with a whole house at his disposal, and feeling rather lonely in it, he let it be known among as many of David's original company as he could contact that anyone who brought their own food and drink was very welcome to join him for the Saturday to Monday of a week-end in mid-May. It was a very informal invitation, he did not know exactly how many people might come, let alone who they might be, but on the Saturday after Ascension Day – not that either Jannie or anyone else took note of the day – he was expecting at least two people and was in fact waiting up for them. Magda and Tom had said they would drive down together after the evening performance of the play Magda was appearing in for another director at his Theatre on the Bay (a revival of Noel Coward’sHAY FEVER, in which she was playing Myra).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They had arranged that Tom would pick her up at the theatre and they would leave from there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How lovely,' Magda sighed, as she adjusted her seat in the car so that she could lie back in it. 'It's really very sweet of you, Tom, to drive me through the night like this, sheer heaven. You won't mind if I drop off, now and then, will you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'd be flattered,' Tom said gallantly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But I probably shan't, I'm enjoying it too much.' She sighed again as she settled herself for the journey. 'This car is exactly like the one David had, where did you get it?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It is Dave's car,' said Tom, 'or one of his father's, he always said. Simon took it over when we – . After Dave – . I don't know if the family didn't want to be reminded, why they didn't want it back, but Simon certainly had the use of it till they went to New York and then he said I could use it while he's gone.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goodness how kind.' Magda scrabbled in her handbag for cigarettes and asked: 'Do you mind if I smoke?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not at all, please do,' said Tom, pulling out an ashtray for her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda smoked and Tom drove and neither said much until he had negotiated a winding scenic drive that had been cut into the hills, though there was little enough for them to look at, at that time of night; then, when the road straightened out and levelled following the coast line again, Magda said: 'Tell me something, Tom. Why didn't you go to New York with Simon and the others?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why didn't you?' Tom countered.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He didn't ask me. Or rather he did, but he didn't really have all that much to offer me in the two plays they've taken. My one decent part, if you remember, was in that awful POTTING SHED, and that's one part I'll never play again. And I also couldn't stand the man they found to replace Judd, the run at the State was quite bad enough.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You and me too,' said Tom. 'No more could I.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well it wasn't him so much, I don't suppose, it was more all the associations. I kept seeing Judd in the part, the new man seemed wrong all the time.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I think he's come right now. For New York.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'And then the plays were so full of David, for me, there's hardly a moment that doesn't reek of him. I still don't know how I got through that last week – . I couldn't wait to get off stage, night after night, so I could go to my dressing-room and cry my eyes out.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Tom, 'I haven't forgotten that time either. So have you heard from anybody over there?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I had a card from Simon,' Magda replied. 'They hadn't opened yet, so there was no real news.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How is old Simon?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You heard about the welcome-to-New York party the embassy laid on for them?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The embassy!' Tom's astonishment was extreme. 'You mean our embassy in the States gave an official reception for Simon and our lot? Why, what’d they do?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well I don't know about official,' said Magda, 'and obviously it was that Paul or Saul man who was behind it, but it did happen, I do assure you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What Paul man? The Correctional Services bloke Matt got to ring up that day Dave was – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The same.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How'd he get to America?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who knows? He resigned, or he was kicked out – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Kicked out of his job? What for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know, Tom, but I would guess that somebody had to take the rap, when the inquiry into – . When they tried to find out about David. This Paul might very well have been the fall guy, who was promised a posting to Washington or wherever, as a sort of quid pro quo.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You mean he's the ambassador there now?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh ambassador, no, I shouldn't think ambassador,' Magda responded. 'Simon just said he's attached to the embassy, he didn't say what as.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After that, they were silent for some time once more. When they reached the highway and Tom started picking up speed, Magda offered to sing in order to help keep him awake at the wheel, but he declined this offer. On the further side of a mountain pass leading down to the resort they were making for, they spoke once more, this time about Jannie. Magda wanted to know if Tom had seen him since the company broke up at the end of the tour.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Tom. 'When Simon was casting for New York, he wanted Jannie to play his same parts, that I do know. But Jannie said he couldn't leave Dave's mother, so that was Sol's big chance.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, well, Jannie never did have any difficulty knowing which side his bread is buttered. Do you think she'll be there tonight?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who, Dave's mother? No, why should she?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Isn't it her house? I thought it was.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom was alarmed. 'No, man, Magda, surely Jannie would have said so, if she was going to be there. She wouldn't want to see us all, you and me, and the others, we'd all just remind her of everything. She wouldn't want to rake it all up again.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course not,' Magda agreed. 'But this bash Jannie's organised, it's not just us, is it?' she asked, alarmed in her turn. 'I mean not just people who were with David on that tour, there are going to be other people as well, I hope?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Tom. 'Are there?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If I'd thought for one instant it's supposed to be some kind of reunion or something, I'd never have come.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom hesitated, and then said: 'Well I must say it was a bit of a surprise to me when you said you wanted a lift,' he told her. 'I never thought you and Jannie ever hit it off too good.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We were never what you might call bosom pals,' Magda said primly, 'but we always got on perfectly well together. You weren't a particular friend of his either, were you, and yet here you are too, going down to stay with him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh well it makes a bit of a change, to get out of town for a couple of days. But I'd just as soon not have come, if you hadn't asked for a lift.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I hope you're not going just for my sake.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No no,' he denied, 'it's good to have a break, otherwise you get in too much of a rut.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' Magda agreed, 'one needs a break occasionally.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After another mile or two, however, she broke the silence between them to say: 'Okay, Tom, I'll level with you. Also with myself, I suppose. In a way. To be perfectly honest, the only reason I even considered accepting this invitation of Jannie's is to try to lay David's ghost.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lay Dave's ghost?' Tom repeated, 'how do you mean lay his ghost?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I am not exaggerating, Tom, I promise you. These last few weeks David's been absolutely haunting me, there is no other word for it, and I am sick to death of the same old thoughts going through my mind, round and round, the same never-ending – . I want to stop now. It's one of the reasons I didn't go to New York with Simon, and God knows I can't afford to turn work down when it offers, I have to eat too. I'm hoping if I see Jannie again now, and I talk to him about David, I'll remember it as it really was, and not as it came to seem on that dreadful day when – . Goodness, shall one ever forget that Good Friday.' She shivered in her seat. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It was Tom's turn to keep silent. Then he said, also after another mile or so: 'Yes. I see what you mean. I feel a bit the same way myself. What we went through last Easter – . It wasn't – . You’d rather forget a thing like that, if you can, so when Jannie first spoke to me I had half a mind not to go. But then I thought no, better face up to it, it's not a thing you are ever going to be able to forget.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It may not be possible, of course,' Magda said bleakly, 'the exorcism bit, that is. And if there are going to be a whole lot of us from that famous tour it certainly won' be. Do you know of anyone else who'll be there?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No. Well, I did bump into old Lucas last Sunday. He said he might show up, if nothing better offered.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas,' Magda repeated flatly. 'Who else?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, I don't know, Magda. There can't be many more because they all went with Simon.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There are four of us so far who didn't,' she pointed out, 'there may be others. Oh God, I'm beginning to wish I hadn't come.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Shortly after that, they arrived at the holiday resort, and, after asking directions at a police station they passed, finally at the house where Jannie was waiting for them.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He came out when he heard the car. 'Hullo Magda, hullo Tom,' he called with great warmth as soon as he was sure it was indeed they. 'Is it you at last? You can put your car in the back, Tom, the garage is full but there's room in the back yard. Come in, come in, you are very welcome, I am very glad to see you. We'll eat some supper, drink some wine, it's all ready.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">While Tom put the car away, Jannie led Magda into the living-room of the house, talking all the way. The curtains on one wall of the room were close-drawn, there was a wood fire burning in the fireplace, and on a card table to one side of the fire were glasses and little dishes of pate's and dips.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll just fetch the bread rolls from the stove then we can eat,' Jannie said busily. 'Sit down, make yourself at home.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He bustled off to the kitchen, and came back ushering Tom ahead of him. Tom went towards the fire and there picked up one of the bottles of wine Jannie had opened and left re-corked at the side of the fireplace. He stood looking at the bottle and then he looked up at Jannie. 'Did you do this on purpose, you little – .' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What?' Jannie asked defensively. 'What did I do on purpose?' He was standing at the card table arranging napkins and knives on small plates.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This is the very same wine we had Upstairs at the Market the night they arrested Dave,' said Tom. 'You mustn’t try to tell me you don't remember.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I wasn't at that party,' Magda recalled.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Come to that, it's all exactly the same as that night, bread rolls and stuff, everything's the same.' Tom was staring now at the food on the card table. 'You did do it on purpose,' he accused, 'what's the matter with you? You stupid or something?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I found the wine in the wine cellar here,' said Jannie. 'I didn't go and buy it special. But when I find it, I think why not? I'll make a nice supper in memory of Dawid, in remembrance of him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda and I were just saying in the car,' Tom told him bluntly, 'we don't want to be reminded of it. We'd rather forget it all now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Forget Dawid?' exclaimed Jannie. 'Never. That I could never do, even if I wanted. I can never forget Dawid, not so long as I live, how can a person ever forget Dawid?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not Dave,' said Tom, 'what happened that night at the Market, and after. After Judd as good as handed him over. That's not a thing you want to dwell on and remember, it's a thing you'd sooner forget.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Pour the wine, Jannie,' Magda interrupted, perceiving that he was close to tears, 'and let's drink a toast to David's memory. We can do that at least, Tom, surely.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie handed her a glass of wine. 'This house is full of Dawid,' he told her. 'His spirit is here.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Really,' said Magda flatly, taking a sip of her wine.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Dawid's mother told me he come for holidays here, when he was still small, to these people.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh,' said Magda in the same flat tone as before.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'There are photographs I found in a box, there are many photographs of Dawid in this house when he was little. I will show you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Perhaps later,' Magda said edgily. 'Not now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, not now, now we will first eat.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom, standing near the fire, made an inarticulate sound and a movement of impatience. 'Is this how you lay ghosts?' he asked Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' she said. 'It’s' not a thing I’ve ever done before.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom,' said Jannie, 'I'm sorry, but you mustn't think like you do, so bitter about Dawid.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm not bitter,' Tom denied, surprised.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No but let me tell you first about Minister Paul,' said Jannie. 'He was by the house, I mean the house of Dawid's mother, before he goes to America. He even resigned, over what happened with Dawid.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He was more or less forced to, surely?' said Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No it wasn't, he himself resigned. Dawid's mother, she told me, I know it from her. One day not so long after I go to stay by them, here come Dawid's father on with Minister Paul in his car. They meet on the road, by a garage, they are getting petrol, and Dawid's father he doesn't care, he goes straight up to Minister Paul and he asks him straight out over Dawid.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Were they by any chance on the road to Damascus?' Magda asked levelly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Damascus?' Jannie looked blank.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda for God's sake don't start on all that about the Bible again, please,' said Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know any place here called that,' said Jannie, 'it was just a place where you get petrol, like Shell Ultra City. I don't know where they are going, but in the end they don't go, because that's when Minister Paul comes to the house. He stays three days and talks private with Dawid's father every day. But then he goes back to his work and next thing we hear he resigns and he's going to America. Dawid's mother says it's all to the will of Dawid. For Dawid's sake,' Jannie corrected himself.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The telephone had started to ring before he finished speaking and he called an 'Excuse me' over his shoulder as he went to answer it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda looked up at Tom, who was still standing by the fire.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I shouldn't have come,' she told him. 'I must have been insane to think it would change anything.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You can't change the past,' Tom agreed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh but you can,' said Magda. 'It's the one thing that is constantly changing, haven't you noticed? It's the future I'm beginning to think one can't change, do what you will. But the past – . Aren't you finding Jannie a little – ? He's giving what happened a whole new dimension tonight, and I'm not sure I want that. If we're not careful, we're going to be more involved than ever.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Involved in what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'In what happened, whatever it was. And I'm even beginning to think Jannie has his points,' she added. 'It used to be easier when I simply loathed his guts.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie came back into the room just then. "That was Dawid's mother,' he said in an agitated way. 'She says I must be sure to watch television tomorrow night because there is going to be a play of Dawid's and she says I must record it for her but the VCR machine here, it doesn't want to work, I already tried to make it work the other day but it won't.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Couldn't you hire one, tomorrow morning?' asked Magda.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who that is coming can bring one?' Jannie wondered aloud, 'but I don't know who all is coming.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Didn't you say Lucas might?' Magda asked Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas!' Jannie repeated the name with relief. 'Yes, I'll phone Lucas again, perhaps he's got one.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you have Lucas's number?' Magda asked curiously.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes I got it, I wrote it down, I wrote down everybody's number when I make my list. Come,' he said, 'let's go phone Lucas, you speak to him.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas was undressing in his beach-front flat when the telephone rang. He was not best pleased to be asked to go chasing after VCRs on a Sunday morning (he did not possess one), but the call did serve to remind him of Jannie's invitation, which he had forgotten. Hearing that Magda was already there resolved him on making the schlep out of town after all. He said Jannie might expect him for luncheon the next day, if they ate late; otherwise an early tea would be just as welcome.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When he arrived shortly after three o' clock that afternoon, Magda and Tom were on the point of setting out for a walk along the beach with the two dogs that were part of Jannie's responsibilities as house-sitter. Lucas drew up outside the garden gate just as Tom was opening it for Magda, who had the dogs on leads, and Jannie came running down the garden path from the house.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did you bring it?' he called out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas banged the door of his little MG shut. 'Yes,' he said, 'if you mean the VCR. I borrowed one from Paddy. I also brought the tape Bart brought back from New York last week,' he added. 'I take it none of you has seen it yet.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I didn't know Bart was back,' said Magda, 'let alone that he'd brought a tape with him. Why has he come back?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've no idea,' said Lucas. 'I didn't see him myself, Jimmy with the beard gave me the tape. It's a sort of round robin we're all supposed to pass on to one another.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What is on this tape?' Jannie asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's sort of instead of a letter, I gather,' said Lucas, 'I haven't had time to look at it myself yet. Jimmy says it's not very good.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But how fascinating,' said Magda. 'I can't wait. Don't you two go playing it before we get back,' she admonished, 'we shan't be long.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you'll hang on half a tick,' said Lucas, 'I'll join you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Catch us up,' Magda suggested. The dogs were pulling at their leads. 'We're only going down to the beach.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Here, let me take them,' Tom offered, as he and Magda set off and Lucas opened the boot of his car.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why didn't you bring Jimmy too?' Jannie asked as he carried the machine Lucas had brought up to the house, 'and Bart too. Or are they coming still?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I doubt it,' said Lucas laconically. 'Bart said he'd landed himself another job at the Civic and Jimmy must be in the States by now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I hope there’ll be more people coming,' Jannie said, momentarily downcast. He cheered up at once: 'But even it it's just us four it will also be good, perhaps better even. I'll now just connect this all up ready for tonight.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Need any help?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, I will just see if it all works first.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He showed Lucas to a bedroom, and then went about his task. Lucas put on a pair of bathing-shorts and, calling out goodbye, set off at a jog for the beach. There he saw Tom some distance away on the hard sand at the water's edge, throwing sticks for the dogs, Magda standing by watching.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas,' she called out as he drew near, 'how athletic! I had no idea.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not really,' said Lucas, trying not to pant. 'It's just that when in Rome – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I adore your little running-shorts.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Thank you,' said Lucas. 'Swimming-shorts, actually. I thought them rather fetching myself.' He struck a pose, Mr Universe on a modelling ramp,</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You Mighty Mouse or something?' Tom enquired as he abandoned his play with the dogs and they all started walking along the edge of the sea together, Magda between the two men and the dogs running ahead.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What kind of dogs are these?' Lucas asked. 'Not one of the more usual breeds, surely?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'They're hunting dogs,' Tom replied, 'beagle or harrier, mostly. You'll find a lot of them in the country. You know anything about dogs?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing at all,' said Lucas. 'Are they Jannie's? Surely not.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Good heavens no,' said Magda, 'they belong to the owners of that house. Who exactly they are, I haven't yet been able to work out.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Old friends of Dave's mother and father, according to Jannie,' Tom put in, 'but more on the mother's side, he thinks.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The more I discover about David's background,' said Lucas, as they plodded along together, more or less in step, 'the less it all fits.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What?' Magda asked. 'What doesn't fit?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This suburban villa Jannie's looking after, it couldn’t be more suburban could it, and it doesn't at all fit with sending a boy like David to a school like Bishops.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'David went to Bishops!' Magda exclaimed, 'how incredible.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why? D'you think it didn't show?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course it showed, Lucas, it explains all sorts of things about him. How do you know he went to Bishops?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because that's where I first came across him. In my last year at school. He was allowed to direct their Shakespeare production that year, if you please, and us hoi polloi from Boys High were marched across to go and see it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who would have paid his fees, do you think,' Magda wondered. 'They're pretty hefty, I'm told.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Funny how all these big-shot friends of Dave’s couldn't do anything for him when he got himself arrested,' said Tom. 'It was all left to us, to Matt and Simon.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas kicked sand with the ball of his right foot as he walked. 'Does Jannie know any more than we do?' he asked abruptly. 'Basically the only reason I came out here today is I thought I might be able to get him on one side and pump him a little.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You too,' Magda said, unsurprised.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What about?' Tom enquired.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What happened to David,' said Lucas impatiently. 'I mean it's beyond belief, what happened to David, the way he just disappeared. We're told he's dead and buried between one day and the next, nobody's allowed even to – . A private funeral, nobody except immediate family – and Jannie of course – we're not even told when or where, everything so damned discreet and seamless, no loose ends anywhere, it almost seems as if there're spin doctors somewhere, doing their stuff, a massive job of white-washing. There is a very distinct smell of fish. Well, there is to me anyway.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said: 'I couldn't agree more with every syllable you utter.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Shall I tell you something?' Lucas continued. 'I keep thinking he's not dead, David's not dead, I can't believe somehow that David is dead, the whole thing is simply some kind of crazy con. God knows what exactly, I can't begin to imagine, but I keep getting this feeling David's alive and well and living in – . Well, I don't know, that's just the point, but what if he's being kept on ice somewhere, or – . I don't know. But not dead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What I've noticed,' said Magda carefully, 'these last few weeks, since he was killed, is the press he's been getting. You never turn on the box but there's David, as large as life and twice as upsetting, holding forth on the theatre. Every magazine you pick up, there's another piece about David, and it's not only the local scene, it's overseas too. They're constantly dredging up old bits and pieces he did three years ago and more – . I mean, take this play on television tonight, it's a case in point – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well exactly,' said Lucas, 'this is exactly what I'm talking about. Why is he getting all this exposure, if anything it's over-exposure, people are getting sick of him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course there's nothing like dying to drum up a little publicity for oneself,' Magda put in judiciously.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But then you have to be alive for it to do any good,' Lucas pointed out. 'No, for some reason David's had more coverage these last few weeks than he ever had in his whole life before. Why? – that's what I want to know. When everything was so hushed up to begin with, why are we now being bombarded with constant reminders of him? Why is it being allowed at all, when the exact opposite would be more – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Stop this nonsense now,' Tom interrupted angrily, 'both of you. You are the one as bad as the other, trying to make out things are not what they are. What are you trying to do? You want to make out Dave was Jesus Christ or something? No, man, Lucas, man, Magda, it's enough now. There's looney bins full of people think they're Jesus Christ in person, and you must stop it, it's making a mockery, it's making Dave out to be like he was mentally deficient or something, not all there, when he was the sanest man I ever met. He was a good man, and you mustn't try to make out he was – .' Tom made an inarticulate little sound deep in this throat and turned away, walking down towards the edge of the sea and standing there, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The dogs came bounding up to him, expecting he was about to start throwing things once more. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda and Lucas stopped; after a moment, Tom's back resolutely turned to them, they walked on slowly, giving him time to catch up, when he had recovered himself.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas said: 'The point is of course it isn't David who thinks he's Christ.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't speak as if he isn't dead, Lucas. He is dead, you know. You have to accept that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Looneys might think they're Christ. Other people just think they're looneys. With David it's the other way around.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So?' Magda looked at the sand at her feet as she plodded on. 'What do you think?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What do I think about what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you believe what I am starting to believe perhaps?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' said Lucas. 'What are you starting to believe?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I came down here because I'm sick to death of thinking about David, my mind just churning on and on in the same pointless groove, when he's dead, it's finished, that's the end, there isn't any more, that's all there is, and what do I find?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know,' Lucas said again. 'What do you find?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I find I'm not the only one," said Magda. 'Your mind has obviously been running on exactly the same lines as mine, so you might as well just own up and admit it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas smiled faintly to himself without looking at her. 'And what lines would those be if I may ask?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't tease, Lucas, you know perfectly well I can't put into words what I'm talking about.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You mustn't credit me with too feminine an intuition, dear,' he said with a hint of sarcasm. 'I've told you what I believe, which is simply that David must be still alive somewhere.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You don't think that in some weird way I can't explain he is – .' She stopped.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He is what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What Tom said.' Magda spoke in a low voice, almost inaudibly, the wind in their ears and little wavelets lapping on the sand.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, dear, I don't believe that, not for one instant.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda stood still. 'Lucas, you can't think how relieved I am to hear you say that. Truly. I have honestly thought I am going mad, it all seemed so – . You must admit there has been every reason to believe there was something quite extraordinary about David.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh yes. Oh dearie me yes. Yes indeedy, indeed to goodness yes. But if you can put your finger on what exactly it is – .' He thought for a moment and then left it there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I was thinking more just in terms of the – coincidentals, if you can call them that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom came up to them again, walking fast and with purpose. 'What happened, happened,' he said. 'Why do you want to read a whole lot of nonsense into it? It was bad enough as it is, what happened in that gaol.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Was it?' said Lucas. 'What did happen, in that gaol? Do you know? I don't.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How can I say what happened in the gaol? I wasn't there, was I? I don't know no more than you do. But one thing I do know. That Judd, that Dave thought so much of, I'm sure Judd was mixed up in some very funny business. You ask me, he was an informer, he was a government secret agent, and that's what got Dave into trouble. Why d'you think Judd gave him away like that? – he was busy saving his own skin, that's what master Judd was doing. He knew all right, what he'd been up to, even if Dave didn't.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But then why would he hang himself?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You ask me,' Tom said darkly, 'it's a case for human rights abuses.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What I'd like to know,' said Lucas, 'is what Judd found out from his buddies that afternoon, what he heard from them that made him go and hang himself – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Please stop, Lucas,' Magda said in the low voice she had used earlier. 'I get gooseflesh just thinking about it, I daren't let myself think about it, if I did I'd – . That most gentle of men, Simon used to get cross with him because he’d never stand up for himself, David being cross-examined, some kind of third degree until – . I just can't – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There were tears on her face and Lucas said brusquely: 'Stop it, Magda. We don't know what happened, we don't even know that he's dead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't talk such tripe man, Lucas, Dave is dead, make no mistake There wouldn't’ve been such a fuss if he wasn't dead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie knows,' said Magda, recovering herself, ' he knows something, or at any rate more than we do, I'm sure of it. Through David's mother. You realise he's never once left her side, all these weeks, ever since – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Let's ask him tonight, point-blank,' Lucas suggested.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you think he'd tell us if he does?' asked Magda. 'I doubt it myself.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Leave it to me,' Lucas said. 'Jannie is totally without guile, I'll get it out of him. If there's anything to get.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom bent down to pick up a piece of kelp from the sand and began to play with the dogs again, whirling the kelp around just out of reach of their leaping bodies and snapping jaws. Magda and Lucas watched for a while, and then began to walk back along the beach, Magda calling to Tom as they turned. When the dogs had demolished the kelp by worrying one end of it while Tom held the other, he abandoned it to them in order to catch up with his companions. They walked slowly back the way they had come, until, just before they started on the path back up to the house, Tom putting the two dogs on leads again, they saw Jannie coming down to meet them. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't worry, Tom, leave them,' he called when he was still some distance away. 'I will take them. Every day when I run I take them, else they start to get fat. We go four, five kilometres, then we come back.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Goodness,' said Magda, 'how energetic you are. How long will you be? I could start fixing us some supper,' she offered diffidently, for she was not very domesticated, 'if you'll tell me what there is to fix.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, it is not necessary,' said Jannie. 'I eat in the hotel every night,' he explained. 'David's mother she said I must. I already told them, tonight I'm having guests. I'm inviting you all,' he ended, making himself quite clear.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'My dear Jannie, do you mean you're taking us all out to dinner tonight? How perfectly sweet of you,' Magda said comfortably. 'We shall be delighted. Won't we?' She appealed to the other two men.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Here is the house key,' said Jannie, handing it to Tom. 'We must eat early to be back to watch the TV. I fixed it all up now, it's all working.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He set off at a lope along the beach, the dogs running ahead once more. Lucas decided to take a quick dip in the sea, unless the water were too cold. Magda and Tom walked on up to the house together.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sunday supper at Jannie's hotel was served from half-past six and so they were back at the house well before David's television play was due to begin at ten past nine. As they settled themselves in chairs facing the television set, Lucas was turning over in his mind a remark or two that he hoped would lead naturally on to the subject of David's death. In the event he had no need, for when Jannie switched on, the continuity girl referred to it in the course of her preview of the evening's viewing: 'This is the final programme in our series made especially for television by the well-known theatrical producer who died in circumstances of such tragic misunderstanding earlier this year.' Here she flashed a smile that met at the back of her neck. 'But first Rights and Recourses.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">All four of the people watching television responded to this announcement, all four speaking at once:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'She tells lies,' Jannie said, using a remote control to render the screen mute, 'it's first the advertisements.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What's she got to grin about?' Tom asked, 'what's there to grin about?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tragic misunderstanding?' Magda and Lucas spoke in chorus and exchanged a glance that recognised their shared outrage. Then Magda went on: 'Oh these morons who are paid to mouthe this pap at us, how dare they! How dare they try to turn David's death into one of their meaningless cliches! Tragic misunderstanding my – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But it was,' said Jannie, 'it was misunderstanding. They thought it was Dawid, but all the time it was somebody else.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What!' The single word was like a small explosion of disbelief from Tom, and Lucas said, deceptively mildly: 'You'll have to explain yourself please Jan.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It wasn't Dawid they wanted to ask questions, it was another person. Minister Paul, he said it. He wouldn't of told a lie to Dawid's mother.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'On the contrary, she's the first person he'd have lied to.' Magda spoke with rigid control; she was very angry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who is this somebody else David's supposed to have taken the rap for?' Lucas demanded.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, that I can't say, Minister Paul never told her that. But he didn't tell a lie, he explained it all, how when they ask him questions then they find it's a misunderstanding, and they let him go.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'They didn't let him go, they just took him where it wasn't so public,' said Tom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No that wasn't Correctional Services that took him, it was other people took him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What other people?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie was beginning to feel bullied by the inquisitorial tone of Lucas's curt questions and he did not reply for a moment. 'People that said he must be tried in a court.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda drew an audible breath. 'A people's court?' she asked, her voice high with shock, 'David was tried by a kangaroo court? What for?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, not that,' said Jannie, 'a proper court. His own chief. The headman, his traditional leader.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie,' Lucas asked steadily, 'how did David die?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">For answer, Jannie held his neck just under his chin with both hands. He did not speak.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Necklaced?' Magda whispered, 'David was necklaced?' She gave a little gulp, gripping the arms of her chair tightly and pushing hard against its back; she turned her head to one side, then got up, and went out of the room, leaving the three men sitting in silence.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Funny how none of this got into the papers,' Tom remarked after a while.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why should it?' said Lucas. 'One more anonymous death in a ghetto where murder and sudden death are – ' He seemed to choke suddenly. 'Happens all the time,' he went on, clearing his throat, 'places like that. It wasn’t a massacre after all. A massacre might've made it to the media. Not just one single death.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Even so,' Tom responded. 'Dave was well-known, wasn't he? He wasn't a nobody.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was hushed up, Tom. It had to be.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No wonder there was no proper funeral,' Tom said after another while. 'Nothing left to put in the coffin.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'For God's sake, Tom, shut up, shut up!' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No he was in his coffin, it was a proper funeral.' Jannie wiped the back of one hand across his eyes, defiantly blinking at the television screen. 'It's going to start now,' he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The three men watched the screen in silence.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What about Magda?' Tom asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll go and see,' said Lucas, getting to his feet.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But Magda came back into the room before he reached the door. She gave him a little half-smile and went to sit in her chair with her hands folded composedly in her lap. 'I don't suppose we shall ever know what happened,' she said, 'not exactly, that is.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Would you want to?' Lucas asked harshly. 'However,' he added heavily as he too sat down again, 'I think it may be necessary to make public what we do know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Why?' Magda asked. 'You can't still be thinking he's not dead, Lucas. Not now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas was staring at the television screen and did not reply.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But it doesn't really matter, I don't suppose,' Magda went on, 'whether one knows or not. It won't change anything.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No,' said Tom. 'I'm very glad to hear you say that, Magda. Like I said last night, and this afternoon, what happened, happened. Let it be finished now.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Titles faded on the screen, and Jannie turned up the sound. David's little fable about a crooked bywoner on a farm on the edge of the karoo in the early twentieth century was entitled THE UNJUST STEWARD, but none of them was able to give it undivided attention. When it finished – it lasted not quite half-an-hour – Jannie offered to make a pot of coffee before they watched the video from America, but the others wanted to see the video first. Jannie went obediently to set it going, while Magda said: 'I wonder where they dug that up. I didn't think it was very good, did you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The bywoner was good,' Jannie said from where he was squatting on the floor, 'the way he took his part.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But would one have bothered to watch, do you think, it we hadn't known it was David's?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was when Dave was making this film,' said Tom, 'that he first gave me a job. We all stayed together in the one hotel, in Magaliesburg, the crew too.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Really, Tom?' said Magda. 'I didn't see your name on the credits.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You didn't look,' Tom pointed out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well you should have said, earlier.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I didn't know it was going to be this one.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie was still fiddling with the VCR on the floor, and Magda stood up to stretch. 'How pointless it all is to be sure,' she said conversationally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You talking about life, dear, or just David's play?' Lucas asked, mocking her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda ignored him. 'You slave your guts out for years and years, all your life, and what have you got to show for it in the end? Feathers,' she said, and made a gesture of finality using both her arms. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie on the floor echoed the word, a questioning little squawk of incomprehension.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas said: 'But David has quite a lot to show for his, I'd say. More than most. Take the piece we've just watched – . Well, not a lot, perhaps, but something.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda's silence implied that this something was not enough. Then she said: 'All I'm trying to say is David was my age, he was my age exactly, and when I think he's never going to – . He's dead, David's dead, barely thirty, and he's – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Thirty-three,' Jannie put in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – he's dead. Bring down the curtain.' She turned away; she was determined she would not break down and weep again. 'Necklaced,' she said matter-of-factly, and went back to sit in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, as before. 'It all just seems so terribly – incomplete, not finished, as if he didn't have time even to – . I don't really know what I'm trying to say,' she ended.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well,' said Lucas, ' the thing about David is he was never woolly-minded, he was never an idealist – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Meaning you think I'm both?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No not at all, my dear Magda, I simply mean that with David there was never any question about what could be, or what might have been, it was always only what in fact is. Even this play tonight, it was the way things are, not the way some half-witted idealist thinks they ought to be. And you mustn't expect David to finish things off nicely with some banal message tied with a great big bow, all wrapped up – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't in the least expect anything of the kind,' Magda interrupted with some heat. 'When I say not finished, I don't mean his work, I mean his whole life, it seems such a waste. As if it had been a complete failure, which it wasn't, it wasn't at all a failure.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No it wasn't, 'Tom agreed, 'but when you die – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All that hoo-ha and carry-on during the Civic season,' Magda went on, 'completely meaningless, irrelevant – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'When you die,' Tom repeated firmly, 'that's what it seems like. Failure. It's your last failure. You fail to live. But Lucas here doesn't even think he is dead, he thinks he's still alive.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Or,' Magda added waspishly, 'that he died and rose again from the dead.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">On the floor beside the television set, Jannie made a little growling noise of incredulity, and Lucas got to his feet with an impatient gesture. 'For Chris' sake,' he said as he started prowling the room. 'Don't put words into my mouth, will you, both of you. I said nothing of the kind. Start the tape, Jannie.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But you implied it,' Magda insisted, 'don't try to deny you implied it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Come on, Jannie, let's watch the tape,' Lucas repeated. 'I said I had a feeling, that's all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie had been ready to start some time before this, but he was now sitting back on his heels and looking from one speaker to the next, wide-eyed, the video forgotten. Lucas continued to prowl, straightening pictures, touching objects and re-arranging them slightly, or just staring at pieces of furniture.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I do think, you know,' he said to Magda, 'you should give this thing of yours a bone now. You're letting it get to be an obsession. Just because it all happened on a Good Friday – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It didn't all happen on Good Friday, Lucas, you know that as well as I do,' said Magda. 'Good Friday was – well, it was the last straw, it all built up to a climax on that Good Friday, but it was everything that went before too, everything that led up to it – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom gave a groan and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. 'What I would like to know,' he said, 'is how many times it has to go on happening – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom!' Magda exclaimed. 'You too? What has to go on happening? You think there's something that may be going on now – ?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No I don't.' Tom was now staring at the floor. 'But if there is, why isn't once enough? Tell me that. So okay, there've been buddhas since before Christ, but why's there got to be more than one, if there's going to be one, that's what I want to know. If there's a Jesus Christ talking about Yahweh, why must there also be a Mahomet talking about Allah? Not to mention all those others, incas and such, in South America, places like that, where they also eat their god. So now where does Dave come in, what did poor old Dave do, that he had to be – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom did not finish, and Lucas said into a little silence: '"Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it".'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Condemned,' Jannie echoed, 'who is now condemned, what all are you now saying?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Magda looked at Lucas but he had his back to her. Then she said gently: 'Jannie, you can't possibly not have – . You must surely have noticed that – well, suggestions, perhaps, suggestions that David was – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Parallels?' Lucas offered tentatively.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But it could also be all just imagination,' Tom said decisively.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You want me now to say Dawid is the Lord Jesus, I know it,' Jannie burst out, 'you want to say it's like the second coming, but you are all just mad, you are all mad, I know how it all was, I know it all, but that, what you want to say, that is – ohh I don't know what it is, it is godslasterlik to say that, it is of the devil, it is the devil that puts it into your heart to say that – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas had turned to look at Jannie as if the younger man had gone suddenly insane, Tom had opened his eyes to gaze at him as if he too thought the boy had lost his wits, and Magda was thinking that if he could tap into feelings like that inside it was no wonder he could act like a dream. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – it is wrong even to think it, what you are now thinking, it is sin. How can Dawid be the Christ? – Dawid is no more the Christ than you or me,' Jannie continued with passion. 'Dawid was just – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's a thought,' Lucas said, returning to his chair and looking faintly startled. 'David, you, me, everybody? We are all Christs?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not me,' Magda pointed out, 'I'm the wrong sex.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If David then why not everybody? Is that what you're saying, Jannie?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Noo!' Jannie wailed despairingly. 'Stop it now the both of you, stop it, please, you make me feel sick to my stomach. You must not mock and make jokes too yet, Magda, sex and all. I'm now going to put on the video, I don't want to hear no more.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He depressed a key on his machine and pulled himself up from the floor, backwards onto his chair.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The screen flickered with light, and suddenly there was Simon's face in close-up, smiling and saying 'Hi'. He was out of focus, and then cut rather abruptly; the next shot showed a group of people looking straight into the camera from the stage of a theatre, but it was such a long shot that it was difficult to make out who they were. The shot was held for some time, without sound, and then the camera zoomed in to focus on individuals in the group one at a time: on Mark, gesturing rudely with two fingers; on Sally, as she dropped a pretty little mock curtsy; on Andrew, following suit next to her with an over-elaborate Elizabethan bow. Philip and two of the three Jameses were there, sending up the British monarchy with royal waves of extreme graciousness, as well as other members of David's original company and people the four watching the tape did not recognise. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After Simon's brief 'Hi', nothing more had come through on the sound track, despite Jannie's best efforts.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Who's the gorilla in the natty suiting?' Tom asked while they waited for sound. He was referring to a figure standing a little apart from the others and a little behind, so that he was glimpsed again and again as the camera concentrated on people in front of him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Jannie looked up from fiddling with his connections, aghast at the disrespect of Tom's question. 'That is mos Minister Paul,' he said reprovingly, 'don't you even recognise him?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So that's what he looks like,' said Magda. Then she gave a little gasp as the camera receded from the group on the stage, holding it in long shot once more.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What’s wrong?' Lucas asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nothing,' said Magda. 'I thought for a moment there I'd seen – . Oh my God it is, 'she cried, as a bust shot of David sitting in an armchair came up on the screen, 'it is David, what's hap – ?' She put a clenched fist to her mouth.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't get your knickers in a twist, dear,' said Lucas, 'it's only a photograph. It's not David, not really.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'll kill Simon for this, next time I see him I swear I'll kill him,' said Magda, her eyes fixed on the screen where shots of David were now alternating with ones of an interviewer at a podium in what was obviously a different studio. 'What in hell does he think he's doing?' She held her arms crossed close against her body. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Don't you remember this?' asked Lucas. 'It's footage from an old SABC tape. I was with David when he did that interview, right here as a matter of fact. Well, not here, obviously, in town. They've just edited it into another tape, that's all, with an American asking the questions. God knows why, you can see at once it's faked.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Is it Simon's idea of a joke, do you think?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Perhaps if we could hear what's going on,' said Tom. 'What's wrong with the audio track?' he demanded of Jannie. 'Didn't you test it this afternoon?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, there's no sound on this tape,' said Jannie, holding down his volume button nevertheless, so that Simon's voice when it came boomed suddenly out into the room as he re-appeared on the screen. 'That was a clip from a local chat show,' he explained, his face in close-up once more. 'We were hoping to get Larry King, or Sir David Frost, over here on a visit, but neither was free.' Simon winked into the camera, slowly and solemnly, grinning as he did so, and Magda made a very unladylike noise of derision at him. 'We thought you'd like to see the kind of publicity we've been getting. Sorry about the sound but we had a few problems when we made that copy.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The camera cut rather abruptly once more, this time to outside shots of New York, Simon's voice now making desultory comment on the voice-over track.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'This is all quite appalling,' Magda said. 'What on earth does Simon think he's playing at?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The four of them watched the tape to the end. It included one other interview, this one with the man Jannie called Minister Paul, and several clips of the plays, some of which had been used on American television for publicity purposes, Simon explained, but most of which had been taken with the much more mundane object of monitoring rehearsals. It finished with a series of personal messages from the ladies and gentlemen of the cast; these excited further derision from both Magda and Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When the tape had finally run to an end, Tom stretched in his chair and yawned out loud and long.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm going to bed,' he announced as he stood up. 'What time do you have to be back tomorrow, Magda? I'd like to make an early start, if it's okay with you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That depends on what exactly you mean by early,' she replied. 'Before dawn?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh no, not that early,' Tom said, taking her seriously, 'but I want to call on in the Strand on the way back, if it's okay with you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I shall be ready whenever you say,' said Magda. 'You're the driver.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Or you could drive back with me,' Lucas offered, 'if you like. I shall probably be leaving sort of mid-afternoon some time.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda was faintly surprised by this offer. 'Afternoon is certainly more my time of day,' she said, 'thank you Lucas. Would you mind, Tom?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Mind? No, I won't mind, why should I mind? I'll perhaps leave a bit earlier then, if you're not coming with me. Well, I'm off, good-night all.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh dear,' said Magda when he had gone. 'I do hope I haven't offended him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom isn't a man to take offence at nothing,' Lucas assured her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm glad you are not going so early,' said Jannie, 'we can then go to the beach in the morning.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He's such a private person,' Magda said, ignoring this, 'or rather he seems to keep his private life so completely to himself one feels one hardly knows him.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Unlike the rest of us,' Lucas agreed, 'who spill our guts as soon as look at us.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas, don't be disgusting,' said Magda. 'I don't even know if he's married, do you know that? I think he must be, but I've never even heard him so much as mention a wife.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No he is,' said Jannie, 'I know from Dawid once. He is married, but his wife is sick.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Sick? How do you mean sick?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He must look after her,' Jannie explained.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That would figure,' said Magda. 'Oh poor Tom.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Tom is not a man to pity,' said Lucas, again taking it upon himself to speak for his sex.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No he's not,' said Magda, 'but still. He deserves better than an invalid wife. Oh well. Me for me downy too, I think.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She followed Tom shortly afterwards. Lucas thought it polite to stay talking to Jannie a little longer and then searched the bookshelves for some bed-time reading. Jannie went last, after letting the dogs out and locking up.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In his bedroom, Lucas undressed and smoked a meditative cigarette without opening the old Rex Stout paperback he had found to read. He was wondering if he dare go down the passage and tap on Magda's door, and, when he stubbed out his cigarette, he did open his door very quietly and start along the passage. Only Jannie's light seemed still to be on. Magda's door was slightly ajar, showing her room to be in darkness, and Lucas stood in the passage outside, listening to her breathing, which was steady and even and not quite audible enough to be called snoring. Then he went back to his own room. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom left, in fact, before either Magda or Lucas was up. When they emerged from their bedrooms, Magda some time after Lucas, they found Jannie making elaborate preparations to take a picnic luncheon to the beach. He had already assembled on the front verandah a large pile of beach gear – an umbrella, uninflated air-mattresses, folding chairs, a folding table – crowning the pile with an enormous wicker picnic-hamper containing complete place settings for about a dozen people. When his two remaining guests appeared, he was busily provisioning this hamper with delicatessen food he'd been out to buy after bidding Tom farewell, filling its flasks with tea and coffee. Then he went in search of a cool-bag into which he packed enough cold beer and chilled wine, Magda observed, watching him, to keep the three of them sozzled for about a week. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">By the time they had established this encampment on the beach, however, with everything they could possibly need to laze the day away, including Lucas's detective story, the morning breeze had freshened into what could only be described as a wind, and intermittent cloud was obscuring the sun; by early afternoon, the sky was altogether overcast and the wind not only stronger but also decidedly damp. Nevertheless, since Jannie had taken preparation to such lengths, they wrapped themselves in the beach towels he had provided and ate and drank huddled behind the umbrella, which they opened as protection against the wind rather than the sun. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They packed up directly afterwards. They were back at the house shortly after two o' clock, and Lucas decided he and Magda might just as well leave for town at once.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Come again next Sunday,' Jannie invited as he closed the car door on Magda while Lucas belted himself into his seat, 'or when you want to. I'm going to be here two months still.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's very sweet of you, Jannie,' said Magda, 'but I don't quite know what may be waiting for me when I get back.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Perhaps there'll be other people coming,' Jannie said, as if this were an inducement. 'I don't know, I thought more would come yesterday, but perhaps they will come next week.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'We'll give you a ring, shall we?' said Lucas diplomatically. 'Thanks again, Jannie. See you.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He started the car and Jannie stood back. Magda leaned forward to wave as they moved off, and then she relaxed in Lucas's passenger seat, which was a good deal less comfortable than the one in the car Tom was driving.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Poor little brute,' she said, 'I expect he gets lonely.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If he chooses to attach himself to an old woman living in the country,' Lucas replied, 'he'll just have to put up with being lonely sometimes. Quite often, in fact.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Magda, 'I suppose so. I do admire you, you know, Lucas, when you go all clean-cut and decisive like that, it's one of your more attractive traits.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh really,' said Lucas. 'Well, don't. Inside I'm just the same sort of amorphous mess we all are, but I can't stand it, so I over-react, and then, I suppose, it might come out clean-cut and lantern-jawed.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda laughed. 'You're not lantern-jawed, Lucas.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, but I'd like to be.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Would you? What for, you'd ruin your looks.' She gave his profile a quick sidelong glance of professional appraisal, and then said: 'Why didn't he go to New York with Simon, I wonder, Jannie I mean.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I suspect basically because Simon isn't David.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' Magda agreed, 'one can understand that. But he did play that APPLE part so marvellously to the manner born, it does seem a shame. And I still feel a bit sorry for him, rattling about all alone in the huge bungalow. He can't have expected to end up looking after other people's dogs when he decided to stay with David's mother.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'So what's wrong with alone?' Lucas asked. 'You're alone, I'm alone – we're all alone.' His lugubrious tone tried to evoke Greta Garbo, or at least Marlene Dietriech.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You're also a terribly uncompromising sort of person,' said Magda, 'or is it simply that you don't much like him?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie? I don't dislike Jannie, what makes you think I don't like him?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I suppose because I did, rather a lot, at one time,' said Magda. 'Sometimes, like last night, I can't think why anybody puts up with him for one instant he is really so appallingly thick.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'He can't be all that thick,' said Lucas, 'when he comes out with the sort of thing he said about David last night.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh? What did he say? All I remember is he put me into such a rage I couldn't speak. And not once, several times.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It was while we were talking about David – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'When do we ever talk about anything else?' Magda interrupted gloomily.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – he said something about everybody being a kind of Christ – ' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Jannie didn't say that, you did.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Did I really? How clever of me.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'On the contrary, it was rather silly. But very typically male, of course.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The way men take it for granted there's really only one sex that counts – . Women get very bored with it you know.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But for God's sake, Magda, it wasn't sexist, I wasn't trying to – ' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh come on, Lucas, it's so ingrained in your thinking you don't even notice. But women do, I promise you. All that Father, Son, and Holy Ghost stuff for example – women don’t figure at all, do they?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well possibly not, but you must remember the context, the historical context – ‘</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Context, schmontext, I wonder what men would say if women went on about God the Mother, God the Holy Virgin, God the Sacred Flux – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas gave a single bark of rather startled laughter.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – with the Father of God upstaged into the wings somewhere? And you needn't laugh, Lucas, I happen to be perfectly serious.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But that would mean it’s a completely different myth, and you can’t just change myth like that.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Why not?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Because myths have to be true, or else they’re not – .’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘What in the name of heaven is a true myth?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘If they’re not true, they’re no longer myths.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘Lucas, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but that's exactly my point. Men don't think like women – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No – nor women like men either.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">' – they’re forever on about something so completely unrelated to real life – . And another thing I’d like to know. Are you trying to suggest David wasn't exceptional, were you trying to say there wasn’t anything particularly different about him, that he wasn't an altogether exceptional man?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course not.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Because he was, you know, I don't care what Tom says. He was unique, in my experience of men at any rate. He is the only man who never once – .' She stopped herself. It was not a thing she wanted to discuss with Lucas. 'I mean you've only got to look at that tape we watched last night. What Simon has done to those plays – or if not Simon who? – I can hardly believe they're the same two we toured. Well, they aren't of course, they've been thoroughly gone over for New York, I suppose.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I must confess I couldn’t quite see what he was trying to do, in the bits he showed us,' said Lucas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After that they talked shop for some time, until it became clear that they shared a strong dislike for exactly the same things about Simon's direction of the plays, judging by the extracts they had seen of the taped rehearsals. They were so much in accord that at one stage Magda put out a hand to tuck her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, upon which he put an arm through hers and lifted her hand to his face, biting her fingers gently and then holding her knuckles against his cheek. Then he held her hand on his thigh, and so they drove on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Which way shall we take,' he asked, as they approached a fork in the road leading either to the mountain pass or a detour to avoid it, 'the coast road or carry on up the Khyber?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The coast road,' Magda said promptly. 'We're bound to hit fog on the pass this afternoon, and fog makes me nervous. So don’t go that way please Lucas.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Then the coast road it is,' he said, putting on his flickers and beginning to change lanes.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Perhaps we could stop for tea in the Strand,' she suggested, ‘at that place with the marvellous view.’ </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't know which one you mean exactly, but you can no doubt point it out to me when we get there.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said in their newly established cosiness: 'I'm sorry if I was sounding off there rather, a few minutes ago. Women’s-libber bitchiness, it’s not me at all really.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He squeezed the hand on his thigh. 'I know it isn't,' he said. 'You can sometimes be a bit of a cat, but you are never a bitch.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda withdrew her hand. 'Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment?' she enquired coldly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas felt a little alarmed. What had he said wrong? 'I’m not trying to pay you compliments – .' He tried again: ‘I don’t mean I think you’re – ‘</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'How odd there should be so many derogatory terms for women and so few for men.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don’t think that’s true either.’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Bitch, cat, cow – . Anyway, I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be a bitch than a cat.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No you wouldn't. A bitch is just thorough-going nasty, whereas a cat when she’s swallowed the cream purrs away like mad and looks very beautiful.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas, do you honestly always just think of women in terms like that?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Terms like what?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'As if we’re – as if we’re not really to be taken seriously, as if we’re just – . Yes well to men like you, we are here just to breed I suppose. Anything else would be the prerogative of the male – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What do you mean, men like me?' Lucas interrupted with some heat. 'Really, Magda, you’re being very sexist this afternoon – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't think it’s particularly sexist to object to being called a cat.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Nobody called you a cat.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas! You did!'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I did not. I said you weren’t a bitch, that’s all I said, I didn’t call you a cat'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But you did, you miserable sod you, don't try to deny it. I apologised for being a bit bitchy and you said I was a cat.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I didn't, and anyway who're you calling a sod?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You, you sod you, you you you,' Magda said triumphantly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you know what that word means, dear?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course I know what it means, what do you think? It means you're a bugger.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'In point of actual fact I'm not, but you don't see me having a fit and throwing a tantrum just because you call me one, do you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, because you know it's true, that's why.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas sighed. 'It's no more true than that you're a bitch or a cat, but never mind. Let's talk about something else.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, because you've just lost the argument.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda, don't be childish, it's infuriating in a grown woman.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Childish!?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, childish. Now do let's for God's sake talk about something else.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Very well,' said Magda, shifting in her seat in order to stare straight ahead, 'I won't say another word. I'm not mad about squabbling with you as if we were some old married couple, which is what we seem to be doing.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas snorted. 'If there's one thing in the world we could not possibly be it's an old married couple.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh yes of course I forgot. You prefer buggery, don't you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas braked sharply and, as the car screeched to a stop, hit her at the same time, clumsily, taking the back of his hand to the side of her neck and face.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas!' Magda put a hand to her cheek, in amazement rather than hurt.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Abruptly he switched off the engine and got out of the car, going to stand at the side of the road some distance away and staring out over the scrub to the ocean in the middle distance. After a while he went back to her side of the car and said, without looking at her: 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that, I don't know what – . I – I'm sorry,' he repeated.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's okay,' Magda said. She was sitting bolt upright in her seat and inspecting what she could see of her face in the small looking-glass that came with her handbag. 'I'm sorry if what I said upset you. I wasn't serious, you know, it was just a joke.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It wasn't so much what you said – .' He stopped, walked round to his side of the car, and got back in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh? Then what made you take that unchivalrous not to say rather vicious swipe at me?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lucas started the car and allowed the engine to idle. 'Did you know,' he asked, staring straight ahead in his turn, both hands on the steering wheel, 'that among certain members of David's cast you had the reputation of being a bit of a dyke?' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'A bull dyke of course. That, or else a ball-breaker. Not a toe-breaker, like the wife who hoped her husband's balls would drop off and bruise his feet, but a ball-breaker.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas, what on earth are you talking about?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'That's the sort of thing you hear if you listen to gossip, you see.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He engaged first gear, and the car started to move off.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas, who said that about me? Who told you I'm – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It wasn't anyone in particular, I don't think. Just gossip.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I bet you anything you like it was Mark,' Magda said, thinking back, 'and you can guess why, can't you. He kept saying let's fuck to me, he probably thinks he's a latter-day Dylan Thomas or something, but I told him plainly to fuck off which is not an expression I’m in the habit of using but I thought he’d understand it better than anything else I could have said.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Moral of the story: don't taunt people with what you hear in the way of gossip.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I hope you aren’t taunting me with this rather nasty piece of idle gossip.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No of course I’m not. But you were me, earlier. Weren't you?’</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Was I? Lucas, I wasn't.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well that's what it sounded like.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas.' Magda weakly said his name with some kind of appeal. She felt he was giving their exchanges a level of seriousness she herself certainly did not intend and was not sure she wanted. 'My dear, you mustn't take what people say in jest so – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She did not finish and he said nothing, seeming to give all his attention to driving. When they were travelling once more at a cruising speed somewhat in excess of the speed limit, she felt in her handbag for cigarettes and offered to light one for him. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not now thanks. I try not to when I'm driving because if I do I chain-smoke.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'You won’t mind if I do?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Of course not.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda opened her window a fraction to let the smoke out, and wind noise was added to the sound of the engine in their ears.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After some miles of this loud silence, she broke it rather hesitantly to say: 'Do you think you’d care to tell me what it was that made you so cross with me?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I don't think I was cross, exactly.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, whatever.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's not important, Magda, let's just forget it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But Lucas I – .' She took a last draw on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then she wound up her window and folded her hands on her lap before she continued in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice. 'Please don't clam up on me, Lucas, I feel I did something or I said something that hurt you and I feel – well, a bit devastated, I suppose, because I would not hurt you for the world.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Magda, really, don't give it another thought, it couldn't matter less. Truly. You didn't hurt me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She reached down to the floor at her feet for her handbag and found a handkerchief, which she used on the corner of her eyes and then held in her lap. He was very aware of her movements at the very edge of his vision and tried to ignore her. She turned her head away, to look through the window instead of the windscreen, blinking fast against the tears she felt in her eyes.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'If you must know,' Lucas sounded exasperated, 'I was going to suggest we – . I was going to ask you if – . I was going to offer you a room in my flat, there're two bedrooms.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas!' Magda turned to him in absolute amazement. 'What on earth for? I mean what a sweet thought, but – . What for?' she repeated</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'At supper last night, when you were going on about your grotty digs to Tom, I thought you might quite like to.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well of course I'd "quite like to". For heaven' sake, Lucas, a room in a beach-front flat in Sea Point, who wouldn't? But I don't quite see why – . Do you need someone to share the rent, is that it?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'The flat is just about paid for, as a matter of fact, though I must admit the levy is getting to be a bit more than – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Paid for! Lucas, do you mean to tell me you own that flat?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, yes. Didn't you know? It used to belong to an aunt of mine, she let me take it over when she gave it up. Well actually she had to, she was beginning to need what they call frail care. Nothing like the market value, of course, not much more than she'd paid for it, years and years ago, and even then I couldn't really have swung it if David hadn't helped me with the bond.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh God not David again, I can't bear it. Is there no part of anybody's life he doesn't – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All he did was find someone respectable to stand surety for me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I've often wondered how you manage to afford a flat like that, on what one makes in the theatre.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No doubt,' Lucas said stonily, 'you shared the general belief there’s a sugar-daddy somewhere in the background.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No, Lucas, I didn’t even know there was any such belief doing the rounds.' She went on quickly, for a fleeting thought did suggest to her that the belief might well have some foundation in fact. 'But do I take it then you've changed your mind? The offer's no longer open?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Not at all,' he replied. 'We could talk about it, if you like. I got the impression, earlier, you wouldn't even consider it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'But my dear of course I would. It's just – . Well to be brutally frank, Lucas, I don't see why you want to do this, what you'd get out of it. Wouldn't it, well, cramp your style rather, to have a woman around the place all the time? I'm no fag hag fairy queen, you know, I couldn't – '</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes, well, that's why I said forget it, so forget it.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After a moment Magda said in a tone of some hopelessness: 'Lucas you're so touchy this afternoon, I don't know how to talk to you. I keep saying the wrong thing.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Then how about the right thing for a change?' he said savagely. 'When I ask you to come live with me don't start talking about cramping my style. Say Yes, or No, or This is so sudden, or Why can't we be just good friends, or something – .'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda looked first at his hands, both still holding the steering wheel in a tight grip, and then at his face, rigidly staring straight ahead. 'Lucas, I’m sorry but this is getting – . Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems you – . What you are actually proposing is more than just share your flat it’s – . Is that what you're really asking?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes! For Chris' sake Magda.' His earlier exasperation was now extreme.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm sorry to making such heavy weather, Lucas, but you see I've never been asked before, it's always sort of just happened, before.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Do you think I've ever asked, before?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">‘That night when – . When you came to sleep next to me, remember?' She did not go on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"Well? What about that night when as you so delicately put it we slept next to each other?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She said in a very small voice: 'Nothing happened, did it. Then or later.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh for God's sake, Magda, you do want it every which way, don't you?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda pondered this for a moment or two, and then she said, in the same unsure voice: 'Lucas, are you in fact in your own devious way asking me to – ? Could it be that you’re – ? Oh shit are we talking marriage here for Chris' sake?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Marriage,' repeated Lucas. 'I think marriage might be pushing it a bit at this stage, don't you, but yes, why not? If it bloody works, why the hell not?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Oh Lucas, off-hand, I can think of about a hundred good reasons,' she said sadly, and added quickly: 'And they all have to do with me, not you, so please don't go off into another huff and start beating me up again.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">For the first time since re-starting the car he took his eyes off the road ahead and glanced at her. 'For instance?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well, for one thing I don't think I could ever promise never to look at another man again.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Me neither.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Lucas!' Magda gave a weak little laugh. 'It's okay for you to make jokes about it, is it, but not me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He reached for the hand that earlier had rested on his thigh and they tightly entwined their fingers. After some minutes, Magda said wonderingly: 'Would we have children, do you think?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I expect so. People do, you know. Unless you'd rather not. Would you – rather not, I mean.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'No. I mean yes. Oh God, what do I mean? I mean yes, I would rather like to have a baby. These last few weeks, since David – . I've found myself thinking I want to have a child before I'm too old, I've never thought that in my life before. Oh Lucas, I wish you'd stop the car, you change my whole life and you calmly carry on driving as if nothing's happening.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They were by this time driving high above the sea where the road was too narrow for a car to park, but he promised to pull into the first lay-by that offered. Magda asked: 'What about you, how would you feel about – well, children, would you – ?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I think I would enjoy having a son, very much.' </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'What if he's a daughter?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I would love her no less dearly, I think, but is there any reason why she'd have to be an only child?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Well when I said I'd quite like to have a baby I wasn't thinking in terms of an entire troupe, like another Trapp Family Singers.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Just then, the road widened sufficiently to permit of tourists' stopping to enjoy the view, and Lucas drew off the road and switched off the engine. They sat for a time without moving, watching the sea heaving and swelling against the rocks below and waves breaking further along the shoreline. Then they looked at each other and exchanged tentative smiles, as if they were strangers.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Magda said: 'It's madness I know but I do, I do want to, do you know that? I honestly think I want to, rather a lot.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He put an arm along the back of her seat and drew her to him. They kissed, their lips closed, but not tightly closed. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I feel a bit like it's a first night,' Lucas said shakily.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' Magda agreed, perfectly calmly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Remember David on first nights?'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Yes,' said Magda again. 'I used to think he – . I thought he did it all just for effect, just for fun, but now I'm not so sure.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'I am positive he didn’t do this sort of thing in fun, ' said Lucas, as he tried to cross himself while holding her in his arms.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'Which of David's little first-night prayers did you say just then?' she asked, teasing him, but also wondering how seriously he had meant the gesture he had tried to make.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">'All of them, dear,' said Lucas. 'All of them.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They kissed again, their lips no longer closed, and then once more, their free hands roving over each other's body and coming at length to rove no further, there being nowhere further to rove. Here they were both astonished and delighted to find how much each had roused the other. After a time of mounting tension, Lucas re-started the car with trembling, sticky fingers, and drove at speed to his flat, where they tore the clothes off each other and became so absorbed in what they were doing, and wanted to go on doing, that Magda quite forgot she was due at the theatre that evening. She was late for the first time in her life; the stage manager had to hold the curtain until she was safely in her dressing-room, making-up. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Their first child was born nine months later, almost to the minute, and in due course they called his name David. They asked Tom to stand as one godfather to the baby, and though Tom agreed readily enough he was taken aback when he heard what they wanted to call their child. He wondered to himself what exactly they thought they were doing: was Magda now seeing herself as the virgin mother of God? If so, what about old Lucas – was he Joseph to her Mary? He decided these thoughts of his were daft, however, and never said a word about them to anybody, least of all to Lucas or Magda. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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</script><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2XOV0a6iReQjiJ92Wd9MOJ9LJfuFAwGYGTLw43VpGFrUAJiExCbFrVPYuCMP8GIwPk_TKrVCsqPzcTy5P_5mrPA3QmDK1bTdEiPJRZuYfZEUY9WO94l2joNQDg9gn7wZS8_HeYVbjymFrKrHVc2Crv_x8fgzGaE7ejJ-e2X7of9oFuLlbVtwM5x_LQ/s1920/desert1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1920" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2XOV0a6iReQjiJ92Wd9MOJ9LJfuFAwGYGTLw43VpGFrUAJiExCbFrVPYuCMP8GIwPk_TKrVCsqPzcTy5P_5mrPA3QmDK1bTdEiPJRZuYfZEUY9WO94l2joNQDg9gn7wZS8_HeYVbjymFrKrHVc2Crv_x8fgzGaE7ejJ-e2X7of9oFuLlbVtwM5x_LQ/w640-h370/desert1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I've wandered the Red Desert of Wyoming for decades now, first shown to me by my fishing/canoeing/hunting friend Ken. His father was the state geologist for Dept of Transport and knew all the good places. The Red desert is sometimes red but more often a sagebrush green and grey. It is in the Great Divide Basin, where none of the precipitation drains into any ocean, instead vanishing upon the desert air. The Continental Divide runs through the middle of the basin. Is it still the Divide if it's not actually dividing the waters of the Atlantic from the Pacific ? Maybe it's a courtesy title based on elevation here. Though it's a desert there is a startling amount of life in it, sage grouse, golden eagles, pronghorn, wild horses, an occasional grumpy old misanthrope like me and Ken. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is of course oil and gas under them there sagebrush flats. We've seen the traffic jump from us to nearly a car per hour on the lonely dirt roads, and oil rigs ruining the skyline. <a href="https://runthereddesert.com/" target="_blank">Run the Red Desert</a> races were started to raise awareness of the desert, its fragility, and raise some money to help protect it. I've been trying to run them for several years. Finally this year I blocked off the weekend on the calendar at the beginning of the year, notified my dear wife not to double book that weekend, and signed up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ken came along as we planned a couple of days fishing and rambling around backroads after the race. Initial plan was to camp in Lander behind a motel, where Ken had camped before during the Tour de Wyoming. There was a new owner who gave us the hard sell and we got a room in the motel instead. When I first met Ken he had a Cowfish sticker on his truck, fishbone skeleton with a cow's head. I always thought it was some kind of odd western thing like the <a href="https://www.hcn.org/articles/books-the-legend-of-the-horned-rabbit-of-the-west" target="_blank">jackalope</a>, in fact it is a bar and grill in Lander. The jackalope has a page to itself on the <a href="https://wgfd.wyo.gov/Regional-Offices/Green-River-Region/Critter-Spotlight/Jackalope" target="_blank">Game and Fish</a> website.</div><div><blockquote>Jackalope are most often sighted at night, typically around closing time near adult beverage establishments; the preferred habitat of this species. Weekend sightings are much more common than during weekdays. It is reported, but unconfirmed, that jackalope are attracted to the odor of a fine single malt.</blockquote></div><div>The Cowfish is still going nearly thirty years after we met, surely we aren't that old ? Dinner there excellent with a fine Atlantic City Gold beer from the neighbor brewery. Atlantic City is one of the old mining towns of the Red Desert, hanging on with a population of 27 or so and the Atlantic City Mercantile for tourists. Our server was a girl from Asheville NC, who moved to Lander for the climbing and outdoor life. Next morning breakfast at the greasy spoon, we had a non-binary server. Ken said, that's a strong woman.. the local cowboys seemed fine with the whole idea. That's been my perception of the good aspect of the western ways. Rugged individualism means you have to allow for rugged weird individuals and a Wyoming conservative can be quite surprising in their acceptance of people. </div><div><br /></div><div>Race morning, Ken dropped me off in Silver Pass City, another ghost town, and went off fishing on the Popo Agie river in the red canyon. Strong cold winds. I found a bench behind some low willows as a windbreak to do the 15 minutes of stretching, donkey kicks etc that is now needed to placate my left knee before running. Race briefing included the Wyoming Rules: if you meet someone out on the trail, rancher, hunter, anyone: 1. stop 2. smile 3. say hello. As one rugged individual to another, I guess. Tamim Ansary wrote about life in Afghanistan before the Soviet invasion, </div><div><blockquote>Before technology, in our hard, dry land, we lived on the edge. We didn’t have the luxury of considering each individual as a sovereign state and every social relationship as voluntary. We couldn’t think in terms of leveling the playing field and giving everyone an equal chance in the competition of all against all—a fundamental premise of democracy in a modern Western state. Living like that could have killed us.</blockquote></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGnSp-lnb9OI71tDmMnRuGPFcBPC3AQtyYv44SsilmPKw2uLlKAxuAb3xYbKIKqeH2vANEMERcswZu_U0yR7OncFzNoey3Hwva0pW1P1laKMf3LL9USgR6mp02JRY6XGJZdpNmGue3lmXjOD9oIpNsrJH-gR_SVQPuZoh7gyoS3zmbEQcZW8QwlS72g/s1920/mountain%20rules.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGnSp-lnb9OI71tDmMnRuGPFcBPC3AQtyYv44SsilmPKw2uLlKAxuAb3xYbKIKqeH2vANEMERcswZu_U0yR7OncFzNoey3Hwva0pW1P1laKMf3LL9USgR6mp02JRY6XGJZdpNmGue3lmXjOD9oIpNsrJH-gR_SVQPuZoh7gyoS3zmbEQcZW8QwlS72g/w640-h480/mountain%20rules.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I did a little warmup run to get my asthmatic old lungs used to the idea of breathing hard. The lungs tend to lose the plot a bit these days and need reminders of what they're supposed to be doing. The side canyon was dense with willow, the mud was dense with moose tracks. Moose are somewhat dangerous at the best of times, now coming into the rut it wasn't a good time to be alone in moose paradise, jogged back hastily. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9L8qLBd63KxKUdVePjsjvhDLHK0XGkZNUcrlfd_Oh-VNv4DpTtsJRkYd-pP27EtEcw6kmIKZoSOnvUVucQlkAJZI6_aVQxDFMNgJqpBnbr-LTLvB9Dr3sRXqLpyZCgeB5I0Jd_zzXUK176tqo4IapqNkVRRqLJWeWO1GNEa6sbIc3pqkSeAn5TNz00w/s1920/moose%20heaven.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9L8qLBd63KxKUdVePjsjvhDLHK0XGkZNUcrlfd_Oh-VNv4DpTtsJRkYd-pP27EtEcw6kmIKZoSOnvUVucQlkAJZI6_aVQxDFMNgJqpBnbr-LTLvB9Dr3sRXqLpyZCgeB5I0Jd_zzXUK176tqo4IapqNkVRRqLJWeWO1GNEa6sbIc3pqkSeAn5TNz00w/w640-h480/moose%20heaven.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>There was a stream crossing about half a mile into the run, thigh deep and a couple of yards wide. I'd planned to start where I'd finish, mid to back of pack. Having designs on the age group win however, I channeled my old cross-country racing nous and went out hard to get ahead of the bunch-up at the stream crossing. This worked well except now I was running with people much faster than me. Luckily in another half mile the route went straight up a scree slope and we were all walking.</div><div><br /></div><div>This isn't the slope in question, rather a bit later with an actual two-track road which was also too steep to run. I took a good picture of the walkers behind me at this point, or it would have been good without the thumb over half the camera lens, oh well. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52gUhMa5ohu2cXdEOInnIdMgOIHITS9CiGxDB3P5YfVna0f5FEqwF6mzoZyfKpTBSGjB6nW1fQjX7UhrWXjyV00yYT6z-gRdWEaamGeEb5bVK9stKUekBMa65F91i5uzPI81QRXnoeupt8bSgoKNBnhZXPp1X90bOUdlAe_xKgp6fbWFo3ZwUAxhqSg/s1920/walkin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52gUhMa5ohu2cXdEOInnIdMgOIHITS9CiGxDB3P5YfVna0f5FEqwF6mzoZyfKpTBSGjB6nW1fQjX7UhrWXjyV00yYT6z-gRdWEaamGeEb5bVK9stKUekBMa65F91i5uzPI81QRXnoeupt8bSgoKNBnhZXPp1X90bOUdlAe_xKgp6fbWFo3ZwUAxhqSg/w640-h480/walkin.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>This got us up onto the CDT (Continental Divide Trail). It wasn't your usual easily-appreciated mountain views of the CDT..</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc6npT4wwzwH0cm13xqoG_6zoPAiH_mMxEbKoh7pQPo8Yk1sDzQSr3qIyd3b3owukjd1_5G9Fb3pZTftbvc7bRLaPnqfiVlNNprA90FYOjeCk295HAk_hGb0DV30JlQVUcQ9FUwdkWm6lX05j8wUQwLJ6cvSOo2rJSVOmi5EJFr19OSFn2-F3NgItvg/s1920/cdt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1920" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc6npT4wwzwH0cm13xqoG_6zoPAiH_mMxEbKoh7pQPo8Yk1sDzQSr3qIyd3b3owukjd1_5G9Fb3pZTftbvc7bRLaPnqfiVlNNprA90FYOjeCk295HAk_hGb0DV30JlQVUcQ9FUwdkWm6lX05j8wUQwLJ6cvSOo2rJSVOmi5EJFr19OSFn2-F3NgItvg/w640-h368/cdt.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>On to some singletrack through the pine and juniper, then out onto a good dirt road for a bit of cruising until the first and only aid station. Wind still blowing. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUc9MB7iR6aEMUNvmVh1hLvby-rnKeboY0QDciH0sdIKGzPllkuYrpSSR33MnOssNJBeUgbDdSvmcfT0KdcsBvftgUnz0_-R2j33RqLY6z2jtYE5V7GVp2DBt-pVWXDKGKbTXVyFrZFXZBDXzoB8TaoImBgksNUBFsLEiDXDCCEdKbsJWg-ym1BQ47OQ/s1920/aid.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUc9MB7iR6aEMUNvmVh1hLvby-rnKeboY0QDciH0sdIKGzPllkuYrpSSR33MnOssNJBeUgbDdSvmcfT0KdcsBvftgUnz0_-R2j33RqLY6z2jtYE5V7GVp2DBt-pVWXDKGKbTXVyFrZFXZBDXzoB8TaoImBgksNUBFsLEiDXDCCEdKbsJWg-ym1BQ47OQ/w640-h480/aid.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The road dropped over that first hill, through a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQYvmjQjfmA" target="_blank">barbed wire/fencepost</a> gate, and into another stream crossing. Another rule from the race briefing was to always close a gate behind you, never mind if there were other runners coming. The young woman and I at the gate followed the rule, slamming it closed in the teeth of the group behind us, apologizing as we went. The crossing had been softened up for us by the resident cows. This produced forty feet of feculent water knee-deep or worse. It's a good thing I had my Dirty Girl gaiters on, with wool socks below. Several of the runners at last year's Devil on the Divide run had these gaiters, I'd admired them and bought a pair. This went well until my wife picked up the package and asked, so what exactly are you buying from dirty girl gaiters dot com ? </div><div>(link is SFW - the first draft of this post had the active link, for which Google promptly slapped a Sensitive Content Warning onto the blog. Huh.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Now the trouble started. Six miles to go, all of it uphill, and straight into that Wyoming breeze which is a stiff gale in any other state, 20mph gusting to 30-plus. A young pup of 60 came by me near the start of this hill. It's astonishing how accurate my age-group age radar is - looked at him and thought, could be late 50s but my guess is 60 - race results confirmed that age. I watched the age-group winner run/walk away from me and couldn't do a thing about it. My run was faster but I couldn't keep it up for more than a couple hundred yards at best, his run was slower but went on longer before the inevitable walk. See the ziggy zaggy line from 8 miles on, showing pace about 11min/mile while running, interspersed with plods. My training was for running, not for shambling at a slow walk uphill into a gale. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPE_9TuYelUhf30HyaU_w0P9ApZ-Ola7yFvbzpEPoN22lmXrH8gpYaVc6_h_IZUCIRlti9FT6TgP1Ld6Q8L_407CYjzmKdoUXlLDs-UXyyLr7q9b-C6R0mqF-qxTDchswa5bdrsf8fmLzngtfFvqFknMdSPzNh3qZ6t9Lei1beGho7Z8Hofl3X5qsTcQ/s1191/pacing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="1191" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPE_9TuYelUhf30HyaU_w0P9ApZ-Ola7yFvbzpEPoN22lmXrH8gpYaVc6_h_IZUCIRlti9FT6TgP1Ld6Q8L_407CYjzmKdoUXlLDs-UXyyLr7q9b-C6R0mqF-qxTDchswa5bdrsf8fmLzngtfFvqFknMdSPzNh3qZ6t9Lei1beGho7Z8Hofl3X5qsTcQ/w640-h216/pacing.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div>I'd have felt bad about my progress and walking here except that no-one else was passing me. We ground on. The view behind, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOAsBNPGzFgOjiXEjeDzMygThSkjTsEAKAeYXuxondGAvsY69eSe5CiIoa_WoVkjsSoZkmbWf5SvOIeJ26Cdh-z1i5aTzb69tMsSUfIn9Fl5wMGyTfz-oKrY0kjEjipXdas8q8T7zD4uCbaBfdTG9OiNGXDdVt-p9s9tOgTv-6MWScgNpC48AFG6fkA/s1920/desert3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1920" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOAsBNPGzFgOjiXEjeDzMygThSkjTsEAKAeYXuxondGAvsY69eSe5CiIoa_WoVkjsSoZkmbWf5SvOIeJ26Cdh-z1i5aTzb69tMsSUfIn9Fl5wMGyTfz-oKrY0kjEjipXdas8q8T7zD4uCbaBfdTG9OiNGXDdVt-p9s9tOgTv-6MWScgNpC48AFG6fkA/w640-h366/desert3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The view ahead, </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6hd_PJQ6pNAjrfkYPRpPQGQHQTVtJjFCS0AN-Xs8aHPw2UKd_HH2g_EX_tfuriHdhQlaQ1Od6CVt1pVyHN93Zg9Q7DFgj0AwxPppVgLtgWBeEEbG-k-aPAzLfOI7ekz2NxB-DZ3T0qg0XmvI8kHcdajbyM8ygBopJ5ZjRLsPYz9ec4mD2jwuNGpY4Q/s1920/desert4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="1920" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6hd_PJQ6pNAjrfkYPRpPQGQHQTVtJjFCS0AN-Xs8aHPw2UKd_HH2g_EX_tfuriHdhQlaQ1Od6CVt1pVyHN93Zg9Q7DFgj0AwxPppVgLtgWBeEEbG-k-aPAzLfOI7ekz2NxB-DZ3T0qg0XmvI8kHcdajbyM8ygBopJ5ZjRLsPYz9ec4mD2jwuNGpY4Q/w640-h378/desert4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>This went on for some time. Talked a bit with companion run/walker Jamie, next weekend doing a Spartan race 50k which sounds to me like no fun at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>Time and the hour runs through the roughest day, here I am dragging my pot belly across the finish line. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAy0S6r7IAWg7HDNu0wV45jUoWabn_UpaglfIsMClvPzBHoNgtLjHqbd9bVY_oZ7DV33AygOHxJFK6F6gaJfWzjAgFbT6BJaeUKCOsUSTDAsPTo2PfoOvjqpDVe0CZ7qktzQAx8HdQGEVLU3Wa_FTguF-QOnuyUtGrFYBxlvueLnRsFuUseoaVM86vw/s1024/20220924-Run-the-Red-014-767x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="767" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAy0S6r7IAWg7HDNu0wV45jUoWabn_UpaglfIsMClvPzBHoNgtLjHqbd9bVY_oZ7DV33AygOHxJFK6F6gaJfWzjAgFbT6BJaeUKCOsUSTDAsPTo2PfoOvjqpDVe0CZ7qktzQAx8HdQGEVLU3Wa_FTguF-QOnuyUtGrFYBxlvueLnRsFuUseoaVM86vw/w480-h640/20220924-Run-the-Red-014-767x1024.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div>Finish 2:54, 69/122 overall, 2/9 in age group. The young pup went 2:52. We were both roundly defeated by a 68-year-old woman who ran 2:45. I'd better get rid of the pot belly and try again next year. </div><div><br /></div><div>Talked a bit with Andy while enjoying a postrace beer. He's a chef for a private ranch near Jackson Hole, lived in Winston-Salem NC in the 90s when we worked there, except he was in high school. His parents were running the 'We Card' campaign for RJ Reynolds. In the quiet periods at the ranch Andy teaches cooking at the community college. He said he's pretty easy going, though one of the modules is run by the pastry chef at the Four Seasons and she's hardass. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wandered off with Ken into the back country, the camping and fishing were good. </div><div>Next year in Wyoming. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbN-vRHPZnmFhhF53AS7Fh4e0IUAywMOKOfh8904k--o8iiENmC2CgAjsY2WZCBA9L7c6aXTFLrfdnFfa2ImAO1N14LlvwGyo-MnG0n5LEHsXPQzRthq-v3UjLz3xEjjfYa7lgRjWkyvI4pEv4FkTrNrsWr5C3pZMu0QrGDNVEmE-IM_C16iygpZ_CYQ/s1920/river2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbN-vRHPZnmFhhF53AS7Fh4e0IUAywMOKOfh8904k--o8iiENmC2CgAjsY2WZCBA9L7c6aXTFLrfdnFfa2ImAO1N14LlvwGyo-MnG0n5LEHsXPQzRthq-v3UjLz3xEjjfYa7lgRjWkyvI4pEv4FkTrNrsWr5C3pZMu0QrGDNVEmE-IM_C16iygpZ_CYQ/w640-h480/river2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEbG_jsvkkCqWPPcHn1S3rKuIESSy2wSZKBYoZXHLzdc6lUKPiexwXx3X2oeFIfwgSySJkKOY8LccJwJw6ShlEwc53adqnmqFCW51jOiayySIUpjUkxqeRKy94yHSAwZjI0sTH2e9zld14z-JkIaWouM84CDjWo0g6bPPJoiqTJUiQ3Wr3czRXT1K0g/s1920/upperGreen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEbG_jsvkkCqWPPcHn1S3rKuIESSy2wSZKBYoZXHLzdc6lUKPiexwXx3X2oeFIfwgSySJkKOY8LccJwJw6ShlEwc53adqnmqFCW51jOiayySIUpjUkxqeRKy94yHSAwZjI0sTH2e9zld14z-JkIaWouM84CDjWo0g6bPPJoiqTJUiQ3Wr3czRXT1K0g/w640-h480/upperGreen.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtaMQL8ws98RUvdwTVuDKoffA1-PA95MXrfblqDa50BWQ0wffttEviiPxjBvBUkZ9C0LrbxPwRMGL_ngTR8ebzxnUkW-h6ELFxZocTY_bMuzKcIj1R-59l0d0-bESCZ47DSXeJbEtHy4E75be7n7558O01tok6v9SqXhtDV_HxDodz-bPdSGlB0lu4g/s1920/Gbow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtaMQL8ws98RUvdwTVuDKoffA1-PA95MXrfblqDa50BWQ0wffttEviiPxjBvBUkZ9C0LrbxPwRMGL_ngTR8ebzxnUkW-h6ELFxZocTY_bMuzKcIj1R-59l0d0-bESCZ47DSXeJbEtHy4E75be7n7558O01tok6v9SqXhtDV_HxDodz-bPdSGlB0lu4g/w640-h480/Gbow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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Then cut enough old elm for the woodstove in the barn to heat the upcoming pheasant season. Then fell another dying elm, top and mulch the branches for the young grape vines. That's what the tractor is doing, running the chipper/shredder. My forearms were sore for days, I'll blame bucking a chainsaw and not the fly casting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Felt we'd earned a few hours fishing and headed up into the hills.</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMioN2lCXbpbLTsWkUbwSdsOlZUDJGALecqgjQqwuvYPHi_HcMsOG1TRGC10aPCeenaqhZqfoqwWNW5ntYSK7P4Ca-wgGNGIUGRQ38rFU0_jvV84OCfP2tJtOV7iHcOBakcVjDEAIj1UitH6Srri30x0YqSApoK5xdlyy7O5bZqRFp7uI9i0EswZ2QA/s1920/fall%20color%20wy%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1746" data-original-width="1920" height="582" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMioN2lCXbpbLTsWkUbwSdsOlZUDJGALecqgjQqwuvYPHi_HcMsOG1TRGC10aPCeenaqhZqfoqwWNW5ntYSK7P4Ca-wgGNGIUGRQ38rFU0_jvV84OCfP2tJtOV7iHcOBakcVjDEAIj1UitH6Srri30x0YqSApoK5xdlyy7O5bZqRFp7uI9i0EswZ2QA/w640-h582/fall%20color%20wy%20tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjce3gdRE_uO6m7Wac9zTy52SMP-6hmUOd9v4e3E9CucpmMPnThuLMGAxxEThJ90ao6NBBvEbVBbUa4KRhIwK-u8m5xL3JAsD16PFVGXiZv6EZ8i7Ehf1nfgMdLpqy0pqUjrWAlrBWjhWqBJ0xdnLApIGCOgBGGSFQ2vi5xX0z5mtI1TKIhw3clJky4oQ/s2560/fall%20color%20wy%20turtlin%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjce3gdRE_uO6m7Wac9zTy52SMP-6hmUOd9v4e3E9CucpmMPnThuLMGAxxEThJ90ao6NBBvEbVBbUa4KRhIwK-u8m5xL3JAsD16PFVGXiZv6EZ8i7Ehf1nfgMdLpqy0pqUjrWAlrBWjhWqBJ0xdnLApIGCOgBGGSFQ2vi5xX0z5mtI1TKIhw3clJky4oQ/w480-h640/fall%20color%20wy%20turtlin%202.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><div>You don't really need a canoe for this pond, but it does let you sneak up on the bank feeders from an unexpected angle. </div><div><br /></div><div>The prairies fall a bit short of fall spectacle. On the other hand the brookies had all the colors we wanted to see. </div></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6-DrQVmwMB6OnfwRYfaDGew5f3bQUkKVboubzfCCoVCcAsLQ6W4p7Qe_EhkPxK6zOQbMyFvqKmwZmd6GKCR1aVaNcaz8Us-Q6Atb2H3fSnBZo3JtFhDwvd5XTF2POYogyfFUSTFJbqjNIXNWwz4EpI6fVEYnwpG_g3D11POUNYi4THH7WD_tjDLuPQ/s1920/fall%20color%20wy%20fuzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6-DrQVmwMB6OnfwRYfaDGew5f3bQUkKVboubzfCCoVCcAsLQ6W4p7Qe_EhkPxK6zOQbMyFvqKmwZmd6GKCR1aVaNcaz8Us-Q6Atb2H3fSnBZo3JtFhDwvd5XTF2POYogyfFUSTFJbqjNIXNWwz4EpI6fVEYnwpG_g3D11POUNYi4THH7WD_tjDLuPQ/w640-h480/fall%20color%20wy%20fuzz.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERaFYJd9ZNDiz6lBNPoMTH68LtPm3AvzdR6QIHxwnpHW69ytZOMgpbmgLnMdUuMO1jhPWhbRju2Rw6ldLyHiaz1sP4RJ5kyFtHJgKK9ClZPDx3eECD_Zxt1K0piVCgN_0XR9ILx2o5GTpi6F-FV8HkForTujDU6KkGyztWwSCPIaa2hboWDjiUj465Q/s1920/fall%20color%20wy%20brook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1216" data-original-width="1920" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERaFYJd9ZNDiz6lBNPoMTH68LtPm3AvzdR6QIHxwnpHW69ytZOMgpbmgLnMdUuMO1jhPWhbRju2Rw6ldLyHiaz1sP4RJ5kyFtHJgKK9ClZPDx3eECD_Zxt1K0piVCgN_0XR9ILx2o5GTpi6F-FV8HkForTujDU6KkGyztWwSCPIaa2hboWDjiUj465Q/w640-h406/fall%20color%20wy%20brook.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2vEiRhUeOinB6vpq1uIykDCI3FLCb5uFhAsErFor4ulLXlXApagTrLR_5F1LTNIL-ZW_A--I12a_U1OAVq9uz8Z8F-VUOsOKoDArE1lzu9zb46qPwFjcsL7GgbeVTWmF3TTGxoUHeexaAx3FIkSKhgVhAXETG6r9Z7yhU5uGCN_PStY4sU5BNHxlpQ/s1920/fall%20color%20wy%20brook%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2vEiRhUeOinB6vpq1uIykDCI3FLCb5uFhAsErFor4ulLXlXApagTrLR_5F1LTNIL-ZW_A--I12a_U1OAVq9uz8Z8F-VUOsOKoDArE1lzu9zb46qPwFjcsL7GgbeVTWmF3TTGxoUHeexaAx3FIkSKhgVhAXETG6r9Z7yhU5uGCN_PStY4sU5BNHxlpQ/w640-h480/fall%20color%20wy%20brook%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I had to wear my fleece of many colors trying to keep up, think it wasn't quite enough. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fElbQsNOtvXWNQDJyjRZLvgQamj-0zeb1fWFvcqipjaGjC4Ue6YrrkyeMx2I23w4N30PXH_zcuIcDhE6nrCmQBf2vfS57OUZi9vWskU6lKicbjhHOKuZLH6MjXKeNu7T1SsS9y0gC38CGLnKDAUeVLx8hbtrvdakqBHSUGb_3Xw67LFE__TYIh43xQ/s1920/fall%20color%20wy%20fleece.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="1920" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fElbQsNOtvXWNQDJyjRZLvgQamj-0zeb1fWFvcqipjaGjC4Ue6YrrkyeMx2I23w4N30PXH_zcuIcDhE6nrCmQBf2vfS57OUZi9vWskU6lKicbjhHOKuZLH6MjXKeNu7T1SsS9y0gC38CGLnKDAUeVLx8hbtrvdakqBHSUGb_3Xw67LFE__TYIh43xQ/w640-h476/fall%20color%20wy%20fleece.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It is a poor fall without catching a few gaudy brookies in full spawning panopoly, glad we managed it this year.</div>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-26339306203764075612022-09-20T19:30:00.002-06:002022-09-20T21:24:49.476-06:00in the shade of the freeway<div>September again, and not a single backpack or high mountain trip to show for the year.. really start questioning my life choices at this point. Ha. </div><div><br /></div><div>In an attempt to stave off getting even fatter and more breathless, signed up for a trail half-marathon in the <a href="https://runthereddesert.com/" target="_blank">Red Desert </a>of WY. That seemed perfectly reasonable back in March. Ten years ago that would have been an easy-moderate ramble which I didn't need to think about, today it is a bit intimidating. Finally one week before the race, came a day where I could get up to the mountains. I didn't want to do my usual 5-6 miles up into Indian Peaks and kill my legs for the race. Instead here's what it is like fishing in the shade of the freeway. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first creek is up at 10 000ft or so. Driving there felt like cheating. The freeway noise is bothersome while walking out to the stream, once on the water with riffles and falls making the water music it's barely noticeable, only the big trucks gearing down and unmuffled motorbikes came through. The stream was skinny not to say bony and much colder than expected. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_23-GmDAZ7swy3QFrdV9NoWp-GFkNIAUb78AgtUJOlwDswa_8zaneMjhTNXvH3F_wUjXVyhX934ePKZLEun-jZ0MCHMWelIZeuX3ZcdLEQEAQj-A210cZj6ITIntEhKcH3da54eszHo69P53JrYf359Psk_5scrwHC82XJfSWGrn6XFEZ47nUYXASA/s1920/fallfC5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_23-GmDAZ7swy3QFrdV9NoWp-GFkNIAUb78AgtUJOlwDswa_8zaneMjhTNXvH3F_wUjXVyhX934ePKZLEun-jZ0MCHMWelIZeuX3ZcdLEQEAQj-A210cZj6ITIntEhKcH3da54eszHo69P53JrYf359Psk_5scrwHC82XJfSWGrn6XFEZ47nUYXASA/w640-h480/fallfC5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Wet wading in trail running shoes gave me numb feet. That was fine while wading and thinking about fish, not so great walking back out on a couple lumps of wet frozen meat slowly thawing into painful lumps of wet meat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Rumor had it there were cutts up here, above the brookies, browns and rainbows of the lower reaches. Now come to think of it you could do a driving day of fishing and gun for the little slam of all four species from the same stream. Hm maybe next time. </div><div>The rumor kept me fishing as I know cutts can thrive in unexpectedly tiny creeks particularly when the water is sufficiently cold. From that little falls pool above, he liked the olive softhackle behind the foam hopper. How nice. Yes, there are hoppers at 10 000 feet, kicked up a couple on the walk in. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsOGxWKiSQRZs5nsOWOVD43pZvcmbYsy87ZJHhfMSyw6gBHr-ESLX_-0rFhSq6gWYOjh3vK840cJi2j9Ff_tMzp2yk59KEqfenBprnc-9QkLHf0fhgyMeOjws5oWffPIQPXb8p2OxdzzEEirMFgNOwFi-21YbiDAX2YyUqc0nenyf_SELuPC4XxqbLQ/s1920/fallfC4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglsOGxWKiSQRZs5nsOWOVD43pZvcmbYsy87ZJHhfMSyw6gBHr-ESLX_-0rFhSq6gWYOjh3vK840cJi2j9Ff_tMzp2yk59KEqfenBprnc-9QkLHf0fhgyMeOjws5oWffPIQPXb8p2OxdzzEEirMFgNOwFi-21YbiDAX2YyUqc0nenyf_SELuPC4XxqbLQ/w640-h480/fallfC4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Plenty of barren water while nearly every little hole deeper than a foot had a resident or so. No brookies left, only cutts. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKY5slkZ2_lgHFUcpjfmWg02CHdT68bLi3e1tMstEBDxC6vqKK0YkYjQSxrfm0peOvWhIwxFIYPXmPe53sjRb6dX1sSaori9L2oWUVE0fuuqQNVyOQBYC433MKboxKyKUg4ewIIcMXo5k7W5X9zwvjcQ4RFzlX-6pv9hmzJpg6k3KhCmxbzxRw7LcsA/s1920/fallfC3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKY5slkZ2_lgHFUcpjfmWg02CHdT68bLi3e1tMstEBDxC6vqKK0YkYjQSxrfm0peOvWhIwxFIYPXmPe53sjRb6dX1sSaori9L2oWUVE0fuuqQNVyOQBYC433MKboxKyKUg4ewIIcMXo5k7W5X9zwvjcQ4RFzlX-6pv9hmzJpg6k3KhCmxbzxRw7LcsA/w640-h480/fallfC3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtILCHICtCQYgkDrMld-g73JQQMZWAvMqdBhkNYF4xwcPKKYZoJd04amwieqGmN8XeNwek9ZXaMqHJzi3j1gDHmmyC9TUtEYM8HNPzJuATkAwvXg5-VB4GUZD2M6hS6X_CKv_gmPHGaU2DkQ-ImOii7p8-TCfdptmUNWu07Gme1IznQ7RmYoTvRLMWQ/s1280/fallfC2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtILCHICtCQYgkDrMld-g73JQQMZWAvMqdBhkNYF4xwcPKKYZoJd04amwieqGmN8XeNwek9ZXaMqHJzi3j1gDHmmyC9TUtEYM8HNPzJuATkAwvXg5-VB4GUZD2M6hS6X_CKv_gmPHGaU2DkQ-ImOii7p8-TCfdptmUNWu07Gme1IznQ7RmYoTvRLMWQ/w640-h480/fallfC2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMipSnSqNPkmqbHQ9YEsdqBib40G44usKO5k56b7quvqqx4rQ_P-HW8ONxnQxAVufZcN0Tke1WWAHQ4zLnIRs0EgqRtn81oz9jtNIlf-oG0Zg4y5gT0buzRsd0PoE1INz9y23Yj8Yfvh0aKUXJeSvsX_Sxmj6jiy2znh5uSoHfkalXlYwAlxMIcZewg/s1920/fallfC1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMipSnSqNPkmqbHQ9YEsdqBib40G44usKO5k56b7quvqqx4rQ_P-HW8ONxnQxAVufZcN0Tke1WWAHQ4zLnIRs0EgqRtn81oz9jtNIlf-oG0Zg4y5gT0buzRsd0PoE1INz9y23Yj8Yfvh0aKUXJeSvsX_Sxmj6jiy2znh5uSoHfkalXlYwAlxMIcZewg/w640-h480/fallfC1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>After that last pool there was a largish (in mountain stream size) tributary coming in. Above it fishing was to wet rocks, mostly. Walked back down and noticed a big beaver dam near the parking lot. Plenty fish in there, with their antennae fine tuned to the approaching fisherman.. rose two at the softhackle without hooking either. Good enough for who it's for, really. </div><div><br /></div><div>Next step was a mountain lake at 12 000ft, parking lot at 11 200 and a 1.5 mile walk in. Expected traffic crowds and a zoo at the parking lot and was not disappointed. Inserted my truck into an angled inclined spot between a Tesla and a BMW, which cars didn't have enough ground clearance for my spot. Plenty of company on the trail all of whom asked me about on the fishing. On the way in I could tell the truth - never been here, no idea, without faith and hope I'd never leave the house. On the way out I lied steadily and consistently, just on principle. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayEvktEgLd7PChZ6ecBi2zp4zLd7OV4RgqRgkh8q9RVcfHv5DdJtXIlqDvahnVYlKI2zahTP3DVIGjSfUiCPQL6EMvUtK4xv50TcxSzjIN0HwtXL78wdjBBHKT2OemnWoBvmyP2z-kxyIIAkE7rGGMIL4LlsdYpIWy53Un7IeOetH-1TjqIu4EXYTWw/s1920/fallf1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayEvktEgLd7PChZ6ecBi2zp4zLd7OV4RgqRgkh8q9RVcfHv5DdJtXIlqDvahnVYlKI2zahTP3DVIGjSfUiCPQL6EMvUtK4xv50TcxSzjIN0HwtXL78wdjBBHKT2OemnWoBvmyP2z-kxyIIAkE7rGGMIL4LlsdYpIWy53Un7IeOetH-1TjqIu4EXYTWw/w640-h480/fallf1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>That lake is private. On the way down it was ringed with rises. I waved.. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZVPTCAyjFNoVgvGhx9LUP0wSfaOpWPeU_fUGYGLz0usVPNl0wj67IZbZEX7e6mlZuiXyF06uvpiNFW4hGAKaW9Iy41QYmHnt_A9Qqgdy-MzvJEznuPWJrPttZk9UK9BWmMY92WPjz03yfKdO0ifq9QLiowQskc2kux6QTJQ0eyWuMpcU19BOS02L4g/s1920/fallf3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZVPTCAyjFNoVgvGhx9LUP0wSfaOpWPeU_fUGYGLz0usVPNl0wj67IZbZEX7e6mlZuiXyF06uvpiNFW4hGAKaW9Iy41QYmHnt_A9Qqgdy-MzvJEznuPWJrPttZk9UK9BWmMY92WPjz03yfKdO0ifq9QLiowQskc2kux6QTJQ0eyWuMpcU19BOS02L4g/w640-h480/fallf3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>There were a couple big submarines patrolling the dropoff, cutts of 18" or better. No response, not so much as a spook away from my spinners and small minnow lures. The fish held to their patrol line and speed, commendable in your military troops, a little disheartening to the fisher. Tossed out the hopper and softhackle to drift around while drinking a contemplative lager from Upslope brewery in Boulder. They do 1% of profits to Trout Unlimited. I drink a lot of Upslope. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTPQ1SvL-_oMBdkPDRBwJpmpH4w1BgtMvDM9YEcg8OihJE4Gnculfm9kt0-opNsQdd-7i2WI6Kc_zm8CktU4QqmJ3BCFDDNZY6R6UpUA-d0nZ8Mzbfp-I7wLACtzl7YXx2LIu0749zH4URinSt3fwTFMe10QdLZWO5WhFTjE_ZlGAB-wQNTm665HxQQ/s1920/fallf2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTPQ1SvL-_oMBdkPDRBwJpmpH4w1BgtMvDM9YEcg8OihJE4Gnculfm9kt0-opNsQdd-7i2WI6Kc_zm8CktU4QqmJ3BCFDDNZY6R6UpUA-d0nZ8Mzbfp-I7wLACtzl7YXx2LIu0749zH4URinSt3fwTFMe10QdLZWO5WhFTjE_ZlGAB-wQNTm665HxQQ/w640-h480/fallf2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The drift around nearly always works. Nearly. Fished around to those rocks on the far side to no effect at all, tried a variety of flies and lures on a couple more patrollers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Back toward the outlet had been crowded earlier in the day. As evening descended it thinned out enough to cast a fly line. Here there was a small shoal of 8-10" fish with a patroller keeping watch below the shoal. That's a behavior I've never yet seen in high lakes, both the shoal and its accompanying patrol submarine. The little ones did take a small Smith Niagis spinner on the baitcast finesse outfit. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZywhUWdT_5JBR6iRObuMLlgjNDrUz6LTOGAjyiRBEhRUh8AT5rrxfEsHTTpZheqWtn_7Z_UkwxICFZE3Y9VF6bq0XleGZIzHFVI5C_YubqInxI4E-pTUagyoSVhJ3XMbJKYaZN8Kv_ilEju90k5DN8URsxW9i19xLEeJEadjte_6e7EiCAXzSgSBo_A/s1920/fallf%20bfs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZywhUWdT_5JBR6iRObuMLlgjNDrUz6LTOGAjyiRBEhRUh8AT5rrxfEsHTTpZheqWtn_7Z_UkwxICFZE3Y9VF6bq0XleGZIzHFVI5C_YubqInxI4E-pTUagyoSVhJ3XMbJKYaZN8Kv_ilEju90k5DN8URsxW9i19xLEeJEadjte_6e7EiCAXzSgSBo_A/w640-h480/fallf%20bfs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Often on these lakes with only a floating line I've wondered about bringing a spin/BFS outfit to plumb the depths. Well that didn't work, at least not today and here. Took a couple more of the little 'uns on a #18 Adams then called it a day. Back at the truck on the tailgate with another lager, the parking lot had gone quiet and mountain sounds could be heard. I was looking at those dense forests on steep slopes and thinking how glad I was not to be attempting an elk hunt this year. Another sign of gathering age no doubt. </div><div><br /></div><div>Soundtrack is Jackson Browne, The Pretender.. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2ROK1-VvOQ0" width="320" youtube-src-id="2ROK1-VvOQ0"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div>Caught between the longing for love</div><div>And the struggle for the legal tender</div></blockquote><div></div><div>sometimes I do feel like that happy idiot, when it gets to be September and the mountain's calls went unanswered.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div>I'm going to be a happy idiot</div><div>And struggle for the legal tender</div><div>Where the ads take aim and lay their claim</div><div>To the heart and the soul of the spender</div><div>And believe in whatever may lie</div><div>In those things that money can buy</div><div>Though true love could have been a contender</div><div>Are you there?</div><div>Say a prayer for the Pretender</div><div>Who started out so young and strong</div><div>Only to surrender</div><div></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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This was the high point of my day..</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKuFJu5nLGb_UVKOip8JfYrumblhKPMVkGb11sh-w6I1pVgH6BggYfBjBpgDadgInXfjpg_jQdOjdWF7YNxPY0_rRGAzaQWNsl7fQ_RySJgmN-m9jY0qM9M_K-orjva0X-nRUqcsj2UN1/s1628/devilDivide.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1628" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKuFJu5nLGb_UVKOip8JfYrumblhKPMVkGb11sh-w6I1pVgH6BggYfBjBpgDadgInXfjpg_jQdOjdWF7YNxPY0_rRGAzaQWNsl7fQ_RySJgmN-m9jY0qM9M_K-orjva0X-nRUqcsj2UN1/w640-h328/devilDivide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I knew this was going to be hard, but it was harder than that. It took me 3hr 53min which is longer than any marathon I've (yet) run. To be fair if I did run a marathon now it would be in the 4h30 region.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not much running in the previous months as I'd been nursing a bad knee which my physical therapist told me not to run on. The first commandment of running injury recovery is, Always Listen to your Physical Therapist - you shall have no other desires but what they say.. </div><div><br /></div><div>A bit of swimming since the other physical therapist had fixed the biceps tendonitis, and a good bit of MTB riding on gravel trails with plenty climbing, thought it would be enough.</div><div>Ha no. </div><div>Yes, I had two PTs, one for biceps another for knee. Reminds me of the old joke, 'Trust people ? Trust people ?! you sound just like my other psychologist'. </div><div><br /></div><div>Start at the bottom of Jones Pass, near the Henderson mine. Here they mine molybdenum and they're always recruiting, molyjobs.com posters all around the race site even. 2200 feet over 4 miles to the first aid station, cut off at two hours. I think I ran about 200yds total in those 4 miles, the rest was a determined steady plod at maximum HR while panting heartily. </div><div>Here's the Alltrails.com picture from the top of the pass where the aid station is. We started away down in the woods somewhere. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcftJPITH9Z6QjtUIuhcHvxCzY3AGdTLH3L2oWKRYnyVhkBYlJnDpycFn8iMNWTbeHHzIV5BHEmT29v5U0l3tyREb_QlFespYFaKNgJBAUWJvxrmp82sgWmNoeuP4-nZ_H_1qJnAEzHh9/s2048/jones+pass+alltrails.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcftJPITH9Z6QjtUIuhcHvxCzY3AGdTLH3L2oWKRYnyVhkBYlJnDpycFn8iMNWTbeHHzIV5BHEmT29v5U0l3tyREb_QlFespYFaKNgJBAUWJvxrmp82sgWmNoeuP4-nZ_H_1qJnAEzHh9/w640-h480/jones+pass+alltrails.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>A failure to read the topo map accurately brought a fine surprise, OK we're up the pass now, but there's still a thousand feet to climb along the Continental Divide trail to that high point. More plods, with occasional jogs. This pic from the race photographer @jordanchapell sums it up - a young woman leaping swiftly down the trail behind me, me firmly earthbound grinding along. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdGy99rMtHXId9z-Rg8wKNcZnbIeFOlSbc64iI2G_dwD9o6hPAWkPqoMOIjBHRi_El30u7_czhI9gvDCz3g16hd9GRldA8Sk3jKJ2WoHxZ13-TM4kB-0tHGCENJ5hlMjJ3GgBXy3NwhliA/s2048/DOTD21-JC-0351-DSC07577.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdGy99rMtHXId9z-Rg8wKNcZnbIeFOlSbc64iI2G_dwD9o6hPAWkPqoMOIjBHRi_El30u7_czhI9gvDCz3g16hd9GRldA8Sk3jKJ2WoHxZ13-TM4kB-0tHGCENJ5hlMjJ3GgBXy3NwhliA/w426-h640/DOTD21-JC-0351-DSC07577.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><div>Views were terrific. The winds howled over the Divide. When unpinning the number later, I found the winds whipping it around had actually bent the safety pins nearly open. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMEd5LtO1hEC1bh6NCk2XbUA0865MuCsviAjnw5EEBgr-R19TauTT-BJm5_KIHI0LjYY_0dR5lKV2OwygUUxWLCwI4uc_jZFxNI6C3UtSNS-m32Gs2etbaG3RRaAKiTgekx41IrQdwQ-7/s2048/DOTD21-JC-0352-DSC07578.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMEd5LtO1hEC1bh6NCk2XbUA0865MuCsviAjnw5EEBgr-R19TauTT-BJm5_KIHI0LjYY_0dR5lKV2OwygUUxWLCwI4uc_jZFxNI6C3UtSNS-m32Gs2etbaG3RRaAKiTgekx41IrQdwQ-7/w640-h426/DOTD21-JC-0352-DSC07578.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Here's a pic I took at one point while panting on the side of the trail, trying to calm my heart down as it tried to leap out of my chest. Runners all across the horizon, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uw5WhEp5kBM" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">a real highwayman's farewell</a>..</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31RaG1DtDTNp6CUuoLzEfzUmDb13leB_oQZu3XN3NVjzRZ6NuY8fkB_n581Et6_jxPbDAs4qXBCFLnKIjwvLloux0jLfXpIoBIWnK4-i8fXzx27uCALX1ehalHGgnsLQfXAz2_PGlrNZz/s1920/devilDivide3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1547" data-original-width="1920" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31RaG1DtDTNp6CUuoLzEfzUmDb13leB_oQZu3XN3NVjzRZ6NuY8fkB_n581Et6_jxPbDAs4qXBCFLnKIjwvLloux0jLfXpIoBIWnK4-i8fXzx27uCALX1ehalHGgnsLQfXAz2_PGlrNZz/w640-h516/devilDivide3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Most of this was runnable if you had working legs, which I did not. It seems I overcooked the climb.</div><div>Picture by Jordan Chapelle again, of fast people actually running. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJjMVIW-purlO9L0VykIqdKSQABYMlCWjOMez9Q44Zkj9o1ySVfs7vGagtqwnAe7JvW9OIHXIIjWlt1quYcpY7EyW2EWH4WOmgQPv19bnJ0iHoW531aeyNlJFVkjt5AWW07JUUw96j7mi/s2048/devil+JordanChapelle1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJjMVIW-purlO9L0VykIqdKSQABYMlCWjOMez9Q44Zkj9o1ySVfs7vGagtqwnAe7JvW9OIHXIIjWlt1quYcpY7EyW2EWH4WOmgQPv19bnJ0iHoW531aeyNlJFVkjt5AWW07JUUw96j7mi/w640-h360/devil+JordanChapelle1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Staggered on and out to the turnaround above Herman Gulch to get my bib punched. The volunteer asked if I was OK, must have been looking a bit ragged. Assured him I had a flask of Coca-Cola and two Honey Stingers left, I'd be fine. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another race photographer <a href="https://www.instagram.com/sohboyum/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">@sohboyum</a> shows the start of the downhill section. I did break from a walk into a sort of wobbling lurch but you can't tell it from the picture.. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3h9JyWsMFIDLgyHVssr3oTQU0QTrPz4-srMjQ5d0KIyWy-LczYJh_0Xi9-g0VFmHHjggPKcETNICjFMGB64O88ZmLwlR1NXDDsD32HPMX4kGoqPvIfwLUZuKzTYI6V1RhLLj-opZSz5D/s2048/SBanks_Herman_5J1A0596.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3h9JyWsMFIDLgyHVssr3oTQU0QTrPz4-srMjQ5d0KIyWy-LczYJh_0Xi9-g0VFmHHjggPKcETNICjFMGB64O88ZmLwlR1NXDDsD32HPMX4kGoqPvIfwLUZuKzTYI6V1RhLLj-opZSz5D/w640-h426/SBanks_Herman_5J1A0596.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>One of the volunteers said, "it's all downhill from here !" </div><div>Replied, "even if that's not true I'm going to believe it - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCGD9dT12C0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">lie to me</a>, please".</div><div><br /></div><div>Lumped and bumped down the rocks and roots of Herman Gulch, passing day hikers who most politely stepped off the trail for us sweaty plodders. The finish at 22k was also the aid station for the 50k runners. I watched them come in and leave again, legs trembling with fatigue. I could not have left again. </div><div><br /></div><div>A bus, masked, back to the Empire ballfield where the food and beer awaited. Sat down and stuck in the chair until they called my name. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZJcVX6SdtU51Mur_sLo4Mi_t9fH9A11Z_KRcjQuNAJdCqKIxc96RAig5vB5G-aWWd4E-A8QkPQt-A3KCoC48StOjLIaNk6YpC1pCV8J4r5tt-kZeR3wNJ3INCEijrYSoTpP179LBTcmE/s2048/DOTD21-JC-0060-DSC08287.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZJcVX6SdtU51Mur_sLo4Mi_t9fH9A11Z_KRcjQuNAJdCqKIxc96RAig5vB5G-aWWd4E-A8QkPQt-A3KCoC48StOjLIaNk6YpC1pCV8J4r5tt-kZeR3wNJ3INCEijrYSoTpP179LBTcmE/w426-h640/DOTD21-JC-0060-DSC08287.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><div>Turns out I'd won my age group by default, being the only one. (art by <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/idigoddpairings/art/I-m-the-only-one-TIGGER-255941423" target="_blank">idigoddpairings</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7rz1Y6b1JsebLJTKN8Fkb8AsmTCY6JEYiAIdzXFae3KPCYaqWJgpLHG5D2mMnm5B-5H04En8pAPjPupUXqDPuvK6RqReATFCjYgzvhsiUpdg_rbTvRYP1N1M_4Kwodnfl2rqTAfIXAH-/s850/tigger+only+one.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7rz1Y6b1JsebLJTKN8Fkb8AsmTCY6JEYiAIdzXFae3KPCYaqWJgpLHG5D2mMnm5B-5H04En8pAPjPupUXqDPuvK6RqReATFCjYgzvhsiUpdg_rbTvRYP1N1M_4Kwodnfl2rqTAfIXAH-/w283-h400/tigger+only+one.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><div>Now the proud owner of a genuine <a href="https://cowbells.com/collections/bells/products/moen-bells-of-norway-olympic?variant=531060749" target="_blank">Norwegian cowbell</a>, made of genuine brass rifle shell casings from the Norwegian military. What a great prize.</div><div>Beer by Tommyknocker brewery in Idaho Springs, excellent. Drank two without feeling a thing. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnLgX6jDpL_Jt0RvJ7mti7K7h_K0KWtcd_FcpegtnKG_Ta-2iJuGe6nC3CYN5dfY0m_0RrS8EYReqKsXctSuUBghYuMwzugC_evXc8M8KiTRwLWoO2cV-9134Ic6gKFPh-C3vIQZOsVbi4/s1920/devilDivide1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnLgX6jDpL_Jt0RvJ7mti7K7h_K0KWtcd_FcpegtnKG_Ta-2iJuGe6nC3CYN5dfY0m_0RrS8EYReqKsXctSuUBghYuMwzugC_evXc8M8KiTRwLWoO2cV-9134Ic6gKFPh-C3vIQZOsVbi4/w640-h480/devilDivide1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Said farewell to my table acquaintances, and went up the road to find a little creek for a bit of fishing. Once I get out of the house I like to get full value from the excursion. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfGb20_s6yvkn6549vJS9x56OCu8jamE98WvNn9L8K50vq2hRAYr8__W-F-oCroKG4sADoXv34KlWdBVWl8Tz49-4FPIAdc4tkhD8ShGnZxiI29VWoOWQUTpIO15N4zgTQvaqBSKxFwkN/s1920/devilClear.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfGb20_s6yvkn6549vJS9x56OCu8jamE98WvNn9L8K50vq2hRAYr8__W-F-oCroKG4sADoXv34KlWdBVWl8Tz49-4FPIAdc4tkhD8ShGnZxiI29VWoOWQUTpIO15N4zgTQvaqBSKxFwkN/w640-h480/devilClear.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_i-EKNhnr7SJmBjKjXq3A3yNrsTiQp6KyrhAv7-w098mGeYsPpkb4hnUQR5t_HUf5LyI3BdYS-XDl7Lhv2M7gkRfXzPt80yibLN8iBPImoWIpDNPTxaRZgj8kLVb9c9F8bgYcVcNW6U8/s1920/devilBrook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_i-EKNhnr7SJmBjKjXq3A3yNrsTiQp6KyrhAv7-w098mGeYsPpkb4hnUQR5t_HUf5LyI3BdYS-XDl7Lhv2M7gkRfXzPt80yibLN8iBPImoWIpDNPTxaRZgj8kLVb9c9F8bgYcVcNW6U8/w640-h480/devilBrook.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Too tired to fish effectively and left soon for a nap, still did get a bit of a lower-leg soak in the cold water and a couple pretty miniatures of trout. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJkgOstiFgjbGKt9Yn25SuhrgckjvQ9xeHbFBl2RM4lH2YfSLVtWnv5Xp5pu8VYpmf37rPorIuadM2-svwYRyZVyMn9cTbRs_TImuFp0pjuEDgTqDqjxTKwtZbarMK5VujVPFGMGoNKjt/s1920/devilBrook1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1450" data-original-width="1920" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJkgOstiFgjbGKt9Yn25SuhrgckjvQ9xeHbFBl2RM4lH2YfSLVtWnv5Xp5pu8VYpmf37rPorIuadM2-svwYRyZVyMn9cTbRs_TImuFp0pjuEDgTqDqjxTKwtZbarMK5VujVPFGMGoNKjt/w640-h484/devilBrook1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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</script>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-73778918460322190262021-08-30T22:36:00.008-06:002021-08-30T23:29:24.884-06:00Holy Cross wilderness<div>The plan was to visit a couple of lakes in the Collegiate Peaks which had good fish in 2009. I have been trying to get back there ever since. That trailhead needs a high clearance vehicle, so naturally the brake lights on my truck went on the fritz. Wednesday night replaced the bulbs with LEDs and checked/replaced fuses, not that. Thursday night fetched the part from across Denver and replaced the brake pedal switch/sensor, not that. OK we are down to the wiring and harnesses now, Fri night an hour of futzing and couldn't find the short. Oh well it's the mighty mighty Honda Fit then, plan B is a supposedly better road to a Holy Cross wilderness trailhead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Reader - it wasn't any better. Everyone looks at you funny, driving a Fit over a nasty road where all the other vehicles are lifted 4wd adventure-mobiles.. The parking lot was mostly full, I threaded my way between a pine tree and a couple of boulders at the edge of a pit, to find a little spot to park. I may have had a small nightmare or two in camp that night about getting out again - just how steep was the hill and the turn ? It was alright though, late Sun the Fit climbed out easy and I parked at the real trailhead in order to use the pit toilet. Still surrounded by those giant rigs though. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJIPEwkouR_nDK_gxSA1YyYArmzlxPRATZxvaN6m1zlsYwr4s7siC2PpQ1vfEBFiFZ89GOHz-M8QSj016wkxUCccK4oPU51GuDlY9fE5ZYEE_U0dDBpM9kBA8wcqyj3CfF10AJm0LFEcw/s1600/trailhead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJIPEwkouR_nDK_gxSA1YyYArmzlxPRATZxvaN6m1zlsYwr4s7siC2PpQ1vfEBFiFZ89GOHz-M8QSj016wkxUCccK4oPU51GuDlY9fE5ZYEE_U0dDBpM9kBA8wcqyj3CfF10AJm0LFEcw/w640-h480/trailhead.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Bet none of them got this kind of mpg for the trip.. a 290-mile round trip from Denver, including climbing to Eisenhower tunnel, down and over Vail pass, up 13 miles of poor dirt road to 3mi of terrible dirt road. Then back. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3r4GxuBnP-ldxSPzpexnRWrHxq-7xds4l5Ws1csU1niMnyiBYTpq58P_MPtMJK7j5WO0bS5L7vrZI2Qm_B9Pdh2mXxYQBC8USp692uX23YDDKdSL4-wOgaxqHmGkKtS9zMOdMyyeKVbQ/s1920/fit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3r4GxuBnP-ldxSPzpexnRWrHxq-7xds4l5Ws1csU1niMnyiBYTpq58P_MPtMJK7j5WO0bS5L7vrZI2Qm_B9Pdh2mXxYQBC8USp692uX23YDDKdSL4-wOgaxqHmGkKtS9zMOdMyyeKVbQ/w640-h480/fit.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Busy trail going up. I had a new light pack and a 1lb tarp to replace 4.5lb of tent so my entire overnight pack was just over 20lb, a new personal record. That little weight is basically a daypack sort of burden which is barely noticeable. I sped past everyone I saw, though it turns out climbing 2200 feet over 4.5 miles is still noticeable. </div><div><br /></div><div>Strong 'Paths of the Dead' emanations from the canyon mouth. I did not fish my way up, needed to make some miles before the afternoon storms piled in. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Porj06Jk5ex_TsvIBY8dpGoJ4zrgF8JK6I1upq1v5LUjOdAs-ngjFv3-5eqaso-Pcc88i73lbwvTo51D1CDBHCrI-j6EbCTH850xeK6hCiy3LEcqspKHIxtzGd25qouRMU1Rvle5VwdY/s2048/canyon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Porj06Jk5ex_TsvIBY8dpGoJ4zrgF8JK6I1upq1v5LUjOdAs-ngjFv3-5eqaso-Pcc88i73lbwvTo51D1CDBHCrI-j6EbCTH850xeK6hCiy3LEcqspKHIxtzGd25qouRMU1Rvle5VwdY/w480-h640/canyon.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Over the pass a bit over 12 000ft, weather looking iffy. It started raining shortly after this. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLn3tYsh8bDWTQrw-OJNCKttJnQhSnS_ck8mvuUt0Wj2eLcliYzfcy6Yj-BSKnJELsar4WDsvrS4TpTijPdihoAw4xAtgvFjh8ovG_Xkw3h9NVPn_dWkq7-EWwlUKKdy9Sh1vBTa4iZOwZ/s1920/pass.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLn3tYsh8bDWTQrw-OJNCKttJnQhSnS_ck8mvuUt0Wj2eLcliYzfcy6Yj-BSKnJELsar4WDsvrS4TpTijPdihoAw4xAtgvFjh8ovG_Xkw3h9NVPn_dWkq7-EWwlUKKdy9Sh1vBTa4iZOwZ/w640-h480/pass.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The rain is no problem as long as the lightning doesn't show up. Camp well below the lake with a bit of tree for shelter and a perfect dining rock. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b53GSg-S3GXBn5DVWILwqDAg6ZPFL1ELo_5jf1kLddgPTRmb8M01oduqQadmeD5xeV4kjNoGNDjx-hYWxSNNc7SiRa5RTH-UeYPcHhg29j3GmogEstojaBXMDCmafvqB1ZtPA6H6rLfH/s1920/camp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b53GSg-S3GXBn5DVWILwqDAg6ZPFL1ELo_5jf1kLddgPTRmb8M01oduqQadmeD5xeV4kjNoGNDjx-hYWxSNNc7SiRa5RTH-UeYPcHhg29j3GmogEstojaBXMDCmafvqB1ZtPA6H6rLfH/w640-h480/camp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>There were two parties camped at 11 600 ft by the lake out on the exposed tundra. The next morning after a night of wind rain and thunderstorms, one party had moved down into the trees and the other had vanished.. </div><div><br /></div><div>Started by hooking a 3" cutt, overreacting on the strike and sending it flying through the air to dash its little brain out on a rock at my feet. This was a bit horrible. I've taken trout airborne before, never yet killed one that way. Took a moment to think before fishing on. </div><div><br /></div><div>Usually lakes at this height have midges, maybe a scud or two, and whatever terrestrials get blown upslope by the afternoon anabatic winds. Today there were midges, a few caddis, a mayfly or so, and one <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ASpBpT8bRQ" target="_blank">lost and lonely</a> Yellow <a href="http://www.troutnut.com/specimen/611" target="_blank">Sally</a> stonefly. A Royal Stimulator worked perfectly well. </div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hkwXG2YAuAOsXEhIIMewtdwymeYwUuwU-zyeXBG0MraLA8hb2Sv7HHYH3leqwng1SnBiP0ZMBbD_NqkUdnUCslkxNaapp28i3OEp1OvfHW3LsHXwoUd_QfXh84tBTRrzKbaGHJ4Z3dk1/s1920/lake1a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hkwXG2YAuAOsXEhIIMewtdwymeYwUuwU-zyeXBG0MraLA8hb2Sv7HHYH3leqwng1SnBiP0ZMBbD_NqkUdnUCslkxNaapp28i3OEp1OvfHW3LsHXwoUd_QfXh84tBTRrzKbaGHJ4Z3dk1/w640-h480/lake1a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2UFHRNwJoh-B3-lqHxv1M5Rb5rVcbbzvDKb2ppGjfh73HN4nefb7ZrjNX3KQ_XVuq0ja1jiUa_B8Q7c0rz51UEVvD9S4wC5NEoLwC6_klWqx5cFoKBoaSAFah3ywbDqgms4ioi_zVx0V/s1920/lake1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2UFHRNwJoh-B3-lqHxv1M5Rb5rVcbbzvDKb2ppGjfh73HN4nefb7ZrjNX3KQ_XVuq0ja1jiUa_B8Q7c0rz51UEVvD9S4wC5NEoLwC6_klWqx5cFoKBoaSAFah3ywbDqgms4ioi_zVx0V/w640-h480/lake1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div>The fish increased steadily in size from 11" up to this nice 14" cutt. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO6reL9Ubo3ZeIWOnaFjfFjoHaRcuRMTtmEz7znwGd-RyBWkVg6ZlBWWse0n3Wp2SuD0NVPemV4BAH3PcjdWkAZjxWNXLz7upv1VUrldc_FcEvX1IFs1nY2JE5yAckJInM1HzLpH2yKKs/s1920/fish1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipO6reL9Ubo3ZeIWOnaFjfFjoHaRcuRMTtmEz7znwGd-RyBWkVg6ZlBWWse0n3Wp2SuD0NVPemV4BAH3PcjdWkAZjxWNXLz7upv1VUrldc_FcEvX1IFs1nY2JE5yAckJInM1HzLpH2yKKs/w640-h480/fish1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctmtkHc7ee8RffYu9cr-PL1itIWT8a99Dctlz1fe2VcS6hNJjUKWGm-BSIBqQ6obJeRnTxbh83C1_zgHkF3XwhsMKvwaFfPtL3KiKp5i6EhmtizpHms84uNKHQdn4n-_VCMd_RIkEL7Z4/s2048/fish2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctmtkHc7ee8RffYu9cr-PL1itIWT8a99Dctlz1fe2VcS6hNJjUKWGm-BSIBqQ6obJeRnTxbh83C1_zgHkF3XwhsMKvwaFfPtL3KiKp5i6EhmtizpHms84uNKHQdn4n-_VCMd_RIkEL7Z4/w480-h640/fish2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAu5nKqHoLHSmb6PFbcHyIf4ylfBKnNVmXTcDXL8F-_9metNNvlSXnq3m34ymaT-s4KuVSHxrIwRiNZRAGEersGvLwiNI1ui2nOrT8gCefzme4j9IHzpd4i25EZnzZBxYwovFjAGvdmt6K/s1920/fish3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAu5nKqHoLHSmb6PFbcHyIf4ylfBKnNVmXTcDXL8F-_9metNNvlSXnq3m34ymaT-s4KuVSHxrIwRiNZRAGEersGvLwiNI1ui2nOrT8gCefzme4j9IHzpd4i25EZnzZBxYwovFjAGvdmt6K/w640-h480/fish3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Then the weather moved back in with thunder booming and echoing peak to peak. Took the 4-piece Fenwick Voyageur rod apart into its 4 pieces so as not to attract the lightening god and scuttled back down the hill into the trees, with small hail pelting down. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwXiAvOqKzTz1LSk2qUtOUgSGFFo46Hqx3LzaaIwnIhC4TbK7nxZ5krw7aGU_hOjDqei6pSpHDQOB0ZcrDhlVVxTVcAxt998jTa__hF3Kz5xMF20iGciAsH5gEQLjrkJs6fnmlpYNNGsu/s1920/lake1b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwXiAvOqKzTz1LSk2qUtOUgSGFFo46Hqx3LzaaIwnIhC4TbK7nxZ5krw7aGU_hOjDqei6pSpHDQOB0ZcrDhlVVxTVcAxt998jTa__hF3Kz5xMF20iGciAsH5gEQLjrkJs6fnmlpYNNGsu/w640-h480/lake1b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Fifteen minutes later the skies were <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOCaBCGuJxM" target="_blank">perfect blue</a> with the storm moving off downvalley, me sitting by the creek wondering what the hell. </div><div><br /></div><div>At some point here I'd inadvertently switched the camera phone into some kind of low resolution mode, so the remaining photos are artistically rendered, none of your superreal 4k here. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnDfRUkq5nlc2efOzJIHsa06jCC7CY0TqoBVH1zzx41WhDEwP_fcPz1Q4d4zP8U1gxFixVkCV-CCcV3i9-Zr5xdrWyc0Gy5f7eeALIp69lq0sXMW2f4vLiueOMCR7bSKoqeRfD04WT0hh/s1600/creek.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnDfRUkq5nlc2efOzJIHsa06jCC7CY0TqoBVH1zzx41WhDEwP_fcPz1Q4d4zP8U1gxFixVkCV-CCcV3i9-Zr5xdrWyc0Gy5f7eeALIp69lq0sXMW2f4vLiueOMCR7bSKoqeRfD04WT0hh/w640-h480/creek.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The problem with fishing below the mountaintops is the oncoming weather is not usually visible, instead it comes boiling sudden over the ridgeline. Rather than go back up there and get blindsided by another thunderstorm I decided to go a couple miles down-creek to see what was happening. Certainly cutts, maybe brookies ? </div><div>Cutts. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6H8XgyIL4fzrrAQWrigp1M3CMUg2glG7tp0gdGesrtsxqqFZgjcDKFXhDQBoVqd7aVSBDHvtm34eRi4ZSlLe0ayAEZzAlT4TbZY_XCyeuzFf_sWEyleRNHavQwUTy-KjdmFRxgUr7lOa/s1600/fish4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6H8XgyIL4fzrrAQWrigp1M3CMUg2glG7tp0gdGesrtsxqqFZgjcDKFXhDQBoVqd7aVSBDHvtm34eRi4ZSlLe0ayAEZzAlT4TbZY_XCyeuzFf_sWEyleRNHavQwUTy-KjdmFRxgUr7lOa/w480-h640/fish4.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div>On famous tailwaters the fish are jaded. They'll get hooked, flounder a bit as a token fight, then swim over to get unhooked and wait patiently for the picture. Up here wild fish aren't used to posing for a picture. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqEJLns9SnoYHd20Q2WIYszlLcabnitnTDSrMToaXgPY0SQMxCB4W2uYcq4EZdYgIQF0X5BeDLqK1cTYmRbd2pts3kw-WLv5Rcme4Xwd4llsLkKsHTZo6S51GMC1AzgGwakM4hxqCVg4D/s1600/whoops.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqEJLns9SnoYHd20Q2WIYszlLcabnitnTDSrMToaXgPY0SQMxCB4W2uYcq4EZdYgIQF0X5BeDLqK1cTYmRbd2pts3kw-WLv5Rcme4Xwd4llsLkKsHTZo6S51GMC1AzgGwakM4hxqCVg4D/w480-h640/whoops.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div>Coming back up the creek at 5:30pm was a bit of a grind. Dinner, no reservations needed for the best seat in the house, party of one (but that's no kind of a party, at all). <a href="https://www.nwf.org/Educational-Resources/Wildlife-Guide/Mammals/American-Pika" target="_blank">Pikas</a> from the boulder garden across the valley sang me to sleep and gave me a morning reveille of squeaks. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbRBAZIAtfImRll18SHIirAVotmwo9kBgorOD33YbIdVBWZfFgivR9QZqUPZiYptBZpUBNdpY82-iKLTDZoJfXLLokrLQLFl8i40msrO6hka3lpmsHp2ik2KOqydQAx_GF6b9m55YDeXX/s1600/dinner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbRBAZIAtfImRll18SHIirAVotmwo9kBgorOD33YbIdVBWZfFgivR9QZqUPZiYptBZpUBNdpY82-iKLTDZoJfXLLokrLQLFl8i40msrO6hka3lpmsHp2ik2KOqydQAx_GF6b9m55YDeXX/w640-h480/dinner.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>A restless night with not much for sleep. Turns out campsite levelness selection is much more important with a tarp than with a tent. If you slide around in a tent on slopy ground, it's an annoyance: sliding under a tarp puts you outside in the rain. It was nice to turn over and see a valley in moonlight, instead of the inside of a dirty tent flysheet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Next morning clambered back up to the nearby lake for a couple more fish. Several more lakes on the way back down, first one held fish less eager but chunkier and stronger. These things are probably related. Not fishing well, zombified by the missing night's sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNy2cT_uSmYNwBm4JrgfQLi8nMzZ1JyccQA8UcxGMDmTAQo1o0yJeK5LeThyphenhyphenGc6PU_NnT7HHt10VUcy-X8Jn9U2MVNo46udoVbzzocjNGyVkP7mdi0_y0mz0p5L6XzVzSRMo-cCtoP8Nc/s1920/lake2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNy2cT_uSmYNwBm4JrgfQLi8nMzZ1JyccQA8UcxGMDmTAQo1o0yJeK5LeThyphenhyphenGc6PU_NnT7HHt10VUcy-X8Jn9U2MVNo46udoVbzzocjNGyVkP7mdi0_y0mz0p5L6XzVzSRMo-cCtoP8Nc/w640-h480/lake2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The biggest lake has the smallest fish, hordes of skinny 6-8" brookies. One last lake, a milky green that looked odd after the aching clarity of all the others. Another redbellied cutt, then I lay in the grass for an hour and failed to nap in the mild sun and wind. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLksd-gHxB_eyZ8Qbv0krlAe5p_W8wwckGbuzeP7QM3ijg8S45VstNsfLqUwRNSgJrjI8H4bMV-QzG-qonBRdhs2KFY2Up2csDdg0NI2KyIZTo61xz924rvf2CJF6y6YunHGhm0dsFAmlF/s2048/red.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLksd-gHxB_eyZ8Qbv0krlAe5p_W8wwckGbuzeP7QM3ijg8S45VstNsfLqUwRNSgJrjI8H4bMV-QzG-qonBRdhs2KFY2Up2csDdg0NI2KyIZTo61xz924rvf2CJF6y6YunHGhm0dsFAmlF/w480-h640/red.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Down the hill and back out. It's weird how Sunday afternoon feels like a Sunday even in the high country. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SPiSYVLFCM8" width="320" youtube-src-id="SPiSYVLFCM8"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><script type="text/javascript">
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</script>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-30482315414670705642021-03-23T12:50:00.003-06:002021-03-23T12:54:32.307-06:00a few small events<p>About talked myself out of going fishing on Saturday since I knew it would be crowded and busy. Then went anyway since a cold day on the river is better than.. well, most other things.. <br />This is a less famous stretch of a famous river. There aren't many fish here and they aren't very big, on the plus side
sometimes you can have a whole pool all to yourself on this stretch,
even on a weekend. On the famous stretch you have to take your place in line to rotate through a pool. <br /><br />At first the line was icing up in the guides, so well below freezing. Lots and lots of people, including a number of those ridiculous overlander rigs camping in the pullouts, and the Douglas County Search and Rescue running a big training exercise. Dippers (water ouzel bird) for company, always a good sign as that suggests there are bugs to be found - two of them in pic, on rocks at lower L. </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6k5hDdL9tzQypsKFEsV-ZUf0a_yiwxANLyMPspWK0pHFnaZAC7RN3cCg080x0OeVoIsRWDL-u6hTUXWGhssZv25nquLqAptfZv_Ce9DkcKQp5kuMKUzEhft3pqITPka2nRBN-oO6x87t/s1920/dippers+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="1920" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6k5hDdL9tzQypsKFEsV-ZUf0a_yiwxANLyMPspWK0pHFnaZAC7RN3cCg080x0OeVoIsRWDL-u6hTUXWGhssZv25nquLqAptfZv_Ce9DkcKQp5kuMKUzEhft3pqITPka2nRBN-oO6x87t/w640-h374/dippers+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p> I was fishing the Colonel's reel, on a split cane rod that had given me <a href="http://classicflyrodforum.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=66&t=131727" target="_blank">some trouble</a> to repair. <br /><script type="text/javascript">
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pounds 19 shillings and sixpence for this reel. I paid rather more than
that on ebay.. but it's a fine old click/pawl reel. <br /><br />Missed the
first two takes due to slowness and sheer astonishment that I was
actually getting takes, then a nice 13" brown on a #24 red tube midge. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FvO0aVAkbYcD3rGCEqLyfQ5RtLK9OVBY4a6JDO_adZSyh80LsHC4-lzvDh-wLLbFiDNDihMqAmeXyDv_8bnFpd1tTAPNtvtnD-Gzr1cpucXljktSGLP4pbnz86FAx9vZEXnyvaY8G3a1/s1920/brown+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FvO0aVAkbYcD3rGCEqLyfQ5RtLK9OVBY4a6JDO_adZSyh80LsHC4-lzvDh-wLLbFiDNDihMqAmeXyDv_8bnFpd1tTAPNtvtnD-Gzr1cpucXljktSGLP4pbnz86FAx9vZEXnyvaY8G3a1/w640-h480/brown+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxLjuRZb9Qh4MjitbMK5E24CIoiolpb843gLRcBGm5L2prXPwR42i9OcZVX_wfMy9aj8bbYPeorkvuGhuFz3D3XPhg9a_TcvxyRGJVhKRoODdNqckKQZeoJG_-UEuBDKUatIdt8WGrdWd/s1920/colonels+reel1+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxLjuRZb9Qh4MjitbMK5E24CIoiolpb843gLRcBGm5L2prXPwR42i9OcZVX_wfMy9aj8bbYPeorkvuGhuFz3D3XPhg9a_TcvxyRGJVhKRoODdNqckKQZeoJG_-UEuBDKUatIdt8WGrdWd/w640-h480/colonels+reel1+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Bumped
into other fishermen and walked around for some time looking for open
water, found a hundred yards or so and a matching cuttbow took the lead
fly, #16 beadhead Partridge and Orange. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRX8FVHVsM1_rA1V7CHS5tdsXEQF0fQI6DwzKjFcU5fQ7ra_bm6FyeoRKFgDyltz2bmF07LewnC9dGUAfPG-0f_Grs9MOCKu7sS5ypOapOrAIF9AP27p0LQOyABTHXAcg9kcPrFsKuVtJ/s1920/colonels+reel+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRX8FVHVsM1_rA1V7CHS5tdsXEQF0fQI6DwzKjFcU5fQ7ra_bm6FyeoRKFgDyltz2bmF07LewnC9dGUAfPG-0f_Grs9MOCKu7sS5ypOapOrAIF9AP27p0LQOyABTHXAcg9kcPrFsKuVtJ/w640-h480/colonels+reel+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXTNFS2GCUITuUlrIlKxVLWqizTaeCdwno-9IZ01JMC4tkZF86mJxcdfEJh1ZTAqyVUL1ScVmx5jmvHhbCdhCb394s4l5OX9bYuwY7X1_ZrJgssvg6KIORhl2NMrA7QfLwR702ywwcMqS/s1920/rainbow+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXTNFS2GCUITuUlrIlKxVLWqizTaeCdwno-9IZ01JMC4tkZF86mJxcdfEJh1ZTAqyVUL1ScVmx5jmvHhbCdhCb394s4l5OX9bYuwY7X1_ZrJgssvg6KIORhl2NMrA7QfLwR702ywwcMqS/w640-h480/rainbow+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Ran
out of river again below a covey of fisherfolk. Back to the car then
clambered down into the chutes where flyfishermen fear to go, with a
finesse spinning outfit and 3lb line. A plump little cuttbow at the top
of the pool, then lost a good 16"+ brown in the tail of the pool. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy28QCkvCWvNDZejr4xbM_qVjCOKmtCXpr4HfJ0l63IPjhyphenhyphenXPfZTD2yLtpLkBVzLq-3IeknpZj8jipjRCvsiaPnodCTdNpI1y0fz1z3K991g_RVZFEr23yu2o-k8B1GgtbzzXbwlXMwmP/s1920/spin+fish+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy28QCkvCWvNDZejr4xbM_qVjCOKmtCXpr4HfJ0l63IPjhyphenhyphenXPfZTD2yLtpLkBVzLq-3IeknpZj8jipjRCvsiaPnodCTdNpI1y0fz1z3K991g_RVZFEr23yu2o-k8B1GgtbzzXbwlXMwmP/w640-h480/spin+fish+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xDfxmDZaZ-ic3CX6KBOkHsWxdc_K2i4C7rqyys2BzmwlzHnDjHYKtKLXX6zu3c4NQci7i1zUhxYwf97Z-hck5wSjqPCVTQXmTutI2e_TS54pzBnQg9ozMewHwEsXRpPTAnezFGAkkcNN/s2048/spring+river+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xDfxmDZaZ-ic3CX6KBOkHsWxdc_K2i4C7rqyys2BzmwlzHnDjHYKtKLXX6zu3c4NQci7i1zUhxYwf97Z-hck5wSjqPCVTQXmTutI2e_TS54pzBnQg9ozMewHwEsXRpPTAnezFGAkkcNN/w480-h640/spring+river+3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p>Drove
down to the confluence of the N Fork to see if there was anything in
the lower river. The N Fork was coming in strong and cold, the lower
river looked glacial, nothing but green water and rock. No dippers,
kingfishers, weed or bugs. One sad and lonely 11" cuttbow, survivor of
last season's stocking, was all.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed8aX0nXGs1VchP0TDiEbq3UM_Eq_M2Eo-ZzYFTqjAH1vaBPj10xSCk6G_86dJMwgE2cqsmv_UvQfjKeBFKrhPCleu7L_bKwJFt8HdUkrni2VP4UP0EnXjIJ4g1miswI4rSuj3vHieODI/s2048/spring+river+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1505" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed8aX0nXGs1VchP0TDiEbq3UM_Eq_M2Eo-ZzYFTqjAH1vaBPj10xSCk6G_86dJMwgE2cqsmv_UvQfjKeBFKrhPCleu7L_bKwJFt8HdUkrni2VP4UP0EnXjIJ4g1miswI4rSuj3vHieODI/w470-h640/spring+river+2.jpg" width="470" /></a></div><p>On the walk out <a href="https://www.9news.com/article/news/local/next/a-large-boulder-the-size-of-a-small-boulder-rolled-onto-highway-145-and-the-internet-had-questions/73-19104495-29af-4b56-9f92-f7801079735e" target="_blank">a large boulder the size of a small boulder</a> had fallen into the trail. Glad I missed that..<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZZhWcrfGIrY_FIGBqUdJ5RVG8ieVFMroOHgtp0evk7mAQB_WYuwB8G-AdbwrYjK60GFK-JqP2kjEty66j43IKaf_IKt3U3U8bBkc5UAhBBSJ3Mj7K54AH1F-AHYg66DELQXvaOWLL0r2/s2048/spring+river+Thud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZZhWcrfGIrY_FIGBqUdJ5RVG8ieVFMroOHgtp0evk7mAQB_WYuwB8G-AdbwrYjK60GFK-JqP2kjEty66j43IKaf_IKt3U3U8bBkc5UAhBBSJ3Mj7K54AH1F-AHYg66DELQXvaOWLL0r2/w640-h480/spring+river+Thud.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Yet another good day on the river, then. Almost nothing happened and that's just the way I like it. <p></p>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-72509984144843319832021-01-10T12:28:00.005-07:002022-11-08T12:00:43.357-07:00A good dog<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOd4pvMS94gCwU0oPWaDELommWoaAdKXCRphokSPRqaFJEqVcRcyLOrGoTpeNrLP4C_yPliK80L0NA4tzwkFFiwaeor9X0eqi7o8HtNaBBxprJ-CXD5apVcAhBkBkHUph0tjlUFMVFytKe/s1543/artiePortrait.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1298" data-original-width="1543" height="538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOd4pvMS94gCwU0oPWaDELommWoaAdKXCRphokSPRqaFJEqVcRcyLOrGoTpeNrLP4C_yPliK80L0NA4tzwkFFiwaeor9X0eqi7o8HtNaBBxprJ-CXD5apVcAhBkBkHUph0tjlUFMVFytKe/w640-h538/artiePortrait.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />It seems to be not enough to say. Consider though, the base level of dog is so much higher than the base human - full of loving kindness freely given without judgment. A good dog is an exemplification of the higher spiritual life. I try to be the man my dog thinks I am, if I could do that heaven is certain. </p><p> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSQas5NiHIpaYcjQ6FNUxny4t3yGjr9dVmjZ37nfM1V9IogNZCr59pG20sQqMiSZD8AW6Yee5aDRzl8ANmaeKSBVaKxzY2_IN_SMVC80P58oiAMM5kBbGNwbbB2ZgaUSxu-06-YFl-Lbf/s864/artie_pup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="864" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSQas5NiHIpaYcjQ6FNUxny4t3yGjr9dVmjZ37nfM1V9IogNZCr59pG20sQqMiSZD8AW6Yee5aDRzl8ANmaeKSBVaKxzY2_IN_SMVC80P58oiAMM5kBbGNwbbB2ZgaUSxu-06-YFl-Lbf/w640-h560/artie_pup.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQsj6gtVA0ZsXGooAqCqOBsqA0ucetq_h_07VOu6gSDNS2roTuH0Seu-eV-5ftJwT4-zrMtaWofmUccCQRy7BxrW2rsSBsAEUxtNzFAXB68P64NNoD2G6yQHAcUw_nRdljKwu6qyDQCNx/s1024/artieAsleep.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="1024" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQsj6gtVA0ZsXGooAqCqOBsqA0ucetq_h_07VOu6gSDNS2roTuH0Seu-eV-5ftJwT4-zrMtaWofmUccCQRy7BxrW2rsSBsAEUxtNzFAXB68P64NNoD2G6yQHAcUw_nRdljKwu6qyDQCNx/w640-h390/artieAsleep.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>My friend Ken was given a pup from the litter sired by his good dog Spot, as part of the stud fee. He'd had enough of my haverings and tergiversations about getting a dog and simply gave Artie to us. We let the boys name him. They decided on Artemis, for the Greek god of hunting, though the gender didn't quite line up (and maybe also <a href="https://www.rollingstone.com/movies/movie-reviews/artemis-fowl-movie-review-disney-plus-1013720/" target="_blank">for</a> Artemis Fowl, also appropriate for a bird dog). Artie, for family, sometimes spelled Arty. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjva3tUO_-T2XW0t3LRUwbHiTSbcj3SWN_Xt7o51JvSUjwFbhsGAQYaT26ThTe7aEyBFLykMJ7or71CWp-1VT9QDAwUeotamOTHv_RKMzlJTvwsnl57sn01XtItkKf-1uG4QSQhVH1JG5JY/s2048/artie+pups+no+greeneye.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjva3tUO_-T2XW0t3LRUwbHiTSbcj3SWN_Xt7o51JvSUjwFbhsGAQYaT26ThTe7aEyBFLykMJ7or71CWp-1VT9QDAwUeotamOTHv_RKMzlJTvwsnl57sn01XtItkKf-1uG4QSQhVH1JG5JY/w640-h480/artie+pups+no+greeneye.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsD4ah4NmppFdLFugR_pCZYJuq4rF8Yj1PfI-QfGZ-wBiUcy5EMPI-e0H2KJQXhkSlhkgsu2wZ8a921PFERRACH_J8TazKg_ExlAkK0mnvkx2pTmGTOoFO5mq0acOuhtZ94EEp27K7klt/s1600/openingDogSleep.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsD4ah4NmppFdLFugR_pCZYJuq4rF8Yj1PfI-QfGZ-wBiUcy5EMPI-e0H2KJQXhkSlhkgsu2wZ8a921PFERRACH_J8TazKg_ExlAkK0mnvkx2pTmGTOoFO5mq0acOuhtZ94EEp27K7klt/w640-h480/openingDogSleep.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>That's either dog bliss or exhaustion, maybe both. <br /></p><p>He was a field-bred English cocker spaniel. The breed guides say, “The English Cocker is merry and affectionate, of equable disposition,
neither sluggish nor hyperactive, a willing worker, and a faithful and
engaging companion.” The field-bred is made for hunting not show, bred for soundness, strength and the drive to work rather than some artificial standard of prettiness. <a href="https://www.gundogmag.com/editorial/breed-profile-english-cocker-spaniel/176206" target="_blank">Of these</a>, "Generally they are a thinking breed. They learn fast and can be bored and discouraged by repetition." He ran true to breed. <br /></p><p>Artie was a remarkable combination of family pet and an outstanding hunter. After a little training from Ken and Spot in his first year, he tried all his life to teach me how to hunt upland birds, never tiring in this thankless task, always ready for another attempt. An early lesson with Spot on the left, Artie right. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CpsQsjrQFFwOqJjw-zBbay9reNA0zRipSPURigo9xrYAtHg0VF2tjRDAltt7R6MPHcCzSei_oxeBIQdXY_9HXC4rVw11bQtXmdMrqCNeVwDfe0tzOSGwKWjYG6yi_akOXnuE3mIkmW8S/s2048/dogs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CpsQsjrQFFwOqJjw-zBbay9reNA0zRipSPURigo9xrYAtHg0VF2tjRDAltt7R6MPHcCzSei_oxeBIQdXY_9HXC4rVw11bQtXmdMrqCNeVwDfe0tzOSGwKWjYG6yi_akOXnuE3mIkmW8S/w640-h480/dogs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> Upon seeing me pick up a shotgun he would begin to grin and not stop. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzR_rPYqSyz3C-2eSqxCzRDKwGIRaWsKysSr3kXe8NA_v9xnyygoD5mXMOeG6d2ATT5CFXJwcDL77qwiyDVD_UsEGLqH3QONJiHjhCoNsvQl0m36FcFqA1Xo-fHJkev9pUmKxa1tHRnkD/s1280/pant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="1280" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzR_rPYqSyz3C-2eSqxCzRDKwGIRaWsKysSr3kXe8NA_v9xnyygoD5mXMOeG6d2ATT5CFXJwcDL77qwiyDVD_UsEGLqH3QONJiHjhCoNsvQl0m36FcFqA1Xo-fHJkev9pUmKxa1tHRnkD/w640-h624/pant.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Tell me dogs don't smile. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRBB3GvZ3y0edpBnYSxVW54dwF8XrILAwE99qxlB7QiwgKwfBnUFX5V5llL8r2mTarGiSdxqrw1H7mw-FeU5w69XXdhAgehek3wif0-D75NyBiMETTX6HFptR9V0UgZd7mK0Rp9cQF48i/s1280/fetched.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1280" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRBB3GvZ3y0edpBnYSxVW54dwF8XrILAwE99qxlB7QiwgKwfBnUFX5V5llL8r2mTarGiSdxqrw1H7mw-FeU5w69XXdhAgehek3wif0-D75NyBiMETTX6HFptR9V0UgZd7mK0Rp9cQF48i/w640-h504/fetched.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>My <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2008/12/pheasant-with-my-phowling-piece.html" target="_blank">first</a> pheasant, faithfully retrieved. This photo turned into a painting which Ian made for me for one Father's day. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wLhfxmGupQTN5G2FV1aQ6Nei-IxO88K6w30r6LAA6zriJOCv0T3l1uxCaa1c12T5MXTbe-K-5cb1pvlTnk7pWAjmcOzmWGf7rbIiOnexUM6ORIFSfLKqLjBqzTNRaueBjRTTAuMdYXmg/s2048/artie+painting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wLhfxmGupQTN5G2FV1aQ6Nei-IxO88K6w30r6LAA6zriJOCv0T3l1uxCaa1c12T5MXTbe-K-5cb1pvlTnk7pWAjmcOzmWGf7rbIiOnexUM6ORIFSfLKqLjBqzTNRaueBjRTTAuMdYXmg/w640-h480/artie+painting.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> Back in the <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2009/11/opening-day.html" target="_blank">barn</a> the smaller child would visit in his crate. In times of distress Christopher would go to get what he called fur therapy. As he said then, "Artie is better than Mom because he doesn't press for details." <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0lITqtfcxsGJGGuguo356vA8iwBDwFXxDEjSKVKICxEZRmR9Lqpo7ExoUeQLWcllOSjGkKT6oJ9Xa4Hl9ZcJnFd7c84pSHjoV8aM-zE0steNuxIBjaDJpLcZSyNrjDPj9vG9TzZiEiak/s1440/openingCruelUnusual.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0lITqtfcxsGJGGuguo356vA8iwBDwFXxDEjSKVKICxEZRmR9Lqpo7ExoUeQLWcllOSjGkKT6oJ9Xa4Hl9ZcJnFd7c84pSHjoV8aM-zE0steNuxIBjaDJpLcZSyNrjDPj9vG9TzZiEiak/w640-h480/openingCruelUnusual.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju1Zi2wuzzzRElAb-UsNiv6sQHwuM_Ji7HfOuybr608-uyzaojaVZ3RgQcdfpBQx1EwsCSCxLJFQnia7udKQBZt4t-Y9K4m2x0RCQuiVkP1NMGPHuZqUuYbbo6fS-7LZahAPDpWoJcJWO/s800/artie+early.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju1Zi2wuzzzRElAb-UsNiv6sQHwuM_Ji7HfOuybr608-uyzaojaVZ3RgQcdfpBQx1EwsCSCxLJFQnia7udKQBZt4t-Y9K4m2x0RCQuiVkP1NMGPHuZqUuYbbo6fS-7LZahAPDpWoJcJWO/w640-h480/artie+early.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Early training and a biddable dog work well together. Here he romps through the backyard. I installed some large mesh green wire on that open fence to keep the pup inside. By the time of this picture Artie could do a standing jump and look me straight in the eye, yet he never jumped this pitiable fence. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy02ARqE3C3HZIyps1ByU0ajCpEm18tfwgT_4kmMBqN28R4fenRjvQUNIrlQRzsiqAh5yDwN49NCzs9wq5QKxFvxzJTdjInLoCj1GQ2cWd9dpzbnGf10ud1ICCxyRQfF6hOZdri-AzDxgN/s1280/backyard+004.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy02ARqE3C3HZIyps1ByU0ajCpEm18tfwgT_4kmMBqN28R4fenRjvQUNIrlQRzsiqAh5yDwN49NCzs9wq5QKxFvxzJTdjInLoCj1GQ2cWd9dpzbnGf10ud1ICCxyRQfF6hOZdri-AzDxgN/w640-h480/backyard+004.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>The gardens suffered much from dogly depredations in the early and late years. Helen worked long hours to build this lovely back yard, with something blooming in every month not deep winter. An extensive drip irrigation system underlaid the flowers. One day Artie at home with no company was bored and decided the thin black hose of the irrigation was a deadly snake which had to be rooted up and killed before the family got home. Our neighbor said it was very funny to watch as he tussled with hosing across the lawn. Helen was unamused. The books had warned us that working dogs need work to do, or they will find self-employment 'which you probably won't appreciate'. Daily walks helped. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEH-Gr096nVn3cSb_yyewtVfAE1cGhv68CQBMFUJOdeBX16tT9s7f0Hbrkp0wZxR41-M_E6jbFbf8fg86KA_rgczPFCxL-it8KvgBvrRpvOIWJgP1IQdXGvZZFxvDeQr7sFWByMYISy9h/s1440/backyard+006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="1440" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEH-Gr096nVn3cSb_yyewtVfAE1cGhv68CQBMFUJOdeBX16tT9s7f0Hbrkp0wZxR41-M_E6jbFbf8fg86KA_rgczPFCxL-it8KvgBvrRpvOIWJgP1IQdXGvZZFxvDeQr7sFWByMYISy9h/w640-h610/backyard+006.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>I never could get a good portrait of Artie aware in these years. As soon as he saw me sitting or kneeling at his level he'd run over to give some love. All I'd get is a pair of loving brown eyes, closing fast.. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNyafXyegwmkqt5EUPS27ukxcEfBezH9DXb-2ng_Dj_GVT6oO8MhZa2p11VnW-8hGkeXsxZGEDfjJZDnigrkdN-_QxUJKF_WjF4BC7DaaMU9jWBac2KUCcBPohIgFD3WfLS-hp3-PUf_3/s1440/artieNose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNyafXyegwmkqt5EUPS27ukxcEfBezH9DXb-2ng_Dj_GVT6oO8MhZa2p11VnW-8hGkeXsxZGEDfjJZDnigrkdN-_QxUJKF_WjF4BC7DaaMU9jWBac2KUCcBPohIgFD3WfLS-hp3-PUf_3/w640-h480/artieNose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />My hunting education continued. One area we hunted around a substantial reservoir was the location of many long swim <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2014/11/first-pheasant-of-year.html" target="_blank">retrieves</a> executed faithfully. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XzCw_cdymIbUm_M9-VoF7sf7YXCVWRxc-KuvhQxf2qjkaFhlgsoyG-BiYKThECFy-DS7syCC10-a9BrIz9lbB3C32ZgunkdeEG3dIkA8nWvdGapf554N_hiHs1AEpn_AadxBXR7Yayx8/s2048/IMG_20141029_085746_981.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XzCw_cdymIbUm_M9-VoF7sf7YXCVWRxc-KuvhQxf2qjkaFhlgsoyG-BiYKThECFy-DS7syCC10-a9BrIz9lbB3C32ZgunkdeEG3dIkA8nWvdGapf554N_hiHs1AEpn_AadxBXR7Yayx8/w640-h360/IMG_20141029_085746_981.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />Artie glares at the bird but it was really my fault for not shooting straighter. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhlHf82kCQ0whFUrb0PM24yOYED5PfieNdo0obTp6FObctA6Ob5N2-ZxEzjljh-A93w8-FFUbXesgHqDz_Epiu3Sg38mfcNM0ipZq3g-h8WVIERsFPprdeKAZDcNt4LuCAlS6QzugEWaf/s1600/gooddog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="918" data-original-width="1600" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhlHf82kCQ0whFUrb0PM24yOYED5PfieNdo0obTp6FObctA6Ob5N2-ZxEzjljh-A93w8-FFUbXesgHqDz_Epiu3Sg38mfcNM0ipZq3g-h8WVIERsFPprdeKAZDcNt4LuCAlS6QzugEWaf/w640-h368/gooddog.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />There were family trips too. Luckily we had a minivan which could hold a dog in his crate and a load of camping gear, with a canoe on top for luck. Here's a springtime walk in the Western slope foothills, a bit <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2010/04/peach-blossom-time.html" target="_blank">hot</a> for dogs though. <br /><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftndR0uwcmNUZokGsVCNwZINS1GakrST4COrhlhv_FUYkpz_aXXt6b6bROctcBbJ-41KviOpwblQe09GK8lpfOFGiysv3fjmwp-wCmPegI0fp96hl2UN0_Od7NOkWRktgT1NTe1UAnF-S/s1600/pant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="1600" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftndR0uwcmNUZokGsVCNwZINS1GakrST4COrhlhv_FUYkpz_aXXt6b6bROctcBbJ-41KviOpwblQe09GK8lpfOFGiysv3fjmwp-wCmPegI0fp96hl2UN0_Od7NOkWRktgT1NTe1UAnF-S/w640-h544/pant.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhht6Asnn1kxx7eKkOuEGHlK1oH9LysgTVrklS1K-ha_FGzQFSAWMUEJGq7q4_rwOm1L4NWMA61CxkKQEgVzBhYDU4VmxJxtrpY1tbNdXlcZibU0rDas9r4O6VeT3X1YsaaTAHSP0WKJbgc/s1600/blossom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhht6Asnn1kxx7eKkOuEGHlK1oH9LysgTVrklS1K-ha_FGzQFSAWMUEJGq7q4_rwOm1L4NWMA61CxkKQEgVzBhYDU4VmxJxtrpY1tbNdXlcZibU0rDas9r4O6VeT3X1YsaaTAHSP0WKJbgc/w480-h640/blossom.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p><br />This was not a dog of moderate habits. On a scale of one to ten, he was either at one or at eleven. It's possible to hunt a spaniel to death as they will not slow or stop for much of anything. Once Helen took him out to the Chatfield dog area. He plunged into the lake, hit some rebar or a submerged spike of wood which penetrated his belly, came out streaming blood and kept running. She had some trouble getting him to stop and come back to be repaired. This tendency caused Helen considerable embarrassment at the local vets, equipped as they are for comfortable pets whose main problems are under-exercise and over-eating. Taking in our bleeding and bruised swamp hunter made her feel like a bad Mom. <br /><br />On hunts this meant a deal of patchwork. There were many versions. Here's an early one with rigger Ken, just a child's small T-shirt to cover the chafed armpits and belly. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErggXZo1navQDC9yuRnaOAN7A1d7JL9s2hsiRqL69RvAglBubh3esXrs3UYh_-3PEDZsoIoEpo1yfoC6kQP1w_C4l36o_iihVvBLuD3ZsJuZNXN6XvYrQ8VRtRGa7zuC375-lW90ad6t5/s1280/artie+early+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErggXZo1navQDC9yuRnaOAN7A1d7JL9s2hsiRqL69RvAglBubh3esXrs3UYh_-3PEDZsoIoEpo1yfoC6kQP1w_C4l36o_iihVvBLuD3ZsJuZNXN6XvYrQ8VRtRGa7zuC375-lW90ad6t5/w640-h480/artie+early+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>The next picture shows <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2016/03/robodog-ii-sacrificial-socks.html" target="_blank">robodog</a> version two, resolute and ready for the fray. He started dragging his R paw, so it would abrade on top. Bandage, duct-tape and boot over that would keep it from bleeding too much. On the hunt a week before this picture we'd run into sand burrs, horrible little things with long sharp spikes, he got them in his armpits and chafed raw. For that, ointment then gauze then stretchy self-stick bandage, then duct tape over the whole lot for protection. The duct tape is stuck to the bandage rather than the fur, so can cut it off easily. Then an orange skid plate because his low-slung belly gets abraded by all the cat-tails and other undergrowth he goes crashing through. If I could get him to slow down a bit it would help, but he never did slow until the end. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihujl5ymIBqWUlwO4_xPAhp3LXhlw90sE3mGxI3VQDDUuLAFmHPLH6byh2kNdkYLqZ1usBsF39ODwoWVK1BwTcG3nwLN8y-d7Hy-UH6zDjPHenL4ALw5F2IpmjRV_o8d8SK-cp6fwpVCah/s1757/robodog2+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1339" data-original-width="1757" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihujl5ymIBqWUlwO4_xPAhp3LXhlw90sE3mGxI3VQDDUuLAFmHPLH6byh2kNdkYLqZ1usBsF39ODwoWVK1BwTcG3nwLN8y-d7Hy-UH6zDjPHenL4ALw5F2IpmjRV_o8d8SK-cp6fwpVCah/w640-h488/robodog2+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Two very truly run-after dogs loafing <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2781/2781-h/2781-h.htm#link2H_4_0006" target="_blank">in</a> the sun. The good dog Spot had died here on the farm at a young age: came running up to Ken one lunchtime, yipped, licked his hand and died. We guessed some kind of anaphylactic shock but never did find out for certain. Spot sleeps beneath the orchard trees to the east of the barn, waiting for us to catch up. Here in the picture is Tau, a <a href="https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/english-springer-spaniel/" target="_blank">springer</a> spaniel and successor to Spot. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHviXLvwvSI0WfxpNwp4-ofY_SzINAhz3jsDp_NcDhRrFGVEc5AS1GdzumhLU9hSeEES9z-EkMRxtjJRagChyphenhyphenLAb8y70-0c9obgSYQdFFf4LZOQ2CzaIzJwcO2tpCyfFkVc394NqU4GMDD/s1722/dogs+sunning+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="1722" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHviXLvwvSI0WfxpNwp4-ofY_SzINAhz3jsDp_NcDhRrFGVEc5AS1GdzumhLU9hSeEES9z-EkMRxtjJRagChyphenhyphenLAb8y70-0c9obgSYQdFFf4LZOQ2CzaIzJwcO2tpCyfFkVc394NqU4GMDD/w640-h442/dogs+sunning+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Artie came along for many of my bootless elk hunt <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2011/09/elk-fortress.html" rel="nofollow">scouting</a> expeditions. Here I am wandering into a maze of boulders while he waits patiently at the edge, sure the dumb human will soon be back. On this trip we both slept in the back of the minivan much to his delight. I confess I liked it too. At home he wasn't allowed upstairs. In the barn we'd sleep on cots in front of the woodstove, dogs on a blanket. He'd get up every hour or so in the wee hours of morning to poke me with a wet nose, 'oy is it time to go hunt yet ? come on, lazy bones, slug-a-bed !' <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnygmwi0foYY1w6wSECNvgxprBKZuYVHOfJlSlFLoCm3oSRMv1ZTjsCWKOLb6CMyQAXQwdSBG3weu6fw3-WvNYASxUFarbfG8rM2r_TBpwqONAt8EtgmB1djYtaVcaatn169-Xmih5AoQi/s1440/dumbHuman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnygmwi0foYY1w6wSECNvgxprBKZuYVHOfJlSlFLoCm3oSRMv1ZTjsCWKOLb6CMyQAXQwdSBG3weu6fw3-WvNYASxUFarbfG8rM2r_TBpwqONAt8EtgmB1djYtaVcaatn169-Xmih5AoQi/w640-h480/dumbHuman.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />After hunting season we'd plunge up to our chests in snow for exercise, at least some of the party would. <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7GycdAQmDCEZHizW1_xasHGXgtLjlBBvq4Ywz0DNyCTyS8afe_d5zofheH6hwjymkY7jE6NlTL4_PQeiqkyatzHrgWlNWxdtbLow-cRKOHedU6wlA5Zj-q5Lu74EkUe_a6pyE-BzrQaY/s900/artieSnow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="769" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7GycdAQmDCEZHizW1_xasHGXgtLjlBBvq4Ywz0DNyCTyS8afe_d5zofheH6hwjymkY7jE6NlTL4_PQeiqkyatzHrgWlNWxdtbLow-cRKOHedU6wlA5Zj-q5Lu74EkUe_a6pyE-BzrQaY/w546-h640/artieSnow.jpg" width="546" /></a></div> <br />Back down to level 1 in front of another woodstove, more comfort than a thin blanket on a cold concrete floor in the barn. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wyJm4yh5XBoX_JjUhzBbLxYaGpQZc2f7JxU13wOu1vnjbcWXogzpw2mvGOcapJkbPFc-jPf8zLUiC_SeOwpV0LFiZh03umKDYQr78HeDDudE_7389ssf7JvaUqWR4PgX7x_EmJaYlqO6/s2048/artie_cushioned.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1701" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wyJm4yh5XBoX_JjUhzBbLxYaGpQZc2f7JxU13wOu1vnjbcWXogzpw2mvGOcapJkbPFc-jPf8zLUiC_SeOwpV0LFiZh03umKDYQr78HeDDudE_7389ssf7JvaUqWR4PgX7x_EmJaYlqO6/w532-h640/artie_cushioned.jpg" width="532" /></a></div><br />His cousins came to visit from Australia bringing some soft toys for Artie. That grey soft toy in the picture of the dog as a young pup, lasted about two days before being gnawed to shreds. So I'd never thought to buy him more in his mature years. Fortunately his cousins knew better. This white rat pictured is still in the basket of dog things that is shelved until I can overcome my grief and adopt a new companion. <br /><br />I felt bad having deprived him of his mouth comforts. Socks and shoes would move around the house and garden <a href="https://nsidc.org/cryosphere/glaciers/gallery/erratics.html" target="_blank">like</a> glacial erratics, deposited wherever the carry stopped: not chewed or torn, just carried for comfort and the mouth feel. This used to make us late for school as the only pair of shoes the child could tolerate on his feet, would be in widely separated units, one covered with dew or snow. <br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT91Grqv0tLZZwFRHFlee7-1rAvQz2hfR_nd-wOuMGgSO8tTPs3b5hGJlatZu6lVyRwD9NvpO0FNYlwBUtxtHomqP0bzdaX1SLegykBUZWZ7HjT5j6aqahWpo7lEg-8cZpXWKrFw1qxnXq/s1024/artie+from+jessica.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT91Grqv0tLZZwFRHFlee7-1rAvQz2hfR_nd-wOuMGgSO8tTPs3b5hGJlatZu6lVyRwD9NvpO0FNYlwBUtxtHomqP0bzdaX1SLegykBUZWZ7HjT5j6aqahWpo7lEg-8cZpXWKrFw1qxnXq/w360-h640/artie+from+jessica.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><p>In the early years we'd take him to be groomed, like a suburban cossetted hearthrug dog. For this as for the patching up of cuts and bruises, I ended up doing rough and ready home jobs. My ragged hairchops never bothered him much. In fact he seemed to enjoy them, a nice soothing buzzing sort of massage with the clippers I guess.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09MPSMY75oQgJ-ufeBC8zQSru5PiVcQJvZoDrIbichFmf5juQsTMF-ezaQ0ej2oVgqn1ZRgbz1XmCMGPAde9qp5jBMyce2ie6Oudf-2Z8P-5gBbP3LhSchzov0XIULK7I3AwoXj-iQteW/s1600/artieBefore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1581" data-original-width="1600" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09MPSMY75oQgJ-ufeBC8zQSru5PiVcQJvZoDrIbichFmf5juQsTMF-ezaQ0ej2oVgqn1ZRgbz1XmCMGPAde9qp5jBMyce2ie6Oudf-2Z8P-5gBbP3LhSchzov0XIULK7I3AwoXj-iQteW/w640-h632/artieBefore.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlK9uiifwtFjhvdkVV7CR76uK9AqSGhoBQDT1TexpO27kHhH2Dgw5OfPLAbqElV3davyiV7QY-bW2vhcIOkFpeN02v3LsUhz6uMVSS8DV6gOS-30WiR_v5esV9c5g_keQp7z7IuHapJgtI/s1600/artieAfter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1377" data-original-width="1600" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlK9uiifwtFjhvdkVV7CR76uK9AqSGhoBQDT1TexpO27kHhH2Dgw5OfPLAbqElV3davyiV7QY-bW2vhcIOkFpeN02v3LsUhz6uMVSS8DV6gOS-30WiR_v5esV9c5g_keQp7z7IuHapJgtI/w640-h550/artieAfter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <br />In 2018 we had another hunt by the reservoir. Several pheasants got up together and many shots rang out. In all the confusion we did not notice one that was only lightly hit, flew far out over the water before dropping - but Artie noticed. We started to move on to the next covert and wondered where he'd gotten to. Far far out there was a little head with a mouthful of bird, doggedly swimming and swimming back to shore. After this he lay down in the shade and watched us walk away. That was the first but not the last time I had to carry him out of the field, like a lost lamb across my shoulders. <br /><br />On another occasion we'd walked for ten (me) or twenty (him) miles through empty Colorado fields without seeing a single bird. Coming back there was a small creek where Artie put up a wounded goose. Geese are not usually hunted by flushing with a dog but I overcame my surprise and shot it anyway. The long hill back up to the car saw another lie-down strike. Carrying a 12lb goose, 35lb dog and 8lb shotgun up the hill altogether was a bit more exercise than planned. <br /><br />Here he is on a hunt in 2019, thinking there is something in those cattails. His enthusiasm for busting through dense thickets had waned with the years. At the end of the day like this I usually had to be the dog struggling through the thick stuff while he patrolled the fringes to ensure no-one ran out. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3XB7yW2XOXaqDllVEyEH-cX9ntToMuuaztuu1WnZ3Hj3YvohpuaKRXhdI_AokOg66Si_8Lx6_TtJpyH6lKbQR8Jvdmj5ymM8ccuTzkZ6QSv2iXdZAG_OTj_hnVv-56tL6HB-5AEq0aHp/s2048/artie+hunt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3XB7yW2XOXaqDllVEyEH-cX9ntToMuuaztuu1WnZ3Hj3YvohpuaKRXhdI_AokOg66Si_8Lx6_TtJpyH6lKbQR8Jvdmj5ymM8ccuTzkZ6QSv2iXdZAG_OTj_hnVv-56tL6HB-5AEq0aHp/w640-h384/artie+hunt.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />By the end of the hunt he was fully ready to go home, hopped into the truck and waited for us. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy_hg6MWkAsJ0lXYh4pGqRdk8LhMi4OnOQdh51VgghIL9t05eNgfz2XV4WieRb5AbT2plfKdqh9SjJ9fMlWcM_ZA_XedSnIhXEFFvQY56Ny56_oG4yIZhwLxr-cPG2A2v2ggjyBwM1-FO/s2048/artie+ready+to+go.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy_hg6MWkAsJ0lXYh4pGqRdk8LhMi4OnOQdh51VgghIL9t05eNgfz2XV4WieRb5AbT2plfKdqh9SjJ9fMlWcM_ZA_XedSnIhXEFFvQY56Ny56_oG4yIZhwLxr-cPG2A2v2ggjyBwM1-FO/w640-h384/artie+ready+to+go.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <br />Early in 2020 we went on a Colorado hunt where he did his usual sterling job of finding me birds. I missed one and had a misfire of the shotgun on another, a vegetarian day then. Artie was still limping a week after the hunt which was unusual. Also his right shoulder felt strange, as if a bone had come loose and was sticking up hard and pointed in the wrong place. The vet took him in and disappeared for a longer time than I liked. The verdict was osteosarcoma which had already metastasized into his backbone and lungs, nothing to be done but hospice care. This cancer is more common in big dogs, as the vet said, 'dogs that abuse their bones'. Well that's a match for Artie poor old boy. <p></p><p>With the pandemic at least we got to spend a lot of time together in the home office. In the mornings I'd come downstairs on my commute and be greeted as usual at the bottom of the stairs with a wagging dog bearing a sock or a shoe as a love offering. As the months went on he stopped getting out of bed, instead wagging a cheerful greeting from his rest when I came into the kitchen. Coffee made, I'd head for the study, and he'd limp over to a blanket on the floor. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPw0Gb7ZEUsg8Cii4SFTO7tgLTunMvFpXUpWxZt_TPjvkynfxkHOTRirHYvu3YYpkqLUR4AATZtsqBLRrTy3gaoKKJiYAf8upt7E2v34rb1-bvVNSz80EpAc3uqhGxBWfOVPWm0caSvShI/s2048/artie+sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPw0Gb7ZEUsg8Cii4SFTO7tgLTunMvFpXUpWxZt_TPjvkynfxkHOTRirHYvu3YYpkqLUR4AATZtsqBLRrTy3gaoKKJiYAf8upt7E2v34rb1-bvVNSz80EpAc3uqhGxBWfOVPWm0caSvShI/w640-h480/artie+sun.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabI3TkVPXne4B1X6EXKfZe0ypeQ6EWyjsD30eUTn5Rb2PEqAOA4q0sFnsaQdq-btB9ohRednwil0Web7X7keEIRwn-p4V7o9MGROeTNgZwpBliI5j6WoEU3b9kkQm3nbalw1XTrWqXrUw/s1920/artie+study.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabI3TkVPXne4B1X6EXKfZe0ypeQ6EWyjsD30eUTn5Rb2PEqAOA4q0sFnsaQdq-btB9ohRednwil0Web7X7keEIRwn-p4V7o9MGROeTNgZwpBliI5j6WoEU3b9kkQm3nbalw1XTrWqXrUw/w640-h480/artie+study.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />As both Artie and I were old and cranky by now the dog parks like Chatfield no longer worked for us. He'd always be focused on hunting while the other dogs wanted to socialize. Often there would be dogs with issues, too. I found the closest National Forest without leash restrictions and we'd drive up there to run around in peace and quiet. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQKQbfOEz0gZO4nYeyfxRl7FH7zc7IKmwDi5WizjPd3N6H0WbbgODIJtBy2cRx4ocymmm8bwqkUaChF3-XJ_AJuG9vTavb22a8JdcwCkR-z3ofmQFOmFvlnWhB8PF2BksTUvJOUpO0xWk/s2048/artie+forest+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQKQbfOEz0gZO4nYeyfxRl7FH7zc7IKmwDi5WizjPd3N6H0WbbgODIJtBy2cRx4ocymmm8bwqkUaChF3-XJ_AJuG9vTavb22a8JdcwCkR-z3ofmQFOmFvlnWhB8PF2BksTUvJOUpO0xWk/w640-h384/artie+forest+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaHphZZP0lLprZ66hdEGJaNEa-ru_fecY5zNxKbrYUL6DcxiL6Lj0tqOLJRwqWd7DZq-G80UvXm72op-3IMobYO5aomX8IIDot8t_whMSGDgcIQQ2Vytid2hlhQ1ac7QXvLQUkC5ZX-K7/s2048/20200607_145722.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaHphZZP0lLprZ66hdEGJaNEa-ru_fecY5zNxKbrYUL6DcxiL6Lj0tqOLJRwqWd7DZq-G80UvXm72op-3IMobYO5aomX8IIDot8t_whMSGDgcIQQ2Vytid2hlhQ1ac7QXvLQUkC5ZX-K7/w640-h384/20200607_145722.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <br />In the evenings I'd be reading and become slowly aware of an intense pressure to pat someone, beaming up from my side. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMQoXfafZs-2mv9qEqsDTx5oUcv6WG4oNTwHwR_vAG_ix9TPz3FEwH5IlgIX_owo02qEF4RdJNuCBJBVvEx2AYko4JvnXV2phqOiHHMtIKiaDVOr5GWc3PxhsLmDDQfDUUgL2IysLUa5O/s1534/artie+reading+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1403" data-original-width="1534" height="586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMQoXfafZs-2mv9qEqsDTx5oUcv6WG4oNTwHwR_vAG_ix9TPz3FEwH5IlgIX_owo02qEF4RdJNuCBJBVvEx2AYko4JvnXV2phqOiHHMtIKiaDVOr5GWc3PxhsLmDDQfDUUgL2IysLUa5O/w640-h586/artie+reading+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>We took Christopher out to college, thirteen hours in a car each way. Artie stayed home at the kennel run by the vet. On the thirteen hours home, we got a call to say his back was done and he could no longer stand up or walk. One of the vet techs kindly stayed on a Sunday so we could pick him up. He couldn't walk but he could still wag and lick my face. We spent an afternoon together then called the assisted dying vet service. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx905ZFvH7nfhQ4vZmwlCVSq5Q28jIrQ4eMVbrWM6x9nYeCyWYi1BpFPwxTgR-O76q78jB0ZdCw8PknoL0km4mpkPk4D1AsSHL_Bd1KahFRA1bIjJtOmEcXsMEprlYl4SHN7eyrZPMIvs/s2048/artie+Ian.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx905ZFvH7nfhQ4vZmwlCVSq5Q28jIrQ4eMVbrWM6x9nYeCyWYi1BpFPwxTgR-O76q78jB0ZdCw8PknoL0km4mpkPk4D1AsSHL_Bd1KahFRA1bIjJtOmEcXsMEprlYl4SHN7eyrZPMIvs/w640-h480/artie+Ian.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>We buried him on the farm near his dad Spot, on the hill above the swamp, where the pheasants still strut and cackle. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVRiUA7_e2MpOZSVEwD4yB5E3QaHOOH1WysueSn56tL7_cCSQWg0NEjZc5WUNCxQdDNZilzQr_dSHhdPZWyXBrxCoZQsCGwLK32yJQCAAcFgPXM1Akwm2JfJkgiyW3mjT4l1OF2uBxNrM/s1920/small+hole+big+dirt+sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVRiUA7_e2MpOZSVEwD4yB5E3QaHOOH1WysueSn56tL7_cCSQWg0NEjZc5WUNCxQdDNZilzQr_dSHhdPZWyXBrxCoZQsCGwLK32yJQCAAcFgPXM1Akwm2JfJkgiyW3mjT4l1OF2uBxNrM/w640-h480/small+hole+big+dirt+sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>I put a tail feather from the first bird this year on the grave. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmlfj7MOFvSkk7OtrMbJeYIT2hUe99r2jHa07gmQD_4Cxxss_OXK567_-Rn7MCYDhsP_TqxLEYxpNJwgvnwTl_BzpX8qnXIE9VJ8NbtwbZ5lQjp5ajmkfHahZUNf9rwIddKLEHEUb4j7R/s2048/IMG_20201107_132146814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmlfj7MOFvSkk7OtrMbJeYIT2hUe99r2jHa07gmQD_4Cxxss_OXK567_-Rn7MCYDhsP_TqxLEYxpNJwgvnwTl_BzpX8qnXIE9VJ8NbtwbZ5lQjp5ajmkfHahZUNf9rwIddKLEHEUb4j7R/w640-h480/IMG_20201107_132146814.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p> </p><p>Artie's distant cousin Addie has given these lessons to her owners too. Addie's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYna-UAt75c" target="_blank">still</a> running, follow her at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/addiedoesstuff/?hl=en" target="_blank">@addiedoesstuff</a>. <br />(update 2021 - @addiedoesstuff has become <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CTCy2uNnOtm/" target="_blank">@mountainroche</a> due to intimations <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45536/ode-intimations-of-immortality-from-recollections-of-early-childhood" target="_blank">of</a> mortality). </p><p>“Addie has taught us that love has to be unconditional, because there is
no such thing as conditional love. If someone has to earn it, you don’t
actually love them,” <a href="https://trailrunnermag.com/people/trail-runner-four-footed-profile-addie-dog.html" target="_blank">says David</a>. “That love is a renewable resource for
Addie. She gives it to everyone, and that doesn’t make it less special;
it makes it more special. It makes life more real and death more real.
In contemplating her mortality—something we’ve already done a few times
already—I think, ‘What a life she had led!’ Not because of the
adventures, but in the amount of spirit she has given to other people. "<br />“We say, ‘You are amazing,’ not because someone earn accolades or wins
races,” David explains. “We say that because someone moves forward into
the unknown and goes for it. What Addie has taught us is that everyone
deserves that. You can lift a lot of people up with that attitude and
bring a lot of light into your own life, too.” </p><p>A paragraph from Teresa of Avila and/or John of the Cross, the provenance is not clear but the sentiments are exact. Via <a href="http://riowang.blogspot.com/2008/06/dogs-of-god.html" target="_blank">Poemas</a> del rio Wang. </p><p></p><blockquote><p>And yet, upon that warm, alert animal is the weight and care of enormous sadness.</p><p>For what sometimes overwhelms us always clings to it, too—a kind of memory that tells us that what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance, there it was breath.</p></blockquote><p> </p><p>A feather in 2021, </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NrzNNwR9nv9diTtdLyY1c5cOYuSGfBBXmORjWkwZIjsHerEe_leExjABIIFnR6ErKqux1JY5_TYdmF-tYKDm2RdML5p8O3GU-Db0PoKFJjgvtbwr91pfLhI9lo7tf9XVhFeEK5xcUxx-WTVoytdANytR3yqNqqK9Vadu7Z0pylEZvG8AhQ_ipyeZuA/s1920/artie%20feather%202021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1779" data-original-width="1920" height="594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NrzNNwR9nv9diTtdLyY1c5cOYuSGfBBXmORjWkwZIjsHerEe_leExjABIIFnR6ErKqux1JY5_TYdmF-tYKDm2RdML5p8O3GU-Db0PoKFJjgvtbwr91pfLhI9lo7tf9XVhFeEK5xcUxx-WTVoytdANytR3yqNqqK9Vadu7Z0pylEZvG8AhQ_ipyeZuA/w640-h594/artie%20feather%202021.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>A picture from 2022, no feather in tribute this year, I missed. Tau is still looking. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEP1UMwEe42axJlGAeYzR2beIdC7m3FQq7ARjZvMQnPS117ssfEt6bYK4-onzQgh2eb9_rlZr2J_77A4n6aVXZoexj3cYww1yIUCiW1gelz7yK5Fy7Y3pcfiWXSDF5IP5td5YjjQZx91zvwuja0lgWRkKD4g7mTg25NrWWcojp1_np11C3SpP22n9jQ/s1920/artie%202022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEP1UMwEe42axJlGAeYzR2beIdC7m3FQq7ARjZvMQnPS117ssfEt6bYK4-onzQgh2eb9_rlZr2J_77A4n6aVXZoexj3cYww1yIUCiW1gelz7yK5Fy7Y3pcfiWXSDF5IP5td5YjjQZx91zvwuja0lgWRkKD4g7mTg25NrWWcojp1_np11C3SpP22n9jQ/w640-h480/artie%202022.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><script type="text/javascript">
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</script></p>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-68870885011034968492020-10-16T16:59:00.014-06:002020-12-28T22:00:53.117-07:00elk dreaming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p>In the summer I went out here on a scouting trip. It was supposed to be a moderate hike with time to explore for elk lairs. The trip thought of as moderate turned into a survival plod while my bad knee groused about the load. Elk season dawned: the knee and I blindly plunged like fate into the lone backcountry. <br /><br />A winter storm on the passes, Loveland and Vail. First plan was to hike in before dark, but slow going traffic and snow meant arrival at the trailhead in last light. From the edge of Routt National Forest to the end of the road there was an elk
camp in every turnout. Four inches of snow on the road had been driven
flat in less than a day. Hunter numbers are dropping steadily, while crowding in hunt season increases steadily too. This apparent paradox is easily resolved - no-one is building new elk forests, just as no-one is making new trout streams. New condos, new private ranching fences, yes. Bigger RVs to hunt from, expansive canvas tent structures that use wood frames and portable power tools to construct, quieter generators for power in camp, yes: all the appurtenances of consumer fetishism, packed densely into the dwindling remains of wild country. <br /><br />I think often of the Richard Brautigan short story <a href="http://www.brautigan.net/trout.html" target="_blank">where</a> he finds sections of trout stream stacked up in the hardware store, available on easy purchase terms. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnexR1lOecJ0nrD8ZB_gK5BREUf6_5i1Am3FrWrQYHeoWw6lOXU2c1H_wp76lojTZd6BqdcT1sbBtEcsNeSrCKIyqDg9w5YlOSzwNKinb5lwN5gB7J3Uyc56sLndHS-Qf9shW9XsA8KCG/s1920/trailhead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnexR1lOecJ0nrD8ZB_gK5BREUf6_5i1Am3FrWrQYHeoWw6lOXU2c1H_wp76lojTZd6BqdcT1sbBtEcsNeSrCKIyqDg9w5YlOSzwNKinb5lwN5gB7J3Uyc56sLndHS-Qf9shW9XsA8KCG/w640-h480/trailhead.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Slept in the truck, the bed is short but gets to 6ft with the tailgate down. Only an inch of toes hanging over the edge, then. The zero-degree sleeping bag kept me warm while the outer nylon frosted into an icy shell by 3 am. Up and hit the trail in moonlight and several inches of snow, 30lb backpack plus 8lb of rifle. This went OK for a mile or two and thousand feet up, then Windy Gap nearly blew me over. After this is a short section of ledge trail with a good long plummet off to the side. <br />In daylight on the way back,<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXfvOB4PDSTnTvAQ-z5bEM-zntB_UVxmSjA8U0YFgCdRlhOUQqGPYs7lS2-C_frIKtbt-hBY8mU8e15NwdFuZ9OZRWA3vSRG68ghwLkz3_gLiOkiy9E2eJEybOsjxTkFVn0gqF-3vKRrf/s1872/ledge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1872" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXfvOB4PDSTnTvAQ-z5bEM-zntB_UVxmSjA8U0YFgCdRlhOUQqGPYs7lS2-C_frIKtbt-hBY8mU8e15NwdFuZ9OZRWA3vSRG68ghwLkz3_gLiOkiy9E2eJEybOsjxTkFVn0gqF-3vKRrf/w640-h492/ledge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>now imagine that at 4am with snow, blowing snow, stiff winds, 2ft of snow over no perceptible trail. The headlight beam petered out in a haze of white, though I had a strong sense of vasty deeps in the windy dark. </p><p>Chickened out (prudence is the name I'd prefer), crawled back into the woods for shelter and waited for daylight. Finally got to use that survival bivy sack I've been carrying for decades. By daylight another hunter had gone up and left footsteps. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-Jr8EN1diFnw-seFKT9rANi0lbRpLs0_eWejM7rXCnO4Zexio5Amj5bmMPXCW3Rql2Ff4qjO4HIZrNnMGxhWiywbjMHwdV3Rty8btUnrDMFlH0mB5iOikR3D19IHVWVupdL41MIPlHSu/s1920/too+late.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-Jr8EN1diFnw-seFKT9rANi0lbRpLs0_eWejM7rXCnO4Zexio5Amj5bmMPXCW3Rql2Ff4qjO4HIZrNnMGxhWiywbjMHwdV3Rty8btUnrDMFlH0mB5iOikR3D19IHVWVupdL41MIPlHSu/w640-h480/too+late.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Further along there were fresh elk tracks. By now it was too late to spy on elk movements if any, in the shades of dawn. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJcmnoA1xXOLHezGUk9YIi4avUFMMWQ5E1hfkmFjF9Ih1e9mPSJO4Bp9p7AMn9Q8aq33MKb_ccze2GxmFkQQkhrOXvtBq1LuTDsgzM9eB9AXHFQfgNSn9R1HObI_VOFkay9NJimFPxz1q/s1440/tracks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJcmnoA1xXOLHezGUk9YIi4avUFMMWQ5E1hfkmFjF9Ih1e9mPSJO4Bp9p7AMn9Q8aq33MKb_ccze2GxmFkQQkhrOXvtBq1LuTDsgzM9eB9AXHFQfgNSn9R1HObI_VOFkay9NJimFPxz1q/w480-h640/tracks.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p>I've never seen an elk during hunting season. So it seemed reasonable to drop the pack and follow these for an hour, until meeting my own footprints coming back around a tangle of deadfall. The elk like a manoeuvre termed the j-hook, circling back on their own tracks to check for followers. Clearly I'm not as smart as the average elk. Still don't know where he went after the hook, maybe <a href="https://blog.oup.com/2019/11/to-lie-doggo-an-idiom/" target="_blank">was</a> lying doggo in the deadfall.<br /><br />Back through the pathless woods to the trail which disappeared again under blown snow at the ridge. Picked a drainage to follow which I believed would intersect the trail lower and luckily was right. I've done that before only to end up on a cliff with fine views but no way forward. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWV4zA_d3r0_UAiORP-psgxDfmr3bTleARXOEVJ6DiropDgHZpC0jFkdsn_ZX2WP9iPbzLXIeTCSrA0TJ5Pho_G_PFe7-nvQja5E4FX8aBAYWUNGfCcNpf0Km9kiLNPRKHdhYKmBNO1Wbc/s1920/ridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWV4zA_d3r0_UAiORP-psgxDfmr3bTleARXOEVJ6DiropDgHZpC0jFkdsn_ZX2WP9iPbzLXIeTCSrA0TJ5Pho_G_PFe7-nvQja5E4FX8aBAYWUNGfCcNpf0Km9kiLNPRKHdhYKmBNO1Wbc/w640-h480/ridge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Dropped the pack in camp spot and ran around the woods looking for signs of elk life. Plenty of old sign, no fresh tracks, no bedding areas, not much of anything. I'd have hiked back out if physically capable of it. Good country though. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG85Phyphenhyphen9N9Oyt50YQSf2Xp_Kc4kob4A2hJDd_zU9_vFbvik_foGrvDMq-KZl_cR7Ip8TQ7E_zE7OOFy4PhA5v85sdGr6MIiGYrmuRyuF5YGxwHlFyAws8s7owQAdXoSS8x8OCqFLuPp_fL/s1833/camp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1833" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG85Phyphenhyphen9N9Oyt50YQSf2Xp_Kc4kob4A2hJDd_zU9_vFbvik_foGrvDMq-KZl_cR7Ip8TQ7E_zE7OOFy4PhA5v85sdGr6MIiGYrmuRyuF5YGxwHlFyAws8s7owQAdXoSS8x8OCqFLuPp_fL/w640-h502/camp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Spent the night in perfect silence with Mars glowing redly in the east, moving overhead as we turned toward dawn. Up at 5am to hike up a ridge and look for beasts in the early light. There was more deadfall navigation to the hilltop. <br /></p><p>One view from the ridge of empty country, <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuHlUHS_jLDD0C1lqi3cohvPx07YiGfsboF3pDwnokclrdqMe4MxIXSKODEDMeyKbET_AGvk_yuAYB5QMKVUr1F0PhN2rqiwUB4IufXrCApaw8NJ3bexLT-VeuGK1rXAXC08hd18GZSr4/s1920/morning2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuHlUHS_jLDD0C1lqi3cohvPx07YiGfsboF3pDwnokclrdqMe4MxIXSKODEDMeyKbET_AGvk_yuAYB5QMKVUr1F0PhN2rqiwUB4IufXrCApaw8NJ3bexLT-VeuGK1rXAXC08hd18GZSr4/w640-h480/morning2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p> and another, </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowtCE3Hbr0YdM5lCyVvzJExwecrW46z8u8Aq64Wb-0xynsA2VHpwyAyHu5aDcTnqm0lWqVW4-FdkrgZBzvwPXp9W6sFnqfr0yq57dsoXATYZZYDE4XkKQK6y6HTpbBzer2WQLgVaq6zO_/s1920/morning2a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowtCE3Hbr0YdM5lCyVvzJExwecrW46z8u8Aq64Wb-0xynsA2VHpwyAyHu5aDcTnqm0lWqVW4-FdkrgZBzvwPXp9W6sFnqfr0yq57dsoXATYZZYDE4XkKQK6y6HTpbBzer2WQLgVaq6zO_/w640-h480/morning2a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Nothing to be seen except another two hunters vivid in their hunting
orange. Later there were two shots, booming into the silence of late
fall in this high country. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAJO1bdmp0Uy1LInC59f3lSSPHPoY6v_x4GHPbwJZgEoz5JYgDi_PNF6nFRpWvRV90Wytpr5OxDEVx2nq4hB4SNBracGMcDWIr1RLpz10RyNrTQuWTnExcw8iG6CV-1XVycMa11dwjWO7/s1920/meadow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAJO1bdmp0Uy1LInC59f3lSSPHPoY6v_x4GHPbwJZgEoz5JYgDi_PNF6nFRpWvRV90Wytpr5OxDEVx2nq4hB4SNBracGMcDWIr1RLpz10RyNrTQuWTnExcw8iG6CV-1XVycMa11dwjWO7/w640-h480/meadow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Walked the dark woods along the ridges and past potential bedding areas
identified from topo maps and satellite pictures, nobody home. Scrambled
up another peak in the evening to look around, country all quiet and
still. <br /><p></p><p>Out again in the morning, three and a half hours to do five miles and 2000 feet of elevation change. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaN9d_vRUXBZmCe2jDYEpJA80DP9QI3w29oY-iWfelhYMzp9-dVeIA4OFAljSjsWDVZBmRAmrrdV03aQV-czzwIFqWq060cal8AjWn_3jJvALtwxd0EaHrFpWBqByCfsemZP0-bTo9eFq/s1792/unsatisfied+gun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1792" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaN9d_vRUXBZmCe2jDYEpJA80DP9QI3w29oY-iWfelhYMzp9-dVeIA4OFAljSjsWDVZBmRAmrrdV03aQV-czzwIFqWq060cal8AjWn_3jJvALtwxd0EaHrFpWBqByCfsemZP0-bTo9eFq/w640-h514/unsatisfied+gun.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>There was a day left in the season, but I had made no plans for hunting from the road. My strategy had always been to be fitter and stronger than the other guys, move fast and cover ground in the back country. I hadn't realized just how old I have grown. </p><p>Gave up and drove down the hills, fished a bit at a lake on the way. Hoped for pike but found none in the surf. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1yhHjYaxhR7hp5FcEacSoC7vV20z3by8zjDwz9Lh99XKL1jxv16pF-MVrKivoHJyXjU0zSgQ70u_SrvHhhZ5QUs20GvHeNWrGsY2x10MfvE5xdUiIhSMuqOXxCY9LmMJVBiMXncQs_4e/s1920/surf.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1yhHjYaxhR7hp5FcEacSoC7vV20z3by8zjDwz9Lh99XKL1jxv16pF-MVrKivoHJyXjU0zSgQ70u_SrvHhhZ5QUs20GvHeNWrGsY2x10MfvE5xdUiIhSMuqOXxCY9LmMJVBiMXncQs_4e/w640-h480/surf.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>On my last cast with a big white streamer, the Pfleuger reel chattered
as something made a strong long run. Thought I'd found a good pike,
until the trout leapt high over whitecap waves, a gout of spray disintegrating over the long curve of orange fly line bending downwind. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho63gEThJPagPR5KqNw-7uatphyv5ZWPzohcTaAGnUJ3Ci3nJgu_kVcy34V0D56gi-XYAjeFaphIEfOfhUaosJORbAHIJ7QN6pHxjT_ZVRA125LvK4q4WWryOETw4_PRznZlSEAiAUVF0V/s1920/surf+trout.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho63gEThJPagPR5KqNw-7uatphyv5ZWPzohcTaAGnUJ3Ci3nJgu_kVcy34V0D56gi-XYAjeFaphIEfOfhUaosJORbAHIJ7QN6pHxjT_ZVRA125LvK4q4WWryOETw4_PRznZlSEAiAUVF0V/w640-h480/surf+trout.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>From Brautigan: </p><blockquote> As a child when did I first hear about trout fishing in America? <br />From whom? I guess it was a stepfather of mine. <br />Summer of 1942. <br />The old drunk told me about troutfishing. When he could talk, <br />he had a way of describing trout as if they were a precious<br />and intelligent metal. <br />Silver is not a good adjective to describe what I felt when <br />he told me about trout fishing. <br />I'd like to get it right. <br />Maybe trout steel. Steel made from trout. The clear <br />snow-filled river acting as foundry and heat. <br />Imagine Pittsburgh. <br />A steel that comes from trout, used to make buildings, <br />trains and tunnels. <br />The Andrew Carnegie of Trout! </blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NxV1GNoMz3nEswSVi02xjjU4Aip6NbHEKBHqeqi2t2TQXVBUOGxMm4H5QVXO-0-8jBTIzRGer1JDDc1euBP5sBN6eG7Ml8Twyqrgwpf0uf8fZeVbk_K1pds1b61VbbBeqEmfFzHhVtKb/s1440/yampa+brown.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NxV1GNoMz3nEswSVi02xjjU4Aip6NbHEKBHqeqi2t2TQXVBUOGxMm4H5QVXO-0-8jBTIzRGer1JDDc1euBP5sBN6eG7Ml8Twyqrgwpf0uf8fZeVbk_K1pds1b61VbbBeqEmfFzHhVtKb/w480-h640/yampa+brown.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p>A small pretty brown out of the tailwater below the dam, then home. </p><p>Kept and ate the big one, red as a salmon. This was the last dinner at home for the older son before he left for his first job. We ate the fish with gratitude and reverence.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSrPzm1dH7sjDzB_6SkV8GVf_yPk6VZ2V7bg205BtuqPHPliLE-Mmotr5QQS_T-_q2JJnWM5pjJ6-jTm0fiNOS5XDdZ4t9bcv220pXT-DRw7M4Kz_cnSVjieYygf7neU_R5asB8m_-5aT/s1920/red.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSrPzm1dH7sjDzB_6SkV8GVf_yPk6VZ2V7bg205BtuqPHPliLE-Mmotr5QQS_T-_q2JJnWM5pjJ6-jTm0fiNOS5XDdZ4t9bcv220pXT-DRw7M4Kz_cnSVjieYygf7neU_R5asB8m_-5aT/w400-h300/red.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Told the other son at college about my elk trip, cold dark snowy and tough. He said "so pretty good then". Of course he's right..<br /></p><p><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript">
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Indulging myself in strenuous exercise has always been my drug of choice, never realized until now that it was an <a href="http://www.drjohnm.org/2014/05/exercise-over-indulgence-and-atrial-fibrillation-seeing-the-obvious/" target="_blank">overindulgence</a> like any other. <br /><br />Ran a couple of times since the doctor advice, easy 3 miler around the park, which went fine except the bum left knee woke up from its slumbers and started paining again. Back on the bicycle it is, then.<br /><br />Instead of the trail runs, decided on a backpack in to the high country. Theoretically this was mostly to scout an area for elk hunting. All my elk hunting is theoretical as they are hard to find come hunting season. Packed in a Fenwick 75-5 with a nice lightweight Battenkill III reel, by way of solace in the moments when not failing to find elk sign. By concentrating and throwing things out, I was able to keep the pack under 30lbs, food water and all, which is a personal record of sorts. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbB0OjNYxLzDjG4rDfZ2CAGzOBsEJAGtzoAknLjg30Gm0oX5LkPqcdhHIdVQBNAN9rY5TIWImzj_jnzsE3nKLMqx5Aq7Z64sqD_3ycZJdGrcm86Wxs00rmxAhjk9ROo8AjXXjUXGR8Vtsq/s1920/start2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbB0OjNYxLzDjG4rDfZ2CAGzOBsEJAGtzoAknLjg30Gm0oX5LkPqcdhHIdVQBNAN9rY5TIWImzj_jnzsE3nKLMqx5Aq7Z64sqD_3ycZJdGrcm86Wxs00rmxAhjk9ROo8AjXXjUXGR8Vtsq/w640-h480/start2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Not quite at the trailhead, did not trust my 2wd on that road, instead parked in this pretty meadow/dispersed camping spot and walked the half mile. <br /><br />This is me resisting temptation and not fishing the stream yet. I had miles to go and spots to scout. There was more water than expected, always happy to see the streams running well, though it does make crossings slower. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4U6HLNjGtgccCgSMlCRDgA9qvgcqPuF77Pm_mVCdQgMv23Py3cg8weigGjR2QkHysbDl0Btj2EaDkcqizsrTUQZfN1gn6i1MYffmk9cwWnRJKTav-0hp7mwtmYP-1G87WlvUHGZhyphenhyphenWOs/s1440/temptation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4U6HLNjGtgccCgSMlCRDgA9qvgcqPuF77Pm_mVCdQgMv23Py3cg8weigGjR2QkHysbDl0Btj2EaDkcqizsrTUQZfN1gn6i1MYffmk9cwWnRJKTav-0hp7mwtmYP-1G87WlvUHGZhyphenhyphenWOs/w480-h640/temptation.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />About six miles in after walking in from behind that far ridge. These burn areas are basically feedlots for the elk, growing full of elk chow. The fire was in 2002. Oddly there has been no new tree growth - no new pine or aspen yet. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 40px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORa0DQTRsh76z1tmwcVZ1BNbMC6lYfqDVpRYrsq1xTc1Da-JDEyn_BBhyJrmAsUVTJkj21nkf04slLiIzyKv_FIgW8oFVRMh5hjqPRH9NfCKWOHEzc2zbklGJ1163QAKzOVZLAtqV090q/s1920/burn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORa0DQTRsh76z1tmwcVZ1BNbMC6lYfqDVpRYrsq1xTc1Da-JDEyn_BBhyJrmAsUVTJkj21nkf04slLiIzyKv_FIgW8oFVRMh5hjqPRH9NfCKWOHEzc2zbklGJ1163QAKzOVZLAtqV090q/s640/burn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The heart rate stayed down but the legs quit on me.. after about 8 miles the bum knee was complaining, heel bursitis had flared up, and the muscles didn't want to lift anything anymore, never mind me plus a 30lb backpack.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_ZTvy-L27n66XBxyOuKSAulFEDCwrAI9K1rsHPxKe6ufbA50NvdJRxU2HqtTV4whAS0kT2ZdAnfYnd_jVM6c8e3Nt8CxsAVvR-0sxeexg8So6CdPLnA1nl6t6oA-WBkLGaCYu5qloRwn/s1920/sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_ZTvy-L27n66XBxyOuKSAulFEDCwrAI9K1rsHPxKe6ufbA50NvdJRxU2HqtTV4whAS0kT2ZdAnfYnd_jVM6c8e3Nt8CxsAVvR-0sxeexg8So6CdPLnA1nl6t6oA-WBkLGaCYu5qloRwn/s1920/sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_ZTvy-L27n66XBxyOuKSAulFEDCwrAI9K1rsHPxKe6ufbA50NvdJRxU2HqtTV4whAS0kT2ZdAnfYnd_jVM6c8e3Nt8CxsAVvR-0sxeexg8So6CdPLnA1nl6t6oA-WBkLGaCYu5qloRwn/w640-h480/sign.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_ZTvy-L27n66XBxyOuKSAulFEDCwrAI9K1rsHPxKe6ufbA50NvdJRxU2HqtTV4whAS0kT2ZdAnfYnd_jVM6c8e3Nt8CxsAVvR-0sxeexg8So6CdPLnA1nl6t6oA-WBkLGaCYu5qloRwn/s1920/sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></blockquote><br />It's a sign ! at last, a sign ! <br />Not sure what it means though.. <p></p><p>The trail (on L of picture) was so faint I kept mistaking game trails for the route, winding up puzzled in the middle of deadfall and blowdowns. Since the fire the trees have been falling steadily producing these lush meadows crisscrossed with logs. I've watched elk delicately stepping through the pick-up-sticks but my legs are not long enough for that dance. </p><p>By this time there were more elk hoofprints on the trail than bootprints or horse hoofs. Can you spot the elk in this picture ? </p><p></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizY-YoyWyb34NyUKZxRCdeKeV2qoDY9gU5LCCXVCWQi2QP_s53MdbKGRuKBHw08lgqc_MPqYW6NzzPlE2PiZuC5nZTDdQmYUPlj9AD6Cfd_I_PNi07zzAEKSz6p-EyASlpifpqKKNZPO7B/s1920/spotTheElk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizY-YoyWyb34NyUKZxRCdeKeV2qoDY9gU5LCCXVCWQi2QP_s53MdbKGRuKBHw08lgqc_MPqYW6NzzPlE2PiZuC5nZTDdQmYUPlj9AD6Cfd_I_PNi07zzAEKSz6p-EyASlpifpqKKNZPO7B/s640/spotTheElk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Me either, but they are somewhere. None of the spots up this trail panned out. There was a fine little campsite with evidence of someone's hunt success. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSM_ip5hFv9b9ASPZZb7To17zy1vR5yTRITAT-VIAwda9NpcPRFbzoTZ3epsAJjZPy-GTFIzTEk21jP7m-VU5-X69aN4ncEttPanc5vFiouUOCGmPjDN0cWuzk0847eUpRYAQm3USa1GvD/s1920/bones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSM_ip5hFv9b9ASPZZb7To17zy1vR5yTRITAT-VIAwda9NpcPRFbzoTZ3epsAJjZPy-GTFIzTEk21jP7m-VU5-X69aN4ncEttPanc5vFiouUOCGmPjDN0cWuzk0847eUpRYAQm3USa1GvD/s640/bones.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Back down to the stream, which has a nice meadow section here. There were rises going on among the weedbeds. It's very unusual to see this kind of weedy meadow section in the high country. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKv7iu1lvhsC9Gb6Rdlk6yYjYei19vw4TldtDDrHy3mYLQCgxW-JNvvSQyNOxck7q_PnmUspklaV5i5jOxBH0AQPW795fNfOJ6B8kfNDGa9VoYY4ud-xdb0ehClqJlFp8kuAH2lIKu7vn/s1920/meadows.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKv7iu1lvhsC9Gb6Rdlk6yYjYei19vw4TldtDDrHy3mYLQCgxW-JNvvSQyNOxck7q_PnmUspklaV5i5jOxBH0AQPW795fNfOJ6B8kfNDGa9VoYY4ud-xdb0ehClqJlFp8kuAH2lIKu7vn/s640/meadows.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />I waited until the trail went down to another crossing, where there were more rises. Oddly these fish were selective to the microcaddis hatch going on. They're supposed to be easy up here.. got a couple little brookies to about 9", fat and healthy, no pictures as they flopped off while I was trying to pose them. I have some #18 Henryville caddis that usually work well for this, back home in the everything bag. #14 Goddard was the smallest in the bag today which was not good enough. <br /><br />The plan was 13 miles and 2400ft ascent to camp on a trout lake at about 6pm, with time for a few casts. Camped instead on a fishless lake about 2 miles and 400ft of climbing short of goal. It was still a good camp. And there was evening,<br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJ4lT_qO8ZhABa741_MMLRX1lhBCIjLYA6bcm8prSx4ybL74pHuqvlKOeQmQdahlKTCd-R_ZcoPsZ6J3VAWo2RgMu-1J_R4fFovFX0qOoPPkgNQ-PV3n04kzuqNViiH1n-9NQK9svnaVe/s1920/campEvening.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJ4lT_qO8ZhABa741_MMLRX1lhBCIjLYA6bcm8prSx4ybL74pHuqvlKOeQmQdahlKTCd-R_ZcoPsZ6J3VAWo2RgMu-1J_R4fFovFX0qOoPPkgNQ-PV3n04kzuqNViiH1n-9NQK9svnaVe/s640/campEvening.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />and there was morning,<br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkdLeA6pp4YzWYdEtCwYH_BfDtV-i8KGLdUGqqjHY07FK_3iGouLHawzji2TglySE02St9xCMUAgTiMMa6TwEiBhLC_HZjQfliuR7aZNTjH4a3hxqD3bSa20Ss2f_3t5qJCdMt42hoqD4/s1920/campMorning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkdLeA6pp4YzWYdEtCwYH_BfDtV-i8KGLdUGqqjHY07FK_3iGouLHawzji2TglySE02St9xCMUAgTiMMa6TwEiBhLC_HZjQfliuR7aZNTjH4a3hxqD3bSa20Ss2f_3t5qJCdMt42hoqD4/s640/campMorning.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Legs felt oddly good to knock off the two miles over to trout in 45min. The fish were rising..<br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hHk4yQL3oacsnQ7HCuJ5IoYTpouAzh7MHE4XlzrLJ5uPstdvEbg87kOTElaSLUdNIjD1K11m4mRy9fUkYr1-gDHhSKRiExwoBrbex7f_g94HSl6vmIz6quiEO-FSD7w3MD-1KKefgYUL/s1489/cutt1crop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1489" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hHk4yQL3oacsnQ7HCuJ5IoYTpouAzh7MHE4XlzrLJ5uPstdvEbg87kOTElaSLUdNIjD1K11m4mRy9fUkYr1-gDHhSKRiExwoBrbex7f_g94HSl6vmIz6quiEO-FSD7w3MD-1KKefgYUL/s640/cutt1crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />and the views couldn't be beat. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEH-3pCBgUj5Bi441BRX67CdGpknrpaVX_w9hU6-zXxA43jXggdRXS8eqXOFfp3Qa1uKm72PsXWd2Lb0ts9kQI0v7jwVPQv0PpJwg68xcxPhd6p7ub4_iRVvqvgOyRnLUCWzuBwDHRMnZX/s1920/lostLake.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEH-3pCBgUj5Bi441BRX67CdGpknrpaVX_w9hU6-zXxA43jXggdRXS8eqXOFfp3Qa1uKm72PsXWd2Lb0ts9kQI0v7jwVPQv0PpJwg68xcxPhd6p7ub4_iRVvqvgOyRnLUCWzuBwDHRMnZX/s640/lostLake.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Caught that handsome 13" in the picture on a beetle. Spent some time on a nice 16" that was ranging around fast and rising sporadically, further down the bank. First attempt left the beetle out there for several minutes, then as I moved it he was coming up and sheered off. Several other flies got refusals - he'd race up toward them then turn down with a dismissive flick of the tail. Still I had my entertainment. <br /><br />Quit and went looking for elk spots again. One of these looked really good. Not co-incidentally there was a big outfitter camp a mile away. <br /><br />On the way down there was a tiny brook through a meadow. At the stream crossing there were half a dozen brookies in this little pool. Let them be, wondered about the lower reaches. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6yfdIM_OGjp3MIRtxckDMKVt8jtxhSrhyphenhyphenBpgwUihEKexpVri_FVUKHW3ZjMGPkhMpBiHlGk4LmR9Ya-N80CmmE1bhnXTNtFbZcdiFYt1TScIb2H7ZX56mRD4VMC_vylMxULgyW5E1-8r/s1920/brook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6yfdIM_OGjp3MIRtxckDMKVt8jtxhSrhyphenhyphenBpgwUihEKexpVri_FVUKHW3ZjMGPkhMpBiHlGk4LmR9Ya-N80CmmE1bhnXTNtFbZcdiFYt1TScIb2H7ZX56mRD4VMC_vylMxULgyW5E1-8r/s640/brook.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />Another six miles out and dragging again, took a long slow time. A good walk though. Here the fireweed blooms in the old burn. That's also elk chow. <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_oLFHyRcOP8migZlSA8HaP0WLjaWAFLYmyiVzkt4VIi8LDEyuG_rTaI7VQ_U_Cb1O580cKAnLgv2-5ShpI4oDfEvqMppyI15RvYr5bSzh7rx5NqqWyxX6Qp8X954KcLzqIXlEIi94JDv/s1920/fireweed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_oLFHyRcOP8migZlSA8HaP0WLjaWAFLYmyiVzkt4VIi8LDEyuG_rTaI7VQ_U_Cb1O580cKAnLgv2-5ShpI4oDfEvqMppyI15RvYr5bSzh7rx5NqqWyxX6Qp8X954KcLzqIXlEIi94JDv/s640/fireweed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />My favorite thing to do in the truck is to sit on the tailgate and drink a cold beer, after a hike/canoe/backpack/fish. Did that. <br /><br />Stopped by a roadside stream for a bit. Brawling little creek, tough going along the banks and the weedy rocks. There were fish everywhere. This 11" brookie, <br /><br /></p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fNV3wPdBnmOONsKomm21m4IkgkD_UOp_4PllBM26mcXYmzvVqjZR6xz_7N8jDqWxeKdxEywVRgdzHr1FUTAViIP7e3kRPyOIW1hlCfT6f7wdjE2vOVBAjsT58Yypxnkeu4uzE5PrJf4G/s1920/brookie2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fNV3wPdBnmOONsKomm21m4IkgkD_UOp_4PllBM26mcXYmzvVqjZR6xz_7N8jDqWxeKdxEywVRgdzHr1FUTAViIP7e3kRPyOIW1hlCfT6f7wdjE2vOVBAjsT58Yypxnkeu4uzE5PrJf4G/s640/brookie2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p><br />a 10" rainbow, </p><blockquote style="border: medium none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy21EjKRqa8RMl8nc0wMZGq1TgFi4K6Vqf4mQJPDzlEJ_C5QwInMDoCY1wKiaScEG5zcnW3aS1X_qt4l1MAOVfLv63Ja91aU4vl74rLyVs2CwjF9mNvPrE9oucKx4CpCmQjPk0khCPzTRO/s1454/littleBow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy21EjKRqa8RMl8nc0wMZGq1TgFi4K6Vqf4mQJPDzlEJ_C5QwInMDoCY1wKiaScEG5zcnW3aS1X_qt4l1MAOVfLv63Ja91aU4vl74rLyVs2CwjF9mNvPrE9oucKx4CpCmQjPk0khCPzTRO/s640/littleBow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p>and a number smaller. This was the simple fishing I'd expected after the long walks, but here it was on the road. Oh well at least it was there, somewhere. <br /><br /><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript">
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2014 is history now, so I remember the past in the hope of repeating <a href="https://www.iep.utm.edu/santayan/" target="_blank">it</a>. As Max Beerbohm <a href="https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/10/17/repeat-history/" target="_blank">said</a>, history doesn't repeat itself, historians repeat each other. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxwoYI3cIQVIlFG_ncK23-teZWxZFlblche3Zr89QUMBbP3CYQGc5WMvP8dcRK-jHzo9uSls6WFZ7V6XqTexy4BqjSgxQzkPeooKr7weEqpJleiaAN1hxQIYvfH_eA1beZkp-W2hwkIK_/s1600/rmnp1_914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxwoYI3cIQVIlFG_ncK23-teZWxZFlblche3Zr89QUMBbP3CYQGc5WMvP8dcRK-jHzo9uSls6WFZ7V6XqTexy4BqjSgxQzkPeooKr7weEqpJleiaAN1hxQIYvfH_eA1beZkp-W2hwkIK_/s640/rmnp1_914.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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If not catching fish, might as well do it somewhere high and handsome..<br />
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5 miles hike into Rocky Mountain National Park, up from 8500ft to 10 000ft. On the way up we met an 83-year-old man turning around at the creek where the bridge had been washed out by last years' floods. He said he didn't want to take his old bones hopping across those rocks anymore, but he could still get up and down the trails, so he did. My role model for getting older.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rWIQv4WGCxD5R92jaVeYR-DXv-aVx8ZdK5AEJOEF3LyZkT-Nr_GukknblazfUFhLfziB_BGmwfqYXQGs4S6yOi-a0ZGH97AZMohqfIyTn64Ox7_UFbS6vIuicuI1TPRFu8oZI6Qgvdfo/s1600/rmnp_914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rWIQv4WGCxD5R92jaVeYR-DXv-aVx8ZdK5AEJOEF3LyZkT-Nr_GukknblazfUFhLfziB_BGmwfqYXQGs4S6yOi-a0ZGH97AZMohqfIyTn64Ox7_UFbS6vIuicuI1TPRFu8oZI6Qgvdfo/s640/rmnp_914.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Ken did get two cutts, here is one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD1pXHuOMniJD5YoQaxxtkJg6wt_Kr1NfvkTXhD6_UmVVlNHDmRFf6QOkpQpPUH8aJ711C-JI4gIdkqP3zZGTi90hPVjPbHJnjLmDva99P8H9yBJburHiBYrG2tQYBhqYfbISMXpEKkUP/s1600/IMG_20140926_112509_356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD1pXHuOMniJD5YoQaxxtkJg6wt_Kr1NfvkTXhD6_UmVVlNHDmRFf6QOkpQpPUH8aJ711C-JI4gIdkqP3zZGTi90hPVjPbHJnjLmDva99P8H9yBJburHiBYrG2tQYBhqYfbISMXpEKkUP/s640/IMG_20140926_112509_356.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is what we used to think was the native Colorado greenback cutthroat trout. Following DNA analysis, turns out to be just a subspecies of the Colorado River cutt, finely adapted to its life in the high country. See the article by Erin Block in the TU Trout magazine <a href="https://www.nwctu.com/Wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/TU_Fall_2014.pdf" target="_blank">Fall 2014</a>. <br />
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Ten years ago this lake and drainage was full of these beautiful cutts, 8-12" long on average, with the occasional 15" monster. We had not been up here in years and found the cutts have been outcompeted by the brook trout, which tend to overpopulate and get stunted in this environment. So we caught about 60 fish between us, 58 of them small brook trout 4-6", pretty little fish but not the outrageous beauty of the natives. I did not take any pictures of them, being haunted by the ghosts of the vanished cutthroat and too sad to photograph the meager brookies.<br />
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We spent a couple of hours bushwhacking down along the stream, in case the cutts were holding out in some remote pool or riffle. Here I am trying to look as inconspicuous as a tree. <br />
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Shortly after this I fell backwards into another tree and ripped my
ancient Red Ball waders apart. That began a five year quest to find a
pair of waders as good, detouring through a lot of cheap wet waders
and damp feet, before culminating in $400 Simms. The Red Balls cost $20
and lasted over twenty years. I'm suspending judgement on the Simms
until then, I should live so long. So far they've outperformed. That means staying dry -
waders have one job. Apparently it's no longer possible to make dry
waders at the sub-$400 price point.<br />
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All down the stream, nothing but shoals of desperate brook trout. <br />
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Here's my <a href="https://fiberglassflyrodders.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=3&t=63730#p330218" target="_blank">Fibatube</a> (Hardy) 3 1/2 weight, dragged off the dusty back shelf. This doesn't get much exercise in the mountain West, as I prefer a longer rod for the open streams and lakes and winds we usually encounter. However it's perfectly suited to the tree tunnels of the small high streams, had forgotten how it will happily cast nothing more than a tapered leader accurately and easily.<br />
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The original 6'1" was too short for me, so added a butt extension and built the handle over that, to make a 6'10" rod. The first time I took it out on a backpack trip in the Drakensberg, it ran into a big rainbow on one of the low lakes, a shock for all concerned. Next trip found a 19" brown in a tiny stream at dusk, after catching little rainbows all day - nearly fell flat on my back as the fish rushed off three pools upstream. The luck tapered off after that unfortunately. Still it catches fish to the full extent of its powers, hindered only by the fisherman.<br />
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Here's the brown, dead. Catch and kill in those days. Them's good eating. <br />
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The reel is an Argus 56LT. At first thought it was a copy of the Orvis CFO, but after looking at the Abel in Ken's picture, maybe it's copying that ? Either way it's a nice little reel, a good copy and well sized for a DT 4wt and some backing. It has a devilish small elbow spring in the retaining clip, which I lost twice and found once. Now it has an artisanal spring handmade from safety pin wire. <br />
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Five miles back out and down in the gloaming, to a fine burger and beer at Oskar Blues Brewery <a href="https://www.oskarblues.com/" target="_blank">in</a> Lyons - highly recommended.<br />
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Next day we tried a big Wyoming river. On the drive in a big old moose crossed the road, stopped in the middle to glare at us, and took his time shambling across. This was supposed to be an easier hike, into the canyon from the plains,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFugKBQpfJ4urnbJT60ViSlTceh8iEYipcZQYM-oSZWtTMyVLmdEwESYwmQZlaWIWbMBbf1IaPsIaPIVxkiv4pvQ24zdiXKcDChky1JvmKejC9vlMRLYl2w0dt2PdJ-ETdmXCmcIApE7UW/s1600/routt_914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFugKBQpfJ4urnbJT60ViSlTceh8iEYipcZQYM-oSZWtTMyVLmdEwESYwmQZlaWIWbMBbf1IaPsIaPIVxkiv4pvQ24zdiXKcDChky1JvmKejC9vlMRLYl2w0dt2PdJ-ETdmXCmcIApE7UW/s640/routt_914.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Unfortunately we got a mite confused (as Dan'l Boone used to call getting lost) and wound up going up and down the canyon sides a couple of times, without benefit of trails. It was real pretty though, and we walked up on another moose resting in the shade on top. He was a young fellow, a fine glossy black beast, who looked at us in horror and ran off, all elbows and knees. Here we are about to clamber down the 500ft back to the river again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rqsBAEn7Pm2I_LoU4KTcAk78OAFOjdzZfM507hoJuwy2pCNUKteB736yorh97qdGyN4z8MT_geOPaM2Pb4HG18cHgmiN0zY06vA4tVrrPmrJ5H1PBRWjJWuVOBpeLo7jRETfblefoOBK/s1600/routt2_914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rqsBAEn7Pm2I_LoU4KTcAk78OAFOjdzZfM507hoJuwy2pCNUKteB736yorh97qdGyN4z8MT_geOPaM2Pb4HG18cHgmiN0zY06vA4tVrrPmrJ5H1PBRWjJWuVOBpeLo7jRETfblefoOBK/s640/routt2_914.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The fishing was awful slow, so we slogged out and hiked in to a different creek further down the drainage. This is the first time in 15 years of fishing together that Ken and I didn't have good catching. Ken was grumbling that his good-luck charm (me) had stopped working, I grumbled right back that my WY guide (him) wasn't up to snuff anymore.. <br />
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One nice brown in the new creek as consolation, and a smattering of smaller ones. Pretty anyway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQupAftMbaPRkY4wLfJDWWvWFBLKEOJ5lsMDK_cehCrEEF4Mip32q-wS4DaYqztthZsU4EY59DJ5S_XQhxK3w6ZNZRuSp-JeMsNk2s-XuVtwFtbtJlry_alViF-Hvvxtpy7cHvyfQbsTr/s1600/IMG_20140927_125004_761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQupAftMbaPRkY4wLfJDWWvWFBLKEOJ5lsMDK_cehCrEEF4Mip32q-wS4DaYqztthZsU4EY59DJ5S_XQhxK3w6ZNZRuSp-JeMsNk2s-XuVtwFtbtJlry_alViF-Hvvxtpy7cHvyfQbsTr/s640/IMG_20140927_125004_761.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On the drive out there was a family group of moose (meeses ? mice ?), papa, mama, and baby, browsing next to the road. These were quite unperturbed by us but the light was low, so no good pictures. Here's a fuzzy pic of papa.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9kmnhQZ_Rw1RZWuKnH5J6RGNEm9Lfjh5iyQUfWONKvAA338GhPDd0ZXs1ToMmnYZVk7hnwEp1fTM1KMi5HaDtpzuihXyO5QGW3iXxW1YWbJV8ru9incJffqrf1nw1JR2vh9kpS8vOnjk/s1600/IMG_20140927_183108_158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9kmnhQZ_Rw1RZWuKnH5J6RGNEm9Lfjh5iyQUfWONKvAA338GhPDd0ZXs1ToMmnYZVk7hnwEp1fTM1KMi5HaDtpzuihXyO5QGW3iXxW1YWbJV8ru9incJffqrf1nw1JR2vh9kpS8vOnjk/s640/IMG_20140927_183108_158.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyql8rAircWPmxCrAgNndks9qPHzacQpqUeadjrxbLXAAPiY6KAy4yIDruQ-AjWGBcZSIzJEL5OXRnhCkied2oJ8Y7tNGcBypkfupAjhCAmREnGimC6_mScItSBaBgNvTeT3yadUi7aYZ/s1600/snows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyql8rAircWPmxCrAgNndks9qPHzacQpqUeadjrxbLXAAPiY6KAy4yIDruQ-AjWGBcZSIzJEL5OXRnhCkied2oJ8Y7tNGcBypkfupAjhCAmREnGimC6_mScItSBaBgNvTeT3yadUi7aYZ/s640/snows.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The last few years between family, work and etceteras, once a year in the high country is about the best I can do. Last year was <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2018/10/at-odds-with-fall.html" target="_blank">October</a>, this year I made it up early, in September. It took me some time to write it up, thinking slowly and moving even slower.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrMZeOUa-2in8YiIDWSP6Uzpvrq8IYI0D_E8HnZkJkBVv2J-uQE9ijiLdqkITmxpP6MTxVvmpxzjJqXWpvWCak5UfPoZXbDod9khWmDw1WWaZeZ2BXKtWid3No0YFnh1UwXF9VnY_4qWr/s1600/indian+peaks+betty+bob+route.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="1600" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrMZeOUa-2in8YiIDWSP6Uzpvrq8IYI0D_E8HnZkJkBVv2J-uQE9ijiLdqkITmxpP6MTxVvmpxzjJqXWpvWCak5UfPoZXbDod9khWmDw1WWaZeZ2BXKtWid3No0YFnh1UwXF9VnY_4qWr/s640/indian+peaks+betty+bob+route.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It was supposed to be a trail run on the way up. Between the rocks, steepness, and my getting old, there was much more walking than running. Expected 5 miles and a bit over an hour, turned out to be 6.5 miles (2500 ft climbing) and nearly two hours. Here's a brief runnable bit of trail. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgoAf9RvTgukHCnLb9CkLckh9STvATQkCVvfhfEL2MQ7cfdeRKiyEKypx2-QHEZf-rj8BZCBkHYejgGG_9gC5BeOhZ8B6ozl8VGsMloLEZ2SfwDmWunM_okPAb5Eh4Ltt21Mze-cKgQmUw/s1600/runnable.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgoAf9RvTgukHCnLb9CkLckh9STvATQkCVvfhfEL2MQ7cfdeRKiyEKypx2-QHEZf-rj8BZCBkHYejgGG_9gC5BeOhZ8B6ozl8VGsMloLEZ2SfwDmWunM_okPAb5Eh4Ltt21Mze-cKgQmUw/s640/runnable.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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I was puzzled by the presence of a couple of hefty guys in waders setting up on Betty lake as I arrived, stringing up fish (illegally). They did not sound or look like backpackers, and certainly didn't hike in ahead of me unless they started in the deepest dark. Alpacas ? Llamas ? dudes dropped off by horsepackers ? Later research shows there is a 4wd road from Winter Park side up to Rollins pass, from where there is an easy mile downhill walk to get to Betty. Oh well I enjoyed it more with the sweat crusting on my shirt. Also, in terms of elapsed time from home, it's just as quick to run up, as drive around the mountains to sneak in from the backside, and way pleasanter than dealing with traffic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3h4pN64HeAKJR0s7nLtmsIEZntCUl8SnGNP82Fyy58SQXFj3DEdXzhfeYCmJW_1pm3LwTM_YqUE905cLiJcZENEAUj9PCcQtwqNh4boVPbA5K1wc8n0MTY4jFuZS8af_KgXFMOEIs_tRF/s1600/bettyCutt1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="1600" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3h4pN64HeAKJR0s7nLtmsIEZntCUl8SnGNP82Fyy58SQXFj3DEdXzhfeYCmJW_1pm3LwTM_YqUE905cLiJcZENEAUj9PCcQtwqNh4boVPbA5K1wc8n0MTY4jFuZS8af_KgXFMOEIs_tRF/s640/bettyCutt1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Numbers of pretty little cutts like this, fast action but I couldn't hook them for some reason. I'd try to tighten on 15-20yds of line blown by the wind, and get a heap of flyline at my feet with only a distant swirl for entertainment. The rod is built on a cheap Chinese 4wt fiberglass blank, somehow always seem to pick it for these excursions. It's slower than I prefer but once I can relax, it will lay out long casts with minimal false casting. The 9' 3wt graphite would be a much better wind rod in these high lakes but not as much fun on the smaller fish. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_KyMf60D9J0NDkxh_ocuermG7jYUUwyriP4VJJ6jkmEgBCtez7dtXZ7RkGFuaUfLi7iXUbn7v2ZkZ4qFYXm2vYAM2RMQuuxlGZQ_5zvT1nZYhrcmaUUXtOL5S69J0i-TdofhuJAHpy71/s1600/betty2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_KyMf60D9J0NDkxh_ocuermG7jYUUwyriP4VJJ6jkmEgBCtez7dtXZ7RkGFuaUfLi7iXUbn7v2ZkZ4qFYXm2vYAM2RMQuuxlGZQ_5zvT1nZYhrcmaUUXtOL5S69J0i-TdofhuJAHpy71/s640/betty2.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
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As much of paradise as I expect to see.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YbcajHj4D3F_fSQXRgIyCNUQCzACQDQJoznvj6TjZdf-zBeKFzKTXgFm-ERn_aBp8PojOn6Ug6ZZbP4u6NCArMprQE9R0Be3xpJ3aSb2i6U6obYm4RD_52igbY6itEMdnzKoXnKjdkZj/s1600/bendPool.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YbcajHj4D3F_fSQXRgIyCNUQCzACQDQJoznvj6TjZdf-zBeKFzKTXgFm-ERn_aBp8PojOn6Ug6ZZbP4u6NCArMprQE9R0Be3xpJ3aSb2i6U6obYm4RD_52igbY6itEMdnzKoXnKjdkZj/s640/bendPool.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Went up to the little stream between the lakes. It was full of fish, no easier but I like sneaking the little pools. Dropped the flies in there and he sailed out from under the bank.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_nGcB8QSGa9ARcmAMinG8eFd9PAgxV_Yqy4VjgqrcLjMp6I9wlAMHD3AtZ1FkNB8KJ8PxQu5KUaKC3KZ4dmIN3cNiXqVZeP3HuZgB_CRMEbB15bOEK8MPlXrwf44IyGloiyKZq84ae_G/s1600/bendCutt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_nGcB8QSGa9ARcmAMinG8eFd9PAgxV_Yqy4VjgqrcLjMp6I9wlAMHD3AtZ1FkNB8KJ8PxQu5KUaKC3KZ4dmIN3cNiXqVZeP3HuZgB_CRMEbB15bOEK8MPlXrwf44IyGloiyKZq84ae_G/s640/bendCutt.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Crawled up to the end of the trail, leaving the (relatively) easy lake.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3JyENvZZCp5zgNkuwnoBGGjPGKElg1ZkXjeqQ8VPDjDnGrgxKGQYGicEe5cvY9pZ8SIwAa-WSOA91fLKc4fa12m8okAZak1IuMh6_0dYssmT3D11N4iXiIJ3UwGQFLPngxO5aDAHGnA-/s1600/betty.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3JyENvZZCp5zgNkuwnoBGGjPGKElg1ZkXjeqQ8VPDjDnGrgxKGQYGicEe5cvY9pZ8SIwAa-WSOA91fLKc4fa12m8okAZak1IuMh6_0dYssmT3D11N4iXiIJ3UwGQFLPngxO5aDAHGnA-/s640/betty.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Bob is a deep rocky lake, with not much evidence of life. One good fish cruising the shallows.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2zdF_FcMXoNpxLUP9_2QEWrBzgH9sUC9NgSUJ9lOVPaHtAaS454PJtQ5vhj9tHWaVbFw351_L1RM2_XDYOnXS4Pkf3O6givmNN24Bg2d6B3GnVpUnvlzF4nEBkfBkBxzq2KPsAggosvK/s1600/cuttBob3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2zdF_FcMXoNpxLUP9_2QEWrBzgH9sUC9NgSUJ9lOVPaHtAaS454PJtQ5vhj9tHWaVbFw351_L1RM2_XDYOnXS4Pkf3O6givmNN24Bg2d6B3GnVpUnvlzF4nEBkfBkBxzq2KPsAggosvK/s640/cuttBob3.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNNqszwCotd1ieRSe1ixB76TfOLjH6IRVN4jDqf5pdB8pV9j3UHObz5YOpp1OsmfbylKU-C9fJ1iFlc48n5chNtNuFON0jOhCFjskSsi9REgEeF7DVAQSWkyZR-o8RnWnUmOx24HkqN5t/s1600/bob.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNNqszwCotd1ieRSe1ixB76TfOLjH6IRVN4jDqf5pdB8pV9j3UHObz5YOpp1OsmfbylKU-C9fJ1iFlc48n5chNtNuFON0jOhCFjskSsi9REgEeF7DVAQSWkyZR-o8RnWnUmOx24HkqN5t/s640/bob.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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As I was catching this fish, four guys skied down from the Divide on that dirty patch of snow. One of them is standing just at the edge of the lower patch of snow in the picture. Saw them later and said it seemed like a lot of walking for a little skiing. They probably thought the same thing about my fishing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAo5O8RWI1irqVlZYZKaQd4UIvYSu1f2KsCK6dl-Q2Sbsshr9YyYBEst7uuWtD3ycKjpGEspU7e7bcgPMYKUIKCS6hbhp_JmrTOe0JBl3FBKm5kqXLq5W8UOk3NU2FU7gNYOq483i1JYSQ/s1600/pan3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAo5O8RWI1irqVlZYZKaQd4UIvYSu1f2KsCK6dl-Q2Sbsshr9YyYBEst7uuWtD3ycKjpGEspU7e7bcgPMYKUIKCS6hbhp_JmrTOe0JBl3FBKm5kqXLq5W8UOk3NU2FU7gNYOq483i1JYSQ/s640/pan3.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWBD6MDbHFkvhCEeO2g_ZK3My6ukyMX8AK2gtyPkgFk8DhKFLElM4FaUEaGZvpLqNJbaztIfajPHQaFLMciQb6NHPDAoRu2kZeM0dc0nGv-9PGwehILfp2WxtB4JPD10FJ3l8f-WcfPox/s1600/pan1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWBD6MDbHFkvhCEeO2g_ZK3My6ukyMX8AK2gtyPkgFk8DhKFLElM4FaUEaGZvpLqNJbaztIfajPHQaFLMciQb6NHPDAoRu2kZeM0dc0nGv-9PGwehILfp2WxtB4JPD10FJ3l8f-WcfPox/s640/pan1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Thunder rolled in and it was time to beat feet. Usually September in CO is calm, mild and reliably sunny through the day. Now we broke the weather, anything can happen.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2JQdn9dEB4RDUKJfq6neBXCpaqMFVJpe-FH36_OE6B3pA08DXh_LomFTtQZ3rANr22oYF-veOX-7if2Ejgzz-_r9V0sdrLJYMkiZiLzVvBV-yygvkMfVhG_FOMElLZ6hbTKmrJ1jFi7D/s1600/springing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2JQdn9dEB4RDUKJfq6neBXCpaqMFVJpe-FH36_OE6B3pA08DXh_LomFTtQZ3rANr22oYF-veOX-7if2Ejgzz-_r9V0sdrLJYMkiZiLzVvBV-yygvkMfVhG_FOMElLZ6hbTKmrJ1jFi7D/s640/springing.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
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Down to the little stream to see what lives there.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mWgWGAZErmAD4IOH2lt2qQV7VTO3tnSKC119SgnshJn5Ok23Og730de0EYw8y9S_fISnaiFz_hZ8_15UcSaei8H5AdtT2hOSqCUvm0NWpPWbcV0lHOoEvsV9nqJ7FV7cr0cbgXQOfM__/s1600/cuttRun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mWgWGAZErmAD4IOH2lt2qQV7VTO3tnSKC119SgnshJn5Ok23Og730de0EYw8y9S_fISnaiFz_hZ8_15UcSaei8H5AdtT2hOSqCUvm0NWpPWbcV0lHOoEvsV9nqJ7FV7cr0cbgXQOfM__/s640/cuttRun.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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It always amazes me, even after many such experiences, to find the size of cutt that can grow up in these tiny creeks. I looked at this run and thought, 'no cover there, can't be a fish' then saw a slim brown shape working in the current. The hardest part of casting in these streams, is keeping the flies from hanging up on the bankside vegetation.<br />
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The first brook trout of the day was also the last fish, as I ran out of time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwpLyD-uiZ5E7MWPP5LUYzAccVIWAHtTmHIUGjnIXGkhg_aZvfZknMscPGOlRero6AAC8LVn6pqJWt5k-nKgrj2rK5prdH__g-Gyc_TeGANfjQocM-dFm3Iqyr6QadlfY03_-N9iJGqWA/s1600/lastFish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwpLyD-uiZ5E7MWPP5LUYzAccVIWAHtTmHIUGjnIXGkhg_aZvfZknMscPGOlRero6AAC8LVn6pqJWt5k-nKgrj2rK5prdH__g-Gyc_TeGANfjQocM-dFm3Iqyr6QadlfY03_-N9iJGqWA/s640/lastFish.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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I'd hoped to fish one of the bigger creeks below for its mix of little brooks and bows. By the time I got there we'd had a couple inches of rain and hail. The stream was running high and colored brown. Also I was cold and wet and old, no longer up for gnawing the last thirty minutes of fishing out of the day.<br />
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Another year redeemed by a day outside. As <a href="https://deadhorseswi.bandcamp.com/track/kickapoo-creek" target="_blank">Dead Horses</a> sing, <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I just wanna go where the soft wind blows<br />
And the mountains are covered in the cloud shadows</blockquote>
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Way out in the Dampier islands, brother Charles knows a good place. Andrew and I peppered the shoreline surf with a variety of lures and caught a small Giant Trevally apiece. A small Giant ? it's a proper name <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proper_name_(philosophy)" target="_blank">for</a> the fish best identified as Caranx Ignobilis, not ignoble but in Latin obscure or unknown. This tag was presumably given for its relative obscurity to the Swedish naturalist who first saw a specimen, in the fine frenzy <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binomial_nomenclature" target="_blank">of</a> naming following Linnaeus. <br />
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We took a break to snorkel in a quiet bay. Andrew swam ashore with lures in his hat and a rod in one hand, to try luck from there. He's out of sight on the far shore, where the waves become silver as the big GTs flash in their turning hunts. <br />
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The waves surged around the point that is just out of view to the right of this picture. It seemed to me the best use of my time would be to pound the eddies with repeated casts, hoping for a marauding stray. The GTs tend to prowl the reef edges. A few casts to an eddy for trout would either spook the fish or catch them, but here the hopeful repetition might even work. There is a sort of zen satisfaction to be had anyway, in putting the cast exactly where needed, over and over though nothing happens but the changing water. <br />
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The lure is a GT Ice Cream <a href="https://www.elitetackle.com.au/store/gt-ice-cream-en-gb/gt-ice-cream-needle-nose-1-5-oz-colours" target="_blank">Needlenose</a>, looks like not much, until retrieving at a good speed. Then it dances across <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX9k9aoX6gk" target="_blank">the</a> water much like an escaping lunch of tasty fishlet. <br />
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A heavy swirl missed the first strike, then made no mistake on the second attempt. By the time I'd recovered my wits the fish was a good hundred yards away and moving well.<br />
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<div>
This is my triple-luck GT - </div>
<div>
luck 1, was using a rod borrowed from Andrew, with way more power than my little travel inshore reed; </div>
<div>
luck 2, the fish ran straight out some 200 yards instead of out and around the corner into the coral; </div>
luck
3, my good guide Charles got the boat moving to follow it out, not sure
I'd have won back those 200yds without getting reefed on the way.<br />
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This shows how far off the island we went in pursuit.<br />
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<span id="goog_741812217"></span><span id="goog_741812218"></span><br />
<span id="goog_741812217"></span><span id="goog_741812218"></span><br />
<span id="goog_741812217">The fish looks distinctly annoyed. I was perfectly happy. </span><br />
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<span id="goog_741812217">In a sense this fish was wasted on me. </span><span id="goog_741812217"><span id="goog_741812217">As Roderick Haig-Brown wrote about pike, </span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span id="goog_741812217">
To create a legend, time is needed. There must be time for stories to
grow and men’s minds to work upon them and build them larger yet, time for eyes and minds made receptive by tales already told to collect and magnify new fragments of evidence, time for partisans of the growing myth to raise about its essential points a hedge of protecting dogma. These
fish have </span><span id="goog_741812217">every necessary quality - size, strength, ferocity, a cruel cold eye, a wicked head and a love of dark waters. </span></blockquote>
<span id="goog_741812217">Andrew has been thinking about a good GT for years, investing time money and imagination into preparing: the right lure, rod, line, practicing the knots to hold in the terminal tackle. </span><br />
<span id="goog_741812217">I had not put the dreaming time in to be ready. </span><br />
<span id="goog_741812217"><br /></span>
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<span id="goog_741812217">On the other hand - in 2003 I'd hooked a smaller GT of 10 pounds or so on a fly rod, which fish wrapped the line around two different coral <a href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/bommie" target="_blank">bommies</a> in short order. Charles swam out and freed the line from the first. The second was in twenty feet of water with a strong tide ripping over it and sharks circling. We broke the leader so the fish could escape. That fish I'll remember <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bvZ-WCkXGE" target="_blank">while</a> memory remains. </span><br />
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<span id="goog_741812217">Thanks to niece <a href="https://scholar.google.com/citations?user=WlHM2EAAAAAJ&hl=en" target="_blank">Dr</a>. Exceptional Jessica, for the pictures.. </span><br />
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Greg seined the top of the run above the pool, came up with expected midges, caddis, and also two stonefly nymphs, a golden and a black. <br />
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These are basically trout candy, like Snickers bars or cheeseburgers and fries. The golden was passive, the black crawled around vigorously, lifting its head to look around. I was reminded of Patrick O'Brian's line, "like an intelligent spaniel that thinks he just heard someone taking down a shotgun". <br />
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Cold morning and nothing seen in the clear green waters. <br />
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I fish sitting down, which does not deserve a response.<br />
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Standing up didn't change the luck though.<br />
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Eventually a couple good ones showed
up in the big lazy eddy at the head of the pool. They were mostly
loafing though and swam oblivious past our offerings. This is what I'm used to from famous fish though, am mostly inured to being ignored. <br />
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Niece <a href="https://www.fulbright.org.au/alumni/profiles/2018-alumni/" target="_blank">Dr</a>. Exceptional Jessica was along for the excitement of watching us catch nothing. Luckily she had Trevor Noah's autobiography to read on the cold island.<br />
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After some time a couple of fish showed up deep, mouthing something. A nice frisky 15" brown took the pheasant-tail nymph about 3 feet down.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPB2q_kGvVETixJmoiypS_zvCP5BRPpNAKBa8vTkFx_aizegWHozHf-2Q4Ob1nKWGEuNfKV5tPjjadDj8osQzHbNqI0oiEtVFCzvN6aEOR1r9alMpNCRM9pWpjM72AOUQOz3I7erQ4AXAF/s1600/brownFirst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPB2q_kGvVETixJmoiypS_zvCP5BRPpNAKBa8vTkFx_aizegWHozHf-2Q4Ob1nKWGEuNfKV5tPjjadDj8osQzHbNqI0oiEtVFCzvN6aEOR1r9alMpNCRM9pWpjM72AOUQOz3I7erQ4AXAF/s640/brownFirst.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A few rises
started to appear in a flurry of light snow, then saw the blue-winged olive mayflies coming
off.. a veritable hatch of mayfly, never actually fished one of those
before. Fortunately I had bought a number of BWO <a href="https://www.americanangler.com/building-better-bwo/2/" target="_blank">tiny</a> flies based on the
assumption that Greg would drag me out to one of these famous places. Thanks Greg. <br />
<br />
A #22 parachute BWO (see pic below) worked beautifully as long as it got a drag-free
drift, which seemed to need a leader terminating in four feet of a lighter line than I'd usually fish, 6x. The actual flies
looked to be more an #18 to me but that size didn't work nearly as well.
The fish would wise up after a couple of drifts and move over to the
far side of the current, fall back, move up, etc, so it was necessary to
change up occasionally or rest them. I lost count of fish landed,
though it is true I can't count very high, deliberately forgetting
numbers after a hand or so.<br />
<br />
Andrew is a fine saltwater and bass
fisherman (here with a queenfish) but had not attempted finicky tailwater trout before.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0PKcHdn_hbUklLE3twVwiRX1fhYHSMUW0orUUtVgL5PXaqkrvEJ22W4FMOI-G8xsV2G_U0iPHIae-Ye6CBjHIA6TU4n-P3zHtOr4EF2OV5giEfaMzEP7tivxejqZdpFe7rxU2qkwuAzc/s1600/20190428_040507735_iOS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0PKcHdn_hbUklLE3twVwiRX1fhYHSMUW0orUUtVgL5PXaqkrvEJ22W4FMOI-G8xsV2G_U0iPHIae-Ye6CBjHIA6TU4n-P3zHtOr4EF2OV5giEfaMzEP7tivxejqZdpFe7rxU2qkwuAzc/s640/20190428_040507735_iOS.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
He hooked and
lost one on a #22, then switched to a #6 beadhead green woolly bugger,
and caught two good fish on that. So much for selective tailwater trout. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZFoHanrpCkYzOeD8e6yw7TZJlkEfRs2cmkwWlOiaM58CJTU4Jy40j4jYSxrwIoeQdp_M5CUd3DlkWsjAEHRNi-fUNE4cL8C467kNs-o0yEjYxjGZuVRy1zLE-qno9M1K4wYL36Lr89ah/s1600/20190412_200310974_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZFoHanrpCkYzOeD8e6yw7TZJlkEfRs2cmkwWlOiaM58CJTU4Jy40j4jYSxrwIoeQdp_M5CUd3DlkWsjAEHRNi-fUNE4cL8C467kNs-o0yEjYxjGZuVRy1zLE-qno9M1K4wYL36Lr89ah/s640/20190412_200310974_iOS.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
Here's a #22 fly on a quarter, and a #6 woolly bugger to contrast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwtRNvtLzeTvM-u01f3wz917X9eGOgFLJ91vJoTmx8I_uy9TyOs3Rg1Xjpm3LxT7MNy-c5VFjXs3fGxj3XcksOWjdBTEqzJZtRSUuLVkeNivQ07AFstqEfv3palXTfcZJNNftZP-apW37/s1600/number22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwtRNvtLzeTvM-u01f3wz917X9eGOgFLJ91vJoTmx8I_uy9TyOs3Rg1Xjpm3LxT7MNy-c5VFjXs3fGxj3XcksOWjdBTEqzJZtRSUuLVkeNivQ07AFstqEfv3palXTfcZJNNftZP-apW37/s400/number22.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfZptADJHC3NG6tr1XqTM5hpxMiWTn56C3qEJsC3Hh7LQBrYmQyMrH0-m8tRhFJcB5MSxf_s6v0uKKDLzsmq6zpp40f96-fY2F-VCVIUwhaNo96Zz9oDXIE03bhKrQSMysHfeQrfgzUh5/s1600/bugger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1071" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfZptADJHC3NG6tr1XqTM5hpxMiWTn56C3qEJsC3Hh7LQBrYmQyMrH0-m8tRhFJcB5MSxf_s6v0uKKDLzsmq6zpp40f96-fY2F-VCVIUwhaNo96Zz9oDXIE03bhKrQSMysHfeQrfgzUh5/s400/bugger.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My best fish was a brown trout about 18" in one of the snow flurries. He rocketed up
from the green deeps, turned back down across the
pool and ran up, into a sort of fold in space/time. The line arrowed into the
water, extending clear to the other side, a white curve in the clear green: yet the fish was still
running, apparently through rock. <br />
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<br />
Charmed and a little astonished to land it. A couple of fish later hooked a strong 18-19"
rainbow which popped the knot on his second run. That was entirely my
fault for not retying. Here's another picture of the brown, to salve the memory of the broken-off fish. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcyjgMHKr_o_8TZd8aTa8puYXffinTjq8Z02TNy7_YjRyp0u2WzwvaNlKyWOG8v40D8xq8b4arTj8NQ_tuBj1w8QGrM3_VMKb42p6-P8Mdxf_CnnWbHM24-GIpzxu5MBO1sqhUwFWwKZQ/s1600/20190412_201513965_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcyjgMHKr_o_8TZd8aTa8puYXffinTjq8Z02TNy7_YjRyp0u2WzwvaNlKyWOG8v40D8xq8b4arTj8NQ_tuBj1w8QGrM3_VMKb42p6-P8Mdxf_CnnWbHM24-GIpzxu5MBO1sqhUwFWwKZQ/s640/20190412_201513965_iOS.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
Interestingly I could see the #22 fly on the water often enough to keep track of it, even when the vitreous detachment <a href="https://www.nei.nih.gov/learn-about-eye-health/eye-conditions-and-diseases/vitreous-detachment" target="_blank">blurries</a> came sweeping over my vision. It was a pleasant surprise to find this and fish without any strike indicator. It's likely I could have caught more fish with a trailing pheasant-tail nymph, but was getting a good deal of fun out of the simplicity of a single dry and the challenge of getting it to drift free. The water was clear enough to be able to distinguish browns from rainbows as they hung in the feeding lanes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQN3pMFMxf9c2vpcHVll5rB3rSTyHnJ_Oxk2S2dJq_GIcfQB4kHDlJV_k3U2Y-UcKs6rfCFNWtflWLRf3jIGaFHpcX6rCwpBIle8BZAoLBby_85QfffWb9JZStphGlz5o2iw60IdYicXw/s1600/bendPool1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQN3pMFMxf9c2vpcHVll5rB3rSTyHnJ_Oxk2S2dJq_GIcfQB4kHDlJV_k3U2Y-UcKs6rfCFNWtflWLRf3jIGaFHpcX6rCwpBIle8BZAoLBby_85QfffWb9JZStphGlz5o2iw60IdYicXw/s640/bendPool1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The hatch tailed off in the later afternoon, but still had the odd riser rolling up in the slacker water. I tried a number of drifts downstream to what I thought was a big brown, taking flies all around mine but not it. Sneaked around to get a different drift and retied with a longer leader and smaller fly. By this time I was cold enough that thinking wasn't going too well and the fingers had turned into bunches of sausages. The retying took about 15min by which time I fully expected the trout to have stopped rising. On the fourth drift he sailed up and took the fly down with just the same rise form as all the others, how delightful. Ran strongly for the rapids out of the pool, surprised that the 6x held, landed him an 18” rainbow, and called it a day. <br />
<br />
My apologies to Greg and Andrew as I think I got a little over-focused there. It's that fish <a href="https://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2017/03/retreat-to-encampment.html" target="_blank">lust</a> problem again - fishing as if my dinner depended on it, emitting the occasional half-crazed monomaniacal cackle when a fish takes.<br />
<br />
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</script>Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-9006251154142243522018-10-03T23:30:00.000-06:002018-10-05T10:01:39.728-06:00at odds with the fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kRFkUiPpw1swPiWrxlK8m4sq-xzzwiaN43RS9bL32Kst7f9EMpzKwCLwAGysWQUklxIDpeKV0uS7RzuXOg0JBRz7dNLklP_2JJHxLgvkeJ3k0zTX2Q9-wLw0C11ngIssHiniUNrckUEZ/s1600/31172388188_8a2e5c2cfb_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kRFkUiPpw1swPiWrxlK8m4sq-xzzwiaN43RS9bL32Kst7f9EMpzKwCLwAGysWQUklxIDpeKV0uS7RzuXOg0JBRz7dNLklP_2JJHxLgvkeJ3k0zTX2Q9-wLw0C11ngIssHiniUNrckUEZ/s640/31172388188_8a2e5c2cfb_o.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
what is the fall ?<br />
almost at odds with the summer, which <a href="https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/macbeth/page_118/" target="_blank">is</a> which </blockquote>
Each new autumn I get antsy because of insufficient trips up to the high country. Have to get there before <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwtU7sjW-k8" target="_blank">the snow flies</a>..<br />
<br />
It gets worse each year. There is the constant awareness that at best I have another ten years of being physically capable of hiking the miles of rocky trails up to 11 000 feet and above. Baled on going to church this Sunday and took off to worship in another way, to climb the mountains and get their good tidings, as John Muir wrote.<br />
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<br />
A bit over five miles in and 2000 feet up, from the trailhead shuttle bus.<br />
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<br />
Strong wind blowing cold up around the treeline. Casting into the wind was nearly impossible with a light 4wt line, a brief lull allowed reaching the edge of rocky shallows. The idea of wading didn't survive first contact with the bitter chill of the water.<br />
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<br />
Walked around to get out of the wind but it followed me, shifting as the day warmed. At the inlet fish were rising past the dropoff, some 20 yards out, which is the limit of my abilities with a mild-mannered <a href="http://fiberglassflyrodders.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=320339#p320339" target="_blank">4wt</a> glass rod in a gusty swirling wind. About one cast in five made it, then the wind would blow line into a curve and drag the fly under after a few minutes. The fish wouldn't take a sunken fly, or a moving fly. This provided sufficient amusement until lunchtime, broken by the occasional success.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ4uQTYttYCLXOe2r_s95MItv0wkX7uDTRlfAR_5sAu4K2seq36g1I_GcEpiTKSefVaY4-mRkdB5FiazZjWVysAGRyZ7RiIl4KvdBFDU8-cHmGLungoY8sVBtxNKscLWDVZSAzTVXp8ZZ/s1600/44325605144_f20c9de1b1_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ4uQTYttYCLXOe2r_s95MItv0wkX7uDTRlfAR_5sAu4K2seq36g1I_GcEpiTKSefVaY4-mRkdB5FiazZjWVysAGRyZ7RiIl4KvdBFDU8-cHmGLungoY8sVBtxNKscLWDVZSAzTVXp8ZZ/s640/44325605144_f20c9de1b1_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
This fish wasn't ready for its closeup.<br />
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<br />
Wandered off up the stream to look for the next lake up. On the way there was a little pool which I estimated to be large enough to hold a fish, and there he was, most gratifying.<br />
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The game path along the stream petered out in a thicket of willow shrub and mud pockmarked by moose hoofprints. Thrashed through this to emerge bleeding only lightly, to the saddle with a glimpse of the next lake.<br />
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This lake was low, walked to edge and sank knee deep into mud between one step and another. Fell, got another bang on the shin, luckily it was a new shin this time and didn't reopen any of the old scars.<br />
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The lake isn't natural, or is natural but got a little help to deepen it. The notched dam wall at the end of the bleak forbidding rocky bowl gave the scene a desolate air, which oddly is missing from natural lakes.<br />
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Dour grey water with no signs of life. Fished all the way around, one little one, another missed, then a big one 18" rose up through the waves. I was overeager and took the fly away from him. Tut.<br />
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Krummholz <a href="https://northernwoodlands.org/outside_story/article/krummholz-wood" target="_blank">at</a> the treeline, blown by the winds and short growing season into strange shapes.<br />
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It was time to leave, had to make it back to trailhead by 6pm to catch the last shuttle bus. This was a considerable crimp to my usual style of battering out of the backcountry in the dark with a headlamp glowing weakly, as I'd forgotten to change the batteries since last year's desperate run <a href="https://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2017/09/now-bid-me-run.html" target="_blank">for</a> the hills. Still it was a pleasant novelty to walk out in the light. Found the trail again, ate an apple and took a picture of the lower lake.<br />
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The pool below these falls is again certain to hold a fish, unless someone caught it out recently. It was steep, I was late, and my bum knee wasn't happy with me: so that fish didn't get pestered today.<br />
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Ran a bit on the flatter sections of trail, to get ahead of the clock. The book on fishing Indian Peaks mentioned a nice bit of stream lower down. With the minutes earned by running I gave it a try, but started too early, in a beaver pond morass. Several fish moving in flat calm pool in a side trickle, spooked as I came up. Got a little 6" brookie out of another pond and quit.<br />
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Down in Nederland at 8000 feet, the forecast:<br />
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At 11 000 ft it will be bleak: sneaked in under the snowline, for this year. Nine left.<br />
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Camped in the Minnesota rainforest, at Whitewater State Park. I hoped the fish had not swum up from the streams into the air, heaven knows it was wet enough.<br />
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The Driftless is a region that was not scoured by glaciers. The term of art in geology for the remnants of retreating glaciers is 'drift', and thus Driftless. It's also a karst topography, limestone and sinkholes with rivers vanishing into caves and emerging as cold rich trout water. In England these are known as chalk streams, famous and famously expensive trout streams: in the US, as limestone spring creeks. I can't afford a <a href="http://www.itchen-fishing.co.uk/Prices.asp" target="_blank">beat</a> on an English stream or a spring <a href="https://www.yellowstoneangler.com/our-waters/armstrongs-spring-creek" target="_blank">creek</a>, instead went looking for fish in the land of Colleges, Cows <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northfield,_Minnesota" target="_blank">and</a> Contentment.<br />
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That first afternoon/evening fished the north branch, a rugged wild stream with no paths I could see. That is unprecedented in my experience: every other trout stream I know has at least informal fisherman trails wandering around it. It may be the rainforest outgrows the foot traffic. Raining hard, mist, light rain, more rain, varieties of rain. Corn too, as well as the cows etcetera.<br />
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First fish quickly, took a swung Invicta with such a trusting little nibble and pull. Generally they were not shy, got a couple whacks that moved the fly line 6" or more. That's the advantage of off-color water, none of your shy fish, it's eat quick or go hungry for them.<br />
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This was the clearest water I saw the whole trip.<br />
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Switched to a dry fly just because I'd rather fish that. The beetle got no response for several pools, then suddenly five or six in one pool and another in the riffle at the head.<br />
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Getting late and dark and spooky out in the woods, quit for the day.<br />
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Dinner at Johnny's Whitewater Saloon, 8:30pm on Labor day evening and it was full of people shouting and cussing at the tops of their voices. Wut. Nice barwoman was apologetic, "sorry it gets loud in here". Draft beer was all drunk up, only bottled left, been a long weekend I guess. An unexpectedly good pizza and beer then left before trouble could start.<br />
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Rained all night. In the morning tried for Trout Run, pretty stream at Hardwood access, park-like lawns and trees. I could tell this would be a good trout stream, given water a bit less like chocolate milk with visibility 2-3".<br />
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Got one on a black leech, then a nice 13" in an eddy. He refused to pose for me.<br />
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Nothing after that for an hour or more, quit and went to look for clearer water. Pretty stream though.<br />
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Drove through the corn to a Trout Unlimited signpost for access to creek. Some farmer graffiti written on white plastic wrapping haybales, "without farmers you'd be hungry, naked, and sober". Fair enough.<br />
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Lots of cows staring blankly at me. Access on the ground did not match that on the map - good clear path in to the trees, then unclear, turns out need to go straight on through the trees downhill. Map said access went on upstream, signs said no. Went down for a bit planning to go to the confluence with a larger river, but hit another fenced non-access section. There might have been a path around that section ? but not at all clear if just cowpath, gave up. <br />
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<a href="https://www.dnr.state.mn.us/areas/fisheries/lanesboro/opportunities/fillmore.html" target="_blank">DNR</a> says big browns in this tiny creek, suspect these are spawners running up from main river - didn't look like a very rich stream itself, though I did get four fish in the 10-11" range out of the liquid mud. Too thick to drink, too thin to plough, as they used to <a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/archives-archivists/msg02705.html" target="_blank">say</a> of the Platte river.<br />
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Tailgate lunch back at the car, excellent Wisconsin sharp cheddar and Canadian (?) tomatoes.<br />
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Lost Creek a jungle around many deadfalls. Hot by now, lots of stinging nettles and tangling creeper, no path, gave up - need long pants or heavy-duty waders to thrash through there. No sign of fish in 30min, some decent pools. DNR says high biomass but couldn't prove it by me.<br />
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South branch Root River just upstream from Lanesboro looked like a catfish river, big muddy with high banks. Floundered around for a bit, caught a few small chub, no signs of other life. Difficult to move on river and implausible habitat, gave up and went into town.<br />
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Found an unexpectedly good inexpensive single malt from Granny's Liquors, Tomatin Dualchas. Granny warned me of flooding and tornadoes in the forecast. Well that's why I went in there to get the whisky. Wandered into <a href="https://rootriverrodco.com/" target="_blank">Root River Rods</a> Inc, wasted Steve's time with my aimless chitchat. I'd have backed off if a real customer with actual money had appeared. He told me the wild parsnips were even worse than the nettles. Ferocious vegetables stalk the MN rainforests I find. <br />
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An hour or two of daylight left, so left to try a creek in state forest, hoping the forest would provide less muddy runoff than agricultural land. It was running strong but had visibility.<br />
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Very small water, expectations low, then got six fish in 45min up to 14", golly.<br />
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That was the best fishing of the trip, though the north branch had been fine too.<br />
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By now it was a dark <a href="http://ronaldbrichardson.com/metafiction/the-worlds-shortest-novel-snoopys-it-was-a-dark-and-stormy-night/" target="_blank">and</a> stormy night, baled.<br />
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Nice pub in Lanesboro but very busy, could not figure out how to get food, quit and went next door to sandwich place, excellent cheeseburger and fries for $10. Drove back to camp in whiteout rain which was a new experience, have driven in whiteout snow but not yet rain. Tent was utterly saturated, pools of water on top of inner and on floor of tent. The groundsheet under the floor was dry, the only dry part of the tent. Rearranged all my luggage in the car and slid seats around until I could lie crossways. It was fairly comfortable but intensely hot with the windows closed. Rain poured in the windows even at the slightest crack open, lay there and panted.<br />
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Tornado sirens went off but I couldn't think of anything useful to do about it. Drank another glass of whisky so the sirens wouldn't keep me awake, and lay down again. The kindly neighbours checked on me in the morning and said the right place is the bathrooms. I'd wondered why the bathrooms were such thick-walled robust structures. Their canvas wall tent didn't do any better than my mountaineering tent in the rain. There was an old Eureka A-frame tent pitched a few campsites away, with a tarp pitched over the tent. I think that's about the only solution for high rain high humidity: a tarp to deflect most of the downpour, then a very well-ventilated if not particularly waterproof tent under the tarp. Next morning shook out the flysheet and dried up the floor with a towel, hoped for better days. It stayed grey all day but didn't actually start downpouring.<br />
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Forestville state park has a tiny little old office, very public-works Depression era. The ranger suggested Canfield to start as it is a spring creek. The park likes to keep you on your toes - no trail markers, and the maps at the trailheads worn to obscurity by years of tourist fingers stabbing at and squirming around the 'You are Here' marker. Take the obvious trail from the angler parking, and you'll have an invigorating 1.5mile out-and-back on the Maple Ridge trail which has no streams. Found my way down the road to the right unmarked trail, at the end of which the creek was running the color of cappucino, complete with white foam.<br />
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There is a spring up there, but also several feeders that run through cow country. Oh well. Further upstream it didn't improve.<br />
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The main river here was relatively clear though, wandered up and had slow but fair fishing. A nice 12" to finish after nearly an hour of nothing, quit and went over to Forestville creek in case it was springing eternal. Nope, more muddy cold water. The smallest trout of the trip some 8" was caught hiding below one of the new islands in the creek.<br />
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Back to the office to provide a stream report as requested by the lady ranger, then went upriver to find another bit of water. A beautiful spotted brown from under a scumline and briar bush, then nothing for an hour of good-looking water.<br />
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The sun came out ! I was so excited, I took a picture.<br />
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Late again, got one more 12" and called it a day. The first fish from this stretch less than a mile upstream was well spotted, this one barely had a spot.<br />
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Went into Preston hoping for dinner but the only place open was a bowling alley. I wasn't strong enough for that so had a gas station dinner, ech. Whisky for dessert at the campsite, reading on my Kindle by solar lantern light. The caddis flies flocked to the lantern and crawled on the Kindle, turning pages for me, though not always at the right time or in the right direction. Slept well in a tent only slightly damp.<br />
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Last morning came up misty but quickly cleared to a fine cool sunny day. Of course.<br />
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I was cold camping with no stove, had to drive 5min to get morning coffee. The first morning it was the worst gas station coffee I've ever drunk. The other mornings I waited in line at Cabin Coffee, the 5min wait was worth it not to drink that tepid insipid brew from the gas station.<br />
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Did that and went on to the upper reaches of Trout Run which was now colored but not impenetrable. Second cast got a handsome brown from under the weeds, lost another good one in the weed a couple of minutes later, then an hour of nothing more.<br />
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The downside of cows on the stream is cows, the upside is cow pastures, which are much easier to navigate than thickets of MN rainforest with stinging nettles, wild brier, tangled creepers, and so on. This stretch had both. Decided to spend the last 30min fishing a dry fly anyway, after days of dredging leeches, carp flies etc. The fish were rising in runs after I'd fished the fly over them, bit of a hint that I was getting it wrong. There was a good riser under the bridge. Covered him with twenty casts or more and finally persuaded a 8" to take my beetle. I thought it would be bigger. Maybe the good riser sent up a sacrificial friend to check if all those beetles were real.<br />
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Packed up hastily, hurtled back to Northfield, washed and vacuumed son's car, caught the bus to Minneapolis terminal one, caught the train to terminal two, caught the plane back home, met dear wife at Arrivals Denver, followed by total collapse of stout party.<br />
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A good trip, but I'd really like to see the streams on a fair day with hatches coming off..<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://paddling.com/learn/boofing/" target="_blank">Boofing</a> rocks in the hot sun<br />
I fought the course<br />
and the course <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AL8chWFuM-s" target="_blank">won</a></blockquote>
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In retrospect it probably would have been better not to fight the course. This was the <a href="https://opencanoe2018.com/" target="_blank">canoe</a> National whitewater slalom races, held on a wild bit of BLM land just north of Buena Vista. As usual all my training plans went to heck, so came the day and I had not been in my solo boat
on the river since 2011, whoops oh well. <br />
<br />
We had warmed up with a 3 day wilderness trip on the Rio Chama in New
Mexico. The takeout of this trip is near Ghost Ranch where Georgia
O'Keeffe lived and worked for many years. Here's younger son and I at the bottom of Aragon Rapid.<br />
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This is not Aragorn of the Dunedain heir of Isuldur, nor the dragon <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2008/12/var-gajshost-https-document.html" target="_blank">Saphira</a> and her boy Eragon, nor yet that Victorian land Erewhon though <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erewhon" target="_blank">it</a> is also found over the range. Aragon was a kingdom in Spain, presumably with the appropriate castles. Catherine of Aragon was Henry VIII's first wife, lasted eighteen years until her failure to produce a heir and the politics of the day started the beheadings and the Church of England. In Erewhon they did not allow machines, believing that Darwinian selection might produce a mechanical consciousness. Those Victorian novelists knew a thing or two. It's a long way from there to a campsite under the limber pines of New Mexico, loud with the voice of the rapid.<br />
<br />
Over the range <a href="https://nmfireinfo.com/2018/07/25/sfnf-aragon-fire-update-6/" rel="external nofollow noopener" target="_blank">a small fire</a>
was burning, started by lightning some time before. We had paddled into
camp watching the plume of smoke and wondering how close to camp it
would be.. right over the hill in fact. We had good rains so chanced it
and camped anyway. Several times in the night I woke up smelling smoke,
had to go out and check if we needed to hide in the river. Luckily not.<br />
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After all that, drive six hours back to Denver, unpack, repack, and head out to Buena Vista.<br />
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There's a river out there somewhere beyond the cactus and I have the boats to do something about it. <br />
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Looking downstream on the first evening, before the captains and the kings arrive.<br />
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Looking upstream from the middle of the course, racing day, as the boats and paddlers assemble in the top eddy.<br />
<br />
The course designer created the most difficult slalom course I've ever
paddled, way harder than the other two Nationals I attended.
Eventually I figured out an approximate strategy for the first twelve gates but after that there was
a sequence of downstream gates which beat me. Coming out of gate 12 was
like going into a bad horror movie - terrible things keep happening
faster than I can react to them for no good reason and they don't stop. My usual strategy for horror movies as a teenager was to close my eyes at the horrid bits, not useful in rapid whitewater.<br />
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The series of gates culminated in gate 16, dubbed "the suicide move", had to
paddle straight at a rock in fast current and drop in behind it with a
quick paddle stroke at the last split second. I did not manage this so
usually just bounced off the rock and battled to stay upright. Gate 16 is happening in the first pic above, though that is not me, but John from <a href="http://www.mtcanoes.com/" target="_blank">MT Canoes</a>. They make light composite boats based on classic hulls from the <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2011/07/open-boating.html" target="_blank">plastic</a> era. These are way lighter than plastic but I fear to paddle them as I'm a bit of a rock basher. My second canoe was fiberglass and more patch than boat by the time we'd finished battering it down the rivers. The plastic era ended when some GiantCorp bought out the manufacturers of Royalex and decided its profit margins were not sufficient to keep the CEOs in the style to which they wished to become accustomed. There is no replacement for Royalex - the composites are light but expensive and not nearly as durable, the polyethylene boats are tough but as heavy as the sins I can't forget. An old secondhand Royalex boat in decent condition is now more expensive that it was when new. <br />
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Another way around the rock to gate 16, worked for some but not for me.<br />
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The way it's supposed to look. This I think is Jerrod from Alabama. He'd been eager to leave AL until taking up whitewater, and realizing there were hundreds of runs available within an hour or two of home.<br />
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The first morning there was a yearling bear wandering around the camp. I got out of my car, thought "wow that's a BIG black Lab" and went to pat him, than noticed the rolling gait and realized it was a bear. He gave me a sad disillusioned look and walked off into the trees. Apparently he'd been eating garbage in town first. <a href="http://cpw.state.co.us/" target="_blank">CPW</a> came out and shot him with anesthetic darts, bundled off to an unknown fate. The second morning a mountain lion was reported up on the ridge above the campsites, eyeing the dogs.<br />
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This was probably the largest collection of canoes seen in the US since the last Nationals.<br />
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They littered the countryside, a terrain comprised of rocks, cactus, juniper, and a thirty foot steep drop from the plain to the river. This is fine if you have a light composite canoe, pick it up with one hand and walk off. We on the other hand had classic plastic weighing anything from 55lb to 76lb. Bucking those up and down from the river, then the quarter mile back to the top of the run, quite wore me out. I decided to start a new fitness program, CanoeFit ! Functional strength from lifting and carrying canoes up hills and over cactus and under scrubby juniper on rocky trails. You begin with the light short composite boats, and work your way up to Real Man boats, 18-20 foot Royalex weighing 80-110lbs. Like this one, from when we were young.<br />
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Back to the race.<br />
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Ota-san comes out from Japan every year to race and win. As shown he's always having a good time, too.<br />
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I am thinking <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hR-WAfxOEKY" target="_blank">much too hard</a>. Whitewater slalom rewards a calm focus on moving smoothly through the river. Fighting the course means the course will always win. At first descent, crashing and splashing my way down, it made no sense at all. By the end it was clear it was beautifully integrated into the natural progression of rock and river, something like a work of art. Intellectually this was a delight, in the physical world I couldn't do it but at least it is wonderful to be able to try.<br />
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This gives a good sense of the infrastructure needed to hang all those gates. After one day there was already a fishing lure tangled and broken off on one of the overhead wires. I saved it when we took the gates down, mostly to spare anyone else from getting impaled by the treble barbed hooks.<br />
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Me and #2 son racing in the Citizen tandem class. We won this by virtue of being the only entrants in the class.. ha. We still did have to run at least some of the gates and stay upright, which was not a given on this course. #2 son asked, "so is this one of those medals for participation I keep hearing about ?"<br />
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Our thanks to the team of Oxenford/Carpenter in OC2 Rec, who had the fine idea of skipping the harder gates. Each missed gate is a 50 second penalty. We had done a class with <a href="http://www.performancevideo.com/kent_ford" target="_blank">Kent Ford</a> before the race, flipped and swam out of the river. Kent was giving feedback to the other class participants, looked at us and said, "well, more time in the boat, really" which was uncontestable. I'd thought we would not race. Then Ms. Oxenford pointed out that it was possible to construct a Citizen version of the course by simply deciding to miss the risky difficult move from 7 to 8, and the <a href="https://www.canoekayak.com/canoe/canoeing-eddy-exiting-turn-peeling-out/" target="_blank">peelout</a> from 12. On our first run I also skipped 4 and 5 where we'd swum. Since we stayed up throughout that run, we included those on the second run and dropped our score by 100 seconds, which probably qualified us for Most Improved as well as National Champioeens in OC2 Citizen Rec.<br />
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We'd originally planned to be in the OC2 Youth/Senior class, before I realized #2 son had just turned 17 so was no longer a Youth. This turned out to be a good thing, as the Youth/Senior was unusually deep this year, packed with Whitterns and fierce young competitors from Spain. Here's one of them, paddling solo.<br />
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<a href="http://www.esquif.com/en/" target="_blank">Esquif</a> canoes donated one of their beautiful light boats as a door prize. Your fearless organizer Alan Whittern models one of the easier CanoeFit poses with it. <br />
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He worked himself to a wraith, putting this whole show on the river. Our profound thanks, Alan. I was also deeply impressed by the amount of work he got out of his daughters. Among many other tasks, they ran the radio communications between the score keepers (them), gate judges, and finish timer. When Alan got on the river for a solo run, the Disrespectful Daughter radio'd out, "old man Whittern is coming down the course now. Please have his cane ready for when he gets out of the boat". I'm sure they only do it because they love him..<br />
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#2 son, dear wife, and I all took turns as gate judges and finish timer. I really don't like judging but it's necessary for the racing. When #1 son was on swim team I'd sometimes volunteer as a stroke and turn judge, which requires disqualifying small children for stroke infractions. It was probably good for them to be disqualified in meets where it didn't matter, so they would not be disqualified in college team meets later in life. Still.<br />
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Eli takes that Equif boat or one just like it, through the gates. This looks a clear case of nominative determinism - a fine Old Testament name like that, suits the magnificent Old-Testament-patriarchal beard.<br />
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The slalom finished on the third day and the gates vanished from the river. All remaining competitors went off for the downriver racing, a four mile stretch below Buena Vista. I remained to fish a bit for the small wild brown trout. My first theory was they would have been disturbed by all the boat traffic, so would have developed good appetites and be easy to catch. The second theory was they would have been rested from fishermen, so would be easy to catch. Neither of these worked - it appears that frankly my dear they don't give a damn. I caught a couple by grace of the fishing gods.<br />
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It was extremely strange to fish up through where the course had been. It felt like like losing your faith, all the structure and meaning we impose, gone from the world, and only bare rock and water left.<br />
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<br />
Of course the trout that live there find structure and meaning enough.<br />
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My thanks to the Oxenfords for hosting us, and to Ms. O for the pictures, which may also be found <a href="http://opencanoenationals2018.shutterfly.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. Well, friends really, in this case.<br />
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<br />
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Here we are forty miles from the nearest navigable water, out at the edge of <a href="https://coloradoencyclopedia.org/article/%E2%80%9Cgreat-american-desert%E2%80%9D" target="_blank">the</a> Great American Desert, with a canoe in case of emergencies. We weren't the only ones confused - well away from Cheyenne in the bare green country, there sat a bald eagle perched on the telegraph pole. All the pronghorn were loafing contentedly in the fields, surrounded by forage. Usually they are either not visible at all, or wandering around looking for grazing. There will be lots of twins this wet spring. The pronghorn are like bears, fertilize the eggs in the winter then re-absorb them in case of a lean hard spring, or carry multiples to term in a good year.<br />
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<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43281/the-lake-isle-of-innisfree" target="_blank">And</a> live alone in the bee-loud glade.</div>
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And I shall have some peace there<br />
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The wild plums are first to riot in flowers. The other fruit trees up here are just beginning. Fortunately the wild plum can pollinate the tame ones that will bear fruit. There were mostly honey bees but numbers of other small black wild bees busy at the harvest.<br />
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All the serious tractoring had been done last week, twenty some acres of barley and five of <a href="http://legumeplus.eu/farming-sainfoin" target="_blank">the</a> health-giving legume sainfoin, for the blooms and for the deer. It's possible next year we may invest in some WY deer licenses, if they like it well enough. We just cleaned out the tractor and the barley seed bags, then toured the trees to see how they were getting along. The sandhill cranes are nesting again. They don't care for us on the farm and lift out to the neighboring cattle grazing, watching carefully in case we try to pull something. <br />
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Last week up on the hill there was a mixed flock of mallards and pheasants. This is unprecedented. Mallards belong on water and pheasants in the fields. Ken drove by and reported they all had the furtive slightly frantic teenagers-hiding-a-joint look, definitely up to something.<br />
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Storms gathered around the pond but never quite got there. I was all armoured up in full waders, rainjacket and hat, then quickly grew hot. Fish rising all over. Ken caught a few swiftly then opted for a nap. It took me a while to get rigged then the usual Adams #18 was not performing for me. This year so far has produced a long streak of fishless outings. I started to believe yet again I'd become obsolete.<br />
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Ken is napping on a rock somewhere over there. At one point there were three turkey buzzards wheeling in a spiral above him. Before I could get the pic, he twitched, and they spun off on long glides to look for something deader.<br />
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First fish of the year and most welcome. Caught a smattering of similar 10-12" holdovers, fat and happy, but never quite figured out what they wanted. On days like this it seems the fish are taking pity on my fumblings, or perhaps the fishing gods that live past all imploring grant a moment of unaccountable grace. <br />
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This was all very well and entirely satisfactory, but there was a possibility of truly enormous trout cruising the wall of an immense irrigation reservoir out on the plains. We went to check.<br />
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Wind, big skies, and several hundred coots. Occasionally a couple of Lesser Scaup would whistle overhead coming down the wind like a low-level strafing run. I ducked reflexively every time. <br />
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This is more like ocean fishing than anything else, hopefully plunking the fly into a giant mostly featureless puddle with the fish scattered through it like plums <a href="https://www.whychristmas.com/customs/pudding.shtml" target="_blank">in</a> a Christmas pudding. In the spring it's possible to cheat by fishing along the wall, where the trout cruise looking for spawning spots. This seems a little unfair but I have big-fish lust pounding in the brain, here in the spring after the long and unfished winter. <br />
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Ken observed, "sometimes they will roll along here", one rolled on cue, he cast to it and promptly landed a solid 22" rainbow. So far so good. In the dusky green water as the light came and went, dim submarine shapes passed quickly by on the edge of the dropoff. A big white streamer did nothing for me. Chironomids or egg patterns fished below a strike indicator (bobber) will often work but you might as well drown a worm under a bobber as flyfish that way. Next up, a substantial black nymph with an orange abdomen and some legs to wiggle at the passersby, five casts across 180 degrees to cover the water, changing up retrieves for each repeat of the cast pattern. Repeat until the zen kicks in, or a fish takes. A large solid presence made itself felt on a slow short strip retrieve.<br />
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The bow of that net is 15". Today I learned a 25" fish will fit into it in a pinch, though it do stick out a bit. That's the biggest trout I've caught in a decade or more and one of the fattest. Returned with thanks, to grow even more. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7dkHrrJJFt0FK4UdTT08BOAaxySsNTx9sT9UK5VMW74HaNLMIOJa43-fgVG0Oae6ncrMZ5K50vtyg_uXNHwUcmAM9DUT56agcMdJqYSsiGhdeT4iyHieifA3_iMwnKa5FPwmWimXsXP1/s1600/middle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7dkHrrJJFt0FK4UdTT08BOAaxySsNTx9sT9UK5VMW74HaNLMIOJa43-fgVG0Oae6ncrMZ5K50vtyg_uXNHwUcmAM9DUT56agcMdJqYSsiGhdeT4iyHieifA3_iMwnKa5FPwmWimXsXP1/s640/middle1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Some time later a slow hand-twist retrieve persuaded this handsome lad of 22" or so. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPgXUamgcFffRBmPPXLjafoXGPQrjeISD_YtJF2ugYVje4VoIuaS0WwzjuD8AVWZZ2CTdPrtSpRphyphenhyphenIcjAft-sTdkell7u07na8PblhxwzEMq7cFvSZuq7m_Qt1G_o3xMQgWlTWKQpzK1/s1600/color2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPgXUamgcFffRBmPPXLjafoXGPQrjeISD_YtJF2ugYVje4VoIuaS0WwzjuD8AVWZZ2CTdPrtSpRphyphenhyphenIcjAft-sTdkell7u07na8PblhxwzEMq7cFvSZuq7m_Qt1G_o3xMQgWlTWKQpzK1/s640/color2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Ken was prowling the wall and saw three fish disporting themselves on a small flat just north of me. He guided my casts as I couldn't see them through the flat glare of late afternoon cloud light. 'Too far out' 'still too far out' 'Geez you bum did you forget how to cast over the winter ?' but finally got close enough and this deep coloured spawning male slammed the fly. <br />
<br />
The night in Medicine Bow at the Virginian Hotel, as in the <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2017/10/pummeling-rain.html" target="_blank">fall</a> trip. Next morning out to the lake as on that trip too, a lake that wasn't there in the early 2000s. Somehow Game&Fish worked out a deal with the irrigation district to get water in the lake, much to our delight. The fish had grown an inch or two over the winter though the brook trout had vanished tracelessly. Again I fuddled and futzed my way through the day, picking up a fish here and there, never quite figuring it out. Chironomids below a bobber would have worked. The day was glorious. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyvCaWNXt1eQLpczyNqMerSsrU65-tMJ74NzMg-gMjNsmc4DMNVfL3XJMK1OFCOr-1fh8zQSz8xZC6Uukn9MdlgpOUIGKWf5yN2gYlxd1yZ965AjaOH7UkDg7PUNxAM8wsqQ9UMRbP4UX/s1600/fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyvCaWNXt1eQLpczyNqMerSsrU65-tMJ74NzMg-gMjNsmc4DMNVfL3XJMK1OFCOr-1fh8zQSz8xZC6Uukn9MdlgpOUIGKWf5yN2gYlxd1yZ965AjaOH7UkDg7PUNxAM8wsqQ9UMRbP4UX/s640/fence.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This is a pure put-and-take fishery with no natural reproduction. The way to dusty death for these fish is me, pelicans, or old age. Today I decided it might as well be me and kept a handsome brace.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NADX95jRmtdKkWEo8HYgtTYwS6k_cbmXNsFKbkupT_qEq81ELzmshJNgnlCzAlZHGIw4jy6Eju7C_L8xGQRvLsl3Bh6wrKfjc_rSaSeTw3zd8r7XEMBznNOncVAdy-WrTSH7uDpG7xTU/s1600/brace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NADX95jRmtdKkWEo8HYgtTYwS6k_cbmXNsFKbkupT_qEq81ELzmshJNgnlCzAlZHGIw4jy6Eju7C_L8xGQRvLsl3Bh6wrKfjc_rSaSeTw3zd8r7XEMBznNOncVAdy-WrTSH7uDpG7xTU/s640/brace.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
One fillet I fried up for myself on Monday night while the family was out at their Swallow Hill music classes - fry the skin side first in a little butter to brown it up, then flip and add some white wine, more butter, and lemon juice, simmer briefly. Delicious. The other three fillets got smoked in my Abu Roken <a href="http://www.abugarcia.nl/mobile/fiche_produit.php?idl=&idp=1240&ids=6095" target="_blank">box</a>, one taken to a party with more lemon, the last two baked into a quiche for Mother's Day, since I'm just that <a href="https://whatever.scalzi.com/2012/11/20/the-existential-horror-of-betaness-or-not/" target="_blank">kind</a> of beta male. Perhaps actually catching the fish out there in the wailing Wyoming wilderness makes up for baking the quiche ? <br />
<br />
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<br />
A just machine to make big decisions<br />
Programmed by fellows with compassion and vision<br />
We'll be clean when their work is done <br />
Donald Fagen<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
But the companies clearly don't understand, or do not wish to understand, the first thing about security, chains of custody, or auditability.<br />
<br />
Time and attention conservation notice: a <a href="https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2018/11/05/voting-machines-what-could-possibly-go-wrong/" target="_blank">better summary</a> is available at the NYRB, written by @jennycohn1.<br />
<br />
<br />
From computer science Professor Alex Halderman <a href="https://www.intelligence.senate.gov/sites/default/files/documents/os-ahalderman-062117.pdf" target="_blank">testifying to the Senate intelligence committee</a> - with footnotes, citations, eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles And arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Ten years ago, I was part of the first academic team to conduct a comprehensive<br />
security analysis of a DRE voting machine. We examined what was at that time the<br />
most widely used touch-screen DRE in the country, and spent several months probing<br />
it for vulnerabilities. What we found was disturbing: we could reprogram the machine to<br />
invisibly cause any candidate to win. We also created malicious software—vote-stealing<br />
code—that could spread from machine-to-machine like a computer virus, and silently<br />
change the election outcome.<br />
<br />
Vulnerabilities like these are endemic throughout our election system. Cybersecurity<br />
experts have studied a wide range of U.S. voting machines—including both DREs and<br />
optical scanners—and in every single case, they’ve found severe vulnerabilities that<br />
would allow attackers to sabotage machines and to alter votes. That’s why there is<br />
overwhelming consensus in the cybersecurity and election integrity research<br />
communities that our elections are at risk.</blockquote>
Princeton computer science professor Andrew Appel who can <a href="https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2016/08/2016-elections-russia-hack-how-to-hack-an-election-in-seven-minutes-214144" target="_blank">hack an election in seven minutes</a> without breaking a sweat, <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If this century has shifted our trust from away from our neighbors toward machines, it might be time to switch back again. Eight countries in Europe that once flirted with digital voting have seen six go back to paper; Britain counted its Brexit votes by hand. Even if the vote were never hacked—and it is an exceedingly implausible event—the remotest possibility is an albatross on democracy and a boon for mischief-makers, and not just the cyber attackers. Trump’s most recent jujitsu—pointing out that by virtue of the fact that the election is hackable, it could be rigged against him—illustrates this risk. Technology has amplified not only the threat of hacking, but the threat of a hack.<br />
<br />
The Princeton alums can warn us—but they can’t protect us. “We are in a collision-course between the technology we use in election administration and the growing reality of politically motivated, statelevel cyberattacks,” Halderman tells me, arm propped on his red office chair, sunlight pouring through his westward window. “We sit around all day and write research papers. But these people are full-time exploiters. They’re the professionals. We’re the amateurs.” </blockquote>
A <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/02/21/magazine/the-myth-of-the-hacker-proof-voting-machine.html" target="_blank">recent article</a> from the NYT covers much the same ground, though not as well. <br />
<br />
There are Senate and House bills to fix this, with the remedies that are obvious, <br />
- Replacing insecure paperless voting systems with new equipment that will generate a voter-verifiable paper ballot;<br />
- Implementing post-election audits of paper ballots <br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/senate-bill/2261">https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/senate-bill/2261</a><br />
<a href="https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/house-bill/1907" target="_blank">https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/house-bill/1907</a><br />
<br />
However in this administration I think it unlikely either of these will pass. <br />
<br />
Now, get your tin foil hat on. Responsible journalism would have covered these stories, but since we don't have that, they sound like conspiracy theories. The evidence is to my mind quite persuasive.<br />
<br />
Voting machines in the 2016 election gave results that are <a href="https://econsnapshot.com/2016/12/06/electronic-voting-machines-and-the-election/" target="_blank">not easily reconciled with polls and exit polls</a>. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We
use our data to explore the claim that counties with electronic voting
exhibited different voting patterns than their paper peers. What we find
is definitely troubling: in some of the swing states, and specifically
in states that were projected to vote Democratic at the top of the
ticket, those with electronic voting had a decrease in the percent of
the total vote going for the Clinton-Kaine campaign, and an increase for
the Trump-Pence campaign. We try to determine if this is spurious by
checking for patterns in other places with electronic voting, as well as
during the 2012 election. We only find this correlation for swing
states during the 2016 election. </blockquote>
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Craig_R._Wright" target="_blank">Craig Wright</a>, a baseball statistician, found the election peculiar and <a href="http://www.billjamesonline.com/fixing_a_presidential_election/" target="_blank">came to a similar conclusion</a>. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Exit polls are no longer just polls of voters exiting polling places. Edison Research, which conducts the exit polling for the major news outlets, also polls voters by phone prior to election day, looking for feedback from the rising group of early voters to be added proportionally to their polling place data. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The CNN exit polls — which were done by Edison Research — covered 28 states that accounted for 411 of the Electoral votes. Their exit polls correctly predicted the winner in the recorded vote in 24 of the 28 states. All four misses were swing states, and in all four cases the exit polls had indicated that [D] had won, but then the official vote count went to [R]. The four states were Florida, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Wisconsin, a group that accounts for 74 Electoral votes. While the official vote count gave [R] a whopping 90 Electoral votes in the swing states, if the exit polls were translated into Electoral votes, that would have completely turned that result around with 93 Electoral votes of the swing states going to [D].<br />
..<br />
Among the seventeen states using voting machines with no audit trail so an effective paper audit cannot be done, only two are swing states. Unfortunately, they were the two swing states with the most Electoral votes, Florida and Pennsylvania.</blockquote>
This has a precedent, too - the Presidential Election of 2000 was the first time in 112 years that the result of the popular vote and the Electoral vote disagreed. The difference here was the votes in Florida <a href="https://www.factcheck.org/2008/01/the-florida-recount-of-2000/" target="_blank">were not counted</a>, which was oddly enough a primary motivation for the voting machine debacle and its consequences.<br />
<br />
In 2004 something <a href="https://gizmodo.com/5825014/how-the-2004-presidential-election-may-have-been-hacked" target="_blank">very strange happened in Ohio</a>,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Connell ran the private IT firm GovTech that created the controversial system that transferred Ohio's vote count late on election night 2004 to a partisan Republican server site in Chattanooga, Tennessee owned by SmarTech. That is when the vote shift happened, not predicted by the exit polls, that led to Bush's unexpected victory. </blockquote>
The Georgia special election last year was most likely hacked as well - but we can't know since the <a href="https://washingtonmonthly.com/2017/10/27/evidence-in-jon-ossoff-election-is-destroyed/" target="_blank">machine was wiped clean</a>. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Georgia’s election system was sitting insecure on the internet for months and was easily accessible by hackers. The problem was discovered ahead of time and the state was taken to court in an effort to prevent them from using the unprotected system for the special election between Karen Handel and Jon Ossoff. But the election was held anyway. <br />
A computer server crucial to a lawsuit against Georgia election officials was quietly wiped clean by its custodians just after the suit was filed, The Associated Press has learned.</blockquote>
Update November 2018: Georgia is doing it again, <a href="https://twitter.com/MarilynRMarks1/status/1064677149444050944" target="_blank">wiping the servers</a> before the election results are certified. Something is <a href="https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2018/11/georgia-governor-candidate-brian-kemp-attempts-last-minute-banana-republic-style-voter-manipulation.html?wpsrc=sh_all_dt_tw_ru" target="_blank">rotten</a> in the state of Georgia. Also see @jennycohn1 on Medium, with a <a href="https://medium.com/@jennycohn1/georgia-6-and-the-voting-machine-vendors-87278fdb0cdf" target="_blank">short summary</a> of recent election history. <br />
<br />
Trump can make allegations but I have not seen anywhere any evidence for
his allegations. There is evidence for my theories. Ha. <br /><br />
When there is no audit trail the only available check is the exit polls. There's no proof but the evidence is highly suggestive. I don't know of a single instance where exit polls predicted a substantial Republican win but the election went Democratic. Examples of exit polls predicting a Democratic win for an election won by Republicans <a href="https://johnhively.wordpress.com/2012/06/10/how-scott-walker-and-company-used-fraud-to-win-the-recall-election/" target="_blank">are</a> <a href="https://harpers.org/archive/2012/11/how-to-rig-an-election/3/" target="_blank">legion</a>. That last example is a foreshadowing of this year's Georgia state - chairman of the voting machine company (R) went into the election with polls showing a dead heat, but won by 15 percentage points. There has been considerable fine-tuning of the election machinery since then, allowing for plausibly deniable narrow wins. <br />
<br />
More generally, the elections are no longer <a href="http://washingtonmonthly.com/2016/11/14/the-great-skewing/" target="_blank">representative of the people who vote</a>. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Exit polls in the same election that produced this massive GOP triumph had this finding: 55% of the very same voters had an unfavorable opinion of the Republican party compared to 49% for the Democratic Party. Conversely, 47% viewed the Democrats favorably vs. 40% for the Republicans.<br />
<br />
In general through the last century, the party that has controlled the House also got the most votes. In the 2012 election, something unusual happened: Democrats won 50.59 percent of the two-party vote – but just 46% of the seats in the House of Representatives. The Republican candidate for President got 47% of the vote and his party controls at least 55% of the seats. The Democratic candidate got 48% of the vote, and yet the Democrats won 44.6% of the House seats.</blockquote>
The state of elections is well summarized in this <a href="https://www.lrb.co.uk/v39/n05/letters" target="_blank">letter to the London Review of Books</a>, <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Half of the American voting population doesn’t vote at all – namely, the poorer half. Some countries hold elections on weekends or ad hoc holidays; US elections are on a Tuesday, following a 19th-century farm schedule. Americans with no job security working multiple jobs with no breaks often have no time to vote. If Americans have been convicted of felonies, they are in many states disenfranchised for the rest of their lives.<br />
<br />
Most of those who are entitled to vote in the US and who have the leisure to do so will take part in a primitive winner-takes-all system of electoral districts that the Republican Party has systematically manipulated. They will vote on electronic voting machines with minimal electronic security, purchased by Republican state governments from Republican-donor equipment suppliers, machines that routinely return Republican candidates to office even when polls show a wide lead for the other party – this may inform the Democrats’ ‘loss of nine hundred seats in state legislatures’.<br />
<br />
This was the state of the system which nevertheless, as Bromwich says, ‘voted for Obama twice’. But then things got worse. In 2013, Chief Justice John Roberts effectively terminated the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that had made it easier for black people to vote. Many states introduced racist voter-ID requirements that had been blocked for fifty years, and even in states that did not pass new laws, election officials were emboldened to invent purported requirements and refuse minority voters their rights.<br />
<br />
Benjamin Letzler<br />
Oberursel, Germany</blockquote>
<br />
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are green with a bit yellow in the fall. Later arrivals had an inch of
snow to get through on the slick muddy road, we were early enough to just have rain. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvHNCfLdFqFT82iJYXitrczQZuV4GXWWar6ehlJu8Cg0NoLcwuXXJT4oBSsGHiy7ZeKi8i64HEmtlQi7DXzdCZXZBXEfGlNAdSmzziDJYJkuuBgAGv2CR3A0x16ZcWg6_G8zDJ_9cPWKh/s1600/someColor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1600" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvHNCfLdFqFT82iJYXitrczQZuV4GXWWar6ehlJu8Cg0NoLcwuXXJT4oBSsGHiy7ZeKi8i64HEmtlQi7DXzdCZXZBXEfGlNAdSmzziDJYJkuuBgAGv2CR3A0x16ZcWg6_G8zDJ_9cPWKh/s640/someColor.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Greg and I headed out to the pond under pouring rain. The ranch hand said,
'true outdoorsmen' to which I replied, 'truly foolish'. When you are a
city slicker with a chance at some WY fishing, weather don't matter, at least
until your lips turn blue.<br /><br /> <br />
This brown hit a small olive streamer fly. He ran out to the backing and then flourished
on the surface, way out in the dappled water. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMfcGyS9BRjP2Lv-rOTaKhFhyphenhyphenMSTEnicR4FDyyb5FXIWdjQ2cmIVOi6QaHrN2w5hvVfs0wAzokhhnnrieI-Rt59p4I1prnMWhx6dLHUQGChxkkoakTUnB2djubDY3TC1JrDBahbxPOtQu/s1600/brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMfcGyS9BRjP2Lv-rOTaKhFhyphenhyphenMSTEnicR4FDyyb5FXIWdjQ2cmIVOi6QaHrN2w5hvVfs0wAzokhhnnrieI-Rt59p4I1prnMWhx6dLHUQGChxkkoakTUnB2djubDY3TC1JrDBahbxPOtQu/s640/brown.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Father Ted and Father Lou arrived a bit later on the road by the pond and didn't believe in my fish, doubting Thomases all. <br />
<br />
Next
day we did retreat things until mid-afternoon then headed upriver. Five
of us, the other four at least are decent to good flyfishermen,
accounted for just two fish, a 5" rainbow and a 10" brown. I nearly caught a small
brown out of the white froth here. He rolled up to take the <a href="http://www.riverrunoutfitters.com/fly-recipes/crackleback/" target="_blank">Crackleback</a> but my
strike was too late, too early, too sideways, who knows. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZzcfcpoE4QHwNJbivhB2pXVDzRi_n_-kgB8XfVUQnJ8OeIDtD31Uf-HW3NnTBfCFYCJbxqs9t6DsbehAvgK6QSLMMpiuA3SZJnQ7lHs8HOqayQkkO9nktFOn1638gPORUzIUgf6pEys1/s1600/nearly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZzcfcpoE4QHwNJbivhB2pXVDzRi_n_-kgB8XfVUQnJ8OeIDtD31Uf-HW3NnTBfCFYCJbxqs9t6DsbehAvgK6QSLMMpiuA3SZJnQ7lHs8HOqayQkkO9nktFOn1638gPORUzIUgf6pEys1/s640/nearly.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The 70s vintage rod and reel, Browning Silaflex 322975 perfectly delightful, and Martin 67. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEkrVWVn-gLuFiNGgCGY1KUxFEmxhdqH9AqYK_KUPGEhniZ3yIJ8UJg3PcPvzl9wXJgt8fQVjQYm34ndVvzDJ0ABUoljMcdkTNpExcIrXOwJNTSf9oVUCiNm7oeUtC3RQzzjr7l_TonRZ/s1600/portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1600" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEkrVWVn-gLuFiNGgCGY1KUxFEmxhdqH9AqYK_KUPGEhniZ3yIJ8UJg3PcPvzl9wXJgt8fQVjQYm34ndVvzDJ0ABUoljMcdkTNpExcIrXOwJNTSf9oVUCiNm7oeUtC3RQzzjr7l_TonRZ/s640/portrait.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Next day we went downriver to work back up. I took the lowest beat which
began with a half-mile of shallow water and no holding pools. Sometimes
there will be smaller fish in the pockets but not today. I was almost
resigned to another skunk when a 3' deep pool arrived. It had not much
of anything for cover with two main currents plunging in. The
skunk-buster, handsomely spotted 11" bow, took a #16 beadhead zebra
midge. See below for its appearance at the end of the day. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD9WmC7MRNPoKZ6A50nnNqLfOnlIllwt69gd0fmF-CFB7evke9Vx2ee9KlX6HdpfDchBxdQ_PaZrT6R2_Dpr1lJQrVCeG0TieZcqVDXsqqyINY7WMx2CNu2hXm_t-XUX4X5Pfw_QySHh_/s1600/skunkSaver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="1600" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD9WmC7MRNPoKZ6A50nnNqLfOnlIllwt69gd0fmF-CFB7evke9Vx2ee9KlX6HdpfDchBxdQ_PaZrT6R2_Dpr1lJQrVCeG0TieZcqVDXsqqyINY7WMx2CNu2hXm_t-XUX4X5Pfw_QySHh_/s640/skunkSaver.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
A small brown came out of the slack water between the currents. Usually
by now I'd expect to have spooked the pool and would move on, today the
dearth of holding water kept me fishing carefully and patiently. In the
end there were six takers in the pool, landed five, including a strong
handsome 16" bow. Every fish today took the zebra midge and ignored
everything on the surface. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAhB22LfL0KpCqi-gnden7Tyd41ZMLPPgTrV7drY7W_Yh72C_eKhbBxswf8-FSO5TH3ffNVDwEELOSC_AtWofucB0dvarQDyF6UQ-rpUvHBuxoda0gO8VOo7xlZ8U_fR3cbCcO_RvM-pz/s1600/bow2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAhB22LfL0KpCqi-gnden7Tyd41ZMLPPgTrV7drY7W_Yh72C_eKhbBxswf8-FSO5TH3ffNVDwEELOSC_AtWofucB0dvarQDyF6UQ-rpUvHBuxoda0gO8VOo7xlZ8U_fR3cbCcO_RvM-pz/s640/bow2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The view from the pool, more discouragingly thin water. Jeff sits on a rock disentangling his line. I tried to guide Jeff to a fish but did not succeed, partly because I'm a lousy guide and partly for other reasons. He's a very driven guy, likes to move fast and fix things. 'Fast' doesn't translate well to fishing, as I observed to him. This gave his wife a good laugh later, when Jeff mentioned to her that I thought him not well suited to become <a href="http://www.iwla.org/about-us/history-mission/the-compleat-angler" target="_blank">Piscator</a>.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj929FlsRy5onWKgx2s_SXDWLUSHk16rpzBOiHYR7SnSi1XFudHn2lyD0GgMkLdZOkaKBd0wjcm3_768sNvISUqMu2V9nc-jkXjieUfOM5d90U0Bx05v8l8z8iY3BzhIcc3QfpsO7UFJTm9/s1600/jeff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj929FlsRy5onWKgx2s_SXDWLUSHk16rpzBOiHYR7SnSi1XFudHn2lyD0GgMkLdZOkaKBd0wjcm3_768sNvISUqMu2V9nc-jkXjieUfOM5d90U0Bx05v8l8z8iY3BzhIcc3QfpsO7UFJTm9/s640/jeff.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Way up around the bend there was a bit deeper water in shadow which yielded two medium 'bows and a pretty little brown. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyP443dOrLbqqDYiQhjvRwse7RGJCMoLAvSEFb2TA11QRDx2NrjyYlLXvUyVnP5fiDkGVNBGvxeFNXOABRdlOm8sP54Hz6gVa2ZolGYFNLg6HifJDvGNNg5EAyUrdfLxWBJ9h1hlF2ACX/s1600/bow3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1263" data-original-width="1600" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyP443dOrLbqqDYiQhjvRwse7RGJCMoLAvSEFb2TA11QRDx2NrjyYlLXvUyVnP5fiDkGVNBGvxeFNXOABRdlOm8sP54Hz6gVa2ZolGYFNLg6HifJDvGNNg5EAyUrdfLxWBJ9h1hlF2ACX/s640/bow3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
nothing to say here, but it is such a pretty speckled fish.. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgFTjBQoDhgYN-DXP9LUYLkBAuKKRFdZ3TGvxSGfV2kr9px39zpSliWwmcSvBxke_7saL1rV0w6g1RX6bMvLMu4336yiWwsyvmO9zskFe5ghtFwI42RC_qEOSdlsxBjuMFmlTsQCUVi1B/s1600/smallBrown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgFTjBQoDhgYN-DXP9LUYLkBAuKKRFdZ3TGvxSGfV2kr9px39zpSliWwmcSvBxke_7saL1rV0w6g1RX6bMvLMu4336yiWwsyvmO9zskFe5ghtFwI42RC_qEOSdlsxBjuMFmlTsQCUVi1B/s640/smallBrown.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Lunched contentedly on a rock in the sun. Still life with no fish. I love the industrial look of these Martin reels, solid functional US engineering. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ8t0uMr7_M8mnhFSpK10K32B5VS5olCnd_l67L7bhSw3i4SlqRhuqdzUXaCAlsPgWEwO5GjmMUFfxW5uGrn4F0XSY6X3TjzXdNdAkN67PyuJC1x5zyZZENMSo_SX6tXP8l3hyphenhyphenUE50-fGD/s1600/lunchRock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ8t0uMr7_M8mnhFSpK10K32B5VS5olCnd_l67L7bhSw3i4SlqRhuqdzUXaCAlsPgWEwO5GjmMUFfxW5uGrn4F0XSY6X3TjzXdNdAkN67PyuJC1x5zyZZENMSo_SX6tXP8l3hyphenhyphenUE50-fGD/s640/lunchRock1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The ranch owner is planning to start a restaurant in Cheyenne and had
the chef working at the ranch in the meantime. Juan is a graduate of
Johnson&Wales culinary school who produced spectacular meals three
times a day. It was difficult to refrain from licking my plate. For
lunch the sandwich was on a ciabatta roll with at least ten different
flavors going on, I ruminated upon each mouthful. <br />
<br />
After lunch I
saw a big brown movement upriver, at first thought otter, but then
realized it was a wader leg. Jeff was taking a restless little nap among
the yellow leaves. He'd fished down some good water without moving
anyone. We rested a bit and went back up. I sent Jeff up to the
good-looking pool and fished a little riffle below it. After twenty
casts or so the Crackleback stopped and this big 'bow came thrashing up
to the surface, then bolted downstream. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaKH96GFMnYS6af1TZ4cH7EPJoloeZ7a1WCkWndghtrc2IRCTgcG__xamBJIIW7dD9QgWJZC1iNBU43hOwHV3FHLDOLTD8umM1pOvXlWuP6Cn-QfTyiX0ul8tvWY-caPL1F3s0A61KImh/s1600/rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaKH96GFMnYS6af1TZ4cH7EPJoloeZ7a1WCkWndghtrc2IRCTgcG__xamBJIIW7dD9QgWJZC1iNBU43hOwHV3FHLDOLTD8umM1pOvXlWuP6Cn-QfTyiX0ul8tvWY-caPL1F3s0A61KImh/s640/rainbow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Usually in these situations I apply side strain to persuade the fish
into an eddy on my side of the river, then run around to get below while
holding a light pressure. Often enough the fish will pause in the eddy
and let me do this. The side water was so thin the fish didn't hold
anywhere and ran back into the current each time, took me about fifty
yards to finally wear him down.<br />
<br />
We humped back up to the trail and walked back toward the ranch and a very Wyoming, very River Runs Through It kind of scene. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7bCAvZzb1rjJ2EYlWlwzdX6wItzl9IRjYZ2Iqc2JS8cIM4MNwg3-wtEa_0LxE6pTBPmHtNQdnGCGlk2XJ2MtSY5_OHRBqKX051ZqDjF0JTNDiA0MfSEQJiJNiL-UqtbG8jep_IzPBM5L/s1600/figures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7bCAvZzb1rjJ2EYlWlwzdX6wItzl9IRjYZ2Iqc2JS8cIM4MNwg3-wtEa_0LxE6pTBPmHtNQdnGCGlk2XJ2MtSY5_OHRBqKX051ZqDjF0JTNDiA0MfSEQJiJNiL-UqtbG8jep_IzPBM5L/s640/figures.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The pond above them is where the brown came from. <br />
<br />
Here's the
remnant of a well-chewed zebra midge, ready for its honorable
retirement. Actually I'll probably keep fishing it until they stop
taking it. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoNH2lXDyvLFRQTh3WVUZ9uvDcrWay6KFRq5KN49SkTp1NZfHLHCuL0fMdqtBYj00ewHXpqXSBgXUS_I7eRYDVjU6SYGfiqTHEuiH8LHEDT8_-CAQbiWZvmrYZ6hIByQRCJxKQf_zfHuG/s1600/retired1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoNH2lXDyvLFRQTh3WVUZ9uvDcrWay6KFRq5KN49SkTp1NZfHLHCuL0fMdqtBYj00ewHXpqXSBgXUS_I7eRYDVjU6SYGfiqTHEuiH8LHEDT8_-CAQbiWZvmrYZ6hIByQRCJxKQf_zfHuG/s640/retired1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
At one point in all our adventuring Fr. Lou wandered off and didn't show up for the evening service. Jeff the ex-backpacking guide and I the trail-runner, rambled off on the darkening hills to look for our lost sheep. Two young men in the company left behind, looked at each other worriedly, and came after us in case the old guys ran into trouble. We took this gratefully as we came out with Fr Lou, who had lost track of the time a bit. <br />
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Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347713225971516042.post-24908881676314132102017-10-06T16:26:00.003-06:002017-10-10T20:30:59.059-06:00pummeling rainWe started out by doing some work at Ken's farm on the eastern plains of WY.
On the neighbor field, three guys stood around a tractor, one opening
the toolbox that took up most of the back of his pickup, another with
his cap off scratching his head, neither a good sign. The pinto beans
could not be harvested since the moist clay soil was clogging the
harvester feeders, with more rain coming in the evening. Such is a
farmer's life. Grandfather was sad and sorry when he lost his farm in the Great Depression though I suspect the family was secretly pleased. He found a salaried job with the bakery in town, where life was a little less hard scrabble and a little further from starvation. <br />
<br />
Still life with 3 apples on a hail-damaged hood, against a field of alfalfa.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The apples are from a 100-year old (estimated) tree growing atop a
nearby hill. The original homestead is long gone but the tree soldiers
on, producing a decent crop of pie apples every fall for the neighbours.
No-one knows what varietal it is but some samples are going in for DNA
analysis this year. The apples were tart and crisp with a mild flavor, purely delicious.
I think of the homesteader who planted it - a young couple, or a
hopeful young man, in the good wet years of the early 1900s.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This is the old tree, with a small sickly companion out of sight behind it. The companion is its pollination partner without which fruiting cannot happen. Ken's off to poison some weeds around the companion.<br />
<br />
Here are the flies I went fishing with. The <a href="http://fiberglassflyrodders.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=60564" target="_blank">backstory</a> is that one of my imaginary internet friends on the fiberglassflyrodders forum, offered to send out some flies to us all, the payment being a fishing report. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0nbQ8NME3AC3WDpQrG9RojIlprUFomQ9FwhnFRlUdhpgLKgjEBD6ALuXTtBB83BnajgIWzAbgvy0jFgwFBS0UkbEBrCkx5924lpizfeATsySsPvhxZ-sLqkZHhu8PqxFZ1Sz6_cVPV7G/s1600/flies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0nbQ8NME3AC3WDpQrG9RojIlprUFomQ9FwhnFRlUdhpgLKgjEBD6ALuXTtBB83BnajgIWzAbgvy0jFgwFBS0UkbEBrCkx5924lpizfeATsySsPvhxZ-sLqkZHhu8PqxFZ1Sz6_cVPV7G/s640/flies.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
First fishing stop at the pond. I can't find this pond on a map,
probably a good thing since Ken is a veteran and could hunt us all down
if I spilt any beans about locations. It's a strange spot since it has a
thriving and varied set of bugs, scuds, damsels, etcetera, but the best
fly is always a #18 or #16 Adams. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcu0ocwE8XpLAqTm7mkYEGzV4cWdR4sRSj190pfBjic9BY1BYZy4-j6x2bjoXGKJUfz6nNSoiar1nUXmq3UOIqsYs2QrFf3osL-bUwmvV0YHmqFLJMxT5Y0Ai_ljPZWTYO17Y44QfdlCU/s1600/pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcu0ocwE8XpLAqTm7mkYEGzV4cWdR4sRSj190pfBjic9BY1BYZy4-j6x2bjoXGKJUfz6nNSoiar1nUXmq3UOIqsYs2QrFf3osL-bUwmvV0YHmqFLJMxT5Y0Ai_ljPZWTYO17Y44QfdlCU/s640/pond.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I started with a little green
softhackle (not pictured) from the selection, which got one 9" and a series of
bumps. Switching to one of the red softhackles produced an immediate gratification who took the fly as it sank. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I am usually a primitive savage when out fishing, counting the fish as,
1,2,3,4,many. We got to 'many' quickly this day, and even to 'enough'.
'Enough' is oddly harder to get to when not killing fish, as a pile of
dead fish does rather dim the catching fever: but the thrill of the new
hit persists through many fish. It's like drug addictions, the next hit
is the only one that matters.<br />
<br />
The weather moved in and it grew dim. The
70F at the farm 4299ft was only a warm remembrance in the rain of 38F at
6600ft. We declared it cold enough to head for a hotel, funky, cheap
and clean in Medicine Bow, site of the first <a class="postlink" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Virginian_%28novel%29" rel="nofollow">Western novel</a>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Medicine Bow always cues up the <a class="postlink" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e56AixvIP-E" rel="nofollow">Waterboys song</a> for me,<br />
"There's a black wind blowing<br />
A typhoon on the rise<br />
Pummelin' rain<br />
Murderous skies!"<br />
We
had all that and more on the drive over, including a narrow miss of a
black cow and calf in the black night on the muddy road, fishtailing
between them by the grace of ABS, Ken's decades of WY backroad driving
experience, and perhaps God.<br />
<br />
This song evoked the American West
and its bitter high prairie winters for me as a young man in Africa. It
turns out Mike Scott didn't know the town existed when he <a class="postlink" href="http://www.mikescottwaterboys.com/waterboys-discs.php?releaseid=7&releasepageid=49" rel="nofollow">wrote the song</a>.<br />
"I invented the place name "Medicine Bow", and discovered several years later that a real Medicine Bow exists in Wyoming, USA."<br />
It surely was not an invention but a recollection of a memory forgotten.<br />
<br />
There were some old books in my room, one of them "Step Right Up !" by Dan Mannix. That's a name I hadn't thought of in forty years. He was a freelancer of no fixed profession with independent means, wrote inter alia articles for Life and National Geographic about training and collecting animals for zoos. My brother and I were both going to be wildlife biologists when we grew up and read everything we could find by him, though Gerald Durrell was our real hero. Even as boys we could tell that the floating world <a href="http://education.asianart.org/explore-resources/background-information/floating-world-edo-japan" target="_blank">of</a> Mr Mannix required inherited wealth or some similar good fortune that we did not expect. <br />
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Next morning cold on the lake we prepared to try a canoe trip. <br />
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Tied on the big gaudy streamer, a Spruce fly with added bling, at a hazard. I
decided this was as close as you could get to fishing a Mepps spinner on
a fly rod. That worked, fishing it over the big black holes between
weed reaching up to the surface. <br />
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The wind rose and drove us off the water. Fish rising between us and the
shore were also a strong persuasion. I hooked a good rainbow on the
Mepps fly but an unseen windknot terminated our connection. The closest thing left in my box was a <a class="postlink" href="http://www.charliesflyboxinc.com/flybox/print.cfm?parentID=12" rel="nofollow">Platte River Special</a>,
though my tie looks nothing like the fly in that link which is closer
to the Mepps fly. Lashed that on and walked up the shore a bit, made a
cast on a whim and found a teeming horde of 12-13" brookies, presumably
attempting to spawn in the shallows. <br />
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The green life of the lake persists, in fish and weed, though the <a class="postlink" href="https://uwdigital.uwyo.edu/islandora/object/wyu%3A137491#page/1/mode/2up" rel="nofollow">sedge</a> is withered from the lake and no birds sing. <br />
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Further up the shore Ken caught 16-17" rainbows steadily, as I caught
everything steadily except the larger rainbows. It seems the Wyoming
Game & Fish threw everything from the kitchen sink in here,
rainbows, brookies, Colorado R cutts, and even a fine-spotted Snake R
cutt. No pictures of these as my fingers were too cold to operate the
camera. The coots are always a good sign for me, if there are coots
feeding then I'll hie over there to fish. <br />
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The clouds lifted briefly to show us the early snows over the wind farm. <br />
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More weather, we had reached 'enough' and packed out just ahead of a blast of sideways rain. <br />
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We kept a couple of fish each, the first time in years that I've knowingly killed a trout. Sauteed with a lemon butter sauvignon blanc sauce, they passed muster and the family ate them right up. <br />
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Mauling John Fogerty's lyrics, I kept <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cwS_db9DtY" target="_blank">singing in my head</a>, <br />
You got to hidey-hidey-hide<br />
You got to jump and run<br />
The old men.. go down the road<br />
It was a new experience for me to confront an endurance event where I was not at all certain I could finish. That's just the last 25 miles of pacing too, the whole 100 is beyond imagination. Naturally I projected calm confidence at all times in the buildup to the race and during my pacing stint, though our wives were not fooled I can only hope runner Carl was.<br />
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Here he is on the top of Hope Pass, completely focused. It turns out old ski poles are functional as running poles, cheap (free) and lighter than many of the adjustable running poles. Of course there are <a href="http://www.austinkayak.com/products/21087/Leki-Trail-Stick-Trekking-Poles.html?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=Shopping:%20ACK%20PLA&adpos=1o5&scid=scplp21087_16660_1&sc_intid=21087_16660_1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwz_TMBRD0ARIsADfk7hR8z4sKPu02PZCNAx3gS2pzwEa-HuoXwiYsNuOax9X0pCFO-NqU3gkaAjlFEALw_wcB" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">carbon-fiber folding</a> running poles for hundreds of dollars but we are pragmatical functionalist old guys, who like to use the stuff we already have.<br />
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When I signed up for pacing, only slightly inebriated, I had visions of running over the mountains in the sunlight. Instead the section from Outward Bound/Fish Hatchery to home went on from midnight until 8am, deep in the darkest moonless night. There were shooting stars for consolation, and we did get to see the morning come up over the Rockies like hope and glory.<br />
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Start happened at 4am but I did not attend, instead concentrating on sleeping late. That didn't work but at least there was time to think. Carl hit May Queen aid station, 13.5 miles of rocky trail at 10000ft plus, in 2:09. My current half-marathon best expected time is just slightly faster than that.<br />
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Here's a pic poached from Instagram of the runners heading out from <a href="https://gearjunkie.com/colorado-outward-bound-cabins" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Outward Bound</a> aid station in the morning. That is a different year I think, we did not have so much snow on the peaks.<br />
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Six hundred-odd runners started, most of them only slightly odd, and headed up to Hope Pass. At 12600ft any kind of weather is possible. Carl reported flurries of sleet which turned the already treacherous scree slopes into a bit of a nightmare. The Denver Post had this picture of snow on the pass.<br />
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Down around the turnaround in Winfield construction added some 0.8 miles to the race distance, for extra credit. There isn't anywhere to modify the route to take away the added distance so this year's edition went long. The cut times at some of the aid stations were adjusted but the 30-hour finish cutoff was not. Brutal.<br />
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I showed up late but in earnest (sero sed serio, the motto of the Kerr clan, my <a href="http://dkretzmann.blogspot.com/2014/04/one-picture.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Scots ancestors</a>) at the Twin Lakes aid station on the inbound evening leg.<br />
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Parking went on for a couple of miles out from the aid station itself. There were shuttle buses, for which we were most grateful, lugging coolers and gear wasn't the warmup I was looking for. Carl and pacer David ran in like heroes. By this point the attrition had started with many runners behind the cutoff time, others puking and dropping out, yet more injured and limping into the hills with a desperate sort of hope. Our man looked tired yet strong and quite coherent after sixty miles. His feet were cold and wet from the last stream crossing so his family/crew took care of the disgusting task of rubbing Glide over his dirty cold toes - greater love hath no wife than this.<br />
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What I noticed about the women running through, and the women pacers, and the women crewing, is that they looked like anime characters - slim, bright eyes full of humor and intelligence. Really I was quite smitten. This is from Camille Heron's <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BYGqpHLHr8P/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram feed</a>, just before she had to drop due to hip problems. This picture has not been photoshopped.<br />
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We went back to the hotel, ate, and lay down for a bit: while the runners ran on. Back to Outward Bound in dark midnight hours with bonfires at each end of the station and crews singing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgFeZr5ptV8" target="_blank">merrily</a> to keep spirits up. Our indefatigable crew had a dusty blanket for my legs as we waited, since the fleece-lined tights adequate for running in the low 40 degrees were not enough for waiting in the cold. Runner lights stretched out over the inbound field to the limits of perception. The runners here appeared generally in better shape than at Twin Lakes - the cutoff times are mercilessly efficient, leaving only the runners with a real shot at finishing. Pacer David looked as if he'd just had a pleasant warmup after 25 miles of rough trails including some thousands of feet of climbing.<br />
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We shuffled off into the night, not feeling 22. Selfishly I was glad that the fantasy schedule of 25 hours for the big belt buckle, was out of the picture. The Army taught me I'm not much good at barking commands and dispensing tough love. Once I tried to pace brother Charles to a sub-4 <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/the-running-blog/2016/may/06/running-35-mile-two-oceans-south-african-marathon-cape-town" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Two Oceans</a> finish and was afraid I was going to kill him in the later stages. We finished there in <a href="http://admin.twooceansmarathon.org.za/HistoryList.aspx?RunnerCode=2901" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">4:00:48</a> most frustrating.<br />
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The first few miles here are on the road past the fish hatchery where it was possible to keep up a 13-minute mile pace. We had matching Garmin 205s. Carl's died later in the night, I had forgotten to turn off autostop which meant mine was wholly inaccurate. By the finish it was an hour off the actual running time and nearly five miles wrong. Oops. That day I learned. Luckily my runner was keeping track of the miles and knew where we were at all times, a deeply impressive feat.<br />
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The despair that takes hold in the wee hours of the night after sixteen hours of running did show up once we hit Powerline climb and dropped to 20-min miles. There were comments to the effect of, "we'll be the last ones in", etc. I mentioned that I'd reviewed the board where the numbers of the incoming runners were written at Outward Bound and there were not more than a hundred of those, plus the Athlinks updates had consistently placed him around the 115 mark. This produced silence if not consent and we moved on to happier subjects, such as our kids' college swim careers. Powerline is a grim climb up a deeply rutted jeep track with poor footing. My 200-lumen headlamp was not enough to keep me from stumbling. Next time (may never happen) I'll invest in one of those ludicrously bright 500-lumen light-up-the-night portable searchlights. No pictures here since I was concentrating on moving on and feeding/watering my runner.<br />
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At the top of the climb there is a somewhat unofficial aid station sounding off a vuvuzela or similar air horn, a horrid noise but most welcome to climbing runners. They had cookies, gatorade, and 'sweet green buds !' which were sold hard. "If you're having stomach trouble, these sweet green buds are the best thing !" quite true but fortunately unnecessary. It is <a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/trail-running/krupickas-lessons-learned-at-the-leadville-trail-100" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">essential</a> to eat and keep eating, though the stomach is not very willing to do its digestive tasks while the selfish legs are taking all the blood and oxygen. It burns <a href="http://www.mysportscience.com/single-post/2015/07/13/Which-sport-or-event-has-the-most-extreme-energy-expenditure" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">about</a> 16 000 calories to run for 100 miles. Carl was tired of <a href="https://firstendurance.com/nutrition/efs-liquid-shot.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">EFS shots</a> by now so I fed him whatever he would accept, ramen noodles and warm mashed potatoes at the aid stations, handfuls of bite-size Snickers and Kit-Kats on the run, cookies, Fig Newtons, etc. I'm not a forceful personality, preferring discussion and consensus to bold decisive proclamations, but stopped asking for his opinion about eating and drinking. "Here ! drink !" or "eat !"<br />
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A steep winding descent on a slightly better jeep road offered some opportunity for running. We tried a shuffle until Carl stumbled and fell. His headlamp was shining like a pair of anemic glowworms by this time, which I should have spotted but missed. We exchanged lights and I dug my spare out of the pack, plus a hand-held flashlight with a bike tube/duct tape handle, to give a better foreshadowing of the roots and rocks. On down the hill to a mile of actual dirt road, more run/walk, then plunge like fate into the blind Colorado Trail. This section is a kind of tunnel through the trees, black night and evergreens unrolling over grey rocks. The course was beautifully marked, glow sticks hung from the trees at regular intervals with streamers of pink tape in between. Thank you the organizers.<br />
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Out of the woods and onto the short road into May Queen campground and aid station. The crews waiting for their runners applauded and cheered our every step, fortunately it was dark to cover my few tears of emotion. The night skies opened up to a broad brilliant dome of stars, a line of lights snaking down from the 11 1600ft of Sugarloaf. This was proof visible that we were not in fact the last ones out there.<br />
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Turquoise Lake trail is mostly runnable if you have light and strength. We having neither kept up a stiff walk, 16-18min miles, Carl's poles clicking off the steps. Several young teams of runner and pacer passed us along this stretch, motoring along at 15min miles or better. I pointed out that even if you added the age of the runner to that of the pacer, it still wouldn't add up to even one of us: a century of life lived moving down the trail, ghosts driving meat-covered skeletons yet made of stardust. It gets kooky out there in the bleak pre-dawn hours.<br />
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Light grew as we came off the dam wall and down the last steeps onto the dirt roads home. We began to suspect that we might even survive. Bright sun in our eyes as we moved up the Boulevard, a 3.5 mile climb to the finish. Two runner/pacer teams and a single runner passed us and we kicked up the pace to 16min miles. The family came down to the last mile to walk and run in. We were discussing how far it was and if it would be possible to get to the visible banner in the minutes left before 8am, when a bright-eyed spectator chimed in, "zero-point-three miles !" Carl started to run, I ducked off to the sidewalk and watched his finish in 27:58, 121 (I told him so) of 287 survivors. Here we are, holding each other up.<br />
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Thank you Carl, for the opportunity to run with you into the night and through.Douglas Kretzmannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07594782071750975708noreply@blogger.com0