Apparently, your common trout is wiser than I . . .

There's more than would be expected to fly fishing. That 'eleven and one' shit 'with a locked wrist' is not so easy. Put a top water fly, a big nymph tied to that, and a microscopic nymph tied onto that, and you're ready for a good tangled mess.

Dawn and i drank the pabst . . . which made us feel like expert fly fisher-folk.

She has a real patience for untangling the cat-cradles i wove with one wrong flick of the wrist. i think she slightly enjoys it.

She says, "Yeah. It's a challenge. I don't have patience for a lot of things, but . . . "

She's reading over my shoulder. She says, "It's true."

I'm not sure about the intelligence of your common trout, but i plan to hit the books and catch myself a few this weekend.

the south platte canyon

The storms this day were incredible.

Backward with the Wardens

We started to hike up a path to a higher lake, through a thick, green pine forest, both a little unnerved by the idea of mountain lions attacking. I'm generally pretty eager to spot a bear, but not so psyched at the prospect of crossing paths with a lion. They're just so sinister, in my mind. I'm not big on cats in general.

The forest, though beautiful, was much darker than everywhere else, and grew more dim with each thunder clap ricocheting off the rock faces of the mountains we were trying to get closer to. Dawn eventually became too nervous (or sensible) to go on, and we headed back for the car. As soon as we started back, it felt as though the storm had spotted us, and we could hear it rumbling through the woods close behind, giving chase. We were both tempted to run, but only walked faster, and the day kept its motif as a horror flick.

We passed and took note of several trees along the path that had been shattered or totally charred from previous storms. They were everywhere.

Once in the car we stopped and took some pictures of the meadow, where the storm was dropping bolts every thirty seconds or so and the thunder was now deafening at times.

We headed back to Ward to stop at the Millsite Inn, a bar and grill along the main road that Brian had told us was a great place for a beer and burger.

The bartender, Tommy, took an immediate liking/disliking to Dawn. He offered to spit in our food (on account of dawn being a Steelers fan), tried twice to shoot ketchup at us out of a plastic Heinz bottle by laying it on the bar and slamming his fist on it (again, maybe a Pittsburgh slight), and had a wise-ass answer to pretty much anything we asked. The door behind him was ancient, and came for Haggerstown, MD. I pointed it out and asked about it. "I dunno. It just walked here."

I pretty much quit talking at that point.

Craig, the ex-gold miner to Dawn's right at the end of the bar could have been thirty-five or sixty-five. I am not exaggerating. He had no front teeth, a scar over his left bulging, bloodshot eye, and his right eye was squinted almost shut. He held himself like a pirate. He claimed at one point to be mostly deaf, and i wondered if it was that, the booze, or the missing teeth that made him almost unintelligible.

We could make out about half of the content of his stories, and when i'd respond, he'd just give me a squinty/bug-eyed stare. (Speaking of bug-eyes, on the way home we found a still-alive praying mantis in front of a gas station, who had suffered an obvious head injury just over his right eye . . . but that's a different story). Craig saved his sister's food from a momma bear and two cubs, once, but not before the bear had opened a can of beans using it's claw like a counter-top opener, and he demonstrated in a way that made me wonder if bears, like raccoons, have opposable thumbs.

He had lived in the woods moving from spot to spot. He told us of how he and his brother drank a certain micro-brew that got them both shit-faced, and then in all seriousness advertised, ". . . and i'm an alcoholic. I can drink alot!"

He told us of how, at one time, 3 million pounds of gold had been harvested from the hills in Ward. "Do you know how MUCH THAT IS WORTH!?" He and i then tried to the math, together, (me knowing nothing of gold's current value) before he spat out the sum, "ALOT!!" Offsetting as he was, initially, Craig was a nice guy and very endearing, but still frightening fellow.

Behind the bar hung an vintage pin-up and two pictures of the Millsite circa '42 and '65. There was also one of those good-luck Japanese waving cats in a small glass case. Dawn found two ashes, or tiny bugs, in the foam of her beer. (I was surprised when she didn't send it back. I was also afraid of what might happen if she did, and a bit relieved when she pulled them out, shrugged, and took a swig.)

We watched the Steelers game on the color TV as Tommy shouted things like, "Where are their dresses!!" "They play well for a bunch of girls." "Thirty dollars a beer for any Steelers fans here!"

He turned to us, pretty much at random and asked, "What are two things in the air in Colorado that can get a woman pregnant." I think dawn ventured two guesses. Not sure.

"Her legs!!" he replied, and walked away chuckling.

By the end of our time there he'd bought us shots, kissed dawn's hand, and announced, "I'm deeply in like." Tommy had never been married, "Why fix it if it's not broken?", but was quite the closet romantic/dirty old man.

When dawn was ready to drive, we left and headed down the hill through town and on to Boulder (where we found the TBI praying mantis). We meant to return the next day to take more pics and see what the Wardens were up to.

But we didn't. We headed south-west, to a place more beautiful and thunder storms even more horrific and spectacular.

Ward, CO

Dawn and I passed the town of 200, on a Saturday drive to nowhere in particular, wondering how we missed it. On the way out, we realized the only sign pointing into the town, off of Route 72, was one for the post office.

The locals prefer it that way.

We turned right, downhill, around a few sharp bends, and were both immediately concerned. I mentioned to dawn, as we passed an older woman in overalls and clearly bra-less, that it was good we were blaring banjo music. "Perhaps, we'll be accepted."

We both grew increasingly spooked, driving down the narrow road through town, as there were abandoned cars, trucks, mining equipment and backhoes, lining the street's side. Most were from the fifties or earlier.

Dawn's theory . . . we were both convinced we'd driven into the kind of horror movie that takes place during the daytime and is scarier than hell itself . . . was that the cars were left where their owners had met their bloody peril, sixty, twenty, two years ago.

My theory was that there was a tow-truck driving eccentric in town who ran out of space in his own front yard, and it being a small, bizarro town, folks let him park whatever, wherever.

Brian set us straight.

Brian could be forty, could be sixty. His teeth were corn yellow, his eyes like two pinholes, and his hair was long and stringy, eggplant colored and grey at the roots. He was a bit frightening, like everything there, and downright a nice guy, fairly intellectual, and full of fun facts about Weird . . . i mean Ward.

We started talking to him, still a bit terrified, when dawn asked if we'd parked in his space. (Ironically, in this town of 200 or so, there's no available parking because every spot's filled with a rusting antique.) He said yes, and that it was no big deal.

I asked him about the cars. "What's the story with Ward?"

"Basically," Brian told us, "the cars are there to make it look ugly."

I'd like to point it out, as i always do, that i was right. There was a local tow-truck driver that would pick up vehicles and drag them into town: but, the town was more than tolerant. They encourage it. Down to the mayor.

The Boulder police once came to town from twenty-some miles away and offered to tow the vehicles clear. The mayor, according to Brian, told them, "You take your fucking tow-trucks and get the hell out of town!"

Brian's lived there nine years, so he could only tell us so much. It took him a year and a half before locals started looking him in the eye. He's accepted now. One of the locals who was carrying a samurai sword on his shoulders and a pistol on his hip, and wouldn't make eye contact nine years ago, was the first one to his aide when he fell off a ladder in May and broke his ankle in two places (hence, the boot).

We talked ankle injuries and assistave devices for a bit.

We were standing, as we talked, in front of the firehouse, which i assumed from it's decrepitude was no longer in use. It is. The funny thing about it is, they have no water supply. They drive down the road to fill up the trucks. The other funny thing is, Brian lives next door, literally, and he and his wife have an eight-foot well in the middle of the laundry room.

Another local, PJ, told us that the water in Ward has been rated number 2 in the world for purity.

The firemen, after dousing a blaze, (again, per Brian . . . who was super nice and very much good for his word) line up in front of the ol' firehouse and light up a joint, pass around beers, and take congrats from the community.

Ward!

Dawn and i both agreed later that we, hearing that, wondered what would happen if there were subsequent emergencies.

Most folks in Ward work at a local retreat, Gold Lake, where Brian encouraged us to visit and partake of the kayaks, lakeside hot pools, clothing optional swimming . . . and where 200+ democrats will vacate next weekend. He told us to do what we like, and if anyone asks, we know him.

We drove out of town to the nearby mountain top lake and got out to take pictures. Moving water ran through the middle of the placid lake and a few fish jumped while we were there. A man on the shore was pulling the skin off the six trout he'd caught earlier, the way the park ranger had showed him. Brainard Lake

We took a short hike, to a higher lake, after reading a warning and refreshing ourselves about what to do if a mountain lion approaches/attacks.

Great Lake Swimmers are playing at my house . . .

Kev, you should have heard it! Dawn and I were both wishing you were there. It was in a tiny, weird little Manitou gear shop/bar that was about the square footage of my place, with less folks than could fit. And they sounded better than either of their albums. I will not make fun of that guy's voice again.

The sticker we saw read, "Keep Manitou Weird."

This was near the same place we found the avocado and doughnut side by side.

Though, really that was in CO Springs.

kev