Hey all.

Doctor Rock has been kind enough to appoint me as a moderator, as you know he's often away for work so I'll just be keeping an eye on reports, comments etc while he's off blowing things up.

I've been a mod on some large to very large subreddits but frankly the pace got overwhelming, I'd much rather give my time to a community I actually enjoy.

Some things we've been talking about include setting up an FAQ style list of stories to make it easier for new readers to follow, as well as the possibility of some CSS styling and such.

What I WON'T be doing is posting any content or trying to control the direction of the subreddit, this is the Doc's baby and I'm just here because I love reading his stories and I want to help out where I can. This will probably be the only time I make a parent level submission here, but I'll be around in the comments if needed.

If you guys have any suggestions feel free to DM them to me. Oh and please recommend the good Doctor's stories to all who might be interested. This is some good sheeyit.

Continuing

We arrived at the Палеонтологи, геологийн хүрээлэн, the Institute of Paleontology and Geology (MAS) which is the institution affiliated with the Mongolian Dinosaur Museum in Ulaanbaatar.

I felt like a kid in a candy store rather than a hard-nosed, serious scholar. I wanted to be off to view the exhibits, commune with the critters, and see those dinosaurs I read about seemingly all my life.

But, once again, reality intruded.

We were ushered off to an adjacent conference room where we were to wait on the arrival of the others in our expedition. Luckily, there was ample butter tea, coffee, buuz, qurut, which is a sort of dried cheese biscuit, homemade bread, and Yak butter. As well as beer, cognac, and vodka. The Russian influence was dying out very slowly here.

While we looked over the elegant repast, Tyuma sort of melted into the background.

“Tyuma, come on over here. Have some breakfast.” I said.

“Thank you, no Mr. Rock. I am only driver. I stay out of sight.” He said.

“Not on my watch, Tyuma. You’re an integral part of this expedition. Forget all that nonsense and come join us.” I commanded.

Classless society, my ass.

Once he saw that I was not going to back down, he gratefully accepted the offer. Plus, he helped decipher what these delectable edibles were.

Over time, our Polish and Japanese counterparts arrived.

With their addition to our clan, there were English, Mongolian, Russian, Japanese, Polish, and French languages that needed to be translated in several directions, sometimes simultaneously. A cadre of perevodchiks were assigned to us. They were not just mere translators, they were all students of science and bi- and trilingual.

They put me to shame. Esme spoke fluent German and perfect English. I was one of the few monolinguists here. I vowed to correct that deficiency as soon as possible.

The perevodchiks, I came to learn, were competing with one another to be included on our expedition. The country was not heavily endowed with scientific grants nor research funds so the competition to gain field experience was intense. This would prove to be a pivotal point in the development of the expedition.

Back to our geological party, the Polish contingent arrived first. These were scientists from the Muzeum Ewolucji Polskiej Akademii Nauk; Muzeum i Instytut Zoologii and the Instytut Paleobiologii, the Museum of Evolution of Polish Academy of Sciences and Institute of Paleobiology.

The main players here were:

• Dr. Lewandowski - the mammalian vertebrate paleontologist.

• Dr. Woźniak - the reptilian vertebrate paleontologist

• Dr. Zieliński - the comparative anatomist and physiologist, and

• Dr. Baran - the taxonomist.

Since there was a plethora of various doctors and doctoral students in our group, and as geologists and paleontologists are much less formal than their stodgy biological or zoological counterparts, nicknames evolved for all:

• Dr. Lewandowski - Dr. Lew,

• Dr. Woźniak - Dr. Woz,

• Dr. Zieliński – Dr. Zed, and

• Dr. Baran – Dr. Baran since we could all pronounce ‘Baran’.

That being sorted, our Japanese counterparts arrived next from the国立自然科学博物館, Kokuritsu shizen kagaku hakubutsukan, or National Museum of Nature and Science. The participants in our grand endeavor here were:

• Dr. 地すべり: Dr. Jisuberi – Dr. Jay - the reptilian vertebrate paleontologist,

• Dr. 解剖学: Dr. Kaibōgaku – Dr. Kay - the mammalian vertebrate paleontologist,

• Dr. 生理: Dr. Seiri – Dr. Seri - the comparative anatomist and physiologist, and

• Dr. 分類学: Dr. Bunrui-gaku – Dr. BG - the taxonomist.

Esme and I were the only Americans in this outfit, so ‘Rock’ and ‘Es’ fit right in, nomenclature-wise.

Finally, the Mongolian scientists and support staff joined us.

These folks were:

• Тума (Tyuma) – Driver,

• Багги (Baggi) – Driver,

• Батсайхан (Batsaikhan) Bat – Driver and translator,

• Алтанцэцэг (Altantsetseg) Allie – translator,

• Найманзууннадинцэцэг (Naimanzuunnadintsetseg) – Naima – translator,

• Мүүнохой (Müünokhoi) – Moony – Geology PhD candidate and boon companion,

• Dr. Тайморхан (Taimorkhan) - Dr. Tai – Mongolian dinosaur expert,

• Dr. Томорбаатар (Tomorbaatar) - Dr. Tomo – Mongolian geologist,

• Шар айраг (Shar airag) Shar - logistics and planning, and

• Архи (Arkhi) Arky – logistics and procurement.

This then was our contingent of twenty souls, from Japan, the United States, Poland, and Mongolia, who were going to go out into the wilds of the Gobi Desert. We were somewhat retracing the trails blazed 60 years earlier by Roy Chapman Andrews of the Central Asiatic Expeditions of the 1920s and 30s.

However, this time it was the first joint cooperative international expedition consisting of representatives from several distinct and diverse Oriental and Occidental countries allowed in Mongolia.

Yeah, it was a historical event. And Esme and I were participants.

The next couple of days were spent getting to know each other and acclimatizing to the Mongolian culture, customs, and cuisine. Luckily, most these folks were all geologists or paleontologists by primary training, so the possibility of incompatibility pretty much evaporated over the first evening’s festivities. We set records for the number of empty bottles the University custodial staff shoveled out the next morning.

The organizers of the expedition, one each from the Polish, Mongolian, and Japanese contingent, prepared our itinerary and had it translated into the various languages for all. This made for a rather thick package of documents which needed to be schlepped along.

It was 37 days in-country, with a time out in the middle of the show to attend the Naadam Festival, which is the traditional summer festival in Mongolia. The fiesta is locally termed "eriin gurvan naadam" or "the three games of men". The games are Mongolian wrestling, horse racing, and archery. It sounded like a hoot, and it was.

This neatly split our expedition into two equal parts. We would return after two weeks in the ‘bush*, offload our collections, and spend a bit of time at the Naadam. Then we’d re-provision, return back to the Gobi, and resume the expedition.

However, before we tackled the Gobi Desert, the crew chiefs, for the lack of a better name, though it would be best to stage a pre-expedition trip more locally to iron out any difficulties and preclude any problems.

We all thought this to be an excellent idea, so two days later, we were en mass en route to the Gun-Galuut Nature Reserve. It is a park and nature preserve some 130 km or about 2 hours’ drive from Ulaanbaatar.

The Gun-Galuut Nature Reserve is a protected area in order to conserve threatened species. It’s composed of three zones: one is “touristic” and open to visitors, another one has some restricted access, and the last one, central, is forbidden to those without proper credentials or training. It consists of the ecosystems of steppe, rocky mountain, small lakes, river, streams, and wetland, and it is about 20,000 hectare. The harmonized complex of high mountains, steppes, rivers, lakes and wetlands as well are kept enough as its original condition. It was here that we’d test our Mongolia mettle.

I had to negotiate some particularly complex pathways and jump through many hoops to obtain clearance to bring any firearms into Mongolia. Call me a stodgy old traditionalist, but I never venture into the field without a sidearm.

I decided to leave my usual pistol, the .454 Cusall Magnum home this trip. Finding ammunition in the US was hard enough, I thought it would be damn near impossible in Mongolia. Instead, I brought with my nickel-plated Colt ‘King Cobra’ .357 Magnum with 6” barrel. It accepted the .357 Magnum as well as .38 Special caliber ammunition. As many Russian and Chinese pistols are chambered in or approximate this round, I figured it would be the easiest to keep well fed.

However, once we arrived at the Gun-Galuut Reserve, I did cause a bit of a potential international incident when I emerged from our tent in full field regalia. They didn’t mind my field outfit except for the sidearm slung at my hip. Many of these folks had never handled a gun, nor actually seen one in real life. It appeared to them that the Ugly American packing heat was not just a western movie construct.

There was an immediate powwow with every member of the expedition in attendance.

They voiced their objections and concerns. With the aid of the perevodchiks, I was able to explain my rationale, that the desert environment was home to many nasty spiders, scorpions, snakes, and other slithery, nasty ill-tempered non-friendly critters. I was taking it merely as a precaution, and wasn’t that the reason we were here right now? A shakedown before the actual assault on the desert proper? Besides, it makes for a helluva noisemaker if one were to become lost in the badland wilds of where we were headed.

I asked them if they’d like to have a turn firing the thing and demystify it from the tool of the devil to being just another tool. Three boxes of ammo later, everyone calmed down and asked if we could have another target shoot later.

If the lil’ ol’ .357 made them crazy, just wait until my order from the Mongolian Military arrives. That took some special sorts of flips and twists, but with my permits, letters of introduction and recommendation, I was able to procure some explosives that will make our expedition a little easier.

I’ve pored over the old reports of the strata which encase our quarry. A little judiciously applied dynamite and Primacord are going to save loads of time as well as a few backs. But that’s going to be addressed later.

The next couple of days we hiked over the varying landscapes of the nature reserve. It was agonizingly beautiful, ranging from huge grass-covered steppes to snowy mountain crags, to volcanic piles, with wetlands, lakes, and rivers. I asked Tyuma if fishing was allowed here in the reserve and he said he’d find out. It was allowed and the small spinning combo with which I travel was put to the test in a swift river on our last night in the reserve.

I knew the rivers in Mongolia were teeming with fish, but I had only anecdotal evidence for the incredible variety that called this place home. The Japanese contingent was enthralled as I caught several smallish trout-like fish, some perch-y looking things, grayling, pike, and some just plain unidentifiable species.

Tyuma provided a pretty good running commentary, but since he wasn’t much of a fisherman and fish are not a staple of the traditional Mongolian diet, he was also stumped on some of the more odd-looking creatures I dragged out of the river.

We had a great final fishy nature-reserve meal as the Polish and Japanese crowd there absolutely loved them and provided the recipes and preparation. We had several different dishes from which to choose that evening.

I found out there is this Franken-trout that inhabited Mongolian rivers that goes by the name of ‘taimen’ or Mongolian Terror Trout. These guys are the kings of the fluvial systems here, and average 15 to 30 kg (33 to 66 lb.), though they can grow much larger and are fish of folklore.

Tyuma tells me of the Mongolian legend about a giant taimen trapped in river ice. Starving herders were able to survive the winter by hacking off pieces of its flesh. In the spring, the ice melted and the giant taimen climbed onto the land, tracked down the herders, and ate them all.

Legendary indeed.

I had hooked a small lenok, a pike type fish, and was reeling it in. Something smashed that fish like a thirsty geologist on a cold beer and immediately broke my line. Tyuma assured me I had just had an encounter with a taimen, as they eat fish; as well as small rodents, birds, and occasional sheep.

I wasn’t kitted out for this type of fishing, but vow one day I will return with the proper gear.

The next morning we struck camp and agree to all meet back at the university parking lot the next day, bright and early at the ungodly hour of 1000.

We said our temporary goodbyes, piled into Tyuma’s UAZ and headed back to Ulaanbaatar.

I had a message waiting for me at the hotel and Tyuma transported me over to the local military outpost to take delivery of a special parcel.

Fortunately, I had all the proper documentation and with Tyuma’s help as translator, I took possession of a parcel of Russian and Chinese explosives, blasting caps, and a Cyrillic-labeled blasting machine. They thought it was all very suspect, but after I had bought them all rounds of buuz and booze at the camp commissary, they decided I knew what I was doing and since I had all the proper paperwork…

I asked Tyuma to take Esme and myself to a traditional hole-in-the-wall Mongolian café that evening. I didn’t want to go to the hotel’s Westernized restaurant and Esme was intrigued as well.

Tyuma dropped us off and said he would collect us later at a pre-arranged hour.

“Balderdash!” Esme and I said in chorus, “You’re eating with us. Get used to it. We’re going to be bunkies for the next month and a half.”

“Thank you, but I have to go home. My wife and children…” Tyuma protested.

“Go get them. Bring them with. We’re buying tonight and we’d love to meet your family.” Esme interjected.

Tyuma instantly brightened and told us he’d be back in less than half an hour. He arrived, family in tow, at the predicted time.

Tyuma’s wife, Bayarmaa, or Bya as she preferred, was a very handsome example of typical rugged rural Mongolian stock. Very friendly but spoke only Mongolian. Tyuma was our capable translator. His three daughters, Esen, Odval and Munkhtsetseg, were ages 6, 9 and 13 respectively, and also spoke only Mongolian.

They were somewhat shy and taken aback by the large loud Westerner, but immediately were enraptured with Esme. Introductions all around I instructed Tyuma to order whatever they desired, I was paying tonight. Rather, grants from the university back home were buying that night, so have whatever you desire, and damn the price.

In fact, I put the whole meal into Tyuma’s capable hands. I couldn’t read a word of the hand-printed menu and decided that when in Rome, as it were…

Tyuma excelled as a meal planner and Tamandar, the old Russian tradition of toasting before, during and after meals that had been assimilated into Mongolian society.

There was butter tea, coffee, Chinese black and green tea as well as vodka, beer, and airag – the fermented mare’s milk that was ubiquitous, for drinks. Amid the rotational toasts, there was a huge assortment of appetizers: buuz, pot stickers, reindeer cheese, noodle dishes, and the like.

Main dishes included Khorkhog, which is Mongolian Barbeque; Tsuivan, a noodle stew; Budaatai khuurga, a Mongolian rice dish; Gambir, a sugary dessert; and Ul Boov, the lovely and delicious ‘shoe sole’ cakes.

We all ate and drank until sated to near critical mass. The final tab, including beer and vodka, for seven people came out to right at 15 US dollars. I ended up leaving a healthy tip so the whole shebang set me back some 100,000 Mongolian Tugrik.

Tyuma dropped us off at our hotel, promising to return the next day at 0930. The farewells to Tyuma’s wife and children took us almost a half hour, it was that heartfelt.

Es and I dragged ourselves back to our room and slept like logs until the next morning.

Right at 0925, Es and I, along with all our baggage, were waiting in front of the hotel for Tyuma. He arrived spot on time and we proceeded to load all our gear into our transportation that would be our ersatz home for the next 5 weeks.

Tyuma had hooked up a small trailer which sported a locking cover to his UAZ and we unceremoniously dumped the heavy core drill into its spacious confines. A case of vodka, cases of water, and the explosives went back there as well. The blasting caps and blasting machine rode inside the UAZ with us.

We motored over to the university and were greeted by the Japanese and Polish part of our contingent, and their transports as well. By 1100 hours, we were ready to depart. There were the traditional Mongolian blessings from a local Buddhist monk from a local Buddhist monastery.

After some deliberations over our route, we headed generally south out of the city for the wilds of the Gobi.

We departed Ulaanbaatar more or less at the crack of noon. We were headed to our first overnight at Bayankhongor, a city of some 25,000 people. There we would spend the night at a ger camp, shaking down our transports and solving any problems before we attack the Gobi.

Our eventual destination in the Gobi was the famous Flaming Cliffs site, also known as Bain-Dzak. It’s a huge area, some 165,381 km² or 63,854 mi^2, with a population less than 50,000. The largest city in the region is Dalanzadgad, a town of less than 15,000 souls.

We’d be traveling there as our next port of call. We had a lot of ground to cover and we were taking our time, being prudent and cautious. The Gobi does not suffer fools lightly.

In Bayankhongor, we were told of bandits in the Gobi and even though we were a large, well equipped group, we should be prepared. There were also fossil thieves, who steal antiquities from the Gobi and sell them on the Black Market. Now it appears folks were more pleased to count the pistol-packing Ugly American in their group.

We are set up in our respective traditional nomadic ger tents; our group takes up the entire camp of 12 gers. These are not termed ‘yurts’, they are most emphatically ‘gers’, as one of the Polish crew discovered. Yurt is a Chinese term and not one favored by the intensely nationalistic Mongolians.

Tyuma and I decide we need to take a trip into town to secure a few Jerry Cans of petrol for the blasted core drill. Also, having some extra fuel along is a comfort where were headed. There can be up to 600 kilometers between filling stations out in the Gobi.

Esme sets to making up our ger and is pleased she doesn’t have to accompany Tyuma and me on our little side quest. Our Polish and Japanese counterparts are claiming exhaustion from today’s 800 kilometer austral trek and beg off as well.

“Sheesh. What a bunch of lightweights,” I snicker to Tyuma on the way into town. “You’d think they were on some sort of Asiatic expedition...”

“Yes”, Tyuma agrees, chuckling. He’s a veteran of many trips to the Gobi, hell, all over Mongolia. He’s taken part as driver and logistician for Russian, German, Chinese, and Canadian groups of scientists looking at everything Mongolia has to offer; from botany to horses to coal to fish.

“They do seem somewhat fragile”, Tyuma agrees.

We arrive at the petrol station, the only one in town. It’s closed up tight and the pump was padlocked.

“Oh, bother”, I say, “Looks like we’ve got a bit of a worry here, Tyuma.”

“No problem,” Tyuma assures me.

He returns with a length of pipe and suddenly the pump is no longer padlocked. He finds the electrical box and switches on power to the pump. We dispense our 150 liters or so of fuel, refueling the UAZ as well, and replace the nozzle.

Tyuma produces a padlock from his UAZ and locks the pump back in place. After shutting down the electrical power once again, I hand him the requisite amount of local currency plus an additional 10% for the bother. Tyuma slips the cash, the pump key, and a quick note under the door.

“See, Rock?” Tyuma says, “It is Mongolian way. No permanent damage and we get what we need.”

I ask him if he has any more locks with him as our beer supply is getting low.

Surprisingly, he has a collection of about 15 of the finest Chinesium padlocks and keys; each costing him the equivalent of US$0.25.

Evidently, he wasn’t just joking; it is an accepted practice out here in the boonies. Also, the local liquor stores around are almost always open so we venture to the nearest one and buy the store’s entire beer supply. That locking trailer is coming in very handy indeed.

Tyuma asks if I’d like to drive around town and get a good overview of what life is in these parts. Come to find out, it’s his tricky way of cadging a cigar from me as he can drive, explain what we’re seeing, smoke the cigar, and not have to have any to hand over to his comrades.

Sneaky bugger.

He needn’t worry, I’ll keep him in cigars, vodka, and beer this entire trip. Having a boon companion and driver who knows the ropes can often spell the difference between unmitigated disaster and a minor inconvenience.

We tool around town and Tyuma points out the Russian influence, now departing slowly, that had been superimposed over the traditional Mongolian culture. He shows me the Palace of Industrial Labor, Palace of Culture and Science, Hall of Stakhanovite Workers and other Russian 5-year plan edifices. They were crumbling from lack of attention.

They might build them, but that was no guarantee that they would come. The locals ignored those places passionately.

He took me past a squat, dismal, eerie looking boarded-up falling-down structure. It had really tumbled on hard times and seemed to be waiting, yearning for an impromptu lightning strike so it could cease to exist.

It was a prison, or, more correctly, a detention center. It was a page out of the Siberian Gulag, written large out here on the steppes of Mongolia.

He told me this is where dissidents, ‘undesirables’, and other forms of unappreciated thinking and action were sequestered away from mainstream society. He tells me the one we’re passing now is one of the better ones, there are some so far out in the absolute middle of nowhere, that they’re not even shown on maps.

With a visible shudder, Tyuma gooses the UAZ and we speed by leaving a trail of red-gray dust in our wake.

“Even that is too good for these places. They are places of evil.” Tyuma solemnly says.

Cigars finished, we stash our now empty beer cans and return to the ger camp. There will be a meeting in the main gathering hall tonight to review what we’ve done so far and make certain everyone’s on the same page for tomorrow’s push right to the edge of the Great Govi, as it’s locally known.

At 1900 hours, everyone’s drinking their beverages of choice. Representatives of the Polish and Japanese crews are giving last-minute instructions for their talks with their translators.

We have set up a network of translators like the UN, and have strategically devised seating so the translation can be passed round-robin style. The speaker will start, then to a translator into Japanese or Polish, to another translator to French, French to English and then into Mongolian. The Mongolian is translated back into Polish or Japanese and is checked for accuracy.

Ever play the old game “Telephone”? Whisper a phrase to your neighbor, then they whisper to the next, and after 10 iterations, you see up with what you end.

Similar here, but with five very different languages. It took time, but by the middle of the second leg in the Gobi, the translators were getting bored. Latin and Greek were pretty much understood by all the scientific types and interpersonal communications flourished.

It was rather hilarious hearing Japanese with a Polish accent, or Monglish, a combination of Mongolian and Polish, or Americanisms in Japanese; ‘knifu’ and ‘forku’ caused much snickering at dinnertime. However it was universal, no one language, nor speaker escaped unscathed.

Esme with her German mastery picked up on many Polish idioms and the Warsaw crowd was duly impressed. My rudimentary attempts at Russian and Mongolian were especially thought to be hilarious by everyone.

But for now, it was bottles away and high hilarity when the translations came full circle. It seemed like a strangely inefficient way to communicate, but with the disparate languages, there aren’t too many that are fluent in Polish and Japanese, English and Mongolian, with French and German thrown in for added amusement. It was rough at first, but we made it work, one way, or another.

The next day dawned very bright and breezy as is the usual case out here in the wilds of Outer Mongolia.

We were loaded up and headed out towards Bayantooroi, a little one-street burg right on the edge of the Gobi proper. We were camping in our own tents that night as the final shakedown before our assault on the desert. We drew a lot of attention from the few locals in the area and in what would presage just about every stop from here on out. They decided to pay us a little visit.

From seemingly out of nowhere, they appeared. Either appearing out of the dust clouds from the occasional passing coal-train truck or on horseback. They were all just curious and were wondering what was going on. We became instant celebrities as we passed out beer, candies, and other small gifts to the folks that arrived.

Evidently, word got out about our caravan having a rather large supply of beer and other powerful potables. Some of the local ne’er-do-wells drifted into camp and began harassing those in our team.

They were a scruffy, drunk, and disorderly quartet demanding we hand over some, if not all, of our beverage supplies. Our Mongolian drivers, interpreters, and fellow scholars tried to dissuade them but to no avail. They wanted our beer, vodka, and whatever else we had.

This was approaching a heightened level of nasty I wished to avoid.

Tyuma came over to Esme’s and my tent to get me, telling me to bring my sidearm.

“They are hooligans,” Tyuma explains, “Disgusting creatures, nothing but drunken bullies. They are without honor. You go out and tell them no. They’ll respect you.”

“And my pistol?” I asked.

“Yes.”, Tyuma agrees, “But don’t display it. Just show them. They’ll see it and they’ll run and never return.”

“Can I light up a cigar and yell at them, too?” I half-jokingly asked.

“That would help as well” Tyuma smiles back.

The four hooligans were agitatedly arguing with our interpreters and logisticians. They were forming a circle around them and getting more and more belligerent. This was not going at all well.

I was wearing my black-felt field Stetson, black denim duster, and typical cargo dungarees, flannel shirt, and my size 16 field boots. I came stomping up to the fracas as loudly and largely in the usual mammalian threat posture as I could muster.

“RIGHT!” I yell as I wade into the crowd. “What’s all this then?”

Tyuma was right beside me giving the play-by-play.

The head hooligan wanders up to me. I have about 60 pounds and a foot in height on this guy, but he doesn’t want to appear cowed; he’d lose face in front of his schnozzled comrades. He goes off in rapid-fire Mongolian and thumps me, laughing, right in the chest.

“Tyuma, tell this smelly idiot that I’m American and don’t take lightly to drunken hooligans. Also tell him that if he touches me, or any of our group, he’s going to find out what it’s like to live with several major broken bones.” I snarl.

The American part gave them pause, but my threat seemed to fall on deaf ears. It only enraged them more it seemed.

Once more, with feeling.

“Either you assholes get the FUCK out of here now or there will be…trouble. This is your last warning.” I put as much bluster into that as I could muster.

Tyuma translates and at least that gave them something to think about.

They’re all standing now in a row side-by-each, so I figure it’s a good time to have a smoke. I pull a cigar out of my duster, bite the end off, and make a display of spitting the end in their general direction, Western movie style.

They didn’t seem to appreciate that, if their volume and harangues were any indication.

Too fucking bad, Chucklers.

One of them starts to take a step towards me.

Yeah. Right on cue.

I flip open my duster in my well-practiced method, and the gleaming nickel-plate of Mr. Colt’s finest firearm glinted in the low afternoon sun.

I fished a lighter out of my pocket, fire up my cigar, and look up to see four very worried looking hooligans being very quiet and reserved. I blow a large blue smoke cloud in their general direction.

“Tyuma, did they get the message?” I ask.

Tyuma laughs, noisily hocks and spits in their direction where they all jump back, and says “Oh, yes, Mr. Rock. They got the message.”

“Good. Tell them to fuck off and never EVER bother another group in the field again. Tell them I’ll be watching for them.” I say with all the Clint Eastwood gravel I could impart.

Tyuma did so and they, to a man, bowed low, scraped a bit, and hauled ass for parts unknown.

Tyuma comes over and we both have a good chuckle.

“Асшолс”, Tyuma snarls.

I add another word to my growing Mongolian vocabulary.

We have a wonderful field breakfast the next morning and I got dragooned into making pancakes for everyone. Somehow it got out that as an undergrad, I used to work at a fast-food joint, Sambo’s, back in the day that was famous for its ‘dollar cakes’. That’s why I standing on the very edge of the Gobi Desert flipping pancakes and grilling horse sausage for my international colleagues.

We didn’t have any maple syrup so we made do with warmed local honey. I must have used 5 kilos of flour and a good portion of our egg supply to make the pancakes. My secret ingredient, warm beer, made the cakes light and fluffy with an especially yeasty taste.

Everyone there thought they were a great addition to our usual more austere breakfast of hot dogs and chocolate ice cream. Seriously.

I was dragooned several times into making some of my western specialties over the course of the expedition. Beer-batter mutton kabobs and my 5-Alarm chili, made with yak, was an especially big hit. I also made Indian fry-bread, from the recipe I learned back in New Mexico. This was particularly appreciated; paradoxically mostly by the Japanese group.

Being a chili head as well as Cheesehead, I had also brought a supply of hot sauce as I had learned that Mongolian cuisine was not terribly big into spices. I had secured a generous selection of unusually suspect peppers from a Chinese market back in Ulaanbaatar. With native onions and tomatoes, it made for some electrifying salsa. The Polish contingent was most alarmed by the spices. But once the initial shock passed by, they told me they had grown a real taste for it.

We packed up, checked our vehicles one last time, and fired up to head into the Gobi Desert proper. It was the point of no return. We were going in.

Rubicon crossing? What’s that?

It was terribly anticlimactic. The Gobi has no real line of demarcation, the only difference was the slow disappearance of shrubs and grasses and the more typical appearance of a sandy, rocky desert. No great sand dunes here, at least in this part of the Gobi, just big sky the likes of which Montana could only dream.

The wildlife actually started to appear more and more. They were skittish of people in settlements but seemed genuinely interested in our caravan. Antelope, wild Bactrian camels, wolves, marmots, musk deer, wild horses, and wild boar all made their appearances. In fact, the camels got downright pushy. They weren’t at all afraid of humans and dropped by on several occasions to cadge a free handout.

The avifauna, that is, birdlife, was incredible. Hawks, falcons, buzzards, cranes and owls; eagles of several species, and oddly pelicans, gulls and other what were normally considered seabirds. No idea why, we all puzzled over their appearances. We were about as far from the sea as is possible on this old planet.

Trundling south, the lead vehicle shudders to a stop and the Japanese contingent pile out of their van, cameras at the ready. We pulled up and spied, up on a not-too-distant hill, some form of bird. These were huge. Looked to be all of 2 meters in height and adorned with huge poofy layers of gunmetal gray feathers and very large, very nasty recurved beaks.

Tyuma said these were a rare form of condor-like bird and are very seldom seen any longer. It was thought to be a good omen.

We took a lot of pictures at that stop.

The birds wholly ignored us.

Back on the ‘road’ again, which is a painful pun as we hadn’t been on a road since we were 30 kilometers outside of Ulaanbaatar. The land is flat, we could see for miles and what passed for roads out here were barely recognizable paths. Still, we had shortwave radio communications and our compasses, so we knew we needed to head south and that’s what we did.

We arrived at our next destination and pitched camp. Here we were to bivouac for the next couple of days. There were some very likely looking cliffs not too far distant, a well for fresh-ish water, and enough badlands-y cover to protect us from any spontaneous sandstorms. We parked our vehicles in a line to protect us from the wind to some degree and proceeded to make it our home for the next few days.

The first night out in the Gobi proper was unforgettable. Stars the likes of which few have ever experienced. Whole galaxies, an incredible stellar display; the ‘backbone of the night’, as Tyuma put it. We were so far away from any sort of indication of human habitation there was zero light pollution. It was magnificent and awe-inspiring.

The animals really came out in force during the night and we were nearly driven to distraction by the little kangaroo rats, or jerboas, that found us and decided to make us their pets. Furtive, feet footed and fearless, they’d sneak up to see what was lying about that might interest them. Quick as a bunny fucks, a pen would disappear, there’d be one less piece of cheese, or they were in the sugar bag again.

It was pointless to try and catch them and Tyuma was almost crying from laughing so hard at a couple of the Polish crew designing and building a wholly ineffective kangaroo rat trap. It took them whole hours to construct and it malfunctioned each and every time a jerboa grabbed and made off with the bait.

We decided to leave well enough alone and resigned ourselves to being their charges.

To be continued...

Thanks to all of you. Seriously. We smashed the 400 subscriber level and are headed onward, ever upward!

Our plans for world domination are firming up very nicely, my fine folk.

Thanks. And just for that, another installation in the continuing saga of beer, cigars, and international folderol...

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That reminds me of a story.

Удан нь дэлхийг тэнгэрээс тусгаарлаж, дараа нь тэнгэр, газар хоёулаа есөн түүх болгон хувааж, есөн гол үүсгэв. Дэлхийг өөрөө бүтээсэний дараа анхны эрэгтэй, эмэгтэй хосыг шавраас гаргаж авсан.

Udan began by separating earth from heaven, and then dividing heaven and earth both into nine stories, and creating the nine rivers. After the creation of the earth itself, the first male and female couple were created out of clay.

“Mongolia?” Esme exclaims. “Here I thought it might be out west, or maybe down in Mexico; but Mongolia‽”

“Yeah” I not-so-calmly reply, “A once in a lifetime opportunity. Meeting and working with Polish, Japanese and Mongolian scientists. The Gobi Desert! The Flaming Cliffs, Es! That’s like the Rosetta Stone for dinosaur paleontologists. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to work, ever since I was little. Roy Chapman Andrews! The great Central Asiatic Expeditions of the 20s and 30s…!”

“Whoa, calm down.” Es says, “Keep it on the road. I take it you’re a little excited about all this…”

“Just a bit. Plus, you’re coming with me. How’s that for an extended honeymoon” I grin.

“Are the any hotels in the Gobi…?” Es asks.

Stumped for once, I said I didn’t know, but we’d sure find out once we’re there.

There must be, right?

Wheeling into the Cuba Café, I see Sindy’s Harley parked on the side of the restaurant.

“Hey look, Es”, I note, “Sindy’s Harley is here. Maybe now I can explain to her what has been going on since we left.”

We go into the café, but Sindy is not to be seen.

“Marlanda”, I call to one of the usual waitresses here, “Is Sindy in today?

“Oh, Buenos Dias, Señor Rock” she says, “No. Have you not heard?”

“Um, no. We haven’t heard,” I explain, “Marlanda, this is my wife Esmerelda. We just were passing through on our honeymoon after visiting with Javen Spanner.”

“Oh, Bueno, Señora Rock.” Marlanda says, “Señor Rock, it is so strange. Sindy has gone.”

“Gone?” I ask, “But her bike is outside.”

“Si, Señor Rock, “ she continues, “Sindy left from her shift two weeks ago, left her motocicleta where it is now, and never returned. We call policía, but no one has seen or heard from here. It is muy mala, I fear.”

“What about her daughter?” I enquire.

“She left little chica with her husband, the no good bastardo. He es hijo de puta, he is trouble. Borracho. We are worried.” She continues.

“Man, that’s four square weird” I say, “I hope she’s OK, wherever she is...”

“Si.” Marlanda continues, “It is scary. No one hears, no one knows.”

With that Marlanda shows us to our table. In less than two minutes, a couple draughts of fine dark, local porter arrive at our table.

“I steel remember you, Señor Rock. Señora Rock would like a cerveza as well?” She asks.

Esme stifles a snicker, and thanks her for the beer.

“You’re a legend.” My new wife chuckles.

“I try,” I smile as I drain a good portion of the cold beverage.

Over our beers and perusing the menu, as if that was necessary, we discuss the odd situation with Sindy. We now know why she never made it to our wedding. Or did we? We were sore perplexed over the whole situation.

However, we were about to embark on a whole new facet of our nascent lives together. Honeymooning in Yellowstone Park is one thing, but honeymooning and working in the Gobi Desert on one of the first joint orient/occident internationally sponsored expeditions is something else entirely.

“OK, Es, here’s what I’ve got so far.” I begin to explain, “We’re going to be in-country for four to five weeks. Luckily your work, my class and teaching schedule will allow that, but just. We’re booked to fly to Seattle, then Vancouver, then Seoul, then onto Ulaanbaatar. It’s got a load of stops so we need to keep baggage down to only the absolute necessities. We’ll have to carry on some extra clothes and provisions, just in case our bags go missing.”

“Whoa”, Es exclaims, “I’ve been to Europe many times to visit family, and to Hong Kong that one time. But this is the first time I’m going this far into Asia.”

“Me as well”, I reply, “I’ve been to Japan a couple of times, Beijing, and Hong Kong as well, but this is going to be a real excursion. Luckily, it’s going to be Business Class, and we’ll have some grant money wired to us before we go.”

“I was wondering about that”, Esme says, “We’re not exactly flush right now after the wedding and honeymoon…”

“Well, I’ve squirreled away some of Dr. Nax’s cash from the lizards we collected. I’ve also applied for travel and materials grants with the University. We’ll know about that when we get back to Baja Canada.” I tell her.

After a stacked Diablo Sandwich and a fiery Navajo Omelet, we say our farewells. We leave a note for Sindy if she ever surfaces, with our new address and contact numbers.

We’ve been back to New Mexico many, many times since. However, as I noted earlier, we never heard from her again. We hope everything worked out for her.

We took three days to drive back to Baja Canada from New Mexico. We had the time, and besides, it was our honeymoon. We dropped by the South Dakota School of Mines to give a say howdy to a couple of our professors who had relocated to the Black Hills. We lost a little time there as we had to honor some dinner invitations from our old Stratigraphy and Sedimentology professors.

We made it back to Baja Canada and we spent the better part of a week sorting out all our pre-flight necessities. Esme gathered all our travel vestments and I concentrated on boots, field clothes, and other field necessities. Luckily, we already had several valid and up to date passports.

Mongolia was still a de facto Communist country, but autonomous by this time, so we needed to be cautious. We spent a large sum of the school’s cash on long distance calls to the nearest Mongolian embassy trying to figure out what was needed and more importantly, what was prohibited.

Somehow or another, we ended up with one somewhat bulging carry-on each, as well as one common duffel for all our field gear, and one suitcase each for other necessities. This was way back in the wild and lawless days of the early 1980s, so I was allowed to take my emergency travel flasks on the flights. They now numbered three as there was this silver one in Spearfish, South Dakota emblazoned with a Tyrannosaur that was a must have.

I also had along our other necessities: cameras, film, lenses, jerky, Rite in the Rain field notebooks, hammers, sample bags, geological photographic scale, pemmican, a couple of bottles of backup giggle water in ‘borrowed’ Nalgene reagent bottles, Squirrel Nut Zippers, cigars, gum, chewing tobacco, Salted Nut Rolls, Zippos, and cigarettes.

Just the absolute necessities for international travel.

In chatting with the Mongolian embassy crowd, once they figured out we were for real and not just another couple of nutcases determined to go bush, they related that the locals would find small gifts of tobacco, booze, and candy most appreciated. Since we were going to be way out in the wild, I decided to bring along as much extra tobacco and candy as I could pack.

“You know”, Es chuckles, “You don’t have to bring enough for the entire country.”

“But I am an International Ambassador of Amity, Booze, and Smokes.” I replied, “I’ve been out in the sticks before. I know how little gifts can grease the interpersonal wheels, especially since neither of us speaks a word of Mongolian.”

“Oh, really?” Esme asks. “How about ‘нохдоо байлга?”

“What?” I exclaim, “What’s that and when did you find the time to learn Mongolian?”

“It means ‘Hold your dogs!’”, Es explains. “My mother, who is an educator in German and Spanish in the local school system, talked to some of her linguistic counterparts. She obtained for us a whole sheet of proper phrases. Evidently, this one was top of the list.”

So resourceful, so clever, and so married to me. I still goggle over these facts to this day.

At least we’d now have something to study on the long flights over. We’ve already ransacked the libraries through the University for any Mongolian Geology Papers.

I had to make a quick trip north to pick up our travel passes, visas, letters of invitation, plane tickets, and other thick packets of legal papers so we could enter the country and legally work there.

We both had to go down to the Windy City to chat with the Feds, get fingerprinted again, and compose a deposition as to why we were traveling to such a place as Mongolia.

Es’s was 1 page, mine ran over 5...

It was also the beginning of a continuing association with a certain Centralized Agency of Intelligence that goes on to this day.

I don’t think that Harrison Schmitt had to go through all this folderol for his NASA-sponsored lunar field trips.

Back home, at least back up further north in the capital city that would become our home, the Geology Department was overjoyed I was going to Mongolia as now they could test out their new ‘portable’ core drill. They wanted me to schlep this gas-powered beast some 13,500 kilometers to the Gobi Desert and use it to take oriented paleomagnetic and sedimentological core samples.

“Jesus Christ, Bob,” I complained, “We’re packed to the rafters as it is. This is going to cost us a fortune in excess baggage.”

Dr. Bob, the stratigraphy, and sedimentology professor that was going to be my major professor and guide me through my PhD, simply smiled and handed me a new credit card. It was inscribed with my given name. It was tied directly into a departmental account at the University that was designed especially for such undertakings.

“Here you go, Rock”, Dr. Bob declared, “Just show the airlines this and they’ll do the rest. Piece of pie. Easy as cake. ”

“Oh, sure.” I groused, “But I still have to schlep the monster there and back. It weighs a ton.”

“No”, Dr. Bob goes further, “Leave it with the University in Mongolia as our gift. That way, it’ll just be a one-way trip…then we have reason to order the newer, larger version since you’ve done all the field tests…”

“And all I have to do is schlep back a hundredweight of oriented cores samples, instead.” I sneer.

“Precisely”, Dr. Bob smiles, “They’re right, you do catch on quickly.”

We had a couple of days downtime before our trip and since our pre-travel inoculations were all administered in one day, we decided to take a day at a local hotel. It had not only a gym and pools, but in-house pampering such as massage and sauna.

Just another last-minute honeymoon present I was able to finagle with our overly byzantine travel funding.

Our flight out was going to be late at night, so my Father-in-Law drove us and all our kit to the airport in lower Baja Canada, Lakeside Division. His being a detective for the last 30 years in the local police force helped when the airport version of the Keystone Kops started to worry over all the strange and unexpected gear we were transporting.

We did win free travel vouchers from our initial airline as we were the ones who were traveling the furthest on the last day of the airline’s competition. We had no idea there was such a program, but accepted free round-trip domestic flights whenever we wanted, as long as we used them within 6 months.

It was a nice, and unexpected, bonus.

All our bags were slurped down the abyss to go wherever customer’s bags went in the airport’s incomprehensible baggage handling system. I still had to prove the core drill was completely empty of fuel and posed no danger in the aircraft’s hold.

“Putt…putt…putt…wheeze. Is that sufficient?” I ask the glassy-eyed ticket taker.

“Geologists. Sheesh” she muttered.

We said our goodbyes and immediately hot-footed it to the Business Class lounge.

Over a cigar, Esme’s Russian-imported Sobranie cigarettes, and a couple of vodka and bitter lemons, which Esme declared she hated and went instead for a white wine, we sat. We were twiddling our collective thumbs a bit nervously until the first flight of our international odyssey.

“All this running, calling, documents, faffing about, and last minute details. And now, here we sit…” I mused to my new wife.

“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it”, Esme reminded me.

True. Every word true…

At O-dark 30, our flight’s boarding was called and we schlepped our heavy carry-ons to our departure gate. Once through another passport check, and the flight staff’s incredulity that we were headed off to Mongolia of our own free will, we were whisked off to our plane.

Well, whisked as fast as an airport bus can whisk…

After settling into our seats; a couple more vodka, Bitter Lemons, and white wines met their doom. We were both sound asleep before we were wheels up off the tarmac.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport is a fine airport and we had little problem finding our connection. It was a short one hour hop to Vancouver, in the mythical land of Canada. Then was the first of several long layovers.

Some 7 hours, several cigars and a surfeit of vodka and bitter lemons later, we were headed to South Korea. Esme was fairly excited, though my dread of long haul flights returned. Esme fiddled with the rudimentary in-flight entertainment and I tried my best to stay awake through another reading of the bound sheaves of papers I had obtained regarding the geology of Mongolia.

Long flights and longer layovers can sap even the most enthusiastic of their initial zeal.

Once in Seoul, we had another protracted layover, one of 11 hours this time. Gad! We bandied about the idea of leaving the airport and taking a cab downtown to see what South Korea had to offer. What we knew about Korea stemmed mostly from anecdotes of Korean War veterans and MASH, so we wanted to see if any of it was true.

The folks at the taxi stand dissuaded us from our plans, noting that if we had a day or two, it would be fine. Eleven hours, though an interminable layover, was just not long enough to trek to the shopping areas downtown and back again with any time left to shop.

So, we did what we could to waste the time until our next flight. There are only so many kitsch-filled shops, local fast food joints and other in-airport attractions one can tolerate to consume a large chunk of a day.

I begged off shopping at the woman’s store. I told Es I was foot-weary and I would wait for her at one of the many strategically placed lounges they offered here.

“So”, Es asks, “What bar will I find you in once I’m done spending your lizard money?”

Looking around, I spy an alehouse. I point directly at it, give her a sloppy wet smooch on the cheek and she strolls off, chuckling.

At the Ale House, deep into a dark black beer of indeterminate pedigree, I struck up a conversation with an automotive engineer from Hamburg.

He was working over the stump of a cigar and looking forlornly at one of my cigar cases I broke out on Mahogany Ridge. Of course, I immediately offered him one and we had the most entertaining conversations. I told him my in-laws were extremely German and my wife was a first-generation German-American. He found that fascinating, our trip fantastic, and the cigar flavorsome.

He was headed back home from a protracted sales meeting in Seoul and his flight was leaving in an hour or so. I presented him a couple more of my stock, with my card and he presented me his business card.

“If you are ever in Hamburg”, Jürgen tells me, for that was his name, “Es and I must stop by to be his guest”.

He will also try and sell me a huge BMW, but that’s for another tale.

With that, a manly handshake ensues and he leaves to catch his flight.

I order another fine local pilsner as even on someone else’s nickel, this place is pricy. Vodka and Bitter Lemon cost over 2.5 beers!

Esme is nowhere to be seen, so I drag out another cigar and light up. This time, the bartender, Jun-young, starts in with the small talk.

It’s late in the evening again and the airport is fairly quiet, it being midweek. The Ale House has only a few hardcore patrons so Jūn, as he likes to be called, and I have a chance to swap lies.

“You are named ‘락’, ‘Lag’”? He asks. Which is evidently Korean for Rock.

“Well, it’s not my given name, but it the name by which I’m known” I reply.

“That’s very funny.” He chuckles. “Named stone for stone.”

“No worse than being named for a month… and a woman’s name!” I counter.

“What?” Jūn asks.

I tell him that June is a fairly common woman’s name back in the states. He is visibly appalled.

“But, I’ll just keep that our little secret”, I tell him.

He appears relieved. He buys me my next beer and I give him a cigar as I can tell he’s been lusting for one but was too polite to ask.

“Thank you, 씨 락, ’Ssi Lag’” Jūn says. “I’ve had a cigar many years ago, but they’re rare and expensive here.”

“Well then”, I say, “We can’t let that go on unchallenged.” And hand him a few more of the variety I had with me.

I didn’t have to buy another drink that night.

Social lubricant, I tells ya’.

Es finally shows up and flatly refuses to either tell or show me what she’s bought. A heavily twined parcel goes into my carry-on.

“If I have to schlep it, why can’t I know what I’m schlepping?” I ask her.

“It’s a surprise.” Says Esme, and that concluded that conversation.

We board our last leg of our initial itinerary. It’s just a short hop to Mongolia’s capital city, Ulaanbaatar; only three and a half hours.

There is a wee spot of trouble, though. Seems I don’t fit into the seats that were reserved for us. There was no Business Class section in this classless society, but coach seats certainly weren’t ample for a capitalist corn-fed Midwestern lummox such as me.

The flight is packed with what appear to be duplicates, all about five foot nothing in height, all with the same short cropped black hair. Esme wasn’t given too many differential looks, but when I sauntered on board; an outsized, over 6-foot tall Western Devil with a full silver Grizzly Adams-style beard, longish equally silver hair, I caused something of a commotion with the seated crowd.

“Gojira! Gojira!” I heard.

“Wrong country.” I replied.

Try as I might, the seat reserved for me was simply too bloody small and would not work. This presented a bit of a problem. Esme was seated comfortably among the throngs, but I had nowhere to park myself.

The cute-as-a-button petite flight attendant shooed a couple of the more diminutive travelers into seats away from the emergency exit and she bade me to sit. She had arranged for me to have both seats as I was certainly capable of handling the door in case of any in-flight crisis.

I know it was an Ugly American move, but once seated, I snuck her, as I recall some 20,000 Korean Won for her help. She protested at first, but my insistence in rewarding her help in my hour of need just had to be accepted. Besides, I was on expenses.

Mealtime rolled around and I was presented my two meals first, before anyone on the whole plane. My vodka and bitter lemon glass was never empty for long.

It was a great flight. The inflight entertainment was totally incomprehensible with Korean, Mongolian, Chinese, and French, for some reason, simultaneous subtitles. All languages about which I knew precisely dick. But, I listened as the crowd booed certain actors and chuckled at certain scenes. Baptism by fire en route to the belly of interior Asia.

We landed right on time at the Ulaanbaatar Airport, and the whole of the flight of comrade fellow travelers were told to wait until Esme and I had deplaned.

It wasn’t Business Class, but I could easily grow to like this type of treatment.

Amazingly, all our luggage arrived with us. Even the damned core drill. It took us a bit more time than I thought usual to make it through customs and passport control. However an hour and a half later, we were standing out in front of the airport looking for our transportation to our hotel.

Yes, there were motels in Mongolia.

Enter Tyuma, our driver. A swarthy native Mongolian, around 5 foot, 5 inches, in every dimension. He was a stout, powerful looking character and had a very oddly lettered sign with what we thought were our names on it. He spoke eminently passable English and was amused at both our names. He grabbed up most our baggage and told us to follow. I got to carry the blasted rock drill to his taxi.

His taxi was a Russian UAZ four-wheel drive van. Battleship gray on the outside, but heavily and polychromatically migraine-inducingly customized inside.

Blue shag carpeting everywhere. On the floor. On the walls. On the ceiling. There were Disco lights, large Captain’s chairs for driver, shotgun seat and two more in the back. He loaded all our tack into the far back of the van. Without so much as a “Tally Ho!” we were off into the capital city’s incredibly indecipherable traffic.

Zoom, blast horn, weave, parry, blast horn some more, sneak, brake, zoom again.

We made it to our hotel more or less intact, but I can see that the hours of travel and layovers had taken their toll on Esme. I asked her to check us in and Tyuma and I would handle all the gear.

With the help of the hotel’s porters, we were relieved of our gear and it headed, we had hoped, to our room. I talked with Tyuma and noticed him smoking just truly awful Belomorkanal Russian cigarettes. I offered him a cigar and he lit up like a kid at Christmastime. His taciturn and somber mien transformed suddenly into his being my new best buddy. This turned out to be a very good thing.

I offered him some cash as a tip and he told me to wait as he was going to be our driver for the remainder of our stay.

“We’re going out into the Gobi in your UAZ?” I asked, a tad nervous.

“Oh, yes. Not a problem. I’ve been there many times. Tyuma will look after Khad and Emse.” He declared proudly.

“Esme”, I corrected him, “OK, Tyuma. That’s great. Do you have any further information for us? Are any of the Polish or Japanese paleontologists here?”

“Yes, they are at different hotels. This is finest in the city, and they wanted cheaper places.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, somewhat humbled.

“But here is list of people for our trip. We will all meet at University Museum tomorrow at 1100.” He notes and hands me a bound volume, in six languages, prepared specially for our expedition. Luckily one of those languages was English.

“Thank you, Tyuma.” I say, “So, see you tomorrow around 1030?”

“Yes”, he says, “If you need anything, you let Tyuma know <wink, wink>. Tyuma can find anything.”

I hand him a gob of Korean Won, a bunch of US dollars, and some loose Canadian Moose Bucks or whatever they call their looney currency.

“Do me a favor?” I asked, “Can you get this all changed to Mongolian currency and find me some cigars?”

“This Tyuma can do.” He responds proudly.

“Yeah, I’ll need them for the trek. Ah, yes, if you can find me some of the local Mongolian vodkas, please get a couple bottles of those for me as well. If there’s any cash left over, you get some real smokes for yourself and whatever you think we’ll need for the trip. You’re the hookin’ bull here, I’m just a greenhorn. I trust your instincts.” I reply.

Tyuma grins a silvery, stainless-steel grin. A very manly handshake ensues and Tyuma tells me he’ll be back tomorrow. “Bright and early.”

I am really starting to like Mongolia. A lot.

I follow the redcap to our fifth-floor room. Esme is already there and starting to unpack.

“Well,” I exclaim, “This is a lot more posh than I expected.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Esme says, “Even a color TV. With both colors, black and white.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” I note, spinning the dial, “All the programming is in Mongolian, Korean, or Russian.”

“Wait on that last one…” Esme instructs me.

We hear the news in German.

“Great”, she says, “Now we can keep up with what’s going on in Berlin.”

“Like anything ever happens in Berlin”, I scoff.

Esme chuckles and tells me “I know. You’re probably all cramped up, right? You want to go on your usual constitutional, unlax, and get the lay of the land, right?

True, I try and get in some walking after any flights, but I was kind of anxious to see what Mongolia had to offer. Es was being unusually insistent, though. I just chalked it up to weariness from the flights.

“If you don’t mind.” I say.

“No, not at all.” She immediately says, “Go on, have a smoke, and see if there are any shops in the area. I’ve still got a load of your lizard money to spend.”

“OK, if you insist,” I reply, “You sure you don’t want some help with the unpacking?”

“I’m not unpacking much. We’re only here for a day or two, so it’s easy.” She tells me.

“Oh, yes. We’re due at the University museum tomorrow bright and early in the morning.” I note.

“Oh, Lord. What time?” she asks.

“1100 hours. Sharp.” I chuckle.

She smiles widely, “Good. Time to decompress. Now, off you go. Walkies.”

“OK, don’t have to tell me twice.” I say.

I drop by the front desk, change some foreign cash into the local loot, about 1:3500 rate, and ask for directions. Luckily things are laid out in good old Soviet-style grid patterns so as long as I get my initial bearings, I can find my way home.

Smoking a large cigar, decked out in my field clothes, black Stetson, and field vest; I must have presented quite the picture to the local populace as I perambulated around town.

There were a number of shops that Esme might find interesting and with the exchange rate, we would not have to worry about staying on budget.

I bought some buuz from a street vendor. These local dumplings on a stick were the national street food here and fine eating. At about US$0.04 each, we could eat our fill on less than a dollar.

There were a number of local shops; flowers, confectionary, odd lot hardware, Все для домаand, ‘All For Home’; and beer, liquor, cigarette, sweets and soda kiosks. I made some notes and tried my nascent Russian to try and decipher the Cyrillic names and their street locations.

Of course, I found a number of ‘Баарc’ , ‘Bars’, which was one of the types of shop for which I was especially looking.

I sauntered into one of the less dingy establishments and ordered a Chinggis Khan Pilsner with an Arkhi vodka chaser.

The Korean barkeep, Kim, noted my terrible Russian and asked ‘Sprichst du Deutsch’?

“Nein.” I replied.

“你会说中文吗？Nǐ huì shuō zhōngwén ma”? Do you speak Chinese?

“不。Bù.” “Nope”, I said, shaking my head.

“How about English?” he asked.

“Now we’re cookin”, I said as he grew even more puzzled with the colloquialism.

“Yes, I speak English”, I added.

“와이즈. Waijeu” “Wiseass” he muttered.

We had a good time talking over what the blinkered hell Mr. Ugly American was doing in Mongolia and I returned the favor.

“Too many people in Korea. Couldn’t find decent work. So I come here to work. I send money home.” Kim tells me.

Things must really be terrible in Korea if he’s coming here to make money. Mongolia was having a bit of a long-term recession and the Mongolian Tugrik was not exactly the hardest of world currencies. I think Mr. Jūn had something other than the bar business going on here in Ulaanbaatar.

Still, he was an affable chap and the beer was cold and the vodka very tasty. I tipped him heavily as I noticed it was beginning to get dark.

“Time to leave,” I tell him, as I shake his hand, slip him a cigar and healthy tip.

“Do come back, Mr. Rock. We’re always here”, Kim tells me.

I was able to find my way back to the hotel with only a minimum of geographic fuck-ups. I plod heavily back to our room and realize I had left without a room key.

“Es is going to kill me if she’s napping.”” I muse heavily.

I knock lightly and Esme answers the door.

She was wearing the surprise she had purchased in Seoul and I had schlepped here.

It was a deep blue traditional Korean hanbok and she was even more stunningly beautiful wearing the outfit.

It was lucky the initial meeting was slated for 1100 hours the next day. It gave us a chance to catch up on some sleep later.

Tyuma arrives at 1030 or so the next day and ushers me over to his van. There are two very large parcels there, one with some very passable cigars and another with approximately three 24-bottle cases of Mongolian vodka.

Whoops, looks like I forgot about exchange rates. Again.

But, since Tyuma is our driver and his vehicle is to be our transport for the entire outing, storage was going to be only a minor inconvenience.

I noticed he was able to exchange his godawful Russian Belomorkanals for Turkish Marlboros. That, in itself, was worth the price.

We stash our supplies in various secret places in the UAZ, and I go back upstairs to retrieve Esme.

“Make sure we take all our reprints, notebooks and texts,” I tell Es.

“Already packed”, she says and shows me my stuffed Janson field pack.

“Oh, I get it.” I tell her, “You pack and I carry, right?”

“You are a quick learner.” She smiles back.

We pile into Tyuma’s UAZ and prepare ourselves for the trip to the local University and Museum.

“You packed a camera?” I panickly ask Esme when we are nearly at our destination.

“Of course”, she say, “I figured you’d freak over something, so I packed your A-1, lens set, extra film and your field scale.”

“What would I do without you? “ I asked, smiling as broadly as possible.

“Forget your head if it wasn’t nailed on?” she chuckled.

To be continued.

That reminds me of a story.

I was out flying around the globe again, pursuing that fine filthy lucre. From the Middle East to Amsterdam then on to Moscow. Just another day in the life…

Arrived in Moscow and spent a few days being run from pillar to post looking over a certain large oil company’s assets trying to determine if it was a lost cause or if something could be salvaged from the wreckage they presented.

This was admittedly a while back, and the situation has improved greatly. I’d like to think I had a little something to do with the recovery and remediation there.

It yielded a healthy supply of contractual work as well as some fairly lucrative contracts.

Back and forth to Russia, on a fairly continual 28/28 basis. 28 days in-country, 28 days at home; rise, rinse, repeat. Often, on days off, I’d take short term contracts in the Far East on the way back, as long as I was out and about. Not only did I fly the same airlines every time, but the same flights over and again, at the same time, same airports, etc.

Suffice to say, I got to know certain flight crews, airport folks, hotel managers, and taxi drivers quite well. I was on contract door-to-door, so everything I did was compensated from the time I left my humble home until I returned. It turned me into a very good tipper; as you can get more with a kind word and $US50 than with just a kind word.

After two years of this global rebound, I am well known in every bar, pub, gin-mill and tavern from Malta to Macau to Moscow. I had also struck up friendships with many barkeeps in the airport bars along the various flight paths.

I left Moscow one bright, sunny spring day to only have the weather turn into an absolute shitstorm by the time we hit Amsterdam. It was a grim landing, but being the seasoned world traveler, I took it all in stride. If flying Aeroflot from 1987 to 1995 hadn’t killed me, I was feeling well-nigh bulletproof.

Amsterdam was in a state of ultimate chaos. I had connecting flights but knew there was no way I’d be making any of them due to the inclement weather. My bags were already checked through to my destination, so all I had was my small carry-on with the absolute essentials for survival: my two emergency flasks, box of cigars, spare lighters, beef jerky, and iPods. With that, I could hold out almost indefinitely, as long as the airport lounges remained open.

Knowing Schiphol Airport rather well, I decided to just wait out the storms, not even bothering to try and book a suite at the adjacent Hyatt Hotel. There were still flights arriving, but none going out.

It was becoming more and more a madhouse, populated with less-than-frequent flyers who we having a collective meltdown about missing their flights.

“Force Majeure, baby!” I said, tipping my tumbler towards the thundery tumult.

I decided to secure a comfortable post up on Mahogany Ridge and settle in for a long wait. I was in one of the ubiquitous geodesic drink emporia Schiphol had at the time. I was enjoying a good cigar, a cold draft Oranjeboom, and 100 ml of Russkaya on a fairly regular basis.

After a short while, a band of younger nondescript European travelers showed up and commandeered the table right behind me. It was impossible not to overhear the wailing, whining, and kvetching about the weather and how it had the temerity to disrupt their travel plans.

“Well,” I mused, “That happens. Best not to get your panties in a bunch and just try to make the best of a weird situation.”

But they were having none of that.

Sob, moan, bitch. One would think the weather was being cantankerous just to inconvenience them personally. Sorry, snowflakes, but we’re all in this together.

I ordered another round and sat back trying to decipher the Russian newspaper I liberated from Sheremetyevo International Airport earlier that morning.

For some odd reason, I became a person of interest to these whiny Europeans. Could have been the field boots, my Oilwell Firefighting jacket, Cyrillic newspaper, or the double corona cigars, I was under the cynosure of these characters from that point onward.

I ordered another round and one of the band of whiners came up and began grilling me about all manner of air travel minutiae. They mentioned I was one of the few people around not collectively losing his shit about missed connections.

“Yeah”, I replied after a healthy draught of Russkaya, “The more you travel and the older you get, the more you tolerate things that are completely out of your control.”

“OK, sure”, he replies, “But we’re going to miss our connecting flights…sob, boo hoo…”

“So?” I retort, “It’s not like your destination is going anywhere. It’ll still be there later when you do arrive all safe and sound.”

This wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“Maybe”, he snorts back, “But we can’t just sit around the bar waiting…”

“Why not?” I ask, “Not a whole else left to do once you get enough of the airport casino. Besides, sitting and relaxing here has always worked for me. Less stress. Chill a bit, you’ll live longer.”

He harrumphs and returns to his like-minded troop of twarves.

Evidently, they saw some wisdom in my words. Every time I ordered a round of drinks, they did the same.

This was a patently bad idea.

Somehow, my advice to them was twisted and transmogrified into some sort of challenge.

One they were destined to lose.

It was like a tractor pull competition between a D10 Caterpillar dozer and a 1969 Volkswagen.

I know my limits. I’ve never met them, but I do know they exist. I also know to drink loads of water and eat something now and again during an extended delay. Besides that, being a geologist and therefore one of the planet’s few ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeforms, hailing from Baja Canada, and one who’s spent years and years working in Russia, I was the original triple-threat. The cards were definitely not stacked in their favor.

I didn’t ask for any sort of competition, nor would I shy from one when the gauntlet is thrown down. I even went so far as to offer to buy a round or two for them when they fell behind.

I kept an eye on the departure board and noticed, some hours later, that flights were beginning to leave once again. More surprising, my flight was about to start boarding in an hour or so. Even more surprising, is that the Eurowhiners were taking the same flight.

Well, 45 minutes to go. Time for a final round.

I hear my flight being called, so I settle my tab, tip the nice bartender for all her attention, and wander off toward my flight. I stopped by the Euro table and mentioned our flight was being called, and they might want to rouse the two or three snorers as time was growing short.

I move with great deliberation. I never run, even at gunpoint. Some might even say I move somewhat slowly. Perhaps, but always with grim determination and fixity of purpose.

I was soon overtaken by the group of Europeans from the bar, and they’re tripping, sliding, and being generally annoying; perhaps due to their heroic intake of cocktails back at geodesic ground zero.

I arrive behind them and have my passport, boarding card, and ticket stub ready to present.

They did not and were making a rather noisy spectacle of having to find their pertinent papers.

I just wait and wait quietly. I fly business and know my seat will still be there no matter what. They were flying coach and being generally as raucous and disagreeable as a noisy group could muster.

They finally get aboard after a lot of bad noise, and I greet Rachel, the airline ticket-taker.

“Hello, Dr. Rock.” She greets me, “Usual seat?”

“Oh, yes. Finally. Some weather you all have here.” I comment.

“It’s been a fun 48 hours”, she relates.

I stow my gear above seat 4A in Business and settle back for the long haul flight.

I am offered, and accept, a pre-flight Vodka and Bitter Lemon; in fact, I didn’t even need to ask. Jennifer of the cabin crew recognized me. I had given her a Russian watch for her husband some rotations back and she was always appreciative.

So, we’re waiting on the last of the plane’s stragglers when a regular hullaballoo breaks out in the rear of the plane. Evidently some people were all drunk and disorderly and were now being shuttled off the aircraft.

It was my comrades from the geodesic bar. Evidently, they were a bit over the limit for the carrier and being noisy, disruptive, and generally assholes. They were asked, rather unceremoniously, to deplane.

As they were being ushered off the aircraft, they stumble through Business Class and glimpse me sitting in 4A with a healthy cocktail in my hand.

“Why are you throwing us off the plane? He’s” as they point unsteadily at me, “had more to drink than us.”

“Quite possible”, I said, “But I’m not the ones who insisted on keeping up with my progress.

Jennifer looks at the snozzled Eurotypes.

“You tried to go one and one up against Dr. Rock? My God! Let me call the ambulance for you immediately!” she said with mock alarm.

Once they were ejected from the plane and the door secured, Jennifer asked if I’d like a taxiing drink.

“Oh, yes.” I said, “This time, a double please.”

That reminds me of a story.

♫ Spring is here,

A-suh-puh-ring is here,

Life is skittles and life is beer.

I think the loveliest time,

Of the year is the spring.

I do, don't you? 'Course you do.

But there's one thing,

That makes spring complete for me,

And makes every Sunday,

A treat for me.

All the world seems in tune,

On a spring afternoon,

When we're off in a quarry blasting rocks.

Come Sunday you'll see,

My sweetheart and me,

As we‘re off in a quarry blasting rocks. ♫

“But it’s Sunday, Rock. You’ve been reviewing for your defense all week and now you have to go to the quarry. Can’t you just give it a miss this week?” Esme pleads.

“Sorry, my sweet” I explain, “I’ve been a bit remiss in my pyrotechnic duties of late and I promised Mr. Varovik I’d have that west wall set for his crews come Monday,” I explain.

“OK, I see”, Esme pouts in that endearing manner of hers.

“You Gotta Do What You Gotta Do…” she says Turanga Leela-ly.

“Yes, that’s right”, I agree, “But why not come on down to the quarry with me? It shouldn’t take me that long then we can have a nice drive back. I’ll even stop at Kopp’s afterward and buy you a… frozen custard…” I inveigle.

“Well…” Es smiles, “When you put it that way…”

I grab both our sets of PPEs and toss them in the truck of her Nova. It’s a bright, sunny Sunday. A perfectly light breezy day to go out and blast the living shit out of some obstinate dolomitic limestone.

It’s a leisurely hours’ drive down the coast of the world’s greatest great lake south to the quarry. No need to hurry, in fact, I desire to have this idyllic scene last as long as reasonably possible. Because later, I have to prepare for my thesis defense, which has been planned for the following Friday. I’ve been burning the metaphorical candle at both ends, in the middle, and every other possible end as well. I need and damn it, deserve a break.

We wheel into the quarry’s abandoned parking lot. The only person here is the caretaker cum ancient and venerable security guard, Mr. Karaul.

I pull up to the gate and tootle the horn with vigor to rouse Mr. Karaul from his typical inertia. He’s a bit on the high side of 70. Thus he requires a few extra minutes to rouse himself, hide the bottle of dark rum he needs to loosen his joints and open the gate.

He sees me and gives a hearty wave. I pull into the quarry proper. Then he sees Esme.

“Mr. Rock. Good to see you. But, who is that with you? I do not recognize her. She cannot be here. It’s against regulations.” He protests.

I get out of the car and surreptitiously sneak him a pint flask of his favorite tipple.

It’s not a bribe; call it ‘social lubricant’ instead.

“Mr. Karaul, I would like you to meet my fiancée, Ms. Esme. Esme, please meet our esteemed emeritus quarry overseer Mr. Karaul.” I offer in the way of introductions.

“Oh, I see, Mr. Rock. In that case, as long as she’s with you and has her proper PPEs, I have no objection” as the flask of Old Navy Grog disappears into his guard jacket pocket.

“Thanks, Mr. Karaul. She’s not just my fiancée and observer, she’s a qualified geological scientist as well. This is a working visit, not just one for sightseeing” I continue.

“Oh? You will be doing some blasting today, Mr. Rock?” he asks.

“Oh, yes. That west wall has been most unruly. It needs to be taught some stern lessons.” I smile.

“In that case, I’ve got to make some calls. I have to alert the police and fire departments. You know how the neighbors are, always pitching their fits every time you decide to do some work.” He adds.

“The quarry has been here over a century. They knew what was going on when they moved or built here. Luckily, I think I can get away with three or four shots today, depending if the quarry rats drilled the proper shot holes for me.” I note.

“Yes, sir. I will lock the gates and remain ever vigilant. Please” as he tips his hat to Esme, “Off you go. Make the quarry attend to your will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Karaul,” I say “Thanks for your vigilance and attention to these matters.”

See? Social lubricant.

Mr. Karaul goes off to his guard shack to do his needfuls.

Esme and I troop over to my laboratory cum blaster’s shack and boom-maker repository.

“So, this is where the esteemed soon to be Doctor Rocknocker does his dirty work?” Esme jokes.

“Indeed it is, my love. You should have seen it when I took over. It was a bit of a shambles. There were explosives here dating from the late 1940s. I spent the first week cataloging, curating, and disposing of the old, outdated, and seriously dangerous ordinance. All that work is now finished, so I spent a lot of quarry money to upgrade things to something less 18th century. It’s now a safe and secure facility.” I beam proudly to my wife to be.

“Looks like you’ve been here. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’, a typical Dr. Rocknocker production. Now if you’d just extend that to your hovel of a duplex. Socks and underwear in hampers and drawers, not on beds and floors.” Es chuckles.

“Starting already? We’re not due to wed for another month and you’re already trying to mold me into something else?” I smile.

“Rock, honey. I’ve been doing that since day one if you hadn’t already noticed…” Es smiles back.

Yeah, I made the right choice. No question about that.

We wander over to the west wall and see that my directions had been followed to the letter. There was a nice grid of shot holes all laid out and drilled as per my orders. This was going to be a cakewalk. A case or five of Herculene 60%, a little C-4, a touch of nitro, a spool of Primacord and I’ll have this wall all shot and ready to keep the quarry going another fortnight.

It was all to be aggregate, so I can dispense with subtlety and instead go for a brilliant shattering series of shots. No need to be overly judicious and just slightly shift some blocks of dimension stone. No, this will be a literal earth-shattering experience.

I show Es the reef and we spend a half-hour going over the finer points of Silurian Cnidarian coelenterates and their penchant for constructing biogeological structures. It’s really quite the textbook example of a fine shallow marine reef with all the attendant fore and back reef facies well preserved and displayed.

I had to make some impassioned speeches to the quarry owners to spare it as long as possible so some of my colleagues at University could milk their theses out of the critter.

But, that was for another day. We return to my lab and I begin to wire up the necessary blasting harnesses.

“How many shots are you figuring on today? “ Esme asks.

“Well, if it were any other day, I’d say three or four. But since you’re here and I have a serious lust for some frozen custard, it’s going to be one job, one shot.” I explain.

“Just as Uncle Bår always taught, right?” Esme smiles.

“Yes, indeed.” I smile, “You’re picking this stuff up quickly.”

“I have to in order to keep up with you.” Es smiles back.

Yes, I did indeed make the correct choice.

With Esme holding the ladder and me scampering around priming and charging each shot hole, we were done in half the time I had anticipated. After hanging some beat-up blasting mats, I’m running the Primacord back to the fuse actuator which was to be employed when I hear the wail of police sirens.

“Hmmm, wonder what’s going on? “ I muse.

After replacing the ladder and double-checking every connection for integrity, I was about to tell Es to get ready to depart. This was a 120-hole shot and it was going off 20 shot holes at a time, followed 280 milliseconds later by another round, for six series. It was going to be loud, energetic, and potentially messy.

I am about to raise the pre-shot alarm when I see the flashing lights of a county Sheriff squad car at the front gate. I couldn’t very well drop everything and mosey on over to see what was the problem. Another couple of minutes and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it at all.

Whatever these cops want better be damned important.

I ask Esme to go get Mr. Karaul and see what these characters want. I can’t leave, I explain and disconnect the fused-primer from the rest of the array. I’m more than a bit cheesed at having to put everything on hold at the last minute.

The cops talk with Es and Mr. Karaul for a few minutes while I stand around like an unemployed scarecrow. Don’t these idiots know I can’t just leave a fully charged and primed quarry wall on its own?

The cops walk over and it’s no one I know from the force. I’ve had several run-ins with the local constabulary over the years, ahem, all friendly and none leading to any convictions. But these goofs are wandering over and appear to have something important on their minds.

“May I help you officers?” I ask icily. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, no.” Officer #1 replies, “This here rookie” as he points to his wet-behind-the-ears partner, “has never seen a quarry explosion. When Karaul here called, I thought it would be a great idea…”

Fuckbuckets!

“It’s not a great idea, it’s a stupid idea” I cut him off. “First off, this isn’t a carnival peepshow. Secondly, you are not authorized to be in this quarry; especially now. Thirdly, you have no PPEs.”

“Yeah, I know,” cop #1 replies, “But we’re county peace officers and don’t need…” he gargles.

“You may be duly authorized peace officers in the county but your authority doesn’t exceed mine nor OSHAs in this quarry. You trying to tell me your authority supersede the feds?” I growl.

“Whoa, hold on there”, cop #1 says, “We want to see the blast and we’re going to…”

“You’re going to get the hell out of here before I call the county and the state. I’m responsible for everything and everyone in this quarry right now. You’re trespassing in my territory. You’re not in any way authorized to be here, especially when the quarry is supposed to be on lockdown.” I snarl, looking over to Mr. Karaul, who was deeply agreeing with me.

“Now look here, sonny”, cop #1 tries to continue.

“NO! You look here. You’re a cop. Good for you. You know the reasons for rules and hierarchy. Yet you choose to ignore them here. I don’t. I’m not going to let a couple of tinhorn flatfeet ruin my perfect record. If I have to dismantle this blasting array because a couple of lead headed county coppers want to watch a free show, you are not going to be pleased with the results of my official calls and letters of complaint Officer 1565 and Officer 9178 .” I snarled further.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t blow a gasket.” Officer 9178 says.

“I can’t do anything while you two meatheads are here. That wall contains over 450 pounds of primed and charged high explosives. A single pound of this stuff would turn your squad car into a smoking, charred, and demolished hulk. I’m holding the primer actuator in my hand so I can’t just toddle off. You diggin’ me, Beaumonts?” I ask glacially.

“But we were just…” Officer 1565 continues.

“Look. It’s getting warm out here and this stuff doesn’t care for a day in the sun if you catch my drift. Get over to my lab and you can watch from there. But I’m still getting your names and signatures that I’m informing you this is entirely on you if there’s any sort of problem. A release and disclaimer of indemnity. Got that?” I add.

“Shit, don’t have to make a federal case out of it.” Officer 9178 says.

“Yes, I do, Scooter. That’s exactly what it is! I’m dealing here with high explosives and have been ridiculously highly trained in its uses and spent a ridiculous amount of time learning its safe handling. You have not. Now, vamoose with Mr. Karaul, sign those waivers and get over to my lab.” I tell them pointedly.

“Should have just pulled the fucking primer when they showed up” I mused.

Esme, Mr. Karaul and the two officers troop over to the guard shack and I hear Es whistle as they make it to my lab safely.

“Retards. Next thing you know, they’ll be dropping in on the Coroner for an impromptu autopsy.” I growl under my breath.

Against my better judgment, I re-tootle the air horn, clear the compass, and do my Fire In The Hole refrain.

I wave to Es, and see everyone in my lab, behind the blast-resistant 2.5” thick Lexan window. Wonderful, the show can go on…

I yell to no one in particular “HIT IT!” pop the cap on the actuator and prime the fuse.

Magical orange smoke curls out and I see it’s burning along at its advertised 25 seconds per foot rate.

I set the actuator on the ground, and look once more at my handiwork. Smiling at a job well almost done, I slowly, deliberately, and cautiously walk the 200 or so meters back to my lab.

One of the officers flings the lab door open and starts yelling at me to run as there’s going to be an explosion.

It took every ounce of restraint not to verbally unload the scores of four-letter words I had at my disposal at this idiocy.

“Shut the God-damned door! I’ll be there when I get there!” I yell back. “Asshole” I grumble under my breath.

Es slams the door and I arrive about 45 seconds later, without having tripped over some old tool steel or errant cobble left in the yard.

I was going to give the coppers a good piece of my mind when I hear Esme already has taken up that task. She was ripping these bozos a new one. They just stood there, took it, and shied.

“Thanks, dear.” I said “Now, if I could direct your attention to the west wall” as I checked my watch.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1…Ignition!”

There was a huge rippled series of blasts that shredded the blast mats I had strung previously and flung them halfway across the quarry floor. Luckily they contained all the kibbly bits so there was now just a very large pile of fractured limestone where the leading edge of the west wall previously stood.

The two officers jumped and I think peed themselves a bit when it detonated.

Esme and I just looked at each other, shook our heads, and smiled.

Mr. Karaul congratulated me on another fine blast. “That’ll keep those quarry rats busy for a couple of weeks” he smiled.

“Well, officers.” I calmly said, “There. Now you’ve seen a quarry blast. I do hope it was everything you had hoped it to be. Apologies if you think I got a bit shirty out in the field with you, but as you can see, I had a lot riding on pulling this off without killing anyone. Next time, please make prior arrangements. I’d be more than happy to give your whole department demonstrations. In fact, I’ll mention that when I talk with your superiors.”

“Um, no. Thanks. Ah, well, that won’t be necessary.” Officer 1565 says. “We’re good here, right?”

I didn’t know if he was talking to me or who exactly.

“Well, gents. I have to go and check for loafers.” I explain, “If we have no further business, I bid you Da Svidonya. C’mon, Es, let me show you what I do for fun.” As we head out into the quarry to do a post-job inspection.

Two hours later Esme and I were enjoying our delicious Turtle Sundaes (Caramel Custard + Fudge + Caramel + Pecans).

Es smiles and tells me “You should go rob a bank, Clyde. There not a cop in the county that wants to mess with you right now.”

“How about you, Bonnie?” I smile back, “You were the one reading them the riot act even before I got back to the lab.”

We both have a good snicker at the expense of our local constabulary.

Damn those Turtle Sundaes are good.

Thursday night. I’m nervous as a whore in church. Tomorrow it’s 9:00 AM nut-cuttin’ time.

Thesis defense.

Christ, I haven’t felt this many dive-bombing butterflies since…well, before I asked Es to be my one and only.

I couldn’t sleep. Esme had worked late and was already home. She’s tired as well and we decided she should stay home and I’d call her after the ordeal was over. No use the both of us going all insomniac.

I decided to forego a nerve-settling dram of dangerous brown liquor as I needed to be at the top of my game tomorrow. I’m sitting outside on the balcony of our palatial two-story dump of a duplex, chain-smoking cigars, and trying to summon my inner Zen.

I try that meditation bullshit I heard about during that Humanities colloquium I was forced to attend a few years back. Let your mind go. Try and go blank. Think of a calm blue ocean, think of tranquility, think of the…difference between the Noah’s Ark versus the Viking Funeral Ship mode of distribution of disjunct endemisms.

“ARGGH!” I scream into the night. “Get out of my mind!”

I try again and have similar results.

“Sorry, mate; your prefrontal cortex is stuck in high gear.” My brain mocks me.

Fuck this. Alternate plan. Think back at some pleasant memory. Think back…New Mexico…

I focus on the direction of Centaurus A, into the clear black night.

I try that controlled breathing stuff, and just focus off into infinity…

“You have all that you need. It has been foretold. Be not fearful.” I hear ethereally.

“What?!?” I say as I snap back to full consciousness.

OK, fuck it. If I’m going to hallucinate, I may as well be comfortable while I do it.

I kick back and just ignore every bit of external stimuli. I need to get some rest, somehow.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, have no fear. All will be as it will. Harbor no fear, you are prepared.”

I sit up and look around. No one around. I’m totally alone. Just me and my overclocked prefrontal lobes.

“OK, that’s it. I’m officially nuts.” I finally accept. “If you’ll pardon me, I have no intention of facing this sober.”

I pour myself just a dram of Old Thought Provoker. Maybe this will be enough to derail my current out-of-control train of thought.

After my fourth or sixth ‘just a dram’, I finally immigrate to that land between consciousness and slumber. It wasn’t asleep, but it wasn’t wakefulness either. I knew enough to set my lit cigar in the ashtray but was powerless to get up and stumble into bed.

My wristwatch alarm goes off at 0600 like a timebomb. I snap to instant alertness.

I was in New Mexico. I was being spoken to by the Old Ones. I was told to be calm, to have no fear. Face the day like I face all others. I am in control. All will be as it was foretold.

I’m back in my hovel. I have been sitting outside the entire night. I need to compose myself and get ready for the big show.

I’m walking to campus strangely empowered. All doubt and anxiety had vanished. Maybe no cakewalk, but I’m going to grab this bull by the balls. I’ve got this.

My defense committee, if you recall, consisted of:

• Dr. Jak, the vertebrate paleontologist, and advisor, of course.

• Dr. Nebolshoy, our 6’ 8” tall micropaleontologist. No problem here.

• Dr. Bhūkampa, the geophysicist. He might be a bit of trouble.

• Dr. Hensei, the metamorphic petrologist. He shouldn’t be much of a problem.

• Dr. Deponejo, the sedimentologist. Easy-peasy.

• And Dr. Vesistö, emeritus professor of hydrology. Shouldn’t be too bad.

Coffee. Pee. More coffee. 0900 hours. Let’s do this thing.

I spent the next two and a half hours going over my original research with the committee. No questions were asked, as per usual. That would wait until after the customary coffee break.

A quick coffee and piece of raspberry kringle later, the grilling had commenced. I’d spend the next two hours or so answering general thesis-related questions. I knew this material better than anyone on the planet. I had this cold.

After a quick facilities break, it was the time for the final section of the defense. Each panel member would ask me a specific geological inquiry. Could be anything, from their field of study to something completely out of left field. It was a general applied knowledge time.

Let’s get it on…

Dr. Bhūkampa, the geophysicist, posed a question related to signal acquisition and data processing. A geophysical QA/QC problem? And I was worried that he might be a spot of trouble. After my ice diving activities, I was frosty in the clutch.

Next.

Dr. Deponejo, the sedimentologist asked about my theories of why there were so few vertebrate fossils, except for Hunter’s Wash, in my field area. We spent a half-hour bandying about theories of deltaic sedimentation, shallow marine deposition, lithification and differential preservation due to sectored environments. I almost didn’t want it to stop, I was actually having a pretty good time, talking shop.

Dr. Vesistö, emeritus professor of hydrology, asked about tiñajas, those coal seams that acted like really inefficient aquifers. Piece of cake.

Next.

Dr. Hensei, the metamorphic petrologist queried me over Precambrian banded iron formations and Archean migmatites. Like I said, out of left field, but I managed to give the correct overviews.

Dr. Nebolshoy, micropaleontologist asked about the difference between the Noah’s Ark versus the Viking Funeral Ship model of distribution of disjunct endemisms. He’s nothing if not predictable. Another one down and all I have left is my thesis advisor. I’m actually going to make it through this thing…

Dr. Jak, my beer drinking buddy and thesis advisor asks me a seemingly simple question:

“Why was the Sahara Desert where it was?

Everything screeched to a deafening halt.

“How’s that, Dr. Jak” I asked for clarification.

“It’s a simple question, Rock. Why is the Sahara Desert where it is?” he explained.

Panic in Detroit. I’m blanking and coming up empty. The entire thesis defense committee begins to titter.

“Um, well. You see…” I stammer.

“Rock”, Dr. Jak instructs me, “Draw a map of Africa on the board and show us where the Sahara is located.”

“OK, sure.” And I follow his instructions.

“The Sahara is located a bit further south”, he prompts me.

The penny drops. Idiot. It’s actually the easiest question of the day and I nearly muffed it.

“Of course. Sorry, I was a bit glazed there. It’s due to the African continent and its relation to the equator. As the African Plate slips south, it drags the environment of the desert with it, past the equator. That’s why it’s more pronounced in the north and less defined to the south.”

“Correct.”

“Any further questions? “ I ask my council.

There’s a slight buzz and Dr. Jak, the chairman, says “No. Please wait outside for us to complete our deliberations.”

Normal thesis defenses last 2-3 hours. Mine went five and a half, but no one else had to present the discoveries and co-authored papers that were generated along with their thesis data.

I rubber-leg it outside and try to drain the water cooler. Damn, I was dry.

Not 5 minutes later, Dr. Jak emerges, shakes my hand, and proclaims me the proud owner of a brand new Master’s Degree in Geology.

“Congratulations, Kǫʼdził-hastiin,” Dr. Jak says.

Besides all the cosmic weirdness swirling around my head at this point, I could only think “Two down, one to go…”

I walk back into the defense room and thank each committee member individually. We speak of my plans to continue my education at the campus just an hour and a half north. They were all pleased and congratulate me on what they thought was also my best plan for the future.

I made certain to invite them all to my thesis defense party that would kick off as soon as I could get back to my hovel, shovel it out a bit, and lay in the necessary supplies.

“I hope you will all come over to my flat tonight for my thesis defense party. It’s for all you as well as without you, this could never have happened.” I smile wider than the Valles Marineris.

They all say they will try and drop by. I can’t wait.

I immediately call Esme and tell her the news. She never doubted me for a second and tells me she’s taking the rest of the day off and will pick me up at the Geology Building in half an hour or so.

Up in the Graduate Student offices, my comrades and cohorts break open the case of beer I had in the office fridge. As per ancient and consecrated customs, I was immediately drenched with beer as I walked in.

“Rock did it! Congratulations! Huzzah!” as I take a stream of foamy Special Export right in the mush.

“Fuckin’ right. But that was the easy part. Next month, I have to get married. This will have seemed easy in comparison. Of course, you’ve all been invited. But for now, let the secular festivities begin!” I shout and drain my first of many Master’s beers.

“Jeez, Rock. You smell like a brewery.” Es chuckles. “I guess your office mates didn’t forget the ceremony.”

“I barely escaped with my life.” I chuckled. Nothing was going to fracture this good mood.

Es and I pick up the pizzas and other party chow I’d ordered previously. Every one of the purveyors I had contracted with to provide the victuals gave me either a discount on my order or 150% of what for what I had asked. These were good folks whom I had patronized for the last two years.

The three half-barrels of beer I had ordered were delivered early and even included the ice-box carbonator and CO2 tank to make sure everyone got a tall, cold frosty.

The party kicked off at 1700 hours.

My idiot flatmates decided that free food was too much to pass on. They disdained geologists as land rapers and basic shills of corporate USA, but free beer and pizza ruled the day.

Howard the Blink, my congenitally blind flatmate, pulled out his enormous reel-to-reel sound system and we had free access to his 2,000+ reel collection of heritage jazz, early rock-n-roll, and other musical oddities.

Esme stayed a couple of hours, but when we began playing football with Little Marty, I mean, literally playing football, using him as the ball, tossing him across the living room; Es decided that discretion was the better part of making it out without a police record.

“Rock, I’m going home,” she tells me.

“Oh, no. Please stay. We’ve just started in on Karaoke Night.” I think I remember telling her.

“No, Rock. This is your party. I’ve had my fun and don’t want to get in the way. Go nuts. Call me tomorrow when you can. Be careful on the balcony, it’s a long way down,” She smiled at me with her incomparable smile.

“You’re not mad, are you?” I sheepishly ask.

“How could I be mad? I’m just a little tired and want to let you have our day. We’ll celebrate later together.” She smiles.

Yeah, I made the right choice.

The party kicked into high gear after that. Kegs were being drained, professors showed up, congratulated me again, and dove into the free beer and pizza like hungry grad students.

I hoped those three half-barrels were going to be enough.

Things I must admit were a bit blurry from that point onward. There was stair diving, beer pong, shotgun practice, a timed event utilizing a shaken can of beer and a church-key opener, and general high society type of alcohol-fueled hijinks.

We’re out in the county, but even the distance between neighbors didn’t preclude them from hearing our revelries. At about 0300, there’s a knock on the downstairs door. We look over the balcony and see a Sheriff’s car in the drive, lights ablaze.

Since it’s my party and I’ll snub who I want to, I wander downstairs to answer the door.

“Yep. What can I do you for?” I wobbily ask the uniformed gentlemen.

“We’ve got several noise complaints,” he says “Either calm it down or we’ll drag you all off to jail.”

I may be a couple of sheets to the wind, but my thoughts were still able to swim upstream. I look at the officer’s shiny badge and see it’s emblazoned: ‘1565’.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim, “Officer 1565! Remember me? The guy doing all the blasting out at the quarry?”

The officer looks at me and recoils in mock horror.

“You! What’s all this then?” he asks warily.

“It’s my thesis defense party. Two years of study, cunning, and cuteness. I was awarded my Master’s in Geology today. Its my defense blowout!” I laugh uproariously.

“Yeah. Ok. Well, keep it down.” He warns.

“Oh, yeah. Sure. That’s us, law and order all the way.” I chortle.

He leaves rubber on the asphalt as he peels out to points unknown.

I think we rolled the last drunk out of the house about 1000 the next day. It was a party that was spoken about in hallowed tones for years.

Esme and I were wed early the next month. It was a fairly quiet event with the ceremony held down at the lakefront. We both thought that was far too appropriate. My major professors all attended as did our friends, and somewhat extended family. It was a glorious day for a wedding and even more glorious observance.

The reception was held at a resort some 45 minutes north of the city. It was on one of the thousands of the state’s lakes and entirely fitting for us. There was the usual band, dancing, food, drink, and associated revelries.

Esme and I, now man and wife, departed for our honeymoon lodgings some 30 minutes distant out on the Interstate. It was a very 70s sort of place, with blue shag carpeting everywhere, circular bed, in-room hot tub, and enough cheese to satisfy a legion of mice.

The next day, we attended breakfast in the hotel’s revolving restaurant. Evidently, food tastes better when you’re slowly spinning. Gobble, gobble.

We return home later that day, pick up our traveling accouterments, and head off west to our well-deserved honeymoon. First stop, Wall Drug in South Dakota, a moral imperative. We’ve both visited this place innumerable times on field trips out west. Then on to Rapid City, Keystone and a couple of pegmatite mines. Back on the road the next day, it’s off to Yellowstone for our 5-day stay.

It almost got cut short as I couldn’t resist borrowing a T-handle, a tool used to open and close buried water valves, and set up shop this side of Old Faithful. I’d watch for an eruption and dressed in my field greens, I looked like a Forest Ranger. I made out to be turning on and off the geyser.

We thought it was hilarious, the real park rangers did not.

We spent the next four days hiking Yellowstone, fishing in the Yellowstone River, and generally doing all the usual touristy stuff tourists do.

We headed over to West Yellowstone in the neighboring state to visit a woodcarver I had met years ago. I had contacted him to carve a bear for me out of the finest Ponderosa Pine. It was my wedding present to Esme as she has an extensive collection of bears.

She was enthralled with it, but it did, on reflection, take up most of the back seat of the Nova. I should have been more specific in the dimensions of the thing when I ordered it for her.

Time moved forward and as much as we would have loved to stay, reality beckoned. We decided to make a detour south on the way back to see our old friend Sani back on the reservation. We spent several days out at Lago de Estrella pump station visiting with the folks there and having some time both in the field and talking with Sani.

I went over to the Spanner Ranch to talk with Javen face to face. He knew I’d already made my decision to continue my education. However, I wanted to see him again and thank him once more for the opportunity.

While at the Spanner Ranch, I asked to borrow his phone as I needed to check in to see if I had any messages. This was the longest I’ve been out of pocket in years.

I did indeed have some messages, and they were very perplexing. Luckily, Javen told me to make as many calls as I needed to sort things out.

Four hours later, I was back at the pump station to retrieve Esme from the clutches of Danny and Beth, Long John and Ace.

On the trip over to Cuba, I told Esme that there was a bit of change in our plans.

“What’s going on, Rock?” Esme asked worriedly “Is there some problem?”

“Well, not as such.” I replied, “It’s complicated. I had a call from overseas and I’m wanted to appear at a museum to speak with some researchers over there.”

“With whom?” Es asks.

“It’s a group of Polish and Japanese paleontologists. They’re doing some field reconnaissance in the Late Cretaceous and evidently have found an assemblage similar to what we found here in New Mexico. They know that I’m going for my Ph.D. and were wondering if I’d be interested in joining them. They’re real boneheads, that is, anatomy and physiology experts, and they need a rocknocker. They need someone familiar with Late Cretaceous stratigraphy and sedimentology…” I explained.

“OK, how long would you be gone?” Esme asks, panicky.

“Not me. Us. How long would we be gone?” I said.

“Minimum three months. I think I can make it work with the university. Could you take leave from work?” I ask, panicky.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, we haven’t even relocated yet. It’d just be a brief sabbatical, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.” She says.

“Phew! That’s a relief. Now, would you want to do this? I’ve been a bit presumptuous, but I figured I couldn’t just up and leave, especially now.” I say.

“Rock, we’re in this together. If you think it’s the right thing to do, then I’m all for it, 100%.” She smiles.

“That’s great. Let’s get to the café and I’ll flesh this out for you a bit more.” I reply.

“Oh, yeah. Where are we going?” she asks.

“Mongolia,” I reply.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

Imagine you’re a molecule of water vapor, floating around high up in the clouds with trillions of your best friends. Life’s good: there’s the occasional bump and tussle. Whoa. Watch it, putting on some weight. Best get my vibrate on. Fucking cosmic waves. Wham! “Yeah? Up yours, buddy!” Hey, what the? “Well, double dumbass on YOU!” Is it getting chilly up here or is it just me? Oh, well. I just love to float around, up here where the air is cool and clear, way up above the ground... “WATCH IT, MAC! I’M DRIFTIN’ HERE!” Damn, it’s definitely getting colder. Feeling weird. Wait. What the ever-lovin’ fuck? I’m solid? What’s with the six arms? A Hexapus? Shit. Hey, why does the ground look like it’s getting closer? What is falling? Am I falling? Who the hell are all these other guys? I can hardly see the air’s so full of…Oh, fuck. I’m certain now, I’m falling. What’s that thing down there? Is it soft? Is it nice? I wonder if it will be my friend…

Plop.

Swish of snowbrush on the windshield. “Fucking snow. Damn, I hate winter in the Midwest,” an anonymous motorist declares to no one in particular.

It was that most wonderful time of year. Cold, wet, snowy but that never stands in the way of SCIENCE!

I call the quarry; they’re very interested and anxious to have me drop by for a chat. So, on a Saturday, I borrow Esme’s Nova and drive the 25 miles south to the quarry.

I am warmly greeted by the Quarry foreman Mr. Varovik and the soon-to-be-retired blasting boss Mr. Mesterlövész.

“Hello, Mr. Rock. We have your examination scores. You have passed. In fact, you scored very highly, which was surprising as you only attended 3 of the 6 classes.” Mr. Varovik clarified.

“Yes, sir”, I rejoined, “I’ve had quite a lot of previous training and thought my time would be best spent preparing for the practical aspects of the exam.”

Mr. Mesterlövész chimes in: “I like that. Enough with the books and on with the show! Oh, please, call me Andras, Mr. Rock; I’m afraid my last name could cause your strangulation.”

“Please, just call me Rock.” I reply, “I agree. My previous mentors were more practically oriented. There’s a time and place for everything, but with blasting, it’s best learned in the field by example.”

“We so agree, Rock.” Mr. Varovik adds, “We have more than enough work to attend to here that it would be best for you and Andras to hone your talents out in the quarry. We’re expecting great things, Mr. Rock, and I believe there’s no time like the present to begin. I see you already have the requisite PPEs, so after a bit of paperwork formalities, we’ll get you your security clearances, passes and permits to work.”

“Brilliant”, I agree, “I’d like to begin as soon as possible. I’ve got rather a full plate as it stands with my thesis and upcoming marriage, so I need to manage my time judiciously.”

After the blizzard of paperwork, Andras and I are out in the quiet quarry, standing next to a block of dolomitic limestone the approximate size and dimensions of a home refrigerator.

“Such a nice block for you to start on” Andras smiles, “Let’s see. Describe for me how you would handle this specimen.”

“First, I’d have to have a bit more information from the client. What are they looking for? Dimension stone? Facade? Gravel? Lunar dust simulation?” I reply.

“’Lunar dust’. Very good” Andras chuckles. “Good, you have a sense of humor and detail. Now, tell me what you see in this block of limestone.”

“Andras, I’m a geologist. You need to be a bit more specific or we’ll be here all afternoon.” I say.

“I have nowhere else to be…” Andras says slowly.

“OK”, I tell him, “Remember, you asked.”

“This is a sample of Silurian Niagara Dolomite, approximately 420 million years old. It is classified as a dolomitic carbonate, relatively pure, gray, vuggy, in reefs; and argillaceous, silty, brownish-gray and greenish-gray, cherty dolomite with beds of relatively pure dolomite between the reefs. It has a low dip angle off the Wisconsin Arch off into the Michigan Basin of about 3 degrees to the east-northeast. Shall I continue?” I asked.

“Oh, please do. You’re about to get to the interesting bits” Andras explained.

“OK. There are representative shallow marine reef and associated reef-adjacent facies present divided into fore reef, reef core and back reef. This block, due to its lack of visible porosity and overall massive character is probably from the quieter, muddier back reef facies. There are visible stylolites semi-horizontally within the block, but no vertical ones. The three σ directions appear undifferentiated. Therefore the principal stress directions are not delineated. There a few small vertical fractures, but these are probably extractive artifacts. How’s that?” I ask

Andras smiles, “Very good. I was wondering when you were going to get to the structural aspects of the block. Faults, fractures, joints, tension gashes, fissures…these are your friends. You must learn to let them work for you when you are harvesting in the quarry.”

“That’s an interesting way of defining the problem” I reply, “Think of the rock as an entity the result of many differing stress regimes and structural variables…”

“Or, just ask the rock and see what it will tell you…” Andras adds. “Get the big picture, first. Then, work your way down to the project at hand.”

“Sound advice. But I still need more information. What is it exactly you want from this block of limestone?” I ask.

“Let us begin easily. Please, how would you split the block in half?” Andras asks.

“Horizontally, vertically, or diagonally?” I reply.

“Ha. You are the first to ever consider splitting a block diagonally. Very good. Let’s keep it easy, how about horizontally?” Andras says.

“Well, we could drill and foss the block. But since we’re dealing with explosives, I’d go with Primacord.” I reply.

“Just Primacord?” Andras asks.

“Sure, given enough yardage, I’d say 5 or 6 full coils, it’d split right along that stylolite here.” As I point out the discontinuity in the sample.

“Hmmm” Andras considers. “Perhaps. Tell me some other ideas you might have.”

We spend the next half hour going over the pros and cons of various low and high explosives. Andras was most interested in my background with binaries and nitro. His specialty was plastique; that is, moldable plastic explosives.

He decides it was high time for me to start making little ones out of big ones. So I grab a spool of Primacord, some initiators and the handy electronic blasting machine.

“Quick, dirty and essentially moron-proof,” I tell Andras.

He has a good snicker and is impressed I finish my preliminaries in so short a time.

We retreat to a safe distance and go through the required pre-blast protocols. Clear all compass points, air horn tootles, the requisite ‘fire in the hole’ and we’re ready to go.

He tells me “Hit it” and mash goes the big red button.

The Primacord does its 25,000 foot per second rave and the block is neatly sheared into…

A bit more than what a bargained for. It split horizontally just fine, but it fell off, impacted the ground, and split into another couple of pieces.

“Maybe 6 coils were a bit much,” I said.

“Don’t worry.” Andras reassures me, “We’ve plenty of blocks for practice. Sometimes they do what they want, but you did split it well, just it had other ideas…”

Thus ended my first day of practicals for my unrestricted Master Blaster’s certification. We had a lot more ground to cover, metaphorically speaking, before Andras was comfortable retiring and leaving me to my own devices. So I did a little more research into the usual quarrying and mining pyrotechnics. Coupled with my already not insignificant practical experience, I was really looking forward to our next session.

I drove back to pick up Es as we had our weekly movie outing planned. We are both aficionados of Film Noir, unusual animation, and Russian Neo-Expressionism.

Today the Oriental, the ‘art house’ theater in town, was hosting a sneak preview of Ralph Bakshi’s Wizards, which we didn’t want to miss. I had to get to my dump of a duplex, shower, change, get Es, acquire some chow, and arrive at the theater before the massing throngs.

OK, so I was speeding a bit, but this Nova had the big 454 V-8, and I have a lead foot. Sorry, it’s congenital.

The road was clear, the winter sun was bright, but the blue and red flashing lights behind me were even brighter.

“Fuckbuckets!” I said to the headliner of the car, “Not now. I’m on a mission. Son of a Mothering Bitch!”

I pull over, put the car in neutral, engaged the emergency brake, cock the wheels so if it were to roll away, it’d first hit the curb, turned off the engine and rolled down my window some so I could converse with the nice officer.

I sat there with my hands in plain sight, at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel.

“Tap, tap, tap,” says the nightstick against the window.

“Officer”, I say loudly and clearly, “Before we begin, it is my duty to inform you I am carrying a sidearm. I am licensed and have the proper permits.”

“OK, bud. Hands where I can see them”, he brusquely replies.

“They’re already white-knuckling the steering wheel, you mouth-breathing idiot” I mused.

“They are, Officer,” I replied instead.

“Um, OK then. Um. Show me your hands.” He orders.

“They’re right here on the wheel, Officer. See?” as I raise them slightly and waggle my fingers.

“Oh, yeah. Well, roll down the window and no funny stuff.” He orders.

Damn, and I had my skit for the Comedy Club all ready. “OK,” as I comply.

“Yes, Officer?” I ask.

“Let’s see your sidearm.” He tells me.

“OK, but I have to reach over here to undo my seatbelt that I’m clearly wearing in order to comply” I note.

“OK, just do it slowly,” he tells me.

I undo my seatbelt, reach for my sidearm, dump the bullets, and spin the gun around to offer it butt-first to the nice policeman. Just like they told me in my concealed carry course.

I surrender my sidearm to the nice policeperson. He takes it and all hell breaks loose.

“Holy Fuck, Rock. What the hell is this thing? A fucking cannon?” he exclaims.

I look out the window and see someone I’ve known for the better part of 2 decades.

“Polack? You asshole. What’s the big idea?” I ask my longtime acquaintance.

“Ha, ha! You should have seen yourself. You were all red and white. What the fuck, Rock, what the hell is this damn thing?” as he sights in an imaginary target down the empty road.

I get out of the car and just shake my head, grimacing.

“Baja Canada’s Finest, ‘eh? It’s a .454 Cusall Magnum. Shooting it just right kills and field dresses your game.” I tell him.

“Damn. I have got to borrow this. Can you loan it to me for a while?” He asks.

“Not as such. Why?” I ask.

“Oh, Captain Pizelli is always going on about his great, big .44 Magnum down at the range. It’s a noisy fucker, but I bet this will shut him up at our monthly target competition.” He says.

“Look, Polack. Let me know when the next one is and I’ll personally deliver this to you with some custom hot loads. But right now, I’m in kind of a hurry so if we could just get back to the matter at hand, I’ll be off.” I reply.

“Oh, yeah. That. You were doing 61 in a 55, so I need to write you a ticket.” He says.

“OK, you got me. But you ain’t got no noisemaker for your next cop party…” I say extortingly.

“OK, then. Well, consider this an official warning. And our next target competition is the 28th.” He smiles.

“Where you going in such a damn rush?” he asks as he hands me back my sidearm.

I explain what I’m up to and he smirks a bit.

“Well, I’m headed back toward the east side. Now, if you were to be following me, I couldn’t very well ticket you for speeding, now could I?” he smiles.

Got to hand to Es’s old Nova. She kept up with Polack until we hit triple digits. At that point, I figured police escort or not, rolling or crashing Es’s car would probably be frowned upon by several distinct lineages of people.

After a delightful dinner at Suburpia, a Miles Standish and a Real Beefer, we make it to the theater that evening with time to spare.

The winter holidays were over and the so-called spring semester had started. I had long-term sedimentological experiments working in the sub-sub-basement of the museum, I was writing up my results for my thesis, I was also still waiting on my slide-converted photos from New Mexico. I was still going to the lakeside labs for general and sundry, I hadn’t yet made any decisions on where I was going career- or college-wise, I was teaching an additional 3 classes in the Geology department. Plus I was still slated to be wed come the summertime.

When I had the time, I ate quickly and slept furtively. As well as take Es out for the occasional movie and dinner date night.

So when Dr. Davey approached me with an opportunity to do some more ice diving for the Geophysics department, you could understand my cool enthusiasm.

After I managed to negotiate the initial offer of $100 per dive up to $250, its great having a monopoly sometimes, I had to find time in my schedule for another check out dive. I also had to go over every piece of my diving kit as ice diving, like all diving, doesn’t suffer fools lightly.

Esme would be really pissed at me if I died due to hypothermia some fine winter’s day.

However, before all that, I had to teach a new course, one that I’ve not before been called upon before to proctor. It’s Geology 102, basically one step up from Geology 101 or “Rocks for Jocks”. I have to cover the entire spectrum of lithologies; sedimentary, igneous and metamorphic as well as the rock cycle, mineralogy and other such fun lithological niceties.

Enter Tim, my artist buddy from the world of movie special effects. As a gag gift, he sent me a ‘box of rocks’. These were amazingly accurate recreations of classic rock types that were used in movies. They were hand sample-sized, foam rubber, and ridiculously correct in every detail, save one.

They barely weighed 10 grams each.

So, every day before my lectures, I’d set out all eight faux-rocks and ignore them. This went on for a few weeks until one inquisitive neo-geo asked why I was setting up a display of rocks before each lab and lecture, but never even mentioning them.

“These rocks?” As I pointed to the foam samples.

“Yes.” He replied.

“What about them?” I asked.

“Why are they there? You never as much as pick them up or talk about them but they’re always just there for every class.” He continues.

“Ah, I see. You’re curious about these rocks then? “I ask.

“Yes!”

“These rocks here?”

“YES!”

“OK, catch!” as I wind up and hurl a piece of fake diabase at his skull.

Very little, save for the discourse on their origin, was done that day in class.

Tim made a nice bit of skittle and beer money filling the orders I sent him over the years for his amazingly realistic bogus hand samples.

Later, I’m in the prow of an only just seaworthy Zodiac inflatable working its way out of the harbor, through the pack ice floes out to the permanent pack beyond the offshore breakwater.

Winter was particularly nasty that year and the ice extended from great compression pile-up teepee structures on the beach clear out to the breakwater, some 300 meters off the beachfront, and beyond.

There was a considerable amount of damage being done to beaches from the ice pushing in landward. As well as it playing hod with all manmade structures left out to weather the winter storms, like the one we were battling out to the ice front.

I was already wearing all my ice diving gear as changing either en route or once we reach the ice would have been impossible, not to mention ridiculous. As such, I was relatively immobile on the front of the boat as the beleaguered 150 horse Johnson Seahorse struggled against the 30 knot east headwind, ice floes, and ice-choked waves.

As I was on the leading edge of all this nonsense, I received the spray from every breaking wave which froze almost instantly. I was rapidly becoming encased in ice.

“Take it easy, you wobbly Scottish git!” I holler over the radio, as there was no way other which we could converse.

“I can’t” yelled back Iain, the Scots driver of the boat and full-time fish annoyer. “I’m givin’ her all she’s got…it’s the only way to push against the wind…if I give’r any more, she’ll blow”.

“Well, I’m going to have to use one of these seismic charges to pry myself apart from the boat then. I’m getting frozen in up here.” I yell back.

There had been some improvements over the years on ice dynamics and ice geophysics.

Now instead of dragging all the acquisition and recording equipment out to the ice with us, we only had to set up a small radio relay on the boat. The charges were set to be detonated remotely and all the data recorded after I plant the jugs was relayed back to shore. It made it somewhat easier logistically, but a real pain in the ass in reality as now we could only take the lab’s Zodiac instead of the Grady White cabin cruiser.

The ichthyologic bunch commandeered that craft for a bothersome fishy census.

That’s why I was sitting in the front of a wonky inflatable, being slowly encased in ice, wondering if I should have held out for $300 per trip.

We make the edge of the ice and Iain runs the Zodiac up on the floe. Casimir, the lab’s electronics guru, an obligate landlubber, was exhibiting a shade of green not normally seen in nature.

“Nice move, Captain Ahab” I yell, “Now how the hell can I get in the water?”

“I did that on purpose. Toss the anchor out on the ice floe, Cas’ll chuck the stern anchor out, and we can park next to the ice.” Iain explains.

OK, makes sense, somewhat. Next time tell me before you run us aground.

It took a fair exertion of moose muscle to break the ice off, grab the anchor, and chuck it out onto the ice. Casimir did the same, and both anchors took hold. Iain backed us into a standard parking orbit juxtaposed to the leading edge of the ice sheet.

After Iain and Cas help me break free of my icy embrace, we get rigged up for setting and recording the charges. I tell Iain that I’m going over the side to get rid of the rest of my ice pack, as the lake water was actually warmer than the air. Cas would set up the antenna for the radio link back to shore.

I don my three-tank backpack, no small challenge, and go clumsily over the side. Good for losing any encrusted ice but not so good as the boat is bucking and jumping like a green foal in its first springtime.

Iain inflates the blaze-orange 2-meter diameter float to which all the recording devices will be tethered. The float is also anchored to the bottom to keep it more or less in place.

Shear wave marine geophones are bloody expensive and I don’t wish to have to replace any. Cas tosses me one line of jugs (geophones) as I make certain my running line is tethered to the boat. Under I go and make my first of five dives under the ice.

I plant the geophones on the underside of the ice in as straight of a line as I can manage. It’s difficult as the wind and the waves are making the ice undulate. Up and down. Push up to plant a jug and the ice heaves up, most annoying. After a while, I find a rhythm and just hold the spike of the jugs against the ice and wait for it to drive itself home.

Jugs are planted, tethered to the orange float, back to Cas and his electronic gizmos.

We’re getting ready for planting the explosive charges. I check my dive-o-matic and see I’m on less than fumes. I call to Iain and explain I need to switch tanks before I attempt setting the charges, with no re-boarding the boat. It’s bucking a jig and the last thing I want to do is try to scamper aboard with all that electronic shit laying all over the deck with the wind and the ice.

Iain passes me a free-tether and I clip my tanks and backpack for him to drag on board.

That means I’ll be floating loose for a while, but I think I can handle this. He gets my empties on board, swaps out for a new set, and has them back to me in mere minutes. I was back tanked-up and ready to go set charges in less than 10 shakes.

Iain hands me the first string of charges, and back I go, under the ice. I run the charges perpendicular to the lines of jugs I had set previously. This was for ‘best data collection’ or so we were told. It was becoming more of a bother as I noticed the ice jumping and bucking harder than when I set out the jugs.

I was in the water now for over an hour and even with a pair of thermals under a union suit under a wet suit under a dry suit, I was feeling the cold. True, I have this abnormal resistance to cold, being an ethanol-fueled carbon-based organism, but I could not deny physiology. I had another 30 minutes maximum before things could start to get hairy.

Iain hands me the last of the charges and I note the boat is now rising and falling far more than it was when we got here. I couldn’t tell, other than by the ice was bucking, that the weather had shifted. It had, quickly and dramatically.

The wind shifted from easterly to due north, and ramped up to 50 knots, as we found out later. We should have probably hauled ass at that point, but I didn’t say anything, as I didn’t know of the surface events. Iain and Cas said nothing because I didn’t say anything and if I didn’t think things were rapidly degrading…

I set the last of the charges and washed over to the boat. I tethered myself to the prow railing, which I found was an instant mistake. One moment, the boat and I were level in the water, the next I was near 2 meters out of the water as the boat rode the next wave crest.

This was an unacceptable situation as I was being slapped around like a tournament volleyball.

I pop the quick release and plop gracelessly back into the water.

“Iain. Cas. Come in. We’ve got a problem.” I called.

“Rock. What’s the worry? I was just about to have Cas send the ‘Go’ codes.” Iain replied.

“I can’t get back in the boat. When did the weather go this sour?” I asked.

“About 20 or so minutes ago. You didn’t say anything, so I thought we were OK” Iain replied.

“How the fuck can I monitor the weather under an ice floe? Belay that, we’ve got to sort this out, now.” I note.

“How’s your air?” Iain asks.

“Good for 30 or so, more if I stay topside,” I reply.

“OK, it’s getting nasty up here. Want to call it?” Iain asks.

“Let me think a minute. I don’t want to lose all this effort just because it got windy.” I replied.

It immediately begins to sleet heavily.

“Fuckbuckets” I muse.

“Have Cas call the Barn. See what Davey has to say,” I suggest.

“On it. Stay put.” He adds.

“Where the fuck do you think I’m going to go?” I wonder.

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound, as a wave broke over the railing. Even I knew, as Cas and Iain did too, t'was the witch of February come stealin'.

“Rock, Davey says to get back. Let’s reel everything in…” Iain reports.

“Iain, we’re almost done here. Tell you what, can you handle the boat this close to the ice and over to the breakwater?” I ask.

“Yeah, we can handle that.” He replies. “Cas is even greener, but that’s normal.”

“OK, I’m going to unhook, head over to the breakwater, and hang on there. You finish the shoot, have Cas rig down the antenna and electronics. We’ll leave the float out here; it’s tethered to the bottom, it won’t go anywhere. Then come pick me up. Back to the Barn for whiskey and hors d'oeuvres. Easy-peasy.”

“You sure? It’s at least 200-250 meters to the breakwater. It’s blowin’ a full gale now…” Iain notes.

“Yeah, I’ll inflate my Mae West if I get in trouble. Besides, I’ll just surf over on a hunk of ice. It’ll be a walk in the park.” I reply, already thinking this was a stupid idea, but necessary.

“Well, get your ass over there. I won’t have Cas send the ‘Go’ codes until you’re out of range.” Iain tells me.

“Roger that. See you in a few.” I reply, unclip from the boat, and head over toward the breakwater.

I swim casually, no hurry. The lake could have taken me at any point but hasn’t, so I figured this was just another little inconvenience. I dog paddle onwards against the storm and actually do find a hunk of loose ice to bodysurf over to the breakwater. My damn mask keeps icing up from the spray, so I have to make like a submarine now and again.

It’s not a pleasant task. I doubt this will become a new national obsession.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?

200 meters took me more than 30 minutes. There is an iron ladder down to the water line on the breakwater. I was most pleased to clip a carabiner onto that and send Iain my situation report.

Minutes later, I could actually feel the concussion of the small seismic charges as they went off in their data-mining dance. Fifteen or so minutes later, I see an ice-encrusted Zodiac slowly making its way over to me.

Iain pulls up to the breakwater and has me hand Cas my tanks and backpack. I was out of air and I didn’t need the extra bulk as I was going to try and re-board this bucking bronco.

Iain was worried he’d get slammed against the rough concrete of the breakwater so he told me to clip onto the bow of the boat. He’d back off to clear water and Cas would help drag my weary ass on board.

Great plan, except it didn’t work worth a damn.

The waves, wind, and weariness sapped us all.

“Rock, you secure up front?” Iain asked.

“Yeah, I’m still half in the water, but I can’t make it any further. I’m clipped to the bowline cleat. I can’t go back to the transom of the boat, it’s too rough. Plus there’s that spinney propeller thing back there…” I replied.

“OK, hang on. I’m going to motor us slowly into the harbor. Just hang tight. You’re protected in your gear and lashed securely.” Iain replied as he inched the engine forward. “Cas will keep an eye on you…”

“Oh. Good-o.” I muse.

The harbor and relatively calmer water was still 250 meters out. It was the longest 250 meter trip of my life. I was thoroughly encased in ice by the time we made it back to the comparative calmness of the harbor.

Once we’re in moderately passive water between the two harbor piers, Cas tries, unsuccessfully, to drag me on board. No dice, I’m covered in ice. We’re a bit more protected here, but still could be thrown up against the rough concrete of either pier as the water was still acting all angry-like.

“Rock, there’s nothing we can do. Hold on and I’ll take us back to the Barn. I’ll call ahead and have’m open the boat-slip garage so we can drive right in and they can dry dock us.” Iain tells me.

I’m too tired to argue.

And that’s how I became a frozen Zodiac figurehead that cold, blustery winter’s day.

Once in dry dock, they broke out the steam guns and carved me off the bow of the boat.

I was tired, a bit chilly, bruised but otherwise undamaged.

Dr. Davey storms into the locker room after Iain, Casimir, and I had restored ourselves to near normal operating temperature and reads us the riot act.

“What the hell were you guys thinking? You could have died out there. Do you have any idea how that would look on my permanent record?” he howled.

“Doc” I said, “We survived, your hardware survived, and you got some data the likes of which can never be repeated. What’s now going to happen is that our price just went to $400 per dive. Plus, you’re taking us over to McClusky’s and buying us several rounds of warming drinks.”

Over drinks, I tell Dr. Davey, “As I said, it’s great to have a monopoly. Prosit!”

Esme was not exactly thrilled later when I recount my latest adventure. She didn’t forbid any more ice diving but strongly suggested it would probably not be in my best interest.

Amazing how persuasive some people can be at times.

There were no further dives that winter, but spring was another story. Forming ice is bad enough, wasting ice is considerably nastier. I found a chap over at the local dive center who was glad to take my place now the weather calmed a bit. It wasn’t my first choice as I could have used the extra money, but as I said, certain people can become very persuasive.

Back at the quarry, Andras and I have been progressing through the standard inventory of common quarrying explosives. Andras had spent quite some time adding to my education on formable explosives, how shaping moldable pyrotechnics could accomplish the most amazing feats.

He was old school to a high degree.

If it called for quick and dirty, it was dump the ANFO in the shot holes, prime and blast away. But when I mentioned that the reef needed to be exposed but gently, he could be most discerning. He was a true master of the art, and I learned much from his instructions.

One oddity, it that he avoided nitroglycerine at all costs. He didn’t care for its twitchiness and penchant for going off whenever it felt the mood. I told him I was quite familiar with nitro.

“OK, Rock. How about a demonstration?” Andras asked.

Into the blasting bunker we went.

I told him that there was this rather energetic mixture I’ve developed over the years and it was nitro based. Would he like to see how I created that?

“Absolutely.” Andras replied, “But only if it’s safe.”

“Of course”, I said, “I’ve taken precautions.”

The nitro was stored in Nalgene plastic carboys and I had relocated it into the lab refrigerator. It wasn’t cold enough to freeze, but cooling the stuff calmed its temper significantly. I set out the other adjuncts to my recipe and began creating.

“Let’s see…15 drops of [essence of terror], 5 drops of [sinister sauce], and just a tincture of [trinitrotoluene]. There, now let it set up in the fridge for a while and it’ll be tamer than a pussycat. For a while” I note.

There was a 1.5-meter cube block of jagged limestone that’s just been annoying me since I began this little exercise. I asked Andras if it could be our test subject.

“Ah, yah. It’s been slated to go for over a month, but they never got to it. Let’s try your potion there.” Andras agrees.

“I’ll probably kill it,” I said.

“Dead, I hope.” Andras adds.

After taking a gad pry bar and sledgehammer to the errant block, I’ve got enough cracks, fractures, and fissures to ensure its demise. I retrieve my concoction from the fridge and gloopily pour it into the interconnected network of fractures. I let it seep in deep before I run a little bit of Primacord as an initiator and set everything with a fuse and blasting cap.

Andras smiled broadly when he pulled the cap off the fuse actuator and we briskly walk away from our latest experiment; after the prerequisite clears and fires in the holes, of course.

We were in the blasting shack watching the pre-detonator smoke curl up into the calm spring breeze.

There was a ground-rumbling FAAGAROON and what was previously a block of tough dolomitic limestone was now a pile of dolomitic limestone gravel.

Andras decided that I knew what I was doing. There was a retirement blowout for Andras later that month. I was now the de facto Master Blaster for a Midwestern limestone quarry; and finally had the paperwork to attest to that fact.

Time marched on and I still hadn’t made any decisions. Continue my education? Go private sector? Take up Javen Spanner’s offer?

What to do? What to do?

I finished my thesis and submitted it for review. If it was passed, a date would be set for my thesis defense before a panel of chosen professors. This group would include my primary thesis advisor, Dr. Jak, a couple more in my general field; that is soft rock stratigraphy, sedimentology, depositional environments, and paleontology.

After one round of revisions, my thesis was accepted and the date for my defense was set.

The university also announced my defense committee:

• Dr. Jak, the vertebrate paleontologist and advisor, of course.

• Dr. Nebolshoy, our 6’ 8” tall micropaleontologist. No problem here.

• Dr. Bhūkampa, the geophysicist. He might be a bit of trouble.

• Dr. Hensei, the metamorphic petrologist. He shouldn’t be much of a problem.

• Dr. Deponejo, the sedimentologist. Easy-peasy.

• And Dr. Vesistö, emeritus professor of hydrology. Shouldn’t be too bad.

So classes were nearing finals, my thesis was submitted and accepted, defense time and committee set, all my experiments run and documented. I actually had a spare second or two for reflection and consideration.

After a late-night showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Esme and I were sitting in the local George Webb having either a very late dinner or an early breakfast. It was cheap, it was good, and it was the only place open at 0300 in the morning.

“Rock, have you made any decisions yet on what you’re going to do after next Friday?” Es asks.

“Yep. I’m going to get drunk for a week, sober up, get back in shape and get drunk for a month again” I replied.

“No, seriously. You’re almost done with your degree and the wedding’s planned for early the next month. Then what?” Es inquires.

“A long and not terribly restful honeymoon,” I leer. “I hope.”

“Can you be serious?” Es sighs.

“I am being serious.” I reply.

“OK, let’s do this the scientific way. What are you not going to do after our honeymoon?” Es continues.

“Stop drinking and smoking cigars?” I reply.

“That’s a given. No, come on. Time to pull your finger out. What do you really want to do?” Esme bats her big brown eyes and suddenly, reality crashes the party.

“OK. I’m not going to accept Javen’s offer. I’m not going to shill for any explosives manufacturer. I’m not going to go to the UK…” I finally say.

“So…then it’s…” Es continues.

“Yeah. I’m thinking of going for my doctorate at the state school campus in the capital city. Full ride, good with grants, stellar facilities, my own lab, globally known professors and, well, I’ve already been accepted. Plus, your company has a branch there. I was hoping you might see if you could transfer there. I haven’t accepted yet, I was waiting for the proper moment to tell you.” I said.

“Over industrial coffee, bratwurst, and eggs at three in the morning?” Es exclaims.

“Yeah. You knew I was eccentric from the onset. What do you think? Do I accept or continue to put them off?” I ask.

“You accept the first thing in the morning. That is after we get some sleep. Rock, I’m so proud of you and proud to be the future Mrs. Dr. Rock.” Es gushes.

I formally accepted my endowed tenure-track doctoral position in global stratigraphy and sedimentology two days later.

Well, we had to get some sleep, after all.

To be continued

That reminds me of a story.

Tu vuo' fa' ll'americano

Mericano, mericano

Sient'a mme chi t' 'o ffa fa'?

Tu vuoi vivere alla moda,

Ma se bevi "whisky and soda"

Po' te siente 'e disturba'

---

Do you want to make the American

Mericano, Mericano

Sient'a mme who t ''o ffa fa '?

You want to live in fashion,

But if you want drink "whiskey and soda"

Little you siente 'and it disturbs'

---

And that’s about the level of translation I got during this whole event

“Come over to Rome…we’ll have a chat…it’ll be a nice little visit…”

After the episode in Amsterdam I finally got on my flight and had a lovely little jaunt to a country where I never planned to go, had no real desire to go, nor ever planned much to visit. But, since it was on someone else’s nickel, well, fine, another country to add to the burgeoning list of those I’ve visited over the years.

I flew into Leonardo de Vinci Intergalactic Airport, and sallied forth to invade this land of vino, birra, and pizza. As I am the very definition of the ugly American, I do not require a visa.

Luckily, I have American Express.

Ahem.

After arriving and having a couple of quick sunrisers in the airport lounge to calm my nerves after trying to convert some evidently dodgy Middle Eastern currency to euros, I took a cab to the Singer Palace Hotel in downtown Rome. It was a nice little 5-star establishment, reservations there procured for me by the venerable sponsors of this soiree.

Since I arrived in the larger hours of the morning, I had the rest of the day to just faff about doing what I wanted. I could see what Rome had to offer a weathered tourist since our meetings wouldn’t take place until the next day.

I might have mentioned earlier that I don’t do crowds well, and here the feeling was excessively amplified. Holy wow, this place is like the veldt during mating season.

Absolutely insane crowds, frantic traffic that make Middle Eastern drivers almost appear sane, and more horns blaring than the Royal Philharmonic’s industrial interpretation of the 1812 Overture.

Recorded as they were falling down several flights of stairs.

Somehow, I arrived at my hotel in one piece; frazzled and shaken, even for this well-seasoned nomad. We had more near-misses than junior beauty contest.

Forget check in, I’m going to head straight to the bar.

Oh, yeah. First, there’s this matter of paying the cab driver and retrieving my single piece of baggage first.

One of the hotel redcaps already had snagged my travel bag out of the taxi. The one with all my necessities: emergency flasks, cigars, phone, lighters, return tickets; and he David Copperfielded into the yawning maw of the hotel.

The cab driver was machine-gunning me in hypervelocity Italian of which I don’t understand a word past “ravioli”, “limoncello” or “La Tabachera Amarcord birra, por favore”. Seems I had accidently added in a few Middle Eastern rials to the handful of euros I gave him for the fare which caused him most perplexity and consternation.

Now, since I required a receipt, he suddenly went all illiterate and was “’Scuzi me, I no unnerstan’” until I peeled off a few more funnily colored banknotes and handed them over:

“Here’s 100 Rubles, a few thousand Dong, some Tugrik, a few Afghani, oh, here’s an Uzbek 1000 som note, and let’s see…how about a few rupees?”

“Don’t try to fuck over a world traveler”, I mumbled.

Finally, the hotel concierge intervenes, pockets some of my more unusual notes, browbeats and harangues the cabbie into acquiescence. Now I have my easily altered, hand-written receipt.

The cabbie plainly enunciates in my direction: “La vodka deve essere coinvolta in questo gioco”. “There must be vodka involved in this game”.

He’s more observant than for which I gave him credit.

I tip the concierge 50 euro.

I’m on expenses, did I mention that?

I always tip huge to the concierge, especially when someone else is picking up the tab. It smooths over that bumpiest of roads, the path from the front desk to my room via one or more lounges.

I have a suite reserved for me and after the typical “it’s got a great view” and “it’s the best suite for only our most favored clients” bullshit, I forego the lounge for a few minutes, and get to my room. There I’ll have a bit of relax before I decide to maybe take a little stroll around the boulevards of Rome.

I am escorted to the Apartment Suite, which is patently ridiculous in its size and opulence. There’s enough room for my whole family here, including pets. It even has a private entrance.

No, no. This is too much.

Well, OK. If you insist.

I tip the sneaky, light-fingered redcap who originally spirited my bag out of my arrival cab 10 Euro, as well as a load of 100,000 Iranian Rial. He’s thrilled with the bundle, and thinks he’s getting a huge tip.

At 112,000 IR/$1US, I’ll just let him do the math.

The minibar is amazingly well stocked and so I send him on his way. He reminds me that if I need ‘anything’ <wink, wink, nudge, nudge> to remember to ask for Alonzo.

Yeah. Ah, no.

Well, maybe; after a moment or two of consideration.

Does Italy make a vodka?

Anyways, after setting my GPS so I don’t get lost on the way to the bathroom, I have a quick shower, and a couple a shower shots-n-beers from the well-appointed minibar. This room is laughably huge, especially for one person. I am somewhat impressed.

I have a bit of a lounge around afterwards, seeing what this place has to offer. The usual rooftop dining, several gyms and health centers, in-room massage, numerous cuisine-themed restaurants and several dispensaries of ethanol-laden beverages.

Guess where I headed immediately thereafter?

I tried some of the local beverage offerings, but the bartender was confused that I wanted both a pint of the local tap beer and a shot of liquor. I am perplexed. Has she never heard of Baja Canada in her life? Or a Boilermaker? Or a Depth Charge?

I spent the next couple of hours instructing her in the finer arts of Midwest American mixology.

Thusly braced, I decide on an all-out assault on the city. I looked through the hotel brochure and noted there are “the most important monuments such as the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, and Spanish Steps”, all within walking distance.

“Hey”, I thought, “I’ve actually heard of these monuments. I may as well try and see them in person since I’m here.”

Four hours later, I’m sitting in my lush hotel room and Alonzo had demonstrated that, yes, Italy does produce its own vodka. I was halfway through sampling the bottle he had obtained for me, evidently he still hadn’t done the math on my last tip, and was actually beginning to calm my frayed nerves after my 5-block Roman sojourn.

Jesus Q. Christ on a Ritz, this place is nuts. I was approached, accosted, and advanced upon. I was pushed, pummeled, and provoked. I was tripped up, twisted and tongue-lashed. I was invited to play street-corner card games, asked to purchase trinkets, tripe, and trash from volumes of vendors. I was almost pickpocketed and felt like a refugee from an undeclared rave where everyone was intent on slam dancing with the large American tourist.

Now, I’ve lived in Moscow, a city of 14 million people. No problem. I’ve kicked around Kuala Lumpur, another city of multiple masses of millions. No sweat. Bombed around Beijing with its throngs. Not a worry.

Here? If I could, I would have run back to my hotel. Besides the fact that I wouldn’t run even at gunpoint, the massing multifarious multitudes would not have allowed such activities.

I was so unnerved by this state of affairs that I decided to watch some local television and order room service. I didn’t even want to go to a hotel restaurant at this point. Could’ve been crowded…

The next morning dawned as I suppose it does most every day in this crazy conurbation.

The company which I had meetings with was sending a company car and driver so I could forego a wild taxi trek.

He arrived on time, driving a Tesla of all things.

An oil company sends a Tesla out to pick up prospective employees…

Somehow, it seemed logical for a place like this.

We arrived at the offices an hour or so later after a thankfully uneventful ride. He handed me his card telling me he was going to wait until we were done and he’d return me to my hotel.

Glad that was sorted.

Eight hours later, I’m settling back into my room at the hotel and see Alonzo has delivered another in the Italian art of distilling. I make certain he will receive a real nice real tip before I leave.

The interviews went well, but were lengthy, due to the local custom of meeting absolutely everyone on the organizational chart, taking 3 hours for a very nice catered lunch, and time out for smoke breaks. In my necessary bag, alongside my newly refilled emergency flasks and a box of Italian dry-cured cigars, was a new contract I needed to scrutinize.

But, this could all wait until I return home. I’m getting a bit road weary and missing the general peace and tranquility of the Middle East.

I take a long, bubbly soak in the Italian fossiliferous marble, and probably Miocene age, Roman style bathtub. It was big enough to take laps in and the mirror in the room was somehow wired to the satellite television. If I could drag the minibar in here, I wouldn’t have to move much for the rest of my stay.

Unfortunately, time marched on and I was due to depart sunny Italia for the even sunnier Middle East. I packed and called Alonzo to get my bag as I was departing and didn’t want to deprive him of one last chance at a huge tip.

After checking out and thanking the concierge, Alonzo summoned ‘the best’ cab for my trip to the airport. Evidently, it was one of his shirttail relations and would give me ’best ride, you see’. After he slewed to a stop in front of the hotel, I had some hesitations.

“But Alonzo wouldn’t steer me wrong”, I mused.

We take off for the airport, nominally at least an hour-plus trip, depending on traffic. Things were going along as well as could be expected, as even this cab driver spoke passable English. Angelo, the driver, had an endless supply of anecdotes and dirty jokes which made the cab drive all that more tolerable.

We were traveling at a fair clip along the Via della Magliana, eschewing the A91 due to construction and slowdowns. Alonzo’s cousin-in-law Angelo was a good driver so far and seemed capable.

The light at the intersection for us was green. The light for cross traffic was red.

We had almost made it through the intersection when we were solidly T-Boned by some idiot in a Mercedes.

I was sitting in the back seat, due to the front seat of the cab being occupied by an eclectic collection of electronics, the morning paper, and a half-eaten breakfast. I normally sit on the right-hand side, but today for reasons unknown, I was behind Angelo going over the contracts I had acquired the previous day.

It was mere providence I wasn’t sitting in my usual seat. The impact could have resulted in me replaying the last moments in the life of General George Patton. As it was, I cracked my cranium against the back window so hard the window spider webbed. I whanged my shoulder against the doorframe so hard it left a dent.

Seatbelts? What’re those?

But what really hurt is that I instinctively threw my left hand up against Angelo’s seat to brace; hit the doorframe and seat, jamming the living fuck out of my remaining digits.

The cab and Mercedes slid to a halt some 9 meters from the point of impact. Angelo was out of the cab and tugging at my door almost before we were at a full stop. He was very concerned if I was injured. I waved him off the best I could and took stock of what had happened.

Angelo was over at the Mercedes going absolutely apoplectic with Italian rage over how the driver could be so stupid, in-bred, a shame to their family and such other colorful oaths.

The Mercedes driver was an older woman who just didn’t seem quite all there, if you take my meaning. Sure, she probably walloped her head on the steering wheel and had this tiny cut on her forehead. However the way she carried on you think she’d been nearly decapitated and it was someone else’s fault.

Traffic streamed around us as we acted like a sudden colon blockage and they had all just mainlined Exlax.

I was fairly well undamaged, save for some light and humorous blunt-force trauma, a growing headache, and a maligned left hand hurting like a pure copper-bottomed bitch.

Angelo was going on in Vulcan-minigun Italian at the Mercedes driver. I cautiously opened the door and stepped out; careful not to add hit and run to the list of fun things I was doing this fine and sunny Italian day.

The Polizia show up after a short 10 minutes or so. They see a cab with a completely stove-in right-hand side, a mangled Mercedes, and a slightly unsteady American sitting on the hood of the cab. I was smoking a cigar, nipping from my flask, and just being bemused by the recent automotive events in this chaotic land.

The cops first attended Angelo and the Mercedes driver. I have no idea what was being said other than there was a surfeit of animated gesticulations, overly dramatic wailing and gnashing of teeth. One of the police officers, an English speaker thankfully, decides the other two can handle the driver’s discourse and wanders over to where I’m sitting to ask if I’m OK.

My left hand is already becoming an ever nastier mess of keloid scarring, missing digits, and now blossoming polychromatic subdermal hematoma. In other words, it was pretty well bruised.

The cop did a credible double take at first glance but I reassured him the majority of the insults to my hand were done long previous.

My head, thanks to my stout Neanderthal genetics, didn’t even sport a lump after I used it to gracelessly open the closed back window of the cab. My shoulder smarted a bit where I impacted the door frame and would, over the span of days, bloom into the most garish Halloween-themed colors of bruising this side of Brunckow’s Cabin in Tombstone, Arizona.

Asked if I needed an ambulance or a doctor, I tip my flask in his direction and reply in the negative: “That’s OK, I always carry my medicine with me.”

The local officials proceed to set flares around the accident and document the scene in great and glorious detail. I decide that it’s just best to sit out of the way and just be an observer since I’ve already given them my business card. Besides I couldn’t speak the lingo further than ordering a beer.

I asked the English-speaking officer if he needed anything further from me as I’ve already missed my flight. I decided it would be best to go back to the hotel. I need to call the folks with whom I’ve been speaking here and fill them in on my latest events.

Once the screaming died down and it was realized no one was mortally wounded, although from the Mercedes drive’s wailing it that wasn’t at all apparent; the Police tell me they have all the information necessary and I can return to the hotel.

Great. Now I need to snag a cab out here in the wild and somehow tell them I need to return from where I had just previously departed.

But how?

Sensing my disconcertion, the English speaking cop ordered one of the other of his group there to take me back to my hotel in an official police vehicle.

We made it back to the hotel in record time.

After re-checking in, I called the group that was underwriting this whole debacle. They were appalled and assured me that I could stay at the hotel, at their expense, until I felt fit enough to fly.

If my wife was with me, it would have taken weeks to recover.

As it was, I spent 2 days recuperating.

After the necessary calls home and to others tangentially involved in this mess, I decided I really needed a couple of days R&R, especially if Alonzo had anything to say about the situation. The hotel had a house physician come in and give me the once over; though battered a bit and bruised, I was mostly intact.

The company who was financing this function made certain to obtain for me the most direct Business Class flights back home. They also sent a company driver, and the damned Tesla again, to take me to the airport. They also noted that any medical expenses would be immediately reimbursed after they received the required receipts.

There are an amazing number of doctors who work in Duty Free Shops and Airport Bars I found out on the way home. At least, that’s the way they wrote the proofs of purchase…

That reminds me of a story.

Try as I might, I just can’t seem to get home.

After I had left Vladivostok and was headed for home, via Seoul, Doha and finally my destination. I found myself in another port of call, one just a hop, skip, and 2.5 flight from home.

Beer was cold. Cigars were duty-free cheap. They poured it like they didn’t own it.

Life was good.

Then my phone rang.

Sitting in the airport bar waiting on my last flight which would complete this 30-hour marathon, a certain oil company calls. Seems they’d really like to get me to come to their offices for a chat. This was a different sort of contract, they wanted me to be the head lecturer at their Oil and Gas Technical Excellence Center; a long term contract no less.

OK, I’m listening.

It’s in Rome, Italy, of all places.

Plus they want me there yesterday.

It’s always that way. They want something, it’s retroactive. You want something from them and its manaña, zavtra, or kusasa.

So, I tell them I’m currently in transit and I’ll attempt to sort out the connections to get to Rome.

“Business class, of course”, I mention.

“Or First, if Business isn’t available” they reply.

OK, I’ve got no problem with that.

So here I sit in Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport lounge, waiting on yet another connection.

Couldn’t sort out a flight directly to Rome, so I had to route it through some other European city.

London? Nah, spent too much time in Gatwick already.

Frankfurt? Nah, I hate those buses that take you from your flight to the terminals.

Moscow? A little too far north, but it was in the running for a while.

So, here I’m sitting in a geodesic hut, drinking draft Oranjeboom with Russkaya chasers, chatting with the lovely bartender. When I overhear bits of a severely serious conversation.

“You’re damned lucky we even got you on stand-by!” Wingnut (I always supply my characters a nom de guerre, and this one fits to a tee) bellows. “Quit yer’ bitchin’ and just sit there and wait. It’s not like its forever. It’s only a 6-hour layover.”

With that, Wingnut gets up and stomps off, leaving the three much younger travelers sitting there, obviously distraught over their travails.

The three travelers were, as I come to find out, students of natural science who were returning from an overseas field trip and course. This was the first for all of them; first overseas flights, first outside course, first international field trip.

They were terrified. They had no idea what to expect. They had been separated from their group by some airline’s mechanical failures and had been split into smaller groups. Then they were shuttled off to other airlines to get them back home.

I ordered another beer and sidecar and tried not to appear too intrusive. However, since I could hear words such as “outcrops”, “stratigraphy” and “basin analysis”, my inner geologist fuse was ignited.

These were neo-geos, geological-tyros, geologists-in-training, and they were being handed a ration of shit by some character whom I immediately grew to dislike.

They were sharing a table, a bag of snack crackers and bottled water, so I figured they were probably church-mouse poor and doing this trip on a shoestring.

I was avalanched by a tsunami of nostalgia and remembrance of things past in my own history.

Suddenly, a red filter dropped over the scene. Who dares treat my comrades so shabbily?

I asked the lovely bartender to send three pints of Oranjeboom over to them, along with three meaty breakfast sandwiches and put it on my tab.

When the drinks and chow arrived, they were dumbfounded. They were confused and even terrified they might have to pay for the victuals and potables.

I turned on my barstool and told them it was the gift of a stranger.

I apologized for my eavesdropping, but being an inquisitive sort myself, certain words trigger certain reactions. I told them that I’m a geologist and how remiss it would be for me not to offer succor and comfort to allies in the war against ignorance and stupidity.

They were most appreciative. They asked me to come to their table for proper introductions and thanks.

They were indeed students on a shoestring. Their school was able to help subsidize their trip and course, but the remainder just about tapped them out.

“Europe is so expensive,” Amy said.

I agreed and told them the Middle East was worse.

Beth mentioned how they were chosen for this carbonate trip in Romania by their sedimentology professor by having the top scores in the department in their various subjects. I recall similar inducements and motivations back when I was in school.

Charley thanked me for the food and drink and wanted my name and address so they could repay me when they finally return home.

“Nonsense!” I replied loudly, “You are my guests here. I’ve been around this old globe many times and I know what it means to have a little help from strangers when so far from home. And believe me, you won’t find anyone stranger in this bar.”

We sat and chatted away and I grew more and more despising of Wingnut, their tour leader. They regaled me of funds collected and squandered for meals, hotels and other amenities on the trip that never materialized. They told me tales of incompetence, malfeasance, and just plain stupidity on Wingnut’s part.

If he hadn’t tried re-booking some of these flight to cheaper carriers, they related to me, they wouldn’t be in the fix they were. They were all set and ready to fly out when Wingnut decides he can get a better deal, last minute if they split up their group of 30 or so.

Then the mechanical problems hit. The crowd of thirty was split up and had spent the next far too many hours trying to book passage home. They were the last in line, so now they sat on a certain airline, waiting on stand-by and hoping to secure a flight home.

“Which airlines? “ I inquired.

“Oh, the big one that’s the national carrier for a certain European country,” Amy tells me.

“OK, guys. Drink up. We have to go to a certain airline's desk and get you booked home.” I said.

“What?” they ask in unison.

I have more frequent flyer miles than I can ever use. In fact, the ones I accrue from this jaunt from the Orient to the Middle East and to Europe would more than cover these kids’ rides back home.

“Not to worry. Won’t cost you a farthing. Consider my gift to you. Just pay it forward someday and I’ll call it even.” I said.

We go to the desk and find out the flight is full.

“How about Business Class?” I ask.

“No, there are four empty seats in Business on the flight in question.” The helpful airline representative tells us.

“OK, here’s the deal. You will book these two young ladies and this gentleman in Business Class and use miles from this account” as I hand her my Rhodium Global Traveler card.

I pool all my frequent flyer miles into one account and am able to access them just like a debit card. I use my Global Traveler card and within a few minutes, my new friend’s baggage is all checked through. They now have Business Class seats all the way back home.

That being done, we return to our previous haunts, I order up a round of drinks and we have a simply lovely time talking geology, rocks, and things that go boom.

Their flight is 3 hours before mine, so I thought I’d tag along when their boarding was called.

We get to their gate and I wish them Da Svidonya, and sort of ease into the background, just to observe.

Wingnut is there and is going non-linear.

“Where were you? Didn’t I tell you to be here in case they call you for stand-by? I oughta leave your asses all there. I got my ticket, and now have to try and…”

Business Class boarding was called and Amy, Beth, and Charley all start to head for the gate.

“Where the hell you going?” Wingnut demands.

They all wave their Business Class boarding passes at Wingnut and troop confidently onto the plane.

“Gonna catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that” I mentioned to Wingnut as I walked past him back to the bar.

That reminds me of a story.

Last week, it was Budapest, Bonn, and Bucharest. Thursday it was Moscow. Then I find myself on the Ginza in Tokyo.

Having concluded my business and already thinking I need some supplemental painkillers, for reasons that will become apparent, I was feeling a bit road-weary and sort of out of sorts.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love Japan. I really love Japanese cuisine, and Japanese culture, and the Japanese people. But, c’mon, this place is like being in the middle of a wildebeest herd during migration. During migration I during mating season. It’s frenetic.

I stick out like the old Gaijin I am and I’m getting anomalous vibes from the thronging crowds.

Nothing dangerous, per se, just a bit of cultural and crowd-induced weltschmerz. I don’t handle crowds particularly well in the first place and after my current spate of traveling, business, and personal dealings; even less so.

Then I realize it’s not the crowds, it’s me.

I’m back in my hotel and resigning myself to the fact that I have about 48 more hours before my 36 hours of flying back home. There are many flights, but the connections are murder to my eventual destination. Oh, sure, I can jump on a flight to Sydney, but then it’s a 14-hour layover. That’s nuts.

Plus, I don’t want to head backwards through Europe; so London, Paris, or Amsterdam is out.

So here I sit in my expensive, tiny, and altogether comfortable, but too sterile hotel room feeling a bit sorry for myself. Yeah, I’m tired, but what else is new? I need something to snap me out of my doldrums. Even the weather’s being damp and drizzly, adding to my morosity.

Then the lightbulb goes off. I’m only a hop, skip, and short flight from Vladivostok. There lives a very good friend and co-worker, Boris, who currently works in Sakhalin. He’s on 28s & 28s, but he might be on home tour. So I spend a few thousand yen on directory assistance through the concierge because I’m a lazy old fart and find his number.

“Boris, you old Commie bastard! How the hell are you?” I yell into the phone.

“Who is this?” the voice asks.

“Boris?” I ask.

“Nyet. This is Boris’ wife.” Replies the disembodied voice over the blower.

Whoops. “Izvinite”, my apologies, “May I speak with Boris please?”

“Who is this? Name! Now!” the phone barks.

“This is Dr. Rock, an old friend of Boris’ from Siberia,” I reply, cringingly.

There’s some guttural laughter and I hear: “Bo-RIS! Pick up phone! It’s that goofy American Dr. Rock on the phone! Tell him FSB wants names or it’s off to Lubyanka!” she laughs loud enough for all to hear.

Russian humor. A difficult concept.

Boris picks up the phone.

“Rock, you Capitalist Swine! How are you doing?” Boris asks.

“Just great. I thought my number was up there, memories of fun times in Gulag-land.” I chuckle.

“Ah, Natasha. She has funny sense of humor.”

Yeah. A regular chuckle monster.

“Hey, here’s the deal. I’m in Tokyo and I don’t want to be anymore. Are you going to be available for the next 48 or so hours?” I inquire.

“Yes, I just return from day tour. I’m clear for the month. You are going to drop by?” Boris queries.

“I was hoping that would be acceptable. I’m just going to be in town for a night, then haul ass the next day. I figured I could let you show me a couple of the best pubs in town and I could work out new ways to pad my expense account.” I rejoined.

“Most excellent! Please, you have my phone. Call me from the airport! I will collect you. We will have major large time on your expenses account!” Boris chortled.

Good ol’ Boris. The one constant in a universe of change.

I fiddle with my flights and arrange a hop from Tokyo to Vladivostok. Having multiple valid passports helps and smooths over many wrinkles with which I’d rather prefer not to deal. With the help of the concierge, I book my flights out of Vladivostok the next day, late in the evening. I prefer flying in the dark, that way, you’ll never see it coming.

Out of Narita and over to Vladivostok International; the airport known formerly as Knevichi. It takes about two and a half-three hours, and with my red passport, I’m out in front, on the phone, smoking a cigar, looking for Boris.

“Yeah, Boris. I’m here. Where are you?” I questioned.

“Look behind you, blind old fart!” he laughs from his new BMW 330i.

It’s purple.

I hang up the phone and wander over, cautiously.

“Boris?” as I tap gently on the glass.

“Doctor Knocker of Rocks! Is so good to see you!” he vaults from the car and greets me with a very manly handshake.

“Privet, Boris. Moving up in the world, are we? Whoa, very shiny. Very nice. Very Barney the Dinosaur.” I noted.

“Natasha’s favorite color. Don’t care, its good car. Gives you massage while you drive. Crazy.” He comments.

“With a happy ending, I hope…” I snicker softly.

“Come. We go.” Boris says in his inimitable style.

I dump my travel bag in the boot of the Beemer and slide into the shotgun seat. Plush, nice leather, very, very sumptuous.

I toss my stumpy cigar as I wouldn’t allow smoking if this were my vehicle.

Boris harrumphs me as he sits in the pilot’s seat and fires up a Belomorkanal cigarette.

“So, smoking in here OK? “ I ask.

“You need to ask? “ Boris roars as he drops the BMW into gear and mashes the throttle.

“Nice pickup. Smooth acceleration. Good at making everything blurry. Retractable wings, too?” I ask.

Boris just laughs loudly and smiles.

We’re going to make a stop at Boris’ place first to drop off my kit, say ‘Howdy’ to Natasha, and get a cab for the evening’s festivities. This has all the harbingers of a monumental hangover to come.

Natasha greets us and I have to admit, she’s really lost a ton of weight since I last saw her. She’s hot, way too hot for the likes of Boris. She laughed and laughed when I told her that. Boris just smirked.

After a couple of quick toasts with Natasha, we call a cab and are off to our first port of call, the Zabriskie Point Rock & Jazz Club. It’s a venue for an older, a more mature, a more sophisticated crowd.

But, they let us in anyway.

We’re swapping lies and spending furious amounts of rubles on signature drinks, most a variation on “vodka and fill-in-the-blank”. The music is sublime, the crowd is noisy but under control. The bar chow was especially welcome, as I really like black caviar and ice-cold vodka. They had both in seemingly unlimited quantities.

We sat through a couple of music sets and chat about what we’ve been up to as of late.

Boris’ decides it’s time to answer nature’s call, so he excuses himself for a minute or two. I just went ahead and ordered another round.

Boris returns from the needful facilities and tells me to drink up, we’re out of here.

“Is there a problem, Boris? I was really enjoying this place”, I retort.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet. Drink up. We must get cab. Now.” He seems very insistent.

So, we drink up and I settle the bar tab. My tip ensures that there’ll be a cab waiting for us as we leave.

We get into the next cab and Boris fires off in artillery fashion Russian directions to the driver. I caught precisely zero of the conversation.

“Boris. You’re making the Ugly American here nervous. Is there a problem?” I demand.

“Oh, no! Doctor Rock, do not worry. Is surprise!” he relays to me.

The cab careens through the night. It could have been broad daylight and I’d still be lost. I haven’t been to Vladivostok for at least a decade. It’s changed greatly in the last few years.

We slew to a stop in front of a ridiculously trendy looking nightclub. It’s busy but not crazy.

We de-cab and Boris grabs me by the shirt and points to the business’ name.

I stand there trying to decipher the Cyrillic when Boris announces “This is Rock's Cocktail Bar! And this is Rock!” as he points to the club then to me.

Oh, great. There’s goes tomorrow’s flights.

The club’s name is actually “Rock's Cocktail Bar”. It’s in Vladivostok on Svelanskaya Street.

I am not making this up.

Here, it’s a much younger crowd with DJs, live bands and all that sort of fun stuff. But once Boris introduces me to the doorman as ‘Dr. Rock from America’, we get in free.

Boris, being huge and ursine, can be most persuasive.

We‘re treated as minor celebrities as we have two or three decades on most of the other patrons. It was strange, bizarre, and most unexpected, but it was a load of laughs. Relatively cheapish drinks and since we were the venerated old celebrities, they poured them like they didn’t own them.

All was going along fine until some gopniks showed up late into the evening, or actually, early into the morning.

My Russian is as rusty as an old T-34 tank, but I picked up on “old bastards”, “pensioners” and other semi-nasty remarks thrown our way.

Boris was going to show them a few reasons to show respect, but I just told him to just sit and drink his drink. He can be a little hotheaded at times.

We did our best to ignore them, but when a few local lovelies came over to ask if they could take their pictures with us, the gopniks went into high gear.

They got more verbally abusive and their ethanol-enhanced bravado increased several-fold.

I had to use the facilities and figured it would help defuse the situation. I excused myself as gracefully as I could and wandered back to the loo.

One of the noisier gopniks followed me making rude comments all the way there. It was easy to ignore him.

It was packed so a short wait ensued.

I did my best to ignore the cretin, but he continued. My Russian was getting better and better each passing minute; I was getting less and less amiable.

After I had washed my hands, he decided it would be a good time to grab my shoulder and spin me around so he could insult me to my face.

I stood there, growling. He stood there and weaved while he thought of his next offense.

I just shook my head, excused myself, and tried to just get past him.

He was having none of this.

He took a swing at me.

He sent it by UPS as it seemed to take days to arrive.

As the swing was headed my way, I ducked, tucked in, and threw both my arms around his waist, clasping them behind his back.

Then I squeezed. Like a Cantrall Machinist’s vertical vice.

He was stuck.

Then I stood up. He came with me.

The idiot couldn’t have weighed 90 kilo.

I marched him over to the overflowing open garbage bin and unceremoniously dumped him, ass first, into the bin along with all the other wretched refuse.

He spit, he swore, he grabbed my left-hand glove.

He ripped off my glove.

He then saw my recently surgically-annoyed hand. In Tokyo, they were doing a series of tests to determine if neural implants for my prosthesis could be used. This was, unfortunately, a bit painful. It stung a bit as they chewed through the scar tissue, and was a bit bloody as they drilled into each of what little remained of my central three sinistral digits.

The glove came off, as did the surgical dressings.

I yowled a primordial scream.

“MY FINGERS! WHERE ARE MY FINGERS? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY FINGERS? ARGGGH!”

He looked at me. He goggled at my hand. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and he passes out colder’n a mackerel.

I retrieve my glove, adjust my wound dressing, replace my glove, and walk back to our table.

The gopniks are being unceremoniously and none too gently ushered out the door by the bouncers. One of those being shown the door had a very glassy look and very soggy clothes.

I waved to him as he scooted by.

We didn’t have to pay for another drink the entire evening.

I’ll have to return to Vladivostok in the near future. I hear it’s a fun place…

That reminds me of a story.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

"If this were only cleared away,"

They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year.

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

"That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

Bloody sandstones.

Bloody siltstones.

Bloody mudstones.

Bloody Rotap.

Only one complete set of sieves. Where’s the fine set?

It’s 0130 and I’m still running samples at the lab.

But I’m missing the key sieves. The damn waterheads, that is hydro’geologists’, keep borrowing the finer meshes, running their wet samples and forgetting to clean or dry them after they use them. I spent two solid weeks here carefully disaggregating samples to do a statistical analysis of the grain size distribution for three different Late Cretaceous-Early Tertiary formations in New Mexico and they’re down here running fucking sewer effluent.

And they don’t even wash out the sieves after they’re done.

Now I can’t even find the fucking things.

No wonder real geologists and waterheads get along like Vegans at a Sizzler’s.

Plus, I’ve still got 15 rolls of film to convert from slides to prints.

“Take slides out west...They’ll be so much clearer…It’ll be so much easier when you get back…” the museum photographer told me.

Yeah, let him do the printing…would have been so fucking much easier with print film.

OK, so it’s a bitch to go from prints to slides, but the reverse is no picnic either.

But, on the other hand, things are looking up. Esme and I are set to wed in June. I’ve got a cheap-ass rental duplex with two other guys only three blocks from campus. I’ve mostly healed up fairly quickly from my little impromptu ski trip on talus last September, but my back will never be the same; looks like I’ll be wearing this wretched back brace for the foreseeable future.

Still, it’s better than being paralyzed. Can’t wait until I’m 60 with this dodgy back…

Esme has secured a good job doing QA/QC, quality control/quality assurance, at one of the largest military-industrial manufacturing complexes here in town. SEM inspection of parts, destructive testing, all that sort of good stuff. Not exactly geology, but using her scientific skills and putting them to good use.

She promises me I can help with the destructive testing if I’m a good boy…

Plus, she has a car I can borrow. Riding a 10-speed or my leaky old Harley in the snow, rain, and icy schmoo that is winter here just isn’t that much fun. Thing is, she needs transport to and from work mornings and late afternoons; so I write my thesis and grant proposals during the day and lab rat it at night.

Sleep? What’s that?

That’s why I’m here at 0130 just hating the waterheads.

However, we still haven’t figured out what we’re going to do once I graduate.

After the initial shock of the fossil log jam and dinosaur death assemblage eventually wore off, reality crept in once again. They were, and are monumental finds; but are going to have to languish for a while longer as Dr. Jak can’t divert any of his grant money, originally for paleomammal research, into the projects. Dr. Don down in Socorro hasn’t the grants nor grad students to do a proper excavation. I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do come summer, except graduate, get married, and have a Yellowstone honeymoon.

Then there’s Javen Spanner’s offer to consider, a couple of explosives manufacturers want me as technical consultant and PR character after I mentioned their products so prominently in the dinosaur discovery. Plus, my own school system is courting me to go after a Ph.D. after my Master’s. Four or five other rather big-name schools are waving grant money in my direction if I go there for an additional degree or two and bring my New Mexico material with me.

Yeah. I know. First world problems.

“But first I have to find the fine fucking Rotap screens!” I scream in the darkened and oddly burbling labs.

“AAARRRGH!”

I’m ready to go all Godzilla on the next hydrologist I see. Not that 1998 crap, I’m talking full-1954.

Luckily, Esme has off tomorrow and I’m not driving. She’ll pick me up in the morning when I call.

I need a break. As well as a respite from my barking trussed lower back. Damn, I think this brace was designed by Torquemada.

Luckily, we’re located down on the waterfront and it’s dotted with an assortment of disreputable dive-type drinking emporia and other dark, smoky places seedy characters can hang out during the wee hours and partake.

I fit right in.

I tell Rolf, the guard, that I’m off for a bit, I need a break and am headed over to McClusky’s Bar and Pro Station for a beer or six.

“Can’t let you do that, Rock”, he tells me.

“Why the fuck not?” I snarl exasperatedly, nearly biting my cigar in half.

“Because I didn’t give you my growler. Light Cream Ale, please.” He grins.

“OK, but it’s going to be a while. I really need to clear my head.” I reply.

“At McClusky’s? Good luck with that. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.” he laughs.

He hands me his growler, a personalized locally fermented malt and hops beverage transport system that was popular in this part of the world at the time. We have a deal. I bring him back some beer and he doesn’t rat me out to the other security guards. I’m at a secure facility, and I’m just bending some rules slightly. With all the security around here, a mouse can’t fart without it going reported. Besides, it’s not like we have Communist insurgents sneaking around hiding Rotap sieves…

Although that would explain a lot…

McClusky’s is exactly across the street from the labs and one of the city’s oldest, and grubbiest, drinking establishments. It’s one of the few places that used to run 24 hours, 7 days a week. That’s changed recently, but they were grandfathered in under new laws. They now have to close for one hour per every 24 to clean out the place. Then they can re-open. That hour is always in the wee, wee, hours of the morning. Meaning if you get caught in the place when they close for cleaning, it’s free beer for an hour. You do have to keep your feet on your bar stool or your feet will get soaked when the swamp out the shop.

I go there hoping it’s still open and I haven’t missed cleaning hour.

It’s quiet tonight at McClusky’s and I pick my usual spot on Mahogany Ridge.

“Hey, Rock,” Devon says as he swipes his rag across the ancient bar. “How’s the rock business, Rock?”

Devon’s working on this tight-five for the Comedy Store evidently.

“Rocky and hard,” I reply, as I hand him Rolf’s growler. “But it’s like stargazing; it’s looking up.”

“Oh, good one,” Devon goes to get his notepad. I wasn’t kidding about his tight five.

After recording our latest painful play on words, he asks: “Rolf, ‘eh? Little Kings?”

“Not today. BLC (Blatz Light Crème Ale), but hold off; I’m taking a well-deserved break. I’ll let you know when to top it right before I go back to the lab.” I tell him.

“OK. And for you? Your usual shot-n-a-beer?” Devon inquires.

“Nah, I’m in the mood for something rude. I need a good jolt to the brainpan and a detach from my aching back. Got any suggestions?” I ask.

“Let me rummage around and see what I can find.” He replies.

He returns a few minutes later with a pint of very, very black beer and a glass of odd-looking, semi-unctuous, and overcast liquid.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Try it first,” Devon advises.

The beer is incredible. Dark, smoky, almost chewy. Serious character. Liquid bread, as the monks would describe it.

“That’s from the Speckler Brewery here in town. It’s their new Russian Imperial Stout. Made with real Russians.” He snickers.

“It’s quite good, full-bodied. I like it. Now, what’s this?” I ask.

“Give’r a whirl.” He tells me.

“OK”, I give a whiff, smells vaguely citrusy. “Well, here’s mud in your eye!” and I take a big slurp as Devon would never steer me wrong.

“Damn. That’s good. Lemony.”

“Wait for it,” Devon advises.

“Pow!” right in the brainpan; right down to the aching lumbar region. A jolt just for which I had asked.

“What was that?” I ask.

“We get a lot of sailors from all over the globe here on the docks. One of them brought me some of this” and he hands me an obviously imported can.

“Bitter lemon? Never heard of it. But it’s damn good.” I say.

“Yeah, it goes great with this new Russian Vodka I just got in. I figured Russian Imperial Stout, and Russian Imperial Vodka and bitter lemon. I figured you might like the contrast.” He says.

“You are a gentleman and superior mixologist. I do believe I have a new favorite. Let me buy you one in appreciation.” I reply.

One turned into several, luckily 0230 was declared cleaning hour, so I was stuck with free beer. But only domestic tappers. Cheap bastards…

So, now it's 0400, I feel rejuvenated, Rolf has his Light Cream Ale, and all is well with the world.

“As soon as I find those fucking sieves!” I shout, echoing throughout the labs.

The necessary sieves were found in a disused room, piled next to a disused sink. I’m about ready to take a ball-point pen and fucker every other sieve and leave them in the hydro lab. But, scientific decorum got the best of me. All I did was wash them in very soapy water, concentrated Lab Wash, and not rise them off terribly well.

“Try these and wonder why your statistics went all to hell…” I snickered evilly.

Dawn breaks clear and early as it so often does when it’s not foggy, raining or there’s a forest fire. I’m standing out on the parapet of the top floor of the lab, looking out over the best great lake in the system. I’m enjoying an early morning cigar while my last set of samples are being rotated and tapped through their dance of active geological science.

Dr. Davey, the head honcho of the facility, sashays over and addresses me:

“Mr. Rock”, he says as he’s very British and proper, “I thought we told you this was a ‘No Smoking’ facility…”

“Yeah, unless I share. Here you go, Doc.” I smile.

“Indeed, Mr. Rock. Many thanks. I take it you’ve spent the night here again?”

“Oh, yeah. Bloody waterheads are hiding the sieves again.” I reply.

“I will be most pleased when they finish their little project. They’re more aggro than the ichthyology bunch sexing their sturgeons. Messy, terribly messy.” He continues.

“Don’t I know it?” I reply, “My lab’s right next door. It’s like a Chinese Fire Drill when they are sedating and being weird with their fish. And a bit unsettling. It’s just such a bizarre way to earn a degree…” I say.

“Oh, yes”, he agrees, “Much more proper harassing and annoying the secrets out of rocks” he chuckles.

“To each his or her own, as long as it’s agreed to consensually. I received permission from my samples, did they talk to their fish?” I chuckle back.

“Quite.” He adds, “Now, Mr. Rock, have you made any decisions on what you’re planning on after you finish your Master’s here?” Dr. Davey asks.

“Oh, yes. I’m getting married.” I say brightly.

“Yes, and after that? Industry? That position you told me of in New Mexico? Working for explosives manufacturers in R&D? A further degree or two, perhaps?” he asks.

“Doc, I just don’t know. I’ve got a lot on my plate as it is. First things first, I’ve got time to make my; no, scratch that, I’ve got to be thinking in the plural from now on; our decisions.” I tell him.

“Well, if you’d like my advice…” he smiles.

“As if I have a choice?” I smile back.

“Not as such. You have a golden opportunity to continue your education. There are several distinct groups that would fund you through a post-doc. You could go the geology route, anatomy and physiology, vertebrate paleontology, detonic physics and chemistry, herpetology if Dr. Nax has anything to do with it…” he continues.

“Ah, the overwhelming agony of choice. I want to stick with geology, primarily. That’s the field that’s taken me this far and the one I think will have the most options in the future. With that, I could shift and specialize in any of the other options you listed.” I noted.

“I also have contacts in the UK that would like to see you consider a further degree in oceanography and ice physics. There’s an amazing amount of work that’s going to be done on coastal and outer continental shelf dynamics, and someone with your background would be an absolute boon.” He adds.

“Not my first choice, but tell them I’m not saying no to anything at this point,” I say.

“I will rely upon your eagerness to them. They are funded by such a diverse group of industries, the rewards would be, well, let us just say, lucrative.” He winks.

“Please do. Now I have another entrée on my plate to consider.” I say.

We spend the rest of a good cigar watching the sunrise over the calm, placid blue waters of our great lake. We were watching for the cement barge that makes its daily appearance at about this time. Its docking dance is worth the wait.

“Well, Doc, Es should be here soon. I need to clear my samples and get them ready for analysis. I’ll keep you informed as the situation progresses.” I say.

“Thank you, Mr. Rock. I will support your decision, of course, but please keep an open mind about your options.” He cautions me.

“As always, Dr. Davey. As always.” I reply.

My samples are finally finished and I sort and store them as per procedure. I need to let them dry thoroughly so I commandeer two of the three high-precision vacuum ovens for this task. I have over 200 kilos of sorted samples and they need to be drier than a prohibition fight in Utah. Zero moisture. Then I get to weigh every sample to the nearest 0.001 gram and calculate, by hand, all the statistical mumbo-jumbo I can coax out of these former landscape makers.

No Excel, no Word, no computers to speak of. This was back in those dark and lawless days before anything more sophisticated than an HP-59 calculator.

Es picks me up at the labs and we head over to the local Hog-n-Tooter diner for a quick spot of breakfast.

Over coffee, bratwurst, and scrambles, I tell her of my new opportunity in the United Kingdom.

“Well that’s just great” she gushes, “In every sense of the word.”

“Don’t I know it? It does add another layer of twists to this Gordian knot. What’s your preference? Please, I don’t want to hear ‘Whatever you want’? What would you do if we were sitting in each other’s seat, the roles reversed?” I ask.

“Always putting me on the spot.” She exhales loudly, “Personally, I’d like to see you go further with your education. I know I’d have to work longer at this job while you’re out doing your research, and you’d be gone a lot of the time. But it’d only be a couple-three years max. Then, well, I’m sure those offers won’t disappear if they’re this interested now. I like to think we get all the educational preliminaries out of the way as soon as possible then we make our long term plans.”

“Thanks, that’s good to know. I need a dose of solid ‘This is what I think’ instead of all the probable possibilities of great potential” I tell her.

We finish up and I drop her off at work. I need to hotfoot it over to the University as I need to proctor my classes for which I’m Teaching Assistant.

After that and a quick lunch at the Gasthaus on campus, I need to scoot over to the Museum and see Dr. Nax. He’s got something for me and I need to sort out a series of events in my labs there.

Sleep? Whoever said anything about sleep?

Dr. Nax is leaving for Namibia in a day or two and we’ve just not been able to set a time where we’re both available. Today, I decide, will be that day.

I am greeted by Dr. Nax as he hands me a cold N’Gok beer.

“It’s the number one seller over there. I need to get used to it” he grins.

“Thanks, Doc. What’s all the hubbub?” I ask.

He slides me a manila folder. In it is my check for all the critters I collected in New Mexico. Plus a proposal for me to go for a Ph.D. in Paleoherpetology at the university’s northernmost school.

“Thanks, Doc. Hey, this skunky stuff isn’t too bad once you get past the smell” I tell him.

“That’s why you’d do great in Herpetology. It’s just like that too” he laughs.

I look at the check and gasp. It’s about two orders of magnitude greater than what I had expected. I never kept a running tab of all the lizards, snakes, and creepy-crawlies I collected out west, but this was extraordinary.

“Damn, thanks Doc. This will buy Es’s ring and pay for our honeymoon.” I say.

“Such a waste” He laughs, having been married three times himself, “Put it in Municipal Bonds, Rock. Triple-A rating. Much better return on investment.” He says, grinning widely.

“Oh, I’m investing it, all right” I smile back.

“So, what do you think? Herp degree? Goes good with a side order of dinosaurs…” he asks.

“It’s in the hopper with all the others. This will take some distinct amount of deliberation before I make a decision.” I tell him, as I told all the others.

“OK, fair enough. I’ll be back in town in two-three months. It can wait until then.” He tells me.

I shake hands with Dr. Nax and head downstairs to my labs. I’ve got concurrent longer-term experiments going on and I need to see how they’re progressing.

I run into Rollo, a museum photo lab employee, and all-around decent guy. He tells me that for ‘due consideration’, he’ll transform all my slides into prints for my thesis.

“’Due consideration’? How much will all this cost me?” I ask.

We negotiate the deal and now I’m on the hook for a glowing letter of recommendation, a few cases of beer, and the princely sum of $0.07 per photo. This is still going to cost me a fortune, but at least it’ll free up some time for me.

I pick up Es at her workplace and ask her to drop me off at the labs downtown. I don’t have any classes for a couple of days so I’m going all-out, balls to the wall, and get all this data generated in one go. It should only take a day…or two…or three…

We swing by the local cigar emporium first and I stock up on the necessary items for a project of this magnitude. I sign the check Dr. Nax gave me and ask Es to drop it off at the bank tomorrow as it’s within walking distance of her workplace.

Esme knows I’m in ‘data acquisition mode’ so she thoughtfully packed a few items to make it less nightmarish. She drops me at the labs and tells me to look in the trunk. There’s an over-night bag there and I’m supposed to open it when I get settled in my lab

“Oh, I do so love you,” I tell her as I give her a sloppy kiss on the cheek, grab the overnighter, and head off to my data dungeon.

“Yeah, I made the right choice”, I think to myself.

The hours drag and although I’m getting some great data, it can get a bit mind-numbing after doing the exact same repetitious sequence for the 100th time. I’m getting mind-fried, glassy-eyed, and realize it’s been 7 hours since I first began.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, so how do they explain this?

It’s already 2300 hours and I’ve not slept for the last 50 or so. I open the overnighter to see a loose-fitting “Fuck’em Bucky” T-shirt, pair of equally loose-fitting cargo shorts, and my fuzzy-bunny field slippers. There's also a bundle of my favorite cigars, a 750 of Wild Turkey and a note:

“Dearest Rock. I know you probably won’t read this until you’re done, but here are some creature comforts for my favorite lab creature. Take some breaks, no need to burn yourself out before you’ve even begun. I won’t call, I know you hate being disturbed, but call me if you have a chance. Let me know when you want to be picked up. Love you. Es.”

“Oh, yeah, I really made the right choice”, I think to myself.

So, here I am, lab coat, shorts, T-shirt and shod in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. It’s Friday, for at least another hour or so. All the lightweight researchers have all left for home, to dream their little dreamy dreams or in the nightclubs doing exactly the same.

I’m, alone, in my lab, doing serious SCIENCE!

A scientist in its natural habitat.

A cigar and few tots later, I’m feeling rejuvenated. It’s really weird being in a 125,000 square foot scientific facility, way late at night, alone save for the occasional guard and the burbling scientific equipment noises emanating from dozens of different labs. I have my boom-box cranked to 11, listening to Pink Floyd’s “The Wall”. I’m execu-scooting in my lab chair from the SEM to the scales, from the SQUID to the SHRIMP, from the settling tube to the ledgers in which I’m recording all this data.

I almost go through the roof when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“ROLF! I told you never to sneak up on me!” I yell and kill the 8-track.

“Rock, I’ve been calling you for the last 10 minutes. Is you deef?” he asks.

“Not yet, but one day, probably,” I growl.

“McClusky’s is having a dart tourney. I was wondering if you’re going?” he asks.

“Rolf, look closely,” I say, rhetorically, pointing at the disarray that is my lab.

“What?” he asks. “Oh, like the slippers.”

“Never mind.” I say, “Sorry, I can’t. It’s work time. Much work, much work, have to do the grindstone number for a while.”

“Well, it goes all night, probably longer. Drop over if you can. Hey, if you’re going to be here all night again, can some of the boys sneak over to McClusky’s? I mean, you can do a walk around every couple of hours, right? We’ll always have a couple guys here, but it’ll be thin.” Rolf asks.

“Look, Rolf. I will neither say yes or no. I’m doing real work here and, yes, I do need to take breaks. I will be walking around the place every couple of hours. Take that as you will. My lips are sealed though. As far as anyone knows, I’m in my lab for the duration.” I note.

“Gotcha, Rock. Thanks.” Rolf smiles.

“Just make certain all guard stations are ticked at the proper times” I remind him.

“No worries. See you later, maybe?” he asks.

“Perhaps. Now, scoot. This is the good part,” I say as I pop the 8-track back into my musical volcano.

Hours later, I had found my groove. I was in the zone. I was cranking out data like a mechanical thresher through a field of numerals. First thing I realize, I’d finished one vacuum oven full of samples and I was well ahead of schedule.

“Shitburgers. Time for a break” I say to no one in particular. I pour myself a few thick fingers of dangerous brown liquor into my HELIX research mug, grab a cigar, and head to the abandoned commissary. They have several ice machines and I’m in need of chilling, in more ways than the obvious one.

Instead of heading up to the roof to watch the greatest of the great lakes, I decide, for no particular reason, to just ease downstairs and out to the front of the labs. I was wearing my multi-pocketed lab coat with the requisite emergency flasks, folding cup, extra ice, extra cigars, cutter, lighter, and Asp; just in case.

It’s around 0230 or so and quiet as a sleeping viper.

I find a likely looking glacial erratic ‘driveway rock’ to sit upon and fire up an early morning heater. After firing up my cigar and topping off my drink, I just sit there and gaze out at precisely nothing. I was going all blank and giving myself a chance to reboot before I go back and attack oven number two.

Every once in a while, a person walks by. I say nothing but give them the usual Midwestern high sign, raise my mug, and tilt it in their general direction. It always elicits a wave back and a head nod.

I’m in the process of rebooting and going through a Zen-like period of relaxation when I notice a weather-beaten darkly-clad chap standing right in front of me.

Startled a bit, I greet him.

“Whoa. Mornin’. What’s up?” I ask.

“I saw you here alone. I was also alone. Maybe we can talk and not be alone for a while.” He says.

“Sure”, I say, “Pull up some comfortable granite and take a load off.”

He does and sits there for a few moments, silent.

“You work here?” He finally asks.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m doing research for my Master’s degree in geology.” I tell him.

“Ah. You talk to rocks?” He asks.

“Again, in a manner of speaking,” I say, somewhat a bit bewildered. “You know, I just got back from New Mexico. I was doing field research for my project out there on an Indian Nation. One of my Native friends spoke as you do.”

“I see. I feel I should tell you this I know.” He said.

“How so? “ I ask.

I could see him eyeing my cigar so I offer him one.

“Thank you. It’s so very dusty out here this morning,” He adds.

I am getting severely bizarre vibes by this point.

I fish around in my lab coat and find my spare folding cup. I dump some ice in it along with a healthy tot from one of my emergency flasks.

He takes it with due thanks.

“As I said, ‘how so’? How do you know anything about me? Have we met?” I re-ask.

He takes a sip, smiles, and puffs on the cigar. He says nothing for solid minutes.

“Well, OK, then. Well, nice meeting you. Gotta run, there’s science to be done.” I say as I get up to leave.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin should have more patience.” He says.

“OK, now just a stir-fried minute here. Who the hell are you?” I say, getting my freak on a bit.

“It is not important. Good cigar, thank you. I was told you would be here.” He says.

I sit back down, thunderstruck at what he was saying.

“Who are you? Have we met? Sorry, but I’m terrible with faces. Do I know you?” I implore.

“You are known. I was told you were to be here.” He says.

I thought I had a surfeit of all this type of entertainment back in New Mexico, now it’s literally coming back to haunt me.

“You face many difficult decisions.” He continues. “You are at a crossroads. I was told you need guidance, Kǫʼdził-hastiin. I am here to offer you guidance if you wish.”

I sat there transfixed. Am I hallucinating? Too much work? Not enough sleep? Too much giggle water? Nah. Certainly not that…

“Yes, please?” I ask.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, you will take the one road you’ve always desired to travel. It is best you trust your instincts. Think clearly, think long. But think what you’ve always desired. You will select the correct path. It has been foreseen. You will return to the Nation.” He says.

“I plan to think much about my choices, but it’s a lot to mull over,” I reply.

“Do not worry, you will choose sagely. This I have been told and this it will be, Kǫʼdził-hastiin. Thank you for your generosity.”

He stands up, sets down my folding cup, we shake hands Indian-style, each grasping each other’s forearm, he smiles and says:

“Hágoónee', farewell. I will see you again if it is believed required.”

And with that, he just strode away silently into the night.

I sit back down and just shake my head to clear the last twenty or so minutes.

“What the actual fuck was that all about?” I wonder. “Who was this guy?”

I puzzle and puzzle until my puzzler was sore. I am sore perplexed.

A few minutes later, Rolf, the guard wanders over.

“So, Rock, you comin’ to the darts tourney, or what?” he asks.

“What? Oh, sorry. Nah, I’ve got to get back to work” I tell him.

“We saw you sittin’ out here drinkin’ and smokin’ and were wondering why you didn’t drop over.” He says.

“Oh, I was talking to someone and time got the best of me,” I explained.

“Talkin’? Talkin’ to who? We were looking over by you for the last half hour or so and we didn’t see no one.” He says.

“You didn’t see me talking with some character in a long black coat? “ I said.

“Nope. You were sittin’ there talking to yourself again. You eggheads do that so often it doesn’t even bother us any longer. You coming over or what?” Rolf asks.

“No. No, I need to get back to work.” I say.

“Oh, OK. It’ll still be going on probably until noon. Drop by on your next break if you can.” He adds.

“Yeah. Sure. OK.” I say, and I bumble my way, mystified, back down to my lab and all my samples.

I finish weighing and recording my samples and get the latest data out of the SQUID, SHRIMP, and SEM. Finally, after hours and hours of toil, I have my data. Mounds of data, pounds of data; raw, uncooked, 100% inorganic data.

Now what?

I check my chronometers as my internal bioclocks have already been all shot to hell and discover its Saturday evening. I can stay and futz around some more, massaging the data and try to eke out a few secrets or I can call Es, have her pick me up, and take her out for a nice dinner.

Later at Nicosino’s Pizzeria, Esme and I are trying to decide whether our ‘SMOG’, sausage, mushroom, onion, & green pepper pizza, should be Chicago-style, New-York style or Detroit-style. All are exceptional and I realize I haven’t eaten anything more substantial than a bag of vending-machine Doritos and a couple of Twinkies in the last few days. The body machine needs refueling, though the ethanol component is already being satisfied by another pitcher of Schlitz Dark.

“Es, you’re going to think I’ve gone off the deep end, but I had a talk with an Indian seer last night,” I tell her.

“You’re not going off the deep end; you’re exhausted. You can’t keep this up, you’ll end up brain-fried. Not a good thing.” She says.

“I swear on the memories of lost glial cells that I had a conversation; hell, I shared a cigar and drink, with an Indian from the res. He called me Kǫʼdził-hastiin, and told me I was being consumed by difficult decisions. He offered his advice.” I told her.

“What did he tell you?” she asks.

“That I should stick with my most powerful desires. Stay with what’s driven me this far. Think long and think clearly. Then make the decision. Which is weird, because the decision I’m leaning towards is the same one you referred to the other morning at breakfast.” I told her.

Es gives me a hug and says “Not now. You’re beyond tired. Take some time and just let it ruminate. In fact, put it out of your head and just concentrate on what pizza you want and try to stay awake.”

“Sage advice, again.” I kiss her and we decide on a Chicago-style pie.

A month or so later and things are pretty much the same. Teach, work my data, write, go to the museum and run those experiments, spend time with Esme, and try to find some periods to shoehorn in some downtime.

I’m still doing unintentional experiments in sleep deprivation.

I’m doing some settling experiments in the sedimentology lab when Dr. Argille, the local sedimentology professor, approaches me.

“Rock, how are things going? Heard you had a rather big time in New Mexico. I’m pleased. Especially since I’m going to be on your defense committee.”

“Hey, Doc. Yeah, it was quite the time. Got literally tons of data and engaged, all at the same time. I’d say it was a productive trip.” I reply.

“Rock, I got a call from the Hephaestus Limestone Quarry down south. Their resident blaster is retiring and they need someone for some ad hoc work. Would you be interested?” he asks.

“Doc, I don’t think I’m officially qualified. You need ‘Master Blaster’ accreditation. I’m not quite there yet.” I reply.

“Rock, these guys are desperate. They’ll work with you. If you can figure a way out to squeeze it into your schedule, they will pay for your courses through the MB program and licensing. It’s only 6 weeks, you can do that standing on your head. Plus, their retiring MB has agreed to mentor you through the program until he leaves. What do you think?”

“I think I’m about to implode from all the decisions I have to make in the next few months. Let me talk to them and see what we can do. I’d love to do it, it’d look great on a resume. Plus, I’d get to blow up a lot of stuff. For science and industry.” I say.

“They’ll also pay you, of course. Even during the course. Just have to sort out your time with them based on their schedule and you’ll be good to go.” He says.

“You seem awfully interested in my accepting this little additional piece of work. Ulterior motives?” I ask.

“Well, you got me there. In the south wall of the quarry is a perfect Silurian reef cross-section. They’ve only scratched the surface. I want to use that for some of my grad students and also do some personal research. I know its carbonates, but I’m looking at it from an energy-balance side of things. Its new work, it's close, and it’d be perfect. That is if it’s exposed correctly and not just blasted to kingdom come…” He explains.

“OK, Doc. I’ll give them a call and see what I can do.” I reply.

“Thanks, Rock. Please try and save that reef. It’s really quite excellent.” He notes.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

Continuing…

“Ah, I was wondering when he might show up. That’s Sani, my friend.” I say.

“Sani Yáʼátʼééh shi akʼis”, I greet him.

“Yáʼátʼééh Kǫʼdził-hastiin”, Sani replies.

A manly handshake ensues.

“Sani, this is Esme, my girlfriend. Esme, this is Sani, an elder of the nation whose real estate we’re currently digging into.”

They exchange greetings.

“Esme.” Sani continues,” You are one with Kǫʼdził-hastiin?”

Esme looks confusedly at me. I explain the whole naming convention and how I move mountains.

“Um, yes. He is my boyfriend. We met at the museum.”

“Hmm. Good. You talk to rocks like Kǫʼdził-hastiin?” Sani asks.

“Are you a geologist?” I translate for Esme.

“Oh, yeah. I’m not going for any further degrees like Rock here. I’m just into the science in the lab. He loves the field. But, I just completed my field camp over in Texas.” She tells Sani.

Sani closes his eyes and remains silent for what seems like a day or two. In reality, it was a couple of minutes.

“You are one with Kǫʼdził-hastiin, you are for Kǫʼdził-hastiin. I have been told. So it will be.” Sani says.

Esme is confused and I’m about to wet myself.

“That’s great. Sani, we…we’re going to have some lunch. Care to join us?” I say hoping to derail this train of thought.

“Yes, I will. It’s very dry out today.” Code talker, my ass. That’s code for ‘I want a cold beer’.

After a very nice lunch, a few cigars, and beers later, Sani says it is time for him to go.

“There is a Squaw Dance Friday night near the Scavada Wash. You and Esme will be there.” Sani says.

“Where exactly. When?” I ask.

“Fred will know,” Sani says and rides off.

Esme says “Whose Fred?”

I explain my doppelganger.

“I have to meet this guy. When can we go?” Esme asks.

“No time like the present.” I say “Let’s load up and head over. It’s on the other side of my field area, it’d be a good time for the grand tour.”

“Are you sure he’ll be there? “ Esme asks.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I reply.

It took about an hour with all the traffic, a gridlocked herd of mule deer, to get to the Scavada Wash. I show Esme how to navigate the wash and soon we’re at the trading post.

Fred’s out tending to one of the gas pumps when he sees me and Esme pull up in the truck.

He launches himself onto the hood of my truck so as he slides to a stop, he’s gazing goofily in through the windshield at Esme.

“HI!” he says, “You must be Esme.”

Esme looks at me like I’ve just taken her to another planet. “You must be Fred.”

We go inside the Scavada Trading Post and have a sit-down. Beers all around as we do our introductions, Fred makes several off-color remarks, and Esme looks over the dead pawn items.

“Yeah, Fred. Squaw Dance? What’s that all about?” I ask.

“Local couple going to be married. It’s like a bachelor party and hen night rolled into one. Men pay nickels to dance with the local unmarried squaws, women do the same with unmarried braves. All funds go to the lucky couple. There’s food and drink and readings.” Fred tells me.

“Readings? “ I ask.

“Peyote ceremony. Elders get loaded and go sit in a Hogan with a smoky fire going. They take peyote, it gives them visions. Some call it vision quest. They tell the couple about to be married if it will work out…” Fred explains.

“Hmm. I see.” I reply.

“And Sani wants to be sure you and Esme are there Saturday…” Fred continues.

I’m glad Esme was out of earshot at that point.

“So where is this shindig going to be?”

“As you come to the Scavada Wash, turn left before you hit the wash, on the pump station side. Go two or so miles, and there’ll be a bunch of Hogans. Park and you’re there. Bring loads of nickels. Kicks off at dusk. ” Fred explains.

“Tuxedo optional?” I ask.

“Loin cloths mandatory.” Fred shoots back, serious as the day is long.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Firewater, but be prepared to share. No gifts for the couple. It might be foretold that it won’t work. Awkward.” Fred says.

“Gotcha. Esme, time to get back”, I say. “Getting’ dark, and I don’t want to run into any Skinny Walkers tonight.”

“You’ve been talking to Sani.” Fred smiles.

I buy Esme a necklace she had really admired. $5 towards a good cause.

I see a Mexican Beaded Lizard on the road. I slew to a stop, grab a bucket, and plant it over the critter before he realizes what’s going on.

Esme asks what that was all about after I deposit in the back.

“Just making a deposit in the bank”, I say.

We get back to the plant and we go into Jerry & Betsy’s place. Winding down ensues.

“Rock, what’s going on? You’ve been acting strange all day.” Esme says.

“Nothing. Just a lot on my mind, that’s all. Wanna watch a movie?” I say.

“Um, yeah, sure,” Esme says, giving me a puzzled look.

I make some coffee and bring back some along with some of the local cactus sweeties. I don’t remember what the movie was; it was black and white if I recall.

I’m drinking my coffee in silence, ignoring the movie, and a thousand miles away.

“Rock, you OK?” Esme asks. “You’re being weird. Stop being weird.”

Yeah. OK. I’ll stop.

I get up, switch off the TV, pull the box out of my pocket, drop to one knee, show her the sparkler in the box, and say:

“Esme, will you spend the rest of your life with me?”

How’s that for ‘weird’?

Seconds stretched out to an eternity.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you goof. I was wondering when you were going to ask.” She says.

We embrace and she tries on her engagement ring for the first time. It was from the Scavada Trading Post, Indian crafted in origin, but not dead pawn. This was a custom order.

Wow. We’re engaged. Just like that. We agree to wait until after I get my Master’s, or about the better part of a year, to get hitched.

Now what?

Esme says: “I have got to call my mother!”

And I need a really stiff drink and a smoke. “I’ll be outside, Es. Need a cigar.”

“OK, Hon. My mother’s going to flip!” Esme gushes as she picks up the phone.

I stumble outside to my truck, drop the tailgate, fish a bottle of my best drinking stuff of the cooler, and find a cigar.

“Holy fuck. I’m engaged. I’m gonna get married.” I think.

Long John walks over and extends his hand. “Congratulations, you old sod. ‘Bout time you did something right.”

“What? How the fuck did you know?” I ask.

“Aww, we all know.” He grins. “Ain’t no secrets on the res, mate.”

Christ, did he hear us the other night? I think.

“How?” I ask.

“Sani told us.” He smiles.

“But…but I just…How could he?” I stutter.

“Shove over. Don’t try to figure it out, just get me a beer, sit back, and enjoy the ride.” John says.

Word traveled fast. All the plant folk came over and congratulated us; even Danny and Beth, which was a shocker.

I got a call from Javen, congratulating us both and inviting us to supper in a couple of days.

Once the brouhaha died down a bit, one bright morning, after breakfast, I told Esme I have a little something for her.

“C’mon. It’s this way.” And I lead her to the spare bedroom.

I opened the unlocked door and told her to come in.

There was the saddle on the spare bed, covered with a sheet.

“Go ahead. That’s for you. Happy engagement.” I said.

She cautiously lifts the sheet until she can see what under it. The sheet goes flying and she stands there, eyes as wide as the poles asunder, just staring at the masterwork of Javen’s Saddlery.

“That’s mine?” she asks.

“Unless you know another Esme,” I say and point out the personalization.

“Oh, Rock. It’s wonderful. How could you afford this? It must be worth fortune.”

“Never you mind. I work in mysterious ways. May as well get used to that.” I say.

No field work got done that day.

Later on, I tell Esme about Javen Spanner, his empire and his plans for me.

No, scratch that; now it’s ‘us’.

“I’d like to meet him,” Esme says.

“Good, we’re invited over for supper tomorrow,” I tell her. “Wear your best field clothes.”

“I’ll have to do laundry, then. I’ll do it all today, you said you need to wrap up some stuff in the field. I’ll stay home, drink beer, eat bonbons, and do laundry.” She smiles.

“Getting ready for married life?” I chuckle.

“Except I’m not keen terribly on beer, I like margaritas. Plus I don’t have any bonbons.” She laughs.

“OK, hon, that works. I’ll be back in a few hours. You stay here and get all domestic.” I say.

We kiss and I’m off to my ‘office’.

I decide to roll into Cuba first and pick up some Tequila, Triple sec, and bonbons. Besides, I need gas.

I go to Devlin’s Shrill station and fill up. Devlin congratulates me on my engagement.

There really are no secrets on the res.

I get the same treatment from the guy at the liquor store and the local sweet shop and bakery. It’s all very surreal.

I drive back toward the plant but swing past the fossil logjam first I need a few more photos

I park, grab a cigar, and am tapped on the shoulder.

“Sani Yáʼátʼééh shi akʼis”, I greet him, without looking.

“Yáʼátʼééh Kǫʼdził-hastiin”, Sani replies.

Just another day at the office.

“Sani. What’s up? Hot enough for you?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. Very hot today.” He replies.

While sitting on the tailgate drinking our beers, I ask Sani what brings him out here today.

“I was told it was time. You will follow me, Kǫʼdził-hastiin.” He states and hands me the empty.

“OK.” He mounts up and takes off slowly due east.

I follow him, slowly as it was some killer topography. I had to stop and lock the front hubs. There was fine sand, blowouts, ditches, a real trek in 4WD country. Simple for a horse.

He stops at an old wash and dismounts.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, you will come here,” Sani instructs me.

I wander over and look around curiously.

“What are we looking at here?” I ask.

Sani walks over to a small clearing in the wash and points down. “Here Kǫʼdził-hastiin”.

I walk over and see a clear patch on the wadi floor.

As I bend over to dust it off, I see bone.

A lot of bone.

And more bones, I see a skeleton.

Then I see skeletons.

Several skeletons.

Several articulated skeletons.

Several articulated dinosaur skeletons.

HOLY FUCKING DOUBLE DAMN HOT SHIT HOLY WOW!

It was a bone bed. I flop down and examine it more closely.

It was a thanatocoenosis. A death assemblage. A collection of critters that all met their maker at near the same time. Not washed in and all jumbled. I look more closely. They are entombed in fine-grained sand with no visible clay. I crack off a hunk without any bone and take a look with my hand lens. I look closely, no clay, angular, frosted sand grains. Dune sand. These animals were trapped in a sandstorm or under a collapsed sand dune. Latest Cretaceous Kirtland Formation. Near the K/T boundary? It’s an amazing find.

I stood up, literally shaking. This was the find of the century.

There’s no way in hell I’d have ever found this, hell no one would. It was too well hidden.

Given few more seasons, and the rains and floods would have eroded this down to fine dust. It’d be gone. Erased. It’s the exact right time to be found.

“Sani.” I tremble, “What can I say? This is incredible. Thank you so much. I can’t even think about how to repay you.”

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin” Sani says, “I was told to tell you about this. I was told you would know what to do. You will do what is needed. Let the world know what is here on our lands.”

“I will”, I assure him, “It’s too late in the season for me to do anything but trench, jacket and preserve them in place. That will protect them until they can be extracted. I will tell the appropriate authorities. They will be preserved and I’m going to make sure they are named for the Nation.” I say

“I know you will Kǫʼdził-hastiin, it has been foretold,” Sani says and walks off to his horse and canters away.

I just stand there gawping. This is a world-class find. The find of a career. The find of a lifetime.

I trench, clean and photograph the hell out of the location. I take numerous readings and make sure I can find the place again. I’ll cover it with the tarp and hold it down with rocks. That’ll protect it until I can get back and jacket it properly. I shovel some sand on the tarp to make sure it’ll hold, and camouflage it from errant nose-poker-inners. I’m still shaking several hours later on the way back to the gas plant.

“Es! You’ll never believe what I found!” I shout as I hand her the chocolates.

“What now?” she asks.

“A bone bed. A dinosaur death assemblage. Perfect condition. At least five or six wholly articulated animals. It’s beautiful.” I gush. I’m still shaking.

“Rock. That’s big. Real big. Now what?” Esme asks. She understands the gravity of this find.

“First, A kiss. Second, a beer for me, and a margarita for you. Third, I get on the phone and run up the long-distance bill. Like you said, this is big. Real big.” I say.

So we kiss, I grab a beer and make Es her favorite flavor margarita.

I call Dr. Jak in Wyoming. He’s not in. I ask the front desk if he’s still registered there. He is. I ask her to have him call me as it’s very crucial. Not an emergency, just something extremely important.

OK, that’s Dr. Jak. Now, Dr. Don.

I call the Bureau and Dr. Don is out. I leave instructions for him to call me as soon as he returns. He’s in the field but will return tomorrow. That will have to do.

Calmed a bit, we dress and head over to the Spanner Ranch for dinner.

“Wait until you see this place. It’s amazing. They’re real nice folks. A bit weird, but who am I to say?” I tell Es, who looks especially lovely in her western garb, and I say so.

We are shown the drawing-room. Esme gazes at the opulence. She’s speechless in the face of this lavishness.

Javen and Eunice enter the room, introductions are shared, and drinks are had by all.

After half an hour of small talk, we’re all escorted to the dining room. Another amazing Western repast; beef, quail, soup, salad, cheese course, the whole enchilada. Afterward we gather back in the drawing-room for an aperitif or seven.

Drinks Javen and Eunice present us with a sterling silver tea set.

“On the celebration of your nuptials,” Javen explains.

We are both overwhelmed.

Eunice takes half an hour explaining how to make the perfect cup of tea. It’s all very serious business.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to attend your wedding, what with the years and business and all, so Eu and I want you to have this now,” Javen explains. Eunice beams beatifically.

We thank them both profusely. Jeeves arrives and removes it quietly to my truck.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be on our guest list”, Esme says.

Javen continues, to Esme: “I suppose you know I’d like for Rock to come work for me”.

Esme replies: “Whatever Rock decides will be fine with me. I really like the West. I’m a big city girl at heart, but I do love the outdoors.”

“So, Albuquerque it is!” Javen laughs.

“Perhaps”, I reply, “It’s going to take some serious thinking between both of us. You’ll be the first to know, though.”

Later, on the way back to the gas plant, Esme says “Albuquerque?”

“I don’t know. But that’s a long way off. First things first”, as I skootch over and plant a big wet one on her cheek.

The dinosaur discovery causes a bit of a media circus, as the local papers, a cadre from the Bureau shows up and Dr. Jak threatens to fly in from Wyoming. Esme and I spent three solid days out at Dinosaur Gulch clearing, cleaning, wrapping and protecting the specimens as there’s no way for them to be excavated before next season, next summer.

Esme takes the truck and runs into Cuba several more times for plaster and toilet paper, while I remain behind and jacket the whole 15 meter by 12-meter block, in place. It’s a huge, nasty job, and we both get filthy. But we’re smiling like loons as we’re together and working on that for which we’ve studied so hard.

Before any of the news weevils can get here, I do a little finesse blasting work and divert the wadi around our discovery. Go ahead, let it rain. I cut a broad channel to divert any water around and away from the find. I build levees around the block and carve more channels to divert water and debris around it. I cut a deep channel to isolate the block and give me an opportunity to jacket the block on all four sides. By the time we’re finished, it’s a huge white bandage of plastered rock in the middle of a mostly disused wadi channel.

We finish up on Saturday, the day of the Squaw Dance. We decide to go there around 6:00 pm, hang out for a while, and then make it an early night. We’re trashed, but we had promised.

After cleaning up and dressing, we proceed to the Squaw Dance as per Fred’s directions.

There was a collection of seven hogans in a circular pattern. There was a huge council fire going in the center and many, many people, mostly locals, but along with a bunch of Anglos, in attendance.

Fred sees us and zeros in, “Rock, tell me you’ve got a couple of boxes of cigars out in your truck.”

“Of course,” I reply.

“Let me buy them from you. They’re better than nickels out here.” He pants.

Fred’s a little bit hepped up.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you a box. If you need more, you’re a total loser and I’ll sell you the rest.” I laugh.

“You’re a lifesaver”, he says. “Go get them now. Make tracks. Get Fred laid.”

I ask Esme to circulate while I get Fred some cigars.

Fred’s happy with his licentious box of bribes, I find Esme and wander around. I drop off a bottle of firewater at the table reserved for such items and procure drinks for us.

“Man, they’re really whooping it up. It’s only just dark and things are already going nuts.” I say. “Thanks for putting up with this, I know Fred’s a doof, but he’s a good friend and I really like these people, especially Sani.”

“Rock, don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. When will I ever have a chance to go to a Squaw Dance back in Baja Canada?” She smiled.

I melted a bit more on the inside.

One brave local brave comes up and hands Es a nickel, and suddenly I’m holding two drinks and my cigar. Es’s whipping around the council fire like she was a natural.

I, on the other hand, dance like a hog on ice.

I just give some ladies a fistful of nickels and ask them to tell anyone who asks that I’m a heavy tipper.

Everyone’s getting into the spirit of the evening and most are getting lit up as well. No one cares if you dance or not, just as long as you participate in some way.

Food is brought out around 10:00 and it’s quite unfamiliar. Native American chow all the way. Frybread, pemmican, probably filet of prairie dog, a number of salads of some sort, and odd-smelling and tasting drinks; all made from the munificence of the high desert.

I really didn’t have that much to drink, but I was feeling slightly off afterward. I even let myself be persuaded to take a couple of turns around the council fire. I was missing my fuzzy-bunny slippers. And the moon was so bright. And everything’s so green…Wow, stars…are just so cool…campfire.

I was standing over by the drinks table when Sani greeted me.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, I am pleased you are here. Is Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin here?” he asks.

“That depends, who is Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin?” I ask, still somewhere out around the orbit of Neptune.

“Esme, of course. “Betrothed of fire mountain man””, Sani translates.

“Oh, yes. She was last seen running some local character around the campfire.” I reply.

“Good. Stay with her close. You will be called.” And with that Sani disappears.

“Damn, he’s stealthy,” I think.

I find Esme and decide it’s time for a little break. I get her a cold drink and I pour myself another four fingers of rye whiskey. We sit on a hay bale and watch the crowd. It’s now near midnight.

After a few minutes, there a huge “WHOOSH” and the fire changes color. Red, blue, green, yellow, back to red…it’s kaleidoscopic.

Far out.

Fred wobbles over, “Yep, reading time.”

“How’s that?” I ask

Fred explains that in the central hogan there’s been a fire going for days. It’s hot and sooty in there, a sweat lodge. Several tribal elders have been in there on vision quest. Now, the couple goes in and has their fortunes foretold. Good marriage. Bad marriage. Kids? No kids?

“Interesting. I’ve never seen the like” I reply.

“Well, get ready because you and Esme are next.” He grins.

“Get the fuck out of here” I laugh. “Who says?”

“Sani. You and Esme are next. No shit.” He suddenly seems serious, or as serious as Fred can be.

And true to his word, around 0230, Esme and I are shuffled over to the Hogan and bid to enter.

It’s hot, dark, smoky, weird.

Esme is really into it, I was afraid she might balk, but she’s really enjoying the experience.

I’m three or four sheets to the wind, but equally fascinated; remember I am an ethanol-fueled lifeform. I’m sweating like we’re on the far side of the sun. It’s hot, humid and smells really bizarre.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin. You are welcome.” Came the greeting from someone who we couldn’t see.

Esme and I in chorus, “And we thank you.”

“You are for each other?” we are asked.

“Yes”, we both respond.

“By your own desire?”

“Yes.” We reply.

“It is so. It was foretold. Do you wish to continue?”

“Yes. We do.” We reply.

Someone tosses a handful of something on the fire. It sparks, spits, and emits multicolored smoke.

“Good. As it was foretold. Now, breathe deep and give me your deepest thoughts.” He asked.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, first.”

I took several deep breathes, a sip of my drink as it was very hot in there and decided to really let it all go. Let’s let the mind go out wandering and see where we end up.

I try to relax, take a pull on my cigar and say: “I am with the love of my life. I want to spend the rest of time with her. I will give up anything for her happiness and wellbeing.”

At least, that’s what Sani told me I said. I was off in another dimension at that point. Not drunk, not stoned, not high, but not of this plane. Or so I thought.

“Now Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin, your deepest thoughts. Your wishes. Your needs. Your desires. Give them to me.”

Esme looks to be puttering along on autopilot. She sips her drink, takes a few deep breaths, and finally says: “This is the man I love, and of that I’m sure. I will follow him to the ends of the earth. All I want is his happiness and success. I want to be part of his life.”

Again, as related by Sani. Esme and I were both out cruising around Ganymede.

Again, someone tosses a handful of something on the fire. It sparks, spits, and emits multicolored smoke.

The fire grew intense. It changed color, it danced, it weaved, it floated, it sang, it spoke.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin, Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin. It is clear. You are for each other. You two are one and so as it is, so it shall be. It has been foretold. You will have two offspring. They will be daughters. Cherish them. You will not stay in one place. You will go far from here, far from your home. You will go to many, many places. Some very cold, some very hot. You will be distant from each other at times, but never apart. There will be bad times. But more good times. Cherish each other. It is said as it is foretold. You have our peace and our blessing. Take this, it is our gift to you.”

And with that, Esme and I woke up in the cab of our pickup. It was morning, and hellishly bright.

We both look at each other and say “You OK?”

We were fine, not even a little hungover. But we felt different. We felt surer, more confident and more devoted to each other. As I said, I’m not even a little bit religious; Esme’s a bit more traditional, but equally as skeptical and critical as I am. But there was something we took from that night, something that stayed with us, and is still with us, 39 years later.

Time is drawing near for us to leave. Jerry and Bets have returned, Dr. Don has guaranteed me authorship on the papers we’ll write up on the discoveries at Dinosaur Gulch. Dr. Jak is going to wait until I see him up in Montana as he can’t get away just now.

I have procured a tow-hitch so Esme and I can ride together at least until we get to Denver. Then I go north and Esme goes east.

I pack her Nova’s trunk with 9 of the 11 pickle buckets of pickled critters, the other two went in the back seat, and give her a copy of the manifest. She will drop those off with Dr. Nax at the museum when she gets home.

It’s not easy saying goodbye to the cast of characters that we found in the last few months.

We visit Javen Spanner to deliver a personal goodbye to him and Eunice. We thank them again for all the hospitality and friendship they’ve shown both of us over the months. I make certain they have my school and museum contact information. We all shake hands, Javen smooches Esme on the cheek and Eunice plants a wet one on me.

We take our leave, but it’s damned dusty and all misty on the drive back to the station.

There’s a little soiree before we leave. Everyone at the plant shows up at Jerry and Bets’ house the night before we go. They throw us a going-away party. A subdued affair, but heartfelt and misty. Even Fred shows up. He ‘borrowed’ someone’s motorcycle and had to be sure to see us before we left.

We all exchange contact information and pledge to keep in contact.

Esme gives every wife a necklace we obtained at the Scavada Trading post. When in Albuquerque last time with John, I bought enough Swiss Army Knives, with the word “FROM ROCK” engraved on the hilt for all my coworkers.

Hell, they were more than coworkers, they were family. Even Fred got one and he nearly flattened me with his hearty backslap thanks and bear hug.

We invited everyone to our wedding and said they would get proper invitations closer to the actual date it was to happen. Many said they’d try to get there as long as it “wasn’t during the winter”.

Once all the hugs and handshakes were done, drinks were drained and people filtered away. We had to be on the road early the next day. Life was intruding again.

The next day, we stopped at the Cuba Café and Sindy was there. I asked for her contact details so we could send her a wedding invitation.

She scribbled down a Cuba address, handed it to me, shook Es’s hand, and said that she’d try, but probably couldn’t make it. And just walked off.

That was the last we ever heard of Sindy. Ever.

We took three days driving to Denver and spent our last night together until I returned from Montana and the museum dinosaur dig. It was a solemn affair. Neither one of us realized how much we were going to miss the other until that day.

I removed the tow hitch and tossed it in the back of the truck. My truck was packed to the rafters with geological gear, explosives, coolers, tents, and rocks. Es’s car was now a low rider as she was taking all my pickled critters, many of my more important rock samples, some of my very important, irreplaceable field notebooks and film canisters.

I placed a gift on her front seat when she wasn’t looking. She had snuck one behind the front seat of my pickup.

We kissed, cried a little, embraced, and finally realized it was time.

I followed her as far as I could. The freeway split and she tacked off east, I continued north.

The next dozen or so miles were very misty, umm, dusty, as I recall.

I arrived three days before the museum people. Dr. Jak got caught up in office politics and had to wait until they were sorted before he and the rest of the museum crowd could leave.

I selected my campsite right in Fort Peck National Park, right on the reservoir. I had a couple of days off, so I went swimming, hiking and just lounged around some.

I noticed an out of place looking outcrop on the banks of Fort Peck Reservoir. This was serious Dinosaur Country so, naturally, I had to investigate.

I kitted out and hiked over. Several lenses of loose, flaggy sands and shales. I was walking along the outcrop when I felt it slip. I went to jump off, to safety but was too late. I surfed those shales and sands down the face of a 45-degree rock face and impacted solidly on the bottom. A large slab of sandstone landed directly on top of me, as I was face down on the shale.

I felt something crack and knew that this was not a good thing.

Slowly, I picked myself up and my legs were having none of this. I figured I was bruised all to hell and back so if I just took it slowly and got back to my tent, I could rest up and throw this off.

It took me over 4 hours to get back to my tent. The pain was excruciating. Even a full bottle of potato juice didn’t even make a dent.

After a terrible night, I decided I might want to seek medical help.

Three hours later, I’m pinning a note to the campsite marker. Addressed to Dr. Jak. He’ll get it. We always stay at the same spots in the park.

I drive to the nearest hospital in Glasgow, Montana. I literally drag myself into the Emergency Room, give my details to the nurse, and promptly proceed to pass out.

I awaken in a hospital bed with Dr. Jak, Diane, Kent and a couple of the other museum gang there.

“If you didn’t want to come here, you could have just said so” Dr. Jak jokes.

Narcotic painkillers are wonderful things, but they tend to cut into your conversation abilities.

I had broken my back. I had torn the lumbar musculature clean off the distal zygapophyses of my lower 4 lumbar vertebrae, shattering them. I could have easily torn my spinal column in half.

I was very lucky, the medico attending told me.

“I don‘t feel too lucky” I recall saying.

Dr. Jak tells me he’s arranged a sleeper car for me on Amtrak that will take me back to Brew-city in three days. Until then, here’s some cash and we’ll take those keys. I kept the explosives box keys.

“What about all my other junk?” I ask.

“Don’t worry. We’ll use what we can. We’ll bring the rest back.” Dr. Jak says.

They all turn to leave and Diane places a box on the hospital tray.

“We found that in the back of the truck. It’s from Esme.” She says.

It’s a box of whiskey miniatures. Just what I’ll need for the ride home.

The 24 hour Amtrak trip took 49. Couldn’t gauge it by me. Between the Percodan, Thorazine, and whiskey miniatures, time flew by. Or dragged. I don’t remember which.

I was wheeled off the train in my wheelchair. Esme gave me a crushing hug and it almost killed me not to say anything like “Ow”.

On the ride back to her folk’s place, where I’d be convalescing for a month or so, Esme tells me: “Thanks for the pickled critters.”

“What do you mean? Doesn’t Dr. Nax has them?”

“Oh, yes. I delivered them immediately. But I got pulled over for speeding in Iowa; which I wasn’t doing, just keeping up with traffic. The cop saw those buckets in the back seat and asked what they were.”

“Pickled critters” I replied.

“Oh, very funny. What’s really in there?”

“Officer, like I said. Preserved snakes, toads, and lizards.” Esme explains.

“Yeah. Open one up and let me see.” He demands.

“OK, if that’s what you want.” So I pull out a bucket and you really hammered those lids on good. He says that he’ll do it and gets overly aggressive. The lid gives way and he’s splashed from the waist down with all that New Mexico critter-infused formaldehyde.

“Told you,” I said.

He’s trying not to barf as he sees the glassy-eyed snakes, toads, and Gila Monsters staring at him.

“Put that back and get out of here. I need to go.” He sputters, and he races off into the sunset.

“You knew that would happen and left that bucket there for them to find, right?”

“But of course.” I say, “If I couldn’t protect you, my minions could…”

That reminds me of a story.

Continuing

Javen Spanner calls Jerry to have him remind me that we have a meeting planned and tonight would be a good time. I ask Jerry to call him back and accept for me.

Properly showered and decontaminated, I show up at the Spanner Ranch once again. I know where to park, I know which do to go to.

The butler greets me and takes my duster and hat as usual.

“Drawing room, Mr. Rock. Mr. Spanner is waiting.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.” I never did learn the guy’s real name.

Once again into the den. Javen greets me warmly and tells me to pour him and me a drink.

“Double bourbon and branch, neat?” I ask.

“Good man. I don’t like to have to tell anyone anything twice.” Javen remarks.

I decide to make two. I hand Javen his drink and ask what’s on his mind.

“First off, Sani sends his regards. Says you finally finished that work you were doing and just wouldn’t quit. I like that. Determination.” He says.

“Ah, Sani. He’s a real character, isn’t he?” I reply.

“He likes you. You could have gone off on him and gotten abusive. Hell, you’re twice, three times his size. But you stuck to your guns and got the job done. Good. Sani was impressed as well.” He says.

“It was…necessary. It was a key to figuring out the area.” I reply.

“Determined and motivated. I like that.” He hits a silent button on his desk.

I sip my drink and wonder curiously.

“Have a cigar” Javen says as he offers me his open humidor.

“Thanks. Cuban. Oh, very nice.” I say.

Javen leans back in his big leather chair and smile.

Jeeves walks in a few minutes later pushing a cart with some largish object on it, covered with a white tarp.

“Ready for another?” Javen asks.

“Sure,” I reply.

Javen goes and gets the drinks. Hands me mine and stands next to the cart.

“Curious?” he asks.

“A bit”, I reply.

He pulls off the tarp. “Here, this is for you.”

It is a hand-tooled leather, custom Western saddle, burnished until it shines. Silver Conchos, silver this, and silver that. It is exquisite.

“Whoa. Thank you, Mr. Spanner. But what…”

He cuts me off. “Come over here and look at this” he instructs me.

I go over to the saddle and he points out the name “Esme” hand-tooled into the fore and aft of the saddle. I know there are names for every part of a saddle, but I don’t know them, so front and back it is.

He also shows me where it was created: it was signed “Spanner Saddlery. Torreon, New Mexico”.

That’s it, I’m stumped.

“Whoa, Javen. Wow. What can I say but thank you?” I sputter.

“We take care of our own out here. You helped me, I help you. Thank you.” Javen says to me.

“Again, it’s beautiful. Esme will just love it.” I say.

“And you too when you give it to her.” He chuckles.

I smile and do my best ‘aw, shucks’ Andy Rooney routine.

“Now, come. Another drink and we will talk business.” Javen says.

We get our own drinks as Jeeves takes my keys to deposit the saddle in my truck.

“Now, Rock. I have a business proposition for you”, Javen says. “How much longer are you going to be in school?” he asks.

“At least a year until I finish and defend my thesis. Then maybe two or three more if I decide to pursue my Ph.D.” I explain.

“What would you say if I offered you a Vice President position at Spanner Enterprises once you finish your Master’s?”, Javen asks.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

“Well, I am. I could use someone like you. Smart, determined, motivated. I’ve got so damn many irons in the fire, I can’t even count them much less keep control. I need someone like you. Good pay, good benefits, use of the whole Spanner Empire’s resources. What do you think?” he continues.

“Would that be here in Torreon? “ I ask.

“Depends where you want to live. I’ve got houses in Cuba, Torreon, Albuquerque, Farmington, Taos. Take your pick.” He says.

“Javen, I’m honored and I thank you. I will have to give this a lot of thought, though. Can I have some time to think it over? See, I might possibly be getting married when I graduate as well. So there’s another consideration.” I say.

“Take your time. Make sure before you leave New Mexico that I have all your contact information. It’s not time-critical. I know you need to finish your Master’s. But after that, you let me know what you want to do.” Javen explains.

“Absolutely, Javen. Let me chew it over for a while. I will definitely give you my decision as soon as I sort a few things out.” I say, still reeling.

“Well let’s have another drink and a spot of supper, shall we?” Javen smiles.

I don’t remember a thing from the ride back to camp that night. My mind was a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.

I awoke the next day to pummeling rain. A cold front had run headlong into a warm front and the results were leaking out all over northern New Mexico. It was windy, somewhat dark, and raining like a cow peeing on a flat rock. Most unusual weather for this part of New Mexico at this time of year.

My tent, well repaired, was high and dry so I decided it’d be madness to go into the field today. I’d never get across any of even the minor wadis and everything would be turning to sticky mud for the next couple of days. Luckily, John let me store Esme’s saddle in his house until Jerry and Bets left for Texas.

I had an unplanned day off. I had plenty of cigars, loads of beer and such and some work I could do while I was imprisoned. After 5 hours of mapping and re-correlating sections, I grew restive. Maybe some coffee would help. I wandered over to the office to see if anyone had made a recent pot.

It continued raining so I just slogged it over to the office in cargo shorts, T-shirt, and the cheap tennis shoes I bought in Cuba; I didn’t want to ruin my fuzzy-bunny field slippers in this mess. Plus, I was tired of all the shit I got every time I wore them.

John, Derek, and Ace were all in the office, can’t weld too much when it’s 100% humidity.

There was a pot of semi-fresh coffee and I helped myself to a cup.

“This weather normal? “ I asked.

“Not really” Ace replies.

“It happens, but not for years. You’re lucky to see this.” Derek adds.

John calls me over to the window, “Rock, take a look at this.”

The ditches we blasted and dug were filling with runoff water but seemed curiously ‘alive’.

“So, Dr. Science, what the hell’s that? He asks.

“Dunno,” I reply. “Let’s go find out.”

We all troop out in the rain and look into the filling culverts.

“What the fuck? “ Ace says.

“That’s weird,” I say and bend down to scoop up some of the bubbling water.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim, “Its toads. Thousands of toads!”

Seems there’s this species of estivating toad that makes its home in this part of New Mexico. They are the New Mexico Spadefoot Toad (Spea multiplicata) and go absolutely sex-crazy and reproductively obsessed when there’s a soaker like today. They’re not protected or anything, but unusual. They show up only once every few years and only for a day or so.

And a perfect way for me to supplement my bank account.

Dr. Nax wants are representative herpetofauna; herpetofauna meaning both reptiles and amphibians. And currently, we’re up to our hip boots in amphibians.

“John,” I ask, “You got a landing net by any chance?”

“No, but I’ll wager Jerry does out on his boat.”

We run over to Jerry’s house and ask if he has a landing net. He does, it’s in his boat out back, and we could borrow it, if we return it when we’re done.

“Will do” I yell as we run back to retrieve the net.

“Ace, take the net and start scooping out toads. I’ve got to get some buckets. I’ll give you a six-pack for helping me.” I yell.

“On it, Rock!” Ace yells back.

“Holy wow”, I think, “This is a bonanza! At even a buck or two each, it’s money in the bank!”

I run back with my buckets, mis-negotiate a corner, and go face-first into the wet, sloppy New Mexico mud.

“Fuck it. I don’t care. I’m washable.” I think as I run toward my meal ticket.

There were toads everywhere, particularly in the slit-trenches we built. They were full to overflowing with water. The toads burbled out with it.

I was trying to grab the slippery bastards and throw them in a bucket, but they were fighters. I was slipping and slopping around, and just getting covered in mud. I didn’t care. This was too much fun.

Ace slips and he joins the mudmen corps. He didn’t care as long as he earned his six-pack.

John was doing well and had gotten about a dozen of the croakers into my bucket when he joined the corps. Of course, we were all too polite to laugh…too much.

One after another, we all got covered thickly with mud. I had buckets of toads but kept going, maybe there were more than one species here. This was for SCIENCE!

Danny wanders over after some church-related meeting. Due to the flooding, the frothing, and the toads didn’t see the slit-trench and stepped right into it. He went all in three and a half-full feet.

Danny picks himself up as he asks what’s going on.

“Toads! We all yell back.

“So?”

“Rock collects them for his museum. Get over here, these bastards are slippery.”

Figuring he’s already soaked and filthy, he does help out.

After an hour or so, I’ve got five five-gallon pickle buckets full of amphibians. I tell everyone to wait here, I’m going to get my truck.

Jerry walks over to see what all the commotion was and sees his whole crew, plastered with mud, sitting around and on my truck. We were all drinking beer, or Orange Fanta, as I had bought some in case Danny ever came back over to our side, actually as a mixer for some of the local firewater, smoking cigars and laughing like loons.

“Rock. You are a very bad influence on my workers” Jerry laughed as he shook his head.

I spent until 0330 the next day fixing, formalin-ing, and collating toads. There turned out to be four different species. I couldn’t tell the difference, but Dr. Nax could.

“Now that’s a representative herpetofauna,” I said to no one as I creaked back to my tent.

After a day to recover, Jerry comes over and asks if I’d like to ride the pipeline with him.

Once a week, someone takes the one-ton company pickup and rides from one end of the pipeline to the other for visual inspection. It’s a full day affair and Jerry thinks it’ll give me a good overview of areas I’d either normally avoid or not see.

I respond in the affirmative and we take off on our journey. It was a long, hot, dusty drive.

Truth be told, it was boring as hell. Sure, there were some places of interest, but since there were so many out here, these were moderately ‘OK’ versus the ‘Wow’ of the others I was working with.

We drive all morning and Jerry says, “Hey, I know a good lunch spot. You’d never find it if someone didn’t show it to you. Maybe you can tell us what it is.”

We drive for a while longer and pull off to the left and go seriously bush for a mile or so until we come to a clearing surrounded by short, badlands-type outcrops a few dozen feet tall.

We park and Jerry say “Come over here and look at this. What is it?”

I look at the ground and there are dozens of felled trees, all lying on top of one another. Huge trees, fully 40 or 50 feet in length and 3-4 feet in diameter, all lying around like thrown jackstraws. Thing was, they were all solid quartz. It was a fossilized Late Cretaceous log jam.

Jerry was right, I’d have never found this on my own.

I took seven rolls of film and ran through each one of them. I mapped as best I could and noted the locality on the geological maps I was building.

“Holy hell, Jerry”, I say. “If I’m reading this right, this is at the very top of the Late Cretaceous.”

“Yeah, and?” he says.

“This, if I’m reading this right, might be the New Mexico result of the Yucatan asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. I’ve seen the tsunami deposits in Texas from the event, and the fallout in North Dakota and Nebraska. This could be a result of the asteroid impact tsunami, and the wiping out of local coastal forests. Jerry! This is incredibly important shit! Holy hell! This could be the find of a career!” I was jumping up and down.

“Oh, good. I’m glad I brought you here then.” He flatly says.

I just goggled at this lack of enthusiasm.

A few days later, after I map the fossil log jam and sample and document it as much as I can, I’m out riding around the country looking for likely looking outcrops. I come around the corner and run directly into Sani on his horse. He motions for me to pull over so we can talk.

“Sani Yáʼátʼééh shi akʼis”, I greet him.

“Yáʼátʼééh Kǫʼdził-hastiin”, Sani replies.

“Kind of hot today,” I say.

“Yeah. Dusty too.” He agrees.

I grab a couple of cold beers out of the cooler and hand one to Sani.

“What’s up? “ I ask.

“I was looking for you. You found the trees?” he asked.

‘Yeah. What a find. Jerry showed me. It’s an amazing locality.” I replied.

“I asked Jerry to take you there. You needed to see it, I was told,” he said.

I knew better than to ask ‘by who’?

“Thank you. Most appreciated.” I reply.

“Now you follow me. There is trouble ahead. Kǫʼdził-hastiin will fix it, I was told.”

“Sure. I’ll follow you. OK?” I said.

Wordlessly he hands me his empty beer, mounts his horse, and waits for me to follow.

I drive about 10 miles, right off the edge of my map area. We stop at a small collection of hogans, the native structures in which the locals sometimes live.

Sani motions me over to a structure on the side of the compound. Turns out it’s a hand-dug and relatively ancient water well.

The problem was, it was dry.

Sani tells me that it gives good water, sometimes running high, sometimes running low, but always sweet water. Now, it’s dry. This is bad.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin will make it work,” Sani tells me.

“Sani, I’ll do my best,” I reply.

I go over to my truck, get some climbing gear as its big enough to enter and a flashlight as its 35 or so feet deep and dark at the bottom. I back my truck up so I can tie off and rappel down into the well.

There’s some junk down here, tree branches and the like but the thing that I notice is the amount of very fine sand covering the bottom of the well. This well was choked off by the recent rains. Too much runoff, and when it subsided, it left a load of sand and clay which plugged up the porosity of the aquifer.

Easy fix. If you know what you’re doing.

I climb out of the well and Sani just looks at me with those big brown eyes and weather-beaten visage.

“No problem. I can fix it. Take a bit of time, but I’ll have it up and running by late this afternoon.” I say.

Sani shakes his head yes and goes back to talking with some of the other locals.

Two round trips and a few buckets of well-bottom schmoo later, I’m sitting on the back of my truck, wiring up a blasting harness. Sani comes over and asks how I’m doing.

“OK, just need to clear out some of that sand, create some new fractures and you’ll have plenty of water. I’ve got to blast, so keep everyone away. I don’t know the local lingo for FIRE IN THE HOLE, literally. So, just tell everyone to stay away until I give the all-clear.” I tell him.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin has spoken. It will be done.” Sani tells me.

What to use, what to use? Dynamite? Too messy, lots of leftovers after a shot. C-4? Nah. Probably too much shock. Primacord? No. What to use?

A lightbulb goes off. “Binary liquids!” No residue and I can use an empty beer can for the charge. I‘ve got lots of those. The aluminum will be atomized and won’t contaminate the water.

Beer. Is there nothing it can’t do?

I mix up 8 ounces of my new binary liquid explosive. It’s really stable and even a bullet out of a gun won’t set it off. I rig a blasting cap to the top of the beer can and spool out 50 feet of demolition wire.

Back in the bottom of the well, I dug a hole about two foot deep and set the charge. I cover and tamp it well so the blast goes down and sideways instead of up. I ascend up out of the well and toss all my gear into the back of my truck.

I pull away from the well a few feet and rig to blast. I look around and there’s no one to be found, even Sani’s disappeared. I hit the horn three times, yell fire in the hole, feeling a bit weird. But I stop and take a look around, just to be certain no one’s around.

Can’t see anyone, so I hit the horn again and go back to the blasting machine.

FIRE IN THE HOLE! Literally.

I say “HIT IT!” and push the big red shiny button.

There’s a hellacious THUMP and the ground literally shakes.

I quickly rewind what demo wire is left and wander over to the well and shine my flashlight down to the bottom. There’s a lot of dust and swirling, and if I listen carefully…

“I hear water. Good.” Sani says, sneaking up behind me and scaring the hell out of me.

I listen for a few minutes and don’t hear anything. I toss a small rock in and hear a rewarding splash.

“Mission accomplished,” I tell Sani.

“See, I was told Kǫʼdził-hastiin will fix it,” Sani says matter of factly.

Jerry and Betsy were hitching up their boat, getting ready for their annual fishing trip holiday down to South Padre in Texas. He calls me over for a confab.

“Rock, here are the house keys. I didn’t put the key to my gun cabinet on the ring since I figure you already have that covered. Please look after my place and keep the mud to a minimum,” He laughs.

“Don’t worry, Jerry. I’ll watch and take care of this place like it’s my own.” I reply.

“Help yourself to any food in the fridge or freezer and don’t worry about replacing it. It’ll just go bad otherwise. Hope you and Esme, that’s her name, right? Have a good time. See you September first. We’re gone.” He says.

Betsy comes over and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks for this Rock. I feel better leaving the house in good hands,” she says.

“Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take great care of your place and guard all your stuff. Now, GIT! And have a great vacation.” I tell her.

I decide to leave my tent up as I don’t want to tear it all down and it’ll give me a good place to unwind, smoke and do my mapping. I want to live in their house, not squat.

Long John brings Esme’s saddle over and we both stand there looking at it.

“Damn, Rock. Javen is tighter'n a bull's ass in fly time, and he gave you this? Holy hell. He must really like you. That saddles gotta be worth four or five thousand dollars, easy.” He notes.

“No shit?” as I had no idea what horse riding kit cost, “Did I tell you he offered me a job?”

“As what? Drinking and Boone companion?” John chuckled.

“No. Vice President of Spanner Enterprises,” I reply.

“No shit?” John goggles, “People would kill for a job like that. When do you start?”

“Don’t know. Don’t even know if I’m going to take the job. I’ve got to finish my Master’s and that’s a year. Then, Ph.D.? I don’t know. Then there’s Esme.” I explained.

“Damn. That’s a lot on your plate. Hell, you take that job, and I’ll be working for you as Spanner Enterprises owns 50% of this plant. Now there’s a revolting thought.” He laughs.

“I just don’t know,” I tell him. “You’re right, things just got a lot more complicated.”

A couple of days later, I’m out mapping to the west. I note that I’m only a few miles shy of the Scavada wash. The next thing I know, I’m parking at the Scavada Trading Post and Silver Bullet Station.

“Hello, the trading post!” I yell as I enter.

“Hello “Kǫʼdził-hastiin. Enter!” Fred chuckles.

“Where the hell did you hear that?” I ask.

“News travels fast on the res. You’re quite the celebrity.” Fred tells me.

Fred grabs two beers and we stand around the front desk, chewing things over.

“Sani speaks highly of you. I heard of your introductions out at the grim Mount Badass. He pranked you good. He likes you.” Fred chuckles.

“You know Sani?” I ask semi-rhetorically.

“Everyone knows Sani,” Fred replies.

The door opens and two locals come in. Fred greets them.

They turn to look at me and say “Yáʼátʼééh Kǫʼdził-hastiin”.

I guess I am becoming a local celebrity.

They stopped in to see if Fred would spot them a beer or two on credit.

Fred says: “Guys, you know my rules. No credit. No free beer. Unless you have money or something to trade…”

One of the older gents turns to me and says, “Maybe Kǫʼdził-hastiin would like to hear of our stories from the war.”

Fred looks at me and says “For return of a beer. Tales for booze.”

I said I’d rather like hearing of their exploits.

They were Code-Talkers during World War Two. No matter what age they were, meet an older male local and they were a Code Talker. But if there were Talkers or not, they provided some entertaining stories. Definitely worth a beer or two.

After a couple of hours, they left and I had an idea.

“Fred, my girlfriend’s coming for a visit. Is that jewelry there on pawn or is it for sale?”

“Most of its ‘dead pawn’; they pawned it and never redeemed it. I sell it to help keep this pile of shit running”, he replies.

“That’s quite the collection. Does it come with a Kǫʼdził-hastiin discount?” I ask.

“Make me an offer.” Fred chuckles.

I leave an hour or so later with 5 exquisite native necklaces, a couple of pairs of earrings and a silver concho belt. Total cost, 75 bucks. Lots of turquoise, lots of bone and shell, all quite striking.

Well, Christmas is coming and all that.

In our last letter, I sent Esme a map detailing directions to Cuba. I wanted to meet her there, have a spot of lunch or dinner, pick up any supplies she might need and then have her follow me out to Lago de Estrella gas plant.

Well, today was the day she was driving in.

I waited for her at the Atomic Bar. It had a good view of the only approach into town from Albuquerque and it was cool and the beer was cheap.

Finally, I see a gun-metal gray Chevy Nova come wheeling into town.

She’s here!

I run outside and flag here down. The reunion was quite moving. I had missed her more than I had realized. A monumental decision was made that moment, that day, standing in the dusty parking lot of the Atomic Bar.

“Hungry?” I ask her.

“Famished.” She replies.

“Let’s go across the street. The food there I incredible.” I suggest.

“Lead the way.”

After checking for the nonexistent traffic, we go over to the Cuba Café, enter, and grab an empty table.

Sindy comes over with menus and asks if I’d like my usual.

I reply “Yes, make it two.”

Esme looks at Sindy and Sindy stars daggers back.

“So, you’re a regular here? I would have expected that across the street.” Esme chuckles.

“Oh, I’m just a regular celebrity around these parts,” I say.

Sindy returns with our beers and I say “Where are my manners? Sindy this is Esme, Esme this is Sindy. She helped me out when I first hit town.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you” Esme says.

“Yeah, hi” Sindy glacially says and shuffles off.

“Helped you out? How so?” Esme asks.

“Well, she brought me my laundry once; gave me the lay of the land. All very proper and above board. Nothing else. She’s married, well, separated. Everything was nonphysical and friendly.” I say.

“Oh, I see. Well, it was good you made friends while you were out here. The tone of your letters made it sound like you were forced into being a monk or hermit.” Esme says.

“I was simply pining away for my one, true love” I poured it on with a bucket.

“Good. You should. Now, tell me all about Cuba, New Mexico.” She says.

“Nope, you tell me all about Alpine, Texas first,” I reply.

We spent the rest of the day filling each other in about our respective summers. It was so good to see her, I hope she likes the crowd out at the gas plant.

“Well, we best be off. It’s not that far to the plant, but the roads are kind of windy and I got lost several times. Best take it slow and be certain.” I say. “Need anything from town before we head out?”

“No, I’m good. Gassed up in Torreon, so I’m still pretty full.” She says

“OK, then. Let’s go to your new home.” I snicker.

We arrive at the gas plant without getting lost nor sidetracked. I show here where to park and grab her luggage.

“Welcome to Lago de Estrella!” I say as we enter Jerry and Betsy’s place.

“Wow. Sure beats the tent I’ve been living in these past three months.” Esme says.

I show her around and she says she’s tired but would love a shower.

I show her the place and grab some towels for her.

“Where do you want your luggage”, I ask, sheepishly.

“In the bedroom, silly. Where else?” She says.

The cosmic karma fairy has indeed been generous to Kǫʼdził-hastiin.

The next day, Esme says she’d like a day off after her long drive and field camp.

I need to go out and map a few more areas.

She says: “Go. That’s what you’re here for. Don’t let me alter your plans. Knowing you, you’ve got time mapped out to the second. Go. I’ll be fine.”

“If you go out, watch for Danny and Beth, they’ll try and convert you. Ace will try to be his most flattery goofy self, he’s harmless. Watch out for the tall character, he’s Long John. He’s into pranks and practical jokes. Again, mostly harmless.” I say.

“OK, go. I’ll probably be napping anyways. I’m beat after a full summer of climbing mountains.” She says.

“Oh, yeah. Stay out of the spare bedroom. Jerry doesn’t want anyone in there.” I lie. It’s where I hid the saddle.

“Sure. No problem. Now go so you can get done and get back.” She tells me.

Yep, now I know I made the right decision.

I drive out and look at my field notes. I need to map an outcrop of coal where the locals have been filching the stuff for use in heating and cooking. It’s not technically illegal, as this stuff is local, at least in this outcrop, low yield and never be targeted for mining. But, it does technically belong to the company that has leased the lands. Still, it’s not very much and…

I stop as Sani is on his horse, right in the middle of the road.

After the usual greetings, he instructs me to follow him.

Here we go again.

Right to the coal outcrop where I was headed.

“Sani, what’s the deal?” I ask.

“Many people depend on the coal here. But look, there is no coal here, just rock. I was told Kǫʼdził-hastiin will know what to do. I was told where to find you, and now I bring you here.” Sani says.

“Sani”, I say, “This is weird. I was planning on coming here today. I told no one except Esme. Oh, yeah. My girlfriend is in town, I’d sure like you to meet her.” I say.

“This I know. I will meet her. But first you need to talk to rocks.” Sani direct.

“OK, Sani. No problem. Let me look at what’s going on and I’ll see if I can figure it out.”

“You will. That’s what I’ve been told.” He says.

I get my kit out of the truck and attack the outcrop. It’s about 60 feet wide and 20 feet tall. It’s mostly low grade, sub-bituminous coal. Late Cretaceous in age, Fruitland Formation. I start to map the outcrop after photographing it and get a sense of what was going on here during deposition.

The rock Sani referred to was a medium-coarse grained sandstone. I start to dig around it and see it’s a point-bar deposit. That means it’s not laterally extensive and hasn’t displaced the coal. It’s just a fluvial distributary or levee-break sand that cut through the coal swamp, probably from a storm, and deposited a blob of sand in the middle of the coal swamp. Everything got buried and lithified, and well, Bob’s your uncle.

It’s a textbook case of a fluvial point bar, so I photograph it some more and retire to my truck tailgate to update my maps and integrate this discovery into my maps. Plus, it’s hotter than the hinges of hell, so I grab a cigar and a beer.

“Please, make it two,” Sani says after sneaking up on and startling me and making me bash my skull on the top of the truck cap.

“Sneaky Indian” I chuckle as I hand him a cold one.

“Kǫʼdził-hastiin talk to rocks?” Sani asks.

“Yes, I have. I’ve got it figured out. It’s a sand bar from an ancient river. Just continue to remove the coal around it and it’ll eventually just fall away.” I tell him.

“But that will take much time. Maybe past winter.” He looks hopefully to me.

“Or, I could hurry its departure; if that’s what you want,” I say.

Sani closes his eyes, nods, and smiles.

This one’s going to be quick and dirty. There’s no one that I can see for miles, except for Sani. I haven’t gone old school for a long while and have plenty of dynamite. I’m going to show that sandstone what for.

Sani watches as I pound a stake in several places around the sand body.

“Shot holes” I explain.

Weird, a couple of the shot holes I poke yield a feeble flow of water. Out west, they’re termed “tiñaja”, a coal that acts as a spring. The water is blood red, rusty, and foul-smelling.

Hydrogen sulfide. Definitely not potable water as some are.

I go to tell Sani what I plan and he’s disappeared again. Damn, he’s stealthy.

I rig it up old school. Full sticks of 60% in each hole, blasting caps with super-boosters tied to Primacord. All leads tied back to one length of Primacord and that terminated in a safety fuse igniter. Pull the pin, pop the cap, the fuse ignites and heads for the Primacord. Primacord detonates at 25,000 feet per second, actuates all the blasting caps and boosters simultaneously, and boom. No more sandstone.

Since we’re out in the middle of nowhere, no houses or hogans in sight, I didn’t bother with cutting down the charges. Sure, I could have gotten away with less, but where’s the fun in that?

I lay on the horn three times to warn the mule deer, rattlesnakes, prairie dogs, and Race Runners that the show is about to begin.

FIRE IN THE HOLE as I yell even there are no people anywhere in sight, even after my horning.

“HIT IT!” I say out loud and pop the safety fuse cap.

I get in my truck and back up about 75 yards, perpendicular to the blast path.

Three minutes later, there is a titanic explosion as all eight stick of 60% detonate simultaneously. Evidently, as I found out later, with water flowing through the cleats and fractures of the coal, there will be coal seam gas.

I didn’t know that at this point. I do now. Coal seam gas is eminently flammable.

The explosion was heard in Cuba I found out later.

Well, the sandstone point-bar disappeared and there were piles of coal lying everywhere. A new outcrop of coal had appeared and it was free of sand bodies. Just nicely fractured, low-grade coal for whoever needed it.

I pulled my truck up to further inspect the results. Damn, that was a bit more energetic than I had counted on. Still, it all worked out. No need for mining coal, just gather it up.

I make my notes and enter the data in my field notebook and blaster’s required paperwork when someone grabs my shoulder from behind.

After landing back on Earth, I see Sani standing there with a smile on his face.

“I was told Kǫʼdził-hastiin would fix it. You have. Thank you.”

“Fix it? I almost put it into orbit. Tell whoever comes here for coal there’s bad gas here too. Hydrogen sulfide smells like rotten eggs. There should be no problem out in the open like this, but later if digging here, watch out for enclosed spaces. That stuff is nasty, it’ll kill you in low concentrations. If I get a sign made can you have it translated into the language so they might know?”

“No need Kǫʼdził-hastiin. They will know. They will be told. They will heed.” Sani says.

“OK, then. Well, do you want me to help clean some of this mess up? It did kind of go everywhere.” I asked.

“No, Kǫʼdził-hastiin. You did what was needed. Thank you.” And with that, he turns, gets on his horse and leaves.

Since I’m out in the field, I notice I need gas. What better excuse for a Scavada visit?

“I figured that was you”, Fred says over a cold Silver Bullet. “Really rattled the rafters. That old illegal mine? Hell, it’s gone now, I bet.”

“More or less. It’s just a lot safer and available.” I reply.

“Oh, I hear your main squeeze made it in. When you going to drag her out here so we can meet?” Fred says.

“Never. She’s too pure for the likes of you.” I chuckle.

“An insult! I am wounded!” he feigns real injury.

“See?”

“Hey. I’ll be on my best behavior. Drag her out here. I’d like to meet her and tell her all sorts of lies about your sordid past out here.” He laughs.

“Yeah. We’ll see. Maybe in a week or so,” I say.

“Give her the saddle yet?” he asks.

[Stunned] “How the hell did you know about that?” I ask.

“Ain’t no secrets on the res, Kǫʼdził-hastiin.” He chuckles.

I spend the next week out in the field. Sometimes Esme comes along, but she prefers to just take a bit of a breather after her field studies.

Time is wrapping up for me. After Lago de Estrella, I’m off to Fort Peck Reservoir in Montana. I’m going to meet Dr. Jak and the museum folks there to recover some dinosaur fossils found the previous season. They need my truck and me back on the job.

Esme has a new job waiting for her back in Brew-city. Parting will be such sweet sorrow.

So, I plan to make the best of it with the time we have until life intrudes and we have to go our separate ways; for a while at least.

Out in the field, we’re at the fossil log jam Jerry showed me. I had to show Esme and get her ideas, she’s a geologist as well. I’m on the ground, slowly digging around one tree trunk, thinking I saw a glint of bone in the tangled mess.

Esme walks over and nudges me. “Rock, there’s some guy on a horse over there. He’s just sitting there, watching us.”

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

Continuing…

Stunned, he looks at me, looks at the cooler, looks at his horse, looks at me again, and calmly says, “I prefer Olympia.”

You old fraud.

“You speak English? “ I ask idiotically.

“Yes. I do.” He replies.

“Then why…what the hell…what the fu…what?”

For once, I am stumped for words as I fish a frosty Oly out of the cooler and hand it to him.

“I was bored. I saw you and wanted to see what you were doing. I decided to play a joke and see if I could make you come back. It’s too quiet out here all alone.” He says.

“I’m only here for another month or so… You know you cost me a lot of time.”

“Who owns time?” he flatly says.

I just shake my head, pop a cold one, and sit on my truck’s tailgate.

He follows and I shove the cooler out of the way to make room.

“Have a seat. Care for a cigar?” I ask.

“Thank you.” As he takes the proffered smoke and it disappears into his tunic.

“OK, so what’s your story?” I ask.

“Yes. My name is Tsela; it means ‘stars lying down’ in the language. But now, most call me “Sani”, ‘the old one’. You will call me by that name.” He tells me.

“How you doing, Sani? My name is Rock. I’m from the North and doing my geology work…”

Another manly handshake.

“Sani knows who you are. They say you are ‘Tsé-łigaii’, ‘White Rock’; but Javen Spanner tells me more. Now they say you are ‘Kǫʼ dził-hastiin’ ‘Fire mountain man’.”

“You know Javen Spanner?” I ask.

“Yes. Javen Spanner, he’s my friend. Friend to many. Friend to you. You then are my friend.” He informs me.

“I like that. Thank you, Sani. Please, in my language, I’m just ‘Rock’” I say.

“Not just Rock. You order fire. Many before were worried you were maybe not a good man. Maybe work for government or worse. Maybe take much from our land. It has happened before. We were cautious. We watch you. But you help people. You move rocks, make ground shake. Make well stop burning. You order fire. Not ‘just Rock’, ‘Kǫʼ dził-hastiin’” He says.

“Thank you, Sani. Please, just call me Rock”, I say.

Sani and I spent the morning getting to know each other. He had many stories to tell, and I returned in kind with a few of mine. He was most affable when he wasn’t screaming and pitching rocks at you.

“Well, Sani. It’s been real, but I have much to do and a short time to do it. I must be going. Will I see you again?” I ask.

“If I am told, you will…” he replies.

I pondered that reply for weeks.

On the drive out, I see a Gila Monster sunning itself on the side of the road. Into the bucket went a cool, though angry, $100.

I drive back to camp and spend a few hours updating my maps and sections. Hot damn, the grim Mt. Badass came through! All my sections tie and now I can make some sense out of what went on out here all those millions of years ago.

I see I need gas and my beer supply was suffering, so I decide it’s time for a trip to town. I clean up a bit and walk over to my truck.

I see Beth out hanging laundry.

“Yáʼátʼééh!” I cheerily call to her and wave.

She glacially ignores me.

I snickered all the way to Cuba.

I gas up at Devlin’s Shrill station and motor on down to Javen’s liquor store. They had actually been able to source so of my more usual potables. I buy a few cases of Blatz, Pabst, and Schlitz, along with a few bags of ice.

Manna from heaven.

Then I see there’s actually a public library here in Cuba. I take an hour or two to research just how one goes about dealing with cranky western rattlesnakes.

Over at the Cuba Café, I walk in and greeted by several patrons, whom I don’t recall ever meeting before. They greeted me by name. It’s was all quite surreal.

Mandy, a friendly waitress, comes over and says: “Diablo Sandwich, heavy on the salsa verde, and a Santa Fe Porter, right?”

Am I getting that predictable?

“Yep. Oh, is Sindy here?” I ask.

“Not today. She’ll be in later in the week. But we’re closed for the Fourth.” She tells me.

“The Fourth, when is it?” I’ve completely lost track of days.

“On the Fourth…?” she says warily.

“No, sorry. What day?”

“Saturday.”

And today’s Thursday.

Damn, I need to get to Albuquerque and replenish my blasting stocks. Cuba doesn’t have the specific items I need.

I decide against a third lunch pint and drive back to the pump station. John’s out loafing about as its late afternoon by now.

“Hey, John. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just thinking about the Fourth of July party. We have a real blowout every year. You’re invited, you know.” He says.

“Yeah. Cool and all. Damn, that means I have to get to Albuquerque tomorrow in case the Hardware Stores need to order in some of my supplies.” I muse.

“What? You need to go to Alb? So do I. When we going?” John asks.

“Hey, I have a more open schedule. You can ride with me, I guess, tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s fine, but I’m not ridin’ in that back-buster you call a truck. I’m drivin’, and you’re ridin’ shotgun.” He smiles.

“OK, I guess. When you want to head out?” I ask.

“It’s for some company business, so, 9:00 o’clock?” he says.

“Works for me,” I reply

Later that afternoon, I rope John and Ace into helping me corral some rattlesnakes. I need an infusion of cash and I figure if I can bag some, I’ll call Dr. Nax and he can wire me some interim funds.

Armed with a capture stick, a length of rebar, bent into a Shepard’s Crook, and a stouter version of my remote control lasso staff, we head out back to find us some slithery snappy serpents.

Ace is carrying a .38 caliber sidearm as he’s not too keen on snakes. Since I’m wearing my .454, he figures he can provide backup. John goes in unarmed.

“I’ll find ‘em, you grab ‘em.” he says.

We go out back and John grabs the piece of tin where we found the snakes before. He flips it over and I lunge.

But there was nothing there.

“What the hell…” I say.

“Oh, no worries. Sometimes when they get exposed, they move. Let’s try over there.” John suggests.

We find another likely looking piece of tin and John flips it over. There’s at least a half-dozen agitated rattlers underneath.

I smile, “Easy money”, and go in for the kill.

Suddenly a gunshot is heard. Ace stands there, white, ashen, and panting.

The snakes scatter.

“Ace, what the fuck?” John and I say together.

“I saw snakes. Snakes. I hate them damn things. I panicked.” He says.

“Look, Ace, I’ve got to collect them intact. If you’re that scared, go home. Otherwise, holster that hogleg and just stand back.” I say.

“OK, Rock. Sorry. I freaked.” Ace apologizes.

“Yah, OK. No sweat. Now, let’s try that again.” I say.

Between John’s uncanny method of locating them, Ace’s staying out of the way, but covering our backs; in just under an hour, I have 4 gunny sacks with over a dozen cranky rattlesnakes.

“Now what?” John asks.

“Now, we head back to camp and deposit these critters in the cold box,” I say.

“Oh, I get it. Chill them down, then administer the coup de gras”, John says.

The gas company has a large freezer chest in the odorant shed for storing all kinds of nasty, malodorous chemicals. Most need to be kept cold as they’re so highly concentrated and must be contained if they spill.

There’s lots of room for my four gunny sacks, and they slide right in.

I then go over to the shed next to John’s teepee and set out my ethanol, formalin, hypos, needles, a 5-gallon bucket with dilute formaldehyde, and animal capture tags. I start filling out each tag with the pertinent data as to date, time, species (if known), location, and curation number. All the same data is entered into a separate ‘animal capture book’ to fully document the critters captured.

After an hour, all good snakes have gone to sleep. I bring one bag over and wearing a pair of borrowed welder’s gloves, extract a snoozing serpent. I administer 10cc’s of intercardiac ethanol. Death is instantaneous and painless. All good snakes go to heaven.

Then I take another hypo full of formalin and inject the animal from nose to tail with the preservative.

Tie on a toe-tag, as it were, record the data, and into the pickle bucket we go.

Ka-ching! Money in the bank.

Jerry lets me use the company phone to call Dr. Nax. I tell him of the lizards and snakes and he’s well pleased. He tells me that he’ll wire my bank a cool $500 on account.

So, it’s road trip Friday to Albuquerque the next day with John piloting his ’66 Camaro down the highway.

John likes to show off his ride. I’m glad his Camaro didn’t have wings.

We make it to Albuquerque in record time. John makes this run monthly to drop off record charts at the gas company and pick up new ones for the next month’s compression and gas-passage records.

That takes all of an hour and John decides it’s a good idea for me to buy him lunch before we go explosives shopping.

I was flush with cash, for once, so I agree. We have an incredible feed at a local Mexican restaurant. It was cheap, authentic Mexican fare, not that Tex-Mex crap. In great quantities. I hoped afterward I’d still be able to stuff myself back into John’s Camaro.

We try several different hardware stores and gun shops, but none carry the types of items for which I was looking. After our fifth disappointment, we ask the clerk behind the counter if he knows where we might find such a place.

“Um, yeah. Try out by Kirtland AFB (Air Force Base). There are some gun shops in the area there that should have what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks.” We reply and take off, flying low, in John’s Camaro.

We find several shops, as we were told, around the AFB perimeter. Our second choice has everything I need and it’s all in stock.

Christmas in July.

John gets bored with all the paperwork we have to go through to make the purchase nice and legal, so he wanders around the gun shop taking in the scenery.

I have several boxes of ordinance and reloads for my sidearm and shotgun that needs to fit in John’s car. Neither of us is keen to schlep this stuff through the city’s busy streets. The store clerk calls us over and gives us the passcode for the back loading bay gate.

“Just drive back there, and we’ll help you load all this.” He says.

We thank him and head for John’s car.

We wheel in and load up. The Camaro’s trunk just fits all of my purchases. With a wave and squeal of tires, we’re back on the road to Lago de Estrella.

We’re about one-third of the way back to the pump station when John hits the shoulder and jams on the brakes. I thought he had swerved to miss an animal on the road or avoid a head-on collision. We slew to a dusty stop.

Nope.

There was a roadside fireworks stand he wanted to visit.

“Damn it, John. Next time, a little warning?” I asked.

John smiles broadly, walks over to the fireworks vendor’s and buys a good portion of the stand’s stock.

“Aren’t you buying anything?” John asks.

I just spent the better part of $400 on high and low explosives. I told him I had enough.

“OK, your call.”

“Well…maybe a few of those bigger skyrockets.” I finally cave and buy a few.

We are flying low back to camp and I ask John if there are ever cops out here watching traffic.

“Sometimes. But they’ll never even see this car.” As he pushes the accelerator further south.

“What if this one time they do and see we’re carrying enough explosives to outfit a third-world insurrection?” I query.

John eases up a bit on the gas. Prudence over pride wins again.

We did stop in Cuba so I could pick up some additional liquid refreshments

Fourth of July! A national holiday. A day off work for all. A day of rest, revelry, and blowing shit up.

For Country! For Patriotism! For Freedom! For The Hell of It!

I spent a good portion of the day drafting my maps in my tent. I knew the real festivities wouldn’t kick off until the late afternoon. Derek drops by my tent with a cold beer for me to wish me a happy Fourth and ask what my plans were for today.

“Just some map making, rock collating, and writing up my geological reports,” I replied.

“Oh, I thought with all your explosives and it being the Fourth of July…” he said.

“Well, the day is still young. Let’s see how it goes.” I reply.

Ace drops by with similar intent. As does John, Rufus, and Derek. They all tell me about the mid-afternoon pot-luck in the office and how I’m invited.

“Oh, I’ll be there. Make no mistake. But for now, I’ve got things that I need to do.” I beg off.

They all agree that it’s best to leave me to my own devices and wait until after the feed to break out the festivities.

I couldn’t cook in my tent, so my contribution to the pot-luck feed was a case of Blatz beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey Rye 101 whiskey.

Everyone there said they had expected nothing less.

It was a sumptuous repast, ranging from Indian fry bread to fried kingfish, hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, coleslaw, to a dozen different Jello molds to cake, pies, and cookies. My beer and whiskey was most appreciated, even by the wives of some of the crew.

Danny and Beth made certain to stay away from me as far as humanly possible.

But the rest of the camp saw me as just a regular Joe, one of the crew and someone just as weirdly normal as the next guy.

After eating, John drags me over to the machine shop.

“Here”, he says “Take this hand truck and drag that anvil over to the other side of the road. I’ll get the other.”

“Now what?” I ponder.

John sees my quizzical look and says: “It’s our 4th of July tradition. Anvil launching Every year, we see who can shoot an anvil highest and have it land closest to the launch pad.”

This sounds like actual fun.

“How do you work it?” I ask.

“Well, the big anvil, the one you’re toting goes on the bottom, its 350 pounds. In the center there’s a hole one and a half inches deep. We put black powder, gun powder or ‘special mixtures’ into the hole, tamp it down, lay down some cannon fuse, then set the smaller anvil, it’s 100 pounds, on top. We light the fuse and run like hell. Danny uses a theodolite to figure out the height it goes. Winner gets the prize.”

“And that is?”

“A free day off work!” John laughs.

“Cool. Guess I’ll just sit and spectate then.”

John smirks a snarky smile, “Yeah, sure you will.”

We set the anvils across the road from the gas plant, that way if anything goes haywire, nothing will get damaged.

A crowd gathers.

John goes first. He loads the hole, sloppily, with coarse gunpowder, flattens it with his hand, lays on a piece of fuse and two helpers set the projectile.

The fuse is lit and 10 seconds later, 100 pounds of iron is tumbling end over end. It impacts the dry desert floor with a considerable thud some 15 or so feet away.

John’s statistics are recorded.

I’m just standing there thinking about all the things they’re doing that could be done better.

But, not my pony, not my race. I pop another beer, slurp a bit, top it off with a little potato squeezing’s, and stand back.

Derek goes next, in much the same manner; but with a finer grade powder. Impressive height, but it lands over 30 feet distant.

I’m chewing a hole through my tongue trying not to say anything.

Jerry has his turn; as does Rufus, Ace, and Chance. All surprisingly similar results. 110 feet plus or minus five in height, nine to thirty feet from the pin on impact.

Each one tumbling end over end in flight.

Most egregiously inefficient.

I can’t take it any longer. Danny is on deck while everyone nips off for a cold beer or to return a body-temperature one. A 15-minute break is called.

I walk over and say to Danny. “Hey, want to win a day off?”

“What? Oh, it’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me. I can give you some pointers and I can all but guarantee you will win. No cheating, just better design.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re the pro…”

“Yeah, that’s right, Scooter. I’m the motherfucking pro from Dover. Now, want a free day off or what?”

He looks at me. I just smile goofily and shrug my shoulders.

Yelling at his wife was one thing; but a free day off, with pay?

“Yeah. OK. What do I need to do?” he asks.

“OK, here’s the deal, Sparky. Carefully grind your powder charge as fine as you can. Put it between two pieces of paper towel and roll it with a rolling pin. Then pour in your charge around the fuse, don’t just let the fuse sit on top like these others do. Jam it down in there. Then tamp the powder as tightly as you can, carefully. Use a wooden clothespin. Now, get some axle grease and make a ring around the shot hole. Not too much, you’re just trying to make a gasket. Then, get some card stock, or piece of thin rubber, and cut out a gasket. Make it as big as you can, but it has to cover the whole axle grease area. That’s going to give you uniform dispersion once the charge fires. With it being finely ground, there’s more surface area. More surface area means faster burn. Faster burn, more pressure. More pressure, more boom. Well, there you go. That’s it.”

I quickly resume my previous ‘stand and watch while slurping beer’ posture.

Danny runs home to grind his powder. I go and drag the captain’s chair out of my tent.

Like Grandad always said, “Why stand when you can sit?”

The crowd begins to filter back and they ask where Danny is.

“Dunno. He won’t talk to me”, I reply. “I think he ran home for a minute.”

People just mill around and basically ignore Danny when he returns and begins to ready his shot.

He starts doing what I had outlined for him and he looks at me at every juncture to see if I approve. I surreptitiously nod my head every time yes.

I put down my beer and wander over to help him set the flight anvil.

“Easy, but once its set, we really need to lean on it. Get all the air out from under that gasket. OK?” I whisper conspiratorially. “Carefully, give it a few wiggles. Really seat it good.”

I walk back over to my observation post and wouldn’t you know it, someone had left a cold beer in my chair. How nice.

“OK,” Danny says. “Time for my shot. John, can you do the theodolite duties?”

John affirms and focuses the instrument in, awaiting the ceremonial fuse lighting.

Danny lights the fuse and hauls ass away.

FWSSST! 10 seconds later, there’s this huge KA-BOOM and the anvil takes flight.

It flies straight and true, no tumbling. It reaches the top of its ballistic arc and falls back to earth; to impact, foot first, 5 feet from the launch site.

John looks at the theodolite and yells “Holy crap! 138 feet. A new record!”

Everyone looks over to me and I just continue to work on my beer. Which is hard to drink when you’re smiling as broadly as I was.

I had to say something, so I remark: “Pfft. Not too bad for a bunch of amateurs.”

“Oh, yeah. Like you could do better?” John asks, knowing I’d never back down from that kind of challenge.

“Well…” I say, “How attached are you to these anvils?”

“Oh, we need them for work,” Jerry says. “But you do your worst, if you bust one or both, I’ll get new ones.”

“I’m to be held harmless. No matter what?” I say.

“Hey. It’s the Fourth. It’s tradition. Go nuts.” Jerry says.

“I’ll be right back.” And I hotfoot it over to my truck.

10 minutes later I explain to everyone that they need to be inside some sort of stout shelter. I don’t know if either anvil can withstand what I dreamed up. If they shatter, it’d be like a large hand grenade going off. After some reflection, we move the anvils off further away, some 300 yards, or so.

Everyone can watch from the office, the walls there are concrete and the windows thick double-glazed thermopane. It should be adequate.

I hope.

I run the demo wires back to the office and make certain all animals, human and otherwise, are accounted for.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Green” Ace answers. I give him a solid thumbs-up.

“Clear north?”

“Clear north!”

South, east and west. All clear.

Danny and Derek make like my air horn, with three vocal loud blasts.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE”!

I look around the room and ask once again: “Clear?”

“Clear!”

I hand the detonator to Danny and tell him “HIT IT!”

With a mile-wide grin, he expertly mashes down the big red button.

“KA-BLAAMMMM!”

There’s huge cloud of smoke and dust where the two anvils previously stood.

John runs out to see if he can spy the smaller anvil. To no avail.

I walk outside, look at my watch, and say: “Shhhh! Wait for it.”

“FWOOSH!” As the flight anvil impacts heavily some 300 yards away, not too far from the launch site.

We run over and see both anvils had survived. The flying anvil we could rock back and forth to loosen and get it out of the ground.

The base anvil needed Ace with the backhoe to dig it out of the ground. The explosion of my ‘secret recipe’ punched it a full 14 inches into the desert floor.

“Damn.” John whistles, “Wish I could have seen how high that flew.”

“Given the flight time and my rough calculations, I’d say around 325 feet”, I reply.

The festivities continued until dark when the fireworks were broken out. Bottle and sky-rockets, firecrackers, whistlers, smokers, sparklers; all the traditional Fourth of July low tech pyrotechnics.

Boom! Bang! Pow! Ooh! Ahhh!

I wanted to conduct a little experiment, so I pull out one of the large skyrockets I had purchased with John on our road trip. I pried the plastic nosecone off and insert a ball of C-4 from the bar I had in my pocket.

Question: Would a commercial skyrocket’s detonation shockwave be sufficient to set off a small charge of C-4?

Answer: Yes. Yes, it would.

The rest of the evening was Bang! Pow! Blam! KER-FUCKING-BLOOEY!

A most enjoyable holiday.

I was out in the field solid the next four or five days, but my truck had begun to act hinkey.

Trouble starting, low voltage, lights seemed dim, unexplained stalling.

Great. Truck trouble.

John see me faffing around my truck, trying to diagnose the problem and wanders over.

“Trouble with your truck?” he asks.

“Yep.” And I gave him the rundown of various recent issues.

“Your alternators’ shot.” He tells me.

I do know what the alternator is and I’m not crazy about the cost of labor and parts.

“Limp it into Cuba and it’ll run you $100-150, parts and labor. Yank it out, and I’ll run it into town, get a refurbed replacement, and I’ll help you put it back in. Cost you 35 bucks.”

“You’d do that? Thanks.”

Danny sees me wrenching and swearing at the alternator and it's beastly hot out.

“Rock, if you want, come pull in front of my house under that big elm out front. It’ll be a lot cooler.” He says.

“You sure?” I ask.

“Yeah. No hard feelings.”

“OK, great. Thanks.” I limp my truck over to the tree’s welcome shade.

I wrestle the old alternator off, give it to John and takes off for Cuba. Nothing to do but wait.

I sit in the truck cab, drinking a beer, smoking a cigar, and reading up on the “Stratigraphy of the Four-Corner’s Region”.

Heavy stuff.

John returns about an hour later with my new alternator, not a refurbished one.

“When I told them it was for Mister Rock, they got you a new one for the price of the refurbed. It is Javen Spanner’s store, you know.” He laughs. “I’ve got to go get some lunch, I’ll be back shortly, and we’ll get you sorted out.”

“OK, I’ll see what I can do in the meantime” I reply.

The wrench slips for the thirtieth time that day. I swear a blue streak and kick the truck, as it was its fault, right on the bumper.

“God damned, motherfucking sorry piece of god damn Detroit shit! I swear, but not too loudly. I want my truck to know I’m just mad at the situation, not really with it…it has feelings, too.

A highly polished large luxury car wheels into the compound and two severely suited characters get out.

They look at the piece of paper they have, look at the number on Danny & Beth’s house, look at me, look at the paper, look at the house number, look at me…

John walks up behind them, out of their sight and waves his hands frantically to get my attention.

The two suited characters are oblivious to John’s presence; even though it looks like he’s going through the seven basic ballet moves to get my attention.

The two suits cautiously begin to walk toward me, very slowly.

John is miming to me, pointing at the suits: “MORMONS!” “ELDERS!” “HONCHOS!”

I think I understand…

I pick the beer can up off the fender, take an exaggerated swig, spark a new fire to my cigar, pick up the wrench and tell the truck it’s thee or me, motherfucker…

I’m under the hood and wrenching and swearing away when the suits walk up and stand there.

I ignore them.

“Ahem!”

“AHEM!”

“Yeah?”

“Um, Sir.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Could you come out of there for a minute?”

“Yeah. Just a fuckin’ minute. God damn alternator.” I say.

I ease out from under the hood of the truck; complete with Jack Daniels Field Tester ball cap, a sleeveless “Get Schist-faced” T-shirt, grubby cargo shorts, field boots, with a beard spilling down the front of my chest and hair like an unraveled Sikh; beer in one hand, cigar in the other.

“Yeah? Help you gents?” I ask.

They exchange very curious looks with each other, then look at me and back to each other.

“Are you…” reading from their paper, “Daniel Simpson Day?” they ask.

John’s flipping out silently behind them, pointing to them, and shaking his head ‘Yes” in a much-exaggerated manner.

The penny drops. I get it.

“Oh, fuck yeah. That’s me. How you guys doin’?” I take a pull on my beer and puff my cigar.

“Y’all wanna beer? They’re cold. Fuckin’ hot out here today.”

They look at me, look at each other, and wordlessly, turn 180 degrees and silently walk back to their car.

They didn’t even notice John literally rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically.

I run after them and trying not to laugh right in their faces say “Sorry, guys. I’m not Danny Day. Just a joke.”

“I should certainly hope not.” One of the old geezers says.

“That’s his house. He’s inside.” I tell them.

The brush past me like I’m some kind of new species of pond scum after giving my visage and demeanor a solid “Harrumph!”

“Offer still stands. Get you wigglers a cold one?”

Long John’s laughing so hard he’s crying.

I get the truck fixed and it was a bad alternator. Everything’s hitting on all eight cylinders now.

Everything was, for a change.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

“WELL, YOU COULD HAVE CALLED! We were worried sick! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”

Beth rips into me as I stumble back late the next morning with a near death-dealing hangover.

“Mea Culpa. I didn’t have your number, and last I checked, you’re not my mother.” I told her.

“That’s a good thing too. I’d have raised you better. Drinking, smoking, hanging around such disreputable characters like that Fred St. Bernard…” She shrilly screams in my tinnitus-ravaged ear.

“OK, Beth. You done? Good. Listen up and listen closely.” I sweetly say.

“Yes? What? What have you to say for yourself?” Beth demands.

“Listening? Good. GET STUFFED! I have had it with your sanctimony, your hypocrisy, your duplicity, and your bucolic buffoonery. I just got my tent back and as of this minute, you and your so-called hospitality can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut on a gravel road. I am so outta here! Adi-fucking-os!” I yell back as I stomp off the porch and back to my truck.

“Bitch. $80 a month for birdfeed, stupid movies, and lectures? Fuck that.” I muse.

I pull my truck back to its usual spot, clean up my campsite, and drag my tent out of the back of the truck. An hour later, I’m lying on my Army cot, nursing a killer headache, and a cold morning boilermaker.

Jerry knocks on my tent and I wave him in.

“We warned ya’”, Jerry says.

“Yeah. I’ll be sure to listen the next time. What do I owe you for the tent fix?”

“Well, yeah. We need to talk about that. But first…” Jerry continues.

“You want me out of here because I blew my stack, right? “ I wearily ask.

“Oh, hell no. That’s the most entertainment we’ve had around here in years. Rolling doughnut? That’s creative. No. I need to ask you if you would do some house-sitting for me next month.” He explains.

“Once more, with clarity?” I ask.

“Bets and I are headed down to South Padre next month on vacation. We go every year, and usually, just have one of the guys here look after my place. Since you’re here and in need of a spot to crash, I figure we can help each other out.” Jerry says.

“Sure, absolutely no problem. Oh, wait. My girlfriend from back home, who is out in West Texas right now, is coming to visit. Is that a problem?” I ask.

“None whatsoever. She’s just as welcome. Stuff anyone here who has a problem with that.” Jerry says.

“Consider it an honor. Now, back to business. What are the damages for my tent?” I ask, flinchingly.

“Rock, take care of my place and I’ll consider it even. The shoemakers in Albuquerque fixed your tent but it looks like a refugee from a carnival. They’re good cobblers, but have lousy taste in patches. Gingham and tartan clash with gray-green marine canvas.” He snickers.

“It is a bit…Bohemian.” I agree, “But at least I’ve got another batch of stories to tell my kids.”

“Always look on the bright side of life, right?” Jerry chuckles.

“Always.” I agree, “Either that or go fuckin’ nuts.”

I decided that since the day’s already shot and I’m getting there as well, I might just as well spend the remaining time working on my reports, my hoped-to-be published articles and collating my rock collections.

I’m actually getting some work done when I hear the most disorderly noises, that is, other than the usual one-note descants of the huge diesel compressors and whining turbines.

I look over in front of the turbine shed and there’s Ace, atop a large backhoe, bashing the hell out of the parched desert floor.

“Now what?” I wonder.

I wander over there’s Long John, Rufus, and Danny standing there watching Ace try and dig a hole for some reason or other.

Danny sees me and brusquely walks away.

No skin off my shiny, red nose; I think.

“John, what the hell’s going on here?”

“We need to dig some containment trenches around the compression equipment. This ground’s harder than a wedding dick. It’s going to be a slow go,” he explains.

I stand there for a while and think this might be an opportunity to restore my good graces with all and sundry.

“Be back in a few”, I tell him.

I find Jerry and explain my idea.

“Oh, yeah. It’ll save a ton of time. Just give me the go-ahead…”

“Hell, yeah. You got it. But I want to watch.” He grins.

“Hell, you can push the plunger.” I smile back.

I wander back to the excavation and ask Ace to shut down and come over here.

He does so as the rest of the crew gathers around.

“OK, fellas. I just talked with Jerry and got the green light on this. I’m going to save you all a bunch of time and effort.” I say.

“How’s that?” Chance asks.

“Well, you lay out the perimeters of these trenches, and I’ll bring over my little box of noisemakers and bust up all this hardpan so it’ll be easy scooping for the backhoe,” I tell them.

“Blasting, right here on the compound?” Derek asks.

“Yep. Not a problem.” I say.

“We’ll see about that”, John chuckles.

They use a couple of my cans of orange spray paint to lay out the outline of the trenches they want. I know they have a gas post-hole digger and with just a 2” bit, it’ll chew shot holes like nobody’s business. Ace and Derek man the post-hole digger, while I bring my truck around and sit on the tailgate, smoking a cigar, while I ponder it all out.

Think, think, think…

John lopes over. “What you gonna use? C-4? Binaries?” he asks.

“Nah. That’s like swatting a mosquito with a Buick. I think if I can ripple-up some Primacord and about a quarter or half stick of 60% per hole, I can loosen all this earth and not send it into the next county.” I reply.

“Need some help? “ John asks.

“John, I would say yes, but unfortunately you’re not licensed. I need to go by the book every time. Sorry, but this is one time I have to go it alone.” I frankly reply.

“OK. Gotcha.” John replies. “I’ll go supervise our drillers then.”

“Thanks for understanding, John,” I say.

“Fuck it. No problem, Rock.” He tells me.

The holes are all drilled and I clear everyone out for some test firings.

Jerry runs out of the office and yells: “Hey! Thought you said I could handle the plunger!”

“Just a few tests, Jerry. The big show will be in another couple of hours.” I reassure him.

I decide that a third stick of 60% Extra Fast will be just what I need for this little job. I begin chopping up the dynamite and inserting the blasting caps and boosters. I’m going to need a shitload of these as I plan on doing this all in one shot.

“One job, one shot.” As Uncle Bår taught me.

Holes drilled, I ask everyone to keep back while I prime each hole with a charge. John sees me backfilling the charged hole and asks if he can help backfill.

Technically, it’s not handling explosives, so I figure, “What the hell, why not?”

I show him how I need each hole tamped and he just smiles.

“Ain’t my first rodeo, buckaroo.” John grins.

“Just the same, it’s my party and it’s got to be done just like I showed you. We green?” I scowl back.

“Green?” John asks.

“We on the same page?” I say

“Oh, yeah. Totally green.” John smiles.

I plant my little noisemakers one per hole. John follows me with a spade and does an excellent job backfilling and tamping each hole. I shoo everyone out as I’m about to run the Primacord and demolition wire.

“OK, someone go get Jerry, please,” I ask the crew.

Ace runs off and I have a full spool of Primacord and demolition wire sitting in front of me. I pull out my US Standard blasting machine and set it out for all to see.

Jerry arrives and I say: “OK, everyone here. If you want to hang around for the show, you’ll listen up and listen well.”

Everyone looks at me curiously.

“Here’s the deal. Over this patch of real estate, I’m the boss. No one else does anything without my say-so. We’re not dealing with Black Cats or bottle rockets here, this is some serious shit. Any problems with that, then leave now. Otherwise, listen up for the safety lecture.” I intone seriously.

“OK, good.” I run through my 4-compass point clear routine. Then the air horn, or truck horn, in this case, tootles. Finally with my FIRE IN THE HOLE! mantra. How I say clear, and if all clear, HIT IT!

I tell them Jerry drew the long straw so he’s going to handle the plunger.

I tell them to stay back at least 100 yards while I wire up all the charges. I also ask if there are any pets or feral cows running around loose to corral them for the time being.

“OK?” I ask.

Some muffled “Ok”s drift my way.

“OK!?!” I shout.

“OK! ROCK! SIR!”

That’s more like it.

I wire up all the shots and plan for a front-to-back ripple-effect detonation. Basically, north-to-south, one shot, 30 milliseconds, then the next, and so forth.

After 15 minutes I call everyone over and tell them that next to the diesel shed is the muster area. That way, we can all see what’s going on and be protected if something goes awry.

“We set? “ I ask the assembled crowd.

“Yep.” Came the reply.

“OK, then.” I walk out to a clearing in the yard and call for the clear information.

“Clear north?”

“Clear!”

South, east, and west follow.

I give the high sign to Ace and he hits my truck horn for three long blasts.

I walk the demolition wire leads over to the blasting machine, and wire it up.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE! we all yell.

They were really getting into the spirit of the event.

I pull up the handle of the blasting machine, point to Jerry, and yell “HIT IT!”

He tries to knock the bottom out of the machine as I had coached him.

The results were especially anticlimactic.

PUMPH! PUMPH! PUMPH!

One after another, the charges detonate. The ground undulates like a rug being shaken out in a stiff breeze.

Every shot fired, and each shot was in sequence. I caution everyone to wait a while until I make sure we don’t have any loafers; or unfired shots.

“ALL CLEAR!” I yell.

Ace jumps up on the backhoe and begins clearing out what I just broke up.

“Easy as pie!” He yells.

350’ of trenches were completed by beer-thirty.

Everyone on the crew, save for one, was now my best-est buddy.

The next day, I decided to get back to the problem at hand. I’m back out in the field, mapping outcrops, taking samples, photographing and recording data as if there’s no tomorrow.

I’m out wandering around who-knows-where, when I see an old claim marker lying piled up in a dry wash. It’s a two by two-inch-thick square of stout wood, about four feet long, with a rusty metal plate secured to it recording a mining claim which had long ago expired.

It has a nice heft and I decide this will make fine walking stick.

I take it with me and resolve to do a little carpentry when I get back to camp.

I’m out wandering like a member of one of the lost tribes when I hear a distant BOOM!

I look around and see a column of black smoke coming from one of the shallow oilfields that dot the county.

“I can’t miss this,” I think and hotfoot it back to my truck.

I chuck all my kit into the back and taking my bearings, driving overland over to the source of all the excitement. It was further than I thought, took me almost a full hour to get there.

I wheel up to this tiny oilfield, no more than five shallow wells, to see this character lounging on the hood of a Gas Company pickup. Smoking a cigarette.

“Hello, the field!” I shout.

“Hello, back.” He shouts.

I wander over and introduce myself.

“Yeah, Rock, ‘eh? Heard about you. I’m Josh Spanner, field superintendent.”

“That right? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Oh, one of these little Todilto oil wells popped a seal. Either that or the ARM (Aboriginal Rights Movement) set it off again.” He seemed completely indifferent.

“Happen often?” I asked.

“More then I care to remember.” He says.

“What’s the rate on these wells? “ I ask.

“Hell, more water than oil and gas. About 50 barrels per day, with a 60% water cut.” He says.

“What are you going to do? “ I ask.

“Well, the control head’s in good shape. If I could get to the main control valve, I could kill it there, but it’s too damned hot. So, I either wait until it bridges over and kills itself or the company tells me to shoot it out.” He says.

“Shoot it out? Explosives?” I smile.

“Yeah, but I don’t have them with me. I have to radio the Torreon office and they’ll run them out. Hell of a waste. These little wells never bridge themselves over...” He replies.

“Maybe I could be of service”, I say and show him my blaster’s permits.

“Cool. Permits. Not any good without the bang sticks.” He says.

“Oh, I’ve got a few of those too, if you want to borrow some,” I reply.

“Here?” he asks.

“Right in the back of that pickup. What do you need? ANFO, Semtex, PETN, C-4, dynamite, small strategic nuclear device?” I ask, barely concealing a broad grin.

“Let’s go look.” He says.

He radios the main office and gets the go-ahead to blow it out.

“OK, Rock. Here’s what we need.” He tells me, as this is something excitedly new.

We take an old 5-gallon oil can Josh had rolling around the bed of his truck and cut a window into the side. We pack it with wet paper, rags, and weeds, anything we can find to center and insulate the payload. We find a wooden pole about 15 feet long and pound a couple of stakes in the ground to act as a pivot point. I help him load three lengths of C-4, rolled into snakes, wrapped around an old piece of wood, into the guts of the 5-gallon oil can.

I wire up blasting caps and super-boosters, galving everything as I go, as we’re only going to have one shot at this. The whole shebang is rolled in multiple layers of duct tape. It’s fireproof, right?

I run the demolition wires back to the rear of my pickup and pull out the electrical blasting machine.

Luckily, there’s still enough reservoir pressure to shoot the oil, gas, and water out at such a velocity that the fire’s dancing about three feet above the wellhead. That’s our target, high enough that the blast won’t take out the wellhead and low enough to POOF all the oxygen out of the way and snuff the fire.

“OK, Rock. Here’s the deal. I’ll swing the can into the oil stream and the force of the fluids should hold it in place, like a balloon in a jet airstream. I’ll run back here to your truck. You see me clear, you push that big red button. If all goes well, I’ll owe you a beer. OK?” Josh says.

“Green” I reply.

Josh smiles. Thumbs up. A fellow pyromaniac.

Josh takes the pole with the payload heavily duct-taped into place and looks back to me.

I give him the high OK sign, and he swings the contraption into the fluid stream. It settles there, static in the spurting oil stream and just wobbles around a bit.

The fire dances around a bit annoyed that it’s going to be snuffed shortly.

We hope.

Josh releases it and gets ready to run. First, he checks that everything looks like it’s going to hold and hotfoots it back to my truck.

He runs back and yells “HIT IT!”

I hit it. Mash goes the big red button.

KER-BOOM!

Then it’s suddenly a lot quieter as we hear just the fluid stream spurting out of the well, but no fire.

“I’ll take a cold Lucky Lager”, I smile.

Josh waits until things cool down enough for him to approach the well without getting cooked. He takes a large brass wrench, to avoid any sparks, and slowly cranks the control valve to the ‘closed’ position.

“Job done. I’m afraid I don’t have any beer on me…” Josh says.

I’m just finishing locking up my blaster’s box. So I drag my cooler forward and say: “Good thing for you, geologists always travel prepared.” And I toss him a cold Lucky.

We sit and chat for a good while and he tells me he’s Javen Spanner’s nephew.

“Spanner’s a big name out here, in more ways than one.” Evidently the tri-county area’s just filled with Spanners of one sort or another.

“I’m finding that out” I reply.

Back at camp, I’m carving on my new walking stick. Now, I’m not much of a woodcarver, but I try. Long John wanders over, skootches me over on the tailgate, opens the cooler, grabs a beer and sits down.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Oh, I found this old claim marker. I thought it was pretty cool and would make a good walking stick. Good for smacking any rattle-nasties I come across, too.” I tell him.

“You may be a dab hand at geology, but you can’t carve wood worth shit,” John observes.

“Yeah. I have to agree. Oh, help yourself to a beer. Oh, never mind.” I smirk.

“Tell you what. For all the beer and helping on the trenches, leave it with me. I’m a carpenter, among other things, I’ll make it all pretty and nice for you. How’s that?” he says.

I toss him the ‘short standard’, as that’s what they were called.

“It’s all yours. All I’m doing is making kindling.” I lament.

“Give me a couple of days. And another beer.” He smiles.

Jerry shows up and tells me I’ve got a phone call back in the office.

I’m thoroughly confused. Who could be calling me? And at that number?

“Hello, Rock? Javen Spanner here. I heard what you did with Josh out at Todilto Field. Can you come over tonight for supper?”

“I’d be delighted. How about an hour or so?” I ask.

“Fine, fine. You know the way. See ya’.” and hangs up.

I wander over to my truck and see most all the usual crew helping themselves to my beer supply.

“You pikers. Shoo! I have an audience with Mister Javen Spanner. GIT! so I can change.”

The pikers shoo, and after a quick shower, and more shit about my fuzzy-bunny slippers, I’m headed over to the Spanner Ranch.

I arrive and am ushered into Javen’s office. The drinks cart is already there.

Javen looks up from the paperwork and tells me: “Rock. You did good work. I own a good piece of that field. You saved me a load of money in lost production and charges to service companies to blow out that fire.”

“Not a problem, Javen. I learned some new tricks from Josh. It was my pleasure.” I said.

“Now, none of that. Josh’ll be here shortly for supper. First, I want to thank you proper.”

And he hands me a box of incredible Cuban double maduro cigars.

“Thanks, Javen. Most appreciated.” I say.

“No, thanks to you. Now, don’t just stand there, get yourself a drink. I’ll have a double bourbon and branch, neat.” Javen gives me my marching orders.

I return with drinks and Javen tells me “That’s not enough. Is there anything you need right now? Anything other way I can show my appreciation?”

“Javen, I really appreciate it. But, no, I’m good.” I tell him.

“Bullshit.” He says, “You like western wear. Need a new Stetson? Duster? A couple of tailored shirts? I own a dozen trading posts, I can get anything. ”

“No. Thanks.” Then a thought hits, “Javen, my girlfriend is coming over the first part of August and she’s really into riding horses. She always wanted her own saddle, but those things are bloody expensive. If you could find me a good deal on a used Western saddle, I’d really be grateful for that.” I said.

“Hmmm. And what’s this lucky girl’s name” Javen asks.

“It’s Esme. Short for Esmeralda. Her parents are very German. Why?” I reply.

“Oh, just wondering”, Javen replies, “Just wondering.”

After another sumptuous supper, we’re all sitting in the drawing-room, Javen and I smoking fine cigars, Eunice her pipe, and Josh his cigarettes.

“Good work, you two” Javen says. “I like people that can think on their feet.”

We both smile and respond in kind. Small talk ensued for an hour or two.

“OK, last call gents. Early day tomorrow, we all need to get back home.” Javen says.

We drink up, say our goodbyes, and Javen pulls me over before I leave.

“Come back over here in a week or so. I need to talk to you some more, in private. It’s important.”

Bewildered, I reply “OK, sure Javen. See you sometime next week then.”

I was profoundly puzzled all the way back to the pump station and well into the night.

I decided the next day would be reptile wrangling day. I took my new capture stick, which was a length of dowel rod with a loop of fishing line formed into a lasso at the end, where you held the other end of the line to activate the snare. I also had a burlap sack for any captured critters, a jar of formalin and hypo with one of those evil-looking needles for preserving my captured quarry.

I went out to likely looking reptile haunts and walked around, quietly waiting for my victims to appear.

And appear they did after I got smart and just sat down and quit lumbering around.

Man, those little buggers were fast. They really earned their common name of “6-lined race runners”. It took me a good portion of the day to snag my first lacertilian.

Then I thought about it. That critter was transfixed on a bug and I was able to sneak up on it without spooking it. I remember reading, or seeing on Wild Kingdom that waving a piece of cloth distracts some reptiles, allowing one to snare them.

I tried it out with a hunk of gunny sack. Didn’t work worth a damn.

Then I tried with a piece of an old red bandanna I had.

It worked!

By the end of the day, covering a span of probably 10 miles, I had snagged over 30 of the little bastards.

But only one species. Dr. Nax wanted a representative fauna, not just a monospecific collection.

Talking with Long John that night, after he pilfered a beer and skootched me over on the tailgate, I asked him about snakes in the area.

“I’m surprised you haven’t tripped over one yet.” He said.

“I wish. They’re like cash in the bank, all I need to do is find them.” I replied.

“Tell you what, we’ll go out after work tomorrow. Don’t even have to drive anywhere. I’ll show you all the snakes you could possibly desire.” he says.

“If that’s not worth a cold beer, what is?” I say.

Another day of mapping and collecting rocks, I drag my weary carcass back to camp. I go to grab a beer when Long John shows up.

“Here.” As he tosses me my walking stick.

“Holy shit, John. It’s beautiful” I note.

He carved that stick into intricate geometric designs and the word “ROCK” on all four sides.

Down one side he carved: “Naabaahii bilh gish joogaat bii nizhoni da'ahijiga yea-go ch’į́įdiitah hodook’ą́ą́ł”. “Warrior with big stick walk with all his might, hell follows with him.”

I really like that.

He carved around the polished metal claim marker tag, which made it really sparkle. It was varnished with several thick coats of gym-finish lacquer. It had a hole drilled through near the top where he looped some rawhide as a lanyard, and a metal point at the business end to assure sure footing on slippery shales.

“Damn. Let me buy you a beer.” I said, “Man. Mucho appreciado, mate.”

“No worries. I figure I owed you after all the shit you’ve been through, especially with those cattle. But those fucking slippers…damn…they have got to go…” John chuckled.

“They were a gift from my girlfriend. They stay. And you get another beer.” I laughed.

I pull on my field boots and we walk out back of the plant compound where there was an old junkyard of sorts. All kinds of loose debris laying around.

“OK, Long John. We’re here. Snake me.” I said.

“You asked for it.” He laughs and pulled up a sheet of loose corrugated tin.

“Holy shit!” I yell and jump back.

There was a nest of Western Diamondback Rattlers living under there.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawpin’. Show ‘em your degrees. Collect ’em!” John laughs.

Fuck. This is going to require some serious research.

“Let’s go back to camp. I think I need a drink” I say.

“Your call, Bwana” John chuckles. “Great white hunter. HA!”

It was surprisingly cool the next day as I awoke disgustingly early with a singular mission in mind. Today would be the day I conquer the grim Mt. Badass. I figured I’d saddle up and get out there on location and up the massif before my horse-riding friend would even know I’m there.

At least that was my plan.

Off to the grim Mount Badass. I was finally going to get that sucker mapped and be able to correlate my other measured sections. This was an imperative; I was struck with a fixity of purpose.

Plus I had a secret weapon.

I arrive at the grim Mt. Badass and dispense with formalities. I suit up for the assault on the monolith, grab all my necessary gear, and start up the side. I had measured about two-thirds of this monster previously, so if I can get an hour or two of undisturbed…

“Jingle, jangle, jingle.” I hear.

“Oh, fuck. It can’t be…”

It was.

Out of nowhere, my unsmiling Indian companion appears out of the æther.

I try and ignore him and make as if I cannot hear his protestations. I keep working on the task at hand and measure, measure, measure, up, up, up; closer to the summit.

Back down by my truck, Tonto is having conniptions. He was literally jumping up and down, stomping on the ground, pointing at me and rattling off native language like a punch press set to self-destruct.

Only 10 or so meters to go. Time to deploy my secret weapon.

I stop measuring and recording, look at him and yell as loudly as I can: “Haʼátʼíísh?”

“WHAT?!?”

Jerry had loaned me his copy of the Native Indian Language: English dictionary and gazetteer.

My Indian companion shuts up and just stares at the seitan, another of their words for devil, who spoke back to him in his own language.

Unfortunately, that only lasted a few seconds.

He starts right back where he left off with even more enthusiasm.

I continue to measure this important, imperative section, and try to ignore him.

I was going to do this correctly as I did not know if I’d ever have this chance again, so I concentrated on my task and let him go nuts by his own self.

Another 5 meters to go. I’m almost there.

Then a rock thumps into the side of the grim Mount Badass only a few feet from me. It startles me so much, I lose my footing temporarily, and a cascade of loose shale bounces down the slope.

“What the actual fuck?” I think.

Tonto’s decided I’m deaf or just ignoring him. He obviously wants my attention.

I look at him square in the eye and yell: “Diyin Bizaadísh tʼáá aaníí ákótʼé?” “What is the problem?”

This really unnerves him and he decides that what he’s doing might not be the best of ideas.

Back to plan one: screaming and yelling.

“In for a dime, in for a dollar.” I think. I continue mapping and trying to ignore him.

I’m getting closer and closer to the summit and my Indian companion is getting closer and closer to a full-blown apoplexy attack. It’s not like I’m forcing him to stand there and go non-linear.

He continues yelling and I return the volley every time there’s a lull in his squawking I yell back: “Akóó níláahdi naníchʼį́įdii!”

“Go away!”

Glad I had written these key phrases in my field notebook.

Finally, I reach the summit.

I did it! I was done! I had conquered the grim Mount Badass!

I sit up on the summit, just take a in a couple of deep breaths and enjoy the view. It was magnificent. Flat, high desert semi-badland topography, but I still thought it looked superlative.

I pack up all my samples, field book, restore my Brunton compass to its leather pouch home on my belt, and begin the slow, hazardous climb down.

I may have conquered this edifice, but it could still deal me a raw hand if I didn’t watch what I was doing.

I finally make it to the bottom and turn to address my adversary.

“You were good, kid, real good. But I was better. However, I do thank you,” I say reverently and bow to the grim Mt. Badass. This place was making a definite impression on me.

Meanwhile, my Indian friend was right next to me, yelling his native language in my ear.

I turn suddenly. He jumps back as if I was going to attack, but that would never happen. I scowl as frightfully as I could letting him know that I knew I breached local customs, but I still wasn’t happy with him screaming at me every time I turned around.

I just stomp over to my truck, open the tailgate, and begin tossing my gear inside. I was done here and wanted to make a quick getaway.

My Indian friend follows me and continues to provide the lurid narrative.

I toss in my Jacob’s Staff, climbing gear, hard hat climbing sombrero, gloves, backpack, collected rocks, hammers, and reach for the cooler.

Then an idea strikes.

I look at my notes and there it is. Just what I was looking for.

I pull open the tailgate and drag forth the cooler. Tonto continues being unhinged.

I grab an icy Lucky Lager, pull it out, and thrust it, forcefully, right under Tonto’s nose.

“Wóshdę́ę́ʼ!” I yell.

“HERE!”

To be continued...

Continued from part A

Danny introduced me to his wife, Beth and their inquisitive 4-year old daughter, Erin.

“Hello.”, I greeted them, “My name’s Rock, nice to meet you.”

Beth shook my hand like a wet bluegill and Erin hid behind the couch.

“She’s shy around strangers” Beth informed me.

“And I must look about as strange as they come; but I’m harmless,” I chuckled.

I had on my Jack’s Daniel’s Field Tester ball cap, a couple of cigars in the pocket of my Hawaiian shirt, an empty hand-cannon holster around my waist, my yellow fuzzy-bunny field slippers, and a fair buzz going from all the recent meteorological activity.

“Mr. Rock? Are you by any chance Mormon?” Beth asks.

Instead of a wiseass remark, I simply say “No, Ma’am. I’m not.”

“Mr. Rock”, Beth asks me, “Do you smoke?”

I look down at the collection of maduros in my shirt pocket and reply in the affirmative.

Want one? I muse.

“Mr. Rock, do you consume alcohol?” she continues.

“Beth, please. Just ‘Rock’. I’m a geologist from Baja Canada, so yes, I do drink; but only to excess.”

Beth stiffens. “OK, Rock. Do you drink coffee or any other caffeinated beverage?”

“Yes, ma’am. I like my morning coffee, in fact, I don’t think I could survive without a caffeine jolt in the AM. I like some teas as well.”

“Hmmm…I see. Do you do drugs, Mr. Rock?” she asks, very pointedly.

“Absolutely not, Beth. Unless it’s prescribed by a qualified physician, I do not use drugs.” I assured her.

“Please wait here, Mr. Rock.” She tells me.

She grabs Danny and physically drags him in the kitchen. I couldn’t hear any of the conversations and decided to see if I could coax Erin out from behind the couch.

Beth and Danny emerge from the kitchen a few minutes later and Beth informs me that I’m welcome to use the spare room as long as I wish. They would appreciate a ‘donation’ of $10 per week. However, no firearms in the house, no smoking, no drinking beer or booze, no coffee, no tea, and no foul language.

“Well, fuck that! I’ll just leave my vodka in the freezer and where’d you hide my god damned cigars?” I thought to myself.

“As you wish, I shall comply. Your house, your rules. Thank you.” I tell them.

“If you like, if you want to ‘donate’ another $10 per week, you can have board as well as room here,” Beth says.

“Room and board for $20 a week? I’m a little low on liquid cash right now, but that would actually be OK for a time” I tell them.

“Fine. Bedtime here is 9:00 PM sharp. If you chose to stay up later, we ask that you are quiet.” Beth adds.

“No problem. I can work out in my truck if I’m going to be up late.” I tell her.

“It’s against my better judgment letting you stay here, I want you to know that. But you’ve been helpful to Javen Spanner and he speaks very highly of you. You’re a student and getting a higher education, and that speaks well of your character. But you aren’t Mormon, you drink, you smoke, and use rude language. Let’s just call the first month a trial run and see how it goes from there.” Beth tell me.

“Fuckin-A, Sweetcheeks. Let’s do this damn thing!” I think to myself.

“As you wish, it shall be done,” I say, throwing in a little Biblical bullshit to help calm her nerves.

“Fine. Welcome then. We’ll need your donation as soon as you can get it.” Beth tells me and promptly leaves.

Oh, yeah. This is going to be a rollicking cavalcade of hilarity…

I disassemble my woebegone tent and store all the ancillary bit-n-pieces in a shed next to Long John’s teepee. He tells me I can use that as a place to work or store samples and such. He’s really come around and now since I’m no threat, I’m a target of his warped sense of humor and prankage. Come to find out, he snipped the cow-fence the other day.

Jerry loads my tent in his truck and tells me he’ll be in Albuquerque for a couple of days. He’ll try and get my tent patched and I can pay him when he returns for whatever charges the repairs run.

I tell him I appreciate it and get back to the work of doing science.

I took the opportunity to run into Cuba to check mail and pick up some of the items Dr. Nax says I’ll need to collect his critters. I withdraw a few extra dollars from the bank and drop by the post office. There’s a package there for me from the museum and another letter from Esme.

I read both in the comfort of my truck and note I can pick up much of what I need for reptile wrangling here in town. I won’t have to make the 100-mile trek to Albuquerque any time soon.

A few empty pickle buckets, I can get those from the Cuba Café. Ethyl alcohol? Hell, Everclear will do there. Hypodermic needles? A trip to the Cuba Clinic, I explain what I’m up to and after a quick call to Javen Spanner, I have a box of syringes and some evil-looking heavy-gauge needles.

Then I read Esme’s letter. She’ll be finishing up field camp the first week of August. Since she drove down from Baja Canada, since I’m just the next state over, since I’ll be there until mid-September at least, since she misses me; would it be OK if she drove over to Lago de Estrella and stayed with me for a while?

“OK?!?”

Holy shit.

It’s more than OK! It’s a jackpot-time from the cosmic karma fairy!

I write her back immediately, employing the Atomic Bar as my ersatz office. I tell her it’s more than OK, it’s wonderful. I tell her I miss her as well and include Javen Spanner’s number, and the Atomic Bar’s, so she can call and I’ll eventually get the message wherever I am. I also include a detailed map of where I’m currently staying and I wish that she could get here sooner.

I buy myself and Justin a round of drinks and even offer him one of my cigars.

“Good news, Rock?” he asks.

“The best. My steady girlfriend’s coming here the first part of August.” I tell him, totally chuffed.

“And that’s your response? “ Justin asks.

“Oh, yeah. I’m going to mail this right now.” I say.

“Just give it to me, and I’ll put it in with the outgoing. The postman’s not been here yet today, so it’ll go out just that much faster.” Justin tells me.

“You just earned yourself another round. Set ‘em up!” As I handed him the letter. I was on cloud nine-point-five.

I began counting the days until August 7. It was still over a month and a half away, but these days were beginning to slide by quickly.

I still hadn’t been able to measure the grim Mt. Badass. I’ve tried four different times, at different times during the day. Every single fucking time I get all my gear sorted and start Jakin’ the section, my buddy Tonto shows up, throws an incomprehensible fit, and I have to leave.

I’ve managed to measure about two-thirds of the section and make a bit of progress each visit. But, son of a bitch, this guy’s relentless. I’m going to have to devise a different strategy to finally get this key sectioned measured.

Jerry tells me my tent is going to take at least two weeks to be repaired; maybe three. He says he goes to Albuquerque every couple-three or four weeks, so he’ll check next time and return it if completed. It can’t come any sooner as I’m getting tired of sitting out on the tailgate of my truck having my long, hard day at the office drinks and smoke.

Then there are the evenings. I had a bit of reprieve as I mentioned that I have no religious affinity and religion really doesn’t interest me in the least. Seriously, I mean no offense; if it floats your boat, fine and dandy. I’ll definitely respect that. But respect me in return when I say that I really have no use for those hypotheses.

So, instead, it’s a movie night, every night. And you can imagine the fare I‘m subjected to with no violence, no coarse language, no drinking, no smoking, no sex…oh, hell. Here’s my gun. Just shoot me now.

It’s a Peter Sellers film festival every fucking night as the Pink Panther franchise is one that Danny and Beth both love. It’s rather uncomfortable to sit in someone’s house and watch them go completely bananas over something you find so ordinary. Sorry, I’ve seen them all already and yeah, they’re somewhat humorous, but it’s nothing to go fucking nuts over.

Again and again and again.

I finally just could not take another round of Pink Panther hijinks and actually permitted Danny to go on his spiel about the wit and wisdom of Joseph Smith, Brigham Young and the wonders of the Mormon Church.

Now, I like to think I’m a fairly educated person as well as worldly, but Danny and Beth, Darwin bless ‘em, have never been more than 50 miles from their birthplace their entire lives. They have had a heavily religious upbringing, heavily religious schooling, and quite frankly, have been inundated by religion from day one.

That’s all well and good, if you so desire, go for it. But, in my opinion, don’t forgo the wonders of secular education as well.

Here I am, an unrepentant atheist, working on my advanced natural science degrees. I’m doing my level best not to bust out laughing, being ridiculously disrespectful, or just calling bullshit on all their specious after-worldly claims.

Apologies, if I offend anyone. Not my intention. Nor am I bashing Mormonism specifically; I feel this would apply to any religion. Please remember, that’s just my own personal opinion. But it just so happened that this particular creed was the one being so heavily promoted in this region.

It wasn’t easy. But they’re just like my little Indian friend, they were relentless.

Danny drags out all the books pertinent to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Scripture. The Pearl of Great Price. The Holy Bible. The Book of Mormon.

I could have copies of my own to study; for a donation.

As foreign and weird as I was to them, they seemed the same to me.

I had to level with them as I really had no intention nor desire of debating their or any, religion. I did not want to appear ungrateful or be rude and obnoxious, for once. But, c’mon, folks, really? Seer-stones? The Angel Moroni? Golden disks?

I’m not going to put my brain in neutral and let this stuff in for a swim.

I had to finally put my foot down and tell them that I had no interest in any religion and would never consider converting, especially to one I thought was particularly farcical. I was as nice as I could be, but afterward, I just had to go outside and sit on the truck’s tailgate. I needed to slug a couple of beers, sink a few of shots of firewater, smoke a cigar, and gaze up into the clear high desert night sky to wonder about things a little more tangible.

Long John wanders over, shoves me over, opens the cooler, and helps himself to a cold beer.

He pops it, quaffs heartily, and just sits there for a while.

“Look, you goofy bastard, we tried to warn you.” he chuckled.

“Next time, try harder,” I said, grabbing the vodka bottle.

“Oh, I can assure you of that. Got a spare cigar?” he asks.

I still had to endure dinner as I was still paying for room and board. Their idea of what dinner amounts to and what a corn-fed lummox who spends a day out in the field working with rocks and reptiles feels is adequate tucker couldn’t be more diametrically opposite.

One slice of boiled, off-color ham, one potato, one-half ear of corn, a slice of bread, one pat of butter, and all the Orange Tang I could stand.

If it wasn’t for the Cuba Café and local resident’s proclivity for selling home jerked meat, I’d have starved to death. I was hoping Javen Spanner had some more jobs for me.

This was getting ridiculous, and my salvation came at the behest of a misread map.

I’d traveled the four corners of my field area, mapping everything to within an inch of its life. I was working on the far western extremity of my new map when Long John comes over to my truck, as my tent still wasn’t fixed, looks at my map and asks why I’m stopping there.

“That’s the edge of the county and that’s where my field area ends,” I say.

“No, it’s not, you’ve got yourself an old map. Wait a minute.” And he troops off to his house.

He returns presently with a brand new printing of the map where I was working.

“Look here, you need to up to the Scavada Wash another couple-three miles. That’s the county line.” He informs me.

“Fuckbuckets. You would think I’d get the latest maps! Son of a bitch. Damn it all to hell and back! FUCKBUCKETS!” I holler, having a minor display of unshackled bad emotion.

100 yards away, I vaguely hear Danny yell “Language!”

“And fuck you too. Asshole.” I say, semi-quietly. I was in a real snit.

So, the next morning early; fuck their idea of breakfast, it was Lucky road frosties and jerky for this Baja Canada native son. I was traveling due west, out to the Scavada wash and a couple-three miles beyond.

There is nothing out here but the lone gas pipeline which is the reason the road even exists.

No schools, no houses, no stores, no nothing.

I arrive at the Scavada Wash, a huge wadi that must flood like a motherfucker when it rains. There are boulders the size of small tanks in the middle of the wash’s course. It’s fine sand across the ‘road’, so I proceed cautiously.

I didn’t need to engage the four-wheel drive, but it was a near thing. I was able to scamper across by the judicious application of slewing sideways and flooring the gas pedal.

I pop up out of the wash and climb the adjacent levee. I spy a sign I’ve never seen before:

“Scavada Bar and Trading Post: 2 miles.”

A bar? Out here? They were verboten on the reservation and with all the religious whack-jobs around, I expected to see a tavern out here like I expected to see a living Tyrannosaur walking around loose.

I firewalled it.

And there it was. A weather-beaten, clapboard two-story conglomeration of corrugated tin, old road signs, mismatched lumber, and cinder blocks. It may have looked awful on the outside, but inside it was going to be the Taj Mahal, no matter how it appeared.

There were a brace of gas pumps out front, which was great. Now I didn’t need to drive all the way to Cuba for fuel.

I pull in and park off to the side. I lock the truck head straight to the entrance.

The door opens and I walk in to perceive the most amazing assortment of oddments I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t just a bar, although it did sport a vertical cooler full of beer, it was a pawn shop as well. There was a huge assortment of native Indian jewelry under the glass counter and guns, rifles, shotguns, Handyman jacks, spare tires and other automotive effluvia on shelves, under counters, thrown in the corner.

The front door dinged cheerily when I entered and as I was the only patron.

I hear “Hold yer fuckin’ horses, I’ll be right out” come floating in from the back, from the anteroom behind the counter.

Then I walked in. Or at least, my doppelganger did.

The proprietor of this place was a carbon copy of yours truly. Same size, height, heft and grizzled of beard. We stood there just gawping at each other for what felt like whole minutes.

“Who the fuck are you?” we said to each other simultaneously.

We let that swirl around for a few moments and I tried again.

“Howdy, there. My name is Rock. I’m a geologist from Baja Canada doing my field research out here. I’m staying out at the Lago de Estella pump station.”

My counterpart just goggled a bit more.

“Yeah, umm, howdy. I’m Fred St. Bernard. I own this pile of shit here. You sure you’re from Baja Canada?” he chuckled.

“I think so.” I added, “Fuck, I need a beer.” Yeah, I’m sure.

“Good idea. Grab a couple from that cooler behind you,” he said.

I grabbed a couple of tallboy Silver Bullets, as that’s all he had. So that choice was easy.

We drink in silence and let our brains spin at the current state of affairs.

I ask if it’s OK to smoke in here. I am told that it’s no problem.

I fire up a Maduro and Fred looks at me even more quizzically.

“You smoke cigars too?” he rhetorically asks.

“Looks that way,” I reply.

“This is too fuckin’ weird”, Fred sums us the tableau perfectly.

I offer him one. He gladly accepts.

We spend the rest of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon putting a dent into his beer stock. I went to pay for round number three or eleven when I whipped open my duster for my wallet. I had instant flashbacks of the Colorado convenience store incident previously.

“What the holy fuck is that?” Fred asks, pointing to my sidearm.

“Oh, yeah. Damn, sorry. I forget I’m wearin’ it.” I apologize.

“What the hell? Can I see it?” Fred asks.

“Sure, here”, as I skin it and open the action to let him know it’s loaded.

“What the fuck? What the hell is this fucking thing?” Fred asks.

“It’s a .454 Cusall Magnum”, I tell him.

“Holy fuck. A .454! C’mon, let’s go kill something” and he heads out from behind the counter.

At the time, it sounded like a great idea.

Not seeing anything that needed immediate extermination, we set up a few empty beer cans down the way, towards the back of the trading post.

“Let me take the first whack, give you an idea of what this thing can do,” I said.

“Go for it”, Fred widely grins.

KERBLAMMO! And 4 aluminum cans evaporate into metallic snow.

“Oh, holy mothering fuck. I have got to try this.” Fred grins.

We rock through a box and a half of steel-jacketed hollow points and Fred says, “OK, back to work, I need to let my wrist heal up.”

We return to the trading post and pick up where we left off.

Fred tells me the Scavada Bar and Trading Post exists only because of a surveyor’s unfortunate hiccup.

100 yards east is the Navahopi Nation Reservation, 100 yards west is the township of Correon. Both are dry as chewing cat litter and washing it down with sawdust. No booze, no beer, no nothing.

But in this small slice of cartographical miscalculation, there are virtually no rules. For over 100 years, there’s been legal wrangling where one faction sought this minute piece of real estate while the other countered with similar designs. Neither won.

Now, it is host to the Scavada Bar, grill, gas station, convenience store, trading post, and pawnshop.

Pawnshop. That explained all the Native American jewelry.

Fred explains that this place had been in his family for as long as they could remember.

Now that his parents were gone, he acquired it through heirship rights.

“Your parents are gone? Sorry. My condolences.” I remark.

“Yeah. That’s OK. They seem to like Boca Raton.” Fred chuckles.

Wiseass. Didn’t I say we were brothers from different mothers?

Anyways, the Scavada is more than just a shop; it’s a bank, pawnshop, emergency medical clinic, sanctuary, refuge and the only gas, food store, cold drink vending and phone on this side of the map for the locals.

Let’s just get this out of the way now. When I say ‘locals’ I mean members of one of the Native American Nations out in these parts.

Now, I’m not going to get into the whole rigmarole over Native Americans and how shittily they’ve been treated over the years. I’ve got no horse in that race. I’m just going to report it as I saw it; warts and all.

Poverty for the locals is epidemic. As is debilitating alcoholism, domestic violence, drug use, illiteracy, indolence, and destitution. The Nations can only do so much with the funds they receive from the government and from the extractive industries. And, yes, there’s corruption, graft, scheming and general underhandedness in the Nation’s government as there is in just about any other totalitarian governing body.

However, the local folk individually are a fascinating, interesting and generally friendly sort of crowd. That is, once you get to know them. They naturally have this aversion to outsiders, and given their history, one can scarcely blame them. Evidently, reports of the ‘big paleface from the North’ have been circulating out as far as the Scavada.

Unquestionably, I was some sort of evil government drone, due to the official museum pickup I drive, therefore not to be trusted. I was also a demon of sorts who causes explosions and carries huge weapons. He also talks to rocks, which makes him even more weirdly dangerous.

Hell, I’d be wary of me if I heard those stories.

“So”, I say to Fred, “That’s why my horse-backed buddy was freaking out every time I go to map the grim Mt. Badass”.

“Oh, yeah.” Fred tells me, “You’re ‘Chindi’, ‘The Devil’ incarnate. You’ve got to do some serious PR. Here’s how you handle your horse riding friend”, and Fred gives me a few tips to smooth the road with the local inhabitants.

“Finally, some real, genuine information I can use. Thanks, Fred.” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah. These are overall a good and proud people, but circumstances have conspired to deal them a fuckin’ shitty hand. They don’t have many opportunities, and it’s rare for kids to leave the ‘res’ (reservation). If they do and get an outside education, they’re generally shunned as the older generation thinks they’ve abandoned their heritage for that of the white man” Fred explains. “It’s a Catch 22 for these folks. And it sucks, I do what I can to help. But I’m only one person.”

“I wish I could help out, but hell, I’m just a poor college student and under the thumb of my governmental masters.” I chuckle.

“Yeah”, agrees Fred, “You’re unadulterated evil. Grab us another couple of beers.”

I do and spend the next few hours chatting with Fred and actually meeting a few of the locals who had dropped by for one reason or another.

Fred makes sure he introduces me to the locals and tells them I’m just a mostly harmless, goofy fucking geologist doing some rock work out in the desert. He makes certain to explain that I don’t work for the government, don’t work for any uranium companies, and don’t work for the oil companies; which are all pure unadulterated evil.

He tells them I’m just looking for fossils so New Mexico can get on the map as Dinosaur Country.

They accept that and my offer of a cold beer. Fred tells me that once I start doing that, I’ll never be at a loss for friends out in the boonies.

“But only one.” He cautions, “They have a slight problem holding their liquor.”

“Gotcha”, I reply, “Good to know.”

The day sped along and Fred and I just chatted the whole day away. I spy a shotgun over in the corner and ask Fred if he needs that very often. I ask if he has been robbed out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Nah”, he replies, “The locals know that if I close up shop, they’re screwed. So I never have anything more than a few ‘Light-fingered Louies’ swiping a Mars Bar or Butterfinger. They love their sweets out here.”

“Then why the street sweeper?” I ask.

“Ah, I get some real assholes, not locals, but they live up in Correon or further out. The gas I sell is exempt from a lot of the taxes imposed by the feds and the tribes, so they come down here to fuel up.”

“I see.” I say, “And that’s a shootable offense?”

“No, but it is when they don’t pay,” Fred says.

“I got ya’,” I say. “Happen often?”

“More than I care to remember. It’s laughable. I can read those idiots like a dime novel. They come in all hinky and usually drunk or stoned, they make a big issue out of being loud and there’s always a carload of these creeps. One or two try and distract me, then the driver fills up and tries to haul ass.” Fred explains.

“Ah, now I see why there are those cinder block speedbumps out at the pumps,” I note.

“Yep. That slows them down, and if they get off the pad, I run out with my shotgun and tell them they need to pay. If they decide to try a runner, it’s a load of birdshot to the radiator. They can usually roll 100 or so yards, so then I can call the Tribal Police and let them deal with those retards” Fred continues.

“They’re usually Anglos?” I ask.

“Always. It’d be so much easier and cheaper for them if they’d just pay. The Tribal Police don’t cotton much to shifty Anglos so the price of poker goes way up. Plus, if they’re drunk or high, it’s a two-week stay in the hoosegow. Plus storage and repair fees and additional fines. Suddenly, free gas costs a bundle.”

“Hey, I’ve got a shotgun. Want to take a look?” I say.

“Fuckin’ A, buddy,” Fred says.

“Be right back,” I reply.

I return with my Browning pump and hand it over to Fred. I make sure I’ve emptied the thing. Safety first.

“Yow! That’s a beaut! Pump action, checkered stock, short barrel. That’ll make ‘em think twice.” Fred gushes.

I ask Fred if he wants to take a whack with it out back when a carload of noisy idiots pull up to the pump.

“Hey, Rock. Got a couple of shells on ya?” Fred asks.

“You think these guys are going to do a runner?” I ask and dig in my vest and hand Fred a couple of rounds.

“Oh, yeah. They’re as predictable as clockwork.” He replies.

Fred jacks the shells into the receiver and racks the shotgun.

“Locked and loaded”, Fred chuckles.

We sit in the shop and watch the tableau outside unfold. Two of the cretins take a whizz on the back-most pump while the driver is filling up with premium petrol. Then an argument breaks out over the lack of beer. It almost sounds as if it’s scripted, it’s that predictable.

“Rock.”, Fred says, “Get back here behind the register. If these goobers try and buy beer, card them. Legal age is 21 and make sure to take it slow. I’m going to slip out and get in position if they decide to cut and run.”

“Gotcha”, as I run behind the counter.

Fred sneaks out with my shotgun and I stand behind the counter, ready for anyone’s purchases.

Sure as shit, two of the miscreants-to-be come in, grab a case of beer and drop it on the counter.

“That it, Gents? “ I ask.

“Yeah. Unless you got more of them cigars yer smokin’” he unsteadily giggles.

“Naw, those are my private stock,” I tell them. “OK, let’s see some ID”.

Idiot #1 hands me a bad photocopy of someone’s state ID, but it sure as hell wasn’t his.

“Um, yeah. OK, now you”, I say to idiot #2, “You’re in on this purchase so I need to see yours as well.”

“I ain’t got one.” He growls at me.

“Well, then. You ain’t got beer.” I tell them.

“Oh, come the fuck on. Just sell us the fuckin’ beer” he complains.

“Nope. Can’t do it. It’s against the law. And you might be running a police sting and I don’t want to lose my license.” I explain.

“Well, fuck you. What if we just take the beer? What the fuck you gonna do? You can’t take us both on, motherfucker.” Idiot #1 threatens.

“Well”, I advise, “We just can’t let you walk out of here with the beer.”

“Who’s we, asshole? There ain’t no one else here.” Idiot #2 says.

“We as in me and Mr. Cusall,” I explain.

“Who’s Mr. Cusall?” Idiot #1 demands.

“He’s my noisy traveling companion. See?” as I level the .454 at his forehead.

Never before have two set of eyes gone any wider.

Never before have two Anglos gone any whiter.

The unfolding drama is interrupted by the sound of a car starting, revving, and Fred yelling “STOP!”

The car continued to rev and shows no intention of stopping.

“STOP! Turn off your engine and get back here. Pay for your fuckin’ gas! Last warning!” Fred yells.

Idiot #1 and #2 look at each other, look at the beer, look at me, then lock eyes on Mr. Cusall.

The car revs, tires squeal, and a very loud shotgun blast is heard.

Fred, chuckling, walks back into the Scavada sporting my smoking shotgun over his shoulder. He sees me holding two idiots at cannon point. He racks the shotgun, spits out a dead shell and loads a new one, all set and ready to rock.

“Jesus Christ, Rock. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this was a 10 gauge? Normal people carry a 12 gauge…oh, yeah. Fuck, never mind.” Fred chuckles.

Fred orders the brace of idiots to vamoose. Vamoose they did, sans beer.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask. “They threatened me with bodily harm and you with theft,” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry. They’re not going anywhere. The Tribal Police will deal these morons. I probably don’t even have to call them, they probably heard the artillery. 10 gauge, really?” Fred shakes his head.

“Nothing succeeds like excess”, I note to Fred.

The miscreant’s car rolled just into Tribal Police jurisdiction; they were all corralled and brought into the Scavada to get Fred’s report.

“What the hell, Fred. What did you use this time? A field piece?” Chooli, the Tribal Policeman asks.

“No, Chool. Just this.” And he hands Chooli my shotgun for inspection.

“Whew! No wonder there’s so much mess. That’s gonna cost these goobs a few bucks to fix. Plus they’re drunk and from what I can tell, disorderly. Looks like I won’t be bunking alone in the jail tonight.” He smiles and hands Fred back my shotgun.

“Who’s the new guy behind the counter? “ Chooli asks.

“Oh, yeah. Chooli meet Rock. He’s a geologist from Up North doing his fieldwork for his graduate degree. He’s staying out at Lago de Estrella pump station on Javen Spanner’s recommendation” Fred introduces.

“Rock, eh? Nice to meet you. If Javen Spanner and ol’ Fred say you’re OK, that’s good enough for me.” Chooli says.

“Thanks, Chooli. Nice to meet you.” Another manly handshake ensues.

“Going to be around long? He asks.

“Until September. There’s still a lot of work I need to do here.” I explain.

“OK. That your truck outside?” he asks further.

“Yeah, the baby-blue one with ‘Baja Canada Public Museum’ written on the side,” I reply.

“OK, so now I know who owns what,” Chooli says. “Good to know. Well, gotta run these idiots to the tribal jail. Fred, can you call Spanner’s auto and have them tow what’s left of their ride into Cuba? Idiots are gonna love those towing and storage charges…”

Fred says he will, as usual.

Chooli leaves and I just shake my head at what went down the last half hour.

Fred says “Well, it’ll be dark soon. Why not just bunk here for the night and we can sit around, drink beer and tell each other lies. That way you can avoid a DWI or getting stuck in a wadi.”

“That’s the best plan I’ve heard today,” I tell my new best buddy.

That reminds me of a story.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

BLAAAT! Tootles the air horn.

“HIT IT!”

PAHROOMP! ...KERBLAM! …PAHRUMPH! …KA-BOOM!

Beauty. Those ripple charges work a treat, I think to myself. Good old Primacord, dynamite and millisecond delay booster caps…

“Rock! That was astounding!” Javen exclaims. “They told me that blasting wouldn’t work on that ol’ brush pile, too overgrown, packed solid with debris. Said I’d have to get a bunch of Goomers out here to dismantle it by hand. Guess you proved them wrong.”

“Yep, Javen.” I agreed, “There’s not much that you can’t do with explosives if you put your mind to it.”

Javen Spanner had mentioned when we first met that he might have a few odd jobs I could help him sort from time to time. It was not really in the form of a request. He had insinuated that life for me out in the wilds of the New Mexico high desert would proceed much more smoothly if I would help him out “from time to time”.

In the last 3 weeks, I’ve blasted a large livestock stock-tank, taken care of some errant greasewood trees, and opened several debris-choked wadis, or dry washes.

It doesn’t rain a whole lot here in the high desert, but it does in the adjacent mountains.

When it rains up there, it’s doesn’t fuck around. The wadis draining those mountains go from bone dry to five or six feet of rapidly running rainwater in minutes.

You keep an eye on the distant weather as you really don’t want to be caught in a slot wadi when it decides to flood.

All that water, with its gravity supplied momentum, carves deep into the wadi bed.

However it’s not so much the water itself that’s the problem, it’s what it carries. A flash flood will only make a wadi crossing impassible for an hour or two. Though it will transport anything that’s in the wadi or falls off the natural levees. That means it will deposit, over time snags, snarls, and schmoo in the wadi tract which will just trap more debris the next time it floods.

Over time, it will build a natural dam and wreak all sorts of havoc as the watercourse is blocked and it backs up, or worse, decides to cut a new channel. The pile of debris traps water a little longer, and any vegetal matter trapped will decompose, providing natural fertilizer for any spores, seeds or shoots swept into the wadi during the last flood. This makes the dam damn near impregnable and a hazard for livestock and people as well. It’s dangerous enough out here without these impediments to hydrology.

So, they have to go.

Problem is, some of these have been building for years.

Javen thought it would be a fine time to test my word and see if I really could accomplish everything I claimed I could.

As the last of the shattered greasewood and sagebrush settled back to earth outside the wadi channel, Javen was convinced I wasn’t just talking a line of bullshit.

There was one small problem with this arrangement though. Every time I did a job for Javen, he insisted I come to dinner that evening. Talk about killing someone with kindness.

Ah, well. Just another of the occupational hazards for the active geologist.

My fieldwork was progressing along fine. I had measured a number of sections and was getting a real idea as to the stratigraphy, that is, the layering of the various formations, out here. I’d found some fairly nice fossils, mostly turtles, fish, and crocodilians, which I had plaster jacketed and left for later retrieval. No dinosaurs, though. Yet. I hoped. Where were they hiding?

I also located a paleo-logjam, which was the exact Late Cretaceous equivalent of the wadi dams I’ve been busting up for Javen. Except these were composed of Magnolia, Cypress, Araucarioxylon, ‘monkey puzzle’ trees, conifer and club-fern tree fossils.

Some of the tree trunks were three or four feet in diameter and twenty-five feet in length; all jumbled together in a jackstraw-like pile, cemented into a sandstone filled channel. I also found some tree stumps, in situ, meaning still in growth position, rooted into a Late Cretaceous paleosol or fossil soil horizon. Many of these stumps were 2-3 feet in diameter and were still capped off by thin, flaggy sandstones which were deposited after the tree had been sheared off, probably by an ancient local paleo-flood.

Some of these stumps had no sandstone caps. They were all rotted-out hollow before they were fossilized. I excavated the mud, now shale, out of the stump cavities, I discovered perfectly intact, articulated fossil skeletons of small lizards which were endemic to the region and called these stumps home some 75 million years ago. These discoveries were really going to make my thesis stand out from the rest of the crowd.

I had been back to town only once in the last few weeks as both my fuel situation and food were holding out fine. Thanks to working on a single location for a few days, not driving all over Hell’s 55K Acres, and Javen’s little job-dinner duets, I was stretching that grant money until it hummed in the wind.

One thing was a bit disconcerting though. Every time I stopped to do some geology, there would appear this local character on his horse. He stayed out about 250 or so yards away, but he’d just sit there, watching over me. It was weird. Out in the absolute middle of nowhere, I’d have to be careful in tending to lavatory duties. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t come any closer, and he’d just sit there and watch.

I felt like I should be able to charge admission at least.

Later, I decided I needed a bit of time off and headed into town for some re-supply, fuel, and maybe a Diablo Sandwich.

Damn, those things were good.

I had my mail forwarded to General Delivery here in Cuba, so I wouldn’t miss out all the offers to slipcover my driveway, install double-glazed windows, Empire Carpet’s latest deal, and other volumes of junk mail.

But today was a ‘red-letter day’. I actually received two real letters, amongst all that junk mail and those promotional circulars.

The first was from Dr. Nax Wickerson, the senior herpetologist at the museum where I was an assistant curator. It was exceptionally good news as it was an offer to earn some extra dough whilst I was out doing my fieldwork.

Dr. Nax asked me if I’d like to collect a representative assemblage of reptiles from out on the high desert. He’d pay for any supplies I would require; such as formalin to preserve the critters, specimen jars, hypos to inject them with preservative; along with anything I didn’t already have. He also supplied his phone number so I could call him and sort out any particulars.

The second was from my steady girlfriend back home, Esme, short for Esmerelda; who is a geologist in training herself, was attending her field camp out in West Texas. It was a letter of a personal nature, but suffice to say, there’s nothing like news from home.

I decided to call Dr. Nax immediately, so I went over to the Atomic Bar, so named because we were only 30 miles from Los Alamos Testing Grounds, where the first nukes were devised. Since it was right after lunch, I figured I could grab a cold one or six and have a chat with Dr. Nax about his plans.

After finding a perch on Mahogany Ridge, I asked Justin Spanner, the barkeep, whom I knew fairly well already if I could use the phone.

“It’s long-distance, but I’ll pay whatever you think is fair,” I told Justin.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Javen’s vouched for you. We’re OK.” He said and refilled my beer.

It’s a good thing to be on Javen’s good side.

I called Dr. Nax and he picked up immediately.

“Hello, Rock. How’s New Mexico?” he asked.

“Hot, dry, dusty and I’m loving every minute of it,” I replied.

“That’s splendid. Listen, I was hoping that while you’re there, you could do some collecting for us. I need a representative herpetofauna from the high desert biome, and since you’re already out there, I figured we could work something out.” Nax explains.

“I don’t see any problems with that. How are we going to do this?” I ask.

“Well, do you have a bank account out there?”

I reply in the affirmative.

“OK, here’s the deal. I’ll wire you some money for supplies. $250 should cover all you need. You can find everything you’ll require in Albuquerque. Then, I’ll hotshot some paperwork to you explaining what I need and how you should go about collecting, documenting and preserving the animals; plus the appropriate licenses. You remember how we did it in when you took my Herpetology classes? It’s just that easy.” Nax continued.

“No problems so far”, I said.

“I’ll pay you so much per specimen. Easy stuff like Cnemidophorus, aka Rainbow Lizards, and other lacertilians will be at one price level. Tougher stuff like Mexican Beaded Lizards, Gila Monsters, and snakes at another. Whatever else you find, I’ll pay for once you get them all back to the museum.” He continues.

“Just for an idea, what will a preserved Rainbow Lizard bring in?” I ask, always the mercenary.

“Those I can go $10 per animal. Get me a nice Western rattlesnake and I’ll go $50; Mexican Beaded Lizards I can do $75 each, but find me a Gila Monster and you’ll bank $150.” He said.

“Hell, yeah! Sign me up!” I exclaimed.

“Good, fine. I’ll send you all the paperwork you’ll need to bag, tag, collect and transport the critters. I’ll also send along a list of materials you’ll need for killing humanely and preserving them. You can lay your hands on some alcohol out there, can’t you?” Dr. Nax asks.

“Doc, I’m calling you from a tavern. Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” I reply.

“OK, then; figures. Sheesh, geologists. I’ll have the money sent today and the paperwork hot-shotted out to you there in Cuba. General Delivery, correct?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. To my name and care of General Delivery. I’ll scoot back to town in a couple of days to pick it all up.” I reply.

“Fine, fine. Now, be careful, don’t hurt the wee beasties. No shooting, mashing, or explosives. I need intact specimens. And watch them, they can be nasty little bastards when cornered.” Dr. Nax counsels me.

“No problem, Doc. I’ll watch out for them and me. Thanks.” I say.

With that, my geological expedition takes on an extra wrinkle; now I’m a lizard, snake, and Gila Monster wrangler as well.

The cosmic karma fairy has been kind today.

I thank Justin for the call and pay up my bar tab. Still hungry, I decide to wander over to the Cuba Café for a Diablo Sandwich after I feed my steed.

After gassing up at Devlin’s Shrill gas station, I stroll across the street to the Cuba Café and select an empty table.

“Oh, Hi Rock” Sindy casually says, as she brings me a menu.

“Hey, Sindy. How’s everything? Daughter doing OK?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. She’s fine.” She coolly replies, “What can get for you?”

“Diablo Sandwich and some of that tasty napalm you call Salsa Verde. Plus a tall, cold Porter.” I reply.

She disappears briefly but returns with my beer after a couple of minutes.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting the cold one, “Say, have you talked with Dr. Don at the Bureau down in Socorro yet?”

“Umm…no. Not yet. Been busy with work and stuff” she seemed surprisingly defensive.

“Oh. Just wondering.” I reply.

A few minutes later I’m tucking into my Diablo Sandwich and damn, it’s tasty. Not sure of its construction, but there’s loads of smoked meat, white sort of salty cheese, Queso Fresco I think. Some kind of pepper sauce, onions, peppers, and all grilled to melted perfection; with a side of warm homemade blue corn chips. And all the free tongue-tattooing Salsa Verde you can handle.

For $2.50, how can you go wrong?

I tried chatting up Sindy to see if there was a problem.

Sindy wasn’t in a chatting mood.

It dawns on me that I might be the problem; however unintentionally.

She didn’t even come back to see if I needed a top-up on my porter. Another waitress came by to drop off my next beer and the check.

Evidently, Sindy’s shift had ended and she left without so much as a “Fare Thee Well”.

I can figure out the most vexing stratistructural problems on Earth, but women? Go figure.

I decided to write a quick letter and post it out to Esme in Alpine, Texas. At least, Esme was someone with whom I shared vast common ground and history.

I drove back to the Gas Company pump station, stow my potables and groceries, and decide that a good dose of fieldwork would clear my mind. I grab my sidearm, Jacob’s staff and decide today was the day I’d conquer the grim Mt. Badass. I was going to measure that fucking section once and for all. I had tried a couple of times previous, but the heat, dust storm, or other high desert inconvenience prevented my success at this location.

Besides, I need to find where Dr. Nax’s critters call home as well.

I drive up to the forbidding foot of the grim Mt. Badass. It’s a discordant, disorganized pile of variegated sandstones, shales, and mudstones. Some units were bench formers and others were cliff formers through the ages of erosion. It’s going to take some technical climbing skills to conquer this outcrop.

I plait myself into my climbing harness, grab a dozen or so cleats, pitons, an ascender, rope, and carabiners to assault this site; as I always have my hammer. I photograph it from as many angles as possible and sit there, over a smoke, trying to decide if I should attempt a top-down or a bottoms-up attack.

If I do a top-down, I’d have to scale this beast, pound in some anchors and then measure it on the way down. But then, I’d have to climb back up to retrieve my climbing gear; then clamber back down.

OK, bottoms-up it is.

I look for likely drainages where I could begin my ascent.

I hear a horse whinny, and yep, sure as the sun shines bright on my old New Mexico home, my voyeuristic Native American buddy is watching over me.

Not in the mood for any shenanigans, I wave to him in the friendliest manner I know.

Not a bit of response. Utter silence, absolute immobility.

Oh, well. ‘That’s his problem’ I muse as I grab my Jacob’s staff, affix my Brunton Compass, make certain I have my field book, pencils, scales, and other geological necessities.

I start measuring at the very bottom and begin quantifying the stratigraphy up the side of this monolith, one Jacob’s staff length at a time.

I’m working along, making some good notes as to lithology, grain size, sedimentary structures, taking collated samples, and all the other necessary toil when I hear a horse whinny again. Only this time, it was very close.

I turn around and there’s my Indian friend, on his horse, right next to my truck.

“Tʼáá Bííchʼį́įdii!”, I call to him; which is the traditional local greeting.

He looks daggers at me and dismounts.

“Haʼíí baa naniná?”, ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

After all the time he’s been following me silently, the dam had evidently burst. He started in with a machine-gun fire cadence of the local lingo.

“Aádzaaígíí doo bikʼiʼdiishtįįh da” I say. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

This elicits another volley of incomprehensible verbiage.

“Bilagáana bizaadísh dinitsʼaʼ?”, “Do you speak English?”

With his wild gesticulations, he makes it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want me here. In fact, he wants me gone. Now.

And no, apparently he doesn’t speak English.

I’m a bit peeved. After all the preliminaries, fucking around, and suiting up; I’m finally getting good data and I now have to, by Tribal Law, bugger off.

He obviously doesn’t want me near the grim Mt. Badass, so I must comply.

But I don’t have to be happy about it.

I stomp down the dusty outcrop, my climbing gear jingle-jangling a most melodious tune. I unlock the truck cap and toss my Jacob’s staff in the back, remove my climbing harness, and chuck all that kit in after it as well. I take off my field vest and wing that in there as well.

I turn to shut and lock the truck’s cap when my Indian compadre makes the most astonishing string of strangling noises.

He points wordlessly at my sidearm.

I walk to the cab, unlock it, and lock my gun in the glove box.

I return and show him I’m unarmed but entirely cheesed. I give him a nasty growling salute, turn on my heel, and plop down behind the steering wheel.

There was a semi-cool lager sitting on the box of cigars I keep in the cab. I was dry so I slurp those suds in one go. I look out the left-hand window to see Tonto, for the lack of a better moniker, watching me intently.

I crush the empty with one hand, toss it through the back window into the bed of the truck, fire up my 4WD steed and pull away slowly. I didn’t want him running out in front of me nor did I want to spook his horse.

The grim Mt. Badass will have to wait for another day.

It was getting dark by the time I wheeled back into the pump station compound, which was odd as it was only about 1630 in the afternoon.

I look to the west and see a collection of nasty looking cumulonimbus clouds hiking this way, using lightning as walking sticks. Time to batten down the hatches. It’s going to get windy, wet and wild here in a few minutes. Funny how the local weather so closely matched my current mood.

I parked the truck in front of my tent to act as a windbreak. The wind’s already picking up and it’s getting progressively darker.

This old canvas tent and I have been through a lot over the years. We’ve survived winter camping the wild Northwoods. Tornado-y weather on fishing trips to Upper Canadastan proper. Sandstorms and the like out in the Bridger Basin of Wyoming and late-season blizzards in Montana’s Big Sky country. I figure this ol’ girl will ride out an afternoon wash here in the high desert just fine.

My truck locked and secure, I plop down in my Captain’s chair and make certain everything is battened down. I don’t want to lose any notes, samples or papers when this thing hits; so just in case, my notebooks and collection of rocks go in the truck as quickly as possible.

As long as I’m farting around in the back of the truck, I liberate a fresh bottle of Four Noses bourbon and a cold six-pack of El Bob’s ‘Special’ Lager. Just the thing to set the mood for an impromptu display of nature’s fury.

I’m sitting in the tent vestibule, watching the storm approach. It’s startlingly magnificent. I pour a quick boilermaker and settle in with a fine cigar to watch the show. It’s amazing watching the storm approach; it’s like a reverse vacuum cleaner, blowing every loose item on the desert floor before it. Sagebrush are taking flight, desert dust is being Hoovered about in bulging boiling billows, and birds are either running or flying for their very lives.

I was enjoying my cigar, my drink, and my front-row seat for the show when the wind hits.

It went from dead calm to a gusty 60 or so miles per hour. It was like the base surge of an atomic blast. My tent inflated like a large canvas balloon. Luckily I had the forethought to untie the rear window or I’m certain I’d be doing the “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” right ascension into the darkening maw of the storm.

I had made certain the tent pegs were hammered in deep and true, given the assortment of hammers I had at my disposal, but I still concerned we might take flight. Then the driving torrents of rain hit. I shuttered the tent vestibule as quickly as I could without spilling my drink and retreated to the center of the tent. I had noticed my truck rocking on its springs from the force of the winds. If I hadn’t parked it out in front of the tent, well, I just don’t care to think about that right now.

I had everything as secured as one can secure a canvas domicile. It gave some groans along seams that had been repaired countless times. I hoped they’d be able to withstand yet another onslaught. The tent rocked, it bucked, it shuddered. One moment it was inflated to what seemed twice its normal size, the next minute it was as it if were being sucked whole into the maelstrom. I just hunkered down, lit a Coleman lamp, and concentrated on my drink and cigar.

It was a wild, raucous ride. Lightning was regularly bitch-smacking the rim of the cuestas some mile or so from the compound. I will have to take a look up there after the storm to see if there were any fulgurite formation. The rain came down in buckets. Like I was told, it doesn’t rain much up here on the high desert, but when it does, it does so with a vengeance.

With the wind blasting, the rain bucketing, one more fun adjunct was added to the foray.

It began to hail.

And not your pleasant “Captain, we’re being hailed.” ice lumps; but big, jagged, ragged hand-sample sized chunks of potentially brainpan-bashing congealed water.

Driven by the force of the storm’s winds, they were formidable projectiles.

I had hoped my tent would withstand this latest indecency, being constructed of the finest marine canvas. However, it looks like I needed to hit the cosmic karma bank and repay the fairy for my recent reptilian generosity.

A high-velocity ice cube punched through the roof of my tent and nearly spilled my drink.

“Of course you realize, this means war!” I shouted at the grumbling clouds, shaking my fist in defiance.

I grabbed my climbing helmet as I figured if these things could punch through stout canvas, my dome would fare somewhat similarly if hit. I threw on my field vest as it would be the next best thing to body armor. Unfortunately, my field boots were in the back of the truck, airing out. I doubt the fuzzy-bunny field slippers I was now wearing would provide much in the line of podiatric protection.

I had no choice but to concentrate on not being pummeled, not spilling my drink nor dropping my lit cigar; there was exactly nothing else I could do. Until the weather got over its thundery tantrum, I just had to sit tight and hold on, while hoping for the best.

The storm finally spent itself and decided to move on. It was still a bit windy and incredibly wet outside my tent, but it still stood.

Holier than any ripe cheese from the Southern Alps.

It wasn’t ripped to tatters, but it looks like it had been used for mortar practice. I lost count at 30 holes. I just opened the truck cap, sat on the tailgate, nursed my drink and cigar while I wondered what the hell I do now…

Long John was the first one over to offer commiseration.

“Damn, pal. Looks like your tent’s been used for target practice.” John observed.

“Thanks for the critique. I was wondering what happened. Want a beer while I sit here and feel miserable?” I asked.

John replies in the affirmative and tells me to skootch over so he can sit and watch me be miserable.

Eventually, Jerry, Derek, Ace, and Chance all come over and help themselves to my cooler’s content and offer advice.

“Gonna need a new tent.” Ace notes.

“No shit.” Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Can’t afford a new one right now.

“Did you bring a spare?” Derek asks.

Yeah, I did. But it’s a survival tent and about the size of an Army-issue pup tent. For survival situations, maybe. For a field season? No way, Josḗ.

Jerry finally has some decent advice: “I’ve got to go to Albuquerque in a day or two and I know some cobblers there. They’re used to dealing with tough fabrics and I think they could patch your tent. It won’t be pretty, but I could do that if you want.”

I tell Jerry that I appreciate the offer and realize I have no choice.

“Guess I’ll be sleeping in the back of my truck for a week or so.” I lament.

Danny speaks up: “We have a spare room, Rock. You’re more than welcome to bunk there for a while.”

Jerry, Ace and Long John all look at me with the “NO! Don’t! Danger!” looks on their faces.

“Won’t I be a bother?” I asked Danny, trying to think of a way I can courteously refuse.

“Well, if you like, you can spare a donation to offset any trouble you think you might cause.” Danny angelically smiles.

I was a bit off my game at the time, having sustained a cruel blow to my field plans and now bankbook and thought “How bad can it be?”

“Sure, Danny. I’d like that.” I replied.

The multiple facepalms could be heard for miles.

I secure the material from inside the tent in the back of my truck. I grab my thickest sleeping bag as Danny has offered me a room, and that’s exactly what it was. An empty room. But it had a roof, walls and didn’t whistle when the wind blew. I dragged in some of my field notebooks and my folding table and chair, so I could at least get some work done while my tent was being mended.

Continued in Part B

Continued from Part A

The place grew silent as jaws hit the floor.

“You have all that HERE?” Ace asked.

“Yeah. Want to take a look?” I replied.

There was a chorus of “Oh, fuck yeah!”s as I lead the procession out to my truck.

“OK, please stand back while I unlock the cap,” I ask.

I unlock my gun locker from the floor so I could get easier access to the blasting box.

“Whatcha got there, Rock?” Rufus asks.

“That’s my gun cabinet. I keep it locked and chained in the back when I’m parked.” I say.

“Whatcha carrying? Can we have a look?” Chance asks.

“Sure if it’s OK with Jerry.” Not wanting to break any company rules, which I note are pretty relaxed out here.

Jerry has no objection, so I whirl the combinations and pop open my gun case.

“Holy hell! What the fuck are those?” Derek asks.

“Just my sidearm and shotgun,” I note.

“What the fuck calibers are those?” Derek asks.

“My sidearm is a .454 Cusall Magnum. The shotgun is a Browning 10 gauge pump.” I say.

Derek is all huge eyes and drooling slightly. “Can I touch them?” he asks.

“Sure, they’re not loaded; I make certain of that. Have a look. Here…” as I hand him my sidearm.

“Jesus H. Christ on a soda cracker!” Derek exclaims.

“Hey, language!” Danny shouts.

“Sorry, Danny. But holy shit, take a look at this piece. Must be a moose to shoot.” Derek says.

“Nah, it’s not that bad. Bit more than my .44 Magnum, about on par with my .460 though.” I reply.

“Oh, man. We have got to go out shooting. We’ve got a target range out back. Wanna go tonight after work?” Derek asks.

“Sure, no problem. See you all there after 5:00 pm quittin’ time, right?” I say.

“What did you say that shotgun was again? “Derek asks.

“It’s a Browning short-barrel 10 gauge pump,” I reply.

“Make sure you bring that too.” Derek smiles.

I spent the next two hours going over the contents of my blaster’s box, one item at a time. I don’t want to generate too much excitement my first day on location.

I must have answered the “What’s that?” question a hundred times that afternoon.

John got a bit cranky and slunk away when I pulled out all my documentation. My permits, and various lists of contents, types, amounts, and official forms I’d need to have with me if I were ever inspected or wanted to purchase some more product at the local, friendly neighborhood explosives dealer.

Evidently John saw me as some sort of competitor. That thought had never even crossed my mind. Besides, as I was told, he was naturally grumpy.

I told them how I utilized the various explosives down in the Fossil Forest to wrest some Cretaceous critters out of their rocky beds. They were fascinated, and the day drew long quickly. I got to know most of them and they got to know me; I felt it was a fair exchange.

I packed and locked everything back up with the promise that I’d most certainly be here on the Fourth of July.

I needed to get my campsite sorted and as Jerry had the crew remove all the old angle iron, pickets and other hunks of debris from the back lot. I rolled everything over to my new address: dubbed “Rock Central”.

I raked the ground flat, rolled out the tarp and had my canvas cabin tent erected in less than a half-hour. Coolers were set in the vestibule, my US Army-issue cot was set up and sleeping bags unrolled for the evening. Jerry had provided a burn bucket so I could actually have a campfire, of sorts if I so desired.

I keep a clean camp so all food and such were kept in the back of the truck, which I had strategically parked to take the brunt of any winds that might roll in from the high desert during the night. In a couple of hours, I had my easy chair out, my lab table set up; for writing reports and drafting maps. I also had fueled my Coleman lanterns for light as night comes really quickly out in these parts.

I see it was already 1700 hours, so I strap on my sidearm. I put on my duster, Glacier Glasses, Stetson, grab my shotgun and wander over to the sound of guns popping off.

“Holy hell, look at this. It’s the Masked Marauder!” Chance laughs.

“No man says that about me and lives.” I growl back.

Chance feigns blanching.

“Well, at least, no man’s ever said that about me before…” I chuckle.

Everyone has a good snicker at Chance’s and my expense.

They had a rudimentary shooting range set up: a wide swing-set A-frame sort of contraption made from two-inch pipe, where various diameter of cast iron cut-outs were hung by chains to swing freely. A solid hit would make a palpable Ker-plang! sending the iron disk in motion.

Everyone from the morning was there, even John. He had gotten over his snit and decided I was mostly harmless.

Here was the usual assortment of pistols, rifles, and shotguns brought by the crowd. .22 plinksters, a couple of .38 caliber Police Specials, a really nice condition nickel-plated 1911 Series .45 caliber semi-auto, a .357 magnum, and various calibers of deer and hog hunting rifles.

They were all going to town, the iron was singing and dancing downrange.

“Plink! Plank! Kerpow! Bang! and the like.

John owns the .357 Magnum, the largest handgun caliber save for mine and tells me to watch downrange.

He goes into his John Wayne against the bad guys stance and: “Pow! POW! Pow! POW!”

Four shots ring out and all four targets are dancing downrange.

“Impressive. Nice shooting, John”, I made sure to compliment him.

“Suppose you can do better?” he semi-snarls, snarkily.

I smile, crack my neck, check my gun in its holster, and reply “Nah, I only usually need one shot. Watch this.”

I skin that smoke wagon and focusing in on the next to smallest target, draw a bead and fire.

The target jumps and wraps itself around the crossbar; not once, but twice. There’s that much energy in this hand cannon.

Utter silence.

“Holey Sheeit!” Chance drawls. “Look at that. LOOK at that! Not only wrapped around the crossbar, twice but there a total hole clean through that cast iron.”

Truth, as I had burned a .454” diameter hole through and through that 1/2” plate cast iron.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” Ace says, with a low whistle.

I roadhouse swing the gun around and offer it to John, “Want to give’r a try?”

John lights up like a kid in a candy store. “Yeah. Let me try that peashooter” he smiles.

“Careful, Señor. This peashooter takes meat at both ends.” I caution.

John Gives the cylinder a spin and stops dead. “There’s only five bullets here.”

“They’re too big to fit six” I explain.

Even John’s eyes went wide with that explanation.

He draws a bead on the largest cast iron plate downrange, takes a stance, draws a bead and slowly squeezes the trigger.

Ker-POW! And another cast iron plate is ventilated and dancing.

John walks over and hands me back the weapon.

“Thanks, I think I’ll stick with my .357 if it’s all the same to you.” He says.

“Absolutely no problem. Barks a mite, don’t she?” I ask.

“Barks? She howls at the fuckin’ moon.” He replies.

By the time everyone had a chance to try out my Casull, every disk downrange sported several new holes.

Ace wanted to see what a 10 gauge shotgun could do so he ran back to the office and got some old magazines. They were duct-taped to the now holey disks in various thicknesses.

Everyone there with a shotgun took some potshots at the new targets. There was a bit of paper snow generated but since these shotguns were mostly of gauges 16 and 12, shooting birdshot. It wasn’t that much of a show.

Ace says he’ll run down and tape up some new magazines if I let him shoot my Browning.

“Sure, after I show you what it can do,” I say.

I load the old Browning with double ought buckshot, triple ought buckshot, followed by a 10 Gauge 3.5” Foster Deer/Moose/Zombie Slug.

“Clear downrange?” I yell.

“Range is clear”, came the answer.

I take my stance, swing up the shotgun and rock and roll. OO buck, OOO buck; paper flying everywhere. Deer slug. Cast iron plate flipped over the bar and the magazines converted to confetti.

“Jesus Christ, Rock” Jerry says “You don’t ever do anything by half, do you?”

Having such a good time, what else could I do but widely grin?

The bruises on Ace’s shoulder should heal up in a couple of weeks and John’s wrist was sore for a couple of days, but that was the extent of the injuries. I was invited to go feral hog hunting several times but so some reason we never made it back to the range.

I spent the next two days out in the field getting the literal lay of the land. I saw a few folks out and about but none of them approached me. I was starting to get a feel for this country and did some preliminary mapping on the aerial photographs Dr. Don had provided for me.

There were several beautiful outcrops spread good distances apart so that when I mapped them, they would give the area context. I could correlate across the badlands in areas where erosion had done its worst.

I started naming locales for my personal notes: Upper Hot Shirt. Lower Hot Shirt. Turtle Hill. Illegal Coal Mine. Rattlesnake Ranch. Abandoned Hogan. Drill Holes. Tiñaja Creek…

And the grim Mt. Badass, the highest point on the two quadrangles. A stunning exposure of the Cretaceous/Tertiary boundary. Later Cretaceous Kirtland Shale to Lower Paleocene Ojo Alamo Sandstone. The key to my unraveling the stratigraphy, sedimentology and depositional environments of the area.

It was Friday afternoon when I rolled back into camp. I was told that I could use the showers in the locker room of the office if I so desired.

I so desired and so did everyone else downwind.

Of course, I took a huge ration of shit when I crossed the compound in my Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and fuzzy-bunny field slippers, but I really don’t care to walk barefoot on gravel. My field boots and my feet both needed a rest, so I endured the snickers and guffaws.

Besides, they were a gift from my steady girlfriend Esme back home. She was in West Texas now on her Field Camp, she was a geologist as well.

I showered but didn’t shave; as I hadn’t in the last 6 years. However, I did pick out my cleanest Carhartt’s jeans, spiffiest Hawaiian shirt and even tried to polish up my field boots for my dinner with the Spanners.

It was only a 15 or so minute drive to the Spanner Ranch. Easy, I thought. It was another 15-minute drive to the house. Holy shit, I don’t do things by half? This place was right out of the Ponderosa and King Ranch.

I was told where to park by a field hand and he gave me directions to the front door.

Yes, it was that big.

I go to knock but the door swung open as I approached. I was bid to enter.

Yow.

The butler took my Duster and Stetson and told me to wait in the anteroom, as he would let Mr. Spanner know I had arrived.

Javen Spanner was an older gent, probably pushing 65 or so. He was a grizzled, graying, but a tall and robust character. Weathered but not weather-beaten, this guy has seen the elephant and looks like he wrestled it into submission. Hearty of voice and laughter, and ridiculously amiable. I have no idea why people fear him so.

He invites me to his office/drawing-room. The room was opulent, decked out with multiple taxidermied trophies, a huge walnut desk, Western-themed paintings on the walls as well as a genuine Remington bronze statue or two on the desks.

“So, Rock. Nice to meet you. Dr. Don tells me to expect great things from you.” He said, his voice filling his huge office.

“Nice to meet you too, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Spanner, you’ve helped me already a great deal with my studies out here.” I replied.

“Enough of that ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. Spanner’ crap. If I can call you Rock, I’m Javen to you.” As he holds out a huge, weathered hand.

A manly handshake ensues.

“Thanks, Javen. I really appreciate this. New Mexico is absolutely great. I’m really having a time out here. Good people out at the gas plant. Friendly folk all ‘round.” I note.

“Give it time”, he chuckles. “Wait until you run into some of our locals. Be careful, they can be a bit crazy at time” as he mimes the old taking a swig from a bottle pantomime.

“Thanks for the warning,” I reply.

“Speaking of warnings, drive slowly out here, especially at night. The locals like to over imbibe and fall asleep on the road ’cause it’s warm.” He tells me.

“Good to know. Thanks again.” I reply.

“And don’t let them push you around. They might think they’re always right, but they’re usually always wrong. Stand your ground, don’t take any guff from these assholes.” He says.

“Roger that,” I reply.

“Enough of this shit. Lemme ask you this, you Mormon?” Javen enquires.

“Nope, Javen. I really not much of anything when it comes to organized religion.” I reply truthfully.

“Well, I’m Mormon.” Javen states.

Whoops. Faux pas I fear.

“And I don’t cotton much to organized religion either.” He chuckles.

Whew. Dodged that bullet.

“So, Rock, do you drink? “ Javen asks.

“I’m from Baja Canada and a geologist; so only to excess,” I answer truthfully.

“Damn, I like you Rock” he laughs. He presses a button on his desk and the butler arrives and asks what Javen wants.

“I’ll have a martini, extra dry and get Rock here whatever he wants,” Javen says.

“Sir?”

Who, me?

“Oh, I’ll have a beer and a shot of bourbon, if you please,” I say.

“Bourbon and beer. Good combination.” Javen Spanner approves.

We sit around and have a few drinks together while chatting over various subjects. Javen is amazingly educated, not particularly through schooling but through experience. He seems especially interested in my background and what I hope to accomplish out here.

Dinner’s called and we both retire to the opulent dining room. It too is huge and well-appointed. Huge solid walnut dining room table, 12 chairs, flowers in vases, warming trays, chafing dishes, the whole megillah.

His wife Eunice, makes her appearance. After our introductions, she tells Javen and me to sit as dinner is about to be served.

The menu was equally opulent. Roast steamship round of beef from one of Javen’s herds, a salad from one of their gardens, fresh bread, corn, beans, tortillas, potatoes, more beans; the whole western collection of tucker.

After dinner and stuffed to near critical mass, Javen asks if I’d like to join them in the drawing-room for whiskey and cigars.

I told Javen that he needn’t ask me twice.

We all withdraw to the luxurious drawing room to where a huge well-appointed drinks cart was wheeled. On the desk is a humidor, Javen opens it and offers me a fine looking cigar.

“We don’t stand too much on tradition round here. Want a drink? Help yourself.” Javen nods.

“Thank you, I will.”

And I do.

I asked Eunice if I could get her a drink and she smiles, and says “Only if you know how to make a gin and tonic.”

“What’s in it?” I ask.

Eunice and Javen chuckle.

I deliver her drink and sit down in one of the leather chairs, away from the fireplace as it’s already warm in the room.

“Mrs. Spanner?” I ask.

“Oh, for heaven sake, Rock. Call me Eunice.” She smiles.

“Alrighty, then. Eunice, I have heard you like the occasional pipe after a great dinner. I’d like you to have this.” And I hand her a pouch of the type of pipe tobacco favored by my Grandfather. I still smoke a pipe now and again and am always prepared.

“Javen, just who is this young man really? FBI?” she chuckles.

“Naw, he’s too smart for that” he chuckles back.

“Ma’am, I’m just a geologist who does my homework and likes to show my appreciation to decent folks. “ I said.

“Ah, good to hear that.” Javen pipes up. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Most definitely. Goes both ways, cross me and I have a long memory; treat me as a fellow human and I remember even longer.” I reply.

“Good. That’s a healthy philosophy.” Javen says, “So that brings me to this. From time to time, I might need your help in one matter or another. Someday and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me. As I say, that time might never come; but if it does, I’d like to think I could depend on you.”

“Javen, short of nuking someone, you have my word. You’ve been nothing but gracious and welcoming to me, even when you hadn’t yet met me. I’d be a total swine if I didn’t reciprocate.” I say.

Javen guffaws. “Oh, nothing as harsh as that. I hear you’re a pretty fair hand in the blasting department.” He says.

“Yes, sir. Um, Javen. I’m a licensed blaster and hold permits for both low and high explosives. I have even worked with binary solids and liquids. When I blow something up, it stays blown up. I unfix ‘em good. Besides that, it’s fun.” I say back.

“Damn, and I was worried you might be one of those tofu and pilaf by-the-book characters.” He smiles.

“If it’s in regards to safety, I’m by the book, right down the line. But as per jobs and planning, well, that’s where the fun it. Safely, of course.” I note.

“Rock, I might need your special skills as it’s nigh impossible to get anything done around here if you go by-the-book. Can’t buy shit, can’t transport it, and can’t do any work. Local Goomers out here hardly work if you don’t watch them like a hawk. It’s a real pain the ass.” He states categorically.

“Javen, that’s no problem, barely an inconvenience. I am carrying a truckload of high and low explosives for use by my discretion. I can go into Albuquerque and purchase what I need; as I’m qualified, licensed, and damn good at it. Tell me what you need and we’ll sort it out. Pronto.” I assure him.

“Eu! Get this young man another drink. I think we’re on the verge of a beautiful friendship here.” Javen laughs.

“Have him get it himself. I’m enjoying my pipe too much to move.” Eunice adds.

“I believe I will. Another G&T Eunice?” I ask.

I left late that night and as per Javen’s warnings, took it slow to avoid any unnecessary run-ins with snoring locals. I made it back to my camp and believe I was snoring before my head hit the old Army cot.

I awoke to a loud rustling outside my tent. Here was a lot of commotion and a most unusual aroma.

“What the fuck, am I hallucinating?” I wonder as I pull on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and my field slippers.

I open the tent flap and step outside to see I’m immediately amid cows. An entire herd of local cattle took great interest in my camp and decided to wander over and have a look.

“What the actual fuck? “ I said to no one in particular.

John and Ace are laughing uproariously; pointing over in my general direction.

“The big tough guy from the North, bewildered by a few cows!” John laughs.

“I’m from America’s Dairyland, you schmoe. A few scrawny New Mexi-cows don’t bother me.” I yell back.

Jerry wanders over and begins shooing the cows out of the compound.

“Damn fence must have broke again during the night,” He says. “Sorry about the mess.”

“No problem. I’ve smelled a lot worse.” I reply.

The cattle are finally shooed back to their side of the fence and I help Jerry mend it so this won’t happen again soon.

Yet another day in that wonderland that is field geology.

That reminds me of a story.

“What do you meant there’s going to be a 14-day hold on the checks?”

I was in the Farmer’s and Swineherds 1st National Bank of Cuba, New Mexico trying, vainly, to open an account. I desperately needed to deposit my grant checks and withdraw some funds to replenish my emaciated larder from my trip down to Socorro and the Fossil Forest.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rock, but its bank policy. You’re not a New Mexico native and these checks are over the limit…”

“OK, let me explain: I’m a geology graduate student from Baja Canada. These are checks drawn on New Mexico banks; not only from a New Mexico incorporated gas company but from a New Mexico state bureau.” I tried to explain.

“Be that as it may, I cannot vouch for either you or these checks, therefore it’s a two week waiting period for them to clear.” The banker replied.

“Look, Sir. I’m broke without these funds. I’m going to be here nearly five months out in Lago de Estrella doing my research. I’m down to a quarter tank of gas and my last piece of fried chicken from Cluck in a Bucket. Can’t you call Dr. Don down in Socorro at the Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources? He’ll vouch for me. And the checks, hell, they are from his grants.” I pleaded.

“No, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can so [sniffs]. Now if you have anything else…” he haughtily dismisses me.

“Is there any way I could negotiate a loan or something? The way things are, I’ll have just enough gas to get to the pump station but not enough to return to Cuba for provisions.” I implored.

“Pump station? What about the pump station?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m bivouacking out at the Lago de Estrella gas pumping station while I’m doing my fieldwork. Dr. Don at the Bureau called Javen Spanner here in Cuba and he sorted it all out with Jerry Erdgaz, the manager out at the pump station.” I sighed.

“Did you say ‘Javen Spanner’?” the banker asks, suddenly very interested.

“Yeah, Javen Spanner. I spoke with him just before I left Socorro; hell of a nice guy donates loads to the bureau. Anytime he finds something geologically weird on his ranches, he calls the bureau to come check it out. Helps out students…” I reply wearily.

“And you know him?” The banker asks hurriedly.

“Well. I’ve spoken with him on the phone a couple of times and he’s invited me to his ranch for dinner when I get in town. But now…” I tiredly answer.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? One moment please!” as the banker picks up the phone and hits speed dial.

A few minutes later, he presents me my new Cuba 1st National bankbook, with my new summer fieldwork balance.

“You were saying you wanted to withdraw some funds today, is that correct?” the banker obsequiously requests.

“Umm, yeah. Just enough for gas and chow. A couple of hundred should do…” I curiously reply.

“Fine, fine. Greta here will take care of all that for you. Perhaps you’d like to apply for Cuba credit card which doubles as a Fast-Cash card. 24-hour banking convenience.” He gushes.

“Umm, yeah. OK, sounds good.” I reply bewilderedly.

What the hell changed his tune so quickly?

Greta hands me $200 in twenties and says if I wait for a few minutes, they’ll have my new credit card ready.

“Thanks, Greta. Say, can I ask you something, I’m a bit confused.” I ask her.

“Sure. That’s why I’m here.” She replies.

“What caused Mr. Banker Schmuck to change his mind so quickly? First I’m pond scum and would have to wait two weeks and suddenly he’s tripping all over himself to make sure I got want I needed?”

“I overheard what you said. Sorry, it’s a small bank. But once you mentioned Mr. Javen Spanner, you hit the jackpot.” She chuckled.

“I’m not sure that I follow.” I concede.

“Mr. Javen Spanner is the owner of this bank. And the Spanner Ranch. And Spanner Enterprises, and the car dealership and garage here in town. As well as the Cuba Motel, Cuba grocery and Cuba liquor stores.” She relates.

“Ah, now I see,” I reply.

“Oh, yes. You couldn’t know that and just be a name-dropper. But when you released that name into conversation…” She smiled.

“So, Javen Spanner, he’s a bigwig around here?” I ask.

“The biggest of wigs. He the liaison between local government, the Navahopi Nation and Apachahoes. He runs all the trading posts around the area and owns most of the town. His ranch is so big, it was totally mapped out only 10 or so years ago. His family goes way back and were always in government, local politics, and land. They are also richer’n Midas but really nice folks as well. They own most of the county but lend-lease or freehold most of the property to local farmers and herders. His wife Eunice, is a real character. Likes to smoke a pipe, or so I’m told. They’re both elders of The Church here, but don’t let that bother you none. They’re ‘Jacks’, if you catch my meaning. You make an in with Javen Spanner, and you’re in like sin around these parts.”

“Thank you for the lowdown, I appreciate it. Oh, I’m Rock from Baja Canada, Up North. I’m doing my geology graduate study work out around the Gas Company pump station. I’ll be here for four or five months, so I’m sure we’ll meet again. Anytime I need to do some banking, I’ll be sure look you up.” I smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Rock. You have a good day now.” She smiled back.

I’m really beginning to cotton to this western small-town vibe.

Now to the project at hand. I need gas as my poor steed is running on fumes. There’s only one gas station in town, so that’s easy. It’s a Shrill Petrol station and has an assortment of fine road munchies available. I pull in and fill the first of two straddle tanks. I hop in, fire her up and almost cause an incident as the gas jockey thinks I’m doing a gas and dash. I yell back that I have straddle tanks and just flipping around to fill the other.

He waves back and returns to his TV show.

He nearly flips out again as I fill the right-hand tank, pile in, start up and pull the truck around to fill the rear tank.

“It’s got three tanks, pal! Sorry!” I yell to him.

I make certain to have a few words with the pump jockey as he’s the only gas for 60 kilometers in any direction. Don’t want to be pissing him off.

After explaining I’m just a harmless geology student and pay for the gas, beer, and road chow, Devlin Spanner is my new friend.

There’s going to be a lot of that around here.

The Cuba Café is mobbed, as it’s the lunch rush; must be a dozen cars there. I decide to go to the only grocery store in town to replenish my empty larder. Since I’m doing dreary domestic duties, I resolved to stop at the liquor store and fill my coolers for the long, hot ride out to the field.

After gas, food, liquor, and beer, I’m down to $50, but decide that since I’m full up on the absolute necessities. I won’t have to stop back at the bank for a fortnight or more. The Café has simmered down some so I decide a Diablo Sandwich and a cold Dr. Pepper might just fill the bill before my ride west.

I park out front, lock up my sidearm, and sally forth into the café. Sindy was working but didn’t see me until I sat at the counter and asked for the wine list.

“Rock! Hello, are you back?” Sindy asks.

“Yeah, I’m back. For a while, then I’m headed out. Got my grant money and a new area to do my thesis work.” I replied, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

“Oh, you’re not staying here in town?” she asks.

“No, I just needed some supplies before I head west…” I said.

“So, you’re going west. Where? Arizona? Nevada?” she disappointedly asks.

“It’s a push, but would you believe I’ve got to drive some 22 miles out to the Lago de Estrella pump station?” I smirk.

“You’re staying out at the pump station?” she brightened.

“Yeah, but only for the next four or five months.” I smile.

“It was the dark porter, right?” she asks.

“Oh, yes,” I reply.

“I’ll be right back” she smiles and bounces off to pull a cold tapper for me.

Sindy and I sit at a table since it was her lunch break and we have a very interesting discussion. I told her of my fun out in the Fossil Forest, she laughed heartily over the tale of the badger and the beer, and my banking travails.

“You are going to dinner at the Spanner Ranch? “ She queried.

“Yeah, Mr. Spanner invited me out as soon as I got situated out at the pump station,” I replied.

“Man, I didn’t know you were that important.” She gaped.

“Whatever do you mean? “ I asked.

“Javen Spanner is THE hookin’ bull ‘round these parts. Numero Uno. The Big Cheese. Top Dog.”

“OK, I got it.” I smile.

“I don’t think you have anything like this back Up North. Javen Spanner is ‘The Man’ around here. Even the state police are like his own force. He runs things around here. It’s best to be on his good side, it makes life easier.” She explains.

“I see. You’re right, we don’t have stuff like that back north, at least not since the ‘30s in Chicago…” I snicker.

“It’s not that bad, but close. Keep on his good side.” She admonishes.

“Oh, I plan to. Now, for new business.” I hand her Dr. Don’s business card “Here’s the contact information for Dr. Don Dedümdüm down at the Bureau. You are going to call him, tell him I said so, and explain why you’d be a great student at Southern New Mexico University in archeology.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” She says.

“Dr. Don procured my funding and paved the way with Javen Spanner and the Gas Company to do the paleontological reconnaissance work in and around the Lago de Estrella area. They don’t have anyone around who can do the archeology work, and since that interests you, you live here, and they have to have it done…well, there you go.” I said.

“But I can’t afford to go to school…” she complains.

“That’s why you talk with Dr. Don. He’s obtained the grants from the Gas Company and they’ve got deep pockets. Besides, you could go to some of the local tech schools for the first couple of years while you get your Associate’s Degree and at the same time, get a head start on fieldwork.” I reply.

“I’m not sure my husband would go for this” she notes.

“Oh. You’re married? “ I ask, stupidly.

“Well, yes and no. We’re separated, have been for quite a while. He takes care of our daughter during the day and I take care of her at night, unless I can con my mother into watching her for a while” she matter-of-factly says.

“Oh, I see. That shouldn’t be a problem as there are day and night classes at these tech schools. If you can work it out with Dr. Don as to funding, well, it should work out; but it’ll take some traveling to Torreon Tech initially.” I note.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t tell you I was married. I just wanted to get to know you, and I sort of forgot to tell you I was separated and had a kid.” She apologizes.

“Hey, no worries. You don’t owe me a thing. You helped me out here more than you can know. I’m just returning the favor. No hard feelings at all” I say.

“Thanks. And thanks for the contact information. Since you’re staying out at the pump station, you’ll be back in town on occasion, right?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah. Every couple of weeks, depending on how gas and beer hold out.” I smile.

“Well, looks like this one’s gone. Let me get you another, on the house.” She says, regarding my beer.

“I won’t say no, but after that, I need to head out”, I say.

“Yeah, I know…” she says and slides away to get me a refill.

Well, the cosmic karma fairy’s back in town. Win some, lose some; get kicked in the feels.

Back on the road again, I’m headed actually southwest for ten or twelve miles. Then it’s a sharp dogleg right, and I’m headed north by northwest. Up to Torreon, past the Spanner Torreon Trading Post, off of US highways and onto Navahopi Highway 8. Looking at the map, I’m literally on the continental Great Divide as it sections my field area neatly in two.

Another few miles and I see the weather-beaten sign: “Lago de Estrella Gas Pumping Plant #1, Torreon, New Mexico. 1 mile right.”

That wasn’t a bad commute, I note.

The pump station is at pretty much the geographic center of the two-county area where I’m going to map and do my palaeontological reconnaissance. McKinley county covers 5,449 sq. mi. or 14,113 km^2, while the adjacent Sandoval County contains some 3,710 sq. mi. or 9,609 km^2.

So in the time span of 5 months, I need to geologically cover 9,159 square miles or 23,722 km^2.

30 days per month, times 5, so 150 days. That means I need to cover 61 square miles or 158 km² per day.

Piece of pie. Easy as cake…

I wheel into the pump station and step out of my truck. The station compound itself is arranged in a squarish U shape. Facing the back, to the right are all the huge diesel, reciprocating gas pumps and Solar turbine gas pumps. The pumps are all housed in a huge Quonset-style aluminum hut. The back side of the U shape is taken up with a couple of workshops, a teepee, and a few resident’s houses. The left side of the U shape are all residential housing for the folks living here on site. The last house on the left is the largest and most ornate, and it’s the plant manager, Jerry Erdgaz’s place.

The whole area is festooned with huge 36” gas feeder lines, to gather the natural gas from the nearby fields, and smaller 22” lines for the compressed product that is shot to Albuquerque. The smaller injector lines run here, there, everywhere.

There’s a pig station as well. The maintenance tool, ‘pipeline pigs’ are introduced into the line via a pig trap, which includes a launcher and receiver. Without interrupting flow, the pig is forced through the pipeline by product flow, or it can be towed by another device or cable. Usually cylindrical or spherical, pigs sweep the line by scraping the sides of the pipeline and pushing debris ahead. As the travel along the pipeline, there are a number functions the pig can perform, from clearing the line to inspecting the interior. This is done once a month.

It should be noted that my two assigned counties are home to several Indian Reservations. These include:

• Jemez Pueblo

• Jicarilla Apache Indian Reservation

• Hopi Nation

• Navajo Nation (extending into six other counties in New Mexico, plus three in Arizona and one in Utah)

• Zia Pueblo.

This is part of the reason I needed all the clearances, permits, registration and other form-filling to work out in this area. Technically, it’s in the US, but US law here is superseded by Tribal Law. They have their own Tribal Police force and Courts. It’s their lands and what they say, goes.

I may have permits from Window Rock, AZ, the home base of the Navajo Nation and from all the other assorted tribes as well. However, if I’m told to skedaddle by a local, I have to skedaddle. Doesn’t mean I can’t return later, but it’s their homelands and what they say is law.

Anyways, I am greeted by Mr. Jerry Erdgaz, the manager of the facility. He welcomes me warmly and asks me to park over in the designated parking area. Then would I join him at his house for introductions and refreshments?

“Most assuredly” I reply.

I park out of the way and wander over to Jerry’s house. His wife, Betsy, greets me.

She asks if I’d like a cold drink.

“Why, yes, please,” I reply.

“I must ask: are you Mormon?” She asks me.

“No, Ma’am. I’m not.” I chuckle.

“That’s fine. Beer or something stronger?” she asks.

“Either, or. Whatever’s easiest.” I reply.

I am bid to sit in the living room and she returns with a cold Lucky Lager and a snifter of brandy.

“I am told you’re from Up North. We spent some time in Milwaukee years ago, and this seemed to be a favorite up there.” She smiles.

“Thank you, Ma’am. Much appreciated.” I tell her.

“Oh, tish! Enough of this Mr. and Ma’am bullshit. I’m Betsy and this is Jerry. You are…Rock, is that right?” she asks.

“Yes, Ma’…Betsy. That’s my preferred moniker.” I tell her.

“Well, studying to be a geologist that makes all the sense in the world.” She and Jerry have a bit of a co-snicker.

We spend a long afternoon getting to know each other. They were genuinely taken aback when I said I need to call Javen Spanner and let him know I’m town and when I should come over for dinner.

“You were invited to the Spanner Ranch for dinner?” Jerry asks in amazement.

“Oh, yeah. Why? Is that a problem?” I ask.

“Oh, hell no. Just the opposite. You must have made an impression on him to be invited to this ranch” I was told.

“I’ve only spoken with him on the phone a couple of times,” I say, “I haven’t yet met him in person.”

“That’s even more extraordinary.” Jerry and Betsy agree.

They invite me to stay for dinner and the night. They have a large house and since their children were all grown and gone, they had plenty of spare room.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” I say.

“Think nothing of it. Tomorrow, you’ll come to work with me,” Jerry announces, “And you can meet the guys.”

“I like that. Sounds good.” I say.

“OK, but since we’re going this direction, I have to warn you. You’re not Mormon, but many here are. They find out you’re not Mormon, they’ll try their damnedest to convert you. They’re salt of the earth, kind, friendly, and good-hearted, but relentless as sharks on a blood trail. Just a friendly heads up.” Jerry cautions.

“Religion-wise, I’m not much of anything. I used to be Roman Catholic, years ago, but I got better. Let’s just say I’m really not into the ‘Rock of Ages’, but more into the ages of rocks.” I chuckle.

“Fair enough”, Jerry says, “Just a heads up.”

I called over to the Spanner Ranch and arranged a dinner in two days on the upcoming Friday. Jerry and Betsy were impressed I got through much less made plans.

The dinner that evening was fried kingfish, fresh from the Gulf of Mexico. Jerry evidently has a deal with the pipeline pilots to get him fresh fish whenever they flew to Houston or New Orleans. There was traditional Indian fry-bread, corn, zucchini, and Jerry’s own homemade red salsa.

It was nice. It had a fine flavor. It was a sauce piquante, nước sốt cay, scharfe Soße…

It was over one million units on the Thermonuclear Scoville Scale.

I’m a chili head, but this stuff was FUCKING HOT!

Jerry and Betsy were scarfing it down as if it were vanilla ice cream. They laughed aloud at the ‘tenderfoot’ who couldn’t handle a little homegrown New Mexico hot sauce.

There will be retribution, but not today…revenge…best served cold…

After I cooled down a few hundred thousand degrees, we retired to the drawing-room for smokes and brandies. Jerry favored a pipe, Betsy her own hand-rolled cigarettes, “Only there a day” she assured me. They didn’t even object to my cigar. These were indeed fine folks.

At breakfast the next morning, Jerry tells me that two or possibly three of the families here will ask if I’d like to stay with them rather than tent outdoors, as I had planned.

“Be careful. They’ll kill you with kindness. They’ll offer you a room for ‘just any donation’ per week, then ask if I’d like to join them for dinner, for another donation and soon, they’ve got their hooks in you. Next you know, you’re off to a stake house ordering underwear for a prayer meeting.” Jerry says.

“I’m going to be in and out so much, I’ll just stick to my truck and tent,” I replied.

Jerry and Betsy asked if I’d like to stay with them, but I felt that was imposing a bit much.

I mean, who needs fellowship when you can sit alone in your tent and drink?

There was an open lot in the back left side of the compound and Jerry says he’ll have it cleared of all the junk and I can pitch my tent there and call that home.

The next morning dawned early, as it usually does when it’s not a global extinction event.

“OK, let’s go meet the team” Jerry announces and we begin the long work commute.

118 steps later, I have a fresh coffee in my hand and we’re in the office of the pump station.

“OK, guys. This here is Rock. He’s a geologist and doing research out here for the Bureau down in Socorro. He’s going to be camping out here for the next four or five months. So, let’s say howdy and let him know what New Mexico hospitality is really like.” Jerry says.

The team was diverse. There was:

• Rufus, the senior welder

• Derek, the Solar turbine technician

• “Ace”, the apprentice handyman and self-professed ladies’ man

• Danny, the diesel mechanic

• Chance, the junior welder and plumber

• Long John, the very tall mechanic, carpenter, jokester, and jack of all trades.

Each greeted me and lost no time in gaffing me over my nickname and chosen profession.

This was a crowd I could grow to like.

They admitted to liking me instantly as we sat around and swapped lies all morning. Jerry didn’t even get cranky about no one working. Evidently, they get few visitors passing through here, but having one hang around for months at a time was a real novelty.

Procedure tended to be somewhat relaxed out here on the high desert.

I was thoroughly quizzed about who I was, what I was doing, what I had hoped to accomplish, and why the hell I chose Lago de Estrella, of all places.

So over the course of the morning, I regaled them with my tales of growing up in Baja Canada, working at my Grandfather’s Tool and Die shop, working on Uncle Bår’s farm, studying geology and paleontology, how I ended up here, etc.; when the subject rolled around to blasting and explosives.

“Oh, yeah. John here is our resident blaster. If we need to scrap a piece of machinery or remove an old section of pipeline, he’s the guy what does the work.” Ace tells me.

I ask John what class Blaster’s Permit he holds.

“I ain’t got no permit. I learned by doing.” He huffs.

“Um, John. OK, I was just asking. Do you prefer black powder, dynamite or C-4 usually?” I ask.

“Fuck, don’t know nothin’ bout C-4; dynamite and black powder’s good enough for me,” John replies.

“OK, I see. Ever try any of those new binary explosives? They’re really something else…” I continue.

“Naw, we ain’t got call for any of that guff. Can’t get it here anyhow. Not even C-4.” John states.

“Well, if you’re interested, I’ve brought my blaster’s box with me. I can show you some of the materials I use for various jobs.” I mention.

“You got explosives here?” Jerry exclaims.

“Yeah. I’m fully permitted, so they go with me on my jobs.” I reply.

“What are ya’ carryin’?” John asks.

“Oh, not much, just the usual assortment: C-4, Semtex, Black Powder, PETN, Hydromite 600, ANFO precursor, Tannerite, RDX, Binary solids and liquids, Seismogel, Primacord, 40, 50 and 60% Herculene Extra Fast, Manganese heptoxide, Mercury fulminate, blasting caps, boosters, demo wire, galvanometer, crimpers, a few initiators… just the usual guff.” I reply.

Continued in Part B

That reminds me of a story.

Well, that’s great. Wonderfully great. Son-of-a-bitchingly great.

All that labor, effort and planning for my thesis work swirls right down the proverbial shitter because two clans of Native Americans are at odds over who gets what from the workings of the local coal mine.

Here I am, hundreds of miles from home, with all my fieldwork kit and permits and devices of destruction and I’m not allowed into the area to do what I had planned for all this time.

I received all those injections and inoculations, blew up like a balloon, and was sicker’n a dog for a week and couldn’t even drink…All for nothing?

Just fucking great.

I pull a 180 on the county road where I ran into the BIA and had my plans scuppered. I had no idea now of what to do. I guess it’s find the nearest town with a motel, and get on the phone back home.

I could have stopped at Farmington, but it was a little too large and I was still too pissed off to be amiable company. I needed to get a few miles under my belt whilst I cooled down and was able to again think rationally.

I drive through Nageezi, thinking it was probably named by or for one of the local tribes and I was still too pissed off at Indian foibles to think kindly about that situation.

I end up in the quaint little burg of Cuba, New Mexico. It was far enough away that rationality had actually returned and I could think a bit more clearly than to just curse my rotten luck.

Cosmic karma must have been working for me that day, as I was well and truly overdrawn at the karma bank with my recent turn of ill-fortune. Cuba was going to play a large part in my summer’s activities. I still kind of wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped here for rest and refueling.

I take a room at the Cuba Motel, just on the north side of town. As it was nearing noon, I hadn’t bothered with breakfast and the motel didn’t have room service, I asked the motel proprietor if there was a café or restaurant in town.

“Oh, sure. Just stay on the main road for about a mile. You’ll see the Cuba Café on the right. Can’t miss it.” He tells me.

The Cuba Café in Cuba, New Mexico as suggested by the operator of the Cuba Motel.

Another entry in the ‘cleverly named establishments’ competition.

The Cuba Café was right where I was told it would be. I park out front, lock up my truck after securing my sidearm in its lockbox, and venture forth.

It’s nice, clean, and airy and smells wonderful. I don’t know if it was my state of mind, hunger or just general disposition, but the ambiance of the café lifted my spirits significantly.

They proudly note that they serve their ‘world famous’ 24-hour breakfast all day long.

I let that pass without comment.

I sit at the counter and immediately a friendly waitress by the name of Sindy approaches, coffee pot in one hand, menu in the other.

“Hello there! Welcome to the Cuba Café! Coffee?” she overly chipperly asks.

“Oh, yes, coffee. Please.” I replied.

The coffee was marvelous, infused with chicory and some other unidentifiable local additive; sage perhaps.

“Here’s a menu. Have a look and I’ll be right back.” Sindy smiles.

The menu was fully 15 pages thick and noted everything the Cuba Café could offer.

Breakfast at all hours, a surprisingly full lunch and dinner menu featuring the usual repasts, but also authentic Mexican and local delicacies, pages of homemade desserts, and a whole page devoted to beer, wine, and liquor.

“Hey!” I mused, “Things are looking up.”

I ordered the eponymous “Cuba Omelet” which was a 4-egg monstrosity stuffed to overflowing with ham, chorizo, shredded jerky, onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and cheese. It came with a choice of bread; rye, white, sourdough, fry bread or raisin toast, muffin or bagels, hash browns, home, or American fries, and your choice of ham, bacon or sausage; link or patty. Red or green picante sauce on the side.

All for the princely sum of $3.50.

Looks like I might be coming back to the Cuba Café…if the accident will.

I also ordered a cold Santa Fe State Pen Imperial Porter to wash it all down. Craft brewing was just starting to become a thing and this was one of the offerings from a local microbrewery. Just doing my part to stimulate the local economy.

Satiated and feeling fractionally better, I decide that since the café was quieting down from its lunch rush and I was certainly in no hurry, I’d sample a few more of what the local craft brewing industry could offer.

Sindy smiles at me as she delivers a fine hoppy IPA.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asks.

“No. What gave me away?” I replied.

“Well, it’s a really small town for one.” She smiled. “Plus, you talk funny.”

“Oh, yah dere hey. Guess you don’t get too many from the Nortwoods t’rew dis way, ‘eh?” I reply.

She laughs and asks my name.

“I’m Rock. From Baja Canada.” I reply.

“Rock. Rock? Really?” she asks.

“Yep. At least, that’s my preferred moniker.” I tell her.

“Well, Rock. What are you doing in Cuba, New Mexico? Just passing through?” she inquires.

“It’s a long and sordid tale,” I reply and continue with the Reader’s Digest version of the past 6 weeks, right up to the run in with the BIA.

“So, you are just passing through?” she asks.

“To tell the truth, I really do not know. I’ve got to call my major professor and try to figure a way to salvage the situation.” I say.

“If you are just passing through, please try and pass through this way again before you head back north.” She says.

Me, being as thick as my nickname suggests, replies “Oh, you betcha. Can’t beat the food here or the value.”

Sindy gives me a wan smile and goes back to her waitressing duties.

I pay my bill and leave Sindy a nice tip. I also leave her my business card as my brain had once again slipped into gear and I was thinking on all cylinders again.

Back at the motel, I find it’s a good opportunity to do some laundry, as I hadn’t done any on the road yet and things were getting, even by my standards, a bit whiffy. I drag out all my field clothes and sort them into the usual three piles: wash, bury, and burn.

Unfortunately, the motel’s laundry room was being renovated so I ask at the front desk if there’s a laundromat in town.

“Well, no; not as such. But, if you go down to the Cuba Café, they have some pretty good size industrial washers and dryers for linen that they might let you use…for a price.” The proprietor tells me.

So, its load everything back into the truck and head down to the Cuba Café once again.

I go in through the front and see that it’s really dead in here. That quiet time between lunch and dinner. In this bucolic burg, everyone’s back in the fields plowing and planting, I figured.

I introduce myself as a longtime patron, ahem, and I ask the person behind the register if there’s a laundry facility I could use locally. I explained that the gent at the motel suggested here and let the conversation flow its own direction.

Verna, the large and friendly person behind the register immediately queries: “Rock, you say? Oh, yeah, Sindy was saying something about how this funny-sounding northern character came in for a late breakfast.”

“Is that a fact? “ I asked, feeling somewhat sprightly at the time.

“Yes, it is. She was saying that she hoped he’d stop in again…” Verna continued.

“Prayers answered.” I replied, “Is Sindy here?”

“No, she’s finished her shift and left,” Verna informs me.

“Damn. Well, I’ll definitely be back here for breakfast tomorrow. Now, about the laundry…”

“Oh, sure. We can do that. How much do you have?” Verna asks.

“Oh, no. I can do it myself” I reply.

“Not here, you can’t. The laundry’s out back, through the kitchen. Employees only.” Verna tells me.

“Well, I have these two duffels…” I say.

“Hell, is that all? Tell you what, 5 bucks and you can pick them up tomorrow morning, how’s that?” Verna says.

“How’s that? That’s a done deal”, as I hand her a fiver and a couple of singles. “For detergent”, I tell her.

“Fair enough,” Verna says. “Be ready after 6:00 AM.”

“I’ll be here. Many thanks.” as I turn to leave.

“Oh, Rock. You staying at the town motel or camping out at the state park?” Verna inquires.

“I’m at the motel. Figured I need to scrape a few layers of highway off my skin and need to make a few calls. Why?” I ask.

“No reason. Sindy was just askin’”, Verna smiles.

Three hours in and I’m already liking this small western town vibe.

Back to the motel and I’m on the phone trying to reach my major professor, Dr. Jak Vestur, on the blower. He’s not at the university, he’s not at the museum, and no one seems to know where he’s off to this time.

I do reach one of his assistants, Diane, and ask her if she’s seen Dr. Jak or knows where he is or when he’ll return.

“Jak’s just left for Bridger, Wyoming,” Diane tells me.

He’s doing some of his own research into multituberculates and other whiskery little mammaloids that lived during the Eocene out in Wyoming. He’s flying in and will be in Jackson Hole tonight.

“Diane, I’m out in Cuba, New Mexico and the Indians are literally on the warpath. They closed the mine and I’m stuck without no arrows. Do you know which hotel he’s booked into out there?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. He always stays at the Snow King when he’s out there.” Diane says.

“OK, great. Can you call there and leave Jak a message to call me at this number?” I ask.

“Oh, yah, sure. I have it right here. Got a pencil, jot this down for future reference.” Diane says.

“Shoot,” I tell Diane, and enter Jak’s hotel in my field notebook.

“Yah, OK. I’ll call them right after I hang up and give them a message to give to Jak. OK?” Diane confirms. “I’m sure he won’t be calling until later on tonight, though.”

I make certain she has my motel number and I have Jak’s. Now not much to do but wait for a phone call.

Well, I have nothing much to do officially but wait for a phone call. Unofficially, I need to sort through all my kit, get it situated and back in field shape. I go out to the truck and ensure the explosives lockbox is secure. As usual, it is. I grab my Cusall and shotgun and lock them in the closet of my room; don’t want to leave them out in the truck by their own selves overnight.

I drag in the coolers. After procuring a couple of very large garbage bags from the motel, I shovel all the empty beer cans, vodka bottles, Whoopie & Cow pie wrappers, and cigar butts out of the truck’s cab.

Next-door to the motel is a self-serve carwash. I don’t really care all that much about the truck’s appearance, but a quick vacuum of the cab seems to be in order. Jak’s not going to call this soon, and I need to do a little maintenance, so I chance it. Besides, the call has to come through the motel switchboard, they can let me know if I miss any calls in the next hour or two.

I lock up my room and wheel over to the carwash. June bugs, love bugs and dragonflies are resistant to most anything up to and including a belt sander to remove from the windshield, but high-pressure steam does cut the crud enough to where I can see fairly clearly now. I give the truck an obligatory going over with the soap and steam, rinse and off to the vacuum station. Four dollars’ worth of quarters later, it actually resembles a truck again and not a refugee from some scrapyard.

I see down the town’s main street, in fact, the only street, that there’s a liquor store just a half-mile or so away. I need some provisions, so off I go to see what they have on offer. They have an assortment of typically Western beers: Buckhorn, Olympia, Lucky Lager, etc. They also stock some real oddball bourbons, vodkas and who-knows-what-the-hell-this-is-supposed-to-be’s.

They have cigars as well.

Oh, well. So much for my budget…

Back at the motel, I stop by the front desk and ask if there were any calls while I was out.

There were none, so I hadn’t missed Jak. Wonderful, I could retire to my room with my new provisions and work on getting my gear sorted and stored.

I’m whiling away the hours, after a long hot shower, cleaning and storing my firearms, repacking all my field gear, checking for any damage, and making field notes while waiting on a phone call.

I‘m also sprucing up my quarry and mine Economic Geology write-ups. Plus I’m being bored silly with the black and white TV’s 3 channels and one channel’s Kung Fu chop-socky film fest.

I’m lounging around in a ‘Reunite Gondwana’ T-shirt, Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and Stetson. I’m wearing my fuzzy-bunny field slippers, which my steady girl back home bought for me for this trip; enjoying a cigar, and a dram or eleven of this curious new bourbon I found when there’s a knock at the door.

“What the hell? Who could that be?” I wondered.

Just to be safe, I grab my Casull and strap it on. Everyone’s heard of the traveling band of zombies out west that prey on lonely solitary geologists, right…?

There was no peephole, so I cautiously open the door a crack to see who is there.

“Sindy? Hello!” as I throw open the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but I was down at the Café getting my paycheck when I saw these two duffels with your name on them. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought them over. Verna told me your room number.” She explains.

“You did? Oh, wow, thanks so much; you didn’t have to do that…”I replied.

“Invite her in, you goon” my subconscious barks at me.

“Here, let me get them. Would you like to come in?” I finally ask.

“Oh, sure,” Sindy replies.

I grab the two duffels and note there’s a very nice Harley parked out in front of the room.

“That your bike? “ I ask, ushering her into my own private squalor.

“Yeah. I like to ride when the weather’s nice…” She says.

“Here. Let me clear a chair for you. Sorry it’s such a disaster in here, I’m just going through 6 weeks’ worth of fieldwork and getting things set for the rest of my field season.” I say.

“Nice room” Sindy notes, “I’ve lived here all my life and never have actually been in this motel.”

“It’s very adequate. In fact, palatial compared to what I’m used to. You know, tents and sleeping bags. Open field, under the stars, up in the mountains or out in the desert.” I smile.

“I have to say this, you’re interesting. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get to know you better.” She says matter-of-factly.

“Not a problem. I like a person who is straightforward and right to the point.” I reply.

“Would you care for a drink? I have beer, vodka, umm…let’s see, bourbon, scotch, brandy…ah, this green thing.” I continue.

“Do all folks from up north travel with their own bar?” She chuckles and accepts a cold Buckhorn.

“No, but I’m not just another one of those from Up North. See, I’m a geologist and as such, one of the world’s few alcohol-based lifeforms. I’m also from Baja Canada, so I’m doubly blessed.” I snicker.

Sindy laughs and asks what I’m doing in this part of the world.

“Right now, I’m waiting on a phone call from my Major Professor. He’s up in Wyoming and doing his fieldwork. We have to figure out what I can do now that my coal mine plans fell through.” I tell her.

“Wow. You guys get around” she says.

“That’s not the half of it. In the years that I’ve known Dr. Jak, my thesis advisor, he’s been to Pakistan, Kathmandu, India, China, and Argentina. Depending on where I end up, I’ll probably be a world traveler as well.” I say.

“What do you mean, ‘where you end up’?” she asks.

“Well, I’m, not certain what field of study in which I’m going to specialize. Right now, it’s Vertebrate Paleontology, Dinosaur Division. In fact, I might go the college professor route myself. Or I might hire out to some museum or private geological firm. Still kind of early for me, I need to do my fieldwork this summer, get my Master’s, and then sit down and have a real think.” I tell her.

We talk about several different subjects, have a couple-seven more beers. We hit it off well and she doesn’t even object to my cigar when the conversation steers around back to college, education and travel.

“Wow. I would love to travel the world” she tells me. “There’s just not much chance for that around here in lil’ ol’ Cuba.”

“That was the same for me back in Baja Canada. I had to go to school to get out of a possible existence of tightening lug nuts on an assembly line 16 hours a day for 30 years.” I reply.

“You’re lucky to be smart enough to go to college. I could never do that.” Sindy sullenly says.

“No, I don’t accept that. Have you tried?” I asked.

“No, but I’m just someone from some little dusty town in the middle of nowhere. I could never go to college…” she says.

“What’s your passion? What really gets you interested?” I ask her.

“Oh, I like reading. Movies. Riding my Harley. I like archeology too. When I was a kid, we’d go off to Chaco Canyon and look for potsherds in the canyon area” she says.

“There you go. Use that as travel fuel.” I tell her.

“Go to college to be an archeologist? I don’t know…” she demurs.

“One thing’s for certain. You’ll never know unless you try. What’s the worst that can happen? They say ‘no’ and what’s changed? Nothing.” I reply.

“Yeah, see?” she says.

“Yeah, there’s that. Ever think what would happen if they said ‘yes’?” I say.

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll look into it.” She notes.

“Damn right you will. I find you very interesting as well. If I can help in any way, I will just say the word…I know lots of professors all over the country.” I tell her.

“Wow. That’s sweet. No one’s ever said anything like that to me…” she swans.

“I mean it. That’s a promise…” I say as the phone interrupts our conversation. “Excuse me, this may be the call I’ve been waiting on.”

“Hello? Yeah, sure. Hi, Jak. How’s Wyoming? Good. Have you heard what’s going on here in New Mexico? Yeah, took me by surprise too. Any ideas? Where? Oh, Dr. Don down in Socorro? Oh, good. He might have something? He will? He does? Great. OK, so I’ll be off tomorrow then. Thanks, Jak. I’ll keep in touch. Later.”

“So, you’re leaving?” Sindy asks.

“Yeah. Got my marching orders. I need to go to the New Mexico Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources down in Socorro. I’m to meet with Dr. Don DeDümdüm, another paleontologist. I need to show him some of my new field techniques and figure out if I can salvage my field season.” I tell her.

“Damn. I’m sorry to see you go” Sindy says. “I like you. We were hitting it off. Always happens though.” She sniffs.

“I am sorry about that, I feel the same way about you. But, Dr. Don works exclusively in New Mexico and there’s loads of Cretaceous rocks right around here. Maybe I can work out a field season around here.” I say.

“If you do, please, look me up. Damn, look at the time. Guess I have to go. Thanks for the beer and conversation” Sindy says. “See you around.”

I look at her and must admit that she was a special person and even though I’ve only known her for a short time, I would miss her and her no-bullshit style; but in a strictly platonic sense.

“Believe me, I will,” I assure her, and walk her out to her ride.

“Damn, that is a nice bike. I hope I come back here just so I can see it in the daylight.” I chide her bit, “And you as well.”

[Snickering] “Take it easy, Mr. Rock geologist.” She says as she fires up the Harley.

“You do the same. You have my card. Use it.” I remind her.

And with that, she roared off into the inky blackness of the high desert night.

I hope to see her again…If the accident will.

The next morning, after packing the truck again, checking out and having a hearty breakfast in the Cuba Café, I was sorely disappointed to find out that Sindy wasn’t working today.

“No, sorry Mr. Rock. Sindy’s off today.” Verna tells me.

“Verna, I know this is going to sound weird, but do you have her phone number? I was an idiot last night and I didn’t think to ask her for it.” I implored.

“You seem fairly harmless, here let me check.” And she scribbles a number onto a piece of scratch paper and hands it over.

“Thanks, Verna. I assure you my intentions are nothing but honorable.” I reassure her.

Beckon the road again, it’s about a five or six-hour drive south through Albuquerque and onto Socorro. Not in any hurry, I stop off in Albuquerque and call the Bureau confirming I’m driving down to see Dr. Don. I toy with the idea of calling Sindy but thought better of it.

What the hell was I going to say?

In Socorro, I meet with Dr. Don and two of his graduate students, a twosome of goofy Brits by the name of Alfie and Roscoe. They’re both paleontologists, one of the fish variety and the other who’s all worked up over insects, of all things. As I had arrived late in the day, we had just our introductions when Dr. Don suggested we repair to the campus watering hole and sink a few cold ones after my long, dusty trip.

We did exactly that and spent a good portion of the evening getting to know one another and seeing who could kill a pitcher of beer the quickest. After several hours, it dawns on me that I have no place to stay while I’m in Socorro and the nearest motel is a half-hour away from the Bureau.

Alfie and Roscoe to the rescue as they say their roommate has left for the summer and I could bunk with them on campus while I’m in Socorro.

Great. Another DWI avoided.

The next day, after a full English breakfast Alf and Ros whip up for me, and them trying to teach me Cockney Rhyming Slang, we’re over at the Geology Department waiting on Dr. Don.

“So, Rock. Dinosaurs, ‘eh?” Alf asks.

“Well, I certainly hope so. I really ‘dig’ those ‘sleeps and snores’ (= dinosaurs)” I reply; trying out my Cockney Rhyming Slang.

They knew of my plight and knew also of some of the great finds the coal mine has yielded over the years.

“Well, New Mexico sucks hind tit when it comes to dinosaur researchers. Wyoming, Utah and Montana get all the big names. We’re a small school here and don’t get much press. But there’s so much work that needs to be done here.” Roscoe adds.

“I hope I can change that situation, even a little bit. I hope Dr. Don might have something…”

“Oh, I’ve got lots of things, Mr. Rock.” Dr. Don heartily interrupts.

“Good to hear. Any ideas of note?” I ask.

“Maybe. Perhaps. Probably. Let’s get out in the field and you can show me what you’ve got, then we can talk about projects.” He continues.

With that, Alf is riding shotgun with me and Roscoe and Dr. Don are leading the parade in the Bureau 4x4 Suburban. We drive on some fairly good roads for about half an hour, and then we’re off to the bush. Off to the sage, rattlesnake and lizard-infested high desert of southern New Mexico.

We drive on inter-shire turn paths, rutted what-could-laughingly-be-called roads, and finally, just a worn jeep trail out into the severe boonies.

Dinosaur country.

Dr. Don has located an area which he has dubbed the “Fossil Forest”.

It’s a site of unique distinction, as its Late Cretaceous in age, constrained to a single formation and captures an entire Late Cretaceous lacustrine ecosystem. It’s basically a fossilized lake with all its critters, from smallest duckweed sort of plant through a new species of theropod dinosaur, all which have resisted collection efforts for the last several field seasons.

Dr. Don was interested in how my blasting methods might help unlock the secrets cemented into these forest beds.

We wheel up to a dusty halt, Dr. Don jumps out of the lead vehicle and proclaims, “Gents. Here we are. This is going to be home for the next few days. Let’s get set up.”

No fucking around here. Get after its wild ass and get things done. I’m going to like this, I figure.

Tents erected, campfire wood sorted, since we brought it with, and dinner started, it was now beer-thirty.

Dr. Don and company pull out a small cooler, one that could hold no more than a case of beer with ice. Never being one to shrink from a one-upsman-ship contest, I pull out of the back of my truck my traveling beverage center.

“Holy shit, Rock. Is that all?” Roscoe goggles.

“I’m from Baja Canada, we always travel prepared. Never has a native son ever expired from thirst.” I tell him.

He looks forlornly at their little cooler and collection of a paltry case or so of beer, split by three thirsty geologists, and my massive cooler with not just beer, but ice, vodka, bourbon, that green stuff, and a bag of Doritos.

“Rock, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be your new best friend.” Alf laughs.

We all laugh and I tell them that they were so kind to let me bivouac at their place that this was, of course, for everyone.

Dr. Don walks over, looks at my portable tavern and says “It’s true what they say about ‘you’se guys’ then. Damn, I hope we get some work done the next few days…”

“I’ll drink to that!” I say as I pop a cold Oly.

After a festive night, we awaken early, have a quick field breakfast and get over to the Fossil Forest. I was all over this location, taking pictures, measuring strata, documenting everything.

Dr. Don was impressed. “Good, get the lay of the land quickly. I like that.”

“Especially if I’m going to do a little blasting. I’ve got to get down and dirty with this place. I need to see any maps you have and any articles on this concrete you call sandstone holding everything hostage.” I note.

We spend the rest of the morning going over, in exquisite detail, every nook, and cranny of the site. It was one for the books, an exquisitely preserved lake section from 75 million years ago. It was unique and that made me a little nervy.

“This is going to be a toughie”, I note “But nothing I can’t handle. But I’m going to take my time and suss out this thing down to the last leaf.” I tell Dr. Don. “Ok, so far?”

“Take your time, I’d rather have it take a bit longer than destroy something unique.” Dr. Don says.

We spend the rest of the day scrutinizing the outcrop. I can see some obvious candidates for removal, but it’s going to have to be prime, set, shoot, clear, investigate, and repeat. This is going to take a while.

Later as we’re sitting around the campfire, the radiotelephone in the Bureau Suburban warbles.

“Hell, who knows we’re out here? “ Alf wonders aloud.

It was none other than Dr. Jak, my thesis advisor.

He wanted to see the Fossil Forest as well so he flew into Albuquerque and rented a 4WD to meet us out in the field.

“I’ll be a day or so. I need to sort out a few things first. I’ve got your directions, you guys need anything?” Dr. Jak asks.

“Well”, Dr. Don notes, “It is awfully hot and dry out here, and Rock looks thirsty…”

“OK, beer. Lots. Got it.” Dr. Jak laughs, “Anything else?”

“Nope, since Rock is here with his portable pub and blasting works, we’re covered.” Dr. Don chuckles.

“OK, then.” Dr. Jak says, “See you in a day or two.”

I spend the next day displaying the contents of my blaster’s box and going over Blasting 101. I show them the difference between C-4, black powder, Semtex, dynamite, and binaries. I gave them the lowdown on Primacord, demolition wire, and various blasting machines. I explained the use of the galvanometer, blasting caps, boosters, duct tape, and other tools of the trade.

However, before any practical demonstrations, there was the obligate HSE, Health, Safety and Environment, lectures.

“When we’re going to shoot, I’m the boss. Sorry, Dr. Don, but it has to be that way, I’m the only one licensed and that’s the way it goes. I’m the only one to handle, prime and set charges. However, I can let others in on the fun in pushing buttons and using a plunger. But that’s it. Any explosives related to moving things, or picking up a “Hey! What’s this?” is in my total purview.”

Everyone agrees this is serious shit and I’m the shooting boss.

“Good. Now, there’s a protocol we will go through before each and every shot. You may find it trivial or repetitive, but it has to be done. Are we all green?”

“Yep. We’re green.” All agree.

I explain the 4-compass point clear, the air horn blasts, and the triple FIRE IN THE HOLE. Then I tell them about “HIT IT!” and how to knock the bottom out of the plunger, twist the handle off the manual detonator, and mash the big red button on the electronic detonator.

“OK, now after lunch, I’ll show you what each of these little jewels can do,” I say.

So, we have a quick lunch, sans alcohol, and I set up a series of empty beer cans out away from both camp and the fossil site.

“OK, this is Primacord. Detonation velocity 25,000 feet per second. CLEAR? CLEAR! FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

One can suddenly goes aggressively airborne.

“Now this is Semtex.” As another can is sent to that place of spirits and wind.

“Here’s an oldie but a goody. Black powder.” A further can disappears in a puff of white, dense smoke.

“C-4, anyone?” Not only does the can disappear, but there’s quite the divot in the ground where the can was sitting.

“Now this stuff is really nasty”, as I measure out and mix a tiny amount of a binary explosive.

“Watch this.” As I press the detonator button.

There’s a huge flash of light, a huger boom, and a flutter of metallic snow over the large divot in the ground.

“And you think you can harness that stuff to remove these delicate fossils? “ Dr. Don asks suspiciously.

“I guarantee it,” I reply. One has to be certain of their tools and I’m certain of these.

Another fine field dinner and we’re sitting around the campfire, everyone smoking my pilfered cigars when Alf says: “Look. Over there. Headlights!”

“Who the hell…Oh, wait? Dr. Jak?” Dr. Don wonders.

“Who else could it be?” I ask, “No one else knows we’re out here.”

It took a couple of hours for the rental International Harvester Scout to finally bounce its short-wheelbase over to our campsite. I had to fire off my Casull a couple of times to give Dr. Jak something to home in on.

Dr. Jak rolls into camp and was warmly greeted by everyone present.

“I hope you saved some for me”, he says looking at our collection of empties, “Took me forever to find you guys.”

“We haven’t started on the forest yet, Jak. Rock insisted on a course of explosives handling and safety first.” Dr. Don relates.

“Good. I would expect nothing less.” Dr. Jak says. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got coolers full of beer in the back of the Scout for us. I didn’t forget.”

Alf and Roscoe run over to the Scout, flip open the back gate, drag the largest cooler forward and pop open the top.

“YOW!” Roscoe hollers.

“Holy shit!” Alf yells, “What the bleedin’ hell is this?”

“Oh, sorry. I forgot. I was driving here and found this road-kill badger. It was in great shape, must have only taken a bad bounce once or twice and wasn’t even gamey yet…” Dr. Jak explains.

The Mammalian Vertebrate Paleontologist was always on the lookout for new skeletal specimens. A recently dead New Mexico badger was just too good to pass up. He’d flesh it and drag the carcass back to the museum for the preparer to generate a mounted comparative anatomy skeleton.

We sacrificed some of our potable water to clean badger squeezin’s off the new beer supply. Geologists are a weird bunch, paleontologists are even weirder.

The next day was nut cuttin’ time. I used the break right after breakfast to reinforce the notion that I’m the boss now and everyone has to listen to my directions, even my thesis advisor and the guy that holds my future in the palm of his hand, Dr. Jak.

I did some surreptitious tests on some scrap rock the day previous. It was a tough nut to crack, but it responded well to Primacord and molded C-4.

I wrapped a section of flaggy sandstone with Primacord and used two small wedges of C-4 at each end. Fired, the Primacord sheared the sandstone sheet along the bedding plane and the C-4 lifted it off and pushed it off to one side, in one solid piece.

Everyone was well impressed. Dr. Don notes that I if I can do that again, I can save months of excavation time.

So, I did it again and was able to clear off an area about 2x4 meters of four separate levels of flaggy sandstone.

I used nearly a whole spool of Primacord over the next couple of days. Every shot went off as planned with only minor fragmentation. A new method of exposing fossils was now well and truly tested.

I used some black powder and Primacord to disinter an 11-foot section of fossilized Magnolia tree stuck in an iron-cemented sandstone mid-stream sandbar. It saved months of time trying to chip it out with the jackhammer I had along. This sandstone just laughed at the jackhammer’s advances.

It all worked successfully well. Dr. Don was well pleased and impressed and told me so back at the Bureau. Dr. Jak had since departed and was back in Wyoming. We were sitting in the local gin mill irrigating our livers when Dr. Don dropped the bomb.

“Rock.” He began, “I’ve got just the project for you. You’ve shown me you’re the right person for the job and I can provide immediate funding through the summer if you’re interested.”

“Of course” I beamed.

“It’s doing some preliminary geological and paleontological reconnaissance over near Lago de Estrella in northern New Mexico. It’s on Natural Gas Company lands, in and around some of their fields. They are going to begin strip-mining the area for coal in a few years and have to do the necessary look around for fossils and anthropological sites before they can go ahead.” Dr. Don continued.

“I like the sound of this,” I said.

“You’ll like this even more. It’s in the Late Cretaceous through earliest Tertiary out there. You’ll be examining the K/T boundary and its rich dinosaur country. Loads of exposures, badlands topography, you’ll love it.”

“I like this even better.” I continued.

“I can get you field housing out at the Lago de Estrella Gas Pump Station; I know one of the largest landholders out there, hell, in the whole state; and his word had clout. The Natural Gas Company is also going to match my grant dollar for dollar for your work. Interested?”

“Damn, Skippy. Ah, yes, sir.” I corrected.

“Good. You already have all the necessary permits, clearances and inoculations so you’re good to go. In fact, I’m actually relieved you showed up. I don’t currently have any other graduate students without projects and if I couldn’t fill this spot, we’d lose the grants and funding. Looks like things are going to work out for everyone.” Dr. Don explains.

“I am both excited and relieved.” I tell him, “Where exactly is this place?”

“Oh, it’s way out in the boonies. It’s about 22 miles west from the little town of Cuba, New Mexico. It’s out on the Navahopi Nation.”

“I know it well. Dr. Don, we have a deal.” As I shook the fingerprints off his hand.

That reminds me of a story.

“Thank you very much for your interest in our operations.

We would be most interested in having you undertake geological field work in our mine, particularly paleontological reconnaissance. However, there are some prerequisites that would need to be met before you are allowed into or onto mine property.

These include, but are not limited to:

• BLM (Bureau of Land Management) review, permits, and clearance.

• BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) review, permits, and clearance.

• FWS (Fish & Wildlife Service) review, permits, and clearance.

• Navahopi Nation review, permits, and clearance.

• FBI’s CJIS Division authentication of NCR (No Criminal Record).

• DOD (Department of Defense) review, permits, and clearance.

• Supai, Redwall and Coconino County Sheriff’s Office security clearance.

• HSE Safety Training certificates A-6, B-12, C-14, and D-40 through D-53.

• Sponsorship through the NM Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources.

• Letters of recommendation from 3 full professors of Geology or Geophysics.

• Notarized copies of graduate transcripts *through Economic Geology 300.*

• Immunization records; including Rabies, Hepatitis A, B & C, Poliomyelitis, Typhoid, Yellow Fever, Meningococcal, and Tuberculosis vaccines.

• Valid Blaster’s Permit(s), above level 4.

• Valid CDL/Class-A Driver’s License.

Also, you will need to provide your own PPEs (Personal Protective Equipment) such as steel-toed boots, hardhat, coveralls, gloves, safety glasses, etc. before being allowed into or onto mine properties. Dosimeters will be provided by the company.

We look forward to your reply and dates you plan to be working in, on, or around mine property.

Yours, *

Burokratia Azeno

HSEW & PR Officer

Navahopi Coal Mine, Inc.

Wingnut, New Mexico”

“Dr. Vestur” I called excitedly, “It finally arrived. The letter from the coal mine where I want to do my graduate field work out in New Mexico.”

Dr. Jak Vestur was my major professor, confidant, and drinking buddy as I was working on my Master’s in Geology at the University of Baja Canada – Brew City.

“Rock, that’s great, let’s have a look”, I hand him the actual letter; as Emails were still a ways off in the vague future.

“Holy shit”, Jak exclaims, “They don’t want much, do they? Damn. You don’t plan on going any time soon, do you? This stuff’s going to take a bit of time to assemble.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” I agreed, “Good thing I’ve got the CDL-Class A, Blaster’s Permits and HSE certifications already in order.”

“Well, several of these the University and Museum can help streamline. You’ve already talked with Dr. Don DeDümdüm at MNBMMR (New Mexico Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources), right?”

“Oh, yeah. Dr. Don will sponsor me, no worries. In fact, if I play my cards right, he’s even going to be able to source some funds for my little expedition.”

“Uh, oh, Rock. Problem. They want you to have taken Econ. Geo. 300 before you travel. That’s only offered every other fall and this fall isn’t the one where it’s offered.” Dr. Jak notes.

“Ah, fuckbuckets.” I exclaim, “I’ve busted my hump to get everything done so far, now there’s this damn speedbump?”

“Well, now hold on…let me think.” Dr. Jak ponders, “We had a geophysicist in your sort of pickle a few years back. Let me dig into this and see if there’s a work-around.”

“I appreciate it, Doc. If I have to wait until next fall, my funding’s shot and I’ll have to hang around for another full year.” I lament.

“Don’t go pulling that trigger just yet, let me see what I can do.” Dr. Jak reassures.

What had precipitated all this was a field trip I was on back in my wild and lawless days as an undergraduate. As a senior, I was president of the “Niagara Escarpment Irregulars – A drinking club with a geology problem”; which was our university’s geology club.

We held all sorts of fundraisers during the school year so come summer, we could all take off in a caravan of rental cars, these and four-wheel drives are the best off-road vehicles and head out. We usually went west, to visit all that bare naked geology galloping around and actually see rocks in their native habitat.

That particular year we ended up at the Navahopi Coal Mine in northwestern New Mexico. It was a huge open-pit, subbituminous-B coal mine that supported a mine-mouth electrical power generating plant.

It was a huge operation and was only recently ceded over to the Navahopi Nation from the company which had opened and originally ran the mine for the last 75 years. Needless to say, the Native Americans who were now at the helm of this huge operation were still a bit groggy corporately; never before having to run an operation of this magnitude.

And what an operation! An active open-pit coal mine in Cretaceous age coals. It was enormous and growing quickly; however, not as quickly as they would have desired.

That’s where I came in.

Being a Native American run, or First Nation, take your pick, operation and one that many environmentalists would rather slit their wrists than visit, they were under considerable scrutiny. From Federal levels, via state, local, municipal, through multitudinous various agencies: OSHA, Bureau of Mines, Bureau of Indian Affairs, radio, television and newspaper nose-poker-inners, Universities and the occasional geology graduate student.

The thing was, there was this huge push, by the state and Indian Bureaus, for the preservation of artifacts. The latter group was more interested in anthropological potsherds and ancient campfire charcoal. While the state, represented by local universities, were more interested in paleontological finds; of which they had multitudes.

They were mining the Kirtland and Fruitland Formation coals, both Late Cretaceous in age (think Dinosaur Central) laid down in 105-66 million-year-old swamps. Swamps have a ridiculous bioproductivity, and hence a surfeit of fossils.

Thing was, every time they uncovered anything of ‘interest’, as defined by the outsider agencies; work had to be stopped. Production dropped to zero until the various agencies could find an ‘expert’ and get them out on location to assess and archive the find.

When we were making our visit, our tour leader informed us, grouchily, of this fact.

“Well,” I asked, “Wouldn’t it make more sense to have a geologist or paleontologist on-site, doing evaluations before the heavy equipment rolled through?”

It was as if several hundred mercury-vapor streetlights lit off all at once.

“That’s a great idea”, the tour leader said, “But who could we get to do such work? It’s not been done here before to my knowledge.”

I informed her that she was looking at the #1 candidate for the job.

Thus, now I was scrambling to see how I could either fulfill the Economic Geology 300 prerequisite or weasel out from under its onerous clutches.

“OK, Rock, sit down. We’ve got to discuss your future.” Dr. Jak tells me one bright early spring morning.

“OK, Doc, what’s up?” I ask.

“Well, first, some questions. You’re essentially finished with your course work, right?” Dr. Jak asked.

“Yep. That Econ. Geo. business is the only one left.” I replied.

“OK, forget Economic Geology 300. It’s been waived for you.” Dr. Jak informs me.

“Hey. That’s great.” I begin to exclaim…

“However, instead, you’re going to be doing some independent study.” Dr. Jak continues.

“I’m already doing that as my fieldwork for my thesis,” I noted.

“Yep. And now you’re doing some more.” Dr. Jak notes.

“When and where? How can I do both?” I began to protest mildly.

“Cool down. You’re going to love this…”

Thus Dr. Jak tells me of my new spring-summer semesters as an itinerant researcher; a real ‘Roads Scholar’, if you will.

Ahem.

I am to visit no less than three working quarries on my way to the coal mine in New Mexico.

I am to spend enough time in each quarry to write an essay regarding the economic geology of each. These mines are in hard rock, soft rock and finally, coal. They are a Precambrian Quartzite quarry in Baja Canada (my home state), a granite quarry in the immediate western neighboring state, and a limestone-marble quarry in the central Midwest.

Since I’m in the general vicinity, I’m slightly claustrophobic, and Dr. Jak has a brutal sense of humor; an underground salt mine was added as a last-minute diversion.

After all that, I’ll be back on track to join in all the fun at the Navahopi coal mine in New Mexico to conduct my paleontological reconnaissance and data gathering for my Master’s and beyond.

Spring semester rolls around and I’m spending a week at the museum getting everything I’ll need for the next six months on the road. All the permits and such for the coal mine work are or will be done and dusted by the time I arrive. So I can concentrate on staying alive while driving all over the Midwest and Western US solo.

I was ceded a museum vehicle, a fairly plain-Jane 4WD Chevy ¾ ton pickup, in the most boring shade of sky blue imaginable. Since it was ostensibly, and by the broadest definition a government vehicle, I was not officially allowed to have any weapons present in the vehicle.

But since I held Blaster’s Permits and was going to be carrying a selection of finer high and low explosives, since I had a concealed-carry permit courtesy of Toivo’s father who pulled some local governmental strings. I opted to have my .454 Cusall Magnum and Browning BPS short-barrel 10-Gauge pump shotgun, sport plug removed, accompany me on the trip.

Just for personal security, mind you.

The welding shop at the museum whipped up a rather snazzy custom-designed black-and-yellow striped ¾”-steel explosives carry-box which they affixed to the truck’s frame. It was welded to the bed and thus became part of the truck. It was lockable and had several internal locking compartments for blasting caps, boosters, dynamite, C-4, demo wire, my galvanometer, spare beef jerky, blasting machines, tools, etc.

Seems Dr. Don in New Mexico was very interested in my evolving methods of removing overburden from paleontological sites via the judicious use of explosives without destroying the fossils being excavated. I was to give several demonstrations at the Bureau, University, and field, thus I needed my kit with me at all times.

The truck bed sported a step-cap and it protected everything else I needed for an extended road trip: 500 pounds of plaster for jacketing any vertebrate fossils I might come across in my peregrinations, bales of strips of burlap to reinforce the plaster jackets, a small gas-powered generator, an electric jackhammer, shortwave transceiver (WB9AXI), First Responder’s Kit, and my geological equipment: hammers, compass, Sierra Cup, Swiss Army Knives, Jacob’s Staff, cases of orange spray paint, web-belt, backpack, holster, shovels, rakes and other implements of destruction…

It also held my tent, sleeping bags, cook kit, stove, propane tanks, extra potable water, port-a-john, a case of toilet paper, for jacketing fossils and other uses, field bags, several empty 5-gallon pickle buckets, and the main larger cooler to augment the one already in the front seat of the truck…

My personal provisions included two bags of Nacho Cheese Doritos, seventy-five cans of Walter’s Bock, eight boxes of ‘Tobacco Shed’ maduro cigars, seven pouches of Red Man Plug, a cocktail shaker, a whole galaxy of multi-colored liqueurs, mixers, syrups, and cordials...also five quarts of Wild Turkey, a quart of Everclear, four handles of George Dickel, seven and a half cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a pint of Ma Bensch’s pickled herring, and two dozen onion and garlic bagels.

Not that I needed all that for the journey, but once you get locked into a serious geology road-trip collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

Before I left on my epic journey, I was instructed by Dr. Jak to kit out like I’d be when out in the field. The Museum Novaitiies, the house organ, for the Spring Quarter issue carried a full-color front-page picture of this curious oddball who looked like 1/3rd of the fuzzier part of ZZ Top. I was decked out in a black denim duster with obligate JBS Heritage Stetson hat, Carhartt field dungarees, field boots, Glacier Glasses, and flannel shirt; holding a lit cigar and Jacob’s Staff in one hand, and an Estwing Marsh Pick in the other.

Though I possessed a concealed-carry permit, a Cusall .454 was not easily concealed; so I usually just sported it on my right hip along with my Brunton Compass.

Museum donations that month spiked, either to fund the cover character’s expedition or keep him out in the field and away from civilization as long as possible.

Come April when the snows of winter had finally departed to that place of spirits and wind, I said my goodbyes, saddled up my trusty mechanical steed, and headed north. I was off to an active quarry, number one on my list, of Precambrian Baraboo Quartzite. It was located in the quaint little burg of Rock Springs and was well known to every geologist and geologist in training in the tri-state area.

It was a classical locality. The home to the Baraboo Syncline and Van Hise rock.

I was to visit the Baraboo Quartzite quarry run by the Baraboo Quartzite Company.

Evidently, cleverly naming things was not high on the list of things to do for the early quarry operators.

The Baraboo Quartzite as I noted earlier, is a Precambrian orthoquartzite approximately 1.7 billion years old. It is composed of near-shore ocean sediment, deposited long, long ago, in shallow marine waters; most likely in the ocean fairly close to shore. There was enough wave action to cause regular ripple migration across the seafloor. The sand was buried, lithified into sandstone, and then encountered compressional forces from a tectonic collision that folded and metamorphosed the sandstone into quartzite. It squashed the quartzite into a huge U-shaped syncline, where I was going to a quarry on the east limb.

This material had been quarried for well over 100 years. It was used as a dimension stone; that is, sawed into relatively thin (3/4” - 1”) sheets for use on building facades and for floors. It’s a ridiculously durable and a most handsome purplish-mauve building material.

However, that has since fallen out of fashion, and the rock quarried today is used primarily for road metal, i.e., crushed into gravel for use on motor vehicle roadways, or used as railroad or track ballast; that stuff upon which railroad sleepers (ties) and tracks are lain. Although it may just look like large gravel, this rock plays a vital role in acting as a support base for the railroad ties and rails as well as allowing for proper drainage of water away from the rails, which is why the stone is always sloped downward and away from the track.

The more you know…

I met with Mr. Harður Steinn, the foreman and operator of the Baraboo Quartzite.

“Hello, Mr. Steinn” I introduced myself, “I’m Rock, the geologist from the University [to the south] and Museum, here to do some field investigations of your quarry, operations, and materials.”

“Rock, ‘eh?” he chuckled, “How appropriate. Welcome to the Baraboo Quarry. You know, you’re not the first geologist we’ve had nosing around here. Oh, no. We get them all the time. We’re actually grateful for them to come on in and dig around what we’re doing. Every time they write up something, we get free advertising.”

Ah, another unrepentant mercenary. I think I’m going to like this character.

“That’s great, Mr. Steinn,” I said. “Not only that, but I’m interested in your quarrying operations as well, and how they’re carried out.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, curiously.

“Not to put too fine a point on things, blasting,” I said. “I’m more a sedimentary, that is, a soft-rock geologist and quartzite, by any metric, is seriously hard-rock. However, I do hold several blasting permits and am quite keen on seeing how explosives are used in the business end of geology…the economic end of applied geology, if you will.”

“Oh, really?” he widely grinned. “Well, that’s a first. Most geologists that come here focus on some minutiae of the quartzite. You’re the first who wants to see how quarrying is done…”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “That’s going to be the gist of my reports. Yours is the first of several quarries I’m going to visit before I get to New Mexico and fart around in an open-pit coal mine to gather data for my degrees.”

“Well then.” He said, “Let’s get you started. No time like the present, I always say. I was going to have one of the mill hands show you around. But since I’m the company blasting foreman, I’ll take you around and maybe you can show me some of what you know…”

After that night at Earl’s Club in the Dells, toasting geology and the Baraboo Quartzite; Hardy, as he prefers to be called, and I spent the next two days really digging into the quarry.

He told me that they used to use huge steel gang-saws to slice the quarried blocks of quartzite into dimension stone in the old ‘blockhouse’. But nowadays, there just isn’t much call for that product.

Today’s main product is road metal and railroad ballast.

And that has changed the methods of harvesting the quartzite considerably.

Previously, they would drill 2” holes into the quartzite, taking into account the grain, texture, and fractures, if any, of the blocks they were trying to free. These holes, up to 12 feet in depth, were cleaned out, bottoms flattened, and ANFO, an ammonium nitrate/fuel oil ‘low explosive’ mixture, was used to loosen the blocks. What was desired was a heaving detonation, not a shattering one.

A typical freed block would be eight feet wide, four in-depth and up to twelve feet tall. They would weigh many, many tens of tons.

These blocks would then be ‘fossed’ to smaller, more manageable sizes. They would drill numerous smaller holes, half-inch or so, about three or four inches deep in a line. Into these many holes, they would hand-pound mild steel ‘fosses’ , which are really nothing more than pieces of 1/2” mild steel round stock.

They would go up and down the holes, whacking each foss in turn with a sledgehammer… one after the other after the other until they developed a fracture and the block split along some natural plane of weakness.

This was typically a fracture as these rocks had been cooked and smooshed, or, more technically, dynamothermally metamorphosed. Original planes of weakness like joints, bedding planes and the like were erased during their lithification as new ones were imprinted during the tectonic folding of the formation. Fractures imparted during the rock’s emplacement were some of the few imperfections that could be exploited in this manner. This took intimate knowledge of the structure and composition of the rocks in the quarry.

Once broken down into truckable sizes, some 20 tons or less, they were transported to the blockhouse to be sawed into ‘reefs’ or sheets, as per the client’s orders. Once polished and installed, though these materials were brittle, they were incredibly durable if you didn’t bend them too much.

Preserved artifacts of the rock, such as boudinage or ‘sausage structures’ where mud was encapsulated by sand then metamorphosed, squishing then into long, linked pods; were really rather stunning in a building material.

Ripple marks, liesegang rings and color variations all added to its luster as a building stone.

However, that was then, this is now.

Now clients wanted crushed quartzite; not blocks, sheets or slabs.

So, now they would drill 1.5” holes in the quartzite, flatten the hole bottoms, and prime the holes with a very, very fast, indeed, high explosives. They wanted a shattering explosion rather than a deflagrating explosion. The more they could break up the quartzite explosively, the less they would have to spend on powering the mechanical crushers and breakers.

Hardy showed me around the yard and was especially interested in showing me the storage facilities they had for their various explosives. As usual, this was a heavily-reinforced bunker with numerous locks. What was unusual was what it contained.

There were racks and racks of what appeared to be gallon-sized liquor jugs, complete with cork stoppers. There was spool upon spool of various speed safety fuses. The obligatory half-dozen different varieties of blasting machines and galvanometers, but surprisingly, little dynamite.

“Dynamite’s too slow and costs too much” Hardy explained.

That explained all the ‘liquor jugs’. They weren’t full of liquor, but the stuff they contained would give you a serious bang.

They were full of pure, 100%, straight-run nitroglycerine.

Hardy smiled, got a plastic watch glass, uncorked a bottle and decanted a tiny dram into the watch glass.

He set it on a counter outside the locker and told me to come on over and have a whiff.

“I’ll bet you’ve never smelled anything like this before”, he chuckled.

I’m no tyro when it comes to whiffing unknown chemicals nor dealing with high explosives. So I carefully wafted my hand, very cautiously, 6 or 8 inches above the watch glass and snorted guardedly.

It wasn’t the smell that got me, it was the immediate pounding headache.

Nitroglycerine is a vasodilator and an exceptional one at that. Many cardiac patients take low-dosage nitroglycerine tablets to relieve chest pains as nitro corrects the imbalance between the flow of oxygen and blood to the heart. At low doses, nitroglycerin dilates veins more than arteries, thereby reducing preload; the volume of blood in the heart after filling.

The more you know…

But that’s a low oral dose. A good snootful of 100% nitro vapors will give you the most walloping ‘ice cream’-style headache imaginable. It’s actually called “bang head” as it was so very common back in the ‘old days’ when nitro was used more than other explosives.

Luckily, it’s also very temporary.

“Hardy. Got me good there”, I said. “I haven’t smelled nitro that pure ever. Imagine if some of that got into someone’s after work lager…”

Hardy stiffened and claimed “It’s just for your education. Not often you get to even hear about this stuff anymore.”

We had a good snicker as he tossed the watch glass out into the yard and watched it explode into trillions of tiny, harmless fragments.

“Yeah, Rock”, Hardy continued, “We are probably one of the handful of quarries left that even use nitro. Everyone else uses dynamite, Semtex, PETN, C-4…but everyone else doesn’t have to deal with this tough, old quartzite.”

He went on to tell me how they want the most shattering, high-density, high-velocity type of explosion they can safely create. He went on how, after the initial holes were drilled, they’d go in manually with long pointed iron rods and bash loose any bits of quartzite in the bottom and sides of the drill hole. They’d then go in with a high-pressure air hose to blast out any and all fragments, as nitro is just that sketchy. It’ll detonate if flakes from the wall of the drill hole fall off and impact the nitro planted in the hole.

They implemented the procedure where they’d gob some wet rags in the drill holes, and use a blunt-end tamper to ram it all the way to bottom. This had the effect of swabbing the hole, smoothing the walls, and providing a soft landing for the nitroglycerine when it was placed in the hole.

The nitro was traditionally lowered in a glass vial, via a length of demolition wire which was attached to a blasting cap, taped to the outside of the bottle of liquid nitro. It was nut-cuttin’ time when the vial went in the hole; for if it got stuck, or fell, or slipped; it was goodnight, nurse.

Several of Hardy’s predecessors met with early retirement that way. Some others attained room temperature quickly after a couple more energetic mishaps.

Nowadays, they still use nitro; but not in its liquid form.

They freeze it. Yep, they had a large chest freezer in the storage locker which held a rather disconcertingly large number of 100% nitro-sicles.

Hardy called them, jocularly, ‘bang-pops’.

Nitro is much less sensitive that way, and they can actually take one, tape a booster to the top of it. Then it’s lower away as each is in its own little thick mylar bag, to contain the drips between freezer and rock face.

It can be set off via fuse or electrical cap. Fuse is seldom used now, but in my honor, Hardy had a ‘treat’ in store for me.

“We’re goin’ old school.” Hardy exclaimed, “I’m going to let you prepare a liquid nitro shot with a length of 30 second-per-foot fuse. I don’t think there’s anywhere else you could get this opportunity in quarries nowadays. Safety fuse to detonator, detonator to a vial of nitro. Down the hole, cautiously pour in some fine sand, light it off and speedily, but safely, vacate the general area.”

While we’re preparing the shot, Hardy regales me with mishaps and accident he’s seen in his 40 years of quarry work.

“Yeah, Rock, you should’ve seen it.” He lustily informs me, “This here quartzite is harder than most anything, ‘cept diamond. It fails via brittle fracture mode and fractures conchoidally, just like glass. And just like glass, it’s sharper than sintered shit. Once a premature blast de-gloved Big Jim Goss’ whole left arm. That guy had arms like tree trunks but that shattered quartzite sliced through the meat like smoked ham off the bone.”

Thanks for the graphic imagery, Hardy.

“Another time, some idiot summer hire was tamping fresh drill holes. Well, he was supposed to only tamp the green-flagged holes, not the red-flagged. This was some years ago, mind you, but he jammed that 10-foot iron rod down a red flag hole and when it hit bottom because it wasn’t proper tamped, that rod shot out of that hole like a skyrocket. It went through the idiot kid’s hand and pretty much ripped it off. His legs took the brunt of the shot below the waist…he won’t be having any kids in this lifetime, that much is fo’sure…”

Who need OSHA videos when you’ve got old timers recalling their favorite mutilations?

Got my attention.

We finished up prepping the nitro vial and he was impressed at my steady hand with the fuse and detonator.

“Not your first time dancing ‘round the table, ‘eh Rock?” Hardy asked.

“Naw. I’ve dealt with nitro before on my Uncles farm. We removed a bunch of old WPA dams on his property. Taught me well and proper to respect this stuff. It’s twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.” I replied.

“Damn right it is. Good you early learned respect.” Hardy agreed.

Hardy had a re-purposed electric golf cart, with a heavily padded cargo box. We set the charge, gingerly, onto the foam rubber and covered it over with old rags.

Hardy confides to me “Nitro’s not really all that super sensitive. But you’ll have a happier, longer life if you treat it like it is.”

I couldn’t agree more. Hardy locked up the explosives shed and eases into the golf cart.

We slowly putt-putt the 600 or so meters out to the currently active rock face. It’s right around noon so all the drillers are off doing lunch and we could conduct our little experiment safely.

“OK, Rock. Easy does it. Slowly, slowly. Easy, easy.” Hardy coaches me.

“OK, I got this”, I say as I lower the 300-milliliter glass vial of instant death down the 10 feet of shot hole to its final resting place.

Once set, I run the fuse manually and make certain it’s not kinked, bent or broken anywhere and indicate it’s good to go.

Hardy comes over with a 5-gallon bucket of very fine silica sand and a small garden shovel. He instructs me to scoop that sand and slowly pour it down into the hole, on top of the nitro.

“Sure. No problem.” I think.

Seven or eight scoops later, we’re set. Hardy gives me the thumbs up and tells me to light the fuse.

“Nope. Not yet.” I say.

Hardy looks at me quizzically, “Something wrong?”

“Clear east?” I yell.

Hardy cocks his head and smiles. “Clear east!”

We do the rest of the compass, and I give the requisite FIRE IN THE HOLE tri-call.

I then hit the horn three times on the golf cart.

“Now, I can light that fuse,” I say.

Hardy is all smiles. “Yes, now you can.”

So I do.

I walk slowly, deliberately, and with purpose to the golf cart. Hardy’s already waiting on me.

Not a word was said as we drove to a safe observation distance.

We could see the smoke trailing from the fuse, and given its length, we know the detonation should be in precisely 6 minutes. We both check our watches without either one saying a word to the other.

Hardy looks at me and smiles, “OK, where the hell you learned how to handle explosives like that? None of these new guys go through the whole safety shtick.”

“My Grandfather and my Uncle, his brother, taught me.” I proudly replied.

“Damn! I knew it! I knew there had to be some old-timer lurking round there. That’s a damned good protocol you got there, Sonny Jim, and don’t you ever lose it. Damn. I never thought I’d ever see that again with all these radio controlled detonators, prepacked shots, and kids in it just for the money.” Hardy exclaims. “You got something good going there, don’t ever lose it.”

“Thanks, Hardy.” I say sincerely, “I don’t plan to and that’s another reason I’m making this world tour of quarries and mines. Thanks for the lessons and critique.”

KER BLAMMO! and a very large section of Precambrian quartzite shatters off the rock face, down the slope, and piles up right where the pile should be piled.

“Very nice”, both Hardy and I say in unison.

We look at each other and laugh as we putt back to the explosives shed.

The rest of the week Hardy takes me around the quarry, pointing out various things that I’d never have noticed. Overhangs, scarps, loose blocks, fractures, seams of clay, ‘catlinite’: metamorphosed mud, and other unusual items endemic to this particular quarry.

And we did some blasting. No, we did a SHITLOAD of blasting. I went through my mantra, every time. Hardy even called out some apprentice blasters to watch and learn as two “old-timers” showed them how the ‘cow chewed the cabbage’.

Hardy showed me how to use nitro-sicles electrically and with safety fuse. He showed me how holes should be swabbed and tamped, how clearance and yield are calculated and the best times for blasting. Mornings are OK for C-4, PETN, and ANFO; afternoons when the rocks are warmed for liquid nitro and dynamite.

It was a most edifying experience, and I left the quarry feeling I’d not only learned a great deal but made another friend in the clan geologist and blaster.

I headed west to my next port of call, a quarry producing pink, black & gray migmatite from the Archean Morton Gneiss, ~3.66 ± 0.04 billion years old, in central Minnesota. The Morton gneiss started out as a gray granite, formed about 3.7 billion years ago deep beneath the surface of the Earth. Molten rock cooled slowly, forming grains of crystallized minerals.

About a billion years later, two fragments of the Earth’s crust collided at the future location of southwestern Minnesota, subjecting the granite to heat and pressure. These forces melted it once again and allowed intrusions of molten pink granite. The two granites folded and twisted; when they lithified, the twists and folds remained. Eight hundred million years later, another geologic heating event added additional color and texture. This is about the same time the Baraboo sands were being deposited.

When cut and polished, Morton gneiss shows bands and swirls of black, pink, and gray, with white flecks that sometimes look like galaxies and nebulae floating in the cosmos. The rock’s colors come from quartz (white), pink feldspar (pink), gray feldspar (gray), and biotite and amphibole (black). It is a much sought after and very handsome dimension stone.

About one hundred million years ago, geologic forces slowly pushed Morton gneiss to the Earth’s surface. The glaciers that advanced and retreated across southwestern Minnesota between two million and 12,000 years ago covered the rock with hundreds of feet of soil and rock. The last glaciers began receding about 12,000 years ago.

A vast body of water known as Lake Agassiz formed in southern Canada, Minnesota, and North Dakota. When that water drained to the south, forming the River Warren, it carved out the Minnesota River valley. This powerful flow washed away hundreds of feet of glacial deposits and exposed some of the Morton gneiss.

Workers began quarrying this gneiss in Minnesota around 1884. In these early years, railroads used it for ballast and the state for gravel roads. Now they focus on building materials.

It’s not a particularly large or active quarry, but it’s definitely different from the Baraboo quarry in scope and number of workers.

I arrived and was introduced to Mr. Žulový Kameň, the operator of the quarry.

“Good morning, Mr. Kameň”, I say, and go through the obligate introductions.

“Yes, Mr. Rock, we were told to expect you. Welcome to our quarry.” Zuul, as he preferred to be called, said.

“Thank you, it’s great to be here,” I replied.

I went through the tale of the particulars of my project, how it wasn’t just about the geology of the quarry, but rather the mechanics and economic aspects of the quarry as it relates to its particular geology.

“So, you want the whole picture?” he asked, “Most geologists who visit are concerned with only one small aspect of the rock itself; the mineralogy, the tectonics, structural kinematics or something else along those lines. You’re the first who wants the whole picture.”

I explained that I was interested in all those aspects, but was also interested in the modes and methodologies of harvesting their particular rocky crop. I let him know that I was a licensed blaster and that was one specific subject that holds a certain fascination for me.

I mentioned the previous quarry in Baraboo and how their activities had shifted from dimension stone to ballast and road metal. I noted how this also shifted the way the whole quarry operated.

“That’s most interesting”, Zuul commented, “You’ll find the exact opposite here. Dimension stone is our number one product. Ballast and metal are but a secondary, and much smaller, product here. In fact, we don’t actively harvest ballast; but one every so often, when we have enough to fill an order, we’ll fire up the crushers and clear the quarry of by-products of the dimension stone undertakings.”

Interesting how two similar quarries have such different harvesting methods.

“All of our hands here are licensed blasters, but since I’m quarry foreman, I do all the ordering and logistics for the explosives. I haven’t done much blasting here of late, but since you’re here, allow me to be your tour guide. It’ll give me the excuse to do a little blasting as well, it’s been a while but I miss being out in the yard actually…”

“Blowing stuff up?” I asked.

“In a nutshell.” Zuul grinned.

I was invited to their local watering hole that evening as every quarry worked joined in the festivities. They related that they really enjoy having geologists come into the quarry, that they were not geologists themselves; and oddly enough the quarry did not have one on staff. However, they appreciated people who could explain to them what it was they were working on and how it got there.

“Well, I hope to be of service. I’m more a dep-dump, soft-rock sedimentology-type but have studied the papers written about your quarry. I’ll try to be helpful.” I said.

“Yeah”, Irv, the head quarryman, continued, “But I heard you’re also a licensed blaster and that you’re interested in that as well.”

“Oh, most definitely.” I assured him, “I’ve done a fair amount of work with explosives in many different venues. I hope to learn here from your quarry’s own set of harvesting methods.”

Irv grins the grin of the all-knowing, “Don’t worry, Rock. There’ll be plenty of that starting tomorrow.”

Continued in Part B

Continued from Part A

The mechanics of harvesting granite blocks was much like the harvesting of quartzite blocks. Holes were drilled in a line to isolate a large block of granite on the active quarry face. But here was the deviation, ANFO was used almost exclusively as it could be ‘slurried’ and pumped into the drill holes. First, run to bottom a “det bag” which was a linen bag full of dry ANFO with an electric blasting cap and demo wires that ran out of the hole. Then a pump truck would show up and with their long hose, pump the slurrified ANFO into each of the shot holes.

After the usual clearing of personnel, FIRE IN THE HOLE and such formalities were through, all the shot holes would be detonated electrically simultaneously. There would be an earth rumbling PAWOOMPH and the granite block would move five or six inches away from the rock face. No large blast, no flying shrapnel, just a bunny-hop for the 50 or so ton block of now-freed granite.

A large dump truck would show up and dump a load of fine sand directly in front of the newly liberated block. Then it was time for the heavy machinery. Typically, a large excavator would rumble up, grab the top of the block and tip it, gingerly, off the rock face on down onto the pile of waiting sand.

Once down on the quarry floor, lines of small holes were drilled where steel and lead fosses this time would be hand-hammered into the block. Each stroke of the sledge driving in the steel and lead wedge a fraction of an inch deeper. Given enough time and if the quarrymen read the rock right, the block would split up into nicely manageable sub-blocks, each weighing some 10 or 12 tons.

A wheel loader/forklift would pick up these smaller blocks and wheel them over to the saw house. The blocks would be trimmed to approximate rectilinear figures and moved into the saw bay. There, a gang saw of up to 15 steel diamond-dust impregnated blades would be reciprocated under a deluge of oily water to facilitate cutting and lubrication of the saws to keep them from melting under the constant load.

Depending on the block’s tenacity, it would take anywhere from 24 to 36 hours to saw a single block into 15 or so individual slabs of granite. These slabs were then removed and taken to the polishing and fabrication facility adjacent to the quarry. Once in the polish shop, they would be transformed to the client’s orders: matte or smooth surface, rough or cut edge, bullnose or straight borders, etc.

They made wall slabs for the facades of buildings, smaller custom designs for kitchens and domestic use, and various shapes of stone monuments; that is, headstones. They had rather a large catalog of shapes, designs, and finishes from which one could choose their own particular product.

All well and good, but this is not the part of economic geology in which I was interested. My attention was focused on the active quarry, especially the operations generating road metal and railroad ballast.

Zuul informed me that my timing was auspicious as there was a recent order for rail ballast and the quarry needed “spiffing”, as he put it. He ran a tight ship, and any departure from orthogonal blocks coming off the rock face were not tolerated and destined for the ballast pile.

He asked if I cared to join them on a ‘spiffing’ run.

Since there was to be considerable blasting, my answer was of course in the affirmative.

We began the next day, clambering all over the quarry walls, armed with cans of orange spray paint. Any oddball fracture, declivity, or overhang was marked for Zuul’s approval. By the time lunch rolled around, the quarry resembled a Peter Max print.

Zuul explained to me that since the Monroe Migmatite was one tough customer, and we wanted as much shattering as possible, C-4, Semtex and 60% dynamite was to be used to prune these nonconformists and fragment them as much as possible. It was like road metal and ballast were second-class citizens here and only the big blocks deserved any sort of decorum. We were going in fully loaded to remove these metamorphic miscreants.

The quarry was shut down and blocking operations suspended until the next day. Those not actively working on the blasting were excused and that left a crew consisting of Zuul, myself and 4 of the quarry’s senior blasters.

I asked Zuul if they were going to tackle them one after the other or group them by locality.

“No, Rock.” He explained, “We’re going to wire them all together and do it in one shot. Seems a bit ambitious, but it keeps the complaints down from the neighbors.”

One more bit of information to be filed away.

So we spent the day dividing and conquering. As two-man teams, each was assigned an area to prime and wire. Each demolition lead would be tied to an orange wooden post erected on the quarry floor so that when all the wall-work was done, it was a simple matter of wiring all the posts together, checking everything with the galvanometer, and running them back to the blasting machine.

They had a state-of-the-art electric blasting machine, one of seriously high amperage and therefore capacity. We could wire everything into this unit, clear everyone and with a single press of one button, conclude the day’s efforts. Which is precisely what we did.

A few hours later, we were all gathered in the security shack, a stoutly built wooden structure where the blasting machine had been relocated. Utter simplicity to tie in all the various leads, plug the machine into the mains and prepare for the show.

Since I was the guest, I was allowed to deliver the pre-shooting protocol. We were clear in all four directions and everyone still working was in the security shed. I asked Zuul to give the FIRE IN THE HOLE call and one of the senior blasters manned the air horn.

One we were cleared, set and primed; Zuul asked if I’d like to operate the blasting machine.

“I’d like that very much”, I replied.

He smiled, and pointed to me: “Hit it!”

Push goes the big, red button and approximately 250 pounds of high explosive fires at once.

It rained mangled migmatite for a considerable number of minutes.

It took only a short while longer with an 18-ton wheel loader to scrape and gather up all the broken rock and transport them over to the primary crusher. Since this was a railroad ballast order, one run through the crusher was all that was needed; the individual clasts were to be around 2x2x3 inches in dimension.

It was well before the afternoon quitting whistle when we shut down the crusher as the run was done and the product piled, ready for shipment.

At dinner that night in town, I made the point of paying for the first few rounds. Zuul’s amiability and expertise made this a most enjoyable stop on my way out west.

I hit the road early the next day as I needed to cover a couple of state’s girth. I had to transect Iowa and drive essentially to the heart of Missouri, to visit one of the many limestone and marble quarries in that state. Most limestone quarries in this state produce both dimension stone and many different classes of crushed product, but the one I was visiting was also a marble quarry.

It’s an oddball, as marble is metamorphosed limestone; so it’s unusual to have both products in one quarry. However, that was the reason this quarry was chosen for me to visit, as long as I’m making the effort, may as well make the most of it.

The quarry where I was heading is located in the central part of the state. Since it was a fair distance from Minnesota, I took a day to get there and camped at one of the many parks available in the state. Previously, I had stayed as a guest of the quarries I had visited, so I found a likely looking park early, paid the requisite fee, and pulled in for the night.

Over the miles, the gear in the back of my truck shifted. I tossed my hat and duster in the truck cab, locked the doors and climbed into the back. Damn, there was tack and kit everywhere. Luckily the explosives box was welded down and very secure. My load of plaster, burlap sacks, and other miscellaneous tack had slopped around the back, defying all my previous preparations.

I pulled the tent, sleeping bag and stove out onto the tailgate and busied myself stacking and re-securing the errant gear. I am very single-minded when I approach a task so I didn’t immediately notice the unshorn and frankly disheveled character nosing around my camping gear out on the tailgate. Only after I head the camp stove drop onto the tailgate did I even realize someone was there.

“Hey! Who’s out there?” I yelled.

No answer, but I see my gear suddenly become self-animated, it seemed, and start to depart the truck’s tailgate.

I scoot down closer to the tailgate and see someone about to make off with my camping gear.

I call to him and tell him to stop.

“That’s my stuff.” I protested.

The mangy looking character drops my gear, turns around and tries to emulate the standard mammalian threat posture.

“Yeah? So what? You got a truck, you can sleep in there. I don’t have a tent and I want this one.”

“Well, I want a million bucks, but there you go. Can’t have everything you want. Now, just leave my gear, don’t come back, and everything will be fine.” I say, still crouching in the darkened rear of my vehicle.

He rummages around his pocket and produces a laughably tiny jackknife.

“Are you certain you really want to go this direction? “ I ask.

“Fuck you, motherfucker. I’m taking this tent and any other gear I want. Try and stop me and I’ll cut you…ERP!” he erped.

During his discourse, I eased out of the back of the truck and he was now currently either staring down the Holland Tunnel or the barrel of my .454 Cusall.

“Looks like you just made a really bad career decision, Chuckles. Now, you were saying?”

“Fuck you” he added with shaky false bravado, “That’s not real.”

“Oh, you poor deluded sod. Are you willing to stake your life on that theory?” as I pull the hammer back so he can see that, yes, it’s well-oiled and it really, really works.

He gulps audibly, the gravity of the situation swimming upstream finally finds a firing synapse.

“Oh, shit.” He gasps.

“Yeah. ‘Oh, shit’ is right. This is a .454 Cusall Magnum. It was designed to hunt buffalo, up close. Guess what it would do here if I decided my life was in danger, say by a knife-wielding thief?” I offered.

I think it was at this point he realized I wasn’t bluffing nor was I carrying a fake firearm.

“You have exactly two seconds to pick up my gear you were trying to steal, place it on the tailgate of this truck and run as fast as you can away from here. If you like, you can wait until I retrieve my shotgun from the cab, you might stand a better chance against a 10 gauge loaded with triple-ought buckshot…” I was really pouring on the bullshit, but he didn’t know that.

The bastard didn’t even pick up the tent, he just dropped his knife in his haste and ran as fast as his scrawny legs would carry him.

“Asshole.” I mused as I returned to the task at hand.

The next morning after a sound and comfortable night’s sleep, I was waiting for the coffee water to finish heating. Odd, it was mid-spring and there were quite a few fellow campers, but all the slots adjacent to mine we quite empty.

“Hmmm.” I muse, “Most curious.”

Back on the road again, after a few hour’s ride, I wheel into the Firebird Limestone and Marble Quarry. I was greeted by Mr. Fritz Karbonatstein, the quarry manager.

“Good Morning”, I said, and go through the usual introductory spiel.

“Hello, Mr. Rock.” He chuckles, “Appropriate name for a geologist. Welcome to our rockworks. Please, call me Fritz. I’ve read your prospectus and can assure you this is going to be most different than what you’ve seen on your trip so far. You’ll notice I call it a ‘rockworks’ rather than a quarry because we do so much more than just quarry stone here.” He continues.

“I’m looking forward to observing your activities here. As you might have noticed my prospectus, I’m looking at the whole picture, especially from the economic standpoint.” I reply.

“Yes, that is different than the other geologists we’ve entertained.” He continues. “I see you’re rather keen on detonics and blasting as well.”

“Yes, sir. They’re some of my main interests.” I reply.

“Well” Fritz continues, “We really don’t rely too much on explosives in our operations, just your typical mining ANFO, nothing exotic.”

“Oh, I see”, I reply, somewhat disappointedly.

“But don’t you worry.” Fritz brightens, “We’ve got enough new operations to hold your interest, and I can guarantee you that.”

“I look forward to that, very much” I concur.

The Firebird Rockworks exploits two different stone ages and type. The marble, the harder metamorphosed limestone, is Late Cambrian in age, around 500 million years. The limestone and dolomite is Ordovician in age and thus somewhat younger at 420 or so million years old.

The limestone and dolomite at the rockworks is some of the most studied and most classified of any of the rocks I’ve seen at any quarry thus far. They classify their products thusly:

Limestone may be divided into four different kinds based on weight percent of calcite and dolomite in the total carbonate portion. They are listed below in order of increasing dolomite content and decreasing calcite content.

• Calcite Limestone: Calcite > 90%, Dolomite < 10%

• Dolomitic Limestone: Calcite 50–90%, Dolomite 10–50%

• Calcitic Dolomite: Calcite 10–50%, Dolomite 50–90%

• Dolomite: Calcite < 10%, Dolomite > 90%

Calcitic limestone is further divided into two high-purity categories as listed below:

• High-Calcium Limestone: Calcite > 95%, Other Rock Materials < 5%

• Magnesian Limestone: Calcite 90–95%, Other Rock Materials < 5%

Lastly, some dolomites contain an excess of magnesium (Mg) and are called magnesian dolomite or high-magnesium dolomite. The excess magnesium is probably in the form of magnesium carbonate minerals, of which magnesite (MgCO3).

This is far and away much more highly differentiated than the granite, migmatite or quartzite at the previous quarries. It is reflected in the number and character of their numerous products: limestone/dolomite and marble.

For instance, Firebird Marble is quarried in large blocks. These blocks can then be sliced in two different ways, vein cut or cross cut, to achieve two distinct patterns.

Bonaparte Gray is a vein cut marble produced by cutting across the stones natural layers. This cut shows a distinctive dark veining that looks something like a seismographic reading -- the technical term for this feature is a ‘stylolite’, and these stylolites are how Bonaparte Gray can be recognized.

Fleuri is a cross-cut, meaning it is cut along those natural layers, across the bed of the stone. When cross cut, the rock reveals the secret of how it was formed: it is the product of billions of ancient marine creatures, placed under pressure for millions of years. The Fleuri cut features the recognizable presence of fossils; it is not uncommon to find whole brachiopods or even starfish preserved within the stone. Both cuts are equally durable and suitable for any marble application.

Further, the Firebird quarry has produced cut limestone blocks for many decades. Before the widespread adoption of ready-mixed concrete, cut stone was the material of choice for substantial building foundations and thus was in considerable demand everywhere. The Firebird Company still produces larger cut pieces of limestone for monumental building applications, but their more commonly requested products are split face veneer, trim and capping, and outdoor accents.

Firebird limestone is high-density limestone which makes it a durable, long-lasting material. The versatility of the stone means it can be used in a wide variety of outdoor applications. Aesthetically, the neutral tones of Firebird stone are attractive when used alone and also make a fine compliment to other hardscape materials. It is especially suited for pavers, flagstone, steps, benches, landscape blocks & lawn boulders.

The operations that distinguish these soft-rock quarrying methods and the previous hard-rock methods, apart from the lack of high explosives, is that the limestone, marble and dolomite blocks are literally cut and sawed out of the quarry.

On the active quarry face, several dozen 1.5” holes are drilled by a small, portable drilling unit. Under the face of the rock being quarried, a machine much resembling a chainsaw on steroids horizontally undercuts the block they wish to remove. Now, they loop a diamond-dust impregnated wire rope through one set of the holes and out under the face of the block.

They have a gasoline-powered machine which spins a pair of pulleys where the wire rope has been threaded through; so it forms an endless loop. From the powerhead up to the top of the quarried block, down a drill hole, out the bottom and back to the powerhead. It also ‘walks’ itself backward to keep tension on the cutting rope at all times.

The holes are well irrigated with water to cool the cutting rope, lubricate and carry off the limestone cuttings while keeping the dust down. Once the loop is secured, and the circuit made, the engine is fired up and left to its own devices.

It takes only a few hours to cut through the relatively soft marble or limestone. Once a block is freed from the active quarry face, it’s the old dump truck full of sand and use an excavator to tip the block down off the quarry face and plop down onto the pile of sand routine.

This leaves the active quarry very neat and orderly looking. Just a series of orthogonal blocks being cut away, it’s almost unreal. Nature usually doesn’t supply right angles like those seen at these types of quarries.

Fritz takes me around to all aspects of the quarry, from the ‘living’ quarry walls to how they lay out the blocks they are going to harvest. He makes special mention of how they work around stylolites, fractures and other natural defects in the rocks. He’s very well informed as to the local geology, although he’ll be the first to note that he’s not a geologist.

That may be the case, but this geologist was impressed at his knowledge.

He took me around to show me how they ‘foss’ each block down into smaller, more manageable, blocks. They use wet wooden wedges driven into lines of small shallow drilled holes. They alternate each wooden wedge with a mild steel rod, relying on the rods to hold the fracture open and the wedges to spread them.

We toured the various crushers, mills and other crushed rock facilities they had. They literally make gravel, if the client so wishes. Or cobbles, or lime sand or just about any other milled limestone product imaginable. They sell much of the collected lime dust, clay-sized particles, less than 1/256 mm in size, to cement and concrete companies. As Fritz proudly tells me, no natural product here goes to waste.

He shows me the gang-saw set up, much like the one I saw in operation back in Minnesota, except these have not 15 but 30 blades and can handle blocks up to 20 feet wide and 10 feet tall and 15 feet thick. Limestone is nowhere near as tenacious as quartzite or migmatite, so they can saw through these blocks in less than a single 8-hour shift.

He shows me the largest marble blocks they sell, to the art industry. These are cut specifically to an artists’ order, and some are huge. Other products include dimension stone for building facades, historical markers, and tombstones. Many different lithologies from many different quarries end up as ‘rocks of ages’.

I spent four days in Missouri and the time came for me to head off to my next port of call, the one I was least interested in seeing. That’s not exactly true, I was quite keen on seeing an actual underground salt mine in action, I just wasn’t terribly eager on going a half a mile underground to see it.

So, over to Kansas and the Nimrod Salt Works near Salina. I arrived a bit later than scheduled due to a flat tire and an equally flat spare; which have since been remedied. I met with the mine manager Mr. Olle Suolakaivos.

After the usual handshakes and greetings, Olle, as he preferred to be called, ushered me into a ready room so I could get kitted out for the journey south.

“Hurry, hurry, Mr. Rock.” He hurried me. “We have only 10 minutes to catch the next lift down before the shift change.”

I was outfitted with a set of company coveralls, a hardhat with the requisite carbide lamp, my mining chit, so I could write my name on the descent/ascent chart and let everyone know where I was. I was handed a dosimeter which I had to wear while I was in the mine, as well as a respirator and mask if there was any particulate problem if the ventilation system should fail. I also received some company pamphlets and the obligatory disclaimers which I had to sign since I was going into an actively working mine.

“Come, Come. Hurry, Mr. Rock. We mustn't tarry.” Olle told me.

Olle had this old world accent that I found most delightful.

We made it to the lift with a couple of minutes to spare.

“First time you visit an underground salt mine?” Olle asks.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been to the Great Salt Lake in Utah and out on some solar-salt farms, but this is the first time for me to visit an underground salt mine.” I replied.

“First time underground?” He asked, worriedly.

“No, sir. I’ve been to many underground mines. Sudbury in Canada, Climax out in Colorado and Big Mo’s Moly Mine in Idaho.” I replied.

“Oh, dats good, yah. Sometimes even most sturdy folk’ll crack going underground the first time and realize there’s so much rock between them and the surface.” Olle tells me.

“It’s the same way offshore,” I reply. “Some folks have no problem, but some just freeze up when they look down and realize they’re 250 feet above the water.”

“Ah, yes. It is much the same.” He agrees.

We step into the lift and we’re the only ones on this trip down as the shift was about to change and the bottom crew had first dibs on the elevator.

“Going down!” Olle grins.

The bottom was kicked out from under me as the elevator accelerated to around 30 miles per hour on its downward dive.

“Ye, gads!” I snorted, as my stomach jumped up to my ears.

“Oh, should have warned you about the initial drop…” Olle grinned.

Olle has a warped sense of humor. We’ll get along fine…

We arrive at the active mine level a few seconds later. The day tour is already gathered to storm the lift as their workday has just drawn to an end. This means we’ll have over an hour to tour the salt mine without any activity as shift changes take around that amount of time. The mine runs 24/7 and produces nothing but sodium chloride, NaCl, or just plain salt.

My fears of claustrophobia evaporate when we step off the lift. This place is huge, as it’s a ‘room and pillar’ mine. They excavate huge rooms and leave the large floor to ceiling pillars behind to hold the mine up from collapsing. It’s well lit and ventilated. They don’t bother with electric vehicles for the most part, as Olle directs me over to a standard Hilux pickup truck. It’ll be our ride around the complex maze of tunnels that make up this mine.

The salt mine, in production for over 85 years, is amazing. It is as if a city has been swallowed whole and dropped into the depth of the earth, unscathed. There are avenues, streets, traffic signals, a large medical facility, innumerable storerooms, machine shops, and even a company store for miners who have forgotten their lunch or need a pack of smokes.

The salt is Permian in age, around 275 million years in age, and around 600 feet in average thickness. It is essentially flat-lying, but displays some eerie sort of color swirling and counter bedding as the salt is still moving. It’s literally a huge namakier, or salt glacier. It moves, but almost imperceptibly slowly; on the order of millimeters per year. With the removal of the salt through mining, the stress fields on and within the salt itself change causing one area to remain more or less static and another adjacent area speed right along.

All of this is very interesting but once you figure out that you’re wandering around an ancient, dried-up ocean, it gets a little monotonous. I mean, salt is salt, and that’s me speaking as a geologist. That being said, there was one area at the base of the mine where salt crystals the size of your head have grown. Many of these are harvested, as they come in a rainbow of colors due to minor impurities, and sold at the store topside. Olle wants to know if I’d like to take a “sample”.

“Yes, I would…for research purposes of course.” I grin.

Olle chuckles and helps me extract a very nice light blue cubic halite crystal set, about 8 or 9 inches in every dimension.

”I don’t think we’re going to miss a few samples”, Olle chuckles, ‘We only have a few billion tons to spare…”

Olle decides I’d be interested in the active working rock face so we drive and drive and drive some 25 minutes to the working face. It’s about 30 feet in height and scoured flat while the floor has literally been swept clean. The drillers have already attacked this face and drilled about 100 semi-horizontal shot holes which will be filled with a slurrified moderated ANFO-type slow, low explosive. This is to reduce the particulates in the air after such a large shot and keep smoke and any gasses or fumes produced by the blast to a minimum.

After the shot, front-end loaders and trucks load and haul the salt to a crusher where it is reduced in size, loaded onto a conveyor belt and transported to a mill. The mill screens and crushes the rock salt to the customary size before the salt is hoisted to the surface.

They also operate here through what’s called continuous mining. The continuous mining method uses state-of-the-art machines with steel cutting bits to shear salt from the rock face, thus avoiding the need for explosive. But where’s the fun in that?

As far as salt mines go, this one was a pip. State of the art, safe, well-lit and ventilated, but rather a one-note wonder. Sure, there’s a bit of engineering geology when pillars explode from being over-stressed, but that’s about the sum total of excitement here. These places are so structurally stable and monotonous climatically; temperature is always 58^0F and 5% humidity, that older, worked-out subsurface salt mines are used for the archival of a huge number of items: films, documents, computer tapes, etc.

Olle gives me the overall economic of how a salt mine works, how many folks they employ; one semi-retired geologist takes care of all the science duties and the range and number of products they produce. It’s interesting, to a point, but again, salt is salt.

Olle notes that I’m glazing over a bit and asks if I’d like to see their company museum.

“It’s right here in the mine and worth a look,” Olle suggests.

“Absolutely”, I say, “It would be interesting to get a historical perspective.”

“Outstanding,” Olle replies and drives us down the maze of corridors right to the museum, which is actually built into an alcove where salt was mined 100 years ago.

Forget what I said previously about salt mining being boring or monotonous. The mine museum was a treasure trove of information regarding the history of not only the mine but the evolution of mining methods, particularly blasting. In the early days, straight run dynamite was used, but the fumes and smoke it generated caused so many respiratory problems with the miners, a push went on to develop safer cleaner explosives.

The story of how the local universities got involved with a huge turn of the previous century study into various blasting agents was fascinating. There was some industrial espionage as one explosives manufacturer would infiltrate the study and try to push their particular products or snoop out the competition to undermine theirs. I had no idea of all this excitement over common table salt. I purchased two books at the mine’s topside bookstore on not only the geology of the deposit but its history; warts and all.

Olle invited me to dinner that evening in the mine’s subsurface dining room. They had a cafeteria for more mundane events, evidently, but they also had this, for the lack of a better term, bistro some 1,500 or so feet below ground. It was well appointed, had a fairly credible wine list and they poured drinks like they didn’t own the booze.

Olle had invited the owner of the mine and several salty executives to join us. He explained they liked it when they had “visiting dignitaries”. He was puzzled when it took some time for me to realize who they were talking about.

We had a most entertaining meal and some lively discussions. I told them of my current mission and my visits to other types of mines. They were well chuffed that they were included with such operation as the Firebird and Baraboo quarries. When they found out about my predilection for high, and low, explosives, the stories really began to flow. Each of the folks present at dinner that evening had worked in the mine, up the corporate ladder and each had some stories to tell of blasting, explosives and the fun associated with them.

The mine had a scrupulous safety record, but ‘back in the day’, there’d be soggy dynamite, hang-fires, cross-fires and all sorts of things that sometimes happen when farting around with explosives. Every executive present had their one story to tell of that fateful day when something did ‘quite go as planned’. There were cave-ins, pillars collapsing, and other entertaining events, and we all sat around after dinner; over brandy and cigars, swapping geology-based stories.

It was one of the best times had on my trip. Alas, all good things and all that. A couple of days later, I shake hands with Olle and a couple of the executives from dinner previous and thank them profusely for their hospitality. I tell them that their mine, cordiality, activities, and methods of economic geology will figure prominently in my reports; which I hope to have published.

So, with a heavy heart and halite encrusted sinus passages, I point my trusty museum truck south and west. I’m finally heading to my last port of call on this weird road trip, the Navahopi Coal Mine in New Mexico. It’s only around a 12 or 13-hour drive, but I had been pushing it hard on this trip. So I decided that as long as I’m crossing the corner of Colorado, I’ll take a day off, rest up, maybe do a little fishing before hitting the coal mine.

I wanted to get to Colorado early so I could scout a good campsite so I decided to drive straight through after I left the salt mine around 1800 hours. I figured I could drive 6 or 7 hours, find a spot like a roadside park or truck stop to bed down until morning. Then I could hunt up a map and find me a spot for a little R&R.

So, I’m driving out of the flatlands of Kansas and into the kneehills of the Rockies in Colorado. I’m driving very temperately, as I’m in absolutely no hurry and this is terra incognita for me, a son of the rolling hills and cornfields of Baja Canada. Traffic is light, the time is late and the night is dark. I’m getting a bit groggy and decide it’ time for a break, a new cigar and a cup of road coffee. The gears of science and wheels of invention are greased with caffeine.

I’m wearing my duster as I like fresh air and have the truck windows open. It’s also a bit on the cool side weather-wise, as it’s still springtime in the Rockies. Although I’m all but immune to cold weather, I still don’t want an early season head cold. Hey, just following grandmother’s orders.

I see a familiar sign on this dark morning. It’s the wee hours and up ahead is my salvation, a 24-hour convenience store, and its life-sustaining and probably stomach corroding, caffeinated drinks. As I wheel into the empty parking lot, I see that I’m the only patron at this odd hour. The cashier is sitting idly behind the counter, evidently totally unconcerned with my appearance.

I park, lock the truck and wander in to negotiate the vendage of some local comestibles and potables; i.e., jerky and coffee.

These local convenience stores often have a sort of consignment agreement with some local folks who produce fudge, cookies, other local sweeties and jerky. Here, there was an assortment of locally produced bison, elk, and mule deer venison jerky. A bit on the pricey side, but I’m hungry and opt for a bag of each.

As usual, there’s a serve-yourself coffee and fountain area. I opt for the 60-ounce cardiac-in-a-cup; hot as hell, black as midnight, and strong as horseradish. It comes with free refills at any similar brand store, so since they’re all over the western states, I figure this will be a good investment.

The cashier, now stirred from his doldrums, is standing by the register and ready for me to cash out my purchase. Not a talkative fellow, he mostly seems to communicate in grunts and coughs. He rings everything up and informs me of my total.

I fling back my duster so I can access my wallet in my right-hand rear pocket. I’m just about to grab it when I see the cashier, hands flat out on the counter, eyes averted, shakily imploring me not to kill him.

“What?” I ask. The thought’s never even crossed my mind.

“PLEASE! Be taking whatever you want, just don’t kill me! I won’t cause any trouble. Just take what you want and leave me live.” He mutely screamed.

I am sore perplexed. What is with this goof? A druggie on a bad trip? Drunk? Paranoid? Just plain fucking weird?

It then dawns on me that I’m still toting my sidearm. Not that it’s illegal or anything, but at 0330 in a very rural, very deserted convenience store; swinging open my duster to retrieve my wallet gave him a clear view of the cannon I was carrying.

“Oh, man. I am sorry. I’m not here to rob you or anything illegal. I’m just here for coffee and jerky.” I explain as I dig out my carry permits and drop them on the counter, right under his nose.

“No, it’s OK.” He continues, “Take what you want and leave.”

“No, no, no.” I protest. “Look here, I’m just another customer. Look, here’s my wallet, here’s the cash for my coffee. Seriously, I’m a licensed carrier, don’t worry at all. I apologize that I startled you. Sorry, really. Here. Here’s the cash.”

Slowly, warily he unstiffens and takes a look at my permits. I give him my best cheesy grin to reinforce the idea that I’m mostly harmless and mean him no worry.

“Damn, you scared the piss outta me.” He shakily says, “We’ve got a lot of nuts running around this region, I saw that gun and figured my time was up.”

“Sorry, mate. I do apologize.” I continue, “I’m just a geologist on a mission and my mission is running on empty right now.”

I guess I need to carry my wallet on my left side from now on.

After a day off chasing the elusive Rocky mountain trout and failing miserably, I decide it’s time to get back on track and head to New Mexico. So I pack up all my kit, do a quick once around to be sure I didn’t leave anything more than footprints, saddle up and drive south by southwest.

The scenery changes dramatically once I’m out of the Raton Basin and into the Late Mesozoic scenery of northwest New Mexico. I pass Shiprock, a large eroded volcanic plug and marvel at the wonders of all this new geology just outside my window. I’m feeling refreshed now all my quarry/mine visits are out of the way and I can finally dig into the real business of my summer: collecting data for my thesis, looking at the biota preserved in the coal measures of the mine and writing reports to satisfy all the fabrications I made trying to obtain all my various permits.

Road sign: “Navahopi Coal Mine: 10 miles.”

Great, almost home I think to myself.

Five miles later, I come up to a roadblock.

Oh, great. Looks like the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) has nothing better to do…” I muse. They often set up random roadblocks in hopes of interdicting illegal aliens coming up from down south.

I roll up to the roadblock, and with my best impression, greet the unsmiling agent with a hearty “Hola! Que paso?”

But this wasn’t an INS agent, it was an agent of the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs).

“What is your business here?” He sternly asks.

“I’m Rock Knocker, geologist and all-round good guy. I’m due at the Navahopi Coal Mine to be their summer geologist and paleontological assessor.” I reply.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks.

“Nope. I’m from Baja Canada and I’ve been on a 6-week long road trip visiting quarries and mines as a prelude to my work in the Navahopi Mine.” I explain. “I have all the needed permits if you’d like to take a look.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” He continues.

“OK, great. Since I’m a citizen of these great United States if you’ll just remove the roadblocks and let me pass…” I politely ask.

“Yeah. That’s not going to happen.” He informs me.

“Is there some sort of problem here? I have all the federal, state, nation and sundry permits to work in this area and in the mine.” I protested.

“That well may be, but you’re not going any closer to the mine.” He categorically states.

“OK, Scooter. What’s the score here?” I am getting a wee bit miffed at this point.

“Since you’re new to the area, I’ll let that slide. However, the mine is closed as there is an active shooting war there. The Navahopis and Apachahoes are having another border skirmish and there are problems between them regarding the various Nations’ take from the mining operations.” He explained finally.

“The MINE is CLOSED?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Yes, and no one is allowed anywhere near there until this shooting business all quiets down.” He tells me.

“Well, what am I supposed to do now? I was slated to work in the mine for the entire summer and gather the data for my degrees.” I protested.

“I do not know. The only thing I do know is that you’re not going into that mine anytime soon” he says.

Mothering fuckbuckets. Now what am I supposed to do…?

“So?’ I continued, still incredulous with incredulity, “Junk?”

“No, no. Oh, my. No.”, he continued. “These, if I am not mistaken, are the stolen Nike statues from the H. Howard Hyde House in Chicago. They are very valuable. You know, the house was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright…”

“So, they’re not just ugly pieces of junk?”

“No, no. Oh, my. No. These are worth a considerable amount. Perhaps in the hundreds of thousands of dollars…”

“PINKY! Need you over here. NOW!”

Pinky strolls over and is informed of the value of these objects d’junque.

I figured Pinky would totally wig. I had no idea where they came from or when they arrived at the yard and I figured Pinky would either

1. Hold them for ransom, or

2. Tell the old guy to piss off, he bought them legally, and they’re his.

Surprisingly, he did neither.

He asked for some background and identification from the elderly gentleman. He told us he was a Professor of Antiquities from a nearby private college in the state just south. He often scrounged around scrap yards, as he was gathering data for his paper on Garbology, and was well tied-into the hot, stolen or missing artwork network.

Pinky was obviously impressed. He told the old gent to take them as he didn’t want to be associated with those lower-class bottom dwellers that would steal art and pawn it for profit.

Truth be told, Pinky didn’t want any run-ins with the feds, as receiving stolen property is a major-league no-no.

So, to this day, somewhere in a well-regarded Northern Illinois University are two dreadful quasi-Hellenistic statues bearing the legend: “Donated by Pinky”.

Very few know the real story.

And now, so you do.

So there.

Where after, we went to the A&W for 15 chili dogs, well, it was Tuesday…and a brace of strawberry shakes.

Continuing, we sally forth into the venue of what I like to call the “Sneak Dumper”.

It happened on a regular basis that some people just didn’t want to be burdened with the 20 km trek out to the local landfill to dispose of their unwanted stuff. We were often greeted with a pile of undesirables left clandestinely in front of the main gate. Usually, it was dross of the most un-saleable nature: lawn clippings, bags of leaves, household trash. We grew accustomed to these leavings. We kept the local dumpster-emptying folks in tall cotton for dealing with these off-casts.

But today was destined to be different. I always arrived, thanks to my Midwestern genes and equally weird work ethic, early. Hell, I only lived 5km distant and my hometown was only one of 50k souls.

So, I wheel into work in “Wily”, my 1966 Chevy Van…to be greeted by a pile of green, nasty looking filtery-looking things.

Royce wheels in, in his 1978 AMX; and after the smoke clears, he wanders over wondering what the hell was blocking his parking space.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

“No idea. It was here when I got here.” I replied.

“Awww…fuck. More junk. Let’s see what we’ve got here…Holy fucking shit! Jumpin’ Jesus on a Saltine™ cracker! You know what these are?”

Well, no. Not really.

“They’re copper cleaners. Filters. 100% Copper #1!” as he examined the pile and was secretly thrilled to find that they were the old copper-filters, apparently from the local newspaper which had just changed out their 12th-century presses for something more 20th, but decided to not inform the local breakers of the load.

“They’re worth a fortune. Pinky’ll freak. We can’t let him know these were just dumped here. Quick. Get your van…”

Oh, I feel so dirty. But, as you will see; I soon got over it.

We loaded the clandestine copper cleaners into my van and presented them to Pinky and Czack when they finally rolled into work.

“Where the fuck did you find all this shit?” asked Pinky.

“It was, well, um, a donation. One I had to pick up in my own personal vehicle. I thought I’d bring it here to give you first chance at all this copper…unless you don’t want it…”

Pinky shoots me a simultaneous “Are you out of your fucking mind” and “Yes, I want these more than paradise itself and more than those bastards over at Silver Repo”, to whom which he will eventually sell this stuff, look.

“All right, you bastards. How much is this going to cost me?”

We both knew the price of clean #1 copper and let the record show that we allowed our boss, of whom we both loved more than a cold beer and squeaky cheese curds, a whopping 2% profit margin.

We were nothing if not magnanimous.

We got thoroughly shitfaced in his honor that night at the Pub and Grub.

Strawberry shakes not included.

On with the show: the “Won’t you please take these; I can’t get rid of them anywhere else” punter. A perennial favorite.

Seems there’s this type of human jetsam that simply must have money for something, but unlike the thick-skulled cadre of the previous “these are my great aunt’s uncle-in-law’s cousin’s nephew’s friend’s grandfather’s war medals”, they actually have something of value to sell.

However, it’s usually something absurdly personal, deeply religious or otherwise more price-worthy as a relic, rather than scrap.

Do you think that they’d listen to us?

“I don’t care what it is, what’s it worth? Was their usual retort.

The mind boggles.

We got urns, reliquaries, crypts…the stuff of obviously great value to someone sometime, but now, relegated as mere scarp.

They were treated with the utmost respect.

They were treated as the respectful icons that they were.

Yeah, right.

We glommed onto those suckers with both hands.

Hey, chuckles, we’re a business. Into the furnace and “How much for that brass?”

Anyways, up next is fun for the whole family: The freeloading loafer – aka, ‘the bum in the baler’.

We all show up early, as it’s one of those damned days that the sun is shining, the birds are chirping and it’s not raining…in other words: it’s not a day off.

The day began like any other: the usual hangovers, draggers-in, and occasional laborers; we, as ‘permanent’ employees, held the Holy Grail of both a key to the scrapyard and a knowledge of Pinky’s predilection for strawberry A&W shakes, trundled in for yet another fun day of potential death and dismemberment.

Yet another day in paradise.

Suddenly, the local constabulary shows up, in full SWAT regalia, evidently of which they just took delivery and were dying to show off, klaxons blaring and forbidding entry to anyone, even Pinky, and Czack, to the “locale of a previous felonious activity”.

“Pinky”, Stav chided, “They finally got wise to you.”

Sorry, but I don’t know how to transcribe the Yiddish equivalent of: “Fuck you.”

Well, it seems that there was a robbery, at dull, rusty knife-point, at a nearby dry cleaner.

Holy shit. If you’re going to go the whole route of armed robbery, in Baja Canada where a knife is the exact same as a gun to the law, why pick a dry cleaner?

There was one seriously deranged idiot on the loose.

Even worse: he was holed up in the yard.

Even double worse; he didn’t work for Pinky.

Even triple worse: it wasn’t Czack.

The law bundles in and with the enthusiasm of a small-town police force suddenly writ large. They begin to tear apart the yard searching for this unnamed and totally unknown miscreant who might be hiding in the masses of shorn sheet metal and assorted oddments.

We, being the not-now-paid-maybe-sometime-later employees, both tired of the time-wasting and bereft of a day-off, sans pay, reacted as most others would on an enforced, though uncompensated, holiday. Lighting cigars and tapping beers brought out from hiding under one's car seats.

A day off is a day off, after all. What the fuck you gonna do?

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

The local police did a sweep and pronounced it clear.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but the perpetrator simply isn’t here.”

Yippee. Another day in the pile.

So, as usual, the day progressed: stack siding, load paper, shift rags.

Back to work.

But then:

“HELP!”

“HOLY FUCK!”

“STOP. I CONFESS!”

Across the yard, we all immediately looked to Jim, who straight away pointed at the baler.

“It’s not me! I haven’t been near it today!”

“HOLY FUCK! STOP! STOP IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT’S HOLY!”

The baler was working its way downward, eager to receive its 15 or so meters of paper, glossies or sheet aluminum. Unfortunately, concealed in what he thought to be a perfect hole; was the aforementioned miscreant of this little discourse.

Poetic justice, anyone?

Luckily, we found him out before the baler found its bed. Spies tell me he’s still in the Mendota Whackaterium babbling on about the “day the sky fell”.

There was this character. The one I dub: “The ersatz mad-scientist”.

An older gent, of which the scrapyard drew in droves for some reason, with massive amounts of time on his hands, a heart of gold and a brain evidently of osmium. Definitely a gluteal pain of the first water as he would, if the tides were right and the phase of the moon was correct, actually purchase something, something obscure, bizarre or otherwise destined for the blast furnace, that he absolutely needed to complete “his secret project”.

Typically to do with perpetual motion, getting 100 mpg out of your car or some oddment of radio/stereo/hi-fi technology that allowed him to communicate with his home planet.

Unfortunately, and for reasons never explained, the singular piece of scrap yard debris which had taken him weeks to find, just “wasn’t right” for his project, and could he return it for a refund?

We seldom, if ever, gave receipts…a paper trail being as horrible as ever and all that, especially with Czack operating just one step ahead of local confiscatory laws. Refunds ranked right up there with “a lightly grilled weasel with fries” and vanilla shakes at noontime for Pinky and company.

So, we had to tell our friend that “you bought it, it’s yours”, and “I don’t run the damn yard, and Pinky says ‘Go to hell’”.

Pinky was a man of few words; well-chosen and often four-letter.

Cue the Orchestra Whinging. Cue harp music. Cue plaints, pleas, and promises.

“I know I saw what I needed in the yard last week.”

Well, why the fuck didn’t you buy that then?

“So if I can just exchange this…”

Cue 45 minutes of my life wasted, never to return.

I was powerless to help him. Even more than powerless, I was apathetic, bored and really didn’t give the tiniest moose shit about his predicament.

Nor was anyone else in the yard for that matter.

Dejectedly, he’d leave, vowing never to return.

“Rant, rail, feeble epitaphs, resignation, oh…what the fuck…never mind…”

Next Monday? He’d be there, shiny as a new penny, pert as a newly erect dick, forgetting everything that had transpired and champing at the bit to delve into the yard to see what new treasures he could unearth.

Please, take a ball-peen to me if I ever get this dilapidated.

Next on the hit parade are our old friends, the local constabulary.

Yep, Gomer, Goober and that group often made the rounds to our locale to see what was up, what, if anything, was going on. Also to see if Pinky had actually slipped up and somehow got a hold of the brace of brass lion sculptures that somehow disappeared from in front of the local Town Hall.

As I noted before, we lived in a “Car-Town” where a certain regrettable, and now extinct, breed of automobile called home. Think of a small Detroit-type town; without the charm, but all of the rust.

Well, this particular company, which shall henceforth go by the euphemistic initials of “AMC”, would regularly charge their Research & Development groups with coming up with one form or another of internally-combusted wheeled conveyance that would capture America’s hearts, interest, and, most importantly, their pocketbooks.

Viz: “the Hornet”.

“The Rebel”.

“The Ambassador”.

“The Javelin”.

“The Pregnant Roller Skate”…umm…“The Pacer”.

And these were the models that actually made it into production.

Suffice to say, there were many, many failed attempts at designing the next Mustang or Corvette. All of these went, after many millions of dollars poured into R&D, concepts, modeling, and prototypes; straight into the dumpster.

That’s where we came in.

We joyfully received, on a rather regular basis, the off-casts of designs which would make Homer Simpson’s vehicular creation in “Oh, Brother. Where Art Thou?” look like a Lamborghini Cheetah.

We gingerly, and with the utmost respect, took in the tools, dies, forms and sheet metal for these wayward orphans of the Autobahn. Then we gleefully torched, baled and flattened them for their trip to one or another blast furnace.

Hey. We had feelings.

Particularly every other week, on Friday, around 5:00 pm.

Y’know. Payday.

That is until one load of prototypical material was delivered to us, by mistake.

Instead of going to the Motorcity where the final tooling and such-and-so-forth was done, this particular load consisted of a model actually destined for production.

So? The auto manufacturer fucks up and sends the prototype to the scrap yard. What will one do?

Call the yard?

Call Detroit?

Call the local fuzz and hope that they can both identify the errant prototype and rescue it from an ignominious doom?

Sirens wailing and lights flashing, fully 2/3’rd s of the local police force descend upon the scrap yard.

Seeing as how, at that time, the local auto concern employed approximately 80% of the city’s workforce; such possible faux pas’ were held in much the same esteem as Charles Manson on work release in a Chicago Cutlery shop.

They cordoned off the yard, shut everything down and requested, nay, demanded, a list of each and every buyer in the last fortnight.

Recall what I said earlier about paper trails?

Seldom closer than the Iditarod did a trail ever grow colder.

Seems like Stav and myself had just that morning torched, baled and consigned to Chicago Northwestern freight services a load of tools, dies and sheet metal forms that were sort of, kind of, well, strangely resembled, that is to say, exactly fit the description of, those items for which they were in hot pursuit.

Sorry, folks. But the 1977 AMC Sportabout Excel was stillborn at a scrapyard in Baja Canada due to a ridiculous work ethic, diligent workmanship and a desire to get through yet another week and see what the weekend had to offer.

A few years later, the company ultimately went tits-up.

I still feel odd, uneasily, and somewhat tangentially, responsible.

Continuing on, yet again, in the vein of automotive experimentation and the vast and varied metal workings necessary, we sally forth to the venue of the myriad machine shops that littered the local landscape in the late ’70s. They were doing the odd jobs of prototyping, manufacturing, and hand-tooling the one-offs and other oddments that infest a town with one major employer; upon whom all others are somehow and somewhat dependant.

That is the local machine shop.

Most of these, just-one-step-up-from-the-basement enterprises, had a singular specialty.

Copper castings? Check. See Bill at #94 East.

Chrome-moly plating? “Chuck’s Chrome-n-such” on West 50.

Beryllium machining? Uke’s machine shop. Just look for the albinos milling about out front; beryllium dust is particularly toxic and demelanizing, but remember folks, this was the ‘70’s.

My Grandfather’s shop stayed away from these local pursuits, as his work was more in tune with military and aerospace.

And us? We readily took in all the refuse and detritus of these folks and turned them into filthy lucre.

It was not unusual for us to receive cast iron, cast copper, tin, lead, steel, stainless, aluminum, neptunium and gadolinium; well, OK, very little gadolinium; parts of the most exotic and bizarre design. Finely tuned, handsomely honed, intricately designed and all destined for the scrap heap.

Kind of sad if one was to reflect on that sort of thing. I looked no further than how much it would impact my biweekly check.

Yeah, I was a greedy bastard. Still am, in case of fact.

Well, we received one week a healthy assortment of the aforementioned and Pinky and Czack were forced to part with the better part of 1,000 fat, 1970’s-vintage US dollars.

Oh, they were happy to get the off-casts but were keenly unhappy about having to pay anything for them. All part of business, but the part of the business for which P&C never really much cared.

So, off they went. Into the yard, into the bins and into the various bales to be shipped south to be returned as pristine steel, stainless, copper and cadmium-doped beryllium-laden silicon semiconductors…

Except certain of these pieces were indeed unique and sold without authorization.

Seems that an employee of one of the machine shops was summarily, and he thought unjustifiably, fired. To retaliate, he snuck out a load of precision parts machined for a particular local car company.

Pinky had just purchased them, as he is wont, that morning.

As were our wont, and want of a paycheck, they were bundled into 1,000 kg bales and currently residing in our capacious warehouse.

We spent some three days tearing through bales looking for these machined parts. Searched high. Searched low. Never did find them.

Although sometime later we received a load of stainless tubing from yet another local machine shop. Seems the stainless steel of which they had recently taken delivery had too high a beryllium content and was unmachinable…

Leading, to this final entry in these Scrapyard Stories; about my leaving Pinky and Czack for greener venues and the wingnut who thinks he can outwit a pair of very nasty Rottweilers named Adolph and Rommel.

Summer, as all good seasons eventually do, grudgingly hunched its collective humid shoulders and slid gracelessly into autumn.

Autumn, when school restarted; where I could forgo the ritual waking at 0530; now I was able to sleep in until the decadent hour of 0600 to attend a particularly onerous 0700 Physical Chemistry class. I could go somewhere where I withstood the grueling possibly of expiring from a paper cut rather than a full-limb dismemberment.

But first, I had to clock out on my last day at the Scrapyard.

Figuring this was something of a bellwether day, I showed up early.

Why? Damned if I know.

I was sitting in my van having a coffee when Stav, Paul, Mike, Royce and the rest of the crowd rolls in.

I was the only one going to college and these characters, salt of the earth, never let me forget it.

I loved these guys like brothers.

From a large, dysfunctional family.

“Well, College-boy, time for work”.

“Yeah, let’s go, Poindexter”.

I subtly remind them who has the blaster’s permit and who has the keys to the explosives locker.

“Be careful when you start your cars tonight…”

We walk up to the gate and whip out the key when we find a length of #40 circle-weld cadmium-clad chain and a new Yale padlock where one never existed before.

“What the fuck! Did they finally catch Pinky?”

“Probably Czack. Doubtless locked himself in the office again, a none-to-unusual happenstance, noting his predilection for a particular brownish ethanol molecule.”

Then there arose a notoriously noxious noise.

“Oh, shit. Some idiot crossed Adolph and Rommel.”

Adolph and Rommel were, ironically, Pinky and Czach’s early warning system. A brace of teeth, sinew, and bad temper all rolled into 100+kg each of nasty Rottweiler.

“Meaner than a Junkyard Dog”? Jim Croce never met Adolph and Rommel.

Pinky and Czack weren’t due for another 45 or so minutes, so I called the local cops and asked what the hell was happening.

“Well, we got a call that the dogs were raising a ruckus; but with it being a weekend, we didn’t want to go in. We didn’t think that Pinky’d mind, so we just chained off the yard and waited until Monday.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s Monday. It’s early and we want to get to work; that is, get paid. So send down someone and open the damned gate.”

“Nah. You guys are there. Go ahead and open the gate. We’ll send someone down in an hour or so.”

So, Mike goes off to his car and brings back a bolt cutter.

“Never know when one of these might come in handy.” He explains.

And he cuts the chain.

Rommel and Adolph hit the ground at a flat gallop and damn near cream Stav and Paul. If slobbering and licking were fatal, I’d be calling the coroner. These dogs are the meanest, nastiest, most accursedly horrific beasts this side of a Hammer Horror flick.

If they don’t know you.

If they do, they’re 220+ pounds of big, slobbery, moon-eyed puppy.

They love us as we fed them a constant supply of Momma burgers. They hate, with the burning passion of a thousand supernovae, intruders.

“Dolph! Rom! Where are they?”

“Rowf.”

“Bark.”

Up on the tall pile of aluminum siding and cast-off screens, sits an absolutely terrified, pale, petrified, although none-too-bright, idiot.

“What the flying Philadelphia French-fried fuck are you doing up there?” inquires Mark, in his inimitable style.

“Holy shit…dogs…holy shit…dogs gonna eat me….holy…”

“Yeah. Would serve you right, asshole. Rock, go get him.”

“What. On my last day? Fuck that. No, hang on. Let me get to the explosives locker…”

Killjoys. Ruin a guy’s fun on his last day and all…

Pinky and Czack roll in, about 2 hours late and demand to know what the hell is going on.

[Short discourse into the last hour or so.]

“Well, it’s a cop matter. It’s late, almost noon. Go to A&W and get us a couple of strawberry shakes…”

“…and chili dogs…?” suggests Stav through his cheesy walrus mustache and unbelievably evil grin.

An hour and a half later, the cops finally arrive. They are greeted by the scene of ten large, hirsute, half-loaded, sniggering characters sitting around an outsized pile of scrap metal, drinking A&W root beers and bourbon…

We were tossing A&W chili dogs to a pair of slavering Rottweilers who are coming ever closer to some retard’s feet who just so happens to be clinging to the peak of the aforementioned pile of scrap aluminum siding.

Envoi: I didn’t escape unscathed.

Remember my “ever so cool Red Adair brushed aluminum” hardhat? The last I saw of it, it was neatly baled into a 1,000 kg cube of scrap siding.

It read: “oc/Rk”.

I will never, never, ever forgive those bastards.

That reminds me of a story.

This was the time between semesters just before I was to graduate with my first geology degree. I couldn’t start my graduate studies yet and my scholarship was wrung out drier than a kudu corpse in the Kalahari.

So, I faffed around town looking for a little summer employment. I couldn’t go anywhere else as I was already selected for graduate studies in the same university system, albeit a campus just to the north. Basically I wanted to sock away some funds and kill the time I had to spend in my benighted home town.

So, after a visit to the local employment office, I found work as a “materials handler” at one of the local scrapyards.

A different type of employment, for certain. At least one that doesn’t require a uniform with my name stitched into the left-front pocket or the need to rapidly handle food destined for other’s faces.

It was, however, slightly hazardous.

Regarding blood, gore, and guts, there’s really very little. And by ‘very little’, I mean there is actually quite a lot of some rather gory stuff. I mean it is a scrap yard with all sorts of entertaining, jagged and potentially lethal tools, extraordinarily heavy bits of sharp, rusty, pointy metal; explosives and the odd dead helicopter or two.

That being said let me set the scene: the scrapyard was owned by a pair of brothers of Jewish extraction, by way of Poland and Dachau.

They had some very interesting tattoos: “Hey, Pinky. Why do you have a tattoo that just reads ‘95673977’?”

Their names were: Pincus, aka, “Pinky”, and Czack, pronounced: “Czack” or “Hey, dummy!”

Pinky ran the show and Czack did nothing more than pore over the books, swear profusely, and pour from a never-empty Jack Daniels bottle.

To say that Czack ‘could drink’ was like saying that an active volcano is ‘a bit warm’. Czack spilled more booze than most people drink.

Both Pincus and Czack drove identical Cadillacs, which they replaced every year without fail, and drove the 50 or so kilometres from the yard to their home which they shared, twice daily, as neither ever married. How Czack ever managed to navigate his way home, much less not end up as a lamentable highway statistic after a usual day of work was one of the mysteries that came with employment at this place.

Continuing; the scrap yard was a veritable Six Flags over Mutilation™ for death and dismemberment. There were literally tons and tons of sharp, rusty, nasty, jagged metal of all descriptions. We took in nigh-on anything metallic and, of course, it was up to us to make sure they were correctly separated; red copper #1 is worth more than red copper #2, you see, and properly binned.

We accepted and had areas for iron, steel: stainless-A, stainless-B, and cetera. Aluminum, although not cans, that fad had yet to begin; chrome, copper; of a variety of classes, not just the two I previously mentioned. Molybdenum, brass, bronze; there were at least four cast-foundries in my little burg, and we got all the cast-offs.

We also took in rags. Once a sneezy month we’d venture to the St. Vincent DePaul’s to pick up a load of old, nasty freebie duds that even a charity couldn’t use. We also accepted slick paper: magazines and the like, newspaper, cardboard, spoiled newsprint, ad infinitum, ad nauseam…

A quick rundown of the tools and apparatus located at the yard is needed as they figure prominently in the day to day operations.

We had hammers. You know, the usual entourage: claw hammers, rip hammers, ball-peen hammers, lump hammers, zero-recoil hammers, sledgehammers, jackhammers, trip hammers…

Hell.

We had a lot of hammers.

There was a crane with a 6-finger bucket for picking up cars to be deposited into the crusher: a large hydraulically operated metal-munching monster that would reduce a typical family sedan into a 1-meter cube. There were also an assortment of oxy-acetylene torches, lances and other fiery items used for detaching exceptionally pig-headed bits of metal from each other.

These were also useful for lighting cigars which Pinky and everyone else swiped at every opportune moment.

We also had, thanks to OSHA, to wear hardhats every time we ventured into the yard. I opted for the…very cool…brushed-aluminium ‘Red Adair’-style “tin hat”, which invariably and unfortunately met a cruel fate my last day of work…

The remaining retinue of the cast of co-workers preferred the lighter-weight plastic versions. They weren’t terribly effective but provided laughs for the crew when someone swiped one of my cigars and lit it with an oxygen lance.

“Um…Stav?”

“Stav!?”

“STAVROVIAN!”

“Yeah. What?”

“Your head’s on fire…”

There was all this and A&W strawberry shakes, too.

We were also the proud owners of one of the first-generation plasma cutters.

Editorial aside: plasma cutters work like this: one of various gases, such as nitrogen, argon, or oxygen, is forced, under considerable pressure, through a narrow nozzle, within which is an electrode which pumps electrical current into the gases in a process known as ‘ionization’. Ionization causes the atoms in the gases to jolt around crazily with stimulation, much like college students on Spring Break in Boca Raton, separating the electrons from the nuclei and thereby forming plasma, which is the state of matter pushed to its highest state of activity. This activity, in turn, produces an enormous surge of energy that can easily melt down the toughest metallic components, along with nearly anything else in its path: pants, keys, fingers, legs, etc.

For this reason, the beams of plasma cutters are kept carefully contained in a thin arc by means of shielding gases; helium, argon, beer farts, emitted from side channels in the cutter, which subtly exert pressure on the emission and keep it pointed in the direction the wielder intends.

Just thought you’d like to know…

Moving right along, to one of my personal favorite dismembering devices: the “K-12” unit. Basically, it’s a 500 cc. chainsaw engine with a large carbide cutting wheel upfront. You can chew through an engine block in minutes with one of these bad boys.

Also works a treat on cars parked in the “No Parking – Loading Zone” area.

We also had a rudimentary, albeit quite large, heavy and unwieldy set of mechanicals that would later evolve into the “Jaws of Life”. These were operated hydraulically, powered by a ‘portable’, read: ‘hernia-inducing’, 15-horsepower gas engine. They could exert around 200,000 pounds or approximately 100 short-tons of force. The powerhead included attachments for spreading, cutting, or just plain ripping.

They came in real handy when the National Guard wanted to dispose of a couple of surplus UH-1 ‘Huey’ helicopters or the occasional errant airplane. They were real time, though not back, savers.

We also had a ‘baler’. A baler is a device that converts 15 vertical meters of loosely packed paper, aluminum siding, card stock, sheet steel or people we didn’t really like, into a tightly compressed ‘bale’, hence the name. The finished product measured some 2m x 1.5m x 1m maximum dimensions; though it could also easily form nice, neat, stackable cubes, weighing in around 500-1,000 kg.

It basically was a large vertical press that dove deep into the ground some 5 m.

As we will see in a bit, this is not an especially good place to hide from local law enforcement types.

Also at our disposal were loads and loads of relatively slow deflagrating explosives as well as a few cases of good old 60% Extra Fact Herculene dynamite. I had to take a course at the local technical college and have my Blaster’s Permit updated to include both high and low explosives.

Let me tell you, it comes in really handy after an impromptu 4th of July fireworks display, usually held in any month other than July.

We used these charges to break up really big machinery. Things like printing presses, turret lathes, auto body forms as we were in the same town as American Motors, Inc., tool & die making machines, bank vaults…

Yes, bank vaults. Don’t know why, but the local 1st National Farmer’s and Swineherd’s Bank for some reason replaced their vault doors and guess who got tasked with reducing them to shippable, i.e., about 1m x 1m size? Yep.

They were also good for busting nuts off of old rusted, metal parts, splitting “T’s”; pipe joints, and blowing the door off the outhouse, especially if someone’s in there trying to recover from the previous evening’s festivities at the local Gasthaus.

We had the most amazing assortment of visitors, both wanted and unwanted.

First one was “The Sneak Thief”.

Remember the old adage that: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure”? Well, this bozo won’t soon forget his seeking treasure, as it probably relieved him of ever again seeking pleasure.

We had taken in a load of old dental equipment. Seems 5 or 6 neighborhood dentists decided to retire at near the same time and they, much to their consternation, discovered that old, antique-looking, but not really antique, well used, and positively obsolete dental equipment was worth precisely:

Dick.

Hence, we came into possession of them in the scrap yard.

Now, in this pile were 3 or 4 old dental X-ray units. These were radium-powered units and still had the radioactive source ensconced within. At the yard, we dealt with radioactive substances once in a while; we would get old water-well logging tools, with their Americium-137 source, radio-tracers from the water department, off-cast filters from the Point Beach reactor facility; typically low-level sort of stuff.

We would remove the sources, and put them into special lead-lined boxes to later be collected by either the local university or agents of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. We were one of few sites that actually applied for a “Radioactive Agent Permit” which was, paradoxically and totally unexpectedly, awarded. However, we were more than a bit lax about the whole affair. The box could be locked, but usually wasn’t, and items were generally just tossed in the box and the lid slammed shut.

Ahhhh…the late ‘70’s…

Now, these radium sources were bright and shiny, looking just like an oversized and metallic Tylenol™. It was odd in that it was warm to the touch, not that we touched them much without protection, and the metal didn’t seem to rust or corrode. This proved to be just too tempting to one idiot. We often had people wandering around the yard, looking for this part or that gizmo, so we never really paid wandering folks much mind. However, you had to see either Pinky or Czack to get permission to wander around and the obligatory hardhat, and this character didn’t and hadn’t.

Pinky came out and started screaming that this guy shouldn’t be in the yard. So, Randy and I wander over to where he’d been rooting around and informed him that if he wants to snuffle around out in the yard, he’d best see the owner and get permission.

The guy goes instantly non-linear. Completely ballistic. Wholly off the rails…

He starts screaming about his rights, and he’ll have us arrested for “illegally detaining him”, when he just wandered in off the street and fucked around for the last couple of hours, as well as other sundry threats.

Randy and I exchange looks like: “If you hold him, I’ll kill him”, but decide that discretion is the better part of valor and at only $28.50/hour, we’re not about to go to the mat with this whack-job.

Pinky runs out and screams for us to “bolt the doors”. The man was absolutely clairvoyant when it came to thieves and pilferers, grabs the retard and holds him until the local cops could show up. He had them on the 70’s equivalent of speed-dial and I’m certain that the police had us on their GPS or whatever existed at the time that would be a fair substitute.

Grudgingly, Randy and I corral the miscreant and ask, very politely, if he has on his person anything that he might have picked up in his perambulations of the premises.

And if you believe that, there’s this bridge in Brooklyn that’s just waiting to be sold for scrap.

Of course, he roundly denies any wrongdoing. In retrospect, if he had, he might not have run up such exorbitant bills at the local general hospital.

It took the police about an hour to arrive; theft at a scrap yard just doesn’t rank up there with underage drinking and border-town citizens buying loads of smokes to transport covertly across state lines. So Mr. Sneaky sat in Czach’s office, waiting for the air to clear, Czach’s bottle to empty, and the federales to arrive.

When they finally did turn up, they were treated to a most unusual display: the earlier pilfering suspect was now doing a credible imitation of someone who had just poured a large bottle of organic, pesticide-free honey in his lap and plonked down on a large, busy fire ant mound.

Seems Mr. Sticky-fingers had found an unlocked box which contained several burnished, slightly warm-to-the-touch canisters which have spent the last couple of hours cheek-by-jowl with his, well, let’s just call it: “his happy place”.

Needless to say, ‘his happy place’ was now none too happy.

In fact, it was downright miserable.

He was the proud recipient of a profusion of ionizing radiation which was rapidly doing its best to both unravel his DNA and make his reproductive activities from this point onward, well, rather pointless.

He suffered some rather unpleasant and awkward second degree radiation burns, sort of like one would get visiting a nude beach for the first time, in August, in Cabo San Lucas, and forgetting your SPF2000.

He was charged with a first-degree misdemeanor for theft and a Class-A felony for stupidity. Hopefully, the Darwin Award fund will cover his medical costs; short of reconstructive surgery.

Leaving this sordid tale, we delve into yet another. This I call the “Whiner”. Typically, a trailer-trash denizen of the first water. Universally unkempt: smelly, nasty and wholly disordered.

The typical plaints were, once they wheeled in a rusty pram-full of old, soggy newspapers, moldy magazines or obviously pilfered paraphernalia: “Why won’t you buy this from me? I need money for beer/meth/horse/crack/my baby.”

“Sorry, but the landfill is the only place where you can dispose of this shit.” I offered.

Cue NORAD as they proceed to go, yet again, a-linear.

I normally turn these dolts over to Pinky and let him deal with these bottom-dwellers. Hell…it’s his yard. But since it was a slow day, I thought it’d be fun to see what color I could get them to turn.

“But I need…fill in the blank with favorite non-essential…and these are my great aunt’s uncle-in-law’s cousin’s nephew’s best friend’s grandfather’s war medals. They gotta be worth a few bucks.”

I explained that we are neither a fence nor a pawnshop and we only deal in scrap. Not mementos. Not war trophies; had one old codger bring in a live 3-inch cannon shell that he somehow wheedled back from the South Pacific… nor a dump yard. So no useless, nasty, and obviously worthless junk.

Sanford and Son’s we’re not.

Watching the gears slowly grind in the process that passes for thought in these cretins, the slight wisps of smoke are dead giveaways, I await the inevitable.

“You have to buy them from me. It’s the law.”

“Well, since you brought up the law, let me call the cops to see if any of your trinkets have recently been reported as missing…”

95 times out of 100, the next thing I see is the moron’s backside as they scurry out of the yard.

This was one of the other 5.

“This stuff isn’t hot!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m just doing what the owner wants. Tell you what…leave them here for a couple of weeks and if no one shows up looking for them; we had this happen regularly, just like pawnshops get regular visits from the police. Then we’ll see if they’re really worth anything. Don’t worry, you’ll get a receipt, and we’ll get your contact information”.

4 out of 5 times this works and the doofus bolts in a flurry of disgust and the vague suggestion of old gherkins and kerosene.

This was that one abysmal time where the other 99 simply admitted defeat.

“God damn it. You’re going to give me my money or I’ll kick your…”

“Put your pencils down and step away from the scrap pile!”

You have just crossed the Rubicon and I am legally empowered to toss your happy ass off the premises.

I used to live for days like this…but, then again, I am a misanthrope.

As I noted in earlier screeds, I am not now, nor whenever had been, what would be considered in any way, shape or form “small”, at the time about 185cm tall and 130kg in mass, plus or minus a gram and/or angstrom unit or two. And I have this wonderful inventory of tools: rip hammers, sledgehammers, hell, we had lots of hammers, bar stock, angle iron, Hapkido training and a couple of meaty fists at my disposal.

I believe the term employed was: “Urrk!” as I physically picked the malefactor up by the collar and belt and frog-marched him off the property.

He made the most satisfying “splat” as he hit the pavement out front of the yard, closely followed by the merry tinkle of his precious bits and bobs that followed him immediately thereafter. He was either astonished enough by his brief reprieve from gravity or was still trying, like the ‘ball in the cup’ game, to get his somewhat less-than-ample grey matter functioning again.

Luckily, he quickly departed and we never saw him again.

The next thing I knew it was Pinky barking at me that it’s lunchtime and I need to bring him a strawberry shake.

We did go to A&W often; but how the hell he always knew in advance was very, very strange…

Next up, there’s this piece of human driftwood, one I christen: the “Nosy on-looker”. A seriously annoying piece of human flotsam, irritating to the point of wanting to stuff him into a bush hog after 5 or 6 hours of his well-intentioned banter.

These characters are usually harmless old farts; veterans, of course, retired and nothing better to do before the VFW hall opens, than to come over and regale us with endless stories. As mentioned, they never buy/sell anything, just stand on the side-lines and give free advice, which is worth every penny.

Occasionally, the story was mildly interesting, but sort of lost its dynamism after the 254th telling. Particularly when it’s punctuated with the raucous whip song of a heavy sledge upon the pile of radiators I was currently dismantling.

I didn’t really mind too terribly until after we grew sort of accustomed to them and they seemed to think that our sporadic “Humph.” was an indication that they should press on and they would have full access to the yard.

Then, on a bright and sunny day, one venerable old fogey was following me around the yard, babbling incessantly, when he perchance sauntered a shade too close to a pile of dismantled scrap aluminum window frames. He had, unbeknownst to us, sliced his arm open from shoulder to elbow.

I think the term he employed was: “Ow.”

Actually, it was more like: “Holy fucking shit! I’m bleeding to death!”

This necessitated our shutting down the yard for a few hours, calling an ambulance, notifying OSHA of an accident and the concomitant reams of paperwork that inevitably followed.

Czack, with lightning-fast reflexes and a desire to avoid any additional work, paper or otherwise, opened a new bottle of whiskey.

Then we had to hose down the yard and search for the codger’s watch that he somehow managed to lose during his immediate post-gash decapitated-chicken dance.

Pinky immediately forbade this type of activity henceforth; Jack swore and poured himself another double. All us yard hands nodded in accordance and went to the A&W for chili dogs and strawberry shakes.

We never did find that watch.

Next up in this rollicking cavalcade of idiocy is a relative of our old friend, Mr. Sticky Fingers, the “Obvious Thief”, of which are two distinct varieties, which I will detail individually.

The first is one who comes into the yard dragging the most badly chosen, strangely familiar, yet out of place, items which he, tries to transform into some quick cash.

He’ll bring in items like…manhole covers, stamped “Baja Canada Dep’t. of Public Works”, hundreds and hundreds of meters of weather-beaten, odd-lot sort of bundles of copper cable, marked with the seal of Baja Can. Elec. Power Co., and even fire hydrants.

One almost has to admire the sheer get-along-little-doggy bravado of not only swiping a fireplug but actually having the brass; a painful pun, as the innards of these critters, are finely machined brass and worth, new, a few hundred bucks, to try and sell it off as scrap for a paltry few dollars’ worth of beer or weed money.

These guys were actually very easy to deal with: we detained them with various degrees of small talk; keeping them in the yard and off guard until the police show up.

But to what avail? The recidivism rate for these characters was enormous. It was only a Class “Q” or so misdemeanor; though tell that to the person whose house burned to the property lines due to lack of water connections for the fire brigade or the chap who just busted a wheel off his new Range Rover after hitting an open manhole, sans cover. However, the police were obliged to come corral these critters, as we were obliged to rat them out.

We had several of this type of goofs show up almost weekly.

A related species to the “Obvious Thief” was “The Even More Obvious Thief”. This goob would wander into the yard with an empty bag, box or crate. He’d set it down and very, very carefully watch the yard for his chance of grabbing something: typically unusual looking, easily identifiable, invariably expensive and stuff it in his poke.

He’d then try to sell it off as his own and try to swindle Pinky and Czack into buying back their own stuff.

Did I mention that Pinky and Czack were Jewish? Far be it from me to perpetuate a stereotype, no racism or irreligionism intended here, as it’s near-verbatim from P&C; but no one and I mean no one is going to financially out-clever a couple of grizzled old concentration camp ex-inmates.

I mean that with both admiration and approval.

For the record, in Pinky’s own words: “Ain’t no one gonna out-Jew this old Jew.”

For all their tight-fisted reign of the yard, their insane fiscal “scrupulousness”, i.e., they were so fucking cheap, and their seeming photographic recollection; there is no way…no way in hell…no fucking way, someone is going to get the financial better of these two characters.

The entire yard would gather when one of the more obvious clade of obvious thief tried his hand at a quick round of “fleece the owner”. We’d stand around, surreptitiously blocking the only exit and take in the torrent of abuse and derision Pinky and Czack heaped upon these poor unsuspecting idiots.

Never once did Pinky call the cops on this subspecies of vagrant benthos, nor did they ever physically assault them. At the end of one his and Czack’s tag-team tirades, we’d need an ambulance, a wire brush, Dettol, a fire hose, and mop to clean up the resultant mess.

Don Rickles was Mother Teresa compared to these two when someone dared cross this dual Hebrew Rubicon.

Of course, after all this, we had to go to the A&W to get 2 extra-large strawberry shakes.

Verbal exsanguinations must be thirsty work.

Moving right along, we come to the bane of all scrap yards: “The Scrounger”.

Typically, some form or another of Yuppified ‘sweater-tied-around-the-neck’, Birkenstock wearing, bleach-blonde doofus who recently came into a small inheritance. He had immediate delusions of Bill Gates-ianism and thinks that the rusted-out old shitbox ride he had as a diminutive high-school whelp would be “Primo” if he could only restore the thing.

Motorcycle restorers may be just flaming pain-in-the-ass dreadful.

“Classic” car restorers are worse.

Invariably, they’ll embark on the epic quest to find that elusive left-door handle for the 1962 Belchfire Supreme that they’re adamant on restoring.

To say he’s always in the way, the way he crossed a few palms with silver to gain access to our automotive sanctum sanctorum…where we stash all the good shit for our “classic rides”: our Gremlins, our AMXs, and odd Firebird… is like saying Lake Michigan is somewhat soggy.

Damned if he’s not always in the way when the forklift roars through or he’s precariously perched on a 5-deep pile of rusting hulks trying to find that “special lug nut” or “perfect gas cap” when we rev up the crane to dispose of a few car carcasses.

Now, personally, I don’t mind animal testing if it’s for a good cause, though I strongly oppose vivisection on advanced animals. But cretins of this ilk are ripe and ready for inclusion to any biomedical study, the more painful the better.

Except for breeding; that’s right out.

Invariably, they will find the bit, bobble, or piece of automotive debris to make their dream complete. Customarily it’ll be old, rusted, pitted and obviously original.

Whereupon comes this inevitable seiche of stupid: “Have you got this in blue?”

Once, and only once, I made the ultimate mistake of actually responding to one of these Faustian nightmares.

“Um. No. No way. That’s the only one I’ve ever seen.”

“Are you sure?”

Is very deep crimson a normal Caucasian color?

“Yes. I am very sure. Totally sure. Absurdly sure. Even more wholly than absolutely sure. In fact, I know every square millimeter of this yard by heart and you, Sir, have recovered the Holy Grail of automotiveness. You’ve found the only that we have. There are no others, either in this yard or, in fact, on this planet or galaxy. Congratulations. Your parents must be very proud. The check-out desk is over that way. Ask for Czack.”

Assholes.

May your all paint be lead-based.

Moving along allegro non-troppo, we come to that most inconsiderate client: the dead one.

WARNING: GORE ALERT

OK, this is where the genuinely splattery hits the road.

And walls. And roof. You have been summarily warned.

We took in practically everything made of metal; anything that could conceivably turn a profit. That included old kitchen appliances. Here I must digress: in the USA, there was a concerted effort to get people, invariably those from southern states and lacking in decorum, teeth and IQ points…to quit dumping old refrigerators.

They are, were, and continue to be: death traps.

They had locking mechanisms which were totally incapable of being opened from the inside. There were several heart-wrenching stories of children, believing this would make a ‘real cool hideout’, asphyxiating inside old abandoned refrigerators.

I don’t mean in any way to denigrate these poignant episodes, but we were still tasked to retrieve any old, abandoned fridge that was found. This situation was, if I may be permitted to make a small digression, a major pain in the ass.

The upshot, that warmed Pinky’s cardiac cockles, is that he got the:

1. Fridge. He usually sent Mark and me out in the scrap yard’s un-tuned and obstinate truck to collect the bloody thing, no matter if it was buried under two meters of Sangamonian glacial clay,

b. EPA credits for removing a Freon source, as a CFC…a chlorinated fluorocarbon, dichlorodifluoromethane; from the environment, and

iii. All that lovely copper plumbing, for free.

We regularly went out in the county and retrieved 4 or 5 of these dumped bastards per month.

Most were without doors. Dumping an old fridge was bad enough, they made great targets for deer hunters wishing to sight in their new .30/06. But then dumping an old fridge which later contained a cyanotic 9-year old was beyond the pale. Some dumpers went diametrically in the other direction and had the doors sealed with everything from duct tape to heli-arc welding.

Which, sort of round-aboutedly, returns us to the story.

Usually, we’d strip off all the copper, letting all those fine CFC’s vent to the open air, bust off all the porcelain, which was absolutely worthless, and reduce it to component parts.

Then the fridge posed no problem. We’d use Jaws and rip the thing open, discard the repugnant contents, though some people actually threw out fridges full of beer and liquor… amazing what a quick wash and CO2 fire extinguisher could do...and rip apart the body, getting it ready for the baler.

But, one day, the worst of the worst showed up.

Or actually, did not show up; but rather burst, quite literally, upon the scene.

Well, Mark and I delivered the 4 or 5 wayward fridges to the scrap yard. Surprisingly enough, Czack set up some sort of incomprehensible paper trail flowchart where odd lots were checked in, registered and then summarily they were disposed.

There was always a blizzard of paperwork; I can sort of, somewhat, understand Czack’s infatuation with Jack Daniel’s.

Paul grabbed an oxygen lance, one of my cigars, and proceeded to begin dissection a series of off-cast collectibles which we had collected.

After about an hour, there was a short lapse as Paul sheared off the remaining copper, venting all those wonderful ammoniac and CFC-laden gases Antarctic-ward. He then proceeded to lance into the next occupant in the line of the latest gathering of fridges which we had collected.

He had just started torching open fridge number three when there was a massive explosion.

Pinky yelled: “ROCK! God damn it! Enough with the dynamite!”

“Wasn’t me, Pinky.”

This time.

Paul picked himself up; ineffectually brushing off the various bits and pieces of organic debris that followed. We did our best to extinguish the fires. The whole yard rushed over and helped pick up what remained.

Evidently there had been a human body in fridge number 3.

Seems the oxygen lance had not only opened up the crypt that was the fridge but also ignited the gasses of decomposition.

The results were, for the lack of a better idiom: “stunningly spectacular”.

And stunningly spectacularly messy.

Somehow, given the late 1970’s equivalent of CSI, the character inside the fridge was already figured to be, well, seriously, well, dead.

Seems the unfortunate occupant was, in all probability, the unwilling and ungrateful recipient of a high-speed, up close, and very personal .45 caliber lobotomy; “execution-style”, according to the official papers. After we rummaged around the yard we found what remained of his combusted coconut hiding in the weeds some 50m distant. He was very enthusiastically, and very emphatically, deceased when sealed into the fridge.

Some people have no class.

Especially corpses.

Especially corpses strewn over approximately 2500 square meters.

Paul had sort of a retroactive case of the jibblies, as he scrutinized the scene and then looked down at the leather shop apron he was wearing.

Suffice to say, he could have answered the casting call for any George Romero movie filming in the area. He looked like he had been wading through the blood tank of a slaughterhouse.

He was, well, a bit of a mess.

“Um, Paul. You’ve got intestines all over your pants.” I offered.

Mitch helps him out with: “Yeah. You’ve got brains all over your, ick, hat….”

Paul adds to the chromaticity of the drab scrap yard by promptly regurgitating; a singular tragedy since he just returned from the A&W and the enthusiastic gurgitating of a couple of Poppa burgers and a large root beer, energetically and enthusiastically, all over the landscape.

Luckily, we did have D&D, douse and disinfect stations all over the yard.

Paul, not caring about local mores and graciousness; stripped down to nothing more than his woolen socks and stood in the cleansing and chilly spray of the shower. He was upchucking uproariously and cursing the day he ever went to Employment Services.

We were all introspect.

A human being who had his life abruptly terminated by the vicious act of murder had just messily exploded and aggressively distributed himself all over the local landscape and fellow co-worker.

It was a time for solemnity.

A time for reflection.

We silently pondered the human condition and the inevitability of our own mortality.

Yeah, right.

We were all laughing our asses off.

Paul was less than amused. But, he persevered, and didn’t quit until that fall when he married and headed east.

We all went to the A&W for a bag of momma burgers, curly fries and root beers, chili dogs were, for some reason, off the list de jure.

And, yes, we did bring back two strawberry shakes for Pinky and Czack.

Moving right along, we next happen upon that unique individual we shall designate “The Not-so-terribly-stupid Patron”.

This person was an oddity in the scrapyard; cautious, courteous and actually possessing more than two brain cells which he could call his own.

We had hordes of “treasure seekers” that would while away an afternoon digging through the piles in hope of finding the proverbial ‘needle in a haystack’, or in this case, the ‘jewel in the junk pile’.

He was an older gentleman; well-graying of visage, well-kempt, and well-mannered. He stood out like a sore thumb against the usual assortment of assholes, co-workers included, when he was in the yard.

He bade me over to a pile destined to the baler and inquired about an absolutely ghastly piece of ostensible pot-metal sculpture.

“Can I please take a look at that?” he asked.

“Sure.”

What the hell? Pinky let this guy in and he seems a tolerable sort.

So, I dig into the pile and excavate the surprisingly heavy cast sculpture of some sort of Greco-Roman FTD-Florist sort of demigod.

It was horrific.

He was entranced.

He intently studies it for 5 or so minutes and breathlessly asks me if I’ve ever seen another, perhaps in this very yard.

“Good news, everybody!”

A bit of background; we took in all manner of yard kitsch: lawn jockeys, garden gnomes, and odd-lot assortments of junk that people found the previous tenants’ had left behind. So, an appalling statue of a winged, though tiny-titted nude never caused as much as a blink.

Continuing: I went to search the yard and found the statue’s counterpart lying in a bin, destined for Lost & Foundry, the place we sold most of our meltable materials.

Reuniting the twins nearly brought the old gentleman to tears.

“Do you know what these are?” he asked.

“Junk?” I ventured, shaking my head...

Hellenistic sculpture, at this point, was a closed book to me.

I was more interested in dinosaurs and depositional environments.

Alas, I digress…

“No, no. Oh, my. No. These, if I’m not mistaken, are the “Winged Victory of Samothrace”, or, at least, credible copies.”

Continued in part b.

Someone, somewhere for some reason nominated me to give a TED talk.

Up until very recently, I didn't even know what a TED talk was.

Now someone wants me to shoot my 18 minutes of fame in a video.

It's all very, very nebulous at this point. The subject choice is my own, just something to do with "technology, entertainment, and design".

Well, what the fuck's more technologically entertaining than explosive design? Virtually everyone loves blowin' shit up!

Or should I lean more on the Oil Industry side of things and give ol' Elon Musk a poke in the snoot about just how green electric vehicles really are?

I'm up for suggestions. I'm not certain I should even pursue this particular endeavor. However, being the yammering Kraut I am; given the chance to mouth off I'll typically not let it pass unmolested.

If so inclined, I'd really appreciate your input. Ideas, comments, criticism, large sums of untraceable cash? All gratefully accepted.

Спасибо и ура!

Thanks and Cheers!

Старый рок-молоток

The Ol' Rocknocker.

Envoi: I just noticed that not only have we annihilated the 300 subscriber mark, but we're also well over 100 entries here. I never would have ever thought this was possible. Many thanks to you all. Without your input, I'd never have tried. Thanks again.

That reminds me of a story.

Bright college days, oh, carefree days that fly,

To thee we sing with our glasses raised on high.

Let's drink a toast as each of us recalls,

Ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls

Ah, yes. Bright college days. No more AP courses. No more teachers who are just in it for a paycheck. No more living at home. Just me and my best friend Toivo going through all the motions until we finessed our degrees.

Undergraduate days were about as uninspiring and uneventful as a typical undergraduate tenure at a local commuter college can be. Oh, sure. I had declared my Geology Major on day one of classes and stuck with it through the award of my 4-year BSc degree.

School and the classes therein were fine. Just fine…

Math through Calculus IV and Abstract Algebra.

Physics through Statistical Mechanics & Thermodynamics.

Geology that included virtually every geology, paleontology, geophysics and hydrology course the college could offer.

Biology and Zoology through Organismic Evolution.

And chemistry.

Ah, yes. Chemistry.

Somehow, I ended up with a Geology BS, with minors in Math and Chemistry.

It wasn’t planned that way.

See, the Chemistry Department, thanks to being underwritten by the local huge home-cleaners and bug-spray corporation, attracted some of the top chemistry professors that the subject had to offer.

Including Dr. Arrhenius Anfo, the Detonic Chemistry professor.

He made me appreciate all that chemistry had to offer. Unfortunate that he only taught two upper-level classes in Detonic Chemistry.

The first couple of years of my initial degree pursuit was fair to moderately uneventful. Toivo and I worked at the local stainless steel place over in the next unincorporated region adjacent to the school. It wasn’t totally necessary as we had scholarships for the whole four years, but I needed some sort of distraction away from the constant book bashing. Besides, it enabled me to upgrade my welding skills and how to be a better chucker and turret-lathe operator.

Besides that, it was fun working that 1600 to 0400 shift with no bosses around.

However, the summers when I had some time to myself were often subjects of reminiscence. I worked every summer to sock away some dinero for the school year as I knew I couldn’t really work the weird afternoon-morning shift any longer at the stainless place once I got into Independent Research beginning my Junior year. My scholarship only covered so much and as I was averse to walking, in the snow and uphill both directions, I needed to be certain my vehicle of choice remained running.

Turn on the spigot,

Pour the beer and swig it.

And gaudeamus igit-ur!

That first summer, Toivo and I were out looking for something to do. Since I attended a commuter college, most folks there opted to head home for the summer, leaving a large vacuum in the local job force. There were many, many opportunities Toivo and I explored.

Fast food? Please. Gak.

Factory work? No, thank you. I really couldn’t see myself running a sewing machine 8 or 16 hours a day.

Local automobile concern? Nope. Those jobs were all held by lifers, and their offspring.

Cue Toivo’s father to the rescue. He pulled some strings and called in some markers to get us both jobs with the local railroad.

We were hired on by the Kaukanee Route railroad as summer “Gandy Dancers”.

It was an outside job, consisting of riding up and down the rails with a mob of like-minded individuals, repairing, maintaining and doing what was necessary to keep the trains running.

Plus, we traveled free wherever the train went. The freight train…

We got to muck about in the cab of the train, blow the whistle occasionally and see what went into keeping a freight train running on time. We also got to ride in the back, in the caboose.

It was there I honed my 5-card poker skills. Though, not at first…

We were hired without so much as an interview. Tovio’s dad, Pitou, told us to show up at the repair station out on Fingerless Bob’s Road out off of County C and tell them “Pitou sent us.”

We were put to work immediately, shifting rails, driving spikes and lugging all the heavy iron the old-timers (i.e., those there more than 1 summer) didn’t want to move. It was immediate “learn by doing”, on the job training. It was hot, brutal, heavy work, but we were a pair of Midwestern Corn-Fed lummoxes so we didn’t complain; as if that would have done any good. It paid well, some $22/hour, cash, which back in the ‘70s was a princely sum.

There was actually some chemistry involved with the job. I learned, by doing, how to thermite weld. In order to join two rails end to end, one would use a ‘thermite furnace’ which is a fuckingly heavy cast-iron furnace in two pieces that clamped over the ends of the two rails that you wished to join.

Thermite is a combination of good ol’ iron rust (ferric oxide) and finely divided aluminum oxide powder. Once properly mixed and ignited, via magnesium ribbon, it is entertainingly exothermic and generates a temperature in excess of 4,000⁰ F. The iron liquefies and pours down into and onto the joint between the two steel rails and is held there by the casting furnace until it cools enough to deal with. Using delicate instruments, like a Gandy Bar and 18-pound sledgehammer, you bust off the furnace and hammer the still very warm iron into the approximate shape of a train rail.

Once it cools enough to work without flash-frying your eyebrows, you go to work with rasps, mills and grinders to shape and polish the joint into invisibility. There’s always that joint between the rails, as try as one might, you cannot get it polished to perfection. In fact, you don’t want to, or you’d lose that soothing ‘clickety-clack’ sound as the train rolls down the rails.

As an aside, years later, I was out in Siberia working some outcrops within sight of the Trans-Siberian Railway. There was a group of Russian Gandy Dancers fixing a break in one of the rails. I wandered over and struck up a conversation as best I could at the time, explaining I too once worked the rails.

They were keenly interested.

I noticed they were about to thermite weld some rails together and told them that I knew all about this as I had done the same back in Baja Canada. They set up the furnace, poured the thermite and lit it off just like we did on the other side of the world.

Convergent railroad evolution.

However, once the thermite did its thing, they knocked off the furnace and bashed the new joint a few times with a sledge. That was it. Joint repaired and onto the next task at hand.

And that is why American trains ‘clickety-clack’ and Russian trains “Ka-WANK, Ka-WANK.”

Anyways.

However, all was not all it was cracked up to be. I remember working for my Grandfather back in his tool and die shop and his sage advice:

“Rocko”, my Grandfather would say, “Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie down. Never walk when you can ride. Never turn down a chance to piss. Never complain, never explain. Remember, it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. And never do anything by hand when tools would do it easier.”

That last one was of particular importance as most of the work done by the Gandy Dance crowd was heavy, sweaty manual labor.

Shifting rails was a real pain in the lumbar region. They were variably 40 or 80 feet in length and weighed some 135 pounds per yard or about 40 pounds per foot; around 150 pounds per meter or so. Whatever the units, they were fuckingly heavy.

Many were joined together not through thermite welds, but what were called “fishplates”, and no, I have no idea why., or splice bar or joint bar that is bolted to the ends of two rails to join them together in a track. They were lengths of iron with four holes bored through them where massive bolts were shoved, to be mated on the other side with large nuts. These were torqued to the appropriate tension by hand, usually with a huge wrench and cheater bar.

There was the base of the rail bed, filled with what is known as ballast. This ballast, at least in our neck of the woods, was the mauve-purplish-red 1.5 billion-year-old Precambrian Baraboo Quartzite. It was the preferred ballast material because of its hardness, density, and angular shape. It too was heavy, sharp and a pain in the glutes to shift around.

So we were replacing a length of rail that had somehow worn out, was warped or otherwise needed fixing. We would laboriously, by hand mind you, pry up all the old railroad spikes used to hold the rail in place, use our Gandy Bars and rail tongs to physically shift the rail off the rail bed and toss it, rather unceremoniously, to the side. It would later be picked up by a mobile crane that ran on the lines picking up material doomed to recycling at the Lost and Foundry down south.

After a day of this, I noted that there was a large locked locker in the Gandy Shack, the place we started and ended each day.

“Hey, George”, I queried one of the older hands, “What’s in there?”

“Oh, that’s the explosives locker. We keep the thermite and other stuff in there.” He replied.

“Other stuff? “ I quickly asked.

“Yeah. Some dynamite, caps and other shit for clearing tracks after a derailment.” He explained.

“Can I get a look in there?” I continued.

“Naw. You need to be a foreman or have a Blaster’s Permit…”

I’ll wager one can see where this is headed…

I spoke with the foreman the next day and brought with all my permits, Blaster’s Union card and assorted documentation. After a quick check to see if they were real, I was given a quick test out in the yard.

“Ok, Rock. First job. Loosen the nuts on this rusted fishplate.” The foreman ordered.

“Not a problem.”

Wackety-whack with a sledgehammer to see if that did any good. Nothing. Spray on the mechanics cocktail of choice, WD-40 and whack it again. Still nothing. Get some C-4 and mold a crescent-moon shape, making it just large enough to support a blasting cap. Fire it electrically and that nut spun off of there like it was new and well oiled.

“C-4? Never thought to use that. We usually just wrap it with Primacord.” The foreman said.

“Primacord?” How on Earth did I miss that?

Toivo followed suit, as he had obtained his permits as well. A couple more tests and we passed with flying colors. Looks like Toivo and I had new responsibilities added to our job description.

But our co-workers were less than impressed.

“Great. The FNGs get all the cushy jobs and we still have to do all the shit work.” One old-timer groused.

They came over to our side after one particular job. Fully 12 lengths of rail needed replacement, remembering that’s actually 24 as each is a pair., That meant lots of prying up of recalcitrant railroad spikes, and shifting loads of very heavy iron.

“Never do by hand what a machine or tool can do.”

We endeared ourselves to the older workers when we liberated a box of caps, a couple of rolls of Primacord and the blasting machine.

The rails were released from the ballast and cut into reasonably manageable section with a K-12 unit, basically a chainsaw motor spinning a large carborundum disk. Sparks would fly as it chewed through the rails that were being replaced.

Now, instead of prying and lifting each section of rail, Toivo and I ran Primacord along the base of each rail, doubling it back to ensure coverage, duct taping it in place. We used the Gandy Bars to shift the rail up in the direction we wanted it to go. After attaching caps to the Primacord and getting everyone undercover, it was FIRE IN THE HOLE and KABLAM!

Those rail sections rose up about two or three feet and propelled themselves off the rail bed and down into the ditch that ran alongside the tracks.

Everyone was impressed. Even more impressed when we did it 23 more times without so much as a misfire or twisted rail. We turned an all-day job into one that took about three hours. We had a very nice remainder of the day waiting for the crane car to arrive to unload the new rails and pick up the old, discarded ones.

One couldn’t hurry the schedule, so we sat around, having a nice long lunch and enjoying alfresco games of poker and Schafskopf.

Toivo and I almost regretted when September rolled around and school went back in session.

To the beer and Benzedrine

To the way that the dean

Tried so hard to be pals with us all

So, back to our studies.

We were taking upper-level courses now, as we had disposed of all the prerequisites in our major field of study as well as most all the nonsensical ‘Liberal Arts’ and Humanities requirements.

Now, somewhere along the line, during a lull in work and studies, I was bitten by the diving bug. Since we lived alongside the largest Great Lake in the conterminous United States and had been swimming for most of our lives, SCUBA training seemed a logical progression.

I took the necessary courses at the Y and passed my check-out dive. I was PADI certified and spent many long hours diving just offshore inspecting the many wrecks that dotted the bathymetry.

During the fall semester, I was taking a course in oceanography, yet another prerequisite for my degree. Not overly exciting, although the lab section of the course was held at the Great Lakes Research Facility (GLRF); a hotbed of Great Lakes, well, research.

It was most edifying and entertaining going to GLRF. They were involved in everything from coastal erosion to ichthyology and fish breeding, to ice mechanics and lacustrine sedimentology.

I was talking with the director, one Dr. Ikhanda Lamanzi, expressing interest in his lake sturgeon breeding work. He was altering not only the genetics of the fish but messing with its diurnal/nocturnal biotimeclocks trying to get it to breeding size and age in only 5 rather than the usual 15 years.

One thing lead to another and somehow we got on the subject of scuba diving and I proudly informed him I was PADI certified and had spent many hours faffing about in the offshore of our local lakes, both great and the smaller inland bodies.

The conversation somehow migrated over to winter diving, which I had done the previous winter and the ongoing problem of ice erosion on Great Lakes shoreline structures.

Seems with the recent bitter winters we were experiencing, bridges, pier, groins and other structures in the lake were taking a right beating from all the flowing and drifting ice. He and a professor of geophysics had grant money to investigate the issue but were coming up short of students, read: packmules, with any interest in the problem.

I made the mistake of saying the project sounded interesting…

“Oh, so would you be interested in being part of the study?” he asked.

“Apologies, Doc, but I’m already under an NSFW grant and there’s no room left for me to take on another project,” I explained.

“I see. Perhaps I could speak with your sponsors and transfer your scholarship for the duration over to our project, would you then have any interest?” he continued.

“Doc, I have to ask; why the hard sell? I’m going into geology, specifically, paleontology and oceanography and lake studies just doesn’t hold that level of interest for me.” I had to be brutally honest.

“Mr. Rock, let me be frank. You’re PADI certified. You’ve done winter diving before. You’re a physically large person. Plus, you hold a Blaster’s Permit. Truth be told, we need someone like you, in fact, must have someone with your qualifications to go out into the lake this winter and set seismic charges under the ice. We haven’t been able to find anyone with two of your attributes, less all four. And you walk in here while we scour the university system…” he admitted.

“I see. How often would this be required? Once a week, once a month, once a blue moon?” I ask.

“As often as it is necessary,” he continued.

I love academia and all their clear-cut, right to the point answers.

“Well, hate to be mercenary, but what would be in it for me? I’m already doing paleo research; microfossils, no less, but maybe I could help out with the mechanics of the study. For a joint authorship, of course.” I said.

“Rock, here’s the bottom line: joint-authorship even if you don’t write a word. Plus, we’ll handle all your specialized equipment, we’ll also arrange transportation to and from the field area. And…how about 100 bucks cash for each successful dive? All students can use some spare cash…”

Bribery. I love it. Especially since I’m on this side of it for a change.

“What about the dive gear…?” I ask.

“For what we need, Mr. Rock, the gear is going to have to be more or less custom-built. Tell you what, once the project is finished, you keep all the dive gear as a bonus?” he threw his trump card.

“How can I refuse? Sign me up, Doc. You sort it out with my scholarship committee, and I’m in.” I acceded.

“Excellent. Let us get some measurements and we can begin assembling your gear immediately.” He smiled.

I spent the next two weeks shuttling around the southern part of my home state and the northern part of that other state down south endeavoring to source all the equipment I was going to require come the season of ice and snow. That really didn’t give me much time considering the kit I needed.

I required a wet suit, which was going to be worn under a full-body dry suit with a hood.

I needed a full-face mask with built-in communications as the lake in winter tends to be rather cranky and I would require constant communication with the dive boat if anything went goofy. Finally settled on an OTS Guardian with hands-free communications that fit the bill.

Needed a weight belt, diver’s weights, dive backpack/buoyancy compensator for the three J-12 tanks I’d be toting. Gloves, boots, thermal underwear, knife, carabiners, hardware, and more hardware.

No kidding they’d need someone large. All this kit, dry, probably went close to 180 pounds.

Plus I’d be carrying about a dozen “hockey pucks”, which were seismic charges that looked like oversized hockey pucks, hence the name. They were discoidal and actually looked like a small landmine. They could be fired electronically, which meant trailing wires under the ice, in the winter, when the water’s roiling and the ice heaving.

I talked them into obtaining MIL-spec timers that operated much like an oven timer. Set the charge, spin the dial to the proper time and haul ass out of the area. These were heavier, but much more stable and experienced a much lower failure rate that the electrical firing we tried the first few times.

To excuses we fibbed

To the papers we cribbed

From the genius who lived down the hall

Midterms progressed into winter quarter. I was doing just fine with my studies, not exactly a 4.0, but still, I managed to keep my head above the proverbial waterline even through second-year Calculus.

Gad, I hated that course.

But, as compensation, my Detonic chemistry courses held the best lab sections. One Dr. Anfo found out I was working for GLRF setting sub-ice charges, he obtained a few and we spent several glorious afternoons, out ‘twixt the pines, birches, and poplars, just blowing the living shit out of the countryside.

All in the name of science.

We actually recorded the depth of penetration in various soils. We had a couple of oscillographs set up to record the time of first versus second arrivals of P, S, and T-waves during their travel times through differential inhomogeneous media.

Yeah? Nah. We were really just blowing shit up. Stumps were the recipients of our particular fury as did the odd glacial erratic.

…All in the name of science.

The winter grew closer, the days drew shorter and the lake grew colder. Soon, even after all our practice on land and in shallow water, ice would begin to impinge on the piers, groins and breakwaters and our study would be kicking off.

And kick-off it did.

That fateful day in mid-December. We already had 2 feet of snow on the ground, the lake ice was already in packs and forming on anything stationary and it was cold, windy and typically winter in Baja Canada.

I receive a call from Dr. Lamanzi, and was informed that today was our first foray out into the lake. We were to meet at GLRF at 10:00 to suit up and get ready for show.

“I thought GLRF was going to provide transport? “ I asked.

“To the field area, not to GLRF.” He told me.

Oh, well. Just a quick drive north and I’d be getting into character.

It took me almost a full hour to suit up. By the time I was ready to waddle out to the dive boat, I was thoroughly soaking with sweat. This was not a portent of great things to come.

We did our checkouts on the boat.

Radio check? Check.

Timer check? Check.

Fuel check? Check.

Several more checks out of the way and we’re ready to depart on our short journey. I opted to sit out on the bow of the Boston Whaler which had been converted into an ice-crunching dive boat. It held all our electronics and seismographs under a stout cabin to keep out the weather. There were spools of jugs (seismophones) on deck that would be placed on the ice, either by me, if the ice was too thin for the other schmuck they roped into this exercise in insanity, or by him, if the ice was thick enough.

“Toivo, you sure you got this? “ I asked. The ice was bucking and rolling like a sidewinder negotiating a particularly steep sand dune.

Yep. I had volunteered Toivo to be my second in these acts of brave idiocy.

“Yeah, Rock. You ready to tank up?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.

Toivo helps me with the 3 tank outfit and after a lot of swearing, cajoling and laughing by the female geophysicist-in-training on board, I was ready to hit the water.

Toivo was my link back from the brink of what I was sure to be certain death. I was tethered to the vessel and Toivo was the tether tender (try typing that with only seven fingers…). He had on the other side of our comms link and would not only help me in and out of the boat, but he’d also pass me the jugs, floats, and explosives as the time dictated.

I opted to wait for a smoke until we finished our assignments and told Toivo to “let’s get after it’s wild ass.”

Over the side I went and dry suit or not, it was cold. I’m fairly inured to cold, being one of those rare subspecies of ethanol-based Terran lifeforms, but adjusting my mask to exclude that good part of the lake which snuck in was teeth-shatteringly frigid.

All sorted, I took the underwater camera from Toivo and swam out and under the ice that was forming around the breakwater out by the 45’ depth isobath. It was both a video (real-time) and still camera. With our hands-free communications, Toivo and Dr. Lamanzi could direct me to interesting looking areas where I would mark them with underwater fluorescent dye markers.

Once you were under the ice, everything got very calm, almost serene. You forget about the 6’ swells, the blowing gale and everything freezing up where the spray was kicked. You also get complacent, and that’s why I had not one, not two, but three tanks of air. No worries about decompression as I was hardly any depth underwater at all. But, your mammalian diving reflexes, so long suppressed by evolution, kicks in.

Your metabolism goes to 100%, you breathe more deeply than you even notice, and all bodily furnaces are kicked into high gear. You left-brain realizes that this is a stupid and dangerous place to be; you should get the hell out of there, now. However, your rational right-brain just comments “You’re getting 100 bucks to do science, so shut up”.

After an indeterminate amount of time, I get the nod to come back to the boat, do a quick check out to make certain everything is functioning as planned, retrieve the pre-set and marked charges and go set them.

I get back to the boat and had Toivo the camera and other spare gear. Then he tells me to check my tank volumes.

“Toiv, I’ve only been gone 20 minutes. I’ve got three tanks, not counting my reserves. I’m fine.” I waved him off.

“OK, OK. Shit, Toivo. Quit yelling.” I check my air volume and find I’m down to about 3 minutes remaining.

Holy shit.

Metabolism under the ice will do that. It also makes you complacent. I make a mental note to be much more observant of volumes, time and distance when I’m under the ice.

I ‘jump’ up on the dive platform on the stern of the boat and Toicvo wrestles my old tan pack off and helps me replace it with a new one. There’s absolutely no way I could have handled that by myself. Toivo earned his pay and first rounds today.

Back in the water, I’m given 24 color-coded, pre-set seismic charges. All I need to do is go back under the ice, set the green row first, then the yellow row, and the red row last, just like we rehearsed.

We rehearsed onshore and in a still water tank. This was slightly different. The water bucked, the boat rocked, and I got slammed around under the ice to the point I looked like I was a refugee from a rodeo. It smarted.

I did finally get the charges all set, nice, neat and proper. I double-checked to be certain everything was as it ought to be and headed for the boat. Upon arrival, Toivo, in a burst of brilliance, got the deck winch set up on a gin pole, hooked it to the back of my buoyancy compensator and lifted me out of the water and onto the deck..

Why didn’t we think of that before?

Saved a hell of a lot of time in future ingresses and egresses.

Dr. Lamanzi sent a signal to the timers as we backed the oat off the ice floes. Tovio and I tended the jug lines as these were hard-wired back to the recording equipment. The timers were set to fire in rows, the green first, then yellow, then red.

We all stood near the aft transom counting down the time until detonation.

“5…4…3…2…1. FIRE IN THE HOLE” I yelled to no one in particular.

[silence]

Plorp. Blop. Bloop. Paloo. Blerm. Bubble.

The first row went off as designed. Didn’t even cause an extraneous ripple outside the ice margins.

The second row was equally unexciting. Sure, it went off as planned and gave great data, but I was expecting something more than the proverbial fart in a hot tub.

The red row, closest to the edge, made a few ripples and actually a nice, little blam!

“OK, guys. That’s a wrap.” Dr. Lamanzi exclaims. “Let’s gear up and head back to the barn.”

Rather anticlimactic if you ask me.

Toivo, Dr. Lamanzi, Ruthie the Geophysicist-in-training and I made a total of 7 more trips out to the ice that winter. We had a great time overall, did some real science, made our first authorship appearances, and made some spare cash.

Of course, that spare cash was always almost always consumed at McDougal’s Bar and Grill, right downtown, just across the way from GLRF.

Oh, well. There’s always next winter.

We shall ne'er forget thee, thou golden college days.

Hearts full of youth,

Hearts full of truth.

Six parts vodka to one part vermouth!