We hiked that winter morning from the river to the rim, from sun-soaked beach through deep red mud to dry cold snow. From a grubby two weeks camping, past Europeans in city shoes, to the visitor center pub where Jim Croce played on the jukebox and ski jumpers launched on flat screens over the heads of Midwesterners sipping toddies. All of it, every detail, felt new and alive, nearly foreign, and snagged our attention like raingear on mesquite.

Re-entry is like the space between waking and rising, a dream-place, a passageway. People who travel overseas call it culture shock. People who work outdoors, as we used to do, camping for weeks at a time, know the familiar shock of sudsing shampoo under warm water — warm! — or easing a gas pedal up to sixty or marveling at the grocery produce section. There’s overwhelm in it, but there’s also magic: the sense of being remade.

Sometimes, of course, you’ve been made new so often it becomes blasé. You go into the woods, you come back out. Big whoop. But, this time, we’d been made really new. We’re backpackers, Laurie and I, skiers, sometimes bikers. We are not river runners. Especially not in February in the Grand Canyon. To be in your forties and cede control of nearly everything to someone else, even dear old friends, is unnerving.

We’d known our river-running friends many years earlier when we’d all toiled at a lodge on the North Rim doing lousy work for lousy pay in a gorgeous setting. We hadn’t seen them much in-between. But, as is so often the case, the kind of people they’d been was the kind of people they’d become: sun-weathered and silly, cautious and reliable, wild and gentle in equal parts.

“The Grand Canyon still has something to offer us,” the email invitation read.

So we headed off. Were we out of our element? Yes. Were we cold? Yes. Were we scared? Very. When we hit the rapids, and our boatman-friend said “hold on,” by god, I held. After two weeks, only half the river days the rest of the group would spend, I had new palm calluses. Then, in no time, the trip was done. We were back in the realm of the familiar: in well-worn boots, hiking with packs, preparing to re-enter.

I crave it. Who doesn’t? It’s like Joseph Campbell said: the call to adventure runs full circle to the triumphant return. Only this triumph comes with a heavy dose of humility. And aloneness. No one, it seems, can understand what you’ve been through, what you’ve learned, lessons so obvious as to seem mundane: how little we need for happiness, how much we have to be grateful for, the plain wonder of the world we live in and the deep responsibility we have for it. How can you explain that? You can’t.

Even as you try, as you leave the rim and drive to town, it’s slipping away like the effects of high-altitude training leeching off at sea level. You stop for groceries. You nudge the speedometer toward eighty. Pretty soon, you’re boarding a jet for home. An airplane! For this kind of shock, I’m not ashamed to admit, I require Xanax.

I’d just taken my middle seat and half a pill when I looked up at my seat mate. She was a talker. A giddy one, grinning wildly, eager, nearly desperate, to tell the story of her travels. I pocketed my headphones and tried not to sigh.

Turns out, she’d celebrated her 50th birthday with her first trip ever to the Grand Canyon. She’d planned the trip for months, but by the time she arrived in Arizona, yet another El Niño storm looked likely to keep her away. Then it happened: the snow cleared, her father took the wheel, and they showed up at the snowy edge.

“We could see the river,” she said.

I did not want to fess up. I didn’t want to one-up her for one thing, but also it suddenly seemed very private — my changed-ness, my quest — something I ought to hoard like Halloween candy or piety. But there was no way out of it now except to lie. So I came clean, and we swapped stories as we ascended. She’d seen a sunrise and a sunset, the same as me. She’d walked an icy trail gripping the handrail, the way I’d gripped webbing.

Now the plane banked, and there it was below us, the geography of our remaking, the Grand Canyon in its wholeness, end to end, as though you can digest it this way, in three minutes or six. You can’t, of course. We both knew that, my seatmate and I. You come, you stay, you arise made new. If you’re lucky, you can share it.

Ana Maria Spagna lives and writes in Stehekin, Washington. Her new book, “Potluck: Community on the Edge of Wilderness,” will be published in spring 2011.

Deep, Dark and Weird

As we find ourselves once again in the shortest and darkest days of the year, we turn inward to reflect on the cold and weird that resides within us all. We consider the ramifications of blue-ice impacts, anaerobic digesters and plunging into icy surf, and wait for longer, brighter days, which, sometimes, it seems, can’t come soon enough for some of us.

1) $31 million or so

Most mountain dwellers have had the experience of sitting on a parked plane (well, those who survive the TSA groping process) while it gets showered with deicing chemicals. I don’t know about you, but my first thought, after pondering a TSA legal smackdown, is about the plane staying in the air. Thought No. 3 is about salmon slugging down the glycol that was used to melt the ice. A few years back, the Portland International Airport installed a $31 million system to collect the runoff from its deicing program, only to learn that the stuff was still getting into the Columbia River and messing with the fish. The system is in its final phases of getting fixed, and experts predict those costs — a few million more dollars — may be absorbed, oddly enough, in airline fees.

2) Blue-ice impact

While we’re on the topic of airplanes, you probably need to know that there were 27 documented incidents of blue-ice impacts in the United States between 1979 and 2003. For those not in the know, a BII is a big ball of frozen crap and “disinfectant” that dislodges from airline toilets and plunges to the earth, sometimes at terminal velocity. It happens when planes have been in very cold places (like 36,000 feet), and then travel into a space that is warm enough to accidentally shake loose the ball of crap that has accumulated from tank leaks. A homeowner in Chino, CA, learned this the hard way when a BII messed up his house.

3) Cold house? Seek methane

Another thing you probably need to know is that the oft-maligned methane gas could change your world in a good and big way. Problem is, you will need the manure from 4-6 cows and your own anaerobic digester in order to heat your home and produce enough electricity for a year. If this won’t work, consider moving to Idaho, where methane-capturing plants are sprouting up at a rapid pace, and where crap, ostensibly, is king. As the nation’s third-leading milk producer and home to 550,000 cows, Idaho has several dairies already converting manure to energy. FYI, 6,000 cows can churn out enough waste to create about 1 million kilowatt hours a month. And if you don’t have cow manure, rotten garbage works nicely too. In Burley, ID, for example, there’s sufficient landfill gas to build a 400-acre methane production plant.

4) SAD in the winter?

If you’re prone to Seasonal Affective Disorder, a malady that links a dearth of sun exposure to

depression (and also sells a lot of expensive lights), you’re best to stay out of Oregon, where Astoria ranks as the place in the western U.S. (aside from Alaska with the fewest sunny days per year (a paltry 50). That’s followed by Olympia, Washington, at 52, and Seattle at 58. If you really want to get down and out in the wintertime, head up to Cold Bay, Alaska, which boasts a whopping 10 days of sunshine annually — in addition to the typical Alaskan shortage of daylight in the winter. On the upside, you won’t have to worry so much about wrinkles. (And there are only 76 people living in Cold Bay to see them anyway.)

5) Vostok on the Platte

Compared to Vostok, a place on the East Antarctic Polar Plateau that has a mean (very mean) annual temperature of minus-67 degrees Fahrenheit, and which has earned bragging rights as the coldest damned place on earth, Denver is a damned sauna. But according to the Current Results website, Denver ranks as the coldest large American city, right above Chicago. Never mind that there are lots of winter days that exceed 50 degrees in Denver; there are also roughly 156 days a year when the mercury plunges below 32. And because it has a recorded low of minus-30 degrees, that makes it the coldest American City. Chicago’s low is -27. FYI: We checked out Minneapolis, which has a recorded low of minus-34 degrees, but apparently it does not fit the category of a “large” American city.

6) Out in the cold

While it’s nearly impossible to get an accurate count on the numbers of people who lack a regular and adequate nighttime residence (one of a zillion definitions of homelessness), the American West has the highest number of people without homes. Nevada leads the pack at 49 homeless people per 10,000, followed by Oregon, 47; California, 44; Washington, 36; and Colorado, 29. A study by the National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty estimated between 2.3 and 3.5 million people experiencing homelessness, while a study by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development counted 671,888 on a given night. Los Angeles leads the nation at 68,608 counted individuals, while Las Vegas comes in fourth at 11,417, according to the National Alliance to End Homelessness. Denver, Phoenix and Seattle also made the top-ten list.

7) Plungers, all

The Plungapalooza is the largest polar bear plunge in the U.S., attracting more than 12,000 idiots into the Chesapeake Bay surf in late January. If you don’t want to make the trip but just have to rip off most of your clothes and drop into water the consistency of a frozen daiquiri, you’ll probably want to join the Libby, Montana, Polar Bear Club, which doesn’t just plunge once a year, but meets Sunday afternoons from October into April. Water temperatures drop into the mid to upper 30s, and about a half dozen folks are regulars. They claim that (aptly named) plunging assists blood circulation, the immune system and that all-important and sought-after vigor.

In Search of Powder: A Story of America’s Disappearing Ski Bum

In the 2002 book, “Downhill Slide: Why the Corporate Ski Industry Is Bad for Skiing, Ski Towns, and the Environment,” author Hal Clifford wrote (I’m paraphrasing here) that ski towns used to be cool because they attracted fringe elements like ski bums, hippies and artists, but then rich people found out about them, and of course, priced all the cool poor people out of these funky towns, and now they aren’t as cool (still paraphrasing). Eight years later, author Jeremy Evans has dug deeper into this issue — why ski bums can’t afford to be ski bums anymore, and thusly are dying out. If you want to lament the ski towns’ loss of character and characters, this book provides ample fodder: Evans is a former newspaper reporter and has stocked this book with interviews of ski bums past and present, facts and figures, research and personal experience. He lives in Lake Tahoe, where 70 percent of the houses on the south shore are second homes and are dark 50+ weeks a year, and the median price of a single-family residence went from $168,000 to $540,000 between 1998 and 2006 — and no one knocks on your door at Halloween anymore. You’ll read stories of the good old days of the ski bum, and the present day, which looks drastically different: ski town work forces are largely immigrants; lots of the workforce commutes from the next town over (“Aspen is alive and well … in Basalt”) and ski hills are owned by large corporations (“We’re a resort town, not a ski town”). Pro skiers and snowboarders are mega-celebrities with 6- to 7-figure incomes, and even ski porn is big business. A great read if you want to understand what’s changed in the past 50 years in the ski industry.

The Dark Side: Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the fixed heel

Maybe you know this joke: “How many tele skiers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Three. One to do it and two to stand at the bottom and say, ‘Nice turns, bro.’” This video, made a few years ago by someone named “AT Anonymous” and sent in to in 2003, has resurfaced because a guy named Tom Kracji saved it and uploaded it to YouTube last January. It’s brilliant, discussing the maker’s addiction to backcountry ski gear and asking the tough question: should he switch to an Alpine Touring set-up instead? He shares gems like “People say it has something to do with it being more graceful or soulful than regular skiing, and I kind of agree, don’t you? I mean, this is some graceful shit right here.” And “The backcountry is a place where there are no lifts, where you find a lot of telemark skiers.” Plenty of faceplants and deadpan humor make it worth your 11 minutes.

Fifty Classic Ski Descents of North America

Say you get five books in your library. I pick Hemingway’s “Moveable Feast,” “The Great Rock (and roll) Discography,” by Martin C. Strong, “The Lord of the Rings Trilogy” (counts as one, because that’s how Tolkien wrote it), Darwin’s “On The Origin of Species” and now this: “Fifty Classic Ski Descents of North America.” In a coffee-table offering that is both awe-inspiring and relevant, authors Chris Davenport, Art Burrows and Penn Newhard have created something credible, compelling and cinematic — name another recent print product that does that! With the help of accomplished ski mountaineers such as Lou Dawson, Andrew McLean, Lowell Skoog and Jimmy Chin, they chronicle North America’s biggest and most-famous ski mountaineering faces. Some, like New Hampshire’s Tuckerman’s Ravine, have seen millions of tracks. Others, such as the North Face of Mt. Robson in British Columbia, have been skied only once. All are given the same treatment with super-short, spot-on commentary and incredibly well-picked photography that shows the character of the skiers and especially the mountains and descents themselves. Davenport single-handedly brought the storyline back to American off-piste skiing when in one year over 2006 and 2007, he climbed and skied from the summit of all 54 of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks. Here, the cast of skiers happily expands, as does the number of gorgeous descents.

Letters #175

Duking your way to Mountain Country

M. John: Mountain Gazette is a fantastic publication and I always enjoy your column.
I am responding to your call for stories. “How I Came to be Living in Mountain Country and Things Not To Do.” (Smoke Signals, “Stories of Us,” MG  #169).

Here goes: Back in ’03, I was a commercial real estate broker in my hometown of Pittsburgh. Despite the economic aftermath of 9/11 and the bubble burst, I was having my best year. I was a garbage man of sorts. As the youngest broker (31) in the office, I took the deals the older guys wouldn’t touch. At that time, I capitalized on a lot of well-designed, yet hardly used, failed spaces. Basically, I sub-letted the funky, hardly used office space that a bunch of arrogant techno nerds left behind after their venture capital seed money well ran dry. I put in long hours and worked hard. I made some decent money, however I hated my life. I was blessed with a good job, a loving family, a cool loft apartment and a beautiful girlfriend (now my wife). I didn’t like my job, the corporate world and the endless schmoozing that accompanies the life of a salesman. I knew something was missing. I always had a desire to head west and live up in the mountains. My four years of college in Vermont was a tease.

My girlfriend worked for an advertising agency, and each year they held a huge Halloween party in their hip warehouse office space. That year, my girl went as ’80s Madonna and I went as a ’70s Elvis. Just before the party, we gobbled a certain type of outlawed toadstool. Her creative advertising co-workers had the space amazingly decorated for the party and the costumes were the best I have ever seen. Despite all of this, the party was tremendously lame. At one point, I was tipping back a cold Iron City beer with my cousin, Blake, when I spotted one of my girl’s coworkers getting a little over friendly with her. Now, I’m not a the jealous type, but this hand job was standing behind her with his arms wrapped around her and I thought I saw him kiss her on the cheek. She looked over at me and appeared unamused and slightly paranoid at what I would do. My conversation with Blake came to an abrupt halt and he must have spotted the daggers coming out of my eyes because he put his hand on my chest and said “C’mon, not in here. This is where she works.” I turned away and then looked back to see him planting another kiss on her cheek just as she was pulling herself away in disgust. I walked up to the guy and scooped him up off the ground by his collar. I growled: “Listen, motherfucker, you’re totally fuckin’ out of line!”

A man standing near me dressed as an airline pilot yelled to me “Take it easy, Mick, take it easy.” It was my girl’s boss. I put the hand job down and turned and fixated on the glowing red light of the exit sign. At least 150 at the party were staring at me and this weird scene. I felt as though the walls were closing in. I could hear my white rental leather boots clack on the hardwood floor as I race-walked to the exit door. The hand job was in hot pursuit behind me screaming at the top of his lungs “WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM!” I made it to the door and just as I had one foot out toward freedom, he grabbed my oversized white polyester ’70s collar and forcefully spun me around, ripping the collar completely off of the shirt. The moment I felt the initial tug, my fists instinctively clenched. It had been nine years since I fought in the Vermont Golden Gloves light-heavyweight State Championship, but that night proved I apparently still knew how to hurl a right hook. It helped that the hand job walked toward me as he angrily spun me around toward him. My fist caught him square on his angrily approaching chin, sending his feet airborne and completely laying him out. I stormed home and was unquestionably the most pissed-off tripping Elvis on the planet at that moment. My girl came to back to our apartment and hugged me. “He deserved it … he’s an asshole,” she said. “Let’s move to Colorado,” I replied.

Three months later, we were living in Avon in a cool apartment building called The Seasons. Our next-door neighbor was acclaimed Warren Miller ski star Chris Anthony. On New Year’s Day, I proposed to my girl at the top of the mountain at Beaver Creek. The Vail Valley is beautiful, but we didn’t dig the strip mall feel and Interstate 70 running right through everything. We needed an area with more character, so after six months, we moved to Summit County. Summit’s old buildings, great pubs (Cala Inn, Moose Jaw, The Historic Brown Hotel), Lake Dillon, four killer mountains (Keystone, A-Basin, Copper, & Breck) and abundant characters made us feel we were home. If there is anything better than tailgating at A-Basin’s “Beach” after a day of skiing, then please tell me.

We are back in the Steel City now. My girl is now my wife and we have a precious four-year-old daughter. Our hearts are still in the mountains and, one day, we will return.

Things not to do? At the age of 12, I went through a phase where I pissed outdoors on various stuff. One day I had the misfortune of “shakin’ the dew off my lilly” onto an electric fence. I’d advise not trying it. Felt like someone jamming a handful of sewing needles into your dickhole. Not fun …

Cheers, my High Country friends,

The Surly Mick

— — —/— — —/• — — •/• • •

Hi Editor: I picked up the fall 2010 Mountain Gazette somewhere in Boulder last month & finally got around to reading it. Good writing throughout! Keep up the good work.

However, you might try to keep the proofreader more sober during working hours. In my cursory read, and as a former Boy Scout, I think first word at top of page 5 should be “- -/..-/-/.-/-/../…”  not “–/.-/-/.-/–/../…”

Also, the dog photo contest announcement on page 7 should be for Feb 2011.

Stan Suski,

Santa Cruz, CA

A well-hyphened column

Dear Mr. Fayhee: Thank you for the well-told and entertaining story recounted in the recent Smoke Signals article in Mountain Gazette #174.  Your past works, including those reviewed on the website, show promising use of hyphenation.  The hyphen-laden piece in MG #174 definitively establishes you as a master of hyphenated usages and qualifies you for honorary membership in the American Hyphen Society.  Ill-informed persons have claimed that the American Hyphen Society is something of my own devising, however, that is not a fact-based assertion.  Although perhaps not  well-known, the American Hyphen Society is a community-based, not-for-profit, grass-roots consciousness-raising/education-research alliance that seeks to promote hyphen-oriented terminology for verb conservation, and further, to effectuate across-the-board self-empowerment of wide-ranging culture-, nationality-, ethnicity-, creed-, and gender-oriented identity groups by excising all multiculturally-less-than-sensitive terminology from the English language, and replacing it with counter-hegemonic, cruelty-, gender-, bias-, and, if necessary, content-free forms of self-expression. The society’s motto is “It became necessary to destroy the language in order to save it.”   Its headquarters are, more-or-less expectedly, in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and the society is an non-discriminating, equal-opportunity organization.  Thank you for your efforts in advancing hyphenation.  Your much-anticipated future contributions will certainly advance the mission of the society.

Greenlee Garrett,


Thumbs down on new format

Hi John, I just wanted to send you a quick note telling you that I’m not a fan of the new format. I often pick up the MG to read Smoke Signals and check out the photos, so I wouldn’t call myself an avid reader. Nevertheless, I have picked up every issue for the past couple years. Anyway, I just wanted to put in my two cents and tell you that I preferred the gloss pages and smaller size; it was just more comfortable to read. Love your column!


Benjamin Gordon

Denver, CO

More irreverence!

MJ: Back to the future. As a long-time reader, subscriber and collector (back to #8) of Mountain Gazette, the look, feel and content of #173 takes me back to the classic Gazette. From cover to the content, you are taking the magazine where it needs to go.  It contains a nice mix of established and developing authors, and a breadth of articles.

One suggestion, work on fine-tuning the content with an eye toward adding the irreverence that made the Gazette an icon in the past.

Nice job.

Bob Kohut

We are family

Hello John, I am really excited about the future of MG after reading your “Upwards” column this evening. It will be great to hold the larger format once again and experience some of the sections that have drifted from MG’s pages. We have become regular readers of your sister publication, Elevation Outdoors, and its track record of design, content and innovation lays out a great path for MG’s future.

All the best,

Rudy Lukez,

Highlands Ranch, Colorado

Well, you found us

Editor’s Note: Though this letter came to us out of the blue and seemingly not in reference to anything specifically published in MG, we thought we’d run it anyhow, as we like the sentiments expressed.

We tried so hard. We left our collective “real lives” behind us. Abandoned all need for properly manicured lawns, pristine streets and city-approved signage. We loaded up our packs with everything we would need: love, tolerance, respect … And we traveled. We crossed red muddy rivers, climbed great peaks and traversed seemingly endless plains. We tried out many different spots that at first looked nice, but later turned out to be nothing but the empty shell of capitalism gone amok. We tried all the Aspens, Tellurides and Vails that we could find. Invariably, we left them. Too clean, too expensive, too conservative, too much, much too much too much

We bypassed the covenants of CB South, skipped over the pretension of so many other mountain towns, until we carried our loads of love and happiness over the last pass, on the last dead-end road, to the last great Colorado ski town. A place where we discovered that, if we just accepted one another, we could find the comfort and contentment that had so long been absent. We had found it.

Unfortunately, you found it too. You also came, with your packs full of money, shiny leased cars, expensive furniture and disdain. Disdain for the common workers, who, you say, “can just live in Gunny.” Disdain for alternative views and tax income, “instead … (the) top priority … (has been) dispensaries.” Disdain for REAL LIFE. You must have seen our unkempt yards on a satellite feed, watching from some dark office somewhere. You must have taken notice of our used cars for sale and yards-sale signs taped to, GASP, stop signs. Surely you must have at least been aware of the prevailing culture when you moved here. We were. That’s why we are here.

Now, there blows an ill wind from the mountain tops. Mountains long ago sub-divided and sold to the highest bidder. Anger, avarice, vitriol, disrespect, all rushing down like an avalanche, crushing the spirit and life of our little ski town.

Who is left to run the beacons and shovels? Who will be willing to help dig and fight and scratch for the life we all journeyed so long and hard to find? Who will fight for just one more weird, wild, unkempt, yard-sale sign posting, used-car-selling breath?

We will. Camp Space Camp is even now rallying their forces. The Red Lady is spreading the love. Vinotokians are girding their armor. Ski bums are no doubt sharpening their skis. The RMBLers, the HCCAers, the FOSers, the FOLSers, the miners, the Red Ladies, all those people that live to love this place. Together, we will stand for all that is left!

Perhaps, if you are not finding the investment returns you were looking for, you should just cut your losses and try somewhere else. Move to a place where they will be happy to tell you how to maintain your lawn or where you can store your own belongings, on your own property. Find a place where all the citizens are so rich that they never need to hold a yard sale, or sell a car.

For-sale signs, garage sales, overgrown yards … these are pieces of real life. These are the hallmarks of a vibrant, healthy, caring community. Sometimes yard work can fall to the wayside when most waking hours are spent just trying to survive, and free time is better spent helping and enjoying the people and surroundings we’ve been fortunate enough to find. These are the things you see when people come together to help each other live better. This is the natural beauty that forms as a consequence of community. A patina, if you will. The fact that this patina, this community, this way of life exists is what makes us unique. Yes, these things do make us unique, different and charming.

So, thank you for joining us in our little version of utopia. Thank you for investing in jobs, construction and the local service market. We hope you will stay and live a long and happy life. Just, PLEASE, stop attempting to replace a real, good, positive community with another sad capitalist money-making machine. Please stop telling us that our way of life isn’t good enough, clean enough or marketable enough. We’ve worked so hard to make this place, this town, this LIFE, the way we need.  Relax, enjoy it while you’re here. We are a community, not an investment opportunity.


J.J. Reimer

Camp Space Camp

Compare and contrast

John: Earlier this fall, I walked down the drive along the ditch to fetch my mail. In my mailbox was Mountain Gazette along with Outside Magazine. (Outside seems to randomly show up every few months and perhaps the publisher is trying to build subscriptions with random deliveries.)

Both magazines happened to write about personal lists. At the same time that Outside had compiled a lifetime “Bucket” list for its readers, MG had some very personal letters from its readers listing what they had done in their own lives that they considered noteworthy. It was some sort of serendipity to be able to compare an artificial list prepared by editors with input from sponsors, advertisers and media consultants, with actual lists of actual activities prepared by the actual people who related their own personal experiences.

Some of the Outside suggestions were pedestrian: “Learn another constellation besides the Big Dipper,” which cannot ever compare with an actual personal experience that I read in Mountain Gazette. “Connected with lost ancestors in Italy to find the best hugs on the planet … and awesome homemade pasta, of course.” Reading the personal lists in MG was moving, especially when I took the time to think beyond the written words to the emotion and passion contained in some of the experiences. Which gets to my final point — no one else can write your list.

Best Regards,

Tom Noll,

SW Idaho

PS: From another place and time, I remember the 1970s Mountain Gazette. Some months ago, I stepped back into that time when I saw Mountain Gazette in a Boise taqueria — thank you.

Cartographic eye-opener

John: Call me crazy, but Tara Flanagan’s article, “Too Close Encounters” in MG #173 was an eye-opener. First, it reminded me of my interest in the supernatural. I’ve always been a BELIEVER, with a small b, in cryptozoological and ET stuff. While I don’t receive Contemporary Occult Devotee magazine, I am casually fascinated by the spectrum, and think of myself as an armchair Sasquatch expert. Maybe it’s because s/he’s part of the mystique of a land I’ve admired since childhood or perhaps, as Tara said, people need something to believe in, and I dropped religion a long time ago. I mean, at least the Patterson film exists for some feasible evidence (a man in an ape suit, can’t move like that!), where’s Jesus making fishes multiply on film?! In any event, regardless of the cause, my interest in Sasquatch even over-rode the social phobia I struggled with till my 20s.

Second year of undergrad, I had a public speaking class, which you can only imagine did to the bowels of a social phobe. But for one stretch, I rode the fine line of anxiety/excitement when I learned of the requirement for a persuasive speech. I would persuade my classmates Bigfoot existed! While my talk generated many skeptical inquiries by classroom Matlocks, most of which I thought I fielded well, nobody was satisfied with my answers about why a Bigfoot was never caught or found in cadaverous form. Typical answers from Bigfoot scholars like, “well, look at how vast the terrain is of the areas they are seen!” and “perhaps it is because they are emotionally intelligent and bury their dead” all of a sudden were lame answers to me too as I watched none of it convince my classmates one iota.

With the amount of sightings versus amount of evidence, save footprints (only some seeming believable), my classmate’s persistent skepticism on that one question left me at a loss for any other answer than to say I had none, thereby admitting defeat, which is kinda what happened anyhow. It meant that it was all just a matter of faith (haha) that I believed, like a right-wing Bible thumper saying “because it’s in the Bible” and no other argument in my support.

Enter Tara’s article and my wish for time travel. While it likely would have opened a completely different can of worms that my prefrontal cortex was just not prepared to manage anxiety-wise back then, I am investing at least two grains of salt into the theory that Sasquatches are of other dimensions. This comes as a result of uncanny timing wherein I was recently made to invest three grains of salt into the idea that other dimensions exist. This happened when I visited a psychic, and, being a rather pragmatic sort, was very careful to not release any personal information and thus assay her capabilities. During said session, psychic consistently informed me of things, to a “T”, without knowing anything more than my name and that I wanted to know about my career and love life. She described my ex-girlfriend in finest detail and even that I saw her the previous night to clear fouled air. Then, in a grand finale, upon the terminal card reading, the last card, placed in the center of the 15 laid out, was of a girl kissing a boy’s forehead. With chills, I explained that was a dream I had a couple weeks earlier in which I forgave my ex-lover. She said “It wasn’t a dream, it was just another dimension.” And I felt it!

With that, I wonder whether Bigfoot is elusive for reasons of dimension. For all the time I’ve spent in Washington, Oregon and Wyoming, I guess I should have spent less time seeking tracks, more on finding portals. Tell me if you have any leads, and if I find the portal, can I have the honors of penning the first MG article from another dimension?

Tony Smith,


MG readership demographics 101

Fayhee, You’ve went and done it now. You’ve finally got a publisher for your rag that seems to better understand the freaks, geeks and weirdoes who are actually reading the MG. Issue 173 is like free climbing 5.12, skiing the Sand Chutes off the Burn, having post-drinking, wee-hour sex in a rich neighbor’s hot tub (while they’re at home), driving 140 past a diner full of cops, finding a $100 dollar bill in a pair of new-to-you thrift store pants — in other words, epic!

I say this after picking up a copy and just thumbing thru it — I’ve not even read the damn thing, but I can already tell this issue is going to be good.

The sexy, thick, black and white cover makes me think of art ’zines. The wonderfully content-rich interior beckons me to waste an afternoon reading the oh-so-many words that thankfully now have graphics and photos to pull the reader along with the story. Wow, I never thought it would’ve happened. I’ll admit I’ve been worried about the MG — there have been times in the past when an issue looked more like a buddy who had taken to late-night powder skiing thru bar bathrooms: all skinny and covered in blemishes.

Looking at this issue, I see everything you told us in your column from #172 is true. It’s nice to know Ullr has folks looking out for his human scribes documenting the weird and wonderful in his realm.

Your timing for this seems absolutely perfect, at least according to one of my favorite dead writers: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” — HST

I suppose I should end this with a high, smoky toast to all those now going pro. You know who you are.


Dave Shinn