Beer at Altitude – Mountain Brewfests Kick Off Summer

Late Thursday evening, early spring, van driving hard toward Pagosa Springs on the yearly penance run to the Front Range for a weekend of old friends, bluegrass, weirdness and beer at the Boulder Theater.

Telluride local/pirate Hawkeye Johnson and the author pause for the cause at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, 2009. New Belgium's brews are on tap at the festival in June, and the adult sippy-cup is a free upgrade.

No snow yet in the graying sky, but “The Wolf” to cross — Wolf Creek Pass, among the upper class of high-mountain passes in the West, and no interstate or magic tunnel to guide us into the night. Stones wailing in our ears, the yet-frozen forest of the high-alpine passes into night as we careen down into South Fork, Del Norte and on through forgotten space towards Saguache. Darkness takes the snow-bound heights, clouds descend and snow flurries scatter in the metal-halide glare of the state prison as we enter Buena Vista.

Our destination this eve is the Eddyline Brewery, a newer participant in the Colorado micro-brewing movement. Located on the banks of the Arkansas River in the “South Main” area of B.V., it is a partner organization to the Socorro Springs Brewing Co., in Socorro, NM. (Author’s note: Fayhee gives Socorro Springs a hearty thumbs up, as he has found himself dry-of-mouth in Socorro on numerous occasions.) You ain’t late if you make last call, and doing so, it was beers and wood-fired pizzas all ’round. The brew was solid, and following the opening of an additional production facility this spring, will be available in 16-ounce “pounders” by high summer. It is always good to find a friendly brewery after an arduous drive, and even better to find one with nearby riverside parking for “stealth camping” in the van (which was kindly pointed out to us by the lovely bartender). It is this type of experience that defines the mountain-town vibe for me, and awaking to the glory of the Collegiate Peaks shining in the mountain sun across the valley the next morning, I needed no explanation why the motto in B.V. is, “Life is Better When You’re High.”

By June in the High Country, the clear snowmelt is running from the peaks, and beer is flowing in the hills at the many brewfests that grace the region. To begin, the 17th Annual Mountain Brewers Festival will be held in Idaho Falls on the 4th, featuring eight breweries from Idaho and a host of others from the Pacific Northwest, Montana, Utah and Colorado.

Depending on where you are in the state of Colorado on June 11, two festivals, both celebrating their second anniversary, require attendance. The first is the Boulder Sourfest, hosted by Avery Brewing. Think the kool-aide that Lindeman’s mass-markets as a Lambic-style beer is authentic? Well, stop by Sourfest, and think again. Celebrating all things wild, as in wild yeast and “spontaneously fermented” beers, this event will introduce the participant to flavor components of beer described as barnyard, earthy, goaty, hay and my personal favorite, horseblanket. Not for the faint of palate, Lambics, Guezes and sour beers are a connoisseur’s delight.

The second event is Silverton Rockin’ Brews, taking place at 9,318 feet of elevation up in Silverton, CO. The organizer, Silverton Brewing Co., was damaged when a tragic fire burned several historic buildings in town this past spring, including the brewery and taproom. This event will coincide with their reopening after being closed for repairs. Breweries from across the Western Slope will be pouring, and music will be playing under the big top tent.

June 24-26 is host to four events. Big Sky Brewing Co. in Missoula, MT, will host its annual BBQ Festival on the 25th. Less about beer and more about meat, last year’s event pitted BBQ cooked up by eight local restaurants against discerning BBQ aficionados from all over Montana. Big Sky’s offerings will be on tap to cool the heat, with live music throughout the day.

In Summit County, CO, look for the Summit of Bluegrass and Brews to take place over two days on the 24th & 25th at the Lake Dillon Amphitheater. Featuring national bluegrass acts and beer from breweries from all over Colorado, the event is a fundraiser for the Colorado Brewers Guild.

The 22nd annual Colorado Brewers Festival hits downtown Fort Collins on the 25th & 26th. An old favorite of mine from my days at Colorado State University, this is a full-on party that consumes Old Town.

And finally, the Made in the Shade Beer Tasting Festival will take place at Fort Tuthill County Park in Flagstaff, AZ, on the 25th. Featuring 50 beers from across the Southwest and around the world, this is the place to be if you’re down in the A-Z.

Got any brew-related news to share? Fire it off to me at

Erich Hennig, an avid home brewer, is the Four Corners columnist for the Rocky Mountain Brewing News. He lives in Durango, Colo.

The Damned DUI Factor

Rock-and-roll musicians have always been associated with survival, tagged as scrappers and road warriors who party all night after eating copious plates of food at wedding and corporate gigs, washing it all down with the host’s top-shelf liquor and still able to charm the garters off bridesmaids for a scandalous evening. Back in the day, it was a well-earned badge as your equipment-loaded van screamed into a slide of death at 3 a.m. on a recently closed mountain pass in a white-out blizzard. All this just to get to get to that next club gig, which paid a pittance, comped greasy burgers or nachos and if the bartender took a shine to you, free drinks. If you really scored, the club put you up in the band crash pad with the unidentifiable sticky black gunk on the shag carpet, cigarette burns on the couch and the sagging mattresses where half the town’s women spent the night with one or all of the previous weeks’ band members. But hey, they were paying jobs and for most of the musicians who were fortunate to live through the historic cornucopia of mountain gigs twenty and thirty years ago, the times have now changed. It’s an evolution of perspective, economics, aging and staying afloat. No, we’re not growing up, just redefining priorities and transposing the way music is created, performed and sold.

Metalhead. Photo: Dawne Belloise

Music business is conducted in a far different manner than it was a couple of decades ago, primarily due to the internet reinterpreting how audiences all over the world access and listen, as well as how artists promote. Mountain musicians who have had to be especially good at creating market have expanded the parameters of their careers by reaching a limitless online audience.

Once upon a time, when gigs were plentiful, talented musicians could make a decent living playing full time and not have to take second jobs waiting tables or cleaning toilets until discovered by a talent agent. But much of that changed in the mid-’90s, according to Chuck Hughes, who’s been a band leader for forty years in various incarnations of Top 40 to Rockabilly with Chucky & the Cyclones and currently the Colorado-based Hillbilly Hellcats. “The DUI was the downfall of band gigs. That’s not to say that you don’t have several bands at any given time whose popularity will overcome any social or economic condition, like Big Head Todd, The Fray, Leftover Salmon, String Cheese, but DUI affected the fortunes of eighty or ninety percent of the bands.” Chuck attributes his musical longevity to a very basic essentiality. “I had no other marketable skills. I started out in the ’70s playing six nights a week in a Top-40 band and teaching guitar lessons in a store. Back then, for three-nighters, a quartet would be making $100 per person per night at a club and on six-nighters, maybe $80 a night. In the mid-’90s, we’d play mountain gigs where you got a condo, a ski pass and food for a six-night gig.”

Chris Daniels and the Kings formed back in 1984, and they’ve been playing consistently for the past twenty-seven years. “It’s very difficult these days. Bands now have to be incredibly versatile to make a living just playing music. In the old days, we could do a circuit,” he says of the glut of clubs, many which no longer exist as music venues. “You’d play six nights a week and, after six weeks, you’d come through and do the circuit again. Now it’s three or four bands per night at one club. Instead of making a $1,000, you’re making $200.” As far as traveling to mountain-town gigs, Chris says, “We do mostly mountain festivals; summer concert series are what we tend to play now as opposed to the mountain bars. Our crowd is older now. They want to go out with their kids and a basket full of chicken. They don’t want to go out to a bar with twenty-one-year-olds and do Jager shots and throw up.”

Back when there were agents doing much of the promoting and booking, bands didn’t have to hustle as much as they do now. Musicians do their own marketing these days, advertising in specialty magazines on both local and national levels. With a single posting on your band’s Facebook page, your closest one to five thousand friends across the globe get the party going and the club packed out in their town. “Artist management is basically handled by the artist these days as opposed to the old days where the first thing you tried to do was get a manager,” Chris says.

With club venues generally shrinking for live music, bands have taken their sound abroad, especially to the lucrative European market, where audiences are educated about the music itself. Chris, who also teaches music business and both rock-and-roll and jazz music history at the University of Colorado’s Denver campus, believes, “Europeans understand the history of the music that’s being played, whereas most American audiences tend not to know that they’re hearing a blues band or the roots of the music.” Chuck found that Europeans don’t look at your age. “The Europeans are first impressed by the fact that you’re an American band playing American roots music and not the newest commercial flavor of the month. They feel they’re experiencing authentic American roots and they’re much more interested.”

The indie musician licensing business started to kick in through the internet around 2001. Chuck’s band, which had forty songs on, was contacted by “They wanted to license all of our songs for TV and movies. I thought it was typical music biz jive talk but nonetheless I filled out all the paperwork and checks started coming in. By 2005, our income had switched to music licensing, music downloads and live shows.”

Apparently age and experience also initiated a generational paradigm shift in the band collective concerning the continual sex, drugs and party-seeking factor of rock-and-roll. Chuck feels, “When you’re twenty-something, you’ll think nothing of staying up all night and getting wasted if you think you’re gonna get laid, but when you’re older, you ask yourself, ‘Is it worth it?’ And it’s not novel anymore,” he admits in a been-there-done-that tone. Chris agrees that stereotypical endless rock-and-roll recreation is not for his age group. “The days of groupies end when you reach your mid-forties. What becomes important for me is the music, more important than the party, much more important than hanging out with a twenty-year-old who wants to talk about Lady Gaga.”

One thing hasn’t changed and won’t likely anytime in the future — musicians are still paying those hard-earned, steamroller, low-down, whippin’-post dues … but that’s what gives them the rock-ribbed, metamorphic tenacity to carry on.

The Hillbilly Hellcats are on Facebook and

Chris Daniels and the Kings are on Facebook and

Dawne Belloise is a freelance writer, photographer, traveler and musician living on an alley at the end of the road in Crested Butte’s paradise. A feature writer for the Crested Butte News-Weekly, her musings and photography have been published in numerous mags and rags around the planet. Contact

Hip-Hop Grandma Doles Out Sex Advice

Being the road-traveling warrior he is, MURS, who’s played Breckenridge and other mountain towns this season, thought he had seen it all — until he met Denver’s hip-hop mom a few years ago.


He showed up for a gig, only to hear minutes later, “MURS — Your mom’s here, and she brought food.” He ignored it, sayin’ his mama was in South Central, but the announcements continued. “Someone’s mom is here.” Finally, the band checked it out, only to find a short, white, middle-aged grandmother who had stormed onto the tour bus, homemade pecan pie in hand.

“I’m the hip-hop mom,” she proclaimed. “I just thought I’d bring you some food, made with fresh herbs I cut from my garden.”

“I was so nervous to eat the food — I was thinking, ‘Who are you? Who does this? Are you gonna poison us?’ but I was so hungry, and it was so good,” MURS said.

And the encounter didn’t end with an innocent piece of pie. A few months later, she barged backstage at the Fillmore to lecture MURS, De La Soul and a couple other hip-hop artists on some different pieces of pie.

“I know you guys have no idea how to [have sex] — you think just because you have big penises you know how to [have sex],” she said.

After clearly getting the boys’ attention, she hit ’em with a freestyle rap.

“It just flowed out of her,” MURS said. “She just emasculated the black male.”

Apparently, she was just revving up.

“It went over the top; there was some descriptions,” MURS said. “But she said she was only trying to help the women of Colorado we’re gonna sleep with.”

Taking a turn into detainment

After touring Western mountain towns, MURS headed back east, but took a wrong turn into Canada, by way of a Niagara Falls detour. MURS had invited a friend on the road trip and let him drive, with a firm instruction: “Do not cross the border. I have horror stories about crossing the border.” Despite the warning, his friend accidentally took the bridge of no return. As he made a U-turn, America’s finest Border Patrol stood, waiting to greet them. Patrol didn’t care about the band getting lost; they immediately pulled all eight people out of the van, pairing them up with one armed guard per person.

Apparently, responding to the request to fill out required paperwork with, “I don’t have to fill out shit because I didn’t go anywhere” doesn’t go a long way with border cops. They detained the men for three hours. Actually, the guys may have gotten away with the smart-ass remark, if the cops hadn’t found a ski mask and fake gun when they started searching the van. Seems the DJ thought the props made a funny skit on stage — but not so much on the border. From there, it got worse:

“One of the guys on the road with us was a felon, so he wasn’t allowed to cross into Canada. (The patrol) searched the van and asked if there’s weed in there,” MURS said, “And he said, ‘Of course there’s weed, and I’m the felon with the weed.’”

As MURS tells it, the cops finally let them go, saying, “Just get the fuck out of here.” Luckily, patrol never discovered the machete stashed near the side of the van; they probably wouldn’t have bought the story that MURS was just trying to be a good citizen. But, it’s true: During a break at their previous gig, they found a machete next to a beer in the back alley.

“We threw the beer out, but we didn’t think it was smart to let a guy who was drinking go around with a machete,” MURS said.

Naw, it’s a much more solid plan to transport the machete across the border.

Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo.

Movies: “The Love Letter”

Movies: “The Love Letter,” by Fitz Cahall, Becca Cahall and Mikey Schaefer

Writer and Dirtbag Diaries creator Fitz Cahall is building a new business model for outdoor filmmakers: In the past, climbing, skiing and kayaking movies have gotten sponsorship funding from outdoor gear companies, slaved away around the world getting great footage of top athletes and then produced DVDs to sell at 25 or 30 bucks apiece. Fitz (most of the time with filmmaker Bryan Smith as his partner) has decided to get sponsorship from gear companies, slave away around the U.S. to get great footage of top athletes and putting movies on the Internet for free, sometimes on the sponsoring companies’ web sites. “The Love Letter” is a 12-minute movie about Fitz and Becca’s 45-day trip through the Sierra, backpacking, climbing and getting away from cell phones, e-mail and all the other soul-crushing appliances of daily urban life. It’s a climbing movie, but not a climbing movie. Fitz and Becca probably climb harder than most of us, but the film is about balance, and finding the places that inspire us — not about brahs sending hard boulder problems and screaming while they clip bolts on sport climbs. It’s art, not sports footage, and a breath of fresh air. Give it a shot and you might wish more gear companies directed their sponsorship dollars to real stories like this.

Watch “The Love Letter” on YouTube.

Books: “The Source of All Things” and “The Museum Collection”

“The Source of All Things” by Tracy Ross

Tracy Ross mastered the sense of place a long time ago, putting the reader squarely in her own boots and scaling to the Edge of Nowhere, never looking back. A journalist who has scoured the planet and a contributing editor to Backpacker Magazine, Ross has the makings of a writer’s writer. In “The Source of All Things,” Ross ventures inward this time, to a place of soul and guts and torn-away pieces of childhood. The memoir, first trotted out as the Backpacker essay that won the National Magazine Award in 2009, weaves her story of sexual abuse in the hands of her stepfather. Bouncing from ditch to ditch emotionally, Ross finds her way by calling on the healing power of wild places. Witnessing the jagged cycle of seeking and self-destruction that takes her through adolescence and into her young adult life, a reader has to wonder if communion with the trees and rivers and dirt under her feet will be enough to buoy the soul. In the end, she asks her stepfather to accompany her to the place where it all started when she was eight years old. There in the wilds of Idaho she confronts him, tape recorder running, and he talks to his 36-year-old daughter. There’s no overnight redemption here, no black-and-white forgiveness. But somehow, Ross manages to humanize the man who stole her nights. And somewhere there is the word “reconcile.” What you’ve got is a compelling and gutsy piece of writing and a story of surviving and moving on. I’ll join the legions of reviewers here: This is a story you won’t easily forget. $23.95,
— Tara Flanagan

“The Museum Collection,” by William Meriwether

Bill Meriwether died in spring 2010, after a 40-year career as a photographer and professor of photography at various Western universities, and just before an exhibit of his photography opened at the Colorado Mountain College Gallery in Glenwood Springs. He made stark black-and-white, Ansel Adams-esque photographs of missions, ruins and landscapes of Colorado and northern New Mexico, and originally self-published this book in 2005 as a handmade, limited edition, for his friends. People’s Press of Woody Creek (a project of MG guardian angel emeritus George Stranahan) is now publishing it as a 52-page hardcover edition. The Museum Collection is not quite a coffee-table photography book, with a smaller format with as much attention paid to Meriwether’s photos as his essays — sometimes explaining the technical how-to of his photos, sometimes discussing photography philosophy or the process of making platinum prints. It’s a worthy addition to the bookshelf of any student, or armchair aficionado, of classic Western photography. $14.95,

Mountain Scrapbook #179

MG accepts submissions for our monthly Mountain Scrapbook department. All mountain-related photos are welcome, the funnier, the better. Send submissions to

Each month, we pick a winning photo, and the winner receives a year subscription to the Mountain Gazette, along with a Gazette bumpersticker.

Letters – #179

Envelope: Diane

We’re in the market for decorative envelopes to help beautify our Letters pages. If you’ve got an artistic envelope bent, pull out your weapons-of-choice, decorate an envelope with our snail mail address on it, mail the resultant envelope to us, and, if we print it, we’ll give you a year’s subscription to the Mountain Gazette.

Less dog dookie in Paris
Dear Editor: I enjoyed your Feb./March issue while in Frisco and wanted to comment on the story by Michael Brady (Dateline: Europe, “The Merde in France: Dog Dung Decline,” MG #176). Please pass along my applause to him.

On my first visit to Paris ten years ago, I was stunned and appalled at the amount of dog dung all over the city, no matter the elegant address. How could a community applaud its history and yet show so little pride in its appearance? Arrogance?

I was pleased to see the city was cleaning up upon my last visit two years ago. Thank goodness I could walk with my eyes up, not constantly peering down to the sidewalk placing my steps carefully as in the past.

Thank you. The cover on this issue was a delight for our family as we had just traveled through the snowy woods via dog sleds!

Carol Freas,
Long Beach Island, NJ

Heads up!
Hi John: Reading the item on U.S. 550 in the April Cartographic (“Getting a Move On,” MG #177), I thought of another hazard unique to that road: the occasional 60-foot ponderosa sliding down the mountain and plopping on the highway in front of cars, forcing choices where the alternatives might be pretty grim.

We were coming back to Durango from Ouray last Mother’s Day and climbing Coal Bank Pass when a tree just dropped in front of us about 100 yards ahead. If we would have been closer when it fell, we might have swerved to avoid it, dropping into Lime Creek hundreds of feet below on the opposite side from where it fell.

Mick Souder,
Durango, CO

Almost Full Circle
John: Re: Your call for stories about how we came to be living in the West (“Stories of Us,” Smoke Signals, MG #169): It was 2003, the year after I’d graduated from a state college in northern Utah.  From the halls of education, I went to building tract houses with my brother, a contractor, to save enough money to buy a cheap car, then attempt to break free from my native Utah to Bellingham, Washington, where a friend lived. I purchased the car, fled to the Northwest, but a sort-of fate — or just bad luck, or just some unresolved psychological tick — flung me back home.

Back home literally. I was at my parents’ house, avoiding calling my brother to ask for my job back, working a temporary gig where I manufactured synthetic diamonds for oil drilling. In this period of desperation, I managed to send out a couple of “job” applications. Employment wasn’t really the goal: the goal was to find some means to plant myself in the deep soil of the world-out-there after four years squandered in books and libraries and classrooms.

And a proper de-education required the margins, forgotten places, the little and pathetic towns, the expanses of mountains and deserts that radiated outward in every direction from my center place near Salt Lake City. So applications for jobs and internships went out to state parks, national parks, the Student Conservation Corp., High Country News, anything that would lead me into the land where the civilized elements would be eclipsed by nature — big land, desert canyons, mountain forests, spring flowers, summer heat, winter snowfall, birdsong.

Bush and his administration of fools and the press idiots bellowed their bullhorns for war with Iraq. My home near Provo, Utah, was paved over, housed over, strip-malled to death; from behind this madness, I could hardly enjoy the Wasatch Mountains jutting abruptly and high from the earth. To be sure, there was nature, big nature, written in the mountain skyline that I had absorbed into my psyche since I was born. But, for me, the elements of civilization overcrowded the natural like a billboard blocking a vital road exit. And somehow I couldn’t disentangle the buzz of traffic, the edifices of religion punctuating the temples of consumerism (this is Utah, remember) and the ubiquitous post-9/11 flags all around me from the mounting stench of war. War against Afghanistan. War against Iraq. War against Terror. War for Greed. The Oil Wars.

A call came from Blanding, Utah, a place I’d never been before. The manager of the state park museum there said that no one else had applied for an opening, making me the perfect candidate. And as soon as I found out that I didn’t make the cut as an intern with High Country News, I packed my bag and headed to the canyonlands of southeastern Utah. Little did I know that it would turn out to be the perfect proving ground for de-education, for a period of deep immersion within place. A place to seek out elemental and empirical truth in red sandstone, white clouds and blue sky (and green mountains), rather than the lying flag-wavers who were boosting the Iraq war.

I spent weekends in the canyons that fissured through Cedar Mesa, the larger chasms cutting through the Elk Ridge uplands and Comb Ridge’s absurd bedrock spine snaking through the San Juan desert. During the weeks, I catalogued artifacts — pottery, rock flakes and tools, bone needles, wooden digging sticks and staffs, basketry, bird-feathered blankets and the like — in the museum’s database. Then back into the canyons, where I aimlessly wandered through the landscape.

I came more and more to see that desert wilderness as a Puebloan landscape of homes and agricultural fields that dated back to over a thousand years. I had gone to the desert to escape civilization but had found civilization somehow embedded in the desert. But it was an older civilization. And a civilization that I cannot resist feeling — despite the army of red flags that signal the fetishizing and exoticizing of native cultures — is a much wiser one than our own. If for no other reason than that these people seemed to live close to the land and derive the elements of their homes, their tools and their food from the land around them. Even if their corn and beans came from somewhere deep in Mexico, they held a knowledge of how to grow those crops in what most people today see as an austere and threatening landscape. They learned to blend the hydrology of the desert — canyons and washes and rills — with their non-irrigated agricultural landscape. They lived without gas stations and Wal-Marts and other portals of commerce through which the global economy funnels our tangible goods of consumption — while at the same time masterfully concealing the social and environmental costs of those products. I came to admire this indigenous civilization that, sure, was connected to the extra-regional, but was ultimately grounded in the local.

After all, isn’t this global flow of goods (particularly energy resources) at the root of the absurd wars that we find ourselves in this modern and enlightened day?

As with the only other time that I landed the perfect job in the perfect place, it came to the abrupt end that any seasonally hired employee knows. And so I took my newfound tool bag of archaeological knowledge to a cultural resource management (CRM) company in Moab, Utah. I feared that my nine-month-long desert gestation period, facilitated by temporary employment in Blanding, was to be disrupted by the marathoners, mountain bikers, trad climbers, Jeep ralliers and other assorted eco-extremists who congregate in Moab. More, though, I was afraid of taking a job with a company that did most of its work for oil and gas corporations building a sprawling network of roads and wells throughout northeastern Utah’s Uinta Basin. As Bush and his cadre of idiots were executing war abroad, they were waging a domestic war on our public lands written in the form of rapid oil and gas leasing.

The dilemma of CRM work, which protected a few archaeological sites at the expense of an entire landscape, ate away at my ideals like the flash floods that rip away at the root system of a cottonwood tree teetering on the edge of an arroyo. I helped to survey and “clear” land for oil and gas development. So I quit.

For one week, I worked for a hoods-in-the-woods outfit. The kids were from New York, New Jersey, somewhere in California — wherever. Their skin was dark from the sun even though it was February and their hair was matted and sandy. They ate mushy ashcakes, having, as the name denotes, the texture and taste of wood charcoal. Some of the kids’ sooty faces were streaked with tears. Whether forced or by choice, they sat huddled in the big desert like a little clan, each of them to either confront or hide from their problems.What makes these people any different from other people out there (the money addicts, the war mongers, the political criminals), I wondered at the same moment that I knew I would not come back to this job once going home at the end of the week.

And so it was back to archaeology. Which tells me that maybe it was more the asshole boss that I worked for rather than my eviscerated ideals that led me to quit my earlier job. After all, I found myself in a different place with a different company doing the same work. At this point, my now six-year girlfriend and mother of our son (shall I say partner?) and I had been together for a couple of months, and we both took jobs with a small CRM company in Montrose, Colorado.

We backpacked and snowshoed in the San Juan Mountains, watched movies during the winter in Ouray and worked on archaeological surveys and excavations. They continually revealed the wisdom of living fully from one’s locale and the absurdity of our own lifestyles. Energy extraction drove archaeology. Our work took us to northeastern Colorado, near Craig, where a natural gas pipeline was tapping into the Piceance Basin, then being routed north into Wyoming, before funneling natural gas into eastern markets as far as Greeley, Colorado. Rumors circulated that the pipeline would eventually stretch across Kansas and link with Midwestern and Eastern markets. For over a month, we excavated a “basin house,” dating back several thousand years, and which was buried within a trench where a four-foot diameter natural gas pipeline was to be interred.

Sometimes we return to places like blood cells circulating through a body; other times, places become closed pathways barring us from returning no matter how hard we try to get back. I have never returned to Sequoia National Park and the Sierra Nevada, where I worked for six months when I was 21, even though pangs of nostalgia torment me year after year as plan after plan dies without a reunion with that place. But I was fortunate to get a chance to return to southeastern Utah — and damned lucky to work on an archaeological survey of Comb Ridge. It was another temporary job, another brief window into Nirvana. I spent day after day walking the desert, finding and recording archaeological sites, and no threat of development following my wake. It was, largely, archaeology for the sake of archaeology, and the project was lead by a local archaeologist who is incredibly wise.

Out of school for several years at this point, and having walked my share of deserts and mountains, I was nonetheless foolish enough to believe that I was properly de-educated and now ready to return to graduate school. I couldn’t decide on a handful of schools and disparate programs, and so I followed my girlfriend to Albuquerque, where she would seek to win a Master’s degree while I would dip my toes into the academic waters.

I vacillated between graduate coursework in archaeology and environmental history.  I strolled through the Sandia Mountains, the Pecos Wilderness, the Jemez Mountains, but mostly it was books and research papers. Except during the summers, when I worked on archaeology projects — projects associated with cattle grazing impacts on Forest Service land, projects at national monuments, where the mountains meet the plains, projects to recover archaeological information before roads and suburbs and strip malls expanded west of Albuquerque in Bernalillo. It was the same pattern: Each archaeological project revealed a people who lived close to the land and locale, and each project was tied to our own society’s attempt to squeeze from the land quick profits, whether through overgrazing, development or tourism. Not land as place, but land as resource and means to profit.

I now live outside of a very small town on Arizona’s Mogollon Rim. I am burdened by an unfinished Master’s thesis focusing on energy extraction, environmental change and local resistance within New Mexico’s San Juan Basin. My girlfriend (partner?) and I have a son who just turned one.  Juniper trees spread out as far as I can see, with ponderosa crowns jutting into the skyline on knolls or within well-watered drainages. I feel very far from what I sought when leaving my hometown more than seven years ago. I long to awaken in sight of the Wasatch Mountains’ ridgeline cutting though the sky, a pattern that I’ve committed to deep memory once again, despite the ugly development that fills the broad valleys below. I am looking for escape from the suffocatingly conservative rural politics of Arizona. I long to circle my way back home, and, yet, I also feel as though I have found exactly what I set out for some seven years ago — being swallowed whole by big nature — which still seems like the only worthwhile pursuit out there.

Andy Wakefield

Here we are
Hey man! We chose the mountains by default, though people find that hard to believe.

My partner and I got used to having all kinds of open space around us after years of living in a rented four-plex in south Boulder County. We called the place Frank’s Windy Acres and it was in the ranch country, just east of Bear and South Boulder peaks. Sure, it had a junk Cadillac, but the views were great!

Eventually, we wanted a place of our own, and gave Wheatridge and Golden a chance, but concluded neighborhoods, in the suburban sense of the word, felt constrictive. Our counseling business was in Lakewood and we searched in the hills within a halfway-reasonable driving distance. Nine months of searching (and looking at a lot of funky places in our price range), coupled with a measure of fate and a motivated seller, found us right next door to the new and yet-to-be-opened, Staunton State Park. We call our place the Treehouse. I’d rather be here, pulling thistle and toadflax, raising the skirts on our pine trees and stacking firewood than pushing a lawnmower in the ’burbs any day.

Kevin Bedard,
Pine, CO

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Scar Tissue

Author’s warning: Stunningly undiagrammable run-on sentences soon to follow (a fragment, yes, I know). What can I say? I was not completely sober when these words were scribbled onto a cocktail napkin.

“Your hand will grow bigger and your finger will grow bigger, but your scar will always stay the same size.” — Eddie (Jon Foster) to Ruth (Elle Fanning) in “The Door in the Floor”

From the sidelines, I can see where some folks might have considered it a somewhat unusual (if not blatantly tasteless) spontaneous-combustion-type en masse subject for discourse among a wide-ranging demographic amalgam of patrons — some of whom were regulars, some of whom were perfect strangers, some of whom had been drinking for hours, some of whom had just ordered their first frothy mug of suds — that long-ago blustery winter night at the Dillon Dam Brewery. If memory serves (something I would not exactly bet the farm on), it began by way of a young dirtbag snowboarder-type half-embarrassedly, half-triumphantly crutching his way into the establishment, people sliding barstools to accommodate his perambulatory difficulties, someone soon asking whassup, the young man half-muttering, half-proclaiming the dreaded-but-weirdly-honored syllables, “ACL surgery,” and a longer-of-tooth lady a few seats down slurring/growling the predictable, “Well, yer damned lucky that surgical knowledge has improved,” followed by the equally predictable pulling up of the pants leg, revealing the results of what ACL surgery looked like 30 years ago, like someone had operated on her hurt knee with a herd of rabid wolverines. Then a bearded geezer at a nearby table raising a hand with a 20-percent digit deficit rate and chiming in with a similar back-in-the-day tale about the failed attempt to sew his pinky back on after a negative interface with a non-OSHA-certified band saw. “I think the doctor was as drunk as I was,” the gent rasped. “It seemed to me like he was trying to sew the damned thing on upside-down. If he succeeded, I would have had four fingers that curled inward, toward my palm like they’re supposed to, and my pinky curling upward. Guess that would have made for an interesting party trick. In the end, he just gave up, told me the pinky was too far gone and tried to throw it in a trash can. He missed and there sat my poor little finger, lying bloody on the floor, looking very alone and forlorn.” And so it commenced, as bar confabs often do (and often don’t). It was not long before the two-dozen or so folks there gathered, in unified, borderline-soul-baring, pass-the-story-stick-type fashion, embarked upon a verbal journey centered — sometimes loosely, sometimes strictly — upon the theme of scars, with at least as much emphasis placed upon the stories about the scars as on the scars themselves. Kind of like ski-jumping, with points being awarded for both distance and style. Though recollection of most of the scar stories that were subsequently told escapes me, there were of course some that activated the long-term memory nodules. Among those, there was a very large and gruff stranger of probably 60, who, despite his advancing age, could best be described as someone you would not under any circumstances fuck with. He wore a Vietnam Vet baseball cap, which, uncomfortable as this is to write, often is cause for giving a person some eccentricity leeway. By the time this man, who was clearly bemused by the various tales being related about the kayaking mishap and the emergency appendectomy surgery while on a wine tour of France, cleared his throat, everyone automatically assumed he would relate the tale about the vicious scar that went all the way around his goddamned throat and neck, as though he had once been hanged until not quite dead or tortured with a cable. Instead, he spoke poetically about the time he was fishing up in Idaho on some magical mountain day and it was so quiet and peaceful and he’d been trying for hours to land this one trout and how he was becoming more and more exasperated and how he got sloppy on a cast and actually managed to catch a dry fly on his own eyelid and about how he had to hike out to the trailhead and drive into town with a dry fly dangling directly in front of his pupil like one of those weird little bacteria floaters, except with a sharp hook attached, and about how close he had come to losing a viewpod questing for trout. He asked everyone at the bar to come over and look closely at the scarcely visible remains of that incident, all the while everyone’s peripheral-visioning their way down to that awful scar all the way around his neck, which, it’s my guess, is something the Vietnam Vet knew would happen. No one asked him about it. And then, after harrowing tales involving an entire vat of French fry grease being accidentally spilled onto a young lady’s forearm and a machete wound suffered in the deepest depths of the Darien Gap three day’s hike from the nearest clinic and the entire top of a guy’s scalp being sheared off like something from a Larry McMurtry book when he was thrown through a plate-glass window in a bar after an altercation centered around a lost game of pool and a large bet the man could not pay, it was my turn to ask for the story stick. After dropping my pants and bending over to expose the back of my right thigh, I told the story of climbing a tree behind the neighbor’s house across the street from ours when I was 12 years old and living near the banks of the Saranac River in New York State’s Adirondack Mountains. It was a fine summer day, and I was feeling my 12-year-old oats in a way I could not have supposed possible a few months earlier. For, you see, the previous winter, my erstwhile run-amok self had suffered its first serious physiological setback. I had to be tobogganed off the slopes of Bear Mountain by the ski patrol after having pushed a surely modest schussing envelope a bit too far. At that time, I subscribed to the “turns-are-for-pussies” philosophy of downhill skiing (read: I had neither the skill nor the training to turn, and I masked my ignorance with a gung-ho attitude that had but one foreordained outcome), and that philosophy-made-manifest ultimately came with a price, even for a stupid fourth-grader. I tore the shit out of my left knee trying to impress my love interest (boy, was she ever impressed!) and spent almost six months in a full-leg cast. Though my leg was still skinny from atrophy, by mid-summer, I was finally able to move, and, more importantly, to once again climb. In my youth, I was half-monkey, fearlessly ascending quarry walls, water towers, roofs and, in this case, trees. I absolutely loved climbing trees. I was not the only kid up in the tree when it happened. Verily, there was a slew of jabbering pre-pubescents hanging out upon the rickety planks of a makeshift treehouse probably 15 (OK, 10) feet up. A flimsy home-made rope ladder connected treehouse to terra firma, a ladder only capable of handling one kid at a time. When someone suggested maybe heading over to the nearby Saranac for a swim, the notion of an orderly descent was not much in evidence. I, as always, being the most impatient person in the group, opted to bypass the ladder congestion and move downward via a series of thin branches. “Race ya,” I said, confidently. Even now, 43 years later, the sound of branches breaking sets me on edge. There was the snap, then my first interaction with time moving at simultaneously variable speeds — slow motion (slow enough to be realizing what was happening) overlapped with blurring rapidity (so rapid, it seemed as though space had folded me instantaneously to my bleak destination), then the instinctive peeling of my right leg off a recently hatcheted stump maybe three inches in diameter and two feet high. I heard the sound of skin ripping as I pulled my leg off the pointed top of that little stump. Just before a tsunami of red overtook my world, I looked down and saw a bisected hamstring flapping and a large section of my exposed femur. As shock mercifully asserted itself, I looked back at that little stump and saw a huge hunk of my flesh still attached, twitching. I learned an interesting lesson about motherhood that day. My mom, gone now for almost a quarter-century, had always encouraged me to be adventurous, wild, actually, and, to her credit, once the dust settled on this torn-open-leg situation, she did not waver in that encouragement. She was over at our house barbecuing. Though in my head I remember hearing screams, apparently none came from me. Yet, somehow, maternal Def-Con-1 was activated and, simply via mother/child cosmic connection, she knew that something was sorely amiss with her first-born and came running as fast as her little legs could carry her to my side, gracefully arriving with a spatula in one hand and an admirably unspilled martini in the other. Because my mom was, well, uh, slightly unpredictable, we had a tenuous, often painful, relationship clear up until the moment she passed, an unfortunate reality that, naturally, sucks. But never in my life, before or since, was I so glad to have someone at my side as I lay there, my life force oozing away into the grass. Even though I knew she was freaking out inside, my mom, child of the Luftwaffe’s unrelenting attack on her native London, went into instant survival mode. She remained calm, made sure my sister was tended to, field-dressed my gaping wound with towels and organized transport to the hospital. Ever the fiscal pragmatist, she directed the driver, a neighbor, to take us to the Plattsburgh Air Force Base hospital, where we would receive free treatment, rather than to the municipal hospital, which was closer, but which would cost money. On the way, I, of course, asked the inevitable question, one that had more immediate palpability than it does for many kids at that age, as my stepfather, my sister’s dad, had drowned three mere years prior: “Am I going to die?” “No, you’re not going to die,” my mom responded with a smile that was not only reassuring, but reassured. “You’ve still got lots of trees left to climb.” And then things went dark as shit. The surgery lasted almost 10 hours. It was nip-and-tuck regarding whether they would be able to save my leg. I must have semi-consciously overheard that part of the discussion among the doctors, because I awoke at one point and groggily reached down to see if my leg was still attached. That action pissed the surgeon off, and he yelled at me to hold still and told the nurse to re-knock my ass out. In the end, I got more than 200 stitches, which is a lot when you’re talking about a little 12-year-old leg, which had to be entirely rebuilt from the bone clear out to the skin. Almost half of my blood seeped away that day. I spent the whole summer on my back. It was many years before the requisite Deep Thoughts visited me, before I learned enough about anatomy to realize how close that little hatcheted-off stump came to my femoral artery, how, if my downward course was altered by even a few inches, I would have taken that stump directly to my lower spine. Whenever I first visit a body mechanic — massage therapist, physical therapist, acupuncturist, chiropractor, witch doctor, voodoo practitioner —which I’ve been doing a lot these days, it will not be long before I am asked about the scar on the back of my right leg. I can feel their reluctance to even touch it, just in case its root cause might be contagious. I recently started receiving treatment from a new chiropractor, because, basically, I am, at age 55, a flat-out physiological mess. I have a bad left heel, a totally trashed right Achilles tendon, a bulging L4/L5 disc and a right shoulder that, even after two surgeries, still operates at about 50-percent capability. An orthopedist once told me, after hearing my corporeal curriculum vitae — thousands of miles of long-distance backpacking, two decades of competitive tennis and years of martial arts training — that I could not have intentionally mapped out a more negatively impactful trinity of hobbies had I premeditatedly tried. Ergo: I have long assumed that my lifestyle choices are simply catching with me and that I will likely limp my way through what’s left of my years, surviving off of old memories instead of hobbling my decrepit way toward new ones. This chiropractor, after torquing my many maladies, the way chiropractors do, asked about one I had not mentioned. “What’s the story with this big scar on the back of your right leg?” So, as I have done so many times in my life, I told him about the fall and the exposed femur and the 200 stitches. I added that it hadn’t bothered me since the wound healed. He performed some neurological tests and hemmed and hawed and said, finally, “I think almost every injury issue you’re experiencing right now emanates from that big scar. I think your body, your mind and your spirit have never recovered from that injury. It has affected the way you have moved through life ever since.” Great. A few weeks after these words hit print, it will be my mom’s birthday, her 75th, had she lived. It is a day that, try though I might (and I don’t try very hard), invariably lends itself to ponderment of the internal-scrutinization variety. It is an annual Heavy Day for me. But soon after the chiropractor uttered his scar-based observations, it dawned on me out of the blue that my mom would have loved being there for the bar-scar story scene at the Dillon Dam Brewery that long-ago blustery winter night. She surely would have told the story about her Ceasarian-section scar, which she received because of the desire of her eldest son to ingress this world feet first. And I think she would have appreciated my own scar story, the one about how she arrived to save the day with an unspilled martini in hand. That appreciation would have made my evening. You know, maybe scars never fully heal, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get better. Ah, the wisdom that falls from the rafters of bars … Got any scar stories to share? Sure you do. Fire them off to me at

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