Old Friends

The road stretched on ahead straight as an arrow through the scrublands into the distance, where it could be seen curving up out of sight around a distant mesa.  My motorcycle rumbled comfortingly under me as we sailed together under dreamy skies streaked with pale yellow as the rising sun at my back found the horizon.  Up ahead, in the morning light, I saw another rider going solo through the desert.

I caught up with him on the curves going up the hill, but did not pass out of courtesy.  The bike, an old Shovelhead, looked somehow familiar, as did the man in the saddle, an obvious old-timer by the leathers and the ancient Bell full-face helmet with the white hairs blowing about underneath.  As if by signal, we both pulled off at the overlook where the road crested the hill.

Bikers on the road are a common family, so when you pull in to a stopping point and see another bike already parked, that’s where you go, automatically.  I’ve met world travelers that way, and old friends, but nothing that prepared me for the shock when the old man climbed off his bike and pulled off his helmet.  It was Stoney.  A man I had not seen in ten long years, a man who rode with me through thick and thin, stood at my back when I got in a beef at the bar, and always had a good word on him somewhere.  The thing was, and the reason it was such a shock, was that Stoney had died out on Highway 50 one night, alone in the dark in a snowstorm, ten years ago.  We called him Stoney because he always had a joint hanging out of his mouth, and because he could be hard as a rock when he needed to.

I wrapped him in a bear-hug.  “Stoney, you old dog!  Where the hell have you been, and tell me how it is I’m seeing you now, when it seems like yesterday I was at your funeral?”  He held me off at arm’s length and smiled, then turned me around with one hand on my shoulder while he pointed out across the vast open spaces all around us. “I been ridin’,” he said,  “That way goes north into the mountains, and they go on forever, and that way goes to the ocean, where whales cruise near the shore and you can get on a boat and sail the seven seas.  I came back here to pick you up.  You startin’ to catch on now?”

Suddenly, I remembered another funeral, more recent.  I looked down at my own leathers, and realized they were all brand new.  I glanced at my bike, and saw that all the chrome was polished, the paint was perfect, and the tires were new.  “Yeah,” said Stoney.  “I been waiting 10 long years for you to die, too, so I could show you around.  Now let’s get riding.  You’ll notice that your gas tank never runs empty here in heaven, and the beer is always cold at the place we’re headed for lunch, Saddle up!” :-{)}

Avian Wisdom, or feathers on the brain

Much is made of old stories and legends, the sort of forgotten lore to which Poe often referred, or Coleridge in his opium-induced dreams.  Generations of herbal expertise and wisdom are forgotten as elders die in sad circumstances without proper respect, and other wisdom is purposely ignored by those in power for whom personal economic considerations outweigh the common good.  That’s why I was happy to have an opportunity to bring out just one tiny fragment of an old wives’ tale that just might be based on ancient rumor which in turn was first noted on a fragment of stone tablet from an early Egyptian dynasty that pointed out some peculiar properties of hummingbird shit.

Now the hummingbird, when you think about it, is something close to the perfect machine, that intakes purest sugar water from my feeder, along with the most delicate of pollens and blossom effluvia that emanates from the various flowering plants that populate the grounds around here as they buzz around and dive bomb us when their feeders get low, pure energy on display, with attitude.  Ask yourself, have you ever seen a hummingbird shit?

I mean, compared to the chickadees, nuthatches, finches and flickers that mob the seeder and the suet cakes, with the resulting random pile of guano, sunflower seed shells and millet hulls piling up on the ground below, the hummingbirds leave no sign under either of the two feeders hanging off our deck that what goes in must somehow come back out, if for no other reason than to show they’re alive.  It was only after long periods of time spent nursing a beer in the Adirondack chair placed strategically under the feeder that I was able to observe the eliminatory function in operation in the genus.  It seems that, in the act of taking flight after a session at one of the ports on the sugar water feeder, and, precisely as the momentary pause to hover above the perch and scan the area then decide what direction in which to fly ends, a miniscule droplet of perfectly clear fluid is ejected from under the tail of the bird as it rockets off into the distance.  And it was only when, as I reached for my beer, and felt that tiny drop land on the top of my head where the forest is a little thin for lack of trees, that I achieved enlightenment.

At the time, I chuckled, of course, said a bad word at the retreating derriere of the offending bird, and forgot about it.  It was only after I woke up the next morning, and realized that my usual aches and pains were gone, there was a spring in my step that wasn’t there before.  I wandered through a very fine day in a pleasant haze as everything seemed to work out just fine.  It was only later, after the effect had worn off, that I began to suspect there might be something about the hummingbird shit, and started doing some research on the subject.

Sure enough, the ancient Egyptians found some mystical properties about hummingbird shit, and decided it was to be reserved only for the pharaohs and their most favored concubines, for whom its aphrodisiacal qualities alone were a special treat.  In the right quantities, and when applied with the proper rites and prayers, godlike powers would be awarded to those who lived through the ordeal, it was rumored.  I was determined to find out if the rumors were true.

Day after day, in the interests of Science, I took my position under the feeder, with my arm strategically placed to occupy the most likely trajectory of any ejected missiles of mystical awareness that might emanate from the miniscule anus of the subject bird.  I believe I might have been impacted by a couple of them during the collection phase, but can’t be sure, as I was asleep at the time.  I did get crapped on by a crow, however, but nothing came of it beyond him learning a few new words.

Long as I don’t run out of beer, the quest will continue, if only in the interest of bringing hope to the masses.  Look for the Fund My Great Idea campaign, which should be announced in time for the Donald Trump Vice-Presidential Announcement (I’m not saying I’m under consideration, and I’m not saying I’m not).  Those who contribute will be among the first to benefit when I wake up with super powers on the morning of the New Day.  Peace, Brothers and Sisters, and may the Hummingbird Be with you.  :-{)}

Montana teaser

There is a road that leads to heaven, and it starts in Salmon, Idaho.  You could argue that it starts well before that, and I would concede at some point, but Salmon is still the jumping off spot, in my mind.  If you come in from the South on State Highway 28 out of Idaho Falls, or up the western valley on US 93 from Butte City, that would be two sides of the same coin.  If you snuck across the National Forest from Sun Valley up through Challis on 75, then the rest of the way on 93, that’s extra points in your cool road file.

But it all starts the next morning as you tank up belly and bike, then head out into the cool morning air northbound on 93 along the Salmon River Canyon.  The road leaves the river at a place called North Fork and winds up a long canyon to the top, where, at a place called Lost Trail Powder Mountain, you are presented two choices: stay north on 93 as it comes down into the valley of the Bitterroot River on the way to Hamilton and Lolo Pass, a worthy destination in itself, or turn right on Highway 43 and drive through heaven on your way to Montana.  I say take that right, every chance you can.  Just past the turn is a parking lot surrounded by trees, among which more than a few people have chosen to have their ashes scattered as their final resting place.

Highway 43 doesn’t roll, it meanders, accompanied on either if not both sides by the classic stream like the ones in “A River Runs Through It”.   The two-lane blacktop was smooth and freshly paved the last time we went this way, and the clean fresh air combines with the wide open sky and the heartbreakingly green fields completely devoid of any signs of civilization beyond the macadam itself to bring on a bad case of traveler’s grin.  Then it gets better.

As the highway exits the hills it sets up an automatic reaction that occurs in most riders at that point.  The trees fall away, and the road cuts straight as a slightly dog-legged arrow across a wide open valley with the small town of Wisdom clearly visible in the far distance.  There is no stock in the fields, no obstructions or traffic on the road, so what else can you do but lay down on the tank and hold the throttle wide open until you see God or attain Wisdom, whichever comes first?    You’ll know you’re there when you see the floozy on the false front above Conover’s Trading Post.

So if you’re thinking about a road trip this summer, there are no bad choices in Montana, beyond Cut Bank and Browning, about which more can be said later.  In the meantime, let’s get out and do some riding!  :-{)}