Six Miles with Lobo

Someone's got the blues...

Things have changed dramatically around my house over the last few months. In fact in January of this year our little house was full of life and energy. I shared my home with my girlfriend of a year and a half, a nine-year old Bloodhound named Buford, a One-eyed Pittbull mix named, appropriately, One-Eyed Jack, and my Chesapeake Bay retriever, Lobo. In April, time and age came for old Buford; and at the same time, Jack was diagnosed with cancer. The girlfriend ran out in July, for reasons I still don’t quite understand; and Jack lost his battle in August leaving just Lobo and I to carry on.

It’s been a difficult time for both of us, we’re both coming to grips with the dramatic changes in our environment, and the huge vacuum that these losses has created in our world. The fact is, the changes have changed us, and we’re both different individuals than we were before.

I try to spend as much time with Lobo as I can…we do as much together as life will allow. He’s a very social fellow, and I know he feels the loss of his old companions. We do a couple of walks a day, and he usually runs with me when I go jogging. I have heard from reliable sources that time passage for a dog feels like three times that of human time. In a nutshell one human hour feels like three to a dog. I feel rotten leaving him home alone all day, so much so that I come home at lunch most days to take him for a quick walk, and to give him the interaction he craves.

We did a number of good walks and runs over the last few weeks, but he was still lying around looking pretty somber. When he would get up, he’d walk over to the front door, and look out the screen, and then back at me as if to ask, “Can we?” I knew I needed to get him out and into the world…the real world…or at least the world he craved.

So I packed up our hiking back pack with water, his travel bowl, a bunch of trash/turd bags, and some basic first aid stuff just in case. I loaded him into my car and we drove about 25 miles into east county San Diego, and a hiking area called Iron Mountain.

The view of the peak from the bottom

Iron Mountain is a very popular recreation area, and people travel from all over the countty to take advantage of its many trails, and diverse terrain . It has a decent sized parking lot or “staging area”, and, as I should have guessed, the lot was loaded on a Saturday morning. I leashed up Lobo, as is required by the parks department signs, pulled on my pack, and struck out.

The trail head has a really cool gateway marking it’s entrance, which is followed by a beautiful “tunnel of trees” to start the first quarter mile of the hike.

"tree tunnel"

    It’s three miles to the top, and the marked path is mostly dry riverbed. The walk is not too tough, but has some spots that are rutted and loose underfoot; a couple of spots get a bit steep, but for the most part it is a good, healthy hike. The terrain, like a lot of San Diego’s backcountry is mostly sedimentary rock and scrub brush, and it makes for interesting formations, and dramatic vistas.

Lots of folks

 The first mile and a half of this walk was full of hikers…tons of them, of all varieties. Families, walkers, hikers with packs, hard core cross trainers who run up and down, and lots of dogs. It was a zoo all the way to the trail split, and we had to repeatedly go around whiny little kids who “didn’t want to hike any farther”. The trail splits at the 1.5-mile mark, and there are actually numerous hike options available within the confines of the park. Once the trail splits, it becomes a bit more vertical, and a bit more laborious…so it helps to cull the herd.

     I took Lobo off his leash and let him do his thing. He had already been tugging me along for over a mile, so his initial energy has burned up, and even off the leash, he kept pace with me. He would occasionally take off into the brush, but then would come crashing back onto the path a little further along. He was panting heavily, and his glistening, pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth as he charged forward up the path. We would occasionally run across another group with dogs, and Lobo would stop long enough to say hello, but then would charge after me as I continued on.

     I run almost every day, and have always had an issue with shin splints. Today they were kickin’! My calves were killing me most of the way up the hill. But I just pushed through. There was a lady hiking along behind me. I would guess she was in her early 50’s. She had a good pace, and kept up with Lobo and I all the way up. Pride took hold and pushed me through the pain. There was no way in hell I was going to quit, or have her pass me because my calves were barking. That which does not kill us makes us stronger and all that. We forged ahead, and the experience of fighting through the pain was liberating…cleansing, and after a while, the ache went away. I felt stronger…mightier. We kept climbing.

Options

Just what the doctor ordered!

     Like I said, the trail in some places was really crowded. We said hello to a lot of people as we ascended; some we passed on the way up because our pace was a little faster, and some who were on their way back down. Folks of all ages and demographics; college kids with fraternity sweatshirts, a small band of hippies, a Japanese tourists group complete with massive cameras, silver-spoon housewives in their coordinated, brand-name, workout togs. I saw more than one daddy climbing the whole trail with a toddler in a pack, and Lobo made a whole bunch of new canine friends along the way as well.

Looking south from the top

     The reward is certainly at the top. The views are 360-degrees, and on a clear day you can see all the way to the Pacific Ocean in the west, and to Mexico in the south. The top was crowded and teaming with other hikers enjoying the view. There are actually a couple of picnic tables up at the top, and I’m sure, mid-week, it’s a great place to be. As it was, on a busy Saturday, Lobo and I headed down after some water, a couple of pictures, and short rest.

A happy Lobo at the summit

     The trip down was obviously faster, but an equal workout, and after six miles up and down in construction boots, I was rewarded with a nice blister on the back of my heel. Lobo was asleep in the back of my truck before we got a mile into the drive back home. He’s been asleep on the loveseat ever since we got home. We both got a little bit of what we needed today, and we both got a little better at being who we are now.

Relaxin' after

                       

Black Friday Walk

I live a Spartan lifestyle; and spend my time, for the most part, in relative solitude. I have a lot of friends, and even more acquaintances, so it’s not as if I don’t have the option to socialize if I should choose to do so. I am an admitted lone wolf. I do better on my own. While I have a genuine empathy and love for all of humanity, I don't suer fools well, and am, unfortunately, increasingly cynical of life in general. 

I used to consider myself a fairly spiritual individual, and have never stopped seeking something more than what I experience in the physical world. I was raised Catholic, but walked away from that a long time ago. An important mentor of mine likes to say, and I am paraphrasing, “How small is the God we imagine, in comparison to the God that is?”

I don’t have much use for the religious side of the holiday season, and I certainly have no use for the commercial side. I was never comfortable with the fact that, as a society, we have to set aside time during the year to be good to others, and then treat them like shit the rest of the year. It’s no coincidence that the Golden Rule is the foundation of every major organized religion in the world, no matter what they name their deity. So why can’t we “do unto others…” all year long?

It should be no surprise that I spent my Thanksgiving Day holiday with my dog, Lobo, and no one else. Like I said, I just do better on my own. We actually had a nice day, a day that included a couple of nice long walks, and the next day, Black Friday as it is known, would be more of the same. Lobo is my constant companion, with an unbelievable work ethic. A 65-pound mix of Chesapeake Bay Retriever and Chocolate Lab, he is an energetic, outgoing, and very intelligent creature. He takes his job as my partner very seriously; he shows up for work every day, and gives me 110%. He is constantly present, in the moment, and ready to follow me anywhere I lead. He provides unquestioning loyalty and love, a ton of laughs, and a model for me to try to live by. So he more than deserves the nice long walks we take, and he, as he does with everything else, makes the most of them.

When we walk he is unquenchable in his desire to take in everything around him. His nose is constantly gathering information as we move along, his ears yank his attention in multiple directions, his eyes jump to confirm what his other senses are already telling him…a bird taking flight, a man on a bike, the smell of food coming from a burger joint, another dog on a leash across the street, a cat in a yard. At first he tries to pull me along; he leans forward into his collar, and does his best to tug me down the street. I pull him back to my side the best I can, but I know, at least at first, I am fighting his excitement and exuberance at being out in the world. The most practical, and easiest cure for this is to simply walk. Once we have a mile or so under our heals, he relaxes and slows down, he seems to understand that we have ventured far from home, and we won’t be returning anytime soon, so he can now enjoy his trek.

Today’s walk was one of these, and we headed north from our house for a good mile and a half before turning east and covering another mile of sidewalk. We live in the city, so the scenery is a mix of everything you can think of on a busy city street, lots of interesting people bustling in and out of any number of shops, restaurants, and storefronts. A bevy of interesting sights, sounds, and scents. We turn south and start to head back in the direction of home. We actually meander a sort of serpentine route the rest of the way…south, then west, then south, then west again.

About four blocks from my house, we cross the street at a four-way intersection. On the corner across from us is a bus stop, and waiting at the bus stop is an old woman in a wheelchair, being attended to by a younger woman. The older woman is actually in a semi-reclined position in the chair, with her feet extended out in front of her, instead of in a normal seated position. A light blue wool afghan blanket covers her legs. It is readily apparent that this woman is not only old, but in relatively poor health. The younger woman stands behind her, and she is speaking rapidly is Spanish. I speak some basic Spanish, but only when I understand the context, and it’s spoken at a rate I can decipher. This lady was at full speed, so I had no clue what she was speaking to the old lady about.

The old woman’s eyes spotted us as we approached, or more specifically, she spotted Lobo. I saw the faintest hint of a smile on her face as she took him in, and appreciated the way she was looking at him. She stopped listening to the other woman as we got closer, and she leaned up and forward to get a better look at Lobo. I walked over and let Lobo introduce himself. He stepped up to her carefully, and extended his head into her lap. He sniffed at the afghan, and took in the information contained in its many scents. The old woman ran her hand over Lobo’s head; then again, this time letting is velvet soft ear slide between her fingers. She smiled broadly, showing me her gold-rimmed teeth. Then she raised the hand that she had been petting Lobo with, and she blessed us with the classic Catholic “sign-of-the-cross”, then she did it again, and, finally, a third time. As Lobo and I walked away, I thanked her for her blessing, and wished both of them a good day.

I could totally appreciate what that old woman was doing. She had nothing to give us in return but the love in her heart. No other way to say thanks, than to extend that which was within her. That’s a huge lesson for anyone, but especially for a cynical guy like me. The old woman and I do not share the same spiritual values or beliefs, but we didn’t have to. It didn’t matter. We were simply experiencing life in the moment, appreciating what was happing to us and for us, and we were thankful for it. Life is a gift, no matter who your God is. We we’re both simply “doing unto others” in the best way we could at the time.

RIP KTM Robert

It’s hard to be eloquent when you’re in shock. I’m in shock. A friend of mine was killed yesterday and I’m still just getting my head around it. I am stunned, in disbelief. He was in an accident on his motorcycle, riding with a group of friends, something he did often, because he loved it. He was a very capable rider, with skills far beyond those of most of the people out there on two wheels. It was sudden, freakish, and, truly, an accident. Our shared passion, riding motorcycles, is an inherently dangerous one. We know, understand, and, above all, respect this fact. Even with that in mind, things happen.

I first met Robert on a group ride. He was gregarious, funny, and genuinely interested in others. He wasn’t a guy to talk about himself; he always enjoyed hearing about others, he engaged the new members, and made them feel welcome right away. When it comes to sportbike riders, there’s always plenty of ego to go around; speed, adrenaline, and lots of testosterone have a way of bringing that out. Robert, while party to all three, didn’t have a problem with his ego. He wasn’t caught up in proving he was better, on any level, than anyone else. He was real; he enjoyed having a good time, and seeing others having a good time too. It was his selfless nature, and concern for his friends that, ultimately, may have cost him. It was his own effort to avoid and protect other riders that put him in harms way yesterday. His friends were spared; Robert was not.

I often ponder the logic of the Universe, or the lack thereof. So much chaos; so much of our everyday life seems to be spinning at a frantic, dangerously kinetic pace. There are no controls. Not enough safety handles to hang onto. Robert, and people like him, are safety handles. Centered points amidst all the craziness of life, that, when we reach out to touch them, grab onto them, they help us to find the calm in the storm. So, like many, I am tempted to ask, “Why?” Why Robert? Why now? The world really was a better place with Robert in it, so why would it make sense to remove him from it? And what really sucks is I don’t have an answer, and never will. I have lost other friends before what I believed was ‘their time’. I found myself asking the same questions then as I do now. In my mind, the only way I can begin to make sense of it is to figure that this was simply his mission in this life. Robert was a better man than most that I have come across; he led by example. His death is a shock, a slap in the face, and has permanently burned who he was and how he lived into my memory. I, for one, will move forward with that example in my head and in my heart. If I live my life even a little bit more like he did, I’ll be a better man for it. I owe my friend in life and in death.

Robert Becker was a good man, a great guy, and a skilled rider. He was a lover of his family, his friends, and critters of all shapes and sizes. He brought many smiles, much laughter, and lots of wonderful memories to the lives of everyone he knew, and it really sucks to think about him not being around anymore. I will carry Robert in my heart, I will keep him alive by speaking of him often, and I will ride knowing he’s on my shoulder keeping an eye out for the blind corners.

Rest In Peace, Robert David Becker.

All Cracker and No Jack

I live all of a block from my local supermarket. While a definite convenience because of its proximity, it has also created a bit of a problem in my eating and shopping habits. Because it is walking distance from my house, and parking where I live is always hard to come by, I prefer to hoof it to the store when I need groceries. This effectively limits me to purchasing only as much as I can carry back to my house. I rarely drive my car to do a full weekly grocery run, instead I just figure out what I need to get me through the next twenty four to forty eight hours, and then amble down the street and get the supplies. I'm usually pretty good about sticking to the items that I need, but I am vulnerable to the "impulse buy", especially when I get to the checkout counter. I am notorious for grabbing a couple of Butterfinger candy bars, along with some Altoids gum, a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, a couple of Slim Jim's, and the occasional LIFE magazine, or DVD. In my own defense, I do buy the Cheetos and the Slim Jim's for my fiance, but, admittedly, the rest of the crap is for me.

Yesterday, I changed things up a bit, and grabbed a medium sized (4 1/2 oz) bag of Cracker Jack. Cracker Jack and I go way back. As I'm sure it does for a lot of people. Cracker Jack, according to the website, was first introduced at the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago. It took its place in popular culture when it was included in the song "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in 1908. Bottom line...its been around a long time, and most everybody has tried, or is at least aware of the "popcorn, peanut, and caramel confection". Cracker Jack is a comfort food, it still tastes the same to my taste buds as it did when I was four. My grandfather used to take me to the Loyola Theater to see matinees when I was small, and he would get me Cracker Jack. I don't know if he bought it there, or if he brought it with him, my memory is a little vague, but I remember my grandfather and I remember the Cracker Jack. Maybe he had taken me to circus, or a freaking carnival...I don't know...but the two are somehow connected. There is also a bit of nostalgia, and longing for childhood innocence worked in there too, but I digress. Like I said, Cracker Jack is a comfort food, and it seemed like the right call as I was checking out with the rest of my stuff.

I opened the bag a little later that evening, and sent myself back to the soft theater seat, or circus bleacher, or whatever I was sitting on when I was four, with the salty sweet combo of flavors. The caramel coat on the popcorn was just as I remembered it, but something wasn't quite right. I realized quickly that it was the absence of peanut. While popcorn is the true foundation of the recipe, the peanut is secondary only in quantity. When it comes to overall flavor impact, the peanut is just as much a role player as is the popped corn. The salty-sweet end result satisfies all of your mouths desires, and is equally complimented by soda or beer (I prefer the latter, but will go with the former when looking for full nostalgic impact). On this occasion the combo was definitely hurting when it came to peanuts. I looked down into the open bag and didn't see any. I shook the bag a little and looked again...nothing. Now I understand that the contents of the bag, during transport, experiences some "settling". The heavy stuff will find its way to the bottom of the bag as it is jostled on its journey from the factory to the store. But even with that in mind, I wasn't seeing near enough peanuts. I continued to eat my way through the bag until I got about an inch from the bottom, it was here that my hound-dog-like investigative reflexes kicked into action, and I decided to...well...investigate.

I poured the remaining contents of the bag into a pie tin, and separated the popcorn from the peanuts. Keep in mind I had not eaten a single peanut from the bag yet. I counted thirteen whole peanuts, and fourteen half peanuts...a grand total of twenty peanuts, all of which were sitting in the rubble at the bottom of the bag, pretty much ruining the whole flavor experience. This pissed me off. I paid $1.29, plus tax, for the bag...my grandfather paid a nickle...a fuggin nickle! I was most certainly being hosed. I did some more calculations, and in approximate terms, based on the size of the bag, the number of popped corn kernels left in the bag when I dumped it out, taking into account the aforementioned "settling of contents in transport", and deducting, of course, the area occupied by the peanuts, it was determined that each bag would have in it between 375 and 425 popped corn kernels. For purposes of the investigation, I split the difference and called it an even 400. So we have a 20 peanut to 400 kernel ratio...or 1 peanut for every 20 kernels. When you consider that an honest mouthful of Cracker Jack requires 2 to 3 kernels to a peanuts, for maximum flavor, it is more than apparent just how terribly wrong, and completely unacceptable, this ratio is. There should be a minimum of 125 to 135 peanuts per bag in order to achieve an acceptable balance between the corn and the nut.

The more I though about it, the more pissed I got. There were definitely way more peanuts in the bag when I was a kid. Waaaay more! Not only that, the nuts were stuck to the corn by the caramel...not laying impotently at the bottom of my sack like they do now. They are taking advantage of us. They are putting one over on us people! We're being hornswaggled! We're being bamboozled! They are taking us to the cleaners and laughing all the way to the bank. All for a buck...your buck...my buck...my grandfathers buck (after he bought twenty). A buck twenty-nine actually. The bastards. Commie pinko's. They'll make excuses about packaging weights, and the cost of the peanut. They'll point the finger at shipping costs, and import taxes, but it's all a load of crap. We need to rise up people and demand some satisfaction. We are the consumer dammit! Without us they're nothin'! They expect us to just lie there and take it. To just sit on our fat asses and shovel their almost entirely popcorn product down our gullets. But we can do something! We can write our congressman! Perhaps a letter to the editor of Rolling Stone or Newsweek? Or maybe just call the customer comments toll-free number on the back of the bag. Whatever the case, let's make a change for good America. Lets send a message that we know what's worth fighting for in this country today. Lets tell whoever will listen, "We want our nuts back!"