When I was a Wilderness Ranger in Meeteetse, Wyoming, I rode horses, and saw moose. There were lots of moose/horse stories being told, but I never thought that I would be in the middle of one of them.

My horse's name was Grover, because he looked like a Muppet: shaggy, one color (black in this case), and a bit wild. Being the low man on the Totem Pole, they let me ride Grover...

It was a rainy, late September day; the kind of day when even a 27 year old can feel in their bones the advancement of winter. The kind of Wyoming winter where it is 30 below zero, and you have to chop the ice on the water tanks for the livestock. As a kid, I used to chop the ice for my dad's cattle back in Indiana.

Grover and I were headed up the Greybull River trail. Before we got to Venus cabin, there was an opening with a huge bull moose standing at the other side. The moose had antlers that were bigger than anything I had seen in my life. I patted Grover on the neck, knowing that he must have already seen the moose, and that me being on the horse, the moose would quickly walk away. But the moose didn't.

We were headed toward the moose at a nice horsey pace. Grover's head was bobbing up and down, as they do when your mount is working hard up in the mountains.

"I'm sure you see the moose," I said to Grover.

Grover walked along, kind of dopey like. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo, his head bobbing up and down.

We were about 80 yards from the moose.

"I'm sure you smell the moose," I reassured Grover, knowing that horses have a keen sense of smell, and can detect danger long before humans. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo went Grover, walking up the trail with a soggy ranger on his back. We were about 50 yards from the moose.

Another pat on Grover's neck for a reminder, and then, "I'm sure you can hear the moose milling around," I said a little louder. It seemed like an urgent reminder, knowing that horses are animals given to fear and running away. We were now about 35 yards away, and the moose wasn't interested in stepping out of the way. Being a very brave, very stupid ranger, I kept the course. Doo dee doo. Doo dee doo went Grover's head, bobbing up and down.

Suddenly, Grover's head jerked up, his eyes grew wide, and he jumped about two feet straight up in the air. He yelled, "A MOOSE!" He spun around, 180 degrees in the air, and hit the ground with all four hooves spinning. The race was on.

If we had been in the Kentucky Derby that day, we would have won by about 4 lengths. That old cow pony pulled speed out of his hind end, and set it on fire. We were flying down the trail, and that horse was wearing Nike horseshoes.

Now I never considered myself a great rider, but I knew one thing: You don't fall off of a speeding horse up in the mountains. You could get killed, and if you don't get killed, you might just lay there, all busted up until you die. Your chances of having a grizzly bear come along are as good as having another person show up and look at your from their horse, wondering what you are doing, laying there all crumpled up, and soaking wet.

So I hung on for all I was worth. Narrow, winding, mountain trails at full speed require a certain amount of anticipation when riding a scared, wet horse. You lean inside the curves like a Can am motorcycle racer, and you flop to the other side before you even get to the curve. All the while I was shouting "Whoa! Whoa!"

After about what I estimated to be half a mile, Grover and I rolled to a stop, about like a Land Speed Record holder car would at the Bonneville salt flats. Grover stood there, trembling. His sides heaved in and out as if he had just finished the Boston Marathon, or won the 1000 meters at the Olympics. Grover turned his head back toward me and said "Why didn't you tell me there was a moose!"

Stupid horse. Wait 'till you hear the grizzly stories...

Don't ever do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a Venus Fly Trap. That is, unless it is still in the plastic protective planter that you buy at the store.

I'm 51 years old, and I've never owned a Venus Fly trap. It's not like our Amish neighbors raised acres and acres of Venus Fly Traps on their neighboring farms in Indiana. Rather, we had the smell of cows, pigs, turkeys, and horses coming from the neighbors. The kind of critters that attract flies

So I'm in the grocery store with two of my young sons. The flower lady gives a cool demonstration of how the fly traps work. My sons are in awe, and I'm drooling on the plants at the thought of hundreds of flies dying in these quiet little death traps. I can just imagine a Venus Fly Trap with about 80 flies in its stomach, looking like a fat, green Santa Claus. So we bought a plant.

At 8500 ft. elevation, and 10 percent humidity, these Fly Traps really take it in the shorts. They die quickly, and when they are alive, they open slowly-real slowly. The instructions on the outside of the plastic cover say, 65-85 degrees Fahrenheit, and 50% humidity...hence the idea to give the plants mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I mean, come on, your breath is way warmer than 60 degrees, and the humidity from your lungs has got to be more than 10%. So I decided to give the little suckers a few puffs, sort of like when you do on Recussa Annie, the CPR mannequin.

I don't think the American Red Cross would approve of mouth-to-mouth on a Venus Fly Trap, but I could write the manual on it.

Don't think for a minute that I put my lips on those hairy little guys. I simply blew into the can through the holes on the top of the lid. And I blew. And I huffed, and I puffed. I was getting kind of lightheaded. I wanted the empty plants to open up so I could watch the live fly go waltzing in and get creamed. I was on my knees on the floor, with my lips on the lid when my 8 year old son walked into the room.

"What are you doing, Dad?"

"Giving mouth-to-mouth to the Fly Traps," I replied, not missing a beat, and giving the recommended 12 breaths per minute.

He just walked out of the room without a reply.

I sat up and thought to myself, "This would look pretty strange to the average person, but apparently not to my family."

Did the Venus Fly Trap mouth-to-mouth resuscitation work? I don't think so. Maybe it's because their little tummies are full, and they know when to push away from the table.

We had just skied down one of the most difficult chutes in the Aspen area and were taking a break. Milan was taking photos of the descent route, and everyone was pumped. We were still standing on a “double black diamond run”, but this spot was not the steepest.

As a ski instructor, you get to see the most beautiful scenery, tackle the most difficult challenges, and meet the most interesting people. Saxon and Milan were two of those people. They were two more guys in a litany of crazy Aussies- Australians who have been in my ski classes. Saxon liked digging snow caves (he skied with a shovel and survival gear) and Milan liked dropping off of rocks.

The short rest break was over, and it was time to ski. “Watch out over there.” I said. “That big black crater is a 'bomb' hole.” A bomb hole is what is left when the Ski Patrol throws dynamite to try and start an avalanche. In this case, the snow was already stable enough (even though we were standing in 12 inches of powder) to not slide.

“I'm going to ski through it,” Saxon said.

“OK,” I replied, “But don't fall into it, you'll get chemical tangents all over you.”

“What do you mean?” Saxon asked.

“The residue from the dynamite will stick to your ski clothes. If you wear that outfit when you fly home, and there are 'bomb sniffing' machines at the airport, you'll set them off!”

Next thing I know, Saxon is rolling in the bomb crater, laughing, and picking up blackened snow and rubbing it all over his body. So much for the avoidance idea.

My ski school clients have the wackiest lessons you've ever seen. One time I had two teen brothers from the east coast. We duct-taped a smoke bomb onto a ski pole and skied a crazy zig zag through a crowded trail near the bottom of the mountain. We've dug snow caves, roasted marshmallows, launched hot dogs on bottle rockets, somersaulted off of cornices, skied through chest-deep powder, dropped off of frozen waterfalls, over water ponds, and occasionally learned something. Just kidding. You will always learn something in my class.

I love teaching skiing to people who've never even seen snow before. I do it a lot. To paraphrase the once famous mountain guide, Gaston Rebufet: “The joy I found when first ascending the peaks is now renewed every time I guide someone into the mountains and I see the joy and wonder on their faces.”

You can now book me for private ski lessons online. The process is really easy. Check out my ski homepage. Come to Aspen and ski with me. It'll be your best trip ever. Trust me, I'm your guide.

Cheers,

Jerry “Mad Max” Begly

Hackers are trying to weasel their way into my website. How do I know? My webmaster pulls up info and shows it to me all the time. Up to this point, we've had seven hacking attempts, and they've all failed.

“How do you keep them out?” I can hear you saying. It's easy: If you look at my spinning globe on the homepage of www.jerrybegly.com , you will see a character holding a sign which says something. The character came from Camp Pinetar, a comic strip that I drew several years ago. His name is “Hacker”, and he was way ahead of his time. (He hooked up a fax machine to his 3-D computer program and was faxing camp meatloaf to Africa. The natives at the other end thought that the fax machine was spitting out bricks for their new hospital.)

If you can catch it, the sign has a cryptic “anti hacker” message on it. One free t-shirt (no kidding) will be given to the first person who emails me and explains WHAT the sign says, and HOW it is used!

Bonus round: One free t-shirt (no kidding) will be given to the person who can email me and tell me what was used to make the squeaking sound on the globe. You must be specific. You haven't heard the squeaking sound, or oiled the globe? What's wrong with your computer?

Anyway, hacking is not encouraged in our society, but I can tell you the name of one major company in our area that is completely vulnerable to hackers. They are a multi-million dollar entity, and they must have a two-bit IT department. Shame. Maybe someday, you'll see a spinning “Hacker” globe on their home page...

It humbles me to know that more than 10 people enjoy reading my blog. Hopefully, it's because you can relate a little bit to what's going on in my posts. Or maybe you are transported to a time or place that you've not experienced, and that intrigues you. That's what writing is supposed to be about.

This site is all about “hitting below the belt.” Here, we get to make up the journalistic rules. I get to call 'em like I see 'em, and I won't have an editor throw me out of his office like happened at the Aspen Daily News one time. (cartoons that poke fun at gays aren't tolerated in Aspen).

In sappy dweeb language, I would have to say that Caleb, my Webmaster, and you the reader/subscriber are the last two legs of my three-legged stool of blogdom. Thank you. If you really like a post, send it to a friend and share the irreverence. One of my favorites is “Bugs Bunny and the Mexicans.”

Now let's get on with the show...

It was late August 1991, and the Turks were still celebrating Ramadan. Giles, a French chef and mountain climber, was traveling with me westward on a multi-day train ride through Turkey. We had just aborted a climbing/archaeological expedition on Mt. Ararat to look for Noah's Ark. Yes, that Noah's ark.

Former astronaut James Irwin, of Apollo 15, had put this expedition together, as he had done several other times. He invited me to join the search since I had mountain guiding experience, and had been part of the 1989 Huston Explorers Club group. It was in 1989 that I had met Jim in Houston.

Giles and I were riding first class at the back of the train. Being explorers, we began to wander around the train on day 2. Giles said, “Let's see how far we can go to the front of the train before they stop us.” It seemed like a good thing to do at the time. So we walked forward in the train wearing tank tops, shorts, flip flops, and only carrying our cameras around our necks.

One of the first cars we came to was the dining car. Turks stared at a Frenchman, and an American in a World Gym tank top, as they wandered through the car. Giles kept pointing to me saying “Bruce Springsteen!” in a thick French accent. I kept on telling them, “I'm not Bruce Springsteen!” The Turks were not impressed.

It is interesting to note, that in Turkey, you can get away with murder as long as you have a camera around your neck, and are taking pictures. Turks are egomaniacs, and will stop and pose for you, as if they are some wannabe politician or young movie star. So we moved forward through the train, smiling, and taking pictures. Point a camera at a Turk, and they are your friend for life. Additionally, they will scribble down their name and address in some ancient cuneiform, expecting a photo in the mail.

My companion and I kept moving forward through the train, smiling and taking photos. Finally, we opened a door to see the two conductors in a box car, with bunk beds and a table. One conductor was standing, looking over the shoulder of a sitting conductor. They glared at us. Quickly, Giles said, “Photos. Photos!” The frowns turned to smiles, and the conductors stood at attention while we snapped away. They beckoned me over to them, put a conductor's hat on me and stood by me like we had gone to school together for 12 years.

The train was coming to a stop, and Giles pointed to the door at the front of the car. “Can we go through this one?” He asked. The conductors didn't speak English, but instead, opened the big boxcar door, jumped out, and gave us a stool to get down.

“Let's take a picture of the front of the train,” Giles said. So we walked to the front of the train, turned around, and got ready to take a picture of the Locomotives. As I'm looking through the camera lens, I yelled, “Giles! The train is moving!” Sure enough, they took off without us.

Have you ever been in central Turkey with no passport, money, or luggage? I have. However, being the survivor that I am, I wasn't going to let it last for long. I started running beside the train engine, ready to grab the ladder. Giles, being a smart Frenchman, did the same. I climbed the front ladder on the second locomotive, Giles climbed the rear ladder on the first locomotive. Then Giles jumped from the first locomotive to the second, where I was. We were on the train! Woo Hoo!

The engineer opened the front door on the locomotive that we were on, and started screaming to us in Turkish. He was waving his hand wildly, beckoning us to come into the cab. We complied. I guess we went as far to the front as we could.

When we got into the locomotive, the two engineers were yelling at us like Marine Drill Sergeants. Then Giles calmly said “Photos. Photos.” The yelling stopped abruptly, and we began taking photos. I have photos of the men. I have photos of the engine cab. I have a photo of Giles driving the train with his hand on the throttle.

We were in that cab for what must have been an hour. We passed over several bridges, drove through rough canyons, and past mountains, plains, and sheepherders. The engineers wanted Giles camera, and tried bartering cigarettes for it. “No” was Giles only reply.

“We'd better get out of here,” I said, “They could take your camera, throw us off of the train on a high bridge, and everybody would know that those two stupid tourists climbed onto the train while it was taking off, and fell off of the engines into a deep canyon." We could become victims of the perfect crime.

So when the train finally came to a stop at a station, we smiled, said “Thank you!” and ran for the back of the train. The conductor met us as we boarded. He was pulling his hair out. Giles looked at him, smiled, and said, “Photos! Photos!” The conductor glowered at us, pointed to the back car of the train where we were supposed to be riding, and shouted, "NO PHOTOS!”

1. Tax Protesters.

2. Tax Embracers.

3. Tax Sufferers-in-Silence.

More and more I'm running into Tax Protesters. They aren't the kind that absolutely refuse to pay income tax, but they are becoming more vocal about what they see as our different levels of government generally smothering Americans. Some of them talk of “Taking America back”. Some tell me that they are contacting their representatives on a regular basis. Whatever the action, these people used to be part of the Tax Sufferers-in-Silence. They are good, hardworking, moral, usually Christian, citizens.

Our leaders would do well to remember what happened when Christians in the early colonies were overtaxed, and subject to “...a long train of abuses...”. We Americans will put up with a lot of shenanigans, but there comes a point where responsible citizens will rein it in.

The Tax Embracers are of the category where it is generally assumed that your government is the best entity at taking care of the public. After all, look at our beautiful city parks, paved sidewalks, and public schools. (OK, so don't look at our public schools.) Police, fire, and the Tidal Basin in Washington are testimony to the government's care for us. (OK, so forget the Tidal Basin. The last time I was there, trash was floating all over in the water. On the other hand, there were chain link fences everywhere because of Homeland Security, and you couldn't go into the Capitol to use the restroom, which probably is why the Tidal Basin was trashed.) Tax embraces will literally kill you during the process of “taking care” of you. Don't get me going on this.

Tax-Sufferers-in-Silence are the absolute largest group. Our friends, relatives, coworkers, and neighbors fall into this group. They usually work real hard to make a living, and don't have time for tax protesting, or other nonsense. Not only that, they aren't sure what to do, or where to start. They are the person who you always hear saying, “You can't fight City Hall.” Baloney. For an example of how one simple letter can LOWER your taxes, check out my blog, “Copy of a Tax Protest Letter”. That one letter lowered my property taxes, and you can do it too! Suffering in silence isn't necessary, anymore. If ever there was hope in America, it is in the fact that you can now hold the government's feet to the fire.

Anyone who has been on the Internet lately (I assume you're not reading this on a bulletin board at work) has noticed the “stimulus” ads. I'm talking about the ones using Barack Obama's name.

“Barack Obama wants you to lose weight!”

“Barack Obama wants you to buy a new car!”

“Barack Obama wants you to buy organic toenail clippers!”

Who are these people, and why don't they fire their ad agencies? Do they really think that Americans want the President telling them what to do on EVERYTHING?

“Barack Obama wants you to invest in yo-yos!”

“Barack Obama wants you to sell your children to slave traders and go back to school!”

“Earn your B.A. (Barack of America) degree while sitting at home collecting unemployment!”

To have so many ads on the Internet using Barack Obama's stimulus plan as the impetus, shows what a nation of charlatans and con men we've become. Either that, or we are all now taking marching orders from our new Commander in Chief. Or maybe we all are greedy and just want “the other guy” to pay for our life's choices.

“Barack Obama wants you to plant wildflowers!”

“Barack Obama wants you to give blood to the needy government!”

“Barack Obama wants you to lick his boots! Only $29.95. Don't delay!”

The chickens will come home to roost when Americans start calling the White House switchboard and begin asking questions like, “Mr. President, where should I send my kid to college?... Or camp?”

“Mr. Obama, which peanut butter should I buy?”

“Mr. President of the Century, where did I put my car keys?”

“Hey Barry, can I borrow the car tonight?

“What's up with last week's NASCAR satellite feed?

“Why are there so many questions about cars on Jerry Begly's blog site?”

I don't know. Maybe it's OK for Barack Obama to be invoked about everything. After all, he asked for it.

“Hello Whitehouse? My organic toenail clippers broke. Where do I send them for repair?"

For the last several months, someone, or someTHING has been taking down posters, banners, fliers, and notices that people staple at the multi mailbox area at the bottom of our road. Ironically, there seems to be some type of pattern, so we hired a private detective from England. He came up with several interesting clues:

1. Fliers containing missing animals are “safe”.

2. Multiple fliers will always be attacked, unless they contain the words “private”, “campfires”, or “neighborhood”.

3. The word “Woody” scores bonus points, and assures immunity from the Mad Ripper (we ALL love Woody and his wife. They brought food to our town.).

    

   In order to be allowed placement on the “open to the public” flier area, potential pieces of paper must be submitted for review to an unknown entity at an unknown address, and meet unknown criteria. This is easy enough.
   

Some suggestions have been bandied about how we can have fun at the expense of the Mad Ripper. We could put up a note like this one:

Dear Fellow Neighbors,

I'm tearing down every piece of paper that I don't want to see on this space. You people don't understand the unwritten rules for posting things here.

Signed,

The Mad Ripper

When the Mad Ripper tears down the “note” that we put up, we can replace it with another one like this:

Dear Fellow Control Freaks,

Some impostor is pretending to be me. I am the original Mad Ripper. Notice how I rip down the posters, and fliers around here. There is no one as good at it as me. Just because some poser smart Alec doesn't like what I do gives them no right to imitate me.

Sincerely,

The REAL Mad Ripper

Then we will rip down most of the above letter, leaving the phrase “mart Alec” and “ad Ripper” on it.

After a few days, we will tear that note off, and replace it with 50 fliers stapled up which read,

Lost Woody

Somewhere in our neighborhood, there is a private animal.

If found, please build a campfire.

Then we will tear off all of those fliers, and staple them upside down. After a week, we will take all of them down. Then we will take a plain 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper with no writing on it. We will staple it to the Fed Ex box with 500 staples, and no comment.

This is going to be fun.

First I tried “Old McDonald Had a Farm”. It was OK. Then I tried “The 1812 Overture”. That didn't go so well. As my son, Caleb was threading the rubber plug material into the tire repair tool, I was playing songs on the tire with the air leaking out of the hole. It was his second repair in the last 10 minutes. And it's only 7:30 am. We need to leave for work in a few minutes.

Yesterday, we had a flat out in front of Walmart on the main road. I mean, where you couldn't pull off unless you parked on the sidewalk like they do in Ankara, Turkey. I changed out the tire to the spare while the kids were in the store buying birthday presents and other necessities. ( Did you know that at Walmart a pair of pliers costs less than a box of Cheese Crackers?) It was 99 degrees out. Why did we come down out of the cool mountains, anyway?

I've had so many flat tires this summer, that my wife and I can't recount them all..

One memorable flat involved Big-O tires. To be fair, they have repaired about 10 of the flats- 9 of them for free. Nonetheless, I had a leak on the Suburban tire. The manager at Big-O said “It's too big of a hole. We can't fix it.”

“Can't you put a patch or boot on the inside?” I asked.

“No good. Eez too small,” I was assured by the repairman, as he held up a tiny round rubber disc.

“Put it on, anyway,” I demanded.

While the guy was starting the process, I ran next door to the auto parts store, grabbed a Tire Patch Kit with larger patches in it, waited patiently/impatiently/patiently/impatiently in line, “Thanks for your patience” said the cashier, (also, see “Egyptian Jazz” to see how patient I really can be), ran back to Big-O, and handed the largest patch to the tire repair guy. Heez eyes got real big, and he said “Where you git deeze?”

“Next door, at the auto parts store” I replied.

He ripped the small patch off, and put the bigger one on.

Flat tires wouldn't be such a problem if I didn't live in such a remote area. 30 miles to town can be a problem, and why is it that you notice 50 percent of your flat tires in the evening, just as the repair places are shutting down for the night?

My son and I can change a flat tire on a Subaru in under 3 minutes. I wish we were on an Indy pit crew, or racing in Dakar, or Baja. I'd also like to meet Iron Man Stewart. He's cool.

So, I'm back at the 1812 Overture, and it's sounding more like a party balloon in a Fraternity House member's armpit. I think it would sound better if we pumped the tire up to about 50 lbs. pressure.

Now we've got something going! Hey what's that sound? Are those the cannons going off in the “1812”, or my other 3 tires exploding?...

I get up, grab my solar flashlight, and put on a bathrobe and DC flipflops. As I climb the stairs, I can softly hear the animal walking outside of the house. I top the stairs and shine the light out the dining room window. There, the two beady eyes look in through the glass at me from a distance of about 6 feet away. The eyes are red in the light.

I walk quietly over to the French doors, and open one gently. Stepping out onto the porch to face my foe, I approach the beast. Pandora's Box opens up...

act 1.

I yell an Indian war cry and wave my hands in the air as I rush the animal.

The offending beast takes off, away from me toward the garage end of the deck.

Seeing the ladder and Tweety Bird folding chairs stacked at the end of the deck, the intruder turns 180 degrees, and runs straight toward me!

I lunge for the animal, determined to rid my property of its presence.

The speeding nymph pulls free of my grasp and runs to the French doors.

With only a slight pause, the beast enters my home. It is now inside of my house!

I run inside the house, confronting the white specter, yelling, “I'll kill you! I'll kill you!”

A nasty square dance ensues, with the beast, two glass doors, a pile of house building tools , clean laundry hanging up, and myself.

The solar light is shorting out, and blinks on and off wildly; like some cheap disco effect.

The intruder stumbles out of my house and onto the deck.

I chase the beast around my house several times, throwing small rocks at its hind quarters, in a vain attempt to chase it off of my property.

It likes my house and property...

act 2.

I'm in the basement, yelling at my wife to get up and help me capture the animal.

She's bleary eyed from lack of sleep, and a bit confused.

It's 12:30 am, and I've been squaring off with the animal for over a half hour, now.

I'm exhausted, frustrated, and my blood pressure is nearing the “hospitalization” threshold.

act 3.

My oldest daughter is calmly standing on the east porch, with a lasso around the wild creature's neck.

I show up in my bathrobe and flipflops and ask her how she did it.

The animal lunges down the length of the deck, toward the Tasmanian Devil folding chair, and launches off of a 5 ft. high spot.

My daughter hangs on for dear life, trying not to be pulled off of the deck.

She's now wrestling with the midnight intruder and it's dragging her towards the cliff next to our house.

I scream at my daughter to help her, and she says, “Leave me alone! I've got it!”

A lot of yelling ensues, mostly from my end. I grab the rope, and drag the animal with all of my might. It is kicking and flopping and pulling both me and my daughter along a steep moonlight hillside.

There are pleas for mercy, and the animal lays nearly motionless on the dirt.

Suddenly, it jumps up and the fight begins again.

We wrestle it generally in the direction of our intended goal...

act 4.

The lamb is now safely in our shed, being comforted by my daughter.

I'm nailing boards on the doors like Wiley Coyote, as I try to secure that sheep for the night. It reminds me of another time I had to do this same type of thing. But that's another story...

I put a pan of water into the shed.

My wife is stumbling around in the moonlight, wearing her pajamas.

She's pulling grass for the lamb.

My daughter is removing multiple ropes from the now-docile lamb.

We waddle back across the steep hillside.

It's 1:30 am.

It's time to go to bed.

My daughter won the belt buckle.

The Midnight Rodeo is over.