I think back on my time with horses, as a farm boy, wilderness ranger, and horse ranch manager. “Horses aren’t like motorcycles,” I would say. “You can’t just get on ‘em, and ride off.”

I’ve been thrown, rolled on top of, scraped off under thorn trees, and scraped off on barbed wire by horses. Somehow, I kept getting back on. That explains a lot.

If you want a nice “safe” ride, get a 4 wheeler. Otherwise, if you really want to experience the raw exhilaration of life, plop yourself in the saddle, and wait for adventure, and fate to take the reins.

Occasionally, you will have a grown adult look at you with wide eyes and say, “I’m sorry!” while they back their cart off to the side. Is this the first time they’ve ever done this?  Haven’t they learned how to watch out for other people?

It’s my theory, that everyone is in their own little world, now. I-pods, I-phones, head phones, smart phones, dumb phones, media overload, down time, “Me Time”, TV, DVD, HDTV, and the like have all turned us into non thinking, non caring robots.  It’s been a few generations since people went out of their way to help others.

The most common occurrence of this syndrome, and the reason for this post, is when I watch people on my cave tours walk to the top of a set of stairs, and when they get to the top, they stop. They stand right on the edge of the landing, looking around, panting.

Just once, I’d like to see someone coming up from the steps “bounce” off of the offender, and start a domino chain reaction of people falling back down the steps.

No broken bones, no bruises, just a lot of screaming and yelling.

Instead, like clockwork, I have to say to them, “Please, move over so others can get up the stairs.”

I wonder what it would be like if everyone was pushing shopping carts up the cave stairs?

Martina Fierenza, the opera singer, joined me and 2 others for an evening cave tour at Glenwood Caverns Adventure Park.  It was the 7 pm tour-that magical time of the evening when cave tours produce the most pleasant and unusual results.

We stopped in the “Darrow Tunnel”, that 150 ft long hallway. I demonstrated the reverberation of the rocks when singing a low bass note. Fantastic. Then I asked miss Fierenza if she’d like to sing anything. She responded so graciously and kindly.

Puccini.

I still get goosebumps just writing about it. The most amazing thing I think I’ll ever hear.

That cave tour should have cost $100 dollars each for the other couple. It was that good.

And as for Martina Fierenza?  She’s my wife, the mother of my 7 kids, and the love of my life.

3 mm long. Light pink. Claws like a scorpion. No eyes. Feelers all over its body. No stinger tail.

It’s called a Pseudoscorpion.

Sorry, you’ll never get to see one on my cave tour. Their claws are too tiny to be able to hand me the cave tour ticket.

So it was today, when my 17 yr. old son needed paper for his College Calculus class. We clicked (See:”250,000 Miles on My Subaru”) on into Walmart’s parking lot and headed straight for the school section once inside.

No ruled filler paper. Not wide. Not college ruled. Nada. Zip. Nicks-O-Rooney. Nowhere.

“How could Walmart be out of school paper?” my son asked.

“Must be a lot of educated kids these days,” I quipped.

We left, disappointed, but happy to think of all of the math problems that those missing papers represented.

Either that, or paper airplanes.

P.S. The college ruled paper from Office Depot had punched holes that don’t line up with each other. How can you NOT get holes lined up when punching them automatically with a machine? Aargh!

In today’s installment, we take the concept of resume enhancement even further, with a much more specific enhancement, and satisfying results:

The sign on the cave tour guide shack says, “B Guide- bury fossils”.  This, too, is no joke. If we provide hidden fossils for kids to discover, then they will smile, and we have a “Mission Accomplished” scenario.

So I go out to the giant sandbox early in the day with a bag of fossils in my hand. I ponder all the nuances of planting fossils, sip my coffee, study the lay of the land and begin.

I dump all of the fossils next to the kiddie sand strainers, smoosh them into the sand with my foot, and walk away. “Mission Accomplished”.

We never had “Fossil Planting- 101” at the college I graduated from.

So I begin the task of turning this little ritual into a career-rocketing resume enhancement entry:

“Director of Paleontological Discoveries.”

“As DOPD, I was responsible for all fossil finds within the Park boundaries, on the days I was scheduled. Fossils ranged from the Dramamine Era, to the later Starbucks Epoch.”

I worked in close proximity to the paleontoligists and elicited suggestions at the sponsored digs.

What’s next?

Today, I’m a “B GUIDE.” Not because my last name begins with B, but because of my scheduled arrival time.

So I dutifully grab the big red push broom and head down to the sandbox and drag the broom around the interior of the 20x20 ft. shaded play place complete with 15 cubic yards of sand, 6 Tonka trucks, and a smattering of strainers and shovels (to be included in Part 2 of my resume enhancement techniques.)

Suddenly, I’m on my dad’s International Farmall “H” tractor back in Indiana in the 1970s. As mom would say, “You boys are out dragging the fields.”

I think to myself, “I never got to do this when I was a guide at Mesa Verde National Park, or the Maroon Bells. I don’t remember any courses in college discussing ‘sweeping the sandbox’.”

So in the interest of advancing my career (and who doesn’t want to advance their career past sweeping sandboxes), I gave some thought as to how I’d position the sandbox duty on my next job resume:

“…As the dedicated team of managers saw my work practices enhancing the mission statement of our business, they began to rely on me more and more to help level the playing field.”

I think I’m on to something…

I was only going to ask $500 for a 1997 Subaru with 220,000 miles on it.

The little car has become my constant companion.

The number of things wrong with the car are astronomical, but it keeps on running despite the severe maintenance neglection.

The driver’s side door squeaks so loudly, that a kid next to me at the grocery store parking lot asked his mommy if that was a “cat crying?”

The right front transaxle is so shot, that people crossing the crosswalks hear it going “click, click, click” (metal on metal), and run for the sidewalk, thinking that they are about to be run over by a piece of farm machinery.

Speaking of metal on metal, the guy at Big Os tire store told me back in May that my brakes were already shot, and needed to be replaced. By my calculations, I’ve descended over 250,000 feet in elevation from my house to work since his admonition. That number just happens to coincide with the milage on my little green beast.It’s also like driving to the bottom of the Grand Canyon 5,000 times for those of you tourists who like to drive to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

There are other little annoyances, like the carpet wearing through to the floorboard, cracked windshield, buttons missing on the electric window master control, and drink holder that only extends with a crowbar.

But all in all, I like the dependable little car. I’ll probably keep it for a few months and sell it next summer.

How many types of solvent do you think I have at my house, not including the 95 octane can of gasoline? 5. Plus 2 kinds of dish soap, 3 types of bar soap (including a walnut sized blob of “Grandpa’s Old Fashioned Bar Soap”.)

Nylon brushes. wash clothes. Dirt. Anything abrasive short of the 40 grit sanding belt, and don’t think that it didn’t enter my mind.

By the time I was done, My hands had pale grey fingertips, and I could have slid my hands into a ladies size medium opera glove. I began practicing marching down the aisle with clenched fists. Not exactly the image I wanted to portray.

Somehow, like at all weddings, it came together at the last second. Next time I’ll polish my boots with black Magic Markers…

“Why do you have chicken legs sticking out of your pants?”

“Why do you have chicken legs sticking out of YOUR pants?” I reply. Big laugh.

I’ve had lots of photos of me and the chicken taken, and on occasion, someone (usually an adult) will want to pose with the chicken.

The description of Jam Crack, using the Rubber Chicken is unique in the entire cave tour industry. It’s unbelievable.

Then, there’s the Light Saber Rubber Chicken impersonation. Yoda would love it.

Come with me and the chicken, and let’s go have some fun underground.

Can you imagine a grown man letting a 5 yr. old take command of a 28 person tour? I don’t let  them.

At the beginning of my tours with rambunctious children, I ask the parents to keep the restless ones near the back of the tour. That way, if the child remains fussy, they can leave the tour easily.

But what happens sometimes, is that the mom will hold the crying child right in front of me, between the rest of the tour and myself. She will look at me and listen to my talk while her child wails. She is completely oblivious to the child’s screams, and the looks on the faces of the tour group show complete disgust.

Other tour guides look at me in horror when I say that I’ve kicked people off of my tour. “Ma'am, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk over the sound of your child. I’ll have to ask you to leave, and maybe we can try this another time.”

One time I did that, and the lady walked about 20 feet away, and stood there with her child screaming. The lady was still trying to listen to my talk. I stopped the tour again and said, “Really, I need you to go.” She slunk away with her still disruptive child.

When I have a kid like that on my tour, and other guides ask, “how was your tour?”, I tell them that I had a “T.W.” along for the ride.

“T.W.” stands for “Tour Wrecker”. When a Tour Wrecker comes along, you don’t get tips at the end of the tour. Even if you booted the little rascal out the door, people are left with a bad taste in their mouth, and aren’t the least bit generous to the guide at the end of the session.

Some guides put up with T.W.s, and just try to get through the 70 minute tour alive. But if the guide really cared about the group, and not just avoiding confrontation, we’d have more parents learning that their family needs to be socially gracious out in public.

There’s one group of people that I’ve never had even the slightest problem with as far as their children are concerned. Their kids stand quietly, listening and looking at the guide, and enjoying the cave. Perhaps the lazy parents should have their children spend some time with these other folks.

Who are these “other folks”? That would be the Amish.

But my legs are lily white. I will be standing in front of 28 people giving a cave tour, looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Maybe this is just a bad dream with a paycheck…

The hike up was warm, and the ski down fun, if not challenging. My ski got stuck in a small bush that was sticking out of the snow like a tiny rainbow. I fell, the ski released, and I stopped with my head hanging down into a crevasse with water rushing down below me. Cool .

That was one 4th of July never to forget.

But put them into one of the smallest, coolest, adventure parks (which happens to be located on the top of Iron Mountain) in America, and you are in for a treat.

We hosted the annual NSS (National Speleological Society) convention at  Glenwood Caverns Adventure Park. The park closed down at 5 pm for a private “party”. And what a party it was. I was opening and closing the airlock entry doors to the cave on average of once every 20  seconds for 4  hours straight. Whew!

The cavers were very grateful. The bats were grateful. The rubber chicken was a hit.

And I got to rub elbows (literally) with some of the best cavers in the world…