How To Move A Cactus

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So there I was, untying a cactus from a tree. Not just any old cactus, but a 7 foot tall cactus. No, make that two cacti. They weren’t exactly up in the tree. They were leaning against the tree. I’m the one up in the tree on a small branch. As I’m struggling with the knot, I’m thinking to myself, “I hope this branch doesn’t break, or I will land on the cactus.” Of course this was taking place just one hour after Jason and I saw our first dead moose laying on the side of the road. Man, living in Colorado is challenging.

 

There are two things in this world that I hate working with: sheep, and cactus. Yesterday, 1000 sheep went walking by onto our road as they were being driven home out of the high country. Today was Seven Foot Tall Cactus Day.

 

I’m struggling with the knots on the cactus while wearing rubber gloves. How rubber gloves are going to protect you from the prickers, is anybody’s guess. The guy who tied the knots, never intended to untie them himself. He must have tightened them with vice grips.

 

I got the cacti untied, climbed down, and Jason showed up with a hand cart. The owner said that we could wrap the thin white cloth around the cacti for transport, and that way we would “hardly get any prickers” in us. Brother! I told Jason that I wanted to go back to the truck, get a machete, and chop the top 3 feet of of the impending disasters off. When I suggested wrapping cardboard around the towering pincushions, everybody agreed. Jason and I went wheeling the flopping cacti to the truck and loaded them in.

 

On the way back to the store where we were delivering the cacti, Jason hit a bump, and when we opened the back door of the delivery truck, the cacti (which had been strapped down as best we knew how to strap flopping seven foot cacti in minuscule pots , down) were laying on their side. More cardboard, more ropes to hoist the cacti onto their feet, more tape. We just about lost Jason and one of the cacti off of the hoist lift on the back of the truck. Can you imagine laying in the bushes with a seven foot octopus full of prickers on top of you? “One Adam Twelve. See the man laying under a cactus at _______. Be advised to wear welding gloves upon arrival…”

 

We got the cacti into the store, unwrapped them, and leaned them up against a wall. They were so floppy, that the previous owner had the gardener remove them from the house, and tie them to a pine tree outside, so we could come and remove them.

 

What a day. I even got into an argument with the GPS. I knew full well where we were going. I had just been to a birthday party near there a few weeks ago. These GPS contraptions often take you the long way around. ‘ Turns out the GPS was right. And she’s never even been to that part of Colorado, before.

 

I’m not sure. If you had the choice, would you rather lay under a seven foot cactus, or a dead moose?

redneck laptop

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In our modern house, we have a real laptop, and a redneck laptop. I’m typing this on the redneck laptop.

 

The redneck laptop began with a genuine computer desk. You know them. They are the kind where you put the monitor on the top, the keyboard on a sliding tray, and the mouse pad holder actually swings out toward you. It’s a tidy little package, and one that I’m proud to own.

The computer desk came to us by way of the Aspen Skiing Company. About 8 years ago, they were going to throw it away because it was cheaply made and the thing was falling apart. The keyboard tray would literally come off the hinges and fall in your lap. I studied the thing which was sitting in the locker room with a FREE sign on it and decided that it was just the challenge for me. I took the wobbly little desk home, ran a half inch all-thread rod from side to side, tightened down the half inch nuts (which will hold up the Brooklyn Bridge) and voila! A functional desk.

Fast forward to today. The nifty little swing out mouse pad holder finally snapped off. My whole family uses the mouse by setting the holder on our laps. Or we use a telephone book. Or we drive the mouse around on our pants, or skirts, or the baby’s head.

The computer desk is laden with a broken pad holder, a cup and spoon that probably held chocolate water (you know how 5 year olds are), composition books, picture books, yellow electrical tape, a Bible (KJV), drawing pads, and I’m not sure what else. Oh look. Floppy disks.

All in all, it’s a place of refuge, a place of creativity, a place to do your schoolwork. It works for now, and that’s what matters. I just hope that the duct tape holds the monitor to the wall a little longer…

Grover and the Moose

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Horses hate moose. It’s a fact.

 

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…

Mouth to Mouth on a Venus Fly Trap

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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.

A Dynamite Ski Lesson

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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