All One River GIS

There is an article in the Flume newspaper (South Park , Colorado) suggesting a newly proposed mining venture might be as calamitous as Summitville (sigh… Summitville again? Is anyone interested in modern mining?) Is this guy going to set up a hydraulic hose and wash Fairplay with all its stray dogs and small children into the headwaters of the South Platte? Are the skys going to be darkened by black clouds of smog and cinders from the burning of a smelter? Will the sound and vibrations of dynamite blasts shake the lovely hamlet from its foundations? Horses will be terrified!

This remains to be seen.

So far, the conceptual pit outline for a quarry first then gold exploration is proposed to be about 20 feet deep. Gad forbid! Elk can fall in. The water table might be deflected.

“I feel that he’s looking out for his own personal interest, and he’s going to come in here, and basically rape the land,” he said (quote from John Madsen, board member of the Fairplay Sanitation District)

Rape the land. This is so contrite. It’s a gravel pit! Take a drive there. Fairplay is a historic mining town turned spill-over real-estate resort from Breckenridge. There are log-McMansions on mining claims built with over 6,000 feet footprint of 3 story bow-front home with external lighting, heating, hot tubs, garages, terra-scaped mountain sides, with snow mobiles, moly-alloy mountain bikes — OK, I’m ranting. Just take a drive there. Maybe come up through Colorado Springs and drive through South Park itself to see how the local ranchers turn hundreds of animals loose to forage the sparse grass into dirt squares, the wide open plains are chopped into little barbed-wire estates of higgledy-piggledy modular units with plywood sheds and plastic dog igloos.

I venture to say that maybe the aesthetic character of South Park and Fairplay could use a mining operation to clean it up a bit, protect the river, restore the original vegetation to what it was BEFORE the people came, which is what mines do. There are some GREAT examples of modern mining and community enhancement in place right here in Colorado — I point out Tom Hendricks operations in Nederland, Colorado just down the road from Boulder. Same for Idaho Springs, Victor, Colorado, Oak Creek, Hayden to name a few.

“He cited the Summitville open pit mine as an example of a possible outcome for the Fairplay mine.”

I think this man needs a tour. Anybody out there want to take him and his family on a mine tour?

swine infested rio

I just got back from working 2 months in Mexico. While I was there, somebody’s pig apparently got sick and sneezed on some poor soul who took it to market and now the whole world and my people in Colorado won’t have anything to do with me. I had heard there was an epidemic of swine flu and I saw the local people wearing blue paper masks (below their nose: true point of fact, as if the keeping of the chin clean was what that was all about, or perhaps if they saw a germ come flying – “When pigs fly” comes to mind… digression, my dear, the digression police are getting nearer and nearer with that funny little white jacket with the long sleeves….) Sigh…

Seriously, I turned my face north with a focus that would not be hindered by border guards or Haz-mat teams with biological warfare gear: I was headed home before “THEY” (who?) might close the borders. In reality, I had been working ensconced at a remote mine (not saying where but it sounds a lot like “Wanna-WHAT-o?” with nominal human contact though I had been feeding (illegally) skinny stray cats with drippy eyes and a couple feral poodles (”Why, no officer, I have not been in contact with livestock nor visited a farm on my trip, but there were these sickly little cats…) I never touched them and I wore gloves to remove the dishes (plastic yogurt tubs I had cut down to kitty-and-poodle-nose-size to dispense such things as left over beans, pasta, rice, tuna juice, etc.) I did not have the pleasure of socializing with drippy nosed humans while I was in Mexico, though. I had to go to Houston for that.

It was only in the Houston airport that I realized my imminent danger: people. Lots of them. All of the people in the airport looked sick to me. Pale. Red-eyed. Kleenex. Wheezy. They all needed to be rounded up and powdered with anti-microbial applications. And the CHILDREN! What germ bags! All the children in airports look like walking petri-dishes to me. Filthy, sticky little fingers and crusty nostrils. Stains on their shirts. Boogers. All that. Icky. But it was on the plane actually (am I showing my age?) on the JET that the incursion occurred: right when we were making our approach to DIA in Colorado, someone in the back of the jet started sneezing!! Ach-OOOO Ach-OOOOO Ach-OOOOOO five times! And with every effusion, the other passengers cringed and muttered Hail Mary’s praying to God for delivery from the evil peril aboard our craft.

The sneezer was a germ-terrorist. I wondered if brave guys in business suits were going to have to tackle him on behalf of the welfare of the rest of us. Women were crying. Babies were falling into comas. The sneeze juice hung in the stagnant vessel air like anthrax. We had no choice but to breath it in. That is where I was exposed to swine flu.

When I got back home, no one wanted to see me. Not even my business associates. I put myself in personal quarantine for a couple of days and then ventured out in public – first to my eye doctor to get a new pair of glasses. The receptionist hung back from me:

“Weren’t you afraid of the swine flu health threats?” she asked.

“Health threats?” I asked. “Malaria, TB, cholera, Dengue fever, Yellow fever, certain snakes and spiders, teenage boys with AK-47s and little angry men in the jungle with machetes are my definition of health threats,” I told her. “Swine flu and Duck flu and Elephant flu are here every year and you can get exposed to it on the bus so stay in your house.” Be careful. Stay in your house. Haven’t you heard? We are at Code ORANGE ALERT!!!!!!!! (Hmmm, after thought: do you think Obama has to use the same color code as Bush or can he change them now to say, code BLUE?)

One of the Mexican geologists came to my office to share his anxiety over what he called a military mustering along the US-Mexico border that he said happened overnight. He said 10,000 Mexican army troops moved into a small village in Sonora. We were both trying to imagine what that looked like – helicopters and trucks for sure, probably lots of jeep-mounted machine guns with thick belts of bullets but 10,000 soldiers had to arrive on foot. If so, that situation probably looked a lot like when the Roman army (or any other historic army) invaded or “mobilized” in historic times. The geologist also told me that Obama had sent National Guard (at first he said Coast Guard!) to the border. I seriously doubted that. After he left I searched the Internet and couldn’t find any news to document that action but found sources quoting Obama on the topic of potential for a mobilization. (I am limited for news while here, which helps get the work done…)

The geo and I speculated what it must have been like in the Obama’s bedroom that night:

 Phone rings (the RED one)…

 ”Hey Babe, the phone is ringing,” says Michelle.

 ”Which one?” asks B.

 ”I think it’s the red one,” replies M.

 ”ACHHH!” At that moment the door knocks. M and B clutch their sheets to their chins. “Come in!” Says B in a deep male voice of authority.

 ”Mr. President, an army of 10,000 troops has amassed along the US-Mexican border. We would like to respond, sir.”

 ”Respond? Um, how so?” Says B.

 ”With the like, Sir — 50,000 soldiers, helicopters, tanks, missiles, and assorted heavy artillery.”

 ”Really?” B is thinking on his feet. “Let’s examine our alternatives.” He thinks some more. “I really don’t want to militarize our borders for undue circumstances.” Thinking, thinking, thinking… “Hmmmm….”

 ”Honey?” says Michelle.

 ”Yes,” says B.

 ”Maybe the Mexicans are just dealing with those narcos and drugos. They probably have to send a lot of guys up there to deal with the bad guys. Maybe this isn’t a national threat ot teh US. Maybe we should just send, say — some National Guard down there! They volunteer for this, right? It would be a good exercise for them.”

 ”Good idea! Let’s do that. Let’s get the National Guard deployed along the border. Take notes, take photos, write a report. Let’ avoid sending the army in unless something really immanent arises. OK, soldier? Got that?”

“Yes, sir: National Guard deployed along border to observe and evaluate…”

 ”Anything else, soldier?” B has to ask as the guy is kind of hanging out.

 ”No helicopters or artillery?”

 ”NO!” Both B and M respond together. The guy leaves. B looks at M.

 ”You know, one day this could be a really serious situation.”

 ”Let’s hope not soon, Babe. I wanna go back to sleep. It’s only 2…”

I am writing from a secret place – one that is pronounced something like, “Wanna Watt O?” I’m not saying any more on that topic as these people really need me to work long days but after over 12 hours concentration on the task required, I think I can blog while my dinner is cooking (alone, I am cooking like an old man without washing or even rinsing the pan after a few meals previously prepared because maybe that residual coating will enhance the flavor…)

This company allows me to have a beer in my compound-home, which is always appreciated. I am cooking, listening to Maria Callas, and writing a blog for Infomine at the end of a long day. I need to write to my family to tell them I have not been kidnapped and have not contracted a strange virus (though an odd rash has appeared in my belly button…)

I am remembering my family — in particular the last few hours spent at my parents’ house before I left. I had been gone for a week in Arizona and only had one day back in Colorado before leaving for hither lands (Wanna Watt O…) I needed to stay at my parent’s house the night before flying out at 7 a.m. because my home is 100 miles from the airport and they live closer.

When I got to my parent’s (the “Rents”) house it was late. I had been driving through snow at night reminiscing about the evening spent with my huzbun. We both had a bunch of chores we had to do separately, though it was our only day together since I got back from field work. By now, I have sufficiently trained my mother that I would rather commit to extreme commutes, driving-wise, in order to maximize on time at home with Doug rather than come to her house at an earlier hour. She understands.

Doug and I eventually caught up together by the day’s end. He had bought nice groceries and I prepped a meal so it would be ready to throw on the grill while we soaked in the hot tub. Nice plan all around. We can see into the dog kennel from the hot tub. I watched Walter, (we have a visiting dog temporarily), and that makes for a full house (four dogs, two cats, two horses, two humans). All the dogs get along and Walter is very friendly. He is beautiful, too, really easy on the eyes. I enjoy watching such a nicely bred animal of any kind and appreciate their conformation as they stand and move.

O.D., my oldest dog was that way once. Guffy, my long dead Nez Pierce appaloosa, was too. I think my appreciation came from watching thoroughbred race horses at Saratoga and Belmont so closely. I used to go down to the paddock and watch on the opposite side of a fence or bush-barrier as they were first led in a state of excitement, then saddled and pampered, and then escorted with heightened tension to the track. Nothing like it.

Doug and I had our dinner together and then it was time for me to leave. It started snowing hard. My Subaru drives nicely, but the other drivers were annoying. I made it to Rents house by 11 p.m.. I knew Mom wasn’t feeling well due to having a cold, fatigue, etc. Dad would be in bed listening to me do the door routine correctly. I am trained it seems. I also know the bathroom routine (we share his bath). This makes me an elite member of a private club that way.

Sometimes when I come to their house late at night, my mom has turned down the covers and put a chocolate on the pillow. True. Once, she put some teddy bears that my niece, S, had looped arm-in-arm with each other on my pillow. I know S stays in my bedroom when she visits grandma and grandpa under similar circumstances that I stay there. She knows the secret rules, the hidden stuff. Thirteen year-old S knows the routine of the household as well as I do. I wondered if she looped the bear’s arm-in-arm as a secret code to me, knowing I would be there eventually? Then, on another visit I noticed she put my silver necklace in the paw of a ceramic cat. That’s when I knew for sure — she IS communicating to me,

When I got in their house, I secured all the locks in the order they must be secured and put my keys where I always put them, put my coat where I always put it, and put my dry cleaning where I always drape it over the chair in the living room so the sound of the plastic won’t wake them (but they are already awake — always are waiting to hear me come in… I know they are comforted to hear me come home and I am comforted to know they are listening. )

The bedside lamp is usually turned on a low setting in my room. I saw the covers were turned down but instead of a chocolate on the pillow, Mom had place a single daffodil — one from her garden. Spring had come o the Rockies.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. This makes men squeamish at mines all over the world. The special day is designed to bug them selectively, per a gender. Women don’t get all worked up – OH YOU THINK THEY DO? They don’t. There is a simple and mindless formula for keeping to the rules: but her something. By that, I mean spend some money on your way home. Don’t come home empty handed.

I was at the Clerk and Recorders office yesterday trying to get plates for my third and fourth truck – the latter of which did not have a title or Bill of Sale. Doug’s 94-year old grandpa wrote on a folded piece of cardboard in red magic-marker the scrawling intent to bequeath his trusty-n-rusty ol’ pick up to us. Apparently, in Park County the denizens of South Park commonly acquire their ol’ grandpa’s vehicles with these same historic documents. I got both sets of plates. In the interim, a 50-ish year old couple was all abloom with love next to me, thinking the acquisition of a wedding license on Valentine’s Day would be an easy and quaint event to initiate.

In Colorado, two people can marry themselves by means of self-solemnity, (perhaps in response to the many people who have been snow bound in cabins all winter and needed some kind of ratification of their, um, “actions” in order to explain the subsequent results thereof.) You don’t need no stinkin’ paperwork nor minister in Colorado. As a matter of fact, Colorado does not recognize judges for matrimonial unions. Common law marriage in Colorado is based solely on filing income tax as married – even if you have children in common – you are not recognized as common law married unless the taxes have been filed.

The older couple next to me were aghast at the terms and conditions of the marriage certificate. When asked if they were single, married, or divorced, the man asked,

Both of them coughed up some past marriages gone awry. He was 19 when he first buckled his knees at the alter. She had, um, TWO marriages fail prior to meeting her lovely soon-to-be-60-year-old prospective huzbun. They were drunk on love. I got my plates and left before their delirium affected my ability to drive.

My bun and I always stay home on the big V-Day. It makes me shiver to be in a restaurant with all the amateurs (people who don’t get out much) sitting in their pressed clothes, sipping wine that costs way too much, and ordering food they can’t possibly eat. Then, they’ll risk a D.U.I to get home and try to invoke the Gods of Romance before the Gods of Booze render them asleep. In the meanwhile, some cards will be exchanged and little boxes of bling, too, I am sure.

Oh, I do like my bling. It’s a biological phenomenon, an instinct like when my dog has to bury the bagel in a trance like a zombie. (‘must…bury…bagel…now…’) My last boyfriend was so adamantly against participating in the rituals of Valentine’s Day, (based on his personal integrity not to give in to Hallmark Card marketing ploys) – that he NEVER gave me a card. He insisted that his daily devotion and out of the blue-bouquet of roses was evident of his worthiness and he was not going to subscribe to some event dictated by social pressure. Shortly after I met my huzbun, my dog died so he bought pearls to console me. I left my boyfriend that night and never looked back. True.

Tomorrow, we will be yanking dry wall, hammering studs, caulking the shower, and making a big mess. Then, we will make dinner at home and wait for the Valentine’s Angel to visit us. Maybe it will be romantic. Maybe we’ll fall asleep. Maybe I’ll get some bling (or a new sink).