A Minor Beef

An old saying advises that one should not eat seafood in a place where you cannot see the sea. It could also hold true in reverse: do not eat beef where you CAN see the sea. This lesson was brought home to me over the course of two drives we have made from this delightful mountain town to the Pacific coast, and the pleasures of these trips thoroughly outweighs any negative vibes brought on by eating a dodgy hamburger.

Our first trip to the coast was a drive to Crowdy Head, a promintory jutting out into the sea featuring a small, picturesque light house. Like all drives in New South Wales, the way was

neither straight nor level, traversing pavement that had last seen an upgrade when Robert Menzies was prime minister. The scenery was fantastic, though, with rolling hills, thick forests, and open cow paddocks that provided an endless array of beautiful views. We stood at the lighthouse and gazed out at the sea, hoping that an errant whale or two might breach during their migrations north from the Anarctic. The place reminded me a bit of another lighthouse we have visited at Byron Bay, the easternmost point of this continent, because there was no development visible on the shoreline to the north and south. The quiet rhythm of the waves always puts me in mind of the eternal, with the ocean providing the heartbeat of our planet. From that point we retraced ourselves to what can only be described as a large metal shed situated along side the road where a oyster market and takeaway stand served up some pretty good fish and chips. There were also at the parking lot of this establishment rack after rack of oyster nursery beds drying in the sun, made more interesting from the fact that I had tried my first oysters just moments before inspecting them. We then made the drive home over the same route as the morning's jaunt. It was a lot of fun and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Our second expedition yesterday was over much of the same highway to the costal city of Forster, which reminded me of a miniature Manly with high rise apartments and busy streets. Here Ronald and Jane had some shopping to do, primarily to procure food and litter for the service of the real masters of their home, two cats named Sylvia and Sebastian. They also stopped at a sporting goods store where I purchsed a nice small pair of binoculars which we immediately employed at another seaside overlook which provided an opportunity to look for whales. Alas, there were none of the Leviathans to be seen and we adjourned to a dockside cafe.

Hamburgers are a common enough meal in Australia, and the country hosts such familiar American franchises as McDonalds and Burger King (here known as "Hungry Jacks"). When ordering a hamburger at a pub or independent restaurant, the burgers take a different turn from the plain Yankee model with toppings that include (among other things) sliced beets. Generally speaking these Australian interpretations of the sandwich are quite tasty, but at the aforementioned cafe the opposite was encountered. Instead of ordering fish and chips again (like any sane person would have done) I ordered a hamburger that proved inedible. There were no beet slices, but I suspect there was little beef in the burger as well, and it was smothered in a sweet barbeque sauce that did not do much to improve the flavor. A mild case of indigestion resulted from my culinary escapade, but it did not last long and shortly after returning home I was back on my feet, wiser for the experience: always eat fish at a place that specializes in serving it, and if ever in doubt about the burgers at other establishements, order the chicken schnitzel instead. I have rarely had these flattened, breaded chicken fillets fail me at any pub where I have ordered them. (And yes, they have KFC here too, but the schitzels at just about anywhere else are going to be much superior).

Dartz

Regular readers of this blog know that I enjoy a game of darts around the house, primarily because it is the one barroom sport one can play without a competitor. The game's origins are murky, dating back to the Middle Ages, but the modern version was was invented by a carpenter from Lancashire named Brian Gamlin in 1896. To be played properly, one must hit the numbered pie slices on the target in combinations to count down from 301 to zero, but that method is beyond this writer who cannot do math in his head. A much more simple game is called "cricket" which (when played by this American at least) requires the player to hit the 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, and 15 in sequence and exiting the game with a bullseye. This is the game we have played at Ronald and Jane's estate for the past two days. We had some construction to perform prior to play, however.

Part of the pleasures of hanging around here and doing not much of anything is the daily wild bird feedings that Ronald performs. He buys bird seet at the market and distributes it every afternoon

on the driveway leading to his large outdoor shed.The birds come down from the trees to peck away at the seeds, making a noise like soft popcorn popping while they feed. They are truly beautiful, with the Crimson Rosellas and Rainbow Lorakeets being my own personal favorites. There are other varieties: magpies, crested pigeons, and ducks. They all gather together, but then they segregate themselves into groups, much like kids at a junior high school cafeteria, and who knows who are the "cool" ones here. Watching them from the open door of the shed is really fun, and one afternoon a magpie simply stood in front of me and complained in the most varied vocal fashion for about five minutes. What an incredible range of songs and noises they make! Unlike American magpies, who simply squawk, these fellows have a combination of whistle and hum that is truly remarkable.

Hardly content with just bird watching, Ronald and I set out yesterday to build a dart board backing mount out of some spare wood that was lying about the shed. The wood came from an old deck that was dismantled and the boards were as hard as a rock. We laid out three vertical boards and

then attached a series of horizonal boards to them, having to drill pilot holes prior to setting in some screws with the driver. Due to the stupidity of the builders, the drill seemed to be working overtime trying to get a hole through the wood, but towards the very end we figured out the proper speed adjustment for the drill and got a pretty good laugh at our previous efforts. The resulting mount was as heavy as a refrigerator and we had to think for a while how we were going to mount it on to the metal walls of the shed. Ronald came up with the idea of placing two boards on the exterior of the shed and then putting bolts through the wood to hold it in place. The results are impressive, as the photo shows, with the dart board mounted strong enough to withstand a hurricane. We have had several games of cricket since, and it promises to be a pleasant reminder of our stay once we leave this delightful place next month.

Golden Gaytime

Yesterday we toured the Mountain Maid gold mine operation near the townsite of Copeland, about fifteen miles or so from Gloucester. The discovery of gold in the area dates back to 1876 when word of mineral riches caused a rush of miners to establish an instant town in a rocky, remote gully. As usual, the placer gold was quickly washed out by panning and sluice boxes along the small creek and the era of corporate mining began shortly thereafter. The mines were worked in the area on and off until the 1930s, and active work did not resume until an owner from Newcastle decided that spending weekends in the bush crushing quartz would be a great getaway for him and a few mates. It was the remainder of their operation that we saw yesterday and, like Mitch McConnell at a press conference, it was a moment frozen in time.

We had made reservations for an official tour earlier in the week and as a result we were met at the parking area by our guide, Matt, and his two volunteer assistants, Anna and Danny. They led us through what I can only describe as a jungle but what they called a "dry rain forest" because there

were no palm trees. There were plenty of other trees, though, including one which had very broad leaves about the size of a Frisbee that we were warned to avoid. Apparently these leaves are covered with very tiny spines that actually sting any unfortunate who might brush up against them. We all had on jackets and long pants, so we were protected somewhat, but I could not help but to imagine how hostile that environment must have been for ancient Aboriginies who did not have the benefit of our protective clothing.

The tour was a combination history lesson and botany lecture, and both were quite enjoyable. The cabin where the latter-day miners stayed during their weekend labors was dark and primitive, not exactly the sort of weekend recreational site most would choose. The rock crushing trip hammers were very impressive, and Danny fired up one so we could see it in operation. A simple device, the ore crusher looked like it could handle rocks up to about the size of a softball. The forest was very dark, partly because the trees were so thick, but also because the creek gully was so deep and the walls on either side so steep that it was hard to imagine sunlight every reaching the bottom. After we were on our way we had a picnic lunch at an overlook of the Barrington Tops, a mountain range that looked a lot like the Ouachita Mountains of Western Arkansas. Higher than the Ozarks, the Ouachitas feature the same rolling forested slopes but with more rocky outcrops. The view was splendid, the lunch was delicious, and the temperatures quite chilly at 3,300 feet above sea level so we did not linger.

A short drive brought us back Gloucester where we stopped at the grocery store and I purchased some delicious ice cream bars that share the title of this essay. Today I believe we will do little more than assist Ronald in building a back stop for his dart board and watch his daily feeding of the wild birds in the area. There are some truly beautiful birds here and I hope we can get some good photographs this afternoon.

Return to Oz

I type these lines in Gloucester, New South Wales, a small cattle and dairy community where our friends are hosting us for the next couple of weeks. We arrived last Friday in Sydney and spent that day trying to get our biological clocks reset at a hotel near the Central train station and visiting a few places that we remembered from earlier trips. The flight across the globe was rather easy this time, primarily because Jayne and I both flew first class and were able to lie down in a narrow bed for as long as we wished. The food was not particularly to my liking, but I appreciated the bottomless champagne glass.

The train to Gloucester from Sydney station was four hours long, but quite pleasant, allowing us to relax in the first class coach while watching the countryside roll by. It takes a long time to get out of the heavily urbanized Sydney area, but once that is accomplished the forests, meadows, and farms pass in an enless series of green foliage. Once we got to Gloucester, our friends, Ronald and Jane, met us at the staion and whisked us away to their country estate just outside of town.

Their home is beautiful, with a wrap around porch, four bedrooms, two living rooms, and a swimming pool and spa. The home is simply beautiful, with space every where you look. The day after our arrival, we were taken to a craft fair held on the grounds of the local park. Much like such affairs in the states. there were shade structures erected over merchants offering a variety of goods from hemp clothing to macrame pot holders. The weather was beautiful, slightly overcast with temperatures in the sixties, I estimate. Not bad for the middle of winter.

Today we will drive a few miles outside of town to visit and tour an abandoned gold mine. Apparently there was quite a strike here in the early years and all that remains of the mining camp called Copeland is the operating infastructure of a large mine. The forest has reclaimed all the land taken up for stores, houses, and pubs that were hastily erected here in 1876.

A Disturbing Confluence

It is no secret to readers of this blog that I have a fascination with the legend and legacy of Wyatt Earp. In my younger days I thrilled to the story of the lawman who, when the outlaws attacked his family, took the law into his own hands and annihilated the bad guys while riding the vengeance trail. Later years a more mature outlook has entered my Earpophilia and I have begun to notice an unsavory connection to America’s gun problem and the western movies about Wyatt and others. This trait excuses extra-legal means of resolving a dispute by means of homicide. From the notorious “stand your ground” laws of Florida to the widespread embrace of the former Orange Skinned Occupant of the Oval Office, those who buy into this myth have brought the vigilante ethic into our current political discourse.

I am thinking about this after a brief stop in Tombstone yesterday with my son. All along Allen Street the shops formerly selling Wyatt memorabilia have taken a decidedly ugly turn in offering right-wing inspired threats stamped on the Chinese manufactured t-shirts they sell. As disturbing as this trend is, the ultimate symbol of the symbiotic relationship between western myth and contemporary politics can be seen right outside of town. Some enterprising troglodyte has opened up a store which offers nothing but MAGA merchandise, and the sign above the establishment stands as a metaphor for all that is vile in this mindset. This weekend will mark the 93rd observance of Tombstone's "Helldorado Days" celebration. I cannot imagine that the crowd they will attract will resemble anything I remember from my childhood experiences at the "Town Too Tough to Die." God help us all.

Gotcha!

Every five years a group of friends who met for the first time in Flagstaff during the early 1970s meets in that city for the "Old Main Reunion." Named after the iconic structure on the Northern Arizona University campus, the reunion is not only for those who lived in Old Main dormitory.

A large portion of the attendees never spent the night in the old building, and a few more never even finished their degrees at the school. A strange bond exists between the members of this loose organization, though, and most would overcome any obstacle to attend the event. (Indeed, one of our most cherished members came after he was given only weeks to live by his physicians. He was warmly received.) The first Old Main Reunion was held in 1991, about twenty years after the events we gathered to remember. Other meetings occurred in 1996, 2001, 2006, 2011, 2016, and ... well, 2021 was during the darkest days of the pandemic so we postponed until this year, 2022.

Like schoolboys in an English boarding academy, many of our friends have nicknames; Stu, Zeke, Mambo, Burnt, and Crazy Dave to name a few. My own appellation has always been "Colonel," but I can scarcely remember if I named myself this in high school or in college. The title was certainly not bestowed on me by any of our group and I am sure my vanity in my college years inspired me to continue the nickname. Regardless, I am still addressed in this fashion today by my friends and as embarassing as it sounds, I haven't the heart to insist on dropping the rank. Many of the others in our group readily adopt their own nicknames once we are together again. It is amazing to see what became of this unruly band of 18-20 year olds after nearly fifty years. A livestock inspector, a banker, a postman, an electrician, and even an Arizona county attorney can be found in our circle (most of whom are now retired).

The festivities kicked off with the rollicking, backslapping gathering at the Monte Vista Hotel in downtown Flagstaff. This antique hotel was originally chosen by us in 1991 because it had a funky,

neglected vibe very much like our old dormitory. Since then, the Monte Vista has been rennovated more than a few times and has evolved into a nightlife hotspot for the NAU students and other young people. As a result, it is a noisy and boisterous place where sleep is sometimes difficult to gain, but it is ideal for a gathering point for our group. Situated in the center of downtown, the Monte Vista also has a couple of park benches on the sidewalk outside their auxiliary saloon. It is here than many gathered between the official events just to stand around and shoot the bull. After initally greeting one another at the hotel, we made our way to the campus where, surpisingly enough, the old student union adjacent to Old Main has now become a rather fancy restaurant, operated by students who are in the hospitality/culinary studies program at the university. The meal was good, but the company was better, with many attendees who were not staying at the Monte Vista showing up as the evening progressed. The "1889" Bar and Grill had set up our dining area on the patio directly facing Old Main. I doubt a more ideal spot for our opening venue could have been chosen. There followed, on a rainy, cool

Saturday afternoon, a picnic held at Buffalo Park, the same location we chose to film an amateur silent western movie in 1974. In past reunions we have always gone to Hart Prairie, but most of the attendees were glad to switch locations after considering what wretched shape the dirt road to our usual spot must have been after days of rainfall. The barbeque was a great success, and everyone enjoyed watching the clouds drift slowly in, obscuring for a moment the spendid view of Humphreys Peak. By the time Sunday morning rolled around we were all again on the steps of Old Main to bid each other goodbye, but only after agreeing to do the event again in four years, 2026, to get us back on proper pre-Covid schedule.

You are likely now wondering what the title of this essay has to do with the bulk of its composition. Simply put, I arrived home with an active infection of Covid-19 after all this, but so far I have heard from no one else who has also fell ill. My own symptoms are quite mild, likely as a result of my initial vaccination and two booster shots, but I am also taking the anti-viral drug recommended for those who contract the disease. So, yes, after more than two years, and a long, hard fight with West Nile, the Covid virus finally said "gotcha" to me.

But It's A Dry Heat...

We just returned from a glorious two night camping trip at Mount Lemon's Rose Canyon Lake campground. Over 7,000 feet above sea level, this magical spot is less than an hour's drive from our house. Indeed, I spend more time getting our little trailer ready for the trip than I actually do driving it. This trip was spectacular, with a heavy rainstorm washing over our camp for nearly an hour and a half, moisture that those in Tucson some 5,000 feet below can only dream of. The nights were cool and blissfully quiet, too. This oasis from the heat is something we will be using a lot in the coming weeks.

This afternoon it is 107 degrees fahrenheit at our little adobe house on Fort Lowell, and our air conditioner is working mightily to keep us in at least a range of comfort. I remember as a child growing up in Tucson that the summers were hot, but not unbearably so. How things change when one reaches their sixth decade of life. I now dread going outside at midday, and take my morning walks prior to sunrise. Lest you feel that is the "cool" time let me add that often it does not get below 86 degrees in any twenty-four hour period during mid-summer here.

I do not despair of our choice of a retirement home, but I do reserve the right to complain about the grueling heat. I simply lack the stamina to do anything when it is this hot, and spend my days writing, reading, or watching the endless selections available on our streaming internet service. But wait, I can do SOMETHING, and that is hook up our little trailer and make that fifty minute drive up the mountain for a day or two of rest and relief! I know next week we will be doing the exact same thing.

I will leave this entry with a photograph of our little trailer, our mountain cabin that allows us the freedom to escape this inferno for a day or two.