YEEEEEEEHAW!

I just had to let that out.

Two Timing

What a fantastic week I had in Austin. Though I thoroughly enjoyed soaking up that 106 degree Texas heat (especially while splashing in Barton Springs), I can't say I was the least bit disappointed when I stepped out of my truck tonight into 68 degree mountain air.

I'm tempted to recount every excruciating detail of my trip but I'll spare you. Suffice it to say I did a lot of swimming, kayaking, barbecue eating, beer drinking and reminiscing with friends, among much else. I didn't want the week to end. As I watched Austin get smaller in my rearview mirror I felt a little sad. So much of me lives in that city, and in Texas in general. Yet moving back isn't something I want to do, at least not at this point in my life. The long drive out of the state was ushered along by my iPod with Texas songs in heavy rotation. Of course there was a lot of contemplation as well, but I think I'm too tired to get into that tonight.

I didn't feel sadness again until I left my usual rest and refueling stops in Dalhart, about 40 miles from the New Mexico border. Texas. I love her. But my sadness, I must say, was completely wiped away an hour later when the Rocky Mountains came into view. I suddenly felt, well, at home! It was really odd because I almost felt a sense of relief, like I was slipping back into my comfort zone. It was like being embraced by strong, familiar arms when I was in need of a little comforting. This was the first time I'd really felt strong emotions for both states at practically the same moment. I guess it's official. I have two loves in my life. Texas is my wild and carefree lover, great for a crazy night but not really the one I can settle down with. Colorado, on the other hand, is the one I snuggle up to when party ends. I think this realization is going to allow me enjoy both gals a whole lot more from this point on. After all, they don't seem to mind sharing.

Life is good.

Texas to a T

I'm flying down southbound I-35 at some late hour in my F-350 Super Duty. Texas music is blasting on the stereo. The highway splits, and I take the upper deck. The city lights stretch out before me. The skyline has changed a lot, but the capitol building is still prominent. I'm thinking about the last 24 hours: last night's home-cooked, locally-grown dinner at a ranch in the Hill Country, breakfast this morning at Upper Crust Bakery, an afternoon of kayaking on Town Lake, a cool shower and a long nap in the A/C on a 100+ degree day, drinks and laughs tonight with old friends, dinner at East Side Cafe.

I don't know what it is. As illogical, shallow, pointless as it may seem, as utterly right-wing conservative as it may sound, I love being a Texan. I really do. I love driving a big-ass truck. I love wearing a cowboy hat and boots. I love the sweltering heat, country music, the Texas flag and roadside ditches filled with bluebonnets. I love the pride Texans have in their state. I love my red-neck, fishing-obsessed step-dad, I love the accent that my native-Texas friends have and I truly love the city of Austin. I love these limestone hills, the big-haired women, the scrub oaks, the urban cowboys, the spring-fed rivers. I love the friends I have here and I love the feeling of being home.

Maybe it's the sense of belonging. Maybe it's just plain old familiarity. Can't say. All I know is what I feel, and it feels good. Maybe there are some good things in life that don't have to make sense.

Strawberries

Wow! Strawberries have burst into season and this is, by far, the best year I've seen for them in Colorado. It's the first sweet treat of the market! I've already eaten a few pounds of them since Wednesday. They remind me of the ones I used to grow in Texas as a kid in the whiskey barrels in the back yard. They're only a fraction of the size of those giant ones you get at the supermarket, but the sweetness and intense strawberry flavor of these little gems is unrivaled. It's particularly nice this year because strawberries and rhubarb are in season at the same time, just enough overlap to make strawberry-rhubarb pie. My own strawberry plants I put in the garden last year are producing and I've picked my first two strawberries this week.

I'll tell ya, the best early summer breakfast is a bowl full of these sweet little strawberries dribbled with farm-fresh cream. Heaven. Pure heaven.

Colorado Dreaming

I found my dream ranch. If I saved my entire paycheck month after month it would only take about 350 years to put back enough to buy it. I'm going to need a bigger piggy bank.

The Meaning of Community

Since it's taking me so long to finish writing about the Moab trip, I now have to interject with a post on this weekend's trip. It's fresh on my mind and I have thoughts swirling that need to get out.

This weekend was the annual farm tour of my favorite fruit grower, Steve Ela of Ela Family Farms. Steve is a 4th generation fruit grower. He's the only child who, after completing an education in biology and geology, decided to take over the family farm AND make it organic. His fruit is amazing and has filled many a jar in my pantry. I've long wanted to meet him in person.

Saturday morning we woke up early and left Boulder, destined for the Western Slope. We stopped for lunch in Redstone, Colorado and the historic inn. It was suggested on our weekend itinerary which the Ela family provided. Redstone is fairly remote and really isn't on the way to anywhere in particular, so it's a very tiny town with just a little tourism income. While lunching, two guys walked in. I said to Gerard, "Look at those two gay guys. I bet they're from Boulder and they're on their way to the farm tour." They looked about as out of place as we probably did. We finished our lunch and continued on, but not before a short stroll through downtown Redstone, which consisted of two or three shops and some log cabins. The river was gorgeous.

We eventually made our way to the farm and, among the crowd of 30 or so people, were the two gay guys from the Redstone Inn. There wasn't much time for introductions but we all organized quickly and kicked off the weekend with a wine tour. Southwestern Colorado, apparently, is decent grape-growing country. Provided, that is, you've got water rights, know how to deal with the weather extremes, can figure out the red soil thing and can make a three month growing season pay. More than a few people are doing it.

I'd never been on a wine tour and we had three on our list. The first was owned by a couple from California who'd gotten rich in the software industry. They bought some acreage in the mountains, built a cozy, rustic home, and invested in quite a lot of fancy wine making and distilling equipment. They seemed to be doing fine. Their wine was quite good, and they even produced vodka, brandy and a number of other spirits, all of which were organic and made either from their own fruit or the fruit of their neighbors. Seventy stores and restaurants in Colorado now sell their products. After a tour of the vineyard and facilities, we were invited inside where we all sampled the goods and chatted.

The second winery was owned by a Frenchman. His wine was less appealing to my palette, except for his dessert wine which was quite good. He also served food, which included various cheeses and elk and bison pate, all of which he made himself on the farm. Very good stuff. He also had a lot of farm animals which was kind of fun, including a goose with a very bad temper.

The third winery was my favorite. It was absolutely picturesque. It featured a stone cottage, which the family had built themselves with stones from the snowmelt river running through their property, and I don't know how many acres of lush grape vines trailing down the hillside with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. He was an aerospace engineer and she was a marketing something or other and they had previously lived in Boulder. They decided to leave the rat-race and sell everything. They bought the land, packed up the kids, built the cottage, planted the vineyard and threw their whole lives into making a go of the winery. Seems to be working for them too. When asked, they said they wanted a life where the family could live and work closely together, where they could enjoy the outdoors and do something creative. It was very nice, actually and the kids really seem to love it.

We were all pretty much lit after the wine tour so our caravan headed to a bed and breakfast that was once an old farmhouse. It's still a working farm, and the current owners were busily preparing an all-organic, all-local feast for us. At the farmhouse, we cracked open the wine we had purchased on the wine tour and everyone really got a chance to get acquainted. It was a perfect setting: a big farmhouse with an impressive garden, chickens milling about, a playful dog, a couple of farm cats skulking on the margins, a babbling brook, distant mountains, and lots of left-wing earth-mother foodies with way too much wine. Really, who could ask for more?

We met the gay couple we saw in Redstone (turns out they're from Denver, not Boulder), a really fun straight couple and a few other individuals who we'll definitely be socializing with again in the near future. There were over 40 people packed into that farmhouse. There was much laughter and celebrating and we carried on into the night. It was a truly wonderful experience. It felt like a community. It was cool outside, but the house was so warm and inviting and was filled with the aromas of good home cooking and lots of joy. Really I was amazed at how well the crowd just clicked. It was like we were all old friends. Someone would mention a book and everyone had read it. Someone would make a GW Bush joke and everyone would laugh. Several times I paused and thought it felt just like a big perfect family where everyone loved and accepted each other, had parallel interests, and times were good. There were parental figures and grandparental figures and niece and nephew and cousin and grandkid figures. If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. This b&b, in fact, has regular community dinners and brunches and is quite attuned to this sort of thing. Right before the meal was served, our wonderful hostess, Dava, announced what we'd be dining on and where every item came from: the greens were from the garden outside, the chicken from her neighbors Dave and Sue, the goat cheese from Crescent Farm, and so on. She thanked all of us for supporting the farmers that sell at the market, she thanked her neighbors, some of whom were dining with us, and she was thankful for the community we had all come together to create. It was really quite beautiful. Then Steve Ela stood up to say a few words, thanked all of us for our support of his farm and of his neighbors' farms, and again express his gratitude for the sense of community and celebration we had all come together to create. There we were in very rural Colorado, gay, straight, old, young, rich, poor, farmers and office professionals, business owners and interns, retirees and children, husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends all coming together to celebrate not just food, but living. It was a very beautiful thing. I can't say I've ever experienced anything quite like it. It surpassed all my expectations. It literally felt and looked like a family, and for a few hours the world was absolutely perfect.

After the evening wound down and people began to drift away, Gerard and I retired to our room. We rented the "King Cottonwood" suite at the farmhouse, which featured a spacious room, a king sized bed, a private bath and a beautiful view of the farmstead. We slept with the windows open. I don't think I even twitched.

The next morning I awoke with the sun and the rooster, but I think it was the aroma of coffee that drew Gerard out of bed. We lolled around the farm grounds before the other guests stirred and eventually we all sat down to a leisurely and of course local breakfast. I think I could have spent two weeks, easily, relaxing on that farm. Bookshelves were stocked with titles on self-sufficiency, organic farming, yoga, and, of course, whitewater rafting, hiking, horseback riding, winery tours and all the other things to do and see in the area. And under Dava's kind and attentive gaze, we never wanted for anything. But we had to say goodbye, which we did with hugs, and finally moved on to the main event: the tour of the Ela farm. Steve, who had been with us throughout the weekend, was there with his wife, kids and his mother and father, who were just the quintessential country grandparents. Steve told us more about running an orchard, caring for the trees and using organic methods than we could adequately digest in a single sitting. He also talked at length about the importance of supporting local agriculture and illustrated one example after another of how our combined actions were making positive impacts on our community and our environment. As a fourth generation fruit grower who only in the last ten years switched to organic methods and started selling directly through farmer's markets instead of to the corporate ag market, Steve knows his stuff. And as always, he lavished us with genuine, heartfelt gratitude for our support.

We concluded the orchard tour with applause and a catered lunch in the orchard from a local restaurant. Phone numbers, hugs and handshakes were exchanged, thank-yous and smiles were traded, and people began to drift away. Gerard and I were among the last to leave. It turned out that I myself was a bit of a local celebrity and I didn't even know it. People were coming to me left and right saying, "So you're the ultimate locavore" or "I hear you're a locavore legend" and other silly things. Apparently my reputation for canning, butter and cheese making and general homesteading type activities preceded me with this crowd. I admit I enjoyed the attention, though it was entirely unexpected.

With much sadness we finally had to begin the journey back to our "real" lives. I'd say we took the scenic route home, but in Colorado every route is scenic. We did take roads less travelled, and I used the quiet and the scenery to reflect on the weekend. For all the irritating, mean, and downright despicable things humans are capable of, we can also be pretty darn wonderful. And to experience that in such a landscape as the Rockies, well, I think I'm pretty darn lucky. But I have to say this has only whetted my appetite for wandering the west and for homesteading, but I'll save that for another day.

Moab: Part II

Why do men like to pee outside?

We've got an IT guy at work whose originally from a small town in Texas. He's handsome in that rugged, educated Texas redneck sort of way. I was surprised when I learned he was in IT, and even more so when I learned he specialized in Macs. We hit it off right away.

Today he was in my office installing some software and, as usual, he wanted to talk trucks. I've got a big one, and he likes that. We also talked a little about growing up, and our similar desires for expansive property with room for horses, views of mountains, and plenty of peace and quiet. He was telling me with a twinkle in his eye about the cabin he's renting up in the mountains and the eight acres it sits on, when he says, "Man I've never peed outside so much in my life, not even in Texas!"

Yeah, that was my reaction too. Except then I remembered that I always prefer the outdoors to plumbing myself. Why is that? Come to think of it, I've known a lot of guys who seem to lean that way as well, though I can't say I've ever had a specific conversation about it. Well, maybe once or twice.

At any rate, this is a perfect lead into another Moab topic I wanted to touch on. Not peeing outdoors, but living for a time almost completely disconnected from the modern world. I long for this. I need this even if I can only get it in the form of short camping trips throughout the year. Moab was such a trip. And even though it rained every single night, it was perfect. Even Gerard, who is prone to frequent insomnia, slept like a baby every night we camped. There's something about being in the unspoiled wilderness, disconnected from city lights, pollution, the noise of traffic and people.

The first night we camped near Canyonlands National Park. We set up camp on a flat rocky surface just a few hundred yards from thousand-foot precipice. The view was spectacular, but I can't describe how good it felt to get naked under the wide open sky and splash the day's dust off with some cool water. Or the joy of sitting around a flickering camp fire eating a hot meal. Or the soothing sensation of being in a warm, dry sleeping bag while rain patters on the tent throughout the night. Or waking up to the smell of bacon drifting in the damp morning air and then watching the sun come up on an endless landscape. It was heaven.

Several times while hiking we came across ruins left behind from the Anasazi. Some were dwellings, and some were granaries, small stone storage rooms built along rocky overhangs for storing seeds and food. Some still contained long dried squashes and seeds which these farmers/hunters/gatherers put away for leaner times. All were at least 800 years old. We'd look at them, then sit by them in silence looking out across the canyons. What were these people like? I tried to imagine the hands that put those stones in place almost a millennium ago. I tried to imagine what they talked about, what their lives were like, how they scratched a living out of this beautiful but merciless environment.

Experts say there is more food in a desert like this than there is in an alpine forest like we have in the higher elevations here in Colorado. You just have to know where to look. I pondered the fact that I could tell you how to use a computer to figure out the best place to put a wind turbine, but I had no idea how to find food and water though it was all around me. It bugged me. Technology can be brought down by a single terrorist act or natural "disaster" but we still have to eat. It bugs me to be so dependent on "the system" for my most basic needs, though I must say I think I'm doing better than most.

I'm not trying to say that a stone age life is necessarily superior. I realize the problems they must have faced. I don't live with the reality that any day my food stores for the year could be plundered by a passing nomadic tribe of spear wielding hostiles, and that there's no Whole Foods from which to restock. Civilization has its benefits. But I can't help yearning for some of the simpler aspects of a life uncomplicated by all the stuff and all the people we have today.