Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Out on the road again for a four-day foray

   POINT REYES, Calif. - After more than a month of being back from my cross-country sojourn, Adm. Fox and I hitched up The Red Writer and went an hour west to the coast.
     Although I have lived in California on and off since 1970, the more remote areas of Point Reyes (where you hike in, not drive!) have escaped my attention.
Morning at Samuel P. Taylor State Park
    When I was a young newspaper reporter in Petaluma, I went out many Friday nights to cover football games in tiny Tomales where the fog would blow in so heavy sometimes you couldn't see the game from the stands.
     It made the passing game even more challenging for the high school players.
     Our first stop was Samuel P. Taylor State Park, the campground of which is full of huge old-growth Redwoods and many other trees. The sun barely breaks through the canopy even at mid-day, making the park a pretty chilly place.
     Oh! And you are well off the grid there, too, though cell phones work, sort of.
     From other visits to Marin County with her amigas, Adm. Fox knew that the hiking around the area was amazing, with trails all over. She was right.
     I logged between 6 and 9 miles each day on my hiking boots.  The terrain ranged from dense woodland to ocean beaches.
A few of the elk at Pt. Reyes
     Out on Point Reyes, the fog I remembered came in hard late one afternoon. We stopped to watch elk wander the hillsides.
Adm. Fox caught the best photos - like the one to the right.
     But after trying to capture these magnificent animals with an iPhone, I vowed to carry our Canon SLR with the long lenses - even though carrying it is like toting a brick.
     The last day before we headed home to Point Richmond, we moved The Red Writer from the state park to a private campground in Olema that had electricity, hot showers, internet and best of all - some sun.
     It's only about 2 miles from the tiny village of Point Reyes Station where among other delightful places there is a bakery that serves some amazing goods.
With Sallie Dewitt and Rita Gardner in Pt. Reyes Station
    If the weather holds, The Red Writer will head out again soon, perhaps to Point Reyes for a return visit, or up into the Sonoma Valley to Sugar Loaf Ridge State Park - the first state park I camped in in California in 1970 when I arrived.
     And the weather might hold.
It is California, after all.
Olema campground - in the sun

A three-mile hike out to the ocean - and worth it

Adm. Fox finds a sunny spot in the state park

No skunks or mountain lions, but we did see two gray foxes...

A warm-up hike

Saturday, September 15, 2018

Read Bob Woodward's 'Fear' or the road atlas?

   POINT RICHMOND, Calif. - One week home and not-yet-fully unpacked, I find myself drifting between wanting to read Bob Woodward's latest book Fear and thumbing through the road atlas.
     How far - and what roads - would I take to check out Roswell, N.M. on my next trip in an easterly direction? 
     So far Woodward's take on Donald Trump's unraveling administration is winning, though the atlas keeps quietly singing a song to me like the Sirens who tried to lure Ulysses and his men onto a rocky shore.
     Woodward's latest presidential examination was a right-on-target, welcome-home gift from Admiral Sylvia Fox. It reads as easily as a novel - a horrific, Stephen King gut-wrencher. But just as much a page turner. The Admiral knew Fear would be a must-read for me.
     Re-entry has been about as could be expected after 12-weeks' absence: a four-foot stack of mail to open, notices of missed deadlines for all manner of things, and complaints from a couple of readers of The Point website whose upcoming events I was unable to post while traveling.
Arriving in Sacramento last Saturday
     But those minor speed bumps pale compared to the many warm welcomes my neighbors and friends here in the the Point have given me - and continue to give me.
     In all the handshaking and good-to-see-you-home hugs since last Saturday, from nearly everyone I have been asked the same two questions, asked in different ways:
     How was your trip?
     When are you going again?
      The answer to the first has resulted in a dozen or more interesting conversations this past week.
       The answer to the second has been mostly just a shrug of my shoulders and a quizzical look on my face.
       I really should get unpacked from this summer's adventures before planning any more.
RV 'park' at an Ohio rest stop

Monday, September 10, 2018

Safely back home in the Republic of California

Sacramento, California - Saturday, Sept. 2018
   POINT RICHMOND, Calif. - The Red Writer crossed into the Republic of California from Nevada mid-morning Saturday, eventually landing at a familiar spot in Sacramento: the home of Pam and Steve Lovotti on 46th Street.
     I am happy to report that my electric brake adjustment made the trip down the mountains from Lake Tahoe much less white knuckle compared to zipping down Vail Pass in Colorado.
     Adm. Fox drove from the SF Bay Area and pulled in moments after I arrived, giving us our first glimpses of each other since July 11.
     We didn't look eight weeks older at all.
     The stop, just an hour and half short of home here in San Francisco Bay was to visit with Pam and Steve and also to have a small birthday party for 11-year-old granddaughter Kami Allen. She and her sister Sami came by for dinner and we had a nice party with great food and a stack of birthday presents.
     And that night I slept in a full size bed for the first time in weeks. Quite luxurious, I must admit.
     The Red Writer is temporarily parked in a secure storage area about a mile from our Brickyard Landing condo. But it's ready to rock and roll anytime we decide to make a
foray camping this fall or head down the coast to Southern California to visit the beaches.
     September and October are probably the most pleasant months in the San Francisco Bay Area all years. July and August was damn cold Adm. Fox says - overcast and fog most days.
     Well, it was Mark Twain who reportedly said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco."
      He probably liked the fall weather though.

Friday, September 7, 2018

Fallon's 95 degrees is cool fulltime residents say

Shade? You call that shade?
   FALLON, Nevada - The Red Writer arrived this afternoon at 3 p.m. after an up-and-down, 4-hour drive from Ely, Nevada.
     The up and down was from crossing a half dozen (or more!) passes, all well-paved, marked and nothing - really nothing - compared to the white-knuckle experience with the Vail Pass, brake-screeching episode last Sunday.
     The Fallon RV Park is an OK place, but lacking shade. Today, given that is 95 degrees at 5:30 p.m., throwing a little shade over The Red Writer trailer would be a really nice addition to the park's amenities.
     Several local folks told me I should have been here a few weeks ago when it was hitting 110 every day. No thanks, amigos.
     As it is, the ever valiant AC unit is chugging along, trying to make life inside the trailer passable.
     It's a good place to nest for this last night of the cross-country passage that started two weeks ago Sunday in Watkins Glen. At least it will be once the AC catches up.
      In the meantime, a bottle of J. Lohr wine is chilling in the Yeti cooler, a bottle picked up in Delta, Utah yesterday.
      Maybe the wine will cool things down.
Gotta love that 95-degree sun hitting a red paint job

RV Park, gas station, store and souvenir shop - all in one

Trying to see the landscape - while driving 60 mph

   WESTERN UTAH - The ride from Green Valley, Utah through the mountainous region on the way to Nevada is full of amazing geological formations.
     Just amazing.
     Equally amazing is that the State of Utah has dozens of scenic pullout areas - complete with primitive bathrooms,
     After trying to take photos though the windshield while catapulting down the highway, I surrendered and stopped to take in the beauty in real time.
     Breathtaking doesn't cover it.
     And yes, dragging The Red Writer I drive 60 mph on the highway... Saves a lot of gasoline.



   When you drop down out of the mountains, you hit several small towns, including Delta, Utah where Admiral Fox and I have stopped at a small RV park several times.
     This time though I was moving fast towards Ely, Nevada (where I spent last night). But I needed to stop for gasoline, food, ice (for the Yeti cooler!) and wine.
     As luck would have it, next to the only liquor store for probably 200+ miles was a food truck staffed by a Mexican family.
     And it was open! Woo-hoo!
   And just across the street was a large grocery store that - gasp! - actually sold blocks of ice. Blocks of ice are nearly as hard to find on the road as, well, wine in Utah. The block I purchased will get me all the way home to Point Richmond.

   I passed another cultural marker at the Utah-Nevada border that's a popular stop for people after crossing the extreme western Utah Desert - the Border Inn.
     The iconic business is a combination gas station, restaurant, bar, motel, casino and RV park.
     It also functions as a sort of social club for the relative handful of people who live in the high desert region around it. Lots of characters hang out at the bar.
     Because my gas tank was near the top, the wine and food lockers filled and a deadline to get to Ely to grab my RV space to park, I didn't stop in to chat with the locals this time. Next time I will time it better.
    But I did snap the photo below so anyone traveling in either direction will know what to look for.
     At 80 mph (the Utah speed limit) or 70 mph (California's legal marker) you can blow by the place pretty quickly.

The Border Inn

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Leaving Green River - which could be renamed

   GREEN RIVER, Utah - The state park here is probably the cleanest and best kept of anyplace The Red Writer has landed since leaving Watkins Glen.
     The Green River, right now, is anything but green. Rains up in the mountains seem to have washed down enough silt to suggest renaming it Little Muddy.
     But as nice as the park has been there was one major, major disappointment.
    A fabulous Mexican food truck/restaurant a block away was closed. Again. When Admiral Fox and I came through in June it was closed, too... Santo Crappo. Mille fois merde!
     Still, I was able to put together a quick stir fry with provisions
already on board. Plus, the last of the wine I bought in Glenwood Springs - which the clerk said they called 'Liquid Crack' - made for a nice end-of-the-day cocktail.
     Off to Ely, Nevada for tonight's lodging. I had wanted to stay in a small RV park next to the Prospector Casino. But, alas, it was torn down this April to make way for a Holiday Inn Express.
No kidding, a Holiday Inn... Instead I'll be a little out of town and way from the gambling tables. Probably a really good thing.

A view from the campground

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Homeward bound - when the rain stops anyway

Today's storm
   GLENWOOD SPRINGS, Colorado - The final few days of The Red Writer's trek from New York to Point Richmond got stalled this morning by a series of thunderstorms that have been pouring down impressive loads of rain.
     When you are sitting 10 feet from the rushing Colorado River, heavy rains are not particularly welcome or reassuring.
     But the forecast is for the storms to end in an hour or two, at which time the next port of call down Interstate 70 will be Green River State Park, a cool little spot I have wanted to check out for the last two years.
     The Glenwood Canyon Resort - where The Red Writer has been parked for two days - is a class A joint with good facilities and breathtaking campsites right along the river.
     Adm. Fox and I have stayed here several times. It's always enjoyable - more so in a trailer than tent camping.
    

     On our first visit here, we pitched a tent by the river.
     Unfortunately the restrooms and showers were on the road just above us, 60 steep steps above us. Making that trek in the middle of night, knowing there might be bears about, wasn't that much fun.
     Getting here on Labor Day was good timing. The resort was emptying out like baseball fans trying to avoid the traffic jam at a stadium parking lot.
     But it also meant that one of my favorite hangouts here - The No Name Bar - was closed. Apparently the staff had had quite enough after a long few weeks and Labor Day weekend crowds.
No service at the No Name Bar
     It sounds like the rain is slowing down, just small buckets now, time to check the radar again.
     By the way, in that radar shot above, I believe the pink-tinged images show snow at the higher elevations.
     Definitely time to get down the mountain.

Before the rains...

     

Friday, August 31, 2018

Tune suggestions for 'on-the-road' music list

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - The playlist for the next leg of the Red Writer's continued journey west seems incomplete with just 12 songs culled from my iPhone music library. Tomorrow the goal is to make it to the town of Ogallala, Nebraska home to one of the best Mexican restaurants ever.
      Ever.
     But after Nebraska, spotty FM (and AM) radio reception becomes the norm, especially given my boon-docking plans in Colorado.
     So far the list includes:


On The Road Again
Ballad of Thunder Road
Hot Rod Lincoln
Catch Us If You Can
Born To Be Wild
I Get Around
Leaving On a Jet Plane
Six Days On the Road
Ramblin' Man
Wagon Wheel
Rawhide
See You In September

     That last song goes out dedicated to Admiral Sylvia Fox, of course. I am on my way! Honest!
     Any suggestions for songs that will help me put the hammer down on the next 1,700 miles to touchdown in Point Richmond?

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Weathering the storms amid big rigs and RVs

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - The run from Watkins Glen to this idyllic locale just over the Platte River from Omaha was faster than anticipated.
    But that stopped yesterday afternoon when I pulled into Eugene T. Mahoney State Park. I have visited this park several times in the last few years, either heading east or returning west. With the Red Writer teardrop, it's much more enjoyable. And I need a rest after driving too many hours in too short a time frame.

The Red Writer at rest in Nebraska
   Translation? I'll leave Saturday for either Scottsbluff, Neb. or to Minturn, Colo. Or maybe Sunday? Or Monday.
   ?Quien sabe?
   A few days in a nice creek side campsite should put my nerves back into their proper casings after living through twin thunderstorm-related events. If you're from the Midwest, they were just storms. To a Californian-New Yorker, a tad more.
   The first happened in Atkinson, Il.
   The lightning in the distance flashing out of low, the dark black clouds were spectacular and covered the horizon. Had I been sailing on the ocean, I would have turned and ran as fast as I could away from the storm.
   But Interstate Highways don't let you do that so easily.
   And so an hour after first seeing the storm I drove right into, I ended up pulling off the highway in a hasty search for high ground to avoid predicted flash flooding. The rain was coming down so fast visibility was near zero. The town streets were deserted, too...

   When the storm cleared it was off to the next town up a few miles the highway in search of a campground.
   The only one was on the banks of a river outside of town.
   Given that flash flood warnings, plus witnessing the devastation from flooding in Hector, NY, the choice was obvious.
   NO  (&(^^%)*))*Q% WAY!
   A few miles later the Red Writer crossed over the Mississippi into Iowa, where the Interstate RV Park beckoned.
   The park has full RV services and is tucked in snugly amid lots of commercial activity.
   The snug part proved to be really important.
   Just after the Red Writer as all hooked up and settled, another RV owner - who bore a strange resemblance to Mr. Magoo in looks and speech - knocked on the door and warned that a huge storm was headed our way in a half-hour packing 70 mph winds and torrential rains. He said many people were going to "shelter in place" in the building housing the bathrooms and showers.
   I was still trying to decide whether this was a red wine or white wine kind of storm when the wind and rain walloped the campground well ahead of schedule, trapping most people in RVs.

   Luckily, no RVs did a Dorothy, flying off to OZ. All stayed firmly on the ground, though the RV park was a swamp for hours.
   There's more rain in the forecast for the next week here, but no tormentas like the ones in these videos.
   None predicted anway.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

On the road again - and changing time zones

   INDIAN CREEK, Ohio - The concept of an RV park right in a rest area along a turnpike is a good one. You pull in, hook up to power and have a safe, well-lighted place away from the diesel trucks and the car parking lots where people zip and out of the place all night.
     That said, it's still pretty noisy with the constant thrum of Interstate 90 in the background. But it was easy to pull in and should be easy to pull out as soon as this is posted.
     The Red Writer is starting Day 3 of my cross-country sojourn from Seneca Lake to San Francisco.
     And thanks to the diesel trucks that cranked up their engines at 6 a.m., I will be getting an early start on the day.
     Day one was a short hop from Watkins Glen (and Amanda Smith-Socaris' hospitality) to Lakewood, NY. There  I spent the afternoon and evening with lifelong friend Doug Hooper. My head is still spinning with all the memories our conversations turned up.
     Yesterday was a nearly 300-mile run from Lakewood to this rest stop, the last stop on the Ohio Turnpike before entering Indiana as I lurch towards the Chicago traffic miasma. I hope I can find the same interstate bypass as Admiral Fox and I took when we came east in June.
Indian Creek RV parking
     The hardest part of the trip so far - other than staying awake while driving mile after mile after mile - has been forcing myself to slow down and look at things along the way.
     When I stopped last night at 5 p.m. - way earlier than Adm. Fox and I generally would pull over on any of our usual road trips - I was rewarded by meeting some very interesting folks from New Hampshire, heading to Montana for a family wedding.
     We shared a glass of wine, good conversation and I suspect next summer we might rendezvous someplace in their home state of New Hampshire.

    It was a good reminder of the words I read on a stone placed near author Jack Kerouac's grave in Lowell, Mass. when I was on another road trip a few weeks ago visiting amigo Dan Sundquist and his wife Sarah in New Hampshire before catching up with and my two sisters, Evelyn and Anne.
     His words?
     The Road is Life.
     Thanks Jack...


Friday, August 3, 2018

Like Willie: 'I can't wait to get on the road again'

   VALOIS, NY - The days and nights here in the Finger Lakes since arriving in late June have been amazing. And a little exhausting. How much fun can you pack in?
     A lot, it seems.
     But since the weather turned from steamy humid and blistering heat to overcast and rain, Willie Nelson's refrain from "On The Road Again" is getting stuck in my head.
     I found myself - after a 5+mile hike early yesterday morning with amigo Harry Ellison - looking longingly at the road atlas (yes, I have a paper road atlas thank you very much). I started plotting a course across country with a dozen stops.
    So far...
    The lift-off for that trip is just short of three weeks from today, but I can hear the thrum of the tires already and Willie blasting out of the speakers.
    Three weeks can be an eternity or go by in a flash. Based on the weeks since Admiral Sylvia Fox and I arrived in late June, I'll put my bet on the time flashing by. She left three weeks ago to get back to cooler air in San Francisco.
     From what she has told me, she found it. Too much of it.
    And in about a week, I have a New Hampshire to Lowell, Mass to Woodmere, Long Island road trip planned.
   That will be sans the Red Writer trailer, however...I just can't imagine hauling the Red Writer on the Cross-Bronx Expressway or any of the Manhattan Bridges.
The artist as musician
    Yesterday I went to an artist's reception/exhibit at a shop called Hector Handmade, just a few miles up the road.
    I've been to hundreds of such arty soirees over the years but this one was exceptional. Really exceptional.
    It was partly because of the interesting art, but also because artist Nicole Costa is a musician, too. She is also a seamstress and probably a dozen other creative things based what people told me.
    She and a band called Mother Wort put on a rockin' concert while people oooohed and ahhhhed over her art, most of them sipping wine.
    Below is a short sample of their tunes...






Monday, July 23, 2018

A Sullivan family reunion in Naples - Naples, NY

   NAPLES, New York - The sign out front Saturday afternoon was a pretty good hint - provided you can read Celtic.
     So I was a little unsure I had landed at the right party/family reunion a few hours drive from where I left The Red Writer sitting snugly tucked up next to the Valois cottage where it has been for the last month. After all, it was an Irish family reunion in a place called Naples that sits in the middle of the New York town called Italy.
     Really.
If you see this sign, think 'Welcome'
     To clear up if I had the right spot, I asked a fellow getting out of his truck if I had landed at a Sullivan family soiree.
     Before he could answer I noted the bottle of Irish whiskey he was toting to bring in. I knew I had found the right spot, a beautiful hillside home where 40-50 people had already gathered and the party was in full swing
     I had been invited to the party by my cousin Monica Sullivan Smith, who, if I have it right, is my late mother Evelyn's second cousin. My maternal grandmother was a Sullivan and thus the connection.
     When I was growing up in Brooklyn, we made several forays to the Geneva, NY farm where Monica grew up with her family.
     Later when I was in my teens living at Lake Chautauqua a few hours drive away, Monica and her family would pile into their car and drive over to the lake where we had great parties and spent most of the day water skiing or doing some other aquatic activity.
     There was no waterskiing at the Naples house Saturday, though the pond and swimming pool looked inviting. A few young Sullivans found their way into the pool.
    
The Sullivan Clan first cousins
     At one point there was a group photo taken of all the first cousins some of whom dryly noted that there seemed to be fewer people getting in the group shot as the years roll by.
     No matter, it was the most cheery, liveliest and friendly party I've been to in a long, long time.
     My cousin Monica spends a lot of her time and energy tracing genealogical Sullivan records.
     A few years ago she even found the actual ancestral family farm in Ireland, the wellspring for the Sullivan clan in the Geneva, NY area.
     Nearly every time we get together, she has some information, token, or photo connecting my Fitzgerald family to the Sullivans.
     Saturday she presented me with a Christmas card from 1948 that my father and mother sent out.
     I am the squirt on my mother's lap, flanked by my sister Anne on my right. My late father (Anthony W. Fitzgerald) is the fellow with the then-stylish tie sitting next to my mom. The teenage boy who appears less than pleased to be photographed is my late brother Tony. 
     These kind of photos & mementos are priceless.
     If I had done nothing else in my time here at New York except go to the party, it would have been worth the cross-country journey.
     Of course, there have been plenty of other amazing things going on here also since Admiral Sylvia Fox and I arrived in late June. Perhaps most notable was the end of a nearly decade-long battle by citizen activists against a nasty propane gas storage facility. The damnable thing will not be built.
     My notebooks are full of stories, story ideas and things to chase down for future columns for the Finger Lakes Times. There's also a sketch outline for another novel that came to me in a dream.
     Really.
     There's still a lot more Finger Lakes time ahead, followed by a 3,000-plus mile return odyssey across America in August likely to spill over into September. But eventually The Red Writer will make it back home to its home port at the Brickyard Landing condo where Sylvia and I live in Point Richmond, Calif.
     When I returned from my sojourn last summer, Sylvia had posted a neatly lettered sign on the front door that said Welcome Home! I saved it. And it hangs on the wall in my office where I see it every time I walk in.
     Maybe this year she will post a sign that says Failte baile.
     I sure hope so...

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Back at work in Nebraska, writing and researching

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - On our second day at the Eugene T. Mahoney State Park we settled in for a day of rest (in the sweltering heat) and also for me to do prep work for next week's Finger Lakes Times column.
Checking the wine list at Cellar 426 Wines and Vines
     The research for the piece - about the horrific Trumpian 'policy' of wresting children away from parents at the Mexican border - was sooooooo depressing that we decided to make a stop at Cellar 426 Wines & Vines facility just outside of town to soothe our nerves.
     I tried five different wines, all produced locally. And (drum roll please), they were all good.
Honestly. All good.
     Just as we got done with that errand, we had one of those amazing Midwest lightning storms roll through. We sat in The Red Writer trailer wondering when would happen should lightning decided to take a whack at us.
Making notes for a smokin' column
     In the middle of the storm son Dustin Fox called to wish me a happy father's day. And in that conversation he said something about how the trailer would act as a Faraday Cage or something should we be victims of a supercharged bolt of electricity from the sky.
     It was comforting, sort of. But it was even nicer when the storm moved off and the the temperature dropped 10-15 degrees.
     Another full day planned here tomorrow, starting with a morning spent drafting the FLT column for next Friday.
     It's past time to kick the four spineless GOP Congressmen representing the Finger Lakes squarely for their lack of morality, ethics, and basic sense of humanity.
     Cowards all they be. That's likely to be the nicest thing I say about them.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

First heat, now humidity - welcome to the Midwest

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - After days of high-altitude camping in Colorado, Admiral Sylvia Fox and I dropped down to North Platte, Nebraska last night, then quickly scurried this morning for three hours to arrive at Eugene T. Mahoney State Park near Omaha.
The Red Writer at Eugene T. Mahoney State Park
     The heat has been about the same as the mountains.
     Hot, hot, and hotter, sprinkled with momentary lapses of slightly cooler air, followed by blast-furnaces doses of more temperature spikes.
     But when we got out of the Toyota Tundra at North Platte, we had something else to contend with: Humidity.
     It was like walking into a sauna - a really hot one.
     Today we are set up in a nice shady spot at this state park and plan a three-day stay. Or longer. The air conditioner is doing yeoman service. And unlike last night in North Platte, there is a nice breeze - even if warm.
     I visited this state park two years ago when I was driving my little red Nissan truck from NY to California.
     It's just as fabulous as I remember it. Hiking trails, small lakes, the Platte River, a fabulous aerospace museum within walking distance and a very neat town just four miles away
     Now if I could just breathe a little easier. Humidity and I have never been close friends.
     On our way into the lodge an hour ago (where this is being written), we got a close up look at the new Airstream trailer design. Several people who have come to take a peek at our T@B trailer have mentioned they were debating between getting a new Airstream like this and a T@B.
     It's very space-age but I think I'll stick with The Red Writer.
Not your father's Airstream trailer

Friday, June 15, 2018

The pressing need to break out my camera more

   NORTH PLATTE, Nebraska - Thank God Admiral Sylvia Fox keeps her cell phone camera on ready alert all the time.
Father and son (photo by Sylvia Fox)
     Whenever I go to write one of these missives, I almost always ask if she has a photo of the event, incident, animal, person or place to illustrate my point.
     Case in point, a great series of visits with oldest son Jason Fitzgerald, now a resident of Minturn,
Colorado and still a girls volleyball coach at Battle Mountain High School in Edwards. We had a great visit one evening, followed by a trip to nearby Glenwood Springs the next morning.
     Then two days ago we got together in Minturn, walking the length of the town, even washing The Red Writer trailer at at car wash.
   How many photos did I take? One or two. How many of son Jason? You guessed it.
The Barford fire crew (Photo by Sylvia Fox)
     The same thing happened when we visited Hector amigos Ann and Paul Barford at their fabulous home in Golden Colorado. We had great shots of the firefighters who had tamped out a blaze in an adjacent forest-park.
     But Ann and Paul? You guessed it again.
   I did pull out my big-gun camera today when we hiked through Chief Hosa Park to check on a herd of bison.
     No joy on finding the huge mammals, but lots of good scenics and we spotted a cigarette butt obviously stamped out on right on a pile of dry pine needles -  in the middle of the park.
     Santo Crappo! The idiot that did that could have ignited a firestorm like the one that decimated Santa Rosa last year.
     The photo, sadly, is just a damned cigarette butt on the ground, hardly worth printing.