Blue Moon

Winter Arrives, a Full Blue Moon

A new year, a new decade has been born. Janus, the two faced Roman God has taken his place in the calendar. Janus, more like the bright and Mercurial Gemini twins than the stolid, Satrunalian Capricorn is one of those astrological oddities.

The New Year arrived with an astronomical phenomenon, the second full moon within a monthly cycle. It is a Blue Moon. And this Blue Moon is nestled into its astrological home, the sign of Cancer.

Winter has arrived, cold and sharp. Looks to be a tough one. There has been snow on the ground in the shadows since mid-October.

Brings to mind a poem I wrote some 15 years ago:



One Coyote on Ice

January aires whip southward.
Bundled tight to muffle
Against a Canada born wind
My steps whip along a frozen path.

Out of the cattail camouflage
Coyote trots easy, confident
‘Cross cold locked water.
Head down, hunting nose intent
Following scent.
Worried ducks rasp alarm,
Rise in raucous flight.
He stops, on his haunches drops
Watching dinner disappear.

One furtive glance at me,
One flick of a bushy tail,
He rests alone, sure of life,
One coyote on ice.

Open Carry

~~ Sixth Sense ~~

Back in the dark ages.... when we were young and dumb, sometimes stoned, we roamed the lower mountains in noisome and bothersome packs. The old mines around Idaho Springs or Georgetown and those above Central City, along with the ancient cemetery beckoned us. All of us were skiers. Hiking and running down hill, rock hopping and making quick cuts between trees were one way we kept in shape during the off season.

One June while camped on the edge of an Aspen grove near Brainard Lake, that now familiar "sixth sense" woke me in the eerie alpenglow just before true dawn. My friends were still asleep, racked out mounds of colorful nylon, unconscious. Peering, bleary eyed over the frosty edge of my bag, I watched as a cottontail fairly flew around the corner, and blasted down the trail, zig-zagging in a ragged dance of deception. Two breaths behind him, a large coyote streaked into our camp, running low and intent. The moment the critter caught our scent, it froze. A burning yellow eye caught mine. A low growl rumbled, pissed. We, the intruders, had foiled a breakfast hunt. In less than a heart-beat, he(or she) turned tail and disappeared back up the trail.

Just a song dog, yet I had never before felt quite as vulnerable. I lay there shaking...unable to think or move, frozen in time. I caught a glimpse of what it meant to “be” prey. It was one of those seminal, teachable moments, serendipitous some might say. The experience was filed away in a growing inner library that ultimately led to a tipping point. I changed. I grew from being an undisciplined, loopy thinking liberal college kid into an adult, a hunter, gun owner and conservative in thought and action.

These days I ply the high mountain creeks with a light fly rod, seeking cutthroat and brook trout. Much of the time I am alone or with one friend. The reassuring weight of either the S&W .357 or the Ruger hogleg .44 mag. rest at the ready on my hip. Mountain lions and black bear prowl the environs where I prefer to fish. There are apocryphal tales, unproven, of wolves who have migrated down the Rockies spine from Yellowstone and the Tetons.

The act of being armed is purposed, intentional. It changes my placement in the environment from being possible prey into an equal to those with tooth and claw, speed and stealth. The weight, the presence of the firearm creates a change in my attitude and approach in how I interact with the environment.

Before, a blithely unconscious two legged simian, thin skinned and devoid of defensive (or offensive) protection, I wandered the trails, canyons and creek beds with an invisible sign on my back. “Eat me!”, the sign blinked. Now, with the firearm’s weight as a reminder, I remain aware that there is only that deadly tool and my reasoning mind that changes me from helpless prey into a defender. I am no longer prey. I am become predator.

Would it be that four legged predators were the only critters of concern.

Given the continued influx of people into the high country, some with questionable motives and some with downright evil intent, the open carry of a sidearm provides me, an aging, arthritic man, with a self-defense mechanism, an equalizer. You see, beloved, dialing 911 five miles from nowhere is not a viable option.



(a tip of the hat to Brigid over at: http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/ for the inspiration.)

Christmas Dinner

~~BAMBI WELLINGTON~~

It all began when og (http://www.neanderpundit.com/) posted his version of Venison Wellington last week. The wheels in the right side of my brain began to spin, thinking of what to do to create a fine Colorado rendition of the same.

Mark and I harvested two mule deer does the first weekend of December. I had a roast in the freezer just begging to be made into a version of Wellington. Here's the recipe:

Pate:

• one pint of fresh button mushrooms, coarse chopped
  
• two shallots, coarse chopped
• two garlic cloves, coarse chopped
• quarter cup of dried currants
  
• two quarter inch thick discs of Liverwurst (Braunschweiger)
• Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper
  
• olive oil
• two Tblsp. unsalted butter
  

Heat a heavy skillet (cast iron) medium heat with the butter and a couple tablespoons of olive oil. Dump the mushrooms, shallots, garlic into the food processor, pulse until they are very fine, almost a paste, drizzle a bit of olive oil as needed to keep the texture fine. Saute the mixture in the butter and olive oil about 10 minutes till the liquid is reduced. Salt and Pepper to tase. DO NOT clean the skillet! Set the mixture aside to cool. When the mix is cooled, mix in the currants.

Meanwhile.......

The Roast:

• One small (2 to3 lb) Loin or Bottom Round Venison roast
• 12 slices (about a half pound) good Prosciutto ham
• One package (18 sheets) phyllo dough
• Mild Dijon mustard
• Olive oil (or melted butter)
  
• Bacon grease
  
• Kosher salt and coarse black pepper
• Marsala wine
• one egg, beaten with water to make an egg wash
  

In the same skillet that you sauteed the pate mixture, add some bacon grease and olive oil, about a tablespoon of each. Heat on medium high until the oil begins to smoke. Dust the roast with salt and pepper. Sear all sides of the roast until well browned. It will take about 10 minutes total. Set the roast aside covered with foil to rest for about 5 minutes. AGAIN....do not clean the skillet

Lay out the slices of prosciutto overlapping (herringbone or bricklayers pattern) on long piece of plastic wrap...or a cross made of plastic wrap. Spread the pate mixture on the prosciutto. Add cut or torn chunks of the liverwurst evenly on the pate. Coat the roast on all side with the dijon mustard and place it in the center of the pate. Fold the prosciutto over the roast, sealing it inside. Wrap the plastic tight, creating a solid seal. Refigerate or put in the freezer to cool and retain its shape, about 20 minutes in the 'fridge, 10 minutes in the freezer.

Heat your oven to 425 degrees.

While the roast is cooling, brush or spritz all the layers of phyllo dough with either melted butter or olive oil. Remove the plastic and place the roast in the center of the stack of phyllo. Fold the dough around the roast, sealing it inside. Cut slits in the top to allow steam to escape. Place the roast in an oiled baking pan....I prefer glass. Brush with the egg wash.

Roast the Wellington for 35 to 45 minutes depending on how rare you like your meat. I did ours for 35.

Remember the unclean skillet? It has good stuff in it! While the roast is in the oven, reheat the skillet and add a bit of bacon grease or butter if needed. If you wish, add flour or corn starch to make a roux. Whisk in between a quarter to half cup of the Marsala to make a bit of gravy to drizzle over the Wellington.

Remove your Wellington, slice thick and enjoy!



The dijon slathered roast laid out on the pate and prosciutto and plastic, ready to be wrapped and cooled.

The Wellington wrapped in phyllo, slits cut and brushed with the egg wash; ready for the oven.




Thirty five minutes later, it came out of the oven, ready for the table, a luscious brown crust on the phyllo.




Sliced from the center out, the meat was done to perfection, barely medium rare, extremely tender and redolent with the flavors of currants, shallots, mushrooms and the spicy bite of the liverurst.


We served it with steamed broccoli spritzed with lemon butter and mashed yams with rice syrup, currants and more butter! A fine Cab or Merlot for those inclined. Oh...and desert was Brandied Pears.

Autumn

November arrived decked in a flaming sunrise. The Summer of travel and death and wandering grief is gone. Autumn came with the promise of more troubles on the world stage. But this!, this sunrise was astounding, a portent of the fires of Winter.
Winter where cold mangles cold and callous hearts turn to stone.
Winter, where deep longings slumber dreaming of the freshets of Spring

The last of the brilliant colors on the Cherry tree and the Spirea bush. The garden was a joy. It went totally out of control as I spent more of the Summer traveling or taking care of Mom and her estate in Tucson, than I did tending my garden. Its overgrown and sorely in need of trimming and cutting back.


Mark took two fine pheasants opening day. I missed more than my share of "gimme" shots. It was obvious when I returned home that I had not been mounting the ol' Browning correctly. I had a series of bruises on my bicep. Can't hit a bird if ya can't shoulder and point the dang gun!

Rifles were cleaned and adjusted. Last year I missed two or three seemingly easy shots after a very disconcerting misfire where a piece of straw had lodged between the bolt face and the round, stopping the firing pin from hitting the primer. I cleaned and checked both long guns for any loose fasteners, rust and crud.

Scopes were checked for accuracy. I shot a total of five or six three round groups with the .270.
The scope was high at 3 inches and way off to the right by almost 5 inches. Dialed in, it was set 2 inches high on vertical center at 100 yards.
Two decent sized does fell to the spell of well placed bullets. I shot mine and Mark followed suit within the blink of an eye. Both animals were dropped almost in their tracks by lung and/or heart shots.

We gutted, skinned, tagged and bagged the carcasses. We iced them down in the big cooler and said farewell to another successful year of hunting near Cheyenne Wells.

West River Nathaniel No Fear

Nate's last portrait. A good Scottish Collie with
fine Scottish Harebells behind him.
"Ruadh Gu Brath!"

*~ In Memoriam ~*

"Nate"
___________
b. 4 June 1997
d. 3 Sept. 2009
___________

Nate grew progressively weaker and weaker over the summer. He was losing weight. The docs thought it was because of an auto-immune problem effecting his thyroid. A couple of weeks ago, he began developing symptoms of Lupus, another immune system problem. His back legs and hips have been giving him trouble for nearly a year. When we awoke last Thursday, the 3rd, he was hardly able to rise and walk, listing strongly to Port. Deborah was concerned that he might have had a stroke, or some kind of seizure. It was clear that he was not well. He was loosing control over his bowels and bladder. As the day warmed, the flies were swarming, biting his ears and nose, worrying his hind end.

One of our neighbors, a massage therapist and alternative vet practitioner gave us the name of a vet who specializes in geriatric care, acupuncture and does house calls. (Yes, he does house calls!) I phoned Dr. Jeff and explained the constellation of symptoms and set up a time for him to come by on Saturday.

By 5:00 P.M. it was clear to me that Nate's condition was worsening almost exponentially. I called Dr. Jeff and asked if he could come over that evening. He agreed to do so. Meanwhile Nate was losing all ability to move without help, he was growing disoriented, unable to find a comfortable position. I sat with him in the waning afternoon, kept him hydrated and brushed the flies away.

Right at dusk, as my old friend lay next to me on the southwest corner of the yard, Dr. Jeff drove up and immediately began running diagnostics on Nate. His prognoses was not good. Ms. D arrived and we consulted together and with the vet. All the while, Sprocket kept pacing back and forth, just out of way of the humans surrounding "his" big canine brother.

It was time. I could not stand to watch him suffer any longer. Both Dr. Jeff and Ms. D agreed. It was time to say goodbye.

Dammit.

How do you say goodbye to a wonderful companion, protector, guardian, neighborhood ambassador and friend who has graced our lives and the lives of all our neighbors for just over twelve years? How do you say goodbye to the dog that slept between us, kept us warm as an early June snow storm raged across the Delaney Buttes lakes, while we huddled in a cold, cold camp? How do you say goodbye to a dog that would run back and forth along the river bank, yipping while we two fished, knee deep in frigid waters of Bear Creek? How do you say goodbye to a grand dog who made a point of placing himself between the street and any child who wandered by with his parents, who made it a point to make a gentle peace with every canine that came into "his" territory? How do you say goodbye?

Dammit!

Dr. Jeff went to his car, came back with a plaid blanket. He laid it out on the ground along Nate's back. As he did, he explained what he was going to do. First, he would give Nate a sedative to allow him to relax, feel more comfortable. Then he would leave us all together for a few minutes while the sedative did its work. He gave us choices on how we wanted to handle the remains. We could bury him ourselves or we could have him cremated. We could have his ashes or not.

DAMMIT!

Ms. D and I sat and wept, holding the old guy, saying our pathos ridden, empty goodbyes. Dr. Jeff then shaved Nate's fore arm, found a vein and injected the lethal dose, the drug that would shut down his cardio-pulmonary function. After the allotted time, he check his heart. It was still beating. He shaved his rear leg, found a vein and injected another dose. He looked at us incredulous, saying: "He has a strong heart. I have given him enough dosage to kill a 200 pound animal."

Dammit...a strong and faltering heart... And then beloved, Nate died.

How do you say goodbye? It is the long, long goodbye. Everyday for some period of time there will be a reminder, a hole in the universe where Nate stood, or lay, or in some way filled with his presence. A year, six months, forever...I suspect a bit of it all. The grieving process is interwoven in humankind's psyche. It belongs to the realm of Kairos. Its God's time, not mine, not yours...not some collective mind.



The day after, neighbors began asking: "Where's Nate?" Ms. D printed out epitaph pages and taped them to Nate's Run. Almost immediately, flowers and cards began to appear. The memorial is still growing. Grown men, tough and strong, come by walking their own canine companions. They learn that Nate has passed... And their shoulders slump, heads drop and hot tears well up. Grief overtakes them.

Dammit!!! -- That, beloved, is how you say good-bye.




Nate and I on New Year's Day, 2009.




Nate enjoying one of his favorite treats:
a new snow fall, wet and cool, late October, 2008




The old Ambassador walking the early Autumn
riparian paths along Clear Creek last September.

I leave you with a recollection brought to us yesterday by one of those burly, strong men:

Big Nate, The Mayor of 42nd and Quitman, loved very much and never to be forgotten by all who knew him:

I REMEMBER:
(In memory of beloved pets who are gone, but not forgotten.)

I stood by your bed last night, I came to have a peep.
I could see that you were crying, You found it hard to sleep

I whined to you softly as you brushed away a tear,
"Its me, I haven't left you. I'm well, I'm fine, I'm here."

I was close to you at breakfast, I watched you pour your tea,
You were thinking of the many times your hands reached down to me.

I was with you at the shops today. Your arms were getting sore.
I long to take your parcels, I wished I could do more.

I was with you at my grave today. You tend it with such care.
I want to reassure you, that I'm not lying there.

I walked with you towards the house as you fumbled for your key.
I gently put my paw on your, I smiled and said: "Its me."

You looked so very tired and sank into the chair.
I tried so hard to let you know, that I was standing there.

Its possible fro me to so near you everyday.
To say to you with certainty: "I never went away."

You sat there very quietly, then smiled, I think you knew...
in the stillness of that evening, I was very close to you.

The day is over... I smile and watch you yawning
And say: "Goodnight, God Bless, I see you in the morning."

And when the time is right for you to cross this brief divide,
I'll rush across to greet you, we'll stand together, side by side.

I have so many things to show you, there's so much for you to see.
Be patient, live your journey out...then come home and be with me.

- author unknown