Spring

Diving Headlong into Spring

" It is a rising tide of dazzling light.

It is heady: our skulls fill like cups of fire."

Whew! (a hat tip to Amy over at: http://amykane.typepad.com/blog/)

~~~~~

Here, its more the altitude than the latitude. Spring is defined by one's proximity to that long and sinuous, granite and quartz dragon spine that splits the continent in two. Come May, it still glitters with winter bright snow. At nearly two and three quarter miles high, some of these solitary peaks know only two seasons, winter and August.

Some unremembered, unrepentent grizzled old prospector coined the phrase a century past. And it still rings true.

I can see him standing proud, bent and twisted as the sub-alpine bristlecone pine, shaped by the brutal wind, the brittle brilliant sun and the incomprehensible weight of stone on stone on stone...The Rocky Mountains. Fresh from the assayer's office, he leans on the Silver Queen's mahogany bar. His reflection wavers in the silver dust mirror. Dark whiskey grasped in one gnarled hand, a half finished lager, golden sea foam in the other, he pulls long and slow on a fine treat, a ten cent cigar. It's blue-gray aura encircles his wicked, unkempt visage, a spicy halo.

He is Saint Mud-mucker. His parish ranges across the long, alpine creeks above Leadville. Baby Doe Tabor is his blue-eyed Virgin, The Silver Queen saloon, his cathedral.

Mud defines him; its grayness permeates clothing, skin and soul. His once bright red union suit is tattered and muted, oiled with cold sweat and dynamite dust. Crusted mud encases his boots, seeps into his deepest thoughts. Only his eyes, they sparkle with that fire, that lust for gold. THAT is the fire burning deep in his fevered skull.

Recollections

Connie

I had a classmate named Connie. Her sweet soft oval face and strong aquiline nose framed huge dark eyes set over a sensuous, ready smile. I first noticed her in 5th grade. She was the Annette Funicello of our class. And like many of Mediterranean descent, she began to mature physically at a younger age than most. Connie was blessed (or cursed) with budding breasts. Most of the boys were intrigued, not quite sure why. Whispers, rumors of what sex might be were spoken by some, with furtive giggles and sly smiles.

I was the smallest in the class, painfully shy. I admired Connie from the back of the room, settled safe in the confines of my ancient cast iron and wood desk. Fifth Grade was a distraction from life spent wandering the pastures, creeks, woods and fields. Sometimes late at night, her dark eyes and growing curves filled my head, lit a small ember deep in my young belly.

Sixth Grade was different. We had a male teacher. His straight ahead, no-nonsense style caught hold of my wandering mind. Over the summer, I had grown taller, more gangly. Connie had blossomed, hips and waist and growing breasts. She didn't walk. She waltzed in the hallways. Her dark eyes glowed deep fire. And, she wore makeup!

Early that first week, I convinced myself to do something brash. I saved back a portion of my allowance for a month. In the Ben Franklin Five-and-Dime I pondered over the cheap costume jewelry. One silvery ring with a dark blue paste stone caught and held my eye. It was the same blue of Connie's shaggy, tight cashmere sweater. THAT ring had to be the magic talisman that would win her heart for me.

I bought it, wrapped it in white tissue with a carefully printed note: "From a secret admirer.” I just could not bring myself to sign it.

The next morning, I hustled out of the house early and sneaked into the classroom. I lifted Connie’s stained wood desktop, and with trembling hands deposited the burning passion wrapped in tissue on her Pee-Chee folder. Scared to distraction, I ran out into the hall, down the stairs and out into the brilliant September morning. Relieved at not being seen, I ran to join the little group of guys who were my friends.

The bell rang, calling us to class. I was petrified. Looking for any excuse, I hung back until the schoolyard teacher called to me. I crept in the back door and skulked to my desk, slinking low.

Connie had just opened her desk and stood, her head tilted, a quizzical expression on her warm face. She opened my package with her long elegant fingers and laughed, saying something like, "This is sweet. Who put this here?"

I sat stone cold frozen, deer in the headlights, unable to think or move. Those dark, laughing eyes scanned the classroom, seeking the gift giver. They passed over me without hesitating. Joe, the class clown began to snicker. All eyes zoomed in on him and Connie laughed out loud. Immediately, everyone "knew" that Joe had pulled a fine practical joke. General laughter and kidding ran through the class as Joe acted the part flawlessly. While I melted, shoulders slumped, my heart felt like a dark stone. It was too late to stand and claim the deed. No one would believe me, least of all, beautiful Connie…unattainable Connie.

I felt the fool and the dolt growing like a dark shadow about my head and heart. That feeling became a ragged cloak that I wore all through Junior High and High School.

That was 51 years ago. This year is our 45th class reunion. Connie will be there. According to the class historian and my hunting buddy, she is divorced, living and teaching in a small town in Southern Colorado. And, I am told, she is still quite stunning at age 62.

It will be interesting to greet her as a late middle-aged man. My guess is that those smoldering dark eyes are still burning. What effect will they have?

THAT, beloved, is a question which can only be answered by walking through the fear of the once skinny young boy. The man in me can do that, assuring that still present lil' feller that the grownup will speak for him with strength and grace...51 years later.

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.