March 30, 2007  Deja Vu All Over Again
 
I recently passed another birthday milestone. Increasingly, I tend to downplay these events because they remind me that, despite the fact that my brain and libido is stuck at the ripe old age of 27, the rest of me looks back over my shoulder to realize the hill is behind me. The hill that I'm over; on the downside of that slippery slope to old age; the future that holds dentures and dementia, drooling and diapers....you get the idea.
 
The good part of passing these milestones is that you get nice cards and emails and phone calls from special people in your life. I have to admit that I enjoy these well wishes very, very much. This year I was fortunate to receive a number of birthday good wishes in all of these forms, and, while I enjoy them all equally, one stood out because of how close it's message came home.... My neighbors and friends from nearby sent me a card that instantly made me laugh because it seemed to be made just for me!
 

 
I knew I had an old black and white photograph of myself when I was just a little older than the lad on the card, playing on another vintage tractor. Only that tractor was fairly new back then. The rig belonged to a fella that my Grandfather hired to clean out a creek that flowed along the edge of his property. It had a backhoe bucket, a front-end loader and lots of mysterious levers and hoses. Some due diligence digging through piles of old photos recovered that memory.
 

 
I've remarked in the past that I've always had a love for old machines; trains, firetrucks, steam engines and tractors. The only one of these that I currently own is a vintage Ford tractor (Although I did have a 1933 Diamond T working firetruck for a few years).
 

 
I frequently look back on my life, both good times and bad times, simply because it lends persective to my future. And, since we can't predict the future, it seems reasonable to gather thoughts and memories of the past to help make decisions on future issues when the time comes.
 
When new challenges present themselves, I'm eager to add them to my larder of experiences, providing, of course, they're not the totally lame and useless crud invented for so-called "reality tv". After all, I figure that I will probably not have a need to eat bull testicles. First off, you'd have to get them off the bull, who isn't going to be happy or cooperative in this endeavor. If you have to go through that kind of effort, doesn't it seem more reasonable to go for a top sirloin instead?
 
I'm not of the Crocodile Hunter mentality, so creatures that are likely to bite, eat, sting or otherwise kill me are not on my hit list of necessary experiences... I've had plenty of those except for the kill part and I think I have enough data to draw significant conclusions.
 
That's called wisdom, and it comes from plenty of experience. When you spend your life pushing the envelope of your own level of adventure, I believe you've done well. If you're still around five years later, you're doin' great!
 
On the other end of the scale are Republicans... go figure!
 

 
Until later.....DKHT

March 26, 2007  A Touch of Spring
 
Winter is finally losing it's grip on the Northwoods. Of course, there is always the chance that we'll see brief amounts nasty cold weather until mid May, but right now the temps range from the 40s to the 70s and are a welcome relief from the below freezing days and sub-zero nights we've had this winter.
 
We had a glorious thunderstorm the night before last. The thunder and lightning were truly grand. I've always been fascinated by evening thunderstorms. Watching the sky light up with narled fingers of lightning, stopping time for a fraction of a second. Many stormy evenings will find me out on the front deck (I'll be under the part that has a roof if it's raining) with my tripods and cameras. I've been taking pictures of these storms for years now, both on film and digitally, with varying degrees of success. Some results have been quite dramatic, but I've yet to get the same essence of seeing the storm with human eyes.
 
The ice is still thick on the lake, but is beginning to honeycomb, thanks to the rains of the last few nights. Each following morning has dawned to heavy fog, created by the warm rain hitting the cold lake ice. Eerie mornings until the later breezes blow the fog away (where does fog go? San Francisco? London? Crandon?)
 
This lake is spring-fed, meaning that water from rains and melting snow percolates down through a foot or so of topsoil and then a few dozen feet of extremely fine sand. This water arrives at the water table , or upper surface of saturated water in the surrounding ground. Typically, the water table and lake level seek the same overall level.
 
Recent years have yielded below normal snows and rains. As a result, the water table and the lake level have gone down.... five feet from the most recent high level, and a foot below the lowest recorded level.
 
Although the bald eagles are flying overhead everyday, looking for woodland critters while waiting for the ice to leave, few other early season birds have arrived yet. I look forward to their arrival each year, particularly the hummingbirds. But the air is fresh and doesn't burn your lungs. The pine tree smell and the distinct odor of fresh ground signals this new season.
 
Until later.....DKHT

March 14, 2007  Why I Don't Ski Anymore, Part III
 
Heidi was so emotionally worked up about getting off that chairlift that she had no idea she was the cause of my slam dunk disaster on the landing. But, I picked myself up, brushed myself off and skied over by The Crew with a debonair air. That and a split lip and bloody nose. By the way their lips trembled and the fact that they wouldn't look me in the eye, I realized they were trying to hold back howls of laughter, undoubtedly for Heidi's sake.
 
The Crew was anxious to get on with skiing and took off down the hill. We were on one of the intermediate runs for my benefit, since they'd all prefer to be on the expert runs. Before long I would be wishing that they had gone to the expert runs straight off so I could be alone in my misery on this overgrown bunny hill.
 
To begin with, shortly after the lift was a small flat spot which quickly sloped into a large bowl. I later named this feature "The Toilet Bowl" because it looked like one tipped slightly on it's side, and it was at the top of a dogleg to the left, so you really couldn't tell where you'd be ultimately flushed. I watched several skiers enter the bowl....some went on the low side , some on the high side. I chose the low road.
 
I immediately learned two things. Actually, I learned the first back at Fox Trails, but didn't think to apply it to a top notch resort like Alpine Valley. Basically it was simple physics: take thousands of skiers running over the same area in the course of a day and even the best grooming practices will result in sheet ice in Toilet Bowls. The second thing was that it pays to spend a few bucks to have your edges sharpened occasionally.
 
I hit the ice and tried turning, but with no workable edges I just gained speed while facing sideways. I straightened out and tried the snowplow manuever while I picked up more speed. I recognized that I was headed across the slippery slope toward the forest while clocking unheard of speeds. I realized that my last chance was to just fall down, but a cleverly placed mogul, combined with my self-righting boots launched me back upright and slightly airborne. Memories of my ski jumping days passed before my eyes along with the rest of my far too short life, all while waiting for the approaching forest to attack.
 
I almost didn't see the Ski Patrol fella whose ski tips I landed on, since my attention was pretty well occupied by the bunch of small trees racing crazily toward me. I somehow survived the trees with only a few facial welts and a few gooses that forced me to emit a girly scream. My mad dash was eventually stopped after I took out 20 feet of snow fence on the edge of the run. Amazingly I had stopped just 10 feet from The Crew. Their faces indicated just how sorry they felt...for Heidi.
 
Evidently it was an unusually busy night for the Ski Patrol. Whenever I was on the slope all I saw were these ghostly figures with red crosses speedily heading for parts unknown perhaps to make certain that some poor skier hadn't left total devastaion in his path. They seemed determined not to be downhill of me, but that could just've been my imagination.
 
Actually the rest of the run wasn't too bad and I began to enjoy skiing again. Oh, yeah, there were more moguls, but once I learned to keep my skis together instead of letting each chose their own side of the mogul, I even enjoyed them, getting better and better at timing mogul turns and such. I even learned to stop before the open water, and became sufficiently smug as to smirk knowingly when some beginner took the plunge.
 
During the next several seasons we often skied Alpine Valley. I became quite adept at the intermediate runs. I could even do helicopter turns off the moguls (they weren't all planned) much to the amazement of other skiers. I purchased ski roofracks for my car so we didn't have to rely on The Crew any longer, heh, heh. Instead, on my suggestion, I convinced Heidi that her pals, Beth and Annie might like to join us. Beth was expert and close to Heidi in skiing ability. Annie was intermediate like me, but I now had home ground advantage! We made many trips up to Alpine Valley and had a great time. Heidi and Beth would head off to the expert runs and Annie and I would show off on the intermediate slopes. Besides, I certainly didn't mind being surrounded by three georgeous gals on a cocoa break in the chalet.
 
I decided that I should upgrade from my little hickory-core skis to something more suitable for an advanced intermediate skier such as myself. Unfortunately, the forest and snowfence encounters had taken a toll on the old hickory core skis. I went to a Fox Trails ski swap and picked up a pair of used Head skis which were in good shape. The Head skis were way too long for me (they'd be perfect in the deep powder of Colorado, but I typically skied sheet ice). However, once I mounted my old bindings and tried the new skis out on one of our Alpine Valley runs I discovered that these buggers were fast but could carve great turns. When I learned how to keep up with them, I loved the control I had. Rather, I loved the control I thought I had.
 
There came a day when Beth and Annie had other plans, and Heidi and I were all alone on our Alpine Valley outing. My brain raced ahead to our return trip in the car when I could cuddle, warm and comfort that amazing Scandinavian body (my inexperience in these matters led me to believe that Heidi possessed looks that the Greeks and Romans would go to war over. I have since been totally enlightened). Skiing conditions were actually better than normal and my prowess on my favorite hill was purely inspirational.
 
I was in heaven, skiing next to my Scandinavian goddess. At least for the first three runs. Then, Heidi suggested that we move over to one of the expert runs. She assured me that it really was an intermediate run if you stayed to the left. She had that look in her eye that I had seen before.... the one that said our relationship was over if I didn't comply.
 
So, I timidly followed as we crossed over to the chairlift that provided access to this new run. After carefully exiting the lift we skied to the top of the run. Heidi pointed out the simple slope on the left. The right side actually rose to a high hill with a menacing downside that reattached to the main slope. The two parts of the run remet at a three foot diameter oak tree. It was the only tree that was actually in any of the runs, and it had my name on it! As a brisk wind arose and flowed through the valley all I could see was that massive oak with it's branches beckoning to me. After all those years of dodging these beasts of the forest, I figured my time had come, my ticket was punched, my fate sealed....well, you get the idea.
 
Heidi was still pointing out how easy the run was if you stayed hard left, near the forest that bordered the run. It was the easiest part of the slope and would keep you well away from the big tree (like THAT made a difference! Once that tree caught sight of me there was no place safe in the boundaries of the resort). Heidi would lead the way and I would follow. That was the plan. But just about the time I was picking up no-turning-back speed, somebody behind me was yelling "LEFT!!".
 
Some idiot was bearing down on me at 50 miles an hour on my left side! The guy had to be an idiot 'cuz I was already practically skiing in the woods and there was no left left to pass on! But reactions aren't always preceeded by in-depth thought and I carved a hard right to make room. Unfortunately that committed me to the off-ramp that led to the expert part of the slope.
 
I arrived at the second highest part of the resort at a brisk speed and only had a fraction of a second to make a few key observations. First was that the run was filled with teepees of bamboo with flags on top. I knew from Fox Trails that those warnings indicated that I shouldn't be there. But the point was moot since, at my speed I was already into observation #2, which was that I was plummeting down a near-vertical drop of exposed gravel (hence the bamboo markers). The bamboo poles and flags didn't accompany me for very long, but I continued to free-fall directly toward The Oak!
 
I'm not exactly clear on all of the following events. I was later told by onlookers that my whooping (kinda like Disney's cartoon Goofy) caught their attention. They said they were surprised seeing Olympic class sking that combined Alpine, Nordic and Ski-Flying all within a few hundred yards. They also asked how I'd managed to produce the trail of sparks from my skis. They wanted to know what kinda guts it took to come within millimeters of a three foot oak tree at 80 miles an hour. Fortunately, their amazement overlooked the fact that I hadn't been able to sustain my downhill turn after the oak tree and plowed a headfirst furrow through 20 yards of 2 foot deep snow. which filled up my clothing until I looked like Frosty the Snowman. Or that I actually did wind up with one foot in the stream after sliding off an icy patch on the way back to the bridge. But I had become something of a classical cult hero in my few seconds of fame. Yup, I'm the Skiing Stranger that dared schuss Killer Mountain (my name for it) with skis afire and did battle with a Mighty Oak and won! I suppose I was the one of the first Extreme Skiers, quite by accident and with a strong sense of self-preservation.
 
Heidi and I parted company before the next season, and I had less and less opportunity to ski since there weren't any ski areas down in Peoria where I was attending University. But I still have an old vinyl LP by folksinger/skier Bob Gibson were he sings stories of Super Skier. I fondly recall the part where Super Skier crossed the finish line wearing garlands of bamboo. You just don't mess with the classics!
 
Until later.....DKHT

March 12, 2007  Why I Don't Ski Anymore, Part II
 
I was a solid intermediate skier at Fox Trails. In fact, on our steepest hills, #9 and #10, I could beat even the experts to the bottom. My secret was in my skis, which weren't skis at all, but rather, were my somewhat smooth-bottomed Sorel Canadian pac boots that I wore to work daily. The tow operators were used to riding their boots both down the hills and up the tows. On #9 and #10 I'd schuss-boot straight down the hill, while the few expert skiers would carefully criss-cross or side-slide the hill. In fact, #9 and #10 were deemed too dangerous and too difficult to hold snow on, and were abandoned forever half way through their opening season.
 
Being used to the long and wide cross-country and jumping skis, I paid close attention to the fellas in our ski shop who handed out rental skis based on a mysterious formula linking ski length to height and weight of the skier, much like what was alluded to in Skiing Magazine my winter bible. When I asked the rental dudes what that secret formula was, they said "First we hand out all the medium-sized skis, and then, if business is still strong, we hand out the longs and the shorts".
 
When I finally went to buy my own downhill skis, I decided on a hickory core (cheap) with a thin poly base (cheap) screwed on steel edges (cheap) and variable tension toe-release bindings with side cables to the heel secured by a front spring clamp (cheap). The length of these skis was just an inch or two taller than I was, but they were the cheapest pair the shop had. Molded buckle boots had just come on the market, but I opted for the leather Kastinger Golden K lace-ups that took half an hour to put on and weighed about 15 pounds each.
 
Once you got used to these Frankenstein boots, the extra weight was an advantage since they tended to be self-righting, kinda like one of those plastic punching clowns. Many times my skis would slip out from under me and just about the time I'd be inches away from a terrible concussion, SPROIING!!! I'd be back upright speeding toward my next disaster.
 
My ski poles were supposed to be pretty good aluminum shafts with rubber baskets. I think they were made in Mexico where the purpose of ski poles hadn't quite sunk in, there being so few ski resorts in Mexico. The poles were a bit too bendy and undependable, except if you fell face-up on your run. You could always tie a bloodied handkerchief to the point and wave it in the hopes of attracting the Ski Patrol.
 
The last item of ski paraphernalia was the foot long leather strap that connected your ski to your boot. In theory, these straps would prevent your skis from running out of control and impaling other skiers should you fall. In reality, following a fall they assured that your skis were able to bounce and bump along, beating you just shy of unconsciousness.
 
I've neglected to mention that I was dating a gal of Scandinavian descent who was also an expert snow skier. So was her entire family. So were their friends. And they all skied at Alpine Valley. I stalled as long as I could, but finally it became clear ('cause she told me) that the future of our relationship centered on my skiing Alpine Valley with that Crew. I looked at it as a trial by battle, typical in Norse history among would be Viking youths. And I had some personal pillaging on my mind!
 
We went in the early evening just after supper. For those of you who have never been to Alpine Valley, you enter the valley access road with sights of the chalet and service buildings nestled in the bottom of the valley along side of an open stream and huge, beautiful runs climbing to the skies above. From the parking lot, you went to the chalet, then across the bridge over to the lifts. Water from upstream was used to cool the huge air compressors and supply pressurized water used in making snow, and, once circulated is discharged warm enough to keep the stream open. A wooden bridge allowed skiers to get from the chalet side to the runs and tows, which were all chair lifts. The two things gnawing at the back of my brain was the immensity of the hills and runs, and the fact that they all ultimately terminated in open water.
 
We got our lift tickets and collected our equipment and began to cross the bridge when I conveniently "discovered" a technical problem with my boots, hoping to buy another 1/2 hour of time. The Crew fell for my ruse, but my gal, we'll call her Heidi, said she'd wait for me. After stalling as long as I could, Heidi and I headed to the chairlift that lead to the top of the easiest intermediate run, or so I was led to believe.
 
I neglected to mention that I was an old hand at riding every kind of lift; ropes, T-bars, J-bars and chair lifts (you don't find very many gondolas in the Midwest, but they're the easiest 'cuz they stop). However, any lift struck terror in the heart of Super-Skier Heidi. We shared a double chair up the mountain and exchanged small talk. At least I exchanged small talk while comfortably relaxing in the chair with both poles in my left hand and nonchalance oozing from every pore, determined to put on a toatally cool front for The Crew.
 
It wasn't until we were within 15 feet of the landing that I noticed Heidi was gnashing her teeth, tense of muscle with both poles in an ugly harpoon-launching position. We arrived at the flat wooden landing area as I began to rise with intentions to glide majestically over to the downrun area, just in case The Crew was watching. However, Heidi had planted her ski poles to make a fast exit from the lift... and one of her poles jammed in between my skis, tripping me and causing me to do a huge face-plant on the ramp, with my ski tips inches from my ears.
 
My bindings weren't designed to release during face plants on the chair lift runout, and I suddenly became totally aware of chairs behind me. I immediately began a crab-crawl tactic to hustle meself off of said landing. Unfortunately I wasn't quite fast enough. To this day, I believe I can tell the difference between a Head ski and a Hart ski when suitably shoved up my posterior, but I do not condone you testing that theory. As I finally scurried out of harms way, I saw The Crew, lined up and carefully observing my antics. I don't think that they had score cards. At least I didn't see score cards....
 
And that was the highlight of the evening...There's more to come...
 
To be continued.....DKHT

March 10, 2007  Why I Don't Ski Anymore, Part I
 
I recently received an email from an online reader (yes, Virginia, one does exist) and email friend who related some recent details of her ski trip in Maine. She had a great time and sent some pictures of her trip. Most noticeably were pictures of the numerous Ski Patrol people who flanked her. I also heard that there was a herd of rescue St. Bernards, complete with casks, brought in for her visit.
 
Hmmm, this was a reminder of days long past when skiing and I were synonymous. Back in late Elementary School my pal Jimmy D and I lived to water ski on the Fox River in Northern Illinois. We started out with about 45 ft of manilla hemp rope tied to a 14 ft Thompson lapstrake rowboat powered by a 25 hp Evinrude outboad motor. We ultimately became quite accomplished water skiiers, with more powerful ski boats and practice at slalom and trick skiing.
 
During the winter, I still was a skiing nut and found old pairs of my Dad's Nordic skis with beartrap bindings, suitable for traversing the miles of back country I normally hiked with my dog in non-snowy weather. I also came across a pair of wide hickory skis with strange leather bindings. I asked Dad what they were for, and he replied "ski jumping".
 
Dad used to ski jump over in nearby Fox River Grove, Illinois off the famous Norge Ski Jump. I figured I'd try my hand at "ski flying", and decided to build a jump in the deep ravine behind my Granpa's place. The jump was wonderful and felt like flying, but, just about the time you landed you also encountered the bottom of the ravine, along with about 5G's of compression and an immediate need to miss a plethora of 3 foot diameter oak trees which were on the uphill runout.
 
I soon found myself in high school, and just before I might've killed myself on my ski jump runout, two things happened. The first involved classmate Danny L. who had been training to jump at Norge. One day, accompanied by his family, he showed up at school with casts on both arms and both legs. He came to pick up his textbooks and class assignments. It seems that Danny made a slight error in judgement on his first run off the big jump at Norge and would not be back in class in the immediate future. I interpreted his error in judgement was simply in deciding to go off the big jump at Norge. Unfortunately, nobody took movies.
 
The second thing was that my buddy, Bob D called me and said the brand-new Alpine-style ski resort, Fox Trails, was hiring tow operators and night snowmakers. I jumped at the opportunity and was fortunate to be hired right away. As tow operators we were instructed how to check the dual safety switches on the towlines, clean the tow motor sheds, fill the ruts on the all-rope-tow runs and how to evict drunks and problem skiers.
 
We were also expected to assist the Ski Patrol with other problem skiers and in emergencies. And there were plenty of emergencies. Besides the broken bones from bad spills, there was the occasional accidental stabing with a ski pole, and we once had a fella who got off course and had his ski tips puncture the snow-making water line (the lines were thin walled aluminum irrigation pipes). By the time we got to him he was covered in about an inch of ice. He gained another inch before we could stop laughing.
 
Fox trails was about 45 miles NW of Chicago. We were only about 1.5 mile South of Cary Illinois and in the middle of our competition with Villa Olivia (Elgin, IL), Buffalo Park (Algonquin, IL), Four Lakes (Lisle, IL), Wilmot Mountain (Wilmot, WI), and Alpine Valley (East Troy, WI). Our advantage was that we could bus customers coming from Chicago on the CN&W to our facility in about 5 minutes. Our disadvantage was that all but one of our slopes faced south. In spite of our best attempts at making snow at night, temperatures permitting, the slopes typically turned to pure ice early in the day after mid January. That may have been the reason that Fox Trails, of all the mentioned ski areas, eventually went belly-up.
 
Anyway, tow operators could ski free at Fox Trails, but I don't recall anyone who wanted to, although we did hold downhill coal shovel races on slow nights. And if ya pulled the extra night shift snowmaking duty, the last thing you wanted to do was ski the next day. We made snow when the temperature was below 28F which was the optimum temperature to get the aerated water shooting into the cold night air and freezing into a fine powder.
 
We used Ski-Doo snowmobiles, long before they became recreational vehicles, to drag the snow guns and hoses out and connect them to the irrigation-style pipe that supplied high-pressure air in one pipe and pressurized water in the other pipe. You'd place a gun, run the hoses back to the water and air pipes that circled the area, and adjust the valves until good snow was being made. Since the temps and winds changed during the night, the valves and guns required frequent readjustment. Our snow making guns, or snow canons, were homemade affairs made of galvanized plumbing pipe and fittings welded to rebar legs which were in turn welded to old auto rims. The valves that controlled the air and water mixture were part of the gun, and adjustments typically got you covered in slush that froze solid long before the time you made the rounds and got the snowmobile back to the warm compressor building for some hot chocolate and a warm up....before you did the same thing all over again.
 
'Course, if you messed up the adjustments, you might wind up with a huge mogul of pure ice or a pond of slush. Either one provided much tow operator entertainment when the skiers hit the slopes the next day.
 
After spending all that time at a second-rate ski area, many of use hard-core skiers spent our off-duty ski time elsewhere....like at Alpine Valley!
 
To be continued.....DKHT

March 3,2007  What's Up, DKHT?
 
Pal Paul posted a note in his blog that he'd recently hit a dry spell of things to present on his site. 'Course Paul's been busy with his Nascar-Fans.com site and at work 'n stuff.
 
Similarly, I've been busy with getting unpacked and sorted-out at the cabin after a 3 month hiatus in Texas, But I also noticed that I have had less to write about, or maybe it's less of a desire to write. I've grown temporarily tired of trashing GWB, although he deserves plenty of discouraging words. And writing about the weather seems to be ludicrous... when I drove GeoTruk into the yard last week after 3 months on the road, I was surprised to see dinky snowdrifts. But, in the last couple of days we've gotten about 16 inches of fresh snow whose only value will be to replenish our water table. It's only early March in Northern Wisconsin, and ya don't count on more snow after May 15...usually.
 
I was out on the antique tractor this afternoon, cleaning up the plowing and access (I hired a local business to plow the drive in my absence, and they did a great job, but the tractor lets me get tight to garage doors and set paths to the mailbox and garage service door). However, there's a formidable sheet of ice underlying the entire drive, and when I get a full bucket of snow and enough momentum I might slide into doing donuts since the tire chains slide on that ice.
 
Anyway, our rural mail carrier, Dee, pulled up and we exchanged some "how've you beens" and "how's your Mom?" and general gossip. Dee's been a great and dependable mail carrier and most of us on her route think of her as a friend. She let me know that Moron Neighbor Wife was trying to get her lawyer Uncle to buy my place!!! THAT MADE MY DAY!! I'm thinking that my asking price must reflect the outrageous values associated with lawyers fees, heh, heh. Actually, I have several probable buyers waiting for me to give the word that I'm ready to sell, but moron relatives would double the price. Oh happy day.
 
Dee also delivered a heavy, tyvek'd package from Nevada that I forgot I'd ordered. I recalled sending for a Nevada Highway 50 Survival Guide. It seems that back in 1986, Life magazine designated this road as the loneliest road in America. 287 miles from Baker to Fernley (not far from Reno) Life stated that there were no services nor anything worth seeing along this road. Nevada has taken 20 years to counter these claims and to bring some tourism to Baker, Ely, Eureka, Austin, Fallon and Fernley (east to west). Near Baker is the Great Basin National Park. In fact, there's stuff to do along the trip near the various towns, but there are long stretches of straight Nevada highway as well. It's adventure off the beaten path. You can even get your "Survival Guide" validated in each of these towns, and when all towns are duly stamped, you can send it in for an official certificate and a special souvenir. It's a clever marketing gimmick, but, we all know that the challenge and the adventure is in the trip itself. Besides, the packet included a new Nevada State Highway map, an RV guide, a Visitor's Guide, and a complimentary issue of Nevada Magazine.
 
My last visit to Nevada was back in 1968 with my buddy Hal in his new blue Porsche Targa 5-speed. I'd followed the letter of the law at all times but got arrested outside of the town of Wells, NV. Beautiful state, but avoid Wells, NV... the cops are crooked and the judge is crooked. Oh yeah, that was 29 years ago, but Wells is remote and the cops and the judge had a sweet deal going, so there's no reason to believe things have changed. I'd be happy to hear from the State (troopers), the town (cops boss) and the district (judges) to say it isn't so, but I get the feeling that their arrest books are still gonna be loaded with "outsiders" and dubious arrests.
 
As I look forward to trails and travels with an RV lifestyle, I recall the excitement of those early days, pulling into beautiful new parks and campgrounds and setting up our 1-man canvas pup tents still have the wool blanket, identical to Hal's, that we each bought in a Yellowstone store the morning after the temps in our high country campsite plummeted to the low 20's. Neither of us wanted to admit how unbelievably cold we'd gotten the night before, but we hit on a mutually acceptable excuse, claiming the blankets were nice souvenirs of the park (although they were just plain blankets that could've come from anywhere). Yet, to this day, every time I see that patched and restitched blanket, I recall the adventures we had on that trip, and many other backpacking and canoeing trips made in the following years.
 
Meanwhile, as I await a capital infusion from the sale of this house, I been sending away for free travel info from the various state tourism sources and private campgrounds to help plan wonderful trips and new adventures. In addition to the RV literature tahthatmes with various club affiliations, I've set up one of those plastic crates with hanging file folders for all the states. I keep current maps and travel brochures for all states. In addition, I annually update my GPS mapping system and add nifty spots I want to explore. I tend to sleep better when I look through this stuff before bedding down.
 
Until later.....DKHT