What does fog sound like in a place known for noise?

February in a place known for its noise. Race cars that roar to grandstands of screaming fans. The pounding noise of motorcycles on every city street. Crowds of collegians arrive in March, their music and noise rise from beachside hotels, their cars parade A1A. On this morning wrapped in fog, I rolled outside, watched and listened. Birds sang and I didn’t know what kind of birds but it didn’t matter. The tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker. What does a bird hear? Fog doesn’t caution the noise nor does it enhance it. It just is. A carpenter saws and pounds nails next door. I live between two north-south main roads and cars hiss on wet pavement. An SUV’s headlights glow as it drives down my street which connects the two main roads. A train blares on the Ormond mainland a mile away, a train that stops traffic daily on the main east-west road that’s a hurricane evacuation route. Neighbors pass, quietly walking their dogs. They say nothing but wave. One sound I can’t hear – the sounds of surf slapping the beach. That came through my bedroom window last night but the day’s fog stole it away. A plane flies and it’s hidden by the fog and I wonder what fog looks like through the windshield of a small plane. In ten years, will I hear any of this? Will it be lodged in my memory, that foggy February morning when I skipped the TV news and cellphone screens and just listened? Will it be a molecule among my ashes swirling in the Atlantic? Where will these moments live?

My first winter solstice on the Florida coast

This solstice I awoke to lawnmowers, just one, the riding mower Brian pilots as he mows my yard and the ones adjacent and across the street. It’s winter solstice and in Wyoming I didn’t wake up to lawnmowers. Snowblowers sound similar but the pitch is different, closer to a screech than a roar. And the mowers move quickly as they crisscross the salt-air-resistant St. Augustine grass that is like a weaving rather than the upright bluegrass or fine fescue of Wyoming. Yes, bluegrass, a lawn type suited more for the green of Kentucky racehorse pastures than the brown of the high prairie. When bluegrass matures, it feels fine on bare feet. Not so the Florida varietal; its runners poke feet. It keeps growing after summer and Brian is here every other week in December instead of every week in June. The Florida rains arrive and you can almost watch the grass grow.

Winter solstice announces the rough part of winter and the beginning of longer bouts of sun although we barely notice it day by day. Summer solstice announces the glorious days of summer and the slow passage of the sun across the sky or so it seems when you live in the Sunshine State and you work mowing lawns or pounding nails or laying down roofing shingles. Brian finishes the big front law and moves to the back. He makes three passes in my tiny yard and then he’s on to Number  70 or Number 66 or motors across the street to Number 67. I hear him most of the morning and it’s odd is what it is, this summer sound at Christmastime. Soon the leafblower erupts and it’s more akin to snowblowers and I wish I found comfort in it but don’t.

In Florida and Wyoming, the sounds of December 21 mean one thing: summer is coming. In Wyoming, it takes its own sweet time. In Florida, well, it’s already here.

A snowless Christmas season ain't all bad

The most beautiful song about missing snow at Christmas is one written by Steve Goodman and performed by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. The song’s narrator looks out the window of his Hollywood Hotel on Christmas Eve and sees billboards, neon, traffic, and palm trees, and notes it’s 84 degrees.

He yearns for Colorado. The song’s refrain goes like this: “The  closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere/is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow.”

Nothing gets me as nostalgic for Colorado. John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High,” maybe, a 1972 song that planted the seeds for Colorado’s marijuana boom.

The state is not always snowbound at Christmas. I do remember a time when it was, Christmas of 1982, the year of the Great Christmas Eve Blizzard. Two feet of snow fell in one day. I watched it outside my walkup apartment window in City Park South, where we could hear the zoo’s peacocks almost every day.

Chris, alas, was trying to figure out a way to get home from her downtown job. Buses weren’t running as businesses and government shut down. A coworker herded Chris and four others into his 10-year-old compact car and raced up Colfax (“The Fax”) to drop everyone off. He hoped for the best, as did they. After maneuvering through a maze of stuck cars and two-foot drifts, Chris was released on Cook Street. As she said later, “He just slowed down and I jumped out.” A bit later, I saw her maneuvering the drifts, her diminutive figure whipped by the winds and flurries. She was shrouded in snow and ice by the time she reached the apartment. We unwrapped her carefully, fed her coffee and soup, and soon she was able to tell her tale.

We went to sleep secure that the snow would wrap up in the night, Santa would arrive, and we would wake up to a winter wonderland.

Chris woke up with a cold, and went back to bed. I ate, grabbed the snow shovel, and wandered out looking for people to help. Our neighborhood was a mix of old brick houses, apartmentized houses such as ours, and small apartment complexes. Most of the neighbors were young but there were some elders in the mix. I sought them out. But they knew better than to venture out. I was able to help a driver dig out his stuck car but that was it. I headed home.

We had other big snows but rarely ones like this. In 1982, we were recently married and were only four years into our Denver adventure. We still remembered snowless Florida Christmases. It snowed once in Daytona and twice one year in Gainesville. Never a blizzard but a sprinkling could shut down the city. And did

Winter off-roading in Wyoming

A week ago today, I sat in my Ford staring out at the frozen tundra of Carbon County. I was about ten feet off of Hwy. 287, rear end facing the road. My tires had carved a trail as straight as an arrow from road to final resting place, a slight depression midway between asphalt and barbed wire. 

My mistake was going too fast through a slushy mix of snow and ice. You'd call it "hydroplaning" if the road was awash in rain water. The tires lose contact with the road and the car goes into a spin. Florida people hydroplane all the time. It's an official state sport.

But it rarely happens in Wyoming, where rain usually falls in a fine mist. Hail is a different kettle of fish. I once was caught in a hailstorm in I-25 near Buffalo. My car began to lose traction as hail swamped the road. Couldn't see either. So I slowly rolled to a stop on the shoulder, coming to rest five feet behind a truck hauling a horse trailer.

Last Saturday, I sat for a few minutes and then decided to take a look at my predicament. The wind blew about 50 mph but it was a warm wind, as these things go, not an Arctic blast but a downslope wind, a chinook or "snoweater" as Native peoples used to call it. It also blows freshly fallen powder snow in great quantities across roadways, leaving snow traps for the unwary.

My front wheel wells were clogged with wet snow. My running board rested on a snowbank. I guessed that I was high-ended, the term used when your car's mid-section rests on a mound of snow or sand or dirt and your wheels can't find traction. This usually means a tow, or getting pushed out of your predicament by a roving band of cowboys or collegians. When I was younger, I found pleasure in helping push people out of predicaments. My damaged heart won't let me do that any more.

A father and son in a small truck pulled over and asked if they could help. "Don't have anything to tow you out with," said the man. "Want us to call someone?"

I showed him my phone. "I'm going to call my insurance company."

He nodded and pulled away.

I extracted my gloves and ice scraper. I dug out around the front tires and poked the scraper beneath the car, trying to loosen the snow that kept me high-ended. I scraped the snow down to the prairie grass, hoping I could get a purchase on dry ground. Winded, I got back in the car and caught my breath. Bluegrass tunes played on the radio. At least I could get Wyoming Public Radio. 

I rocked the car -- reverse to forward and reverse again. The car moved a tad, but finally got stuck again. I shifted back into park and fished out my insurance company's 1-800 roadside assistance number. I called. Reached an electronic voice that transferred me to another e-voice and then I got a real person. She wanted to help me. I reconstruct our conversation from memory.

"Where are you located?" she asked.

"Off of a state highway about 10 miles north of Rawlins, Wyoming."

"Where?"

"Off of Interstate 80, north of Rawlins in Wyoming." I was tempted to add: "The big square state right in the middle of the map."  But didn't.

A few seconds passed. "I-80 -- found it," she said. "You said Rawlins?"

"Yes."

I heard her tapping on the keys in an office somewhere in Dallas or Indianapolis or Portland. "State highway, you said?"

"Can't remember the name. 287 I think."

More tapping. "Ah," she said. "Highway 287."

"Sounds right."

She asked me if I was stuck. I said I was. She asked if my car was damaged. I replied that it was OK. She asked if I was less than or more than 10 feet from the road. I thought it would sound better if I said less than ten feet so that was my answer. She asked if she could have permission to log into my phone's location finder. I told he that my smart phone was busted and that I had a dumb phone with me. That didn't seem to phase her. She said she was going to locate me, said I would get a call from the responder. We said our goodbyes and disengaged. Wind rocked the car. Old-timey banjo music played on the radio.

I looked to the south and saw two snowplows headed my way. You couldn't have been here a half hour ago? They stopped just short of me. Both drivers disembarked.

I got out of the car. 

"Need any help?" asked the first driver, who was surprisingly young. He looked at me and then at the car.

"I have a tow truck coming."

He nodded. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

We parted ways. During this three-day trip, I had seen a dozen snow plows. It's winter in Wyoming and this winter is a doozy. The WYDOT plows get a lot of credit for keeping the roads open. But it was a closed interstate that brought me to this predicament. I-80 was closed between Rawlins and Laramie and it didn't appear it would open any time soon. And I needed to get home for my wife Chris's birthday party. So I was taking the long way around, going north around the snow, or so I thought.

My phone dinged. I answered an automated call. It went something like this: "Your roadside assistance vehicle is on its way. You can expect it in approximately six hours."

WTF? Six hours? I'll never get home. The call disconnected. I noted with alarm that I had only one bar of service showing on the phone face. How did I get so low? Now I was going to sit here for six hours with very little phone service, a heart patient trapped in a snow bank. Cars and trucks passed on the road. I thought about making a sign and standing out by the road. "Heart patient needs help." Or maybe "Help -- Wife will kill me if I don't get home for birthday."

As I contemplated my options, I noticed a surprising number of cars and trucks and SUVs passing me by. Would I stop if I saw a stranded motorist on the side of the road? Depends. It was the middle of the day and, if they were to get a good look at me, people could tell that I was somewhat harmless. What does a red Ford Fusion tell you about the person inside? Buys American cars. Wyoming license plate. Probably not a very good driver -- what kind of knucklehead slides off a road in the middle of a sunny February day?

Someone did stop. Dark blue pickup. Guy got out. I got out. Young Latino, maybe 30. Wore a light jacket and a ballcap. Asked if I needed help. I told him my story, said a tow truck was coming but not until dark. He walked over to the car and looked around.

"I think we can push it out." He spoke with a slight accent. "My girlfriend is in the truck -- she can drive."

I thought about it for a second. I really shouldn't be pushing out any cars, even my own. But he seemed very certain that we could do this. I nodded. He waved his girlfriend out of the car. She came out. Very pretty woman wrapped in a bulky coat. She walked over, the two spoke and she got behind the wheel. 

The man and I pushed. The girlfriend turned the wheels and the man said to keep the wheels straight. We pushed again, the car moved back a few inches and I fell on my face in the snow.

"You OK?" said the man.

I nodded. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't be a weinie. Heart don't fail me now.

We pushed again. I slipped in the snow. The car moved back toward the road, slowly, and then it gained traction and reached asphalt. Two cars on the inside lane had stopped, giving us some room to back up. The girlfriend backed gently onto the road, and then pulled forward on the shoulder. I breathed heavily, my heart pounded. 

"Thank you so much," I said to the man and his girlfriend. She grinned. I never heard her speak a word. The two walked back to the car. I got into my Ford, looked in the rearview mirror and saw them get into their pickup. I waved. I put my car into drive and gently pulled away, hoping I hadn't sustained any front-end damage. The car purred. I drove. It was a good 20 miles before I caught my breath. From there, it was mostly smooth sailing.

Also see my post that day from the new Burger King in Rawlins, written while I waited (in vain) for I-80 to open. This new BK featured gaming PCs at several of its tables and AT&T wireless. The password: ILoveBacon. Read my blog from Rock Springs about the travails of Elk Mountain here.

Elk Mountain -- that's all you need to know

One of the constants of winter driving in Wyoming: Elk Mountain.

That's all you have to say. Elk Mountain. 

When I arrived in Rock Springs from Cheyenne, I was asked about the driving conditions. 

"Elk Mountain -- you know."

"Yes, I know."

I crept across the flank of Elk Mountain yesterday in a light snow. It drifted across the interstate, flakes swirling in great gusts with the passing of each truck. Yes, trucks were passing me because I was tailing a semi doing 40. The swirling snow made it hard to see the road. To make it worse, the sun peeked through the low clouds, which added a glare to the white landscape. I did fine as long as I kept my eye on the dark-gray square of the semi's rear end. 

Once I cleared the mountain, the low sky lifted and I could see more than 100 feet. Then it was off to the races. It was snowing in Rawlins but the road was clear from there all the way to Rock Springs.

My last drive over Elk Mountain was at night in mid-October. The road has patches of slushy snow but it was smooth sailing, for the most part. October is early in the season. The road is still warmed by the sun and the snow is wet. This February is deeply cold and the snow is a light powder. Great for skiers but not so great for motorists.

That part of I-80 has many moods. A few Novembers ago, I visited the facilities at the Wagonhound Rest Area. Elk Mountain was a snowy beast rising out of the prairie. And there was only a whisper of a breeze. Usually a brisk wind is halting my progress to the restroom or threatens to send me sailing back to Cheyenne. I could see a stunned look on the faces of other Wyoming travelers, unacquainted with such calm beauty.

Why isn't the wind blowing?

I don't know. It's Elk Mountain.

Must be global warming.

Give it a few hours and we'll be back in the deep freeze.
 

Just think -- only four more months of winter.

Mike the lawn ornament

Walked outside barefoot this morning just to see what 35 degrees feels like on coastal Florida.

It was cold.

Freeze warnings were in effect. A wind chill warning.

I spied no frost on my rental car's windshield. I did last week during the previous cold front.

Do I walk outside barefoot in Wyoming in January?

In a word, no.

It's much colder, for one thing. For another, my front yard is filled with pine cones and pine needles which are tough on tender feet. And often there is snow, also tough on bare feet. We had 20 below at the tail end of 2013 with wind chills down to 40 below. Flesh freezes quickly at 40 below. I may have stuck to the ground, might still be there if not for our usual January thaw. Mike the lawn ornament.

"Love your new lawn ornament, Mrs. Shay," said the postman

"That's my husband," Chris said. "He went outside barefoot. Thought he was in Florida."

"He'll be right as rain by May," said the postman.

"I'll miss him," she replied.

Yesterday I walked on the beach after the rain and before the cold front charged in. The ocean was calm, waves tiny. Wind blew in clouds from the west. I came across some quaint fisherfolk on the beach. Guy with New York accent reeled in his line. I greeted him. He said that he was having no luck today. His pals were up on the sand building a fire. "Smoking your fish?" I asked.

"No fish to smoke," he said.

He reeled. I walked, wished him good luck.

A half hour later, I walked by the fisherfolk again. Guy said, "Caught two big ones."

"Great!" I said.

He shook his head. "Just kidding."

"Maybe later."

"Maybe."

That's fishing for you. As I walked, I followed a set of smaller footprints, a women's shoe size, I guessed. Saw someone way ahead, on her way south. Came across a middle-aged woman playing fetch with her German Shepherd. As I got close, she hooked the big beast to a leash. Dogs aren't officially allowed on the beach. Wouldn't do to have a tourist from Wyoming mauled by this big fella. As she walked her dog back up the approach, the hound tugged on the leash toward me.  Probably wanted to come over and say hello. I'm a dog guy. Dogs can tell that. I'm not a cat guy. Cats can tell that and swarm all over me, bathing me in dander until I sneeze.

Today, I take my last walk on the beach for awhile. I may even remove my shoes if it warms up. Leave my footprints for the surf to wash away.

Mike was here -- for a short while.

On the beach

Thursday...

Walked the beach today in the face of a north wind. It was slightly cold, but nowhere near the ferocity of a Wyoming January gale.

We were the only ones on the beach. A few sandpipers skittered along the surfline. A stray pelican dive-bombed the waves for gullible fish. A shrimp boat rode the swells a half-mile out.

We walked the beach close to where the whitewater swept clean the sand. Bird tracks and human tracks. Sticks and seashells scattered along the sand.

Chris used to walk this beach every day when she was growing up in Ormond Beach. I spent less time walking and more time surfing, but my beach was down in Daytona, just up the street from the house my parents bought in 1965 and my father sold in the late 1990s. I drove by it on Wednesday and it looked foreign. I spent my high school years in that house, and was a frequent visitor during the '70s and '80s. My mother spent her last days there, rushed off to Halifax Medical Center in April 1986, dying there a day later, just a month short of her 60th birthday. She died young, just how young sinks in as I age into my 60s.

We walked the beach. Inhaling the oxygen-rich, salt-laden air, lungs grateful for the infusion after decades at 6,200 feet in the Rockies.

It was difficult to keep my mind on the wind, sky, waves. Flashbacks to 1967 and the joy of a day of good surf. Arms throbbing from paddling out over and over again, stroking hard to catch a good wave. Stoked from a good ride. Just hanging out at the beach, when time stands still. All of us, sunburned, happy but not truly understanding the depth of it because we haven't seen a lot of sorrow. Plenty of teen angst but not the adult kind which can grind you down to nothing.

Walked on the beach. Remembered.

Sunday morning round-up

It's still winter here in southeast Wyoming.

It won't officially be winter until the solstice arrives on Dec. 21, which is still a few weeks off. But this late-fall cold snap feels like winter. Cheyenne saw some record low temps this past week. Minus 13 on Wednesday with a high temp below zero. It was only a little better the rest of the week. Our two American-made cars started right up every morning. I had to drag the gloves out of storage lest my delicate artistic fingers get frostbitten as I cleared the car windows. Weird how you look at those gloves and scarves and boots during the summer and say let's put these away, winter's a long way off. And, suddenly, it's winter (or late-fall) and you can't remember where you put the darn things.

Bill Sniffin recommended buying Wyoming books for Christmas in today's column syndicated in the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle. C.J. Box and Craig Johnson led the list, followed by Nina McConigley's "Cowboys and East Indians" with its intriguing short stories and cover photo of a roadside motel sign in Cheyenne. He recently bought some books by cowboy romance writer Joanne Kennedy. He referred to them as "bodice rippers." I must caution Bill that this term is not beloved among romance writers. While it is true that some romance book covers feature damsels in distress who may or may not be at risk of having their bodices ripped by some dashing hero, that stereotype no longer applies to the complicated world of romance. In Joanne's books, there is nary a bodice to be seen, as Joanne's heroines are thoroughly modern creations. All of her covers feature a hunky contemporary cowboy who, according to her husband Ken, bear a striking resemblance to him. As far as I know, Ken never has worn a bodice. Word to the wise, Bill -- watch your labels when describing books written by romance writers. They can hold a grudge. You may end up as the model for the slimy villain in the next book.

The Democrats are assembling on Thursday, Dec. 12, 6 p.m., for a Drinking Liberally gathering at 3439 Essex Rd. in Cheyenne. The Laramie County Democrats will be collecting presents for two less fortunate families. (BYOB/BYOP -- Bring Your Own Booze/Presents). Big thanks to Wendy Soto for hosting this event. BTW, Drinking Liberally is a national movement that promotes the idea that Liberals need to get together occasionally to talk politics over a beer or other favorite beverage. To RSVP for the Dec. 12 event, go here. 

Also on Thursday is the last Art Design and Dine event until spring. AD&D is Cheyenne's art walk, held every second Thursday, 5-8 p.m., April through December. Interesting group of entities hosting events this week. Check out the work by the Cheyenne Camera Club at the Nagle Warren Mansion downtown. See the complete list of shows at http://artdesigndine.org/

Lots of arts-related holiday events still on the schedule. Find a list at Arts Cheyenne. 

Winter forecast: WY mild and wet, FL cold and dry

The Old Farmer's Almanac predicts a mild and wet winter for my part of the world in southeastern Wyoming. Meanwhile, my homeplace of Florida will be cold and dry. What's wrong with this picture?

New Year's Eve events may signal start of big year for downtown Cheyenne

Some really fine detail in this photo by David Jamison of NV Photographics. My wife, daughter and I, along with a thousand of our closest friends, came downtown to the first-ever ball drop, a project of the LightsOn! Project. LightsOn! has taken over the ground floor of the Hynds Building which is catty-corner to the Depot Plaza. Many events are planned for the Hynds in 2012, including art exhibits, figure-drawing classes, and a slate of LCCC Enrichment courses, including a workshop on creating your own one-person shows by writer and performer Christi Mitchell. Rumor has it that the State Museum is looking at the Hynds space for its annual Governor's Capitol Art Exhibition. Stay tuned... 

While stalking the family tree, I ponder dust storms in the high mountains

Family with trophy tree, Snowy Range, Wyoming

Warm December days, still nights and lunar eclipses probably presage a cold, windy snowy Christmas. But for now, I'm enjoying the weather.

I as thinking of the weather yesterday when hiking up a snow-packed trail near Corner Mountain in the Snowy Range. Our family was in search of our Christmas tree. We don't need snowshoes because we stay on the cross-country ski trail which has been packed down by cross-country skiers and no new snow has been added the past five days.

There's good snowpack this year, thus far, despite the recent warm spell. But if it's to equal last year's record, it will have to start snowing again and keep it coming through May. Last spring and early summer flood warnings were in effect all over Wyoming. This was the second year for that after a decade of drought. That's how it goes in the West.

The snow-melt cycle may be changing, according to an article in the New York Times. Dust that originates in the Four Corners region may be increasing and that may affect what happens in the Rockies each spring. There is an entity invesitating this and you can check out some of their finding at a web site. The Colorado Dust-on-Snow (CODOS) project is part of the Center for Snow and Avalanche Studies based in Silverton, Colo. There may not be a better place for snow and avalanche research than Silverton.

The NYT article was fascinating. Here's an excerpt:

In the last few years, winter dust storms on the high peaks of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado have sharply increased in number, affecting the rate of melting snows into the Colorado River, a main source of water for agriculture and for the drinking supply for more than 20 million people. Of 65 so-called dust-on-snow events since 2003, when tracking began, 32 have struck in just the last three years, according to the Center for Snow and Avalanche Studies, a nonprofit research group based in Silverton, Colo. Dust can accelerate how fast snow melts because it absorbs heat.

“It’s not a mysterious process,” said Chris Landry, the organization’s executive director. “Anybody who has thrown coal dust on their driveway or sidewalk to melt it down knows the theory.”

Much of the dust carries a distinct chemical signature, too, heavy in iron oxides. The same rust-colored mineral that makes red-rock canyon country of Utah and Arizona can also absorb solar energy, again potentially accelerating the rate and timing of snow melt in crucial watersheds.

Looking at the CODOS study map, I notice that two of the research areas are in northern Colorado at the headwaters of the North Platte. I'm going to look into those stats to see how it affects the river that flows through half of Wyoming.

So, at the same time we're getting more snow, it's melting faster. The land dries out and we get more dust storms in Utah, Arizona and California. Visibility suffers. Asthma cases increase. Read Kirk Johnson's Dec. 10 NYT article about changing air quality in the West. 

All of this, of course, is tied in with global climate change.

As I hike the winter Rockies, I think about that all that. We're on a family outing. We have a U.S. Forest Service permit in hand that allows us to thin the tree herd. There will be a line of cars and trucks all day shuttling in and out of the Snowies with trophy trees on their roof racks. The USDA says that this tree-trimming helps to maintain a healthy forest. There are environmentalists who say it is a waste of time and energy. That may also be true. Our forests are in trouble, which is definitely true. On Sunday, we walked among beetle-killed trees. This area is not so bad compared to other parts of the Snowies, especially the west slope where campground have been closed for the culling of beetle-killed trees. 

We bagged out tree and had a great time. Dust, meanwhile, was all around us but hard to see. Hard to see, but taking its toll.  

Wyoming locavores strive to be creative

This comes from the Northern Colorado Food Incubator:

Cheyenne will host two winter farmers' markets this fall, patterned after the Fort Collins Winter Market model. One was held Nov. 7; the next one will be held indoors on Saturday, December 5, 10 a.m.-2 p.m., at the Cheyenne Depot Museum in downtown Cheyenne. Please note, due to careful planning, the Cheyenne and Fort Collins market dates do not conflict so that vendors may attend all markets. FMI: click here

The flyer for the event advertised "local foods grown, raised or created within 150 miles of Cheyenne, Wyoming." Often, you hear locavores talking about food grown, raised or created within 50 miles of home. But in high, dry and cold Cheyenne, you have to boost the radius 100 miles in all directions. Mainy south, toward the Front Range breadbaskets of Wellington, Fort Collins, Denver and almost all the way to Colorado Springs. It also includes the northeastern Colorado wheat and corn fields of Sterling and Fort Morgan into cornhusker territory in western Nebraska. Food crops are grown in some of eastern Wyoming's lower elevations around Torrington and Lusk and Wheatland.

You get the picture -- Cheyenne locavores have to forage far and wide for our food. I've written before about some of Laramie County's food producers (see http://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2009/08/stiory-to-go-with-every-zucchini-and.html). We do better in the meat department than we do in fruits and veggies. At our summer and fall farmers markets, fruit comes in from northwestern Colorado and Utah. That's way beyond the locavore radius, but it's hard to dwell on semantics when you have the juice of a Wasatch Front peach dribbling down your chin.

Vegetarian locavores have one hell of a time in Cheyenne. It's a different story for meat-eaters, especially if you're a locavore and a hunter. Several hunters I know stick close to home, hunting elk and deer and antelope in the Medicine Bows and Snowy Range and down into Colorado's Roosevelt National Forest. When they "harvest" an animal, its edible parts go into to freezer for locavoring throughout the winter. I know that many people who actually use the term "locavore" don't approve of hunting. In fact, I've heard that it's on the list of the NRA's forbidden words list, along with "vegetarian," "liberal" and "Obama." But some hunters may be a lot more "The L Word" that I am. That's "L" as in locavore. What did you think I meant?

I like the fact that the Cheyenne and Fort Collins farmers market dates do not conflict. That's an encouraging sign and shows that the Northern Colorado Food Incubator includes southeast Wyoming in its planning. I also like the fact that the CWFM lists a bundle of sponsors, including the Wyoming Farmers Market Association (I didn't know there was such a thing) and several individual sponsors "who believe in the local food movement."

Get down to the Depot tomorrow for some bison and salsa and local honey and pumpkins and eggs from free range hens and baked goods from organic Wyoming wheat.

Help your Republican friends celebrate the Winter Solstice Holidays

Here's a Christmas and/or holiday gift that will bedevil your Republicans friends and family members. Especially those in the former Confederate state of Georgia, who think that the re-election of Saxby Chambliss is some sign from The Almighty that the Repub resurgence (or possibly The Rapture) is upon us.

Four years of Barack Obama and the Democratic majority in the U.S. Senate and House! That amount to 48 months, 208 weeks and 1,460 days. Help them mark each one in excruciating detail with this calendar. You do have to contribute $35 to the Obama campaign, but how can you put a price upon the joy of holiday giving?