No Fish today on the PCT 14 June 2019

Anthony and John walked right into the Crystal Lake hatchery. "Do you suppose that you can grab us some dinner while I distract the hatchery worker, who's standing over there?" Anthony asked. 

"These tanks are kind of deep, Anthony. I don't know if I can reach without falling in."

Anthony walked over and stood by John, staring at the fish in the tank. "I'm getting mighty hungry just looking at those fish," he said. "Come on, John, use your hat to catch one while I distract the worker."

"Use your own hat. I don't want my head smelling like fish."

While they stood and stared, two members of the hatchery crew came out and told them all about the hatchery. The workers walked out of the hatchery grounds with John and Anthony, telling them how glad were that they stopped by to visit. They waved goodbye as John and Anthony walked away empty handed. 

They stopped at the Burney Mountain Guest ranch to punch a few cows and grab some freshly cooked meat. But when they got there, no cows were around to be punched. There were no cowboys, no longhorn steers. They walked around the back and when Anthony saw the swimming pool he jumped in. One of the staff members told him to get out because the swimming was for paying guests only. Anthony asked the staff member to turn around while he got out because he'd gone skinny dipping.John  and Anthony are sleeping in the woods about 500 feet in from the road. They fired up their tiny camp stoves, and put on the metal water containers. "I sure wish you hadn't waited so long before trying to grab a fish." Anthony said as he opened his freeze dried dinner and poured it into the hot water. "I am so disappointed in you. My admiration for you  just dropped a few points. Now I have to pretend that we're having fresh trout as I slurp this freeze dried slop."

So far the boys have backpacked 85 miles from just east of Chester.

Anthony and John Backpacking the PCT 13 June 2019

Greetings Folks

As my younger brother, John and my cousin,  Anthony were having a nice, leisurely, relatively flat trek along a thousand-foot-high ridge, they came upon a big, deep gap called Lost Creek. 

Anthony looked at John and then he looked down at the bottom of Lost Creek. "If I pushed you and you rolled all the way to the bottom without breaking your neck, could you climb up the other side before I hiked all the way around?" Anthony asked with a demented leery smile.
John's shoulder's dropped. "It must be time to eat," John said. "Your imagination is moving to the "dark side" like it seems to Whenever you're hungry."

As they passed the hangliding launch site below, John said, "Damn, I wish the trail went down there and we could hanglide down to it. That would be cool!"

"That's the lazy way, John." Anthony said. John's eyebrows jumped up. "The lazy way? Ha, that's funny, I remember when my dad was working on some math problem, to pay a bill or something. He was having a hard go of it.

I took a look at what he was doing and I showed him a quick little formula. Did he thank me? No! He said, "That's just like you, John. Always the lazy way." John burst out laughing.

They are spending the night near the edge of a cliff after backpacking for 19 miles. They hiked for 13 hours. I wonder how the conversation went when Anthony got tired and wanted to stop for the night. John pointed up ahead. "Come on Anthony, there's still plenty of daylight to see the trail. We're never going to make it Canada if we don't add the miles."

"My feet are killing me," Anthony said. "We've already gone up over a thousand feet and gone down over 1400 feet. And those buzzards flying above us the last hour are giving me the willies."
"Do you know what those buzzards are saying?" John asked. "I'll tell ya. They're up there looking down at us hoping and praying for a meal. 

"Yummy. Lookie down there at them humans' says the buzzard with the crooked foot. 'They be walking mighty slow, like they was gonna die,' 

The cockeyed buzzard says, 'I hope at least one of 'em gets so tired he falls off that there cliff, rolls down and gets nice and tenderized on them rocks. I'm starving. Ain't you starving, too? I sure hope one of 'em hurries and falls before it gets dark. I like to see what I'm eatin.'
Ol' Crooked Foot pecks at Cockeyed's wrinkled face and says, 'You don't need to see whatch yer eatin. When thems dead, them smell real good. You don't need yor cockeyed eyeballs to eat anyway.

Anthony tilted his head. "Have you been reading Mushroom's last manuscript? Your starting to sound like Dirty Dog Dietrich."

Blue Corn Brewery

This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, FAILED REDEMPTION OF DIRTY DOG DIETRICH:

Diego pulled into the Blue Corn Brewery and Café’s parking lot.

“This restaurant looks like some giant made a building model out of clay,” Dirty Dog said as they walked in. “Do you have any of them soapy pillows?” he asked the hostess as they were escorted to a table.

“Soapy pillows?” the hostess asked and then laughed, “Oh, sopaipillas. Yes. Your waiter will get them for you.” She handed them each a menu, and then walked away shaking her head saying, “Soapy pillows, ha, that’s funny.”

A tall, well-tanned waiter, wearing a black shirt and black apron strolled to the table. “Someone here wants some soap on their sopaipillas?” He broke into a big smile. “I wouldn’t recommend that. It would make you foam at the mouth.”

Diego and Audra burst out laughing. Dirty Dog’s mouth contorted as if trying to decide whether to cringe or smile. The waiter bent down and stared at Dirty Dog. His shoulders dropped and his ears would have, too, if he were really a dog.

“I’m Tim,” the waiter said. “They are pronounced, so pie pee uz. Can you say that?”

Dirty Dog inhaled and forced a smile. “Soapy, I mean pie.  Oh, what the hell, we just want some whatever they’re called.” Dirty Dog’s face blushed.

“How many would you like?” Tim asked.

“Six please,” Audra said.

“And what would you like to drink? We have some award-winning beers.” He side-glanced over to Dirty Dog. “They are easier to pronounce.”

Diego leaned closer to Audra and pointed to the craft beers on the menu. “I’m getting the oatmeal stout. It a gold medal winner in 2016.”

“I’ll try the End of the Trail Brown Ale,” Audra said. “It’s an award winner, too.”

“And for you?” Tim asked Dirty Dog.

“I was just gonna have a Bud.”

“In an award-winning craft brewery?” Tim asked, putting his hand on his chest, as his eyebrows rose in a feigned shock.

“Well, whatcha got that tastes as good as a Bud?” Dirty Dog asked, regaining his composure.

“Everything here is far better than a Bud. Since you are obviously a man with discerning taste, allow me to recommend, Impetuous IPA. It won a bronze medal in the North American Beer awards.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll try it.”

“Fine choice,” Tim said. “I’ll be right back with your beers.” He bent down to look Dirty Dog in the eye. He spoke slowly, exaggerating his words. “I will put in your order for so pie pee uz.” He winked at Diego and Audra and walked away.

Dirty Dog sat up straight. “That Tim waiter guy.” Dirty Dog cocked his head and pursed his lips. “I don’t know whether to like him or put him on my voodoo doll pin stabbing list.”

Diego threw his head back laughing.

Dirty Dog’s face tightened; his nose flared. “What’s so funny, Mister Smarty Pants?”

“I wished I had a camera. The look on your face when Tim asked you to pronounce sopaipilla.”

“Oh yeah?” Dirty Dog jutted out his chin and pulled his shoulders back. “Your face is pretty funny looking with that pubic hair you call a beard.”

Tim arrived at the table. He gave Audra her beer first and then he gave Diego his. He leaned in close to Dirty Dog as he handed him his beer. “Here is the Impetuous IPA for the man with the discerning taste,” Tim said. “I couldn’t help overhearing the end of your conversation and your description of your friend’s beard.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s my brother-in-law.” Dirty Dog slouched and he looked down at the table.

Tim stood tall. “Please taste your Impetuous IPA and let me know if it pleases your palate,” he said. “I’m from the Navajo Nation. Let me tell you a small part from our Creation Story about First Man and First Woman. Would that be alright?”

Audra nodded and said, “Yes, we’d love to hear it.”

“When the Creator Spirits finished making First Man and First Woman out of clay, they placed a turquois rod for the man and a conch shell for the woman. ‘They are perfect,’ they said to each other. ‘But how will we get them to be attracted to each other?’ they asked. Coyote Spirit, who was one of the Creator Spirits, stepped forward. He pulled out some of his beard hair and made it their pubic hair. The other Creator Spirits were delighted. ‘Now they are so beautiful. How will we ever keep them apart?’ Tim leaned in close to Dirty Dog. “So, you see, my discerning friend, when you tell your brother-in-law that his beard looks like pubic hair, you are telling him that he is so beautiful.”

Diego’s mouth stretched wide. “That’s a great story!” he said.

Dirty Dog narrowed his eyes and then burst out laughing. “Now don’t go get big headed. There ain’t no way your ugly mug is beautiful.” He took a sip of his beer. “And I take back what I said about your beard looking like pubic hair. Cuz it ain’t pretty.”

Mama Agua

I am grateful for Mama Agua,
Mother Water.
Planet Aqua.
When we look at our home,
Our beautiful blue planet, 
From out in space,
We see mostly water.
Have we misnamed
Our beautiful blue planet?
Her surface is 71% water.
Shouldn't her name be Aqua?
Water gives life
To all living creatures.
Water can't be destroyed.
Water changes form
From liquid water,
Gaseous vapor,
Intricate snowflakes,
Transparent ice.

Fabulous, Wise, Silly Me

'Tis not Tomorrow.

'Tis only now,

And only in the now

Can I accomplish,

Can I eat, or rest,

And be my best

At being the fabulous,

The silly, and the wise

As I acknowledge

The me being me.

I have no other option,

No other solution.

I can't have a revolution

Against me without

Engaging the fabulous,

The silly, and the wise me.

And the wiser me

Would never, ever

Consider 

A coup,

Without a huge crew,

Of which there are none

Who would, 

Or could,

Or should

Revolt

Against

The fabulous,

Silly, wise me.

By saying

It's Tomorrow 

When it's right now.

I Love Your Smile

I love your smile, 
It makes me smile, too. 
I love it, in a different way
When you cry with letters and words.
They pull out the slivers of tears
That sting deep inside me.
I love your Laugh, 
It makes me laugh, too.
I love it, in a different way
When you screech your anger
Across the room 
Making my gut, 
My violent concrete safe,
Crack and ooze my own anger out.
I love your smiling eyes, 
They make my eyes smile, too
And let me know 
This, too, shall pass.

I Remember Not Having a Phone

I remember not having a phone.

I remember putting my finger in the hole
And pushing the hole around until it stopped.
And I remember watching it slide back around
And hearing it go click, click, click.
I remember the buzzing busy signal.
I remember calling information
To get a friend’s phone number.
I remember being scolded
For making a long-distance call.
I remember being seven years old
Talking to my mother
Who was 830 miles away
And being told to hang up
Because our time was up.
I remember party lines,
A time when I would pick up the phone and listen,
Hoping no one was on the line.
And if I heard voices,
I would wait a while before picking it up again.
And sometimes, I would get yelled at
By one of the phone talkers.
I remember phone numbers that only had 4 digits
When you called someone in town.
I remember payphones
And huge yellow phone books.
I remember running from phone booth to phone booth downtown,

Clicking the receiver lever
Hoping to find change in the coin return slot.
I remember shivering at night,
Standing in a phone booth,
Talking to my girlfriend.
I remember looking up Montoya
In the Albuquerque phone book
And seeing two full pages,
And imagining that there were millions

Of Montoyas in Albuquerque.

I remember when my parents moved to Long Beach

And only seeing one Montoya in the phone book.
It was our phone.
I remember in the 70s,
There were 5 Montoyas
In the Long Beach phone book.
It was my parents', my siblings',
And my phone number that were listed.
I haven't seen a phone book in ages.
I remember the phone ringing
Inside our house 

And my mother came running 

From the front yard, yelling,
"Something happened to George!"
I remember her grabbing the phone.
"George are you OK?"
She asked her younger brother.

"I'm OK, but I just saw Florinda
Get hit by the bus!"
I remember wondering
How my mother knew it was George.

I remember being on my ship
Fighting a war I didn’t want

And not having a phone. 

Fire Storms and Hurricanes

Fire Storms and Hurricanes
By Mushroom Montoya

 

The drenching rains, 

The raging hurricanes, 

The scorching fires,

That squelch our desires,

 

Destroying our homes,

And killing our cherished ones,

Mean

no

harm.

 

They cry when they see

The pain they've caused

To you and to me.

 

They weep

As they sweep

Their way across our paths.

 

"Everything is temporary,"

They scream and shout,

Reminding us to pay

Close attention,

 

With our hearts,

To what is most

Important:

Love one another

While

you

can.

 

Dead Leaf

She spent her life
High in a tree
Giving oxygen,
Eating CO2,
Providing shade,
Her once green body
Will turn yellow,
Then brown,
Before the tree
Releases its hold.
The leaf has fallen,
Hidden in the grass,
Her last resting place.
Her body will curl,
Become brittle,
Crumble
And turn to dust.
As it must
In the cycle of life.

Belly-flopping Rain

When the clouds grow dark,

And release the rain, 

Water droplets giggle, 

Belly-flopping onto 

The glimmering blue pool. 

My body wiggles, 

And splashes 

As it dashes 

Across the pool. 

The rain kisses, 

And kisses, 

And kisses 

My head 

With every single drop 

Of rain, 

Whispering I love yous. 

I turn my face into the water, 

And say, 

"I love you, too."

This Is Winter

This is winter.

It's a depressing time of year

For all who deal with SAD.

Short days flash by

So fast that I barely notice
The sunlight.
The long cold night
Knocks on my front door
So very early.

I try not to let him.

But he slides into the cracks

Around the windows.
I hear him hum his dirge

When he does.
Once he is in,

He tiptoes behind my back

And pulls my shoulders down.

And, if that doesn't satisfy him,

He slithers up
And sits on top of my head.

He reaches down,

His fingers pull down

The edges of my lips.

I have spent years

On that river in Egypt,

Wearing a happy face.

I’ve done that all

In a faulty attempt

To convince myself

That I am impervious

To depression.

Today, I shall step out of that river

And choose to embrace

That life is temporary

And depression is part of life.
It comes and goes.
It leaves me gifts

That I rarely remember

To pick up.
Today, I shall pick one up.
It has two sides.
A dark side

That I feel every winter;

And another side

That feels different, somehow.

I shall embrace the dark

Knowing it is temporary,
And then maybe,

Just maybe,

I can touch the other side

When the days will
Eventually get lighter.

My Hands

When I look at my hands,

I see what I once thought

Were an old man's hands.
I have earned these wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

My hands have held babies, puppies, and kittens.

They have wiped tears from children's faces.

My hands have cleaned poop, vomit, and crud.

They have thrown newspapers
Onto porches from my bike.
They have swung hammers
That built shelves, green houses, and toys.

My hands have kneaded dough.

When I was in Viet Nam,

They loaded heavy amo

Into the magazine

Beneath our ship's cannon.

My hands have crocheted baby blankets,
Bathing suits and a tostada.

They have picked up kids

Who've crashed their bikes.

I have held hands with my lover,

With elders, and children.
My hands have massaged sore muscles,
And they have brought healing to the wounded.

My hands have patched torn skin
On my mother-in-law’s arm,
And they have applied Band-aides
On children’s scuffed knees.

My hands have played the guitar,
And rhythmically beat the shaman’s drum.

My hands caressed our son’s face,
And stroked his arm
When he was dying.

I am grateful for my wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.