No Shame No Problem

“Just because someone voted for Trump, you don’t get to then ostracize them from polite society.”

—Former Trump spokesperson Sarah Isgur on "Real Time With Bill Maher"

***

In the aftermath of an election (and a country) gone tragically wrong, apparently a lot of Trump supporters are experiencing consequences in their personal lives. And they simply CANNOT UNDERSTAND IT.

In countless TikTok videos and other social media posts, these folks are complaining bitterly that their friends and family no longer want to have anything to do with them! Just because of who they voted for!! 

They're shocked, SHOCKED to learn that kind, empathetic, fundamentally decent people don't want to swim in the social cesspools that MAGA voters prefer.

They CAN'T BELIEVE people think the "man" they voted for is a reflection of their character—or that character matters at all! 

I mean, is it really a problem if your all-American boy turns out to be a misogynist/ racist/rapist/felon/domestic terrorist? Nope! He can STILL grow up to be president!

Is it bad if your darling daughter grows up to kill puppies with a high-powered rifle and later confesses to the whole thing in her book? Nope! She can STILL be Secretary of Homeland Security!

And is it SO WRONG that MAGA bros are literally telling women, "Your body, my choice" online, on the streets, and in schools across the country? And somehow that's too much for polite society, friends, and families? 

Yeah, that's pretty much it. 

Because you didn't JUST help America surrender to the Confederacy, the Nazis, and the Russians—you also made rape threats a fashion statement on Amazon. Congratulations.

So, pseudo-distraught MAGA voters...some of you should get used to being shunned, brushed off, and otherwise excommunicated by people who may have cared about you once, long ago.

It's not them.

It's you.

This Is Who We Are

"We've got to have rules and obey them. After all, we're not savages."

—Jack Merridew, Lord of the Flies

***

Yesterday Americans decided that a rapist/felon/domestic terrorist should be President of the United States.

Today, like a band of feral boys, MAGA voters are gleefully dancing around the idol of a man and a political party that nakedly embodies their worst, most debased impulses.

In 2016 there were false assurances from dark corners that Donald Trump would somehow become "presidential", despite a lifetime of proving otherwise. Eight exhausting years later we know those hopes are dead on arrival—the hellbeast "American" voters have summoned (again) is exactly what he's always been—a proudly ignorant racist, fascist, misogynist obscenity of a human being.

Because elections have real-world consequences, the incoming administration (if by "administration" you mean "hate-jacked howler monkeys") has promised the violent deportation of millions of immigrants; to end the Affordable Care Act, depriving millions of Americans of health insurance; and to implement 20%-60% tariffs on imported goods, which economists say will cost American families thousands of dollars a year.

As a bonus, we should also prepare for the acceleration of climate change, the end of NATO, the fall of Ukraine to Trump's pal Putin, and the deaths of the last Palestinians in Gaza.

The news isn't all bad, though, right? After all, multiple states just enshrined the right to abortion and reproductive healthcare into their constitutions. It's unfortunate, then, that all of those (very popular) ballot propositions will undoubtedly be swept away with the scrawl of a red crayon proclaiming, "National Abortion Ban". We know this because the only group Trump's GOP despises more than black/brown people is women.

The Fuck Around And Find Out movement has voted to set the world ablaze to see if fire is hot. 

Now we all get to burn with them.

***

“The mask was a thing on its own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness.”

Celebration On Wheels, Destination Unknown

Quintas (left)
Vivienne (right)
Mauna Kea (everywhere else)

Philippa Georgiou: "That infernal paper says I'm dead—but I'm still very much alive."

Guardian of Forever: "Well, that's because this is tomorrow's paper. You're 'still very much alive' today. But by all means, continue wasting time."

(Temporal insights from the writers of "Star Trek Discovery")

***

It's good to learn new things.

Especially things you never imagined you'd do, ever—because why would you?

Random example: I never imagined becoming a runner. Why would I? Did I even like running? I DID NOT. 

I did enjoy lunchtime basketball and weights, though, a routine that served very well for a long time. 

Until I tore an ACL, which required surgery and a year of recovery.

That year gave me lots of time to ponder the need for more basketball in my life. Very few of those deliberations ended with, "Yes, more hoops for Peter Pan, please!"

So, after 25 years, I quit—and learned to love running [insert a couple years of ambivalence here].

In time, infatuation turned to passion turned to compulsion. Solo 5k runs became 10k group runs, half marathons, whole entire marathons, and eventually ultra marathons.

It was even fun sometimes!

Then came a pandemic, and a move to an island, and a shredded meniscus. More months of recovery. 

In the interim, horses entered our lives. I mean, they didn't just wander into our yard—we went out and got them. Intentionally.

A couple of them we bought to train alongside and ride—the rest are rescues from kill pens on the mainland, because humans are awful.

Every one came to us with a mystery bag full of trials and trauma—learning how to speak horse and listen to their stories has become a worthy and lifelong archeological project.

Equally important are the complementary skills I never imagined I'd need, but are now mandatory. Among the many:

Get busy living,
get busy driving.

* How to dress for doing chores in a hurricane

* How to load an agitated horse into a trailer at a bustling airport

* How to calmly drive a truck pulling a horse trailer with horses inside

Full disclosure: that last thing still makes me anxious, every time. These creatures found their way from a kill pen to a sanctuary to an airport on the mainland to an airport on an island in the middle of an ocean—and somehow they end up with me as their Uber driver? The gods have an odd sense of humor sometimes.

I'd like to say years of getting comfortable being uncomfortable prepared me for such challenges...but I'm not sure I can. 

Either way, I'm learning—because it's a requirement for doing things we never imagined, while we're still able.

Do I need more marathons in my life? I'm no longer certain. The universe has a way of sending us in directions we never considered—maybe our job is simply to be ready for that when it happens.

And, whenever possible, not to squander the time in between.

***

Loving Wife: "Quintas has his vet check Monday. If all goes well, Michael will own his first horse at the ripe age of 62."

Hilarious friend Ruth: "62? A youngster! It’s never too late to find out if you have osteoporosis!"

Highlights From Hurricane Hone

Gracie, fearless.

The rain started Thursday, and hasn't stopped since.

It's Sunday afternoon.

We've never seen so much rain here on the farm (and we've seen some ridiculous storms in the last three years).

Nevertheless, here we are—with 15 inches of water in our buckets, and a steady downpour keeping us mindful that much more is likely.

The good news is, the power came back on within the last half-hour—and the first thing we did was make some coffee.

The bad news is, parts of the Big Island are getting hit much worse than we are. Flash flood warnings are in effect, which means people are scrambling to stay safe.

***

Yesterday morning we awoke to minor flooding in the barn and tack room. After getting all the creatures fed and situated, we loaded up the truck with buckets and shovels, and began moving yards of sand and gravel from their respective piles.

Three and a half hours later the water was redirected away from the building and down the hill. For all our "rain gear", Melissa and I still looked like we had just crawled out of the surf.

This is why we have contingency gear, see—so yesterday's stuff can dry while today's stuff gets wet. 

This afternoon, ALL of it is wet. So we struggle into the wet stuff that's been drying the longest and head back out. 

This is part of what we signed up for, after all. We get what we get, and we don't get upset.

***

The wind arrived last night, driving rain sideways and in directions of the compass from which it never comes. Under doors, through barely open windows, requiring us to throw down towels in places that are always reliably dry.

Let the record show that "always" and "reliably" are now relative terms meaning "almost always," and "not reliably." 

The latest updates tell us that Hone (ho-nay) continues churning west, now past Southpoint—the southernmost tip of the US. 

Yes, this image.

That image >over there> wants us to believe that the Big Island is no longer in the affected area—but our local conditions beg to differ. 

Here on the Hāmākua Coast, in fact, wind continues to be windy and rain continues to be wet. Our 3 p.m. daylight more closely resembles 6 p.m twilight—and I'm pretty sure our solar batteries are flat as pancakes.

***

This afternoon's chores were, once again, completed in a downpour. For all the good our rain gear did us, we may as well have been wearing large paper bags from Malama Market.

Most importantly, though, animals were fed and cleaned up after; dry shavings were spread, medication was given, kind words were spoken. Mission accomplished.

Melissa, covered in mud, grabbed the hose and sprayed herself down from neck to boots. I mean, why not? It's not like she was going to be any less soaked.

I waited, under cover, for Gracie Lou and her protégé Vivienne to finish their alfalfa cubes, then turned them out into the pasture. Aside from being continuously soaked for the past four days, all was right in their world.

***

It's now 8 p.m. at our house.

Lights are working, dinner is done, and everything is...quiet. No wind. No rain. Just the soothing sound of the coquí frogs.

I don't want to jinx anything here, but...it's possible this storm has passed.

First-World Problems and The Tim Solution

"Oh, boy."
"Oh, boy, what?"
"You're f*cked."

It's possible we didn't think it all the way through.

At the time, though, we had no reason to believe the simple, mundane act of BUYING A LAWNMOWER would come back to bite us.

But...here we are.

Here we are, that is, with an acre of fast-growing lawn AND a lawnmower with a bad wheel. A wheel that is apparently impossible to replace.

We bought the thing at Home Depot in Hilo, so of course that's the first place we tried. Guess what, though? You can't buy the part at Home Depot in Hilo! Nor can you buy it at Home Depot Online, because the part is "Unavailable in Hawai'i".

Okay, I'll try the manufacturer of said wheel. THEY DON'T SHIP TO HAWAI'I.

Okay, I'll try Amazon...where the part is unavailable and there's no timeline for when it WILL be available.

Okay, I'll try the manufacturer's dealer on the Big Island. THEY DON'T HAVE THE PART...but they're happy to order it! "It'll cost about $300 for shipping."

Okay, now I'm cranky.

I realize we live in a remote part of the US, but Hawai'i IS part of the US, last time I checked. We do have Post Offices and FedEx and Amazon lockers and an assortment of big box retailers. One of those retailers sells semi-expensive lawnmowers for which IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO GET REPLACEMENT PARTS??

I don't know whether to laugh or shriek into a tropical storm.

***

First world problem, I know.

What makes it galling, though, is this:

"Oh, and don't forget to check the oil."

If Tim Walz were available, HE would jump on a plane with the wheel assembly in his carry-on. He would rent a car at the airport, drive to our house, jack the left-front wheel, replace it with the new wheel assembly, check the air pressure in the other tires, smile, and say, "Okay, champ, it's ready to go. You've got this."

Tim Walz, however, is busy helping save American Democracy.

Still, knowing he would help if he could makes me want to keep trying.

Thanks, Tim, and you're right:

I've got this.

Picture of Grief

Not the Saturday we wanted,
but the Saturday we needed.

We’re all grieving—and healing from—something. 

It’s constant and relatable across generations.

Eventually the current thing slides beneath the waves, temporarily out of sight—but never really out of mind. And soon we’re grieving some new thing, or maybe resurfacing the old thing, or maybe all the things all at once all the time.

Sometimes it’s like a light breeze barely moving a translucent curtain at the kitchen window.

Other times it’s a thousand firehoses in the chest that you drag yourself up from, a couple miles down the road.

It’s funny! You can’t stop laughing!

It’s not funny. You can’t complete a simple task you’ve done a million times, before the grief thing happened.

***
The dark humor is never far from the surface.

OFFICER (slightly bored): “Gentlemen, can I ask what you’re doing?”

BROTHER 1: “Of course—we’re spreading our mom’s ashes.”

OFFICER: …

BROTHER 2 (helpfully): “Human remains…”

OFFICER (no longer bored): “This is a kids’ baseball field!!”

BROTHER 1: “Exactly! See, our mom spent a lot of time watching us play baseball when we were growing up…”

BROTHER 2: “…so we thought this would be the perfect place. Right?”

(they nod and smile together)*

***
I delivered a eulogy of sorts recently, something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do.

The rehearsals didn’t go the way I wanted, which is to say I couldn’t get through most of them without crying.

Public speaking is hard for me. Public crying, even more so.

Maybe it's because I’m of a certain age when boys were gently discouraged from such behavior.

ADULT ROLE MODEL: “Stuff that trauma way down, kid, and NEVER circle back to process it. Get it? Got it? Good. Boys, what do we have to say to little Mortimer, here?”

BOYS: “Crybaby! CRYbaby! CRYBABY! CRYBABY!”

(they turn their backs and walk away laughing—fade to black)

***
So, I may have had some latent anxiety about the eulogy.

Regardless, Saturday afternoon arrived, as afternoons indifferently do, and the time to speak was upon me.

Predictably, the microphone and the sound system and the “AV technician” conspired against me—I would be required to project my own voice across the room.

I teed up my speech, took a deeply shaky breath, and…nailed it.

An amusing anecdote early on got a laugh from the gathering—evidently all the encouragement I needed.

I gestured at people and props at appropriate times, emphasized the correct words in most of the sentences, and had just one wavering moment, right near the end.

I paused, took another breath, and pushed through.

People clapped. I closed the laptop, smiled a small, grateful smile, and looked at the tops of my shoes. Always the kid looking for approval.

***
My brother got up next and delivered a moving soliloquy—during which he cried.

My dad got up and delivered a few halting words of gratitude. He cried.

Others in the audience got up and spoke extemporaneously and beautifully. Most of them cried.

And yet nobody laughed or called them crybabies.

What the hell.

***
Text from daughter, on her way to the airport afterward: “I love you buddy!!!”

Me: (sobs)

***
Grieving and healing are little goblins that happen at their own chaotic, non-linear pace.

Learning and unlearning, apparently, are better angels…that happen when we’re ready for them to.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.

***

Here's to you, ol' skinny Dennis

The only one I think I will miss

I can hear your basement singing
Sweet and low like a gift you're bringing
Play it for me one more time now
Got to give it all we can now
I believe every word you're saying
Just keep on, keep on playing

—Guy Clark, L.A. Freeway

***

(*fictional conversation that never happened, just to be clear)

There Be Poop Here

Your cart may vary.
Poop not included.

I hear there was some kind of debate yesterday?

Evidently, I missed it.

At the time it was going on, I was outside collecting eggs, mucking out a chicken coop, scraping botfly eggs off of three horses, and filling up our Gorilla Cart with horse poop.

Between those options and witnessing a sh*t show, I greatly preferred the ones I chose.

A proper presidential debate is an intelligent discussion of ideas and ideals that set a noble standard for Americans and the rest of the world. It is filled with soaring rhetoric that is long-remembered and oft-quoted in the annals of history. 

Debaters may differ on the details of their plan to reach such heights, but those differences are never so great that they can't be reconciled with a handshake—and later by, say, a Congress and a Judiciary working in good faith.

As a general, non-negotiable matter, a candidate's plan cannot be to violently overthrow our government after losing an election. Apparently this take is now controversial.

One of this year's candidates is old and tired, but he has done a creditable job cleaning up the feculent mess left by his predecessor.

The other "candidate" is old and severely disordered, in addition to being a felon, a sex offender, and an insurrectionist.

The two are not the same.

Between them, one is a rational, if mildly imperfect choice. 

The other is plainly and inevitably lethal to the hopes and dreams of billions of 
people at home and abroad—which one might argue is disqualifying.
***
Anyhoo, daybreak has once again come to the Hāmākua Coast. Chores are calling, and the Gorilla Cart isn't going to fill itself.

That's one thing I've learned from this little farm adventure we're on: if we get busy with other things (or just want to take a couple days off), all of a sudden the poop takes over.

At that point it takes a lot longer to clean up.

Grace In A Pasture

Gracie Lou Freebush,
rescue mare extraordinaire.

It's been a long road for Gracie Lou.

We know this for a variety of reasons—not the least of which is that she was dumped at a kill pen after nearly 20 years of faithful service on an Amish farm.

The Amish have a reputation for fashioning simple lives in an impossibly complicated world. And in fairness, there may be merit in that romantic idyllicism.

What's also true, though, is that too many Amish horses are worked until they're no longer useful—and then they're shipped off to slaughter.

Again, in the interest of fairness, kill pens in the U.S. are awash in horses from every background imaginable—from race tracks to family farms to commercial ranches, and more. We live in a society that teaches us it's perfectly fine to throw away things we don't need or want any more—including living creatures.

And while that reality is soul-numbing on multiple levels—in this one, extremely limited case, we're choosing to be grateful—because it brought us Gracie Lou.

Gracie is a majestic 17.1 hh Belgian mare who checks in at about 1,800 lb. By way of introduction, one of the first things she did the day we met was step on my foot. This may be perfectly good form in the hierarchy of the herd—it certainly made an immediate impression on me. 

The bad news: one of my pinky toes is still in recovery. The good news: I'm now a lot more aware of *her* feet and where they're going, hashtag valuable lesson, hashtag no permanent damage.

The moment she arrived here on the farm, Gracie began changing things for the better. Within minutes, it seemed, she established order among her pasture-mates—two impertinent youngsters who are still learning to be horses. In questions of manners, mien, and general mouthiness, they now (mostly) adhere to her unwavering example.

While she's teaching them, Gracie is also teaching us about her past. From day one her demeanor has been gentle and trusting—which suggests she wasn't mistreated up until the day she was discarded.

That said, scars on both sides of her chest bespeak years of pulling a carriage or a plow or a heavy farm wagon. She'll let me massage those spots for a minute or two, but then slowly shies away. Perhaps she's not used to the touch; maybe the pressure on the tissue is uncomfortable; or maybe the memory of being scarred, repeatedly, is the underlying issue.

We may never know, of course, but we're willing to spend the time to find out—or to leave it be, if that's what she tells us she needs.

As I sit here, imagining the journey from a life-long home to a kill pen, I wonder if horses feel betrayal. I don't know. But within the structure of the herd we do know they have long-term relationships, express affection and contentment, and demonstrate fear and loneliness.

We know they have complex social structures and communication, enabling them to bond with their herd and survive among predators.

We also know that as domesticated animals, they are completely reliant on humans for their wellbeing—a responsibility we fail at too easily and too often.

With the help of a devoted rescue network on the mainland, Gracie was pulled from a kill pen in March, 2024, and trailered to a sanctuary in Oklahoma. After 30 days of quarantine she was forwarded to another sanctuary in Arizona, where she spent another month. From there she was trailered to a sanctuary near Los Angeles, and then to LAX, where she boarded a flight for Hawai'i.

As a matter of logistics, that's about 3,700 miles. As a matter of heart, it feels a lot farther. 

With all that subtext in mind, it's now our job to earn a place in Gracie's herd, and to keep the implicit promise broken by her previous humans.

We can never make things right for her. 

But we can make sure that this time the promise is kept.

Everything Old Is Older Still

I've had one of these: it lacked aloha.

The good news: I don't have a torn ACL!

This despite what the orthopedist suggested when he sent me to get an MRI.

The bad news: I have...

"COMPLEX TEAR OF THE POSTERIOR HORN AND BODY MEDIAL MENISCUS WITH HORIZONTAL, FLAP TEAR AND RADIAL TEAR COMPONENTS ALONG WITH MEDIAL MENISCAL BODY EXTRUSION AND INTRASUBSTANCE DEGENERATION"

I don't know why the radiologist is yelling at me—like this was *my* fault or something.

I mean, we fully embrace the ancient wisdom to live long and prosper:

✅ Exercise

✅ Healthy food

✅ Fresh air

✅ Aloha vibes

AND YET...here we are. Staring down a six-month window before I'm (theoretically) "pain-free" again, according to this guy.

Things I can do in the meantime: walk, hike, farm chores, Bosu strength training, ride a horse, et al.

Thing I can't do: run.

I know, "not running" for a while is a small price to pay versus a year-long rehab from an ACL reconstruction. Having had one of those, I can confirm the process was far more painful than the actual injury. 

Moment of immature ingratitude: I just really miss running.

The upside: the best running of my life—even at my advanced age—came after that rehab. I've done the work before, and it was 1000% worth it. I can do it again.

The downside: there is no downside. (Iota of wisdom courtesy of being old enough to be grateful.)

The good news: I don't have a torn ACL!

The bad news: {smiles, shrugs, gets to work}

Four Years Later

"Are you better off today than you were four years ago? The answer is a resounding no."

—Elise Stefanik (R-NY), March 6, 2024

***

I don't know about you...but my recollection of "four years ago" is pretty clear.

And as much as I'd like to forget that time—I really would—I'm stuck with memories I can't shake.

Four years ago I was busy moving our daughter home from San Diego State University—barely ahead of a pandemic rushing at us like a Cat. 6 hurricane.

Schools, businesses, and entire communities were hurriedly shutting down and going remote (as best they could)—the responsible thing to do in the face of a disease we knew little about and from which we had no defense.

Retired game show host Donald Trump, meanwhile, was telling people this new disease was no big deal, and it would be gone in a couple weeks—because it was "just like the flu."

Shortly thereafter, Trump would suggest people protect themselves by injecting bleach, or ingesting horse dewormer, or basking in ultraviolet light.

Advice like that—along with the Trump administration's intentional sabotage of the US response to COVID-19—led to the deaths of 400,000 Americans by January, 2021.

It's worth revisiting these little details when Elise Stefanik (R-NY) tries to tell us we were better off in March, 2020, than we are now.

Because she and a lot of other geniuses would very much like Donald Trump to be president again—since his last go-round was such a smashing success.*

(* If by "success" you mean the devastation and debauching of America.)

It's also worth noting that Elise Stefanik (R-NY) is out of her damn mind.

Browsing Through Time

Leila Lu Sorensen Miller

Oh, little darling of mine
I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day

I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way

And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again

No, I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day

But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away

—Paul Simon
***

I was born in the 1960s, so my memories of that time are haphazard.

But if I close my eyes and let my mind drift...sometimes I still catch flashes of events from that era.

Like the day the a TV peacock unfolded its wings with a promise of "living color on NBC" (even though it was still black and white on our TV).

Or when a neighbor across the street warned us that something called the Beatles were "a threat to our way of life."

Or night after night of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley solemnly reading the toll of Americans killed and wounded in Viet Nam.

Or an AM radio voice announcing that Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated.

***

The girl up above, though? She was old enough to remember all of it.

***

She grew up on a farm in the middle of Nebraska, at a time when small family farms could still eke out a living. I remember visiting that farm, where her mom and brother lived with a little dog named Ralph.

I remember sitting high on her horse, Trixie, on a sunny day.

I remember sitting on her lap in a root cellar one night as a tornado roared past.

The thing that scared me the most, though, was the sound of a raccoon skittering across the roof of the old house...mostly because I didn't know what a raccoon was at the time.

Mom left the farm when she was 20, I think, and moved to Denver. She was 21 when she met my dad, 22 when they got married, and 23 when she had me. 

Along the way she worked a glamorous job with United Airlines, and left me with neighbors during the day. I didn't think anything of it, of course, because the neighbors' kids were great to play with, there was lots of Kraft macaroni and cheese, and mom was always there to pick me up in the afternoon.

***

Mom eventually left her job at United to stay home with me and my brother, who came along in 1968. A couple years later Dad got a job in Minneapolis, so off we went to a suburb called Apple Valley.

For some reason, Mom hated it. Even though she had friends there, women who took her on adventures she likely would never have gotten into on her own. 

Like the time they picketed the local grocery store for an entire week to protest high meat prices. Did it make a difference? That I don't remember. But one day the protest was over, and I don't recall hearing about it again.

Or the day we went to a Minnesota Vikings football game, then waited afterward by the players entrance to meet future hall of famer Mick Tinglehoff. Who, it turns out, went to the same little high school my Mom did.

Or the times she helped us dig tunnels and caves in the snow drifts that piled as high as the garage several times each winter.

Come to think of it, "Minnesota winters" may have been the reason Mom didn't care for the land of 10,000 lakes.

***

Browsing through photos of that era is a rabbit hole without end—and each one is its own little exercise in archeology. "Where was that taken? Who is that? Look how young they were..."

And there are *so many* of them. Giving each the attention they deserve could become somebody's life's work.

[sighs wistfully]

Mom peacefully passed away in her sleep sometime Christmas night. 

And while dementia had stolen many of her memories, just a few days ago she could still happily recount her childhood on the Nebraska farm where she grew up.

She loved to repeat the tales of her pet lambs and piglets—and she'd still get mad recalling the hens that would peck her and the roosters that would chase her around the barnyard.

Every time we talked she would ask about our current adventures in farming—and tried her best to convince us we should add pigs to our growing menagerie.

Her: "Piglets make wonderful pets!"

Me: "Yes, but they don't *stay* piglets, Mom."

And she would laugh.

***

I haven't thought about most of these things in a long time. It was a pleasant surprise to find them laying around my brain, waiting to be dusted off and held up to the light.

It occurs to me that memories are like the oldest Christmas ornaments in the box—precious and beautiful, but also frighteningly fragile. We can never be sure when—or if—we'll ever stumble across them again.

Or if we'll recognize them when we do.

***

I can't see the future but I know it's coming fast
It's not that hard to wind up knee deep in the past

It's come a lot of Mondays
Since the phone booth that first night

Through years and miles and tears and smiles
I want to get it right

—Jimmy Buffett, Coast of Carolina

The Opposite Of "Cowboy Up"

I have been felled by cowboy apparel.

This after 11 months of training, 28.5 miles of a trail race, and two weeks of post-race recovery—all without pain, let alone injury.

"Cowboy down"

Four weeks of occasionally wearing cowboy boots, though, and suddenly I have a knee injury? I mean, come on. How does that work?

I have a theory.

In running shoes (almost all I ever wear), I am a mid-to-forefoot striker (and have been for years).

In cowboy boots (which I rarely wear), I'm a chunky-1.5-inch-heel striker. The biomechanics (and stability) are hilariously (ominously?) different. 

So why am I even a little surprised?

Perhaps because I'm 14 years removed from my last knee injury—a torn ACL that required surgery and a year of rehab—so I *may* have assumed I was now immune to such things.

Anyhoo, that's my guess as to the cause-of-injury, symptoms of which include "Hey, that fcking hurts" whenever I use my left leg for something other than visual symmetry.

Quintas, in the wild

The diagnosis? I have an orthopod appointment in a couple weeks to determine that. With luck, it'll be something silly, like the phase of the moon combined with tropical variability in barometric pressure—all of which we'll laugh about later.

In the meantime, though, I'll be over here not-running, losing all my fitness, and occasionally wearing cowboy boots—because horses.

For the record, yes, he's worth it.

They all are.

Always Worth It

Bubbles up

Never more grateful for
the existence of trekking poles
nor happier to be welcomed back home.

They will point us toward home
No matter how deep or how far we roam

They will show you the surface
The plot and the purpose

So when the journey gets long

Just know that you are loved
There is light up above
And the joy is always enough

Bubbles up
Bubbles up

—Jimmy Buffett
***
I had almost forgotten how many ways a long race can go wrong...and right.

This sunrise, which actually got
better the more we climbed.

Like, how I can sign up for a 55-mile event, finish just half of it...and still feel like it was an amazingly great day.

The H.U.R.T. Peacock Challenge 55 started in the dark, immediately climbing a couple thousand feet to look out over a gorgeous Hawaiian sunrise. 

That view alone made the hours that followed worthwhile—a mindset I rediscovered despite not running an ultra for more than four years.

***

Our farm sits on the lower NE side of Mauna Kea. The country roads on these slopes are almost entirely up or down—not a lot of flat to be found anywhere. 

Which makes it an excellent place to train for climbing.

This is fortunate since one loop of the PC course includes more than 6,200 feet of elevation. 

What our hills didn't prepare me for was 90-degree temperatures on "the Long Road"—an exposed, seven-mile out-and-back on baking asphalt. We get some warm, tropical conditions over here on our side of the Big Island, but nothing like that.

Woof, it was rough, and it left me wrung out and hung out to dry.

Miles 23 to 28.5 were an exercise in patience, as I was moving slowly through some acute physical lows. In years gone by I would have been deep into a pity party that invariably would go something like...

"What's wrong with you? You should be running this."

"I don't know what's wrong with me, but I know I don't want to be out here any more."

"Well, that's stupid, there's only a few miles left."

"You're stupid."

"No, you are."

...and so on.

None of that negativity happened on this day, because I knew what was wrong with me (electrolyte imbalance and dehydration), and I knew I was going to have to just settle in and hike the rest of the way.

And I was okay with that. Because it was something I knew I could do, even if it took a good long while, no matter how lousy I was feeling.

Also, recognizing I wasn't going to make the first loop cutoff (7.5 hours), it felt like there was still some honor to be had in getting back to the starting line under my own power.

So, that's what I did.

***

In these few days post-Peacock, I've felt a lot better than I was expecting to. My legs feel sound, with no pain at all. Which tells me the many months of hill training were on point.

As with a couple of previous DNFs of 50 miles or longer, I'm left to wonder what I could have done differently about my hydrating and electrolytes. The challenge is that none of my experiences at those distances have been similar, and no regimen has worked the same way twice.

Just when I think I have something figured out that I think I can count on, the ground-rules shift beneath me.

As it goes in an ultra, so it is in life.

Point me toward home, somebody.

Bubbles up. 

***
Toe the line.
Take the chance.
Blow up.
Struggle.
Fall apart.
Try again.
Worth it.

Always worth it.

—Sally McRae

***

Peacock Challenge 55

DNF

Shoes:

Topo Mountain Racer 2

Song stuck in my head for way too many miles:

"Surfing In A Hurricane" —Jimmy Buffett

Comparative Adventuring

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."

—Helen Keller
***
"forgot coffee at home. acquired some of the swill we serve here. set it on my desk, knocked it off with my elbow. all over floor and clothes. swore. opened cabinet to grab paper towels, cabinet door came off the hinge. hunkered over to sop up coffee, came up and hit my head on underside of desk."

—Me, on a work day, October 2011

***

It's become obvious that we have a problem with one of our neighbors.

In the past few weeks he's broken through one of our perimeter gates multiple times, and subsequently broken into our chicken yard an equal number of times.

At first we asked him, in a neighborly way, not to do these things, by quietly reinforcing the gate. In response, the breaking and entering escalated to a daily occurrence—at which time we decided to stop putting up with his bullshit, and called his owner.

Yeah, the bad neighbor is a bull—his name is Bambi, and he's a big jerk. He repeatedly put our chickens in danger of being crushed, and us in danger of being disfigured herding him out of the chicken yard and through the irrelevant outer gate.

In addition, we figure he owes us a new 6-foot gate and a new 30-foot section of chicken-yard fencing.

Fortunately his owner is *not* a jerk—he's been apologetic about Bambi's anti-social antics, and has offered to pay for repairs.

***

In this very same timeframe it became obvious that we had a parallel problem with a different neighbor.

This one decided it would be great fun to harass our sheep.

It started with frantic yelling at them, then quickly escalated to crawling under our fence and chasing them from one end of their paddock to the other.

Tired of our sheep being terrorized and traumatized, we once again took matters into our own hands. The neighbor in question is now tied to a post on our front deck.

Yeah, he's a Border Collie named Patchi, staying with us while his owner is on a photo assignment in Tahiti.

We *hate* restraining Patchi like this, but his herding instinct overwhelms his good manners. He literally can't be trusted off the leash for ten seconds. 

So, he'll be herding chew toys on the deck for another 48 hours.

***

Our work days have changed significantly since that October day in 2011. Our office is now a small farm, and the coffee is always good.

Sure, sometimes the work environment is physically hostile—but now we can actually take immediate and definitive steps to remedy the problem. It's quite liberating.

I'll take that seven days a week, 10/10, no notes.

Precious Days

It's time for a change
I'm tired of that same old same
The same old words, the same old lines
The same old tricks and the same old rhymes

Days precious days
Roll in and out like waves
I got boards to bend, I got planks to nail
I got charts to make, I got seas to sail

I'm gonna build me a boat with these two hands
She'll be a fair curve from a noble plan
Let the chips fall where they will
'Cause I got boats to build

—Guy Clark and Verlon Thompson, "Boats To Build"

***

I guess I just thought Jimmy Buffet would go on forever.

That no matter how many years had gone by since that 1980 Red Rocks concert, there'd always be another chance to catch him and the Coral Reefer Band somewhere, some day.

Waking up to the news that "some day" is now "never again" is hitting unexpectedly hard.

Sitting here this morning, it's funny to me that one of "his" songs that stuck with me through the years is one Buffett didn't even write. On its surface, "Boats to Build" isn't a departure from his vast catalogue of music. 

But the more I listened to it over time, the more I appreciated it as an allegory for "this one wild and precious life" we've been given.

Sails are just like wings
The wind can make 'em sing
Songs of life, songs of hope
Songs to keep your dreams afloat

Shores distant shores
There's where I'm headed for
I got the stars to guide my way
Sail into the light of day

***

Time to go build a thing today...

Emergency Unpreparedness

On May 4, 2023, a wildfire ignited near our farm.

Despite the fact that our community was directly in the path of wind-driven flames, the local Hawai'i County emergency management sirens never sounded.

***

I wrote about it here...

 

It was one-thirty p.m. or so that we first smelled the smoke. It took all of thirty seconds to identify the source—a widening plume downslope from our farm, carried directly toward us by the trade winds.

It was, what, maybe half an hour later that the power went down.

By three p.m. the smoke plume had grown by orders of magnitude, and ash was falling like black snow. One of our neighbors, a retired firefighter, hosed down the long, dry grass on the north side of his house, obviously worried about embers floating in on the trades.

Meanwhile, we went through our afternoon routine, making sure chickens, geese, and sheep had extra food and water. Later we noticed our clothes smelled like smoke, which was less surprising than it was jarring.

Dusk came early as smoke swept over and around us. We brought out an array of battery powered lights and joked about turning on the ceiling fans hanging inert above our heads...

***

At the July meeting of our community association, we were informed by our County Council representative that the reason local sirens weren't used was that "...in the view of emergency management, there wasn't sufficient cause to alert the public."

Here's the thing, though—many people who live in this area could see smoke and ash and approaching flames. And since the power was down, people who were homebound for medical reasons were at risk. 

Despite that, someone at Hawai'i County emergency management decided no communication was necessary—not even a quick cell phone alert to let people know what was going on.

***

Between August 8 and August 9, 2023, a wildfire on Maui raced through historic Lahaina town.

The local emergency management sirens never sounded.

According to the head of the Maui County Emergency Management Agency, "...the sirens are used primarily for tsunamis, and that's the reason why almost all of them are found on the coastline. The public is trained to seek higher ground in the event that the sirens sounded. If that was the case, then they would've gone into the fire."

I suppose there's no way to know if people hearing an emergency siren would blindly rush out the door and toward an oncoming firestorm. Or if they'd figure out, somehow, that the alert was actually about the fire that was closing in on them at a reported mile per minute.

It's possible, one supposes, that rather than jump into their cars and try to escape on impassable roads, more people might have jumped into the water as the flames consumed the town. Humans are adaptable that way, sometimes.

But there were no sirens—because somebody in charge of local emergency management decided "the largest single integrated public safety outdoor siren warning system in the world" would do more harm than good.

***

Post Script

According to the "Siren quick facts" at the County of Maui web site:

• The all-hazard siren system can be used for a variety of both natural and human-caused events; including tsunamis, hurricanes, dam breaches, flooding, wildfires, volcanic eruptions, terrorist threats, hazardous material incidents, and more.

A week and a half ago, more than 13,000 people called Lahaina home. Countless more worked and played there, against a backdrop of timeless tropical beauty. 

Today, more than 110 people are confirmed dead and a thousand are still unaccounted for.

***

Update:

"Maui Emergency Management Agency Administrator Herman Andaya has resigned effective immediately, Mayor Richard Bissen’s office announced.

"Andaya cited health reasons, the announcement said."