I was running trail yesterday, pulling a leisurely U near the Menaul trailhead before heading home, when a shadow fell across my path.
“Holy hell,” I thought. “A buzzard? I’m not dead yet. …”
Then I looked up and saw the glider, tacking this way and that above the spiky foothills, before finally dropping in for a gentle landing.
Good argument for keeping your eyes and ears open, I thought as I snapped a few pix and then got back to my jogging. You never know what you’re going to see up there, or down here.
On Sunday I nearly stepped on my first snake of the new year as I legged it up a sandy arroyo not far from where the glider pilot touched down. He was a little fella and disappeared into the underbrush. The snake, not the glider pilot.
Some folks get their kicks from sticks, if you believe The New York Times. And in this instance I see no reason for doubt. The story wasn’t datelined April 1, and is just ridiculous enough to be true.
Mad Blog Media 
Sorry to report I ran over a small snake on the bike trail two days ago. I was going to give him a funeral on my return trip but I believe a hawk I saw in the area got him. Still, I felt bad for the murder of a poor guy that was only trying to warm up on some pavement. Gotta be more observant.
According to a reasonable non-online un-AI-alterable source, an accident is not really considered a murder. Unless of course you went back and ran him over a few more times, then the issue of brutality comes into play and the murder definition applies. But no less, it is fine of you to feel sadness for the death. If only that was something that was felt more often by humankind across the planet.
Fortunately those of Accipitrinae that you indicated were in the area likely benefited from the accident. One can only imagine and chuckle at what is going through the brain of a bird of prey while flying over an area of snakes and cyclists. ”Please, please, please.” ”Come on you moron you can steer that bike and run him over.” ”He missed! How the hell did he miss that?” ”Somebody needs to teach these humans how to steer AT something”.
Is that not a para-sailor flying a parawing? I forget. I do no that until they get it up in the air, all those shroud lines can be quite complicated. I have a neighbor somewhere up in my area who flies one of those around with the impulse from a gas engine powered prop. With the exception of the irritating buzzing sound, it looks to be quite enjoyable.
I hope the allergy flareup has toned down. I’ve been taking some precautions myself so that I don’t get overwhelmed some evening and am forced to endure the watery, itchy, crawling nose phenomenon and associated formidable sneezing.
No idea what that is, Shawn. People fly a variety of craft off various perches in the Sandias, and as soon as the weather warms up we start seeing them riding the thermals like hawks. I noticed another one today as I was wrapping up an afternoon ride. Apparently we have at least one neighborhood soaring association.
I was on a fast descent on a dirt road and ran over a big buzzworm. I stopped and went back to see if it was hurt, and it was fine, coiled up, and ready for round two. I called the contest a draw and went on my way.
That paragliding looks like a hoot. But, a piece of nylon fabric between me and certain death is not worth the risk at this stage of life.
Was it a buzzworm you ran over Patrick and Herb?
My accident (I was acquitted of murder by the Court of Shawn) was no doubt a common garden snake from what I saw. There are Eastern Massasauga rattlers in the area but they are very shy and I’ve never seen one out on the trails. Only when I bushwhack and even then a very rare sighting. Came home from a road trip years ago when I lived on a small stream with some marshland and my wife calmly announced that she and a neighbor found some baby rattlers in the basement and deported them back to the wild. You can bet I checked out the foundation to see how in hell they got in. As for hiking sticks about 30 years ago I moved and in prepping the (snake)house for sale I thinned out an overgrown ancient lilac. Made a hiking staff from one of the limbs and that was the hardest wood I’ve ever come across. Used it today for a 3 mile stroll before the hail and brimstone let loose. No hang-gliding in these here parts recently!
Mine was some slim class of garden snake, a real fast mover too, lucky for him (or her). I’ve seen red racers, bull snakes, and actual buzzworms in this corner of the Foothills Trails, though. The place used to be stiff with coyotes, too, but we never see them or hear them singing anymore. Now it’s all deer, all the time. I saw a dozen of the shrub-munching yard rats perched up the hill from Trail 365 yesterday.
I started collecting sticks and making hiking staffs back when we were up in Los Alamos. Still do it once in a while. If I see a stick that is five or more feet long and relatively straight and interesting, I take it home, trim it, shave off the bark (or leave some on), sand it, seal it, put on a rubber bottom and a leather wrist loop, and lo and behold, hiking sticks. Have given a few away, including on Monday when I gave one to the gentleman who does yard work for us. He snagged it for his elderly father.
Just one of those weird things I do, I guess.
Oh, and we inherited a new family member.
Kitty! How did s/he come to join the family?
One of my spouse’s colleagues at the Food Depot had to vacate her apartment and downsize. She had a dog and a cat and had to choose. So we agreed to take kitty in (Hatch, a big guy) as we have always had cats. Better than sending kitty back to the shelter and if our friend’s situation improves, she knows where to find Mr. Cat.
Well done indeed. And a fine handsome fellow he is too. Miss Mia was a shelter inmate in Bibleburg; the Turk was part of a litter organized by the cats of a couple Herself knew, also in that fair city; and Ike and Tina were foundlings who turned up at an acquaintance’s place in Wetmore when we were in Crusty County. There’s just no guessing where your buddies will come from, or how, or why.
There is no guessing. We never plan these things. They just happen, and for the better. Usually. But not always.
Back in Honolulu in 1991, a bike shop near the University of Hawaii went belly up and the owner, a friend of mine, abandoned Ugo, the shop cat, named, of course, after Ugo DeRosa. Unfortunately, Ugo and our cat Guido, both males of course, got into a massive brawl that cost us about 800 bucks we didn’t have as Guido got a major infection from being bitten and Ugo needed a bunch of stitches in his abdomen. Our vet said he never saw such home carnage.
But both Ugo and Guido stayed with us, although they usually avoided each other. Buddy, the big headed stray tomcat we also adopted, was head of household and kept them apart.
We were always a sucker for cats. I had a bit orange tabby, Paco (named after Frank “Paco” Serpico), in grad school, until the night he lost a battle with a passing car. I was pretty torn up about that, as I was also going through a divorce while trying to keep my dissertation research from circling the bowl.
I asked Meena one day why she named a cat “Guido” and turned out she didn’t realize that in some parts, such as Long Island, it was a sort of a slur. As in, as we once called a bad driver wearing a gold chain and double knits and driving a convertible, “You Fucking Guido” as he blew through a pedestrian crossing at Stony Brook Univ. I agreed, although I am half Dago too. The guy was a perfect stereotype, as some are.
Cool ! A new critter catcher. She/ he sure is cute. I might have to start looking for one or two of those for our house.
Cute kid! What do you call him/her? Tabbies are the best!
Dale in Mid-Mo (wholly owned by 1 wife and 2 tabbies)