Tag: Wildfires

Hot town, summer in the suburbs

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Smoke in the foothills. It looked worse in the rear view.

Wildfire smoke and a record temp yesterday — 101°, 10 degrees above normal.

Nothing like what’s happening down in Aridzona, of course. Tucson hit 111°, and that wasn’t even a record. Neither was the high of 114° in Phoenix.

Do not expect to see me pitching my little tent at McDowell Mountain Regional Park anytime soon. Smoked Irish ham is not on the menu.

The air quality hereabouts being remarkable for its lack of same, I decided to skip the Monday Geezer Ride. I thought briefly about a short trail run, but when Herself returned from a morning appointment she advised against it, which is significant, her exercise mantra being “We can do anything for 30 minutes.”

After I drove to the bakery for a loaf of bread and a breakfast scone I agreed with her. Looking west I could barely see the river, and the Sandia foothills were shrouded as in the photo up top.

So we stayed indoors, following the news and gnawing on our livers.

Speaking of the news, here’s a thought: I’m sick of seeing cops decked out like comic-book vigilantes. I appreciate that theirs is a dangerous occupation, but it’s the one they signed up for. And the rest of us — the civilians who pay their salaries — don’t get to go about our business kitted out like X-Men as security cameras, drones, and our own pocket informers document our every move.

I want to see badges, nameplates, and faces. When even the cops can’t tell who the cops are, it’s time for a little transparency. Save the costumes for Halloween.

Air conditioning (and one ventilation)

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments
One of those hazy, lazy days of not-quite summer.

Lots of schmutz in the air today. Our air purifier started sounding like a 747 trying (and failing) to take off from Newark, so I figured Elon was back to blowing up Starships in Texas between Special K binges and using his face as a catcher’s mitt for some pitcher’s high hard one.

But nope. Just windblown wildfire smoke and dust from Mexico, according to the local press. A health alert* has been issued. And warmish, too, so much so with the doors and windows closed that I finally caved and turned on the air conditioning. We must think of Miss Mia Sopaipilla, after all.

* Health alert not provided concerning side effects of the Second Amendment.

Canadian bakin’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

Smoke gets in your eyes. And your nose. And your hair, your clothes, and. … | File photo by Crusty County correspondent Hal Walter

Huh. The Elitist East Coast Big City Liberal Smartypants Media has finally discovered what us hardy Westerners have knowed for years — huffing a giant forest fire’s secondhand smoke sucks.

We’ve experienced a few lulus over the years in Bibleburg, Weirdcliffe, and The Duck! City. And yeah, they got a little ink despite being largely confined to Flyover Country.

But holy hell. When the Big Apple looks like the Devil’s been feeding his firebox a passel of green wood with a weak draft you gon’ git yoreself some wall-to-wall coverage, son! That’s Scripture!

And even a dyed-in-the-Carhartt mountain man and desert rat like Your Humble Narrator has to admit that a few hundred Canadian wildfires blowing smoke from Maine to Spokane might just be worth a few “Live”  headers over to The New York Times.

My old hometown of Ottawa has been taking a hit (and not the kind made famous by Cheech and Chong).

And I expect our Great White North correspondent Ol’ Herb might have a few thoughts on the matter, if he can stop coughing long enough to file a report expanding on the Detroit News coverage. Anyone else out there wearing their N95s again?

Song, fire, and ice

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments

Sign of the times.

Tezcatlipoca, God of the Night Wind, was in something of a mood as we hit the sack last eventide.

The sonofabitch spent the night roaring and rumbling, tipping things over, and generally acting the fool. The power blipped on and off a half-dozen times before I finally toppled into a restless sleep marred by inexplicable dreams.

In one I was outside somewhere with the rest of the bums as Tom Waits sat at a nearby café, trying to compose an opera based on his song “Misery is the River of the World.”

When I moseyed on over to his table and suggested that “Ruby’s Arms” might make a better foundation, Waits snickered and replied to the effect that I must’ve fallen in love with the first girl to kiss me somewhere other than the cheek.

When I wandered back to the bums one of them was gnawing on a sandwich I had scrounged. Let your attention drift for a second and someone will be eating your lunch, swear to God.

Elsewhere other deities were on the job. Coyote took a snowy shit on Colorado, because he thought it would be funny to lay 10 inches of snow on the place right after a 90-degree day. And Xiuhtecuhtli is still torching everything flammable in New Mexico because … well, it’s anybody’s guess. Perhaps he’s croaking the tourist season to punish the pochteca merchant class for sniveling about a dearth of eager employees while refusing to pay a living wage.

Smoked out

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

Done and dusted until further notice.

If you think that little slice of New Mexico looks dry, even parched, maybe, well … that’s because it is.

And so, the word has come down that a forest closure order has been issued effective Thursday for the Mount Taylor, Mountainaire, and Sandia ranger districts of the Cibola National Forest and National Grasslands. The entire Carson and Santa Fe national forests will follow suit.

Says the U.S. Forest Service:

“Fire danger remains extreme with record conditions only expected to worsen over the foreseeable future. The closure will be rescinded after significant moisture has been received and overall conditions improve.”

It’s a bummer, for sure. But so is getting burned the hell up.

I was just out toodling around in the Elena Gallegos Open Space, with an extra-credit lap around the Menaul trailhead area, and the Steelman Eurocross was cheeping like a nest of baby birds by the time I got home.

That ain’t dirt, it’s dust. And nobody wants a forest they can fit into an ashtray. Or so some of us would like to think, anyway. The quantity of cigarette butts I see along the roads and at trailheads suggests that this is not a unanimous opinion.