Tag: Wildfires

Aqua, man

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 26 Comments
Glass don’t be even half full, yo.

There seems to be a theme to the news this morning.

A drought-stricken Colorado river is drying up.

The water in Cañon City and northern El Paso County tastes foul.

And the future of the Colorado River? Well … we’re probably gonna have to wear shades, but it ain’t exactly looking bright.

No wonder the bears are coming down from the mountain to kick ass.

“All y’all are fuckin’ this shit up,” says Yogi.

“We’d eat you, if we thought it would help, but you don’t even taste good anymore,” adds Boo Boo. “Like cheap industrial lager and soda pop.”

“And B.O.,” says Yogi. “You using any of this water to take showers, or are you just soaking the lawn and washing the Suburban?”

Here in the Land of Entrapment the monsoon has been more of a non-soon, and when asked when we might expect some relief the answer is “Not soon.”

The administration’s drought map shows that 3% of New Mexico is in “severe drought,” namely Albuquerque, Santa Fe and parts of the northeastern corner of the state. About one-third of the state, predominantly in northern New Mexico, is suffering from “extreme drought,” the map shows. 

The outlook notes that conditions are unlikely to improve over the next two weeks, with all but the northern and western edges of New Mexico facing 100% probabilities of above-average temperatures. 

Meanwhile, my old stomping grounds around Española remain on fire.

I’d love to claim the moral high ground here. But I’m down here in the sandbox with the rest of the dummies. Part of the problem.

We have a lawn. Smaller than the one we got when we bought the house, at the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. But still.

I drink two cups of coffee and one tall mug of tea every morning, plus a bottle or two of water on my bike rides, and more after I get home. There’s that daily shower too. Sometimes it’s jailhouse style, but occasionally I go full Hollywood.

I let God wash the car, when She’s of a mind to. Lately She’s not in the mood. Keeps sending us bears.

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.