I’m out of cookies and out of bones, and because of my habitual tardiness, some of you now suggest that I am but a part-time blogger. That really hurts, you know? It doesn’t seem to matter to you that my wife and I were doing some kickboxing a couple of weeks ago and she hit me with her left in-step on my right short ribs, and then I got a cold.
Of course only those of you who have ever had both at the same time will understand, but let me tell you, such a thing is not all sniffles and hot tubs. It’s COUGHING and SNEEZING, and WRETCHING and every WIGGLE sends little platoons of Texas militia guys with the quad-fifties they use for hunting cottontails shooting up and down the broken rib and then they zip across the break to have a go at the other side. My “nursey” sister says its called “healing.”
But just to show you that I do care about your puzzle-solving abilities even though the cookies are gone and the bones broken, let me give you what can only be described as a “string of pearls.”
First, lets say that a discovery has been made of a place on the side of hill that has a number of hot springs and the water from these hot springs heads downhill. (“Remarkable!” somebody snidely interjects. “Sleuthy Guy knows that water runs downhill!” “Ha!” I say in response. “I know a place where the water runs uphill that my dad showed me 65 years ago and the place where it goes still isn’t full!”).
Now, said stream of warm water flows almost due south for a number of miles gathering steam until that rapidly growing stream of warm water hits a much larger stream of cold water widely known for the number and size of its brown trout. You go down that cold water stream a distance that certainly fits within the 15-40 mile sashay that is “not far but too far to walk” to a place that not only is full of brown trout but THE brown trout of record for that state once lived there, and a great many of his brothers and sisters still do.
You “put in” below this “Home of Brown” via totally legal access, and a short float of 25-30 yards brings you to an island in the middle of that river that is owned by neither the folk on the left bank nor the folk on the right bank nor by the USFS, NPS, BLM, SCS, nor any other of the feds including the United States Air Force Academy and the IRS. It is, however, managed by the state Department of Game and Fish, but they only seem to care if the willows are growing.
Further, this small island can also be legally reached by a couple of bridges over irrigation ditches and then a couple of short wades of ten yards or so across shallow, slow moving water. Even I could do it. Also interesting is that this small football field size island is from 5002 to 5010 feet above sea level and is located at nearly the exact center (N/S and E/W) of what Google Earth calls the “Rocky Mountains.”
And further still, depending on how one interprets it, “ΩΩ” is the name of the small village nearest to the island, and it is all about 500 feet to the nearest highway. This is all true and enticing and the only thing wrong with the whole scenario is that this particular string of pearls didn’t have a clasp and the pearls weren’t tied off. So, they all rolled away and now you know how I feel.
Hope you all had a great Black Friday. I stayed in bed.