A Braver, Better World

Hugo's Cocina, Prescott, AZ (Review)

Kerry Gleason — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 22:52:00 GMT

I remember my first visit to Hugo'sCocina well, because it was weeks in the making. I had seen a listof Prescott's best restaurants, and Hugo's was tops in the Mexicancategory. In my travels, I saw an unassuming edifice with a sandwichsign in front that proclaimed it to be a Mexican restaurant, and myinstincts told me it would be authentic and good. A second glancetold me it was Hugo's, so I knew I was onto something.

The parking area was a dirt lot, withcars facing every direction. I made my own parking arrangement nearthe street, where I wouldn't block anybody in. A dilapidated shackwith some see-through ventilation provided fair-weather cover formulti-colored picnic tables, and the rear door entered into thegalley-sized kitchen. I excused myself from bumping into Manny, thecook, and found my way to the ordering counter.

When I explained that I wanted tosample what Hugo's was all about while on a budget, the man suggested that I try threedifferent types of tacos, especially the pescadilla, or fish taco.He told me if I didn't like it, he would make me something different.After I paid a paltry fee under $6, he directed me to the salsa bar,where three large crocks with different salsa and basket-loads ofchips awaited. I filled a souffle cup with the green salsa verde,but my eye was drawn to a spicier sauce in a crock that was almostempty. The man told me to take as much as I wanted, and that all thesalsas were made fresh daily. So I tried all three, instantlyfalling in love with the dark red one that everyone else must like,too.

Several of Prescott's “characters”camped out against one wall, so I scuttled over to the other side andtook a seat. The painted picnic tables looked like they had been onthe wrong side of a knife-fight, and the blue-painted walls had agedto a point where they begged for a new coat. I noticed a sign abovethe trash bin that read: PLEASE do not throw away our plastic trays.Then Eric, the counterman and owner of Hugo's, delivered my iced teaand three tacos, neatly laid out on one of the infamous paper-lined,theft-worthy plastic trays. “I'm sure you're gonna like this, “he said with confidence.

I savored every bite of the chicken andbeef tacos before venturing into the unknown territory of thepescadilla. The spices were indeed authentic, and with each bite, Iwanted more. The pescadilla was filled with a flaky, brown-coloredfish filling, and like the others, fresh cilantro leaves. It easilyclassifies as a delicacy.

I asked the owner about his worn-outPhiladelphia Eagles cap, and he said that was where he was from, inPennsylvania. I expressed surprise, and he talked about his love ofauthentic Mexican food, and that once he learned a few secrets, thathe opened up Hugo's. He said he tried to open one in Philly, butcould not get fresh cilantro and other spices on a daily basis, andthe cost of running a coast-to-coast operation was frightful.Despite its appearance, or perhaps because of it, Hugo's Cocina inPrescott, Ariz., was my most memorable restaurant stop as I crossedthe country in January.

Hurling, Littleton CO in June 2010

Kerry Gleason — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 02:45:00 GMT

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

This is my next sport to try. Hurling.

Hurling Girl

One point!

He scored on this hurl.

Prairie Dog City

Kerry Gleason — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 19:15:00 GMT

I took a short trip on the Cherry Creek Bike trail, and just about a mile from my home is a weed-strewn patch of land between some of the Cherry Creek waterfalls and the John F. Kennedy Golf Course. I call it Prairie Dog City, and subsequently learned that the nesting areas of prairie dogs are called "towns." This is where prairie dogs go to work, play and do their laundry.

Prairie Dogs are amazing creatures and oh, so cute! Most of them are timid around strangers, but I found a few very close to the bike path who allowed me to get within a few feet to take some glamor shots. These have been cleared with their agents so I can publish them. Other prairie dogs, further from the path, were a little more skittish about having their pictures taken. Scientists claim that prairie dogs have the most sophisticated language and communication skills of any creatures in the animal kingdom, with more than 5,000 different warnings, each associated with a different predator. I witnessed this amazing skill at Prairie Dog City, where about a dozen of them were out sunning themselves, playing polo and dining on locally grown vegetation. As a hawk flew overhead, an alpha male chirped out a warning, and with every bleat, it thumped its tail on the ground. Those who strayed from their holes returned.

If you are looking for nature to entertain you, Prairie Dog CIty is the place to go.

All photos Copyright 2010 by Kerry Gleason.

"Where's the cable guy? He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"You kids! Stay offa my lawn!"

"Take me down to the Prairie Dog City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty,
Oh won't you please take me home?"

One of the prairie dogs' fiercest predators, a hawk, flies overhead, and the prairie dogs hunker down. This alpha male was thumping his tail and barking a warning to his mates.

A prairie dog home. The dirt mound keeps waters from flash floods from drowning the rascals.

Along the bike trail, I spotted this fallen tree. As I passed quickly, it looked like a silhouette of a woodpecker. Which, in itself, would be ironic.

Count Me In, Please!

Kerry Gleason — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 15:25:00 GMT

I traveled 45 days, and then lived in a temporary residence for another two months. It corresponded with the decennial census taking, not to be confused with the refrigerator cleaning that takes place every 10 years. Finally, I found a very nice place to call home in Denver, where every day I pinch myself to make sure I'm not just dreaming that I live in the most beautiful city in the greatest country in the history of civilization.

Being transient has its drawbacks and benefits, but I felt it was my civic duty and a legal responsibility to answer the census questionnaire. I went to the website, which was useless for providing me a point of contact. For grins and giggles, I figured I'd ask Google, because Lord knows they're smarter than the government. There, I found my answer, and not only that, but the census office is on my very street! Not really -- you kave to understand the road names in Denver to realize that Denver has only 12 street names that they just keep repeating over again.

I called, and a woman named Laurie answered with great bureaucratic authority. And kindly said, no thank you.

It was a strange call, and I thought afterward that I should have used an alias. After all, I'm a census evader. The conversation with the Census Bureau would have sounded something like this:

CB:   Good morning, Census Bureau. This is Laurie.
OBL:   Good morning, Laurie. This is Osama Bin Laden, and I'm hoping you can help me with a problem.
CB:   I can try. How can I help you, Mr. Laden.
OBL:   I was traveling, and unable to receive my mail forwarded to my cave in the mountains of Pakistan. Now that I've set up permanent residence in the United States, I'd like to participate in your Census 2010.
CB:   What is your ZIP code, Mr. Bin Laden?
OBL:   It's the same as yours at the Census Bureau.
CB:   Well, the deadline for that has already passed.
OBL:     I know. But it is my civic duty to report where I live so that my elected officials will have more government subsidies for local porkbarrel projects for the next decade.
CB:   Yes, that is true, but you don't need to send in the form.
OBL:   Really? Well how do I make sure that I am counted among you infidels.
CB:   I'm not an infidel, I'm a Gemini. But you need not worry, we will find you.
OBL:   Right, well let me give you my new address.
CB:   No, Mr. Laden. That won't be necessary. We have census takers who will be going door to door.
OBL:   Well, let me give you my location. My dwelling is very hard to find.
CB:   Nope. We'll find you. Our census taker will knock on your door and ask you to take a brief 10-question survey. Winners will be randomly drawn for a gift certificate to Applebees.
OBL:   I love Applebee's!
CB:   Everybody does. So, you see, Mr. Laden, there is nothing to worry about.
OBL:   But what if I'm not at home.
CB:    We'll come back.
OBL:   But I'm very rarely home.
CB:   We'll keep coming back. At all different hours of the day and night, Mr. Laden.
OBL:   Are you sure it wouldn't be easier to just send me a form that I can mail back?
CB:    Sir, we have a process. And that includes an army of census takers who trudge door to door with their 10-part questionnaires.
OBL:     You have an army?
CB:   Yes we do, Mr. Laden.
OBL:   I have an army, too.
CB:   That's nice, but that's not one of the questions.
OBL:   None of them have completed the census form, either.
CB:   That's okay. We will find them.
OBL:   There are many of them.
CB:   Sir, we have many census takers, as well. They are like ants at a picnic.
OBL:   Okay, well, I suppose there is nothing more that I can do except wait for one of your census takers to find me.
CB:   That's right, Mr. Laden. Now you have a nice day.
(click)

I bet they use Google, too.

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Car Troubles in the Big D

Kerry Gleason — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 02:55:00 GMT

It was the anniversary of my dad's birthday, April 3. I had a long day at Coors Field, and learned a lot for the week leading up to Opening Day. I walked five blocks to my car, and drove two before the car bucked me like a bronco. Every picture tells a story, don't it?

I missed Sunday's Sunrise Service at Red Rocks. But the irony of breaking down in front of the Samaritan House was grand. Gary, the resident who called a car-smart friend to try to help. The tow truck driver, David, ("Cinco" to his friends), who made me laugh and did a masterful job of loading and unloading my car without causing further damage. The bus driver, who advised me on transfers. And finally, John, the kind customer at a Litteton restaurant who gave me a ride on the final leg of my 6-hour journey home. The repair shop to which I was towed gave me has a business card that reads "Automobile lifesavers" and "Honest, Fair prices." That they are. The back 1/4 of the chassis must be rebuilt. The tab will be less than the 8 bills I paid for a similar repair (other side) in Rochester, but still close to 8 bills. I'm still smiling. It's a small, monetary, price to be paid to mend a life that was broken.

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Kerry and the RTD

Kerry Gleason — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 07:12:00 GMT

So, I'm looking for work, and Coors Field has lots of temporary summer jobs, although I learned "Pitching Coach" isn't one of them. So I did a little Park-and-Ride using Denver's fabulous public transportation system. I carefully checked online for the correct bus to get me near Blake Street and 22nd, and the #12 did the trick. It stopped at Larimer and 18th, about six blocks shy of my goal.

But I forgot to see which bus would get me back. I assumed it was the #12, but did not know where to pick it up. Larimer is a one-way street, so any bus there would be heading the wrong way. I crossed over one more block, where I saw a #9 bus pulled over and parked. The driver opened the door.

"I'm new here," I explained. "I took the #12 bus to get to Coors Field, but can't figure out how to get back. Which bus should I take to get to Downing St. and Exposition?"

"Geez, I'm not sure," the driver said. "I'm new at this and I don't know all the routes. Let me think." He put his head in his hands, like he was contemplating the final-round question on "So you Want to Be a Millionaire." "Wait... I'm drawing a blank. I should know this! Uhn... I was never good at taking tests, and I feel like I'm on the spot. I think it's the six. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's the six."

"Where do I get the six?"

"Get in!" he beckoned. "I'll take you up to Broadway. It's just about five blocks up."

I got on the bus, and he closed the door. There were no other passengers on the bus.

"I didn't realize there was nobody else on the bus." The bus was not in service, yet he was driving me, chauffeuring me, to the bus stop.

Here's where the trip took a turn for the comical.
"They won't fire me for helping a customer, do you think?" And then he confessed to having slammed on the brakes earlier when a car cut him off. It was like Taxi Cab Confessions, reversed. He was contrite. Then, enlightened. He reminded me of actor Judge Reinhold in Beverly Hills Cop, politely absorbing my problem as his own and trying so hard to help.

"It's the ten! You want the number ten." Six of one, ten of the other, I thought. I believed him. We pulled up to Broadway, and before he negotiated the left turn, he asked, "Is that the 10 over there?" I looked and the bus was four blocks up the road.

"I can't possibly read that from here."

"Well if it's not, it will be along soon." He turned the bus and dropped me off, where a dozen or more people waited for their buses. He opened the door, said goodbye and good luck, and shook my hand. It was then that I started thinking he mistook me for Mayor John Hickenlooper. I should have asked the driver his name.

The distant bus drew closer, and it was the #0. Wrong bus, but after the passengers boarded, I asked the driver which bus would get me back to Downing St. He thought about it a moment, and said, "It's either the #6 or the #10... no, it's the 10. There's one coming up behind me in less than a minute."

He was right. The #10 pulled over, and I got on. I forgot to have my $2 ready, and fumbled. After I fed it into the machine, I asked the driver the familiar question, "Is this the bus that goes to Downing Street and Exposition?" He answered with a heavy Eastern European accent. "No, this bus goes to (unintelligible) and (more unintelligible)." For arguments sake, let's say he said "Prague St." and "Krakow Ave."
I could not understand anything he said, except the word, "No." I protested that the other drivers said... "No," he interrupted. "Prague and Krakow." Without looking at me, he ripped off a transfer ticket. "Get off ... Colfax ... #15, I think."

When the bus got to the stop, he motioned to me and I got off. I asked two women if they knew which bus I wanted, and they both said no. The shorter of the two pointed across the street, and told me if I went around the corner, I could ask there. It was the RTD headquarters, and surely somebody would know. Or not.

Just then, another bus pulled up, and I again asked the driver. She said matter-of-factly, "Oh, you want the #10." I turned away, befuddled. She called after me. "Sir, you can get on my bus, I can drop you off at (some street name). You can walk a block and get the #12 that takes you back to Downing street." This bus driver, this Glinda the Good Witch, delivered me as she said she would. While I watched the houses on Downing street pan past the window of the moving bus, I thought of the old Kingston Trio song about Charlie and the M.T.A. Charlie was destined to ride the subway and never return, and now, Boston calls their subway passes a Charlie Card. I would be proud if the RTD began calling their passes the Kerry Card. After all, I am mayor of this town.

Kerry on the RTD
(to the tune of "M.T.A." with apologies to the Kingston Trio)

Let me tell you the story
Of a man named Kerry
On a tragic and fateful day
He put two bucks in his pocket,
Packed his laptop and CV
Went to ride on the RTD

Kerry handed in his fare
At the Wash Park Bus Stop
And arrived at Coors Field just fine
Once there, the conductor told him,
"Here ya go, man,
Come back on the Downing Street line."

Chorus:
                        Did he ever return,
                        No he never returned
                        And his fate is still unlearn'd
                        He may ride forever
                        on the streets of Denver
                        He's the man who never returned.

Now all night long
Kerry rode the buses
Saying, "What will become of me?"
Crying "Larimer's a one-way street,
Where are these darn buses goin'?"
'Til one driver said "Take a seat!"

"I think it's the six
Or maybe the ten
Or the fifteen'll get you back
I'll take you down to Broadway,"
and he hands him a transfer
"I'm new, I hope I don't get sacked."

As buses rolled by
on the streets of Denver
Kerry looked around and sighed:
"Well, I'm lost and disgusted
And I'm absolutely flustered;
This may be my last long ride."

Now you citizens of Denver,
It takes the dang whole village,
to set an idiot free
You can ride to Lakewood,
You can ride to Aurora,
You can ride to the Highlands
But if you ride to near Wash Park,
Get poor Kerry off the RTD!

Chorus:
Or else he'll never return,
No he'll never return
And his fate will be unlearned
He may ride forever
on the streets of Denver
He's the man (Who's da man?)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man (Oh, da man)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man who never returned.

Thanks to all the kind bus drivers with the RTD.
They all went out of their way to be kind and
helpful. I'd like to think they make everybody
feel like the Mayor of Denver.

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The Newspaper Lady of Boulder

Kerry Gleason — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 19:09:00 GMT

(Editors Note: Sometimes, I cry when I write. I admit that. I've learned that the things I write that make me cry are the things that inspire others to feel emotions that drag them from the mundane into my world. I sat in a coffee shop crying as I wrote parts of this. They were not tears of sadness, but tears of celebration. I hope you feel that, too.)

I ventured to Boulder Saturday afternoon to investigate opportunities to set up shop in the greenest city in America for a new "green" industry. I saw the Mork and Mindy House, and parked there, just two blocks from Pearl Street and the row of shops, restaurants and boutiques. Several blocks up, heading toward the beautiful mountains, is the Pearl St. pedestrian mall. I walked its length, stopped for a slice of garlic and pesto pizza because there's a lot of vegetarian offerings in Boulder.

Outside the pizza shop, a man selling newspapers tried to get my attention. I kept walking. I am selective about the strangers I talk with, and selfishly, I really didn't think he had anything to offer me. I began walking back to the car, and at the edge of the pedestrian mall, a lady with a black cowboy hat and a smile turned and looked me in the eye, asking if I wanted to buy a newspaper for a dollar. Before I could process my answer, she added, "I used to be homeless, and if you buy a paper, I get to keep 75 cents of the price."

She stopped me in my tracks. "You used to be homeless?"

"Yes. I used to be out on the street with a cup, and this newspaper has given me a chance to make enough money to get a modest apartment and get off the street." I eagerly bought a paper, but felt compelled to learn her story. She told me about the newspaper, the Denver Voice, which is part of a nationwide program to give the homeless an option other than panhandling to earn a modest living. I asked her name, and took in her countenance, which was friendly, but weathered, with blondish-gray, straight hair spilling from under her black cowboy hat. On the brim of the hat was a colorful little stuffed bear. Raylene wore a white turtleneck sweater and a black vest with blue jeans, not unlike many of the pedestrians shopping in the upscale stores. When she spoke, her teeth were crooked, but after listening for a brief time, I no longer noticed that.

Raylene told me part of her story, leaving out much of the heartache, to be certain. She downplayed much of the hardship while conveying the uncertainties of life on the street, not knowing what fate might bring her way on a daily basis. As she spoke, I did not detect an ounce of bitterness in her voice.

She talked about the other homeless people she would encounter. I was standing with my hands in my pocket, and she reached in and pulled out my hand.

"Feel my hand," she said, giving me no choice in the matter. "Feel how warm my hand is? That's what's kept me alive. Other people don't have that. Some of them died. It gets cold out here."

She said the newspaper contained a story about the biggest problem , that Boulder police would write tickets to homeless people for $100. If they weren't paid, the violators would be jailed at a cost of thousands of dollars to taxpayers. Then the offender would be turned out to the streets again, in a worse position than before. Raylene admitted that she had been jailed. A friend on the streets introduced her to the Denver Voice, and Raylene welcomed the chance to work. Part of the problem being on the street, she said, is wondering who might ever hire you, and for what kind of job.

She said it took awhile, but before long, people got used to seeing her in the same place and would seek her out to buy the paper. She started making money immediately, and the first thing she did, she said, was to pay the $100 ticket.

Then, she saved, and found her modest apartment.

Raylene works six days a week, selling papers on the street. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, in season, she sells at the Farmer's Market a few blocks away, but the other four days, she's at the edge of the Pearl St. Mall. With great pride, she told me that she was asked to write about her story for an upcoming issue of the paper. An editor is working with her, and she knows exactly what she wants to communicate.

I'll tell you what Raylene communicated to me. Hope.
Here is a woman who, for whatever reason, lost every worldly possession she owned and ended up in a terrible predicament. She never lost hope. She never lost her moral compass. She never gave up on herself. I have friends and family who have never come close to seeing what Raylene has seen, and sadly, they have given up on their lives and on themselves.

But there's Raylene, waving to passersby on a February afternoon. She's cheerful. She's polite. She has warm hands. And as we parted, she said, "God bless you. Come back and see me again."

I think I will.

The Denver Voice (www.DenverVoice.org) is a really neat paper, published by a man named Richard Barnes. It is part of a national effort, and is a member of the North American Street Newspaper Association, in conjunction with the Society of Professional Journalists and the Colorado Press Association. You can learn more about the program at www.nasna.org, or contact Executive Director Andy Freeze at andy.freeze@nasna.org.

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Colorado Bound, The Final Travel Day (Feb. 10)

Kerry Gleason — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 15:48:00 GMT

All photos Copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

February 10, 2010

Better late than never. I have been preoccupied wince my arrival in the Denver area, and it's all good. So let me tell you about the last day of travel, from Durango up the Million Dollar Highway, which carried with it all the drama and daring of a Robert Ludlum novel.

See A Map

I packed the car and was ready to leave the Adobe Inn at 7 a.m. but my friend Sharon at the front desk warned me that I better check the website to see if the passes were passible. We had 3" of snow at the hotel, but she told me that could be more than a foot in the higher elevations. It took almost an hour to get connected. The internet said there was some ice and slush at the Molas Pass all the way to Ouray, but the roads were passable. I checked out, and Sharon tried to talk me into staying an extra day. I wished her well and said I'd write something nice on the internet about my stay, and she told me I was a nice young man. Shucks!

And so I drove out Rt. 550 North, retracing my steps from the day before toward Purgatory. I passed the resort and shortly after saw electronic signs telling all truckers that they better have chains on their tires or they'd be tied to a log and sent down the river. Okay, I made up the punishment. But I felt I was at a disadvantage because I didn't have any bling for my tires.

Snow-covered roads heading out of Durango. My interest was peaked by the view.

Few cars ventured on 550 this morning. Average speed was about 25 mph, and occasionally, I was able to zoom at 40. I did drive with the sunroof open.

In that area, elite housing tracts bear names like "Engineer Village" and you see Engineer this and Engineer that. The road climbed skyward on Engineer Mountain, and I saw one sign that fascinated me: "Engineer Mountain, Elevation 12,372 Ft." (Number estimated within 200 ft.) That's more than two miles closer to a manned space flight than I was just a few weeks before in Nebraska. Or one ill-timed flinch, twitch or black ice slide off the road. Usually, I pass out at 12,350 feet, so this was a personal best. While the scenery was stunning, I did not take many photos because I was afraid to take a hand off the wheel or my mind off the driving.

Just when you feel some circulation returning to your hands, the road seemingly disappears around the edge of the mountain, and another sign tells you the road without guardrails is about to narrow.

Okay? By how much?

I imagined a scenario in a log cabin home at the bottom of the mountain, which probably occurs with regularity.

"Maw, Maw -- guess what I found?"
"You didn't find another skunk, did you, Junior?"
"No, Maw. I found a Bonneville nose-down near the side of the cliff! Can I keep 'er, Maw? Can I keep 'er?"
"Did you do your homework?"
"I sure did. Whaddya say, Maw? Can I keep the Bonneville?"
"Well, I don't see any harm as long as you promise two things. You have to bury all the corpses in the spring, and... this is important, you have to promise to change the oil every 3,000 miles."
"Oh, I will, Maw! Thank you! I will!"

A view in the San Juan Mountain Range.

Heart-stopping beauty pervades, and I love the symmetry of this amazing view.

Such were my thoughts as I navigated the Holy Moley Pass along the way to Silverton and Ouray, pronounced Ouray, Ouray, I made it! (It is the Molas Pass, but I like my name better!) At Ouray, I pulled my car off to the left to a scenic overview and to make certain I had not wet myself noticeably. The quaint sign promoted this area as the Switzerland of the U.S. I was a disbeliever. There were no St. Bernard dogs greeting me with little kegs of whiskey, no pigtailed young maidens offering hot cocoa, and not even the slightest whiff of cheese. Just fresh air and a spectacular mountain view. One of my favorite landscape pics from the entire trip was looking down upon a winding road that disappears into the mountains.

Ouray! I made it!

How cool is this photo? If I ever need to shoot a car commercial, here's the money shot!

Ice climbing is big in Ouray.

I got a little more brave, almost to the point of being cocky. See the video

Between Ouray and Ridgway, I saw avalanche warning signs. I worried briefly that my perforated muffler might trigger a landslide, but reasoned that I probably just watched too many cartoons as a child. Within 24 hours, a landslide near Ridgway would claim the life of two skiers, but it was attributed to other skiers. I pulled over because I just had to have a picture of the avalanche sign.

I stopped, I stood, I took the picture.

All good things must come to an end.

Frog Angel loved the San Juan Mountains. He knows St. John personally. Because he didn't see him, FA said the mountains should be renamed the Sans Juan Mountains. Just a little perk from my friends who love wordplay.

The Million Dollar highway took me up to Montrose, which I found to be a very cool town. I stopped there and had a bad Wendy's experience, so I made a lunch stop at a Safeway, and for the second time in three days I enjoyed a Virginia baked ham sandwich with horseradish cheddar cheese and an orange. What did those early settlers do without Safeway?

Back in the car, and on to Gunnison. There, I stopped at a McDonalds for a bathroom break, and to ask directions. Three older gentlemen sat at a booth. One reminded me of Mr. Whipple, the second had a long face and did not speak, and the third was a robust man in a tan cowboy hat, tan shirt and brown pants who looked like he may have broken a few jaws in barrooms back in the day. The men did not mind my interruption. "What's the best way to get to Littleton from here?"
"Take a left out of the parking lot and you'll pick up 285," said the man in the hat.
"How far is it?" I asked.
"244 miles," he replied, without hesitation.I thought he was putting me on.
"You seem pretty certain of that."
"Well, I used to be a trucker, and I would stop at the Conoco Station that you passed exactly a mile up the road, and I would get paid for 245 miles. So, yes, I'm pretty certain of that."
Mr. Whipple said he just drove those roads yesterday, and there was some blowing snow up at Monarch Pass, but that today it would be clear. I could have asked a dozen or more people in that restaurant, but I picked the right three guys.

I longed for some flat terrain, but that was not to be. When I reached Monarch Pass, there was a trace of snow on the ground.

The gift shop and cafe... buried in snow.

The scenery there was beautiful. I passed the entrance to a ski area, and Monarch seemed to be a place I'd love to visit again.

Before I knew it, I hit Poncha Springs, and I turned north on 285. Now that the treacherous mountain roads were behind, I felt giddy from the drive. The view made me smile. Three mountain peaks, broad and brown, with white, snow-covered peaks, perched in the distance against a blue, blue, blue sky. The way the sunlight and shadows played upon the mountains, they looked like American Bald Eagles protecting the land that lay beyond to the West. Here, Frog Angel and I posed for two photos, and then my camera battery died.

Like giant bald eagles, the mountains tower over the flatlands near Buena Vista.

We were near Buena Vista, a fine name. I reflected on this, the 45th day, the final travel day of my journey. Four words came to mind: THIS IS MY AMERICA. I crossed 10 states, five that I had never visited before. I passed birth markers where presidents, athletes and celebrities were born and raised; I passed cemeteries where countless people, no less important, but with names less famous, had been laid to rest. I saw smiling faces, and some without, and I hope I added one, or a few dozen, along the way. Every day, and like this day, sometimes every minute, was a challenge and a mystery. I lived in luxury and I slept in my car. Believe me, waking up to 8 degrees F builds character and a fond appreciation for a hot shower. I asked Divine Providence for a safe journey, and it was granted. All that I saw, all whom I met reaffirmed that THIS IS MY AMERICA.

But the journey has just begun. I have a new life ahead, with more mountains to climb, more sunny days, more adventures to awe and inspire. Maybe an avalanche or two. Note to self, get the muffler fixed. I am here only by the love and support of my friends and those who care about me, no matter how far away you may be. Moving forward, I aim to be worthy.

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Colorado Bound -- Frog Angel Goes to Purgatory

Kerry Gleason — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 17:12:00 GMT

Durango Days
February 8-9, 2010

I was excited to route my trip through Durango. My brother, Mark, lived there years ago and worked at the ski resort bar The Lodge at Purgatory. Quick story which is one of my favorites, and I may have a few details askew. Mark left me in charge of his dog, Gulliver, back in Rochester when he went out to Colorado for a friend's wedding. He decided to stay. I was very happy, because Gulliver was a beautiful, russet-colored mix-breed with features of an Irish setter, a little Golden Retriever and the athleticism of Jim Thorpe. It was fun taking Gulliver over to the Eastridge ballfields and honing his Frisbee-catching skills. The fun ended, and the dog was flown to Colorado. He adjusted well to life at the ski resort. Mark took him into work, and Gulliver was welcomed. As Mark worked the lunch crowd, Gulliver would take off and do his own thing, and then return at the end of the day. What was Gulliver's thing? He used to take the tram up the mountain to the top, where there was another cafe for the hungry skiers. They would order their burgers and sandwiches, get their beverages and chips or whatever and come back to an empty tray. Gulliver had scarfed their burgers from the tables, to the amusement of some, and maybe not so much for others. Gulliver became the Robin Hood of Purgatory Mountain, although he could only give back in garden fertilizer.

I like that story better than many of the great train robbery tales, and I'm sure Durango has a few of those. It's a railroad town, and there is a daily run between Durango and Silverton.

Durango is a quirky little town with something for everybody. Main Street is a pretty happening retail center, with several upscale hotels surrounded by jewelry shops, clothing stores, t-shirt shops, many sporting goods, bike, ski and snowboard shops. There are bones thrown to old hippies in the form of smoke shops, advertising pipes, hookahs and other smoking apparatus. Sprinkled between the banks were antique shops, and at the very end of the street, a classic old movie theater next to the train station. The people were friendly and the old town community seemed devoid of any sense of hustle and bustle.

The Bank of the San Juans -- Morrie and Sheldon San Juan. You definitely know it's a mountain town when the UPS truck has tire chains. On my way out of Durango, all trucks were required to have chains on to go through the mountain passes.

We felt like we were back in NY again!

On Day 2, Frog Angel and I set out for lunch at Purgatory. I heard they had a "bobsled," but a call to the resort revealed it is an Alpine slide that only operates during the summer months. One of my dreams is to fly down a bobsled run. Little did I know that thrill might be reserved for the ride to my new home the next day.

It was quite a bit further than my new friend, Sharon from the Adobe Inn front desk, had indicated. But 550 cut through tall mountain peaks on both sides of the road, and the drive made me a bit giddy for no other reason than the snow-covered mountains. I turned into the wide driveway for the Durango Mountain Resort and plodded up the switchback roads past parking lots A, B, C and D, and all were reserved for Lodge guests. I found a series of cottage rentals, and one that did not have a "Parking by Permit Only" sign. I parked, and it was a short walk to The Lodge.

Frog Angel arrives at Purgatory.

We entered the big main door, and the front desk clerk directed us to the hallway at the left, go up the stairs and take the hallway to the end where you'll see the doors leading outside, and then to your left, you'll see Purgy's, the lodge's bar. Well, we followed the hall to the left and walked the entire length and found no stairs. We doubled back, and no stairs. At the very end, there was an elevator, and so we took that up one level. We were emptied into a hall that promised a Purgy's Restaurant. Instead, all we found was a moderately lit hotel hallway. We walked the hall, finding no restaurant, no signage other than a poster claiming that a Purgy's Restaurant existed, and nothing other than a hallway with many doors, all locked. We walked back, and forth, and found nothing.

It dawned on me that this is indeed what Purgatory must be like. A hotel hallway with many doors, but none that would open. Frog Angel gave me courage that we would escape an eternity of life without a room key. Ten minutes felt like an eternity. Door after door after locked door. A few looked like service closets or hallways, all locked. No stairs. But wait! I did find the fire exit and the concrete stairs leading up or down. I didn't have permission to use that door, but the worst that could happen was I would set off an alarm and get kicked out of Purgatory. I went down, and came out on the original floor. This time, I saw a carpeted staircase, and on the 1-1/2 floor, saw the exit that led to Purgy's. Whew!

FA and I were surprised that the entry to Purgatory was rather understated. At the lodge, the decor was that of stacked logs. Is it possible those logs would be used to stoke the fires of.... naw! Really?!!

A happy Frog Angel, after finding Purgy's Restaurant.

The ski lift takes 'em up...
... and snowboards or skis bring 'em down. Fast!

People in ski boots walk funny. FA and I had a personal pizza, and I sat at a table with a view of the entire dining room so FA could people watch while I wrote a press release for a client. I came to the conclusion I'm not really a ski resort kind of person. This did not seem like the same place that would be tolerant of a red-haired dog swiping sandwiches. Or anyone looking for free parking.

This was the sign a worker was putting out next to my car as I left. Obviously, Purgatory is filled with parking Nazis.

Looking for a honey. The Mountain Honeys sounded like the ticket.
I bought some honey wine (mead) too.

FA perches on top of a giant, non-scary honey bear. FA insisted she was Rosie O'Donnell.

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Sedona to Durango, Day 42

Kerry Gleason — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:59:00 GMT

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

It was a full day of travelingand as usual, featured several highlights along with spectacular visuals. I met some very nice people everywhere I went, including my new friend Leslie in Prescott, all the fine people at the various coffee shops, my Super new friends Pam
and Nicole (Go Saints!) and Norma from Safeway, who watched me working late hours outside the closed Starbucks kiosk, and then told me "You WILL get a Safeway member card. Oooo, that sounded threatening, didn't it?" She saved me some money and I admired how nice she was to all the customers and not just me. Most importantly, I'm appreciative of all of my dear friends and readers who commented, emailed and let me know that my blogs and photos meant more to them than just another travelogue. I'll do a wrap-up blog that might provide some great insights. For today, just spectacular photos from yesterday's travels from Sedona to Durango. Really spectacular!

The view from the Motel 4 outside the Safeway market. It was nice when it snowed.

On this day, God painted the trees and mountains pure white with glistening snow, providing yet another gift of beauty and another glimpse of ways this part of the world can thrill just by being. "To be," just to be in and of this world, is a treasure we often overlook on our daily path keeping schedules and arbitrary business.

Perhaps my favorite landscape photo from the whole trip, purely for the aesthetic value.

Sliprock Creek, Sliprock State Park near Sedona.

The last three pictures came from the Cacaninny National Forest, no, wait -- the Coconino National Forest in Arizona. I'll be criticized for that I'm sure. This trip was about finding laughter and joy, or bringing it.

A little blurry, from the moving car on Rt. 89A North. The sun had just stretched its early morning rays around some heavy clouds, illuminating just the tops of the trees on the mountain, creating a halo effect. It made me smile.

Much of my day was driving through Navajo Indian territory. I captured some neat photos out the car window along Rt. 160 East. One of the billboards touted the "Interactive Navajo Experience" at a museum. I envisioned myself staggering out, three arrows in my back, my hair haphazardly scalped and tomahawks whizzing past my ears. All because I forgot to remove my Cleveland baseball caps with smiling Chief Wahoo from the rear window. I was glad to see the Red Mesa High School emblazoned with its Redskin team name and logo. I think the political correctness people have gone way too far, and many of the sports teams with Indian names are paying tribute, and not denigrating Native Americans and their contribution to history. On the other hand, Chief Wahoo kinda crosses that line, although he's too much a part of history now to ignore he exists.

The weather was funky this day. Snow conflicted with parched desert, sun with clouds, warmth in the lower elevations with chilly cold higher up.

Through the windshield. The rocks look like a throng of people. This is called Baby Rock.

Between Cortez and Durango, this was a beautiful mountain concealed by the clouds. I found a safe road to turn off and got out of the car. I climbed down the roadside, and learned a valuable lesson. The snow at roadside may be 12", but off the road it can be three feet or more. The bunny tracks on top were deceptive.

Next: Durango pics and then a trip wrap-up

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Sedona - The most beautiful place on Earth

Kerry Gleason — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 03:29:00 GMT

Red Rocks, and the Bell Rock at right, reputed to contain a strong vortex surrounding it that gives energy.

Cactus at the Chapel of the Rocks, with the Bell Rock in the background.

Opulence in the shadows of the Chapel of the Rocks. The pools and gardens surrounding this home were spectaculoar, as were the gold encrusted security gates.

Cialis ad? Or a chimney rock near the chapel.

Frog Angel and Kerry agree, cacti are very cool!

Wet t-shirt contest, but "Spring" loves Frog Angel!

A gorgeous, glam chick sips coffee. Oh, is there a view at this Starbucks? Perhaps, but no wifi.

Bell Rock in an approaching storm.

Close up, froma scenic overlook.

What can anyone possibly say? Astonishing!

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Colorado Bound -- Prescott to Sedona, Day 41

Kerry Gleason — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 05:31:00 GMT

(More pictures to come)

Final Days in Prescott

The last few days in Prescott were filled with much work. I did some at a place called The Raven on N. Coretz St. My new friend Leslie has a business right down the road, and she is getting ready for an art opening on Valentine's Day. Friday, I met up with longtime friend and neighbor, Doug Crosby, at the Prescott Brewing Company. The Fish Fry was tasty, but the local porter was outstanding. I was truly flattered that he drove up from Glendale, and I hope he doesn't get fired for me mentioning that we were drinking like fishes at lunch. (A huge exaggeration!) He drove over to meet Cousin Paul and Lois, and on the way back through town, a really sturdy mule deer buck crossed the road in front of us. Impressive. Would've left a mark.

Doug and FA at the Prescott Brewing Co.

I'm with Doug having a very nice visit. It's wild to see somebody from the past so far from home.

My third cousins (?) Kim and Rob gave me a ticket to the Sundogs game, and I'll give an update -- The guy who sang the national anthem was phenomenal! The team wore it's basic black uniforms, which were very classy. They scored in a 6-on-3 situation with :24 left to tie the game, but lost 6-5 in overtime. The Sundogs' goalie dove to make a poke check on and attacking player, and the puck cleared the zone. The goalie was called for delay of game. Huh? As I see it, the biggest difference in the levels of play in the CHL, AHL and NHL are the refs.

Better Uniforms than the stripees!

The National Anthem was very patriotic.

This morning, Some guys were up the hill measuring to put in a new driveway, and they opened the gate to the pigpen. Lois is on "Pig Duty" for the four pigs while the neighbor is away, but she was had her hands full, so I ran upto tell them there were pigs there and don't let any of them out or we'd have to play Pig Round-up. They knew about the pigs and were good about it. I emphasized that they better not let any pigs out, because there were five in there this morning and there better be five when they leave. I sure hope they have a sense of humor.

Today, I said goodbye to Paul and Lois. I don't think I've every met anyone that would invite me into their home as they did. So as I begin this new chapter of my life, I am fully aware it would not have happened without them. It was amazing to meet our Western family. I'm glad that everybody is healthy, and also that Paul was able to locate and repair a leaky pipe to the cabin.

Super Bowl

Frog Angel's prediction: The Saints. Who else -- he's an angel. He says the final score will be 153-0. I asked him how he could predict such a score, and he replied that it's 22 TDs, and then the kicker was too tired make the extra point.

Kerry's Prediction: New Orleans 33, Indianapolis 23.

Prescott to Sedona -- The Mingus Mountains

I hit the road about noon to make the drive to Sedona, which is about 60 miles. I drove along 89A through the Mingus Mountains, or as we would say in Irondequoit, the Mingya Mountains! You climb and descend to an elevation fo 6,000 ft. along switchbacks and curling roads. It was more exciting at night. But the daytime scenic beauty is a major attraction, too, and you realize that much of the narrow, 2-lane road has no guardrail. The route passes through Jerome, an old copper-mining town built into the cliffsides. I was intrigued that, instead of a stop sign, they have a big ol' convex mirror. I stopped to take a few pictures because I didn't want to be the idiot who drove off the side of the mountain, and met an old fellow from Wisconsin. Nice man, belly like a cheese wheel.
The colors in the mountains were phenomenal!

The Sedona Vortexes
I checked -- Vortexes is correct, not Vortices. I found 2 of the 4 and I think I was at a third. I'll have to check the map. Zeke, are you paying attention?! I ventured up Airport Road to... the scenic overlook... and got some great landscape pics of chimney mountains and the red rock canyon. Talked with four women from Utah, and contemplated standing behind couples and groups as they took their photos so they could wonder, "Who's that guy, and why does he have a frog?" I continued up the hill to "America's Most Scenic Airport." I got to see a few small planes take off, and a helicopter. Very cool.

Helicopter makes a banked turn during take-off. So neat to watch, and I can only imagine what it would be like to arrive via helicopter!

The red prop plane takes off. I was amidst more than a half-dozen other spectators. At the airport restaurant, I overheard a woman saying she was there for the fried cactus. I'll have to try that!

Coming down the hill, I stopped at a little parling lot, big enough for about 9 cars. I made my own space, knowing that Frog Angels merit special parking privileges. I arrived at the same time as four very fun travelers from Oregon who instantly became curious about Frog Angel. FA insisted that they take photos with him/her/it, and he developed a special alliance with Mel.

There, we climbed and hiked a treacherous trail on crumbling rock, and at one point, I fell to my death, straingt down the precipice.

From there, we did some sightseeing, and FA was inexplicably missing outside the Javelina Cantina. I panicked. Then, I saw a little boy pointing, and it became clear that FA had made uet another friend.

Further down the road, I decided we may have gone too far down the road to find the purported Starbucks. I decided to turn at the next intersection. It was Chapel Road, and the view was spectacular, so I drove down and parked. We were outside the Church of the Sacred Heart, known as the Chapel of the Rocks. Absolutely, inequivocably breathtaking! The rain started falling, and FA urged me to go up to the Chapel to see it. I knelt at one of the wooden benches to pray, and felt tears coming down my cheeks, for the beauty of it all.

The Land of $13 Hamburgers

Dinner was a tough choice. My criteria was cheap eats and a good beer. I went to 5 restaurants, all vastly overpriced for my budget. Finally, I couldn't take it any more and stopped at The Old Sedona Bar and Grill, which I was told is the most reasonable restaurant in town. Burgers were only $11 there, and I had one with their award-winning Chili. My memories and mental images of Sedona will last a lifetime. Dinner probably won't stay with me the hour. No, it was good. And I had fun with the barkeep, Veronica. Met a very nice couple there from Phoenix.

I found 2 Starbucks in Sedona. One closed at 7 p.m. and the other, in a Safeway, closed at 8. I'm sitting in the grocery store now, sans coffee, and blogging. Consolation, they're playing good music. Right now, World Party's "Ship of Fools," preceded by some pleasing 80's alternative. Yeah, in a supermarket! Behind me, one of the Sedona spiritual merchants is discussing religion with two strangers. The conversation has devolved into how many tricks his dog knows. People keep trying to buy lotto tickets out of the machine, but they stop selling those at 8 p.m. too. Knowing this, if I had been on the ball, I would have bought a supply and scalped them for after-hours prices. I could've made enough to buy a hamburger.

Update: The Starbucks next to the Hyatt didn't even have wi-fi. There was a very nice customer, Nicole, who gave me some inside info on where the "locals" go. In Oak Creek, I found the Red Rock Cafe, which has wi-fi, a view, and really nice peeps working here!

All photos Copyright Kerry Gleason 2010

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Hogs and Frogs

Kerry Gleason — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 03:47:00 GMT

Some people, like my friend Julie and her daughter, Heather, rescue kittens and cats. I used to belong to the Seneca Siberian Husky Club, which rescued Huskies, and other people I know belong to organizations that save streams for fishing and protect other forms of wildlife. Cousin Paul and Lois have a neighbor just up the hill, Don, who has done an admirable thing. He rescues potbelly pigs.

He's got four: Bart, Lisa, Ethel and Elmer. In my cousins' home, conservation is key and very little goes to waste. To their credit, they set aside nearly everything that might otherwise go into the garbage disposal, or fruit that is over ripe, and it gets saved for the pigs. I've christened the container next to the sink "the pig bucket." It contains orange peels, bread heels, onion ends and other delicacies. Lois and Paul deliver at no charge, and if the hungry swine don't see them approaching, they simply holler, "Here, pig, pig piggy!" Often, the pigs trek from their shelter to the fence single-file, like school kids from Mr. Werner's fifth-grade class leaving for a field trip.

Lois dispenses the foodstuffs equally to the appreciative pigs. Paul, on the other hand, enjoys taunting Ethel, or even chasing her, explaining that she has a mean streak. It's hysterical to watch. I will vouch for one thing: if anyone tells you that you eat like a pig, it is quite an insult.

Frog Angel paid a visit, and opted to stay on the safe side of the fence.

Frog Angel, meet Lisa. Lisa, meet Frog Angel. Lisa, I said "meet," not "eat."
Lisa is a doll, and very friendly.

See the video

Here, pig, pig, piggy!

Last Saturday, I was invited to see the Arizona Sundogs play at Tim's Toyota Center with Kim and Rob. The CHL team, a level below the AHL, plays an exciting brand of hockey, and their comeback bid fell short as they lost 5-4.

An Arizona Sundogs' player can't fight off a smile during the National Anthem, sung by 12-year-old Frances Off-Key.

A rarity. Four Sundogs in the penalty box at the same time. The Odessa Jackalopes scored twice after three minor penalties and a major misconduct for wearing these hideous uniforms. The Sundogs usually wear very classy sweaters in red or black, or white on the road. These convict-style jerseys are the first I've seen that are worse than the Rochester Amerks' jailbreak stripe jerseys. Note the flags on the shoulders. Some players had two of the same, others had a different flag on each shoulder. I thought it was perhaps a promotion for one of the gas stations: Match the player's number to the flags on your card, and Win! No purchase necessary. But no. The flags denote citizenship, and the players with two different ones have dual citizenship. Kinda cool. I missed the first goal asking about that.

(But you gotta admit, that would be a neat promotion for a gas station, too!)

A few random photos.

Car Crash

This undetermined year and model pedal-car was involved in a storm-related one-car crash outside the home of Paul and Lois Janowski on Jan. 22. The young boy who usually drives the vehicle was safe in his home, and no insurance claim was filed.

Bird tracks in a dusting of snow last week.

Look, Ma! I made a snow angel!

The rare southwestern tree frog in it's natural habitat.

Yours truly... truly appreciative of the hospitality shown by my cousins and our Western family . Happy to report that no young whippersnappers called me "grandpa" this week.

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010.

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Understanding Haiti

Kerry Gleason — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 13:55:00 GMT

This blog is a departure from the hijinks of my travels, but is important in light of the earthquake in Haiti.

The 1893 World Columbian Exposition celebrated the 400^th anniversary of Columbus discovering the New World. Chicago was selected as its host city, and on a sweltering August night, Frederick Douglass delivered a rousing oration at the Quinn Chapel. This scene which is depicted in my screenplay,NORTH STAR: THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS. Earlier, on January 2of that year, the 75-year-old Douglass spoke at Quinn Chapel about a different topic: Haiti.

Douglass was the first African-American to become ambassador to a foreign nation. He became ambassador to Haiti. He visited there, meeting its people and its leaders, making unabashed observations about the island nation. In his Chicago speech, he eloquently described the riches and the shortcomings of Haiti. More than 117 years later, many of his observations still ring true.

Of Haiti, he said;

"NO OTHER LAND HAS BRIGHTER SKIES. No other land has purer water, richer soil, or a more happily diversified climate. She has all the natural conditions essential to a noble, prosperous and happy country. [Applause.] Yet, there she is, torn and rent by revolutions, by clamorous factions and anarchies; floundering her life away from year in a laby rinth of social misery. Every little while we find her convulsed by civil war, engaged in the terrible work of death; frantically shedding her own blood and driving her best mental material into hopeless exile. Port au Prince, a city of sixty thousand souls, and capable of being made one of the healthiest, happiest and one of the most beautiful cities of the West Indies, has been destroyed by fire once in each twenty-five years of its history. The explanation is this: Haiti is a country of revolutions. They break forth without warning and without excuse. The town may stand at sunset and vanish in the morning. Splendid ruins, once the homes of the rich, meet us on every street."

As we try to understand the depth of destruction wrought upon Haiti in the recent earthquake and subsequent aftershocks, and as we try to administer aid and healing to its people, let's look back on the words of Frederick Douglass. Please read:

FREDERICK DOUGLASS ON HAITI

From Sunshine to Snowflakes

Kerry Gleason — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 01:00:00 GMT

Prescott to Goodyear

We made the journey from Prescott southtoward Phoenix to visit my cousins in Goodyear, Arizona. The day wasbeautiful. The further south we pressed, we began to see saguarocactus and then more. Some grew to 25 or 30 feet tall. They are theicon of the wild west, and Wile E. Coyote. The land was parched, andI made note that out here, Arizonians take liberties with thelanguage, calling things “rivers” that have no water. How darethey. Five days later, those gullies would become dangerous rapidsas rainwaters raced down mountains washing anything in their path,including stupid people.

But on this day, the modest cloudspainted the blue sky and temperatures climbed into the high 60s. Thefamily gathering was exciting, but brief. Sara and Cory have twoadorable kids, Max and Addison. I have a new appreciation for myWestern family.

Gratuitous plug for Cabela's to sponsor a Frog Angel cross-country tour.

On the way home, we made a few stops, just for fun. We visited Cabela's, an outdoor store. My familiarity withCabela's comes from the Iditarod, because they sponsor the websitewith race results. What we found was a very frog-friendlyatmosphere. Frog Angel approved heartily, and really made his firstappearance in what FA calls “Angelzona.” FA's excitement atCabela's skyrocketed when we entered and saw “The Fly Store.” Frog Angel was in heaven. Again.

The legendary Frog Angel was looking for the all you can eat buffet, but there was none.

Cabela's features all kinds oftaxidermied wildlife. It's outdoor clothes and gear are top of theline, but I wasn't really there for shopping, just photo-opping! Cousin Paul helped with some of the pictures. FA got my attention topoint out a line of clothing that made us both laugh – Frog-Toggs!

Froggtoggs... wings sold separately.

Regal beasts.

Frog Angel says the polar bear needed an attitude adjustment.

Then, it was off to Trader Joe's. Butwe couldn't find it in the maze of retail stores on Bell Road nearGlendale. I stopped a couple who looked it up on their iphone,called the store, and directed us – we were only off by one trafficlight. They kindly posed with FA.

FA making friends wherever it goes.

Trader Joe's has awesome merchandise. We were in search of these dried, candied ginger pieces that are outof this world, but, well, they are out of this world because youcan't get them anymore at Trader Joes. While Paul scarfed samples,Lois stocked up on some of their favorite items. I found a packageof dark chocolate-covered ginger. Wow! Is it ever good!

A Smart & Final store, or, as Cousin Paul calls it, "Fart & Smile."
Gratuitous plug for Smart & Final to sponsor... Oh, forget it.

We made it back to Prescott in time towatch “24.” Cousin Lois is a fanatic, and even though I skippedout on last season, I'm an avowed Jack Bauer freak. A word ofadvice: don't visit the Internet Movie Database online, because itlists how many episodes the characters will last. They might as welllabel that page Buzzkill.com.

The Snows of Arizona

Snow fell in the higher altitudesWednesday, and the road was glazed with ice. This was enough forCousin Paul to break out the antique Flexible Flyer and the raccoontail hat. The giant snowflakes made the news in Phoenix.

This is my favorite picture of all, so far.

The next day, the trees bent beneaththe weight of the snow that fell gently. Cousin Paul broke out theplastic toboggan, carfully waxing it before heading to the street. Neighbors come out to watch him, which Cousin Lois says onlyencourages him. Don, the neighbor up the hill, came out with hisfour dogs, who chased Paul down the hill, barking and jumping on himwhen he coasted to a stop. This time, I joined him and rode the sleddown the street. The walk back up the quarter-mile track was brutal. The snow turned to rain, and Paul's creekbed and dam system heldthe water better than any Fox News story.

Next: Fox News stories, and myconversion.

Prescott Snow Day, Jan. 21, 2010

Kerry Gleason — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 02:25:00 GMT

All photos copyright Kerry Gleason 2010.

Some photos for your enjoyment. For thos who have inquired, I'm shooting these photos and videos with my Magic Camera. That's what my friend Angela calls it, anyway. It's a Sony H10, 8.1 megapixel. And I'm getting pretty good at the one-handed self portraits!

Me, wearing the cool outback hat Paul gave to me. Came in handy later when the snow turned to rain. The day before, I wore my Rochester Red Wings hat into Prescott, and met a guy whose grandfather lived in Rochester.

Cousin Paul, being mischievous.

Tobogganing down the street. I told Paul he couldn't keep it straight because he didn't know how to lean to the left.

Beautiful morning.

Magnolia didn't seem to mind the world of white. Her legs are too short for the real deep stuff, though. I love the depth of field in this picture.

January 19 -- Cousin Paul races downhill on the iced-over street aboard his Flexible Flyer. Note the raccoon tail hat. The next day, a hawk flew into the window. I'm guessing the hawk was after the hat!

Colorado Bound -- In and Around Prescott

Kerry Gleason — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 02:50:00 GMT

In and Around Prescott

Celebrating two weeks in Prescott, AZ. Every day has been a gift. They always are, but these more than usual. Each day, I've seen new things, and learned something new about the area and its people. Some interesting blogs will follow as I find the time.

As I write this, a wet snow is falling here in the mountains. A storm is approaching. On the mountainside at 5400 feet, we are on the edge of where the rain might turn to snow during the day, but it will certainly freeze at night. The steeply sloped roads may allow a careful traveler to escape down the mountain, but might not allow them to come back up. We will see, and err on the side of caution.

I continue to enjoy the spectacular sunrises and sunsets. Sunrise on Saturday painted the entire sky.

God's paintbrush. This was part of the sunset on Friday night, looking southwest toward Thumb Butte.

Prescott's huge natural landmark is Thumb Butte Mountain. A view down Gurley St. is historic. Prescott's Square is equally notable, with its equestrian cowboy scuptures and one of the bordering sides known as Whiskey Row. Gin joints side to side, and you can almost hear some poor hombre on the losing side of an argument crashing through a plate glass window.

Part of Whiskey Row. There are enough bars to play Whiskey Tic-Tac-Toe.

Clearly, I do not have power over the sun and sky, but look at how the blue sky mirrors the shape of Thumb Butte Mountain.

The block is filled in with boutique shops and galleries. That's where I spotted Van Gogh's Ear. Those of you who know me may have noticed I have an unusual fascination with Van Gogh, the insane genius, and his ear, which he lopped off after an argument with another artist, then carefully wrapped it in cloth and a box, and presented it to one of the working girls at a bordello. She screamed, then fainted, upon opening it. Van Gogh went home to sleep, and nearly bled to death. It was one of the most personal gifts in history. I truly love impromptu picnics, visits and romantic liaisons, but a serendipitous gift-giving occasion with a prostitute is truly special. In any event, I love the sign.

My favorite sign of all time!

In the square is a tribute to the cowboy ranchers who were trampled by their own horses.

The horse's right leg has crushed this rancher, and the brave fella ain't even lettin' on that he's in pain.

Prescott's municipal building has a statue of a cowboy breaking a bucking bronco. It's appropriate for most city government's. Harry Truman said, "The buck stops here." Municipal leaders today say, "Oh, no, it doesn't!"

After leaving the city building, I walked back toward the library where my car was parked. Three young girls about 12-13 walked toward me on the sidewalk, one riding piggyback. She was the one who acknowledged me, saying, "Hi, Grandpa!" and all three giggled. I roared in laughter all the way back to the car, where I immediately checked my appearance in a mirror, worried that maybe the continual sun (or too many trips around it) was making the gray hairs more plentiful. I concluded that the unmannered girl's mother was a child bride, and that her youthful grandfather was strong and handsome, and easily confused with me.

Chaparral Biome
I found the term "Chaparral Biome," which refers to the dry climate and vegetation of the region. If you love green grass, then stay up north. Here in Arizona, water is expensive and heat is plentiful. I am told that golf courses here use gray water or recycled water. This time of year, green grass is hard to find. But Prescott has several lakes, and Cousin Lois took me to Lynx Lake, a small one with restrictions preventing gas-powered crafts. It's pristine and beautiful. Nearby, there is a nature center, with an amazing sculpture. It features a globe playfully surrounded by a manzanita tree, and each compass point is adorned with a critter representing Earth, wind, water and fire: The badger, the raven, the horned lizard and the endangered chub, a fish. How ironic. One kind of chub is endangered by the proliferating chubs who can't stop eating the damn things.

A Frog Angel imposter, perhaps?

A very cool statue at the Highland Nature Center. In the background, Cousin Lois exits the Nature Calling Center.

Frog Angel, who now has its own Facebook fan page, has been my trusty companion in most of my adventures. He has yukked it up with a variety of animals, including horses and various wild, ferocious beasts, including the fang-toothed, Western Schnauzer puppies. I interviewed Frog Angel after his encounter at the horse barn down the road.

KG: So, FA, you had your first encounter with a horse!
FA: Yep. Uh-huh.
KG: And how was that?
FA: She told you if you wanted a two-fer that you'd have to pay extra.
KG: I said HORSE.
FA: And I said, "cheapskate!"
KG: Stop it! Tell me what you thought of the ponies.
FA: Oh, Them. They were nice. Except the one must've thought I was a green apple. He tried to eat me.
KG: He did not.
FA: Did too! I felt the warm, barley-scented death breath on my head, and moist nose hairs brushing up against my wings.
KG: If he had eaten you, it probably would have hurt him more than it hurt you.
FA: Ya got that straight.

Careful how you say it -- a horse's affection.

Schnauzer puppy slips FA the tongue.

Next: FA avoids poachers at Cabella's. And does size really matter?

"Hey, man! Where's my book? I had a book in my hand a minute ago. Darn it all!"

Prescott AZ Photo Caption Contest

Kerry Gleason — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 07:07:00 GMT

PRESCOTT, AZ (Jan. 17) - Forecast is for rain and snow throughout this week. I'm told that our place sometimes loses electricity in storms, and internet connection. The hilly roads in and out are impassible, unless you have chains on your tires. If you don't hear from me for days, that is why. Use the Arizona land line phone if you wish to call me, if I've given that to you.

More fun and hijinks soon!

What's the Best Photo Caption?

A). Two horse's asses in one photo! Way to go!

. Beef-A-Reno !!

C). Write your own as a comment and I'll post them!

Prescott AZ photos Vol. 1

Kerry Gleason — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 21:51:00 GMT

A Norman Rockwell moment!
Magnolia seems pretty certain that the turkey is for her!

This is one of my favorite photos ever.

I guess this makes me the Lone Ranger. At the most, this intersection sees a dozen cars all day.

High desert sunrise, Jan. 10, 2010.

High desert sunset, Jan. 8, 2010. The one the following night was the most spectacular I ever saw, but I was hiking without my camera.

My cousin, Paul Janowski, hiking uphill. Yes, part of the trail is snow covered. More snow predicted later this week.

Cactus at the start of our hike.

New growth on a spiky cactus.

Looks like aloe, but it's different. a "century tree" sprouts from these every so many years and grows to 6-8 feet tall.

Cousin Paul checks the GPS at the highest point -- 5,836 feet!

The Arizona climate is agreeing with me. A little bit of sunburn to take away the pasty white New York State complexion!

The Alligator Juniper tree has a unique bark, but hardly any bite. Take note: More wrinkles than the previous photo.

I can see Flagstaff from here! That's about 80 miles away, as the crow flies Northeast.

I'm fascinated by the rocks. Here's one with lichen.

Paul and me. He's one of the kindest people I've ever met, and I'm proud to be a relative! He still ahs most of his hair, too!

And where was Frog Angel in all of this? FA is making new friends, too!

Frog Angel entertains Magnolia.

Colorado Bound -- Day 12+ in Prescott

Kerry Gleason — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 22:26:00 GMT

Day 12 in Prescott

I have yet to see much of Prescott. There is so much to do and see on my cousin's parcel that I've barely ventured off. But I did find Starbucks. Thursday was a work day, my first real back-to-work day since my departure Dec. 27.

The Starbucks is located in a plaza set against the backdrop of the Granite Dells, which are gorgeous natural rock formations. I am told the Dells make a ring around one of the two lakes in Prescott.

I've begun networking here in Prescott, and will find temporary work or PR consulting in no time. I'm confident, and today's daily news brings an opportunity.

So I pull into the Starbucks parking lot, and the car next to me has cheated over the line and I'm forced to park a little close. I take Frog Angel out for some air, and a white-haired man and his wife come to their mini-van. "Have you got enough room?" I ask him.

"Plenty," he says, a New England accent betraying him. "I was just looking to see if you got any dirt on my car. Holy cow, you look like you drove through the desert."

"Desert, snowstorms... I just drove all the way from New York."

"Well, you better wash your cah," the man said, reminding me of actor and 60's game show panelist Orson Bean.

"I'm doing that today."

"Ah! That's what you said four weeks ago. I know your type."

With that, he got in his van and pulled away, leaving me chuckling.

Frog Angel Outside of Starbucks.

Can you spot the Celestial Swamp blend?

Starbucks' Erin loves frogs, and is a new Frog Angel fan!

Erin's Celtic Frog tattoo!

I am fully connected with internet now, thank's to Paul and Lois' son in law. Today will be another workday. But first, I have to get to that car.

***
Today

I found the Post Office and made the counter guy break some rules. I'm getting good at that. Cousin Paul and I washed two cars and a truck this morning, and now I have some writing and web design to do. I'm thinking my Mountain time routine might have to feature second shift work and reserve first shift for my phone calls and personal writing, until I get acclimated. A major business development came through last night. It's exciting!

The road dirt and salt from 10 states has been cleaned off. Frog Angel likes a nicely polished car. So clean, it can see itself!

I drove with the AC on. The car was hot. I know you folks back east don't want to hear that, so I'll probably cut back on the blogs for awhile. I have a few interesting notes that I haven't posted yet, and will do so quietly.

I canceled my utilities in Rochester, and it felt good.

To Julie

Email me: kerry@gleasonpr.com
Phone me -- the Rochester Number works, and I'll call back on a land line.