Month: January 2023

It seems like every day or so I read that “everyone” is leaving California for other locations within the United States.

This is something that seems to excite Fox News’ talking heads a lot, inferring that the exodus is politics-driven, a statement against liberalism, minorities, taxes, etc.

One statistic that I saw indicated that 500,000 residents of California have fled the state in the past couple of years. That seems like a lot of people (Wyoming only has 580,000 residents), however it is only 1.25 percent of California’s total population. So, it is a gross exaggeration to say that Californians are exiting the state en masse.

Californian cities are getting crowded, that’s for sure, and that drives up the cost of housing, creates more traffic and smog, and results in more homelessness and crime. Nobody wants that, even Democrats. However, most Californians stay put for the good paying jobs, the wonderful weather, good schools, and lots of things to do: quality of life is good, even for the poor folks who have to live on the street.

Charlie and I lived in California for almost all our lives and enjoyed our time there.

We live in Mesquite, Nevada now, relocating out of California when it made more sense economically to do so. I’m retired, and my P.E.R.S. pension nets me about $500 per month more because Nevada doesn’t have a state income tax. Five hundred bucks isn’t movie star money, but it buys a lot of groceries. We also live in an H.O.A. which costs us $151 per month, which is in stark contrast to the $650 that we were paying in Bear Creek (Murrieta, California). That’s another $500 per month savings. We also live in a one-story 2,500 s.f. home that would cost us $1 million in California: we’re in it for about $450,000 here in Sun City Mesquite.

Those are the kind of numbers that convince retirees to exit California, even though they might love the place. There are a lot of California ex-pats in Nevada, all of them (like us!) missing that Golden State  weather, particularly from June through September when the overnight low here in Mesquite is about 80 degrees and one could fry an egg on the sidewalk at noon.

We solve that specific problem by heading to the Oregon coast in our motorhome during the period. We can afford to do that because of all the money that we saved by relocating to Nevada.

Lots of people are leaving urban areas and relocating to southern states like Texas, Georgia, and Florida. Personally, I like Texas and could probably live there: Austin might be nice. But, as a California native, used to outstanding weather year-round, it would be very difficult to live in Georgia or Florida what with the oppressive humidity, airborne insects, and the threat of hurricanes and tropical storms. Texas has its dust storms and tornadoes.

And then there is the political atmosphere.

I’m sure that most folks living in the South are good people at heart but, sonofagun, they keep electing wingnuts who want to impose their own religious beliefs, racist attitudes, and anti-democratic concepts on the rest of the country… which is not that conservative. The average Southerner is probably a decent, kind, witty and considerate person, exuding that stuff called “southern charm”. But that bonhomie seems to evaporate when the individual steps into a voting booth.

I would have a problem living in a community where the police feel that they are entitled to dispense on-the-spot justice to alleged law breakers and minority citizens whose only “crime” is that they are a minority. This kind of thing goes on, week after week, down South and makes me wonder why it is tolerated in these family-friendly communities populated by “good folk”. The Civil War ended in 1865 and Jim Crow was outlawed almost 60 years ago, for God sakes: why can’t Southerners just let it go?

They have let it go, in a way, since intercollegiate sports became integrated nationally. College football, and basketball to a lesser degree, are sources of community pride and identity in the South. Most of the outstanding football and basketball athletes attending Southern universities are African-Americans who are revered on Game Day. However, outside of the stadium or arena, these “heroes” become targets of racist law enforcement practices. “Thank you for your service, Son, but I’m ticketing you for Driving While Black.”

As a non-religious fellow, I would probably feel unwelcome in the southern Bible Belt, where preachers rail against abortion, homosexuality, women in power, public education, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Democrats, pointy-headed intellectuals and atheists.

As an occasional drinker, I would not appreciate the “wet” vs. “dry” counties, another legacy of Southern Baptist political power.

Here in sinful Nevada, mind-altering things like alcoholic drinks and marijuana are readily available. As a matter of fact, in Mesquite we have a huge “discount” liquor store and the largest marijuana dispensary that I’ve ever seen. These facilities are well-known to supposed teetotaling Mormons from Utah, who drive the 45-miles south from St. George each weekend to jam these businesses and cart off large quantities of hooch and ganja. (I can’t blame them, though: if I had to “live” Mormon, I would sneak a drink or two when my three wives weren’t looking.)

Hypocrisy is distasteful to me and probably the main reason that I gave up religion after being “born again” in 1963. Too many people who shout the loudest Hallelujahs revert to their sinful ways once they exit the church on Sunday… and then, blame the Devil for corrupting themselves.

Everyone fleeing urban areas to resettle in the South will soon come to realize that this bastion of so-called “family values” and population of “God-fearing” people experiences just as much hateful behavior, infidelity, incest, rape, unscrupulous business practices, and general criminal behavior as the city or region that they are leaving.

Human beings are human beings, no matter where they reside, and the vast majority are good people.

I am pretty sure that most of the relocation being done in America is economics-driven. Our economy is in a down-cycle, companies are laying folks off, and inflation is more and more dictating what people can afford or must give up. Cost of living decreases as soon as one crosses the California state line, so it’s natural that lots of struggling families are going to head east.

After the recession that we are currently experiencing, I expect that people will resume migrating to California for the jobs, the good wages, the good schools, the good weather, and the myriad things to do.

It’s not an accident why one of every eight Americans lives in the Golden State.

I used to golf a lot.

I was a member of a “men’s club” at a course back in the 70’s and 80’s, came in second in the Riverside County Amateur (4^th flight) in 1981, and taught my four boys how to golf in the mid- to -late 80’s (son Jeff became Number 1 on his high school golf team). We moved to Jack Nicklaus’ Bear Creek County Club in 1988, became members of the country club, won the 4^th Flight club championship in 1990, took lessons and got my handicap down to a six, played team golf, and was Runner-up in the 1st Flight club championship in 2002.

So, I know a bit about competitive golf at the amateur level and how anal serious competitors are about rules, procedures, and the concept of eliminating any sort of competitive advantage in legitimate golf tournaments. Handicap “manipulators” and rules cheats are looked upon as vermin by competitive golfers, and only serious golfers compete in club championships where the Rules of Golf are adhered to… to the letter.

Having said all of this, one can imagine my surprise upon hearing that ex-President Donald Trump “won” the Senior club championship at his golf course recently… while only competing against the field for one day of the two-day tournament.

How can this happen, you might ask? Mr. Trump was out-of-town for day one of the two-day tournament, so he simply turned in a score that he had allegedly shot earlier in the week while playing with friends… out of sight of the club championship competitors.

How could this be allowed, you ask? Trump owns the private golf course (Trump International Golf Club) so he apparently makes his own rules, including posting a private round that gave him a five-stroke lead before he actually teed it up against the competition.

It sounds like something a tin pot dictator would do. I recall, back in the day, Chairman Mao Tse Tung bragged about swimming several hundred miles down the Yangtse River in China, establishing some sort of Guinness world record. The guy was a ruthless Communist dictator… who would dare challenge his “achievement”?

The bigger question is why anyone would want to cheat to win an award, set a record, or achieve bragging rights… what is really accomplished other than revealing to real competitors what an unabashed slimeball you are. Trump’s prowess as a golf cheat was even detailed some years back in Rick Reilly’s book, “Commander in Cheat”.

Let’s face it, only a sick ass narcissist would be proud of a “club championship” title that he didn’t earn. Predictably, right after the non-competitive competition, Trump went on social media to brag about his victory and claim that it was a reflection of his excellent health and physical stamina.

Don’t make me laugh: the guy is obese. More importantly, I think, is who were these strawmen golfers who agreed to be foils for Mr. Trump using his special rules? Were they really serious golfers or M.A.G.A. lackeys seeking The Boss’ approval?

Not a very proud moment for these supposed “competitors”. They gave their opponent the equivalent of a 250-mile head start in the Indianapolis 500. With his special rules in place, it would have been amazing if Trump wouldn’t have prevailed.

Of course, Trump is the same deranged loser who claimed that he won the 2020 Presidential election when, in fact, he lost the contest by 7 million votes. If he cannot win a contest, he simply claims that it was “rigged”.

Recall that the Cheater-in-Chief tried to change the rules after that contest (i.e. the January 6^th, 2021 Capitol Riot) but couldn’t get a court in the land to go along with his shameless coup.

If Americans have learned anything about this scumbag in the past thirty years it is that he believes that the rules that everyone else lives by are not applicable to him. Taxes, laws, precedents, Presidential protocol, telling the truth, golf rules… these are for the regular schmucks, not for Donald Trump.

This is the same guy who, as a young man, bailed on the military draft by getting his family doctor to claim that he had “bone spurs” in his feet. Of course, those painful spurs didn’t keep him from playing tennis and golf and “kicking” a real military hero like Senator John McCain.

I wonder if any one of the “losers” in the Senior Club Championship had the temerity to claim that the competition was “rigged”?

Because if Donald Trump hates anything, it’s rigging… unless he is the one doing it.

My best friend Lloyd and his girlfriend Juanita are going to be heading off to South Africa (her home country) to live this Spring. Actually, Juanita’s visa runs out in a few months, she will return home to Johannesburg, and Lloyd will follow in June when his lease expires.

They will be missed.

We socialize a lot with these two: I hike regularly with both of them and we have a home-and-home dinner/card game every couple of weeks. On one of those occasions, I found out that both Lloyd and Juanita had never visited Zion National Park, one of America’s coolest parks that is only a 90-minute drive from Mesquite. So, we decided to take a day trip up to Zion in January when the leaves are off the trees, snow is on the ground, and tourists are almost totally absent.

The four of us drove up yesterday. Lloyd was surprised that the park was “so close” and an easy drive, as well. After passing St. George, Utah by a couple of miles, the driver takes a right turn off of I-15, drives through Hurricane, and then takes a leisurely drive about 20 miles up to the Springdale entrance.

There was plenty of snow blanketing Pine Mountain as we drove through St. George.

In the off-season, the trams are not running in Zion and private automobiles are allowed to drive on all the roads. Initially, we drove the main loop road all the way back to the Temple of Sinawava, which is the jumping off point for The Narrows hike.

The outside temperature back there was 32 degrees in the sun and about ten degrees cooler in the shade. We were going to walk the mile down to the entrance to The Narrows but it was too damn cold. We settled instead for a few photos and observation of some browsing deer.

One thing that I will say about visiting Zion, which is my favorite national park, in the Wintertime: there are no crowds (great!), the snow is pretty against the reddish-orange cliffs, but the lack of greenery (the leaves have all fallen!) takes away about half the magnificence of this special place. I felt bad that Lloyd and Juanita saw it this way, even though it is still beautiful.

I pointed out some of the places that I’ve hiked in Zion, including Angels’ Landing and Observation Point. We couldn’t get close enough to The Narrows to appreciate that world famous slot canyon, but I think they could imagine its glory from the sheer cliffs at the Temple of Sinawava.

After driving the loop and taking some photos, we headed out Hwy 9 (easterly), zigzagged our way up the rocky cliff, went through the Zion-Mt Carmel Tunnel, and drove a ways through the snowy mountains. I’d never been through the mile-long tunnel before: what an engineering marvel! Every so often, the engineers had provided for “windows” through the rock to provide ventilation and light. Really cool.

We finished up our Zion turn-around trip with a nice meal at the Black Bear Diner in St. George.

What a nice day it was!

My brother Terry was the one who spilled the beans to me when I was a youngster: there is no Santa Claus. He proved it to me by taking me around the house, before Christmas Day, and showing me where Santa (i.e. my parents) had stashed the gifts before the Big Day.

Yeah, he was an asshole, but what do you expect from the oldest child of four who like to lord over his fiefdom. He was bigger, stronger, and smarter than us… was the constant message from The Boss. (Happily, we all got over this and, seventy years later, we all love the guy.)

The question is: Why the Santa Claus myth in the first place? Why should a make-believe guy get the credit for delivering toys and goodies (paid for by the loving parents) to children? Wouldn’t the parent-child bond be stronger if the child appreciated the parents’ love? Why confuse things with a mystery? How does a young one properly thank Santa Claus for his generosity?

What kind of lesson is being taught? Sooner or later, the child learns that Santa Claus is a lie and that his parents are liars. Probably never again will that child absolutely trust his parents, which is a sad thing, as trust is hard-earned and precious.

Eventually, that child will also learn that the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are hoaxes, as well, perpetrated by their parents, who may try to gild the lily by insisting that they were only “white” lies (innocent, no-harm-intended, etc.)… not the “bad” kind.

What would Jesus say about this? He would probably quote the Ten Commandments on the subject: “Thou shalt not bear false witness” In other words, for Jews and Christians, untruthfulness is a sin, a bad thing whether it is white or black. Once one starts lying, where does one draw the line?

I’m not religious in any way so those moral rules allegedly passed down by God shouldn’t concern me. However, I think that honesty is, perhaps, the most valued attribute in a person: his loved ones can depend on him; his acquaintances can rely on his judgment; his business associates can trust him; and, his spouse will be comfortable in the knowledge that he will be faithful, “forsaking all others”.

Honesty seems to be a lost art in today’s society along with the concept of personal honor (valor, chivalry, honesty and compassion). It used to be said that reputation was one’s most valuable asset. That appears to have been replaced by “expediency”, which is defined as doing something that is convenient despite being improper or immoral. As those villainous socialists/communists once said, “The end justifies the means”.

Nowadays, expediency seems to be the guiding principle in business, politics, and everyday life. Intellectual theft in industry, disinformation in politics, and slander in social media are happening every second all around us… we are saturated with lies to the point that we think that everyone is lying about everything. That’s what drives the “conspiracy” nut jobs.

Ex-President Trump famously relied on lying to gain office, told fibs incessantly while in office, disparaged the news media for “fake news” (i.e. that which placed him in a bad light), told us not to worry about the coronavirus, fostered distrust in the electoral system, falsely claimed that the 2020 election was “stolen”, and then fanned the flames of insurrection by claiming that an enraged mob could reverse the election results by storming and vandalizing the Capitol.

Trump was a liar, everyone knew he was a liar, and, yet, a large percentage of the electorate was comfortable with his lying. How is this possible? Probably because, nowadays, all politicians are expected to be liars.

What a sad commentary on American society that is.

The latest poster child for dishonorable politicians is newly-elected Congressman George Santos of New York. The public is just now learning (after the campaign, of course) that virtually everything about this guy is fake, including his name, business experience, educational experience, life experiences, family history, and even his sexuality. He is a total fake, like Santa Claus,the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Paul Bunyan, and the Piltdown Man. One would think that his political party (Republican) would be totally ashamed of this phony but, no, he has been welcomed into the Republican congressional caucus with open arms. He represents a vote, after all, as the means justify the ends in Washington D.C.

There is no shame left in American politics.

This reality is showcased by the recent onslaught against “wokeness” by G.O.P. politicians, particularly in the South, and most specifically as practiced by Governor Ron DeSantis of Florida.

“Woke” is an African-American term which reflects personal awareness of social inequity in the United States. The fact that many Americans are discriminated against in their communities and by the criminal justice system cannot be argued. It is the ugly underbelly of “The Greatest Nation on Earth”.

The “anti-woke” faction of hard-line conservative Republicans don’t want to acknowledge this problem, don’t want individuals and businesses to recognize and act upon it, and want to penalize teachers for airing the subject in classrooms. They want to pretend, and they want American citizens to pretend, that there is no problem, hence no need to solve the problem.

Join with us, they demand, in lying about our history and our society, so we can get back to business as usual.

As philosopher George Santayana once said, “Those who can’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” DeSantis and his like-minded Southern mob would prefer that all Americans scrub from their memory the shameful institution of slavery, the Jim Crow laws, Ku Klux Klan lynchings, racial segregation, discrimination, and disenfranchisement of Black voters (which continues to this day). Almost weekly, news reports describe efforts by Republican politicians to devise obstacles to Blacks voting in local elections.

“If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist” is the anti-woke philosophy.

This political concept appears to be applicable to religion (don’t acknowledge that the Nation is becoming less and less Christian), abortion (don’t acknowledge the need), gun violence (don’t acknowledge that gun availability prompts gun usage), and police brutality (“it’s a myth”).

The anti-woke campaign is not dissimilar to the Lost Cause propaganda campaign after the Civil War, where Southern die-hards cleverly flooded the Nation with propaganda about the cause of the war and the nobility of the traitors who fought against the Union. “Forget what you know… this is the real truth!” was the mantra. It worked: the ex-slaves were vilified, Jim Crow laws and redlining became acceptable, and Confederate generals had statues placed in public squares and military bases named in their honor.

We wonder now how this ever happened, how we came to glorify the oppressors and demonize their victims.

There is no mystery why Republican politicians like Governors DeSantis of Florida and Abbott of Texas are pushing the anti-woke narrative: they cannot seek the G.O.P. presidential nomination unless they can capture the Trump vote. Thus, they need to “out-Trump” the ex-President, coming up with radical ideas and publicity stunts (like flying illegal immigrants to New York) that can capture the imagination of hard-line conservative voters.

The problem that they have is that the majority of American voters are not Republican and they are “woke” to varying degrees on a variety of subjects, the same ones tha.t the G.O.P. doesn’t want people talking about.

The next couple of years are going to be entertaining, for sure, as the circus act in Washington D.C. goes into high gear, with all manner of committees studying all manner of non-problems to distract voters from the fact that these elected officials are not doing anything productive.

In this Land of Make Believe, the most valuable currency is the ability to tell a good lie and distract constituents from the real issues in their districts and States. The last thing that these charlatans want is for their audience to “wake up and smell the coffee”.

We were hiking yesterday near Lake Mead when we met two Canadian guys who were motorcycling through the desert on their way to Mexico, with the intention to cruise all the way down the Baja to Cabo San Lucas. (I was envious: that’s always been on my Bucket List!)

Buena fortuna, Senores. Vaya con Dios!

Charlie and I haven’t been down to Mexico in quite a few years, essentially since we bought our Class A motorhome and set about seeing the U.S.A. Back in the day, however, we traveled to Mexico a lot and ALWAYS had a great time.

Of course, Tijuana is just across the border from Southern California, so I’ve gone there and passed through there plenty of times. It’s a big town, but the “touristy” part is concentrated in one area, with lots of shops, bars, restaurants, “tittie” joints, pickpockets, and hustlers everywhere.

Crossing the border going south is a breeze, but coming back is a bear, because probably a million people a day use that port of entry. Inching along in a throng of cars, with vendors pestering you incessantly, and Mexican cops looking for any way that they can cite you (and pocket the fine!).

It sucks to cross the border in a car, but that’s how most illegals do it (and how most of the drugs come north, as well.)

Of course, there are other ways to cross the border, like climbing the wall or swimming around the fence at the ocean. Or, perhaps, transiting one of the cartel tunnels that go under the border wall. I’ve never had to use one of those routes, but I have sidled up to the fence at the ocean (on my horse Louie!) and talked to Mexican children on the other side. It is weird, with 24 inches feet dividing two countries. I wonder how many desperate people simply float around the fence in an innertube in the middle of the night?)

One of the first family vacations that we took (including Charlie’s four young sons) was to Estero Beach, just south of Ensenada.

I was very familiar and comfortable with this place, as my own family had enjoyed a beach getaway near Ensenada back in the early 1960’s. My Dad and a buddy had sited a trailer on a lot overlooking the ocean and had built an add-on bunk room for the kids. My brother Terry and I had a ball there getting into all manner of mischief.

My Dad’s uncle Les and wife Peggy also had a house there. Les was a fisherman and took me out a few times in his cabin cruiser. My parents were scuba divers who loved to harvest large Abalone and Lobsters from the local waters. They were also expert water skiers, and they did some ocean skiing there. I can report that, courtesy of a meal at a local Ensenada restaurant, I experienced my first case of Montezuma’s Revenge at age 12.

On one trip to our house in Ensenada, my Dad was scuba diving at the rocky point called La Bufadora (“the blowhole”). It’s a famous attraction where a tidal bore causes water to shoot out of the rocks like Old Faithful. Anyway, my Dad and his buddy Cliff were underwater there, right near the blowhole, when the incoming tidal surge started pulling my Dad upward quickly. He would have been jammed into the blowhole and died except for the quick action of Cliff, who grabbed ahold of him and held him until the tidal surge had abated.

The trailer park where we had our vacation home has long since been demolished. In it’s place are a university and a spectacular cliff side eatery (Restaurante en Punta Morro). Charlie and I and my Mom went there one weekend just to see the old site and have a nice meal. My Mom got falling down drunk and didn’t sober up until we were back across the border. HaHa.

Speaking of Ensenada adventures, I once did a weekend fishing trip with a neighbor at the time named Dick Dawes and a few of his friends. We camped overnight at Estero Beach and got peppered by mosquitos. Then, we went out on a half-day charter boat and caught quite a few Yellowtail. We threw them in the back of the pickup and headed north. When we got to Ensenada, Dick decided to take us to a bar for a beer. As soon as our party of three was seated at a table, we were descended upon by three “ladies” who got real friendly real fast. Dick disappeared into the restroom with one of them, came out about five minutes later, and said, “We’re leaving!”  We left and drove home. About a week later, Dick’s girlfriend Diane (who was Charlie’s BFF) told her that Dick was acting strange and had shaved his pubic hair off… in an effort to rid himself of some Mexican hitchhikers, I think. HaHa.

I took four years of Spanish in high school and college, enabling me to be comfortable in Mexico reading signs, menus, negotiating the highways and streets, and talking to locals. So, I’m at ease down south of the border, even though I’m way out of practice with my Espanol.

We did some golf outings at Bajamar, which is between Rosarito Beach and Ensenada with friends. It is a beautiful course, right on the coast, like a poor man’s Pebble Beach. Lots of fun.

Over the years, Charlie and I took a number of quickie, 3-day cruises down to Ensenada, and then a bunch of 7-day cruises to the “Mexican Riviera” (which included Cabo San Lucas, Mazatlan, and Puerto Vallarta). Lots smiles, lots of fun, lots of memories. Everything considered, I think Puerto Vallarta is my favorite Mexican city.

One of the cool places near Puerto Vallarta is Yelapa, a tropical seaside village that can only be accessed by boat and is populated by native “Indian” people. Its gorgeous, has a beautiful beach, horses to ride into the mountains, and great food and homemade pies served from huts on the beach.

We were really into cruising back then, and we occasionally visited Mexican ports on Caribbean cruises. We’ve been to Playa del Carmen and Cancun numerous times, always enjoying our Mexican hosts. On one cruise, a Panama Canal trip from Florida to San Diego, we spent our 25^th anniversary in Acapulco, topping it off with a romantic dinner at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the magnificent bay. We also saw the famous “cliff divers” during that visit. Very impressive.

Our son Jeff and wife Carol used to enjoy vacations in the Yucatan Penninsula at a place called Tankah Bay near Tulum. They would rent a large house there which could accommodate several couples. It was very nice, right on the bright white sand, facing out upon turquoise waters, with a reef several hundred yards offshore. We snorkeled, explored the area, enjoyed each other, and had some great meals in the local area.

Some years later, Charlie, Jeff, Carol and I had the opportunity to visit Chichen Itza, the Mayan ruins in the interior of the Yucatan. We stayed at a hotel within the national park and got to spend a whole day investigating the many stone buildings, the pyramid, the ball court, etc. In addition, we were able to visit several large cenotes (underground caverns with freshwater pools) that were magnificent. Jeff and Carol swam in one of them.

Speaking of ancient ruins, on another trip to Mexico City, Charlie and I visited Tenochtitlan, a prehistoric ruins outside of the city that pre-dates the Mayans, Toltecs, and Aztecs. The ancient city complex is enormous, as are the two pyramids. With difficulty, I climbed the Pyramid of the Sun. What a view from up there!

While we were in Mexico City, we went on a two-day private tour with our guide “Vincente” that included the Presidential Palace, the Xochimilco Floating Gardens, the Cathedral of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and the National Pawn Shop near the central plaza. Everything and everybody that we met was/were wonderful. Vincente, our guide, gave Charlie and I a two-day education on all  things Mexican, including history, culture, and politics. It was magical.

When I was in the county fair business, Charlie and I and some business acquaintances used to frequent San Felipe, which is a small fishing town at the north end of the Gulf of California. The drive there, through the desert south of Calexico, was intimidating but safe, as there were military checkpoints every so often to keep the “banditos” at bay. We never had a problem and always enjoyed our time in San Felipe.

They had a great bar/nightclub there called the “Rockodile”, which featured loud dance music and an indoor sand volleyball court where teams of half-sloshed patrons would compete against each other. Great fun, lots of laughs.

On one trip to San Felipe, we drove in a wild, 50K off-road “poker run” through the Baja desert. There were hundreds of competitors, there were crashes, breakdowns, cars getting beat up, and a Marlin barbeque with wet T-shirt contest at the 25K mark. My buddy’s Jeep Cherokee took a beating, but we had a great day.

One of our go-to places in San Felipe was an outdoor taco stand where one could get 3 street tacos and a Pacifico cerveza for one dollar, and that included all of the chips and guacamole that you could eat. We would spend hours there, eating, drinking, negotiating with vendors, and buying songs from local Mariachi groups who would drop by. Our favorite songs were “Cucurrucucu Paloma” and “La Puerta Negra”. The best food in this sleepy Mexican fishing village was a provided by a huge Chinese restaurant. Go figure.

Back in the day, when I was a fisherman, some buddies and I flew down to Mazatlan for several days to fish for Marlin and Sailfish. We stayed at the Oceano Pacific hotel, right on the bay, and had a great time. My brother and I had brought some light tackle and we used it to “fish” for rats coming down to the pool area at night, intent on scavenging leftovers from the tourists’ poolside snacks.

Many years later, Charlie and I visited Mazatlan with some Bear Creek friends, the Clowers. They owned a timeshare at a place called Pueblo Bonito Mazatlan. It was nice.

We soon got finagled into a timeshare presentation at Pueblo Bonito’s new project called Emerald Bay at the very north end of the Mazatlan metro area. It was gorgeous and we purchased a Junior timeshare. Over the years, we increased our timeshare investment to a Master and then to a Presidential. It was very nice, easily accommodating two couples. We enjoyed that timeshare for many years along with two other couples from Bear Creek who also purchased timeshares, the Paces and the Knapps.

Mazatlan is a large city on a bay that features a 12-mile-long oceanfront “boardwalk” (actually concrete) where everyone walks in the mornings and evenings. Another point of interest is the Zona Colonial, which is the old (founded in 1531!) center of town, which includes the Cathedral, the Centro Mercado, and numerous excellent restaurants. One of our favorites is the “Presidio”, which is a huge, high-end restaurant situated in a Colonial military barracks.

We were coming home one night from a downtown meal when we spotted a bunch of people stopped alongside the Malecon (on the shore side). Charlie, my son Jeff and wife Carol, and I got out of our taxi to see what was happening. Adjacent to the street and down about 20 feet was a marshy river where a lot of critters lived. That evening a battalion of raccoons (mapaches) had come up to the street to beg for food. There were scores of them, and people were feeding them bits of bread, tortillas, and leftover scraps that they were taking home from restaurants. These wild raccoons were used to this and would come right up to you and eat out of your hand. The younger, shy ones stayed down in the marsh, but we could see hundreds of eyeballs shining in the streetlight’s glare. It was very cool.

The ”Golden Zone” is an area along the beach between the Malecon and the marina, populated by bars, restaurants, shops, and a few hotels. Transportation in Mazatlan is facilitated by the “pulmonia”, an open-air taxi built on a Jeep Thing chassis. (Pulmonia means pneumonia in Spanish, referring to the open-air nature of the taxi) These contraptions, with their super-friendly drivers, wild horns, and loud music blaring, are the best way to see the city, particularly when everyone is three sheets to the wind after getting shit-faced at Senor Frogs or some other wild ass bar.

(I recall a time at Senor Frogs with my parents. My Mom and Dad liked to dance and would do so without much provocation. After food and mucho tequila shots, my Mom (who was around 60 years old at the time) got up on a table and put on a show to the blaring music of the Rolling Stones. It was embarrassing but, hey, Mexico is about having fun. On the same trip, we were all enjoying a folkloric show at the Oceano Pacific, swilling mass quantities of rum drunks. My poor Dad got shitfaced, I had to take him to the restroom, and he upchucked all of his recently-consumed enchilada dinner and appetizer sampler. I’m sure it tasted better going down than coming up. HaHa.)

Something fun to do in Mazatlan is to rent a motorscooter and cruise all over the city. My friend Clark Pace (another Pueblo Bonito timeshare holder) and my brother Terry did that with me on occasion.

Life at Pueblo Bonito Emerald Bay was heaven on earth, with the facility overlooking the ocean, several large pools with swim-up bars, and a number of restaurants on site. The grounds are well-manicured, with large tropical trees (home to parrots and iguanas), tennis courts, and a world-class spa. When we bought, plans for the resort included a Jack Nicklaus golf course… which didn’t happen while we were there.

Our timeshare membership entitled us to “privileges” at other Pueblo Bonito resorts in Mexico, including a couple in Cabo San Lucas. We spent a really nice time there (Sunset Beach) one year with friends, and I think Charlie spent a week at Pueblo Bonito Rose on El Medano Beach with some girlfriends. (Our timeshare membership enabled us to exchange our yearly entitlement with timeshares all over the world. One year we did so, spending a spectacular week on the Costa de Oro in Spain.)

Speaking of Cabo San Lucas, I’ve been there a lot, beginning way back when the city was hardly more than a small marina (for Marlin fishermen) and a few bars and restaurants. It is now much larger, crammed with shops, bars, restaurants, thousands of cruise passengers, and hundreds of local grifters trying to sell you a timeshare.

One of the fun things to do in Cabo is to rent an ATV and take it out to the large sand dunes north of the city. My brother and I had quite an adventure out there one year, when we took advantage of numerous “race courses” that had been created in the sand dune complex. We got bolder and bolder during the day, until I took a nasty crash, with the ATV landing on me and practically crushing my pelvis. Not a good day, but “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”, right?

That trip to Cabo was actually a fishing trip, where Terry and I were hoping to catch a Marlin or maybe a large tuna. That didn’t happen, although I caught a large bull Dorado near the entrance to the marina. Frustrated that the fishing sucked, we subsequently booked a couple of trips to the East Cape where we fished for Dorado near La Paz and Roosterfish at Punta Colorada. That part of the Gulf of California used to be a world-class fishery but, by then, was a mere shadow of its former self, due to overfishing and Japanese trawlers illegally scooping up all of the marine life they could find. No bueno.

One of the best things about Mexico is, of course, the food.

Like many Southern Californians, we used to drive a couple hundred miles, cross the border, and cruise down the toll highway to Puerto Nuevo, an old place that has been serving lobster dinners for the past 70 years. My parents took us there back in 1960, and I’ve been there several times since then with friends and relatives. It ‘s an unusual little “town” where all the buildings are restaurants and they all serve the same speciality: lobster.

Most of the places that we’ve visited in Mexico have been in coastal areas, so seafood is quite common. Some of our favorites are: La Costa Marinara, Gus & Gus, and Pancho’s in the Golden Zone (Mazatlan); Topolo and El Presidio de Cocina (Colonial Zone, Mazatlan); and, La Habichuela in downtown Cancun.

We eventually got rid of our timeshare to concentrate our energies and funds on camping in the U.S.A. in our Class A motorhome.

Our last trip to Mexico occurred a few years ago when we visited Algodones, which is a small border town near Yuma, Arizona. Lots of “snowbirds” winter in Yuma, and Algodones is the favored place to get cheap dental and vision care and, also, pharmaceuticals. The border town is like a mini-Tijuana: you walk across the border and everything you’re looking for is within a quarter-mile or so. They offer plastic surgery, too.

One thing that I will say about my “Mexico” experiences, covering more than sixty years of traveling there, is that the Mexican people are friendly, helpful, fun-loving, hard-working folk who don’t have a lot but are content with what they have. The children always have smiles on their faces, indicating that they are loved by their families. Mexicans love their country, just like we love ours, and only come north for work and money that they can send home to their families.

We were on an excursion one day in the local mountains outside of Mazatlan, where we happened upon an old man down along a river bank making adobe bricks from the mud, one at a time. The temperature was in the 90’s, as was the humidity, and the old guy was there, all by himself, working like a slave all day long to make a few pesos. I don’t know any White man who would work that hard for so little. Later in our tour, we happened upon a very little town (I think it was called “Columbia”) of neat little houses, dirt streets, and… no men. The residents consisted of women and their children only, going to school and keeping the community tidy, while then menfolk were up in the United States earning money that they could send home to their families. We were told that the men would be home after the harvest season, meaning that these families were without their husbands and daddies for 4 to 6 months every year.

(I recall another incident, in the desert south of La Paz, when my brother and I were heading out to a remote beach to board a fishing panga. About five miles out in the desert, we came upon a very old man who was scraping up salt from a playa to sell. It was about 100 degrees out there, he was all by himself, and working his ass off… to collect a few pounds of salt. I’ll bet he didn’t make one dollar a day for his efforts and, yet, he went to work each day, roasting out in the desert for a handful of pesos.

One of our favorite things to do when we owned the timeshare at Emerald Bay was to spend the day on the beach at Pueblo Bonito Mazatlan under a palapa, enjoying the sun, the snacks, and adult beverages. A litany of walking vendors parades by all day, selling anything from clothing to knickknacks to jewelry.

We got to know one of the vendors, a young man named Alfonso, who toiled all day long, up and down the ten-mile beach, carrying all of his goods, in the broiling sun and oppressive humidity, to earn a few dollars for his family. Charlie would always bring a bunch of dollar bills to buy stuff from Alfonso and, occasionally, we’d treat him to a hamburger and a drink while he told us about his wife and kids. We hooked up with Alfonso every year for many years, eventually meeting his wife and son… who also worked the beach selling other items. They did this every day but Sunday, always with a smile on their faces.

In America, it is fashionable in some circles to demonize “Mexicans” as dangerous and lazy, always looking for handouts. This is exactly the opposite of what I have observed in Mexico and in the U.S., as these people are friendly, hard-working, and have strong family values.

The only asshole we ever encountered in Mexico, over the many decades, was a crooked cop who took my friend Clark for $100 at the Tijuana border crossing.

He was no amigo.

The recent blitz of California by “atmospheric rivers” has been highlighted in the news by reports of massive snowfall at the Mammoth Mountain ski resort in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

For Southern California skiers, Mammoth is THE PLACE. Sure, there are a half a dozen ski resorts in the local San Bernardino Mountains, but the snow there is sketchy, the crowds (and lift lines) are immense, and the ski runs are anything but challenging.

Mammoth has a special place in my heart, as I used to ski there often back in the day with friends, co-workers, and family. It was about a 300-mile drive from Southern California, so maybe a five-hour drive, although my ex-boss Steve Kohler and I once made it in 3 hours flat in his brand-new BMW (including a stop and ticket for speeding by the Highway Patrol on the Sherwin Grade north of Bishop, which set us back by ten minutes!).

(Fun times:  My Dad, my Mom, and I were hustling up Hwy 395 one evening, on the way to Mammoth, when my Dad got pulled over by the CHP for speeding in busy traffic (as it always was on a Friday night in ski season). When the cop handed my Dad his citation, he said something disrespectful to the cop, who seemingly ignored him. As soon as my Dad could, he goosed the engine and jumped back in the line of cars whizzing by at 60 mph. We hadn’t gone a half-mile when we noticed red lights and siren… the CHP guy was back. He gave my Dad a second citation, this time for unsafe entry into traffic! My Dad kept his mouth shut and we didn’t bust his balls about it.)

The last 1-1/2 years of my Air Force stint was spent at Castle AFB near Merced, California. I learned to ski up there, frequenting nearby Badger Pass in Yosemite and Dodge Ridge near Sonora, both resorts being on the western slope of the Sierras. They were “family” type ski areas, with pretty tame slopes, which fit nicely into my regime for learning this new skill. By the time I left the Air Force, I was a decent skier.

I believe it was at Dodge Ridge that I introduced my parents to downhill skiing. My Dad and Mom had been excellent water skiers back in the day (they were now around 50 years old), and still had some coordination and gumption left in the tank. I taught them how to get on a ski lift, snow plow, do a few Stem Christie turns, and stop where they wanted. My Mom was super careful, while my Dad really loved the speed, despite the fact that he never mastered stopping gracefully.  

I began skiing Mammoth Mountain back in the Winter of 1973 with my buddy Pat Freemon, who was attending the University of Southern California. I was working part-time in Xray at Queen of the Valley Hospital in Covina and trying to finish up my Bachelor’s Degree at Cal State Los Angeles. We would cruise up to Mammoth every so often and tackle the challenging slopes there. It was on one of those trips that I mentioned to him that I’d met a nurse named “Charlie”. That was also the trip where my 1965 Mustang broke down on the way home. Bummer.

By that time, I could ski just about any “runs” at Mammoth, which is an enormous facility with lots of challenging pitches. The main lodge is at 8,000 feet and the top of the mountain is at 11,000- feet. Most of the skiers stick to the bottom half of the mountain, leaving the upper runs to the better skiers and daredevils. Back in 1973, the big challenge at Mammoth was “The Cornice”, which was a run where the skier had to “drop in” about a dozen feet before skiing down the very steep pitch about a ¼ mile. Only the best skiers could ski that run in those days (subsequently the operators shaved off the Cornice to allow average skiers the opportunity to ski the top of the mountain), and Pat and I were determined to master that run. We succeeded in getting down the run without getting killed, although we surely didn’t earn many points for style.

Over the next few years, now living with Charlie and her four boys while working for the Riverside County Planning Department, I skied Mammoth whenever the opportunity presented itself. There were several of my co-workers who skied, Charlie gave it a go, and my parents and brother and sister-in-law were learning, too, so there were always opportunities to ski. I told Charlie that I would marry her when I graduated (March, 1974), but she would have to ‘guarantee” me twenty ski days a year once we were hitched.

Our bunch of friends and relatives skied at a number of places over the years (Heavenly Valley, Alpine Meadows, Squaw Valley, Big Bear resorts, Jackson Hole, Park City, Mount Baldy, etc.) but our favorite was Mammoth due to its accessibility, its size, amenities in town, and the challenging ski runs. I was a bit more athletic and adventurous than the people I skied with and liked to challenge myself, so I’d steer towards moguls and Diamond runs (“expert”) for the adrenaline rush. I can remember vividly the first time I took on Climax, which is an extremely steep run just off of the Gondola shack at the top of the mountain. I stood at the top staring over my ski tips at the tiny skiers several hundred yards below, thinking, “If I fall, I’m dead!”. I pushed off, made a few quick turns, got into a rhythm, and skied the run like a pro. I was so proud of myself.

For a while, I skied Nastar races at Mammoth. These were amateur Giant Slalom events where the competitor was racing against the clock for medals. I won a few but was never an earth-shaker: there would be no Olympics for me.

I taught Charlie’s boys how to ski at Mammoth. They quickly mastered the basics and could at least snow plow down most slopes, even Jonathan who was maybe eight years old at the time. One day, I decided to take them on Chair 9, which accesses a back part of the mountain where most folks don’t go. The long run under Chair 9 was doable by the kids, but the initial slope just off the lift (called Ricochet, I think) was steep, something that the kids would have to tackle slowly. The three older ones did okay, but poor Jonathan fell and slid down the steep slope on his back maybe 400 yards, screaming the whole way and taking a few somersaults off moguls, to boot. The tough little guy shook it off and skied down the rest of Chair 9 run without mishap. I was so proud of him.

(Speaking of moxie, son Jeff knew no fear: he was a wrestler in high school and tough as nails. At some point, he asked if he could try Chair 23. That is the lift that accesses the Wipe Out chute off of the top of the mountain, generally considered the toughest ski run at Mammoth. Jeff really didn’t have the skills for that run, but he wanted to try it. So, we went up there. It was a very steep, narrow chute, with jagged volcanic rocks presenting hazard to skiers who lost control. I went ahead of him, demonstrating how and when to turn. Jeff took off, fell immediately, and tumbled down the entire chute, luckily avoiding the large, jagged rocks. After dusting himself off, he said, “Let’s do it again, Dad!” We did, and this time Jeff made it down without falling. It was amazing.)

Thanks to the lessons learned at Mammoth, the four boys and I later did some skiing up in Idaho at Bogus Basin and at Sun Valley. They loved it.

Their mother was game to try skiing, but just wasn’t cut out for it. Charlie had never been an athlete of any kind, was uncomfortable and stiff on skis, and was apprehensive, expecting to fall and get hurt. She did, often, beginning the first time she rode a poma lift at Mammoth. I always joked with her that the ski patrol guys and the folks in the emergency hut knew her by name, like, “Charlie’s back!” I have to give her credit for trying, because I know she did it for love and to make skiing a family affair. Finally, many years after those first mishaps, we were skiing at Heavenly Valley up in South Lake Tahoe when she took a spectacular fall on the Von Kleinschmidt Trail, appearing to hurt her neck. Another trip to first aid in the ski patrol basket for her. She hadn’t broken any bones but the episode broke her spirit and that was the end for her. She wasn’t much of a skier, but she sure enjoyed the travels and socialization that came with those ski trips all over the western U.S.

One of my clearest memories of Mammoth skiing was with my parents. The were rudimentary skiers at the time, able to handle very modest slopes. There was a nice ski area on the back of the mountain (“Red’s Lake”) which would be suitable for them; however, going there required taking the gondola to the top of the mountain, working one’s way over the Red’s Lake runs, and then returning to the front side of the mountain via a long “snowcat” trail along a steep ridge. My parents did okay until that final piece of business, when they both fell (separately) and slid on their backs about 1,000 feet down the icy slope called Paranoid Flats. Prior to the falls, I had told my Mom, “Trust me, you can do it!” Needless to say, I don’t think she ever trusted me again on a ski mountain.

(That reminds me of another skiing story with my Dad and brother Terry that also made my Mom a bit mad. We were on a family ski vacation at Park City, Utah and it just so happened to be a very skimpy snow year: lots of thin coverage and bare spots. It was the end of the ski day, and the three of us were schussing down the Olympic Downhill run. There was a snowcat trail cutting across the run which was bare in spots. I was ahead of the other two, saw what was coming, quickly turned right, then left over a ledge and across a “snow bridge” and continued on my way. The other two didn’t see what was coming, and they flew off the small cliff and landed unceremoniously in the dirt and rocks. My Dad got a nasty gash in his forehead, dusted himself off, and continued down the slope to the bottom where my Mom was waiting at a large, outdoor barbeque area. We arrived with my Dad’s face almost wholly covered in blood and my Mom just about died. He required a few stitches and, of course, I got blamed by my Mom.)

In the early years skiing a Mammoth, we would hustle to get in line and be the first on the hill early in the morning. It was very cold then, particularly if it was snowing and/or windy. We were like athletic popsicles out there, shivering, with frozen snot in our nostrils. I can recall taking a bota bag of wine or a couple of cans of beer up on the mountain in the morning and burying it so that we would have some refreshment later in the day when the sun was high and we were bushed. It tasted like champagne. What a life!

(Speaking of nourishment, part of the Mammoth experience was stopping for a good meal coming up Hwy 395 on Friday night and heading south on Sunday afternoon. Our favorite places were Bobo’s Bonanza in Lone Pine and BBQ Bill’s in Bishop. My brother Terry and I would load up at the latter, because they had an “all you can eat” special. (Speaking of pigging out, there was an ice cream parlor in Mammoth Village (Swenson’s, I think) where we would go from time to time. They had a special menu item (the Avalanche?) that was a huge bowl of ice cream scoops, various gooey toppings, bananas, sprinkles, and whipped cream… intended for a group of four. My brother Terry once ordered one… and ate he whole thing himself!)

I can’t remember the last time I skied at Mammoth… it must be over 30 years ago. That is because, back in 1993, I blew a disc in my back while skiing with some friends at Heavenly Valley in Lake Tahoe. That injury required surgery and some rehab. I tried skiing one more time, again at Heavenly, about a year later, proved to myself that I could still do it, and then hung up my skis permanently. I had nothing left to prove on skis.

No more Mammoth for me.

Charlie and I got a nice text message from our grandson Craig today thanking us for our contributions to his life thus far.

What a great guy he’s turned out to be!

Craig is 20 now, is going to junior college, working part-time, and keeping out of trouble. A while back it appeared that he may be going into the Navy this year, but that plan may be on hold because I haven’t heard any mention of it lately. Whether it’s serving his country or pursuing a college degree, I’m sure he will make the right decision and be all he can be.

I have a special bond with Craig Jr., as I was present in the delivery room when he was hatched and was subsequently named after me. Both his parents worked at the time, so Charlie and I cared for the little tyke during the workday at our house in Bear Creek (Murrieta, California). Thus, we were especially close to Craig during his first five years, and were honored to feed him, change his diapers, help him learn how to talk, watch SpongeBob Squarepants with him for hours, and probably teach him some bad habits, as well.

I remember the occasion when little Craig took his first steps. Charlie and I were enjoying the lad toddling around in our living room when I got the idea to tempt him with something (I think it was food or a toy). Anyway, he eventually got up on his feet and walked several steps to his prize. We were surprised, as were his parents, because it was unexpected.

I taught my namesake how to swim in the neighborhood pool, which was a few hundred yards from our home in Bear Creek. It was a small pool, perhaps 3 foot deep in the shallow end and eight feet in the deep end. We started by me piggy-backing Craig around in the water, then later got him to hold onto the side by himself, then having him submerge and hold his breath, then having him open his eyes under water, then retrieving items off the bottom, then learning how to float, and finally teaching him a few strokes. Eventually, he learned how to jump into the water, then dive, and later how to make it across the pool on his own. He was a natural. (On one visit to the pool, Craig was diving and retrieving items off the bottom when he/I spotted something odd. Upon examination of the brown/slippery object, I determined that it was a turd left by some infant who was not being properly supervised. Ugh… that was the last time that we swam in that pool!)

As Craig got older, and we’d travel in the car to various places together, I would be subject to a lot of his chatter from his car seat behind me. He was learning the names of things, colors, sounds, etc., and was evidently developing his own opinions. One time we had just passed a hideous car (I had just thought to myself, “What idiot in Detroit came up with that design!) when little 4-year-old Craig blurted out, “That car’s ugly, Grandpa”. That’s when I knew that the little creature was named appropriately.

Speaking of that, Craig knew me as “Grandpa” in his early years, not knowing that we shared the same first name. I forget exactly how it went down, but one day in the car I told him that my name, too, was Craig. He got instantaneously livid and scolded me, “No, my name is Craig, you’re Grandpa!!!” HaHa.

Craig Jr. and I have had some adventures together.

Early on, the two of us used to go to amusement parks together. Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm were our favorites. (I remember one time that Craig fell into a large water fountain at Knott’s when he was goofing off. He had to walk around the park in wet clothes, ha ha.) We also would hit the Fair circuit each year, enjoying the L.A. County Fair, the Orange County Fair, and the Del Mar (San Diego) Fair, with most of our attention paid to the large carnival areas there. (Once we attended the Del Mar Fair with my brother Terry and his granddaughter Fiona who was about Craig’s age. The two young kids had a ball in the carnival area, enjoying one of the “thrill” rides a dozen times straight because it was mid-week and there was no one in line.)

Charlie and I took Craig to the beach for the first time when he was about this age. We stayed for a week at a friend’s beach house right adjacent to Buccaneer Beach in Oceanside. Craig loved it there and enjoyed frolicking in the sand and looking out at the big, blue sea. (Years later, when we got into RV’ing, we made Paradise By The Sea RV Resort, near Buccaneer Beach, one of our regular stops on the annual road trip. We’d stay there a month and have Craig and his family dog sit for us while we visited friends in Murrieta. They loved that place and had some great family times there.)

Craig and I took a short vacation one year up to Northern California to visit my sister Claudia, to do some camping in the redwoods, and to enjoy the Santa Cruz boardwalk/amusement park where I had spent some of my youth. Craig really enjoyed Claudia’s house, particularly the slot machine and the pinball machine. The next day we spent a few hours doing the carnival rides at the Santa Cruz boardwalk before heading into the Henry Cowell Redwoods to tent camp for the night.

Unfortunately, Craig must have picked up some cooties at the boardwalk, because in the middle of the night he awoke with severe stomach pains and diarrhea. We had to quickly break camp, and flee 300 miles south toward home. Poor little Craig crapped all the way to San Luis Obispo… what a mess!… before finally falling to sleep. I will always remember that “Highway 101 Crapapalooza” and little Craig telling me, “It’s going to be okay, Grandpa”, as I was in a state of near panic.

I’m not sure, but I think I taught Craig how to ride a bike.  I absolutely know that I taught him how to ride a horse, or at least sit on one and parade around a corral. That was back in my “equestrian” period, when I did a lot of stuff with Ed Metzler’s horses and, later, my own horse “Louie”.

We took Craig to Montessori Pre-School when he was 4. I would drive him down there and drop him off, and the little guy absolutely loved it. He made friends, did crafts indoors, and played outside in the playground area with his buddies. Eventually, he reached kindergarten age, and I took him to his first day there. It was the ending of an era, as Craig’s family moved to the Upland, California area to live temporarily with his Mom’s parents.

Craig was lucky to get two very good sets of grandparents, as his Mom and Dad had economic problems at that time. His grandparents Lou and Rendi had a huge house in the Rancho Cucamonga area and were able to fit Craig’s family and some of his relatives in there all at once. It was a tight fit, but they made it work. Needless to say, Craig was blessed with good parents, too. It is no accident that Craig, his brother Joshua, and sister Jessica have turned out to be intelligent, fun-loving, and caring individuals who are excelling at whatever they put their minds to. As the saying goes, “It takes a village…”.

In better times, when Craig was younger, his parents were able to take one of those 3-day Mexican cruises with his brother Josh and sister Jessica. He never forgot that, and when we later asked him what we could get him for his tenth birthday, he responded, “Take me on a cruise!” We did. It was a Holland-America 7-day cruise out of Los Angeles to Cabo San Lucas, Mazatlan, and Puerto Vallarta. Craig loved it, particularly the youth activities that they had every day. He made friends and spent most of his time onboard with them.

That particular cruise was unusual because we spent two nights in Puerto Vallarta, allowing Craig and I to do the “Great Adventure” tour. It began at the dock, where we boarded a speedy pontoon boat that raced across the Bay of Banderas to another dock, where we boarded what looked like an Army truck. That vehicle took us up into the coastal mountains where we disembarked and climbed onto donkeys, which took us up to the top of the mountains. There, we were instructed how to zip line safely, and we proceeded to zip down the mountain in maybe a dozen steps. At one point, we had to rappel down a 100’ waterfall, and at another point we had to rappel straight down from a huge tree to the ground. Craig was brave, followed directions, and had a great time that day. I was so proud of him.

We also took Craig to the big Bingo game onboard. There were a lot of players and the cash jackpots for each game were nice. I bought some game cards and gave one to Craig to play. Darn if that little guy didn’t win one game worth $250 (as I recall). Immediately the little guy said, “Don’t tell my parents ’cause I want to buy something!” We said, “Sure”. The next day we went to play again. I asked Craig if he wanted to use some of his money to buy some Bingo cards and he said, “No way, I’m keeping this money!” He was a pretty smart guy even at that age.

Craig was adventurous, too. On that cruise, at at a very swank restaurant overlooking Puerto Vallarta, he experimented with lots of foods that he’d never tried before, like escargot and the like. He gobbled it up.

At some point, when Craig was in middle school (I think), the living accommodations for his family took another turn, as they had to leave his grandparents home in Rancho Cucamonga. Charlie and I helped out by allowing his parents to live in our motorhome at Lake Elsinore while Craig and sister Jessica stayed at our house. Jessica was in high school (at Murrieta Valley H.S.) and Craig was in middle school, right next door to the high school. I don’t remember how long the two of them lived with us, but it was good times. The both of them were good students; in fact, Jessica was an academic star, really putting in the work and helping Craig out with his studies as well.

When Craig was about 14, he and I did a road trip up to Merced, California (about 300 miles) to check out a backyard breeder who had a couple of Boston Terrier puppies for sale. We had two Bostons at the time, but they were getting older and it was Charlie’s and my opinion that we needed to bring another one onboard so that it could be trained by our wonderful dogs. Anyway, Craig and I saw the two puppies and picked the female (Charlie’s preference) who was full of energy. Craig cuddled that teeny puppy in his hands all the way back to Southern California. We named her “Baby”, as in Booger’s Baby, because our beloved Booger had never borne any children of her own.

The Murrieta Valley School District was highly rated, as was the high school. Even after Craig’s family relocated to Wildomar (just south of Murrieta), Craig and Jessica were able to stay in the school district because they gave our Bear Creek address as their own. (We did the same favor for one of Charlie’s bookkeeping clients, who daughter Alexis also benefitted from our Murrieta address.) Jessica graduated before Alexis, and she was a 4.2 GPA student. Alexis was also an academic star who the H.S. principal took, with other top students, to the East Coast to check out possible colleges. In a strange twist of fate, we sold our home in Bear Creek to… the principal of the high school! He later received MVHS correspondence addressed to his new home in the names of Jessica, Alexis, and Craig. So, he then realized what kind of skullduggery had been going on for years. But he was cool about it, because all three of the illegal students had been (and were, in Craig’s case) top notch students. It remained a secret that no one else need know about.

We flew Craig up to Montana several years ago to spend some of our Summer vacation with us in the motorhome. Some of the highlights included a hike to the Stone Chalet in Glacier National Park and a jet boat ride on the Rogue River out of Gold Beach, Oregon. The lowlight of the trip was the leaky motorhome during a spell of bad weather in Coos Bay, Oregon. Thank goodness Craig was there, because he helped me fashion some temporary rigging on the RV roof to get us through the rainy period.

We live in Mesquite, Nevada now and Craig still resides in Southern California. His plans seem to be in flux right now, as he seems to be weighing college vs. military service. He’s going to be successful in whatever he does, so I’m not concerned about the choice he makes.

I’m very proud of him and am honored to have contributed positively to his development. And, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with him over the years because he’s such a good guy.

Hopefully, there will be more good times for us in the future.

California has been subject to very intense Pacific storms since Christmastime, in some cases seeing a normal year’s worth of rain dropping in a few days.

One of the hardest hit areas has been the Santa Cruz coastal area in central California. I saw some news footage today which showed the San Lorenzo River above flood stage, something that hasn’t happened in about sixty years.

I lived right next to that river in 1960-61 and it was so tame that the only place one could swim on it was a “swimming hole” formed by a small, natural dam. Maybe five years before that time, the San Lorenzo River overflowed it banks by 20 feet and flooded my friend Mike’s house, leaving mud stains on the interior stucco about five feet up the wall. They were too poor to fix the house, and so were stuck living in a very moldy house.

California is not typically targeted by these kinds of heavy storms but they occur every once in awhile due to changes in the Jet Stream and very moist air vapor being firehosed at the West Coast. It is called an atmospheric river or a Pineapple Express. It is said that the amount of moisture conveyed from the Hawaiian Island area to the West Coast in one event is equivalent to the entire flow of the Amazon River, the largest river on earth.

That’s a heck of a lot of water falling in a short time, and one would think that California’s mega drought would be a thing of the past after the past several weeks’ onslaughts. However, that is not the case, as most of that rain will end up in the Pacific Ocean from whence it came. The problem is two-fold: (1) too much rain, too fast, not giving the ground the opportunity to absorb the water; and, (2) Pineapple Expresses are relatively warm storms which don’t result in as much Sierra Nevada snowfall except in the mountains above 7,000 ft.

California has a very sophisticated plumbing system which consists of dams, reservoirs and aqueducts to save Winter rainfall for use later in the year. The system is heavily reliant on mountain snowfall to feed slowly recharge the reservoirs in the Spring and early Summer.

One of the benefits of living in California is that just about any resident is within an hour or two’s drive of a world-class ski resort. The same thing goes for outstanding surf locations along the coast. The past week’s monster storms have produced the highest waves in many years. Unfortunately, a lot of damage has been done to shorelines, piers, and adjacent roadways from the huge breakers.

Unfortunately, nature’s bounty from an atmospheric river event overwhelms the system, produces proportionally less snow, and doesn’t sink into the soil to recharge the aquifers. These freak storms will help ease the drought problem a bit, but unless there is significant rainfall in January, February and March, California will still be thirsty.

We now live in the Mohave Desert, in Mesquite, Nevada, in the “rain shadow” of the California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. That range, which tops out at 14,000 feet in elevation, pretty much wrings most of the moisture out of any storms moving easterly across California.

These latest atmospheric river events have only resulted in maybe an inch or so of rain here in Mesquite, where the average annual total is 7 inches. We haven’t seen anywhere near that amount in the past four years, and I believe the annual total was nearer to 2 inches in the past three years.

It’s the desert, for God’s sake, and we’re in the middle of a two-decade-long drought.

Still, I’d rather live here than in many other areas of the United States. We don’t get the extremely cold temperatures that residents see in Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota and Minnesota. We don’t have the oppressive humidity that exists below the Mason-Dixon line, nor do we see tornadoes (like the Midwest) and hurricanes (like the Deep South) except on TV. Those poor folk experience weather-related natural disasters every year.

Like most of the Southwest, we experience hot, dry weather in the Summer along with desert breezes, and it would be almost impossible to live out here in July and August without air conditioning. But, for nine months out of the year, the weather is wonderful.

Me and my buddies hike in the nearby mountains about once per week. The region has been parched for the past couple of years and we observe very few animals on our hikes. We traverse some rugged terrain, including very deep washes and barrancas, and I haven’t seen running water in those gravelly streambeds in several years. Even the Virgin River, which drains southwest Utah and the Arizona Strip, has been reduced to a trickle in the Mesquite area, although I did observe a little volume yesterday.

Most of the rain that this region gets comes in the form of Summer monsoonal flows coming up from the south out of the humid Gulf of California (Mexico). It is possible for one of these events to drop a couple of inches of rain in an hour or two, causing flash flooding (“gully washers”) that can quickly create big gashes in the sandy, desert landscape, destroy roads and bridges, and create short-term inconvenience. These are our ‘extreme weather events”; however, they happen infrequently and don’t do much damage to the populace.

What is happening in California right now is the equivalent of a mega gully washer that wreaks havoc, overwhelms the storm drain and modest river system, and teases Californians with jillions of gallons of precious rainfall racing past their homes and farms back into the ocean before it can be put to productive use.

Come January, Southern California water districts will be praying for rain, like always.

The inexorable demise of the Republican Party was on display this past week when the newly-created, slim G.O.P. majority in the House of Representatives took over a dozen contentious ballots to elect a Speaker.

The Republican Party has become a group of people who, to varying degrees, do not believe in elections, governance, facts, decency, or order.

This is a political party that failed to adopt a policy platform during the 2020 Presidential campaign, meaning that Republican policy would be whatever Donald Trump, if elected, wanted it to be. This nebulousness of purpose probably played a role in President Trump’s 7 million vote loss, because of (a) Trump’s embarrassing track record as Chief Executive, (b) the G.O.P.’s antipathy toward the Black Lives Matter movement and women’s reproductive rights, and (c) a newfound hostility toward our traditional military allies and trading partners.

Telling falsehoods was a major feature of the Trump Administration, something that did not seem to matter to die-hard Republicans. Accordingly, in 2024, the G.O.P. put forward a candidate in New York’s 3rd Congressional District who, it has been discovered, lied about virtually everything in his resume, including his education, his work experience, his legal history, his personal property ownership, and even his sexual orientation. He was elected and sworn-in by Speaker McCarthy, making him possibly the most dishonest G.O.P. politician in Washington D.C. behind the ex-President.

He’s going to fit right in.

The run-up to the 2024 mid-term elections featured a large number of lying Republican candidates who publicly supported Trump’s “big lie” that the 2020 election was stolen from him, including a dozen or more seditious Congressmen and Senators who were involved in the January 6^th Capitol Riot.

Most Republican elected officials have moved on from the “stolen election” canard; however, many die-hards continue to demonstrate fealty to the ex-President, wanting to elect a Speaker that is a slash-and-burn warrior in their own image. Thus, it is a political party in disarray.

Kevin McCarthy, who finally got the Speaker job, is a politician who has demonstrated over his long career in Washington D.C. that he will do just about anything to remain relevant. He’s wishy-washy on the matters that the Trump cult focuses on, realizing that many of ideas that super-right-wing zealots favor are not in line with the attitudes of most American voters. And, yet, he must keep on the good side of these self-described “patriots” if he wants to keep his job.

It’s going to be a miserable two years (or less!) for Speaker McCarthy, as the Democratic-majority Senate will cancel out any radical legislation that the Republicans put forward and President Joe Biden can always use his veto powers to squelch obnoxious Congressional proposals. About the only tool left in Speaker McCarthy’s kit is to create a bunch of “investigative” committees, populated by loudmouth zealots, to tar and feather Joe Biden, incumbent lawmakers, and Democratic candidates who will be on the ballot in 2024.

If Speaker McCarthy doesn’t cooperate with the poo-throwing juveniles in his majority party, he will be replaced by someone who will. And, then, that person will inherit the shitty job. This is what happened to ex-Speaker John Boehner when the “Tea Party” faction infiltrated the Republican Party and it came to be known as the Party of “No!”.

The sad plight of the Republican Party, which has been evident for decades, is that demographics are the enemy. The G.O.P. base is overwhelmingly White, Christian and old. The Nation is becoming less White, less religious, and young voters are much more independent in their political thinking. Something like 30 percent of the electorate now identifies itself as “Independent”, and Republican candidates in the 2024 midterms fared poorly with this cohort.

The handwriting is on the wall, so to speak, for the G.O.P

If the party is to survive, it will obviously have to move more to the middle (ideologically) to attract Independent and moderate Democratic voters. Unfortunately, McCarthy’s “Freedom Caucus” members and other, even more hard-line, bomb throwers are determined to not let that happen, virtually assuring that the upcoming legislative session will be rancorous and embarrassing to the G.O.P. If McCarthy loses control of the nut jobs, the Republican Party could publicly destroy itself, with each grand-standing, name-calling, self-promoting politician trying to out-do the other.

Fox News is going to love this self-destructive shit show.

I used to vote Republican even though I am a registered Independent. After voting for Reagan and both Bushes for President, I’ve now voted for Democratic candidates in the past several elections… because the G.O.P. seems to be losing touch with most Americans. Unfortunately, in Presidential elections, we voters must normally choose between the lesser of two evils. It would be nice to have other options, particularly candidates who are not married to failed policy initiatives. I think that, eventually, there will be a third major political party which will offer some fresh ideas that people can get behind.

In “Suicide is Painless”, the theme song from the movie and TV series “M.A.S.H.”, life is depicted as a progressively-depressing experience, concluding that, relatively-speaking, suicide is perhaps the better solution.

Maybe that’s the attitude that has been adopted by the majority of the Republican Party: “Let’s just get this over with!”

Our son Jeff and wife Carol have been staying here in southern Nevada for the past month and will be leaving for Bullhead City, Arizona in a few days.

Jeff and Carol and their dog Chongo are full-time RVers (starting about 8 months ago) in their vintage 1999 Damon Daybreak motorhome. They are in their mid-50’s, retired, and looking for adventure. They’ve had a few already and have handled the hiccups well while simultaneously learning everything they can about RV living as fast as they can.

While here in Mesquite, Jeff and Carol have camped at Valley of Fire State Park (between Las Vegas and Mesquite) and Cedar Pocket State Park (in the Virgin Valley Gorge, Utah), “boondocked” on some BLM land between Mesquite and Littlefield, Arizona, availed themselves of free camping opportunities at Virgin River Casino and Hotel and at Walmart, and “moochdocked” in our guest bedroom for a few weeks.

A highlight of their visit was the arrival of our grandson Dakota (Jeff and Carol’s son) and girlfriend Steff (who works for veterinarian Dr. Black, one of Charlie’s bookkeeping clients) for a 3-day visit. Dakota and Steff stayed in the parents’ RV up in Cedar Pocket while visiting. It so happened to be a several-day period of cold and overcast weather, so they didn’t get to fully appreciate the stunning beauty of the Virgin River Gorge area. However, they had a nice last evening, when we gave them some Christmas money to blow gambling at the local Eureka Casino.

It’s been great to see them and have them here in the holiday season.

The next phase of Jeff and Carol’s adventure begins on January 4^th, when they will mosey down to Bullhead City to visit Carol’s mother for a spell. While there, they plan to go to a local gun range to learn how to shoot the .45 cal semi-automatic pistol that I’m giving them for protection out in the boonies where they will be boondocking. There’s a lot of scary people out there in the world, particularly in remote rural areas. One can never be too safe.

After visiting Carol’s mom, the adventurers plan to head south to Quartzite, Arizona and then to Yuma. Both places are popular “wintering” spots for full-time RV nomads because of the mild weather. They also want to check out RV models and prices so that they will have an idea of what to buy when their 1999 RV relic gives up the ghost. That may be awhile, as the Damon Daybreak appears to be pretty sound and is meeting their immediate needs.

Jeff and Carol are currently thinking about heading east in the Spring, maybe going to South Dakota to obtain driver’s licenses, vehicle registration, and a mail drop box. Longer term plans are to head up to Montana and visit relatives in the Summer.

After that, who knows?

The dynamic duo seems to be enjoying the challenge of full-time living in an old tin can on wheels. The two of them have been best friends for the past 30 years, work well together, are smart, and enjoy challenges. I think they can make this kind of living work.

Hopefully, we will see them down the road when our RV paths intersect. Otherwise, we may have to wait until the next holiday season to share adult beverages and tall tales.

Happy Trails to you, Jeff, Carol and Chongo!