Field notes from the 40th parallel

Them Mean Old First Issue Blues

2010-01-07T10:34:00.008-07:00

After a frantic weekend of writing and editing, I had the copy ready for my first paper on Monday morning...ready for the designer to go to work building pages and layouts.
My instructions on the pipeline were sketchy, and I made mistakes, but we finally got it sorted.

My designer was a quiet young goth woman (from Cortez? A goth?) who was very nice, but not forthcoming with information. She took what you gave her and didn't ask questions. This could be good and bad.

The routine was to load all the stories, photos and slugs into the server, then she would grab them and do the layout and design and print a full-size "dummy," which I would mark up with a red pen to indicate changes and corrections. Often, when there was late news, I would be writing and editing while she was designing, holding space for last-minute entries.

I did the community calendar, wrote a predictable, friendly editoral about being the new editor, found a politically neutral cartoon for the editorial page and waited for my dummy.

A couple of hours later, Morticia handed me a life-size sheaf of dummy pages and headed to lunch. Before she left, she told me to leave the corrected dummy on her desk and she would make changes when she returned. I believed her. Red pen in hand, I circled and corrected typos, indicated changes, made sure story jumps landed on the right page, and generally made the whole thing 'clean.' Leaving the mark-up dummy on her desk, I departed the mothership office with a sense of utter relief. First issue - done. Next issue - much easier.

I had done my best to put out a decent paper, but like many writers and editors, the minute it was done, I was sprinting toward deadlines for the following issue. I barely glanced at the final print version of the paper - my mind was pointed toward next week's finish line.

The paper came out on Wednesday. I happened to be at my desk at the mothership office that day. I got a call from a nice woman at the Mancos Public Library. She sounded frantic, but friendly. "This week, we would like to help you proof the paper. Ok?" What? Volunteer proof readers? Are these people nuts? I told her I would call her back and grabbed a copy - ohmygod. ohmygod. o h m y g o d.

Morticia, I discovered, had failed to make the corrections indicated on the marked-up dummy proof. The paper was filled with typos, mis-spelled names, captions going with the wrong picture....my stomach churned. This was the beginning of a long, intimate relationship with over-the-counter antacids.

I'll own it. I was nuts to have turned over corrected proofs and not checked afterwards to confirm the final changes had been made. I partially blame oxygen deprivation and the altitude, but that only goes so far. I'm older and wiser now, and remain appalled that I trusted an untried designer with my first issue. Enough excuses. Time for damage control.

After calling the library ladies back and explaining my heinous error, I started on next week's editoral, an abject apology for a poor first showing. I didn't pass blame to anyone but myself, but publicly being a righteous stand-up editor would have to wait a week.

You're only as good as your last issue. That meant if I wasn't fired, I had to wait an entire seven days to start changing readership perception. The more reactive readers had an entire seven days to work up a good head of outrage. As a result of this first issue, I remained unforgiven in the eyes of a small group of readers for the rest of my tenure. The hate club was small, but not too small to drive me bonkers for a year and a half.

My next stop was the my bosses' office. I grovelled and confessed, expecting to be fired. Suzi was completely non-plussed.

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's your first issue," she said.

"But the ladies at the library are volunteering slash demanding to proof the next issue," I said.

"No, we are not going to have volunteer proof-readers. You'll get this right, and it won't take long, but I'll speak to the design department. You'll know what to do to keep the thing in hand next week," she said.

Ok. If Suzi could forgive me, I might be able to forgive myself, despite the fact that there were those who never did. Meanwhile my learning curve was bending into uncharted waters.
Next week: Aftermath - the shitstorm.

First Issue Part 2 - blankets, jewelry and pots

2010-01-05T11:28:00.009-07:00

Returning to the Mancos Inn patio for dinner that night, I found I had made clear inroads with the mayor and his posse - perhaps not to the point of "trust," but definitely to revealing conversation.

Again, I planted myself on the patio with dog in lap. Ivy was turning out to be a big ice-breaker - she was still in extra-cute puppy phase and no one but Former Editor was immune. The patio was in front of a huge picture window into the dining room. They had a clear view of me. I should have had a stopwatch to time the arrival of the first visitor. It took less than two minutes for a woman to join me.

"Wow, I like your ring," she said. She was an attractive Native American woman.

"Wow," I thought. "She's really nice."

Introductions. Suddenly there were like five people at the table. A handsome, blond viking-type, very buff. This was Rance. The plucked eybrow guy (drag queen?). The first lady, coming and going, waiting tables. Others coming and going.

Lots of people telling me what I should do with the paper. Lots of people telling me about Former Editor. Finally, after a half-hour of this, the mayor appeared, fully aproned, carrying a cocktail. He sat down. I was delighted, but trying to hold my cool.

We chatted - tentatively. He explained that in the past, newspaper coverage had been disappointing. In the future, he would use stronger language to describe Former Editor's work. He then went back to the kitchen, taking his cocktail with him.

I would later learn that Former Editor and the mayor had been engaged in open warfare for the last couple of years. Former Editor held a deep conviction that the mayor was involved in a conspiracy of some sort with the also-gay town manager. The mayor believed that Former Editor was deeply, secretly homophobic, and was gunning for him, using ink and newsprint as his rifle scope.

Over the next 48 hours, the backstory emerged from several sources. Most of these sources held a deep dislike for Former Editor, who I made up. These sources went out of their way to meet me and tell me about enduring seven-odd years of Former Editor's verbose, patronizing, inaccurate reporting and editorializing. Made that up too.

Even those left of liberal were sick of Former Editor's rants about the Bush adminstration. Many were amused, appalled, or both by Former Editor's fascination with dangerous, undetected Mormon polygamy involving very young women. No holding back. The most striking thing, though, was so much overt hostility emerging so quickly.

There are those wiser than I that could have seen that Former Editor's past might be my future. Former Editor's fans were less vocal, but they did say things like, "You've got big shoes to fill." There were a lot of smartass responses I could and can make, but didn't and won't.

I had a paper to write and a lead article to put together.

I headed to the Mud Creek Hogan Trading Post at the appointed time. Bill and Judy Countess generously spent hours educating me about native rugs (sometimes, to get the right red, weavers use cherry jello or beet juice to dye the wool), Anasazi pottery, with its complex legal baggage, and turquoise.

Ancient pottery has, in recent years, become the subject of big controversy. Trafficking in illegally obtained pots carries major penalties and the feds actively enforce these laws. Pot hunters are known to sneak onto Native reservation lands and steal artifacts for the trade - this is bad. This will get you in big trouble. Others have stolen pottery and sherds from places like Mesa Verde - this is also verboten. The only way you can legally sell Anazazi pots is if you find them on your own land. Otherwise you have to document the origins of objects. If you come across this stuff in a national park or monument, don't touch it - stiff fines if you get caught doing so.

Local ranchers, when they stumble across these artifacts, often bring them to Bill to sell - but the Countesses described setup attempts made by federal authorities.

"This Indian guy came in with a pot one day, and asked me to appraise it for him," Bill said.

"I did, and then he asked me if I wanted to buy it. I knew what was up. I would never buy pots from an Indian. I won't buy or sell ANYTHING off reservation land.

"So the guy left. I followed him to the door and watched him get into an unmarked, white SUV with a white federal agent behind the wheel."

Then Bill showed me some legally-obtained pottery from a nearby ranch; a cup with a handle and a bowl, completely intact. Crude and grey, but clearly functional. And ancient - like six or seven hundred years ancient. Long time before us European types arrived.

Bill and Judy explained that the Mud Creek Hogan, an actual hogan, was the oldest operating trading post in the Four Corners. Originally established in the 1930s, the business had moved to this site in the 1960s. The trading post had done what trading posts actually did - trade provision like salt, sugar, flour and coffee for native jewelry and blankets. These days, Bill said, there was no more provisioning - Bill would sell or trade unset turquoise and "festishes," tiny animals carved from stone or shell. He would also take jewelry pawns for cash and buy things like sheepskins for sale to the tourist trade. He had been in the trading post business for more than 20 years, and had vast knowledge and endless connections.

There is a long tradition of Native Americans pawning jewelry and blankets for cash - if they didn't return to reclaim items, pawned goods would be sold to tourists. These pawn pieces are generally old, frequently signed by the maker and usually made with high-grade natural turquoise from mines that are now extinct.

Which leads me to turquoise. Bill knows everything there is to know about turquoise. He explained that there are three kinds: natural, untreated stones that are hard enough to be carved and polished; stabilized, which means that a resin has been infused into soft, lower-grade stone to make it hard enough to handle; and reconstituted - crumbly, chalky stone that is ground to dust, then mixed with enough resin and plastic to make something hard enough to cut and polish. Natural turquoise is the rarest and most coveted. The best American stuff available today is from mines in Arizona and Nevada.

Turquoise veins are usually found near copper deposits - when the veins were discovered in the first half of the 20th century, they were actively mined until played out. Those who now own the small number of existing mines are closed-mouthed, wishing to avoid raids by outlaw stone hunters. There is a mine near Mancos, but I could never learn much about it outside the rumor that the owners were willing to use firearms to protect their claim.

Bill showed me a piece of natural Persian turquoise, the gold standard of all turquoise. It was deep blue-green, but when held in sunlight, had peacock blue and aqua overtones. Impressive.

I ended up buying a pair of earrings, as usual.

Next: Part 3 (finally) of the First Issue.

Scrambling for the First Issue

2010-01-04T11:50:00.003-07:00

After checking in to the Enchanted Mesa, I felt that I might begin to get my mind around finding some stories for the next issue of the Mancos Times. I now was down to three days to rustle up at least three stories and an editorial. Former editor left no leads, no phone numbers, no nothing, and when I asked, he would say, "look it up yourself."

So I found City Hall (not hard) and wandered in to introduce myself. The very civilized town manager welcomed me with trepidation in his eye, which suprised me. Nothing for me here, though - the next town board meeting wasn't for a week. But I did learn where to find the mayor.

A block away, there were smells of food coming from the Mancos Inn. It was lunchtime, so I sat down in the restaurant and waited to see what would happen.

A pleasant young man came and took my order. I asked him where Greg was and he directed me to the kitchen. There, behind a hot grill wearing a white apron and flipping burgers, was the mayor.

"I realize you're busy - I just want to introduce myself and see if you have time to chat later. He gave me a cryptic sideways glance. He also had trepidation in his eye, and looked as if he was trying to decide whether to apply the Napoleonic code or let me be innocent until proven guilty.

It was dawning on me that perhaps local officials disliked the press. This is no good. You want these guys to talk to you. If possible, you want them to trust you. In previous reporter beats, I had enjoyed good relations with my elected officials and had cultivated some give-and-take with the bureaucrats, usually too afraid of their elected bosses to speak openly.

But I never imagined it would be troublesome to break through here. I decided the best strategy was to eat frequent meals at the Mancos Inn. Be a paying customer and let them sniff me out a little.

This tactic worked. Dean, the young man who seated me, was friendly, and quickly established himself as the mayor's partner by identifying himself as "the first lady of Mancos." I told him I would like to move to the patio seating outside - no problem.

Now at a wire patio table with Ivy on my lap, I tried to relax and take in the view. I wasn't alone for long. Within five minutes, a young man with heavily plucked eyebrows seated and introduced himself. Wow. Could this be a reconnaisance agent?

This young man, we'll call him Mike, chatted me up like crazy. By now, I was happy to run into somebody friendly, and also somebody who was not Former Editor. Greg, the mayor, told me months later that he and the entire town board had been awaiting my arrival with a mix of anxiety and hope. It seems that seven years with Former Editor had engendered, well, bad feelings between elected officials and the Mancos Times. A new editor could be the end of an old era of paranoia and distrust, or the beginning of a new one; nobody knew, everybody was guessing. This new editor business was a big deal - I had no idea how big of a deal.

The mayor also believed that Former Editor was deeply homophobic, hating all gay men, although he managed to get along just fine with the lesbians. At one point, someone speculated that Former Editor cultivated good relations with the lesbians in the hope of someday getting REALLY lucky. But I made that part up. Just like I made Former Editor up.

Greg also later confessed that when he looked out the front window and saw me chatting away with Mike, he gave a quiet cheer over the grill. "I knew you were a fag hag! I was so happy!" Now, this news came months later. If I had had a clue I was being painted as a rabid groupie for homosexual men, I would have politely backed out of this chat with Mike.

I have many friends. Some have different sexual preferences than I do. That's the whole story. But "Fag Hag" has some weird implications that bug me a little. Maybe it's the "hag" part.

Mancos, as I was informed by the mayor, was a gay "destination," a result of the first lady's marketing efforts on the internet pipeline. At one point a lesbian town employee suggested changing "Mancos: Gateway to Mesa Verde" to "Mancos: Steers and Queers." While, Greg explained, there was a core group of gay men, they were far outnumbered by lesbians, which led to occasional political wars. Town Hall was a frequent stage for these conflicts.

But I digress - while I was pleased to have at least made first contact with some key players, I still had to scare up a story. After lunch I decided to head to the mothership office in Cortez and see if I could pick Suzi's brain.

On my way there, I noticed a funky building with giant arrows sticking out of the ground around it - The Mud Creek Hogan Trading Post. It looked like a 1950's postcard of something on Route 66. I stopped - no customers at the moment, so I was able to introduce myself to the owners, Bill and Judy Countess. They were friendly and conversational. Native American people were wandering in and out, having quiet, quick conversations with Bill. "Good luck," they said, when I told them I was the new editor.

When I took a look around, I realized this was more than a souvenir trap. I saw exquisite Navajo rugs, and in the back of the store, intact Anasazi pottery worth a fortune. There were also plenty of knock-off items, like fake southwestern rugs and baskets from places like India.

"People come in and want southwestern rugs and whatnot, but they get sticker shock when they find out what the authentic stuff cost. I stock these knock-offs so they can afford to take something home," he explained.

A big guy came in to talk to Bill - a Native American with a very "authentic" look - plenty of silver and turquoise, a blanket thrown over his shoulder, long ponytail wrapped in cloth strips. They chatted briefly and the big guy left. "He buys those knock-off blankets from me and sells them out on the roadside as authentic." My jaw dropped and Bill and Judy laughed and told me that the roadside Indians sell loads of fake stuff - fake jewelry made in Taiwan, fake blankets, fake everything. "They have to stay ahead of the Feds," Bill added.

I could smell a story here. Aside from the "real" stuff Bill had, the fabulous rugs and jewelry and pottery, there was another dimension, a thriving economy of fake. Bill was straight with everyone about the origins of his imitation southwestern-via-Asia stuff, but tourists bought it anyway as something affordable with a southwestern vibe. Bill also did a brisk business with serious collectors of genuine navajo blankets and ancient pottery. I bought a fake rug to throw on the back seat for Ivy. Fifteen bucks and washable - hard to beat.

Bill and Judy agreed to a story. I made a date with them for the weekend and bought a pair of earrings. I'm trying to remember a time when I didn't walk out of that place without some fabulous piece of jewelry. Didn't happen.

Next: the truth about turquoise, blankets and pottery and a crash-and-burn first issue.

Happy twenty-ten

2010-01-03T15:07:00.000-07:00

As we've all been saying to each other the past few days, happy new year.

And to those requesting more blog NOW, gimme a few minutes - it's been end of year clean-up time, both professionally and personally. Also true for most of us.

It's coming, though...stories are germinating, and entwined memory threads are coming untangled. Lots of the stories happened simultaneous to each other - it takes time to tease them apart. Of course, we know that I'll be making some up. As per instructions from the legal department.

But have no fear - I WILL tell the stories of the motorcycle rally, the opera house of the damned, the VFW, the christmas decorations wars, and how I finally found a permanant home. Also, of the players; the gay mayor and his partner, and their business, the Mancos Inn, the women from the lesbian ranch, a.k.a. the lezervation, or the lez res, the weird temporary homes I landed in and other assorted episodes.

So hang in there - more next week.

Best holiday wishes.

2009-12-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's Christmas Eve and I always feel a little sappy and sentimental this time of year; regardless, it's good to take any opportunity to say thanks. A little gratitude in the heart is good for the soul.

Big thanks to all of you who are faithfully reading Field Notes - frankly, I'm stunned, and never expected it would gain a following. Wow. I'm delighted you are enjoying it and dogging me for more. I'll keep going, but I look forward to your feedback, re: getting boring? Bogged down in detail? Too cynical?

There's LOTS to tell, and I could be at this for as long as it took for all of it happen.

Love and Gratitude to all. Merry Christmas.

Onward to the Enchanted Mesa

2009-12-23T10:36:00.008-07:00

After the great clothing heist from the Cortez motel laundry room, concerned parties suggested it was time to move on.

I wanted out as well...the only food in range was a Mexican restaurant at the edge of the motel parking lot. It was good, but you can only eat Mexican food so many times a week. Or day. And Cortez was getting gritty - a dry, dusty border town with occasional drunk belligerents wandering around. I would be politically incorrect to mention the ethnicity of the drunks, but many may have originated from nearby reservations.

Heading back to Mancos was the plan, and after being told the inn was full at a couple of places (they didn't want responsibility for the new editor) I landed at the Enchanted Mesa Motel on the west side of town.

So I restocked myself with sand-colored jeans at Walmart. I still had my safari-style shirts and vests, which seemed like a good initial fashion decision, but I ended up looking like some generic forest service or national park employee. Khaki and army green and lots of pockets gave an air of vague officialness; plenty of turquoise jewelry lent some style to the whole thing. It looked a like a combination of Dan Rather in the Middle East and Cher in some half-breed video.

What I didn't understand was that by dressing this way, I had turned down my hetero girly-girl signals and was broadcasting a little tough authority. I learned later that local lesbians, of which there were many, started placing bets on my sexual preference. I SLOWLY (it took months) clued in that all these really nice women didn't want to be my new best friend forever unless it was BFF with benefits. I was so dumb.

Anyway, I ended up checking in to the Enchanted Mesa with dog, parrot, safari clothes, turquoise and all the other crap I had been hauling in my car for two weeks. The rest of my belongings had been shipped to the Cortez Journal and were in storage at the mothership office.

The Enchanted Mesa was good - initially quiet, a kitchen with a separate bedroom, space for all of us. The motel was owned by a nice Mexican woman who cut me a great deal. Other guests included a VERY tough woman with Wyoming tags who was in Mancos for some forest fire training and tourists that would stay for a day and move on. The public laundry had a lock on the door.

Now in the midst of all this moving and style strategizing, I still had a newspaper to get out in about four days. There were no town board meetings scheduled and the only thing going on was talk of a massive motorcycle rally up at a dude ranch, which will remain nameless.

The ranch was owned by some guy from Wisconson - we'll call him Lars. I made him up, ok? He had partnered on the rally with some biker/promoter type who might have been a Vietnam vet and had done some jail time. He had an air of bitter bad-assness. My radar said bullshit artist.

Lars was a handsome, boyish Nordic type. When he and his wife bought the dude ranch, they felt it needed some good Mid-Western amenities, like a miniature golf course. Forget majestic Mesa Verde, forget the mighty La Platas, forget historic Durango with its spectacular narrow-gauge train ride into the old mining districts, forget the archeological centers, forget Canyon of the Ancients and ancient rock paintings of UFOs and a million other things...build a miniature golf couse.

So they flattened a pristine alpine meadow and laid down astroturf. This was a dumb move - alpine groundwater and drainage ecology is delicate and sensitive. You don't just start bulldozing stuff. There's a butterfly effect, and when you mess with drainage, downstream neighbors start having problems. To compound future crisis, Lars had laid the course near the leach fields for his sewage system. Eventually the project was abandoned, so there was this weird looking field of hyper-green astroturf with random native grasses poking through.

I learned later that the astroturf seriously interfered with the operation of the leachfields, which were the waste containment areas for guest cabins, a restaurant, sundry out-houses and laundry facilities.

This was the planned site of the rally - the promoters had announced it would be at least 10,000 strong, and were actively taking registration dollars through their website. The road to the dude ranch was gravel and dirt, winding with 90-degree turns all two miles up. It was narrow and steep; the only route in and out. Difficult to imagine 10,000 Harleys cruising up and down this road for a few days and nights. Difficult to imagine the refuse of 10,000 being handled by the half-acre leachfield. Lars' neighbors were not enthusiastic.

The Montezuma County Commissioners weren't crazy about the whole thing either, and many Mancos residents were freaked out of their rural gourds. The freaked out Mancos residents were at war with the Chamber of Commerce types, who saw a much-needed cash influx into the valley. But official permits would be needed.

Unfortunately, this was not a story for that week, as the Montezuma County Commission meeting on the whole affair was more than two weeks away, in June, and the rally was planned for Labor Day weekend in September. Previous Editor had been covering the early stuff, but there was nothing new to report until the commission meeting. Eventually the whole deal morphed into the Great Motorcycle Rally that Wasn't. Coming soon.

So, while the lesbians were placing their bets, the motorcycle rally guys were collecting registration fees, the bears were coming out of hibernation and the elk were migrating to higher pastures, I kept looking for a story.

Next: The Mud Creek Hogan Trading Post

Dilemma

2009-12-21T15:08:00.012-07:00

Writing memoirs for public cosumption is tricky. Even fiction-writing, with its veils, composite characters and name-changes has its risks, because authentic writing is based in experience. Writers wrestle with this, looking for ways to disguise identities and avoid offense. Sometimes offense is unavoidable, like maybe now.

Staying safe would mean having to wait until every character written about is dead, which can prohibitively cut back on writing time - the author may also be close to death, or worse, senility, by the time the path is clear to write without offending anyone. It's a carpe diem, sieze the day sort of day when the muse descends - can't put it on hold and get back to it later.

This writer is not harboring vengeful intentions towards her characters, real or imaginary, but only wishes to report her wacky Mancos experience as faithfully as possible. After two years of germination, I was ready to write without fear - time and distance make the heart grow braver.

Word of Field Notes from the 40th Parallel has reached Mancos. Small towns being what they are, it's a matter of time before sundry imaginary characters, in their alternate universe, will stumble or be directed here. If they could hear me in their other dimension, I would say, "No serious offense intended, but it's my truth, and I feel entitled to call it like it happened. In my imagination."

I would also wish them the best, hope they stay out of harm's way, and say Happy Holidays.

That said, onward - it's my story and I'll blog if I want to. You would blog too if it happened to you.

Get to Work...Fast.

2009-12-18T11:41:00.007-07:00

Now, on day two as the new editor of The Mancos Times, I went to the mothership office and got officially righteous- filling out forms, peeing in a cup at the local rehab center, long insurance coverage lectures from the HR department, a tour of the printing plant, directions to the vending machines, instructions on malfunctioning coffee makers, press credentials with a dreadful mug shot, etc.

But all the while, I'm thinking...

"Where is Former Editor? This is his last day. I have no stories. I have no contacts. I don't know the computer password. What am I going to do? Write another story on undetected, dangerous Mormon polygamists? Where is he??????"

In the end, before his departure, I forced Former Editor, under duress, to show me how to turn on the computer, file stories, and load photos, captions and cutlines in the system.

There's a technical side to every newspaper and publishing operation; a crucial, cyber-pipeline where stories, pictures and captions go in one end, and a fully laid-out newspaper, ready for proofing comes out the other. But you have to know the specs of your particular pipeline, including length, width, speed of travel, and who is at the other end. With luck, at the other end is a talented, smart newspaper designer who can figure out what's what with the stories, photos, etc.

You also have to know the precise codes with which you label stories, photos and captions. The codes have to match up in such a way that designer knows what goes with what. This is called a story package. The codes are called "slugs."

The pipeline is governed by a complex series of mini-deadlines, smaller steps towards the ultimate deadline, the all-important print deadline. The printing press, running 24-hours a day, has a small slot where your publication fits. You better be ready, or the Penny Saver for Farmington, New Mexico might be late. Actually, a whole domino phenomenon of lateness happens. You are not late for your press deadline. Ever.

But every publication's pipeline is different. Everyone has a different coding or labeling system - and the designers at the other end come in a wide range of talent, skill, experience and IQ points.

I have known pipelines well, as I entered the newspaper business at the other end, laying out and designing newspaper pages. The print news business is a little like a Broadway show...if the lead actor/actress/reporter is sick, or quits, an understudy is shoved onstage, which is how I became a reporter. One day in Florida, when I was minding my own business laying out newspapers, a reporter quit. I was sent to cover her stories. About 20 minutes later I became a magazine editor, but that's a tale for another day, or possibly a Psych 401 course lecture on anti-social and borderline personality disorders.

Sorry, I digress. My priorities were:
1. Find some damn thing or another to write about, and fast.
2. Figure out how the pipeline works and the competence level at the other end.
3. Do the laundry and quit running around in not-clean clothes.

I got to work on these things, but that day, another priority arose:
4. Find another place to live. Fast.

I rounded up enough quarters to do laundry at the convenient Cortez motel laundry room. That night I loaded the pay washers and fired 'em up. Thirty minutes later, into the dryer. Forty minutes later, CLEAN CLOTHES!

Or not.

All my clothes had disappeared from the dryers.

Time to move.

Next: First Issue and The Enchanted Mesa Motel

Mancos Day 1

2009-12-17T11:07:00.007-07:00

Readers have been asking for more - I wondered why I had stopped writing for a spell, then realized; from the first morning in Mancos onward, it gets a little blurry. So much happened so quickly. Now I'm forced to tease apart memories and images and try to find a little linear order. Writing helps.

The first day in Mancos, after a cold and sleepless night at the Independent School Director's basement cave, I met Previous Editor at the Bakery, one of three breakfast spots in Mancos. The others are the Hamburger Haven; the greasy spoon, and the grocery store for coffee and donuts, open at 5 a.m. The rancher-types preferred the grocery store; the construction-types liked Hamburger Haven. The Bakery was for the creative, artsy types - good food with exotic ingredients like sun-dried tomatoes and avocados, good baked stuff, really good coffee and shelves of used books for sale. The Bakery was Previous Editor's meeting place and ad hoc office.

We met there, much earlier in the morning than than I would have liked, and I was informed that the "real" people were in the Bakery before 8:30 a.m. Anyone showing up after 9 a.m. was a lazy tourist. Former Editor said "tourist" with contempt; this statement described his entire attitude about locals vs. non-locals. "I don't like people," he added, and would repeat this statement regularly over the next two days. "Hmmm," I thought. "Newspaper Editor. Not a great line of work for someone who hates people."

Former editor's idea of bringing me up to speed was reciting the names of the old local families, their relationships, who was a second, third and fourth cousin, and religious affiliations. I was more interested in finding a place to live, getting the names and phone numbers of the main players like the mayor, town manager, marshall, etc. and finding out how the office computer system worked.

We were chatting away about whatever when a very tall, handsome woodsman-type approached our table to say hello. Turns out he was finishing a house with an upstairs apartment on his property - he was willing to rent upon completion. My new landlord added he was a Republican, but a "Lincoln Republican," explaining that he had little interest in a corporate-based GOP. He is the only Republican I've ever known with framed Grateful Dead posters and Mother Maybelle Carter's autograph.

Landlord said it would be ready in about two weeks and I could move then. Having little experience with contractors and house building, I thought he actually meant two weeks. I could fake it for two weeks, somehow, somewhere.

Former Editor was then off to something or another, and we arranged to meet in the main Cortez office later that day. I assumed this would be my opportunity to learn how the newspaper computer system worked, how to file stories, deadline days, layout prep, on and on. All the essentials.

It would have been nice go to a warm, dark spot to curl up and sleep, but I had to find one first. After casting about and talking to a pal in NYC who was busy googling Four Corner motels, I ended up in Cortez, 20 miles west of Mancos and seconds away from the Cortez Journal mothership office. I went to the motel my pal had found, unpacked parrot, dog, belongings, etc., and tried to sleep for a while.

A few hours later I was standing in front of the desk of my new boss, Suzi, a calm, humorous woman who was the publisher of all the papers based out of that office; The Mancos Times, The Cortez Journal and The Dolores Star. Suzi is an experienced newspaperwoman and rarely ruffled. She was kind, welcoming and very busy.

Former Editor was at his desk pounding away on the keyboard and clearly not available for questions or instruction. This desk, which would become mine, was stacked with piles of topo maps, old development plans, ancient pieces of lead type and other old ephemera. Everything was covered in gritty dust.

Former Editor, it turns out, was an employee of the Federal Park Service system most of his career. He had been superintendent, or Big Cheese, at a major Anasazi archeological park site in New Mexico, and also had various personal/professional ties with the Mesa Verde National Park. He had an academic background in museum display, cataloging and education. He had retired from the park system some years earlier, and taken over as editor of the Mancos Times.

Before departing for the west from Florida, Suzi had sent me several copies of the paper so I could get up to speed on current events. I read Former Editor's work, and it was clear he had never received journalistic training. Not a slam, just fact. While he had a grasp on the sacred AP (Associated Press) style of writing, his own views and reactions, approval and disapproval bled through what should have been straight reporting. Of course, I'm making this all up and Former Editor doesn't exist.

The other thing this non-existant Former Editor did was to use at least seven words where he could have used one. Or none. I worked through the pile of papers, and did not feel enlightened on current Mancos issues, but when finished, I had a firm grasp on Former Editor's hatred of the Bush adminstration. Every editorial was either about the Bush administration or the dangerous and undetected presence of Mormon polygamists in the Mancos Valley. Eventually I would learn that dangerous, undetected Mormon polygamy involving very young women was of particular fascination to Former Editor, a completely fictional character, of course.

Former Editor, like all former editors of the Mancos Times, had his fans and his critics. Within my first two issues of the paper, these groups were clearly defined; those who hated me for not being him, and those who welcomed a new editor with open arms.

In defense of Former Editor, this love/hate relationship between editor and readers was a long tradition in Mancos. The Mancos Times was a main source of not just news, but entertainment and controversy as well as a lightning rod for reactive emotionality.

"They hate all their editors," said my boss. "The called me a radical lesbian," she reminded me.

Despite my anxiety about trying to stay up to speed while reality whizzed by, I was constantly forced to stop and look at my surroundings. The valley, with Mesa Verde to the west, and the snow-covered La Platas to the east, is overwhelmingly beautiful. When we're in a place like that, our subconscious believes we're on a road trip - a holiday - and the thinking brain wants to stretch out on a blanket under a pine tree and smell the virgin air and gaze at the double-blue sky. At 7,000 feet, there is also mild oxygen deprivation, adding to the dream-like feeling. I was working hard to actually comprehend and retain what people were saying to me, but at the same time, was deeply grateful to be in Colorado and NOT be in Palm Beach County, Florida. But there was no time to organize and assimilate all this incoming info. I needed rest and oxygen.

That night, I slept the sleep of the dead in a Cortez motel. So did Ivy and Celeste.

Next: Get To Work. Fast.

More fascinating 40th parallel facts...

2009-12-09T10:40:00.004-07:00

http://lelandrucker.com/2009/03/the-40th-parallel-http://lelandrucker.com/2009/03/the-40th-parallel-celebrating-a-line-of-demarcation-on-baseline-road/

Here is a link that covers an art celebration of the 40th in Boulder. Go, 40th.

The Road to Mancos part 3: Arrival

2009-12-07T11:21:00.004-07:00

The last big leg in the road to Mancos, after Wolf Creek Pass, is a winding trek through pine forests and small towns.

Pagosa Springs is the biggie - a tourist town with a big pool full of hot mineral water. I always wanted to stop for a soak after negotiating Wolf Creek, but was so close to home I kept going.

The night I arrived in Mancos, I had watched the sunset from Wolf Creek and continued on in the gathering dark. I still had another hour and a half to go, so there wasn't much to see. Past Chimney Rock, another ancient archeological site, it was dark; a really DARK dark without a moon. The road wound its way to Durango, where it splits; one fork to Durango and Silverton, the other to Mesa Verde and Mancos. I headed toward Mancos with only 25 miles to go after the 1,700 I had already covered from the Atlantic and Southeast Florida.

It was the third week in May, which meant that while days were lovely and spring-like, the nights could still be freezing cold - like this night. The temperature was probably just above freezing.

Prior to leaving Florida for my new editorship in Colorado, I had corresponded with Former Editor, who had been casting about for a place for me to land in Mancos. He found a possibility, in the home of the Independent School director; we'll call her Madelaine. I recieved pictures, via email, of a sunny little apartment with a bed, fully equipped with a comforter and pillow. It is important to remember this element - bed, sheets, bedding, pillows. All there. In the email pictures.

Madelaine and I went back and forth via email, and arrived at a deal. I would stay there for a couple of weeks while looking for a permanent home, and would pay for the privilege; no problem. Worked perfectly.

That night I pulled into Mancos at about 9 p.m. - Former Editor was waiting in a well-used Jeep Cherokee under a street light at the closed gas station. We agreed I would follow him to Madelaine's house.

The next thing I knew, Former Editor was leading me on a high-speed chase up a complicated network of dusty dirt mountain roads. Shit. I could barely see his tail lights through the flying rocks and debris, and wondered why he was driving 50 on a road meant for maybe 25. Was it a game? Getting to know Former Editor later, I learned indeed that it was a game, one of his favorites, and that Former Editor, an entirely fictional character, of course, loved to play little games with new-comers to the valley. Some sort of hazing thing, like 15-year-old boys would do. Former Editor was not 15, at least chronologically. Did I mention that Former Editor is an entirely fictional character?

We made it to Madelaine's, where she showed me the apartment, but the bed was naked, a stained mattress.

"I'm sorry, but do you have any bedding?" I asked.

She looked at me.

"I'm not running a motel, you know," she said.

Hmmm.

Pictures of the nice bedding on the bed flashed through my mind. Was this my bad? Did I presume too much? Most of my worldly goods were in my Subaru wagon, but bedding was not among those items.

Among those items were my puppy, Ivy, and my Amazon parrot Celeste. Ivy had been with me since March, but Celeste had been traveling with me since 1993 - cross-country, in and out of relationships, to grad school, everywhere, for 12 years. Celeste, being a tropical bird, needed warmth. The apartment was colder than chilly.

"How do I turn the heat on?" I asked.

"There is no heat," she said.

Former Editor looked stunned. I'm sure I looked stunned as well. There was a woodstove, but no wood.

This would not do. Celeste could not tolerate these temperatures.

"All your hygiene products are fully biodegradable, right? I have a gray-water system. All your shampoo and soap and toothpaste have to be biodegradable, or you can't use them. Can I see them?" Madelaine said.

I explained that I had not had an opportunity, in the six minutes since arriving, to unpack these items, but assured her (lied) that all my stuff was correctly biodegradable. I didn't care anyway, because I planned on escaping the hell out of there at first light.

Former Editor left. Madelaine, also a fictional character, handed me a cat-urine smelling blanket and said good-night.

I turned the oven on high and opened the door. This was not a suicide attempt - the pilot was lit - I was trying for some scant heat to keep the parrot warm. I did not care about Madelaine's solar batteries or propane supply or gray water or anything else that night - I was going to keep the bird as warm as I could.

We made it through the freezing night. I snuck out the next morning, leaving a note explaining our hasty departure due to lack of heat along with $40 (I know, WAY too much). Never again, in my time in Mancos, did Madelaine and I have a conversation, or even a casual encounter in the grocery store.

Next: My first day in Mancos and my new home in a Cortez Motel.

Where's the Love?

2009-12-04T13:37:00.010-07:00

A discerning reader and family member said to me, re: blog, "Very well done. It's a little light on the love stuff." He was right - let the satire be sweetened with affection, appreciation and gratitude.

Here's what I love. I love all of Colorado west of the Front Range. I love every inch of that drive to Mancos. I love the San Luis Valley, Wolf Creek Pass, super-scary Red Mountain Pass, and pretty much all Colorado geography in general.

I love the Mancos Masonic Lodge people. All of 'em. The best people in Mancos. I love the former mayor Greg and his partner Dean. I love my girls Cathy and Rhonda and Gail - thanks for befriending me while we walked our dogs on the football field. I love Sharon, with her kind heart and BIG wisdom.

I love my former landlord Tim, the handsomest man in the Four Corners, and my dear pal Johnny, the other handsomest man in the Four Corners. I love the former town manager Tom and his partner Oliver. I love Bill and Judy Countess, owners of the Mud Creek Hogan Trading Post, who never denied me therapy when most needed and gave me smokin' hot deals on gorgeous native jewelry. I love the town marshall, Brian, the Bakery, and Nate Funmaker, hat-maker to the stars and all-around handsome nice-guy. I love all the Columbine owners. I love Yellow Fish graphic design. I love the Mancos Times readers, especially the ones that loved me.

I love my former boss, Suzy, and everybody at the Cortez Journal.

I loved being at my home in Mancos at night and going outside and seeing the Milky Way looking like a river of stars. I loved hearing the mountain lions and coyotes. I loved seeing the five-point buck in my driveway. I loved the smell of pinion and juniper after a rainstorm and in the morning. I loved the smell of juniper and pinion burning in my wood stove at night. I loved the psychadelic sunsets over Ute Mounatin and Mesa Verde. I love Rance and his house down in Weber Canyon - thanks for letting me pick pot sherds on your land, Rance.

I loved the three hour drive from Mancos to Taos. I loved the two hour drive from Mancos to Moab. I loved seeing Shiprock when I went to the southwest side of Cortez. I loved the hikes up to Mt. Hesperus, where the aspens are so big you could not wrap your arms all they way around them.

I love the Mancos River Restoration Project. Go, Felicity.

This list will surely grow - check back from time to time. And thanks, Cuz, for the reminder about what matters. I love you too. xop

The Road to Mancos Part 2

2009-12-03T11:42:00.010-07:00

After a spacious cruise through South Park, a traveler arrives at Poncha Springs, another tiny Colorado town with a gas station, campgrounds and a crossroad with signs pointing toward Salida and Monarch Pass. But we're headed over Poncha Pass, which will take us to the true emptiness of Colorado, beyond the urban commute.

The road over the pass is easy - nothing hair-raising that would prepare you for what you'll see at the top; an outrageous view of the San Luis Valley with the jagged Sangre de Cristo mountains on the left and and the mighty San Juans on the right.

According to Wikipedia, "The San Luis Valley is an extensive alpine valley in the United States states of Colorado and New Mexico covering approximately 8,000 square miles (21,000 km2) and sitting at an average elevation of 7,500 feet (2,300 m) above sea level. The valley sits atop the Rio Grande Rift and is drained to the south by the Rio Grande River, which rises in the San Juan Mountains to the west of the valley and flows south into New Mexico. The valley is approximately 122 miles (196 km) long and 74 miles (119 km) wide, extending from the Continental Divide on the northwest rim into New Mexico on the south."

It's a big place full of weird stuff. There's an alligator farm and a UFO viewing station. One small town newspaper in the valley gives monthly reports on UFO sightings. Everybody has a UFO story http://www.cyberwest.com/cw06/v6alwst1.html.

The first white people in the valley were Spanish explorers, who claimed it for Spain and were unconcerned, I suppose, about the already-present Ute Indians. The valley was the first part of Colorado to be settled by Caucasian people who towned up in present day San Luis. There are many who still speak the 17th century dialects of their Spanish ancestors.

It takes an hour to get to the bottom of the valley, where you turn right (west) and begin the approach to Wolf Creek Pass, the official transition to what Coloradoans call the "Western Slope," and the easiest route into Southern Colorado from the Front Range. The pass is on a Federal hazardous materials route, and has had major upgrades in the last 20 years, but used to be notoriously dangerous, particularly in winter. On the eastern side of the pass, the Rio Grande river heads east to Alamosa, then south into New Mexico. The river is called "The Silver Thread" where it comes off the pass, and again, has gold medal trout fishing.

Once over the pass, you realize you're not in the Colorado you thought you knew. Populations REALLY thin out. Due to the huge snowfall and watershed on Wolf Creek, everything in the Pagosa area is lush and green, as opposed to the super-arid San Luis Valley you just left.

Pagosa Springs is the first town you hit, a touristy place with some hot springs, mostly visited by Texans. For Coloradoans, Wolf Creek Pass is the big obstacle. There are other mountain ranges and destinations more easily accessed from the Front Range via I-70; not so many people want to do this long trip over the Wolf Creek to points south and west. But that's where the good stuff is, and where the tourist traffic evaporates.

All this stuff is true. I didn't have to run it by a lawyer. More about Mancos coming soon, I just have to get some more PTSD treatment from reliving the Senior Center, which of course, was entirely fictitious.

Next: The Road to Mancos part 3

The Social Columnist Part 3: The Aftermath

2009-12-01T11:07:00.014-07:00

So here's the thing about Mancos. In spite of a historically belligerent population, this is one of the most beautiful valleys in Colorado. The valley itself is wide and lush green with hayfields and cattle ranches.

The valley is bordered to the east by the La Platas, an offshoot of the mighty San Juans. The La Plata BLM government land is used for summer grazing by the ranchers, old local families that hold multi-decade grazing rights.

To the south spread the wide canyons and high mesas of the vast Ute reservation lands. There were early Mormon settlements in the southern canyons, and previous to that, Anasazi, or Pre-Puebloans found the area hospitable and stayed for 700 years or so.

To the west, about three miles out of town on highway 160, is the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park. The Pre-Puebloan ruins lie a few miles south on the high mesa road with many white-knuckle driving opportunities.

Ancient ruins are scattered beyond the National Park across Montezuma County, west into Utah and south into New Mexico. Rugged slick rock landscapes hide burial mounds and ancient shelters built into cliff faces. Deep canyons drop into the land - many you won't see until you're standing at the edge looking down. These formations provided shelter and building sites for the earliest population.

The Four Corners region, Montezuma County specifically, had a higher population then, during the "Pre-Puebloan" period, around 1100 to 1200 AD, than it does now. The PhDs have not figured out why the Pre-Puebloans left, but when they did, they didn't clean up prior to departure. Montezuma County is littered with pottery sherds, intact pots, buried and excavated kiva sites, cliff dwellings and artifacts. After rainstorms, someone with a sharp eye can walk a field and come back with bags full of red, white and gray pot sherds. Many have discovered extensive ruins and burial sites and thousands of artifacts on private property and ranch lands - some have bulldozed their ancient finds.

The ruins and evidence of the early people spreads all the way west, past Cortez, to the Canyon of the Ancients National Park and into Utah, to the south to Chaco Canyon, and east to Chimney Rock.

North of the Mancos Valley lies the Dolores river valley. The Dolores River spills off the high San Juans around Lizard Head Pass, near Telluride, then travels west and north to eventually join the San Miguel.

What does this have to do with the entirely, completely fictitious Joan Brown, social columnist for the non-fictitious Mancos Times?

Not much in relative terms, but through the wide-angled lens, one must ponder the long history of human relations in the region. The Pre-Puebloans not only survived, they thrived in the valley, and their population and culture grew. This would require social cooperation. But now the valley is considered by many to be one of the most contentious, quarrelsome spots in the state. The reputation goes back at least a century.

"I just don't know what it is about Mancos," people say.

Surrounding towns are peaceful. Durango, to the east, is a cheerful, beautiful college town with the vigorous Animas river running through its midst - world class, gold medal trout fishing. Durango is an old mining center turned prosperous tourist town.

Cortez, to the west, is a dry border town with a mixed population including plenty of Ute and Navajo people from surrounding reservations. There's a Wal-Mart, but alas, no Target, which is the sign of true civilization. Not even Durango has a Target. Cortez is dusty, but reasonably peaceful.

War-like rumblings have emerged from Mancos for over a century, and the name of the town, meaning "cripple" in Spanish, may have come from a Spanish missionary priest traveling through the area in the 1700s. The priest was crossing the Mancos River and supposedly injured a leg and limped for the rest of his trip. Did the Spaniard utter a curse when he fell in the river, dooming the valley to unending bickering, whining and un-neighborly behavior?

Did a Spaniard with a limp make Joan, the Senior Center folks and many others so irritable and cranky? Mancos residents tend, like all humans, to flock into smaller groups and friendships and have the opportunity to see the best in each other. But an outsider, with no long-term social or family affiliations, can’t miss the prickly attitudes bristling off the locals and the willingness to leap into feuds that last so long no one knows how they started.

Looking back, I considered how I should have handled things differently. I should have figured out the existing social protocol between the editor and the social columnist, but I partially blame Previous Editor, who gave me two days of instruction and disappeared for two weeks, leaving me stunned and overwhelmed. I didn’t have time for lunches with columnists – I could barely speak and had a paper to get to press. Previous Editor knew it was an accident waiting to happen, Joan and I, but he said not a word and left me to make a mess of the whole deal. We'll get to him, another entirely fictitious character, later.

Instead of driving madly cross-country and arriving in Mancos with just enough time to change clothes and get to the office, I would have given myself two weeks to acclimate, wander around, get used to living at 7,000 ft. above sea level, find a place to live and meet the players. This was not an option then - Previous Editor was leaving whether I was there or not.

I would have shut up at the Senior Center, and let the old people dump and unload until they had run out of gas – no pun intended. I should not have walked out and never returned.

But most of all, I would have tried growing thick cowhide all over my psyche, and would have reminded myself daily, regarding Mancos; I didn’t break it – I didn’t have to fix it. I would have found a way to dump the stress of getting jumped in the grocery store over an unpopular editoral, and learned to stop grinding my teeth at night.

Of course, I made this all up and it has no basis in actual fact or history. The persons depicted, of course, do not exist.

After a hint from a former boss....a new disclaimer

2009-11-30T14:24:00.001-07:00

Re: Mancos - The whole thing is made up. It's fiction. I lied when I said it was fact. It's all made up. Thanks for your patience.

The Social Columnist Part 2: To the Mattresses at the Senior Center

2009-11-30T13:03:00.005-07:00

Have you ever put a foot wrong with someone and never been able to put it right again? We try, with the best intentions, to correct random social flubs and blunders, but some situations can't be fixed. Depending on who you're dealing with, of course. There are those wise enough to look beyond a skewed first impression, and those who let it set like concrete. I may have played things wrong with Joan, the society columnist, but was hard-pressed to make them right. So I gave up.

Things started getting extra-weird with her. When I made editoral requests or corrections, I would receive return emails with snippy, pointed replies and demands for lengthy meetings. I was unaccustomed to having any writer turn smartass on me when I, well, edit them. It's not personal. It's how the deal works.

One day, in the midst of a volley of barbed-wire emails with Joan, I decided to drop in on the Mancos Senior Center tri-weekly lunch to chat up the retirees and put forth a little good will. Joan was absent, but the usual aging suspects were in attendance. This is how dumb I was.

Before this watershed visit, my view of the elderly, shaped by experience and training, was that they are basically kind, wise, emotionally mature people. I was raised to treat grandmas and grandpas with extra respect and deference. I'm over that now. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, but these days, if a retiree is nasty or impolite, the gloves come off. That's what I learned that day at the Mancos Senior Center.

It was an ambush. The first thing I heard was, "I've taken the Mancos Times for 40 years, and I've cancelled my subscription." Yikes. This was announced to the room at large, and was the first shot fired in real-time rather than email.

"Sir, let's talk about it. Tell me why you cancelled your subscription," I said.

"You spelled 'grasshopper' wrong," he said.

WHAT? I was speechless.

The real reason for his cancellation, and other incoming shrapnel, was quickly made clear. The seniors WANTED Joan's morbid and detailed announcements of locals' medical conditions. they WANTED the intimate, graphic details. They wanted blood, and I don't mean as a metaphor.

I also gathered that Joan told her cronies something like I had been beating her with hot pokers on her front lawn.

Only over-used cliches can describe the atmosphere; thick with hostility. Hostility you could smell like burning leaves. Hostility thick like pea soup. Hostility like Omaha Beach in WWII. Unfriendly can't describe the vibe.

That was when the cognative dissonance set in. I had never had an old person be really, overtly, blatantly super-nasty to me. Imagine Walt Disney with a switchblade in a bar fight. I was stunned, shocked, and quickly getting pissed. And defensive. And MORE pissed. And choking on words because I could not override my ALWAYS BE NICE TO OLD PEOPLE conditioning.

The director of the Senior Center Lunch Program saw the opening and took it.

"Why can't you let the medical information stay in the paper? The seniors really depend on it to know what's going on with each other, and it saves them from having to make lots of phone calls to figure out what's going on."

The director was a prime example of what I now call 'middle-aged hippie-women who attended EST seminars and never got the mid-80s memo that good manners and courtesy were back in fashion.' These women did things like run the independent private hippie school so children could master the art of composting.

The ladies made spotty showings at town board and county commissioner meetings. They were often enraged and hysterical when issues on the table involved recycling, unleashed dogs, coyote hunting, snowmobile engine noise and loads of other highly-charged political issues. Usually they were single and had arrived in the area during the 60s and early 70s to achieve lives of rural granola Grateful Dead geodesic dome organic dope-growing leather-fringed utopia.

"Well first, it's illegal," I told the director. Then I tried to explain the HIPAA Act and protected medical information. I added that the paper could be sued, and I could lose my job, and that personal medical information is SACRED, and NEVER, EVER publically broadcasted. EVER...at least out in the rest of the world.

"Well, I would think you would be willing to risk those sacrifices to let the seniors have information about each other's medical conditions," she said.

Right. That's me. The Joan of Arc of small-town newspaper editors, ready to risk life, limb, job, and any prayer of ever having another job so the seniors could find out who was sleeping with an oxygen tank and the millimeter size of somebody else's prostrate.

Then I explained that while we lived in a fairly remote, rural environment, there were still predators around who would be happy to know who would be in the hospital for a week, as this would make patients' homes easy pickings.

She wasn't buying any of it, and the decibals were rising fast.

I will admit I lost it with this idiot. Mea culpa. My bad.

I departed. There would be no cherry jello and meatloaf that day. I went to my sane and rational publisher.

"We cannot print that stuff anymore. It doesn't matter if they want it. We can't print it. I'm sure Joan is behind this. Hold firm," she said.

But word of the squirmish had already gotten to Joan. There was a Joan email waiting for me, asking for more money. Again. With intimations of a near-future departure if she didn't get better treatment and taken out to lunch and generally made to feel "part of the Mancos Times." It was best for all that I did not reply at that moment.

A few days later, at a newspaper fundraiser for the new library, my boss pulled me in the corner and whispered in my ear, "Joan Brown just asked Richard (my boss's boss and owner of the entire publishing company) for a $5 a week raise."

"Can I fire her now?" I asked.

"If you want," she said.

Richard told Joan that any financial arrangements were up to my boss and myself.

I didn't fire her. I had enough simmering scandal and was at a disadvantage. Joan was technically an employee of the Mancos Times. I was not at liberty to disclose any aspect of her employment, or our conflict, to anyone except my boss. I was handicapped and had to take the high road and stoically deflect the incoming, senior-tainted attacks. It was all about liability.

Next day, in an email to Joan, I called her out on asking Richard for a raise, going on the offensive for a change. She replied that she had no idea that this would have been a breach of protocol, and that didn't everyone get yearly raises? Wasn't she entitled? She ended with another threat to leave the paper.

I replied that if she wanted to leave the paper, that was certainly her choice. I refused to actually fire her - I called her bluff instead.

More threats of quitting came in following days. I persisted with the 'do what you have to do' response. Finally she broke. She resigned. I hadn't fired her. I was stupid enough to think I had won.

Next: The Social Columnist Part 3: The Aftermath and Lessons Learned

The Road to Mancos

2009-11-27T10:44:00.005-07:00

Boulder to Mancos is a nine-hour drive, but it’s a bad idea to mistake the map for the territory.

The map cannot possibly describe the variety of terrains, mountain ranges, micro-climates and cultures you pass through at 25 to 70 m.p.h. Nor does it prepare you for coming around curves where you are stunned by mind-blowing views and vistas. Views and vistas that stop your mind and your heart and force you to pull onto the dirt shoulder of the two-lane highway and get out and stare. This is a road trip that turns the most sophisticated, cynical traveler into a gaping tourist.

One route takes you over the Continental Divide three times. This is the most tiring line on the map – something about those high-altitude ups and downs and changing oxygen levels leaves a driver bone weary at the end of the day.

My preferred route is to go south from Boulder into Golden, a former mining town that now serves as the gateway to other former mining towns that were converted into casino towns when the locals entered a devil’s bargain with gambling corporations. But you don’t go that way – you continue south along the Front Range until you hit Turkey Creek Canyon, highway 285. Before you get to the turnoff to 285, you’ll pass lots of weird geological stuff like huge, red sandstone outcroppings and fenced-off, fossilized dinosaur tracks. You’ll see road cuts that look like tilted layer cakes in shades of burgundy, brown, yellow, white and black.

Once you head west on 285, you’re in a 45-minute negotiation with tight curves and steep grades combined with heavy traffic. Loads of people live in this area and commute to Denver, so you’re still in the city vortex. You pass church camps, retreat centers and convenience stores with overpriced fuel.

But when you finally exit the canyon, vast views of the Collegiate Peaks appear out of nowhere – the first jaw-dropper. Now you’re headed south, sliding down Red Hill Pass into South Park. What was once an ancient ocean floor surrounded by high peaks is now the setting for a cartoon comedy show, but there is no trace of Cartman, Kenny or Stan – just occasional gas stations, hunting outfitters, liquor stores and camp grounds.

It takes about 40 minutes to travel south to the bottom of South Park – in the lower part, the Arkansas River follows the road for about 10 miles. A little further down, and you’re at Poncha Springs, the jumping-off point for Poncha Pass, where you leave any remnants of rural/city commuter life behind.

Next: Poncha Pass and beyond

40th Parallel Base Line - An additional note for those who care...

2009-11-25T16:00:00.000-07:00

The Path to the Proper Summit of the Rockies
By John B. Guyton, PLS

The 40th parallel, surveyed in the mid-1800’s as the line that defines the border between the Nebraska and Kansas territories, was an important reference line for early surveyors. It was the basis of the United States Public Land Survey system used throughout much of the middle and western states, defining those neatly laid out squares that are clearly visible to modern day air travelers. The first mapping of this line across the plains became much more difficult when survey teams came upon a formidable obstacle, the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains. Baseline Road in Boulder, Colorado is aligned with the 40th parallel, where the high plains and the foothills of the Rocky Mountains meet. The 40th parallel intersects the Divide approximately 20 linear miles (as the crow flies) west of Boulder on a razor-edge ridge of loose rocks between Mt. Jasper and Mt. Neva.

On the lighter side

2009-11-24T13:18:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYqvLY79XQs

And now, some musical entertainment provided by John Thomas, a Mancos artist, songwriter and town board trustee. Thanks, John, you're a renaissance dude.

The Social Columnist Part 1

2009-11-24T11:01:00.012-07:00

When I took over the Mancos Times, I inherited a "society" columnist. "Society" and "Mancos" are a contradiction in terms, yet there she was, anxious to meet with me and discuss the "direction" of the paper, and her role therein. The notion that the Mancos Times, with its 700 loyal subscribers, was in need of new direction was absurd. A change in direction was the last thing the readership wanted, and the idea that the society columnist should be the architect of these changes was beyond ridiculous - according to me. I thought her role was fairly well defined - scribbling away about new babies, retirements and out-of-town visitors.

I'll call her Joan Brown. I met her at the Millsite, the "classy" restaurant in town. At first glance, Joan looked like a hostile, agitated finch. This impression did not improve over time. She gave me, a stranger, a full rundown on her physical ailments, which should have been an early warning. Then she complained about Previous Editor and asked for a $5 a week raise. I said I would see what I could do. This concluded the meeting. I guess the new direction for the paper was for Joan to get a raise.

Oblivious to the history of this particular land mine, I trotted into my publisher's office. She was my official boss, and another former editor of the Mancos Times. She had a deep understanding of the Mancos miasma of simmering belligerence and was never disturbed or shocked, but she drew a line in the carpet when she heard Joan's request for a raise.

"No. Absolutely not."

Then she did something deeply out of character - she dissed the social columnist.

"Joan used to be a decent sort, but she's done some strange stuff at events lately, jumping people and screaming at them," the boss said. The boss also mentioned that she wasn't crazy about Joan's writing, and that Joan had driven Previous Editor to distraction with demands for money, meetings and attention. It wasn't about the $5 a week, it was the principle of the thing, my boss explained. I grocked what she was saying, and didn't push the issue. I understood that Joan was a world-class HMU (high maintenance unit).

I arranged with Joan, via the relative safety of e-mail, to have her send her weekly column via the same e-mail. Things went along smoothly - copy about vacations, children visiting from college, etc. ate up the needed 30 column inches each week, and I was amazed and grateful she could find this much material every seven days.

Occasionally Joan would complain that I didn't appreciate her enough. I would reassure her that her hard work was essential to the survival of the paper, and that I not only valued her, I had submitted her insightful journalistic work for a Pulitzer prize.

Then something changed. Joan began sending columns noting Mancos residents' intimate medical details and conditions. So-and-so was home on oxygen. So-and-so was getting the stitches removed from their galbladder surgery on Tuesday (at 10 a.m.). So-and-so entered hospice, but hoped to be home real soon (?!?). It was getting creepy, and besides, it's ILLEGAL to publish privilaged medical information.

Joan's need for attention was growing. She was sending me e-mails saying she felt neglected and not "part of the Mancos Times." For her to be more a part of the Mancos Times, she would have to move into my house and help me type my notes from the town board meetings. There was no larger entity to be "part" of.

Her columns were moving beyond social drivel into covering local business and politics. Aside from being redundant, (this stuff was covered in other parts of the paper) it was NOT OK. I gave her some editor-style feedback on this, and she told me I was really just upset that she was "stealing my thunder."

Hmmmm. Never had I regarded the weekly toil of reporting on Mancos politics and economics as "thunder." It was more like a constant drizzle.

When I gave Joan feedback about reporting an individual's medical conditions, and why it was a bad idea for about a million reasons, she was furious. This led to the beginning of a major uprising at the Senior Center, a story for another day.

I now know there was no gracious way out of this quandry. Unbeknownst to me, open warfare had been declared by several Mancos factions, and the battlefield was to be my e-mail inbox - at least the early rounds. Of course, I made this all up. It's fiction.

Next: Social Columnist Part 2: Going to the Mattresses

To name, or not to name...and if so, whom?

2009-11-23T15:58:00.006-07:00

The previous Mancos town manager and I were catching up on the phone the other night. We giggled about blogging the naked Mancos truth, but then drew blanks on revealing the identities of the rogues gallery's most wanted. We agreed that names had to be changed, a) to protect the innocent FROM the guilty, b) to allow the incompetent to continue to believe they are functional, and, c) to keep me out of the witness protection program. Of course, I'm making it all up.

We agreed it best to avoid some of the darker, danker threads involving insurance arson, law-enforcement pay-off, women who court senile old men with large ranches, political corruption and dubious non-profits and fundraisers.

The fist-fight between the PTA president and vice-president will be included, as will the saga of the opera house of the damned and other controversies. We agreed that few should be exempt, including the former newspaper editor (prior to me), the atrophied hippie-women EST graduates that never got the memo on the resurgence of manners and courtesy in the mid-80s, and senior center members with arrested development issues. Just when they thought it was safe to come back out...stay tuned while I sort the dirty laundry. Of course, I'll be making it all up.

The 40th Parallel

2009-11-23T10:02:00.004-07:00

Running a straight east/west line through Boulder is Baseline Road, which also marks the 40th parallel north. From the east side of town, where it is intercepted by the rural Cherryvale Road, to the west, where it runs smack into Flagstaff mountain, Baseline road stays true to the imaginary line in a Jeffersonian mapmaker's head.

You can buy these paper star and constellation finders that are two disks attached to a little rivet - both rotate, allowing users to chose the date and time and then see what stars and constellations are featured in that night's sky. These paper star finders are all keyed to the 40th parallel, I suppose because the 40th is exactly midway between the equator and the north pole. There's a nice middle-path centrality to the whole thing, and when you stand on Baseline road, you can imagine, in a goofy way, that you are at the center of SOME universe, although others using that roadway appear to have no idea of the significance of their location - they're busy with life. That's how it goes.

A beginning.

2009-11-20T10:15:00.004-07:00

As a former pro writer and editor, I learned to live with assignments and deadlines. So habituated was I to those obligations that without them, I'm stymied as to what to write.

Now I'm back in Boulder running the family business, safe from the precarious world of newspaper and magazine publishing, but in danger of losing those writing chops. Friends and family nag me to "write something."...a little like having someone tell you to say something funny.

My last writing gig was as a small-town newspaper editor in Mancos, Colorado, 'Gateway to Mesa Verde'. Situated between Durango and Cortez, Colorado, and bordered by Ute Indian reservations, national parks and vast ranch lands, Mancos is a weird time-capsule of the Four Corners area combined with surreal characters and events. I used to describe it as a Southwestern Northern Exposure.

I'll sort through my memories and dig up some highlights. Readers may doubt the veracity of Mancos stories, but as one visiting editor/friend told me while he was there, "I thought you were making this stuff up. I can't believe this is real." Truth is stranger than fiction, which would be a more apt town motto than 'Gateway to Mesa Verde.' More soon.

Disclaimer: I'm kidding. I made it all up. That's what my attorney told me to say.