Sunday, July 16, 2017

RC Mayhem

   Radio controlled model aircraft have always held an attraction for me. I'm not sure what it is exactly about it, just one of those things that require your full attention, and not much chance of me hurting myself. It was an interest I managed to keep at arm's length for the better part of my life, at least up until my second childhood began about 15 years ago when I fell prey to the lure of a model airplane while shopping in the city. I was after something else there actually, but ran across this boxed-up little RC plane that just called out to me. What had got my attention was that it was powered by a re-chargeable lithium battery, a huge improvement over the noisy little fueled engines of before, and like many times in the past, I came back from town with something that I was managing quite well without before. I could hardly wait to get back to my airstrip to start enjoying it.
   The little plane was defiantly intended for entry-level idiots, with little in the way of assembly required, and the radio controller itself has but the simplest form of joystick and trim-buttons. After charging it up and a few exploratory taxi runs up and down the driveway I grew impatient and figured I had passed my flight training, itching to begin my flying career. I've been around real airplanes enough that I could get one in the air and back down again if the need ever arose, although I'm not so sure I would want to be along for the ride. Regardless,  flying a scale model from the safety of the ground was bound to be a piece of cake. The manual advised throwing it by hand rather than using up batteries to take-off from the ground. I stood out on my airstrip, making sure there was plenty of room around me, tree-wise anyways, the ground was always in the same place. I pulled back on the throttle toggle with my left and with the right gave the snarling plane a fling into the air.
  My first flying experience was that of a violent touch-and-go before I got my hand back on the flight control. It touched the ground so hard I thought the wings were going to come off. I jerked back on the first joystick I got hold of to get it as far from terra ferma as possible, sending it into a rocketing vertical departure.
Oh the joy of flight. The inverted loops and rolls, screaming hi-speed dives towards the ground, recovering at the last moment to straf the pilot out in the open, ducking and running for his life. Seeing that I was just trying to hold straight and level the whole time, I figured I should have done a few more taxi runs on the driveway, and read further in the instructions other than 'launching'. The excitement ended badly, about seven and a half minutes short of the expected battery life of eight minutes when I unexpectedly managed to tangle it in top of a tree. As if it hadn't suffered enough damage already, it then slipped from the branches and flopped to the ground below.
They say any landing you can walk away from is a good one.
I picked up the dangling remains of my new hobby, silently walking back to the workshop. 
   Over the course of a few evenings I managed to skillfully glue the numerous bits of the fuselage back together, using the picture on the box as an example. I couldn't wait to get out there and enjoy it again. Disregarding the instructions about launching by hand, probably due to the fact most people don't have an airstrip, I decided it would be safer to attempt a take-off. I figured I wouldn't hit the ground if I was on it to start with and only had to concentrate on the up. I hadn't figured on left and right though, the little plane veers from one side of the strip to the other, sending up a shower of cut grass and dandylions at the apex, then I hit something hard enough to launch my new hobby into the air, and the flying excitement began all over again. 
   A week later, it taking almost that long for all the glue and adhesive to dry after the not too surprising abrupt ending of flight number two, I was out on the strip again, ready for take-off.  By now it has so much glue and epoxy gobbed on, tape, band-aids and haywire and is so bent out of shape I wondered if it would even get into the air.  It was one of my finer flights actually, at least until the door covering the battery compartment fell off, the heavy lithium battery dropping out and flapping in the breeze at the end it's wiring harness. If the damn plane wasn't difficult enough to fly before, I really had my hands full now. Not too surprisingly, flight number three came to a quick but spectacular conclusion in the branches of a cedar tree. The plane emerged from the tree leaving it's wings behind, the fuselage with flopping battery arcs into the ground with an explosion of foam, plastic, band-aids and epoxy.
   I stewed about it for a year or so, thinking about my mistakes with the plane. I finally decided what I needed to do was fly helicopters, which are even more finicky, harder to fix, and more susceptible to hard contacts with the ground and stout vegetation growing around my flying area.
I had lots of fun with that hobby also, pretty soon I've got about four or five of the things in a box in various states of destruction. 
   So I stewed about that for a year or so considering my options.  I decided what I needed to do was get a radio controlled boat and avoid the hazards of flying. I've got the river right out front so what could be better than that, other than a net downstream. My first RC boat turned turtle in the current and disappeared down-river upside-down, the little prop spinning furiously and the rudder flipping side to side as I stood back on the bank trying everything on the joystick. Boats number two, three and four didn't fare any better, usually swamping while roosting up the rapids that you think someone my age would have enough sense to stay clear of, but that is where the most fun was of course.
After donating a fleet of jet-boats to the river, I figured maybe that wasn't the answer either.
   So I stewed about this for a year or two. I finally realized the safest idea financially was to invite someone out that had a radio control aircraft that knew what he was doing and watch him fly his.
An old buddy from my motorcycle racing days got into the hobby several years back and seemed the perfect candidate.
This is buddy Terry a few weeks back, and his new plane that he was rather proud of I might add, doing the pre-flight check. With nine successful flights and not a mark on it, I considered him a high time ace.
   The morning air was absolutely still, perfect conditions for an expert display of flying skill.
He was understandably a little apprehensive in what he called a 'confined area'. I assured him it was only confined where the trees were, several of which still bear the scars of past flights.
Due to my flying prowess I was appointed official video taker, to record the first successful flight at the Hotspringlodge RC Aerodrome, and I was eager to see how it was supposed to be done.
He pulled back on the throttle and the plane tore down the strip for what seemed like a few feet then leaped into the air, clawing it's way straight up to the heavens.
Oh the joys of aviation. The loops, barrel-rolls, and steep-banked turns, and to think that he was actually making it do those things on purpose! Quiet, powerful and responsive, I was thinking maybe I needed one too, but was going to have sell a motorcycle to do it. As is to be expected from any old buddies of mine sooner or later he began to show off, bringing the plane down lower and swooping past us and looping back in a spectacular fashion, which was making a lot better video and certainly added to the excitement. About forty seconds into the video I must of got a case of deja-vu, and you can hear me go "Oh Sh*t!", followed a split second later by that sickening sound as it impacted near the top of a tree. It was dead quiet there for a moment as we watched it slip from the branches and tumble down in chunks, white foam bits and radio servos littering the ground.

Fun while it lasted.
Gathering up the wreckage, which took two of us to carry, it was a silent walk back to the hanger.
 I guess it could have been worse, there was some salvageable parts to use for building the new one, like the tires, they survived, along with a few nuts and bolts. He took it as good as one could, but that's part of the territory, sooner or later your going to bend something, or worse. Terry will be back out soon enough with the replacement, but will probably stick to the club flying fields back in the Okanagan where there is considerably more elbow-room. This beauty was worth more than all the aircraft I've destroyed put together, and  have tempered most inclination I might of had to join the RC flying fraternity once more. For the time being anyways, but come to think of it, one of these on floats would sure be fun, after all I've got the river out front and all.
What could be better than that.


Saturday, June 17, 2017

Fathers Day, How The Years Go By.

   Certainly, the man that has most influenced me in life has been my Father. Although he has been gone for 18 years, more so than ever, I hear his voice in my words, see his features in the mirror, his humor in my stories, and his swearing when things go sideways.
   He spent his formative pre-war years at the family's logging camp at the head of Harrison Lake, driving off-road logging trucks before taking over management of the old Abbotsford Lumber Co. and dabbling here and there in real estate, and the old family tradition of mineral exploration.
Over the years he flew small planes, shot clay-pigeons and golfed for fun.
   He retired earlier than most, about the time his ticker started giving him problems. He did alright in life although he never got rich. He said once that to make a million dollars you had to be prepared to step on some toes along the way, and it was not in his make-up.
   Not always patient with us kids in the early years, or so we all thought at the time, we all had a fear of him which we have come to see as nothing more than a respect for authority, just like he had growing up.
But inside the man was a huge soft-core.
   From the time I was quite young, I recall him taking me around town and being impressed that men respected him, and sought out his company, and to me he was ten feet tall.
It was a point of pride when  I grew older, walking into stores having the owner greet me an say,
"Your Bill's boy."
   He gave me the two best pieces of advice I ever got in life. One was in the early 1960's while watching ABC Wide World Of Sports one Saturday afternoon. There was a motorcycle race on, it was an uncommon event to be shown on TV then and I was riveted to the set and what appeared to be organized mayhem, a strange attraction forming in my nine year old head.
"You see that." he said, bringing me out my trance and pointing out the obvious,
"The riders that keep their feet on the pegs stay under control."
And they did too. It was advice that I never forgot and when I grew older, I always kept my feet on the pegs. Still.
That advice worked for a lot of life situations too I found along the way.
   An avid reader and history buff, in later years he was most often to be found with a good book in the recliner and a cat curled up on his lap, and often joked that he was just a warm spot for a cat to sleep.
   He died earlier than most, 10 years older than I am now. The last time I saw him was shortly before he left, and he gave me the other most valuable piece of advice I've ever had. He asked if I had been doing any writing.
I said I hadn't been doing much lately and kind of sloughed-off the question.
He looked me in the eye and said, "Jesus man, you got to write."
And those, were the last words he spoke to me.
 1956, me at 2, up on the Big Guy's desk at Abbotsford Lumber Co.

 1969, me at 15, Westwood racetrack.

1980, me at 26, Dad visiting the Yukon gold-mine.

2002, me at 48. He missed meeting his granddaughter Caitlin by a couple years.

   Anyways. Happy Father's Day Dad. I wish the bugger was still around. Just once more, I'd like a chance to sit down and ask a few more questions.
I know how I'll spend spend part of Fathers Day this year. 
Like a lot of days, there on the recliner, with a good book, and a cat curled on my lap. 
A warm spot for a cat to sleep.

Monday, June 12, 2017

A Post For Anna.

    I've been having myself another one of my spells where I get distracted from posting something on here. I believe I set a record this time and it has been almost 3 months. Sometimes it gets to be a chore, or a job, both of which I've tried hard to avoid in life. I often ask myself what I get by keeping it up, and for awhile seriously considered over time dismantling the site and moving on to other things. 
   So I quit worrying about the old blog-site for awhile. I was getting kind of use to not buggering around with it and was starting to think probably no-one would even notice when a week ago I received an email one morning. It was from a reader in Sweden whom has left a comment in the past. Almost apologetically, and I suspect without a certain amount apprehension she inquired if I was alright, fearing I had suffered another heart attack.
   She might have speculated on the possibility of Mr. blog site falling prey to a bear attack, falling a tree on his dumb self, fell out of a tree, cut his head off with the chain-saw, stumbled into the fast moving river, got jumped by the cougar, bucked-off his motorcycle, fell into the creek checking his intake-screen and went over the falls, went senile and forgot his blog password, or maybe just got hauled off and put in a home somewhere. 
And there's nothing goddamn worse then checking some guy's blog to find the a-hole hasn't posted anything in months!
She didn't put it in those exact words, but I knew what she was thinking.
   So, to Anna in Sweden, I am fine as can be expected with this many miles on me, both mentally and physically. 
In my opinion of course, but they say you are always the last to know. 
   In closing, she mentioned some stories posted in the past, a few she found downright interesting, several had made her 'laugh out loud!' she said, and one in particular made her weep.
Which I guess is about the best compliment an on-leave blogster can hope for.
So I think I might just blow the cob-webs off the old lap-top and ease myself back into the job here at the Hotspring Lodge editorial desk.
Writing my blog password down someplace might be a good idea too.

Monday, March 27, 2017

For Customer Use Only

   Years ago when I was in the motorcycle business, I liked to arrive early to give myself a chance to get organized if that was possible, and enjoy a little quiet time before the day started. One morning not unlike any other I unlocked the business and walked in, the door making a 'ding' as it contacted the small bell we had attached above to warn us of approaching customers, and I took a moment to poke a code into the security system on the way by. Walking around the front counter I turned on the cash register and back in the parts-room I flicked-on the lights for the service area, checked the fax machine, and jabbed the switch on the coffee maker.
   I was standing there back at the front counter, with a fresh coffee, looking up some parts on the fiche reader. After a few minutes I was surprised to hear the front door go 'ding', that was a good sign I figured, usually a customer doesn't come in before opening unless they were going to buy something. 
   "Hey, how you doing this morning!" I said looking out from behind the fiche reader.
"Just fine thanks." he says politely, then looking about and sniffing the air oddly he adds "Nice store!"
That was a good sign too I thought to myself, beginning to speculate on how much of his wallet I could relieve him of before opening for the day. He wandered past a line of motorcycles, stops and admires an outboard motor, then zeros in on a new Honda 4-wheeler. 
"I've always wanted one of these." he tells me, which brought me out from behind the counter.
"You'd look really good on one of those." I told him hopefully,
"Hop on there, and I'll show you some of the features." 
He looked like he was going to get on and straddle the machine, then hesitated,
"I don't know that's such a good idea right now." he says, his face taking on a subtle anxious look. 
I realized I was going to have to work for this sale,
"Did I mention it has electric start?" I said, trying to get the ball rolling again. 
"Say." he says looking about with a certain amount of urgency,
"Have you got a washroom I can use?"
"Why certainly." I told him, "Its right there behind the counter."
   The building had originally been a small town bus depot, and whoever designed it had placed the washroom near the front of the building, that may have been convenient for a bus station, but the way we set up our dealership, the washroom ended up being right behind the front counter. I mean it was right there, within reaching distance. This had it's advantages, though I can't really think of one now, and it had some drawbacks too, of which I can think of several.
   One of those drawbacks became apparent after he had been in there for a minute or two, and I discreetly moved out of hearing range as best I could, although that wasn't entirely possible. The cacophony eventually subsided for a stretch, and then started up all over again with equal ferocity.
Finally, it got real quiet in there, and I heard the toilet flush, ...twice. 
"I bet he's glad to get that load off his mind." I chuckled to myself. 
   The washroom door finally opened and I picked up a brochure in anticipation of continuing our conversation where it had left off when nature called. 
"It's a 4-speed with an automatic clutch." I started in,
"You see right here it's an easy matter to engage the..."
"Thanks." he says staring straight ahead as he bolts past me for the door.
'Ding!' went the bell, and he was gone that fast.
I stood there for a moment, wondering about people, chuckled about the experience and started back for the counter.
   Then I walked into it, taking my breath away, the noxious cloud that followed in his wake. 
"Oh you rotten bastard!" I hollered after him, flapping the brochure in the air which only tended to spread it around the showroom with no sign of dissipating. I could see going back to the counter was out of the question for awhile.
Then the phone rang.
The phone was attached to the wall in a convenient location to the sales counter, right next to the washroom door. With an arm over my mouth I fought my way there and picked it up.
"Williams Lake... Honda" I managed to gag.
Some calls take longer than others, and this one under the circumstances was going on longer than I liked.
"Let me call you back." I said and hung-up the phone.
   I made the mistake of swinging the washroom door back and forth in an attempt to dissipate the aroma. Instead, it was like a cloud of green smoke rolled out of there, nearly knocking me off my feet, re-charging the offending cloud filling the showroom, and wafting clear out to the street I'm sure. 'For crissakes' I thought to myself, I needed to get this place aired out because I'd hate to be standing here if someone happened to walk...
'Ding' went the door-bell.
"Hey!, how are you today?" I asked the unfortunate soul that came in to pick up a part for his lawnmower. It seemed he was stuck for an answer, and with both our eyes watering, I tried to carry on the transaction like nothing was wrong, and to his credit was polite enough not to bring up the bad fragrance to the supposed source.
"Keep the change." were his parting words as he rushed for the door.
"Come again!" I called after him, although I'd be surprised.
   "Oh hell" I said, seeing the courier guy's van pull up out front.
'Ding' went the door.
"Delivery!" he calls in his usual cheerful voice, but by the time he got to the counter, any of that cheer had drained from his face.
"Here, let me sign for that quick and you can get on your way." I told him, scratching out a close rendition of my signature.
"Thanks" he mumbles from behind his elbow before making a quick exit.
 'Ring' went the damn phone again.
I had no sooner got off the phone when I hear the door go 'ding' once more, and I see one of the local ranchers walk in.
"Howdy" he says laconically.
"What can I do for you?" I asked, again making like nothing was wrong.
"Well...," he drawls, "You could start by hauling that dead cow out of here."
 So it went for several hours that day until finally the place got back to it's usual bad shop smell. About a week later I stopped in at the gas station down the road, and while filling the tank the owner and I were chatting about business, the weather, and the price of gas.
"Speaking of gas!" he suddenly exclaims,  "Watch out for the Phantom!"
"The what? I asked.
"The Phantom, he comes around chats you up and asks to use the bathroom and smells the place up something terrible! He graced us with a visit and hit the muffler-shop down the way, they chase him out of the McDonald's on sight, and he dropped a bomb at the coffee shop one morning, nearly shutting them down for the day. The owner is going to put the boots to him if he ever sees him around."
It wasn't long before a sign went up on the washroom door that read simply,
'For Customer Use Only'.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

March 15 My Birthday Today, And Others.

    Most folks consider this an important date in one's life, the one day of the year to celebrate your coming into this world, but after you have had a whole pile of them, they sort of loose their appeal I think. None the less, on March 15, this day back in 1954, in Mission BC, a child came into this world. His ambitious, studious nature carried him on to higher education, with great success in business affairs. Pragmatic, philanthropic, and a goal orientated member of his church and community.
A charismatic leader of men, and the desire of women.
   About the same time, over in the next room, my Mom had just given birth to me, and according to my older siblings, the doctor's words at the time range from "Good lord!", to "Good luck with that!". Mom says I arrived when I damn well felt like it, and still not sure if I was worth the inconvenience.
Truth of the matter was, I arrived before the doctor got there.
"Going to make his own way in life." were his actual words, before running off to catch up with his foursome back at the golf course.
Well, I never had much in common with that other chap, but all in all, things have worked out alright so far.

     I brought down a box and blew the dust off some old journals that I had almost forgotten about, and had a good chuckle seeing what I was doing on birthdays of past.
Just a few sentences, my entries brief usually, not much detail, and often understated.
I can still read between the lines though.

 Like this entry on my birthday in 1995, scrawled quickly by candle-light under a mosquito net out in the remote wild lands of Central America. I know I had a few Caribbean rums in me before hammock time, and was no doubt played out from the days activities.
    I see I had turned 41. I've drawn a little smiley face sun to signify the weather that day.
'Son of a bitch it hot today...' it starts. If it was hot and uncomfortable enough to mention right off, you can rest assured, it was.
'Accomplished quite a bit.' I state casually. That means I survived the day in one piece.
'51 guys on job today.' That's a lot of people running around the operation with no little amount of dangers, then feeding, entertaining and housing them all out there in jungle-land.
Never a dull moment for sure.

 Other entries, like 1991 when I was in the motorcycle business, are more mundane.
I see I just turned 37, and I thought I was getting old! I wish....
Coral Ann, the thoughtful and charming secretary had brought in a birthday cake she had made. I took advantage of the sunny day to clean up back of the shop. I probably would have gone out for a steak dinner that night, giving the bone later to my best girl Fang.

   My beat up 1981 diary describes my 27th birthday in the rough and tumble gold town of Dawson City Yukon, holed up in the Eldorado Hotel while I waited on parts for a gold drilling rig my partners and I were using to test some ground way in the hinterland beyond the Indian River. But for the meantime, I was cooling my heels in town, watching HBO in the room, writing in my journal and waiting for a reasonable hour to go down to eat before partaking in the real entertainment for the evening, the legendary Sluice Box Lounge.
   Anyone who was anyone in the gold mining business frequented this establishment while in town. More deals were made, more business was done, and more brain cells were killed there than anywhere else in town. I had a celebratory glass or two with dinner, so by the time I made my grand entrance through the swinging doors of the Sluice Box Lounge, I already had a pretty good dose of personality showing. Someone, I'd speculate it was probably me, let it slip out it was my birthday, bringing on trays of shooters and liquors from behind the hotel bar with attractive names like Sluice Juice, Moose Drool, and Sled Dog Milkshake. Names that are pronounceable, and easy to order, even when you have had too many.
   The Sluice Box Lounge at the time was home to a strange and well known Yukon tradition. As the story went, in the olden days out on one of the gold creeks a miner had froze his toes, one of which he self-amputated with the aid of his axe on a chopping-block out at the wood-pile. The shriveled toe eventually made it's way to town and sat for decades in a jar behind the bar at the Eldorado Hotel.
   At some point, a severely pickled customer decided to add the semi-preserved toe to his drink, thus, to the amazement of his friends, who probably came up with the idea in the first place, drank the first of what was to become the legendary Sourtoe Cocktail. Years later some character swallowed the toe, and believe it or not, someone else just happened to have a preserved toe and mailed it to Dawson City to keep the tradition of the Sourtoe Cocktail alive. 
It is that nameless woman that I have to thank for the following life experience.
   I don't know if the Sourtoe Cocktail was as much of a tradition, as another way to have a good laugh at the expense of some poor brute that has been primed just right. Back then you had to be sponsored by some well meaning person, certainly no self respecting inebriate would order one for himself. Debbie's parents worked out on the gold creeks, and she did the late shift behind the hotel bar. Over time she had developed a keen eye for young smart-asses in the proper state of mind for a good toeing. She had a consultation with Capt. Dick Stevenson, a local character, river boat captain, and keeper of the pickled toe. The revered jar was carefully brought down and set upon the bar, bringing a hush about the lively lounge patrons.
   For reasons I don't recall, my recollection gets a little murky around this point in the evenings festivities, but I remember the gang all gathering around while Capt. Dick fished in the murky jar with a pair of tongs from the hotel kitchen. Getting hold of a nasty looking blackened object he shook it off and plopped it into a fresh drink that sat before me on the Eldorado bar, pushing it down in the ice and giving it a stir with a tobacco stained finger. I stared snake-eyed into my refreshment, before leaning back on my bar-stool and addressing the crowd...
"Make mine a double!" I stated, getting a big roar out of them all.
   The enthusiastic on-lookers gathered around are to ensure you don't try to cheat and put your glass down before you get to the really good part with the old toe in it, and to give you the bums-rush toward the swinging doors if it looks like you might get sick, where the disgraced toe-partaker would find himself sticking head first into the snow bank out front.

    Rather painfully, I awoke the next day in my room, backwards in bed, older, and very much wiser. On the dresser I discovered a diploma for my performance the evening before, signed by the famous Capt. Dick himself, which I still have. Someone there knew how to spell my name properly, it sure wouldn't have been me, and it looks like the only diploma I'll ever get, so I display it proudly. 
In no few words, it proclaims me to be '...a person capable of almost anything.'
   At any rate, I hope to have plenty more birthdays, though I don't go out and celebrate them anymore I might have a birthday cocktail now and again, but no more drinks containing body parts.


Friday, February 24, 2017

Passing On The Skills

My daughter Caitlin has come out to spend some time with her old Dad at the hotspring, it has been 12 years since she was here last, almost a lifetime for her, and I've been beside myself showing her around and giving her a taste of life out here in the wilds. We had a good frost last night making a firm crust on the snow and figured today might be a good one to take her up and pass on some skills on how to survive in the mountains. 
   We hopped on the quad and charged up the mountain, stopping at the intake-pond to replace the screen that was washed-out in the storm last week.
"This is where I've been disappearing to when the power goes off at night." I told her.
I also told her of when she was very young, before the road up here was constructed, and during problems with the intake I often brought her up with me strapped to my back, straight up the mountainside.
I don't think I could do that anymore.

We continued up to a higher level at a look-out over the valley.
The first wilderness survival lesson was to remember to bring your axe along with you, rather than leaving it sitting back home outside the shop door.
Certainly that axe would have made life easier alright, but I managed to round-up enough more or less dry wood, piled it up on top of the snow and poked the lighter in there.

A one lighter fire, and after much blowing, a burnt mustache and a few lung-fulls of smoke we had a survival fire going, and it was time to forage around for a mountain lunch.

   Luckily we didn't have to forage any further than the trunk of the quad. I had forgotten my knife back home with the axe, but using the ignition key I managed to hack my way into the pack of mountain survival food. Roasting-sticks were located close by sticking out of the snow, broke off by hand and used un-sharpened. The knife would have come in handy for this also I reminded her.
   Well, not quite living off the land, but I thought it was a wonderful way to spend a winter's afternoon with your favorite person, and found time when we got back for a full-throttle thrill-ride down the airstrip on the rocket-sled, where the survival lesson here is to 'Hold On Tight'!

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Messin' With The Guests...

    There's been several outfits come and stay out in the guest cabin recently, and out here in the middle of Winter with no TV you need to come up with your own entertainment sometimes, or maybe small things amuse small minds.
I'll let the pictures speak for themselves...

   I don't know if I fooled anyone, or if anybody even noticed, but if they did they never said anything. I thought it odd that one outfit went home a day early though.

Groundhog Day, and Diggin' Out The Girls

   We survived the series of Mango Monsoons that rolled through here a few weeks back, then it colded-up all over again. This has been a real Winter this year and was looking forward to it breaking it's back and some milder temperatures prevailing.
   Centuries ago, in what is now Germany, folks got the strange belief that a badger could predict the weather, and planted their crops based on a rodent's reaction to a crowd of spear-carrying people standing there looking at him. According to folklore, if he sees his shadow on February 2 it will return to it's burrow for another 6 weeks, but if he doesn't Spring is on the way. The mindless custom was brought to North America and made more ridiculous by groundhogs with such names a Wairton Willy, Shudenacade Sam, Brandon Bob and others.
   No stranger to the mindless or ridiculous, I remembered the groundhog burrow that was not far from here, and seeing it was February 2, I thought it might be worthwhile to sneak over there and see if he might appear. So I took the quad over on the crust and parked myself there on the snow awaiting the appearance of our local forecasting groundhog, or whatever he is, 420 Larry.

   I was about to give up, thinking I had made the mistake of staking-out the bear den by mistake again, when suddenly the crust crumbled from beneath. Snow began to fly out in all directions, the activity coming to a halt for brief periods when a puff of smoke would rise up, and I thought I could hear some muffled ACDC playing down there somewhere.

Patience payed off again, capturing 420 Larry's emergence from his burrow.
Well I was as surprised as you are probably. Keeping in mind 420 Larry's track record of mis-forecasts, and the fact that if he had only turned around he would have seen his shadow, according to lore and Larry, Spring was just around the corner.
  But he didn't mention the horrendous dump of snow a week later. A thick white cloud descended on the valley few nights ago, dropping a couple feet of the lovely white pain-in-the-ass. Naturally all this snow falling in the creek up the mountain clogged up my intake and the power went off at 4 am. and I reluctantly got out of bed and slugged my way through the deep snow over to the pelton-wheel. It was obvious the screens up the mountain were clogged with slush so all I could do was turn off the main valve and let them soak in that mountain slushie up there at the intake-pond and see if it will loosen up enough to flow enough water to crank up the electricity the next morning. At least I hoped that would happen, I didn't relish the though of digging my up the mountain to service the intake-screen.

    I spent several hours the next day digging a tunnel from the house out to the shop and over to the wood-shed, and it was snowing so hard I could have used a shovel sticking out of both ends. The snow let off, and I dug my way back over to the pelton-wheel and turned on the main valve, the screen had shed enough slush in 4 hours that the generator fired right up. I turned my attention to the next priority, that being digging myself out of here, not that I had to go anywhere, but there was going to be a hell of a mess around if I didn't. 
   My poor old Tractor and main plowing machine has been in a bad state through all this cold weather we had. I keep a block-heater plugged in but failed to realize at some point it had gone on the fritz and not doing it's thing. So the tractor had frost coming off the engine block and it hadn't been above freezing for I don't know how long. I was hoping not to spend money on a new block-heater this time of year, if I can get this far along in the year starting the tractor is usually not a problem as any major snowfalls should be done with.  But I had a big problem now.
   Out of desperation I had put a heat-lamp underneath the oil pan in anticipation of the storm, but there was no way the old bugger would crank fast enough to catch.

 Within hours of the snow abating, it started to rain and by morning put an inch crust on the 2 feet of snow with water collecting in large puddles on the surface. 

   I went out this morning and dug a trench over to the tractor, fully prepared to drain the oil out and bring it in and heat it up on the wood-stove, and the froze-up old bugger didn't look encouraging as far as it cranking-up anytime soon. I hooked up the jumper cables from my pickup that was conveniently stuck right next to it, and thought I'd just give it a quick try, and to my surprise fired right up and settled down to a nice idle.
The heat-lamp and a day of above freezing had done the trick.

I got the yard and driveway passable, but it was about all the old machine could do to push the deep heavy wet snow.
The driveway taken care of for the time being, I moved on to the next pressing issue.
   The day previous, there had been a surprise knock at the door, a couple of gals had arrived for a night of camping at the hot spring, only to wake up in the morning with their vehicle buried under a couple feet of snow. Later that day, after what must have been a godawful slug through knee-high drifts they arrived on the door-step here inquiring when they should expect the grader to come and plow around the campsite, followed soon after by the sanding truck no doubt. 
I pointed at the 'grader', told them I had a light-bulb underneath, and with a little luck and some warmer weather there was a pretty good chance of me getting it going someday. 
The girls looked forlornly at the half-buried, frost-bitten, frozen old heap in the driveway, and must have thought they were going to be marooned for weeks, if not months.
Were them two marooned girls ever going to be glad to see me, and a good opportunity for a selfie.

Saved at last.
I broke a rough trail in there and got them out of their current situation, which was high-centered in a hole with all four wheels spinning, and back-bladed all the way out to the main road. Sorry ladies, your names went in one ear and out the other in all the excitement, I don't get out much, but from California by the plate and enrolled at Quest University in Squamish I beleive.

This is my favorite part about rescues.
Once the arms go around it always takes me a long time to take the selfies...
"Always take two!" I say.
"That one might have been blurry, we better take another."
"I think I closed my eyes that time... we better do that again."
"Let's try a few with me in the middle!" I suggested hopefully.
"Umm, we had better be getting along now." they finally told me.

   The formerly stranded pair hit the main road towards civilization, I told them they would probably run into a slide a ways down the road but that a real grader would be along sometime later that day to open it up, and off they went, and will probably never forget the time they went for an evening's camp at a hot spring in Canada.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Lost And Found, Camera Karma

      A number of years back now, when I was more involved with the day to day around the hot spring, I was down there one afternoon and bumped into a regular at the campsite who mentioned a camera had been left behind at one of the tubs the day before. That was nothing unusual, we were always getting left with stuff, but it was better than the USE (underwear-socks-empties) we were usually left with.
"The battery had a little life left in it." Rene said, 
"I took a look at the first few pictures, but didn't recognize anyone."
   Things were more casual at the campsite back then, and I suggested he leave it at the honor-box where anyone coming back for the camera would see it. I figured someone would come along that needed a camera and take it, or someone would just take it period, but the next day the camera was still sitting there. I brought it home and put in my desk in case anyone ever came asking, but it wasn't the type of camera you would drive all the way out here to retrieve, unless there was something important, or potentially embarrassing on there.
   One day months later in a fit of boredom I recall, I noticed the camera there in my desk drawer and I thought that idea Rene had of looking to see if you recognized anyone was pretty smart. I'm not so sure I would have thought of that, I hardly know how to operate my own camera let alone someone else's. The battery was long dead, but it looked like the charge cord needed was similar to an old camera I had around, which indeed it was. Feeling not quite right about the whole affair, I managed to get the camera turned on, then doing a quick shoulder-check, figured out how to bring up the display. 
   The first image was a group of people at some family celebration, holding up glasses in toast and certainly none I recognize. There were several more increasingly badly composed shots from the function, and I just about turned it off and put it down before fumbling ahead a few frames by accident.
Hmm, the open road, scenery, a summer motorcycle trip. This got my interest up, and scrolled through several more taken at stops of interest and smoke-breaks along the way through the BC interior it looked like.
"I bet they would sure like this back, with holiday memories and all." I thought, and was about to turn it off again, feeling disgusted with myself for invading someones privacy like this when I thought, what the hell, just one more.
It was a selfie taken of the ugly camera owner and his girlfriend.
I stared at them for the longest time, not quite believing.
"Oh hell," I said ..."Its those idiots."
   Well as it turns out, I knew this gentleman, using the term loosely, and his female companion. The pair had come under my radar over time around the hot spring a few seasons previous, which was never a desirable place to be if you had less than desirable habits. The reasons were plentiful, and the last time we met was when the pair of them were kicked-out of the campsite on a long-weekend, escorted outside the property-line, and advised to keep it that way.
They would appear out here in a black pickup, at least I was pretty sure it was the same a-holes.
I thought I'd better check a few more pictures to be sure.
   There were several taken of the bike by a roadside lake, with his girl posing suggestively in her amply stuffed halter-top.
And one or two of ugly him on the bike also I could have done without.
   The progression of vacation pictures goes along fairly innocently until finally coming to picture of the bike in front a cheap looking motel room.  There followed several of each other inside of the room, with a growing number of beer cans about, and a couple empty pizza delivery cartons on the floor, very much beginning to resemble their past campsites at the hot spring.
My eyes widened when the innocent nature of the vacation snapshots began to change for the worse, and not intended for others I would think.
"I shouldn't be invading these a-holes privacy like this." I thought to myself, then thought about turning it off before hitting the advance frame button by accident again I'm pretty sure is what happened.
   "Holy Mackerel!" I exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at the back of the Fuji camera.
It had begun to warm-up a little there in the motel room by the looks of things, and garments began to join the litter spread about the room.
"Holy... smokes." I sputtered as the action heated-up a few frames on.
Talk about tattoos in odd places, and a couple of those had to of hurt I would think.
I could have done without the zoom-action shots...I thought I knew what I was looking at, but then again not so sure what I was looking at.
   As I was afraid was going to happen sooner or later, ugly bastard figures out how to set the timer and sets the camera on the dresser to get his awful self in on the shots, which I could have done without also. His first attempts the camera must have been set on the 5 second delay, which appeared to be far too quick for this inebriated pair as they didn't quite have time to get into 'position' lets say. The next picture they moved faster and the stumbling duo almost managed to pull it off. They discovered the 10 second shutter delay that allowed them to get into whatever gymnastics were in order, and maybe get in a quick pull on the beer or drag on a smoke before the camera went off, ...but not always, and there was the odd off-balance tumble caught on there too.
   Like a train-wreck you can't look away from... I tapped the frame advance.
"Oh dear..." I commented on image 35.
"Oh gross!" I gagged a few later.
"Jeez...I didn't think that was possible." I pondered at one point.
"OMG!" I marveled at the next. 
Call them imaginative if nothing else, and I can only speculate on all the leaping back and forth that was going on in between with setting the timer and all.
"Eww...gross." I winced at frames 48, 49, 50 and 51.
I was pretty much speechless from then on I'm afraid.
I thought I had seen enough of these these two before, and I was seeing far more of them than I needed to now, and what had started as a weekend excursion had gone around the world a few times, among other things.
   Thankfully, the summer holiday memories turned back to scenes along the highway, and tourist spots along the way, but soon degenerated into another well documented romp at a motel, with some zoomed-in blurry underwater close-ups of some creatures out in the motel pool, I'm not sure what I was looking at. There followed a few pictures taken at home I assume, relaxing in the back-yard at the mobile home park, then the last few of the trip out here to sneak into the hot spring again,  leaving a mess and the camera behind.
    The following season I happen to have some bad luck with cameras, dropping one face first onto a rock, and then fumbling the newly purchased replacement into a creek. Recalling the a-hole's lost and found camera was shock-proof and obviously water-proof as demonstrated in the motel pool, I figured it had been sent to me for a reason. I dug it out of the drawer, charged it up and changed-out the x-rated memory card, and despite it's colorful history, used it to take all the pictures seen on Hotspring Lodge for the past few years.
But I'm done with it now, I bought a new one last summer for my Yukon trip.

I put it back in the desk drawer once more to hold for the owner.
I always keep a look-out for that black pickup with the dual-wheels down at the hot spring campsite, just for the pleasure of going over there with a great big grin and return their camera.
So, if this happens to belong to you, feel free to come around anytime and claim it.
And by all means, make my day, don't hesitate to ask for that memory card!

Thursday, January 19, 2017

A Frozen Mango Surprise.

   After my previous long-winded post on my antics keeping the electricity going during the recent arctic outflow you are probably wondering how its been going. Things finally got to the point where there was not much danger of further ice related problems up at the intake pond any longer and I could get a good nights rest. Probably the only worry I had beyond the chance of any more really cold nights, would be the chance of one of those wet Pacific fronts rolling in and raising hell with everything. And there was not much chance of that, or so I didn't think.
   No rest for the wretched, this past weekend a weather advisory was issued for the south coast about a large Pacific front due to roll into the south coast within 48 hrs. It was expected to bring about much flooding in the outside world, and certain to make life miserable for any poor bugger trying to generate his electricity off a mountainside. And of course the best part being that it would be the first of a series of three 'Mango Express' to pound into BC over the next few days.
   It was still freezing-ass cold, and as often as its happened over the years, it is still hard to believe that heavy rain was on its way, soaking through the mountain snow-pack and hitting frozen ground, then taking a direct route to the nearest stream. The increased flood washing ice, snow and debris downstream and into my mountainside intake pond, after sucking debris down the line it will clog the screen and shut down the pelton-wheel generator, then more than likely the rising waters will rip my intake screen from inside the dam, fling it over the falls and smash it to pieces on the rocks below. Just like all those other damn times.
   The smart thing to do in an instance like this is shut off the water to the pelton-wheel, light the wood-stove, dig out the candles then hunker down and wait out the storm like a chickenshit, then venture out days later and repair the damage when the water goes down. That might be the smart way of doing things, but not necessarily the cowboy way.
That last dump of snow we had really buggered my trail I had beaten-in up the mountain to the intake. But as it was there was no real need to go up there with things working so smoothly. But now with the Mango Surprise on it's way I needed to get up there and get something over the end of that pipe.
First thing the next day while it was still below freezing I went down and dug a hole to get through the bank the grader made. I didn't think I was going to get very far up the intake road but after much trying clawed and cursed my way most of the way up...
...and bogged down for what I hope is the last time this year, then continued  off on foot, once more.

I got to the intake and axed-out enough ice out of the pond to get at the end of the intake. I fished-out the open Winter intake and swapped it out for my monsoon screen. It has a tighter screen and an elbow that allows it to hunker into the edge of the pond, held onto the pipe by the force of the water and has survived some mean-ass conditions. Within 24 hours this would be a raging torrent.

   A few hours after I got back the first specks of rain began to fall, turning to a steady hard rain shortly after. Though still not that warm, the snow turned to muck, and the creek began to rise. By the next day, when the first of the fronts rolled in big time the screen was still doing an admirable job up there. That evening I had intended to shut it down like a chickenshit and wait out the worst of the night, and then turn it on the next day or whenever the creek had cleaned-out. Just when I was thinking about going over and shutting it down the lights started to dim.
   Getting over to the pelton-wheel shack I see the penstock pressure is down so as I'm not surprised, I know the screen up in the pond has been overwhelmed by slush and debris, and been sucked almost flat with the suction probably. I turned the main valve off, the water would slowly build up in the penstock again overnight, and once negative pressure was on the screen the pounding water would tend to blow it free of whatever was clogging it, and once cleaner water prevailed it would be safe to turn it on again. At least in theory. So after a night of roughing-it with limited heat and no lights I went over this morning and opened the main valve and spun the generator up to speed and it has been working like a top all day. And I suppose if I can get through tonight the worst of the storm will be over, I hope.

    The continuous rain has turned the road into a skating-rink. People are warned to stay off the roads, and without chains on each end your not going anywhere. Several outfits have been marooned at the hot spring, and several more are camped where they are out on the road next to their vehicles where they slid off. A grader from the logging outfit is working its way slowly out from town, going to be a few days no doubt before it reaches here.
 And the rain comes down.

Friday, January 13, 2017

The Icy Grasp Of Winter.

Although Winter got off to a slow start this year, we have certainly made up for it for the past month.
We've had several good dumps of snow, and continuing cold temperatures.

One day I'll get my tractor thawed-out enough to start and finish plowing the yard.

In for supplies to the big smoke.
Lillooet Lake, on the way to the city.

I came across one of the wandering horses there along the lake.

I stopped to chat and offered to bring a treat back for him on the return trip.
He stuck his big head in the window and blew out his nostrils, steaming-up my windows and glasses.
This freezing along the bluff at the head of Lillooet Lake is always interesting.

I should know better than to go to town on a Saturday, the traffic and parking was terrible.

As a person that generates his electricity from an already frigid creek, I could use a little less of this extended cold weather.
   But things have been going pretty good over there at the pelton-wheel shack all things considered.

 Usually if I'm going to have a problem with the system it will be up at the intake-pond, which is quite a ways up the steep mountain behind me. I had the open Winter screen on the end of the penstock and there had been no problems through out the first of the cold weather we had back the middle of December.
   There was one little event Christmas morning though when I awoke before dawn to a dark and rapidly cooling lodge. I leaped out of a warm bed, and it was awful cold when I reluctantly stepped out that door then took off with my foot-steps crunching on the frost. After some fiddling around over at the pelton-wheel it looked like an expedition to the intake-pond was in order. I didn't relish the thought of riding the quad and cranked up my stone cold pickup, the seats where hard and there was frost on both sides of the windshield when I got in, and it turned over rather slowly at first.
   As seems to happen more often than not, there had been pretty healthy dump of snow a few days beforehand, just to make my middle of the night Xmas excursion up the mountain even more interesting. I got going up the steep and narrow road and really had to put my foot into it to keep going in the deep snow. I hadn't gone very far off the main road when I come upon a tree across the road that had come down in the heavy snow.
Then had to back all the way the hell out of there and went back home for the axe. 
   I followed my ruts back to the fallen tree, got out and started chopping in the headlights. The tree was frozen solid, and I did warm-up considerably. I was only going to do one cut, and that section of tree that dropped into the snow was quite a handful to drag off out of the way. Glad the hard work was over with, I hopped back in the truck and started off once more, making it about 5 truck lengths before miring down in the deep snow for good.
   I'm a stubborn old cuss when it comes to getting the electrical power back on, and I backed all the way the hell out of there once more and went home, hoping the quad was going to fare a little better.
Well I had been damned cold riding in my pickup truck, and tearing down the road on the Honda quad was enlightening. Following the truck tracks, or as best I could, I passed the chopped out of the way tree to where the truck bogged down, and going like hell with the odd poof of snow coming over the front-rack into my face to keep me awake I managed to claw my way through the snow until it finally bogged-down to the axles and high-centered for good too. I dug it out with my hands and managed to get the pig drug around and pointed down-hill. I was hoping to get a lot further up that mountain I tell you, I knew I wouldn't make it all the way, but closer is always better. I untied the axe, sucked it up, and started the long uphill slug through the deep snow, in the dark, and at times feeling every month of my 62 years here on earth. But if a guy had to be out this time of day up a mountain-side in the pre-dawn cold, it was sure a glorious starlit night for it.
The road along the high ridge is often used by deer in the deep Winter snows, and also by the cougars that follow in their tracks. This fact is not entirely lost on me as I fight my way through the drifts, trying not to look like anything too far down the food chain.
   The problem at the intake turned out to be not too serious, with the aid of the axe once more I chopped a hole in the ice big enough to get at the screened water-intake, then holding the flashlight under my arm I fished around in there with a couple of hooked sticks and changed things out without falling in or anything.

 I climbed back out of the creek, which in the deep snow is a feat unto itself, and started off following my uphill trudge-tracks downhill. The sun had begun to come up and that frost-covered Honda looked pretty good when I finally reached it. I was glad I took the time to get it pointed in the right direction earlier, when I was warmer, and had far more ambition.

Soak them toes.
 I stopped at home long enough to get the pelton-wheel cranked-up to speed and all the heaters going then grabbed a towel and continued right on down to the hot spring for a Xmas morning warm-up, and quite proud of my old self for getting the electricity back up and running so quickly.

   A week or so later it got even colder, and once again I was awoken from my dreams in the middle of the night to an obvious lack of electricity happening. 
I got to go do something, or matters will only get worse.
"Oh Bastard" I muttered to myself, pulling on my outside gear. 
For some perverse reason, it had briefly warmed up a few days before enough to dump another big load of snow, completely obliterating my previous tracks up there. 
Some to my dismay, the frost-covered fuel-injected Honda fired right up in the pre-dawn... dark. 
They say the coldest part of the night is right before the dawn. 
And they are absolutely right. 
   Again, I knew I wasn't going to make it all the way, but it was a matter of as few trudge-steps as possible, and after many tries where I got impossibly stuck, got un-stuck and moving again, only to get stuck again, and backing up and taking runs at the unbroken trail I managed to claw and spin and swear the quad up the mountain. Not all the way of course, but with a bit of a frozen crust underneath got further up there than I did before, which I was quite happy about, even tough there was still a bit of a walk ahead of me. Before I left I managed to get the pelton-wheel running on reduced water flow, and I've been up the mountain at night many times over the years, but never when the plant was running, and on one section of the death march it was possible to look out over the cliff and see the yard-lights way down there. 
A lit-up oasis out in the middle of almost no-where, that I was keen to get back to.
   Skidding down the bank the creek to my nemesis the intake-pond, it turns out the creek flow had lowered in the cold, or some bloody thing and the intake was cavitating, or sucking air into the line and loosing head, and it dosn't take much to bugger things down at the pelton-wheel shed. The pond does freeze over, except for the whirly-pool part. I got a large section of ice chopped free and moved it over in place floating above the intake which put an end to the slurping whirlpool going on. Feeling rather proud of myself once more, I trudged my way back to my waiting machine, which even just being a little bit closer this time was a big improvement.

Several nights later...
   "Oh Bastard" I grumbled several nights later, when it got really really cold and the place was in the dark once more. 
I got out of bed and ran over and fiddled with the pelton-wheel, but there was not enough water coming down the penstock to bring it up to speed. In this cold I knew it was going to be a big problem and we were going to be down for an indefinite period. I went back over and drained the hot tub and all the water lines as best I could, those that hadn't frozen already. 
   One thing I've learned over the years, well theres been quite a few things, but one important thing I've picked-up is if there is any amount of water running down the penstock in extreme cold, don't turn it off. There was still maybe 60 gallons a minute coming down and thru the nozzle, less than a third of what it needs.
I decided there was not much I could do up the mountain, and figured I would see how far I could make it up there in the days light, fired-up the wood-stove and went back to bed for the remainder of the night. 

First on the list that morning was firing up the propane generator, it doesn't run the baseboard heaters, but it lights the place up and runs the fridge, Internet satellite, and CBC Radio.

A hole was chopped in the ice out front and water bucketed up for the kitchen and bathroom.

   That day I made it quite aways up the mountain, a bit of a crust had formed, not much of one but enough to get me up to within a couple hundred meters of the intake pond. I walked in the last grueling stretch and down to the intake-pond where it turns out a large flexible pipe that makes the bend out of the dam to the penstock has frozen from the outside in. The water in the creek is only 33 degrees, so it don't take much for ice to form. There wasn't much to be done, but as long as there was still some amount of water flowing there was hope, then returned home for breakfast.
   Later that day, I figured I better go back up there for another look, and seeing I had a trail beaten on top of the snow almost as far as the intake, it would be a quick late afternoon ride up and back.
I was a determined lad, and with no small amount of taking runs and wheel-spinning and abusing my poor machine I managed to crest the last little hill and ride along the last flat stretch and park above the intake, this was all getting too easy.
   I had the gas on full charging along sort of up on the crust a bit, pretty happy with myself, but you sure didn't want to stop or try to turn around. When I arrived at the creek crossing I got to thinking it was going to be a hell of a long ways to back the machine out of here, and got the sudden less than bright idea to charge on across the bridge and do a large circle around and come back and park.
It didn't take me long to realize I had just made one of my biggest mistakes of the week, which is saying quite a lot. I had a pretty good head of steam built-up but the machine gradually bogs down in the fine granulated snow, and despite my loud urging, the Honda mires down high-centered with all four wheels spinning freely in the snow.
"Oh Stupid Bastard!" I hollered a bunch of times while my Honda sat there steaming.
   So much for a quick trip up and back. I should have packed a lunch, and a shovel wouldn't have hurt either. My initial observation indicated that it was going to be a long walk home, and pondered the pros and cons of taking the long switch-backy road down, or simply skidding down the hillside alongside the penstock, which would be shorter, but I would sure be a snowy pissed-off mess when I got home.
   My memory isn't quite what it use to be, but I did eventually recall bogging my machine down once before within a few feet of my present location under very similar circumstances. That was a few years back now, it was such a bad day I wrote a post about it, all that sweating and stomping down  a trail. Yes that was quite a day.
I wish I had of thought of that about two minutes before, and compared to now, I was hardly even stuck then.

    The big problem is once you go through the crust, the wheels don't touch anywhere near the ground with the machine sitting on it's belly. So I start right in stomping down a trail out, which is hard work and breaking the crust just exposes more sugar-like snow.  I remembered the axe down at the intake, and scrambled down the hillside to get it, and I thought to grab the handsaw I keep there for cutting pipe or sawing a hole in the ice. The axe helped considerably in getting the crusty snow from out under the machine, and I ended up using the handsaw to chop-up the center crust. Theres no traction in that granulated snow, and I gave up at one point, figuring my best bet would be to get going for home as it was getting late in the day. But I'd start in again and move a foot or so. I tried driving ahead to get a run in reverse but I'd just get stuck up there, then have to re-dig and swear my way back to where I was.
    It seemed a hopeless situation, but they say if you can move an inch, your not stuck, and I kept at it, with the cooling-fan running and snow steaming off the engine I ground my way down to the ground eventually and so very slowly, inch by inch, I found myself out of the dip and back on the level. Somehow, after much sweating, swearing, digging and sawing I got back up on my tracks and very thankfully backed it all the way the hell out of there. After a couple days the water running down the penstock melted out enough ice from the inside of the intake to run the pelton-wheel generator and civilized living was once again established at the Hotspring Lodge. So you can imagine how pleased with myself I was to get things up and running after only 3 days down.

    It is still very cold out as I work on this post, things are working great, but when I go to bed at night, I got to wonder if my dreams will be interrupted by a power interuptus.
I sure hope not, theres been another big dump of snow a awhile back, totally obliterating any trace that I was ever up there under another foot of snow, making access to the intake-screen this time something I don't even like to think about. 
Most guys my age I know go someplace warm in the Winter.
But such is my lot in life. After almost 25 years of taking on the Bastard hill in Winter, I think I might just have to give some thought to keeping an eye out for an old snowmobile or dog-team or something next summer.
But that would kind of take all the fun out of it.
One of these days I'll get that driveway plowed...