lost trails

The Alberton Papers, Vol. VI, #IX
By Dick Darne 5-27-08
This article will be about how I turned a five day trip to Portland into high adventure. (And sorta made me feel young again.) The main characters are me and my faithful companion, Nellie the Wonder Dog and a few people I met on the way.
The first one I met a few days before I left, a gentleman named Richard, who was cycling from Bend Oregon to Duluth Minnesota. He had a rest stop here in Alberton, where he told of his adventures spanning several weeks since leaving Bend. He told of some trails that were there and some a little hard to find. Since some of these trails could be useful cycling to Portland, I decided to check them out along with Nellie, since she is in intensive bicycle training.
We cranked up and loaded the old Volvo and headed west on I-90. The first stop was in Couer D’Alane, where the trail runs to the Wash. State line and joins the Centennial Trail, which runs along the Spokane River to River Park. First problem; no overnight parking anywhere around CDA except pay parking at the Inn. Great! Public money builds trails and you can’t get away from paying somebody. Washington side is much better, except no overnight parking but a note on the windshield and a cell phone number should keep the tow truck away, according to some locals. Things are looking better, this would be two days riding, now I only need a cheap motel.
Now to find the elusive trail from Spokane to Tri-Cities. We stopped in Cheney and on the way to city hall we came onto a bicycle shop that also was a music store and an animal house. The owner didn’t know much about the trail but he was a good enough salesman to sell me a combination picking stool and guitar holder. City hall sent me to the trail head which was unmanned, so gleaning what we could from the posted map, Nellie and I headed down the back roads through the wheat fields. Our combined sense of direction sort of led us down the wrong road, which was surprising, since it sure seemed we were going right.
We finally crossed the trail many miles down the road but had no idea where the interstate was. The postmistress in a town smaller than Alberton tried to send us back to Cheney then informed us we were so far off the interstate that it made no difference which way we went. We finally got back on track, but we would never make it to Portland in time for my granddaughter’s play.
It was not a good time to cycle in Portland, it being the monsoon season. We got Nellie some heavy traffic experience and while it was close, she didn’t dump me onto the pavement in public. Pain is tolerated easier than embarrassment. While resting in one of Portland’s many fine parks, I met two cyclists, Lester Miles and Roosevelt Smelmore. We’ll save them for later, as I’m running out of space. Also we checked out the Montana side from the pass down and it deserves an actual expedition, coming soon to a newspaper near you. Anyone up for some riding? No speed demons need apply. dd

level of incompetence

The Alberton Papers, Vol. VI, # VIII
By Dick Darne, 5-20-08
"So, tell me,"said Johnny, "do you suppose Gno’s rant upset anybody?"
"I imagine a few of the diehards who are without much sense of humor." replied Bill. "of course most of them are pretty well disconnected from reality anyway."
"I think most of them have allowed their intellectual facilities to atrophy from watching too much Fox News, especially O’Reilly and Hanninty." added Todd. "The sad thing is they have been used and they don’t even realize it. They form the ‘enabling base’ for one of the most corrupt administrations in history."
"Enough to ruin one’s breakfast, just thinking about it." said Bill. "You know, I’ve done my share of drinking in my day and came up in a family of hard drinkers, so it’s not hard to spot a guy hitting the sauce pretty heavily, or a dry drunk at the least. I really believe the shrub is drinking again."
"That’s not good." replied Johnny. "At his best, it’s scary knowing his finger is on the trigger, if he’s hitting the sauce, that’s really scary."
"Here’s something else to think about," said Todd. "Remember the ‘Peter Principle?"
"Sure do," said Bill, "One is usually promoted until he can no longer handle the job, which becomes his ‘level of incompetence’, and there he remains."
"Well, it looks like the rules don’t apply to the members of the ‘Bush Crime Family’ or he’d still be mismanaging Arbusto." said Todd. "He’s probably set some kind of record for being in over his head."
"All of this is intended to stimulate some kind of discussion, bring things out into the daylight, maybe some friendly banter and exchange of ideas, but if anyone gets upset, we, as collective thinkers should offer some advice." said Bill. "Go ahead, Gno, you tell the nice folks."
"Well, just don’t read it unless you have some chamomile tea handy. Don’t waste the rest of this fine paper, read everything else but recycle this part. Line the bird cage. Pick up dog poop. Start your fire. Highest and best use.
Oh mister block you were born by mistake.........." as Gno went out singing.
dd

Willie Sutton

The Alberton Papers Vol. VI, #VII
By Dick Darne 5-6-08
The education of Me and cousin Freddie, ch. 4
After the two-finger earlock gently guided me to the Principal’s office, I was presented as a troublemaker, even though I was convinced that I was brightening up an otherwise dull day. Freeing people from their daily hum-drum existence. Maybe some sort of folk hero. Alas, after being given one last chance for the umpteenth time, I blew it by a string of daring escapes from the classrooms, this time without the help of Freddie and earning me the new monicker of "Willie Sutton. Now, you younger people might not know who Willie Sutton was, so I will explain. Willie was to bank robbers as the Mona Lisa is to art. (If you don’t know what the Mona Lisa is, consult an art expert). Willie, when asked why he robbed banks, replied: "because that’s where the money is." Willie also escaped from prison several times, only to rob another bank, get caught again and get sent back to the calaboose. Maybe he was best at getting caught.
Later in the spring, almost at the conclusion of the school year, I was sitting in class on the second floor of our huge old high school. Matter of fact, all my classes were on the second floor, to prevent escaping out the window. My reputation was suffering, the guys were hurling disparaging remarks like rapier thrusts. "They got your little a.. now!" "You’ll never get outa here!"
With all the bravado I could muster I retorted: "Oh yeah, see that tree limb out there, I’m going out the window, down the tree and outa here!"
All their words of encouragement terminated with the old standby: "I double dog dare you, you chicken!" this could not go unanswered. The window was on the way to the pencil sharpener, the teacher was oblivious to her environment, busy reading a romance novel or something, so after a few trips, I had the ventillator glass out, (you oldsters will know what that was) the window up and countdown about to begin. Only one small problem, looking out the window, I calculated the height above the ground to be several hundred feet at least and the limb at least thirty feet away. To the chorus of "chicken, barrrrk-barrrk, etc. honor and duty overcame fear. Also stupidity overcame good sense, so out the window, on the limb and down the tree, leaving a good bit of my own bark but regaining my good name. One glance back before the mad dash to freedom made it all worth it. Not so much the looks of admiration from my peers, but the look on the teacher’s face. No matter, thanks to the telephone, I was dead meat when I got home.
You young folks out there, please don’t try this, I was a trained professional. dd