I love people with ‘potty mouths’ as long as they aren’t full of shit.

Prospecting in the winter is as tough as it is during the summer months. One simply exchanges a broiling heat for frigid temperatures, as I very well knew.

The hill before me had a number of Pinion pine covering it and I wanted to see what might lay beyond it. While I didn’t expect much change in the scenery, I knew I was looking for that something that told me I might find a few gem stones, or a small gold vein.

What I didn’t expect was to find a coyote, tangled in a tree with a throwing-rope around his neck. While surprised at the sight of him, he was none to happy to see me as he bared his teeth as a warning not to draw any closer.

Once I understood what had happened to this coyote, I was instantly reminded of the poem, ‘The Belled Coyote,’ written by Bob Fletcher. It’s the poem on which Cole Porter based his 1934 hit song, “Don’t Fence Me In.”

So, I stood silently and watched him as he tried in desperation to escape the rope. He was having no success and it was obvious that he’d been at it for days, as his frame showed the gaunt ravaged of a slow starvation.

Realizing this, I felt for my six-shooter, thinking I should put him out of his misery, but the more I saw his struggle, the less heart I had to do so. There was something in his eyes and in his action that screamed survival and I couldn’t refuse the call.

Instead, I set about figuring how to release him from the predicament he had found himself tangled in. The first thing I needed was a long branch from one of the Pinions as I planned to use it to keep him at bay while I cut the rope from the tree he become entangled on.

As I knelt on the snow-covered ground, I could hear him issuing warnings in his guttural language. However the more I worked, ignoring his complaints, the more he calmed and the less he showed me his fangs.

Sizing up the rope, I knew I had to cut it as close to the coyote as possible, lest he end up getting entangled again. That meant untangling the rope from the tree or simply cutting it would be ineffective in the long run.

Knowing that my rescue of the coyote called for a different plan, I decided to withdraw from the tree and fetch some jerky from my pack. I tossed him a small piece, which he initially tried to run from.

Eventually, his nose caught scent of the meat and he began investigating it. After he gobbled it down, for the first time his ears perked up and he didn’t snarl at me.

After feeding him a couple of more pieces of jerky, I concluded that there was only one way to get him free – and that it involved perfect timing – because I might not get a second chance and worse, he could bite me. With my branch in hand, being dragged behind me, I worked myself up closer and closer to the beast, until I was about five-feet from him.

Offering jerky bits, helped alleviate his natural fear, as his hunger was far greater than his fear. Finally I tossed a piece of meat over his back and as he turned to retrieve it, I lunged forward with the branch and trapped his body to the ground.

To say he was unhappy is an understatement as he did everything he could to escape from where I had him pinned. Using the branch as a step, I held him tight to the ground and moved closer to where the rope embedded in his fur.

Then in a very uncharacteristic action, the coyote simply submitted as I quickly pulled the would-be noose from his neck and yanked it over his head. Then I sprung back, creating some distance between us.

The coyote jumped to his feet and raced off down the far side of hill. Laughing at how quickly he high-tailed it away, I shouted after him, “You’re welcome.”

Returning to the tree in which he’d been tangled, I set about working out how to unwrap the rope. It took me about 15 minutes, and once done, I began coiling it up, having realized I now had a new throwing-rope.

As I loaded my pack up, I saw my ‘friend’ had returned. I knew it wasn’t about coming back to say ‘thank you’ or anything like that – as coyotes, like dogs live in the ‘now’ – he knew I had food.

Then and there, I decided to leave him the rest of my beef jerky.

Not all ideas are not gemstones; some are costume jewelry, but are jus’ as useful.

Is anyone else having problems with adding blog sites to their WP reader?

I am have a terrible time with the feature. Sometimes, I will add a site and it’ll appear in my list of ‘Blogs that I Follow,” only to disappear when the site it refreshed or reloaded.

And then every time I try to add a blog through my WP reader’s manage page, I’ll get the green ‘Followed’ message, which disappears instantly, then replaced by: “Sorry, there was a problem following ____________. Please try again.” The blank is the web address of the site I’d like to add to my WP reader.

And so far, though I’ve reached out for help from WP and their Forum, I’ve had no word back about correcting this problem. This is so frustrating!

Being called ‘lazy’ is so demeaning — I prefer ‘selective participation.’

MAGA: Make Alexandria (Ocasio-Cortez) Go Away!

Minor flooding depends on what side of the creek you’re standing.

At first I planned to create a fiction story about my experience (maybe later on I will) — but then I realized, even as hard as it is to admit to my strangeness — it might do someone, somewhere, some good in knowing…

As a child I had a bunch of little quirks that made me an oddball, that isn’t to say that I don’t still sport some quirks, but I understand them a bit more and am able to manage them better. One strange thing that I had going on as a kid was a fascination with blue glass bottles.

There was a time that medication such as Vicks VapoRub and Milk of Magnesia came in actual blue glass bottles and I’d collect them. Believe it or not, I found the blue color of the bottles, coupled with the coolness of the glass as a calming device to my otherwise overly active mania.

Even stranger is the belief I held about those glass containers. I would breathe into them after I had completely scrubbed and cleaned them, thinking that I was transferring a bit of my spirit into them, before putting the lid back on them.

Over the years I had well over 125 different bottles, from the giant Vicks containers to the even bigger M.O.M. ones. I had them all neatly lines up in both the garage and in my bedroom that I shared with Adam, until I was 16-years-old.

One sunny summer day, following a long weekend of traveling for two different track meets in Oregon, I came home to find my collection gone. Mom had grown tired of it, claiming they were a waste of time, and had Pa Sanders take them to the dump.

It took me several days, if not a couple of weeks to get over this and the unwarranted fear that I was going to die because my trapped spirit was tossed out with them. Every time I see a blue-bottle, now days, whether it be plastic or actual glass, I recall those extreme days of summer and then laugh at my silliness.

Back then no one really had an understanding of manic-depression – of which I was more manic than depressed. Had anyone realized I was in such a state, they’d probably would have lobotomized me or something.

As a side note in 2016, The National Center for Biotechnology Information published a paper on the positive effects of Blue‐blocking glasses as additive treatment for mania. Such things leave me to wonder if I was onto something back then and had no idea.

As often is the case, when towns become increasingly populated, the local cemetery is eventually relocated to make more room. One such cemetery, once found at the foot of 9th Street, in Crescent City, California, is now known as ‘Brother Jonathan Point’ and ‘Brother Jonathan Park.’

In 1949, local Kiwanis Club members took it upon themselves to clean up the old cemetery and make it a historical landmark because the victims of the Brother Jonathan sinking were laid to rest there. It would take another 10 years to complete the task.

The Del Norte County Historical Society applied for what was known then as the Brother Jonathan Cemetery to be registered as a state landmark in 1955. The Rotary Club then “reconstructed” the site using 28 original headstones circling a flagpole on raised ground.

The only headstones belonging to Brother Jonathan victims are those of Polina and Daniel Rowell. The remaining 26 are those of various local residents.

Originally, purchased by the Masons in 1854, their records show that it had separate sections for Native Americans, the Masons, Catholics and the Chinese. One of the problems with early records involve the Chinese population.

As per their custom, they would bury their dead in the cemetery, only to dig them up to have their remains shipped home to China for burial with their ancestors. However, no one bothered to record these interments or their removal and the only proof that a body had been laid to rest, then removed, were the divots left behind following a removal.

Masonic records also show that it’s west boundary went to the end of ninth Street, the southern boundary to six street, the eastern boundary as far as A Street, which now encompasses Taylor and Wendell Streets. While building homes, in later years, contractor’s unearthed several caskets, leading to the speculation that some homes came to be built over undiscovered burials.

The wreck of the ‘Brother Jonathan’ on July 30, 1865, brought some of the 224 drowning victims to the cemetery. As many as 90 bodies washed ashore in the Crescent City area, with 66 people being buried in a mass grave, marked only by a row of pine trees.

As time went on, the cemetery fell into disrepair later described as a ‘jungle littered with stones broken by vandals.’ Finally, after a storm in the 1929, that brought caskets to the surface, the city requested that anyone with family buried there, re-inter them at the Crescent City Cemetery on Cooper street.

While relatives of the Brother Jonathan disaster collected some of their loved ones, it’s believed that some remains are still in the area, whereabouts unknown. The same can be said about local residents, as it’s thought that all the headstones were officially relocated, but not all the bodies.

There are no complete records on how many people came to be buried at the cemetery. In fact, there are no known official records before 1905, but after 64 years of use, it’s estimated that some 1,500 bodies were at one time or another, interred in the patch of land.

Reminder to self: never make snow-angels in a dog park.