Brain Fog at the Beach

So I was moseying around the ocean surf not exactly on top of my game.  A day earlier, while letting my mind float to the upper stratosphere, I mistakenly walked into the women’s room at the airport.  It took about two seconds to sense something wasn’t right - much too clean, then another very long second to realize my gaff and make a beeline for the exit.  In my defense, the two entry doors were side by side, could’ve happened to anyone.  My non-professional opinion is that either I have long covid fog, or it could be that my mind is still grappling with the fact that I’m now eligible for Medicare.  Lately whenever any part of my anatomy doesn’t work the way it used to I curse the aging process as well as my pitiful attempts to hold off the tide.

Back at the beach, I decide I’ve had enough exercise and head back up to the comfy lounge chairs and the protection of an umbrella…for my ever-increasing dome.  The hotel owns a small section of the beach and it’s their furniture that’s lining the beach.  It’s not too crowded people-wise, but from the surf staring back, everything looks the same.  This is not a problem as I walked directly from our chairs down to the surf.  And my wife is sitting in one of the lounge chairs closest to the ocean.  What could go wrong?

So I’m walking back up to the chairs, my mind securely planted in an alternate universe.  I sit down on the edge of the lounge chair.  The next enlightening sequence of events happened in about two seconds.  (Two seconds seems to be a common denominator when it comes to my ability to grasp embarrassing situations.) Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m hearing hands clapping.  It’s coming from down the beach.  It’s like background noise.  (Very similar to an experience I had when a judo teacher choked me into blacking out.  To get me to wake up, he was smacking me on the back.  I could first hear it as background noise in my subconscious.  The clapping noise had the same feeling.  In the judo case the teacher looked at me when I came to and said, “Now you are a judo student.”)  As I look toward the noise, I notice that the woman sitting next to me is NOT my wife.  For a split second I find it odd, as I can’t imagine why my wife would give up her seat.  Things begin to crystalize for me when the woman says, “I think you sat down in the wrong seat.”  There is a part of my mind that won’t accept the fact that I just sat next to a strange woman, when my wife was twenty feet away clapping like a maniac.

Next, I turn about four shades of purple, apologize and introduce my new friend to my wife.  I assure her I don’t do this on a regular basis…Not sure if she thought I was trying to make her feel special.  Who knows, maybe we’ll see each other in the airport bathroom on the way home.  In any case, Thinking this was a set up for divorce court, I ask my wife why she decided to try clapping to get my attention when I was about to sit next to another woman.  She said, “I was screaming at you, but you couldn’t hear me!”  (Of course I wear hearing aids, but decided that wearing them into the ocean was not optimal.  I do have moments of clarity.)  Then in an unusual moment of common sense I decided that I should shut my mouth and count my blessings, as things could have been a lot worse.  You see as I was walking back up to the chairs, while having my out of body experience, I had the brilliant thought that when I get to the chairs, I should suggest to my wife that we head back to our hotel room, sharpen our pencils and see about solving some complex math problems.  Always remember: Have Gratitude!

Problem with the Main Landing Gear

I had an interesting flight last quarter.  I arrived at Newark airport unscathed and sailed through security – Thank You “Clear”. (The best travel investment my wife has ever forced me to purchase.)   I was on my way down to Florida, hopefully for the last time, to close down my Mom’s condo and sort through centuries of her possessions.  I had just read Matt Paxton’s latest book, “Keep the Memories, Lose the Stuff” on decluttering and downsizing.  I’m ready to drain my soul of all emotion and ruthlessly execute my five-day mission at hand.  The first meeting I have is with a real estate person in the early afternoon.  She works within the condo community, so getting this contact cemented is going to be critical to the success of the overall mission.  

Back in Newark I look at the big board listing of flights to confirm the gate for my 8:15AM flight.  My flight’s not there.  Not delayed, not canceled, just not there.  I rub my eyes and reconfirm that I haven’t lost my mind…yet.  Immediately that all too familiar sinking, soul-crushing feeling consumes my body.  It’s similar to that feeling you get when the IRS sends you a letter in July.  I try to invoke the positive of positive thinking, do some deep breathing but it’s like trying to fight off Godzilla with a peashooter.   There is a 7AM flight that’s boarding but it’s due to take off soon.  I crank up the gray matter and determine that I’ll never get on that flight.  But at the same time, I fight off the overwhelming desire to make a run for it.  There’s also an 11AM, which will not arrive on time for my critical meeting.  In desperation, I decide there has to be a glitch in the system and the big board is wrong.  As I race to my supposed gate, the next two big boards I come across also have to be wrong.  I feel like I’m in one of those nightmares where you’re trying to escape the boogieman, but as luck would have it, you happen to be running in a shallow river of molasses.  I soldier on fighting off dark, anxiety-ridden thoughts.  I get to the gate that my “App” says the 8:15AM will fly out of.  Low and behold, there is an agent behind the counter.  I collect myself and as sweat streams down my temples, I calmly cruise up and ask the agent to confirm that we do have an 8:15AM flight.  She responds in the affirmative – Yahoo, I’ve outrun the Boogieman!  I explain to her the reason for my concern, the concern that almost cost me a heart attack.  She looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language and outside of our politicians, she does the best job I’ve seen in a long while of not providing a clear or acceptable response. 

No matter, we board the plane on time – All is well!  After about 20 minutes the captain comes on the airwaves and says they have some issues and it’ll be another 30 minutes before we take off.  Fine, I’m sitting in my seat and I’m one of two people on the whole plane with nobody sitting in the middle seat next to them - take your time.  Then the captain comes back on and says we’ve just been informed that this fix will take more than an hour, so get off the plane.  Not so fine, we file off the plane and they let us know that there is a problem with the Main Landing Gear.  I’m pretty ticked off because I can see that I’m probably going to miss my first meeting, flummoxing the overall mission.  And that I’m even entertaining the thoughts rolling around my noggin, that are: “What the hell, let’s give it a shot.  What are the chances that something catastrophic will happen?” tells you where my head is at.

After I calm myself down, I did think to myself, “Main Landing Gear?  How are they going to "test out" that what they did, actually fixed the “Main Landing Gear?”  Will they bring a large crane out and bounce the plane to ensure the landing gear holds?  Or are we all going to become United’s crash dummies for the day.  I’d like to at least see myself on one of those pre-take off videos where they tell and show you how United is making investments in their people and doing better every day.  Ultimately, I had to assume they knew what they were doing, because at that point unless I saw flames shooting out of the fuselage, I was getting back on that plane.  Long story short, we all survived.  

Fast Forward - With the mission completed I land back at Newark Airport.  I get my car from the daily parking lot…pay an obscene amount of money which for some reason is always a surprise to me.  I quickly validate that post covid Friday night rush hour traffic is back!  Some higher power must have determined that I needed one more test before getting home.  I’m envisioning some of my relatives who have recently passed looking down on me, trying to determine how thick my skull is, and betting on when my head will explode.

Some background that will help end this story - I turned Medicare enabled a couple of months ago.  And without employment, I came to the realization that “I don’t care what people think of me.”  I write whatever is on my mind even if my family has fits.  My choice of clothing has always been less than stylish, eclectic at best.  Now occasionally I’ll walk past a mirror and even I get startled.  But it’s all very freeing, I sometimes imagine what life would have been like if I had always lived it this way.

So on the drive home from the airport, I stopped in at my local liquor store.  They know me as the guy who comes in occasionally and each time buys one oversized beer.  (I’m an animal.) At this point I was both physically and mentally toast and knew I’d need that one beer to preserve my marriage.  After paying, the guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted a small brown paper bag to put it in.  I thought for a split second, turned down his offer and announced my new mantra as I walked out the door, with beer in hand.  Of course I had to go just a little too far and crack the can open as I walked across the parking lot to my car, where I was promptly arrested – Joking, but doesn’t it sound about right? 

What Not to Expect at the Dispensary

So a couple of months ago, in my local newspaper I weighed in on the notion that having a legal marijuana dispensary in our towns was not a healthy idea.  Having said that…I still feel the same way.  But recently I did have the opportunity to experience a New Jersey dispensary establishment.  For the last two decades I’ve battled insomnia.  I’ve tried just about every possible over the counter, under the counter, script, supplement and technical journal available.  Nothing helps.   So when a friend of a friend of a friend (could I be more vague) mentioned that they had the same insomnia symptoms that I was experiencing (and for those that are not aware, with insomnia, there is no “one size fits all” experience.)  and they tried the legally available mellow indica strain of marijuana in a gummy lozenge form, and it worked like a charm, I was intrigued - like a lot of intrigue.  But at the same time there was this voice in my head, not whispering to me, but speaking to me as if it was my father reading me the riot act.   Something along the lines of, “Are you really going to do this!?!  What kind of example are you setting?  And if your grandfather and I were still alive, we’d take you behind the wood shed so you’d understand that just thinking such thoughts is not acceptable behavior.”

I shake off Dad and Grandpa.  I’m in self-preservation mode.  At this point if a carnival came to town and the medicine man had an elixir, I’d buy it.  So I gather up all of the anti-insomnia product information I need – I keep telling myself I’m not doing anything wrong, and pump the location of the establishment into Mapquest (and Yes, Mapquest still exists).  The dispensary is about an hour south of our towns.   My GPS system takes me on a back roads trip that would challenge Lewis & Clark.

I wind up using my “Fast & Furious” driving skills to avoid missing the driveway of the dispensary that sits on an extremely busy section of Route 1.  The building is a single story and looks to be brand new.  Medical use customers get to park in the front parking lot.  Recreational use customers, my club, but I challenge that notion, we The Unwashed, park in the back.  Once I walk through the front door, any preconceived notion of what the experience might be like dissolve.  I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting, maybe a laid back Amsterdam coffee house lounge environment where concession people with product in tow walk around as if they’re at a ballgame selling hotdogs?   It was not like that at all.  The best way I can describe it is, a very clean, almost antiseptic environment where the operation has been set up and managed by efficiency experts from the Wharton School of Business.  When you walk into the lobby, you need to show a valid ID, proving your age.  They looked at me, and as I fumble for my driver’s license they simply waved me in.  Slightly offended, I walked through the next set of doors.  In this room there are a number of stanchions and ropes as if you’re on line waiting to get into the hottest Avengers movie on day one of release.  At the end of the maze of ropes is a gatekeeper, a pleasant helpful person, but no nonsense.  It’s this person’s job to allow you to approach a four-foot high counter that’s about 30 feet long.  There are about dozen people standing behind the counter who take your order and walk back behind a wall and reappear with your product.  Luckily I had scribbled on a small piece of paper exactly what I wanted and the person was extremely efficient about checking me out.  I’m not exactly sure what my experience would have been like if I had sauntered up to the counter and had said something like, “Well, what are we recommending today?”  Or “What are this week’s sale items?”  It was very much a “Know what you want, ask for it, we’ll bring it to you, and get out of our store…with a smile on our faces.” (Naturally I paid in cash because I still had 50 years of deeply ingrained knowledge that could not be erased by some trustworthy politicians telling me its okay now.  Oxymoron?)

So I leave the dispensary with my product in a bag, which I place in the trunk of my car.  I decide to drive to Stockton, NJ to a Craft Brewery owned by an ex-coworker. He’s a great guy who made the bold move two years ago to quit his job and devote all his time to making very good beer.  I thought that since I was in the area, why not stop by and pick up some beer and put it in a cooler in my trunk…right next to my other purchase.  Naturally for my 50 minute ride home, I had done nothing wrong, but still felt like I was on an episode of Chicago PD, and I wasn’t one of the good guys.

Final thoughts, the jury is still out on my gummies.  They might be helping some, but a significant influence on sleep is: 1) Am I drinking liquids past 7:30PM, 2) Do I think I’m still 35 and can have a large meal that starts at 7:30PM, and 3) Do I think I’m going to get away with having caffeine past Noon.  Folks, until that pill is discovered that turns back our bio-clock, grin and bare it.  And when you get past the irritation, just for a moment, be Thankful.

San Diego Five Peak Challenge

So for the last three months I’ve been diligently working at rejuvenating my more than slightly used mind and body.  I’m eating so healthy it makes me sick.  I work out just about every day to the point where I’m pretty much constantly in pain.  I want to hurt the person who coined the phrase, “Feel the Burn.”

I finally have an event that provides a “why”, as in why am I doing this to myself.  I’m going to connect with my son in Southern California and do the San Diego Five Peak Challenge.  The peaks are not Everest-like, but they do have a very challenging elevation gain in a short distance.  The trails are basically straight up, very narrow, rutted and sandy which adds to the fun.  The piece of resistance, there’s no shade.   But I’m not concerned, much.  For 90 days I’ve been working out as if I’m preparing for an Olympic Steeplechase event, I’m ready.

My first bump in the road, a 6:30AM flight to San Diego.  This required me to leave my house at 4:15AM.  Occasionally when I overthink things, like wondering if I’ll sleep through an alarm clock, I have trouble sleeping.  This flight was right in the wheelhouse of this neurosis - I got about an hour of sleep the night before.  Towards the end of the flight I decided to use the restroom.  It was right next to the small kitchen area that two of the flight attendants were working out of.  There was a person already in the bathroom, so it quickly became awkward just standing there in close quarters.  I decided to make some airline small talk asking if they are just going to turn around and head back to Newark once we land.  The attendant closest to me was friendly and said, no, they’d be heading up to San Francisco and then they’d be done for the day.  I agreed with her sentiment that it seemed like an equitable day’s work.  Before I could ask her if she really eats the airline food, the person ahead of me exited the bathroom.  It was time to awkwardly end my conversation and head in.  Just as I’m about to enter the bathroom, the stewardess who was at least half my age says to me in a very sincere voice, “If you need anything, just let me know.”  I pause momentarily, a bit stunned and think to myself, what could she mean by that?  I’m going into the bathroom.  I’ve done this for over 60 years.  At this point I’m a pro at it.  Or maybe there was some new state of the art voice activated toilet system and most of the people going in end up screaming for help.  Or, the scariest of all, she spent a minute or two with me and after careful analysis came to the conclusion that I was going to need help in the bathroom.  So much for eating right, getting healthy and turning back the hands of time on my biological clock.  

I leave the plane with my confidence shaken.  When I enter the San Diego airport mall I quickly stumble into a high priced boutique bakery.  It’s like Satan planted it there.  Sugar and plain white flower is everywhere…all good tasting things that I’m told are poison to my body.  I’m on autopilot as my sweet tooth is dragging me through the isles.  I felt like Superman after walking into a candy store filled with Kryptonite.  My will power evaporates and I buy two huge blueberry scones (rationalizing that the blueberries were healthy).  The scones are swimming in a delicious sea of pink icing; sugar content is off the richter scale.  Not wasting any time, I sat down in the airport and inhaled one of the scones in a few seconds.  Next I grab an Uber to the hotel and walk to the lobby coffee barista where I consumed a large cup of coffee (my second cup in the last 90 days).  Naturally not wanting the other icing slathered scone to go stale, that one goes down the hatch as well.  It’s official, I’m off my nutrition regiment. 

On day one of hiking we climb the two tallest peaks  (Cowles and Pyles).  It’s very sunny that day and I have no hat.  I wind up wearing the hoodie portion of a moisture wicking hiking shirt.  In my exhausted, delirious state I crown myself “Moon Knight” after the new super hero series being released that day.  Sadly, I was not feeling super at all.  When you step on the trail, there is a posted sign that says, “Bring more water than you think you’ll need.”  I think to myself, I’ve had this body for more than half a century, I think I know by now how much water I need for a hike.  I was wrong.  By the time we got to the first peak it was pretty clear I didn’t have the slightest idea who I was.  I certainly wasn’t Moon Knight, and I wasn’t Camel Knight either.  Coming down the final peak of the day, suffering from dehydration, I began saying anything that came to my mind, mostly the words, “Moon Knight.”  What would Moon Knight do in a situation like this…? In frustration, my son finally told me to shut up and put as much distance from me as he could.  When you’re in pain, its always a pick me up when you can effortlessly tick off one of your kids.

Okay, day one is completed.  I wake up the next morning and once I regained sensation in my legs, we head down for breakfast.  (I felt like my torso was sitting on top of two long gummy bears.  My lower back was a mixed bag of spasms.  With my new nutrition based lifestyle, painkillers are a no no.  Instead the use of herbs and voodoo are preferred.  I have packed both as I’ve found that the herbs work about 50% as good as Advil.  And the fewer Advil I take, they better they seem to work when not used regularly.)  

During breakfast we discussed the 2nd day of hiking, which I thought might be the last if we can fit the final three peaks into one day.  I rationalize this being doable as the final three peaks are the lowest in elevation.  My son looks up the five peaks on his iPhone and comes across a post that describes all of the peaks.  As it turns out, the first two peaks we did are the easiest…Ah come on, really!?!  The remaining trails have more challenging terrain and steeper inclines.  This is Perfect.  

We step onto the trailhead that leads to North and South Fontana Mountain peaks.  The good news is the weather is cloudy and cooler and we have plenty of water.  There is a decent hike to get to the vertical part of the mountain.  But when you do arrive at the incline, it’s up, up and up.  At one point, in between gasps for air, I strained to look up and thought I saw Saint Gabriel standing by some gates waving me on.  Or he could have been waving me off, who knows.  The trail is completely rutted and you need to look for clear spots to step on the rocks.  Due to the terrain and recent rains any footing is now covered with loose sand and gravel.  As my physical capacities begin to wane, I get creative by placing my hands just above my knees and push down, basically using my arms as a piston-like assist to keep my legs moving forward.  Moon Knight is nowhere in sight and I’ve abandon the herbs - I down three Advil.   At one point we began to catch up to a tall and rather large middle-aged woman.  She had extreme features and was not dressed in hiking clothes.  She looked as if she had just wandered off the street and decided to start mountaineering.  Added to that, she had a small dog hiking with her.  As we got close to her, she stopped and suggested that we pass as her dog didn’t like having people close behind.  So now I need to kick it into a higher gear and risk a heart attack as it wasn’t like she was moseying up the trail.  We pass her and in doing so my ability to sustain a more aggressive pace fades.  She’s now hot on our (make that my tail) as my son has raced ahead of me and I curse him for being 26.  This goes on for quite a while as I do not have the stamina to leave her in the dust, she and her dog are an unnatural constant.  At one point, my son came up with an appropriate name for her, “The Android”.  And from that point forward, whenever my son would want to goad me on, he’d reference how the android would handle a challenging situation.  I cursed him a lot during this trip.  Quick final note on the android:  She turned out to be a very helpful person who knew these mountains in detail and provided sound advice once we reached a decisive plateau.

We eventually get to a plateau called the Saddle, which sits in between Fortuna South and North peaks.  We hang a left and head to the South peak.  We reach the highest point on the peak and take our obligatory picture along side an official marker as proof we made it.  Now we have to come down the steep and treacherous backside of the mountain.  The review post describes the trip down as one that will turn your legs to jelly.  It was accurate.  The path down has what seems like countless large scary steps made out of rotting wood.   They’re covered in slippery grit and gravel with no ropes or chains protecting you from a sheer drop off.  There are large crows flying over our heads and occasionally landing on the edges of the sheer cliffs.  Again in my depleted and delirious state, I start incoherently spewing the words, “The Crow-ning” a shout out to “Schitt’s Creek”.  My knees and shins are toast by the time we get to the bottom of the mountain.  And my reward…Now I need to hike for a while and then climb back up the mountain and do the North peak.  I likened it to the phraseology, “Burn Your Boats!”  When you have no way out, you’ll find a way to succeed, or in this case get off this mountain range and back to a comfortable hotel room.  The day ends mercifully but we’re still missing the fifth and final peak, Kwaay Paay that happens to be the most difficult.

The final day was supposed to be a day of relaxation with leisurely travel back up to the Irvine area where my son and I would part and I would connect with some old school friends before flying back to Newark, NJ the next day.    I was thinking sleep in, grab a monstrously unhealthy breakfast, late checkout and then saunter up the 405.  Instead, we get up early, pack our granola bars and water, and drive to the Kwaay Paay trailhead.  Not too much is left in the tank from the last two days, but I’m chock full of the best over the counter pain and anti-inflammatory products modern medicine has to offer.

Since Moon Knight retreated after day one, our standard hiking routine became: After a short while on the steep inclines, my son hikes ahead and waits for me while catching his breath.  As soon as I reach him, he takes off again.  In gasping fits of outrage, I’m not saying anything to him, but thinking, “Are you serious you little snot!”  By day three I had had enough.  It took every bit of self-control in my being to keep myself from throwing rocks at him as he’d shuffle off after I’d reach him.  (He does the same thing in reverse when we ski together.)  We make it to the top of the final Peak.  There great views from all angles.  We hang out for a while, take pictures, inhale a granola bar and hydrate.  On the way back down we make the expected bet on how long it will take us to reach our car.  Then naturally, there are challenges over what times were written in blood by each, and finally, the associated lambasting of the loser.  As you can see we love each other, but having said that, I’m so hoping this new science about turning back your biological clock is not all smoke and mirrors. 

And now a public service announcement about cross country flying in the year 2022:  Airlines are not to be trusted.  So that Friday I connect with friends that I had not seen in ages.  We consume enough greasy food to give an elephant cardiac arrest.  And we wash it all down with a commensurate amount of adult beverages.  In my defense, my direct flight home the next day is at 12:37PM.  I ‘m seven minutes from John Wayne airport so I have plenty of time to have a leisurely breakfast and pull myself together for a comfortable flight home. I’ve planned ahead, what could possibly go wrong?  At 1:30AM I was startled awake by the “bing” alert of a new text message on my iPhone.  I get up to take a look.  It’s my airline telling me, “Hey, we really appreciate you business, oh and by the way – we canceled your flight home.  Go suck an egg.”  My new flight options are only connecting flights with horrendous layovers.  And all flights leave before 9AM. I’m in a state of extremely aggravated disbelief.  I pinch myself hard trying to wake myself up from this nightmare.  And adding insult to injury, the science experiment I have rolling around my stomach and intestines wants to weigh in.  I lie in bed for the next couple of hours, convinced that if I close my eyes, I will not wake up for my new flight(s) home.

I get to John Wayne airport and as I walk to my gate, I pass a direct flight to Newark, NJ.  Naturally my first response is, what the f…,this was not one of my options at 1:30AM.  I eventually get to the agent behind the counter.  In a very calm but direct tone I explain what her airline did to me and want to know who I have to bribe to get on this flight.  She explains to me that this flight is overbooked, of course, and that I should keep walking to the flight I already have a ticket on.  Thank You.

I’m getting on a flight to Denver.  And then once I’m in Denver, I have a 4 hour layover before getting on another flight to Newark.  I trudge onto the plane like one of the walking dead, which is probably what I looked like as my hang over has had a chance to settle in nicely.  On the plane I’m sitting next to a couple that appear to be a few years older than me.  As we’re landing in Denver they engage me in conversations asking where I’m going in the Denver area.  I take the opportunity to unleash my story telling skills and explain in excruciating detail the extent of the wrongs I’ve been enduring for the last twelve hours.  After listening to my diatribe, the man siting next to me says in a very sobering tone, “At least you’re getting home.”  And at that point I cancelled my pity party and embraced the good fortune that I have…begrudgingly.  

Long story somewhat shorter…I get off the plane in Denver and look up at the electronic flight departure board.  There is another flight to Newark that leaves in less than 90 minutes.  I can see no reason why I’m not on that flight and walk a short distance to the airline customer service desk.  The line of people waiting for satisfaction runs zig zag in the customer service area and then down the airport hallway.  It looks like what I imagine the complaint line was like on the Titanic after the iceberg.   I decide to hike the length of the airport and plead my case to the attendant at the gate of the flight I want to get on.  On the way down I come across the airline “Clubroom.”  I walk in, the air is cleaner, there’s no riffraff lurking about.  Everyone seems extremely pleasant and civilized.  I’m thinking, hoping that one of these fine people will listen to the heinous crime that was perpetrated against me, and in return, apologize profusely, hit a couple of keys on their computer and have me personally escorted onto the plane, handing me a glass of champagne as I sit in my 1st class seat luxuriating.  The pleasant lady at the desk listens to about half of my story, cuts me off and informs me that, at the Club, they do not have the ability to change flights.  I walk out and do an about face and head back to the customer service center…thinking that maybe all of the people on line gave up and left…as I did.  They were all still there and it seemed like their friends and family joined them on line.  There are about 6 kiosks placed at the outer edge of the customer service area.  A number of people are throwing things at them as the single airline employee assigned to help people use them does a good imitation of a sacrificial lamb.  It would appear that the airline cheaped out and bought an Artificial Intelligence system running at a first grade level.  After watching the mayhem for a while, in desperation I approach one of the kiosks.  I wrestle with it for a couple of minutes and the lamb comes over and tells me this unit must be broken.  I move to another machine and use all of the remaining patience I possess in an attempt to muscle my way onto the Standby list of the earlier flight.  When I finished I wasn’t sure if I put myself on standby for the flight I want to be on, or cancelled the flight I was already booked on.

I head back down the length of the airport to the gate of the flight I want to be on, it’s about to board.  I walk up to the lone woman standing at the desk by the gate and ask her if she could be so good as to tell me if I’m on the Standby list for this flight.  She says, Yes.  I’m truly amazed.  In a bolder move, I ask her how far back am I on the list.   The replies, “You’re number one.”  Now I think she just punking me or cruelly messing with me.  I say Thank You very much, and walk around the corner and purchase a very healthy looking yogurt parfait, as it’s the only think that my stomach will accept at this point.  I walk straight back to the ticket agent and ask her, “What do you think the Vegas odds are that I’ll be getting on this flight?”  She looks at me half surprised and half remembering who I am and says, “I had a ticket for you!”  The only word that registered in my mind was, “had” past tense.  Within a split second my mind is racing to a really dark space thinking, “You had to go and get that stinking yogurt parfait, you idiot!”  I look at her and say in an unintelligible broken language, “You had a ticket for me?”  She corrects me and says, “No I have it right here, it’s an exit row seat, is that okay with you?”  The human mind is a resilient, complex and amazing torcher chamber.  I immediately think this has to be a set up.  She goes on to tell me it’s one of the exit row seats where you have no seat in front of you.  I’m thinking if you really want to stretch your sado muscles, just tell me I have a first class seat and that I can sit next to the pilot and fly the plane most of the way home.  I’m convinced that as soon as I get into my seat, an Air Marshall and flight attendant will approach me before take off and pointing their fingers at me say, “Come on, you know you don’t belong in that seat.  You’re coming with us.”  After those thoughts ran through my brain in a fraction of a second, I responded to the gate agent telling her that I was training to be part of the upcoming US Olympic Power Lifting team, and that hurling a mere escape hatch would be no problem.

As the ticket agent is finalizing my new ticket she remarked how good my yogurt parfait looked.  I immediately offered it up to her, along with one of my kidneys for the work she did to get me on the flight.  She cordially took a pass on both.  Considering how I must have looked, I completely understood her reasoning. 

Of everything that happened, the phrase, “At least you’re getting home” is what has stuck with me.  It’s probably deeply embedded in an indestructible part of my gray matter.

Again, completely up to everyone, but if you’re looking to make a food impact to help the displaced folks from the Ukraine, the World Central Kitchen continues to make an outstanding, positive impact.  Donations can be made at: donate.wck.org

The Quest for the Holy Grail

Having recently dug into my second attempt at retirement I thought it might be time to get serious about my health.  No longer do I have the excuse, “I’m just too swamped at work.”  I had kept that one in my pocket at all times, and I really miss it.  But seriously, one of my priorities is heading off the less than graceful exit that some of my relatives have experienced (some well deserved and some not).  With that I’ve picked up a couple of books written by experts in the field of health and longevity.  Unfortunately there are no references to a pill I can take that will undo the 60 plus years of chilidogs I’ve inhaled.  Reading these books is like being back in high school biology.  I’m learning about the genome, epigenome, and sirtuins.  Lots of meaty topics that have made me a social pariah within my family.  But the good thing I have learned is that according to the experts, only 20% of your health fate is decided by your genes, your environment controls 80%.  Environment meaning: your diet, how you live (do you smoke and do you exercise), and your sleep. 

So as opposed to taking about $50,000 worth of state of the art tests, I picked up a book called, The Pegan Diet, by Mark Hyman, MD.  In short, it’s a book about fixing your gut challenges by eating: Organic and clean meats.  No processed foods, no sugars or artificial sweeteners (a killer for folks like me with a sweet tooth the size of a medicine ball).  Other No Nos: Preservatives, caffeine, dairy, starches, gluten and really, any kind of bread and what seems like common sense...don't put any ingredient in your mouth that you can't pronounce.  You wind up cooking all the time, which works swimmingly with my no patience persona.  Still, I’m all in and head to Dean’s Natural Food Market.  Once I get there I resemble a Roomba vacuum cleaner bouncing off the food shelves as I aimlessly search for organic vegetables and other food stuff that I can tolerate.     

To start things off I began a ten day detox regimen.   For ten days every morning and every evening I consume a chalky shake of sorts and four pills that smell and taste like bad cheese. Lunch was either clean chicken or a grass fed burger with: Sautéed/burned sliced carrots, celery, red onion, garlic and sea salt.  I ate this way every day, and just so I’m clear, EVERY DAY.   I call it prison food.  But here’s the upsetting truth:  I’ve been on this diet or food intake regimen for another ten days – the second time without the shake and pills and in both cases, when I’m on it, all of my digestive challenges go away…completely.  When I cheat and go off it, issues come back.  Sadly, it would appear that I will not be solving my chili dog sins in a month. 

But for tonight, I’ll be having Ben & Jerry’s for dinner! 

Poor me, right?  Completely up to everyone, but if you’re looking to make a food impact to help the displaced folks from the Ukraine, the World Central Kitchen is making an immediate positive impact.  Donations can be made at: donate.wck.org

How to Fly Fish in Utah

So an old fishing buddy and I connected at Salt Lake City airport and with our trusty brand new Toyota Corolla rental we head east for the Green River and Trout.  (the Corolla happened to be the first car each of us owned in the early 1970s.  Then it was like sitting behind a lawn mower engine wrapped in tin foil and plastic.  I can tell you that new technology can be a good thing)

The road trip brings you into Wyoming for a short while and then back into Utah.  From there you head south to a very remote area of the state.  This area is where Butch Cassidy and his Hole in the Wall Gang used to hang out in the late 1800s.  Today, this is an area of mixed land use.  It’s a high plains desert so there are mountains and interesting colorful rock formations.  Where irrigation is possible, some farming can be seen from the major roadways.  And when you get to the far eastern part of Utah (seems counter-intuitive for an east-coaster) the area becomes mountainous and vegetation more sparse, except for the sections where rivers still flow.  In these areas, cattle graze.  There is also hiking in the area that can be done at Dinosaur National Monument and Canyonlands National Park.  But the vast majority of recreational activity is fly-fishing for trout.  (Brown, Rainbow, Cutthroat, and the mixed species, the Cutbow trout.)  There are hatcheries in the area that sit next to the rivers, but in an effort to ensure a health stock of trout, the fish spawned from the hatcheries are shipped to other parts of the country.  They are not released into the local Utah rivers.

Just before arriving at our accommodations for the next four nights, we can see the Green river from the mountain top roadway.  There is also a dam on the Green river that looks like a miniature version of the Hoover Dam.  It was built in the 1950s creating a recreational area and prevents washouts of the river. 

We drive up to the Dutch Trout Resort where we’re initially greeted by set of gasoline pumps that can handle large trucks.  Their main office is located in a small, single story, strip mall-like building.  Just inside the main entrance it looks like what a 7/11 carries, lots of candy, tobacco products and old hotdogs and burritos are cooking.  At one of the end building is a full service fly-fishing store with just about every item you might need.  But more importantly for the moment, we are very pleased to see that the other end of the building has a sign lit up that says, “Steak House.”  It’s 6:45PM (8:45PM for me)and we’re both starving.  We decide to sit down to eat “a steak” before checking in…that and the restaurant closes at 7PM.   The proprietors of the restaurant let us that as much as the restaurant will be closing shorting, they can service us in the kitchenette area as long as we’re ok ordering from the counter.  We’re fine with that.  They could have told us we’ll be eating off paper plates using chopsticks.  Our main focus is getting high quality protein into our systems to reenergize.  So we’re standing at the counter, menus in hand and pick out our desired cut of steak.  We’re promptly told that they do not have those steaks on hand.  Disappointed but keeping a positive attitude, we review the menus again.  Before we can make our second choice, we’re told by the woman behind the counter that they are currently out of “all” steaks.  We find that hard to believe as the neon sign on the outside of the building still screams, “Steak House.”  We’re told that they are (we are) dealing with a delay in their steak shipment.  We respond that along the road we past any number of cows that could solve the current supply and demand issue. Could be we were not the first people to suggest this as they did not find it amusing in the slightest.  The woman, trying to cover all her bases also tells us that they are out of onion rings too.  Another restaurant employee walks by and upon hearing this contradict our liaison telling her, “Oh we do have onion rings.”  Not to be demeaned in front of customers she retorts, “No you’re wrong, we’re out of onion rings.”  They almost come to blows and decide to take this critical discussion back to the fry cook.  He works behind a concrete wall that has a small window.  The window is large enough to pass a plate through, but you’d need to be a real good shot to if you wanted to throw the plate back through it. Couple of minutes go by and the one woman who was so sure there were onion rings to be had, came out with her tail between her legs and in a low tone, enlightened us that there were no onion rings available.  Our original order taker reemerges, now completely vindicated.  We still have a, “what is there to eat issue” to deal with.  We settle on burgers, figuring it’ll be a somewhat close cousin to the steak.  Based on the chisel marks on the burgers it looked as if they have been frozen together for centuries.  And once we convinced them to scrape off their special sauce, they tasted that way too.

The next morning we head back to the main building and decide to try our luck with their egg burrito and coffee.  It was a gutty move but the gods seemed to be with us as no repercussions were had.  We have beautiful clear skies and for mid September in this part of Utah it’s warm.  It’s more than warm, it’s hot.  We connect with Carl, the fishing guide we’ll be using the following two days.  Aside from suggesting where to fish on our own for the day, Carl also gives us some recommendations on where to get digestible food for dinner.  We each stock up on two liters of water and a couple of packets of fruits and nuts.  We’re headed to a section of the Green River called Jones Hole.  We pack up the Corolla and get some final pearls of wisdom from Carl.  We ask how long is the drive.  He asks us what we’re driving.  We say, “A Rental…”  He cuts us off and replies, “Ok good.  You can make in under an hour.”   

The temperature climbs quickly into the 90s.  It’s a high plains desert so there is no humidity, but when you’re in the sun it’s toasty.  You play this game of trying to walk in the shade even if it takes you off a path - anything to stay out of direct sunlight.  As we’re walking in the brush we came across about a dozen pronghorn sheep.  They’re very close and your initial thought is to try to pet them.  Then thankfully the more sane part of your brain takes over and tells you, “Hey Einstein, these animals are not pets and could easily butt you off the side of this mountain. 

If you’re right on the river you often need to walk through briar patches to get down into the river.  The scratches from these bushes are sneaky in that when you’re first scratched, outside of the initial scrape, it’s no big deal.  Then about 30 seconds later, like the delayed reaction from a Jalapeño on your tongue, your skin begins to itch to the point where you want to scratch it off.   With that, in spite of the heat, I decided to wear my chest high thick rubber waiters the whole day.  I walked around in my own personal sauna for 6 hours.  Knowing that we’d never have the will power to not inhale both liters of water if we brought them with us, we each left one in the car.  At the end of the day we finally get back to our car that’s been sitting in direct sunlight all day long.  The water bottles we left behind for an end of day refreshing cool relief were hot to the touch.  My friend accurately remarked, “It’s like drinking hot tea.”  Lots of lessons learned that day.

The next day we’re with our guide.  Carl grew up near us on the east coast in the Pocono Mountains.  He’s been a professional guide for decades out west in Montana and now Utah.  Having a guide is a great experience.  Let me rephrase that, having a good guide is a great experience.  First, he has all the fly fishing gear you need.  No worrying about the one crucial gadget you left home that every fly fisherman needs.  He has it all and more.  And he has a three-person rowboat specifically designed to handle the fast moving waters of a river filling with temperamental and athletic fish.  The guide sits in the middle of the boat and each fisherman stands at the ends of the boat.  The boat is shaped like a miniature Viking attack vessel with the ends curling up.  This feature makes it easier for the fisherman at each end to lean against something as you’re standing in a fast moving boat.  Without it, the heaving fast current would easily toss you overboard.  The captain of the vessel sitting in the middle is expert at steering the boat by maneuvering the oars and muscling the boat into the best trout-casting position possible.  There is no motor on the boat, it’s all skill and strength.  

So between the two of us, my friend is about an eight on the fly fishing skill Richter scale.  I sadly am a three on a good day.  As much as back home I’ve had a professional put all new sets of lines on my rod, and I’ve watched a couple of knot tying YouTube videos (multiple times each), I still suggest to our guide that if you’re going to offer up any special pearls of wisdom about fishing on this river, my friend is the guy who’ll get the most out of it.  

So we launch into the river and as much as I’m hopeful, I’m pretty sure that the fish on this river are smarter than me.  And with my meat and potatoes approach to fly fishing I set my expectations for landing large trout on the realistically low side.   Fairly quickly I get a hit  - I’m stunned.  I land a respectable size fish that we think is a trout.  (And to be clear, our guide scooped him out of the water and took the hook out of his mouth, which bothered me for all of about three seconds)  Turns out it was not a trout.  It was a Mountain Whitefish, not of the same royal lineage as a Trout.  I still feel pretty good about the size of the fish, and the fact that a fish, previously on my hook actually made it into the boat.  Soon after I hooked another large fish.  But this time as the fish jumps through the air, miraculously still on my hook, the guide alerts us that this is a large brown trout.  (For those not educated on the various species of trout, one puzzling detail is this:  Brown Trout are not brown at all. They’re really a bright gold color. They look magnificent, which is another reason we try our best to preserve them.  I was dying to ask someone for a point of clarification on this detail, but out of fear of potential ridicule I opted not to.) My adrenaline kicks in - batten down the hatches and lower the sails we’re in for a fight!  The next couple of minutes become a pre-beginners tutorial on fly fishing in a boat.  Instructions from my guide range from how to stand, where to stand, how to hold the rod, what angle to hold the rod at; and where to put my fingers on the line.  After landing this trout and taking the requisite picture, I would have been satisfied with the whole trip if I had not caught another fish.  But the reenactment of the beginners guide to fly fishing went on all day as I caught one trout larger than the next.  At one point our guide, trying to keep from laughing said to me, “You’re doing everything wrong, but just keep doing it.”  Unfortunately due to the rural surroundings, not a lottery ticket could be had for purchase.  

Fly fishing is not like other types of fishing where you might either be on a large party boat with very comfortable seats, potentially having an adult beverage until someone hands you a rod with a fish on the end of the line; or where you might be on a quiet lake in a row boat laz’in around, chewing on a piece of hay, waiting to see if the bologna on the end of your line has attracted a fish which is generally validated when your bright orange bobber submerges.  With fly fishing you will not be hauling in the largest fish on the planet. And as much as trout are generally beautiful fish, there are more colorful ones in the ocean.  With fly fishing there is constant work involved.  It’s man vs. trout.  You need to be focused - always.  Mentally drift for a second and the fish of your dreams will come and go and you’ll beat yourself up for days about what should have been.  There is always ample frustration between snags, complex knots, low hanging tree branches, and falling into fast moving rivers.  With fly fishing there is always a ton of exercise to be had.  You’re never in one spot for more that a couple of minutes.  You’re constantly walking in water while fighting the current.  Or, trying to figure how to get across a river without being swept away while attempting to retrieve your “lucky” fly that’s hopelessly tangled in a briar patch. (Picture near the end of the movie, “A River Runs Through It” where Brad Pitt has hooked a monster trout and refuses to give up on him, even though he’s being carried down stream by Class 4 rapids)  Temperatures range from the absurdly hot to numbing cold and then my favorite, cold with a steady rain. And there is always the never-ending parade of trophy fish that got away.  You are constantly trying to improve your casting expertise, as that skill is foundational to having any chance of success.  Being able to tie a decent knot is also critical and from there, the depth of your continuing education will depend on how good you want to get.  You’re reward:  Spending hours in nature, generally with spectacular views without interruption.  If you allow it, you get a chance to experience and immerse yourself in something mentally and physically revitalizing.   You get a feeling of accomplishment in finally being able to cast and land a fly exactly where you want it on the river.  It’s very much like the weekend golfer who has a horrible round but makes two good shots on the last hole and feels it wasn’t such a bad day. And extremely important, being able to have a number of belly laughs over the tragic failures of the day.  I’m expert at that part.  The icing on the cake though: if you catch a large one that jumped through the air a couple of times and made you earn the right to land him.  Those experiences will make a lasting impression on the gray matter. 

At lunchtime we pullover to a small inlet at a quiet area of the river.  My friend and I get out and stretch while our guide unloads his miniature grill and a couple of small folding chairs from the boat.  He quickly sets up and cooks some very tasty chicken cutlet sandwiches with all the fixins.   It was great to take load off and just sit, eat, and enjoy fishing related conversation.  

 Our guide has a good sense of humor that my partner in crime and I both appreciate.  We ask him if he can tell us some good stories about some of his more famous or outrageous clients.  He refrains from calling anyone out, but does tell us about some clients that seem to expect the guide to have scuba men beneath the surface of the river waiting to put fish on their hooks.  And then there are other customers that refuse to understand that unless there is some effort on their part, the fish will not oblige.  Many people see an Orvis commercial of a man standing in a shin deep pristine river, schools of trout appearing to perform synchronized swimming all around him.  He’s preparing to cast and he has two football fields of fly line sailing up in the air going back and forth as he strokes his rod.  It’s a great video and you really want to jump right into it.  But realistically, trying to control that much line is a near impossibility for mere mortals.  I once found myself in a similar situation where I had a good bit of line out and trying to control it only led me to release even more line out.  It’s kind of like a gambler who can’t stop.  He’s lost a good bit of money but figures with just one more large bet, all previous failures will be erased and the world will be great again.  And after rinsing and repeating a couple more times, he finally crashes and burns in spectacular form.  As my casting extravaganza progressed, for a very brief moment I was impressed with myself thinking I could be on the Wide World of Sports, or the new Netflix show, Trout Hunters.  But by the time I realized I had no more line on my reel it was way too late.  I had fifteen pounds of fly line dancing above my head.  I had so much fly line up in the air it seemed dark, as if locust covered the sky.  During one of my final strokes I felt something touch the side of my nose.  But it wasn’t until I had already violently cranked the rod forward that I realized it was the fly on the end of my line, the fly with a hook in it.  To make a long story short, my reaction time was deficient and the hook dug into my nose and pulled agonizingly snug as the line inertia finally caught up.  Good news, whenever my kids have suggested that they might be interest in a piercing, I’d whip this story out and go into excruciating detail of what’s involved in putting a hole through your nose.  It’s never failed me.

We finish lunch, pack the boat up and head back out.  We look down river and can see a bull moose feasting on the vegetation along the riverbank.  What’s amazing is that there is only 20 feet of greenery on either side of the river; the rest is rocky desert, yet it’s enough to support a large moose. The whole morning I’ve been at the front of the boat and my friend has been fishing off the back of the boat.  I’ve been catching a lot of fish, my friend…not so much.  We had talked about switching places for the afternoon, but my friend graciously suggests that we keep the same positions and tomorrow, our last day, we’ll switch.  That afternoon I continued to catch fish and my friend…nothing. 

Our last day of fishing brought us to a spectacular section of the river that had soaring high cliffs that surrounded the river on both sides.  When we stopped for lunch we had a chance to look up at the top of the cliffs which are well over a thousand feet up.  Eagles were gliding around the pine trees that lined the tops of the cliffs.  Due to the significant distance away, we couldn’t tell if they were bald or golden eagles.  Even with the iPhone camera lens cranked, they still looked like flying ants.  At a certain point in the day, dark clouds rolled into the area.  Shortly there after lightning bolts began to strike the tops of the cliffs.  Due to the closeness of the strikes, the thunderclaps that followed were almost immediate.  And due to the canyon we sat in, the amplified noise was something like what you’d expect Armageddon to be like.  Initially I thought, maybe it’s time to pack it in and avoid being fried.  But the storms came and went for a good part of the day and after a while they just became nuisance entertainment.  Another point of having a seasoned guide, Carl suggested we pack our waders and a light jacket for the trip, just in case.  Those items kept us dry and comfortable during the intermittent down pours.

On this final day of fishing we’re now doing a type of fly fishing called, “nymphing.”  I had heard of it, but was always too embarrassed to ask what it was.  So I found out that not only is their a fly that sits on top of the water, but there is also a small tiny black fly that has a separate line and sits on the bottom of the river after you cast.  On this particular part of the river, it’s the nymphs that the trout are hitting.  To understand what particular nymph is correct or to understand where and how to connect this separate line takes a some knowledge and skill, something way beyond me – air go the guide who was only more than happy to rig you up with new line and flies if you happen to snag your line on the bottom of the river.  He explained to us that he’d rather loose some cheap line and a fly than have us snap the end of his rod off, which he repeated to me often. 

So on this day, my friend who sat in the back of the boat the day before and caught nothing, was now in the front of the boat.  From my rear position on this new day I caught more trout than I could have ever thought possible.  Our guide ran out of funny quips and just reverted to shaking his head in disbelief and chuckling periodically.  Unfortunately my friend’s luck did not improve.  At one point we took a picture of him with a four inch trout he landed – a very good sport.  But during the last twenty minutes of that final day, my friend switched to a traditional dry fly that floats on top of the water.  He proceeded to hook a very large and determined brown trout.  The fish jumped through the air a number of times but was still on the line.  Every time the fish was reeled close to the boat, he’d miraculously become rejuvenated and bolt.  This went on for what seemed like an eternity.  At a certain point he planted himself in some thickets at the riverbank.  We couldn’t get the boat next to him, so our guide jumped out of the boat with net in hand.  As he approach, the fish spit the hook at him and raced to freedom.   The landing to take the boat out of the water was about 100 yards away so the day was done.  Carl felt bad for my friend  (I had my mouth shut) and said he was really sorry about losing that one.  My friend replied, “Not your fault.  If it was, we’d be having a different conversation right now.”