Finding a path to more patience and a way to increase helpfulness was an unexpected benefit of volunteering my time at Westernaires.
I had an interesting conversation in the tack room yesterday.
It was one of those great talks that keep replaying in your head and it highlighted how helping Westernaires has unexpected benefits.
I was asked about a post that I made on the wrangler Facebook page. It took me a little while to remember it. (Here’s the full post from Thanksgiving Day: “Thankful for the hardworking wrangler crew at Westernaires. It’s easy to learn from and work with such a positive and helpful group. Without question learning to understand and work with horses has made me a better man, a better father and husband and an overall better person (I’m much less of an ass now…I know, right? You should have seen me before!). Happy Thanksgiving everyone.”)
The question I got was: How am I a better man, a better father, a better person—now?
There was a momentary flash of annoyance and frustration in my head—I’d walked into the tack room to fix a door, to get something done, to check something off of my to-do list, not to talk. Fortunately, that unhelpful feeling quickly faded. Standing next to the still-broken door, I took a breath and thought about the question and how I could answer it; and looking back I’m so glad that I did. How can I be helpful here?
For many years, on any given Saturday you’d have found me sitting in the car or on the bleachers impatiently waiting for my daughter to finish her ride. All that waiting was inching me towards insanity usually only seen in career politicians. I was spending time with my car, not my daughter. So we signed up together to be wranglers. I won’t be bored, I’ll be able to walk behind the scenes and I’ll get to spend time with my daughter. Lots of things to check off my list there.
A year later, I find myself not in my car, but standing in the tack room thinking about my life and what’s different now. And in a mental montage that someday may be worth watching on a streaming service I realized that working with horses has changed me. Or maybe I have changed so that I can better work with horses.
I’ve always struggled with finding patience—with myself and with my children, my wife and the world. Patience is a trait that goes over well with horses—they are huge fans of it. If you slow down, are purposeful, think about things from their perspective and try to teach something in several different ways, your success rate will improve. Time doesn’t mean a whole lot when you are learning to bridle a horse for the first time.
So I found myself some patience, of all places, in the pasture at Westernaires—I’m still searching for more, but I’m off to a great start. I’m kinder to myself, my children, my loving wife and the world at large. I’ve learned that the slow, deep breath I often use to calm myself before approaching a nervous Zephyr on farrier day or a very excited Fast Eddie when it’s time to tack him on a Saturday morning works surprisingly well everywhere—whether I’m stuck behind the slowest car in the universe or speaking with my children after something in our lives has gone amiss.
The other answer I gave was that I’ve been working on doing my best to be helpful. I don’t always pick the job I want to do, I do my best to do the job that is most helpful to Westernaires. And when I find myself thinking about a situation with a horse or a social interaction with another person, if I feel it necessary to mentally categorize what’s going on, I divide things that happen as helpful or not helpful. It’s a surprisingly powerful litmus test. It’s much easier to push forward with a positive attitude and get things done when you are able to recognize something as helpful (or not helpful) instead of thinking of it as good or bad. With good or bad its much easier for me to let my emotions sweep me away and before I know it, I’m arguing instead of doing something beneficial. When most things are either helpful or not helpful, it’s easier to keep some distance and to give yourself the patience to think about something in the most helpful way possible.
I’m not spending as much time thinking and judging what’s going on around me; now I’m spending more time being helpful, more time trying to be the kind of father, husband and man I want to be.
I remember a year ago receiving advice from wranglers who told me that a horse can sense your emotional state; if you’re nervous, anxious or stressed horses will react to that. I didn’t believe them at the time, but I do now. It may not be that the horses sense your emotions, maybe it just centers on the fact that you’re choosing calm, you’re choosing patience. However it works, rest assured that it does.
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Westernaires is a non-profit organization located in Golden, Colorado, comprised of over 1,000 dedicated young people, aged 9 to 19. they encourage self-respect, responsibility and leadership through horsemanship and family participation. Since 1949, Westernaires has proudly trained young people to use their talents and skills in the best traditions of the West.
Just because you made it out alive doesn’t mean that you made a good decision.
Late October means bugling elk and a chance to get outside for 10 days to find myself. No internet, Faceplace or Amazon prime; just me, the supplies I’ve hauled on my back and the solitude of the woods. I love it. I need it. I couldn’t choose to be anywhere else.
This year we picked a new route to camp. It shaved a mile and avoided hills steep enough to make you curse once you can catch your breath. On the flip side, the new route was untested in snow and in order to to avoid a very steep stream bank and swamp, required navigational skill.
I’ve spent my time in the land nav penalty box. I’ve forgotten maps, neglected to turn off GPS units and drained their batteries (and done it again with the spare batteries I just replaced) and tried to use a compass with little understanding beyond knowing that one side of the needle should point North. Failure is a great motivator. I’ve since read enough books on land navigation and how to use a compass–and tested myself in the field–to all but teach a class.
Here, Dave and Adam are marking our turn off of the logging road into the woods to make Eric’s trip in the next day easier.
My pack–according to one of the handheld scales that I’ve convinced all of my backcountry accomplices to use–weighed 90 pounds. But with snow–possibly lots of it–in the forecast, my gear choices reflected that possibility.
I’m obsessed with the weight of my pack–and everything in it–because carrying too many things has often been my downfall. I weigh everything in the gear closet–and then write the weight on each item. “Just one more thing.” has resulted in the consumption of ibuprofen by the handful and a grumpy constitution at the end of the day.
Ninety pounds is a lot of weight. If you’re in shape, it’s a non-issue. My Kifaru Reckoning pack certainly makes it bearable. I like to winter camp like a king, but there is a price to be paid. The cooler is for storing the 200-plus pounds of meat that come at the close of a successful hunt.
Adam, Dave and I arrived in camp Friday afternoon, a mere three hours and under a half-dozen miles after we set out from the brown gate marking the end of motorized travel in the national forest. The sky was cloudy and the air wonderfully, refreshingly cool; we could see storm clouds gathering in the distance. Camp was set up with plenty of daylight in reserve. Eric couldn’t get off from work and was planning on arriving Saturday afternoon.
Tipi in place and wood stove burning. After hunting in the snow all day, coming home to a fire to dry out my clothes improves my spirits immensely.
We started elk hunting before dawn the next morning; the weather was cooler and colder, with clouds stacking up and slowly blocking out the sun. The snow started in the late afternoon–small flakes, falling thickly and quietly. It was beautiful and I remember thinking that I was glad I had stocked on up the small pieces of wood my tipi’s wood stove requires. A hot tent is a beautiful thing in the winter.
No one saw any elk, nor did we find much sign of elk–you look for their distinctive tracks and, of course, scat (which is how proper outdoorsmen say “poop”). I followed fresh bear tracks for a mile or so and crossed lots of deer sign.
I remember failing this test as well. Trying to figure out which way the elk were walking. Did that poop–err, scat–come from a bull or a cow elk? Yes, most of the time you can tell. The bull scat typically has little dimples in the otherwise round shape. All things that take time and effort to learn.
I followed these bear tracks for about a mile though I never did meet the bear on the other end.
Sometime Saturday afternoon, someone’s phone–defying our non-existent in-camp cell service–registered a text message sent hours earlier from Eric. He’d be a day late and would hike out to meet us tomorrow. In the snow.
Dinner was eaten around a fire, the pit for which Adam had carefully dug the night before. The snow hadn’t let up; there was six inches on the ground. We’d unanimously decided that there was no way Eric would show up tomorrow because none of us would have hiked an untested trail in these conditions. I went to sleep with the smell of woodsmoke in my tent, snow still lazily falling on the other side of the nylon wall.
And snow it did. By the middle of the next afternoon, there was at least a foot on the ground. The snow continued falling slowly, steadily, as it had for the past 18 hours.
The weight of the snow reduced the interior space of my tipi to an almost unusable level. Still, waking up and knowing I was minutes away from a 70 degree tent is hard to beat.
For some reason Dave took a walk away from camp. I was in my tipi at the time and didn’t immediately hear the commotion. However, the words: “Help,” “Eric,” “shivering” and “lost.” made their way to me. Minutes later, Eric was helped into my tent and spent the next hour warming up next to the stove.
Eric had hiked out to us in the middle of the storm. He’d been lost several times and spent six-and-a-half hours hiking what had taken us less than three. The route he showed us on his cell phone’s GPS app showed, amongst other missteps, what could be described as a large loop-the-loop.
Adam, Dave and I cleared a level area of snow, set up his tent and threw his sleeping bag inside. Eric–again a shivering mass–crawled into his bag as we unpacked his gear and stacked it next to him.
I’ve only been cold–can’t think right, can’t use my hands because my entire body is shaking too much–once in my life. I was probably 11 and hunting with my dad in Pennsylvania. Well, my dad was hunting and I was walking along with him, scaring away any animals that he might have had a chance to see if I hadn’t been there. Small, hard ice crystals were being blown at us–the kind of snow that feels like it might cut you–and I was sweaty and tired. My dad and I paused behind some downed trees and I rested on some frozen leaves next to an oak stump. I still don’t know how long I was asleep…minutes, an hour, it doesn’t matter. When I awoke, my skin was so cold I later wondered if my sweat had frozen to me. After walking and walking in circles, swinging my arms and opening and closing my hands, I eventually warmed up.
I’ve never put myself in that situation again. In the winter, being sweaty in the backcountry can end you. Adding a case of exhaustion makes getting warm an order of magnitude harder. I’ve learned to slow down so I don’t overheat, add and remove layers no matter how irritated I am at having to stop hiking, and sometimes, pausing to remove a layer and wait until any sweat evaporates. I also do as much as I can to stay in shape so I have enough energy to tough it out.
Eric eventually thawed out, though he was so cold that night he’d had to open a space blanket and put it underneath his sleeping pad to try and stay warm.
The next morning it was still snowing; there was at least 14″ on the ground. We decided that hiking out to our trucks made the most sense. Shooting an elk is the easy part of hunting them. Butchering that animal takes at least three hours; trying to do that in over a foot of snow makes for a cold, wet, miserable experience. Then of course you have to take several back-and-forth trips to hike out 200 or more pounds of meat. In a foot of snow.
In the background, Adam is gathering his gear in preparation for our return trip.
As I’d packed in a pair of snowshoes, I was lead dog on the way out. If you’ve never hiked in snowshoes, over deadfall, with a heavy backpack and rifle slung over your shoulder, you’re not missing anything fun. I was thankful for all the squats, burpees and sit-ups I’d done in the preceding months. Adam, Dave and Eric followed in my tracks. It was still snowing and the clouds looked low enough to reach up and touch.
I’d hike until I could feel myself begin to perspire, then I’d stop to cool down. I’d average about 15 minutes of hiking at a slow, measured pace and then a few minutes of cool down. I expected to see the guys catch me at any moment. On the hike out, there was only one area where my sense of direction differed from my infrequent check-ins with my GPS unit.
Again, I remembered times in the past when my first reaction would be to disregard the GPS because I thought I knew better. This time, I reconfirmed my endpoint, my current location and then compared the topography on my device’s screen with where I was standing. All the variables matched up, so even though it felt wrong, I veered a few degrees to my left, continuing to slowly push my way though deep slow in the quiet new growth pine forest. In another 15 minutes I hiked directly past some orange flag tape that Adam and Dave had tied to help Eric on his journey in.
After I’d linked up with the first quarter-mile stretch of abandoned logging road, I removed my pack and took off my outer layer, waiting for my slightly wet back to dry off. It was cold, sure, but warmer than trying to shiver myself warm after my entire body was covered in sweat.
I heard from Adam and Dave a little while after I stopped to dry off. Eric was tired, wasn’t feeling motivated and refused to drink any water, they said. I radioed back that once I hit the truck, I’d unload and turn around to help carry his gear.
Hiking out took me about four hours, not bad considering the time I’d spent cooling down. I unloaded my pack, removed snowshoes, changed into a fresh shirt and began cleaning off the truck. For some reason my fingers chose that moment to lock up and loose almost all feeling. I guess my gloves were more damp than I thought and cleaning off all the snow from my truck and untying snowshoe bindings with my bare hands had caught up to me. I spent the next 20 minutes waiting for the truck’s heater to warm my hands. Once I could feel my fingers I grabbed a few candy bars, took a long sip of the three liter water bladder that I had nearly emptied on the hike out, put my snowshoes back on and went to find the guys.
I met them about 3/4 of a mile up the logging road. Eric felt strong enough to keep his pack, but handed me his rifle for the trip back to the trucks. I heard a few updates on the way out. Not far past the spot I’d taken my pack off to dry off and cool down, Adam and Dave had fired up Dave’s stove under a loosely bundled tarp to warm Eric. Eric hadn’t had taken more than a sip of water on the way out and had neglected to eat much, if anything, before or during the hike out. He was exhausted when we reached the trucks.
Snow and lots of it. With 14″ on the ground we decided to call backcountry camping quits.
I’ve been thinking about how this trip played out for the last month. At the time I was disappointed because it seemed that Eric didn’t comprehend how one decision could have resulted in a completely different outcome for him. What if Adam, Dave and I hadn’t received his text and headed back to the trucks, missing him completely? What if we left anyway, reasoning no one would head out in such nasty conditions? What if he had taken a slightly different detour on the way in and not made it to camp before dark?
Eric had made it, yes, but all I could see was how close to calamity he had traipsed. Before I come down too hard on him, I have to wonder: Would I have fared any differently, had I not learned from my failures over time in small increments?
At times I revel in failure, I celebrate the lessons it teaches me. Failure shows us ways that do not work and encourages us to seek alternatives that do. In a world that seems hell-bent on eliminating risk, teachable moments, and the importance of differing viewpoints, failure is an incredible tutor; the lessons it imparts about how to succeed are more important than ever.
Ever have a day so good you can say “nailed it?” Addictive, right?
I took my daughter mountain biking on Sunday. We’ve been mountain biking together before, but this was a real ride, MY ride. The one I take when I want to be alone, relax and not think about anything as my wheels hurtle downhill at an insane speed.
So I surprised myself and invited my 10-year-old, who has no serious mountain biking experience, to my place. You know the one. Where you go to be you, recharge and forget everything else.
My ride is in the Buffalo Creek Recreation Area. There are LOTS of trail options here. Here is one. I usually begin on a trail named “Nice Kitty” which is anything but. It’s a lung-busting, intense climb–at least the way I ride it. I’ve taken to calling it “Bad Kitty.” My ride usually runs anywhere from 25-45 miles and takes a few hours depending on how I feel. There are so many options in this area that it’s a real joy to explore. And if you get there early enough as I almost always do, the solitude is incredible.
The start of “Nice Kitty;” don’t let the name fool you.
So we got up at 5am, ate and were riding in the cool pre-dawn light at 6:30. Nice Kitty was upon us a few minutes later. And then it started. If you have kids you probably can image what “it” is…the whining and asking to go home.
The top of “Nice Kitty” isn’t the most scenic, but it’s a welcome change to the relentless steep trail below. A fire over a decade ago denuded the top.
“Nope.” I said. “We talked about this. We’ve got a 20-mile ride to do today and all day to do it in.” The whining was the same as it always is, but miraculously, my reaction to it was completely new. Somewhere in my brain a switch had been thrown and no matter the complaints or protests, I simply smiled–and meant it; I was having an incredible day and was confident that she would too.
I knew she was pulling out all the stops when I heard: “But Daaaaaaad, I have to get home soon so I’ll have time to clean my room.” The smile was on my face again. And now, as I was preparing to respond, I knew something was missing…my usual frustration was nowhere to be found. I felt lighter, happier, without the weight of my usual responses, which may have been gruff, sarcastic or even occasionally mean. I couldn’t understand why I was thinking so differently today. The smile was on my face, I was thinking about the sun beginning to light up the pine trees above us and how much fun was still in store for us.
“It’s 20 miles kiddo. You can either enjoy them or hate them, I have no control over that. I know what I’m choosing. Look at the sun hitting the tips of the trees above us…this is gorgeous.” And I smiled.
This went on for about 10 miles. And the happiness switch in my head was still engaged. No matter how she moaned or whined or asked to go home, the smile was with me. And none of the gruffness or sarcasm that I would usually have responded with. I’m well and truly addicted to this feeling at this point.
The biking was slow as you may imagine. I’d ride ahead, wait and repeat. Every time I’d see her approaching I was impressed with how well she was riding. I told her so every time she reached me. And I was still smiling. It was exhausting climbing, I was sweating, and in the cool of the still early morning, my sunglasses fogged up every time I paused to wait.
Some of the Colorado Trail is so beautiful you have to stop and appreciate it.
Finally it was upon us. I was paused, left foot on the ground, right clipped into my eggbeater clipless pedal, turned around looking for her. She zipped through a section of roots, pedaled through and up a tight switchback and then briefly hit the pedals hard in a short out-of-the-seat sprint and stopped next to me. I was smiling again…proud of her grit and skill.
The downturned lips foreshadowed her tone. “WHY are you so POSITIVE?!”
The laugh bubbled up from somewhere in my belly full of warmth, love and pride without even a hint of frustration. I didn’t know the answer to her question. I felt as perplexed as she so obviously was.
“I don’t know. I’m having the time of my life. This is my favorite ride in the world, I’m sharing it with you and watching you ride stuff that I never could have with your experience. I’m so proud of you.”
I left it there. “Ready?” I asked after she returned her water bottle to its holder. She nodded and I started off.
We’d finished Nice Kitty, taken a connector trail whose name I always forget and were biking the Colorado Trail; something changed in her there.
I was already impressed with her riding but after that brief interaction something happened. She’d found something inside of herself. She was twice the rider I’d seen earlier. Faster, braver, tougher–and most especially, happier.
She’d found her switch and flipped it.
We cruised down through rutted, root covered and sandy descents and clicked into low gear to grind our way up steep switchbacks, saying hello to hikers and moving over to make way for faster bikers on the trail. Now we were both smiling.
How you decide to experience life is what makes you ecstatic or miserable.
Our ride ended up being just shy of 26 miles. We took water breaks, snack breaks, faster-biker-passing-us breaks, can’t-breathe-anymore breaks and talked endlessly. It took hours longer than when I do it alone. But I wasn’t alone, I was sharing this with my daughter and it was the best ride of my life. It was a ride that didn’t last long enough.
When was the last time you looked back on your day and said “Nailed it!”?
I just finished my homework. Write a letter introducing my son–his dreams, strengths and weaknesses–to his kindergarten teacher.
Chance and I are very similar–we look alike; we’re both smart, stubborn and challenging to love. I often find myself frustrated with him. Or perhaps more accurately, I’m frustrated with my parenting of him. He’s wonderful and challenging and hard. I imagine he feels much the same way about me.
Someone is listening though. Yesterday the sermon was on patience. It’s a message that should resonate no matter what you do or don’t believe in. In a nutshell: Instead of rushing through, hurrying to get a job done, take your time.
So I took my time and wrote about Chance. His love of law enforcement, his dislike of bullies, his incredible knows-no-bounds imagination and the way he thoughtfully rations his hugs and seems to give them out when I need one most.
I understand my son better now. I love him more. I’m ready to be more patient. I’m prepared to forgive myself when I make a mistake. All because of that letter. It made me think. Or rather, I took the time to think about it. Had I rushed through I wouldn’t be in the place I am now.
What would you write about your kids? What would that letter say? Take a half-hour and write it. I bet you’ll be surprised.
In turn, I can’t help but wonder what Chance’s letter about me would say. Surely that I struggle with being patient. That I raise my voice at him sometimes; but also hopefully that I sit down and apologize when I make a mistake. Would he remember sitting on my lap operating the backhoe? Me doing pushups next to him after he’s pushed his sister? Reading his favorite story to him? Working with him to help him read a story to both of us? Building legos together?
I don’t know what Chance would write in his letter introducing me. I do know what I would like Chance’s letter to say, what it should say, if you will. I want a letter that I would proudly put on the fridge. That’s what I’m going to be thinking about the next time I feel the pull of impatience.
Then, about an hour later, Diane from the pro desk called and said someone had returned my notebook. Wow. Yeah!
I was outside at the time, about to remove a stump with the backhoe. I promptly tried to return the tractor to the garage but forgot the roll bar was up. When the roll bar is up it impacts the top of the garage door.
With the roll bar down, the tractor fits nicely in the garage. With it up, bad things happen.
The extended roll bar ripped off the trim from the outside of the garage as I tried to drive it in…so I know what I’ll be fixing later today.
In my excitement to get my notebook back, I forgot to lower the roll bar and took out some trim. Oops. It happens. The shoulder puncture wound I could have gone without.
I also managed to have my shoulder stop a piece of falling trim. A nail punctured my right shoulder to the depth of about an inch. That smarts. After stopping the copious amounts of spurting blood, applying antiseptic, bandaging my shoulder and changing shirts, I popped two vitamin I tablets (ibuprofen).
This angle doesn’t show the cotton ball sized swelling under that bandage. When an inch of nail punctures your shoulder and bottoms out on bone, it hurts. Don’t worry, I’ll make it.
At Home Depot, I found Diane and got my notebook back, minus my pen. I’m conflicted on what my reaction should be. Who returns a notebook after stealing a nice pen from it? The way I add up karma points, returning one item while stealing another does not leave you at the same place as you started.
But maybe that’s not the best way to think about this. After all, I have the opportunity to create any story in my head about what happened, since I wasn’t there and will never know. So perhaps I should choose to see two people, the first person on the scene stole my birthday pen while the second person retuned the notebook. This scenario leaves me much happier. Thank you for returning my notebook.
The notebook is back, but notice the empty pen loop on the right side. Taking things that aren’t yours isn’t nice.
On the way home I stopped at The Abide Ride a burrito food truck in Aspen Park. I needed a pick me up. Wouldn’t it be great, I thought to myself, if they had Mexican Coke?
And as it turns out, that’s what I saw listed on the menu board.
“Sausage burrito and a Mexican Coke, please,” I said.
“We don’t have any Mexican Coke. Sorry. We have Coke in a can though,” said the woman in the truck.
“Uhhh. Oh well. It’s listed on the board. After the day I had I was really looking forward to a Mexican Coke. I can’t drink the canned stuff. It’s not the same,” I uttered, disappointed.
“Well I can’t get a new board every time something on the menu changes,” she said back to me. Here was an option that I would never have considered. A new one every time something changes. Seemed a bit extreme.
“Ok.” I said as politely as possible. “Well if you wanted to update what you don’t offer any more, perhaps you could just cover up the Mexican Coke portion.” With tape or a post it…or paint over it, I thought.
A noncommittal stare and my burrito were all I received in return.
So my takeaway is this: If you have a choice of inventing a story about something that happens to you, why not choose the best possible one you can? If I were sitting here, picturing a person stealing my pen because they felt they deserved it for returning my notebook to Home Depot, I would feel completely different than I do after imagining two people, one of whom stole my pen and the other a doing the right thing and returning my notebook. Try it out sometime, it’s a surprisingly cathartic experience.
Frustration comes from wishing things were different than they are. At the end of the day, all I can do is be the best person I know how to be and hope my kids take notice. At least tonight I’ll be able to continue writing about my life in my notebook, albeit with a replacement pen.
I’ve been writing with an orange TiScribe titanium pen since March. It was a birthday present for myself.
I love writing. I love great pens. And this was one of the best…in titanium, with a futuristic orange ceramic coating. God I loved this pen.
Anyone who has ever hunted or backpacked with me knows that I mark the weight of every item on the item so I’m not tempted to take “just one more thing.” Those ounces add up folks. So a great pen in one of the lightest materials possible was an awesome gift for myself. Nailed it, if I do say so!
Yesterday I lost that damn pen. And they no longer seem to make it. And I don’t have a single photo of the damn thing!
Here’s the email I sent to Kelvin, the owner of Urban Survival Gear, hoping for a miracle. Cross your fingers for me.
Kelvin:
I’m in mourning. After months of daily use, my beloved orange tiscribe bolt v2.0 pen is no longer with me. It was hard getting out of bed this morning.
When I looked at the clear plastic piece of…well you know…that I now have to write with, I’d like to tell you that I shed a tear, but that’s not what happened. I was pissed. I lost my damn pen in a home depot parking lot yesterday. I survived waiting in line for 10 minutes followed by 45 minutes of the pro desk trying to special order some PVC fittings for me that by all rights should have already been in stock in the store. My 5-and 10-year-old kids did remarkably well for the first 20 minutes, but after that well, again I’d like to embellish my story here with hair flying, checkout candy displays being destroyed and the police being called, but that’s not what happened. My kids were probably better behaved than I was. (They usually are because thankfully they both take after their mother.)
After loading all of our stuff in the car, ensuring the kids were buckled properly and then returning the cart (and almost being run over by a gentleman driving at about 30 mph in the parking lot—his tires actually squealed as I was bracing for the impact that thankfully never came) I managed to forget my notebook and pen in the cart. I called the home depot and no joy. My pen and the notebook it was clipped onto have not been located. It would take a special kind of person to return a “found” tiscribe pen. I’d like to think that I’m that kind of person, but honestly I’m glad I’ve never been put in that situation.
This pen has been everywhere with me since March. It’s a member of our family and my best friend (I don’t get out much, and when I do, people try to run me over in parking lots).
So I looked on your website today, ready to swallow the pill of having to purchase another one. You know what I discovered. No orange ones in the regular length to be found. Reluctantly I ordered a mini, but Kelvin, let me be honest—a stonewashed mini won’t be the same as my original orange tiscribe. After spending the last two hours in 95 degree heat making my kids scour the parking lot and look in several hundred carts (just kidding, that home depot is a half hour away and I wouldn’t do that to my kids) I thought that I could check with you to see if maybe in addition to making and selling the best pen ever, you also deal in miracles and might be able to locate another orange tiscribe bolt v 2.0—even a scuffed or imperfect one would work.
Thanks for your help and understanding. I’m a little upset that losing this pen makes me upset. Should I be upset with you for making a pen that I loved so much that when I lost it, well, I lost it? I think not. It was bliss having this pen in my life for the brief period that I did. My notebook is better for it and god knows that my wife was happy I was writing things down and forgetting them less (I still managed to forget things, the pen wasn’t a miraculous device, though I think it came close.).
Can you make this day any better for me? Might you be able to locate an orange tiscribe bolt v2.0 for sale?
Joe
UPDATE: Three hours after I sent my email I heard back from a sympathetic Kelvin. The orange pens will return later this month! Great customer service from these guys again.
A Blackhawk helicopter in the midst of practicing landings and takeoffs near Deep Lake in Colorado’s White River National Forest.
“Dad, Dad, Dad! It’s a helicopter!” My five-year old son is excited by some of the same things I am: food, all things military, mountain biking and beer.
After his customary pretend sip, he usually gives a critique of the beer-du-jour that sounds something like this: “That’s a pretty good beer.” A pause…and wait for it. “And it’s disgusting!” Afraid to be contrarian, he is not.
Seeing a Blackhawk landing about a mile from our campsite on the military crest of the nearest mountain top was neat. Seeing it 10 times a day for 3 days was even better, especially with the helicopter circling right around us. I got a shout out from my son every time we heard it.
Our campsite at Deep Lake. Beautiful but the 30 miles of dirt road to get there is a hard pill to swallow.
Later that afternoon, when four Blackhawks and a Little Bird were RTB’ing and flying in line just above the horizon, my son, daughter and I stood and unabashedly stared. What a sight.
His only complaint: “Dad, it’s not a Backhawk. It’s not black.” With logic like that, it’s tough to argue with him.
All the way at the stern, or rear of the ship, Brandon Null spends his days working with a team of sailors that fix jet engines. They even get to chain them down and test fire them out the stern behind a blast door.
At the tail end of the USS Nimitz, Brandon Null in the jet shop doesn’t pull any punches when talking about what he and his crew do.
“This engine right here costs about $3.7 million dollars, produces about 20,000 pounds of thrust,” and he gets to fix it.
A GE jet engine, from an F/A 18 if memory serves me. Exotic metals, lots of screws and a never-ending list of precise torque values are only a few of the things the sailors in the USS Nimitz’s jet shop get to work with every day.
Null was clearly enthusiastic about and devoted to his job, the immense responsibilities it includes and spoke humbly about how expertly he seeks to perform it.
I’ve replaced a turbocharger in a diesel engine, but this is a whole different animal.
It was cold in his “office.” Null detailed some of the precise temperature requirements his test equipment has, and what might happen if it gets too warm in there.
The racks of servers in his sealed test workspace support a multitude of switches, dials and throttle controls that–when they are testing–link up to an engine secured outside, visible through a really thick observation window. The noise during their six-hour test runout must be incredible, even in here.
It’s spotless in here, or as spotless as a machine shop could be. That makes sense because one misplaced tool or screw could damage an engine.
After hearing his story of being severely injured during the test run out of an engine, I unsuccessfully struggled to hold back tears of pride and respect for him. That experience was formative for him and as he says, “I’m going to be doing this job for as long as the Navy allows me to.”
A look inside the afterburner assembly of the jet engine that Null and his team were working on when I spent a few minutes with him in his fascinating world.
The reverence Null has for keeping his shipmates and his pilots safe by giving his all—every day—made me reevaluate the drive and passion I bring to my life.
| Thanks to the United States Navy for the opportunity to visit the USS Nimitzand see and experience first-hand what life aboard looks like. |
Echo Park Campground, Dinosaur National Monument. Even the mosquitos are monumental here. If you go, bring bug spray and lots of it.
I’d said hello and asked how he was doing. I got one of those smiles, the it’s-been-one-of-those-days ones. “I had a bad night last night,” he told me.
Greg smiled at me and the kids as we walked into the visitor center of Dinosaur National Monument. He smiled, but all was not well with him.
“We’ve all been there.” I said. “But I’ll bet what you really mean is that you had a great night; it was this morning and afternoon that sucked.” He smiled again. There may have been a slight nod in my direction.
I had to apply for a play permit in order to kayak around Steamboat Rock on the Green River in the Echo Park Campground. Sounded easy, but as with most things the government seeks to regulate, some red tape was involved. The permits are free and as long as it’s a permitted activity, they–the National Park Service–have to issue them. Reading the final product, you can be fined, or worse, if you don’t have one. The wax paper is smudged, but if you look carefully, there is a subparagraph on when disembowlment is authorized. Or maybe that paragraph is about visitor center hours; it’s hard to discern.
Greg first had to check with a law enforcement ranger to see if I was able to do what I was asking. (It was ok’d.) Then he realized that someone had stolen his special pen. It’s actually a very special pen…the only pen in the office that is able to write on the waxed paper play permit triplicate form. Greg never found that pen. If you were the one who took it home for whatever reason, please send it back. Greg would really appreciate it. They’ve promised amnesty on any pen theft charges.
Drive two miles from Dinosaur, CO to the park entrance. Go 30 miles on a narrow but paved road to Echo Park Road. Turn right on Echo Park Road: it’s rough, steep, and impassible after it rains. Did I mention it’s really, really steep in spots? After about 8 miles on Echo Park Road, hang a left and go another 5 miles on another very bumpy road to the campground. You’ve arrived.
“You can’t kayak downstream from Steamboat rock,” he told me.
“Can I go upstream?” He looked at me with an expression suggesting that his day was not getting any better.
“You can kayak directly across from the campground and land at the base of Steamboat rock and explore it from there.” he countered, politely.
“Here’s what I’m thinking Greg, and please take this as me just thinking out loud. If the kids and I kayak around Steamboat rock, say on the downstream side and then the upstream side, to look at it, I can’t imagine anyone would get upset with that. So I’m not going to ask permission to do that, because we’ve already agreed that this permit–the one that needs a special pen to complete–says I can go directly across.” I hoped that my tone suggested that the government regulations on precisely where I could kayak may be a little over the top. Besides it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?
The infamous Steamboat Rock on the Green River.
I’d like to think that Greg agreed with the hypothetical situation I had brought to his attention, but we still had many more blank spaces to fill in on the wax-coated form. “What day will you be kayaking?”
“Do I need to fill out a form for each day?” I was hoping that he was joking.
“Yes.” So that answers that.
“We’re planning on being there 4 days, so I guess I have to fill out a form for all of them?” I was going all in here. I had noticed the increasing difficulty Greg was having in making visible, legible marks on the insidiously coated play permit. He made another futile scratch and looked from me to the kids.
In mid-2019, rates were $10 a night if the water is working, $6 if it isn’t. For these views, it’s a no-brainer. Tents and truck campers only, RVs would never survive the roads.
“Why don’t I just add all the days you might kayak onto this permit?” Whew. The bluff had worked. Or perhaps Greg thought as highly of the red tape as I. The kids and I waited until we got outside for the victory dance.
My time on the USS Nimitz while she was off the coast of Mexico (and the USA) is something afforded to few civilians and an experience I will never forget. (photo courtesy of US Navy)
The US Navy afforded me the opportunity to spend a night on the USS Nimitz…I flew out and landed on the carrier and was catapult-launched off the following afternoon. I climbed countless ladders, stepped over hundreds of knee knockers and toured the ship exhaustively. I was amazed at the competence, professionalism and teamwork of her crew. The following are a few of the things that fascinated me.
No vacation days.
While all work schedules are different, when at sea, you’ll generally be working all week long (that’s all seven days of the week, you don’t get weekends off.) Most of the sailors I met work about 12 hours a day. The Air Boss works from when the first plane goes up until the last one lands. The Captain has a tiny bed off of the bridge and sleeps when he can.
Getting lost is easy.
With 4.5 acres of flight deck, almost 1,100 feet in length, thousands of bulkheads, knee knockers and frames, something like 17 stories and very, very few windows, it’s easy to get turned around. Even though every bulkhead is marked with its location on the ship, getting lost is a requirement. One of my escorts said it took her months until she was comfortable navigating the ship. Sometimes to get where you need to go you’ll need to go down a deck, then pop up somewhere else and come back to where you need to be.
Energy drinks rule the roost.
Over one 24-hour period, the Monster energy drink machines on the USS Nimitz sold $30,000 worth of products according to a ship’s store sailor. They charge $2 a can.
It’s a young person’s game.
Average age aboard is probably 20. See my comment about energy drinks above.
You work until your job is complete.
Like the Air Boss, there are lots of jobs that, done correctly, don’t have a time card attached to them. You’ll be working until there is no more work to do. While that may sound harsh, life on a carrier comes down to teamwork. As I heard countless times, everyone has to do their part. In an emergency, this large team is all that they have. “This is just the attitude you want from your employees…your salaried employees that is.” said Captain Kevin Lenox, smiling.
Mail rules.
Internet access is very limited. Communal computers in the library are in high demand and the ship goes “dark” whenever operationally required. That can be a lot. So good old snail mail is often a sailor’s best friend.
“Teamwork, a tradition”
I passed this slogan in the hanger bay many times during my visit. I didn’t really give it a too much thought until after I got back home. The Navy averages about 35% turnover annually. (That’s turnover, not retention; I don’t know the retention numbers.) Each year, over a third of your team changes. That means training. Lots and lots and lots of training; all the time. I saw a general quarters drill, heard a propeller shaft emergency call at 2am and virtually without exception, everyone I spoke with mentioned the word “team.” Guns, bombs, millions of gallons of jet fuel, two nuclear reactors…It can come down to life and death here very quickly, and these sailors know training as a team is their lifeline.
Everyone passes through the hanger bay at some point. It’s a simple message, but on a warship with lots of dangerous things close by, it’s an important one. (photo by author)
You serve the needs of the Navy first.
Talking with a sailor in the bomb assembly area really drove this home. For his first two months he “learned how to operate a broom and dustpan.” Not exactly the bomb assembly he spoke with his recruiter about. Now that the Nimitz is out to sea again, he’s working on bomb assembly, right where he wants to be.
Colds spread like fire…both are equally welcome on a ship.
About 5,ooo people live on an aircraft carrier. 4.5 acres big, about 17 stories tall. Handrails, doorknobs, hatch latches, bulkheads, and shower-stalls all get touched. A lot. The sailor in the medical suite laughed when I asked how quickly colds and the flu go through the ship. Lots of fluids, Mucinex and rest (if you can get it) is his most common prescription.
The flight deck is one of the most dangerous environments in the world.
As the Air Boss says: “I put you in a boat coat and cranial and send you out on the flight deck. Here you go, now go do your job.” Training and safety are paramount here. Jet fuel, munitions, landing helicopters, launching jets, landing jets, huge cables…everything is large, loud and moving very fast. It’s incredibly fast paced and dangerous work. After cat 1 one fires, you turn around, race 20 feet and then do it again for your cat 2 launch, avoiding jet blast and retracting cat hooks in the process. If you don’t pay attention, you may end up dead. Now imagine how hard this is when you’re tired and working in 120-degree heat.
The three wire on the USS Nimitz. Nimitz is the first carrier to test and use press fit arresting wire connections in lieu of the labor-intensive, hot molten metal process. (photo by author)
Clothes get washed. and usually you get them all back.
The ship’s laundry will take care of yours. Put it in a big bag and send it off. Most of the time it all comes back to you…washed and dried in your bag. Bags rip and tear though, so putting your name on all the clothes you want to get back is just as important here as it is in grade school. Self-service laundry is also available. TIP: if you go in the middle of the night, you’ll probably snag an empty machine.
The Chiefs’ Mess is an incredible place to eat.
The chiefs like what creature comforts they can arrange for themselves. Somehow the best cooks work for them. Out of their own pockets, they’ve paid for four great large-screen TVs in their mess, which also has hard and soft-serve ice cream (and pierogis on the day I visited). Oh, and their lounge off the mess includes about 20 huge recliners and a massive TV. They come together as a team to pay for these upgrades themselves (and disassembled the recliners and then reassembled them in their lounge in order to get them there). The pecan pie was wonderful. Oh, and their mess coffee isn’t too bad either.
The chiefs work very hard and know how to enjoy what comforts they can arrange to bring to their lives at sea. (photo by author)
| Thanks to the United States Navy for the opportunity to visit the USS Nimitzand see and experience first-hand what life aboard looks like. |
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