JIMBORED HAS DREAMS OF THE OPEN ROAD AND THEN WAKES UP- 2010

I am sitting here in front of my typewriter, trying to come up with something interesting to fill in the early years of our retirement. The problem is, that I cannot even find anything of note, to, vaguely, interest even myself. Let alone, interest, my discerning readers. It seems as if, once we retired, we kind of became somewhat stale. One thing that I do note, however, is that although I had told Ol’ Bubbaloo that my travel days were over, we did seem to, still, rack up the air-miles. In the period from 2008 thru 2012, we managed to visit New Mexico, Texas, England (a few times), Holland, Costa Rica, and a couple more times to Peru. In addition to this we explored the island we lived on, constantly. Also there was occasion to travel throughout the rest of British Columbia and Alberta, many times.

It kind of makes me chuckle to think that I was never, actually, in charge of anything! My “stake in the ground”, about not travelling, although never discussed, was never really an issue for Deysi. She had not changed her vision of retirement travel, one bit! It’s just that she didn’t bother discussing it with me any longer. She just carried on. Even though I was strong in my determination to never board an airplane again, it did not faze her one bit. So there I was, convinced that I was in charge. Looking back, however, I was still travelling around like a “blue ass fly”. In reality she just let me feel like I was in charge, and that all of our trips, had just happened by accident.

Sometime during these idyllic years of exploring our island, I am reminded of a momentous trip “off island”. This was another of JimboRed’s “less than shining moments” in his life of adventure. It was in Alberta, somewhere between Calgary and Edmonton, that JimboRed wrecked his car. The occasion was Deysi’s father’s 93 (or thereabouts) birthday celebration in Edmonton. I had decided to drive from Vancouver Island to the celebration, while Deysi flew in, to help with planning and organizing. This memory has been haunting my sleep for years. However, now I will purge it from my mind forever. After that, if I ever feel the need to recall this traumatic event, I will only have to open my blog and find it.

My trip was divided into two parts. I drove halfway, then stopped, a little off route, to spend some time with my childhood friends R&D in Nakusp. The plan was a couple days of fishing, mushroom picking, grouse hunting and some “chewing of the fat”. Or, as Deysi would say, “just talking plain old bullshit and spinning lies”. As always, right at your highest moment, she could bring you back to earth, with just one kick in the huevos.

That first part of the trip was excellent, and true to the plan, one fine spring day I arrived in Nakusp, well on my way to Edmonton. R and I immediately got into a little fishing. If I remember correctly, it was the time of year for the Kokanee to run. That is, all of the females turn a bright red and scurry upstream to their birthplace, to lay eggs. This after frolicking all summer long, in the local streams, with the Kokanee males. This is a breed of salmon that is landlocked in freshwater lakes and streams, exclusively in the interior of British Columbia. I would like to add that they are wonderful eating. However, this trip, we did not catch any of these elusive little buggers.

This area was also a habitat of the very tasty Blue grouse. R had planned a day of hunting, accompanied by his son Markie, helping us relive the days of our youth. In some ways this small interlude with my childhood friends, helped revive memories and experiences of the past. So the second day, armed with shotguns, we ventured into the wilderness in search of game. Spirits were alive and our senses keen. It was early morning, we were locked and loaded. The car was full of the scent of coffee, mixed with tobacco smoke. The only thing missing, from that of 50 years before, was the whisky. R had long since grown out of it, while JimboRed could no longer relive that part of his youth. Personally I had low expectations for this hunt. I may have forgotten, just how good R was, and now Markie, at the art of the hunt. After all it had been almost 45 years since our young, crazy days.

However, to my amazement, we did mange to stumble across the occasional Blue Grouse, that day. I must say here, that my feelings about hunting these little birds, had mellowed over the years. Although it was exciting and quite an adventure, Ol’ JimboRed could have just as well, not shot anything. I might have, subconsciously, been aiming to miss, but instincts “kicked in” and I did indeed bag my share of game. After a very wonderful day of adventure, we took our birds back to R’s, cleaned and got them ready for the “eating”. I don’t believe there has ever been a more magnificent dinner in my life. These birds had white meat, slightly dry, slightly wild, slightly mild, and very, very good. Paired with our other part of the spoils of hunting, this meal could have easily been served in a five star restaurant.

R had now learned the art of mushroom picking, while in this part of BC. Although it might seem random, it is not quite that easy, both in finding mushrooms and then picking them. The first thing you learn is that you are on your own. Nobody is going to tell you where their favorite mushroom picking spot is. If you ask any of the locals, they will get a blank look in their eyes and say, “mushrooms? mushrooms? I don’t know anything about mushrooms”, then turn and walk off. So you have to figure it out yourself. Once you do find a mushroom, you then need to pop it into your mouth and sit down for 24 hours to see if you die or not. If you don’t get real sick, then repeat the same process. If, after that, you ok, then you are good to go.

The thing is, there are lots of different types and it would be a long process to determine which ones to eat. Or, you get a book which shows each variety in great detail and looks for specific markings on each. Once you are convinced you have an edible one, you can then proceed with the picking and eating. There is only one small step in between the identification and the eating. R found it very useful to give D a plateful, as the final check. If she was ok the next morning, then off to the harvest, you go. By the time I arrived for my visit, R had scouted out some locations and identified three or four varieties that we could forage. And D seemed to have survived it pretty well.

Off we went right into the forest, away from civilization and on the edge of the Rocky Mountains. The terrain where mushrooms grow mostly is on the slope of a hill or mountain. This scope must be pointing west into the afternoon sun. The wilder the growth and more inaccessible it was, the better. Of course that was no surprise to JimboRed. Nothing was ever done, in his life, that was easy. Everything had to be tangled and twisted in his path. Although, with mushroom hunting, there is one exception. Instead of a heavily forested and west facing slope, strewn with toppled trees and gnarly undergrowth, there was one alternate. That exception is a west facing slope, that has been ravaged by forest fire in the recent few years. Here the mushrooms grow first before anything else, regrows.

The trick was finding a burned out area, on the west slope of a hill, that had not been ravaged by every other mushroom picker in the area. So R and I chose option two, which was to crawl, climb, scramble and curse our way up the most gnarly forest we could find. After about an hour of this, now exhausted, eaten by bugs, sweating and thirsty, we arrive at a sort of opening in the trees. Here the undergrowth was gone, the trees were spaced about 15 feet apart, and the ground was covered in moss and lichen. “We have arrived”, announces R. Jimbored looks around and sure enough there is a mushroom sticking out of the ground a few feet away.

We dove right in to the mushroom picking. There is a certain way to cut them from the root, in order that the mushroom grows back the next year. And then you could ensure yourself of ongoing harvest. Unless, in the meantime some other dirty dog, finds your secret place. We picked a big bag of Chanterelle mushrooms in this one spot. To me and many others, these are the best eating of all mushrooms. Once we had pretty much cleaned out our mushroom garden, then we crawled back through the undergrowth carrying our harvest. We get back in R’s truck and strike out for another place. This time it was sort of the same procedure, only we parked at the top of a long forested slope. Down we went, stumbling, falling cursing and having a great time.

This time we came upon a patch of Pine Mushrooms. These are said to be the favorite of the Japanese. They will easily fetch $250 per kilogram in the open market. Sounds outrageous, right? Well let me tell you. Once you have picked about 3 kilos of mushrooms, enough to fill a gargbage bag, then they must be cleaned. That consists of trimming the stems at a point above where they grew out of the root. You then have to shake all of the dirt and debris off them. This is about half of the weight of what you have collected. Then each individual mushroom must be washed to remove the dirt imbedded under the cap and in the folds. Once all the impurities are scraped and washed away, you are then left with about 1 kilo of product and you have spent a few hours to get it.

In any event we had a fine day of mushroom picking. Once home R paired them with the blue grouse from the previous day and made us a meal to remember. I do not recall just how many birds I ate, but I do know it was substantial. The mushrooms were like heaven. R let me in on his secret recipe. In a big pot he melted a full pound of butter. Into this he added a full pint of heavy cream. He then topped it with some salt, pepper and garlic powder, and finally added a couple of pounds of mushrooms and let it stew. It had an aroma that would be hard to compare. I must say, I couldn’t help but think, “you could make a dog turd taste good with that much butter and cream”.

This idyllic break soon passed and JimboRed had to saddle up for the drive to Edmonton to join in the festivities for Deysi’s dad’s 93 birthday. I say 93 because that was the number he was using at that point. I don’t know if anyone ever knew his real age. He kept it a closely guarded secret. In any event, very early one fine day, JimboRed struck out for Edmonton. The journey was one of a bout 800 kilometres. Seemed like a nice 10 or 12 hour drive. The sky was blue, the temperature hot and the road ahead seemed long. About 6 hours into the journey I had arrived a a point southwest of Calgary. A short stop for fuel, and now loaded with snacks, JimboRed faced the remaining 3 hours of the drive. Spirits were high and the highway flattened out in a straight line towards Edmonton.

The green Explorer was on cruise and the miles were being eaten up. Along with, I might add, a few packages of snacks, lots of carbs and a couple diet cokes. The destination was now within reach. What could go wrong? I remember thinking this stretch of highway between Calgary and Edmonton was so flat and boring, that I could probably drive it in my sleep. At about the midway point between Red Deer and Edmonton, the sugar kicked in and indeed Ol’ JimboRed faded into a nap. What awoke me was a bend in the highway, just outside a place called Ponoka. While deep in a sleep and dreaming of the open road, my trusty vehicle left the highway and launched itself into the ditch. I remember waking with my car catapulting end over end or “ass over tea kettle”! Think that doesn’t wake you?

I would like to say that I recall all of the events and tried valiantly to “right” my rolling vehicle. However, that would be a lie. The next thing I remember is laying in tall grass, and someone looking into my eyes and asking if I was OK? Luckily a local doctor was following me and came too my aid. I did not feel anything, but heard someone say, call an ambulance this guy is hurt real bad. “Who, me”, I’m thinking. In what seems like seconds, but with no real cognizance of the elapse of time, I am being loaded into an ambulance. I can hear someone on a radio saying, “shall we take him straight to Calgary?” It was all disassociated chaos. The next thing I remember is being wheeled into the hospital in Ponoka. I think it all happened within an hour of my rollover.

A group of people were huddled around me, firing off questions. I really couldn’t understand what was going on, but somehow managed to provide the contact info for Deysi in Edmonton. I am not quite sure what all they did, nor how much time had passed, but in what seemed like minutes, Deysi, Cleef, and Lalitas arrived. The one clear memory I do have is of a nurse taking x-rays. She was very kind and gentle, until she latched onto my left arm and with a pull tried to bring it horizontal to my body. The pain was excruciating! Talk about being “focused”! Ol’ JimboRed had not experience anything like that in his life. The pain shot from the tip of the longest hair, to the end of the longest toenail. Geezus, a tear or two rolled down my cheek. She said, “did that hurt?”

Again, I do not remember, precisely everything that they did to me, or all of the medications that they pumped into me. However, within a couple of hours they had me upright and gently poured into Cleef’s car for the continued journey to Edmonton. Deysi, was uncharacteristically quiet, and had not yet started to crap on my judgement, character, or selfishness in trying to leave her by herself to face the world. I knew it was coming, but did not yet know of the timing. Anyway, they got me into a bed at Lalita’s and full of pain killers, I managed to sleep for a day. Deysi was very attentive and did not leave my side.

The next day was the celebration of Papi’s birth. Deysi, and all her sisters, brothers, nieces and nephew’s had rented a venue, in a friend’s Latin Restaurant. I remember being there, but don’t remember much else. The party was wild, with lots of food, drinks, dancing and laughter. I for one, did not feel much like drinking, eating or laughing. Dancing was definitely out of the question. I looked like I had just been beaten with a stick and then glued back together. I felt much the same. My one overriding memory was of just how much my arm and shoulder hurt. Had I not been with others, I think I would have just sat down for a good cry.

Somehow, I survived the festivities and a couple of days later, felt well enough to fly back home. My car was smashed beyond repair. My body was slightly better than my car. I also remember travelling back to Ponoka to meet with the police to try and determine what might have happened to me. Because, I did not have much memory of the event, I was of little help. After filling out a few forms, the policeman decided that I probably had an accident, of unknown origin. I had to agree, after all I did not remember being hit by a meteorite. From there we proceeded home, my poor car remaining behind in Alberta.

Once home, it was straight to the doctor. He took one look at me, touched my arm gently and proclaimed, “you need to go straight to the hospital!” “I will meet you there in a few minutes!” I did not have the will power to puff up and tell him, “no, I’m ok”. I just did what he said. After some more lifting of the arm, too get x-rays at the right angle, it was determined that my shoulder was broken in three places! The doctor could not believe that I had been released from the hospital in Ponoka and sent on my way! There is absolutely no cast, or plaster that can be applied to shoulder and ribcage injuries. Basically they set it back in place and strapped my arm to my body and instructed me not to move it. Then kicked my butt back onto the street.

In finishing this memory, I must say that the easiest instruction I ever had to follow, was the “not moving” it part. For weeks, I do not remember once ever having the urge to move that arm. Not even one inch! Well, eventually it seemed to heal in the correct place, other than a bump sticking out, which remains to this day. I blame this accident for my poor golf game, but get little sympathy from anyone that I use this excuse on. Throughout, all this, Desyi was at my side and mostly sympathetic, apart from those times where she questioned my sanity. Ongoing mental deficiencies, I also blame on the accident.

One of my last memories, is shortly after I return home, I was called by a friend. This guy, the owner of a local car dealership. Mikey says, “hey I heard about your accident, is there anything I can do.” I start to give him a list of my aches and pains, when he politely interrupts and asks me, “but how about your car, how is it, do you need a new one”? Now that is what I call a concerned friend! So, I now bring to an end this very painful and somewhat boring memory. I write it more for myself, hoping it will no longer haunt my dreams. I also write it down, so some of you might understand, what may be causing any flashes of insanity that have appeared in my actions in my later years. Perhaps a little sympathy could be extended. “You feeling me Deysi”?