Frogs Legs and Orange Peels in Unexplored Corners (Las Cienegas NCA/Empire Ranch)

I’ve been quite enjoying some unassuming little Yamaha jaunts to unexplored corners of oft traveled territories lately.    So often, I ride right on by those tantalizing brown signs that direct my attention to roads less traveled.  There is never enough time, and, frankly, I’ve not been equipped with the wheels or the inclination to travel off asphalt until recently.  So, while I’ve ridden around and about Sonoita, AZ countless times, today was my first foray into Las Cienegas National Conservation Area and Empire Ranch.

Wrap some high desert grasslands over rolling hills and you have my favorite landscape ever. It reminds me of the Tuscan countryside, and while it may not be Chianti, there's wine growing in them there hills. Surely with some judicious spitting it could (and should!) be safely explored in depth via motorbike.  I'm adding "tastevin" to my list of essential tank bag items.
 


Thoughts of wine aside, where there’s water, there’s a “cottonwood gallery”…
 


… and -kerplunk! – a flash of outstretched gangly legs in mid-flight confirmed it – frogs.  And turtles.  “Las Cienegas” means "marshland” and this spot fits the bill.  Frogs and turtles are always a delight, but the experience in a desert setting is elevated to miraculous.  And bizarre.    The Frog Conservation Project appears to be taking advantage of the habitat by raising a breeding population of the native Chiricahua Leopard Frog in special enclosures seen along the Heritage Trail.  I’m not sure if the free-ranging frogs I saw were Leopard Frogs, but knowing they might be, and that they’re a designated threatened species, I felt just a teeny bit guilty when my mind turned to childhood meals of cuisse de grenouilles meuniere* enjoyed long ago in rural France.

“Empire Gulch” also sports greens so tender and delicate, they rival those of my CSA farm share. So many temptations in this little spot!

 




The Empire Ranch House (under restoration) was cool and comfortable despite outdoor temps in the 90’s.  It has been a working ranch (over one million acres!) since the 1860’s.  A tense moment with cows on the road proved the point that the ranch is still very much in operation.





And in a culinary version of “how fast can I go before I crash?”, last night I learned just how far can I take candied orange peels before they solidify into one single orange misshapen sugar cube.  My original intent was to cover them in bittersweet chocolate, but unadorned, they are rugged enough to withstand the rigors of motorcycle travel.  Zingy-sweet in the mouth!




* Yes. Frogs legs.  Dusted in flour and fried up.  I loved them as a kid, and I bet I’d love them now.  I admit, I’m smacking my lips at the thought of it.

Ragged Top Mountain Easter Sunday 2012

After spending a weekend on the high performance speedy cornering machine that is the Ducati, taking the Yamaha out on the asphalt  is downright alarming.  With its hand levers at impossible angles (but perfect when you’re up on the pegs), neither the brakes nor acceleration to get you out of trouble, and the wibbly-wobbly feeling of knobby tires on pavement, I get the sense I’m skittering across an ice rink with no way to stop or turn.  Of course, the very features that are detrimental on asphalt make the Li’l Burro right at home in places the Ducati has no business visiting.  Who knew I’d ever have a moment when I was more comfortable off road than on? (There’s an Easter Sunday analogy in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.)

I took a little Sunday drive, er, ride, through Ironwood Forest National Monument today, to see if its namesake trees were blooming yet (they weren’t), but this time I eschewed the river crossing for a bit of sand instead, and took a few photos of Ragged Top Mountain along the way.

A fine view of Ragged Top Mountain, conveniently located after all the busy work of steep dips and rough terrain is safely behind me.  Funny, I just noticed there aren't any Ironwood Trees in the photo.  Guess there's another trip in my future.

And now, in another unusual turn of events, I have been invited to an actual restaurant for a later-than-usual Easter dinner.

NM Reprise (Ode to AZ 78 a.k.a. the Curley Traynor Memorial Highway)

Small state parks aren’t necessarily my favorite places, with their trash cans, eau-dor de toilettes, and premium camping fees, but, as you saw in my last post, I find myself plunking down my tent at these very sites with some regularity.  Having to make a point to dismount well before sunset, I do enjoy the little amusements they offer within walking distance of my home-away-from-home.  A short hike, wildlife viewing, a swim, or soak in a natural hot spring is a fine way to stretch out and pass the time between my safely-before-sundown-arrival and the point at which I relinquish and burrow into my enormous down sleeping bag.  So, for my first “weekend” (actual day of week not withstanding) since early January, I found myself at Roper Lake State Park yet again.  Its location near so many wonderful roads makes it an obvious choice*, and what’s not to like about riding your Ducati by day, and testing out your new Ducati bikini (thanks, Santa!) in the hot springs by night?

I was feeling rather lazy, by camping standards, so instead of moving on to a new site each night as I usually do, I pitched my tent only once, and returned to the same location each evening.  Oh, languid luxury!  Since I absolutely, positively needed a repeat of NM 152 (last seen on my foliage ride in October 2011), this arrangement meant I needed to go to Hillsboro and back in one day.  You might remember that last time the ride there** took me seven or eight hours, so I pared it down to the essentials.  AZ 191, AZ 78, NM 180, NM 152, Hillsboro for lunch, then straight back the way I came.  Even so, I had 350 miles to cover, much of it sporty and twisty.  So much for languid luxury, but I wasn’t complaining.  Bring it!

I opened the door to the Hillsboro General Store & Country Cafe with its customary jangle, and there he was!  Embree!  I’m not sure whose eyes lit up quicker, but we recognized each other on the spot.  After a bear hung greeting, I enjoyed my repast (this time a cheeseburger and fries – an inalienable right when motorcycle touring) with non other then Embree Hale, Petroglyph Hunter extraordinaire, who I met in this very cafe last October.

For someone who is full of smiles and laughter, he sure takes a serious portrait.

 



We discussed the finer points of various wild west lost treasure stories, the location of a few of the thousands of petroglyphs he’s photographed to date, and marveled at our good fortune, having met again by pure coincidence.

A beautifully ornate turquoise and silver watch.  I can’t think of a better place for it than Embree’s wrist.

I was sure I would repeat the “up and back” method the next day on AZ 191, or perhaps a loop going up 191 and back down a more northerly portion of NM 180.  So I was surprised to wake up and find my bike pointed in a different direction.  What, no moto-bliss of AZ 191?  Headed west, instead, out into the straight away nothingness that is AZ 70?  Motorcycle camping demands a spirit of exploration, and I knew the Coronado Scenic Byway (now AZ 191 but once known as Rte 666 “The Devil’s Trail,” perhaps for good reason) to be a gravel fest this time of year, so I decided to investigate the tiny strip of gray around San Carlos Lake, Indian Route 3, that morning, and then see what the afternoon would bring.  Well, I’m here to tell you that just because the map legend informs you that a thin gray line is indeed a paved road, it does not mean it’s an appropriate place for your racing rims and sport suspension.  Ouch.  Lovely scenery, but the bumpity bump bump for 40 long miles brought to mind the stern admonishments of the Ducati dealer advising me to treat my Marchesini rims with love and tenderness, and the guilt I bear from trashing both my bicycle rims commuting on the city streets of Tucson.  Evidently, “paved” is open to interpretation and can also mean dirt, sand, gravel, and (mostly) vast stretches of pot holes lacking any safe zones of asphalt whatsoever to balance upon to circumvent said potholes.  I’ll say it again.  Ouch.  (See Update Footnote!)

San Carlos Lake is formed by the Coolidge Dam.  It was completed in 1930, an age when, it seems, beautiful architectural details were still the norm.

The Gila river as it leaves Coolidge Dam

More architectural whimsy

Pairs of lamps grace each entrance as IR 3 passes over the dam.  The place was utterly deserted.  How many people actually see these lovely details?

San Carlos Lake, as seen from the faraway and desolate land of unending jarring potholes known as IR-3.

As a reward for a job well done despite the circumstances, the Ducati got a long drink of premium unleaded and I enjoyed an ice cream sandwich. (Like bacon cheeseburgers, ice cream sandwiches are also a moto-touring inalienable right.)  Thinking we needed a breath of, well, smooth asphalt, the afternoon called for a repeat of AZ 78.  I haven’t told you about AZ 78, have I?  I can’t imagine why.  On the map, it appears so very plain and homely.  Don’t be fooled, it’s a gem that has it all – from tricky, dippily, sneakily, blind, narrow, switchbacky sections to cliffhanging sweepers that go on so long they’re positively dizzying, with everything in between – and, (get this), all of it is on pavement worthy of a racetrack.  No gravel, no cars, no tar snakes, no pot holes, no suspiciously loose looking chip and seal, absolutely nothing to impede your death defying journey into New Mexico.  The first time I rode it, I found myself thinking I could happily spend an entire weekend camped out in Safford, AZ riding this 30 mile stretch to Mule Creek, NM over and over and over.  Turns out this was my weekend to fully consummate my love affair with the “A.M. Curley Traynor Memorial Highway***.”  Oh yes, and it was good.  In fact, (Ah, fickle love of woman!) the next morning I forsook Mount Graham completely (plenty of snow up there still, and conflicting reports regarding access to and condition of the road) for more of the same.

The view from the never ending time and space continuum warping sweepers dare you to take your eyes of the road.   Best to wait until the ride comes to a complete stop.

The Ducati and I catch our breath outside the Mule Creek, NM Post Office.

Mule Creek, NM.  I never tire of these lonely grassy landscapes.  So different than the AZ side of the state line.

It was hard to tear myself away, but all good things must come to an at least temporary end.  Not able to bear the thought of 100 miles of mind numbing freeway, I headed home past San Carlos Lake (Skipping IR-3, thank you very much), to Globe, AZ, west on scenic US 60 to Superior (this stretch being one of the first I saw on a youtube video featuring a posse of squidly**** motorcycle riders),  and down the dramatic 10% grade of AZ 177 (as steep as I remembered from the first time I rode it, back in my pre-blog days, stuck behind a slow moving truck, and concerned I would start rolling backwards if I went any slower).  Oh, the last fuel fill up before home is a sad one!

*Not to be stuck in a rut, I have a new plan for later this month. Same area, different campsite, different roads, different motorcycle!
** Last time I went a bit further, to Elephant Butte State Park, but riding to  Hillsboro gets the job done as far as covering the sporty fun part goes.
*** So named in 1974 for the area rancher who was instrumental in having a paved road between the two states.  The few remaining gravel portions were finally paved in the mid 1970’s!
**** “Stupidly QUick and Imminently Dead,” or something like that. You know, those safety gear-less riders, screaming about on their ratty Suzuki Gxsrs, who are unable to keep both wheels on the ground on public roads.  They give us all a bad name.
UPDATE - Next ride out, and guess who has a leaking fork seal?   (Kicks self.)

Fall Foliage Ride – New Mexico 2011

Lest you’ve been duped into thinking that I’ve been keeping current on my posts this year, here’s one that’s nearly six months behind. Wouldn’t it be nice to be equipped with a fancy netbook for my upcoming big trip?  In any case, I had a few days at my disposal late last October, and decided a foliage viewing ride was in order.  That’s as good of an excuse as any, right?   Northern AZ perhaps?  With low temps predicted to be in the teens?  Try again.  Why not revisit some roads in New Mexico, but this time without the rain?

Not about to mess with perfection, I started the trip the very same way, pointing my two wheels directly at Mount Graham, with its formidable Swift Trail Parkway that rises, via a delightful concentration of steep hairpin turns, from 3,000 feet to over 10,000 in 33 miles.  I can’t think of a better way to warm up the tires.  Except by the time I got there, it was too late in the day to do anything other than settle into camp at Roper Lake State Park.  It’s a tricky transition, that first night out.  Still shaking off the frustrations of the work day and the inevitable packing hang ups, I wasn’t happy to find hoses reminiscent of porcupine quills sticking out of my bike when I dismounted that evening.  My set-up-camp routine was rusty, too, but all those gremlins, along with my disappointment in not having had time to enjoy Mount Graham were soothed by the natural hot springs I knew, from this trip, to be waiting for me.

This hose sprang from the emissions canister, another from the top of the vertical cylinder. I shrugged, put them back, and that was the end of that.  Gratitude for small (big?) favors.

Good morning!  It was quite a lively night, between the growling animal just outside my tent that thankfully ambled off in response to a stern “Go Away!,” and the truly unearthly sound of coyotes yipping and singing like far-gone lunatic dogs touched by the moon.  Next stop:  Elephant Butte Lake State Park, carefully selected for its location on the far side of NM 152, and the fact that it and the site I was leaving were the only two spots anywhere within reach not forecast to drop below freezing.  The roads between the two sites?  Without question, the stuff of sport touring motorcycle advertisements.  250 miles, a dizzying percentage of which are twisty enough to be first and second gear material. Signs warning that it will take at least two hours to cover the 45 miles of narrow and windy NM 15 between Silver City and the Gila Cliff Dwellings can only mean one thing:  Good times ahead!

All told, the day’s journey took me seven or eight hours.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I hadn’t had such a satisfying stretch of technical riding (sans traffic and road hazards, to boot!) in, well, maybe ever.  Sweet Ducati, with its sprung hoses of yesterday, all is forgiven! 

Elephant Butte Lake State Park was my first real peek at the American Southwest many years ago.  It knocked me flat then (in spite of the centipede I pulled out of my sleeping bag), having never seen anything like it,  and it was amusing to see it again, with eyes that have seen so much of the wondrous west since then.

I knew the ride east would be a long (and glorious) day, which meant the camera stayed in its case, and lunch was a sandwich while re-fueling.  On my return, I decided to skip NM 35 and 15 (“Trail of the Mountain Spirits Scenic Byway” – such romantic scenic byway names!) in favor of breakfast in Hillsboro, NM and a few photo stops.

Hillsboro, once home to a Labor Day Apple Festival (sadly ended in 2007), is a cute little town on the Geronimo Trail Scenic Byway (NM 152), and was just the right place on the map to stop for the first real meal I’d had since I left Tucson.   The hash browns and toast  at the Hillsboro General Store & Country Cafe were serviceable, if not notable, but the “Picante” spicy sausage omelet was a hit, as were the endless antique odds and ends displayed throughout the shop.  In an unusual variation of my solo dining theme, I had the pleasure of a fascinating dining partner, curious miner/cowboy turned photographer, Embree “Sonny” Hale, who, after finding his favorite one stolen, has made it his goal to photograph every petroglyph in New Mexico.  He showed me his nearby studio, and he saw me off as I launched.   Funny how we peered at each other, equally fascinated, as if through a telescope of space and time, me on my red spaceship buzzing with myriad electronic gizmos, he, in his dusty boots and neckerchief, a for-real man of the genuine old west.  I didn’t know it then, but our paths would cross again one day.

Embree “Sonny” Hale, Petroglyph Hunter

A little detour onto NM 211 afforded a pretty vignette of the Gila River.  Not quite the fall colors of New England, but since out here any tree at all is cause for celebration as a source of shade and harbinger of precious water, a view like this is every bit as breath taking, and perhaps more meaningful.

 

Ducati, Picturesque (in my opinion) Dead Tree,  and Cotton Field, near Solomon, AZ.

The next morning it was time to take care of some unfinished business.  Mount Graham, king of the Pinaleño Mountains, awaits!  Up, down, up, down, up down!  Left, right, left, right, left right!  Until the gas tank was as close to dry as I dared.

Fall Colors atop Mount Graham: Yellow Aspens with Red Ducati

I had a final stop in mind before heading home, but which would win out?  My phobia of riding the “long dirt road” to get there, or my desire for a slice of pie at Apple Annie’s orchard?

Despite the dramatic internal conflict, I obeyed my sweet tooth.

A crisp cool apple was just the thing after living a few days on camp food.  Check out the road behind me.  I guess “long and dirt” sometimes means “short and paved.”  Unfortunately the reverse can be true as well.  I recently learned that a map indication of “paved” can be open to interpretation.  More on that next post.

Three stars for this trip.  It was so good that I rode much of it again, along with a few new roads, last weekend.  And I won’t take six months to show you the photos.

Recipe:  Put three green tomatoes on the windowsill. Go motorcycle camping. Come home and make up for lost vegetable eating time by devouring an enormous tomato salad.

A Meal in Manhattan: Totto Ramen

 Although there was a time in my life when I traveled to New York City frequently, I hadn’t been there for, oh, almost 20 years until a few days ago.  I was there for just enough time to take a long walk, a flute lesson, and a meal.

Long walk:
Moss, grey skies, and Gilded Age architecture are seldom seen in Tucson.  I found it all in Central Park, along with springtime blooms I probably haven’t seen since childhood.






Zabar’s, long lost friend!   Their cheese selection (the photo shows perhaps a third of it) was even gargantuan-er than I recalled and had me buckling at the knees. I stood around and, well, breathed deeply in the coffee roasting area, held captive by the scent of that day’s portion of the over 8,000 pounds of beans they sell weekly.





One Meal:
One??   I nearly cracked under the pressure.  As much as I would have loved to have spent my evening at Thomas Keller’s Per Se (widely accepted as the best American born chef ever), or Le Veau d'Or, perhaps the only remaining palace of French Haute Cuisine, with a lineage that goes back to Escoffier himself, and from which all our current superstar chefs eventually derive, I already had my blow out meal of the decade in 2010*.  Part Urban Spoon spin of the wheel, part research,  part mood, part budget... many factors landed me at the doorstep of Totto Ramen on West 52nd Street. I can pick ‘em for sure – there was a line out the door.

I’ve yet to take a decent picture of soup, largely because the steam fogs my camera lens, and I am wholly unwilling to let my soup get cold so it photographs better.  This is the reason you have not seen a second installment of keeping warm in winter, have not heard my rant about how even respected food bloggers think miso soup is made by stirring miso into hot water (wrong!  it goes into hot dashi which is nothing more than a seaweed and fish flake tisane),  and have not seen my handmade soba noodles (quite the different beast than that Italian pasta I quickly learned!) in tsuyu.





A ramen house is a simple place to slurp noodles, nothing more.  But what a pleasure it can be when assembled from ingredients of as high a quality as this bowl was!  I opted for the Spicy Totto Ramen, a Tokyo style dish assembled before my eyes with a scoop from the vat of liquid gold chicken broth seasoned with just the right amount of soy sauce, freshly made chewy springy noodles, pork that was finished by blow torch, scallions, sprouts, a pretty little square of nori, and a healthy dollop of rayu, that spicy sesame oil condiment loaded with chiles.  Yup, they nailed it.

If you haven’t guessed it already, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.  I wasn’t home but a few hours before I was attempting my own hand pulled noodles, being made by a master in the following video.  Silly good fun, and delicious**.

*I could argue that the 2010 meal was from last decade, and I am due for another...  Hmm.
**Go right ahead - you try to do this and take a photo without an extra set of hands.  Not to mention the fact that my camera has to go in for repair again because I never wash the flour off my hands before photographing my pastas.

You Can Lead a Burro to Water… But Will it Swim? (Ironwood Forest National Monument)

Per my prior kvetching, there’s not much opportunity for riding this time of year, even if the weather couldn’t be better.    I’ve been plagued with (or blessed, depending) not just with a heavy work load, but a dead battery or two here, flooded carb there, flat rear tire, insomnia… all of which have conspired to keep me from even the short rides that I wouldn’t consider newsworthy.  So the Ducati has been languishing under its cover, while the Yamaha’s wheels took up a lengthy residence in the trunk of my car.

You know, I don’t trust that Yamaha one bit. I put both wheels back on (after taking them off, of course, for some re-shoeing) and the job did not require one swear word. I was sure something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong, I just didn’t know it yet, because that simply is not the way I roll, in regards to mechanical repairs.  You haven’t finished the job if you haven’t had to throw a tool at least once.

This week I did get out a bit, and decided to give the newly-shod burro a test ride through little known and undeveloped Ironwood Forest National Monument.  There’s a 23 mile rocky, rutted, dippy turny dirt road that loops through the incredible scenery and it seemed like just the thing.  (It seemed a bit less like just the thing after three people warned me of the violent drug smuggling crime there, and that the area was sans-cell-service, so at that point I reminded myself if I had any question as to the route, or felt like I was getting in at all over my head, technically speaking, I could and would turn around sooner rather than later.  Not quite the best place to get stranded, yanno?)

Avra Valley Road, Silverbell Road, Sasco Road

But I happily putted along, at my inexperienced off-road pace, meeting my little challenges successfully and without undue concern.  A few “mogul” fields (which for me, consist of about 3), some areas rough enough for bucking burro moments, steep blind dips into dry washes lined with loose rocks…. that sort of thing.  It was beautiful and green, full of happy desert plant life, with curious mountains and rocks left and right (including a great view of Ragged Top Mountain, whose craggy jagged silhouette never fails to take my eyes off the road when it I see it from afar on I-10), yet I didn’t stop to take one photo. I just didn’t feel like it, and my current burro packing system is not at all convenient as far as accessing anything but water goes (HAH!*), so I justified my laziness by telling myself that perhaps it was best not to stop in what is considered a dangerous area, anyway (didn’t see a soul for the first 21 of  the 23 dirt miles).  It was simply one of those days when I wanted to enjoy the ride and the surroundings in a simpler fashion.

I was almost back to the safety of asphalt, in a relatively civilized area, with other travelers here and there,  when I came across an obstacle one simply doesn’t expect ‘round these parts…

The Li'l Burro meets the Mighty Santa Cruz! 

Yes! Yes I did!  And no, remarkably, I didn’t**!
Lil’ adventure for a Li’l Burro.

*Turns out my current packing system is a bad one. I was warned that luggage doesn’t stay put when riding off road, so I diligently strapped my Camelbak down, tying it directly to the grab rails, before topping it all off with a bungee net.  Guess those bucking bronco moments were enough to launch the entire reservoir out from inside of the secured pack to who-knows-where.  I’m glad I didn’t know I had lost all my water (and ability to carry it) until I was almost home. That’s scary stuff out here.  Time to buy a new reservoir, and to start appropriately outfitting “Eeyore.”

** Didn’t hurt that two Italian tourists were contemplating crossing in their little car at the same time, and when asked if they’d help me haul my bike out of the river if things went wrong replied, “Maybe.”   We saw a 4x4 plow through, so I knew, at least literally, I wouldn’t be in over my head.  The trick of it, of course, is that you can’t see and avoid any potential obstacles in your path.  And you certainly don’t want to find yourself so deep that your bike starts inhaling water instead of air.  One of the Italian tourists videotaped my success, and as always, these things always look utterly unimpressive on tape.  So I’ll leave the execution of the escapade to your imagination!  The tourists... well, they turned around.

I Didn’t Do It.

For months, I’ve had a bucket-list-war-room map, covered with sticky notes, hanging on the wall.  I was hoping to take a sabbatical leave from my summer job this year and do some serious touring.  Finally visit all those “next year, next year…” destinations, do all those “next year, next year…” things.  I’ve heard the call of so many alluring places, without so much as pulling over for a look-see, for eight years going on nine now, always promising myself that “next year” I would find the time to see them.  Enough! This year is next year.  With my one day off a month work schedule of late *(and much of it not the sort of work I love) I thought hanging the map on the wall would give me something to look forward to.  A light.

I almost did it.
 
I almost took the map down.

I almost said it.  “Maybe next year…”

Again.

2011 was the year of expensive unexpected expenses.  $1200 in plumbing here.  A $1300 car repair there.  Replacing said newly repaired car (I had a little – make that a lot – of help with that one, thankfully).  $1000 in vet bills here.  $1000 in unplanned housing expenses there. Travel expenses for failed job searches… You get the picture.  And it wouldn’t be fair not to admit I have only myself to blame for a certain additional expenditure.  I don’t regret it, but it didn’t do much for the bottom line.* *

Summers present an income challenge for most classical musicians.  Work is hard to come by, and what work there is usually does not pay anything close to industry standard wages.  So we do our best to pad the bank account during the busy season, grab what scraps of employment we can during the summer, and hope by the time the money starts coming in for real (relatively speaking) in October, we’re not living on the street.  Thanks to all the, uh, excitement 2011 brought me, I’ll be entering summer 2012 with the smallest safety net ever.   So yeah,  you can understand why I soon realized turning this year into the mythical “next year” was pretty delusional.  If nothing else, you can generally count on me to do the responsible thing.  The right thing.  Sometimes, I really, really hate that.

So this time I didn’t. Take the map down.  A funny thing happened instead.

The same week I received the annual initial inquiry from my summer employer (“Are you coming?”), we played a special concert here at home.  It’s the 100th anniversary of Arizona’s statehood this month and to celebrate, the Tucson and Phoenix symphonies jointly commissioned a new piece of “symphonic photochoreography” to accompany our performances of Grofé’s “Grand Canyon Suite.”  After one of the rehearsals, the orchestra musicians got a chance to see this spectacular slide show for themselves.

My heart twisted with grief. I missed my motorcycle.  I was almost ill.

So I didn’t do it.  And, as a result, starting June 7…  I’m doing it!***

The war room map.  I made a bit of a compromise,*** so I won't hit all the sticky notes originally planned, but I think I can still get plenty of miles in.  Feel free to send me a nice little netbook, so I can report on my progress in a timely manner.  Thanks!

 * Happy exception last October, which I still haven’t told you about.  I swear I’ll get to it soon!
**All my complaining and drama aside, I am amazed at and grateful for how well I (along with most of the musicians I know) seem to be able to live on so little.  It’s a matter of careful choices, priorities, willingness to work hard when opportunity presents, flexibility, thrift, and much ingenuity.  Lucky, I am.  I try hard not to forget that.
*** Compromise: I’ll be having a “half-bucket list” summer.  I’ll still work in Utah, but I’ve arranged, for one year, to shave a number of weeks (and dollars) off my seasonal stay.  I should have almost a month of Ducati touring time before showing up to my first rehearsal. And since my schedule will be unusually light while I am there, I’ll get to tap into the almost endless new-to-me local off-road exploring on my "Li’l Burro” once I arrive.