July 10th-12th, 2017 - New Mexico and Texas pt. 1

G&C Summer 2017

Blogpost 014

July 10^th-12^th

“New Mexico and Texas pt.1”

Before I begin on this one, I’d just like to point out that it’s been more than forty-eight hours since we crossed over the Texas state line and though I would hate to completely disparage the second largest American state, and home to twenty-seven million people, I would be outright lying if I didn’t say that I don’t exactly think things between us are working out. Granted, my fiancé and I have yet to visit, let alone see, any of the greater Texan ramparts such as Austin, Dallas, Houston, and wherever the face-wearing cannibal people live (the films never specify other than somewhere in Texas). We’ve only managed to cross through the belly of this earthen-behemoth to get to our destination, College Station, so maybe we’ve just not had the most appropriate experience or maybe we’re just a little tired from all the travel and not to mention the utter disappointment that beset us in New Mexico. Oh, New Mexico. Let’s talk about New Mexico.

            Before three years ago, my knowledge of the territory had been taken solely from Breaking Bad and Looney Tunes (where someone always managed to have taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque) until my move across the country brought me to the very local of Bugs Bunny’s bane. As far as memory serves me, it was a charming city with a proud and colorful cultural appreciation. I quite enjoyed my time in Albuquerque and would have been excited to revisit it but we weren’t going Albuquerque, we were going to Portales.

            Portales New Mexico is exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find the face-wearing cannibal people if you venture too far from the city limits at night. Apart from the droves of dilapidated business and long abandoned storefronts something sour could be smelt off the air, possibly from one of the various dairy farms or mills nearby. The only positive I can say, is that among the Portales grocer vending machines, one was selling horror movie icon tattoos called TERROR TATS for fifty cents each. Charlotte and I ended up acquiring all eleven because I could name each character and outline their entire filmography complete with release dates and plot summaries. I know I’m being harsh but that’s mostly due to the bump in our plans that came with the territory.

Earlier in the year, a fellow fly-expert had issued a statement to their cohort that after years of collecting predatory-prey records on various Asilidae his collection would be open to the community. My fiancé saw what a fantastic opportunity this would be for her research and promptly arranged correspondence with the collector. The two had come to an agreement for her to visit the collection and use said records for her own research. This sort of thing happens often in academia I’m told, which results in collaborative publications. Unfortunately it would seem that this would be the part in our journey where Charlotte’s leprechaun luck would finally start to run out for as we checked into our hotel my fiancé received an email from the collector calling off their arrangement due to “personal” reasons. This sort of thing also happens often in academia, apparently. Charlotte quickly tried to make up for lost time and revised her plans to meet with an entomologist in Texas who had a collection of robber flies and was more than willing to share them with her.

            So our new stop was now in eastern Texas, which from Portales NM would require a two days journey for we were like a pair of ants traversing over the belly of The Simpsons’ Rich Texan. My mother had told me often of the three years she spent living in the state as a child and would use many long and descriptive words to illustrate her displeasure with it including a word of warning for my fiancé and I, “everyone and everything has a gun.” So far we’ve not witnessed any firearm of any kind but we still have at least three more days to go so anything can happen.

            Our first stop was in Spur Texas for collecting asilids. My fiancé has been using museum collections data to locate areas and times we can collect particular genera and prey. Now prior to this my fiancé had never been within the parameters of this chunk of land that had once been apart of Mexico and I had only crossed through the thinner upper crust of it during my transcontinental relocation so neither of us really knew what to expect; the environment was similar to New Mexico’s and small towns were just as prevalent as they were small and rusty. There was one thing that stood out to us on our way to Spur, and that was the town names, which were all of a singular noun such as Temple, Mound, etc. As our vehicle drove past a thirty-foot high metal spur marking our entrance into the town we began to make a little more sense of Texas.

            We stopped for lunch just a few yards away from the giant boot-accessory in a little dive called The Dixie Dog, which must have been the only restaurant in town, for despite it’s cramped sitting arrangements it somehow managed to fill up shortly after we ordered for the lunch rush. Both Charlotte and myself were feeling adventurous and thereby wanted a taste of some glorified, and bonafide Texan cuisine. As we entered the restaurant I couldn’t help but feel as if we’d just walked onstage for an under budget play about a struggling farm town in Texas in the late sixties. A single-story house that’d been converted into a 50’s style dinner with a third of the floor space dedicated to tables and booths and the rest transformed to an open-kitchen with a chest-high counter fixed with three lowly barstools. The walls had been freshly painted with robin’s egg blue with 45s lining the crown of the sidewalls but only the sidewalls. The wall behind us was covered in planks of old wood marked with names and symbols from markers and knives like the walls of a gas station bathroom except there was also printed letters and pages from past customers I suppose held together with scotch tape. Three women were working behind the counter; one of them sported a pink-cast and sling on her left arm and another wore a shirt that read: Ask me about Jesus. I ordered myself a jalapeño-burger with ghost pepper cheese and my fiancé ordered herself a Dixie Dog (the restaurants namesake), which ended up just being a skewered hotdog dipped in batter and fried, like a corndog but without corn, or flavor. My decision wasn’t any better as after one bite that included a 3rd of a raw jalapeño, I was harshly reminded that my mouth’s tolerance for powerful spice is much like my mouths singing abilities, in that they don’t exist. We left the Dixie Dog with mutual digestive imbalances as we realized we would continue to be out of our comfort zone for at least four more days and we were just halfway through the first. 

Somewhere in Texas

            

         After more driving through several hundred miles of a seemingly nontransformative landscape, we arrived in Abilene, the halfway point of our journey to College Station which seemed to be a city comprised entirely out of fast food restaurants and a Wal-Mart. Our hotel had fallen into disrepair with a scent of mold none could escape. Inside our room the moldy smell was amplified and our skin immediately grew wet from trapped humidity of some unknown origin, perhaps a swamp monster under the bed. Flies danced over the mattress as cockroaches crawled up the walls. We went to bed early in our twin-sleeping bag (not wanting to touch the blood stained sheets) so we could wake up early and check out ASAP. And though we did indeed eject ourselves from our horrible room at the crack of dawn, our hotel seemed hell-bent on giving us yet more reasons to never return, for at the continental breakfast (free of charge for overnight guests) I discovered a hair in the kitchenette’s Texas-shaped waffle iron. A minor complaint I’m aware, but after a full night of skin-crawling grossness an additional discussing feature can really push one over the edge. I’d lost my appetite for the morning, for food and Texas as a whole. Here’s hoping our experience will turn for the better in College Station.

                                                             George giving back

   

            

June 7th-9th, 2017 - Denver and the Great Sand Dunes of S. Colorado

G&C Summer 2017

Blogpost 013

July 7^th-9th

“Denver and the Great Sand Dunes of S. Colorado”

I find it conveniently amusing that both Charlotte and myself have a certain level of familiar connection to the state of Colorado; home of the Rocky Mountain range, the Denver Broncos, and the comedic duo that is Matt Stone and Trey Parker. It was also the birthplace of my mother and current residence of my fiancé’s Great Aunt Lynn and second cousins. If not for the later fact, we probably would have avoided the city of Denver altogether as there was no entomological value in this visit, but Charlotte’s connection with her family is powerful and I was more than happy to meet them as they are soon to be my family in a year or so.

            Our drive from the Red Desert Rose RV Campground of Rawlins, CO spanned just over four hours, but as we pulled into Charlotte’s Nana’s cul-de-sac-home driveway our energy hissed out of us like a decade-old bounce house at a fat kid’s birthday party. Fortunately, our collective constitution held firm throughout initial introductions and the amazing taco-salad Chot’s Great Aunt Lynn whipped for us. Lynn must have sensed our depletion of stamina for after lunch she insisted we head upstairs to one of the bedrooms for a nap. As we’ve grown steadily older both my fiancé and myself have learned that while adulthood possess many freedoms and perks, what we often covet above all else is the chance to nap undisturbed. So, how could we refuse such an offer? Our heads were full of dreams before they even hit the pillows but it was not to last; Lynn had plans to keep us busy for the rest of the afternoon/evening. 

            As it turns out, one of Charlotte’s second cousins (Molly) works in radio advertising, which proved to be mutually beneficial for friends and family when a client-company happened to throw a big PR event. One of those client-companies happened to be a local brewery throwing a double-stage beer festival at the brewing plant. Tickets were open to the public running from fifty to a hundred dollars a pop. Molly’s work gave her eight with two having our names on them. Not at all what one can expect after an hour-long slumber of the “deep” and “heavy” variety.

            Charlotte, like always was in good spirits to meet up with more family and spend the next five-hours among crowds of alcohol-frenzied free-spirits. I was groggy and in no mood to drink but mustered what little energy I’d regained from the nap to exchange pleasantries with the family while playing sober-observer with the crowds. My fiancé and I often play this game when we’re together in strange settings like these where the majority of occupants are dressed to the teeth in their finest LOOKATME-LOOKATME-ARN’T-I-INDIVIGUALIST costumes. The game involves one mentioning something unusually characteristic of an unusual character they see and the other successfully locating the culprit by announcing where they are:

            For example, Charlotte might say something like, “Brotatos,” and after a quick scan I might say, “six-o’clock” at the trio of young men (who resembled a diet John Snow and Samwell Tully) wearing matching red-shirts with corncob patterned breast pockets stuffed with raw potatoes offering them out to anyone who would touch them like a person offering FREE HUGS but earthier. There were many exchanges like this throughout the festival and while there were far too many intriguing weirdoes I could go on about, the potato-boys were by far the most memorable. And yes, we both agreed to caress the potatoes.

George enjoying the pig roast

            We spent the last few hours of the night back at Lynn’s house playing Oh-Hell! A strategy-based card game popular in Charlotte’s family which is like a mishmash of poker, war, B.S, and go-fish. There’s really no apt way to describe it other than it’s as fun as it is ferocious and by playing with Charlotte’s great aunt I’d discovered where she gets her borderline Mongolian warlord-like competitive nature. Unfortunately, despite the burning passion for victory harbored in both female card players I won by a landslide, which was only made more ironic as I was playing half-asleep. The games conclusion was made even more ironic when it became clear that my prize came in the form of insomnia, which lasted until the early-mid hours of the morning. After a couple hours of nightmare-infested dreams involving obsidian-eyed body snatchers and screaming phantoms we were awaken by the incising aroma of homemade pancakes and bacon made fresh by Lynn; her last gift to us before our travels to the Great Sand Dunes of southern Colorado.

            The Great Sand Dunes are apart of the American National Park circuit, so of course I was completely oblivious to their existence and subsequently flabbergasted that not only were there dunes of sand in this state of such enormity to be considered Great. But as we crossed the flattened valleys of sage and wild horses to the park, the Great became more and more fitting for we could see from miles away the towering mountainous dunes stretching over the horizon like a panoramic 70mm screen-shot from Lawrence of Arabia.

            We landed on the campgrounds in the early-mid afternoon and set up our tent with enough daylight hours to complete our mission for this particular visitation. As Charlotte would be pleased to tell anyone who asks; most robber flies (and especially the species/genus she’s studying) thrive in hot and arid environments like this one. So Charlotte armed herself with her favorite hunting net and I, like an infantry officer supplied the huntress with specimen vials for every successful capture.

            As soon as we stepped foot onto the dune forest trail closest to camp, we knew we were in for an insect-rich experience as we became immediately swarmed with legions of kamikaze mosquitos. We were like top-of-the-line Tickle-Me-Elmos on Black Friday sought after by mobs of ravenous consumers. I know I’ve mentioned before that one of the chief reasons for my disdain of camping (as a whole) stems from the fact that blood-sucking parasites LOVE my blood and so as the first literal cloud of bloodsuckers came into my airspace I promptly flailed my arms like a stroke victim and ran off screaming in my most masculine high-pitched terror-voice. Charlotte had accounted for this and brought heavy-duty N,N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide or DEET bug-spray and after a quick poison-shower I we were ready to start the hunt over, free from mosquito interference, for the moment.

            Once we crossed over the initial threshold of microscopic horror Charlotte spotted her first asilid; a beefy Promachus followed shortly by a massive Stenopogon and then another and another and another. We had hit what fishermen often refer to a particularly plentiful fishing spot as “in the zone.” Everywhere you looked there were robber flies of monster proportions, making them perfect for venom dissections, and even easier to spot-n-catch. We powered up and down the trail snatching asilids left and right. Even I managed to catch a couple, literally, I caught a pair of Efferia in the process of mating. They were not happy about it and upon their capture and containment proceeded to fight with the female coming up victorious, being the strongest of the two as insects typically are. No wonder my future bride is obsessed with these creatures, thank God we never fight.

            As we finished our hunting hike we returned back to camp where we spent the last few hours drawing and writing. I woke in the morning to a mountain range of irritated bumps and bite-marks up and down every limb of my body. Charlotte was left untouched. Perhaps I should invest in an airtight skin suit for the future. We have so many more campgrounds to cover before summer’s end and at this rate I might not make it.

 Hunting Stenopogon

Charlotte playing with a noisy cicada

We are occasionally goofballs <3

 Love you and miss all of you!! 

July 3rd - 7th, 2017 - The Place No One Wanted

G&C Summer 2017

Blogpost 012

July 3^rd – July 7^th

The Place No One Wanted

If there’s one thing any traveler of the great American mid-western ramparts can and will take away from their journey regardless of extent, weather, or company is that there’s a whole lot of nuthin’ to be found in it. I’m writing this journal entry on the 7th of July at the Red Desert Rose Campground in Rawlins middle of nowheresville Wyoming, several days after our bout atop the colossal majesty of the mountains of Glacier if for no other reason other than; there simply isn’t too much to discuss or reflect on. Since Montana we’ve been through three more states and added another thousand miles to our journey and yet my mid-trip conclusion remains as such; that for every awe-inspiring plot of beautiful land there’s about fifty aches worth of barren waste to balance it out. Let it be known that this is not a flat-out insult to the natural earthen void that is Idaho-Utah farm country but rather an appreciation of its vast blandness for without it who knows how much more we humans would for granted the prettier parts of our home planet (especially the luscious eastern-American coastline that I have and forever will call “home).   

            Our destination post-Glacier, was Moscow Idaho, home of the U-Idaho Vandals and Washington State University aka the Butch-T Cougars; an oasis of civilization in an otherwise plain sea of potato-centric agricultural. The purpose for our visitation was for the universities’ entomology collections where Charlotte had reached out ahead of time a request to examine and database their asilid specimens. This was to be the first of many insect museum stops for the summer as well as the primary reason for us taking to the mass network of yellow-dashed asphalt that is the American highway system. While I, not being a scientist in the slightest despite earning my undergraduate degree in psychological studies but considering my background in the “soft-sciences” I was considered to be as useful as a pair of 3D glasses to Polyphemus the cyclops. Because of this fact I spent my day in the Idaho Inn catching up on some much needed alone time which involved writing, video editing, and catching up with family via phone where I learned from my mother that I’d already visited Moscow ID once before in utero as well as Glacier National Park some twenty-four and a-half years prior. I was also tasked with the completion of my fiancé’s and I’s collective laundry at the local laundromat across the street; and I must say the nervous glances I received in that place at the sight of me public reading my hardcover copy of the Complete Cthulhu Mythos. I suspect they thought me of a daemonic cultist or worse, a DEMOCRAT!!! As I carried out my daily chores Chot performed her scientific duties with great enthusiasm and found herself in high esteem by the museum curator who ferried her to WSU in order to grace their collection with her work. She was also rewarded with a quick visit to a grizzly bear sanctuary as was kind enough to take pictures for me though I was not at all envious for I was having a lovely day to myself in the hotel.

A not so great picture of some grizzlies

            The next day we left the state of Idaho for another familiar location that my fiancé and I were no stranger too, Salt Lake City. Where the followers of Joseph Mormon came to the Oquirrh Mountains and collectively said, “screw that” and settled in the shaded foothills. We’d spent a day and a night in the city last summer coming from the R lazy S ranch en-rout to California and having never been to the supposed “capitol of the mid-west” we deicide the split the trip in half and see the Mormon-Mecca for ourselves. Our experience was a strange one, eerily reminiscent of an early Twilight Zone episode as it was Sunday on our arrival and the city was almost completely empty of residents. Both Chot and myself were equal parts fascinated and perturbed feeling much like the block from the bringing of 28 Days Later, I’m sure. And although we were aware that this being a city chock-full of devote later-day saints keeping true to the sabbath it’s still downright freaky to walk about in a empty city. Well, not entirely empty, there were plenty hoards of homeless around every corner to really drive the post-apocalypse vibe home. That, or the rapture had happened and we were just none the wiser. Fortunately for us gentiles (which is weird to write as a half-Jew) judgment day was not the case as it had been a year later and the same city was sprawling with its regular array of devote citizens in addition to the homeless ones. Then again we were visiting in the middle of the week this time.

            But before we entered the city we’d decided to take a slight detour and visit the Great Salt Lake in person, a mistake we realized we made last summer. To experience the great primordial lake and all it’s glory you’ll have to set your sights for the state park, Antelope Island; the largest landmass open to the public which is in truth more of a man-made peninsula. It costs five dollars a head to enter but once you’re past the gates you’re given free range of the park, provided that you keep to the roads and trails and do not engage the wild bison that inhabit the island. My fiancé and I were surprised at just how alien the landscape could be; surprisingly hilly with scattered tan upheavals of bare rock between huge tracks of pale-yellow grass. Hardly anything grows on Antelope Island but what can one expect when a mostly dead body of water surrounds it. The Great Salt lake itself is a miracle of nature that deserves recognition of its own right; 1,700 square miles long but with a max depth of just thirty-seven feet deep America’s Dead Sea is all that’s left remnant of the prehistoric Bonneville Lake whose shallowness and extreme mineral quantity is the result of there being no escape for the water (except evaporation) that comes off of the mountains. Essentially the water in the lake has been the same for thousands of years making it impossible for any life forms to thrive in it’s salty basin save for brine-prawns and Sea Monkeys. In fact, the Great Salt Lake is known as the “Sea Monkey Capital of the World,” and is responsible for 90% of the global fish food industry. It’s also incredibly ripe with insect life; grasshoppers, brine-flies, and other pesky critters flourish in the island’s grasslands having no real predatory threats except for the adorably obese jumping spiders who just sit atop grass stalks and wait for prey to literally jump into their mouths. Charlotte was fortunate enough to spot and capture a sole asilid after over an hour of hunting. We would have stayed longer but the heat and onslaught of curious brine-flies to our limbs and faces was enough to cut our Island-adventure short and besides, we had business in the city.  

Antelope Island

Hot and Tired, but also super happy :)

            Our purpose here was the same as in Moscow; Charlotte had arranged a day in the Natural History Museum of Utah, to look at asilids while I labored away on Photoshop for this video commercial with seemingly no end in sight. Fortunately the museum’s sole insect-curator was so grateful to find someone to curate and database her asilid collection, that she rewarded my fiancé with two free day-passes to the museum. We spent the greater part of the afternoon at their exquisite Viking exhibit which was appropriate considering the fact that we’ve been planning for a “slight” Viking theme for our wedding; and considering Charlotte’s heritage is Scandinavian it’s more justifiable then most theme-weddings we’ve seen plastered on the internet and social media.

            With out business in Salt Lake completed we set off on our next destination: I-don’t-know-where in someplace-Wyoming at a little camping complex called Red Desert Rose. This is more of a halfway point to Denver Colorado but two four-hour drives is far superior to one that’s eight-hours in total. Unfortunately there wasn’t much to discuss for this day. The scenery is bland and uninspiring and so far the biggest highlight on my end has been the start of a new book, Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s 19th century classic, The House of the Dead; the semi-autobiographical account of the author’s time and observations of life inside a Siberian prison camp. It’s dreary and dismal but fascinating and gracefully scribed. As I read my fiancé frolicked among the campgrounds and caught ten asilids before harvesting them of their venom glands in the makeshift laboratory she set up in our tent. We’re a morbid bunch, aren’t we? 

Charlotte's dissection station

            

 George's writing station

Fun with some sculptures at the campground!