I did a bit of traveling over the weekend. My employer sent me to Massachusetts to conduct a site survey for an upcoming simulation exercise. The actual work portion of shaking hands, establishing a point of contact for receiving the equipment we'll be using at the simex, taking measurements of the room, and noting all the power outlets took no more than thirty minutes. I'll be doing it again this weekend in Lincoln, NE. Fortunately, I'd previously arranged to meet up with my fellow Kansas City friend Karen, who was in Boston for a conference of her own, by coincidence.

Though the site survey itself was at a mostly shut-down Army base near Leominster, MA, I was instructed to find accommodations in Worcester, a small city of roughly 170,000 about 15 miles down the road. In Massachusetts, fifteen miles will cover a lot of ground. In my seemingly short drive from Worcester to the site, I passed a half dozen decent-sized towns and three state parks. Massachusetts, though it's small and dense, is a very wild place outside the inhabited parts. Mountains, thick forests, and swamps abound. In late October it's truly a sight to behold. Though the biggest frenzy of vivid leaf colors had passed perhaps two weeks earlier, there was still an abundance of dazzling color in every direction.

People at work advised me that I should avoid flying into Boston, as there's traffic. Instead they recommended that I fly into Providence. I wasn't into this idea, but I did understand the futility of depending on Boston's Logan airport with a car, and instead chose to fly into Manchester, NH. I flew out of Boston to come home though, because I was there anyway, with my friend Karen. I had never used Manchester's airport before, and it was an absolute breeze. From gate to street was roughly three minutes, and that includes a pee. I had no trouble getting a rental, and hopped on I-93 to speed southward to my destination.

About seventy minutes later, I rolled into Worcester, a city named for the British city in the center of the region that gives my father's favorite steak sauce its name. As is the custom in Massachusetts, Worcester has a salad bar of colleges, large and small, and so of course has a significant youthful population. Undulating hills score its landscape. This combined with its considerable age of 336 years (ancient for America) make for an incongruous mishmash of streets that follow no particular pattern and heed no address numbering scheme of any kind other than buildings just incrementing addresses on a particular street. I noticed this on Massachusetts' highways as well. They most certainly do have mile markers, but the exit numbers have nothing to do with them. Anyway, this all comes together to form an excellent built environment in Worcester, and it goes without saying but I'll say anyway that it's an extremely walkable city.

I walked to Armsby Abbey on the advice of the hotel staff, and they instructed me to "have one" for them. They love beer in Massachusetts, and it shows. I went inside and found that the bar had a selection of about forty beers available on draught, including several Belgian flavors. I'm not a big enthusiast of Belgian beers, as they're on average too sweet and bready for my taste, but I do acknowledge that the commitment, both monastic and commercial, to the craft is a time-honored tradition in Belgium, and here in the States, people flap their arms for Belgian beer.

I helped myself to a local IPA and a local Porter, and got a lot of turned heads when my food came. Some kind of gouda-based concoction that featured bacon and potato salad, and that almost made me start looking around for an apartment guide, was dropped off in front of me. It was a late dinner and I was very hungry, but even so it was an explosion of flavor. I asked the bartender who was, of course, from the Midwest, like everyone else in cool coastal cities, where would be a good place to go after this. She recommended the Boynton, but admonished me that without the benefit of a car, it was "a hike." I told her I didn't mind a walk, as it was a beautiful night. She reluctantly gave me directions.

It took me fifteen minutes to walk there with a full sidewalk and respected priority crosswalks on every step of the route. I don't know what she was talking about with it being, "a hike." I walk farther than that in Kansas City all the time, and have to keep my wits about me to avoid getting flattened by motorists who don't take kindly to people walking on their roadway. Anyway, the Boynton had an outstanding draught selection, but almost everyone there was drinking bottled grey beer. The bartender dusted off the 90-minute IPA handle for me, and I watched the Phillies lose game 2 of the World Series. I was back at the hotel by 11pm, and went leisurely to sleep.

I awoke the next morning in no particular hurry, as I had no specific obligations until after 2pm. I checked out at noon, and drove up to the site just to do what database partner Paul calls, "recon," on the location and the route. With an hour to spare, I periscoped for some lunch. After a pretty sad showing (ie. nothing), I finally came across a Wendy's in Ayer, MA. I ate a 99-cent burger that isn't available in Kansas City, while I watched with quiet humor a revolving door of something you don't hear a lot about in the Midwest: New England Rednecks.

I've been to Massachusetts many times, but never before in my adult life had I visited the provinces this extensively. The natives, especially in the country, have the thickest New England accents I could have imagined. My friend Carl told me several years ago that the accent had "left Boston," and removed to the surrounding areas. I had forgotten this until it was brought home to me at that Wendy's in Ayer. After I finished eating I had perhaps twenty minutes to make the five-minute drive to the site, and I got a phone call. It was my point of contact, letting me know that the site survey wouldn't be possible for another ninety minutes. So, I had some time on my hands.

I decided to head into Leominster for three reasons. One, it has my middle name in its name; two, it was very close; and three, it's the purported birthplace and hometown of Johnny Appleseed. So I headed into town and encountered a ridiculous traffic jam just outside the downtown area. I pulled off and found a spot at a Catholic Church aptly named St. Leo's, suited up, and walked into town. Leominster's downtown is a New England-style modern-art puzzle crammed around a sunny lawn with a Gettysburg memorial reverently erected in its center. No fewer than six church steeples were visible over the orange and red treetops. I took a couple of pictures, but realized that really, there's nothing remarkable about Leominster. It was very different and interesting and exciting to me, but to the average Leominister(?) it's just another town. Even so, I wandered around downtown, peeking into shop windows and trying not to act surprised when people smiled their hellos as we'd pass on the sidewalk. It was a very agreeable town.

I got a call from Ed, my point of contact, as I was heading back to the car. He said he'd be at the site in perhaps thirty minutes. We met at what used to be the Post Shoppette (basically an army gas station), but was now just a regular gas station. I got there first, so I used the bathroom, picked up a hawaiian punch, and sat outside and read a chapter of a book I've read a hundred times already. Ed arrived and we made short work of the work for which my employer paid an extensive sum to finance.

My work obligations complete, I had nothing to do but have a good time. So I hopped on Highway-2, and zoomed into Boston for Halloween weekend. The highways directed me toward the Masspike, and soon I was $2.50 lighter, and headed toward the Prudential building to Neil Diamond in open 60mph traffic. It was a very exciting for me. For a moment I forgot about my debts, my obligations, my troubles, and just enjoyed a sublime point in time.

I dropped the car off at the airport, happy to be rid of it, and jumped on the silver line "train" to the World Trade Center stop. Karen was waiting for me there, and we shared a weird sideways hug. Karen and I are two pretty different people. She actually enjoys things that are good for you. To me they're a necessary, but entirely unpleasant aspect of life. When I travel I abandon the pursuit of making myself a healthier person, in favor of enjoying myself as fully as I can. Beer, meat, potatoes, cholesterol, sugar, refried beans, guacamole, loud music, walking at leisure- these are all things of which I usually avail myself fully when I'm traveling for fun, while Karen is more of a mind of staying the responsible healthy course she has set for herself in her daily life, and which she has come to love and enjoy.

I wish I could enjoy that sort of thing, but I just can't. So I chew my greens and wash them down with water to get the horrible unprocessed veggie taste out of my mouth, and press on. But even so, Karen and I got along just fine when we spent the weekend. I think she was being a little more accommodating than I was though, and I feel the need to apologize to her for that. I need to remember to do that the next time I see her, and to remember that she gave up her weekend for me. I'm not sure I ever fully conveyed my thanks to her for that.

Anyway, she walked me back to the hotel, and I did a five-minute unsweating of my face and armpits in the bathroom when we arrived. I had already arranged with Carl that I'd meet him for dinner and drinks that night. (It was Friday.) Karen had an opening reception to attend for the weekend's conference, and said she'd try to meet up later. I had outstanding luck with the trains, and managed to catch one as soon as I arrived at each platform. As a result, I beat Carl to the rally point by a good ten minutes. This was in the middle of Allston, so the streets were alive with beautiful young people. Carl strode up soon after, and we hugged, not having seen each other for the better part of three years.

We went to a bar called Deep Ellum, which as I recall, is the name of an artsy neighborhood just outside downtown Dallas, TX. As such, I had the theme music from Dallas stuck in my head all night, along with images of Charlene Tilton. We shared a table with a friendly couple, had dinner, drank some delicious local beers, and caught up. It was really wonderful to spend time with Carl on Friday, brief as it was. After we'd been there a little while, I got a text from Karen, proposing that we meet at the Publick House in Brookline. We heaved sighs, but Karen had never been there, and it's definitely a place that everyone needs to visit at least once.

I'm sure there were plenty of buses and cabs that would have been happy to carry us the mile and a half that lay between Deep Ellum and the Publick House, but we agreed that it was too nice of a night not to walk it. Even on foot, we still beat Karen there by at least twenty minutes. We grabbed some beers, and wedged ourselves into a window-side table among the spent glasses of the table's previous occupants. Karen appeared in the picture window about halfway into our beers, and the three of us sat and talked for perhaps an hour before other people from her conference that were walking by recognized her, and split us into conversation groups of Carl and John, and Karen and the conference people. It was actually really nice.

The conference people persuaded us to join them at a costume party about a half mile away. Carl excused himself for the evening when we arrived, and after a couple of beers and laughs, Karen and I left too. It was after 1am, so the buses and trains were not an option. We grabbed a cab, and were stunned at the short time it takes to drive from Brookline to South Boston, compared to our previous point of reference: the T. We went upstairs and were asleep in minutes. Karen reported the next day that not only was I snoring loudly, but I was also growling and speaking in complete sentences, presumably, to people with whom I dreamily interacted.

We met Tobias at a bookstore and brunch place called either Trident or The Trident, on Newbury St in the Back Bay. I had an eggs benedict and too many potatoes, while Karen and Tobias each had some kind of fruit-stuffed french toast dish. it was all extremely tasty. We left there and cruised down the sidewalk of Newbury St. We got our hands lavishly and pungently washed at a Lush store, and we browsed the inescapably expensive wares at Louis Boston, which had a Ferrari parked out front. Karen spotted a pair of glasses with wooden frames, ambitiously priced at just over five hundred dollars, not counting the cost of actually fitting her prescription lenses therein, and was tempted enough to talk about them until we were considerably past capable of purchasing them. I suggested she run the search through google.

We wandered across the Public Garden, and found ourselves in Beacon Hill. Tobias told us stories about how this was his first home in Boston, and the place from which he first began to know and appreciate his new home. He pointed out places where he loved to eat, shop, and walk, and had more stories about people that he knew and had known in various parts of the neighborhood. Beacon Hill, clearly, is important to Tobias, and it's easy to see why. It's almost unimaginably scenic, and its location is the stuff of cliche. If the housing stock wasn't protected as historically significant, it would all be towering highrises now. I knew one business in Beacon Hill: the Beacon Hill Pub; a lone cash-only dive bar in the middle of the charming opulence of Charles St, conveniently situated within 100 yards of the Charles/MGH Red Line stop. We drank beer from faux pint glasses constructed of shatterproof light plastic, and talked some more about nothing in particular.

We agreed it was time to head north, so we got on the Red Line nearby, and traversed the Longfellow Bridge with the afternoon sunlight glinting off the whitecapped Charles River as a foreground to the view of the skyline of the Back Bay to the west. Karen looked up at me, smiled, and said, "I think I like Boston."

We got off the train at Harvard Square, and were immediately shocked by the much greater numbers of people on the streets in Cambridge than there had been in Boston. But it then occurred to us that it was late afternoon on Halloween in America's most overtly collegiate town. Of course people would be out en masse. We weren't quite ready to sit down yet, so we walked around Cambridge for a while. It's very surprising how abruptly the commercial storefronts give way to quiet, tidy neighborhoods of immaculate New England-style houses, but it is so. Cambridge is a singularly lovely town. I've always enjoyed visiting.

Again on my suggestion, we went to Shay's, a basement beer and wine bar about three blocks off Harvard Square. We grabbed a table and some beers, and watched the place fill up around us. Probably half the people we saw were in costume. One woman came in, dressed as a flawless Chun Li from Street Fighter 2. Shortly afterward, six men, dressed perfectly as six-foot tall versions of Oscar the Grouch, Bert, Ernie, Grover, the Cookie Monster, and the insufferable Elmo, sat down at a nearby table. We liked this very much. Even so, after one beer, we felt the need to ramble.

We walked for a bit more in Cambridge, and wound up, on Tobias' suggestion, at a fantastic pizza place called Cambridge 1. We shared a pizza with lobster, sorrel, goat cheese, and corn on it. It was delectable. We didn't even leave any crumbs. Out the back window of the restaurant, next to which we were seated, was a centuries-old cemetery. We decided we wanted to have a look. It fronted Mass Ave, but we took an intentionally circuitous route through the neighborhood behind it for aesthetic reasons. We saw 300-year old headstones amid the falling yellow leaves and late afternoon sunshine. We left there and crossed Cambridge Common, for a bar of the same name.

Our waiter was dressed as Marty McFly, so I called him, "butthead," when I thanked him for our drinks. He laughed appreciatively, as there had been few people that had known what his costume was. Full credit must be given to Tobias though, for first spotting the costume for what it was. We had a couple of beers before we set off again, toward Tobias' home of Somerville, where we had planned with Tobias' wife Tessa, and Ted, one of the people that Karen had met at the conference. We hopped on the red line at Porter Square and rode for one stop to Davis Square, and grabbed a table at Damaskar for some excellent Indian Food.

The food, drink, and conversation were delightful. Nobody could finish their dinner, so Tobias and Tessa gratefully and graciously accepted everyone's leftovers. We said good-night to Ted, who had a party to attend, and went to Tobias and Tessa's apartment about 3/4 of a mile away. We watched some football while we talked, and Tobias and I discovered that his mother and my sister attended the same small girls' college in Terre Haute, IN. Tessa brought me close to tears as she played us a beautiful piece on their new piano, and we watched an episode of Saved by the Bell.

By this time, it was about 11:15pm, and Karen and I had an early flight the next morning, so we thanked them for their friendliness and hospitality, and retraced our steps to the Red Line stop at Davis Square. On the way, the weather went from sprinkling to drizzling to raining to pouring. We hastened to put electronics into protected pockets and bags, but everything got wet. We alighted at the T stop bedraggled and soaked, but I still rather enjoyed it. It was certainly wet, but the temperature was very pleasant, and I always enjoy walking in the rain. Also, though it did rain, neither of us made any effort to hurry. I think we had a silent understanding of our mutual appreciation for the simple novelty of finishing our weekend with falling rain.

It had been almost three years since my last visit to Boston, and though the visit was brief, I can't imagine how it could have been improved.

I chat using google Talk. A lot. Instant messaging is a big part of my daily routine, almost regardless of what I have going on. At any typical moment, I'll commonly have at least fifteen chat windows up, with conversations in various stages and degrees of activity. As such, I can't use the chat feature within gmail, as I'd have so many miniature windows up that I wouldn't be able to use my actual email, which I'm using constantly for work and otherwise.

I've been using gmail for about five and a half years, and Google Talk for a little over four(since it came out). I was talking to Derek this morning about nothing in particular, and it occurred to me that since, by default, all my chats are logged in my gmail account, I could probably find out how many times I've had a chat window open with a particular person. So I started searching. Unfortunately, Google has no reporting tools available to the public, that could probably have compiled in seconds all the information I mined over a period of an hour or two. So, I made do, and forged on.

The results were absolutely shocking. I know I communicate a lot over instant messaging, but I wasn't prepared for the numbers I saw. Just Derek, with whom I was chatting at that moment, accounts for 264 individual conversations, many of which go for hundreds of messages apiece. I decided to dig more deeply, and found that Derek is quite literally the tip of the iceberg. Instead of regaling you with exasperated prose about my internet addiction, I did what any good geek would do. I made a chart. Click it for the full-size image.

This image is a chart of the aggregate total of all the chats I was able to find of everyone in my chat list with more than ten total chats in my history. Sorry, Josh Olsen, but our six conversations didn't make the cut. As you can see, the distribution is pretty one-sided. Mr Jeffrey Denny handily tops out my list, and is followed by Chris Harper, Matthew Staub, and Brad Schmitt before the number dips into the triple digits, of which Nicolas Bock is the chief. In short, I have personally authored hundreds of thousands of words of informal correspondence with friends, relatives, colleagues, and a group I affectionately call, "the ladies."

Speaking thereof, I also made charts that isolated the numbers to the two commonly-accepted genders of our time: men and women. This is all tied together in greater resolution and numeric verbosity in a spreadsheet, from which these quite possibly useless charts are derived.

This all adds up to almost fourteen thousand individual conversations. However, as great is my fascination with these numbers, greater still is my enthusiasm for compiling them for you.

I have a bit of a problem to solve around here. My database guy at work, Paul, uses an internet/network connection that's provided by Fort Leavenworth's Directorate of Information Management(or DOIM). Despite the name of the organization I assure you that this is the US Army, not the KGB. Anyway, Paul's connection comes through DOIM, and DOIM has the most restrictive network policy I have ever seen. On top of the fact that they block the majority of websites out there, they also dictate how you can use your extremely locked down machine.

For example, they don't like it when he disconnects his laptop. I take mine home every night, but Paul usually leaves his docked. This is fine, as he doesn't do any work from home. I do most of my work from home, and well outside business hours. Different strokes, and that's fine. But sometimes Paul travels for work, and needs to take his laptop with him, and DOIM gets very upset when he does this.

The most annoying restriction however, and the reason I'm writing this up on my website (and through the magic of syndication: Google Reader and Facebook Notes) is his USB port, and the fact that he can only use it for input devices, like his mouse and keyboard. USB flash drives are strictly prohibited. The hamper this places on us is that if he needs to copy something to or from one of our network-isolated simulation machines, he has very little recourse.

I am able to take care of it for him, but that's only because I refuse to connect to DOIM's restrictive network, and get my machine locked down. Instead, I tether my cell phone, and use that for my internet access. It obviously isn't as fast as a hard-wired connection, but it gets the job done. I'm writing this blog post through my phone's internet connection right now.

As it is right now, Paul has to ask someone else to move files for him, between the internet and our simulation machines. This is not an acceptable situation, in my opinion. He is not able to complete his job with the tools he's been given. I have a couple of ideas, but I'd be happy to hear yours.

My first major idea is USBnet. Basically, I would like to set up a network connection over USB between Paul's machine and the closest machine on the simulation network. It isn't likely that DOIM is technically adept enough to detect or restrict this, and it's also possible that they wouldn't even have a problem with it, especially if I talk to them first. This way, he'd be able to move files in and out of a non-production staging area on the closest simulation machine, as simply as if they were sitting on his own laptop. This is the ideal solution.

Another idea is for Paul to write to rewritable CDs. This would certainly work, but it would be extremely clumsy, and would still require an inordinate number of CDs. One positive of this though would be that the folks in supply would maybe possibly see that tons of CDs were being used because of an illogical restriction. However, supply and DOIM are not particularly associated.

Basically what I'm looking for is a creative solution for what is an unworkable situation. Any ideas?

I've just completed a low-budget high-value vacation that was conceived, and for which the advance plans were compiled on bar tables or not at all. It began with an escalating discussion between Nicolas, Anna, Karen, and then, peripherally, me. If you wish to delve fully into the origins of the trip, I was informed some years ago by Nicolas and Anna that they wanted very much to travel with me, at some point.

In the intervening time, I befriended Karen, through my friend Amanda, through my friend Matthew, through my friend the internet. After some minor growing pains, Karen befriended Nicolas and Anna to an enthusiastic degree, and it was conceived about three weeks ago that the four of us should take a trip together. Without consulting me, Colorado was decided as the destination, and plans were flightily drawn up.

This is fine, because the four of us got along so well that we could have gone to Joplin and it would still have been wonderful. I'm not trying to highlight an imagined negativity about our noble neighbor-city to the south, mind you. I'm just saying that the four of us could enjoy ourselves regardless of the circumstances. And we did.

Karen volunteered her large vehicle as the one we would use for the trip, and on day one she picked up Nick and Anna at their residence at 8am or so. They packed her large vehicle to bursting, and then hastened to my house to collect me. I jammed my effects into the car as best as we could, and we made what speed we could for KCK for some mexi-breakfast at Amigo's on Steele.

We rolled into Denver at around 6pm local time, and met up with Karen's friend Courtney at her place near either Denver University or the University of Denver.(living in the Big-12 world, I have become uncertain as to the actual names of schools because of the apparent resident need to abbreviate the names of local schools in a backwards manner, as if anyone outside the area refers to them as such.) Courtney and her boyfriend Dave showed us around Denver a bit that evening. We went to a bar/restaurant called Steuben's, then to a trendy neighborhood bar called the Thin Man, on the advice of Tobias, a friend that grew up in the Denver area. Both were a lot of fun and had some very good beer.

We relocated back to Courtney's house, and made an appearance at a trashy sports-dive called Smugs, near her house. I remarked once we went inside and got settled that it could easily have been in South KC, if the Broncos material was switched out for Chiefs fanware. We closed the bar and stumbled back to Courtney's house for a light sleep. I awoke at 8am or so, processed my digested goods, and went outside for a breath. I found that Nick was already up, wandering around outside, taking pictures. He captured me in my underpants in the out of doors. Chuckles were exchanged. I walked with him to get coffee, and we sat on the back patio of the house talking idly about history, culture, literature, and boobs until the morning faded into the afternoon.

Anna and Karen soon awoke and assembled themselves, and we thanked Courtney for her hospitality and friendliness. We got breakfast, made a brief stop at REI for fishing licenses and to tie some objects to the roof of Karen's large vehicle, and we were off. As it was still effectively summer, I suggested that we forsake the Eisenhower Tunnel, and instead go over the Loveland Pass. I was driving by this time, and would do so for the rest of the time, until we made the long trip back across the plains to go home on Tuesday.

The others in the car thought that going over the pass was a great idea. I don't think they were aware of how precarious some of the hairpin turns were, and the magnitude of the drops over their edges. Put simply, the pass freaked them out, but it was with good humor that they freaked out. We stood on top of the pass, and climbed a small stair that put us right at about 12,000 feet, and took our first mountain pictures. We were also reminded that there's no such thing as summer at these elevations. We gathered our warm clothes and posed for blustery cold pictures. It was wonderful.

We descended the west slope of the Continental Divide, rolling in neutral past Loveland, Arapahoe Basin, and Keystone before reaching more or less level ground. We circled around Dillon, where we'd planned to make our first stop since Denver, for the Dillon Dam Brewery. After a couple laps we found it, and took our seats. We had a couple of beers, and as we did so two things happened that made us reconsider our plans to drive all the way to Steamboat Springs that day. One, it began raining. Hard. Two, the clock struck 4pm. We had perhaps three or maybe four hours of daylight left in which we could buy provisions, find and set up a campsite, get a fire going, cook and eat our dinner, and sit around the fire wistfully, remarking at our great luck. We paid our tab, and wound up doing all these things in Dillon.

We settled to sleep around 9pm. I awoke about an hour before dawn, drawn awake by cold, hard-grounded discomfort, and tingling excitement to have nothing better to do for six days than spend time with my friends in a grand, beautiful place. I went through my morning motions as my friends snored through a normal night's sleep. I timed things perfectly though, because when I went back to my perch by the side of Dillon Reservoir to watch the line of the mountains on the far eastern side of the lake, I was rewarded with a majestic Colorado sunrise. I watched the sun peak over the mountain-saddle across the lake in a period of about ten seconds. It was humbling and awe-inspiring. It made my own concerns, worries, and problems melt away to insignificance. It was more than my desire.

As if they'd planned to miss the sunrise, the others alighted from the tent within minutes of the sun coming up in earnest. We cooked and ate, had some bloody marys with some fantastic two-years-aged mix that Karen produced from a mason jar hidden among her effects, mixed with crappy Kansas City vodka. It was excellent. We hit the road with a rough idea of where we were going, but no specific plans.

We drove south on state highway 9, crested our second pass, the Fremont, and arrived an hour or so later in Leadville. Anna and Karen saw a thrift store and politely demanded that we stop. I made the best of it, and purchased a lively winter hat, some corduroy pants, and a pair of sunglasses. We wandered around Leadville for a bit, and got some untasty macros at the Silver Dollar Saloon, served by a waitress with a voice just like our friend Terra's. We got back on the road, and headed down US-24 to Colorado state highway 82, where we then crossed the Independence Pass, which is slightly higher than the Loveland Pass, and is too wild and high to keep open in the winter. The summit was well above the treeline, and the approach to it was stark, extremely steep, and very sudden. We wandered around the tundra for a half hour or so before getting back into the car, and enjoying by surprise one of the prettiest descents we'd ever seen.

Within an hour or so we were rolling down the gold-paved streets of Aspen. I once visited Aspen in 2004, to ski over the new year. The contrast between my memory of it covered in snow and its appearance alive and green was startling. I daresay it's even prettier in the summer than in the winter. We gave it a pass in any case, as we're not made of money, and instead drove down 82 to Basalt, where Karen assured us there was excellent fishing in the excellently named Roaring Fork and Frying Pan rivers. We got a bottle of sauvignon blanc and some fish tacos at a patio next to the Frying Pan river, and decided to go fishing for real, and find a place to stay that night.

We got off the highway in Carbondale, and drove south on state highway 135. The Roaring Fork river valley, through which 84 had come since Aspen, was achingly pretty, but the Crystal River's valley was in another league. I've never seen anything like it. It was completely at odds with the nearby Roaring Fork valley in terms of grandeur. It seems to be almost too beautiful. I took up the habit of following my dumbfounded exasperations with claims of, "that's photoshopped." I'll say it again: I've never seen anything like it. Pictures don't do it justice. The place has to be seen to be experienced, and once you've seen it, your mind won't let you believe that it's real. I could die there.

We made our way down the Crystal River valley, on the lookout for a place to camp, but were rebuked at every campground with what we expected for Labor Day weekend: "Campground Full," signs were draped across the fee areas of every campground we encountered. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and things were starting to look a little grave when we came across a free campground about a mile south of the summit of the McClure Pass on 135. All the normal sites were taken, but since the campground was unpatrolled and unsupervised, we helped ourselves to an as-yet undeveloped campsite.

There was a bit of concrete pavement in one part, and we carried a steel firegrate over to it from a neighboring under-construction campsite. The site was completely surrounded by groves of Aspen trees, and was marvelously sited for stargazing after the sun went down. We sat talking around the fire well into the dark hours, and played cards in the tent until almost midnight. In short, it was much the way I'd imagined the camping trip would be.

I rose first the next morning, but instead of pestering the others, I brushed my teeth and sat down to read until everyone got up. As before, Nick was the next one awake, and he came to join me. We talked for perhaps forty five minutes before the ladies stirred, and quickly broke camp to head out into the world.

We went back up to Redstone, an unincorporated town just up the road that spooned the Crystal River from the east. We got breakfast under the sky at a patio next to the noisy river, and Anna presented everyone with friendship bracelets that she'd just procured at the crap store that was attached to the restaurant. We ventured south along 135 for a bit until we found what we decided would be a good place to fish. We dropped anchor and scurried to the water's undulating edge. Everyone naturally gravitated in various directions under the pretense of locating a good spot to fish, but I think it was mostly for the sake of the singular quiet and contentment that comes from such an activity. Eventually we all rejoined and shared our experiences. I managed to reel in two very small rainbow trout, and must have hooked the first one by the aorta, because it bled all over me as I worked the hook out. I doubt it survived.

We all agreed that the short time we spent fishing was a definite highlight, as the trip was concerned. We grew closer as the weekend proceeded. I found myself putting my arm around Nick, Anna, and Karen at moments when I felt especially sappy, and those moments happened more and more, the longer the trip lasted. I really couldn't pick three people with whom I'd prefer to travel. Nick and Anna really have an eye for this sort of thing, I guess.

We drove south to an unnamed road, and turned on it, because the sign said it led to Crested Butte. Karen said she'd spent some time in Crested Butte, and had lots of good things to say about it, but first we had to get there, and in the way was the Kebler Pass. At just over 10,000 feet, the Kebler Pass isn't exactly scraping the roof of the world, but it's difficult enough due to its complete lack of pavement. It's a dirt road- a well-maintained dirt road, mind you -but it's still a dirt road. Over perhaps thirty miles it traverses some of the most expansive stretches of Aspen-dominated wilderness in the state, and in the eight point four seconds I had to view and admire our surroundings, a deep impression was made on me as well.

When we arrived in Crested Butte I was a bundle of twitching nerve endings. The others were extremely grateful that I took the helm for the mountain driving, and I was happy to play at least some part in the trip's success. Nick, Anna, and Karen were bubbling with excitement when we arrived in town, in time for a public market on Elk Street, the main drag through downtown. I had a phone signal, so I called my dad and talked with him about Colorado for 30 minutes or so while the others browsed the shops.

We settled into a bar nearby and agreed with hesitation that tonight would be a good hotel night. We walked into the Forest Queen Hotel next door, and booked a cubicle with a bed in it with a private bathroom. It was more than we could have ever wanted. We took turns availing ourselves of the wondrous novelty of hot falling water, and took to the streets of Crested Butte as people reborn. We verily inhaled a delicious dinner of chicken and beef tacos and tamales at a Mexican place called Teocali, then went to get beers down the street at a place called Brick Oven Pizza, where they had Boulevard Wheat on tap.

I know that after that we went to a place called the Eldo, but from there, the evening gets fuzzy, as we all got drunk. I wound up doing laps to and from the bathroom for close calls, throughout the night. In the morning we awoke, feeling rather wretched, and set about the slow, hungover business of getting ready for the day. By the time we'd showered, dressed, packed the car up, eaten, and returned to one of the previous night's bars to retrieve Karen's forgotten wallet, my hangover was gone, though I was sleepy all day.

We did some real driving that day(monday). We took state highway 133 down to Gunnison, where we picked up US-50 and started driving east. We had to make it to within swinging distance of Colorado Springs, so as to ease our drive home the next day. We crested the Monarch Pass at about noon, having enjoyed what was by far the easiest pass of the trip. Then, when we reached US-285, we stopped for an ice cream, we decided to correct our course, and head north a bit to visit Florissant, and the Fossil Beds National Monument by the same name, nearby. This would also put us on US-24, which would take us directly into Colorado Springs the next day.

The fossil beds were a little boring, but the short hike we took around the park was very nice for me, and I thought it was pretty cool looking at gargantuan 35 million-year-old petrified tree-stumps. We saw a sign when we entered the park that reported that only 15 miles or so down the same road was the famous old mining boomtown of Cripple Creek. My family allegedly has a gold mine claim somewhere around there. I was expecting a charming mountain town with lots of goofy old west saloons and gift shops. I would even have consumed whiskey.

What we saw though, was an extremely ugly, heavily commercialized gathering of newly-founded casinos fronted with revolving doors of old people spending their pensions and smoking copiously. The downtown strip was half casinos, half parking decks. Tour buses and motorcycles dominated the streets. We got the hell out of town, though it took us three attempts to find the correct way to state highway 67, going north.

We picked up some groceries, beer, and wine that night in Divide, and settled at Mueller State Park for our last night of camping. As it was the night of Labor Day, almost everyone was gone, and we had the park almost entirely to ourselves. Indeed we had the only occupied campsite in the "Prospector" arm of the camping area. We made sandwiches, talked, and played cards until well after dark, then I pulled out Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, and read aloud to everyone. It was relaxing, fun, and comforting to be among friends for such a moment. We slept through a very pleasant rainfall that night, lulled into comfortable sleep by it all.

I awoke first and went for a hike to the end of the ridge on which we camped, hoping against hope to see a black bear shambling through the woods, or scratching its back against a lodgepole pine. Unfortunately, the biggest animal I saw was a squirrel, though we did spot a large mule deer buck as we drove out of the park later that morning. I returned to the campsite to see that everyone was up and about. We struck camp and loaded up the car one last time. For reasons I cannot understand, we breakfasted at McDonald's in Woodland Park, some miles up the road from Colorado Springs.

From there, the trip home was long, straight, flat, and boring. We busied ourselves with music, reading, and reminiscing about the trip. When we finally rolled into Kansas City, we agreed to have one last drink together before parting. We went to the Peanut on 9th for a pale ale and a BLT. I hugged Nick, Anna, and Karen profusely when they dropped me off, and actually felt a little emotional when I went inside, alone for the first time in almost a week.

I had a wonderful time on our trip, and I can't wait to do it again.

Nuts. I made a very bad decision on my outgoing flight from Boise. In the past, when I would arrange trips like this, to weeklong training sessions like this, I would always allow myself at least one extra day, usually more, not only to give myself some time, but also to provide an opportunity to look around a new unknown place. This line of thinking, I assume, is what caused me to book my flight out of Boise for 3:57pm today, when we finished our training outright yesterday at noon.

What eluded me was the fact that previously I always had a traveling companion, Geoff. Now, Geoff has ascended to upper management while I'm starting over from where I was in 2004, and now I travel alone. Nobody else that attended the training this week, staff or students, had anywhere near as late a flight out as I have. As I write this, most of the people are already gone. My boss Glenn gave me a ride to the airport this morning, and I found that my flight is the first that Frontier has today. As such, there is nobody to receive my bags until 1pm MDT. So I have to keep myself occupied outside security, basically all day. I think I might just eat a cab ride.

My new-hire training is proceeding apace, and we now have two of five days of instruction behind us. The lecturing tests even the most well-rested person's ability to remain awake, much less alert. But that's fine. This is all stuff that the important people have determined that we need to know, so we need to just sit through it patiently. Besides, being done will be all the sweeter for it.

One thing that mitigates the boredom very well is the fact that these are some very good people who are receiving instruction alongside me. The company and the program will see noticeable improvement with the integration of this group.

I have three more days here in Boise, before I head home, and then turn right around for another week of training to be held at my office. I look forward to getting back to normal someday.

Jeff and I were clearly in the way at the apartment, dodging out of the paths of lots of hurrying people. The water was coming in at about four or five gallons a minute, and everyone was racing to keep it under control. Outside the waterworks people stood in an uninterested circle, eyeing the hole in the ground like it was a rubix cube.

Jeff and I left things in the capable hands of Steve with the city, and confined ourselves to The Flying Saucer to pass the day. Steve gave me a call soon later, and went through a list of the things that he'd found for which he was going to compensate me. The list was impressive, and on top of that, he told me that all the building damage would be covered as well. I expected the latter, but the former was a surprise. I had already made peace with the thought of going on living with crappy water-damaged possessions, so his news was like opening my stocking on Christmas morning, and finding candy when I was certain I'd find coal.

Jeff and I were allowed three nights in a hotel, so after shopping around a bit, we found the cheapest night's stay to be had in the downtown area was at my favorite hotel: the Phillips. After a couple $2.75 pints with friends, we went our separate ways. I went to the hotel by way of Chipotle(saving the receipt), and Jeff went home to see if he could stand sleeping amid the torrent of noise. He could not.

He reported that the floors were dry, all the baseboards were ripped up, and there were twelve very large indestructible fans pointed at strategic angles and positions, making objects flop and flap around. All our possessions have been piled and stacked into noncritical areas. I went there for the afternoon today, waiting for someone to come, but they apparently want to wait at least a day to visit the place again.

So until that happens, the apartment is pretty much uninhabitable, and life is difficult to get on with.