"I found a back pack lying on the ground, just lying there, and then I saw it was covered in maggots." The younger of my sister-in-law's sons was telling me of an experience he had working with YoSAR, the elite Yosemite National Park Search and Rescue team. "So I looked at the pack for a while, asking myself what are maggots doing at 10,000 feet?" It was a moment worthy of a novel of crime detection. Our hero pauses and sees something incongruous and while we shudder at the thought of a pile of writhing maggots, he is simply intrigued by insect life thriving far above the tree line. "We had been called out to help locate a climber lost somewhere in King's Canyon National Park and we had only been on the mountain an hour or so, dropped there by helicopter." He got a dreamy look in his eyes, thinking back to the sweet taste of success. " I realised that there are flies at 10,000 feet and they lay eggs," he went on. "There was stuff on the pack that flies had laid their eggs in," he said and it was obvious this was not a story with a happy ending. Looking over the rim Nephew Number 2 saw a pile of rags flopped on the rocks, the owner of the pack and home to the flies' eggs. It was a struggle to get the body out and return it to his family, gruesome details I need not repeat. All in a day's work for a Yosemite Park Ranger, a job I would never have thought would suit Nephew # 2. How wrong I was.
It took a long time for Nephew #2 to find his calling. He drifted, in the style of a hobo, into a job in California, far from his family's home in North Carolina. It was his ideal job, in many respects, greeting drivers arriving at Yosemite National Park ("Welcome to Yosemite Park, three thousand times a day for months," he said wearily), then taking the winters off, traveling in warmer climes, getting by on a financial shoestring and his immense charm. It worked well for some time, and then things got serious. He met a woman, as one does.
And married her. And at work they got to insisting he take a promotion. Which was all very well as he was offered the very best job a park service employee could have, if he were also a climber. His bosses wanted him to take the Climbing Ranger position at Yosemite National Park, a unique job that pays the ranger to be a climber on some of the most sought after rock faces in the world. There was a hitch. There always is.
The thoughtful young man, seen here taking a reflective moment in his older brother's Asheville home, is a Quaker, raised as a pacifist from childhood and not someone who rejoiced in guns, or shooting or violent pursuits of any kind. The fly in the ointment of his promotion was that if he wanted to be the Park's Service sole climbing ranger he had to go to the law enforcement academy. And carry a gun at work. This proposal required some thought and family discussion and in the end pragmatism won out. He went to the Academy for three months, spitted and polished and marched and took time to qualify on the range. In the fullness of time he became the armed climbing ranger at Yosemite.
This elevation has given rise to endless questioning from family members not used to having a law enforcement officer in their midst. And furthermore, has created a new bond between myself, the dispatcher, and himself, gun toting lawman. He talks about traffic stops and citations, about the more bizarre aspects of ending up in Law Enforcement. His wife finds it onerous sometimes, "We had a mizzy thing in the closet for the longest time," she said with disdain oozing from her lips, "but finally he got a gun safe at the office." He lit up "It was an M-16, a veteran of the Vietnam War," he said reverently and it was in his closet paired with a Park Service issued shotgun. "The M-16 had a strong spring in the magazine, and all you had to do was touch it and it would release with a loud bang." He laughed at the memory of his wife leaping like a startled gazelle. Nephew #1, his older brother is by contrast a house husband, married to a nurse and raising two small children with all the humor of a man at peace with himself. Where his brother fools with guns, he messes with diapers (Clean, unused ones I might add):
It has been no secret Nephew #1 wanted all his life to have a family and home and a future in Asheville. It's where he grew up and where he mountain bikes and worked for years as a valued employee of a major bicycle manufacturer, Trek. He achieved his goals in linear fashion, never wanting to trot the globe or wander far from his home, though he did live in California with my wife and I for a few short months before giving it up as a bad job . His younger brother wants a home in Santa Cruz, our old home town, to live in when he retires from his Park Service subsidized home in Yosemite. Two worlds far apart, two Quaker brothers different in so many respects yet closer than one might think. How odd it is to see the same kids become men and on such different paths, which is I suppose the story of growing old. Both gun less, and child free, in my case, thankfully on both counts.
It took a long time for Nephew #2 to find his calling. He drifted, in the style of a hobo, into a job in California, far from his family's home in North Carolina. It was his ideal job, in many respects, greeting drivers arriving at Yosemite National Park ("Welcome to Yosemite Park, three thousand times a day for months," he said wearily), then taking the winters off, traveling in warmer climes, getting by on a financial shoestring and his immense charm. It worked well for some time, and then things got serious. He met a woman, as one does.And married her. And at work they got to insisting he take a promotion. Which was all very well as he was offered the very best job a park service employee could have, if he were also a climber. His bosses wanted him to take the Climbing Ranger position at Yosemite National Park, a unique job that pays the ranger to be a climber on some of the most sought after rock faces in the world. There was a hitch. There always is.The thoughtful young man, seen here taking a reflective moment in his older brother's Asheville home, is a Quaker, raised as a pacifist from childhood and not someone who rejoiced in guns, or shooting or violent pursuits of any kind. The fly in the ointment of his promotion was that if he wanted to be the Park's Service sole climbing ranger he had to go to the law enforcement academy. And carry a gun at work. This proposal required some thought and family discussion and in the end pragmatism won out. He went to the Academy for three months, spitted and polished and marched and took time to qualify on the range. In the fullness of time he became the armed climbing ranger at Yosemite.This elevation has given rise to endless questioning from family members not used to having a law enforcement officer in their midst. And furthermore, has created a new bond between myself, the dispatcher, and himself, gun toting lawman. He talks about traffic stops and citations, about the more bizarre aspects of ending up in Law Enforcement. His wife finds it onerous sometimes, "We had a mizzy thing in the closet for the longest time," she said with disdain oozing from her lips, "but finally he got a gun safe at the office." He lit up "It was an M-16, a veteran of the Vietnam War," he said reverently and it was in his closet paired with a Park Service issued shotgun. "The M-16 had a strong spring in the magazine, and all you had to do was touch it and it would release with a loud bang." He laughed at the memory of his wife leaping like a startled gazelle. Nephew #1, his older brother is by contrast a house husband, married to a nurse and raising two small children with all the humor of a man at peace with himself. Where his brother fools with guns, he messes with diapers (Clean, unused ones I might add):It has been no secret Nephew #1 wanted all his life to have a family and home and a future in Asheville. It's where he grew up and where he mountain bikes and worked for years as a valued employee of a major bicycle manufacturer, Trek. He achieved his goals in linear fashion, never wanting to trot the globe or wander far from his home, though he did live in California with my wife and I for a few short months before giving it up as a bad job . His younger brother wants a home in Santa Cruz, our old home town, to live in when he retires from his Park Service subsidized home in Yosemite. Two worlds far apart, two Quaker brothers different in so many respects yet closer than one might think. How odd it is to see the same kids become men and on such different paths, which is I suppose the story of growing old. Both gun less, and child free, in my case, thankfully on both counts. 
It's winter and that means it's time to go and look for mud holes in the back country. I found a good one on Big Pine. I came out this way earlier last year one evening and found this wide open space far in back of the Blue Hole (subject of an earlier essay). At the time I had to get home but I promised myself a return visit to this area.
So I took the long straight back streets through the rural subdivision and found myself on Tampa Street, not overly populated as can be seen in the foregoing picture, and which dead ends into a fixed barrier:
It was cool sunny blusterous winter day, perfect for a walk so that was what I did:
This open space is one of those oddities which I seem to stumble across all too often in the Lower Keys. It sort of appears to be a possible development that didn't get very far. There's a road:
Which sinks into a depression and becomes a mud hole:
And there are those funny little ditches cut into the limestone and were to be used to house mosquito larvae eating fish and have sunk into disuse:
Unlike the Upper and Middle Keys where the islands tend to be smaller and more built up (Key Largo, closest to the mainland is the exception as it is the largest island in the entire chain), the Lower Keys, those islands south of the seven mile bridge, seem to revel in their undeveloped open spaces. There are roads built and abandoned, developments planned and forgotten like this area where there's a huge pit nicely squared off with no visible purpose whatsoever: 
One can only imagine it might make a superb swimming pool in the summer assuming there are no carnivores in residence...though certainly on its muddier shore I saw evidence of human predators. And you'd need an all terrain vehicle in this place:
I am not fond of tramping through mud so I back tracked and found my way to the drier side of the hole, a scrubby, rocky vague sort of apology for a path:
I would make a dreadful botanist as I can't remember the name of almost anything and I'm pretty sure I've seen a name tag on this bush at Fort Zachary State Park (I take a walk there from time to time to refresh my memory), but all I could think was that this tree reminded me of the walnut saplings I used to see in the Italy of my youth:
I also saw a couple of birds goofing off in the pale winter sunshine:
I zoomed the second picture to forty times magnification (!) but i couldn't figure out what he was doing perched uncomfortably in the mangroves. It was probably very sensible behavior but it looked odd from a distance. My behavior was actually pretty daft too, the 
So I gave it up for a bad job and buggered off home to a book and a cup of tea. At least I tried.
And other people who need to get across New Town take the winding path between shopping centers:
And the ubiquitous abandoned shopping carts all lined up by successive shoppers:
It used to be, back in the 1960s that the Triumph Bonneville, a 650cc parallel twin motorcycle was one of the most desirable machines any red blooded young man (man!) could own. It held the unofficial world speed record at the Utah salt flats and was made famous in film as the motorcycle that rebels loved to own and ride. It was totally cool, like this 1969 T-120 whose gorgeous image I found on the British vintage bike website. 
However the Bonnevilles from that era vibrated like hell, they tended to leak oil and their electrical systems failed with dismal regularity. The Lucas electrics were known as "Lucas, Prince of darkness" owing to their propensity for failure leaving riders in the lurch....They were a beautiful design originating in the 1930s from the board of Edward Turner, assembled with too little care, poor engineering detail and not enough capital investment. Later models that got more precisely milled cranks suffered from far less vibration and owners who took the time to smooth the edges of the vertical crankcases suffered minimal oil leaks, they say. I never owned an original Bonnie because even in those days I wanted, yes a cool bike, but I wanted one that was at least minimally reliable for my sole means of transport. I rode Italian twins, Morini, MV Agusta, Benelli and eventually when I overcame my disdain for Japanese niceness I rode a Yamaha 500 single, cool possibly because even in 1980 the SR 500 still eschewed an electric start and I learned firsthand how to start a big single. I was an old school rider, a nerd, but even I found Bonnevilles too much trouble to own. Until now:
Even for a commuter bike I wanted something small, simple and reliable in the Florida Keys for my 25 mile commute and occasional forays further afield. I wanted something old school and I thought a Vespa 250 might work, so I rode the red one pictured in the banner at the top of the blog for 10,000 miles over the course of ten months. After it's horrid, unreliable modern electrics, too old school for me, crapped out for the last time I decided it had to go in favor of a more reliable machine. I expect to put 18,000 miles a year on a motorcycle as two wheels are my main means of transport. I drive the car if I need to haul a lot of stuff or its cold or I'm not feeling well. Otherwise it's the Bonneville every single day. 
This particular model of Bonneville is no longer made, modern needs require fuel injection and modern tastes have scrapped the wire wheels and "peashooter" exhausts, though the engine now used in the 2009 series remains the same 865cc mill. If you want the classic look you can only get it with the heavily chromed "upgraded" (ie: more costly!) T100 version. The basic Bonneville these days comes with alloy wheels (nice because they are tubeless) and modern cone exhausts, shown in this picture from hell for leather magazine. It's not so different but....different enough! 
I've found the Bonneville to be about perfect for my daily use, it's been vice free and easy to enjoy. The maintenance intervals are set at 12,000 miles which boils down to once a year more or less and in between the motorcycle only needs oil changes, every six thousand miles at which point it takes four quarts (liters) of synthetic and a clean filter. The tires last 8,000 and 12,000 miles respectively rear and front and the final drive chain has been remarkably easy to take care of. I hadn't wanted to go back to a final drive chain motorcycle but I bought a $35 gadget from England that drips oil on the chain as I ride. My friend Bruce calls it an oil flinging tool but my chain is doing great with it.
It's called a Loobman and its just a collection of rubber tubes that send droplets of oil to the sprocket and that lubricates the chain. I wash the chain every thousand miles with kerosene and a stiff brush and squeeze the Loobman bottle every time I feel like it and the chain lasts about 3,000 miles between minor adjustments. I pretty much know when the chain needs a quick tightening as the motorbike snatches in low gear around town. The five speed gearbox is light and easy to use, and I'm adding an aftermarket tachometer next month that the Hanukkah fairy just brought me. 
It takes 89 grade (US) gasoline which yields between between 43 and 48 miles to the gallon, and I hit reserve around 135 miles on the odometer:
The bike cost me exactly $8,000 out the door in October 2007, from Pure Triumph in Fort Lauderdale which included the optional center stand ($250) and the rubber tank pads ($65). I also paid for optional gaiters on the front forks as I prefer to keep the suspension out of the crud and salt air:
Old timers of all ages often sidle up and ask what year the Triumph is and embark on their own happy memories of struggling with leaky electrically unreliable Bonnevilles of decades past, and they seem unimpressed when I tell them my modern 900 is vibration free, reliable and doesn't leak a drop of oil (except for that which I spray on the final drive chain). I like the modern Triumph because it looks the part of a real motorcycle, like the machines of my youth, but it goes like a new machine which it is. I love that light clutch, and the motorcycle's ability to pull from 40 miles per hour in top gear.
Call me prejudiced but if I see a motorcycle without luggage it doesn't spell "daily rider" to me, so naturally I threw on an ugly but very functional top case that gives me locking weatherproof storage:
At $80 that was a bargain, and because it is a perfect square there's no wasted space inside with compound curves, like those fancier Italian top boxes. Another bargain was the $15 cargo net I use to keep things secured to the seat, things that don't fit in the box or the saddlebags (though I also have added a proper helmet lock visible to the right of the picture below):
The Triumph fabric panniers come with mounting hardware at $250. In some ways I'd like detachable hard bags which would be more weatherproof and secure like the top case, but the fabric bags are actually more practical in some respects:
I keep them sprayed with silicon waterproofing and when I stop to put on the waterproof clothing I carry in them I cover them with their built in plastic rain covers as well. Being fabric they yield a little and make for a little extra room, they are lightweight and easy to remove when I don't need to ride with them. To do that I have to remove the seat, and though the saddle looks just like the original Bonnevilles' it's a pain in the butt as the twin screws that hold it in place have a habit of falling out. Plus they are awkward to realign when installing the seat. As you can see in the picture below I've lost one screw and will have to get another set to watch them come undone and fall into the road...
I've found some persistent rust patches on the mirror stems and the front fender bracket:
Though my regimen of frequent fresh water washes seems to be keeping the rest of the chrome and alloy corrosion quite free. On the subject, critics of the modern Bonneville despise the exhaust system's "kink" which was added in front of the muffler to increase ground clearance:
It doesn't bother me, but then again I'm not bothered by the flange that runs around the edge of the tank (visible in the picture further up the page) which is supposed to be a "period detail" from a 1960s or 1970s bike but which drives some fusspots crazy. These would be the people who think my Parabellum windshield ($250) is just another overly practical addition to a motorcycle that many owners like to keep as a Sunday rider. They're welcome to as Triumph offers a whole book of fancy add-ons to make the Bonneville anything you want, cafe racer, custom bobber you name it they have it. For me, my Bonneville is my workhorse which makes my commute a pleasure and gives me the chance to enjoy the open road every day of the year:
I like the Triumph's simplicity, its good looks and it's all round capability. I've ridden at 80 mph sustained on the freeway very comfortably, I've taken it on the dirt and the gravel, and it's easy to ride around town though at almost 500 pounds it's heavier than it looks. With just 60 horsepower from the eight valve engine it's decidedly under stressed so I have high hopes that it will be happily turning over 100,000 miles (160,000 kms) in 2013. Here's hoping....