Connections

Steve picked me up at my motel in Albuquerque at six on Saturday morning. His son Billy greeted me from the back seat.  I gave him a hug.

I had decided to stay in town over the weekend to take up Steve’s offer to take me fishing.  We had finished up our business at the Air Force Weapons Lab on Friday. We immediately went to McDonald’s for a quick breakfast and then headed North on I-25 heading toward Santa Fe.  Steve told me we were headed for the Rio Grande Gorge that is formed after the river comes down out of the Southern Rocky Mountains.  I was excited.

Figure 1: Rio Grande Gorge.

          Steve stopped at the State Park office to pick up a map and find out which roads were open to get to the rim of the gorge.

Figure 2: Rio Grande Gorge State Park

          It turns out that this stretch of the river is also a National Monument called Rio Grande del Norte.  It was not long, and we were off the highway on a dirt road headed to the rim.  From there we hiked down to the river’s edge and set up camp.

Figure 3: Riverside Rio Grande Gorge.

          The day passed quickly and before we knew it we had to hustle back to our little campsite to pass the night.

As we lay on the riverbank, sated with fresh-caught pan-cooked trout, looking up to the brilliant stars and waxing gibbous moon, the fire’s smoke drifts idyllically up past the towering walls of the gorge.  Steve is in a story-telling frame of mind, his mood softened by the adventures of the day; the cold rushing water, the warm sunshine, the dry pinyon-scented air, the arc of the rod as fish after fish filled our creels.  Steve, his adoring 10-year-old son Billy, and I are experiencing a man’s worldly vision of paradise. Nuclear weapons, prying government agencies, and Johnny’s triplet sisters were left mercifully behind when we hiked to the floor of the canyon. Steve is in a story-telling mood- free, safe, comfortable….wholly in his element.

It starts as it always has: Bridger, Montana (named after the legendary mountain man Jim Bridger); cowboy origins; fishing the Yellowstone; hunting the northern Rockies; independent men; strong women.

 Figure 4: Bridger Montana

I attach fond memories from very early childhood with my father to these tales. My mind takes hold of the concrete realities of Steve’s personal remembrances, and begins to create the icons of my imagination, the heroic dimensions of the American dream. Voids in my mythic mind quilt give rise to questions, which I communicate to Steve, who quickly stitches in the missing patterns.  This is a very familiar and comfortable routine.  Steve and I are playing to each other.  Billy is listening raptly.  We have orchestrated this mythology before. We are no longer in New Mexico, or even in Montana.  We are in the land of heroes and dreams.

The moon moves beyond our vision, obscured by the canyon walls, and some clouds begin to gather, further darkening the riverbank.  A chill sets in as the rock and sand reradiate their daily heat load back to the sky that earlier shone so bright.  Something is happening to the story line. Perhaps just elicited by the change in the wilderness around us, or perhaps driven by recent business setbacks and encouraged by our developing friendship, the details of the story begin to unfold from a different view. His tone of voice changes, becomes tense and whispered.  The talk is no longer grand and glorious, but small and picayune.  Steve is now back in Montana, the Montana of his childhood, a Montana populated by real people, not heroes and villains.  The details of the landscape somehow become unimportant, as the stature of the people grow, detail after detail being provided.

I am now an observer, back in New Mexico, abruptly departing the land of dreams, clearly in the here and now, a chill forming along my spine.  I listen intently, for Steve’s intensity is difficult to resist.  Two younger brothers, tousle-haired, fair and freckled, not yet five, are hiding in the bedroom, knot-pine door ajar.  The front door is wide open.  A bottle of rye whisky, mostly gone, stands on the rough-hewn kitchen table.  Steve’s angry, dark-haired, burly father enters, bellowing for supper, his chest bare, his boots muddied, his worn jeans tight across his belly.  Steve, not yet 10, backside raw from a just administered licking, cheek bruised by a well-placed backhand…deserved to make him a man…stands close to his mother.  His protector, soft, small, graying at the forelocks, stooped from heavy work, gingham dress, and working apron, places her arm around his shoulder.  The confrontation is building.  The pot-roast is cooking on the cast-iron wood-burning stove.

Figure 5: Pot Roast

The pot-roast…the fucking pot-roast.  With the utterance of those words, with the scene and characters set and playing in Montana, suddenly I am no longer in New Mexico.  I am in Pennsylvania, now merged with Montana, and Steve is no longer telling the story.  The story is rolling from my memory, unstoppable like a tidal bore, not to be impeded until complete.  My short, stout, soft and gray-haired loving mother is placing pot-roast on my father’s plate…much to his dislike.  My mother faces me, across the table, my father to my right.  He has just been awakened from his whiskey-induced nap, scowling, squint-eyed, and inwardly focused on the pain of his life caused by his recent heart attack.   The fucking pot-roast…the catalyst for disaster.  Barely 10, I stand up on the bench that was my seat, just as the table rises up and overturns, plates, silverware, milk, and pot-roast flying everywhere.  The violence continues, with blow after blow delivered to my mother…hollering and screaming back and forth.  I am that child, afraid, bewildered, and sick.  The anger in me builds but finds no outlet.  I am powerless to stop this nightmare. Fantasies of stopping him by jumping on his back, race through my mind.  He is too strong.  I am powerless. I am angry. This is my father, my hero.  It is over.

Suddenly, the hoot, hoot of a horned owl interrupts my remembered stream of consciousness, and I am back in New Mexico.  I am an adult, not a child.  I am hearing Steve’s story, and simultaneously seeing my own with an adult’s eyes.  Steve is telling how his mother talked his father down, courted his shame, and touched his heart.  Steve is telling how the drinking and beating stopped.  He is telling me how he and his father came to peace, how he learned to forgive and was no longer angry.  All these events transpired before his father died the following year in a logging accident.

Steve’s life and mine are now intertwined. A lifetime of anger, frustration, and feelings of powerlessness has been my legacy.  The path to freedom has been shown.  Peace with my long dead parents is required…not heroes, just people.

Billy snuggles up to his dad, ready for sleep, yawning contentedly.  I think of my two boys back East who could not participate in this punctuated business trip.

Steve is in a story-telling mood.  We are back in the Montana of mythic characters, and the American dream.  Some new heroes have been added to the script.  I am at peace.

But for the pot roast…..

Vitamin V

Crunch. Crash. Whack.  Frank’s head hits the windshield.  He bounces off unhurt.  His ancient blue Chevy stands immobile at the stoplight in the middle of Connecticut Avenue in Washington, D. C.  He looks in the rear-view mirror.  The bumper of a shiny white BMW convertible with the top down kisses the tail of his rust bucket.  A thirtyish blond wearing a black visor, and mirrored slender contoured sunshades sits in the driver’s seat with a cellphone up to her ear. 

“Shit.  What is this bimbo up to?  I’ll never make my appointment at Kramers now.”  Frank mutters to himself, opens his door, and walks back to the BMW.  Frank’s black hair, mustache and trim well-tanned good looks belie his sixty years of age.  He wears tan chinos, penny loafers, and an open-necked short-sleeved plaid shirt.

He sees the front of the BMW.  Both headlights are broken, and the white fenders surrounding them buckle slightly.  The Chevy stands unscathed, the lower BMW bumper having come under the Chevy’s bumper. “Fucking German junk,” he thinks. “Can’t engineer a car that can take a two-mile an hour hit.  All style.  No substance.”

“What the hell are you doing, Lady?” he asks.  “You’re supposed to be driving, not yakking on a god-damn cell phone.”  He stands next to the BMW and looks down at her.  Long slender legs, slightly spread are partially obscured by the steering column.  She wears a white tennis skirt bottom.  The under-panties are in evidence from his vantage.  His eyes progress upwards to her well-endowed bosom that is covered by a white short-sleeved tennis blouse. 

 “Shit, another Washington hooker,” he says to himself.

“Please don’t be rude, sir,” she says. “I am in the middle of an important call. Please be

patient.  I’ll be with you shortly.” She pulls her sunglasses down on her nose and looks up into his eyes with brilliant blue sparkling eyes.  She smiles.

“I don’t have all day. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”  Cars honk at them.  The two kissing cars block the right-hand lane.  “Let’s pull these cars out of the damn way.  Can’t you stuff that thing?” 

Frank walks back to the driver’s side of his Chevy, gets in, and pulls the car over to an open area at the curb next to a fire hydrant.  A cop appears from Starbucks next to the Georgetown leather store with a paper cup.  He walks toward Frank holding the coffee in his left hand and wagging his arm and finger in a manner indicating that Frank should move away from the hydrant.

Frank points back to the BMW.  “Just getting out of the way.  Little miss Bimbo back there hit me.  Need to exchange insurance info.”  Frank notices a small Marine Corps lapel medal in the cop’s uniform. “Hey, man.  You serve in the Corp?”

“Yeah. Viet Nam. Sixty-five to sixty-six.  You?”  His salt and pepper tightly curled black hair peeks from beneath his cap.  He also sports a black moustache.  He is African American.

“Three years in Quang Nam.  Through sixty-eight.” Frank extends his hand to the cop to shake. “Frank.  Frank Mohr.  First Marine Division.”

“George King.  Third Division. Moved around the highlands.”  He shakes Frank’s hand.

 “What is she doing?”  George waves his arm vigorously to her, indicating for her to pull into the curb.  She ignores his signals. George walks toward the BMW.  Frank follows.

“Mam.  Please move your automobile.  You are blocking traffic.”  George addresses her with all the formality he can muster.  He takes in the scenery inside the car.  He looks at Frank and smiles.

“Sorry officer.  Please give me just another moment.  This negotiation is at a critical juncture.”  She pulls her glasses down again, looks up at George and smiles again.

“Oh, brother,” thinks Frank.  “Lay it on sweety.  Probably negotiating the price of a blowjob.”

“Mam.  You have to move.  Please.” George’s tone is stern.

“OK. OK,” she says.  She says something into the cell phone, lays it down next to the tennis racket on the passenger seat, takes the steering wheel in both hands, and moves the BMW in front of the Chevy.  Frank and George walk to the BMW.

The blond picks up the cell phone, puts it to her ear, reaches down and opens the door, swings her legs out of the driver’s seat with a fleeting glimpse of her crotch, and stands next to the car.  She rises several inches above both Frank and George and is at least six feet tall.

 “This is one gorgeous woman,” thinks Frank.  “Jeez.”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen.  I was in the midst of a very important business deal that just could not wait.  I’m sorry about hitting you. It was my fault.  I’m the only one with damage.  There is no need to involve the insurance companies.”

“Lady.  I must run.  I have a reading at Kramers books at 10:00.  See you.  No offense?”  Frank turned to his Chevy.

“Reading?”  She lowered her glasses again.  He couldn’t resist looking back.

“Yes.  I’m reading some of my poetry there this morning.”

“Poetry?”  She smiles broadly and looks him up and down.  Frank blushes.  She smiles again

“Gotta go. Come see me if you need my insurance card. Bye.”

Frank walks to his car, gets in and pulls away, heading the three blocks up Connecticut to Dupont Circle without looking back.  “Sanity at last,” he thinks, as he wheels around the circle. “Get me away from the bimbos.”

Figure 1: Dupont Circle

He pulls onto a side street off the circle, proceeds several blocks, turns right and finds a parking spot.  “Old reliable,” he thinks.

Frank walks the two short blocks back to Connecticut and Cramer’s. Many people color the street.  A pink-haired girl in black tee shirt and jeans, a ring through her nose, and a stud in her tongue passes by with her bare-chested, overalled and tattooed skinhead boyfriend.  Two shorthaired very stocky butch women pass holding hands.  A black man in preacher’s collar stands at the corner offering up special offers on some rendition of the next coming.  Two winos sleep on the sidewalk near the hawker’s fold up street ware bazaar tables offering cheap watches, CDs and earrings.  Frank smiles and enters Kramers.  It is one minute before ten.

Figure 2: Kramers Bookstore

“Where the hell have you been, man,” asks Gladys, the twenty-something morning manager. 

“What the fuck does this dumb shit know?” says Frank to himself?  “Just look at this piece-of-crap.  So skinny a good wind would blow her away.  Orange fucking hair for Christ’s sakes.  This is what I fought for?”

“Sorry. I had a little accident.  Some broad rear-ended me.”  Frank acts civil.

“Go out to the dining area.  The reading is there.  You’re first up.”  Gladys

motions to Frank to go to the other side of the store that opens onto Vermont Avenue.  Frank walks through the musty smelling bookcase rows to a counter, where a waiter stands with a menu in his hand.

“Look at the crap they are selling,” he mutters to himself as he passes an anti-war shelf that Gladys has put together showing titles like “Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace” by Gore Vidal, and “Power and Terror: Post-9/11 Talks and Interviews with Noam Chomsky”.  “These assholes will never know what it’s like.”

He notices another title, “War is a Force that Give us Meaning”, by Chris Hedges.  He picks it up.  “Shit.  This guy has been there.  He’s been a war correspondent in all the hotspots since Viet Nam.  I wonder…”  He clutches the slim volume in his left hand.

“Frank.  Get out here.  Your audience is waiting.”  Gladys interrupts Frank’s reverie. “And do return the book.  It’s not a gift.”

“OK. OK,” says Frank, and walks out onto the outdoor patio area on Vermont Avenue.  About ten people sit at the small two person tables drinking coffee and nibbling sweets.  They clap lightly when he appears.

Frank stands in front of them still clutching the slim volume of the war correspondent in his left hand, opens a small pocket size notebook, and reads.  The audience listens without comment or noise.  He reads loudly above the street noise.  The poems detail the plight of the forgotten soldier.  A tear forms at the corner of his eye as he reads of Delirium Tremens in a VA hospital.

“Excuse me.  I’m sorry.  May I get in here?” Everyone’s eyes turn as a statuesque blond in tennis togs appears at the door.  “May I sit please?”

“Oh, Christ.  This dumb broad followed me.  I don’t have insurance for crying out

loud.”  His eyes avert hers.

“My sincere apologies for interrupting your reading.  I just had to come and hear you.  I’ll be quiet.”  She sits primly at a table by herself, crosses her legs, and throws a sweater around her shoulders.

“This is my final piece,” he says. “Thank you all for listening to the pain of an old man.  Unlike most of my stuff, this last one has some political content.  I call it “Boozeball”.”

Frank recites the piece in a warm even deeply resonant tone, with mellow hypnotic cadence:

In the foxhole, mortar fire bright

A lone marine rolls a joint

Armor for the night on point

Keeps him from the snot of fight

On the hilltop, mortar running hot

Two VC spin a prayer wheel

Succor to their mother’s plot

Keeps them active with the steel

HQ tent behind the lines, safe

General M slowly sips his scotch

What a misery, this fucking war

When will I get home to them?

Two hundred klicks further north

A straw compound, hidden in the night

Recitations from the path, incantations of the light

Village life and suffering sally forth

Cocktail party chatter, goddamn gooks

Washington in spring, money talk

How will we win, we need a better team

Elections, jungle combat, sleeker cars

Metal casements arrive in Hanoi unannounced

Ministers meet despite the din

Manifestos, propaganda, universal right

Mean true believers in the fight

Prayer rugs facing Mecca daily four

Children in the street…hearing, seeing

Another bomb, another night, another hero born

Another thousand years

Cocktail party chatter, Muslim monsters

Washington in summer, money talk

Oh yes, we’ll win, we have a better team

Elections, desert combat, microchips and more

In the foxhole, mortar fire bright

A lone marine….

Gladys leads the audience to provide some scattered applause.  Several people come to him to shake his hand and murmur faint encouragement.  The blond hangs back.  The next poet, a short black man in a red beret, shuffles his feet.  A dozen more people enter and sit.  Frank walks back to the main store.  The blond follows.

“May I speak with you, sir?”  She speaks softly.

“I don’t have any insurance.  I can’t help you.  Christ.” Frank shrugs his shoulders in a what-can-I-do look.

“Oh, no.  I’m not here about that.  I want to talk about your poetry.   By the way, my name is Lily Bouche.”  She extends her hand to be shaken.

“My poetry, is it?  Well, OK…. I guess.” He limply shakes her hand.

“Let me buy you a coffee.  Let’s sit here.” She motions for the waitress.  “What do you want?” 

The short slender, platinum blond waitress, wearing black shorts and a Grateful Dead belly-shirt showing her adorned and jeweled navel comes immediately.  “What’ll you have?” She cracks bubble-gum as she speaks.

“Thanks.  I’ll have a decaf.  American coffee.  None of this foreign crap.”  He sits at the small table and smiles wanly.

“One decaf Americano.  One Frappuccino with a shot of espresso.  Two cookies…molasses if you have them.” Lily sits next to him.

“I can’t believe this broad.  Poetry, eh?  To read her Johns to sleep while she rifles their wallets. What's next.”  Frank drifts into his own thoughts as she orders.

“I’m sorry, Sir.  I don’t believe I got your name.  As I said, mine is Lily Bouche.”

“Frank. Frank Mohr.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Mohr.  I’m sorry I arrived late to your reading. That policeman detained me.” 

The waitress arrives with their coffee and cookies.

Lily takes her Frappuccino, inserts the straw, and takes a small sip.  “Do you have more poetry I might see?  Or do you only have it in that notebook?”

“I just write in the notebook.  I haven’t had any of this typed up.”  He speaks shyly.

He thinks, “What the hell is she up to?”

“I’m terribly sorry.  I haven’t explained myself.  May I tell you of my interest, Mr. Mohr?”  She almost whispers these last phrases.

“It’s Frank. Just Frank. Sure.  Tell me.”

“Well. I am an attorney,” she says.  “I represent literary agents. My father was in the publishing business and got me started right after law school.”  She starts fishing in a small black purse.

“Literary agents?”

“Yes. I do the contract work between the agent and the author, and between the agent and the publisher.”

“Contract work?”

“Yes.  People do make money by publishing, you know. I also cover all the other ins and outs of publishing for the agents and their clients. Copyrights, libel, and so on.”  She hands him a business card.

He reads the card.  “Lily Bouche, J.D.  Attorney-at-Law, Specialist in Publishing Law” He shakes his head slowly in disbelief.

 “So, what does this have to do with me?” He continues shaking his head.

“We’re always looking for new talent.  Believe it or not, the industry is talent limited.  Agents spend their time looking for new talent.  It’s their job.  It sort of makes it my job too.”  She continues to shuffle around her purse.

“By the way, I represent Chris Hedges and his agent.”

“Chris Hedges. Who’s that?” 

“That book you have in your hand, silly…”

Figure 3: Chris Hedges's Book

****

 Three months later, Frank sits in a smoke-filled room in the Dupont Circle group of Alcoholics Anonymous.  The room is on the second floor above a music shop about two blocks from Kramers.

Figure 4: Dupont Circle AA Club

Paint is peeling from the grey walls.   About ten other people sit in the room.  Two men in business suits, one three-hundred-pound woman, a young man in bicycling togs, two Rastafarians, an old white-haired woman with bursting veins on her nose, two tourists wearing shorts, sandals, and Hawaiian shirts, and Frank’s AA sponsor Dhillon.  The three-hundred-pound woman is sharing about her struggle with food.

“What’s with this broad?  Doesn’t she know it’s a fucking AA meeting?  This isn’t an OA meeting you dumb bitch.   Oh, shit.  I can’t be thinking like that.  Love and tolerance.  Love and tolerance.  Please God.  Let me not judge.  Oh, you jackass.  Don’t drink and go to a meeting.  And get your fucking mouth stapled shut, not your stomach. Oh, shit.  There I go again. I really need to talk with Dhillon.  I’m really messed up.”

“Dhillon.  Let’s go into the fifth step room.”  Frank whispers to Dhillon.

Dhillon is a Sikh who runs an R&D consulting firm in Bethesda.  Twenty years sober, he came off the streets of Washington and got sober in the Dupont Circle Club.  His blue turban and swarthy Indian subcontinent complexion are a welcome sight to all who know him. His good humor and serenity delivered in lilting English are legendary around the circle.  Frank and Dhillon walk into a very small, almost closet-sized room next to the main meeting room.

“Dhillon.  I’ve got a problem.”  Frank shuts the door and sits in one of the overstuffed chairs.

“No pain, no gain.  Here comes some growth.”  Dhillon always looks at things positively.

“No.  A real problem. Not an in-my-head problem.”

“Trust God, clean house and carry the message.”  Dhillon smiles broadly.

“Seriously.”

“I am always serious about not drinking.”  Dhillon continues to smile.

“It’s this woman I told you about.”

“This is a problem? Is she being nasty?” Dhillon chuckles.

“Of course not. She’s fabulous.”  Frank’s eyes light up.

“Is she still trying to help you get your poems published?”

“I’ve just gotten an acceptance letter this morning.  I can’t believe it.”  Frank reaches into his back pocket and extracts a folded letter. He hands it to Dhillon.

“Most people would welcome this kind of problem. Are you worried that your Marine buddies would think you sold out to the other side.”?  Dhillon extended his hand for a congratulatory shake.

“It’s not that.  My stuff speaks to the ugly reality of war, not Washington’s myth of the heroics of war.  They’ll understand. They’ve been there.”

“Then what?” Dhillon persisted.

“It’s her.”

“What do you mean it’s her?  What did she do?”  Dhillon’s eyebrows rise.

“No, I mean.  I think she’s interested in me.” Frank’s eyes avert Dhillon’s.

“A young gorgeous successful woman is interested in you and your poetry.  This is a problem?  Only an alcoholic…” Dhillon chuckles again.

“You know I haven’t had a relationship since Janice died.”  Frank reminds Dhillon of his story:  his divorce; the separation from his children; his recovery at the VA hospital in Oakland; eight years without a relationship; then Janice, the love of his life, in the program; her cancer; they only got five years together; his move to Virginia to be close to his now grown son and his son’s wife and daughter.

“It’s been five years.”  Frank casts his eyes at the floor.

“It’s OK to be abstinent. There’s no shame in that.  It increases the powers of concentration.”  Dhillon reaches over and touches Frank’s forearm.

“The last two years with Janice, I couldn’t…. you know…. I couldn’t…do it.” 

Frank’s eyes stay on the floor.

“Oh.  That. No necessity for worry.”  Dhillon rubs his arm slowly, gently.

“I’m afraid to proceed with this thing.  Sooner or later she’s will want to do it.  Then what? I don’t think I can face that.  Better to be alone.”  Frank raises his eyes to Dhillon’s.

“Lots of guys your age have the problem.  The way of the Tantra is the answer.”  Dhillon chuckles.

“Tantra?  What’s that?”  Frank’s brow furrows.

“You know.  Special Eastern spiritual approaches to sex.  Thousands of years old.”  Dhillon’s eyes are shining.

“You mean like the “Kama Sutra” and all that.”  Frank’s skepticism gives his tone an inversion.

“Sort of.  Except a modern flavor has been added.  Some special herbs are required.”  Dhillon chuckles again.

“Special herbs meaning what?”

“You just have to take another vitamin as part of your spiritual practice.”

“What vitamin?”  Frank pushes Dhillon’s arm away in annoyance.

“Well, Vitamin V.”

“There is no Vitamin fucking V.  What the hell are you talking about?”  Frank’s tone rises in anger.

“Where the hell have you been living man?  Viagra.  The miracle drug of the 90s.  While you were busy writing poetry and feeling sorry for yourself, your Higher Power has been working on your problem.  Get a prescription for Viagra for heaven’s sakes.”

Figure 5: Vitamin V

“Viagra.  Hm.  Somehow, I didn’t make the connection.  I just thought it was Janice’s cancer. I thought it was all in my head.”

“These diseases are in the body. Alcoholics know.”

 “And then it just didn’t seem right after her death.” 

“A natural grieving process.  Honor it.” Dhillon smiled again.

“I guess it’s worth a try. Maybe you’re right.  Maybe I don’t have to run away from Lily. Maybe there is a chance for me.”

****

One year later, Frank returns to Kramers for a reading and book signing session. Fifty or more people mill around the eating area. A small table sits in the front of the store stacked with books for the post-reading autographs.  Lily stands and chats with Frank.  Dhillon enters the store.

“Hey, Dhillon.  Come meet Lily.” Frank calls to Dhillon.

“Dhillon.  This is Lily.  The lady who got me published.  Lily, this is Dhillon, my sponsor.”  Dhillon and Lily shake hands.  Just then Gladys, the morning manager walks by.

“Hey, folks.  I want you to meet Gladys, the manager here at Kramers.  Gladys, this is Lily, my agent’s attorney, and Dhillon my sponsor.  These are the folks who got you and me  hooked up.”

“Hooked up?” Lily’s left eyebrow arches.

“Yeah.  Gladys and I just got engaged.” Frank puts his arm over Gladys’s shoulder, her frail youthful five-foot stature appearing daughterly next to his thickset muscular frame.

Who Is at my Door?

Foreign travel particularly alone, often has surprises.

            I decided to retire from the management position I held at one of the major Defense contracting companies.  I was to stay on as a staff member but no longer have line management responsibilities.  My duties as a manager were to end on December 31, 1999.  I was to start the new millennium a free man.

            To celebrate my newfound freedom, I first joined an Ornifolks birding trip with a group of folks, most of whom I knew, to Ethiopia.  The trip was four weeks long, beginning the second week of January 2000 and ending after the first week of February.  It was a wonderful trip.  I saw lots of birds and had a wonderful time with my birding pals.  I will at some point recount some of the stories from that trip.  Most somehow were related to the secession of Eritrea from Ethiopia.  Our birding guide was from Eritrea.

Being greedy with my footloose existence, I went on from there to Uganda by myself.  I only took another week, but it was with a very specific objective in mind.  Continuing my goal of seeing at least one member of each family of birds, I had one species in mind.  It was the Shoebill, a bird so unique that it is a family by itself (out of the 250 families worldwide).

Figure 1: The Majestic Shoebill

            The Shoebill has a very restricted range with a very specialized habitat.  It is found only in Papyrus reedbeds in central Africa. One of the best known places to see it was at Murchison Falls National Park in Uganda.  Thus, my journey to Uganda.

Figure 2: Shoebill Range in Central Africa

            I arrived in the late afternoon on February 5 at Entebbe airport near Kampala.

                                    Figure 3: Entebbe Airport

            The internet was alive and well in 2000, so it was easy to prearrange a car and driver to pick me up at the airport and stay with me for the entire trip.  The driver also had some knowledge of the birds of Uganda, though not a full-fledged bird guide.  I was met.

Figure 4: My Transport with Driver

            He took me to the fancy hotel that I had booked.  I needed a night to catch my breath and arrange my gear.  The accommodations in Ethiopia had been pretty basic, and the rest of my accommodations in Uganda were to be minimal.

Figure 5:My Hotel in Kampala

            I was up early in the morning, and we were off to Muchison Falls.  It is about 4 hours by car from Kampala, so I was able to bird along the way and still get there in time for my river trip on the Victoria Nile up to Murchison falls.  The departure time was 2:30 in the afternoon.  The Victoria Nile feeds into Lake Albert which then empties into the White Nile.  The Blue Nile that arises in the Ethiopian highlands merges with the White Nile at Khartoum in the Sudan to form the Nile found in Egypt.

            My research told me that the Shoebill could be seen in the reedbeds along the river and that a good chance for seeing them was to take the boat trip to the falls.  I arrived in time and boarded the boat.

Figure 6: Murchison Falls River Cruise

            It was a wonderful ride up to the falls.

Figure 7: Murchison Falls

            We went up and back to the falls and saw plenty of birds and wonderful sights, but no Shoebill.  The captain assured me that it was normally seen, but not on this day.  Dejected, I had my driver take me to my quarters for the night.  We planned another attempt tomorrow.

            My quarters for the night were in a hut with a grass roof.  I was the only occupant.

Figure 8: My Murchison Falls Accommodation

            The hut had neither running water nor electricity.  A big water jug was provided for drinking and bathing.  A porta potty was provided for its obvious function.  A Coleman lantern was provided for light.  The bunk was basic but fine.  I had picked up snack food on our way to the park.  That was going to be my evening meal.

            When my driver deposited me at the hut, he said, “Don’t leave the hut after dark.  It is not safe.”

            “But where will you be?”, I asked.

            “I sleep in my van, and I definitely don’t leave it after dark.”

            “Thanks.  Come get me in the morning then.  I sure won’t leave the hut.”

             I went in the hut, shut the door firmly, and went about my nighttime activities.   I was soon asleep.

            Sometime later, I came awake with a start.  Something was at the door.  I could hear it sniffing and brushing against the door.  I could only imagine what it was, but nothing good came to mind-wild boar, wild dog, leopard, lion.  Yikes.  There were no windows in the hut, so I couldn’t look out.  I wanted to go and push something against the door so whatever it was couldn’t force the door.  I thought better of it.  Better be still and not make any noise.  I waited.  After about five minutes or so, the sniffing stopped.  I waited.  It seem to stay stopped.

            I quietly tried to go back to sleep, but it took a while for the adrenaline to dissipate.  I did get back to sleep, but I was pretty tired in the morning when I heard the driver knocking at the door.

            I opened the door and said, “Something was sniffing around my door last night.”

            “Yes.”, he said, “It was a lion.  It came sniffing around the van as well.  Like I told you, it is not safe out here at night.  The lions regularly come into camp.  Let’s go up to the lodge and get some breakfast.  I am going to take you on a ride on the game drive this morning.  It runs down toward Lake Alfred where there are lots of Papyrus reeds.”

            We went and had a quick breakfast, and then headed off on the dirt track that was the game drive.  It wasn’t long before we came upon lions.

Figure 9: Lions on the Game Drive

            They were just lazing around since they do most of their hunting at night. Yikes.  They were plentiful as we continued our drive down to the lake.

            The road ran through an area near the lake where the reeds were plentiful.  After an hour or two, sure enough, we came upon a Shoebill very close to the road.  It did not flush, so I was able to study it for quite a while.  Hooray, I met my objective and did not get eaten by a lion.

            We headed back to the lodge, birding along the way, and arrived in time for a very late lunch.  After lunch, we headed to another famous Uganda park, the Budongo Forest.  The makeshift map below gives some sense of the geography.

Figure 10: Uganda Makeshift Map

            Among other things, Budongo is know for its tribe of Chimpanzees.  I was eager to see them and get some time birding the forest, rather than the open lands that I had been birding.  New habitat, new birds.

            We stopped for dinner along the way and arrived at the forest close to dark.  I had not pre-booked lodging but was happy to learn that a small cabin was vacant.

Figure 11: Cabin Lodging at Budongo

            Although it was large enough for many people, I had it to myself.  No running water here either, but a definite step up as there was electricity.  My driver dropped me off, and I went in and quickly settled down for the night.  I was very tired because of the lack of sleep the previous night. 

Sometime later I was again awakened.  Nothing was at my door, but there was an unbelievable screaming going on, like something was being tortured.  I knew that Chimps screamed, but only during the daytime.  They would be fast asleep now.  The screaming persisted.  I turned on the outside light and I could see out the windows that nothing was around.  I waited a while, but it continued.  Feeling more confident that nothing was coming to my cabin, I got out the ear plugs I always carry, inserted them, and went back to bed.  My mind was racing, but I was finally able to go back to sleep.

            When my driver came to fetch me in the morning, I asked, “What in God’s name is doing that horrible screaming last night?”

            “Oh, I am sorry I didn’t warn you.  They do that every night.  They are really harmless.  They are Tree Hyraxes.”  He then fetched his animal guidebook and showed me a picture.

Figure 12: Tree Hyrax at Budongo

            I read the description and said, “Well, they are pretty big, nearly 2 feet in length.   But why the devil are they doing it all night?”

            “They are communicating with each other, mostly to stake out territory.  They need nesting cavities for their daytime sleep.  Of course, sometimes mating is involved as that is done at night.  Moreover, there are a lot of them here.”

            “Thanks for the information.  Is there anyplace we can get breakfast and then get a quick look at the Chimps”

            We found a roadside stand, had a bite, and headed into the forest on a dirt track.  My driver knew what he was doing because we soon saw a troop crossing the track.

Figure 13: Budongo Forest Chimp Troop

            We then went  to another location where the chimps congregated and spent quite a bit of time just observing their behavior ala Jane Goodall.  We then hit the road back to Kampala.

            I caught up on my sleep in the same fancy hotel in Kampala.  In the morning, my driver got me to Entebbe where I caught a flight back to Ethiopia, where I caught a connecting flight that ultimately got me back home.

            What a trip.  Saw the Shoebill as well as a total of 192 bird species including 68 that were new to me.  But I must confess, I did lose a lot of sleep.