The Canoe

            It was still there, lying by the side of the house. Unfortunately, nobody had bothered to steal the canoe over the past eight years since its last use. Covered with leaves and surrounded by miscellaneous trash, it kind of reminded me of an abandoned child sitting quietly in a remote corner of the park, just waiting for someone to come along.

            Thirteen feet long and 42 inches wide with a squared off back to accommodate an electric trolling motor, I remembered how heavy it had been when I had wrestled it from the roof of my car the last time. Oh well, at least this time I would have some help in the form of my nieces and nephew. My brother-in-laws’ children were visiting for a couple of weeks, and in a weak moment, I had agreed to take them fishing up on the North Slope of Pikes Peak.

            Logan and Jordan were fifteen year old twins; Allison was twelve. They were basically good kids, full of energy and desire to have new adventures while here in Colorado. Ingrid (my wife) and I had just about exhausted all other alternatives, and the fishing trip had initially seemed like a good, inexpensive way to occupy a day and keep them away from the video games and wearing their thumbs out texting their friends back in Texas.

            Let me be clear. I am not an expert fisherman. In fact, I have a well established reputation for almost never catching a fish and that’s just fine with me. I would rather simply enjoy the view and the fresh air and relaxation than be continuously bothered by having to pull some slimy trout out of the water and figure out how to butcher it. Nonetheless, the kids had certain expectations and hopes of a classic mountain experience, and I decided to give it a shot.

            The first step was locating all the necessary gear which had been stashed in various corners of the basement and garage. All things considered, I actually possessed quite a bit of fishing stuff, mostly misguided gifts over the years from well-meaning friends and relatives who couldn’t think of anything else to give a retired guy on special occasions. We started getting organized the day before, laying out all the lures, poles, reels of fishing line, etc. I luckily had three vests; you know, the kind with all the different Velcro pockets and zippered pouches. We divided things up fairly evenly so each kid would have a fishing pole and a vest containing the basics. We spent a couple hours putting new line on the reels and talking about the difference between a fly and a lure. Naturally, there was some degree of fascination with the jars of dried out smelly stuff in my tackle box and a couple of arguments over who was going to get the best pole, vest, rain poncho, and several other things. But we got through it, and hopes were high.

            The next step was to see what it would take to get the canoe up on the car roof and safely out on the water. Hmm. One life vest short, and the old boat battery had been dead for eight years. Plus, we would need fishing licenses.  A trip to Wal-Mart was in order. My wife went along and made sure we filled in all the gaps (picnic supplies, sunglasses, suntan lotion, bug repellent, new air horn, hats, paper plates, napkins, and several dozen other things). A few hundred bucks later, we were ready to put the boat on the roof of the Toyota and strap it down.

            On the big day, everybody got up early which is saying a lot for three kids who had routinely slept until after noon every previous day that week. We had our stuff together, ate a good breakfast and piled in the car. All the way up the Pikes Peak Highway, the conversation was lively and full of good-natured bets about who would catch the first fish, fall out of the boat and so on. Finally, we arrived at North catamount Reservoir and began the process. After about 20 minutes of unstrapping, hauling, spraying bug repellent and suntan lotion, etc., we had a considerable mound of material piled by the lake shore next to a fishing pier occupied by about eight fishermen who had gotten there earlier than us. They evidently sensed that entertainment may be about to happen, because it seemed they were more intent on watching us than they were about their fishing.

            I had a pretty good plan, or so I thought. North Catamount is a beautiful lake about 3 miles long with hiking trails around it. I wanted the kids to have both the experience of fishing from the boat as well as the shore. I knew we could put no more than 3 people and some gear in the boat at one time, so we decided to take some gear and the two oldest twins in the boat and go up along the shore a mile or so to a beach area where we could set up a picnic and fish from shore in a nice little cove. Then I would return with the boat, pick up the other two people and gear and go back. The fun began almost immediately.

The boat launch area consists of a gentle slope down into the water; the depth is about two to three feet a fair distance out from shore. We wrestled the boat into place, attached the motor and put some gear in, then I stepped into it. Immediately, it became clear that I had forgotten to raise the trolling motor up out of the shallow water, because the motor shaft and propeller was driven about six inches down into the lake bottom and the motor popped off the boat. The fishing pier guys thought this was pretty cool.

After some digging around in the lake for awhile, we got things properly arranged, loaded the twins, and took off for the cove. It was one of those perfect Colorado July mornings: warm, crystal clear blue sky, just a hint of breeze. The scenery was fantastic and the twins were full of questions: how deep is the water? Where are the bears? Why can’t they receive texts? I think they were enjoying themselves. I dropped them off and came back for Ingrid, Allison, and the rest of the gear. They had been waiting patiently for the 30 minutes or so it took me to go up and back.

I did much better pulling the boat into the launch area this time. We got Allison and a couple of ice chests in and tied down. Ingrid gingerly stepped in, then it was my turn. The boat sank about six inches and water began pouring in over the sides. Everybody screamed, I swore, and the fishing pier guys applauded. After a hell of a lot of work bailing out the boat we got everything on shore. That is when we noticed the sticker inside the boat that identified its load capacity as 490 pounds. Allison was a little over 100 lbs., I hovered around 250 lbs. The ice chests, battery, and other gear were fairly hefty. Ingrid was probably--I am too smart to venture a guess here.

Anyway, we either had to make two trips with the boat, or somebody had to walk. Ingrid would not allow Allison to hike by herself, so that meant Allison and I would take the boat; Ingrid would hike. We took off in the boat and got to the cove without further excitement. We unloaded the boat, distributed the fishing gear and started doing what we had come there to do, even if it was already a three hour trip.

I went through a short demonstration of how to cast a fishing rod. We put on some bait, discussed why it had to smell the way it does, etc. Jordan wanted a lure tied on instead of bait. OK, we began fishing. After about two minutes, Allison determined her bait had come off. While I was working on that, Logan developed a big knot in her fishing line. While working on that, Jordan’s pole came apart in the middle of his cast and went out into the water about 20 feet. Allison developed a knot. Logan’s reel came apart while casting and went out about 20 feet. Jordan got tangled up in a bush behind him on the shore. About this time, Ingrid arrived.

The hiking trail followed a ridge up above the lake and did not actually come down to the cove, so she had to climb down the last few hundred yards through the forest. It was evidently pretty steep and slippery in places, as she had spent some time sliding down rather than walking. Did I mention we were at about 9000 feet above sea level? She was exhausted, scratched up, dirty, and mumbling something about my choice of places to fish. We decided it would be a good idea to have a lunch break.

Blankets were spread out, and we cracked open the ice chests. We even had paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware just to make it a real official picnic. Everybody had taken about two bites when the sky turned dark, the wind suddenly gusted out of nowhere, and everything went flying. Another thing about Colorado July days in the mountains is that sometimes thunderstorms build up pretty rapidly and the accompanying wind can get pretty stiff. We had blankets in the bushes, napkins and plates all over the cove, and adults yelling at the kids to get this and that while watching out for lightning.

We decided the essence of the fishing experience had been accomplished and it was time to head for home. We loaded the gear in the boat, and the twins joined Ingrid for the hike back to the car. Allison and I went back in the boat. We all got there about the same time, and for some merciful reason, the rain did not start to fall until we were on our way.

All in all, it was a good day. Nobody got hurt.  I had a new boat battery and a fishing license. The kids got to make some memories. Ingrid got some exercise. And all the fish were safe.

Earplugs, Pugs, and CPAP's

I had a doctor appointment last week with the guy responsible for a big improvement in my life. When I last saw him some six months ago, I inquired about possible side effects of some medication he had prescribed. For years, Ingrid (and other people) have periodically teased me about my fondness for a good afternoon nap. I generally wrote off their negativity and figured they just lacked appreciation for one of life's great simple pleasures.


However, the number and length of my naps was even beginning to bother me. I noticed I was more groggy in the mornings, and tired by lunch. A planned 30 minute catnap had turned into an inevitable two and a half hours, sometimes longer. My sleeping was beginning to interfere with other things I wanted to do.


Another thing was the snoring. I have always snored pretty loudly. In fact, I once went to an ear, nose, and throat doc to see what he had to say. After running some kind of scope up my nose and down my throat, he opined "Lose 20 pounds and quit smoking. " Given my lifestyle and work habits at the time, he might as well have told me to take up pole vaulting. Didn't happen.


Ingrid started wearing earplugs so she could get some sleep, but that merely added another element to the seemingly endless string of tales she had to share with her girlfriends and anybody else who would listen. I have known for several years that I was a major topic at the weekly girl's coffeeklatch where they gather to compare husbands and compete for each others' sympathy. The earplugs didn't bother me; well, maybe a little guilt sometimes. I actually found it kind of intriguing that they make "designer earplugs" of different colors that have their own custom storage case. The biggest problem with the earplugs was that Zoe ( our youngest pug) liked to eat them; I always worried she would get a blockage or something.


Anyway, for the last several years Ingrid has also maintained that I periodically seem to stop breathing and then gasp for air while asleep. Upon hearing this, my doc said " my experience is that when wives say a husband has sleep apnea, they usually do." It turns out that I fit all the classic criteria: age over 50, neck size bigger than 17 inches, somewhat flabby male, etc. He prescribed a sleep test just to check it out.


Obstructive sleep apnea (OSA) is a condition caused by some flabby tissue in the throat. When it gets flabby enough, it can collapse and shut off the airway. After a very short time, your body gets concerned about not being able to breathe, spasms and gasps for air. If you have ever woken yourself up with your own snoring, you may have experienced this. The big problem with all this is that it disrupts your sleep cycle, and puts a lot of stress on your body. You have a lot of trouble getting any deep, refreshing REM sleep; you are always in the lighter sleep phases because you wake yourself up before drifting into REM. OSA is associated with all kinds of problems ranging from exacerbating heart conditions to depression. The most common treatment is a Continuous Positive Air Pressure (CPAP) machine, a device that pumps air into your lungs through a breathing mask. This creates a positive pressure in the airway and keeps the flab from collapsing.


I showed up at the sleep lab about 8:30 one evening for my appointment. After watching a video explaining what they were going to do and why, they led me into a room much like a hotel room, hooked me up to an ECG machine, adjusted some cameras, and told me to go to sleep when I was ready. There was even an NFL game on TV. It was a boring game, so I turned out the lights and closed my eyes. I remember hoping I didn't do anything embarrassing in my sleep, as I knew they were recording everything. About 2:30 am, the tech gently awakened me, holding an odd contraption. I remember mumbling something like "I have it, don't I?" and the tech replying "You sure do." She fastened a breathing mask around my head, and said "Try this CPAP." I think I went back to sleep immediately.


About 6 am, they woke me up and sent me home, explaining the final report would be sent to my doctor. However, she did share that, before trying the CPAP, I had an average of 104 apnea events per hour and that with the CPAP, I had gone immediately into deep REM sleep for three hours. All I knew was that I felt GREAT; it was like finally raising above a fog and being able to see clearly.


The CPAP machine was a little intimidating at first. They had a range of different style masks to try out. I settled on a smaller one that just covers my nose. Even though I like to think it makes me look like Tom Cruise in the movie Topgun, Ingrid assures me there will be no romance while I'm wearing it. The bottom line is that I feel a bazillion times better and no longer snore at all, not even a little bit. However, in the absence of my noise, it is now even more apparent that the two pugs who routinely share our bed also snore;Ingrid says they are just as loud as I was. Earplugs are still needed, so there is still something to share at the weekly coffeeklatch.

A TOUGH WEEK FOR FAMILY PETS

It seems to be over now, although for awhile it seemed like it was never going to end. Started when my sister-in-law K found her daughter's long time pet guinea pig dead in the cage. Chili had been a cute little guy who brought my niece some comfort during some trying times. He was pretty old by now, probably at least 8 or ten; still it was unexpected.

One thing you need to understand is that K is an animal person. Always has been since she was a little kid. I think that is at least part of the reason she and her husband Rick live way up in the mountains about 45 minutes from here. They have lots of room for animals, and they have had just about everything legal over the years. Current nonhuman residents were Chili the guinea pig, Grizzly the German Shepard, Reese the Yorkie, Bugsie the pit bull, and Mojo the horse. Some birds, a couple cats, and maybe a fish or two have vacated the premises over the last couple years once Rick "put his foot down" about spending all his spare time and money caring for pets.

Reese is 12 years old, blind and has diabetes; his health requires a couple shots a day and numerous sessions with the vet. (Did I mention K's vet makes house calls? I don't know whether they get a volume discount.) Most reasonable people would have bet Reese would be next to go; either him or Mojo the 29 year old horse. Certainly not Grizzly.

Grizzly was the classic "guy's dog" and Rick loved him dearly. Big and imposing, he would stand watch over the domicile like a sentry. With his big, thick fur coat he seemed more comfortable outside in the mountain air when it was 10 degrees than he was inside the house. When grandkids and other dogs would visit, he would patiently tolerate them, look out for them, and occasionally let everybody know he was the boss and they should get back in line. Getting up in years, he was slowing down some: his teeth were worn from carrying the big branches used for his games of "chase the stick" and chewing on rocks. His eyes had required special drops ever since the big forest fire a few years ago. Still, he seemed to be doing OK even though he had begun to limp a little bit on the daily walks in the forest he took with K.

The day Chili died, Grizzly limped a little more than usual. The next morning, he had lost the use of his hind legs and the ability to control his bladder. Rick and K did what they could, but carrying Grizzly outside to do his business was simply beyond their ability; he was just too big. Always the strong silent type, you could see in his eyes that he was scared and embarrassed. He wanted to move, but couldn't, and he just hated messing in the house and the various bedding arrangements his humans tried. Rick even built a ramp and pulley system to aid in the periodic trip outside, but it was no use. In the end, after many tears and soul searches, they asked the vet to come out and put him to sleep. Nothing else could be done for him.

Ingrid and I went up to the mountains to be with them when the time came. We brought along our two pugs, Frankie and Zoe. Grizzly did his best to greet us like old times, but he was plainly in too much pain to move much. The vet arrived, we said our goodbyes, and then hugged our pugs in the house while the vet did what needed to be done outside. Afterward, I helped Rick carry Grizzly to the vet's truck and it was over. We stayed awhile, talking about what a great dog Grizzly had been and how wonderful it was to have the love of pets in our lives.

The next couple of days were quiet and a little somber. Then, Ingrid's mom called: Teddy her little Yorkie was coughing and acting very sick. Mom lives in a little retirement community and Teddy is her main companion. An emergency trip to the vet was needed.

Pneumonia, maybe influenza was the diagnosis. Antibiotics and oxygen tent. X-rays. At the end of the day, he needed to be transported over to the Emergency Veterinary Hospital to be kept in oxygen over there for the night and then brought back to our vet the next morning. There might be some heart complication; need more tests. More pills, X-rays and shots. Back to the Emergency Hospital that night, then back again to the vet in the morning. Mom lives on social security; vet bills were piling up at the rate of two weeks income per day. There were several frustrating conversations about what to do and how long to keep this up. Finally, after four days he got a little better and we cautiously took him home to Mom. He was very happy to see her, and she him. One more trip back to the vet for a quick checkup and it was over.

I'm in for a quiet comfortable weekend. Looking forward to some nap time on the couch with my pugs. I love the way they snuggle. I know their time will come someday, but I just don't want to think about it right now.

About the name "Hank"

My dad's name was Henry, although everybody always called him "Hank". He was one of nine kids born to Norwegian immigrants who settled around Horton, Kansas just after the turn of the twentieth century. As typical Norwegian farmers, they were all of rather imposing height and girth. So much so, in fact, that most people referred to dad as "Big Hank". This naturally resulted in my becoming known as "Lil Hank" to my closest friends, even though my given first name is Phillip.

I have shrunk some with age, but I'm still six foot one and over 230 lbs. The fact that my friends considered me "little" compared to my dad should give you some idea of my family's stature. Dad's gone now, so I'm the only "Hank" left. I decided to use that moniker just for fun and to confuse a few people who might be looking for me.