My cat has been pinned inside the apartment the last few weeks by a bird. Every time he goes out this bird comes and squawks at him and he slinks right back inside, the little coward. So on Wednesday I walked out the door to see why this bird was being so pushy.
A baby bird had just crawled out of the nest in the wood pile and mom was in the tree above, nagging or encouraging or whatever they do.
The same day I saw a vague post on Facebook about an event at the Clermont. I poked around until I figured out it was Redneck Greece, the same guy that sang Momma Was A Dancer At The Clermont Lounge, the better of the two songs I’ve ever heard about the famed local establishment. I had considered taking off from work Friday anyhow to go camping, which meant I could enjoy the full extent of the show, get up at a reasonable hour and head for the hills.
The Clermont Lounge is one of my favorite watering holes anywhere. The hotel above is still shut down, making me nervous about the future of the lounge and building as a whole, so I’ll take about any excuse to enjoy a PBR or two at the establishment.
The usual entertainers were on the stage behind the bar. One of them, an ex-trucker, chatted me up before the band went on, telling me of her travels across the US. Eventually the band distracted me, however.
They did a long set of damn fine country, covering such topics as Viagra and blow up sex dolls, before taking a break. I had wanted to see them perform their ode to the lounge itself but – perhaps after hearing the mother bird’s calls in my yard – I decided to leave town early and try to beat the oncoming storms to camp.
I tossed my gear, already packed and ready to go, into the truck and hit the highway just as a serious thunderstorm blew over.
“This is a really dumb idea,” I kept saying, trying to talk myself into turning around, getting a decent night’s sleep and heading up in the morning, but my foot would not release the gas pedal.
About halfway up 400 the rain abated. Either I had outrun the storm or the scattered showers just didn’t include that area. I hit the gas station at the end of 400 around 1AM.
“What’s up?” the clerk asked.
I looked at him, stone-faced, still trying to remember why I was doing this and why I was in the store.
“Not you, I guess?” he said.
“Five bags of ice please.”
“Do you need help burying the body?”
“Nah. I chopped it up. I’m good.”
Then up into the hills and down the muddy, rutted, treacherous dirt road using a combination of experience and mania to get to the parking area. I tossed the Rubbermaid bins onto the handtruck and jogged down the path, past my friends’ tents to my spot and hurriedly set up my accomodations.
One by one the rest of the gang emerged from their slumber to greet me and have a nightcap. Next thing we know it’s 4AM and the rain has finally caught up with me. Off to bed.
Three days of rum drinks, fire-cooked pork, random games and lots of laughter later, I’m feeling considerably more laid back.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I watched the baby bird hop out of the wood pile and all the way up the tree, past a napping squirrel, while momma chirped encouragement. Maybe the cat will retake ownership of the front yard again…
