Playa ettiquette: how to behave

From The Black Rock Beacon, August 2012

By Reecy Pontiff

You made it to Burning Man. Information on what to bring is now irrelevant--you're stuck with those broken tent poles and SOL if you forgot your electric pink onesie--but now that you're here, let us offer some helpful hints for virgin and jaded veteran alike.

Err on the side of yes

Black Rock City is nothing but one opportunuity after the next; let your instincts be your guide. You're sure to hit a few hard limits, some of which you didn't even know you had. But when you find yourself pondering the pros and cons of accepting an adventure presented to you, push through that doubt and just say yes.

Concentrate on this year

We know that after mere hours here in BRC the words "next year" will leave your mouth. The city is full of wonders and expereineces sure to get your creative juices flowing, but be sure to appreacite the moment instead of planning for the future.

Biking through sand: ride faster!

It sounds counter-intuitive, but when you can't avoid that pile of sand on the playa, get up some speed and centripetal force will be on your side.

Practice personal possession bondage

If it's not attached to you, it's lost. Carabiners are your friend.

Set up two meeting times

With all the shiny, blinky wonders to behold in BRC, it's best to leave yourself an hour minimum--though two or three might be more realistic--to get anywhere in the city. To ensure you're able to meet up with your friends and lovers, try setting up two meeting times a couple of hours apart in different places in case distraction, dehydration, or dancing leaves you unable to make that first date.

http://www.blackrockbeacon.dreamhosters.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/12C_Wednesday_Embryo.pdf

To Antarctica and Back

From Broadmoor Friends and Neighbors Magazine, March 2015

To Antarctica and Back

By Reecy Pontiff

If you're having trouble with the cold and dark of Colorado, imagine living in Antarctica, where summer temperatures may reach a balmy 30 degrees and winter nights last for almost six months.

Ice tunnels at Byrd Station. Photo by Sam Gerrish

In 1966 Broadmoor resident Sam Gerrish spent a year on that icy continent working as a geophysicist for the National Science Foundation. 

While his 25 colleagues were hidden together underground in nearby Byrd Station, one of the most remote outposts in the world, Gerrish had his own tiny house, bright yellow for visibility and set on stilts atop 7,000 feet of hard-packed snow and ice. He lived three miles away from the nearest human – closer to the base was “too noisy” for the racks of ionospheric monitoring equipment that kept him company. The house also had a bunk, desk and small kitchen. 

Not surprisingly, most of the rations at Byrd were frozen and preparing a meal meant planning ahead. Want eggs for breakfast from the big frozen can?

“Step one: get a hammer and chisel,” Gerrish said. “You'd chip out the appropriate chunks of frozen egg the night before.”

“I would normally do a case of beer with my laundry to thaw it out,” Gerrish said.

The water Gerrish used for drinking, showering and laundry was from snow he shoveled into a melting device. 

“One of the very, very important things you pass on to the person who's going to replace you is which side of the house you use for water and which side you use for burying waste.” 

Gerrish's house was attached to the station three miles away by two things: an extension cord for power and a handline made from parachute cord and bamboo sticks to guide him should a “whiteout” kick up on his journey to or fro. It's very easy to simply disappear in a place without landmarks, where the snowy topography shifts constantly.

“The guy that I replaced... he's still there,” Gerrish said. “[He] had too much to drink one time and walking back to the house let go of the handline. They looked and looked and looked, but he was gone.”

Though he would follow the handline back to base every Thursday for a “home-cooked meal,” Gerrish only had three visitors during his 13-month stay.

“One day someone knocked on my door – nobody ever knocked on my door.” Gerrish opened it to find one of the bulldozer operators from base. 

“He'd been pushing [snow] out the garage tunnel and decided to go out to Sam's to get a drink,” Gerrish said. “We were told, buy as much booze as you're going to drink for a year. Everyone underestimated. At the end of the season I was the last one who had any booze... I let him in and gave him a drink and he went clunking back in the bulldozer.”

Another visitor was the station's cook, whom Gerrish invited over dinner for as a special treat.

The third visitor was a mystery pilot of the only transportation one could take in or out of Byrd.

“One morning after a summer whiteout I got up and there was a Hurcules [cargo plane] parked right next to my house. I went on board and... jammed a note between the throttles saying, 'This is a notice that your vehicle is illegally parked and if not removed within 24 hours it will be towed,'” Gerrish chuckled. 

“The day after, when the Herc took off it went right over my house and uncalibrated all my instruments.”

To combat loneliness and boredom Gerrish read a lot of books and noodled around on his HAM radio station, King Charlie Four Uncle Sugar Mike. Gerrish brought a guitar along to learn on but “retired” it when he found he could not sing.

Entertainment back at the station was creative – and often soaked in alcohol.

During Gerrish's time at Byrd Station the famed Dr. Clair Patterson conducted research that persuaded Congress to ban leaded gasoline by drilling deep into the Antarctic ice to see if lead levels had risen in the atmosphere.

“Some of the cores [of ice] that Doc Patterson didn't want we would use in drinks,” Gerrish said. “They were fun because they had pressurized air in them and as the ice walls would melt through they would jump around in your glass.” 

As well as living in an alien environment inaccessible to civilization for nine months of the year, Gerrish had to adjust to six months of daylight and six months of night.

“Your body develops its natural rhythm. My sleeping and waking schedule depended on how I felt,” and unless Gerrish had something specific to do with his instruments at a particular time, “you'd sleep when you're sleepy and eat when you're hungry.”

When Gerrish's 13 months were up he made the long haul back from Byrd to Antarctica's port of entry, the “cosmopolitan” McMurdo Station. When he finally reached Christchurch, NZ, Gerrish “got in the bathtub, turned on the overhead shower, plugged up the tub and let the shower run in till the water got up to my chin.” He then drained the tub and started all over again. 

For his efforts Gerrish received a Congressional Medal and had a mountain range in Antarctica named for him. 

Gerrish's physics work took him to other far-flung places like Australia and Taiwan over the course of his career. When it came closer to retirement time he decided to get himself transferred out to Colorado and settled in the Broadmoor neighborhood with his French wife Gabrielle – their two children had already graduated by that time. Gabrielle, a former ballerina, passed in 2001 but Gerrish still regularly spends time with his daughter Chanda and two-year-old granddaughter Sedona, who live in the Colorado Springs area.

The Bartas of Broadmoor

From Broadmoor Friends and Neighbors Magazine, November 2014

The Bartas of Broadmoor

By Reecy Pontiff

Raising a family and starting a business are always labors of love but for Jeanne Barta it was also urged on by love's labor lost.

Jeanne had always been a stay-at-home mom to she and husband Tom's six children Mackenzie, Kaylyn, Colton, Kylie, Kacey and Cade. They were known in the neighborhood for hauling their kids around in a 15-passenger van lovingly nicknamed the “Barta Bus.” Though the Bartas have historically been one big, happy family, life threw a big challenge at them.

When Jeanne found out she was pregnant with their seventh child she was torn.

“It was a very surprising pregnancy,” Jeanne said. “We were done [having children] and as much as we love kids it was really hard because I didn't want to have another baby. By the time I accepted it and got excited I went into pre-term labor.”

Christopher Thomas Barta was born premature on September 28, 2012. He died 11 days later of pneumonia.

“I was thrown... I didn't even necessarily want this pregnancy and then I lost him. It was devastating,” she said.

Depression set in and Jeanne found it difficult to be her usual boisterous self.

As a way of getting “off the couch and get into the community,” Jeanne began hosting jewelry parties in her neighbors' homes.

“The community was immensely supportive,” she said. “They had known what I'd gone through. [The parties] really did get me back into community when I might have just withdrawn.”

Before her pregnancy with Christopher she'd sent in an application to open up a Lillians Boutique franchise but had been turned down because of the proximity to another location in the area. When they finally called to ask if she was still interested in the opportunity, Jeanne gave it careful consideration.

Though she loved the jewelry parties – seeing the new lines as the seasons changed and interacting with people – the process of having to haul her inventory from place to place was beginning to wear her out. With her youngest going into full-day kindergarten, the timing just felt right.

“It feels like it was meant to be,” Jeanne said.

Jeanne's husband Tom was very supportive of her decision. On top of handling the books for the boutique Tom also provides a lot of assistance at home.

“He helps out with the laundry and meals and still has his corporate job in Denver. I could not do it without his partnership, that's for sure.”

When the kids seemed unsure about their mother going to work Tom even helped convince them it was a positive transformation for both Jeanne and the family.

“It's a big change for a big family to go from a mom that completely stays home to a mom that's working full time,” she said. “Now that I have [the boutique] they are just funny. Of course the four girls think it's their closet,” and the boys are proud of their mother's shop.

Jeanne just celebrated the one-year anniversary of her Lilian's location and while things are going swimmingly she still has a tight-rope to walk between her work life and home life.

“The kids like it as long as they're getting enough attention,” she said.

And though the loss of Christopher was a blow to the entire clan it ultimately has brought them closer together.

“It really affected the kids... but it bonded them to each other and to us. It's made life a little bit less difficult because I feel like they talk to us more,” she said. “Because we went through such a difficult thing together there's just not so much of the parent/kid dichotomy that I feel that we were always fighting against.”

“Although there were days after Christopher's death that I didn't want to get out of bed, I would think about how hard he fought, all 1 lb. 5 oz. of him, for twelve long days, or about the bravery of my living children and the outpouring of love and support from our community, and I couldn't stay sad or give up,” Jeanne said.

“After facing trials that tempted me to give up and let grief consume me... in a very real sense, opening my Lillians was like crossing a threshold of hope and embarking on a new journey.”

Hostel in the Forest

Blog Post, October 2011

Hostel in the Forest

The view out my window.

Yesterday morning I awoke to the sound of Kookaburra the Rooster crowing beneath my window. Refreshed, I rolled out of bed and pulled back the patchwork curtain. From the large window of my own personal treehouse I surveyed the scene below me – the chicken coop, the other elevated cabins, and the most artistic compost outhouses I'd ever seen, all surrounded by towering cypresses and pines. If you're ever in southeast Georgia, do yourself a favor and stay a few nights at the Hostel in the Forest.

Things were slowing down at the Hostel for the one night I stayed – there were seven staff members and only two guests. Yes, the hippie vibe is strong, but the staff all have a calming way about them, and we spent a lovely evening around the camp fire spinning glow toys and hula hooping after chowing down on a home-cooked vegetarian meal of stuffed portabellos. If you ask the staff where they are from, without fail they will reply, “I'm from here,” and you can absolutely tell that no matter how long or short their stay has been, they do consider this tranquil place their home. The new manager's story reads like a Hollywood script: clean-cut Yankee city boy relocates to rural Georgia to whip hippie hostel into shape. Life lessons and challenges both physical and psychological ensue. In his own words, “I didn't even know I needed this place until I came here.”

My treehouse "Elmo", the original on the property.

I myself felt very at home here, and from the moment I arrived I felt the inclination to pick up some tools and lend a hand. The Hostel, started in 1975, requires constant upkeep, and they often rely on the skills of the guests to keep it in good nick. If I can find the time I'd love to go back down and do some work exchange for a week or two.

http://www.foresthostel.com

These Boots Were Made for BBQ

From the Philipsburg Mail, July 11, 2013

These boots were made for BBQ

by Reecy Pontiff

“The nice thing about barbecue is that there are no fingerprints, so you can't trace anything to anywhere,” laughed rotund and jolly BBQ impresario John Bagorio as he performed emergency chicken skin surgery on his entry with a toothpick.

Bagorio traveled with his three man team, “Da Fat Boyz BBQ”, all the way from Portland, Oregon in a converted 1989 ambulance to compete in the first annual Boots and BBQ Cookoff at the Drummond Rodeo last weekend.

It was a last-minute decision for the team; Bagorio's regular BBQ partner was unavailable but “it showed up on the schedule and I'd never been to Montana, so I said, if I can get help, I'll come.”

Though Montana is a first for them, Bagorio's team participates in cookoffs near and far.

It's tricky to guess what judges will like in any given region as tastes vary from place to place, according to Bagorio. The day before the rodeo Da Fat Boyz sold samples to get a feel for the Montana palate.

“We travel all over the country and each region has a different flavor,” he said, “What I'm hoping is they like a little bit of heat and a little bit of sweet. If they don't, we're in trouble.”

It's not cheap participating in these events and Da Fat Boyz regularly look at $1000 in expenses between entry fees, travel and supplies. Some of their costs are recouped from food sales, but the big money is in the cash prizes – $6500 in all this time – handed out by the Pacific Northwest Barbecue Association (PNWBA), the group who with the help of Drummond mayor Gail Leeper sanctioned the Drummond cookoff.

The PNWBA's judging is done double-blind – each entry is put in a box with a barcode on it and assigned a random number. This is done “so your friends can't help you and your enemies can't screw you,” said BBQ master Dale Groetsema, who came out from Vancouver, Washington to participate.

Participants are also given a deadline to turn in their entries.

“If you're early you just stand around and wait,” Groetsema said, “if you're late you're disqualified.”

The competition included four kinds of meat – ribs, beef brisket, pork and chicken – judged for appearance, texture and taste. The judges are all certified by the PNWBA and overseen by a “table captain,” a sort of referee for the judges according to head judge Angie Quaale.

“This is a first year event and kind of out of the way, so it's a good place to get your feet wet,” said Quaale, and with only eight teams “it's a great place to start with a small competition.”

This year the “Mayor's Choice” award, along with overall second place, went to Philipsburg's Upnsmokin' BBQ.

Competitions are how Upnsmokin' got their start, but to cover costs they began catering. Now with the restaurant, they've had to make time to get back to their roots according to owner Brett Schreyer.

“You have to back it up,” Schreyer said, “Some barbecue joints, as soon as they open up a restaurant they stop [competing] and they lose credibility with their customers.”

“So far it's been great. There's some top-notch cooks from the Pacific Northwest here,” he continued, “the contest is small but the competition is high.”

#end#

Merrill K Riddick: Pioneering Eccentricity

by Reecy Pontiff 

From the Philipsburg Mail, May 2013

Granite County's airport, Riddick Field, bears the name of a quixotic legend, a man who barnstormed with Charles Lindberg, ran three unsuccessful presidential campaigns and pioneered environmentalism in America. 

The airfield at Philipsburg, MT, named for pilot and
resident Merril Riddick. Photo by Reecy Pontiff

“He wasn't going to be the president... but everybody tolerated him. He had respect,” said Dean Neitz, who worked at the Philipsburg Mail when Merrill K. Riddick made his home here after World War II.

Neitz ran the printing press late into the night, sometimes until two in the morning, and Riddick would stop by to chew his ear off.

“When I'd be working at night Merrill would come in, and he'd talk and he'd talk and he'd talk. I was trying to run the press... He was kind of a nuisance. ” Neitz said.

But “he was certainly very bright... and a very accomplished pilot,” Neitz said. 

A graduate in the first class of the Army Air Force Aeronautics School in California, Riddick flew reconnaissance missions in Europe during WWI and acted as a flight instructor in both World Wars. He later barnstormed in an air circus with Charles A. Lindbergh and was also one of America's first airmail pilots, according to the University of Montana's Riddick archives.

Neitz recalls Riddick saying “he landed many times on the White House lawn with the mail,” during one of their late-night sessions.

Though born in New York state, Riddick's family moved to Montana when he was 11 years old. After his adventures through the wild blue yonder, Riddick returned to Montana to prospect for gold, according to his New York Times obituary. 

While mining around the Granite County area, Riddick made local history by staking a claim on the corner of the bank parking lot in downtown Philipsburg. He drove a 4x4 post into the ground and placed the claim in an old tobacco can hanging from it, according to Mike Kahoe, who was chairman of the committee that rededicated Philipsburg Airport in Riddick's name. 

“I don't know if you can actually stake claims on private property,” Kahoe said, “but I think he was trying to make a point.”

“The banker didn't like that very well because [Riddick] was actually thinking about drilling,” said Steve Immenschuh, who was just a boy in the 1960s and 70s when his mother ran the Philipsburg hotel where Riddick took up residence, “He had a drill rig just outside of town here on another project... he was serious!” 

Riddick was quite a character around town, a short, round widower with thick glasses. He forayed into politics after the death of his wife, making a bid for governor of Montana in 1968 and U.S. senator in 1972. Failing miserably on both counts Riddick decided to raise his sites to the highest office in the nation – he ran presidential campaigns in 1976, 1980 and 1984, according to his New York Times obituary. 

Immenschuh was a teenager when Riddick asked him to paint a campaign sign for his first election, which was hung in the window of Riddick's office on Broadway.

After Riddick lost, “it was stored in the hotel basement... a year later he decided he was going to run for another political office and we dig out the sign and I repaint it with a different party and a different office,” Immenschuh said, “The 'Merrill Riddick' stayed and everything else changed.”

Riddick was also famous for refusing to accept campaign donations – with the exception of a silver dollar from young Immenschuh.

“He was kind of a unique guy. I went down to his office and said, 'I know you're not taking any campaign contributions, but have a silver dollar,'” Immenschuh said, “He thought that was pretty nice." 

Fortunately Riddick had other projects to spend that silver dollar on. He also published a periodical on resource management called the “Journal of Applied Human Ecology” completely out of his own pocket – and that of his local financiers. 

“My dad owned the service station... and I can remember him when I was a kid coming up and asking my dad for a little bit of money” to publish the journal, Kahoe said.

As the name of his journal suggested, the environment was a huge issue for Riddick. During his late-night sessions at the printing press with Neitz, “he talked about environmentalists. Nobody had heard the terminology [back then]. He was ahead of his time,” Nietz said.

To that end, Riddick ran for president under a political party of his own creation, the grandiosely named Magneto-hydrodynamics-Puritan Epic-Prohibition Party.

“He explained to me [his political party] had to do with producing electricity through burning coal and producing steam to turn the turbines,” Immenschuh said, “Which was really neat because I'd never heard of it before.”

And so it came that Philipsburg Airport was renamed Riddick Field on the town's bicentennial in 1976. Due to poor health Riddick had already relocated to Maryland to live with his sister, but he returned to Granite County with his family for the ceremony on that sunny day in May. “Several hundred persons flocked to the field” to listen to the local high school bands and watch the air circus, according to the May 6, 1976 issue of the Philipsburg Mail. Riddick even returned to the skies once more, taking a ride in an open cockpit biplane during the celebrations. 

Merrill K. Riddick died in 1988, but here in Granite County his legend will live on forever.

Time to Bale

From the Philipsburg Mail, August 2013

Time to bale

by Reecy Pontiff

Well, I did it. Yes, this southern city girl made it through an entire year in Montana, including a winter, and most of the summer (which is like a New Orleans winter, but colder).

And to cap it off, I became a part of that revered annual ranching ritual: the hay harvest.

My rig during the hay harvest, the hay rake.

When I mentioned my new employment to my Montana friends, many regaled me with stories of driving tractors shortly after they took their first steps, but were encouraging nonetheless.

When I told my metropolitan friends what I was doing with my summer vacation, there were mixed reactions. My favorite came from one of my most fabulous of city-slicker friends, a cabaret singer named Chris who exclaimed, “Reecy, you're a farmer now?!”

I suppose for a few weeks there, I was.

My job was to operate the hay rake. For you fellow city mice out there, a hay rake is a long “V” shaped contraption on wheels pulled behind a tractor. The beams that form the “V” have a number of light-weight metal wheels covered in tines that spin on the ground, combing flattened rows of mowed hay together into big, fluffy piles. This allows the hay to dry faster – if you have wet hay in a bale it will rot – and the baling machine to scoop it up more efficiently. It was fun to watch the baler roll by, gobbling up the rows of hay like Pacman and then periodically pooping out a big round bale like a gigantic mutant rabbit pellet. 

Life from the tractor.

The training I received was startlingly brief, considering that I'd never even ridden on a tractor before, and how lawsuit-happy America has become. My only strict instructions were not to hit any bales (“The bales will win.”) and to keep the tires of the rake out of the ditches. Each field is hemmed in by irrigation ditches, which given my instructions meant the outer ring of hay was the most stressful to rake. It was hard not to feel at least a little paranoid, as the job entailed constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure the tires and rake wheels were all where they belonged and functioning properly.

On my first day I repeatedly hit a particularly lumpy patch of ground and my tiny, open cab John Deere pitched uneasily beneath me every time I moved across it. I asked my co-hayer, who like everyone else in Granite County had been doing this since birth, how difficult it might be to actually roll a tractor.

“More talent than you've got,” he replied amicably, which put me at my ease-–though I think he underestimated my talent.

The baler at work.

As for my boss, he spoke almost reverently of the reason we'd gathered together. “That's some good hay,” he'd say with bright eyes. And he wasn't exaggerating—I keep hearing around town that this is the most hay a lot of folks have ever seen in these fields. A number of times out on the ranch we had issues with the baler jamming up because there was so much.

Generally I found operating the rake to be meditative. I created a temporary labyrinth from the ground, shaping tidy lanes across the valley between four-foot, olive-drab barricades of hay that would soon be transformed into a flat, camel-colored landscape dotted with bales.

Haying was one of the best seasonal job I've ever had. I soon shall take my leave of the Rocky Mountain wildfires and return to moister altitudes--but might I return to Montana for the next haying season? I just might at that.

#end#