My favorite holiday for years, as a child I loved to decorate the front yard with skeletons, pumpkins and other spooky things in preparation for Halloween. My brother and his family still have a big party on or near All Hallow's Eve. I even got a tattoo on Halloween some years back. It's a time to dress up and be somebody else other than whoever you really are. Since I've been trying to come up with some way to know who that latter person is, I've concluded that there may be some importance in what one has spent the most time doing during a lifetime. There's a concept stated in some book expousing that if a person does something for 10,000 hours, then he or she is an expert at whatever that activity is. I don't know whether that's true, I've spent years practicing with a guitar but still can't play the damn thing. For the moment, though, I'll go along with the notion that time spent has some revelance to what a person is good at or at least values doing. Had I spent the entire month of October every year for the past 40 years decorating for Halloween, then that must have been very important, and I'd be a Halloween expert or something.

I know a single mom who's devoted herself to her daughter, anyone who knows her also knows what's most important in her life. Another person loves her pets, making sure that for over 30 years, her menagerie has the best care possible. These kinds of people may take a day off once in a while, or once a year, to dress up and be someone else, but it won't change what is so important to them that they've spent years to it. While increasingly rare (or perhaps now impossible), I think there are many positive things to be said for those who have worked for the same company for 20, 30 or even 40 years. It seems like there's less permanence in anything than there once was, but someone willing to devote a lifetime to anything is a person with a lot of innate value. It might be that people now just choose to move on or say "no" or do whatever they do to make a change, but I admire those who have the ability and fortitude to do anything long-term. I think it would give one a sense of stability, one persona, rather than a closet full of past costumes.

Happy Halloween.

This fall I have several anniversaries to celebrate, the oldest is buying my first Harley in 1981. It was an FXB Sturgis model, basically a Super Glide or Low Rider but with twin belt drive, an 80 cubic inch Shovelhead engine and four-speed transmission. After an air cleaner change and some carburetor jetting, I installed straight pipes and had the very loud bike that I'd wanted since first seeing a Harley-Davidson as a little kid. The Motor Company has come a long way in 30 years. Back then, though, they hadn't even started trying to improve quality and the motorcycles were proof. They often didn't start or they broke down. Parts fell off, oil leaked out. I carried a lot of tools and plenty of spare parts.

My bike had both electric and kick starting, which was good since about half the time, the tiny battery and anemic starter only clunked when the start button was depressed. There were plenty of opportunities to attempt kicking the big engine to life, but doing so took a fair amount of spiritual intervention through prayers using rather forceful language directed at bikes in general and my bike in particular. If the engine didn't then fire, I'd get the bike into third gear and nod at my lady of the moment, who would then push me and the bike until there was enough ground speed to release the clutch and get the engine running.

Harleys of that era vibrated. Violently. Rear-view mirrors were useless. Numb hands were common. Every fastener regularly came loose. Loctite became a trusted friend. Bulbs failed often, an early lesson learned was that a high and low beam auto headlight could be substituted for the Harley's lamp. I will now take a moment to apologize to all of those people in eastern Pennsylvania in the 1980's who found their cars with non-working bulbs. The bike's ignition coil vibrated so hard that the mounting bracket broke. This happened so often that I carried a spare bracket. I could swap it for the broken one and then reweld the broken part and be ready for the following week.

Riding back then was all kind of an adventure, since the start of a ride was no guarantee of how the trip would end. Still, that bike took me to some great places with great people. That first Harley and the two that followed it are all gone now. What remain are memories of riding each of them, whether it was up into the northeast, down the Blue Ridge Parkway, or all the way out to Sturgis. Each machine ended up having a history, a time in my life with associated places and people. My current Harley (it's number 4 for me) doesn't feel like there's history yet, it's a 2010 and I haven't ridden it far enough or long enough to establish many memories with it. The only personal evidence of its ownership is a reproduction of the tattoo on my back that's painted on the motorcycle's oil tank. To its credit, this bike has already attended two Sturgis rallies and it's patiently waiting in my little shed for next year's rides. I think it is a year and a half old and 30 years old at the same time. Considering that, I realize I've been wrong. This bike already has history, 30 years of it.

There are cattle grazing outside, their black hides contrasted by the white snow that both covers the ground and clings to each needle on the pine trees. Tiny flakes continue to fall from the low clouds that envelope this high country. The air feels damp, as if the moisture can't decide whether to remain frozen or arrive as droplets of water. The beef drift north from the hill to the west and down into a valley, eventually I will see them on the mountain to the east since they seem to enjoy their daily trek from one side of this dwelling to the other. Perhaps some deer will take the place of the bovines in the small window here that reveals the outside world. It may be that the deer have already arrived. Unless I spot an ear moving, I often don't even see the deer at all. The only visible activity at the moment comes from a little red squirrel searching for pine cones. The squirrel usually will stand up and chatter at me gazing from the window, but today the snow on the ground seems to have given the tiny red gatherer a greater incentive to work rather than take a conversational pause. Inside this little place, the old furry dog naps on the wood floor. She occasionally awakens and raises her shaggy head, gazing around the room, probably making sure that all is quiet as usual. And she finds that to be true, a typical morning in these mountains.

Typical but still somewhat odd, as in many ways the things in this structure in which I live are not of the current century or even the last one, it's more like much of the old west still remains. Not in every way, there are nods toward technology: light bulbs, an electric heater, LP gas for a small stove, running water, a good roof that doesn't leak. I compare these luxuries of the modern age as I take inventory of the room while refilling my fountain pen and pouring another cup of very strong black coffee. There is a key-wound clock on the wall, a saddle sits in a corner, a rope, chaps and spurs nearby. True artwork even graces one wall, a grand friend who is an artist brought me a painting she'd done of a cabin not too far from here. I really enjoy seeing her depiction hanging over the desk. My friend's husband said it was perfect for here, as he'd framed the painting with wood from an old outhouse. I'd agree, it's perfect.

Not all in sight is authentic to the old west period, of course. I readily admit that my lever-action rifle leaning against the saddle and single-action revolver hanging by holster and gunbelt near the window are both chambered in 44 Magnum, a caliber unheard of in the days of horse and wagon, though maybe originally thought about many years ago when Elmer Keith first began reloading the 44 Special. A 12 Gauge pump-action riot gun gathers dust by the door, my acknowledgement that mountain lions live here, too, just as the dust on that shotgun confirms my thought that it's rather unlikely I will have any close-range lion problems (but not impossible as a friend's trail camera photos clearly show a big cat not too far from here). At the moment, with eight wild turkeys outside the window, I'd bet that any lions are elsewhere. If I'm mistaken, it could be that mountain lions heard the same thing about wild turkeys that I did, the turkeys are awful to eat since they taste like the pine cones that they constantly ingest.

There's a Bible on a shelf and a Lakota peace pipe and medicine pouch hanging next to the Bible (I might as well be on good terms with God and Wakan Tanka, though personally I think they are one in the same, but in any case, I'd rather not get either arrows or lightning bolts shoved in my rear end). A big Bowie knife takes up most of a table, I really have no idea why except that it looks good right there and I'm too lazy to either carry the thing or find a more permanent spot for it. I suppose that knife is the beginning of my decorating career. I suppose the metal tray of loose tobacco and the stack of cigarette papers lend the place an air of authenticity, but I must admit that I need to replace the cheap disposable lighter with a box of wooden matches for a true sense of old-west realism. Other than the lighter, I'm relatively satisfied that most of what is visible could at least at first glance fit into 1885 rather than the current year.

I suppose this home is decorated with mostly cowboy gear, though I'm really not a cowboy unless that term could be used with a person who lives out here, wears western clothing and owns an iron horse. Long ago, I had a lot of things with that particular horse's brand on them (Harley-Davidson) but those things are part of the past rather than the present, the bar and shield tattoo on my right arm thankfully excepted. I choose to use the word "decorated" to describe what is in my view rather than more accurate terms like "piled up everywhere." Decorated gives the impression of intentional, as if my pitching a coat and hat on a chair was a deliberate act intending to make the scene reminiscent of a museum display rather than a bunkhouse, though in time I may be able to come up with a concept which I'll term "bunkhouse decor" and then take some photos for a large-format coffee table book that nobody will look through anyway.

As the snow continues to swirl around, I roll a cigarette and walk outside to smoke it, immediately learning that the jacket I am wearing, made of plastic fibers in China rather than wool (it was advertised as wool, too bad I never checked the tag until now), something from my past life complete with fancy camo pattern and hunting logo, is useless in this climate and contributes nothing to my own warmth. I decide to donate it to the old dog for a bed. The lesson here is to wear wool or be cold. It's too bad that like most clothing available now, finding wool items made in this country, or much of anything made in this country, has become difficult or impossible, at least locally. After several searches in a few nearby towns, I gave up trying to find some leather gloves made in the United States. At least I did find some imported by a company based in the United States, though it was sad to see that the old glove company Wells Lamont had turned to overseas sources.

I guess that's my complaint for today, something to do with imported junk that isn't as good as what used to be made right here. I wonder if anything is truly made right here. I guess I was, but that was long ago in both years passed and lives lived. I dig out an old USA-made Filson sweater (new production is all imported) and attempt to discuss this problem with the dog, but she offers no advice. Maybe tomorrow I will come up with something else to whine about and my furry friend will again act like she is listening. She probably won't have much to say tomorrow, either. No matter. She knows I don't complain often. We have food, it's warm and quiet in here and beautiful outside. Considering those blessings, it may take me quite a while to think of something else that's bothering me. I tell the dog and she just wags her long tail and goes back to sleep.

It is nice to be back up in the mountains after about a month of traveling, didn't realize just how much I miss these high hills and the peace that they give to me. Counted over 60 elk in a valley down below, then made it home and awoke to snow flurries a few mornings back. Glanced out the window while pouring a cup of coffee and six wild turkeys were pecking along outside. Yes, it's already cold here but the temperature seems to match the solitude. Time to store cotton shirts away and put wool shirts out, finish a rifle I've been slowly working on in case some hooved food appears outside and generally make sure all is ready for the winter.

When I lived in the modern world, I'd have said it is quiet here. Now I know better, listening to crows, coyotes and other critters talking while the wind gives the pine trees their own voices. Linear thought is replaced by circular feeling, a sense that all of nature here is interconnected. It feels like snow is coming. The little red squirrel who lives in an old shed out back races to store pine cones before the white flakes arrive. No other weather forecast is necessary. I just start to know a few of these things. But, I'd been puzzled by some of the animal behavior I'd seen and was surprised to hear what others had to say on that subject, making me realize I still have far to go in order to understand some of what the natural world is trying to tell me.

As the seasons changed from warm to cold, I first noticed how the coyotes started banding together in larger and larger packs. My guess was because the coyotes could hunt deer or elk better in groups, and there seemed to suddenly be deer and elk all over the place, even standing around my little "home" as if I did not exist. I thought it must be what those animals did as the temperature dropped, perhaps moving into this high little valley, or perhaps I'd blended into the landscape so well that my presence no longer mattered - a rather egocentric viewpoint, as if I mattered. I was to find that I do, but for reasons that at the time I'd not have grasped.

A few weeks passed with the coyotes, elk and deer behaving the same way. I was in town one day and mentioned this to some people who have lived here all their lives. They said there was a mountain lion near where I live. The coyotes get together because an individual coyote is likely to get killed by the lion. And the deer and elk are herded up around my place because I am there. They sense that it's safer around me because I would keep the mountain lion at a distance. Rather than me being invisible, I have become part of their world, an important part it would seem. I was told not to be shocked if I ended up with quite a group of grass-eating critters nearby this winter. As long as the lion remained, its prey would gather around me.

I didn't hear any scientific reasoning or biological concepts stated by anyone with an alphabet after their name, only that the animals just know and that is all. These aren't things that stand based on western cultural demands of proof, examined in such minute detail that there is no longer a "whole." This knowing (at least to native cultures like the Lakota people here) is just accepted fact and no proof is needed. The proof is here by its own volition. Things happen for reasons, both seen and unseen by us, more questioning means less knowledge. Another comment was that all things are interconnected because the Creator wants it that way, it is what it is.

So, the Creator wants me to live in a shack in the mountains this winter so that the elk and deer feel safe? "Yes. That's your purpose now. Accept your purpose, the Creator gave it to you. It is a gift. Stop thinking so much," was one reply. Stop thinking, learn to just know and accept. That's a more enlightened and refreshing view of life than anything I've ever heard. Another person said, "Nature will tell you what you need to know. Take the time to listen." That feels like good advice, I believe I will try to follow it.

In early 2009, a friend asked me what I had on my bucket list. I, of course, had no idea what she was talking about, I tended to live in the world of guns and nothing else so had never heard that term. She patiently explained how some people have a list of things that they wanted to do before they die. Things to do? My list at the that time was of things I wanted to own. A month or so later, I'd revised my list as best I could based on what she'd told me, that in her mind the list should be of things to accomplish rather than just have. I did not do a great job, there were still some possessions but also some places I wanted to see. My friend again talked about the importance of goals in life and what she thought they should mean. To her, a goal on one's bucket list wasn't to own another wristwatch or motor vehicle. While she has had no contact with me since then (a smart lady who knows crazy people are strange), I often think about what she attempted to teach me.

It seems to me now that a bucket list reveals a great deal about the person who wrote it - I was wanting things, then a slow shift toward a few experiences which I have since been able to do. At present, I really have no list, it is more some intangible goals that would have seemed stupid to me a few years ago, a focus on inward quality rather than outward quantity. These days, I'd like to have Jesus Christ with me always, let my friends and family know how much I value them, appreciate seeing an elk grazing in the mountains, laugh at being caught in the rain while riding a motorcycle.

Those are things worthy of my bucket list. I've already seen all the places, shot all the guns, owned all the toys. All that past list taught me was how shallow a life I had been attempting to live. Thank you, my friend, for this lesson. I may have finally learned it. I know you will likely never see this but if you do, then at least you will know that I have tried to pass it along to a few others. I hope you are having a wonderful life.

An ancient looking fellow with a long gray beard showed up yesterday driving what may be the largest backhoe I have ever seen. He explained that he needed to do some repairs on a nearby water line that feeds one of the water tanks for the horses over in the next pasture. He stopped his machine, got out and just walked back and forth for a bit, looking at the ground. We talked about the weather, horses, the usual things that people talk about way up here in these mountains. Then he climbed back up the steps into the backhoe's cab, moved the machine about 15 feet over to a spot that appeared to me identical to any other place in the field and began digging. I sat down to watch him and became amazed at how precisely he could cut a trench with his machine, the big bucket never moving more than necessary and within a few minutes he'd reached whatever he needed to find - a valve or fitting or something.

Another person had arrived in a pickup truck, who then stepped off into the hole and changed the part. Once completed, the backhoe's engine fired up and in the space of time it took me to roll and smoke a cigarette, the hole (big enough to bury a car) was filled in and the sod, which had been initially peeled off the ground, was put back in place with fast but sure strokes of the bucket's long teeth. The old man waved and drove off down the dirt road. I've watched backhoes being operated in the past, the operator banging the entire bucket and arm on everything and making a giant mess, not so this time. The guy with the gray beard definitely had many years of experience and the ability to probably out-dig and out-produce a whole crew of younger, inexperienced drivers. There are plenty of people like the old man, those who have mastered some skill or skills, having a lifetime of practice, the knowledge to do something correctly every time and the wisdom to sometimes sit back and look around for a moment before just charging in and tearing up the dirt.

Why, then, do so many companies now discard their experienced people and court only the youth, who have multiple diplomas but no real history? I have heard the excuses that older people just cost so much more regarding medical insurance (might they not be worth the cost), older people can't grasp modern management techniques (whatever those happen to be this month), older people are set in their ways and/or can't learn. Really? Perhaps the notions of "set" or "can't" are hiding something else. Companies hire the young and educated. Those people move up into positions in management, where they find they are supposed to be leaders. They make decisions and other young employees carry out the orders, sometimes blindly but without question as none of those subordinates have the experience to truly know whether any given decision was correct. The young manager is likely going to feel threatened if anyone were to actually question what's been decided. The problem for the manager is that the older, experienced people often will question, or will simply say no.

Experience and age can and often do give one the capacity for independent thought far beyond whatever is taught in some university classroom. Companies will expouse the concept that employees should be "courageous followers," and while this is taught as being a noble undertaking, reality is found to be much different. What is actually expected of a follower is agreement without question, the mindlessness of a herd of sheep. No bleating is tolerated. These same companies will put into practice the concept of mentoring, but then it's the young managers who become mentors for other younger employees. I'm not sure that there's much experience being passed along at all. Those with age and experience, those who are not sheep, they need to just go away and not apply elsewhere.

Oddly enough, sometimes those old, discarded people don't even have to apply elsewhere. My friend, a tool and die maker, recently retired early after having grown tired of the herd of young supervisors at the company where he worked. At the same time, his wife, who spent her career learning about and managing computer systems, retired early from her company for the same reason. She's since been asked back as a consultant multiple times but has decided not to bother. It seems the company cannot find anyone with her skills. Her husband is so busy now that he doesn't have time to be retired, as a lot of other "old people" are happy to pay him for his experience and ability to make machine tools correctly the first time, rather than creating piles of scrap metal.

I sometimes wonder what some of these award-winning modern management companies are going to do when all the managers look at each other and realize that there's no one left who has any real-world experience. I suspect the managers will have a lot of meetings and then find something - anything - and completely change whatever it is, with grand accolades to one and all for the progress they've made. Nobody's left who could judge otherwise, who would have the knowledge to point out that if it didn't work the last five or ten or however many times it was tried before, it won't work this time, either. I think if I were to ever start a company, I'd only hire old people and I'd make sure they all knew that when I made a decision, they would be free to say no and say it loudly if they think I made the wrong choice. Then I would be the one learning from their experience. I've already earned the old, discarded title so I'd much prefer to end up a wise manager rather than a modern one.

A bit over a year ago, I left the modern world and ventured way up here into the mountains. Things are different here, much of the common things in my past life no longer exist. When I started contemplating what I have not seen or done by being here, I created a list which I kind of find interesting for what it represents and what it does not. What have I missed in the past year?

- I have not seen a single fight. I have not seen people yelling at each other. No screaming in public, no nothing. What people tend to be is polite.

- I have not had to answer a cell phone. Not only is there very little cell phone service, but there's no sense of immediacy, either. Things aren't done at Tuesday at 3:45 pm on date Z, instead they are scheduled for "in the fall" or "once it gets cold." So, how does one get in touch with someone? At the local watering hole, whenever one happens to be there.

- I have not seen a suit, dress shoes, a tie or any other article of business attire. There is nothing ostentatious here, except perhaps some of the big homes that are only used in the summer, and there are so many Chevrolet Corvettes that I finally no longer even want to own one. They must be great cars, I'll let everyone else up here drive them. I've counted over 50 at a time in the nearest little town - population under 800. It seems there are only three kinds of vehicles here: Corvettes, old Toyota pickups, giant dual-wheel diesel pickups (with a horse trailer permanently attached). The Toyotas are slow. The Corvette owners drive their cars very slowly. The big diesel drivers act like they are driving sports cars. The horses in the trailers and the dogs in the back of the big pickups don't seem to notice.

- I have not eaten at, nor seen, a McDonald's restaurant. Actually, I've not eaten any "fast food" of any kind. Fast food here means a local cafe. After many years of eating processed food, I have been amazed that a simple diet of basic items from the local grocery store, supplemented with some wild game, can make me feel so much better. I went on the all-stress diet through 2010 and lost over 60 pounds, and none of me was overweight (except perhaps my skull). I've gained 30 pounds of me back (with no fat) and am pretty close to what I'd consider an ideal weight for me. No big secret, just what I've written here. I now don't think anybody needs to eat fast food.

- No one has given me the finger nor yelled at me in traffic. In fact, I've not seen any traffic, except for a lot of motorcycles during the Sturgis rally. The nearest town has one traffic light. It is over 30 miles to the next traffic light. No one seems to be in much of a rush anyway.

- I've not seen anyone hit a child or a dog or show any manner of abuse to anything. Children don't scream and yell in the grocery store, dogs don't bark. Again, people are polite and friendly.

- I've not felt the need to carry a handgun while around other people. I do carry a short rifle quite a bit, but I'm still not used to all the wild critters up here. Perhaps everybody is polite and friendly because everybody else does carry a handgun.

- I have not encountered anyone who was drunk or belligerent or both. There are just no "tough guys" walking around trying to prove whatever it is they try to prove. A century or so ago, the tough guys got shot by polite people. Maybe that concept has carried through to the present day.

- I have not seen any kind of police roadblock or DWI check. Law enforcement officers and firemen are incredibly good-natured here. They are still of the now-forgotten opinion that ignorance can be an excuse, so they all laugh while explaining to people that one should not be doing whatever it is they are doing even though it seems like fun at the moment.

- No one has stared at me because I have a lot of tattoos. I've learned that if somebody is staring at me for a moment, they'll almost immediately say something positive about my cowboy hat or boots or something like that. Then I learn that we both like the same hatmaker or boot company. This leads to a long conversation regarding the merits of hats, boots and beer. I like those conversations.

- I have not heard a motor vehicle where the music system is louder than what I'd consider a normal radio. Nobody wears pants below their underwear, either. I'm guessing that a person wearing drop down and trip over pants would not last long in an area so full of mountain lions.

- Not once has it been hot and humid. Or cold and raining. If it's cold, it's snowing. Yet it still doesn't feel cold since there's no humidity. The snow is like dust. I still do not have a snow shovel. A broom works fine. I've heard no tornado warnings, either.

- No one has passed judgment on me, berated me for what I did or did not do, threatened me with loss of employment or possessions or anything else based on their own self-deluded status of somehow being superior to others. People accept each other up here. In fact, people still say "God bless you" when they're saying goodbye.

I guess I really didn't miss anything.