After four years of mile-high living, I saw my first mountain lion this morning. I’m proud to report that I didn’t scream, or freak out, or do anything remotely “girlie.” My bladder held up just fine, too, thank you very much. In fact, two thoughts occurred simultaneously: “I should probably be afraid,” and “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got the dog on a leash. I can hand feed him to the lion, if it comes to that.”

It was a remarkably calm frame of mind in which I made the quick decision: I will outlive this dog, dammit. 

Yep: yet another reason I don’t intend to reproduce.  I’ve heard that protective maternal feelings take over, but I’m not so sure. If I was out with a toddler this morning, I could see myself just as easily thinking: “The kid’s got stumpy legs. I’m in the clear.”

The lion was several yards down the road, when I spotted it. I thought it might be a deer at first, or a big dog, but then it turned in profile and I saw its tail. It had some serious lion tail, curved up at the tip. The thing was in no hurry, either, ambling along the road until it got to the tall grass. Then it simply walked into its hiding spot.

How many days has that lion been there, just watching us on our morning run?

And why didn’t my dog alert me to the danger? You’d think a puppy’s hair would stand up on end at the sight. Hardly! And lucky for us. Who knows what would’ve happened if my pup was off the leash, giving chase, barking like the hound dog he is?

One thing for sure: I’m all about pushing my luck. I’ll be running the same route tomorrow morning. Dog sandwich in hand, in case the cougar needs a snack. Our world is all too built up, these days. It’s a gift to see such a reclusive wild creature. A good reminder, too: this is the lion’s home. We’re only visiting.

Thank you Mr. Mountain Lion. Now, please pounce on the four-legged one, first.

I swear the silent lightning woke me up, though I’d be hard pressed to explain how, scientifically, that could have happened. Maybe a magnetic force drew me to the window? Or else my eyelids are unusually thin. Whatever the reason, I woke to see whole sections of the sky lit up with fabulous flashes of silent, white light. It was strange enough to get me out of bed. I hovered for several minutes, watching the aerial pyrotechnics, until I realized I really wasn’t awake enough to stand so close to the head of the stairs.

Hours later, the thunder rolled through. Then the rains came.

But that lightning was the most amazing thing! I’ve never seen heat lightning like that back east (In NYC, that kind of quiet brightness would’ve indicated a store opening, or a film being made). It was a good reason to miss some sleep last night…and an even better excuse to employ yet another glorious head cave, where my racing dreams mixed with the roar of the thunder until the alarm clock finally shattered my sleep.

Confession: rodeo was a blast. Admittedly, praying to God beforehand was strange, and the announcer’s insistence on supporting the troops grew old. (Are 2007’s last-place finishers in Baghdad right now?) But by and large I found myself riveted.

Best of all were the Indian relay races:

…in which half-naked Native Americans ride bareback, change horses three times and race in a full gallop to the finish line. Yes: the cowboys wrestle farm animals, while the Indians perform stunning feats of athleticism. Hmm. Methinks if it weren’t for those smallpox blankets, the west couldn’t possibly have been ”won.”

The roping events were entertaining, too, if not entirely PETA-friendly. I doubt that group even bothers with membership drives between the east and west coasts. Telling a rancher his family business isn’t “nice” means you’re willing to spray paint future animal-rights messages from your wheelchair–after the nice rancher snaps your nice little neck.

The barrel races were great fun: mainly because the chicks kept knocking the barrels over and I amused myself by pretending they would cry about it later on in the stables, then comfort each other at a big pajama party, complete with curlers and pillow fights. Even now, I’m convinced that’s exactly what went down after the klieg lights cut out.

All things considered, the rodeo was fantastic until the bull riders came out. And kept falling off the damn bulls.

Now, you won’t catch me going near a bull for any percentage of eight seconds. But, see, I’m not a bull-rider. As the capper of the evening, their performances left me deflated. Only two managed to stay on for the full eight seconds.

Perhaps the rest of them should join the war effort.  Or crash the pajama party. Or pray to God for better luck next time.

Or wrap themselves up in blankets they get as gifts from the Indians.

Me, I’ll be up in the stands again next year. Wishing I was a chiropractor.

First off, a shameless plug for the Big Horn Mountain Festival, which I attended with the man this past weekend in Buffalo, WY. It’s always more fun to tear down than build up (as any construction worker can attest) but I have nothing bad to say about this outdoor festival. And I wouldn’t consider myself an afficionado, either. I always thought bluegrass was a kissing cousin to country music (or, as they say in Appalachia: Mommy and Daddy).

Which brings me to my quandry du jour: what the heck is the difference between bluegrass and country music, anyway? Judging by the audiences at the two events I attended this weekend, it’s the difference between mushrooms and Coors.

Country music blared from the speakers at the rodeo, both before and after the group prayer. Later on, the announcer strongly suggested we stand in our seats “if we support the troops.” While I was thinking on that one (eeney, meanie, miney, mo….) the man dragged me up by the elbow. Apparently, he was in no mood to see his fiance lynched by a blindly patriotic crowd. Good call. If I remain alive through rodeo weekend, I can cancel at least one redneck vote, come November.

The audience at the bluegrass festival was pretty much at the opposite end of the spectrum. People were drinking, sure, but the little kids were barefoot and their moms wore braids and straw hats and didn’t shave their legs. They were as close to hippies as you see in rural Wyoming. Of course there were Obama stickers on the cars in the parking lot.

So who decided that country music went to McCain, and bluegrass to Obama? Why are Republicans rodeo folk, while bluegrass music goes to the peace-and-loving Democrats? All I know is that people danced and sang along to “Trailer Park Fire” at the music festival, while the other end of the spectrum ostensibly went home to set theirs ablaze after the rodeo.

I enjoyed stopping by both camps this weekend, and I was even more pleased to fall asleep without either Coors or mushrooms (or corn dogs, natch) in my system. In a house. With a foundation. And just enough of a sunburn to remind me that, on occasion, there are genuine good times to be had outside of its walls.

There are obvious, animal-activist reasons to avoid rodeos. Exhibit A: calf roping. Not exactly a legitimate “sport.” If you haven’t been to a rodeo (and I’m talking to you, East Coast), the process goes something like this: a man with no visible career prospects runs pell-mell toward a cute baby cow, ties it up in a sisal cocoon and pulls it like a trussed chicken through the dirt until somebody sounds the buzzer.

Misanthropists can find oh-so-many more reasons to avoid the carnival that goes on in the parking lot all weekend. For your consideration: Exhibit B, the drunk redneck. Exhibits C, D, E, and F: the drunk’s redneck kids. Followed by exhibits G, H,I: three different, drunk baby mama redneckesses with a total of two weeks clean time off crank…

…eating corn dogs…with ketchup…

…wearing halter tops.

(That image alone is scarier than anything M. Night Shyamalan has put out in the last decade).

Still and all, I’ll be in the damn stands Saturday night. Fifth row, baby! Cheering on the idjits in cowboy hats and spurs. Trying to hide the uninhibited burst of excitement coming from my otherwise cynical little mouth.

The sad truth is I like the rodeo. That YEEHAW–that’s gen-u-wine.  I have no justification except that I got the tickets for free. See, you’re not really supporting something unless you pay for it.  Right?

Now, please excuse me while I stop off for discount Citgo gas…..

Despite my nighttime conviction to get up at 5 am, which frequently sounds like a good, perky idea before falling asleep, I was fully unprepared when the alarm went off this morning. By 5:01 I was halfway through Kubler-Ross’ five stages of grief, passing through denial, anger and bargaining while I attempted to hold onto the last vestiges of a dream.

The deal I was attempting to make with my alarm clock was physically impossible in terms of the time-space continuum. “Just five more minutes…” My clock merely laughed at the foolish mortal. “Time waits for no woman,” it reminded me. Then, I swear, it snickered.

As I don’t cotton to clock-snickering first thing in the morning, I managed to bury myself deep in a head cave for another half-hour, at which point my conscience declared a stalemate. The sleep-vs.-exercise ratio is a tough nut to crack, especially before breakfast. In the end, the run won out. Said breakfast is a lot tastier when I’ve carved out a calorie deficit in advance.

My dog loves our morning runs. I can tell, because I’ve anthropomophized him. A sideways cock of his shaggy head means “Really? I highly doubt that assertion, Chris!” rather than ”I’ve got a fly on my ear.” And the fact that he runs faster than me means he wants me to pick up my pace, instead of “Hey! I almost got away, this time!”

It’s amazing I still have two arms in the sockets, especially this week, when we’ve seen oodles of baby animals. My pound puppy just loves to chase other animals at top speed. Today he tried to catch two tiny robins, at least a half-dozen deer, a chipmunk and four bunnies–two of which were no bigger than a piece of Easter candy.

A four bunny run is pretty special. It may even be worth getting out of bed for.

Once upright, shoes double-knotted, at the acceptance stage of my morning–spotting a rabbit no bigger than my fist is a sweet reward for ripping myself out of R.E.M. Of course, last night I spent a full six hours dreaming that I was going to prison. So even without any baby animals at all, consciousness came as a bit of a relief.

Silly me, I thought that sixty days’ worth of gray sky was a pacific northwest phenomenon…apparently, it’s all the rage in Wyoming this spring. All the UV light bulbs in the world can’t make up for the fact that it’s 40 degrees outside, and mothball-size hailstones are raining down two weeks before summer.

The end of a seven year drought may be good for our land, but the people on it are snapping at one another and courting osteoporosis.

Good thing climate change doesn’t really exist, huh? I’d hate to think the weather we’re having is a symptom of global human interference….