Beyond the Backyard

July 2, 2023daveweimer

Kathleen Tunison Michel

Feb. 26, 1925–Jan. 23, 2023

At the age of eighty-four, Kathleen had an accident.

As she walked through a parking lot, she stumbled over a speed-bump and fell, face first, into the bumper of a parked car. Her injuries consisted of two black eyes, a bruised nose, and a significant gash on her forehead. (The fact that she had tripped on a speed-bump was somewhat ironic considering we were always telling her to slow down). Upon hearing the news, I immediately made a phone call. I anticipated her to be bedridden, in pain, possibly feeling a mix of embarrassment about the accident, and ashamed of the way she looked.

However, when she picked up the phone, her laughter echoed through the line, “David!” The commotion in the background suggested she was amidst some festival and was out enjoying drinks with friends. There she was, in her mid-eighties, sporting two black eyes while balancing a gin and tonic in each hand. This truly amazed me. Despite the fall that left her face marred, she chose to make the best out of that unfortunate situation. If that had happened to 99% of people her age, they would have been at home, sulking.

While many knew my Grandma as a successful businesswoman and real estate entrepreneur, there was much more to Kathleen’s story. To fully appreciate her resilience, you have to understand where she came from.

Nestled about twelve miles from Sterling, Colorado, and a mere forty miles from the Nebraska border, lies a modest farm. The area remains remote even today; back in the late 1920s, it was akin to living on the western frontier. Endless golden waves of grass stretch as far as the eye can see in every direction. Amidst this expansive prairieland, an oasis of cottonwood trees encircles a group of small buildings. Off to one side, like a watchful sentinel, stands an old, dilapidated barn. It maintains its stance today, albeit precariously. The roof bows inward and the wood siding is deeply furrowed and bleached white by the sun. The barn doors have been replaced by thick metal bars—similar to those used for highway guardrails—which have been bolted in place to deter people and animals from wandering inside.

My great-grandfather, Edgar Tunison, built this barn; and this is where Kathleen, in her youth, carried out her chores. It was her responsibility to care for the heifers, shoveling manure, milking the cows—and then separating the cream—which the family sold to purchase groceries in town. Her childhood seemed to be a perpetual bucket-brigade of sloshing milk, a task that led her to despise the smelly liquid. This labor left an indelible mark on her memory: even at the age of ninety-seven, if you asked her if she wanted cream in her coffee, she’d exclaim, “Oh, God, no!”

I once asked Kathleen who her best friend was back then and she named Betty, her older sister. However, she admitted that apart from her brother, Denny, there weren’t any other kids living out that far. Eventually, a schoolhouse was established in Atwood, and the children had to ride horses nine miles each way to attend.

Overtime, Kathleen became an expert horseback rider. This was during the Great Depression and Kathleen would help her father drive the herd across the prairie to the train-station in Sterling where the cattle could be sold and loaded onto rail cars. Kathleen had a good cutting horse which she used to keep the herd out of the river—funneling them neatly across the bridge instead.

The rock-bottom price of cattle—at eighteen dollars a head—was a figure she would never forget, as it nearly bankrupted her father who struggled to pay the land’s property taxes. Like many families during that era, they lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Nevertheless, Kathleen would remember these times as some of the happiest of her life. The Charles Dickens quote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,” certainly applied to life on the homestead. Kathleen learned early on that the best and worst of times—often came at once.

As a young woman, Kathleen met Alex Michel and the pair fell madly in love. Despite her fathers objections, Kathleen ran off with Alex and got secretly married in Denver. Upon Alex’s return from the war, Kathleen became pregnant, and the pair started a family of their own—with my Mom and my uncle Bob.

—————

Fast-forwarding to 1975, Kathleen, then 50, decided to start over again. Bob and Carol had lives of their own and she was newly divorced. She took the train to Denver, bringing only a suitcase of clothes and a little bunny-eared TV. She randomly found an apartment and began working the teller-line at First National Bank of Denver, enrolled in night-school, and began pursuing a college degree.

Prior to the 1970s, it was difficult for a woman to climb the corporate ladder and Kathleen was passed up for promotion time and time again. Nevertheless, she persisted, first rising to the position of head teller, then leading the bookkeeping department, and eventually moving to the loan office.

In 1975, she secured a role in the loan cage of the real estate department, supervising three individuals. She eventually rose to the rank of Vice President of the real estate department, working with real estate developers and mortgage bankers.

Later, Kathleen transitioned to the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), working in the Investigation Department. Her role involved auditing failed banks and investigating fraudulent loans.

Simultaneously, Kathleen started putting her knowledge of real-estate to her own use. She obtained her broker’s license and began investing in properties for ‘fix-and-flip’ projects, decades before there was even a term for such a thing. She started with mobile homes, then moved to apartments, and finally houses. Upon retiring in ’95, she continued her real estate investments and never stopped.

————————-

Two days before Kathleen passed away, I was talking with her on the phone. I had gotten in the habit of asking her random questions about her life. And so, on this occasion I asked,

“Grandma, throughout your life, what has been your most difficult moment?”

She paused, seemingly to consider the weight of the question.

I assumed she might recount the time when she contracted polio, a perilous disease that ravages nerve cells in the spinal cord. The origin of her illness remained unknown, but it resulted in partial paralysis of her arms and legs. Doctors predicted she might never walk again. After spending six weeks in the hospital, she underwent nine months of physical therapy to regain normal movement in her extremities.

Or, I imagined, she might share the heartbreaking experience of losing a child. The baby survived merely two days and never made it beyond the doors of the hospital. Although it was never spoken of, the weight of that loss accompanied her throughout her life. Half a century later, when Kathleen’s step-daughter, Kakie Foxhoven, passed away, I accompanied Grandma to select a gravestone. I was taken aback when she ordered two: one for Kakie, and another for the baby boy she had named Donald.

Or perhaps, I thought, she might discuss Mark Foxhoven, her fiancé, who passed away unexpectedly in the middle of the night, while she slept beside him.

However, she didn’t mention any of these things.

Instead, she harkened back to a time when she was perhaps six years old. She and Betty had wandered far out into the pasture where they found a calf having difficulties. Its mother was nowhere to be seen. They tried to get the calf to its feet, coaxing it, and together, they tried to lift its incredible weight. As the sun vanished below the horizon, they persevered with their efforts into the night. With no moon to offer sufficient light, they quickly became disoriented. Two little girls—best friends—lost in that ocean of grass, doing everything they could to save that calf.

————

Such was my grandmother — tenacious, and one of the most resilient individuals I’ve ever known. She was the person I admired the most, the one I sought advice from, and the one who encouraged me to chase even the most ridiculous of dreams.

I am so very lucky to have had the honor of calling her Grandma.

Flying with a Small Dog: Misadventures with Airline Pet Policies

December 10, 2022daveweimer

My dog likes to fly.

Chicken has flown on several different airlines and has been as far north as Alaska and as far south as Puerto Rico. She has been shown preferential treatment because of her ‘cuteness’ (Alaska Airlines); she’s had her tickets revoked and non-refunded (American Airlines); and she’s even been a stowaway and gotten away with it (United Airlines).

First off, let me tell you a little about Chicken. She’s a true lap dog—a long-haired Chihuahua/Papillon mix—weighing in around 15-pounds. She’s a healthy dog, about 4.5 years old, potty trained, has all her shots, and is good with people.

She’s never flown internationally, sat in First Class, or joined the Mile High Club. Yet. But along the way, we have learned a few lessons.

#1: Pet carriers. We’ve tried a few different kinds. Soft-sided carriers seem to be the best because the area under the seats have slight dimensional differences and the soft sides can bend to fit. The pet carriers found at Petco (Sherpa brand) are generally too small for Chicken.

We are currently using a Snoozer *link here*. We purchased the carrier on Amazon and are very happy with it.

Even the flight attendants notice and approve of it’s size. We use it as a backpack (although it can be used as a roller cart as well) and Chicken likes it too. Before placing the Snoozer underneath the seat, I detach the hard wheel platform (picture below) which makes for an easier fit.

Pro tip: Next time you visit your veterinarian, ask them to create a document stating your dog’s carry-on case is the correct size for your pet. (See why in Tip #9)

#2 Pet Policy: You’d think this might be a standardized set of rules but unfortunately this isn’t the case. Links to the different Pet Policies can be found here:

Pet Fees. Alaska Airlines charges $100 each way, Delta $95 each way, United $125 (and an additional $125 if your layover is more than 4-hours), Southwest $95, American Airlines $125.

#3: Pet travel kit: Along with your leash and bowl; you should have poop bags, wet wipes, paper towels (for accidents), treats, and documentation of your dog’s rabies shot—which may be requested during check-in although we’ve only been asked for it when flying to and from Puerto Rico. I also bring a dog coat in case the flight gets cold.

#4: Stowaway: During the height of the pandemic you could get away with sneaking your dog on the plane because the flight attendants were busy checking for people’s masks, not dogs. Those days are now gone. You can get through security with your pet but when trying to board the plane, they will ask to see if you paid the pet fee (a tag attached to your pet carrier is required). No pay, no board. Best to reserve your pet’s spot on the plane by calling ahead of time.

#5: Sedatives: Chicken is naturally a nervous dog. I’ve found if I act confident, she will trust me. Going through TSA can be especially intimidating for pets. I hold Chicken throughout the process and she does fine. There are several reasons I disagree with sedatives. First, altitude will increase the effects of the drug (yes, even in a pressurized cabin), so it’s best to give a much smaller dose than your veterinarian suggests. Secondly, sedatives can make your pet physically sick and they might associate that feeling with air travel which will only increase the pet’s stress level on subsequent flights. It should be noted that Chicken is very good on planes and doesn’t bark. One time, she did escape under the seat to visit the people behind me, but those nice people ushered her back the way she’d come.

Pro tip: If you have a well behaved animal, you can put them on your lap during the flight, hiding them under a blanket.

#6: Pet Relief Areas: These can be hard to find and your pet might not know what to do when you get there. We take Chicken on a long walk just before the flight and then we don’t feed her before or during our flights. We give her water just before landing in hopes she might use the Pet Relief Areas. If there are long layovers we take her outside past security.

#7: Alaska Airlines: This is our preferred airline when flying with Chicken. The flight attendants and ticket counter folks were very sweet to her and they never weighed her or measured her carry-on case or any of that BS. However, they don’t accept certain breeds. So check their pet policy (link above)

#8: Service Animals: On my latest flight, I saw a huge K-9 service dog (German Shepherd) sitting at a guy’s feet. So apparently if you have a registered service animal you may be able to take very large breeds on the plane and don’t need to follow any of their dumb rules. I’m looking into this because Chicken can detect earthquakes.

#9: Avoid American Airlines. Here’s why: we were on a red-eye flight to New Orleans to see family. Chicken’s $125 dollar Pet Fee was paid in advance. We went up to the desk to get our tickets and the lady there wanted to weigh Chicken. 15lbs. Then she measured Chicken from head to toe like a piece of luggage. She then deemed our carry-on case too small. We followed their online Pet Policy and have flown with this same case on several different airlines. We put Chicken in the case to demonstrate that she had plenty of room but the lady just folded her arms. So we had to cancel our tickets—and to make matters worse—they refused to refund our money.

Just 30-minutes later, I saw a lady going through security with a dog twice the size of Chicken. I asked what airline she was on and she said American! “How did you get past the check-in counter?” I asked. She had issues with American Airlines on previous visits, so she had her vet write up a document stating that her carry-on case was the correct size for her dog. Smart. After that tip, we did the same. However, once we stopped using American, we never had the issue of being denied travel again.

I’ve spoken to a few other frequent-flying pet-owners and they too have had issues with American Airlines. Anyway, avoid them and avoid a headache.

Search for the Frenchman’s Lost Cave

November 7, 2022daveweimer

New Discoveries in the Dominican Republic

By Dave Weimer & Lukas Eddy

We have a big problem.

It was a text from Lukas Eddy in the Dominican Republic. He and his wife, Suhei, had scoured the country for over a month looking for some mythical ‘lost cave’ and apparently–they’d found it. We’d been invited to help with the mapping.

I texted back: Problem??

HUNDREDS OF WASP NESTS BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE.

We needed a solution fast. I suggested chemical warfare:

A couple cans of Raid should solve the problem, right?

No. That would just make them angry. But, I have an idea…

So there we were, wearing full-body bee suits while hacking through jungle in the sweltering heat of the West Indies. The humidity was stifling and the suit was like wearing a sweater in a sauna. Worse still, the screen on the hood was difficult to see through and we kept getting caught on vines and thorns, only able to free ourselves by beating the foliage with a dull machete. Lukas, who is notoriously frugal, had a slightly easier time because he had only purchased the hood part of the suit and didn’t have to deal with the ungainliness of walking like a Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

“Be careful,” he whispered. Then he gazed up into the canopy, “They’re everywhere.”

Whether these were the infamous Africanized Killer Bees, or Murder Hornets; or perhaps some undocumented species of vespid–like a ‘Screaming-Torture Wasp’ or a ‘Holocaust Hornet’–he never said.

I looked to Suhei, who has a more level, demure nature. But she agreed with Lukas,

“The wasps are extremely aggressive.”

I began to wonder if this was some kind of elaborate practical joke. But then I saw them. Blending in with the surrounding foliage were fist-sized nests covered in finger-sized wasps. They were larger than typical wasps, and yes, they looked like the type that could murder. Later, Suhei showed us one of the spots where she’d been stung. On her leg was a shockingly large, purple welt. It looked like she’d been beaned with a softball.

“From just one sting,” she said. “And one landed on Lukas’s eye!”

We tiptoed through the minefield of nests and down into a sinkhole. There in front of us appeared a massive, yawning cave entrance––120-feet wide by 100-feet tall.

“At first we thought this was the Frenchman’s ‘Lost Cave’,” Lukas said. “But it’s only about 600-feet long.”

Finding an unmapped cave of this size is a monumental discovery in itself. But Lukas and Suhei wanted to find something even more extraordinary—perhaps the longest cave in the country, if not the entire Caribbean.

Entering the mouth of the cavern, I craned my neck to the high ceiling. There were stalactites as thick as tree trunks and several feet long.

“How the hell did you find this?” I asked.

* * *

Their journey began at Phillip Lehman’s stately home on the island’s breezy north coast. Phillip is one of the few cave divers living in the DR full time and is a founding member of the Dominican Republic Speleological Society (DRSS). Lehman––who in the 1980’s was a renowned graffiti artist and later formed and headed several acclaimed record labels––had been cave diving here for over 15 years.

The Eddys had a question they believed only an expert like Philip could answer. If most of the Caribbean islands are comprised of limestone, and Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Cuba––even relatively small and flat islands, like the Bahamas, Turks, and Caymans––all have well documented systems; why are there so few known caves in the Dominican Republic? How could such a large country with plenty of karst, not be riddled with caves?

Phillip explained over dinner. Indeed, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of caves. But these were of the underwater variety: extensive, flooded networks found all along the coastline. These systems generally start with a very short, dry passage, then quickly terminate in a sump. In all his years of searching, Phillip has rarely found caves that deviate from this model. He emphasized, however, that the DRSS focuses entirely on cave diving and there are virtually no active ‘dry’ cavers in the whole region.

There have been a few notable exceptions. In 1988, an Italian team descended 1200-feet into a cave in the central mountains that ended abruptly at an underground river. In 2005, another international team re-explored this same cave but like the Italians, were also repelled by the frothing, subterranean rapids. In 2017, a French team explored a 300-foot-deep sinkhole near Pedernales, unfortunately, they found no continuing passage at the bottom. Their efforts were only acknowledged by a swarm of wasps that attacked and stung one member of the team 18 times! This did not bode well for the Eddys .

The trio sat outside in the tropical heat, well past sunset. Phillip suddenly recalled a story. It was just a rumor, and whether it was true or not—he couldn’t say.

“Two decades ago,” he began, “An old Frenchman moved to a small town in the southeast region and started looking for caves. After several years, he confided to a friend that he’d found a 10-kilometer system.” The old man suddenly died, and the location of the cave went with him to the grave.

And where could this hidden gem possibly be located?

“Head to the town of Boca de Yuma,” he said. “Look for a cross-eyed man named Cruzito. Maybe he can help you.”

Now this is what Lukas and Suhei had come for. A good old-fashioned Indiana-Jones-type adventure. Find the man with crossed eyes, locate the Frenchman’s lost cave, map and document the longest cave in the Dominican Republic. With supreme optimism and their sights set on Boca de Yuma, they rolled down the windows on their rental car, and pulled onto the highway.

* * *

“He’s full of it.” I told Ashlee as I looked up from my phone. “Lukas says they found the Lost Cave. And get this––he says it’s as decorated as the wild caves we saw in Carlsbad. Ha! They must really need help with the mapping.”

Lukas was referring to Carlsbad National Park, New Mexico, whose legendary caverns showcase some of the most beautiful, pristine formations in North America. Although I’d never known Lukas to be an exaggerator, a find of that significance seemed highly improbable. But still, the Eddys had found something and their powers of persuasion worked. With bee suits folded neatly in our luggage, we boarded the plane for Punta Cana. This wasn’t going to be your typical Caribbean holiday.

* * *

Boca de Yuma is a cliffside fishing village surrounded by coconut trees. It has no beaches and therefore, no resorts. Fresh fish is brought in from the sea daily and delivered to the open-air restaurants by the wheelbarrow full. Puerto Rico rests 70-miles away, just beyond the horizon, but felt a world apart. The Dominican Republic is far less developed than its island neighbor and possesses all the rawness and exoticism of Zanzibar.

Amazingly, the Eddys found the man with crossed eyes. Cruzito had spent his entire life in the jungle and pointed out the location of several caves.

One of these was a small pit and a former guano collection site. Rotten canvas bags and broken, rusted shovels littered the entrance skylight room. Its location near a common thoroughfare was additionally bad news: it meant that it had probably been vandalized. Imagine my disappointment when the Eddys led us to this exact hole-in-the-ground. This was the mythical “Lost Cave” filled with “Carlsbad” formations? It was more likely to be filled with garbage and graffiti. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of going in, but we trudged on.

Climbing down into the pit, I scanned the walls for whip scorpions, centipedes, and tarantulas. The upper section was three-tiered and mazey. Suhei was first, leading us farther away from sunlight and past the point of their original investigations. Apparently the bats didn’t like going deeper into the cave either as their guano piles receded behind us. Strangely, there weren’t any footprints. No one had come this far in recent memory; not the Eddys, not the guano miners, not even the mysterious Frenchman.

The passage opened into a gymnasium-sized chamber. Our eyes adjusted to the darkness of the large room. Thousands of ivory-colored stalactites oozed from the ceiling like melted wax.

There were delicate broomsticks, soda straws, and drapery. Eventually we would name this the Carlsgood Room. Proceeding down a web of subway-like tunnels, we found rimstone dams that harbored golf ball-sized cave pearls we called ‘cave marshmallows’; we ogled at teetering pillars of orange rock that resembled Dr. Seuss castles. Removing our shoes, we walked across flowstone as white and crystalline as sugar. There were gothic chambers fit for a dragon, and portholes peering into miniature worlds where an industrious gnome could find the perfect workshop. I found myself rushing forward, gripped by the intoxicating high of discovery.

We had heard that the island’s original inhabitants––the Taíno Indians––had once used the caves as tombs, and it was possible to find ancient artifacts and remains. I rounded each corner expecting to find a pile of fossilized skulls and bones. If ever there was a sacred cave on the island––it was surely this one. Beautiful and pristine, it was a truly remarkable find.

In a five-day siege, we mapped 4000+ feet of passage, stopping at a tight lead that would require breaking formations to pass. Ashlee and I were thrilled with what we had seen and accomplished; but for the Eddys, this was a far cry from the fabled 10-kilometer system they’d hoped for.

Lukas is reluctant to admit that the Frenchman’s story might have been just that—a story. But, he says, “What I do know is the DR is possibly the least-explored limestone region in North America, and the potential for numerous long, deep, decorated caves here remains high. The golden age of Dominican cave-exploration is just beginning. The future will surely bring countless entrances, passages, systems, and sumps.”

“And,” he continues with a smile, “Probably bees and wasps, too.”

Video of our trip can be found *HERE*