"Pop, until you've had a good cigar and a shot of whiskey, you're missing the second and third best things in life." - Horton, Paint Your Wagon

Oh, sure, it looks like a mountain reaching 14,345’ into the sky, but it’s really Pop’s bunker. It takes him forever to mow.

We headed north from Albuquerque towards Colorado. The speed limit is officially 75MPH (7,342km/h) on the road between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, but we were passed by a pickup (filled to the brim with people in back) doing about 100MPH. Most cars were doing about 90MPH (12km/h). I’m not sure, but I think that this is moving faster than Angelina on a date with somebody else’s spouse. Notice I did not specify gender.

Anyhow. As we wound our way through the mountains south of Colorado, I got an urgent phone call from work. Seems like I left my office light on. Or something. I can’t be sure exactly what people were saying, since the mountains blocked everything after “transdimensional doorway . . . breach . . . fangs.” Then the screaming started and the line went dead. That’ll teach me to leave the lights on.

The mountains of northern New Mexico are serene. The small hamlets that dot the roads, the thirty-year-old Coors sign, the stunted piñon pines all speak to a harsh, remote, and unforgiving lifestyle, much like being the Democrat in Utah.

We finally pulled up to the front gate of Pop Wilder’s bunker. After passing the retina scan and DNA profile, the computer asked me to say the password. It took me a minute to remember. “Soylent Green is people.”

The lead-lined gates to Bunker Wilder swung open and I hugged Pop for the first time in 18 months.

“Hi,” I said.

“What?” replied Pop.

I then remembered. Pop Wilder lost most of his hearing during a multi-year vacation abroad paid for by our country. You gotta love a vacation with guns.

“Hi,” I repeated.

“Doing fine.”

We talked for a bit, and then headed off to lunch. Pop hung around for a bit, muttered something about having to change access codes, then wandered off back to his fortress of solitude. The Mrs. and I went to go visit some old friends (new to her, as this was the first time I’d seen them since just before my first date with The Mrs.) and endured the cacophony of multiple discussion strands as we caught up on conversations never completed, just set aside for a time.

We went to our hotel room (somehow the access codes to the bunker didn’t work) and The Boy and I hit the pool. Which is to say I visited the pool and carried The Boy (who is terrified of water) around like a mother kangaroo in a pouch, his arms fiercely clenched around my neck. We went back to our room, and found that Pugsley was howling for food. We went to the restaurant, and Pugsley (22 months old) ate macaroni and cheese and half of my steak. I ordered dessert for the bunch.

Ever wonder what happens when you introduce a 22 month old to chocolate mousse? He rips at your arm, scratching you for you to get that spoon into his mouth NOW. I think my arm was going faster than the cars between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

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VOLCANO!