We're hunkered down for the year's first big storm. Out West, that is. Florida* and states proximate have had four or five of their own, but to these I attach an asterisk. Floridians* are busy getting sucked up to right now, what with an election in a couple of weeks. White House to Florida*: "Did we say 75 percent of reconstruction costs? What were we thinking?! We meant 90 percent, of course!"

California is not a swing state and, worse yet, everybody knows it will vote for the tall Northeasterner in the election. What if we're leveled by a storm? It would be wrong to say the Oval Office won't lift a finger for us. It'll do precisely that—lift one, rather specific, finger. The Terminator can only do so much. We're on our own out here, and we know it.

But that's the way we like it. It's the West! We made our own way. Created our own fate. We all got here by Overland Stage or Under Barbed Wire. Californians are used to taking the bad with the good.

Anyway, we've battened down the hatches. Monty in his brand spankin' new home. This storm is sort of his home's shakedown cruise. Hopefully the wind will stay under 70mph, and nothing awfully big or important will blow off his new roof (which, it turns out, is a tad leaky).

Getting you all up to date, I successfully unloaded, er, adopted out Pumpkin. And, Monty has a new dog. Funny how things work out. Pumpkin, though born a Pit Bull, is the best behaved dog on the property. Pumpkin is the black guy walking down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. She was born, by an accident of genetics, with two strikes against her.

Pumpkin's daughter Lucky, a pit bull mix, is the worst behaved dog on the property. She is now mine. And, she's grown since I wrote about her two months ago. Above is a picture of Pumpkin and her offspring back then, when they self-rescued to the Ranch.

Here is a picture today. As you can see, Lucky is now mom's size. She hasn't quite got the wide head, but she weighs every bit as much or more. Lucky is very desctructive. Every day she uncreates something expensive.

Every night is, as Barry McGuire sung it, the Eve of Destruction. I awake in the morning to see just how much foam stuffing is spread everywhere, and from whence it came. She's now eaten through the third couch, and this was the good, inside, leather couch. I have never wanted to beat the living Jesus out of a dog with such fervency, and to do with such regularity, in my life. Usually I withstand the urge. I've sewn the leather couch back up, badly, and it will become an outside couch. No buying a replacement, however, until Lucky is out of her phase.

So, we've weatherized, but there's only so much you can do. What then? Internect connectivity is out. Boredom is in. So we practice tractorbatics. This could be a sport. They're racing lawn mowers, the sit-down kind. They soup them up and race them around an oval. I feel that with my national governing body experience I could start a federation covering all farm equipment sports. We currently have tractorbatics and lawn mower racing. Could we add something for the Winter Games—Sno Cat slalom?—I don't know. More importantly, can I make it pay until we get our sport over the hump and can suck of the USOC teat?

I didn't go to Kona this year. I went back and forth on this. Ironman. Tractorbatics. Ironman. Spooning with dogs all night. Spooning won.

So far, three inches of rain and it's still coming down. Usually, three inches in the high desert takes a toll in erosion. Not so, this time. We've not had any rain at all in better than six months. The soil is only now reaching saturation. Another storm on the heels of this one and yes, we'll have a bit of a problem. On the other hand, we'll have a great wildflower season, just like two years ago.

Our forests were closed due to fire danger. They opened yesterday. Now I can go back to running on our trails. You don't know how much you miss something until you can't enjoy it any longer. Not being able to run in this forest, it was like I was in jail. I felt like Martha Stewart. Nothing to do but try to pretty up my cell and wait it out. And write to my fans on the outside.

You've got to protect what you have, and by closing the forest for a while we can enjoy it in perpetuity. We're blessed with mountain trails and a change a seasons. Certain Southeastern States* do not share that privilege, I'm sad to say.

That's the state of The Ranch this October 20, 2004.