Blooming Wildflowers: As I set foot on the trail, my eyes widened with delight. The recent snows and rains had cast a spell, and the wildflowers responded by bursting into bloom with such enthusiasm that even the most seasoned botanists would be envious. Golden Columbine, Woods’ rose, Common Pacific Pea, Sticky Geranium, Wasatch Penstemon, and Pacific Ninebark paraded their colors, turning the trail into a living tapestry. Thankfully, I had my trusty sidekick, the Picture This app, to help me identify each flower. With a snap and a click, I became a botanist extraordinaire. Move over, Fremont and Ogden!

Symphony of Bird Calls: As I ventured deeper into the trail, a delightful cacophony of bird songs enveloped me. The Yellow Warbler, Chipping Sparrow, Western Tanager, and Black-Headed Grosbeak took center stage, performing their avian concert with gusto. How did I know who was who? Well, I whipped out my virtual maestro, the Merlin Bird ID app, which analyzed their melodious tunes and provided me with front-row seats to the avian symphony. I couldn’t help but imagine President Theodore Roosevelt himself tapping his foot to the beat, although I doubt he had access to such technology back then.

Tech Guides the Way: Amidst the lush scenery and melodious serenade, I realized that staying on track was crucial. Enter AllTrails, my digital hiking guru. With its comprehensive maps, trail descriptions, and weather updates, it kept me from getting lost and even warned me about the occasional lightning risks. AllTrails had my back, ensuring I wouldn’t end up as a character in a survival reality show. So, armed with my smartphone and a good sense of humor, I embraced the harmony of nature and tech.

Conclusion: The Dawn to Armstrong Trail is a testament to the beauty of nature, but it’s also a shining example of how technology can enhance our experiences. As I strolled along, Picture This transformed me into a wildflower expert, Merlin Bird ID made me a bird whisperer, and AllTrails guided me with the wisdom of a seasoned explorer. Who knew that 19th-century explorers and President Roosevelt could be upstaged by the likes of an app?

So, dear hiker, don’t hesitate to embrace the wonders of technology while immersing yourself in the wonders of the Dawn to Armstrong Trail. Let modern-day explorers like you use apps to become botanists, ornithologists, and expert navigators. Laugh, learn, and indulge in the perfect harmony between nature and tech as you create your own unforgettable adventure on this enchanting trail. Happy hiking!

I took my canine blog piece this week to ChatGPT and asked to convert it into Shakespearean sonnet and then write it in the New Yorker magazine style. All of four seconds passed when I received this output. It did not “red line” my original nor summon me to the English office after school hours. After a few minutes of sadness about the state of human creativity, I realized that we are doomed to the only job in the future: pushing a button like George Jetson working for Spacely Space Sprockets. Comments welcome.

Oh, how quaint and retro I may seem,

A lover of dogs from a bygone dream.

Gravy train and kibble, an old soup bone,

A shag rug for my faux dog throne.

Lassie, dear Lassie, my model of canine grace,

Saving grandpa from that mine shaft, what a race!

Rin Tin and Airbud, oh how they shone,

Snoopy, that smug dog, his charm never gone.

But now, in the 21st century, a grandpuppy has come,

A blend of beagle, pug, and a touch of Old Yeller’s gumption.

Watching stress-reducing videos on YouTube,

Meeting rodents in the forest, the views reaching 13 million, oh how true!

His bones, oh what a vast array,

No longer just bovine, they come in every flavor and day.

Rawhide, nylon, rubber, antler, oh what a delight,

Calcium phosphate, magnesium, salt-poor, salt-rich, what a sight!

Improved mouth health, jaw strength, tartar removal, all for the taking,

Supplemental vitamins and minerals, turning a dog into a Kennel Club sensation.

A Frisbee, an old treasure, the grandpup found,

But a new one from Amazon, a Kong, we quickly found.

Durability and universal love of dogs, oh what a claim,

Over the desiccated Portuguese Man o Wars, our pup was not the least bit tame.

Doggie health insurance, oh how grand,

Medicare coverage at 65/7, that’s a plan!

But what of fame and fortune, oh what can a pup do,

Hollywood is not the only path, I never knew.

Dog entrepreneurs, with their grooming and accessories galore,

Supporting animal shelters and having patents and trademarks to adore.

Manny The Frenchie, with a non-profit and a net worth of a million,

Walter Geoffrey, with his clothing line and sass, and a rap album in the making, how thrilling!

Loki The Wolfdog, co-founder of a travel app and a movie deal with Netflix,

Tuna, the Instagram celebrity, with an overbite that always smiles, and a book deal with Penguin Random House to fix.

Opportunities are endless, for the new century pup,

With improved nutrition, emotional adjustment, and love, they can really strut.

If only our grandpup would watch that instructional video on Frisbee catching,

The next Super Bowl halftime show, he’ll be ready, dispatching.

The New Yorker Style

As a proud retro dog lover, I was content with the basics: gravy train, kibble, an old soup bone, and a shag rug for a faux dog bed. My 20th century pup had it made. Lassie was the epitome of canine responsibility (Timmy: “Lassie, grandpa fell into the abandoned mine shaft again, go get help) and Rin Tin Tin and Airbud oozed star power. And let’s not forget Snoopy, with his smug confidence radiating from the daily comics.

But my recent encounter with a 21st-century pup shattered my nostalgic bubble. Baby-sitting my grandpuppy, a 9-month-old Orlando Rescue pup, I watched in amazement as he relaxed while watching a stress-reducing YouTube video of a Labrador retriever strolling through a verdant forest meeting a variety of rodents. This channel had 13 million views, although it wasn’t clear if they were the human or canine type.

And then there was the bone aisle at Petco – a cornucopia of choices that made choosing a variant of Pinot Noirs from multiple continental terroirs seem easy. Rawhide, nylon, rubber, antler versus bovine, calcium phosphate, magnesium, salt poor and rich and anti-oxidants. Bacon and cheese flavors could be added for those picky “chewers.” The packaging touted improved mouth health, jaw strengthening, tartar removal, improved oral microbiome, fresh breath, and supplemental vitamins and minerals that could turn your dog into an American Kennel Club icon.

Our grandpup discovered an old Frisbee in the closet which he immediately bonded with. But thanks to the mass of dog owners and capitalist ingenuity, I found Kong – a natural rubberized Frisbee that had nearly 27 thousand 4 1/2/5 star reviews touting its durability and universal love of dogs for this flying disc. I ordered it on Amazon and it arrived seemingly a few hours later. Our pup was bouncing after it on the sand and over the desiccated, beached Portuguese Man o’ Wars on the South Florida shores. And with top-notch “doggie” health insurance, he had no worries about jellyfish envenomation. I couldn’t help but wonder – at what age would he be converted to Medicare coverage? 65 years? 7? The thought amused me.

But wait, there’s more. Who knew that dogs have become entrepreneurs and started their own businesses? Grooming, training, accessories, food, and treats are just a few of the products and services offered. And some dogs even have patents or trademarks for their inventions or innovations. Manny The Frenchie (@manny_the_frenchie) not only runs a non-profit organization that supports animal shelters but also has a net worth of $1 million. Walter Geoffrey (@waltergeoffreythefrenchie) sells his own line of clothing and accessories that feature his signature sass and has a rap album coming out soon. And Loki The Wolfdog (@loki) co-founded a travel app called Loki The Wolfdog that lets you explore the world with your furry friend and has a movie deal with Netflix. Dog influencers populate the internet and often have more subscribers than humans. Tuna (@tunameltsmyheart), an Instagram celebrity, has a distinctive overbite that makes him look like he’s always smiling and also has a book deal with Penguin Random House.

So the opportunities are endless for the modern-day pooch. With improved nutrition, better emotional adjustment, and plenty of love, our grandpup can be the best dog he can be. If only I can get him to watch the YouTube instructional video on Frisbee.

Twenty years later, my hitchhiking days behind me, I drove with a friend to San Francisco. With the passenger seat littered with AAA and Rand McNally maps, my navigator advised staying on I-80 as the Embarcadero came into view.  “On no!”, I muttered, as I realized I was going the wrong way on the LONG Oakland Bay Bridge toward Oakland and was doomed to pay a double toll. 

Undeterred by my past travel mistakes, my family embarked on a European vacation at the turn of the century. My spouse, a capable cartographer and blessed with a directional sense like a passenger pigeon,  assured me that we were not going to get lost. We rented a Renault in Paris, buckled up our two boys,  and set out to discover the continent.  A few miles out  I failed to translate the “sens unique” (one-way sign, not covered in High School French). Sweating profusely, I made an instantaneous U turn and avoided a vacation ending collision. We arrived in Aachen, Germany and entered a museum devoted to Charlemagne. The exhibit explanations were in German with no translation. Ich bin ein Berliner and aufedasein were the extent of our German vocabulary. We detoured to the snack bar to complete the museum experience. That evening we arrived in Strasbourg with a thimble full of gas in the tank. The next morning, I pulled into the gas station, opened the gas tank door and noticed French instruction on the inside door (words, again not covered in High School French). I filled the tank and set off to Switzerland. A few miles onto the highway, the car started to lurch and emit a high pitched moan as I was shifting my manual transmission into 2nd gear. I got off the highway into rush hour Strasbourg traffic when the car led out a cringe worthy groan and stalled. Behind our Renault were at least 50 angry French commuters yelling French words (that again were not covered in High School French class). Later that day, a mechanic, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lip, informed me of my error of filling up a diesel engine with regular gas. He muttered some unintelligible French sentences but my rudimentary French picked up some words (stupide: stupid, guignol: clown).

After the ordeal, we decided to recharge with French cuisine. The bill came and I calculated the tip by mentally converting dollars into Francs. I mistakenly used the wrong currency in the calculation and was off by a factor of ten. The waiter was elated by his generous tip and my wallet was a good deal lighter.  I had finished the day with a trifecta of vacation gaffes.

I am now millions of neurons lighter in the 21st century compared with my youthful self but have gained “vacation bonus IQ points” with the advent of smartphone technology. Currency converters keep tabs on the foreign exchange markets by the nanosecond.  Apple and Google Maps keep me on track and down the right one way streets. I was cruising in the Mojave Desert on I-15 last week and the app warned of an accident (truck on fire) halting all traffic for 2 hours. As the temperatures soared in the desert, I placed a  call to the California Highway Patrol.   The California Highway Patrol representative asked, “ What lane are you in?”  “The far left lane,” I answered. “Stay in that lane. We just opened up that lane 60 seconds ago and you should be good.” Seconds later, the cars started to inch forward and we made our way past the accident. It was highway nirvana. 

Language barriers have fallen. Despite English ubiquity, Google Translate helped convert German menus, German museum placards and German signs into understandable jargon.  Impractical high school French classes devoid of real life vocabulary are no longer  dangerously impactful. Choosing a restaurant no longer requires a recommendation from a fellow bus passenger.  Today, Yelp, Google and TripAdvisor have us covered wherever we go in the world. 

 In May of this year, we took a trip through Eastern Europe for almost a month without a hitch.  I relied heavily on my technology loaded Iphone, T-Mobile cell towers and an occasional friendly recommendation from an equally tech savvy European citizen.  But travels would not be travels without mishaps that many times end up being memorable happy accidents.  The proof:  many years later these are the stories my family and I speak of and write about.

I am still recovering from my Diesel Mishap but encouraged to know that fossil fuels are in the rear view mirror and electric vehicles in the future will have only one plug to choose from. 

I

Retirement is the quest for one’s lost youth. My ace in the hole might be a worm hole,  which is  a celestial conduit to shrink time and space and therefore a chance to time travel back to my healthier optimistic younger self. This vision was shattered when Neil deGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking pronounced time travel incompatible with current physics theories. My 401K, ear marked for purchasing a used DeLorean and a Flux Capacitor for time travel, was now to be directed to other pursuits.

Plan B was a more prosaic pathway for youthful pursuits: relocate to South Florida known as the “sixth borough” of New York City. I found myself approaching the 8th decade of life in the company of nonagenarians who referred to me as “sonny” and “junior.” The airwaves were filled with promises of youthful regeneration: dental implants to restore vitality to your oral cavity, walkers that will bestow Olympic style feats to your daily regimen and skin fillers that will erase your wrinkles.

Working venues for conversation shifted from corporate boardrooms and hospital clinic corridors to the retirement social gathering places of Florida: card rooms, MahJong parlors, something called a “PickleBall court” and golf course tee boxes.  Comments from my contemporaries at the  the diners and delis now include: “remember when the subway cost 10 cents,” “do you recall John Glenn circling the earth from a black and white TV in school?” 

One day, on a typical golf tee in South Florida adjacent to an alligator filled water hazard, a taciturn man removed his tee peg from the ground and began the traditional exchange of identities to the rest of the foursome. “A retired principal and educator from the Northeast” I heard. The conversation continued as specifics of his working life seemed to get closer to the geography of my youth. The Northeast became New York City and then Queens and then Bayside. I furtively glanced at his golf bag and a name tag came into view. This was Mr. Thompson, my 7th grade science teacher! For an instant, I entered my private wormhole back to 1966. It was a school day and I was out of class without a hall monitor pass. Did I break the Erlenmeyer flask, and if so, would Mr. Thompson charge me with interest (compounding at 3% with a 56 year late fee)? Will I ever dunk a basketball and why don’t I get invited to middle school parties? The shooting pain in my back brought me back  to the 21st century and present day reality. 

Mr. Thompson had an advanced degree in chemistry, devoting his life to teaching generations of middle school science students. As we walked through the palm trees and sawgrass, he provided the details of maintaining educational excellence as principal and backstories of teachers living in the ’60’s that were ensconced in my archaic memory.

I struck my next shot and watched it splash in the H20 hazard, descending into the briny NaCl estuary and settling into the amino acid coated bottom. Mr. Thompson approved of my nomenclature which softened the grief of the lost ball. 

As the wormhole to the past closed up, I reflected on the good fortune of having dedicated and respected public school educators bestowing knowledge to a clueless adolescent.   However, the real joy of discovering your former science teacher on the golf course 56 yrs later was watching his facial expression spread with pride as I told him of his influence in guiding and preparing me for a career in medicine.   He thanked me for the closure and said the broken Erlenmeyer flask was forgiven. It was a perfect day on the golf course and I felt a definite youthful spring in my step.

“I’d like to renegotiate my cable and internet bill” I typed earnestly. 

“I understand you want to add Hulu Plus to your service” Oliver calmly stated. 

“No, I believe my charges are excessive and I would like to change my service,” I pleaded.

 “You would like to add services to your package,” Oliver proclaimed. 

I was in a “Tower of Babel” loop! My only potential escape was to offer multiple pleas for human interaction. Finally, a human took over the chat function and perused my angst ridden communication. 

“I’m here to help, but I need to ask you a a few questions. What kind of entertainment do you like and how many devices will be on the internet?” 

Having been a veteran of prior aimless Cable Service queries, I politely asked for a reconsideration of pricing for the service. One hour had passed in my efforts already and when we were on the precipice of talking money, the chat abruptly ended. 

“You are not authorized to negotiate price on this account and you must call our Service line, goodbye.” 

The telephone queue serenaded me with easy listening tunes as empty minutes passed. A service representative interrupted my torpor, cheerfully asking how he could help. I summarized my case, explaining much lower rates for TV and internet in other areas from other providers and my desire to remain a loyal Cox Cable consumer. 

“I understand your frustration and I’m here to help you,” 

The same questions were asked— from the Cox script— eroding my patience and taxing my silent mantra. The minutes passed and ultimately, the  ‘cable to irked customer’ or ‘anger stage’ was in full force. 

“As a loyal and responsible customer, we can offer you a special rate. Doing some quick math, I calculated a $5/month reduction.” 

 Two hours into the beginning of my quest, I was as hot as the sidewalk outside my door.

 “Let me speak with your supervisor,” I insisted.  I was hoping to get to someone with authority who could respond as I moved from the anger stage into denial and bargaining.

 Calming music played in the background as I waited for the supervisor.  My managerial contact sounded like a bartender with a   marriage counseling background. I was assured that the litany of participants I had been with the past few hours were just doing their job and  I would ultimately receive fair treatment.  Nothing was going to change as the conversation proceeded and I decided to bring out the defining statement: “ I am going to cancel the service.” 

 “If you cancel your account you will need to return your 4 cable boxes.” 

“Wait,” I stammered, “I only have three TV’s and three cable boxes. I never received a fourth box and would have no use for it.” 

“We have an invoice from three years ago that we shipped you 4 cable boxes to your address and have charged you 4 cable box monthly rental fees for the past 3 years,” the manager insisted with a tone of authority.

 “This was an obvious error, I said, and I want a refund for the excess box charges for the last 3 years.’

 “Our invoice is the document we make decisions from. Cox is not   responsible for its delivery to you. If you did not receive four boxes, you should take this up with your home owner’s insurance company.”

 “So I have paid a monthly fee for 3 years for an outdated piece of technology that I never received and you are refusing to remove the charge?”

 “If you only want to pay for 3 cable boxes, you will have to return the 4th box or pay for its replacement.”

 By this time, 3 hours had elapsed since I started my ordeal.  I was clearly  moving through the depression stage. It was time to cancel and change providers. I scoured the internet for Scottsdale internet providers and regretfully found my answer. Cox had a virtual monopoly in Scottsdale. Their only competitor had a worse customer score. Checkmate, game, set and match, I thought, as I folded my cancellation strategy and sheepishly accepted the $5 dollar/month saving and agreed to pay for a ‘lost’ apocryphal cable box charge on my next bill.  Ultimately, I was now in the acceptance stage.

Could I abandon television and the internet for books?  Perhaps board games with the family and spirited discussions could be substitute entertainment? No! The pull of watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy in the Sonoran Desert was too strong of an urge. Maybe someday T mobile can outfit the Saguaro with cell towers and bring me QVC and C -span outside the Cox universe. In the meantime, I will contact my insurance company about that ‘lost box.’ I’m sure I’ll have better luck with them.