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Hoping to see some animal-rights activists in action, protesting the disrespect of chickens, we ventured to Guffey Sunday for the annual Chicken-Flying Festival.
No protesters, and to Martha's disappointment, nobody dressed up in a chicken suit, either; we had heard through the grapevine that both were expected.
(Guffey, in case you've never been there, is about 20 miles south of Hartsel at the south end of South Park. It boasts a post office, a bed-and-breakfast, a general store, cafe and a garage whose main endeavor appears to be T-shirt sales.)
On a grassy knoll between the general store and the garage, Guffeyites have erected a wooden platform about ten feet high, reached by stairs.
The platform -- perhaps eight feet square -- has a railing. On the railing is a country mail box with the rear removed. You select a chicken, ascend the stairs, and place it in the breech-loading mailbox. Then you grab a plunger.
When you signal that you're ready, the master drops the front door of the mailbox. You ram with the plunger. The chicken emerges, flaps her wings, and alights. The landing spot is marked, measured, and entered into the log book so that the longest flight will be known when the contest is done.
As soon as the chickens hit the ground, they take off running, pursued by a flock of small boys apparently kept around for the purpose. To be honest, watching the boys try to catch the chickens was a lot more exciting than seeing the chickens soar out of the mailbox.
The fowl appeared to be none the worse for the wear. Perhaps the animal-rights protesters figured that out, and moved their attention to more deserving targets.
Either that, or they decided discretion was the better part of valor, because much of the crowd in Guffey Sunday might have appeared rather alarming to a Front Range vegetarian accustomed to more mellow environments.
The Guffey Chicken Festival might more aptly be called
the Central Colorado Motorcyclist Convention -- I haven't
seen so many bikers since watching some epic movie like
Hell's Angels on Drugs & Wheels
at a drive-in in
1967.
Not that the bikers Sunday were violent, or even menacing. Most of them I saw were my age or beyond -- long in the tooth for brawling. They were just hanging out, like everybody else, eating fried chicken and pitching horseshoes.
The roads to Guffey twist, rise and fall quite pleasantly -- good motorcycle roads, and I felt a pang or two of middle-aged jealousy. Here I was in a laden Chevy station wagon, and there they were, cruising these roads in intimate, responsive machines, hair flying the breeze, apparently enjoying every moment of the ride.
I suspect that it is an amplified version of this jealousy which accounts for the push toward helmet laws. Those bikers just seem to be having too good a time, and maybe forcing them to encase their heads will remove the pleasure. After all, it's not as though they're paying $40 a day for a lift ticket, $50 for a float trip, or otherwise contributing to the state's economy in their pursuit of happiness. We have nothing against hedonism in Colorado, but we expect a profit, and the bikers just aren't paying enough for their pleasure.
The arrival of bikers in little mountain towns hasn't always been taken so calmly. Twenty years ago, when we lived in Kremmling, we decided to go to Grand Lake to watch the fireworks on the Fourth.
Idling cars stretched interminably on U.S. 34, and when
we got to the turn-off for town, a sheriff's deputy
informed us that Grand Lake has been closed.
Most folks just turned around, but since I was a journalist, I parked in the ditch and asked questions.
It seems that several cavalcades of bikers had invaded Grand Lake that morning, and long before sunset on the Fourth, things had gotten out of hand -- a bonfire on the main street, that sort of thing. Short of calling in the national guard, the only answer seemed to be closing the town and waiting for things to cool off.
The next day, my journalistic juices still flowing, I decided to get both sides of the story, and I had heard only the police version. I learned where some bikers were camped, and drove into the woods, fearing for my life.
I expected to have to talk my way past leather-clad guards bearing heavy weapons, but instead, there were a bunch of men, women and children playing volleyball. It could have been a church picnic.
They agreed matters had gotten out of hand in Grand Lake
on the Fourth, but blamed the local police. When people
get a little rowdy and start carrying liquor out of the bar
and partying in the street, the cops should have clamped
down then, instead of waiting. It's hard for us to figure
out the rules when the same thing is okay at two in the
afternoon and a felony at six.
And now we have a United States senator who dons
leathers and rides a hog, sans helmet. Nobody gets that
alarmed at the sound of a swarm of Harleys. Perhaps we
really are making some progress toward accepting life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
as American
ideals.
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