Reconfiguration

I’ve been fantasizing about a friend of mine. He’s clever and irreverent, and he has lips I’m dying to taste. All too often, I find myself distracted by the thought of coaxing him into bed. It’s irrational. But I need to feel the cadence of his breath against my ear.

I understand him well enough to know he’ll bite me and call me “baby.” But I wonder what book he might have with him, what book he’ll hold up beneath low lights and read aloud to me in bed. I think about interrupting him — limbs entangled, flesh warm and flushed — then settling back against the pillows while he fumbles again to find his page.

During our casual conversations, I’m inevitably tempted to ask him what books he has read lately. His quick answers and sometimes lengthy explanations do nothing to dispel my desire to feel his hands tight around my hips.

He fell asleep with his hands palm up before him like some dozing penitent. When he woke it was still dark. The fire had died to a few low flames seething over the coals.
— Cormac McCarthy, “The Crossing”

The night before my daughter was born, I awoke with aching hips and back. Nerves electric, I couldn’t return to sleep. Nothing offers such consistent comfort late at night as a book within reach. So, in darkness, I grabbed Cormac McCarthy’s “The Crossing” from the floor beside the bed and headed to the living room.

Hauling myself up from the couch an hour later, I retrieved a book of maps I’d re-stolen from a boyfriend who once dared claim it. It is tattered and taped together. Pages are ripped and tucked back in. Notes line the margins.

Spread out upon the floor, I followed McCarthy’s wolf’s crossing from Mexico into the United States, and Billy Parnham’s trek across New Mexico’s Boot Heel. I ended up that night on tangents and side trips, tracing my fingers along routes I’d previously traveled — and forgetting that I was about to embark on a journey that, for a while at least, would have little to do with dry washes.

When my water broke the next morning, and a friend drove me to the hospital, I packed “The Crossing” and stubbornly read it through labor. A crossing, to be sure.

The mountains had withdrawn somewhere beyond the horizon, and we rode in the midst of a great bowl of desert, rolling up at the edges to meet the furnace-blue of the Mexican sky. Now that I was out of the coach, a great silence, and a peace beyond anything I ever felt, wrapped me around. It is almost impossible to get objective about the desert; you sink into it—become a part of it.
— John Reed, “Insurgent Mexico”

Three nights after giving birth — love-struck, sore and full of milk — I lie in the bathtub. Avoiding helpful visitors and feebly clinging to my identity as a journalist, I was reading for review Doug Peacock’s book,

“Walking It Off: A Veteran’s Chronicle of War and Wilderness.”

Page after page — turning the hot water tap with my foot, prolonging the bath for as long as possible — I followed Peacock’s attempts to integrate himself into his own new family. “The hideous solidarity of the dead was at these times probably more important than my marriage. I wanted to serve and love my children, yet this second calling could not be reconciled with what I called everyday life. After the messy chores of combat, you wanted to wash up a little bit before you played with the kids,” he wrote.

“Sometimes it took months of scouring isolation to cleanse the blood from your hands.”

I ended up crying in the bathtub that night. I didn’t cry for traumatized veterans or massacre victims at Mai Lai. No, these were selfish tears of self-pity. I had only just then realized how definitively my life had changed. I already missed wandering the desert, thinking of nothing more than warm red rocks and the taste of whiskey.

Despite the obvious differences between our circumstances, I understood blood and second callings.

The landscape is a trick to make us miss our lives.
— Charles Bowden, “Desierto”

Thirteen years ago, I stood alongside Route 666 near Towaoc, Colorado, staring up at a sky I’d never imagined real and waiting for the pound of thunder.

Much has changed since then. That road no longer bears the label of Devil’s Highway; there’s a giant casino and a palatial new gas station. And during those intervening years, I have moved and moved again (and again and again, always hauling boxes of books), changed careers, gotten pregnant, been married and divorced. And moved again.

And yet some things never change.

This spring, I drove away from a series of phone calls that left me boiling in a rage. I’d spent that rage in retribution, wreaking havoc before standing again near Towaoc, looking at that sky as though for the first time. Deciding to rest near Cortez, I pulled a sleeping bag, headlamp and book from the trunk of the car. When morning inevitably dawned, I could pause and breathe the scent of sage, then drive home in peace.

…When I pull solace from your pages to wipe my brow, I

admit I feel less like a freak, as if indulging in ink was

a form

of communion, one beetled brow knit unto another.

— Lisa Gill, “Poem V.” in “Red as a Lotus: Letters to a Dead Trappist”

It’s been this way for many years. While the cast of characters within my life has shifted and changed, I return again and again to certain landscapes. And books: They’ve always helped tether me when life’s meaning seemed at one moment or another to be slipping away.

I can remember when letters clicked into words, words into sentences upon the page. It was late summer, and my older brother and I shared the third-to-last step of our parent’s back porch. (“Dick and Jane.” It was the 1970s.) Ever since that moment, at the age of four, books have been a source of wonder, knowledge and inspiration. I spent a childhood dreaming of escape from small-town existence; books were the handiest way to imagine other lives in different places.

It’s no wonder the life I’ve since carved out for myself is one that revolves around words.

And not, by the way, those words upon a computer screen, though it’s easiest to form and reform them there. With all its temptations and conveniences, the Internet weakens my wonder at the written word. My favorite writers are the ones who end up in bed with me; books propped up against the pillow, I devour their words until entirely too late at night.

That’s not to say I don’t abuse and depend upon the Internet. But I’d rather life — and reading — remain a tactile experience. Books have a heft and scent; words can be underlined and repeated over and over again. Magazine pages wrinkle and fold; pictures to save can be ripped out with a satisfying tear.

My affinity for print is akin, perhaps, to my wonder at the ways in which bodies fit against one another. Streaming videos and endless Internet eye candy be damned: I demand more time reading, less time typing; less time facing off alone against a screen and more time licking fingers and kissing napes. I’m greedy, after all: I want the flesh-and-blood man who, in bed, will read me something very good.

Laura Paskus is a writer living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Potholes on Journalism’s Dead-end Road

Over the last year, we’ve seen a spate of hand-wringing articles on the death of journalism, prompted chiefly by the recent demise of some venerable American daily newspapers. To us unemployed and underemployed journalists, both print and broadcast, this is an old, old story, one that we have followed intensely for years (because we have nothing better to do). Across the board and as predicted, media conglomeration was the beginning of the end of the newsroom as we have known it, and certainly the death of journalism as an activity largely engaged in by trained, experienced and allegedly dispassionate professionals.

Anyone who has ever been a beat reporter knows the full truth: there’s no easy, cheap or free, robotized way to replace us, and Americans are going to become even less informed than they are now. We have progressed from “57 channels with nothin’ on” to a formidable millions of channels, containing a vast amount of (unverified) information, but the news hole has shrunk right along with broadcasting and newspapering. Everyone knows that reporting, which is characterized by research and facts, continues to be replaced almost wholly by punditry and advocacy.

The pundits are stumped on how to save journalism now that it is no longer a center of employment that the private sector is eager to support. Government funding would be rejected out of hand as un-American. Besides, do we need another tepid national McDigest like NPR? It does look likely that any renaissance will have to happen in the nonprofit world, but that begs the question of where the money comes from. I remain generally skeptical that journalism will survive without paid journalists, but I came across a hopeful piece of the puzzle right in my own back yard.

It’s an email “list serve” called the Moab Area Progressive Network, or MAPN. It was started innocuously enough back in 2005 by local members of MoveOn. From the beginning, the content on MAPN was impressive. Moab already had a number of local activists who were used to backchanneling lots of time-sensitive content. They had to, because our sleepy local weekly paper does not. So MAPN readers are regularly offered new and real information, like the agenda of the council meeting that didn’t get in the paper, blow-by-blow accounts of crucial local political battles, links to “outside” stories of local concern and endless links to newly discovered government documents. There is plenty of rumor to be sure, but I’m amazed at how often, Wikipedia style, a string of messages will quickly zero in on the truth or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

It was an event in the spring of ‘09 that convinced me of the considerable reporting power that MAPN can generate on deadline. On April 15, an eerie and massive, post-global-warming dust storm blew through town. The unprecedented brownout was confirmed by DOE air quality monitors at the tailings cleanup site, and old-timers said they’d never seen anything like it. It was easily the biggest local story of the week, and the local paper ignored it altogether, while residents joked about the “brown rain” spots on their cars. So I posted a quick question on MAPN, something like, “Where the heck is all the dust coming from?” In the ensuing hours, the closest suspect was analyzed: large tracts of land south of town that were scraped for development and now abandoned in recession. Perps were identified, names were named and carnage described, but it didn’t add up to being the cause of the Armageddon-like dust event we had witnessed. Soon, other posts provided links to another related and under-reported regional story — the recent brown snow phenomenon at Colorado ski resorts. The readers were zeroing in. Then someone found links to satellite photos from April 15 that actually tracked the dust storm from northeast Arizona to Moab. In a day, the group, which numbers less than 100 members, had done for free the research the local paper should have done. The biggest still unanswered question: What is causing the dirt of Arizona to go airborne in such unprecedented volume? Is it some combination of land abuse and global warming? Not too many years ago, those questions too would have already been answered by curious, enterprising and competitive beat reporters and editors.

Like our dwindling quality print media, information on the Internet flows mostly to a relatively small and affluent elite that has computers, broadband accounts and ample leisure time. To access the MAPN content, you have to also pass a political litmus test. Through some makeshift democracy, the group has created a system whereby basically an impromptu kangaroo court is e-convened to confirm an applicant’s progressive/liberal bona fides (so far a handful have been rejected). I’m sure if it were put to the group, the members would not approve of this story being written, so I also have to pass on introducing some of the colorful characters.

MAPN has another trait that serves as a reminder that this is not a website and not mass media, but a hybrid: Like most reporters, I have resolved any anxieties I may have had about the potential implications of shooting off my mouth. We tend to be type-A/Gemini/windbag/argumentative hams anyway. But many MAPN members wouldn’t think of sending a letter to the editor and would not contribute emails to MAPN if they thought they could be read by non-members of the choir. Knowing the speed and power of the local grapevine, I find this to be naïve but understandable. There is real intimidation here — Moab’s conservative power brokers have long practiced the art of the boycott, both formal and informal, against local businessowners who endorse green positions.

One of MAPN’s crucial functions has been to smoke out and support progressive candidates for local office. Moab’s old-guard Republicans have duly taken note, and some have publicly labeled MAPN a “special interest group.” But at annual potlucks and in online surveys, the members have repeatedly rejected the notion that MAPN should essentially become the town’s Green Party, and they’ve affirmed that they want a userdefined safe haven and clearinghouse with few rules (one being that you can’t pass on or quote content without the author’s permission). Whether the list serve is a safe haven remains to be seen — I suspect that if you trash someone on MAPN, you are just as vulnerable to a libel suit or even arrest (Colorado and Utah still have criminal libel/“speech crime” statutes).

Like most worthy Internet endeavors, the MAPN list serve takes up too much of your time. I never erase a MAPN-labeled message until I’ve at least scanned it, so there’s an unread backlog on my mailbox that goes back for months. I know I’m not alone, because, every so often, I see someone respond to a months-old message.

Like most Moab residents, MAPN readers can be fickle in unpredictable ways. Often a thread is launched by a relatively obscure aspect of a town hall skirmish, which somehow triggers a raucous debate over, say, affordable housing, that rages for days until the next juicy topic presents itself. Recently, one activist member castigated the group for its poor showing at a hearing on the proposed nuclear power plant at Green River. What ensued was not a discussion of nuclear power plants, but soul-searching treatises regarding Just How Many Goddamned Meetings One Person Can Go To.

It’s a quirky system, but simple and cheap (thanks to a volunteer administrator), and if it can work in a town with 5,000 souls, the MAPN concept could surely be adapted elsewhere. It’s not The Solution to the death of journalism, but it’s at least a promising piece of a part of the solution, and I’m guessing MAPN will still exist long after Facebook and Twitter have become quaint anachronisms.

Frequent contributor Jon Kovash lives in Moab.

Obituary: Inside Outside Magazine

Cause of Death: Economic Malaise

And now the question is: What next, Four Corners writers, reporters and readers?

After nearly 12 years of exploring, expounding upon, defending and celebrating the Four Corners Country from its home in Durango, Colo., Inside Outside Southwest magazine has joined the ranks of publications that have gone under in its attempt to stay afloat in the new-media economy. The September 2010 issue was the publication’s last release.

Since 1998, Inside Outside has been a journal of entertainment, culture, environment and recreation bonding the regions bounded roughly by Salt Lake, Denver, Albuquerque and Flagstaff. Self-dubbed “A locals’ guide to what’s really up in the Four Corners,” that tagline was more than just a boast — it was accurate. For no other single publication — or any other form of mass media — covered the Four Corners area as the single and distinct place it is.

A single and distinct place, yes, united by hydrology, creative arts, history, geology, rural and tourism economies, outdoor lifestyles and the constant push-me/ pull-you of public commons freedom and rapacious private enterprise. But those four corners of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado are also a multitudinous and distinctive place. As connected as the Four Corners’ inhabitants are, it is also a region of great and grand diversity.

At its heart is the Colorado Plateau, book-ended by the staggering Fourteeners of the ragged San Juan Mountains and the black-granite guts of the Grand Canyon. In between lie the shrapnel and wounds of that landscape’s making: every possible form of peak, foothill, creek, draw, wash, river, canyon, badland, hoodoo, outcrop, sage flat and sheer redrock wall. Inhabiting that landscape are peoples comprising a population more culturally diverse than most continents, inhabiting a scattering of outposts, villages, hamlets, towns and mini-cities.

Inside Outside attempted to package these many varied facets of this place, and gave an outlet for the region’s writers, reporters, artists and photographers to seek sense and continuity in them. They did that for the people who live here, of course, but also to show those who didn’t why someone who does might do so. Because generally — unlike in nicer climes or more economically rewarding places — people who live here in the Four Corners do so deliberately, consciously, by choice, for some more compelling reasons. Because it ain’t easy to make it here.

And now Inside Outside passes that lesson on, too.

But it was a good run. In its dozen-year existence, Inside Outside published some of region’s brightest and best voices (many familiar to Mountain Gazette readers), including Art Goodtimes, David Petersen, Rob Schultheis, David Feela, Ed Quillen, Ed Marston, Jen Jackson, Michael Wolcott and Amy Maestas. The magazine even scored exclusives with some big-name authors, including John Nichols and Will Hobbs, who each premiered chapters of new novels in its pages. Even Edward Abbey himself rose from the grave to throw a scoop Inside Outside’s way, when a special issue of the magazine on the 10th anniversary of Abbey’s death featured a “lost” Abbey short story that no one, not even Abbey’s estate, had seen since the mid-1950s.

Surely, a region like this can’t be done talking, sharing, exploring? So … what next? That’s up to us…

Ken Wright is the author of “Why I’m Against It All” and “A Wilder Life.” He was Inside Outside’s first managing editor.

Upwards

“If you deny what you know, or what you are, or where you are, you deny the simplest part of being alive, and then you die.” —Bel Kaufman, “Up the Down Staircase” The news came circuitously, and slowly, as is the way of these sorts of entrepreneurial endeavors: The Mountain Gazette was once again simultaneously on the clock and on the block, and word came my way that a scion of the Old Dominion was interested in perhaps adding this humble enterprise to his corporate kingdom. Lordy, lordy, thought I, the last MG owner was an Englishman (a man from the country of my birth), now a Virginian (a man from the state where I mostly grew up). “Where do I need to go to get away from these people?” I asked myself, once again thinking that, if Gila Country is not far enough from the roots of my past, then I might have to consider moving to Alaska, or maybe even Bolivia. But, with the Internet and cell phones, as well as the microchip that the government has likely already planted in the brain stem of each and every one of us, truly there is no place one can go to outrun his origins, lest he don a loin cloth and start eating slugs with the Bush People. But first things first. For those of you keeping score, here is a short chronology of the Mountain Gazette: • 1966-72: Mike Moore founded and published Skiers’ Gazette from Denver. • Famed Mountaineer Bob Craig hooks Moore up with Woody Creek, Colo., resident George Stranahan. The two hit it off and decide to morph Skiers’ Gazette into the Mountain Gazette. • 1976: Moore leaves MG and is replaced as editor by Gaylord Guenin. Office is moved from Denver to Boulder. • 1979: The MG ceases publication. People like yours truly lament this passing. • 2000: Stranahan, Curtis Robinson and yours truly resurrect MG and base the magazine in Summit County, Colo. • 2006: We sell MG to Paonia, Colo.-based GSM Publishing. • 2008: GSM passes the magazine onto New York City-based Skram Media, which also owns Climbing magazine and Urban Climber. For the first time, the MG is owned by people from, of all things, the East. And flat East, at that. And even worse, urban flat East. • June 2010: GSM transfers management of its assets to California-based Active Interest Media, a mega-publishing conglomerate. AIM puts out the word that MG is far too small a “title” for its “portfolio,” which also includes Backpacker magazine. If a buyer is not found pronto, then they will close the magazine down. Yours truly, who for a long time back in the dark past, used to be a contributing editor at Backpacker, yells, “FUCK!!!!” at the top of his lungs, and wonders if, by some weird manifestation of karmic/cosmic convergence, I somehow have become reincarnated as myself before even passing away. Yours truly starts shopping for loincloths and eyeballing maps to find out where the Bush People actually live. • August 2010: Charlottesville, Virginia-based Summit Publishing, which also owns Blue Ridge Outdoors magazine, Elevation Outdoors magazine and Breathe magazine, procures the Gazette. Yours truly is asked to stay on as editor. Yours truly places a hold on his order from bushpeopleattire.com. So, OK, a couple months ago, there I am, sitting on my front porch, smoking a Macanudo, when the phone rings and a familiar lilting regional accent — one I only hear nowadays when I talk to my brother on the phone — lets me know that, once again, the MG has been acquired by a company located not exactly in the middle of what we consider our prime conceptual area. You can imagine the length and breath of my sigh. I listened for an hour or so to what sounded like the introduction to an MBA honors seminar titled, “How To Say All the Right Things,” then put my retarded noggin in my hands and wondered what was going to become of the magazine that more than one acquaintance has called M. John’s baby. Then I pulled said retarded noggin out of said hands, smacked myself square in the face and said to my cat, who looked even more perplexed than usual (and that’s saying a mouthful), “Well, come what may, at least we’re still alive and kicking!” Then, a funny thing happened next time I checked my email. I started getting communiqués from people whose opinions I actually care about informing me in no uncertain terms that the new owner, Blake DeMaso, is a perfect fit for both me and the MG. We made arrangements to meet, first in Summit County, then, a day later, in Leadville. The meetings covered a wide swath of conversational territory during a perfect blend of driving through the High Country just as the first tendrils of autumn were visiting the aspen forests and sitting in dimly lit watering holes as people I hadn’t seen in a while sidled up and, via a combination of slurs and yells, filled me in on the latest local happenings. It was while hunkering down over Fat Tires in the Scarlet in Pb that I told Blake I intended to distill our long, rambling discourse into a very honest Smoke Signals, wherein I would straight-faced let the MG tribe know what is in store for this magazine. Two things before I do just that. First, Summit Publishing, which, as I said, owns three — now four — magazines, also has a deal with another halfdozen or so titles covering the geographic spectrum from Washington State to Utah to Vermont. That deal is called Outdoor Adventure Media, which gives Blake and his sales associates the ability to go to the very biggest companies that would have any interest whatsoever in advertising in outdoor media — the Subarus and Apples of the corporate world — and offer them the opportunity to advertise in all of the Outdoor Adventure Media affiliates. Now, I know it’s going to sound to a lot of our long-time readers as though I’m tooting the horn of a corporation I barely know, but I hope you will believe me when I say that, of all the things that, if I could have pushed one magic button while I owned the MG, that would have been it: To find a way to entice advertisers who would not look at us otherwise because we were simply too small and too regional. You have no idea how much breathing room that would have given us. Those who view those words with skepticism, even perhaps with cynical bewilderment, wondering if perhaps I haven’t turned to the dark side, hear ye these syllables: The magazine publishing world these days is seriously tough. Since the MG was resurrected in 2000, many publications familiar to mountain dwellers have gone bye-bye, among them Mountainfreak, Sports Guide, Rocky Mountain Sports, National Geographic Adventure, ForbesLife MountainTime and, most recently, Inside Outside Southwest. The fact that we have managed to hold on is a flat-out miracle, and, now, the thought that we might have the opportunity to attract some larger advertisers does nothing more than make me breathe a huge, monster sigh of relief. But—and this is a big “but”—there is now going to be justifiable concern about the effect being part of a magazine group HQed in the Blue Ridge Mountains (with additional offices in Ashville, N.C., and Boulder) that will focus serious effort on attracting advertising dollars from companies that employ people who actually wear ties to work won’t have a deleterious impact on, potentially, every aspect of a magazine that prides itself on oftentimes an anti-corporate attitude and a certain lack of maturity that we feel accurately reflects life in Mountain Country. That is a perfect valid concern, and one that I share. Blake DeMaso has stressed to me his intentions to return the MG to its attitudinal roots. He has stressed to me that, even though his other magazines might be a bit more traditional in their appearance and editorial offerings, does not mean that the Gazette will come to resemble them. Certainly, time will tell. Last: The main thing that has attracted me to Blake DeMaso at this point, besides the fact that he used to be a liquor salesman, and the fact that he enjoys and occasional tumbler of whiskey, is the fact that he already knows and loves the MG. He has long had a stack of them in his office in Charlottesville, and can refer to past stories and writers as though he were quoting Scripture. That’s damned sure better than the way things have been the past couple of years. So, OK, I decided to ask Blake DeMaso, the new owner of the magazine you now hold in your hands, five questions, the answers to which I have included below. Here goes. MJF: Tell our readers a little bit about yourself and your background. BD: I am a mountain guy from the small college town of Charlottesville, VA. I like to do most of the same things that people in Colorado and New Mexico like to do: hike, bike, camp, ski, paddle, drink adult beverages … I just do them at 3,000 feet. I have been in publishing for about 10 years, and I consider myself lucky every day to wake up and do something that I love (publishing) that deals with my favorite subject (the outdoors). MJF: You’ve apparently been a Mountain Gazette reader for years. How did someone living in Charlottesville come to be a Gazette fan? BD: I traveled out to Colorado a few times a year for the same reason that most of us East Coasters come, which is to take a stab at the big mountains and the deep snow. I figured out quickly that 1) I was not as good of a skier as I thought I was, 2)my East Coast skis and other equipment were not made for Colorado and 3) the beer out West seemed to taste better. So I found myself in a bar, exhausted, drinking beer, and I read my first issue of MG. It wasn’t easy getting copies of MG in Charlottesville, so, before there were subscriptions offered, I had a network of people set up from places where MG was distributed and I would bribe them to send it to me. As soon as subscriptions, were offered I was all over it. MJF: How did you come to acquire MG and how does it fit into your overall portfolio and vision? BD: I would say that it was mostly an emotional decision because I love the Gazette, but, as luck would have it, it fits pretty well into my bigger publishing business right now. Honestly, about five years ago, I actually tried to acquire MG so that I could bring it into my national network of independently owned outdoor publications. They turned me down, so about two years ago, I started a magazine on the Front Range called Elevation Outdoors, but I still kept my eye on Mountain Gazette. In terms of editorial and distribution, MG and EO are very different, so when we added MG, it gave me a chance to add a more-extensive distribution network in mountain towns throughout Colorado and the Rockies. All of my publications are mostly funded by advertising revenue, so that they are free to the readers, and adding MG doubled our current circulation in Colorado and the Rockies. MJF: You’ve expressed a desire to return the MG to its roots. Care to expound on that? BD: I think the Gazette has deep roots and passionate readers and, while I am always interested in ways to expose new people to the publication, I think that tinkering with the editorial and look and feel of the magazine is messing with what makes the magazine great. Starting with the November issue, we will increase the size of the magazine. We intend to start putting significant effort back into our covers, which at one time people used for wall art. We plan to back off a bit on the theme issues, so we can have a bit more latitude on the editorial copy we choose to run. We want to get our distribution numbers back to where they were five years ago. We plan to resurrect the Mountain Music section and are talking about re-introducing some other departments we used to run, like Bumpersticker, Poetry and Lost Art. There’s a lot to do, I know, but it will be worth the effort. MJF: There are going to be members of the MG tribe who are going to react to all this by saying, “Here we go again — another Easterner with entrepreneurial aspirations taking ownership of the Mountain Time Zone’s preeminent literary journal.” What’s your response to what many people would consider a reasonable concern? BD: I know, I know. I have already heard this. I guess I considered myself part of the Tribe before I became the owner. Actually, I still can’t believe that I am now the owner. I have been taking “inspiration” (a publishing term for “knocking off”) from the Gazette for 10 years, so my number-one focus is getting back to where it was when there was an office in Summit County, Colorado. I know there are going to be a lot of skeptics, especially after the last few years. I think it won’t take long before the Tribe realizes we are back on the right path. So, OK, there you have it. I will say at this point: For the first time in years, I am optimistic about the future of the Mountain Gazette. As always, I would look forward to receiving your input on these or any other MG-related matters. mjfayhee@mountaingazette.com

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