Having been the only publication in town not to cover the wildlife influx into the metro area this summer we figured it was time to answer that lapse. Fortunately, we received this ranting diabolical screed from our man in the hills, Evan Lee. Times like these sometimes require irrational actions from rational men. And Evan knows this. If anyone sees him, call our offices as he should probably be confined or medicated or both. Ed.

Readers of this urbane and cosmopolitan publication no doubt encounter exotic and sometimes dangerous wildlife during their daily forays into the paved outdoors. From vomit-encrusted winos to pink-haired panhandling punks to $1,000-suited 17th Street attorneys to hospital-thin junkie hookers, the Big City offers as much wildlife as the more traditional venues, only it's all two-legged.

Which is why I often need an escape, a sojourn for solitude, to rinse all the scum and detritus of urban living away from my soul. If any of you rock 'n' roll vampires out there happen to arise before sundown, look directly West. See that big geologic upheaval of stone, dirt, trees, and lakes? That's the Rocky Mountains-- the marrow of the Earth erupted and cooled to create the world's most enticing playground. There's wildlife there, too. Deer and elk flourish in vast numbers and are easily seen almost daily, as well as golden eagles, red-tail hawks, porcupines and rattlesnakes. Rarer sights yet are bear and mountain lion, encounters that are not as hair-raising as one might expect. Certainly not as hair-raising as surprising that speed-addled knife-wielding kook and his connection in the alley behind the Lion's Lair after midnight once, but that's another story....

So it was with this feeling at heart that I headed off for the ride. To those in the know, a mountain bike is perhaps the greatest conveyance for exploring the Rockies. Minimal impact, immense fun factor and the ability to cover enormous tracts of terrain in a short time, all result in an excellent way to see our primitive world, devoid of glass, steel and concrete. A skilled rider can move swiftly, nimbly and relatively silently through the forest, with wildlife encounters becoming more frequent the deeper one gets into the backcountry. On these runs, there are sections that can be ridden so smoothly that surprising a deer or two is not uncommon. Whizzing along on the sweet side of 30, you'll be even more surprised when the deer leap across the trail near enough to smell and you smack into a Volkswagen-size boulder because you seize with adrenaline for just one second to long.

Lately, though, I've been speeding along only to find more city-bred wildlife in the mountains, strange in behavior, yet colorful creatures. In fact, on this recent ride, I came across a HOHA, one of the most inhospitable and curious of this new wildlife. The HOHA (Hateful Old Hikers Association) squinted his eyes and hunched his shoulders, startled by my immediate presence but just as quickly recognizing me as his two-wheeled arch nemesis. Naturally, I gave him a big smile and a resounding "Good Morning!"

But HOHAs never speak, they just sneer their disdain as you pass. Should you be fortunate enough to actually record any sound from a HOHA other than a grumble, you could be rich. They are easy to recognize in their Swiss hiking boots, safari-beige LL Bean matching field vest and shorts, binoculars roughly the same size as small fire extinguishers slung around their sunburned necks. Always remember that their shabby attitude is the food of your enjoyment-- crack wise about their sullenness as you ride by! Sometimes, too, you'll see a HOHA walking a small lap-breed of dog. These people are actually trolling for mountain lions.

The trail opened up after that run-in and I'm another thirty minutes into the climb, into a downhill groove of rapt thrill and concentration without encountering anything but squirrels, blue jays, chipmunks and one trail-sunning garter snake....

UNLEASHED dog! The morning was fast looking like a teeth-shattering collision of aluminum and fur when I grabbed enough front brake to avoid the hound, greeting him when he got within range by honking a big wad of lung mustard on his muzzle. The befuddled cur yielded trail immediately, retreating and growling half-viciously in my general direction.

Of course, there was a half-wit hiker following closely, leash in hand. But this was no HOHA. This guy was like, communing with nature, man, thinking it was terminally cute that Spot wanted to, like, play with the bike dude. Now, I'm fond of dogs, don't get me wrong, but the large, enthusiastic, dumb, bulletproof breeds favored by these hippie hikers is potential doom when you're on a fast bike on a loose trail two-feet wide. Deer they are not when it comes to hyperspeed avoidance instinct.

Now, I'm here to tell you, the best way to raise the ire of a tie-dyed-in-the-wool, multi-culturalizing, tofu-nibbling, Birkenstock-wearing, Phish-listening, shrub-cuddler is to spit on his dog. It's really amusing because these types usually don't get too fired up about anything but deforestation and hikes in marijuana prices. "Hey, man, just whaddaya think you're doing?" he whined, animating from his awe to see if what he thought he was witnessing was true. It was.

"Howdy, moron," I hissed, smiling, "you ever hear of leash laws? I've got a friend who's a paraplegic from hitting a god-damn unleashed dog on the trail. How about you learn some fucking responsibility before you're picking up your teeth with broken fingers." (I learned this speech from one of my old riding buddies. Works like a charm when delivered with enough venom through a psychotic grin, whether you've got a crippled ex-cyclist friend or not.) As usual, the spindly, bearded geek just glared from his stony-red eyes, leashed his dog and made his way down the hill. Hard as you might try, you can't get 'em to fight. (Heed the wisdom of Johnny Rotten: Never Trust a Hippie.)

Riding on, unwinding again, peacefully secluded by distance from close-in trail traffic I arrived at my favorite lunch rock. Stunning piece of real estate, overlooking a pristine patch of gold-medal trout water, where one can nearly always observe the most amusing of all city-transplanted wildlife: the tyro, yuppie fly fisherman. Break out a banana and a bagel sit in the sun and watch this nimrod standing balls-deep in freezing cold water, tangling the world's most expensive string into the willows. He's never even hooked a trout, and if it wasn't for A River Runs Through It he wouldn't recognize one if he did.

These guys usually travel in loose-knit groups so they have someone to lie to later, so watch for them whenever riding near streams, brooks and ponds. An added bonus, one that's always particularly amusing, is if there's a gaggle of 9-year-old kids around, hauling 18-inch trout in using salmon eggs or worms. Today was no exception and you could almost see the steam of envy whistling from the bugcaster's ears. Here he's got more money tied up in his nonproductive rig custom-made bamboo and titanium rig than in his wife's wedding ring, and the kids are flat smoking him fish-wise with $12 rods and $2.98 jars of bait.

I'm writing next to the state Division of Wildlife to inquire about this bizarre and ill-conceived relocation experiment.

Memo to the DOW: Take the winos masquerading as bird-watchers to Denver Cares, the hiking hippie harbingers of hounds back to their polluted California beaches, the lawyers lookin' to be Ahab to the country club and drop the hookers, the clean ones that is, off at my house, ok?

DO NOT camouflage them as wilderness lovers and release them in the forest, where they might encounter the least pleasant of all misplaced urban wildlife, the curmudgeonly mountain biker, able enough of mind and body to fling them into the nearest boulder-strewn ravine. Misanthropic? Nah, just running out of patience. Have your people call my people, we'll do lunch....

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