Up and Over: a backyard bike adventure.

When one thinks of adventure, one usually conjures up visions of alpine daring, whitewater adrenalin, or maybe deep jungle exploration. But there are many kinds of adventure, some large, some small. For those of us with common jobs, ordinary responsibilities and limited resources, we usually, out of necessity, opt for the small.

Nothing wrong with that. I personally define adventure as any endeavor in which the outcome is unknown. Depending on your level of security, physical condition and financial health, this could mean anything from walking around the block to making your rent at the end of the month. In fact, stress and adventure are two sides of the same coin. Heads: I'm freaking out. Tails: what a great adventure!

I'm being a little glib, but I still believe that everyone needs a little uncertainty in their life. There is nothing worse than a completely predictable, completely safe, routine life. Not everybody has the money or the body to climb Everest, but everyone can dream and explore. Push their own boundaries. Even in their own neighborhood.

Over the years, I've come to perfect the art of the mini backyard adventure. These are little “projects”-- usually in the near vicinity-- that I can dabble with on my infrequent days off. One year, I heard a rumor they were scouting a trail from Sedona to Cottonwood. Using Google Maps and a half dozen day hikes to scout, I pieced together the route for myself and hiked the 16 miles before it officially became the Lime Kiln rail. Another year I put together clues from the internet to find the route of the old wagon road down Grief Hill. It took me three months and a dozen hikes, but I finally found the route. Last year, I again used Google Maps to piece together several trails that would take me from the bottom of the Verde Valley to the top of Mingus Mountain. I'd never heard of anyone who'd done it, but I worked it up for myself, set a date and did it. To real adventurers, these would be considered pretty pedestrian feats. To couch potatoes, they might seem like bold feats of daring-do. I don't know, but I do know I need these little infrequent challenges to stay alive.

This year, I got a new scratch I had to itch. I wanted to ride my bike all the way down Mingus Mountain. Top to bottom. I got the idea a couple years ago when the local bike shop advertised a group ride down the mountain. It was rated expert only. I'm definitely nowhere close to being an expert rider and the singletrack route they had selected looked really extreme. Still I knew that the mountain was covered in old jeep roads and I wondered if I'd be able to piece together a less extreme route. Again consulting Google Maps, I thought I could. So one morning last month, I drove to the top of the mountain where the highway crests the pass and, with my bike and a full Camelbak. started pedaling.

The first pull up the mountain was very familiar. I often park at the pass and rode the rest of way up the mountain on the gravel road. It's a steep, but fairly short pull with a huge payoff –parking your bike on the lip of the hang-glider launch ramp! Today, though, I turned off before the summit and onto a road that paralleled the top of the mountain range. To my surprise, it was downhill –much faster than I anticipated. It was so steep in some parts, I was leaning back and riding the disc brakes. Soon I was at my next turn—Allen Springs Road, which I knew was going to be downhill most of way, but it started out mild enough so I relaxed a little and enjoyed the early morning cruise through the pine forest. At one point I startled a couple mule deer who gave me a curious look before disappearing into the woods.

There was one canyon descent into Gaddes Canyon (the route I used to hike to the top), and other than the steep rocky climb on the other side, I thoroughly enjoyed the scenery on this portion of the ride. As I experienced on my hike, this is the hidden part of the mountain, Thousands live in the foothills, many visit the summit, but this area in between is kind of no man's land with varied micro-climates, running streams, pockets of pines and manzanita groves that drip with solitude that very few ever see.

Shortly after the pull out of Gaddes Canyon, I rounded the shoulder of the mountain and came upon the first expansive view of the Verde Valley. Often times I've sat in my backyard at dusk and seen the headlights of four wheel vehicles appear high on the mountain this spot. Now I was there and, it was at this place, the trail started getting dicey. The descent was steep but, worse, rocky--the kind of loose rocky marble alley that despises bicycles. Those big loose rocks—hit one just right on a bike and it careens you sideways. Almost impossible to roll over them at low speed ,but dangerous as hell any faster. In a couple places I unclipped from my pedals and dragged my feet on the ground while riding the brakes. Rock slalom skiing takes utmost concentration and, though true mountain bikers love this shit, it was the least favorite part of the ride for me.

After the drop from the shoulder of the mountain, the road becomes a shelf road and follows the contours of the mountain at pretty much the same elevation for miles. This was the most enjoyable part of the ride. Without the steep descent or dangerous obstacles (just ignore that huge plummet to the valley on the one side of the road), I was free to enjoy the scenery of the day. I serenely pedaled in and out of little oak groves. Springs appeared on the mountainside and funneled under the road in pipes and then disappeared into the vastness of the other side. The morning was still cool and the trees shaded most of the ride. The whole valley lay spread out below me to the right. I told myself if I ever did this ride again, I would ride this road all the way back to Jerome.

Instead my goal that morning was Cottonwood and my turnoff appeared to my right. I described the ride to a bike group as a long, beautiful gravel ride spaced intermittently with rocky horror death plunges. This was the worse of the death plunges. I didn't even try and ride this one. Riding alone in this remote area, this would be a terrible place to fall. Even an adventure sometimes calls for common sense so I unclipped and walked the bike clumsily down the rocky trail in my steel-cleated bike shoes. Clink, clink, clink. Then, back on the bike, I rode past the huge Copper Chief and Iron King mine fields, forcing myself not to stop and rockhound. Then another steep descent towards Cottonwood. It was at this point, leaning back on the bike and squeezing the brakes, that my wrists just started screaming. I could barely squeeze the brakes hard enough to keep from flying down the hill. Even as I started to curse “meat-cutter wrists,” I realized quite sheepishly, that due to the sustained free fall and my subsequent death grip on the handlebars, they had slowly rotated out of position. The bars were almost upside down and I had been trying to squeeze the brakes from a very odd over/under position. I do carry a small tool kit on the bike, so once I figured out the problem, it was a quick fix.

Once correctly aligned, it was a smooth sail. As I got closer to the foothill subdivisions of Cottonwood, the road gradually improved and I relaxed and let the bike take on some additional speed. By the time I passed the first people I'd seen all morning, I was a blue streak of joy.

It was a great ride. Once in town, I took a short-cut through a new subdivision to my brother's house. Pedaling slowly and savoring my survival, I relaxed and and contemplated the fine morning. People were busy waking up and going about their nine to five day. Construction crews were showing up on the jobsite. Garage trucks were starting their daily prowl. Through the ordinary I rode, a man with a smile, a secret, and another small victory that would fill my heart for a few more weeks.

 

Riding Gravel (since 1974)

The big buzzword in the cycling community today is: gravel. The industry is ramping up production of thousand dollar “gravel bikes.” The internet is filled with “gravel grinder” groups. Races and rides are suddenly being planned on, get this, gravel roads. I have to chuckle. Hell, I've been riding gravel since 1974.

On my 13^th birthday I received a much-coveted and drooled over Huffy 10-speed. Back in the early seventies those tall, slim tire, steel bikes were the rage—transforming an industry that was almost exclusively geared toward children to a more adult orientation. Man, when I got that ten-speed, I l felt like a real racer—like that kid from Breaking Away (even though the movie wouldn't come out for another five years). The future was so close, I could pedal to it. And over the next few years, I pedaled that bike all over the farmland country roads.

Now, back in those days, kids and bikes went hand in hand. From the time we could ride, we were on our bikes, pedaling off to each others houses, riding across the farm fields as a short-cut to our “forts.” Those were different days. We were pretty much free to ride wherever we wanted—our range was only as limited as our legs (though we were instructed to stay off the state highway). Most of our bikes were ancient hand-me-downs--old cruisers from older siblings we dusted off from the barn and re-purposed for our uses. I remember I rode an old English Racer for years and, because we rode them through mud and fields, we stripped all the fenders and unnecessary accoutrements and basically made defacto mountain bikes-- years before they became a thing.

When I got that ten-speed, however, my range suddenly expanded. Not only was it fast and efficient making it easier to go longer distances, it was a “road” bike. Now the highway was no longer out-of-bounds. I remember the first great adventure of my life, two neighbor kids (my cousin, Curt Groat, and a friend) planned a summer day ride that would take us all the way to Lexington and Lake Huron. Back then, Lexington was a magical place for us kids—usually a special holiday destination for the family. This trip would be our first visit on our own. No parents, no cars, no rules. And it was an ambitious 40 mile ride. Once underway, it was obvious that a long highway ride was going to be different than messing around on our little back roads. This was going to be more of a grind and, with high speed traffic whizzing by inches away, it took a different level of concentration. Also, Curt and I soon realized our riding companion wasn't in good enough shape for the ride. He lagged behind, complaining of mysterious bike problems. We egged him on the best we could and, to his credit, he made it all the way to Croswell before calling his Mom--the 70s kid's version of a SAG wagon.

Curt and I continued on. I remember cresting that last hill before the lake and gliding down that long grade into town—thinking we actually did it. I don't remember what we did specifically once we got there. I think we had an ice cream cone at the Diary Queen and I know we rode the bikes down to the beach, but I don't think we went swimming or anything. I do vividly remember, though, the trip back. In the afternoon the traffic increased considerably and the big semis would blow by us inches away and buffet us in their backwash. Eventually, I lost my nerve completely and convinced my cousin we had to get off the highway So on the way back, we took nothing but farm roads. It took a lot longer but, for me, miles of loose gravel and the occasional roving farm dog was a better deal than that terrifying highway. In fact, I hardly ever rode on a highway again.

I did ride that ten-speed all over the Michigan State campus for four years. In fact, when I graduated, for some reason, I insisted on leaving that bike there—chained up to a rack near the Farm Lane bridge. I remember my dad quizzing me when he picked me up because it had been a part of me for so long that it didn't make sense that I would leave it. I don't know why either, but it seemed important. Maybe I needed to leave a piece of myself there. My only regret? I do not have a picture of that “Mellow Yellow” ten-speed anywhere.

Fast forward to living in Sedona in the late eighties/early nineties. Mountain biking was a brand new sport and, of course, it intrigued me. I bought one of the first commercial mountain bikes ever made, and hit some of the trails that would eventually make Sedona a world famous mountain bike mecca. The thing is-- I never really liked mountain biking all that much. It was gruesome fearsome work pedaling up steep rocky slopes—only to plummet precariously down the other side. Lung searing agony followed by an adrenalin rush never really appealed to me. Those steep, rocky paths were much more fun to hike than ride. What I did enjoy, however, was riding away down forest service roads and up long grades. When I lived near Tlaquepaque, long before Sedona was overrun, I started riding up Schnebly Hill road. The long, aerobic workout, followed by a victory coast through beautiful scenery was a perfect workout. After moving to Cottonwood, I started riding the gravel road towards Cherry. The first time I made it all the way to the town of Cherry, the feeling of accomplishment was very similar to that first ride to Lexington.

Since then, my gravel rides have been a complement to my hiking. Days when I only have a couple hours but want a quick workout become bike rides up Bill Gray, Buckboard Road or Sycamore Canyon Road. Sometimes in the heat of summer, I'll drive to the top of Mingus Mountain and start there. Or up the Canyon to Fry Park. Or up the freeway to Rocky Park.. My rides aren't glamorous or particularly impressive but I love riding those long, lonesome, empty roads. Not only is the fresh air and exercise invigorating, but somehow, just being on a bicycle makes being a responsible adult damn near impossible. When I ride, I still feel like that 13-year-old kid with the wind in my hair, dust on my spokes and the fresh taste of freedom in my lungs. 

A River Moment

The kayak gained speed as it swept down the chute. Steering carefully, dabbing the paddles between boulders, he shot through the final drop and glided into the pool at the bottom where the river met the chalky limestone bluffs. Letting the kayak float sideways, he grabbed his fishing rod and made a cast back towards the top of the pool. The current was stronger than he anticipated, however, and it was already sending him backwards towards a boulder that split the current in half. Dropping the pole, he grabbed the paddle to make a move around the rock. At the same time, though, his lure snagged in the water and the pole jerked and jumped. Caught momentarily between tasks, he reached for the pole with one hand, while the other tried to hold the paddle with one end in the swift water.

Neither was a good option. The pole leaped into the water and the kayak slammed awkwardly into the rock. Still reaching for the pole, he was off balance and the kayak tipped precariously towards the water. Pay attention! He let the fishing equipment go and concentrated on getting around the rock, gripping the paddle and getting back in good paddling position. Once back in control, he was able to beach the kayak and got out gingerly. The water was still swift next to the bank.

Damn, that all happened quick.

He stood on the bank and scanned the river wondering what to do about the fishing reel. Not much hope of recovering anything in that swift water. Looking upstream, however, he saw no sign of his paddling partner so he had a little time to kill. Carefully he waded into the icy water. It was thigh high and running fast. He had to brace himself against the current. Still holding the paddle in his hand, he used it as a probe but the rush of the water swept it away before he could even rake the bottom. Pointless.

Wading back to shore, he stowed the paddle and looked around for a stick. If the lure was still snagged upstream that meant the line was likely still attached to the reel. If he could drag the bottom and intersect the line, he might be able to pull it up. The bank was littered with driftwood and flood debris. He picked through it looking for something with a “hook” on the end but found nothing that seemed appropriate. Finally he found a slim but sturdy stick and walked back to the river. Looking back upstream and still seeing no sign of his friend, he waded back into the river.

It was not easy dragging the stick through the fast water. The current wanted to sweep it away before he could get it to the bottom. Finally though he was able to position his body in such a manner as to bring his weight to bear on the stick. He was able to drag the point across the bottom. It was still difficult to feel anything through the trembling of the stick but, wait, was that some kind of resistance? He raked the area again. And again he seemed to catch on something. Concentrating, he repeated the process, increased the angle and, yes, it was caught on a line. Reaching into the cold water, he grabbed the line and the tip of the pole appeared out of the water.

Ha! Immensely pleased with himself, he was gathering his equipment out of the water when he looked up and saw a parade of items coming down the chute. A small cooler, a water bottle, a tackle box...

Oh shit.

He waded out of the current and ran back to his kayak. Tossing the fishing pole in, he made a quick running shove off and turned into the current. Just in time, he snagged the cooler sweeping past the large boulder. Paddling upstream he started plucking things out of the water while trying to keep pace against the current. He smiled to himself. In big rivers these “recovery pools” were serious business—a place where the paddlers who successfully negotiated a bad rapids waited for those who didn't. In those instances, not only did you wait for personal items, but boats and bodies as well. In this kind of river, however, all he had to look for was floating lunch and pride.

Soon enough, the friend appeared on his kayak at the top of the chute. He glided through easily enough, sopping wet with a sheepish grin.

“Man, things happen fast. One wrong move and then everything goes wrong.”

Good-bye Tech. We'll always have Pac-Man.

It hurts me to have to say this. It really does. In the beginning, you were so exciting. I couldn't get enough of you and just being around you was intoxicating. We had some great times. After a while, though, something happened. I don't know, maybe it was me. Maybe I just couldn't keep up. Maybe you just became demanding. Whatever. The bottom line is you no longer make me happy. I'm sorry it's come to this, but, Technology, you and I are through.

I'll always remember the first time I saw you. I was just a kid, walking through the Sears store. And there you were. The most amazing thing I had ever seen in my life. Pong. It was love at first sight. I stood there, my mouth agape, and stared. I could not even conceive of how such a thing was possible. It was some kind of enchanted alchemy. It took me a while to get my hands on you, but, once we got together, the romance was real. Soon we were playing hand-held football games that consisted of red blips. And before I knew it the Atari 2500 was there. PAC-MAN! Space Invaders! Asteroids! Missile Command!

We started seeing each other everywhere. Every pizza parlor had games like Joust, Galaxian, Centipede, and Donkey Kong. Every television suddenly had cable and MTV! We were having such fun. Then, in college, the relationship turned serious. A friend introduced me to the Apple II personal computer. A computer that sat on a desk! We stayed up late playing Zork and talking about our future. Computers, we knew, were going to revolutionize everything. Our professors theorized that computers were going to save so much time that in twenty years everyone would be working 24 -hour work weeks. Paper shuffling, filing, typing-- all these office jobs would be done instantaneous. Not only that, but with the ushering in of a new Information Age, we would soon have at our fingertips the sum total of mankind's knowledge. Each one of us would, in essence, be a walking genius.

The VCR. Oh my god. I remember buying my first VCR for like $800 and when I brought it home I thought it was the greatest purchase I ever made in my life. Suddenly I could watch any movie anytime I wanted-- just by driving to the nearest video store! It was a wonderful time, but things were changing fast. As soon as we enjoyed something together, you were on to something new and more expensive. The Commodore 64 became the Commodore 128 became the the Compaq Portable 486 PC. I maxed out my first credit card, around two thousand dollars, for that first IBM clone. Of course the Pentium chip was released two months later rendering it obsolete. It was a race to keep up with you after that. Windows 95 became Windows 2000 then XP then Vista, then 7. My gaming consoles went from the Atari to the Genesis to the PlayStation to the PlayStation2 to the PS 3 to the PS4. AARRRGGG!

We started to disagree on music. You didn't like my album collection. First you wanted 8-tracks then cassettes for the car. Then it had to be CD. You told me I needed to replace my entire vinyl collection with CDs. Then you made me start downloading files for our Mp3 players. The music sites changed hands constantly, though, and we kept losing the licensing for a song, so we'd have to buy it again somewhere else. Then you told me my VCR was obsolete. I needed a DVD player. Then quickly thereafter a Blu-Ray player. Then a flat screen TV. Then a smart TV. You even made me get rid of the camera I had used for over thirty years. No, my Canon AE1 was no good for you. I needed a digital one. Which was quickly replaced by a new one with more megapixels. Which has quickly outdated for yet more megapixels, which was replaced by my new--

Phone. Don't even get me started on the phones. Cellphones were a wonderful invention. They were a little more expensive than my $9.99 pink princess corded phone with the $25 long distance plan. But portable communication that fit in your pocket? Great idea—except it didn't last. Soon a flip phone was obsolete. You convinced everybody they needed a QWERTY keyboard phone. Then a Blackberry. Then a smart phone. Soon the little phone that used to fit in your pocket was a ubiquitous computer screen that was permanently attached to everyone's left hand. Suddenly family gatherings consisted of a dozen people seated in the same room but staring at their own individuals screens. Public gatherings, sporting events, bucket list adventures. These were no longer experienced directly but filtered collectively through the lens of a smart phone. If a tree fell in a forest but wasn't shared on social media via a smart phone—did it happen at all?

Then there were the trust issues. Secret passwords were cute at first. Until they were everywhere. Accessing my bank account, my bills, my television, my phone, clocking into work, checking my pay stub, reading the news all suddenly required a password. And not just any password. You required a number and a symbol and a minimum amount of characters and sometimes you made me change it every month or so on a whim. And when I got confused, you got angry and made me jump through a million hoops and made me feel like shit. Secret passwords then became secret symbols became secret images became secret patterns that became secret questions that often I could not answer. Slowly this whole relationship was beginning to feel forced and strained.

Then you started bothering me at work. I'm a manual laborer, a meat cutter, babe. You had no business in my workplace. First it was a fingerprint scan to clock in. Except it always seemed to take three tries to get it right and “punching in” went from an instantaneous snap of the clock to a three-or four minute ordeal. Then came the scan gun. Gradually, everything I did at work required electronic permission and validation. I could no longer walk out to the case, see what had sold and go back and cut it. No. Now you required me to log into a computer program (with multiple passwords and user names) print out a production report which I usually ignored anyway, then scan every thing I cut as I did it. Cleaning grinding, safety—all these these suddenly needed electronic government tracking. I now find myself starting at a computer screen as much as I do my knife. And, let me be honest, your work ethic sucks. Half the time all I get is spinning wheels and flapping flags. If I took as long to boot up as you do, I'd been fired a long time ago.

And speaking of wasting time... Let's talk about our social life. Facebook? Twitter? Instagram? Some of your friends, man, I dunno. Racist, intolerant, ignorant and holier-than-thou. How did we end up spending so much time with these people? And why do we care what they think? Why do we spend so much time trying to impress them? Have we really become that shallow insecure and bored? All these outrageous lies, snarky memes and angry rants... What kind of bonding is this? It seems to me that we are just driving everyone further apart and spreading poison and anxiety.

For something I no longer enjoy, I have to say, you've become very expensive. High speed internet, cell phone data plans, Netflix and Amazon Prime, music streaming, e-books, apps, video streaming, game subscriptions. Every time I turn around, you have a hand out. To continue listening, viewing, reading, please upgrade to premium now! Subscriptions to various newspaper and websites. The constant upgrading of hardware. You're suddenly adding to the cost of everything from appliances to homes to automobiles. Do I really need my refrigerator and car to talk to me? Do I really need Alexa to play some Rolling Stones? Because the album, eight-track, cassette, CD and mp3 are just too hard now?

In fact, the more I think of it, the more I realize everything you've given me is an illusion. A mindless diversion from what really matters in life. You promised me time-saving. You gave me time-suck. You said you'd eliminate paper and now I'm drowning in it. You promised a short work week and now I have to work overtime to pay for all my tech. You promised me a medium in which to stay in touch and now I'm worried what the world thinks of me. You promised the Age of Information and all I see is fake news, extremist point of views and an endless stream of drama and trivia.

No, technology, I'm afraid this relationship cannot be salvaged. You've hurt me too much. So I'm claiming my life back. You know, real life. Grilling in the backyard. Hiking in the wilderness. Face-to-face conversations. Board games and paperbacks. No, you had your chance and you blew it. So I'd really appreciate it if you took your gizmos, do-dads and devices and just left quietly.

But, if you don't mind you can leave Netflix and Spotify behind when you go...

Ten things I love.

 

A cold beer after a hard day's work

(or play)

The smell of the woods in the rain.

Making my wife laugh.

An empty path I've never hiked before.

A good day's work

(when everyone works together)

(and everything flows)

A campfire with friends & family.

A desert sunset.

A good cup of coffee.

(and time to enjoy it)

A long highway & a great soundtrack.

(lots of Neil Young & Steve Earle)

Rolling down a river.

The Sins of Multitasking.

Scan any help wanted listing these days and you will find the almost universal plea for a high energy, self-starting multitasker. This, more than any other skill, seems to be the most coveted trait for job candidates. People even like to brag that they are accomplished multitaskers and love nothing more than doing several jobs at once.

Bullshit.

There's no such thing. We only have one brain, one set of eyes that work together, and a pair of hands-- one of which is usually dominant. To do any thing worthwhile, to do anything with care and precision, we need to focus on it exclusively. One thing at a time. I don’t care if you are filing papers, stocking cans and or splitting atoms. You can only focus on one thing at a time.

It's possible, of course, to get a great many things done in a day. But the fastest, easiest way to do that is to take every job one at a time. Devote your entire energy and concentration into that one task, complete it with care and precision and move on to the next.

Employers who insist that their people be multitaskers are simply saying they are going to expect you to do the work of three people—and throw a lot of distractions in your way. It's impossible. Maybe we can get more done than the average person, but no one can do the work of three people for any length of time. Not only is it unfair but it will quickly wear you down physically and mentally. By taking on more than we can possibly do, we're setting ourselves up for stress, failure and self-loathing.

Companies are still on a huge labor-cutting kick. They are still trying a squeeze a few more pennies of profit out of the bottom line for the shareholders. Meanwhile, the work itself is deteriorating. By giving us more than we can do and throwing distractions at us constantly, they are only limiting production and reducing quality. The more times I have to answer the phone or answer the buzzer or answer the intercom while cutting steaks, the longer its going to take me to finish the job. The more paperwork I'm given to document the work I just did, the longer it's going to take me to get to the next task. That isn't multitasking. It's distraction and inefficiency. And it isn't fun. Or rewarding in any sense of the word. Sorry, I am not a multitasker in any sense of the word. And proud of it.

I'm still waiting for the want ad that reads, “Seeking hard-worker capable of focus, concentration and pride in craftsmanship.”

Right. It'll be there with the one the reads “Full time, full benefits and free beer.”

DIY: Rustic backsplash for under $40.

Last weekend I had a Saturday off. It was cold and rainy so my wife and I decided we'd spend the day working on an inside project. We went out to breakfast then hit the Home Depot afterwards looking for inspiration. We were walking past the tile/flooring section when the back splashes caught our eye. For years we've been threatening to replace the greasey wallpaper behind our oven with a real backsplash so we started looking at the tile designed for that purpose. Not only were they incredibly pricey--but we really saw nothing that caught our eye as being unique and worth it.

 We were leaving the area when a couple vinyl tiles stuck on the corner caught our eye. They were really cool. Vinyl tiles designed to look like the old copper/tin plating they used to put on roofs. The saloons in Jerome all have them. We both agreed it would look really great behind our counter. They were 18 X 18 inch little vinyl tiles that were simply cut with scissors and glued to wall. Easy peasy. We started picking out the patterns we liked and then we saw the price-- $23 a tile! For an 18 inch piece of plastic! I did the math in my head and estimated we'd need about 8 tiles + glue + trim and the total bill would come to almost $200.

We were horrified. $200 for plastic? Are you kidding us?  Real metal wouldn't cost that much, Debi observed. So we headed towards the other part of the store--the lumber yard-- and started looking at different types of metal. We looked at galvanized metal sheets but thought that would be too much. As we were leaving the roofing section, however, the rolls of metal roof flashing caught our Debi's eye. As it turned out, the rolls came in one foot width which was exactly the width between our counter and cabinets. An entire roll of 50 feet cost $40. We'd only need half--but could use the rest for another project. This will work, Debi claimed.

At first I was a little dubious and I wouldn't buy it. We returned home did some more measuring and visualizing and the more I thought about it the more I started to see her genius.We went back to Home Depot and purchased a roll of galvanized metal flashing, a tube of liquid nails, and a dremel attachment for cutting metal.

The first thing we did was roll the flashing out flat in the driveway. Then we shoveled gravel on it and drove over it several time with the truck. Left alone, the metal was too smooth and shiny. It looked like--well flashing. It needed some kind of pattern-- even a rough one-- so we went for the distressed  look. We cut the flashing to size using tin snips, cleaned it up and then brought it inside.

The next step was to carefully measure the electrical outlets and cut openings. We did this using the dremel. It was a lot of fun cutting the thin sheet metal with sparks flying everywhere! Once we had the openings the exact right size, we glued the metal to the wall and secured it temporarily with screws until it dried.

The one problem we faced was the ugly seam where two sheets came together behind the stove. We covered this with a board that Debi painted red to hang her iron skillets. We added another board above it to hang more skillets.

The result was a very unique and easy maintained backsplash for less than $40 and fun weekend project.

What do you think?