What Do You Think When You See …

Courtesy of Wickimedia Commons, the free media repository (Creative Commons License)

I came across Greg Willis's  spectacular photograph of the Reconstructed Kiva at Alcove House in the Bandelier National Monument and could not help but stop and study it. Certain emotions welded up out of me, making me wonder what others think, see, feel, smell, and taste when they view such a sight.

I’ll tell you what I see: A whole other culture as unfamiliar to most of us as life on Mars would be. Oh, we’ve seen photos and read snippets of history and believe we know all about those people. The Ancient Ones. The Anasazi. The Original People. But I sincerely doubt I would last a week living life on their level. True of most of us, I suspect.

My intent is not to recount the history of the Anasazi, but to explore images beyond what the camera caught. I see a people who -- for whatever reason -- abandoned their desert cities virtually en masse and took to the mountains and high canyons of the southwest to build homes and compounds and even whole towns in cliff caves and on rock shelves, bringing with them a culture that was already old.

When I look directly at the photo, I see what everyone else sees. A Kiva, a religious building, in the Jemez Mountains of modern-day New Mexico set against a truly dramatic backdrop of stone cliffs and a lush evergreen forest.

Let me tell you what else I see. I see a grandfather priest standing on top of the Kiva, shading his eyes as he watches his hunter-warrior son stride up the steep trail with a turkey over his shoulder, a kill to feed the family.

I envision a woman in an unadorned deerskin dress, her long black hair gathered on either side of her head by rawhide thongs. She holds a woven basket filled with ears of corn just retrieved from a nearby granary. She is smiling, pleased her husband has returned safely from a successful hunt.

I see a pre-teen boy and girl, bladder bags in hand, preparing to make their way down the long trail to reach the flowing stream on the floor of the canyon. Their task of descending and then climbing a vertical cliff is no less perilous than their father’s trek. But the family needs water.

I see laughter and contentment amid grumbling and discontent. I see generosity and greed lying side by side. I see pain. I see health. I see perils we will never know … just as we face dangers they could not imagine.

I smell the old man’s tobacco, probably smoked in the Kiva in a ritual manner, sweat from the warrior’s efforts, corn in the woman’s basket. I can almost  taste dust and pollen swirled aloft by mountain breezes and pungent, bitter pine needles. Even a hint of wild flowers.

I hear the labor of the man as he climbs the steep trail, the soft breath of the woman as she watches him approach, the excitement of the children. The lowing whisper of evergreens waving branches before  the wind. And from somewhere far, far away, comes the faint rush of water  over mountain boulders.

I see a family of human beings living a perilous life on the steep side of a craggy mountain. A vanished people who are claimed as honored, somewhat mythical ancestors by thousands of descendants.

Please write and tell me what you see: dontravis21@gmail.com.

*****

As always, thanks for reading.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Let’s Revisit THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT This Week

It’s been a while since we took a look at THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT, so I thought we’d visit the novel again for this post. I had fun writing the book – and I’m convinced that’s the way it should always be for an author. It isn’t, of course. I’ve written books that were difficult and stressful in the birthing process. But not ZOZOBRA or THE BISTI BUSINESS, for that matter.

I chose the following passage (the opening of Chapter 7, Page 68) because we meet a new character at this point, and I like the way BJ looks at her. I also like the mental musings over a mural in his country club’s foyer that depicts Albuquerque’s founding in 1706 and the loss of the extra “A” in the city’s spelling. In my own head, I hear BJ toying with the word “foyer,” and believe him to be sophisticated enough to pronounce it “foi(a),” and plebeian enough to say “foi(yer).”

At any rate, he’s just received a warning to drop the case he’s pursuing that includes a death threat, and it’s pissed him off. Let’s take a look.

*****

Still steaming over some thug believing he could intimidate me, Thursday morning, I handed over the blackmailer’s envelopes and notes, along with Del’s fingerprint card to Gloria McInnes, who looked down her thin-bridged nose at me like an English blueblood. She wasn’t. She was born and raised in the little community of Algodones north of Albuquerque and was as common as shoe leather. I often wondered at the ribald jokes she must have endured after fifteen years of working in a place called K-Y Lab. The joint was named after its founders, Sol King and Jacob Young, not the water-soluble gel that prompted erotic reactions in countless giggling teenagers and horny young adults. I asked her to print me, as well, because I had handled the envelope before tumbling to what it was. I wanted her to test the documents for whatever forensic evidence they might contain.

“Hmm,” she ran a casual eye over the crude death threat. “Somebody’s getting personal.”

“Yeah, and that was his mistake. I’m going to get the bastard.”

“And I’ll bet you do. Okay, BJ, I’ll run a prelim for you, but I’ll need 48 hours. Of course, if I pick up DNA I’ll need some extra time, but I’ll give you what I can Monday afternoon.”

“I need it a little quicker.”

“Saturday’s the best I can do.”

“Didn’t know you were open on Saturday.”

“Just for you, sweetheart. Give me until about 6 o’clock that afternoon, okay?”

With that promise, I set off for 3301 Juan Tabo Blvd. NE, which was, indeed, a Ship-n-Mail store in a strip mall of the kind architects call decorated sheds. There I ran into a stone wall. The thin-chested teenaged clerk refused, under penalty of law, he claimed, to reveal any information about the box holder. There was nothing to do but plan on spending Saturday hunkered down in the parking lot to wait for someone to pick up Del’s envelope.

Stymied for the moment, I headed for the country club. On the way, I used the hands-free phone to call Charlie and ask him to check out Belinda Gerard. He had nothing to report on the Royal Crest yet, but said he was working on it.

The summer day was chilled by the monsoon system that usually arrived in July or August to deliver a fair portion of our nine and a half inches of annual rainfall. As the thunder and lightning cooperated by hovering to the west over Mt. Taylor, one of the Navajos’ four sacred mountains, I braved the elements and swam for a while, hoping Paul would show up to relieve the youth occupying the lifeguard’s chair. He didn’t.

On my way out, I paused to view the mural in the club’s foyer. Done in the primitive style of Diego Rivera, it portrayed the founding of the Villa de Alburquerque in 1706 with the arrival of twelve families from the military compound of Bernalillo a few miles up the Rio Grande. It took us over 150 years to lose the second “R” in the city’s name. The dark earth tones of the mural failed to work their usual magic. My spirit remained troubled.

That changed when Paul answered my phone call to his dorm later that evening and agreed to come over. He showed up at my place around nine, and gave my morale a much-needed boost.

*****

As always, thanks for reading.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

What Happened in Copenhagen

Hotel Nimb
Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen
Author: Sarah Ackerman
CC02

This week, let’s go back in time ... way back ... for some personal experience.

*****

WHAT HAPPENED IN DENMARK

Back in the Middle Ages when I was a soldier serving in Europe, I was assigned to an infantry company at the Boelke Kaserne in Ulm, Germany. Well, actually we called it West Germany in those days. A short, skinny Japanese-American from Cleveland named Lloyd Morimoto and I made friends with the German national who ran the library on our base. Jürgen Brinn’s wife ran the library at Wiley Barracks, another American base in town. As our friendship grew, the Brinns urged us to take our first European leave in Copenhagen, Denmark with a stopover in Hamburg. Traute Hauptman, a friend of theirs, was conveniently engaged to a young man in Copenhagen. Thus, Morimoto and I would have locals to show us places of interest.

Obligingly, we scheduled our first continental trip according to their plan and arrived at the port city of Hamburg without event. Traute treated us to an enjoyable visit, giving over one of her bedrooms so that our costs fit our GI budgets. On the day we were to leave for Denmark, she gave us the name and phone number of her fiancé, also named Jürgen. We boarded a train which was promptly loaded onto a huge ferry, and we were soon underway to Denmark by sea.

A young man named Anders, whom I took to be an Englishman, was the only person sharing our railway compartment. At least he spoke British English. As we talked, however, he turned out to be a Dane … from Copenhagen, no less. Upon learning our arrangements, he volunteered to place the call to Jürgen, as in those days the telephone exchanges were staffed by operators, not all of whom spoke English.

Upon arrival at the bahnhoff in the Danish capital, our new friend made the call, held an animated conversation, and then delivered the bad news. Jürgen had broken his leg the day before playing tennis. Anders told us not to worry. His older brother had a spare bedroom in his house. Indeed, his brother, Hans, a school teacher with a pretty wife and a couple of lively children, welcomed us into their home, spent time taking us places, and helped make this a great vacation.

When our departure day arrived, Hans took us to the bahnhoff to catch our train. It was important to get into one of the first three cars because that was all the ferry could accommodate. Upon arrival, we found those specific cars packed to the brim. We managed to find seats, but could not take our duffel bags into the compartment with us.

Upon arrival at Hamburg, our bags were missing … stolen. Everything I had, including my address book, was in mine. We arrived back in Ulm after the most wonderful trip imaginable had ended on a sour note. We had no way to write and thank our host family and send coffee … something still relatively rare and pricey in Europe at the time.

A year later, I was sitting in the courtyard of the International Student Center in Rome, Italy drinking a Bluna (a German soft drink) when a young man wandered up and asked if he could join me. We introduced ourselves, and when I learned he was from Copenhagen, I told him my story.

After I finished, he asked the name of the family. I provided it, prompting a huge smile from my new acquaintance.

“You’re not going to believe this. But the man you rode into Copenhagen with is my next door neighbor. I don’t have his brother’s address, but I can give you his.”

So a year later, Morimoto and I were able to send a letter explaining what had happened and express our gratitude for their kind hospitality.

But that’s not the end of the story. A few years later, I was sitting in the library waiting for my wife to get off work, when I heard a familiar voice and saw a familiar figure talking to the reference librarian. Lo and behold, there stood Traute Hauptman. She was now a librarian on a tour of the United States.

Makes the world seem small, doesn’t it?

*****

As always, thanks for reading.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Return to the Bisti-De-Na-Zin Wilderness Area

 After wandering around lost the last few weeks (including posting a poem, for crying out loud), I thought we’d return to one of the BJ Vinson books today.

What follows is the closing scene in Chapter 12 of THE BISTI BUSINESS. BJ and Aggie Alfano (one of the missing men’s older brother) have been drawn to the remote, usually deserted Bisti-De-Na-Zin Wilderness when they learn a Navajo teenager has found a cell phone owned by one of the missing duo. They have just ransomed the telephone when they are joined by Sgt. Dix Lee of the Farmington Police Department and Special Agent Larry Plainer of the Bureau of Land Management, the agency that is responsible for administration of the wilderness area.

*****

By John Fowler from Placitas, NM, USA
(Natural Sculptures) 

I nodded in the direction of the retreating teens. “Where did they come from? They’re not headed for the parking lot—unless there’s another one I don’t know about.”

“No,” Dix answered. “There are two or three private Navajo holdings inside the Wilderness. They probably belong to one of those. They’re within walking distance.”

“And that’s why they stumbled on Dana’s phone?” I took another slug of water as she spoke and offered her some. She declined with a shake of her head. I wiped a sheen of sweat from my face with a sodden handkerchief.

“Probably.” She turned to the man with her. Blond and blue-eyed and handsome in a chiseled features way, he was J. Edgar Hoover’s ideal FBI agent—except that he was a Bureau of Land Management man. “BJ, this is Larry Plainer, a Special Agent for the BLM. As I told you, they administer the Bisti Wilderness.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said and introduced him to Aggie.

I knew t the BLM had its own law enforcement arm, but didn’t know exactly how they worked. Some rangers regularly carried firearms and handled criminal cases such as vandalism, theft, and the like. A special agent was new to me. Perhaps they handled the “heavier” crimes. Gainer’s fair features labeled him an inside man, not a working ranger. Despite the heat, he wore navy dress pants and a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt, although he had foregone a coat and tie. A black baseball cap with BLM stenciled on it was all that protected him from the sun. It made me wonder how he’d walked the same route I had without staining his clothing with sweat.

I brought Dix and Plainer up to date on the situation while Aggie wandered off somewhere on his own. A few minutes later, a shout attracted my attention.

“BJ, over here!” Aggie yelled.

I hurried over to a hoodoo, one of those sculpted toadstool formations that threatened to collapse momentarily. Aggie slowly walked the rocky ground around the base, as if searching for something.

“What is it?”

“You smell anything?” he asked.

And then I caught a whiff of it—the faint, cloying, unmistakable stink of death.

*****

It feels good to be back on safe, familiar ground. I hope this and other posts featuring the wilderness area will prompt you to visit the Bisti Badlands country. If you’re into eerie, otherworldly landscapes, this is the place for it.

By the way, the spectacular image is a Creative Common photo taken by John Fowler of Placitas, a village north of Albuquerque -- a very interesting place on its own.

As always, thanks for reading.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Musings on a Penitente Cross

Last week it was a poem. Today, I’ll continue to trod unfamiliar ground with musings (some will say ramblings) about a symbol often seen here in New Mexico.

*****

THE PENITENTE CROSS

A small cross stands at the apex of a stubby, barren hill. Local legend maintains it is a Penitente Cross from which once hung the body of a man. One of the Secret Brotherhood, presumably. A martyr who chose to be crucified like his Eternal Master, Jesus of Nazareth.

Somehow, I doubt that. The last time I climbed the hill – when I was but eleven – the cross was five feet at its tallest point. Heck, even I could have stood on solid ground if my arms were nailed to the cross bar. Of course, the people back then were smaller, they say. Nonetheless, the story is likely nothing but myth.

So what is the meaning of the cross? Why did someone go to the trouble of cutting heavy six-by-six timbers into shape, slotting them just so to make the cross piece fit perfectly? Some unknown individual then had to fight the weighty wood up the stubby hill and dig a pit so that the cross has stood against gravity and nature for as long as anyone can remember.

I long ago ceased to puzzle over the origin of the cross – Penitente or not. I recognize it as a religious symbol, but somehow it doesn’t seem grand enough to be either cherished or a down payment on a crown. Only once in my life have I seen someone praying before it. A startling sight, I must admit, upon spotting a lone man kneeling at its base, head bowed, hands poised in supplication. Was he was praying in gratitude or from desperation? On the other hand, local boys and young men use it for target practice with pellet guns and twenty-two rifles. It serves as a convenient roost for birds who leave droppings to smear the wood until rain squalls wash them away.

Even though I have passed this spot for years and observed the cross in all its incarnations, I have only recently come to consider what it means to me.

·       On the way to work in the morning, it stands tall as if greeting a new day and all who populate it.

·       At high noon, with the sun beating down to expose tortured, peeling cracks in the weathered wood, it is a symbol of suffering and endurance.

·       On the way home in the afternoon, it is remote and says little to me. Perhaps it seems a bit worn down – as do I – by the events of the day just ending.

·       With the coming of sunset, it stands tall on the skyline as if in awe of God’s glorious abstract painting of the western sky.

·       In the darkest night with a waning gibbous moon hazed by ghostly clouds, it looms ominous … threatening. At times like this, I can almost imagine a Penitente hanging forgotten and forlorn from its timbers.

So what does this mute sentinel convey to me? Permanence, steadfastness. A mysterious force with the ability to stand against gales, blistering heat, freezing cold, lashing winds, abuse by unthinking humans … against time itself. A symbol of enduring all life can throw at you and remaining on your feet.

Nonsense, many would say. The unknown creators of the cross clearly intended it as a symbol of worship of the Crucified Christ who died for all of our sins.

Think about it. Is not the message I discerned an extension of that very meaning?

*****

As I said, this is unusual ground for me. Let me know what you think. As always, thanks for reading.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

I’m Not a Tums Kind of Guy

Let’s try something I’ve not done before. A poem. A bit of whimsy, but perhaps it reveals a bit of insight into me. WARNING: I am not a poet, so don’t expect too much. Here goes.

*****

I’M NOT A TUMS KIND OF GUY

I’m not a Tums kind of guy.

The belly may be round

And oft overstuffed,

But I’ve never been a Tums kind of guy.

Yet as the years go by

And the hair turns gray

(please, no snickers now),

Maybe I’m not the same kind of guy.

The knees start to go

And the first thing you know,

The joints say click and clack.

Definitely not the same kind of guy.

As things begin to sag,

My clothes become a bag

And worse … I don’t even care.

More changes to my kind of guy.

A shock sets me back

As the mirror reveals

How profound the changes have been.

What kind of a guy am I now?

Wind has gone chasing after stamina,

Which took off in search of energy.

Ambition has vanished, but I cannot say where.

Am I even a guy at all?

With gurgles and groans my stomach

Confirms what I crave no longer craves me.

What was tripe to my tongue is now daily fare.

Maybe I am a Tums kind of guy.

*****

Hope that wasn’t too painful. Thanks for sticking with it. Well, that’s out of my system now. Next week we can return to something more in my line. I usually solicit comments at this point … but this time, I’m not so sure.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Nerds in the Wild (Conclusion)

Last week, we left Zeke and Ron in a tent on a rocky ledge in Golier Canyon snug in their sleeping bags listening to raindrops pelting the tent overhead. Peaceful scene, right? Well, just wait. We’re in Zeke’s “head” when the concluding installment begins.

*****

NERDS IN THE WILD (CONCLUSION)

I woke in what must have been the middle of the night. It had stopped raining, at least I couldn’t hear water hitting the tent. Of course, I couldn’t hear much of anything because of a dull roaring sound. It took a minute to understand it was the noise of the creek even though the shelf where we lay was ten feet above the water. But maybe not. It sounded closer – and angrier – than that peaceful little trickle of yesterday.

Then I realized my butt was wet. Wet and cold. That’s what had awakened me. I put my hand out and dipped my fingers in half an inch of frigid liquid.

“Ron!” I yelled. “Get up! There’s water in the tent.” I fought my way out of the sleeping bag and stood in the water. And my feet had been about the only part of me that wasn’t freezing. I heard Ron splashing and cursing around in the darkness.

“Glasses! Can’t find my glasses.” That all came out in a moan.

Then I felt the tent move. Not much, but just a little. Hell, it shouldn’t be moving at all. The water was now up around my ankles.

“Get out!” I screamed. “The tent’s about go.”

“Glasses! Gotta find my glasses!”

I found the zipper and managed to get it halfway up. “Forget your glasses. Save your ass!”

I fought my way out of the tent into a freezing wind. I was pretty sure it had stopped raining, but water still pelted my face. Whipped up by the wind, probably. Ron blundered out of the tent and almost shoved me down into the creek. The clouds had cleared and a moon directly overhead provided a little light. I felt blood drain from my face as I looked across the canyon at a broad expanse of boiling water. Yesterday’s playful creek had become an angry river. And we were standing in it.

I turned and ran into Ron. “Run,” I said. “Climb the walls. We gotta get higher.”

“G-grab our packs,” he stammered.

Even as he said it, our tent swayed before the wind and then was gone. We watched with our jaws sagging as it floated briefly before collapsing from the weight of the water inside. It was out of sight within ten seconds.

Just as I started for the wall of rock behind me, a deep booming sound halted me. “What’s that?”

“D-dunno,” Ron stammered. “Maybe thunder.”

It came again … and again. A booming, thudding grinding sound. Getting closer. And then I understood.

“That’s not thunder. Move. Climb for your life!”

“What is it?”

“Climb, man, climb! Don’t waste time talking.

I’m not sure how we did it given the combination of total darkness eased only by the moon’s faint glow and rocks still slippery from the rain, but we began to ascend the nearly vertical walls of Golier Canyon. All the while the terrible booming came closer and closer.

I reached a ledge and paused to grab Ron’s collar and drag him up beside me. I had no idea if we were high enough, but I’d done all I could. I wasn’t going to be able to climb another inch. So I started praying while the wind tried to snatch us off our precarious perch.

The booming grew louder and louder until it was almost ear-splitting. My chilled blood ran even colder. Ron let out a moan as a wall of water rushed toward us, an occasional boulder the size of a truck occasionally visible inside it.

“Oh, shit! Climb,” Ron yelled.

“No!” I shouted. “Don’t move. If we’re not high enough, it’s too late now.”

“But—”

“We might fall if we try to climb. Stay still.”

The ten-foot wall of muddy water seemed to creep toward us. It was like watching death approach at a slow, deliberate pace. But I knew there was nothing slow about it. And the booms filling our ears weren’t death drums, they were boulders and tree trunks and who knew what else striking the canyon walls while being swept along by the power of the water. Why wasn’t I terrified? Why was I calm?

And then it reached us. The angry wall passed right below our feet, but leaping waves reached up to snatch at us. We were drenched anew, but we remained glued to the wall of rock at our backs. And then I saw a tree, reduced to a sodden log rushing for us. Someone moaned – I think it was me – as a long, cable-like root scraped the canyon wall not twenty feet ahead of us. We clutched cold wet stone and watched in awe as the log tumbled, and the whipping root rose and passed just over our heads.

And then the torrent was past. The booming receded, echoing up and down the steep canyon walls. And with the passing came fear. The absolute terror that had refused to come as we stared Death in the face. I started shivering violently, but didn’t know if it was fright or cold. Probably both. We were without boots and coats, but thank goodness we’d slept in our clothing. Even so, we were soaked to the skin and whipped by a brisk, cold wind.

The water level dropped rapidly after that, but it stubbornly refused to fall enough for us to clamber down to that rock shelf where we’d pitched our tent. There was no way to go anywhere. We were stranded. Would we freeze to death before cramping leg muscles pitched us off the ledge into the torrent below?

I was still calculating the odds on that when I heard the faint sound of a helicopter.

#####

Ron and I considered skipping school the next Monday, but that would merely delay the inevitable. Dweebs and nerds and geeks – and we were all three – came in for more than their share of harassment at Belvedere High, and our recent adventure brought us more than usual. But it also occasioned a few “glad you made it” and “close shave, man” comments.

We had handled things pretty well at school until Friday’s edition of the Belvedere Weekly Gazette came out. The lead story opened with the words:

“Local Belvedere High students, Ezekiel Harmer and Ronald Smylie (both 17) were caught in Saturday’s flash flood in Golier Canyon and had to be rescued by …

*****

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed the story and recognized a few people you know. And take a moment to give me some feedback on the story … be it good or be it bad.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Nerds in the Wild (Part 1)

How about a short story this week. Actually, for the next two weeks. It’s two-parter, so I’ll finish it on the 26^th. Enjoy.

*****

NERDS IN THE WILD

Courtesy Flicker.com
Creative Commons-3

I cursed under my breath. The car was a mile behind us, the only vehicle in the canyon’s parking lot. That worried me a little. Where was everyone else? This was Saturday. There should be lots of nature lovers out. Like the local jocks we’d overheard talking about this great trip they took up Golier Canyon, making it all sound adventurous and manly.

Now, it just seemed like work. Loaded down with a spanking new backpack that rode heavy on my shoulders and rose half a foot over my head, I was tired and had aching feet. My brand new boots were rapidly raising a brand new blister on my right heel.

“Ron,” I wheezed, “we’re the only ones up here.”

“Yeah, isn’t it great?”

I glanced at him. His cheeks were unnaturally red and sweat fogged the thick lenses of his bottle glasses.

“Why isn’t anyone else up here?”

He stopped and leaned back to look at the tiny patch of sky visible above the canyon’s steep, soaring walls. Unbalanced by a pack with the price sticker still on it, he would have fallen over backwards if I hadn’t propped him up.

“Maybe the weather scared them off. It’s supposed to rain, you know.” He waved a hand in a vaguely westward direction. “But that’s over in Howard County.”

“Yeah, like the rainstorm knows where the county line is,” I said, heavy on sarcasm.

I quit bitching in order to concentrate on where to put my sore feet on a path composed of nothing but loose rocks. When we came to a flat shelf high above the creek rushing down the floor of the canyon, I rebelled.

“That’s it. I’m not going any farther.”

He turned eyes magnified by a factor of two by his bifocals on me. “Zeke, you’re such a wuss.”

I dropped my pack it to the ground, shucked the canteen, and loosened my father’s military web belt laden with a knife and compass and a GP locator. Why did I need a GPL in a canyon you could only go up or down? But Ron had insisted.

“I’m not a wuss,” I said. “I’m a geek, and so are you. I need to be surrounded by computers and IPhones and Wi-fi and things electronic.” I waved my hand around. “Not by rocks piled on stones and limestone stacked on …” I ran out of geologic terms and stopped.

“This is nature, man. Enjoy it.” He surveyed the area, which was no more than about a fifty-foot square of stone, containing a few strands of grass and two scraggly pines for shade. “Not too bad. We can set up our tent here, I guess.”

I bent over to pick up my pack and jumped backwards. “Whoa!”

“What? What is it?” Ron’s eyes went owlish.

“Snake. There. On a rock.”

He gawked at the tightly coiled serpent watching us from ten feet away. “Man, she’s big one? What kind is she?”

“Those button thingys on its end are probably a clue. It’s a rattlesnake, dodo. Tell it to go away.”

“How do I do that?”

“Wave your arms or something. This trip was your idea, man. Do something. And why did you call it a she?”

“Well, she could be. Snakes have males and females, too, you know.”

“What clued you? The long lashes on her eyes or the delicate curve of her fangs?”

“Zeke, stop being shitty. Throw a rock or something at her.”

Even after the snake got tired of our throwing stones at it and slithered down toward the creek bed, I was uneasy. What if this was a rattlesnake roundup place or something. Still, I was too tired to start walking again.

We put up the tent we’d purchased yesterday afternoon. Actually, we popped up the tent. It was one of those all-in-one things that actually pops up. Well, that’s the way the sporting goods salesman explained it, but since it didn’t have wires and resistors and sensors, we had a little trouble with it.

The tent was no sooner up than it began to shower. Mid-morning quickly began looking like twilight. I gazed straight up into boiling, seething clouds that seemed to scrape the top of the canyon walls before scrambling inside our temporary home. Despite myself, I began to enjoy the pitter patter of the drops gently assailing the canvas sheltering us. Except it wasn’t canvas. It was some kind of fancy new material. Before long, the drops got louder and came down harder. Our shower had turned into a rain. Soon, it became a deluge.

“Crap, Ron, this is never going to stop. I’ve half a mind to head back to the car.”

In the gloom of the closed tent, I saw him shiver. “That’s a cold rain, man. You’d drown or freeze before you got there. Besides, it’ll stop soon, and tomorrow morning we can go exploring.”

“Explore, my ass. I just wanna go home. I’m hungry, and all I’ve got is hot dogs and fixings. We can’t even build a campfire. How am I gonna cook the weenies?”

He brightened and rummaged around in a pack – my pack, as a matter of fact – to haul out a black, cast iron skillet.”

“No wonder my backpack was so heavy. What do we need that for?”

“To cook the fish we’re gonna catch tomorrow.

“You made me haul that up the mountain? Why didn’t you put it in your pack?”

“No room.” He opened a can of something that looked like Sterno but had a different name on it.

“It’ll take forever to roast a weenie on that.”

“Uh, uh.” Ron dumped the whole can of nauseating-looking gel out into the skillet and put some scraps of paper in the stuff. It didn’t seem to want to start, but eventually, he got it going. The flames were a little high, but reached nowhere near the top of the tent. The entire enclosure was instantly a bit cozier. He had a couple of wire hangers that worked just as well for cooking weenies as they did for roasting marshmallows. Before long, I was full of weenies and buns.

“What’s that smell?” I asked as I leaned back to relieve the pressure on my stuffed gut.

“What smell?”

“Oh, Geez! The tent’s on fire.”

“Where?”

“There! Underneath the pan.”

Well, it wasn't actually burning, but it was going to be. Soon. Wisps of smoke oozed from beneath the iron skillet.

Ron lunged for the handle. “Unzip the tent!” 

I had my hand on the zipper when he let out a yelp and dropped the skillet. Burning goo flowed sinuously out of the tipped pan onto the floor.

Our fancy new tent might be waterproof, but it sure wasn’t fireproof. Flames danced merrily. When they penetrated the first layer of the floor, the soft cushion of air that kept us off the ground instantly escaped and settled us on jagged pieces of rock.

I grabbed my canteen and emptied it on the flames.

“Nooo!” Ron howled. “Water spreads it. Smother the fire.”

I shrugged out of my coat and threw it on the burning mess. In a few seconds, the flames were out, but my coat was ruined. Charred and smeared with a pink goop, I wouldn’t even put it on again.

The rest of the day dragged by like an inchworm. Or maybe a quarter-inch worm. We had no computers. Our phones wouldn’t work. Ron had forgotten to bring his checkers, and I’d left my chess set behind. There wasn’t anything to do but stare at one another, try to ignore the smell of charred material, keep out of the water oozing up through the burnt hole, and occasionally talk to one another. It was still raining when we gave up and crawled into our sleeping bags.

Just before I surredered to exhaustion and fell asleep, I heard him  ask if I thought that rattlesnake could get in through the hole in the floor.

*****

Please try to contain yourself until next week. And keep on reading. We authors are counting on you to do lots of that.

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A Blue Quarter

Today, February 12, is an important date in a friend’s life. I asked Don Morgan’s permission to publish the post he put up on his own blog as if it were mine. He kindly gave me permission to do so. You can also read the post on donaldtmorgan.com. I’ll go silent now and let him speak.

*****

February, March, and April. A quarter of a year. A blue quarter for me. I'm  a little morose because my wife, Betty, died six years ago today. I considered using “passed on” or “left us” or some other euphemism, but that would serve no purpose. She died, pure and simple. Her death came  after a four-month struggle – two months in the University of New Mexico Medical Center’s ICU and two months at Kindred Hospital, where she passed away around 5:30 a.m. on February 12, 2009.

One month and one day later, March 13, would have been her birthday celebration. April 8 was our wedding anniversary. So – the Blue Quarter.

Each year, I expect the sadness to dissipate … to go away. It doesn’t. It changes in subtle ways. Lessens a little even. But it never goes away. In my “slow to catch on manner,” I’ve  learned a few things from this bad stretch of the year. None of them rise to the level of earth-shattering life lessons, but perhaps sharing some of them will be cathartic – at least for me.

·       I am a survivor. After a long marriage like ours, this was no longer a certainty. We had become very reliant on one another, each contributing in his or her own way. I surrendered too many routine chores to her because she did them better and more efficiently. I didn’t cook (and still don’t), but I haven’t starved yet. Laundry machines and driers and dishwashers were beyond me, but I’ve been able to tame the ornery beasts. At least, my shirts don’t have rings around the collars and my dishes appear clean. I seldom did housekeeping but now … well, let’s not discuss that one.

·       My two sons and I have drawn closer, developed relationships that are different from the ones we shared before. Each has handled her passing in his own way … quite different from mine, incidentally. But we share things we didn’t before. That was likely my fault, so it almost seems like my reaching out to them is to assuage guilt feelings over the lack of depth in our prior relationships. Perhaps that is true, but regardless of the cause, I am on a better standing with each of my sons now.

·       I’ve built a new life. I am not the same person I was when Betty was alive. At least my lifestyle isn’t. I’m less insular; a tad more social. Before her death, we shared one another’s interests and activities. I now concentrate on my own. Even though I’ve moved on, I haven’t left her behind. I think of her often, although not daily, as once was  the case. And I’m comfortable with that because I understand that in some way I honor her memory by doing so. After all, she left me strong enough to stand on my own.

·       This blue mood I experience each year is good for me. It reaffirms the life we once shared together. It wasn’t perfect. In fact, we were probably the typical dysfunctional family. But what we had it was ours, and it lasted for a very long time. Besides, as is also proper, this quarter grows a little less blue and a tad more reflective each year.

I could cite a slew of lesser lessons, but that’s enough self-indulgence for the time being. I simply wanted to honor my wife by sharing this with people who are important to me. 

Thanks for bearing with me.

*****

There is nothing more for me to say, except thanks to the other Don. And to ask you to keep on reading. That’s what keeps authors (and he’s one, too) alive.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

On the Way to the Boot Heel Country

A couple of weeks ago, we visited Columbus, New Mexico through the eyes of JB Vinson. The excerpt was from THE CITY OF ROCKS, the third in my BJ Vinson series. The following scene is from the same book (beginning of Chapter 5), and occurs the next day as our Confidential Investigator hero departs Columbus on the way to the M Lazy M Ranch on the trail of a kidnapped duck. Ah, but not an ordinary duck. Quacky (as she is known) represents big bucks.

*****

     Ranchers, like farmers, generally rise with the sun, so I was on the road early Monday, breezing west along Highway 9 over a landscape dominated by creosote, locoweed, and wildflowers. The bright sky was spotted with scattered clouds. The blue silhouette of the Cedar Mountain Range shadowed the horizon.

     The weathercast this morning had predicted a high of ninety-nine degrees, but the temperature had not yet climbed to that point as I drove into the country that had once sheltered the likes of Curly Bill, Old Man Clanton, and Dick Gray, desperados who hid out in the caves and canyons of the Boot Heel. Somewhere ahead of me was a black oak with large knotholes where the outlaws left messages for one another in what is still called Post Office Canyon.

     I passed a sign noting I had crossed into Hidalgo County, a landmass of about thirty-five hundred square miles populated by fewer than six thousand residents; a place known for its large ranches. The Gray Ranch, which was now called by its original name of the Diamond A, was 321,000 acres—a staggering 500 square miles. Alongside that, the M Lazy M was a piker.

I turned south on Highway 81. The ranch was a fair drive from Hachita, the closest town, and as I had a considerable amount of work to do, I phoned Del to let him know I intended to take Bert Kurtz up on his offer to remain overnight. He wanted to clear it with the insurance company to make sure they wouldn’t consider it a conflict of interest should Mud Hen be involved in any sort of scam. He promised to call me back.

     The M Lazy M lay hard against the Mexican state of Chihuahua just short of the Hatchet Mountains in the upper reaches of the Boot Heel. A cattle guard, flanked by a tall adobe arch bearing the ranch’s brand—two capital M’s, the second one lying on its side—marked the main gateway to the spread.

     I paused to snap a photo of the entrance before heading down a well-graded gravel road toward what I assumed would eventually lead to the ranch house. I stopped several times to take pictures of the road and anything else of interest. Like crime scene investigators, PIs can’t function without loads of photos.

     I traveled another ten miles with no sign of habitation; although white-faced cattle grazing in the distance identified this as a working ranch. At the end of the road, I encountered another fence, behind which loomed an odd-looking structure, one that had appeared to have grown from a modest home into something of a monstrosity as succeeding generations of Muldrens left their stamp on the edifice, building first with wood, then with fieldstone and brick. The latest addition was in adobe.

     The place was reminiscent of Gothic novel cover art, although the graceful cottonwoods and sycamores scattered about the broad yard softened the effect. Even so, their towering presence on this landscape of stunted bushes and twisted piñons was almost as bizarre as the building itself. They had obviously been carefully nurtured by the first M’s, possibly even the Lazy M, until they dwarfed every other living thing within sight.

*****

 Interesting country, isn’t it. Come visit it, and see all the other wonders of this beautiful state. But above all, guys …keep on reading.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.