Southeast Utah

Mounds of Comb (Wash, that is)

The Abajo Mountains (with snow)

 Looking North

The Naked and the Nude
  by Robert Graves (24, July 1985 - 7, December 1985)

For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.

Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.

The nude are bold, the nude are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.

The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometimes nude!

And I would add: 

As they laugh amongst the whips and briars they delightedly giggle, "Bring it on!" and "More!" 

Pagan Holiday - Comb Wash

We made the most of Fuck Like Rabbits day, spending it in bed.

Herrmann & ALL his MESS!!!!

The Goddess leant a full moon to the ambiance.

Catwalk - Mayyyybe Not

Iz truhdeeshun to veezit das Catvalk ven Effer Vee are in zee neighborhoot.

But on April 9, I schtink....Mayyyyybe not.

Datil Mayhem

Akin to Spiller in The Borrowers or Pig Pen in Peanuts, I can, in short order, convert even the most organized space into....

Cunnilingus and Fellatio, they find
A number of places to dined.
Appreciating the menus
But rejecting the venues
They went home and 69ed.

                            --- Incognito

The Seat of The Chair

Silver City - A Space

Jean Robert Beffort's (Zchahn Roe-bAre Bay-four) A Space Studio and Gallery is a bucket-lister's MUST. Now in its ninth year, he made $15.00 the day I visited, but magic is priceless!

Susan (ten years in Rodeo, on the NM-AZ border) and Alan (Tucson) came in and held us spellbound with tales of Moscow, Idaho, where Alan summers, and the topper, this performance by Susan....

I got an email in July, 2020, from a close friend of Susan telling me she'd died of sepsis after a recent surgery.

Gila River Spring

Tues, Apr 9. 5:27 pm

They ranged from blue-black

through tan 

to Pink. 

And through their many dialects 

I could hear their exortations, 

   
            "Pet me."

I demurred, 

saying my touch was 

not quite right. 

Perhaps, 

      I said, 

                someday 

                             she 

                                     may 

                                              come here.

(my journal says the Day Use Area near Glenwood.)

Whereupon there came a clamor. "Why isn't she here?!?!!" They kept it up for some minutes until, despite the difficulties we had, I knew I couldn't go on without her.

Friends

One day in Williamsburg, I was in Maria's Restaurant at the same time as Rex and we struck up a conversation. I'd passed his house several times on my way between Albuquerque and Deming and the Mercedes 220 had caught my attention. He invited me to stop by anytime.

After retiring from teaching at a university, he'd taken up ranching. Eventually he'd succumbed to the drought but manages  to get by.

With Blue Dawg

Robin dated his son and during that time they'd become friends. Tired of living in the Northwest, she rented out her house and moved down to help out around the "ranch."

Their house is the only one on highway one between T or C and Socorro. They've shouldered the responsibility of assuring lost Easterners that T or C is just down the road, Socorro DOES exist and there's a freeway access ramp not too far in either direction. They've even saved a few as more than one foolhardy hiker has shown up without enough water.

Datil Resort

Four FABULOUS days at Datil Resort.

Sitcheated on the side of a swale in a private subdivision of mostly 10-plus acre lots, the nearest neighbors are only visible with effort and their dog, when outside, is almost inaudible.

It's an octagon, with magnificent views of the valley. A single Mr. Buddy propane heater set on LOW is sufficient. With no running water, the komode, a Kohler (of course), has been modified to Poop-In-A-Bag (to the tune of Band On the Run). A shower stall is a nice amenity when outdoor bathing isn't an option. It drains to the ground where the septic tank would be. A single-burner, canister-fuel style stove augments a double sink with ample counter and cabinetry.

The walls are covered with interesting art, tapestries, colorful pieces of clothing. Shelves and window-sills are laden with beautiful glass bowls, vases, seashells and findings. Near the 12-foot ceiling, several strands of small, multi-colored LEDs criss-cross and encircle the room.

A magical place!

Ambivalence? Nahhhhh.

As I pulled back the sleeping bag to crawl in, I realized I'd forgotten the Wave 3, stored in a box atop the roof. At just over 7,000 feet (2,134m), at 8:30 p.m. on an early Spring evening in Central New Mexico, in my slip-on loafers, drawers and t-shirt, I unlashed the lashing, clambered atop the back bumper, plucked the seldom-used-but-essential oil-drain pan from between the boxes and after nonchalantly tossing it into the night, unlatched the cover, hoping the wind, now having subsided to a strong breeze rather than the gale it'd been, wouldn't damage the hinges as I grabbed at the pillow case that protects the device from dust and lofted it up, up and down, down, onto the spare tire whilst quickly closing and re-latching the box. (Take THAT, Herr Proust!).

It's these rare moments that prompt thots of a sliiiigghtly larger rig (with 4wd now essential). But, you know, I wonder: do the larger-vehiculated replace transmissions the way the rest of us replace tires?

I've seen it done. I met Rick on a mountain side where he was busy replacing the carpeting on his 20-foot trailer that carried the Mercedes. He said it'd been a 20-point turn to get the 36-foot Bounder turned around. I was so awestruck at the fact he'd managed the bus, I forgot to ask about the trailer. (See:  Tricky Ricky Rocks)


Another time, adjacent a more level area, I nearly fell over from the shock as a beast similar to Wheelin' It's trundled past on a dirt track barely wide enough for Phoebe. There're a few intrepids out here. Fortunately, they're far between as it's often a challenge to get past another pickup on our preferred roads.

So, I guess that settles it, at least for the time being.

But I met a woman the other day who'd traded her 2012 Toyo Tundra for a 2003 Tacoma in order to satisfy her desire for maneuverability. We had an enjoyable lunch whilst empathizing over the advantages of smallness.

While On the Subject

(See prev post about signs)


Only a FOOL would ignore something like this!!

I spent a good twenty minutes carefully inspecting the area between the sign and the intersection, then turned right. There were no further warnings so I assumed either I'd missed them (ignorance is bliss) or the sign, my chosen interpretation, meant only straight ahead...thus my availment of the junction. 

Call me Wuss if you like, but Phoebe adamantly opposed the idea of having Auto-Deploying grappling hooks installed. Touted as capable of stopping a rapid descent, assuming there's something to grab onto, they detect when the field of gravity makes a sudden change.

Her Nietzscheian fatalism (An attitude of resignation in the face of some future event or events which are thought to be inevitable.) can sometimes be a bit un-nerving, but compromises, as you know, are a requisite of even the most Platonic of relationships. (Of course, one could argue that sleeping inside a female, even a car, is about as un-Platonic as it gets!)

The Scenic Route to Magdalena

And they wonder why everyone ignores the signs.






First there's the benign green one you see all the time: Magdalena 42.

Then, a LARGE square yellow:

      29 MILES OF DIRT
TRUCKS AND TRAILERS 
SEEK ALTERNATE ROUTE


Over the next few miles are repeated warnings about


NARROW DIRT ROAD


and when the pavement is going to end. Just before every dip, there's the reminder to


WATCH FOR WASHOUTS.

Once in a while there's a "wiggly" to alert you to impending curvaceousness but the road, for the most part, follows the valley so there're none about FALLING ROCK.

Tomorrow I'll get a picture so you too can wonder at why people don't pay attention to their signs. It's one of the finest dirt roads I've been on. Granted, it's washboarded here and there and there are some bumpy spots. And there are a few "steep" hills, but to read the signs you'd think you were at risk for dropping off the edge of the earth.

There're quite a few areas of private land so you may want to reference this...


https://blm-egis.maps.arcgis.com/apps/webappviewer/index.html?id=6f0da4c7931440a8a80bfe20eddd7550



 before choosing a campsite.


But yuh gotta wonder....who are they trying to warn?





(I was camped a little north of Truth or Consequences when decided to go Northwest.)