Painted Desert Project - Pumphouse

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An Upload on Chip Thomas's Youtube Channel
             (uploaded Nov 13, 2017)

Beware the ditch at the bottom of the hill.

That poster is *adhered.* It's fully-seated in the grout lines. As a collector, my ambivalence was intense; maybe with time I COULD get it off. I consoled myself with a quote from my therapist, "Handling ambivalence is a sign of maturity."

Notice the word hor (lined through) between pump and house.

DETAIL

Above: I spent some time driving around Tuba City and asking folks, but couldn't find the work mentioned: Step on JR's House. 




Location:

N 35.95443 degrees W 111.39668 degrees


For those who prefer feet:

N 35 degrees 57.266' W 111 degrees 23.800'


For them what uses odometer:

About 6.5 miles N of Cameron on east side of highway 89. 

Ah Well

Fortunately, the Flagstaff library is in a residential area so when I turned in front of the oncoming truck he was going slow and able to brake. There was a noteworthy scuff on the bumper of the State Parks Ram 2500, but he, the Parks Supervisor, was fine.


All bandaged up, but we won't be getting out that way anymore.

Takes a licking and STILL runs down the freeway just fine. We're gonna have to do a little body-work though. The rear fender flange rubs the tire on the bumps.


I'm a tad shook, but otherwise okay.  

At least it isn't snowing yet. They were predicting snow down to the 7,000 foot level for this evening, but for now...check out that sunshine! 

Trees! or Old Fool!

There was a time when I'd lope off into the woods, hike all day and come back to the car at sunset. Once, in the ponderosa and cinder fields near Bend, Oregon, I discovered I'd gone in a circle. Another time in the piney woods near Los Alamos (New Mexico, USA), I came to a promontory overlooking  some hills and mesas I didn't recognize. There was a momentary sense of panic, but I ignored it. I arrived back at the car just as the sun was sinking.

In my youth I traipsed the high, thin trails of the Salmon River Wilderness (now credited to Frank Church). One time though, when camped near a road, I went to the creek about 300 feet away to get water. Returning, I was surprised when I came out on the road; I thought I was going back to camp. The road was straight and closely bounded by very same-looking trees; I had no idea which way camp was. It was getting dark and the camp wasn't right on the road. It was a 50-50 deal.   

At some point (years later) I realized my luck had run out. I broke down and bought a GPS. Of course, electronics come with the requirement of carrying an extra set of batteries...maybe even TWO sets. And if I'm gonna carry something, I might as well take a flashlight, rain poncho and some water. I keep a pack with all this stuff, including the kitchen sink, ready to go.

But there's nothing like an old fool. And so, every now and then I think I'll just follow the road/trail a little ways and see where it goes. Each time I've gotten lost. This time, in the pinyon-juniper west of Cameron, Arizona, I was surprised at how quickly the panic set in. It was interesting, much different from the deliberations on self-deliverance (See: EXIT International) that sometimes accompany tho'ts of age and infirmity. It's a matter of control, I surmised.

As I strolled along, checking to see if I was getting thirsty yet, I recalled an essay in High Country News (great magazine!!) by a guy who lived in Alaska. He told of how whenever the conversation waned he'd blurt out "I'm from Alaska!" and everyone'd be awestruck. He acknowledged how pretty it is, but said he never ventured far from the bike path. He had no interest in encountering grizzlies, wolves or other predators; he was, he said, perfectly content to enjoy it from the safety of the street. 

My encounters with wildlife have always been numinous, but I've never gotten over the time I had to climb down a mountain to get to the creek at the bottom. It's been nearly fifty years and to this day "Ah alwayz filz up muh jugs."

I soon found the road I'd driven in on. I carefully marked the two-track I'd taken from the stream (where I'd gone to get water) and went in the direction I thought likely. Luck was with me. 

Upon arrival I paid obeisance to the GPS...and promised it I'd never go off and leave it again. 

Old fool!


Eggbert (1999 3-cylinder, Geo Metro) amongst the trees...

Gray Mountain, Arizona

At the south end of Gray Mountain on the east side there're four tanks. They're a canvas that changes regularly. 



NORTH SIDE

DETAIL OF ONE AT LEFT 

SOUTH SIDE

DETAIL

ACROSS THE STREET IS ANOTHER WORK BY THE SAME ARTIST

EAST END

MIDDLE

DETAIL




WEST END

DETAIL

OTHER SIDE

ATTACHED BUILDING

THE EAST-END (the image above is on the "front" of the shack at right)

Jerome....again!!!

I had to make a second run. As I was exiting the car, Mme Mandette was strolling by with Josephine, the dog. She and her husband have been here 38 years. They had a gallery in New York, but commuting was tedious. When they arrived there was nothing.



It's the Anderson-Mandette Gallery. Anderson is her husband; he's from Phoenix; she's from France...Bordeaux, I think she said. The gallery is in one of the Old High School buildings.

A raku mask by Mme. Mandette

Mme Mandette...with watercolor cat picture. The title of the red book under its paw is Law.

Some things found in one of the other buildings (of the old school)






Early Anxieties?

This small piece is about 3 inches tall and five wide.

Cover for the art issue of Trailer Life?

This one had its own title. 

Sycamore Canyon, Cottonwood, Arizona

Nearly every direction out of Cottonwood, Arizona leads to public land. 

Sycamore Creek flows into the Verde River a 1/2 mile to the left

The Arizona Central runs out of Clarkdale and goes to Verde Canyon. On its way it passes near the road to Sycamore Canyon. 

I was smitten by this fuzzy, purple-flowered bush...

Shade

There were times on acid when the soughing of trees told me of things never imagined. Over the decades I've come to enjoy the near-silent whispers of the grasses. But as the sun moves northward and higher in the sky, I sometimes wish there were one or two about.

Although it was a bit early, I thought to brandish the martini shaker. The cup is about a 6-ouncer, by Homer Laughlin the makers of Fiestaware (closeup here -- scroll to end).

With some adjustments it might double as a water collector.