Forth & Back...Colorado/Albuquerque

The trip to Colorado was cut short by rain. It started during the night while camped about 30 miles south of Farmington, New Mexico on the road to the Bisti Wilderness. The morning strutted the famous turquoise sky with some thin clouds on the horizon, but by 9:00 things had changed...those thin clouds had blown themselves up to all-encompassing proportions and were now heavy and gray. They were everywhere and after an hour of wandering around Farmington (enough to make anyone suicidal) I bowed to my intuition and headed back to Albuq. That was Sunday. The rain finally stopped yesterday (Tuesday).

The Plan is to depart on the first for the Windscape Kite Festival at Swift Current, Saskatchewan. In the meantime, I went to the U-Pull-It junkyard where I got lucky. 

The tale starts at 3:00 p.m. (gettin' hot) at the entrance to the yard. The young woman who takes yer money and stamps yer hand (like at a bar) directed me to the self-serve kiosk to find the location of desired vehicles. I'd gone online a few days earlier to make sure they had some vehicles but according to *this* unit there were none. I went to ask for a refund and instead she handed me a list; they were in the next-to-last row, a quarter of a mile away. (Mind you, 1/4 mile isn't that intimidating, but at 32 degrees celsius with armloads of junk it's a bit of a trek.)

An hour and a half later, sweating to rival Niagara, I'd morphed into a hoarding dragon. I had a radio, a practically-new driver's seat, window cranks WITH KNOBS and a variety of plastic thingies. Looping the hatch gasket (4m of rubber tubing) over my shoulder like a bandolier, I tucked stuff under my arms and clutching the rest, slogged to the front. They close at 4:30 and it was 4:20 when I presented myself to the cashier. She'd tabulated $75.00 when I realized I'd left the seat next to the car. She said they'd wait while I retrieved it. The line behind grew unruly as I inquired about where to leave my stuff. She warned that people might bother it if I left it there. Since I was now in physical danger, I stepped out of line and watched the toothless, howling horde surge forward. Eager to be home with their TeeVee(s), they practically threw the money at the cashier.

Roberta, Stan and Tasha

It was then I spied the young woman who'd stamped my hand two hours earlier. She was stocking the coke machine and with a quick shuffle I was at her side. In my best beseeching whine, a remnant from my panhandling days, I begged her assistance. Her gimlet eye prompted a self-assessment -- olde, unattractive and at her mercy. But she agreed, although I could tell it was "irregular" and an imposition. (I know this is tedious, but bear with me.)

I grabbed a wheelbarrow (courtesy conveyance) and blearing (sweat coursing off my brow) through the heat waves made the trudge forth & back. It was well past 4:30 when I returned but the pushers and shovers were gone. A quick inventory reassured me my stuff was still there. I pulled a $5.00 from my wallet and turned to begin my hunt for the coke-stocker when suddenly, she magically appeared. 
She wanted to know what it was for. 
I reminded her of my request to keep vigil. 
She feigned disdain. 
I demanded to know if she'd done the job. 
She admitted she had. 
After vociferously advising she "Just say thank you!!" she acquiesced. 

I then turned to the cashier, a different one than The Tabulator (see para above photo). Once again presenting my gleanings, she informed me she'd added them up while I was gone. And after deftly inserting the seat into her calculations, she announced the total: "$59.48."

As I scrambled to clear out, the parts did their damnedest to escape from under my elbows and fall from my arms, the coke-stocker enthusiastically wished me "Havva good day!" Her accompanying smile was a priceless treasure.

It's a fur piece from the junkyard to the residential area and the route passes by the University north golf course, a favorite walking place. As I approached a stop sign Roberta, Stan and Tasha rounded the corner. Hand-in-hand, obviously enamored of each other's company, their smiles glowing brighter than the day, I couldn't pass them up. They kindly agreed to be photographed.

You'd have to have been there to appreciate the cumulative effect: the spring in their step, the afternoon light, the satin highlights in her skirt, Stan's t-shirt and the incredible New Mexico sky. A splendid topping to a fine afternoon! Every once in a while "the city" manages to produce.

Spring Bloom - Grafton Wilderness, Nevada

I stopped in at the Grafton Wilderness for a couple of days on my southward-seeking-Spring odyssey.

When I first read about "Spring blooms" somehow, maybe from Arizona Highways Magazine, I created a vision of wide swaths, blossom carpets stretchin' out faar & wiide; bees buzzin' in drunken revel and Tiny Tim's yodel echoing off the verdant hills. Not quite like that...it's still pretty awesome (dood!).

Stalks, or whatever these are called, are, I've heard, important to identification.

Here's the flower (I can see Clleeeeaaaaarrrllyy now...it's fuzzy.)...

Some of these had more than one "bud."

This shot looks as if it could be from one of those hybrid marijuana catalogues, doesn't it? You didn't inhale?! Too bad.

The reality is a bit sparser (than blanketed carpets), but still some awesome specimens. Can anyone help with identification? I'm beginning, now at age 61, to relent to the idea that MAYBE I could call them something besides LPFs or LYFs (li'l purple or yellow flowers). 

A spurge? (at least it's in focus.)

I've dubbed these Teensy Reds. It probly won't hold up in the Long Branch Saloon (most violent bar in Riggins, Idaho if not ALL of Idaho), but I think Tiny would have been appreciative.

Teensy Reds up close....

This camera's (Olympus SP-600UZ) had a few scrapes over the years. The worst, from which it never really recovered, was when my belay slipped on my '09 ascent of Granite Dome and I fell on it.
Then there was The Chorus....

And the Yellow Star....

Another spurge?

The yellow ones.....

Some White Whatevers

The paintbrush were in profusion; a bouquet every 20 feet, at least. Amazing color even with overcast.

Salmon Falls Dam - 7 miles from Rogerson, Idaho

Be sure and stop at the Sinclair Station/Cafe/Store at Rogerson for some real food. The cafe also has tater-tots, but everyone was raving over the home-made roast beef. Unfortunately, I'd already had lunch. The Walleye Hall of Fame has some superb specimens and in the back there are photos of the dam before and during its uprising.

I had to walk it twice before driving. There's an inconspicuous sign that warns of a length limit of 60 feet, but it's obvious it's a challenge for shorter rigs; the sides of the abutments along the top have been scraped to the nub. Note The Egg perched on the "hill" to the right of the block house.

It's one lane atop the dam.

There's lots of dispersed camping beyond Lud Drexler Campground (the campground is on the south side of the dam). No water at the campground. 

Spring is just around the corner. This one flower was the lone harbinger at my camp (NOT in the campground).

It's blizzarding in Wells, NV with horizontal snow at 4:15 p.m. PDT. Wind gusts 40 knots. Who'd uh thunk? Southward ho!!

Kettle Falls, Idaho - Not a Xenophobe in Sight

Time to do laundry. 
When I asked how many quarters it took he explained how one dryer got hotter. His openness came as something of a surprise since, when I'd visited this part of the world before, folks seemed noticeably xenophobic; it turned out he'd done a stint in the military which often fosters an easy amiability. When you know you're going to move within a short amount of time, you make friends quickly, or not at all. 

While he folded sheets and pillow-cases I learned he'd grown up in California, been stationed in Clovis (NM) and Alaska, spent eleven years in the mill in Kettle Falls before returning to school to study massage. He's a Rolfing specialist and has been in business for three years. Thus, all the sheets. In addition, he's a watercolorist and his wife does ceramics. 

As he told his story he described how, at 18, he'd joined the Air Force hoping to travel. Vietnam was going strong and his Mom was opposed to him enlisting. Stationed at Clovis, New Mexico, he spent most of his time in the barracks and sent his pay home. His Dad had died when he was 12 and with two siblings his Mom needed the help.

When stationed near Seattle he and a buddy went into town and got a room. It turned out the buddy was dealing drugs and the cops showed up. They hauled them both in but Greg's sergeant knew he wasn't the type and got the Base Commander to get him out. The sergeant's help came as a surprise as he hadn't given Greg a clue that he was in such good standing. 

In those days a bust like that would have ruined Greg's military career. Listening to him tell it, I recalled the era, the violence and the lost lives. A friend spent four years in a Federal penitentiary for possession of two, thin joints. I was in Nashville, Tennessee when Stokely Carmichael spoke and I knew first-hand the validity of the race riots. I also demonstrated against the war. And now, over forty years later, it was heartening to be in the company of someone who'd come through it all, at least from what I heard, okay.

509-675-5572 or 509-675-5571

When I asked how he'd surmounted the world-famous American aversion to touch, Greg told me how the folks in this neck of the woods have to work for a living, the kind that caused Maynard G. Krebs's voice to break. Many incur injuries and when standard medical practices fail to alleviate the problem, people come to him. 

He described how a wife whose truck-driving husband had injured his shoulder led him by the hand and stood by while Greg rolfed him. The results were so impressive that word quickly spread and he's been busy ever since. (Mrs. Pritchett is a certified Rolfer as well.) 

While I was waiting for a dryer, Eggbert got a bath. The local chapter of Proud to Wear an Apron (PWA) was having a fund-raising car wash to send the girls to Texas to compete in the Nationals. They didn't respond when I inquired if they were taught birth-control, but the enthusiastic appreciation for my contribution begged the question: Were their attitudes developed through participation in the organization or did they choose to participate due to their attitudes?

Kettle Falls is something of a throw-back to the 60s with some contemporary twists. There's a good-sized organic foods and vitamin store where a woman in hiking boots, wearing a beaded cap and ankle-length skirt with a baby in a sling on her chest looked as if she'd just come from a Rainbow Gathering. Down the street, Kettle Falls Foods had, the evening before, held a grand-opening party to acquaint the community with the new owners, one of whom, who came out to dispense the propane, appeared to be of East Indian heritage. When I mentioned I'd bought out their stock of Sheaf Stout, he acknowledged his extensive selection of micro-brews. The times they are a chaaaaaannnnnnggggiinng...in spite of the xenophobes.

John Bardsley - Amazing Grace

It was hardly more than a huge turnaround for boat-trailers, but I was tired and decided to stay over in the one, small, camp-spot with fire-ring and tree. 

In the morning I spied the turquoise metro and HAD to go see wha'sup. He gets 49.1 miles per gallon.

John Bardsley played the bars in the '70s and '80s. He started with the guitar in his early 40s, then picked up the keyboard and lately had found a Suzuki Q Chord. Intrigued, I asked him if he'd give a demonstration. He sang half a dozen songs. I'm sorry I didn't record more.

John & Ginger

There were a few others sitting around the dock in the morning sunshine and a Springer Spaniel enjoying the water. You'd have to have been there to feel the spirit of it all, but the video hints at it. 

Grace, who, with her husband, was sitting nearby, pointed out that "We're never too old."

Post-mortem "Aha!"

After years of post-mortem (the death of the gallery) WORK!!! (said with Maynard's inflection), it arrived.

It was 1997. A Hispanic man in his early thirties came into the gallery. He and his wife had attained a level of financial status that she felt dictated the display of taste and affluence and, with that in mind, she'd sent him out to get a painting to go over the couch. 

He was drawn to a piece by Francine Tint (link to her website) a New York artist whose large, gestural swaths were of the kind that prompted the remark: "My kid could do that." The work ("work" is art jargon for painting), always modestly priced, was, in this case, a mere $1,200.00 for a five-foot by three-foot piece of frameless, unstretched canvas with frayed edges, no doubt torn from a larger segment.

He asked how he could justify something like that to his friends....they'd laugh.

At the time I was, poor salesman that I was, at a loss. But the other day -- I closed the gallery in '98 -- this video of a master archer clued me to the answer. (You may want to skip to 2:25.)  

While childrens' drawings often have a wonderful immediacy (see my drawing at bottom of post here), the combination of talent and skill that produces art is often the result of practice. But practice is a bit of a misnomer since most artists rarely repeat a performance. And when they do, they may be the only one aware of the subtle difference(s). My aesthetic, the motivation for the Aha!, has evolved over a decade. And over that time I've continually practiced looking.

Francine's "gestures" captured the beauty of a moment that is, for me, similar to the one prior to the archer's release. And while a child may stumble into the realm of timelessness, masters evoke it at will. 

You've heard the aphorism: Practice makes perfect? Some of Francine's were better than others, but as a talented adult she was able to do it more often than not.



There being no stores in the area, I stopped at a cabin for water. Rambo-the-cat very solicitously

greeted me saying,  "All cats are talented; and never practice." 

Unfortunately, the fee to view his art was more than I could afford. But had I been able, I wouldn't have cared if they had laughed. If you don't look, you're guaranteed not to see.

Why Don't We Do It In the Road?

Strolling the two-tracks near Bonaparte Lake I chanced upon a variety of scats, thereby proving they don't do it in "the woods." 


Elk?

Isn't this a great "location" shot?

The white inclusions in the pointed piece in the middle-top are bones.

Yet another kind....

The inspiration.