Notes: A short but steep and rocky ride to Officer Butte. Beautiful views of the valley and North Pine area. Mike K. was planning on riding at the fairgrounds but agreed to go on a short ride in the low hills instead. Drifter has almost outgrown his colt halter! He's getting big and retaining his inky black coat as he sheds off his winter hair.
Notes: I intended to take both horses today but Drifter has decided to play hard to catch. I put Jack on the other side of the trailer out of view thinking that would help me catch the little bugger. It didn't. I guess you can't blame the guy. The last time he willingly let me catch him, we threw him down and adjusted his attitude - aka: gelded him.
I'm too old to play games with a yearling full of piss and vinegar. If I have to play, I'm playing by my rules. I put the halter down and picked up one of Blakes heel ropes. I'm no team roper, but if that inky black little hellion had horns, I would have had him on the first throw. I got two good swings in and let it fly as he buzzed by going 9-0. I swear he knew exactly how long that rope was. The loop flew over his ears as I let loose of the coils in my left hand. There was a good 10 feet between me and the tail end of the rope as it settled over his ears and dropped on top of his nose. Crap. He didn't break stride...flipped his nose in the air and left 35 feet of four strand poly fiber in the dirt.
I'm retired. I can do this all day. I recoiled and kept him moving around the pasture. His circles got smaller and slower. I didn't want to swing and miss again. I waited until he ran himself into the covered lean-to. After catching his breath, he turned to dart back out. I didn't have room or time to swing overhand. I made a lucky back-handed swing that caught us both by surprise. I had no intentions of holding on to the rope...gloves or no gloves. I pulled just enough slack it wouldn't slip off and watched as a black blur of horseflesh found a couple more gears - the nylon rope flapping behind him.
Playing hard to get soon lost it's appeal. I guess he figured out if he wanted the rope off - I was his best bet. I reeled him in, haltered him and tied him next to Jack. I brushed him down, gave him a cookie and returned him to the pasture to sulk while Jack and I headed out for our ride.
I hauled down The Sag road and parked at the old dump. I remember coming here as a kid with my dad when it was still the actual dump site. To this day, I have a weird fondness for going to the dump. Back then - you could rummage through mountains of discarded trash looking for hidden treasures. Now, there are signs at most dumps: "NO SALVAGEING" - I don't get that. It's the ultimate in recycling and everyone is supposed to be all about recycling/repurposing, There's a lot I don't get about the world we live in today. Why should dump day be any different.
The old landfill has been filled in for the most part. A few scraps of metal here and there with the addition of the usual human tendency for trashing their surroundings. While I did my best to ignore the litter around me, ignoring the overly friendly man coming out of his camp trailer proved more difficult.
He was fishing, or would be, at the Sag. He'd pulled in the previously night at 11:00 PM. He had horses at one time..or maybe he borrowed them. Riding alone in the wilderness was something he enjoyed. He relished the solitude and silence experiencing nature solo provided. Really Dude...because you haven't stopped yapping since I unloaded my horses. I wasn't rude. I mostly nodded and agreed with an occasional half-ass attempt at a smile. He tried to approach Hank a couple of times. He has border collies - or had at one time. He wondered if Hank was like most border collies and bit everything that moved. I laughed and said not everything...he wasn't much of a cow dog. I refrained from telling him that Hank wouldn't bite anybody or anything. Still, Hank was more stand-off''ish with this person than I've seen.
Shortly after - another man arrived and set up a rifle target across the draw. I asked him which way he'd be shooting and told him I'd head out the other direction. He agreed that might be a good idea. I climbed aboard Jack and made a hasty retreat as the camper dudes attentions turned to the shooter guy.
We rode to the top overlooking the valley. A beautiful view...pictures would not do it justice. Growing up here - I've never appreciated how pretty this valley is. We ran into 6 or 8 curious elk. Too curious for my liking. They ran straight toward us. The bull was especially bold. I don't know anything about elk - but if a moo cow was coming at me with head held high and blowing snot - I'd get the heck out of dodge. I waived my arms and whistled until he cut off down the draw out of sight. The rest of the herd regrouped and did the same.
We started back after reaching the top. A group of ATV'ers were on their way up the steep climb. We passed at least 25 dirt bikes, side-by-sides and four wheelers. They must have rode in from town because other than yappy dudes camper, there wasn't another vehicle in sight.
Shooter man and yappy dude's vehicles were gone when I reached my truck and trailer. I unsaddled, Jack jumped in the trailer and we made our way back to town.
I've been working up an arena on my property here in Halfway. It's probably the rockiest patch of dirt this side of Craters of the Moon. Every pass with the disk, harrow or rock rake pulls up more rocks. Some of them the sized of three bowling balls. I think the only real solution is to have fill dirt hauled in. In the meantime, I've picked up every rock larger than a golf ball.
I haven't shot since winter in Arizona. I decided to set up a course on my rocky, no fence, dusty arena and give it a go. Jack was flawless, I hit every balloon and so far, the only pain and suffering is in every muscle in my body from picking up rocks for two weeks. I've embraced the fact that this arena will never be ideal ground for hauling ass and sliding stops. I don't do that anyway! It's good enough for loping around working on things other than speed. In the infamous words of my grandpa Emmet: It's good enough for who it's for."
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| Yet another arena rock. More like a boulder...ugh |
Notes: Felt good to be back in the saddle. Haven't ridden since I left for Arizona a few weeks ago. Jack is pretty fat and sassy but he did fine. Lost a shoe. Probably due to the wet pasture. Need to move them to dryer ground before their feet go to total shit.
Hank and Drifter chased each other over the Bear wallow hills and meadows like a couple of playful puppies. I guess they felt good to be out and about too.
5-2-2021: It's been exactly 7 days since I swore if God got me to Aquila with that unwieldy load of arena panels without killing anyone, I'd give up Margarita's for a week. God held up his end and I held up mine. When Grandov's asked where I wanted to go for lunch, I picked Nichols West in Congress. They make one of the best margarita's in the area. So good, in fact...I can't really remember what I had for lunch. I was glad Linda was driving – tequila might not make my clothes fall off...but it sure makes me forget where I put them.
5-3-2021: Fred and Cindy made huge progress on the horse pens/shelter. It looks like it's about ready for tin. It will be nice to have some shade to work under. Although the heat doesn't seem to bother either of them. They never seem to slow down.
I think the guys I hired to "locate" the water line were relieved I'd found and dug it up myself. All they need to do now is put in a junction box, a T and 2 valves. It's something I could do myself but would rather have somebody else to blame if anything goes south. I've learned the necessity of staying one step ahead of Murphy whenever feasible.
5-4-2021: My initial plan when moving to AZ was to put in a modular home and have contractors take care off all the permitting. After checking on the cost of them...I decided to wait it out and stay off the grid. Grandov's sent me the contact information of a guy who is delivering propane to the Aguila area: Tim with Freedom Propane.
Tim came out to check out where to put the propane tank. He brought his four year old son, Charlie, along for the ride. They don't get much cuter than little Charlie. He filled me in on how his aunt lets him ride her horses. He's not sure he really likes riding horses but he thinks maybe he will when he's bigger. He's getting bigger everyday and had a fun time on his last birthday. He likes blue otter pops and thanked me politely when I handed him one out of the freezer.
After Tim and Charlie left, I wandered back to the construction zone to help where I could. I helped Fred hoist sheets of tin on the roof so Cindy didn't have to climb up and down. That girl stayed on that hot roof the entire day. It's a good thing those two are partners – he couldn't afford her otherwise.
They say if you want it to rain, wash your car. Similar thing goes with wind and roofing. If you want the wind to blow – start hucking metal over your head onto a roof. We would no more than get a few sheets up on the roof when a Tasmanian dirt devil would start building and winding it's way straight toward us. One especially large twister had Cindy sprawled over three sheets of tin while Fred grabbed for two others trying to commit suicide over the roof edge. The dirt devil – unhappy with his foiled plans of wreaking havoc on the roofers – picked a single sheet of tin off the trailer – tossed it in the air and set it down on the ground beside the flatbed without a scratch. At least that's something.
I'm thinking I did not miss my calling by not becoming a roofer. Heaving heavy sheets of metal over your head requires muscles I didn't know existed. I preferred running the tractor. I'm definitely way better at tractor operation than hucking tin. Tractoring takes less muscle and Ibuprofen at the end of the day.
5-6-2021: I decided to give Fred and Cindy a break from my self-perceived helpfulness. Fearing I'm more in the way than actually providing any real semblance of "help" – I try to limit my assistance to cleaning up scrap pipe ends, holding down things that shouldn't move, moving things that should and attaching myself to the dumb end of the tape measure. Enter: Cousin Phil.
I had messaged Cousin Phil and asked if he was still in AZ or headed North. He responded that he was in town for a few more days. Phil had moved south with his daughter and son in law. They live just up the road in Forepaugh. With most of the Snowbirds gone, I had guessed right by assuming he was bored and ready to do some exploring. I invited him to check out Vulture City;. A restored old mining town built in 1863 and touted as Arizona's richest gold mine. Current day – Vulture City can be found featured on paranormal TV shows such as: Haunted Case Files.
This was my third trip to Vulture City. The restoration has progressed nicely with each visit. I see something different each time. We didn't see any ghosts– but I did spot the biggest lizard I've seen outside of The Yucatan Peninsula: A Gila Monster. Not the most attractive creature on the planet but kind of cool looking all the same. After spotting my Gila Monster – I heard on the radio that Gila sightings...normally very rare - are occurring with more frequency as of late. Some cultures believe increased Gila sightings mean the monsoon's will be strong! I sure hope so – it's drier than a popcorn fart out there.
By the time Phil and I got back to Aguila – the mare motel was complete. It might be the most beautiful thing I've seen since Gerard Butler in 300. Well...maybe not Leonidas beautiful...but nice all the same.
After watching the structure go up each day, I knew it was well built and square to a gnats ass. That was no surprise. What made me smile was finishing touches like the horse shoe gate latches and halter hooks. My horses may not appreciate the time and skill Fred and Cindy put into that thing – but I certainly do. I know they will be safe, secure and comfortable and that means more to me than all the Spartans in Greece.
My home is not written on a property tax bill. My home is not where I mow the lawn or park the car. My home is in the high desert – it’s in the mountains and the cool, crisp mornings on a high mountain lake. It is in the oddly shaped rock formations that resemble giant stone faces. My home is my children and my grandchildren. Home resides within my friends. It is where my critters roam. Ultimately, my home will be in heaven – until that time, I will carry them all in my heart.
Apparently - Google analytics is doing away with the email subscription portion of their feed burner service. This is the portion that sends you an email notifying you of new blog posts.
I searched far and wide for a replacement. I settled on Feedio. I will be transitioning my blog subscribers over to Feedio by importing the active email subscribers into Feedio.
The new post notifications will come from:
Feedio Email Subscription: Subscriptions@feedio.com
The email will look something like this:
Hank and I pulled into the Prickly Paw Ranch (Crandall's) without losing a single panel. There is a God. I don't know what that load weighed, but it felt like 4000 lbs. lifting off my shoulders. I stepped out of the pickup and would have kissed the ground if I weren't too sore to kneel down.
There wasn't a sole within 20 acres. Most of the residence had gone home for the summer. A haunting wind blew across the still desert swirling dust at my feet. The sound came straight out of a ghost town scene from an old western. I made it home.
I took my flat bed over to my new property to unhook. It was a day early of closing but I figured nobody would care (or know). I would be running back into town and didn't want to unhook more than once. The cup a noodles left me somewhere out of Vegas and the Coyote Den was calling.
Cindy had left my new-to-me RV set up like a fancy hotel room. I didn't bring much with me in the way of setting up a place to live for the next few weeks; some clothes – a toothbrush, a pot and a tea mug. Cindy either knows me better than I realized or the RV fairy was looking out for me. Most everything I would need to get by magically appeared. After living in an 8 foot short wall for two winters – the RV feels like the Hilton.
I set things up as best I could for Hank and I and drove down to the Coyote. I mistook the big pink CLOSED sign as meaning it was closed now. I did not have it in me to drive another 25 miles to Wickenburg. I swung into the Family Dollar store and stocked up on enough food to get me by until I could do some real shopping. I was more than relieved when the Dollar Store clerk assured me the Coyote was not closed down for the summer.
I made the bed up with the freshly washed sheets Cindy left and cracked the windows by my head. A cool cross breeze lulled me to sleep within minutes. I was out like a light.
4-26-2021: I was awake by 5:00 AM with the same giddy grin I'd fallen asleep with. Fred and Cindy, the contractors working on my mare motel, arrived by 6:15 AM. We scoped out the property for the best place to place it. We settled on a 6 stall – single sided straight run oriented North and South. Fred babbled off all sorts of technical construction jargon that went directly over my head. Sorry...if it doesn't come with a microchip and a mouse...I'm clueless. I deferred to their expertise. All I care is my horses are safe – comfortable and there's enough room I can park Miss Kitty and hay under cover when it rains.
I still had to unload the arena panels. I fired up Dave's tractor and attached my pallet forks to the front. I had no plan on how I was going to go about getting those things off. I figured I'd loosen one side and sixty four – 10 foot panels would fly off there like they were shot out of a canon. Here goes nothing.
Cindy stopped what she was doing and ran over to help. There is a God. We got the first five down and placed along the fence before Fred came over: "Let's fill those forks up – it won't take as many trips." I'm use to Miss Kitty...she can only handle six panels at a time without teetering over on her bosom. Dave's tractor is a bit beefier than Miss Kitty and easily handles 10 or more panels. I've named Dave's tractor Quint after Burt Reynold's character on Gunsmoke.
By mid-morning, the panels were unloaded and construction started on the mare motel. Shortly after, I received a text from the Arizona Legends Realty. The property had officially closed and deeded in my name. I was now the owner. I didn't mention that I'd already broke ground a bit early. Something about asking forgiveness later.
With everything lined out – I made a food run into the Coyote. I placed a massive to-go order that would last several days. I was ecstatic to find the same little gal waitressing. I still couldn't stop grinning as I blabbed on and on about how I lived here now and was looking forward to becoming an Arizonian and hanging out with my peeps. I'd really missed the Coyote. She nodded politely as she pretended to listen to my senseless prattle. I kind of wanted to give her a hug...not really, but if I were the hugy type – I would have done it. I re-read the big pink CLOSED sign: We will be CLOSED May 1st – May 4th. I'd best head in to Wickenburg for some shopping or I was going to be awful hungry come May 5th.
I spent the next few days settling in, running errands and helping Fred and Cindy where I could. Sort of. Mostly I just got in the way and dropped stuff on Fred's foot. Dang...that pipe is heavy! Watching them work together is like watching a finely tuned machine. They seem to anticipate the others next move...efficient and seamless.
4-29-2021: Most of the acreages in this area come with a water right to a shared well. My water comes from the shared well sitting on Crandall's property – along with five other shares. Dave showed me approximately where to hook in to pull my water line before I left earlier this winter. Approximate is anywhere from one to forty feet. That's a lot of digging if you don't hit it the first time.
I borrowed Fred's divining rods in hopes of narrowing it down. The rods hit in the same spot coming and going and from several angles. The spot seemed to line up with the water line going to the neighbors as well as the angle of the well...sort of. You can make anything look right in your head if you want to justify something bad enough. "Well...it sort of looks like they dug a trench through those bushes over there."
I marked out a 10 foot swath and started digging. You have to dig by hand so you don't break the pipe should you be digging in the right spot. I needn't have bothered. I dug three feet down and ten feet wide...no water line. So much for my divining skills. I have a hard time giving up...but I did not want to start another ten foot trench and miss it again. I had enough digging for one day. I headed over to see if Fred needed anything dropped on his toes.
Cindy had an appointment out of town. Fred had enlisted the help of a man named Kimball. I think Cindy said he was somewhere around 80 years old. His age only matters to bring home a point later in today's story. Basically – I got shown up by an 80 year old, chain smoking man on a tractor.
Each day I learn something new about this construction business. The word of the day was "purlins." Kimball put the purlins in the air using the tractor. From ladders – I'd help flip them upright and hold them in place while Fred welded.
It was all good until the fourth purling or so. At first I thought it was my blood sugar taking a dive...but as time went on and it got worse – it felt different than low blood sugar. I felt nauseous and light headed. I was ok once I was on the ground – but as soon as I got up on the ladder it would hit. I had to put my head down to keep from passing out. Low blood sugar wouldn't improve by getting off the ladder. I wobbled over to Kimball on the tractor and said I needed to sit down for a bit. Telling an 80 year old who'd been out in the sun hours longer than you that you needed to take a break is a bit humbling.
I sat down and leaned against the side-by-side to see if it would pass. It did not. I did not want to keel over in front of these people. I managed to get up and make my way back to the RV...stopping several times to put my head down to keep from falling over. Good hell.
More than likely I wasn't acclimated to the heat yet. That and I pretty much hate ladders. I'm not affraid of heights – but I don't like being on the top rung of a ladder. Whatever it was – it passed after an hour or so. I was able to head back out and finish the day...albeit slow and steady.
4-30-2021: Cindy and Fred helped me stake out an area for an arena. I settled on placing it between the two major washes on the property. It's far enough from the RV not to be effected by the dust and there won't be as much brush to clear. My hope is too leave as much of the natural vegetation as possible. Unless it's cholla...that nasty shit is going down.
Today is also the day I learned the value of a light weight long sleeve shirt and the siesta! The long sleeve shirt is to prevent folks speaking to me in languages I don't understand. I've always tanned easy...more so in the Arizona sun.
I made a run to Goodwill in Wickenburg to purchased the shirts since the Aguila Tuesday flea-market is shutdown for the summer. Pretty sad about that – but Goodwill is almost as much fun...almost. I walked away with three shirts, 9 DVD movies and a Clive Cussler book.
Fred and Cindy were winding down when I got back. It was the hottest day since I got to Aguila. I took advantage of the down time to watch a movie and take a nap, apparently. The nap wasn't exactly planned but now I understand why some cultures practice siesta. The are smart. It's too damn hot. You wake up at 4:00AM to beat the heat...sleep during the hot hours of the day and stay up late enjoying the cooler evenings. Smart.
The downside to falling asleep in the middle of the day is waking up groggy as hell. Fearing I'd slept the day away...I leapt off the couch in preparation to stumble outside and do something productive with the hour or so left of daylight.
Still half groggy – I swing open the door and stop dead in my tracks. A man stood with his back to me in the vicinity of the breaker box. I blinked thinking I was seeing something. I was groggy...after all. The man milled around by the breaker box before walking over toward Cindy's she-shed. He wore blue jeans – a long sleeve, untucked white shirt and a large brimmed cowboy hat of sorts. He hadn't seem me yet. I stepped back inside, slipped my pistol in my pocket and grabbed my phone...ready to dial 911. They'd probably want to know when somebody's been shot, right?
I could not fathom what this person was doing or where he came from. Other than Fred and Cindy – I hadn't seen a soul...the place had been a ghost town since I arrived. There was no vehicle …he was on foot. Fred and Cindy were gone. By then, he spotted me. He took a few steps toward me before turning away and ambling about.
I couldn't just shut the door and hope he went away. I'd have to find out what he was doing and what his intentions were. If he just disappeared I'd be freaked out the rest of my stay wondering if he was out there lurking about.
I've heard that if you are faced with a situation like this – you should take the aggressive approach...make eye contact and confront the potential threat. I had no intentions of getting close enough to this potential threat to determine his eye color. I kept one hand on my pistol and my phone in the other and bound off the steps: "Can I help you with something?" He asked if I was living here...I didn't answer. I asked again if he needed something. He started walking toward me. When he reached the gate, I asked him not to come any farther. His expression was puzzled.
He asked me a few more questions I didn't answer...but with each question it began to dawn on me he knew Dave and Cindy. I asked him his name: "Clyde." I almost shot the neighbor! Turns out, Clyde was as bewildered about my presence on the place as I was him. We'd met before...but not close enough to pick the other out of a crowd. Nervous prater flowed until our heart rates slowed and rational conversation took over.
Turns out – the whole ordeal was a blessing in disguise. At least for me. Clyde owns a trencher he said I could use once I found my water line. "Man, I'm sure glad I didn't shoot before I asked your name." He said he was, too.
5-1-2021: Had the day off from construction since Fred was away at a roping. I dug on the 10' trench a bit more before determining it was futile. I needed and plan B and text Dave as much. He came up with several valid suggestions. I text back that my suggestion fell more in the lines of planting this shovel between the ears of whoever put this damn thing in and making them dig it up.
Dave gave up the name of the person who put the line in: Ike. I sent him a text and prayed he'd remember. After several messages back and forth – I had at least a semi-educated guess. "Three to five feet over from the breaker box...or maybe the transformer...straight back...or maybe at an angle. Probably straight back at the start and then angles off." Piece of cake. Can't wait to start digging again. Maybe I'll hire somebody.
Ike was beyond helpful. He seemed to sense my frustration and gave the contact info for a crew that would help locate and dig up the water line. I called the contact and made arrangements. He would send his crew out Monday morning to take a look.
5-2-2021: Monday was a whole 24 hours away. Patience does not come natural to me. Neither does quitting. I grabbed a shovel for one more shot at it. I studied the area using bits and pieces of Ike's recollection. I picked a 5 foot swath to start digging. I figured I had that much left in me. I'd dig down 4-6 inches with the shovel and then use the tractor to clean out the dirt...then back to the shovel for another 4-six inches.
Twenty inches down and to the south most edge of the trench, my shovel hit pay-dirt. I couldn't have been more happy if that gleaming white section of PVC pipe was solid gold. Bonanza!!
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4-24-2021 – evening: By the time I hit Ely and drove through downtown construction...weaving in and out of cones too narrow for a 1 ton pulling a 25 ft. Flatbed – hitting every pothole in White Pine County and more than once jumping a poorly placed curb – the panels again had rearranged themselves in a kitty-whampus fashion. My GPS had no idea where the Holiday Inn Express was actually located. It took me to an entirely different hotel. A hotel that instilled fear in the hearts of women traveling solo everywhere. Hank and I would sleep in the truck first.
The panels leaned more precariously with every pothole we hit....and we hit every one. You could not avoid them. I finally spotted The Holiday Inn Express sign on our third attempt through pothole alley. I'd already wiped out 1/3 of the construction cones...what's a few more. I violated a one-way and bounced over another curb before landing in the nearest parking available...two blocks from the hotel.
The clerk at the front desk suggested I move my trailer to the casino parking lot across the street. The Holiday Inn owned the property and they could keep an eye on it. The spot I'd parked in was owned by an individual obviously distraught with the city of Ely as indicated by the vulgar signage bordering the property.
I checked into my room and returned to the pickup to repark it. Half of the ties were loose...one came completely unhooked. The panels leaned 45° degrees and stressed the 2x4's. They looked like they would snap at the slightest touch. The thought crossed my mind to leave the damn thing parked where it was in hopes somebody would steal the whole thing. Problem solved.
I'd come this far, might as well see it through to the end. I set about retying the load. I climbed up the sides – on top and everywhere in between. I could not right it nearly as good without another person. I figured if I couldn't balance it properly – I'd suck the thing down so tight it couldn't catch a breath if it had been a barrel withered pack mule.
Satisfied that I could do no better – Hank I returned to the room. I was hungry enough to eat Hank's Purina One. I'd have to find something within walking distance. There was no way I was moving that trailer through Ely unless it was to view it from the rearview mirror on my way out. I walked over to the Prospector Casino where I'd parked. The line to the restaurant was a mile and a half long...at least. My patience had run out somewhere between Hollister and Ely's pothole alley. I turned to leave and spotted a casino staffer manning a complimentary popcorn machine. I complimented him, grabbed a bag and shot out the casino doors before security new what hit them. I could see the headlines: Popcorn bandit strikes again...call 1-800 crime-stoppers for more information.
I like popcorn...but it did little to satisfy hunger pains. I hit up the hotel vending machine for 2 packages of cup a noodles, a container of macaroni and cheese and an ice tea. The lady at the front desk would not take cash. She asked if I wanted it added to my hotel tab. After receiving the hotel bill, I know why. There is no way a sane person would pay that much for a cup of dried up noodles laden with MSG. Whatever. I downed the macaroni and one cup of noodles and stashed the other in my suitcase for later...much later. Like the second coming or the zombie apocalypse maybe.
4-25-2021: Hank and I woke bright and early. I wanted to get on the road with the least amount of traffic if possible. The less traffic – the less chance of killing someone with a flying 10 foot arena panel to their windshield.
I stopped every hour to tighten the straps and check the dually tires. Randy put the fear of Les Schwab in me about duals going flat and you don't know it. Swell...something else to worry about. I'd pull over at a wide spot – beat each tire with a cheater bar to make sure it was inflated and check each strap. I cranked them to the max...needed or not. I feared I'd ratcheted them down to the point of bending them unusable. I'd crawl back into the truck – pull into traffic and pray: Dear God...get me to Aquila without killing anyone and I swear I will give up margarita's for a week.
There's one thing about pulling an extra long, unwieldy contraption that looks as if it's load will spew forth heavy metal panels at any moment: you pretty much have the freeway to yourself. Nobody wants to get close enough they might get a section of shooting arena through their windshield. The drive through Vegas was like a Sunday drive through the park.
My trusty Dodge pulled the flatbed over Hoover Dam like it wasn't there. Once we were passed the rough roads out of Kingman, I began to breath more easily. The load hadn't budged since Ely. If it hadn't fallen off by now, it wasn't likely too.
Somewhere between Kingman and Aguila (I can't remember exactly where now) the road detoured around a wreck that was causing significant delay's. What the hell...I'd made it this far...I might as well explore a new area. At times I questioned the decision to take the detour. The road was windy, narrow and seemed to lead in the opposite direction I needed to go.
Just when you think it can't get any weirder...a white pickup driving on the edge of the road coming toward us passed slowly by dragging a dead cow tied to his hitch by a rope. A string of fellow detouree's had the same expression as I had: You are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone.
Next stop: Aguila. We're home, Hank!
I don't know where to begin. I realize I'd best start journaling again or I'm going to forget this roller coaster of an adventure. I would start at the beginning but I'm not sure where that is! I guess it really began two years ago on my first snowbird adventure to Arizona. From the sighting of my first saguaro to the first breath of the arid Sonoran air I knew...I would someday call Arizona home.
Selling out and moving one thousand miles was a big step. Knowing I can be impulsive at times – I put myself in check by telling myself I'd spend another winter in Arizona before making the decision to move. My second winter as a snowbird confirmed what I had known in my heart. Aguila Arizona is my home.
I had been calling a five acre lot across from Crandall's, "my property" since I first came south. Again, not wanting to be impulsive and jumping at the first acreage I came across, I spent my second year snowbirding exploring much of the mid to southern half of Arizona from Prescott to Tombstone.
It is unlikely Aguila will make the most desirable places to live list any time soon. However, for me, it holds an inexplicable charm that feels more like home than any place I've lived in the past.
It was time to shit or get off the pot. I'd been sitting on the fence for too long. I'd been debating selling my place in Weiser almost from the day I bought it. My neighbor put it best when he said I've had one foot out the door since he met me. My neighbor. How could I leave the only reason I stayed as long as I did? The single hardest part of selling out would be leaving him.
Cindy put me in contact with the owners, Steve and Linda Grandov. The couple are full time residence of Arizona and live just up the road from Crandall's and "my property." They had bought the property for an investment and would be willing to sell it. Linda and Steve picked me up in their side-by-side for a tour of the acreage and to discuss specifics. I liked them right off. They accepted my offer and we agreed on terms to tie up the property until my place in Idaho sold.
The day after accepting my offer – I drove into Wickenburg for a Tractor Supply run. Donna Gill walked out of the store as I walked in. Call it fate, call it coincidence...I don't know. Donna is a realtor licensed in Idaho and Oregon. We actually worked together cutting hair years ago. She was likely a lot better at it than I was but probably didn't like doing it any more than I did. Now a punchy cowgirl in the cutting horse arena, Donna makes her living as a no-nonsence...get 'er done realtor.
Donna didn't blink an eye when I rambled off how I think I just bought a piece of property in Aguila and needed to sell my Idaho place as soon as possible. Long story short: We listed my place on Wednesday (actually my birthday) and accepted an offer the following Saturday. From there, a roller coaster of inspections, appraisals and escalation clauses that had me baffled, ensued. Donna assured me that the prospective buyers were the best/easiest buyers she has dealt with in 15 years. Idaho is the number one moved into state in the union. Property is getting darn near impossible to find. Theses buyers wanted my place and were willing to overcome any obstacle to get it.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't have trepidations about this move. Leaving Idaho – leaving my neighbor – summering in Halfway Oregon, the little town I grew up in. Living in Oregon period. I had no qualms about the Arizona end of things. It felt right from the get-go. Aguila was home. I just had to figure out how to get there. Clicking my heals three times and chanting "there's no place like home...there's no place like home," only works for girls named Dorothy with shaggy little dogs.
In the midst of all this...I manage to get myself into a relationship. And no...not with my horse. It's a whole story all in itself. To keep it as short as possible – the nutshell version: His name is Randy. He went to school with my sister and is a couple years her senior. My son tried to set Randy up with my sister. She was having none of it and would not hang out with him unless I went along. My sister made it clear she was perfectly happy being footloose and fancy free. My son then gave up on his aunt and gave my number to Randy. Like my sister – I am perfectly happy being footloose and fancy free. I pretty much suck at relationships. Randy doesn't ride horses and has no interest in them what-so-ever. He likes to ride motorcycles and fish..neither of which I have any interest in what-so-ever. He is nothing like what I would have imagined myself with....and for some reason, it just works. He's kind...we can talk about anything and he makes me laugh. It just works. I won't try to figure it out. There is no need.
So...now I'm selling my home of 21 years and leaving the state I love...moving part time to a state and a town that makes me break out in hives...buying property in Arizona AND starting a relationship with an actual human being. What could go wrong?
For the most part, I think I'm handling it all pretty well. I do, however, have my meltdowns. One in particular comes to mind. "Where the FUCK is my garbage can?" Yeah. My garbage can. I'd gone back to Idaho to move my contents and get the place ready for the new owners. During the listing, the cleaning ladyI hired to spiff up the joint for pictures had moved my garbage can into the garage. Or so she said. I looked. The garbage can was no where to be seen. I suppose I was tired. Randy and I had driven in from Alamo and I was too amped to relax. Not being able to chill and wait until morning to start this new adventure...I buzzed around the house cleaning, packing and looking for my damn garbage can. I looked everywhere including places it could not possibly be: Every room in the house, the garage, the pump house...upstairs...downstairs and in the crawl space....because you never know what them sneaky damn cleaning ladies are up to.
I fought back the tears. I hate to cry in front of people. I felt Randy wouldn't understand. He would take it personally. They always do. I was, I am...scared shitless of these sudden changes in my life. I consider myself always up for an adventure but involving others in those adventures is another thing entirely. My professionally cleaned house seemed to mock me with it's spit polished walls and streak free shine. I spotted a small piece of trash. I grasped it off the floor and wadded it in my fist in preparation to toss it into the garbage can. The garbage can that was nowhere to be seen. "Where the FUCK is my garbage can!" The tears could have filled that can if only I could find it.
I messaged my neighbor. He would know where that stupid trash can run off too. He had moved it down to his place on trash pickup day. Of course he did. He was always looking out for me. From the big things like being there when I lost my dad to removing a smelly garbage from the noses of potential buyers.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of boxes, moving dolly's and packing tape. I don't consider myself a hoarder but I definitely have more shit than any one person needs. By the time it was over, I had donated, given away or tossed out over two thirds of 50+ years of accumulation. By the fourth trip, the guys at the dump were picking through my trailer before I backed it into the household dump bay.
The new owners gave me one week after closing to be out. I was out three days before closing. My horses where the last thing I moved. Randy, with the help of a couple of his buddies, had prepared a place for them by building fence, installing gates and clearing out a small shed I get to use as a tack room.
Meltdown number two was about to occur as I wandered around Randy's house wondering how in the hell I was ever going to feel like I belonged here. Dead fish and animal mounts hanging on the wall stared lifelessly back at me....daring me to break down. I stared back at them...feeling nearly as lifeless inside. I don't think I can do this. I've lived alone too long. Randy seemed to sense my anxiety. I'm guessing the tears streaming down my face were somewhat of a giveaway. "Baby...I'm taking all that off the walls and moving it to a man cave. You do whatever you want with this house. I want you to make it your home." My home. Where was my home? Would any place feel like home to me?
One of the things I like about Randy is I tell him exactly what I am feeling and so far he hasn't given up on me. I don't want there to be any question as to the kind of freak I am. I've told him from the get-go what being in a relationship with me is like. I require more space and alone time than the most respectable of hermits. I will not lose my identity or independence for anything or anyone. My animals are more than pets to me. They are my family...my friends and my responsibility. A human can take care of themselves – our animal friends depend on us for everything. That is a responsibility I do not take lightly.
I am no good at relationships. Period. It's not like they teach that sort of thing in school. Or if they did – I was likely daydreaming about how to escape the playground and runaway to the mountains to live with my horse and my dog.
I've tried, but my MO is always the same. Everything goes hunky-dory for a bit and one of two things happen. The guy tells me he doesn't like the shoes I'm wearing or I wake up feeling like a hippopotamus is sitting on my chest and I can't breath. That's when I break and run.
As I tell this all to Randy, he just sort of grins...tells me he thinks my shoes are fine and he won't have time to be smothering me because he'll be too busy fishing on the river in his boat. I can live with that and he's an awesome cook too boot.
I'm not going to pretend as if I'll someday wake up and magically call Halfway home..but I am getting more comfortable there with each day. I've met a lot of Randy's friends and they have gone out of their way to include me. Most of them ride...which is a huge plus – and even if they didn't...they are a good group of people I am excited to call my friends as well.
True to Randy's word – I've made a few adjustments to his home. I've tried to do so without erasing him completely. It's about compromise, I suppose. That's not something I've had to do for like....ever, actually. But, I'm finding that I don't need to feel like Halfway is my home in order to be happy there. As long as Randy can put up with my quirky, hermit-like tendencies – I'm ok with calling Halfway my summer home.
With the selling of my Idaho place complete and funded, we moved up closing on the Aguila property. I wanted to get started on it before the summer heat made it unbearable. I bought a shipping container to store stuff I wouldn't be using in Halfway, traded my four wheeler to the new owners for my arena and purchased a flatbed to haul it all.
With April 26th as the closing date, I made arrangements to meet with the contractor that will build a mare motel on my property. He wanted to start as early as possible in order to finish before the real heat sets in and he heads back to Montana. I'd leave for Arizona as soon as the flatbed I'd purchased was available for pickup.
The flatbed was quarantined to be ready by the 23rd. That would cut everything pretty close and I'd be struggling to get to Arizona before closing. I was relieved when Quality Trailer called to say my trailer was in and ready for pickup four days ahead of schedule. On April 19th, Randy and I made a quick trip to Caldwell to pick up the trailer and haul it to Weiser for it's first load: my portable arena.
It wasn't strange at all meeting the new owners of the Idaho property. It didn't bother me in the least to see other folks moving in...which surprised me some. I guess it confirmed that I'd never really grown attached to it. They loved the place. My "TRUMP 2020 – NO MORE BULLSHIT" flag still blew in the breeze.
The entire arena of 63 panels and three gates fit on the flatbed with enough room for my forks on the back. I'd need them on Dave's tractor in Aguila to unload them once I got there. Randy and Kort strapped things down from every which angle. Pulling the load didn't feel much different than pulling my LQ...other than expecting everything to come unwound and scatter panels from Weiser to Halfway. We arrived in Halfway without losing so much as a bungie.
I would have liked to leave for Arizona sooner but had made an appointment with the mobile vet to cut Drifter on the 22nd. I also new that Shade would not be making the trip with me. At 13 years old, she was deteriorating more each day. She could not stand up on the slick flooring in Randy's house. She needed me to help her up and down the steps. Some mornings she needed help getting her backend under her just to get up and off the porch. Lifting her in and out of the pickup had gotten to the point where it hurt her. Yet still...she always wanted to go. I could not bare to see her watching Hank and I go about life while she struggled to keep us in sight. Because that is what she always did...kept us in sight and kept us safe. It was her job and she did it well.
There is so much more to Shade's story than this paragraph. So much more than I am capable of writing at this time. For now, suffice it to say that on April 22nd, I held 100 pounds of pure devotion in my arms as she took her last breath. Afterwards, I took her body to Tami's for cremation and got the hell out of Halfway and have not looked back.
On Friday, April 23rd, Hank and I left for Arizona with my arena, tractor forks and a tote full of Dewalt cordless tools. We drove as far as Twin Falls and spent the night with my daughter and family. Athena already had plans to be out of town before she new I was coming. We were able to visit a couple hours before she left me with the kids. We had a fun night of brownies, popcorn and a movie.
4-24-2021: I was in no great hurry Saturday morning. I'd be staying the night in Ely ...a short 4 hour drive from Twin. Pete planned to take the kids to a lake outside of Hollister. I followed with the intention of hanging out with them before heading on to Ely. We spent maybe 5 minutes at the lake before the wind blew us back to the trucks. To hell with this shit...I'm from Arizona! I don't do cold!
We stopped in Hollister for lunch and thank goodness we did. My arena panels had shifted and leaned precariously to one side...breaking off one of the 2x4 stays. Peter loosened the straps while I stayed with the kids. After eating, it took both of us to reposition the load. Pete added another half dozen or so straps and tightened everything as much as possible. Surely that will hold until Aguila! It did not...
