Notes: Random short rides behind my property. Blessed to be able to saddle up at the spur of the moment and ride out our back gate onto State Trust Land. It's the best way for me to unwind/de-stress and hopefully get away from the human factor. I've decided I am not cut out for public consumption. There are times when it's best for all concerned when I get my hermit on. Looking forward to longer hours of daylight.
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| Growing into his tack |
Notes: Worked with Drifter in the arena and round corral over at Crandall's. Took him for our first solo ride in the desert. He walks out really nice and didn't act buddy or barn sour even with Jack back at the barn talking to him.
Notes: Took a nice afternoon ride. Headed south beyond the power line to see if I could meet up with Blair and Cheri - already up on the mountain. I did not run into them but I found some cool rock formations and finally came upon their tracks on my way back off the mountain. Pretty rocky up that high but nothing Jack the mountain goat couldn't handle. Beautiful day...beautiful ride.
Merry Christmas Mrs. Godwin
You would think for as much as I write, a Christmas letter would be a breeze. It isn't. Not counting the occasional obituary, it is by far the hardest piece of writing for me to undertake. One: It is too structured. It almost feels like an “assignment” to me. I don't do assignments. I've been out of school for more years than I care to think about and assignments went out the window the day I graduated. Truth be told...probably long before I graduated. I gave up on formal education the day my first grade teacher spanked me on the first day of school. Her name was Mrs. Godwin. Yep...remember it like yesterday. I never went to kindergarten, so first grade was the first experience of being caged in a structured environment where daydreaming was considered the devils thoughts and the inability to sit still an equally demonic possession. Mrs. Godwin was not an educator...she was an exorcist.
One box of Kleenex ruined public school for the next 12 years. That fateful box of Kleenex sat perched on the edge of Mrs. Godwin's desk begging to be utilized. This may have literally been my first day of school....but I remember the school supply list and it contained several boxes of Kleenex. Kleenex bought and paid for with my parents hard earned dollars. As far as I was concerned, that box of Kleenex she was hording could very well have been mine...and I needed one!
I approached the desk...which to the shyest kid ever born...was difficult enough. I willed myself into invisibility and plucked a Kleenex. One would not do. I wasn't born with one of those cute little perky noses they compare with “a button.” I inherited my dads nose. A real nose...one that sits prominent and proud against my face and leaks like a broken faucet. I pulled another...and another. Mrs. Godwin, in perfectly pressed lace blouse buttoned to the neck and with pious tone: “That will be quite enough, Laurel.”
Of course she called me by my birth name. I freaking hated that name. I don't answer to it now and I didn't answer to it then. I stared at her...my hand hoovering over the next Kleenex primed to be plucked from the box. She stared back. “Sit down, Laurel.” There it was again. She was mocking me. I never took my eyes off hers. Slowly my hand descended upon the Kleenex...the soft tissue of rebellion sandwiched between thumb and forefinger. And then, like some force from the universe sent to test my resolve against that of Mrs Godwin's...the Kleenexes linked together in a train of 2-ply insurrection. I couldn't stop it if I tried.
She was on me faster than a priest can utter: “begone ye Satan.” She grabbed my arm with one hand, jerked me around and swatted my fanny with the other: “SIT. DOWN. NOW!”
My mom asked me that night how I liked my first day of school. I replied: “I hate it. My teacher beats me and I ain't ever going back.”
And that my friends, has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. However, it brings me to the second reason I don't do well with Christmas letters: A tendency to digress as I write. I can't seem to keep on track with one theme. By the time I've finished with this Christmas letter, it will be 14 pages long and have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.
The third reason I don't write Christmas letters is: you've heard it all before. I am a blogger and I write most every day in some form or another. They say a writer should write what they know best. I know very little about some things and nothing at all about everything else. In spite of that, I do have some in-depth knowledge of my own life. Consequently, my life is primarily what I blog about. If you subscribe to my blog or happen to be on Facebook...you've likely heard it all before. It actually gets to feeling a bit narcissistic. Hence the tendency to digress out of my own life story into those of fiction, poems or what have you. Therefore, in an attempt to write under 14 pages, stay on track and not bore you with page after page of narcissism...the remainder of this years Christmas letter will be a short(ish) summary of the years happenings. And here we go....
I spent the summer months on my property in Halfway Oregon. I go north for the summer only because living off the grid in an RV through an Arizona summer would be insanity. I suffer from a lot of things...insanity is not yet one of them.
I basically live off the grid during my time in Halfway as well. My property does not have power, water or septic. I park my tiny living quarters trailer close enough to my Grannies old place (now inhabited by renter Bob) that I can hook into water. I don't try to hook into the power as it would likely take down the entire Pine Valley Grid. I run off solar and generators. I travel in my LQ enough that I dump the septic on my way out of town. It works.
I crossed fence the property this year to separate the horses from the main entry. Trying to pull in and out without them escaping through the gate was a pain in the butt. Digging holes for the fence posts was an even bigger pain in the butt. I used moms tractor and auger when I could. You can use the auger on the first four inches of topsoil before resorting to digger bar, shovel and lots of swearing. Living in an area referred to as “boulder flat” gives you an idea of just how much swearing. On the upside – digging and setting over 2 dozen RR ties negates the need for joining a gym. One the downside – once the fence was up, I discovered I could no longer turn “Big Red,” the water truck, around without taking out my newly built fence, round corral and Grannies house. I sadly put the old girl up for sale. She is now fighting fires in Sparta Oregon where she began over 40 years ago. You will be missed Big Red.
When not digging holes or picking rocks – I spent time in the back-country on horseback. Through friends Lee and Susan Barton's familiarity of the country – I was able to explore areas that were in my back yard growing up but never had the chance to experience. I look forward to next summer doing more of the same.
I left Oregon and headed for home (Aguila AZ) in September. I had left my colt, Drifter, in central Oregon at Lauman Training for 60 days. I left for Madras to pick him up the first week of September. From Madras, I drove to Emmett Idaho and helped with our Idaho Mounted Shooters USMS shoot. From there, we hauled to Heber Utah for another USMS shoot. I left my Idaho friends in Heber and continued on to Moab Utah. Taking this long route through Utah broke up the over 1666 mile trip from Oregon to Arizona. I arrived in Aguila September 10th.
September days in Arizona are hot but not unbearable. The nights are what get you. It does not cool off much. I lucked out with the summer not being as hot this year. It was a great monsoon season. I'm told the most rain in over 30 years and among the highest on record. I spent more than one monsoon standing barefoot in the downpours watching the washes fill thigh deep. It was pretty awesome to experience.
I started the process of having a home put on my property. To say it is a long process is the understatement of the century. A century is about what it takes, too. Maricopa county, the fourth largest county in the US, has no idea it has a population existing outside of Phoenix. The permitting process is a nightmare. It can take years from start to finish. My nightly prayers now include asking God for a house before assisted living becomes a viable option. The powers-that-be estimate my house to be delivered in December and move-in-ready by April. It is now December. In place of a house, I have three gaping perk holes waiting to be inspected for a septic. The holes are a good 15 feet deep and rapidly filling up with dead Kangaroo Rats. If a Kangaroo Rat can't climb out of something..nothing can. Suffice it to say, they make me nervous. I'm constantly worried the dogs or horses will fall in. I've also stopped drinking fireball after dark.
Recently, a surveyor came out and did a topographical survey for the permitting approval. It does you no good to call for an update. In the unlikely event someone gets back to you...they tell you nothing. “It's a big county – they don't like to come all the way from Phoenix.” “It's COVID. We can't get materials.” We are short staffed.” Blah blah blah.” I've learned patience and to embrace homelessness.
I will be pleasantly surprised if my house is indeed live-in-ready by April. I hate to be a pessimist, but you don't have to live in this county long to get a sense of how things are done. In the meantime, my horses have a nice shade run, my arena has great footing and I didn't have to pick a single rock to get it that way. My RV is like living in the Hilton compared to an 8' short-wall. I have running water (most of the time) – a generator that keeps the lights on and even runs a washer machine so my mom doesn't have to do my laundry. Life on El Rancho Gitana del Desierto could be a whole lot worse.
Not having a house to care for affords me more time for the important things in life: My critters. There is no lack of mounted shooting events in these parts. You can easily enter a competition every weekend. I've personally cut down traveling due to the cost of fuel. I try to enter shoots within a 100 miles radius. There are enough local clubs within that radius putting on jackpots with various formats to keep a balloon killer content.
Jack is my rock. He's not made a wrong step this year in mounted shooting. We often bring home a check and have just one qualified win left to move up to a SL4. I think he appreciates the high fuel prices and is content to roam the mountains and deserts instead of an arena. I would agree.
Drifter, my colt, is coming along nicely. He's young yet, (won't turn three until the end of May) so I don't overdo it with him. We take short rides in the desert and play in the arena from time to time. Friends have let me push cows on him at their arena. Nothing seems to bother him much. He's super smooth and willing to do just about anything I've asked of him so far. He is a blast to ride and I am anxious to get out and put more miles on him.
The main reason I bought this property is it borders State Land. I can literally ride out my back gate onto acres and acres of public land. It is a wanderers paradise. I spend more time out there in the desert on foot or horseback than I do at home. A dream long time coming...but a dream come true.
I acquired a new dog. He showed up at my place shortly after we got here. He was starving, dehydrated and beat all to hell. I've never seen a dog in as bad of shape and survive...but survive he did. Nobody claimed him, so I have claimed him for as long as he wants to be here. I've never seen a dog quite like him so I had DNA run on him. He is a Dogo Argentino...which is a mix of breeds including boxer, pit-bull, mastiff and some bulldog. The vet agreed that he is probably 2 years old. I call him Groot. He's a bit of a mystery. I don't know where he come from or how he found us...but I'm mighty glad he did.
Hank is doing well. He's slowed down some but still goes with me everywhere whether on foot or horseback. He guards the perimeter on the lookout for coyotes. He hates them coyotes. He tolerates Groot. Some mornings he'll even play with him as they chase each other around the 5 acres like a couple of pups.
Most mornings the dogs and I head out on a walk. I take my pistol, pocket knife and a bota bag of water. I've also began to take a backpack for carrying the many desert treasures that can be found. From old bottles to tin cans....the desert floor is a plethora of hidden artifacts from the past. To me, every glass bottle and steel can, with its rough edges pried open with a hunting knife, has a story to tell.
This year I made a goal to expand my horizons and do things other than ride my horses. I know...it's hard to believe, but they tell me there is more to life than living it on horseback. I'm still not convinced, but I will give it the old college try. I've ventured out and explored new areas throughout this state I call home. I monitor several Arizona adventure Facebook pages that give me ideas of places to check out. I've visited a lake, a few abandoned mines and watched a local theater group put on a skit at Vulture City...a restored ghost town. Most recently, I attended a George Straight concert. I made it through the performance without hyperventilating from claustrophobia. NEVER have I seen so many people in one building. It will likely be my last concert of that size. It was a good concert, George is, well, the king and all...but I'll stick with my future ex husband Dave Stamey. Old Troubadours and Amarillo by Morning can't hold a candle to the likes of Lincoln County or Campfire Waltz.
Last year about this time, The All Mighty decided it was time I went to Church. Through a series of unforeseen circumstances, He gently tossed me through the doors of The Bible Church of Aquila. The tiny congregation consists of 6 to 25 members. Six to Twelve on most days. On a good day, when the snowbirds and guest speakers are in town, we cram a good 25 souls in the pews with room to spare. I would guess the average age of it's members to be between 70 and 80. Pastor Dan himself is 94. I can no longer imagine not being a part of this little Church family.
So...that's pretty much it in a mesquite bean. As I wait for a real house to appear...I ride, I shoot, I hike and I explore. I attend Church fairly regular. I might miss a Sunday if there is a shoot scheduled but I think God understands. Most mounted shooting events that fall on a Sunday provide Cowboy Church. Besides – I can't think of a better place to be nearest to God than in His wide open creation on the back of a buckskin horse.
Merry Christmas to each and everyone....and Merry Christmas to you too, Mrs. Godwin
Laurie – Jack – Drifter – Hank and Groot
PS: A link to my blog should you like to subscribe: https://thesagewriter.blogspot.com/
I do post a link to some of my blogs on Facebook...but not all.
Notes: Hauled out Eagle Eye Road to Tiger Wash and rode east down an old two track. Not sure where it would have ended up....an old road to Tonopah maybe? While checking Tonopah out, I see it is home of the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant - the largest power producer in the country. Kind of cool...as long as it doesn't explode I guess.
I rode Drifter. He did awesome. This is the longest ride under saddle for him. His feet held up great.
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| Phil and Tank |
Notes: Finally made it to the corrals! I rode Drifter (no shoes) so hauled to the public access point to avoid twelve miles of rocky terrain. The ride from the spot we unloaded is only a couple miles from the corrals. I need to look into getting boots for him until he gets his first set of shoes. He has nice feet, but the rocks out here are sharp and plentiful.
The corrals were occupied with weanling calves. One had escaped so we put it back in and rode on up a ways. By the time we rode back by the corrals, the ranchers were there dropping off more calves. Not the friendliest duo. Maybe they saw our tracks milling around putting the calf back in and thought we were nosing around where we don't belong. Hard telling. I find some folks are just naturally sour.
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| Cindy and Jimmy |
Life isn't always an adventure. Nor should it be. I have found that often, it is the ordinary day to day moments that have a surprising impact on our emotions. Or maybe I'm simply getting old and sentimental. Regardless – I have those profound, yet seemingly, “ordinary” moments more often as the years progress.
I've been back home in Arizona for awhile now. I can't tell you exactly how long – as time means little to me since retirement. I seldom know what day of the week it is and can often be found in the wrong month entirely. The only real concern with time I have is there isn't enough of it and we waste a hell of a lot of it.
(August 28th – Sept: 2nd.) Much the same as when I left Arizona to go north for the summer – I took my time coming back. I backtracked to central Oregon and picked up my two year old colt, Drifter, from the trainer. I'd left him with Kitty Lauman (Lauman Training) for two months to be started. Kitty would prefer for colts to be at minimum two and a half before starting them. I gave her my very saddest, pleading face with the explanation that I was heading south and wouldn't be back for at least a year. I don't trust anyone else. I'm too old to be starting colts. She had done an amazing job with my already messed up gelding and I knew she would do a great job on a colt with a clean slate. I've drug him with me everywhere since I got him at 8 months but purposely did not try to “train” on him myself for fear of screwing him up. Whether I was convincing or I just wore her down, Kitty agreed. She'd take him and put 60 days basic start on him.
I arrived at the Lauman ranch the end of August and camped in my usual spot by the Lone Pine Rangers arena. Kitty spent two days showing me how to continue with Drifter once I got him home. I took videos of everything I could think of so I would not forget. I might put more miles than most on my horses– but I do not claim to be a trainer by any right. I grew up climbing on any horse that would get close enough to the fence for me to mount and rode from sun up to sun down. None of this “collection, balance and softness” you hear so much about. Most every horse I've owned had a neck stiff as a 2x4 and two speeds: Slow as molasses leaving the barn and 9-0 headed back to it. I want better for Drifter.
I left Kitty's on an early afternoon. I tossed the lead rope over Drifters back and asked him to load up. He hopped into the trailer with little hesitation. I may not be the next Monte Roberts...but my horses load and unload with the best of them. Joy surged through my being with that one simple act of stepping into the trailer; our journey as partners had begun. A simple toss of the lead...a single step up...an ordinary moment.
With my critter pack once again complete, Jack, Drifter, Hank and I headed for Idaho. We would stay at Dan and Teri's in Emmett for a few days before following them to the Heber Utah two day shoot September 7th and 8th.
The Utah folks put on a wonderful shoot. They do everything in their power to throw money at you. If you don't bring home a check, it's your own damn fault. Jack and I didn't impress them much...however, we didn't get skunked either. We managed to win money in the 4D, a clean shooter check and placed 4th overall in the 4D. With our 60 bucks and a bag full of Farnam swag, we bade farewell to our Idaho friends and pointed the rig toward Moab Utah.
My intent was to break up the 1666+ mile route. I had stayed at the Old Spanish trail arena in Moab on my way north last year. Moab to Aguila's 8 hour drive would be the longest leg of the trip; doable for driver and critters.
The Old Spanish Trail Arena sets aside a bank of stalls and a few RV hookups especially for horse folk traveling through. The host assured me I was welcome to stay as long as I would like. My original thought was to stay in Moab until the Arizona nights cooled down some. As tired as I was, I contemplated staying for a week. The contemplation quickly passed. Anxious to get home, I woke fresh and ready to pull out of Moab by 6:00 AM the following morning, September 10th. I know this time frame only by researching photos, emails and calendar entries. Again...time eludes me. Unless your waiting in line next to the smelly guy that hasn't yet had his annual bath or grasped the concept of personal space...time goes way too fast.
Upon arriving home, I went about the business of unpacking my LQ into the RV and setting up my property. It takes longer than you might expect. There is hay to unload and suppliers to contact for the year to come. Wells, pumps and water lines that require constant maintenance. Generators, batteries, propane and air conditioners to keep running so we don't evaporate in the hot Arizona sun. What little downtime I manage to squeeze out of the day is spent swapping rides between two horses. It was one such span of free time that I found myself at the horses turnout with a halter in each hand. There was nothing broke that needed fixing...nothing pressing that needed built, maintained or remodeled. No hay to stack, ditches to dig or fence to repair. The biggest decision facing me in that moment was “which horse should I ride today?” The grin spreading across my face matched the giddiness in my heart. “Which horse should I ride today?” An ordinary moment.
We were as settled in as we could get. I looked forward to attending church Sunday mornings. I've never been the church going type. I believe in God and in Jesus. I believe in Heaven and I know how to get there. I've simply never been comfortable in church. Apparently God figured it was damn time that changed when He tossed me through the doors of the Bible Church of Aguila; one ordinary event after another.
Last year about this time, my favorite little cafe here in Aguila fell on hard times. The death of the husband/father left the family to run the business and fight the county to keep the doors open. The roof needed repair and the property maintained or the county was going to impose exuberant daily fines on the family business. The locals would not hear of it. One thing led to another and I found myself setting up a Go fund me Page to help raise money to save the Coyote Den. I've never been involved with crowd-funding before but I am comfortable enough with computers to figure it out. What I'm not comfortable with is handling other peoples money. I would not do it unless the money filtered through a trustworthy church: Enter: The Bible Church of Aguila and Pastor Dan.
I made first contact with Pastor Dan through email. He agreed to meet with me and help set up the Go Fund Me page. Through those email correspondence, I would have sworn I was dealing with a 30 to 40 year old computer savvy nerd with a heart for God. Pastor Dan agreed to meet me “after church” one Sunday...but I was “sure welcome to come for service as well.” A simple...ordinary suggestion.
I stood before ornately engraved doors of a picturesque south west style iglesia. It doesn't get more quaint than this little church building. I've not walked in to many churches...let alone one whose Pastor or people I knew nothing about. I took a deep breath, confirmed it was a cloudless day with zero percent likelihood of being struck by lightening and stepped over the threshold.
I was immediately made to feel welcome by Pastor Dan and the congregation. After the service, Pastor Dan dismissed the congregation and escorted me to the fellowship room to begin work on the Go Fund Me. Pastor Dan: A 93 year old man with bright, intelligent eyes and a booming voice. He speaks three languages, has written numerous books including those on theology and prophesies. He's lived all over the world, almost died at least nine times and always sports a MAGA baseball cap as he stands behind the pulpit leading his congregation in worship. At 120 pounds soaking wet, this unassuming man is anything but ordinary.
I could write a lengthy blog on the little Bible Church of Aguila and it's tiny congregation of outwardly “ordinary” people. I will save that for another time. I will focus on one particular member. His name is Otto.
From what I gather, nobody really knows the complete story of Otto. You see him around town peddling a bike between Aguila and Wickenburg. I met him during my first attendance at the churches fellowship meal following services. He filled his plate and sat at the end of one of the tables alone. I brought my plate over and asked if he minded if I sat down across from him. I don't remember him telling me I could – but he didn't object, either. I sat down across from him. I'm OK with silence. He didn't have to strike up a conversation if he didn't want to. It's kind of like horses and dogs. Some people feel they need to run up and start petting every horse and dog they come up to regardless how the horse or dog may feel about being mauled at the time. If Otto didn't want to talk – so be it.
I didn't yet know his name. I decided to break the silence and ask. At first, he didn't answer. He looked up at me for an uncomfortable length of time through brilliant blue eyes behind bushy brows and a mass of wild, unruly gray hair. OK. I get it. You don't have to tell me your name. I went back to eating my lunch of fried chicken, green beans and sweat potatoes.
Five minutes later, one word: “Otto.” His voice caught me by surprise. “What?” “Otto...my name is Otto.” “Nice to meet you. I'm Laurie.” We sat again in silence awhile longer. Without any particular prompting..Otto began to talk. “Do you know what the most consumed food was during the war?” (I don't remember what war he was referring too, but I think it was WW2) “I do not” I said. “Sweet Potatoes.” He said. I said I liked sweet potatoes. He said he liked them too. From there – Otto was a fountain of information regarding Germany, their culture...the war, their history and the like. He didn't stop talking until the meal was over. I was mesmerized by the plethora of information coming from this man sitting across from me in ordinary, tattered clothing. Here was this person who has likely been over-looked as a local staple of the town...riding his bike from wherever to who-knows-where...now sitting across the table; a virtual encyclopedia of interesting facts; and I got the privilege of listening to him and learning at least a small part of his story. All because of one plain, simple and quite ordinary sweet potato.
Zipping forward again to the present. It was September 14th. Hank and I had been home for several days and needed groceries and other necessities. We had spent the day in Wickenburg shopping and running errands. I'm not a great shopper. Tired and hungry, I was looking forward to heating up the leftovers from lunch I carried in a to-go box from The Cowboy Cooking: Hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and brown gravy; just about my favorite food.
I started to step out of the truck when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It's the middle of September...there won't be another soul within The Rancho Vaquero subdivision until at least November. I don't mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy the solitude...however, I can be a tad “alert.” If I were a horse, they would say I was “watchy.” I slid back in my seat to be on the safe side.
The movement came from under my RV in the form of a large, emaciated white dog. He had found Hanks water bucket. I kept the door between him and me as he cautiously came into view before slipping under the fence outside my property. I am not afraid of dogs, but I have a healthy respect for a stray that's starving and I know nothing about. I approached the fence with the to-go box of leftover lunch. The dog never took his eyes off me. I talked to him: “Hey pup...I bet you are hungry. How about some Cowboy Cooking? Please don't rip my throat out.” I slipped the food under the fence. For a dog that had to be about as hungry as one can get – he waited until I backed away from the fence before helping himself to the food.
I decided to leave him alone and see what happens. I went about unloading the groceries and told Hank to leave him be. After some time, he crawled back through the fence and laid down under the RV. I got him a dish of Hanks food and set it out for him. He politely ate while I finished chores. I sat down on the steps and watched as he finished the first real meal he'd likely had in weeks. He then walked up to where I sat...got as close as he could get and put his broad head in my lap and closed his eyes. I wasn't sure if I should pet him. To be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted to pet him. He wasn't exactly the easiest thing to look at. Emaciated with a loose, wrinkly white skin and open sores from top to bottom. He looked like the love child of Gollum from Lord of the Rings and a hairless cat.
I figured if he was still here by morning and hadn't ripped my throat out, I'd attend to his wounds and see if anyone was missing a dog. I snapped a picture of him and posted it on Aguila's News and Information Facebook page. A few posters said they had seen him around town the last couple of weeks...but nobody claimed him. I cleaned up his wounds, helped him up the stairs he couldn't yet navigate on his own and let him sleep inside. I would give it two weeks. If he was still here after two weeks, I'd take him to the vet for shots and have him altered. I named him Groot.
The neutering was a bit of an ordeal. The incision site got severely infected partly due to not having an e-collar...of which I had no idea what the hell that was...and partly, I believe – to him being in poor health. He had dropped what little weight I'd manage to put on him after the surgery. We'd have to start from square one.
Slowly but surely, the passing days showed improvement. His backbone less pronounced...his hips and eye sockets less sunken. His coat was starting to take on a softer feel and crisper white. He seldom leaves my side, sleeps on the couch and insists on keeping at least one paw touching me at all times.
One day during our morning walk in the desert, I was sitting on a mesquite stump daydreaming. A cold, wet nose nudged me back to reality. Groot's cold...wet nose.
An ordinary thing...a dogs cold, wet nose. However, it was not ordinary to me. Here was a dog I wasn't sure would live to the end of a week or stick around if he did. Yet – here he sat...as close as he could possibly get to me, broad head pushed against my chest, one paw on my leg and a cold, wet nose signifying health and vitality. Such an ordinary thing to bring such extraordinary joy.
I've been home now going on three months. Folks have commented that I haven't been blogging much. The first thing that comes to mind when confronted with this statement is shock that anyone reads them. Blogging is a form of journaling for me. I am not good with dates and sequences of events. Blogging allows me the ability to recollect events, adventures and life in general as it pertains to my world. It's not that my life has ceased to travel along the wavelength of time...but rather in respect to the life and times here on El Rancho Gitana del Desierto ...things are fairly stagnant. I have been on hold waiting for the county to approve permits before construction can be made on my house. A real house. A house with constant power, hot and cold running water and flushing toilets and everything! Simply put, I've felt said life has not been “blog worthy.”
As I ponder this self proclaimed utterance of life not being “blog worthy,” I come to the realization this statement is harsh and unfair to the seemingly ordinary events that happen in the world. After all – these ordinary moments far exceed the extraordinary...I would surmise to say by the zillions 10 fold. The uniqueness of an individual desert blossom. The contrasting swirls of color in a sandy wash after a summer monsoon. A delicate birds nest perfectly secured within the fortress of a cholla. The musky remnants of odor left behind by nocturnal creatures roaming the desert floor. Good people gathered together in prayer. Blue cornflower Corning Ware containing fellowship meals prepared by ordinary people with extraordinary hearts. An abandoned stray, who from here forward, will know nothing but love and acceptance. A cold-wet nose...and sweet potatoes.
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| Cheri - Me - Slick and our desert treasure |
Notes: Today was pilfer in the desert day. Blair and Cheri took us on a ride to the base of the Harquahala mountain range to a developed game waterer and an old mine. So far I cannot find the name of the mine. We milled around looking for cool desert treasures to pack home. Cheri packed a nice, intact kerosene can home tied to the back of Sprout and few other treasures. I found an old bottle with the metal lid still attached and a jar with its metal lid with what appears to be tobacco or coffee inside. Blair thinks is an old spit jar...but I'm going with coffee or un-regurgitated tobacco. I doubt any old minor would bother with spitting into a jar. Pretty sure they hock it right on the ground anywhere they happen to be.
It's pretty rocky up in the desert hills - but worth every step.
Notes: We took the colts out. We rode west - south west and looped back around behind Silver Bit arena to expose the colts to all the goings on over there. They are building a new cook shack. Drifter payed no attention to the jack-hammering and ratcheting going on. We rode around the arena and out the back through all sorts of horse eating obstacles: trailers, old tires, piles of metal fencing and other desert flotsam and jetsam. Drifter doesn't seem to spook at anything. I hope he stays that way and definitely hope that if the day comes he does find something to spook at, he doesn't break in half and face plant me.
We rode back the short distance on the road. I left Cheri and Blair at our crossroad and Drifter and I rode on home. This was our first solo ride ...albeit a short one of 200 yards to the tack shed...but it felt good just the same. I don't think I'd be afraid to ride him out alone anymore. He seems pretty solid.
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| (r-l) Holly - Dan - Blair - Cheri - Blair's monument - Slick |
Notes: A pretty fabulous Thanksgiving any which way you look at it. I turned out of the Tombstone shoot and stayed home and fed for Crandall's. Cheri and Blair Philippi invited me to their place for turkey dinner. They are my nearest neighbors to the southwest.
Holly Conti was down from Oklahoma for a visit and her and Dan P. joined us for a great smoked turkey dinner. I made an attempt at my first pie cooked in an RV propane oven. I figured it would need all the help it could get so I threw in a couple shots of fireball and tossed it in the oven. It turned out
After dinner we saddled up and took Holly and Dan on a tour of the state land behind our places. We took them around Burro Canyon and up the ridge to Blair's monument. Blair built the monument out of rock from atop the hill. I'm not sure what it's a monument too...but it's pretty cool. I added a couple rocks to the top and held my breath it didn't topple the thing over.
One of the best Turkey Day's ever.
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| Me and Holly |
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Notes: Quick ride after a great shooting practice.
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| Headed south toward the corrals |
Notes: Well, I almost made it. I have been wanting to ride to the "corrals" that are supposed to be tucked back in Dushy canyon against the Harquahala Mountains. Today I got about as close to getting to them without actually getting to them as you can get!
I was going today come hell or high water. My original plan was to ride Jack and pony Drifter and possibly ride Drifter back. It's pretty rocky in spots and Drifter is still barefoot so I opted to leave him behind. Besides - ponying can sometimes get you in trouble and since I was going alone, I figured why push it.
Two days ago, Jack was stove up pretty bad. I laid him off and gave him butte and by morning he was back to normal. He has a scrape on his right knee so I can only assume he and Drifter got to playing and Jack biffed it, pulled something or who knows what. Anyway - by the time I saddled up for this ride he was traveling back to his normal self.
I've never been to the corrals but from what I gather, it's about 5 or 6 miles from my place. Jack and I and the dogs headed straight for Burro Canyon cross country to cut off as many miles as possible. It gets fairly rocky in spots - Jack didn't have any trouble navigating the rocky terrain.
We rode west down the power line road until we came to a wire gate. We'd already been close to 5
The only person I could think to call that would know where to find me was Dave C. I never thought about getting a trailer in to pick us up. I suggest he jump on his side-by-side and bring Jack's boots to wear out. Dave said he knew were I was and would bring his trailer to haul us out. I was to meet him where the road I was on meets highway 60. I sent him a pin to my location just in case...
Normally, Jack's feet are good enough that he could have easily gone out barefoot. Since his ordeal last year, I'm not taking any chances. I walked him to highway 60 just as Dave pulled in. I think the dogs were more happy than Jack to not have to walk 7 miles back out.
I pulled up basecamp on my GPS when I got home. I was no more than 300 yards from the corrals. We will make it another day.
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| The cavalry has arrived! |
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| Drifter didn't seem to notice he was packing saddle bags for the first time |
Notes: Well..this was an interesting mix of horses and miles. Cindy started out to ride her little bay Jimmy and I intended to ride Jack first - and Drifter later in the day. Jack was gimping pretty bad and wasn't getting any better after a mile in. I took him back, gave him some butte and rode Jimmy for Cindy so she could ride Bugsy, her coming 4 year old. We rode about 8 miles. As soon as we got back, I grabbed a bite to eat, saddled Drifter and rode with Phil for another five miles. Drifter was feeling pretty spunky, but still did really well. The new hay we got is pretty rich and hot. I'm pretty sure I over-fed and may be part of what Jack's problem was. He also has a scrapped up knee that's a little swollen - so it's hard to tell. By the time I turned him out he was a lot better. Hoping/praying it's a temporary thing and he will be back at it in a day or two.
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Notes: A quick ride after a stressful day. I opted to go solo so I could get out of a walk and let my horse run for awhile.
On the way back, I reached down to get my phone and found the leather case was ripped open and no phone. It was close to dark. Thankfully, Jack backtracks pretty much his exact steps and we found it in the middle of the trail just before the sun set.
Hank stayed behind because his back had been bothering him. He gets stove up once in a while. He is fine now and back to normal.
I took a cool picture of the full moon since it was dark when I found my camera...but I deleted it so I'm posting a picture of this really yummy chicken I cooked instead. Actually, it's a Cornish game hen. Air Fryer Rotisserie is the bomb.
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| Cindy and Bugsy |
Notes: Crandall's are back for the winter. Cindy brought her new 4 year old palomino she calls Bugsy. I rode Jack so she could take her colt out on a ride outside of the arena. He did really good.
They call me: Roja Verde. The Red Green of the Southwest. I swear – if it weren't for my astounding ability to break things, I'd never learn to fix anything.
Crandall's are due to show up any day. I'm pretty excited about that. I've been here for the last month and a half kicking around without the neighborhood gang. While I am perfectly content living the life of a desert hermit – I do appreciate the folks that come in for the winter season.
I know how hard it is to travel over a thousand miles with horses, dogs and all the crap it takes to survive as a snowbird. You manage to pull into your destination after hundreds of miles of mishaps and trials only to realize your journey has just begun. Where do I put the horses while I ready the stalls?Where did I put those water buckets? Lord – I pray that damn cantankerous well is still pumping!
Not my neighbors. Not on my watch. I could make their arrival much smoother. My intentions were good. What is it they say about the best intentions?
I hopped on Miss Kitty and tractored on over to the Crandall's with a whole barrel full of those good intentions. All the while humming my version of “I think my tractors sexy...”
I believe they have six horses...I can prepare 5 of the 6 stalls. The 6th stall contains a tractor I won't be able to move without a key. One of the stalls is used as storage for a plethora of outdoor items...water buckets, water troughs – 55 gallon arena barrels and yard art. No problem. I know where most of these items go.
I neatly arranged the garbage cans in their proper place. This big trough goes to the steer pen and these other two big ones I'll place in the turnouts. They will be short one pen for the 6th horse, so I filled a water trough in the arena so they'd have a place to keep a horse until the tractor is moved.
My biggest concern was the big ceramic flower pots Cindy has meticulously collected. I gently placed them in the bucket of Miss Kitty for transport to the yard. I put her in low gear and crept along as the fragile pots teetered precariously. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I considered taking them out and transporting them one by one. It wasn't too far of a trip and if I did break one ...or two...or all of them...a quick trip to the pottery place and I could have them replaced and no-one the wiser.
My heart swelled with a bit of pride, and relief, as I gently placed the last vibrantly painted pot securely inside the yard. I was quite please with myself as I leapt back into the tractor seat for the remaining items in the pen. Three 55 gallon plastic drums we use as barrels for shooting practice.
I placed the first barrel in the bucket and transported it to the arena. That was easy enough. I might as well take the last two in one trip. I placed both barrels vertically in the bucket and climbed aboard. I raised the bucket high enough for proper balancing of the barrels. They are plastic – it won't hurt them if they do fall out.
With the barrels upright in the bucket and the bucket raised – I could only see under the bucket on each side. No biggie. A mule can't see directly in front of their nose either and they manage just fine. I crept along slowly, balancing the barrels as I went. Suddenly, one barrel upended onto the ground. I stepped off the tractor to put it back in the bucket and out of nowhere it started to rain. A lot. That's odd. There isn't a cloud in the sky. We do have some strange weather here in Arizona.
Before my foot hit the ground it became evident the water wasn't falling from the sky – it was shooting up from the ground beneath Miss Kitty's bucket. I wonder if Crandall's know they've been sitting on a geyser all these years!? It was then my Roja Verde brain kicked in to gear. This weren't no artesian! I'd plumb run over the Crandall's RV hookup.
I could not have aimed better if I'd been trying...I lined that puppy dead center of the two 55 gallon barrels...precisely where I could not see. If I could apply that aim to my mounted shooting skills I'd be a level six by the end of the year.
A geyser to put Old Faithful to shame shot straight up as I backed Miss Kitty off the broken stand pipe. I ran to the well and shut off the water and the power. It was embarrassing enough...it simply wouldn't do to have Crandall's find my dead, electrocuted body laying in the way of their living quarters parking area.
I dug up the muddy mess to examine the damage. The galvanized stand pipe was sheered off flush with the fitting. I can fix this. All I need to do is get that thread out of the fitting – put in a new stand pipe, screw on the valve and the Crandall's will never know what hit them...or rather hit their stand pipe thingy.
They make a tool to back out broken pipe thread. I've seen them. I'm pretty sure I have one. I did not. My other choice was to cut out the entire section of fittings and put everything in new. I stared into the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe. My heart might have stopped for a second. Weird configurations of PVC and galvanized fittings, splicers, couplings and reducers went every which direction. Well...this isn't good. If I delve into this, I'm going to make matters worse before they get better. Don't fix what ain't broke. Crandall's are likely to be home in the morning. I considered leaving a note and making a run for the border. “Dear Dave and Cindy – No need to thank me. I've cleaned out the stalls and filled the troughs so the horses all have water. You, on the other hand....don't have any water. Welcome back!”
That thread was coming out come hell or high water...no pun intended. I threw Groot (literally) into the truck. That dog can climb on the bed, on the couch and even manage to climb on my kitchen table...but he cannot figure out how to jump in the truck. Hank refused to consider going along. He had that look...”This ain't my first rodeo with this goofy damn woman. I'm staying home and taking a nap. Wake me when you get yourself out of whatever mess you got yourself into. Groot and I headed for Adolfo's. Adolfo's will have the tool! Adolfo has everything! Everything except a damn pipe back-er-outer-er thing-a-ma-jig.
We were off to Do it Best in Wickenburg. I know this tool exists. But what if it doesn't? I cannot have these people drive a thousand miles to find they have no water and a big ass muddy mess to boot. Failure was not an option.
The nice man at Do it Best found the tool I needed but he didn't think it was big enough. I was pretty sure it was. He tried to talk me out of it. I asked for a small piece of ¾ inch pipe...he acted like I was nuts and mumbled something about what good was another section of pipe going to do me if I couldn't get the thread out. I grabbed the pipe – ripped open the package and verified the tool would work. We were both thrilled. Well, I was thrilled. He was more dumbfounded I'd just ripped open a package I'd not yet paid for.
I'd need a new stand pipe...he asked how tall. I placed my hand at my hip and said...about this tall! He handed me a three feet section of pipe, asked if I had pipe thread and bade me good luck. I threw some cash at the clerk and ran out the door. It would be dark soon. I was running out of time.
Back at the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe – I held my breath and went to work. The de-threading tool (I still have no idea what this thing is called) did it's magic and easily backed out the broken piece of threaded pipe. A little pipe thread on the new stand pipe threads and valve from the old pipe and Voila! . Good as new. We've done it Groot! Groot? Apparently Groot is taking notes from Hank and left me to my own demise. Faithless canines.
Crandall's would never know. Or would they? Sure – I could take off the stickers from the new pipe and rough it up a bit. Make it look old....I couldn't do it. What if the hole damn thing springs a leak and by morning instead of the RV hook-up there's a Lake Prickly Paw! I'd have to call Dave and fess up.
I really didn't want to call Dave. I'm pretty sure they are regretting the day I showed up on their doorstep and never left. “Um..Hi Dave! Oh...you guys are on your way? You'll be here by morning? So...about that. It's like this....” I explained how I was trying to help...blah blah blah...”and all of a sudden the stand pipe jumps in front of Miss Kitty. I swear, it's like that thing was trying to commit suicide or something!”
Dave let me finish my nervous rambling account of the situation. “Well, young lady – sounds like you've been busy. You didn't have to do that.” I'm fairly certain he meant I didn't have to try and help...and not: No really...you don't have to do that...in fact, please stop trying to do that...or trying to do anything at all! Just stay away from anything and everything you might break or otherwise screw up!”
After much to-do, we agreed to leave the hole now formally known as Crandall's new and improved stand pipe...uncovered. Just in case. I'll check it in the morning for leaks and pray earnestly that we don't wake to Lake Prickly Paw.
As I type this – I am reminded of a line from Franco Zeffirelli's adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. “The best intentions pave the way to Hell.” Sure feels like that sometimes, Franco.
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| Photo from previous trip to burro canyon |
Notes: Finally...all caught up on my trail logs. Seems silly logging 2 miles here - 3 miles there. But...they add up and some days you just can't put as many miles in as you would like. It's starting to cool off so longer rides are more feasible.
I wanted to ride to the "corrals" I've heard about west of Burro Canyon. We sort of ran out of daylight and Phil is not able to trot or lope with his back/hips. We turned around and made it back before it started to turn a little chilly. We went from 80° nights to 41° nights in a matter of one day. Sweet!
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| Look Ma..no more cone of shame! |
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| Road leading out of burro canyon |
Notes: Practiced shooting balloons in the morning then rode out behind my place toward burro canyon.
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| Jack - Hank - Groot |
Trail: Aguila - behind Eagle Eye Mnt - powerline
Miles: 4.50
Riders: Self - Phil
Horses: Jack - Tank
Dogs: Groot - Hank
Notes: Hauled up Eagle Eye and rode North East behind Eagle Eye.
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| Phil - Tank |
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| Drifter at Fred and Cindy's place for roping practice |
Notes: Rode Jack and ponied Drifter. It's hard ponying him now that I can ride him. Just doesn't seem right towing when I could be riding him! He's coming along super nice. This photo isn't from our ride - it's a few days later. I took Drifter over to Fred and Cindy's for roping practice. He did great in a strange arena with a bunch of horses he's never been around. Next time we are going to push the calves around and see how he likes that.
Notes: Intended to go for a ride before the farrier showed up. Figured he'd be late. Wouldn't you know he was on time so we turned it into a short ride at a higher rate of speed. Left the dogs home so we didn't wear them out. Felt good to let him open up a little. My butt gets tires when you don't get out of a walk.
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| Haven't been taking many pictures so resorting to using what I have available. We ran most of this ride so here's a picture of Jack running. Epic. LOL |
Notes: Short ride on Drifter. He's barefoot and this area is pretty rocky so we kept it short.
