“In this a journey is like marriage; the certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”‐ John Steinbeck
“Like so many things in life, a trip often starts out as a series of uneasy compromises.”- Me
As the date of departure quickly approaches, I find myself with too many options; do I go solo on the motorcycle? Do I take a dog on the motorcycle? Or do I do the “sensible” thing and camp with a dog out of the back of a small SUV as we cross the southwest?
Anyone that knows my travel habits knows that I have none; in the days leading up to a trip, I’m as fickle as a giddy kidchild poring over the infinite selection at a Baskin Robbins. Whereas chocolate is usually my constant favorite, it seems a bit mean and shabby when compared to the other 31exotic options available. My own son said it best: “the only way that I can predict when and how you will go is when Mom tells me what you were piloting when you pulled out of the driveway”.
Climate is also to be considered. If you go too early, the mountain passes are still socked in with snow; if you go too late, you roast crossing the windy expanses of Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. If you embark at the time of month to camp under a Comanche moon, you miss the opportunity to witness the majesty of the mighty Milky Way.
Compromises, always compromises. Then there is the issue of time and money; if you have the money, you usually don’t have the time, and if you have the time, well, you probably won’t have the money. Or if you have put back the money in preparation, you have a tendency to spend valuable amount of brain space worrying as to how you can replace that money upon your return. And in my own personal business space, business is beginning to pick up considerably; do I risk upsetting this momentum and just stop, drop, and roll?
The Bible says that “a double minded man is unstable in all his ways”, and I understand this in the depths of my soul. But based upon past experience, I also know when this double-mindedness nonsense begins to fade, and that’s when we actually make the commitment to head west. It’s usually around the time that I’m droning across I-40 around Shawnee that I feel the weight begin to lift from my shoulders, and approximately three days later I seem to have found the trip’s “groove”. Coincidentally, this is also around the time that weather or other unforeseen circumstances has forced us well off of our predetermined route and we have no choice other that to relax and just go where the front wheel takes us.
I am fully aware that I’m rambling, but I don’t really care, as just rambling is sometimes what the journey is all about. Although taking the motorcycle is mighty tempting, camping in the CRV has it’s own special allure as well. Apart from the apparent comfort qualities involved, there are also the humanitarian advantages. In all of my various travels, I have never taken a four legged vehicle out west that I did not encounter someone in need; a bedraggled rain soaked through hiker. A heat-stricken bicyclist stranded between two mountain passes. Or what if I happen across an abandoned res-dog out in the back country in Utah? I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t at least considered the possibilities of needing to “hook a brotha up”.
As I’m poking this into my phone at 0337, I guess that you can tell I’m ready to roll up on out of here. The main thing stopping me is that I recently scored a single ticket to see Billy Strings, one of the greatest guitarists of our time, out in Colorado on the 18th. So I’m being forced to learn a bit of patience, a commodity that I have precious little of over the last 60 years.
We’ll see you on the road.
‘We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” -JS
Day One
Nama and I awoke this morning in the middle of what officially is known as No man’s land; we car camped last night at a remote cemetery in the panhandle of Oklahoma. It appears that neither Texas nor Kansas have ever cared that much for this area, and I can see why; even now, highway 412 is one of the loneliest stretches of road I have encountered. This orphan rectangle of land was incorporated into the Oklahoma Territory in 1907. It also included the former Indian Territory that had been the end of the Cherokee Trail of Tears, and then the progressively reduced promised homeland for many tribes.
But it has never fared well. Back in the 30’s, the three counties of the Panhandle were some of the hardest hit by drought and depression, and lost a good chunk of their population to out-migration between 1930-1940. Even today, the population is smaller than it was in 1907.
As lonely as it is even this morning, it’s has become one of our favorite routes when traveling out west. There’s something intriguing about a perfectly straight road bisecting terrain so flat that even a plethora of windmill farms can’t impede the view of Texas 17 miles away to the south or of Kansas an equal distance to the north.
As you have probably guessed by now, Nama and I have gone “vacilando”. Vacilando was one of John Steinbeck’s favorite words, a Spanish term for “the act of wandering when the experience of travel is more important than reaching the specific destination.” We’ll be camping out of the CR-V for the next week on a meandering counter clockwise loop through the southwest, eventually culminating in Colorado to see Billy Strings perform on the 18th. Even now, I find myself wondering what I was actually thinking, leaving the comforts of home this far in advance, but here we are. It’s time to cast off the self doubt and push west towards the mountains of northern New Mexico; I hear that it’s a bit stormy over there right now…
Hey, Dad?
What’s up, Nama?
How’s about you quit tapping into that phone so we can get this show on the road?
If you don’t go, you’ll never know…
The last time that I was in New Mexico, MacDuff and I and were on the SideHawk and were hammered by the worst thunderstorm I’ve ever ridden through. This is one of the reasons that I brought Nama in the CRV, as we even earlier in the season than last year.
And it was a wise move, if I do say so myself, as New Mexico performed exactly as expected. The temps began to drop along with a copious amount of precipitation as soon as we crossed the state line, and it was like that way all day long. Everything that I had planned on doing today was based on having at least a few dry spells; can’t explore the back country if the dirt roads are in danger of washing out, and and hiking was out of the question, as I’m allergic to hypothermia and lightning strikes.
MacDuff, Max, Marco, Charlie, every dog I’ve had since I started traveling out west, has always made a stop at Cimarron canyon; so now it was Nama’s turn. Thankfully, the rain lessened to a spiteful sprinkle, then started up again in earnest as we headed west through the mountains towards the incredible Rio Grande Gorge.
Bighorn sheep are notorious for scaling the vertical walls of the canyon, but they are sometimes hard to spot from the bridge above; the best way to see them is by hiking down to the Manby hot springs on the banks of the Rio Grande. Unfortunately, this is no longer possible as extensive damage to the area by over-enthusiastic and under-principled hippie-types caused the landowners at the top of the Gorge to block access to the trail head leading down to the springs. As a result, one of my very favorite places on the planet is now totally inaccessible, and sightings of big horn sheep are much more rare.
Until today. Because of the rain, traffic to the bridge was much less than usual. As I crossed the west side, a large bighorn leaped over the retaining wall as easily as stepping off of a curb and landed om the road right in front of the CR-V. Then another, and another, then even a juvenile, just meandering around as if they owned the place. Eventually they crossed the highway and disappeared down into the depths of the canyon.
So, in spite of the rain, or maybe because of it, the notable wildlife count today stands at:
4 bighorn
8 elk
6 mule deer
A magpie (my favorite)
2 eagles
And a sassy little white dog who won’t stay out of my mango chile slices.
Next: how the other half bathes…
Bougie Caliente
I used to count on Manby Hot Springs on the Rio Grande as a great place to camp and soak after long days crossing northern New Mexico on the bike. Now that it is apparently permanently closed, the only way to get cleaned up is (gasp) GETTING A MOTEL!
But there is another way. There is a commercial hot spring in the area, Ojo Caliente; never been there, but according to their website, they charge 45.00 freaking dollars for a visit. After a couple of cold, rainy days traveling and sleeping in an SUV with a dog, I was ready for a little pampering…
Or so I thought.
As I pulled off of the highway, my first impression that this was not my kind of place was the sight of a man sauntering across the parking lot in a waaay too short bathrobe and darling little slippers. And he was also waaay too tan for this early in the year, the kind of tan that looks like it came directly from a can with the word “Krylon” on the label.
But, being as funky as I was, I decided to risk it. Nama was crashed on the bed in the CRV, so I took the opportunity to run in for a quick overpriced shower and soak. As soon as I walked into the lobby, I realized that I may have made a mistake.
Don’t get me wrong, the place was breathtaking if not more than a bit pretentious; should have been called Boojie Caliente. Adobe walls, marble floors, a sandalwood fire gently crackling in the chimera, all the hallmarks of an anti-Walmarks. And then there were the clientele; both sexes strutting around with their noses so elevated that they would have drowned in the rain had they ventured outside. While it was obvious that they weren’t the type to be troubled by a 45.00 entry fee, it was also obvious that these people knew little about camping in a car with a dog. I have never seen so much high priced Spanx, spandex and Speedos concentrated into one geographical area.
But I although I was concerned, I refused to be deterred. I filled out an extensive questionnaire, then prepared to shell out the ridiculous tariff. The perfectly manicured and coiffed specimen behind the counter informed me that the price was approximately double what I expected; “$45.00 is our weekday rate, SIR!”. I informed him that all I had on me was my weekday wallet, as I had left my weekend wallet in my other pair of Speedos. The only swish involved in my exit was the sound of the massive Spanish-looking doors hissing closed behind me.
Later that day, I found a great campsite way up in the mountains. In a desperate effort to de-funkify myself, I found myself shielded from the driving rain and spitting snow by nought but the raised back door of the SUV. Instead of an exclusive spa, I instead employed a pack of Dude Wipes (actual name, picked these up at a grocery store in Raton) to engage in what is known in elite circles as an “airplane bath”: under wings, engines and exhaust.
Much less comfort but much more dignity; I still think that I chose wisely.
Day Two
Yesterday in northern New Mexico; amongst other things, we happened across two desert monasteries as well as a documented hotbed of UFO activity. And no, one of them wasn’t Roswell. One experience was unexpectedly mind blowing, one was a bit of a let down, and one was both a let down and more than a bit creepy at the same time; I’ll let you imagine which was which.
John Steinbeck is my favorite travel writer, but he would never write when out on the road. He said that he preferred to let a trip stew in his head, the individual ingredients of the journey slowly combining into a single delicious dish. I can’t do it. Too much happens throughout almost any given day; the incredibly sublime experience that may occur at one place is quickly eclipsed by the insanely ridiculous occurrence that happens at the next. When I factor into the equation that I have the attention span of a squirrel on crack, you can only imagine how many potentially great stories are left on the battlefield of my mind.
But sometimes it’s the little things that stand out the most. Yesterday afternoon found Nama and I at the very bridge where MacDuff and I emerged from the backcountry on last year’s journey on the sidecar. Both visits were powerful; the first because I realized back then that Duff and I had just survived what could have been a very dicey situation, and the second because, well, you can imagine.
I have to admit, it kicked me in the clackers a bit harder than expected; the Duff was a one in a million dog. As I crossed the bridge and silently spoke a final farewell to the goofy old man, I spotted a magpie sitting just off to my left.
What’s up with a magpie, you ask? I don’t really know, other than for some reason it’s always been my favorite bird; flashy and obnoxious and almost impossible to capture on camera, for me anyway. I’m usually rolling down the road when I spot them, and by the time I get a camera into action, the magpie is long gone.
Another reason is that Jo Ann is much like a magpie; in addition to the above mentioned attributes, she has always had a fascination with shiny gadgets. doG forbid that I bring home a new pocket knife, a cool tool of some sort, a nice ink pen; any thing that clicks, bangs, or otherwise flashes and it’s “ARRWK! BACK TO THE NEST!”, and I never see it again until I go digging through her stash. And yes, this is well documented at the Casa; flowers and jewelry are NOT her thing, something from a tool sale is usually the perfect Valentine’s gift.
But now, there’s this magpie just sitting there in the grass, and after all these years, I finally got my picture. It’s not a particularly good picture, as it was taken with a zoomed-in cell phone, but it’s mine; if I wanted a really good picture, I’m sure I could find one in Google images.
I don’t know that I believe that signs are sent from beyond, but then again, I don’t know that I don’t. What I do believe is what I see and feel, and that everything happens for a reason.
Miss ya, MacDuff.
Day Three
It is said that “he who seeks to be understood must first seek to understand”; if you in any way expect to be able to wrap your head around even a fraction of of the insane events that marked Nama’s last day on earth, you need to be able to envision the place where the deal went down.
The actual town of Gateway, Colorado is a just a dot on the map, so close to the lunar landscape of Utah that it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. But what I refer to as “Gateway” is actually the Unaweep canyons of Hwy 141, the stunning area that tracks south of town, following the massive fissures carved by the Delores river. This area might be described by some as “wasteland”, but I would in turn describe those people as “soulless” and/or “idiots”. But it’s all “Gateway” to me, all the way to the uranium mining towns of Naturita, Nucla, Uravan, Paradox and Bedrock, some 75 miles to the south.
The first time I rode through Gateway, I was at a crossroads in my own life; career coming to a close, church situations coming to head back home, the kids moving out, up, and onwards, the typical negativity that tends to become more “front and center” when you reach a certain age. You would think that riding a motorcycle across the southwest would be more than sufficient to crowd those thoughts from my brain, but if you did think that, you would be wrong. I carried those same emotions with me the entire trip, seemingly packed away on the bike with my sleeping bag and other camping gear.
Until I entered Gateway. As I railed through the immaculately curved road, I found that I couldn’t focus on negativity in the midst of such soaring, red rock beauty; it was if the vertical walls surrounding me were blocking out any microwaves of harsh self admonition. And yes, I totally get how this sounds to some of you reading this, like so much psuedo-hippie new age bullshit; all I can say is go check it out for yourself and get back to me with your findings. I find it an immensely healing place, your mileage may vary.
Approximately halfway between the towns of Gateway and Naturita is an unlikely roadside spring. Tucked back into a fold of a cliff, it produces the coldest, life-giving water I’ve ever experienced, so special that I have had a bottle of it stashed on my freezer for over ten years. Why in my freezer, and for that long, you ask? Well, since you asked, I’ll tell you: if the world ever turns to irreversible despair, nuclear war, pancreatic cancer, The View in perpetual rotation, cottage cheese becomes a forced part of my diet, whatever, that bottle of water from Gateway will be the last thing I drink; it’s that special. By the time I encountered this spring for the first time, the following words had formed unbidden in my head: “Gateway is a fortress so impregnable that even negative thoughts can’t enter”. Tapped into my phone from the back of my 1991 Honda Nighthawk 750 motorcycle, these were the first words that I had ever written that didn’t involve sales reports or some other form of corporate crap; little did I know that this would be the bedrock that formed the foundation for Charlie’s story many years later.
So, what does any of this have to do with Nama? This unnamed spring is where she and I camped the night before the day after… but soooo much happened on that day before.
And day started with breakfast at with Fina’s…
Day Four
In my experience, some of the best days of my life seem to follow the worst days. But the obverse is true as well, that the absolutely worst days of my life seem to always be preceded by the very best days of my life; unfortunately, this was the case of Nama’s last day with me.
But what an absolutely glorious day it was. It started in Chama, NM, with breakfast at Fina’s. Followers of this page may remember that Fina’s from past adventures; my first introduction to Fina, the formidable proprietress of this small but unimaginably named restaurant on the edge of town did not go well. Actually, it started with me getting a bit mouthy, and her telling me to sit down and shut up or she was going to body slam me and make me sit down and shut up. I quickly realized the error of my ways; “yes, ma’am; sitting down and shutting up”. We have since became good friends, although she would never admit it. Her restaurant anchors the northernmost end of the New Mexico Breakfast Burrito Hall of Fame, an honor that is justly deserved. Her huevos rancheros with green chile, scrambled eggs and sausage is also to die for, and is now called the Charlie Bravo. It is well worth the 1059 mile ride from the Casa to her doorstep, and Charlie and I have made that trip for the purpose of scoring some of the finest grub know to man more times than I care to admit.
But this trip was all about Nama. As she was waiting in the CR-V, I didn’t dawdle quite as long as usual, and Fina packed her a doggie bag to go(Nama’s, not Fina’s). We also had to make some up some time, as this morning, we weren’t just meandering, we had an actual destination. I had been hearing for years about an incredible place known as Christ of the Desert, a monastery located sixteen miles from the nearest highway up a very rough dirt road into a remote desert canyon. I didn’t know much else about the place except that I had been told by multiple people that I had to go, so we went.
By this time, Nama and I had been in the car together for four days, and it was obvious that I had a real traveler on my hands. She was an absolute natural, maybe even exceeding MacDuff when it came to understanding automobile etiquette. However, she did pick up an annoying habit: she learned how to roll the windows down so she could stick her head out into the breeze. This may not seem annoying to you, but more than once it scared the crap out of me. I would be cruising along all zoned out behind the wheel and suddenly an unexpected mighty rushing wind would fill the car; of course it was Nama.
I’m actually glad I’m poking these words into my phone right now instead of attempting to record them for a podcast, as I don’t think I could be recounting this right now; it’s a bit more raw than I thought it would be.
Anyway. We wound our way back into one of the most beautiful and remote canyons I’ve ever seen, the Chama river dropping off to our left and soaring red rock cliffs to our right. As the rock formations began to crowd around and above us, I found myself focusing on them individually, the shape of a lion’s head here, Cleopatra’s silhouette over there and so on. Then I caught myself; why was I focusing on the small things at the expense of taking in the profundity of the overall situation? And unfortunately, this is how I’ve lived much of my life, becoming mired in the minutiae when something much greater was worthy of my attention; I guess that it’s never too late to change.
The CR-V scrambled and clawed her way along the winding dirt road until we eventually arrived at a small parking area; we would have to walk the rest of the way. This is when I really knew that Nama was the one, the potential heir to Charlie’s throne and the position vacated by the untimely passing of MacDuff just months before. She fell into step like an old pro, not to close as to be clingy but not straying too far into the desert scrub to be alarming.
The monastery at the end of the path was absolutely stunning. Tucked into the canyon, it was almost eerily quiet, until Nama spied a statue of a deer in the courtyard and expressed her disapproval. As I attempted to get her to cease and desist her yapping, I heard another unexpected sound, the sound of voices chanting, coming from behind two intricately carved massive wooden doors.
Even though it was A: Sunday, and B: Mother’s Day, the area was so quiet and remote that it never occurred to me that an actual church service might be occurring. I never claimed to be particularly smart, so after leashing Nama in the courtyard, I opened the doors and walked right in.
Right in to an ongoing Mass. As it was a small cathedral and packed full to the back door, my entrance was a bit more grand that I would have hoped for; I have no idea who was more surprised, the myself, the congregants or the priests. Not being Catholic and having ever been to a Mass, I was in no way prepared for the clouds of incense, the robes, the pomp and ceremony, all in stark contrast to the harsh desert landscape just outside those massive doors. To say that I was severely blown away is an understatement; it truly was a religious experience.
After the service, Nama and I had a great time hanging out with the assorted clergy, as she was the belle of the ball.
But the highlight of the event was an exchange that I had the honor of witnessing in the gift shop. There were two monks manning the cash register: one was an elderly white man, short enough the he made me feel tall; he was the cashier, and a brusque and efficient cashier he was. The other was roughly the same age, but very tall and dusky, and he was the bagger. He had a very practiced and dignified manner, placing each book or whatnot meticulously into the bags with perfect precision as if he were doing it unto the Lord, then folding it closed perfectly before presenting to the buyer. Evidently, the short white monk had never spent much time studying the message of Job, and his patience was being severely tested by his much more sedate brother. I promise you that you have not lived until you have lived long enough to hear one elderly monk say to another, “get with the program, bag boy!”; of all of the things that one might expect to hear at a remote desert monastery, this was pretty far down the list.
It was such a peaceful, beautiful place that I could hardly find the will to leave, but it was still fairly early in the day; if we picked up the pace, we could possibly make it to Gateway and camp at the spring that night.
But the day was really just beginning, and much more was in store: a stop at the Echo Amphitheatre, a massive rock feature carved by erosion into the side of a cliff, where, if you stand in the perfect spot, the slightest whisper comes back magnified ten fold. A visit to another monastery, my old friends at Our Lady of the Desert, this one staffed by not monks but nuns. Why the unplanned emphasis on monasteries on this trip? Truthfully, I have absolutely no idea, except maybe a higher power was guiding me in preparation of what I was going to have to face over the next few days.
But even after all of this, there was more. After eventually making our way across the Navajo Lake dam and up into Colorado, I encountered a man in the small town of Norwood. After discovering that we both have an unreasonable love for older Honda motorcycles, he invited us back to his place to check out his collection. I expected to see ten, maybe twenty; what I actually saw was literally hundreds of the finest historical examples of Hondas, BMWs, Nortons, Bultacos, etc, all immaculate examples of a much simpler time when being a motorcyclist meant so much more than being a biker. But that’s just my opinion, albeit I realize that it’s a bit stronger than many might appreciate; your mileage may vary.
Richard was his name, and he runs through the Gateway canyons regular on various bikes. He took quite the liking to Nama, and left me with his phone number should we encounter any difficulty in the back country. I remember thinking “what type of adversity am I going to encounter; after all, I’m in a car!” What was he trying to tell, and I was in such a lather to arrive in Gateway that I ignored his premonition? I will never know, but I’ll always wonder.
We arrived at the Spring before dark. We didn’t set up camp immediately, as I knew of another place, just a few miles away but more importantly, a good deal further off of Hwy 141. But it wasn’t The Spring, and I’ve always wanted to camp at the Spring, so the Spring it was. I’ll probably wonder for the rest of my life how differently things may have turned out had I camped just up the road.
I can feel the tension arcing up the back of my neck right now as I know that I’m approaching the tragic part of the story. But we still had some priceless time left. As the sun began to set and Nama and I settled in for the night, I took photos from inside the CR-V, east towards Dolphin Rock and west towards the setting sun. Then we burrowed under the quilts to sleep, perchance to dream, of another glorious day on the morrow.
A day that will live in infamy.
Day Five: D Day
The morning broke cold through the depths of the canyon. It was obvious that Nama was in no hurry to emerge from her cocoon of quilts, so I took that as my go-ahead to stay ensconced therein as well. We had nowhere in particular to be that day and I was in absolutely no hurry to get there; besides, it had been my dream for years to camp at this very spot, and to finally experience it in the company of a truly special little white dog? I was in no hurry to rush this experience. Even now, I can’t really fully convey with mere words what that opportunity meant to me, and still means to me even now.
I must have dozed off again, and we were jolted awake by a loud BANG! occurring right in front of the SUV. As we had not seen another vehicle in the canyon for at least the preceding twelve hours, I could not begin to imagine what had shattered our solitude. I crawled out of the back of the SUV to discover two dilapidated pickup trucks fastened by a nylon tow strap; evidently the two older gentleman piloting these jalopies weren’t experts in communication, as the man in the vehicle being towed hadn’t picked up on the fact that the man in front had signaled that he was hitting his brakes, resulting in the two trucks colliding directly in front of the very spot where we were camping.
They had been traveling from the town of Bedrock, well over an hour to the south of the spring; what are the odds that this would happen at this very spot? I still cannot wrap my mind around it. As the truck being towed didn’t have a windshield in place, the old gentleman behind the wheel was quickly achieving popsicle status, so I volunteered to fire up my camp stove and brew a pot of coffee to thaw him out a bit. Each man had a dog in attendance, and Nama took this opportunity to get her flounce on with a pair of new friends. The canyon road is so remote that it never occurred to any of us to even consider keeping an eye on the trio of dogs.
As the impact of the two trucks had caused the fenders to be pushed back into the wheels, it took all hands on deck to get them extricated. Between brewing the coffee and attempting to separate the two vehicles, I never noticed the third truck that came whizzing through the canyon. Then I heard the combination of sounds that every dog owner dreads to the very depths of their souls, the simultaneous thump and yelp that can only mean one thing: a dream has just died.
Upon hearing THE sound, I’m embarrassed to say that my immediate prayer was, “Lord, let it be one of their dogs”. Scratch that, I’m not a bit embarrassed; I still feel that way. I don’t consider myself a selfish person, but if I could have traded Nama’s life for both of the others, I would have done so in an instant, and dealt with the consequences of a contaminated conscience later. But it was not my choice to make; it was Nama laying there, looking back at me from the first step of the Rainbow bridge. And time stood still; for what seemed like an eternity, I literally could not will my feet to move, and when they did break free, it felt like I was running through wet concrete. But I did get to her as she was gasping her last breath; I like to think that she knew that I was there for her to the very end.
At first I thought that the truck that hit Nama had fled the scene, but it had actually made a U-turn and was pulling up as I was standing over Nama’s lifeless body. I don’t think that it is an overstatement to describe the driver of the truck as borderline hysterical, and I would have expected nothing less. The result was that I had to compartmentalize my grief for a few moments to reassure her that it was going to be alright, even though I fully believed that it would never be “alright” ever again. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure that I don’t believe that as I write these words; it’s been months, and I still feel like I’m often stumbling about in a haze. More on this lady later, as she turned out to be an integral part of the story.
But at the time, pragmatic issues had to be addressed; what to do with Nama? As I was well over a thousand miles from home, I couldn’t carry her back to the Casa where she belonged, so my only option was to bury her where she had fallen. Not just in the Unaweep canyons, but at the very epicenter of one of the most spiritual and special places on the planet. The two men in the dilapidated pickups had a pickaxe and a shovel between them (of course they did), and helped me bury Nama deep and rock her grave against the critters. We even dug a trench around her grave to divert water away from her final resting place, as Colorado’s annual monsoon season was swiftly approaching.
Over my lifetime, I have had to bury way too many dogs, enough that it sometimes causes my heart to hitch when I see one curled a certain way when they’re merely sleeping. This is because that this position is also the one utilized to maximize space when committing a dog to it’s final resting place. Maybe this is not a coincidence at all, but possibly a sign from a benevolent Creator to remind us how closely related are the death we dread and the sleep we welcome. And that just like awakening refreshed after a good night’s rest, we should take comfort in the possibility that we shall someday also awake from death, only re-energized in ways that our mortal minds cannot even imagine. Or maybe not; who really knows? All that I do know is that these were the kind of thoughts going through my mind when I once again heard that dreaded “thump”. Only this time it wasn’t the sound of impact of a bumper on bone, but of that first shovel-full of dirt on flesh as I began to perform my final service to Nama, to shield her body against the elements for one last time.
And then all to quickly, it was done; Everyone seemed to silently melt away and I was alone with my grief in the canyon. Of course, not another vehicle traveled the road that morning, and I had plenty of solitude to ponder how I was going to proceed. My first impulse was to tuck my tail and scurry for home, not speaking of this to anyone until I at least had a chance to wrap my brain around it. But I couldn’t do it; there were way too many of you following Nama’s progress on social media for me to not provide some sort of explanation as to her sudden absence from the story. But I also knew that there was absolutely no way that I could explain the tragedy in writing, so I had no choice; I had to tell it right then and there, warts and all. And believe me when I say that the experience of telling that story while standing in that place is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life; there was no hiding behind a keyboard, no chance to correct phrasing or edit out embarrassing emotion. I felt like I had a thick leather belt wrapped around my chest, choking off any words due to the lack of oxygen. To this day, I have yet to go back and watch that video, as I’m sure that the mixture of embarrassment and recollection would probably be the death of me. That might be a bit of an overstatement, but then again, maybe not. But even as the words were stumbling from the front of my head, I could feel the criticism already building in the back: why didn’t I have her on a leash? Why do I always feel the need to “get involved”, as if I had been taking care of my own business instead of making coffee for two strangers, none of this would have happened? And would I be accused of seeking attention by those who saw this video without knowing anything of the context of the situation or the bond that exists between the followers of Charlie’s story? And all of these statements were made, but by that time, I didn’t care; they couldn’t properly beat me up when I was doing a much better job of doing it to myself.
Afterwards, there was nothing left to do except leave Nama behind and continue north up HWY 141 to the actual town of Gateway. This is the closest area to the spring where one can find any amount of cell coverage, and I wanted to give JoAnn, Zach, and Alex a verbal heads up as to what had went down before they could stumble across my rambling soliloquy on social media. While I was a bit proud of how I had held it together on the drive from the spring up to Gateway, my steely resolve melted like butter on hot asphalt at hearing familiar voices from home and I finally began heaving and hawing like an absolute jackass. While I’m not exactly sure as to what an actual mental breakdown consists of, I’m pretty sure that I was in the immediate vicinity at the time. It was Zach that suggested two possible options: the first was to go back down into New Mexico to the Christ in the Desert monastery that Nama and I had visited the day before; the second was to seek out a skydiving shaman-like individual that I had actually only met on two “random” occurrences over the last few years, both meetings happening at the spring that is now known as “Nama Spring”. As the monastery was at least eight hours south of Gateway and the skydiving shaman was known to frequent the desert canyons of southwest Colorado, I elected to reach out to the Sky Pig. As it turned out, the Pig was camped less than five minutes from where I was parked; when I explained to him, almost a perfect stranger, what had transpired and the condition that I was in as a result, he did not even hesitate; I was told in no uncertain terms
to “get your ass over here right now; we need to talk”…
So I did as I was commanded, and that’s when things got REALLY weird.
Stay tuned…
GOING DOWN THE K-HOLE
• February 20, 2024
• ·Dad
• ·0 Comments
The New Mexico Backcountry Discovery Route, or NMBDR, is a 1300 mile combination of jeep trails, fire roads and single track across the most remote regions of New Mexico. Starting in Dell City, TX and ending at Antonito, CO, the BDR crosses mountain ranges, desert vistas, and every other land feature imaginable(but obviously no swamps), and usually takes 1-2 weeks to complete, based on weather and other acts of God.
A few years ago, Zach, my buddy Craig and myself decided to give it a go ; Charlie elected to sit this one out, as hot deserts aren’t her thing anyway. And we finished it, at least the New Mexico part.I had just crossed the Colorado border and was barreling towards the finish line of Antonito, less than ten miles away, when I noticed a bit too late that I was in the process of over-cooking a turn. I evidently over-corrected and BAM!, low-sided the motorcycle into the gravel hard and without dignity. When the dust finally settled, it revealed my sorry state of affairs, resting uncomfortably in the gravel and my bike somewhere out of my line of sight, engine still screaming. Even though my body was pointing east and west, my right leg and foot were spiraled and splayed unnaturally outwards towards the east, as is if to be forlornly pointing the direction I should have been going.
It would take twenty posts to describe all of the miraculous things that happened over the next few hours; I will say that if you ever feel the urge to have a motorcycle incident, plan ahead and have it in the backcountry of southern Colorado, as the paramedics, law enforcement officers, and other emergency personnel out there are without equal. Except this one particular Colorado state trooper, who actually came to the hospital ER to issue me a citation; the charge? “Driving too fast on a mountain highway”. Are you kidding me? “Mountain highway”? That’s just a dirt road back in Arkansas.
After multiple failed attempts to cut my heavy motorcycle boots from my gimped up leg left me screaming, the ER personnel decided to bring out the big guns, pain management-wise. It was then that I was asked one of the most delightful questions I have ever heard in a medical setting: “do you have problems with hallucinations?” My response was, “I don’t, but you’re about to!”; anybody that has been around me for any length of time will tell you that my response to any type of anesthesia is, shall we say, not just a bit over the top, if not outright spectacular. My wife says I definitely charge admission.
Although I didn’t know it at the time, they hit me with a dose of Ketamine. If you ever get asked by a medical professional if you would like some “Special K” for breakfast, the proper response is “yes, please, and thank you”; it is simply wonderful. My spiraling journey down the K-hole deposited me directly into the heart of the pre-Spanish occupation of Central America, amidst the kingdom of the ancient Aztecs.
And it was fantastic; everything was in day-glo colors, massive apartment-like cliff dwellings rising up from a beautiful canopy of dense jungle, multicolored parrots flying through the sky.
But the best part was hanging out with the Aztec priests. Under any other circumstances, they would have been an alarming lot, clad in robes crafted from the finest ocelot hides and sporting the prerequisite jaguar teeth necklaces and obsidian ear and nose plugs and just the sort to be jonesing at the chance to carve a heart from the ribs from a short white time traveler. But these priests must have been from a different parish, because they were of the laid-back, uber-chill variety. Somehow, we could understand each other and had the best time just “hanging out”, discussing among other things the process of pumping fresh water into the cliff city and removing the waste water through a series of viaducts.
Eventually, the trip began to fade, but I was not ready to come back. I realized that I was actually back in the hospital bed, and there seemed to be a crowd of people hovering just out of focus somewhere in the vicinity of my right leg. But I didn’t care, as I was telling everyone that would listen about my new friends the Aztecs.
But there was a problem: something or someone kept methodically squeezing my bicep. I know now that it was a blood pressure cuff, but at the time, I was absolutely convinced that one of the priests had followed me back through the portal. I could actually see him, just chilling there in a corner the ER in all his Aztec-ian regalia; I was describing him to everyone, explaining that he was uber-cool with absolutely no chest-carving intentions, but could they ask him to PLEASE quit squeezing my arm?
This is where Zach enters the story. As this was all occurring in the ER, not the OR, he had a front row seat to the entire production. So in an effort to prolong the entertainment, he started asking me leading questions; “Dad, if there is an Aztec priest with us here in the ER, what’s his name?” Well, what would you think and Aztec priest WOULD be named? Something like Quetzalcoatl? Tezcatlipoca? Maybe even Montezuma? Not in my world; Zach swears that I had the goofiest grin on my face when I told everyone the priest’s name was “Duaaaaaane”.
Yeah, that’s right, Duane. Duane the Aztec priest and his best friend Bret, exploring planet Ketamine while riding two up on a ratty yellow dirt bike; let’s see Marvel make a movie about that!
Follow up: a few months later, my leg was healed enough to be out of the cast and into a walking boot. JoAnn and I drove back out west with a trailer to retrieve my motorcycle and meet all of the people that had made that day such a rousing success. The last stop was at the Conejos County hospital, the standard by which all other hospitals should be judged. The best part was that I had never before seen the young lady working the ER when we arrived, as she must have been off work during that crazy night. Yet the first words out of her mouth as I came walking down the corridor: “hey! You’re the guy that talks to Aztecs!”… I understand that my performance has since been featured in a training video on how to deal with a peculiar Ketamine reaction. I don’t think that it was peculiar at all; I think it was awesome.
And so does Duane.
Day Six: the Road Less Traveled
Sometimes God, the Universe, Fate, or whatever omnipresent force that you chose to believe in shows up at the most unexpected ways and guides us through times of great trial; the rest of the day immediately following Nama’s death was one of those times. While I do believe that we are ultimately responsible for our own actions, I also believe that desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures, possibly measures that might fall outside of our established belief systems. This was where I found myself that Tuesday in Gateway, desperately looking for answers through a lens so befuddled with grief that my mind couldn’t even formulate the questions. While definite answers were not immediately presented, enough separation from the situation was provided to at least allow me a time of introspection and consideration. And even though this time was gifted to me in a manner that some would consider questionable or even downright reprehensible, there is no denying that it was placed in my path in a highly unusual if not supernatural manner. Someone else might have responded differently; under different circumstances, I’m sure that I would have done things differently myself. But all we all have is right now; it is said “judge not that ye be not judged”, and I think that this judgment applies both to how we think of ourselves as well as others.
But first a bit more explanation of my relationship with the Sky Pig. As mentioned earlier, we had inexplicably met only two times before, both meetings some years apart and just happening to occur at Nama’s spring. A semi mute, long distance brotherhood was formed; sometimes the world is a better place just knowing that some people are in it and there is no need to interact with them on a regular basis. The Pig is a very caring, esoteric guy, but it would be a disservice to this story and to him to not also unabashedly describe him as an absolute lunatic. He literally throws himself into every situation with absolute wild abandon; whether it be a personal relationship or a leap from the door of a perfectly serviceable airplane, the guy attacks every event placed before him like he’s starving and life is a scrumptious feast.
But sometimes life bites back; a couple of years ago, The Pig had a parachute malfunction and corkscrewed into the ground. I know little of the actual details of his crash other than survival sometimes comes with a very high cost of it’s own, and his life is now a series of ongoing surgeries interspaced between jumps. And yes, you read that right: despite his debilitating injuries, he’s still “out there” throwing himself into the abyss on a regular basis. But if you knew The Pig, this information would come as absolutely no surprise; in fact, I would be shocked if he wasn’t continuing to living on the far side of the edge, as a safe life for one such as he would equate to the most lingering of deaths.
So, less than an hour after burying Nama and absolutely consumed with grief and regret, I found myself once again in the presence of The Sky Pig. As I had not seen him since his horrific skydiving accident, the shock of witnessing his now warped physical condition stunned me to my very core. But The Pig is a hugger, and before I could say a single word, I found myself locked in the manliest of embraces. I’m not adverse to hugging, but my hugs are but paltry affairs, (quick hug/let go, in case a bystander should witness any actual emotion being exhibited) compared to the prolonged bear hug that I received that day. But while I am relatively comfortable with hugs, I am NOT comfortable with crying, and definitely not in the company of others. But the Universe seems to provide exactly what you need whenever you need it most, and I found myself sobbing almost uncontrollably. This was definitely not one of my finer moments, considering that we were in the midst of dozen or so base jumpers that had congregated around us to see what the hubbub was all about. But for all of their rough and tumble appearances, they were some of the most compassionate people I have ever met and took me into their group like they had known me all of my life.
As by now it was approaching mid-morning, it was time for The Pig to take the meds for his chronic pain, and one of these was Ketamine. For those that aren’t familiar with the drug, it is known as a “dissociative anesthetic hallucinogen” because it makes patients feel detached from their pain and environment. I have had my own past personal experience with Special K, as this is the drug administered to me at the hospital in Alamosa when they had to set my badly broken leg some years before. I never forgot the experience as it involved me going waaaay down the “K hole”, only to emerge and announce loudly and in vivid detail to the medical personnel who were still in the process of setting my leg that I had just returned from a pleasant meeting with Aztec priests in the ancient temples of the Yucatan peninsula. So yeah, you could say that I’m familiar with its “dissociative hallucinogenic” properties. Even though that was my only experience with Ketamine, I have been fascinated with it ever since, and especially with recent advancements with its therapeutic value for treating those with PTSD and severe depression. And this particular morning I had more than just a bit of these symptoms myself, as I was experiencing a cataclysmic flood of negative emotions: grief at the loss of Nama, guilt as to why I hadn’t had her on a leash, embarrassment to have to explain how I lost her, confusion as to what to do next, and on and on in a downward spiral of self-loathing. It just made sense at that particular time to say “yes, please” when offered what I thought was a small dose of Ketamine. And for better or worse, it was the right decision at that particular time, your mileage may vary. But as my previous experience with the K at the hospital was a joyous romp through the jungles of ancient Peru, this trip was a considerably more introspective journey. But evidently it was not a “small” dose, or maybe I’m just overly sensitive to this type of thing, because it hit me like a hammer strike between my eyes. As I sank to the floor of a complete stranger’s travel trailer, The Pig produced a seemingly ancient book, a strange book that didn’t even open left to right but instead bottom to top and contained seemingly random words and symbols. He placed it in my hands with the stern instructions “don’t open it until you’re ready to accept the very first words you read”. I have no idea how far I went off into the cosmos or how long I stayed there, but as I gradually sank back into reality, I realized that the book was still laying in my lap. As instructed, I picked a section at random and slowly parted the pages; the first words that I remember seeing were “you are a good parent”. At the time, this sentence made absolutely no sense; my own kids were grown and leading fulfilled lives back home, lives that didn’t involve much current assistance or guidance from me. Or so I thought, as I know that we never really lose that drive to parent, and until our deaths and regardless of their age, many children never outgrow the comfort of some sort of cosmic safety net. But after much reflection, I think that the message “you are a good parent” may have been much more simple. I had beating myself up for many months over the death of MacDuff, as in “how did I miss all the signs and think that what I saw as simply a leg issue due to an old injury was in fact that bone cancer that would end his life?” Then Nama; “what if I had done the sensible thing and left her home, making the trip on the motorcycle solo? Or better yet, just put her on a leash?” So many questions have no accurate answers, but only come with an at the time obscure affirmation; “you are a good parent”.
All of this before noon on a Tuesday and I didn’t need to be in Denver until Saturday night, but what to do? It was obvious to me that tucking tail and scampering for home was not an option, but neither was sticking around the camp where such hedonistic shenanigans were apparently not the exception but the norm. I was now craving a bit of sanity and solitude in which to process the events of the last few days, so after texting the Pig of my inclinations as well as my gratitude, I snuck out of camp before sunrise the next morning. It is said that God is omnipresent, and as such that He is the same God everywhere, and I do believe this. But I’m not God, and although He is the same everywhere, I most definitely am not. The wilderness in general and the mountains in particular are where I tend to run to in times of turmoil; this was why I found Gateway so intriguing in the first place. Directly to the west was
John Brown Canyon, a 9000’ pass over the Lasal mountains then down into the wonderful wasteland of Moab, Utah; this was exactly the medicine that I needed. But I had a long way to go, not just physically but mentally, as every shadow cast by an odd shaped rock along the gravel road concealed a dog that needed rescuing. Of course this wasn’t true; I was reacting like some sort of dog-obsessed crackhead, a tweaker who instead of seeing a rock of cocaine in every glint of grit along a city sidewalk, I was subconsciously seeking another canine cause to champion.
I spent the next few days wandering aimlessly around the Four Corners area of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. I had camped one night in Cortez, Colorado when I woke the next morning to find a text on my phone; it was the lady who had accidently struck Nama down back in Gateway. It was obvious that the tragedy was weighing as heavy on her as it was on me, and she invited me to the bed and breakfast that she operates back in Nucla to resolve things out between us; how could I say no? Although sometimes accidents just happen, I did not believe then and do not believe now that this chain of events was just an accident, and any other belief would have been a huge disservice to Nama’s involuntary sacrifice. After our meeting in Nucla, I turned back east towards home. This stretch included a prolonged visit to a natural hot spring up in the Rockies in an effort to somehow cleanse the bad juju experienced over the last week, although it did appear that the adversity seemed to be traveling with me, including a particularly nasty line of tornados encountered when crossing Oklahoma that threatened to derail the tiny CR-V. But by this point I was pretty much beyond giving a whit, so I just pulled off of the interstate into an abandoned parking lot, climbed back into my bunk and slept through the aftermath.
I finally arrived home unkempt, disheveled and discombobulated but had scant opportunity to recuperate, as in my absence a feral rescue dog had chosen the Casa as her maternity ward, giving birth to a litter of seven hyperactive puppies. Things were pretty hectic for quite some time, but I eventually got back into the ebbs and flows of life of stationary life. But for the longest time, I could not bring myself to perform one particularly simple task: cleaning Nama’s slobbers from the windows of the CR-V. It seemed like doing so was somehow erasing my last physical connection with not just a great dog but in some ways a potential shaman that was going to help guide me through the next, maybe last, era of my life. I am fully aware of how ridiculous this may sound, but it makes perfect sense to me.
But eventually it had to happen, and while it didn’t make me feel any worse, it certainly didn’t make me feel any better. And it still doesn’t, and probably never will, as Nama’s time was so short that I will spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been.
Namaste, Nama stay; I surely wish that you could have.
BATTING CLEANUP
• June 3, 2024
• ·Dad
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Dad here; t’s been a week since I returned from Colorado, and tonight that I finally got around to cleaning the CR-V’s interior windows. Procrastination? Not this time. Laziness? Nope, not that either. Regret? Now we’re getting closer, as it was Nama’s slobbery nose trails that I couldn’t bring myself to Windex away. Even though I knew that it desperately needed to be done, actually doing it felt like I was somehow erasing her memory. And even though it is now done, I still feel more than just a bit guilty.
It is a fact of life that the Casa has been a different place since my return. I didn’t realize before how much Nama kept Bilbo, Charlie, Titus, and Bassa Khat occupied; now everyone is a great deal more clingy. It’s almost like they are attempting to fill a void that they realize I’m feeling, but there is also a pocket of empty air that they are experiencing themselves.
And while the newborn puppies are doing just fine, Heidi-mamma is no less skittish than she was the day we introduced her to the Casa. I have never made the acquaintance of a dog that I couldn’t eventually win over, and I have to admit that I do not like it. The only person that she isn’t terrified of is Mom, even Alex hasn’t been able to win her over; I cannot imagine what type of trauma that she must have endured that would cause that amount of cataclysmic controlling fear.
But Bilbo has made some major strides, or rather leaps, both figuratively and literally. I have taken to calling him “Frog Dog”, as he can somehow levitate vertically without apparently contracting any muscle tissue; whether it’s the motorcycle, auto, or my lap, he somehow “just appears”. I’m not rushing things with him; if he wants to learn to ride, I’m pretty sure that he will eventually let me know. Or maybe another canine will present him/herself as the next motorcycle dog; who knows what the future holds?
I did take the motorcycle out for a solo ride yesterday, and encountered a very large puppy on the side of a relatively busy two lane highway. I had barely stopped the bike before he trotted over and placed his hands on my leg, almost like he was saying, “yo, Dad, you ready to roll?” After the mistrust experienced at the paws of Heidi, I felt a bit of my canis mojo returning.
As I couldn’t carry his porky self on the bike, I sped home to retrieve the CR-V. Mom, Bilbo and I returned and searched the area to no avail, and I went back out there twice today; no luck, but I’m going to keep looking.
It is said “be careful, as ye may be entertaining angels unawares”. I personally believe that the existence of angels isn’t limited to ethereal beings, but are more often earthly creatures placed in our path to give us the opportunity to demonstrate our willingness to serve others. I may find that dog tomorrow, or I may never see him again; the important thing, as far as I’m concerned anyway, is that I never lose my drive to look.
We be of one blood, ye and I.
to be continued…
