On the Banks of the Mississippi

This is my last night on the road. Assuming all goes well tomorrow, I will be back in Welch by mid-afternoon. For tonight, I am camped on the west bank of the Mississippi River, across from Memphis. When I say on the banks, I mean it. I can throw a rock into the muddy monster. My plan is to hit the sack early, get up around 4 am, be through Memphis and into Mississippi by 5 am. I’ll stop for breakfast along the way then gut out the last couple hundred miles to home. I am attaching a photo of my camp spot, complete with a river barge heading south. Pretty nice place.

I have not given myself enough time and space to think about much lately. I have some lingering thoughts about Iraq that I have not worked out. This walkabout raised some issues. The grand experiment of living and thriving in Welch is still before the bar. My next foray is not until late in the summer. These next few weeks are all about “re-blueing”, as my friend JD would say. That is, making peace with leaving my career at the University, assessing my contribution in Iraq, culling through the Southwest Adventure for tidbits of wisdom and innovation. In between all that, there is the family.

One thing that I have concluded is that I can live in the Airstream until I decide to either build in Welch or move. It is sweet living, too. It is about the same size as the quarters I occupied in Iraq, but far better appointed. It is, by trailer trash standards, luxury. That means that I have one less thing to worry about, quoting Forrest Gump. There are some details to which I have to attend – finish up the well and the septic system on the land, pay to run the electricity, pouring a concrete pad for the Airstream. That is all on the agenda for next week. I know that when I get home, I will spend the next two days on the tractor. Bush-hogging season is in high gear in East Alabama.

It has been a great month of traveling. Thanks for checking in with me. Good to know that there are folks who take the time to wonder what is up with Tom. I appreciate it.

Hard-tail Mule

The much beloved St. Rebecca, my mother, wore out a fair share of switches on me, all put to the purpose of trying to raise me right. She successfully broke me of most of my worst habits. Some disagreeable personality traits, regrettably, continue as part of my behavior even now. Had the blessed St. Rebecca survived, no doubt she would have continued her efforts to straighten me out. She reminded me often that it did not matter how old I was or how big I had become (she meant that in its fullest definition), I was still subject to her guiding hand. One particular trait that she addressed but did not remedy was what she called my hard-tail mule complex. You are in the field plowing and the mule decides that the day is done, it heads for the barn and there is no stopping it. I am the same way. When I am finished, I am sure-enough done. I head for the barn. Worse, I become completely fixated on the barn.

With the West, the mountains, the mesas, the Indians, the canyons, the rafting, the open space, then the bobbin' behind me, in my mind I decided that the plowing was done and it was time to head to the barn. I am heading home. I have not taken my camera out of its case in three days. I have made no plans for any sightseeing. No side trips, no spontaneous investigations. Nothing. All I can see is US78 East to I-20 to UA 431 South to Country Road 248. Every mile I drive is forgotten once behind me. Billboards hold no interest. Historic markers are ignored. I am fixed on getting home. Nothing wrong with being determined to finish a project. But, as St. Rebecca would point out to me, don't miss the richness of the moment. Enjoy the journey, she would say. And, when I would not listen, she would head out to the hickory tree to retreive yet another switch to blisher my backside. I wish she were around to wear me out for how I am behaving today.

The Day After

Bobbin’ is done. I am cleansed. Refreshed. Redeemed. It was everything I could hope for it to be. Boy’s hospitality was exceptional. The water was wonderful. The hours in the water were too short but more than sufficient to wash away all concerns and worries. With the slate clean, time to start living again, adding chalk marks to the list of errors and mistakes to the total. If all goes well, I will return to these sacred waters for another chance. We all want another chance. Just one more chance to get things right, to do the things we too often leave undone.

I am a couple of days until the end of the adventure. Already I miss being behind the wheel, feeling the liberation of wind, sun, and road sign options. No reason to begin to feel nostalgic, though. It has been a genuine treat to be on the road. The attractions were secondary to the experience of unfettered movement. It will take me a few days to digest all that I’ve seen and done. Soon, I have to turn my attention to Chambers County. I know there are dozens of things to do when I arrived back in Welch.

As I write, the Airstream is being pelted by a summer thunderstorm in Oklahoma. Lightening is flashing around the area, the rain is falling in sheets. The sound of the rain on the Airstream reminds me of being in my Grandfather Simpson’s house, listening to the rain on the tin roof. I can already tell that between the exhaustion of bobbin’ yesterday, the drive today, and the rain tonight, I will sleep in deep innocence tonight.

I am attaching a picture of Boy and me while in devote worship yesterday. What a day!

Texas Lake Bobbin'

Another chuck of Texas is behind me now. I found an interesting place to call home for a few days in Athens. Each parking lot is enclosed by chain link fencing. Park the trailer on a concrete pad. Next to the pad is a private lawn, complete with sprinkler. Next to the lawn is a covered garage for the truck. The place has just the right “snoot” factor for me. I did, however, have a hell of a time getting the trailer backed into space. My several attempts attracted the attention of all the other geezers who live semi-permanently in this lap of luxury. I am not sure, though, that Athens would be the place I would want to call home. I base this on the fact that it is a dry county – had to drive twenty miles to get a beer. Such foolishness.

The real reason for being in Athens is that it is close to Boy. He and I helped develop the fine art of Texas Lake Bobbin’ (TLB). I am here for another weekend of the sport. Boy and I worked on the rudiments of the endeavor while we were both in Missouri at the same time. In those days, we used an Oklahoma lake but when Boy moved to Texas, the mere past-time was propelled into a serious pursuit.

TLB is deceptively simple but extraordinarily refined. The ingredients necessary are life-preservers, a floating cooler, and a hat. Naturally, you need a lake. You get out in the middle of the lake, straddle the life preserver, hop in the water, open a Tecate from the cooler, then the magic begins. The true art form is in the conversations that are spawned while bobbiin’ . Boy and I have solved the Middle East question, health care in the US, issues of the environment and social justice, even determined the essential definition of what makes country music (steel guitar and fiddle are in the mix). We have plotted careers, deconstructed game theory, and projected life potentials. It can truly be said that TLB has saved me thousands in counseling fees and proved more effective as a treatment regimen. TLB is more zen than mountain-top contemplation, more spiritual than any sweat-lodge ceremony, and more powerful than any drug I might have taken as a crazy youngster. TLB is the Grateful Dead and Rolling Stones playing a double bill and as moving as the third act of Turandot. It is no wonder that I drove clear across Texas for these next couple of days of bobbin’. I am on the steps of Valhalla, preparing to enter. I am suited up and waiting for the whistle to mark kick-off. My mind is racing and my nerve-endings are twitching. It is better than Christmas morning, better than a sure-thing date with Melba Sue Cotney. I am in Texas. It is hotter than Hades. The humidity is sopping. But none of that matters. When the bobber is ready, the lake will appear. Come, sweet water, engross my body and mind in your curative embrace. Wash away my temporal concerns. Cleanse my mind of trouble. Let me see the face of God. Amen.

Road Notes

A long driving day today. Here are some notes from the road.

One: If you ever find yourself in San Antonio, New Mexico, make sure you drop in for a green chile hamburger and several of the coldest beers in the West at the Owl Bar. Would also be good if you brought a designated driver. The place looks like a run-down old shack but the atmosphere and people are great. The bar is said to be from Conrad Hilton's first hotel. The other interesting story is that back in the mid-1940s, the Owl was the hang-out for a bunch of guys who identified themselves as prospectors. Turns out they were the research team on the Manhattan Project. Not surprisingly, the Trinity Test Site is a few miles southeast of town.

Two: The best place to get lost in the West is Roswell, New Mexico. Happened to me today when I could not find US 380 East. After wandering around a bit, I got back on track but not before driving by the UFO Museum in downtown Roswell. All I can say is that I drive 6,000 miles and get lost only once -- in Roswell. Sounds as if aliens are messing with my internal navigation. Or, aliens think the Airstream is their mother ship, arriving to pick them up for their return trip.

Three: West Texas may be known for oil and cattle but there is a new sheriff in town -- wind turbines. Hundreds, no thousands, of wind turbines mark the West Texas plains. I have no idea how much electricity is produced by the turbines but I know that I drove through thirty miles of them. I saw a few in Kansas on the way out but these wind farms in Texas are huge and they stretch across the landscape.

Will try to make my way across another part of Texas tomorrow. Texas is like eating an elephant, you take one bite at a time.

Map Reading

A few miles west of Carrizozo, New Mexico, I stopped to answer Nature's call, to stretch my legs, and have a smoke break. While milling around I dug out my phone from the truck to call the RV park for which I had reservations for directions. Here's the conversation:

Me: Hi, This this is Tom Simpson. I am a few miles out of town and need directions to your park.

Park Manager: Good evening, Dr. Simpson. We are easy to find. Just take exit 185 off of I-40 and we are located one mile north on the right. You can't miss it.

Me: Hold it, did you say 'I-40'?

Park Manager: Yes, sir. Exit 185.

Me: But, I am on US 60, fifteen miles west of Carrizozo.

Park Manager: Then you are about 150 miles south of us. We will expect to see you in about four hours.

Come to find out, I had booked myself for a place I did not intend to visit. I looked at the Woodall's Guide to RV Parks and discovered that I had failed to read the manual correctly. I was way off course.

What to do? I thumbed through the Guide Book and discovered that I could drive south 50 miles to Almagordo, spend the night, then drive on to Abilene the next day. A quick phone call to the Boot Hill RV Park fixed me up with a space.

And, what a treat I enjoyed. I sat in my lime green chair and watched the most incredible sunset I have seen in my life.

I kept Miss Kitty (the truck) hooked up to the Airstream so that I could get an early start tomorrow. My plan is to make Abilene then onto Athen, Texas, the next day.

Sometimes, the stupid mistakes I make work out well. This is an example. I would not trade this sunset. Even our mistakes can yield great benefits, if we have the right attitude about them.

RV Karma

Maybe it was a bug or just scenic-viewing overload, but I fell into bed last night early with a slight fever and a general “low limb” feeling. The two-gallon margaritas I had at the Fiesta Mexicana restaurant may have contributed to the malaise as well. But, they were delicious.

Yesterday morning, before the bug hit me, drove down the Salt River Canyon area, south of Show Low. There are a couple of pictures enclosed of the area. On the way back, visited Fort Apache. To my disappointment, there is little to see and learn. It is billed as a “national” historic site. What is meant by national, though, is not the United States government but the White Mountain Apache “national” government. There is no mention of the role that the Fort Apache, a US military outpost, played in the history of the area. Instead, the museum featured Apache clothing and ceremonial artifacts. It was not as instructive as it had the potential to be. The use of the word sovereign by the Apaches bothers me to no end. I suppose they see themselves as independent entities located within the borders of the United States. It is foolish self-delusion. But, I am not going to dwell on the monumental mistakes of US domestic policy (not foreign policy since there is no conceivable way the tribes can be considered sovereign nations unto themselves) regarding the Indians.

Today is a clean-up and maintenance day. The trailer needs some detailing and the truck is a mess. I found an RV supply store down the road and have a list of small items that need some attention. Figure I can spend the morning in some do-it-yourself maintenance then spend the afternoon looking around Show Low. (The place got its name from a famous poker game back in the 1870s when one player pushed all his chips into the pot on the bet that whoever had the lowest hand would walk away with all the money. He lost.) The place is full of seasonal folks – mostly retired people from the greater Phoenix area who seek the comfort of cooler mountain temperatures during the summer. It would be a challenging place to be a city manager. Lots of high expectations for services but strong unwillingness to finance the debt needed to build and run them. From the conversations I’ve had with the residents of the place I am staying, I may be the only Democrat for miles. Tomorrow is a moving day, heading for New Mexico.

I have long maintained that I live a charmed life. It may be more mystical than that. I suspect there is something to this traveling about, something I have come to call “RV Karma”. It involves chance encounters that yield more joy than would be expected. I mentioned earlier that the guy parked next to me is from Arkansas. As our chance conversations progressed, I learned that he hunts wild turkey in Alabama. Not just any place in Alabama but a place he described as “just north of the town of Opelika.” As we talked more, we figured out that he hunts on land of a friend of his about ten miles south of Welch. Imagine that. Then, to add to the richness of the chance encounter, he is retired from the US Corps of Engineers (public enemy #1 in my mind but that is a discussion for a later entry) and spent his entire career working on the Arkansas River basis – the very Arkansas River basin that has been a keen interest of mine for years. That is RV Karma in its richest manifestation.

Soul Stuff

Beautiful morning here in the Arizona highlands. Clear blue skies and sweet fresh air. You know how a theme of thoughts comes to you and hovers in your mind? For instance, you crawl out of bed and financial matters are in your head. Or, your waking is dominated by questions about politics, or literature, or pop music. This morning the theme seems to be spirituality. I woke up thinking about my Episcopal faith and how it fit into the world in which I live. I have been fortunate to have had a number of teachers and guides for my soul. My bud Al introduced me to the Buddhism and the thoughtful life. Dr. BigBoy demonstrates to me faith applied to daily living and I have tried to learn those lessons. Then, along the way, there have been literally thousands of ordinary exchanges with extraordinary people who, without intending to, have imparted little wisdoms and insights about living a spiritually full life. Even the Sunni and Shia imams with whom I worked in Iraq spiced up my thought process although I found Islam to be prescriptive rather than expansive of the human experience. One of the exciting prospects of returning to Welch after forty years is the affiliation with Barney’s Church and Bar (St. Barnabas Episcopal Church).

There are Scriptural passages that haunt me. The “lilies of the field” has been on my mind for a number of years. It is in the same vein as the example Thoreau set for me when I was first exposed to Walden as a teenager. Never have fully given in to the injunction to live simply although it is a constant goal. Another passage is being a doer of the Word not a hearer. It does seem to me that faith without action is unfulfilled. And, there is the very difficult “love your neighbor as yourself” that can be a deal-breaker given how many jackasses inhabit the world.

It is Sunday. It is Father’s Day. I am pitifully self-indulgent to think it appropriate to reflect on things spiritual. Instead, I’ll call The Old Goat after while and hear the latest news from Welch – it is hot, the garden is doing well, the Sunday dinner Tinker fixed was delicious, when are you coming home. I complicate the spiritual life. Less reflection and more living is the ticket. Keep it simple.

In the Club

The itinerary for this Southwest Adventure was done at a distance. The other-side-of-the-world kind of distance. I plotted out the route while in Basra then used Google to find RV parks. All I really had to go on was the ad on the internet. Which explains why I spent one uncomfortable night in Walsenburg, Colorado, guarding my little Casita from an invasion by body-parts wholesalers – or, at least, they appeared to be in that line of work. That night I left the Airstream hooked to the truck. At dawn, I made a hasty exit.

Picking out a park requires experimenting. The place in Monument Valley had a sewer hook-up that required water to run up hill – not likely. I was without internet for three days. Not exactly a tragedy but damned inconvenient.

Then, I arrived here in Show Low to discover that I had booked an over-55 park. And, they are serious about meeting the age criteria. The lady at the registration desk asked me for proof of my age. I showed her my Alabama driver’s license – the one that says I have brown eyes and gray hair. Well, the gray hair might have validity but the brown eyes? The registration lady looked at me, then the driver’s license, then at me, again. You could tell that her mind was spinning all sorts of stories to explain the contradiction she was examining. My thought was that I should explain that most of the public employees who issue licenses in Alabama can’t read but I thought better of it. I hate to malign family members in front of strangers. She finally let me park here, figuring that I was probably running from the law and needed a good night’s rest.

The park itself is plush. Affluent, white, over-55s are a demanding bunch. They expect clean streets and orderly yards. No children – grandkids are for visiting. The facilities are remarkable and the services superb. Tonight, I could have attended the Mardi Gras dance at the rec center if I had only remembered my feathers and beads. Everybody here is retired and spending their kids’ inheritance like drunken Democrats. The guy parked next to me is from Arkansas, on the other side a couple from Phoenix. Some of the residents here come for several months at a time. Can’t say I blame them. The weather is nice and the costs are reasonable.

What surprised me was that there is an entire underground sub-culture of folks who travel around in RVs and stay at places like this. And, now, I have a key to that world. I am in possession of the directory of 55+ RV parks. Before I leave, assuming I behave myself, I will learn the secret handshake and the password.

Windy Conditions

A wind and sand storm is howling here today. And, it is in the 90s. I’ve taken refuge in the Airstream. Windows closed, blowable things secured, air conditioning on. Ride it out. Now, I’ve been in dust storms. While in Iraq, I experienced dust storms in two varieties. One was the sneaky, pea-soup type that seems to materialize in an instant. Sort of like a Sandburg description, the storms arrive on cat’s paws. One minute it is clear, the next the air is filled with red sand. It looked like what you might expect in a foggy London. The other type is the movie-quality raging blow. Those hurt. Sand is propelled through the air and when it hits you, it feels as if you are in a sandblaster. Both types of Iraqi storms leave their marks. The storms deposit dust on everything you own and in every corner of your quarters. Regardless of the type, dust storms curtain all air and most ground movements. They are a misery to endure, sometimes lasting days. I lost count of the number of times I was stranded by dust storms. While the Brits were still a part of the Coalition, I could usually count on them to rescue me when I was stranded. After they withdrew from Iraq, and travel depended exclusively on the Americans, storms guaranteed being stranded. Travel in marginal conditions was prohibited. Official policy is risk adverse.

What is happening here is described by the local weather guy as “windy.” Windy? Windy, my ass. I am concerned that the red paint on the truck will be peeled off before these windy conditions end. The rock formations in the valley below that were so beautiful at the sunrise this morning are now completely obscured by the dust. The Airstream is rocking. And, any plans of grilling out tonight are discarded. Flags look like the one the astronauts left on the moon, permanently fully unfurled. The poor trees are holding on as tightly as their roots will permit. I would not be surprised if some of these loose boulders were shoved around a bit by the wind. The birds have better sense than to attempt flight in these conditions.

The thing that worries me about the windy conditions is the safety of my neighbors from last night. Great folks parked next to me headed off to Colorado this morning. They, too, are dragging an Airstream – real classy rig. As well as an Airstream pulls, it is a trailer and is easily buffeted by crosswinds. I hope they arrived safely. When internet services are restored here (knocked out by “windy” conditions) I will send them an email, seeking word on their arrival.

THE NEXT DAY

The winds diminished overnight. The sunrise is calm, serene, and remarkable. The WIFI connection is still down and I am experiencing cyber-withdrawal. I was thinking of picking through the truck to see if I can find my phone. It is in there somewhere. Missing calls is not a concern of mine. Only a few people have my number and those that do are not phone people. I remember several years ago a television commercial depicted a woman jogging in western China – no way I can explain the set-up for the ad – how the hell did she get to China and why – and her cell phone rings. The voice over went: “one day soon every person in the world will have his/her own phone number.” The thought scared the snot out of me. One day soon every person in the world would be tracked. Every person would be available. Every person would be expected to respond when dialed. Sounded to me then like a Pavlov experiment gone mad. Apparently, that day has arrived. Here in the middle of the Navajo Nation, people have their cell phones pasted to their ears. I understand the desire to communicate. And I am sure my reaction to constant calling is generational. It is more me having trouble adjusting to the new reality than anything essentially at fault with a phone-crazed world. I have learned to text although I generally limit that to communication with Beta Carrotina – she is particularly skilled at the art form. Even when I text, though, and as another sign of my age, I write in complete sentences and use punctuation. Can’t help myself.

It appears that the brutal winds of yesterday have moved on and it is time to stir about. My feet are itching a bit, time to move. My beer supply is exhausted and, as I discovered on my first day here, you cannot buy alcohol on the Reservation. That means that I have means (the truck), motive (thirst), and opportunity (a day without appointments) to seek remedy. Time to commit the act.

THE DAY AFTER THAT

The internet connection mysteriously returned this morning, three days after going down. Just to update the adventure agenda, went down the San Juan River with a Navajo guide – Marcus Buck -- yesterday. An all-day float from Bluff to Mexican Hat. When not hiking to Pueblo ruins or trying to figure out wall carvings, I was busy snapping photos. 232, to be precise. I am including only one as representative of the day.

This morning, I am pulling up stakes and heading south. The plan is to be in Show Low, Arizona by mid-afternoon.

Western Sunrise

Woke up this morning an hour before sunrise, at first light. In the distance, the red rock spires of Monument Valley are stunning sights. But, my mind is not focusing on the rugged beauty of this place. Instead, I am thinking of home. I have contended that this walkabout was a “reward” for two years of work in Iraq. Some of that may be true. I suspect I am avoiding the permanent commitment to living in Chambers County. After all, I left forty years ago for a host of good reasons. The logic then is not faulty now. More than just living in Alabama again on a permanent basis there is the bigger issue of commitment in general. While I was eager to strap on responsibilities in my youth, in my dotage, I avoid them. What ambition I had has largely dissipated. My desires are simplified -- a good cup of strong, black coffee in the morning, a cold beer in the hot afternoon, some good music, honest labor, and as many laughs as I can crowd into a day. I spent my entire life thinking about tomorrow. I am readjusting my vision to think of today. There are no grand plans for career or driving passion to achieve some temporal reward. My soul does not crave attention or my ego need massaging. Instead, I woke up this morning in this wonderful place, wondering if the sunflowers I planted before leaving Welch are thriving. I wonder how The Old Goat is doing. I wonder about my next offensive in the Privet War. I wonder if the County picked up the old tires some knucklehead threw out on Tinker’s land. And, I wonder how moving home will work. But, it is time to have a second cup of Joe, put on the hiking boots, and hit the trail. As John Wayne would say, I don’t want to burn daylight. There is a whole new day to live.

To give you an idea of where I am, here are a couple of pictures. One is the view from my front door. The other is the Casita and Truck in the morning sunshine.

Tee Shirts

I really dislike tee-shirts with stuff screen printed on them. The idea of being a walking billboard for a shoe company or a tourist attraction does not appeal to me. I understand wearing a tee-shirt that proclaims you an alum of a university or a resident of a place. I have a number of Crimson Tide tees. A couple from Mizzou. The rest of mine are plain (meaning, no printing on them) black or gray or blue or white. And, the idea of buying and wearing a tee with a humorous phrase is absolutely beyond the bounds of civility. I did receive recently a nice one that had the tag line: I read the Constitution for the Articles. That is a little inside humor for political scientists. By the way, do you know what political scientists use for birth control? Answer: their personalities. Back to tees, I saw one today that I could not live without. Somehow, it sums up my life. Which means that tee shirts that express some essential truth are permittable. Otherwise, cut them up for cleaning rags, wash the car with them, or polish you shoes with them. (Am I the only guy left in America who actually polishes his shoes? Here is a picture of the one I am now wearing proudly.

New Friends

Yesterday was a delight. Took the train up to Sliverton. On the train, I met some of the nicest people with whom one could travel. Sitting in the next seat was Ginny and Tony from New Jersey. Great conversation, interesting discoveries, intriguing themes. Ginny was at two of the most important events in my generation – Woodstock in 1969 and the Twin Towers in 2001. Can you imagine? When you think of those milestone events of a generation, Ginny could have had a trifecta if she had been in Deley Plaza in 1963.

On the way back to Durango, struck up a conversation with Doug and Beth. From Indiana. Another enjoyable conversation. Come to find out, Doug and I are the same age – I mean the same age, as in the same birthday, year and all. We both turn 60 this October. Then, we found out that Tony turns 60 at the end of November this year.

I like traveling to see beautiful places. But, more, I enjoy meeting interesting people. When you fall into natural and easy conversation with another, it demonstrates to you why you break the bonds of the mundane and move. The rewards are psychic, I guess, but yesterday is the reason I hitched up the Airstream. I have always been a reader and, through books, have traveled the world. The thing missing from that form of travel, though, is the warmth and openness of new-found friends. I hope I see Ginny and Tony and Doug and Beth again. It would a pleasure to see how they handle retirement, how their kids fare, what projects and notions they pursue. My life is enriched by a day with them.

By the way, here’s the new Stetson.

Schedules

Schedules get in the way of a good time. I came to that conclusion today as I drove almost a hundred miles to see some Anasazi ruins in New Mexico. Part of the trip involved driving forty miles over a bone-jarring washboard dirt road that seemed to never end. Still, I persisted and am attaching a couple of pictures from the trip. Glad I went but I realized how much energy it was taking to keep up with the schedule I set for myself. The whole idea of this trip is to see and explore but also to unwind and relax. Making a list of things to do is the wrong way to approach those restorative objectives. Tomorrow, I have an appointment – taking the Durango train to Silverton. Have to be at the train station at 9 am and will not return until late in the afternoon. On Monday, heading to Chimney Rock and the Ute Casino. Too much planning. Quit. Let things happen. OK, a little planning makes sense in the day but detailing each day is exhausting me. On the way back from the Anasazi ruins, I dropped by the Durango Rodeo. Good stuff. I have no way of explaining why I like rodeo but I do. Same thing for Stetson hats and Tony Lama boots. I managed to get out of Dodge City without buying a new hat but will breakdown here when I go by the hat shop and pick up that brown Stetson that felt like a million dollars when I put it on.

The temperature plummeted here – tonight it is dropping into the 30s. I damn near froze at that rodeo. Came home , closed the windows, and turned on the heater – thankfully it works likes a champ.

The first picture is Angel Peak in northern New Mexico. The second is Fajada Butte. The third is taken at Pueblo Bonito within Chaco Culture National Historical Park.

Over the Pass

What moron would let me loose in an Airstream in the American southwest? I monkeyed around with the sewer until a guy who cuts grass here at the RV park in Durango showed me how to connect it in about ten seconds. Then, I screwed around with the awning until finally seeking counsel from a YouTube video on how to set the thing up. Driving across Wolf Creek Pass all I could think about was Ricky Ricardo and Lucille Ball in the Long Trailer. I wondered if my hometown paper, the Roanoke Leader, would report my death as a tragic accident or as an episode of Jackass. What was he thinking barreling down Wolf Creek Pass? Didn't he know that the laws of physics apply to travel trailers? By sheer luck and all the caution I could muster, I am in southwest Colorado. Alive, for now.

The Rockies are incredible. I am writing this wearing a jacket since it is a bit nippy here. I am driving down to the Indian ruins at Chaco Canyon in the morning and plan to be in Durango for a rodeo. Bought a ticket for the train ride up to Silverton on Sunday -- that is an all day affair. Then on to Monumnet Valley on Tuesday.

The trip from Dodge City to Walsenburg was uneventful. I discovered that the emergency braking wire was broken so I bought a new one from an RV repair shop there. Discovered that the part he sold me was itself broken and, when installed, cut all the lights to the Airstream. Messed with it for a while and used part of the old wire and new wire to make a useable one. It seems to have worked.

The place I stayed last night in Walsenburg was bizarre. There were only two travelers in the so-called park. The grass almost enveloped the trailer and the truck. I left the rig hooked up to the truck all night and at first light hit the road. Don't think I will be returning to Walsenburg anytime soon. Durango, however, is a different deal. Nice. Lots of campers here and a well maintained park. The town in unique. It seems prosperous and alive. I spent the afternoonn downtown. It has much to offer. Almost shelled out money for another Stetson but restrained myself. If I were a skier, I would visit here often.

The sheer grandeur of the place is impressive. Being here makes the death-defying trip over Wolf Creek Pass worth it.

There are a couple of pictures of Jacob's Well in Kansas, one of the prettiest places I have ever seen. One of them is of a herd of buffalo that I found stunning. The other is my take on Kate and Leoarndo's stunt on the Titanic. The picture does not show it but the wind howls at about 30 miles an hour all the time. If I had had wings, I could have flown. Beautiful place.

Dodge City

The drive to Dodge City was about 340 miles through storms and winds. The Airstream cuts the wind well but it is, after all, a block of metal cruising down the highway. Makes for some uncomfortable driving. The first order of business upon arrival, after a quick set-up, was a visit to Wal-Mart to purchase a ShopVac. Why? I failed to open the gray water drain valve. That and a leaking shower head spelled trouble. Flooded the carpet in the trailer. The ShopVac picked up a lot of it. I opened the windows and turned on the fans in hopes of drying the place out. It was a stupid mistake on my part -- all part of the learning curve. While at Wal-Mart, I left the lights on inside the Airstream, thinking that the power cord was properly connected. It was properly connected, but I failed to flip the right switch which meant that the lights were on using battery power. When I discovered the error, it was easily fixed, a second disaster averted. This litte trailer is kicking my PhD ass and teaching me some fundamental lessons in humility.

Today is all about Marshall Dillon, Miss Kitty, Chester, Doc, and Festus. In fact, the place I am parked is the Gunsmoke RV Park, nice place. South of here is Jacob's Well, a monument to the original prairie, complete with bison. Just east is Greensburg, a town destroyed by a category 5 tornado several years ago. It is rebuilding and hopeful. It is also home to the world's largest hand-dug well. Wow, what a sight. To the west is Garden City. These places dot the Arkansas River Valley, a place of considerable academic interest to me. I would like to write on the subject and plan another trip out here at some point. I am lingering here for a few days mostly because I like it.

There is not way I am getting out of Dodge without a new Stetson.

A Glimpse Backswards

Years ago, in a lifetime now closed, I lived and worked in Southwest Missouri. Twenty-five years. I came to the region to be a city manager. I did that for five years then spent twenty years as a college professor at a state university. I passed through the place on my way out West and could not get out of town fast enough. In your gut, you know when things are over. The city I managed is doing well, no thanks to anything I did more than two decades ago. The new generation of managers is highly professional and brings innovation and creativity to urban issues. Americans often fail to realize that while their national and state governments are broken, cities actually solve problems.

As I understand from news accounts, the university at which I worked is in melt-down The president for whom I worked was forced out by a board of short-sighted hacks. The clown the Board hired as president has successfully trashed the University’s image, eschewed meaningful engagement in the region, and gone through management staff like corn through a goose. Why this jaybird is still employed is a mystery to me. Friends of mine who are still at the University have a new past-time – counting the days until they are eligible to retire. Sad commentary when a respected institution can be driven into the ash heap by crooning incompetence – I say that because I understand the new president likes to serenade the community.

But all of that is in the past. A lesson I am learning and trying to practice is not look back. The legendary Sachel Page, related to Luther and June Page who lived in the Welch community when I was a kid, once said that you never look back because you never know who might be gaining on you. Risking it here for a moment, I am happy for the city. Congratulations to it for pressing on and holding fast to its commitment to public service. And, shame, shame, shame on the University Board of Governors for the despicable treatment of “my” president, and for hiring a buffoon as a replacement. It will take the University years to recover, if it ever does.

The place I called home for so long is quickly becoming a disappearing vision in my rear-view mirror. Don’t look back.

The Driveway

Took care of some last minute details before departing on the Southwest Adventure. One was the installation of the driveway on the land. (Straw) Hats off to Chambers County for doing a cracker-jack job on the culvert installation. Benny Frank and Whitfield of the County crew did a masterful job in feathering the stones and sculpting the ditches. The 15” cement culvert is 32 feet long, plenty of room to maneuver the Airstream in and out. In the first picture, Whitfield is congratulating The Old Goat on his excellent supervision of the job. In the second, note the expertly crafted ditch work that Benny Frank did with the backhoe – the man runs it as well as a concert violinist plays a Stradivarius.



The first step in the Southwest Adventure is complete. I drove about fifteen hours and reached the edge of the wilderness – Missouri – just in time for a hell of a thunderstorm. The winds and rain forced me to take shelter at a nice camp spot. The only damage suffered by the Casita was the loss of one of the ceiling port covers which I replaced this morning. Otherwise, all equipment is working as advertised. I am ready to step (drive) into the abyss of the Great American Desert, the Plains. In anticipation of this event, I read Tim Egan’s book, The Worst Hard Time, a beautifully written story about those who stuck it out and survived the Dust Bowl days. Part of me subscribes to the thesis that the Great Plains should return to a super-nova national park without roads or fences, a place set aside for the buffalo to roam. (There is a interesting little work by a guy named Pomper entitled “The Buffalo Commons” that outlines this notion more thoroughly. The expanse is not intended by Nature to be farm land. One of the amazing story lines that Egan traces in his work is how the mind can be fooled into thinking that man can tame Nature. It was the accepted notion in the 19th and early 20th centuries that if you plowed the prairie, the mere act would create an energy in the environment and cause rain. The famous, “rain follows the plow” bumper sticker. Real estate speculators and greedy investors, thus, sold thousands and thousands of ordinary people on moving to the Plains based on a lie. It is not terribly different than what we are now experiencing where speculators sold too many Americans on home ownership when, clearly, they could not afford the mortgages. Old story, different time, same culprit – greed.

The Starbuck's Fix

Events conspired to create a routine. Tinker's internet connection was toasted by lightening last week, leaving Welch without access to email and the web. Not exactly a tragedy but damned inconvenient. My interim solution is to drive over to the Starbuck's in LaGrange and dip into the WIFI hot spot and get a good cup of coffee in the process. I asked The Old Goat to join me. To my knowledge he doesn't have an email account and has never explored the web but thought he might enjoy the ride. As I, he enjoys a rich, full-bodied cup of Joe. So, while I monkey with email, he listens to the music and sips on his medium house coffee, hot and black. We have fallen into a pattern -- and as any Southern will tell you, if you do something once, it becomes a tradition. The Old Goat has breakfast ready at 6 am after which we drive to do whatever computer work is on tap. As we drive over to LaGrange, he tells me abut the town when he was a kid. Dirt streets, cotton mills, lumber yards. He points out street corners and tells me about what was there sixty and seventy years ago. That on the right used to be a spinning shed where he worked before the war. Over there used to be a car dealer. Every time he passed that car lot, he'd dream of buying himself a car. This place has changed. "I can hardly recognize it," he says. What hit me was that we were driving to buy coffee and send electronic messages around the world in a place that once The Old Goat thought was the world. Today, after a particularly big breakfast -- fried eggs, sausage, cantaloupe, tomatoes, peach preserves, and biscuits -- he put on his outside shoes and his hat, ready to go to LaGrange. My computer dependency has lead to his fixation on a daily cup of Starbuck's coffee.