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.