Hikin’ & hangin’
August 8, 2009

If you’ve been with me since the beginning, you’ll know that our trip began twice on the first morning. We topped that today by starting thrice. The plan was to return to Bent’s Fort to hike around the adjacent wetlands along the river. And we did. . . well, we did for about a quarter mile until we realized that there would be nothing left of us but bones if we continued because the deer flies were chawin’ away on us with great vigor.

Discretion being the better part of valor, we hotfooted it back to the truck to apply the dreaded insect repellent. Ah, better equipped, we hit the trail once more, laughing at the hungry hordes.

Beyond our farthest point on the first try, I stopped to snap a picture. Yet another glitch: no card in the camera. Chris had forgotten to replace it after transferring the last set to the computer (what could I say; I should have done it myself). Disappointed and put out with Chris, it didn’t take long to know that I was going to carry along my disgruntlement (I made that one up) through the entire hike, so we retraced our steps once more, drove back to town for the “film”, back to the fort and set off for the third time. We had wanted the exercise, so I suppose all was well except it had heated up right smart by then.

The wetlands was not there at the time of the fort’s occupation. About ten years ago, the Arkansas flooded the area. That and the rising water table due to damming, thus silting the river, reactivated springs in the area. It now encompasses many acres; the trail around it is about 1.5 miles, standing water mostly filled with cattails. The trail meanders along the river through sparse stands of cottonwood trees. We saw two redheaded woodpeckers, really beautiful birds.

A short stop at the fort on the last leg of the loop allowed us to satisfy a few more curiosities about the area with one of the “traders” who lives there. As I walked through the fort, I thought how perfect it would be to have a sound track playing, one that provided the noise of activities that would have been there when the fort was an important trading post: people speaking in various languages (English, French, Spanish, and a myriad of Indian dialects), laughing, horses, a blacksmith swinging his hammer against the anvil, the creaking of wagons, saddles and harnesses, a saw cutting through another cottonwood timber or an axe chopping firewood. That would be just the ticket to transport me back in time.

A primary fact I learned there is that the Arkansas River was the U.S./Mexico border from 1819 to 1847. How did I not know that?

Lieutenant James Abert was the cartographer/illustrator/recorder of much of what we know about Bent’s Fort and many other places, animals and history. If he were alive today, I suppose he would be a blogger like moi. I am so much enjoying having a venue in which to share my journeys and photographs. I have quickly returned to habits acquired during my newspaper years, especially that of always having my camera with me and being alert to opportunities to use it for illustration. I like doing it very much and don’t even have to worry about selling advertisement space.

Speaking of advertisement, I think the blog site has a way to include ads, so I have in mind to include one for our Goat Hill Music. Indeed, I will get that done as soon as we slow down (ha!), also want to add something on our goathillmusic.com website about Chris being available to play house concerts. I will get those done in my copious free time.

Harvest . . .
The route to the fort took us through North La Junta, an agricultural area with a very midwestern appearance to the residential section. We stopped to photograph cantaloupe harvest. I love harvest time - it conjures such a feeling of abundance with its busyiness, ripe odors and beauty. Once a farmer, always a farmer, I suppose. It’s in my blood and I’m glad of it.

The melon harvest was only partially automated, not so different from the watermelon harvests I remember from Phoenix in my childhood. Dad often had the contract to harvest various crops, and I was his trusty sidekick. Then, someone (sometimes me even though I could scarcely see over the windshield) would drive the truck slowly through the watermelon field. The truck was flanked by men lined out horizontally from the truck bed. As they dipped and bent, they would pick up a melon and in the same fluid motion toss it to the fellow next closest to the truck. That catcher would repeat the motion without hesitation, catching it from his one side and sending it along the way as the same motion passed it on to the next in line, similar to how a bucket brigade would work, until it reached one of two men up in the truck, who would carefully but quickly nestle it among the other fruits.

In today’s scenario, the truck bed was covered with some sort of baffle to keep the melons from breaking as they dropped in. The picking was done by the same line of men on each side (I presume they were different people) who walked through the field behind a horizontal conveyer belt. They picked and placed their melons on the belt which conveyed them to another belt that lifted them into the truck. I missed seeing the motion of the pickers catching and tossing the fruit from one side to the other, the motion reminding me of an elephant walking and swinging its trunk back and forth.

We spotted loads of prairie dogs when we ventured beyond the river valley up into the rangeland.

RV parks, planes on trains, tailwinds . . .

Evidently, yesterday’s travelogue was sent out twice, a fluke of this park’s intermittent and very slow internet service.

We are starting to have quite a time finding places to lodge our totee. Last year, we seldom made reservations, just called a place as we neared it. This year has been an entirely different situation with many places being full or nearly so. I can only attribute the change to the economy - are more folks “camping” instead of doing more expensive vacations? Thus, we are having a heck of a time getting close to where we want to research Augustus Sherwood, who we are told died in Udall, Kansas. Finally, we have come up with something that we hope is suitable, farther away than we would prefer, but at least we will get to look for him. We have no idea why he relocated to Kansas from Nebraska. Perhaps we will discover the reason when we are there.

While wandering in La Junta, we spotted unusual railroad freight: airplane fuselages, four of them to be exact. I have never seen airplanes transported by train, but I suppose it makes sense.

The strong winds we encountered on the way over here gave us an idea for a new type of trip. In our fantasy, we will travel where we are blown, determining our direction by always having a tailwind. Might be interesting, but then again, it might take us in circles.

Our neighbor saw me sitting outside working on the laptop (where else?) on my lap, and thought it looked uncomfortable, so brought out a “lap desk” for my use. It is a clever lightweight plastic affair with a beanbag-type cushion beneath. It really is much easier, and cooler, to use, so I think I will check around for one of my very own. I do, after all, have to give hers back. It was so thoughtful of her. They are living in a new fifth-wheel here because her corrections officer husband got a promotion that brought them here from Canon City. Rentals are high, she says, and they have not sold their house in Canon. It seems that a lot of folks in RV parks are local workers. Perhaps that is contributing to the full houses we’ve encountered - people temporarily moving to where they can work.

While we are off and gone, Rowdy enjoys the company of his bunny.

I just let Chris skunk me at a couple of games of pool. Sure, I couldda beat him, but I hate it when he pouts.

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