Friends, chairs, mountains, home
November 13, 2009

More Tucson friends - Barb and Bud carved out time for us, too, and as always, we visited, wined and dined at our house and theirs. With Buddy too under the weather to join in a hiking foray, we spent our time relaxing, reading, hot tubbing, and just generally recuperating from the fairly frenetic trip. It seemed just right to take a breather before heading home.

While downtiming, I jaunted over to a furniture store to determine if the perfect living room chairs were there at the perfect price and voila! they were. A great deal not to be passed up, we agreed to pick them up at the warehouse Monday morning as we departed the city. Seemed simple enough; however, the reality was a veritable comedy of errors and changes.

While waiting at the warehouse a substantial period while the pieces were unpacked, treated and reboxed, we perused the attached outlet store where we found the already super prices reduced another $22 apiece. We obtained that additional reduction with pats on our own backs, and I further utilized the wait to find a glider/recliner/ottoman set at $97 that I had to have for the office.

Chris was already sweating out whether the other chairs would fit into our limited space, so was less than enthusiastic. The plan was to remove all the various boxes, fishing tackle, tools and kayaking equipment from the truck camper, stow them in the trailer and put the chairs into the camper.

A good plan, we thought. Turned out that it was a really, really good thing we bought smallish chairs: another eighth inch and we would have been forced to leave them behind. By the time we got those pushed, scraped and finagled into the truck, we had the brainstorm to unbox the office set and stow its parts in the trailer - couldn't leave it in the crate because the packed version was wider than the door.

While waiting for that one to be shuffled over to the loading bay, I thought it might be good to peer inside the first boxes just to be sure we had the correct items. Well, we didn’t; the sales slip indicated the wrong color for one of them, thus the necessity of unloading, waiting more and reloading, and thanking Providence that we checked before we left.

There ya go - nothing to it - and we’re on the road by 1:30. So much for getting home early in the day.

Uneventful drive north, Tucson’s frenetic traffic and noise are no sooner left behind, it seems, than Phoenix’ is upon us. Gratefully missing rush hour in both places, we continue on toward home. The low desert is snap dry, perhaps as sere as I’ve ever seen it. Things look a bit better as we reach nearer to our home elevation, but not a whole lot. We knew the rain that has followed us around the country was not duplicated here at home; now we’re confronted with the evidence.

I don’t think I’ve ever considered how important the mountains are to me, how I place myself in their midst. We pass the Catalinas to the east as we head out of Tucson, later Picacho Peak’s spire shows us the way long before we get to it (I have a painting that Grandma did of it). The familiarity of the various ranges all outlying exactly where they always wait for me - Superstition Mountain, Four Peaks, Camelback. Later, Black Canyon Hill brings us to the top of Sunset Mesa (where Dad last ranched) with the magnificent home range of the Bradshaws shading us to the west, Mingus, Granite Mountain, Granite Dells, San Francisco Peaks and Bill Williams Mountain to the sides with Table Mesa, our Picacho Peak and the Black Hills ahead. We are home.

We enjoyed visiting those we love who live far away, but at the same time missed those we left behind. Son Lewis spent our first evening home with us, and sister Christie came to call on Saturday. She’s a favorite of Rowdy’s, so he settled right in with her.

On the occasion of being home, I am bound to repeat endlessly, “It’s so great to be home.” Chris allows as how he likes being home, too, primarily, he tells me, because it’s easier to plan another trip. I put my fingers in my ears and hum loudly, look at him blankly and yell “What?”.

A journey to be remembered certainly, not necessarily repeated (at least in our incredible shrinking trailer): people met, places experienced, dreams fulfilled, difficulties overcome, nerves tried, relationship honed, memories stored. And without spending any time exclusively birding, we ended up with a trip list of 147, including 18 life birds.

It will seem odd not to be blogging; the process has been troublesome at times, occasionally a burden, but well worth the effort by enabling me to share the journey. What next?

New Mexico in the rear view mirror
November 5, 2009

Woohoo! Departing New Mexico, nice as can be, but it’s not Arizona, my native state that beckons just down the road. For stopping in Las Cruces only two nights/one day, it seemed much longer because of our activities.

Beginning with the last, we enjoyed a wonderful rare visit with my uncle Gene and wife Barbara. They are longtime El Paso residents, so we bopped backwards to that city to meet them for supper and a super conversational evening. Interesting trying to catch up on life and families, but we did our best. At age 81, Gene continues still to do some ballroom dancing and occasional competition, one of his enjoyable ways to stay in shape. I think the last time we saw them was when they and their Chino Valley friends dined at our home enough years ago that none of us recalls the date.

Our parking spot at the KOA in Las Cruces was spectacular, not a description I typically use for RV parks. It is perched 300 feet on top of a hill overlooking the Rio Grande Valley and the city with a million-dollar view across to the impressive Organ Mountains, so named because their series of tall spires reminded the namers of organ pipes. Sadly, I was not in residence in the evening when I could get a photo of that view. Maybe I’ll borrow one for the blog; they’re very impressive.

A frustrating drawback was the wifi service that rejected my mail program, so I spent an inordinate amount of time fiddling-diddling around trying to get that stupid blog post out via webmail. If I’d been watching someone else in that comedic struggle, I would have had to laugh.

First, I copy and paste the blog into webmail, then I try to figure out how to do the link. By the time I search that out, the service has shut down so I have to copy and paste again. Now I can get the post and the link, but I forget how to get the address list over there. A couple of false starts with that and the thing shutting down and starting over . . . and on and on and on. In the end, I didn’t think the post was worth posting anyway and I don’t think the link worked, but what they hey . . . the mountains called so I let ‘er go.

While I fussed and mussed, Chris did a bit of research and was standing by with a plan, so away we went to the mountains. He adjusted our route through town in an attempt to traverse anything historic - commercial or residential - but such was not to be. His reading indicated that Las Cruces is a boom town, going from 2,000ish in the 1920s, now 95,000. No idea where they might have been hiding whatever exists of older sections; it will be a mystery to us until our next visit.

I seem to be having a little rebellious fit, somehow brought on by a radio news bit saying someone or other was out of swine flu vaccine; more was said to be coming but there was no way of knowing when it would arrive. For crying out pete’s sake, how hard is it to tell when something will arrive? One finds out where the package is located and calculates the time for transport. It’s not like it’s randomly rolling across the plains wrapped up in a tumbleweed and its time of arrival is based on when, how hard and which direction the wind blows. If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d surmise that this type of pronouncement is designed to accustom us to the idea that we have no control over our lives and that all is randomly occurring. We should maybe just stand here picking our noses until someone tells us where to line up. Okay, I got that off my chest, so will move on to the day’s activities.

The Organs, ghost camps . . .































































We climbed up into the Organ Mountains at a BLM site called Dripping Spring. The trail took us from Las Cruces’ 3,900-foot elevation to 6,000 feet, and was spectacular every step of the way. The only wildlife we encountered was a tarantula ambling across our path. As I observed it, I had to wonder how they obtain their food. It’s a cinch that no bug is going to hang around waiting while that thing lumbers over to it - another must-research item.

The natural grandeur of the towering lichen-colored rock peaks above us was enhanced by the interesting historical aspect of the site. Of course any spring in the desert has been host to men and animals, visitors and settlers, for as long as it and they existed, and this one is no exception.

Winding around various ways at the foot of the cliffs, we saw the ruins, some very well preserved, of a 19th century resort complex, a mountain camp and a sanitorium; one of











































the buildings still has wallpaper remnants and tatters of ceiling muslin. Interpretive signs along the way helped us to know what we were seeing. As always, I took a zillion photos, can’t seem to help myself in circumstances of ruins, water or any places of spectacular natural beauty.

At their heyday, the abandoned complexes were fairly grandiose and extensive. The spring feeds into a small reservoir perched in a precipitous canyon. A perfect weather day for hiking and we were lulled into resting by the reedy reservoir and marveling at the distant views thus afforded.

Our trusty binoculars allowed us to add quite a few birds to the trip list: roadrunner, Gambel’s quail (those two make me wonder if the numerous ones at my house have abandoned me for better accommodations or if they’re waiting to amuse me with their antics), cactus wren, loggerhead shrike, canyon towhee, western scrub jay, white crowned sparrow and white winged dove.

Redtails fighting . . .

Walking back down, I remarked that we hadn’t seen a hawk all day when suddenly we heard the cry of one nearby. We were astounded when we located two red tail hawks fighting. One had a meal firmly clutched in its talons and the other was diving and jinking, trying to snatch the animal dangling from the other’s claws. It seemed the attacker was the one making all the racket; the battle went on easily for five minutes before it was conceded. We were thrilled to get to watch the show. I had no idea that a hawk would even attempt such a thing.

Time travel, Mesilla, Rio Grande . . .

We have been given back the three hours that was taken from us as we traveled eastward. I always think it should be returned with interest when it comes back, seems only fair to get a bonus day or two for giving up those hours during the past four months.

I have long been interested in the Las Cruces area, and want to do much more exploration. We had thought we might spend our day there checking out the charming little historic town of Mesilla, but opted for the boonies instead. We did eat at La Posta in Mesilla, housed in a 130-year-old building and interestingly decorated with 20-feet-tall trees, caged tropical birds including a scarlet macaw and large aquarium fish - even a piranha complete with an admonition not to dangle any fingers into the tank.

Extensive agricultural pursuits fill the valley: there are many hundreds of acres of pecan orchards and cotton fields, all kinds of fruit and vegetables, with many vineyards and wineries. One back road we drove was beautifully arched by pecan trees reaching across and over the roadway, giving us a leafy green tunnel to drive through.

It was surprising, though, to see that the Rio Grande has been reduced to not much more than a trickle wandering serpentine through its sandy bottom from one bank to the other.

I’m sure I will be jumping into the swimming pool when we get to Far Horizons today after going from the sweater-cool morning of Las Cruces into the forecast 90 degrees in Tucson. We had hoped to lunch and visit with brother and sis Frank and Pat on our way through Benson but couldn't get connected with them in time.

Tucson . . .

How fun to be greeted by Sam upon our arrival at the park. He is simply one of the nicest guys ever; we got to know him during previous stays and he was one of those who put so much energy into Chris' house concert/wine & cheese party here last year - what a great time that was.

Norma and George came to call after we got set up. Norma and I go way back to nerdom/childhood. We had a hilarious evening here and going out to dinner at Picacho Peak steakhouse. Seems to be typical when we get together with them that we have an all-around great time. Sara still talks about the time we visited here many years ago and the fact that Norma and I cackled and carried on pretty much the whole entire time. There are those special friendships that are unaffected by time and distance.

I would try to explain about how George got us special seating at the restaurant but then couldn’t seem to get all of us rounded up in the same place at the same time, but it was so complicated that we couldn’t even figure it out at the time. Ah well, at long last we settled down to a fine meal with excellent service.

We awoke in a most leisurely manner to a perfectly pleasant morning. The three of us watched a steady stream of birds coming to our feeders: we’re back in hummingbird country; we already got three species - Anna’s, broadtailed and black-chinned, in addition to verdins, Gila woodpeckers and house finches. Chris and I identified them; Rowdy drooled.

Mountains and springs
November 2, 2009

As we drive this stretch of west Texas, the one that people love to hate, we find ourselves being intrigued, as we always are here, by the topography, the history, the vast emptiness that seems to somehow shed most of those people who tried to be here.





















As we left our night’s lodging (the Fort Stockton RV park, not to be confused with another there - the desolate Comanche RV park), I read a bit about the history, which has led us to conversation - we’ve run out of other diversions. We have felt ourselves winding down, not being quite as interested in our surroundings, passing photo ops that prevously would have gotten our attention. Coming to an awareness of that has spurred us into a renewed action, snapping shots of attractively-painted freeway abutments and distant mountains, even stopping on the Interstate’s shoulder to do so.

Today we will drive only about 275 miles and then remain for two nights in one place, a situation that Rowdy will surely welcome. He hid under the pillows this morning, his way of saying “enough is enough.”

Not too surprising - I have digressed. Back to the reading that informed us about Comanche Springs, the impetus for this area’s settlement and the former source of an astounding 80 million gallons of water flow daily. I am always fascinated by springs - hot and cold - they seem so magical. A water flow of that magnitude would naturally encourage settling in the area and mark a good travel route, which is what occurred.

History tells us the Anglo population required protection from the hostiles, thus was born Camp Stockton in 1858. The war between the states caused the Army to withdraw from 1861 until Fort Stockton came into being in 1867.

Near the fort, the town of St. Gall was established; in 1877, it became the first county seat of Pecos County. The town was later renamed Fort Stockton. The discovery of oil in 1926 caused the area to boom around Yates Field, the fourth largest oil reserve in the world (I had no idea!). Sadly, Comanche Springs ceased flowing in the 1950s, a casualty of drought and increased irrigation.

We have decided that we’d like to return to this area for a more extended stay and exploration. On an earlier trip, we visited the old Fort Stockton and its accompanying Annie Riggs Museum. To our delight, there was an event just beginning at the museum when we showed up. We were welcomed heartly and thoroughly enjoyed the program, interesting historical talks by various old-timers, even lunch.

While contemplating how a spring of such magnitude could completely dry up, I had to wonder why the not-too-far-distant Balmorhea Springs continues its amazing flow of fresh water. As usual when I have an out-loud wonder, Chris has an answer. In this case, he’s surmising based on his geologic knowledge that because Balmorhea is closer to the mountains, the probable source of the water when it’s still undergound, it is receiving its spring flow from the aquifer before it is depleted.

Balmorhea State Park is certainly one of the most stupendous places I’ve ever seen, an incredible 22 to 28 million gallons of water from San Solomon Spring gushing forth into a 77,053 square ft. pool that is tiled on the rim but natural below. It is a popular swimming and scuba diving hole with CCC-constructed bathhouses and other facilities. There are even endangered species of fish there; they can swim out of the pool into surrounding canals to spawn and do whatever endangered fish do.

Checking the Texas State Parks site, I learn the real skinny about the artesian flow: “The springs also fill a 'cienega' (desert wetland) and the canals of a refugium, home to endangered species of fish, assorted invertebrates, and turtles. The pool differs from most public pools in several respects: the 1 3/4-acre size, the 25-foot depth and the 72 to 76 degree constant temperature. It also has a variety of aquatic life in its clear waters. With a capacity of more than 3 1/2 million gallons, the pool has plenty of room for swimmers, while offering a unique setting for scuba and skin diving. “

The town of Balmorhea is a small place seemingly based on agriculture. On our first visits there, we enjoyed having an ice cream soda at the old-fashioned soda fountain; however, the last time we stopped for our treat, it had closed, much to our dismay.

Missing Texas
November 2, 2009

Halloween has come and gone with no fanfare on my part. The day was used up in driving and the evening was short, hiding from mosquitoes in an RV park that appears to cater to us and our fellows, the transients using I-10 to cross the Lone Star State, just east of Houston. The place was set up nicely for “pull-throughs” instead of back-ins, but was buffeted by the roar of passing traffic. I feel safe in saying that a trick-or-treater has never made the rounds of it.

I do miss a bit the fun of costuming the kids, scooping out pumpkin innards and making jack-o-lanterns. Our tradition was to clean and dry the pumpkin seeds, soak them in soy sauce and roast them for a treat. It seemed a great deal of hubbub for a snack that lasted only a short time, but we all enjoyed the ritual.

We haven’t had trick-or-treaters at our house for years because we’re too isolated and hidden from the road by trees. As the trees grew up, the stream of them gradually dwindled away to nothing, but I use the holiday as an excuse to buy a bag of candy that I like - just in case someone shows up, I tell myself, and later adhere to the “waste not, want not” philosophy.

Now we are to November, the month of Thanksgiving, and I have so much for which to be grateful. We will be at home in a week, where I hope to immerse myself in the family and friends I left behind in July, but already missing the others that we saw so briefly on this trip.

A while back, at an RV park office in Kansas, a book practically jumped out of a rack I was passing and insisted on being purchased. I loaned it to Mom and Dad while we were at the Outer Banks, so have just now read it, and what a read! The title: “The Long Walk, the true story of a trek to freedom.” It is a saga beyond belief relating the 1941 escape from a Soviet labor camp in Siberia and the subsequent unrelenting will that impelled the author and his fellows to continue on when it was virtually impossible to do so. The book was positively mesmerizing; I could not put it down until the end, and I will definitely never forget it.

Today is likely the least eventful of all the ones in the past few months. We are in the midst of our second consecutive long-driving day to scoot us across Texas, surely my favorite state after Arizona. I am convinced I experience genetic memories of some places, this state the strongest of all. Some of the attraction, though, is no doubt due to familiarity after having spent a lot of time exploring here, and to knowing the places of my ancestors. Those who preceded me were many in Texas since the 1830s. As we see place names such as Waelder, Uvalde, Barksdale, Lockhart, Gonzales, Sonora, Littlefield, Fort McKavitt, Batstrop, Bandera and others, it sets a mood of homecoming for those are some of the regions in which my people settled and lived and died.

I never cease to be in awe of the variety of terrain and vegetation across the nation. We’re now back into mountains after the startling low country flatness, but their resemblance to the eastern ranges is confined only to the elevations. What fun to again look around me in a full circle and to see mountains rising near and far. It always makes me want to experience everything between me and the peaks in every direction and to explore my way through each range.

Every section is unique - exciting in its individual sights and smells, even the sky varies from place to place, and each peak, bayou and valley conceals its fascinating secrets to be released to those who seek them.

Fort Stockton . . .

We reached our destination at Fort Stockton about 6 p.m., pretty close to our arrival time outside Houston last night. It was not too bad doing our approximately 530 miles today, although I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. We stayed at this RV park previously. As we pulled in, the evening was balmy, the nearly full moon rising just before sunset and the park exceptionally pleasant. Perched out here in the middle of the desert, it is a delightful little place - welcoming staff, nice store and pool, full private bathrooms with tubs and showers (what luxury!) and a restaurant that consistently cooks up some of the finest southern cooking I have ever enjoyed. It was well worth the wait to savor that great chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with country gravy and green beans - manna from heaven!

A few other RV parks have their own restaurants, but it’s fairly uncommon, mostly in places that are inconvenient to dining-out places otherwise. We seldom eat out anyway; that’s part of what we enjoy about RVing - being able to travel and still eat our own fare.