R&R: Revived & Refreshed
February 22, 2012

Rush hour, prices, cowboy poets . . .

Leaving behind the Midland/Odessa morning rush hour, our destination is Alpine for a much-anticipated weekend off and away.  My stomach can unclench now that we are beyond that jockeying of monstrous vehicles.  It is finger-nail gnawing to see those lines of trucks and cars backed onto the Interstate highway waiting and waiting to exit.  One can only hope a wool-gatherer does not join the back of the line at a high rate of speed.

We just saw gas advertised for $3.79 and a Motel 6 starting at $80 - for that, they should leave on several lights, turn down the covers and put a mint on the pillow.

This weekend, we will attend the Cowboy Poets Gathering in Alpine: it should be a fine time with room to stretch.  We are lodging in Fort Davis about a half-hour away because even more than a month ahead, there was nothing at all available in Alpine.  I’m thinking one might need to reserve about a year in advance to obtain lodging there for this busy weekend.  We will stay right in Alpine another not-so-busy time.  We have previously toured Fort Davis (the historic fort) and driven through Alpine; my list includes more time in that country. 

The Marfa lights . . .

On a previous trip, we stayed in nearby Marfa so we could look for the fabled lights of Marfa.  We were joined in that attempt by a large number of folks, some of whom inexplicably got pretty excited when they saw distant car lights coming through a mountain pass, but the real deal, if there is one, did not make its appearance that night. 

In fact, it seems it is either a most rare occurrence or a hoax.  The lights of Marfa have never been explained; the first reported sighting might have been in 1883, depending on who you believe, so we can be fairly assured they were not the result of a Mustang convertible winding down into the valley.

Rowdy rides, statistics . . .

Our furry boy is with us on this foray, alternating lying down in his carrier and popping up to the front seat to chastise us for torturing him with another car trip.

We just saw an electronic sign that informed us there have been 211 deaths on Texas highways this year, not even to the end of February.  I knew from the newspaper that Midland County alone has so far averaged one fatality per week.  Those are some fairly daunting statistics.

Selling again, packing . . .

Noticing that the date is 2/22 reminds me that this was the closing date for the last sale of our house, a sale that failed because the buyer could not pull off their financing.  That realization started a whole line of conversation about what the past 14 months were like for us.

In that time period, we sold our house and bought another.  When the first buyer backed out three days before moving, it created quite an unpleasant series of events.  Our purchase was contingent on the sale, so we had to cancel our contract after having put money into inspections and so on.  Then there were attorneys and mediators involved to sort out the legalities, more time and money expended, not to mention the emotional aspects.

That was followed by unpacking our belongings to sort out necessities and then repacking about half the house to await a future move, and cancelling all the things that had been scheduled in anticipation.

Then a new listing and much more paperwork, followed by another sale: the one that was to close today, and all the back-and-forth negotiating and paperwork.  That seemed to be a go until it wasn’t.

And now our big news - the third sale that is the charm, finalized yesterday and set to close March 27.  Inspections done to a fare-thee-well, some work done, other work arranged to be accomplished next week and then we return for a week of packing and putting all our stuff into storage.

More paperwork, more phone calls, more emails, more signing, scanning and sending and then our home of more than 36 years will bring shelter and joy to someone else.  We are relieved and grateful to turn it over as we relive in our minds decades of life lived fully there.

Rememberies, blog . . .

The home place is unrecognizable from its birth as what was referred to as “the little house on the prairie”.  We added a second story, planted and tended extensive organic gardens, trees galore, shrubs and vines, much designed for bird habitat - evergreen, decidious, flowering, fruiting, berry patches. 

Looking back at photos of gatherings over the years, we remember reunions in the barrenness, no shade, no shelter, but love shared through all of them anyway.  We moved in a mobile so Dad and Pat could be near at hand.  Dad with us for just about 25 years; Pat's terminal illness and death transpired there.

Chris and I were married in the house; two of our children were born at home.  Sara’s wedding and reception were held in the back yard and her massage therapy school held its graduation ceremony there.  Chris’ retirement party filled the house and grounds as did both Dad’s and Pat's memorial service gatherings.

Friends and kin have come and gone through there, holidays and birthdays celebrated.  There have been hard times, those that wind through all lives, but we release this home that is now infused with positive energy, prepared for new residents to revel in the morning birdsongs, the sunlight greening through the leaves, the exquisite flavor of sun-warmed strawberries.

My last blog post brought lots of welcome response, everything from offers to send mountain photos to quench my thirst to queries about Chris’ work to sharing of remembrances provoked by my musings.  Each response, small or extensive, is truly a warm fuzzy for sappy sentimental me.

Oil field surveying . . .

As we have driven southeastward, we have come in sight of distant mountains that lure us on.  Chris’ work mostly takes him far from the city; he sees the Davis Mountains often.  His work day begins at 7 a.m. and ends about 12 hours later, giving him an average 60-hour week.

The firm he works for is a small long-established family-owned and -operated surveying and engineering company.  It seems there are many positions in the oil fields that are jobs we had never heard of before and that are specific to these activities. There are land men (one woman who attends church with us is a land man), derrick hands, floor hands, pumpers, tool pushers, gate keepers and on and on.  Chris is a rod hand; he assists the surveyor or crew chief, and does it most ably.  His work ethic is most appreciated by the people he works with.

Because they are surveying to site new wells, pipelines, powerlines, roads and properties, the work involves lots of “windshield time”, sometimes driving more than 100 miles just to get to the job.  The work is of course all outside, which he enjoys, and quite varied.  The technology they utilize is all new to him and fascinating to learn.  The work brings into play his extensive conceptual and mathematic skills, keeping him interested and learning.

Typically, a crew will consist of two people who will often meet in the field with a land man representing the oil company or the firm doing the drilling.  That confab will determine exactly how the survey is to be done to accomplish what is wanted while avoiding conflicts with existing or proposed wells, power lines, water lines and roads.  The process is quite complex because of extensive oil field development here.  They might be surveying for rights of way, titles or well pads, to name a few.

He has found his co-workers to be pleasant, having ample time to get to know them.  The company was substantially larger during the last boom and is set to expand some now, although they are taking a more conservative approach this time.

Boom/bust, an Arizonan, poison gas . . .

One sees the effects of boom/bust economics here at every turn.  Abandoned, closed businesses and residences side-by-side with new.  I can’t imagine trying to determine the demographics that would warrant the expenditure necessary to open a business here, gambling the start-up with the possible longevity.  This is doubtless what causes a lack of retail/service facilities to cope with a population jump of 60,000+ additional bodies and their needs.

Although the majority of our neighbors are Texans, we have an Arizonan right next door.  Yesterday, he and Chris were both home a bit early, so I pushed the señor out the door to query our fellow Grand Canyon stater.

A nice young man, he is from Yuma (I see Carol’s ears perk up), heard about the oil boom much the same as we did and moseyed on over to check it out.  His story is fascinating.  He has a family in Yuma and previously worked full-time in billing for a medical office.  How unlikely it sounds that he would now be employed on a fracking crew in Midland! 

This is a fracking operation at work.

Like many hereabouts, he is on the job site for extensive periods, in this case, he works for two weeks and then has a week off, which he uses to return home.  Men on his crew are allowed to stay on the site 24/7 and be paid for those extended hours.  Those who do that sleep in their trucks in between tasks - good money but ultimately pretty exhausting.  They have the option of being put up nearby in a hotel; occasionally, but of course they don’t get paid for that time.  Our neighbor comes home to his trailer to recuperate for very short stints, usually just one sleep shift.  Some men who work in this way share a trailer with others of their ilk, a situation that works well because they are seldom in residence.

We heard of a recent case of three men on a drill rig being poisoned by a sudden burst of H2S.  They were rushed to an emergency room in the nearest town, of burg proportions.  For reasons that are beyond us, the doctor quickly evacuated the E.R. except for a skeleton staff to treat the men.  The word is that they were okay, but we’re still wondering if the doc was prone to panic and decided the patients might be radioactive!?

The journey, The Veranda . . .

A highway-side historical marker tells us that our road to Alpine, U.S. 90, follows the approximate route of the Overland Butterfield stage road.  I am excited as the landscape evolves into rolling foothills backdropped by mountain ranges and peaks, reminscent of home.

Bliss today as we drive along: little traffic, green creosote on the plains instead of Midland’s brown mesquite, brown sky, brown everything, which is fine if you happen to like brown . . . a lot. 


Our weekend lodging was chosen in (large) part so that the boy could go with us.  The Veranda Inn, an adobe built in 1883, is operated as a lovely bed & breakfast.  We reserved the garden cottage, but I had time to peruse the rooms and suites in the main building, too.  The place is decorated with period furniture and has nicely updated bathrooms and amenities.

We enjoyed good morning meals with other guests in the dining room; however, we spent most of our time away at the gathering or poking around the interesting little town of Fort Davis.  Backdropped by fascinating volcanic cliffs of pipe-like columns, many of the buildings are historic.  It is a quiet dark-sky spot near to the McDonald Observatory.  The large grounds of the interesting fort are right in town.

I would love to have gates like this!

 

Rowdy checked out his new digs. . .

. . . including drawers . . .

And settled down to wash off the road dust. Pretty adaptable for a 16-year-old.

I'm thinking this is Fort Davis' original main street.

The Masonic building.

Mountains, elk, Boers, audads . . .

In our drives between Alpine and Fort Davis, I was constantly fascinated to be back in the mountains.  As I am wont to do, I scanned the passing countryside, alert to anything that would elicit my cries of “Stop, stop, stop; go back, go back, go back”.  I was not disappointed, finding much to delight.

An adobe ruin was preserved by a modern roof and identified as to its origin.  It is located on Calamity Creek with a wide grassy meadow running along the bank for about a half-mile.









































This was a double-whammy stop: we viewed the ruin, read the marker and were thrilled to see a herd of elk out for a graze.  Later, we saw deer there also.  It is Texas, after all - deer are everywhere, even saw one grazing on the lawn in front of the hospital.

This view shows a remnant of the 1854 adobe house of Manuel Musquiz with elk in the background.

Upon one particular scan of a mountainside, a series of UWOs (unidentified white objects) caught my eye; Chris obligingly pulled off the road so I could satisfy my curiosity.  They were what I later tentatively identified as African Boer goats gone feral.  They have white bodies and brown heads.

That was fun, but even more exciting, when I trained the binoculars on them, I saw other animals in the vicinity, game that blended so well into their environment that I would never have noticed them had I not been looking at the goats.

What we would have said were mountain goats turned out to be another native African that I had never heard of: audads.  They were not wearing identification; without the knowledge of a couple of young men who also stopped, we would not have known.  There were ten or so of them - very hard to determine exactly because they were practically one with their background.

Pioneer cemetery . . .

We wondered about a sign that pointed to a “pioneer cemetery” but could never in passing see to what it referred, so as we departed, we made it a point to stop for a look-see.  Turns out there is a weathered old sidewalk that leads from the road and between two homesteads back to the burying ground.

 It is fairly large with few gravestones remaining.  The ones that are there are mostly very old and interesting.  Some effort has been made to identify graves and to preserve what markers remain.  I photographed most of the tombstones and the efforts not to lose any more. 

Wild Rose Pass, Balmorhea . . .

As we left Fort Davis, we took a different route and were thrilled with the vistas in this direction also.  I had to stop atop Wild Rose Pass for a walk-around and to have a last opportunity to enjoy the wondrous mountain expanses.  I have no idea if the numerous artificial flowers festooned on the native brush in one spot was in honor of the pass’ name or for another reason, but I appreciated the look just the same.

As we left the high country and neared the small town of Balmorhea, the countryside evolved from thorny plains to agricultural pursuits.  Many of the previously cultivated fields lie fallow now, but some are still being farmed, mostly in alfalfa.  I saw much evidence of earlier cotton farming through here in the form of four derelict cotton gins in the area.

The incredible water springs of Balmorhea are the source of this agricultural ability.  We have twice before come here to swim in the amazing pool, and certainly will do so again at a warmer season.  Tooling along nicely, we whip a quick right turn at the sign indicating Balmorhea Lake.  Funny that we haven’t visited that before, an oversight we are quick to remedy.




A posting tells us we are in some sort of citation peril if we don’t obtain a day pass at the rickety wooden store, so of course we stop in to chat.  The friendly proprietor answers our questions about RV spaces, fishing and birding.  The latter two sound stellar.  The RV spaces are on the low side of so-so, but would certainly suffice for a couple of days stay-over.

He kindly allows us a half-hour (but who’s counting, he adds) free pass to drive around the lake.

The reservoir is fairly large, the unattractive shore line barren of vegetation, but surface water in this country is a major attractant for birds.  Both the lake itself and the canals and irrigated fields are at least seasonal homes to a huge assortment of wildlife.

The day is very windy and we are on our way home, so we take time to identify only the most obvious birds: mallard, American coot, swan goose, pied-billed grebe, muscovy duck, ring-billed gull, white-crowned sparrow, double-crested cormorant, great-tailed grackle, raven and astonishingly - a raft of American white pelicans that treated us to the fun of watching them ascend en masse and twirl prettily in the blue sky before descending to skim the water’s surface as they settled back.

Cowboy poets . . .

We have previously admired the town of Alpine, situated at an elevation of 4,475 feet - nearly as high as home.  Sul Ross State University anchors the small city; its attractive campus perches on a hillside just above downtown.

We navigated campus easily to find where to obtain our Cowboy Poets Gathering tickets, signed up for two evening shows and Baxter Black’s afternoon hour.  All the other performances were free.  Not being able to check in to our lodging in Fort Davis until later, we abandoned Rowdy in the car (the telling sounds worse than the act) and enjoyed an opening show in the impressive Marshall Auditorium. 

Sul Ross State University hosts the gathering.  Its classic architecture, beautiful campus and friendly helpful students and staff enhanced the experience.  Performances were throughout campus; some in the auditorium that is filled each time to the tune of about a thousand seats, and others in various classrooms for a more intimate setting.

I can count no one poet or musician as a favorite.  Each told the story in such a heart-felt personal style that they must be accepted in the same way.  This was the finest in entertainment - musical and storytelling both.

Many began their sharing by explaining they had heard a particular story from someone they knew well or someone they met in passing, and then retold it in their own way - isn't this the very height of oral history!

Some were side-splitting hilarious, a la the one who portrayed himself as the old-time cowboy just off a trail drive from Texas and who was was having dinner at a fancy Denver restaurant.  When he was offered a bowl of matzo ball soup, he turned up his nose, stating in a most poetic way that he might return another time to try a different part of the matzo critter.

Prescott’s own Gail Steiger brought tears to my eyes with his recitation of a Mary Oliver poem and his lady, Amy Hale Auker, shared her love of ranch life in a way that evoked gasps of appreciation at how the words created their own beauty while conveying it.

Two days and evenings filled with the finest kind of entertainment: the type that draws you in to share in a beloved lifestyle, that beckons you to share the reverence for the land, to appreciate the humor in the human condition, to feel that catch in your throat as you gaze in awe at the nighttime sky, that understands the bond we all share.

The poets and musicians freely offered us humor, music and their authentic open honest cowboy hearts.  They laughed at themselves and at the foibles of us all.

One poet mentioned aged withered hands gnarled from decades of hard work.  That reminded me of Dad’s cowboy hands, toughened from his life of working outside, the strongest hands I’ve ever felt, hands that right up until his end on this plane could knead the knots from my shoulders like no others.

I am steeped in cowboy, filled to the brim with a pure clean stream of reality, the same feeling I remember when drinking out of high mountain streams: dropping down on my belly and scooping a handful of crystal water to my mouth.  It refreshes beyond description, as nothing else can. 

The cowboy poets’ sharing stirs awakenings in the depth of me, the rememberings of all who came before.  It evokes the knowing of that connection through endless ages.

From this I came; of this I am.