But who’s counting?
June 8, 2013

A Mid-departure-land date has been set - June 24.  It is amazing how much the spirits are lifted when an end is in sight.  The limboness of unknowing is often more stressful than the difficult situation itself; at least that’s how it plays out for me.

Chris has given his notice at work; he will work through the 21st and then we will deliver Ruby, our trusty Four-Runner, into the safe-keeping of my brother and sister-in-law in southern Arizona.  We are relieved at their offer to keep the car while we head east.  A friend also offered to house the car in Midland, but this way, she will be closer to home.

Chris’ work ethic and knowledge is highly valued by his survey crew members.  His employer said he has a job with them anytime he wants to return; however, I’m thinking that won’t be any time soon, at least not with wifey along.

We had not yet given formal notice to the RV park about our departure date, but as soon as Chris inquired about prorating our rental rate for our last partial month, the management was on the horn to the next person in line salivating for our spot in the trees.  I hope they don’t sit nearby revving their engine in anticipation of our pulling out.

The boy . . .

Rowdy once again descended into pancreatitis.  By the time we found another, more competent veterinarian who would take us, he was not eating at all and so weak he could barely stand, necessitating hospitalization, a fate worse than death as far as he is concerned, my little joined-at-the-hip pard.

Rowdy shows off what looks like a fur boot after his upper leg was shaved.

No help for it, though: the staff at this wonderful walk-in clinic learned the truth of what I said.  Mild-mannered, normally docile, often playful Rowdy transformed into a monster as soon as I left him.  These folks were up to the challenge, though, understanding about the boy’s distress.

Two days later, he is still weak but much improved.  It was a very helpless feeling not knowing what was wrong and not being able to help nor to find someone to help; I was really missing our wonderful Dr. Frank at home, especially when I thought Rowdy was leaving us.

 



Hotter than Hades, snakes, frogs . . .

Mercy, two days of one-hundred-scorching-nine degrees had me pining (pardon the pun) for homelands.  Now the thermometer is back to more sensible 80s.  Who can guess what tomorrow will bring.  An evening breezy walk in the I-20 Preserve yesterday was almost cool and it brought us a fabulous new trip bird - painted buntings, a male and a female feasting on grass seeds.



Lots of the Preserve's plants are in various stages of flowering and seeding, including willows that are preparing to "snow", much like our cottonwoods at home every May.



 






















 While watching at the pond, I noticed something swimming.  Closer inspection revealed a snake gliding across toward us.  It was intent on a dinner of some of the hundreds (thousands?) of frogs that inhabit that small bit of water, but was never successful as far as we could tell.

We watched it emerge onto land and take refuge under a rock.  A bit later, another smaller one of the same ilk wandered the pond’s edge as
  unlucky as its larger companion; the small orange-eyed frogs leaped in a continuous wave to safety just ahead of it.

Runoff from a previous sprinkle refilled one of the ponds at the Preserve.  It was evaporating quickly in the heat until last night’s real rain, a most-welcome drencher.


 


 Big Dawg doin’s, touring the rig . . .

Rexanne informs me I ought to be using the local vernacular to refer to my friends over to Big Dawg Drilling and so I shall.  A while back, we met up with two of the fellers from the neighboring rig.  The crews have been curious about the Preserve that they see from their working vantage point, so Jimbo and Allan were dispatched after their overnight shift to check it out.

They questioned us about the Preserve and we questioned them about the drilling, a mutually satisfying gab fest.  Jimbo is a senior worker, began in the business on an off-shore rig and has been a driller but now working as a derrick hand at this location.

As they sipped their 8 a.m. Bud Lights and enjoyed their smokes, we learned lots.  My biggest question was about touring the rig; they opined it might be possible and told me where to show up and who to ask.

Waiting a few days for the correct person’s availability, I began to cower at the thought, but when the time arrived, I found that the probability of appearing a fool was not nearly as daunting as I first considered.

I trudged on up their roadway, located the fourth trailer per my instructions, mounted the steps to the porch and rapped on the door.  A bit anticlimactic, my prepared plea/speech was for naught.  No one was at home.  Now unconcerned about appearing foolish, I simply hung around on the porch and took some pictures until someone showed up.

Sean seemed perfectly willing to stand out there with the crazy old lady from across the road while answering my zillion questions.  After a bit, the sought-after Joseph noticed the confab on his porch and emerged from somewhere in the machinery.  He, too, was as cordial as could be while answering my many times repeated question to tour the rig in the negative, always polite, always firm.

The quest was likely absurd to begin with but you can’t say I didn’t try.  I did get an up-close look at the workings and even better, I had a thoroughly enjoyable conversation with two of the Big Dawg hotties.

The Dawgs have completed drilling at the first site, 12,900 feet horizontal.  What an experience to watch them dismantle their operation and to move it to a second adjacent pad!  This one directly adjoins the Preserve property.  Even the building of the pad and the fracking pond was amazing to observe. 

Digging a fracking pond . . .

The derrick is laid down before being loaded onto trucks.

The derrick base dwarfs one of the 18-wheelers that will two-truck it to its new site.

The pond encompasses about 2.5 acres and must be eight feet deep, judging by the perimeter berm.  Because the move was to a contiguous property, the derrick was “two-trucked” over there - the front truck moving forward and the rear truck moving backward, a delicate maneuver for a gigantic piece of equipment.

They have commenced drilling the second well which is slated to be 19,000 feet, a whopping 3.5 miles!  I wonder if they will begin the fracking while we are here - it would be fascinating to see that process, too.

Critters, everywhere critters . . .

We were greeted by a burrowing owl that wasn't living up to its name.

Our Big Dawg friend, Jimbo, told us about a place in East Odessa that sounded like a can’t-miss, so on a free day, we checked it out.  I would explain it but it seems inexplicable, unexplainable also, and besides that I can't figure it out.

The whatever-it-is comprises a large compound housing a whopping array of exotics - mammalian and feathered.  No sign tells us the purpose of the place; however, it seems perfectly acceptable to drive or walk around the perimeter and to feed any critter that wants feeding.  Note to self: next time take food; they seem to expect it.

Because of the large area, we who wonder are unable to see all the animals housed within but there were plenty around the outside.  Most are unknown to us so I just took pictures where possible; others included zebras, camels (even a baby) and waterfowl galore.  In the latter category, we saw black swan, black duck, bar-headed goose, Canada goose, Muscovy duck, swan goose and Egyptian goose.

Here she goes again . . .

Mid-traffic-land - with me, it’s always traffic.  I was absolutely compelled to stop and take a photo of this crushed traffic sign and here’s the reason: That morning I drove by that spot and saw the sign had been run over.  Later, it was replaced and when I drove by a third time the same day, it had been run over again in exactly the same way.

Can’t help but wonder how many times they replace it and why. . .

Commemorative Air Force Museum/WWII nose art . . .

High on my list of what to do before leaving Mid-sayonara-land was to visit this well-known museum.  It was originally named the Confederate Air Force because the men who began restoring these World War II aircraft as a hobby were all from the South.

The name has been altered: now Commemorative instead of Confederate to suit the sensibilities of companies that did not want to supply it otherwise, so we were told.  Next in our quest never to offend anyone ever at any time whatsoever, I suppose we will begin to pretend our country never had a civil war.  Again, I digress.

The museum is top quality from beginning to end; all of the various facets comprehensive, educational and interesting with many interactive aspects, such as audios of pilots' and aircraft crew members' remembrances, even video of the rescue of George H.W. Bush after he ditched his plane in the sea.  On display is part of the collection of restored World War II aircraft. 























I was sorely disappointed when I got to the nose art display and discovered I was not allowed to take pictures.  That gallery was fascinating.  The airplane sections that had been painted on were cut out and the artwork meticulously restored.  Now the panels hang from the gallery ceiling.

Each had as much explanation as could be determined.  Most were by unknown artists but where the painter was known, there was information, sometimes photos, about him.  Some artists painted more than one aircraft; some were original designs but lots were inspired by popular pin-ups of the era, others were crafted a la Disney cartoon characters.

The nose art was my original impetus for visiting; the huge bonus was the museum which houses an astounding array of artifacts and displays covering every theater of the second world war.  An affiliate of the Smithsonian, the facility is as high a caliber of any museum I have visited.  We wandered the halls for nearly three hours and felt we could have spent an entire day there if our energy was not flagging.

Maybe this I caught flying over the park is from the CAF collection . . .

Vietnam memorial . . .





Near the CAF museum is a memorial to the veterans of the Vietnam war.  We spent some time there; taking photographs of the statuary depicting a helicopter descending to rescue ground troops.  The emotions of that era returned overwhelmingly. 

 





























Old meets new, orioles, stuff . . .

After a nice lunch with a friend at Luigi’s downtown, I followed my typical Midland itinerary - wandering wherever I am led.  I caught sight of a large building of Gothic revival architecture that made an interesting contrast with the sleek office building across the street.

The 1920s structure incorporates the Yucca Theatre, the interior of which is said to be of Egyptian revival style - would love to see inside!  It was fun to read on the historic site plaque that the Yucca opened in 1929 with a showing of the musical “Rio Rita”.  I have never seen that film but my name insures that I have heard of it. 

Years ago, I worked with a woman who called me Rio Rita; she was from the era when it was popular.  The younger (relatively speaking) set often calls me Rita Meter Maid in reference to the Beatles’ song.  Friend Buddy enjoys referencing the song, “When Rita leaves, Rita’s gone” (hopefully, it’s not a suggestion). 










Another wander brought me to an old house that appears to have previously filled the role of barn.  It squats within a housing development named Whitmire.  No clue at the site about its origin, but I did find that a Whitmire family was early residents, so I surmise this structure belonged to them and the development likely occupies their land.

I am thinking that Midland must be the home of a zillion orioles if the mobs at our nectar feeder are any indication.  A steady stream of them makes it difficult for the hummingbirds to get a sip.

I recognize the horned toad but the snake in this post and the lizard in the previous post have not been identified.

The pond by the golf course appears to be filled via a well as it maintains a steady level.

I'm guessing Bob's Floral Designs doesn't often use this van for deliveries but what a splendid storage shed.

This is but a small portion of someone's front yard!

Livin' life
May 23, 2013

It does my heart good to get feedback when I post a blog!  Although I enjoy writing the journal, I probably would not continue without the satisfaction of hearing from friends. 

A typical West Texas landscape.

Judging by some of that feedback, it would appear that the things I tend to write about do not create an accurate picture of this area or what our life is like at the moment.  And really, why would I post photos of a gazillion acres of tabletop mesquite land or of the long lines in every business in town?

Instead, I mostly record this episode of our life with photos of bright spots - the scarce man-made oases with water and trees - and thank heaven for those places.  They help me to remember there is life after Mid-temporary-land.

A changing perspective . . .

Now that our time here has stretched to near a half-year, I’ve spoken to enough long-time residents to understand that some folks like living in Midland, or at least in the Midland before the current chaos.  The reasons are varied: for some, it has always been their home and thus carries that bond. 

For others who came here for work decades previously, the wish to remain near grown children and grandchildren, familiar places and friends is the reason to remain. 

All of them hearken to earlier times, periods of relative calm when the roads were not choked with 18-wheelers and crowded with speeding vehicles, when markets were places for leisurely shopping, when housing was available at a reasonable cost.  This is the story of a boom/bust oil town - feast or famine.

Driving: I’d rather not . . .

I read a comment in the newspaper recently in which the writer’s opinion was that Midlanders ought to be able to venture forth in their vehicles without risking their lives.  I totally agree with that; however, such is sadly not the case.

Since the beginning of 2013, there has been more than one fatal traffic accident average for every single week.  That totals 22 in this 19th week - a shocking fact!  That is fatalities only; I can’t even imagine how many wrecks and injuries that entails, but it really is an act of courage to set out on these roads, and wisdom indeed to avoid them during rush hours and lunchtime, when it is even more harrowing.

One learns quickly to do errands at times other than rush hour or lunch if at all possible.  Even then, it is important to realize that impatience can get a person killed and to constantly be on the lookout for that other person who cannot wait.  There is never one jaunt to the grocery without witnessing crazed maneuvers several times over.

The high percentage of oversized vehicles causes each accident to be potentially life-threatening, yet I see drivers daily who challenge a big rig for their slice of pavement.  If only we could all see these things on a fast-forward basis: rewind and wait instead of speeding off only to crush or be crushed.

I am told that even as short a time as three years ago, the situation was entirely different.  Unfortunately, this particular boom, the largest yet, is expected to continue for an indeterminate length of time and to bring at least 40,000 additional people to Midland and likely as large a population boost to neighboring Odessa. 

It is obvious the existing infrastructure cannot support that despite all efforts to keep up.  I foresee problems in the future that will dwarf what is now occurring.

Some lessons are being learned.  An important one is patience: there simply is no way to rush shopping hereabouts.  Everything is crowded; service is slow because of lack of work force, and check-out lines are an exercise is tedium.  There is nothing about any of it to rail against: it’s just the way it is.

Despite my frequent Mid-lambasting-land tirades, I acknowledge that if I were to be here permanently, I would become involved in activities of interest, deepen friendships and attend cultural and social events.  These things would certainly make life here more meaningful; however, I don't see how I could ever be content without my back-country wanderings that are so important to me in Arizona's abundance of publicly-accessible lands.

The plan . . .

In the afore-mentioned feedback, I am often asked about our plans and have brushed aside the question because we had no particular plans beyond being here and working.  Now we have determined something of what we will do and when we will do it.

Sometime late in June, we expect to depart this area and turn eastward, the goal to be North Carolina where we will spend time with Mom & Dad W.  We hope to do some playing along the way, perhaps some visiting of ancestral haunts and other places that call to us.  I yearn for water - must have water - whether it be rivers, lakes, creeks, seeps, bayous, bays, oceans, swamps, ponds, marshes, estuaries, puddles, springs or streams, I'm gonna find me some.

This will not be a long-term foray; we will return to Prescott via one route or another yet to be determined and set ourselves about finding a house to purchase.  In the interim, we expect to continue to reside in the Totee back in our wonderful Yavapai County until the right house is ours.

Nor any drop to drink . . .

I have learned that many Midlanders have whole-house water filters to render potable what is not.  Those who do not, like us, purchase water, either by buying insane amounts of bottled water or refill from kiosks and machines located conveniently everywhere.

Our water source.

I refill our seven one-gallon water bottles, usually from an efficient Glacier dispenser for 25¢ per gallon.

Our sophisticated water storage system.

That constitutes all our drinking and cooking water.  I can't help but wonder if the streaky residue left on dishes after washing in Mid-nasty-water will ever come off.

Economy’s toll . . .

Across from us is the only trailer rental in the campground, currently occupied by a nice young man from Arkansas.  I have not met him; however, close quarters result in knowing sometimes more than one would want about one’s neighbors.

In this case and several others nearby, men who are here alone to work in Mid-boom-land were visited by their wives and families over Mother’s Day weekend.  I was witness to the leavetaking of this particular neighbor’s wife and children and a heart-wrenching scene it was.

As she prepared to drive away with their three children, he was leaning in the car window crying.  After a very, very long time, she pulled away but backed up after going only a few feet and the scene was replayed.  This continued for a number of other times.  Sometimes, she would make it to the end of the drive while he stood watching with hand raised and blowing kisses and then back she would come.

It was wonderful to see a couple so in love but brutal to witness the pain of their separation.  I shot a photo of what she wrote on the back window of his pickup: “Your wife hearts you”.  I wish them surcease from the economic turmoil that has precipitated their separation.

Rowdy & me . . .

The boy’s health has been going slowly but steadily downhill.  As his appetite declined, I began to handfeed him and we looked for recommendations for a veterinarian.  The first was not accepting new patients, but we located someone who would take us.

Rowdy still "kills" a mouse or remote control now and then.

We were not overly happy with the results of that $200, two-hour visit, but did manage to persuade her to give him antibiotics and sub-cutaneous hydration which resulted in some improvement; however, I am not sure if the boy is going to stay with us.  We are feeling pretty helpless in the face of the inevitability of losing him.  He is gaunt and weak, but still a love-bug and enjoys his times out in the sunshine.

And he continues to savor a stint outside.

At the same time, my emotional and physical well-being has declined rather alarmingly, a situation which has made it difficult to keep on keepin’ on.  I haven’t been corresponding, haven’t been writing, haven’t been doing any of the things that my mind says I want to do but my body will not comply.

Today I am enjoying an obvious improvement which I will affirm is a turnaround; I am writing, writing, writing, making up for lost time by writing much of what has been running around in my brain.  Of necessity, I will leave out some of it, but am feeling very good to have fingers to keyboard.

Connections . . .

All has not been doom and gloom, either, for past weeks.  I up and visited a new-found acquaintance - an elderly friend, Bonnie, of an elderly friend, Helen.  Helen in Rock Springs told me about Bonnie in Midland; she and I had a lovely visit at her apartment in an assisted living facility.

My other local elderly friend, Joy, decided that a yard sale was in order for her, so I opted to help out over there for a couple of days.  It made for excellent visiting time with her & Frank and their friend, Eldon.  As she was winding down on the third day, Chris and I went over to help box up the leftovers for charity pick-up, so he had the chance to meet them, too.

Chris had a whole weekend off - good news cuz it was great to have the time together, bad news cuz he wasn’t out bringing home the bacon.

The yard sale bonus was an autoharp that I couldn’t resist - not your usual yard sale find.  By a fortunate fluke, we found a guitar repair shop that had a string to replace the broken one.  Now he’s got something to make music with that is a bit more portable than the keyboard.  How I miss hearing him play the keyboard, but the powdery soil here is so often wind-blown dust that permeates everything; we dare not take the keyboard out of its case lest it be, well, permeated.

A gardener, a summer job . . .

With summer upon us, my hands itch to be in the soil planting, weeding, tending gardens, so when I had a chance to shoot the breeze with a fellow fanatic, I jumped on it.  In this case, it was a fellow RVer by the name of Bradley.  Seems that this young feller took to the lessons he learned from his grandmother, so even without a plot of ground to call his own, he has developed a little containerized garden: three tomatoes in five-gallon buckets with holes drilled in the bottoms, strawberries in a wooden box he built and a raspberry in another container - all watered with drippers on a timer to keep things going when he is away working.

Very fun to talk varieties, methods, watering and all things garden.  Bradley is in the process of buying his first-ever house after living in apartments and RVs for 13 years.  I applaud him!

This morning, I met yet another congenial young fella: Glen has taken a summer job to do maintenance at the I-20 Preserve, so I expect I will be seeing him during my frequent walks over there.

A quasi-boondock . . .

By the time that weekend off work rolled around, I was on the verge of the screaming meemies with my visceral need to be in the boondocks at a fever pitch.  Knowing that boondocks are non-existent in these parts, we set off to search for a reasonable facsimile.

Can you say dry?

Indeed. . .

Each caliche road that was posted and/or gated and locked fed my longing for Arizona’s inviting public lands.  Every fence felt like a personal affront until I was at war with all that kept me in urbanized and man-made circumstances.

Suddenly, we spotted a patch of mesquite-laden ground that was inexplicably unfenced, unposted, unrestricted.  Not exactly a boondock (you could see from one side of the acreage to the other), but miraculously, it was a piece of ground to explore, so off we set.

It turned out to be a fascinating hike with one of us watching for birds and one of us watching for rattlesnakes and feral hogs in order that we could remain alive to watch for birds.  At times, mesquite gave way to thick dry brush and grass mats, making caution a necessity.

We ventured forth alongside a draw that was choked with salt cedar, trying to discern the identity of birds flitting through the branches, mostly kingbirds and orioles, until we came to an area that was completely divergent from anything else we’ve seen in this area.  A fascinating tiny forest of absolutely nothing but close-together tall trees, possibly soapberry, perhaps an acre or two in size, we heard many bird calls in the treetops but identified few.

Imagining that we were at home in the mountains, we scrambled up and out onto the ridges created from digging caliche and took a different route back to the car, marveling again at how completely dry everything is, yet wildflowers are in abundance.

Roadrunner 4, Wile E. Coyote 0???

Dirt defiance . . .

One takes one’s pleasure where one can.  In this case, because we are not allowed to wash our disgustingly filthy trailer in this campground, I settled for washing the windows only to have the accumulated dirt on the roof and siding immediately streak them up when a little rain sprinkle happened by.  Nobody does dirt quite like Midland; I wonder if the trailer will ever come clean.  My defiant success for today was to scrub the outside of both doors - amazing what a difference that makes!

Dog doin’s . . .

Something’s happening at our neighbors, Big Dog Drilling.  The drilling process is moving right along, but now an adjacent area is being bulldozed and cleared of vegetation.  My presumption is that additional space is being prepared so the well can be fracked after the drilling is complete.

I enjoy watching the work progress.  The drill head does its work while descending at the end of an increasing number of 90-foot-long pipes.  When the reach needs to be lengthened, the derrick man high up on the derrick (naturally) maneuvers another of the hanging pipes into place.  It is then attached at its bottom to the pipes already in the hole by the tool pusher and the floor man who are on the lower platform.

The driller is controlling lowering the lengths into the hole.

When the drill bit has to be sharpened, the entire length must be taken out of the shaft one section at a time.

The hoist, controlled by the driller, quickly pulls up a length, at which time the floor man and tool pusher detach that section at its lower end and the derrick man secures it at the top.  The driller then has another section pulled out of the well.  This all happens very quickly; the four men involved work efficiently at a job that seems fairly tedious until all sections are out and secured.

As the well deepens substantially, there is not sufficient room on the derrick for all the pipe sections, so then each one that is extracted must be slid down a ramp to a horizontal storage until it is needed again and the process reversed.

I have no idea how often this occurs, but I think it fairly frequent because I often hear the difference in the equipment noise when they are pulling pipe out of the hole.

It will be fascinating to watch the fracking process begin if that is what the preparations are about.

A lunch date, a new library . . .

An invitation to lunch was quite an event for me after not having the chance to lunch with friends for the past six months.  The genealogy librarian and I spent a lunch hour beginning to get acquainted, a most enjoyable time, followed by a partial tour of the new facility. 

A tree grows in Brooklyn and also in the Midland library.

The old library downtown was servicable, but this institution at the north side of town is quite a beautiful and impressive structure, inside and out.  Far beyond a functional library, it is attractively inviting and sporting a children’s area that would be the envy of any library.

My interest of course lies in the genealogy repository which is at the back of the building.  Unfortunately, an engineering glitch has left that area without its own thermostat, thus a winter coat is required to do extensive research.

So far, I have been able to shorten my stay in that frigid area by utilizing the volumes available for checking out.

Birds, here and there . . .

Our nectar feeder has been discovered:  The fight is on between the hummingbirds and orioles, both of whom are using it extensively, joined on occasion by a curious cactus wren.

The catclaw is covered with blooms.

When I venture over for a walk in the Preserve, I find that new birds continue to move in even though the pond is down to nearly nothing.

Three life birds for us: indigo bunting (spectacular!), olive-sided flycatcher (didn't expect him here) and spotted sandpiper, have shown themselves along with new trip birds - purple finch, yellow warbler and zone-tailed hawk.  One other - a bobwhite - is kind of a life bird.

An odd story about this: we once had a bobwhite at our house in Chino Valley.  They are not native anywhere near to there; that one was obviously an escapee from someone’s pens, but there it was nevertheless, sadly calling for company of its own ilk for several days before it disappeared.

This shy guy was hiding in the Preserve.  Anyone know what he is?

Obviously, that was a legitimate sighting, but this bobwhite was the first we’ve seen in its native habitat out on our “boondock” hike.

Cha-cha . . .

As things are wont to do at opportune moments, this wonderful definition just appeared to me: 

“Optimist - Someone who figures that taking a step backward after taking a step forward is not a disaster, it’s a cha-cha.” 

So . . . for today, I am writing.  If tomorrow should constitute a step backward, I will acknowledge John Denver’s musical wisdom that “Some days are diamonds; some days are stones” and continue to cha-cha.

The same bird of paradise I grew at home.

Not much prickly pear hereabouts; the few I've seen are in full bloom.

The last of the water at the I-20 Preserve.

We've had some cloudy skies & sunsets that are reminiscent of Arizona's.

Big Dog comes to town
May 7, 2013

A person takes their excitement where it can be found: our latest relief from monotony involves (what else?) oil wells.  Just west of us are two wells and just to the east of us is another pair.  I’ve mentioned that occasionally, one or another has a lift rig installed while work is being done.  That is what I thought was going to occur on one of our neighboring wells when the pump was removed and activity began at the site.
Then it seemed that much more was transpiring as I watched the pad being renovated and expanded and large equipment moved onto the area, so I wondered if the well was slated to be fracked.

As noted, one finds interest where one can, so the activity progressed with my curiosity at full alert until it finally became obvious they were going to drill a brand-spanking new well at the same site.

That surprised me; in my all-things-petroleum ignorance, I assumed that if a well was not producing as expected, it could be deepened.  Finding a plethora of retired petroleum engineers hereabouts, I inquired as to why they wouldn’t just drill the existing well to additional depth.  I learned that is not a viable option, but shall refrain from attempting to repeat the reasons and garbling it in the process.

At any rate, it was not long at all before vast amounts of equipment began to fill the pad, about five acres in size.  And who would be the drilling company but Big Dog!

I first knew about Big Dog from my daughter who has followed their exploits via a television program: “Black gold”.  She has many times regaled me with tales of the hard-working Big Dog drill rig crews who compete with other companies to complete their drilling in record time.

When we came to Midland then, we already knew about the company, later hearing about accidents - some fatal - on their operations.  At that point, I expressed the very-strong-indeed opinion that I didn’t want Chris working for them.

Of course we see drill rigs in action often; however, to watch this one in our back yard proceed from a bare patch of dirt to an operating drill rig is fascinating.  One day there is nothing there; the next day the place is a beehive of activity.  It has been just over a week: already there are six or more full-size mobile homes on the property - Big Dog’s crews live on-site throughout the process.

We have watched as they positioned all kinds of machinery; the derrick platform materialized almost as if by magic.  Of course it helps that men are working 24/7.  I’ve taken a few pictures of the process, but missed the derrick going up.  One minute it wasn’t there and when I looked back about 15 minutes later, there it towered.

They have not yet begun to drill, are still positioning equipment and what hard work it appears to be!  This morning, I watched as they lifted and secured a machine with indicator dials up onto the platform. 

It is very fun to watch from close up and evidently, the men are amenable to being observed, because when they see me watching, they wave - television stars that they are. 

They are all big burly fellas with tattooed biceps.  All are wearing hard hats; some are dressed in f.r.s, the fire-resistant clothing that is required by oil companies and that is so prevalent everywhere in the Permian Basin, but some are not, preferring muscle shirts and t-shirts.  Not sure how they get away with that - surmising f.r.s aren’t required until the actual drilling begins.

It is amazing to watch this little city-unto-itself materialize with ant people crawling around on it and when the ant people are seen up close, they are . . . well . . . hotties.

The din deepens . . .

An additional five acres of neighboring equipment and truck-sized generators adds to the general never-ceasing din, but at some point, it really doesn’t matter.  General never-ceasing din is simply that; it becomes a fact of life and eventually ceases to annoy.  Who could have imagined relocating from rural Chino Valley, Arizona, to the wrong side of the tracks in Midland, Texas, with an interstate on one side, a busy railroad track on another side, pipe yards, trucks, heavy equipment, 18-wheelers everywhere, petroleum extractions doin’s at every side, sirens, sirens and more sirens and becoming accustomed to it?

And speaking of sirens: traffic accidents continue unabated, many with dire consequences primarily because they often involve tractor-trailers.  I heard a radio newscast recently that very well summed up the situation.  I quote: “Avoid the I-20/Loop 250 intersection (this is the one closest to us - the newscaster didn’t say this part).  An 18-wheeler has collided with the bridge abutment . . . sigh  . . . again”.  First time I've heard a newscaster sigh.

And so it goes.

Midnats . . .

Not quite as intense as the energy of an oil well drill construction site, but of interest nevertheless, I have become a Midnat.  One day while walking in the Preserve, I stuck up a conversation with two gentlemen of an - ahem - more advanced age - alright, my age then. 

Members of the Midland Naturalists, they invited me to join the group on a bird-watching foray the following morning.  Boy howdy, anything that would allow me to be somewhere out of town was fine by me although I was pretty nervous about driving out to a place I’d never been to meet up with a group of strangers, so conjured many excuses to skip the opportunity.

Finally able to beat back every irrational apprehension, I set out on my early-morning mission and immediately got lost (okay, so that concern wasn’t completely irrational).  No matter, I caught my mistake and arrived at the meeting place in good order, though still jittery.

I joined the caravan that took us to a place on Midland Draw where they have obtained permission to hike.  The day was splendid; each and every one of those scary strangers was as nice as could be and the outing was a great success.

We wended our way though mesquite thickets until we arrived at a large dirt tank of water that attracts an astounding variety of birds and wildlife.  We spent a goodly amount of time settled under the shade trees along the banks, enjoying chatting and identifying many birds that arrived despite our presence.

That excursion added to the trip bird list with lark bunting, bronzed cowbird, blue grosbeak, Cassin’s sparrow, barn swallow, a beautiful black-crowned night heron, and three life birds: Nashville warbler, Lincoln’s sparrow and vesper sparrow.

Wildflowers bloom profusely despite the lack of rain.

The club ventures out every Saturday.  The following week was for their annual bird count with which I agreed to help.  Because Chris worked a 15-hour day on Friday, he and his fellow crew member opted to take off on Saturday and instead work on Sunday, so he joined me on my assignment of identifying and counting birds in five localities.

I had not fully explored one of those spots and was delighted to discover that the Sibley Nature Center trail through mesquite thickets ends up at a pond adjoining a golf course and a small lovely lake on the course - a fabulous and very pretty birding area.

I snapped a photo of one of three turtles that made their appearance and was happy to add a white-faced ibis to our list in addition to horned lark, Cassin’s kingbird, canyon towhee, black-and-white warbler and Wilson’s warbler.

Obliging members of the Midnats have told me about other hiking/birding localities that I would never have found on my own.  Not to get overly excited, there are no actual boondocking/backcountry lands among them; however, they provide some opportunities besides the I-20 Preserve.

Chris and I explored a few of them on a day off, including the Comanche Trail park in Odessa.  That was quite a surprise: it begins at a pond and is a winding path through a thickly treed greenbelt.  We were enthralled to find this little mini-forest with Virginia creeper twined upward on tree trunks, flowers and tiny meadows.  A spectacular avian find there was a summer tanager; the bonus was the knowledge that there is life after mesquite.


Other Midnat haunts are (yes, you can believe this!) a cemetery, a college campus and a golf course, all of which we trekked.  When one lacks national forest and other public lands, one does what one must.  Much astonishment on my part at the cemetery upon spotting a gray fox - critters must have water, after all, and there is a drought on.  Behind the college and next to the adjoining airport, we spotted burrowing owls, another newbie for this trip.



















 




I-20 dries up, goes green . . .

Things have changed drastically at the I-20 Preserve.  Where formerly there were bare-branched trees overlooking pools of water, now mostly dry land is accessed via a trail through thick foliage.  The one remaining waterhole is destined for dry within days, but has recently yielded a surprising number of birds new for the season, including: orange-crowned warbler, hermit thrush, green heron, pine siskin, solitary sandpiper, greater yellowlegs, lesser yellowlegs, American avocet, black-necked stilt.

At other localities, we have identified cliff swallows (thousands and thousands) and common nighthawk.  A Bullock’s oriole has joined the black-chinned hummingbirds that frequent my nectar feeder.

I don't know who made this unusual nest.

Meanwhile, Rowdy cares not a whit as he relaxes in the fresh air.