Dozing off

Click on images for larger view

Us hermits finally left the immediate realm of the Rat last Saturday. It all started with a call from Slim, wanting us to check on his place 'up top'. He had just received a call from a heavy equipment operator suggesting that he check his place for damage. It would appear that someone got the bright idea to take the man's bulldozer and go joy riding the night before, destroying things here and there along the way. The distraught man wasn't exactly sure how much ground the dozer had covered before being left to run out of gas. Since Slim was way up in the Colorado mountains with his cows, we agreed to wander up and check for him. We weren't sure what we would find but it was a great excuse to see the rest of our place again.

The roads were finally dry and the sun was blazing so it was a fine day for photo taking. We took the road up the small canyon which intersects ours and started heading up to the top. A little less than two miles up the road, Mark stopped to let me take a photo (first above) of the now dry wash which zigzags its way down to our creek eventually. We crossed over this same wash four times before the climb up was finished. What makes this particular canyon so much more stunning than most is its narrowness midway up which brings a certain intimacy as the walls reach skywards around you. Always, always, you wonder what other beauty lies hidden in the depths of the deep cuts running off at every angle. Who once lived here, hunted here, passed through here without benefit of this modern road? Your imagination tries to paint in the long missing figures; the Anasazi foraging along the ledges, the pueblo sentinels, the Navajo and Apache hunters and raiders, the Spanish settlers, the Blue Coats, the cattle drovers. They all left their dusty tracks along this canyon as we were doing now.

This is a last minute journal entry since I wasn't in quite the right mood to tackle another necessary writing and decision task today ... which I must, I MUST do ASAP. So hang on, Mushy - I haven't forgotten!

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 5

Photo: A new dawn, a new day can bring new hope, new faith - if you choose to look for it.

Click image for larger view

As you might imagine, that Saturday night was a quiet one. Mark was intensely mulling over the Ram's likely new differential problem and I was content to stare out the window in a deep funk, occasionally drooling down the front of my shirt. Don't ever let anyone tell you that your emotional state cannot effect your physical well-being. The effects of the antibiotics seemed to vanish and the malady returned with greater vigor than ever. So here we were suddenly retro'd back to primitive camping in the Rat and I was not the classic happy camper.

I never imagined that I would be into a Part Five of this tale so I will cut to the chase with a day by day accounting of it:

Thursday: The Honda generator dies. Some triage performed, no cigar. Sun is dropping behind the mesa. Sit in relative misery until bedtime - which comes early with no light, no computers alive and well.

Friday: Fiddle-fart around for most of the day with possible fixes. Call Red for more ideas. Fiddle-fart around some more, still no cigar. Generator dealer administers Last Rites to generator by phone.
Evening drill: Sweat profusely. Assume glum faces, retire at dusk. Sweat profusely. Wake up at 3:00AM because you are not used to this much sleep (but the cats, being nocturnal kind of guys, think this is just great!). Sit around staring at walls and sweating by kerosene light until sunlight returns. This would become a standard routine henceforth.

Saturday: 'Nuff said already on the wrecking and raising of the Hesperus.

Sunday: Mark spends day largely avoiding 'management'. No power, all Rat projects come to a halt. Long reading aloud sessions develop and become daily entertainment - I certainly can't complain.

Monday: Generator dealer closed - we sure love prolonging this agony. Mark does get hold of Dick, top mechanic in town who has seen everything which could happen to a vehicle out here in the oil patch. His observation: DO NOT drive it to town like that. Gives Mark some pointers on next wise step to take.

Tuesday: Profuse sweating still de riguer. Since the evap. cooler is now on a separate wire and plug, I get bright idea to power the cooler with the mil-surplus Kawasaki (no, it cannot be used to power the Rat's main electric panel for a number of reasons but only an electro geek could possibly explain why clearly). We fire it up and plug in the cooler. YES! YES! Relief from the swelter! Dance around and do cartwheels. Repeat for 1.5 hours until ... the big Kawa dies. Emit wails of lament loudly, assume the standard evening routine previously noted.

Wednesday: Mark follows Dick's advice and finds contacts willing to bring out replacement fluids for differential from town. Dick sends fluids out without requiring payment up front (and this stuff is PRICEY). Faith in humanity escalates.

Thursday: The guy who maintains the wells one section over from us is able to deliver the fluids (now one of several new brownie points accumulating for humanity). Don't forget to insert the routine daily and evening misery here though.

Friday: Mark takes my Dakota down to the creek, wades across, masters the technique of loosening diff cover, drains out sludge and adds new fluid. All dressed up now and no place to go since appointment for complete diff cleaning is not until Monday. While he is scrubbing around in sand under the Ram, pipeline hand drives up to creek and admits that HE was the one who created the humongous sink-hole in the channel, the one which Mark's Ram slid off to the left into before he could climb the far bank. Nothing like a big dually to excavate mud. Mark offers sarcastic gratitude and the kid offers a big poop-eating grin before dropping into the channel again, pausing long enough to dig out some more mud.

Saturday and Sunday: Complete write-off on progress but misery still not optional. We do sun dances to ward off another creek run. Slim becomes concerned that any attempt on our part at rain cessation will brown out his reviving grazing grass. We futilely fart around with the dead Kaw although we now know that we need a smaller main jet which may or may not be available any more - Kawa dealer offers minus enthusiasm and support to that end.

Monday: I run Mark down to the creek at 0:dark-early. Dick makes the world right again with the Ram. But .... Honda dealer is closed. Mark gets to stay overnight in town at motel with real, unlimited hot water, real porcelain flushing toilet, air-conditioning and dine-out food. I am out here grinding teeth in the relentless swelter, thinking that this mini-vacation is a curious reward for his initial short-sightedness. Mind you, he does get to do a LOT more errands than time normally permits.

Tuesday: Mark picks up the perishable groceries, stuffs them in the cooler with plenty of ice. Then he picks up the dead Honda generator at Dick's, drops it off at the dealer and loads the new one waiting to come home. Even though these things are gut-busting heavy, you don't want to leave one in the back of a pick-up in a motel parking lot or any where else for long so he had to very carefully choreograph the order of his stops. He returns absolutely beat in the late afternoon. Just enough time before dusk for me to replace the cooler motor with the new one he also brought home. Resume sullen evening routine in darkness.

Wednesday: We unload the new generator and hook it up. It works! Electricity, night time lighting! Best of all, computers again! Life was again worth living! I now stand outside on the porch again and let each brilliant new dawn and the shooting stars at night fill me with renewed energy and joy and I begin the process of healing once more. We were finally back to our original Nirvana.

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News of the Week:

Red, This BUF's For You!

There is a double entendre in the header above considering the news story but this is really meant for our old friend, Red, not the Rooskies.

Rich Russian tries to buy U.S. bomber at airshow

I came across this story last week but Buck over at Exile in Portales beat me to it. It's about some newly rich Russian, surrounded by his personal Guido guards, wanting to buy a B-52 at an air show there. The U.S. personnel seemed taken aback and possibly a little affronted.

Out here at the Rat where we have plenty of time to think and behave like bad kids, we have come up with our own ideas on the matter:

You know, given that we are supposed to be the grand poobah nation of evil capitalism, maybe we shouldn't have farted off this big buck Russian so quickly. Hey, the BUF (a loving, familiar name for the venerable old craft, standing for 'Big Ugly ... uhm ... Fella) has been around for a awhile, probably written off long ago in the books so why did we pass up this willing $500 million bite? We got to brainstorming a little and considered some parallel marketing ploys by the U.S. auto makers. Hey ... how about something like those popular schmancy Eddie Bauer Limited Edition models? The Pentagon is missing a big opp here, I mean B-I-G! They could produce a very limited Slim Pickens Edition, personally endorsed by his estate (God love and rest him). I think them Rooskies do have a great sense of humor and would love it. I bet even pectoral Putin would have to chuckle.

Next post: I need to sincerely thank some blogger friends who have enjoyed and supported our journal entries beyond the call.

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 4

This posting's photo: just another mesa-top view, totally unrelated to this story.


I could see Mark standing on the far shore in his new and very nice 'go to town' shoes. "WHERE - ARE - YOUR - BOOTS?" I shouted over the noisy mirth of the creek. "IN - THE - TRUCK - BED!" he yelled back so I stopped and hunched over the bed to grab his boots as I completed the first vertigo-inducing creek crossing, regretting that I hadn't taken a motion-sickness pill to quell that strange feeling I get every time I plod perpendicularly through this rapid swill. "Shovels, tow rope, cell phone?" "One shovel." Sigh, valuable time was a-wasting. We would spend the next hour taking turns with the one shovel or hauling loaf-sized rocks to spit into the whirling slurry around the truck. Its appetite proved bottomless. After fifteen minutes, I was panting and staggering around blindly, ready to give up the ghost. I suddenly remembered back to a doctor's visit just before we made the move down here. He was less concerned about the 2" sliver of oak that disappeared completely into my forearm than having me check into the cardiac ward directly from his office. I became defiantly inspired; "Okay, so if there is some unseen malevolent force intent on tormenting me, you are not going to let me have 'the big one' and end your fun so abruptly, are you? Are you? Eh-heh-heh-heh!" and I returned to the task with a renewed vigor.

At the end of that hour, we had made some progress but clearly not enough. At one point, I lingered around the right front wheel too long and the mud sucked my boots downwards at an odd angle. There was nothing to do but follow physics and fall over backwards. I came to rest sitting rib cage-deep in the rushing brown gumbo and wondered what new micro-organisms I had just added to my existing bacteria load. Mark was able to reach out and pull me upright again but it was becoming obvious that we needed to call in help from that side of the creek. We headed back across to my truck. I took the dog blanket from the rear seat and made my muddy-bottomed self at home in the passenger's seat - - "Y-o-u drive."

Once we returned home to the one remaining viable cell phone, Virgil came to the rescue as usual. He was able to hook us up with the weekend gas field crew and Mark would rendezvous with a rescuer within a couple of hours. "Do you want to come with?" I passed on the invitation to new misadventure this time. I was quite happy to sit this one out after getting this new mud out of my life ... and my drawers, thank you. I needed some time alone to calm down and ponder the "Just what were you thinking?" aspect of this morning's events.

The rendezvous went exceedingly well since the weekend guy had been sent out with a helper. Between the three of them, an incredible amount of shoveling and hand scooping of dirt and rocks finally freed up the front undercarriage of the Ram and the tow out tug worked on the first real try. Mark was then able to pull the Ram up and out of the way onto the pipeline access road. On the way back to the creek, he noticed a large, unsavory puddle of black slime where the rear differential had been sitting in the interim. It was a good thing he noticed, too. Upon his return, he and Virgil discussed the ramifications of the mysterious puddle and the next wise steps necessary. He was sitting out on the porch in the cooler air but, in my sweating lethargy from inside the Rat, I could still hear him wrap up the conference with "Virgil, I think I am in DEEP s--t with management this time." Just where were those stunningly acute powers of observation a mere six hours ago?

To be continued this weekend

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Humor of the Day (from me beloved cuz Colin)

WARNING! I am still feeling neither well nor P.C. ... be forewarned

THREAT LEVELS

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved."

Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out.

Terrorists themselves have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the English and French that are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so that the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 3

Remember, this is a journal entry. You have to read the first two entries to make any sense of today's continuation. I suggest you also read this archived story The Deadly Nature of the Creek Rising to appreciate the implications before reading this new installment. Today's photo is another view of that earlier incident.
Click on image to enlarge

So .... Saturday morning, we both get up at dawn to make our exploratory trip down to the crossing. Mark heads out in the big Ram and I follow in my Dakota. The Virgil Catcher wash was pleasantly passable for a change but the Roller Coaster (a series of five or six small rolling hills in succession) now had a deep keyway etched into the bottom of each conjunction. I like to drop into these at a diagonal to keep from banging the Dakota's plastic chin head on but I still cringe in the process. The rest of the road had definitely seen more erosive abuse from the last few downpours and the run-off crevices were showing off the thirty foot drop to the creek even more boldly now as we squeaked by, tight up against the solid rock wall beside us. Over my right shoulder, I could already see far more running water in the creek than I would be comfortable crossing. We were both able to skirt around a two foot tall boulder which had washed down from the canyon wall before we headed into the traditionally boggy patches before the long sandy run down to the creek.

Remembering that the road was never wide enough to turn around down by the creek and wanting to avoid the neck and spine pain of driving in reverse as much as possible, I decided to park at the top of the sand run. That would leave only about a quarter of a mile to navigate the twisties in reverse. Mark obviously didn't mind backing up the extra eighth of a mile since he had already dropped down and disappeared around the corner. As I got out of the truck, I heard the rush of the creek. Then I heard a roar of a big Diesel ... once ... then one more time ... and then silence. Nooooo, he didn't. No, please say he didn't.

My rubber boots beat their way through the deep and damp sand. I rounded the corner and then my knees screamed at the over-the-lock agony as I scrubbed off inertia in a sudden broken gait of despair. I dropped to my knees and let my open palms slam into the grit, too discouraged to even make fists as I looked across the creek. I lowered my head to join my hands as my heart pounded furiously and unevenly. For only a moment, I wanted to scoop out the sand and bury my head completely as though it would banish not just this but all the previous disasters of the past week.

The remembrance of an old off color joke suddenly had me realize that having my buttocks sticking out of the ground unguarded was not a solution. I am not sure if being able to remember thousands of punch lines is generally a blessing but it did help spur me into constructive action now.

I stood up and surveyed the scene with resignation. There was the Ram, sitting at a diagonal to the far shore. The left front wheel had made it up onto solid ground and the poor beast looked like a ship wreck victim with one hand desperately latched on to a life boat. The right front wheel was mired in the mud half way up the bank and the rear wheels were immersed in the raging liquid sand and the muddy waters were coursing over the rear bumper. How long before the undermining waters dragged even the solidly placed wheel off the bank and consumed the truck? How long did we have to plan and execute a rescue?

To be continued in a day or two

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 2

We prepared to spend the night of August 2nd without electricity. I gathered our kerosene lamps to the porch and Mark topped them off. It just occurred to me that this latest joy hit us on a Thursday, just like our last run of disasters. I think I might develop an attitude towards Thursdays and a greater appreciation of TGIF from now on. Since the lanterns did not deliver much light, even after I put the one mirror in the house behind them, we didn't have enough light to read. That made for one very LONG night for both of us and we finally went to bed earlier than normal.

It was Friday when the dealer gave Mark the glum prognosis on the generator. This would mean bringing it in to the shop and waiting God knows how long for parts and a running unit again. More than anything, I was stricken with the thought of losing my one big link with the outside world; my computer. I stared at Mark intently and said "NEW generator time?" and he agreed without any debate. We had both already thought about how eventually having two identical units would allow us to gang them together for twice the amp output. Now the time element was the big issue; it was going to be Saturday or not until the following Tuesday and many more heavy rains could arrive by then. The creek was still running but just how fully now? Could Mark even cross on Saturday morning? I could have sworn that Mark said "Okay then, tomorrow, follow me down to the crossing and WE will decide if it is crossable." Communication and, more importantly, how two parties approach the same problem, is a vital consideration in such a challenging environment. Remember that. RE-MEM-BER THAT.

To be continued

I know, this is not my usual long-winded writing session. I am utterly drained and fatigued with this invincible malady but I didn't want you worrying again due to our lack of blog updates. It feels like someone removed my drain plug and hit the starter anyway. I will try to post the next installment by late Tuesday night.

Chaos, Rains Supreme

"If anything can go wrong, it will." ~ Murphy's Law ~

Keep this Law in mind as you read my account of our latest misadventures over the next few installments. Better still, I came across this following variation of Murphy's Law which is even more suitable, as you will eventually come to see:

"If there are two or more ways to do something, and one of those ways can result in a catastrophe, then someone will do it."

My sincerest apologies for suddenly disappearing without a trace. I truly, truly mean that. If you are reading about our off-the-grid adventures to get some idea of what you may face when you can finally forge your own similar dreams into reality, then I suppose this is a necessary thing for you to consider. I am no Pollyanna and could not, in good conscience, lead you into thinking that our peaceable kingdom is not without its severe trials. Is it still worth trying? Even after this period of abject misery, I cannot fathom any other place I would rather be. And, believe me, I have had much opportunity of late to give it serious thought.

I can document the beginning of this latest round of disasters precisely on August 2nd because I had just viewed the last blog comments to be vetted, got to the second one from my Atavist, let it through and was in the middle of a reply. Suddenly my computer crashed and the single light in the room started to scale up and down as though some toddler had gotten hold of the rheostat. Mark was in the same situation and we both baled out of the Rat like firemen on call to check on the generator. Not good. It sat there idling so low and jaggedly that it was rocking the entire metal shack like a master Sumo wrestler throwing a heavy 'march/stomp on the spot' tantrum. If you have been following our previous exploits, you already know the drill; kill Mr. Honda's brat, fall back and think (and oh so dread) a little. Then dust off your feelings of futility and despair and start with the logical things. Funny how logic and experience can evade you at some point in extremely high frustration so, being no fool, I always call Red. I am sure he is getting tired of lately only hearing from me when I am at my end of patience and sanity but he always comes through for me. Red is the kind of guy who remains cool under fire, even when his B-52 has just crashed in a rice paddy in very hostile territory. That's just the way he is - a blessing. My father swore by keeping a nanny goat in the stable with his thoroughbreds in case of fire. The nanny goat keeps its sensible head and leads the high-strung horses out of the flames to safety. I never forgot that as an analogy in relation to my own life. So the conversation goes like this; "Hello?" "R...e..d, ... it's L..i..n ..." "Uh-oh ... how's things goin'?" He already knows by the intro and the tone of my voice betraying a severe spike in blood pressure and so now I fill in the details. "You already know the procedures." "Yeah, I know but I am so frigging upset that I figure I will miss something so stunningly obvious ..." "Yeah, I know how that goes, so did ya check this, did you check that yet? And this?" "Check, check ... hmmm ... good point, we'll try that next, what else?" When you are a Type A hothead, there is no better blessing than to A) realize it and B) have a friend like Red to grab you by the back of your collar and settle you back down into some rational thinking.

Suddenly realizing that the gas nozzles of our fuel storage tanks had been sitting throat up in the monsoons like the fabled idiot turkeys looking up with mouths agape in deluges and drowning, we carefully siphoned all the potentially water-contaminated gas out of the generator. I dropped and emptied the carb float bowl next - still no improvement. While in the process of emptying the tank, I noticed a surprising amount of large particles in the tank, those which had mysteriously slipped passed the big nylon filter at the tank neck. By the time we were done looking for water and particle obstructions, I had completely dissected the carb and even blown it out by mouth (our cheesy little latter day 12V compressor was hardly worth engaging and someone had rolled away my decent amp grabber as a freebie before we moved). Still nothing. What I did notice, which confounded a Luddite like myself, was that the throttle was governed by some sort of electronic nubbins at the top of the carb. Now I was well out of my league. AFTER all that first line finagling, Mark called the Honda dealer. His response was both comforting and disturbing; "Nope, this sounds familiar, don't bother trying anything else - it sounds like the main electronic control unit has died." So ... it came down to the dreaded Black Box Death that puts shade cactus mechanics like me to sudden death with no reprieve. How futile, how helpless a feeling.

To be continued

And now I must apologize again to all of our blog friends:

Now that we have connectivity again, I have let all the comments through but I have not addressed each of them individually as I usually do, despite my mother teaching me that all correspondence should be promptly replied to. I don't follow that edict out of any social guilt but because I really enjoy showing my appreciation of other people who care enough to share in our travails. I didn't do it this time around and I think this is my very uncomfortable and reluctant confession that I am not feeling so very well at all so please forgive me this time. You likely have no idea how much your comments completely make our day when the sun chooses not to shine out here. Thank you so for taking this trip with us and urging us ever onwards.

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Humor of the Day: (observations that I currently find more accurate than humorous)

- If anything just cannot go wrong, it will anyway.

- If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.

- Matter will be damaged in direct proportion to its value.

- Research supports a specific theory depending on the amount of funds dedicated to it.

- It is impossible to make anything foolproof because fools are so ingenious.

- Rule of Accuracy: When working toward the solution of a problem, it always helps if you know the answer. Provided, of course, that you know there is a problem.

- A falling object will always land where it can do the most damage.

- A shatterproof object will always fall on the only surface hard enough to crack or break it.

- A valuable dropped item will always fall into an inaccessible place (down the drain, for example) - or into the garbage disposal while it is running.

- If you use a pole saw to saw a limb while standing on an aluminum ladder borrowed from your neighbor, the limb will fall in such a way as to bend the ladder before it knocks you to the ground.

- The greater the value of the rug, the greater the probability that the cat will throw up on it.

- Your best golf shots always occur when playing alone.

- The worst golf shots always occur when playing with someone you are trying to impress.

- The light at the end of the tunnel is probably an oncoming train.

- You will always find something in the last place you look.

- It is never in the last place you look. It is in the first place you look, but never discovered on the first attempt.

- After you bought a replacement for something you've lost and searched for everywhere, you'll find the original.

- No matter how long you shop for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.

- The other line always moves faster.

- When a broken appliance is demonstrated for the repairman, it will work perfectly.

- Never argue with a fool, people might not know the difference.

- Whatever hits the fan will not be evenly distributed.

- No good deed goes unpunished.

- Anything dropped in the bathroom will fall in the toilet.

- Regardless of your frame of reference, things will go wrong anyway.

- Any time you put an item in a "safe place", it will never be seen again.

Just Another Monsoon Day In Eden

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Two days in a row now; eight tenths of an inch of rain. I remember our very first big rain and Virgil describing it as either a 'gully washer' or a 'turd floater'. The latter nomenclature seemed most fitting when that rain hit because, sure enough, all the collected cow turds that Mark had so carefully scraped out of the old barn and herded into a sinkhole came floating up and past like a sail-by at the Royal Yacht Club. Virgil looked like he was about to execute a back flip amidst his laughter when Mark recounted the event and erroneously used the term 'turd washer'. And so the term 'turd washer' stuck, so to speak.

The first image shows a classic 'turd floater'. Any ground that is very light in color is really a sheet of muddy, flowing water. You can see the rain drops bombarding the surface. Meanwhile, I was out back with my shovel in the lightning, trying to divert the torrents which had crested over our old, sanded-in ditches and were threatening the foundations of the new addition and the rat trailer itself. This is my Zen time.

We were waiting inside for the sun to dry things out a little when we heard an unusually loud shooshing noise. Our first concern was that our propane tank had let loose but it sat there well-behaved and the noise was simply rebounding off the mesa wall behind us. We tracked it down to the second nearest gas well from us where impressive amounts of gas were venting under serious pressure. It's amazing how you can know nothing about the strange plant around you but eventually come to know when something is just not right. In this case, we were both glad that we are not habitual stogie chompers. We called the producer and a recalibration occurred in reasonably short order.

Later on (WELL after the escaping gas dispersed), Mark fired up Robin's homemade barbeque grill. At 88 cents a pound, Mark had recently brought home a rack of pork ribs so big that it looked like the keyboard off someone's Steinway. It was time to cook them up since the freezer was not about to hold them. I made up a good and gooey soy sauce-based sweet and sour glaze for the event and would occasionally go out and massage a bit more of it into the ribs.

During one of my looks out the window to make sure the grill hadn't blown up yet, Ming the Merciless caught my peripheral vision. Right dead ahead of him, I saw what looked like a short length of variegated garden hose disappear into the big chico bush. Ming was in HOT pursuit. A sudden flash back to a comment made by an Indian gas field tech: "The heavy rain brings the rattlers down from the mesa tops." Two and two came together. "Mark, grab some iron, come QUICK!!!" I threw open the window to yell "MING ... NO-O-O-O-O!!!!!!!!!" Ming's prey had disappeared into the bush completely by then but I was able to do a running scoop on Ming like he was a fumbled ball. I dashed him back into the rat before he could get a bad attitude about his ruined hunting trip. Brou, the ever good dog, also came in when I called.

Meanwhile, Mark saw the snake exit at the far end of the big bush and yelled "All clear, no rattles!" What a relief! Mark suggested I get the camera out and he promised to do a little snake herding to keep it around. By then, this six foot long snake was heading into that open area that you can see just beyond the semi. This fella was no water moccasin and you can see in the second image how cleverly it is bridging itself across the puddles to avoid getting wet. Much to its frustration, I ran around to the other side of the puddles and was able to get a head-on photo before he swerved off into the brush again. Sigh, I still have not mastered the close up shot in focus with this digital camera.
Click on image for larger view
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