Home Cummins, Part 4

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Pre-Ramble, Current News : Touch wood ... I am free of that antlered albatross as of yesterday!!! Now that we have gone through our first drill on processing an elk, next year's plans will include jerky (for Bruno) and a run at smoked sausage, too. This year's very cautious attempt yielded steaks, BBQ slabs, fajita strips, stew cuts and ground meat. We spent some good bucks on a Bass Pro #8 (.35hp, by LEM) meat grinder and have no regrets whatsoever. When was the last time you opened up an appliance package and kept saying "Wow, this thing is WELL made!" as you pulled out each part? Lotsa stainless steel, genuine steel gears and even the castings are works of art. Pure machine lust ... goose bumps and shivers!
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Retrospect: Mid-September 2006

Apologies for the quick entry yesterday, ma cher La Phlegm, the words just piled up quicker than I thought might be tolerable for on-line reading if I had finished it up. So here is the finale:

The thought of being discovered in such an embarrassing state drove me to hop and waddle all gimpy-kneed to a small boulder for cover where I ducked down and waited. One more motor rev and then ... nothing but the breezy silence of the canyon again. By now, my knee was screeching but I thought "You're just waiting me out, aren't you? You dirty rotters ... eh-heh-heh, I can wait, too!" That lasted for all of two minutes as my knee ramped up the wailing again and I thought of the hordes of snakes and tarantulas who were probably taking advantage of the situation and sneaking up on me now. I minced my way back out to the road and continued on. Rounding the bend an eighth mile up the road, I realized that truck had taken a steep path up the mesa - all that squatus interruptus for nothing! Now I walked on with the priority of getting back into my pants and shoes. The road was still muddy so I guided each step to the driest section in hopes that the mud on my feet would eventually dry and fall away. I learned a lot about interpreting the appearances of a road surface that morning which would help with driving later but I wandered on for another mile before I would attempt donning my clothes again. I knew that any course grit in my socks and shoes would lame me long before I reached home.
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"The Roller Coaster"

My walk home started at the base of the far, bluish mesa. I would end up walking well beyond the lower left corner of this photo. That swath of road leading off the main road and up to the left is where the mystery truck disappeared. The roller coaster allows for some very enjoyable senior 'Bullitt' moments providing that you stop at the top of the first one to make sure that someone isn't doing the same thing coming the other way and that a road grader has covered over the foot deep run-off keyways at the bottom of each hill.

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As I began the 'roller coaster' (a tight series of five or six small alluvial hills between the mesa and the creek, see photo), a set of fresh coyote tracks joined me, running in the same direction towards home. My thoughts of Brou's safety loomed heavily as I recalled the communal coyote calls to a fresh kill. I would sigh with relief when the tracks vanished into the sage but worry again when two or more sets would rejoin me a quarter of a mile later. All were heading home towards the lone pup Brou as I was now.
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Finally, oh finally, I reached a spot where I could stand like a flamingo and slough the mud off my feet against the back of my calves and put the jeans back on without falling over. Another scrub-off against the jeans and I had my socks and shoes back on. Glorious! No more sharp little stones to snap me out of the thoughts I had occasion to get lost in and I could pick up the pace now.
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As I wondered about the mountain lion sightings of the year before, small game birds rose up and flew ahead of me, always some twenty yards ahead. I was taken by their quick flash of orange wing bottoms as they methodically leap-frogged ahead of me and I was grateful for their distracting company. I now longed for that initial glimpse of the Rat which lay a quarter mile beyond the Roller Coaster. My trek would end only a mile beyond that point.
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The last mile would begin well before the right side of the photo above. From there, it would be a fairly constant descent into our home piece of canyon, requiring much less huffing and puffing. You can see the wildly meandering broad band of our creek below it.

The coyote tracks now picked up in numbers as I descended into the chico flats at the left of that photo and all were still headed in the direction of home ... and a defenseless Brou. My heart sickened a little further and my pace picked up noticeably. I now hurried towards my last obstacle, the infamous 'Virgil Catcher', a deep bog of run-off which retains its moisture greedily long after the other run-off paths have calmed and dried. I gaged my path and skipped gingerly across the first half. Then my next few steps sunk into the ooze until my right shoe was sucked right off my foot, well behind my inertia. I had made it to the other side but was now pivoting clownishly and precariously on one remaining shoe. I gave in to defeat and returned for the hostage shoe. With both shoes now shrouded in as much mud as my spirit, I removed the muck-laden shoes and proceeded in my stocking feet. I was on a mission to find Brou so who cared if I wore out a pair of cotton socks.
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At the remaining quarter mile mark, I could see the barn and Rat and began calling out for Brou. With every response of silence, I quickened my steps and began calling louder. Only the silence of the canyon, save for a few shallow echoes, answered my calls. I tried to ignore my growing cringes of gloom.

I was nearly to the barn when a small and cowed auburn form appeared at the barn door and cautiously made its way towards me. "Oh, my Brooouuuu! You made it!"

My surging sheets of adrenaline left me as we trotted the last few yards to the Rat's porch. I collapsed on it's rough 2x4 planks and was smothered by Brou's joyful reunion kisses. Four miles of plodding suddenly became worth every foot, every worry and pang of misery within it.
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As I lay there immobilized in deep pools of relief and joy, I swore I heard another truck. Sure enough and so goes the story of my life again. Virgil swung into the driveway and endured my "So just where the H--- were you when I was four miles down the road from here anyway?" He grinned that big cat grin and laughed when I told him of my trek back in. Then he left to test the waters for Mark. Knowing he had a captive towing buddy on the other side, he charged across the running creek to Mark's side and said "Okay, I'll turn around and hit it again. Wait 'til I'm on the other side so that I can tow you out if necessary and then you hit it, too." A flawless run by both ensued and Mark was soon greeted by Brou's exuberant slurpy kisses as well, the brand new truck now parked proudly in front of the Rat.

Having a friend like Virgil in these far reaches of the gas field was a blessing beyond all blessings. I should never have expressed that sentiment to the anti-neighbor; it wouldn't be long before she would aid in his removal with her venomous hate-driven hissings. Sometimes you have to eventually learn the hard way to over-ride a long prevailing and abused trait of magnanimity.

It wasn't long before I decided that staying right here at the Rat rather than attempting outside trips was just fine with me. To read about previous adventures out of the canyon, click on the 'seldom leave' label and remember to read from the bottom up. Does make one wonder.

As I type, a new flurry of snow is obliterating our view of the far mesa. We're not done with winter just yet!
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