Hiking with the History Man

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Retrospect: Late Summer 2007

I looked out the large Rat window late morning and saw several pick-up trucks lined up on the road leading out of our canyon. That's an unusual sight and I decided to go investigate. My hunch was right; it was the gas field doing more poking around for potential new gas well sites. Better still, as I had hoped, they brought along a professional archaeologist as part of their team.

I always had a love for archaeology as a very small child and he kindly let me follow along. I promised that I would not interfere in his efficient survey strides and complied, for the most part. In the mean time, the rest of the team had set out with survey equipment to overlay the ideas of some engineer back in the office over the reality of this terrain. Along the way, the history hunter showed me a pit house dating back to the 9th century. I hope my disappointment didn't insult him TOO badly as I looked down and mentally glazed over. "Uhm, right here you say? Really?" I stared down at the ground trying my best to see a vanished people's history. What I saw was just another patch of ground just like any other in this vast wilderness except for a few anomalous rocks and a pottery shard or two. I began to realize that my childhood passions lay in discovering recognizable feats of man, cavernous repositories of megalithic statues and other incredible feats of art and craftsmanship. Somehow, this vague hint of man's presence just didn't fulfill my expectations.
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This is the first area we covered and where I found this very unusual patch of cactus growing in a tight cluster. I am now relying on my cactus-savvy readers to identify this species. This colony of very spiky plants stood quite low, no more than shin-high at best, but so tightly grouped that the surrounding thick grass had no opportunity to invade it. This plant was still rich with unshed yellow fruits, even though this photo was taken much later (just last week). The arms were not spatulate like a prickly pear but rather long and slender and very much restrained to within its low group profile.

Here is a close-up of the cactus cluster.

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He plodded on through the tall sage and I eventually got distracted by my current passion; desert plants. He was likely grateful that he had lost his ersatz student to the colorful blooms beckoning away from his grid. I would occasionally look up and head in his general direction but eventually found myself utterly distracted by the flora and well beyond his survey area. It was a gaggle (or whatever a plural of these is called) of military helicopters tightly hugging the terrain which caught my attention and made me realize that I had wondered too far into the inlet by myself. I back-tracked quickly and rejoined the history man on a roadward leg of his mission. About five minutes later, after we had separated again, I heard the familiar unfettered roar of a military plane and looked up. I ran down the separating hill towards the history hunter, yelling excitedly as I went "Is that a BUF? Oh yes, yes, LOOK, it's a BUF! It's a BUF!! " It then occurred to me that he might not have a clue what a BUF is. He dutifully looked up just as a low flying B52 crossed over his head and climbed up to clear the mesa in front of him. As it turned out, he had grown up in Texas near the development area of the B52 and shared some of his recollections of the plane with me. All in all, it was a rather fabulous way to spend an impromptu romp in the sage.

I only wish that I had brought the camera along. Within one of the shallow caverns created by the immense boulders, we had discovered a slab with the deeply etched inscription "Greer" on it plus an indecipherable date of possibly '08'. I was determined to find it again last week to show you. I looked. And I looked. Nothing. That is the amazing thing about this part of the world; you can see something once and probably never find it again despite your best efforts to remember the locale as you leave it behind. So many of the treasure tales I hear are about people who found something once and meant to return to investigate it further. And some have been trying to do so for over 30 years since.
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I looked though acres of rock formations for that inscription last week with Brou and Daisy's help, all to no avail. The consolation was being able to admire the bizarre rock formations left behind by Mother Nature. The photo above shows some of nature's curious carving work. Erosion had left but one tall column to support this precariously balanced massive rock roof.
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. In this photo is another boulder of harder material left on a pedestal of softer sandstone, all perched atop the massive boulder occupying the majority of the photo. If you enjoy geology, this is a continual trove of awe.

I never did return home with the photos I wanted but I eventually will, even if it takes me a few decades to find the spot again.

This is all leading somewhere, unfortunately.
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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.