We really made it!

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Retrospect

November 15^th, 2005 - Part 1

A lot happened in that one day. We were to meet a new neighbor who had arranged for finding, brokering and eventually receiving our 45' semi-trailer which now housed nearly all of our possessions. Without them, this move would have been nearly impossible. While we were met with a depressing string of "pooh-poohs" from our seemingly knowledgeable Midwestern neighbors when we first expressed our idea of buying a trailer outright and having it hauled to the Southwest, this couple came to the rescue with the most impressive "can do" attitude that I have encountered in years.

Moving was still an utter panic thanks to several factors which may be addressed later and we had to go buy a new 16’ trailer just to salvage a sparse few thousand dollars worth of belongings which the 45' trailer did not accommodate in those harried last days. It was a logistics nightmare which had the local medical resources threatening to confine me in a cardiac ward for several days of observation. If I can spare you such miseries by sharing those hard-earned insights, I certainly will do so gladly.

The trip down was a trial in itself. Our old friends from Albuquerque ran ahead of us in the Mercedes SL which they had just inherited from us. Without their no-nonsense moving help and experience gained from years of military moving and their distance from the emotional involvement that we were caught up in, we would have been utterly lost and unable to meet the departure deadline. The Dodge Dakota, even with the optional larger engine upgrade, did not pull the heavy trailer well through the steep Arkansas hills which we ran up and down on the way West. The ever-patient cats endured the trip much better than any of us. Still, it was enjoyable to be sharing an on-the-road adventure once again with old friends.

After using their Albuquerque home as a base for a month, we hoped that we were finally ready to head out into the boonies for good. We had found a '70s vintage mobile home (hereafter referred to as "the rat trailer") in a hurried pinch and arranged to have it hauled out to our new and barren homestead. This was a foray into a previously unknown segment of reality for us. Apparently the motto "In God we trust, all others pay cash" is the norm for this particular stock and trade. The hauler called in transit to inform us that the previous owners had not taken down the nailed-on porch roof as promised and that there would be an additional $200 charge. Assuming that they had professionally surveyed the scope of work prior to showing up, Mark protested the unexpected charge and the hauler's reply was "Fine, I can pull over right now and drop this thing by the side of the road." This was an ominous intro to this hope-filled new land and adventure.

After that resignation settled in, we headed into the wilderness ourselves from the north. We met the neighbor in charge of our semi-trailer and all headed out to the ranch; she and I up in the cab of the semi and their Roger the Lodger riding along with Mark in my truck. It was a lurching, giggy clutch kind of ride over the dirt roads with steep pitches into and out of the dry washes but (unbeknownst to us) the road conditions would be as good then as we might ever see again. Through the generosity of the head field honcho for one of the many gas well companies out here, the road had been freshly graded that same day in preparation for our arrival. We're not talking about a 1/4-mile long rough driveway either but a stretch of 5 miles with no other residences on it. That event marked one of the first of many kindnesses from the industry that would make our attempt to tame this long stubborn patch of no man's land even remotely possible.

The grader operator even cleared the sage and weed brush off a patch of land near the lonely barn for the semi trailer and rat trailer to find permanent footing upon. The neighbor ever so deftly jockeyed the big trailer backwards into position and then departed gracefully without great expectation or fanfare. This would be our first gentle prod to a renewed faith in the goodness still possible in mankind. There would be some rare but grave exceptions to follow but this would be the vanguard to discovering a region where so many people still held honorable and altruistic tendencies.

Meanwhile, the rat trailer was making its way ever closer from the south and we drove back out to rendezvous with them, just in time to find their entourage stopped and several of the helpers crudely stuffing the water heater back into its niche and nailing a wayward chunk of 2x4 over the door to secure it. About the time that we noticed a long trail of rusty water and eventual puddle which looked suspiciously like the rat trailer had just relieved itself, the rig driver, without intro, informed us that our plumbing and gas piping had torn off and was now inside the trailer ... no apologies, consolation or credit offered. There was, by now, a psychological numbness setting in that dictated, "Just get this done, we're homeless and the shadows are getting long and cold." I hung out the truck window to see around our burdensome 16' trailer to make sure that we didn't get too far in front of the procession and shuddered when the body of the rat trailer had to hug the solid mesa wall lest the rig venture too close to the ragged edge of the road overlooking the precipices. The driver later concurred that we should never attempt to bring anything so much as a foot wider down those roads.

The crew certainly knew their business well and the rat trailer effortlessly joined the semi-trailer on the newly cleared spot which we would be calling home from that moment forward. Even the hardened rat trailer hauler (who initially reminded me of "Skipper" from Gilligan's Island with a bad case of PMS) turned out to not be such a bad soul after all and at least offered the parting comment: "You seem like real decent folks and I really do wish you the best of luck out here." He already had our money and nothing to lose so I don't think his comment was anything but genuinely and kindly intended.

By the time the last sounds of their vehicles had stopped rebounding off the many canyon walls, the bitter cold swept in wolfishly at the heels of the retreating sun which dragged its orange companion sky down with it. The sudden omnipotent silence and cold brought home the reality that we were completely on our own now in this new and desolate expanse. The chill bit deeply into our hands as we unloaded a few makeshift, last minute supplies from the truck and, of course, the beloved boys - the two cats who had endured the last month and many miles in an ever patient and quiet manner. The quickly fading light made the tasks that much more painful and urgent.

We threw open the keyless door to the rat trailer. It was just as daunting as I had remembered it last - thirty years of minimal care, spottily, roughly veneered over about two decades ago and then largely ignored again. The shag rug, reminiscent of dead German Shepherd hide, grasped at the new fragments of the torn-off piping. Threatening soft spots beneath the carpet tried to suck our feet down into whatever lay below. Complete darkness descended just as we found the butane Coleman hastily secured from Target's camping department the night before. It shed a struggling light on the reality which was rapidly setting in. Were we absolutely out of our minds? It was now too cold to even consider such thoughts further, too much remained to be done before settling in for that long, cold first night's sleep.

Next likely post: tomorrow or the day after (if the creek don't rise) ... you wouldn't believe the things which have happened in the last two weeks.
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