In Love – All Day, Everyday!

Cambria, California

We easily remember transgressions, one-liners, and bad jokes but try to remember the crashing waves at dawn, a sunset of purple-orange gold, or the sound of a bird chirping as it glides over a river. Try to see in your mind’s eye the pelican’s wing flirting with the ocean, the smile of a best friend no longer part of the world, or the voice of someone who told you they loved you many years ago.

Cambria, California

It is only through words that any of these things live on and are able to be recalled and then shared with others.

Cambria, California

Writing is the exercise that all who claim to be human and have meaningful experiences should be practicing, else these precious moments are as easily lost as the last wave that crashed ashore and is now gone forever.

Cambria, California

Carving names and dedications on trees and benches, drawing them on rocks and walls, attaching locks to cables, bridges, and branches, we try to leave something that offers a kind of permanence that we or someone we’ve loved has been here.

Cambria, California

Leaving a symbol so that we might return someday and find it still there is full of hope that someone should stay in our hearts and memories well into the future. Maybe more of our lives should be spent practicing writing our stories in order to give a larger space to the meaning of the moments that inspire us to not forget those we’ve loved and the special places we’ve shared with them.

Cambria, California

To that end, I must share how I smile at Caroline standing at the cliff’s edge, looking over at me and the small amount of fog between us. She smiles at me and then returns to watching the sea. When pelicans pass by I know she’s taking mental note if they are flying in a V formation overhead or as a string following one another over the waves. My wife is certainly aware that as the morning sky brightens with hints of pink, blue, and a pale gray due to the late summer fog that’s rolling in, the sun crawling over the horizon will be making dramatic changes to the entire scene. To her left, waves have started to capture the first rays of direct sunlight; we are seconds away from seeing the sun for ourselves.

In the transition zone between night and day, there are a few others out here: some dog walkers, another photographer, and the surfers who were here before all of us. The waves grow larger in the advancing day, the fog thickens, and we must get going as nobody gets to linger forever.

Cambria, California

Just one more moment, one more walk to take a seat before the seas and gaze at all that must remain unknown. At night, we’ll do the same as we ponder the void and countless stars that will never warm our brief existence. Though we may never visit the bottom of the sea or a distant planet, storytellers have the ability to bring us places that remain out of reach for most people. When we write our own story, we have a reference point to revisit later in life. The adventures of our younger lives become the narrative of that long-forgotten self whose journey was possibly vastly different than that of the person approaching their sunset years.

Cambria, California

There may come a day we find ourselves sitting at a favorite place by the shore, missing the other who had shared our smiles, joy, and gaze of amazement as we dream of what adventures might still lay ahead. Look out there, out into the distance, and then try to pull it all within you. None of it will stay long as the next horizon beckons, but you should leave yourself and others these breadcrumbs of memories upon the page; one distant day, they might just bring delight to someone looking to remember their time at the seaside when they were lost in love and wonder.

Cambria, California

We must turn to writing in the same way we each care for our own physical health: by exercising. Just as the bird flies as a large part of its nature, humanity uses words for all that we do, and yet we most often simply satisfy ourselves with how we verbally express ourselves, even to the point of being oblivious of our own poverty of vocabulary. At my age, approaching a stage of late-life maturity, I still see the fledgling wordsmith trying to master the flight of narrative that might one day glide effortlessly as birds do over the ocean. The truth is that strength is an evolving asset that must be cultivated on a regular basis, or the skill will atrophy.

Cambria, California

I’ve learned over time that the same might be said about our ability to see and that far too many people are blind while their eyes are still perfectly functional; only their minds have taken their sight away. Truth and beauty may be subjective, but the desire to paint the world as unworthy or digging deep to find truth too demanding is the domain of the human returning to the animal or, worse, a kind of death. To be present, we must be alive and vibrant, riding in on waves and gliding into our potential but can the majority of us bring this idea or reflections to the page? Pride in driving a car, owning a home, and winning a game, are surrogates of distraction to knowing one’s self. When you write, you codify your thoughts and risk exposing that you possess a great inability to articulate thoughts deeper than the thickness of skin, able to tolerate the ridicule of yet being stupid. Writing makes you vulnerable; hence, the majority avoids it.

Cambria, California

But one day, you will be gone. Who might remain that could have enjoyed exploring the depths of the person they want to keep on remembering? What about children, great-grandchildren, or future relatives a couple of hundred years from now interested in looking into the history of their lineage? Who among us wouldn’t treasure the diary of a distant family member writing of their time, surviving in a world so vastly different than the one in which we find ourselves? Our age makes this capturing of fragments so simple, allowing me to sit here in front of the page exploring the brief experiences Caroline and I have so we may never need to sit alone after one of us takes permanent leave.

Aquarium, Coast, and Whales – All Day!

There was no sleeping in today; we were out at the first moment the sun peeked over the distant horizon. Golden light spilled into the sky, accompanied by a blinding streak of white slicing over Monterey Bay. Over in Germany, some of our family are spending this Sunday together for their annual September reunion. Over WhatsApp, they share smiling faces; we share a view of the rising sun over the Pacific.

Strangely, there are only about a dozen of us out here for the start of the day, well, us people, the pelicans, some seagulls, a few others, and a splashing seal putting on an acrobatics show. The sound of the surf and birds don’t appear to offer the local group of women exercising under the trees enough of a background, so they’ve brought a soundtrack the rest of us can listen to as we pass by. The same goes for some of the walkers and runners who somehow don’t think that they might be disturbing others who prefer to listen in on the natural environment.

We move away to find another beautiful spot under the riot of nature, unpolluted by the ugliness of our fellow humans. Once we’ve basked in the cleansing light of the sun but not yet burned to a crisp, we’ll need coffee to wash off the grime of disdain for the rude people around us. That’s right, we bathe in boiling coffee before trying to drown in it. And where does this ablution occur this morning? At the Red House Café on 19th and Lighthouse. Any ill will towards others that I might have gathered was temporarily kicked to the side as a father passed by with a baby and a toddler in a stroller and their dog in tow. The toddler excitedly announced to us and everybody in earshot that he’d just seen a fungus. That four-year-old boy was serious about how amazing the sight of a real live fungus was, and if that enthusiasm isn’t able to put a smile on someone’s face, nothing will. Not to imply that I’m not generally happy, but I cannot turn off my annoying trait of always paying attention to others, something at which Caroline is coolly adept.

The day had started to resemble yesterday as we were the first in line again and we found ourselves at the same table on the patio, only I order something different while Caroline opted for the yummy frittata again. Last year, when we first ate here, Caroline pointed out how unbelievable it was that we were now sitting here on the cafe’s sunlit porch while on our earlier visits to Pacific Grove, we wouldn’t have wanted to afford the place nor join the line. By the way, this patio and house is not where we ate breakfast; it was just a nice little bungalow on our way there.

Back to the similarities between days: we’ll walk away from the Red House Cafe after our breakfast for a return visit to the aquarium. I’m fairly sure, though, that it will be like visiting for the first time as all the swimming creatures in the cold seawater tanks will have reorganized themselves just for our time among them. Of course, I’ll be taking plenty of photos to prove this. Not that this matters, but I’d like to point out that I’m not, in fact, ignoring Caroline right now as I write these musings as she’s practicing her texting-fu chatting with her German bestie, Claudia. Not only are they communicating across the oceans as Claudia is somewhere in Europe, but my wife is smiling like a loon from time to time. The reason I can’t be sure about Claudia’s whereabouts is that she and her significant other seem to vacation as much as we do if not more. [Nobody we know vacations as much as we do, I reckon. – Caroline]

The parallel universe of coincidence again sees us walking the water’s edge to the aquarium. Is it the exact same time we are arriving for the 9:30 members-only opening, or is it slightly earlier or later?

Once inside, a glitch derails our move to the always-beckoning Kelp Forest, and instead, we are drawn to the Open Sea to experience the jellyfish all for ourselves. Not content to just have my photographs and potentially nonsensical blog posts, Caroline saw the opportunity to bring videos of the jellies home with her.

Was our time among the jellies two minutes, or was it a half-hour? It’s hard to tell now that we’ve learned that these gelatinous Medusozoas warp time with their tentacled ancient arm things. After more than 500 million years they’ve evolved to a level of sophistication that allows them to live in a timeless infinity, pulsing through an ocean traveling forever; that, or they lay in wait to sting a hapless human to death.

After our psychedelic jelly encounter, Caroline needed to maintain the visual intensity, and what other than laying down under a school of sardines could come close?

Try as I might, I cannot understand just why the hammerhead shark evolved with its eyes so far away from its body. What kind of wicked sensing system is in that crossbar that holds eyes that cannot possibly see what it’s about to eat? I should probably do a little bit of searching before making such assumptions, as it turns out that hammerheads have 360-degree vision thanks to their peculiarly shaped heads. Combine that kind of vision with the old ampullae of Lorenzini, and I’m growing increasingly certain that the ocean is stuffed chock full of aliens.

I’m noticing a trend with animals that sport some level of transparency, such as man-killing jellies. These predatory tunicates are able to swallow whole scuba divers who approach too closely. I know they don’t look that big, but that’s because we are looking at them through rearview mirrors, so we can see their immense size in such tight confines found here in the aquarium.

You could wager that I’m now fearful of searching for information about the brittle stars, and I don’t mean the ones from Hollywood. First of all, I came to see that this is not what I thought it was; it is a sea star of the Brisingida family, meaning it’s a predator (hopefully not like the one from the movie). Not your ordinary sea star, of course not; this one doesn’t just filter its meals from the current of water around it. According to an NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) article, “Their spines are covered in tiny claws which act as sort of a “starfish Velcro.” Using these claws, they snag all passing life (regardless of size, I’m speculating) and then pass their meal down to their mouths using tube feet.

Here you go; it turns out that Brisingida sea stars are related to brittle stars, and before I got to the NOAA article, I opened a page from Scientific American about how brittle stars see. This won’t be good, and spoiler alert, the details are about to be shared. I’ll paraphrase here, “Their arms are loosely coordinated by a nerve ring in the animal’s core, almost like eight co-joined monster animals with a mutual interest in where to go, what to eat, and making little monster stars.” And people have the audacity to complain about paying taxes when we are able to go to a restaurant, sleep in a cozy bed, and live on land in houses instead of in this underwater world of nightmares?

Time-warping hallucination-inducing jellies, people swallowing tunicates, and now these f&%#ing hagfish. Blind and toothless, they eat the dead, from the inside no less! Not enough horror for you? They are known to suffocate other fish that try eating them by the copious amounts of slimy mucus they are able to produce; we’re talking serious bucketload amounts of the stuff that clogs the gills of the fish, and if that’s not doing the trick, they can tie themselves into an overhand knot while in the fish creating more difficulties for the idiot fish that won’t be trying to snack on this creeper again, should it survive.

Right after we return to Phoenix, I want to find out if there’s a doctor performing hagfish stem cell therapy so I can be the first man on earth with a self-lubricating slime penis.

After our encounter with the self-lubricating seaworms snarfing on death, we were psychically contacted by the flamboyant cuttlefish to pay a return visit to the salmon snailfish. How did we miss this yesterday? Their bodies are semi-transparent, which does not portend good things, and what about those mesmerizing hypnotic eyes? Oops, too late! Caroline was the first to be put in a trance by the blue-silver eye that allowed the fish to communicate to her that, as a species, they do not like their scientific name of Careproctus, which was derived from Ancient Greek where κάρα or kara translates to face and πρωκτός or prōktos is translated as anus meaning they are Butthole Faces. I want to adopt one.

Are things weird enough for you yet? Do you see those chin fins? The salmon “asshole-head” snailfish uses them to look for food in the sand as it plants itself face first on the sea floor, see photo from yesterday. By the way, you might notice its eyes are now black; that’s because this “Po-Kopf” (German technical term) has met its match with a bigger asshole-head who is stealing its powers in order to crown me King Facia-prōktos.

See that crab? Salmon snailfish are known to use them as repositories for their eggs; yep, you read that right: the fish with butt face uses king crabs parasitically by installing its eggs in the crab gills, turning them into a mobile home/incubator for their offspring. Jesus, Caroline, what are we doing here in this house of horrors?

This is the point in the aquarium where all truths gleaned from any loose-lipped Perciformes will be erased using the kinetic color pulsing living embodiment of the “Neuralyzer” as seen in Men in Black (oh my god, John, just how hypocritical are you?). Obviously, it didn’t fully work on me, and I can only surmise that my good fortune in retaining the truth about the secret marine culture that uses us for its entertainment has been left partly intact due to our particular sequence of events whereby some strange chance I took notes prior to my mind-washing and didn’t trash the crazy stuff I wrote. Trust me, I thought twice about sharing what’s in my notebooks but this is what I found there.

No, seriously, where did the first two hours of the day go? We cannot leave the aquarium without a pilgrimage to the Kelp Forest, but getting there could be problematic as we suffer from “Needtoseeitallagainitis.”

Any number of things could distract us on our journey that must conclude with finding the exit. Oh, what’s this? It’s the old boilers used here when prior to the aquarium taking over, this was a sardine cannery. Funny how, in all the years of visiting Monterey, I think this is the first time I’ve ever photographed the old sardine processing equipment near the entry.

Well, sure, that is a kelp forest out there, but we’re looking for the one with that old familiar musical accompaniment that makes us all sentimental when we listen to it at home in the weeks and months between visits (MBA Kelp Forest Live Cam).

Ah yes, the soundtrack of Jaws starts its haunting throb as the shark approaches.

And with that, we have to bid adieu to another visit to one of our favorite places ever here at the great Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Obviously, we broke free of the aquarium, which is more than any of the fish can say (not that fish say a lot, as far as we know). Though a magic sardine whispered at us that Queen Elizabeth would die in four days, but come on, how could a sardine know that?

You can trust this isn’t just some more lollygagging for the sake of wasting time; we left our car at the motel as parking anywhere near the aquarium is difficult at best and an underwater horror story at worst. Regarding this never-before-seen view of the bay, by us anyway, there’s a small passage between the Hopkins Marine Station operated by Stanford University on the left and the aquarium on the right. The white sand beach is Cabrillo Beach and appears totally inaccessible to those of us on the wrong side of the fence, which is apparently anyone not working at the research facility.

We know we are inching towards the next exit, that of leaving Pacific Grove and the Monterey Bay area. Heavy hearts weigh on empty stomachs having us consider our lunch plans. Oh no, the Mexican joint we ate at yesterday doesn’t open for lunch on Sundays! Lucky us, I called ahead to the Borg that we’d be a bit late picking up our car as we were looking to have something to eat first, and our choice of grabbing a bite at Peppers was nixed; well, the mysterious voice on the other end commanded us to go to the Monarch Pub and Restaurant for some English grub. All of a sudden, the words of the sardine were haunting me like this was some kind of foreshadowing or were the butterflies trying to message us?

Klingeling! That’s the sound a German bike bell makes and has brought me around from my fits of hallucinatory madness, which propelled this writing. Now, back in reality, I’m here thinking of that wonderful post I wrote in Germany just last year that featured 23 images of bicycle bells and some thoughts about the process of aging. You should read it if for no other reason than to cleanse the mental palate of the things drawn out of my imagination, you might have endured in the paragraphs above.

It was 3:00 when we hit Highway 1, traveling south. We were well aware that we couldn’t afford the indulgence going down the coast that we took on our way up. With only 4 and 1/2 hours of daylight remaining to our still glorious day, we’ll be measured, discriminating, and intentional about where we choose to spend our precious time under the sun.

Knowing this limitation, we hadn’t planned on the heavy traffic with two complete stops at construction sites and a serious backup at the Bixby Bridge.

We were about to sail right past Big Sur, or so was my intention, before Caroline wailed about how beautiful the view of Point Sur was, so I quickly pulled over.

Did we even make it a few miles before the view had us pulling over again? Nope, this is looking behind us from the same pullout where I photographed Point Sur, but it is beautiful that way, too; I just had to include it. Now, we’ll hit the gas and get moving, as we have a long drive ahead of us before we pull into Cambria for the night.

Oh, this is nice, but so were the other stops along the way that I’m not including in this post because I’ve already included 42 photos, and that’s simply enough, along with being the answer to the Great Question.

How had it taken us 90 minutes to get this far? The Henry Miller Library is in Big Sur. We’re hardly crawling along at a snailfish pace, but the library is open which for us is surprising as we are typically on the wrong side of the clock for a visit. This can only mean we MUST stop.

For those who don’t know, Henry Miller is considered a literary innovator and has been said to be a major influence on the original generation of Beat writers. His works were banned in the United States for many years, likely due to the sexual content. When I was in my early 20s, I tried reading Tropic of Cancer and Sexus, and neither title gelled with me; they are now long gone. As I cannot deny his influence nor the respect I have for an author who inspires so many other writers, it was fitting that we’d take this opportunity to stop in and even support the place.

While I feel my interest in the Beats has passed, and I read On The Road by Jack Kerouac many years ago, I’d never read his book titled Dharma Bums, and so that was my title of choice today. We didn’t have a lot of time to make choices as we’d arrived shortly before they were closing. Caroline chose Straits: Beyond the Myth of Magellan about, you guessed it, Ferdinand Magellan. This is a beautiful little bookshop full of interesting titles for those interested in alternatives outside the mainstream books that are not typically carried by the dominant big box store.

Leaving the library and enjoying the art and grounds here next to Highway 1, a fully naked, bubbly young lady flutters by as if this might be how she goes about life every day. I keep my camera aimed at this old typewriter as I must control my creepy old man persona trying to escape.

Not 10 miles down the road, the massive view beckons, and we easily oblige, but it’s okay as we are getting close to the halfway point to Cambria at a mere 55ish miles down that way or so. Caroline had already gotten back in the car, and I was about to do the same when something caught my eye.

A spout of water is what flashed into my peripheral vision, and not two seconds later, a whale breached. Yelling at Caroline to jump back out, she was soon next to me. Not only did the two of us see the breach, but the crack that followed was amazing, too. The lens I was using is obviously not ideal for capturing whales more than 2,000 feet away from shore and maybe 150 feet below us, but that’s what I had. I took a lot more photos than this, as we witnessed several breaches in a row, but this was the best one. I also photographed them spouting, but from this distance, those plumes look like tiny, rather unspectacular white splashes.

We sat here a good while, waiting to see the pod surface again and hoping for more breaching, but it wasn’t on the menu of events that blew minds on this great day. Well out of sight, was a barking seal that likely wasn’t breaching. As we continued south, we saw more pods spouting in the distance, but taking photos of them didn’t work out; the memories were terrific enough.

Here we go stopping again as we saw more spouting. No seals within earshot, but we did see some pelicans and some old architectural thing. That’s the Big Creek Bridge built back in 1938, just a few miles north of Lucia Lodge, which is also about the halfway point between Pacific Grove and Cambria.

Now, on the next stop for even more whales and some excited Germans looking for wildlife. While the distant cetaceans spouted there would be no breaching, we left quite satisfied I hope the Germans were too.

There comes a point in time when, as daylight is slipping away, my mind goes to work on the geometry of what lies ahead, where we want to be, and the position of the sun in the sky. There’s no reason to be in a less-than-optimal place for sunset, so we have to pace ourselves; hence, this stop to sprawl before it all.

This photo is only here as a reminder that while traveling Highway 1, there is not only the ocean side of things. Not sure you can see it but there’s a house in the center of the image and something like an artists workshop cabin on the right.

This looks promising, but I think there’s better, so we keep going.

But not before I snap this perfect photo of Caroline smiling in the golden late day light on a curvy coastal road with a background of pampas grass, little fluffy clouds, the moon, and sea while wearing her Mayan motorcyclist t-shirt picked up from Taller Leñateros in San Cristobal, Mexico, earlier this year. What a life.

The last stop during daylight hours, as this is the place we’ll watch the sunset. It has vibes of “best spot” to me. We crawled under some barbed wire and stepped onto some crumbling coastline to find the position that would be just right for this curtain call.

We’re still about 20 minutes from Cambria and were not leaving this spot before that sun fully disappears from view. It is Sunday night, and not sure what restaurants will still be open after 8:00. We opt for a poor excuse for a Mexican place in San Simeon, but who cares when we’ve been feasting on all the wonderful sights found on another perfect day?

Not Much in Ajo nor Why

John Wise wearing new socks in Ajo, Arizona

The great luxury of new handmade socks inspires a wonderful sense of appreciation that these were made just for me, for my feet alone. As if such a gift could be graded, these have a special story that catapults them into their own category of impression. You see, this yarn from West Yorkshire Spinners in Britain was sent to Caroline just before Christmas by her friend Claudia, who lives in Germany. The first bit of yarn was cast on back in January, and I noted that she was working on them while we were at the Getty Villa in Pacific Palisades, California. The knitting continued on our subsequent trips to Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, Douglas, Arizona, Mexico City, and San Cristóbal, once again in Los Angeles, and now here in Ajo, Arizona, where they are being declared finished.

Arizona Route 85 leaving Ajo, Arizona

Indecision is the key to flexibility was the adage we learned from boatman Bruce Keller while rafting the Colorado River a dozen years ago, and as this trip south was packed with a lot of indecision, we are now practicing our flexibility by pointing the car northwards early in the morning instead of doing anything more down in a part of the state where there’s little to do, not in Ajo and not in Why.

Gila Bend, Arizona

Arizona Road 85 mostly passes through the Cabeza Prieta Wildlife Refuge and the Barry M. Goldwater Range used for bombing practice, with very little opportunity to take in the sites on the way to Gila Bend.

Gila Bend, Arizona

We were okay with that straight drive-through as we were on our way to getting a greasy breakfast, the kind we could only get on the way through the lesser populated areas of America. Sure, we could go to Denny’s, IHOP, or Waffle House in Phoenix and other big cities, but those options would kill us if they were part of our routine. We’ve passed the Space Age Lodge and Restaurant many a time but have never stopped; that all changed this morning. Breakfast was every bit of greasy we could have hoped for, with two weak-looking eggs, a small mound of hash brown potatoes, toast, and a side of bacon for me. Flavorless coffee rounded everything out, adding all the happiness to a day we needed.

Gila Bend, Arizona

Out behind the restaurant are train lines, and on one of the tracks, a bunch of cars are traveling west. In the distance, I could see another train traveling east right at me; this obviously demanded that we hang out and watch these giants pass.

Old U.S. Highway 80 north of Gila Bend, Arizona

This road was one of two options I’d entertained traveling on prior to our departure on Friday. One direction out of Ajo would take us west and then north for a visit to the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, and then there was Old Highway 80 out of Gila Bend, which was made nearly redundant after AZ-85 (mostly parallel to this old road) was opened in 1977.

Iron Cross Blister Beatle in Arizona off AZ-80

As we were out here looking at owls, hawks, and various other birds, we came across this mean-looking ant-like thing that Caroline thought was a crazy-looking ant, but on further examination, I was able to determine that this beast was an iron cross blister beetle. My wife got lucky regarding this encounter as she skipped picking it up (she, in fact, picks up a lot of creepy crawlies to get a closer look or better photo) because this particular insect will hurt people. It’s not only toxic to animals, but it’s toxic to us too, not that Caroline snacks on the bugs she picks up, but in this case, there’s a substance on their legs that causes our skin to blister…hence the blister beetle reference.

Old U.S. Highway 80 north of Gila Bend, Arizona

We don’t get a lot of rain in AZ, but apparently, we can pump enough groundwater that for one hundred years, we’ve been irrigating desert lands to grow corn, cotton, citrus, melons, and a bunch of other foodstuffs that allow for these beautiful contrasts between dark greens, the desert, and deep blue sky.

Fire near Gillespie Dam in Arlington, Arizona

What we thought was a wildfire turned out to be a controlled burn, a stinking, eye-irritating, scorching of some earth that is understood by some and lost on us…

Historic Gillespie Dam Bridge in Arlington, Arizona

Lost on us until we reach this Gillespie Dam Bridge and realize that the burnoff of surrounding brush works to protect this 95-year-old truss spanning the Gila River.

Gillespie Dam in Arlington, Arizona

“River” seems relative as the Gila kind of just stops here over on my right. I suppose that when monsoon season arrives, the waters likely move beyond the remnants of the broken Gillespie Dam and find their way to the spillway still remaining here at the section of the dam pictured below. As for the pooling waters, they are actively being pumped out and sent to irrigation canals.

Gillespie Dam in Arlington, Arizona

The ground behind Caroline on the left is still smoking from the fires that obviously burned earlier in the day. Not only is there water in front of us, but behind the wall and in those small coves is even deeper water, and it is back there that we are listening to fish splash about, as are a couple of nearby fishermen trying to entice them to join the party in their ice-chest sitting nearby.

Historic Gillespie Dam Bridge in Arlington, Arizona

While the dam failed back in January 1993 due to an extreme flooding event occurring in Arizona that year, the bridge, while damaged, survived and was subsequently repaired. Well, our day is turning out to be quite interesting.

Hassayampa River in Buckeye, Arizona

Strike another positive impression into our scorecard as here at a Hassayampa River crossing we are seeing water running over the desert. In our 27 years in Arizona, we can’t remember seeing water in the Hassayampa, though as I write this, I have this vague notion that we once saw water running through a broad expanse of the river bed where it passes underneath Interstate 10 west of Phoenix. [Note: The Hassayampa mostly flows underground. There are a few areas that have perennial surface flows, but they are upstream near Wickenburg. Water in this part of the riverbed is a seasonal occurrence. – Caroline]

Glossy Ibis roadside in Arlington, Arizona

As we passed a cattle farm near Arlington, there was a field being flooded, and at first glance, it looked like common blackbirds poking around for food in the water.

Glossy Ibis roadside in Arlington, Arizona

Of course, I failed to bring the long lens once again as we ventured into nature, and now I’m suffering by not being able to capture a close-up image of these birds. It turns out that they are Glossy Ibis. Look closely; they have a rainbow of hues shining off their feathers. They were first seen in Arizona just 19 years ago, so they are not common at all. Also seemingly not common within our own species is this ability to be easily entertained by such ventures into places of relative nothingness.

On the Frontier of Luxury

Gadsden Hotel in Douglas, Arizona

Not ziplining, whitewater rafting, or racing ATVs over sand dunes, we’re happy to explore little luxuries such as staying in a small town of only 16,000 at their grand old hotel that is lovingly cared for. Many hotels built in the past 30 years don’t have a fraction of the attraction of the Gadsden here in Douglas. We are less than 1 mile from the Mexican border, yet we were walking around nearly empty streets last night as it grew late, and never did we feel uncomfortable. Today, we’ll venture north, and with certainty, we’ll find 100s of things to dazzle our senses with, though they may be as simple as marveling at the basin of Willcox Playa or admiring birds. These are easy luxuries that take us out of routines at home and leave us with indelible memories of the larger world we’re a tiny part of.

The quote about the best-laid plans of mice and men comes to mind when considering how things worked out regarding our plans to hike in the Chiricahua National Monument today: that didn’t happen, nor did we visit the Willcox Playa. Plans were derailed, although we were still very much on track during breakfast when our conversation with our server, Christian, blossomed. The guy is finding his way in the world, and like many of us, he’s a bit late to the game, but hopefully, with a bit of serious intention and if he can make good on his hope to explore new things, he’ll find a way forward and be able to discover some of the things in life that bring greater happiness.

Haunted Room at the Gadsden Hotel in Douglas, Arizona

From a pep-talk to a tour of the hotel’s 3rd floor and the allegedly haunted room #333. I’d read somewhere that if you photograph the possessed room in reverse, you have a 91.57% chance of capturing an image of the spirit. Look close to where the bed cover meets the red shag carpet, and maybe you can see someone’s ghost peaking out; that, or you will be happy that I didn’t photograph that hideous combination of the floral bedspread and shag carpet that brought on PTSD to those present.

A Church in Douglas, Arizona

A brief meander through town to see what the architecture of Douglas looks like. Sadly, the exterior photo of our hotel I shot this morning left a lot to be desired, but there were some nice churches, this being the most attractive one to me. After a brief ride around a few of the streets, we pointed the car north on A Avenue. The north-south streets in Douglas are lettered; we are lodging on G Avenue.

On Leslie Canyon Road in Cochise County, Arizona

A Avenue turns into Leslie Canyon Road, and this is where the plans really started to deviate. You see, we were going to take the scenic unpaved road over to McNeal to pay a visit to Whitewater Draw, where it was reported there were a ton of Sandhill cranes.

Caroline Wise on Leslie Canyon Road in Cochise County, Arizona

If you see desolation, your senses are not tuned to serenity. It’s divinely quiet out here, and as you might surmise from the electrical lines, there are a few people living out along this unpaved but well-maintained road going straight to the mountains ahead. See woman for scale, that’s not a blue banana.

On Leslie Canyon Road in Cochise County, Arizona

The road forked, but instead of taking the left to McNeal, we opted to go right in the direction of the Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge. Can you hear the silence?

On Leslie Canyon Road in Cochise County, Arizona

Just up the hill, they said. Right over there, they hinted. You’ll find the trail easily.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Yep, right out there at the bend in the road.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Oh, they meant the place with the big signs, a small parking area, and an information kiosk. Transparency moment, there was no “they”; it was just me making drama where there was none because drama is the bedfellow I enjoy employing in my narratives and, well, for that matter, my daily existence.

Caroline Wise at Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Did the sign mean the trail is 2 miles out and 2 miles back or 2 miles roundtrip? Obviously, this trail was used at one time by vehicles, but as we walked further, it became apparent that those days were long gone.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

That’s the very dry Leslie Creek, and if I’m interpreting things right, this is all part of the Yaqui River Drainage that plays an important role in the health of the biodiversity found in the region, which even has its own native type of fish, the endangered Yaqui chub. Needless to say, we didn’t see any chubs or other water creatures today.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Further up the trail, we dip into the dry creek bed, and like chickens, we go to the other side.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Caroline was reminded of the book titled Tracks by Australian author Robyn Davidson, and paraphrased the following, “There are all kinds of thorns from big ones that draw blood and puncture everything, to medium ones that pierce dog paws, to small ones that break off in your skin remaining unseen until they are inflamed a day later.”

Caroline Wise at Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

Don’t lose sight of the incredible nature of the time we live in. One moment, we’re racing down a dirt road before reaching a turnout next to wildlands we are about to walk upon. Carrying fresh water, a hat, and a camera, we stride along an overgrown, craggy trail on our way to see an old ruin just because. Later in the day, we’ll dine on a hot meal and sleep in a warm bed, and yet we must endure the echo of rants of the super-wealthy who will never enjoy these luxuries while they tell us that everything is broken so we can wallow in anger and ignorance instead of focusing on finding our moments lost in time.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

That old road on which we started this hike was far too overgrown and washed out at one point for vehicles to ever easily use the trail again, but arriving at an old mining operation, it now made sense why this primitive route was carved into the landscape.

Leslie Canyon National Wildlife Refuge in Cochise Country, Arizona

There were some scattered industrial pieces of foundation disappearing under the withering sun just as these ruins of an old home are returning to the earth they sprang from. This was also the end of the trail of thorns.

At this point in the day, we hadn’t come to the conclusion that we weren’t going to visit the Chiricahuas yet because we were going to make a quick stop at our next destination and return to the road for the short 50-mile drive to the national monument.

McNeal, Arizona

With the stories we’ve heard over the years of people being directed down dangerous roads by Google, I’m surprised every time their algorithm takes us down these dusty trails. I wonder if they still recommend them when it’s raining? Anyway, after 1 mile of dirt road, we turned south on the paved Central Highway, and a few miles farther, we found ourselves pulling into Whitewater Draw.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

We are here for Sandhill cranes and are not disappointed. But as beautiful as the sight and sound of this group are here, I couldn’t help but feel that there were also a lot of them to the south of us, though most visitors were on this trail.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

So Caroline and I went south.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

And with an explosion of sound and a sea of cranes that stretched off into the horizon like a giant feedlot in Texas, there were animals as far as we could see.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

The beating of wings, lots of wings from lots of big birds, creates the excitement of whooshing that rumbles in reverberation and drills into the deep pools of emotion lying just below the surface of those watching these spectacles.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

Following take-off and the focused energy required to escape the gravitational clutch of earth and water, the birds break into a chatter that sings to me that they are happy to once again be aloft. Immediately the conversation turns to the discussion of where it is they will set down next.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

And other plans that might have still been possible were being dashed by the hypnosis brought on by the sounds and spectacle of so many cranes. Cranes by the 10’s of thousands were pulling us into their universe and demanding that we ogle them in a form of worship, recognizing their power over us. The collective will of the cranes is impossible to dismiss and so we melt into their landscape and lose all sense of time or need to be anywhere else.

Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

That is until we start to feel like intruders and that our very presence is affecting their behavior. While I felt that we were keeping a respectful distance from the army of cranes, there was a point where no matter how slow we moved, the birds would start moving, too. While we are farther away, they are watching us but are not yet ready to react, but if they are changing what they would otherwise be doing, we are distracting them from bird things. I imagine that the fact that we hunt them right here in this area (as evidenced by spent shotgun shells) has made them leery of us violent humans. Add to that stress that we de-water their migration stops by draining that resource, which in turn squeezes them into ever smaller areas, making them prime targets for people interested in turkey shoots where the sport and skill of hunting have been replaced by not having to wander from the tailgate.

Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

When fear of not finding an ability within ourselves to comprehend our place in the world, we often turn to anger against nature for trapping us in a situation beyond what our senses can tolerate. This is misdirected aggression that would be better turned against those that left the person ill-equipped to celebrate the incredible luxury all around them, but the die is cast, and the politics, economy, the entire world are here to victimize them, and so they need to lash out and victimize what they can to level the playing field. In this sense, these fence posts have more purpose, although they no longer have any function.

Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw in McNeal, Arizona

My empathy for birds is greater than my sense of understanding for the stupid among us, those raised by the disaffected who would destroy everything in their path rather than feed their minds. How sad is my reality of awareness that while on vacation, I’m disturbed by those not even present as though they are ever-present? Writing this, I feel as though I’ve inadvertently elevated the troglodytes onto the pedestal of gods.

Gadsden Hotel in Douglas, Arizona

In everything we found today, disappointment wasn’t one of those things. Our loose plan was turned on its head, but even upside down, everything sparkled and was beautiful to us. Lunch had to be sacrificed because there was nothing out our way; good thing we had walnuts, cashews, almonds, and dried apricots along with us, oh, and those Lemon Ups from the Girl Scouts that found their way into Caroline’s backpack.

We weren’t able to share a nice bottle of wine, there were no gourmet meats and cheeses on artisan bread, our off-brand generic drinking water was from a gallon plastic jug bought at a grocery store on the way down, and yet, the way smiles continuously lit on our faces, you’d have thought for a moment we had everything, every luxury anybody could ever wish for, wrapped in all the love that could possibly be shared between two people.

Family Time – Day 3

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Sometimes, when trying to write a blog post, the first words can be the most difficult to come but that’s only because I head into something not having any real idea about what I want to say. The two previous entries were about our approach to the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge and our time amongst the birds and other creatures. Today, we’ll be heading home, but before we start on that leg of our weekend journey, we’re obviously right back where we were yesterday.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Nothing here is exactly the way it was, ever. If only we could understand that the sky, clouds, light, temperature, and the configuration of all things are in constant motion, never duplicating what was, maybe we’d break out of the lament of perceived routines required to participate with the machine of making money.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Maybe birds, too, wonder why they have to continuously return to bodies of water where they have to float in an icy bed, get up at the break of dawn, and fly to yet another location to find food, only to do it all over again. Then, after months of this routine, they have to fly over 3,500 miles (5,600km) to the Arctic, where within 5 miles of water, they establish another home base and keep up the grind of sleep, fly, eat, fly, sleep as though it was the worst job ever.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Things aren’t all bad as a bird, well, except for those situations where a hunter might shoot you, a wolf or coyote could eat you, or maybe a fox or owl could steal your child while it’s still an egg, but other than that things are pretty good. The average snow goose has the best views ever for sunrise and sunset; they poop at will with no need or concern for what’s below, they fly for free to any damn place they want, and if they spot some food, they swoop in to eat without a thought of cost. If they are lucky, they’ll experience up to 20 years of this carefree life of flying over half the planet pooping, eating, and breeding while we idiot bipeds below grimace at our stupid life choices and servitude at some meaningless task that barely affords us the opportunity to sleep under a roof and poop in a toilet.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

I’d probably not enjoy being plucked out of the purple and red waters of dawn on some winter day by the nearby eagle looking to make a meal of something, but I would like to know the freedom to paddle across the surface of a lake or pond and fish for grasses and worms in the muck before taking flight to skim above the surface of calm waters and finally settling down to float under the noonday sun.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

To some very small degree, Caroline and I are fortunate enough to live like birds, albeit flightless ones. That’s right, at least as far as I’m concerned, I poop where it occurs to me, which includes while driving around or standing here taking photos of flocks of geese under the morning sky. While I eschew worms and grasses, I’m not beyond hotdogs and kimchi. Our migration instincts toss us west to east, sometimes north, rarely south, but we are open to planetary exploration. Caroline may have been born with eggs but we’ve chosen not to fertilize them so foxes and owls do not become pests in our desires for a good life.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Regarding our limitation of not being able to take spontaneous flight, we do own a Kia Niro that allows us to jump in and race over the surface of the earth, which might be equated to something akin to chicken-like behavior as they, too, are denied flight although they are birds. Then again, they’d never be able to control the steering wheel or reach the gas pedal, so maybe that was a bad analogy.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Thinking again about my poor metaphor disguised as an analogy, I have to consider that my reader might think this is a silly exercise, but how many of them have allowed their children to believe reindeer take flight, pulling a fat man and sled to millions of homes to drop presents under a dead tree decorated with festive and expensive ornamentation? So, you cynics out there, how about you try to read my nonsense as ornaments upon my writing where, without much left to share about the joys of birdwatching on a cold winter day with gorgeous skies, I reach for the absurd instead of sharing how we tucked in around the tree and television for cookies as we watched Miracle on 34th Street for the 23rd time.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Speaking of Miracle on 34th Street, did you know that Richard Attenborough, who played Kris Kringle in that 1947 film, was the older brother of Sir David Attenborough, who might have provided his voice-over talent to these very geese at some time in their lives? Don’t forget that geese can live 20 years covering a vast area of our planet, so what I’m suggesting isn’t totally impossible, though possibly improbable.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

With all the birds gone, we, too, were ready to make ourselves gone.

On the road in Western New Mexico

After the obligatory stop at El Camino Family Restaurant for yet more steak Tampico and the ladies ordering Egg Mexicanos for the umpteenth time, we were ready to head down the long road towards home somewhere out there in the distance.

Regarding our reading of Lord of Dark Places by Hal Bennett that we started on Christmas Eve, well, we finished it all right, or should I say it finished us.

Family Time – Day 2

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Darkness and cold greeted us as we left our hotel, but the tradeoff was arriving at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge at the cusp of daybreak. We’ve been here before when it was even colder and the pond we are standing next to was frozen over. But who cares about some chilly weather when already knowing what to expect, we dressed appropriately in order to brave whatever the day had to offer us. The beautiful early morning reflections are not the primary reasons we are here adjacent to the White Sands Missle Range on the Rio Grande River.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Birds, we are here for birds, lots of them. This early, while finding our place in the Refuge, we are not specifically looking for sandhill cranes yet; that’s them standing over their reflections. Nope, we have other birds in our sights. If these first two images above were the best I would have captured while making this visit, I could have gone home happy to have experienced such beautiful sights.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

But we weren’t done witnessing the extraordinary, and then again, who would have driven 450 miles (725km) for only 10 minutes of such things? Not us; we were here to milk nature in order to imbibe this intoxicating mixture of elements from the sky, water, creatures, plants, dirt, sound, smell, and feel. Stirring this all to life was a still-invisible giant ball of fire which was sending us hints like the image above that it was on its way back, just like the snow geese.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

For a good half hour, the snow geese flew in from various corners around the refuge. For reasons beyond our human brains, these bird-brained elegant animals capable of flight choose to congregate here on this lake right before us. They squawk and chatter in a secret language to which the cranes don’t seem to pay any attention, but I do. I want to know what they are saying because after enough of them have come together in a giant love puddle of snow gooseness, they hatch a masterplan that is executed in an instant with a precision that boggles my mind.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

That instant arrives when thousands of snow geese launch themselves off the water and into the sky on their way to points across the landscape to forage for food that their advanced eye-sight is able to glean in ways that insinuate that my own vision might be inferior.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Into the fiery sky, they disperse while we, who will never know what the freedom of self-powered flight is like, stand in awe, gawking at the spectacle of a giant flock of birds.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

In a flash, only the cranes remain.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Well, not only the cranes, as incredible beauty continued hanging out with us hearty travelers who were trying our best to absorb every bit of the visual symphony the scenery was wrapping us in.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Hey, rogue goose, where has your flock gone or are you going solo taking your own path?

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Don’t hesitate to note the important stuff, as some knowledge is transitory, like these birds flying across the scene. What I’m trying to say is that I think we might be at another pond at this point, but I can’t be certain. I’ve looked at the landmarks in the background, but I’m at a loss to find any specificity of location. Does it really matter?

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

I’ll go out on a limb and claim that this murmuration of blackbirds are starlings, but if they really are, I can’t really know.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Sure, the grasses are brown, gold, reddish, and kind of yellow in a palette of fall and winter hues, as are the leafless dormant trees passing through this season, but should you choose to see stagnation, lack of life, or a general sort of dullness, you might be missing the bigger picture. On closer view, the landscape is full of potential and hints of what was in the months leading up to this perfect moment. To be honest, I, probably like you, find particular beauty in scenes such as what is pictured in the very top photo above, but I’d have to attribute that to the rarity of those sights found at dawn. Those early moments at the beginning of the day or the final glow of the last remnants after the sun has dipped below the horizon typically last less than an hour, while the midday light will remain with us for many hours, bathing what we look at in light that isn’t so nuanced and transitory.

Sadly, I can hardly see what personal details and characteristics wild animals have to offer aside from their presence. Obviously, I can tell babies and juveniles from adults, but I cannot comprehend the rarity of them in this environment as I can when relying on photographs where the aging process and choice in clothes convey what stage or point in life the person was. While Jane Goodall was lucky enough to live with apes long enough to identify their personalities and people who have pets learn those animals’ characteristics, I cannot take up a spot here at the refuge where I might encounter the same snow goose or crane on a day to day basis. Instead, I’m stuck with these two loons.

And for loons, there’s only one place to eat while in Socorro, New Mexico and that’s right here at the El Camino Family Restaurant where little more than 12 hours ago we had dinner. Then, in another 8 or 9 hours from now, we’ll be right back here for dinner again, but right now, on this wonderful Christmas morning, we are grabbing breakfast.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

We’d discussed heading north to visit the Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument series of church ruins but instead opted to return to the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge (by the way, Bosque is pronounced “bohs-kee” in these parts. We came back for some of the trails we’d never walked before.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

And the man said unto nature, “We humans, in our generosity, have carved out this fraction of the domain your ancestors once knew, but we are not heartless to your plight of a shrinking domain, so here, take this river bottomland we are not interested in and call this home.” Up here on this cliffside, we assumed our perch over the kingdom of creatures so we might better sense the rule of all that is below. This is the joy of being GODS.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

So, if you are the god you so arrogantly claim, how about you demonstrate that lofty position and chow down on this yummy cactus paddle as the javelinas do?

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Or might you be so humble as to organize the atomic and molecular structure of the universe to produce plants just like the force of evolutionary nature does?

Oh, I see how it is; we are here to sow destruction, create entertainment that satisfies our boredom of being horrifically aware of our existence, and steal what we can from all that is or might be as it feeds our sense of superiority. The depth required to be true creators and stewards is elusive to our puny-spirited population of idiots. But not us; we are here on Christmas Day to tread lightly, eschew entertainment and the consumerist experience to find the enchantment nature is putting on display in crazy abundance, delight in this brief moment of existence, and through it all, we hope that we’ve not intruded upon the potential of other life to indulge in another perfect day too.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

While we were here at the Bosque, we walked along, chatted, and obviously took a significant number of photos, maybe too many. Then again, these images capture precisely the world as it looked to us, and as such, they appear unique as they coincide with our memories, whereas someone else’s photo taken on a different day won’t strike the same notes as these will. True, there are images I’ll share here that fail to readily demonstrate in an apparent way why I thought there was something extraordinary about the view and would certainly fail to compel someone else to walk in our footsteps, but they sing to my memories. As others go into their unfolding world using the luxury of digital photography and even a rudimentary ability to write, I’d like to encourage people to record their world in this slow medium, meaning not using video, and then, years down the road revisit these documents and appreciate just how amazing your own memory is in bringing you back to something that might have otherwise been long forgotten.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Hello, future recollections of that day back at the end of 2021 when Caroline, Jessica, and I strolled through this wildlife refuge under fluffy white clouds set against a deep blue sky, and with the sounds of birds in our ears, we just walked along with nowhere else to be.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Maybe in that sense, we were much like these deer who couldn’t have cared about the larger world outside of their immediate experience. They were in the moment having deer thoughts and doing deer things just as we were having human moments doing human things, totally unconcerned with what was happening in the larger outside world beyond being right here.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Screwbean mesquite is a species of the tree that, as far as I can determine with 2 minutes of research on Google, will have that mesquite flavor desired by grillers across the southwest. As for the beans, I’m going to invite Caroline during her editing of this post to learn about the cooking potential they might have and share what she finds. [Screwbean mesquite pods are edible, particularly ground into flour that is gluten-free and nutrient-rich. However, other mesquite species are said to be more flavorful. – Caroline]

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

The Rio Viejo trail follows a former riverbed of the Rio Grande that’s now on the other side of a berm to our far left. In its stead is this trail, the screwbean mesquite trees, along with a bunch of cottonwoods. At this time of day, though, there weren’t many birds here.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

But there was a group of javelina coming out of the nearby brush, and as we stood silently, allowing them to do and go about their business, they slowed down, checked us out, and continued on their way.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

We counted eight javelinas in this squadron (I looked that up). Walking out of the bush and prior to sensing us, they were preoccupied foraging for whatever it was they were sampling from the forest floor. I’m guessing we were afforded the close encounter with these peccaries due to the direction the wind was blowing, but when they got within about 20 feet of us, they’d stop, and while looking straight at us, their snouts started frantically wiggling as though they were evaluating the potential threat in front of them that they likely could barely see. Lucky us, we could see them all quite clearly, but unfortunately, they never were in the right position for us to gather a good sniff of their musky stink that earned them the nickname skunk pigs.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

We’ve continued up the dirt road going north to position ourselves near the Coyote Deck. From here, we’ll just hang out a good long while before continuing the loop toward where our day began.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

From corners far and wide, the geese are heading back to the safety of the ponds where they can pull up their pillows and get some rest, safe from the coyotes that would gladly make feasts of the abundance of these feathery treats.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Just as we were about to head back to the hotel so we could catch something or other on TV, maybe some football, even more birds came flying in. Don’t you just hate it when you know there’s something worthwhile on the television and nature keeps interrupting you from getting back to the important stuff, like watching all of those old Christmas movies you’ve already seen dozens of times before because It’s a Wonderful Life is just that great? Yeah, well, I was being cheeky, and although it’s Christmas day and the romantic drivel of consumer-driven merrymaking is supposed to be all the rage along with this fakey nostalgia for such ugly, repetitive nonsense, I’d rather tell you to go stuff yourself regarding traditions…watching wild birds in the air rocks while roasted geese on your table are sad and tragic, just like your pathetic lives in front of idiot boxes.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Everything in that paragraph above was written by my wife, Caroline, against my wishes as I would never take such Scrooge-like digs at this Great American Holiday, which represents the best of what we have to offer as a free and decent people. As a matter of fact, I regret that we skipped out of Phoenix for years so we could avoid my mother during Thanksgiving, as who wanted to be part of that shit show?

Editors Note: Again, my wife has taken certain liberties with this last sentence to make me appear as some kind of crude curmudgeon with a broken sentimentality organ. I would never talk ill of the dead.

Note of Truth: Okay, so I take full responsibility for all of the text in this post, but after writing for the 28 photos that preceded this descent into farce, I just couldn’t come up with nice flowery things to continue rambling about the refuge and our delight at being here. So, I took a tangent, but after 2,000 words and so many photos, there’s NO WAY anyone is still reading this; even the Google indexing algorithm probably dipped out about a thousand words ago.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Hey John, instead of turning this obviously wonderful experience into a tragic parody of some poorly executed attempt at humor, why not just delete some photos, consolidate the text, and make this easier on all of us? My best answer is, when I was choosing photos in the days leading up to the point I’d start writing, I was certain that I required every single photo I’d chosen because each had the potential to be great if only I could add some meaningful poetic musings to elevate them. Instead, I’ve, in effect, maligned the magnificence of these cranes, some geese, too, as I channeled grumpy John.

Then again, do I really look all that grumpy? By the way, my daughter used to have the world’s stinkiest feet. We recently learned it could have been due to a type of bacteria that apparently also affects dogs, so if I were a betting man, I’d say my weird-ass daughter likely played footsy with her dogs back when they were still alive. I point out their life status as after staying with her in more than a few hotel rooms this year; we’ve not had one gacking moment, not even a little one. That’s my daughter in the middle for those of you who don’t know, and maybe I should also point out finally that she blogs, occasionally as poorly as I do, over at TheJessicaness.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Bright golden grass growing out of the shallow waters of this pond with the sun setting couldn’t be left behind. Writing that, I can’t help but think about how often I have wanted to leave my daughter and her rotting feet behind, but something compelled me to keep dragging her along. Ha, no, that didn’t happen; she’s married, and lucky for me, her husband Caleb somehow adapted to enduring the wretched stench of a magnitude compared to which even my farts smelled subtle and nearly insignificant. But enough of this airing of dirty feet on my eloquent and lovely blog I’m soiling with remembering my daughter just this way on Christmas; I’ll move on, I swear.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Sunset is coming, which means we are about to leave for dinner, and I have nothing else to say.

Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico

Really, nothing. Okay, here’s a Merry Christmas, but that’s it.

Way Up North

Roundup, Montana, appears mostly dead as you enter town, though the bars and lone casino will likely serve the depressed-looking small population for some years to come, at least those who cannot afford to move on. I might suppose that as usual in impoverished areas, the women are the last members of a community trying to maintain the financial health of a place – this dumb assumption is based on that Jessica, and I only saw only men entering the bars and the casino here in the still early morning.

While the town’s former retail presence has faded and is but a dusty shadow of abandoned dreams, my research after returning home showed that this little town has become a kind of hub for Amazon. Third parties that sell things on Amazon are forwarding products to Roundup for repacking, allowing resellers to avoid state sales tax (Montana doesn’t have one), and this allows their packages to conform to Amazon’s shipping requirements.

There were more than a couple of shops with full inventories showing their age. Greeting cards bleached by the passing years and old sweaters with a layer of dark grime suggest that the shop owner’s departure was abrupt. Now I have to wonder if the people who operated these shops passed away, gave up, or moved. If they are still in town, do they ever visit these time capsules?

The local antique shop was closed long ago and strangely enough, remains untouched, same with the other shops. That the windows are intact and the doors not broken in might be a testament to people in small towns all knowing one another and the local hoodlums knowing they’ll be identified as the culprits, so they keep their noses clean and leave the relics of former prosperity alone.

We are leaving Roundup on U.S. Highway 87 and spot this “art project” with a For Sale sign. Of course, we had to stop. The phone number was cut out of the sign, and the house is a ruin, but like the buildings back in downtown, it hasn’t been ransacked. I called this an art project as I can’t imagine this was ever really for sale and that the sign was a prankster’s joke.

What an amazing day of contrasts this is turning to be as we left the bikers, Beartooths, and trees of Red Lodge on our way into the Great Plains here on Highway 87.

There were very few cattle out here and only a couple of oil wells being actively pumped that we could see from the road, but there’s lots of agriculture under cultivation.

Damn, we are foiled here on our adventure in the Great Flat Plains that we’ve been told are out here as we spot these hills.

I’m a sucker for abandoned structures as their decaying presence feels as though they contain hidden mysteries waiting to be discovered. The appeal is as strong for random farmhouses as it has been for exploring old castles across Europe or visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia.

Some might ask why we’re out here traveling roads in the middle of nothing. Large expanses of wide-openness strain the eye to see further while filling the imagination with the potential that something might appear. And when that something emerges out of nowhere, we get to take delight that we have discovered maybe the only thing that might be seen today. And so we continue to crawl over the landscape, looking for treasures.

Highway 19 gave way, merging into Highway 191. Before long, we are back in the hills and encountering the Upper Missouri River Breaks National Monument. The Missouri River is one of the treasures we have passed over many a time and what qualifies it as such beyond simply being a river is the history of the Lewis & Clark expedition that traveled its waters.

Jeez, will we ever encounter the infinitely flat expanse of land where we are able to get lost in nothing at all? What are those mountains out on the horizon?

They are the Little Rocky Mountains, as seen from Montana Highway 191.

Warm brown grasslands offer ideas of being in the breadbasket of a country.

And where do all those seeds that feed us end up? In grain silos like these found in Malta, Montana. We were looking for hot food but only came up with a sausage and egg breakfast burrito at a gas station/farm equipment shop east of here that was pretty gross, to be honest. It turns out that burritos are not very sought after in this part of America. For the rest of the day, stopping at various gas stations trying to satisfy my craving for a good old meat, bean, and cheese frozen burrito was only met with disappointment. Too bad I wasn’t looking for beer and a can of tobacco.

Saco, Montana, has an old defunct gas station that plays host to a stupid amount of pigeons. That mound next to the pump is pigeon poop. In front of the door is another mound, while above our heads in the roof is evidence of a ton more poop. Squeezed between a couple of boards and a gap was a dedicated specimen existing in two worlds, that of the open air and an amount of avian feces I would never want to rain down on me…and so I stepped away from the building and my desire to peer into its windows.

More of those amber waves of grain.

And then, out of nowhere, a mirage appears in the form of a ton of ruins. In a previous life, the town of St. Marie was the Glasgow Air Force Base. Back in 1976, the facility was shuttered, and instead of condemning everything to clean it off the face of the earth, the government tried selling homes to the residents who wanted to stay. Most of the town never sold.

While there are a few handfuls of diehard residents living among the ruins, the school and all the businesses are long gone. The nearby airfield survives and is said to be used by Boeing, but the multitude of warning signs are all from a company called Montana Aviation Research. I’ve been stopped by law enforcement near a DuPont factory in Buffalo, New York, an airfield north of Tucson, Arizona, and a random road north of Las Vegas, Nevada, by menacing men who obviously meant business telling me to leave the area, I take signs for an area under surveillance seriously.

Entering these abandoned former military homes, I was constantly aware that at any moment, either a local sheriff or armed residents might interrupt our explorations and demand that we leave. So, as we dipped into places with open doors, I made sure we kept things brief so we would hopefully avoid being surprised by people who didn’t appreciate our snooping.

It turns out that back in 2012, the wacko members of a local sovereign-citizen movement called the Citizens Action Committee of Valley County attempted to take the town as their own, but fortunately for the people who were living there, they failed. Researching this history and learning of the Montana Freemen who, in the mid-1990s, tried something similar to maybe another Branch Davidians or Ruby Ridge-type incident, I have to wonder about the New Yorkers and Californians who are leaving behind one looney place for another.

To deter squatters, the electricity has been cut to large parts of St. Marie, but appliances are often still in place, and I’d wager that with the gas, electricity, and water turned on, some of these homes that have been empty for 45 years would be habitable with just a few days of work. After scouring the better part of the abandoned corners of this old Air Force Base, it was time to get back down the road as we’d earlier entertained the idea of going further than our original destination. By now, though, we’ve likely lost about 90 minutes to roaming around Roundup and St. Marie.

Okay, I think we’ve finally found the flat part of Montana.

While the sun isn’t so low in the sky to threaten the arrival of the evening quite yet, we do want to reach the Canadian border for a selfie, proving that we’d made it that far north. So we drive.

We drive until another distraction rears its head just north of Baylor, Montana. This old farm had no fences and nothing suggesting we shouldn’t “trespass.”

All the elements of intrigue are on display, old wood, old machinery, old cars out back (beyond a fence). No windows, but there were signs of stuff inside the house as we approached.

The old house is barely a shell, and I could see it collapsing in the next ten years, but that didn’t stop us from wanting to go inside for a more intimate view. Our smarter selves were effective in dissuading our dumber voices, trying to convince us to take the risk as stepping on nails or falling through floors could be problematic so far away from phone and medical services.

Jessica did her best to lean into the window in the center of this photo, trying to snag the old pot on the stove I wanted, but it fell off and became unreachable. As you look at this image, you can see that the left side of the kitchen is listing. This structure was way too sketchy to attempt going in, but we did try to open the door on the right, behind which you can glimpse Jessica. I’m glad we couldn’t pry it open, as it did occur to me that it might be the structural support that was the glue keeping everything standing. By the way, the stove appears to be a valuable antique!

I’m in love with this bed and would gladly claim the frame and bring it home if that was possible. Even the cotton batting that is no longer in its mattress cover is intriguing. Where did the cloth that contained it go? I’m surprised that birds haven’t claimed all of the fluff for their nests, but then again, where would birds build homes in a place with so few native trees?

Over at the barn, I was incredulous to find the center third filled with barley. The closeup I shot of it was taken to avoid all of the poop that was atop the grain. Not only rodent poop but rather large ones (all very dried out) that were scattered about. The grain silo next door suggests that it was last filled and is still full of barley from a 1960 harvest. It’s inexplicable as to why the barley never sprouted, molded over, or was decimated by rodents and birds over the 61 years it’s sat here.

After Caroline saw this photo, she wished that I’d reached out to share an image so I could have snagged her one of these ancient bridles. Maybe she would have restored it and sent it to our niece in Germany, who loves horses but I couldn’t have imagined that she’d have been interested. Maybe she and I can travel through this corner of America next summer to collect a bridle, bed frame, an old stove, and that pot I wanted. Heck, there’s even an upstairs to the old home that might contain things of interest.

Instead of just bolting across the road it was moseying over, the deer and her fawns casually headed to the fence and then turned back to look at us with our window open, snapping photos of this beautiful family.

All the way up U.S. Route 24, we reached the Canadian border, and other than some border agents, there was nothing else out there. With all the ruins and this detour, we will not get further than my planned stop. Hey, Scobey, Montana, here we come.

Arriving in Scobey, Montana, after 12 hours of driving, we stopped at our hotel but didn’t check in as we learned there might be a restaurant still open over at the local golf course. It was dark as we passed what appeared to be an amazing history museum on the edge of town, but obviously, it wasn’t open. We’d called ahead to the Club House to verify it was open while on our way, and sure enough, it was open. Keep in mind that Scobey has a population of about 1,100 people and is seriously out in the middle of nowhere, so this was a real find after 8:00 p.m. on a Thursday night.

At dinner, we met Don and Laura Hagan while their daughter Erin was our server. We got to know a couple of other locals, too, but it was the Hagan family that made our night. Don has been farming about 4,000 acres of durum wheat, peas, and canola out this way while Laura works in the healthcare industry. If Caroline and I should ever pass through here, we’ll have to look them up. Thanks, Scobeyians, for making us feel so welcome.