Arizona
Two Miles Per Hour: Arizona Through the Eyes of a Mule Rider
The joy of mulespeed is the ease of stopping. At 2 miles per hour, the mind slows to the speed of the scenery. From there, it ain’t much of a leap to standing still.
Standing still is where my mind sees the day’s last photos.
I always keep a camera handy and the photos usually just compose themselves. I just have to press the shutter. The following are just a few Arizona mulespeed scenes.
Philosophy and Pelts: A Trapper’s Cabin in the Chiricahuas
I’ve never skinned more than a knee but John Henry slipped gracefully from philosophy to the job at hand.
The coyote was stretched across an old wire spool, the wooden kind the phone company uses. “I like to skin mine out lying on their side. It takes me ten or fifteen minutes per hide.”
After the fur is separated from the carcass, John Henry puts it in to the washing machine outside his front door. As the fur is churning… Continue reading
Lost on the McGee Ranch: Two Days Across Six Inches of Map
When the driver asks you to get off and walk, do it without grumbling. He will not request it unless absolutely necessary.
—from “Hints for Plains Travelers” Omaha Herald, published 1877.
“My ancestors were on the way to California when they broke a wagon wheel in these mountains” Norman said as he handed me a photo copied map of the McGee… Continue reading
The Saguaro Concert: Riding the Butterfield Route Through Arizona
It cheers me that I can do today what once took an act of Congress. It’s just too bad they never heard the saguaro.
In 1857, Congress voted funding for an overland mail route “from such point of the Mississippi River as the contractors may select, to San Francisco.” The contractors chose St. Louis. Congress chose San Francisco. Ok, so I chose Oriental, NC to San Diego. Still, our routes often overlapped.
As I make my way across Arizona, I… Continue reading
Drowning in the Desert: Flood Warnings Along the Arizona Highway
“Why in the world is there a flood sign next to a cactus?” I wondered as I rode Woody down the desert highway.
But it’s a common sight along these desert roads: a yellow sign that warns of drowning next to a cactus that could use a drink.
The reason for this eccentric signage is the monsoon.
I usually associate that word with the tropics: Australia, India, Bangladesh. Those guys get… Continue reading
Crossing into Arizona: Woody and Maggie Reach the Grand Canyon State
For weeks now I’ve wandered through New Mexico with Arizona on my mind.
It’s cold out here on the High Lonesome. Most nights my tipi freezes into an ice-cream cone shape. Mornings, when I go to take it down, it won’t fit into its stuff sack. I roll it up like a six pound burrito and just cram it into Maggie’s cart. In the evenings, when I re-pitch it, it unfurls in a shower… Continue reading
