Maggie
“Chicken”: The Day Woody Met the Atlantic Ocean
Pete Cochran’s fisherman’s shades make him look like he’s speeding all the time.
Which he is; running his Emerald Isle Stanley Steemer franchise and his Onslow County beer distributorship. But it’s more than just business; he’s got a family of five.
Somewhere between the Coors deliveries and stain removal (the secret is high pressure steam and solvent-free citrus oil concentrate) he managed to bring Woody and I to Emerald Isle.
Once again, Woody sailed across Intra Coastal in a borrowed… Continue reading
California or Bust: A Mule Cart Crosses Into New Mexico
I’m a license plate watcher.
They’re pretty much the same. A bunch of capital letters and numbers over the name of the state.
YDM 840
North Carolina
That was my old black Volvo.
Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas; what you see is where you are on that shiny bit of tin whizzing away from the mule ears in front of you.
In New Mexico, they have… Continue reading
Proud as a Pilot Who Patched the Windshield With Duct Tape
The evening after Rick of Rick’s Rodent Ranch told me that jumbo rats bite and gave me a new bridle to replace my old one because it was wearing out, I sat down to put it together.
When I tried to swap the bit from Woody’s old bridle to the new one, I discovered it wouldn’t fit. The cheek pieces that hold the bit were too wide and stiff to fit through the rings in the bit.
I sure wasn’t… Continue reading
Four Miles Down, Four Barrels Up: Oklahoma Stripper Wells
We’re in oil country now, riding through Oklahoma. There’s clanking in the bushes where the crickets buzz at noon.
If you take a closer look, you’ll find an oil well.
They call them “stripper wells” around here. They get four or five barrels up per day. Some more, some less.
But most of them make that clanking noise.
I take Woody and Maggie closer for a look.
Far Enough West the Light Looks Different
Woody, Magnolia and I have walked far enough west that the light looks different from back in North Carolina, where we started our journey. Back there, the light felt thick, moist and blue. Here, it feels dry, thin and dusty. The shadows, too.
Here are three photos I snapped while riding along the sidewalk of a town so small I don’t even remember its name.
Don’t Wait for Answers You Don’t Like: Woody and the Snowy Pass
“Bernie we took a vote this morning and decided you shouldn’t leave today,” Tommy said. “There’s too much snow up on the pass. You might not make it through in this cold.” The coffee swirled to a stop in his cup. The Barn Door crew sitting around the table nodded. “Here,” Ed Turpin said, handing me a bread baggy full of pecans, “take these with you. My brother cracked them for you.”
Oh good, at least someone thought I was… Continue reading
I’m So Glad You Came Back: Returning to Leonard Knight’s Salvation Mountain
Leonard Knight and Salvation Mountain were on my mind. After 13 months riding across America with Woody and Maggie, it was time to go home. But I was in no hurry. Leonard Knight and so many others had left a deep impression on me and I wanted to visit as many of these people as possible on my way back east.
Heading Home by Dodge, not Mule
One of the… Continue reading
A Mule at the Taco Bell Drive-Through: The Last Day of the Atlantic to Pacific Ride
After thirteen months on the road, mornings start like this.
I draw the needle from inside my hat band, thread it with dental floss (waxed) and suture the newest rip in my britches’ seat. Then I tuck my shirt in with greatest care, making sure the tail reaches well south of the repair in case of floss failure. I’ve long given up underwear. I’m down to an extra blue shirt, two bandanas and a pair of socks, none… Continue reading
“Oh My God”: The Day Woody Rode a Trailer Upside Down
Woody met Mike Hollister on the side of the road while filling his tank. The clover was green, traffic on 101 sparse, so I’d slipped off the bridle so Woody could have a feed while I pondered how we’d cross the bridge ahead.
“What are you doing about the Core Creek Bridge?” Mike asked me a few minutes after he’d pulled up for a gam. I stuttered the usual “Oh, he’s good in traffic” bit and before I could get… Continue reading
White Sands Missile Range – Alamagordo, NM
The White Sands Missile Range straddles the White Sands valley for almost forty miles, from Alamogordo to Organ, NM.
I rise at 2:00 AM, stuff my frozen tipi into Maggie’s cart and start out across the range.
The moon is full. As we jog along the waves of sand dunes, the mounds appear like herds of black and white Indian ponies loping at our side. I look behind at Maggie in the moonlight. It looks like Woody’s towing his own… Continue reading
Just Aim for the Big Middle”: Polly Quick and Coyote Number 17
Ray Quick drills holes in the aquifer and his wife Polly punches holes in coyotes.
Ray’s a well digger, one of the last in the area to use a cable rig, an old Bucyrus Erie 22W. While Woody and Maggie were resting in his corrals, he takes me on the job.
Back Into Where-Are-We-Going-To-Sleep-Tonight Land
The 5,000 foot climb that took us two weeks to go up takes four hours to descend.
We’re back down in cactus country. We’re back into Where-Are-We-Going-To-Sleep-Tonight land.
That’s how I met Ray and Polly Quick. That’s how I learned the water table’s dropping and you shouldn’t have screens on your windows if you’re serious about shooting… Continue reading
Snowed In With Cowboys: Ed’s Two Dollar Belt Buckle in Mayhill, NM
At seven thousand New Mexican feet, it takes a long time for water to boil but snow piles up in a flash. The gods smiled on me. I boiled my pasta water in Terry Stovall’s cabin as the snow piled up outside. Woody and Maggie holed up in a shed across the street.
For months I’d dreaded the ride across what I’d come to call “The Hill.” Like “flu” sounds less lethal than “influenza,” the “Hill”… Continue reading
No Passing. Not Even If You’re a Tumbleweed: Up to the Sacramento Mountains
“No Passing Lane” the yellow sign reads and the tumble weeds take heed. They’re piled against the steel legs, slammed to a halt from a run.
Others won’t mind. They skip and bound across Highway 82 and regroup along the lee-ward wire fence. Russian Thistle, or tumbleweed, is about the only traffic out here on the plain leading to the foot of the Sacramento Mountains.
The road rises before us and tumbleweeds… Continue reading
I Woke in Oilfield Dirt: Pump Jack Sunrise in Loco Hills, NM
I woke in oilfield dirt this morning.
All night I’d heard whirring, clanking and coyotes in the black.
When I woke, I found Woody had found a friend.
I took their photo and hit the road.
