Road Trip #22 On the Road Back to Reality---Almost

James Collins and Neil McMullen prepare breakfast on a nice spring day at the AntHill.

     I spent the night alternating between freezing outside and sweating inside the thirty-below sleeping bag, with little moments of sleep sandwiched between the extremes. I had to get up and pee a lot more than I did when I was sixty.  Altogether, during the night I slept almost six minutes, but I was very grateful I didn’t die.  I figured I could catch up on my sleep while Wayne drove to Muleshoe later in the day.  In the meantime, I was delighted to be alive.

     At 4:30 AM, James Collins stoked the fire and made coffee.  I was wide awake, so I joined him.  James quoted John Wayne, who said nothing good came from “burning daylight.”  I wondered, what daylight?  It was dark as pitch out there.  In two more hours we saw the first hint of light in the east.  We drank coffee and visited, two old friends in the dark, remembering a long and happy life, a lot of good people, and two or three regular horses' asses.

     Around 5:30, Wayne and Neil joined us, and we cooked breakfast.   Collins fried a pound of bacon and scrambled a dozen eggs.  Neil baked scratch biscuits, did hash brown potatoes with onions and made cream gravy.  Wayne and I fed the fire and set the table.  We had coffee, milk, and orange juice to drink.   Butter and jelly for the biscuits, and Tabasco and ketchup for the hash browns--it was another feast fit for the Queen of England.

    By the time we finished breakfast, it was light enough for the guys to go fishing.  I stayed in camp to strike my unused tent, deflate the unused air mattress and pack the unused gear.  I hoped to get in a little nap, but no such luck.  When I finished my chores, the guys were back, not a single fish among them.  The wind was frightful.  We decided to load up and move down into the valley, where Neil and James had a fishing lease at a nearby ranch.  We picked up Wayne’s truck as we moved down the mountain past the submariner’s place.

     Eighteen miles down the valley, we turned into a private gate and entered the “fishing lease.”  The same creek that flows past the Anthill meanders through the valley and the guys enthusiastically started working the banks on either side.  I stayed behind to watch the trucks and maybe catch a little shut-eye.  I was tired and sleepy.

     A deserted barn stood near the gate where we parked. I strolled over to look at several sets of elk antlers attached to the gable end of the primitive, unpainted structure.  I was not sure if the horns were trophies of past hunts, or simply picked up after they’d been shed.  Either way, I realized this valley was a special place.  Beavers built dams, bears roamed the woods and elk shed their horns here.  I saw a few live elk once, in Canada, but I have never seen a live bear in the wild.  During the seventies, beavers were talked about incessantly by truck drivers with C/B radios.  I understand they were desirable fuzzy little creatures, highly valued as trophies, but they certainly didn’t fell trees or build dams.

     Before I managed to get settled for a nap, the guys trekked back in from the stream, once again without any fish.  So far today the scoresheet read:  Fish 6; Boys 0.  Wayne and I said our goodbyes and prepared to load up for the 600 mile trip to Muleshoe.  We had enjoyed ourselves, but were both eager to get back to Texas.  Neil and James had been more than perfect hosts.  They had several hours work ahead of them, cleaning up and stowing gear when they got back to Gunnison.  We had left everything in disarray. Even the dirty dishes were piled in a box in the back of James’s vehicle.  One Dutch oven had the remnants of a pretty good cherry cobbler clinging to its sides.

     As we started back toward the truck, Wayne pitched me the keys and said, “Do you want to drive a while?”

     I wasn’t sure I could make the twelve miles back to pavement without falling asleep.  I hadn’t slept at all the night before.  It was nine hours to Buck’s place in Muleshoe and my plan was to sleep at least six of those hours.  Wayne was obviously very tired.  He had been afraid to allow me near the driver’s seat for the last 4,000 miles, but he had been wading, sloshing around and desperately fishing since daylight after a night with little sleep.  I knew he must be exhausted to even consider letting me take over the wheel.

     I grinned.  “Sure, I’ll drive.  I’m fresh as a daisy.”

     I managed to keep the truck on the road until we got to the pavement at Hwy 114, then turned right and headed southeast to Saguache.  Wayne was trying to stay awake and watch my driving, but it was a losing battle.  I was fighting to keep at least my good eye open.  At Monte Vista, we turned due east and paralleled the New Mexico border to Walsenburg, then turned right and took I-25 into New Mexico.  We turned off the freeway at Wagon Mound and headed toward Roy, in the high, rolling plains country that had once been the exclusive domain of the Comanche.

Wagon Mound.  A lonesome reminder of the Santa Fe Trail.

     This country is full of history.  I-25 roughly follows the route of the Santa Fe Trail, and Wagon Mound was a landmark on the old trail. Kit Carson led wagon trains up and down this trail, and lonely soldiers protected traders and travelers as they moved from the civilized areas east of St Louis to the Spanish colonial center at Santa Fe.  Trade was brisk and the trail was relatively safe.  But it wasn’t safe away from the trail.  Wayne and I were headed into the heart of Comancheria.

     The terrain here is vacant grassland, with undulating plains as far as the eye can see.  No trees, no cactus, no mesquite, nothing but endless dry grassland, as plain and limitless as the sea.  The road was straight, with a slight turn one way or the other every twenty miles or so.  Wayne was sound asleep.  I was hallucinating.

     I saw a troop of U.S. Calvary, headed by Col. Ranald Mackenzie, called “Bad Hand” by the Comanche.  A couple of hundred soldiers on horseback were strung out parallel with the highway, about four hundred yards away, followed by pack mules and two wagons.  The troops seemed to be moving slowly, but they stayed beside me over a hundred miles, just moseying along on the rolling grassland, searching for Indians and water, not necessarily in that order.  It was 1873, and I was watching Bad Hand and his troops as they moved across the trackless plains.

     The troops halted and set up camp.   Mackenzie called his chief scout, and two junior officers to his tent.  “How far to fresh water, Mr. Bent?”  He asked the scout.

     “Well, Colonel, I don’t rightly know.  This is the first time I ever come this far east of the trail.  It ain't safe out here.  The horses and mules don’t act like they smell no water.  I been out ten miles ahead and they ain’t no water up there.  I think we better backtrack while we can.”

     “Captain Johnson, how are our supplies holding out?”

     “Sir, we have plenty of everything except water.  We’re ten days out now.   If we go on half rations, the water might last ten more days.  If everyone keeps drinking a full canteen every day, we’ll be dry in five days.  We better head back.”

     “Very good.  Cut the water ration to one canteen every three days.  Same ratio for the horses and mules. We’ll dry camp here tonight and continue east tomorrow morning.  I will not return to Fort Union without Comanche scalps. That will be all, gentlemen.”  Mackenzie listened to his men, but made decisions on his own.  He was a strict disciplinarian, considered cruel by many of his troops.  He was arguably the greatest Indian fighter who ever lived.

     A few miles east of Mackenzie’s camp, I was shocked out of my reverie by a triangular road sign.  It was bright yellow and the most unusual thing I had seen all day.  Except for grassland, a few antelope, and dejected soldiers, I had been all alone on this sea of grass, operating on auto pilot. I could not remember any detail of the road for the last hundred miles.  I was glad Wayne was still asleep.  He would have been bent out of shape if he waked up and caught me napping.

     The road sign had no words, just a silhouette of a truck on a steep downhill grade.  Another sign showed a sharp curve to the left.   I slowed some and had no trouble negotiating the curve as Wayne came awake.  We were on a long slope, down into a deep, steep-walled canyon.  A mile later, at the bottom of the canyon, the road did a sharp right turn and we crossed the bridge over the Canadian River.  On the flat banks near the river, cottonwood trees and deep green grasses grew, while sheer rocky cliffs rose up 2000 feet on either side.  The setting was absolutely beautiful and completely unexpected.  The Indians must have loved this place.  It was invisible from a half mile on either side of the canyon rim.

     As we climbed up the east slope, I caught a glimpse of smoke rising from several teepees scattered along the west bank of the river.  Cook fires in the Comanche camp.  By the time Mackenzie and his troops get here, the camp will be gone, faded into the high plains without a trace.  Comanche scouts have been watching the soldier’s progress since they left Fort Union. I blinked and shook off the images.  No reason to mention any of that to Wayne.  He'd think I'd been drinking or something.

Ruins of Fort Union.  Mackenzie passed thru here in 1881, when he was commander of the district of New Mexico for the US Army.

Meet Gus Gaunt of Santa Monica/Texas

Gus, with his game face on, and his boots.

    

      I was finished with the “How Come Texans Are So Dad-Blamed Proud” series, when a young friend of mine, Rachel Chamberlain Gaunt, published a Facebook picture of her four-month-old boy, Gus.  It reinforces my point about how we raise our children to grow up and be proper Texans, and I felt I must share it. I contacted Rachel and she added some details.  Gus was born as the sound of George Strait singing “Amarillo by Morning” wafted thru the delivery room.  I want you to read it in Rachel’s words:

     “Amarillo by Morning was one of those happy accidents that, after the fact, seem meant to be.  The anesthesiologist asked what kind or music I’d like to listen to during my C-section.  (I had no idea we could choose our music, but the surgery room was equipped with Pandora so I could choose any artist and it creates a playlist of the same genre)  So, of course, I said Willie Nelson.  All the nurses and the doctor did a double take—this is Santa Monica, California—and said they hadn’t had that request before.  I explained that I was from Texas and this baby would recognize the country music from his time in the womb.  He selected Willie on Pandora and the first song to play was Good-Hearted Woman, followed by Willie, Waylon and Me, and Blue Skies, then Amarillo By Morning, and a loud cry from Gus.  It was a magical experience made even more special by the music I’d grown up with and I’ll never forget it!  While the doctor sewed me up to Folsom Prison Blues and Georgia, he said he really liked the music so my husband, Kevin,    made him a CD of all the songs.  We gave it to him at the post-surgery checkup and he was tickled!!  We Texans leave our mark!!  I have a copy of the CD too, of course, and I cry every time I listen to it—Gus’ anthem is a rodeo song!!  Lucky boy!”   Rachel

     Rachel’s parents are naturalized Texans—they were not born here, but got here as quickly as they could.  Many of us have those little closet secrets, but we don’t talk about them.  One of my grandsons was born in Boston, of all places, and we sure don’t advertise it.  Charlotte carried a plastic baggie full of Texas dirt up there, and rubbed it on his feet while the nurses weren’t looking.  We think it worked, but time will tell—that boy does march to a different set of drums.

     Rachel finished college and went to California in search of adventure and gainful employment.  She met and fell in love with a handsome young man named Kevin Gaunt.  They went to Houston for their formal engagement party.  Charlotte and I made the trek back for the party, showing how much we love Rachel and her parents. (If I ever forget why I left Houston, my memory comes back at about I-10 and Mason Road.  The traffic is awful, and people live there because they have jobs there.  It is a great and exciting city and I love it, but the time comes to move on.)

Gus, with his Austin City Limits shirt, provided by family members in Austin.

     At the engagement party, it was decided that we could not have sweet Rachel living with a foreigner, so we had to make young Kevin an Honorary Texan.  It was a simple, but solemn ceremony.  Kevin had to down a shot of tequila, kiss an armadillo on the lips, and sing the “Eyes of Texas” a cappella, from memory.  He passed with flying colors.

     I know there are more stringent conditions for some applicants for Texas Citizenship, but Kevin was a decent sort and we respected Rachel’s judgment.  We used a stuffed armadillo and waived the provision for kissing the other end of a live armadillo.  No one could find a quart of warm Lone Star beer for him to chug-a-lug, so that provision was slightly altered also.

     Kevin and Rachel are at home now, in the Santa Monica area, living their life and rearing their son, Gus.  Look carefully at the picture and you can see they are doing a fine job.  At four months, Gus has his first pair of cowboy boots and his first UT outfit.  He has been listening to country songs since before he was born.

     Observe the position of his brawny arms, set up in exactly perfect form for an all-everything linebacker about to plug a hole in the defensive line.  I expect, however, he will play in the backfield and get the girls.  Just think what that great Southwest Conference announcer, Kern Tipps, could have done with that name.  “Gus Gaunt Gains Gobs of Ground ‘Ginst the Ganders!”

     I’ve said this before in other ways, but one of the nice things about growing old is watching people you knew as children grow into adults.   Seeing them on a whole new level, hearing about their achievements, watching them contribute to society, and knowing, deep inside, that as good as you were, they may be better.

    As Rachel said, “We Texans leave out mark!”  Watch out, Yankees.  Gus is coming.

Gus, preparing to sneak up on a deer.  Camos provided by family members in Dallas.

Road Trip #21 Twilight Zone at the Ant Hill

Collins and Ratisseau, following the time-honored tradition of dressing for battle.



       We talked around the campfire until late that night, maybe 8:00 or 8:30.  Collins went to bed first, as usual.  The front seats of his Land Cruiser recline to an almost horizontal position and he chose to zip up in a sleeping bag there.  Neil and Wayne chose to sleep outside, on foam pads made for that purpose.  With their sleeping bags zipped tight, a pillow and the special pad, they were comfortable and toasty warm.  Even though it was early in the month of June, by 10:00 PM the temperature was well below freezing.  The wind remained brisk.

     While the others were fishing that afternoon, I prepared my little nest.  Fighting the unrelenting wind, I erected a small tent borrowed from Ian, my Boy Scout grandson.  Inside, I inflated an air mattress borrowed from my friend, Hugh.  I put my new mummy-shaped sleeping bag on top of the mattress and arranged my other belongings in nooks and crannies between the over-sized bed and the walls of the under-sized tent.  My sleeping bag was rated for use to thirty degrees below zero.  Two years ago, my nights here were uncomfortable and I am better prepared this time.  I will be as cozy as a bug in a rug.

McMullen, doing battle.

     I opened the flap of the tent and sat on the air mattress to remove my shoes and trousers.  I had decided to sleep in my shirt, because it was getting downright cold.  The air mattress was bouncy and impossible to stabilize, but I managed to slip off my things and climb into the tent.  I bounced around as I tried to unzip the new sleeping bag.  I thought, Good to thirty below zero.  Ha!  I’ll be nice and warm.

     By the time I got the thing unzipped, I was hyperventilating. Our campsite was near 10,000 feet elevation and the air was thin.  My heart was racing and I just could not get enough oxygen. I got both feet inside the bag, and tried to roll over so I could zip it up to cover my body.   I stopped to rest and tried to get enough air, but it was not possible.  I lay there, heart racing, gasping for air and trying to decide upon a plan.  This damn air mattress was too bouncy to allow movement without reaction and the sleeping bag too slippery to get inside.  Maybe one of the guys would help me.  No, I didn’t want to ask for help.  Besides, they were already asleep.  I was on my own.

     My heart rate settled down to about a hundred and I was able to get some of the sleeping bag under my legs.  I decided to start zipping from there and work my way up.  After ten minutes of bouncy, exhausting struggle, I got the zipper stuck just above my knees.  It wouldn’t budge in either direction.  I was freezing.  I decided to hell with the zipper and just pulled the bag over me and lay still.   Another fifteen minutes of hyperventilation, and my heart slowed enough that I put the idea of coronary thrombosis out of my mind.  Actually, I only pushed it toward the back of my mind—at seventy-five, the idea is always there.  I managed to get my trousers rolled up for use as a pillow and re-arranged the sleeping bag like a blanket to cover the cold air leaks.  This wasn’t so bad.  I was going to be fine.

     I worked the rolled-up trousers under my head, moved the sleeping bag around to stop the cold, and allowed my heart rate to slow to near normal. My breathing continued to sound like Darth Vader in heat.  I removed my glasses and placed them in a little depression in the mattress, well away from the center and toward the back wall of the tent.  They’ll be safe there. 

     All my preparation was starting to pay off.  As George Peppard said in the A-Team, “I love it when a plan comes together.”   I stretched a bit and listened to the sounds of the night.  The soothing sound of moving water wafted up through the trees. There was no moon, but the stars were very close and bright.  Visibility was no problem. No wonder people like to camp out, close to nature.  This was really nice.

     I was just about to doze off when I became aware of a familiar, but unwelcome, sensation.   I needed to pee.  I decided to ignore it and maybe it would go away.  I tried to think of something else.  The water down below continued to trickle over the rocks.  I turned over heavily and heard my glasses bounce off the mattress into who knows where. 

     I wondered, If I just lie here and wet the bed, will I freeze to death? How many more times will I have to pee tonight? Will pee freeze? Will it permanently stain Hugh’s mattress?  Can I just air out my new sleeping bag tomorrow?  Will the down feathers clump together? Wonder what Hugh paid for this mattress?  More to the point, what will he charge me for it?  Can't be worth much if it's been peed on.  How long does it take to freeze to death?  Is it painful, or do I just peacefully go to sleep? No matter---I probably won't freeze.  I'll have a heart attack.

    I decided I had to get up and do it.  I felt around for my glasses, but they were gone.  I found one shoe, but decided to put my pants on first.  Damn, it was cold.  I unrolled the trousers and my change, wallet, and keys fell out and scattered in the dark.  Without my glasses, I could not see enough to find anything.   My heart raced and I was hyperventilating again.  I got my pants up to my knees before I realized they were on backwards.  I lay back on the mattress and tried to relax—my feet were freezing and I was about to wet my pants.  I knew I was going to die out here in the cold, astraddle the Continental Divide, forty miles from pavement.

     With what I decided would be my last valiant effort, I sat up.   The mattress unceremoniously bounced me outside.  I found myself in the cold grass, perched on all fours, gasping for air, pants down around my ankles.  I stood up, faced downwind, and took care of the immediate problem.  I think it froze before it hit the ground.

     I decided that if I was going to die anyway, I might as well do so in comfort.  I pulled my new sleeping bag out of the tent and staggered over to Neil’s Land Cruiser and got into the front passenger seat.  The recline button was easy to find and worked perfectly, even without the ignition switch.  My teeth were chattering, my feet were freezing, and there wasn’t any oxygen up here.  I was surely going to die.

     I can just see it in the morning.  Collins will get up at his usual four a.m. and make coffee.  Neil and Ratisseau will join him about five.  They’ll fix breakfast.  Around six they’ll decide to wake me and discover the empty tent.  Eventually, one of them will discover my cold, lifeless body, frozen in the shape of one half a set of parentheses, lying here in Neil’s truck.  They’ll wonder what to do.  They can’t call 911 from here, no cell service.  They know I won’t swell up and start reeking, not in this cold. Before they do anything, I hope they have the presence of mind to go fishing.  It's downright un-thoughty of me to drop off on them and I’ll keep.  It’s not everyday they get an opportunity to fish up here. 

     I know what I'll do.   I’ll wake Ratisseau and make him promise not to leave me here in this frigid country.  He won’t mind.  He knows I’d do it for him.  He can make it back to Texas a lot quicker than Woodrow Call did in Lonesome Dove.   If he hurries, I won’t thaw out until he’s past Clovis.  If I get to smelling too bad, he can straighten me out and put me in the back with the luggage and those plants in the plastic whiskey bottle from that woman with the dot in Marina.  I’ll make him promise to bury me in that cotton field south of Lubbock---the one where Kandi and I used to park when we were in high school.  Wayne knows she made me happier right there than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

     With hammered breathing and pounding heart, I managed to zip my thirty-below zero sleeping bag.  My glasses were lost, so I couldn’t tell what time I was dying.  My wallet was lost, so the EMS people won’t be able to identify my body.  My shoes were lost, so rigor mortis will probably start with my feet.  I felt myself drifting into a sort of fitful slumber.  Maybe this dying won’t be all that hard.

     Twenty minutes later I came wide awake.  I was soaked.  Sweating.  Damn! It must not be anywhere near thirty below.    

    

Had this turned out to be my last sunset, I suppose it could have been worse.