WordPlay

So, you know, sometimes when it comes to settings for my books, I make things up.

No, really!

And sometimes I create Tardis-like areas in the middle of real places, and then I make things up, but within those parameters.

And sometimes I use real places and I research the patootie out of them.  It’s easier now with Google Earth and satellite maps and such, but boy, when I was doing Capetown for the FEMME FATALE novella I had to engage some serious research mojo, and I was thrilled when someone who’d been there said that I nailed it.

Every now and then, I have the chance to tramp around a book setting in person.

There should be a caption that follows me around at times like these.  “Step back!  Make room!  The muse is about to WALLOW.”

Last weekend, I should have been at an agility trial.  Instead, the night before the departure, ConneryBeagle was badly injured.  We cancelled the trip and there are some details and updates over on FaceBook, but for now I’ll just say it was a freak yard thing, and no, we don’t know if he’ll be able to run agility again, and yes, I’m still crying.

And also, that there’s only one thing to do when stuff like this hits: not only does the muse get to WALLOW, but I take her out to the kind of place that comforts me–up into rugged trails.

Convenient, then, that I’m working away at the third RECKONER book in the background of my other projects, and that a certain amount of the action takes place on the side of the very mountain looming up to the west of Casa Durgin.

So I grabbed up some company and I grabbed up Dart Beagle, and off we went.  For the first little bit, anyway–then the trail got more rugged and it was only me.

I didn’t have the camera for that part, which is just as well–it would have banged around a lot, as the trails were up and down and around and mostly carved into the side of mountain ridges.  Narrow little trails, and during the rare moments when I met up with someone coming the other way, I was very glad for Dart’s boingy qualities.  More than once I asked him to levitate up the side of the mountain to perch like a little mountain goat while other hikers–and their significantly larger dogs–passed us by.

(Dart, it must be said, apparently thought the “perching like a little mountain goat” was the best thing EVER.)

I was also pleased that all of those dogs were on lead, as they’re supposed to be.  That would have been a bad place for the “He’s friendly!” routine.  But everyone was pleasant and responsible, and for the most part it was just me and Dart, surrounded by awesomeness.  I love wandering the microclimes of a desert forest–everything changes so quickly with altitude and orientation.  Is it south or north facing?  Shaded by another ridge, or out in the open?  High or low?

Dart thought it was awesome, too.  Four miles of nonstop awesome.  At one point he was so excited by all the new scents that he started giving voice right there on the trail.  It was an Intensity of Want.  And it gave him a whole new perspective on what it’s like to walk together.  Real life stuff, not ho-hum down the road.

On the return loop, in the flatter, wider area near the parking lot, I did run into a couple who thought their three very large dogs were speshul off-lead snowflakes.  Naturally, at least one of these loose dogs was completely non-responsive to recall, and approached us with a dominant body language–head low, neck stiff, tail raised high and held tight.  I’d gone off the trail to put Dart up on a picnic table, but onward it came, so I smacked my nice stout walking stick in its face (against the table bench, which tells you how close it got).  “I don’t know you!” I said loudly.  Smack!  “You are not welcome!” Smack!  

Dog’s dawning realization: Crap, this lady is nuts.  Maybe I don’t care THAT much about bullying that Beagle thing.

Dog’s Owner (everybody, join in the chorus!): He’s friendly!

Me (with the stick still locked and loaded): I DON’T CARE.

And maybe I was channeling Garrie’s reckoner attitude, because I didn’t.  I’m tired of stressing over confrontation caused by people who think their dogs are speshul snowflakes.  Responsible dog owners make sure their beloved pets don’t cause problems for other people.

So they moved on to bother the next person who didn’t want to be visited, and we went on our way unruffled to finish up the hike.

Soo…  Connery’s still injured.  The world has still been sad and overwhelming lately, with the Lyme flaring up to greet it.  But Dart had a great time (and slept hard on the way home!), and I got to wallow in a couple of hours of hiking and not thinking, and the muse got to wallow in scene setting, and found some great story landmarks and even a couple of plot developments.

Soon enough, the season will turn, and those trails will be impassible with snow and ice.  But before then, the muse says, I’ll find another day for wallowing.

Where do you wallow?

by Doranna

ConneryBeagle has a Twitter feed (Because of course he does.  That boy has been online since the day he came home with me).   He doesn’t tweet religiously, since I rarely give up the keyboard, but he likes to talk about his adventures.

Over the weekend he did that, after an adventure with the horse.  And because there were questions…here’s the rest of the story!

DuncanHorse has a paddock inside our fenced pasture area.

Looking up at the paddock gate from inside the pasture

Unfortunately, of the three summers we’ve been here, he’s only been allowed out on the pasture for the first summer–that’s the drought in action.  I’ve got to protect what is, in fact, a terribly fragile soil/flora/fauna area.  (Things die; they don’t come back.  The land erodes in a heartbeat, which is how those deep arroyos ended up in the back yard to begin with!)

When I care for Duncan, I often go from the office to the back yard to the pasture to the paddock.  (Wee gate between yard and pasture, visible above; horse gate between pasture and paddock.)  If you watched Monday’s video, I’m standing at the yard gate when it starts, and at the horse gate when it ends.  It’s a lot more straightforward than it sounds.

Well, the horse gate is a pain in the ass.

No, really!  It is!

It has this horrible sticky bolt latch that has to fit into a rather small hole, and it does this with a big clang and clatter–and aside from the annoyance this is never, ever good for someone who fights migraines on a daily basis.

Horrible sticky gate latch in proper position. Cannot believe I paid money for this one!

So generally I don’t latch it.  The gate is on a slope, and it’s heavy–really heavy, I can assure you, as it took 3-4 people to move that panel–and it stays closed by itself.

A view from inside the paddock (well, through the corral panels, which is a bit tricky. And the lighting sucks. But darnit, you can see the latch!)

Except…

There’s those 3-4 times a year when the wind catches me by surprise and blows that gate open.  Uphill.  Have I mentioned that the wind gets pretty fierce around here?

Then, if I’m not quick enough, Duncan has some pasture time.  It’s not a huge issue except that unless I grab him close to the escape point, I have to clamber around Arroyo Minor to get him, and this is never good in the middle of the night, which is usually when this happens.  Also, it makes me wince for the land.

One of the reasons it rarely happens is that the wind usually bangs the gate a couple of times as the gusts build, and I hear this and trot out and latch it for real.  Also, the gate really doesn’t move that easily.  I go through it several times a day and I open it from horseback, and I can attest to this in spades.

Well, guess what.  The gate was also intensely squealy.

SO I LUBRICATED IT.

Suddenly the opportunity for escape seems to have increased considerably.

So on Sunday I laid tracks for the dogs, and Connery’s track wound through Arroyo Minor, starting near the big pasture-road gate on the north flat.  When I do this, I leave that gate open from the time I lay the track to the time Connery runs it.

So you see this coming, right?

Halfway through the track-aging process, I heard a  gentle “snortsnortsnort!”

DuncanHorse: I am out in the pasture and I like it!

My choices?

1) Run out to chase him down and wreck the half-aged training track.
2) Leave him out there to interfere with the track in his horsie way, and whip out the other side of the house at warp speed to close the open gate.

I chose option #2.

So Duncan moseyed around the pasture, tromping hither and yon, and then hung around the start of the track.  We pretended he wasn’t there and ran the track through Arroyo Minor, after which I removed Connery’s harness so he could do his own moseying while I convinced Duncan to return to Home Base.

Duncan knew where he was going and didn’t really want to go there.  Connery knew where Duncan was going, too.  So he put on his herding dog clothes and escorted Duncan there.  Not applying pressure as a herding dog would, but being present.   All business-like, trot trot trot, gently holding the outside of the curve.  And oh, his upright Beagle tail waved happily and his panting had a big grin in it.

ConneryBeagle: I was IMPORTANT.

Yes, Connery.  Yes you were.

And that was ConneryBeagle’s big Sunday adventure–tracking around the horse, and then being very important as he helped return the horse to his paddock.  Not much in the grand scheme of things, but it does so make me smile to see him that happy.

By the way, this is what the gate looks like now…

With Bells On!

(Have you closed all your gates?  Latched all your doors?  Turned off your iron…?  Mwah ha ha!!)

By Patty Wilber

So, as you probably know, I don’t have any cows.  Or pasture.  Or lease.

I didn’t ride up country first of the season when the snow drifts were too deep for motorized travel.

I didn’t  search for cows, through the gloaming, until the sky faded from orange to pale violet to blue black and the stars poked through.

I didn’t see any spectacular rainbows.

Brazos Box Ranch, near the cowboy cabin, 2010

On the way out last year without the cows. It was too wet. We had to go back the next weekend. Such a bummer. Not!

BUT I did get an elk tag on the Brazos Box ranch.

Antlerless.  (So I can shoot a cow–um cow elk–or a young bull.  Going for a cow.)

Got out the .30 06 (thirty ought six!) that was my Dad’s (with open sights).

Borrowed a  .270 (with a scope).

Bought a rubber thing that goes over the butt of the gun.  It is not called a Gun Butt Rubber.  It is called a Recoil Pad.  Much more civilized.

This makes shooting a lot easier on the ol’ clavicle than an uncovered gun butt. When you pull the trigger and your 180 grain high performance (deadly. accurate. says so on the box) bullet leaves the gun in a hurry, the force rams the butt into your shoulder. Recoil pad absorbs some of the shock.

I got a bruise anyway.  I’m kind of proud.

And I am not afraid of the recoil.  That’s good.  According to my Hunt Elk book: you want a gun that has enough power to do the job, but you don’t want to be unpleasantly anticipating the recoil.

I got the .30 06 sighted in with a little help from my spouse and I hit the X on the bulls eye at 100 yards with open sights. Boo ya! (Of course 100 yards would be close for a good shot at an elk…)

My friend, Seasoned Hunter:  Not Impressed.  But if I did it twice…or maybe at 200 yards, then we could talk.

Well, the second shot in that series hit one ring out of the bulls eye.  Pretty close. SH: still Not Impressed.

The .270 was already set up and it has a scope so it was easier, but then I tried shooting standing up.  Oh ho.

Dang.

Brace elbow on the sling. Bring up the barrel, exhale, squint through the scope.  Gun moves.  Need to breathe. Start over.

…ended up low and left, but still on the paper.

Adding in the adrenaline of looking at a live target could cause the accuracy to be further compromised.  I will use the gun with the scope, at least to start with.

I’ve almost got all my stuff together for the week-long trip. It’s a lot of stuff!

My stuff, gun stuff and HORSE stuff.

Yep.  Squirt gets to go.  Penny is elk-colored.  She is staying home!

Horses are often used by elk hunters to get into the back country, but we can drive in.  Squirt might get to push trespassing cattle off the ranch, but her real job (along with the old hands Alameda and Cinco), will be packing elk quarters out of the field, back to “headquarters.”

Alameda and Cinco are inseparable!

Leave Sunday!  Who Hoo!

P.S. Squirt also went to work cows in the arena in Belen twice this week and we had a lot of fun!  She was bright, light on her feet, and she really wanted to cow up!

Squirt: in case anyone forgot what she looks like! (She is cuter in person.)

 

by Doranna

Or, how I spent my summer vacation.

Or, since I didn’t have a summer vacation, how I spent my weekend.

We live in a rugged area of the Sandia Mountain foothills, in a bowl that’s surrounded by a distinct continuous crest.  You would think we’d have some protection from the wind and weather, but no.  We’re well protected from cell signals, though.

The central area of the bowl is fractured by a series of arroyos.  Our property backs up to one of these arroyos (with a minor swale in between; we call these Arroyo Major and Arroyo Minor).  In the back north corner, the property line slices through the second prong of Arroyo Major.  On the back south corner, where the arroyo sides are gentler, the property rises up on the other side to a small but pleasant flat.

Looking down into Arroyo Major. It's hard to see the true bottom from any given camera angle.

When it comes to property lines, there are certain unspoken–and spoken–rules.  One does not develop right up to the property line; even with fencing, there should be a buffer zone.  That’s a given.  In this community, the buffer zones are defined by CCRs that require buildings to be set back a certain amount, fences to be set back a certain amount…improvements to be set back a certain amount.  (Also, do not throw your garbage onto someone else’s property, even if you think they won’t see it.)

There’s a reason for all this.  For one, in this area we need to make sure we leave access zones in case of fire.  But it’s also to keep us out of each others’ faces.

Say, for instance, if the neighbor along the back property line has built a large outbuilding way too close to the property line, and then defined a gravel area that not only goes up to the line, but goes over it.

Dear Neighbor: When you take a leak behind that building, maybe your family can’t see you, but I can.

The outbuilding and the gravel area were established before we moved in.  We chose not to make a fuss.  The newly surveyed property stakes were in place, and that should have been enough to put Neighbor on notice.  And maybe Neighbor has no reason to wander the arroyos and therefore doesn’t expect me to be clambering around back there (tracking, hunting wildflowers, identifying birds), but I do.

So I noticed when a collection of rusty garden wire cages ended up over the line and on its way down into the arroyo.

VERY BAD FORM, NEIGHBOR!

I nudged the trash closer to the defined gravel area–still mostly over the line–and made a phone call to Sister, who also has an interest in this property.  “We need to re-stake the line with T-posts and bright yellow post caps.”  That, I thought, would make a statement without being too confrontational.

An undisputed (front north) corner of the yard. I track along this line with the dogs sometimes, and off into the arroyos.

If you want to feel middle-aged, clamber around steep arroyos while hauling T-posts and a post-pounder, ramming the posts into hard adobe ground.  That’ll humble you right quick.  (And for those of you who are aware of my injured foot…yes, I did this anyway–!)

The view down into Arroyo Minor--a continuation of the line in the corner photo.

So we did that thing, having our adventure.  Beautiful day, a bit of a breeze, the sun a little too hot, the junipers scenting the air, little birdies fluttering around…

Across Arroyo Major; the second corner post that finishes the line shown so far

Moving south along the point that divides two branches of Arroyo Major. Hellooo over there--!

Then we came to the wire trash–which, as it happens, had been shoved back over the line to some small degree.  We pondered it.  “If we put it back into his graveled area (which is right up to the line even where it’s not actually over), will that be too confrontational?”

And then I wanted to kick myself.  As well as kicking Neighbor.  Because someone tosses crap onto our property on top of pushing property improvements over the line, and yet it seems awkward to return it to him?

That’s the way it goes, it seems.  People who respect others are concerned about such things, and that means such trespasses become more than just looking for ways to remedy it.  It becomes a stress of conflicting responses–the offense of being trespassed upon, the stress of finding the right way to deal with it that feels non-confrontational even if Neighbor hardly showed the same concern.

Property lines are definitely your friend.  Especially if you PAY ATTENTION TO THEM and I’m talking to YOU, Neighbor!

(Oh, sorry…shouting.  Oops.)

Do you have Neighbors like this?  And how do you handle them if you do?

In this case, we carefully created the more obvious property line stakes…and then we piled the stuff back over the line, infringing on the defined gravel area as little as possible.  Anyone want to take bets on whether it stays put?

Sometimes the old ways are best.

A scythe doesn’t use gasoline.  It doesn’t rev motor engines through the quiet rural morning with the horse chomping hay in the background.  It doesn’t take extension cords or fussy line feed.

Of course, it will take your foot off at the ankle.  But that’s another matter.

Back when I was living on the point of Mullins Ridge (ie, the crotch of the John Flanagan Reservoir off the Russell Fork of the Big Sandy River), I spent a lot of time clearing land.  I was restoring pasture full of briars, sycamores, and dogwood, all precariously perched on the steep side of a ridge.  Half the time I used the gas-powered whacker with saw blade, and the other half I was out there grubbing by hand, fire rake, and–when someone gave me a hand-me-down–the scythe.

There’s a certain rhythm and precision to using a scythe…one does not just flail about at the foliage.  There’s a certain deft touch to sharpening the blades, and to not cutting your foot off.  (I never did!)  It’s a satisfying process all along the way.  And unlike electric and gas-powered weedwhackers, when you tromp out to put the scythe to the land, you feel like part of something.  It’s an interaction, not just an intrusion.

At least, it is for me.

Although if you haven’t used one for a while, the blisters are kind of a bummer.

Mine is obviously not an antiquey kind of scythe, regardless of the age on it–it’s lightweight and aluminum, and yes, I adore it.  But it still harkens back to some very old ways–ways I often like best.  And it still does a very fine job of taking down weeds, and proved it yesterday!  Have you got anything hanging around the house like that?

PS And because I’m posting this slightly late, here’s a bonus picture of VERY SILLY CONNERYBEAGLE doing what we call Extreme Pig Nose against the security screen of my office.  In a super bonus, he’s panting, which creates a whole new level of absurdity.

There are certain ingrained important reactions in life.

When you look at a baby or a puppy, you go awwwww.  When you look at plumber butt-crack, you go ewwww.

When there’s a bat swooping frantically through your hallway over your head, there’s nothing to do but shriek.

I suspect the bat was doing the same last night, in its ultrasonic way.

Bats and I go way back.  Seems like every now and then, it’s just time to get one out of the house.  Truth is, after my first encounter, the rest have been pretty tame.

That first encounter started one evening years before I sold JESS but while I was writing a first draft of SEER’S BLOOD (which sold several books after JESS, but sometimes that’s the way it goes).  I liked to write at night, then as now.  I had a brand-spanking-new Leading Edge computer and I was still using Leading Edge word processing software.  The lights were low, the then-dogs were asleep, the house was quiet…

And the bat skimmed over my shoulder from behind and landed on my keyboard.

There was more than shrieking.  There was LEVITATION.

That encounter ended when I snapped the bat out of the air with a towel, which sadly didn’t go well for the bat.  I went back to work.

The next night, a bat came swooping down the stairwell and flapped wildly over my head in the living room until, yes…I snapped it out of the air with a towel.  And I thought, “Uh-oh.”  Then I composed a little song about bats in the attic, bed bugs, and the blues, and went to bed.  (I still have it somewhere.  I promise to share if I find it.)

The next day…

And the next…

It would perhaps be pertinent to mention that I was living in the gorgeousness of deep Appalachia.  No longer in the log cabin in Eastern Kentucky, but instead living at the end of a Southwest Virgina ridge that I can pinpoint on a map to this day–close enough to Kentucky to see the line.  That old farmhouse was the first in the area to have electricity (the Dad came home from the mines one weekend with wires and said, “Here, boys!  Wire it up!” and they did).

It still had a spot for the outhouse, and the bathrooms were (1) built into the attic dormer with the piping on the outside, and (2) on the porch where until recent renovations, one went outside to go back inside to the bathroom.  The upstairs was originally finished more like a loft, and the closet stuck out from the bathroom in the dormer: a long, narrow section of sharply sloping ceiling–maybe 3.5 feet on one side, and 6 on the other, and just wide enough to put clothes along the very long rod and still have room to scootch by and take them off the hanger when you wanted.

The house had many other interesting features, but those are the important ones of the moment.  For as I discovered, a colony of bats had indeed taken up residence in the roof…which means they’d established themselves in the closet, going undiscovered because it was summer and we had barely-used cold weather clothing in there.

And there I was, and there they were.  In the closet.  In my clothes.  The long, narrow, cramped, crowded, hot, closet.  Don’t talk to me about exterminators…there was no money.  Also, there were no exterminators.

I got a walking stick.  I got a broom.  I got a fan.  I closed the door to the house and I poked the first shirt on the rod.  A bat flew out directly at me, I screamed, and I thwacked it with the broom.

Then I tried to identify it, because I am, after all, a naturalist.  Born that way, and trained that way.  But what did I know from bats?  It turns out that the Indiana bat (endangered) looks a whole lot like the Little Brown Bat (quite happily populated just about everywhere).  And the one way to tell them apart is…

The dentition.  In the skull.  Only visible if there isn’t actually any bat hanging around on the outside of the skull.

Well, it happens too that I had the beginnings of what is now a healthy skull collection. (Don’t ask me what’s sitting in a bucket in the garage maturing right now.  I’m not telling.)  So it wasn’t a big leap of thought to stick a bat head into a soup pot and commence the boiling.  Except…halfway through, I suddenly realized what I hadn’t considered, and so I called the nearest vet (who wasn’t near at all, but that’s another story, too.)

Me: Can you get rabies from a boiled bat’s skull?

Receptionist: *incomprehensible noise*

To spare you the rest of the conversation, the answer is No.  Too bad the Internet wasn’t around at that point; it would have known.

So back I went to my soup pot.  The bat, it turns out, was a Little Brown, AKA “The Doomed Bat.”  Thus I ended up back in the closet with gloves, stick, broom, and fan.  I poked the next shirt on the rod.  A bat flew out directly at me, I screamed, and I thwacked it with the broom. I removed that shirt, and poked the next shirt on the rod.  A bat flew out directly at me, I screamed, and I thwacked it with the broom.

This went on for quite a while.  Ahh, the reflexes of the young.

Then I disposed of the pile of corpses, did a hellacious amount of laundry, stuffed steel wool in all the closet cracks, and lurked on the roof at dusk so I could see where the bats were coming and going.  Eventually I got the holes plugged up, and there were no more bats swooping down into the house or pooping in my winter shoes.  The end of the first Bat Encounter.

Over the years, I dealt with a number of other bats.  In Flagstaff I even made a bat catcher out of a garbage bag and a big (big!) quilting hoop, although that little arrangement was dismantled for my move here to New Mexico. So last night’s singular bat incursion didn’t find me without a routine or resources.  (Duck, shriek, and throw a towel over the bat…)

Of course, I wanted to know what kind of bat it was.  I didn’t take any joy in thwapping all those bats all those years ago; bats are wonderful insect eaters and excellent neighbors (when outside the house).  And I had no intention of boiling any skulls this time around!  So I’m happy that he was a really identifiable little bat: the Pallid Bat.

Is he not adorable?

Does he not have the most awesome teeth?  The most stupendous ears? And to guess by that expression, an impressive vocabulary?

This is a ground-hunting bat who goes for crickets and scorpions–he’s even immune to scorpion sting.  And he has a thing or two to say about his predicament, that’s for sure.  He was happy to leave.

Bye-bye, Pallid Bat!

So be kind to your little mosquito and pest-eating friend when you can.  Most of them will find their way out if you can turn off lights and open the door.  Or if the bat isn’t flying, you can take a small container and place it over the bat, then .  Slide a stiff folder or thin cardboard underneath to secure the bat.  Carry the arrangement outside, remove the cardboard, and voila!  Bat is free!

Batventures.  Had any lately?

By Patty Wilber

I bought my very own pack saddle (thanks Jackie for bidding on it at the auction)!  It is a modified Decker.  The rigging is all nylon and it would be nice to re-rig with leather–maybe for Christmas–or– maybe not!

I used it two weeks ago on Tabooli. We packed in food and tools for a trail crew.  We did 14 miles round trip in one day and it went without a hitch–well–I used a box hitch, so, there was a HITCH. I guess I should have said,  “It went very smoothly!”

Decker pack saddle, box hitch, on T

I will miss all the rest of the July pack  trips:  This weekend is my last chance to tune up on cows  for the Appaloosa Nationals, so I am doing that. (T and my pack saddle are going on the pack trip this weekend though, with Kee and his horse Cookie.)

Buckshot is on his way to the Nationals!  Next weekend I will be  there too. The next weekend: A paint show.  The last weekend:  A stock horse show.  Geez maybe I should go get some range cows (well there is that LITTLE problem of a lease) so I have an excuse not to show!

Here are some different pack saddles used on our trip–

Decker. A Decker has D-shaped metal irons on top and these were modified with small, after-market pins welded to it. Deckers were designed for mantied loads (loads wrapped in canvas tarps--called manties--and hung from the D's). The added pins help keep the pannier bags from slipping off the D's.

Modifed Decker. The D shaped irons have been modified so that instead of being D shaped, they are squished in on the sides, making a kind of dog ear that helps hold the panniers. I add a bungee cord down the middle to catch the panniers if they do come off. (But of course my excellent box hitch holds everything in place...!)

Phillips Pack saddle. The irons are D shaped and have large-ish horizontal pins to hold the panniers. Tools are not a heavy load--but they are awkward.

Saw Buck. No irons but instead the wooden X-like structure, over which the pannier loops fit.

Trail-Max Pack a Saddle. This system fits over a standard western saddle.

Here are a couple trip shots.  I did not get too many action pics because riding one horse and leading another doesn’t leave any free hands for the camera.

Amber with her string of two and Richard with one. When two or more pack animals are tagged together, there has to be a weak spot in the tag in case one animal freaks out. The break away string will (...should) break. This usually makes for a smaller wreck than if one freaks out and takes the whole string with them!

When I was 18 I worked at K-Arrow Ranch for the summer.  It was a horse camp.  I was a decent hand with a horse and a lot of people assumed I knew a BUNCH more than what I did.  So, one evening I was told I needed to get seven horses and saddles down to the lake, about three miles away.  I saddled up all seven, and having NO idea how to create my string, I tied them head to stirrup.  This resulted in them being fanned out to the side because they could not get head to tail. Fortunately, I was riding down a dirt road, so there was room…

These were gentle dude horses, but I didn’t quite get the optimal order of go and I had a balker.  Being as I had no break away string, I ended up tearing off a stirrup…

Other than that, it was a beautiful ride, on a warm summer’s night on a ranch in Northern California.

Oh there was this one other part–a rapist has just escaped–really!–from a prison across the lake.  But hey I was 18–invincible!

They caught him on the ranch and I saw him in the back seat of the cop car that passed me coming up from the lake!

More scenery:

See Penny's ear?

It started raining. I guess Penny figured the tree was good protection! See my saddle saw? Cool, huh? That saddle is on its way to Tulsa for the Nationals!

Me and Lisa. You can't even tell I am holding the camera out there in front of us to take this shot!

So, next week, IF I get a blog together before I go, I won’t be able to send out the regular email so you’ll have to go to the web page itself, or subscribe!

Have a nice week!

These. They're clicking.

I’m supposed to be writing.

I’m supposed to be finishing a book.

But the trees are clicking.

Kodiak Chained:  I am due TOMORROW.

Clicking Trees: Figure me out!   You know you want to!

Internets: I know it seems obvious that searching for “clicking junipers” should come up with the reason that the trees are suddenly clicking, but…good luck with that.  I’m busy with trendier things.  Did you know Courtney Stodden made a video in which she pretends to be a cat?

Me: No, and I did not want to know.  Come on, now.  Clicking Junipers in New Mexico.  How often does that happen?

Kodiak Chained:  TOMORROW, do you hear me?

Clicking Trees: Get your nose out of my branches.  How rude!  There’s no reason you have to see my–

Cicadas: WE ARE HERE!   But have fun identifying us.

Internets: LA LA LA LA

Me: Quit wiggling, cicada!  That tickles!

Sandia Mountain GuideBook:  See this lovely cicada photo?  It’s not the one you want.  There are some cicadas in the Sandias that sit in junipers and click, but I’m not going to show you those.

Internets: LA LA LA *evil chuckle* LA!

Kodiak Chained: Are you NOT LISTENING?  TOMORROW!

Southwestern Guidebook: We-ell, there are things called desert cicadas and they look a little like yours but aren’t found in the same place.

Internets: Desert cicadas?  Well, damn.  Let me cough up something moderately useful, like a family name.  You’re on your own for species, though.

Me: Platypedia!

Platypedia: Will you let me out of this glass now?  You’re not going to get any closer than that.  Deal with it.

Kodiak Chained: GET OVER HERE YOUNG LADY AND MAKE THIS HAPPEN!

Platypedia Body Double for Our Cicadas.

My head is a scary place sometimes.  But honestly.  The trees are clicking–!

(Are YOUR trees clicking, too?)

I spent my first [cough] years east of the Mississippi, bopping around between Western NY, Western PA, Ohio, Kentucky, Virgina…  Anyway, I saw plenty of skies over plenty of terrain.  And of course I had heard of those big Western skies, but y’know, I figured the Earth and sky are the same size wherever you go.

I was wrong.

Stunningly wrong.

I can’t explain it, but ha!  I don’t have to.  I just know it hit me in the face when I first stepped off the plane, and it kept me boggling for quite some time.  “It makes no sense!”

I’ve given up figuring it out.  Now I just take pictures of it.  Whenever I can.

One evening in New Mexico…

By Patty Wilber

It snowed (a lot more than predicted) on Wednesday 2/15, but I had the truck and trailer pulled up near the road. By Friday 2/17, things had melted quite a bit, so  figured I’d have little trouble driving onto the road so I could load JD and head south to Elephant Butte Reservoir with JD’s mom, Marcia, and his “Uncle” Junior.

WRONG.

Got about 20 feet and the back wheels started spinning, sending snow and gravel spraying out.  I backed up some and started again, only to have the truck’s back end drift sideways.  Backed up a little again, but by now I was running out of real estate.

But I HAD to get out.  JD and I had plans! …Panicked.

Called a neighbor. Not home

Called a friend. Yes. Yes.  Be there in a while.

Oh good.  Am rescued. Brain fog cleared.  Thinking recommenced.  Gee, I had a shovel!  Gee, maybe I can clear a little ice using said shovel.  Huh.  Amazing how well that works.

Started up the truck and…drove out on to the road.

Five feet of clearing, on left most track, about 1/2 way up picture was all I needed. Doh.

Called friend back.  Apologized for being such a GIRL. Thanks for having my back!

Loaded JD and headed South to Peralta, for the Trailer Switch.

Save Gas! Trailer pool!

Snowy, but warm enough at my house, GORGEOUS in Peralta, drove south to Elephant Butte where it was…raining.

Maybe we should have stayed in Peralta...

Decided we would ride anyway.

"do u think u could maybe just let me back in the trailer and go for a ride without me?" says Junior.

Sorry Junior! Not raining that hard.

We rode a 4 mile loop, over sand and gravel substrate. The footing was soft but not muddy. The rain spiffed up the rocks so the reds and greens and whites stood out.  I was tempted to get off and check a few of those rocks out, but stayed mounted!

We did get wet and when we were done, I could not unbuckle the chinstrap on the bridle for a while because my fingers stopped listening to my brain and were complaining instead about being cold! (Left all my rain gear at home. Forgot all my back Country Training, maybe near the point where I failed to recall how to use a shovel.)

So, it rained a little. Had fun any how!

Rain Shmain! Didn't ruin our day!

The spare xeriscape in this part of New Mexico is very different than my mountain home! Creosote and mesquite dominate.

This picture is from 2/18 when it was not raining. The greenish plants are creosote and the grayer are mesquite that are winter dormant. There was a fair amount of Mormon tea, prickly pear and in some places Apache plume.

Saturday dawned clear, with a weird fog bank south on the flanks of Turtleback Mountain.

Marcia wants to know, "Did Stephen King dream up this fog?"

Snow in the distance to the west.

Snow in the West.

There is something about this wide open country that can make you feel like you might blow off the landscape (says Marcia).  At first this seems too much, but once you are used to it, anything less seems suffocating.

Creosote bush

I’d been to Elephant Butte Reservoir for a triathlon, and while Jim was competing, I was thinking about how much fun I might have with a horse down there.  So, this was the perfect opportunity!

Junior says, "u know u'r going in the lake, right?" JD says, "uh? what? am not."

JD did better and better with ditches, bushwhacking and just all the general newness, but when we got to the lake, and I  wanted him to approach the water, he would not! It was MOVING (waves about three inches tall…)

After a few unsuccessful asks, decided to get off and lead him.  Since I was going first, and I would clearly be eaten first, thus satisfying the Lake Monster, JD had no problem coming along.

Pretty soon he was in the water.

"told u so", says Junior.

"not so bad!", says JD. I was happy with how quickly he agreed to go in, too!

Finished the ride, JD had good roll,

rolling...

rolling all the way over (unusual for a such a big horse). Of course he hit the feed bucket and scared himself... but not too much!

got a drink

Drinking unfamiliar water (water from different sources, tastes different you know), is a great trait for horse to have, especially if you want to take the horse on outings. JD is a drinker!

then we packed, loaded and drove back North!

What a cool mini vacation!