Hello…. Remember Moi?

I am astounded to check my official blog stats and see that anyone has paid any attention to me at all. I have been Author in Absentia for so long that I feel I must practically, or impractically so, start all over again. Last post on the Ides of March? Positively scandalous. It does little or no good at all to plead Facebook Insanity, and sounds patently pathetic to say that it’s just easy to post news flashes there, when there are, of course, those of you out in the hinterlands who have been waiting for months to have a crumb tossed your way, (or maybe not), and you have nothing to do with Facebook. That may be totally to your credit, I might add.

But while traveling about for March and well into April, followed by two intense art shows in different locales, it has been “easier” to toss some pithy updates – with a few pictures, too – out to the FB ethers and keep those folks abreast of the current developments. Not that you’re waiting with baited breath or anything. And what in holy hell does THAT mean anyway?

So…. with several weeks in a row at the home front now available to me, I pledge to update dang near every aspect of my life, royal or not. Well, almost everything. There are tales to tell, adventures aplenty, and new wrinkles (the good kind) on my horizon. And here then, my pledge to BE BACK SOON, with details. This feels a bit like the old days in college when I would sheepishly creep and crawl back into the classroom after cutting class for entirely too long. Time to Queen Up, and face the music. And the good thing? There is indeed music involved, or will be. Tantalizing tidbit Number 1.

Why, I’m even going to get all Responsible and post a quote for May, even though it has only a couple of days to be seen. But it IS still May, so there. Queenie is picking up her scepter and swishing her royal cape, and assuming her duties. Watch out y’all. Words a-comin’!

And speaking of music, and just so’s you can have a bit of a thrill, and thanks to camera work by Malomama pal Shirley, here’s proof of recent good times…

The girls with newly reunited Mavericks lead guitarist and vocalist Eddie Perez.  Eat your heart out ladies.

And oh yes, that Raul fellow was there, too.

Dang, should’ve worn my hat! Absolutely fabulous concert. Y’all go see the Mavericks if you want your socks found in another county.

May I say that life is just pretty swell?

Peace, y’all. And good times.

 

Lessons Learned and Plans Aplenty

To begin this current edition, I offer you handy dandy words to the wise, or to the unwise who need to get a clue:

1. Never use masking tape to tape off your borders/edges on a painting job.
2. Never start a big job on a fit of pique (or anything else) if you’re not going to finish it in a timely fashion.
3. As a correlating, redundant exclamation point to 1 and 2, don’t wait two and a half years to finish up your fit of pique painting job without expecting to have severe consequences in dealing with the masking tape… which was the wrong way to do it in the first place.

Goodness, there’s all sorts of lessons here – all to be applied within the all too real parable of a painting job gone awry. I had first thought I should be including this in my “other” blog – that of The Last Stand at the Slippery Slope Ranch – which is concerning itself these days with the numerous attempts of bringing the place up to speed with various and sundry projects both huge and nick picky – but so many of the current Aha Moments seem to be more to do with Queenie’s previous leanings toward telling her audience the hows and ways of THINGS…..that I felt I should include all this in the more pontificative vein of my publications.

And so, here we are. While I am pittering and puttering away at all the projects of home improvement while the art world awaits my next move, I am reaping the dubious benefits of additional time and stress and gnashed teeth because I didn’t do something right so many months ago. Of course I defended myself at the time, rationalizing (usually a dangerous thing) that I was awash in such a veritable flurry of righteous indignation and emotion fueled activity that I blithely entertained any notion that my acknowledged acceptance of doing it the wrong way wouldn’t get me in the end. I KNOW you’re not supposed to use masking tape to protect your trim and windows and edges when tackling a texturizing and paint job. BUT, (and there’s always a “but” when you’re defending bad behavior, isn’t there?), I was in such a ball of whirlwind activity further fed by an “I’ll Show Them” (or whatever) flavored vehemence that I figured I’d have this job finished in a week or so and the punishment of masking tape gone bad would have absolutely no bearing on my existence. May I now point out that said sword waving and the initiation of that job was indeed two and a half years ago, and the masking tape has long since made its stand for permanence in its current location, despite the fact that I have about finished the actual painting started in such a fit those years ago, and now I am in the throes of rectifying a good plan gone a bit awry. And it is, indeed, my bad. Fie.

So… off to the fix-it store, (usually Home Depot, or Home Despot as we generally refer to it in these parts), to find Goo Be Gone or whatever miracle product must surely have been made for dolts such as I. I’ll try to steer clear of the plant department which lures me like the sirens’ call as the sailors to the rocks, but maybe I will check out the possibilities of gutters and rainwater collection systems to attach to the new storage shed, which would at least provide nourishing, non-chlorinated water to the garden area. The projects, and possibilities, are endless.

However, it occurred to me that I could use my pitiful example here of Make Work Situations when such head banging experiences could have been avoided as a long overdue opportunity to pontificate. Truth be known, when I started that kitchen project going on three summers ago, it was a project simmering in gestational limbo and already on the list, but I charged into it with vim, vigor and not a small amount of vitriol. I was mad, likely in several definitions of that little three letter word. The object of my long inconvenient and little nurtured affections was then finally out of my life, and while it would do little good to wallow in it, it was much more the preferred method of getting over and on with it by tackling something positive. Past almost aggressive physical undertakings fueled by insults to the heart have included trimming and burning the shorn parts of very large cedar trees in one afternoon, and still I enjoy the results of those rampages. Good exercise, too.

But my little exercise of Good Works Gone Bad was mostly born of being just plain mad, (even if greatly at my own self), and the short cuts I took to just get to the job right then, right now, no matter what are the detriments, won the argument of going to the store to get the proper supplies versus just painting the damned thing when I was in the mood. Payback, as has been so well quoted before, is a bitch. Masking tape does not surrender easily. And I think it laughs out loud. Why, it veritably mocks.  But I’ll get it, I will.

Meantime, the glorious color is applied, and finished, except for a few touchups. I mean, don’t these walls just scream “GOOD MORNING!”

 

There are, with any endeavors of this sort, many flies that appear in the ointment… like the fact that now the counters are too worn out to share space with the walls. Likewise the cabinets. And the floors. The road goes on forever and the upgrade never ends. I don’t know who will win, in the end, but I suppose I’ll be waging battle against the spawn of entropy and general wear and tear for as long as I breathe, at least while I am in this house and on this acreage. Dragons abound and await both within and without, and there is always the cedar, dead or alive.

For those who might not have seen a social posting on the progress of the new shed, I supply one herewith.  Alas, it is entirely pitiful to say that not another paint lick of progress has transpired since this point, and what can I say besides March is indeed a busy month, my birthday celebration month, and sometimes that celebrating gets in the way of putter progress.

 

Glorious moments were had for a girlfriend gathering out near the little town of Rosanky, at the quaint and charming Arts Cottage at the Rock-C Ranch, http://www.cottageofthearts.com/. We were royally entertained by the likes of Bobby Bridger, accompanied by master guitarist John Inmon, in the performance of Lakota, the last of the epic narrative/musical performance trilogy of Bobby’s Ballad of the West.

 

 

I urge you without reservation to take advantage of any opportunity that has Bobby Bridger in the sentence. You will not be disappointed, and will likely be in awe, wonder, respect, and if you’re akin to my sensibilities, in tears. Just go. (Plans are afoot to make this happen in the mountains in Ruidoso this summer – stay tuned.)

Several birthdays are happening this month – Power to Pisces! – (especially those from the Pleiades) – and what fabulous creatures we are. Multiple gatherings and lunches with friends are in the works, and it will be topped off by yet another Road Trip of Large-ish proportion towards the end of the month. My new pal Liz and I are off in but days to meet up with TheQueen in the wilds of California, headed for Death Valley. Now Queenie here finds herself hoisted upon her own stickey wicket, for here comes another Royal Road trip to be documented, and has she even completed the tale of the last one back in the summer, so long ago? You know the answer to that one. Fie again. I’m not sure how that will be reconciled in the long term, but you can count on missives from the road for the upcoming adventure. Those two fabulous words are again on the wind: ROAD TRIP! Get this…..  We plan to reunite in the strange (as I understand it) little burg of Baker on April Fools Day at the Mad Greek Cafe. And if that’s not perfect, I don’t know what is. Stay tuned for reports on that, too.

All that said, I suppose that’s enough for a long overdue edition. Pace yourself, royal subjects. Heed my bad example as I’ve already done the experience for you on doing, or more to the point NOT doing the WRONG thing, more especially when you know it’s wrong. And then join in the anticipation and excitement as we ready for another adventure on the blue roads.

Death Valley or Bust, y’all.  (And don’t you just know Utah is between here and there, and crazy little funky motels with hot springs in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, long on my list.) May I say Yee, immediately followed by HAW!

You Gotta Have Balls

I was pondering this very day – whilst in the middle of a new or should I say renewed exercise venture – about the preponderance of balls in so many aspects of our lives these days. There are the obvious, of course: football, baseball, basketball, billiard balls, golf balls, bowling balls, pool balls, (are billiard balls and pool balls the same thing?), beach balls, cricket balls, croquet balls and the like. And then it goes on to meatballs, balls of twine, balls of fire, sour balls, brass balls, blue balls…. I’m sure I’ve left out many. All this came to mind as I was taking a break from whatever it is I’m doing or not doing, and decided to spend a bit of time communing with whatever was going on in or about the south acre. I took my camera with me so I would have it at hand in case brilliance or opportunity struck.

While puttering around in the Potting Shed, my eyes spied my old bat and newer,  somewhere found softball, and suddenly what I was struck with was an idea.  I’m in dire need of exercise, and I could easily pick up my old buddies and whack a few around the property. I’m not too bad at it, and it’s not nearly as overtaxing as taking some five mile hike when in reality I need to work up to some shorter distances.

I took the first establishment shot of my “equipment,” and then headed under the fence to the Back 40, a very small trespass, (and now I more or less have permission to be back there, unless it should go to court, probably), and proceeded to have a go at the old pitch and wham. I have no idea how old my bat is, but I’m sure it must harken to junior high or more likely elementary school, which would put it in the semi dark ages. Back then, (insert geezer voice), we didn’t have middle schools, or whatever they are now. What was wrong with Junior High? But I digress.

For those who have fallen a bit off the fitness wagon, the Pitch-Whack-Walk and Retrieve Method of Baseball for One can be an admirable approach to re-entering the fitness arena – a stepping stone for more concentrated efforts down the road. First there’s the hand/eye coordination requirement – always good for most any tasks requiring balance and connection. You’ve got to be able to pitch your own ball, (that would be throwing it more or less straight up), and then connect with it and send it soaring into the hinterlands of sky before it falls back to the earth below. Most of the time, I actually hit it, and sometimes it’s a good whack. I never much liked football, but if I’m watching those pro sports at all, I’d choose baseball. Or maybe golf, because it’s generally located in pretty, green places. (Don’t get me started on golf, however.) Perhaps I come to any talent at all in Softball World due to a natural predilection to it via the Queen Mum’s association with it in her youth. She was the star, the pitcher, and pretty damned good, as I gather. Other stories of how I came to be a hitter – in Cedar Chopper World, (before I really knew of such, but was living on the fringe of that existence in Dallas as a child) – beg at least two glasses of wine or a Mexican Martooni for revelation.

I just thought I’d insert here a little about the preponderance of ball games in the dawn of history. Particularly ingrained in my mind, especially as a Southwestern Archeology and Anthropology major in college, are the many ball courts down in Central America, where this ball game thing was quite the thing. In fact, if you won, which was indeed the purpose, your great gift and reward, (for which you played your heart out), was to be the headline attraction on the sacrificial altar. And this was an honor. So you see when I made mention of playing your heart out, it was true, for having your heart cut out and presented to the wonderful, appreciative gods in the heavens, or wherever, was de rigueur. Now we do much the same in our vast arenas of super bowls of this and that, served with more bowls of Velveeta and Rotel, where we celebrate the moving of the ball from one end to another, and have been known to beat up fans of the opposing teams in the parking lots. I can’t say as we’ve evolved very much. Oh dear, it seems I have digressed once again.

So, back to South Acre One Woman Ball….Think about it. First the pitch, and then comes either the miss or the whack. Even the miss requires an intention to bend to the ground to pick up the ball, and then back up. Or even better, the hit entails a walk of indeterminate distance to retrieve said ball for another round. And then another, and another. And before long, you’ve done a good bit of pitching, swinging, whacking and walking. And the better it’s done, the further you walk. Why, it’s a regular irregular workout, and the amount of pain relievers I needed to administer before dinner confirms that I did move things around more than has been usual of late.

However, I must consider that the Dillo Art Marathon more than broke the ice for physical activity. There’s not a small amount of physical heaving and ho-ing  to get things done, but it comes in large spurts, and the last one is a lulu. It seemed I was some source of amazement to the stage crew guys, (one in particular, bless him), who watched in awe (or who knows what) and helped as they could as I lifted and loaded and shoved and wangled the heavy art boxes back into Arty during breakdown efforts. More every year, the doing of it all and the actual end of the show leave me in a hapless mass of Tired, and I tend to lie around near worthless for a week. I now appear to be making positive movements – I even worked on orders today – and after “work” I rewarded myself with time outside. It’s been a very pleasant and unseasonably warm stretch of days, (like what else is new?), and the thought of being outside sounds better than most anything. There’s also rumor of a cold, wet front headed our way, so better soak in that sun and fresh air while the gettin’ is good.

I hit more than a few, closer to “almost many” balls around in the Back 40, and then started wondering about recording the event. I may have had my camera, but this definitely required tripod work. I certainly appreciate a tripod, but it is pretty well known that I like to shoot fairly fast and from the hip in my photography, (likely frowned upon greatly by the greats), and I resort to a tripod only when necessary. Sometimes it’s just necessary, and isn’t that true of so many things in Life? A platitude, if you will.

I gathered it would be even a bit fun to see what results I could actually get with setting up a tripod and then a time delay on the shutter, and it wasn’t that hard to get set up. I did, however, move my project into the South Acre rather than cart everything back and forth under the fence. And I was already losing the light.

It took many shots, (and hits, and misses), to test out the distance, focus, amount of time to hustle back to the batting cage and pitch and hit the ball before the shot fired…you know, technical stuff. So still, more exercise! And indeed, it was fun.

And here’s the sequence, just because it’s all so silly, and as said, that fun thing.

 

The Set Up

How’d that get down there?

There goes one.

Ready for another.

Watching it go….

And again.

Get it!

Going for it.

Bam!

Following through.

Full Swing! Blam!

Get under it!

Kablooey. Thar’ she goes… Home Run!

 

So, all it took was a few balls. Or maybe it felt like a lot of them, plus a little action. Balls and Action, is that my new mantra? Perhaps the Balls are the inspiration, and the Action is just that. And if I live through it all, Spring will find me looking and feeling pretty good. I’m coming off the most sluggish period in the last few years – something that started with breaking both my elbows, and removing the option of swimming the summer before last; then the barring of walking on the Back 40; then the drought and heat and no lake and STILL no swimming; and whatever it was that was impeding my intentions, or just the general lack of them. Funny, both Sandy and I gained the same amount of weight, both of us being denied our usual exercise options. I feel like I’ve been running (insanely in place, yet not) since last July, but so much of it was stressful and barely productive, and harder than it needed to be. And still and all, it’s just Life. Everybody has one – until we don’t anymore. Either by choice or by chance.

It takes balls to do anything majorly. As for being an artist, it takes balls, (or ovaries, call them what you will), to make a statement of who you are and then hang it up there on a wall and hope you’ve touched someone enough so they’ll have to have the danged thing. It’s a heady thing to get paid for your passion, but sometimes, ofttimes, it’s not always so easy.

It takes balls to love someone. Unless it doesn’t. Love, like everything else, is an option. It really isn’t an option, when it comes to nourishing the human soul, but some people seem to live as such. There’s lots of big talk about it, lots of hype, but when it comes down to it, some are blessed with the ability (or the courage) to embrace the whole notion, and some choke when they come up to the plate. Their loss. And some others.

It takes balls to do the right thing. Unless you just do it. I am astounded and saddened by the state of this country, when the problem seems to be too damn many sets of balls run amok, or a supreme lack of them when it comes to those who have the opportunity to Do The Right Thing, and choose otherwise. Too many or not enough. Familiar story.

“Balls.” It is, I believe, a British expletive of sort, and it is short and succinct. Says it all, totally and completely. I need to remember to say it more than some of the other less than stellar epithets that escape my lips. Plus, it’s just one that doesn’t get heard every day, and using it would certainly set you apart from the masses. I suppose if you wanted to go all-in British, as far as you could take it, you’d be saying “Bloody Balls!” but I fear I’ve lost the audience (if not myself) with the word picture and will take my own self in hand and call it a day.

If pressed, there are surely more balls to throw in the air, but it is too late now, and I must away. I encourage you all to seek your own balls, or whatever, as you look for inspiration in the tasks before you.

Batter up, Y’all. Balls to the wall. Or just have a Harvey Ballwanger, uh… Wallbanger.  Never mind.

DilloDaze Once Again

It’s here. It’s that time of year. It’s my big art show. It’s hard to conceive how immense is the Get Ready for a show of this size and duration, both by the artists and the producers of this marathon undertaking. Days and weeks and sometimes months of preparation come together and there almost seems to be a Big Bang of Creation, and suddenly, (though not easily), there appears a complete city of art and music sprung to life almost overnight. An empty hall is transformed into myriad sights and sounds, and then come the people. All of us hope “then come the people,” for if they don’t, we have to take all of this wonder back home. We like it when we don’t have so much to load back out and wait for the next build up and unveiling. Sales are happy events. Rather necessary ones, lest we have to consider life in the Real World, where we just don’t fit very well.

Here’s what my digs look like this year.

 

Last year I chronicled the actual construction of my booth, so another round of that is unnecessary. However, change has once again reared its head, and I suppose it’s not a bad thing. Gone are my massive wooden walls, a spectacle to behold, but cumbersome to contend with, so they have been relegated to a new life of wondering what their next life will be. They lie now under a big blue tarp next to the driveway and hope that no one tells any termites of their presence. Meantime my usual travel walls have traveled down to the venue here, and now they are filled with art — old favorites, new work, and dreams of paying off credit cards with an exchange of beauty for legal tender. We shall see.

Here’s what I consider to be my “show stopper,” except that it’s usually that horse. It was all I could do not to put my horse right there in star position, but I thought I’d give something else a chance at stardom. This time, my favorite Eve’s Garden image, on canvas, in a killer Old World frame. Again, we shall see.

 

Another new favorite image is also from Eve’s Garden – an abstract which is sort of Georgia O’Keeffe-ish. Will anyone else be so smitten? We shall see.

 

I have new neighbors all around. Across from me are very kind folks that come with a lot of color and a Service Dog named Twinkie. I’m told that moniker happened because she’s all toasty colored on the outside and creamy on the inside, and so there you are. Mitch and I exchange picture taking duties, and Twinkie looks faithfully on.

 

My hours here are spent with this view. Lots of color.

 

I look forward every year to seeing some favorite artist friends. This is one of them. Meet Greg Delaney, who commutes every year from Seattle. I suppose I like him so much because he has a semi-demented mind somewhat akin to my own, all reflected in his whimsical work. He’s also gorgeous, and wonderfully entertaining. (Oh sure, just like me, again.)

 

OK, the Greg glamour shot.

 

Perhaps I’ll have more time for reports from the Dillo. I’d like to think not, but perhaps there will be lulls. The aisles are empty as shown here, but getting more crowded every day. Come on down to see us at Armadillo Christmas Bazaar. We’d love to see you. Will you make it? We shall see.

Happy Shopping, Y’all.

Alpine Art Adventure

Well now. I do so dislike starting off my missives with such negatories as those lame sounding apologies for being MIA for such an extended length of time. As I posted this I saw that my last monthly pearl of wisdom was way back in September. Some punctual pontificator I claim to be. You’d think I could at least come up with a pithy monthly Queenie Quote. Looks like October and November were shut outs in that department.

At any rate, it’s nigh on to December, and I have to put tales of the RRT on hold for a while, and get back to what has been happening of late, lest all of it get away. It’s been a hectic couple of months, zooming back and forth to New Mexico in October, (again to New Mexico!), and now I’m just back from West Texas for yet another art expedition of the Making a Living variety, although both were attempts to be such. New Mexico was a head banging experience, with much ado given and taken, and what a relief to be back home from that one. There I was just one Western Hat adrift in a sea of them, and the attendees were much more interested in said hats and saddles and boots and tack and jewelry and clothing and live music than fine art photography, but I did manage to make at least a niggling of a profit when all was said and done. New Mexico was a rough ride this year for art shows, for all sorts of reasons. Arty (my trusty steed of a van) had a couple of collapses on the road in July, and the October show just wasn’t my venue. Other than that……..

But Alpine, in West Texas….. Ah, that felt better. And it was better. So before the Christmas season and big show is upon me, here’s a little rundown of adventures in West Texas, and a swell time had by all.

I headed off in the Westerly direction the week before Thanksgiving with my artist pal Kathleen, who had volunteered to be my roadie this time – I suppose since she’s been wanting to see that part of the country for a while, and the fact that she “owed me one,” seeing that I served as her mule a few years ago when she did a show in the far reaches of the panhandle, almost in Oklahoma. Too bad I wasn’t blogging back then – that was a story! But again to now – two artist buddies, off on an art adventure… a sure recipe for fun – even the work part.

I’ve been showing the past two years at the historic Holland Hotel in Alpine during the biggest weekend of the year, ArtWalk, in which the entire town goes ape for art, and the whole of Holland Avenue becomes one long art gallery and walkable party. For the longest time I didn’t know which end was up for this year’s event, at least as far as the hotel was concerned, since my emails, letters and phone calls to the owner went unanswered. Imagine my surprise when I found out he was long gone and history himself, and the hotel had been sold to new interests – from Connecticut! Who knew? The gal who ramrods the whole affair was kind enough to go to bat for me with the new owners, and for another year, I was in! I love the Holland with its old hotel feel, and room enough for me to present a good show. Game on.

Wednesday was travel day, Thursday was set up day, and Friday we opened for business. Most of the day was spent with friends and getting to know the hotel staff since the tourist types and art lovers don’t generally show up until Saturday. I’m glad we had so many people to talk to who were on the friends list, for at the end of a 12 hour day, my sum total of sales was $60. Well, there’s a cold dose of reality for you, but I was glad to see my many friends from the area who were up from the park, and Terlingua, and many points in between. Bless those friends!

Here we are commanding the room, all dressed Western and sporting our best jewels, ready for the rush. Thanks to my friend Ara for the picture, who has the most adventuresome life I know. Check out his website at www.theoasisofmysoul.com. You’ll be amazed.

 

And, of course, there was art. At one side are a few of my new rust images from that wonderful lot full of old cars in Colorado this summer. Nice to know that running away from home pays off photographically. More on that later…..

 

 

View from the lobby into the Art Room. That horse still draws them in, and speaks to many.

 

And some of my abstracts from the Grand Canyon, and an arch from Eve’s Garden. More about that to come, too.

 

Saturday dawned another day, and when Kathleen and I showed up early to do some tweaking and take advantage of breakfast offered to us by the hotel, we found people wandering around in the room long before we were to open. And happy to say, we sold more before we officially “opened” at 10 o’clock than all the day before, and then some. It was the start of a fantastic day that just kept getting better.

One of the highlights of ArtWalk is the Art Car Parade, a gathering of both locals and traveling misfits who come together to spread joy and just plain fun with their various creations and concoctions of whimsey and wonder. There’s not so much to be described as just enjoyed, and here are a few of the participants.

 

These fantastical bikes are from the Austin Bike Zoo. Looks like fun to me.

 

Girl power!

 

Mouse power!

 

Dragon power, with fire!

 

These folks were here in support of the Wild Burro Protection League. If you haven’t heard, they’re shooting the wild burros in the Big Bend. Supposedly they are impacting the habitat of the Bighorn Sheep in the area. Well, can’t have that, if it should happen to impact the hunters who are going out to kill the Bighorns. (Sarcasm intended.) Can you imagine putting one of these adorable creatures in your sights and pulling the trigger? Wish I could take all of them and put them in the Back 40…. where I suppose they would impact the habitat of the developers therein. Sometimes you just can’t win. A banner on one of the burros said “Peace on Earth.” Sigh…. I wish.

 

Of course there has to be a dog…

 

And speaking of dogs, there were several visitors in the Art Room. One of the most photogenic was a Borzoi. Since I am a Collie lover, I am quite partial to long noses. It’s always nice to have a fur fix when you’ve left your babies at home. Look at those eyes.

 

As the day progressed, sales continued, and then when evening rolled around the serious partying commenced. Now of course I had to stay on point and tend to customers, but things were afoot in the courtyard as the new owners and staff were unwinding with wine and munchies. Kathleen was invited to sit in when she went out for a break, and then things began to get interesting.

Before the evening was over, we found out that we’d been very well received at the hotel – they were more than pleased with what we’d presented, and both of us would be invited back next year. (Kathleen had smartly brought her portfolio with her, hoping to make some inroads into the art scene in West Texas), and even more would be revealed the next morning when we came back to break down the show.

By the way, here is Kathleen’s website, and a sample of her work, which is Pyrography: www.kathleenmariestudio.com

 

Meantime, fun was still breaking out here and there in the hotel. Uncle Sam paid us a visit…

 

And so did Sassy the Clown, sans makeup and outfit, awarding me a special gift. I’m thinking this is what I must’ve looked like after all that Patron at MaloCon. I know, I haven’t said much or anything about MaloCon yet, and those stories may have to remain classified.

 

We got back to our home base late, and couldn’t stop talking about the tremendous turn the day had taken. Before it was over I’d had the best sales ever at ArtWalk, and there would be more to come in the morning.

On Sunday we went back to the Holland to take it all down, but we had more to discuss with the owners and management. Turns out  the Holland will likely use some of my images on their website, and hang several of the photographs in their rooms, and handle sales as a gallery of sorts for me. I left several of my pieces with them, (they loved my rust images!), to display. (Wow.) They had also bought the upscale sister motel down at the other end of town, and it seems both Kathleen’s and my Western themed art will fit in there, too. There’s talk of a gallery type opening for the both of us sometime around Spring Break, though that’s still in the talking stage. Maybe, just maybe, images might end up in their Connecticut hotels, too. We’ll see how it all shakes out, but it feels mighty good, and something I’ve been working and hoping for in these last two years. Perhaps it’s all coming together. Have I said how much I love West Texas?

We said all our goodbyes, then I took Kathleen on a quick tour of town, and then we loaded up our personal belongings and headed out to the next part of our adventure. But before we got out of Alpine we stopped in at the Maverick Inn, the other motel now owned by the Connecticut Mafia, (their terminology, not mine!), to see the lay of the land, so to speak. There we met Bonnie and Clyde, the mascots of the place. And here was our first glance at Clyde, who clearly rules, as seen from the parking lot.

 

The icing on the cake for the trip, and a reward of sorts for my roadie, was a visit to Eve’s Garden, just about my favorite destination in the high desert country out there. Only 30 miles east of Alpine, it’s a quick motor trip to get there on one of those lonesome West Texas roads. This day it was highlighted by a wonderful moving vista of the Westbound freight trains making shadow pictures in the blowing grasses by the side of the road in the glorious moments of the Golden Hour of Light. Beautiful and transfixing. There was a mandatory stop at one of my favorite road cuts for rock gathering – just the most interesting fracture lines – all in squares and angles. And the sky was glorious cobalt blue – that blue usually seen in New Mexico, Arizona, Utah – that kind of sky.

 

In short time we pulled up at Eve’s Garden, and were greeted by a collared dove in the branches above us. Never a bad time at this magical place.

 

Nothing to do, (besides chatting with the incredible hosts of the place), except take pictures pictures pictures. There is always something new to explore, and we weren’t disappointed. It was Kathy’s first trip, so she was agog, and I’m always so when I’m there.

 

Fresh flowers from the garden were awaiting me by my bedside. Who could ask for anything more?

 

They’ve built an incredible greenhouse on the property, now growing all sorts of edibles, and it is purely a miraculous space.  Here’s one of the squash growing huge from the rafters above.  All this, in the desert.

 

Powerful woman Alaine, Kate’s daughter-in-law, (she and husband Noble are here for their stint at Eve’s Garden for the winter – they’ll return to Costa Rica in the spring), applies “mud” for the surface of the outer walls of their private apartment in progress. It will be 4 stories high! (They’re young.)

 

Kathy and I had adjoining rooms, both with courtyards, and we shot till the light faded and we had to make ourselves presentable for dinner.  Let me say you’ve not had a proper and mesmerizing shower till you’ve experienced one in the incredible rooms there. Hard to describe – only that they are sexy, organic, and fabulously artsy. (Have I said how much I love Eve’s Garden?)

The crown of my courtyard arch, with inlaid bottles, as the sun begins to set.

 

Up to the roof for sunset views.

 

Kathy bathed in West Texas sunlight.

 

Just another sunset in West Texas, from the roof above our rooms. I couldn’t begin to get it all in the lens. The clouds streamed so high overhead, and then the horizontal ones went all the way around to the eastern horizon. Magnificent.

 

 

 

And the last of the light through the courtyard gate.

 

And spacey shots of my bathroom from in front of the courtyard. I’m ready for that shower. But check out that star over the domes. Think there’s not magic here?

 

 

Next morning it was time for the inside shots – new doors and blooms and viewpoints. I might be aiming for 4 cardsets of Eve’s Garden – a tie with the Grand Canyon!

View from my room to the inside area courtyard, where most of the rooms open into.

 

Here are our side by side rooms, and the doors and colors chosen, along with the garden plantings, make a sublime study.

 

It’s just too picturesque not to, so obligatory posing was done by the both of us. Kathy looks relaxed, I am in zap position.

 

There was, of course, breakfast. Now we had an informal affair, since we were between “real guests.” Still, there were Alaine’s homemade currant scones with fabulous citrusy butter, and luscious scrambled eggs. You’ll have one of the best breakfasts on the planet if you stay at Eve’s Garden. Guaranteed.

 

We spent what was left of the morning poking around the place, looking into nooks and crannies, and photographing everything that wouldn’t move. How cute is this furry little seed pod?

 

And here the window into Kate’s studio, where she does her wonderful flower arrangements, having the source of such beauty at her fingertips, but not without a lot of work. Just a bit of the gardens are reflected in the window, along with the photographer.

 

And a new favorite abstract – simple, but it sure talks to me.

 

But finally time to go, late, as usual. Goodbye to beautiful Kate, the Queen of Eve’s Garden – an artist herself who doesn’t have time for her “art,” but then this whole place is her canvas, as it is with Clyde and Noble and Alaine. It is indeed a wonder, as are each of them. Indulge yourself and find out more about this most wonderful place and living in concert with Planet Earth at www.evesgarden.org.

 

So off we go, headed north and east, until…. What IS that swaying in the rear end of the van? We pulled over to check, and sure enough, a very low tire. Very very low. Can we make it eleven more miles to the next little town? Well, almost. We drove in on the rim, only to find there are three or four gas stations there, but all out of business! No way I can get my heavily loaded van up with that piddly little jack that comes with it. The kind lady at the Post Office directed us to a building down the street where a fellow named Arlen might help us out.

And he did! Heroes still exist. He opened up his place for us – one that contained a big time jack and an air compressor and all the right tools, and in short order Arty was healed from his thrown shoe. Thank you Arlen!

 

Restored to roadworthiness, off we went again, with a requisite stop at my favorite overlook on Highway 349 where you can see  a great length of the Government Road – used to be the main route from the forts of West Texas back into the central part. How they made it up that hill I’ll never fathom. But being there at late light makes for fun pictures and long legs.

 

 

We moved on and had dinner at famous Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant in Ozona, where it’s Christmas all the time. And then home. Late. And who would’ve believed it – it rained during the night as I lay blissfully in my own bed. Another blessing, and the perfect end to a wonderful adventure.

We’re still smiling from all the goodness and bounty of this trip: Friends old and new, Connections, Laughter and Hugs, Excellent Sales, and a new future with promise in one of my favorite towns.

Now Christmas is coming as I go full tilt boogie into preparation for my biggest show of the year. Check out the Dillo: www.armadillochristmasbazaar.com, and come see me if you can. I bet I’m still smiling.

Ain’t Life Grand, Y’all?

The ROYAL ROAD TRIP – Day Three: Delta to Fort Bridger – The Long Way

Caution… Get a cup of coffee or your favorite adult beverage – this is a long one – lots of pictures. Consider yourself warned. Also remember you can click on the pics to make them bigger. And now, all aboard for Day Three. Definitely a Wow. And more about those Wows a little later. You should know – I decided I needed to add some of TheQueen’s images to round out the storytelling here, identified with just that on her photographs. And here we go!

***

 

Be careful if you ever land in Delta, Colorado, for if you have any affinity at all for art or old cars, you are in for some serious trouble – or fun. Well, that is, if you have to be out of there on a time table or anything resembling such. We had noticed when we did our run through of town on our arrival Saturday evening that this indeed was an interesting little town. Clean as a whistle, with lots of revamped storefronts and antique buildings brought up to date, and why in the world do I have not one picture of such things? I suppose at the time I wasn’t looking at this journey as the travelogue that it has become, and wasn’t doing such a good job of taking what is known in the biz as “establishment” shots. (Do I remember that correctly? Possibly not, since I don’t seem to take or pay much attention to them.)

We thought we had some form of agenda when we arose on Sunday morning. When we had done our drive through on Saturday evening, we were impressed with this little town and its evident transformation, especially when we started noticing all the murals. They were everywhere, on so many buildings, and they were very well done. And there was lots of other art everywhere – statuary on the street corners – that sort of thing.  It already being late-ish, we said we’d make sure to peruse and photograph all the murals in town in the morning.

And so, after our morning ablutions and getting ourselves together, we loaded out, but still we couldn’t quite get out of the parking lot of the Westways, which we could now appreciate in daylight. It’s a good thing when you can be equally impressed with something, (be it human or architectural), when viewed in the light of day. There followed the obligatory shots around our latest nighttime stopping place, just as charming in the morning sunshine, and danged if the place hadn’t filled up overnight since now there was a No Vacancy announcement attached. Lucky us, once again.

 

Before we depart the lovely Westways Court, I have to leave you with the link to their website, for there you can click and actually see the iconic flashing neon sign. Like I said, just about my favorite stop, motel-wise. Not much better for pure Western Americana, and their theme is an homage to the Old West theme that I love. Click and enjoy, and they even have some music from the Grand Canyon Suite on there. http://www.westwayscourtmotel.com/

So, finally then we were headed into town, and the murals. But that was before…..the old cars. We didn’t make it very far. There it was, on the left – Orval’s Used Cars. And we were goners. The murals would have to wait. Anyone who knows anything about me, knows that I have this thing about rusty old cars. May I say that we stumbled upon at least a piece of the mother-lode that had somehow located itself in Delta, Colorado.

 

As for the murals, there were, fortunately, at least two of them gracing the walls of Orval’s or we would’ve been totally bankrupt of mural images. In fact, the murals had gone straight out of our consciousness when we were presented the plethora of rusty old cars, right there, ripe for the pickin’. Why, THANK YOU!

 

I got an entire gallery’s worth of images, and here are but a few. I suppose I have a new rust collection.

 

And a strange ghost image cross on an old ambulance…

 

We stayed a long time. We took a lot of pictures. It got very warm in the sun. We still stayed. Until we just had to call it done. But what a trip – even an old Chrysler – with a crown! And under the crown, it said, no kidding, Fluid Drive. Well I never.

 

Even after calling time on the cars and forsaking the murals, we still couldn’t get far out of town. The evening before I’d had a hard time trying to park somewhere to get a shot of the local aliens while we were cruising the outer edges, and trying not to get Ponygirl in traffic trouble, I gave it up. But there it was again, and I decided I would not allow defeat. Morning was better, and there was less traffic and more aliens than I originally had spied. In fact there was “art” all over this guy’s property, but we had to claim a small victory and beat feet. Late, you know.

 

We didn’t even take a picture of Delta Pawn. But once you’ve seen it, the song won’t stop in your head. Are you old enough to remember that song, either by Tanya Tucker or Helen Reddy, depending on which brand of radio station you tended to listen to? Whichever, I’m betting now that the song is rattling through your brain cells, and for that, I apologize. Poor Queen, she wanted to stop at pawn shops all through our journey, but somehow we never had the time. Perhaps our next excursion will have a Pawn Shop theme, but somehow I think Rocks will win out. Finally, we got out of town, but I liked Delta for sure.

We found ourselves in what could be described as undulating plains, with different sorts of rocks and landscapes. TheQueen told many tales of  her rock collecting adventures, and her various expeditions to retrieve specimens. Believe me, I may have brought home lots of rocks in my time, but compared to her exploits I am strictly an amateur. I was enlightened as to the term “floating material.”  In some quarters, floating material could be of dubious merit, but in rock world, it’s a good thing, perhaps best described as pieces or collections of rock that are lying on top of the ground, as apposed to being imbedded in the dirt or layers below. Maybe that’s sort of it, and rather sad, since once upon a time ago I was a geology major. Whatever it is/they are, we saw lots of it, but no collecting yet.

 

Northwest was the new direction, and out we went, skirting Grand Junction, on our way to a smaller road, 130, that would take us due north and within thinking distance of Wyoming. Even so, we still had a bit of Utah to negotiate, and we were still in central Colorado. North of Grand Junction and along the way, the landscape changed considerably, flattening out again, and looking like some foothills in the almost desert. Stopping on the edges of Grand Junction we continued on with our meet and greets of the various characters of the four-footed variety. It’s always good to get a Fur Fix when you’re on a ramble and missing your critters, and isn’t this just a great smile? Happy pooch, on vacation with her people.

 

Once one starts heading toward the northwest corner of Colorado, you are in dinosaur country. There is indeed a town named Dinosaur, and you are in the vicinity of Dinosaur National Monument. We didn’t go. We were, um, late. But we did see a dinosaur.

 

The little road that leads north out of Fruita, on the way up to Rangely and Dinosaur, soon became a new all time favorite. It had everything. It starts out flattish and dry, but not boring and very promising.

 

Then it’s back up into foothills, then up further into the mountains again. Vistas were superb, and then we stopped at Douglas Pass, for one of the best views we’d had.

 

We spent a while there, taking more pictures, amusing the wildlife, and just soaking in the magnificence.

 

Here’s what TheQueen was up to with that Royal Wave. She went and made a video with that new camera. Courtesy of TheQueen, here’s a moment, with accompanying background by Raul Malo, (who, you may remember, is the one at the end of this six degrees of separation of Queenie and TheQueen, though I don’t think there are even six):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixJqTPBHOdQ

 

 

And don’t you know she was just danged proud of herself.  And, well, we were having just a bit of FUN.

 

I don’t quite remember where this was, somewhere in the neighborhood, but it was a nice shot, again captured by TheQueen. When I get it figured out, I’ll amend as necessary.

 

Time to dispense with fun in one place, and onward toward our destination. We were finally approaching the northwest corner of Colorado, but it was time for a late lunch break. And then there it was…..Rangely.

I have to say, Rangely, Colorado rates as one of the more curious towns ever encountered via road trip experiences. We dubbed it Strangely Rangely, and jettisoned ourselves appropriately out of there. Well, we did stop and have that lunch at an equally strange little park on the edge of town, somewhere in the throes of construction, which had the oddest rocks as part of their walkabout area – artificial rocks manually constructed, then painted equally oddly I suppose to look natural, (and they missed) – and why bother when there were countless magnificent rocks all around? Art has no bounds. And I, strangely, (yet again), have no pictures.

Typical lunch fare, and I assure you there was chocolate.

 

And my posed commercial for Laughing Cow Cheese. I’m not sure it’s entirely a good thing to model, smiling, for a product named Laughing Cow. But we did like the cheese, even if the setting was a bit strange…(ly, Rangely.)

 

Having refueled, we set out for the Utah border, looking very forward to the promise of one of the more anticipated scenic wonders in our path. But first we had to get out of Rangely. No pictures of the weird rocks at the park, nor did we take any pictures of the Kum and Go convenience store. It could be that I remember there were a number of questionably named businesses and points of interest in town, (Loaf N’ Jug), but what we didn’t see was made up for in our imaginations, and it kept getting worse. It was time to get the holy heck out of Rangely, and aim toward Wyoming. No place in Colorado has a right to be that weird. After all, we were supposed to rest our weary selves in Wyoming that very night, and it was still two states away. And between us and it was Flaming Gorge. I seem to remember several non-sequiturs about it being but one letter away from Flaming George, which seemed rather humorous at the time, (and reminding me of how my father got chased out of a wrestling event by Gorgeous George the Wrestler, and that’s another story entirely), but that escapes me now. Obviously a side-effect of the Strangely Rangely Mind Bending Syndrome — and just think what could’ve happened if we’d been forced to get a motel there that night. We might have been assimilated!

The landscape changed a few times as we wended our way north and west. Out of Colorado and then into Utah, and we thought, (however foolishly), that we were finally closing in. The Rangely Effect got us again as we took a wrong road out of Vernal, but we caught it quick this time. Due North now, heading for Flaming George, er… Gorge, and we just weren’t prepared for how BIG it was. And how fabulous. And how we needed two more days.

Light was really tricky at Flaming Gorge. It was doing wonderful things in the distance, but it just wouldn’t get to the lake. We were already pushing the limits of being “late,” along with the fact that we were to meet up with my friend Evelyn who just happened to be in the neighborhood also – from Massachusetts, mind you, so it wasn’t like we could just put this off for another day – well, in those cases you just take what you get, and we got just fine.

While this isn’t supposed to be a discourse on Photography, (you’ll get that soon in my OTHER new blog coming soon to a computer near you), I will point out that one style I seem to have developed is a retro one. I’ve found some magic buttons to play with that take my work, some of it, to the old Arizona Highways look of the 40’s and 50’s. Painterly, you might call it. It’s working on most everything I do, from rust to some landscapes, and all I need is some old snappy automobiles of the touring variety to throw in now and again. I get them, but they’re usually very rusty and not at all roadworthy, as you have already seen.

 

So here then, the vista at Flaming Gorge in very north Utah. Quite the scene. As said, I wish we could’ve spent two or three days around here. We but skimmed the surface, and never got close to the water, and those red rocks!

 

We no more than left the Big Vista Viewpoint and had gone not so many miles when we were blessed with more wonderful rocks and trees and hills and clouds and grasses and, well, the list goes on. From our Sheep Creek stop, where Ponygirl patiently waits.

 

Running Mousie Cloud.  Maybe this is Speedy Gonzales.

 

TheQueen disappeared for some time while I played with the trees and clouds. There was one big rock outcrop separated from the rest, with fabulous light on it. I got it from this side…

 

And when I got back around, there was TheQueen halfway up the hill, doing her own take on it. After a while I wondered if she was ever coming back, and wouldn’t you know, when she did, she had fabulous rock presents for me. Beautiful pink rocks. Thank you, Queen.

 

We had to go. We HAD to GO! But it was a wondrous afternoon of light and rainshowers and vistas. We couldn’t get anywhere. After we left the place of rain and sun on rocks, we then got the rainbows.

TheQueen’s Rainbow. Surely this must’ve been a grab shot as I was trying to get us down the road to Wyoming, because I sure didn’t get this one, or even remember it. Nice job, Queen.

 

And my own rainbow, a few more miles down the road. But shortly thereafter, I found bones, and my focus shifted. You have to grab those bones where you can get them – art projects, you know – and for some reason there was some sort of deer dying ground all along that fence. I could not believe how many had ended up there, and why. But I collected the bones with thanks, and now art awaits. Boneheads, anyone?

 

After that we went after the grasses. TheQueen found them first while I was bone scavenging, but they were surely beautiful, and I followed suit. Note how low the sun is in the sky. Time ticketh.

 

Time to GO! My river buddy was waiting for us in Green River, and we were past late. The scenery wasn’t done with us, however, as we caught last light at the northern end of Flaming Gorge Reservoir.

 

TheQueen’s award winning shot of the far northern reaches of Flaming Gorge Reservoir. Somehow we had at last actually made it into Wyoming.

 

After the last farewell to the sun, we were finally able to head for our rendezvous with Evelyn without further distraction. Darkness has a way of helping you along the road when you can no longer see the wonderment.

Still many miles later we pulled into Green River and found our meetup place – inglorious for sure, but everyone can find McDonald’s, right? Kudos to my friend for waiting hours for us while we were caught up in the magic light. (We photographer types are mighty generous when allowing for the Magic Hour of Light, and we’d had it all afternoon!) We had a most pleasant reunion – I hadn’t laid eyes on Evelyn since we all departed the river trip down the Grand Canyon over a year ago – and now here we were in Green River, Wyoming. She was in the midst of her own adventure, driving all the way from Massachusetts to our mutually beloved West, and how kind of her to alter her plans enough to meet with us for a visit before she headed back East. Quite a meeting of the girlfriends, out in the wilds of Wyoming. Who’d ever thought we could pull off such a thing, but pull it off we did. We thought we’d have dinner since it would be too late to find anything open by the time we’d manage to make it to Fort Bridger, and Evelyn said she’d join us, and so we inquired as to what would be our best bet for dinner in Green River, a sizable enough little town. Penny’s Diner, we were told, and off we went.

Now I know the Penny’s Diner franchises – they happen to have one in Alpine, where I have been known to hang out in West Texas – only I always call it the Shiny Diner since it looks somewhat like an Airstream trailer, all cylindrical and metallic, and usually rather shiny. And there it was, another one for sure. And yes, the neon looked inviting.

May I say, with all appropriate aghastment  and disbelief, that we would probably have been better off at McDonalds? I mean, aside from orange juice and taking advantage of their restrooms, I have little or no truck with Mickey D’s. But here is your word to the Needing to be Wise: Don’t eat dinner at Penny’s Diner – well, a simple sandwich, maybe. Breakfast would’ve been safe, I think, but a late night dinner of “real” food? Don’t ask what they can do to an innocent piece of salmon – it’s criminal – and that fish surely died in vain, but we just enjoyed the company and the catching up, and stuffed down the fish and something resembling vegetables in a previous life. Plus we were “entertained” by the foul mouthed youths sitting down and across from us who couldn’t say pass the salt without adding f**k in some form to every sentence uttered. Withering glances did nothing, except perhaps encourage them to further pester the old ladies. Not so old we couldn’t whip their sorry butts if we’d wanted to, I think. Or at least beat them at their own game with far superior vocabularies.

TheQueen took some pictures outside the shiny diner after the not so shiny dinner, we said our good-byes, and off we went in our opposite directions. Bless you, Evelyn – what a trooper! And goodness, some of us in particular look particularly road-whacked….and it wasn’t Evelyn.

 

We were at least and at last in Wyoming, our destination state, and Fort Bridger was one leg away.  We’d already called ahead to the Wagon Wheel Motel, (perhaps about the only motel in town and I’d already made reservations), and told them we’d be frightfully late, and they were leaving the door to our room unlocked for us. Not much of a crime factor in Fort Bridger, obviously, and we headed out into the darkness.

A while later, down some smallish roads, wondering what was out there, we finally saw it – the city limits sign: Fort Bridger, Population 150.  I knew it might be small, but jiminy.

We rolled into the motel parking lot, found our room, unloaded and tried to sleep. It was late, well after midnight, and it was the 4^th of July already. Not our best room, but at least it was the least expensive of the entire trip, and we were to spend two nights here. Home, for a little while.

And we WERE there!  We’d made it. Morning was almost arrived already, and what would we wake up to? What did the landscape look like? Were there mountains around? Big skies? Broad plains? Mountain Men?

Visions of buckskins danced in my head, and we were in Wyoming, trying to sleep, but too tired and excited to do much of that. Fort Bridger. Really and finally and for true. And what would the morrow bring to the weary travelers?

We tried to sleep with images of the day dancing around behind our eyeballs. What a ride. Soon I’ll have to tell you about The Wows. But now, time to try to sleep…. but still thinking of the day, and Flaming George.

The ROYAL ROAD TRIP – Day Two: We Love Colorado

We’d finally given it up and gone to bed on Friday night, with clear skies and beautiful stars, cool temperatures, (almost cold, to those of us who are known for the No Blood Syndrome, and how in the world did I ever live in the mountains), and wondering what the next day would offer. Imagine our surprise, and not a little dismay, to awaken to smoke filled skies and the smell of burn in the air. The Los Alamos fire had chased us, and caught up with us in far northern New Mexico. We weren’t off to a very early start in Road Trip world, due to our staying up entirely too late, a trend that would hold for most of our adventure. So by the time we were packed, fed and loaded up and back on the highway, it was every bit of 10:30. Well, not too bad, considering…. royalty, you know. And other than having a hard deadline on July 4^th, no one was poking us with sticks to be somewhere, or anywhere, for that matter.

I had decided to take a new route into Colorado, since I’d been up that way to Pagosa Springs and beyond several times, and I was wanting New Road. That worked for a while, but I soon discovered that we’d missed a turn out there in the hinterlands, and we had to get turned around and back on course. No matter, really, because it was all beautiful, and GREEN. We played hide and seek with the smoke for a while, but finally left it behind us, and then the skies were gloriously clear and blue. No wonder all us pesky Texans flee to Colorado – it’s a glorious alternative to the miserable summers we’re often offered, especially this one. Surely I’ve mentioned too many times about our drought and the miserable shade of sickly yellow and brown that covers the Hill Country, all seared into our brains by the unrelenting heat. It’s a bad summer…. But enough of that.

We had decided to make our way up to Pagosa, on to Durango, and then head up via the Million Dollar Highway to Silverton, to Ouray and beyond. These were still familiar, and wonderful roads, although it had been many years since I’d been much beyond Durango, when the Queen Mum and I used to take our two weeks of Getting the Hell out of Dodge after 50 weeks of Real Job drudgery. We had been out here several times, jeep riding in the high peaks of the San Juan Mountains, and staying in the little gingerbread styled houses that were B&Bs. Hard to take a wrong road up here – it’s all spectacular.

Pagosa was, in a word, insane.  Again, duh, 4^th of July weekend, and there were festivals and carnivals and untold numbers of actual tourists, (unlike US!), who were jamming the roads. I’d been there enough to know it as a somewhat sleepy little mountain town when not at the height of some summer holiday or special event, so this was a new experience, and a double whammy. One of my good friends has a little cabin down by the river and we took a short detour to see what was going on down that street. What street? You could hardly see the street for the vehicles that had parked all up and down it so they could access the river and get over to the park where all the rides and tents and 4^th of July weekend madness was happening all around. Enough already. We went down to the end of the old street to turn around – it was in what was left of the historic section of town – and it was sad to see where the developer had gone in and torn down the old cabins that used to house the long ago Calvary men, all rustic and time-worn, and they’d been replaced by the ubiquitous “town” condos that sat right next to the river. Progress raises its ugly head once again. Time to get the hell out of this Dodge, and head for the far North.

We got to the western end of town and stopped for gas and liquids, (push push push those fluids in the high country), and got another heapin’ helping of humanity. Where was the peace?  Not here, and we took in the images of the moment.  I was particularly taken by the spirit of the trailer next to us, which evidently portrayed how they get their deer in the mountains. Poor Bambi, to have come to this. I wondered where its new resting place was to be. Target practice, I assumed.

 

But we were Outa There! Onward to Durango, then the turn North where the mountains would really start reaching to the sky, hopefully without quite so many participants of the humanoid variety. (Hope springs eternal you know, even on the 4^th of July.)

Our next objective was a lunch stop, so we began looking for a suitable spectacular setting.  Before we got too far out of town, we stopped at Trimble Hot Springs, a posh resort, and took in the sights. We opted for some bottled teas, put it in our memory banks for future reference, then struck out for something a bit more on the wild side. Several possibilities presented themselves on the map, so we opted for a destination point of Haviland Lake, not too far up and off the highway. We took our first side road, and not long after found ourselves in the company of a respectable number of vacationers, but at least they weren’t swarming. We found ourselves a parking place next to the lake, with a sitting area and a little dock.

All this began what amounted to a lunch routine for most of the time: find a place, a park, a something – then offload the ice chests and tote bags containing our food goodies, and soak in the ambiance while we munched on cheese, crackers, veggies, and then tried to make a dent in our chocolate stores.

Not a bad first choice, huh:

 

I soon found out that TheQueen is prone to certain behaviors when confronted with appealing waters. She’s into her bathing suit, and then she’s into the water, no matter what the temperature might be, cold-wise. I have to say that immersing myself in cold mountain waters would for me likely be a heart-stopping experience – I am definitely a warm water creature. But true to her stories of such, in she went, and she swam for a while out there.  I tip my tiara to her – you go, girl.

 

Meantime I watched a pair of ospreys who were gliding above the lake, making their rounds while hunting for whatever was available.  I never saw a dive, but they called out often, and that was a thrill.  Hawk is my Spirit Animal, and any special moments with them are treasured.

 

There were dragonflies galore, and unknown aquatic plants blooming in the mossy depths, and dragonfly love was in the air.

 

It was an Americana moment, with children laughing and exploring, people throwing balls in the lake for their Labs to retrieve, and picnics going on all around the shoreline. We fed carrots to the chipmunks, and enjoyed the sunshine on our shoulders, a la John Denver. And took pictures….

 

Not a bad lunch stop, as mountains and lakes go. One more dragonfly graced us with an appearance as we were packing out  - of those red guys. Dragonflies always seem to be mystical, magical creatures. How can such things be?

 

But soon time to press on, since we were supposed to land in Wyoming by the next night, and it was still far, far away, and we didn’t seem particularly proficient at making miles. Too many things to see, and photograph, so we bid adieu to beautiful Haviland Lake, and turned back northward into the high country.

And so began the twists and turns and postcard vistas offered by the spectacular highways and byways of Southwestern Colorado. It was hard to make good time, (impossible, actually), as we pulled over again and again to view the waterfalls and valleys, ridge lines and peaks, still adorned with what was left of winter’s snows. All this was as we drove through the Weminuche Wilderness, over the passes that ranged about ten and eleven thousand feet. We thought a lot of TheQueen’s friend Maria, who does not do well on winding, twisting, fall off into nothing mountain roads, and laughed as we conquered them, and loved those 10 mph curves.

 

 

I’d forgotten about the dramatic highway that led into Silverton, and then yet another with the twisting turns that drop down into Ouray. Maria would’ve been on the floor. Once in town, we stopped at the Visitors Center in Silverton to check things out and pick up a few more maps and “touristy” stuff. I have to admit I was agitated to hear the Star Spangled Banner playing over and over, non-stop, on their sound system. Now it might have been 4^th of July weekend, but it quickly became torture after about the sixth repetition. I asked the fellow on duty what he thought about that, and got an appropriate eye-rolling response. He’d about had enough, too, but he had to be there. I’d have been running into the hills after a while for sure. I always wish we’d gone with America the Beautiful for our national anthem, but I suppose that was too peaceful and bucolic for whoever made that decision. Too much war in what we chose, or “they” chose, (all those bombs bursting in air – still!), but I know I’m getting political here, so I’ll put the soapbox back in the closet.

Ouray was even more packed than Silverton – so much so that we decided to just keep on truckin’ through, even dispensing with photo opportunities at every turn – at least of the cute mountain town variety. It had grown so much since the last time I’d spent a few days there, way back in the 80’s. Time keeps marching on, with big boots. TheQueen and I had been having interesting conversations about these little towns. She’d fallen in love with Telluride, (just over one of the ridges), a bunch of years before, and felt fairly well convinced that should such things as previous lives exist, she’d lived one there. I have the same feelings about being one of the “working girls” in such a town, and maybe this was one of our connections, but she swears this isn’t our first go-round. Whatever, in present time, the crowds were not what we wanted, so that was that for Ouray, and we skedaddled out of town, looking for wilderness.

And then the land got stretched out, and really pleasing. Ridgeway has a huge lake that goes for miles, and that answered the question of “what was the deal with all those boats” we’d been seeing. Stick a beautiful lake in the middle of all that mountain majesty, and well, could I move to Ridgeway? Maybe. Or Montrose, right down the road. I liked the look of all this…. even if I didn’t take any pictures. And I can’t answer what the deal is with that. Sometimes it’s just all about the ride.

In due time we made our way into Delta, which turned out to be an amazing little town. We tracked up and down the streets, clean and updated and totally inviting, and found out that this is the town of murals. Murals, everywhere, well done and dozens of them. But did we get any pictures? Well, no, but there was a reason. (For that you’ll have to stay tuned for Day Three, which was an absolute doozy.)

We found, again, the perfect motel, looking like a compound of little rock and log cabins with all the amenities, including the fantabulous neon sign which would occupy us for quite a while. But first we went out to dinner, which could never quite equal our experience in Chama. We did find margaritas, (which were big, but not anything close to those perfect ones at the High Country Saloon), and nothing worth dolling up for with tiaras and boas. Sufficiently nourished, we headed back to the neon lights.

And boy, did we have fun with them. What a great sign! It flashed multiple colors, red and orange one cycle, blue the next. And neon over the rooms, and even the office was decorated like Christmas. For pure art and ambiance, the Westways won our Best Motel award, and we even had private suites!

It was at this first Night Shoot that I began to learn many lessons from TheQueen. (In truth, it happened the minute I picked her up at the airport – there were numerous lessons, or better put, revelations and positive attitude observational opportunities.) Sure, I call myself a ”professional photographer,” but I often shake my own head at that term. There are countless more who so far surpass me in technical knowledge that sometimes I feel quite the fraud. The appeal of my images stems, I believe, from my different viewpoint and composition – the “different eye” and the story, you’d call it. And for what that is, it works. But I haven’t challenged myself so much with what I don’t yet know, and TheQueen pushed that button. She had herself a brand spankin’ new camera, and was challenging herself to learn it. And as I followed her example, I found myself pushing my own boundaries of experience. Learning, opening new doors, satisfaction with limits tested and surpassed. As I look back on all this later, it becomes more obvious that there was a lot more than a road trip going on, which was a little hard to discern in the giddiness of the living of it. Opportunity, indeed, and wasn’t I just glad that I’d said YES.  And perhaps even more important, so had TheQueen.

The morrow would find us in Wyoming, our destination point. We had two or three days’ worth of miles and sights to accomplish in only one, with the added factor that I was finally to be on new, untrodden pathways. Time for new vistas, and great adventures, and as we tried to sleep, the neon flashed all night long.  Hard to sleep with all that Adventure waiting right outside the door.  But tomorrow would be another day.  Oh boy.

 

Goodnight, Y’all.  See you on Day Three.