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.

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.

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?

***

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.

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.

In my experience, it’s almost always longer to get to anywhere than I think it will be, and so I found it a bit later than anticipated as I headed out to Albuquerque from Ruidoso, trading the mountains again for the exposed rocks and sands of the upper parts of the state. Oh so familiar roads, as usual, retraced again and again over previous years, but this time overriding the worn memories and headed for unknown highways.

There is another almost obligatory stop on Highway 360 in the very small burg of San Antonio before it runs into I-25. No, not The Owl Restaurant, (well, it is one – well known for its green chili cheeseburgers), at least not this early in the morning, but instead that little gas station that has the famous cherry cider, AND homemade fudge. How can one Queen dare go to meet another without bringing an offering of homemade fudge? There always seems to be one reason or two others to stop and buy fudge, and I do it almost every time I’m on this road, and this day was no exception. Gassed up and Fudged Up and back on the road, off I head down the highway to Big A – Albuquerque – to the airport and the destined meet up with TheQueen, who was by now long since in the air from California, headed east – for our adventure!

Since it was already later than we’d planned, I made the first move at actual voice contact. Remember now that we have only emailed, or corresponded via the Raul Malo forum, and never yet laid eyes on each other. And so there it was then – message left on her voice mail that I was minutes away – and soon the airport was in sight, and then my phone rang. Of course, it was TheQueen, and the ice was broken and we actually spoke for the first time. No problems – how COULD there be – she’d be waiting for me at the passenger pick-up lane. And now all of this was VERY real, for it certainly had all the makings of pure fiction (or Fantasy?) up till then. How many times had we asked each other, in the short span of time since this plan had been hatched: Are we really DOING this? Dang – evidently so, ‘cause I’m at the airport in Albuquerque, and fancy that.

Being unfamiliar with the lay of the airport, I missed the turn-in for that lane, but I buzzed by in the adjacent byway, and there she was, right over there, awaiting my arrival. I already knew what she looked like, having viewed many photographs in various places on the internet, but there wouldn’t have been much doubt. Just how many women do you see standing at the curb, looking expectant, decked out in a turquoise feather boa and a matching sequined tiara? Welcome to the New Normal.

I went around the loop again, doubled back and about, got myself in the right lane this time, and pulled up. Sister Queens, reunited again for the first time, friends already. But of course, TheQueen had immediate business to attend to, which was to reach into a bag and pull out another boa and tiara – MINE! – which happened to be, no surprise, purple. Oh, we were already a pair, just waiting for our kinship to begin in person. Before taking out to the wilds, first we had to stow away her suitcases and yet another load of chocolate delights that TheQueen had brought, along with what I’d packed, never mind the fudge.  Never has so much chocolate been brought for so few.  Chocolate for the masses now secure, off we went, into the wild, grey yonder.

I say grey, because we had to contend with yet another out of control wildfire. Los Alamos was burning, or at least was threatening to, as the fire was moving closer to it all the time. The horizon was cloaked in the yellow-grey mess of it, and we didn’t have our route planned yet, and might be driving really close. It being about lunchtime, I thought the first order of entertainment was to take her to lunch at Harry’s Roadhouse, up towards Santa Fe and one of my favorite haunts in the neighborhood, and then we’d figure it all out from there. It took a little driving and back and forthing and turning around a couple of times, (I was determined to find it, and finally it appeared), and there we were. Our first time to break bread on the road.

One cannot miss the opportunity for the Silly Grab Shot.  They are always around, and you have to grab the grin. Welcome to New Mexico. There was one I didn’t get years ago – Tawanda.  That was a classic, but no record of it – only in my memory.

Harry’s was, of course, packed for lunch, and many were waiting, and the prime choice of seating was out in the gardens. Supposedly little chance of getting a table out there, but where do you suppose Royalty in boas and tiaras get seated? In the garden, natch, with hollyhocks and blooming plants all around – totally lovely in every aspect.

And it had already begun – that being the interaction with most everyone we came in contact with. If you want positive attention, and conversation starters, and smiles from strangers, (especially women who “understand”), I suggest you travel about regaled in boas and tiaras. Works every time. We got Thumbs Up and Queenly Waves and the most delightful reactions. Were we Sisters? Well, yes, sort of. Was it our birthday? Why yes, every day! And when they heard we were on a Royal Road Trip, they were practically giddy. Us, too.

I don’t believe there is a bad meal at Harry’s, (not to mention the wonderful ambiance and fabulous art always on display), but we were both moved to order the same thing, (quel surprise), and a gorgeous plate was delivered to us: shrimp salad over a just divine grilled artichoke, bib lettuce, and olives and cucumbers. Major Yum. It was the perfect start to our adventure, and probably the best of our fancier meals, but we soon found out that food was to become one of the last concerns on our agendas, along with sleep! There was simply not enough time – already, and constantly.

Lunch having been deliciously accomplished, and having entertained many unsuspecting diners with our outfits, we pushed on. Back out into the parking lot, where yet another silly sign awaited discovery. If this is the state of things, I hope they got the guy who did the damage.

And so…. Onward! Shortly after meeting TheQueen, I inadvertently pontificated one of those quotes which managed to capture one of those themes that sometimes define my life.  At the time, it sounded somewhat profound, (however lame), but I suppose it has its merits: There’s no way to get to where I’m going without going to where I’ve already been. Not even any margaritas yet….maybe it was the altitude.  But, it was true – on several levels. But I shall spare you the details of dissecting such a statement, even thinking it might be some sort of universal truth regarding our personal truths.  This is supposed to be a fun read!

We decided our first direction would be along those familiar (to me, anyway – read previous paragraph) roads up past Abiquiu and Ghost Ranch, (the environs of one of my heroines Georgia O’Keeffe), heading to Colorado, at least vaguely towards Wyoming, and we’d see what the road held for us. The smoke was fairly miserable all in Santa Fe and further north. The big fear was that the fire would take Los Alamos and release all those nuclear toxins, but once the lab was spared, evidently the Native Americans in the path of the flames would be on their own. Cynical, I know, but this was related to us by those supposedly in the know about such things.  Once past the smoke, we were blissfully unaware of the “news,” for we never turned on one television or read a paper for the rest of the trip.  No wonder vacations are so healing, and magic and wonder so accessible.  Along with the smoke, the news is toxic.

We managed to get out of the smoke after a bit of driving, and before too long we were out of the red and orange rocks and coming into the high country, all green and grand and glorious. We decided that the quaint little mountain-hugging town of Chama would be our first stop of home away from home. Tourists were thick, (I had to remind myself about 47 times during the trip that this WAS 4^th of July weekend, and something resembling the entirety of the human populace was on vacation – and the rest of the bunches around Chama were fleeing the fire), and we checked out the neighborhood before settling in at Spruce Lodge, our rustic stopping place for the night. Not fancy, but it would do. Ponygirl thought it was just fine, and so did we.

It had the added attraction of backing up to the river, and of course we had to check out the river and any accompanying river rocks that might need a new home. After I had sat close to the running waters, trying to release a stubborn candidate that proved to be full of attached river life and therefore ineligible, TheQueen pointed out to me that I had collected my first heart of the trip.  Fairly ridiculous, but a heart all the same, even if it had to be viewed upside down to be appreciated…..but I was NOT going to pose for THAT picture.

We had some fun putting ourselves together before our trek into town, trying out our Queenly poses and testing our tiaras. Was Chama ready for us? Were we ready for the High Country Saloon?

But before we could get away, TheQueen was entranced with the water droplets from the sprinkler. How wonderful that not everywhere is in severe drought, and people are actually allowed to water their grass and flowers, and it’s lush and green!  It all felt so good.

After proper maintenance and preparation, we headed out to the local watering hole and wondered what adventures we’d be scaring up. Turns out at the High Country Saloon (and attached restaurant – we were planning on dinner, after all), we didn’t scare anyone at all, but we sure amused a few cowboys. Not only did we sport boas and tiaras, but we came equipped with cameras, so we were “professionals” — well, professional somethings, but truly, we were treated with great respect, and a lot of fun ensued, all amongst proper Western memorabilia.

We requested margaritas, which were upgraded by the bartender to The Perfect Margarita, and I do believe it was the best one we had on the trip. We later, after a lot of interaction with the locals, sat ourselves down for dinner in the dining room, but one of the gentlemen that we talked to that night insisted that we join him for dinner – spaghetti and meatballs, home made – at his place just down the road.  Mr. Rey was indeed the perfect gentleman, just like that perfect margarita, and he was thrilled to entertain us Queenly types. He showed us around his place, and made special effort to point out his best collected rocks. He’d been a widower for years, and I guess we were something special to have in his home, and cook for, and show us pictures of his grandkids. He bestowed upon us our proper names in his language: La Renya and La Reynacita. We were honored. We didn’t stay long, for it had been one long day already, and there were many miles ahead, and already pictures to play with when we got back to our room. None of all the characters involved knew what a time we were going to have that night, but I have a very warm spot in my heart for Chama and the souls therein.

We found that the best way to have an adventure is to open your heart to it, and magic just walks in the door. So many have been envious of the life I lead, (believe me it’s not all pretty pictures and exciting roadtrips, like now when I’m battling my credit card processor…….), but I have to say it has its moments. Often I am asked, (by more “reasonable” persons):  Can you afford to do this?  And the most applicable answer is generally… No. But then, if I’m going to live this life righteously, in the way that I choose, and pursue my dreams and my art, then I have to answer:  But I can’t afford not to.  Otherwise there would have been no raft trips down the canyon, no tears of joy and wonder while exploring Antelope Canyon, and no magnificent Royal Road Trip with my new and always was Best Friend TheQueen. She said YES! And so did I. And here we were, on an adventure. Could we possibly have more fun? What do you think? And it was only the first day……

Cheers, Y’all!

The RRT has similarities to one of those homilies I’ve heard about Life in general: There is a Beginning, and an End, but all the Fun happens in the Middle. And you already know that Queenie is all about FUN. As you can well imagine, there was Fun in such copious amounts as to leave the two Queens practically breathless at times, and we’ve said that our angels must’ve been Happy Dancing in whatever aisles there are – wherever it is that they are – as they gave High Fives and Attagirls on every day of our ramblings. Every day was a gift, and we have the pictures to prove it.

In the matter of a Prologue, there was of course the necessary trip out of Texas and into New Mexico where I was to pick up TheQueen at the airport in Albuquerque. Now just about every trip Westward for me is a paean to some significant part of my previous existence, and so it was yet again. I lived in Albuquerque as a childlet, so it is another version of home to which I have a few momentous memories therefore attached. I can remember snowy treks to the high country of the Sandias – back when my jack of all scandalous trades father sold Jeeps for maybe a living, or not – and all of that can be verified in now faded photographs of the family being forever immortalized standing next to a fabulous Woody of a Jeep – which of course I really wish I still owned. Those were the days – evidently – sort of.

But even before getting to Albuquerque, where the Queens’ journey as a duo actually began, there was that getting to New Mexico. There is really not too much to be said about all that, except for the good feelings her royalness gets when she has finally crossed the state line and can indeed say that the Land of Enchantment is beneath her feet.

First order of business was just getting out of the driveway, which was impeded somewhat by Mr. Magic, the Royal Bird, (and justifiably so, you have to admit), of the Slippery Slope Ranch. While I was so eager to get out of the compound, he had his own agenda, and I had to wait till he decided it was time to move on. There seems to be no hurrying of The Bird. Despite having my camera at the ready, I didn’t get to it in time to catch him in full display, which has been his morning M.O. at the entrance to the property when in the height of his sartorial splendor.

The usual first stop on the more northerly route west is the Valero gas/convenience store in Llano, where every year I get to check on the bird nests in the signage. Yep, still there this year, even in the heat. I’ve got several different versions through the years, and this time I decided to do the obvious:

Ponygirl, my other faithful roadsteed of what I figure is of female persuasion and 4-hoof drive, was fueled and ready, and she balked nary a bit and was in fine form throughout the adventure. I literally manifested this vehicle out of the ethers a couple of years ago, and it’s been a wonderful relationship. She do like to run.

On exiting the Hill Country, one other obligatory stop on this particular route is Cooper’s Barbeque  – also in Llano – where I always stock up on their beef jerky.  It’s thick and hearty, and makes for a great non-stop variety of lunch on the road. (I have vague aspirations to be a vegetarian in my next life.) That and trail mix, fruit, and lots of ice tea and chocolate, and I can make many good miles at a fling. (Also keeps one away from the deadly Cheeseburger-on-the-Road experience, which is exceedingly bad for mpg with the added tonnage involved.)

My mascot road companions consist of a stuffed frog with a crown and a red lipstick kiss on his cheek, (let your imagination go with that one, and you’ll likely be more or less correct), and the little beaded roadrunner sculpture that I bought on the trail in Big Bend last spring, and a piece of fluorite purchased likewise, affixed to an illegally absconded with piece of pretty rock from the same area. So here’s the view out the front window, with the dreamcatcher hanging from the mirror barely in view.

Once past the miles and miles and then some miles down the road towards the south of the panhandle, things open up a bit and begin to look a somewhat different. Outside Lamesa, the flatness really settles in, and they’d actually grown some cotton before the drought began making its stand. I suppose they’re irrigating, too, for there were still a few more crops in waiting. They store the collected balls under roofing of varying types till they go to the gin, and it makes for strange scenery.

And truly, there’s not so much to say about the rest of that day until I got close to Ruidoso, where I was wondering how I was to dodge the Donaldson fire close to town. I could see flames topping the hills, but it was all still to the other side of the highway, so not much of a delay.

Once I made it into Ruidoso, it was so sad to see the hills in town blackened by the last big fire that happened back in spring, but the monsoons were finally beginning, so maybe that it will be it for the season, fire-wise. I rolled into town at the perfect time, and met my friend to pick up Chinese food before heading to the casita where I’d bunk in for the night. I thoroughly enjoyed putting my feet up and watching the river go by in front of us while we munched contentedly, and decompressed with a glass of wine. Simply good girlfriend time in a relaxed setting, and the Big Adventure would begin in the morning.

Some are slack jawed to think that TheQueen and I, unmet and even untalked to on the phone could or even would consider such an intimate encounter for miles and days on end, (well, it could be disastrous if in the company of a less tolerable personality, where there would be death on the road either by murder or suicide), but we had no qualms, and indeed, not one qualm was ever necessary.

All will be revealed. And on the morrow of the tale now being told, we are to meet for the first time, and head ourselves northward into the Great Unknown. Well, the semi-unknown, anyway. Oh boy.

Stay tuned, as the next installment will include The Meeting of the Queens, and our first day on the Royal Road as we reacquaint ourselves from our evident separation at birth, or some other significant shared existence in a previous life. Too much fun, indeed – or rather, just enough.

Rally the wagons, y’all. We’re off on an adventure.

July was a trip.  Or two trips, rather.  The first was the Royal Road Trip, filled to overflowing with experiences from one end of the spectrum to two others, feeling like I was running out of spectrums to experience.  I met up with TheQueen, my sister from some previous life or a parallel version of this one, and we had us some sublime adventures while touring the West that I so love.  I have been, shall we say, shocked into some version of silence and reticent to recount our whirlwind travel tales here, for she went and had herself a royal heart attack shortly after she returned to her own castle.  So easy, (but not), to toss off those words — She had a heart attack.  But she did.  And on this particular morning as I write these words on this offwhite viewscreen of cyberspace, she will receive the results of her latest tests which will direct her to the next step of her recovery.  And it may be more than a step – it could be a helluva journey.  We don’t know yet, but I cannot let the unknown dictate what I do or don’t say anymore, while we await some verdict and decisions.  To just wait seems as unholy as censuring myself in the darkness of the unknowns.  Perhaps it’s time to honor my new (but lifetimes long) friend with the snapshots of a few memories from the trail, as we await what comes next.

After barely catching my breath from that adventure, Duty called, (you know how Duty is, even as I say I love my work), and off I went again in mere days to my favorite art show in New Mexico.  Well, not quite the sublime experience, as vehicle problems and a spottily attended art show added to the cobbles on the road.  Too many extra expenses and too much tumult in show production made for perhaps a break-even proposition, and these past middle age bones are a bit too worn to go through all those gyrations for the “make your expenses” reward system.  And yet, there were many artists who didn’t do even that, so I must remember Gratitude for coming back whole, and not “in the hole.”  Thank you for that.  And for no broken elbows this year!  And still I hope for recompense for the first repair to Arty (my trusty show steed) which didn’t hold, and that will help some.  It was all just mighty frustrating….. but then, not nearly as “frustrating” as a heart attack, right?

And so I use the new month and the big #1 on the calendar to begin again.  I am grateful, again, to be home for a while.  No big exploits planned until October when it’s back to New Mexico for a Cowboy Art Adventure.  Not sure what they’d make of my abstract landscapes, but we may give them a chance to pull off their cowboy hats and scratch their heads and scrape their boots in the dirt over a few of them.  I’ll be sure to take plenty of Horses though.  However there will be a slight respite soon to venture down south to hear my favorite singer again as he makes an appearance next weekend – a surprise engagement that will get me on yet another road trip way sooner than I anticipated – but just a mini one.

Time for home projects and new art ideas and working with photographs and inspiration from different quarters.  It’s hot as Blue Hades here – naught but day after day of 100 degrees plus.  The lake is all but gone, and too hot for this Queen to try to work in the dead and dying yard that can’t get enough water that we can’t afford.  However, despite the heat and drought, we have big bucks in velvet and as many as six fawns at once in the yard. Life, indeed, does go on….. somehow.

So here’s the challenge then — to make beauty from the sadness, the unknown, the undiscovered, the disappointments, the things we fear.  To honor what we do have:  Friendship, Love, our Beingness, our Promise, our Possibilities.  I’ve spent the last few or many days in holding my thoughts and words while waiting…. for what, exactly?  I no longer wait to mention my friend because we don’t know what will happen.  Hell’s Bells – none of us knows what is to happen, even when we think we do.  Here’s where insurance comes in, or so they tell me.  That, and the kindness of strangers.  And the blessings of Friends.

And so I ask you to add your prayers/healing thoughts/good wishes for the best possible result for my friend TheQueen.  She’s a keeper.  We’re planning new adventures.  What’s life without thinking about the next adventure, even as we tend to those Duties, and decide not to honor Fear.  Caution, maybe, but I’ve given up enough to Fear….. which is why I keep deciding not to watch the news.  But that’s another blog.

Here’s to TheQueen.  Long live TheQueen.  She’s a good’un.

In a matter of hours, your royalness is headed West – the only true direction in my book, but I’m a mite prejudiced, if you haven’t noticed.  Plants have been watered, packing is almost done, bills are paid up to date – all the necessaries to lay the groundwork for the journey.  The Queen Mum’s larder has been stocked, and MumWatch is in effect.  The Royal GuardMutts have been assigned their duties, and no interlopers will get past their toothy snarls, or their snarly tooths.  The moat has been stocked with scorpions and fire ants, and possibly a rattlesnake or three, so the kingdom, (would that be Queendom?) will be secure whilst I wander about the far reaches, seeking adventure, notable pictorial opportunities, and of course, Rocks.  Ponygirl, the likewise Royal RoadSteed, has been checked and oiled, aired and fueled, and stands stomping in the driveway, eager to be off and galloping across the plains and over the mountain passes, onward to new vistas and wonderments.  We are ready.

All we have to contend with first is getting the hell out of Texas, which seems an all consuming task.  There seems to be nothing that takes much longer than getting across the great state of  Texas, (politics not withstanding.)  Good music helps, and I have plenty of that to entertain me until I pick up my Co-Conspirator in Adventures in Albuquerque in a couple of days.  My first stop will be an overnight with a dear friend in the New Mexico mountains to share stories and keep kinship before embarking on the north and westbound directions.  As they say in common parlance:  It’s All Good.

Well, almost everything.  It seems every day there is a new fire broken out just where I aim to pass through, so I may be winging it even more than is usual.  This lack of rain, and no monsoons yet in the parched West, or much of anything resembling wet stuff around here, has been a sadness of great concern and experience.  I doubt that there will be much of my cove left when I return, and I don’t relish the hike to Big Water in these triple digits.  But I hate to bemoan the future when my present is awaiting my participation, so I shall set my thoughts and my attention to the Right Now.

The Slippery Slope Saga will have to wait a bit.  Although I’ve tied it down and it is mine, (Mine!  Mine!) again, it needs time and attention to become its full self, but even all this is part of the story.  Queenie is so very multi-faceted, you know, (or would that be multiple personalitied?), and so it’s hard to fit in one round or square hole, whatever it is that one is supposed to fit into.  I never did so well with having to fit myself into prescribed holes, don’t you know, and so it is that I fling myself down rivers, or hit the road with Adventure in mind, allowing myself to have one of those Different Lives.  And ain’t life grand?

And so this is a brief Farewell, as I continue with the packing and the crossing off of things on lists, and Ponygirl gets fuller and fuller.  You know how it is – there are any number of possible weather considerations, so any and all conditions must be prepared for.  Looks like I’ll be back in my flannels in the high country, and needing to keep my toesies warm. Otherwise, I have healthy snacks, and a lot of chocolate, so we’re covered on all fronts.  I am a little afraid to ask for what, but TheQueen has requested that I bring a glue gun and duct tape.  I’m not sure what sort of mark we will be leaving on the unsuspecting countryside or denizens thereof.  Some things are perhaps better left to Mystery at this point.  At some later point I’m quite sure you will hear about it, in glorious detail.  Or not.

My faithful companion here knows something’s up.  She feels it days ahead of time when I’m leaving, and her dobber’s down.  Wish she could come with me, but maybe New Mexico next month.  I’ll actually have Shotgun position open, and it’s nice to have company on the road.

This is NOT a happy dog.

Alright then, time to put it all together and unwind a bit.  The fire news is not good.  My usual route of travel may be closed tomorrow, so I have to be prepared for a considerable detour.  Such are the ways of the road.

The adventure begins on the morrow.  Wish me good luck and safe journey, and look to hear from me from the road.

Bye, y’all.  Wagons HO!

I started getting serious about this trip only 24 hours ago.  If it were going to get done, the getting to was going to have to get gotten to.  And so I tossed around a couple of emails, and got some back, and one thing led to another and within a few hours, a major Road Trip was born.  Wham Bang, and in a good way!

To make it all even more Easy On Amazing, this new and thoroughly enjoyable friend is from MaloWorld, an offshoot of my doing the righteous thing and joining a “group” where you have to step up and declare your name, and then state that you are a MaloMama.  There are, of course, more than a few MaloPapas, but they are rather outnumbered.  But they, for the most part, are fairly enlightened gentlemen, for they “get” the wonder that is the devine songman Raul Malo.  It is a very interesting, entertaining, educated, mostly intelligent and diverse group, (there are always a couple of oddballs in any bunch, and maybe I’m one of them), from all over the country, and in fact all over the world.  And while this has all the earmarks of one of those Digression things, I assure you it has everything to do with the story.

So there happens to be this other devotee to Malomania with whom I’ve become acquainted by chat and email, as a direct result of our shared respect for Mr. Malo.  This fact alone would not be of much particular interest, except for these specificals:  I am Queenie – she goes by TheQueen.  We are both photographers, and writers.  She happens also to love and share the excitement of Royal Road Trips.  And she’s another Lover of Rocks.  We have already laughed at our likewise propensities for Mom and Pop funky style motels, and the fact that seeing some particular rock is every good reason for stopping the vehicle, turning around, and making its acquaintance – maybe even shanghaiing it to an unimagined future in some foreign garden.  We are separated soul sisters from the same mother…. or more likely father, in my case anyway.  Biggest difference is she already HAS her trailer!

So in just a few emails, it was done:  Thought.  Idea.  Spoken.  Done.  Just like that.  It had all the same feel as what happened when I decided to go from the calendar project to the book – everything just fell into place, as did this.  Only thing this time, it was practically immediate.  I often curse the bane of Progress, but signals that go invisibly through the ethers and all these connecting lines got me a Road Trip planned in hours, and what miracle that.  And so we go to Wyoming.

After the rendezvous in Albuquerque, (she or they are coming from California), we will hie ourselves northward, into Colorado and onward to the Great Beyonds of Wyoming, heading for Ft. Bridger.  Bobby Bridger, (the impetus for this trek, actually), is a direct descendant of Jim Bridger the Mountain Man.  He is an extraordinary talent, – go ahead and look him up if you’re not familiar – and has been on my radar since the old hippy days in Austin.  Ah yes, I am a child of the 60’s, which might explain a lot to some.  Bobby’s words and voice touched me so long ago, but it took me an absurd length of time to get out and hear and meet him in person, but I finally managed that last March, as I treated myself to a birthday month gift of going to hear him perform Seekers of the Fleece in the small town close to me.  Seekers of the Fleece is an epic narrative, told in rhyme that flows like a river, accentuated with songs that soar and take your breath and heart away.  It tells the story of Jim Bridger, and the times of the Mountain Men as they began to explore the West.  And of the Native Americans who bore the brunt of the assault of Progress, (along with a few million buffalo), all wrapped up in the polite term of Western Expansion.  I’m sure all of you know, or should, that I’m on the side of the Indians on that one.

For his own reasons, Bobby has decided to retire his public performances of Seekers, and this 4^th of July, he will present that last public concert at the Jim Bridger Museum in Fort Bridger.  To me, that is honey to the bear, and I am drawn to this event.  He will donate his coyote headpiece and his buckskins to the museum, and Seekers will be relegated to history and recordings.  I feel honored to be doing this, and I can’t wait to see what stories I’ll be finding on this adventure.  Another interesting factoid is that I just happen to share a birthday with Jim Bridger.  Couldn’t possibly be just a coincidence, could it?

New friends.  Laughter.  Beautiful country.  Singing.  Writing.  Photography.  Stories.  Surprises.  New Country.  New Roads.  And oh yes, Rocks!  Old friends, too, to be visited on the way and back.  I am a lucky lady.

Stay tuned.  Back to making those lists.  I’m telling you, this Manifesting thing is the Real Deal.

Fort Bridger or Bust, y’all!