Whenever I get an antique lens it's an exciting ritual to take the first shot with it.  None of my lenses are newer than 40 years old, some are 140 years old.  Most have sat forgotten in a drawer, barn, or attic for decades, not seeing the light of day.  As I prepare the lens to shoot, I think about its prior owners, usually long gone.  What sacrifice did they make to afford what at the time were extremely expensive professional photography items?  Did the lens take happy family times?  Did it capture famous people?  Did it shoot war, or amazing new inventions such as the first car in town?  Did the photographer enjoy the lens as a prize possession his entire life?  We seldom know. 

This particular lens is from 1930, mounted on a Leica I originally, which was factory upgraded to a Leica II at some point prior to WWII.  This was a common service Leica did, and many cameras were upgraded as new features (like the rangefinder focus on this one) became available.  The Hektor 50mm F2.5 (named after the inventor’s dog) was Leitz’ attempt to make a faster lens than their popular Elmar F3.5.  At the time, film speed was only about 25 ISO, so a fast lens allowed you to handhold the new tiny cameras in lower light without blurring the picture.    It was only made for 6 years; the Elmar is still being made today. Adjusted for inflation in today’s dollars, the camera and lens cost about $4500.  Who pays that much today for a camera?  We may have clues.

Inside the leather case is penned “Property of…” and a name.  My wife is an active genealogy researcher, and quickly searched the unique name and the location it came from.  She found an old newspaper picture of a young mine engineering student enrolled in college in the late 1930s, about the time this camera was upgraded.  She also found a quality vintage compass being sold with the same name in its leather case.  A mining engineer would certainly use both a compass and quality camera prospecting in the West. 

The camera arrived last night, too dark to properly inspect it, but it looked in excellent condition.  As the light came up this morning, I looked at it closer and see it’s in fine shape, glossy black with the early nickel lens and knobs (later ones are chrome).  I carefully unscrewed the lens and put it on my G1 camera for its first picture in who knows how long.  Now, what to take?  I stepped onto the front porch, and there, blazing in the morning light, is our Chinese Pistachio tree that we planted 8 years ago.  We had one in Las Cruces that grew more in 2 years than this one in almost a decade, but it is putting on quite a show regardless.  So there it is, the first time the 1930 Hektor is used by its new owner.  

My Dog's Personal Space Trick

There is an irritating habit some people have to make people get out of their way. This is usually done so that the person gains some advantage. My dog has learned this trick. I’ll call it the “personal space invader” or PSI. It often occurs in crowded retail settings like grocery stores, antique shows, and even when walking in the mall. For example, you are bending over a table observing the vendor’s wares. You suddenly feel an uncomfortably close individual moving into your personal bubble. Your first, instinctive reaction is to move slightly away. Exactly what the PSI wants. He is looking in the area where you were, and now moves slightly into your space again. Your hands almost touch, you can smell each other, all your instincts and upbringing tell you something is wrong. You move away more. He has won the game, and now can leisurely peruse the object you were considering buying. Sometimes he’ll snatch up a bargain that you wanted. If you observe the PSI, you will see he actually concentrates on tables where another is looking at something. Sometime you'll encounter a group of PSIs walking line abreast on a sidewalk or mall pathway. As they get closer, you instinctively move out of the way. They have an invisible cowcatcher that shoves their obstacles out of the path. The rudeness will increase if an item suddenly goes on sale or it appears to be running low on the shelves.

My dog Zoey has this trick down. She loves to make our larger dog Zephyr move from a prime couch spot. Keeping a façade of good doggy manners she makes no sudden movements, but slowly comes up to where Zephyr lies. He growls. Then she slowly puts two paws up beside him. After a moment she gets all four legs on the couch, straddling his curled form. Finally with a snarl he jumps up and moves away. Zoey then curls up in the pre-warmed spot and goes to sleep.

Zephyr could learn from my technique. When a PSI moves in, stand your ground! Don’t move an inch. If you are walking and a roller-ball team approaches to bump you aside, stop. Look at your watch or stare in a shop window, but don’t move! The PSI will have to go around you or actually knock into you. At the sale or bookshelf, become even more engrossed in what you are looking at. Say something like, “I could just look at this all day!” It works.

Old High Tech Camera

I just got a “new” camera. It is an engineer’s dream, albeit circa 1946. But if you are a good, patriotic, historically minded engineer it is still a marvel. It is the Speed Graphic made famous by news photographers of the mid 20th century, who were using them to make other people famous. The picture of the flag raising on Iwo Jima was taken by a Speed Graphic.


Some would call it complicated, perhaps overly so. It’s not. Not for someone who was trained to operate complicated equipment (some from the same era) in the Navy anyway.

This purchase is just the beginning of a new hobby journey I’m on. But like most new hobbies, the learning and finding stage is very exciting. After getting skunked and sniped on “that auction site” for many weeks, I finally got this one. I took a chance, the photos were blurry and too dark to see condition. The seller mentioned two lenses, but didn’t describe the second. No matter what it was, the other lens he mentioned is a fine one, a top of the line Kodak Ektar that was the most popular lens for professionals.

Graflex made Speed Graphic cameras for decades and in many models. Now that I’ve received it I’m thrilled with what it turns out to be. It’s a 1946 black and chrome Anniversary model with all the matching accessories. It has the big side-mounted flash with two reflectors (these were used to make the Light Sabers in Star Wars, so you know they’re retro-cool), the original cord to power up a “special” sight, film backs, and even an original carrying case for all.

Does it work? Many people are afraid to buy old stuff. I never have been. If you buy quality and it’s in good condition, many items made in the 1910s-1950s are BETTER than those today. Back in the day I bought many 100 year old target firearms that would outshoot modern ones.


Check out the art deco details on the brackets that hold the bellows and the locking ring under the lens. This thing is classy! But back to engineering. It all folds out of it’s box with satisfying loud clicks. The focus rolls on perfect rack and pinion rails. This thing is build like an old colt revolver (can you see why I like it).


Focusing and sighting can be done with no less than 5 methods. There are viewfinders and range finders and “quick sights” galore. The image is projected on the back (like a modern digital camera’s screen – but analog) for fine focusing on a ground glass that is revealed when you press a hidden button.


But the coolest technology is the focus-spot option. At the top of the side-mounted Kalart range finder is a small tube with two prongs. You power up the prongs with the D-cell flash handle. The cord was very fragile from 60 years, so I substituted one from my electric shaver. Then to my amazement when I click a tiny button, two light beams shine from the range finder windows. You point the dots on the object being photographed, and adjust the focus until the two dots come together. This was used by the photojournalist in low light settings like clubs or on the street at night. So to answer the question, yes, everything works. The shutters wiz like little timebombs, the serial numbers all match up, and I discovered the mystery lens is a pretty good one for portraits and still life photography.


Speaking of shutters, that’s why this model is called a “Speed” Graphic, compared to their other cameras. This one has two shutters, one on the lens, and another in the back. The back shutter runs a curtain with slots past the film. Because of it’s design it can run at 1/1000 (.001) of a second, pretty fast in the day. To do this appears complicated, but again, I love it. Referring to the handy table mounted on a plate on the right side, you determine the letter/number referenced by the shutter speed desired. Then you wind the lower key, while watching the tension numbers in a window. Next you wind an UPPER key until your letter scrolls into another window. When all is ready, you pull the lever and the shutter fires. That works fine too.

I’m impressed with what American ingenuity could do. I’m also impressed that you can get one of these for less than the cheapest digital camera at walmart. And in a few days when my film arrives, pictures will be carefully crafted, instead of the usual “point and click.”

Signs of the Times

Years ago, in 1984 I suppose, when I was in Pensacola for the Navy Electronic Warfare school, there was a popular place called McGuires Irish Pub.
It had great burgers and beer, but was memorable for three things that I've told stories about over the years. One was the signed dollar bills covering every inch of ceiling and most walls. Though in our youth we were impressed with lucre wallpaper, in the years since I've seen dollar decorations at other places. The second was the audience participation that the entertainment always encouraged. Raucous Irish songs were sung by the predominately young Naval aviators and their dates. Everyone sung and pounded the tables in time to the songs. Anyone who pounded at the wrong moment or kept singing during the sudden breaks in the songs would be instantly spotted. The singer would stop and everyone in the pub would begin chanting "kiss the moose, kiss the moose..!" This continued until the embarrassed patron ran over to the moose head above the fireplace and planted one on it's nose.
The third thing I remember about McGuires was also good-natured. The bathroom signs were quite confusing. These were ornate, painted victorian affairs with the disembodied pointing hand logo that was popular in the period. The sign on the men's room read "Women." Below was the pointing hand and "next door" in fine print. The other bathroom did the opposite. Confused? You bet newcomers were, as they went in the wrong bathroom every time. Over the years I've wondered about McGuires' dollars, moose, and bathroom signs. It turns out they are still there, but perhaps not for long. http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,273359,00.html

Thankful Sounds

Mornings used to be my favorite time of the day, especially before, during, and directly after sunrise. I’m always the first to rise. These days mornings are my worst times. But this morning as I futilely tried to force consciousness away, the raucous peeping in the pyracantha bush 10 feet from my open window became apparent. These are the indeterminate type of non-game birds we used to generically call “tweety birds.” For once, I noticed, and listened. A sonic stream of consciousness continued when a team of coyotes began yipping and howling down the street. In New Mexico I was told that when it sounds like ten coyotes, it’s probably only two or three. As the eerie sound died down, next came the familiar sound of my bay mule Cricket flapping her ears. Whether she does this just to stretch them or to dismount bothersome flies I don’t know. But you can hear it from 50 yards away; “floppa, floppa, floppa, floppa.” Four count, slow tempo. At that point as I lay there I realized that for whatever I’ve lost, I still have the sounds that most people seldom hear. I don’t have to imagine waking every morning to birds, coyotes, mules. The calm, quiet of the house lags the awakening world, and only a thin screen separates me from it. Thank you Lord. Now I remember when I heard the old Bob Marley song earlier this week. It lifted me momentarily from my surreal vocational endeavors. He knew what he was talking about with those Three Little Birds.

Chelly Wind

September 06 Western Mule Magazine

Of all the red rock areas of the southwest, Canyon De Chelly (actually pronounced “Shay” but often mispronounced “Chilly”) in northern Arizona is one of the most enchanting. Many people visit, but few riders know it is possible to hire a Navajo guide and use your own mounts in the miles of forking canyons. In the Spring of 2006 seven intrepid riders navigated the twisty bureaucracy of two nations and successfully spent four glorious days with their mules and horses in this special Navajo land.

For many years there were two things I wanted to see if I ever got to the southwest; red-rock canyons and ancient wall art. With miles of canyons enclosing one of the longest continuously inhabited areas in North America, I knew native artisans would have found the rocky canvas irresistible. To be able to ride my mule past these ancient signs would make a dream come true. We were not disappointed, and saw may petroglyphs and pictographs including some that depicted the shorter-eared parent of the mule.

But before we could enter the canyon, we had to traverse the chasm of entrance rules. Our guide had explained the health checks and vaccines our equines would require. We accomplished this vetting weeks before the trip and dutifully sent the paperwork to him.

“This is Navajo land, I’ll take care of the entrance permits,” he said.

Weeks later the seven of us trailered from different southern AZ locations and made a rendezvous at the mouth of the canyon on the outskirts of Chinle, AZ. The guide had indicated in our telephone calls there would be corrals here. There were not, but there was a nice camping area shaded by sycamore trees. We highlined the animals then hightailed it into town for some excellent local grub.

The next morning as we began to saddle up and pack the mules a National Park truck appeared. The ranger asked to see our health inspections, and noted that strangles wasn’t checked. Though we protested that our guide hadn’t mentioned that disease, the ranger stated, “This is National Park land, we take care of the entrance permits.” Casting a glance at Nancy’s beloved cattle dog she added, “and dogs are strictly prohibited.” It appeared we were getting bogged down in a case of “this land is my land, this land ain’t your land.” Explanations begat accusations which begat negotiations. There was no love lost between the warring parties; the Navajo Nation and the US Government are still at it.

Finally a truce was signed and we were allowed to proceed if we had the local vet administer a nasal strangles vaccine and if the dog remained behind in the park kennels.

Immediately upon entering the canyon our troubles were literally and metaphorically behind us. The riders were Dennis and Nancy, semi-retired from work but working full time at enjoying the west from horseback. Judy isn’t really what they call a “snowbird” in Arizona, because she spends the majority of the year in Arizona and only spends the hottest couple months in Wisconsin. Perhaps “hotbird” would be a better term. Kelly, his wife Linda and daughter Kim made up the one representative family. Kim likes to ride and camp but was worried about missing schoolwork. So one of the mules packed her school assignments.

Between Kelly’s two pack mules and my one, we were loaded with all the provisions we would need. It turns out we were packing just for fun, because the guides can bring supplies, including hay, right to the campsites.

Finally, there was our guide Eddie, who had an amazingly deadpan way of answering any of our questions. When we saw a great blue heron Judy asked, “where did he come from?”

Eddie sat on his paint horse, Checkers, a minute then said, “his mother.” He was a friendly and helpful guide.

The mouth of the canyon reminded me of one of my favorite gospel songs, Fifty Miles of Elbowroom. It was like a wide and flat beach at low tide, with rippling water sparkling in the sun. The predominant colors are not seen in such concentrations this side of Christmas; red cliffs walls interspersed with bright green cottonwood and willow leaves. The unusual colors, shapes, and sizes of the landscape are like nothing you’ve seen elsewhere. In most places we rode beside a sandstone wall that rose straight up hundreds of feet. In other places the stream had undercut the cliff, creating a shady overhang.

Canyon de Chelly is in the four-corners region, and gets hot and dry by early summer. We chose mid April for cooler temperatures. Even with the scant snowfall this past winter, there was enough runoff to have visible water everywhere. An added advantage of riding where there has been recent water is the sand is packed and easy to ride on.

We saw a half-dozen cliff dwellings the first 3 miles. On the walls around them were some of the best petroglyphs I've seen. Some were bighorn sheep or other game, some were handprints, and some were strange humanoid figures that always had some unnatural feature, like a stretched torso or giant head. One of the scenes showed conquistadors and monks on horses. I wondered what emotions the artist felt as he labored for days to create the elaborate panorama 400 years ago. How did the landscape suit those Spanish horses, the first to be in the canyon in 9,000 years?

Our present-day mounts enjoyed the canyon just fine. The pack and riding mules appreciated the abundant water, shade and dead-flat grade. Though this would seem a paradise compared to southern Arizona, the guide’s local horse didn’t agree. As the group waited while Eddie closed a barbwire gate, his horse Checkers trotted past us. “Somebody better go get Checkers,” he said. Everyone chuckled and looked at each other. “No, I mean somebody REALLY better catch him, he’ll run all the way back to Chinle!”

Checkers thought the 8-second lead was all he needed. Dennis started down the sandy canyon at a lope until Kelly blitzed past him at a gallop. The wide, sandy arena with it’s 500 foot red walls enabled a quick retrieval of the flighty beast. I noted Eddie didn’t just throw the reins over a bush anymore.

Our base camp was in a grassy alcove in the cliffs about 3 hours from the canyon entrance. Cottonwoods formed a line across the straight edge of the “D” along the riverbed. Halfway up above us was an impressive cliff dwelling. The guide had bales of hay waiting for the equines, while a small, three-sided shelter complete with two picnic tables offered Kelly a place to set up his kitchen to feed us humans.

We brought in a variety of tents. Nancy and Dennis had a weathered but still sturdy dome, with a space age (circa 1975) reflective silver fly. It looked big enough for perhaps a couple of small cats. Kim traded her trusty but small Sierra Designs tent to mom and Kelly for a roomier model she would share with Judy. My 16-year-old tent had fallen off a mule on last winter's elk trip. I brought a never-used Walmart special I’d gotten for free the other day from a friend’s moving sale. This tent had more stake points than I’d ever seen, 8 in total. We discussed the need for stakes as I helped the others set up their tents. I've seen plenty of sudden "killer winds" come out of nowhere in the southwest, so I tapped in all eight stakes.

The next day's ride was magical. It was overcast and therefore a cool 75 degrees. We rode up the northern fork to the impressive White House ruin. At several tiny farms children would approach with beaded necklaces to sell.

That evening as we rode towards camp a wind started up quite suddenly. By the time we approached our cliffside shelters gusts were about 50 knots. We all wondered what condition the tents would be in. Dust and grit were flying horizontal as we tied all the animals up. Dennis' silver astro-tent was ripped off the ground and upside down in a bush like a landing UFO. Kim and Judy's was barely upright, the shape had changed from a dome into a sail, which the wind pushed further and further into the ground. My tent with the multitude of stakes seemed to be maintaining its position, but not its shape. As we all scurried around fixing the most damaged tents I watched mine morph into various abstract art forms.

Then the wind picked up to 65 knots. The mules hunkered down and closed their eyes. My tent started losing the battle. I ran over and grabbed a handful of fabric and tried to hold it against the gusts. A severe blast pushed the side almost inside out and I heard a fiberglass pole snap. I quickly pulled the ends of the rest of the poles out of their grommets and let the fabric lay on the ground. A few rocks would hold it until the wind stopped.

But the wind never did stop, it blew all night. I followed the guide's lead and put my saddle pads on a picnic table moved into the cook shelter. All night the grit blew around the opening of my mummy bag and in my face. In the morning I heard Judy and Kim calling from under their collapsed tent, but everyone else had kept their quarters standing. It seems Canyon de Chelly was sculpted more by wind than by water.

As we started to cook breakfast and watched the mules quietly eating their hay, Nancy pointed to the book I’d been reading, "Collapse." “We should pick some other titles to read,” said Judy. But the Chelly wind was over and more beautiful days of riding were ahead.

Tombstone Ride

We just returned from a nostalgic ride into Tombstone from Fairbanks, a nearby ghosttown. At least I think it was a ghost town, I didn't see anything there but a sign that read, "historic townsite". Pics in somewhat chronological order here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/garrettsphotos/sets/1735264/

It was a beautiful day for a ride, mid 70s and sunny, with a tad of intermittent overcast. It required 4 hours for the 10-11 of us to travel through the desert, past old mining districts, and over the hills into Tombstone. Several things made this ride special. You can ride right into town and tie up in front of any establishment. Cars are kept off the main street (Allen street coincidentally), but not horses, mules or wagons. We let our mounts get used to the stagecoaches that rode by behind them, and the gunfights down the street. No problems.
Since we had all dressed authentico, the tourists that gathered didn't know if we were part of the town entertainment. We assured them we were locals just in for a drink and some food. Lots of fun watching all the pictures being taken and requests to pet the animals.
Before I could go into Big Nosed Kates for beer and pizza (OK, this may not be the original fare), I had to check my gun in at the store next door. I just hung it on a peg with several others.
After lunch, Bill and Sarah and I rode up and down the streets looking at the shops and shoppers while the others stayed in pedestrian mode with their horses hitched. It was quite a trip back in time.

Roscoe the Red-faced Liar

November SEAHA note from the editor

Ah, Christmas. Like most Americans I love everything about this season, except for a strange tradition of telling little white lies to our kids about a jolly bearded man and his antlered friends. And about those pointy eared folks. And the unbridled consumerism. But I like the rest of it. A few years ago we made the epic drive from Las Cruces to Helena, Montana. Scenery and adventure abounded along the route but there was a dry spell of excitement near Grand Junction. Then we saw the signs for the colossal Rimrock Adventures petting zoo. It seemed interesting in the guidebook, especially so to our animal-lover Amelia after I mentioned "Roscoe the Friendly Elk." To gauge the kid’s interest I asked if they wanted to visit and hand feed him. From my offhand attitude they must have thought this was something I’d done before. During the hour before we got there we didn’t stop hearing questions about him from Amelia. "Can we pet him?" "Is he really nice?" Amelia was basically psyched. But when we arrived it turned out Roscoe was gone, I was afraid to ask where or why. The guidebook was outdated. We didn’t want to hear Amelia crying and a logical explanation was to say he was doing the same thing we were, vacationing. Nathan played along. Amelia asked a barrage of questions about Roscoe: "Where does he vacation? Where does he sleep? Why did he take a vacation?" We kept answering and dug our hole deeper and deeper. This excuse worked so well that as we approached the Grand Tetons, we carried it further. "Roscoe is vacationing in the Grand Tetons, maybe we’ll see him." We decided the first elk we saw would magically be Roscoe and make her happy. Questions generated answers that begged more questions, until we were thoroughly SICK of talking about Roscoe the elk. It didn’t stop for days. Finally on the third day Amelia saw a cow elk from the car window. I hit the brakes, backed up and Sarah and Nathan and I all yelled; "there’s Roscoe!" Amelia was very happy and only asked a few more cute questions; “Does he know you?” Oh yeah, he remembers me, I said. "Does he know me?" No, he’s just meeting you now. And then finally, “But I thought you said boy elks have horns?” Do not toy lightly with a child’s intellect. Have a Merry Christmas and keep those white lies down to a dull roar.

Go With What you Know

November SEAHA note from the editor

I spent the Sunday morning before Halloween at the local pumpkin patch and corn maze. It's a popular tradition to be sure, yet this was my first time out. I didn't go to wander the corn and pick orange melons. I want to learn to drive a team, with the idea that one of my three mules is buggy pulling material. A friend from work moonlights there every year driving the horse-drawn public transit system. I could learn the reins while we take tourists on a circuitous route through the quarry for the next Michelangelo's jack-o-lantern and the market for the next Julia Child's extravaganza. There were over 20 Percherons, Clydesdales, and even a team of Norwegian Fjords. Nary a mule in sight. It seems there are Ford men and Chevy men in this world too. But one piece of advice seemed to resonate: Buy a team that already knows how to pull, rather than trying to train your 20 year old mules to do something different. Go with what you know, in affect.
The problem is I don't know what my mules did in their previous lives. In the 3 years since I've had Cricket she's been a saddle mule, and the calmer of my two big ones. I took her elk hunting this year because I had a hunch she would pack meat without fear. I've packed "stuff" on her so she knows what a packsaddle is. But when we rode into an extremely "target rich environment" near Hannagan Meadows I sensed she had never been around so many live elk before. As we entered the field near where we would later shoot one, elk bugled on three sides. If you haven't heard it, the sound a male elk makes isn't like the boogie woogie bugle boy, it's more like the boogie woogie mule monster! The air was filled with unearthly howling whistles, which were supplemented by the aromas of an elk wallow. The uncertain sight of black, burned conifers completed the trilogy for the senses. Cricket's homeland security system went quickly from blue, to orange, to red. Her ears went up, back arched and she kicked up her heels. I quickly dismounted and led her through the monstrous elk pit and into our aspen camp. Less than 24 hours later I led her up the ridge where my quartered elk lay. I wondered how she'd react to the macabre, dismembered scene. She didn't even flinch. "Elk, eh? Pack it on and let's get going." The one time I thought she was worried was as we were about to load and she pivoted 90 degrees on her hitch. She pooped, then circled back to the level spot to be loaded. She's obviously been there, done that. Go with what you know.

Elk Success

Most hunting trips to the high country I call successful even if I don't get a shot. Sometimes it ends up being just armed camping, but I love being in the cool mountains when the elk are bugling and the yellow aspen quaking. But this weekend's hunt was a success by any standard.
Four years ago when I had another cow elk tag near Hannagan Meadows I had sprung a lot of elk, but they were all bulls. Thanks to my friend Kelly, this time we had a good tip on a location. A coworker and I trailered two mules to Alpine a couple days before the hunt. There were bull and cow elk bugling every few minutes all night long, some within a few hundred yards of our tent the first night. These high-pitched wails, ending in echoing roars and grunts remind me of a Jurassic Park movie. Though the sounds are not quite that ancient, they have been heard in these mountains for a few hundred thousand years. The next morning we made a few scouting hikes into roadside areas I had hunted before. We heard a cow but as there was not much sign we decided to make a wilderness hunt where Kelly suggested.
We saddled Phoebe and Cricket and loaded as much camping and hunting equipment that we could fit in backpacks and saddlebags. The trail was barely maintained and a fire had obscured even more markings. Fortunately about 1/4 mile from a junction we needed to find we encountered a young trail crew. They told us what to look for and if they had not we would have missed it. Many aspen and some fir were down across the tiny trail, but we found our way through the mess to our destination. It was a beautiful meadow about 75 yards wide and 200 yards long. In the center was a bog with several deep wallows surrounded by elk prints. This would be a good place to be the next morning when shooting became legal.
As we rode into the meadow several bulls were bugling from the aspen forest on all sides. That sound combined with all the scents made Cricket quite nervous. After a couple feeble bucks I decided to dismount and lead her through to find a secluded camp on the other side of the meadow. She is the wildest of my three mules in the saddle, but is the one I know will pack. I didn't know how she would handle packing meat.
At dusk that evening we tiptoed around our half of the perimeter as the bugling got closer and closer. Finally Frank spotted a huge bull followed by 5-6 cows and calves. This bull's incessant bugling was due to another competing bull circling the harem. We watched barely 50 yards from them as they all wallowed in the mud and drank their daily water. When the two bulls began fighting we retreated to our hidden camp to the sounds of their clattering antlers.
Before dawn we sneaked to the same viewpoint and waited for the light to come up. Again, there were bugling bulls everywhere, but it sounded further away than before. Even in the moonlight it was apparent there were no grazing elk in the bog. The action sounded like it was beyond the downhill tip of the field, where the forest closed back in on the seep. While it was still dark we could quietly skirt the meadow in the grass. Fortunately I took one last look at the meadow through my decent binoculars. There was a black stump in the middle of one of the puddles that I didn't remember being there in the light. I looked closer and used a trick I'd learned at sea in the Navy; look to the side of what you think you see in the dark, not directly at it. The stump began looking like it had branches arcing upward. It was a bull laying in the water in the dark. It was probably the outcast bull, and it was between the noisy herd and us. As the dawn grey began to break, it silently stood up, sloshed it's antlers in the water a couple times, and took a few steps towards us. We were barely in the forest edge, only obscured by the dark and a knee-high spruce. Very slowly he changed direction and walked across to the forest on the other side.
After about 10 minutes I was pretty sure the elk had moved over the ridge, using it as a shortcut to the herd. I planned to follow a similar path because I didn't know the layout at the end of the field. I thought there might be a connecting field with a little forest in between. If we walked through the connection and there were elk in there, we'd be spotted.
As we quickly walked through the middle of the frozen bog I hoped no more sentinels were around to see us in the breaking sunlight. We began our accent though deadfall of an old burn. There were still plenty of live conifers and aspen to hide us as we huffed in the thin air at 9,000 feet. The bugling sounds were getting closer. I anticipated cresting the ridge and being able to see the elk below on the other side. Suddenly I saw the face of an animal above me between the aspen and Christmas trees. Frank saw them at the same time, four or five cow elk were 100 yards above us looking down. They seemed to sense us, but hadn't spotted us. Thankfully we had stopped moving exactly when we came into view. I couldn't lower my binocs for several seconds until they were all obscured by trees, then I swapped it for my rifle. I fire a single-shot, so I had to make it good. One good-sized cow stood broadside but was hidden from the midpoint down by grass and the slope of the hill. Another appeared broadside and I fired quickly offhand. I mentally called the shot; it felt right on. We scrambled straight up to where she had been standing and I spotted her a couple yards away. I said some kind words and we started the real work. It was one hour into hunting season.
The grueling work of skinning and quartering took until noon, without Frank's help I would have been there for days. We spend the rest of the day riding back to the trailhead to get the packsaddle, supplies and rigging from the truck. The next day we walked in leading the Cricket with her packsaddle and Phoebe. The meat was safe and untouched after a cold night below freezing. Cricket showed no concern for the 4 elk quarters and we packed up the camp and the elk and made one trip out. The meat was back in Alpine in a refrigerator trailer by 2:00 the day after I made the shot. There were many turns of events that lead to the success of this hunt, but these are the high points. It was a grand adventure.

Who Will Collect Madonna in 2020?

We-ll Doggie! An eccentric after my own heart. Joe Bussard; living and collecting rare 78 American roots music and playing it on radio stations in my old hometown in Carolina. Doing if for 35 years and I never heard of him!
This rabid brotherhood is almost invariably made up of eccentrics who came of age in the '50s and '60s, rejecting everything around them. More than just hippie-haters, though, these men loathe the very idea of popular music, right back to the time of fox trots and Al Jolson, the Jazz Age clichés often mistaken for the soundtrack for their beloved era. They've got their own names for such million sellers as Vernon Dalhart: Vermin Dogshit and Vernon Stalefart. These are the enemies, the pop crooners on the crapola 78s that they've had to muck through to find the gems that never made it in mainstream America. Their Jazz Age is strictly the music of poor whites and blacks: wild-ass jazz and string-band hillbilly, surreal yodels and king-snake moans, lightning-bolt blues and whorehouse romps and orgasmic gospel.
It's all anti-pop, anti-sentimental: the raw sounds of the city gutter and the roadside ditch.
Maybe I'm just a few generations behind them, but for the past 7-8 years people say I'm "stuck" in the past, musically. I'm sorry, but the past is where it all started. I've done classic rock, rockabliy, punk, alternative, grunge, reggae, island music, some native american music, classical. Well now I'm interested in just two things, really only one thing: where it all started, and modern artists that are unique and innovative. Pop country or rock or both can be for the masses. Check out his website .

Possessions You Need Not Give Up

September SEAHA note from the editor

The preacher’s sermon last Sunday discussed our attempts to find happiness in material things. Humans cannot fulfill their needs with possessions, he explained. I don’t see myself fixated on possessions, but after some introspection, maybe I am. At work we’re getting new furniture to replace the WWII era desks in my office. Those were the haze gray, metal types, with genuine asbestos-reinforced Formica tops. Time for an upgrade, but with the furniture comes a remodeling. I’ll have to move a few feet away from my rare window, the first I’ve had in a 25-year string of jobs in classified environments. For the past year natural lighting and a view of the weather have become a daily joy and something I need more than a fancy new desk with a decal of wood stuck to it. But in the name of ergonomic progress that’s what I’m getting.
I’m a career technologist, but avocational luddite. The nostalgic in me needs old-fashioned pursuits. Historic hobbies help me connect with the past. Why else would someone who has developed training for the Stealth Fighter ride mules? I love watching animals as they try to understand our directions, or try to avoid them as the case may be. I’m sure a lot of you agree it’s the relationship with the animal we enjoy, not that equines are a gas-saving and efficient mode of transportation. Another throwback is acoustic music. Enjoying music and now learning to make it with my family is high on my hierarchy of needs. Sarah says she’s going to hide my mandolin and Nathan’s guitar because we pick them up any time there is work to be done. A feeble ploy, there’re more instruments where those two came from! The family collection includes two guitars, two mandolins, a banjo and a fiddle; we can find something with strings to hack on.
My friend Tony recently surprised me by saying his most prized possession was his double-sided ax that he bought as a young man in Wyoming. It’s not the tool, but the memories of its usefulness that he remembers. So that’s another one, memories. My memories are of family and childhood explorations on the now far side of the Appalachian range. Then I recall remote Pacific ports and friends who left by fair winds and following seas. And finally there are the memories that are built daily with my family and current circle of friends. A window view, nostalgia, companionship with friends and creatures, and pleasant memories are not possessions. I don’t think we need to give up these intangible things that He provided.

But it's a Peaceful Religion

Britain has finally turned the corner and is deporting inflammatory Islamic leaders. This morning I heard on NPR some are calling for an Islamic reformation, revising the belief to not be so vengeful and intolerant. That movement, of course, would have to come from within, not the British government. If American pundits are right; that “most Muslims don’t believe in terror”, that could occur. Personally I doubt it. What have these soon to be evicted “preachers” been doing? Indoctrinating their massed believers. They're not just chatting among themselves. What does their sacred text say? When will America wake up? Read this very interesting story on a recently released video, where terrorists in training "...kneel in prayer under the open skies, then duck into a makeshift classroom where an instructor outlines the coming "Operation to Defeat the Crucifix."

Mules versus Jackasses

August SEAHA note from the editor

It’s ironic I go to my mules to forget about the jackasses of the world.
I was at Brawleys the other morning, my favorite place to enjoy a great breakfast for under $4.00. The extraordinarily quick and friendly service is also impressive. But for the first time in the three years I've been going there someone in the booth next to me was unhappy. He began giving the waitress a hard time because his order was wrong. It wasn't enough to just mention it to her, he had to hold up his plate and loudly demand, "does that look like french toast?" Still not satisfied that everyone acknowledged his displeasure, he then turned around in his seat to the guy in the other booth. "Does that look like french toast to you?" The shocked elderly man didn't answer but the question was repeated. I mentally prepared for when I would be asked next. I'd either tell him to calm down, or if I didn't feel like being confrontational I'd do my usual impression of a German tourist; "Vas? No Sprekenze Englesh." It usually takes a while for them to figure out I'm "funnin" them. My English newspaper would be the giveaway this time.

How would this scenario go with my mules? Setting; feeding time, our paddock. The mules play the restaurant customers, I’m the waiter. The mules are seated in their usual booth, the fence that overlooks our back door. Within minutes of arriving, they are happy to see the waiter coming. I don’t even have to give them menus, as I walk up they place their order. WrooHoohoohoo says Horace (hay and some of those pellets please) and Wreeeeeee says Phoebe (I’ll have the same). Cricket doesn’t order. Of the three regulars, she likes to act like she’s on a diet, then pig out off the other’s plates. I find the kitchen is out of Lakin pellets, so I substitute some rice bran, comping a portion to all three. As they politely begin eating, and so none of the other customers will hear, Horace quietly says to Phoebe, “pssst – this doesn’t look like pellets to me, does it to you?” “No, but don’t tell the nice waiter, I think this bran is even better than what we ordered. Let’s leave a big tip.”
Let’s further compare mule behavior to jackass behavior:
A mule will keep you out of trouble. A jackass will get you into trouble.

At work
Mule's ears help them avoid risks. Jackasses never listen to risks.
Mules just want to chew grass. Jackasses just want to chew someone out.
Mules neatly pile their poop in one spot. Jackasses erratically pile BS all over you.
On the road
Mules like to go the same speed as everyone else. Jackasses like to go 10 MPH faster than everyone else.
Mules usually signal before they change direction or speed. Jackasses never signal.
Mules tailgate because they like their trail companions. Jackasses tailgate to intimidate their fellow travelers.
In relationships
Mules tell you what they want (to eat and relax). Jackasses keep you guessing.
Small mules still do a good job. Jackasses think size is everything.
Mules do more watching and listening than talking. Jackasses talk without knowing what they're talking about.
Now where do you get your best customers?

Prescott's Smallest Rider

July SEAHA Trail Ride Report

June 17th - Prescott, AZ - If you can't take the heat, get out of Tucson, er… the fire. The pine forest six miles above Prescott is about as high as you can get and still be that close to a wonderful town, but even at 6800 feet the temperatures still approached the mid 80s. Laura, our trail boss, ensured two important components were constantly available to make the ride cool and highly enjoyable; shade and water. This was the first official SEAHA ride for Hope Allen and her first real chance at the "controls" for more than backyard rides. Over the past few months her mother had proven the little mule Phoebe bombproof, though her father wondered how Hope would handle the trait that gave Phoebe her original name, Speedy. Within a half mile it was obvious Hope would have no problems, if she could just remember that the steering wheel on her saddle (the horn) did nothing to slow her progress or stop her steed. Kids grow up learning that cars, boats, bikes, and games are controlled by solid, mostly round fixtures. Pulling a floppy piece of leather is a foreign idea to a modern six-year-old. Adding to the sporting nature of the trail event, there were several logs that had to be stepped over. A 13.5 hand mule like Phoebe doesn't step over anything taller than a gopher mound, she has to jump or risk getting high-centered. Hope learned to hang on and enjoy the jump. The route stayed shady and in places wet as we wound a few hundred feet down to Groom Creek. Or at least we think it was Groom, it could have been Wolf. The trails in the area are seldom marked or official, but meander around, crossing and re-crossing each other. Laura never once exhibited less than perfect confidence in our route. Well, perhaps once. But all trails heading downhill lead to the welcome landmark of water and the creek is where we hitched up the animals and had a nice break. The grass beside the bubbling stream was high, and the horses and mules enjoyed the rest as much as the riders. The return route passed several gold claims, sparking discussions on the prospects of striking some pay dirt. Finding gold was only one of the extra-equestrian activities SEAHA members enjoyed after the main ride. Dining in Prescott or potlucks at the Groom Creek Horsecamp, watching the free entertainment on the plaza, and relaxing in the mountain air were fine alternatives to baking in the desert.

Precision

Propelling a tiny cylinder of heavy metal at supersonic speeds, into closely adjacent holes hundreds of feet from the launching point, requires the combination of precision instruments and remarkable human athletic skill.
If you can think about it without any bias, an extremely accurate rifle is simply an amazing tool. The feat of hitting a target at 500 yards is as impressive as a hole in one. Everything has to be exactly right, and compared to golf, there is little luck. It is misinformed for an anti-gunner to say guns are only made for killing. Most guns are fired on target ranges attempting to see how close the shooter can get those little holes. I just bought a new rifle, a beautiful tool of wood and steel, that shoots the tiny .17 caliber HMR round. I shot it today for the first time. Watching through the scope as most rounds went practically through the same hole was a very satisfying experience.

The River's Confluence

Amelia and I traveled light to Silver City, NM this weekend in the Miata. With just a tent, sleeping bags and a little food, I wanted to get out of the heat, hear some blues, and to see how my friend's new life there was shaping up. In retrospect this weekend was a confluence of many rivers.

My friend and I have had strangely parallel jobs for close to fifteen years. We both hired on with Harris in Omaha in the early 90s, but I didn't actually meet him until we were both transferred to Las Cruces, NM. There we worked in and explored the most desolate reaches of southern New Mexico and had many adventures. When I quit the NASA job to work with the Stealth fighter he followed a year later to work for another company doing F-117 support. After 4 years I quit that job, left the land of enchantment and came to Tucson to build F-16 training. He quit Alamogordo only a year later and came to Tucson with Raytheon. A few years later I joined that company. An unusual silent period followed that I only recently understood. He's quit the job, in the midst of a dissolved family, to start his life over. I envy his plan to trade Tucson's white heat and corporate ethics for the cool green and small-town sincerity of Silver City.

I realized driving home from the pinon-juniper forest of Silver that I had met more people in three days than I've met in Tucson in five years. That's not really true, but it feels that way. It was the commonality, quality, and sincerity of the people I met that made the difference. Our hostess was Tony's new friend Paula, a sophisticated yet very approachable local artist who kindly offered her house as an alternate to my tent. She gave us a tour of the community TV station then walked us back to her house for a premiere party of the show she had made. Her beautiful casa is a half-block off main in the historic district, and is said to be the second oldest in town.

There were only a few degrees of separation between my life and the eclectic folk that gathered to watch the premiere. First was Dave, who works for "the smallest division of Raytheon" half the year in Antarctica. I didn't know the company had such. When I was in the Navy I toyed with the idea of volunteering for Operation Deep Freeze. It's a civilian operation now, but Dave received the same medal the military gets if they "winter over." Why did I want to go I wondered? Just to say I did it, probably. He actually did, and now has the bragging rights I never will. John was the cane-wielding septuagenarian with the rapier-sharp vocabulary, sipping vodka from Paula's tiny demitasse teacups, her mother's pattern. John is her video editor and came by several times to work on her productions on the computers in her studio. The next person I met is a lawyer from Las Cruces who knows my old neighbor, the one who is perpetually trying make a break into the old west politics by running for judge.

The most unexpected connections were musical. I have moved beyond blues the past ten years, but when I read about the lineup for the tenth annual blues festival I saw Dr. Mojo & The Zydeco Cannibals included Mike Purdy, the musician who taught me the mandolin and teaches my son guitar every week. The festival had street dances and a nice venue at the park, just a short walk from Paula's house. The connection that didn't tangibly occur was when I suggested dinner at the Buckhorn Saloon in the Pinos Altos hills above Silver. As we sat eating our buffalo burgers Paula told me that the last time she was there Iris Dement was sitting at the bar near the Indian that always occupies the corner spot and sat there that night. I don't know what I would have done if she were there that night, but Tucson seemed like a distant planet.

Had Amelia and I camped in the Gila National Forest near the Buckhorn as originally planned, the sound of rain would have eased our transition to sleep. Instead, effervescent fish tanks brought about our slumber on solid hardwood floors. A broken teacup in Paula's pattern hid fish in the gravel of one of the tanks. As the rivers of life flow inextricably toward an unknown sea, the small headwaters gather downstream, combining their common experiences into one flow.

Soaking in the Gila

June SEAHA note from the editor

The goal of the May 14th ride was to get wet in the Jordan Hot Springs. We left our camp at TJ corral in the bright mid-morning, already feeling the rising temperatures at 0930. Though never really getting hot by Tucson standards, we were happy when after about an hour the trail dropped into the gloom of Little Bear Canyon. Barely 20 feet wide and less in places, single-file riding was ensured. The trickle of water in the bottom belied the torrent that would be there during flash floods. A few tight places necessitated leading. The shade diminished as the slot canyon opened up into the larger Gila River canyon. Only 15 crossings and we would be at the proverbial Jordan Hot Springs, purported to be one of the nicest in SW New Mexico. But the water was higher than expected, there had been plenty of snow this winter. Stirrups certainly were dampened, and Sarah said she could feel Phoebe’s feet swimming on one crossing. Each horse and rider seemed to enjoy the cool, clear water of the first crossing. At the second crossing Dennis tried out the temperature, by getting cleanly ejected midstream. We watched his hat and glasses fly off at his apogee, then saw his lightning reflexes choose the most important item, the glasses, and grab them in midair before hitting the water. Sarah dismounted on the opposite bank to help, then got bumped into the river when Phoebe scrambled to get out of Kiowa’s way. We made many more safe crossings, averaging one every 5 minutes, until we got to the 11th. There the river looked fairly deep, and the trail on the opposite bank was blocked by a tree that had been felled by beavers. Horace crossed with much urging, and I tried to move the tree. Judy, Nathan and Sarah followed, though Sarah’s mount hesitated in the water 5 feet from the bank for several minutes. We decided to turn around at this point. Nathan got his mule reversed and facing the river again on the constricted bank. Cricket inched forward on the edge, closer and closer, then started to hunch down her backside. “Whoa…hold on…look out” was all we could say as she leaped 8 feet into the river. Nathan remained in the saddle until she hit the water. We all watched in slow motion as he flew over her head into the river. He came up mad but unharmed. Sarah and I quickly jumped OFF our mules to slog back across as pedestrians, not equestrians. We had wanted to sit in the hot springs, but most of us got a soaking anyway.

Too Much Violins on TV

I was in a meeting today with a national security program that is under high-visiblity right now, due to some handling mishaps with the payload. Boeing is the prime contractor and is insisting Raytheon error-proof the situation. At the meeting the program manager started out his talk by saying, "we've had a lot of audit findings, Boeing is really honest." He said that a couple times so I finally had to speak up.
"I worked for them for 5 years, they're really not that honest, no more than any other company."
"No, I said they are really On Us, not honest..."

A Mind of Their Own

May SEAHA note from the editor

Not too long ago Sarah was having trouble with the starter in her Toyota 4runner. It worked some days, not others. The day I decided to drive it to the shop it wouldn't start. No problem, we'll just push start it. We live in a tortilla-flat section of Arizona so there are no hills to get a good roll going. Throwing a glance at the mules watching over the fence, I recalled Horace's unmulelike fear of having anything hitched up behind him. Why pull with just a couple of horsepower when I have 225 in my F-150 truck? The only problem was my most suitable towline was only 8 feet long. I realized Sarah wouldn't know the complexities of popping the clutch when bump-starting a vehicle, so I told her she would be in the lead driving the Ford, and pulling me in the dead Toyota. Like a lot of couples the warmth of our relationship is often cooled by miscommunications. I carefully told her "to gently, at a steady, slow speed, head down the driveway and onto the street. Don't slow down suddenly or stop until I signal you, the line is very short and I don’t want to rear-end you. There's not much braking space." We both mounted our steeds. Sarah took up the slack in the line and got me going without any inchworming bounces. As we pulled out of our gravel drive and into the paved street I popped the clutch and got the engine going instantly. Somehow in the commotion we came to a stop. I thought it was because Sarah had realized the engine had started but alas, as the Toyota started up, I got my power brakes back and pulled us both to a stop. We weren't going anywhere, yet. Unused to an automatic, and believing she had just lost steam in the tow, she started giving it gas to get us going again. Not yet figuring out she was trying to re-motivate, I instinctively pushed the brake pedal harder as I sensed the Toyota about to roll. Our psychic communication is worse than our verbal, and she hit the gas harder. Suddenly I realized the horrid situation we were in. As soon as I let go of the brake pedal, the Toyota would leap forward faster than a speeding bullet, whereupon it would crash into the back of my F-150. Two wreaked trucks for the price of one. Keeping one foot on the brakes I lowered the window and yelled "whoa". She pulled harder, and my brakes started making popping noises. WHOA… I yelled as I waved my arm out the window! She hit the gas harder until she was spinning out, fishtailing inches in front of my windshield, filling the air with white smoke. "WHOA!!!, hold UP, you're GOING TO KILL US ALL!!! She finally decided to confirm what I wanted and yelled out the window, "Are you saying GO?" NO…WHOA, I mean STOP!! I jumped out and quickly released the ties that bind, and had come close to welding, us together. Now I've heard non-riders say they believe driving motor vehicles are safer than using horses or mules, because you are in control and the former don't have a mind of their own. It all depends...

Meadows Mishaps

April SEAHA note from the editor

In the heart of the Gila Wilderness there is an ancient caldera that forms a deep canyon several miles across. Those that venture in and stand on the rim can see hoodoos pointing up from the sides of the abyss and the riparian glimmer of river beaconing far below. The rocky fingers snap me from the trance of the green below, and question, "you again? Are you sure you want to do this again?" The first time I was in the meadows it was with prior knowledge my backpacking days were numbered. My knees were starting to give out when carrying weight. Therefore I left the tent behind; sleeping under the stars, or rain, would be worth 6 pounds saved. Hours later at the rim my aching knees let me know it wasn't enough, but we headed down the steep trail to the bottom. There I threw my pack off, stiffly extended my legs as I sat in the grass, and prepared to die. It didn't help that my companions were close to 20 years older than me and were fine. I popped a prescription painkiller, wondering if being 6 months out of date would be a problem. Maybe age boosted the drugs effectiveness, causing the psychedelic experiences to come. All I got at the time was a severe stomachache. That night I planned my sleeping spot carefully, near the fire, but not too near. I have a lot of backwoods experience, but had always used a tent too keep the bugs off. And the eastern skunks, but that's another story. I instinctively needed something over or around me, so I laid my bag beside large driftwood log. Gus and Li called goodnight from the safe comfort of their tent as I passed out, bag cinched tight over my nose. Keeps the skunks out. My slumber ceased as a large branch from the log fell on me, broken off by something…or someone, clattering and creating a ruckus all around me! Bear or skunk, something was attacking. I know enough that making serious noise will scare off either, so I started yelling. My half-awake mind could think of only one statement: Yee-haw...yee-haw? YEE-HAAA! I yelled over and over trying to unzip my bag so I could see. Gus started calling, "Garrett, what's going on?" I fought my way out, threw the log off, and found…it was gone. Several elk had apparently wandered into camp, spooked at the smells and jumped my log getting away. Elk prints were everywhere in the morning. The last time I was in the meadows was two years ago on Horace, packing cricket, to give my knees a break. Nancy and Dennis joined me on their horses. The trip down off the precipice was a thrill-a-minute, several times the horses were practically doing headstands and other circus tricks over the stair step boulders. We made it, and had a nice night at camp. Dennis' horse needs his room going up, so Horace and I stayed back. Cricket had torqued me off so much the previous days I turned her loose to scramble up the trail on her own. She curiously stayed back too. One switchback ahead of us Dennis and Kiowa met the steepest section, and it won the fight. Horace and Cricket's ears went into full alert as Dennis struggled to keep Kiowa on the trail. To no avail, he stepped off on the high side as Kiowa rolled and slid down the slope in front of us. Attentive but calm ears and eyes followed the horse's slide in front of us and down the next level. Kiowa wedged safely in some downed timbers. The next time I go to the meadows may be the May 14th SEAHA ride. Who's game!?

My Girl's Careers

The quality-time ratio goes down after the first child, or two, and I've forgotten to do some of the parental things with Hope that I did with Nathan and Amelia. A minute ago she was painting with one of those cheap watercolor palettes, with the little divots of color compound; just add water. I suddenly thought to ask her what she wanted to be when she grows up. I looked forward to the answer, as it is a little ongoing experiment I have with my girls to try to solve the perennial mystery of gender. Do girls gravitate towards girl stuff because of family or societal pressure, or some unknown natural inclination? This theory is predicated on believing that they do act more feminine. I have never pushed Hope to be girlie. Sarah is a tomboy, her biggest thrill this week was changing the flat on my Miata by herself. My girls are equals in our recreation. They camp, ride the mules, play with their outdoor toys with similar enthusiasms as Nathan. They are inquisitive about the advanced topics we discuss at the dinner table. So when I asked for her vocational desires I expected to hear anything from fighter pilot to engineer. Holding her fingers up, she ticked off the first and second choices, a gymnastics instructor or a ballerina. Never been to either event.

Water Worries

March SEAHA note from the editor

I was just listening to Petey Mesquite on KXCI. If you've never heard his Growing Native radio show, think of the Baxter Black of desert horticulture and ecology. A consummate plant and animal lover, his 5-minute segment this Saturday was on the Santa Cruz "river." Petey talks about the Bosques that used to rim Tucson's river 100 years ago, full of wetland plants and animals. I have no trouble visualizing a healthy river system; the Bosque de Apache near Belen, NM is the winter home of thousands of Sand Hill Cranes, Arctic Geese, ducks. Seventy-five miles south of there we used to wade into the chest-deep Rio Grande to gather the 3 foot catfish from the trot lines we'd set the night before. The Santa Cruz must have been like that once, the bones of 6-foot sturgeon have been found at an abandoned Indian pueblo near Tucson. One hundred miles south of Bosque de Apache the Rio Grande hits Las Cruces, where unfortunately it is going the way of the Santa Cruz, we often called it the "Rio Sande." The last time I was there, quad-runners plied the sand where we caught catfish 10 years ago. Petey's commentary also reminded me of some recent trail ride water worries and how quickly we forget the pervasive necessity of water. Water is a fact(or) of life. A pre-urban legend tells that Indians broke green horses by walking them into deep water before mounting the first time. The truism that every animal species can swim from birth, except man, is not that deep a mystery. An animal is not afraid of and usually won't drown in water, unless man is involved.
We quickly overlook our need for water and cancel plans in frustration when it clouds up. I was in the Navy in Hawaii for several years, and went scuba diving most weekends. Sometimes we'd wake up Saturday morning and look out a hatch only to find a gray, dreary day. "Aww, I guess we better cancel our dive plans," I'd say to my dive partner. With characteristic pragmatism, Smitty would say, "Why? We're gonna get wet anyway." I sometimes see the glass half empty... of water. I even bailed out of the Catalina trail ride, because it was raining. But I actually love the rain, its scarcity in the desert makes it all the more exhilarating, this spring's rides will surely be colorful. Change the months and Chaucer tells it best;

When in April the sweet showers fall
That pierce March's drought to the root and all
And bathed every vein in liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower

With this winter's sweet showers we can be confident of plenty of flowers to make our spring rides spectacular.
This month SEAHA is helping build the Arizona Trail, perhaps one day our club will be able to help rebuild another, more liquid trail, the Santa Cruz river.

Here One Year

One year ago today I started out at Raytheon. My mind has gotten some needed challenge, my heart has appreciated the reduced stress, my social life broadened. We'll maybe that one hasn't happened as much as one would suppose working at a site with 10,000 employees. Two root causes are we are in a building removed from most of the action, and I'm just so darned busy.
It's funny, but in 1989 when I got out of the Navy I thought briefly about working for Raytheon, who made the system I'd been working on. I miss working directly for a military customer, but it could be worse; there is a Slimfast plant in town. Of course, our products are exclusively used by the military, I just don't have daily interfacing as I once did.
The company does some things better. Change is embraced at a level slightly more than skin deep. In my previous jobs it was paid lip service or aggressively resisted. Working on projects like the EKV are definitely interesting. The fact that it may one day save millions of Americans is too big to wrap your mind around.
The company does some things worse. It does resist change in a few critical areas, like giving all employees internet access and email. A big problem for trainers. But on the whole, what was at the time a very uncertain decision, feels pretty good. Is it perfect, no, but good enough for government work.

Finding an Arrowhead

A mystery hidden until chance discovery
Only by serendipity of time and place
One precise preceding path
A last puff of wind uncovers
The eyes glance and see
Beauty untouched for an unknown time

Almost fearing a vision, I reach out
And touch
Confirming a very special thing
That was once special to someone else
And forever will be to someone again

The finds are less frequent now
Ten times the past year
Where it once seemed an endless supply
The time spent in that far away place
Goes from daily to occasional to seldom

But I still see each vision
And remember the feel of each encounter

That Rat's Gonna Pay

February SEAHA note from the editor
Expected rain this weekend and expected guests next, we decided to forgo riding for some much needed housework. The girls had cleaned the empty storage shed in the mule area, and had been asking to play with their Barbie dolls there since yesterday. We told them we would get the dolls out of storage if they cleaned their room first. Our house doesn't have much internal storage, the bedrooms are smaller than the inside of my horse trailer. So the scores of Barbies that accrue at every birthday have to go somewhere, Sarah had neatly stacked them like cordwood in an old dresser in the garage. As I gathered the Tupperware storage boxes filled with Barbie accoutrements, houses, pools, corvettes (hey, Barbie lives better than me!) Sarah headed for the 4-drawer dresser. Opening drawer number one, she exclaimed "oh s*&%, a packrat's been in here." Sarah can't stand the destructive vermin, when we catch one in the live trap she calmly drowns them. I discretely release them across the interstate (enjoy, Del Lago Estates!). My little revenge for them stopping the riding in Pantano wash, "for the environment", then building 50 gazillion houses and a golf course down there. But I digress. Sarah began inventorying the damage. Some Barbies were missing just a hand or foot. Others had their faces horribly mutilated. It would be an interesting study to see if pack rats disfigure only a certain Barbie style. Golfing Fun Barbie is given a facial while Desert Adventure Barbie is left untouched. Behind drawer number 2 was worse carnage. A nest made of Barbie parts was lined with soft, nylon hair. Several neatly shorn blonde Barbie's stared out at the world. It seems packrats do prefer blondes. The girls were just starting to tune up when Sarah let out a blood-curdling scream! In a macabre version of the Goldielocks sequence, (someone's been sleeping with my Barbie, and he's still here) the horror became worse. A fat packrat jumped out of the drawer and tried to make a break for it by running up Sarah's arm. Her shriek drove him back to the more welcoming arms of his Barbie high rise, the girls ran out of the garage crying and screaming, Nathan came in running. I saw the tail and butt of one fat packrat disappearing into the ground floor apartment. Amelia sobbed that it was as big as a cat. Sarah said it was probably pregnant. Later, as the three of them were salvaging the good dolls and trashing the bald and amputees I commented, "hey, washing and doctoring Barbies is playing with them, you got what you wanted." Hope glared and said, "That rat's gonna pay for it, even if it is a girl."

Don't say Christmas

Am I offended that they name the other holidays by name? Of course not -- no more than I'd be offended if a practitioner of those creeds wished me a happy whatever. My feelings exactly. I'm mean, this was precicely what I was thinking this morning.

Fishing for Mules

December SEAHA note from the editor
No one ever said mules were dumb. My upcoming pack trip into the appropriately named muleshoe ranch got me thinking a little packing refresher training would be helpful for Cricket. My past few attempts to pack Cricket have been somewhat abortive. My first serious try was in the Gila Wilderness. At each river crossing she waited until I was half in, then pulled the lead rope so hard I'd have to let go or risk getting pulled off backwards. If I dallied on the horn, she'd pull so hard it would confuse Horace. He must have thought I'd dropped a 1200-pound anchor, which I suppose I had. Half in and half out of the water, wreck potential abounded. I'd cuss and drop the rope before Horace turned back. Instantly she'd step into the water and tiptoe across, coating the wet rope into a sand churro on the other side. I'd dismount and retrieve the abrasive line, only to have another crossing 5 minutes later. After about 200 of those she had me pretty trained. In anger I turned her loose, ridding myself of this obstinate beast, let the long-eared comedian return to the wild. As soon as I unhooked the lead rope her eye turned soft, and she moved up between two of the saddle animals. For two days she walked free, staying in line, never holding up the riders, never rushing the mount ahead of her. When a drag rider lagged out of site, she stopped, turned around and he-hawed until they hove back into view. I had it all wrong, it was her pack trip. It was memories of that trip that got me to try a dry run thanksgiving weekend. I dallied up the lead rope tight, to better pull her when she dug in. I shouldn't have bothered. If I had a way to make her go she'd see if I could make her stop. First she came up beside Horace and me, it felt like riding one animal in a wagon team. When mules get worried, they stop. I couldn't maneuver Horace to get Cricket behind us. As cricket spooled out in front of me, I felt more like I was fishing for mules than "leading" a pack string. But hey, both are adventure sports! Imagine the thrill of reeling in a 1200-pound bay marlin, feet braced in your fighting chair, as you ride the swells of your rocking platform. "Ok missy, you can forget playing that game." I wanted to turn her loose again anyway and show my wife how good she would be if free. I dismounted and unhooked her halter. She let me saddle up, then the great fish exploded, kicking up sprays of sand and dancing across the surface of the arroyo. The hook thrown free, she made a full run downstream. She jumped the bank a few times then headed back towards the equine angler. My dismount was rapid as she bore down on us. In the nick of time, she came to a screeching stop in front of us. She held out her head to be hooked back up, and was led behind Horace perfectly for the rest of the ride.

Music leads emotion, or vice versa?

Music and emotions are inextricably tied. I had a fascinating conversation on the matter last night with a long-time friend who recently got a big promotion. She said she has started to make a conscious effort to listen to upbeat, pop songs on her way to work so that she appears approachable and positive upon arrival. She used to listen to other fare, but her contemplative mood would make her seem distant and aloof. Her moody idealism ended with her college days she seemed to be saying.
Music doesn’t work that way on me, I often feel like the more somber, nostalgic, romantic works. I get happy from being sad, because I don’t let myself fall too far into the abyss. Just feeling any emotion strongly gets my blood flowing, as the child who will ask for even negative attention. It’s the same as most people’s desire to “feel better” by drinking a depressant. I’ve really been getting into the Be Good Tanyas, and even learned to play one my favorite songs last night. Nathan picked out the cords in about 2 measures, and with him on the guitar and me on the mandolin it became quite a jam. It felt good. It also felt good to talk to you Grace, I understand you not needing to rush out and get the CD, but you don’t know what you’re missing!

Expert Trackers

November SEAHA note from the editor

I took the mules and a coworker elk hunting last month. They had done it before, he had not. I was certain they would perform their duties well, and be proud ambassadors to the tradition. The 5 hour drive to Springerville was uneventful, and we made camp in the unfamiliar area. The next morning as we prepared to mount up, I remembered my preparations to protect the mules from near-sighted hunters. Knowing that a bay mule looks an awful lot like a cow elk, I began tying blaze-orange flagging tape on each mule quarter, tail, and head. “Are we going hunting or riding in a parade,” Frank asked? Adorned with festive regalia, we commenced our parade-hunt. We saw our first animals in the cut going down through the cliffs to the river bottom. Bighorn sheep, deer, and snake petroglyphs stared down at us from the red face. I thought of them as harbingers of fortune when we saw our first bull elk as we stopped for lunch. The mules calmly waited as we tracked it for fun, though we were actually licensed to hunt cow elk. When we returned to the tied mules, Frank couldn't find his bag of bagels that he'd left in his pack. The only clues were an empty wrapper and calm mules. We hunted deeper into the ravines and roadless areas, often dismounting and walking quietly on foot. Our tracking skills where soon honed to a high level, as we followed the elk footie-prints in the soft arroyo bottoms. But no elk. Only when we started making noise as we headed for camp did we of course spring 3 cows bedded above the dry wash. The mules calmly tolerated the rapid dismounts and clattering rifles as we tried to find a shot. To no avail, the brush was too thick. The next morning we decided to go in from a different direction, on foot to facilitate our scout-like tracking methods. Soon we were in another series of ravines, but they looked a lot more encouraging. There were tracks everywhere! We followed little ones that ran beside big ones. Singles, and even small groups, converging and diverging. We settled on some really big, clear tracks and started up the gully quietly. Foiled again, there was a human track beside them! Damn, maybe he will drive them towards us, we whispered. Those sure were big tracks. Finally, Frank pressed his foot down beside one of the interloper's footprints. The print was strangely identical. Say, those elk tracks don’t have points at the front. We were following our tracks from the day before. The mules quietly waited at camp, hoping to snag more bagels.

Iris Dement has finally released a new Album!!!

I've been searching for clues that my favorite musical artist would make a new album since 1996, she's quite private and doesn't seem to care about commercialization. Her last few years have been spent singing duets and harmonies with some of the greats; Ralph Stanley, John Prine, Emmylou Harris. She's done a few singles that are terriffic. But her fans were dying to hear a LOT of her, and MOSTLY her. Now's the time.

The last time I was this excited was when I discovered, with 4 days to spare, that she was to sing in Telluride, CO. Her tour schedule had never brought her into the southwest or rockies when I was here. Nathan and I packed the 4runner with camping gear and drove a day and a half to see her. Her voice filled the Sheriden Opra house, stronger and sweeter than the previous times her voice had accompanied me into the Telluride mountains. Obsessed? Ya, maybe....
Update, 2Nov04. On the way home from work, and before I headed to the polls, I drove to Borders and bought the CD. Just like when I bought her first CD years ago, this one starts out sounding just... different. Of course, her voice is like none other. But being a gospel album with minimum instruments or backups, it builds slow. But on the 11th or 14th song, I can't remember, it starts to permeate the psyche. By the time I switched from the miata sound system to the good stereo at home, the music was getting interesting. Then over dinner it hits me like a wave, washing over me with unique, soulful yet joyous melodies, her unmistakable accent bringing forth memories of Carolina churches and times gone by.