It’s 43 degrees in Tierra Amarilla, New Mexico. There’s a small plastic box on the wood-slat wall, above the large rectangular object on the ground that may be a heater, that may be a thermostat. It reads 66. I believe it means degrees. And I believe the box is full of shit.
It’s a mountainous sort of cold, inside as well as out. My bedroom door closed to retain the body heat my two dogs and I are emitting. I’m wearing four plus a stocking cap. Bisquit, my little dog is wearing her sweater and curled up, shivering, with a look of misery. Jazzmine, my big dog, is sleeping soundly; that dog loves nothing more than shitty weather. It’s midway through April, I can occasionally see my breath inside, and it just started snowing. Much like Jazzmine, this weather is what happiness looks like to me. My nervous system has reached a level of calm that normally takes hours of yoga and meditation to achieve.
I drove for two days through Oklahoma and Texas, then through the mountains of New Mexico and Carson National Forest until I arrived here, in Tierra Amarilla, to spend a few days of respite at Lori and Mark.
I know them from my time at Two Rivers, a Native lead prayer camp that was protesting the Trans Pecos Pipeline back in 2016. The water protector camp and it’s mission were similar to that of Standing Rock, but on a smaller scale. Along with some other locals, Lori and Mark had been actively protesting the Trans Pecos for a couple months when, a long time organizer Lori put the call out for help and ended up in touch with the Society of Native Nations. I was at Two Rivers for almost two months, total, and my time there was nothing short of life changing – and a tale I’ve yet to finish writing.
Last night I camped in Carson National Forest, and my sleeping pad ruptured an air cell resulting in a, rendering it uncomfortable/painful to the point of uselessness given the massive bulge in the middle. I almost brought a spare sleeping pad, too, but at the last moment left it out to free up some space. Additionally, Jazzmine has two bad hips and can’t get into or out of the car on her own without risking injury, and developed a UTI between Indiana and Oklahoma. And then there’s Bisquit, my who hurt her front leg yesterday and is now hopping around on just three. My back isn’t completely shot as of yet, but it’s not in very good shape and picking up Jazzmine every time she needs in/out of the vehicle is doing it no favors.
Those are a set of very good reasons to pause for a couple days and evaluate and get some rest. I tell ya, friend, the longer I live the more I feel my age. It takes a full day of rest to recover from two days of moderate driving. And I’m only doing about 400 miles a day, so we’re not talking all out assaults on the interstate. And thus, I’m posted up in the mountain village of Tierra Amarilla: an absolute gem of a community.
When I left Wisconsin, winter had just handed over the reins to spring. I drove 2,000 miles to find winter in the mountains. The snow at Lori and Mark’s melted off five days ago, and there’s still a large pile of it on the side of the front yard, where their Great Pyramese has drug up a couple dozen jaw bones, leg bones, joints and whole spines of dead things – complete with pelvic bones.
“New Mexico is the wild west,” I’ve heard folks say. It’s true. You’re absolutely free to live as you will here so long as you’re not being an outrageous jerk or fucking with other peoples’ way of living. It’s also advisable to never knock on someone’s door unannounced, as you will get shot for doing it. Fortunately, I lived in Texas long enough for that to be standard practice for me.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself, meditating instead on this misplaced winter morning, typing to keep the blood going to my fingers, more so than because I’ve something to say. So, before all this:
No Sleep Til’ Springfield
I previously referred to Indiana as “boring Illinois”. Having driven the stretch from Louisville to St. Louis I feel I’ve gotten it wrong. Henceforth, Illinois shall be “Boring Indiana”. Because it is. It’s like a flat, boring Indiana. I’ve never been able to explain my contempt for the state of Illinois. My family on both sides emigrated from Europe to Lake County, IL in the early 1800s. And it was there that both lines stayed until my mother and father, newly married in the ’70s, moved to Wisconsin.
Missouri is it’s own kind of beautiful. I’ve always liked the state. It’s more rugged and wooded than you’d think. I find it very cozy. It makes me think of a more dynamic Wisconsin; there’s much more exposed rock, the woods seem more dense and dark, the lakes and rivers cast against and lined with cliffs, instead of sandy shores and reeds. Missouri is about all that’s left of the Midwest isn’t entirely developed. Also, Missouri has a plethora of free camping spots, and most of them are awesome. I’ve been through the state a number of times and it’s become a regular camping/resting spot on trips through the region
This time around I camped at Daniel Boone Conservation Area. About an hour after I made camp a woman drove by and told me the forest was on fire just west of me. I didn’t see any smoke and I didn’t sense any danger, so I made dinner and tried to relax. My dogs were calm and trusted my instincts, which were not alarmed.
Thirty minutes later a fire truck rolled by. Five minutes later a second one passed. As the third one approached I waved it down. The vehicle slowed but did not stop. I asked one of the firefighters if the woods were on fire, he nonchalantly said “yeah”. I asked if I needed to leave. He shrugged indifferently “nah, you’re good” and they sped off. So, I returned to my fire and not long after went to sleep. I woke up repeatedly to fire trucks going in and out of the park, and again slept like absolute shit. Nic would later remark that it was the third straight night of firefighters fucking with my sleep.
The morning as I left the park, about a quarter mile downwind from my camp the forest was charred black, and still smoking. I watched as a tree that was still on fire at the top dropped flaming pieces of bark, building a small flaming pile.
I took the day to explore Missouri, leaving camp via back roads and aiming south and west, letting the path reveal itself to me as I drove. It took me nearly all day to cross the state to Springfield. I’ve stayed here a couple times through, and it was in Springfield that, 5 years prior, I had met my former wife to pick up Bisquit and Jazzmine.
You see, in 2017, after Two Rivers closed down, my wife and I began our divorce and I left Texas for Wisconsin. Jazzmine and Bisquit had to stay behind because I couldn’t have them at my parents house. It was fitting then, that we were in Springfield, where my dogs and I were reunited, that Jazzmien got into bed with Bisquit and slept there the whole night.
Jazzmine has never taken to sleeping in the bed. Even as a puppy she always preferred the couch, and if none were available, her bed or a pile of blankets on the floor. She is 13 years old at this point and she’s not doing well at all. I’ve had to have some very hard talks and time thinking about her quality of life. I know that it is rapidly getting exponentially worse. And as I set out on this trip, I knew it was going to be our last big adventure as the three of us – my two dogs and I. Before we’d left I’d made a vow that I wouldn’t let her suffer, that when she gave me the sign that she was through, I’d listen, and I’d help her move on. I sobed into her fur, and begged her to give me a sign, big and clear. “You can’t tell me with words, but I know that when you tell me I’ll know.”
That night in the Motel 6, in the only room available that just happened to have a bed big enough for the three of us, as I lay there journaling, Jazzmine got up from the floor and crawled into bed with me. I turned off my light and turned on some peaceful spa music and spooned my 80 pound all black German Shepherd as she snored and dreamed. In the thirteen years that we were together she never once let me cuddle her for more than a minute. When I woke up in the morning we were still wrapped up togehter. Two firsts: My dog let me cuddle her all night, and she spent the whole night in bed.
Big, loud, and clearly. She told me “Ok bud. This is it. This is my last ride.” And I knew it was.
That was the first night I got any real sleep since before I left Madison. The next day we set out for Oklahoma.
The rest of this tale is written in past tense, and compiled from drafts, notes I’d made on the road and my memories.
Oklahoma… Oooooh kaaaaay???
My original plan was to drive from Indiana to Denver to spend a day or so with Legs. He’s a friend of mine that I met at Two Rivers. There’s a great story about how he and I spent three months and 10k miles on the road, driving from one water protector camp to another. However, somewhere between St. Louis and Springfield things changed, as they often do, and I diverted south to Oklahoma. Skyla, a dear friend from my time in Texas lives in Oklahoma City, and her house has become one of my scattered homes. Fortunately she and her polycule don’t mind a short notice visit. The girls and I posted up for a couple days and got some sleep and rest.
I used the down time to assess everyone’s well being. I was in a lot of physical pain; sitting and driving both aggravate my lower back and hip, as does sleeping on most surfaces, but especially things like airmats. So, life on the road is a mixed bag. Bisquit’s leg was getting better, so that was heartening. And Jazzmine spent almost all her time sleeping on a heated dog bed.
After two nights in a wonderfully comfortable bed and our groceries resupplied we peeled out, hoping to make it through Texas and up into New Mexico by nightfall.
