LAST CHANCE
Goddamn Buffalo Indeed
APROPOS OF EVERYTHING, for about three days last week occasional handfuls of what I now know to be breast feathers from a scrub jay fell silently from the giant elm tree growing out of the side of the house. All I knew for certain at the time was that something was dismantling a bird. Then yesterday—the third day, incidentally—I found the carcass on the ground. I wondered about the mud until I picked it up and the clump fell off revealing bloody bones beneath. A predator had pulled off all the meat and dropped the rest, which must have landed sticky wet side down and picked up rocks and dirt. I laid the carcass on dead grass beside the birdbath and it vanished overnight. Nothing goes to waste in these parts except perhaps myself if I don’t watch my thoughts.
Perhaps you remember the elk bones, too. (I’ve mentioned them elsewhere.) I’d collected a couple pelvises and spines with dangling ribs from over by the water towers—a place where locals leave disgusting trash. I thought the gory things were gross but perfect for an “art garden” in a patch of dirt outside the kitchen window. Nothing was growing there anyway. The bones were semi-clean and soon attracted magpies who pecked a while and then dispersed. Later after a series of calamitous incidents like rock squirrels eating all my flowers, apocalyptic sugar ant attacks, and “something” (again) carrying off the only attractive vertebrae of the lot, a friend suggested I return the bones to where I’d found them. Instead I decided to repatriate them by hauling them 20 minutes north to San Cristobal where Kathy and I first lived when we moved from Maryland in ‘99.
There were always plenty elk up there. We’d see them in the meadows, hear them bugling in the fall, and once stampeded a couple dozen elk in deep powder snow at night—I’ll never forget the leaping beasts and clouds of snow dust in the headlights 20 yards from home—what a wild and thrilling sight for us after moving from sea level civilization in “The Land of Pleasant Living.” 1
One time we hiked up the valley in the evening. It may have been the following spring. Unlike the high desert country to the west, in the mountains it was green and almost lush with fresh grass, ferns, and flowers along the creek and dark woods just beyond. Suddenly Kathy stopped and motioned for me to come and see: there in the thickest grass beside the trees was a curled-up elk calf in a “nest,” looking right straight at us but perfectly still. We all froze for the longest moment just six feet apart, magical and also dangerous, I realized: an angry 500-pound elk cow might charge out of the woods at any moment! Living in San Cristobal was like that. The national forest was only half a thought away. There were active bears and mountain lions. We slowly backed off and turned around to leave the scene as quietly as we could while listening for snorts and snapping twigs.
This is where I brought my cargo, some distance up the D.H. Lawrence Ranch road on a ridge just south of San Cristobal. From here I could look down and see the house we used to rent, the fields, and San Cristobal Creek. Mountain villages in northern New Mexico often have no paved roads, stores, or identifying signs. Older homes traditionally have long narrow lots perpendicular to a stream or acequia for access to the water. The post office, if they have one,2 is the nerve center of the community. San Cristobal is hardly what you’d call a town at all, but still a unique rewarding place to live—only a couple hundred souls and fewer than 50 households3 in a valley that gets narrower and more lonely as you go higher up toward Lobo Peak, all of it surrounded by the Carson National Forest.
One day we had a bear in the yard—Kathy shouted “NO!” and spread-eagled herself against the door so I couldn’t go outside to take a picture. Another time I watched a golden eagle snatch a prairie dog. There was the rat that stole the geraniums, too. After it snowed at night, I could look down on the highway miles away with my binoculars to see if there was any traffic so we’d know if we could get to town. The stars were so bright I used to say, “They never twinkle, but they strobe.”
I did the improvised ceremony up right: hand drum, smudge stick, singing in the drizzle after I’d flung the bones as far downhill as possible. They exploded into smaller pieces when they hit the rocks, ribs flying through the air. While I drummed I thought about the elk that jumped into the headlight beams so long ago and remembered how they sounded. Back then I had a recording of an elk bugling for the ringtone on my cell phone, too. It used to drive me crazy because we’d think it was the real thing until I finally deleted it.
Things feel out of control now and the past is fading fast. Might not be too bad, though. Behold my talismanic object for the triumph of desire.4 The shot above is from the day I had my test drive in the rain. As soon as he opened the garage door, I knew I wanted it, though all I really needed was a catalyst. If the thing burned up tomorrow, I would still feel changed.
Last night after writing for six hours straight I went to bed a mess at 4:30 a.m. (There were ants all over the kitchen garbage and I just left them.) Two hours later I had a dream within a dream. I thought I was awake and there was something in the room, a gray blob-thing with balloon animal cartoon arms and no head, barely visible in the gloom. I sat up in bed and tried to yell to make it go away, but my throat was paralyzed and I could only whisper. That’s when I knew it wasn’t real, because a strangled shout is often featured in my dreams—and then I really woke up. I got up, peed, walked into the kitchen and murdered the ants. Drank a full glass of apple cider, washed down a pile of vitamins with plain old water, shook my head, and stumbled back to bed. Slept straight through the next five hours plus. I may be crazy but that’s the path.
The other evening I took the Corvette for a ride through the canyon south of town5 to charge the battery and also just because. Whenever I hit the road with all that power (350 hp), all I want to do is drive. The steering effort increases with speed to help the car feel planted and steady. She corners almost flat. The ride is smooth and well-damped. The disc brake rotors look enormous to me—the pedal is firm, you feel the brakes immediately. It has to be the safest car I’ve ever had. I don’t go faster than I would if I were in my truck except for occasional sprints if I see far enough ahead.6
On the way back from the trip I mentioned, I was on a deserted, twisty stretch of two-lane driving under the posted 55 mph on a tight left-hand curve up against the rocks at the bottom of the canyon. There was hardly any shoulder, just like on the other side with a guardrail and a steep drop to the river. Nowhere to pull off on either side at all, in other words. A short distance up ahead, the highway turned hard right out of sight around the side of a cliff. All of a sudden, a white late-model Dodge pickup whipped into view from the other side of the blind curve and crossed all the way into my lane heading straight at me! It was all so fast, I had no time to honk or brake or be afraid. All I could see was grille and tires in my face. I knew it was The End and that was all. Then the Dodge swerved hard back out of the way and shot past with two wheels still over the center line, missing me by inches.
It was all over in less than a second. I never even had a pounding heart.
A BlueSky friend up near Seattle had a similar experience with a drunk driver going the wrong way on an Interstate at night without his headlights on. Unfortunately, his other fellow didn’t miss. My friend miraculously survived and to this day believes there was a deeper reason. I’ve had the feeling since my heart went wonky last July that there was more for me to do.7 “Normal” is all shot full of holes and eaten by wild hogs.
I’d like to manifest a few things I’ve pretended for a long, long time.
From Google’s hilarious AI overview: “ ‘The Land of Pleasant Living’ is a famous historical marketing slogan for National Bohemian (Natty Boh) beer, famously tied to the Chesapeake Bay and Maryland’s Eastern Shore. It evokes a relaxed, coastal lifestyle featuring blue crabs, Smithfield hams, and sailing.”
San Cristobal does, since 1932..
According to the 2020 census, 206 and 49, but these figures have been going down for quite a while.
Car lust…🤣
“The Canyon” along Highway 68 is what I think of the southern end of the Rio Grande Gorge, but canyon’s what they call it. Never has been clear to me just where the “gorge” quits and the canyon marches on.
And passing. I mean come on, it’s a freaking Corvette.
Might want to look up a three-year Saturn transit through 4th natal house. Might not.
Jesus! 😨😱 I sensed this might be how you would 'go' after you got the car. If it happens again and you have to Leave… just know I love you and have always looked up to my big brother. Thanks for changing my diapers 😊❤️🙏 Bless you
*damn, just made myself cry like a baby😭 It’s All Good
Apropos of Nothing, use Mighty Mint for the ant apocalypse. It's the only thing that kept me sane through massive invasions in Santa Fe and now here in Minnesota. No nasty chemicals just mint, which they hate. And it works. It might take a couple of applications but it works.
Great photos and story. I always feel sad for the birds. I wish the predators would just eat pack rats, etc, plus the occasional pigeon, while leaving the pretty ones alone.
Sweet car. Remember you aren't 18 anymore, 10 ft tall and bullet proof. Drive accordingly.