It’s colder today, no doubt a function of yesterday’s wind, but at least it has ceased for now. I imagine it carries a constant presence on these grassy plains.
In the mornings you must turn toward the sun, rotating slowly as if standing next to a campfire, as if a marshmallow on a stick, exposing each side carefully to warm the body evenly. Moving the chair around to find the best position and maximize the sun’s effect - the only real warmth there is out here, propane firepit aside that is.
The crows are active. The flapping of their wings echoes across the space above as if broadcast over some invisible stadium loudspeaker. It’s amazing what you can hear in the stillness. In the coldness. The little dog climbs into my lap and sits pawing at the older dog, enticing her to play until she can stand aloof no more and gives in like a giggly schoolgirl.
By 2pm we’ve arrived and set up camp in the Peloncillo’s, 18 miles from the ghost town of Cloverdale, Arizona and for the first time on this trip we are camping alone.
The oaks are holding tight to the yellow in their leaves and a dry wash runs alongside camp, the adjoining ground rises steeply toward a rock outcropping which sits like a jagged tiara on the ridgeline. Fall colors in varied shades of umber, brown, ochre and rust are reflected in the surrounding rocks like water. A small campfire ring stands as evidence of previous occupants.
And it’s warm now, except for when the breeze moves through – like a frozen treat on a mid-summer day. And it’s quiet. Down the road a boulder the size of a small house peaks out from the juniper and oaks, cresting their canopy, reaching toward the sky.
Loose piles of deadwood are scattered across the ground. Moss in colors of yellow, orange, a million shades of green, covers the rocks along the ground. One lonely cholla cactus bends and grows crooked under an oak, who far outpaces him, stretching and flexing just to catch whatever sun he can.
And the wind is picking up, it has followed me it seems.
But I am happy – more than happy. Fulfilled. Peaceful. Balanced. A feeling has returned that I thought was lost. Relaxed. Refreshed. Sublime. Rooted to this earth.
I needed to get back to these roots, not the kinfolk kind but the deeper roots. Roots that grow longer. Are older. Thicker. That grow deep down into this earth pushing their way through soil and rock. Strong roots. A stability known nowhere else – at least not in my world. There is nothing like it.
When I get home I will start again, on countertops, tile and texture. Trim work – making a house a home. Making my house a home. I have put the teachings and observations learned over years to use. In building my own house, and in these travels. Teaching myself to change a tire, how to escape the sand traps and mud holes along the way. And from this I know I can. I know I am capable. I am tenacious, resourceful, and observant. I am resourceful – well I already said that but it bears repeating.
I roped off a pen on the door side of the trailer and sit now, contained within. The dogs, horse and me. We share a space as I write this. My thoughts have free rein, no phone or outside noise to interrupt, only the sounds of this earth. The murmurings of my animals nearby – they like being close to me I think.
I sit in the crook between truck and trailer, as tucked in away from the wind as possible where I can still see the horse, and I read. But the past is interrupting my present. Like it always does. Like it knows where I’m going and it wants to stop me – to say listen to me, give me attention, focus on me – not you.
I seem to be agreeable to most, more than so to some, many perhaps – it’s hard to tell at times. Perhaps there is nothing so wrong with me after all. Perhaps I have not failed. Perhaps the education of my upbringing, my subsequent marriages and relationships, were all wrong.
Perhaps I am enough simply as I am. Perhaps the past is wrong.
I did a pretty good job of parking here, it was worth the three moves and adjustments backing up, jack knifed along the trees. I created a safe place for us out of the wind that seems to follow me so often of late.
In the morning, I think, we will simply move along. Take the coffee to go and see how far we can drive. I would like to ride the horse in Cloverdale but that is another 10 miles out of our way and we have far to go.
In my trailer, there is a painting of Geronimo. Never give up. I think that is the mantra, the meaning of it all. The symbolism at hand. I cleanse my life, my soul, my spirit and well-being. It means letting go of some, of many perhaps, but the weight of living my way is lighter and I need that. I sigh from the release of it all and my shoulders drop, my back relaxes. The body always knows.
And this is beautiful. Not eyeliner and mascara beautiful but a clear face, scrubbed and freshly washed kind of beautiful. To sit with horse and dogs in the same shared space. To breath the same air. Leaning into a world only they know.
I am a simply a guest here after all and that is enough for me.
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