Monday, December 7, 2015

ANOTHER WINTER OF BLUE ROADS


The search for dry weather necessitated a change of schedule and direction  from the Atlantic shore to southwest desert, posthaste.

 After a few days of grinding out miles on the interstate highways escaping the freezing northern temps we swung onto the Great River Road following the Mississippi River to Vicksburg, MS for one last motel evening before readying the RV for our winter home.

Duncan, MS, population 400 fell on hard times years ago and never recovered.  It is less than 5 miles from the Mississippi River and home of blues legend Eddie C. Campbell, renowned blues guitarist.


What's a ride through the back roads of Mississippi without sweet potatoes, cracklins and boiled peanuts?

Natchez, MS   Bald Cypress swamp.





Cameron, LA. RV Park    10 years post Hurricane Rita. When you are the only game in town you can charge exorbitant rates with a smile.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

ANOTHER SLICE OF AMERICA SOLD BY SLEAZE FACTOR.

Slowly threading my way back home from a winter of professional snowbirding,  spoon carving, harp blowing and sun tanning. This morning on Highway 60 just east of Phoenix/Superior, AZ my attention was drawn by a crow landing on one of those little US Forrest Service roadside signs,
            OAK FLAT CAMPING  ---->

My first thought pulling into the campground reading these signs was Wounded Knee revisited and I damn near “did the loop” and exited back to the highway. If you read the book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee you know what I mean, everyone was a target, native and white alike.



Then I thought, “What the hell, I’ve had a good run, if this is my last day, it’s a good day to die.”  I read that somewhere in an Indian book.  I’m the Curious George type.  I really wanted to know what was up and the only way to get a close-up taste was to stay. I could read about it on the Interweb but we all know there are so much half-truths and hear-says getting to the quick is sometimes impossible.  As luck would have it a space large enough to back in the big rig was there on the fringe of the protesters encampment.  Just as I saw the empty space I spied a white guy in the mess tent. I figured someone else of like color was here and alive, I’ll stay.  Might be a captive but if I escape, what a story.  I fill my cup with three fingers of gorilla juice to get my brave on and walk on over to their central fire.


 “Every time I’ve tried to make that dough blanket it’s either too sticky or too dry, do you put magic in your flour?” I ask. Laura Wind Girl replies, focusing intently while making perfectly round flour tortillas and without looking at me, says, “Woman’s touch.”  Everyone within hearing laughs. I was the joke.  I think,“This is good, I’m not a threat, just another dumb white guy.”

Wrap up the pulled meat, slip it in the boiling water and let’er cook




He told me his name was Crooked Leg but that I must call him Ekips or his tongue wouldn‘t let him talk.  Fine by me. I first asked if he was the Pottawatomie, keeper of the fire?  Splashing around the little Indian I knew might help, right? 

Pigtail beard was the coolest guy in the camp, possibly the brightest and surely the most friendly to me. He kept the fire just right for cooking and warming during the cool evenings and blazing during cold mornings. I never saw him put a log on the fire but it was always perfect.   I asked him if he had a short Pin Oak log about (I measured with my thumbs and index fingers making a circle.)  this big and a tomahawk handle long.  He looked at me like I was f’ing crazy, stepped close and whispers in my ear, “You mean white man trinket tomahawk or long ago tap your white ass with coup stick tomahawk?”  and motioned me to follow. I couldn’t follow until I dried my eyes from laughing. 

 His wood pile was beautiful. He bowed, unfurled his arm and hand toward his wood pile, and said, “I make pipes and you make spoons. Jim Beam may have erased my memory but damn if I remember telling him about carving spoons.  

What a fantastic little log I found, knotted, knurled  and wind twisted with an up-bend that would be the handle.  He smiled like he knew I was coming and had saved this very log for me.  He makes pipes from these logs and I could feel the kinship of wood reverence



It was payback time for Arizona Republican Senators John McCain and Jeff Flake after feeding from the money trough of Australian/British mining giant, RIO TINTO.  Normal goings-on but a cheap shot none-the-less by attaching a sneaky “midnight rider” using the 2015 Defense Bill as cowardly cover.   Now unless the San Carlos Indian Tribe is able to garner support for repeal of  *The Southeast Arizona Land Exchange,*  with powers greater than prayer, another chunk of  our America will be gobbled up by foreign industrial machines.

Oak Flat is a beautiful camping ground and sacred  Apache Indian land gone to the highest bidder. The real “kicker” here is this was supposed to be Federally Protected Land.  Turns out it was protected for the rich to rape and plunder at will.

NOTHING IS SACRED WHEN MONEY AND CONGRESS ARE INVOLVED.

Without the consumer’s consumption there would be no need for production.   Slow or even-out population growth and our progeny may still be able to see a few of the sights I now see.




Phoenix New Times account of how it all came down.
http://blogs.phoenixnewtimes.com/valleyfever/2015/02/forest_service_allows_protestors_to_continue_oak_flat_occupation.php

More information and pictures on the official Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Saving-OAK-FLAT-Campground/202998493114242




Sunday, March 1, 2015

FOOTPRINTS AND FRIENDS



February slid into the yesterday folder with a grand goodbye signaling an advancing storm.




March 1st sunrise, no storm but it'll be here.  Flood warnings posted.


Barb and Chloe retired from the work-a-day world and are now beginning a new career of publishing self help and Do It Yourself  internet features. I know she's bright and stubborn enough to take her dream to fruition.


Burros wandering the desert looking for anything new and green to munch.  They hung around by the RV for the the morning, descended into a nearby wash and disappeared.


Happily I was able to visit with my buddy Spike a couple of times this year.  A modern day nomad leaving as small a footprint as possible and still enjoy creature comforts in his solar equipped van.     I asked him for a few parting words:  

Action potential
Potential informs future
You can call me Spike