Tucson. Hot.

Spring                                                    Hare Moon

Tucson.  86 and sunny with a chance of elderly.

Yes, I felt like the northern cliche while toddling along on Highway 10.  The folks back home tell me about wintry mix and plowable snow; I’ve got sun glasses and shorts.  What would you think about a gray haired guy driving a car with Minnesota plates down here?

In the businesses I’ve been in there are a lot of frail elderly, folks bent and slow, using carts or walkers.  Not surprising, but sobering anyhow.  I wondered at one point if there’s an assumption here that if an older person is involved in an accident, that it’s their fault.  Don’t know, but it seems possible.

The American flag is prominent.  This is a redder state than the El Dorado flavored plains state red.  Both here and in Texas I get the sense these are people who want to be left alone, able to try whatever they want to make money.  Able to engage in whatever recreational pursuits they want.  With no body looking over their shoulder.

My inclination?  Let’s let’em be.

Deep. Empty. (almost)

Spring                                                 Hare Moon

Deming, New Mexico.  Yesterday had two exciting moments. The first, anticipated, found me hiking a couple of miles underground, through the natural entrance to Carlsbad Caverns, the one the bats use to cloud the sky each evening March through October.

Formed by carbonic and sulphuric acid eating away limestone, this ancient wonder helped me place myself, again, in the ongoing story of our planet.  It’s vastness underneath the apparent solidity of the surface illustrates the hidden majesty of not only our world, but of worlds.  That I was able to see it, reflect on it, be in it.  Wow.

It is rich in metaphor.  That same vastness underneath the apparent solidity of the surface is each human being.  We are caverns and oceans and deep space inside and to few of us ever explore there.

Also, on the trail in from the natural entrance you reach a twilight zone.  This is the area which still has some reflected light from the surface.  Just beyond it, without the lighting installed by the Park Service, there would be only blackness.

The second piece of excitement. Unanticipated. Look at the map of Hwy. 180 between Carlsbad Caverns and El Paso, Texas.  You will notice there are no towns and about 180 miles of west Texas mesquite, long horned cattle and prong-horned antelope.  So you can imagine my reaction when I noticed my gas gauge.  It showed 39 miles left in the tank.

I have a cold which is a nuisance for the most part, but it takes some of my attention and I’d focused on getting to Carlsbad from Seminole, Texas and just not noticed.  Under normal circumstances this is no big deal.  In this case though I’d already gone about 50 miles from the Caverns so there was no turning back.

The garmin didn’t show any service stations for the next 111 miles.  Yikes.  So, I moved to the atlas.  Thanks again, Tom.  There was Dell City.  It was 21 miles north of 180 and the turn was about 13 miles from the location where I was trying to solve this problem.  I cared a lot about how accurate all of this was.

The garmin knew the way to Dell City and reported a service station there.  I headed out, knowing there was little I could do if the car’s reported mileage in the tank was off or if Dell City proved even three or four miles further than the maps indicated.

At the NAPA dealer in Dell City there were two of the sweetest pumps I’ve ever seen.  I had reached Dell City with 7 miles to go according to the information on the Ford Focus fuel panel.  Whew.

Off to breakfast, then on to Tucson.  The workshop starts this afternoon.

Rolling Their Own

Spring                                                          Hare Moon

One bit of local color I forgot.  Got gas in a very small town somewhere between Lubbock and Brownfield.  As I pumped the gas (hey, who remembers gas station attendants!), I noticed a metal box with a glass front door sitting in front of the convenience store.  Though it looked like a small refrigerator, smoke curled up and out of it from a vent on its side.  What the?

On closer inspection it had small panel that included this readout, meat probe temperature.  Yes, it was a small barbecue machine.  Sure enough inside they sold barbecue beef burritos, more meat, less burrito. (their sign)

Near the New Mexico Border

Spring                                                     Hare Moon

Yes, Ancientrails is has turned over the season in Seminole, Texas.  The view out of my hotel window includes an Alon truckstop with several shiny container trucks and two tall pylon signs:  McDonalds and Phillips and a blood red sun over all of them.  I’m in America.

Please see Greatwheel either later today or tomorrow for the seasonal post about spring.

Right now I’m going to catch you up on news you might have missed if you hadn’t read the Seminole Sentinel.  This is a solid newspaper with good reporting unlike the El Dorado rag from yesterday.

On the front page is coverage of an educational session for the Farm Bill.  It gives the usual view from rural America.  We needed it.  It’s too late.  But, we’re glad to have it.  Next to it is some folks who run a guar processing plant trying to get compensation for lost crops last year.

Guar? You might say.  Me, too.  Turns out it’s a legume, valued for gum arabic and its nitrogen fixation.  This is a crop so old that wikipedia says it has never been found in the wild. It was first cultivated in India.  Reminds me that the world contains so much I don’t know.  It grows in semi-arid climates and on poor soil, so it’s not a crop for the midwest.

On the editorial page under the cleverly worded Wright Words, by Dustin Wright (groan), comes this interesting news.  On Valentine’s Day in Carlsbad, New Mexico the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant reported trace amounts of americium and plutonium found above ground.  The plants monitoring and filtration system kept almost all of it from getting into the air above ground.  Wright goes on to add, “there’s still speculation about what happened below ground.”

Now, I have a good friend who is a nuclear engineer (you know who you are) and he’s convinced me that nuclear power might be a good transition method of electrical generation.  Still, these kind of events are worrisome.

Well, that’s all the news from Seminole, Texas.  At least all I’m going to convey.  Now it’s a shower, then on the road for Carlsbad Caverns.

El Dorado. Kansas.

Imbolc                                                Hare Moon

Now you may be asking yourself, what kind of place is El Dorado, Kansas?  At the Red Coach Inn breakfast Fox News was on the television.  I could have purchased a Glenn Beck book titled Control for $7.64 from the Inn’s magazine rack and the local paper had, on the front page, news that a new middle school sidewalk had been built.

In that paper a Senator in the Kansas legislature wondered if increasing opportunities for Kansans to protect themselves made more sense than increasing criminal penalties.  After all, he said, “In rural Kansas an intruder is still likely to be met with a shotgun.”

This is the plains and red state plains at that.  Its scenery is stark and often, to my eye, beautiful, but in the manner of an abstract painting, shape and color predominate.

In an hour and a half or so I’ll not, like Toto, be in Kansas anymore.

 

 

I Found El Dorado

Imbolc                                                Hare Moon

El Dorado, Kansas

First, thank you Garmin for the easy routing through Kansas City.  I know now why I’ve never succeeded too well on my own.  Whoever that woman is they have trapped in there, she knows her K.C. highways.

Driving through Minnesota, then Iowa and into Missouri is not a topographic paradise though I like seeing the growing wind farms in sight of 35 in Iowa.  The snow began to disappear south of Des Moines, but the countryside all through those states had that glum grimy appearance that makes you want to grab a good shampoo and go after it until it brightens up.  The sky, too, was gray.

The garmin guided me around K.C., no sights there either.  My initial goal was to get beyond the Kansas border, but I accomplished that by about 5:00 pm or so and decided to go on a bit.  Then I hit the Flint Hills.  If you’ve not driven through them, they would surprise you.  They are long, long stretches of uninhabited grassland largely given over to cattle grazing and oil wells.

That meant when I stopped in Emporia and found the Food Show was in town sucking up all the available hotel beds, I had to travel another 50 miles to get here, El Dorado.  The first place I tried here was full, too.  The refinery turnaround the desk clerk said. Oh.

Anyhow the Best Western further in had a room and so I’m down for the night.

Tomorrow I’ll travel through my birth state, Oklahoma.  There are lots of family memories there, but few of mine.

It’s good to be on the road.

On the Road Again

Imbolc                                                                  Hare Moon

A Minnesota send off in the air this morning.  Looks like the  storm track is northerly, so I should drive out of it soon.

Ancientrails will be coming to you from the road for the next couple of weeks.  Tonight somewhere in the area of Kansas City, hopefully beyond it though that might be pressing.

Friend Tom Crane bought me a large print road atlas for the journey.  Ha!  It’s a good addition to the garmin.  I’ll use it often on the way.  Thanks, Tom.

No Saint on This Soil

Imbolc                                                                 Hare Moon

Patrick is a saint in Ireland, but not one very dear to those of us fond of the old Celtic religion.  The snakes that Patrick drove out of Ireland were purportedly the Druids, priests of the ancient Celtic faith.  On his side, from Kate and mine’s point of view, is that he good taste in dogs, taking several Irish Wolfhounds with him when he went back to Rome to report.

The Catholic church literally imposed itself on the old religion, adopting certain Celtic goddesses as saints, St. Bridgit, for example.  In addition the Catholics frequently build churches over wells holy to the ancient Celts.  Or, in the instance of Winifred’s Well in Holywell, mentioned below, they collected the local figures featured in the story, Bueno and Winnifred, and sanctified them.  Thus, it became St. Winifred’s Well and Bueno became St. Bueno.

In that sense St. Patrick’s day is anathema.  As a man with Celtic blood though, both Irish and Welsh, I enjoy the celebration of things Irish and would have tilted a glass of green beer in times past.  Now, I go to Frank Broderick’s home, eat corned beef and cabbage and have the fellowship of the Woolly Mammoths.

Do You Know Any Stars?

Imbolc                                                                            Hare Moon

Back in the early 90’s I spent a week plus in a residential library in Hawarden, Wales.  I took a side trip or two, one to Holywell where I visited the Holy Well of St. Winifred, site of the ancient healing of a Celtic woman named Winifred by her uncle Bueno.  Her head had been cut off by a suitor from Hawarden named Caradoc.

While I was there I met a short, thick Welshman.  When he discovered (immediately) that I was an American, he asked me, “Da ya know any stars?”  At first I didn’t get it, then I realized he was talking about Hollywood stars.  “No,” I explained, “I’m about 1,500 miles from Los Angeles.”  “Yes, yes,” he said, “But do ya know any stars?”

The old world experience of distance is different from ours and it’s easy to forget that.  This trip to Tucson will pass from gardening zone 4 to gardening zone 9.  It will go south of the line, the 37th latitude boundary, above which we get no vitamin D in the winter months.  It will pass even further, down below latitude 35, a full 10 degrees from the home world here in Minnesota, to 32 degrees latitude.  I’ll drive, too, from 93 degrees longitude to Tucson’s 111.

In Europe, driving south from Holywell, Wales you would have to go on past Naples by another 150 miles to achieve the same distance.  That means going through England, across the Chunnel, then across France, all of Switzerland and penetrating almost to the boot of Italy.  That sounds like an epic journey, crossing cultures and history as well as distance.

Yet I will drive the same distance to get to Tucson, 1650 miles.  No wonder the Welshman wondered if I knew any stars.

Burned

Imbolc                                                             Hare Moon

Ross Douthat, a columnist for the New York Times, is a thoughtful conservative.  So is D.J. Tice, editorial writer for the Star-Tribune, though Tice often sets my kettle to boil.  Both had interesting pieces in their respective papers today, Douthat on individualism and the millennials, Tice on entitlement reform and the baby boom.

Tice writes as a baby boomer and asks us for another shot at society wide influence by seeking and seeing implemented reforms to both Social Security and Medicare.  I agree with him.  We need to solve this issue now, as the largest cohort to enter the python is only a fraction of the way in.  It is our responsibility to demand sensible changes and that our representatives in congress and the White House enact them.

What are they?  I don’t know the arguments right now well enough to recommend, but I know such arguments exist and I would stand with the fiscally responsible ones.  Tice and I agree this time.  I also appreciate his writing as a baby boomer and as one who calls for action.

Douthat read this Pew report on the millennials and concluded (though you have to read between his weasel words) that civilization as we know it is doomed.  This is a favorite conservative argument when societal trends point toward things they don’t like, in this instance, more individualism.

I don’t agree with Douthat.  Conservatives like to place individualism as an ethos over against communitarianism, the former eroding the latter until we’re all small, armed, loosely affiliated gangs.  The reality is much more complicated.  Individualism does not go over against communitarianism.

As an existentialist I believe we are each in this world alone, that our individuality is inescapable and incapable of being increased by any sort of belief or action.  Individualism is a definition of what it means to be human.  As an existentialist, I also know that we can recognize the remarkable affinity we share with others of our species.  And more, with a land ethic like Aldo Leopolds, we can recognize and act on the remarkable affinity we share with all of the natural world, animate and inanimate.  We are, after all, stardust.

Thus, the signal act of the aware universe (that is, you and me), is to bridge the abyss between the depths of one person and that of others, to acknowledge our solidarity as a creature aware of its own death.  We are all, as Camus said, in the river rushing toward our end, and we are in the river together.  It is this common bond we share that makes us compassionate toward the other and makes us want to ease their burdens in this one lifetime.

Now, here’s what’s really interesting in both of these columnist’s pieces today.  Both invoke a future disaster, one fiscal and the other communitarian, but both leave out the certain calamity that requires our action now, our action as a global community: mitigation and adaptation to climate change.  They both speak for the future, yet it is the heat and the storms and the floods and the rising oceans that reach from that future with the most destructive force.

Granted we have to multi-task, communities and nations can do that, though it’s very difficult for individuals.  But to bemoan the future without acknowledging the carbon in our atmosphere (so to speak) will only ensure a time in which individuals and poor old people will burn.