Livingston Road Trip 2022: Second Leg Back to Missouri: The Bad, the Good, and the Grind

 

Rain and slow gas at the Flying J in Texarkana, off I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The Bad

It appears that it was my destiny to suffer a miserable rainy return to my temporary Missouri base. 

I thought I'd avoided that on the way to Livingston by postponing my westbound trip by one day. But no. The universe just tacked it on to my eastbound return from Livingston.

Furthermore, my departure time was delayed by a crazy wrinkle on Saturday morning: The Flying J gas pumps. 

My original plan: Gas up my car before wheeling out of the travel center. But.

The pumps inexplicably were on a slow machine protest strike, where each of us pumpers thought, "Is it me?" only to realize, just as slowly as the gas ticked into our tanks, "No, it's not me, it's the pumps," as each pumper individually experienced the same phenomenon, but which the staff inside did not yet know.

I didn't see this next thing happen, but one man was so frustrated, apparently he tore away from the pumps without having taken the handle out of his tank. 

This was relayed to me by a woman who pulled up after I had tried at two different pumps to get gas and she said to me: "Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? - or is there something wrong with the pumps?" I had just returned to the pumps after an unsatisfying conversation with one of the cashiers inside, during which I'd tried to explain that it took five minutes to put less than one gallon of gas in my tank, and the cashier just wasn't getting it. I was simply the first of what was to become many with the same complaint.

To the woman who asked me, "Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?" I replied with reassurance: "No, it's not you; it's the pumps. And now you can switch to being disgruntled."

Fortunately, there was a gas station across the road - the DK - where I did finally fill my tank successfully with gas. 

The DK in Texarkana, off Exit 2, I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Afterward, I sat in my car, gazing contemplatively through the windshield at the rain. It was so gloomy outside and I dreaded getting back on the interstate, knowing that although the rain was relatively light where I sat, it would be amplified on the spray-spewing, semi-truck-laden highway, making for a miserably tense drive at a high speed. The weather forecast told me that I wouldn't be driving out of the rain any time soon.

 

Rain at the DK in Texarkana, off Exit 2, I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

We make small and large decisions all the time on a road trip. We plug in all sorts of algebraic variables into the decision equation, depending on our individual tastes, fears, time frames, and "shoulds." 

Like this "should": "You should buck up and drive on the interstate. Don't be a wuss. Be a warrior. A chingona."

 

The Good

And then I thought: "No. I'm on a road trip. A road trip is a pleasure trip, not a test. Take the blue roads. Relax. Be serene." 

So I poked a no-highway re-route into Google Maps, decided I could live with the extra time slapped on to the trip duration, and hoped I'd eventually get out of the rain, at which point I could switch over to a faster track. 

I immediately relaxed. I felt good.

A bonus good:  Gorgeous fall color in the forest of the Oachita Mountains.

The Bad

Mountains + valleys + rain = mist. Mist is the romantic word, except for those of us who've read Stephen King's The Mist. (Trivia: And in the movie, seeing The Walking Dead's Carol there.)

Fog is the more pragmatic word. The Oachita fog was almost impenetrable. Around blind curves. Down steep inclines. Occasionally coming out of the fog for a brief respite and the visceral release of a held-in breath, then a plunge back into the white-out. The occasional oncoming idiot without their headlights on. The stoopids.

The Grind

Despite the beauty of the mountains and the forests, despite the relatively relaxed drive through the rain (once the fog was behind me), the distance still to go became a grind. 

I was prepared to spend another night on the road, but in one of those algorithmic equations that go into decision-making, I was not enthusiastic about pulling into a minimal-standards motel at a Saturday-night rate. My Google map told me that if I deadheaded it to my Missouri base, I'd definitely be rolling in after dark fell. 

The Bad

To my great consternation, a fairly recent development for me is difficulty driving at night, so it's a tense enterprise under the best of circumstances. The best of circumstance = clear weather, well-marked road lanes (i.e. fresh white reflective paint lines), not too many deep curves, and speed limits at 65 or less.

Another night in a truck stop would be fine, although the blacktops aren't known for many truck stops. It was a gamble. I started looking for a truck stop at 5:00 p.m.

The Good

Eventually, the rain seemed to have dissipated enough that an interstate - both for its faster track and more plentiful opportunities for a truck stop to overnight in - had me reroute my way back home. In theory, the new route sliced an hour off my time. 

The Bad

It looked like I'd still be driving at night, after all, unless I found that elusive truck stop or rest area.

Fortunately, as night fell, I was on a highway with the desired well-marked white lane lines and plentiful pilot cars that I could follow at a helpful, yet not too close, distance. (Don't want to scare my unwitting road guides by tailgating.)

The Good

In the end, I brought myself all the way back to my Missouri base, thanks to the unknowing kindness of my pilot cars.

 

Some other rainy times and places

• 2019: Tucson: Creation Stories
• 2017: Arkansas: Lake Catherine State Park: Engineering
  
• 2015: Jefferson Island, Louisiana: Rip Van Winkle Gardens
  
• 2013: Alamogordo, New Mexico: The Rain Came
• 2011: Caucasus Georgia: Gori: Supra in a Fiat
• 2011: Louisiana Road Trip: Driving Day in Driving Rain

 

Missouri: Linn: A Turtle and a Memory

I met a sibling for lunch in Linn, along Highway 50. 

Outside the restaurant, on the pavement, was a turtle. 

Turtle outside Mexican restaurant in Linn, Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

An odd location, it seemed. 

I bent down to take a look and to take a snap, and to whisper a hope that if it planned to cross the road that it would do so safely as it moved through the parking lot. 

Seeing the turtle reminded me of an upcoming anniversary: The Great Flood of 1993. 

That spring and early summer, before the flood came, it had rained and rained and rained and rained for weeks. There'd also been more than usual rain in the preceding fall. 

From the street's-eye view of that time, it wasn't the rain that caused note. It was the End-Times number of creatures that my descendant and I saw en route to Arrow Rock from Jefferson City, each day we went up for her rehearsals for the Arrow Rock's Lyceum production of Oliver. Snakes, turtles, frogs. Some living, some squashed. 

My parents' business was in the flood plain of the Great Flood. 

Here's an entry from my mother's flood journal: 

Saturday, July 31, 1993

The impossible happened - the levee that was built to withstand a 100-year flood ... broke. At 11:30 p.m. Friday night something awakened me - and my eyes focused on the television ... I could see a spotlight shining down on flickering water and hear the helicopter whirring sound and the announcer's voice telling of the levee break. 

In a very short period of time, hundreds of acres of what was Chesterfield's [Missouri] economic boom were under 10 to 14 feet of water in some places. Some 500 businesses were down - virtually all without flood insurance. Many of us had gotten it a day or two before - feeling the Tuesday crest just might spill a few feet over the levee. A five-day [waiting period in coverage] (after you pay the premium) is required before the insurance is effective so most of us will not have flood damage insurance money. 

All day we watched and listened; we saw a man chest high in the water plucked up into a basket lowered by helicopter, people rescued from rooftops of businesses .... 

Missouri: Jefferson City: Three Observers on the Greenway

 On a recent walk along Jefferson City's Greenway, I encountered these three observers: 

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The tall watchers immediately put me in the mind of the people and descendants of the Clotilda, "the last slave ship," in Mobile, Alabama, my most recent temporary base. 

I especially like this connection because Jefferson City is the home of Lincoln University, a historic black college or university (HBCU) ..... 

... As the American Civil War drew to a close in 1865, two regiments of emancipated Black soldiers took action on a decision that would reverberate from their Army station at Fort McIntosh, Texas, all the way to the Missouri state capital. The men, who learned to read and write as part of their training in boot camp, were determined to start a school for other freed Black people when they returned to their homes in Missouri after the war. The soldiers of the 62nd United States Colored Infantry, whose pay averaged $13 a month, came up with $5,000 to establish an educational institution in Jefferson City, which they named Lincoln Institute. The 65th Colored Infantry contributed another $1,400 to the school’s endowment. ... 

 

The allure of the installation's verticality, the faces, the jewelry - got me to stop my walk so I could look at all of the details. And isn't that one of the objectives of art? To seduce one's gaze, to prompt thought, to feel something - joy? contentment? sadness? discomfort? illumination? 

 

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The installation also reminded me of my visits to the sculpture gardens in Colorado in 2016 here and here and here. 

It seem serendipitous to learn that the artist, Sue Quinlan, who created Cultural Pedestrians, is based in Colorado. 

Cultural Pedestrians was awarded to City of Jefferson Cultural Arts Commission through Sculpture on the Move, a program provided by Creative Communities Alliance, based in St. Louis. Participating communities rent a sculpture for a two-year period, making it more affordable than purchasing the sculpture. It costs a community $1,000 a year to rent these pieces and after a two-year period, the community has the option of buying the piece to have it on permanent display.

 Source: Jefferson City News Tribune

 

 

10 Years Ago: Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: My Temporary Home

Ten years ago, I'd embarked on the first of my annual relocations, carrying out that idea I had on a marshrutka on a ride between Rustavi and Tbilisi. 

The original post from 10 years ago here.

And for your convenience, republished below:  

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: My Temporary Home

Hello! Thanks for dropping in to my temporary place in the Tularosa Basin!

(And between you and me, I'm happy you've only got the two legs.)

Let me show you around.

So here's a pretty good view of the campsite shelter. Not all the sites have them, but they're a must to keep the sun at bay and also protect me from the rain, although a fellow camper said when the rain hits really hard, there can be veritable creeks running right through the living room.

The tablecloth there? Every day, a hummingbird stops by and re-confirms that, no, these aren't real flowers. I bought this tablecloth in the Yukon more than 15 years ago when my daughter and I took a road trip to Alaska.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

Here you can see a view of the Sacramento Mountains behind my site. 

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

And here's my living room. The table I bought from friend Jackie at her garage sale when she moved to Tennessee. That Playmate cooler figures prominently in my road trip pack list.  The plastic trash bag affixed to my chair - the campsites are bereft of places to attach things like trash bags, clotheslines, and the like, though I did learn of one trick from a fellow camper. More on that later.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

This is the view from my dining table: the Tularosa Basin.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

Since I've been in the area, I've seen six tarantulas, a rattlesnake, and other ominous-looking critters.

This visitor just barged right in without asking. We agreed that if I left it alone, it'd leave me alone.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

On the way back from a ranger talk, I saw this long rattlesnake crossing the road.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

When I first arrived at my campsite, I found these four pennies on the picnic table. In case they were somehow maintaining order in the universe, I left them on the table, though I did rearrange them in a fashion more pleasing to my eye. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Missouri: Jefferson City: A Blessings Box

 

Blessings Box. Jefferson City, Missouri. September 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The Blessing Box is a concept new to me. Saw one for the first time on my new daily walk route here in Jefferson City. 

 

Blessings Box. Jefferson City, Missouri. September 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

The Little Free Libraries are, of course, legion. Here is a locator app, even, that maps the little libraries. 

Which reminds me today of BookCrossing, in which one releases a book into the wild, for a random reader to pick up, read, and perhaps re-release in a new location. I did this for a number of my vintage paperback science fiction novels. 

 

Blessings Box. Jefferson City, Missouri. September 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

In Mobile, I attended the grand opening of a Free Little Art Gallery. 

 

Grand opening of Free Little Art Gallery. Mobile, Alabama. August 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

All of these Little Things, I like them. They nurture sparks of community.

 

Missouri: Jefferson City: A Return to Chez Katherine

 

 

At Chez Katherine. Jefferson City, Missouri. June 2020. Credit: Mzuri.

 

I am back in Chez Katherine in Jefferson City for several months, which I introduced in January 2011: 

At Chez Katherine, I am in a Parisian apartment, sleeping in a bed so high I need a stool to get in, with a dainty crystal chandelier in front of the garret-like window, and a huge map of Paris on the wall. Yes, I do need to traipse down a tiny corridor and across a roomy family room to get to my private bath, but, well, it is a vacation home, n'est ce pas? One makes do. Upstairs, I enjoy coffee in one of several sink-into-comfort upholstered chairs or couch, or I may walk out to the huge screened-in deck that overlooks a secluded wooded yard; the enclosed deck is reminiscent of a mountain lodge. And did I mention the outdoor shower? The hammock? The swinging, turquoise bench under the arbor?

I no longer stay in Kate's Parisian room, having swapped it for the room with two twin beds. One bed to flop in; the other to pile stuff upon. Closer to the bathroom, too. 

Being back in an actual house with two levels and multiple rooms, I find it expedient to wear a waist pack so that I can carry my phone and a pair of glasses with me throughout. A funny adjustment to make for a small-space minimalist like me. 

I'll be here for about three months, then off to another quarter-stay in another state. TBA.

 

10 Years Ago: On the Road to Alamogordo, Day 2: I Killed a Tumbleweed

 

An ominous gathering of surly tumbleweeds near Lordsburg, New Mexico. March 2013. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Sunday, September 23, 2012

On the Road to Alamogordo, Day 2: I Killed a Tumbleweed

Oklahoma

I left Chandler, OK, at about 9:00 a.m. I wasn't in much of a hurry. I try to remember lessons learned from Caucasus Georgia (be flexible, don't worry so much about time), though often unsuccessfully.

Note my new use of "Caucasus Georgia" instead of "Republic of Georgia," both designed to distinguish it from the state of. I didn't come up with Caucasus Georgia - a guy who wrote and edited a new guidebook on Georgia did, and I like it. I'll reserve any linky love to the book until I find out how the author(s) addressed Rustavi, or if they did at all. There are some folks who purport to know what's what in Georgia, but who have either never been to Rustavi (3rd largest city in the country) in the last five years (if ever) or who dismiss it out of hand as a has-been industrial backwater. 

Oklahoma has a pleasing terrain and once you get past Oklahoma City, you've also got the red earth to capture your eye. I'd planned to stop for lunch at Lucille's in Weatherford, a place my mother and I enjoyed on my last pass through these parts, but I missed the exit. I could have backtracked, but that isn't in my genetic make-up, so I pushed on. 

Speaking of OKC,  I saw the damnedest thing. As I drove onto a highway ramp, I saw two police cars on the right. As I turned my head to look at why they were there, I saw more LE and I saw a black, SUV-type vehicle straddling a deep, wide concrete ditch over by a fence, which was adjacent to a mall or some other sort of large building complex. And when I say straddling, I mean that the vehicle's front end was on one side of this trench and the rear end was on the other. How the hell did that happen? I imagine the cops wondered the same thing when they first arrived. 

Turned off at another Route 66 town, Clinton. All of these small towns are worthy of exploration for their Route 66 artifacts and vibe, but there's only so much time. Had a ho-hum lunch at Gayla's Cafe at the Market. Weak coffee, a real sin in my book. A good yeast roll, though.

For God's sake, people: You can always make a strong cup of coffee weaker; you can't do a damn thing to make weak coffee stronger. If you can see through the coffee in the glass pot, it's too weak.

While on the subject of coffee, I pulled up later at a c-store for a pit stop. I like to buy something when I use the facilities, so I was searching for something not too expensive and settled for a cup of coffee. The store guy stood right by me as I asked if the coffee was very strong (having been recently disappointed by Gayla's). He said, "Pour a little in the cup and try it." (Give him 10 points for good customer service.) I did, and it was lukewarm, and very weak. I said in a neutral voice, "It's lukewarm." He said, "Add a little hot water to it," pointing to another dispenser. (Fire him.)

Texas

The I-40 West Texas Welcome Center is among the most beautiful in the country, I think. Dramatic views from the picnic shelters, elegantly designed. An informative and graceful center. Didn't have to stop there this trip, however.

In Amarillo, I veered off from I-40 to Highway 60, via which I'd pass through Hereford and then Clovis and Portales.


Somewhere on Highway 60, I saw a tumbleweed begin to cross the road and through the vagaries of wind and timing, I ran right over it. A little piece clung to my front hood latch for awhile. No immediate damage to my car's underpinnings seemed to occur, so I carried on.

The land between Hereford, TX, and Clovis, NM, is dotted with huge plants of some sort. Processing plants or factories of some kind. Definitely among these are packing plants. Beef. In one spot, I smelled something yeasty, like bread. It smelled kind of good. Later along the highway, I smelled something not-good a couple of times; I think these were beef packing plants.

A couple of times, I saw hundreds of cows in short-term feedlots, awaiting their fate.  I say feedlots because at one place, I also saw hay bales. At another, I didn't notice any hay. Maybe one place was for an upcoming auction.

I also saw a number of long trains. Several of the trains carried trailers from companies such as FedEx. Kind of funny: Transportation carrying transportation.

The view through a bug-stained window, accompanied by a sad tune from Johnny Cash:   

A roadrunner ran across the road.


Road death

On I-70 in Missouri, I see electronic MODOT signs that say "535 deaths on Missouri roads this year." (Now it's 598.) Then it says 63% of those who died were unbuckled.

So when I saw a similar Texas DOT sign on Interstate 44, you can imagine my shock at the number of fatalities: 2058.

As shocking as that is, Missouri's per capita traffic death rate is (as of the 2009 figures) two people per 100,000 more dead than Texas. 
 
Roswell, New Mexico

I stopped for the night at the Super 8 in Roswell, NM.

I had no cell phone service anywhere in town. Odd, don't you think? What are they trying to hide?

Roswell, New Mexico.

 

The Lost Summer of 2021: The Last Day

 

Sun setting on the last day of the Lost Summer of 2021. Alternative title: A Dirty Window. Mobile, Alabama. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

I departed the Budget Inn in Monroe, Louisiana, a little after 8:00 a.m. on this Lost Summer morning, August 31, 2021.

Below is a narrative of my experience at this motel, sent to my Houston friend: 

"Fortunately, I have a battery-operated camp lantern with me - I used it last night as a bedside light when I discovered that the can light up in the ceiling between the two beds had not been installed - so to have light, one must walk over to door to turn on or off the ceiling light.

"Fortunately, the motel owners replaced the non-functioning refrigerator in my room yesterday evening with a new one.

"Fortunately, I have an ample supply of plastic grocery bags to use for my trash collection, as there is no wastebasket in the room.

"*laughing*

"This ain't the Motel 6 in Junction here."

En route between Monroe and Mobile, I stopped at: 

• Big Top Travel Center and Casino in Delhi, Louisiana. 
• Mississippi Welcome Center
• Kroger's in Clinton, Mississippi (I have a nostalgic fondness for Kroger for its connection to my childhood family and for my maternal grandmother's neighborhood Kroger ... plus its Carbmaster yogurt)
• Circle K outside Collins, Mississippi (I like Circle K for its economically-priced fountain sodas)
• Another Circle K, this one in Beaumont, Mississippi
• A motel in Lucedale, Mississippi, around 2-ish in the afternoon, but was only there briefly before pressing on toward Mobile.
  

Because I'm reconstructing my Lost Summer a year later, I am relying on my Google Maps timeline, my phone call history, and emails that I sent that day. 

Hurricane Ida

Until I re-read an email to my Houston friend on this and the preceding days in 2021, I had completely forgotten about Hurricane Ida, and the resulting exodus of folks in its path. Which resulted in fully-occupied motels and campgrounds hither and yon in precisely the areas of my travel on this day. 

It stuns me how easily I could forget an event so enormous that it temporarily displaced thousands of people. A storm so immense in its ferocity that it was second only to Hurricane Katrina in 2005. An event so massive that my Houston friend and I referenced it in our emails for days leading up to the event because I was headed toward its outer circles. 

Can I attribute this lapse to the fact that it was just one more Very Bad Layer of Bad Stuff on an already tottering tower of Very Bad Things that have accreted atop our mental warehouse floor since November 2016? And COVID .... always COVID.

I wish I could blame the above, but I don't think that's truthful.

I think it's because when a bad thing doesn't affect us directly, it is oh, so much easier for it to slip away from our brains. Or we feel helpless to do anything about it, so although it may distress us when the news of the thing is in front of us every day, we let it drift down to our mental basement as it fades, as well, from our newsfeeds. 

I'm not happy that Hurricane Ida blew away from my brain pan in such short order. 

But getting back to the last day of my Lost Summer of 2021:

Here is what I reported to my Houston friend: 

I'm in my new apartment! There were no motel rooms in or around mobile and I asked my landlord if I could just move in early, and she said yes!

I have a beautiful sunset outside my living room / office / bedroom window!

The Lost Summer of 2021: August 30: The Penultimate Day

A receipt stuck into a bag stuck into a backpack told me part of the story of the lost summer's penultimate day.

Time: 

17:23. Also known as 5:23 p.m.

Monday, August 30, 2021.

Location: 

A grocery store in Monroe, Louisiana. Well north of the Boudin Curtain, sha. More like Mississippi than Louisiana.

What I bought: 

• Cream cheese spread
• Something "fresh, no sugar"
• Some watermelon. Probably a quarter of a whole or a container of chunks.
  

I stayed the night at the Budget Inn in Monroe, which was my go-to lodging in the Lost Summer of 2021. I paid $70. 

I have no photographic evidence of this day, so I will insert a photo from a past life, rooted, which I'd titled: "Lost my head and it's all a blur," which seems apropos. 

Lost my head and it's all a blur. Missouri. Christmas 2007. Credit: Mzuriana.

I might'nt have devoted a whole post to this day, but for the damn receipt. Faded, worn, the paper softened, after sitting in that backpack for so long, my hand rubbing past it untold number of times when I rummaged through the bag for something. 

Related posts to Lost Summer of 2021 here.

The Lost Summer of 2021: Sunday, August 29: Brownfield, Texas

 

Gillham Park in Brownfield, Texas. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Given my late arrival in Brownfield, Texas, the night before, I luxuriated in my motel room until the very last minute I could on Sunday morning. I didn't leave until 11:00 a.m.

Gillham Park in Brownfield, Texas. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

 And then I made my way to Gillham Park, where I may have had lunch with the geese alongside a pretty lake. 

I hold the same thought today that I did a year ago: "Brownfield"? I get that the name honors someone named Brownfield, but all I think of is land contaminated with toxic chemicals. Time for the town to re-brand? 

That night, I ended the day's travel in Eastland, Texas, at 8:45 or so.

My Houston friend and I conferred via email: 

Me:  "I have landed in Eastland Texas for the night. Staying at Budget Host motel." 

Friend: "I can see you are slowing down to time your return to Mobile and that is great.  We've been glued to CNN and the Weather Channel. We can't believe the devastation in [Louisiana] and the worst is yet to be discovered.  ...."

Me: "Yes, that, and I also wanted to either get close to but not in Dallas, or [to get] past Dallas tonight. It's not ideal to go through Dallas on Monday instead of Sunday, but I also wanted a relaxing morning today."

Friend: "I see the power just went off in New Orleans.  I'd urge you to be careful about driving into a disaster area before you can assess the situation.  Spending a few days in a budget motel on the fringes may be money well spent."

Me: "I agree completely. My plan is to approach Mobile from the north, coming through Vicksburg, Jackson, and Hattiesburg. For tomorrow night I'm considering Monroe, Louisiana."

The Lost Summer of 2021: Saturday, August 28

I departed Las Cruces around 8:30 a.m. 

Headed east on Highway 70.  

San Agustin Pass

Stopped at San Augustin Pass, with its turnout, where I'd turned in so often in past crossings. 

Irony observed:

San Agustin Pass, New Mexico. Mattresses abandoned. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

The missile and the so-lovely Organ Mountains: 

San Agustin Pass, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

San Agustin Pass, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

San Agustin Pass, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

White Sands National Monument

Stopped at White Sands National Monument. I had a mission: To buy a piece of jewelry in the gift store. 

Mission accomplished: 

Lapiz pendant from White Sands National Monument, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Tularosa

Upon arriving at Alamogordo, I hung a left, where Highways 70 and 54 run together for awhile. I stopped in Tularosa at Del Sol Tularosa Southwest. Mission: Buy a pendant there. I bought two: 

Pendants bought in Tularosa, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

I had bought a spectacular piece there some years ago. At least I'm pretty confident it was there.

Comet moon pueblo pendant by "RV". New Mexico.

Not long after Tularosa, I hung a right onto where Highway 70 splits from 54 and moves into the mountains. Ruidoso was next on my list. 

Before Ruidoso, I swung by the Inn of the Mountain Gods in Mescalero. Just for some beauty.

The grand entrance art installation of the Ga'an Crown Dancers is magnificent. 

 

Ga'an Crown Dancers art installation, Inn of the Mountain Gods, Mescalero, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Ga'an Crown Dancers art installation, Inn of the Mountain Gods, Mescalero, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Ga'an Crown Dancers art installation, Inn of the Mountain Gods, Mescalero, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Ruidoso

Traffic congestion. Creeping along roadway.

Oh right, this is why I don't position myself in a tourist town. 

Mission 1: See about buying another pendant. FAIL. Too difficult to find parking.

Mission 2: See if Ruidoso might be a future temporary residence. SUCCESS. Struck Ruidoso off my list. Not only because of the seasonal congestion, but because rents are probably high, as property owners more likely to earn more from tourists than long-term renters. So long-term rent likely to be higher than I could afford. 

Where I landed for the night

I powered through the rest of New Mexico (with a quick dip into Allison Canyon), through Plains, Texas, and slid into a Budget Inn around 11:30 p.m. in Brownfield, Texas.

A long day. 

The Lost Summer of 2021: August 24-27: Las Cruces, New Mexico

I hung about Las Cruces for several days, staying at friend "Drake's" (aka "Flint's") house. 

Both COVID and a looming storm hovered near.

 

On Tuesday, August 24, 2021

I wrote to my Houston friend: 

Knowing I've already got a place lined up [in Mobile, Alabama] - that ticks so many, maybe even all, of my boxes - feels very luxurious. Being able to do that reconnaissance mission earlier this summer really panned out.

I see one of Houston's medical centers has closed three of its branch ERs due to the COVID surge. I like the very frank, succinct language the medical center used:

'To reverse this devastating trend, we need every member of the community to take swift action: please do your part, and if you are eligible to get vaccinated, do so as soon as possible. At this point, this is a disease of the unvaccinated and it is preventable if people just get vaccinated.' "

 

Wednesday, August 25: An evening walk

 

Dead butterfly on an evening walk in Las Cruces. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Yellow flowers on an evening walk in Las Cruces. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

An evening walk in Las Cruces, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

An evening walk in Las Cruces, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

An evening walk in Las Cruces, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Wednesday, August 25: An alert

An email exchange with my Houston friend on this day:  

• From me: "Still in New Mexico. Will be here til Saturday morning. Then I'll mosey on toward Mobile. As yet I am unsure of my route."
  
• My friend's response: "I assume you are aware there is a tropical storm in the Gulf which may affect your travels."
  

Thursday, August 26: An evening walk

Purple flowers and rosemary on evening walk. Las Cruces, New Mexico. August 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

Thursday, August 26: Emails to my Houston friend: 

My 10-day forecast for Mobile shows scattered thunderstorms, but this could change, of course, and worsen.

I think I've settled on my route from Las Cruces. Because it may be a long time before I'm in the Southwest mountains again, I'm going to jog back through White Sands, up to Mescalero and Ruidoso, before dropping down to head east through south Dallas, Shreveport, Hattiesburg, etc.

Also, I've played with the idea of a turn in Ruidoso in the past [as a future temporary residence], despite its colder temps in the winter (not to mention snow!), so this will be another look-see.

 

On Friday, August 27: Veterans

Drake's dad - "Beck" - and I visited Veteran's Memorial Park. 

Both Drake and Beck served in the Navy. 

That precariously-posed helicopter impressed the hell out of me. 

Veteran's Memorial Park helicopter. Las Cruces, New Mexico. Credit: Mzuriana.

I am reminded of New Mexico's Vietnam Veterans Memorial State Park, which I visited in 2013 here. A helicopter there, too.

I am reminded, too, of the important role that veterans play in powwows, as described here, from my attendance at the Gathering of Nations in 2013. 

Friday, August 27: Foreshadowing in emails to my Houston friend

I hope [Hurricane] Ida doesn't hit New Orleans too hard. I see that Grand Isle (which I visited in July) expects Ida to be worse than any of last year's storms/hurricanes

But it does look like Ida's path could change over to hit Mobile.

Hmmmmm, it just occurred to me that lodging availability in northern parts will likely be affected by an influx of evacuees.

Looks like you've got rain in the forecast for the next 10 days.

  

 

Relocation Rituals: Consuming the Consumables: Oatmeal Reveries

 

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. Oatmeal and honey. April 2016. Credit: Mzuriana.

I've consumed the candles. 

The other day, I consumed the last of the eye-rollingly good toasted sesame oil. Oi! Yes, that's the one. 

As I wrote this, I'd just finished off my family-size cylinder of oatmeal. 

Mmmm, oatmeal. Hearty, warm, cozy. Easy.

As a child, brown sugar was the oatmeal sweetener of choice in our family. I especially liked when I could capture the small clumps of brown sugar for their added burst of sweet granularity. For me, not to be diluted with milk. 

Some other oatmeal memories

2011: Ethiopia: The Mullet Phase 

2011: Ethiopia: Meltdown in Lalibela, Part 1 (Foreshadowing: "This is the room you give to someone who no longer has the will to live!" Not my finest hour, oh my. But the oatmeal was fine.) 

2013: Rootless Relocation: Consuming the Remains (oatmeal struck off the list)

2016: Lake Atitlan, Guatemala: The Oatmeal 'n Honey Moment

Note: About Ethiopia currently: So much pain, death, fear, uncertainty. It doesn't hit most of our news feeds. I can't include my 2011 posts above, which told of a much different lived experience for me, without acknowledging what is happening in Ethiopia now. As an Ethiopian told me even then: "You can leave Ethiopia any time you want. We cannot."