JACK BURNS LIVES!

The plan from here is to head back south to the Rancherias Canyon Trail. There’s a water source, and it’s where I’m scheduled to meet an outfitter from Lajitas to take the horses, at which point, I’ll hike back in by foot. I left a letter at the Post Office in Marathon and told the lady to hold it for four days before sending. Inside the letter to my wife there’s an explanation and instructions for the authorities on where to find my body, including instructions to pay for the cost of recovery.

Grim business.

We won’t make it to Racherias today, however. It’s late, the horses are tired, and we have enough water to last until mid-day tomorrow. We select a campsite, and I begin setting up our camp for the evening. I decide to make a pizza tonight using flour tortillas, prepackaged tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni, basil and mushrooms. It’s amazing to me how well cheese keeps in the backcountry. The pepperoni is loaded with salt, so there’s no problem there. I figure it’s a good night to open that bottle of wine, although I start off with some Makers Mark. Cocktail, dinner and wine. Who’s roughing it?

The horses get theirs first, however. It was always my daily practice at home to feed the critters before anything. The routine was the same everyday. Start the coffee, let the cat lead me to his feeding area, feed him, walk outside and feed the dogs their morning meal. Walk around to the front of the house and pick up the paper (so I could read about all the horrible shit going on in the world) and return indoors with my hot coffee ready to go. I loved animals from my earliest time as a child, and most of my life I found them to be superior companions to humans. They were always glad to see you. They worshipped you. Cried when you left, barked for joy when you returned.

Truth be told, I miss them terribly and the thought of not being there for them is almost more than I can I bear.

Just about the time I’m about to add the tortillas to the pan, I hear the unmistakable sound of horses coming up the trail. I stand up, turn to face the trail and check to make sure my sidearm is there. It is. Two riders approach and much to my surprise, it’s two women. One is older, about my age, and the other is probably in her mid-twenties.

“Evening.”

“Evening.”

“My name’s Jack. I have to say, I am more than a little surprised to see anyone up here.”

The older lady responded, “Well, we’re surprised we’re here, too. We’re supposed to be further north, but had a little trouble with a shoe a few miles back and are late to our destination.”

“You’re welcome to camp here tonight.”

“Mighty, kind of you, but we don’t want to be an imposition.”

“Not at all. I actually just got the stove started and was going to open a bottle of wine.”

She doesn’t seem too concerned about who I am or what I’m doing. I also notice they’re both carrying. The younger woman has a Glock .40 like mine and had a kind but capable disposition. I felt certain they were competent in the operation of their firearms.

“You wouldn’t by chance be the fella meeting Esteban from Lajitas?”

Now I’m really surprised. How on earth would she know that?

“Well, I actually do plan to meet someone from Lajitas tomorrow, but I have no idea who they’re sending. Just someone from the stables. How’d you know that?”

“Small community, Jack. By the way, I’m Nancy and this is my daughter Ginger.”

“So, you mind telling me who told you?”

“We help the stables out from time to time on their guided trail rides. There was talk in the shop about a guy wanting to sell his horses and be met at the Rancherias Trail. Just figured it had to be you, since we don’t see many unguided people out here. Don’t see many people, period. How you plan on getting back?”

“I have a plan.”

The women look at one another as if they have confirmation of something. They’re smart, sharp as blades. Nothing gets by these two. Smart enough to put two and two together. They pitch in with the cooking and contribute a nice steak, some fresh veggies and peach cobbler. Damn good eatin’. It’s nice to have some company, truth be told. Especially a couple of beautiful, smart women. Nancy’s hair is long and blond, and her sparkling blue eyes are framed with crows feet from years in the backcountry sun. I can tell she has money, because her hat’s custom made. The Indian bead work on her hatband alone probably cost $300.00. Her boots and spurs are nice as well. A softly finished bison leather and the spurs were also custom made. Their horses far outclass mine. These are ranch owners, not just a couple of cowgirls. But in their chaps and western wear, boy, are they a picture.

Her daughter’s an unworldly beautiful girl. Auburn hair, soft brown eyes and infectious smile that reveals two adorable dimples. Looking at her, I think about when I was young and in love. That first time I saw Allison and her beautiful face. My heart racing. Not being able to stop thinking about her. Those magnificent days of early love when everything’s aglow, like the burnished redrock walls of Lajitas Mesa at sunset. But love changes, of course, over time. It doesn’t diminish; it just changes into something deeper and more profound, like our minds change as we age. We move from having just knowledge to possessing wisdom and depth of thought. A great love is like a fine wine.

As one of my favorite fictional characters, Augustus McCrae would say, “The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”

Their presence sends me spiraling into an irreversible pattern of homesickness. Wanting to be with Allison, wanting everything to be ok. Back home in my soft bed, not in this rocky, remote, harsh, crushingly beautiful place. Nothing like a good woman to bring a thick-headed man back around to thinking clearly.

We talk over glasses of wine, sharing stories, bits and pieces of information about ourselves and our families.

Nancy asks, “What do you for living, Jack?”

“Well, I was a technology executive for most of my career. Things went well until about six months ago.”

“What happened?”

“We sold the division I was running. The new owners eliminated my job. It caused a huge problem, especially for my wife. She’s really sick and her medicine runs thousands of dollars every month. She’s got coverage for about another thirty days.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence until Nancy speaks again.

“Trouble finding work?”

“Yeah, it’s bad right now. Really, really bad. No one wants to hire a fifty year old guy and take on a big salary with benefits. I looked for anything with insurance and have just come up empty handed.”

“What’s next?”

“I have a plan.”

More uncomfortable silence.

Ginger hasn’t said much the whole night, but as we finish off the wine, she becomes more emboldened.

“You know, Jack. It’s not really any of my business what’s going on with you, but I can tell when someone’s really troubled. This will pass. I’m not sure why you’re here, but I’m glad we met you. Once you’re done on your trip, you get on back home, and I bet something good will happen. I can feel it.”

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart. I could use a break.”

The next morning we break camp and prepare to head our separate ways.

Nancy walks over and offers her hand and says, “Good luck to you, Jack.” Ginger walks over too, gives me a big hug, tells me to be careful and then walks toward her horse. Just as she gets there, she turns and says, “Hey, Jack. When you get back you write to us and let us know you’re ok. Double W Ranch, Marathon, Texas. Address it to Nancy and Ginger Walker.”

“You got it.”

Before we saddle up and part ways, Nancy offers one more bit of advice.

“Jack, about two miles south of here there’s a pretty dangerous spot over the next canyon. Big rock wall on your left with a narrow trail. You’ll see a massive agave just before you get to it. Be super careful. It’s a long, long way down, ok?”

“Thanks.”

On the trail again, I feel exhilarated. I want to live again. I’ll beat this thing. I even have some fresh ideas. I’m going to meet this Esteban fella, pay him for his time, follow him out to the road, load the horses and head home. Enough with this crazy business. I wonder if Nancy and Ginger were even real. I wonder if maybe they were angels. Maybe my mother was right, after all. I’d not been a religious man, but I was beginning to wonder now. They gave me hope.

The trail climbs sharply, and I can tell I’m approaching the area Nancy warned me about. By the time I get to the top, I figure the drop is over 600 feet. I am scared of heights and try to not look downward. I’m riding Woodrow, which is a mistake, because he’s the more skittish of the two. He can sense my trepidation through the reins. I’ve lost control. The trail is littered with loose rock, and while I try to slow him and keep him steady, I’m doing just the opposite. I’m making him more nervous. In my own nervousness, I spur him, and he moves too quickly and starts to slip on the scree and off to the side.

As we slip toward the abyss, my life flashes before my eyes. This really happens? People’s entire lives flash before them before they die? Holy shit.  My boyhood home, elementary school, marriage, the births of our children, coaching baseball, graduations, work, now…..

“God, help me.” 

For some reason, a calmness comes over me. I regain focus. I steady Woodrow, and we stop. Whisky’s behind us acting like nothing’s wrong. Again, the female is the only steady one in the bunch. I shake my head, laugh a little and realize the danger’s passed.  Reaching into my back pocket, I take out a bandana and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“Let’s go home boy. Steady.”

We move slowly along Saltgrass Draw, just north of Black Mesa and west of Big Bend Ranch State Park. Due to the terrain, we’re headed slightly southwest, closer to the Rio Grande. The closest town now is is probably Lajitas, 15 miles as the crow flies, but probably a two day ride due to the terrain. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going there. I’ll continue southeast into the park, and then swing back northwest.

The park allows horses, provided you pay your $2 per day equestrian fee and your park fee. I thought long and hard about it and was tempted to say “screw it” and not pay anything. A man should be able to ride his horse wherever. The Park Service doesn’t see that way, of course, and wants its fee, since the business of the parks too often is just that, business. But in the interest of keeping good relations and being left alone, I paid my horse fee in advance via mail. My Texas State Parks pass eliminated the need to pay the $6 park, and fee and gives me the unencumbered right to go as I please throughout the park’s 300,000 or so acres.

The state park is frankly more impressive to me than its National Park Neighbor. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and probably the most rugged, remote and unpopulated section of the Lower 48. Moving east to west, I notice the rocks begin to change from a yellowish tint to a deep red as we move more deeply into the State park and closer to the Mexican border. I suspect this is due to two extinct volcanoes in the area that erupted some twenty to thirty million years ago, but I’m not a geologist and can’t be certain. Far from it. In fact, I was always an average student when it came to science and math. I could do the work, but much preferred the often melancholy business of poetry, English and History. I wanted desperately to be a writer or a historian, perhaps, but as a young desperate father, I was too easily sucked into the more lucrative corporate vortex and never escaped. I think that’s part of the reason I’m here. My inability to escape it.

One of my favorite poets was a fella named Lew Welch. Hell of a writer, although not appreciated in his time. He finally gave up too, leaving a suicide note at his friend Gary Snyder’s (another favorite) house, wandering off into the wilderness never to be seen again.

Now, here I am. Following Lew’s lead. Why the hell did I pick him for a role model? Jesus H. Christ.

Strong doubts, however, are interfering with my plans. I enjoy so many aspects of life. My garden, a small circle of good friends, non-humans (except for brown recluse spiders), history, contemporary art. A good steak grilled just right with a Lonestar Beer. The Japanese guys at my favorite sushi place get a kick out of my cowboy hat. I get a kick out of them treating me like a celebrity. I love the company of my children, although now grown and out on their own, I don’t see them as much. Wish I did, but they’re trying to make like everyone else. I love this place and find that I feel alive here. I feel more alive today than I have in years.

This isn’t going as planned.

The current difficulty is primarily financial. This seems to me an oft repeated story, a tragically stupid one. Man gets into financial trouble, has no way out, decides to pull the trigger. And then you hear all the comments about how if he’d only waited thirty minutes. If he’d just called us. Given it more time. Seen a shrink. But sometimes there really is no way out, particularly when you have really, really sick people that depend on you for their medicine, you’re fifty years old and can’t find work, and all you have is a massive life insurance policy. Enough to pay for everything and keep your wife and children secure for many years. Problem is you’re still alive and can’t get to the money.

Sorry, Baby Blue.

We continue carefully picking our way around the cacti and rocks, including the infamous Horse crippler or “Devil’s Pincushion.” Thanks to the rain, they’re flowering. Their pink to red orange flowers add a lovely touch to the trail. Lovely to look at, but troublesome for livestock, I’m told. The area is also well known for its Peyote. I’ve never tried it, but considering my closeness to American Indian lifeways and history, I’m on the lookout for it. Maybe I’ll have my “spirit quest” and find a way out of this mess. The notion of taking Peyote, a strong narcotic, makes me wonder why the wealthiest nation in the history of civilization doesn’t have a safety net for the sick. Why we just let them die. I decide that before my wife dies, I’ll die saving her. Screw the damn government. Screw Pfizer, Roche and the whole lot of ‘em. Screw Monsanto and its frankenstein food and its chemicals. They’re probably the ones behind all these weird cancers and other diseases, soaking our soil and our food with chemicals. Grandpa was right. Grow your own damn food and kill your own game. Go out and the back yard and get your own eggs straight from the coop.

Out here, though, I feel like I’m away from all of it. No newspapers, no phones, no e-mail. It’s glorious. Traveling along the base of a mesa, Whisky and Woodrow make their way through some scree and boulders, sticking close to the wall. Looking upward, I begin to feel as if I’m in the land that time forgot. There’s an immensity of space that’s hard to describe. The quiet is deafening. Deafening because all you hear is nothing. My mind drifts backward to another time, before white men showed up and made “improvements.” Life was brutish and short. Every day a struggle for survival. A fast forward to the present where life appears slightly less brutish-depending on where you live, I suppose-and slightly longer. But it also seems nearly completely devoid of spontaneity, adventure and danger. It’s too predictable. Secondary school, college, job, family, brief vacations to places packed with thousands of others trying to escape the same shit you’re trying to escape, sickness and death.

What would it have been like to be a cowboy? To travel the open range? Tough, I reckon. Low wages, long days and a lot of uncertainty. And it didn’t last long enough to spit at, and we had to damn near kill off a whole race of people to make it possible. The whole thing, like everything else, became corporatized. Cowboys had to go on strike. Form unions so they could survive. What about sleeping under the stars? Singing songs by the chuckwagon? Going into town with shiny new wages, buying a game of “billiards” and drinking your ass off?

Shit. I can’t even enjoy my favorite fantasy.

Jesus, Jack. Snap out of it. Why are you always so damn gloomy? If you didn’t hobble those horses at night, they’d surely leave you so they could maintain their own sanity.

I press westward toward El Solitario. Appropriately named, I think. Nearly ten miles across, it’s a collapsed and eroded structural dome, supposedly easily noticeable from space. From the air, it looks like a crater caused by a massive impact from space, huge and lonely. One could surely get lost and never be found, just like in the Maze in Canyonlands. Interestingly, just to the south, there’s another landmark, although this one was created by man. It’s the Contrabando movie set. At first glance, it looks like an abandoned Mexican village, another place time forgot. Several of my favorite westerns were shot there, and I’m tempted to swing south on the Contrabando trail and check it out, but I’m afraid I’ll start thinking about the films, get sentimental, find myself sucked back into civilization and my continued indentured servitude.

I decide to press onward, into the deepest section of the park and to my final destination, Hells Half Acre.

….to be continued

“The trail ends when you stop moving forward.”

I wake at sunrise, like I always do. This morning, to the sound of a canyon wren calling, exploring in and around the mesquite, searching for its first meal of the day. In a close distance, I hear something else stirring. Probably a javelina, I think.

The wren, the javelina, and I have several things in common. We’ve picked a spot that’s suitable for us. It’s quiet, safe and provides the things necessary for our survival. Perhaps the wren and javelina, however, are here because there’s a potential mate nearby.

Myself, I’m alone and by choice. And despite the fact I’ve worked years to get here, to be free of the chains of the city, meaningless jobs and the crushing boredom of everyday life, I suddenly feel an intense loneliness. I try to not to think about the fact I’m fifty miles in the backcountry. No phone, no warm welcoming cafe to step into. I ponder the beauty of human closeness and wonder if having someone tailgate me on the morning commute wasn’t so bad after all.

The thought soon passes.

I stoke last night’s fire and then walk down to the creek bed for water. It’s been a wet spring, something the people of the Trans Pecos have a deep appreciation for. After nearly 11,000 years of wandering and settlement throughout this vast region, they know there can be fifty year droughts and don’t take a drop of rain for granted. When there’s rain, the Northern Chihuahuan desert is alive with color and life. Most people think of the desert as devoid of life, but I find just the opposite. It’s teeming with life and color. Fiery ocotillo with bright red blooms stretch their spindly arms, reaching for the Texas sun. New Mexico agave explode with massive yellow flowers. There’s aster, basketflower, wooly loco, Indian blanket and Devil’s cactus.

Pronghorn antelope are plentiful and provide an important food source for mountain lions and coyote. There are even Desert Bighorn Sheep in the Sierra Diablo range, and of course hundreds of reptilian species, including the infamous Western Diamondback, although you’re more lucky to happen upon the Prairie rattler or Trans-Pecos copperhead. I accept them for what they are. Certainly dangerous to humans, but also helpful in that they are an important rodent control mechanism.

Walking to the creek, I’m mindful of such things, particularly in the translucent light of early morning. But as I walk, I realize I’m far from alone. I’m rich with company on this fine morning. No question it’s far superior to rush hour traffic, the blare of sirens or the constant, nerve racking pestilence of cellphones or my former neighbors and their obnoxious lawn tools. My chances of meeting death at the hands of a rattler are far less than my chances of being killed on an interstate highway by someone high on pills while driving an 8000 pound SUV. I find the presence of Mourning dove and coyote much more to my liking.

Once I’ve collected water and head back to camp, one of my horses, Whisky, offers a nicker, a gentle reminder that she’s hungry, too, and shouldn’t be forgotten.

“I hear you, girl. Let me get the coffee going, then you’re next.”

The food is hung between two cottonwood trees near the bank of the stream. An important detail when you’re in the backcountry, unless you’re ok with mice taking their share during the night. I loosen the rope from the tree it downward over the limb, collecting what’s needed for my breakfast and some horse feed.

I opt for a light breakfast so we can hit the trail early. I’m looking to cover 15 to 20 miles, if we can. It will depend on the heat and the horses. Whisky can usually do it, but Woodrow is carrying most of the supplies today and might top out at the lower number. That’s fine. There’s no real hurry except I know we’re close to an area where some drug smugglers have been known to travel. They’re usually also running people across the border and those people, the desperate ones just trying to get to the other side, are pawns in their game.

To find the path and have an escort, they’ve agreed to carry a dangerous cargo. There are usually “spotters” about a mile in front and a mile behind, looking for anyone that might see them. Recently, a rancher in Arizona was killed by one, most likely only because he happened upon them. Even killed his dog. A tragic story in and of itself, but also because the man was known to help people that were in real trouble from exposure. He was one of the good ones, and he lost his life at the hands of a person, a piece of trash, who’s life was dedicated to taking life.

The spotters usually carry high powered rifles. I’m constantly mindful of them, keeping my .30-30 and my Glock pistol close at all times. It strikes me as ironic that I’ve wandered into the middle of nowhere, trying desperately to get away from humans, and yet, here they are. A most despicable lot. Drug runners taking advantage of a woeful people and preying on the young. I suppose a child molester is worse, but I think the drug runners are essentially molesting, murdering our children. Taking their whole lives from them.

My policy on such matters is zero tolerance. But if confronted, what will I do? I ponder this point as I’m packing up, wondering if I would shoot the leader. I suppose technically it would be considered murder. I could say he fired first, but that would be a lie. Don’t care for liars, either. Perhaps I could let myself be known and draw him into shooting first, but that would be counting on a miss from a rifle most assuredly more powerful than my own. I’m confident in my ability. Supremely confident, but this could be a dicey game. In this case, the law is clear. I can protect myself if there’s no escape, and if I’m threatened by potentially deadly force.

But didn’t I come here to die? Didn’t I decide this would be my final journey?

I decide to let the thought pass, before it turns into paranoia and ruins my morning, perhaps the whole day. Soon, Woodrow and Whisky are watered and fed and we’re on the trail.

…..to be continued

“We should restore the practice of dueling. It might improve manners around here.”-Edward Abbey

Scattered amongst the trees on a perfect spring day, dozens of species of birds sing beautifully in celebration. Separate but seemingly in rhythm, they produce a symphony of delightful song. I imagine them going about their daily business, gathering nesting materials and finding food while maintaining a careful lookout for their powerful red-tailed cousin lurking above in the azure sky. The garden is pallet of color, reds, blues and pinks and my young, fragile plants reach for the sun.

Then, from less than a quarter mile away, just beyond a row of houses on the west side of the garden, a shrill, dissonant sound, a high pitched squeal, penetrates the air. It grows steadily, increasing in volume, then briefly decreases, changes directions and pitch, but remains. Soon, it’s joined by a similar sound and then another, until there’s a cacophony of noise permeating the landscape, drowning out all other sounds.

The peace of the afternoon is shattered.

Lying in the sun, I imagine a man on horseback confronting the abomination. An anachronism, his clothes are trail worn, and his boots are caked in dust. His hair, slightly curly and light brown, is long for his age and reaches his jacket. And although his face is weathered, he posses a youthful look, a face that beams with confidence and determination, dominated by blue eyes that seem to waiver between between sadness and rage.

He stands for what he stands on.

Before him stand three men, each holding a leaf blower. The man on horseback studies them, slowly shaking his head as if amazed by their ignorance. The men stare at him in equal befuddlement, holding their machines by their sides like weapons, idling, burning fuel. Suddenly, the rider’s gaze hardens. Beneath his wide brimmed hat, his frightening blue eyes focus doggedly upon the men. He judges them and sets the sentence, then focuses on the man closest to him. The rider pulls a Winchester rifle from his scabbard, points it at the leaf blower and fires. The unmistakable sound of the Winchester lever action rifle pierces the air like a scythe, and the plastic casing of the leaf blower explodes as the .30-30 slug buries itself in the machine, leaving the man holding holding nothing but the handle. The rider again cocks his rifle, points at the second leaf blower and fires. Same result. The third man tries to run, but it’s useless. In seconds, the rider steadies his horse, aims the rifle, holds his breath and fires, knocking the device from the man’s hands. All three devices lie on the ground, inoperable.

The men scatter for their truck like roaches caught in the light. Order is restored.

Thanks to Kent Duryee for this find….

From:
Western Review
A Journal of the Humanities
Published winter and summer by
Western New Mexico University, Silver City New Mexico
Volume 4, Number 1
Summer, 1967
Sunflowers
by Edward Abbey

It was a clean stark high sparkling sunlit silent desert morning. Hayduke sat at his desk in the
backyard, facing his typewriter. But listening to a meadowlark. And thinking of the mountains.
Those mountains, he thought, oh those magic and magnetic mountains where the mule deer – at
this very moment – are gnawing at the bark of aspens, and the jackrabbits plunge through snow
under dripping piñon trees, and the redtailed hawk, also starving – but in style, with pride, with
honor – rides the thermal pillars, his merciless green eyes glittering with cold clear craw hunger.
Buen fuerte, compañero…

The rest is here.

The man sits motionless at his cubicle staring at a computer screen. There are 112 messages in his inbox and a stack of files to his right, 15 or so deep, all waiting. Waiting for him to take action, but he can’t move.

He hates it. The computer, the job, his clothes, his life, his inability to act. It’s the same routine every day. He wakes up, showers, puts on the corporate uniform, navigates roads crammed with raging self-medicating lunatics so he can sit in a putrid yellowish prison of steel.

His job is to help THE COMPANY money and make his BOSSES richer, although such action almost always means some poor soul somewhere, some little person that apparently doesn’t matter, loses out while profits soar.

At the top of the stack is file 1125. A mother with systemic disease, now unemployed, is four months behind on her mortgage. She’s racked by pain and her disfigured limbs are now useless to the corporation she formerly served. Daily, she contemplates how she might bring about her own death. She’s written a fair and final plea, an offer to make two payments and to finance the repayment of the other two over next six months with current payments.

The man scans the document and enters it into the digital filing system. Pursuant to company policy, he selects Option 4 and rejects the offer. This automatically accelerates the foreclosure process and will generate Letter 4 informing the mortgagee of the “decision.”

The man knows he’s guilty. He’s one of them and brings these things to pass. Guilt pounds through his veins,darkens his soul and cuts through him like a scythe. Betty sits across from him doing the same things, but she blithely goes about her daily routine with no guilt whatsoever. He listens to her each day, taking calls from desperate people, her raspy cigarette scared voice showing no mercy. She’s as callous as a cancer and terrifyingly efficient, processing three times the number of cases he does. No emotion, no feeling, just a job a do and the job is to destroy lives.

During his break, he slips away. He dreams of living under a viaduct. Dropping out and no one ever knowing what happened. Working as a ranch hand in Southwest Texas. Washing dishes in Marfa. Anything but this, a life that’s a gaping wound, draining his spirit.

He decides he’s finished and reaches under the desk to turn off the computer, completely ignoring the company policy for proper shutdown of the device. Then he stands up, shoves the chair back under his desk and walks out. He’s free.

“Under the desert sun, in that dogmatic clarity, the fables of theology and the myths of classical philosophy dissolve like mist. The air is clean; the rock cuts cruelly into flesh; shatter the rock and the odor of flint rises into nostrils, bitter and sharp. Whirlwinds dance across the salt flats, a pillar of dust by day; the thornbush breaks into flame at night. What does it mean? It means nothing. It is as it is and has need for meaning. The desert lies beneath and soars beyond any possible human qualification. Therefore, sublime.”

His things are already packed and in the truck. They’ve been there for two years. Driving through downtown Memphis, the ramp to the Hernando Desoto Bridge rises before him. Beneath the bridge flows the Big Muddy. The Mighty Mississippi. To his right are the silos of a grain company and a few houses foolishly built in a flood plain. To his left are the cold, dreary office buildings filled with people like him performing mostly operose worthless tasks. Investment analysts, lawyers, IRS representatives and county commissioners.

Pressing harder on the accelerator, he finally crosses the Mississippi but decides to stop just past the state line and lighten the load. He walks to the edge of the bridge and hurls his cellphone over the edge into the swirling chocolate abyss, walks back to the truck, changes the radio station and stops at a song he loves.

He drives onward.

Dozens of trucks of all shapes and sizes moved slowly up and down the newly cut, winding road. At the bottom of the canyon, four Komatsu 575 A dozers, moved massive piles of rock and dust into towering monoliths while a monstrous backhoe hoisted piles of coal into the awaiting beds of heavy haulers.

It was a perpetual motion machine of mass destruction where haulers continuously moved in and out of the canyon to obtain and deliver the precious commodity.

Looking southward from the ridge was a lone rider, sitting tall in a Mexican saddle. The morning sun reflected off its conchos, piercing the canyon like a laser. He was tall and lean, with a hawk-like hose, narrow eyes and a bandana hanging loosely around his weathered neck. His black hat was covered in dust, as were his faded and slightly torn Wrangler jeans. He wore a leather holster containing a Colt Single Action Army pistol, a nickle-plated .45 with a 7-1/2 inch barrel.  Attached to the right side of the saddle was his scabbard. It held a cherished possession, a Winchester lever action rifle, Model 94 .30-.30, purchased in 1962 from a friend in Duke City, New Mexico.

He looked down at the operation with disdain, even hate. Yes, he hated these people. Money grubbin’ rich folks with their mindless lackeys despoiling the land. And all for what? For even higher production levels and even greater profits, regardless of the real costs. The cost to the land, to humans and to non-humans. Especially non-humans….

But now he was an old man with limitations. It had been nearly fifty-five years since he’d first come west, and in those fifty-five years he’d seen unspeakable horrors. He’d witnessed the rape of the land first hand. How the industrial metastasis gradually moved in and around nearly everything, rapping its poisonous tentacles around the mountains, the canyons and the desert, slowly choking the life out of everything.

The nagging cough coming from deep within his lungs told him he didn’t have much time. Perhaps only enough time to do one more good thing before his bones became snacks for coyotes.

An old friend once told him “Jack, sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul. One brave deed is worth a thousand books.”

Yes, one more brave deed.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

The Mountain

Allison walked outside and found G.L. on the porch.

“Have you read the paper yet, G.L.?”

“No. Just been out here enjoying the morning.”

“Looks like they’re going ahead with the plans for that new plant.”

G.L. glanced upward, noticing contrails of water vapor and carbon dioxide where the jet recently passed. He said nothing, just put his head down and turned and walked through the screen door back into the house. Allison was following him inside when he suddenly turned to face her.

“You know. Something’s got to be done to stop this. It’s already bad enough. This thing is going to absolutely kill the park and make the air around here so bad we won’t be able to breathe. Clean coal my ass.”

“Well, this is it,” Allison responded. “We aren’t moving again.”

“No, we ain’t. We’re staying here. But I’m not sitting back and just watching these assholes ruin the place.”

Five years earlier, G.L. tried to leave it all behind.  There was a brief stint in Southwest Texas, but he soon found life in Texas wasn’t what he expected. It was too dry and too hot and what water was to be had was hard as iron.

His wife missed the lushness of Tennessee, and they were going broke in Texas.

Thirty years prior, he lived a life of unfulfilling corporate drudgery. It paid the bills but offered little else.  It was completely devoid of any intellectual stimulation. Other than caring for his kids, extended family and friends, he saw himself as a “taker,” living a life millions of others could probably only dream of living.

He felt that his success was made possible, at least to some degree, by the suffering of others. In his view, designing networks and telecommunications systems wasn’t benign.

He justified the last ten years with the creation of his own firm. It was a small company that paid its workers well, promoted work place democracy and community, but it still wasn’t enough. It was still a life that required most of your days to be spent in Orwellian office buildings discussing inane subjects with cold, calculating self-absorbed executives.

His networks helped the machine function and expand, but he was sick of the machine. In fact, he hated the machine.

He tried serving on the boards of various non-profits, but quickly came to the conclusion most of his fellow board members weren’t there to solve poverty, racism or advance the arts. They served on boards to inflate their resumes and to network with other executives. It was mostly bullshit. Just a way to inflate your persona and to get your name out there. Such endeavors drove revenue and driving revenue was corporate America’s raison d’être.

He longed to be a cowboy, but cowboyin’ didn’t pay well in 1870, and it still wasn’t payin’ well.  And besides, he didn’t know shit about cowboyin’, and everything was mechanized these days. Electric branding irons. ATV’s used on round ups. The open range was long gone and wasn’t around long to begin with anyway. It was a flash in the pan destroyed ultimately destroyed by greed and more specifically, the railroad.  So, he settled for being a dime store version and decided cowboyin’ was more about how you lived and treated folks, not what you did for a livin’.

Toward the end, it became unbearable. He made excuses to break appointments. He canceled appointments for fake illnesses and would hide in coffee shops for hours at a time, watching people, writing and dreaming of what life could be.  He was dying and had to get out.

He exercised his options in the company and took off for Texas hoping to make it doing odd jobs and writing for living. Had he been willing to put money in the stock market, he and Allison probably could have lived off investments, but he wasn’t very deft with money, and he distrusted the stock market. He loathed all of it, stocks, banks, credit bureaus, mortgage companies and lawyers, and viewed Wall Street as one of the single greatest threats to all life on the planet.

Truth be told, he’d prefer to just take off on a horse and head to the hills, but he had responsibilities and people that loved him and needed him.

He decided they’d live on what they had and make more.  Money was a renewable resource.

Only two years into the Texas experiment, they punted. Sold the place and headed back to Tennessee. They’d been happiest in East Tennessee, and they missed the mountains.

But once they got back, they noticed quite a bit had changed.

The precipitous decline in air quality, one that had already begun when they lived there previously, was now much worse. There were good days here and there, but during the summer months, you might not be able to see ten miles from the ridgeline in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  Fifty years ago, you could see over one hundred miles.

The National Park Service constantly issued health warnings for elderly people or people with upper respiratory conditions to not visit the higher elevations.

The pollution was damaging plants, trees, high elevation soils and streams and everything was interconnected. Everything was affected. And there were other problems, as well. Too many fucking roads cutting through pristine areas, overdevelopment and hunters.  He had no issues with people hunting for food, taking a deer or elk for the winter freezer, ducks or geese. What he loathed was the senseless killing of animals just for the sake of sport, and especially bears in the Southern Appalachians.  The knowledge of it gnawed at his gut like a cancer.

G.L. sat down at the table, a nine-foot long rustic pine treasure where they’d had countless meals with family and friends. As he glanced over the newspaper, Allison brought him a cup of coffee and placed it on the table.

“Let’s go hiking, G.L.”

“Yeah, while we still can. What you up for, a quiet lower elevation stroll along stream or a climb to the ridgeline?”

“I can do a climb today, if that’s what you want.”

Allison was always a gamer. Even when her arthritis was at its worst, she rarely complained and was tough as nails. Much tougher than G.L. and every bit the fighter he was. Most folks that knew both of them would say she was the more tenacious of the two. The one you’d want in your corner in a pinch.

She’d been his steady companion for thirty years and loved him despite all his faults, not the least of which were a quick, Irish temper, an inability to manage money, and a wandering eye.

But she understood him and had mostly reformed him. Anyone that knew him when he was twenty-two and that still claimed him as a friend would readily tell you he was a much better person today than he was then. And they’d give Allison full credit for the miraculous, perhaps saving transformation.

They met when she was seventeen. She was a freshman in college, and he was a twenty-two year old senior.  Within two weeks of meeting, she was pregnant. He loved her and proposed marriage, although it took some finagling on his part to convince her he was the right choice.

And about every twenty-four months, he had to convince her all over again he was still the right choice.

Together, they raised three children, now all successful adults living their own lives.  The best times were when they all gathered at that pine table, just as they had for so many years. Only now there were additions. There were spouses and grandchildren, and even larger circle of love.

They feasted on well-prepared meals and wine. On Blueberry pies with homemade ice cream.  On piles of pancakes and yummy French toast. Allison baked cookies and fresh breads.  They told stories and laughed, planned hikes together and discussed and debated music, art and politics.

They were blessed beyond belief, and all of these blessings made G.L. feel even more indebted to do something. To do something to defend the earth that had opened its bounty to him.

“Let’s climb today, honey. We need to clear our heads and our lungs and prepare for battle.”

“What battle?”

“The battle to save our home. Who knows how much time we have left. We’ve been so blessed, Allison. We have so much. We have good minds and strong backs. The time has come.”

“Well, I think we need to write Senator Smith again.”

“Fuck him. I’m sick and tired of writing that worthless toad. He’s a whore to industry. It’s the same old thing over and over again. Same old prepared response that’s basically just a bunch of hooey.”

“You’re right. But the people around here don’t even care, G.L. They’re just trying to make it, and a lot of ‘em see these coal plants as providing jobs. I don’t see what can be done.”

“Exactly. All the more reason to seek new strategies.”

“Like what, Mr. Dawson?”

“Get your stuff ready. The mountain will tell us.”

Chapter One

Nestled in a quiet cove, the house lies just east of Mt. LeConte, an ancient edifice of granite and sandstone towering 6500 feet above sea level. Towering over the valley, the mountain dominates the landscape with magnificent walls brilliantly adorned in a palette of fall color.

The house is quiet and the mountain lies still.

Decorating the countryside with its most lavish design, nature’s fall show signals the arrival of a grand death. Butternut Hickory, Mountain Ash and Red oak shower the soil with their offering, as the splashes of color slowly give way to the subdued hues of winter.

The Appalachian sun rises gently, its sparkling tentacles gradually making their way over the Anakeesta ridge, reaching outward to the valley, illuminating dew that’s settled on the trees and fields surrounding the house.

It’s a fall morning in the Smokies, and he doesn’t believe there’s a prettier place on the planet.

Morning is his favorite time of day. He embraces its peace, its stillness and the subtle sounds developing into a broader, more perfectly orchestrated symphony. The wind stirring the leaves, calls from his avian friends and the primal buzz of the cicada.

Stepping outside, he finds the air is pleasantly cool and moist. Unzipping his fly, he exercises his right as a free featherless biped and participates in the time-honored tradition of peeing off the front porch.

The urine flows freely and spills over the side onto the grass below, causing a beetle to scurry for cover beneath the porch.

Safely tucked away in a tangled patch of rhododendron not far from the house, a Ruby-crowned kinglet serenades him with continuous celebratory song. Lightly hopping from branch to branch, he thinks it must lead a perfect existence. No mortgage, no taxes and no worries, other than the noble quest for the necessities of life.

Food, shelter and sex.

He imagines the kinglet to say “I’m a kinglet! Look at me! I’m a kinglet, and I’m happy!”

As his imagination wonders, he ponders life in these mountains and valleys hundreds of years earlier, before whites established property lines, capitalism, governments and prisons. He concludes that humans in North America more or less lived much like the kinglet, where the primary tasks of each day were mostly focused on food, shelter, sex, celebration and song.

Oh, there was hardship. There was war and conflict. Life could certainly be brutal and short, but it seemed more honorable.

He feels modern society carries a lingering stench. It’s too frantic, and there are billions of people looking for peace and quiet that never find it. Hardly a place remains where you can’t see the effects of man. There’s no open frontier. Only constant vigilance to protect what remains.

And then, as if on queue, an airplane passes overhead, ripping through the serenity of this hallowed place like a hot knife through butter. Filling the valley, the sound is harsh and dissonant like fingers scraping a blackboard.

He reaches out and forms his hand and fingers into an imaginary pistol. Using his middle finger as trigger, he aims and fires into the endless sky.

“Bastards”

When the biggest, richest, glassiest buildings in town are the banks, you know that town’s in trouble.-Edward Abbey

At a House Budget Committee meeting last Wednesday, second term Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Ben Bernanke said that the Fed will “not print money” to pay for United States burgeoning debt. That’s the traditional way for governments to crawfish out of bad debt, just print a bunch of bogus money and present it as “legal tender for all debts public and private.” Good thing, because I don’t believe the Chinese are going to fall for some Hong Kong Phooey financial trickery.

Maybe Nixon was on to something when he took us off the gold standard.

He also mentioned the unthinkable, cutting “defense” (do we really still call it that and get away with it?) spending, and went on to say that “the economy is not just turning downward, if something is not done soon, it will completely collapse.”

Well, no shit Sherlock.

Some of my business associates that fly in the realm of high finance are expressing considerable concern about things, even to the point of suggesting China and India could soon be running things in the good old USofA. I see that as somewhat doubtful, but there’s no doubt we’re in deep poopoo. If we continue with our bailouts, which are essentially “re-capitalization” efforts using public funds, the Chinese are eventually going to call our hand.

These moves really anger the Chinese, because they come at the expense of the dollar and Treasuries. China could, in a bad, but not “worst case” scenario, renege on their commodity driven derivative contracts. This would be a slap in the face to the US Federal Reserve without “going nuclear” by selling Treasuries outright. This would, however, set off a dangerous chain reaction.

The Chinese have fired a couple of warning shots already. If it happens, the US could choose to default on its debt to China, and at that point, we’d have full-scale economic war and potentially on our way to military conflict. They can raid our natural resources, something has has actually already started. It’s ugly no matter how you look at it.

We’re in this mess for two reasons. One, growth capitalism is a non-sustainable house of cards, and two, the country is being held hostage by an a cadre of greedy, inbred, financial moguls. Washington and Wall Street successfully consummated their evil marriage many years ago, but to this day, we’re still under the thumb of its lascivious, perpetually breeding offspring.

I would have much preferred a steady descent down the mountain to something more sensible and sustainable; however, it now appears we’ll all be hurled off the summit posthaste to the rocks waiting below.

And while all this human madness is occurring, somewhere in the desert, a hawk goes about its daily business of gathering food. A rattlesnake warms itself in the sun, and the desert flora, dormant in winter, prepare to bloom and gloriously announce the coming of spring. Life continues on, unabated, despite the folly of featherless bipeds in suits and ties.