Author: Nyla Anne

In 1977, Ram Dass, who was given his name by his beloved teacher, MaharajJi (Neem Karoli Baba) while in India studying with him ten years earlier,

commissioned a statue of Hanuman to honor his memory. Baba Ji had left this earthly plane four years earlier and his devotees and students were feeling the loss, in need of a place to gather, sing, perform acts of service.

Ram Dass said “I will donate the statue to an Ashram. Which we will create. Then, we will have a home.”

The statue was finished in 1978 but the Ashram’s location was still up in the air.

A Taos resident, Vishu Magee,

who had been with Ram Dass studying in India, and who loved Maharajji, offered up the use of an empty stall in a milk farm he had purchased near Taos Plaza

for storage until a proper Ashram could be built.

By 1981, the farm had become the ashram. People from all over world, many of them now followers of Ram Dass who was carrying forward his guru’s teachings, came for satsang, puja, kirtan nights, and merriment.

Maharajji  (also known as Babaji, an affectionate honorific) taught five basic principles: Love everyone; Serve everyone; Feed everyone; Remember God in everything;  Aways tell the truth.

He emphasized living a simple life based in selfless service as one’s form of practical devotion. He loved the Hindu deity, Hanuman and identified with him thoroughly.

Hanuman is the devoted soldier, protector, and servant of God. There are numerous stories of his exploits, his battles, the pranks he pulled as a young monkey dieity in training.

Babajji loved that spirit of playfulness in the warrior monkey, carrying that spirit forward into his teachings.

Babajji  has been described as a very humble, kind person who was known to laugh and tease others affectionately, He worried about people having enough to eat;  the concept of breaking bread together in devotion was important to him.  He always made sure his visitors were fed.  Both physically and spiritually.

Maharajji stressed the importance of surrendering our worries and trusting in Divine protection.

Don’t worry, be happy. Love God. Serve others. Be here now. Speak Truth.

One of the results of these emphases is that the Neem Karoli Baba Ashram has, since its beginning, provided a daily meal free of charge to anyone who wishes to eat. They feed  more than 500 people per week.

I arrived after the meal but did enjoy a cup of delicious chai, also available. Thank you, Babajji.

In 2009, the Ashram expanded.

This was a controversial move, with the City of Taos originally denying the application. They cited out of control traffic, noise from visitors, and the neighbors, who had originally supported the ashram, believed it had failed to live up to its purpose. Too many people had begun coming, not to worship or sit satsang, but to get high, eat the free food, party on the grounds.

The Ashram sued the City, basing their suit on the grounds of religious discrimination. Many feelings were hurt on both sides because it wasn’t the religious aspects which were in question. Still, the Ashram won a settlement. The expansion begun.

They did also take the criticisms to heart, recruiting new leadership to return the ashram to basics.

It has became the beautiful facility we see today.

The gardens are a peaceful place to sit or visit. That small round building in the back is a new temple opening being consecrated in May. It is dedicated to Sri Siddhi Ma, Maharajii’s devoted disciple–the woman who headed up caring for the ashram throughout its years.

As for the Ashram main building, two rooms are available, free of charge, to visiting devotees (who make plans in advance) for their use. Daily services are available online (Aarti) and regular in-person weekly teachings, Kirtan worship sessions, and retreats are on the schedule.

Many famous people come to the temple and many are the devotees of Maharah-Ji.

Julia Roberts never met him in person but stated that it was his face, his essence, which drew her to Hinduism.

Many also are the followers of Ram Dass, who also left this earthly plane, but whose foundation, Love Serve Remember, carries on the teachings.

Ram Dass’s ashes have been interred on the grounds of the Ashram, which he loved dearly and helped manifest. He, indeed, came home.

This year, a new Temple to Hanuman, with seed funding provided by Ram Dass before his death,  was finally completed.

 Inside the temple

It will also be formally consecrated May 10 and 11^th with 24-hour Hanuman Chalisa chanting. This is a big deal. Doubtless, devotees will come from all over the world for this joyous occasion.

The doors are unlocked in the meantime so that visitors may enter, sit or even sing, if so moved. There is a box of temple instruments available for musicians in heart to use, should they feel called.

I was grateful to be able to enter in person. Offer my prayers.

I am fortunate to have experienced a modest amount of study with Ram Dass before his death, then after, with Lama Surya Das, The five principles of MaharajJi make sense to me. They seem to embody the essence of what Jesus taught. Of the precepts of Buddha. Of genuine core spiritual values to live by.

I also love the natural high and interconnectedness which comes from singing Kirtan. Especially when fortunate enough to do so with spiritual kirtan masters like Krishna Das and Deva Premal.

God/Goddess, the Divine, enjoys many faces, many names, welcomes many avenues of worship. Kirtan is a joyful one.

Here is the statue of Hanuman Ram Dass commissioned,   in its own place of honor at last

inside the  beautiful temple, simple yet rich in  energy.

In a quiet corner, we also  find a statue of Ganesh with Lingam. A chance to reflect upon overcoming obstacles, acting with good faith, mastering our intentions toward the greater good.

 

There are peacocks calling and parading throughout the grounds. This one put on quite a show for me.

“It is better to see God in everything rather than try to figure it out”. Maharajji

St. Francis de Assisi Church

First stop today, St. Francis de Assissi Catholic Church in Ranchos de Taos. Designated a National Historic Landmark in 1970, the church was built between 1772 and 1816.  It is a unique design, a marriage of traditional native designs with Spanish, after they’d successfully colonized the area.

It is sculpted of adobe, with massive flying “beehive” shaped buttresses in both the front and back, and has two front facing bell towers. Three simple white crosses adorn those towers and the church entryway. 

The interior has gorgeous Spanish carved woodwork, including an ornate altar which also boasts all kinds of original religious iconography.

The church is still an active center of community life, holding regular masses as well as special events, including a re-mudding of the adobe by community members every June.

Ansel Adams photographed the church for his Taos pueblo art collection and Georgia O’Keefe painted it several times. She described it as “one of the most beautiful buildings by the Spaniards left in the United States.”

I had the place to myself so was able to sit and meditate, then walk around studying the elaborate Catholic art.

Señor Lloyd Rivera at the Ranchos Plaza Grill

Next, I stopped into  the Ranchos Plazas Grill for one of the sopapillas which won them culinary acclaim from no less than Fodors.

Mine was light, fluffy, not at all greasy.

The only thing which might have improved it would have been the use of local raw honey instead of a honey bear squeeze bottle.

However,  the real treat for me was meeting Señor Lloyd Rivera.  Señor Rivera is a painter as well as founder of CHACO Voluteers of Taos, dedicated to creating equal opportunities for emerging Chicano/Chicana artists.

He wanted me to take his picture next to the piece he painted several years ago and donated to the Grill.

He also painted this picture of the Last Supper in the native rustic style. He wanted me to know that his painting of the last supper is the only ones he is aware of which depicts Judas with a gold halo like the rest of the disciples. He has also put the gold pieces in his hand.

“Judas is always thought of so badly,” he lamented, “but he only did what God asked him to do. Without Judas betraying Jesus, who he loved, there would have been no crucifixion.  Without a crucifixion, there would have been no resurrection. Without the resurrection, we would not have all been saved. Judas deserves respect.”

I agreed.  He then pointed out that he had included Mary Magdalene in his version of the last supper. She sits to the right of Jesus.

“She is always left out, but she is as important as any of the other apostles.” he told me.

He couldn’t have stumbled into a more enthusiastic student.

“I know,” I began, “Mary Magdalene was the apostle most beloved of Jesus.  For that, they tried to discredit her by calling her a prostitute.”

“Who cares if she was a prostitute?” he asked. “That would only prove that Jesus loved everyone. Just as we are meant to.”

“Yes,” I said, “but she wasn’t a prostitute. I think it’s important people understand that. In fact, in the 1960’s, the Church issued a formal apology for calling her one.

“You know,” I continued, “there is a Gospel of Magdalene which has been hidden for years. It was discovered along with the Dead Sea Scrolls in the 1940’s. It’s been authenticated. Jesus trusted her with some things none of the other apostles were told. Peter, particularly, was mad about that.”

He seemed impressed.  But no matter–he wanted to tell me about his organization.

“Listen,” he said, “look it up. I want to raise up the work of Chicano, Hispanic, Azteca peoples. We have been too long overlooked by fans of Anglo artists who have used our imagery. No offense”

Lloyd with Juan Salazar at their show,

“Visions Across Borders”

“None taken. I understand, ” I reassured, “I was talking with a friend last night about how weird it is that Taos, such a cultural beacon of art, seems to have so few featured indigenous artist galleries.”

“Well, I hope to help the young people of my culture change that.” he smiled.

At which point, the server brought him his to go order.

“I have enjoyed meeting you, Nyla,” he said.” I am Chicano/Azteca. You are Anglo. But it is no accident we met.  God wanted us to have this talk. He is bringing his saints together. You travel safely.”

And he walked out the door.

 Pot Creek Ruins and Cultural Site

Pot Creek Cultural Site is an abandoned 13^th century pueblo in the Rio Grande valley, at the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. It is really off the beaten path and few people in Taos seem to even know about it.

At one time, an effort was made to develop it by the Forest Service.  I came upon this old picnic table in an area clearly meant for picnicking. There is an old, cracked paved parking lot, but you can only get to it by climbing through a gate off rural highway 518 which is locked.

The site is the only known Anasazi pueblo site in the region. It is believed that at one time it was as large as the Taos Pueblo, featuring at least 400 rooms, a grand plaza, and ceremonial kivas.

There is also an area where there were terraced gardens for cultivating corn, squash, and beans. No one is certain why it was abandoned, but one theory is that there were significant battles between the Anasazi and the Tiwa Pueblo peoples which resulted in the Anasazi relocating to Picuris Pueblo. Another theory has the pueblo being destroyed by a fire.

In any case, it was abandoned, then covered by the elements over the course of five hundred years.

The area may not have been properly excavated but it got its name when Luria Vickery, a student archeologist from Southern Methodist University working on an advanced degree, discovered a trove of beautiful pot fragments within surrounding mounds in 1972. This is not a fragment, it’s a restored vase that sold for over $3000 at auction.

Some initial excavations followed, then in 1992, financed by the Forest Service under the cultural guidance of Picuris Pueblo representative and Governor, Richard Mermejo,

students uncovered the foundations for the terraced houses and this kiva, sadly now covered by ratty plywood. I imagine to keep stupid people from going inside. I did lift the lid to take a photo.Hard to see down there.

Someone did build that replica ladder, so its seems they had plans at one time to make it accessible. Still, for whatever unknown reasons, no further formal excavation work has been done.

I discovered information about this site quite by accident while researching landmarks in the Taos area. There was one slender paragraph discussing the abandoned excavation of Pot Creek written by a local who wondered if the more successful Taos Pueblo World Heritage business had anything to do with restoration stoppage.

This intrigued me so I immediately began finding out what I could.  Finally, I surfaced directions to the fenced in, locked gate surrounding the site. One local stated that the Forest Service looked the other way when respectful visitors snuck inside.

Here is the mound where they began reconstruction.      It’s hard to imagine that there are 400 units, with up to three stories, in this area. But with the aid of modern technology, they have images to confirm.

People were born here, married here, conducted religious rituals, died. Managed to make utilitarian storage and cooking vessels into works of art.

 And so it goes.

371 miles of fun today. As I write this, I am pretty well whacked out.

Highlights: Wild horses in Carson Wilderness.  Singing a spontaneous canticle for the healing of our planet in natural Echo Amphitheater. A quick tour of Ghost Ranch where Georgia O’Keefe lived while painting many of her stellar landscapes. A peek inside Dar el Islam Mosque outside of Abiquiu after being invited inside and given the code to access Plaza Azul, a very sacred place.

First the horses.

After driving west of Taos on Hwy 64  past the bridge of suicides, past the Earthship Community (where Lynn and I stayed with friends fifteen years ago), past Tres Piedras where travel trailers apparently go to die, and up into Carson wilderness, I rounded a corner to discover this small band of wild horses licking the road. 

Why were they licking the road?

Because the road had been salted to melt ice and horses need salt.

These are genuine Grulla mustangs, descended from the Spanish horses which first escaped in America.  You can tell by the mousey dun color, plus they are small. Also, so thin.

I stopped in the roadway, hating to interrupt their salt orgy, hoping they’d just step out of the way so I could pass. But the stallion turned to face me, threw his head up, curled his lip in warning,

protected his his mares and young ones until they made their way to the side.

This is a horse sighting highlight for me.  Discovering grulla mustangs in the wild is not something that happens  every day.

I drove up, up, and up some more, rounded many hair pin turns. This seems to be a feature of NM Highway 64.  There were no other cars or trucks on the road. It was a beautiful drive through a forest of aspen, pine, and fir. Here’s a pretty little grove someone felt they needed to use to send a message

 

Echo Amphitheater

A couple of hours later, I entered the canyons and came upon this amazing feature.        

This is Echo Amphitheate. It’s about four miles northwest of Ghost Ranch. I hiked up into it,

taking my time because the energy

is very powerful.

When I at last stood facing the echo chamber, I began singing. ( looking up inside the bowl)

A haunting melody just seemed to flow from me. No words, vowel sounds and ahhhh’s. It was a canticle.  As the force driving me wound down, I stood and listened to the final notes bounce across the walls.

I felt driven to voice a prayer for the healing of our planet, all beings which live upon and within it.

Interestingly, when I returned to home base in Taos, I read that in 1864, during the long, forced walk to Bosque Redondo as part of the Indian Relocation Act, the US Calvary killed ten Navaho men at the top of that Amphitheater.

Those who survived reported their blood spilled down the wall, staining the rock forever. If you  look at this photo,

                                                                 you clearly see the stains.

 It is said the echoes and songs which bounce throughout the cliff’s walls carry the anguish of the murdered men.

 

Ghost Ranch

Ten minutes after the canticle, I came to the famed Ghost Ranch.

130 million years of ancient geology created the spectacular cliffs, canyons, mesas, and valleys of this 21,000 acre ranch, owned now by a Presbyterian  land trust created through the generosity of Phoebe and Arthur Peck in 1955 because they  wanted to preserve it for future generations.

Ghost Ranch was, of course, home first to indigenous peoples. First the Paleo cultures of the Chama Valley, then Ute, Navaho, Apache, and Pueblo.  The tribes fought with one another throughout the years for control of the resources, often  taking slaves for trade and personal use. However, the European advance was soon upon them. Despite valiant, strong resistance, the native cultures which once dominated became supplanted.

When the Spanish conquered New Mexico in 1766, King Charles the Third, gave a generous land grant of 50,000 acres to Lieutenant Pedro Martin Serrano to reward him for his brilliance in the conquering campaign. This land became known as Piedra Lumbre (shining rock).

Generations later, Ghost Ranch, which was then known as El Rancho de los Brujos (the Valley the Witches), not due to a colony of Wyrd Sisters, but because cattle thieves used to drive stolen cattle into the canyons where they were so beautifully hidden, they were not discovered, experienced a name change when witch somehow morphed into ghost.  It also ended up with the majority of Piedra Lumbre being transferred into wealthy anglo ownership.

There are a few small ranches and homesteads remaining in the area.

Plus, a very interesting Benedictine Abbey, The Monastery of Christ in the Desert, is just across the road. The Monks living a contemplative life there believe that everyone is called upon to be a Saint, and that we each deserve to be accepted as both Other and Different, but embraced fully regardless of our differences.  They welcome serious seekers wishing a personal retreat of silence and reflection within the magic of the canyon lands.

Georgia O’Keeefe was so smitten by the scenery, with its constantly changing light, that she convinced the Peck’s to sell her six acres, where she lived in a small cabin, spending  her days and evenings paintings. She was well supported financially, allowing art to bcome her full time vocation.

The Ghost Ranch is now a retreat center with museums on site. There is also a campground and lodgings for non-retreatants. I noticed a corral with some  weary looking horses available for trail rides through the canyon.

It is a stunning landscape    

which is, of course, why one visits.

Painting,  photography, and writing workshops, with even occasional paleontology gatherings, fill the schedule.

It all felt quite commercialized to me, though. The vibe seemed to be people in expensive hiking gear taking in the sights.

There is a gift shop which feels like the same slightly cheesy gift shop you find in any nature resort—big on overpriced western straw hats, sweatshirts sporting Ghost Ranch logo on the chest, O’Keefe books alongside a few bird, tree, kids books. Plenty of snack foods for purchase.

I did check out the café and was impressed with their salad selection. Some home made chocolate chunk cookies looked delicious, but I managed to abstain.

 I was in and out of the Ghost Ranch in 45 minutes. If I could have gotten into the back country, that would have been amazing, but the tours are pricey and time limited, so I continued on my own little tour through the land.

 I managed to capture a few photographs from the road after I left.

Onward to Abiquiu, a pretty little community where the Abiquiu River keeps things looking fertile. I learned that after O’keefe’s husband/financier, Alfred Stieglitz, died, she moved out of Ghost Ranch and into Abiquiu, where she lived until her late 80’s. She eventually moved to Santa Fe, where she died at the very ripe age of 98.

I confess to having a framed, limited edition print of one of lesser known sunrises over the canyon on my living room wall at home.

 

Dar el Islam and Plaza Blanca

I, however, began  looking for the hidden road to Dar el Islam,

where a beautiful mosque and madrasa (religious school) was built in 1981 by the famous Egyptian architect, Hassan Fathy.

It was his final masterpiece–he died one year later.

The buildings were all constructed of adobe by a team of Naqshbandi Haqqani Sufi Order builders.

   inside, where I was invited to have a peek Very cozy, very nice.

 According to Raafat Ludin, the very nice Executive Director who greeted me and gave me the precious access code to Plaza Blanca (why I was there), it is the largest adobe structure in the United State. When I fact checked this later, I discovered that is not exactly true.  The Islamic Center in Dearborn, Michigan is actually the largest mosque. And I believe, having visited,  that Taos Pueblo is considerably larger than Dar el Islam.

Still, it is a fantastic complex.

The location was selected for its proximity to a highly spiritual land form known as Plaza Azul, or The White Place.

Not open to the general public; one must register, then request and hope to receive an access code to the gate.

They take their stewardship of this land seriously.

The rare white sandstone formations are hardened volcanic debris, the result of explosions within the Jemez Mountains, waaaay back when, somewhere between 17 and 27 million years ago.

There are about two miles of formation

n,

with numerous slot and box canyons  and pillars.

 

 However, it was 82 degrees by the time I arrived. As a result of the traumatic head injury I sustained at twelve, my body thermostat doesn’t work properly. I don’t cool down like a “normal” person.

I lasted eighty minutes before needing to  turn back, seeking shade the whole way.

Next time, I’ll drive the day before and do my hike in the early morning.

It’s a special place, worth the long journey to get there.

Highway 64 between Clayton and Taos is one bumpy road. I did see several herds of Antelope, a big herd of buffalo, a gathering of elk at a watering hole, I also experienced one of those moments of spiritual serendipity which keep me on my forward path.

What happened is that the relentless bumping along the road into and out of the Clayton dinosaur tracks site had, unknown to me, loosened my right-side trailer spotting mirror. The thing was attached by suction, which I’d forgotten to check. Something I usually do every morning as part of my routine before heading out:  Right lights? Check. Left lights? Check. Brake lights. Good. Hitch secure? Okay. Chains tight and not dragging? Excellent. Tire pressure on both vehicle’s correct? Okay.  And then… the one I forgot—both side mirror extensions on tight? Apparently not.

 So, I’m driving along after an hour and a half on poorly-maintained Highway 64. More bumping and jolting, when all of a sudden, my right spotting mirror flies off.  I see its shiny surface as it leaves Durga, airborne the few moments before shattering.

I stop.

 I know it’s destroyed even as I walk back to the splinters and broken fins of metal that once helped me see whatever is beside and behind me.

It’s Easter Sunday, I’m on a rural highway slowly climbing to 8000 feet along the Eastern side of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, with only two small towns between me and Taos.

The good news is that there is very little traffic, only an occasional semi or local pickup zooming by my 40 mph ascent. A speed which, while as fast as I choose to go when towing uphill, affords me excellent views of the volcanic mesas to my right and left.

About 30 miles later, I cross the bridge over the Canadian River (the longest tributary of the Arkansas River in the U.S.) into Raton,

a town of about 6500 souls, who from the look of things, are not the wealthy immigrants who now inhabit Santa Fe and Taos.

But lo! There, just ahead on my right, I see something I have not seen on my trip since Florida. An auto parts shop. And it’s open!

Happy Easter, indeed.

A half hour later, I’m back on the road, new and improved spotting mirror attached, ready to take on the Palo Flechado Pass, 9,109 feet.

But first, I pass the Whittington Center,  national headquarters of the NRA, tucked away quietly along this little traveled byway.

It’s quite a spread, funded clearly by some very deep pockets, marketed as “America’s Premier Shooting Facility.” More than 33,000 acres host 25 shooting ranges catering to “any kind of discipline.”

I do not stop.

However, when a while later I come upon Cimarron, I do.  The name is vaguely familiar from old movies of my childhood.  I have to stop.

Cimarron was a major stage stop along the Santa Fe Trail, boasting 16 saloons and 4 hotels Thought of by many as “the heart of the West,” it is known for its lawlessness.

The Maxwell House Saloon and Inn was a particularly wild stopping place, attracting colorful figures such as Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill Cody, Kit Carson, Wyatt Earp, Black Jack Ketchum, Jesse James, and more.

The notorious gunman, Clay Allison, and his gang of cowboys, terrorized Cimarron throughout 1870, shooting out lampposts, riding drunkenly through town at a gallop, or forcing newcomers to “dance” by shooting bullets at their feet, a fact Hollywood used to great effect in several movies.

No such shenanigans seemed to be going on as I pass through, though I do spot a group of local boys kicking the crap out of a soccer ball behind the church.

Out of the town of Cimarron and into beautiful Cimarron Canyon, climbing, ever climbing, while following the pretty little Cimarron River, known for world class trout fishing and the 400 foot tall granite formations called the Cimarron Palisades.

The highway is little more than two narrow lanes, winding around hair pin turns, as it climbs steadily. Many of the turns were posted 20mph, which is fine by me because that is about the speed I am able to muster.

Then, I reach the top and Eagle Nest, a tiny little village along the shore of Eagle Nest Lake, a haven for fishermen and women.

It is also the gateway to what has been dubbed “the enchanted circle,” which is the 84 mile scenic drive through the mountains which starts and ends in Taos.

If I thought the highway through the Cimarron Canyon was challenging, I have my opinion adjusted as the enchanted circle climbs, twists, and bends back upon itself all the way to the top of that 9,109 foot pass.

I pass Angle Fire Ski Resort, which has been dubbed as a ski resort for nature lovers rather than show boaters.

What this means is that Angel Fire lacks the showy attractions of Tahoe and Aspen, emphasizing instead the beauty of the mountains and the athleticism required to recreate there.

And the nerve to drive that road in the winter, I think, as I negotiate my way around very treacherous curves which could easily be deadly when under snow.

But at last, I arrive in Taos, 6,967 feet above sea level, on a beautiful but cold day.

A place where I will un-hook Pearl for a week of scenic exploration.

First Day, Rio Grande Bridge

The Rio Grande Bridge, at 700 feet, is the seventh highest in the US Highway system. It is a steel deck arch bridge with views down which literally took my breath away.

Mostly because I was experiencing a day of elevation adjustment, which included light headedness and extreme fatigue.  But as I walked across that bridge, feeling it sway in the wind beneath me, I became sobered by the 3 emergency call phones on each side.

Rio Grande Bridge is the site of more than 350 suicides since it was built in 1965.  These call boxes are an attempt at prevention.

As I looked down at the river far below, I felt a dizzy rush of accumulated psychic pain overtake me. Not vertigo, something very different.

I said a prayer for the lost souls who chose this for their avenue of passage. And then I had to get off that bridge. I just couldn’t take it.

As I stepped back onto terra firmer, I noticed a lone bighorn  standing sentinel on the rocks to the north.

It eyed me then walked with purpose toward an almost hidden trail at the edge of the cliff. A trail leading down to where 350 ghosts now live.

Day Two, Taos Pueblo

The people of Taos Pueblo have been in this area since before Columbus colonized the country.

Their language, Tiwa, is spoken not written, and due to traditions within their religion, the people do not divulge their history.

The Taos Pueblo is believed to have been constructed between 1000 and 1500 AD. It has been continuously occupied with the adobe structure being added to and repaired throughout the years.

It is said that 150 people live within the walls of the now UNESCO World Heritage Site,

living traditionally, as they’ve always done, without electricity or running water, protecting and carrying on their culture.

I did not see anything like that number of people. Most of the individual dwellings appeared shuttered and locked up.

About a dozen of the homes have been converted to galleries and shops and I had interesting conversations with several of the proprietors.

One man, upon learning I was from Oregon, shared how he’d been a fire fighter there in the 1980’s. He thinks Oregon beautiful but “too cold.”  He also shared that he’d appeared in a Kenny Rogers movie

as one of a band of Indian warriors who hunt the whites. He was cast because he is an excellent rider.

We both laughed at the idea that he was depicted as a killer when in reality, he is an artist with an artist’s soul. He sure did like Kenny Rogers, though.

“The man had a good heart,” he said, “you could feel it. Not like old Iron Eyes Cody. He came here when I was young. He pulled up in a big limousine, got out, did a photo shoot with us kids, then got back in his car and drove away.  He sure had good boots, though. All beaded. I remember those boots.”

I later found this old file photo. Apparently the man liked him some boots.

A woman in another shop and I discussed eating venison. This was after I complimented the sculpture of a deer hanging on her wall. She told me she loved venison but that there just weren’t any more deer around the village. Which I thought curious given it’s right up at the base of the mountains.

“Oh, I think the cattle keep them away,” she told me, “Or the owners of the cattle. Hard to say. But we don’t see any deer anymore where I grew up.”

I giggled as I recounted sneaking into our family kitchen after everyone was in bed to steal a piece of the jerky my step-father made out of the ends and odd pieces. “I  loved that jerky,” I said..

“We all love that jerky,” she joined in my laughter, “it’s the best part.”

There were few people at the pueblo while I was there. I only saw two other couples.

“It will get crowded by this afternoon,” she said. “it’s good you came in the morning when it’s quiet. The groups come, then it gets loud.”

I told her I’d stopped on the foot bridge to listen in the quiet as the river sang.

“It was so melodic,” I added, feeling a bit foolish about the description. Sshe understood.

“I like to listen to the river sing in the evening when everyone has gone away,” she shared. “It is so peaceful then. The river sounds the happiest then.”

I found out later that the river is actually named Red Willow Creek and these are the Red Willow people.

The creek is the source of drinking water for those who live in the Pueblo.  It flows out of the Blue Lake, a sacred lake closer to the mountain.

I strolled around, taking a couple of pictures.

I was taken by the drainage system on the roofs. Rainwater funneled down from level to level, then into rain barrels below.

That water is used for the gardens, where the people grow corn, squash, and beans–the sacred three.

Hornos Ovens.

A fire is built inside until the oven becomes red hot, then the ashes and embers are scraped out, the bread dough placed onto the sides of the oven, the little door closed.  The break bakes nicely.

Already the chill of the early morning was being replaced by a dry, desert heat. I began to imagin how hot it would become in the summers.

It was cool, though,  inside the St. Jerome Church.    

I paid my dollar for a white candle, said a blessing, placed it into the sand. Then sat in a pew to study the artwork and construction.

Built in 1850 after the original church, built in 1619, burned down, it is a modest church with fine hand carved wooden beams and choir loft.

That Virgin Mary in the center, along with several santos, were brought by early Spanish missionaries. I sat in the peace and the  silence, offered up a prayer for the healing of our planet.

When I exited, I overheard a young woman guide tell the two couples I’d seen that the Catholic faith had been forced on them but they’d come to terms with it. She didn’t feel it took anything away from their own religious practices, which they upheld even while living as Catholics.

As I was leaving the grounds of Taos Pueblo, I thought about how this one, small corner of the area has been preserved for the original inhabitants.

I thought about how tourist dollars and the tiny casino built on their land are meant to be compensation. I looked at the modest adobe homes and trailers which the people not living within the pueblo itself but on land ceded back to the tribe live in. Such as this one.

And I felt shame at the number of multi-million dollar “Southwest Style” homes and ranchos and casitas scattered throughout the valley.

Inhabited by well-heeled, sheepskin coated, micro-dermed transplants, mainly from the east coast, according to accents I overheard in several places outside the pueblo.NOT the pueblo

Taos is known as a haven for artists. Only a small number of which seem to be indigenous.

It’s a curious world we inhabit.

I’d forgotten it was Easter weekend. That’s what traveling hither and yon can do to your memory. This day, Good Friday as it turns out, provided several reminders.

First, while waking up, I realized I needed to ditch the feather bed on top of my new mattress (it put me up so high I almost touch the ceiling; the mattress is 10 inches and the feather bed adds another 6). I lay in bed for a few minutes loving the snug feeling it gives, wondering if I could smoosh it down enough to store underneath the bed. The answer was no.

Space is just so limited. I couldn’t figure out what to do with it. As I walked to the outhouse to do my morning business, I came upon a couple breaking camp.  They appeared to be in their forties, not terribly well off. Their van was an older Chevy, not one of those fancy “Van life” rigs people with means drive around.

They greeted me by telling me how cute they thought my trailer is. I gave them reciprocal strokes for their van.

“Did you sleep in it or a tent?” I asked.

“Oh, we slept in it. It was our first night. We just got it,” the woman gushed. “It was good except the floor was pretty hard. Our camping mats were good five years ago.” She laughed.

“Oh, I understand,” I commiserated. “I had a four-inch memory foam gel pad under a feather bed but still woke up every morning with my hips hurting. I had to break down and buy an actual mattress. Last night was my first night in it and boy, did it make a difference.”

“Well, that may have to wait until next month,” the husband said. “Today we’re heading to Eureka Springs for the Passion Play.”

It was then I noticed their tee shirts. Christian imagery with He is risen in gothic font.

“Oh, for Easter,” I said, stupidly.

“Yes, it’s very powerful,” the woman added, “We go every year if we can.”

“Hey, you know…” I said, thinking quickly, “I may have something that will make your sleeping better. I have this feather bed which I woke up thinking I need to get rid of somehow. It’s just too much height for my space. Maybe you’d like it?”

They looked confused. I think the husband feared I was trying to sell it to them.

“I don’t think we can…” he began.

“Oh, I’m giving it to you.” I cut him off. “It would really help me out and I think it would help you out. It’s a really nice one. It’s clean. It’s had a mattress cover on it and everything.”

The woman looked hopeful.

“Why don’t you come have a look?” I said, “If you like it, it’s yours.”

So, she did.

And of course she liked it. And I was happy to be able to make their situation better. And happy to be improving my own. I thanked my guardian spirits for the perfect solution.

A few minutes later, Christa (her real name), a Texan woman close to my age, passed by while I was drinking my coffee.

“Oh, good,” she exclaimed, ‘You’re another solo woman traveler.”

And she came on into my site for a visit.

Christa turned out to be a Christian missionary biker who has lived an interesting life.

We bonded over the fact that we’d each done service work trying to improve the life of indentured prostitutes in Thailand. She’s also been to Cambodia, Namibia, and India doing Christ’s work, planting rice, digging water works, and working in a school for orphans.

We ended up having an interesting, deep conversation about faith, about Christianity, about other spiritual belief systems, about our differences.

She kept telling me that what set Christianity apart and makes it the one true religion is that it requires us to be washed in the blood. She brought up human sacrifices and the old Hebrew lamb sacrifices as necessary means in those days for God’s blood requirement.

“But of course, we don’t need blood anymore, because Jesus gave us his blood when he sacrificed himself out of love for us.”

“But communion is still about drinking blood, though symbolically. And eating the flesh, so I think maybe it is still a big part of it all.”

“You’re right,” she agreed.

“But Christa, I can’t accept such a patriarchal religion which minimizes women.  And even defamed Mary Magdalene by calling her a prostitute when they were so threatened by the fact Jesus preferred her above all his apostles.”

She allowed that to be true. Excused it by saying again, it was just the times.

“And women, virgin women, bleed when they consummate with a man in holy matrimony,” she said, “If the man discards them, they often have no choice, at least in those days, but to become a prostitute to feed their family.”

I laughed, said gently, “I think women bleed when we consummate with a man regardless.”

“That we do. Until we get too old and begin to dry up. Like now, “she laughed a full-bodied laugh.

We chatted awhile about synchronicity and spiritual guides, then she remarked about how amazing it was to meet someone like me on Good Friday.

“I feel we have a lot in common,” she said, “Even if our beliefs aren’t exactly the same. I believe it was meant to be.”

I agreed. Said, “We can use all the good people in our lives we can get.”Christa, a true believer

Then wished her well on her journey, saying I needed to get on the road.

“Happy rest of holy week,” I waved to her as I drove by on my way out.

A couple of hours later, after I turned off onto Highway 77 north, I was enjoying the green rolling hills of Oklahoma.

The wind was fierce, had been all morning, so I was moving at the slow pace of 50 mph. This annoyed several big pick-up trucks driven by men, who all tailgated as if that might make me speed up.  This tailgating is significant because all of a sudden, on the left side of the highway, a man dressed only in a white loincloth was hanging on a cross.

I mean, this was a living, human man. He looked to be in his thirties. He had thick black hair and beard, the whole Jesus look was down pat. Just hanging there. On a cross by the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere. Not in a church parking lot, either.

I wanted to stop and take a photograph but this blue truck behind me gave no quarter.  It was several minutes before there was a space I might have turned around in, by which time I convinced myself it would be rude to take his picture.

This is not the same person and I didn’t take this photo, but this is what he looked like. Imagine that cross is ten feet tall.

I thought a lot throughout the rest of the day about what would make someone hang themself on a cross on Good Friday.

 It wasn’t a publicity stunt. It was definitely his faith, a desire to suffer in the way he imagined the Christ suffered. I have no idea how long he was there. Maybe he was going to hang there all day and be pulled down after passing out, the closest he might get to embodying the spirit of the crucifixion.

There were no other religious experiences after that.  Kind of hard to top seeing Jesus personified on the cross in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma.  With the wind come roaring down the plains.

Six hours later I arrived at Fort Supply Campground.   

Fort Supply is where General George Armstrong Custer was based when he led the 7^th Calvary in its slaughter of the Cheyenne village camped along the banks of the Washita River.

The fort was the main hub of transportation and communication, serving also as supply central, in a region that included southwest Kansas, the Texas Panhandle, and all of western Indian Territory.

The fort is now abandoned, though available to tour by appointment only.  The little town of Fort Supply that remains is a dot on the road. One gas station, one trading post/bar, a couple of falling down buildings. The campground is several miles off the main road along the banks of an Army Corps of Engineer’s constructed dam. There are not services, no bath houses, one porta potty to serve the 60 campsites, of which about a third are occupied this Easter weekend.

I haven’t seen the ghost of General Custer

but a thunder and lightning storm had made an appearance. And the temperature has dropped a lot, letting me know it is going to be a cold night. I may miss my feather bed after all.

When tornadoes and generational flooding force you to amend travel plans and you happen to be near Hot Springs, Arkansas, you turn your detour into a tourist adventure.

(Here’s Pearl, unhooked.

after our lake side site was flooded out. Thank you, Farmer John!  His real name)

Hot Springs has quite the history.

Before Las Vegas bloomed miraculously from the mob funded desert of Nevada, Hot Springs was already enjoying its reputation as a center of vice and wild times.

Between the 1920’s and 1040’s, but particularly throughout the 1930’s, Hot Springs flourished as a destination for gambling, bootlegging, and prostitution, packaged as a luxury resort for “taking the baths.”

And indeed, one could very much enjoy the therapeutic benefits of the famous thermal waters, flowing at 147 degrees into the areas 47 thermal springs.

Originally a neutral healing and gathering center for the  Caddo, Osage, Chocktaw, and Quapaw peoples who inhabited the land for generations

before the Indian Removal Act forced them to relocate to Oklahoma and other questionable locations, Europeans wasted no time developing and capitalizing on the wondrous natural water.

Bathhouses were erected quickly in the early 1800’s out of timber and canvas. These were soon replaced with elegant Victorian wooden structures to accommodate the thousands of people coming from all over the world to America’s Sanitarium,  where it was said that treatments in the springs were a cure for tuberculosis, syphilis, rheumatism, polio, and arthritis.

These elegant Victorian bath houses were prone to fire, however, so by the late 1880’s, even more elaborate structures of marble, fire resistant brick and stucco were erected

. Many with ornate stained glass ceilings and windows and shiny brass fixtures which discolored rapidly in the mineral rich water.

By 1923, stately bathhouses lined the main street of Hot Springs, creating Bathhouse Row,

which still exists today,

though only three of the original bath houses still operate.

Over the years, Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, prize fighter Jack Dempsey, and many members of the mob came regularly to enjoy the highlife Hot Springs offered, though gambling was technically illegal.

The citizens of Hot Springs benefitted from all that spending so looked the other way until in the 1950’s, the FBI got serious about taking down organized crime.

Performing artists were also fond of the place: Sarah Barnhardt, Bessie Smith, Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, Liberace, and in the 1960’s and 70’s, the Smothers Brothers, were all frequent performers. Mae West came often to visit her lover, Irish gangster Owen Madden, the long time big boss of Hot Springs, who also helped finance the carees of George Raft, another frequent visitor.

Tony Bennett even first sang his big hit, “I left My Heart in San Francisco” for the very first time late one night in an empty club. The bartender, his friend, is rumored to have said, “I’d buy that song.”

Buckstaff Bathhouse

With such a rich  history, I decided to take my treatment at the historic Buckstaff, the longest contiually operating bathhouse on bathhouse row.

Others have been modernized, with one even turned into a brewpub (Superior Baths, I’m looking at you), but the Buckstaff still uses the same porcelain tubs and sitz baths, and metal steam boxes, they’ve always used. It seemed the right place to “take the water.”

I paid my $45, was led to a changing room, given a key to lock up my clothing and valuables.  After I stripped naked, a bath attendant stood behind me to wrap me up Roman style in a loose cotton drapery.

She led me to my bath,

a gorgeous old porcelain tub which has hosted who knows who over the years.  I stepped out of my wrap and into the water, a pleasant, not too hot, inviting temperature.  Within minutes, my aches began melting away.

After 25 minutes, of which the final ten employed the whirlpool, an ancient mix-master type appendage blowing air into the water (loudly) to create bubbles, my young bath attendant reappeared, wrapped me back up, led me to a room with massage tables.

I crawled up on my table and she wrapped me in hot HOT towels,

placing a cold one around my face. I was very grateful for that cold towel.

15 minutes of this were followed by 15 minutes of sitting in a steam box, sweating out a river of toxins,

then finally, a ten minute sitz bath.

I am not a fan of the sitz bath. I’m sure it’s great for hemorrhoids and such but I found sitting in it with my feet up on a stool  anti-climatic.

I knew in advance not to pay for the massage package because one of the masseuses had told me they only get 20 minutes per client and she felt “kind of bad” about even calling it a massage.

The Hot Springs Mountain Tower

In 1877, local timber baron Enoch Woolman built an 80-foot tall wooden observation tower so  the newly arriving tourist community could enjoy the view of the surrounding area.

It proved very popular.  In 1890, it was struck by lightening and burned down.

In 1905, Charles Rix, President of Arkansas Bank built a second tower, this one 165-foot tall, made of steel,  on the same site. He named it modestly after himself: Rix Tower.

Rix Tower boasted  the addition of an Otis elevator, making it accessible to many who couldn’t, or didn’t want to,  negotiate the stairs. He made a lot of money over the years but neglected to put any of it into ongoing maintenance. His tower eventually became so unstable the Park Department demolished it in 1969.

In March, 1982, a third version of the tower, at 216-feet, was designed by Civil Engineer Don Beavers after more than 10 years of planning and fund raising.

This current tower has two elevators, a museum, and a gift shop on the observation deck. Since opening, it has welcomed more than 5 million visitors who enjoy a full 360=degree view of Hot Springs National Park, as well as the Ouachita Mountains. The tower is now operated by the National Park Service, with revenues going toward maintenance and upkeep of the park.

I decided to swell that five million–and do my bit for maintenance and upkeep–by taking the elevator in the tower to the top.

Looking east  from the observation deck

The town of Hot Springs from the top

I chose to do this as part one of a sight seeing day which took me throughout the entire park, up and down Old Town, deep into the rich neiighborhood of TriVista (where a police car followed me for two blocks before losing interest), then all the way to Arkadelphia, some 40 miles away, which I’d read about in a tourist brochure but after visiting, wasn’t quite sure why.Downtown Arkadelphia

 

Digging for Crystals in Jessieville 

There are two places in the world which scientists say grow the finest quality quartz crystals: Brazil and the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas.

I don’t plan to travel to Brazil any time soon but here I am, less than an hour from one of the most famous crystal digs in the world, Ron Coleman Crystal Mine, so I decide to go.

 For $20, I, as a senior, buy a one-day permit to dig in the four-acre tailings piles, keeping any crystals I find as long as I can carry them out on my own. That’s the rule. Hand digging only, Small shovels and garden prongs allowed. No pick axes or mechanical devices allowed.

It turns into a perfect day for digging.  Overcast. The temperature not predicted to climb above 80

I studied up enough in advance to know to bring leather gloves,

a bucket to carry my crystals, and a plastic garbage bag to sit on.

The soil is red and rocky so I wear good boots and a hat, slather on the sunscreen, clamber upward  through the tailings,

head into the pile,

find a section that appeals, and begin digging.

I learn fairly quickly that by moving the bigger boulders and rocks aside,

I uncover areas of moist, red, sticky clay.

This clay  often leads to crystals covered over by the soil. After a while, one begins to look for veins of white quartz threading through that clay.        

When one is lucky, those veins yield crystal clear points or clusters, the Grail of crystal diggers everywhere.

The first tailing pile I dig in yields nothing. Well, nothing but the kind of lovely white quartz rocks I’d pick up in Oregon and bring home if I were lucky enough to find them. But you have to walk away because remember, you can only take what you can carry.

I follow a dump truck bringing in a new load, maybe 150 cubic feet of fresh earth. 

About ten other people, three of whom turn out to be loud, constantly complaining kids, have the same idea.

We each stake out a little area on the pile and begin digging. Within minutes I pull out some nice milky quartz crystal points. None of the clear stuff.

I might have stayed with that pile but two of those boys keep whining about how hard it is, how they want bigger crystals than they’re finding. One of them starts digging recklessly right above me, tossing down his cast off rocks. I fear one might bounce off my head. His mother is way off somewhere enjoying her solitude and the father is useless. I move on.

I find another fresh dump, still moist. A much smaller pile with about seven people already at work.

“Do you mind if I join you on this pile?” I ask, mindful of some unspoken rule.

I think about old gold claims where miners shot each another for getting too close.

“Not at all,” says one of the women. It is, in fact, an all-woman pile.

We have a great time digging together, celebrating one another’s finds, laughing over the disappointments when that hunk of sticky red clay we painstakingly pull apart turns out to be nothing but a hunk of sticky red clay. A couple say they return every year to dig and always take home some real finds.

Three hours later, I have a bucket full. Which is enough for me.

The thing is, so many crystals are encased in that red clay—especially the rare clusters. This makes the bucket heavy.

Single points often are just covered in dirt. Some of the tiny ones even lay fully exposed, waiting to be made into necklaces, bracelets, what have you.

The seasoned diggers tell me to take them home, rinse them off with water to get off the main hunks of mud and dirt, but say I will need to use a dilute oxalic acid wash to get rid of the stains in order to bring them to their pure white or clear state.

This is what they look like before washing.

Here is my modest collection in the bucket after a fourth pure water wash. Down underneath that big white cluster are several points and just nice crystals.

I’ll do the oxalic cleanse when I get back to Portland. Maybe.

Here’s a nice little cluster

and some points

I

It was really fun digging in that dirt all morning like a child  (not a whiny one). Therapeutic. Healing.

Happy.

And surrounded by all that crystal energy!

This one is 4 feet tall!  

                                                   

My detour gave me a pilgrim gift: the earth, faceted and marvelous

April 2

Sam tells me, “My dream is to open my own dock dog diving business.”

Only, it sounds to me like, “Mah dream is ta open mah own duck dock diein’ bidness.”

For a moment, I am mystified. I smile, not sure how to proceed. Decide honesty is always the best policy.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t quite catch that. What kind of business?”

She speaks a bit slower.

“Dock dog diving.

Jen says, “Sam trains ‘em. She’s good. We’re following the competitions around right now. Trying to build a name.”

Jan and Sam are in their mid-twenties. They have that wide open, anything is possible aura of enthusiasm I remember well from the first flush of love Janice and I experienced. That magic of lesbian love.

Jen and Sam are clearly young lesbians, clearly in the first flush of love. I said hello to them when they came up from the river where they’d been fishing. It was my first glimpse of members of the Sisterhood, at least obvious ones, since I’ve been on the road.

I find out that they’ve been together for three months. They, and their eight (!) dogs, one cat, and two gerbils, are all of them traveling out of a 24-foot trailer with one pop-out towed by a monster of a Ford truck.

The dogs, I learn, include a Malinois/Shepherd cross, which is eight months old and which Sam has been training since it was weaned- their hoped for soon to be star diver, two German Shepherds, a pit bull/Australian Shepherd mix, two Lab/Shepherd mixes who are good at the hydro speed part of the competition, two Spaniels, and a mutt they rescued. They don’t talk about the cat or gerbils.

I ask about dock diving.

“I’ve never heard of dock diving. I’m from Oregon, which probably isn’t an excuse, but there you have it. What is it?”

Sam grows enthusiastic as she explains to me dock diving is basically what it sounds like. Except that there are three areas of competition.

Distance Jump is the most basic. Dogs race against a clock down a 40-foot dock, then jump into the water of a 41-foot pool.

An elaborate point system exists which rates the dogs on style, strength, distance.

Next is Hydro Dash. The dog races into the water toward a bumper it must retrieve.  The timer starts when the last foot of the dog leaves the dock and stops when the dog swims past the 10 foot mark of the pool after retrieving the bumper.

In Air Retrieve, the dog leaps toward a toy suspended two feet above the water 6 feet from the end of the dock. If the dog successfully grabs the toy, the distance grows and grows until they miss the toy or the owner decides their dog has had enough.  The Spaniels are in training for Air Retrieve, it seems.

“How are you guys doing?”

Jen says, “We probably should have socialized the Malinois more. He was confused. There was a big crowd, it was loud, lots of dogs. We were just going for the distance jump this time.”

Sam takes up the tale.

“He done so good in practice, I thought he was ready. S’my fault. He needs more ripenin’. He took off’n outta his crate full speed. Then just skidded to stop. The crowd gasped. Alla ‘em. It was embarrassin”

Jen laughs. Sam adds, “Then, he just took a big ole dump on the dock.”

They both fall into gales of laughter.  They are young, they are happy, they are in love. Anything is possible.

“So, you’re a trainer?” I ask.

“She is,” Jen asserts. “A good one.  This was just us forgetting that socializing takes more time. I’m a vet tech. Or, was. Now I’m going along with Sam.”

I notice Jen’s many tattoos, bracelets, rings. She is slight of frame, brunette, exudes a cheerful demeanor.

This is when Sam shares her dream to open her own business.

“They ain’t another one in these parts. Not in all of South Alabama.” She says. “I figger we can set ourselves up. I can train,

Jen can vet ‘em.”

Sam is sturdier than Jen. She wears short, cropped hair covered by a ball cap sporting the logo of some dog business: a dog’s head in red on a black visor. Though Sam looks like “the butch,” I see in their relationship that Jen more often takes the lead.

The look adoringly at one another. Hoist up the buckets of catfish they were carrying when I said hello, lean toward each other in readiness for the next thing.

“I see you need to get going. I wish you nothing but big success. Maybe one day I’ll turn on my tv to see you both at the national dock diving competitions.”

Oregon Border Collie, Syphon, 2022 National Winner

“Yes, Ma’am. That would be awesome. I sure hope it comes to be.”

That’s Sam. She nods her goodbye.

And they are off. To manage their menagerie, their dreams, their love for one another in the South. Living together in these dangerous Maga times when earnest young women like them are now living in jeopardy.

I offer up a sincere invocation for their safety and success.

I didn’t make it to my campground at Lake Ouachita an hour outside of Hot Springs.  The storms which blew through while I was hunkered down in Pearl back in Mississippi did some serious damage to Arkansas.

Several  highways were closed due to flooding.

I rerouted twice even though I’d checked for closures before heading North.

oops, guess I’m not going this way.

Or this

At one point, I passed the remains of two beavers in the middle of the road. They had clearly tried to swim, confused, across one side of the flooded highway to the other. Their beautiful chestnut and black fur, or what was left of it, continued shining in the post deluge sunshine.

Someone captured this photograph of a herd of deer making their escape.

Countless other animals did not. Their bodies lay along roadsides or on concrete, doomed to rot. I lost track of possum, coyote, and raccoon corpses spied as I inched along.

So much death and devastation.

This photo taken by a local news photojournalist gives you an idea of what I missed

 

So, I am now sheltering in an available short term rental one block from Lake Hamilton while I wait for highways to re-openview from porch

I watched two bunnies fight in the back yard last night until they grew weary of the strife, started nibbling grass.  This morning, birdsong fills the cloudless blue sky.

Pearl is parked in the driveway in the awkward position in which she landed after I arrived. Kind of bent on a slight downhill slope.

I was somewhat shell shocked after that long cautious drive.

A total of 22 counties within Arkansas are severely damaged. Two dozen highways are currently closed, with some reopening this week.

FEMA approved over $5 million dollars for emergency assistance at the request of T’s pal, Governor Sarah Huckabee. Yep, it’s really her.

So far, 5250 individuals, many of them farmers suffering extensive crop damage, or family households who were wiped out, have applied for the $43,000 per household aid with an additional $46,000 available for “other documented needs.”  These funds are for homeowners who can prove occupancy.

FEMA also provides a $750 award for individuals who have been displaced from their lodging but may not own their own homes. It apparently takes about ten days from FEMA inspector visit to receipt of check.

I give thanks for my continued safety on this pilgrimage, for the reality that I am fortunate enough to find options when so many do not.

I offer up an invocation

on behalf of those who are suffering,  for lives lost, for families grieving, for animals, the innocent victims of our continued global warming impact with the havoc it brings about.

Blessed Be