Chapter 1: Getting to Holbrook: A Female Geologist Out on her own with No Escort
- Erin H. Newton
- Aug 25, 2017
- 25 min read
Chapter 1: Getting to Holbrook
March 14, 2012
I finally left the cube with the passing words from my boss, “Will you be in tomorrow, I mean, will I see you tomorrow or should I just say goodbye today? I know you’re leaving for a while, is what I mean, so just wanted to make sure you had everything.” There was a touch of guilt in his voice, a hint of knowledge that I was none too happy about being re-located for 5 months or “whatever it takes to get the job done” and wrenched from my life…again. Such is the geologist’s life.
He said, “Keep in touch…that’s a hypothetical saying, you know” and chuckled at his clever word play as he walked away.
I woke up the morning of my departure to a sunny Colorado morning with a rare hang over. For our last evening together, we had a nice dinner out and the waitress "accidentally" brought us a few extra tasting flasks. My boyfriend Danny preferred beer, but he was drinking wine to humor me. Here I was heading out again, and Danny I had only just started to discover we never liked being apart. We took a last bike ride along the stream path into the thriving old town only 2 miles from our cozy blue collar neighborhood, where half the street went to work, and the other half ran cash businesses out of their garages. There was a large Eastern European community, and we enjoyed exploring the Ukrainian market down the street. We once asked what was in the Pierogis and we were pretty sure he said "Whale", but once we thought about it, we decided surely he meant "veal?" But whales had become a bit of a theme, as on our first climb together after work near our two offices, Danny had picked a silly climb with a huge mantle move which I could only get up by mantling then ungracefully belly flopping like a beached whale onto the top of the basalt column. Danny yelled up "I thought they already freed Willy!"
Taxi to the Runway
Spring had finally arrived, and I was leaving for Holbrook, just in time for temps to heat up in the high desert of eastern Arizona. The front door was open with our two respective cats rolling in the dirt when the taxi driver knocked.
“Wohhh, better you than me! I hate doing laundry!” he said.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m packing, but I’m a little behind.”
“When’s your flight?” he said. Looking up, I finally noticed the ruddy complexion and tired eyes of the voice.
“I know the routine” he said. “I’ve been all over the world with the Navy, then worked as a regional manager for Sports Authority, and got laid off recently because I was doing my job so well they didn’t need me anymore!” (Maybe very good at your last job...but loading luggage is not your forte).
“I don’t think you’re going to make your flight…well, maybe if you hurry. Oh, do you want me to help carry anything? (Yes please.) He said, “Now take a rest and a deep breath and think, do I have everything?” No, I thought. My life is here, and I don't know if it will be here for me when I get back.
Danny assured me we were going to make it work. Before I left he looked up the best flight deals for two weeks later to come visit, and he said we'd skype every night.
The $92 dollar ride turned into the usual taxi driver inquisition, with an added bonus of psychiatric analysis at the end. “So, what you doin’ with the hard hat and high vis vest?” he said.
“We’re drilling exploration holes for potash in Arizona” I said. “I’ll be the geologist who logs what comes out of the hole to better understand the lithology.”
“Geologist! I should have known. You know, there are a thousand jobs that require hard hats and vests, but that makes sense. I pick up a lot of oil and gas folks around here too” He obviously had been wrestling with the conundrum of a petite girl in summery pink and purple packing what looked like an ice pick (rock hammer) and camo-colored equipment that looked far too technical for a weekend Sonoma shopping getaway.
With that pressing mystery solved he said, “What is potash?”
“Well it’s potassium that occurs naturally as salts and is one of civilizations first mined minerals. It is used as a fertilizer.” Then, quoting my soil scientist boyfriend, I said, “Actually, plants need 3 elements to thrive: Nitrogen, Potassium, and Phosphorus. Nitrogen helps with photosynthesis. Potassium helps the plant stand up. And I can’t remember what Phosphorus does, but it’s important.”
With only 30 minutes left for bonding, the driver quickly changed the subject to get me caught up on his recent dating life since divorce after 20 years of marriage. I told him there was life after divorce and sometimes the maturing experience of wallowing in failure can result in a more sharing coupling. I realized I was only 2 years out of my own divorce and I had no leg to stand on, but it seemed to encourage him.
He said some guys are judgmental, but he wasn't one of them. He was dating a woman with a massive brain aneurism and a 50 percent chance of survival with surgery. I thought she must be quite the catch. I wished him luck on the job hunt. He said taxi driving made you scared for your life every day with the horrific accidents you see, and all he wanted was to be behind a desk again. I said, ‘Grass is always greener” and thought, I’d be scared too if was barreling down I-25 at rush hour submitting resumes online on my dashboard-mounted screen.
The Boarding Kerfuffle
Upon arrival at the gate, the guy sitting across from me with his 6 year old needed to vent.
“You know, I’ve never, I mean NEVER, got anywhere directly without a delay on United. First they move our gate. Now our plane doesn’t show. And I’m sure my luggage won’t arrive. My uncle is waiting in Phoenix RIGHT NOW for us, and the last two times I’ve flown with them, my son, who doesn’t cope very well at all, had to stay OVERNIGHT with me!” I thought there was a pretty good reason his son didn’t cope well, but I didn’t want to get into it. I was enjoying every precious quirky soul skittering into my path.
I said, “I feel sorry for the pilots who have lost their pensions. The airlines are really struggling these days it seems”. I only said that to even the score, despite that I was sure my luggage wouldn’t arrive for several weeks, what with the 20 minute kerfuffle at the check in during which my bag tags were lost and a woman had a contagious melt down because her 2 toddlers were having the same and they were all put out I was first in line. Apparently, when United merged with some other limping airline, they forgot to merge their schedules and now it was a free-for-all, with pilots docking at any old gate that was available, and haggard passengers running from one concourse to the other. It was true. Airplane travel has official lost its glamour, despite the efforts at reviving the allure in the PrimeTime series, “Pan Am” with immaculately slender and worldly flight attendants and jovial boyish pilots.
I already missed Danny and wished we were riding into Old Town on our cruisers, smelling the weekend neighborhood smells: cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, leaky cars, and backyard BBQs. On our last ride to Old Town, we ordered cinnamon chocolate ice cream from the independent candy store and shared a vanilla cup with Shiloh. You realize after living in remote hotels for months, married to the job, the small pleasures in life are best enjoyed with the one you love, and it is the small pleasures which cobble together a good life. Sitting by the stream on the way home, a low rider flew by and a guy yelled, “You guys are so cute!” What kind of self respecting Harley rider heckles with the word ‘cute’ I wondered? But he was right. We were. Are. But then, as I waited in the boarding line, I wondered if it would all change. Would we still laugh freely at our mistakes learning to dance, would we go out for afternoon climbs and happy hour beers with friends? Or would we, each time I returned, grow more distant, grasping at memories of our brief shared history and always struggling to reacquaint. He and I both feared such outcomes, since our marriages had both ended, in part, due to distance, and mine in part to mutual PTSD after finding my first husband crushed under a truck then nursing him back to life for several years. There were few hard feelings when we parted ways after descending our last climb together, Mt. Denali, the 20,000 ft ice land in the clouds. No hard feelings, just sadness. So much sadness. Danny's optimistic outlook, quiet sense of humor, and energy for trying new things felt like fresh air when I was suffocating. Our personalities melded so well, and we marveled at how easy it was to be content together on adventures or relaxation days. I didn't want to lose it all again.
In the Air
As we finally boarded, I walked down the tunnel to the plane entrance when a rotund huffing man squeezed past me. I thought, “Wow, that hasn’t happened since Disneyland lines on a 110 degree day and of course Vail lines full of Europeans on a powder day.” I looked at my ticket and realized I was sitting next to the line-cutting man in seat 2A, my first encounter with First Class.
I squeezed by him and he proceeded to look over my shoulder, breathing his stale cigar breath heavily into my lap.
“You don’t mind if I look over your shoulder at your to-do list. You must be a smart girl. Yes, I think you must be.” Then he went back to reading his spy novel. When our plane continued to taxi because, the pilot reported, they were waiting for the windshield cleaners to remove some extra bugs, the man guffawed loudly and said, “Yeah right!” which I didn’t really understand because I was sure the pilot wasn’t making up the bug story.
“Sir” the male flight attendant said with a heavy Scottish accent, “have you developed a thirst?”
The rotund man, carefully avoided eye contact (I assumed) in order not to directly acknowledge the Help. I knew this class leveling trait, as my former father-in-law always made my skin crawl when snapping his order at the wait staff.
“Yes, a scotch on the rocks. Keep the scotch separate” the rotund man said.
The flight attendant chuckled. “Aiy, you don’t trust me then?” The rotund man, who was already oozing into my space, if that’s possible in the spacious First Class seating, said, “No. I don’t trust you. I don’t like my drinks too heavy. Where you are glasses from by the way?”
The attendant said, “Well, I’m not sure. But they’re real nifty. They come with flip-up sun visor attachments and you almost can’t tell they’re separate! Would you like to try them? I’m afraid it’s a hazard of the business of wearing glasses that I can’t read the label.”
The rotund man tried his glasses on, and said, “Do they look better than my other ones?” I said, “No. They look better on him.”
Giving the glasses back, the rotund man leaned over, and breathing heavy from the effort said, “Why is your company paying you to sit in First Class? They must be rolling in oil and gas money or something…I saw on your papers you’re a geologist or something”.
I said, “I work for a large environmental and mining consulting company and I’m going to Holbrook, Arizona, two hours south of Flagstaff to supervise drilling of exploration holes for Potash.” And to spare him the embarrassment, I said, “Potash is typically used as a fertilizer.”
“I’ve heard of Potash” he said, looking away. “Let’s see now, it is used in the metals production process or something isn’t it?”
“No,” I said for the second time, “It is a salt and is used in fertilizer.”
“You’re a very smart girl. A bit of an expert in your field, I can tell. It is very clearly obvious to me” he said, going back to his book.
“I’m not actually. I’ve just had to learn about it with this one-off project. Usually we work in gold, silver, copper, precious metals and such. What do you do then?” (I had to ask).
“I sue geologists like you…who are raping and pillaging native land. You’re probably drilling somewhere on the Navajo reservation or maybe the Petrified Forest aren’t you? Stealing minerals from native lands as usual. ”
“Funny you should mention that. We’re drilling on the border between the two, and our clients’ leases do in fact, overlap both lands, but our fine government hasn’t leased the world’s most infertile lands to the natives AND given them the minerals below, so the minerals are still for the taking, and civilization needs to eat. But in a word, Yes.” I said. “So you’re an ambulance chaser or something?”
He snapped, “Well you’re a washed-up corporate chump,” and to the flight attendant, “Can I have another scotch before we take off…IF we ever take off!”
I could see I ruffled his feathers. “Actually,” I said, my ex-husband and I appreciated the services of you personal injury lawyers. He was run over by a truck and nearly killed and we got a pretty good settlement as he will likely need both his hips replaced.” At that moment, the conversation turned. I saw a glint in his eyes. I could tell he was about to be in his element.
He leaned in, poking me in the arm and whispered, “You do realize, you’re sitting next to one of the most famous personal injury lawyers in the country. Tell me about your case.”
“We don’t have a case anymore. It’s closed. We split the settlement and went our separate ways…”
“What! Your lawyers screwed you. Did you have a personal contingency clause? What was their fee schedule? You should have got half. It really…REALLY, chaps my hide when lawyers take advantage of nice people like you! It’s criminal. And you, you’re too naïve, and let them steal from you what is rightfully yours for your pain and suffering. You just walk away from it and let them have your painfully earned security. You lost the affection of your husband, his earning ability, probably your sex life went downhill, and you stood by and suffered silently while he clearly had an un-diagnosed brain injury. I see it all the time. It’s goddamn criminal. You are entitled to at least a few million and those scoundrels stole it because they couldn’t be bothered to tell you to get your own representation. Conflict of interest! Everyone knows that in this game. Criminal. Who were they, I have to know.”
I said, “Scott and Matthew. Can’t remember last names.” I thought they all would have got along nicely, since Bill had similar neurotic energy and like Frank, he also smelled of cigars, but that was because he was constantly gnawing on an un-lit one.
This guy reminded me of all my favorite caricatures from The Big Lebowski, and I almost told him that was the cheesiest outburst I’d ever been privy to, but said, “What did you say your name was…can I see your card please?”
He turned back from his spy novel slowly and said, “You watch TV?” I said no, I don’t have one. He said, “I’m very famous. Name is Hank Mazur. You know, I’m a multi-million millionaire. I would have flown my jet as I’m going golfing at my friend’s private golf course, but it seemed inconvenient for a weekend trip. I keep a place in Phoenix since my daughter turned 6, and this is the nicest time of year to come. Here’s my card. You can check…I really am a lawyer.”
I said, “If I had a personal jet, I surely wouldn’t be using public transportation.” I wanted to add, I also wouldn’t wear ratty white tennis shoes.
“This isn’t public!” he said, which I took to mean, he didn’t consider First Class generally publically accessible. I was sure he would have followed up with “At least we are not sitting in zoo class” as my former father-in-law would have said with a chuckle of British distain, but the man was far too engrossed in the task of making my closed case an open one.
“You know, I grew up Lebanese in Southern Colorado, of course, not raised by my parents because dad went to Harvard Law and neither of them had time for me. I was raised by Mexicans, so I love mariachi. Do you like music?” he said.
I said, “Well, I play the harp.”
“Yes! Wonderful. I wish I had a talent. We’ll have you play for our law practice happy hour to mix it up with the mariachi band. Our best band recently broke up when the lead singer finished himself off on a motorcycle. I was always telling him that would be his end. My wife is going to love you by the way. She’ll invite you to all her gatherings I’m sure. I love the symphony. We didn’t have that sort of culture in Trinidad.”
I said, “Well they’ve cut half their performances and some of their musicians this year and are about to go under. You should consider sponsoring them.”
“You can’t help everyone,” he said curtly. “Now, I had this case where a young man smashed the front of his head and had a horrible brain injury but you couldn’t tell until 3 years later after all his friends and family said he personality had changed and he was angry all the time, that he’d had major trauma to his frontal lobe. You see, the brain is structured, in your geologist terms, in cake-like layers. When they get shifted, the vessels connecting them get severed and it gets real messy. I’m sure you husband was flipped upside down and cracked his head, and going 3 Gs, well, it’s no wonder you got divorced.
It struck me odd to be getting medical briefings in geologic metaphors from an ambulance chasing lawyer. I said, “Actually, I think he just had PTSD and it went untreated because he was British and the worker’s comp lawyer was so impressed with his ‘stiff upper lip’ despite that he had only just learned to swallow again, that he never had counseling afterwards and is still quite lost. Plus, the truck was only going 20 mph.”
“Precisely!” Frank said. “Brain injury. You know, I don’t give a rats ass about your case (having been in sales of timeshares for only 3 unsuccessful months, I was familiar with the take-away), I’ve got so many millions it doesn’t matter if we got your case or not, but you see, I can’t sleep at night when I know I am responsible for innocent peoples’ welfares. This story is horrific, I’m warning you. This kid came back from Iraq intact, and went to work in the coal mines in my home town. He told me he saw the backhoe coming towards him and the last thing he saw was his leg detached from his body flying over his head. Then the backhoe lost grip and ran over his other leg. This guy is a double amputee and you know what he said to me today when I asked how he was doing? He said, “Good. And how are YOU doing Hank?”
“It just broke my heart. And that’s why I can’t sleep. People depend on me. Have you heard of Caezar Chavez? He worked himself to death serving the people. I told this boy I would never give up on his case, because I’m all he has now. That’s my plan. I’ll work myself to death. It’s a disease, this workaholic thing.”
“Have you told your family?” I said. “I’m sure they wouldn’t get behind that plan. Plus, then you’ll die young and won’t be able to serve as many people.”
“I have a personal trainer. I don’t worry about that. Now then, you and your boyfriend will join me at Saharas, the finest Lebenese restaurant in Denver and you’ll get me your paperwork and I’ll tell you honestly if you have a case at best. At least, of course, we can have you come play the harp. I love music. No honestly, I really do.”
The flight attendant said, “Now don’t make me bring down the AXE, I’ll have to take the scotch now. We’re landing.” Had I seen any of Frank’s ads, I would have known the attendant was referencing them, as Frank called himself “The AXE Man”.
Hank said without looking up, “Can’t I keep it for five more minutes?” and the attendant said, exasperated, “We’ll be on the ground in 2 minutes! So, No!”
As Hank lumbered out of his seat groaning about his recent knee surgery, he suddenly turned to me and said, “If I had to give an attractive young, how old are you, 30 or 32 year old like yourself some advice…yes, at 32 you still have time but your chances are exponentially waning. You know, even though I won a $700 million dollar lawsuit against Wal-Mart, my proudest life achievement is having my daughter. You can have the money, fame and fortune, but without my daughter it would all mean less. You should really consider getting on the ball there, because you can’t have kids forever. And, well, we waited and I wanted to have more but…yes, and if you have trouble never, NEVER, hesitate to use in-vitro. It’s completely worth it!”
Just as he stepped off the plane, he said, “Do you need a ride from my driver? No, right, you have your company truck. I certainly hope it’s a big imposing one because the Indians around here never drive sober. Watch yourself. I really enjoyed talking to you. It brought me out of the dumps, you know, with that call from the double amputee. Yes, lets have dinner at Saharas. Call me, and bring your settlement papers.” I received a text 5 minutes later with his email.
The taxi driver drove 4 minutes to our company office in Phoenix and the truck with the keys in the gas canister was there, as promised. With a 4 hour drive ahead of me in the dark to Holbrook, I decided not to haggle when his dash screen said $12 and he charged me $20. He said, “It’s a good life here.” And I thought, I’m sure it is with those returns.
On the Road
Listening to country music full blast on my headphones, since the truck was new enough to have auto shift but old enough not to have an IPod jack, my mind wandered. Maybe we would have Lebanese dinner with Hank. What if I needed another lawyer in the future…couldn’t be a bad friend to have. What if, on this drive, a moose came through my windshield, wait, maybe in Arizona it would be an Elk…do they have elk here? As if on cue, a herd spread from the winding two-lane highway climbing into the high desert pines. I saw the flickering of their large white butt patches vanish into the trees, and then wasn’t sure if they’d been there at all.
The desert really does have ancient voices. The skid marks for example, what was the driver avoiding? Did they survive? I guess that one didn’t, where the cross and fake flowers are carefully placed on the curve. Yes, I decided, if an elk came through my windshield and kicked me nearly to death, I would cover my head and reach for the door and throw myself out, because I’d surely have a better chance of surviving. This was the approach my New Zealand ski buddies took, on the winding unprotected single lane dirt road up to the South Island’s Treble Cone ski area. In mid conversation as we climbed to a death-defying height, they always took their seatbelts off, certain getting thrown from the vehicle was the only possible means of survival, contrary to all studies.
I guess Sam, the champion swimmer from our high school probably didn’t have time to think about bailing from his motorcycle when, only a year after winning at Nationals in Breaststroke, he drove his motorcycle to Alaska and hit a moose head on. I suppose I’d choose creaming a moose over being kicked to death by one though neither option sounds appealing. They always say about high achievers like him, “He had so much potential” but then, what is there to do after you’ve reached the top of your game except ride motorcycles in Alaska exploring new frontiers…or procreate of course.
A Man and his Son
Our family pilot friend looked up where I was working, as his hub was out of Phoenix. He emailed and said, “I flew over your site yesterday and checked out Holbrook. I’d definitely bring a lot of books.” When I’d visited him and his wife a week earlier in Portland, Oregon on a particularly dreary drizzled week, his wife Jeanine told me we were meeting with a friend of theirs whose son disappeared just before Christmas. The story got more bizarre and sad. The 19 year old was experimenting with drugs, the oldest of 6 boys. His father was very wealthy but lived an unpretentious life, with a beat-to-hell house, a small plane, a boat, and chickens and goats residing in his basement because his wife said they couldn’t handle the damp outdoors.
When we reached the pub, the man’s face was drawn, his shoulders deflated, his smile forced. Jeanine gave him a big hug. The circumstances were not discussed. Everyone knew that though he was dredging the river now every day all day, looking for his dead son. He would likely never find him. He’d already found a body, but it wasn’t his son. Jeanine did yoga every day with a firefighter who said there were plenty of bodies in that river and this boy’s father would probably find plenty more. He was using a fish finder, like my x-husband once used to find carp, before he gave up fishing to join the Rotarian socialite Denver city life to shadow, as he always did, his girlfriend’s passions, or rather, her father’s connections.
The boy had called his father the night he climbed to the watch tower on one of the bridges. He sounded confused and said, “Dad please come get me. I don’t know where I am.” He was clearly high on something. They thought maybe even a spiked drug he was so out of it. His father worked out that he was looking out at the lights of the Marriot, and he talked him down. Then, just as the boy almost reached the bridge railing, the phone went dead. His father said at least could feel good that his son felt close enough to call him for help, but that didn’t alleviate the overwhelming grief and didn’t bring the peace that would never come again.
Looking up at the huge desert night sky, I resolved to re-learn all those constellations friends of the past had taught me. Daniel, in New Zealand taught me that Kiwis also use the North star as a reference point, but the southern skies appeared to rotate in reverse so you saw the constellations in opposite order, or sometimes all new ones.
On a field geology mapping camp in Argentina, Federico was my mapping partner. Later traveling along the foothills of the Andes with his friends, he demanded that we stop the car, startling his high friends packed in the beater after a clubbing night out. He dragged us all out to look at the night sky and hear the imposing silence. We stood in awe, feeling so small and yet, I felt closer to home seeing the Big Dipper. At 22, it reminded me of earlier days when I was 18, just home from my first year back east at an all womens’ college. Driving from California to Moab for yet another spring break climbing trip with my best friend Kim and my Smoke Jumping/Pot growing Hare Krishna half-assed practicing part-time boyfriend, Gopal, I awoke with my head in his lab and tears dripping from his face onto mine. We got out to bury the rabbit he hit, and again, the expansive layered night sky held us there for a moment.
Years later, I would find myself walking our dogs with my husband in our suburban neighborhood, under and unusually bright starry night after being away in Arizona working for a copper mine for a year. I’d returned to a life I felt I’d almost lost. Everything seemed to come into place that night, so much so that I set out 200 candles and put up lights while he passed out in his chair. The next afternoon he was hit by a run-away truck and dragged underneath it for 40 feet, stopping it with his crumpled body. I found him yelling for help under the truck and our lives were changed forever. How strange to feel such peace the night before, the great calm to help you weather the storm.
Who can ever predict what will happen in their future, or even the next month, day, or moment? A futile effort and energy wasted on fear of the unknown, which is really just guaranteed circumstance. What is unknown is if we respond with an attitude to survive or be defeated.
It seemed that once we’d split on Denali, and I’d fallen, truly, into a weak infatuation with a 45 year old fearfully detached software developer, that maybe I could find solace in a new beginning. On our first trip together to the Joshua Tree California desert, we ate Thai food every night as it was too cold and windy to cook, and then wandered the desert on evening walks. He was passionate about satellites and GPS systems and their application to understanding our universe. We watched hundreds of satellites from hulking sandstone domes, plodding across the sky, so slow that if you looked away you might think they were just stars moving under your gaze. The relationship ended with as much gusto as the hundreds of crashing stars we watched, the flame burning out with the contrived respect for each other, two opposite people who could never had gravitated towards each other without the powerful forces of desperation, loss, and complete depravation.
So I went to meet an old friend from New Zealand in Yosemite for a week of climbing, where we planned to skitter up the 24 pitches of Half Dome in a long day. I’d always wanted to climb the great hulking dome since childhood having grown up in Visalia, the small agricultural town in the San Juaquin Valley shadow of those great granite domes. With its sheer face cut by glaciers, and towering position over Yosemite Valley, it is surely the finest rock formation in the United States, and one of the most aesthetically pleasing at sunset as any granite dome in the world. Getting lost on the 5 hour approach and arriving at the base of the massive face in the wee hours of morning, we started up at 7 am, late, and climbed half of Half Dome before coming down short of water and time to finish.
The next day, though I was spent and dehydrated, we went to climb another long climb. The sun set just as I was leaving the belay to second a chimney pitch in the dark, my heart started palpitating. Just as I looked up at Venus, the first star of the evening, I realized I was about to pass out. I yelled to our third partner to pull me back into the belay if I did, and continued climbing with my heart racing and my brain and limbs oxygen deprived. My legs and arms went numb and I continued climbing, since it was our last pitch and it would be easier to get off quickly from the final anchors. Upon exiting the chimney and reaching the final buttress, tears streamed down my face in the dark. I realized it was not only my body that had been exhausted in the last few years, but my heart and mind.
Up in the Sky
The stars had been there through all these life changes. The sky, like the music I now listened to reminding me of Danny, was mine to cherish as a steadfast friend. So many household routines, daily practices, and memories had been attributed over the years to loves that had engulfed my energy and seemingly corralled my associated memories. Even the calming sounds of the passing trains at our new place together, reminded me of a past beau who said he loved the sound of trains. Driving out of the trees and for an hour doing 90 mph in the company truck that threatened to rattle or blow itself apart, I wondered if we can choose what we carry with us, or if we are each forever chained to our burden.
As I got closer to a cluster of lights on the horizon, I wondered what was so important that it should impose on the night sky. Driving past, I read the sign. Winslow State Prison. How many state prisons are there in Arizona, for this sprawl could surely hold all the criminals. The boxy long barracks were discordant with the serene quiet landscape. Upon climbing another rise, the town of Winslow appeared suddenly, as if a submarine rising out of a wide ocean expanse. I was reminded of the hippie Colorado skier who first brought me to Colorado and would have appreciated the reference from “Take it Easy” one of his favorite Allman Brothers songs he put on my mixed tapes when we lived together in New Zealand. I wished I could experience this place without his memory, but then, Winslow wouldn’t mean anything to me without some introduction.
I realized, every thought I’d had along the night drive, was associated with someone I’d known and loved. When I passed a glowing power plant, I wondered what my girlfriend working in the energy sector would have thought of its purpose and placement and the rural communities it served. When I passed a small rural doctor’s clinic, I thought of the countless hours of service our family friends, a husband and wife doctor team, had given to their local migrant community in the California San Juaquin Valley. When I pulled into Winslow, I saw La Posada, the historic old refurbished hotel, that Jeanine, with all her interior design passions, had turned me on to in a Sunset Magazine article about Route 66 classic stops. Even the truck drivers on the road, cordially flickering their brights off for each passing car, made me think of my dad and his days driving trucks in California, and my mom, who said moving to Arizona for them was a hardship but brought her to make some life changing decisions to go back to school and ultimately brought ease and much needed change. And when I heard the train, I thought also of my mom, who grew up in a house in the suburbs of New York with 6 kids and one bathroom. She said the train horn passing by their house each night always brought her calm and still reminds her of home.
Maybe my time in Arizona wouldn’t be so lonely this time. Maybe the friends and family, the past and future would all be a part of the experience. Maybe my boyfriend would come to visit me and we would make new memories together, and our time would be richer and more valuable when we were together. Maybe, even if I didn’t have the choice to drop the burdensome baggage I carried, the experiences would serve me as well as my geologist’s Brunton compass, my rock hammer, and my helmet. Maybe I had nothing to fear this time, for I’d become more savvy, my direction more refined, my growing familiarity with the constellations a gift, regardless of whom had given it.
On the Ground
Starved, I considered risking a stop at the Burger King or Wendys, but couldn’t remember which one served the square burgers with the nasty sauce, so I went with Better-the-devil-you-know: MacDonalds. I pulled into the drive through and asked the attendant, “What is your best quality beef burger?” He said the Angus, and I said, “I’ll have that and a decaf coffee.”
He said, “Gross! I’d never drink that.”
“Uhhh, ex-cc-use me?”
He said, “Seriously, what’s the point!?”
I said into the speaker, “Well, um, I guess I like hot drinks and it’s the best second to English Breakfast tea which I assume you don’t carry…plus um, I’ll stay awake too long if I drink caffeine at this hour.”
Then I wondered why I was having to justify my order to the guy trying to sell it to me, but didn’t have time to reflect as he said, “$18 dollars at the second window.” Since when is it possible to hand over a 20 dollar bill for fast food? And what is the first window for anyway? I guess I’ve been eating home cooked food for too long to know.
He asked, handing me my food, “What’s Terrateche?” I said, “We’re famous. Watch for us on TV. Or google Potash. It’s used for fertilizer.”
At the gas station, I wagered a guess the truck wasn’t diesel by perusing the manual and finding only a reference to an attachment section if it was diesel. There didn’t seem to be an attachment, so I put in regular. The damn beast made so much noise coming up the hill, I figured it must still have the parking brake on, but couldn’t find a parking brake, and didn’t want to move the multiple low gears, which were mysterious to me. I asked the gas station attendant if Holbrook was uphill or downhill from here, and he said it was all uphill, so I figured I was safe not knowing the gears yet. As my GPS had died in Phoenix, I had dead reckoned all the way to this point, with the help of a few signs along the way. I only got slightly confused when I reached a “Lake Side Drive” in Phoenix, which seemed unlikely being a desert and all. With only a few missteps, surely, I could hack my way the final 27 miles to Holbrook.
When I checked in at the Holiday Inn, the native boy at the front desk, probably from the Navajo or Hopi reservations in the area, said I should ask for anything if I needed it. Then he proceeded to stare at me from the desk, apparently immobile, while I wrestled to get my luggage through the series of doors.
“No thanks. I’ve got it. Really, I’m very independent.”
“Ok then,” he said, “Well, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask. Of course, we don’t typically clean the rooms every day with someone like you who is staying for so long, but if you want us to, we can. Or should I tell my manager you’d prefer only every 3rd day? We gave you one of our best rooms. It’s on the first floor. We’ll be here in the morning too if you need anything at all. Really, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks Reymond. I think I’ll be just fine” I said, as I walked by the empty hot tub with an “Out of Order” sign and heard the far off train horn blowing as it barreled on through the wee dark hours of morning.
Comentarios