The Ride to Fandango

Out of the house, on the bikes, downhill into the cool air - always cooler than at the house
To Graveyard Grade
Steep and slow, feeling the blood fill the muscles
And the lungs burn
Noticing every bush, every wildflower because they become milestones
Just up to that lupine and shift down or stand up or switch back or know you are that much further
And if the gate is open, through the graves to the top of the hill
To see if any haints need a ride to town
To know the top of the hill has been reached yet again
To ponder history, immortality, and determination

Then downhill, fast, brakes on, to the reservation dogs
Just past the free-standing basketball hoop
The basketball hoop that blew over during the storm and stayed down for days

The dogs barked, and growled, and chased, tried to bite sometimes
But only when they were in a big gang
We heard the Indian kids call one Snickers once
We named the rest ourselves:
Woofie Woo - big and black, friendly, stately; Pitbull Puppy, Spotted Asshole, Lil Black Terrier, and the Ghost Dog who we met once on a windy walk to the graveyard one cloud-mottled afternoon - a pale-eyed sentinel on the lonely road

Around the bend, past the dogs to Main Street
Past the hotel where the unofficial mayor and his dramatic family live - they are kind, and capable, and always entertaining
Past the Post Office where we'll pick up the mail later
Past the homes of our friends and neighbors
Everyone gets a wave
Past the vigilant, idiot Labrador who barks fiercely and runs up and down the fence he could easily jump over
And at the end of town the place where Evita joined us one morning
Black and white cow dog, herding us home
Then jumping in the truck
And coming into the house, eating and drinking
And sleeping on the bed
Till we got rid of the needy visitor

As we leave town, Mosquito Alley
Riding through clouds of skeeters
Brushing the young ones off our arms and legs - they are too young and small to bite us, really
But they stick to the sunscreen
They love the marshy pastures and the ditches beneath the cottonwood and willow

Then comes Cowpie Curve
So named when the cattle drive down Main Street one morning turned the road into an organic obstacle course
A collage of compost
A myriad of manure
It happens all the time - early morning entertainment for the folks on Main Street
Real cows, real cowboys: the West

Beyond the curve
Officially out of town
Greeted by a song on Blackbird Lane
Teaming with desert oasis life - seabirds make it here too

Up the gentle hill to the power station (really just a transformer) and the storage tanks at the edge of the reservation
The road stretching out
Between the barbed wire fences
Squirrels whisper away in the grass as we ride by
An alarming sound at first to a flatlander

Up to the Red Barn (we called it though only the roof was red)
And its cattle yard
And at the Hill Past the Red Barn a hibernating habitation
Tank on stilts at the ready to deliver gravity fed fuel to trucks and tractors
Old white house, not too long abandoned
Tire swing hanging from the tree in the yard, wide porch looking out on the valley
And the shed, now home to swallow families who make it still seem busy and lived in and alive
Like the rest of the desert

Past the house is Mystery Hill
Down hill in both directions
We could never explain it

Now to the Squared Away House
In the shade of the trees, a beautiful lawn
And chairs always arranged on it as if the guests had just stepped inside from the barbecue for a minute
Maybe to listen to a concert of organ music given by the lady of the house.
One windy day the trees which provided such welcome shade provided the roar of a long gone ocean
Maybe this is what the sea birds are coming for

By the Squared Away House, the squared away barn and corral
With more real cowboys and real cow horses and real cow dogs
Why shouldn't they be real?
But they seem romantic, anachronistic and superheroic, and belong easily to this landscape

Now comes Bad Boy, the steepest hill since Graveyard Grade
And now it's too late to even cuss - we just shift down and wait for the top
Where the panoramic view gave us a hint of the hills we have climbed
And the weather for hundreds of miles
And the hills ahead
Down and up again, up Screwdriver Hill where we found a screwdriver by the side of the road
Yellow and black handle, flat blade
Every tool comes in handy here eventually
Every tool you pick up makes you more self sufficient, and creative, and heroic yourself
This is a place where stuff by the side of the road is a part of an empowering landscape

Downhill now, down Second Son of a Bitch
The mirror of Fandango which rushes up to us, looms some days
But is never the hardest hill
It's just long
And it's just the end of the trek southward
The place where we stop and let the wind dry us off and whistle in our ears
Where we eat a grapefruit and wave at the drivers of the trucks and mowers
That sometimes come by on their way to work
Or the odd tourist in their pickups and campers
Seeing the real America, spending their grandchildren's inheritance
Independent, adventurous, patient and appreciative
Like we feel right now
And strong

After a drink of water, we're on our way back
Down Fandango Hill
Up Second Son of a Bitch which lives up to its name
Down Screwdriver Hill, and up a small nameless hill - maybe the only nameless one - Nameless Hill -
Racing down Bad Boy past the Squared Away House under the trees
Down Mystery Hill for the second time on this trip, somehow
Down the Hill After the Red Barn and past the tire swing
Approaching town now, past the tanks and the power station
Past the sign to the reservation, past the road named after the tribe
Down Blackbird Lane, Cowpie Curve, Mosquito Alley, stopping at the Post Office
Past the hotel, past the dogs again - barking, chasing, wishing to bite or get petted - who knows?
And up the last hill
The hardest hill, actually
The hill to the house
To the bed where Evita slept
To a shower with wellwater and the sound of the creek

To another day in the west.