Up the Hill to the Snow - Mayhill, NM

"No Passing Lane" the yellow sign reads and the tumble weeds take heed. They're piled against the steel legs, slammed to a halt from a run.

Others won't mind. They skip and bound across Highway 82 and regroup along the lee-ward wire fence. Russian Thistle, or tumbleweed, is about the only traffic out here on the plain leading to the foot of the Sacramento Mountains.



The road rises before us and tumbleweeds give way to prickly pear and cob cactus. I do what I can to lighten Magnolia's load for the 5000 vertical climb ahead. I feed double grain rations to use up the Horse and Mule feed. I let horse and mule gulp the last drops from the Jerry cans we're towing.

Woody and Maggie remember how to scavenge as we climb into the dry. Woody picks away at tindery twigs, Maggie prefers dead blown grass. Both put on their best victim act.


Magnolia framed by cob cactus


Woody browsing among the prickly pears

Camp some nights means towing the buggy through the scrub and cactus. The puncture proof inner tubes hold their breath.



We make the Barn Door Restaurant at 7000 feet and the snow starts falling.

Vernon's V W Prairie Schooner - Artesia, NM

"I'd sure like to ride out of town with you" Vernon Laman told me and that Sunday morning we met.

For years Vernon drove over-the-road. "I always wanted to build me a little wagon" the 83-year old Cecil told me. "So I bought an old Volkswagen and built this wagon". The old Bug cost him twenty bucks. The rims are painted yellow. The chrome hubcaps say "VW".


Vernon Laman

He puts a weathered hand on the red wooden seat. "I used to ride in this seat as a kid on my dad's buggy. I built the wagon around it."


The old buggy seat

Vernon has two mules, Snow and Smokey. They're both three years old. "I started putting the harness on them when they were about a year old" he says. He puts on their collars, fastens the hames, and drapes the black harnesses across their backs.


The only prairie schooner with VW hubcaps

Then out of Artesia we roll, Woody and Magnolia in the lead, Vernon and his VW Bug prairie schooner out behind.

We ride down Highway 82 five miles and break for Sonic burgers and Dr. Pepper delivered by Idella, Vernon's wife.

Then the rest of the afternoon I hear "Gee!" and "Haw!" behind me and Vernon's hands rarely move. Sometimes it's "Step up Smokey!" when he sees the dark mule's not pulling his fair share.

"How do you know when Smokey's not pulling as hard as Snow?" I ask.

"When both trees are parallel to the wagon, both mules are pulling the same. If Smokey's not pulling as hard as Snow, his tree is crooked."

Then I hear "Step up Smokey!" again and the soft pop of leather reins flapping on the dark mule's back. When I look, the trees are straight. Old Smoke's doing his fair share.


Hands at day's end

Then into a gravel drive we pull and I hear "Whoa" and the wagon stops. Vernon's hands fall into his lap and the day is done.

Bernie
RiverEarth.com

Oil Field Dawn - Loco Hills, NM

I woke in oilfield dirt this morning.

All night I'd heard whirring, clanking and coyotes in the black.

When I woke Woody'd found a friend.

I took their photo and hit the road.


Pump Jack Sunrise

Bernie
RiverEarth.com

Welcome to New Mexico, USA

I'm a license plate watcher.

They're pretty much the same. A bunch of capital letters and numbers over the name of the state.

YDM 840
North Carolina

That was my old black Volvo.

Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas; what see is where you are on that shiny bit of tin whizzing away from the mule ears in front of you.

In New Mexico, they have a third bit of info.

If I'd registered that old Volvo 240 in New Mexico, the plate would've read:
YDM 840
New Mexico, USA

Why the USA bit? Well, because apparantly lots of people think New Mexico is part of Mexico. Or Old Mexico as they call it anywhere you seeing chili "Ristras" hanging out in front of stucco homes.

Partly they're right. New Mexico was once part of Old but that was a long way before cars and the confusion of traffic inflight. People from out of state still haven't got it.

Dad gave me my own tag for Maggie's buggy. It says right there on the back in canvas:
CALIFORNIA OR BUST.

And wouldn't you guess, that's already causing confusion.

One un-named State Senator jumped out of his car waving a red flag as though daring me charge like some Pamplona mule. I don't think mules see color and we finally ambled up.

"California Bust!" he laughed when he walked around my cart. "Yeah, that's a good place to go for busts! Lots of good ones there!"

Well, it may be good for busts. But for real boobs I decided I needn't go further that day.