Going Into Place

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There are trails and places in the mountains I go to time and time again. Often simply because they are beautiful, but occasionally there is something mysterious and intangible which draws me back. There is one such trail in the Pecos. The forest transitions from juniper to piñon to ponderosa to spruce and fir. At the higher elevations there are stands of aspen. And along the way there are interesting rock formations and hiking the trail at the end of day, when it is quiet and the light is fading, things occur unseen and unknown. It is sometimes exciting and sometimes unsettling to be there.

Nearing the summit one afternoon, on a steep pitch I took a break to get my wind back and have a drink of water. The trail crossed a small outcrop of snow white quartz with bits of mica here and there. Off to the side were loose pieces of metamorphic rock, roughly bread loaf size, they were dark charcoal with a swirly glimmer to them. There I saw the stone. It was beautiful… ancient… and captured my attention. About the size and shape of a catcher’s mitt, it had the same dark swirly glimmer but with areas of quartz varying from white through rose to a deep warm red. I picked it up. It felt good in my hands, dark and full of stories. I set it down and made a note to myself of the location. On my way down I would put it in my pack and take it home. That evening I washed the dirt from the bottom of the stone and set it on the coffee table in the living room.

The stone had presence to it. It was fascinating to look at, but almost immediately I was uncomfortable with having it there. It was not right to separate it from the mountain. I languished over this all week, but knew what I had to do. The next weekend I put it in my pack to return it to the mountain. Lugging it those miles up hill gave me opportunity to reflect on my senses of possessiveness versus generosity, and leaving the order of things alone. Like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle going into place the stone fit in the depression it had left in the soil.

Months later I hiked the trail again. On the steep slope I could see the outcrop of quartz coming up and looked forward to saying hello to the stone. When I got there, it was gone. I have been there many times since and it has not come back.

Gordon Bunker

Crow And Rattlesnake

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Sunlight and heat had pressed down on us all day, holding everything in it’s intensity. We stayed quiet and in the shade as best we could. At dusk, the heat slowly eased into the atmosphere. I went for a walk on the county road.

The outer edge of the road is marked with a white strip. The pavement then slopes down and ends and there is a drainage ditch clogged with weeds common to disturbed soils. I walked on the asphalt between the stripe and the ditch. My pace was relaxed, letting my senses fill with the sights and sounds of the desert as it loosened from the heat’s grip. From the north a murder of crows approached, heading for their evening roost. Twenty of them, flying in a loose flock, each a hole in the sky of absolute blackness and depth. I stopped and watched them. Except for the woodwind whistle of air streaming over their wings they were silent. I stood for many minutes and watched them as they continued south and disappeared. It was quiet.

So many times I have walked this road and stopped for some occurrence and then simply been on my way. But this evening, before I moved something unknown but felt compelled me to look down and to my left. And there, motionless in the weeds and not two feet away lay the Diamondback. It was about three feet in length and must have been there all that time. I continued to stand still, my body filled with readiness, my head felt light. I was in the presence of a great and powerful and dangerous animal. With my every thread of ease and grace I started to move away, so very, very slowly. The snake started buzzing it’s rattle. I kept moving so at odds with myself, my heart raced, I wanted to flee but continued at a pace almost imperceptible as movement.

When I was seven or eight feet away I stopped and turned. The rattler stopped buzzing, and I knew at this point I was out of it’s striking distance. I marveled at the snake. It hadn’t moved. I took my camera from my pocket and zoomed the lens, but it wouldn’t make much of a picture.

It is generally considered a bad idea to move closer to an already agitated rattlesnake. I moved closer. Fluid and without hesitation the snake raised it’s head and was ready to coil, ready to strike. I had crossed a line of reverence, a wave of adrenaline flowed through me. I took a picture and slowly backed away. I said thank you and apologized for the disturbance and continued on my walk. On the way home I gave that section of ditch wide berth but the snake was gone.

Gordon Bunker

An Owl On The Roof

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Last night the Great Horned Owl’s voice filled the room. It was sitting on the parapet just above the open bedroom window. “hoo-hoo-Hoo.” I had been asleep and for a moment the call fit into my dream world, and then waking… lost in shifting realities, “hoo-hoo-Hoo.” Only the brightest stars were able to compete with the full moon. Thin drawn clouds, their edges glowing silver blue slipped across the sky. Another owl some greater distance away answered the call. “I am Here.” Is this what they say?

The pair visits from time to time, but usually they are far from the house. The calling is faint, a subtle but significant addition to the sounds of night. When one is close the call is full and rich. It becomes the focus in my dark sightlessness.

Owls are silent when they fly. On rare occasion I have seen one’s silhouette against a dusk sky, they sit in the tops of the junipers. Watching the bird take flight, as soon as it dips below the horizon with darkness of landscape surrounding it, it vanishes. Silent and gone.

So I lay still in bed and listen and when it is quiet, wonder and fill with anticipation. Is it there or has it flown away? And then another call. Then it is silent, and silent, and I do not know, and I drift away to sleep.

Gordon Bunker

A Lot Of Gordons

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

You could say my family has a special affinity for the name Gordon. To the best of my knowledge there’s six of us (two deceased) and today the greatest concentration lives in east Texas.

In the spring of 2008 after my mother died I had an email from my cousin Gordie with his condolences. Gosh I hadn’t heard from or seen him or any of his branch of the family in years and years.

Long ago his family made the trek to New Hampshire many times for summer visits, and as kids we had some fun exploring the woods behind our grandmother’s house and no doubt climbing trees and falling in brooks like boys do. These people from Texas all spoke differently; I didn’t understand why but it was cool and made them cool. It was exotic. Texas was far away and mysterious and I was curious about the whole thing. In 1977 I traveled though Texas on my way to college in Arizona and visited with the clan.

Off and on over these past couple of years Gordie and I continued with our correspondence, and got to know each other a bit. We’re both nuts for cars and motorcycles, and would share snippets of interest and humor that would come across our screens. We’ve shared some doozies – they guy who drove his million dollar Bugatti into the swamp while fumbling for his cell phone, the boa constrictor tangled up in the electrical box – but a mouse was in there. The world is an interesting place. The conversation would often include “we ought to get together,” and then life would sweep us up and time went by.

This spring a visit came into focus, we arrived at a weekend that would work and I got in the car and headed east. After not seeing any of these folks in thirty years, well, the weekend might be fun… or it might not! Who knew? We were going to find out. On the eve of my departure a photo op popped into my mind. I called my sister and she emailed me a few files from the family archive.

There’s the story about the Texas rancher talking to the Vermont dairy farmer. “Takes me three days to drive across the state,” said the rancher in his easy going way. “Yup. ‘Had a truck like that once,” quipped the Vermonter.

Texas is still big, and it was more than worth the trip. We did a lot of hanging out, traded stories and memories and some beer got consumed. There was going out for catfish and grits and greens. We toured the back roads and roared around in hot rods. Everything said “Texas” to me. Sunday night Gordie and Pam put on a barbeque for the clan. Aged ones, cousins, their offspring, inlaws and outlaws. There would be fifteen of us gathered. Gordie fired up the smoker (of his own design and fabrication) that morning. Seeing how barbeque needs tending all day, it’s a good excuse to hang out tell stories and drink beer. There’s not a finer, more relaxing way to spend an afternoon. By dinner time there was brisket and ribs and chicken that just melted in your mouth. And of course there were all the fixings and strawberry shortcake for dessert.

And so we come to the six Gordons. When someone called out, “Gordon, would you like more brisket?” three of us would rejoin in a cappella, “yes, thank you M’am!” But if it was “Gordon, would you take the garbage out?” we’d all point fingers at one another and sneer, “that means you,” and try to slink away. It was a lot of fun. At the end of the evening we all lined up for the photo. From left to right: me, Gordon the 3^rd holding a picture of my dad, Gordon the 2^nd ; Gordie’s son Gordon T. the 2^nd holding his two week old son Gordon T. the 3^rd, aka Trip; and Gordon T. the 1^st aka Gordie, holding a picture of his and my grandfather Gordon the 1^st who had no idea what he was starting.

Thanks y’all for a great weekend.

Gordon Bunker

The Humming Of Bees

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There are a number of Russian Sage plants around the house, and with all the rain we’ve had each is in full flower. The crowns are thick with small lavender blossoms. And especially as the sun comes around they are full of honeybees.

All the windows are wide open and out here it can be quiet. There are sounds; coyotes sing in the night, wind hisses through the screens, many cars and trucks make their dry howl in the morning. During the day when it is calm (and otherwise quiet) the house is permeated with the humming of bees. Hundreds if not thousands of wings beat the air. If it were one bee the sound would not make it, but somehow the gathering together of these ethereal little vibrations gives them strength.

Long time friend TJ has been keeping honeybees for years. A brief conversation with him this morning had my head swimming in information. Bees have been evolving for twelve million years. Watching them come and go I wonder how far they travel in a day. This would be about fifteen miles. Scaling the length of a bee’s body to the length of my own, the equivalent for me would be almost 1,400 miles. Perhaps with wings of my own I would consider it, but otherwise it’s unfathomable. For this biped, covering this kind of distance in a day in a jet is about all I can handle. It’s also worthy of note a honeybee can carry a load of nectar back to the hive weighing about 80% of it’s bodyweight. So for half of those miles, I’d be lugging over 100 pounds.

Bees rely on their sense of smell to find flowers. Some sixty thousand times more sensitive than that of humans a honeybee can smell a single blossom up to ¼ mile away. A keen sense of direction gets them back to the hive and by smelling their queen they can distinguish which one to go to. Guard bees then determine by smell those foragers which belong to the hive and allow only those which do to enter.

Worker bees live for about six weeks. The first three are spent doing chores around the hive, the last three are spent foraging for nectar and pollen. Worker bees die from wearing themselves out. All of this effort and I listen to the humming. I will taste the flowers in the honey on my toast.

Gordon Bunker

The Watermelon Hike

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Of all the hikes Franz and I have shared over the years, the watermelon hike is in a class by itself.

The trail up Glorieta Baldy from the Baptist Conference center follows a ridge with a southern exposure. This makes it ideal for hiking in colder weather, but in the summer it is hot. Neither Franz or I had thought of this when we decided to hike the trail one July day, and it was one of those when the heat had a presence all it’s own by eight in the morning. From the parking area we walked the length of a lot set aside for folks to stay in their RV’s. There were eight or ten of them lined up, all with their AC units going. We crossed the boundary between the conference center and national forest, stepping carefully through the narrow stile in the barbed wire fence.

There on the forest side of the fence was a folding metal table set up with half a watermelon on it, a kitchen knife and a number of thick slices arranged on paper plates. This took us by surprise and it was tempting to take a slice to munch on. But we figured it had to do with a group, perhaps from the conference center which we were not a part of, so left it alone.

Immediately the trail follows a steep pitch up through stands of ponderosa pine and beautiful eroded rock formations. The forest wasn’t doing much to shield us from the sun and we were roasting. A mile up we encountered yet another installation of watermelon, this time a number of slices on a plank of wood. Gosh did it ever look good, and there was no one around… but it just didn’t seem right to help our selves. On we went.

Another mile along, in a little shady spot was another display of sliced watermelon. It was set at the base of yet another steep climb, this one in full sun. Heat radiated from the forest floor, the pine needles crunched under foot. We stopped. This was all too odd, and that watermelon was looking real good. “Franz, I don’t know what’s going on. But there’s that watermelon, and there’s nothing saying “for the Baptist hikers…” or whatever. I’m going to have a slice.” I reached down and helped myself.

“Are you sure it’s ok?” Asked Franz.

“No. But if someone comes along upset, I’ll find a way to make it up to them.” And I had my teeth sunk into that slice. Juice ran down my chin. Franz then took one. We two stood there like little kids, not quite sure this was ok, but wow, that watermelon hit the spot as only watermelon can do on a hot day. “I don’t know about you, but I’m having another slice.” I said. Franz shrugged his shoulders and grinned. He helped himself as well.

We continued up the mountain. We always have a lot to talk about, but the mysterious watermelon was the topic of the day. What was this all about? We came across yet another watermelon station and helped ourselves to another slice.

The final pitch to the summit is steep and fully exposed to the sun. We took our time, pausing for little breaks in spots of shade as they became available. Finally at the summit there was quite a crowd of people, ten or twelve who were in a group. We approached them and said hello. “Do any of you know what’s going on with the watermelon?” Franz asked. One particularly muscular fellow proceeded to pull a whole watermelon from his pack and got ready to slice it up.

“Welcome to the watermelon hike!” He said. “It’s such a hot day, it seemed like the thing to do. Help yourselves.” We did not hesitate to join the party. Everyone munched on the cool refreshing slices, photos were taken, we all chatted and laughed. Hugs were going around. It was delightful. Then they gathered up and left. With extra gladness we sat in some shade, ate our lunch and enjoyed the view.

Gordon Bunker

Patience and Perseverance

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

“No way!” I said, unable to believe what my dad was telling me. How could water do this to stone, granite especially? I was about ten years old and we were hiking around The Basin, a short section along the Pemigewasset River in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire. The river crashes down a steep slope and over thousands of years has carved great curving whoops and coves in the rock. There are places where individual stones caught in the current going round and round have drilled holes deep into the surrounding bedrock. It’s quite a place.

But I needed proof. Water cuts stone…

About this time we had moved into a new house. The basement opened to the ground level around back, with windows and a door and we used it as living space. In the summer it could get pretty damp down there so my dad set up a dehumidifier and attached a section of garden hose to it. He then plumbed it outside through the wall next to the door. Outside, water would drip from a short section of copper pipe all summer. This would become the site of my experiment. I found a granite stone about the size and shape of a baking potato and set it under the dripping pipe.

At the end of the first summer I brought it to my dad. “Look. No change.” He examined it carefully and ran his fingers over the stone. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Why don’t you put it back, let it sit for another year and see what happens?” I was doubting the whole business but put it back in the same spot. “Patience and perseverance accomplishes great things.” He said. My dad would say this to me at least a thousand times as I was growing up. We checked it the next fall. Still no change but I put it back. For the next six or seven years, the stone was forgotten. Along the way in science class it must have been one of the rare occasions I was paying attention when we talked about erosion. It all made sense and suddenly everyone knew that and The Basin became no big deal.

The time came my family moved out of that house. After all the effort of clearing out we were wishing our goodbyes to the place and my dad and I sat in folding lawn chairs in the empty garage and had a beer. “The stone!” I exclaimed. He looked at me, quizzically. “Under the pipe...” I was already out of my chair and sprinting to the back of the house. I reappeared with the wet stone now with dark green moss growing around it’s undersides and handed it to him. He sighted over the top of it and ran his fingers over it.

“Well, how about that.” He said. Sure enough, there was a very slight depression not even a sixteenth of an inch, worn into the top of it. He handed it to me. “You see, patience…”

“I know, dad.” I held up my hand. He stopped and smiled. The fact was, I really didn’t know. It would take over thirty years of life to begin to know. I put the stone back.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Thank you, Christine.

The Wallow

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There’s a low spot in the road I call the wallow. Walking out there this morning I think if I learned one thing from being raised by drunks (and if that weren’t enough, most of them were Swedes), it’s do not brood; instead do.

When it rains water collects in this place and when cars pass through they splash the water and the mud out deepening the whole mess. What started as a puddle is now a pool of liquid mud clear across the road which lingers for days after a storm. We’ve been getting a lot of rain, which in the desert is always a blessing. But it also means the wallow doesn’t dry up for weeks at a time, and mud especially deep mud puts the kibosh on getting in and out of here on the motorcycle. Being self indulgent about this, after a while I get pretty cranky. I might even brood.

Last weekend this came to a head. Two weeks had gone by and with mud and work and life I hadn’t been for a ride. Saturday morning however, things were looking good, the road was mostly dry and the sun was out. I grabbed a shovel and walked to the wallow and filled in enough along one side to get through. A few clouds were building up, but I would go for a short ride, treat myself to a couple chicken tacos at El Parasol and get home. Out I went, it felt sooo good to be on the bike.

If you want the genuine article go to El Parasol; their tacos are the best. After lunch my desire to go for more of a ride was strong but I resisted. Riding back everything was going well until I was a few miles from home. In the distance a gusher of a storm was heading right for the neighborhood and I wasn’t going to beat it. This is when I started getting upset. Getting locked out by mud is a royal pain, finding a secure place to leave the bike, how to get home, etc. I got the bike off the road at Linda’s and Uncle Lewi came to fetch me. He can attest to how upset I was. Man… I just want to get out for a ride and… @!*&!!)#$ mud!!! I was fit to be tied.

With the worst of storm over both mine and Mother Nature’s, I used the remainder of my steam to get back out there and shovel more dirt into the wallow. Given a chance to dry, by the next day I was able to get the bike back with only a bit of slipping around. This was good. I was then also determined to fix the wallow once and for all.

The plan is shovel dirt from the edges of the road to the middle forming a crown and create ditches for water to drain to. The wallow is thus disappearing. This is a section of road about ten feet wide by fifteen feet long and the fill will end up being about a foot and a half deep. This may not sound like much, but with a shovel it’s a lot of dirt to move. A few sessions out there and in more ways than one things are coming together.

Damp earth makes for easier shoveling and last night we had more rain. First thing this morning shovel in hand I headed for the wallow. The sun got hot in a hurry and I peeled off my shirt. There was a time I was known by one female at least, as “one hundred thirty five pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal.” Gosh, it’s nice to be appreciated for who you really are, isn’t it? But today, at the same weight I stand there taking a break and notice a roll of fat dominates my waist and I’m developing man-boobs. Now it’s a matter of question what I’m one hundred and thirty five pounds of, and decide shoveling dirt once in a while isn’t a bad idea.

This week I’ve talked with friends… Gideon, a brilliant software engineer; Karyn, a gifted sculptress; Ben, a wizard of all things motorrad. And then there’s me, writer of some ability. All determined creatives, we face the push and pull of making a living and doing work that’s of value to us and hopefully others. Our work is often without tangible results for long spells. Oh, you thought you were going to make money at this? The struggles can be cerebral and real. It’s easy to wonder what it’s all about.

The wallow is different. There is a problematic hole in the road and I am filling it with dirt. It is taking on a smooth shape and after last night’s rain there was no puddle. My sense of accomplishment feels good. This afternoon it is raining again. When it stops, maybe this evening or tomorrow morning I will go out and work on it more. There are a few low spots I’d like to bring up and I’m looking forward to it. When the wallow is no more if I’m still needing tangible results, there’s another mile of road to go.

Gordon Bunker

Digging Trees

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

When I first landed in Santa Fe in late October of 1992, I turned my attention to generating cash flow while looking for a place to live and more permanent work. I signed up with a temp agency for “manual / light industrial.” Within a day or two I got a call. The agency had a client who owned a nursery. He needed help digging trees, and being familiar with the business end of a shovel, I agreed to show up the next morning to start at eight o’clock.

I pulled into the yard in “Old Betsy,” my pickup truck. Larry came ambling out of the little casita carrying a cup of coffee. He was an older guy with a big frame and was a little out of shape. He was friendly and after introducing ourselves, he pointed out the mattock and spades I would be using and told me to take them to the lower field. He was in the middle of his breakfast and would be along with me shortly. I got my water bottle from the truck, gathered the tools and went to the field, one side of which was bordered by the Santa Fe River, now a dry sandy bed. Cholla, Larry’s old golden retriever joined me. She was completely white around the muzzle, but happy to be going for a stroll. There were neat rows of aspens, locusts and cottonwoods. In another section were various pines and firs. The trees, all western species were new to me. I studied them while I waited. It was cold, and loitering around a chill settled into me. But the sun was climbing in the clear blue sky.

Larry showed up in about half an hour with a spool of twine and a bundle of burlap pieces to wrap the dug tree’s root balls in. He gave me some instructions on how much of a ball to dig so not to damage the root structures, and warned me to be careful of spines on the locusts. He pointed out about a dozen trees for me to dig and said we’d deliver and plant them after lunch. I thought this was no big deal, but couldn’t have been more wrong.

Digging trees is hard work. It’s not only a matter of digging around the tree’s root system but digging under it. Always, the tree is in the middle of the action, so there’s a lot of bending over and scooping out soil and eventually working on one’s hands and knees. By mid morning I had worked up a sweat, and took a break. I watched aircraft flying high overhead, their snow white contrails sharp against the sky. I wondered who was on these planes and where were they going. I studied my surroundings, the cottonwoods along the river, dimming from their brilliant yellow fall foliage in the sharp high altitude sun. By lunch time my body ached in places I previously didn’t know existed. I don’t remember how many trees I dug, but do remember Larry was pleased with the work.

After lunch, with the thought of a nap on my mind, we hoisted the trees into the back of Larry’s faded old Chevy pickup and off we went. At our various destinations, all up-scale homes, Larry would point out where each particular tree would go and I would start digging holes. We’d get the trees planted and give them a good soaking with a hose. Then on to the next house, we worked until after dark.

Most nights getting home, despite being sore and exhausted I felt good. After a hot shower, I would eat dinner, read for a while and go to bed. Getting a good night’s sleep was never a problem. I dug trees for Larry for a few weeks until his orders for the season were filled. A job then came up building doors for an architectural millwork company.

Gordon Bunker