I
read all the cowboy books I could get my hands on – thank goodness for
libraries. I read My Friend Flicka and Thunderhead, as well as Smokey, the
Cowhorse by Will James and The Longhorns by J. Frank Dobe. I discovered Zane
Gray while in Junior high, and then in high school I devoured every Louis
L’amour book he had written at that time. I have a full collection of his books
now, along with an 1886 copy of a biography of Daniel Boone. These writers
weren’t just good writers but were wonderful story tellers.
I
spent many an hour avidly memorizing the stories of cowboys, and Indians told
to me by my parents and grandparents. I have one of my granddad’s spurs. It’s a
bit rusty and the leather strap that held it on his boot is dried and cracked,
but it was worn by a real Texas
I
grew up playing games of cowboys and Indians, Sheriffs and outlaws, but deep
down I knew I could never be a cowboy – or as in my case a cowgirl. So I had an
even more un-real dream of being a writer of cowboy stories. I started by
writing down the family stories. I never got much farther.
Now
many years later I still find myself reading westerns. None of them seem to be
able to top a Louis L’amour. I watch the old TV westerns in black and white and
they make me realize just how old I am, especially when I know that most of the
old western actors and actress have passed on to that big range in the sky. But
I still enjoy those old shows. Many times those old Maverick, or Cheyenne
There
are times, though, when the big city life gets to be just more than I can
handle. Then I head for the mountains. One day this past fall I found my self
doing just that.
I
pressed harder on the gas petal and pushed my old Dodge pickup a little faster
down interstate 40 between Albuquerque and
Grants, New Mexico Turquoise Mountain
Traveling the highway I passed several turnoffs to small
farming communities and the pueblos of Acoma
and Laguna. I know Route 66 had gone near here once, but this was the newer
interstate. The rest area at the north end of a large acreage of lava rocks
known as the Malpais is full of big diesel trucks, several with there engines
running, drivers getting ready to hit the highway again. I didn’t stop.
I took the first exit into the town of Grants San Mateo
Mountains Cibola National
Forest Turquoise Mountain Turquoise Mountain Mt. Taylor Mt.
Taylor Turquoise Mountain Albuquerque
The Indians consider Mt. Taylor Turquoise Mountain
I once found a pealed aspen stick with several small
feathers attached to the stick by leather strings. One string had some red pony
beads and a bit of what looked like horsehair tied to it. Out of respect I left
it where it was. On returning to work I questioned my Navajo friend. He said it
was an Indian prayer stick, and shouldn’t be bothered or it would disrupt the
prayers of the person who had left it there. He said the Turquoise Mountain
Although he wouldn’t tell me more, I understood what he was
saying. I have always felt there was an unusual quality to Mt. Taylor
I followed the winding, twisting road, a trail of dust
behind me. At least the mountain was open to travel now. At times New Mexico
Over the years I had leaned
that nearly every time I came to the Turquoise
Mountain
“Look,” I yelled as a small, greenish-white light streaked
out of the dark, night sky and almost hit the Chevy‘s hood. We talked excitedly
for a few minutes, as Lee found a place to turn around and go back. We were
sure it had been a meteorite. We weren’t exactly sure where it had happened and
although we looked for some time, we didn’t find anything we suspected of
falling from the sky.
On this day I drove on past several places I recognized. The
meadow where frequently I have seen deer and elk. Past San Mateo
I climbed higher and saw thickets of aspen trees, their
white bark trunks and branches contrasting with the yellow of fall leaves. The
leaves fluttering and trembling in the slightest breeze and sprinkling the
ground with gold. Everyone in Albuquerque Mt.
Taylor
I stopped at Frog Pond, and had a breakfast of a boiled egg
and a chunk of cheese. I call it Frog Pond because the first time I saw it
there were little frogs all over and tadpoles in the water, and my young son
had been enchanted with them. Now it was almost dry, with no frogs to be seen.
The pond isn’t on the map, it is so small. I think it is manmade for cows and
wildlife. Today I find several deer and elk tracks around it.
I spent the next hour hiking near the pond. As John Muir
said, “Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.” It is
true. I soaked up the sun as I listened to the wind in the tree tops. I watched
scrub jays come in to my little picnic for a handout and nuthatches looked for
insects on branches. A bird called a flicker and is sort of like a woodpecker
went drumming up and down a still standing dead tree. A red squirrel scolded me from several
different pines and a young chipmunk sampled a cracker I gave it.
And thunder rumbled overhead. Thunder? I looked up and to
the northeast were several large, beautiful, white thunderheads. The thought of
rain didn’t really bother me. I had been in rainstorms before and certainly the
land could use it.
I slowly returned to the truck and stowed the picnic
leftovers away. Leaving Frog Pond and pulling back onto the main dirt road up
the mountain, I headed for the timberline and La Moska Peak.
The
highest point on Mr. Taylor is 11,300 feet, or so the sign says. There is a
fire lookout tower there. I have heard the tales of how lightning jumps and
plays all over the top of the mountain in an electrical storm. The tower is
well grounded but a lot of the trees up high have been stuck by lighting at
some time. Well, maybe I didn’t want to go all the way to the top if there was
going to be a storm.
I’m not sure why, most likely a fire, but a lot of the top
of the Turquoise Mountain San Mateo mountain range is part of a
40 mile long volcanic plateau, with Mt.
Taylor
I dropped the Dodge into four
wheel drive and drove on for a long, rough half mile. On seeing a side road
leading across an open field, I took it, and traveled on maybe another half mile.
I pulled up and stopped under a cluster of oak trees.
I hadn’t paid much
attention to the distant rumbling from the thunderheads, but now I did as the
bright, hot sun dimmed and a sudden gust of wind caused a shower of jagged,
rusty-red leaves to spiral down from the oaks, to join the leaves already on
the ground. I opened the pickup door and stepped out to stare at the sky. The
clouds were piling up and were now dark gray instead of white. Several spears
of lighting jumped between clouds. The wind blew harder.
There was a harsh, but piercing scream overhead and a red
tailed hawk appeared out of nowhere to land in the top of the tallest oak. It
cocked its head and watched me while I watched it. Then it took to the air
again. As it did a tail feather came free and drifted down through the tree
branches. I watched the feather touch down onto a handful of dry oak leaves
just as a blast of wind swirled the leaves, and the feather, along the ground.
I ran after it, reached down and grabbed it, as the leaves raced on.
A gleam caught my eye. It was a black stone. I picked it up,
too. An arrowhead? No, not quite, or maybe a broken one. There was a tip, and
one side was almost razor sharp but the other side was dull. It was obsidian,
but the shape could have been natural, the result of hundreds of years of wind,
rain, and the other forces of Mother Nature. Still, I kept it.
Again I heard the hawk scream. Looking up I saw it gliding
away from me toward a large acreage of thick, dark, spruce trees.
I hurried back to the Dodge. Jumped in, tossing the feather
and stone on the seat next to me. Starting the engine I followed after the hawk
to the comparative shelter of the evergreens. Just as I entered the trees a
blinding white light lit up everything, followed instantly by an ear splitting
boom and crackle. I glanced back to see one of the oak trees split in
half. I felt the small hairs rise on the
back of by neck, and I shivered. Seconds before I had been parked by the same
tree.
The
smell of sulfur filled the air, followed by the refreshing scent of large rain
drops striking dry dirt. In the next minute the clouds opened up pounding the Turquoise Mountain New Mexico
As I sat there I got a strange feeling. A feeling like I
wasn’t alone, that I was being watched. I looked around expecting a deer or a
squirrel. I finely spotted my watcher sitting high in a spruce, under an
especially thick needled branch. It was the red tailed hawk. Occasionally he
would ruffle his feathers trying to stay dry.
I remembered the tail feather he had lost and picked it up
to examine more closely. It was reddish-brown with bits of white. It was flat
and smooth, soft to the touch while the quill was hard and sharp.
On my key ring was a short piece of a leather thong threaded
through a small silver concho, two blue pony beads, a white bead and a red
bead. I removed the little memento from the key ring and tied it onto the quill
of the hawk feather with one end of the leather thong. After a second, I tied
the other end around the arrowhead shaped stone. Then laid it back on the seat
next to me.
The rain continued, so I took a spiral notebook, and a pen,
out of my pack and recorded my experiences. The birds and animals at the pond,
the hawk, and his feather, the thunder, lighting and the storm. It might be
good material for a story later on. We would-be writers are always looking for
the unusual to add dramatic adventure to our stories, and experiencing things first
hand always makes for better telling. As I finished writing and closed the
book, I noticed that the hard rain was now only a light drizzle. I wasn’t sure
if it was still raining or just the last drops still falling through the trees.
Movement caught my eye. The hawk left his shelter, flitting through the trees
and out into the open.
It was time for me to leave, too. As I drove out from under
the spruce I realized that, although the rain had stopped, the clouds were
still everywhere, sitting on the ground, making fog. There was no wind now, the
fog simply drifted on air currents so light they couldn’t be felt.
Rapidly more fog moved in. It was hard to see more than a
few feet in any direction. Trees, boulders, and shrubs were half seen shadows.
The road was a dimly seen line. I traveled it slowly back to the clump of oak
trees, letting the Dodge idle past the lightening stuck oak, surrounded by
fog. I took my foot off the clutch and
let the engine die. Stepping out into the open again I shivered. I didn’t think
it was just from the chill. Now the mountain felt spooky. I felt that there was
something unusual going on. I reached back inside and snagged my down jacket.
As I pulled in on I realized I had also, picked up the black stone and feather.
I stuffed them into my pocket, as I walked to the fallen tree.
The oak hadn’t burned after being struck by the lighting,
due to the rain, but there was a long, black gouge where it had split open, and
lots of fresh, raw, white splinters and pieces of wood scattered around. I ran
my hand down the still standing part of the tree. Down the center I could see
and feel the heartwood of the tree. At the base of the tree was a small stalk
of purple asters that I had not noticed before. Drops of water clung to each
petal and along the stems. I crouched down to admire the small bouquet that had
been unhurt by the lighting. There was a shifting of the fog and I stared out
across a cleared expanse of land with only a few stunted fir and Engelmann
Spruce. There was a thin growth of native grasses and each blade had droplets
of water sparkling like diamonds, as one frail sunbeam tried to push through
the clouds. My mouth dropped open in wonder at the delicate sight.
A large patch of fog seemed to roll over the meadow and a
horse and rider came out of a ravine. The mist still hovered around him so he
was almost obscured. Other figures slowly came from the wash. Horses and people
walking. I giggled. It looked like a scene from out of an old western movie.
Indians riding horses and walking by other horses pulling travois’. There were
even a few dogs.
Was it a group of Indians on the mountain for some kind of
ceremony? They seemed to fade from sight
as the fog came in again. Then they were gone. Had it been my imagination?
Probably. Most likely only a few wondering deer or elk becoming horses and
Indians to my overly-active imagination. With thoughts of seeing more wildlife
I half rose and eased onto the downed part of oak, stuffing my hands into my
pockets. My fingers came up against
something strange. I pulled it out. It was the hawk feather and the black
stone. I ran by fingers over them. Hearing something, or more like feeling
something, I looked up. The clouds parted and there, about fifty feet away
stood a brown and white pinto horse with a big, tall Indian on him.
The Indian wore a leather shirt, leggings and high-top
moccasins. His long hair hung loose except for one braided strand, an eagle
feather in it. His face was lined and wrinkled, with a few dabs of paint. There
wasn’t a saddle on the horse, only a blanket. The Indian carried no weapon,
except a knife at his belt.
I stared at him. I knew that face. I had seen it on many a
TV and movie screen. It was the Indian actor, Will Sampson. I laughed out loud,
and he was gone. I looked all around me but I didn’t see the Indian anymore.
Twisting around I looked behind me. The fog was thicker
again but there was someone back there, this time on foot, without a horse. As
I watched he walked out of the fog. This wasn’t an Indian but a cowboy, tall
and slim and he did carry a weapon. A Winchester
I rubbed my eyes. I had to be seeing things. Maybe I was
asleep and dreaming. I tried to pinch myself, but instead stuck myself with the
tip of the black rock. Anyway I was awake ‘cause it hurt.
I looked out to where the Rifleman had disappeared. Now a
woman stood there. Long skirt swaying round her ankles as she walked toward two
men and linked arms with them. They looked identical to Gunsmokes’s Kitty
Russell or as she was known in real life Amanda Blake, Doc Adams played by
Milburn Stone and Festus Hagan played by Ken Curtis. As I watched the three
friends fade away, a man on a big white horse rode at a gallop across in front
of me. He had on a white suit and a leather jacket with lots of fringe. He took
off a white Stetson and waved it as he went by, his long white hair and beard blowing
in the wind. It looked like Buffalo Bill Cody. Could it have been?
Another man rode by on a horse strumming a guitar. Softly I
heard the words to Marty Robbins’ song “El Paso
Another man, in buckskin pants and shirt, walked up to me.
This one actually spoke to me, or seemed to. “Ain’t never been this far West
before. Sure is purtty.” He walked on, his long, heavy, flintlock rifle lay
over his shoulder, the tail on his coonskin hat swinging. Had it been the real
Daniel Boone or an actor? Or was I just seeing things?
A man and a woman in a buggy, pulled by a brown horse came
straight toward me. The man pulled on the reins, stopped the horse, and he
spoke to me. “Afternoon, Granddaughter. Fine day isn’t it.”
I answered without thinking, “Yes, it is Granddad.” I
recognized by grandparents. Maybe the others I had seen today had been movie
star cowboys but my grandfather had been the real thing, as well as being part
Indian. My grandmother sat beside him.
She smiled at me. “Hi, Gram.” I said to her then I noticed the small Siamese
cat sitting on her lap. “Ginger,” I whispered, remembering my well loved cat.
Gram spoke my name. Then Granddad called to the horse.
“Let’s go, Buster.” The horse neighed softly and took the buggy off into the
mist. Before it disappeared, they stopped by another man and woman. Farmers by
the look of them. They turned and waved to me. They looked like my other
grandparents. I waved back and they were gone. They had been true pioneers.
Another man walked off after them. He wore an Air Force Sargent’s uniform.
“Dad?” I thought.
I shivered and pulled by jacket tighter. Was I really seeing
spirits, or ghosts? I found myself petting the head of a large dog, standing
beside me. “Oh, Sandy
I saw another figure appear. This was certainly no cowboy or
movie star that I could recognize. He was only average height, and slim. He had
on a dress shirt, slacks and loafers, but he did hold a shotgun in his
hands. I heard him call out. “Pull.” He
raised the shotgun as a clay pigeon tore through the clouds. The gun boomed and
the clay target shattered. I knew who he was. A man I had only recently met,
who had died just a few weeks ago. I had been saddened at his death, wishing I
had taken the time to know him better.
“You know what,” a voice spoke behind me.
I turned around and saw a man leaning up against an oak
tree. At first I didn’t know him either. A stocky man, with a face like a boxer
but with a ready smile. Louis L’amour?
He spoke again. “You do know that this is a special
mountain? A mountain where dreams can come alive. Where stories can be born.”
“Yes, Sir, I know,” I answered him.
He nodded slightly as he faded out of sight.
I turned in a circle but no more forms came out of the mist.
I was still holding the feather and stone tied with the leather string. On
impulse I picked up one of the larger splinters from the broken oak tree, and
wrapped the cord around it, then pushed one end of the piece of wood into the
ground beside the purple asters. A breeze stirred the feather and the fog. The
sun began to burn through the clouds and the fog gradually rose, and floated
off to the south.
I found myself back in the pickup. Had I dozed off and had a
wild dream. I shook my head in wonder at what the human mind can come up with,
awake or asleep.
I turned the key and the truck started. As I made my way to
the rough, lava rock road, I looked back. A man on an appaloosa horse was
trotting up the trail behind me. He slowed the horse to a walk and came around
the Dodge. “Good day to you, Pilgrim.” He was followed by another man on a
palomino stallion and a woman on a white horse. They were singing a song. I
heard a few words – “Happy Trails to You, Until we meet again.”
Was that John Wayne? Roy Rogers? Trigger? Dale Evens? Horses
and riders disappeared around a bend in the road.
I sat gripping the steering wheel. This was Mr. Taylor, the Turquoise Mountain
I hoped so. How wonderful it would be to know that someday
my spirit would wonder on the Turquoise
Mountain
Happy Trails to all.
 |
All My Heroes
Have Been Cowboys
and Indians
by
B.J. Borror
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