I slept fourteen hours. The nearby
white noise of rushing water was not only relaxing, but served to
drown out any campground revelry. I probably would have slept even
more, but was awakened by a klaxon and rose to investigate.
I found myself in a mesquite grove at
the bottom of a mountain. There was a steep rock wall to the rear of
my tent, and a slow moving river about a hundred and fifty feet in
front of me. There were several camps set up along and in front of my
own. The alarm soon ceased and I found it wise to locate the shitter
we passed on the way in before investigating my whereabouts.
On the way there, I passed the
dog-catcher's truck. I thought it odd that there would be such
services this far into the wild. I waved and the woman driving
stopped to tell me she had come on the report of a vicious dog and
asked if I had seen one, I told her I had not. I later learned that
Goat's puppy had bitten somebody and they had gone to town and
reported it.
Wandering around, I noticed stuffed
animals hanging in the trees and lurking behind rocks. As I
continued, I began seeing eggs; both boiled and plastic. I hadn't
realized it was Easter.
I spotted some signs and verified that
I was at Childs campground on the Verde river. I had studied this
area at the library, hoping someday to visit. I hadn't planned on it,
as the road was too long and dry to hike (for my purposes anyway). I
worried how I would ever get out of here.
There was no vehicle at the camp across
from me, but a rafter had drifted in, and older guy, and he crossed
the path to introduce himself as Frank. He asked me if I had ever had
Apple Pie. I thought that odd. “Of course”, I replied. “No”
he said, “I mean APPLE PIE!”. I
conceded that perhaps I hadn't. He asked if I had a cup and,
producing one for him, he dashed back to his camp and poured me a few
fingers. “It's a local favorite”, he told me, and urged me to try
it. It was delicious. Cider and apple juice and cinnamon and spices.
“It's made with everclear”, he divulged, “Be careful”. And he
went on his way.
I sat
there, in front of my tent, enjoying my sweet, fruity breakfast. It
wasn't long before another gentleman came by with a prosthetic leg
and invited me to a pancake breakfast, to which he said the entire
camp was invited. I followed him to the shade of a Mulberry tree
where indeed, the entire camp had assembled. Ron started on the
flapjacks and his wife, Penny, busied herself giving haircuts to the
hippies. Barely sprouting stubble, I would wait a year to avail
myself of this kindness. I learned that it was Ron and Penny who had
hidden the toys and treats for the kids, and that it was an annual
endeavor for them.
Johnny,
the naked kid from the night before, was there in filthy jeans. Goat
was with him and dragging a gallon wine jug full of keg beer on a
leash. Goat handed me a sack of grass. “What's this”? I asked.
“You said you didn't have any” he said. “Enjoy”. Then he
tried to sell me some rocks. I traded some lapis I had worked for a
local crystal. That month, everybody I met got a piece of lapis or
malachite from me.
The
shy guy, in the hat with the fire-dick diagnosis was standing off to
the side (as he does) and motioned me to come over. He asked if I had
any pot and handed me a carrot.
The
strangeness and incongruity of this group of people and the words
they used seemed to have no end.
“Turn
it over” he told me. Turns out, the carrot was a pipe. “Rangers
don't think anything of a black old rubbery carrot in the bottom of
your pack”. He smiled and pulled a small drill bit from his pocket,
explaining that it was better to carry fruits and veggies and a drill
bit than a pipe around these parts. “There's a ranger here called
Frau Bluecher”, he warned me, “and she's a real ball buster.
Rusty
had a white Toyota van and a little dog that looked like a cross
between a Jack Russel and a Javelina and behaved likewise. He also
wore the most magnificent hat. He called it a Dorfman. While we
talked and smoked, a white truck had joined up with Frank. A woman
and a young man with coke bottle glasses and an enormous grin got
out. Not long after, a Sherrif's SUV showed up at their camp with a
Ranger behind.
All
the authority this morning was making me nervous. It appeared Rusty
felt the same and he suggested we walk. We went south as far as the
trail would allow. Rusty would occasionaly dash up a hill or reach
into the bushes and retrieve some piece of camping gear he had
previously stashed. He gave me a grill grate from up a wash. I still
have it, as well as the Dorfman, but the hat didn't come into my
possesion for another year.
On the
way back to camp, we saw the ranger, in fact Frau Bluecher, with a
clipboard writing down peoples license plates. Rusty said “Hey sis!
How are you doing”? “Fine”, she replied, “and you”? Rusty
gave her a sly look that I would learn often proceeded a sally of wit
and asked if she was German by descent. “Why yes”, she said. “Why
do you ask”?
Rusty
gave her that squinty eyed crosswise look and said “Because you're
acting like a fucking Nazi, that's why!”
I
walked the other way, pretending not to know him, and asked a few
different people how to get to the Hot Springs. I received as many
different directions as people I asked. I ended up following
footprints north, and actually found it. Turns out the klaxon I had
heard was the alert that the power plant to the north was going to
open the turbines. It was a warning to steer clear. The white noise
that gave me such restful sleep, was the turbines, churning out water
from Fossil Creek.
I
returned to camp about an hour before dusk. Ron and Penny had left,
and Rusty was at Frank's camp with Dee, Mikey, Goat, and Johnny.
There was a fire going and people kept blowing through their fingers
at the coals to stoke it up when it died down. This was curious to
me, as it was a mannerism I had never seen before.
Rusty
cut the fat from a pork loin and threw it on the grill grate. It was
a sheet about 18 inches square. Vultures circled overhead. We drank
Apple Pie and laughed at the vultures. When the fat was cooked,
Johnny and Goat fell upon it, gnashing it with their teeth, oils
dripping and running down their elbows. Sated, they moved on and
Rusty cooked the loin for the rest of us.
By the
time it was done, Dee was passed out in her truck and Mikey had
bloodied himself falling down while professing for the umpteenth time
that “I believe in US man, I believe IN US!”. The Apple Pie was
taking it's toll.
I
asked Rusty about the blowing through the fingers, because it seemed
so affected and I couldn't see how it was effectual. I'd noticed
people at different camps doing it.
“The
Anasazi's came down once, and taught us all that”, he said.
Everybody nodded in understanding.
Once
again, I was bewildered at the customs and language of these people.
I was under the impression that the Anasazi tribe had disappeared or
died out a thousand years ago. I stated as much, wondering if there
was a lost sect hiding out here.
It
turns out the Anasazi Rusty referred to were a group of troubled
youth who were sent out to a camp a few miles south to learn
responsibility through hardship and survival in the desert.
Apparently, they would sneak off in the night and party with the hot
springers. Since then, the project had been shut down.
Their
technique, silly as it may look, is a very effective way to coax fire
from coals.
To do
this, take your thumb and index finger and hold them together like
you would if holding a joint. Now do it with your other thumb and
forefinger. If you push the two together, you will see a diamond
shape about one quarter inch across. If you place this diamond to
your lips, it has the property of focusing your breath into a
concentrated stream. It works really well, and prevents the
hyperventilation sometimes experienced by normal blowing on coals. I
call it the Anasazi Bellows.
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