Author Archives: somewhereoutwest

Cute Little Varmints

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Some of my neighbors give me a bad time because I deport my pack rats. But seriously, could you off one of these little guys? I can’t. They drive me up the wall, but I still go to the trouble to live trap them and release them back into the wild — way downstream.

There are times this practice gets out of hand. Six rats, six mornings in a row can try my patience, but I suspect there are reasons to keep one’s pack rat karma in the black. For one thing, pack rats keep away mice. It’s some kind of territorial thing. This service is no small matter. In an old funky cabin, given the choice between twenty mice or one pack rat, you might decide to go with the lower density rodent.

On the other hand, one pack rat can take up the odiferous, audio, and psychological space of five teenagers. Their pee stinks, they stay up all night banging around, and they swipe stuff and don’t put it back. They’re hard to live with — especially in a small space.

So this morning I loaded up Bushy-tailed Wood Rat #68 and released her several miles down canyon. It’s a nice spot, along the creek, no human habitations for miles. Occasionally, it crosses my mind that the rats loop around through the sage, beat me to the truck, jump up on an axle and catch a ride back. After all the time we’ve spent together, I wouldn’t put it past them.

Blessing the Peacemakers

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On a sweltering morning in June, I wandered across the withered grass of the historic Riverview Cemetery on the outskirts of Denver. I was looking for the grave of Captain Silas Soule, a remarkable man who refused to order his men to fire on the unarmed Cheyenne and Arapaho at Sand Creek on November 29, 1864. This may seem like a small detail in the tragic history of European American and Native American relations, but Captain Soule’s brave deed keeps haunting me.

Once I found his grave, it was clear I wasn’t alone in wanting to honor one of the many people who tried to turn the tide of genocide away from the Indian families camped along Sand Creek. Among the dozens of military grave markers lining the northeast corner of the cemetery, Soule’s was the only one decorated with plastic flags and Memorial Day juju. The sprinkling of stones left along the top intrigued me. I’ve heard that people bring these offerings from Sand Creek, but since I’ve yet to visit the site of the infamous Massacre, I don’t know if that’s true. I hope it is. The talkative magpies that liven up the cemetery left an iridescent black feather on the ground. I tucked it under one of the little stones and said a prayer as a coal train rumbled beyond the chain link fence.

When popular American culture replays the history of the so-called “Indian Wars,” we rarely hear about the peacemakers like Black Kettle, Lean Bear, William Bent, or Silas Soule. Let’s seek them out. I can’t help thinking their efforts still hold a blessing for us.

Wildfire Filter

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Sunsets seen through wildfire smoke can look pretty weird. I made this photo a few weeks ago looking over the southwestern flank of Winnemucca Mountain. It makes me think of Georgia O’Keefe’s early work, with a slightly apocalyptic bent. Although a picture can be worth a thousand words, there are times when a picture without any words is, in a sense, dishonest.

This image without an explanation is just a glowing pink pearl. But as I pressed the shutter, I thought about how the smoke in this picture is all that’s left of the grasses, herbs, and forbs that made up the grazing lands of several of my ranching friends. This particular fire is huge and the chances of finding replacement pasture for their livestock, small.

Our tragedy probably won’t make the national news. It’s not dramatic enough. But if you happen to be here, it’s plenty dramatic. The map of this wildfire shows that a sizable chunk of our sizable county has been converted to heat, acrid air, and sunsets that look like they came out of someone’s imagination and Photoshop.

So the beauty of this sunset is bittersweet — a snapshot of this Western summer, when our skies were rarely blue.

Web Journals

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I started keeping journals as a teenager. The first one had a flowery pink cover but eventually I settled on these basic black sketch books. They were tough enough to pack around and even had archival pages — in case I accidentally wrote something worthy of posterity.

Most of my journals are tucked away in storage, so I’m not sure how many there are — maybe twenty? Thinking about them makes me smile. I’m looking forward to reading them again when I’m really really old and have nothing else to do.

Feeling as fondly as I do about my “real” journals, I’m a bit ambivalent about writing journal entries on the web. They seem so ephemeral. Their only substance is their content. But I guess that makes them more like a conversation we’re having together on this global party line.

So, how’s your day been?