by aramatzne@gmail.com | 16 Sep 2024 | Roads Taken
The Big Hatchet Mountains
Last week, I drove south. En route to Tucson, Arizona, I took the long way through a backcountry by-way showcasing New Mexico’s geologic past, then spent the night in Las Cruces at the Big Chili Inn, home of the world’s largest chili pepper and plastic-encased mattresses. In the morning, I went west and south into the bootheel of New Mexico. Butting against Arizona to the west and Mexico to the east and south, the bootheel feels like its name. Some cowboy, standing tall in the north country, has Mexico under his heel.
This is basin and range country: massive, flat, open valleys with disconnected mountain ranges strewn randomly. The basins have no outlet, and what little water falls here, less than eight inches a year, pools here, waiting to evaporate. It doesn’t wait long.
The Continental Divide Trail begins just a few miles farther south, and if you’re ambitious, you can follow it 3,028 miles on foot to Canada. The Little Hatchet and Big Hatchet Mountains stretch northwest from the western Mexican border.
In a state where the middle of nowhere is where you are most often, the Big Hatchet Mountains are twenty-four miles and an hour’s drive from the nearest US town, which has a population of fifty. The western edge of Mexico, at the inside of the bootheel, is barely nine miles as the vulture soars or the migrant walks.
In my zippy little car, I cruise south. Stopping to take photos along the road, as I am wont to do, I attempt to capture the expanse of desert, the mountains climbing into the blue sky as the only relief from the cactus, the dust in the basin, and the temperature, not yet at noon, already at 98º. I haven’t seen another car for twenty minutes, but seemingly, within seconds of pulling over, a border patrol vehicle appears.
Do you need help?
No, I say, just taking photos.
Ok, I’ll get out of your way. He pulls away, drives 200 yards south, and pulls off the road, engine running, air conditioning on full blast as the day’s heat builds. I expect my license plate is being checked. Who stops here? Maybe a scheduled pick-up or a water cache drop-off.
I finish my photos and continue south, driving past the parked patrolman. I do my thing, poking around, stopping here and there. SUVs, pickups pulling trailers with ATVs, vans pulling cargo trailers pass me, all border patrol vehicles. We leapfrog each other. My dusty green car hopping around the black and white federal rigs, just me and thirty of my closest border patrol buddies hanging out in the desert.
The road, a chip-sealed tar and gravel affair, is mostly straight, deviating only to pass through the gap dividing the Little Hatchet Mountains to the north from the Big Hatchet Mountains to the south. As I move farther south on this simple, two-lane road, the shoulder lines and center stripe disappear. Along one or both sides appears a secondary dirt road, like the frontage road of interstate highways through big cities and wide-open states. I ponder this. And, then, I find old tires in a heap at the edge of the parallel road. Chained together, like the drags used to smooth snow for skiing or level a rodeo arena, they are used to clear the dirt lanes.
I stop again, pulling onto one of these dirt tracks; I park in the scant shade of a lone juniper. I scan with my binoculars, drink some water—a routine stop when exploring. Pulling back onto the paved road, I wait for a patrolman to pass, knowing I will only leapfrog again. But he stops—the same officer.
If you walk away from your car, make sure you drive over your tracks when you leave.
I must have had a blank look.
He gives me the movie-famous hand sign, index and middle fingers gesturing from eyes to the ground. We’re looking for tracks. This is a dangerous place. Be careful out here.
Yeah, yeah, I say, realizing the frontage roads force anyone walking through the desert to cross the swept-clean dirt that records every person who passes from desert to pavement. As he pulls away, I think to myself, I will cover every track I find. And I will offer water to any person I see.
Although it is a struggle to be human in this time and in this cultural landscape, if the hatchet comes down, I won’t surrender my humanity to border patrol.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 15 Jul 2024 | Roads Taken
Last week, I was in Joseph, Oregon, for a writing workshop. Writers and readers from around the West came to connect and learn, explore, and expand. I dusted off this piece and read it at open-mic. I trust it will carry weight again—for the first reading or the tenth.
Full of snowmelt and spring rain, the Imnaha River squeezes through Blue Hole.
The Imnaha Dreams
Last summer camping on the Imnaha River, I had a dream. It was August, but on the river in the bottom of a forested canyon and at elevation in the Wallowa Mountains, it was cold. I slept in the bed of the pickup, curled into my down sleeping bag, with multiple layers of clothing and a hat. I don’t remember much about the dream except that it terrified me, and I awoke as I was about to be decapitated.
Startled awake with the sound of water rushing downstream to join the Snake River, the trees crowding in above me, and the stars brilliantly clear in the gaps between the branches far above, I wondered what had occurred on this site. I lay awake a long time thinking about the dream and whatever energy I had tapped into.
As happens, the year waned. The dream, all but forgotten, left my conscious memory.
Last week, I was camping on the Imnaha. I had a dream. It was June, but in the river bottom, in an open ponderosa pine park and in the spring rain at elevation in the Wallowa Mountains, it was cold. I was a few miles above the previous campsite; I slept in the camper in the bed of the pickup. Big Cat was with me. I don’t remember much about the dream except that it terrified me, and I awoke when every hair on the back of my neck and head was standing on end, both in the dream and not.
Jolted awake by the dream, I heard the river and the rain on the roof of the camper, I had the sense that I was in the wrong place. Lying awake, I remembered last year’s dream.
The Imnaha was home to the Niimíipu, the Nez Perce. These were the last grazing lands of Chief Joseph’s band. They lived in these canyons, in the mountains, and on the grassy slopes. They grazed their horses and lived their lives here, on a shrinking allotment of land “given” to them by the US government in this far-flung corner of Oregon and then slowly taken away again as white settlers discovered its value. There were promises and skirmishes and then Chief Joseph fled with other Nez Perce who would not agree to forced relocation to a reservation.
Most of us have heard some piece of this story. Pursued by numerous factions of the U.S. military, they crossed the Snake River, the mountains of Idaho, and The Big Hole in Montana. They wove their way through Yellowstone, the Sunshine Valley, the Absaroka Mountains, and north again to the Bear Paw Mountains of central Montana. Finally, after 1,170 miles and multiple battles, they surrendered. They were 40 miles from the Canadian border. They were relocated to Kansas, and Chief Joseph was never allowed to return to the Imnaha.
I don’t claim to have any connections to the past, no clairvoyance; I don’t channel spirits. But, I believe that the land remembers a lot of things we choose to forget. There was peace and there was some type of balance. Then, there was not. Everything has energy; we all come from entropy, take shape, and then return to entropy. Blood that soaks into the soil, flesh, and bone scattered by scavengers and decay doesn’t cease to exist; it takes a new form.
Maybe the dreams were just dreams, my subconscious pushing me into places I don’t want to go or reminding me of things I have not fully processed. Despite the terror that woke me, I don’t think the violence was directed at me. I think it was a reminder.
The river, the forest, and people, both Native American and, at this point, of European descent too, have flowed through this place for generations. Today, we often camp in remote places and feel some sense that we have discovered them for the first time, no matter the fire ring, the litter, or the road. We read the roadside signs about what was, who was, and when it was. We snap a photo. We move on.
We forget that there were others in this place long before any of us discovered it. Not just people passing through on a summer trip but those who lived and died here, sometimes violently, sometimes unjustly.
The next night before sleeping, I smudged the camper, the truck, and myself, burning sage as an offering to the people who came before us and in their memory. Water, trees, people will continue to flow through this land. May it be a more peaceful journey for us all.
Early summer wildflowers spread across the open ridge line.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 15 Jul 2024 | Musing, Roads Taken
Last week, I was in Joseph, Oregon, for a writing workshop. Writers and readers from around the West came to connect and learn, explore, and expand. I dusted off this piece and read it at open-mic. I trust it will carry weight again—for the first reading or the tenth.
Full of snowmelt and spring rain, the Imnaha River squeezes through Blue Hole.
The Imnaha Dreams
Last summer camping on the Imnaha River, I had a dream. It was August, but on the river in the bottom of a forested canyon and at elevation in the Wallowa Mountains, it was cold. I slept in the bed of the pickup, curled into my down sleeping bag, with multiple layers of clothing and a hat. I don’t remember much about the dream except that it terrified me, and I awoke as I was about to be decapitated.
Startled awake with the sound of water rushing downstream to join the Snake River, the trees crowding in above me, and the stars brilliantly clear in the gaps between the branches far above, I wondered what had occurred on this site. I lay awake a long time thinking about the dream and whatever energy I had tapped into.
As happens, the year waned. The dream, all but forgotten, left my conscious memory.
Last week, I was camping on the Imnaha. I had a dream. It was June, but in the river bottom, in an open ponderosa pine park and in the spring rain at elevation in the Wallowa Mountains, it was cold. I was a few miles above the previous campsite; I slept in the camper in the bed of the pickup. Big Cat was with me. I don’t remember much about the dream except that it terrified me, and I awoke when every hair on the back of my neck and head was standing on end, both in the dream and not.
Jolted awake by the dream, I heard the river and the rain on the roof of the camper, I had the sense that I was in the wrong place. Lying awake, I remembered last year’s dream.
The Imnaha was home to the Niimíipu, the Nez Perce. These were the last grazing lands of Chief Joseph’s band. They lived in these canyons, in the mountains, and on the grassy slopes. They grazed their horses and lived their lives here, on a shrinking allotment of land “given” to them by the US government in this far-flung corner of Oregon and then slowly taken away again as white settlers discovered its value. There were promises and skirmishes and then Chief Joseph fled with other Nez Perce who would not agree to forced relocation to a reservation.
Most of us have heard some piece of this story. Pursued by numerous factions of the U.S. military, they crossed the Snake River, the mountains of Idaho, and The Big Hole in Montana. They wove their way through Yellowstone, the Sunshine Valley, the Absaroka Mountains, and north again to the Bear Paw Mountains of central Montana. Finally, after 1,170 miles and multiple battles, they surrendered. They were 40 miles from the Canadian border. They were relocated to Kansas, and Chief Joseph was never allowed to return to the Imnaha.
I don’t claim to have any connections to the past, no clairvoyance; I don’t channel spirits. But, I believe that the land remembers a lot of things we choose to forget. There was peace and there was some type of balance. Then, there was not. Everything has energy; we all come from entropy, take shape, and then return to entropy. Blood that soaks into the soil, flesh, and bone scattered by scavengers and decay doesn’t cease to exist; it takes a new form.
Maybe the dreams were just dreams, my subconscious pushing me into places I don’t want to go or reminding me of things I have not fully processed. Despite the terror that woke me, I don’t think the violence was directed at me. I think it was a reminder.
The river, the forest, and people, both Native American and, at this point, of European descent too, have flowed through this place for generations. Today, we often camp in remote places and feel some sense that we have discovered them for the first time, no matter the fire ring, the litter, or the road. We read the roadside signs about what was, who was, and when it was. We snap a photo. We move on.
We forget that there were others in this place long before any of us discovered it. Not just people passing through on a summer trip but those who lived and died here, sometimes violently, sometimes unjustly.
The next night before sleeping, I smudged the camper, the truck, and myself, burning sage as an offering to the people who came before us and in their memory. Water, trees, people will continue to flow through this land. May it be a more peaceful journey for us all.
Early summer wildflowers spread across the open ridge line.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 13 May 2024 | Roads Taken
“You know, the point of business cards is to share them.” JB is my colleague and friend. He’s a good man, capable, knowledgeable. He’s also my antithesis, an extrovert, a people person. He engages with anyone; has a thousand questions. He’s the nicest of schmoozers, sincere, and genuine. JB collects business cards and has a special folder that holds the ones he receives. He notes where and when he received them. This is a level of dedication that I cannot muster.
Business cards are one of my nightmares. I prefer not to give them out. Perhaps this stems from living in Japan, where business cards are a formality. They are offered with humility and a polite bow; there is reverence. I don’t take myself this seriously.
“Yes, JB, I know what business cards are for.”
“Are you going to use them today?”
“Maybe. I will do my best to give out business cards today,” I declare. We are at a day-long workshop with people from state and federal agencies, biologists, consultants, policy people. It’s a lovely setting on the Columbia River, and despite the gray November day, I would rather be outside.
We enter the building, JB dives into the fray. I go to the bathroom.
I am wearing wide-leg trousers. I love these pants, though, like most girl clothes, the pockets are left wanting. Not quite deep enough to be genuine pockets, but deep enough to lull you into believing something in your pocket will stay there.
I stand up, pulling up my pants, turning to flush simultaneously. The silver business card holder, a gift from my mother (another extrovert), slips from my pocket and into the toilet bowl. Gratefully, the toilet contents are gone, and the case turns sideways against the outflow, stopping its downward spiral. I can only laugh. I reach in, retrieve the case.
I expect the cards are entirely soaked but open the case to find only a few wet edges. Regardless, I empty the case into the bathroom trash and wash the case, my hands, the case again, my hands again, and finally, I pocket the case.
Loitering in the lobby between talks, a man approached me, introduced himself.
“I work for PUD.” This is not auspicious to me. I know PUD is the public utility department, but I would never, ever introduce myself as working for PUD.
I give him my name. It blows by him. We chat for a few minutes. His interest is clearly not related to work or the conference. I don’t know how to extract myself.
To my great relief, JB joins the conversation. The three of us talk for a few minutes. JB now knows the man’s life story and sees that a professional connection could be valuable. I know otherwise but hold my tongue.
Finally, JB turns to me and says, “Did you give him your card?”
“Well…” I politely decline to offer a card.
I took this photo after fleeing the scene. I was grateful to be above the clouds and beyond the realm of business and its cards.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 29 Apr 2024 | Roads Taken
It was Memorial Day weekend, late May, though there was still snow. The spring bird song was incredible. Wildflowers were blooming. Pronghorn babies were popping out. And the mosquitoes were voracious. They were so thick and so wild for blood. I took this photo in a wild hot spring at Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge. For some reason, the mosquitoes didn’t linger over the hot spring. I lingered where they didn’t—my own Hart Mountain refuge.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 19 Feb 2024 | Roads Taken
…to a bookstore near you
Timber Press will release Best Little Book of Birds: Coastal Washington in June. Look for it at your favorite local bookstore – and if you can’t find it there because, say, you live in Oklahoma, I recommend ordering it directly from Timber Press (available for preordering, too) or from Powell’s Books.
WooHoo!
Gratitude to the amazing photographers Steve Lenz, Greg Smith, and Matt Vann and to the Timber Press team of editors, photo editors, layout and design people, and the whole crew that worked behind the cover, unseen and unnamed. Thank you!
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