The best thing about living in San Juan County are the people and the landscape. Being retired has some perks, it’s not all about predicting the weather with my hip. I wake up and can’t remember what day it is, so I call it Saturday. The only day that is a workday now is Sunday. I had no idea it took that many meetings to run a church. I was pretty content to show up for church, complain about the speakers and how hungry I was, and go home and watch the game.
Sure, occasionally I would try out for the church choir, but I can’t keep time, know nothing about rhythm, apparently, I am tone deaf, and can’t read music all of which make the choir director suggest in no uncertain terms that perhaps the building maintenance department would be a better fit. I volunteered once to play Stairway to Heaven on my guitar which I had memorized for a contest when my chosen career path was Rock Star. It is the only tune I know that talks about heaven. The Bishop wanted to meet with my too kind and loving wife to help her help me.
But I was talking about people and landscape and got sidetracked. This is exactly how my too kind and loving wife and Editor feel. They both keep trying to focus my efforts into something of value and I love them for their efforts but that is like telling Jello not to wiggle.
I have an old friend, and in this case, I don’t mean we have been friends a long time, I mean he is older than me and I am old, so if you do the math he is going to fall into the “old” category. We will call him Paul, but you can call him John, Ringo, or George if you like. He is 85, but is in excellent shape as he hikes, bikes, and eats rights every day and somehow can hike and explore like Lewis and Clark and jumps around from rock to rock like a monkey.
Paul offered to act as guide and take me somewhere in San Juan County and look at some rock art that I had never seen before. Allegedly, there is a Spanish horse with a Papal ferula (staff the Pope usually packs around) so he has me interested because me and my too kind and loving wife often debate about whose ancestors got here first. I assure her that my ancestors were robbing and plundering long before hers were.
He was shown this rock panel by Kent Frost, Daniel Boone or Porter Rockwell I don’t remember because every time he told me the story it changed a little bit, and because I can’t listen for more than five seconds, and because I am already starting to think about what I am going to say. I filed his ramblings in my brain under pioneer stories, that is where I put all the stories my too kind and loving wife tells me about her ancestors when they invaded or discovered this country, depending on who is telling the story.
We head north from Monticello for a long way, but I am pretty sure we are still in San Juan County. I am a little worried as Paul keeps talking and giving directions, but it is hard to tell which it is. I listen closely, not sure if it is fact, fiction, or memories that got jumbled up with some other memory. “Well, I think there is a road near here that goes sorta parallel to this road, but it doesn’t really look like a road, and if you follow this road, there are some cool potholes the size of a swimming pool, but don’t fall in because it is too steep and you won’t be able to crawl out and probably you will die, and the buzzards will eat you because as far as I know, no one ever goes out there, but anyway the Spanish horse is really larger than you might expect and located in this canyon that is really hard to find and there is only one way down, and Oh yeah, we should have turned back there about a mile.”
Eventually we park precariously close to a canyon edge, and I can see the Blue Mountains to the south and we get out to start our hike. I have running shoes and an old running shirt on. He has a backpack, two waters, first aid kit, two walking sticks, map, and a satellite phone. He looks at me in dismay and remarks, “I thought you said you were an experienced hiker?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and is halfway down the trail with his miniature dog Foo Foo, Zippy, or Zappy, I can’t remember which. I am scrambling to find some Hi-Chews to throw in my pocket in case I have to spend the night.
We zig and zag and have a few false starts as he tries to remember the easy way down through a slot that is hidden by shrubs and rocks. Occasionally, we cross a old well weathered track, and he turns to me and says, “That is probably Jim’s track. I know people can get good at tracking, but I could never imagine being able to identify the man’s actual name using just an old, weathered shoe print. I respond “Jim????” He replies, “Jim Muhlestein, he hikes all over the damn place.” Well, that would have been my second guess. I turn around to my too kind and loving wife and say with complete confidence, “That is Jim’s footprint.” I don’t explain how I know this.
After miles of meandering with Paul and Foo Foo we finally arrive and sure enough there is a Spanish Horse larger than life up on a cliff wall with a Papal ferula and a sun, moon and star pecked into the rock.
I am so please as this is proof to my too kind and loving wife that my ancestors were here robbing and plundering way before hers.
