Prances with Coyotes

     A scene unfolded in my friend’s yard in New Mexico of comic proportions. A roadrunner scampered around eating grasshoppers oblivious to a coyote lurking nearby. I was torn. Observe and photograph what was about to unfold or rush outside and chase the coyote away. The roadrunner turned his back ignoring the coyote, then surprisingly jumped through the fence closer to harm. The coyote crept up looking this way and that pretending not to notice the bird. I zoomed in on the slow motion action. 

     A poor, innocent creature was about to be eaten and by hesitating I had done nothing to prevent it. The roadrunner flicked its long tail and casually raised a witless topknot as if inviting the inevitable. Run, run like hell now! The coyote looking hungry and determined took another careful step forward. The bird unbelievably turned its back again.  
     Any minute flying feathers and gnashing teeth would turn an iconic southwest fowl into Thanksgiving dinner for a cunning scavenger. Dammit. 

 

 
 

      The coyote stood frozen staring intently, then took one quick step. It happened so fast I didn’t see it. My camera was focused beyond the fence and the scene with the bird was mercifully blurred. I really didn’t want to watch. 

       



      Then the coyote stopped and looked up. Nothing had happened. I refocused and found the roadrunner merrily perched on top of a nearby fence post. It had jumped straight up, an impossible leap in my mind, but those spring-loaded legs propelled it upward out of harm’s way revealing a sneaky, well planned foil. A crazy little happy dance on the fence post ensued. The coyote sauntered over and glared up at the roadrunner before jumping through the fence and trotting off through the scrubby weeds.

    The roadrunner struck a pose for victory. Then to my surprise it jumped to the ground and took off after its predator. Surviving wasn’t enough, the torment had to be repeated. I watched the roadrunner leap onto another fence post when the coyote got too close and laughed out loud. I had been wrought with concern for the poor bird only moments before and now felt sorry for the frustrated coyote. This was no ordinary bird. With amazing timing and bravado the little jerk outwitted the coyote time and again. 

  
 

     I have to admit that I had not connected the seriously obvious dots until my friend said, “Beep Beep”. Right, of course, I missed that. Who’s the superior species now? Native to the Americas coyotes have been around for at least one hundred and twenty thousand years. Roadrunners, I swear. Taunting coyotes is clearly a time honored pastime.   

 

     

 

Orbiting New Mexico

A driving tour of New Mexico with friends took us through boom towns and ruins, surface and subterranean phenomena and fields of petroglyphs long abandoned. New Mexico’s artists past and present have opened their creative hearts and minds to the magnificent emptiness, vast skies and distinct color palate of the hardscrabble landscape. A small measure of danger inherent in the high desert with its venomous snakes, flash floods, ghosts and rogue humans heighten the experience, because who can truly feel alive without a whisper of mortality.
The environment required for artwork to emerge involves a complex web woven from tangible objects, a rich inner world, dedication and time. Financial and emotional stability are optional. 

Wild animals in the desert survive the harsh environment with a balancing act of mysterious skills and the iron clad fortitude mandatory for climactic extremes. My artist friends in New Mexico are the same.
I’ve known Victoria for nearly thirty years and recently met Ricky. It was instantly apparent why they were such good friends. Their meeting must have been magnetic because they are somewhat unusual in a similar way. They each possess the ability to see alternate worlds in the gravel most of us step on to get somewhere else. A random spot on the ground reveals evidence of long extinct creatures and crumbs of civilization meaningless to most of us. They have patience, on the scale of geologic erosion, to ferret out such mysteries.
There is much to be learned given time. Naturally occurring mud balls, bits of turquoise on railroad beds, arrow heads on hillsides and burnt corn cobs in fire rings from centuries passed are everyday ordinary for slow walking explorers with refined perspicacity.  

It could be that observation and imagination stand apart, but I had the distinct feeling that Victoria and Ricky’s similarity in character was a clue to how their respective artwork evolves. Victoria paints her dreams. Ricky builds worlds that are like walking into dreams.
Orbs randomly scattered in the brush along the dirt road to Ricky and Alex’s place on closer inspection turned out to be decaying bowling balls. Great balls of wire, an elegant globe of garden hoses and unidentified plastic spheres also adorn the grounds. A number of florescent papier-mâché balloons hung on a laundry rack inside the front door, but they were not immediately apparent in the creative chaos. 
I had to quietly take in the surroundings before elegant patterns of order emerged. How was it possible? There was no direction that did not bring a smile. The house is underground, lit by a glass wall on one face and skylights through to the earth above. We eventually wandered to the back of the house to tables full of round polished stones. Ricky placed one in my hand. It was heavy and felt weird, like it might talk. An image of a sci-fi wormhole came to mind. Ricky told me how long it had taken him to acquire the beautifully polished meteor. Most people save up for cars or televisions, but in New Mexico it’s not wholly unusual to find someone who longs for rocks from outer space.

In Victoria and Virginia’s house an ascending row of perfectly formed mud balls collected from a nearby dry wash adorn the fireplace mantle. Their artwork fills the walls with thought provoking images. The yard is a haven for coyote, raptors, rabbits, ravens and more. Plentiful holes in the ground house lord knows what. The cat must stay inside or be carried off by wild dogs.
Victoria’s artwork inspires artists. She encourages old and new painters to open their minds. I love her work, although writing critically about art is a skill I will leave to experts.
What I can attest to are the moments of wonder that I experienced when Victoria handed me a potshard from a pile of rubble or an exquisite piece of petrified wood that was mostly buried in sand, because I would never have seen them if not for my friend. I left convinced that highly tuned powers of observation honed by long hours bent to the task reward the viewer tenfold, although much patience and curiosity are required. We visited Ricky and Alex’s wonderful place because Victoria knew I would love them and their work. And possibly because I stood a decent chance of being spoken to by a vision enhancing, magical meteor.
Shortly before I left New Mexico we went to a nearby riverbed after a flood to look for mud balls. I doubt I would have found them on my own because they look just like dirt until plucked from the surrounding debris.
How do they do it? Apparently, with the long stare of a stalking coyote, raptor like vision and the serenity of a hibernating snake.

                                     catherinebuchanan.com

American Wonders

     Driving a metal box to a sanctioned campsite is a far romantic cry from a yurt, a camel and wilderness without footprints, but this is modern America. Buffalo no longer roam the plains. Rodents and bugs are the last free range creatures.

     I called friends who are currently motoring around Utah in a small RV that they bought second hand and fixed up. People who travel with them sleep in a tent outside. Leveling is done with blocks of wood, hand operated jacks, crawling in the dirt and most likely colorful expletives. When I reached my Dutch friend she was back in cell phone range at a campsite near Bryce Canyon. They had parked their modest camper next to a motor home sizable enough to provide shade. Their travel companions were also from the Netherlands. The exchange with their neighbors started out promising, but went south fast.

     The occupants of the rolling mansion offered a tour and my friends did not hesitate. Who wouldn’t want to see inside? Automated push button self-leveling was to be admired, but that might be where the envy ended. Under the counter lighting, four large TV’s all playing FOX news including the one mounted on the outside defied a spirit of adventure. His brother had purchased the same vehicle at a quantity discount. The owner of the giant RV inquired about the visiting couple’s occupations. Which is one way of determining status in America, but there could have been another reason. He was amazed that anyone could sleep in a tent outside of an RV. He must have wanted an explanation, but didn’t get one. The tent dwellers didn’t admit to being doctors either.     

     One of the Dutch people asked, “Is the budget crisis going to be resolved”, because they were concerned that national parks might be closed. The question had nothing to do with politics, but the response gave the foreign traveler’s a taste of America similar to chewing on aluminum foil. The owner of the large footprint, gas guzzling, broadcaster of mainstream crap news, self-leveling, ambient lit, wilderness experience behemoth blurted out, “Once we get that monkey out of the White House everything will go back to normal.”

      I pictured my friend’s faces while they stood in the belly of the beast listening to a derogatory, hypocrite’s opinion. It’s a free country so I would also add, fucking asshole. My friends must have needed a monumental amount of self-control not burst out laughing or take issue.

      And it gets better. The mammoth RV had the name “Dutch Star” plastered across the side and their shit drain pipe was connected to a sewer outlet directly under the picnic table where actual Dutch people sat for dinner. Welcome to America, which apparently used to be normal.