A Disturbing Confluence

It is no secret to readers of this blog that I have a fascination with the legend and legacy of Wyatt Earp. In my younger days I thrilled to the story of the lawman who, when the outlaws attacked his family, took the law into his own hands and annihilated the bad guys while riding the vengeance trail. Later years a more mature outlook has entered my Earpophilia and I have begun to notice an unsavory connection to America’s gun problem and the western movies about Wyatt and others. This trait excuses extra-legal means of resolving a dispute by means of homicide. From the notorious “stand your ground” laws of Florida to the widespread embrace of the former Orange Skinned Occupant of the Oval Office, those who buy into this myth have brought the vigilante ethic into our current political discourse.

I am thinking about this after a brief stop in Tombstone yesterday with my son. All along Allen Street the shops formerly selling Wyatt memorabilia have taken a decidedly ugly turn in offering right-wing inspired threats stamped on the Chinese manufactured t-shirts they sell. As disturbing as this trend is, the ultimate symbol of the symbiotic relationship between western myth and contemporary politics can be seen right outside of town. Some enterprising troglodyte has opened up a store which offers nothing but MAGA merchandise, and the sign above the establishment stands as a metaphor for all that is vile in this mindset. This weekend will mark the 93rd observance of Tombstone's "Helldorado Days" celebration. I cannot imagine that the crowd they will attract will resemble anything I remember from my childhood experiences at the "Town Too Tough to Die." God help us all.

Gotcha!

Every five years a group of friends who met for the first time in Flagstaff during the early 1970s meets in that city for the "Old Main Reunion." Named after the iconic structure on the Northern Arizona University campus, the reunion is not only for those who lived in Old Main dormitory.

A large portion of the attendees never spent the night in the old building, and a few more never even finished their degrees at the school. A strange bond exists between the members of this loose organization, though, and most would overcome any obstacle to attend the event. (Indeed, one of our most cherished members came after he was given only weeks to live by his physicians. He was warmly received.) The first Old Main Reunion was held in 1991, about twenty years after the events we gathered to remember. Other meetings occurred in 1996, 2001, 2006, 2011, 2016, and ... well, 2021 was during the darkest days of the pandemic so we postponed until this year, 2022.

Like schoolboys in an English boarding academy, many of our friends have nicknames; Stu, Zeke, Mambo, Burnt, and Crazy Dave to name a few. My own appellation has always been "Colonel," but I can scarcely remember if I named myself this in high school or in college. The title was certainly not bestowed on me by any of our group and I am sure my vanity in my college years inspired me to continue the nickname. Regardless, I am still addressed in this fashion today by my friends and as embarassing as it sounds, I haven't the heart to insist on dropping the rank. Many of the others in our group readily adopt their own nicknames once we are together again. It is amazing to see what became of this unruly band of 18-20 year olds after nearly fifty years. A livestock inspector, a banker, a postman, an electrician, and even an Arizona county attorney can be found in our circle (most of whom are now retired).

The festivities kicked off with the rollicking, backslapping gathering at the Monte Vista Hotel in downtown Flagstaff. This antique hotel was originally chosen by us in 1991 because it had a funky,

neglected vibe very much like our old dormitory. Since then, the Monte Vista has been rennovated more than a few times and has evolved into a nightlife hotspot for the NAU students and other young people. As a result, it is a noisy and boisterous place where sleep is sometimes difficult to gain, but it is ideal for a gathering point for our group. Situated in the center of downtown, the Monte Vista also has a couple of park benches on the sidewalk outside their auxiliary saloon. It is here than many gathered between the official events just to stand around and shoot the bull. After initally greeting one another at the hotel, we made our way to the campus where, surpisingly enough, the old student union adjacent to Old Main has now become a rather fancy restaurant, operated by students who are in the hospitality/culinary studies program at the university. The meal was good, but the company was better, with many attendees who were not staying at the Monte Vista showing up as the evening progressed. The "1889" Bar and Grill had set up our dining area on the patio directly facing Old Main. I doubt a more ideal spot for our opening venue could have been chosen. There followed, on a rainy, cool

Saturday afternoon, a picnic held at Buffalo Park, the same location we chose to film an amateur silent western movie in 1974. In past reunions we have always gone to Hart Prairie, but most of the attendees were glad to switch locations after considering what wretched shape the dirt road to our usual spot must have been after days of rainfall. The barbeque was a great success, and everyone enjoyed watching the clouds drift slowly in, obscuring for a moment the spendid view of Humphreys Peak. By the time Sunday morning rolled around we were all again on the steps of Old Main to bid each other goodbye, but only after agreeing to do the event again in four years, 2026, to get us back on proper pre-Covid schedule.

You are likely now wondering what the title of this essay has to do with the bulk of its composition. Simply put, I arrived home with an active infection of Covid-19 after all this, but so far I have heard from no one else who has also fell ill. My own symptoms are quite mild, likely as a result of my initial vaccination and two booster shots, but I am also taking the anti-viral drug recommended for those who contract the disease. So, yes, after more than two years, and a long, hard fight with West Nile, the Covid virus finally said "gotcha" to me.

But It's A Dry Heat...

We just returned from a glorious two night camping trip at Mount Lemon's Rose Canyon Lake campground. Over 7,000 feet above sea level, this magical spot is less than an hour's drive from our house. Indeed, I spend more time getting our little trailer ready for the trip than I actually do driving it. This trip was spectacular, with a heavy rainstorm washing over our camp for nearly an hour and a half, moisture that those in Tucson some 5,000 feet below can only dream of. The nights were cool and blissfully quiet, too. This oasis from the heat is something we will be using a lot in the coming weeks.

This afternoon it is 107 degrees fahrenheit at our little adobe house on Fort Lowell, and our air conditioner is working mightily to keep us in at least a range of comfort. I remember as a child growing up in Tucson that the summers were hot, but not unbearably so. How things change when one reaches their sixth decade of life. I now dread going outside at midday, and take my morning walks prior to sunrise. Lest you feel that is the "cool" time let me add that often it does not get below 86 degrees in any twenty-four hour period during mid-summer here.

I do not despair of our choice of a retirement home, but I do reserve the right to complain about the grueling heat. I simply lack the stamina to do anything when it is this hot, and spend my days writing, reading, or watching the endless selections available on our streaming internet service. But wait, I can do SOMETHING, and that is hook up our little trailer and make that fifty minute drive up the mountain for a day or two of rest and relief! I know next week we will be doing the exact same thing.

I will leave this entry with a photograph of our little trailer, our mountain cabin that allows us the freedom to escape this inferno for a day or two.

Morning Constitutional

One of the major contributors to both my personal health recovery and the enjoyment of living in Tucson is our home’s close proximity to the Chuck Huckelberry loop. Named after a prominent home-grown Pima County administrator, the loop is a system of 136 miles of paved, shared-use paths, a portion of which follows the Rillito River from its origin at the confluence of the Pantano and Tanque Verde drainages at Craycroft Road all the way to the Santa Cruz river miles and miles to the west. Every morning, either on foot or on bicycle, I access the loop either by walking through nearby Fort Lowell Park or by traveling north through a small subdivision on the other side of our road. Either way, this morning ritual has become such an important part of my life that I cannot help but to feel my gratitude for living in a community that would make such a recreational investment. Here, in the middle of a very large city, I can walk along quiet pathways where the sounds of traffic are only a distant hum, and encounters with coyotes, birds, rabbits, and other wildlife are a daily occurrence.

My walks have been modest since my illness. I gradually worked my way up to a path of slightly more than three miles in the last few months, and sometimes I have walked more than four and a half. When bicycling, I have gone as far as twelve miles round trip, which is only accomplished by taking periodic rests (not for my leg muscles, but for my aching posterior). The map at the right shows the section I usually walk, and although not to scale the distance between the left and right sides of the image is about six miles.

Although I usually carry my cell phone during these morning walks/rides, I rarely take photographs. The few I have show the normally dry washes of the Pantano, Tanque Verde, and Rillito “rivers” filled with water after some pretty heavy rainstorms last summer. A streamside stroll in the desert is unusual enough to record, I think. My wildlife photos are pathetic. Usually by the time I spot a coyote and struggle to get out my cell phone, he is long gone or the glare of the sunlight prevents me from seeing the screen of the device well enough to focus the shot. Below are two "wet" images and one of some livestock that I pass each morning.

Overall I feel pretty thankful to be living in a community enlightened enough to fund this paved pathway through the city. It allows me to feel as if I am living in a rural setting, even though I am near the center of a city of at least a half million people. I will continue my morning walks as long as I am able, and perhaps some day in the future I may be able to get a photograph of some actual wildlife.

Respite and Recovery

I have been at home now for about four weeks, and every day my stamina and thought processes seem to improve. The insurance company arranged for a weekly home nurse visit and a physical therapist twice a week which has vastly improved my condition. I can now walk about 200 yards, and I no longer feel dizzy each time I stand, although I periodically have moments when I do feel a bit light headed, especially when I leave out the front door for my walks around the yard. Somehow gazing out at the spectacular Catalina Mountains to the north disorients me somewhat and it takes a moment to steady myself.

All this time I have only left the house once, to visit my primary care doctor about three days after I was discharged from the hospital. This was not as difficult as it seemed since the clinic arranged for an Uber driver and, once the visit was over, the nurses themselves gave me a ride back home. How’s that for service! The rest of the time I have spent doing the many exercises that the physical therapist has taught me, watching television, and reading. Lately I have felt well enough to help with some household chores like the dishes and taking out the trash, too.

One thing a serious illness will teach its victims, I would hope, is a sense of gratitude for things we often take for granted. The beauty of a fall morning in the desert, the night sky with its bright moon and stars, the loving concern of friends and family are all things I now hold so dear. Jayne’s careful nursing of my shattered body has been a godsend, and she monitors my medication with a careful eye. My brother has helped take Jayne to her own doctor appointments and grocery store runs, and our good friends have also pitched in to help with these things. It is quite humbling to consider how dependent we are on such freely given mercies, and again, gratitude is an overpowering emotion when considering our good fortune in this regard.

My brain is working again. I am able to read, which is something during the early days was impossible, and I can follow conversations with ease. This new found clarity has allowed me to reach out to old friends on the telephone and either inform them of what happened to me, or to give them an update. I suppose that is what I am doing with this entry to the blog as well, and I am very glad to be able to compose and post what I feel is a milestone on my way to full recovery.

A Near Death Experience

In early October, I had a dress rehearsal for the final days of my life, and I didn’t like it. A lowly mosquito caused this event, having bitten me after feeding off of some bird that carried the West Nile Virus. Within days, I was suffering muscle aches and pains, headaches, and eventually, complete paralysis which resulted in Jayne’s call to 911 and a visit from the sturdy fellows of the Tucson Fire Department. They stabilized me, called an ambulance, and I took a $1,600 ride to the Tucson Medical Center a mere five blocks from my house.

For the next three days, all became blurred and confused. I lay on an uncomfortable hospital bed with more tubes coming and going from my by then useless body that I care to remember. When at last the fog cleared, there followed more than a week of languishing in that bed, alternately vomiting and feeling the room spin about. Eventually it was complications with my digestion that delayed my discharge home, but once here I find I am so weakened and my brain in such a confused state that I sometimes despair of every fully recovering.

During those first days in the hospital I, along with my family, wondered if I would live, and I was asked by the staff if I wanted to be resuscitated. I said yes, but at the time I almost felt like giving up. I am writing these lines under some pretty severe strain and will stop, but I wanted to at least pass on what I have learned these past four weeks. The mosquito is the most deadly animal on planet Earth, and each one of you needs to take notice. Do not, do not, do not get bit, and take all precautions to prevent it. Believe me, your life may depend on it.

On The Move to On The Road

There are two metropolitan areas of considerable size in Arizona that should not exist. Phoenix, the fifth largest city in the United States, is one of them. Spread out over a vast desert adjacent to the intersection of the mostly dry Salt and Gila rivers, Phoenix has to import much of its water from the Colorado River to sustain its massive population.

Tucson is the second metro area that should not exist, growing from a small Indian village along the banks of the Santa Cruz River in pre-Columbian times to a metro area that spreads out below the Catalina and Rincon mountain ranges to accommodate nearly a million residents. The reason it should not exist is that the Santa Cruz River stopped flowing years ago, and until the Central Arizona Project brought the same Colorado River water to Tucson in 1993 it was the largest city in the United States that depended entirely on ground water. The simple truth is that more water has been pumped out of the ground in Tucson than can ever be replaced, and it is only a matter of time before the desert reclaims its own.

It is this place we have chosen for a home, and in the last four months we have lived here I have often wondered why. We left Bisbee in rather a hurry last April when we were lucky enough to find a cash buyer from our home. Neighbor disputes, an unstable rock wall behind our house, and the steady erosion caused by the drainage subway in front of the place all convinced us that we needed to bail on this little town. Another factor in our decision to leave was the deteriorating infrastructure of Bisbee. There are simply not enough people paying enough taxes to maintain the roads, sewage lines, water lines, and electrical grid. The slow decline of these public necessities would be depressing for anyone considering Bisbee as a home, but I must admit the climate is enough to seduce the most hardened skeptic into giving it a try. Unfortunately for us, the beautiful year-round weather was little comfort during the year we spent in quarantined isolation.

And so we came to Tucson. We found a really nice old adobe home, built in 1947, with red concrete floors and the old fashioned crank-out vertical windows. This historic home is somewhat famous, having been described by author Jack Kerouac in his novel On The Road. This house was owned by a "beat" writer named

Alan Harrington when Kerouac visited in 1949 and he subsequently wrote about it in On The Road. The property came with a wall completely surrounding the house, and a nice little courtyard in the back where we quickly established our shade structures and outdoor shower facility. We live right next to the ruins of Fort Lowell, a military post active during the Apache wars of the nineteenth century. Since it is a historic district, no houses can be built that do not conform to certain design standards and the neighborhood looks like an old Mexican barrio, which it is. We are less than a mile from a supermarket and pharmacy, and to the south of us stands the largest hospital/medical complex in southern Arizona, Tucson Medical Center. Even with all these things so near by, the feel of the place is one of rural living, almost like being way out in the uninhabited desert.

We live in a city that should not be here and adapt as best we can. We make our water work twice: shower runoff goes directly to the trees in the courtyard; dishwater from the kitchen sink gets dumped on the cactus in the front yard, and rinse water from the washing machine is piped via the hose to various plants that look as if they need it. If Tucson is truly doomed, it will likely not happen in our lifetimes and, by being responsible stewards of the water we currently have, we can contribute to the delay of the inevitable.