Wednesday, April 4
Our backyard at Las Cienegas National Conservation Area, Sonoita, Arizona
There’s no putting it off any longer.
I toss dirty laundry out the door of the Best Little Trailer onto the mat while Reggie and Roger watch with astonishment. Or maybe that’s boredom on they faces. Either way, they watch.
I load the rugs and laundry basket into the Perfect Tow Vehicle, lob the boys into the front, and together we roll across the grassy plains. Route 82 takes us due east to Whetstone, then Route 90 straight-lines due north to Interstate 10, where we go east again to the laundromat in Benson.
I understand that there are folks who walk into another room in order to do their laundry. I drive over 30 miles.
The lowest point in the laundry process is getting started. The experience always improves from that point on until I’m loading up the PTV with clean, fresh, folded (shirts go on hangers) laundry.
I drive away feeling renewed, ready for another spin cycle of life.
Before leaving civilization, I run into Safeway.
Literally “run” because this day is turning hot and the boys have to wait in the PTV. A short while later we’re zooming down the highway with windows down, refreshed by the wind created by moving at 65 mph.
Roger stands beside me with paws on the edge of my seat.
He insists that I wrap my right arm around his neck in a perpetual hug, all the way home. During a previous ride I made the mistake of hugging him like this, he loved it, and now the Canine Rule of Repeats is well established and must be followed.
You’d think I’d learn.
By the time I unload laundry, groceries, and the boys, putting all in their places, the afternoon is hot. Not brutally hot the way Arizona can be, but hot enough when moving around.
The logical thing to do is not move around. After lunch we take a nap in the breeze of the desk fan.
Later . . .
I snap the boys onto the tether and we walk the lane that goes further across the grasslands from the main road.
Recently a couple moved their Roadtrek into a spot not far from us, not so close as to be intrusive, but close enough that Reggie and Roger would, no doubt, feel compelled to go over there and piss all over their camp chairs.
Anyway . . . .
We walk the lane with Reg and Rog tetherized. I like to delay walking until the cool of evening, but, since the crew makes the rules around here, we’re walking in the pre-cool of late afternoon. An occasional breeze wafts by making the experience pleasant enough. Reggie pants but that doesn’t cramp his style. He chugs right along.
Speaking of style . . .
Roger does the funniest thing. He’s walking along at a happy pace, facing front, legs pumping frontward. Then, for no apparent reason, without changing the direction of his face and legs, he goes sideways. One moment he’s full steam ahead, then he’s drifting to the side. It’s so strange. Hilarious. I burst out laughing every time he does that.
“What is this, Rog? You doin’ the Chihuahuan Sideways Moon Walk?”
Okay, so we’re walking along . . .
I don’t have my camera with me because it’s kinda’ hot to wear that thing around my neck and I already have plenty of cute hiney shots for this blog and, well, there’s grass and mesquite, grass and mesquite, grass and mesquite.
I give my camera a rest. (These photos of our walk were taken at another time. Just pretend they weren’t.)
Of course, you know what no camera means.
We’re walking along and I’m daydreaming, not paying much attention to the grass and mesquite. The boys trot in front of me. All of a sudden I wake from my dreams at the sight of black forms rising out of the blond grass on the other side of the wash!
I stop in my tracks and stare.
From where we stand, the ground slopes downward and then levels out into a plain of grass and mesquite (of course) spread out to the gentle mounds of small hills.
A deep wash cuts through the grass, making a gash somewhat parallel to our lane. (I suppose, if you want to get technical, the lane probably came after the wash cut through the grass, but when have I ever been technical?)
At first I think the black forms are angus cattle.
They’re too small for cattle —
About 8 to 10 javelina jump to their hooves and take off through the grass. Their mode of escape surprises me. A few times when I’ve been out walking with my crew in different places, we’ve startled a herd of pronghorns.
I never want to do that, but it happens.
Pronghorns and javelina use different get-away techniques. The pronghorn relies on its speed, agility, and numbers to flee from a threat. It’s a treat to watch a graceful ribbon of pronghorns ascend a hill.
Javelina aren’t as speedy nor as agile. Instead of racing away in a group, the javelina scatter. I guess the reasoning (huh? javelina reason?) is they cut their losses by fleeing separately, kind of like outlaws of the Old West temporarily disbanding to meet up later.
That’s my theory.
Two javelina drop into the wash and soon disappear.
The others fan out across the plain, their snouts and backs lifting out of the sea of pale tan grass like dolphins. I only see them for a few seconds — probably wouldn’t have caught them with the camera anyway — and they’re gone.
Wow, that was sumpthin’ to see . . . .
We turn toward home.
This is one of those moments.
This is one of hundreds of moments when I’m reminded that leaving my house, furniture, garden, accumulation of stuff, and former, stationary, and predictable way of life was one of the best decisions ever.
It may have been THE best decision of all.
NOTE: What decision have you made that was one of your best? (Open up comments by tapping the title of this post.) Have a question, some news, an update? We’d love to hear from you! — Sue
THANK YOU FOR VISITING MY BLOG!
To see a few of the products recently purchased by readers or to browse and shop, follow any of these links to Amazon:
RVSue and her canine crew is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com and affiliated sites.