Push, 1,2,3,...ONE HUNDRED; stop, raise head, take it in, let it out, head down,1,2,3, ONE HUNDRED, repeat until utterly exhausted.
On a bright yet chilly afternoon some several days into this routine a pickup truck stops ahead of me; a pretty girl exits the passenger side and offers me a ride "up the hill". She is the charming wife of a handsome young man who happens to be on the way to visit her father with their two young sons and a sister in law in tow. This beautiful young family rearrange their payload and together we heft the Tank into the truck and proceed to travel approximately 30 more miles into Showlow.
This saved me weeks of effort, and from Showlow to New Mexico I was assured easy passage on the 77 Hwy as it is a flat route, and I was suddenly able to cover 15 to 20 miles a day. Then I passed through Holbrook taking the 40 until it morphed into the 118 and I just kept on going....
I arrived at the NM stateline in the early evening of Sept.29 and camped out near the ancient cliff dwellings of Chief YellowHorse.
I really began to slow my pace and take in the new surroundings, as this land held secrets of a different tone and tenor from those in Arizona...I had passed through Apache, Hopi, Zuni and Navajo territories, each with its' own special message and touch for my soul and spirit...the rune castings had been consistent; wild life and adversity lay ahead, my relations to the land and its inhabitants would have to adapt,or shift in some way as yet unknown...an electricity seemed to crackle around me; my senses seemed very finely tuned....foxes, coyotes and even a porcupine seemed to be at every turn, there, watching my progress.
On the 2nd day near Ft.Wingate, a mysterious young Navajo appeared on the road and approached me. We greeted eachother silently, and I handed him my canteen of water. He nodded in gratitude and sat down. When he spoke he used a mixture of english and native tongue, he explained that the bison herds of his youth were destroyed by the military when the government took the land back in the early 80,s. The People had protested the incursion; and had subsequently been charged with obstruction of justice and lost their ancient bison herd and the land.
The freeway bisected the region, with Red Rock Natl Park on the North side, and the giant military installation to the south, dotted with hundreds of earthen pustules filled with munitions, and regular missile tests marring the skies...
A young indian in a pickup truck stops: asks if we need a ride to Albuquerque; doesnt ask where we are heading, just asks if we could use a lift to Albuquerque.
We do, and we did. We arrived at the west end of that sprawling city after dark. Before us lay a blanket of light, crisscrossed with dark ribbons of emptiness...the decent into this, this valley or bowl (daylight would reveal which) was long and steep, I would certainly outpace my easy-going companion, and I attempted to then and there say my farewell.
However, within minutes of my reaching the bottom, they young indian appeared again, said goodbye and then turned around and began WALKING BACK UP THE HILL, his bodily form melting away as it seemed to rise into the night.
In this city, my first since the nightmarish weird Phoenix, I decide to camp behind a carwash, and await the morning when I might use the library and make contact with my people.
In the late afternoon I begin trolling the city; the idea is to locate the Center for Peace and Justice and stage my operations there.