A few days ago we went to the local quilt store. The owner was there, and I saw her large wolf quilt (a picture quilt of her own design). She said casually that she, her daughter and son-in-law run a wolf refuge, with about 180 wolves. That sometimes she sells a quilt to help raise money for them. That their work is carried out by donations. The wolves come from all over; some from people who breed them with dogs, and then can't or don't want to deal with them. Most of the wolves she feel comfortable dealing with, she said. There is one who is problematic.

A wolf (or wolf-dog) owner brought in one because she reached for something too quickly that was in the wolf's territory—too close to the wolf—and was attacked, her arm, I think. She should have known better, she said, but couldn't keep the wolf after that. So that's one more for Wolfsong Ranch.

Wolfsong Ranch
P. O. Box 138
Rodeo, N. M. 88056
505-557-2354

I looked them up online. Here are some urls about Wolfsong Ranch:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEAPgCpZHDE

http://www.fromtheheart.info/wolfsongranch.html

Associated Content


Ahhhhhhhh-oooooooooooh

This is a javelina.

Rusty mentioned them when we asked what animals might come into the RV Ranch. She said they can be agressive. We saw this one in Portal as we headed toward Coronado National Park. I had to google it to say anything intelligent about them.

Though some people think javelina are a type of wild pig, they are actually members of the peccary family, a group of hoofed mammals originating from South America. Javelina are common in much of central and southern Arizona, including the outskirts of the Phoenix area, most of Tucson, and occasionally as far north as Flagstaff. Javelina form herds of two to more than 20 animals and rely on each other to defend territory, protect against predators, regulate temperature and interact socially. They use washes and areas with dense vegetation as travel corridors. Javelina are most active at night, but may be active during the day when it's cold.

Yeah. Javelina. I like the sound of that. Glad I was in the car though.

Here in the area of Rodeo, New Mexico, the population per mile is low. We've been in most of the community gathering spots: the grocery and cafe, the tavern, a quilt shop, Animas cafe and Animas grocery and gas, the realtors, a cafe/grocery in Portal, a desert museum and a gallery. Granted, we only see local people at these businesses, as well as some tourists. But the people we've seen in greatest numbers are the Border Patrol.

For a while now as we travel, we've encountered discussion about Mexico and drug cartel violence on the US side of the border. Down here so close to the border, things have intensified. People have been saying "don't go to Mexico." Or "I wouldn't go to Mexico." There are hearsay stories about a US law enforcement officer who was killed capturing a cartel member (or members), whose wife and child(ren?) were then killed. In Elephant Butte, the story was that people would routinely go to Portal, Mexico for prescription drugs and dental work. There were two dentists there. Now there is one—the other was kidnapped and is missing—or dead.

Rusty says that her dad, who lives here part-time, goes to Mexico to get their medications. He leaves early in the morning, gets what he needs and returns. She also said that people who are so worried about illegals seem to think only about Mexicans, ignoring the fact that all countries are represented in that population. Illegals.

In the gallery, I overheard a conversation between two local women. One was saying that now they lock their door. "At least we can hear if someone is trying to get in. That leaves one of us time to get the gun and the other can get to the bedroom." Clearly, this kind of tension is something relatively new here.

Rodeo & Portal are close to the border. Fifty-nine miles away, Douglas, Arizona shares the border with Agua Prieta, Mexico. When we drove through the green sanctuary of the Coronado National Forest nearby, there was a subtle sign there that warns of possible illegals and smugglers. No one seems to be talking much about illegals. Or afraid of them, anyway. It is the violence of the cartel.

So it seems natural that we would encounter Border Patrol activity. Driving the six miles on I-80 to Rodeo, just beyond the intersection of 9 with I-80, we saw the vehicle (pictured above) parked at the side of the road. We speculated that, elevated above the vehicle, were powerful cameras. We wondered if anyone was inside the truck, or if the operations were remotely controlled. At one point Andre saw someone emerge from the vehicle—but the question remains unanswered as to whether someone is always on duty there.

For several days, roadblocks have been routine. We see stop signs leading to the intersection, a cluster of Border Patrol vehicles, and the uniformed police motioning us to stop. We lower the window. Always smiling and friendly, one of the young men asks where we are heading. Where did we come from? What is our citizenship? Once as we drove away, I saw the smile disappear as the officer swiveled to stare intently at our license plate. When we return, the process is repeated.

(Who wouldn't have some curiosity about a Rav whose headlights sport eyelashes, driven by a white-haired, bearded man wearing a bandanna? Or a floppy leather hat? Or a straw stetson-mimicking hat?)



Finally, I asked some questions. I wanted to know if they specifically signed up to be Border Patrol. Yes. Since 9-11, they fall under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security. How about the road blocks, I wondered, not expecting that they would reveal the specifics behind the ones we were experiencing. They said that some of them were for specific searches, some were for training, some to have a presence. They said that they often travel on horseback or atv off the highway.

Returning from Douglas on Sunday afternoon, we saw, over just a few miles, 12 Border Patrol vehicles coming toward us. When we've lunched at the Rodeo Cafe, we find them there too. Once two horses waited in the horse trailer in the parking lot. The white vehicles with a bar of lights across the top and green Border Patrol lettering and trim are everywhere.

I didn't ask about the cameras. Or the truck and what it does. So I'm still curious. I did mention the sign in the Coronado State Park. The officer said that we wouldn't see anyone there. That they don't want to be seen. They might take your food, he said. That's all. I remembered the park, the wonder of many trees and shade, the streams amazingly full of water, the trails—and my nervousness. I, like many others, have mixed feelings about people entering our country illegally. What worries me here is the escalating violence. The mythical psychotic cruelty of the cartels.

But about that, I said nothing. We made some comment, a reference, an aside, about keeping violence out of the country. The officers agreed. I find myself imagining the dangers of their job. As natural to imagine that as any possible violence on their part, or abuse of power. They represent the great power of a country whose population is in disagreement about its borders, and how they should be handled. For whatever individual reasons, they accept responsibility. They use restraint. They act.

In a car, riding, looking out at the desert and rugged mountains, I think about people who are struggling to enter this country on foot. How difficult to traverse these mountains, this desert. How awful to set out, push forward, continue, suffer—then be caught and sent back.

So here, in the surreal peace of the desert, we live these days, waiting for the phantom leveler control panel. Here, as in other places, we only see what we can at the moment. And at this moment, the sun is shining. The wind has ceased for now. The mountains hold their mysteries. I know we're barely scratching the surface here.


Walking at Rusty's RV Ranch


The cafe in Animas, home of the Panthers. (Homemade beans and salsa)


Coronado National Park

At sunset, on the way to Rodeo Tavern and the Wednesday night shrimp dinner special

For hours, there was tumult. The mountains to the east became obscured by sand. The winds grew and then diminished, gathered strength again. As it began to clear in the east, storm clouds moved to the mountains on our west. Then, amazingly, rain fell. The flat expanse of pale rusty earth darkened while around us the mountains vanished in gray skies. Rain, wind, rocking, then calm. I opened the door and smelled the earth and the rain. The mountains began to reappear. In the mountains to the west, snow was falling.

I walked to the office around 4:15—out the first time since morning—and found that the Saturday potluck that began at 3pm was winding up. We were urged to come, so I went back for Andre. We ate roast beef, salad, deviled eggs, chocolate cake along with pleasant conversation. At 5, when we walked out into the cool air, spotlit peaks glowed against a gray sky, and the layered clouds rose around and above us.

Ah. A few moments of peace. Yet as I type, the rocking starts again. Swaying. Like. Like what? Someone agitated in the front porch rocking chair. Riding a swaybacked mule along a rough trail. Like sitting at a table in a motor home with no levelers, swaying from side to side in high winds. Very high winds. When I look out at the highway we were driving to and from breakfast in Rodeo this morning, six miles down the road, I see only dust.

The wind blew all night, but we were spared the rocking and the constant noise. It started swelling to storm as we came out of the Rodeo Grocery & Cafe, wrestled with the wind at the door and rushed to the car.

We are still here in Rodeo, waiting for the part that controls the levelers to arrive. The levelers are the four metal legs/posts, footed with a metal plate, that can be raised or lowered at different heights to level the motor home. (When the oil in the iron skillet on the stove runs to one side, something isn't right.) They quit working a while back, and in Elephant Butte the part was ordered, to be shipped to Rusty's RV Park. So we're here, rocking and rolling. I can attest to the fact that the levelers matter. They provide stability beyond the eight wheels on the motor home.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table facing the front windows. In front of me is the couch behind the driver's seat. Both table and couch are on the platform that is the slide-out, which gives us about 18"-24" more space when it is extended. Andre brought in the slide-out first thing. It has a tarp over it like the ones we see these winds inflating over the slide-outs of other motor homes in the park. A ripped tarp or bent rods would be damage we can do without.

The folding chairs are in the car. My bicycle blew over twice with a clunk against the front bumper where I thought it would be protected. The evergreens are in constant motion, swirling as if VanGogh himself were choreographing.

From the "caboose", Andre reports that a heron has flown successfully—into the wind—to the small pond near the gates. This, after saying that the winds must be at least 60 miles an hour. With regularity, I hear horrible noises from our roof, where there are air-conditioner and vent covers, as well as the satellite dish and the wifi antenna. I'm surprised that I haven't seen them fly by.

Heading back from breakfast, we were deciding to drive the fifty miles south to Douglas for groceries and exploration. Here, one can find milk, cheese, some lemons, tomatoes and tortillas. We need green. Now, it is clear that travel would be dangerous. You can barely see the mountains to the east—another rumble and thud from the roof—and the highway runs north-south. To the north, the mountains are more obscured than when I took the photos within the last half-hour.

We saw one tumble weed this morning blowing across the road before breakfast. My first on this trip. After torturing Andre by singing some of the tumbleweed song, I was joking that we're "driftin' along like the tum-ble-in' tum-ble weed". But not now—more constant sliding and thumping on the roof—we're doing our best to settle in. Swaying. The table under the computer shakes with the vibrations on the roof and the computer jerks too. Andre says this is the tarp being blown over the slide-out, even though it has been withdrawn into the body of the motor home. The sound rumbles and chatters from front to back, just over my head. To the west, the mountains are still clearly visible.

Andre has lowered the satellite dish. Now he is taking the car around the park to pay for today—and to check things out. Thump. Thump. It is getting worse over my head.

The perky evergreens on both sides of me undulate and shimmy. The yellow flag on the corner by the road attached to Rusty's sign is straight out.

It isn't stopping. I feel at sea. Oh, for an adobe home, thick-walled and hugging the ground.

Traveling in a motor home with 2 dogs adds an extra dimension to being a good RV park citizen. We might pass through for one night, or stay for a week. Occasionally, we return to a park; most often we don't. So if we trespass the boundaries of decency, our reputation will not precede us to our next location. Or follow us. But we want to respect those unknown fellow travelers who lower their levelers where once we did.

Feeling empathy and more than affection for Sam and PhuPhu, and a desire to preserve my sanity and the interior of the motor home, it makes sense that their needs should be met, and there should be some fun in it for them.

You could say that I'm squeamish about dogs peeing on everything possible because I grew up with no dogs about, in or out of the house. I think there's more to it than that. And dogs do have to relieve themselves somewhere. On schedule. It's just that I feel some things should be off limits: the neighbor's water hose, lawn chairs, my bicycle, containers that I will pick up and use. If I offend anyone by this confession—please forgive me.

When we reach our spot for the night, as soon as it is safe for them, we leash the dogs to the motor home and let them roam as far as they can. When I am watching, I might intercede for the neighbor next door, or a planting that looks especially vulnerable. Every morning and at least once more during the day, they poop. Then we have to pick it up and throw it away. I won't bore you with the specifics, but it's safe to say we're vigilant. There are times when Andre drives away and before I catch up and jump on board, I look under the motor home lest we leave anything behind. Most parks allow pets, but the cleanup rules are (thankfully) strict.

For animals who are wild, freedom includes pooping without repression. What they leave behind is full of history. Poop becomes scat. And for those in the know, it tells all. In the City of Rocks Park near Deming, New Mexico, we viewed the ancient contribution of some anonymous being whose one moment of relief remains frozen over time. I'm glad I didn't miss it.

"What? Me Worry?"

(CAUTION DUST STORMS MAY EXIST)

(ZERO VISIBILITY POSSIBLE)

(USE EXTREME CAUTION)

(DO NOT STOP IN TRAVEL LANES)

Good luck, everyone.

On the way to Elephant Butte.

We arrive.

View from our place.

Andre talks to the host.

We drive to the lake, created by a dam built in 1916.

Elephant Butte Lake—the biggest in New Mexico.

Andre takes pictures.

A tree I loved in Truth or Consequences, NM, by the Rio Grande River.

Elephant Butte is a town of boat and RV storage buildings and parking lot storage, with a restaurant or two, post office, church (SBC), gas station, more storage buildings for RVs and boats. In summer, the lake must be full and crazy with activity.

At the Lakeside RV Park, everyone was friendly. In all the years of RV travel, I have never spent time in the lounge or activity building. In this one, I exchanged books 3 times, listened to 2 guys play guitar and sing—a gentle jam, and spent time talking with a native Hawaiian about the life of a "Full-timer", among other things. The park had 2 levels, so I walked, gawked at license plates and RVs, and virtuously climbed uphill. You don't need to know that I could have left the park, walked a short distance uphill, and along an asphalt path to town, with the lake in site in the distance, behind buildings and homes.



Truth or Consequences is a few miles from Elephant Butte. Truth or Consequences has hot springs bath houses, many very old, all over town. I wanted to get in that water, but never did. It was intimidating to think of calling to find out about private baths in different motels and bath houses. I know, Google it! Once, in Canada, I soaked in an outdoor hot springs with the extra titillation of the possibility of bears on the prowl. Deadly bears, actually. I wanted to soak outside in Truth or Consequences, rather than in a bathroom/spa room.

Truth or Consequences used to be called Hot Springs. Somehow, with the involvement of Ralph Edwards and his tv show of the same name, the townspeople voted to change the name. I never reached the exhibit in the museum to learn the full story. I know, Google it!

We did find the Rio Grande, a much-needed hardware store that materialized suddenly out from town, a bar-b-que restaurant, and an organic store where I found handmade turtles (chocolate-caramel-pecan) for $1.99, affordable organic vegetable, and fresh juices. And a souvenir or two.


As in many of these small New Mexico towns, there are beautiful old buildings in a state of decay, with comfortable proportions, Southwest architecture and earthy materials. Again, sadness and longing. I realize that part of the longing is my desire to inhabit a building like so many of those I see, and maybe stay awhile. I've quit even trying to take pictures of them. There are so many, each one powerfully evocative to me.

For Lisa, from Hidden Valley Ranch RV Park.

Albuquerque was about being with my brother, his family, and Dad. I saw Dad in his home near the Sandia Mountains where he lives with six other people family-style, then later with my brother and his family.

Dad was understandably eager to get out, and several times, with no destination in mind, I drove the busy four lane city streets in a large rectangle, and then brought him home. Friday afternoon I tried a practice run to my brother's. I sat in front of the house and called Mary, and she invited us in. First Sam and PhuPhu were greeted by the twins and exited barking ensued. Then, at the door, their four collies greeted us. Enthusiastically on the job. I had a merry time with the twins, and Mary; Dad enjoyed it, and we headed back to his place.





In Albuquerque, seeing my brother and his family filled me with gladness. The bright spirit that I saw in my brother as a child still shines in him and is met with the same in Mary and the twins.

On Superbowl Sunday, we gathered at their home. The game took a back seat to the dynamics of the table, where their family, friends, Dad, Andre and I enjoyed our share of Mary's 89 meatballs, spaghetti, home-made French bread, salad, strawberry shortcake. The large-screen HDTV in the den flashed bright colors on empty couch and chairs as we remained circled around the table, glancing at the small kitchen tv behind me, Andre and Dad. The laughter of the twins and their friend erupted from their room and filled the spaces between the laughter and joking conversation of the adults. That's how I like football.

Earlier in the day, snow began falling; from the kitchen window, Mary watched the tip of the mountain disappear in snowy mist; the girls would rush to the window to see, and all the time I wondered if we would be able to leave on Monday.

Although there were a few flakes Monday morning, we packed up and drove away, and the sun broke through as we headed to Elephant Butte, NM.

After a good visit, leaving is emotional, especially leaving Dad. It is too much to touch all the feelings that arise from not being with him, then seeing him briefly. Feeling the passage of our lives. Recently at 92, I heard the smile and sense of awe in his voice on the phone as he said, "You know, I think I'm getting old."

Any time I can spend with my brother and his family fills in the open spaces of not-knowing, where our lives diverged so long ago when I went away to college, and then moved to Massachusetts. Now it feels so good to be with him and his family. To feel their welcoming warmth; to see the gift he tends—a happy family, a fulfilling career. We'll see them all again on our way back through.