Chapter Three: Helgramite Bite

            So here I am at Teddy Roosevelt’s ex hunting lodge. 180 acres of wild untamed territory bordering the Gila Wilderness. The first and still largest wilderness area set aside in the continental U.S. The original badlands. The gunfighters daydream. The thick.

            This ranch used to belong to the Lyons. A rich crew of rowdy take-care-of-business-men. The owner however, a certain Thomas Lyon, like many men of success and gusto in his day met his match in the form of a large caliber bullet to the gut, behind the back alley of a tiny bar on a dusty night in El Paso Texas. Every night is dusty in El Paso but at least back then the winds didn’t sweep thru the power plants and smoke stacks before they hit you.            

            The land put up for auction was bought by ex music mogul Frank Werber in the early 70’s and he now lies buried with a bottle of good cognac and a fine ruby atop one of the 300-foot mesa cliffs that surrounds the properties deep canyon. His legend still fresh in the minds of those I travel with. I find a walking stick with his name on it.

            It’s his son and my close friend Ari Werber who drives me out to the property tonight. He picks me up from the Buffalo Bar where the cute little Hispanic bartender has just finished telling me she doesn’t like white guys, but for me, she’ll make an exception. While I find her offer appealing my heart pulls me elsewhere. I let the body follow.

            Its funny back in Oregon on most occasions I was considered a Mexican, but not here. Not at all. Comments are flung around the bar like “Is this gringo with you?” Turns out I am. If you give the shit back to em you don’t get left with a handful.

            An hour and a half drive down the East fork of the Gila River passed the grapevine and over 10 river crossings that can sometimes (not tonight luckily) come up as high as to reach the windshield of the SUV. We pull in with about 3 hours of moonlight left and a big Sweed named Hans (who refers to himself as a Swedish nigger, I do not)  is here to greet us. An old sailor who’s owned his own Sailboat Company, an outsider. He has traveled the world many times and come to rest out here alone wrapped in the comfort of this place, his memories, and white boxed wine on ice. Once he hears I’m headed into Colombia he begins to reminisce almost immediately. He tells me “I was there almost 35 years ago, it’s fucking disgusting.” But he’s referring to the passage of time, and not the time he spent. I can’t help but empathize with his jealousy. Excitement rushes in. Washes over the fear. Images gush of hilltops, 22 rifles, and small Colombian cigarettes. Passing a bottle in a language yet unknown.

            We pass the evening after dinner in mostly silence lying in the hot springs till the moon disappears and then another hour after that. The dark, the small wind, the naked. They mix but never quite settle in. I think it takes a couple days. I sleep outside on a cot beneath a small apricot tree. Knife in hand. Ready for Javelinas.

            Its long clear New Mexico nights like tonight that make you think bright lights and pollution are a conspiracy to keep you from seeing the unexplained night skies. The twinkles, flashes, and twists. The sudden movements and ebbs of lights are undeniable.

            There are four empty lodges on the property with the exception of the Sweed and us. In the morning while Ari and Kaelin make breakfast I find an old Silver City newspaper stuffed under some dirt and tupperware. On page 2 it reads in nervous short spurts. In old style newspaper writing equipped with a paperboy fast-talk accent.

“It is reported that Dutch Charlie a noted foro bank player, was riddled with bullets by another gambler in Kingston last week. Also Bob Ford, one of the participants of Jesse James “removal” was recently acquitted of the murder of Wood Hite, at Platsburgh Mo.”

The Silver City Enterprise Thursday Nov. 16^th 1882

            Out here its easy to see the world just as this newspaper describes it. It’s even easier to see it the way the Indians saw it. Geronimo was born not a few miles from here. Cliff dwellings can be found hidden around the property along with artifacts of mundane and war abuses. And except for the height of the river, this canyon has stayed much the way it was a thousand years ago. You can still gun a man down on your property without much cause or trial. Unfortunately I just lost a friend in that exact manner. I digress.

            We hike a couple miles up river to see some Indian pictographs left in the rock walls. Kaelin gives me Spanish lessons as we go. We come across a Helgramite, which looks like a centipede but with less legs, bigger, and crab like pinchers for a mouth. She assures me that it does not bite. So like most things I do, against my better judgment I grab it. It tares a small chunk of flesh from my knuckle. And I tell it the only Spanish sentence that seems to have stuck so far. “La noche esta en panales” come on I say “The night is still in diapers” Not yet my darling. Not yet. From my heart to yours. One pan of green chille enchiladas and two bowls of homemade ice cream later. See you in the thick. In El Paso. In Austin. In San Antonio. In Mexico City. In Bogotá. On the outside.

            It’s the same boyish spirit that wants to poke things till they bite me and then romance them in bad Spanish that allows me to pack up my life and leave it like I have. Its also those same antics that have left those who I hold dear far in the distance. If I set fire to the balance beam just maybe I wont have to walk it anymore. Till next time. My companeros.