Wednesday, September 2, 2009

SON'S OF RUDY

Summers in North Carolina, where I live, have their own special flavor. The humidity, the haze, the sultry dampness of mornings, and the gentle buzzing of no-see-ums in the evening all lend for a smoothness to the season, that though warm, or even hot at times, makes it appealing.

On the other hand, in the desert, where I came from in my youth, summers are all hard, with sharp corners. There is no softness about them to be felt, or seen. If you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, unprepared, it’s conceivable that the elements can override you. With all modern technology and sophistication set aside, for lack of a few basic amenities, like water and shelter, you can face death. I know, I’ve been there, and as they say, I have the “t” shirt to prove it. Fortunately, for this yarn, I won’t be wearing it.

It is said that there are only two seasons in Arizona, winter and hot. Winter lasts for maybe 3-6 weeks, depending on how the wind blows. Hot describes a place where the suns shines, uninhibited, on the average of 300 days of the year, and rainfall is measured in most places in the tenths of inches.

I was fortunate enough in the summer of ’07 to have melded into the season. The heat starts to rise sometime back in early May, and can build to a crescendo by late July through mid August. It can be “hot” before then, and remain “sweltering” after then, but it is during these weeks of deep summer that the desert chases even the hardiest of creatures into a hole of some sort. If you are human, you try to spend as much time as possible viewing it from behind shaded windows of one sort or another. The natural fauna dig deep holes into the soil, and perceive it from a distance safe enough to keep the blistering rays of the sun from scorching even their tough little hides. If you move into the summer during the “heating up” process, it’s possible to categorize existing in it as “survival“.

I had arrived in Arizona earlier in the year via a set of circumstances that I can only describe as "tension" filled with an over-abundance of "drama".

My brother had called me during the first week or so of February, and informed me that my dad had been diagnosed with “acute adult leukemia”. Dad would never have called himself, but Rio determined that, as bent as my dad was on keeping these sort of things to himself, I needed to know. And rightly so.

Dad had survived several heart related ailments in the preceding years as well as a few other “colds, molds, fits, farts, and freckles”, as he called them. He was cruising past his mid sixties, and though robust enough at the time, was starting to show the effects of several years of failing health. Where the leukemia came from I haven’t the foggiest idea. Where do things like that ever come from? I just know it hit us all pretty hard. Dad was a fighter. With his latest heart surgery a few years prior, we figured he had some smooth years ahead to coast for a while. Fate dictated otherwise.

When Rio called in early 2007, I was a bit remiss to learn that the subject of the call wasn’t that Dad had just been diagnosed with the leukemia, but rather, that it had progressed to the point where it was the, “you need to get out here, or you might not see him alive” line.

At the time, I was knee deep in my bail bond business, and up to my proverbial arse in alligators. I had just diversified by opening a curio shop next door to my bond office, hired a new employee, and was trying to run two businesses at the same time. Busier than a one legged man in a butt kicking contest, as they say. The timing couldn’t have been more imperfect. But what do you do when you get a call like that?

Dad, and I had always been close, if not connected. I talked to him several times a year, but not on a regular basis. Truthfully, holidays were what usually prompted the calls. Special occurrences, like a graduation or a birthday, on either side of the fence, might initiate one. We seldom talked just to “shoot the breeze”. I had talked to him around, or possibly in between, the holidays, a month or so earlier. The leukemia hadn’t been part of the conversation.

My oldest son works for an airlines so the flight cost wasn’t an issue. I booked the first available flight after making some arrangements, and made my way west. Arriving in Phoenix, I was in time to see Dad through his first bout of chemo therapy. The doctors were somewhat optimistic at that point, but I could see a certain resignation in my dads eyes. He had always been a fighter, but I could tell he was getting very near the “enough is enough” stage. There really hadn’t been a period of more than a couple two or three years that he wasn’t under the direct care of one type of doctor or another. In spite of all that, I have to say that he put up a good front. He was genuinely glad to see me and we had as good of a time as could be expected under the circumstances.

I stayed for a couple of weeks. The chemo was successful, and shortly the doctors were saying that Dad had gone into remission. I’ve never really figured out exactly what that means. I’d only be guessing when I say that it has something to do with the cells being stagnant, or static? There, but not growing in numbers? Anyway, he was stable. I spent those few days with him until he was able to get up, around, and back to work. When he got to the point where he could drive again, I blasted back to the east coast, and the businesses that were in dire need of my attention.

From a business standpoint, those next couple of months seemed pretty good, initially. I was able to pump some decent money into the two operations, stash some saving, and even buy myself a used motorcycle.

I would, however, find out later through hindsight, that I had made some decisions that would prove fatal, from that same business standpoint. When Dad’s situation deteriorated again, and I returned to Arizona for a more extended period, my own growth in those areas became cancerous. Another story.

Early April arrived, and I received another phone call from Rio, my brother, two years my junior. I had been in contact with him on a regular basis monitoring Dad’s progress. Everything seemed to be going along smoothly enough. Rio had moved down to Phoenix from eastern Oregon that preceding fall because of work. Economy, and weather, had driven him south once again. Wages were poor in that area of the Pacific Northwest, and a hard previous winter had left him daunted by the possibility of going through another. Dad’s custom building business appeared stable, even growing, and Dad had talked Rio into migrating south, again. It had happened to both of us at various times over the years, that working with Dad bit.

Rio was running the field operations while Dad handled the shop routine. Building custom cabinets was a large part of what he did over the years, and that required a shop environment to facilitate. You need room for saws, lathes and a bazillion other tools required to work with wood. Dad also had his former son-in-law, Tim, working with him at the time. Rio did the rough field woodworking, Tim handled the electrical, and plumbing stuff, and my Dad handled the company books, and cabinet manufacturing logistics.

Rio is a capable handler of men. We have worked together over the years in a variety of different occupations. As kids, we were brought up on a horse ranch on the western side of the Pacific coastal mountain range. Primarily a rain forest, the environment dealt with a lot of mud, and muck. We both fled when we could.

In later years we had worked together building houses, apartments, commercial buildings, and a number of years together with Dad and his custom business. He knows his stuff.

Although I had met Tim on a couple of occasions in previous years, he had been married to my half sister for several, I didn’t know him all that well. Rio gave him good grades on his construction proficiency, and said he made a good work partner. He also indicated that Tim had some pretty rough corners on him. I would later learn that those corners were a bit jagged as well as just rough. Again, another story.

When Rio called me that second time about Dad, he was scared. It wasn’t just, “you need to come out”, it was, “you need to get out here right now!” So I did. Told my “Man Friday” I needed a couple of days out west again, and left.

I got to Phoenix again in time to pick Dad up from the hospital. He had just been shot full of chemicals again, was weak as a kitten though he had improved a bit from the day before. Things associated with leukemia have a way of changing quickly. We took a couple of days to get him settled into his house, with the immediate personal care he needed, then sat down to discuss how things could go.

Rio was up to his arm pits in running a company he wasn’t all that familiar with. Like I said before, he had a working relationship with Tim, but things weren’t running all that smooth. The long, and short of it was, he didn’t have the time to keep Dad’s business floating, which was imperative to Dad’s health for financial reasons, take care of Dad personally, and keep the shop operational, all at the same time. Something had to give.

We’re talking about some serious soul searching time here. I had a business of my own to run, actually two of them, but my Dad was dying. Although the chemo had been successful on two separate occasions, we knew it was only a matter of time before the inevitable occurred. At that particular moment, the doctors prognosis was a matter of weeks, possibly months.

My bond business was getting ready to go into one the unexplainable periods of the year where things slowed down. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason behind it, things just slowed down in the spring. I had an operational manager for the curio shop that should have been able to handle all it required. The fact that he wasn’t, and didn’t, was primarily my mistake in that all errors are ultimately classified as belonging to the “pilot”. Once again, part of that “other story”. The fact remains that I made a decision to once again “head west”. This time it would be for more than a few days.

During the early part of that year, Rio had the opportunity to purchase a motorcycle of his own. It was a nice one, a bit newer and bigger than the ‘98 model I had purchased, but both were big Honda’s, and good bikes. We had always dreamed of being able to ride together, but with the plus or minus 2,000 miles that always seemed to separate us, it had always remained just that, a dream. My intention was, when heading back out west for the extended stay I was planning, that I would take my bike with me. We would make time to fulfill as much of that dream as possible.

One of the “other stories” I keep referring to reached the blister breaking point during those few weeks that I remained in North Carolina preparing to head west for the extended stay. My “Man Friday” turned out to be a bottom shelf crook. I found out that during the time I had spent out in Arizona that first time, he had been dipping his fingers into both my cookie jars. He was selling the curio store inventory literally from under the table, and doing a “one for you, and one for me” routine referencing payments that were being made into my bond business. Money designated for office supplies, and a multitude of other expenses pertaining to running a business, were being filtered through his pockets first. I came back to a mess. Lease payments were behind, my computers were being repossessed, and a local detective was asking questions of me about my employee I couldn’t answer.

A late winter was still locking North Carolina down, the bond business was sluggish, and when they put Mr. Friday in jail, I snapped a lock on the doors.

I loaded my bike up into a trailer I rented, kissed my wife on the cheek, and with my oldest son beside me to help with the drive, put my Crown Vic head on into the eastward flowing jet stream.

And a despicable one it was. We couldn’t have decided to head west at a worst time. It was mid April, and though the upper hemisphere was starting to wake up from the heart of winter, it hadn’t rubbed the sleep entirely out of its eyes. Christopher and I spent 50 some odd, miserable, hours dodging sleet, snow and rain, for 2,252 miles. We spent 12 hours alone just crossing the panhandle of Texas, smack dead center in one of the worst ice storms to travel across the west in 25 years.

Pulling a trailer, loaded with a motorcycle, behind a rear wheel luxury sedan in an ice storm, at an average of 25 miles an hour for a full day, I know took at least two years off my life. My Dad’s grandson, and I, gamely made our way west, plodding along, as we watched cars, trucks, SUV’s, freight trucks, and anything else with wheels fly by, and often end up scattered in a ditch. We made it. All in one piece I might add.

We reached Phoenix to find that my Dad had been in, and back out, of the hospital one more time during the trip. The doctors were not optimistic. This time around Dad had collapsed and had to be med-evacuated to the hospital.

My son stayed for a couple of days, and then flew back to Charlotte. I took up residence at Dad’s house, driving my car, and stowing the bike during the remaining cool weather. I spent several weeks nursing Dad, and moved into his position handling the shop logistics of his company.

Dad’s house had been my grandfathers before him, and though adequate for their purposes, was a bit confining with me in it as well. It became more comfortable for me to take up a temporary residence in the motor home that he had parked next to the house. Once he got back on his feet, and could drive again, we moved the motor home down to the lot adjacent to our shop. By that time I had driven my car back to Charlotte, and then flown back out to Phoenix. Economics, and the weather, made the bike a more practical form of transportation. My wife’s vehicle was experiencing technical difficulties we weren’t prepared to address immediately, so the car was put to better use at home.

I’ve kind of walked you through this process of getting from Alice’s elbow to her….well, if you’ve ever heard that line, you know what I mean, and if you haven’t, it would be lost on you anyway. Suffice it to say that we are now moving through clinical spring into clinical summer, it’s already getting hot, and we are getting very near to where I wanted to go when I started this yarn.

Dad had once again gone into remission. This time it seemed to be holding. The circumstances of his earlier noted collapse had put him in contact with a new bank of doctors. These doctors were a bit more optimistic about the prognosis. They were happy with his progress, given their new treatment, his hair was growing back, and he was getting stronger day by day.

We had relocated the motor home to a slot near the front of the shop, plugged it into the utilities there, and I’d gotten a pretty tight little “home away from home”. My commute to work was pretty short…about ten steps. The drive home didn’t involve a lot of traffic either, and I was saving a ton on mileage. It did, however, have it’s draw backs.

The shop was typical, commercial, square footage associated with construction, and automotive trade businesses. The several shops that were adjacent held a body and fender shop, a painting contractor, an HVAC contractor, and a guy that collects, and tinkers with classic cars. There was a sizable parking lot that the buildings wrap around that was fenced in with a twelve foot chain link fence, locked at the front entrance every night. Phoenix can be a pretty rough town, but I was locked inside the compound. The compound next door had dogs, who made a habit of letting go with their security system soundtrack at the rustle of the smallest rodent, so I was in pretty good shape.

I had all the amenities of home, TV, AC, micro wave, shower, frig, and sleeping quarters. Problem was, my world was real small. I didn’t like being separated from my wife, and kids for the long periods of time that expenses made necessary. It reminded me a lot of the time I spent in boot camp, and the following year before I got married. We talked a lot, almost every night, and Tracy sent me encouraging cards and notes often, but I was still lonesome for home. On a couple of occasions we were able to fly my two younger sons out, one at a time, to spend time with me, and grandpa. They helped out in the shop where possible, and kept Dad busy, and out of my hair for a spell so I could get some work done. Both he, and they, had a blast doing it.

Dad’s “business” was presenting itself as a bit of a bear, to say the least. Rio was finding out that some of his accounting practices left a lot to be desired, and that their was a definite financial black hole that was developing. Plans for upcoming projects were behind schedule, impractical, or non-existent. Tim was turning out to be more trouble than he was worth, his rough, jagged edges, were doing a good job of lacerating the relationship that I had always shared with my brother. Tensions were very high, tempers were very short, and the thermostat was beginning to protest.

Dad had a couple of stepsons that were also bit players, to some extent, in the middle of all this. Kirt the oldest, was basically living on the streets after having fallen from grace a few years prior. He was (is) a pretty smart guy, gifted with lots of talent in lots of areas. He had worked with us as part of a family business at various times over the years, once with me out here in North Carolina. Unfortunately, he has a tendency towards substance abuse, and all the baggage that entails. So invariably, his company tenure has always been a short lived, however many times he comes back. This time around being no different. He had been in the work zone prior to my coming out, but had collided with Rio’s work ethic’s, and therefore, had separated from the basic picture before I came into it. We had contact while I was out there, and while I can say that I shared his company on several occasions, I can also say it was a marginally enjoyable, and hardly productive time.

His younger brother, Kai, lives in the area as well. They had been brought up together, under my dad’s roof, during those years after his divorce with my mother. Both were from my stepmothers former marriage. Kai is my age, Kirt two years older. Both had spent many, many more years directly associated with my dad than had either Rio, or myself. At different points in the past, all six of us (including Tim) had worked together, or separately with different combinations.

In the summer of ‘07, Kai had been employed with a company contracted to the local nuclear power plant providing juice to the valley for several years. His wife was a nursing supervisor for a local hospital, and they had a nice place out in the desert. The two of them had invested wisely, and their full acre adobe enclave out in the desert touted a ten foot block wall perimeter, and several toys. They have a couple of boys who are both successful, upstanding men with families in their own right, and who I call friends, as well as being nephews.

Whatever type of family relationship we might have experienced over the years, some times good, some times bad, the one current to that summer wasn’t our finest hours, singularly, nor collectively.

I was thousands of miles away from home, working in my Dad’s shoes, doing a job I had left behind years before, by design, in an environment that, under the best of circumstance, would have been trying to say the least.

Aside from a visit or two to the hospital when Dad was bedridden, neither of his step-sons offered any practical assistance towards the initial problem. And, without going too far into dirty laundry details, both would have to be listed more often in the problematic column, than the solutions column.

In spite of all the turmoil that the preceding represents, late in the spring, we were able to put together a long weekend that somehow made it all worth while. Dad had progressed to the point where we felt comfortable enough in taking a trip that took him out of the valley, the proximity of the hospital, and his doctors.

We spent a couple of weeks prior to the weekend dressing up the motor home, making sure that it was road worthy, and fit to travel. We worked on the generator, serviced the engine, did those myriad of tasks that are necessary to take a three day trip, and not have to worry about equipment.

Rio, and I, planned to take our motorcycles. Tim was a rider, but didn’t currently have a bike to ride. He went down to the local Harley shop, and reserved a bike for the weekend. We worked on a utility trailer that Dad owned, cleaning it out, and preparing it for a dual purpose. It would allow us to bring some extra gear that was needed, as well as provide for transportation should anything happen to any of the three bikes.

I contacted my son Chris, and he scheduled the flight out. The plan was for the three of us “sons” to ride our bikes, and Chris, the grandson, would co-pilot with Dad in the motor home. We thought about another bike for Dad, he likes to ride, but discounted the danger of that considering the circumstance. Chris was more than happy to sit right seat with grandpa.

As selfish as it sounds, we also contemplated the thought of inviting the other two step-siblings along for the journey, but by vote, unanimously rejected the idea. Short of what we needed for sustenance, and comfort, we wanted a baggage free weekend. There was already enough tension snapping in the air between the four of us who had been working together during those scorching days of summer ‘07. The only blissful member of our troop was Christopher. He was happy as a pig in poop to ride next to his granddad, and accompany the motorcycle gang on an outing like this. The date was set, provisions were made, the bikes were ready, the motor home was ready, and Papa had a suitcase of pills. It was a go.

We had contemplated leaving on a Friday afternoon, once work was cleared out. Logistically though, it would have been impractical to leave then. While the RV could hold all of us, in tight quarters, camping under the stars was the plan. A late afternoon start wouldn’t put us any where near a convenient camping spot. So we decided to leave early the next morning. Even then we didn’t get out of town as quickly as we wanted, but then again, it was the journey, not any specific destination we were headed for.

So, I’m guessing somewhere around 8o’clock the next morning we were wheels up on our trip. Rudy (my Dad), two sons, a grandson, and an ex-son-in-law, all headed west. We didn’t want to outrun Papa on the bikes, so until we were well out of town, the bikes hung back, and followed the RV.

We were generally headed west, towards the Colorado River. None of us were particularly crazy about spending any length of time on a big interstate highway, so we kept mostly to the two, and four lane secondary highways that zig zagged back, and forth across the desert, always heading in the same general direction. We stopped several times along the road, mostly whenever the trail boss decided he wanted to stop. Those of us on the bikes sometimes ranged ahead by several miles, and then, if the RV didn’t show up within a reasonable period of time, we would double back, and pick it up. If it did, we’d slip in behind until another likely passing zone came along.

Dad, and Christopher, appeared to be having a grand time riding along in comfort. They were doing the peanuts in the Pepsi thing. Scarfing on snacks, telling lies, and generally just catching up on stuff. My Dad, and Christopher share the same devious sense of humor, wit, joviality, and fondness for the belly laugh. Dad could tell a joke like nobodies business, and Christopher possesses such a comic personality, that I can only imagine what passed between the two of them through out that weekend.

It was warm enough, while still in the valley, that the only sure way to stay somewhat comfortable was to keep moving. But as we gained some altitude, and got away from the below sea level zone, it gradually dropped in temperature enough to appreciate our jackets. Some clouds drifted through that offered some respite from the sun, as well as the possibility of some scattered showers.

Dad is one of those guys who never strays too far from chow. He is also diabetic to boot, so meal time was an important factor. Whenever the opportunity arose to stop, and either snack, or consume a full blown meal, we took it. None of the bikes we were riding could be considered as “touring” bikes. Though comfortable enough, they weren’t set up for more than a couple hours riding before a break was appreciated, if not necessary.

Late afternoon found us in Lake Havasu City, wherein resides the, block by block, reconstruction of the original London Bridge. We stopped for a long break, parked the bikes, and walked the waterfront streets and shops. Lots of bikes were on the road that weekend so we rubbed shoulders with all kinds of riders. The weather had cooled considerably so we all wore the pre-requisite leather jackets, and chaps, necessary for comfort, and safety. Dad had his digital camera with him, and between he, and Christopher, snapped a boat load of pics. One of the best, taken by another stroller, has the five of us standing beneath the London Bridge. A motley crew we are.

Shadows were growing long, and we needed to find a place to bed for the night, so we saddled up again, and hit the road. While the RV crew maneuvered the motor home out from the park, and onto the highway again, we saddle tramps hit it brisk in search of a convenient pullout. The plan was for Dad, and Chris to stop, and supplement our groceries with what we lacked, while we’d find a likely spot, and then get in touch with them for the coordinates. It took several minutes, and miles, out of town before the area got sparse enough for a likely spot to arrive. By the time it did, the sun was well beyond the horizon, and darkness was coming on fast.

In the desert, with a low horizon without mountains, darkness comes on fast after the sun drops below it. Also, the lack of moisture in the air, as well as the sparseness of vegetation to hold the heat, lends for a quick cooling off. Temperatures can range from hot in the day, to downright cold in the evening. Fortunately, we had thought to bring along a good bit of what we carpenters call “off alls”. Really just scrap pieces of lumber that aren’t big enough, under most circumstances, to make them worth keeping. The trailer attached carried a good pile of it so we had wood for a fire.

By the time the RV ambled down the road, we had located a spot, had one of us posted by the road to signal the driver, with the rest of us clearing an area for the RV to park in. Paying special attention to making sure we weren‘t sitting on any varmints. The four legged kind, the slithery kind, or, God forbid, the two legged kind. While there did appear to be a couple of other “units” located near enough to see, they didn’t appear threatening, nor close enough to be considered a nuisance, for us, or them.

The motor home has a working sound system in it, which we planned to utilize, and we had also brought along some adult beverages. None of us had a particular problem with that, from one end of the spectrum to the other, and Dad’s docs had prescribed a daily dose of red wine for him. This was a tension breaking trip, we were all responsible adults, and we planned on enjoying it.

Dad had a collection of old time country ballads, Chris had brought an iPod with a great selection of all kinds of music, and Rio, and I had some CD’s of some of our favorites, ranging from country to rock. So we set up camp, torched up a fire, turned on the tunes, popped a top, and proceeded to do just that, enjoy ourselves.

Using the kitchen in the motor home, and a grate over the fire, I whipped up some cowboy beans, corn, and steak. It was a simple fare that went well with the tunes, and the toddy. Later in the evening, we turned the music down, gathered around the fire, and swapped fables, and fairy tales till, one by one, we drifted off to bunks. Chris, and his grandfather took up residence inside their ride, while we saddle tramps stretched out on cots we had stashed in the trailer, next to ours. Somewhere in the wee hours of the night a bit of a chill, and a light drizzle drove us into the trailer.

Christopher took on breakfast while the bikers dressed themselves, and their bikes. The light drizzle, coupled with the dust of the day, had left them spotted. A thorough wipe down with some quick detail put them back into service. We pulled dipsticks, and checked tire pressure on all the vehicles while breakfast was in the process. Dousing the fire, and making sure that “what we took what we brought”, left the site looking like we hadn’t been there, which was only right. An hour after first light, and we were back on the road again. The bikes ranged ahead for a good bit with the RV rolling along behind, subject to the hills that pulled, and the flats that let it roll. It was a grand day for a ride.

I love those days of “in between“. In between the leaving, and the returning. Days where you know all you have to do is ride, and enjoy what appears over the next horizon. Days with no place to go, and all day to get there. We rode, stopped, and waited, and rode again. Sometimes we let the RV get a few miles ahead, taking a longer break, then boogied to catch up. Other times, if there was something particularly interesting to see, we would flag it down, and all rest a spell together. Chat for a while, tell some jokes, lie a little more, catch a snack, and then move on.

Those of us on the bikes took turns leading, and following. Most of the trek that day was across wide open areas that had little, if any traffic. The RV was easy to see from miles away, and the number of vehicles we came in contact with could be counted on our collective hands, and toes. I don’t recall seeing a single highway patrol, or otherwise, outside of a couple in the towns we passed through. We took advantage of the open road on several occasions, and opened the bikes up, letting them rip. To coin a phrase, at 110, the lines, they look like dots, and the telephone poles, they look like a picket fence. I mugged my Dad more than once, flying by fast enough to pull the paint off his ride. We had the time of our lives.

Late afternoon found us, once again, behind the eight ball in finding a place to bivouac. I finely blasted ahead for several miles, and minutes, until I found a side road that speared into the heart of the high desert we had been traveling over. It had a cattle guard some fifty feet off the main road, indicating it was probably open range land. Open range means no dwellings expected. The road turned to dirt about three hundred yards in, but was passable. I traveled down it at a safe enough speed to cover some ground, yet not get squirrelly in the sand. Maybe three quarters of a mile back off the road I found a dip the road dropped into that would make a good spot to park the RV so that it couldn’t be seen from the highway. It had a flat spot, and an area big enough to turn it around in, and still make a reasonable camp. By the time I had ridden back out to the road, the first of the other two bikes was just cresting the closest hill. The motor home was less than a quarter mile behind, so I turned the bike to face them, flashing my headlamp a couple of times to get their attention. I then turned back down the dirt path, leading them to the site.

We circled the wagons again, like we had done the night before, but this time we placed the RV so that it helped to block the light of the fire from the road, which could just be seen if you walked up the rise hiding us. I felt pretty secure that we were secluded enough that contact with anybody else was but a vague possibility.

This time, though pushing it, we had gotten situated with plenty of time to forage for some extra wood. We were located up on the high desert with lots of low brush, mesquite, and creosote bramble to collect from. I wanted a bon-fire that night, and the availability of the wood made it possible. We were about as far away from human population as one can get in this great country without leaving the “wheels” behind, striking out on foot. With the coming of darkness, our world got real small.

It’s kind of funny how, during the day, in a area like this, the vastness of it can be so awesome as to make you feel almost insignificant. At night however, with the light of a fire reaching those few yards into the gloom, you feel like you are in a shell, and are all there is in the world. Though the mostly clear sky revealed an inverted bowl of stars, which offered up a half light, the glare of staring into the fire could make the darkness beyond our circle seem completely impenetrable.

Dinner that night was a combination of leftovers from the night before, snackables we had acquired throughout the day, and weenies roasted over the fire. Nobody was up to cooking a complete dinner, and everybody was a bit tired from the events of the day. Especially those of us on the bikes. Ten to twelve hours on the back of a motor cycle, even stopping occasionally, can definitely wear you out. We were all content to kick back, listen to the coyotes howl, with no few varmints rustling in the bushes, tell a few stories, and tip back a couple of beers.

At some point later on in the evening, hard to say what time, Rio, and I took a stroll on down the track we had parked next to. While still technically a road, just beyond where we camped, it turned into nothing more than twin ruts that extended off through the desert. Roads don’t typically go nowhere, so we assumed it went back to one of a number of different possible destinations. Possibly a watering hole for the stock, maybe some corrals or pens of some sort, or was just a cut through to another road that paralleled the highway we had come in on. We took a seat on a small rise maybe a quarter mile back that allowed us to see not only the hollow our camp rested in, but also the main highway beyond.

From that vantage point you could see the big rigs that occasionally traveled down the highway. They came into view far to our left, nothing more than a pinprick of light on the horizon, seemed to take forever to reach the point closest to us, almost a mile away, then forever to fade off to that same pinprick to our right. With the light of the stars shining down on a sandy landscape, and far enough away from the fire for your nights eyes to come back, the world looked huge, and open again. The horizons seemed to stretch for ever on every point of the compass. Who, and what we are, once again appeared to fade into insignificance.

We could see the fire from our camp far below. It was far enough away that it was difficult to make out who was who, but when they moved around, one could be distinguished from another merely by the pattern of their movements. Chris was pantomiming his way through some joke he was telling, as Tim stepped out of the ring of light from the fire to relieve himself. Dad was stretched out in a high tech camp chair with his pickle jar of wine cradled in three fingers, and a thumb, perched on his pinky. A picture I remember oh so well.

Yep, just guys out doing what guys do to enjoy themselves when the women folk aren’t around to harass them about their manners.

Rio, and I sat on that knoll, and talked for the better part of an hour about Dad, the business, us, and life in general, as we occasionally speculated on the source of the rustling just beyond our immediate sight. After a while, I could see Christopher heading out toward the road, and our general direction. I guessed correctly that, having missed us for long enough, he was coming in search of us. We both had flashlights, but he didn’t appear to have one, so we figured we better meet him before he got too far away from the fire. The road was passable enough, but contained a few uneven places where we had stumbled, in spite of the aide of the lights.

We intercepted him before he got too far. After determining that all was cool with us, and the camp, we started back towards the fire.

When we got there I saw that Dad had began to nod off, and appeared ready to shut it down for the night. I jiggled his shoulder, and told him to hit the rack as I settled into my chair. He got up, said his goodnights, and made his way to the RV. It didn’t take long before we heard the rhythmic rumble of his snores.

The four of us “sons” sat around the fire well into the wee hours before finally burning it down, and heading off to our respective bunks. The night was cool and clear, and offered nothing more than the occasional howl of a coyote, and various other desert nocturnal creatures, as a distraction to a sound sleep. Rio, and Tim’s camp cots squeaked, and squawked a few times before they settled down, and I heard the springs of the motor home protest a couple of times before all became quiet in it. As I drifted off, I thought there was no better place to be.

Sometime, well after midnight, possibly closer to that early false dawn notable in the desert, I heard the sound of an engine, and the vehicle it powered, rumbling along the dirt track. It passed by the opening to our clearing that lay several yards away, and continued on up the track. I watched as the tail lights faded up the road, with the headlights bouncing over the rise, wondering who, or what, it might represent. I waited for it to stop, or turn around, and come back. When it didn’t appear again after thirty or so minutes, I settled back into my bedding. But not before I looked over at Rio, and saw him stuff his pistol back under his covers too.

Breakfast the next morning was cold cereal, toast, and coffee. It was quick, efficient, and knowing it was our last day on the road, we didn’t tarry long in breaking down camp. After the camp was squared away, and before we started warming bikes, and getting ready for the road, I walked on back out the same path that we had taken the night before. My intention was to get some pictures of the camp from high up during the daylight, and take a peak over that next rise.
Up on the hill again, I noticed that though the road had looked pretty primitive the night before, once it crossed beyond, and dropped back down on the flat, it was clear. Walking up it in the daylight I also noticed the set of tire tracks that were laid on top of our footprints. Rio was seeking a bush a few feet below me so I whistled at him, and motioned him up. When he got there I showed him how the tire tracks lead on past our location, and on down the road beyond.

After going back down to the camp, and getting our bikes wound up, while Dad warmed up the RV, and got it turned around, and headed back out toward the main highway, Rio, and I rode our bikes on up the track as far as we could before it became impassable for them. We parked, continuing on foot to the top of an outcrop of rocks we could see a half-mile or so ahead.

We climbed up on the rocks, realizing they were a bluff overlooking the deep slash of a valley below. The road dropped over the edge of the bluff, cutting into the slope, continuing far down the valley to our right, reaching a group of trees surrounding a couple of small buildings. I had brought some field glasses with me, and upon training them on the area, noticed that the buildings were a small house, a barn just beyond, with corrals, and fencing attached. An open top jeep was parked under a tree in front of the house. The mystery of the where, and why, of the road had been solved.

So much for our solitude. Thankfully, the jeeps owner was most likely a recluse, who it appeared, wanted no more contact with us than we did with him. I can’t see how he could have failed to see us where we were parked. So I’m also guessing he either didn’t care we were parked on his property, or didn’t see it as enough of a threat to confront.

The valley, civilization, and the inferno of a southwestern desert summer were about 4 hours down the road. Somehow, I think we all knew, that while other trips might be taken involving some of us, or all of us, the time, the place, and the spirit of it, were all unique. I will always savor the sight of my Dad, my son, and my brother, sitting around the campfire. Dad, with pickle jar in hand.

By the time the ‘07 calendar showed that summer had officially arrived, it had already achieved record highs for that time of year. I don’t care where you are, or what the humidity is, 115 degrees is hot. It’s the kind of heat that can force your own breath back into the lungs when you walk from an air conditioned environment into it. The kind of heat that turns any metal surface stove top hot. Door handles burn your fingers, and a gear shift can fry your palm. Motor cycle seats burn your butt, and you better be wearing gloves when you grab a handle of any kind. If your kickstand doesn’t have a large enough “footprint”, it will sink into the sun softened asphalt, where that old axiom of some biker, “keep the rubber side down”, no longer applies.

The business of running the “business” was no good business. The economy sucked, the weather was ridiculous, and some of the clients we worked with were decidedly less than civilized.

Dad’s health was the center point of a myriad of challenges that, though I hate to verbalize it, were getting the best of all of us. The weather created a set of conditions in the shop environment that were near unbearable. It was an older type setting that had a “swamp cooler”, rather than an air conditioning system. Cascading water dribbling over hemp netting added some humidity to the air as it evaporated passing through. A cooling effect was produced by the fan, but the arid air rapidly sucked it dry and humourless again.

Dad had been scrambling for some time trying to balance doctor bills, personal bills, and company expenses. Rio was valiantly trying to make some sense of it all, yet failing. I was cooking in an oven of a shop, was about “done”, and Tim decided that it was time to check out. He erased his name from the solutions column, and joined the growing list on the problem side of the center line.

By the end of August, personal stuff from the Carolina’s had stacked up for me. I had things I had to answer for back there that were in direct conflict with my role at my dad’s side. I had made some priority decisions a few months back that appeared to make sense then, but were quickly changing sides as well.

We had collectively made a business decision that the shop was an unnecessary portion of the whole larger equation. Or rather, having finished the list of cabinet projects that we had, it became evident that it was the first casualty of the overload. The rent for the shop, coupled with the goes-in-to’s of the custom cabinet operation weren’t tallying out so good. At the top of the list was the fact that I couldn’t stay out in Arizona indefinitely. I woke up one day, and said, “this is it”. I was homeward bound within twenty four hours.

I’ve thought a lot about those months I spent out there. A lot of that thinking is wrapped around family squabbles we endured, hideous working environments, and things I rather not say about people I’d rather never see again. However, as any farmer will tell you, out of every crappy situation, something good invariably grows.

In the middle of a scorching, record breaking summer. Surrounded by hardship, and hurt. Thousands of miles away from those whom I love most in this world, confused, and undecided about what my role in the whole affair might best be. I spent more consecutive days with my dad, than I had spent collectively over the preceding 30 years. And smack dab in the center of that, we lived out a dream. We spent three days traveling the high desert plains doing what we loved best, laughing about, and at, life.

My dad died late that October. We’re not sure if it was the leukemia that finally got to him, or the chemo designed to fix it. In either case, he went to see his Maker. But not before he had the chance to spend those few days with His son‘s, and grandsons. And we “Sons of Rudy”, had the chance to see our monarch laugh the way we knew The Maker meant him to laugh.

No comments: