Notes, Horses, Highways

June 11, 2025 – Buffalo, WY I pulled into Buffalo after a 12-hour drive from Gunnison. No frills. No detours. Just highway miles, alone with my thoughts and a deep ache to stop moving. Once across the Colorado state line it was mile after mile of bright green rolling hills, a few oil wells, and antelope dotting the in-between. I set up camp in a fog of fatigue. Fed Beamer. Collapsed for a while, then tried to find something decent to eat. All I came up with was a dry chicken sandwich from Hardee’s. Something that looked as if the maker had tossed it against a wall before throwing it into the bag.  I haven’t cooked in the trailer yet—just nuked a few things in the microwave. I haven’t been anywhere long enough without friends, restaurants, or fatigue to feel like building a fire and pretending I’m “camping.” June 12, 2025 – Buffalo, WY My birthday. No cake. No streamers. Just me, Beamer, and the Big Horn Mountains. Plenty of well wishes from friends, thanks to Facebook and texts. A ...

  June 8, 2025    Somewhere between Prescott margaritas, Santa Fe massage tables, and my camper fridge possibly growing a new life form, I lost track of the blog. But here I am — in Gunnison, in bed with Beamer and a hot cup of good intentions.  Sorry for the silence. I’ve been caught up in the social swirl of this leg of the trip. That’s no small feat for a reclusive animal like me. Beamer, however? He’s thriving. O! M! G! I wish I had a video of the afternoon we arrived at my friends’ beautiful home here in Gunnison, surrounded by lush, mowed grass, perched along the ninth hole at the country club. He was lit up — full-body zoomies across the yard, diving into the grass, rolling, stretching, popping back up with that signature Beamer grin that says, “Did you SEE that?!”  Even indoors, he’s been running laps in their big house, rounding up people like golf carts before a tournament. The Sheriff of the High Desert has been temporarily promoted to Club Pro o...

Horsepower, Hangovers & Hummingbirds June 1, 2025 – evening Hooooboy. It’s been too many days since I last sat down to string thoughts into sentences. The social whirlwinds in Prescott spun me sideways, followed by a long, lonesome haul to Santa Fe on the 29th. The night I arrived? A minor apocalypse of my own making—low blood sugar, no dinner, and camper setup shenanigans that tested every last molecule of my patience. Can you spell H-A-N-G-R-Y? I could. Loudly. But let’s rewind. The visit to Cottonwood and Prescott stretched into a week of people, plans, and very little time for introspection. My dance card overflowed with lovely, fast-talking, wine-loving friends who operate at a much higher RPM than I do. I adore them, truly. But between the altitude jump from sea level to 5,400 feet and my apparent belief that hydration is for chumps, my body turned into a bag of wet cement. A couple of times, my heart staged a protest drum solo in my chest. Not a heart attack—just a reminder ...

  Desert Dog Dharma (Prescott Dispatches) May 25–26 Beamer is snoring next to me like an old accordion left out in a rainstorm—wheezing in rhythm, punctuated by the occasional twitch of his hind leg, which I can only assume means he’s chasing those white-tailed rabbits we keep passing on the roads here in Prescott. Either that, or he’s being chased by one—possibly the size of a Buick. Hard to tell with dreams. He’s making fast friends with the two local Heelers, both female, that my friends own.. There’s no awkward romance in the air, thank God. Beamer, bless him, leans more toward the gentlemanly appreciation of other fellas anyway, but this week he’s gone full-on frat brother with the girls, trotting after them like he’s already been elected third-in-command of their dusty dog senate. Convincing him to return to the camper at night has become a theatrical production. I call him. He sits. Contemplates life. Maybe hums a little  tune. I call again. He moves forward four in...

So here I am, several days into this trip—after zigzagging through Utah canyon country on photographic excursions that were a bit underwhelming. And the rest of the drive down into Arizona? Let’s just say it left me yearning for roads that don’t feel like the Dollywood Hot Rod Rollercoaster. But hey, the sun’s out now. (Of course it would wait to shine bright until the morning we left Hurricane—sky scrubbed clean, not a puffy white or somber gray cloud in sight. Naturally.) Despite the jostling roads and missed photo ops, I feel blessed. Deeply blessed. I’ve got a handful of friends—true friends—scattered like desert wildflowers across the country. Most don’t live near me, but they’re in my life, and that matters. They tolerate me, listen to my ramblings, still care after all these years. That’s what this road trip is really about: Connection. Reconnection. Not just the highways and horse sightings and snapping pics of cloud shadows, but the people. The familiar ones who knew me back ...