Horsepower, Hangovers & Hummingbirds

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 that I’m not as young or as invincible as I keep pretending.

 

That said? The visit was gold. Good conversations, a tapas-fueled comedy of errors at El Gato Azul (note to self: tapas + too much wine = tapestry of questionable choices), and a portrait session with an old friend who once signed my paychecks. His feedback on my photography landed in that sweet spot between honesty and encouragement. It lit a spark. That spark says: maybe it’s time to winter somewhere south of Oregon’s gray ceiling. Prescott? Somewhere nearby? Or maybe New Mexico? I need more sunshine in my life—literal and metaphorical.

Also—horse people. Preferably rich horse people. The kind who speak fluent saddle, wear Wranglers with just the right amount of dust, and pay handsomely to have their noble beasts captured in golden light, manes tousled like shampoo models in a Marlboro Daydream. Even if those connections don’t show up right away, both Arizona and New Mexico are overflowing with equine opportunities. Rodeos. Barrel races. Horse sales. The whole dusty, boot-stomping shebang.

To be clear, I’m not moving. I’ve done that dance too many times, and these boots weren’t made for packing boxes anymore. I love my little Oregon corner, even if the sky wears a soggy gray bathrobe nine months out of the year. But this idea—this maybe—it keeps tapping on my shoulder like a kid who’s just discovered something shiny.

This trip—warts, hiccups, and trailer meltdowns included—is about connection. That part hasn’t let me down. I’ve been lucky enough to sit across from people who see me. Not as the ghost of who I once was, but as the ever-evolving, still-weird creature I am now. The friends I’ve met up with—women I’ve known since disco ruled the dance floors and polyester was a legitimate threat to public safety—still get me. We’ve missed some major chapters in each other’s lives, but the thread between us hasn’t snapped. There’s space for change. For grace. For growth. For that beautiful, wrinkled becoming. I can’t express how much that means. All I can do is keep showing up for it.

And now, the inevitable: technical issues in my little blue bubble of a home-on-wheels. Electrical outlets? Dead. Hotspot? Kaput. Phone? More brick than beacon right now. Maybe it’s a fuse. Maybe it’s the universe hazing me. Either way, it’s another item on the scroll titled: Things That Go Wrong on the Road.

Confession: I think I’m going to sell this trailer when I get home. Don’t tell him. He’s sensitive. But towing this wind-catching, uphill-wheezing, hill-hating caboose is cramping my style. I want freedom. Nimbleness. The ability to slam on the brakes and veer off the road when the light turns holy and the land practically begs to be photographed. Right now, I feel like I’m dragging a stubborn aluminum mule across the Southwest.

June 2, 2025 – pre-dawn

It’s just after 4 a.m. The birds are already gossiping in the trees. Coyotes yipped through an hour ago like midnight teenagers on a joyride, and early risers are already speeding down the road below the campground toward jobs, coffee, and whatever passes for purpose in Santa Fe proper. Beamer—usually my enthusiastic morning greeter—is unusually quiet. No face-licks. Just a groggy head lift, a side-eye, and a sigh that sounded a little too much like mine. Honestly? I get it.

The electrical problem means I’ll be crawling around on the camper floor later, trying to decipher the hieroglyphics of the fuse box. First, though, I’ll trudge down to the office to charge my phone and see if they’ve finally solved the water situation. Because yes, the campground is still under an E. coli advisory. I currently smell like someone who remembers what a shower is, but hasn’t seen one in days. Hopefully the massage therapist at 3:00 has a strong stomach and a kind heart.

Also, I appear to be hosting a small revolution. Sugar ants—tiny insurgents with a taste for countertops, computer screens, and occasionally, my pillow. I spray. I clean. They rebuild. Honestly, I admire their optimism.

It’s still too dark to do much. Beamer shifts again, licks his lips—probably dreaming of breakfast or a better owner. The birds are whispering dawn secrets I can’t quite decode without coffee. And me? I’m laying here, bleary-eyed and caffeine-less, trying to remember why I started this trip.

Then I do.

To connect. To write. To explore new places. To feel something real. To remember who I used to be. And to get away from the awful dread that sits inside me daily concerning our world on the brink.

Today, I’ve got a massage booked at 3:00. Hopefully a friend meetup before that. Hopefully a shower. Hopefully fewer ants.

Hopefully… a spark. ;-)

OH... late development: electric plug-in issue solved! Hasn't deterred the ants, unfortunately.