Travelogue: 3 Mile Hike. Again.

What: Family Walk
Where: Fort Sill, Oklahoma
When: Saturday, August 9, 2014

It's the same track of land that, two days earlier, had reduced our puppies to panting fluffballs. But the setting sun has softened the land. Yellow grasses blends with the green, and shadows stretch luxuriantly over the hills. Though the humidity remains, the temperature has cooled to just bearable.

Same course, different mindset.

The whole family is together: Mom, Dad, me, my sister Jaime, my brother Tyler, his wife Shantel, their baby Tyson in his new red stroller, and puppies Bella, Mia, and Lincoln. I'm feeling mellow and in no mood to race.

But Tyler is. He steals Mia from me and makes her run with him. Some how her chunky little legs keep up with his long strides. They go off the road, down the pokey grass, and toward the dried creek. Jaime and Lincoln follow their trail. Bella wants to run with them, but she's stuck with me and I hold her back.

Jungle gym equipment sits at intervals along the roads with signage to explain how to exercise. My brother, fitness buff that he is, decides to do the sit ups, pull ups, and whatever crazy aerobics the signs advises him to do. I'm not really paying attention. The sun is setting, and its orange glow highlights every seed pod in the wheat grass.

The sky grows indigo, and a big full moon hangs in the sky. The man in the moon looks sad. Puppies, water bottles, and baby are getting shuffled. Tyson toddles and I end up pushing an empty stroller. Shantel takes her dogs off their leash, despite my many protests that its illegal.

Tyler gets bored of running the normal way and starts jogging backwards. "It's good for the calves." Shantel complains that she's tired. Tyler says we can get 59 cent slushies after we finish, and that cheers her, so that by the end of the hike, she's running with him.

Near the car, I hear a good deal of chattering from one of the trees. Everyone says its birds, but they have a strange way of flapping and I swear I their wings are made of diaphanous skin, not feathers. I say they're bats. But everyone is too busy loading pooped out puppies and fussy baby into the cars to care.

Travelogue: Museum of the Great Plains

What: Museum of the Great Plains
Where: Lawton, Oklahoma
When: Friday, August 8, 2014

We haven't even parked, and I can see this place is infested with prairie dogs. They look like gophers and act like meerkats, with sentries standing straight up on mounds of dirt and guarding over the others. Naturally I want to take a picture, but as soon as I creep close, the sentry begins to chirp.

"Chip, chip, chip."

Prairie Dogs

It sounds more like the call of a bird than a rodent. I focus my zoom, and the prairie dog crouches low in its burrow. His alarm becomes more fast-paced and frantic.

"Chip chip chip!"

Finally, it just up and dives into its hole. I look for a new prairie dogs to photograph and find they're gone.

In addition to prairie dogs, the Museum of the Great Plains has a fort and an old-fashioned train and a gift shop with apple basil jelly and "rattlesnake eggs." There's also a science center with a bed of nails you can lie on as metal spikes lift you into the air. (It doesn't hurt.) My mom and dad and brother decide play around in this section but I choose to edjamacate myself and stuff, so I go through the displays and actually read the signs.

Cowboy

"There is a feeling of people, the lack of people, the want for people, the desire for no people. I want to draw the horizons into my soul and have them bounce around so much that they expand my horizons and I become unfettered. This is a metaphysical land."

I stare at Peter Miller's black and white photographs of grassless badlands, chisel-faced cowboys, old houses, organic farmers, fields of sunflowers, and storm clouds. I've absorbed these kinds of images of course, but glossier, air-brushed, and stuck on political brochures. But this feels more like real America to me.

"The winter wind is so strong that the snow can blow sideways for 3 days before it grabs onto the ground. ...There is not much difference from being in the Plains or on the seas during a gale. On the Plains you may freeze to death and on the sea you may drown."

The quotes beneath the photos make me wonder if he's been there, if he's experienced these kinds of storms. I imagine him loading his camera into the back of his truck and just driving from place to place, photographing whatever catches his eyes, interviewing ordinary folks, and wandering through the heartland like some kind of modern day cowboy.

(Examples of the work can be found here)

Indians

The buckskin dress is ornamented with elk teeth, porcupine quills, and fringe. And while these may be objects native to the plains, the brightly-colored beads, metal tinkling coins, and cowry shells are not.

Buckskin Dress

This dress is symbolic of our image of American Indians, yet embedded in it are objects of foreign trade. I don't know why this should be surprising, but it is. For some reason, I seem to think of Native Americans as being insulated from the white man's culture. The romantic image is, I suppose, a peaceful people who live entirely off the land.

But then I see a display on how Plains Indians used guns. Oh yes, they had access to firearms. "Guns introduced in the 17th century [before America was even thinking about becoming its own country] had a far-reaching effect on culture. Firearms increased hunting effectiveness and gave power over foes." This resulted in an intensification of tribal warfare.

Makes sense. If you're going to war, you want to make sure you have the best weapons. Guns so permeated Native American culture that in the Blackfoot language the word for honor was "Namachkami," or "a gun taken." The downside of this, however, was that it fostered dependence on the Europeans, who provided the guns.

They traded animal skins to get their weapons. Beaver pelts were all the rage until the 1830s and then the fashion turned to Buffalo robes. This particularly suited the Plains Indians, who held a monopoly over the tanned hides until the 1870s. In addition to guns, they traded these skins for Venetian glass beads, Chinese vermillion (which they used to paint their face), French-style axes, metal arm bands, wool blankets, and top hats. Truly, they had an international culture.

All this makes me think of the ways in which we integrate foreign objects into the heart of our culture. How many of our national symbols, so dearly treasured, are really our own?

Buffalo

The 1870s were a bad decade for the Plains Indians' buffalo skin trade. Not only did the Americans bust open their monopoly, they nearly exterminated their supply.

I knew, of course, since grade school that Americans recklessly over-hunted thundering herds of buffalo to a mere handful. But I always thought this was the work some crazed gun nuts shooting buffalo off a train for the sheer hell of it. Like when I played Oregon Trail and killed six buffalo, just to hear their bodies thump on the grass.

Poor Buffalo

But, no, it turns out there was a much more practical reason for killing buffalo. Money.

"When I went into business," wrote Anonymous Man on the wall display, "I sat down and figured I was indeed one of fortunes children." The numbers bore out.

20,000,000 buffalo roaming the plain
$3 per skin
$60,000,000 out there for the taking
25 cents to purchase cartridge
12 times return on investment
100 kills a day
$300 in gross profit or $200 in net profit

He concluded that a hard-killing man could make $6000 a month "or three times what was paid, it seems to me, the president of the United States, and a hundred times what a man with a good job in the (18)70s could be expected to earn."

Hell, a hundred and fifty years into the future, and I think $6000 a month sounds good.

This is the dark side of capitalism. What incentive is there to plan for the future when every buffalo you don't kill goes into your competitor's hands? As a result, by the 1880s the plains were littered with carcasses and a lucrative new field had opened: bone collector.

One ton of buffalo bones would pay $15. Trains would haul the skeletons east, and factories would assemble them into buttons, combs, glue, fertilizer, tooth brushes, and dice. And, somehow, bones were also used for refining sugar.

So no one can say that folks back then didn't know how to recycle.

Travelogue: Puppy Races

What: Three Mile Hike
Where: Fort Sill, Oklahoma
When: Thursday, August 7, 2014

The Contestants

Bella

AKA: "Bella-pie," "Bella Button"
Breed: Jack Russell Terrier/ Chihuahua
Age: 3 Years Old
Weight: Moderately Fat
Specialty: Leg Nester
Handler: Irene (Mom)

Mia

AKA: "Mufkin," "Chunky Monkey"

Breed: BostonTerrier/ Chihuahua

Age: 2 Years Old

Weight: Very Fat

Specialty: Ferocious Eater

Handler: Becky (Me)

Lincoln

AKA: "Lincoln-berry," "Mr. Logs"
Breed: Toy Poodle/ ???
Age: Almost 1
Weight: Scrawny
Specialty: Pack Leader
Handler: Jaime (Sister)



The Track

Three winding miles of asphalt road with bridges, hills, and construction work. A few spread out oak trees provide poor cover amid the relentless grass. Facing 100 degree heat and humidity, almost no shade, and limited water, can three energetic puppies complete the course? Or will they fall victim to the harshness of nature?

And They're Off!

Right out the gate, Mia decides to lighten the load, and we lose valuable seconds while I wrestle with the plastic bag. But she's off again. Her feet go patter-patter on the asphalt. We take the lead. Lincoln comes up behind us. We pass him. He passes us. We're right on each other's heals.

Bella begins to snort and huff. She's down and out and resting in Mom's arms.

We break in the shade of an oak and Jaime pours the dogs. Mia doesn't want to drink. The heat is immense. Lincoln starts to tucker out. Will he make it? No. Jaime swoops in to pick him up. And its Mia, fat sturdy Mia, who crosses the bridge independent of human assistance. Look at her, waddling like a champion.

And They're Out!

But the heat takes its toll. Mia's tongue lolls out, and she pants and pants. We're veering off course. No, Mia. She throws in the shade and refuses to budge. Bella and Lincoln, well-rested now, trot on past her. Get up Mia. We're almost to the halfway point.

She gets up and slowly patters down the road.

I believe in you Mia. You're a strong puppy. You don't need to be carried like those wimps!

Or maybe you do. Mia plops down on the hot road and pants so hard spittle froths from her teeth. I pick her up and walk her to the shade. There she drinks copious amounts of water.

We think the dogs are well-rested and can complete the course. We're wrong. Barely an eighth of a mile and Mia keeps stopping for breaks. The judges consult. Ladies and gentlemen, the race has been called off due to extreme weather conditions. We will have to resume this race at a later date.

Dad (yes, he was here, supervising the whole race) and Jaime walk ahead to pick up the car. Mom and I shade the puppies under a concrete shelter. Mia gobbles down the last of the water and flops on her side with all the majesty of a humpback whale breaching the surface of the ocean.

Commentary

The crucial mistake happened before the race even took place. Originally, the hike was scheduled for the morning. But constant delays and the inability to get it together caused the whole party to leave the house at almost noon, the hottest and bleakest hour of the day. Inadequate water supplies added to the troubles. In the future, such mistakes will have to be corrected if the puppies have any hopes of completing their circuit.

Travelogue: Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge

What: Wichita Mountains Nature Refuge 

Where: Oklahoma

When: Wednesday, August 6, 2015

There's not too much to do on base. My brother disappears early in the morning for work, while my sister-in-law runs a daycare in the house. So us visiting relatives (including Lincoln) jump into the car and drive for the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, not a half hour away.

Clumps of russet stone, splotched white with vulture droppings, "rises from the plains like a great bison emerging from the earth." It forms a decent-sized hill. The view is beautiful from here, and I spy juniper trees and sunflowers and purple thistle all mixed up in the ankle-high grass. A clump of bright blue flowers match my shirt. What are they? Bluebells? Indigo? I'm not familiar with the flora around here.

Maybe a trip to the Visitor's Center will help.

Along the way, I stare at long-horn cattle out the window. They're one of the four big herd animals in the refuge, along with elk, deer, and, of course, bison. I don't see elk or deer but I think I spot some bison. It's just a flash of two black wooly heads, but I count it as a buffalo sighting.

The mountains end before we get to the visitor's center and now we're in full on prairie: long grasses, short grasses, waving like a sea and pleasantly green. As I step into the grass, no fewer than three grasshoppers bounce away. Another step. Boing, boing boing. Off they go. Some have speckled orange wings. They're trying to disguise themselves as butterflies!

At the Visitor's Center, I learn that rock lands, prairies, oak woodlands, and water overflows form "a patchwork quilt" of landscape. Each type of land is recreated inside the building, complete with stuffed animals: a lizard basking on a rock, a beaver underwater, and a fox hungrily staring down a prairie dog. However, I'm soon distracted by real animals. Swallows dart back and forth just outside the glass window. My sister points out their nests in the rafters.

Since we've only visited two of the four landscapes, it's time to pile back inside the car. Oak woodlands are colloquially known as "cast iron forests" for their toughens. Hearty men that came before us have sliced through them, and we drive thoughtlessly through them on our way to a hiking ground.

We find an abandoned visitor's center where the picked-clean carcass of some large animal is sprawled on the dirt. Nearby a half-brown, half-green Collard lizard chomps on a bug. With all the sobriety appropriate to the scene, I lift up the skull and place it over my face.

"Who's that pokemon?" 

"It's Cubone"

The cicadas are noisy. They are chirping/ droning/ shaking like some giant rattlesnake curled up in the branches of the trees. We hike past bushes filled with some kind of dried up blackberry and find our way to the final environment: the wetlands.

Brown weeds growing underneath the surface of the pond give the water a murky pallor.  I see lilly pads, but no frogs.

"Snake!" Jaime points.

Dark curves sidewinds through the water. The snake disappears into the depths.

Travelogue: En Route to Oklahoma, Day 2

What: Car Ride to Oklahoma
Where: New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma
When: Monday, August 4, 2014

New Mexico

Fresh Belgian waffles! It's part of the hotel's free continental breakfast, though you have to make it yourself. I pump out the pre-made batter and pour it on the round waffle iron, flip it over, and wait for the button to beep. I pry off crisp waffle with a plastic fork.

Coffee's a bit weak. We hunt down a Starbucks.

Rain sends us on our way, but I'm busy reading When I look up again, the skies are blue.

Blue skies and sunflowers

Round verdant bushes mottle gentle hills, like spots on a dog's belly. Small wild sunflowers clump the edges of the road. I spot a grazing beast. "Cow," I cry, but it turns out to be a horse, and the whole car laughs. Later, I do see cows, glossy and healthy and black.

Another rest stop. Sunflowers, cosmos, zinnias wave in the breeze. Low white wildflowers and clumps of tiny yellow daisies dot the grass. Anthills abound. As I take photos of a creek behind barbed wire fence, I spy small bunny sitting on a dirt trail, just a few yards away.

Bunny!

I stalk it with my camera. My dad walks up, and I motion for him to keep quiet. He suddenly points to a second rabbit. And a third! They all dash behind the barbed wire fence.

Texas

We pass into Texas some time while I'm reading. The mountain have vanished and the land is flat.

A group of houses catch my eye. They have the orderly, cookie-cutter look of any suburb, but I see no fences or walls, no curbs, no sidewalk, and few roads. It looks as though someone just transplanted a neighborhood onto the farmland. It makes me think about how artificial the landscape of California is, how used to this I am.

Dad points out dying cities. Behind their sturdy brick facade, popular in the days of the old West, the buildings lie dormant. We drive past city blocks with more dead stores than living.

Rest Stop

We eat lunch at a rest stop with shade structures that form the shape of a train.

Oklahoma

The ground takes on a reddish hue. I see lines of dirt between neat rows of green vegetables: farmland. Lots of wide open spaces. It's all starting to look the same.

Guess its time to read again.

And suddenly we're there.

We're in a lively town with plenty of restaurants, some chain, some one-of-a-kind. "Get your IDs," Dad says, and I'm momentarily distracted trying to pry my driver's license out of my wallet. At the gate of Fort Sill, we have our IDs scanned and pass on through.

We park at a two-story, yellow stucco house with white wood trim. My brother, Tyler, comes out. We step inside to see my sister-in-law, Shantel; my nephew, Tyson; and two fat yipping lap dogs.

Tyson's so happy to see us!