The Call

Husband-dear pulls me along as he answers the call. The Mountains of our neighboring state have always called him.  August seems the perfect month to respond. We escape  from 100 degree temps which plague the Texas plains. But  it seems Texas doesn't want to let go of us, as the flat Panhandle miles stretch interminably into  forever.

At each stop grasshoppers welcome us to their spot in the arid flatlands. Some even try to hitch a ride to the next town in our van. Gas stations become points of interest. A patron drives up in a rusty pick up truck with a gas generator and big horned western saddle filling the truck bed. A cowboy gets out of the driver's side. Boot cut slim jeans, a straw hat with wings stretching to the crown of the hat and spurs jingling on the heels of his pointy boots. A boy wearing similar gear waits at the open window riding shotgun.

The cashier has her grey hair pulled back in  a pony tail.  She knows every customer by name, "Your job is going away, Bobby. You gotta save half your paycheck every week to provide for your kids."

Bobby turns and sighs and takes his change, "Yes ma'am."

"My granddaughter's X."  She looks at us in the eye and  takes our cash.  "But grannies don't know X'es"

She pokes at the cash register and smiles, "Me and this computer are still getting' ta know each other."

Our gas tank replenished  and a peanut patty in each hand,  we're headed west once again.

At the state line the land of mesas beckons.  Old Route 66 sings  its allure.  At Tucumcari, the houses don their stucco finish with vegas protruding just below the roof line. We turn north off the interstate. The horizon begins to ripple with a murmur of mountains, stacked one behind the other arrayed in shades of smoky purple. Her majesties summon us.

We gain altitude for hours and the temps begin to drop. We stop at the village at the foot of the last climb up and fill the tank one more time.  We keep climbing for twenty miles of snaky narrow two-lane curves. We switch off the AC and roll down the windows. Below  the music of rushing water, above the thunderheads play in the blue skies.

At 8400 feet we leave the pavement and maneuver a steep narrow  dirt lane and arrive at the cabin we've rented for the week. We sigh with relief. And breathe in a cool 74 degree mountain breeze.