When we finally arrived atop the mesa I sat down with my legs dangling over the edge, feeling the rare noon time breeze and reveling in the amazing view. London stood at the edge, head low, reaching out and panting as he gazed at this new perspective of our abode.
We sat contentedly while we ravenously ate - peanut butter sandwiches. London gratefully allowed me to direct a squeezes of bottled water into his mouth, and I treasured and savoured every gulp of a Pepsi.
I settled, as had London, to rest and to enjoy the vista below us. I felt if I gazed long enough and hard enough, I would see First Nations people and pioneers out of the eighteen hundreds, re-walk their footsteps below.
What an ideal place the mesa would be for a puma or a javalina family, I thought, then realized; it would be, it could be, and it probably was!
We could not scramble quickly down the mountain. The climb down would have to be one step, one handhold at a time. For London it would involve clawing his hold over every rock he crossed and sliding between them. It had taken hours testing routes going up and it would take hours of trial and error going down . Those realizations suppressed any urge to explore the mesa top and sent us on our way back home.
Two thirds of the way down, I turned and saw below us on the desert floor, London's herd of cattle and their bull, waiting for retribution. I assumed since London had chased his girls, El Toro now had his chance to even the score. He would chase London's girl . . . ME!
I plunked down and jammed my feet between the rocks and London braced his four legs in random directions with all twenty claws dug into solid stone.
With a puma due to attack any minute from above, an incensed bull waiting to play "Pamplona" below, and incidental hazards like rattlesnakes who would leave the shade between the rocks as the sun began to set and small annoyances like scorpions and tarantulas, who could crawl over me faster than I could crawl to the next rock, I decided to keep working my way down, then sit high enough to be safe from El Toro. I would wait him out.
We sat in open sunshine on hot rocks and both of us looked longingly at the shadows cast by saguaros, mesquite and palo verde. We stared across the valley at our butte and I thought of London's water bucket and my Pepsi cans floating amid ice cubes in the cooler.
My legs were tired. I looked at Ludwig parked atop my butte and and I thought how wonderful it would be if he was right below us. Soft seats, gore proof protection and a powerful engine to carry us home to the pink trailer.
El Toro succeeded in terrifying me just by his close proximity, his occasional snorts, hostile gaze and impatient pawing of the ground. As a young woman visiting Mexico, I had attended enough bull fights to recognize bull-threat. I was sure he could not manoeuvre the rock up to us . . . but might he pretend to leave, hide and then while we were crossing the open cholla-flat below the butte . . . .
After sunset in the short afterglow I realized the "girls" were moving south, reluctantly El Toro followed them.
London and I climbed down the rocks while we could still see, and headed toward home. As we hurried along I kept recalling a book I had purchased for my children when they were young. It showed the many critters and varmints that prowl the desert in the dark of night. I decided to trust London's senses and instincts and follow him closely.
We reached the base of the butte and dragged ourselves up to the trailer. I called out a thank you to the moon for the blessed light it had given to us. While London ran to his water bucket full of still warm water. I flung open the trailer door and the cooler, plunged my hand into still cold water, grabbed a Pepsi and collapsed into the softness of bed, at seven P.M.
At three A.M I was awake and frying a pan of food. London stared intently up at me salivating and swallowing. "Merry Christmas London."
G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady.
by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994
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