Obsidian is my playfully autobiographical soundtrack to 2022. Thus far, I am stoked to be sharing brass from Louisiana, a few country bangers, some righteous frustration, and of course, romantic notions. I hope you enjoy.

Curator’s note: I genuinely until today thought the John Lee Hooker song lyrics were, “So you like to suffer / So you like to be alone”. The best mondegreen of my life perhaps, but the truth is much more sinister (and obvious!). It still kinda fits, so it stays.

Attention, friends! Please, if you feel like making a playlist about your year or whatever: gimme.

It has been a week and I am ready to post about a bummer. I need to be as clear as possible from the outset, here: the odds remain in my favor. Most people are not intentionally cruel or out to do harm. Very few decide to do otherwise. In a cumulative year of travel around the US, I have had some scary moments, all at my own hand. As for strangers, I’ve experienced my fair share of abject disgust. I have also met countless harmless, well-meaning, and even kind, people. This was my first stranger danger.

Content Warning: The following is a first-hand account only 24 hours after a shitty situation. It is emotionally taxing. (It is also largely unedited.) Nothing and no one has been harmed, to my knowledge, in relation to this event. (At one point toward the end I even stopped to shoo a mole off the road.) That said, I left out some details because they’re now hard to fathom. It has only been a day—I’m still a little shaken. Do not read this if you could also be shaken. Know instead that I made the right choices and am safe. I feel good about that part, and you should too. Trusting oneself is paramount to survival.

The sun came out this afternoon, but it has been rainy up near Telluride, in Diné and Pueblo territory. These passing storms are the first rain I’ve seen in months—truly not unwelcome.

Two people have helped me protect my skin from sun, this year. Both were strangers mere hours prior to my asking for their assistance. The first, under the searing sun of the Gulf of Mexico Coast, was a mother who’d been grieving one son’s death when the other brought her to the beach. There is a part of me just desperate for touch, and the rest of me is terrified of it. I don’t mean anything other than simple, human touch, preferably affectionate (not to be conflated with sexual). The past few years have had many fewer hugs, so many fewer than before, not to mention simple gestures of affection. For me personally, virtually no snuggles. Obviously most folks were never welcome to touch me anyway, but lately that lack of contact is taking its toll. It had a lot to do with her being a mother that I was able to ask Janet to cover the skin of my back that I couldn’t reach: a small area between the upper and lower straps of my swimming top. Just enough space to keep me from going crazy if somebody rubs my fur the wrong way. Just enough space to overwhelm me with longing if the hands work well. Janet’s sunscreen application was fine. I thanked her, laughed at my own nerves, and went to play on the beach with her son’s dog. It would be over a month before I needed to ask someone else to do the same.

In the meantime I was lucky to enjoy several truly high quality, sometimes even loving, hugs from other humans–including a toddler!–and of course dogs along the way. Among these last was Abba, a four month old Basset hound rumored to have been a low energy pup until she’d met her owner, the clerk at the tobacco shop, and danced for the first time. Dogs are often more difficult to leave than humans.

Over 1,100 miles from the bit of sea I shared with Janet and her family, after many more miles of wandering and roaming, I again found myself needing sun-protection in unreachable places. I threw the sunblock in my bag and hoped I could get my bathing suit on surreptitiously; I was in the truck less than five minutes from having been invited, and the boat a half hour after that. Suddenly I was sitting in the stern of a Boston whaler, cruising at about 13 knots over some sparkly blue relative of the Colorado River. Our group was mostly a pontoon boat called Party Barge that held nine retirees who maybe never worked to begin with. When we finally dropped anchor and joined them, there were immediate offers of fancy tequila. At the outset I had supposed there were good candidates for the help I would need, but the journey went on across the water for a while before we settled on that spot. At over 7,000 feet of elevation in the early bluebird afternoon, I had to look to the vessel I was in: it was up to me or the captain of El Barco to prevent injury between my shoulder blades. Had I known how well this guy could apply lotion, I might’ve opted for the sunburn.

I say no a lot. Most often to myself, and frequently in favor of safety on the road. Today I trusted, and it worked out fuckin gorgeously. This pic was taken whilst cruisin’ on a tributary of the Colorado River. I did not get sunburned, nor did I lose Booboo’s hat.

San Juan National Forest has some open cattle ranges. As I sought my bedding place last night, I passed cows of all ages enjoying their dinners, some in the road. After a while, I chose to park in a spot with the fewest cow pies, though I could still hear their evening lowing.

Investigating my chosen home and attempting to find the laughing flicker* nearby, I came across a little watering hole. It was pretty full but not very cute, and I was glad to have my tent far from whatever the water might attract bug-wise.

In the stunning dawn hours came the bellowing of ruminants. “Moo” is deeply insufficient for the drawn out moans of free cows. Powerful, guttural, rib-rendered groans whispered and rang from all around, expressive, intermittent. I wondered if they were just sending their good mornings out into the forest. But then, halfway through my morning yoga routine—indeed, just as I was stretching from cat into cow!—I heard the hooves. Coming toward me.

Mamas paired with little ones were heading my way from several directions on the straightest paths to their tiny pond. Some were in a hurry, others plodded along. All kept their distance, stayed skittish. I sat quietly on my mat and wished them all good morning. One or two paused to look at me, big cow eyes curious, and I pointed toward the watering hole, as if they didn’t know: everyone has gone that-a-way. They seemed to appreciate the gesture, somehow, and mooved along.

I can hear the herd poking around their water. The smell of fresh pies isn’t completely unwelcome, I suppose. They continue arriving from all directions, and I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of any of them. The flicker is still chuckling from somewhere up there, whenever it isn’t pecking at the trees.

As I write this! An all-ages group of five cows comes toward my setup in the gentle way only cows can. Before I know it, one of them lets their curiosity take over, moving in to investigate my breakfast arrangements. I am still in my car when she does this, so that my reaction must be all the more startling as I scramble out, reaching belatedly for their gentle ways to calmly say, “No, no, that’s not for you.” Having heard my movements, these animals were already over it, nosing at each other as they meandered away toward some grass.

That same bird, still unseen, is laughing relentlessly.

After these strange introductions, we settled into the morning. There were never fewer than a dozen cattle nearby, at one point a full two dozen! Within sight of my setup, I could watch their rough bovine bodies rubbing on trees, weird big tongues taking turns tending one another, hooves stomping through bushes as though in china shops of munch-able greens, bending their front legs into a full kneel before dropping giant rears onto the dusty ground to rest. The whole scene punctuated at random intervals by various and unmelodious groaning, all of which I thoroughly enjoy. Somebody among them had a little cough. Once in a while a solo cow would wander toward me, pausing in quizzical silence to stare. They seemed wholly unperturbed by any noises I made, but movement caught my hoofed friends wary. Thus, I went about my own day emulating their calm, watching my new pals loll in the sun and shade of their predictable routine.

*I would soon discover that “the flicker” was in fact several nuthatches. I’m learning.

I hiked long and hard in this place where so many have come before. For most of the trek I was engrossed in moving forward safely, breathing efficiently, and seeing whatever I could take in. Intermittently I’d find myself singing Counting Crows’ “It’s one more day up in the canyon..” Then humming all the parts I don’t know, which turned out to be the rest of the song except the very last line. I caught myself doing this a few times before it clicked: I finally understand why you have to go up to get into the canyon. And why you’d be so long before seeing the ocean again. To my recollection that song is a fairly mournful, beautiful tune. I remember wondering about that specifically confusing line when it played every day on the radio for like a year. Gladly, I still don’t know most of the words, so I’ll make up new lyrics sometimes. Mainly I like to sing the “lah dah dai dai” parts. Up in the canyons.

On my way to this weird landform I passed a sign proclaiming “Yard and Food Sale”. Yes, please! I left with two new-to-me hats and a “Navajo taco”.

Later, I drove the nearly-70 miles to Mesa Verde, which truly cannot be done justice in any foto I am able to take.

Driving up the winding, glorious roads of the national park, my breath caught at the surprise of seeing Shiprock again. So far away, floating in the desert landscape.

May 24, 2022

In Apache and Comanche territory, specifically Lincoln National Forest, I am alone again. Like former Texas Ranger Agustus McCrae, I would like to wander and philosophize, maybe take care of somebody I could love, and sleep under the sky every night. I could learn his campfire biscuit-making method, too. Unlike Augustus, I expect to be able to do this without murdering anyone already here. It seems the people of these particular deserts were a warring kind way back when; there was plenty of tension to go around when the white men arrived. Not that there’s any justification for stolen land, but I happen to know that Augustus as well as his partner, Woodrow Call, felt that people needed protecting and nothing more. I also understand them to be wholly fictional.

There’s a former US Coast Guard dude posted up near me here at James Canyon Campground, at 6,670 feet. He wants to be left alone and so do I, though we exchanged firm handshakes and decent pleasantries. If I know anything about former military–often men in general–I am now under well-meant but relatively useless protection.

I maneuvered Sorcha until she was evenly set in the campsite under circumstances that are only just short of ideal. According to my rubric, this spot is perfect, including the singular, infrequent bar of cell service. I come about this assessment firstly by whether my bed is level, then what the sky will do in relation to that setup and my views. Lastly, I incorporate privacy and quietude. I try to face the car toward wherever the most human noise is occurring, and also so that her ass end, where my tent goes, is relatively secluded given the locale. If I’m putting the tent up at all, there’s already a certain amount of privacy. This time I aimed to catch a little of both the sunset and rise, secured my star view from too many trees, and double-checked that I was level. It was then that I realized I’d effectively put the car against the main view, from both the campground and the road, of my activities at the site’s picnic table–a bonus. This is all a very boring way of explaining how my brainspace gets used out here on the road. Arranging the priorities accordingly, I do this routine in parking lots, rest stops, anywhere else I stay. It’s nice to be in touch with what’s going on nearby, and in the sky, especially when you can see it all from your pillow.

A pair of Stellar’s jays (I have learned how to correctly capitalize bird names!) greeted my arrival here–my first sighting of them since around this time last year, and by then they’d become commonplace. What a lovely spot for our reunion. I have been quite fortunate ornithologically this year. I haven’t planned or bothered to try, but I pull in whenever I see the right kind of sign, and I go look at birds. In this way I came across, among so many other perhaps less startling but equally impressive shorebirds, the Roseate spoonbill. April was too late in the year to consider visiting South Florida, so I thought I’d missed out on prehistoric pink birds. Not so! The original spoonbill is already a strange and gorgeous creature, looking a little lost as it leans for the water among vigilantly hunting shorebirds; these beauties rarely bring their bills up from the muck as they siphon and suck and enjoy. It’s kind of disgusting and wonderful. Remember Bazooka Joe gum? That is the pink of the Roseate spoonbill’s feathers. They are sugary bright, gloriously out of place in garb that seems better fit for a children’s party than a marsh bath.

My neighbor Clay, it turns out, never shuts up. I’ve asked him not one question, but have been subjected to his entire life story. And I wouldn’t believe how old he is, because no one ever does. These gems of conversation go overlooked as I insist on keeping my peace. I continue to do whatever it was Clay has attempted to interrupt, which is mostly watching birds. Herein is the difficulty: were I staying elsewhere, I could just tell Clay to take a fucking hike. Tonight though, this is my home. That he is a man and also ex-military both factor into my consideration when I choose not to tell him off. He drones on even as I ignore him; I never meet his eyes except to say contrary things. As, for the umpteenth time, I listen to Clay chirp, “knock knock” without so much as pausing as he enters my campsite, it occurs to me that I might actually have to murder the person who was here when I arrived.

I didn’t really want to leave Austin, but it was hot and expensive to be in that city. I went back and forth about it for a bit before taking off on a bright morning. The heat of the desert sun soon found me in the heart of the hills of Texas. Tucked right in among deep stretches of rich farmland, after the many miles of impressive mansions northeast of Austin, sits an old ashe juniper forest. It’s the protected habitat of the Golden-cheeked warbler–their one and only home in the States. I knew none of this, but you know, I’ve developed this habit of pulling off at the right kind of signs. I had already been stunned by the revelation of so many millionaires in the hills of Texas—that these were not gated communities was an added confusion; this tiny bird with its proportionately sized habitat was a much preferred surprise. Thus, I arrived at Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge. I parked Sorcha and got myself settled for a hike: sunscreen, hat, scope, water, bandanna, etc. When I finally left home, the volunteer manning this little ice-cream-looking information truck was excited to have me, especially after he found out I had arrived by happenstance. He gave me some pointers on the trail map and sent me right into the heart of the ashe juniper and oak, forest. The trees were spindly, just tall enough, and smelled divinely of fresh piney earth. The path was narrow for conservation purposes, crunchy, dusty, and somewhat rocky, but mostly level. It was an easy hike; the elevation combined with the sweet forest all around made for cooler weather than I’d known in well over a week. I was stoked just to be there.

When I heard the warbling, I of course paused and oriented, then set to my visual search. The warbles continued, almost taunting in their immediate presence and clarity. Ashe juniper trees are of thin build all around, and plentiful in their reachings. Interspersed with the oak, they crocheted a loose blanket of forest across the horizon. It’s all a thicket of twigs, leaves not sparse but not generous, so that sky comes through in pinches and bits, everywhere with no consistency. If a bird moves, you might see it. Maybe. If it just sits and sings then you’re never going to see the bird and it’s probably laughing at you. Having stared for a while, I arrived at this inevitable conclusion, and sat myself down on the path. No sooner had I mentally capitulated though than I witnessed a small bright torpedo hurtle from wherever it had been singing in front of me across the path directly behind. There it landed, somewhere precisely out of my line of sight, and began again to twitter some beautiful tweets. Just as I had sat down! And you scoffed when I said the bird is making fun. Grumbling quietly but nonetheless in cheerful earnest, I stood, wiped the dirt from my butt, and turned to resume my search for the warbling. Wouldn’t you know that all of a sudden this sassy beauty alighted right in my line of sight, just there, maybe twenty yards away, through several well-situated little windows through the trees: a Golden-cheeked warbler.

I listen to a lot of Poetry Unbound, a podcast hosted by the poet Pádraig Ó Tuama, whose poetry I have never read but whose mind I adore. Back at my perfect campsite, Clay has gone for a hike and I have the privilege of listening to Pádraig read M. Soledad Caballero’s “Some Day I Will Visit Hawk Mountain”. It’s about birding, and all I can do is ruin it. You can listen to the podcast, or just read the poem, here. I randomly downloaded this episode from the list of “unplayed” without knowing how apt it might be–ah, poetry, always–and can certainly say I am delighted to have had it here, in particular. Here where I watch their flights closely but cannot imagine differentiating a swallow from a swift, or any of the hidden many by their songs. Here at my picnic table amid Ponderosa pines, who grow so tall and have no branches lower than six feet, I look up to see the Stellar’s jays again. They are boldly, casually peering down on me like old white ladies at the supermarket with their heads cocked so I don’t know if they are trying to figure something out or just want my snacks.

I am glad when there arrive neighbors on the far side who are much less eager for attention. I go to bed contentedly enough, and with a mind for mental preparation, complete with a raging debate about departing my perfect campsite sooner than later. In the morning, my first little jaunt is to the bathroom. Here I read very bad news that makes me laugh out loud: The forests of New Mexico are threatened by fire all over the state, and the National Forest Service is closing Lincoln National Forest effective immediately. Please leave today. No longer torn about departing this beautiful forest, I am happy to begin packing. As I do, Clay attempts to communicate with me while I ignore him completely. He says my name and I do not react. I am organizing breakfast at my relatively private picnic table when I hear a noise across the dry stream bed. My first reaction is to wonder if Clay has gone “hiking” over there, but I look up to see a Mule deer casually bounding by. Directly in my field of vision, it leaps from left to right. This hurried creature seems small for a Mule deer, but it is unmistakable so close. The animal springs carefully through the brush, bearing the telltale understatements of its kind: dull brown coat so muted as to be almost gray, broad black nose, and dramatically dark ruminant eyes, complete with lashes to die for. It vaults from each pair of hooves in turn, rear, front, up again almost before they touch the forest floor. This is the creature I must depart the forest to save, and gladly.

Firefighters showed up in their adorable, mint green–“Forest Service Green,” they say–four person truck and politely answered my volley of questions about their job and what’s going to happen in this forest. It turned out they were brought in from Washington State, where a lot of their jurisdiction is still melting with Spring. They gave me advice about visiting both their state and Idaho, complete with brochures they had in the truck, which it turned out they’d driven all the way down from the northwest. They said they were lucky it was only four of them, because the truck can hold five.

Throughout this entire conversation, Clay was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience for his turn. He butted his way in eventually, at which point I thanked the firefighters, bowed out, got in my car, and drove away smiling.

When I started this entry, I didn’t know where it was going, but I thought about Augustus’ musings and felt like doing something similar. Augustus would never let anyone, not even his partner Call, spoil his good time. And so I didn’t. This is a particularly non-fiction piece, which I hope sings as clear as a Golden cheeked warbler how much I love this cowboy life. Speaking of, I have to admit that my man Augustus wouldn’t waste a fight on a guy like Clay, which is really the only reason I didn’t murder him.