Again I amiss me.

Quite a pile of dubloons have amassed since last we spoke -- I've not mentioned Painted Cave, the gathering strengthiness of my torso, nor the perilous snow-bound cliff climbing exploits of Our Hero, nor for that matter the chance arrival of 2 ripe and ready characters, most infamous river pirates from up Moab way.

But instead of apologizing, i thumb my nose at you the reader, because I is both the somebody what gots to go out and bungle in the mud, and also the somebody who keeps barking "where are the stories? Get me dirt!" So you see, it is a little like going shopping at the Super Bean Mart, when you also happen to be the chief purveyor of beans.

Barring this spat, lets begin.

Painted cave is roughly 100 feet across, 70 feet up sheer cliff, a mammoth gaping gallery of Indian art; curiously 5-footed lizards rubbing space with a thought provokingly well-endowed moose. Certainly, all of the existing art is at least since the arrival of the Spanish, as there are depictions of churches and the crucifix. But I have heard from more than one source that, as it is still a considered a religious site for by the local Native Americans', that a great quality of the painting is very recent, as they are still granted access to climb and enter the cave. The resident doddering crank gave a remarkable impression of lighting and smoking a giant doobie as she implied this subtle bit of crotchety racism, which smacks of untruth, especially if her logic is to be followed. For I see no way that anybody, let alone the leisurely Native American of locally-continuing caucasian myth, could climb the sheer path up to the cave, especially when stoned to the bejesus. However, instead of indulging in this tripe, what I should really do is consult Rory, the Bandelier archaeologist, which is precisely my intention; stay tuned for more, regarding the cave dates as well as the lovely little pockets of bigotry here in paradise.

This having been said, the effect of the cave is stunning, especially (as seems to be the general rule, here in the land of afternoon profondo rosso) in the waning light of the evening, as each dip and divot picks up added weight, shadows providing natural underline.

The idea of preservation, and of the difficulty in determining somethings true age, takes on peculiar parameters here. The utterly dry atmosphere touches simultaneously everything and nothing, the result of which is that everything looks relatively recent. Making my point is a Steller's Jay, tired of life. In a sleeved pocket, dry-pressed out the luminous, pale sandstone of Upper Alamo canyon, a bird alit, fluffed, tucked his head to sleep, and died. I have passed it many times in recent weeks, and I find it both comforting and scary, this convergence of the past and the present, a shadowy mixture of our contiguous dream and fear of immortality. Saved the messy digestion and re-introduction into the earth, the jay is yet not allowed to pass, remaining in stasis for an undetermined amount of time. I remember similar feelings when standing in front of the moth-eaten Great Plains Buffalo of the New York Natural History Museum in 6th grade, as if I was the one to deliver the crushing message, "I told them and told them, but they wouldn't listen, and it turns out you've got a while yet to stand there. I'm sorry." All I wanted was to steal the balding animal and throw it into the Hudson river, saving it the indignity of time's blind eye.

Gor', but there are tides and tides to tell. I hiked out to the cabin, now merely one numberless day in the past weeks, in the snow. Not sticking-type snow, but whirling, biting, sand-flea snow. Snow that burrows into the corners of your eyes and and numbs the ears as if with an emery board. I was wearing my one pair of shorts, cut-off jeans with the behind held together by concentrated clenching and two patches, one on each cheek. Fittingly, the SCA patch is on the right cheek and the Americorps on the left; I am right handed (cheeked?), and I approve of demoting the federal program to the less powerful section of my ass.

The burned out section above mid Capulin Canyon looked especially foreboding, as if Ichabod Toad might burp out at me from beneath a pile of cinders at any moment.

The next day I spent the majority of my time scouting the upper section of the stream, above the cabin, for a good spot to change the course of nature. What I propose is not so much a man-made swimming hole, which is frowned upon, but merely guiding the attention of the stream in such a way as to deposit river rocks, making a lovely little pool. This potential site I found, in a section carved out by a flood several years ago; many of the large Cottonwoods' and Ponderosas' had been undercut and since fallen by coursing water, and the amount of sun is greater in this area than anywhere else. It is also hidden down behind a flood berm, so that through-hikers will hear the sounds of burbling enjoyment, but have no idea where it comes from. At the edge of the flooded out width, trees hang on to vertical status, the tenuous nature of the underlying substrate revealed.

Home I tripped, light as feather, and then. . . . . . .

Enter 2 pirates, one dressed unconvincingly as a migrant Mexican. I knew them right away by the smell, and by the inner tube the Mexican had around his waist; they are a cautious, non-swimming people.