Martha carried the last of her things into the casita, piling them on the floor. She was tired, the drive which had started with the crossing of the wash had not been long, but she had used up a lot of energy producing adrenaline. It's strange, some sort of self fullfilling thing. I've made this same drive, over the continental divide and down into Dulce three times in my life. Why am I always just about to run out of gas? This time wouldn't be as close as the coast downhill on fumes the year she had come to New Mexico in the RV, but close enough so that she couldn't keep her eyes from wandering to the gas gage every few minutes. New cars, with all the bells and whistles. This one told you how many miles you had left on this tank of gas, the numbers jumping by thirds when you headed down a hill, winding through long curves with pinon pines and sage growing along the edges. Punch it for the next incline and suddenly you weren't going to travel ninety miles anymore, your gas would run out in fifty. I just need a nap, I'm almost there.
The stop in Chama went quickly. She ordered lunch off the short menu in the cafe which
offered wifi. The burger was overcooked, the bun stale and cold. The fries had been left in a vat of oil just a little too long, all crunch with no flavor. If she came here to use the wifi in the future she would stick to a cup of coffee.
Now she was here, pleasantly surprised by how isolated the casita was. The long gravel road, looping through pastures filled with funny cattle, long red hair and large horns, turning to stare as she made her way past. There had been other cars on the road, brown waves of dust flowing out behind them. It seemed wise to roll up the windows until there was enough distance between her and these unknown neighbors to keep the dust from filling her car. The gravel was thick, the car slid as she rounded a corner, dropping her speed from the slow creep of twenty miles per hour to ten. She stopped to take pictures, focusing on the view, the mountains, the clouds, the cattle, the road itself. My road, she snapped the pic. She pulled over a rise with a view of the bridge, odometer showing that she was approaching the specified two and a half mile mark. This was her house. The smaller of two pink buildings in the distance, green metal roof glinting in the sun, this was it, she was sure.
She had stopped to unlock one gate already, using the key that Barbara, the owner of this little vacation rental, had mailed, the card with the directions for getting into the house sitting on the seat beside her. There was another gate now, looping chain and padlock keeping out danger. She stopped the car and swung open the date, then pulled into the gravel drive. This won't be much fun in the rain. But the gate made her feel secure, safe here in this temporary haven.
I love it, I love it, I love it. My home.
Everything was perfect, better than the pictures. The house was warm and stuffy, she opened windows to let the soft New Mexico breeze blow through. All thoughts of a nap were gone now, the nesting instinct took over instead. Martha placed clothes on hangers in the large closet, unpacked the ice chest, placing food on the various shelves of the refrigerator and set her bag of dirty laundry on top of the washer. She studied the living room, pushing the lone library table to one side, unfolding the card table and
setting up her work space. There were lots of plugs, that was great, all these electronics she had with her. She plugged in the printer, the ipod player, the extra laptop battery. Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, which was particularly comfortable, and fell asleep.
The next morning Martha started her routine. She had opened the front door and stood on the tiny porch, chilly. Walking would come later, after she had worked for awhile. Flute practice, meditation, downloading photos, all those things could be used as breaks from writing.
Martha was busy at the laptop, words flowing when something caused her to look up. Leaping from her chair she whispered "Oh my god, oh my god" repeatedly as she groped for her camera, unwilling to take her eyes off the big cat which sauntered up the driveway and past the window. The cat never looked her way, slipping like a shadow into the trees as she finally laid
hands on her camera. She pressed her nose against the glass of the door, wanting to see more of the cougar, but fearful of stepping outside.
She was truly in the wilderness.
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