The Old Blog in the Desert

Yesterday, day three, 1:49 p.m.–and the Nevada sun beat down like it wanted me gone. My claim–twenty feet of dry, cracked earth–lay baking in the late Spring heat, marked by four crooked rock cairns and misplaced confidence.

There, I leaned on my camp shovel, panting, sweat stinging my eyes and grit in my teeth. Every muscle in my back ached, my jeans were stiff with dust, and my water jug was sweating more than I was.

I’m a dreamer, maybe an idiot. It depends on who you ask.

I found the spot a week ago, wandering farther than I meant. I wasn’t looking for anything particular–just trying to clear my head.

That’s when I saw an old dry wash twisting through the brush, maybe four feet wide in places, choked with rounded stones and rust-colored gravel. The kind of cut that comes from water–fast-moving and heavy at some point in the past.

The sides had scalloped from old floods, with layers of sediment packed tight. High up along the bank, I spotted what looked like black sand trapped between slabs of fractured bedrock–nothing major, but enough to make me stop. A few pieces of quartz, too–white veins spidering through brown rock–and one chunk with a yellow stain I couldn’t quite explain.

There were no footprints, no trash, no claim markers. Just a quiet, weathered cut in the earth that hadn’t seen human hands in who knows how long.

It’s what got me.

It wasn’t the color or the shape of the rocks–it was the feel of the place. The way the old streambed twisted off the ridge like it was trying to hide something.

The old timers say, “Where water slows, gold goes.”

Crouching, I scooped up a handful of dirt. The wash had all the signs–a couple of tight bends, an inside curve where floodwaters might have dropped their load, and even a slight natural riffle formed by rock clusters near the bend.

It wasn’t proof, not by a long shot, but it was enough. Enough to believe. Enough to stake a claim, dig in, and see if that little whisper of instinct was right.

Three days into my fool’s errand, I’d scraped together about one-sixteenth of an ounce of gold, not worth justifying the blisters on my palms. I wiped my face and stared at the stubborn third boulder I’d been trying to move.

“You win again,” I muttered, giving it a half-hearted kick.

It didn’t budge–instead, it sat there like it was laughing at me.

Dry panning is less a method and more a test of patience–maybe faith. There’s no creek here, no water at all.

Just me, a battered green pan, and dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.

I knelt, scooped a handful of sand, gravel, and powdery silt into the pan, and began to swirl. I tried to mimic the movement of water, just like I’d seen in those old prospector videos late at night when I should’ve been sleeping.

Tilt, swirl, tap, let the lighter sediment spill over the side while the heavier stuff—hopefully gold—settles. I’d done it hundreds of times now.

My fingers were cramped, my breath shallow. Time and again, I tapped the pan’s edge, coaxing any shimmer to reveal itself.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Just one more flake.”

It felt ridiculous, standing alone in a forgotten wash, begging dirt to turn into dreams. But here I was, dust in my hair, sunburn on my neck, and more hope than sense.

Sam Clemens’ voice echoed, “A mine’s a hole in the ground owned by a liar.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “but at least I’m an honest liar.”

Gently, I blew across the surface, a trick I’d picked up online through YouTube. It’s supposed to lift the lighter dust and leave behind anything with weight. Most times, all that happened was dirt–blown back into my face.

The pan was no different—until a glint caught my eye. Tiny. Barely there. But it gleamed like a wink from the earth itself.

“Gotcha,” I said, grinning as I dropped the one lousy speck into my little glass vial.

As I packed up my truck, I remembered Sam’s final words about digging in the earth, “Mining’s a fool’s game. Hard, hot, and you’ll starve one way or another.”

So picture this–I’m out doing my DHL rounds, walking up to this house with a package in hand–when I hear the growl. Not just any growl. It was the kind of deep, soul-rattling sound that says, “I have waited my entire life to bite someone in a uniform.”

I glance to my right, and there he is—a dog wedged behind a wooden fence, nose jammed through the slats like a fuzzy little battering ram. His lips are pulled back in full snarl mode, flashing every one of his suspiciously well-maintained teeth like he just left the vet and wasn’t happy about it.

Now, I don’t usually back down from a fight, especially not one issued by a pint-sized fur missile with a Napoleon complex. So I reached into my pocket, pulled out a dog treat–standard issue for moments like these– and slid it through the fence like I was handling a live grenade. Smooth, calculated, diplomatic.

You’d think that’d settle things. It didn’t.

He snatched the treat with a growl that got even louder, then locked eyes with me–chewing it slowly like I was supposed to feel bad about existing. Message received.

So, I gently set the package down, backed away like I was leaving a bear cave, and said, “You win this round, buddy.”

I’m pretty sure he’s still mad at me for being born.

My Grandpa used to say, “You can boil a rock and call it supper, if you look at it the right way.”

He said that one night during the winter of ’69, when all we had for dinner was cabbage soup, dry biscuits, and apple butter—rationed between six people like it was gold dust. And somehow, he still smiled when he said it.

That kind of “look-on-the-bright-side” attitude ran in my family like cowlicks and crooked toes. My dad was the same way.

When the well pump busted and we had to draw water by hand, he just shook his head and said, “Guess we’ll all get strong forearms and fresh air.”

I think that was the year I learned to cuss under my breath.

So, naturally, I tried to inherit their sunny-side-up gene, even when I read the Nevada Territorial News this morning and felt like someone had swapped out my morning coffee for a ladle of ice water. No taxes on tips and overtime? Well, that’s nice for folks still working for their supper.

For me, I’m pulling from the piggy bank I spent fifty-plus years stuffing—only to find Uncle Sam reaching in for another fistful. They used to say you can’t tax what’s taxed already, like reheating leftovers three times and still calling it fresh.

But here we are—paying on Social Security, which we already paid into, and then we’ll pay again when we spend it on anything with a barcode or a sales tag. I sat there scratching my head, remembering what had changed since 1983 when Reagan still smiled like a man with a plan and Social Security wasn’t a third-hand coat.

Anyway, I tried to think positively, like my folks would’ve. The bright side. The upside. The sliver of pie crust clinging to the plate. I even tried to imagine Grandpa in the afterlife, shaking his head at the idea of taxing the same dollar three times. Probably laughing. Probably stirring a pot of invisible cabbage soup and calling it “retirement stew.”

I went outside and sat on the porch, letting the afternoon breeze chase off the frustration. Our neighbor Cleo—who wears a sunhat shaped like a UFO—came shuffling up the path with a grin like she knew a joke I didn’t.

“You see the news?” she asked.

I nodded. “Saw it. Read it. Digested it poorly.”

She chuckled and dropped a sack of tomatoes from her garden onto my lap. “Well, we’ll just keep planting. And hoping. And paying, I suppose.”

“Even when we can’t afford the seeds,” I said.

“Especially then,” she said, like she’d already rehearsed it.

I sliced one of those tomatoes and ate it with a sprinkle of salt. It tasted like sunshine and hard work. And somehow, that old family lesson—look what you are getting, and don’t worry about what you’re not—started to take hold.

It doesn’t make the taxes go away. It doesn’t fix Medicaid or put peanut butter in every lunch pail. But it does remind me that if I can still sit on my porch, share tomatoes with a neighbor, and watch the sky fade into the lavender kind of dusk, then maybe the soup ain’t second class.

Even if it’s mostly rocks.

The airport was a zoo with travelers darting around like caffeinated squirrels. Emma, a frazzled graphic designer with a penchant for overpacking, yanked her black suitcase off the baggage claim belt.

It looked exactly like hers—same scuffs, same slightly wobbly wheel. Emma didn’t think twice while hauling it to friend Sarah’s car.

At Sarah’s apartment, Emma unzipped the suitcase to grab her toothbrush. “Hey, can I borrow yours? I left mine at the hotel.”

Sprawled on the couch with a glass of wine, Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Um, no. Gross. Just grab it from your bag.”

Emma rummaged through the suitcase, then froze. “What the hell?”

She pulled out a plastic bag of milk—actual bagged milk, like some Canadian contraband. “This isn’t mine. Whose bag is this?”

Sarah sat up, intrigued. “No way. You grabbed the wrong suitcase?”

Emma dug deeper, her panic rising. “There’s no toothbrush. No laptop. No skin cream. Just… milk. And… is this a knife?”

She held up a gleaming blade with a suspiciously rusty stain.

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Is that blood?”

“Okay, no, it’s probably… ketchup?” Emma said unconvincingly.

She checked the luggage tag. “It says ‘Mary P.’ No phone number. Oh god, Mary has my bag. My laptop’s in there. My life is in there!”

Sarah peered over her shoulder. “Okay, calm down. Maybe Mary’s just a quirky grandma who likes bagged milk and… sharp objects.”

Emma kept digging, pulling out a Marc Jacobs scarf. “This is nice. Is Mary rich or psychotic?”

Emma then pulled a pistol from the bag. “What the…?”

“Put it back,” Sarah demanded.

Still not listening, Emma pulled out a black velvet pouch that felt oddly cold. “What’s this?”

Sarah leaned in. “Don’t open it. It’s probably cursed.”

Emma, never one to listen, unzipped it. A strange, icy void seemed to suck the warmth from the room. “It’s like a black hole in here. Wait—something bit me!”

She yanked her hand back, shaking it.

Sarah grabbed the pouch and zipped it shut. “Nope. We’re done. Put it all back before Mary turns out to be a mafia don.”

Emma’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then paled. “It’s not mine. This phone has 40 missed calls from… El Chapo?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped. “El Chapo? Okay, we’re not messing with Mary. Pack it up. We’re driving to the airport, and you’re yeeting this bag through the lost-and-found window.”

Emma nodded, shoving everything back in, though the milk bag sloshed ominously. “It won’t fit right. Screw it, I’ll toss it in a dumpster. Mary’s probably too busy running a drug cartel to notice.”

Sarah grabbed her keys. “Yeah, and if she has your bag, she knows your name and address. But let’s not think about that now. She won’t notice. Right?”

“Right,” Emma said, voice shaky. “She won’t notice.”

Meanwhile, in a sleek penthouse across town, Mary Poppins—the Mary Poppins, nanny by day, secret operative by night—opened Emma’s suitcase. Her eyes narrowed as she sifted through graphic novels and half-eaten granola bars. “Where the hell is my gun?”

She pulled out a crumpled Post-it with Emma’s name and address. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. “Well, Emma, it seems we have a problem.”

Mary snapped the suitcase shut, her umbrella tapping the floor like a metronome of doom. “Time for a little visit. Practically perfect people don’t lose their luggage… or their custom Beretta.”

I was sitting on the porch that morning like I often do, half-listening to the barn swallows argue under the eaves while nursing a mug of strong coffee and stronger opinions about the state of my bunions when I heard the familiar rattle of Alex’s little SUV come chortling up the lane.

Alex is our daughter-in-law by law but daughter by everything else. She’s married to our boy, and bless him, he married way up. Alex is a California-born Lantina and straight-up Valley Girl, full of fire, brightness, and sayings that don’t always come out the way she means but always land just right.

She parked with the usual flourish—one tire just shy of the flower bed—and hopped out of the car, waving something like she’d just found the last golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s. She was beaming like the Fourth of July and walking like she had something to tell that couldn’t wait on any text message.

“What you got there?” I asked, shading my eyes with one hand.

“It’s my renewed passport!” she sang, hopping up the porch steps two at a time.

“Well good for you,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Going somewhere?”

She held it up like a prize turkey. “Nope! Just means I’m an American citizen once again.”

I blinked. “Once again?”

She nodded like this made perfect sense. “Yeah, you know, renewed it. Now I’m good for another ten years. Official and everything.”

I chuckled into my coffee. “Sweetheart, I don’t think renewing your passport makes you a citizen again. You already were one.”

She waved a hand. “Details.”

Alex tends to speak in Technicolor. Her sentences come dressed in sequins and heels, even when headed to the grocery store. That girl could describe a paperclip and make it sound like a minor miracle.

And at that moment, with the sun catching her earrings and the passport flapping like a little blue bird in her hand, it was hard to argue with her logic.

“Well,” I said, scooting over so she could plop down next to me. “Welcome back to America, I guess.”

She laughed and patted my knee. “Feels good to be home.”

“Form up!” Staff Sergeant Callahan bellowed. “Ammo count, now!”

“Hazelwood, dry!” I yelled.

“Magnuson, one round left!” came the reply.

Before we could finish, enemy fighters charged across the jungle clearing–straight for us.

“Alpha here,” Callahan barked into the PRC. “Target my position, now!”

“Three-four, repeat that,” crackled the response.

“Artillery on my coordinates!” Callahan shouted.

“Four, say again, over,” the radio hissed.

“Four-two, drop shells on my position, over!” he roared.

As the rounds wailed overhead, Callahan grinned at me. “We gotta stop getting ourselves into shit like this.”

I tried to laugh, but the first blast lifted us off the ground, slamming us into the dirt and knocking the wind from our bodies.

When I was a kid, I thought church was about pinching my brother when Mom wasn’t looking and trying to stay awake through the preacher’s third use of the word “righteousness.” We’d sit in the third pew on the left side, the wood worn smooth from decades of fidgeting kids, behind Mrs. Lacy and her hat collection that could’ve rivaled a Vegas showgirl’s.

But that summer, something strange happened—something none of us forgot, not even Old Man Holloway, who’d forgotten most everything else, including his wedding anniversary three years in a row.

Someone decided to have a sunrise revival service at Miller’s Pond. The preacher said it’d help us connect with nature and the Lord. I think it was mostly to give us a break from the sweltering sanctuary where the fans moved the air with the enthusiasm of a napping cat.

So we all showed up before the rooster did, dragging lawn chairs, thermoses of weak coffee, and enough bug spray to deforest a jungle. Mama wore her blue dress with the white daisies that made her sneeze if she stood too close to herself.

Now, what no one accounted for was the goat.

Clarence was his name, and he belonged to Mr. Luther Dale, a wiry bachelor who’d been trying to train Clarence to pull a wagon for reasons known only to Luther and possibly Clarence. Luther claimed Clarence had “potential,” though most folks suspected he had brain damage from the time he tried to headbutt a moving Ford truck.

The revival had just hit full stride. Brother Mallory was reading from the Book of Acts in a tone that suggested fire, brimstone, and indigestion. The sun peeked over the pines, setting the pond aglow like God Himself had shown up with a flashlight.

And that’s when Clarence made his entrance.

He came trotting out of the trees, flopping ears, beard swinging like a professor with somewhere to be. Then he spotted the preacher and thought the pulpit—a plywood crate with a cloth over it—was a challenge.

Clarence charged.

Brother Mallory yelped and leaped aside, losing his place in Scripture and dignity. Clarence climbed atop the crate and stood there, regal as a mountaintop prophet, tail twitching in approval.

Nobody knew what to do. And for thirty seconds, we just sat there, mouths open, while Clarence surveyed his flock.

Then Luther–mortified beyond words, came sprinting from the tree line, slipped on a patch of wet grass, and slid face-first into the pond. His hat floated after him like it had second thoughts.

The goat sneezed.

We never really got back on track that morning. But something about it stuck with me.

Maybe it was how the morning mist lifted or the sound of laughter rising where scolding should’ve been. Mama said later that maybe Clarence had the Holy Spirit–and was a little confused about how to share it.

Brother Mallory didn’t think it was funny, but he had to admit the turnout the coming Sunday was more than usual. Folks came hoping for a sequel.

There wasn’t one.

Clarence retired from public ministry and returned to pulling Luther’s wagon full of squash to the farmer’s market. He never climbed another pulpit, but he’d earned a kind of reverence around town.

And I suppose that sometimes the unexpected is exactly what we need. The Good Book might not mention goats with a calling, but I reckon God’s got a sense of humor–and maybe even a soft spot for a goat named Clarence.

“Movement, eleven o’clock,” a voice called out.

“Got it,” replied our SAW gunner.

A short burst from his weapon dropped the target.

“Cease fire, you bastards!” a familiar voice shouted.

“Tony, that you?”

“Yeah.”

Scrambling forward, staying low, I feared the worst. Instead of bullet wounds, Tony had shattered both ankles.

“Why didn’t you signal you were hurt? The guys would’ve hauled you back.”

“Didn’t want to be a burden… Hey, Darb, look over there.”

I glanced back—figures moved through the trees.

“That’s Bravo, don’t sweat it.”

“They change uniforms or something?”

I looked again.

“Shit.”

Creeping forward for a better view, I tried to count their numbers. They spotted me.

Bullets tore through the trees as I fired back. Sprinting to Tony, I hoisted him over my shoulder and bolted for our perimeter.

An RPG screamed past, knocking me down with its blast.

“Get off my fucking legs!” Tony yelled, then grinned through the pain. “Jesus, some rescuer you are.”

He laughed as I pulled him to safety.

Late afternoon-early evening. I had wandered up the hill west of the house and settled into the scrub to take in the view of Spanish Springs Valley. It hadn’t always looked like this—so crowded, so filled in. Once, there had been more open land than rooftops.

Somewhere nearby, I heard the sharp yips of coyotes.

Unconcerned, they don’t usually bother with people. But within minutes, four—maybe five—of them appeared, silent and sure-footed, approaching from the brush.

My pulse quickened as they circled, sniffing the air, sniffing me. I stayed still, not daring to move. I figured any sudden gesture might startle them—and I didn’t care to get bit.

But after a moment’s cautious inspection, they settled. One sat beside me, another just ahead, and the rest lingered on the edges. Together, we watched the lights in the valley come on, one by one, as dusk wrapped the world in shadow.

Then, as quietly as they’d come, the coyotes rose and slipped away, vanishing into the deepening night.

I stood up slowly, legs stiff, back aching. Then I walked home, the hillside behind me, and something wild flickered beneath my skin.

There’s winter, and there’s spring. Then there’s whatever is in between–something I like to call The Lying Season. It’s when the sun comes out just long enough to convince you you’re splitting wood no more, and then come morning, you’re waking to sleet slapping your kitchen window like a used car salesman trying to sell you the jalopy you just got rid of.

I reckon my body’s as honest a barometer as any. The joints in my hands, particularly the knuckles on the right, sing out like a choir of rusted screen doors whenever a cold front’s considering dropping in. My lower back–courtesy of two breaks—gets twisted up like barbed wire anytime the air pressure shifts. It’s like my personal Doppler radar, except it doesn’t beep or flash–it just hurts.

Now, I can handle a solid winter. Give me a clear-cut season with snow stacked like birthday cakes on the fenceposts, and I’ll dress for it, fire the stove, and make peace with the ache.

Springtime, I can prepare for too–mud, frogs hollering in the ditch, and every blade of grass trying to outgrow the other. What I can’t get used to is the in-between curse.

Yesterday was a prime example. I stepped outside in the morning, warm enough to ditch the long johns. Birds were chirping, my neighbor’s rooster was already crowing like he was running for mayor, and the air had that hopeful smell to it–like wet dirt and green things just thinking about poking through. By lunch, I’d hung up my coat, put on a light flannel, and thought about airing out the camper.

By three o’clock, the wind kicked up outta nowhere, dropped the temperature fifteen degrees, and drove a curtain of hail sideways across the pasture like a gang of angry marbles. I watched my laundry—yes, foolishly hung on the line–turn into ice flags, flapping stiffly in the wind like frozen surrender.

Even the free-range horses are no help this time of year. During the in-between weeks, they’re as moody as the sky. They swish their tails like summer’s here, then hunker like they’re expecting a blizzard.

I’ve realized–slowly, painfully, and after many failed attempts to guess the weather based on how much I’m limping–that this season is like life–unpredictable, messy, and best approached with humor and a good hat. You can holler about it, keep a coat by the door, aspirin in the drawer, and laugh when your socks freeze stiff on the clothesline.

Eventually, spring will settle in for real. The frogs will keep croaking past sunset, the grass will need mowing twice a week, and my joints will ease up just enough to make me forget how mad I got at the weather in between. Until next year, of course.

But that’s just how it goes. So, I make peace with the pain, bet against the sky, and watch the horses–even if they don’t know what in the hail they’re doing.