Osprey
Ultra Nomad
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Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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The Shotgun Tree
Under the Shotgun Tree
I took my sister, Ginger, and her daughter, 14 year old Shawna, up into the Laguna mountains to give them a real taste of Mexico. They did the Cabo
thing for two days, then came to my little town to spend a few days kicking back on the beach before they had to go back to the hustle-bustle of
Denver.
The last time I visited with my mountain friends at Rancho Abundancia it turned into a real fiesta and I was anxious to have my family meet my
friends, witness my sister and my niece become charmed and awestruck by a culture they knew nothing about.
Not all dreams come true. At the end of a long, dusty drive up to the ranch we were all disappointed to learn the family had gone north to visit
friends in Los Planes. Only grandpa Refugio was left to guard the homestead. Because of his age, his old bones, it was probably his idea to stay
behind, enjoy the solitude.
He recognized me and painfully pried himself from his rocker in the shade of the huge shotgun tree. There was a stiff breeze blowing up canyon
Chuparosa and the seed pods on the famous Palo Escopeto mimicked applause of Olympic stadium volume; like the sound of steam escaping a broken pipe on
a huge boiler. After our brief, warm greetings and introductions we joined him in the shade. There were four wooden chairs and a couple of logs
forming an inviting circle in the clearing beneath the mammoth tree.
I went back to the car, brought the cooler and opened refrescos for the girls and a couple Pacificos for me and the rancher.
The little rancho is next to last of the seven small places above the banks of the sometimes stream that flows down the canyon. As we climbed the
canyon the girls could begin to get a feeling for the unforgiving harshness of this unique wilderness; the Lagunas running like a broken spine down
the center of the peninsula that is Baja California. From their plane the girls had seen this southern part; perhaps it resembled a long ragged
big-top tent that some careless roustabout assembled. Now brown and sere in the heat of summer it might have looked like a discarded threadbare
blanket sagging between the peaks. Unless they visit me in the fall, after the September rains, they will never see the place as the crossover jungle
it becomes; less like Arizona, more like Guatemala.
As we sat and tried to chat between the wind gusts that made the big tree a strange and overpowering concerto of rattling pods Shawna could not keep
her eyes off the face and hands of our host. Refugio’s ninety-plus summers have burned and tanned his skin as surely as if he waded into a tanning
vat. The uncountable creases around his eyes, on his skinny neck, mirrored the coulees, cracks and canyons around this uncompromising place that has
been his home for nine decades.
The old man still sported his everpresent but careworn cowboy hat, a western shirt and jeans. When I asked permission to show my family around the
ranch he simply smiled and waved an arm toward the main part of the ranch.
The girls were blown away by the look, the feel and mostly the smell of the cook house. There was little light in the one inside the rock house but
the smell of the residue of tens of thousands of meals cooked lovingly on the stone hearth was palpable; rich and pungent, smoky, spicy all at once.
The smoke had burned, covered the entire inside of the room; the same condition as outside at a similar rock stove set into one of the walls but on a
little porch to the west of this spacious one-room thatch covered building.
We walked down a path to a place one might call an orchard – there were mango and sweet-lime trees, sidra, chiramoya and ciruella, coffee bushes and
sugar cane scattered wherever rainfall or irrigation sustained them. The peac-cks, hens and guinea hens gave a wide berth to the three scruffy ranch
dogs who led the way. I picked a sidra, peeled it and gave a bite to Shawna, watched her nose wrinkle up, saw her spit out the bite and give me a
scolding look – pure acid in most of these pear-shaped grapefruit.
She looked cool and cute in her shorts, halter-top and tennies. On her shoulder blade is a small tattoo of a stylized horse. Maybe her mom gave
permission for that in exchange for the fact that Shawna had no rings or pins or any kind of body jewelry. Ginger wore thongs and was sorry for it
because they were picking up cactus, were soon caked with mud.
Refugio noticed the tattoo. He showed his Indian-corn teeth as he smiled and said “caballito” and pointed to it as Shawna walked by. “Muy buen
color” he said. I was thinking about the chat I had recently with some friends about the plus and minus situation with tattoos in U.S. society.
Look at her now – alabaster skin, bright, glowing smile. And Refugio, face like a burnished bronze Remington bust. There’s the difference to
celebrate --- costumes and genetics; not taboos, gastronomic curios, hard-wired bias and 200 year old politics.
Before we said our goodbyes I took some pictures of our host, the ranch, the trees. I took a nice group shot with the timer which I’ll bring back on
my next visit. Took a close up of Shawna’s little roan pony just for grandpa Refugio – all good things to share. There’s no way to explain to the
girls that while hundreds of years may separate us from these wonderful country people we may just be closer to them than their mainland Mexico
cousins. Perspective is important.
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woody with a view
PITA Nomad
Posts: 15940
Registered: 11-8-2004
Location: Looking at the Coronado Islands
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thanks Osprey
Refugio brings back memories of my younger days when we found a little valley way, way up behind La Mision and bumped into the most delightful
ranchero. Gonzalo was his name and he farmed honey. his ranch was a small one room "house". shack would not a proper description as it was so small
and held together more by gravity than proper building technique.
anyway, we spent one summer bringing our new friend the things he wanted on our day trips and in turn he would give us these huge jars of the sweetest
honey i've ever tasted. sometimes there would be pieces of the honeycomb in the jars and they were the most desirable to us.
thanks for the memory rewind!!!
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Iflyfish
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3747
Registered: 10-17-2006
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"There’s the difference to celebrate --- costumes and genetics; not taboos, gastronomic curios, hard-wired bias and 200 year old politics."
I just kept reading that one............over and over.
Thanks,
Iflyfish
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Halboo
Nomad
Posts: 193
Registered: 2-19-2006
Location: 33°26\'00.15\"N 117°37\'09.84W
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Osprey,
I don't know you from Adam's cat, but I sure do like your way of spinnin' a yarn; fiction or not.
You're Aces fishhawk .
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FARASHA
Senior Nomad
Posts: 848
Registered: 6-3-2006
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George - I could not agree more - PERSPECTIVE is Important - that's what it is. People seem to forget, to put things into perspectives.
Another nice piece - Cheers >f<
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amir
Senior Nomad
Posts: 559
Registered: 5-4-2007
Location: Todos Santos, BCS
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Mood: chiropractic
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Ditto!!!
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Cypress
Elite Nomad
Posts: 7641
Registered: 3-12-2006
Location: on the bayou
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Mood: undecided
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Osprey.
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Crusoe
Senior Nomad
Posts: 731
Registered: 10-14-2006
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Fishawk.......again, so many thank yous!!!!..... Your story very closely described an almost exact expierience we shared,while lost,driving on a dirt
track up and into a box canyon about 15 miles west of Las Cueves between San Dionesio and Agua Calliente, at the foot of the La Laguna Mts. in Feb of
1980 while looking for a hiking trailhead. It happenned that we came to the end of a road where a small and very old rancho appeared and their was a
flat ancient grove of mesquite and ironwood trees and shade. On the high ground to the north there was an old adobe small ranch house and some fences
and outbuildings. To the left a small ancient stream was winding its way to the sea. Up into the cayon we could see alot of big pure white, time
polished, granite boulders and ficas tress. As we pulled up and stopped, a middleaged very large Mexican cabalero came walking out of a shed holding
the largest knife I had ever seen and it was dripping blood. He also wore a white blood soaked apron. I was scared speechless. He did not appear
friendly. We exited the vehicle and we pasted or best smiles on and he greeted us sternly. He met business. We asked where we were, and apolligized
for tresspassing and he eased off a bit and we talked. We asked him about the stream and if we could hike up it and he told us it was his water source
and we would be welcome to swiim in some of the pools as long as we did not go above a certain place where his water pick up pipe head lay. Some of
the pools were to hot to sit in and some were just perfect. We had found paradise.... again!!! ++C++
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CaboRon
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3401
Registered: 3-24-2007
Location: The Valley of the Moon
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Another Heartwarming Story
Osprey, Thankyou once again for putting things in perspective as I begin my day .... These are the moments that sustain us .... Thank you,
CaboRon
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Al G
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 2647
Registered: 12-19-2004
Location: Todos Santos/Full time for now...
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Mood: Wondering what is next???
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How did I miss this one until now...loved it...Thanks.
Albert G
Remember, if you haven\'t got a smile on your face and laughter in your heart, then you are just a sour old fart!....
The most precious thing we have is life, yet it has absolutely no trade-in value.
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DianaT
Select Nomad
Posts: 10020
Registered: 12-17-2004
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When I miss your stories the first time through, I always make a mental note to go back later and read them----a great way to take a break---love your
writing and insight as always.
Diane
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