Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"Beaufort, South Carolina" by Robert Frank

"Beaufort, South Carolina, 1955" (detail) by Robert Frank

[Taken by me at the MOCA in Downtown Los Angeles in September. I had permission. Sadly, the images from "The Americans" series were very poorly lit, not like the same images I saw in August, at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. There, they were exquisitely lit. This, and others in the series are perfect photographs: The woman's radiant face, the sun behind her, the light pole that echos the Cross. Perfect. Other memories from MOCA: LA that day, were a class of tweens taking a tour of the museum and having their teacher or a docent tell them that the poorly-crafted, arrogant, nightmares-on-a-wall they were seeing, were actually good paintings. The look on the kids' faces was priceless. Remember, it was a child who told the townspeople that the Emperor had no clothes on. Sadly, the schoolkids weren't in the room with "The Americans." I bet they would have looks of awe on their faces, not wrinkled-up noses. Hopefully they got to see them before they left.]

"When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice." - Robert Frank.

The Bozos: "Bozo At Dragoon Springs"

"Bozo at the Dragoon Springs Confederate Grave Site, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Accidental Magritte"

“Accidental Magritte”
© 2009 Stu Jenks Jr. and Mary Elton Jenks (?)

I found this image in a scrapbook from the 1980’s. I modified the daylights out of it, cropped it, making it a black and white, pushing the contrast, cleaned up the dust. It was with other images taken at The River from that time, most of them pretty mundane: People thickly smiling while sitting around a dining room table at dinner; benign images of the Rappahannock River at sunset, that had no pop to them at all; a rather dull shot of a tree. But this image was like a Magritte painting; very surreal, but with an odd universality to it. It's like it's a still taken by a unit photographer on a movie set.

Who is the Man in the Suit? Is he a Banker, come to tell the Crab Man that he had foreclosed on his farm? But the Crab Man seems to be smiling. Is he happy to see to Man in the Suit? Or is it just a nervous grin?

But I know these men. And I know some of their stories. The Man in the Suit is Buck Flintom, one of my deceased father’s best friends. And the Crab Man is my dad, Stuart. The image was taken at Ed-Lil, the ancestral summer place of the Jenks clan on the Rappahannock River (since sold after his death), and my best guess is it was taken in 1984, for it was in the scrapbook that also contained images of my wedding to Denise from that same year. But why is Buck wearing a suit? I suppose it’s because Buck, who was probably still working for IBM in 1984, had most likely driven the three hours to Ed-Li, straight from work on a Friday afternoon, to spend the weekend with Stuart.

And the photographer? That’s a mystery. I would have said it was Buck’s wife, Margaret, but wouldn’t he have taken off the three-piece suit, if he had gone home to pick her up? I think so. My best guess is it was my mother, Mary Jenks, who took that shot, and that, my friends, is quite shocking. Mary may be one of the worst photographers ever to walk the face of the Earth, always cutting off heads, never holding the camera straight or steady, forever sticking her fingers over the lens of the camera. But you know what they say. A stopped clock is right, twice a day. And Mary was right on the money that afternoon, if you ask me.

Sad. Mary is now anxious, judgmental, old and demented, and Dad is long dead, but Margaret and Buck are doing alright from what I hear, still living on their farm outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. Life goes on, until it doesn’t.

 

"An Argument Against Photography: Redux"

   
   

   

    [Note from August 24th, 2008:

    I took this post down a while ago because I was getting flamed by the trolls so fiercely. I don't have that thick of skin, but a good number of people have said how much they admired me for saying what was true today in Art, in Art Commerce and in Photography. So I'm putting it back up. What is also true now is I hired myself back as an artist. I've having a successful show at the Hotel Congress right now, (no sales yet, but a good number of nibbles) and I've been invited to be a part of a group show in my childhood home of Raleigh, North Carolina around the Holidays. So Life is good.    

    Bottom Line: I'm still in debt up to my eyeballs, but I have no kids, so if I drop dead tomorrow, it'll just be called a bad debt by the credit card companies. And now, except for pigment prints that I give to friends, I'm pricing myself what it's worth in the larger American marketplace. I will sell a lot less but I won't feel ripped off anymore, and that's a very good thing. And I'm grateful, as always, for eyes to see and Ones, Zeros and Negatives to record what I think and feel. Now, if we can just get that Black Man from Chicago and that White Guy from Delaware elected, I'll be a very happy man.

    Oh. And I don't hate rich people, but I do see that we have a class war going on here, in America and around the world. And the two sides are the poor, by birth or by circumstance, the hard-pedaling working class, the ever-shrinking middle class AND the good, generous, grateful, kind, rich people vs. the selfish, the hucksters, the opportunistic, the sleepwalkers, the entitled rich, the entitled of all economic strata, the power addicts, and those who follow the powerful, thinking that they will be wealthy someday, but in actuality, will just continue to be the busboys at the tables of the amoral affluent.]

    "An Argument Against Photography" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [The two images are from Bard, New Mexico, a 21st Century ghost-town, along Interstate 40]

    "When you come to a fork in the road, take it" - Yogi Berra.

    I'm done. Stick a fork in me. I'm toast. Fuck it.

    My dream of having a career as a financially viable Visual Artist ended at 4:45 on Sunday, May 11th, 2008, when I closed my studio door and left to hike up Tumamoc Hill. I had just spent two days in my studio trying to sell my Fine Art prints. I was my normal cordial self, telling stories about my images, polite to all. And I didn't sell one print the whole weekend (With the exception of selling a print that I had made a tentative arrangement to sell, to someone who already had the print in her possession. She brought a check. That doesn't count.) Not one fucking print. I was selling my prints for half of what the market value in Tucson will bear, for that's what we do at the Open Studio Tours. Sell stuff a bit cheaper, cash and carry, without gallery rep fees. Anyway, I was pissed. Am still angry and hurt but doing OK I suppose. Sometimes a bad thing ends up being a good thing, and vice versa. I was on the verge of buying a new long fast $1700 Canon lens but then realized that at some point I have to say to myself, 'Stu, this has failed. Stop throwing money down a shit hole.'
    So I'm done. I put in ten good years to make it as a Fine Art Photographer. I have failed. It is what it is.
    [And I'm not quitting simply because of one bad weekend. No. Below is my lengthy argument against continuing my journey at having an Art career. With a little history, and some fun and not-so-fun facts. But it's all true. No pulled punches. OK, a couple glancing blows to protect some people, but mostly full force. And don't expect correct grammar and tight writing here. It's not a vision statement or a story with arc. It's a rant.]
    I began this dream, this committed effort to have a career as a Fine Artist, in the 1996. Actually I got a BFA in Studio Art in 1979, but the hard-core push began in the late 1990's. Went back to school and learned how to print Black and White. Used the Toole Shed darkroom to print the prints. Had a plan. Here's what it was.
    I'd build a large portfolio. I'd get a rep or two or three. I'd find patrons to buy my work. I'd do the work. I'd take the images. I'd increase my resume with lots of juried shows. I'd make a photo book or two, if I could get an agent. I'd sell large and small Fine Art prints, for large and small amounts of money. I'd sell the limited use rights of my images to others, not through stock houses but through myself and art representatives. I hoped to make enough money to someday quit the day job. I'm talking about making net, between 20 and 30 thousand a year. Not a lot of coin but enough for me to live on and to make more flame spiral images. Enough to continue the Work. I figured I could probably do that, if I continued to work hard, find representation, made images that were original and Stu-like and get lucky along the way. I also figure I would have to risk some and go into a little bit of debt. And at the very least, I hoped to break even, if I couldn't make it a full time job.
    I began making the images. I built the portfolio, got a rep or two, had some patrons, increased the resume, sold quite a bit but not a lot, made a name for myself worldwide with my mysterious images of flame spirals and archetypal symbols.
    And went into more and more debt.
    In good years in the past ten years, I made $3000 to $5000 gross a year, in print sales, limited rights usage for CD covers, book covers, corporate logos, etc., but my expense were between $5000 and $8000 a year, in film, paper, ink, studio space, lab fees, framing, gas, lodging, new equipment, etc. Bottom Line: I was going into about $2000 to $3000 a year into debt on my credit cards.
    Now, I'm over $25,000 in debt to my plastic. A quarter of my income that I get from the day job, (as a licensed substance abuse counselor and treatment assessor,) goes toward the interest and the principle. And sales and user rights have diminished over the last three years. Last year I grossed $3523.15 in art business.   
    Also, I'm not a trust fund baby, a husband of someone who is supporting me, or a retired person with $500,000 in investments, where I live off the interest. I make $20,000 a year after taxes as a counselor.
    You may ask, 'Why don't you get a better paying job?'
    Answer: Because I really don't think it's a good idea. I've prayed about it a lot and the answer is always 'stay'. I'm a good counselor, a good treatment assessor, a good group facilitator and plus I have health insurance and benefits worth $6000 a year. Sure, my passion for the Field of Addictions has waned some since the late 1980's but it's hard to get a job that pays $30,000 plus gross in Tucson. We are a poor city. And I was trying to eventually get out of the field and work as a visual artist, you know.
    You may ask, 'Why don't you get a job as a photographer, shooting weddings or corporate stuff?'
    Answer: Because I'm not a photographer. I just use a camera to record and make images that are Fine Art to me. Images with some mystery, with some wonder, and sometimes with some edge. Printed on archival paper. Suitable for framing or to be sold for limited use to others. And by saying I'm not a photographer, I'm not being falsely modest. I shoot the occasional wedding for friends but I'm not very good at that (Even though they would tell you otherwise.) And if I were a professional wedding photographer, I would be an active alcoholic before the year was out. And I find straight photography quite boring. I don't want to shoot building facades, and smiling Captains of Industry for a living! Fuck that! And I don't read books about famous photographers, nor stand in awe of the Greats, be they artists or musicians or writers (OK, Dylan, and Cockburn, and Gabriel I listen to in awe.) I like my Arbus and my Adams, but I think Winogrand is overrated and Witkin is a creep. I don't use strobes or light bags, nor wish to ever learn. I could give a flying fuck about color temps. I just use the camera as a tool. If I could use a pencil and paper, I would use that.
    Which brings me to my argument against photography. Not only for me but for others as well perhaps.
    If you want to make a living being a photographer, forget it. OK, don't forget it but it's going to be a very difficult climb in this day and age. I know two pros, good guys, who make a living off of selling stock photos, and specialty weather images, and they're working hard, doing many other photo jobs around town but they are struggling, and they have over 50 years experience between them. I know another photographer in Los Angeles. Great guy. Great artist as both a Fine Art photographer and as a pro. Shot as a Unit Photographer for Television for a while, but couldn't get enough work to survive. He's now working as a line cook again and going back to school in his forties to get a teaching certificate to teach high school kids. I know another photographer who used to make good money shooting airplanes but that job moved away, and she has now gone back to school to learn graphic design, but is having a hell of a time finding work in that field too. And these are all hard working, very good people, who know how to play well with others.
    Oh, and about getting paid. It's gotten worse and worse, getting money from corporation and companies for commercial work and for art work. Most take the philosophy of ‘Buy Low-Sell High' into their negotiations with pro photographers, artists and graphics people. Now, many only hired young kids right out of school, for they know they are hungry and they can get them cheap. And pro photographers, artists and graphics people are now doing twice as much work as they used to do, for less and less money. It's a goddamn shame.
    Add to that the 21st Century’s overarching world trend toward people not wanting to pay for anything, anymore. We live in a Time of Entitlement. As Gillian Welch sang in her song “Everything Is Free” about people ripping off musicians, ‘Someone hit the big score/They figured it out/That we're gonna do it anyway/Even if doesn't pay.’ People steal music off of piers on the Internet, and don't pay for it. I've been ripped off by some musicians in South America who took some low res jpegs off my website and made albums covers from them. And they promised money but it never came. But that doesn't bother me that much. The price of doing business.
    What chaps my ass is no one wants to pay real money for my fine art giclee or my gelatin silver prints or my crystal archives, or for the use of my images for commercial ventures. (With some exception of course. I have had dealings with some good business people but they are few and far between.) They want it for cheap. I was selling 13 x 19 inch giclees, on good paper, at my studio this weekend for $110 (which includes tax, so that gross $100 for me. Net maybe $50 a print. Maybe.) Retail they sell for $200 to $350 (and they have in the past.) But people groaned at the price and it keeps getting worse, year after year.
    I can blame the economy but I don't think that alone is entirely the truth. These people are what I call Ritz Crackers, low class white people with a lot of money. They can afford it. Hell, a few people this weekend went out of their way to impress me on the future and past vacations to Europe. They got the cash. They liked the images. They just want it for free or cheap.
    So finally, here's my final argument against photography as a viable career. The last nail.
    Everyone has a camera now, and most people can take reasonable pictures. My elderly mother does OK with a disposable, for Christ’s sake. Everyone can take their jpegs (or ones they've pulled off the Web) and put them on their own desktop. And they are happy with that. Or corporate guys get their secretary to got out and take some pictures for them. Or they hire hungry kids. Or they low-ball me. Anyway. It's easy now. Your brother in law can shoot your wedding and they'll look pretty good.

    So those are my arguments against photography now. For me. Others may want to shoot calendars of cute animals or do porno for website, or shoot weddings and rip off brides, or take table scraps from The Man. Not me. No thank you.
    Oh, and a final thought. You may have seen someone who is making the kind of Art that I affectionately call 'Nightmares on a Wall.' (You know what I mean. Butt-ugly shit but it has an impressive rap behind it,) and that someone is apparently making a living off the Nightmares, or they are trying to convince you that they are making a living off it, and they don't have a full time teaching position, and I'll show you someone who has a mysterious source of income that they aren't talking about. Perhaps a well-healed husband or wife. Maybe a trust fund. Maybe a rich dad. (I know a mediocre stoner photographer whose Dad has budgeted a quarter of a million dollars for his career. $250,000. And if it weren't for a couple of talented graphic people color-correcting his transparencies, his stuff would look like complete shit. And he is publishing his third book now and is represented by one of the biggest Art agencies in New York.) Maybe an early retirement account. But they aren't making it off the Art. They are making it somewhere else. And I can count on one hand from that large group of artists, who fall into that category, who actually admit to having big money behind the scenes. The others' smugness disgusts me. Also, you'll find musicians, and writers who fall into this category as well. And some of these fucks say what I'm doing is a 'hobby', or that I shouldn't expect to make any money. God damn easy for them to say that. (And word to the wise: Don't call what I do a 'hobby' to my face. You may get punched if my blood sugar is low. Then again you won't have the chance now, for Elvis is leaving the building.)
    So friends and neighbors, and strangers on the Web, I'm done. I'm not going to spend good money after bad anymore. I'm not going to buy the great $1700 lens that I want. Makes no sense. I'll still shoot some, but not like I have in the past. I'll still make some prints but not very many now. I'll let my resume go stale and my portfolio grow old. What's in the box will be what I have to sell, except for custom orders of larger prints and those will be for sale for the full market value, taken from my fotoQuote program. No more screaming deals. I'll shoot some roller derby, but not as much. Maybe none at all. (Too much expense on ink and paper and time. It's a labor of love but I end up feeling resentful, for Tucson Roller Derby pays the musicians that play at halftime. Why not pay the photographers too? Doesn't matter now.) No more weddings. (Oh, wait a minute. I don't shoot weddings anyway.) No more cheap CD deals for musicians (One in particular that comes to mine is a player who jumps from artist to artist so he can get images for cheap. Then again, he stopped asking me for images a long time ago, when I started asking for what I was worth.) No more cold call book submissions to large and small publishing houses. If I do a book, I'll pay for it with my mother's inheritance after she dies which, given her manic narcissistic energy, won't be for another ten years or more.) No more hopes for making twenty grand a year. I'll keep the studio at BR 549 for I need someplace to store my stuff, and $188 a month for storage isn't a bad deal. Plus I can practice my mandolin and my synth there, at night.
    Which bring me to the music.
    I will continue to play music. I'm going to buy a new Apple laptop soon so I can record music again. (My old Apple hasn't enough RAM or speed to do what I need it to do anymore.) I will continue to learn and compose instrumental ambient pieces on the mandolin and the synthesizer, along with the odd song with lyrics about lost tribes and sad love. I will have no hope of having a career as a musician, but I will try and work at becoming a better player. I will hopefully play live more, by myself and with other people. I will play the mandolin and make my calluses thicker and harder. I will play the synthesizer and make the long sustains and releases longer and sweeter. I will continue to try and make a little mystery and beauty in the world, but it'll be audio not visual. Mostly.
    I'm not going to be like Marcel Duchamp and give up Art to play chess. But I'm going to give up the Art career so I can take my girlfriend out to a better restaurant and hopefully within ten years get out of this mountain of debt. (Oh wait. I don't have a girlfriend.)
    And I will play music. And sure, I'll take some pictures. I guess. I don't know. But I won't be spending a shit load of cash on ink, paper, gas, and new equipment to make some hoop dances in the desert that no one pays for. And please don't get me wrong. I have no sense of entitlement here. It's just that photography and what I've done in the past with a camera costs a lot of money. It's not like I'm doing pen and ink drawings. (Even though I bet there are big costs hidden to me in that as well, like high-end rag paper, expensive india ink, matting, framing, website costs and some such.) Photographically creating what I do just cost too much money now, and the huge plastic debt I've incurred has taken too much of a psychic toll on me. I'm beginning to feel sad about it. I'm sure I'll grieve it harder in a few days. But right not, along with the anger, I feel some relief. Like my old country doctor back in North Carolina used to say, "It's like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer. It feels so good when you stop."

    Yesterday, when I left the studio, I hiked up Tumamoc Hill, a beautiful little mountain minutes from my studio.
    I didn't take my camera with me.
    I took my mandolin instead.

Everything is Free
(Gillian Welch and David Rawlings)

Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever done,
Gotta give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

I can get a tip jar,
Gas up the car,
And try to make a little change
Down at the bar.

Or I can get a straight job,
I've done it before.
I never minded working hard,
It's who I'm working for.

(Chorus)

Every day I wake up,
Hummin' a song.
But I don't need to run around,
I just stay home.

And sing a little love song,
My love, to myself.
If there's something that you want to hear,
You can sing it yourself.

undefined everything is free now,
That what I say.
No one's got to listen to
The words in my head.
Someone hit the big score,
And I figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

    [Final thought: What I’m doing isn’t a Big Surrender where I ask God for direction and help as I plunge into the unknown. I’m giving up. I quit. But if a Cosmic Muffin, or a Good God, or a generous Rich Person puts $25,000 into my Paypal account so I can get out of debt, I’ll reconsider. However, I won’t be holding my breath.]

    [Note from the Next Day: Good Folk actually want to donate to my Paypal account. I'm very touched. My account name is stujenks@gmail.com. I have no words other than thank you. Thank you.]

The Indian Wars: Chapter Nine: "Bighorns at the DQ"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Nine
"Bighorns at the DQ, Morenci, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

        Morenci. The largest copper producing mine in North America. The above postcard of Old Morenci, circa 1910, is telling, in the simple fact, that none of what you see exists any longer. It’s either air or under dirt.
        Mining began in the Morenci area in 1872, soon after peace was declared with the Apaches, two years before Cochise died. The railroads came and the mines grew large. They mined underground at Morenci until the 1930’s and then they went to the open pit. They blacked the skies with hot smelting until the 1990’s and then turned to the considerably cleaner leaching-electro-winning method of getting the Color. In 2006, Freeport Copper and Gold (formerly Phelps-Dodge) produced 400,000 tons of refined cooper, roughly one half of one percent, per weight, of all the rock they dug up. That’s not counting the molybdenite and other minerals they recovered, which were substantial and profitable.
        As I drove to Eagle Creek the other day, through this huge mining area, I couldn’t help but think of all the telephones throughout America over the last 100 years, that were connected with wire made from the copper that came from this mine. A lot of phones.
        But at what price? In the wake of those telephone lines, lies moonscape of huge pits, toxic leeching fields, black slag heaps, expanding concentrator buildings, long conveyor belts and truly monster trucks. Yes, the mines have given good jobs and security to the workers for many years. But Phelps-Dodge also broke the back of the unions in 1986 and there were violent strikes in 1915 and in 1983, when families were torn apart and as many people hurt as were helped.
        I’m of two minds, as you may have guessed, but most of my mind is with the Land and with the Apaches. I bet the hunting was wonderful in this area, before the Anglos arrived.
        I passed a tall conveyor and took its picture. I wish I had been able to record its sound. Like a hundred huge stone giants applauding. The clunk and clatter and thud was like nothing I’ve ever heard before.
        I went to Eagle Creek and was turned away by the high water, but saw the ruins of a century old Catholic chapel near the pumping plant. What were the prayers of the women and men who attended that church, back in the day?
       “Please, Lord, don’t let my husband, my son, die in the mines today.”
        And then I saw what I thought were bronze sculptures of Bighorn Sheep, until one of them raised its head.
        They were grazing on a small patch of Bermuda grass, planted in front of the Administration Office of Freeport Copper and Gold, my guess the only Bermuda grass within 500 square miles. Two adults and three adolescent sheep were grazing there, tame as house cats. They only got spooked, when I crossed the road to get a better angle.
        Desert Bighorns live on grass and other plants. And one truly bizarre by-product of the mines today is that the sheep and other wildlife thrive here now. Freeport owns literally thousands of square miles of land, only a small percentage do they actively mine. The remainder is wilderness. And no man can hunt on mine land and the Bighorns have few predators beside the occasional Mountain Lion and the stray Eagle or Coyote that attack the sheep's young. They just eat, climb, sleep and mate.
        As I clicked these photos of The Sheep Family, I wondered and then instinctively knew that this wasn’t the first time Bighorns had come to munch on this patch of grass. I bet they came often or often enough. It’s like taking the family out to the Dairy Queen on Saturday, for some extra sweet grass.
        “Come on Dad! Let’s go to that place of the amazingly tasty green grass in the land of The Big Holes. I’m so hungry for that grass. Can we? Can we?”
        “Ok,” says Papa Sheep, “but just this once,” knowing full well that the kids will be clamoring for Desert DQ within a week.
        “Yea!!! Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!”

"Chapel Ruins, Eagle Creek, Arizona"

"Chapel Ruins, Eagle Creek, Arizona"
(c) 2008 Stu Jenks

The Transpersonal Papers: Chapter Five: "Heart '83"

The Transpersonal Papers:
Chapter Five: "Heart '83"
©  1983, 2008 Stu Jenks


            May, 1983, 3 p.m.:

            I thought after moving to Tucson I wouldn’t want to die anymore.
            I keep thinking about hiking to Baboquevari and just sitting there and dying of thirst. I’d probably fuck that up too.
            I feel like such a fuck-up, but I don’t tell anybody. Got to keep the illusion that I got my shit somewhat together. I don’t know why I do that. I’m just scared of something, I guess.
            Just got fired last week, from that printing job at Multiple Listings. For good reason too. I don’t know how to offset print. I bullshitted my way into the job, saying I knew how to print on an AB Dick machine, since having been a printer at Cotton Incorporated in Raleigh. I left out that I didn’t know what I was doing there either.
            I do love the desert though, and my old Chevy Two is holding up pretty good. Thank God for that. But I don’t have a pot to piss in and my new next-door neighbor’s girlfriend keeps flirting with me. She is so creeping me out.
            Thankfully I got my dope-smoking friends across the courtyard and my new dealer is just down two blocks away. That is very convenient. The dope is great here in Tucson and cheaper than in North Carolina. Sweet. And you can buy scotch at a Seven Eleven. Oh thanks heaven, for Seven Eleven.
            Just wish I didn’t feel like such a fuck-up all the time.
            Alicia doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Hell, that’s nothing new. We’ve been broken up for a couple years now. I just can’t let go I guess. I freaked her out when I showed up unannounced in San Francisco last July. What a coward I am. I should have simply called a few weeks ahead instead of calling from Josh’s apartment near Golden Gate Park but I was too afraid to do that. Chicken Shit. Couldn’t handle being rejected by her again, but that’s just what happened of course. When we had coffee, she told me that she had a boyfriend. Well, of course, she has a boyfriend. A woman as beautiful and as talented as she is? An actress with a model figure and that resonate voice? Women like that don’t stay single for long. I’m amazing she let me share her bed at all, for those few months back in Chapel Hill. I just still love Alicia. What did she say when I dropped her off at the airport a year ago?
            “It’s now how much love but what kind,” she said.
            What in the hell does that mean?
            My dad gave me $1200 last winter. Was the money Mama Lillie left me after she died plus a little bit more. Enough for gas and first and last, once I got here to Tucson. But last night, I’ve had to ask for more money. I hate asking for money from my Dad.  He hates it too. Fuck. I’d hate it even more, if he didn’t give me the cash. What the fuck would I do then? I am 27. I shouldn’t be asking the folks for money. Such a fuck-up.
            I’d hate to go back to waiting tables but it looks like that’s what I’m going to have to do. I’m a shitty waiter. I get too rattled when I get hit by a dinner rush. Cool ain’t my middle name. Ever. But the money is good and I get paid daily. I like that. Sure can’t do much with this Art Degree, can I? Want to buy a ceramic pig nose? How about a photo of where people died in traffic accidents? Not likely.
            Oh, and Tricia? God, what a heel am I. She took me in her arms last summer when I first visited Tucson. I told her, from North Carolina last fall, that I was coming back to be with her, but that was a lie, and I knew it. After I settled into my new bungalow last Christmas, I just sort of stopped calling her and let it fade away. I don’t even know how to break up with a girl. I liked her but I guess I still have Alicia on my mind. I’m such an asshole.
            My heart hurts. My brain hurts. Everything hurts. It’s all my fault.
            I look out of the kitchen window of my cheap duplex, at The Heart Sculpture I made when I was infatuated with African Fay. What a beauty she was. I loved her laugh, but I never had the guts to ask her out. Just wished from afar. The sculpture started out as a big old rusty can, then I smashed with a sledgehammer and cut it with a torch to make it heart-shaped. Then just last week, I painted it with red enamel. Seems finished now after all these years. I like the piece. My heart does feel battered. But then I hurt the hearts of others too. You hurt me than I hurt someone else. Fuck me.
            I go to the freezer and scoop up a few ice cubes and drop them in a short glass. I pour three fingers of Dewer’s on top of them. I drink. It’s 3 p.m. (Southern Rule: You’re not an alcoholic unless you drink before one in the afternoon. You can be drunk by two, but as long as you don’t start drinking before 1 p.m., you’re cool.) I take another long sip of the scotch, loving that burn down my throat and the rush to the head.
            My little Casio keyboard sits on the kitchen table. A rosewood pipe with the ashes of the third bowl of the day sits beside it.
            I may be a drug addict but at least I’m not an alcoholic.
            I load the bowl again, light it, and fill my lungs with Colombian. I hold it long. I exhale hard. Another rush to the head.
            I turn on the keyboard. Maybe I’ll play that song about that déjà vu feeling I had last summer. I look at the keys. I swirl the ice and the scotch around in my glass.
            Fuck it.

            [Note: Two week later, in the middle of the night, The Heart Sculpture was taken off my neighbor’s wall, never to be seen again.]

The Indian Wars: Chapter Five: "The Grave of Tom Jeffords"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Five:
"The Grave of Tom Jeffords, Evergreen Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona" © 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks



            The sign says 'No Photography Without Permission' along with about a dozen other rules. I think I'll ignore the first rule today and if I get caught, I'll plead ignorance of the law. I know it's no excuse, but hey. I'm being respectful.
            So Tom, where the devil are you?
            I had no idea that you were buried here in Tucson, much less that you lived your final years just north of here at Owls' Head, until I discovered this information on that funny website called "The Land of Cochise". Anyway, Tom, you would get a kick out of this site. George, the guy who built the site, has good intentions and he's hooked up with Ed Sweeney, the renowned Apache scholar, in hopes of getting the information right. Ed appears to have deep empathy for the tragedy of this chapter of the American Indian story, and that's saying a lot these days, in this time of Post-Modern American Narcissism.
             Tom, if you were alive today, I bet you could say a thing or two about just how violent, tough, deadly, and dirty Arizona was in your time. Nineteenth Century Arizona wasn't like Old Tucson, the clean, polite, sexless tourist trap to the west of here. We Modern Americans may be thoughtless and self-centered, but it's been a while since a number of drunk Tucsonans have ridden out to a nearby Apache rancheria and killed old men, women and children for fun. And it isn't lost on me that you, Tom, didn't retire in town but rather bought some land way north of Tucson, in the Tortillita Mountains. So you never married, never had kids, did you? Seems like you did have quite a few friends, judging from the obituary, and you would have liked the funeral notice. They mentioned your accomplishments and your friendship with Cochise, but they also mentioned your love for gambling and that you were a straight-up guy. One of the nicest things, Tom, was said by Governor Hughes:
             "Captain Jeffords was six feet two inches and straight as an arrow. His hair was brown and his eyes blue. He generally was smooth shaven. He was very quiet and dressed usually in civilian dress, except when he wore Indian costume. He was absolutely without fear, and his word was never broken. He was like an Indian in this respect, that when he once gave his word it was law."
             Nice, huh?
             They also said, in the obit, that you were "of a very jovial disposition and kept up his good nature into his old age." Boy, I wish I could say the same for myself. I seem to be more like a grumpy old man everyday and I’m only 53. I could learn from your example. Then again, you did live alone out of town, in the deep desert. Bet that helped your ‘jovial disposition’.
             So where are you buried, Tom? I didn’t think this would be that difficult. I figure I just need to find the part of Evergreen Cemetery that has the folks who died in the 1910's. Can't be that many people. Tucson wasn't that big.
             I walk across the soft green grass tuft, down row after row of headstones, looking at names and dates. Many of the names are familiar, for they are now the names of streets and buildings and neighborhoods in Tucson. No Tom yet. Still in the 1920's. Need to find
the teens.
             Miracle Mile/North Oracle Road, a major North/South thoroughfare in Tucson, hums with rush hour traffic to the east. It's past six. Plenty of daylight left and the light’s really nice right now. Just entering the Magic Hour.
             Now, I'm in some graves from the teens.
             Aloud but very quietly I say, "Tom, where are you?"
             I feel a pull from the East, and a bit to the North. I got about four more rows of graves until I hit the wall that separates Evergreen Cemetery from Oracle Road. I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, walking each row in succession and if Tom is here, I'll find him. Unless his stone is gone. This is a possibility.
             One row, then another. No Tom. Next to last row. No Tom. Hmmm. Last row before the street. Maybe my intuition was wrong but I swear I felt a pull toward the East, and I'm East now. I walk in the grass looking at each headstone, looking for the name of Jeffords.
             Then second from the end, the next to last headstone in this section of the cemetery, I find the grave of Thomas J. Jeffords.
             The stone is new, placed in 1964 by the Daughters of the American Pioneers. I look to the stone next to Tom's. The name and date can barely be read in its dark gray surface and a large chunk of granite has broken off from this almost anonymous stone. Tom's stone, however, is bright gray-white, with the petals of red plastics flowers scattered around it. A small American flag is stuck in the ground at gravestone’s base. Small stones rest on its top, in that Jewish way of honoring the dead. People come here. The face of the stone notes Tom's friendship with Cochise and Tom's place in history.
             "Hey, Tom, how you doing?" I say.
             I squat down in the soft grass and take out my Kodak Brownie. Oracle Road’s traffic speeds by behind me, the cars and trucks less than fifty feet away on the other side of a masonry wall. I see I only have six exposures left on this roll. Let's make 'em count.
             I see the triptych. I shoot the triptych. I take one motion diptych as a back up and a single shot as well. I stand up, pack up the camera, shoulder my mini-camera bag, and hunker down again, close to the ground. I stare at the white headstone and smile.
            “Glad to meet you, Tom, and thanks for doing what you did."
            I give Tom’s stone a soft pat on its head.

"The Forbidden City, Peking, China" (c) 1946, 2008

"The Forbidden City, Peking, China" (c) 1946, 2008 Stuart Jenks Sr.

[Taken by my father when he was stationed in China after World War Two. Notice that isn't Chairman Mao on that big poster but rather Chiang Kai-shek. I popped the blacks and lessened the yellows a little in the photograph. A sweet image by my Dad. Really like the blurry bicyclist myself.]

The Indian Wars: Chapter Three: “Drink The Same Water, Eat The Same Bread"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Three:
“Drink The Same Water, Eat The Same Bread, Council Rocks, Dragoon Mountains, Arizona”
© 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks

        Sweet Jesus, I've never been so happy to engage the 4-wheel-drive in all my life. That dirt road out of Tombstone is one of the worst washboard roads I've ever driven on. Huge standing waves of dirt and rock, and trying to drive on the shoulder, like I do up on the Navajo Rez, just doesn't work here. There is no shoulder, no ditch. Just one long carpet of washboard from edge to edge, but now after ten miles of teeth-rattling, I've turned onto the smooth gently rolling Jeep trail that leads deep into the Western side of the Dragoon Mountains.
            Never been on this side of the Dragoons before, but I've felt pulled to it lately after I started researching Cochise and his Chokonen band of Chiricahua Apaches. On the outside of the Dragoons, on the eastern slope, is Cochise's Stronghold, a place I've been to a number of times over the years, but this Jeep trail on the western slope is brand new to me and that's saying something, given all the dirt roads in Southern Arizona I've driven on over the past 20 years. My U.S. Forest Service map of the area lays draped over a pillow that sits in the passenger's seat of my Pathfinder, a pillow that muffles the rattle in my right door but also serves as a place to rest my head when I take catnaps on long trips. No sleeping today though.
            I stop the truck after about a half mile, and study the map. I look in the rear view mirror. No one behind. No one in front. I take a little time.
            On the map there seems to be a place called White House Ruins. Doesn’t look far. And near that to the south, are something called Council Rocks. I wonder what those are? I wonder if any thing significant happened there, back in Apache times? Feels like something happened here. Just a feeling. Well, let's go see what we shall see.
                
            [A couple of weeks later, I discovered that a lot did happen over on this side of the mountain, but I didn't know it at the time. Just had that strong feeling. My intuition was right.
            In 1872, peace was finally negotiated with Cochise near Council Rocks and a few years early, further north in the Western Stronghold area, it’s said that it was there that Tom Jeffords first meet Cochise.
            A little about Tom Jeffords, the man who will forever be known as Cochise's best White friend. Born in 1832, Thomas J. Jeffords was a tall, thin man with red hair and a long beard. In the 1850's, he was a sailor on the Great Lakes. He helped lay road in Kansas and Colorado after his stint as a boatman, and he prospected in New Mexico before the Civil War. In the Civil War he was a scout for the Union General E .R. S. Canby, in the area of New Mexico and Arizona. After the Civil War, things get a little foggy to say the least. It is known that he either started or managed a mail run, that traveled between Santa Fe and Tucson. He probably met the Chihennes clan of the Apaches in New Mexico before he meet Cochise and his Arizonan Chokenen band. My guess is that it was through his knowing the Chihennes that he learned to speak Apache. After not too long, he quit the mail business and went back to prospecting and trading and finally ended up in the Canada Alamosa area of New Mexico in 1869. Some evidence points that he met Cochise for the first time, in Canada Alamosa when Cochise briefly came to talk a little peace. The peace talks failed, mostly because the U.S. Government wanted him to move to New Mexico, and Cochise want to stay in his beloved Chirichaua and Dragoon Mountains. Anyway, many facts tend to point toward Jeffords meeting Cochise in New Mexico, but there are two stories that strongly contradict that notion, one of those I like to think is closer to the truth.
            The first story is from Jeffords' account told to Robert Forbes in 1913 when Jeffords was his eighties, a story that was told again in the movie "Broken Arrow" and in the book "Blood Brother" by Elliott Arnold. Basically what Jeffords told Forbes was, that in the early 1860's, when according to Tom, he was running the mail through Cochise's land, he was tired of getting his couriers killed by Cochise’s people. Seems most riders never made it to Tucson from parts East, with perhaps as many as 20 of Jeffords' employees being killed running the mail on horseback, along the old Butterfield Stage road. Tom said that he took a big risk and rode alone into Cochise's camp in the Western Stronghold area of the Dragoons. He had arms but did not show them. He just walked right up to Cochise's wickiup and introduced himself. Cochise was so impressed with Jeffords' bravery and lack of fear that he spared his life and after some discussion, Cochise agreed to let Jefford's mail pass through his land unhindered.
            A few problems with this story: First, only Jeffords tells this story this way. No Apaches, no troops, nobody ever heard of this story. Secondly, Apache raids on the mail continued throughout the 1860’s until the eventual peace with Cochise in 1872, and third, Jeffords probably wasn't carrying the mail at that time all. Many said that after the Civil War, Jeffords was mostly prospecting and a number of reliable sources say that Jeffords met Cochise while prospecting in the mountains of Southeastern Arizona.
            The account that I think is probably closest to the truth is the story told by Mrs. Eve Ball, the oral historian of the Apache Tribe. She states that Jeffords didn't go find Cochise. Cochise ran across Tom while he was prospecting and due to Jefford's fearlessness, Cochise didn't kill him. Judging from what is often written about Jeffords, he was a straight shooter, didn't bullshit anyone, and told the truth no matter what others thought. But Tom was also known for keeping his mouth shut instead of lying when he wanted to withhold the truth. He also fluently spoke the Apache language. That, I believe, is incredibly significant, that he could talk directly to the Apaches and to Cochise in particular. Also, Apaches, as a people, prized candor and truthfulness as very high virtues and also believe in just being quiet rather than telling a bold faced lie (The exception to the rule being lying to your enemies in order to get him off guard so you can kill him. Makes sense to me.)
            I picture Tom and Cochise's meeting, something like this. Remember: I'm just making this up.
            Tom is digging a hole, looking for gold or silver or copper, maybe in the Dragoons, maybe in the Chiricahuas. I'm guessing the Dragoons. He hears a horse whinny, then another. Through the trees he sees five to ten Apaches on horseback, slowing riding toward him. He probably think he's screwed but you never know. Perhaps he speaks first:
            Jeffords: (in Apache) "Hello, how are you doing?"
            Cochise: (flanked by a number of his warriors, his horse stops. He's surprised a white man speaks his language. His warriors rest their rifles on their laps. They look intently at Jefford. Only Cochise speaks) "I'm well. How are you?
            Jeffords: "I'm good too, Thanks."
            Cochise: "My name is Cochise."
            Jeffords: "Mine is Tom Jeffords."
            Cochise: "So you speak my language?"
            Jeffords: "Enough to get by."
            Cochise: "You know this is my land, don't you?"
            Jeffords: "I sure do."
            Cochise: "What are you doing here?"
            Jeffords: "Looking for gold, but not having any luck. Just digging a hole mostly."
            Cochise (smiles) : "You also know that I've killed a lot of white men."
            Jeffords: "Yep, I know that too. Seen your handiwork quite a bit."
            Cochise: "Do you think I'm wrong to kill the white man, to kill the Mexicans?"
            Jeffords: "I'd rather you not kill this white man." (He points to himself.)
            Cochise: (smiles again) "You don't seem that frightened."
            Jeffords: "Oh, I'm scared but frankly, you'll either kill me or you won't and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do to stop you. But, Cochise, truth be told, I'd prefer that you let me live."
            Cochise: (laughing) "Are you always this blunt?"
            Jeffords: (shrugs) "Pretty much, at least that what my friends say."
            Cochise: (smiling) "I like you. I don't think I'll kill you today. Would you like to come to my camp tonight and have some dinner with me and the wives?"
            Jeffords: "Thought you'd never ask."
            (Both of them laugh, even the young Apache braves chuckle a bit.)
            I bet you, dimes to a doughnut, this is closer to the truth, but hell if I or anyone else really knows for sure. And I don't blame Jeffords for sweetening the story when he was an old man. I'll probably be telling people, if I make it to my 80's, that those flame spiral photographs I made in my 40's were actually not created by me using a Zippo lighter but rather were the visual records of ghosts I saw in the desert moonlight. But one thing is certain. However they met, Cochise and Jeffords became fast friends. They trusted each other, cared about each other, and neither ever betrayed the other.]

            This is interesting land. The huge rocks of the western slopes of the Dragoons seemed to have just tumbled down from heaven, easily coming to rest on this almost flat plain of tall grass and lush Mesquite. No foothills to speak of at all here in this part of the mountains.  Just an easy rising and falling through the shallow arroyos, then back to driving my Pathfinder on the flat and smooth of the high desert. Campers are here and there, hidden in the trees, but not very many. Maybe three bunches in the hour I've been on this road. I've just past camper number three and then up ahead, I see a majestic cluster of boulders, rising to at least a thousand feet or more. Even from a mile away, I can see how I might be able to bushwhack high on those rocks Maybe not to the  very top, but damn close to it. I drive a bit faster now, and with minutes, I've crossed that mile. I take a right onto a side road and quickly find a place to park the truck. As I get out, I notice that I'm parked on a flat red ant hill. I pull the Pathfinder up a few feet.
            I gaze up at the majestic rocks. I wonder if this is Council Rocks? Are the White House Ruins nearby? I suddenly don't care. I'm here. Those boulders are there. I want to get as high up on them as I can. I stow my Brownie in my water pack, shoulder them and head for the base of those rocks.

            [By 1872, Cochise was ready to stop fighting the Americans. Many of his warriors were dead. The women and children of his clan were terribly hungry. And my guess is that the resentments he carried over his brother’s and his father-in-law’s deaths at the hands of the Americans were just too much for him to bear anymore, at the expense of his people. He was ready for peace.
            But, two U.S. Generals of greatly opposing ideas on how to solve the ‘Indian Problem’ jockeyed for power. First there was General George Crook, a man who had been fighting the Apaches all across Southern Arizona for the last year. He was not for the placement of Indians on reservations. He wanted to defeat them, kill them, and kill them some more. But then another General arrived in 1872 and he outranked Crook.
            O.O. Howard was a deeply Christian man who lost an arm in the Civil War. Howard saw the Indians as people, not as vermin to be exterminated and he had a mandate from Washington, to do anything he could, to bring peace to the area and to lead the Apaches onto a reservation.
            General Howard arrived in New Mexico and soon found out that a man, a white man, was a close friend of Cochise's. He summoned Tom Jeffords to his camp and employed him to find Cochise and invite him to come to Howard's camp and talk peace. Tom was straightforward and direct as ever, telling Howard that Cochise would never come to Howard, but he would be happy to take Howard to see Cochise. Jeffords also said that they must not come with force, but to come unarmed. Howard agreed to that, and in the coming days before their journey to find Cochise, O.O. was so taken by Tom Jeffords, that he appointed him to be the agent of the 'The Cochise Reservation', if and when it was formed. Within a few days, Howard, Jeffords and three other men began their trek to find Cochise.
            With the help of some Apaches along the way and a bit of luck, The Howard-Jeffords party found Cochise in the Western Stronghold of the Dragoons. Accompanying the party were two of Cochise's relatives, Ponce and Chie. Ponce and Chie burned smoke signals the day before their arrival, to say who they were and why they were coming. Cochise's scouts had been seeing the progress of this group for days, but the knowledge of the presence of  relatives really helped the cause. Jeffords' being there as well gave Howard the extra clout he needed too.
            Jeffords, Howard, Ponce, Chie and the others camped that night near the Stronghold, and the next day, Cochise came to see them. Cochise immediately hugged Jeffords and Jeffords then introduced Howard to him.
            "This is the man," Jeffords said to Howard.
            "Buenos dios, Senor," Cochise said, shaking Howard's hand. (Many Apaches knew Spanish. It was often the common language between Apaches and Americans.)
            Cochise then pulled his friend Jeffords aside.
            "Do you think the General and his men will be honest and do as they say they will do?" asked Cochise.
            "Well, I don't know," said Jeffords, "I think they will, but I will see that they don't promise too much."
            After briefly talking with Ponce and Chie, Cochise went to Howard and asked why he was here.
            "I have come from Washington to meet your people and to make peace, and I will stay as long as it is necessary," said Howard.
            Cochise then said, "Nobody wants peace more than I do. I have done no mischief since I came from Canada Alamosa, but I am poor, my horses are poor, and I have but a few horses left. I might have gotten more horses by raiding the Tucson road but I did not do that."
            Howard then proposed his idea of a reservation at Canada Alamosa in New Mexico.
            "I'll go, but I am sure it would break my band," said Cochise, knowing his people would not agree to that.
            Then it is said, to everyone’s surprise, Cochise said, "Why not give me Apache Pass? Give me that and I will protect all the roads. I will see that nobody's property is taken by Indians. But I need to talk this over with my captains, and most of them are out making a living." (By the way, 'Making Living' was Cochise’s way of saying they were out stealing livestock in Mexico.)
             Howard agreed to wait until Cochise had talked with his leadership. Cochise, however, asked that Howard go to Fort Bowie and tell them that a truce was in place and not to fight with his captains as they came to the Western Dragoons. Howard first wanted to send Lt. Sladen but Cochise insisted that Howard go himself. That night with the help of Chie, Howard made his way to Fort Bowie. Howard later talked about the tough crossing of the Dragoons, how he tore his coat to shreds, riding in the dark. Howard got to Fort Bowie the next morning, delivered the message of truce, and left the fort around 2 p.m. to make his way back to the Dragoons. The next day, Howard arrived after having traveled 80 miles in just a couple of days.
            Then came the long wait until all of Cochise's captains came to the Western Stronghold area. Lt. Sladen is our best witness of that week in Cochise's camp. Sadly, little was known by whites of how the Apaches lived until these peace talks. Not even a accurate physical description of Cochise, post-Civil War, was available until the Sladen accounts of this meeting. Many thought Cochise was old and beat down, when in reality, he was still strong, relatively young and the best groomed of all, white and Indian alike.
            During that week, Sladen witnessed Cochise getting drunk and having a fight with one of his wives, and saw Jeffords stepping in to calm down this domestic dispute. Another time Sladen heard Cochise singing and praying over the wounded body of one of his warriors. Sladen had medical training and Howard offered Salden services to Cochise. Cochise thanked them but refused. He told Sladen that the warrior was very ill, and if he died, and his people knew that Sladen had worked on him, they might think that Sladen had given him bad medicine, hastening his death and they would then want to kill Sladen. Sladen agreed with Cochise and didn't treat the warrior. The man died a few days later.
            One by one, the Apache captains arrived throughout that week, twelve all total, with two others absent who they were off raiding in Sonora, Mexico. The following day, the captains and Cochise held a council to decide if they wanted peace. General Howard wanted to sit in, but Jeffords dissuaded him from this, saying that they would know soon enough by the sounds that came from the council camp. Sure enough, soon Cochise returned to where Jeffords and Howard were camped and stated that they were ready to decide on the specific terms of peace.
            The terms were simple. Even though Howard initially wished for Cochise and his people to go to New Mexico, he acquested and agreed to Cochise's terms that the reservation be on land that was beloved by Cochise and his people, namely the Chiricahuas Mountains, the Dragoons, and most of Southeastern Arizona, down to the border with Mexico. The U.S Government also agreed to provide provisions of food and clothing. Cochise agree to protect the roads and to keep them safely open to travel. And finally, Tom Jeffords would be the Apaches' Indian agent on the reservation, representing their needs to the U.S. Army and to the Federal Government. I believe that without Jeffords' willingness to perform this role, the peace would have never happened.
            During the negotiations with Jeffords and Howard, Cochise is quoted as saying that "Hereafter, the White Man and the Indian are to drink from the same water, eat of the same bread, and be at peace."
            A couple of days later, everyone went home, except for Cochise who was already home. There were concerns if the peace would last, especially among the officers who had not come to the Council from Fort Bowie. The fort would now be at the center of the reservation. But the biggest concern was Mexico to the south. The Apaches would likely raid across the border, taken cattle whenever they wished. Cochise himself said that "the Mexicans are on one side of this matter and the Americans are on another. I made peace with the Americans, but the Mexicans did not come to ask peace from me."
            But that matter would come home to roost later. This peace with the Apaches was strong  and significant and Cochise and his people would stay at peace with the Americans for the remainder of his life. Cochise never again fought with the U.S. Army nor did he himself raid Mexico again (even though a number of his people did). General Crook was furious when he heard the conditions of the treaty, but he had very little power to change anything. And as the peace continued to hold, Howard began to not only get support from the newspapers in Tucson but also from the ranchers and miners of Southern Arizona.
            Peace had finally come, negotiated by an old trio of men: A one-armed Christian General, a straight-shooting loyal ex-prospector, and a tall, fastidiously dressed, Apache Indian Chief.]

            I'm guessing I'm about 800 feet above the valley floor. Off a ways, I can see Chesapeake, my truck, parked in a turnaround. Further west is the gently rising silhouette of the Whetstone range, and to the southwest, the large blue mass of the Huachuca Mountains.
            I sit, cradled in this space that’s made by numerous large granite boulders. There’s a sheltering feeling to this place. Also, the granite hasn't be worn by cattle hoofs or by hiking boots, the stone rough like five-grade sandpaper. A middle-aged Juniper tree struggles for purchase in a crack of a boulder, the tree’s width wider than its height, knurled by the westerly winds. There is no soil to speak of, for the tree. Just fine granite dust and pebbles. Life does find a way.
            I take out my Kodak Brownie and squeeze off a couple of diptych shoots of that three foot Juniper tree. I look around for some other images to shoot but I feel a little caught in the moment and decide to put down the camera. Sometimes, taking pictures gets in the way. I grab my water and drink deep. It tastes so good. I begin to wander around my large stone cradle. I walk more lightly than I usually do. I'm so aware of how virgin this landscape is, how perhaps a hiker or two over the years may have come up here, but it isn't really that dramatic to draw most folks up to these rocks. I wouldn't be surprised if the last person up here wasn't Apache.
            I sit back down again, and look toward the tall stone tower to the south. I can see why Cochise loved these mountains so well.