Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"Dancing Bat Star"

"Dancing Bat Star, Fitzgerald Marine Reserve, San Mateo County Park, California" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks

"A Hermit Crab on an Abalone shell"

"A Hermit Crab on an Abalone shell, Fitzgerald Marine Reserve, San Mateo County Park, California" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks

"Ms. Mountain Lion"

"Ms. Mountain Lion: Southern Arizona" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

    The glare from the late afternoon Sun makes seeing out my windshield difficult. It doesn’t happen often as I climb this steep well-maintained dirt road in some mountains south of Tucson, but when it does, I can hardly see.
    I turn up another hairpin and again am blinded by the Sun. Then I see something in the road. I know what it is immediately even though I’ve never seen one in the wild. I stop my truck in the middle of the road, pull the emergency brake, and turn off the engine. She looks at me, but she isn’t afraid. Curious, but not afraid. I stare back at her. We do this for a second or two, but it feels much longer. I quickly grab the 400 mm from the backseat. As I put the camera to my eye, I see her begin to stroll away. I click off three quick exposures through the glare of the windshield. The mountain lion then disappears into the forest. I start the truck back up and pull past where she had just been. I get out and begin to walk toward the edge of the road. At the edge, the land falls steeply away, into a jumbled mix of brush, Mexican Oaks and Alligator Junipers. I’m scared but in a good way. I know I’m not in any real danger unless Ms. Mountain Lion is rabid or extremely hunger. I hope she’s not sick. I hope she recently had a meal.
    I peer down the hill, hoping to catch a glance of her, hoping to perhaps photograph her face. Her face. Hmm. That might not be such...and then I stop thinking about photography. I need to become big. I raise my arms above my head, my huge white Canon in my right hand. I still walk and look over the edge but my enthusiasm for that great Cougar shot has greatly diminished. I’m now afraid, but not in a good way. I’m foolishly stalking an animal that stalks prey for a living. And I can feel her eyes out there somewhere. She sees me but I can’t see her. She stalking me. I’m now the prey.
    Usually I would thank the wild animal for allowing me to see her, to be with her, to share her space with me, but I don’t today. I just back away from the edge and slowly walk back to my truck. I walk sideways as to not show the cat my full back. I open the truck door, enter, close the door and begin to breathe again.

"Antelopes in the Mustang Mountains"

 "Antelopes in the Mustang Mountains, Arizona" (c) 2010 Stu Jenks

"Desert Tortoise"

"Desert Tortoise at Silverbell Mine, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Cathy's Fault, Arizona"

Cathy’s Fault,
Arizona
Spring 2009

    April snow on the Catalinas. More snow on the Pinal Mountains. Weird.
    They’re playing the 3rd round of the Masters right now. I shake my head as I drive. My mother isn’t even watching it on TV. With her dementia, it just too hard for her to track things on television. First year she hasn’t watched it since they started televising Augusta in the 1960’s. She loves Tiger. Now, she barely knows he exists. “I’m not well, and I don’t know what to do,” she says over and over when I visit her. I swear I wish Death would just come and take her.
    Gave her car a name. Actually it’s my car now. She hasn’t driven in months. Never will again. Named her car, Martha Ball, after our first president’s wife and his mother, Martha Custis and Mary Ball, respectively. Some of the Balls rest in the same rural Virginia cemetery where my family’s plot is. Fits a 2003 blue Buick La Sabre to a tee. I call her Martha for short.
    Should be there soon. May continue to rain or snow today. Either would be fine with me.
    There it is, the pull-off I’ve been look for. I park Martha. Not many cars on the highway today. I put on my new Boo-Boo hat with its knitted bill, wrap Cathy’s scarf around my neck, zip up the polar fleece and grab the Canon. No water. I’m not going to be gone that long.
    Up the old mining road, toward the top of Cathy’s Fault.
    [Note to readers: If you think I’m going to tell you where Cathy’s Fault specifically is, you have lost your mind. However, if you’re ever in Tucson, and the wind’s right, I’ll take you there myself.]
    Halfway up. Really hope I see him again. No telling.
    Suddenly I see a half dozen mule deer fifty feet straight ahead of me. All of us stop and stare at each other for a while. I pop a couple images with the Canon. The lead buck snorts at me. Stomps the ground with his foot. What the hell? You going to charge me, buckaroo? That would be hard to explain.
    ‘How’d you hurt yourself, Stu?’
    ‘A deer charged me, knocked me down.’
    I can think of at least three friends who would never let me live that down.
    Eventually, the buck and his brood bounce away to the west.
    Well, that was pretty swell. I’ll take that if I don’t see the old boy.
    Hardly had those words drifted out of my mind when I see him. Fifty yards ahead. Looks like the same Big Horn I saw in January. Well, I’ll be god-damned.
    I shoot a bunch of shots. I creep through the ocotillos to get a better angle. I softly walk closer to him. He shifts his weight from side to side, turns his head as if he’s posing but shows little concern. But he knows I’m there.
    After a dozen exposures, I lower the lens and just gaze at him. He looks back at me. Neither of us are afraid. Calm all around. The rain’s stopped. No snow. I cradle my camera. I almost cry. I relate to him. Makes sense I suppose. Both he and I are sure-footed creatures, somewhat aloof, keen-eyed.
    Then I smile when I think of the obvious. The spiral horns.
    You wear your spirals on top of your head. I carry mine inside of me.

"Ewe're near the edge"

"Ewe're near the edge, Dripping Springs, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks