Prickly Pear by Michael McLean

STANDING NEXT TO THE truck, he looked up the road and examined the wooded area that crowned the ridge ahead into which the strip of blacktop disappeared. It was a dark forest of piñon pine, gnarled and misshapen, as if touched by some ancient blight. But, Gordy Mathis knew that this was the habit of piñon. That was the nature of desert country, to dry out and shrivel up most everything inhabiting it—people included. Often, it shriveled up more than just their bodies.

The cell phone’s battery was dead, so he tossed it onto the passenger’s seat. He pulled his lanky frame up into the cab of the desert-worn Chevy pickup. Like him, it was well-seasoned with the effects of the environment readily identifiable. It had countless scratches along its sides from encounters with mesquite and acacia. His wounds were not so visible.

The old Chevy pre-dated GPS systems by nearly two decades. The location app on his cell phone was now a moot point, so onward. He steered the truck back onto the blacktop. He loved backroads and had a fair mental picture of where he was and the location of the town of Arroyo. There was easier access from the interstate, but the town itself was still in the middle of nowhere with mostly local traffic, except for one weekend a year. He had never been, but the state tourism department touted the Prickly Pear Festival as an event to experience. Off the beaten track, clever advertising hailed it as the Tuna Capital of the World.

The tunas, he had discovered many years ago, were the purple-red fruit of the prickly pear cactus, or opuntia, and had nothing to do with fish. From that humble fruit, came a wide variety of prickly pear foodstuffs—beer, wine, ice cream, and even a prickly pear crème brulee came to mind.

Finally, he reached the crest of the ridge. The gnarly forest blanketed the landscape in all directions. At least the road ahead was downhill. That was a good thing considering the position of the gas gauge needle.

Driving slowly and in silence, he reflected on his presence in this place. A land surveyor by profession, Mathis had worked all over the West. He was a selftaught student of the desert. Many years back, he had lived in Montana and had been a student of the mountains. In this part of New Mexico, he could enjoy both. Knowledge of the physical environment had always been the initial challenge. That knowledge could mean the difference between life and death.

Once he had discerned the complexities of the physical environment, his focus quickly expanded to plants and animals. Both mountain and desert had diverse flora and fauna. In many cases they overlapped. Once again, knowledge could be equated with survival. He thought about how nature and survival were often intertwined. But, for him, the sheer enjoyment of learning nature’s diversity was motivation enough.

Most inquisitive people would have stopped there, but not Gordy Mathis. The physical world led to the history of the surroundings. Native peoples and their ways fascinated him. Their spiritual beliefs and collaboration with nature to survive were his real incentives to learn.

Once, at the site of an ancient desert encampment, he had been engulfed by a whirlwind, or dust devil, as most people called them. The day had been hot, pushing above ninety. A slight breeze came out of the east, hinting a change in weather might be in the making. As he hiked toward an interesting outcropping of rock, he began to notice small chunks of so called burnt rock, a common indicator of native encampments. Sure enough, as he looked around, he spotted small shards of pottery and broken tools used for grinding mesquite into edible flour. He had just reached down and picked up a nice pottery shard. It was a grayish white with a distinctive black geometric design. As he examined it, a wind suddenly swept the landscape and seconds later he was at the center of a large dust devil.

Those few moments were the most unsettling of his nearly fifty years. As the wind swirled around him, he shielded his eyes, still clutching the piece of pottery. That was when he heard the sound of voices chanting in an unknown language. It was over in less than a minute. The wind died to a whisper, and then it was gone. Only the persistent heat remained—and a deafening silence.

Mathis considered himself to be neither religious nor superstitious. If pressed, he would merely state that he considered himself in harmony with nature. The experience served to push him deeper into Native American spirituality. The fragment of pottery became his own sort of physical doorway to the ancient ones. Although he never experienced such an event again, hardly a day passed that he didn’t recall it.

As he rounded a sweeping bend in the road, a pulloff came into view. His thoughts were stilled by the sight of a pristine 1973 Cadillac El Dorado parked in the wide spot. The magnificent vehicle was a deep burgundy with a white convertible top folded back to reveal a white leather interior.

But what really caught his attention, were the sleek legs protruding from khaki walking shorts topped by a green tee-shirt. Mid-length brunette hair framed a pretty face, or at least he thought so at 30 mph. She was taking pictures with a cell phone of what might be called a “scenic view” for this road.

At the sound of his approach, she turned and waved, flashing a nice smile. He waved back over the top of the truck’s cab. He knew there was a reason he drove with the windows down most of the time. He looked back in the rearview mirror. She was taking more pictures. Damn, you sure don’t see that every day.

Returning his eyes to the road, he mentally reviewed the previous ninety seconds. Suddenly, Mathis ducked and swerved as a black form swooped within inches of the windshield. Peering upward, he watched as a large crow flapped away into the pines. Although shaken, he quickly regained his composure.

Steering through another bend in the road, a long gradual slope headed into the town of Arroyo, New Mexico. It was named for the canyon feature cutting through the desert west of the town. Due to just the right blend of minerals and seasonal weather, the rocky walls of the arroyo were lined with literally thousands of prickly pear cactus plants.

The sky was a bit overcast, but there were wide patches of blue to the west. The sun would set in a couple of hours, and he figured there would be a colorful sunset. The Prickly Pear Festival would no doubt gear up into full swing after sundown.

As he entered the town from the road very much less travelled, he was soon engulfed in traffic that bore witness to the popularity of the festival. He saw several license plates from Colorado, Texas, and Arizona. A gritty-looking tavern exhibited a twodeep row of motorcycles with a sign that advertised outside seating in the back, but a number of bikers spilled out the front door.

After another five blocks, Mathis intersected the main thoroughfare appropriately named Prickly Pear Avenue. A traffic light controlled the intersection, and naturally, he was rewarded with red. First things first. The needle of the gas gauge sat on empty. He turned to the right and found a gas station only a few blocks away.

Mission completed, he reversed his travel route as the sun dropped onto the horizon. Prickly Pear Avenue was lined with decorative flags, each with a cactus design heralding the festival. The center of activity was in a large park occupying a city block. As a backdrop, a two-story brick building exhibiting late 1800’s architecture rose up. A sign in front introduced it as the Arroyo City Hall.

Mathis drove slowly on searching for a parking spot. After a few minutes, he gave up and moved his search over a couple of side streets. Three blocks away, he found success in the parking lot of a local bank. The lot was mostly empty. There would be no bank business, save for a drive through ATM. He secured the Chevy and headed for the action.

He made for the park, walking the blocks in a zigzag pattern. Abruptly he stopped. Parked in front of a small fabric shop was a convertible 1973 Cadillac El Dorado with its white top up. Maybe he would get a chance to see the young woman close up. His relations with women had yet to work out well. But there was always a chance.

In the middle of the block leading to the park, the Arroyo Bar and Grill caught his attention. It was brightly lit, noisy, and advertised cold beer. He could use one of those. Country and western music surrounded him from an unseen sound system. A mixture of tourists and townspeople were having a good time. The first beer was as advertised, so he paid for another. Satisfied, the trek to the park resumed. The park was busy with people milling around. Kids had their faces painted, and parents looked weary. The sun was below the horizon, and music played as warm-up groups offered their talents. A banner announced a singer of some fame would start at nine. He glanced at his watch, over an hour to go. He started wandering around the vendor tents and food trucks. Passing a booth selling kettle corn, he stopped. There she was, twenty feet away, buying what looked like prickly pear peanut brittle. He waited as she put the bag into a small backpack and continued on.

For the first time in many years, Gordy Mathis felt giddy. He moved toward her and offered a nervous hello. She turned toward him and asked if she knew him. He felt stupid, but he raised his left hand up high and waved. She laughed and asked if that was him on the road. He nodded. Their eyes met, and a burst of something electric coursed through him.

She suggested that they check out the other booths. He agreed. After introducing himself, he followed, hoping he didn’t seem like a puppy. Her name was Samantha Ryan, but everybody called her Sam. They made their way along rows of vendors, some starting to pack up their wares in advance of the evening’s events. Mathis asked if she was hungry. Laughing, she let him know she was always hungry. A booth ahead offered street tacos. They both ordered three with colas. Finding two empty seats in an area with folding tables and chairs, they sat and chatted.

Fascinated by the El Dorado, he couldn’t help but ask. It had been her father’s, and it was willed to her after he passed. She loved the car but only drove it sporadically. Her rig was a diesel Ram pickup that got her everywhere she wanted to go. Her father had been a rancher and raised horses up north, outside of Clovis. Sam had grown up pure country. With a degree in environmental conservation, she worked for an oil and gas company out of Artesia as a land management specialist. One of her primary duties was to watch over the company’s impact on cultural resources.

Mathis nodded, listening intently as she spoke. Her voice was soft yet indicated that she was a nononsense person. He was about to pinch himself to see if he was really awake when Sam suggested they dance. He looked at his watch and had no idea where the time had gone. The music was good, and after more than a dozen dances, the last a slow two-step, she told him she was getting tired.

As they walked back toward her El Dorado, Mathis asked if she would like a nightcap. The answer was affirmative, a good idea. The Arroyo Bar and Grill was subdued compared to his earlier visit. They talked about a variety of likes and dislikes. Sam finally said she needed some sleep. Mathis informed her that he was sleeping in his truck. She asked if he would like a more comfortable bunk—like the back seat of the El Dorado. How could he refuse?

Sam opened the trunk of the car. He could immediately grasp the woman’s understanding of the desert and what could be encountered in it. A very compact array of blankets, battery charger pack, tools, fire extinguisher, first aid kit, and water bottles impressed him. Two boxes of 9 mm cartridges didn’t escape his assessment either. She took out two lightweight blankets, closed the trunk, and opened the door. She’d take the front seat.

Movement of the car woke him in the middle of the night. Sam was stirring around. Moments later, he realized she was climbing over the front seat into the back. She snuggled up with her back to him and pulled the blanket over them whispering that she was cold. The fragrance of her hair was intoxicating. He put his arm over her shoulder, and she sighed softly. As Gordy Mathis drifted off to sleep, he was surrounded by the sound of rhythmic voices chanting in a strange tongue.

The sun was up. He blinked and looked around. Sam was in the front seat brushing her hair. She saw him in the rearview mirror and turned around with a wide smile. Mathis sat up and flexed his body to rid it of the several tight places that came with sleeping double in a back seat. Sam told him it was about time that he was up because she was hungry and had to pee. He laughed and told her he was working on it as he struggled to push the passenger side seat forward, open the door, and remove himself from the El Dorado. His watch indicated it was only a bit after seven in the morning, but there was already a large group of people in the park. A large banner helped explain why. The local Lions Club was hosting a fundraiser pancake breakfast. Of course, prickly pear syrup was the main attraction.

Sam looked at him with an expression that questioned that option. A café across from the park looked better, considering their need for breakfast and a restroom. In addition to the crowd gathered for the Lions breakfast, they observed vendors setting up booths to cater to all manner of festival goers.

In one area, a group of obnoxious youngsters, mostly older teens, were taunting each other and any obvious tourists. Mathis didn’t think he and Sam looked much like tourists, but the group of unruly kids watched them as they crossed through the park. Sam reached out and took his hand in hers. They exchanged looks and she squeezed his hand more firmly. Halfway across the street, between the park and the Desert Blossom Café, two crows swooped down from somewhere directly at them, turning a mere second before contact. Mathis sprinted, pulling Sam behind him to the café entrance. Looking at her, he could see a hint of fear in her brown eyes. Up to this point, he wasn’t sure that was an emotion she possessed.

They made for an empty booth in the back, heeding the Please Seat Yourself sign. The café was crowded with others who apparently preferred the Desert Blossom menu to fundraiser pancakes. Sam immediately excused herself, muttering iced tea—unsweetened as she headed for the ladies’ washroom. In a few moments, a young server appeared with menus. Mathis ordered the drinks. A few minutes later, Sam re-appeared looking marvelous. He immediately headed toward the restroom sign.

They both decided on bacon, eggs, and a waffle to quell their hunger. As a bonus, the café offered homemade prickly pear syrup. As they sipped their teas waiting for breakfast to arrive, Sam asked what was with the crows. Mathis frowned and asked her what she meant. Sam related an unsettling story to him. She explained that the day before, just after he had driven by in his truck, she wanted to take a few more photos. Walking back to the El Dorado, a crow jetted out of nowhere. Wings flapping, it barely missed her. Twice in two days was just too weird.

Breakfast arrived, and they dug in. A few minutes later the pangs of hunger were gone. He sighed deeply, bringing on a look of concern from Sam. He pursed his lips, unsure if he should tell her. He ultimately decided they were now on a path together. Mathis related his own crow experience the day before in just about the same spot. It was definitely too weird. Mathis leaned back in the booth and considered his understanding of the desert and its denizens.

Sipping refills, he explained to Sam that on the factual side, he had read that crows have the biggest brain to body ratio among all birds. They have a highly developed forebrain that regulates intelligence, and their brain’s anatomy was very similar to humans. Beliefs surrounding the crow’s spiritual side were more complex. Their color represented the onset of creation before there was any form. Crows were spirit animals that were associated with the mysteries of life and magic. They taught us to find our inner truth and possess the power to evoke deep inner transformation. The crow was supposed to know the unknowable mysteries of creation and was the keeper of all sacred law.

As he talked, he was drawn into her eyes. An old soul lived inside that young body. Sam listened intently as he continued to explain that if a crow has flown across your path, it is a sign of change. The power of the unknown was at work, and something special was about to happen. He stopped talking and stared at her. She smiled that smile again. Sam and the crows, he suddenly realized, were real. Their appearance was part of something magical. It was about Sam and him.

Exiting the Desert Blossom, they crossed once more to the park. The festival was in full swing. A musician with a guitar had started singing in the park’s central gazebo. Trees shaded many more vendor booths than the evening before, and the rowdy teenagers were nowhere to be seen. Sam wanted to see a few of the recent additions being offered, so he followed her. Eclectic was the only word he could use to describe the offerings. Craft wares with wooden cacti and boxes made from New Mexico license plates, tee shirts and caps, prickly pear candy, syrup and jelly. Prickly pear wine and beer was available in a special cordoned off area overseen by a private security team and a trio of sheriff’s deputies.

He had to admit that it was quite an affair and as unique as the Hatch Chile Festival or Roswell’s UFO Festival. The town’s population of some five thousand souls had swollen considerably. Sam bought some jelly and hard candy. Mathis decided they should have commemorative tee-shirts and bought them each one.

After circulating through booths, Sam requested they have a cold beer at the prior evening’s venue. Mathis readily agreed. His Prickly Pear Festival gauge was pegged at the max. She took his hand as they strolled out of the park, chatting about the diversity of things possible from the humble prickly pear cactus.

The Arroyo Bar and Grill was as busy as it was noisy. They found a high-top table and ordered cold beer that seemed appropriate for the rising temperature outside. They visited like two old friends, each growing more comfortable as the afternoon slipped by. Curious about what the Sunday weather would be like, he slipped his cell phone from his pocket and instantly remembered the untimely death of its battery.

Sam cocked her head, observing the look on his face. He showed her the dark phone, and she laughed. She stuck out her hand, and he passed the phone to her. Now what? He watched as she reached into the ever present back pack and removed what looked like an oversized tube of pink lipstick and an eighteen-inch cable, USB connection on one end and four different charging connectors on the other. Picking the correct connector for his phone, she plugged them together. She laughed again and told him he should be better prepared.

Another beer later, his phone was completely charged with full service. Sam reached across the table and took his hands in hers. She had a plan. Sam would drive them to retrieve his truck, and he would follow her home, where she would make them dinner and contemplate Sunday activities.

The establishment had filled considerably, and there appeared to be substantially more people present than allowed by the Arroyo Fire Marshal’s occupation capacity posted on the wall. Gordy Mathis stood up and felt Sam move close. As he turned to her, she threw an arm around him, reach ed up and gave him a hard, lingering kiss. It was time to go.

A native of western Colorado's high country, Michael McLean has packed on horseback in Montana's high country wilderness, mined gold and silver thousands of feet below the earth's surface, fly-fished Yellowstone Park's blue-ribbon waters, and explored the deserts of the West. Through personal and professional experiences he has collected a wealth of information to develop story settings, plots, and characters. His work has been published in New Mexico Magazine, Rope and Wire, and The Penmen Review. His story “Backroads” was the winner of the 2012 Tony Hillerman Mystery Short Story Contest. McLean believes the less travelled and often lonely back roads of the West offer intimate access to the land, its people, and their stories. A mining engineer by profession, McLean also has technical publications to his credit. He now works in New Mexico's oil and potash-rich Permian Basin and lives in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with his wife, Sandie. “Grandfather’s Henry” is his fourth short story to appear in Saddlebag Dispatches.