Anxious Moments, by Phillip Hoyle

When I heard the sound of the rattle I froze. Here alone with no one knowing I had even gone anywhere. My day off. No one at home. No cell phones. Late March afternoon on the West Mesa across the river from Albuquerque. I’d come here alone to look at the petroglyphs so I could look and look without anyone becoming bored or impatient. I’d started up a trail I’d never walked following its diagonal slope across the steep south exposure when I realized I really wanted to be off the path searching out there where no one was likely to have looked. And now I heard this surprising sound. It was too cold to worry over snakes, yet the distinctive, bone-chilling sound was from a rattlesnake. Where was it? I searched the large rock I was standing on. I studied the sage brush, rubber rabbit bushes, snake weed, and yuccas in every direction. I saw nothing, but recalled all too clearly my Scout training that had taught me these places make snakes hard to see. I wondered just how close the snake might be hoping it had moved away. I moved slightly. No sound. I waved my arms. The rattle resumed, and then stopped when I stopped. I moved my arms periodically hoping to discover just where the rattler had coiled. No such luck. I supposed my shadow had tipped off the snake in the first place. Recalling what I’d learned about snakes I realized it probably didn’t know where I was, just aware that I’d caused a shadow. Even though I couldn’t see a snake I knew not to step forward.

I’d go back the way I had come, but since I had been climbing slightly upward I’d have to go down, not a good thing in this rugged terrain. I knew a man who once stepped over a rock right onto a rattler. He got bit. Not me. I figured if I walked up hill to rejoin the well-travelled trail, (you know zag after my zig) I could then continue. I would walk uphill toward my shadow hoping not to see a snake, yet hoping to see one before it saw me. Did I want to be that close? No. Gingerly—no word for an outdoors adventurer but acutely accurate for this city slicker’s picking his way through the wilderness—I made my way ridiculously waving my arms like a windmill. Within a few yards I was startled to see the tail of a snake disappear into what I surmised was its den in the hillside. The snake had apparently been sunning on his front porch before being rudely interrupted by this quaking interloper. I was then super alert to my surroundings, and on my way up to the safety of the trail, I spotted two more disappearing snake tails. I must have been in a suburban Rattlesnake village.

Back on the trodden path I continued to the top of the mesa still alert to everything I could see to be afraid of. At the top there was mostly shade on the ground, no rattlesnake chaise lounges that I could see. I continued to a wide gully on the north side and reasoned I could safely descend where there had been no sunshine for quite a long time and probably no front porches at all. With relief but still quite a bit of anxiety running through my body, I picked a place to descend and had walked about two thirds of the way to the bottom when a loud crackling sent me almost into a panic. I saw with relief that I had frightened a rabbit. Still, several lower-body organs seemed caught in my throat. I laughed at myself the rest of the way down the hill where I was pleased to view some petroglyphs along the base of the escarpment even ones that had been viewed by thousands of other people. I really just needed to look at them, not discover new ones. Several were beautiful, and I was pleased none of them pictured rattlesnakes.

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

The City I Left My Heart In, by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t want to croon this, but “I left my heart in Albuquerque.” At least I feel that way from time to time. The place was my home for several years, the scene of important work and changes, and the romantic geographical focus of my dreams.

In 1990 I left woeful central Missouri with its extreme weather, stressful job, and joyless culture and headed west on the train to my destination in the high mountain steppes of New Mexico. The train pulled in five hours late, but my family was waiting and took me to our new home in the Northeast Heights at the beautiful Mesa del Oso townhome community. The furniture was already in place set up by my family who had arrived several days earlier. Folk from the church had supplied food for the first few days. Their hospitality marked the beginning of a rich relationship with a congregation and community.

The church was fine, the first congregation I had ever loved as so many clergy claim about their churches. Its buildings were Mission and Pueblo Revival styles, its program diverse, its music-making an important focus, its involvement in the larger community significant, and its theology and attitude more liberal than any congregation with which I had worked. I liked the folk who at a welcoming reception greeted me and my family with Southwestern fare and stood around talking to us and each other with such intensity and animation as to seem like the gathering was a cocktail party. These people liked one another. I liked them, a gathering of professionals from diverse fields. I easily fit in since, like most of them, I too came from the middle part of the country. Their liberality seemed to spring from the fact that they had left the Midwest and set roots far away from the small towns of their origins. They were affable, tolerant, generous, and inventive. And I liked them and was pleased for years to work with them in various capacities.

The city had a different look when contrasted with Kansas, Texas, or Missouri where I had lived. The look, arising largely from the preponderance of flat-roofed adobe-style houses, appealed to me. This unusual city sat in the morning shadow of the Sandia Mountains, sprawling from the edge of the alpine wilderness across the flats of the Rio Grande River. One of America’s oldest cities, the place enjoyed a rich history, the diversity of which was reflected in the names of city streets, last names in the phone directory, and lots of Hispanic and Native American people living there. My Indian fantasies were constantly fed by western clothing, Native American jewelry, and tribal pottery. The Arts figure large in Albuquerque, and I loved living in such an atmosphere. Working just a couple of blocks from the University of New Mexico, I was surrounded with creative and bright people in a multi-cultural atmosphere with overtones of being progressive.

There weren’t any little cable cars but a huge tram scaled the side of the tallest Sandia peak. At the top, over 10,000 feet above sea level, I certainly felt halfway to the stars. From there the city views impressed and the far stretch of mountains and desert thrilled me. I especially loved the fact that even down below in the town when one drove the major thoroughfares always there were mountains. To the west one saw in the mid-ground five cinder cones of ancient volcanoes and in the distance the snowcapped Mt. Taylor. Driving south one viewed desert mountains that defined the flow of the Rio Grande. To the north lay high mesas and distant peaks, including the Sangre de Christos and the northwestern end of the Sandias. The eastern view featured the massive barrier of the Sandia and Manzano Mountain ranges.

Old Town always called to me, especially when I felt frustrated with work or just plain lazy. I enjoyed walking its unusual streets, looking at its architectural mix that included the 17^th century San Felipe de Neri church, and strolling through its shops full of curios and artwork, clothing and furniture. I liked sitting on its plaza and patios sipping a Coke or coffee while watching the crowds, hearing the variety of languages, and wondering what curiosities brought people there. In some ways, going to Old Town was like leaving the country.

My five years in Albuquerque were rich with relationships. My children enjoyed the place for several months before they went on their ways into adulthood. Eventually one returned with his new family! More distant family members visited along with friends from several states. We kept a very busy house almost like hosts in a bed and breakfast. We made new friends there among co-workers, congregational members, and neighbors. Among our closest were white, black, brown, and red folk (if you will excuse this racial shorthand) who each brought special gifts of culture and love into our home. We entertained rich and poor, single and married, troubled and calm, funny and dour. We lived it up with an array of writers, musicians, dancers, artists, actors, engineers, lawyers, professors, athletes, teachers, doctors, clergy, plumbers, opera fans, office managers, and food service providers. We ate a mixed cuisine and danced to a variety of music. Albuquerque had a lot to offer and we took advantage of its special blend of entertainments.

In addition to these qualities and folk, I had my own personal adventures with friendships, a couple of which became sexualized. They transformed me and taught me more about myself than I had up to that time realized. They also put a strain on my marriage. My activities and loves were not overlooked by my wife. We both learned a lot about me in Albuquerque, and we both have abiding friendships from there to add to our own continuing post-divorce friendship.

Eventually we moved, my wife and I, to her family farm to help out with her folks. Then I applied for another church job, my final one, in another state. I hated leaving Albuquerque and strongly considered returning there after my marital separation. Eventually though I realized while the city was wonderful and had been in some ways the location of my great changes, I needed another even larger place. So I followed my heart to Denver, Colorado, the place I plan to live out my years and eventually leave my ashes.  I don’t know if Albuquerque could ever again be my home, but some winter days when my knees ache I think I might be more comfortable down there where the winters are even milder than here.

© 5 January 2012 

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com