Packing heat in the desert

The day before I arrived in Arizona back in 1998, a large number of illegal aliens were arrested trying to cross the desert near Organ Pipe National Park, which was exactly where I planned to go following a short visit with my father.  Because I was traveling alone and planning to camp, Dad told me terrible stories about what happens to women driving alone in the desert and pleaded with me not to venture anywhere near the border.  But that's where the spectacular scenery and wildflowers were supposed to be, so I stubbornly insisted on going.  Finally he said, "Well, if I can't change your mind, then you have to take my gun!" and he handed me his pistol.  After showing me how to use it, he said, "Have you got a belt?"  I looked puzzled and he exclaimed with exasperation, "Well, how the hell else are you going to carry it?"  Apparently in Arizona it is illegal to carry a concealed weapon but perfectly acceptable to walk around with one displayed in a holster on your hip.  After much arguing, I eventually consented to take the gun with me, stuffed it into my already overloaded camera backpack, and went out into the desert packing heat.  It didn't occur to me that I might have to use it.

Organ Pipe Cactus

(Click on photos for larger versions)

Antelope grazing

I had no problems at all in the fabulous Organ Pipe National Park even though I spent a lot of time right next to the border which had just a rickety barbed wire fence to mark it.  After a few days there, I proceeded to Big Bend National Park in Texas, situated right on the Rio Grande.  I had a lovely drive there seeing herds of antelope racing through the grasslands they shared with herds of cattle.

Big Bend is massive and I never saw a park ranger the whole time I was there.  After reading about a scenic canyon carved out by the river, I went there to explore and take photos.  There were three or four cars in the parking lot and a trail to follow along the edge of the canyon.  I hiked to the end where I saw a few people, then set up my tripod to take some photos.

While I was taking pictures, a young man, younger than me, approached me and tried to strike up a conversation.  I had no interest in talking with him, so I told him I was a professional photographer on assignment and had no time to chat.  He came back a couple of times, acting a bit odd, and I was not pleased to realize he was trying to pick me up.  Each time I told him I was too busy to talk and he would wander away.  While I was preoccupied with my camera, I failed to notice that the other people had left, leaving me alone in the canyon with this guy.  He eventually started back up the trail toward the parking lot, the only way out of the canyon, so when I finished taking pictures, I started hiking out too.  After a bit, I looked ahead and was concerned to see him waiting for me along the trail. I quickly set up my tripod and pretended to take pictures, and once again he walked out of view up the trail.  This happened a second time, so by now I was worried about his intentions.  I took the aforementioned pistol out of my backpack, put it in a fanny pack I was wearing in front, and left the zipper open for easy access.  After giving him a lot more time to leave, I started out again.  Just as I came around a turn, he popped out from behind a large boulder and said "How about we do lunch?"  It was 3:00 in the afternoon and there wasn't a restaurant for a couple of hundred miles.  I backed away from him with my hand on the gun inside the fanny pack and told him that my husband was meeting me in the parking lot.  This seemed to discourage him and he walked away yet again.  After waiting for what seemed like forever, I warily hiked out to the parking lot and was relieved to see he wasn't there.  I'm not a violent person, but I will defend myself from someone trying to harm me, so in an area where there were no other humans to help me, I was comforted knowing I had some way of protecting myself.  Still, I would have preferred to concentrate on shooting pictures instead of having to worry about shooting at him.

Tripods don't work in quicksand

I learned this lesson while shooting at Mont St. Michel on the coast of Normandy in France.  I planned my two-day visit to the monastery to coincide with the full moon and even had a computer program telling me exactly where to expect the sun and moon to appear at any given hour.  Unfortunately, in spite of all the technology assisting me, the weather ruined my preconceived images because the coast was totally socked in by fog and heavy rain clouds as front after front blew through.

Giving up on dramatic sun and moon photos, I tried for a moody shot taken at low tide with a wide angle lens showing a huge expanse of sand in front of the monastery with a leading line formed by the last trickle of the receding water.  Donning my green Wellies, I hiked out onto the formerly submerged sand to get the appropriate angle.  I had seen signs warning about quicksand, but I walked carefully and had no problems as I found the suitable position.  I set up my gear and then waited for the racing clouds to part in just the right way to put a little light on the building.  And waited.  And waited.  Letting my mind wander... I was brought back to reality when I saw my camera and tripod moving, drifting slowly to the right and down.  It was sinking!  And so was I.  My feet had sunk so much that my insteps were completely covered with quicksand.  I extricated the tripod and then, with visions of being stuck there as the tide came in, I tried to free myself, which took quite an effort and almost ended up with me seated in the sand.  Finally, with a giant sucking sound, my feet came free and I retreated to firmer ground.    (Click on photos for larger versions.)

RIP Jean Henrietta Gundersen Blanton

My mother passed away on Monday, July 13, 2020 at age 96.  She had been in poor physical and mental health for a long time, so her passing was surely a blessing for her and a relief from her pain.  Still, I am sad.  (Click on photos for larger versions.)

Age 3

Jean was born on December 5, 1923 in Everett, MA.  She was a surprise addition to her family and her brother and sisters were much older.  Mom was a good student and very active in Rainbow Girls, reaching the level of Grand Worthy Advisor.  She graduated from Tufts (Jackson College for Women) in 1944 and spoke both French and German.

She looked for work in New York City but was unable to find anything, so when her older sister asked her to go to Brazil to tutor her nieces, she jumped at the chance for adventure.

Romance in Brazil

Cowgirl on the farm

She probably got more adventure than she bargained for because that's where she met my father, Gerald Blanton.  They returned to Oklahoma, where my father was from, and proceeded to have two children, me in 1948 and my brother Jerry in 1951. Later in 1951 they purchased a small farm near Shawnee, OK.  Sadly, after a lot of work to get the farm in shape, it all blew away in a tornado on May 1, 1954.  We barely escaped with our lives. (See an earlier post for the story.)

My sister Melissa, who spent the last few years caring for Mom, came along in 1956.

All dressed for Easter

Later years involved a move to California and then Maryland where she lived for a long time.  They were not kind years in many ways because of the end of her marriage and because she suffered from extreme depression and anxiety.  Her only real joy was her beloved grandson, Paul Selby. I don't have photos of her from those years.






My last photo is from 2018 when the ravages of dementia had already begun to take a toll.







I prefer to think of Mom when she was in her radiant youthful years even though I did not know her then.

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