Cañada de la Virgen

At last - an adventure to report.

On March 4 we donned our double masks which included an N95, and joined 5 other expats for a special visit to Cañada de la Virgen which is about 15 miles outside San Miguel de Allende.  It is a recently-excavated archeological site of the Otomí people, and our guide, Albert Coffee, is an archaeologist who helped with the excavations.  This date is special because it is when the sun sets in direct alignment with the slot in the pyramid and is considered to be the Otomí new year.  

The pyramid complex is controlled by the Federal government, but the surrounding spectacular land and canyons are privately owned by the family that produces Cañada de la Virgen organic meat.  They are committed to preserving the land, flora and fauna and have done a good job of keeping the area unspoiled.  

As you enter the ranch, the pyramid is visible in the distance. The shape of the buildings reference the mountains on the horizon. (Click on photos for larger ones.)

The buildings in the pyramid complex are constructed to provide a solar/lunar calendar to indicate the times for planting and harvesting, and the engineering and astronomical skills of these ancient people are amazing.  We could not go inside the site itself because the government closed it at 3pm, but Albert has a good relationship with the ranch owners, and they gave him special permission to enter their land later in the day.  You can read about the site here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ca%C3%B1ada_de_la_Virgen and also see a good video here: https://albertcoffeetours.com/canada-de-la-virgen/ .

Before heading off to the site, we enjoyed a lovely late lunch on a patio with great views of the surrounding land.  The pyramid is that little bump on the horizon.

Albert told us a lot about the history of the complex and then we were driven part way up to the pyramid.  While some folks got a ride up the gate, Erich and I chose to walk up the ceremonial path with Albert, who is a walking encyclopedia.  We arrived with plenty of time to watch the sun as it set behind the pyramid.  If we had been able to stand inside on the ceremonial patio, the sun would have been perfectly aligned.  From our vantage point outside the gate, it was a little off to the right.  Our only cameras were older iPhones, but we managed to capture the scene as the sun slowly set.

Hats

I am the proud owner of many a hat.
There is something to wear for wherever I'm at.

A hat for the summer,

A hat for the fall,

A hat for nary a reason at all.

I have one with big bows and one with a feather.

There is one I can wear when there's inclement weather.

A hat made of rhinestones,

A hat made of fur,

A black one, a white one, and a red one for sure.

I'm told that I am quite a vision in hats,

And I am not too shy to agree about that.

Hats for excursions,

And some just for play,

My hat is my crown, and I like it that way.

        By Pamela J. Randolph

I can't believe I sold this one.

I would eagerly marry into the British royal family just so I could wear hats.  I've always swooned over them, but I could never wear them because of my glasses.  No matter how many different styles I tried on, none of them ever looked right.  To my great disappointment, the glasses just ruined the effect.

Then around 20 years ago, I had lasik surgery to correct my vision, but it was badly botched.  Very badly botched.  At the time, I was on my way to becoming a professional travel and nature photographer, so this was a devastating development and caused me to sink into a severe depression.  The only compensation was that while my vision was not good enough to tell if my 35mm slides were sharp, I no longer needed glasses for distance.   Eventually I told myself that even if I couldn't see well, I could at least look good.  So to cheer myself up, I bought a bunch of hats.  Glorious hats.  I even had a few chances to wear them although ladies in hats were not common in Toronto.

Sold this one too.

I'm very far from being religious, but I seriously considered moving to the South and joining one of the African-American congregations famous for ladies wearing "church hats".  I think I would have fit right in.  The book Crowns is a marvelous celebration of these ladies and their (multiple) hats.

Fast forward to 2019 when we prepared to move to Mexico and had to downsize our possessions.  I sold or gave away most of my nice shoes and, I'm sad to say, a number of my more elaborate hats.  A church-going lady in Toronto bought several of them.  I never dreamed I would have any use for them in Mexico, but now I'm kicking myself for getting rid of them.  Because of Covid-19, our wonderful classical music organization has been holding its concerts outdoors during the afternoon, and it has been warm and sunny.  A perfect opportunity to wear fancy hats.  I'm very glad I kept a few of them, and I've been delighted to show them off to my fellow concert-goers.

What do you say to a horny moose?

What do you say to an amorous male moose intent on making you his blushing bride?  I tried "Go away" but that did not discourage him.  In this case, had a molestation occurred, it would have been right to blame the victim.  I admit it - I teased him.  I lured him into my camp with a homemade moose call.  He galumphed up to me, then stopped and stared as if to say "WTF?"  He was tall and gangly with a branch comically dangling from his antlers.  A young male desperate for his first meaningful experience, he reminded me of guys I dated in high school.  Eventually he realized this was not going to be his lucky day, and he slumped back into the woods with only a few wistful glances in my direction. (a closer photo at the end)

Horny moose

This encounter took place in Maine during one of my photo trips while I was searching for scenic landscapes.  Before the days of GPS, I used a road atlas to navigate, and I became fascinated with a large empty space on the map labelled the Great Heath.  My attempts to find it were frustrating as I encountered a number of dead-end roads but nothing resembling a heath.  Finally, I spotted a small area of bright red bushes and stopped to investigate.  A man in a pickup pulled up and asked me what I was doing.  I explained and asked him if this red patch was the Great Heath.  When he stopped laughing, he said "No" but he could show it to me.  He told me to follow him, so I hopped back into my SUV and headed down the road behind him.

Trail through the barrens

After a bit, we left the road and started following winding, unmarked trails through the blueberry barrens.  I started to think that following an older man way out into the middle of nowhere might not be the smartest move on my part, so I tried to spot any kind of landmark that might help me find my way out if the situation became dangerous.  "Barren" truly described the area because there was nothing there but low-bush blueberry plants and a few rocks.  We came to some woods, went through a gate onto a long gravel driveway and then emerged into a big open space where a large travel trailer was parked.  To my immense relief, a nice-looking, middle-aged woman waved to us.

Blueberry barrens

I needn't have worried.  Mr. and Mrs. Greene were delightful and were happy to show me the heath which they pronounced as "hayth".  Their land was on a high bluff overlooking an immense peat bog which was spectacular in its fall colors.  There was a lazy river winding through the bushes, and there were dark green pine trees around the edges.  I learned that at over 7,000 acres, the Great Heath, with the Pleasant River running through it is the largest peatland in the Downeast region of Maine.  It was breathtaking, and I desperately wanted to photograph it in better light. Before I could ask, the Greenes explained that they were leaving later that day but I was welcome to camp there for as long as I wanted.  Since I had outfitted my Suburban for camping, I was all set.

Great Heath and Pleasant River

The Great Heath

Early the next morning while I was taking pictures, I spotted a huge male moose down in the heath.  He was too far away to get a photo, so I quickly grabbed the moose call Mr. Greene had loaned me and started calling him.  The call was made from a plastic paint can with a small hole punched in the bottom and a rawhide cord extending out through the hole.  To use it, you hold the open end of the can toward the moose, wet your fingers and then draw them down the cord.  The sound it makes is supposed to resemble a lady moose who is "in the mood".  The bull moose definitely heard the call, turned around and took a few steps in my direction, but wouldn't come any closer.  Just then I heard footsteps coming up the gravel driveway and expected to see a person.  Instead, it was the silly young moose hurrying towards me in response to my call.  During the rutting season, a male moose can be dangerous, and he was coming much too close for comfort especially as it was obvious he was looking for love, if you know what I mean.  I tried to get a shot of him in all his male glory, but he was too close and I was jumping into the truck as fast as possible.

He paced back and forth and kept looking at me as I hid in the truck.  Eventually he backed away, so I took a chance, got out of the truck and managed to take two photos before he turned and disappeared into the woods.

Wistful moose

If I’m Not on Google Maps Do I Exist?

The U.S. government may be suing Google for antitrust violations but the rest of us are still pretty dependent on the company for a large part of our day-to-day life. And sometimes Google manages to make our lives just a little bit harder. For a year now, we have been unable to get Google Maps to recognize that our street exists. 

It’s not as if we don’t know where we live. Our little cul-de-sac has four homes and two vacant lots and Google shows a well-known casita (guesthouse) on our corner. But when restaurants, service people, and other locals try to find us, we don’t show up. To complicate matters further, there is a cerrada with the same name and number as our privada elsewhere in town. And of course that one is on Google Maps, so people go the wrong address and ask, “where are you?” We now must send maps, spanish address directions, and WhatsApp location links to give people a fighting chance of finding us. 

The Garmin (its a Taiwanese company) GPS in our car knows exactly where we are, down to the accent mark. But Google is apparently reluctant to add us, despite multiple requests and applications, including photos. To add to our insult,  Google Maps exactly pinpoints a location for a supermarket that hasn’t been built and according to local people doesn’t even have permits yet. 

Google Ergo Sum

[This is a guest post written by my husband Erich Almasy]

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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