"No, No, No, No!" I yell in a high whining voice.
The front tires are beginning to snowplow. The rear tires are spinning in the sand. I'm about to get stuck in a wide sandy arroyo, west of the Dragoons.
I'm close to being royally fucked.
I press down hard on the accelerator. Got to keep moving. Can't stop. Can't stop. Got to find some hard ground so I can turn around. I speed up, bouncing all over the dry riverbed. How in the hell did I end up here?
[Answer: On my U.S. Forest Service map, there are two marked jeep trails that go to Council Rocks and Knob Hill on the west side of the Dragoons. The dirt road out of Tombstone is very wash- boardy, and I'm looking for an alternative route. The first jeep trail south of the small Mormon town of St. David appears to now be the main dirt road that enters a luxury home site area called Dragoon Mountain Ranch. No entry without a key code. So I went back to St. David and got on the second jeep trail, just north of town. Just a few minutes ago, the road split. To the right, a steep incline to what appears to be the high flatness of a low mesa; to the left, the road went into a very wide wash. I went left. A little soft soil at first but not too bad. Then within less than a mile, I notice that bad sound of wheels spinning.]
I'm flying, driving wild, looking for solid land. After what seems like a half mile but was probably only a few hundred yards, the road veers close to the arroyo wall, and the ground looks harder. I stop and do the fastest three-point turn I've ever done, not wanting to loose any momentum as all. Now I'm flooring it again, heading out of the wash, going about 25 miles an hour when 10 would be better. Bouncing, rattling, wheels still spinning, fishtailing here and there but going forward. Off to my right, I quickly see two middle aged women in long dresses digging in the dirt. What are they looking for? Why are they digging? No time to ponder. Must focus. I'm almost out now. I don't think I'm going to bog down. I think I'm going to get out.
Then, I'm back to where the road splits, safe and sound.
"Thank you, Jesus," I say.
Up I go now, taking the high road, climbing to the flats above, driving on this very narrow track. In the distance I can see the peaks of Cochise's Stronghold, the breast shaped form of Knob Hill, and the granite rock faces of Council Rocks. I stop and look at my map again. Looks like the jeep trail will skirt Knob Hill to the north and then swing south to Council Rocks. Excellent.
I love most parts of the desert, but this area, I can tell ya, won't be called a particular pretty part of the Sonoran Desert in any AAA guides. Just creosote and nothing much else. No cactus, except some very small pencil Cholla here and there. No Palo Verde trees. The rare Mesquite tree every so often. Flat. A little rocky. Pretty barren. Just thousands of creosote bushes in all directions. Not bad going in the truck, though. This jeep trail though is only wide enough for one vehicle. I doubt I'll see anyone today but if I come face to face with another truck, one of us is going to have to bushwhack into the creosote.
A half hour goes by. I'm steadying getting closer and closer to the Dragoons. I can see more and more definitions in the granite faces up ahead. Then I see a fence and a gate blocking my path. There is a sign on the gate, but I can't read it yet, but I can guess. I just have a feeling.
"I bet it's locked," I say out loud.
As I near the gate, I drive under some high voltage power lines. Tall white numbered steel towers run north/south, spaced a couple of hundred yards apart. Another jeep trail is to my left and right, the service road used by the power company if they need to work on the lines. I stop and get out of my truck and walk to the gate. I get to the chain that is wrapped around the gate and a post, and I grab the padlock. It's locked. I don't even bother to yank on it. I read the sign attached to the gate. It is small, metal, yellow and new.
'Property of Dragoon Mountain Ranch. Entry only with permission.'
"Son of a bitch!" I say to myself. No structures, other than the power line towers are anywhere in sight. No houses. Just grass, creosote and power lines. Shit.
I suddenly know what I must have felt like for the Apaches, when they were riding across the land only to be hindered by barbed wire fences raised by invading ranchers. I understand why they just cut the fences and rode on. If I had a bolt cutter handy, I would gladly pop this chain. But sadly, no bolt cutter today.
It's around noon. It's hot. 100 degrees plus. Winds picking up. What to do? I eye the power company's jeep trail and decide to take it south. On my map, I see the other jeep trail that I couldn't get to earlier this morning, the one with the keypad, the one owned by the same company that's just denied me entrance here. Maybe I can get to the Dragoons from that road, now that I've bypassed the front gate. Or I can just get back to the main highway, without having to retrace my steps. I put it in gear and begin the bizarre up and down driving of this odd track. Weird to be driving mostly in a straight line when only the power lines above me, dictate this, not the lay of the land beneath my tires.
Within a half hour, I can see a wide dirt road up ahead, then a fence, then a large gate, than what appears to be..…another keypad. I drive up to the keypad and read another sign that said "Dragoon Mountain Ranch, enter code for entrance". I have no code, no key, no nothing. I don't even cuss this time. I just turn around and head toward State Highway 80, on this wide washboarded dirt road. Worse that can happened if I'll have to wait at the Big Front Gate of the Dragoon Mountain Ranch until someone comes along and lets me out.
This is turning out to be one fucked up day.
The next day, Father's Day:
Michael and I are hanging out near his car after lunch in the shade of a strip mall on the eastside of Tucson. A number of us go to this high end sandwich shop called Beyond Bread after the meetings on Sunday, to eat Roast Beef, or have a bowl of soup in a bowl made of bread, or perhaps get a mean sugar buzz from their devilish cinnamon rolls. Basically, it's just a coffee klatch with folk from the Rooms. (Today's lunch chitchat ranged from conversations regarding the juvenile court system and the skyrocketing cost of buying a home in Tucson to the NBA Finals.) I saw and talk with some folk, not friends for not everyone at these luncheons are close friends. Not because we don't like and care about each other. It's just because I don't most of them except in the contest at the meetings. Michael often says we have upside down relationships in the Rooms.
"I know that you were sexually molested by your father, but I don't know if you are a Republican or a Democrat," he would say.
It is often after lunch that Michael and I talk while hanging by his car. Michael had a bad motorcycle accident 25 plus years ago, and for the last 5 or 10 years, he has been in a wheelchair, due to an inoperable cyst that is growing around his spine. He has straight black hair with only a slight graying. He always dresses nice. He has great skin, and that's coming from a very heterosexual amn. He also exudes a lot of sexual energy. He can't help it. It's just who he is. All the girls in the Rooms want to have sex with him. Drives his girlfriend crazy. He's a good man. He only sleeps with her.
I told Michael about my adventures in the sandy wash east of St. David on Saturday and my anger at locked gates in the middle of nowhere. I also talked about my anger about where I see America is heading in.
"I came up with a name for this time in history, " I said, "It's the Age of American Entitlement."
"Yep, we are living in a Second Gilded Age," Michael said.
"I gotta tell ya, Michael, I'm concerned with myself lately. Hearing Jesse this morning, talking about how we often blame others for what's going on in us, really struck home. I really gotta figure out a way not to get so fucking anger at how selfish and narcissistic people have become. I came up with an idea of sending love instead of judgment when I see rudeness or inconsiderate behavior, but yesterday, when a driver cut me off, I said 'Here's some fucking Love, you goddamn asshole.' I don't think that's exactly what I want to be doing." I chuckle at myself.
"And the thing is I can't change any of them or any of this or anything. I need to just accept it, to some degree. But I've got to find a way to not be so damn angry. This anger, this…"
I just stop in mid sentence and shake my head. I don't know what else to say. I just know I'm in some emotional trouble.
Michael simply looks at me with kindness.
I never made it to the Council Rocks yesterday. Best thing to come out of that trip was I figured out why my front wheels were pulling to the left. It wasn't because the mechanic made it worst by doing a bad front end alignment. He just messed up by over inflating the tires. I let a bunch of air out of the front tires, getting them back to 35 pounds and now there is no pull at all.
I'm driving south from Benson now, on State Road 90. Going to give it another try. Going to go in the front door of the Western Stronghold, via the bone rattling road east of Tombstone. I have no choice. I know that now.
I pass two Border Patrol checkpoints, one on the road to Sierra Vista and another just north of Tombstone. I'm heading south, so I'm not stopped. I'm playing Coldplay's Live CD loud. I sing along as best I can. (I'm late to the party on Coldplay. Don't know their songs yet.) When I hit the washboard road out of Tombstone, I leave Coldplay blaring on my truck stereo system. It helps, their songs drowning out the truck rattles. And their songs of good heartedness also seem to help my mood too.
Before too long, I'm on the jeep trail that I was on, only about a month ago, that heads to Council Rocks and the Western Stronghold. I have the Rollei and the hoop with Christmas lights with me as well as my Brownie. I even filled up the Zippo with lighter fluid just in case. The plan is to be out here after dark. Moon's almost full. Could be a good night, if It stays clear.
Everything is pretty much the same as a month ago, except I have some more knowledge about the area now. Yes, Cochise and his band did sign the Treaty with the Americans here. Also, from a website called www.landofcochise.com, I discovered that a retiree named George has not only documented where perhaps Cochise and his Apache Lieutenants discussed peace (The Council Rocks), but also he has found the illusive large rock near where Cochise held his own family camp during those times. The Council Rocks are somewhat well known. Cochise's Rock is not. George doesn't tell us exactly where Cochise's Rock is. He did post some pictures on his website though. I printed those out and I figured, I'll be able to find Cochise's Rock by doing a little triangulation, using these images. I emailed George too, and he wrote back, very graciously offering to take me to Cochise's Rock if I like. He sounds like a nice man. If I don't find Cochise's Rock myself, I may take him up on this offer.
I drive past where I stopped and climbed a month ago (see "Council Rocks": pages 11- 13). After a few more miles, I see a ranch house off in the distance. Soon after that sighting, I take a right on another side dirt path. Doesn't look like a driveway. Soon, I'm stopped in my truck by….. A Locked Gate. I pull over and park the truck. After muttering a few choice words, I jump the fence and begin investigating the area. The adobe ruins of an old farmhouse are close by but of little interest to me. (Later, I found out that supposedly, Boss Tweed from New York City hide out for years in this house, after he absconded with thousands in cash from New York. Others say that it's just a myth.) I slowly walk toward a group of twenty-foot tall boulders. I'm not comfortable. I know I'm trespassing and I'm aware of it. I get to the four large boulders. I notice a couple of feathers near the base of one. Looks like Turkey Vulture feathers, one a long pinfeather, the other a shorter wing feather. I drop the small feather and keep the pin. I then climb one of the large rocks and as I crest the top, I'm immediately in view of the ranchhouse. I squat down on the rock and then I climb back down.
"Not here, Stu," says the quiet voice within.
I'm with you. This ain't the place to be.
I get back to the truck and head further north, past more gates, more signs, more fences. I look at my map. White means Private Land. Green means National Forest Land. I'm in a little pocket of White.
"I am so fucking tired of fences," I say to no one in particular. I'm just pissed and trying to breathe through it. I turn around after a while and head back south, thinking, I'll stop along the way and bushwhack into the rocks, like I did a month ago. I do just that, stop and park just south of the ranch on public land, do a quick cross-country walk through the bear grass, but quickly realize, this ain't the place either.
Then, in my mind's eye, I see a road just up a piece, off to the left, that I passed on the way in. And it feels right.
I get back in my Pathfinder, start it up, and head toward that road. Literally, within seconds, there it is. The truck steers itself down the road. A sign soon says "No Camping". I'm not camping. I'm good. Around a corner I go, and then suddenly, I'm in a small turnaround, surround by tall beautiful Live Oak trees. I park the truck, and get out. To the east, is old wire fence with a large hole in it. Leaning up against the fence is a posted memorandum and a small version of the map I have been using on my journey. I read the memo. It appears that in 1990, they closed this area to campers, campfires, etc., but it seems that hiking is just fine. Finally, a gate that isn't locked, a fence that is open, a memo that is only limiting some of what I can do.
Thank you, God.
I head back to the truck, grab my CamelBak water pack, my Brownie, my smokes and a Olawalla Mega Berry bar, and head toward the break in the fence.
Interesting. I can tell this area was overused at some point, but now it's doing OK. The trail is wider than it needs to be and there are little loop trails that aren't really necessary but in the 15 years since they closed the area to campers, a lushness has returned. I take the first right fork and then another right and within minutes I'm accidentally off the trail. Didn't really mean for that to happen. I look up and see large boulders above and know that's where I want to go. The incline on the boulders are mild, even though it/s becoming more and more apparent that my hiking boots need replacing. I just have no traction on these granite boulders.
Up I go, threading my way toward these two large boulders and now I'm on the trail again. I arrive at these two house sized boulders. A sheltering space is created between the two huge rocks. I wonder if people used to use this area to get out of the storm.
Then suddenly I see something I didn't expect. It's the back of a small government marker that you see on more well traveled trails, that give you a bit of history of the area or a bit of information on a nearby plant. I walk to it and read it.
Top of the small placard says "Council Rocks". It gives some Apache history and then mentions that the pictographs were probably made by the Mogollon people 1000 years ago and the metate holes for grinding grains were probably from that period too.
What pictographs? What metates?
And then I see them.
On the right boulder that I have just walked under, on the part of the stone that hangs over into the space is a collection of red pictographs. Faded yet still vibrant in their own way. Bold zig zag lines. Three circles within a circle. And two human-like figures, each with six limbs instead of four.
"Oh my God, " I say with astonishment.
And I immediately begin to cry. Not just a few tears running down my cheek. I begin to quake. Why am I crying so much, I think to myself? I check in to myself, but I don't really know. I'm just crying and sobbing. Still weeping, I walk toward the pictographs and place my hand gently over the drawing of the three red circles. I'm not crying loud now, but tears are still flowing strong. I walk to my right and find two holes in the stone, two circular metates, used for grinding nuts. Perhaps pinon tree nuts. I step back and look at the pictographs again. I begin to cry hard again.
"I'm so glad to finally get here," I quietly speak. "I'm so blessed to be here. I think I might be crying because so many people over so many years have been here. I'm more moved by the Mogollon people's drawings right now, than of knowing that Cochise once camped here." A small smile breaks on my face.
"Thank you," I quietly say to this rock and then I say it again, turning to the large rocks around me, and then I say it again to the canyon to the east, and the grassy plain below me.
"Thank you. Thank you."
After clicking off a single triptych, I shoulder my water, and following the trail that winds up into the narrow canyon before me. I'm no longer crying. It's getting late in the afternoon. I stand and look west and measure how much Sun I have left (The width of my hand is one hour of Sun). Looks like 2 1/2 hours until sunset. An hour or so until the Magic Hour. Hmm. And I want to drive some hoop dancing at dusk too. I can't hike long up this canyon. Just a little up and back.
I grab from my CamelBak the printer photos from www.landofcochise.com and scan the area for rocks that look like Cochise's Rock or the Council Rocks. I walk a bit, comparing here and there and notice that dozens of rocks look similar but none are an exact match. I put away the photos. I think who knows? Whose to say that the photos that were taken when Tom Jeffords brought up that pretty girl at the turn of the last century are correct. Tom is known for embellishing his own story from time to time, I think to myself. Does it really matter if I find the exact stone where supposedly Cochise talked with his men or the exact rock near where he and his family camped? Sure, it would be cool to find them but just look around. There are many places where men could meet and talk, where a family could bed down, where horses could be corralled. This whole area, this whole Council Rocks area is strong with the echoes of the people who once have lived. Strong. I close my eyes and stretch my arms out from my sides. I breath deeply in. It's almost loud with silence of human echoes.
As I walk past more large groupings of boulders, more natural amphitheaters here and there, more small rock shelters, I can feel a hum to this place. Like bees, but without a sound. A good buzzing, but still a hum.
I've been many places old and new in my life. I have never felt a hum like this before. Odder still, the hum seems to be both coming from within me and from around me.
I'm heading back now. Just a short sojourn up, under large stones, scampering up others, taking a picture now and then. But the sun of going down, and I have hoop dancing to prepare for.
I take side trails now, heading back to Two Red People Rock. Not far. Then I stop to look at a tall rock face to the south. It was just on the top of that foothill that I took my first Council Rock shots a month ago, having no idea, that just below me and around a corner of the road, was this wonderland of rock and spirit.
In front of me is a circular area of sandy ground with no grass or vegetation growing on it. Ants, I bet. Yep. I can see many red ants strolling out of a large flat hole to my right. Perhaps a spiral I think. Is that OK, Cochise? Spirits? Indians? Whoever? I turn and look around at the rocks.
"Is a spiral OK? I mean no disrespect." I say to the air. "The ants will smooth it out within a day," remembering a similar spiral at Catalina State Park years ago.
I listen and I hear neither a yes or a no coming from the hills. I'll take that as a yes. I grab an old piece of a yucca stalk and break it over my knee. I make a stick about six inch long. Should work just fine.
While drawing the spiral in the sand, my boots, a number of times, collapse into hidden ant caves below. It was only a few inches drop but it's still startling to know that I'm standing on a greatlt honeycombed area. And each time my foot went in the ground, you better believe I look to see if hordes of red ants were pouring out around my boot, but no. No Ants. Just a hole. I consider coming back after dark and doing a flame spiral here about the sand spiral, then I reconsider. That was then. This is now. Just doesn't feel right. I'd rather dance.
I click off a vertical diptych. A bit dicy this image. Light's shifts from deep sharp shadows to soft light. I look at the Sun. It's moving in and out of a thin cloud near the horizon. That's all it takes. I compose the image and wait and wait and wait some more for the light to come back. It does and I hesitate and it's gone. I wait again and when the strong light return, I don't dally. Pop the first exposure. Advance the film. Compose the second vertical image. Pop it. Advance. And then just look at the spiral. I walk around it, looking at it from all angles. Most angles, the imperfections of the spiral comes through, drawing my eye to details I don't want to lsee (Back in Art School in the 70's, I used to call those things on my sculptures that inadventantly drew my eye, Visual Turds, or VTs for short.) But as I came back to where I started, where I shot the spiral with my Brownie, the imperfections become harmonious, the spiral has a good line, all seems right.
Making a two-dimensional image from a three dimensional object is one of the great lies of photography. A photo is never the object, the person, the place. It is a visual dream, a mile post that shows us where we are going, or where we have been or where we are. You look at a picture of your girlfriend taken weeks ago and you remember back to how you loved her last night, how her skin felt, how she kisses, how she makes loves, how she laughs. But in the photograph, it's just her smiling face in a park in your hometown, taken on a sunny day last month. The image creates the dream inside of you, inside of me, inside of all of us.
All photography is a lie or a mystery or a dream, depending on your point of view. It's the beautiful nature of the beast.
So with this spiral, you won't see the lumpy backside, or the bad angle to the west. Nope. You'll just see the good southern exposure, and the rocks beyond. At least that's what I hope you'll see. That's a mystery too. This isn't a digital camera that I can hit a button and see what I just shot. It's a 50 year old Kodak Brownie, loaded with high silver black and white film produced in Croatia.
Time to get back to the truck and get the hoop and the Rollei and find the place where I'll hoop-dance tonight. I stop along the way to shot another diptych of the rocks. I usually shot a couple exposures of each image, to cover my bases, but today, I'm happy with one shot, one image. Don't know why. May simply be because the experience here at Council Rocks is far outweighing anything I think I could possibly get on film. Maybe it's because I just don't want to shot a lot, for I'm low on Efke 127 Black and White. Maybe it's because I'm putting all my hope on the hoop dancing shots from later tonight. Don't know. Doesn't matter. Just is.
I approach the red pictographs again, on my way back to the truck. No tears but still a big lump of emotion inside of me. Feeling the hum. I place a hand on the 3 circles in a circles again. I take a deep breath. I've seen many a petrogylph in my day in the American Southwest, but pictographs are rare to me. And precious too. Petroglyphs are images craved into the stone, while pictographs are images painted onto the stone with primitive paints and dyes. Pictographs seem more fragile, and vulnerable, ever the more amazing that they have survived 1000 years. True, I've seen stone petroglychs destroyed and damaged by those who scrapped images, names and initials over the carvings, but they just seem sturdier than the painterly pictograph. My hand is very gently touching the circles. I look over to my left at the two figures with the extra arms. The fingers on the people are so delicately painted. I tear up again.
I leave the figures and head down the trail to my truck. No rock hopping this time, like I did coming up. Using the trail and happy to be. I see my truck, just off and down a ways. Then I look down and see something that I immediately recognize but haven't seen since I walked near some Anasazi ruins in Northern Arizona years ago.
Craved foot holes.
There, in the trail, are holes chiseled into the rock, like small steps assisting the climber's ascent. Deep yet narrow. These were not done by the Apaches. They were nomads. These were done by the Mogollon Indians, 1000 years ago. I think to myself, it isn't really necessary to make notches here. It's not that steep. And then I looked again. The foot holes are pretty close together. I walk down and see more foot holes, and then I think, there are some folk that these steps would help a lot, and maybe provide a small bit of safety too.
The little children being called to dinner.
The old woman carrying water up to camp.
The injured man trying to get home to rest.
There are people other than the healthy that could use a little help climbing up and getting home.
And then I thought of the men who carved these steps. They didn't really need them for themselves. They could easily climb up to the rock shelters above. They did this for the tribe, for their young kids, their hardworking wives, their elderly mothers, their sickly dads. They did it for others, not for themselves. And I bet they weren't even ask to do it. They just did it. They just carved the steps.
Magic hour has arrived. Less than a half hour till sunset, I'm guessing.
I'm at the Pathfinder. I drop the CamelBak and the Brownie into the backseat, and grab my tripod, my Rollei, and a sturdy wire hoop with 100 battery powered Christmas lights wrapped and taped around its shape. I leave my smokes in the truck. Just camera, hoop and tripod. I'll smoke later.
Up I climb back to the Council Rocks and beyond. I touch the red paint circles as I stroll by them. Seems to be becoming a bit of a talisman for me, to touch the pictographs. I remember three boulders up a bit that might work in a nocturnal shot. I find them and walk 360 degrees around them, look for the angle. I don't see it. I grab my twin lens Rollei, remove the lens cap and check out more angles. The cracks in the rocks are too thin, the rocks too big. It just ain't gonna work.
Then I see four yucca plants, then the cliffs behind them, then a twenty foot boulder to the west of them, then it all together. I smile and nod. This is the angle. I confirm it with a brief look through the viewfinder of my Rollei.
The setting up takes so little time that even I'm amazed. Usually the leveling of the tripod, the slight tweaking of the angle, the composing of the elements, the focusing at 2/3s, takes a while. Not this time. Just a little adjustment of the tripod, a slight leveling of the Rollei to improve the composition and the focus was there in an instant.
I walk behind the Yuccas with my hoop in hand and do a few dry runs. The weight of the batteries that light the bulbs is perfect, creating a wonderful momentum with each swing of my arm. I can swing the hoop high and low and it feels smooth and effortless. After a couple of trips back and forth, I feel like I'm ready.
The sun hasn't set so I have a little time. I put a dark red 092 filter on the Rollei's lens. I'll hoop dance some, right after sunset, without the moon first and then as it gets dark, I'll remove the filter and let the Moon light the yuccas and the mountains beyond. That's the plan. The red filter shots are an experiment. May or may not work. But the moonlight and late dusk images I've done before. Those should work. But there is always some mystery involved in all of my shooting. Frankly, if my nocturnal images (and the Brownies too) were always predictable and locked in, I don't think I would enjoy making these photographs. I remember hearing a Pro at Photographic Works once say that he knew exactly what he was going to get each time he shot. I thought at the time 'How sad'.
I push the four switches on the battery packs to the 'on' position to see if all of the bulbs light up. Good. They do. I check the focus one more time. Look good too. Soon I can begin hoop dancing with the red filter and then later some night dancing. This could be a lot of fun.
I lay the hoop on top of a rock behind my camera and then walk to some large rocks that jut out into a space south of the main plataeu of Council Rocks. I hop across from rock to rock until I'm standing on the far boulder. I can see the Sun now, just a few minutes before is goes behind the Rincon Mountains. I glance and smile as I see the light hoop with its little clear lights, my tripod and camera ready to go.
I turn away from the Sun and gaze at the Dragoons: the narrow canyon that winds upward to the east and the Junipers that peak from behind its walls; the tall stacks of granite boulders on either side of the canyon; the flat amphitheatre below me to the south, with its cow paths that criss cross its floor; a spherical boulder to the northeast that looks like a huge ball on a golf tee; the narrow cut between the large rock to the southeast, that I recall make for a wall on another smaller amphitheatre.
"I am so blessed," I say out loud.
And then I begin to cry again, with the flash of a thought, the quickness of a wish that I now want, but didn't know I wanted until just a second. Two wishes actually.
"God, I want half of my ashes to be placed up there," pointing to the east, "up there, in a secret place. I don't want to have my ashes at Owl's Head anymore. And yes, I still want the other half buried in Virginia, but I want half of them to be placed up here. In a secret place."
And my voice shakes as I say, "And I want Annie to bring them here, if she is still alive."
Tears are running down my face. I don't say anything more. I just turn to the setting Sun. I'm pretty sure Annie will do that, if she can. Come November, if she'll let me, I'll bring her out here. I think she'll love this place.
I think some more about a secret place where Annie someday will place me.
And then I cry harder than I have all day.
IN A SECRET PLACE
In a secret place
That's where I want to lie
In a sheltered space
That's where I want to die
Put me down a hole
With my horse and dog
Sing a few songs
For us and God
Chorus:
Not in California
Not in Mexico
Not in Oklahoma
Not there.
Not in ole Virginny
Not in Florida
Not in New York City
Not there.
Copyright © 2005, Stu Jenks