Ms. Got Rocks

by Jacqueline Colt

  It was an easy flight to Phoenix with the dogs, though she was feeling a little breathless at the thought of a guided tour of the general area of the famous Lost Dutchman Mine with hiking, and rock climbing. A weekend of campfires, western history and photo ops at every turn with all meals that she did not have to cook included.

  Devlin floated a loan for expense money with the collateral of her discovery of the Lost Dutchman Mine.

  The airport car rental counter was stacked with people, impatient pushy people. Rocky watched the woman in line ahead of her, the top of the line rock climbing gear splayed across the two lines of customers attempting to claim their vehicles.

  The woman was certainly in shape, there was no mistaking the rock climber frame, adorned by shining brown hair in a braid reaching to the fit fanny of the woman. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that looked like it was silk and the stonewashed jeans were emblazoned with a label Rocky couldn’t pronounce but they looked like they were made for this woman and no one else. Her boots were to die for and brand spanking new.

  Rocky could not help herself, she was from Alaska and therefore everyone’s business can be inquired about.

  “Excuse me. Where are you going to climb?” Rocky asked the woman’s back.

  The young woman turned and Rocky could see the first word out of her mouth was going to be the F-word. The woman’s expression changed instantly from hate to curiosity.

  “I’m going over by the Lost Dutchman Mine, I hear there are some interesting buttes. Where are you going?” the woman asked her expression changing to pleasant, as pleasant as a woman looking like this could. Jasmine Harris looked fresh out of university possibly eight years younger than Rocky.

  Jazz had the compact lean body style of the excellent cross-country skier and rock climber. Her hair was fascinating to Rocky. It was light brown, shining and in a neat skinny braid hanging down to her flat bottom. Her smooth silky hair was in direct contrast to Rocky’s critical mass of glowing natural curls that do as they damn well please.

  No one describing Jasmine Harris would call her a classic beauty. In fact, at first glance they would say she was bordering on ugly. Her nose splayed across her face like a small squashed baked potato, her forehead was much too narrow, and her brown eyebrows crawled across her brow like a singular fuzzy caterpillar.

  What men noticed was, she radiated power. Her intelligence, her mega wattage smile, and that certain something dangerous bubbling under the surface that gave her an intriguing ambiance leaving few who met her thinking she was unattractive.

  Most would describe her as one of the most interestingly fascinating women they have ever met.

  If Jazz lacked for male company the world would end, power was an incredible aphrodisiac to some.

  In the fifteen additional minutes the two women stood in line at the car rental agency, they discovered that they were going to the same place and decided to share a vehicle. They drove the rental Jeep Cherokee up to the “Outback Trading Post” at Jackalope Springs on Highway 88 outside of Mesa, Arizona. In that short time, it seemed they had been friends for a long time.

  An elderly man crept down the old warped silver cedar veranda steps and stood in the swirling beige dust watching Rocky park the Jeep.

  “Rocky, tell me that isn’t our guide. He looks like an ancient “Dilbert” in western wear,” Jazz said trying to keep a straight face because the man was so close to the vehicle.

  “Looks like, Jazz,” Rocky said. “I thought Dev paid for real reality, not virtual reality. He is in another world if he thinks he can pack anything up that mountain.”

  The elderly man coughed and spat at the dust revved up by the Jeep. Rocky and Jazz passed the disbelieving eye roll between them.

  Horace Engstrom did look like an elderly couch potato with some old time cowboy movie wrangler tucked in.

  He was Rocky’s height of 5’8”, with approximately forty years on her. Rocky’s quick estimate was seventy years for him. The man was able to walk, but not upright. He was wearing a camo fabric Australian Bush type hat. It had not seen a tub of soapy water since dinosaurs roamed the west. Peeping out from under the hat were a few strings of silvery gray hair that did not look any too clean, as well.

  His jeans and outer shirt should have been thrown out at Y2K and what could be seen of his undergarments made a body plead for a bon fire. Horace had waddled his way to the driver’s side door of the Jeep.

  Rocky lowered the window. Horace stuck his hand inside the car. His hand was amazingly clean, if well used, gnarly and covered with old and new calluses.

  Rocky thought, “This dude works for a living.” She shook his hand,disengaged from him and jumped out of the Jeep.

  “Welcome, I’m Horace Engstrom; I will be your guide today,” the old man said.

  “You sound like the server who took my breakfast order,” Rocky said, she again was forced to shake his hand, as Horace thoroughly looked her over.

  “You girls can put your gear over there. There is nobody around here that will bother it. Actually, isn’t anybody around anyway,” Horace explained, while he gave Jasmine the all over inspection look. Her inspection was not as thorough as the one Rocky’s curvy body received.

  “I thought Vegas was desolate, with nothing growing on the mountains, but this is positively back side of the moon-ville.” Jazz was turning in a circle looking at the bare craggy beige sandstone mountains surrounding the small trading post. She shaded her eyes and looked at the road that continued on its lonely way to somewhere behind the next rough bare mountain.

  The only vegetation in sight was a few creosote bushes, hugging the side of the trading post for whatever protection from the hellish environment the building might provide.

  The dogs bounced out of the car, and instantly Rocky knew that the ground was broiling hot, both dogs look startled and in pain. Rocky pointed to the slight shade of the porch and the dogs made a flying leap up there. This was not going to work for the dogs.

  From the porch, Rocky stepped into a movie set designer’s idea of a gift shop from the Gold Rush.

  She was hoping to find an authentic Native American hand woven rug to go with the Persian rugs in the living room of the cabin. Each rug in the stack was made in China. Rocky moved on.

  The older woman behind the counter was pure gen-u-wine Southwest and Rocky instantly loved her. Loved her despite or perhaps because she was Mrs. Horace Engstrom.

  Rocky made arrangements to board the dogs with her in air-conditioned comfort for the weekend. After taking the dogs for a pit stop and back to the porch, Rocky listened to the instructions and plans by Horace Engstrom.

  Horace escorted Rocky and Jazz to the corral, where they saw the transportation for the expedition to Weaver’s Needle. The three little burros did not look strong enough to carry Rocky across the corral, much less up the nearest formidable mountain.

  The old miner proudly introduced the women to Mamie, Jackie and Lady Bird. The burros stood in the corral looking ninety per cent asleep, ten percent tired.

  Jazz was still taking a close look at her first experience with desert. She was staring at her new boots and scuffing around in the crusty sand soil mix of the corral.

  “This does look like that Desert Sand colored house paint. It is exactly that same color, same as baby poop.”Jazz was saying more to herself than to Rocky. Rocky nudged her in the ribs to pay attention.

  As Horace went on with his instructions, Rocky and Jazz suggested that their four-wheel drive Jeep could take them anywhere they wanted to go.

  “If it was easy to get to the Lost Dutchman, it still wouldn’t be lost now would it, ladies?” Horace answered their protests about riding the tiny animals.

  “Your Jeep won’t get there; maybe a helicopter would do it, but not a car or truck. We will stop at my claim on the way. I’ll show you how the miners dug for gold here. It is called dry washing; don’t need no water doing it that way,” Engstrom told them, among the fifty other instructions
.

  “How many hours will it take to get in the general area of the most likely site?” Rocky asked as she cleaned both cameras, shading them with her shirt.

  Horace pulled several saddlebags from the corral top rail and brought them for Rocky to the shady porch. Rocky put one of the cameras in the side pocket of one saddlebag and the second camera she wanted to carry.

  While Horace was at the corral, Jazz whispered to Rocky.

  “Something is fishy about this, I don’t like this set up. And, I am not riding one of those poor little animals. I can carry my pack and walk, thank you very much.”

  “Maybe it is because there is so much empty space around here and you are an urban girl? I don’t feel any bad vibes around here,” Rocky tried to assure her new friend.

  “Yeah, well, my urban caution has kept me out of more trouble than you will ever dream existed,” Jazz said as she looked longingly in the direction of Phoenix.

  While neither Rocky nor the old miner was watching, Jazz slipped a classic Walther PPK thirty two caliber pistol with a six shot magazine into the back of her brand new stiff jeans and pulled her green silk T-shirt over the butt of it.

  “The missus has supper ready at six, we ain't formal here so come on over however you are.”

  Horace pointed in the direction of a row of small dull white canvas tepees, set up on the green indoor-outdoor carpet that was passing as lawn.

  “You girls, pick which of those suits yer fancy, the bathhouse is over there.”

  With that pronouncement Horace turned and waddled into the Trading Post and firmly shut the door.

  The women looked at each other and the gear in the Jeep. It was apparent Horace was not the bellman, nor the concierge. The women jumped into the Jeep and Rocky backed it across the dusty driveway as close as she could get to the nearest Tepee.

  “Jazz, my girl, I think you are right,” Rocky said as she poked her head into the tepee, that was nothing more than dirty canvas wrapped around galvanized metal water pipe stuck into the sand.

  “This is beginning to smell like yesterday’s tuna sandwich,” Rocky was now standing out in front of the tepee and looking for the bathroom. The twelve foot square concrete block building must be it.

  “God knows that I’m not fussy and used to roughing it, but and this has a huge butt, for five hundred bucks a day, I expect a little more than pipe and canvas,” Rocky grumped as she looked desolately at the accommodations.

  “It’ll be better tomorrow on the trail, this is the jumping off point. Look at this mountain. Can you just imagine how hard it must have been to be here without modern camping equipment? Jazz was turning a complete circle,obviously enchanted with the landscape.

  "Those dudes were tough,” Rocky said.

  “Or in the Indians case, didn’t have much of a choice,” Jazz reminded her.

  Chapter 10

  The morning was not cooled by the desert night. Rocky had tossed and turned through the night in the tepee on the artificial turf. Her inner self was not cheerful as she slung her pack on her back and without so much as a stale bagel for breakfast the two women and the old miner lead the three burros up the mountain. Jazz was not saying a word, literally. When Jazz was not verbal, she was not happy. They walked up the mountainside on a cleared wide trail, more reminiscent of a well run state park than a wilderness experience. The paved trail made the work easier for the burros in any event. The pace set by the old miner was irritatingly slow for the two athletic women.

  Jazz asked Engstrom for the directions to the next camp site, planning to hike out on her own and get some exercise. Horace politely but firmly refuse to divulge that secret.

  They plodded on through the pleasant mountain area, on the paved trail, albeit going higher into the mountains. Closing on ten A.M., they stopped for a break. The turnout in the trail afforded flushing toilets, piped in water and benches facing the best views of the mountains.

  Jazz whispered to Rocky, “Not the wilderness experience I was expecting.”

  “I am going to need to attack that rock face to get the kinks out of my muscles,” Rocky agreed looking over her shoulder at Flat Iron Mountain. “I’m going to climb for an hour when we stop for the night.”

  “This country is calling for a rock climber. I can gripe, but I would feel worse if those poor little burros were struggling,” Jazz said patting Lady Bird the burro on the hind quarter.

  Break time over, they resumed the slow climb up the mountain. Rocky had plenty of time to reel off some shots of the intriguing beauty of the bare mountains, and the burros.

  Lunch time arrived simultaneous to the party arriving at the next turnout in the paved trail, same facilities, but different view.

  The old miner produced three thin peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches on squashed white bread from his backpack, dealing them out to the women like cards. Rocky was hoping this was the first course of lunch, her hopes were dashed when the Old Miner dusted off his lap and untied the burros and began walking.

  “Tell me again, how much we are paying for this trip?” Jazz inquired in a low voice.

  “Five hundred bucks a day, each, room, meals and guide to and from the mountains. The pack animals are probably extra,” Rocky whispered as she followed along behind Jazz.

  Shortly after lunch when the sun was scorching the tops of their ball caps, and trying to bleach out Rocky’s hair, the old miner turned off the paved trail onto a dirt trail that lead upward into a gully that looked able to give the women some serious exercise. The gully told an untruth as the trail wound along the bottom of the wimpy wash, steadily climbing a gentle slope, until they came to the top.

  The old miner dropped the packs from the burros and swatted the tiny animals into the corral.

  The decrepit shack was straight out of a scary movie, or the best that someone could do with found object d’ construction. It made Rocky's cabin look like a palace.

  The silvered weathered wood was not going to keep anything out of the cabin, including a slight desert breeze. The area around the cabin was clump after heap of rusting mining equipment, with a large dry washing plant for gold center stage in the small area of level land.

  "This is my claim,” the old miner said with pride. “We will rest here for the night, don’t want to wear you girls out on the first day.”

  “Can we keep going it isn’t even two in the afternoon?” Rocky asked as she started taking pictures of the old rusted dry wash machinery.

  “Nope, best we stop here, I’ll give you a lesson in mining,” the old miner said.

  “How far to the trail up to the area you think The Lost Mine would be located?” Jazz was calculating how far she could hike in the five hours until darkness.

  “It’s up a ways yet, we can get there tomorrow morning early,” the Old Miner said. “Here are the shovels, now come along I’ll show you how this dry washing is done.”

  “Thanks, but I know how dry washing is done, I think that I will go for a climb up that wall over there,” Rocky said as she slipped her rope from the burro’s pack onto her back and wrapped her climbing shoes over her arm.

  “See you in a little while.”

  “No, wait, you can’t do that. It is dangerous out there, you could get hurt. I want you to stay here, and you can learn to dry wash,” the old miner was protesting to the backs of both of the women as they set a pace that would stretch out their muscles.

  "Rocky I think this guy is not being totally honest with us,” Jazz expressed again, as she worked her way up the rock face of an angle of Flat Iron Mountain.

  “You are probably right, Jazz. There is something creepy here, I’ll agree with you.”

  “Damn straight, there is something creepy, I just can’t figure out what the fuck he is after,” Jazz griped.

  “I have some granola bars in my pack, you want one?” Rocky asked. “I’m hungry, I can hardly wait to find out what’s for dinner, roasted twigs and berries on a piece of cactus.” Rocky said as she propped hers
elf up on a stone slab five hundred feet the air. Even though the stone was baking hot it was better than plodding along behind a tired little burro.

  “What do you think this old fuck is trying to pull?” Jazz was worrying the scam angle like a dog with a bone.

  “So, do you want to walk back down and leave?” Rocky asked.

  “No, not yet, I want to figure him out first.”

  “I think he wants free labor to shovel dirt into that dry wash plant. I don’t have any intention of spending the afternoon shoveling dirt for him. I can stay home and do that,” Rocky stated flatly.

  “Such a deal, I pay him to come out here and shovel dirt into his gold mining doo dad. That doesn’t seem scammish enough, he is more creepy than that.” Jazz ventured.

  “Let’s hold out until dinner, maybe he has some activity planned for the afternoon that will be interesting. So far we haven’t heard one word referring to the Lost Dutchman’s Mine from this old fuck,” Jazz said.

  Jazz was taking a close look at the surrounding countryside, for business purposes.

  "“Rocky, did you tell me you were a pilot? Can you tell me if any of these mesas or whatever they are called, could you land an airplane on them?” Jazz asked.

  “Landing would not be the problem, say on that one over there, but unless you have a good wind in the right direction to take off you might not take off before you fell off. The heat and altitude makes it harder to get lift,” she answered.

  “There’s a scary thought.”

  “A helicopter or if you have unlimited funds, there are aircraft that take off straight up or close to straight up. They’re called jump jets, or they were when they first were available,” Rocky was unwrapping another granola bar and breaking it to share with Jazz.

  “Do you know how much cargo one of those jump jets could hold?” Jazz asked, again staring at the big mesa miles away.

  “I don’t think they hold freight, they are fighter jets as far as I know. I would have a helicopter around here, and it would be fun flying with all the drafts coming from the desert. Hey, I would use a hot air balloon.” Rocky shouted with excitement.