What Do You Think This Is? A Holiday Inn?

Some of my finest childhood memories stem from summers spent at my grandparents' cabin in Pine, Arizona.

The rustic, isolated cabin in the woods was the perfect background for my first words ("boom" to describe the thunderstorms and "way high" to describe the surrounding trees) as well as my first encounters with hammocks, squirrels, and the unfortunate powers of skunks.

Lessons were learned, relationships were strengthened, and many episodes of "Ducktales" were watched.

So when my friend Steve first showed me his two acres of tree-filled property in the isolated and beautiful town of Timberon, New Mexico, I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Steve and his wife Laura have some great memories ahead of them on this land.

This trip, however, is for business more than pleasure. Steve is overseeing the creation of a driveway to access his land, and since Laura couldn't make it, he gets my advice and company instead which, by all objective standards, is a significant downgrade.

Though the building of the driveway goes off without a hitch (you know, as long as you weren't a tree), the trip is not without its eccentricities.

First of all, if you ever plan on driving to southern New Mexico, I highly recommend not doing it at night time.

What is the appropriate encore to almost hitting an oryx? How about almost hitting one of about thirty elk scattered throughout the road to Timberon?

The elk apparently all come out to play at night, and they don't seem to have the slightest fear of cars. Frankly, given the size of most of them, their apathy may not be misguided.

I'm reasonably certain that the streams in Timberon have been strategically filled with steroids, because not only are the local elk monstrously large with antlers straight out of an ad for The Hartford, but as Steve and I slowly passed through, one of them actually hit a home run.

Luckily for Steve's car, we never hit an elk, though it isn't because they have any problem with lounging in the middle of the road.

The next day, the elk are nowhere to be found. In their place, right on Steve's property, are a bunch of small, doe-eyed does. Believe it or not, the deer you see in the picture to the right are actual living, breathing creatures, no matter how much they look like lawn ornaments.

Steve's neighbor has gotten in the habit of feeding them by hand, so they come right up to strangers with the unguarded friendliness belying their lack of experience with hunters.

One male, however, seems a little jittery. He approaches us without a problem, but every once in a while seems startled, which generally causes him to skeptically glare at us while shaking his poorly developed horns.

This does not seem to bother Steve's neighbor, a middle-aged woman, but it makes Steve a little nervous. I get great enjoyment out of this.

Less enjoyable, however, are the travel arrangements. Steve has rented a small cabin apartment for the weekend, which is advertised in the brochure as "small." It turns out the apartment is basically no bigger than my van and provides about the same amount of headroom. At 6'5, I have to tilt my head in order to fit under the room's six foot ceiling, which gives me the strange sensation Gulliver must have felt upon landing in Lilliput.


The lesson, as always, is that if you happen to be a giant, giant man and you find yourself spending the night in Timberon, New Mexico, make sure to bring a neck brace.