Ms. Got Rocks (9 page)

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.

C
hapter 10

T
he 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 herself 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.

“Jeez, that was what we should have done. We could have ballooned over here,” Jazz said.

“How’s this idea? We both retire and run a hot air ballooning business, we could live in Phoenix?” Rocky suggested.

“Sounds good to me, I’ll get back to you when I’m sixty. First I want to raft down the Amazon,” Jazz said.

“And I want to climb the pyramids in Mexico,” Rocky said.

Jazz perked up and said, “Ya know, I would like to go see some of the pyramids and tombs in Egypt too. Maybe we could do that next year.”

“Wow, I better start mining right now to get that kind of money.” Rocky was laughing as she rigged up for the descent to the mining camp.

“Even better, let’s go get your plane and go to Alaska. We could climb Mt. Denali,” Jazz said with the excitement of adventure back in her voice.

“What. Climb Denali, what are you drinking? I’ve flown all around that monster and no way is anyone getting me on that mean, big, ugly and did I mention mean monster of a mountain. Think of something else,” Rocky yelped remembering her frightening last flight around the huge dangerous mountain.

“Oh, okay, scratch Denali. I feel better anyway. I was thinking I would have to go to the gym in Las Vegas before I went home. I can’t sit still on a plane unless I’ve gotten rid of some of this energy,” Jazz was stretching ready to rappel down the face of the rock.

“Rocky look behind us,” Jazz said when she came out of a stretch. She walked across the top of the mesa and moved a shrub.

The gray green fuzzy shrub hid a large wooden brown painted sign which announced that the women were sitting on the top of Two Sisters Mountain. What it further announced was they were in the Lost Dutchman State Park.

The sign told them 2.5 miles down the paved trail on the other side of the mountain was the state park headquarters. Both women were speechless.

“Did Mr. Engstrom mention that we were camping in a friggin’ state park for 500 bucks a night?” Jazz asked the hot dry air and then they rappelled down the side of the mountain.

Though the women felt as if they had been duped, they were in a better mood for having worked the muscle groups when they arrived back at the shack. They would give the old miner another chance to earn his money.

Horace Engstrom seemed to not have moved an inch from the faded ragged webbing lawn chair in which he had parked his musty carcass when they had left for the rock climb.

“Are we sleeping in the shack tonight?” Rocky asked.

“I am. You girls get the tent out under the stars,” Horace Engstrom answered waving his arm grandly around the dusty mining camp.

“Thank God for small favors,” thought Jazz as she began to rummage through the packs looking for the tent,water or anything that would make her feel more comfortable.

“Hey, Horace where is the water?” Jazz called over to him.

“You girls can have the water when you get that dry washer going,” Horace said with a leer.

"What, I don’t think I heard you right?” Jazz turned abruptly and stared at the old man, her body on alert.

“You heard him Jazz he said that we have to work for water,” Rocky replied, trying to make it sound as though Horace were joking.

It took exactly four steps by Jazz toward Horace before he was out of the chair retrieving the water canteens from the shack porch.

Jazz walked right into Horace’s face space and whispered something to him. Rocky could not hear what she said, but she watched the color drain from the old man’s face as he backed away from the angry Jazz.

Jazz handed the other canteen to Rocky and they drank the whole quart each. Jazz walked past the wary Horace onto the porch, and searched the entire pack for more water.

“What were you planning to water the burros with?” she yelled at him.

Jazz slammed the door to the cabin so hard that it lost the grip of one hinge and hung cattywampus on the final hinge. She again slammed it that hard when she came back with a pitcher of water and a bucket with water for the burros.

Jazz made three trips from the shack with the bucket to water the burros. Rocky found and pitched the tent for them.

In that time span Horace did not move from his lawn chair and Jazz glared at him each time she passed by.

Rocky found the choice for dinner. There was a can of hash, a can of creamed corn and a package of chocolate cupcakes. Rocky built a campfire and prepared the skimpy meal. Neither she nor Jazz offered Horace a plate, though they left enough in the pans that he could help himself.

There was no jolly campfire program on lost treasure, chipmunks or trail lore offered at the old mining shack campfire after the sun set.

When the sun went down Horace retired to the shack and lit a lantern. The women could hear a ball game blaring from the radio.

Rocky and Jazz decided not to clean the campsite. Then they started telling coyote stories, and changed their minds regarding cleaning up, even if Horace won that way.

After the chores were completed they sat in the dark under the stars and listened to the night around the noise from the ball game. They enjoyed the slight cooling air temperature with the gentle breeze smelling of heat and something indefinable to either of the new found friends. They had enough sun and exercise that they were both tired. Jazz thought she would probably sleep even though underneath she was still furious at and suspicious of Horace Engstrom.

By the shank of the evening each of the women was asleep in the tent. The sounds of the desert at night were not scary enough to keep them awake. They agreed that a big mug of hot chocolate would have been wonderful before they hit the sleeping bags, but life was tough in the wilds of a state park in Arizona.

In whispered tones they agreed, that if Horace did not get them started up the mountain to a gold mine site they were dumping him first thing in the morning.

There was no moon that night, but it did not take moonlight for Jazz to feel something moving on the inside of her thigh. She held her breath hoping that it was not a rattlesnake wanting to bed down with her. As she opened her eyes she took a deep breath and smelled the stale body smell of the old miner. Jazz grabbed his arm at the wrist.