Chapter 1: Prologue

In the spring of 1972, I was a vibrant, single, socially-awakened 23-year old London girl, with a broken heart and an insane passion for travelling. 

I'd met my Canadian boyfriend whilst we  had both been hitch-hiking through Scotland the previous year.  He had returned to London with me, and for several months, we'd laughed, loved and lived together. 

Then, just before Valentine's Day, he returned to Vancouver...on the west coast of Canada...promising to come back  'one day'.  

We had since written regularly to each other, trying to make our relationship work across eight time zones. But, cheap phone calls, texting and the Internet were yet to be invented and communicating via snail mail was both unreliable and frustrating.

At that time, a one-hour transatlantic telephone call cost more than my monthly salary, thus any voice-to-voice communication proved impossible. Our romance had inevitably floundered, and I had called a complete halt during the last days of March. 

While the split had been my idea, I missed my boyfriend and was profoundly saddened by the demise of our friendship. So now,

I desperately needed 

to lift my spirits!

That winter's rolling electrical blackouts had continued for far too long, hurling London into a  gloom, from which its hospitals and  massive underground system were the only escapees.  Their emergency generators kept these essential services lit, warm and safely functioning.

Everyone was depressed by the blackouts, including my colleagues and me. But, with our usual British stoicism, we commuted daily, from our flats to our jobs in Central London, praying that we might get through a single week without blackouts. 

We had coped in offices deprived of warmth, electricity and even that British staple - a nice cup of tea. But when the lights that signalled which of our several desk phones was ringing failed, all hope of efficient communications ceased.   

By Easter our last nerves had been rubbed raw! That was when the lifts (elevators) in our Mayfair offices failed, and our huge Government complex began to unravel from the top down.  

Nothing prospered during those hateful black-out days! Unable to do our jobs efficiently, we minions were frequently dismissed long before quitting time.  

photo by courtesy of: www.http://www.instantoffices.com

On one such afternoon,  dizzy with happiness to be dismissed into a pale British spring day, I decided to walk home through London's parks. 

Sunshine had been in very short supply in England that year.  It was now early-April, officially springtime, and the gift of this warmish afternoon was just what my flagging spirit needed.   

From Mayfair to my home in Kensington Olympia, is a distance of two and a quarter miles, if one flies like a crow. 

map courtesy of The Guardian Newspaper, UK

To avoid traffic fumes and London's manic crowds, I decided to walk home that day. Crossing Park Lane, I entered historic Hyde Park and enjoyed a brisk walk beside the Serpentine and into Kensington Gardens.

I had planned to walk as far as Holland Park, eventually emerging mere yards from my flat in Kensington's Olympia district.

But when I noticed that the lights were on in Knightsbridge, the chance of a hot meal suddenly seemed possible. So, at 3.30pm, I left the park via Church Street which led me to Kensington Road.

Thus was I in the right place at the right time to participate in a minor miracle!

Through the open door of a nondescript store, I heard a voice saying:

"By this time tomorrow,   

you could be on the Road to Morocco!"

                                    map courtesy of  turkey-visit.com

  

"What an absolutely 
delicious idea!!"

Wrapping myself in a blanket and straining to read via candlelight in the chill of my tiny Kensington flat was most decidedly not living my best life.

The chance to visit ancient Spanish locales, en route to the sunshine and romance of Morocco sounded so much saner than suffering another sombre spring in stiff-upper-lipped silence. 

My feet walked me inside that store, where I found a salesman extolling the joys of an overland bus tour that was due to depart the very next morning.

Following an overwhelming impulse, 

I signed up for this exotic adventure, on the spot!

The idea of eating now completely forgotten, I practically ran home!  Secretly thanking my globe-trotting Mother for insisting I keep a current passport, I threw a few clothes and travel items into my trusty backpack, and then tied my sleeping bag securely onto the frame.

There was only one drawback that I could see, but it was a big one - I detested camping!

So why was I willing to camp, eat, sleep and travel for days on end with 12 strangers? 
In a word: desperation!  

I yearned to set my soul free and hoped that this 2000 mile road trip through France and Spain to Morocco  - and back again - would banish my blues while expanding my horizons.

Just signing up for the trip improved my mood, partly because it was a dream vacation, but mainly because 

I was willing to risk living life to the fullest.

little did I know that the

events of the next few days

would blow my mind!

.

.

 . 

.

Section 3 - Chapter 2: 

from London to Bordeaux

Meet my travelling companions as we leave London,
cross the English Channel to Belgium where we 
camp overnight then begin our epic adventure in

   My Road to Morocco - Day 1-Day 2 

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1 Steak 3 cats

One Steak, Three Cats  When two equal and opposite forces seek to consume the same desired object at the same time, a third weaker force - that discounts the needs or wants of the two warring forces  - can and will consume that object.

Whether this third force achieves success depends on the subsequent actions of the initial two forces.

If they both maintain their tug of war stance and refuse to cooperate, they both lose, not only the object, but also their pride, when the third weaker force walks away with their prize.

In this video, if the first and second cats combined their energies and goals and overpowered the opportunistic smaller cat they would win the steak and the smaller cat would lose.

If they practise understanding, negotiation and cooperation, they all win, but only when each cat has realized that there is more than enough steak for even that weaker third cat to have a share.

This is a rule that applies throughout Nature, whenever and wherever scarcity occurs. It occurs in the animal kingdom, and amongst humans. It cuts across all racial and class boundaries, and is rife throughout human systems, including through many political systems like the US Congress.

Think of the two dominant cats as politicians, then think of the power wielded by lobbyists for large organizations as the third, weaker yet opportunistic force. Were political men and women united in their goal to genuinely improve life for the citizenry, this third force would simply cease to exist. It would not die away but would simply revert to its original state. For surely even the most assertive lobbyists were once men and women of good conscience?

Just as unyielding, unthinking animals continue to dominate the natural world, similarly minded men and women - who are deemed far wiser than such animals - continue to inhabit and dominate our western judicial and political systems. Our only defence against their treachery is to cooperate with one another, to unite in heart and goals so as to render the opportunists ineffective while creating a better life for all.

We are stronger as a whole than any segment of that whole. So, we humbly invite the myriad disruptive 3rd force agents of this world to wake up and smell the coffee, while there are still bees to fertilize the coffee crops. Nature does not subduing, she needs our help!

By truly caring about humanity and realizing the value of sincere understanding, negotiation and cooperation, we can all enjoy positive changes in our lives. Only when we each recognize and accept and play our part in the greater plan, will the quality of everyone's life and law improve.

Remembrance

Today is November 11. Remembrance Day when we honour the Veterans who gave their lives in a war.

Where I grew up, in London England, during the 50s, the city was still pock-marked by bombs that had been dropped there during the Blitz. Since I'd never before experienced bomb-sites, my seven-year old self was rather overwhelmed by them, and astonished by the untidiness of the destroyed home-sites.

It never occurred to me, then, that people probably died there, that another little girl and her brothers and sisters might have died, or might have lost their Mother and Father during that bombing raid.

With no personal reference to the horror or war, I was fascinated when neighbourhood friends showed me a way through those parentally forbidden bomb-sites, that would shorten my daily trek to school.  They showed me where to step to maintain a safe route, and warned that a child had been blown up by straying from it. 

As a girl, the havoc that an unexploded missile might wreak should I accidentally tread on one, didn't even enter my mind. Nor did I consider the homes that had been destroyed by those bombs, all those years before I'd even been born.

My worst nightmare was swallowing the tablespoonful of cod-liver oil my Mother forced upon me each morning. Yet, without the sacrifices represented by that forlorn bomb-site, I might not have had that cod-liver oil, nor a school to attend, nor even the freedom to attend it.

My generation takes freedom for granted, and rarely ever stops to consider who paid the piper on our behalf.  But War affects everyone, and many people, besides soldiers pay the price. As the saying goes:

"They also serve who stand and wait" 

What did you do in the war, Mum and Dad?

That was the question many children my age asked, but their parents were reluctant to answer.  As the eldest in my family, my parents had been a lot younger than many Fathers of my neighbouring friends. Their Fathers had been actively involved in "fighting the Hun" in France, or at the Battle of the Bulge. 

Both of my parents had still been teenagers, growing up in Bombay, India during WW2.  Had they been involved in the war only as a terrified spectators?  Not the way they tell it!

My Mother spent much of the year away from the city in her Himalayan private school.  But in 1940, and for every school "holiday" during wartime, Mom volunteered at the hospital where they treated the battlefield wounded, brought into the city for medical care.

Never squeamish, she so abhorred the waste of human flesh, through amputation, that she told her Father she wanted  to become a surgeon. "NO" said Grandfather. No daughter of his would be a surgeon. And since his word was LAW, Mom later studied to become a teacher instead.

My Father had completed secondary school by 1942, and although he was old enough to join the armed forces, was denied that experience because of his poor eyesight. Instead, thickly bespectacled Dad articled as an accounting clerk at the Bombay Docks in the latter days of World War 2, where he survived many air-raids, simply because his youthful legs could quickly carry him away from the carnage.  But he told me horror stories about those whose legs were not as swift.

From his dockside office, the 18 year old young man, who was to become my Father, got more than a glimpse of the effects that war can have on the average person. Many of the ships in the Bombay docks carried raw cotton, bound for England's mills before being shipped to other war zones, to replenish clothing, bedding and bandages.

Whenever a cotton ship was bombed, it exploded beyond violently, sending contorted white-hot sheets of metal flying in all directions.  Those working on the docks ran for their lives, the minute the air-raid siren sounded. 

But some were not speedy enough.  Dad reports seeing three men running from a white-hot, flying m-shaped curve of metal that cleared the heads of the two outer fellows, but decapitated the man in the middle. That poor man's legs kept running for a few seconds longer, till his headless, lifeless body dropped to the ground.

Both of this man's companions survived, but their glossy black hair turned white from the shock of witnessing their friend's gruesome sudden death. Then Dad explained that, as awful as those dockside explosions and their aftermath had been, battlefield experiences were more unspeakably violent and gory.

Today, I am remembering those in my own family who have been directly, and indirectly, involved in war. We are indebted to those who have sacrificed their lives through war, to maintain the freedoms of and for future generations. May the light of their courageous souls shine gratefully in our hearts forever.

• My English Grandfather fought in Crimea in 1917 during WW1, during the collapse of czarist Russia. He was demobbed in Bombay, where he met and married my Grandmother who later gave birth to my Dad. Grandfather was to suffer the after-effects of physical ailments and shell-shock for the rest of his life.
• My Father, excused duty for medical reasons, had lived through the continual bombing of Bombay Docks. He rarely talked about those experiences. Yet the war definitely affected his parenting ability and style. Out of necessity, Dad's freedoms had been curtailed during his teens. As a Father, he was unable to understand and unwilling to sanction my own teenage quest for "freedom". The strain of raising three such willful daughters was evidently too much for him, since Dad died shortly before my 16th birthday.
• My Generation had the luxury of peace and Greenpeace in which to protest war and warmongers. But we rarely thought about how that peace had been hard won - or by whom. Beyond that bombsite of my early days, and what came into our living room via the TV - or from the letters of my American pen-pal, war did not seem to, personally, affect me.
• Coming full circle, after 50 years of peace in the West, the next generation is now free to exhibit a love of war "games". By combing army surplus stores, my son kitted himself out and enjoyed many an afternoon of pitting his team against another team set both bent on mock annihilation on a wooded hillside in Langley, near Vancouver, BC.  I wonder if he realizes the irony of his recreational choice?

I hope my children, their friends - and our ruling elite - realize that our freedoms have been pre-purchased for us by real soldiers, airmen and sailors, young men and women who paid the ultimate price so that we can now live life as we see fit.  Regardless of how distasteful the concept may be, it is why western children can now safely "play" at "war games" instead of fighting a "war to end all wars".

I pray also that children who must fight every day, just to survive in our commercially obsessed world will soon enjoy the same Freedoms that our own offspring now take for granted.

Practising gratitude will open your own heart and the hearts of others

And open hearts have no need of war

Namaste

Transformation

Part 1: THE TEST:  SHINGLES!

The severity of the pain I've experienced lately (with facial shingles) has allowed glimpses of that eternal consciousness to which all energy streams lead. This state has happened unbidden and consciously, while I am in pain and awake, but also in dreamland.

It is hard to describe because so many of our descriptions are about the edges of "things" or "experiences" and not about their entirety, which encompasses energies beyond human consciousness. I experienced colours, sounds, aromas, tastes and textures (including my essence or being) as being mingled together. And in that blinding pain, I understood that our human need to categorize these different aspects of the ONE into separate experiences is odd since they are all ONE energy, continuously flowing through and around and beyond, timelessly and formlessly, until directed by Will.

The pain of shingles is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. And yet, when I was not ABLE to think coherently, I became very aware that there is no time or space, and everything that was, exists now and will always exist. Time itself was/is the illusion. So why did I feel the burn of this dread shingles virus for four solid months? Was my pain an illusion too?

I find it interesting that I chose to experience extreme physical pain WHILE realizing it is only our worldly perception that creates limitations of time and space. Knowing this Truth intuitively and learning it mentally and physically are obviously poles apart in experience. Just as being a part of that Truth consciously is poles apart from knowing it only intuitively.

Oliver Wendell Holmes said that "A mind once stretched by a new horizon never regains its original dimension"  To say my mind has been stretched is an understatement. After a 4 month course of steroids, to control the inflammation, my entire body is bloated and my skin stretched to accommodate it.  Mentally thought, it feels like it's been blasted into, around and through every minute fragment that ever existed in this universe! I'm well and truly pulverized now.

In my experience of the Eternal Now, I saw (and now see) my life and lives as streams of energy. In some I gained, and in some I lost. My current life was also there, glowing but dimly, much to my chagrin! But even as I viewed it, I noticed how my "thoughts/feelings/moods/ideas/experiences" that were all of ONE energy vibration actually did change, significantly, the quality of my current life.

When I returned to 'normal' everyday consciousness, I realized how easy it is to transform oneself, and yet how difficult we make it on ourselves. The quality of our thought is of prime importance. How we talk to ourselves, as well as others; how and why we make our decisions; how we think about our past; how we DECIDE TO SUFFER (the core of my lesson this time around), and how and when we decide to enjoy, without fear, the life we are creating.

If a new depth of wisdom accompanies my recent transformation, then I will surely be led down the path of sharing it, in workshops and through deeper mentoring of individuals. For now, my physical body is still in recovery, so my particular pathway has not yet become evident. But whatever it is, I consciously choose to meet my destiny joyfully and with a renewed sense of serenity.

Part 2:  THE REALIZATION!

I have a type-A personality which means that sitting still for long periods of time, doing nothing is almost impossible for me.  I need to be reading, learning, planning or creating something, because, without that "busy-ness" in my life, I feel impotent, useless and irritable. 

At least, that was all true, before I endured a painful outbreak of shingles.

The itchy, painful lesions primarily affected my scalp, forehead, right eyebrow and eyelid, with, thankfully, only minor involvement of my nose and ear. The swelling in my right eye grew as large as a hen's egg, closing of its own accord, preventing binocular vision.  And the pressure on the delicate tissues of my upper eyelid was immense.  Unable to read or watch TV without discomfort, I slept a great deal, for the first couple of weeks, till the swelling subsided.

A month later, when the lesions had fully healed, I unhappily noted that the former piercing eye and head-aches still continued to plague me. Whenever I tried to read, watch TV or even felt/thought/expressed myself too deeply about a subject, the familiar pain would re-surface causing me to reach for relief from my prescribed narcotic medication.  

Two months later, I have finally weaned from the narcotic medications, but still have to rely on non-addictive help to control the pain. Getting to this point has been a voyage of discovery - about myself, my pain threshold and the joy of being absolutely and gloriously without thought.

Strange though it may sound, being without thought is quite a pleasant experience.  Without the mind's constant chatter to interrupt us, we no longer simply take note of what is around us.  Instead we experience it more directly, more simply and more deeply.

From my living room chair, I am blessed with a postage stamp view of Lake Osoyoos and the sandstone mountain rising from it.   Being confined to my home, I slowly became more able to appreciate aspects of my limited view that I had formerly overlooked, or dismissed as being unimportant to my existence.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

For the first two weeks of this "shingles ordeal", while my eyes were closed, but I was awake, I became more keenly aware of my sound environment.  The world beyond my windows became my orchestra, and each separate sound an instrument that contributed to the concert to which I was treated, when I realized that I already had the "ears to hear". 

The wind painted large swaths of sound, swirling around the corners of nearby buildings, past parked cars, through fences and between trees, raising its pitch as it gained intensity, and then softening to a barely perceptible whisper as each gust died away.  The intermittent growl from the engines of passing vehicles and the cheerful chatter of my neighbours punctuated this soundscape. By mid-afternoon, I could follow the calls of quail as they cruised across our car park, looking for gravel to aid their digestion. 

Occasionally the wind would play a delicate flute-like melody as it danced through the autumn leaves of the tree next door. Sometimes it would furiously whip the lake into a frenzy, making the waves splash wildly against the shoreline, a sound that had not before been audible to me, since I live two blocks from the water.

And then, after one particularly stormy night, I noticed that the melody had changed. 

From the chirping of the few birds who had not yet migrated south for the winter, I knew that the morning had dawned bright and sunny.  So I imagined that the storm, which supplied our desert with much needed fresh water, had also coaxed, from their hidden recesses, the earthworms upon which those happy birds were now feasting.  And then suddenly I realized that, without being busy or manically creative, I was truly happy just to be able to hear all these wonderful sounds of nature.  Just listening was for me then - and has remained still - a treasured pastime.

Had shingles not denied me the easy use of my eyes, I might never have learned to appreciate the different dimensions of the place in which I live.  Even since I regained my sight, I  have been able to identify more sound textures in my ever changing soundscape. The sharp retorts of scolding squirrels punctuate the music like a snare drum, while the short, sharp bark of the dog next door is a discordant note in the symphony.

Even indoor sounds like doorbells and footsteps, speaking voices and running bath-water, crackling candles or mechanical sounds like a working dishwasher added depth to my sound environment.  And the more sounds I was able to identify, the happier I felt.  It was as if another world, that had always been there, had suddenly revealed its secrets to me. 

What did this new experience teach me?  In a word, gratitude.  I found myself being grateful for the ability to hear all these amazing sounds.  And beyond the sounds, I felt gratitude just to be living in this incredibly beautiful place.  It took a horrible, disfiguring condition like shingles to get me to notice it in the first place. But now that I have, I can't wait to hear what tomorrow brings!  Being forced to do nothing can truly a blessing in disguise.

About Grief and Pain

A lot happened in the background in our small town during a couple of summer months in 2009  that has given me much food for thought.

Ours is a summer destination resort, so our carefree tourists expect to eat, drink and be merry while they are here - as well they should! And each year we quintuple in size as visitors arrive to party on the beaches. Our townsfolk put a lot of effort into providing accommodation, entertainment, alcohol and nourishment for our visitors. And, usually, we revel in the festivities with them.

But this year, and with good reason, our locals are over-stressed and just NOT in a party mood!

Most of our population is elderly, and the death of those who have lived long lives is taken in stride.  But  since the end of July, our town has been rocked by 2 separate accidental deaths of local youngsters. And these premature deaths have saddened everyone in town.  In addition, 5 people we personally know have had surgeries or been tested for serious illness in as many weeks. And my husband's local firm has had to cope with 5 separate work-related setbacks.

In addition to the pervasive sadness felt by locals, the choking reality of thick smoke drifting into our valley from several forest fires in BC and Washington State has frequently made it difficult for everyone to breathe. The end result is that our townsfolk are tired and anxious and our tourists grumpy and frustrated.

Yet this is our high season, when most local businesses depend on their summer income to survive the coming year. Thus we must cater to tourists even in the midst of our own private grief. But, bizarre as it sounds, perhaps helping our visitors to celebrate their lives while we cope silently with our own painful circumstances might actually be healthy for us.

I am not advocating that family members and close friends of the recently departed suppress or postpone their grief. Those most affected need time to heal and must allow that process to occur naturally. We - the family, friends, acquaintances and colleagues of the recently departed - each have different coping methods that help us deal with each stage of grief.

But it really helps to know that even the deepest grief will evolve, from being our total focus to eventually becoming only a part of our everyday reality. We all need to create a place in our psyches for sadness and grief to express in a healthy way. Otherwise our outer lives would soon grind to a halt.

Since childhood, I have empathized with people's feelings, even though I may not know them personally. My blotting-paper psyche has always absorbed the emotions of those around me, whether these were pleasant or painful. But no man (or woman) is an island!

So over the years, I perforce developed several coping techniques that have helped me understand and address the feelings of others, especially their grief. And I've learned that the solace that we seek is often found through meeting our own inner needs, as well as those of our friends and family circle.

Through years of study at university and beyond, my focus has been to understand the human psyche. When I was a child, my Mother taught me meditation and yoga. And my short time at Samye-Ling Buddhist Monastery served to deepen this practise. Without it, the many trials and tribulations of my own life would have been so much more difficult for this Psychic to endure.

Through art, music, dance and writing, in conjunction with meditation, I have consciously striven to transmute emotional pain into truth and beauty. After a lifetime of practising these arts, I have now developed an aura of calmness and serenity that enables me to comfort others in their time of grief, regardless of what kind changes began their painful process. For the death of an assured way of life can be as difficult, and as painful, as the death of a loved one. Yet, eventually, the cycles of life and death teach us all that change is, paradoxically, the only constant in life.

On the Reservation

Anyone involved in a creative endeavour knows that Creation fulfills its own purpose throughout their daily lives. Regardless of how we express it, our true purpose is to share our particular creativity with others, thereby encouraging all to flourish.

My own creative urges express best through psychic counseling and photography. But through Spring, I'd been doing very little of either, and had thus been feeling rather sorry for myself. So the other night, before sleeping, I asked my Angels to send me an unmistakeable sign that my particular way of seeing is still a worthwhile gift that I can share in this lifetime.

Did the Angels respond?

Did they ever, the very next day, twice even!!


Friday June 12 was a charming and magical day, much of which I captured in photographs.

Indian Land in early Spring photo by C. Patrick c.2009
My home is in fertile South Okanagan Wine Country, in B.C. Canada. Town residents number 4000 souls with 10,000 more living on local farms. But, as with all land on this continent, this region is the ancestral home of an Indian Band, in this case, the gentle, delightful Osoyoos Indian Band.

desert grasses in June photo by C. Patrick c.2009
My first magical experience began before noon, with a phone call from an old, dear friend, who has been a valued client for more than 20 years.

She had phoned me from her daughter's home in the Cariboo region of British Columbia to book a Psychic Consultation with me. Later, I phoned her for her Reading and we were all business. But on that day we were just like two sisters catching up on important news. We chatted about our respective families and marveled at how quickly the years had passed.

It has been my honour and pleasure both to guide my friend through her career and to watch her soul unfold with each new challenge. And, I believe it is also a sacred trust. You see, my friend is a Native Indian Elder who works in Northern BC with the now aging Elders who are survivors of the 20th Century Parochial Residential Schools that tore apart native families in Canada. 

This strong, fearless woman is safeguarding and translating their memories so future generations will be able to access their wisdom on a database. It is a huge responsibility and she is the perfect woman for the job. So I am just thrilled to be a small part of her emergence both as a teacher and as a preserver of her band's traditions.

My second magical experience came via Holistic Desert Connections, the Holistic store on Main Street, in Osoyoos where I did Psychic Readings and sold my photographic art work. A local native woman, called "D" visited the store, looking for the lady who created the Osoyoos 2009 Photo Calendar. The store owner phoned me and after listening to D's story, I arranged for my husband and me to meet her later that afternoon.

D asked me to photograph some unusual rock formations near her home. She told me that she could see an elephant's head in one of them.

Elephant Head Formation photo by C. Patrick c.2009

Well, this one you just have to see full size!

The sky was hazy, so the camera lens doesn't do it justice. But the naked eye could clearly see the top of a sleeping elephant's head, complete with tusk a closed eye and one ear.

On a clearer day ( probably early in Fall) I'll take a better photo in the morning light. But meanwhile, here are a few photos that reveal the quirkier aspects of those who live on the Reserve.

These noble and ancient people are quirky?

Oh my, yes indeed they are!!

Why else would they post a "No Fishing" notice in the middle of a parchment dry desert?
No Fishing Sign photo by C. Patrick c.2009
The beauty of it is that you really have to hunt to find this fishing hole which is very small and well hidden behind roadside bushes. Indeed without this sign alerting you to the fact of its presence, you might well miss it altogether!

The symbol for the Osoyoos Indian Band is that of a lone howling wolf, which often appears at the entrance way to their individual properties.

I thought I'd grasped the direction of their quirkiness when I saw two wolves emblazoned on a low roadside storage shed; one dark one, and one which looked quite ethereal. An aura, thought I.

ET Hwy Sign photo by C. Patrick c.2009
Then I noticed the sign attached to the side of the shed and everything suddenly became crystal clear.

No wonder their wolf symbol howls to the heavens!

Looking upwards is most commendable when communicating with those from other realms. But while walking in a desert you also have to look down, or you might step on one of these...an 8 ft bull-snake.

bull-snake photo by C.Patrick c.2009

Snake crossing photo by C. Patrick c. 2009

Ya gotta love this sign!

didn't see any "caution snake crossing" signs whilst growing up in London UK, though I suspect there were more than a few two-legged reptiles in Westminster!

equine youngsters photo by C. Patrick c 2009

No roadside fences inhibit the free movement of animals on this Reserve, since it is their land too, and only humans build fences. This lively 2 month old colt was being babysat by his very patient yearling brother while the rest of the family grazed on the dry desert grasses.