Follow the Dirt Road in Your Soul to Humbug Mountain

The Cripple Chronicles Fall Into a Speed Trap

By Carol Mell, 3-23-07

	With my leg in a boot, juggling crutches and a camera was so awkward that I resorted to taking pictures with my head hanging out the window like a slobbery dog. Shown here, my head-out-the-window, hair-in-the-lens photograph of the Kiowa Grasslands better known as No Man's Land near the border of Oklahoma and New Mexico.

I had planned to drive myself to Oklahoma City for the Will Rogers Writers Conference but my right foot was impounded in the boot once again (see my blog for 1-16-07 below.) Today, I got permission from Wayne, my husband and driver on this series of entries that I’ve dubbed “The Cripple Chronicles,” to tell all you travelers in Northeast New Mexico about a certain speed trap we discovered in a small canyon between Eagle Nest and Cimarron.

We were just beginning to get that nice, free feeling when you are driving out of town and leaving your stressful life behind for a few days. That stretch of road is long and empty, as inviting as any piece of fictional highway in a car commercial.

The only worry that was hanging in the air was about the expense of the trip. Could we really afford to send my freelance butt to a writer’s conference? That was the question I was afraid to broach, preferring to lavish praise on my husband for every little thing.

“Oh, honey, your hair looks young today,” or “Gee, your biceps have been handsome lately.” You know, the kind of thing that men like to hear.

Just then, a police SUV, (an ordinary police car wouldn’t last two months in our mountains,) came up over the rise in front of us, the lights flashing.

“I wonder what that is about,” Wayne said, “there’s nobody around here?”

Wayne politely pulled over but in the rear view mirror we saw the cop car pull a uu-eee.

“Uh-Oh,” my husband said. “He wants us.”

The officer was real nice as he informed us that we could either go to court in one month in Raton, New Mexico or pay up $65. He knew darned well that no one in his right mind would agree to go to Raton one month from now.

Now, the question of whether or not we could afford to send my freelance butt to a writer’s conference dropped out of the tree and landed smack dab in Wayne’s lap. I’d already complimented him on everything I could think of.

This story has two morals:

1. Dispense compliments to your husband sparingly. You may need them later when whatever you did recently might not look as bad as whatever you did just now.

2. If you’re driving from Eagle Nest to Cimarron, SLOW DOWN. This is no place to fantasize about being in a car commercial. We found out later that that particular nice guy State Cop is known far and wide in these parts. He just sits there all day picking off innocent drivers, as easy as shooting prairie dogs in a field. $65 is the just the price of joining his club. 

Not feeling so free anymore we headed towards Clayton and the Kiowa Grasslands beyond. We drove on toward “No Man’s Land” in a diminished mood. We didn’t talk much.

On Humbug Mountain you’re danged if you do and danged if you don’t. Off Humbug Mountain it is sometimes best to keep your mouth shut. 

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