The Hawks guardian angel guardianship continues. The generosity of the people who booked us into their clubs, promoted the shows, put us up in their homes, fed us, entertained us, shared windows into their lives with us–is overwhelming. I hope we bring this spirit back into Los Angeles, which could always use a massive injection of mountain manners and magic.
We just left Jocelyn’s house in Jackson adjacent Wilson. Jocelyn, her husband, and daughter lead lives of quiet majesty in the land that is now their soul. They look to forbidding winter’s 20 below with excitement, because then they’re outdoors all the time, skiing over the snow blanketed mountains, foothills, and meadows. The meadows in Jackson are sublime, green and wet, new homeland of elk, surroundings sculpted by the Grand Architect, a dialogue in altitude between two heaven reaching zones. The Tetons are a doctrine-obliterating master sculpture, each peak with its own personality,
destiny, and inner fire. The Tetons are only 9,000 years old, the equivalent of a five month old baby in geological time. My sister Mary’s favorite peak is (?), a block like monolith that counterpoints the heavenward spikes of surrounding mountains. Mary and Jocelyn are old friends, and they know the bond of wilderness experience. It’s a precious thing. Joycelyn’s husband and their daughter are today rafting the Salmon River in Idaho, a region of so few roads that it’s called the River Of No Return.
The Hawks stepped into Jocelyn’s studio as they were leaving, uninvited but sure we would find a kindred spirit inside, and we did. She is a mistress and high priestess of watercolor,.At last the heat wave has broken. Just after our gig in Jackson a blast of Arcic air had landed. The temperature plummeted to 40 F. Our readers will remember that it was123F in Baker at the beginning of our journey. An 83F degree swing. PL bravely chose to sleep out amoung the stars. It only took him 20 minutes to zip up his sleeping bag, and then he was out till morning. Shawn slept in a vintage aluminum trailer out behind the house. He claims he woke up at one point and watched his breath for a while. PM and RW climbed the tall and frightening ladder to the upper loft. The indoor Hawks slept fitufully, shocked but thankful for the sudden change in the weather.
On a mid-afternoon Monday we’ll call, say, July 18, the Hawks raced south from Pocatello,
Idaho on four lane I-15. How far to Salt Lake? How far to Mesquite? Vegas? Where will we spend the wee hours? Two hopeful events: dinner at the Red Iguana in Salt Lake, and staking Paul Marshall to a poker game somewhere in Nevada. The road is clear, the Idaho hills are brown and yellow, the fields an irrigated green, hard working homes, trailers, corrugated buildings dig into the landscape. It’s heated up from the Wyoming side over Teton Pass, and it’s going to get hotter. Or not.
Another guardian angel to send a shout out out to, saviour on our way out of Jackson Hole: a mechanic of few words who opened the Suburban hood and fixed our air conditioning malfunction in a matter minutes, and refused to take any cash. We gave him a Hawks CD, and he told us he plays banjo, so we hope he digs our songs. South, south, south, sage and hills. We figure out we’ve played in 17 states. A free admission to Coles and a free back rub from Shawn to anyone who can name the 17 United States of Hawks: contact: firstname.lastname@example.org