Poppies and Dust

Spring in El Paso is a mixed bag.  It's not crazy hot yet, which means it is still possible to go outside at a reasonable time of day.  It also means winds. And dust.  So, so much dust.

I struggle with the wind.  I grew up in Arizona, where the spring winds gust from March through June.  I hate it so much more than prolonged dark, cold, rain, or heat.  For everything else, you can go outside with a little prep--usually meaning more clothes (or less, as applicable).  Wind, on the other hand, throws dirt in every exposed orifice and makes it hard to see, speak, or hear.  It's dangerous to drive--big vehicles act like sails, blowing you all over the road, and the sand makes it difficult to see.  There's an ever-present low-pitch howl that grinds at my nerves, whistling through the windows and keening in the alleys between houses. The piece de resistance is the fine coating of sand in and over everything regardless of what precautions you take.  

I'm not a fan.

Another part of spring in Chuco Town* is Poppy Fest.  In March, the Franklin Mountains throw one last hurrah before the summer comes and incinerates all forms of life.  El Paso commemorates this with four weekends of food trucks, craft fairs, folklorico and walks among the poppies.  We never made it to the actual festival (something about parking on the shoulder of a busy highway and clumping through the desert with hundreds of other people is something of a turnoff) but we did make it out to see the flowers during the week.

I was whelmed.

Someone else was whelmed, too.

It was a rather blustery day even for an unusually blustery spring.  We wouldn't have braved the winds except that we were all a little stir-crazy from being stuck in the house, courtesy of the aforementioned winds.  I'm also trying to tick experiences off the list.  Ergo, we bullied everyone into closed-toe shoes and jeans and drove across town to the mountains that bisect El Paso.

The poppies were much smaller than expected.  The pictures always show them painting the desert gold, but between the dry winter and chill weather, the poppies were fewer and farther between, curled against the cold.  Even so, they were beautiful.  The desert has a way of making you appreciate even the smallest flashes of color. The loop trail was a pleasant if brief walk.  The small girls ran ahead, joying in the illusion of independence, and the older girls lingered behind to passive-aggressively torture each other.  They've developed the most delightfully wicked senses of humor as they've aged. No complaints.

The danger crab that warns you not to go off trail this close to the old post ordnance grounds.

And that's it.  It seems like a small thing to document, not really worth a blog post.  However, I've found it's the small things of a place that I remember best and miss most.

*I've probably mentioned this before, but Chuco Town is a nickname for El Paso, which is where the Pachuco movement supposedly started.  Pachucos were Hispanic and occasionally black men who were part of a counter-culture movement in the 1930s, identified primarily with jazz, night clubs, zoot-suits and a resistance to assimilation into the Anglo-American culture.  Some contemporary (ish, since they date from the 90s) references include the song "Zoot Suit Riot" by the Cherry Popping Daddies and the "Hey, Pachuco!" from the movie The Mask.