Fence post removalThe fish-fry came a day early.
Friday, according to the weather icon on my digital assistant, was destined to be only partly sunny – or was that partly cloudy? I’ve never really understood or trusted the difference. If a meteorologist could assure me that I am less likely to get wet on a PC day than a PS day, I would be grateful. But one way or another, fish day looked to be iffy. Thursday was another story: Its weather was represented by a pure yellow ball blazing with such intensity from the PDA’s little screen that all room for “if” had been burned away. It was going to be hot. If I were to host a fish fry – an outdoor affair necessitated by the greasy nature of the beast – the Friday tradition, as well as the sensibilities of my catholic guests, would have to bow to mother nature. Sunny days here in the northwest are too rare to squander at the whim of superstition.

So on Monday, with sizzling cod and the company of friends on my mind, it was clear that the gorgeous day looming just three days ahead could not be forsaken. Thursday it would be.

I got the word out then got to work; this would be the first soiree on my grounds since October and I wanted the place to look good. After suffering a winter’s wear and tear on the lawn, shrubs, flower beds and our extensive gopher village, there was plenty to do. But by some cognitive malfunction developed in my brain during the long dark winter – fungus perhaps – I foolishly added removing the pasture fence to the “do” list. The fence wasn’t much good to me now anyhow, but in the distant past had contained milk goats, cattle, a pig or two, several congenial ponies and one regrettably psychopathic saddle horse that sent several hapless children to the emergency room before being retired to the rendering company.

Those careless, back-to-the-land days have faded like old tie-dye, and with some reluctance I have lately realized it’s high time to move on. For too long the little barn/milking shed I lovingly crafted has suffered under my growing disinterest, steadily decaying until last fall, when, while I was out of town, my wife took it upon herself to wipe all traces of the eyesore’s existence from the land. It was a good call, one that of nostalgia I might never have made. Several years before her intervention, the beautiful pasture gate – one of my finest examples of skill-saw woodcraft – was robbed for duty in another’s fence. Without a barn, a gate, or the motivation to build another, the fence which once partitioned off a third of our property, was rendered useless – forever to be without a population of four-legged prisoners.

So it was last week, about the time that I envisioned frying fish for my gang of gentrified friends, that I concluded the fence had to go. Its utility in the service of a whole-earth catalog agricultural dream had passed. Now, rather than picturing the mugs of herbivores happily chewing their cud, I pictured soothing expanses of lawn unbroken by strands of barbed wire, field mesh, posts and animal feces…er, manure. My vision for the land has matured. Where I once saw hungry animals gathering to feed at the hands of a winsome young wife, I now see a green canvas upon which might be placed artfully arranged groupings of rock, designer grasses or shrubs…or anything that doesn’t poop or require hay, straw, grain, vaccinations, combing, shearing, shoeing, milking or assisted birthing.

The dream, the young woman…all are gone now, only the fence remains. For the time being, it persists straight, true and taught, its posts plumb – held fast in the abandoned pasture’s soil like the teeth in a twenty year-old’s jaw. When not cursing the fence as a hazard and a nuisance for harboring weeds and blackberry shoots from the maw of my lawn tractor, I have admired it. After all, I built it. That it yet stands so true is a measure of me – of the energy and care I put into its construction, and of the durability of the vision I pursued when in cut-offs and a peasant shirt, I first dug the holes, manhandled the posts, and ratcheted the wire into winter tension. But as I resolved to complete its removal before Thursday’s fish-fry, I never guessed my creation would put up such a fight. I should have known. The memory of my eyes stinging with the potent sweat of a young man heaving on the come-along to jack every possible joule of life into the fence should have been a clue. Like a healthy young soldier, the fence wouldn’t die easily.

I was moved by vanity, too, I suppose. I wanted to show off the property’s new look. I wanted to demonstrate to my friends that I was free of out-dated ideals – that I was ready to move on. Clearly, the fence had other ideas.

As predicted, the temperature continued rising through the week. By Wednesday morning when I tackled the fence the sun was already warm by Oregon standards. I began by prying the fencing staples loose from the anchor posts to free the barbed wire on one end, then worked my way down the line. It was simple work: pulling staples from wooden posts and bending open the clips that held the wire fast to the metal stakes. If a person is bent on tidy, respectful deconstruction, they will remove and discard one wire at a time to avoid the maddening tangle formed by several lively strands, each seeking the memory of a coil latent in their molecules – a memory still fresh thirty-four years after the tug of the fence builder’s arm and exposure to all manner of weather.

My mind wandered easily as I worked my way along each wire. The fence was seven strands tall, twenty posts long; this would take a while. As benign and tedious as the task was, rivulets of sweat began to creep from my brow. I fell into a hypnotic routine: staple, staple, clip, clip…staple, and with it I began to slip back in time, to the days I worked to do what I now sought to undo. My nine-year-old daughter skipped happily down from the house to check the progress of the fence that would finally permit her – our – adoption of a friend’s forsaken horse (God forsaken as it turned out). As the sun beat down on my shoulders, I looked up from post number 9 at the sound of a voice, the faint accent of my ex-wife, calling me in for lunch: curried rice with egg.

At post number 16 I struggled to unravel a section of crudely bound wire I had spliced together to repair a break where a cottonwood branch had fallen the night before – the night of December 8, 1980. How could I forget? I remember shooing back the goats and mending the fence the following gloomy morning. It had been difficult to summon enthusiasm knowing that the person, who along with his three mates, was singularly most accountable for raising our spirits after JFK had been slain.

My thoughts were still on the pain of losing John Lennon, when upon releasing one of the staples so sloppily driven that bleak morning, the newly released wire sprung from its post into a scorpion-like form and stung me angrily on the side of my neck. I cursed and grabbed at the threatening wire…I couldn’t blame my fence for its defiance. Only four hours remained till the fish-fry aficionados would begin arriving. I left the fence – now only a line of perfectly aligned naked posts – and shuffled, sweaty, bloodied and punctured, back to the house to begin marinating the fish. The kitchen was quiet…not a trace of curry.

With five pounds of fish soaking up lemon and dry vermouth I returned to the demolition site where I faced 20 defiant fence posts. With the aid of a pickup truck, I struggled to remove nineteen and pile them in the pasture. After two hours only a single post remained: an 8” diameter corner behemoth I had sunk nearly 40” into the ground. Time was tight now. It would be reasonable to return on another day, a rainy one perhaps when the soil had softened its grip. But I was stubborn, there would be no stopping until the fence was history. Of course, I should have know that the fence wouldn’t let me proceed with my  gathering without putting up one final defensive rally.

I maneuvered the truck into position and bumped the post this way and that. The wheels spun steam up from the thick May grass. Eventually it appeared to give and I approached the recalcitrant post on foot and put my shoulder to it. I nudged it along the points of the compass, I twisted the stubborn thing in its hole, I placed my shoulder beneath a great spike that once supported a horizontal brace, and lifted with all my strength against the treated cedar. No mere rivulets of sweat glistened as I wrapped my thighs and arms around the obstacle, and with every muscle heaved against the very force that young man had hammered into the post. I found myself drenched in a deep, toxic sweat.

Splinters prickled my arms. Snippets of wire tacked to the posts tore my shirt and lacerated my chest and thighs. The battle against myself was on and I refused to lose. I strained up beneath the spike, pushing with the muscles in my legs and back against whatever friction still help the post to mother earth. I could feel my back beginning to give when the post finally yielded to its maker. Once it was free of the ground, its dead weight pulled me to my knees. I collected myself and dragged the post, like a carcass, to my pile. I turned back to the house for a shower and to whip up a savory batch of batter – beaten up but not defeated.

My wife had just returned from work when I arrived at the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blood. I waved her off: “Just prepping the fish, sweetheart.”

In an hour the party was under way. No first beer has ever tasted as good. When everyone was assembled, I fired up two pans of oil on a makeshift table. After drenching the fish in a buttermilk batter and rolling it in a bed of crushed crackers, voila…the fry was on. In the intensity of managing fish for 15 friends, I had forgotten my battle in the pasture; and against the heat of the afternoon had rolled up my sleeves to work magic with the cod and rockfish. As always happens when the cooking becomes animated and the odors irresistible, the party gravitates to the kitchen. In this case the kitchen was a sheet of plywood I had laid across two saw horses, located where the oil could safely fly, and where the chef maintained a view of the proceedings on the patio, the beautiful little creek and a peek through the cottonwoods out into the pasture – a view that without the distracting old fence was pristine.

Sure enough, I found myself cooking for an audience. The conversation on this first warm evening of the year was carefree, broken with laughter at almost anything. I listened as I worked – tossing in a word now and again to appear connected. I chuckled when I overheard my friend Steven telling another guest how he, with the assistance of Arturo and a six thousand dollar investment, had just completed a new fence…for his dogs.

I looked up, “Six grand to keep your dogs in?”

Steven grinned over his wine glass. “No, six thousand bucks so I don’t get into a gunfight with my neighbor.” I think he was serious.

Another friend, Monique, chimed in from the fish-fry gallery. “Don, what in hell’s name happened to your arms?”

Only then did I realize the cuts and bruises from my tussle with post number 20 had matured into impressive red and purple bruises and extensive abrasions up my exposed arms. It looked like I had taken a hit of buckshot from twenty yards.

“Well, I tore down the pasture fence today.” I waved the spatula at the point across the creek where the battle had played out – where the fence had been. The slope from the creek out to the pasture, now uninterrupted by rectilinear human intrusion, flowed like a smooth green river. I sensed pride in my voice.

“Fence? You had a pasture out there?” Monique looked puzzled.

I stared at Monique blankly. She is a psychologist, and I shouldn’t have expected her to be tuned to evidence of my agrarian pursuits, be they current or relics. I shrugged and turned my attention to the pile of posts and coiled wire. The lower ends of the cedar posts were still damp, like blood on a good tooth lost in a fight. They still had years left in them.

I looked again. The fence was pissed!

Gumbo Tours the Beast: Infamous B-Reactor At Hanford, Washington

The author at the control officer's station at the world's first full-scale plutonium production reactor.

The author at the control officer’s station at the world’s first full-scale plutonium production reactor – now accessible to the public at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation.

In the scale of human endeavor, we have virtually raced – stumbled perhaps – into the implementation of nuclear fission-based technologies, often at our peril. Having recently completed one of the Department of Energy’s remarkable tours of the B-Reactor at Hanford Nuclear Reservation, this observer was compelled to question where stands the technology which offers so much promise, yet, 70 years ago, consumed well over 300,000 lives in its convulsive birth and appalling entrance on the geopolitical stage.

From the perspective of Hanford’s concrete “coffins”, it is sobering to recall that the benefits of advancing mankind’s ability to power our endeavors from the forces locked within the atom were in many ways only the spin-off of a breakneck project dedicated to plutonium…to death. Shortly after the discovery of fission by Ds. Hahn, Strassman and Meitner in 1938, sketches of a bomb allegedly appeared on other nuclear physicists’ blackboards –  before a reactor concept, and long before a power generating scheme. The danger inherent in the newly discovered natural process was so obvious from the beginning, that two of the three discoverers disassociated themselves from the work and pledged to resist development of weapons which might be derived from fission or its products. Strassman and Meitner’s resistance was ultimately for naught; we know what ghastly devices soon followed their discovery.

The technology created around the fission phenomenon has justifiably been tainted by this deadly association, and from the well-documented gross failures at several notorious reactors. It is absolutely prudent to tread with extreme caution in the nuclear arena, but equally imprudent, in the face of mankind’s inexorable march toward greater energy consumption, to abandon the only known technology that offers the potential to replace dangerous fossil-fueled power generating systems on a scale large enough to make a difference in the headlong pace of carbon emissions.

As we have woefully seen, the consequences of a nuclear misstep can be catastrophic, but so, too, can getting fission-based power generation right be beneficial. The human family produces approximately 10% of its electricity from fission, the US about 20% and France generates 75% of its power from nuclear reactors. If those numbers rise with the successful engineering of quantitatively safer, more reliable reactor and waste containment technologies, then we and our environment will benefit. The creatures of this planet currently face the deterioration of their – our – atmosphere’s life-sustaining properties from oil, gas and coal emissions; not to mention a long list of major environmental dangers associated with solid, liquid and gas resource extraction, transportation and storage. If we refuse to accept alternative energy sources, including new fourth generation high temperature, low pressure, low fissile closed loop fuel reactors, then we must accept a far greater risk to the global environment than we will likely ever face from the failure of an intelligently designed fission reactor or allied systems.

Most rational people do not balk at stepping into the cabin of an aircraft which will soon carry them at fatal speeds, to fatal heights, in fatal temperatures. When we step aboard the airliner we balance the risk of a failure against the benefits of aerospace technology. The nature of engineering is to minimize such risks to insignificant levels. It is what we as a species do, and in the case of the fearsome power of fission, must continue to do even if the technical challenges intrinsic in the safe, responsible operation of reactors are daunting…or even if the legacy of the wastes, the failures, or even the ghosts of so many innocents in Hiroshima and Nagasaki threaten to haunt us into inaction. Indeed, those ghosts should goad us into an overwhelming effort to eliminate destructive nuclear devices and the mechanisms specific to their construction, to eliminate stockpiles of plutonium, and to restrict production and enrichment of nuclear isotopes beyond what is necessary only for peaceful purposes.

Leaving Hanford, it was difficult not to salute the pluck of our forbearers, who first faced the Hanford Reach with nothing but an impossible, incomprehensible dream in mind – no matter how disgusted one might be at the horrific nature of what they wrought or the filthy legacy of what they left behind. To paraphrase what Richard Rhodes, Pulitzer prize-winning author, said in his lecture at Richland the night before the tour: “We may never witness the trust, coördination and close coöperation of science, government, and industry that we witnessed here again.” Yet in a world calling for more, safer, and environmentally sound applications of power generating technologies descended from what they infamously pioneered there seven decades ago, we must.

If we are to responsibly slip a harness on this beast, we must add another line to Mr. Rhodes’s list of cooperating entities: an educated, open-minded populace.

On April 1st of this year, the Department of Energy resumed tours of the Hanford Nuclear Reservation including the historic B-Reactor and other facilities. A visitor there will not find an answer to the challenges facing the nuclear industry, but he/she will gain valuable insight into the nature – the feel, if you will – of the technology. The tour is  approximately four hours in length and includes two hours in the B-Reactor building and its control room. Tours continue through September 18. There is no fee for the tour, and there is absolutely no danger of exposure to radiation. Tickets may be obtained only by registering on http://www.hanford.gov. Or call 509 376-1647. While visiting the website you might want to review the link describing progress of the Manhattan Project waste clean-up program.

Music from Green Blues – Milt Ritter

You have stumbled across the first posting to Pal’s Music. My pal in this case is Milt Ritter, and the music contained in the three attached clips is taken from a documentary video Milt is currently producing – Green Blues.

This Is When It Makes Sense

Do It Yourself

Move In

In addition to being a man of unflagging optimism, good humor and formidable bar tending skills, Milt is a musician and an accomplished video producer with a background in local broadcast media. Green Blues is the account of his and his wife Chris’s quest to construct the greenest passive solar, net-zero house possible using local materials. That was the easy part. It got interesting when they factored in a modest budget, clung to high architectural standards, uncovered a host of unforseen technical realities, and confronted the strain on their relationship. Building such a home would be work enough for most, but Milt’s dream was to also document the entire shebang on the fly and single-handedly produce a finished video – including writing and playing the entire musical score – after its conclusion. With nothing more than a couple of decent microbrews, Some Gumbo bribed Milt into releasing clips of several of the original themes as entitled here.


Heights…Why Do I Scare Myself?

There were far better things to do that morning last September en route to Oregon from work in New Mexico, than to climb over the railing of the O’Callaghan-Tillman Bridge, far, far – nearly 900 spectacular feet – above the Colorado River. I generally get woozy when I’ve ascended beyond the 6th rung of a ladder. As a matter of fact, Shara, or one of my phobia-free friends, usually get tapped into action when Christmas rolls around and lights need to be strung on our second story eaves. Embarrassingly, I have on occasion required ‘talking down’ from a point mid-ladder where, entangled in a cat’s-cradle of lighting, I had frozen in a spasm of vertigo.

Truly I, of all people, had better, wiser things to do that day. I could have – should have – been pulling into a casino in Boulder City for a cup of so-so coffee and a couple of passes through the breakfast buffet. But no, I chose to watch the sunrise from the apex of that marvelous, terrifying concrete arch. Nothing explains the lapse of reason that prompted this short-lived foolishness, except the seductive lure in bagging a video trophy, an enticement made all too accessible by the damned user-friendly video cameras built into our smart-phones. Anything for the Blog…for the Tube…for the 15 minutes.

I shiver when I look at this clip…then I get the urge for a short stack.

Prologue to Night Lessons – A Novel

Rolling HillsThe dust behind the mail carrier’s old Buick still curled into the late summer sky as the rattling six-cylinder disappeared down the lane from the Schwaang’s farm to the village of Othello, Washington. The sound of the postman’s rig was only a murmur, and fading fast as Hank Schwaang stepped from the shade of the front porch into the silence of the bright, rolling landscape. Its emptiness collapsed upon him like a wave.

The road from the Schwaangs stretched across fifteen miles and three hilltop horizons on its course back to town. When not churned by the vibration of pistons and the crunch of worn tires on gravel, the sonic signature along this lane was that of wind hissing through the hairy heads of mature wheat in summer, crying amongst lifeless stubble in autumn, and howling over the icy, broken fields in winter.

On the day the letter arrived, the hissing was just turning to tears.

The anxious nineteen year-old stepping into the hot September sun had always aspired to rise above this land–to fly. It was not just an expression. Not just a dream. It was a passion he had nurtured since boyhood–picturing himself content in no other endeavor. Finally, on July 5th, 1942, with the smell of gunpowder still fresh on the cardboard husks of last night’s fireworks, and with the molasses days of August threatening, he had resolved to put the wheels in motion by applying for ‘agricultural flight training’ at Duster Enterprises.

Two months and ten days had crawled by since that resolution. Today, as Hank looked out to the road, he could see that in the wake of the postman, the red tin flag on the mailbox had been lowered. The chances for mail were promising. Finches trilled from a roadside thistle at the scuffling of his boots along the stone path to the box, a path he had followed many times before while his imagination churned with ever-rising expectations at the arrival of the ‘Preflight Kit’ from Duster’s Sacramento office.

Hank had read and re-read their advertisement in Popular Mechanics: ‘Learn To Fly Them.’  The message leapt from magazine pages stacked like dry leaves out in the Schwaang privy. The ad’s crude lithograph depicted a Waco bi-plane suspended forever above the last row of some forgotten crop. Two plumes of white dust fell away like a rope cast from a ship, as the powerful aircraft swooped up to clear a cottonwood hedgerow by inches.

Three Weeks To A Career In Aeronautics,’ read the copy, and Hank dreamt it to be so. He knew he could not follow his father to the endless fields forever. His destiny would not allow it. The wind sweeping across his old man’s broken soil blew with gusts of fortune–bringing welcome wet weather from the west or arctic misery from the north. It could scour away the very soil on which families’ lives were founded. Its turbulence could even wear a young man’s dreams away. And with the sharp edges of his imagination blunted, a fellow might stop picturing any vision beyond what he already knows–beyond what he can lay his hand, his eyes, or a spade upon.

The whirlwinds dancing for no one across fields of freshly turned sod spoke of loneliness, but Hank was determined to step beyond the empty routines of the wheat lands; its open space was suffocating. The pre-destiny of his friends’ lives, like the cattle he and his father tended, seemed pointless. They never questioned their fates, but he would certainly question his. He knew that the farms over in Yakima Valley would soon demand crop dusters like those out in Texas and down in California. Soon as the war got over, he guessed, a whole crop of flyboys would be coming home and grabbing up those jobs. He was going to get in on the action while the getting was good.

It wasn’t only clever career strategy that inspired the young man walking out to the mailbox that afternoon. More than any other reason, passion fueled his desire to fly. A hundred times he had kicked his father’s tractor into neutral just to watch a hawk rising high on thermals swirling up from the baked fields. Over the soft chugging of the diesel, he imagined the sound of air moving through stiff feathers. And once, while deer hunting alone in the lee of a high ridge, he had nearly touched a Golden Eagle. The huge bird had ridden a wave along the ridge’s crest, and at the sight of prey, had dropped, passing only a few feet above Hank’s head. For a moment he heard the very sound of air supporting the great bird: the hiss through polished barb and the unexpected slapping of ragged, trailing feathers. The spellbound young hunter even thought he heard the tips of talons tearing at the sky itself.

At dusk on late summer days, with dew already settling on grateful growing things, swallows would patrol the air space immediately above his mother’s lush back yard. Hank would walk the lawn just to watch the little birds fly at impossibly slow speeds, only inches above the grass, to intercept invisible insects his feet had scared into the air. The swallows’ magical flight–so low and so close–and the hopeful advertisement still tucked in his wallet, had served to bring Hank’s dream within reach.

With his Duster Enterprises application sent, so began Hank’s sentry at the mailbox. Like a kid enduring the torturous ‘seven to ten weeks’ for a box-top prize to arrive from a cereal company, Hank’s wait stood at day 71 when fate finally rolled up to the box. With the mail carrier’s dust just settling back to earth, Hank felt his future might begin at any second.

The rusted steel latch on the gate squealed in protest as Hank stepped from the front yard out to the galvanized box teetering on its post. A tangle of Morning Glory clung to the box, and one curling tendril tried to block Hank’s access to the lid, but to no avail– the mail always got through.

Hank threw open the box and, sure enough, a single letter addressed to Mr. Henry Schwaang Jr. lay there like a thin white wafer in a hot oven. He had expected the ‘Preflight Kit’ to be much more substantial. Hank snatched the envelope from the box. Its white paper was almost blinding in the summer sun, so he held it in the shade. His young eyes quickly adjusted as he read the return address:

United States Government
Department of Defense

And so it was that the draft board got to Hank Schwaang before Duster Enterprises. Standing beside that empty road with a torn envelope dangling uselessly from one hand, and Uncle Sam’s greetings held up to questioning eyes with the other, Hank remained frozen at a juncture of possibilities. One hopeful route would have led him to buzzing the tops of tall hedgerows and scraping the bottom of drifting summer clouds; the other route to a less lofty place–one, that with a war raging in Europe, was far less certain in its destination.

After reading and re-reading his orders to report for induction in Yakima, Hank had guessed it was a safe bet he could kiss his flying dreams good-bye, but that would have been a bet lost. The arrival of his draft notice that distant morning had interrupted Hank’s soaring plans, but it had not robbed him of his opportunity to fly. In fact, eight months after being swept into the service, Corporal H. Schwaang had earned his wings, and fly he had, not swooping over looming summer hedgerows, but gliding helplessly over Normandy in the dead of a treacherous night–the pilot of thirteen doomed  participants in the silent airborne invasion of Europe. Their wars ended in a few terrible moments. Their pilot never considered himself so lucky.


First Love









Here it was again,

the first blush of love

unfettered by doubts, or fears

or personal politics…

the wondrous sensation

so casually waved off as infatuation

by a world of jealous cynics

who should be so lucky

as to have such a reckless,

divine emotion

pulling their hearts

into foolish and joyful places.


D. Anslow



Pals’ Pix – Art and Photos

Illustration by Trish Anderson - artist, greeting card designer, friend and humorist

BUILDING [1] – Illustration by Trish Anderson: Artist, greeting card designer, friend and humorist…and author of the eternally optimistic phrase, “It’ll be good, you’ll see.”

YUCC'HOUETTE - Snapshot by Don Anslow somewhere near Chochise Stronghold, Arizona.

YUCC’HOUETTE – Snapshot by Don Anslow somewhere near Chochise Stronghold, Arizona.


Passive-Aggressive - Watercolor painting by Trish Anderson

PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE – Watercolor painting executed in a particularily edgy spell by Trish Anderson: Artist, greeting card designer, humorist, ex-employee and friend…not necessarily in that order.


Aspen Shadows - Watercolor by Don Anslow from Arizona Highways Photograph

ASPEN SHADOWS – Watercolor by Don Anslow from Arizona Highways

Dragging Tail In Portland - From Image by TC Brown

DRAGGING TAIL IN PORTLAND – Image cropped with apology from an original photographic image by TC Brown: bona fide eccentric, iconoclast, benevolent and true friend in need or otherwise.

A Week Too Late - Image by TC Brown

A WEEK TOO LATE – Infrared photographic Image by TC Brown: curiously sensitive ex-Vietnam era Huey Crew Chief.


Weathered wall Winslow, Arizona

WEATHERED IN WINSLOW – Snapshot by Don Anslow, Winslow, Arizona.

SPINNING INTO SUNSET – Snapsot by Don Anslow, near Huachuca, in southeastern Arizona.

Cocktail hour descends over the Longhorn Grill near Arivaca Junction, Arizona

COCKTAIL HOUR DESCENDS OVER LONGHORN GRILL – Snapshot by Don Anslow along the Nogales Highway near Arivaca Junction, Arizona