First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
I’m revisiting landing 2489; this is ALAD post 932.
Dan: As I occasionally do, I felt compelled to revisit on of my posts; specifically the Amarillo portion of my 7/10/20 Rotten Hill and Amarillo, Texas post. As you may recall, I featured that old hippie country singer Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Well, I’m going to feature him a little more. On his album with Dave Alvin, Jimmie Dale is featured on two blues songs.
What I love about these songs (besides excellent blues musicianship) are the patently absurd words. I couldn’t find any decent lyrics posted on the internet, so I transcribed them myself. I’ll start with K.C. Moan:
I hate to hear old K.C. when she moan,
I hate to hear K.C. when she moan,
I hate to hear old K.C. when she moan,
‘Cause she moans like she ain’t gunna move no more.
I went down to the station and I looked up on the board
I went down to the station and looked up on the board
I went down to the station and I looked up on the board
It say good times here are better on down the road.
Well I wish I’d a-listened to what my mama said
I wish I’d a-listened to what my mama said
I wish I’d a-listened to what my mama said
I would not be singin’ about the life I led.
Well, I hate to hear old K.C. when she moan,
I hate to hear old K.C. when she moan,
I hate to hear old K.C. when she moan,
‘Cause she moans like she ain’t gunna move no more.
And now, I’m moving on to Buddy Brown’s Blues, which has one of the all-time best lyric lines in all of music. I’ve highlighted the passage in my transcription of the lyrics, below:
I’m gunna get up in the morning and do like Buddy Brown.
I’m gunna get up in the morning and do like Buddy Brown.
I’m gunna go and eat my breakfast, and then I’m gunna lay back down.
She used to fix my breakfast and bring it to my bed.
She used to fix my breakfast and bring it to my bed
If you asked her was she hungry, said “it’s all right, give me lunch instead.”
[Here comes the greatest lyric ever!]
I’ve got a new way of spellin’ Memphis, Tennessee
I’ve got a new way of spellin’ Memphis, Tennessee.
Double A, Double B, Double M, Double XYZ!
[I’ve listened to this dozens of times, and I love it every time!]
I got somethin’ to tell you baby, make the hair rise on your head.
I got somethin’ to tell you baby, make the hair rise on your head.
I got a new way of lovin’ baby, makes the springs sing on your bed.
I’m gunna get up in the morning and do like Buddy Brown.
I’m gunna get up in the morning and do like Buddy Brown.
I’m gunna go and eat my breakfast, and then I’m gunna lay back down.
OK. OK. I understand that not all of my readers will be as enthralled as I about how one should spell Memphis, Tennessee. But I can’t help myself – it’s just the kind of guy I am . . .
The Buddy Brown Blues is a traditional blues song, written by I’m-not-sure-who. But it was performed most famously by Lightnin’ Hopkins. And let me say this:
Lightnin’ had nuthin’ to say about how to spell Memphis, Tennessee. Go Jimmie Dale!
First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
Landing number 2491 ; A Landing A Day blog post number 931
Dan: Today’s lat/long (N38o 46.163’, W108o 52.025’) puts me in West Central Colorado:
Here’s my local map:
Oh my! This has to be one of the most isolated landings ever. Geez. I wonder which town I should feature?
But my watershed analysis is easy:
I landed in the watershed of West Creek, on to the Dolores River (3rd hit); on to the Colorado (189th hit).
Heading over to Google Earth (GE), here’s a look at my local topography as well as a look at the Orange Dude in position to check out my landing:
And here’s what he sees:
As you may have noticed, I added a heretofore unknown feature: Turner Gulch. I found the gulch on a USGS topo map:
As I’ve said many times before, I spend a ridiculous amount of time worrying about the intricacies of my watershed analysis. Upon finding Turner Gulch, here’s what I did on my landing spreadsheet:
I crossed out “ut,” and added “Turner Gulch.” Remember, “ut” is my abbreviation for “unnamed tributary.”
Staying with my watershed analysis, I sent the Orange Dude down the road a piece to Gateway, where West Creek discharges into the Dolores River. Alas – I couldn’t get the OD a place to look at West Creek, but I did find a bridge with Street View coverage over the Dolores River.
Here’s the upstream (north) view from the bridge:
Oh my! Simply lovely! Of course, I had the OD do a 180o turn to take a look downstream:
What a wonderful spot!
Notice the low, brown buildings in the distance? I’ll have the OD get a closer look:
Right in downtown Gateway (actually, practically the only thing in downtown Gateway) is the Gateway Canyons Resort & Spa. Here’s an aerial view of their property from their website:
This is an ex-TREEEME-ly upscale resort. It’s easy to drop $1,000/night . . .
Check out how cool the topography is around Gateway; how six valleys converge there:
I’d love to put Gateway on my to-go list. But I’ll need something a little cheaper than Gateway Canyons Resort . . .
So, I noticed that I landed along the Unaweep-Tabeguache Byway:
It’s a scenic highway route. Here’s a write-up and map from soft-adventure-tourism.com:
Note in the second paragraph, where it says: “Over time, the rivers silted the rock away, exposing hundreds of millions of years of the geologic history . . .”
As a geologist, I must object to the use of the word “silted.”. How about simply substituting “eroded?”
I’m going to feature the above-mentioned Unaweep Canyon in a moment. But what’s Tabegauche?
For such a unique Googleable word, it is amazing to me how difficult it was to find out why the scenic byway has the word “Tabeguache” as part of its name. One might think that the main website for the byway would explain it. Nope. So, off I went.
I found this, from The World Journal, that reports from an area south of Denver:
Tabeguache, historians tell us, is a Ute word meaning “people living on the warm side of the mountain.” The Tabeguache Utes were an Indian Tribe known to live in southeastern Colorado and northeastern New Mexico [far from my landing], at least until they were forced onto reservations to the west of the Continental Divide.
Well, since we’re well west of the Continental Divide, I assume that the Tabeguache part of “Unaweep – Tabeguache” has to do with what happened after they were moved further west. But I’ve spent way too much time as it is, so I’m going to move to the Unaweep Canyon:
From ColoradoLifeMagazine:
“Unaweep” means “parting of the waters” or “canyon with two mouths,” depending on who you ask. But long ago, the Utes realized the important point, that Unaweep Canyon is the only known canyon in the world with a divide that drains water out each end. West Creek flows out one end and East Creek out the other. It’s not a radical divide visually, and if you blink, you might even miss it.
From AmusingPlanet.com, here’s a great picture of the portion of Unaweep Canyon near the divide, where there’s hardly a stream at all:
Stop and think about this. Here’s this massively-eroded canyon, that was clearly cut by erosion over millions of years. But there’s no river there now to do all of that work. How about the Grand Canyon, the Columbia Gorge or the Snake River Canyon? Major canyons have major rivers in them to do all of the hard work of creating the canyons.
Here’s some of the write-up from Amusing Planet:
The two creeks, named East Creek and West Creek, flow through the canyon in opposite directions to join, respectively, the Gunnison River near the town of Whitewater and the Dolores River near Gateway.
Between these two towns, the Unaweep Canyon carves a winding passage – 43 miles long, more than 3000 feet deep and as wide as 4 miles at places. Because the two creeks that currently occupy the canyon are too small to have excavated such a massive pathway, geologists believe that the canyon was dug either by the Colorado River or the Gunnison River, or both, and was subsequently abandoned as the rivers took a new course.
This is a generally vague explanation, although it’s probably generally correct. Let’s take a look at the regional hydrology:
You can see that it’s conceivable that the Colorado / Gunnison may have formerly flowed through the Unaweep / Dolores Canyons . . .
What the heck. I’ll do a little math. The canyon is 43 miles long and let’s say 2 miles wide by 3000 feet deep. How much rock was eroded to make this canyon? 43 x 2 x 3000/5280 = 49 cubic miles. Let’s make it a cubic block of stone. How about 1 mile wide by 7 miles long by 7 miles high? It takes a lot of energy and a lot of time to wash away all of this rock . . .
Whatever. All in all, this is a very cool place, visually and geologically.
It’s time to close this post down. As one might expect, there’s plenty of beautiful scenery in the vicinity of my landing. I thought that I’d feature the one photo posted on GE that is closest to my landing:
First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
Landing number 2490 ; A Landing A Day blog post number 930
Dan: Today’s lat/long (N441o 54.696’, W89o 14.380’) puts me in N-Cen Illinois:
My local landing shows the expected VP* of small towns:
*Veritable plethora
My streams-only map shows that I landed in the watershed of good ol’ Stream Perennial, on to the Kyte River (1st hit ever!); to the Rock River (6th hit).
Although not shown, the Rock heads southwest to discharge into (you guessed it), the MM (964th hit).
The Orange Dude was able to get within a mile of my landing:
And here’s what he sees:
Not far away, he got a look at the afore-mentioned Stream Perennial, just before it discharges into the Kyte (looking downstream):
The OD simply turned. Looking upstream is a totally different view:
So anyway, this is going to be one those little-bit-of-this little-bit-of-that posts. I’ll hit the towns in no particular order, starting with Chana. Strangely, Chana is featured in a Small Town Throwdown:
So, what about Woosong? Sounds Chinese, eh? Well, it is. From Wiki:
Woosung was named by a railroad official who had once visited Wusong, China during his former career as a sea captain.
It turns out that Wusong was a village outside of Shanghai, but was totally incorporated into Shanghai in the 20th century. It’s now a “subdistrict” in the Baoshan District of Shanghai:
Here’s a GE shot of a sea of apartment buildings in or very close to Wusong:
And a typical street scene, posted on GE by “Japanese Magpie.” Looks like a typical American street, eh?
And this, of the “Wusong Ancient Fort,” posted on GE by Li-Ji Hong:
Wiki mentions that Baoshan was the scene of heavy fighting during the Battle of Shanghai. The battle is Wiki-clickable, so off I went.
I learned that the Battle of Shanghai (1937) was part of the Second Sino-Japanese War (SSJW) that started in 1937, and wasn’t really over until the end of World War II. I was only vaguely aware of this war; it didn’t directly involve Americans, so gets the short-shrift in World History class.
The SSJW started with the Marco Polo Bridge Incident. From Wiki:
The Marco Polo Bridge Incident was a July 1937 battle between China’s National Revolutionary Army and the Imperial Japanese Army. It is widely considered to have been the start of the Second Sino-Japanese War, and by extension, sometimes given as an alternative starting date for World War II (as opposed to the more commonly-cited one of September 1939, when Nazi Germany invaded Poland, starting the European theater of the war).
There’s a very complicated and contentious history between Japan and China, dating back to the beginning of the 20th Century. The bottom line is that Japan had long had troops stationed in China, but the tensions were increasing, as were the number of their troops.
One thing led to another which led to a military battle at the “Marco Polo Bridge,” just southeast of Beijing. Check out the bridge (Wiki):
And why is it called the “Marco Polo Bridge?” From Wiki:
The name “Marco Polo Bridge” derives from its appearance in Marco Polo’s book of travels, where (in the 13th century) he praised it highly:
“Over this river there is a very fine stone bridge, so fine indeed, that it has very few equals in the world.”
The original bridge (finished in 1192) was damaged by a flood and reconstructed in 1698.
So, what about the Battle of Shanghai? As all war battles are, it was horrific. Records are sketchy (and questionable), but the Chinese said that they lost 187,000, and the Japanese 27,000. The Japanese won and took control of Shanghai.
As you can imagine, the greater SSJW has a hugely complex history. Here’s one bottom line (casualties): 1,320,000 Chinese killed; 700,000 Japanese killed. The end of the war morphed into the internal Chinese struggle between the Nationalists (led by Chiang Kai Shek) and the Communists (led by Chairman Mao).
Moving on to Oregon. From Wiki:
Between 1908–11, on a site just north of the city, sculptor Lorado Taft erected a 50-foot tall statue he had designed and originally named The Eternal Indian. Located on a bluff overlooking the Rock River valley, the sculpture is now known as the Black Hawk Statue, named after Black Hawk, a chief of the Sauk Indian tribe that once inhabited the area.
Actually, it’s very cool (from Wiki):
Anyway, I noticed this on GE:
Margaret Fuller Island? This about Ms. Fuller, from Wiki:
Sarah Margaret Fuller Ossoli (1810 – 1850) was an American journalist, editor, critic, translator, and women’s rights advocate associated with the American transcendentalism* movement. She was the first American female war correspondent, writing for Horace Greeley’s New-York Tribune, and full-time book reviewer in journalism. Her book “Woman in the Nineteenth Century” is considered the first major feminist work in the United States.
*From Wiki: Transcendentalism is a philosophical movement that developed in the late 1820s and 1830s in the eastern United States. A core belief is in the inherent goodness of people and nature, and while society and its institutions have corrupted the purity of the individual, people are at their best when truly “self-reliant” and independent.
From Oregon’s website:
In the summer of 1843 Margaret Fuller made her only visit to Oregon, Illinois. Walking along the east bank of the Rock River during her visit, she noticed the natural spring at the base of the bluff. She dubbed the spring “Ganymede Spring”, and later sat down beneath the Eagle’s Nest Tree, and penned her famous poem “Ganymede to His Eagle”. An island at the center of the Rock River across from the spring was named Margaret Fuller Island in her honor.
There’s a moving story about her death. From Wiki:
In the beginning of 1850 [while in Florence, Italy], Fuller wrote to a friend: “It has long seemed that in the year 1850 I should stand on some important plateau in the ascent of life.” Also that year, Fuller wrote: “I am absurdly fearful and various omens have combined to give me a dark feeling … It seems to me that my future upon earth will soon close … I have a vague expectation of some crisis—I know not what”.
A few days after writing this, Fuller, Ossoli, and their child began a five-week voyage to the United States [from Florence] aboard the ship Elizabeth, an American merchant freighter carrying cargo that included mostly marble from Carrara. At sea, the ship’s captain, Seth Hasty, died of smallpox. Angelino [her son] contracted the disease and recovered.
Possibly because of the inexperienced first mate, now serving as captain, the ship slammed into a sandbar less than 100 yards from Fire Island, New York, on July 19, 1850, around 3:30 a.m. Many of the other passengers and crew members abandoned ship.
The first mate, Mr. Bangs, urged Fuller and Ossoli to try to save themselves and their child as he himself jumped overboard. He later claimed that Fuller had wanted to be left behind to die.
Most of those aboard attempted to swim to shore, leaving Fuller and Ossoli and Angelino among some of the last on the ship. Ossoli was thrown overboard by a massive wave and, after the wave had passed, a crewman who witnessed the event said Fuller could not be seen.
Henry David Thoreau traveled to New York, at the urging of Emerson, to search the shore but neither Fuller’s body nor that of her husband was ever recovered. Angelino’s had washed ashore. Few of their possessions were found other than some of the child’s clothes and a few letters.
Fuller’s manuscript on the rise and fall of the 1849 Roman Republic, which she described as, “what is most valuable to me if I live of any thing,” was also lost. A memorial to Fuller was erected on the beach at Fire Island in 1901 through the efforts of Julia Ward Howe.
From Wiki: Julia Ward Howe was an American poet and author, known for writing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” (an abolitionist / religious Civil War hymn, written to the music of a popular folk song, “John Brown’s Body”; “Mine eyes have seen the glory . . . ) and the original 1870 pacifist Mother’s Day Proclamation. She was also an advocate for abolitionism and a social activist, particularly for women’s suffrage.
So. Julia used the melody of John Brown’s body, but changed the words. So, what are the original words of John Brown’s body? Here goes (and feel free to sing along):
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in his grave (x3)
His soul is marching on!
Glory, glory Hallelujah (etc.) [Although the original says “Glory, Hally Hallelujah”]
He’s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord (x3)
His soul is marching on!
Glory, glory, etc.
John Brown’s knapsack is strapped upon his back (x3)
His soul is marching on!
Glory, glory, etc.
His pet lamps* will meet him on his way (x3)
His soul is marching on!
Glory, glory, etc.
They will hang Jeff Davis to a tree (x3)
As they march along!
Glory, glory, etc.
Now three rousing cheers for the Union (x3)
As we are marching on!
Glory, glory, etc.
*Now wait a minute. “His pet lamps will meet him on his way?” Say what? Just in case you thought I screwed up, here’s the original song lyrics:
After a strenuous Google search, I found this note in a 2019 Amy Muse book entitled “Text & Presentation” (p. 61):
This particular song sheet [maybe referring to the one I reproduced above] unambiguously reads “pet lamps,” but other accounts around the same time somewhat more sensibly report the lyrics as “pet lambs.”
That’s more like it! John Brown is on his way to heaven and his “pet lambs” – maybe reference to the biblical “Lamb of God” – accompany him. Although I guess one could say that his pet lamps light his way . . .
Time to move on to Dixon. From Wiki, I learned that Ronald Reagan’s family moved there when he was 9 years old, and he graduated from Dixon High School. Here are a couple of clips from the Illinois High School Association:
And there was a bridge collapse in Dixon in 1873. Wiki tells us that a minister was baptizing 6 people, and he invited the general public as witnesses. An estimated 150 – 200 people showed up, clustered on one end of the bridge. Here’s a shot of the bridge dedication from 1869 (so the bridge was only 4 years old when it collapsed):
And here are a couple of shots of the bridge after the collapse:
The official death count was 46, with many more injured. This was a huge story in the Midwest newspapers, with many demands for blame / justice. The bridge designer, Lucius Truesdell was widely condemned, but was not charged with any crime (or even sued, as far as I can tell).
Headed back upriver, we run into Grand Detour. Great name. From Wiki:
The village is named after an odd turn in the Rock River, which flows north past the village, rather than its normal southwestern course.
I discovered that John Deere invented the steel plow in Grand Detour. Back to Wiki:
In 1836, native Vermonter John Deere set out from Rutland, Vermont to Grand Detour, Illinois. The town lacked a local blacksmith, Deere’s trade, and within two days Deere had a forge and new business established. In Vermont, Deere produced plows made from cast-iron and when he first arrived in Illinois he produced the same plows. Soil conditions in Illinois differ from those in Vermont. In Vermont the soil is sandy and falls easily away from the plow blade but in Illinois the soil is thicker and wetter; it stuck to the plow and had to be scraped off by the farmer as he plowed.
There are varying tales as to the inspiration for Deere to create the invention he is famed for, the steel plow. In one version he recalled the way the polished steel pitchfork tines moved through hay and soil and thought that the same effect could be obtained for a plow. By early 1838, Deere completed his first steel plow and sold it to a local farmer, Lewis Crandall. Crandall spread word of his success with Deere’s plow quickly, and two neighbors soon placed orders with Deere. By 1841 he was manufacturing 75 plows per year, and 100 plows per year in 1876.
The rest is history . . .
The town of Polo was named after . . . you guessed it . . . Marco Polo. I’ve already featured Marco Polo, but who’da thunk that I could feature him twice in the same post? Here’s a map of his travels (1271 – 1295):
He wrote “The Travels of Marco Polo,” a book that described to Europeans the then mysterious culture and inner workings of the Eastern world, including the wealth and great size of the Mongol Empire and China in the Yuan Dynasty, giving their first comprehensive look into China, Persia, India, Japan and other Asian cities and countries.
I’ll finish up with Rochelle. Wait a minute! I just featured Rochelle a few weeks ago in my Vienna, Seville and Rochelle George post. As I’m sure you remember, Rochelle Georgia was named after La Rochelle, France, which I featured heavily in that post.
So how about Rochelle, Illinois? From Wiki:
Originally named Hickory Grove, the town sits at the intersection of two rail lines. Having a number of granaries holding corn, wheat and other crops for shipping eastward, the town was an important rail link for farmers.
During the Civil War, an arsonist burned some of the granaries. He was arrested but vigilantes stormed the local jail and hanged him from a tree. The town then was called Hang Town by locals and travelers.
Later in the local pharmacy, some of the city fathers were discussing the problem of the scarcity of people coming to reside in the town. It was agreed a new name was necessary. One of the men reached up on a shelf and picked up a bottle of Rochelle Salts, saying Rochelle would be a good name for the town.
This is one of those towns where I mightily regret that the name was changed. My slogan would have been “Hang Town, forever!” But then some dude sees a bottle of Rochelle Salts. Well, the stuff is Wiki-clicakable:
Potassium sodium tartrate tetrahydrate, also known as Rochelle salt, is a double salt of tartaric acid first prepared (in about 1675) by an apothecary, Pierre Seignette, of La Rochelle, France.
The chemical is a laxative, which is probably why it was in the Hang Town apothecary.
So, we’re connected to La Rochelle once again. How about that. As a reminder, here’s a Wiki shot of the entrance to the inner harbor at La Rochelle:
Well . . . that’s’ all, folks . . . except for a picture or two posted on GE near my landing. It’ll just be one; this shot of a freshly-fallen tree in the Kyte River, posted by Steve Brown:
First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
Landing number 2489 ; A Landing A Day blog post number 929
Dan: Today’s lat/long (N35o 22.039’, W102o 12.375’) puts me in the Texas Panhandle:
As discussed in ALADus Obscurus, this is my second Texas landing in a row. Check this out:
Only in Texas could two landings be 600 miles apart! OK, maybe north to south in California as well . . .
My very local landing map shows that I landed in the middle of nowhere, and the only StreetAtlas notation is for Rotten Hill. Seein’ as how that’s my last name, I was immediately drawn to the location. Obviously, more about Rotten Hill in a bit.
Zooming back, you can see that I’m in the greater Amarillo area:
You may wonder why Vega and Wildorado are circled. Well, that’s because I featured both towns in my August 2014 “Vega and Wildarado” post (when I landed a little south of the towns). As always, it’s a great post, featuring Route 66, the name “Wildorado” and The Grapes of Wrath,
But moving right along to my watershed analysis: my streams-only StreetAtlas map showed nothing local to my landing, so off I went to Google Earth (GE). I powered up GE’s hydrographic features, and found this:
So, I landed in the Sierrita de la Cruz Creek watershed. One of the annoying features of the hydrographic features feature is that the streams are named only when they discharge into something. That’s why the name of the Creek doesn’t show up until it discharges into the Canadian River (51st hit). Zooming back on StreetAtlas:
The Canadian discharges to the Arkansas (137th hit); on to the MM (963rd hit).
From the Texas State Historical Association, I found this about the Sierrita de la Cruz:
Its name, which means “little mountain of the cross,” is derived from a nearby hill overlooking the Canadian Valley on which the outlaw Sostenes l’Archeveque was buried after his death at the hands of Colas Martinez and his fellow pastores in 1876; for years the grave was marked by a wooden cross.
The Historical Association has quite the piece about the outlaw Sostenes l’Archeveque:
Sostenes l’Archevêque, one of thefirst badmen of the old Southwest, was the son of a French father and a Mexican-Indian mother. When Sostenes was a boy, his father was killed by an Anglo-American in New Mexico. Sostenes reportedly vowed that when he grew up he would kill every gringo he met. Subsequently, he won considerable notoriety in the upper Rio Grande settlements as a cold-blooded gunfighter. By 1876, when he was finally run out of New Mexico, he was said to have killed twenty-three Americans, and his murderous actions had become unbearable even to his own Hispanic relatives.
L’Archevêque’s sister was married to Nicolás (Colas) Martínez, a former Comanchero turned sheep rancher. Martínez vowed that he would kill his outlaw brother-in-law himself if he continued in his crime spree.
In the fall of 1876 two brothers named Casner were traveling through the area with sheep and considerable money, having successfully mined a small fortune in the California gold fields with their father and another brother. L’Archevêque, accompanied by an unsuspecting lad named Ysabel Gurules, tracked down the campsite, and L’Archevêque killed the two brothers.
Gurules fled and brought word to Martinez and several companions. They lured L’Archevêque to a small adobe house and shot him; he died a few hours later and was buried at a site near the south bank of the Canadian River that subsequently became known as Sierrita de la Cruz.
Before moving on to Rotten Hill, I need to check out my landing and my watershed on GE. Here’s a map showing that I couldn’t get the Orange Dude very close to my landing:
And here’s what he sees, looking west toward my landing:
I managed to get the OD on a bridge over the Sierrita de la Cruz Creek:
And here’s the Creek – OK, just the creek bed (looking downstream):
So, what about Rotten Hill? One of the Google search entries said “Rotten Hill: A Late Triassic Bonebed in the Texas Panhandle.” This referred to a scholarly article of the same name by a plethora of geologists (Spencer G. Lucas et. al., 2016) and published in the NM Museum of Natural History and Science Bulletin 72.
Quoting from the Abstract:
The Late Triassic Rotten Hill bonebed is a low diversity multitaxic and monodominant bonebed; the vast majority of the bones are of the metoposaurid Koskinonodon perfectum.
Translation: The fossil bed, while involving numerous species, is predominantly composed of fossil bones from an ancient amphibian – species Koskinonodon perfectum (KP) – which lived between 208 to 227 million years ago.
Before going further, let’s learn a little about good ol’ KP. Let’s start out with this Wiki shot:
So, it looks like an alligator, but with its eyes perched out on its snout. Plus, it’s an amphibian, rather than a reptile. From Wiki:
Koskinonodon is an extinct genus of large amphibians. These animals were part of the family called the Metoposaurids which filled the crocodile-like predatory niches in the late Triassic. It reached lengths up to 10 ft, with a 25-in-long skull. It was an ambush hunter, snapping up anything it could fit in its huge jaws. It was very common during the Late Triassic (Norian age) in what is now the American Southwest.
From Wiki, here’s a complete KP skeleton:
It’s time to get back to the abstract:
It closely resembles other metoposaurid-dominated bonebeds that suggest aggregation of a group of metoposaurids, followed by catastrophic mortality, complete disarticulation and disassociation of the skeletons, culminated by rapid transport and burial. The mass death assemblage was hydraulically concentrated.
Phew. Got that? A whole bunch of these KP dudes were hanging out together, died together, got all ripped apart, and then the remains were transported by water and buried in sediment (still all together). Through the eons, the bones were fossilized, where they remained in the rock for 200+ million years. Wow.
Back to the abstract:
K. perfectum is represented by numerous skulls, lower jaws, vertebrae, girdle and limb bones representing a minimum number of 68 individuals based on recovered interclavicles.
OK, so they figured out that there were at least 68 KPs represented in the bonebeds, based on “recovered interclavicles.” The interclavicle is a connector bone between the two clavicles (collarbones). So that means there’s only one interclavicle per individual. Here’s what a reptilian interclavicle looks like:
I can only imagine the excitement when each interclavicle was found and cataloged. (I may sound sarcastic, but I’m not.)
Let’s learn a little more about KP, from Wiki:
The hunting style of Koskinonodon involved lying at the bottom of a shallow swamp, waiting for a fish, crustacean, smaller amphibian, or even a young phytosaur to wander by. When it spotted prey, it used its huge jaws to engulf and consume them.
A few particular adaptations suggest Koskinonodon had this aquatic lifestyle. First, they had lateral lines formed by the sensory sulci. These are useful for detecting changes in water pressure made by the swimming motions of nearby organisms. Their sprawling limbs were also adapted for water. They would not move quickly or efficiently on land, although they may have done it to find another water pool with more food or other resource.
Mass graves have been found, thought to be a result of a group of these animals gathering together in a withering water pool during a drought and all perishing because the water was never replenished.
Bingo! With no other viable alternative, that seems to be the most likely scenario for our unlucky 68 KPs. They were likely all eaten by scavengers, leaving only the bones. Then, when flooding rains arrived, they were buried by incoming sediment. Although the bones were “hydraulically concentrated,” I suspect that they were not transported any significant distance by the moving water, because they would be widely scattered if that happened.
And then, perchance, some lucky geologists stumble on the bones and figure everything out. I love geology!
I’ll head on over to Amarillo (pop 200,000, the largest city in the panhandle). I’m sure if I dug a little deeper in Amarillo, I’d find something of historical interest, but I’ve decided to feature a little bit of music associated with the city.
First we have native son Jimmie Dale Gilmore (who was born in Amarillo but raised in Lubbock).
He teamed up with Dave Alvin to put out what I think is a great song. Dave Alvin is from Downey CA (an LA suburb), and he sings about being “Downey to Lubbock bound.” And then Jimmie Dale counters that he’s headed from Lubbock to Downey.
Well I’m a wild blues blaster
from a sunburnt California town
And I gotta loud Stratocaster
that can blow any roadhouse down
You know I been up on the mountain
And I looked for the promised land
And I been to the Ash Grove
And I shook Lightnin’s hand*
*The Ash Grove was a folk and blues music club in LA (1958-1973) visited by Dave Alvin in his youth. “Lightin” refers to Lightnin Hopkins, a blues guitar legend.
Now I’m leaving tonight people
I’m Downey to Lubbock bound
Well I’m an old flatlander
From the great high plains
Like wanderlust and wonder
West Texas wind blows through my veins
But it seemed like California
Was the place to be
For a hippie country singer
That was me
And I’m leaving tonight man
I’m Lubbock to Downey bound
Forty years on the highway
Livin’ on dreams and gasoline
Yet somehow still surviving
On Advil, Nyquil and nicotine
Every city and every heartbreak
Every hopeful kiss
Every road I’ve traveled
Has led me to this
Now I’m leaving tonight people
I’m Downey to Lubbock bound
Well I took a lot of detours
Cul-de-sacs and dead ends
But I made a lot of music
And I made a lot of friends
I took a lot of turns
Maybe some were not that good
If I had to do it over
Well I surely, mostly would
I’d stay right on this highway
That’s Lubbock to Downey bound
Well I’m a wild blues blaster
Looking to find what can be found
And I’m an old flatlander
I’ve been round and round and round
I know someday this old highway’s
Gonna come to an end
I know when it does
You’re gonna be my friend
So, I’m leaving tonight people
I’m Downey to Lubbock bound
I’m leaving tonight
I’m Lubbock to Downey bound
I’m going to stick with good ol’ country music, this time featuring a song by Jerry Jeff Walker. You regulars may remember that I featured Jerry Jeff in my Terlingua TX (revisited) post. I posted several of his songs (from the album Viva Terlingua), but not this one, which prominently features Amarillo (at least partially because it rhymes with armadillo).
It’s called “London Homesick Blues.”
Gotta put myself back in that place again
Well, when you’re down on your luck
And you ain’t got a buck
In London you’re a goner
Even London Bridge
Has fallen down
And moved to Arizona
Now I know why
And I’ll substantiate the rumor
That the English sense of humor
Is drier than the Texas sand
You can put up your dukes
Or you can bet your boots
That I’m leavin’ just as fast as I can
[Chorus]
I wanna go home with the armadillo
Good country music from Amarillo
And Abilene
The friendliest people and the prettiest women you ever seen
Well, it’s cold over here
And I swear
I wish they’d turn the heat on
And where in the world
Is that English girl
I promised I would meet on
The third floor?
And of the whole damn lot
The only friend I got
Is a smoke and a cheap guitar
My mind keeps roamin’
My heart keeps longin’
To be home in a Texas bar
[Chorus]
I wanna go home with the armadillo
Good country music from Amarillo
And Abilene
The friendliest people and the prettiest women you ever seen
Well, I decided that
I’d get my cowboy hat
And go down to Marble Arch Station
‘Cause when a Texan fancies
He’ll take his chances
Chances will be taken
That’s for sure
And them limey eyes
They were eyein’ the prize
That some people call manly footwear
And they said “You’re from down South
“And when you open your mouth
“You always seem to put your foot there”
[Chorus]
I wanna go home with the armadillo
Good country music from Amarillo
And Abilene
The friendliest people and the prettiest women you ever seen
As is my wont, I checked out pictures posted on GE near my landing. I landed so far out in the boonies, that the closest posted pictures were about 15 miles away, like this by JB Brown (to the SW of my landing):
First timer? In this formerly once-a-day blog (and now pretty much a once-a-week blog), I use an app that provides a random latitude and longitude that puts me somewhere in the continental United States (the lower 48). I call this “landing.”
I keep track of the watersheds I land in, as well as the town or towns I land near. I do some internet research to hopefully find something of interest about my landing location.
To find out more about A Landing A Day (like who “Dan” is) please see “About Landing” above. To check out some relatively recent changes in how I do things, check out “About Landing (Revisited).”
Landing number 2488 ; A Landing A Day blog post number 928
Dan: Today’s lat/long (N29o 39.686’, W94o 48.411’) puts me in SE Texas:
My very local landing map shows water, water everywhere:
Zooming back a bit, we can see my titular town:
Zooming back a bit more puts me in the greater Houston – Galveston area:
Not much need for a watershed analysis. I landed in Trinity Bay, which is the estuary of the Trinity River.
Moving over to Google Earth: I asked the Orange Dude to find the best spot to get a look at my landing. He complied:
And here’s what he sees:
Good thing they put up two stop signs. Obviously, one would not be enough.
The OD told me that if he moved east a few hundred yards, he could get a look a cool complex of some sort:
I did some research to try to figure out what’s going on and found out the property is (was?) for sale. From an article in the Houston Chronicle:
When Hurricane Ike ravaged Tom Fereday’s Anahuac, Texas, house in September 2008, he opted to create a storm-proof structure with character.
“Ike took out almost everything blocks from the water,” he remembers. The Houston resident says after the storm he walked out to his property on Trinity Bay and saw that the “sun was shining and there was only half of the house left.” He decided to build a house and a lighthouse-like structure.
Both buildings were built to withstand 225-mile-per-hour winds, and both remain incomplete (the oil industry slump has put a damper on Fereday’s business, so he’s halted construction for the time being). Both are also on the market for $1,599,950, including the two acres on which they sit.
Here are some pics from the article:
Time to move north along the Trinity Bay coast up to Anahuac proper. But first, we need to pronounce it correctly: AN na wack.
From TexasEscapes:
Construction of a Mexican fort at Anahuac was begun in 1830. Gen. Manuel de Mier y Terán, commanding officer of the Mexican province of Coahuila y Texas, named the town Anahuac in 1831. This the Aztec word for the Aztec capital [what today is Mexico city].
From Wiki:
Anahuac is the ancient core of Mexico. Anahuac is a Nahuatl name which means “close to water.” Anahuac is sometimes used interchangeably with “Valley of Mexico”, where a well-developed Aztec culture created distinctive landscapes on an island in a lake, and surrounding a lake. The lake no longer exists, and the landscapes are now hidden by the urban sprawl of Mexico City.
So what long-gone lake are we talking about? From Wiki:
Lake Texcoco was a natural lake within the “Anahuac” or Valley of Mexico. Lake Texcoco is best known as where the Aztecs built the city of Tenochtitlan, which was located on an island within the lake. After the Spanish conquest of the Aztec Empire, efforts to control flooding by the Spanish led to most of the lake being drained. The entire lake basin is now almost completely occupied by Mexico City, the capital of the present-day nation of Mexico.
And this, about the capital city, Tenochitlan (of course, from Wiki):
The largest and most dominant city at the time of the Spanish conquest was Tenochtitlan. It was founded by the Aztecs on a small island in the western part of Lake Texcoco in 1325. The inhabitants controlled the lake with a sophisticated system of dikes, canals and sluices, creating farmland out of what was lake bed. Much of the surrounding land in the valley was terraced and farmed as well, with a network of aqueducts channeling fresh water from springs in the mountainsides into the city itself.
Here’s a map showing the lake in the 1300s (up to several hundred feet deep), and a GE shot of Mexico City at the same scale. The red dots mark the location of Tenochitlan. Note that the dark patch on the GE shot is not water; it’s the hilly area you can see along the west shore of the lake.
As you can see, the lake was about 40 miles long from north to south.
So today’s Mexico City, with a population of about 10 million people (the largest city in the Americas), is built almost entirely on a lakebed and is built at the same location as a native American city. It’s almost more than I can fathom.
I thought I’d visit Mexico City on GE, and check out Street View. I went to the central, old part of the city, and took a look at the Street View possibilities:
Wow. Every Mexico City street has been photographed by the GoogleMobile and is ready for the Orange Dude to visit. Without aiming at any particular street or feature, I told the Orange Dude that I was going to drop him at a random location. After he got his feet under him, amazingly, here’s what he saw:
AYKM?!? The GoogleCam dude obviously landed inside some building! Of course, I had the OD take a look around:
So it’s a restaurant!
Wow. What an amazing restaurant! I hope the food is good . . .
Anyway, I sent him out on the street, so I could find out the name of the restaurant. Here ‘tis:
The Cafe de Tacuba. And here’s what I assume is a lunchtime crowd either waiting for the doors to open, or waiting for their name to be called:
OK. It’s fair to assume that the food is good. . .
Here’s the trace left by the GoogleCam guy in Café Tacuba:
And there are numerous buildings in the historic Mexico City district with similar indoor “Street View coverage” (Cafe Tacuba is the one just SW of the dot marked “Centro Historico”):
I could spend hours exploring Mexico City (and did spend some time perusing the interiors of some beautiful old buildings), but I must finish up this post and then work on landing at another exciting location . . .
As per usual, I need to head back to Anahuac TX to close out this post. The Trinity River flows right by Anahuac on its way into Trinity Bay. Here’s a funky shot by Uriah Massey, of some mysterious wooden structures in the Trinity River near Anahuac:
A Landing a Day 