A convoy of stray dogs troddle underneath the busy streets of El Paso. Following a darkened mutt of a long muddled german shepherd, they lie down just past north yarbrough watching the gawking strangers with vigilance. Some wag their tails, some stand in caution. Dusty streets littered with glass and espinillas, I recollect of my younger years walking the same dirt paseos of my childhood. Stray cats, sunburnt empty cans, and muddled bones. I had come to visit my cousins this winter. My home Chicago, my child home El Paso. It had been unchanged, pristine in its barren humble beauty. After a while of drinking, arcades, ghost hunting, karaoke, and walking I make plans to hike the Franklin mountains that rise vast above El Paso. A windy bluebird day starting right at the climbing gym northwest of the city I walk east. A great wind to struggle against towards the rolling mountains that outstretch across the entire periphery. Up and up the valley, across the ridgeline into mammoth cave. Graffiti lined with guano, up again over to the glistening red satellite towers. Down and steep onto fixed chain adorned sandstone. Into pink and crystalline dusk glow, down and dark into the valley. Losing trail in charcoal blackness, only to be guided by the million shining star lights of my childhood city.
