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| Dreams and Schemes . . .
by Gideon Noir,
Staff Cottonwood GuyThe difference between dreams and schemes is that dreams depend upon a host for their existence.
Schemes, however, take on a life of their own.
Dreamers have a sense of purpose and permanence. Schemers are..well…ephemeral. They possess a come and go attitude. Dreamers seek tangible results they can hang their hat on. Schemers tend to defecate in their own bed…so to speak, then find a place to lay their head down.
I would also contend that much like the vortexes that define alto Sedona, there are similar geologic points down in my neck of the sticker patch with a propensity to draw birds of a feather…like minded individuals so to speak. Case in point.
First the dreamers: It was about 150 years ago when the very first Bajaians began to settle the not so pretty white limestone lowlands, down slope from the red rocks. Some of these hardy souls had a dream. They took up residence on the upper reaches of the gentle river that runs through the Baja. There they began harnessing the elements—mastering the forces of water (which for the Newtonian challenged, or the residents of Corn Town, only applies if water is headed down hill) and creating fields of squash, beans and corn.
Their ultimate dream was to displace the indigenous peoples, build a cement plant, five state parks and justify their existence with a Super Duper Wally-World. These folks at the upper end of the Baja not only survived, they prospered. Their progeny has also survived and prospered. Therefore, we have the thriving riparian burg of Balsawood.
However, at the other end of the Baja—the receiving end of the river that runs through it—the end at which Lord Kelvin’s laws of surplus energy would indicate that the largest potential reservoir of kinetic energy would reside, such prosperity for prosperity eluded the original settlers and all who have followed. There, at the other end of the Baja, further down slope from the dreamy squash framers in Balsawood, be schemers. Some time back, this sorry lot took things way beyond the dream of channeling a gentle stream of water and giving life to a few lousy fields of maize and melons.
Somewhere back around the time when a nickel would buy you a vacation home in Oak Creek, this hapless lot of schemers settled in their camp on the verdant shores of the river that runs through the Baja, decided, after seeing what their Balsawood neighbors had achieved, that if a little water is good enough to bring prosperity and pomegranates to the yokels up stream, then a lot of the stuff just might fatten a wallet or two.
An idea, or more precisely a scheme, was hatched one sultry summer day calling for the sorry lot to construct a dam capable of holding back the tail waters passed down to them by the radish ranchers up stream. The idea…no wait…the scheme was to create a lake, an artificial pond of magnanimous proportions, on which the scheming throng could…uh…uh…it don’t matter what it was they wanted to do with the lake, it just seemed appropriate, and as I said earlier, profitable. Anyway, they began building a dam just down slope from the spot where the river ran through their tiny verdant camp. The dam rose to higher heights every day, eventually reaching a level that amazed even the schemiest of the schemers.
It was not long before water began to fill the void behind the dam. And not long after which the hapless lot began to recognize their folly. Within a week the water had covered their bean fields. A week later it began to soak their sheets. Within a month their houses were gone. And shortly thereafter, so were they.
As I say, this flood of Biblical proportions/dimensions/size/magnitude happened back when no one had a nickel, when public work projects was the only way to hold a job. Since then, national prosperity has soared. Everywhere that is except the lower reaches of the Baja where in spite of their best efforts, affluence has eluded them. First there was the Martian landing strip built in the 50’s. Lack of a primary carrier to cover the cost of the new terminal ended that one. There are also rumors of a baggage handling system similar to the one in Denver. The cold nuclear fusion bunch, or so the story is told, all disappeared in the 90’s, soon after the heads of several among their cursed lot exploded. It was worse than anything Monty Python ever attempted to portray—or so I have heard.
But, I am told the water is still clear, the land remains cheap and the only law is Murphy’s Law.
I am thinking it might be a good place to start my own newspaper—and let it take on a life of its own.
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