I have no earthly idea what that means in the figurative sense, but according to my life companion for the last forty years, I don’t have a clue about anything anyway.
I can see “hand it over” and even the incorrect “give it over” which are the instructions the Domestic Despot gives to our doggies when she wants them to relinquish a toy or ball from their mugs.
But fork it over?
What were they doing?
Transferring a roasted piece of meat?
Certainly had to be something into which a fork could be inserted…
Food for thought.
I was sitting on a ridge in Redington Pass, just east of Tucson out Tanque Verde Road.
From my vantage point, I could see the entire valley in the most minute detail, just like a model landscape.
But this was no model.
I could see every last detail of this topography; every shrub, cactus, and dead mesquite log.
Throughout the entire valley.
I heard what I hoped was voices just behind me.
I still couldn’t move.
My legs were both broken and pointing in different directions. I had lost my hold as I was climbing up a canyon wall to get a better view when the shrub I grabbed hold of let go and sent me to a forty-foot fall.
I tried to buffet my fall as I hit the rock bed below, but I only served to break my right arm. But now my left elbow was swollen to the size of a watermelon.
Not good.
It had taken me two sunrises and a few hours to crawl/roll/tumble my way to a point where I hoped I might get help.
I was thirsty, very thirsty, but therein lies the problem, as they say.
My arms were both useless; I couldn’t grip or lift anything with either hand.
Think dumbass, think.
I crawled my way over to my hiking pack and picked out a bottle of water with my teeth.
I don’t know why, but I was moving as slow as someone trying to defuse a bomb.
It took me eight attempts to finally unscrew the twist-off cap with my teeth
I saw a boulder that had a nice concave little indentation, so I poured a splash of water to clean the surface before filling up the little pool which held about a pint. I rolled over and buried my face into the little pool and started sucking the water in.
OK. I have the rest of this bottle which I can ration and last another twelve hours. Somebody’s got to see me.
Night was falling and it was getting colder. A lone coyote was howling, his desperate cries ringing and bouncing off the purple canyon walls.
He sounds hungry.
I sat up and tried to move my feet.
No.
My legs.
No.
My arms.
No.
I could hear several more cries in the night as the pack cautiously circled me.
I shone my flashlight and counted at least eight sets of eyes looking at me. Then I remembered
