WHO IS CACTUS RAT? I've been corresponding with The Rat for years but have never met the great rodent. Still his/her words deserve to be passed along, and so beginning with this issues, follow the wit and wisdom and whimsy of the mysterious C. Rat-- whoever it is. And if you think you know the identity of the author, don't tell me; I like being kept in the dark from time to time.... JS

Dear Jim,

Hitched a ride in the other day with Herman, the old-timer over at the Yip Yip Mine--haven't been into town for ages. Was sittin' over there at the park chewin' on your paper when it came to me that maybe you could answer a few questions, you bein' able to read and write and having your finger on the pulse. My buddy Yeller Cat's writing this for me--hope he sticks to what I'm saying, not his own dang opinions.

(Hello, Yellow Cat here, penning these words as a favor to my irascible friend Cactus Rat--I would NEVER misquote my noble companero--no need to, he screws up just fine all by himself.)

Anyway, Jim, I been kickin' around out in this desert since I was just a little packrat--follow my whiskers most of the time and do fine, thanks. Guess you could

say I'm a born natural desert rat. (YC here: I think he means natural born.)

Used to live in what's now Arches, but left when I heard they was trappin' rats for some kind of nature study--avoided the guard towers at the entrance by goin' on over across Yellow Cat Flats (where I met my buddy Yellow Cat) and on up to the Poison Strip. Now I'm holed up here at the Cactus Rat Mine--pretty good hike for a little guy like me. Dangerous, too. You've never lived till you've looked into the eyes of a hungry coyote. This old mine's a good place for me--I'm kind of a born natural recluse. (YC again: Surely he means natural born, and as usual, he's being overlydramatic vis a vis the coyote.)

Jim, it's real nice out here--you should come out sometime. Everybody thinks these gray hills out here past Arches are ugly, but there's yellow ricegrass, rich brown mudstone, and velvety-green cliffs. (YC: I helped the Rat a bit here with his description, he just said it was "purty.")

And I've been doing real good out here, been kinda successful in the mining business. I even managed to talk a few friends into grubstaking me--we're gonna strike it rich! (YC: If all the Rat's investors got together in one room you'd have the definition of a lynch mob.)

But back to them questions I have. My trip into Moab really changed my pair-a dig-em and sorta shook me up. (YC here: He means paradigm--he's apparently never heard the word correctly pronounced, and I doubt if he's using it correctly in his mind, even if it seemsto make sense in this context.)

Moab sure's changed in the last few years, Jimbo.

Lotsa new big plastic-lookin' motels and fat food places. (YC: He obviously means fast-food.) And it looks like somebody's struck it rich there as you come into town--saw these ore cars sitting by the road and a new tram goin' up the hill. Beats me how those new-fangled tram cars can haul anything with glass sides. Shows I'm outta touch. (YC: No comment.)

But back to the questions. While I was sittin' in the park, along comes a feller in a big shiny car, and then along comes a feller in a little beat up Volkswagen, and he and the first feller get to talking. The first guy introduces himself, "Hi, I'm joking." Then the second feller says, "Well, I know who you are, Joe, and I've got a bone to pick with you."

Well, come to find out, the second feller owns some kind of car junkyard on the outskirts of town, and the first feller is a real estate seller. They got in a big argument about junk. And boy, did the sparks fly!

I think the second feller shouldn't've got so fired up, cause the other feller said right off that he was joking. (YC: This story is unauthenticated and I'm sure the Rat has the conversation confused. There's something Rat-esque about it.)

Of course, it seems to me that all that stuff they were calling junk really ain't junk, it's just stuff that needs recycling, and sometimes it's gotta sitthere until somebody figures out how to recycle it.

But Jim, that junk is symbolic. It's about all that's left of us old-timers and another era. (YC: Uh-oh, watch out, I've heard this before. The Rat's going to go all nostalgic and patriotic on us.)

That junk's our tie to a time when folks cared more about what a person was made of, their mettle, than what they looked like. They didn't care about how much money you made or what kind of old collectible car you drove. Heck, a lot of us didn't even have cars. That junk's symbolic of a better time, Jim, when people cared more about each other than money and appearances, a time when we had true democracy and people were equal. (YC: I warned you.)

Anyway, speaking of junk, I have a question about RV races, I'd like to enter my old army amblance in one. Yeller Cat says there's no such thing, is that true? I

been hearin' about these races and how them RVs are tearing up the countryside--them big Pierce-Arrows would be pretty hard on things, for sure, though it seems like they'd get high-centered before they could tear up much. When I talked to Yeller Cat about it, he kept saying "ORV, Rat, ORV." Don't know what he meant. (YC: Groan.)

Anyway, me and old Badger Jack decided to fix up my old army amblance for these races--heck, we been usin' it for an RV for years, sleeping in it and all, so it should qualify. We started goin' up to Arches and recycling some of those big RVs just sittin' up there--got a differential off one, new tire off another, that kind of thing. Found some good food, too, weird stuff like little cracker goldfishes. That old amblance is lookin' pretty sharp these days. We been racin' it up and down the Poison Strip for practice. (YC: They're stealing gas from who knows where.)

But back to the junk. (YC: I didn't think he was finished--this is one of his favorite topics.) I've been tryin' to get Yeller Cat to understand how I feel, and it's dang hard. He's come into this country with a lot that I didn't have, an education, some pocket change, a good attitude, and he just doesn't understand why we had such a hard go of it out here.

He was pretty hard on me, tellin' me I need to clean up my can-dump. (YC: The Rat thinks his can-dump should be on the National Historic Register.)

And I guess he's right, but with just me out here in this God-forsaken desert it didn't make much difference what I did. To be honest with you, Jim,it's more him and his buddies who have made things hard--they come in and admire me, wanna do like I'm doing, and all of them together rips the beejeebers outta everything. They wanna be like me, independent and all that, then they want me to clean up my can-dump. (YC: Groan.)

And let's talk for a minute about the BLM. (YC: I don't know why the Rat always shortens everything, but just so you know what he's talking about, BLM stands for a government entity known as the Bureau of Lost Minds).

Now Jim, my daddy fought in the Great War for my freedom. He sure wouldda been surprised to come out here and see that the very gubmint he fought for, the

BLM, has restricted that freedom. They're also into this anti-junk thing--heck, they even hauled out them old cars down here on the Strip that I was keepin' my seed stashes in. Sure made for a long hard winter that year. Then they turn around and make it illegal for anybody else to pick up anything! Go figger! (YC: He's still mad because he'd stashed a supposed family heirloom inside the seat of one of those old junk cars--a rattlesnake rattler, if you can imagine.)

Jimbo, you know how much I love this wild country out here. I love these badlands, the faint odor of sulphur from the mines, the lonesome wind rattling through my old can-dump out back--sort of comforting, if you know what I mean. You know, the West is where optimism was born and raised, and now they're tryin' to kill it by restricting everything. (YC: I think he stole that line from some old B-grade Henry Ford movie.)

Jim, another question for you. Is it true this rumor I hear that some rich New York feller wants to change Moab into something it was never meant to be? I hear he's going to build a big tower way up in the sky, kind of like the old Tower of Babel, up on a mesa there south of town. Is this true, Jim? Are you folks gonna let him? (YC: Uh-oh, sorry, I'm the one who repeated this rumor to the Rat--and I bet he runs with it.)

Jim, you and I know the bliss of poverty, and we know about Moab Fever--it's easy to survive, but hard to get rich. So if you have any brains you live like God meant you to live--enjoy life and go sit in the river clothed only in your voluntary poverty. (YC: Well, he for sure walks the talk on this one.)

But if this rumor is true, Jim, don't you figger you Moab folk are the ones who'll get to go clean the toilets? Do you really think any of you will get rich from it? If I were you, I'd put an end to this bull manure here and now and run this feller outta town, symbolically at least, although I myself prefer the concrete and specific. (YC: I can't make him stop, sorry, he likes to rant and rave.)

Jim, there you all sit, smack in the middle of country God created as a tribute to Himself. If those of you who live in the middle of God's Cathedral can't find it within yourselves to give a rats-ass about it, then who in heck will? Is Moab so wicked that it'll condone (heck, even aid and abet) a dang money-changer right in the Temple?). (YC: How does the Rat expect me to write when he's pounding on me?)

Jim, I'm not much for religion, but why don't you folks get busy and pray that God sends down his angel Macaroni (or whatever the good Mormon folk call him) to blast this blasphemy. And while he's at it, have him shake up those Moab councilmen, your friends and elected representatives who are selling you all straight to h-e-double-hockeysticks. (YC: Now the Rat's wanting to know if I have any "dynomite," some Dupont 50 or Hercules. I probably shouldn't be writing this down, but the Rat said to record every precious word...)

Anyway, Jim, my friend Packy was so upset about all this stuff that he went out and killed himself. Just went out in a big open place during a full moon--BAM, wasn't but a minute till he was gone. Big-horn owl. Glad I wasn't there to see it. (YC: He means a great horned owl. Note also that this story is of doubtful authenticity. I saw Packy just last night in Woody's.)

Anyway, Jim, now that Moab's gettin' to be an "in place," as they say, it leaves me feelin' kinda empty--I was hoping to retire there someday and spend my last days putterin' in a little junkyard down by Pack Creek. (YC: That would certainly be appropriate for a packrat.)

But now I don't think I could afford it. But I been thinkin' that Moab's on its way to hell in a handbasket anyway, and judging by the temperature when I was there, it may just have already arrived.

Yer pal,

Cactus Rat

(YC: Best regards and please don't shoot the messenger.)

Cactus Rat can be reached at cactusratmine@yahoo.com