Durango Quotes

I kept pushing the old noga through the floorboards near, and the Durango 95 ate up the road like spaghetti.

It is the thinnest lines that define us.

Little Miss Bauer sat in her tower, eating a burger and fries. Along came a spider who sat down beside her and said “I prefer zee French flies.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about levelling teenage boys, it’s this: when in doubt, follow the hot girls.

In the picture, Ava Gardner's tousled black hair obscured her right eye, and her full, closed lips were pulled slightly to the right, resulting in something less than a smile. They looked as if they'd been smeared shut with red paint, though the photo was in black and white. It wasn't so much a fuck-me face as a I've-been-there-and-back look, the kind of expression you see only on the most expensive whores.

Ceramic trade goods involved interconnected markets from Mexico City to Mesa Verde, Colorado. Shells from the Gulf of California, tropical bird feathers from the Gulf Coast area of Mexico, obsidian from Durango, Mexico, and flint from Texas were all found in the ruins of Casa Grande (Arizona), the commercial center of the northern frontier.

At Durango the old Mexican prelate there had, after some delay, delivered to him the documents that defined his Vicarate, and Father Latour rode back the fifteen hundred miles to Santa Fé through the sunny days of early winter. On his arrival he found amity instead of enmity awaiting him. Father Vaillant had already endeared himself to the people.

I wake up in the Landing. “Wyn Salvadorm you son of a rasshøl!” I yell into the mall.

What about your Durango?” “She’s pretty banged up. Gonna need some bodywork and a whole new windshield.” “She?” He looks at me blankly. “What?” “You called it a ‘she,’” I point out. “Oh. Right.” Color creeps into his cheeks. “Dana Durango.” “You named your car Dana?” He just shrugs.

This is something an ordinary man can never know. You will enter the House of Dreams, Juanito, where you will live forever. Your mother and father and sisters and brothers, your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, all you will greet in their dreams. And only you, among them, will be safe.

You’ve seen what your perfect self looks like in the MEEP, so when you look in the mirror now, all you see are your flaws.

Romeo gritted his teeth and let the wind hit his face. Believe it, he told himself. Life with this woman will be without apologies.

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de

You think we should try sandbagging it?” I ask, tipping my head back toward the barn. Ryder shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll do much good.” “Just in front, then? The gap’s pretty big under the door. It can’t hurt, right?” “I’ve got a few sandbags in the Durango--probably enough for the door. I’ll get ‘em,” he offers. “You just make sure the door is latched tight.” I want to say something along the lines of, “No, I’d thought I’d just leave it flapping in the wind,” but I manage to bite my tongue. What is it with him and giving orders? I mean, I get that he’s the quarterback and all, but I’m not one of his teammates. But, hey, if he wants to thump his chest and carry the heavy sandbags, I’ll him do it.

What about your Durango?” “She’s pretty banged up. Gonna need some bodywork and a whole new windshield.” “She?” He looks at me blankly. “What?” “You called it a ‘she,’” I point out. “Oh. Right.” Color creeps into his cheeks. “Dana Durango.” “You named your car Dana?” He just shrugs. “Oookay. You need any help?” “Nah, I’m just about done here.” He pauses, eyeing me sharply. “You sleep well?” “Yeah, I was out like a light,” I lie, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You?” He shrugs. “It was awfully warm up there.” “Huh,” is all I say. “Did you eat breakfast?” he asks. “Not yet. I will as soon as I take the dogs in. What about you?” “Nah. I was waiting for you. Just let me clean up, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” “Sounds good.” Okay, we are just so awkward now. This is crazy. I can’t even imagine sitting across the kitchen table from him, trying to make small talk. This is painful enough as it is.

It takes me nearly a half hour to make what should be a ten-minute trip, and by the time I pull up in front of my house, my hands are cramped from my death grip on the steering wheel. It’s not until I step out of the car, my legs feeling like they’re made of Jell-O, that I notice Ryder’s Durango parked in front of me. “Where the hell have you been?” he calls out from the front porch, just as I make a mad dash to join him there. His face is red, his brow furrowed over stormy eyes. “They let us out an hour ago!” I am really not in the mood for his crap. “Yeah, so?” “So I was worried sick. A tornado touched down over by the Roberts’ place.” “I know! I mean, I didn’t know it touched down, but I was still at school when the sirens went off.” I drop my ridiculously heavy backpack and shake the rain from my hair. “Is everyone okay over there?” He runs a visibly trembling hand through his hair. “Yeah, it just tore up their fence or something. Jesus, Jemma!” “What is wrong with you? Why are you even here?” “I’m supposed to stay over here, remember?” “What…now?” I look past him and notice an army-green duffel bag by the front door. He’s got a key--he could’ve just let himself in. “I figured now’s as good a time as any. We need to put sandbags in front of the back door before it gets any worst out, and then we’ve got to do something about the barn. It’s awful close to the creek, and the water’s rising fast.” “Well, what do you propose we do?” “Don’t you keep your guns out there? We should move them inside. And your dad has some expensive tools in his workshop--we should get those, too.” I let out a sigh. He’s got a point. “Can I at least go inside first? Put my stuff away?” “Sure?” He moves to the edge of the porch and gazes up at the sky. “It looks like we might get a break in a few minutes, once this band moves through. Might as well wait for it.” I dig out my keys and unlock the door. I can hear the dogs howling their heads off the minute I step inside. “I’ve gotta let Beau and Sadie out,” I say over my shoulder as I head toward the kitchen. “Take your stuff to the guest room and get settled, why don’t you?” That’s my attempt at reestablishing the fact that I’m in charge here, not him. This is my house. My stuff. My life.

You and Patrick looked awfully cozy,” Ryder says, setting Mama’s note back on the counter. So I was right--he had been watching us. “So?” “So, nothing.” He shrugs. “Just making an observation.” “Yeah, you never just make an observation. Oh, and you and Rosie looked pretty cozy, too. I sure hope you’re not leading her on. You know she likes you.” A muscle in his jaw works furiously as he shoves his cell phone back into his pocket. “That’s the kind of guy you think I am? Seriously, Jem?” I swallow hard, unable to reply. Because the truth is, I don’t know. “I’ll see you later,” he says, his voice cold and clipped. He turns and stalks out. For some unknown reason, I follow him--down the hall, out the front door. “Don’t walk out on me,” I holler as he rounds the Durango and opens the driver’s-side door. “If you have something to say to me, then say it.” He gets in and slams the car door shut, but I throw it open again. “C’mon,” I taunt, motioning with one hand. I’m totally losing it now--white spots dancing before my eyes, tears streaking down my cheeks. I can barely catch my breath, like I’m about to hyperventilate. This isn’t about Ryder, I realize. It’s about Nan. The sudden realization hits me hard. What if I never see her again? My knees buckle, and I start to go down. Somehow, Ryder manages to catch me just before I hit the ground. “Shit, Jemma! What’s the matter with you?” He drags me to my feet and presses me against the side of his truck. “Take a deep breath. Jesus!” I do what he says. By the third, I’ve slowed my heart rate to something nearing normal. Only, my cheeks are burning with mortification now. This is the second time I’ve broken down in front of Ryder. He must think I’ve lost my mind--that I’ve totally gone off the deep end. “Just go,” I say, my voice shaking. He rakes both hands through his hair. “Are you kidding me? I can’t leave you alone like this.” “Go,” I repeat, more forcefully this time. “Just get in your car and leave, okay?” “C’mon, Jemma. You know I can’t.” “I swear I’m okay.” I straighten my spine and lift my chin, trying my best to look calm, collected, and reasonably sane. “Seriously, Ryder. I just need to be alone right now.” “Fine,” he says, shaking his head. “If you say so.” I step away from the car, feeling queasy now as he slips inside and starts the engine. But before he pulls out, he rolls down his window and meets my gaze. His dark eyes look intense, full of conflict. For a split second, I wonder what’s going on inside his head--if he’s judging me. If he has any idea what I’m going through. If he even cares. “She’s going to be okay, Jemma,” he says, then slides his sunglasses on and drives away. I guess he does get it, after all.

I thought we were meeting by the field house,” I call out as I make my way over. He doesn’t even turn around. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I said the parking lot.” “You definitely said the field house,” I argue. Why can’t he ever just admit that he’s wrong? “Geez, field house, parking lot. What difference does it make?” Mason asks. “Give it a rest, why don’t you.” I shoot him a glare. “Oh, hey, Mason. Remember when your hair was long and everyone thought you were a girl?” Ryder chuckles as he releases a perfect spiral in Mason’s direction. “She’s got you there.” “Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?” Mason catches the ball and cradles it against his chest, then launches it toward Ben. I just stand there watching as they continue to toss it back and forth between the three of them. Haven’t they had enough football for one day? I pull out my cell to check the time. “We should probably get going.” “I guess,” Ryder says with an exaggerated sigh, like I’m putting him out or something. Which is particularly annoying since he’s the one who insisted on going with me. Ben jogs up beside me, the football tucked beneath his arm. “Where are you two off to? Whoa, you’re sweaty.” I fold my arms across my damp chest. “Hey, southern girls don’t sweat. We glow.” Ben snorts at that. “Says who?” “Says Ryder’s mom,” I say with a grin. It’s one of Laura Grace’s favorite sayings--one that always makes Ryder wince. “The hardware store,” Ryder answers, snatching the ball back from Ben. “Gotta pick up some things for the storm--sandbags and stuff like that. Y’all want to come?” “Nah, I think I’ll pass.” Mason wrinkles his nose. “Pretty sure I don’t want to be cooped up in the truck with Jemma glowing like she is right now.” “Everybody thought you and Morgan were identical twin girls,” I say with a smirk. “Remember, Mason? Isn’t that just so cute?” “I’ll go,” Ben chimes in. “If you’re getting sandbags, you’ll need some help carrying them out to the truck.” “Thanks, Ben. See, someone’s a gentleman.” “Don’t look now, Ryder, but your one-woman fan club is over there.” Mason tips his head toward the school building in the distance. “I think she’s scented you out. Quick. You better run.” I glance over my shoulder to find Rosie standing on the sidewalk by the building’s double doors, looking around hopefully. “Hey!” Mason calls out, waving both arms above his head. “He’s over here.” Ryder’s cheeks turn beet-red. He just stares at the ground, his jaw working furiously. “C’mon, man,” Ben says, throwing an elbow into Mason’s side. “Don’t be a dick.” He grabs the football and heads toward Ryder’s Durango. “We better get going. The hardware store probably closes at six.” Silently, Ryder and I hurry after him and hop inside the truck--Ben up front, me in the backseat. We don’t look back to see if Rosie’s following.

We were just repressed dweebs who opened the hatch where the demons come out and put them in the record bottle,” says Durango. “It’s a release. Just because we were puds didn’t mean we didn’t have this aggressiveness

There can be no light without generating heat,” adds Durango. “And confrontation generates heat and light.

Thrill to the names—El Dorado, Searchlight, Medicine Bow, Mesa Verde, Tombstone, Durango, Hole in the Wall, Lost Trail Pass, Nez Perce National Forest. Active names, implying that something consequential is going on: the Wind River Range, the Magic Valley, the River of No Return, the Painted Desert, Wolf Point, Paradise, Death Valley, the Crazy Mountains.

En 1947 algunos funcionarios de Estados Unidos presionaron para llevar a cabo operativos militares en Sinaloa, Durango y Chihuahua, el llamado Triángulo Dorado. Supuestamente, sobre todo los campesinos sinaloenses, envenenaban a la juventud estadounidense con mariguana y amapola.

A principios de los años sesenta monseñor Antonio López Aviña, entonces arzobispo de Durango, le aconsejaba a su joven protegido, Norberto Rivera Carrera, que para ejercer el poder se requiere guardar en la memoria todos los rostros y llamar a la gente por su nombre, y además, que las deferencias —sobre todo con los superiores— son muy redituables para conseguir o sostenerse en cualquier cargo eclesiástico. A López Aviña —de línea conservadora

People from Durango are called alacranes — scorpions — because there are so many of the scurrying around.

Distance: 12.8 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 3,674 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 3,053 feet USFS map: White River National Forest, pages 116–117 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 24–25 The CT Map Book: pages 20–21 National Geographic Trails Illustrated maps: Nos. 108, 109 Latitude 40° map: Summit County Trails Jurisdiction: Dillon Ranger District, White River National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end:

Distance: 14.6 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 1,858 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 2,055 feet USFS map: Pike National Forest, pages 98–99 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 18–19 The CT Map Book: pages 15–17 National Geographic Trails Illustrated map: No. 105 Jurisdiction: South Platte and South Park Ranger Districts, Pike National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water: Bicycling: See page 90–

Distance: 32.7 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 5,196 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 5,968 feet USFS maps: Pike and White River National Forests, see pages 108–109 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 20–23 The CT Map Book: pages 17–20 National Geographic Trails Illustrated maps: Nos. 104, 105, 108, 109 Latitude 40° map: Summit County Trails Jurisdiction: South Park and Dillon Ranger Districts, Pike and White River National Forests Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end:

Distance: 25.4 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 4,417 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 3,810 feet USFS map: White River National Forest, pages 126–127 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 26–27 The CT Map Book: pages 21–24 National Geographic Trails Illustrated map: No. 109 Latitude 40° map: Summit County Trails Jurisdiction: Holy Cross and Dillon Ranger Districts, White River National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water:

Distance: 16.6 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 3,271 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 1,373 feet USFS map: Pike National Forest, pages 92–93 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 16–17 The CT Map Book: pages 13–15 National Geographic Trails Illustrated map: No. 105 Jurisdiction: South Park and South Platte Ranger Districts, Pike National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water: Bicycling: See pages 90–91

Maria’s Bookshop in Durango, Colorado,

In 2018 I went back to the mountains to become a wildland firefighter again. I hadn’t been in the field for three years, and since then I’d gotten used to training in nice gyms and living in comfort. Some might call it luxury. I was in a plush hotel room in Vegas when the 416 fire sparked and I got the call. What started as a 2,000-acre grass fire in the San Juan Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains was growing into a record breaking, 55,000-acre monster. I hung up and caught a prop plane to Grand Junction, loaded up in a U.S. Forest Service truck, and drove three hours to the outskirts of Durango, Colorado, where I suited up in my green Nomex pants and yellow, long-sleeved button down, my hard hat, field glasses, and gloves, and grabbed my super Pulaski—a wildland fire fighter’s most trusted weapon. I can dig for hours with that thing, and that’s what we do. We don’t spray water. We specialize in containment, and that means digging lines and clearing brush so there’s no fuel in the path of an inferno. We dig and run, run and dig, until every muscle is spent. Then we do it all over again.

Durante su gestión entró en vigor el «Programa Bracero», que exportaría, en su inmensa mayoría, a millones de trabajadores del campo. A lo largo de dicho programa, de 1942 a 1964 los campesinos mexicanos convirtieron a la agricultura estadounidense en la más rentable y avanzada de todo el planeta. Se trataba de hombres de las zonas rurales más importantes de México, como Coahuila, Durango, Chihuahua, etcétera, 467 una de las razones por las que las tierras del vecino del norte se convirtieron en las más productivas del mundo. Con el tiempo, además de California, los braceros fueron enviados también a Texas, Oregon, Washington, Arkansas y

2007, el porcentaje nacional de crimen y violencia fue más bajo que nunca, con 8 de homicidios dolosos por cada 100 mil habitantes. En 2009 subió a 18, como resultado de la guerra de Calderón. Esta cifra sigue siendo inferior a la de los países mencionados (El Salvador 49, Venezuela 48, Guatemala 43, Brasil 26 y Colombia 34), aunque por supuesto, como ya se ha dicho, es mayor que en Estados Unidos y Europa.4 El porcentaje escamotea, sin embargo, enormes brechas entre regiones y estados. Sinaloa y Chihuahua sufren los índices más altos, con 43 y 42 homicidios por cada 100 mil habitantes; Guerrero, Durango y Baja California le siguen: entre 27 y 30.5 Estas cifras, con los encabezados de periódicos y los noticieros de la televisión, hacen que el Chicago de la Prohibición se parezca a un barrio próspero de Zurich o Ginebra. Pero se conocen grandes porciones del país donde la inseguridad y la violencia resultan prácticamente desconocidas. Mérida es una de estas ciudades, con menos de 2 homicidios dolosos por cada 100 mil habitantes cada año, esto es, ni siquiera un sexto del promedio nacional y veinte veces menos que Sinaloa.

Distance: 12.2 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 1,975 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 1,549 feet USFS map: Pike National Forest, pages 84–85 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 14–15 The CT Map Book: pages 11–13 National Geographic Trails Illustrated maps: Nos. 105, 135 Jurisdiction: South Platte Ranger District, Pike National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water:

Distance: 16.8 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 2,830 feet The Elevation loss: Approx. 2,239 feet USFS maps: Pike National Forest, pages 72–73 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 10–11 The CT Map Book: pages 9–10 National Geographic Trails Illustrated map: No. 135 Latitude 40° map: Summit County Trails Jurisdiction: South Platte Ranger District, Pike National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water:

Distance: 11.5 miles Elevation gain: Approx. 2,482 feet Elevation loss: Approx. 753 feet USFS map: Pike National Forest, pages 78–79 The Colorado Trail Databook 6: pages 12–13 The CT Map Book: pages 10–11 National Geographic Trails Illustrated map: No. 135 Jurisdiction: South Platte Ranger District, Pike National Forest Access from Denver end: Access from Durango end: Availability of water: Bicycling:

a Debs socialist. His son—my old man—sat down and cried when Taft lost the nomination to Eisenhower in ‘fifty-two.” She leaned back in the leather chair. “So when did the vote bug bite?” “In high school. I was a pretty fair debater and I got the notion of becoming a lawyer and maybe going into politics after I discovered how good winning made me feel. Winning anything. Later, I discovered there’s nothing like winning an election. Absolutely nothing.” “How old were you?” “When I first ran? Twenty-seven. I got elected county attorney, served a couple of two-year terms, sent some rich crooks to jail, got my name in the paper and then went back into private practice where I made a nice living defending the same kind of rich crooks I’d once prosecuted. When I thought I’d made enough money, I ran for the supreme court and won.” “How much was enough?” Adair shrugged. “Two or three million, around in there.” “How’d you get to be chief justice?” “The members of the court elect one of their own every four years.” “Sounds weird.” “It’s a weird state. After I’d served on the court four years, they always elected me for some reason.” “For some reason,” she said. Adair nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He made no attempt to hide his curiosity when he said, “I’m obliged to hear about it.” “About what?” “How you really got elected mayor.” Huckins examined Adair dispassionately, as if he were some just-caught fish that she could either keep or toss back into the lake.

One day is the best day ever.

It had been a low-speed collision, Darryl turning in front of the Durango with what he thought was plenty of room, the woman hitting the brakes in time to slow down before smashing into the back wheel of Ray’s sedan. Darryl had told her he’d left his license at home, and the lady wasn’t buying his bald-faced bullshit—said she didn’t raise three boys to get lied to by some other mother’s son.

Though maybe for a couple of years off and on with the railroad Webb might’ve seen some ray of daylight, he always ended up back down some hole in some mountain, mucking, timbering, whatever he could get. Leadville, thinking itself God’s own beneficiary when the old lode was rediscovered in ‘92, got pretty much done in by Repeal, and Creede the same, sucker-punched right after the big week-long wingding on the occasion of Bob Ford’s funeral. The railroad towns, Durango, Grand Junction, Montrose, and them, were pretty stodgy by comparison, what Webb mostly remembered being the sunlight. Telluride was in the nature of an outing to a depraved amusement resort, whose electric lighting at night in its extreme and unmerciful whiteness produced a dream-silvered rogues’ district of nonstop poker games, erotic practices in back-lot shanties, Chinese opium dens most of the Chinese in town had the sense to stay away from, mad foreigners screaming in tongues apt to come skiing down the slopes in the dark with demolition in mind.