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Article:
Journey to Haypress Creek by: Sandin Phillipson It was the end of my first year as a graduate student, and my personal stock had risen somewhat due to long hours of hard work. Now a fabulous opportunity presented itself in the form of a research project in the northern Sierras in a locality known as Haypress Creek, which fell into my lap as a result of shifting academic fortunes. The hapless fellow who had been slated to go began an academic tailspin despite the initial excitement generated in the department by his excellent undergraduate grades. Meanwhile, my long hours of diligent work that first semester, in contrast to undergraduate grades that had not only failed to generate excitement among the faculty, but had gained grudging admittance on a probationary status, captured the slot. Good, graduate school had been an all-or-nothing proposition on which everything was gambled on making a success of the first semester. I rolled northwest out of Fort Worth in my bright blue 1973 Dodge Charger, sliding past the luxuriant green prairie toward Amarillo. The Charger had been with me for just over five years, since being resurrected from what amounted to an open grave where it moldered under a tree in a biker-guy's yard. Acquired in California during the Army, it had made several cross-country trips with its new engine, and I had little doubt that it would make the journey from Texas to California. Besides, as a poor graduate student, there was really no choice but to utilize the resources at my disposal. The character of the country changed as I approached Amarillo, the green waving grass replaced by blowing dust. Mexican migrant workers shuffled along the road, bandanas tied over their faces as protection against the sediment-laden driving wind, in a scene reminiscent of the Grapes of Wrath. The dust storm cleared, revealing layered red, beige, and white sandstone and scrub grass, heralding my entrance into New Mexico. The varicolored desert slid past interminably as the blazing sun beat down. Due to the expanse and sameness of the scenery, a fixed point on the horizon never seemed to draw closer. Objects on the lateral horizons never seemed to draw abreast, making it seem as though I were simply sitting on the highway with the engine running. The thermometer on my Avocet watch read '105
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