Two Cowgirls and a Desperado
The Saga of Lisa and Kelly Lange
Author’s note: To avoid drawing the wrath of the newspeak crowd, I apologize upfront for using a term that may cause undue discomfort to the more sensitive among us.
I refer to the use of the word “cowgirls” in this article about a couple of, well, cowgirls. I could have said “cow women,” but some would take umbrage at those two words melded together. Likewise, I am too long in the tooth and set in my ways to call Annie Oakley or Calamity Jane a “cowperson.”
OK, on with the show.
Writer Pretoria Sinclaire first heard about the Queen of Purple Sage over coffee in 2002. She was sitting across the table from a young colleague who looked remarkably like a twenty-something Meryl Streep.
Angela had just returned from a cross-country trip with her father in a rented Mustang convertible. She said her dream was to follow old Route 66 to California, and, by golly, she did.
She had Pretoria’s undivided attention when she mentioned an unusual woman who called herself the Queen of Purple Sage.
Angela painted a picture in words of Purple Sage, a nearly abandoned town in Death Valley with a population of 17. It was here that she and her father stopped to see the Queen of Purple Sage put on her one-woman show on a stage in the old schoolhouse gym.
Angela added that the 65-year-old Queen put on her show daily, whether or not there was an audience. Who does that, right? A must-see for sure.
As a writer and collector of tall tales, Pretoria felt compelled to meet this eccentric African American woman sitting on a stool center stage and monologuing about the characters and stories she had gleaned from the area over many years.
And, about a month later, she did just that.
Pretoria loved her Jack Russell Terrier and felt she was about as good a traveling companion as possible. So, she hooked up her small camper to her car, loaded everything she would need for a month on the road, and headed west with Bella sitting beside her.
Like Angela and her father, Pretoria stayed as true to the revered Route 66 as possible. Much of historic Route 66 was truncated and replaced with a modern interstate highway, where every exit looks the same. Some remnants of the old Route 66 still exist, but you must search for them.
You’ll find the usual McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Taco Bell at most all interstate exits. This is also true in the southwestern states where, ironically or not, genuine Tex-Mex food is still available in small towns on original Route 66, now nearly inaccessible to travelers.
Driving into the town of Purple Sage, Pretoria felt a strong sense of deja vu, as if she had been there before, but she soon realized Angela’s vivid description made it seem familiar.
Pretoria pulled off the road when she spotted the Queen’s sun-bleached and sand-blasted RV parked in front of the old abandoned schoolhouse. There was no answer at her door, so Pretoria ambled over to the adobe structure, a short walk from the RV.
After wandering around the halls for several minutes, she finally came to the gym. The double doors were propped open, so Pretoria walked in and saw two rows of wooden folding chairs facing a small stage with a single stool in the center but no sign of the Queen of Purple Sage.
Just as she turned to leave the gym, a regal form emerged from the backstage curtains. The Queen, whose real name Pretoria soon discovered is Rebecca Stillwell, asked if she was here for her daily performance.
Ms. Stillwell asked, “What prompted your interest in my performance? Few people visit this town – if you can call it that. Are you interested in poetry or, perhaps, a story?”
“I am sure either would be delightful, but I am most interested in your stories,” Pretoria replied, adding, “ I write for a travel magazine about the unique and unusual people and places throughout the world, and a friend said I should visit you as your stories are not only out of the ordinary but often riveting.”
She came through here a month or so ago with her father. She favors the actress Meryl Streep, if that rings a bell.”
Rebecca thought momentarily, then burst out with a big smile, “Oh yes, I remember Angela. She and her father were delightful. They stopped on their way to California and again on the return.”
At that moment, a family walked into the gym, fresh off the road. The two preteens looked tired of playing Counting Cows, and I Spy for the last 400 miles.
The parents seemed equally road-weary, yet they had to go out of their way to get to Purple Sage. So they must be here to see the afternoon performance, which Rebecca announced would begin shortly.
The Queen disappeared backstage for several minutes and returned in an elegant brocaded floor-length gown, silver-gray hair down to her shoulders, and a Japanese fan, which would have little effect in the fiery furnace known as the Mojave Desert.
Rebecca’s sublime voice reverberated throughout the cavernous gymnasium, seeming to flit about the room as a ghost might.
What she said and how she said it was only a hint of the pleasure to come. She began her performance with a song by Woody Guthrie, This Land is Your Land, followed by a poem called The Clairvoyance of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois.
The Queen of Purple Sage regaled us all, even the prepubescents, and finished her enchanting reading with a chapter from Maya Angelou’s timeless book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
Clearly, Rebecca has charm and charisma. She looks beyond the eyes and speaks directly to the heart. Drawing from her deep reservoir of empathy, she mesmerizes all who listen as she effortlessly whispers her moving poems and stories.
“I have a story for tomorrow you may be interested in if you have time to stick around,” said Rebecca, adding, “You’re welcome to park your camper here, and I have a power hookup if you need it.”
Pretoria thanked Rebecca for her offer and went about setting up the camper. She and Bella tried to stay as comfortable as possible in the blazing heat of the desert under the camper’s canopy. She sipped an ice-cold Corona while Bella crunched away on a banana popsicle. Sleeping in the little camper that evening was like sleeping in a pizza oven. Pretoria had believed all deserts cooled down at night, but she soon learned that the Mojave Desert was an exception to the rule in the warmer months.
Early the following day, taking Bella for a walk around Purple Sage was still warm but tolerable.
We’ve all heard the phrase “dusty little town.” Purple Sage has a patina of dust on everything in town: the abandoned cars and dilapidated houses, and after a short walk, we, too, were covered with a fine grit. “Even our tongues felt like sandpaper,” Pretoria would later remark.
Pretoria didn’t see Rebecca outside her RV until moments before her performance began. As she slowly walked to the old school, several vehicles arrived with curious travelers, presumably here for the Queen’s afternoon recitation.
Pretoria followed the group, which seemed to know each other, and took a seat in front of the stage, tipping her wide-brimmed hat as a friendly greeting to her fellow travelers. All chatter among the assembled stopped immediately when the Queen sat on the solitary stool, center stage.
As a writer of stories, some fiction and some nonfiction, Pretoria thought she had heard all of the best tales. Yet, after only ten minutes into Rebecca’s oration, Pretoria knew this story would be worth sharing with all who honor courage, strength and principle.
This compelling tale will be shared with daughters and granddaughters for many years. For men, those who still believe women are not as capable as men when it comes to derring-do, consider the story about Lisa and Kelly a cautionary tale.
The Queen of Purple Sage began her story by saying, “About 20 years ago, I looked out the window of my RV and saw two young women pull in with a large horse trailer.”
Little did Rebecca know at the time that these young women were about to stumble into a story of their own, but they came to see her performance on this day.
Afterward, Kelly mentioned heading up to the Humboldt-Tolyabe National Forest, intent on a backcountry ride into the high country. The sisters told Rebecca the packhorses would carry their gear for a backcountry ride that may last several days.
Rebecca recalled that when the two women left, she was standing outside her RV. When the truck pulled the horse trailer from the gravel drive onto the much higher road surface, the license plate fell off the trailer and clattered onto the blacktop.
She tried unsuccessfully to get Lisa and Kelly’s attention, so she walked out and brought the tag back to her RV. She told Pretoria she admired the two gregarious and adventurous women and felt they would return for the license plate. Little did she know then that Lisa and Kelly would soon be telling their own story from her stage.
The Queen was correct. The Langes returned about two months later. Although the media had covered their story repeatedly the first week following their experience, she asked Kelly and Lisa to sit on two stools set center stage and recount their experience.
The Langes agreed, and on the day they told their tale, the gym was filled to the back wall, and the overflow was left standing in the hall.
Lisa and Kelly’s story will continue in the next episode of Two Cowgirls and a Desperado.
Ken Springer
ken1949bongo@gmail.com