Days 75-77: Following the trail

What trail, you might ask? I found a story set in New Mexico by an author I'd read before. Pretty exciting story about a couple guys with some special mental abilities who flit around New Mexico hunting for lost treasures and attempting to solve the mysteries of why the region is experiencing more sizemic and volcanic activity. He describes a lot of sites around New Mexico and I started looking for them and reading the book when I got here. It led me to some places I might not have gone. In corresponding with him, I discovered that I was spending my first couple nights in New Mexico not far from where he lives, so we had a lively email exchange.

I updated the map on the trailer since I'm now in New Mexico and then started looking for the landmarks. Of course, since I was still generally following old Hwy 66, I had to climb to the top of the Continental Divide. I crossed back and forth over it in Montana, but now I'm actually east and continuing to travel east of the divide. It was a pretty predictable "opportunity for a gift shop" sort of place and you couldn't really see anything interesting, but I figure it's all downhill from here, right?

I headed south of Albuquerque, figuring I'd get there later. I stopped for a couple days in Bernardo, NM at a RV park that also includes a horse hotel and caters to people traveling with their equine companions. Bernardo is at an elevation of a little over 4,700 feet, but you aren't likely to find population information. Aside from the RV park on the other side of the freeway, there is no sign of life in the "community" of Bernardo. Looks like there used to be a kind of restaurant or shop at the interchange, but it's all empty now. The interchange, by the way, is Interstate 25 and U.S. Hwy 60.

I turned on U.S. 60 east and figured I'd run into town. Thirty miles later, I came to the Abo Ruins in the Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument. Wow! This mission was built in the early 1600s in a village that had been occupied for a few hundred years before that. In the mid-century, it was expanded and was the center of a vital community. But in the late 1600s, there were the combined effects of rebellion and Apache raids that drove the community out of existence and fleeing northwest. Much of the mission still stands and has one of the best guided tours (as in markers and booklet) that I've seen. The ruins were truly stunning.

I went on into Mountair and got a few things I needed from the hardware store. Had lunch at Ancient Cities restaurant and it was really good. The next day I checked out of the RV park and while I was inside saying thank you to the host, a dog wandered in front of my truck, laid down and went to sleep. It took the owner about five minutes to physically drag the dog out of the path so I could leave. I finally understood the last sign on their signpost.

A few miles south of Socorro, I turned east on U.S. 380 along the north edge of White Sands Missile Testing Range. Yes. The place they lit up the night with the first atomic bomb tests. What follows is not a picture of the aftermath, but rather another National Recreation Area just east of it. This is Valley of Fires, a huge lava flow some sixteen miles wide and fifty long. You don't actually have to Hawaii to see these lava flows. Hmm. Of course, it was a good opportunity for another self portrait as I looked out over the valley.

That was my last stop until I reached Ruidoso, and Pinecliff Village.

Day 71-74: Part 2: Northern Arizona

I dry-camped at Navaho National Monument for four days. For the most part, I was off the grid. Far enough off that the computer battery ran completely down and I resorted to driving thirty miles to Kayenta, AZ to have a late lunch in a little Chinese restaurant. I sat at a table next to an outlet and plugged in the computer. It took over an hour for me to eat my chicken bowl while the computer charged about half way. Connectivity was also pretty sparse, though I managed to get a couple text messages to the daughter about the number of dogs that just wandered around, including flopping down in the middle of the parking lot to go to sleep right in front of cars. Most meals, though, I cooked on the tailgate. The weather, though cool at night and in the morning, was quite pleasant for outdoor cooking.

It was great to go out to the Four Corners. One of the things that I didn't realize is that this is a Navaho monument as well. The USGS set the marker, but three-quarters of it is on Navaho lands, so it is to the Navaho that you pay for admission. (Navaho lands do not extend into Colorado.) I liked standing on the marker with my big feet in all four states at once, mostly because it reminds me of all the other arbitrary lines that divide people, governments, and ideologies. Pretty stupid, isn't it?

As I mentioned to the daughter, part of what I like about this area are these rocks that just jut up out of otherwise pretty flat ground. They are scattered all over. And of course, they all have names. This one, surprisingly, is Church Rock.

I headed north of Kayenta and had to cross into Utah in order to swing back into Arizona to go to Monument Valley. It was technically the third time I'd crossed the border into Utah on this swing, so I put the Utah sticker on the trailer.

I have this image in my mind of a bunch of Washington bureaucrats sitting around with the President back about a hundred years ago. "We've got pretty much all the land divided up among the states, but we've got this pile of rocks out in the desert we don't know what to do with." "Oil? Coal? Uranium?" The bureaucrat shakes his head at each question. "Just a pile of rocks in the middle of no place." "Ah. Give them to the Navaho."

And so, with a little help from Hollywood, the Navaho took the worthless pile of rocks and turned them into the most recognizable symbol of the American Southwest, the most frequently photographed and visited attraction in the U.S. And the bureaucrats don't get a penny. Way to go, Navaho!

The people who visit Monument Valley come from all over the world. I met folks from the Netherlands and this biker who with her companion were biking from Juneau to Buenos Aires. And I think I lightened my load. These guys were carrying everything on their two bicycles, including repairs and water!

My last stop in Arizona was Canyon de Chelly. I might have missed this if Mark hadn't told me I had to make a swing through. Down there in the canyon is the Antelope Dwelling--so called because of the drawings of Antelope above the village to the left. Hard to see. This canyon is still a lush summer grazing area and is inhabited year-round by descendants of the people who lived here hundreds of years ago. Amazing!

I met a couple from Texas and in addition to flicking my photo, they asked about my general direction and told me to make sure when I left El Paso that I stop at Guadalupe National Park. I hadn't heard of that one, so I promised to look it up. It looks like it might be on my way eventually.

This last shot is looking off toward Ganado as I turned east to head out of Arizona. What a beautiful State.

Day 71-74, Part 1: It Was the Summer of 1966

I actually have to start a little before that. I moved to Etna Green in the summer of 1965. New school. New friends. New life. Triton was a small high school with only about 65 in my graduating class. As a sophomore and the son of the new preacher (a woman!) I set out to remake my image. I was partly successful. By the end of the school year, I’d had my neck broken (almost), my arm broken, and my heart broken. Gosh, I went to school with some hot girls!

One, of course, was the Senator’s daughter. She was one of only half a dozen girls in my class who never turned me down for a date. Of course, that was because I never asked her. She was one of the first that I met when I got to Etna Green. And she was in bed when I met her. She had mono and I paid a cordial visit at the encouragement of my minister mother. God, was she cute! And way, way out of my league. She told me all about going to boarding school in New England during the summers and some of the people she met and the wild things they’d done. She painted a picture of college prep school that made it irresistible to the likes of me.

I decided I had to go to a college prep school in the summer, too. Don’t ask me how I thought I’d ever be able to afford it, but I did the research and found a dozen of these exclusive schools. It would have been much easier in the age of the Internet. I sent for, received, and read all the brochures. From this, I chose the one that seemed most like me—not on the East Coast, but in Colorado. The Colorado Rocky Mountain School (CRMS). I applied and explained that I wanted to attend the school, but had no money. In what counted as a miracle in my book, I was accepted and granted a complete scholarship. I had to arrive two weeks early, though, to work at the school to help pay for the scholarship. I helped irrigate fields, rake hay, cook breakfast, cut and haul logs, and clean the new fountain. Then the day arrived when school began.

 

What a beautiful school and what a great summer. Mount Sopris in the background was the first mountain we climbed (walked up) the first week of school. We spent three or four days in class and three or four days climbing (my sport of choice). People could choose climbing, kayaking, hiking, or horseback riding as their sports. I spent my entire summer’s allowance on a pair of climbing boots and a pair of lederhosen. Nigel Peacock, headmaster and mountaineering guide, warned at one point that my climbing career was destined to come to a spectacular conclusion. I studied anthropology with Paul Anka, sociology with Margie McNamara, took my first drama and interpretive dance classes (can still recite lines from Under Milkwood), and cooked with Steve Schantzer. Abominable spelling of the last name. I met Sue (my heartthrob for the summer), Alice, Ed, Houston, Galveston, and Montreal. I got a glimpse of a different kind of life.

Then it was time for the annual anthropological tour. The hikers and climbers were split into two groups of about 40 and one started with the cliff-dwellings of the Anasazi and worked their way to Lake Powell. The other group (mine) started rafting down Lake Powell to Rainbow Natural Bridge. From there we were to hike the ten miles across the desert to Navaho Mountain, crossing paths with the group headed the other direction. Then we would visit the cliff dwellings and head back to Carbondale, Colorado.

 

Only our fearless leader missed the turn-off in the middle of the night (hiking by the light of a full moon) and we ended up in a different part of the desert than intended. We camped for the day by a spring that dried up a little after noon. We slept and talked while we waited for our leader to backtrack until he found out where we’d gone wrong. Then he came to get us at moonrise and we all headed back to what proved to be too rugged a path for some of our group. I recall collecting backpacks from a few people who couldn’t carry theirs and make the ascent.

Disaster struck again with daylight as we realized one of our students was sick. She had diabetes and no medication as I understood it. So two teachers and the sick girl—I don’t remember all the names so I’ll say the male was a Swiss named Fritz. The female teacher was Jo, and the student was Mary. That will have to do for now. The rest of us began the long climb out of the canyons to Navaho Mountain. Fearless leader had hiked with half a dozen of the strongest boys, out of the canyon to the trailhead, collected supplies, and started back down into the canyon. When we met up on the trail, he was nearing exhaustion. As I figured it, he hadn’t slept in at least 48 hours or longer. I volunteered to exchange packs and take the supplies back down to Mary, Fritz, and Jo.

And thus we spent another night in the canyon.

I told Fritz that I’d seen water up the trail when we came through in the night and I was going to hike back to see if I could refill canteens. He agreed. What I found wasn’t just water. We’d hiked right through a park service campground with water, restrooms, picnic tables, and rustic signs with yellow lettering pointing the direction. We just hadn’t seen it in the night. While the others slept, I absently gathered twigs from around the juniper where we rested. I started putting them together in an elaborate sculpture, balancing one twig on another and building from a small base to a large top like an inverted pyramid. Fritz or Jo rolled over in their sleep and kicked it down. It didn’t matter. It was temporal.

Early the next afternoon, we watched as five horses and three horsemen came down the long steep trail into the canyon. We loaded our packs on one horse and Mary on the other and the other three of us walked out. Fritz stayed with Mary and Jo and I walked out ahead, being much faster than loaded horses going uphill. Once we crested the canyon ridge, it was a downhill romp all the way to the trailhead and we raced. I had to keep my hands in my pockets as we ran down the trail to keep my pants from falling down.

We were two days late getting out of the canyon, so we never made it to the Anasazi ruins. We did stop at a trading post somewhere along the line before we crossed back into Colorado and up to Carbondale.

I’ve often wondered about the people I met that summer. Did Ed become a politician? Did Sue get together with Frenchy? I’ve thought of Paul’s explanations to the dreams I’d had that came true. I’ve thought of Nigel’s warning and tempered some of my recklessness. And I’ve thought of emerging from the canyon.

I was changed that summer. It wasn’t radical—at least in my way of thinking. I still fantasized about the Senator’s daughter. I still pursued the thought of becoming a minister, in spite of the fact that by college I was so involved in theatre that I never intended to do anything else, except perhaps write. I started writing poetry that fall. Volumes and volumes of it. Well, if you don’t write poetry when you’re a teenager, you have no heart. And then I quit football. I’ll never forget Frank Hole’s expression when I said, “Coach, I just don’t think there should be a game like this.” I became progressively more and more a pacifist.

And what does all this have to do with my travels?

I finished the trip today. I drove up Indian Road 16 in Arizona to Navaho Mountain. As soon as you first see the mountain, they drop the speed limit to 45 mph. For thirty miles you watch as this incredible hulking mountain fills more and more of your field of vision. I drove on up into Utah past the mountain and onto Trailhead Rd. That’s a sand track, and since I was alone, I decided against navigating it all the way to the Trailhead. If Nigel hadn’t been sitting beside me reminding me of my anticipated demise, I might have continued, or if one of my classmates or climbing buddies had been with me then I’m sure we’d have gone out there. But I’d already made that hike.

Instead, I found a high promontory that I could hike to. I brought my spiritual tools with me and cast a circle where I could see down into what the AP referred to in ’66 as “the airless canyons.” I told the wind, the fire, the rain, and the earth that I was here and it was beautiful.

As I meditated in my circle, I met my younger self emerging from the canyons, whooping up a storm. I found, oddly, that I had no advice for him. It’s his journey. I’ve already been there.

But I did finish the trip. I camped at Navaho National Monument and hiked out to see Betetakin cliff dwellings of the Anasazi Indians.

 

 

I stayed at Navajo National Monument for three days. Tomorrow, I’ll talk about some of the other things I saw.

The road goes ever on.

Day 69-71: Grand Canyon

Years ago, around 1970, I came home from college and informed the family that this was probably the last time we could take a family vacation together as I expected to be involved in the theatre production the next summer. So, when I got back from England (touring Hamlet), we packed up the car and headed West. We camped along the way and stopped at the Grand Canyon. I’m pretty sure we were following I-15 and went to the North Rim. Since the Canyon wasn’t our destination, we stayed for a couple of hours, walked around and looked into the hole, and then pushed on toward Las Vegas. Eventually we found our way to El Centro, CA and visited my grandfather and Eloise (his wife). It was the first time I met my grandfather, even though we had corresponded for several years.

Having worked my way north in Arizona, I decided there were multiple reasons to attempt this northern trek. There was U.S. Hwy 66 of course, but there was also Williams, AZ. I have an Uncle Nathan (after whom I was named) who last visited Bellevue in 1993 just after Q was born. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since. So I started working on tracking him down. I had a couple of phone numbers and a couple of addresses in Williams. The phones just kept ringing and ringing with no answer and no machine. When I got into Williams, I went directly to the most recent address and knocked on the door. No one answered. The next day I went to the Grand Canyon South Rim. I’ll talk about that in a minute. I also managed to get some info indicating my aunt lived at the second address I had.

I went there and got no answer. I went up to the Forest Service office (where Uncle used to work) and a friend of his said that she thought he’d passed away, but his granddaughters worked at Safeway Starbucks (yeah. Get that irony.) and she was sure she’d seen my aunt in town. I went to Starbucks and asked the barista if we were related. It turned out she was a cousin of my cousin. She said she was sure Uncle was not dead but would pass on the word of my arrival to her cousin.

I went again to Aunt’s house and this time she was home and very surprised to see me. She called my Uncle and we went over to visit for a while. Hard to believe that I actually succeeded in tracking them down. They simply don’t answer their phones if they don’t know who’s calling and Uncle can’t get to the front door.

So, I do have living relatives. Nathan is my last living uncle and prefers not to be contacted so he doesn’t “have to lie to people and say he’s fine” or go through the various aches and pains. He’s on oxygen all the time and was having some trouble with his meds the day I visited. In a way, it was sad to say good-bye, but I’m thankful I had the opportunity.

So, on to the Grand Canyon. It’s about 70 miles north of Williams and my $10 Senior National Parks pass saved me $25 at the gate. My memory of the visit to the North Rim is admittedly vague, but I don’t recall much in the way of commercial endeavors there. The South Rim, on the other hand has more hotels, lodges, curio shops, art studios, and restaurants than I could believe. And yes, I actually did buy a small Navajo rug to put my Goddess on. She likes it.

 

In spite of all the people and businesses and traffic, the deer are quite at home here. I saw these crossing the street just a few feet head of me and they were just headed into the tall grass in front of the cabins for a bit of a snack. There was the more mature buck, a young buck, three does and two fawns. At one point when I returned to the truck, I passed within a couple yards of where they were all lying down for a nap.

And here’s what you were waiting to see. Me in front of a great big old hole in the ground. It was a bit chilly early on. Below freezing overnight in Williams (23) and I learned to take my water hose in at night. So I wore a jacket and my winter hat. Carrying my survival bag over my shoulder (water, toilet paper, knife, slingshot, gloves, maps) and using my cane. I’d slept awkwardly the night before and lower back was in a good bit of pain, but it loosened up as I walked during the day. All fine now.

There are two hard things about taking pictures of the Grand Canyon. One is keeping other people out of your shot. The other is getting any true sense of perspective that will show just how huge this thing is.

You look over a drop a mile down and know that you wouldn’t stop falling until you reached the bottom. This shot is from Bright Angel overlook. The ribbon path on the point at the center is the Bright Angel trail. No, I did not walk down into the canyon or climb out again. Neither my back nor my lungs were equipped for that. I walked a couple of miles along the rim, though and finally got to the main overlook at the East end of the park.

At the center of the photo is the same promontory with Bright Angel trail from the previous photo, just taken from two miles further up the trail. Oh yes. And at the bottom of that center gorge is the Colorado River.

I made it back to Williams in time for dinner and found Aunt and Uncle the next day.

I’ve been a little disappointed in this blog. It seems like I’m doing nothing more than a photo journal travelogue—not what I intended at all. So the next post will be a little different. A lot more story about a spiritual adventure as I move from Grand Canyon into the Navajo Indian Reservation.

Day 66-68: Get Your Kicks on Route 66!

In case you don't know where to find a cut of the song by Nat King Cole, it's at http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=Get+your+kicks+on+route+66&FORM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=CBB7505B33C262F8ACF6CBB7505B33C262F8ACF6

I left Lake Havasu City about 11:00 Monday morning 10/14 and headed north on AZ 95. I think the Arizonans believe that is the correct route for U.S. 95 to have take as it runs parallel on to the U.S. route on the other side of the Colorado River. It's hard to believe that a few days ago I was at the Mexican border and now I'm already 200 miles north of there. And it's already started getting cold. Of course I've gained elevation, too. Lake Havasu City is about 650 feet in elevation and Kingman AZ, my next stop is 3300 feet. I camped at Blake Ranch RV Park about 15 miles east of Kingman. The first thing I realized was that all the traffic was headed the other way.

The second was that I needed heat. I turned on my furnace and couldn't figure out why the dang thing tried to blow cold air all night. In the morning when I tried to light the stove for coffee, I realized that my propane gas tank was empty. No problem. I just switched tanks and suddenly I had both a stove and heat!

Since Kingman calls itself the heart of Route 66, I spent a good bit of time exploring the history and the route.

As soon as I saw this 1950 Studebaker Champion in the Route 66 Museum, I knew I had to do some travel on this road, even though I had said I wasn't interested in it. This car was parked in my yard for years in Mishawaka, IN. Well, I think ours was a 51 and gray, but we had a Champion that Dad probably screwed bolts onto somewhere. So, I decided to stay an extra day and see a bit of Route 66. The big draw was to go West over Sitgreaves Pass to Oatman like the folks in Grapes of Wrath. Fortunately, my truck was in better shape than most of those escaping the dust bowl for the Land of Milk and Honey.

In Kingman, it's called Andy Devine Boulevard. I had a great time remembering the actor who was Cookie in the Roy Rogers Show, driving around in a Jeep while everyone else was on horseback. Also as the sheriff in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. That distinctive voice was readily recognized as Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood cartoon show, as well. Anyway. Heading West from Kingman, you dip down into the desert again and then have to climb.

Route 66 was called the Main Street of America, running from Chicago to Los Angeles. But, of course it was decommissioned in 1985 and replaced by the  Interstate highways. In California and Arizona, most of it was taken over by Interstate 40, but there are some segments of the highway that still connect the small towns that still call it Main Street.

Getting over the pass is a narrow and treacherous segment that has an absolute vehicle length limit of 40 feet. Even my truck and little trailer are more than that. Many people had guides lead them during the 30s, or even paid local farmers to tow them over the Sitgreaves pass.

Even then, what they saw next had to be a little disheartening. This road really twists and turns until it ends up back in the Mohave Desert, where a lot of the migration ended as well.

The only town to speak of along this stretch is Oatman that has made a name for itself with gunfight reenactments and 'wild' burros in the street. Believe me, this fellow was about the tamest, best fed, and well-brushed wild burro you are ever likely to meet. He just stood in the middle of the street and waited for people to feed him and take his picture.

Route 66 is closed between Oatman and Needles due to a washout, so I continued West to Bullhead City, then--just because I'd never been there before--I continued across the river to Laughlin, NV. I played for a while in the casino and then headed back to my camp in Kingman (with a working furnace). I took a northerly route back rather than return over the pass.

On Wednesday, I continued to follow Route 66 East to Williams AZ. Going through Hackberry, I came to the "General Store" and saw the old gas pumps, still set to the price gas used to be. I don't remember gas at 15.9 cents per gallon, but I do remember it at 19.9 cents per gallon. All the towns along the way have shops and cafes that display relics of the heyday for Route 66, including a number of Corvettes.

I had lunch at the Roadkill Café in Seligman AZ, recommended to me by the host at Blake Ranch. Why doesn't anyone else serve a patty melt on rye bread??? About 17 miles later I had to join I-40 for a while, but I got off at Ash Fork when I saw a sign for the historic loop. What a surprise.

This is what most of U.S. Hwy 66 looks like now. The stretch from Needles to Seligman is the longest continuous stretch left. Just outside Ash Fork, the old highway hasn't been maintained in years and I was told that I could drive out on it in an ATV, but that a little ways out of town it just disappears in the meadow altogether, recaptured by nature.

Well, that got me to Williams AZ where I am on a hunt for my last surviving Uncle. So far no luck, but that's a story for tomorrow. And tomorrow, I'm headed up to the Grand Canyon for a visit. I'm looking forward to that.

Day 64-65: London Bridge is Falling Down

Well, not really. In fact, it was falling down in 1968 when it was purchased for about $2.5 million and then transported to the desert where it was reassembled for another $7 million. Okay. Here's the whole story.

Quartzsite was empty.

 

It's hard to imagine that in just two weeks, nearly every camping spot in the campground will be occupied, many of them for the entire winter. In January, the population in and around Quartzsite will go from 3,500 to ~400,000. And as far as I can tell, the only thing that people do here is look for gems and sit out the winter.





I got up Saturday morning thinking I was cutting northeast to Prescott and then north to Williams to try to find a lost uncle. Well, he's not lost, I just can't find him. His phone number just keeps ringing with not answer. But then I got to looking at maps and discovered that Lake Havasu City was just 90 miles north. And Lake Havasu City is where London Bridge was reconstructed after the British sold it in 1968. I stopped along the way to take a picture of the landscape before it became canyon lands. You know, the older Harrison Ford gets the better I look.

The landscape did change and became steep and rocky. I drove through the canyons as I approached Lake Havasu with the ever-present saguaro cactus giving its three-finger salute. All along the way I passed travel trailers and motorhomes headed south to Quartzsite.

 

Lake Havasu is beautiful, though I had the bad timing to get there just in time for the Budweiser International Drag Boat races, which meant roaring boats until sundown and then a few rowdy partiers until early in the morning. But Lake Havasu State Park was beautiful. I sat out under the awning and grilled a steak while looking out across the lake toward California. It was beautiful! Little wind (apparently unusual) and crystal clear skies with temperatures in the low 80s. 

 

Paul Harvey would have said, "Page three, the rest of the story." In 1970, my college production of Hamlet was selected to tour northern England for two weeks, followed by a week in London. It was exciting and chaotic, and if you are following my story on SOL, nothing at all like that. I was excited to go to London and see the famous London Bridge. Well, I really wanted to see Tower Bridge, which is the scenic bridge, but London Bridge was the one we all knew from the time we were toddlers and sang "London Bridge is falling down."

 

As it turned out, it was. Actually it was sinking and in a bold move, Robert McCulloch, the founder of Lake Havasu City, bought the bridge and had it reassembled to bridge a man-made canal that separated what used to be Pittsburgh Point Peninsula into an island. All that was left was the new London Bridge, and it wasn't even opened until 1973. What a waste of a trip to London! :)

 

 

Well, 43 years later, I finally made it to see London Bridge. I walked under it and across it and drove on it. I've finally been to see London Bridge.

 

On Monday, 10/14, I headed north, bidding this childhood nursery rhyme good by. Now I'm into 1960s television. You can guess about this one until I post in a couple of days.

Day 59-63: End of the Beginning

I've been on the road two months now. I left Bellevue on August 10 and it is now October 11. Sixty-three days. I sit in my trailer and look around at the 120 or so square feet I live in and it is home. Today was also the end of the beginning. I completed my tour of U.S. Hwy 95 from the Canadian border to the Mexican border. Wow!

On Tuesday, I left my parking spot in Calexico, CA at Walmart and headed East. I thought I'd grab a quick cup of coffee somewhere. Imagine my surprise at there being nothing between Calexico and Arizona. I did stop just before the border at the Quechan Casino Resort and had breakfast and coffee (at last!). Then I had the problem of finding a place to stay in Yuma, Arizona. The first thing I learned was to buy wine in California and gas in Arizona. An $8 bottle of wine in Arizona is about $5 in California. A $3.95 gallon of gas in California is about $3.29 in Arizona. Had to put on my Arizona hat as soon as I got here!

There is no shortage of RV parks in Yuma. This is the heart of snowbird country and I was just about ten days to two weeks ahead of the influx. I found a spot at the Mesa Verde park for just $22. I'm pretty sure that "verde" means green or something like that, but there was limited evidence. Except on the shuffleboard courts.

I'll probably have to learn to play by the time I reach Florida. They were really proud of these courts. They'd just completed refinishing them on Monday. Ready for the season! Most of the people who show up in the next week or two have parked their trailers semi-permanently and are residents here for six months.

It might look kind of bleak, but there is opportunity for real socialization in this neighborhood. One resident I met from Spokane who had just arrived has been coming here for nearly 15 years to spend six months in Yuma's moderate winter climate. I have to admit, the weather was simply fabulous. And by comparison, the mobile homes really aren't much of a step down from the housing development across the street! Talk about everything looking the same.

I finished editing Mark Sawyer's next book, "Married to Islam," and got it off to him on Tuesday morning. He had it back to me by Thursday night and now I'm working on finalizing the manuscript and laying the book out. I wish there was some way to tell people how important this book is and get everyone in the country to read it. It is non-fiction, ghost-written by Mark on behalf of a Swiss woman who converted to Islam and then married a Moslem man. Her discoveries are enlightening and heart-rending.

Thursday, I picked up the trail of U.S. Hwy 95. I followed 195 down to San Luis, AZ where 95 ends at the Mexican border.

The site that greets people coming into the U.S. from Mexico is considerably different than that when you enter from Canada. There are a lot of factory outlet and grocery stores near the border and it is apparent that people come over from Mexico to shop in San Luis and then return. There's even a grocery cart return at the border.

I drove back up to Yuma on 95 and reviewed Mark's few changes to the manuscript, then headed for bed so I could get a good start on Friday morning. Much of the land between the Mexican border and the Yuma proving grounds is rich farmland, worked by hundreds of manual laborers, planting, weeding, and harvesting. There is little farm equipment here and what I saw is significantly smaller than what you would see in the Midwest. The rows are closer together because tractors don't do the cultivating.

As I came through the Yuma Proving Grounds--an area where the Army tests vehicles and new equipment--I kept seeing what looked like a whale floating in the sky a few miles away. Then I saw a second one. These are apparently observation balloons. They really do look like Moby Dick in the sky.

I also saw this dome or pinnacle or peak about the time I left Yuma, just barely peeking above the mountain range ahead of me. It doesn't look all that big, but it's visible from Yuma and from Quartzsite, 80 miles further north. I was also a little surprised at how I hadn't seen a Saguaro cactus in California, but I see them all over in Arizona. Hmm.

Tomorrow, I am wandering generally north and east through Prescott and on up to Williams AZ. Supposedly I still have an Uncle living in Williams (the last uncle). As I was named after him, I'd like to see him again but have been unable to reach him. I'll keep trying. It will be at least Sunday before I get there. Then I hope to go on up to the Grand Canyon if anyone has taken the tarp off and opened it up again. Sheesh!

Well, with the beginning ended, it's time to see what the next phase (wandering around Arizona and New Mexico) brings.