RETIREMENT TRIP #6

     STILL SUMMER IN THE SOUTHWEST    

            October 2015         

Next services 100 miles.  That was the sign that greeted us as we left Twenty-Nine Palms this morning to head back toward Arizona. It was a lovely morning in the desert—79 degrees at 9:00 a.m.

“I think it will reach 100 degrees again around here,” said Andy.  It was in the 40’s in Connecticut. 

A haze hangs over the mountains as we head east.

A haze hung over the blackened ridge as we drove east on Route #62.
“That’s volcanic,” Andy half commented, half asked, glancing at the black rock ridge on the horizon.

“It looks volcanic,” I told him, but, in the haze, the ridge was a dominating dark line against the sky.

“In Phoenix or Tucson those jagged, rugged peaks would be valuable property,” said Andy, “but not here.”

“The purpose is different. There people want scenic uniqueness,” I answered.  “No one lives here.  There’s no city, so it’s only purpose would be for cattle raising.”

“Yup,” he agreed, “and there is probably no water.  It’s a dead spot.”

This road sign is as confusing as the
adjoining road to nowhere.

When we looked at the map, we were surprised—and pleased—to see that the barren mountains of igneous rock were probably part of Joshua Tree National Park.

At the intersection of Route #62 and an unnamed military road, we spotted an unusual street post, loaded with signs and placards.  Three guys took turns photographing each other repeatedly.  Either they were foreign travelers getting a good laugh out of the desert humor or military men remembering some ill-begotten excursion.  The adjoining street was labeled “No Stop, No Entry, ID Required, Check Point Ahead.”  Maybe it’s another Area 51 out in nowhere.

For miles along Route #62, the railroad embankment was a canvas for graffiti artists.  Using black and white pebbles, people had left names, love notes, hearts and messages.  Every so often we’d see a name spelled out in old railroad ties or an I LOVE YOU in red stones or pink rocks.  When the rails moved farther away from the road and the embankment wasn’t as high, there were fewer masterpieces.  What people don’t think of to leave their marks!

“It’s a main road to Parker and the Colorado River,” said Andy.  “Lots of people come through in the summer, and it’s easy to get to. It’s just a form of graffiti—not as destructive as paint, but it doesn’t rain here, so it doesn’t wash down or away.”

In Congress, Arizona, the Fine Art shop features
Old West architecture and furnishings.

We stopped at the A-OK Corral for a beer and a bag of Cheese Cheddar Mix.  That’s unusual for anyone who knows how often I drink beer.  And the “a” is correct.  We shared, but the beer was cold and refreshing and the Chex Mix, a very spicy snack.  The car thermometer read 91 degrees, and it was just noon. Still summer in the desert.

Outside of town the local cop gave a speeding ticket to some poor sucker who didn’t slow down through town.  It was Hope, Arizona, a place where you need to slow down if you want to have any!

The Fine Art shop in Congress looks
like a town in the Old West.

Corn was actually planted and thriving near Route #60, as we headed to Wickenburg.  The fields stretched as far as we could see.  Then there were acres and acres or productive trees—either fruit or nut—and then hay.

“This guy has prime water rights,” said Andy.

One store near the Centennial Wash advertised a 32-ounce can of beer for $1.99.  Priorities!

Around Aguila, huge fields were cleared and plowed.

This Congress artist features
woodworking pieces made of logs.

“It must be corporate farming,” said Andy.

There were no pivots for irrigation.  They must flood the fields.  In town the few stores that remained open all had bars on the windows.  It didn’t look particularly welcoming.

Since we couldn’t get into the motel until mid-afternoon, we drove to Congress, Arizona.  A Fine Art shop caught our eye.  Roger waved us in when he saw me snap pictures of the old one-room church, the wagons and the Mobile garage.

“You’re here.  You have to see the house,” he insisted.

And it was gorgeous.  “I’m not the artist,” explained Roger.  I only put things together for him.  A showcase of logs and carved wood, the house from floor to ceiling exemplified the Old West.

A traffic roundabout in Wickenburg hints about the personality
and nature of the classy small town.

And then we were in Wickenburg.  “That’s a horse lover’s paradise,” Shannon had told me on the phone.  Driving south on Route #93, we saw ranches and ranchette estates lining the highway.

Wickenburg is still a sleepy town on Saturday afternoon.  Several boys played basketball next to the Garcia Little Red Schoolhouse near the shopping center.

“Bless them!” said Andy.  It was 89 degrees.

There is so much more vegetation here in and around Wickenburg, but the washes are still bone dry.

Joshua trees and Saguaro cacti grow
together at the foot of the mountain
along the road to Yarnell.

“They saved the town,” said Andy. He was talking about the Yarnell Fire in which nineteen firefighters died.  They were mostly volunteers who were caught when the fire changed direction, not unusual in a mountainous area.  Surrounded and trapped, they were protected under the fire blankets, but they died of smoke inhalation and suffocation.

This street corner memorial honors the nineteen
firefighters who gave their lives at Yarnell, Arizona.

A board with their pictures is currently the memorial on one street corner, and Yarnell is a sleepy mountain town with lots of homes and land for sale.

But hopefully, the country won’t forget the Granite Mountain Hotshots, the firefighters who died protecting others.