Nomadic Rag

Friends who endured the seasons seldom took on the desert, and rightfully so, yet for the native Saguaros which thrived there, crookedly perched on the hill they jumped and waved and whispered sweet things; as we rode faster along the foothills Flamenco strings could be heard, softly, strummed out of their golden flip-book.

Albuquerque was a bust.

I had heard from several accounts that the city was underrated and often misinterpreted by mountain elitists, who of course looked down on them. Which was laughable coming from Denver, a “sanctuary city” proudly touted at the time by governor Polis, yet he was more concerned over his damn tennis shoes to have afforded any notable change. But having went through the sand-blasted tunnel myself I came to concede to their agenda, almost begrudgingly.

It felt like a town once brimming with deep roots, traditions, and architecture diluted after some biblical flood. Like a concentrated source of culture seeped for far too long; a sustainable means to end drought season, year-in and year-out. By high-noon, when the scorched white sand baked through, the townsfolk were left scratching at their heads, wondering where the magic had gone? As it turned out, Denver had siphoned much of what they wanted into their own city, for their own gain, and whatever they didn’t found its way into Pueblo.

One of my favorite Western dishes, Pork Green Chile, was a notable casualty there. The entire meal relied on a single chile, native to New Mexico’s “Hatch Valley”, where intense dry heat coupled with sandy loam soil produced perfection. A hearty blend of a robust, refreshing, and tangy chile that held back its spice much like Ashley at a social event—but once fully acquainted, all bets were off indeed.

What started as an innocent leap one autumn turned into a sick obsession. I had no choice but to scour Colorado, for every which way held a listing of the soup somewhere, with the hawkish pursuit to find the very best it had to offer.

Those curvy green peppers and I began seeing each other so much, in fact, to where they knew me by name; ultimately, my house, from a practical standpoint, became the rendezvous of which we’d frequent—a quiet place for us to just “be ourselves”. Away from the noise and predetermined portions. However, just as our relationship deepened into the unknown was when I uncovered the shocking truth: hatch chiles were not from Colorado.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” I asked earnestly. Dumbfounded that my emotions were played by a mere chile.

Yet the chile said not a word, and as we crossed the Arizona border I came to reconcile my hostility towards it. For what seemed at first as a blatant lie, for the sake of only lying, turned into a product of their broken past; betrayed and abandoned by those that grew them. Poor chiles. They were delicious however, and so, I hadn’t lost much sleep over it.

Ashley, on the other hand, was still feeling particularly hostile by the troubling news we received from Brooke earlier in the drive. That our newly rescued dog, Benjamin, had somehow gotten into the box of fire starter cubes that sat atop our bookshelf.

“Oh my God!” Ashley exclaimed, with enough force to throw her head back. “Benny ate all of our fire starter.”

“Great, now he has to get his stomach pumped.” I said. “How the hell did he even get up there??”

“I don’t know. Brooke said she saw the empty box on the floor when she got home from work. Apparently it says ‘natural ingredients’.”

It was not long after I ordered a humongous crate for him which might as well have been a twin bed. Brooke reassured Ash that she would monitor his every move in the event of abrupt illness, even overnight. It helped that Brooke was sort of nocturnal.

We of course talked down the situation, justifying her past as a geriatric caregiver, for there was no turning back at this point in the drive. Storm clouds followed us throughout the remainder of the trip, and it was unclear whether they came from our neuroses or the tail-end of monsoon season.

From mid-June to early Fall, the Pacific Ocean drew humidity inland—the natural remedy to desert drought, although rain totals varied widely year to year. It was also around this point that the rolling terrain shifted into a redder hue.

Agave stalks stretched tall from their pointed leaves, flowering delicately at the ends like fingers to the sun. It was a conjoined effort to grab hold of their heat lamp and yank it closer, so that those without arms could survive. And there were more than I ever imagined. Skinny cacti feverishly sprouted from the Earth as if God took it from a greater tree we knew nothing about. Yucca plants looked like lava lamps. Barrel cacti were green pumpkins covered in spines. It was all very surreal, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the Saguaros that lurked beyond.

It was around eight thirty when we reached Tucson and the sun was winding down behind the mountains. We stopped only briefly to eat something forgettable. Sometimes, extensive travel warranted garbage meals in order to fill the sentiment of greater things.

We snaked out of town along the back roads. With every window down, warm desert air feathered across our skin. My left arm hung outside of it and I watched the hair there peel back. Great silhouettes of the Saguaros painted the orange sky, like taffy laid out in the sun. It almost felt like we were too close to them. Their posture demanded reverence despite how cockeyed some of them were. I imagined they carried the souls of the dead, like the gulls held sailors lost at sea. Even though their strong gaze felt ominous at times, they never felt like they were judging us.

There was a metal gate to the property where our Casita was. Triangles of metal welded in the shape of mountains on the front of it. Many desert homes had pieces of recycled metal for decor. We went up the dirt road slowly and found a diagonal parking space next to a grid of livestock pens, yet there were no animals in them. I cut the lights and saw the beautiful yellow home with lime-green trim, adjacent to the ranch home where our hosts lived. Ash and I unloaded our things and I took Ophelia on a walk—carefully shining my flashlight for anything sharp on the desert floor.

Morning came with more clouds and cacti. The town of Tucson split Saguaro National Park into two sections, East and West. Our Casita was much closer to the East division, the larger of the two, so naturally we fell into that one first. Of course, the park pass was good for seven days on either side. To fully explore them both would’ve taken those seven, but we hadn’t the luxury to saunter.

In an interest of time, we rode along the Cactus Forest Loop—stopping for pictures to catch our breath. It was like a reunion of some sort, an overdue reunion where everybody wanted a brief and quiet moment to connect. I belly-laughed with most, got misty-eyed with a few, and I think I hugged one of them…

While up close, I noticed most of the cacti had several holes scattered about their flesh. Some went deep enough as an exit-wound, to where I saw Ashley wave from the other side.

“Hello!!”

“Hi, honey! What do you think these are from?”

“Bullet-holes,” her light expression dimmed.

Perhaps a gang of Desperados fought on horseback for the territory? Popping their pistols carelessly for miles. I mentioned something about how they couldn’t have hit water if they fell out of a boat, whoever was the cause, but even sharp-shooters were lushes every now and then. However, the actual truth, which appeared to me on a sign, was because of Gila woodpeckers that built their nests out of the sun. Still a cool thought albeit less mystifying. It only became cooler once it had more time to swirl a bit in my head; even the smallest of creatures’ mark felt charming to the soul, like they related in some way.

“Don’t you draw the Queen of Diamonds boy, she’ll beat you when she’s able. You know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet.” — Eagles

Much of the beauty in the East could be found in the West, which was not always the case. Though the Saguaros seemed to extend to greater heights on this side of the park. Where they resembled their own city that abided by laws of their own. A green metropolis with art institutes, office buildings, and modern saloons to lounge. Where all the inhabitants held no civil unrest and were confident in what they were. I imagined nature scoffed at our own concrete creations for they missed out on the very ideal they wished to embody—equivalence. Yet with any ounce of pride came only imagination…

We celebrated Ashley’s birthday with prickly pear margaritas at a nearby Mexican joint. The rich purple fruit came from the top of the cactus, and was the perfect companion to some Reposado. I sang her a quiet birthday song, so that no one but her could hear it, and she made a wish from the complimentary flan. The food was very good, with the only surprising delight being in the tamales. Up until that point, I had never tasted a tamale that wasn’t dryer than a sandy diaper. However, this one was moist and rather flavorful.

Later in the evening, generous rainfall peppered the top of the Casita. Causing water to pool at the base of the front door. Ashley ran to get our towels from the bathroom closet, and I laid them against the slick intrusion. Our host, Ayda, later said how appreciative she was for the care we brought to her Casita—she herself took great care, so it was only right to follow suit.

The storm went from a downpour to a drizzle then back again to a downpour before it was done. I soaked in the hot tub with a wandering eye for the stars to come out. Ashley came too, but opted to sit outside and play around with the buttons. It was awkwardly placed near Ayda’s living room window, that shimmered off their T.V. by some gameshow. I peeked my head in and saw her husband’s feet hanging off the couch. They were still enough to have either been in a deep sleep or heavily invested in whatever cash was at stake. This was the closest we ever got to seeing them in-person.

We were saddened to leave Casita, but there was one more stop on our itinerary before our resources felt a drought of their own—‘Petrified Forest’.

It was Arizona’s lesser-known National Park; the one that everybody hocked their loogies on and dragged their rears across like a sick dog, the runt of the litter. However, for those that knew me well knew that I fancied the unremarkable. It became a distinct mission of mine to rope it into the trip. Little by little the GPS ticked down the mileage, yet there was nothing around us but sand and desperation. I smelled myself and it might’ve been perspiration. Ash, like the naysayers who came before, knew it all along and had wished we spent the trip’s entirety in Tucson.

For the history-buffs out there, the middle-aged men in New Balance or Jared Polis, ‘Petrified Forest’ was, in fact, fossilized wood leftover from a Triassic-era rainforest that occurred over 200 million years ago on the supercontinent of Pangea. Volcanic ash and other sediment preserved it and eventually replaced the organic matter with quartz crystals. The entire park was a desolate dumping ground for these wood crystals, much too heavy to lift as a souvenir.

We roamed the walkable trails until we had enough, which in total was about thirty minutes or so. Everything tasted the same after a while. The hidden gem in the park wouldn’t have occurred until later, towards the end of the one-way drive, where an old rusted jalopy looked in need of some attention. It was a 1932 Studebaker, sat all by itself next to a road overgrown with prairie grass, the sign read: Route 66. Amazed we stared off into oblivion feeling the rush of the wind, undoubtedly the traffic that still persisted from Chicago to L.A.

The park finally spat us back onto the highway which took us directly to our rental north of Holbrook, a small town fifteen minutes west. I had booked a yurt in the middle of nowhere for our final night in Arizona.

There was a noticeable shift around us, where it felt like we were being followed. The buildings progressively became more and more anemic, but not in an urban sort of way. Where brick infrastructure and right angles remained, still tangible to society. This was more of a devil’s playground in that the surrounding dwellings were constructed with scrap metal, tires, and dingy tapestry. There were no walls and there were no rules—no limitations of congenial norms.

Ashley looked on, almost in horror, once we reached the battered street of our yurt. And on the corner was a twenty foot silver knife that belonged to an A-frame building called “Knife City”.

“Derek, I don’t like this.”

“It must be the local knife shop,” I said. “They probably got some great deals in there!”

“You sound like the guy who dies first in a horror movie, justifying the obvious,” she said sharply.

“Honey, I know it’s creepy—but we paid for—.”

“—I don’t give a sh—! There’s like skin-walkers everywhere, I’m not gonna be here when it gets dark.”

“Okay, let’s just check it out first since we’re right here, and we’ll see.”

Needless to say we got a hotel, for upon further inspection of the yurt it looked like there was a bloodstain on the entry flap. We took a few photos and left. Though the red mud wasn’t as kind to us on the way out. I got stuck in it, rocking forward and back to try to free the front tires. Ashley went stiff as a board. Dark clouds were closing in and the temperature sunk. We prayed for momentum, and we got it with a full refund. ‘Take it Easy’ came on the shuffle, and we did.