Far and away, my favorite rigs at the Expo. I could trade my Chevy in for that Dodge.
So much bigger here at Flagstaff than when it was held in Southern Arizona at Amado.
I was driving when we arrived in the dark, and quickly realized that the rows of campers had become cul-de-sacs of parked trucks. I’m not overly zealous when crowds and lines are involved, so we escaped to a beautiful campground in the national forest. Best move we made until the Mother Road Brewery.
There were actually 2 Dormobiles this weekend to lust after, although the safari top still gets the prime lust factor. Although, the aux radiator fan also gets a high rating.
Met up with friends and a lot of other cool people while trying not to fry in the intense heat. The 97 degrees on Friday was a bit much for this Alaskan.
I was up at 7, at the trailhead by 8, hot and shirtless at 9. Life in the desert. The Victoria Mine hike is 4.5 miles, and the buzzards were out. Although, not for me. There was a lot of Border Patrol helicopter activity off to the southeast, circling an area, widening out into ever larger circles. The helicopter would fly off and the buzzards would fly back in, only to be scared off again when the copters returned. I never did find out what all the circling was about.
As hot as it was, it was still a great hike. The trail meandered among the cactus, through washes, and over hills out to the old mine ruins. The shafts are still there, most have been covered with welded steel grating that allows for the bats to leave their habitat, but keep people from entering.
The drive down to Organ Pipe was well worth it. It’s a beautiful area, and like all spots along the border, there were very few people camped out. Of the 208 campsites, maybe 25 were in use, which suited me just fine, but it doesn’t offer a lot of help to the budget. Up near Lake Havasu, the sites did have quite a few more people.
I was sitting there in the evening, the lantern was off, and I was enjoying a Guinness that a fellow traveler had given me north of Yuma. The stars were out, and one could see the Milky Way flow across the sky. Then… an eerie silence overcame the desert… and out of no where… my phone beeped from the truck. I had an email. I’m in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, a stone throw from the Mexican Border, and I get a damn email. As nice as contact is, sometimes you just have to turn everything off.
The pics were nice Sam, thanks.
I took the Old ’66 down Route 66 to Oatman. Much of the “Mother Road” has been butchered by the interstates, but this is a section well worthy of the nostalgia. It’s a great section of road ( I refrained from posting another picture of my viewpoint over the spare tire ) with the road twisting & turning, following the contours of the Earth into the Black Mountains. I had a blast.
Oatman lies in some incredibly beautiful country. The desert was greening up and the Black Mountains are an area that I need to come back to explore again. Oatman is an old mining town that had enough in 1939 to draw Carole Lombard & Clark Gable for their honeymoon, but today the wild burros are the stars. They wander about town, looking cute so that you’ll buy a bag of “Burro Food” for $1.
A pair greeted me right away, one Mother Burro & one Baby Burro. The youngster ran right up to me. At first I thought it just wanted a handout, but quickly realized that it was seeking protection from a small, screaming girl who wanted desperately to “ride the pony”. I scratched the burro behind its ear and scared the girl away with a scowl.
I wandered through town, got acquainted with the other local burros, and checked out the phenominal work done by some of the local artists. There were also the typical tourists shops, which I avoided except for buying three postcards. The townfolk were all extremely friendly, the tourists were all over the place, and I spotted two young burros with a sticker placed on their foreheads with the words: STOP Please Do Not Feed Me Anymore
I stopped to sit on a bench to write out my cards. After finishing the first, I noticed that same little girl harrassing my favorite burro. This time she was trying to punch the cute little guy in the nose! When Ma Burro placed herself in between child & burrito, the child went around Mama. At this point, I cringed… the girl went behind Ma Burro and I thought she was a goner. I guess burros do a bluff kick just like grizzlys do a bluff charge, because the little girl kept her head attached. I’m looking around for the parents, and see that the father has noticed my grimace. He tells me that “she’s fine”, and I tell him “If you’re looking to sue the town, I’ll testify against you.” At this point the father grabs his little angel and wanders away saying something under his breath that I did not quite make out.
When I had feasted on all things Oatman, I walked back down to The Rover, and heard running behind me. It was my favorite, little burro at a trot, followed by Ma Burro at a walk. The burrito stopped at the truck’s left wing. It must have known that I had one last carrot.
Oddly enough, I did enjoy Boot Hill. The cemetary had been in disrepair, but has been resurrected by volunteers, who researched the burial records and replaced the missing grave markers. “Unknown” shows up on many of the markers, due to missing archives. There is no admission, but a donation is accepted to maintain the graveyard. Upon arrival, one is reminded that this is a cemetary, and to please show respect for the dead.
I drove along the border from New Mexico into Arizona, then went north through Bisbee and into Tombstone. I guess one just has to stop at Tombstone, although Bisbee was a lot more fun.
For the most part, I wasn’t impressed with Tombstone; it reminded me of Skagway. The main drag has been closed off to traffic and is corrupted by the tour companies. I’m holding out some hope that at least some of the businesses are locally owned, but that’s crazy, naive talk. Like Skagway, the historic buildings still stand, but they are now home to trinket shops, a few restaurants, and Bank of America. Walking down the boardwalk, I looked into a bookstore window and saw the biography of Soapy Smith proudly displayed. I would not be a bit surprised if they had info on Princess Cruise trips to Alaska inside.
I did not venture into the OK Corral, because I did not want to pay the admission. I just wasn’t feeling the capitalism that afternoon.
