Layne was up for it, Rusty enjoyed stops in the wilderness and I enjoyed picking my route through the washboard. We were back on the road.
We spent Monday morning faffing about doing useful things on the outskirts of Tucson. First we went to a shop, one of the few in town that does alignments for larger vehicles. Jack Furrier’s crew did a nice job and I am happy with the way my steering wheel points, and I feel confident the wheels are aligned. I want my excellent new Michelin tires to last as long as possible. We put them to the test after we stopped by a dermatologist to give Layne her check up. Van and wife in good order we set off for points north.
I wanted to stop by the Titan missile museum, a converted Cold War silo and we drove a few minutes out of our way hoping a hot June day would put visitors off but sure enough there was a crowd, all unmasked on the tour in progress. We passed and drove on hoping that by this Fall Covid will be in abeyance at last, and we will feel free to mingle once again among the precaution-free.
Our goal was Clarkdale in central northern Arizona to meet a friend, but to make it more interesting I chose to delete highways from my mapping search. Arizona is not over loaded with alternatives to interstates and the best alternative I found instead of going straight to Globe from Tucson, was by way of a dirt road that connects Benson to Mammoth.
North Cascabel Road winds through the desert and what starts and ends as paved road becomes good old fashioned dirt for 33 miles in the middle. That stretch alone took us more than two hours, averaging 15 mph while in motion with photo and dog walk stops along the road.
And I can tell you the services at the other end were good enough to convince us to stop for the night, beer tortillas and a place to park. But to get there we had some driving to do. We turned off I-10 at Pomarene and drove north. Sure enough the pavement ran out, no reprieve there.
Rusty was ready for a walk and there was a signboard to read. It turns out the land north of the cattle grid is a mixture of publicly an privately owned but is used by hunters as long as they follow the rules which amount to common sense and don’t shoot people, especially not in their homes.
You can read the rules for yourself. We managed not to shoot anyone or get shot, we dumped no trash and failed to start any fires, controlled or otherwise. We were model citizens. We stopped to photograph something on an empty stretch of road, as most of it is. Wouldn’t you know it, a car pulled up alongside and asked if we needed help. When reassured we were okay she smiled and said “Welcome to Cascabel!” at which point we realized a third car entering from a side road was also blocked. Far from being empty we managed to attract passers by like iron filings on a magnet.
Rusty mooched around but spent most of the drive sitting on his cushion ignoring the rocking and rolling and crunching of dirt under the wheels. He used to be quite nervous when the van made noises underway but he’s driven over more topes than most of us have had hot dinners so he’s an old hand.
Actually the funny thing about driving this road was the number of Mexican style topes we rumbled over as we passed through the village of Pomerene right off the Interstate. It’s a bit of a joke for us seeing these ghastly reminders of the worst aspect of driving Mexico.
Anyway we rolled up the dirt checking out the countryside, the frequent dips into dry riverbeds, the arroyos, each one accompanied by a warning not to drive through flood waters. You’d think it might be obvious but I guess not.
It was endless that dirt road and after our busy morning I think we both got a bit tired before we reached the paved section again. The views kept us going, the winding rod, the valleys, the dry river beds, it was The West and we were in our wagon train of one.
The scenery was a mixture of farmland with irrigation, ranch land with cows, scattered homesteads and small power lines joining them all up.
We did see signs opposing a plan to build a large power line system with huge pylons through the San Pedro Valley. Naturally I’d liked to have read more but the Internet connection around here on Verizon is what it is and that also explains my difficulties uploading photos from this remote area!
We regained a sense of nomadic travel with this short and not terribly difficult afternoon drive. We hit a few spots of soft sand and as I felt the Promaster wiggle I engaged the front wheel drive lock and we
laughed together at the familiar sensations of self recovery while remembering the places where that electronic switch saved our backsides when we were exploring down south. It was fun, and it still is.
We started in Cochise County where the dirt was slightly graded and thus built our confidence that we could drift along up to twenty miles per hour the whole way…until we hit the Pima County line and the road deteriorated into washboard and lumpy rocks and slowed us down considerably. Then at last we reached the Pinal County line and Mr Macadam’s great tar invention came to our rescue and expedited our return to civilization. We were ready.
Not without the occasional washout in the arroyos which are anxiously awaiting rain in the mountains so they may do their worst in the valleys.
Globe was our target, a mining town turned tourist center, but as we passed through Mammoth, home of the Huns Motorcycle Club, I’m reliably informed, we decided to pause at San Pedro Park, a lightly shaded unpaved slope with picnic tables, a monument to the. Infers of the region, but no ether trash cans nor toilets. Also there are no “No Overnight Parking” signs, indeed there are no signs at all.
Tuesday will be time enough for Globe and some other place to stop for another night that we might arrive on time in Clarkdale. This is living, as modest as it is, driving, stopping, making plans and changing them. And sitting out in the warm desert breeze with my dog, listening to my wife asleep inside our home while watching the stars and the occasional car and knowing tomorrow we will do more of the same.
