We left Quartzite with the sun returning and as we drove north the desert began changing, greening. As we traveled (near the California border) through Parker and then began heading east, beautiful sunlit mountains flowed by, a river wound, a lake stretched beside and below us, and thick clumps of substantial palm trees appeared. I understand the joy of oasis in a way I never did before. And resort. Motels. Motor homes lined up along the water, boats, more palm trees, sunshine. Luscious landscape after the spread-out desert of Quartzite, with its scores of RV parks and plastic-white-tented marketplaces hoping to lure the semi-permanent residents and those passing through.

Heading east, we stopped for the night in Kingman, Arizona, woke to cold, wind and heavy clouds, and returned to the highway.

Almost from the start, it clouded over. Soon, it was sleeting, snowing, but we kept on, until we were slowed when it all built to blizzard. After a few miles of following a police car with lights flashing—a pace car—we left the line of semis and cars at a Williams exit and returned to a park where we'd stayed last year.







Tuesday we started out in sun. As we crossed into New Mexico, we saw traces of snow under darkening skies. Again we encountered bursts of sleet and small hail, as well as the monumental landscape imprinted with the human hand.







Last night we stayed in Gallup, New Mexico, rocked by the wind, pelted occasionally by small hail under gray skies. Our last miles to Albuquerque today were rich with the changing landscape, sun and light snow highlighting red rock formations, snow falling on the mountains now and then to either side of us. Climbing and then descending, until we arrived at this familiar RV park 10 miles east of town.

We set up. The plan was dinner with Frank & Mary tonight, seeing Dad tomorrow, and the next day leaving for the slow drive to Tulsa where we'd meet them later this week. Then, on to Fayetteville.

After choosing books from the book for book trade shelves (over-populated as usual with romance fiction), I decided to venture out for groceries. My attempt to start the car was accented by a torque that shook the car, but no ignition. Yes. The same problem that stopped us in Mississippi and was fixed—for 200 miles—in Fayetteville.

So here we are, waiting. The 2nd Toyota dealer Andre called was able to locate a rebuilt starter (diagnosis courtesy of Toyota at home), the tow truck was summoned, arrived, departed—and here we sit with the familiar wind, blue sky, clouds. The repair might be complete this evening. Or in the morning. A courtesy shuttle will come to take us to pick up the car, and I will be able to see Dad again. And buy groceries. I have the happiness, relief and gratitude of prayers answered.



Wind, sun. No snow! People to see, but no way to go...

The tow truck is here!

Andre talks to the tow driver

In Tucson. On the outskirts of town. The drama of mountains, sky and desert continues. Plentiful birds were singing. The sun would shine, the skies would darken and rain would fall. Every road was a gentle rollercoaster of washes, with yellow signs warning not to enter if flooded. In Rodeo, a waitress in the cafe was telling stories about growing up in the area, seeing and hearing about people who drove on through. Or tried to, and were taken away by the rushing water. Cows, too.

Driving through the small towns and countryside in Arizona and New Mexico, I am especially aware of how neighborhoods or communities seem to grow organically. A stylish or impeccably groomed home is neighbor to a mobile home, a shack, shelters without artifice. There are housing additions and gated communities too. But here, it seems that people are able to live as they can, doing the best they can with the circumstances. No way to nestle into the protective grove of trees. Yet rocks can be moved, arranged in patterns, surround cactus or bushes. In some places, trash can be as plentiful as the stones.


It rained the night before and in the morning before we left. We wondered if we'd get through, heading out to Phoenix and Paradise RV Park. We did.


I'm thrilled by the intensity of gray skies and mountains,
cactus, desert lit up against it.

At this desert RV park in Tucson, we were far from the city.

These photos don't do justice to the beauty of skies and light.

The tree all light and pale green all over. Like the peridot stone.



Sam, the little white dog by the motor home shines with the lowering sun.

Tombstone, Arizona. Two nights. Two days. Our first day we walked from the RV park to town. They close off one long street there, and cover the pavement partially with dirt. Boardwalk sidewalks, covered. I liked thumping along in the shade in front of stores and historic buildings, then crossing the street without looking. A good thing because of the sun drowning out everything. I found my hat in my sock drawer at just the right time. We saw stagecoaches. Lots of China-made southwestern objects. Gunfights in the making. Ice cream and fudge shops—not tempting. But I felt peace in the OK Coral town. Surrounded by rolling desert.


Tombstone, Arizona. Just a few images made it into my camera.
This RV park near the highway. The McDonald's billboard
across the road, alone of its kind in the desert.


Still-life. Andre's Western persona: the leg-warmer to help with his
elbow irritation. And the hat. We celebrated his birthday in
Tombstone in a small way.

Yup. He had steak for lunch in the Longhorn Restaurant. Luckily, it was tender.


I am attracted to deserted picnic tables. Especially ones like this. An arrangement
of stones by an anonymous artist... Dramatically enhanced by the sun.

A cemetery in Douglas, AZ, near the Mexican border

Bisbee, AZ. A mining town. Rusty sidewalks out my window...

And out the driver's window, deep dug mines. Huge areas.

Hill after hill covered with Bisbee. We wanted to stop, but how? Where?
So we went on to our Tombstone RV Park. Site of the OK Corral. Wyatt Earp. Gunfights. Saloons.
The Bird in the Gilded Cage. Tourists!

Lately, my landscape—within and without—is vast and high-contrast.

Skies, vaulted. Mountains smooth, jagged, undulating, harsh, constant. Desert on all sides, flat and textured. Palm trees. Cactus. Strong shadows. The angle of the sun blinding without a hat. Hard wind, hard rain. Warm days, cool nights.

We've entered communities that are all "adult". Fifty-five and older. With walls. Or just rules. Just us. Lonely. Or not?

In my mind—the vaulted spaces of my inner life—the yin-yang ball is rolling around, in and out of sunshine, intense clouds, through mud and dusty desert. The golden light of sundown. Running from winter. Seeing the inevitable: it is coming. It's almost here.

It's all about the struggle for balance. They say. But while we ride the calm or turbulent rivers of ourselves, we feel it, we shift and move clumsily or with grace.