What's in a name?

I was up first thing and out with my camera to catch the early light. It was Saturday morning and the town was quiet. Around the back of the fire station was a collection of obsolete emergency vehicles, abandoned to their fate to slowly rust away among the tall weeds. I managed a few shots through the chain-link fence, focussing on the details. A
large pick-up pulled up at the kerb behind me and a man - silver hair, moustache - climbed out jangling a bunch of keys.

‘You like our old engines?’ he said, walking towards a side door. ‘Come on in, we’ve got more inside’.

I followed him into the shadows and he flicked a switch, the neon lights spluttering into life.

‘We’ve got engines here dating back to the 1920’s’, he said. ‘Of course, some of ‘em are retired from service, but we get ‘em out for a run now and then. The oldest leads our Thanksgiving parade every year’. He led me to an ancient, clean machine, still draped with garlands of red, white and blue.

‘Here, let’s get some more light on the subject’, he said, unlocking the main folding doors and pushing them open. ‘We’re all volunteers here. Forest and brush fires mainly. Any questions, just ask’.

With that he wandered off to answer a call on his cell phone and left me among the collection of assorted vehicles, each proudly bearing the town’s name. When I’d done, I found him outside in conversation with one of the townsfolk, pulled up in the centre of the road. She made a crack about some stranger who’d just walked out of his station with a camera. We all smiled and I thanked him for his kindness and hospitality, leaving them to their neighbourly conversation.

Later that day, I drove the route that Ted and Bob had worked out for me the night before. It took me on a 30 mile loop through wooded farmland and out onto a plateau of open grassland. It was here, on the gently undulating slopes, where a burgeoning Arizona wine industry has put down its roots. There were half a dozen wineries to be found along the way and I called in at one to taste their wares. There was both red and white on offer and a sparkling variety. I’m no expert, but they all seemed very acceptable to my untutored palate. I left it at one tasting as the measures were generous and in common with other visitors, I didn’t spit. No sense in putting myself and other drivers at risk by going over the limit. Besides, I’d heard gruesome tales of time spent locked up in communal cells in town jails.

That evening, carrying a bottle of the local wine, I took a short stroll to Ted and Rosie’s. The red brick, two-story house, was on the brow of a hill on the edge of town. Having met in San Francisco - Ted coming from Patagonia, Rosie from New York - they had moved back to Arizona to raise their family: two daughters, now grown up and gone. Bob and Paula were not far behind me, arriving, rather surprisingly for these parts, in a new Mini and we took our seats around a table in the garden with our aperitifs in hand.

Ted was a builder and Rosie worked in admin. Bob was an electrical engineer and Paula was a painter. In conversation, Ted had a taciturn, yet easy-going style with a gift for strategically placed one-liners. In contrast, Bob spoke in bursts, delivering words like machine gun fire, his bright eyes darting between us. Rosie, relaxed and gregarious, laughed a lot as she kept the conversation on the move, while Paula sat back and observed, chipping in now and again with a wry comment delivered in a deadpan monotone, but always with a twinkle in her eye.

The talk ranged from weather, water supply, family, London, The Who, the economy and the critters that were to be found in Ted and Rosie’s back yard: the yard in which we were then sitting. Everything from marauding Javelina’s – medium-sized animals, with a strong superficial resemblance to pigs – tarantulas, coyote, rats, bats, buzzards, cicadas and rattle snakes. Quite enough for one evening, although the only ones to show on this occasion were giant cicadas, which unnervingly, would land with a plop just about anywhere about one’s person and a rat that sat, without fear, staring us out a few feet away. Ted had to be restrained from fetching his BB gun and sending the cheeky varmint to rat heaven there and then. Pity. I fancy he was something of a sharpshooter.

The remark of the evening came from Paula. The sound of frantic drumming – as articulated on a selection of ethnic tom-toms - drifted up from the town below. Ignored at first, eventually speculation arose as to where in the neighbourhood the source of the performance was to be located. Paula thought for a moment and concluded - ‘Probably in our yard’ - the line delivered with the timing, nuance and aplomb of a seasoned stand-up at the top of their game.

A thoroughly enjoyable evening drew to a close with Bob and Paula insisting that I accept a lift down the unlit hill to my bed. With email addresses exchanged, we swapped farewells with a promise to stay in touch and a promise to meet up the next time either of the couples was in London, giving me the chance to return their generous hospitality. That may, or may not happen. But it would be good if it did. Although I couldn’t guarantee the tom-toms.

A few miles from the Mexican border, in the Coronado National Forest, lies the small town of Patagonia. I arrived there in late afternoon after a drive from Bisbee, where I had spent an hour or so trawling thrift stores on the lookout for a few off-the-wall gifts to take home. My mission was accomplished with a plate from the 60’s, resplendent with an illustration of a camper van in a lakeside setting baring the inscription, ’God Bless Our Camper’ and a tray illustrated with garishly coloured scenes of the Hawaiian Islands. With both items scoring high on the kitchometer, I felt confident that they would be well received on my return.

The centre of Patagonia is built around a large green, once a railroad yard, now the town park and more reminiscent of those found at the centre of villages in Kent and Sussex than southern Arizona. Facing this surprisingly verdant recreational area, fringed with mature trees, is a general store, several restaurants, a hotel, a bar, a gas station, a post office, a gallery or two and in between, several privately owned houses. At eastern end of the green is what once had been the town railroad station, the tracks removed in 1962, but the building preserved.

Two slow circuits of the park’s perimeter failed to reveal the whereabouts of my night’s lodgings, a B&B, which I had expected to find there. Passing the post office, where several cars were coming and going, I parked and approached a customer who was about to drive away with the package she had just collected. I handed her a printout of the B&B’s details through the car window and she said, yes, she knew it and if I followed her, she’d wave when I needed to turn right. It was just down the street, on the left, it was painted blue and pink and I couldn’t miss it. I followed, she waved, I turned right, I looked to the left and I missed it. I went around the block, asked someone new for fresh directions and tried again. This time, with success.

The two-story adobe building had once been a hotel for miners. The Patagonia Mountains were filled with rich ore deposits, and by the 1860s, the mining industry procured vast amounts of silver and lead each year. The last ore was shipped to the smelter in 1960. Nancy, the current owner, had purchased the property from an artist who had spent years and a lot of money in loving and skillful restoration. Deciding to run the former lodging house as a B&B, Nancy has continued to lavish much care and attention on the place, particularly the large, secluded yard, where she’s created a desert garden bursting with cacti, succulents and flowering plants. By day, humming birds whirred and twittered around my ears, while at night, bats the size of Starlings hunted giant moths around the streetlamp in the alley outside the back gate.

That evening, once comfortably installed in my spacious and magnificently decorated three-roomed miner’s apartment – lounge, bedroom and bathroom – I decided to follow Nancy’s recommendation and try a pizza at the irresistibly named ‘Velvet Elvis’. The night was warm and still, so I took a table in the courtyard under a tree twinkling with a trail of fairy lights. Sipping a cold beer I sat back and waited for my pizza to arrive, the buzz of conversation around me a reassuring blanket of comfort so far from home. A group of four newcomers came through the front gate, two men, two women. They had the chatter and easy familiarity of good friends.

‘Oh Hi’. I looked up. The younger woman had stopped and was smiling down at me. It was my post office guide from earlier that afternoon.

‘Hello’, I said, not expecting a second meeting. She turned towards her companions.

‘I was able to help out with directions this afternoon’, she explained. I nodded in acknowledgement. They smiled back.

‘Okay’, she said, ‘This is Ted, my husband’. A tall man, well built, with an outdoor look, held out his hand. Standing, I took it and gave him my name in return.

‘Bob’. An older man, smaller, could have passed for Martin Scorsese’s brother, extended his hand.

‘Paula’. I shook hands with Bob’s partner. A small woman with long greying hair, twinkling eyes and something of the 60’s folk singer about her.

‘And I’m Rosie. Did you find the place alright?’

I said that I had, thank you, not mentioning missing it on the first pass and having to ask again. Too embarrassing, but I put it down to fatigue after a long day in the car.

‘How long are you in town?’

I told Rosie two nights.

‘Well look, we’d love to have you come to dinner tomorrow night’, she said, turning to Bob, half in conformation, the other half for information of a decision already made.

‘We don’t get the chance to meet with many people that aren’t from around here, so that would be great if you can make it’.

She turned to Bob and Paula.

‘You must come too’.

They nodded their acceptance and I voiced mine.

‘So, that’s settled then’, said Rosie, smiling. ‘See you at 7 tomorrow evening’.

We all agreed, and once Ted had given directions on how to get to the house and together with Bob, suggested a route for a round-trip during the following daytime, they withdrew to settle at a table in the corner. My ‘Velvet’ pizza arrived, without Elvis, and I ordered a fresh beer to wash it down.

Back on the terrace in Nancy’s garden an hour later, I sat in a rocking chair watching the swooping bats under a starry, starry sky, the local yard dogs plotting the progress of a late-night walker making for home.

Following a mid-morning breakfast at The Gadsden Hotel, I had the remainder of the day to spare before I needed to check-in at a pre-booked B&B in Patagonia that evening. After a stroll around Douglas I drove out towards Bisbee on State Route 80, turning off at The Central Highway. The name is grander than the reality, it being a country road that services a scattering of farming communities along its route. I passed through the hamlets of Double Adobe, McNeal and Elfrida, not quite making it to the gloriously named, Sunizona.

Once again, a familiar trail of ‘Closed’ and ‘For Lease’ signs, warped and faded by the sun, was all there was to see through the dusty, fly-blown glass of many, once thriving, commercial enterprises. Maybe their day has passed forever, these locally run businesses, unable to compete with price slashing multinationals in out of town retail parks and malls. All that remains to be done by those with a mind to, is to record their passing.

I woke up and it was a clear motel morning. The turbulent skies of yesterday evening had cleared, leaving a whisper of cloud over the distant mountains, their undersides catching the early light. Wilcox was already coming to life. Trucks and cars were on the move, the gas station across the street receiving the first customers of the new day.

The Harley rider of the previous evening was out, making adjustments to his bike. We exchanged compliments of the day and he told me that the small group with whom he was riding were from New York City. Sparing their precious Harleys, and themselves, the two-and-a-half-thousand miles it takes to get down here, they’d hauled their bikes on trailers. On arrival, they’d unloaded and set out on a motorcycling round trip. Today’s spin out to the Four Corners would see them done, after which they’d rendezvous with their transport, load up and motor back to the east coast: they, like me, briefly living the illusion of freedom found between the lines on the road before surrendering to the maxim that – sooner or later - all roads lead to home. I wished him well and prepared to leave.

My plan today was to breakfast at the Gadsden Hotel in the border town of Douglas. The hotel was built in 1907, when Arizona was a Territory rather than a State and became home-away-from-home for cattlemen, ranchers, miners, and businessmen. Nearly every Arizona Governor has stayed in the Governor's Suite, as did Eleanor Roosevelt. Levelled by fire, The Gadsden was rebuilt and opened once more in 1929. It’s glory days long gone and on the brink of closure, in 1988 the hotel was rescued by North Dakota wheat farmers Doris & Hartman Brekhus.

Today, the hotel hangs on in a town that is struggling to adapt in a world that has passed it by. The main street has been all but stripped of the small-town, family businesses on which it once thrived and those that remain struggle to make a living from the dwindling number of tourists that once used Douglas as a port of entry for shopping and leisure trips into Mexico. In recent years, vicious and bloody drugs feuds waged openly on the streets of Mexican border towns has scared many away.

The Gadsden’s lobby, with its white Italian marble staircase and four soaring marble columns, remains the jewel in a somewhat battered and tarnished crown. An authentic Tiffany stained glass mural extends forty-two feet across one wall of the massive mezzanine. An impressive oil painting by Audrey Jean Nichols is just below the window. Vaulted stained glass skylights run the full length of the lobby. The front desk is of a time that has been consigned to the skip of the unwanted past in many a refurbished hotel, along with the staff, that here, continue to practice the antiquated rituals of yesteryear. Spend an hour or so in the place in company with the faintly surreal cast of staff and guests and it’s easy to imagine that you’re an extra in a movie directed by David Lynch or Wim Wenders.

I love this creaking old Registered National Monument and dearly hope that it survives for no better reason than that they do a great breakfast in The El Conquistador Dining Room. Viva El Gadsden.

The light on the dash warned that there was a problem. It was a symbol with which I wasn’t familiar. I checked in the handbook and found it to represent low tyre pressure. The advice was to check the tyres and if required, add air at the earliest opportunity, as not doing so could prove hazardous. I was on my way back into Arizona and was set to cover some miles, so I planned to pull into the first gas station I came upon and fix the problem.

The first attempt ended in frustration and failure. The air line was working fine, but had no gauge, to A. - check the current pressure in the tyres and B. - indicate how much air was going in. The next place had an air line with a gauge, but it didn’t work. I ended up letting more air out than I managed to put in. I gave up the DIY method and decided to look out for tyre dealer. Fortunately, I was coming into the outer limits of Tularosa NM, where I soon found a tyre place. It took minutes to get the tyres checked and inflated to the correct pressure. They were ‘all kinda low’ according to the obliging fitter, who said the light may not ‘go out for a day or so, but that everything was now fine’. I trusted him and ignored the light for the next four days before it finally went out.

I got to Las Cruces around mid-day feeling hungry, as I hadn’t had breakfast that morning, wanting to get some miles on the clock early in the day. I found the old adobe historic district that Michael Hurd had talked about, but didn’t look too hard for the restaurant he had recommended. He had been a little vague on the exact location and driven by a rumbling emptiness of stomach I wasn’t minded to spend a lot of time driving around. For the same reason, I skipped a search for the rail crossing that features in my Hurd print. According to Michael’s wife Tiffany, he had left out a lot of stuff that wasn’t key to the composition, so I may have struggled to recognise the spot even if I had come across it. Instead I found a cosy little diner, full of lunching locals and overlooking the old town square, where I duly filled myself up with some good home cooking.

Heading south out of Las Cruces I was soon clear of urban sprawl and driving what became a country road through alternating maize fields and pecan orchards. ‘DO NOT PICK THE PECANS’ warned the signs along the verge. There were no signs saying ‘DO NOT CUT THE MAIZE’. Not as likely I guess. Not many people travel with a combine in tow, but a ladder and a basket can fit into the back of any pick-up. I did neither. I had other plans for the day.

I had it in mind to take Country Road A003, a route that hugs the Mexican border from just west of El Paso TX, through to Douglas AZ. I’d driven it in the opposite direction some years previously and wanted to take the same route going west. It’s one of the remotest that I’ve driven in the southwest, the rare traffic that there is comprising of farm vehicles and the 4WD’s of the US Border Patrol. Thousands of illegal immigrants choose the remote tracts of harsh terrain in this area to make their bid for the promise of a new life in the United States. If the punishing desert doesn’t get them – hundreds have perished in the attempt, mainly due to dehydration – then the brown uniformed Immigration Officers will try. Roadblocks are common, so it’s advisable to keep the passport within easy reach.

Along the opening stretch, the razor wire fence and lights are just a few hundred yards from the road. It was even more desolate than I remember with a straight, empty road stretching out before me. Occasionally a patrol vehicle with smoked glass windows would sweep past, to return a few moments later in the opposite direction, or be spotted a few miles on, partly hidden in the scrubby vegetation that lined the road on both sides. My grey Nissan hire car was of no interest to them. Unlike the group of Hispanic men, seated on the ground, hands cuffed behind their backs, their trail bikes scattered around them as a patrolman in Aviator sunglasses summoned back-up while his colleague, a Stetson shading his eyes, looked on, hand on hip, covering his holster. As well as people, drugs are also trafficked out here in these badlands.

After miles of nothing, signs of habitation began to appear and I was soon entering Columbus NM. I pulled into a parking lot at a crossroads that divided the town into quarters and picking up my camera, stepped out of the car to stretch my legs. I fired off a couple of shots of a water tower and a passing school bus, when a pick-up with official looking letters down the side pulled up behind me. Damn. I’d left the passport in the car. The truck crunched to a halt on the gravel. The driver’s window came down. A middle-aged guy in a red baseball cap, bushy moustache decorating his upper lip, nodded in my direction, eyes friendly, voice deep.

‘Hi there. No problem’, he said, sensing my slight unease. ‘Saw you carrying a camera there and wondered what you had. I’ve just ordered myself a new camera on the internet. Over $1000 worth of kit, so I’d be interested to take a look at your set-up’. He extended a hand. ‘The names Bob Wright by the way, I’m the volunteer Fire Chief around here’.

I introduced myself and showed him the camera. I hoped he wouldn’t get too technical, as that’s not my strong point when it comes to photography. For example, I can never remember the spec for the lens I use, having to read the tiny gold type printed around the perimeter and even then, I’ve little idea what it means. But I know how its technical capabilities manifest through the viewfinder and I always figure that’s the important thing. I’ve never been big on theory and if I can, will avoid any kind of operational manual except as a last resort. That said, my mate Charlie convinced me to explore the possibilities of the digital camera when I got it, which I could only really do by reading up on it. I used the empty hours of a long flight to break the habit of a lifetime and so am consequently better informed than normal with something that's new to me.

The conversation moved on from cameras to the town. It had once been home to the United States Army, garrisoned here in strength to patrol the border with Mexico. When Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary led a raiding party into US territory it was troops stationed here, commanded by General John J. Pershing, that pursued him into Mexico using motor transport for the first time, rather than horses. Bob told me that all went well until the trucks ran out of petrol. They couldn’t move until a mule train with fresh supplies of fuel arrived from across the border. General George S. ‘blood ‘n’ guts’ Patton also served at the base early in his military career.

‘Be sure to send me some of your pictures when you get back home,’ said Bob , handing me a business card. I said I would, wished him luck with the new camera and bade him goodbye.

I set off with the sky threatening a storm. I was soon running the gauntlet, thunder and lightning crashing and flashing both sides of me, the road cutting straight down the middle towards the watery yellow light of a sun sliding towards the horizon. Steven Spielberg couldn’t have staged it better. With rain sweeping across in waves either side of me, only a few spots made it onto my windscreen. I felt like Moses fleeing Egypt, the waters parting before me. I pressed on, bound for the shelter and succour of a motel in Wilcox, Arizona.

On the return journey from Roswell, I saw in the far distance on a long stretch of two-way road, a cluster of orange flashing lights. Once I’d closed the gap it turned out to be, no, not a UFO, but a complete single-story home loaded onto the back of a truck. Its width took up the whole right-hand lane, a piece of nearside verge and straddled the central yellow lines by two feet or so. There was a pick-up riding point and another riding shotgun to the rear, this one hugging the centre of the road to discourage reckless overtaking. Not everyone was deterred.

I was amazed to see a couple of cars, followed by a big truck for mercy’s sake, pull out blind into the oncoming lane and overtake. I waited on baited breath for the crunch of crushing metal. By some miracle, there was none. This gamble by those in obvious possession of a death wish was enough to scare the rest of us into staying in line.

A few miles on, at the bottom of a bendy hill, the truck and its outriders pulled off the road to let us pass. In my place towards the back of the queue, there were only a couple of vehicles behind me, those in front already pulling away with their superior horsepower. Before too long my rear-view mirror was empty. I settled in to the leisurely pace to which I had become accustomed in my plodding Nissan.

The miles rolled by and still nothing appeared on the road behind. Ten miles came and went. Nothing. Another five. Still nothing. Then, just four miles from San Patricio, an ambulance, siren screaming, lights flashing, flew past in the opposite direction . Seconds later, a police car followed. With the sound of sirens fading, in came the thought that the convoy had set off once more and someone new had been tempted to risk all by playing the Ace of Spades.

I reached my turning with an empty road in the mirror. Once on the dirt track I pulled up and waited. Five minutes later nothing had passed by in a westerly direction. I started the engine and drifted down the hill to the cottage in the trees, thinking the worst.

Later, triggered by a flash of sunlight through a window, I looked outside. There, across the meadows was a rainbow, arching across a darkening sky. I picked up the camera and slammed through the screen door, knowing the moment wouldn’t last. I managed three shots and it was gone, the sky turning back to black. All around, there was silence.

Think of Roswell and the first thing to come to mind is…? You got it. UFO’s. The Roswell UFO Incident was the alleged recovery of extra-terrestrial debris, including corpses, from an object that crashed near Roswell on or about July 8, 1947. Since the late 1970s the incident has been the subject of intense controversy and the subject of conspiracy theories as to the true nature of the object that crashed. The United States military maintains that what was actually recovered was debris from an experimental high-altitude surveillance balloon belonging to a classified program named ‘Mogul’. However, many UFO proponents maintain that, in fact, a crashed alien craft and bodies were recovered, and that the military then engaged in a cover-up.

Well, believe that, or not, there’s no denying that Roswell has been known for little else ever since. This is a pity, as besides the souvenir stores crammed with UFO tat, and the ‘unofficial’ Roswell UFO Museum, the town is also home to the accredited Roswell Museum and Art Centre. This excellent museum, founded in 1935, has grown into a 50,000 square foot facility that includes twelve galleries dedicated to the exhibition of the art and history of the Southwest and beyond. As well as a fascinating permanent display, crammed with Native American artefacts and those of the incoming settlers, the museum has an ongoing calendar of temporary exhibitions, making it one of the best I’ve visited in the US.

So, if you’re ever in Roswell, sure, weigh up the evidence as presented in the UFO Museum, but don’t leave town without visiting the other place, where the truth isn’t ‘out there’, but ‘in there’. Not that I’m biased. I still left town with my UFO fridge magnet.

Whenever I visit New Mexico, it seems that it rains. This time was to be no different. When I opened the blinds on a new day, grey cloud clung like a shroud to the hills across the valley and a fine mist was falling. Some years ago on a previous trip, the rain began as I crossed the state line and kept on falling until I left, two days later. And not merely as a polite drizzle, but as snarling dogs and hissing cats. Then there were the Biblical storms at Taos and Carlsbad the time before that. So today, I was getting off lightly.

I stepped outside and took in my surroundings. The cottage was surrounded by lush meadows, the wildflowers blooming their last hurrah before winter set it. The apple tree in the garden was heavy with dark red fruit. Unfamiliar birdcalls echoed from the hills. A horse stood motionless, in perfect profile, in the adjacent field. It was a picture of rural tranquillity.

I drove into Ruidoso for breakfast. The Denny’s restaurant had been made up to look like a 50’s diner, all neon and shiny chrome. There was a biker’s rally taking place in town over the coming weekend and many of the surrounding tables were taken by early arrivals: large, leather clad, grizzled men with double bass voices, white whiskers and matching ponytails and their smaller, less hirsute female companions, squeezed, thigh-to-thigh into red vinyl booths, ordering enough food to keep a platoon of marines going for a week.

I did my best to compete in my own modest way, but the two buttermilk pancakes that came with my Lumberjack Slam had me beat. I smiled the wan smile of a loser as the waitress cleared the unclear plates, leaving the check in their place. Through the window, the clouds were beginning to lift, so I paid up and thought about the rest of the day. I decided to return to San Patricio and drop in on the Hurd, La Riconada Gallery, the one owned and run by my host at the guest cottage on Sentinel Ranch.

Michael Hurd is the youngest son of Peter Hurd and Henriette Wyeth. Michael has followed in a long line of Wyeth artists: great uncle NC Wyeth, uncle Andrew Wyeth, mother Henrietta Wyeth and father Peter Hurd. Just as his parents did throughout their lives, Michael paints and lives on Sentinel Ranch. He works from reality, as have all the Wyeth and Hurd painters, and believes the actual subject must be experienced if it is to be accurately conveyed in a painting. The still life compositions of his mother and landscape scenes of his father combine in Michael's work.

‘Crossing’ copyright Michael Hurd

Some years ago when visiting the gallery, I bought one of Michael’s prints, titled ‘Crossing’. It shows a small church alongside a railway crossing at Las Cruces, less than an hour’s drive to the south of San Patricio and has remained one of my favourites ever since in its regular spot at home. The original painting from which the print was made was still for sale and hanging in the gallery. Alas, it remained out of my price range. Though this time, I did get to meet Michael.

I’d always imagined a quiet, reflective man, wrapped up in his work in uninterrupted solitude. I wasn’t expecting the ebullient, gregarious character that shook me firmly by the hand after the introduction by his wife, Tiffany, who had already confided that she had great difficulty in getting and keeping him in the studio. Michael, it seems, likes nothing better than to potter around the ranch in his pick-up. ‘He’s doesn’t have his father’s work ethic’, she added, smiling somewhat wistfully.

Michael and I talked about the location pictured in ‘Crossing’ and I said I would like to find the spot, as I was passing that way the following day. He happily gave me directions and also the name of his favourite Mexican restaurant in the area, which he jotted down on the back of a business card. He also added a note for the owner that read, ‘This entitles the bearer to one free meal’, signed, ‘Michael’. ‘He’ll love that’, he said. ‘I wonder?’ I thought, knowing what they say about a free lunch.

I was still smiling as I walked to the car past Michael’s large white truck, his laughter still ringing in my ears and the impression of his handshake slowly fading from my right hand.

Next morning I returned to the flatbed Ford to get some daylight shots. At this hour I didn’t see the owners. Even here, where folks retire early and rise the same way, there was no one else on the street. Viewing my photographs, people often remark on the absence of people. With very few exceptions, it’s as though I’m the only person left on the planet, they say. Not so. There are usually people around. I just wait ‘till they’re out of shot. But on this morning I didn’t need to.

Today I was on the move, heading east into New Mexico. My final destination was San Patricio, between Ruidoso and Roswell on Federal Highway 70. A rough calculation showed it to be around 300 miles. I’d decided not use Interstates, preferring State and Federal roads. It would take longer, but I had all day and was in no hurry. By 10am I’d had breakfast, checked out and was on the road driving towards Holbrook. Once there, I’d leave the I-40 and take the 180, passing south of the Petrified Forest in a south-easterly direction.

The Wigwam Motel

Holbrook, around 30 miles from Winslow, had also been a Route 66 town. There remains a relic from those days that’s worth pulling off the Interstate to see: the Wigwam Motel. Happily the business is still a going concern and it remains possible to spend the night cosily tucked up in a wigwam. These are not made from buffalo hide, but concrete. Each wigwam comes with its own historic automobile from the 66 years parked out front. Alas, these are strictly for show, not driving, but add to the charm of the place nonetheless.

A few photographs later, I was back en route. I bypassed the Petrified Forest, having done it when I came through some years ago. The trees are fossilised stumps and fallen trunks from a time when the surrounding desert was a forest. Difficult to imagine now, but with global warming, something that any surviving generations could be saying about our current woodlands and forests, when all that remains are turned-to-stone relics scattered on the ground. That’s if they’re not under the sea. From this site, it’s now possible to see the peaks of the San Francisco Mountains, 80 miles distant at Flagstaff, when once, the view would have been obscured by trees.

Highway 180 was, as I’d hoped, virtually deserted. I drove for mile upon mile with no vehicle in vision, front or rear. Something, that even on our remotest roads back home, is now unachievable for an equivalent length of time. This didn’t change when I switched to Highway 60. It was quieter.

Two-way

Arriving at Springerville, close to the Arizona, New Mexico border, I stopped for lunch at a family restaurant, an obvious favourite with the locals. Like myself, the clientele were mostly seniors, taking advantage of generous portions at reasonable prices. I’d have qualified for being called junior in their company. Or stranger. Or the English guy. As it turned out, no-one had call to call me anything. Everyone was too busy eating.

Later that afternoon I passed through Pie Town NM. It was closed. That is, the restaurant from which the town drew its name was closed. The speciality? Why pies of course. According to the hand-written note on the door, the owners had gone for what was probably a well-earned vacation. Everyone needs a rest from pies now and again. The word had got around, as I was the only living thing in sight: human, animal or reptile. Although, taking advice from those that know, I didn’t walk through the long grass to put the presence of the final category to the test. Rattlers! There may have been birds in the air, but I didn’t look up. Too busy avoiding the long grass.

Pie Town

From Pie Town I struck out for my destination, as fast as the law and my matronly Nissan would allow me. The day was slipping away and I wanted to reach my destination before nightfall, as I had a hunch that my accommodation could be tricky to find in the dark. By the time I drove through Lincoln, the daylight was hanging on by its fingernails.

It’s hard to believe that Lincoln, now resembling a sleepy village in deepest rural Sussex, was once the scene of bloody murder and revenge. For it was here, on these now deserted streets, that a bitter war was waged between two local cattle barons. What became known as The Lincoln County War raged from 1878 to 1881. A notable combatant on the side of Englishman John Tunstall - who was murdered by members of the rival faction - was William Henry McCarty, more commonly known as Billy The Kid. It was not until his death in 1881, killed by a posse led by Pat Garrett, that the events of previous four years were finally laid to rest. McCarty is buried in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

My misgivings about locating the cottage in which I would spend the next two nights were justified. I was to pick up the keys at a gallery, owned by my host. I hadn’t realised that New Mexico time was an hour ahead of Arizona time. The gallery had closed for the day. I spent the following half hour trying to find the place with only the vaguest of written directions. I alarmed several households by pulling up, headlights blazing, into their front yards. Before they had time to return to the porch with a shotgun I had shot off, tyres spinning, faster than Billy The Kid with the a posse of deputies on his trail. Luckily the host had guessed I could be lost and come out to look for me. Found and following a meal at a local restaurant, I was soon safely tucked up for the night, dreaming of empty pies, flaming roads, concrete gangs and outlaw wigwams.