Deserts, Indians, and Solar Eclipses

As always the trip out of San Diego requires a trip to the desert. You can pick which one, but if you are going east you will cross one.


The weather was cool and foggy, a typical May morning at departure. The Mojave Desert was this year’s choice, passing Joshua Tree National Park, the improbably named town of 29 Palms which exists only to house feed and clothe Marines, their kin, and old curmudgeon retired Marines who spent so much time there in their careers they grew to like it which is indictment enough. When we detoured to Amboy and the other smaller towns before rejoining U.S. 95 we found little but remote houses, straight roads, heat, red mesas and lots of very white sand which gives a special beauty to this forbidding place. Services are non-existent. There is a small service station and store in Amboy but that is all that marks the turn in the road.

This route is a shortcut found after many years of hewing to the Interstates in order to reach Kingman which is the first stop simply because it is far enough to drive in such conditions in one day. Little else recommends it unless one considers the birthplace of Andy Devine a place of cultural significance. It was 95 degrees in town when we arrived and the wind was at near 40 mph and it would stay that way for the next night and day. It is what one finds in Kingman this time of year. By dark it was below 70 and except for the incessant wind, not all that unpleasant. A very early start in the morning found the wind as advertised, the entire state under red flag fire warning, and two out of control fires large enough to gain national news attention to the south of my route. The usual wrestling match with the steering wheel in a high profile vehicle ensued for the next five hours whether we were headed east or north. We turned at Flagstaff where it was cooler because it is higher but even windier.

The renewed desert landscape that lasted most of the next 250 miles going north surprised me. There are more than subtle differences between it and the one crossed the day before. Here is a white grass that carpets the earth, black soil from a volcanic eruption more than a thousand years ago and signs that it once was well watered and farmed by the Hopi and perhaps even earlier tribes when they migrated into the area. The ruins of the adobes at the Wupatki National Monument are some of the more impressive I have seen. The largest, a 100 room high rise built partially underground is incredible in the diversity of materials used and for the fact that despite weathering and vandalism, remain partially intact 700 years after their owners inexplicably walked away. Why they left is one of those vague Indian stories, part reality, part spiritual and part legend. As is true in Monument Valley and other centers of Indian culture near here, it is not even clear how many times these were inhabited and by whom. The Indians can tell you the oral history, but the clarity is only as good as the memories that are pass it down. There is no written record so much of what we know of these peoples is at best guess backed by stories and relics and shards of pottery of different materials. All that having been said, it is still a place of wonder and incredible innovation, more proof that these “savages” the migrating whites chose to shoot on site or treat horrifically were a great deal more innovative and wise than they are credited.

Climbing to the top of Arizona on U.S.89 is both breathtaking in its rural splendor and depressing in the grinding poverty of the remnant Indian population selling trinkets by the roadside to those headed for Lake Powell and the eastern end of the Grand Canyon. The neglect of these people, who subsist in the most substandard of housing, much without electricity or plumbing and live each day in a quiet, yet proud desperation makes questions about priorities part of the journey.

One turns east again to climb to the north rim of the Grand Canyon at 8000 feet and passes through the Vermillion Valley with its nearly deserted lands of remarkable rock formations. Eventually the mountain is climbed to Jacobs Lake where there are pines forests, some late afternoon clouds and a temperature not unlike those left two days before.

The next day is spent at the North Rim, which is higher and much less developed than the South Rim with which most are familiar. I confess that the temperatures and the lure of the arms of Morpheus kept me from a sunrise or sunset visit. What was clear was that many camping there were waiting for Sunday to see the Aureal eclipse. The National Parks in the west are hosting special programs for the event. I chose to go on to Bryce Canyon to see it. It is clear the interest in this invitation was vastly underestimated. The camps are packed. I managed the second to last spot at Bryce Canyon and watched the event amid an array of portable radio telescopes and camera equipment that defies imagination. Vehicle traffic into the Park was stopped before noon although the shuttle bus ran. There were people from everywhere. The Europeans were here in strength as were east coast amateur astronomers. The rest of us watched through special glasses given to us for the twenty minute event. It was an awesome sight. Applause greeted the circle of fire, and then we went back to camp and talked about it awhile. Today, there are thirty campers in the campground and some sense of normalcy has returned.

The weather was excellent for all this and expected to remain so for the next three days. Memorial Day Weekend may well be another story. There may be snow here. I will be in Idaho by then where rain is forecast in that “perhaps” language used when the Chamber of Commerce wants the picnics, festivals and the rest to go forward. The campgrounds will be full despite how bad it may be.

Juan and the rest of my “companions” are fine, I am bothered a bit by the altitude at the moment, but otherwise content that the trip is a good one so far.

And so it goes.

O CANADA !

Reamus is off in the morning on his next excellent adventure. In the hope of missing of all tornadoes and as many hail storms as possible, I head north to visit our North American cousins on Valium, the good people of Alberta, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and the far western reach of Ontario. With luck and my usual dose of superstition, I will exit their country---assuming Homeland Security will let me—in Minnesota.

La Coachasita is breathing heavily in the drive, straining at the brakes to be left to run free. She bears all the foodstuffs and goods for the journey, at the ready as always despite our collective increasing ages and her near 150,000 miles. I, of course, have many more than that, so while she gets no sympathy from me I will treat her gently in the hope that her journey will be trouble free.

We will spend a few days in Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks on the way north and be on the Salmon River for the Memorial Day Weekend.

There was a book to finish and all the grinding clerical work entailed in publishing and some other issues keeping me here longer than usual this year. I believe it was the first Mother’s Day I have spent at home in the past ten years. Now ready, we, all my inanimate travelling companions and I will see what and whom we can find that will awe and amuse us as we go around the next bend in the road and find the unexpected waiting there.

We will leave sea level here in Carlsbad, the paradise by the sea now resplendent in roses and wonderful smell of blooming jasmine, and ascend to 8000 feet at Jacobs Lake in the very northern part of Arizona. From there it is a short 30 miles to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. We remember it from a few years ago in the fall when we visited two days before they closed it for the winter and we left in the midst of a snowstorm. We expect a more temperate welcome this trip although the campground only opened Monday of this week. Bryce and Zion Parks will be next. Then north in Nevada this time for a different view of the climb up the map to Idaho, allowing too for a few ghost town visits along the way. I will reach the valley of the Salmon River, the towns of Challis and Salmon, and stay at North Fork Idaho for four days of what I hope will be continued good weather. The area has been in the 80’s most all of this week, although there is a certainty in me that it will change soon.

As always, at least until go into the black hole of communications on the northern side of the border where data transmission is more expensive than gasoline for me and my Verizon, I will try to bring you some of the sights and as many thoughts as I gather worth repeating. We hope to learn much about the beginnings of the Royal Mounted Police, the place to which Sitting Bull repaired after the nastiness in the Black Hills with General Custer, and why the Canadians are paying three times the market value for their houses these days. The itinerary is vague except to be easterly. There are a host of Provincial Parks to visit, free ranging Bison to chase, and lots and lots of prairie grass.

Once back in the states we will stay in the north through the country of the Lakota Sioux and back through more of Utah and Nevada on the way to the most unpopulated and remote Northeast corner of California and the gold country of Placerville, Alturas, and Susanville.

I am looking forward to the new places and the chance to re-visit others. As always, I hope you will ride along. 

HUMBLE PHILIP HUMBER

          When you were picked in the third round in 2004, just behind Justin Verlander, arguably the best pitcher in baseball now, you are supposed to do something special. After two splashy but unsuccessful trades, first to the Mets and then to the Twins for quality pitchers, two releases, tendon surgery on his throwing arm and a line drive to the face, Philip Humber finally can say that he has.

          While his nine month pregnant wife sat home watching, trying desperately not to give birth, and only one week after the death of a grandfather he was as close to as anyone in the family. Philip Humber, who before Saturday never threw a complete game at the major league level, compiling and “might have been” record of 11-10 in his career, became the 21^st pitcher in history, the 19^th in the modern era and only the third in a White Sox uniform to pitch nine innings and never allow an opponent to reach base.

He did it with fewer pitches (96) than all but one of those men and only threw three balls to two batters before retiring them, both in the last inning. The perfect game was only out of his control for an instant at the very end when he threw a low breaking pitch on a three ball two strike count to the last Seattle batter, Brendan Ryan, who took a half swing that was ruled a strike by the home plate umpire, Brian Runge. While he argued about it the ball rolled to the backstop and Humber barked at his catcher “Go and get it.” While A.J. Pierzynski complied, he shouted, “Now throw him out!” A.J. did and it was over. The visiting dugout emptied while Ryan and the umpire remained in debate about the wisdom of the call. Humber fell to the grass in disbelief and disappeared under a pile of players while the appreciative Seattle crowd stood and applauded again as it had since the seventh inning.

They will come from the Hall of Fame and collect his uniform shirt, his glove if they can, the resin bag from the pitchers mound and some dirt from the same place so that it can be enshrined with the memorabilia of the others since Cy Young's in 1904. To this Humber had a simple reply when asked how he felt about it,

          “I have no idea what the name Philip Humber is doing on that list,” he said in a post game interview, “But I’m thankful it’s there.”

          When it was over, the interviews done, the 100 text messages and 50 phone calls acknowledged, Philip Humber went back out onto the field alone, walked slowly towards the scoreboard in left field which remained lit with the zeroes he had put there. He shook his head in wonder.

To the names of Sandy Koufax, Roy Halliday, Cy Young, and Don Larsen, legends with perfect games, they will add the name Philip Humber. He is both awed and most grateful.