|looking towards Las Vegas|
Driving west into Arizona I find myself in scrub flatlands. The Little Colorado River is the same sandstone red as the dirt roads that peter out into the high desert on both sides of US 40.
I pass a sign, “Elevation – 5,000 ft.”
Then another as I pass six thousand. Finally, the San Francisco Peaks appear ahead. There is snow on the mountains. It must be about 35 miles to Flagstaff.
I pull off the freeway and drive a ways up an unmarked dirt road. I park in the shade of an old juniper and get out to stretch.
In a while, I’ll leave a big rooster-tail on the dirt road, get back to the freeway, and head for Las Vegas.
Now, though, I grab my guitar and serenade the wind. It’s dropping off the mountains and blowing east, towards everywhere I’ve been.