 |
| 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.
on
guitar
playing something
to
forget
