The West is Still Wild

Followed a noisy, stinking herd of longhorns running down I-10 at 75 mph, seemed to be enjoying their open air caravan, keeping our distance to avoid windshield cow pies. Sorriest Main Street, boarded windows, abandoned campers, windows busted, stained, tattered curtains flapping wild, front doors swinging in the wind. BUY ME painted on the roof of a deserted shack, chain link and barbed wire protecting beaten down mobile homes, rusted vans. The Bates Motel is the Waldorf compared to the local Harmony Inn, scarrrrry.

Corner bar buzzing with home grown natives can spot an out-of-towner before their backside hits the barstool, tall tales to tell, some true, some not so, definitely our kind of joint. As if sharing a top secret conspiracy, an extremely skeptical source whispered they recently bumped into the real life, the one and only bonafide Aquaman, King of Atlantis, the underwater world superhero sensation was allegedly drinking a Bud and eating a burger at the Joshua Tree Saloon. No, we did not actually see the mega body extraordinaire with our very own four eyes, but our well informed sharer of secrets adamantly confirmed the master of the oceanic universe, the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the seven seas, the defender of all creatures of the briny depths is building an enormous estate overlooking this old cowboy town in the parched Mojave desert. Trading his vast underwater kingdom for tumbleweeds and San Bernardino mountains just around the corner from Hollywood USA. You heard it from me first. You're welcome.

Personal Injury Attorney advertising on TV, claiming 13 different types of rattlesnakes in Arizona, 14 if you count the insurance companies. Where else in the great USA can you spend a romantic evening in a dusty desert Airstream Glampground for $350 a night, fine sand, rattlers and scorpions no extra charge AND learn about the native venomous snake population, all on a local TV station?  The Chapparal has an intriguing reputation here in Cottonwood, a biker bar where folks sip beer in the shadows and never admit ever having set foot in the place. I mentioned to a new old crony we might check it out, he responded, all they serve there is BBB…beer, bourbon and black eyes, not the place for you honey. Enough said.

Down a dusty potholed horse trail, Paul maneuvers the old Dodge across thorny brambles, cactus etches authentic Arizona pinstripe along the truck as we trudge through the brush, I roll up my window so my face doesn't get striped too. Quirky Joshua Trees lean like ancient tottering geezers, lopsided and windblown, limbs sagging, needles fallen, not much left in the trunk, even so, sturdy enough for thousands and thousands of the shabby creatures to survive in this unforgiving desert. The trail fades, we slowly circle the same motionless boulder several times, due to my notoriously sketchy navigational skills our four mile easy hike becomes an eight mile head scratcher. The wiggles, sorta like switchbacks but crookeder and tough to escape, that's my excuse.

Palm Springs boasts a hip West Coast vibe, California cool mid century architecture,Twiggy, Flower Power, Volkswagens, Shagadelic, my 1970’s vintage harvest gold washer/dryer combo would be worth a fortune now if I only knew. Clothing stores selling retro threads looking exactly like the bell-bottoms and hippie tie-dye headbands I wore back in the day, with eye popping prices not so retro. Note to self, do not toss skinny jeans, Sketchers, or anything American Eagle, I'll need them in about 60 years to be hip again. Iconic Marilyn Monroe launched her illustrious career in this sunkissed hamlet a few decades ago, in 1949 when gas and cigs cost less than everything at Dollar Tree. A towering 30 foot replica of the superstar in flowing iridescence still captures audiences for miles around, a fitting tribute to a gorgeous soul lost, gone too soon. Paul's favorite vantage point, of course, standing directly beneath that towering beauty, blissfully sheltered from the sweltering sun by a billowing white dress.

Stopped by a hopping watering hole in 29 Palms that felt like “Cheers” of the Wild West, a cozy hideout loaded with old Leathernecks retired from the largest Marine Corp base in the US, slamming whiskey shots with a side of chew reminiscing the rich history of their timeworn hometown along with a scandalous version of their very own making. A few miles south of the Historic Route 66, once home to Bob Hope and James Cagney, Ben Cartwright galloping to the timeless Bonanza melody, “with a gun and a rope and a hat full of hope” escorted by sons Little Joe, Hoss and Adam, Hollywood handsome cattlemen riding into the homes of every single American on Sunday night. That famous vista totally captivated a couple of Midwestern drifters perched on cockeyed seats at a tired, beat-up roadhouse while lending an ear to a feisty old rowdy who complained living with his ex-wife was worse than being in ‘Nam. Whoa sounds terrible, how was it for her, I asked.  With a wink and a long smirk, he answered “Nirvana”.  Grizzled old Marines gathering at the corner tavern, relating just about true gossip to complete strangers, getting by in the desert with a little help from their friends.