Most of what I know about the southwest, I learned from watching The Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour as a kid. Who am I kidding, more like as an adult. Strange how much of it holds up to my first-hand impression as I traveled from the blight that is Vegas to the cool elevations of Prescott, AZ (pronounced Preskit under penalty of being branded a soft-knuckled tourist). Once the capital of the Arizona territory, Prescott is home to the infamous Whiskey Row, which took an overdue and much welcomed toll on this weary traveler. From there it was a windy road to the hillside mining town of Jerome and the bar stool of the newest Destee-Nation member, The Mile High Grill and Inn. If you’re ever there, stop in and say hello to Jet. She’s groovy.

The next day it was north through the valley to the towering red rocks of Sedona, where crystal merchants and ancient vortexes scheme against the non-believers. I wasn’t in town five minutes before that mystic wagon welcomed me.

His name was Peter, and Peter was an old soul who traveled a circular path from South Carolina to Pennsylvania to Arizona painting light for a living. We talked about trailers, t-shirts and how like souls always seemed to pool together like beads of mercury in the palm of a hand. He told me when we parted that there was a woman in a furniture store on the edge of town that I needed to meet before moving on, and that I would understand once I met her.

In a thundering Arizona rain, I arrived at a nondescript furniture store, which was just a front for sages providing guidance to the souls that pooled and passed among the red rocks. She told me about her Fortune 500 executive job and how she left it all mid-stride for the quiet of Sedona. Then she told me things about myself that I already knew. Things about my path and the collective need for all of us to listen intently to our own voice and to give in to the momentum that this ancient wisdom affords. She saw much in someone she barely knew but somehow failed to tip me off to the the Mag-Lite wielding, Sedona beat cop who would doggedly pursued me and The Rig throughout the night, ultimately chasing me out of town amid the flashes of lightning and the applause of thunder.I guess clear and present danger wasn’t her gig.

I’m thinking that it’s good to know ones’ self, but maybe we’re better off not knowing the detailed lesson plan. Like the unit I covered the next day when I stopped into Boler’s Bar in Fort Verde, AZ for a beer… The one where five lug nuts threatened to remove my teeth for me because, much to their displeasure, their roomy and boozy girlfriend boisterously declared her undying love for my boots. It would have been nice to see that one coming so I could have spared myself the embarrassment of a cold beer left in fear. Then again maybe I learned something in Fort Verde that will serve me somewhere down the figurative road. That sure sounds nice when the teacher says it, but on the playground where the real lessons are learned, I sure would have felt better about myself if I could have finished that damn beer.

From somewhere out there,
Gabe