He was an old man who lived alone in a van in the Slabs of a desert wasteland and he had gone 84 days now without taking a dump.

The problem, when you get right down to it, with being in a remote and uninhabitable, scorched-earth setting like I am, far from the prying eyes of your fellow man, is that there is no privacy.

I mean, sure, I am a good distance from my nearest neighbor, but the only geological feature on this godforsaken terrain is the curve of the earth itself.

If I want to enjoy a moment of personal indulgance, or a brief timeout from the judging eyes of an audience who will gladly become spectators of literally any happening so they can break up the monotony they call “every day”. Then I must walk beyond the horizon, where I will be greeted by an entirely different studio audience that I didnt even know was there.

This wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if I wasn’t just like them. And, I know I find myself judging/shouting encouragement and advice to others based on their technique at various duties.  As with all things, I prefer to be on the giving end of that exchange.

All in all, it has left me a bit…hesitant.

It is surely strange here in my hermitage.  I have been in self-imposed isolation since my arrival to The Slabs. I was hoping the experience would be more cathartic than it has so far, if you catch my drift.  But with a new day, comes new hope.

I have read that there is a gathering spot, an amphitheater,  where each night the people of Slab City gather to listen to live music. Perhaps I will join those that have left the world behind and wring out the old year so I can ring in the new.

But, last night, I sat outside in the dark and stared at the night sky. For my whole life, I had always wanted to stare at the stars more often than I have.

I gazed across the vast void to tiny pin pricks of light. There is so much space and so much going on and all are things that I will never know.

Occasionally I would see a satellite or an airplane. Rather than interupt my awe, each added a new level of marvel. Like all times, this one is full of wonder.

There is something happening everywhere all the time and I don’t want to miss a thing. And, for a brief moment, there under the desert sky, I was everywhere all at once. It was sublimally sublime and I was god.

But, right now, the only thing I am missing is Trixie.

Living in the desert, soon you’ll learn,

There ain’t much to do but get a sunburn,

And before you know it you’ll be fairly bored.

Right when I thought I’d go outta my mind,

I took a stand and got off my behind.

I decided to clean out, my trusty Ford.

Cleaning and such have never been my way,

But I figured, “Hell, I got all day…”

“…what’s the worst that could happen if I take on this chore?”

I went at it – started pokin and proddin’,

about two feet in, I smelled something rotten,

And…whew!…it was coming from the core!

I dove right in and moved a large pile.

I held my breath and swallowed some bile.

I knew it was risky but I’ve always been a gambler.

I took my time and used my legs to lift,

Careful of the stench and any sudden shift,

That might cause a landslide in the EM-50 Phantom Rambler.

I knew my boredom wouldn’t be sated,

Until I’d emptied the van (pic related)

So I sallied on like it was a mission from The Almighty.

The smell got worse but I kept going.

And the floor of the Rambler so was showing…

…signs of progress but still wasn’t what you’d call… “tidy”.

Mike Rowe himself woulda turned down this job,

Given two helpers, they’da just formed a mob,

So, I did it myself and saved on the cost.

I found some things I didn’t know we’re missing,

Like, this Louisville Slugger, Dave Parker edition,

And three cups of unsweetened applesauce.

Ol’ Trixie McDish would have sure been proud,

Of the way I was cleaning, but then I swore real loud.

When I realized there was no way it would all go back in.

So, I took a break and drank a beer,

And, even though there was nobody around to hear,

I cussed a blue streak ’til I was out of wind.

So,  here I sit surrounded by things.

Like, all my belongings and sand and hills and rings.

(That’s from “A Horse with No Name”)

Maybe it’ll take a miracle,

Or help from whiskey – one really long pull.

Either way, it’s all a part of the game.

I tell you what…I get disappointed so often on my journey that, if it wasn’t a completely ludicrous notion I would start to think there is something wrong with me instead of everybody else.

I came to the end of civilization for a glimpse at the post-apocalyptic world so that I could have a reason to root for humankind. I do not. All is lost. The end is nigh. I really wanted to abandon all hope ye who enter and all that shit so we could finally start over but instead the road to despair doesn’t come equipped with a primrose path.

It started off ok. I drove along the coast of the Salton Sea.

California is weird. In normal places we have combed golden beaches. In far off places that you will never go to, they have black sand or white sand beaches. In California they have the desert setting from the Road Runner cartoons that go right to the edge of the large body of water. Something about that doesn’t make sense.

The Slabs are located about 4 miles from the town of Niland, CA.  I am not insulting the good people of Niland (and from what I saw, they really are good people) but it is not what one would call a thriving community by today’s standards. But, then again, fuck today.

Niland has a Mexican restaurant, a gas station and a couple of small grocery stores. They sell liquor, but just the basics. I had stopped as far back as Mecca (about 30 miles away) when I began my hunt for a bottle of Jameson. I was told each time that I probably would not find something so exotic in this part of the state. Ok. Whatevs. I snagged a bottle of Seagrams.  (pic related)

Norwalk, Connecticut! Trés Cosmopolitan!

I can rough it in the wild.

I stopped in Niland to goose the economy and take another look for Jameson – my downfall will surely be my need to be certain.

The streets appear dirty and neglected because of the desert’s incessantly blowing sand. The buildings are washed of color by the unforgiving sun. Off to my right was a fire truck and the cadre of emergency personnel attending to a shirtless, grubby, thickly-bearded, fellow who was in some sort of distress. Clearly he was a denizen of The Slabs, but yet, when needed, the on-call folks responded and gave aid just like he was a human being. That is very encouraging.

I stepped out of the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and was immediately greeted with a friendly, “Hey! How you doing today?” by a large, black man who was filling a jug at the Glacial Water vending machine on the porch of the store.

I smiled, answered and continued hesitantly – waiting to see if his greeting was a prelude to asking me for something. It was not. He was just being how people should be. I was being suspicious as fuck. Hmm.

No Jameson to be found.

I drove out past the county landfill, across too many railroad tracks and was just about to assume that I was on the wrong road when I saw the hill.

I knew to look for it.

It is inscribed with messages of love and other mumbo-jumbo.

Presently, I saw a shack…

You have never played the video game Borderlands. You are too old. You have never even seen it played because you are a decent person who would never let their children or grandchildren play a game with such gratuitous violence and mostly unnecessary sex. So, when they  play it – and they do play it – they make sure you remain clueless. The game, like all today, is played on-line and involves competing against 12 year olds across the world who, via in-game headset communication, clear up any lingering doubts I may have had about my sexual identity while simultaneously informing me of how often they engage in coitus with my mother. It is amazing living in the future.

Aside from that, the game takes place on the fictional planet of Pandora (before that awful “Avatar” movie was a thing). Hardy fortune hunters brave the wastelands and strange snarling creatures in search of alien artifacts, from which, powerful weapons can be made.

I tell you all of that because I am guessing that The Slabs served as an inspiration for that setting. It is quite harsh indeed.

I continued my drive along the dirt road. I passed clusters of derelicts, hand-painted signs and vehicles of all kinds…

It was about what I expected. But, then I saw some mobile homes that had to go for in excess of 100k…

Looking around I saw cars. You know, just regular cars.  Something seemed off.

I made my way to East Jesus…

And that is where it all went to hell.

East Jesus is this art-work-in-progress that employs all manner of detritus as its media. Pieces are made from discarded bottles, plastic shopping bags, junk cars, etc.

They set fire to a 1985 Mercedes Benz.  The charred remains are entitled “Car-B-Que”.

Heh heh…get it?

Tracy, a good-looking man of about 40 and resident artist who has been on site for three years, gave me a tour. He was neat, clean, fit and well-spoken. A glaring contrast to the bedraggled and dreadlocked squatters I had driven by on my way to East Jesus.

Tracy showed me the Time Machine and Apocalypse Playground  (complete with cheese grater sliding board) and several other pieces… (gallery)

His practiced deadpan delivery of the tour was peppered with punchlines and witticisms that would be easy to miss if not paying close attention.

He spoke of upcoming events and plans to buy the land when the state puts it up for auction – a clear attempt to evict the dregs, whom they view as a liability.

Along the tour Tracy pointed out some Japanese tourists. He told me people come from all over the world to see The Last Free Place in America. Hell, Playboy Magazine was out last month and did a feature on the place.

National Geographic landed at their helipad, which is right next to the Naked Gun Range…and, that’s when it became clear. The cars, the pretty people that didn’t fit in. East Jesus is a theme park.

He mentioned that he isn’t concerned about them sectioning off the land and evicting the folks of Slab City – he just wants to preserve East Jesus.

He is a nice guy, but, I started to think he was just another capitalist who saw an opportunity. Good for him! I guess.

He took me back, behind the scenes to the artists living quarters.

Tracy bragged that there are no rules, but they live behind a wall with plenty of KEEP OUT signs.

And, it was pretty nice back there. Sleeping quarters, bathrooms, a full kitchen, living room, music room with functioning grand piano, generators, solar panels even a full bar with a bottle of goddamn Jameson sitting right out in view…mother fucker.

The patio has a fire pit and looks out onto the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range, where they sit, drink goddamn Jameson, and watch the tracer fire.

I’m no hobo. Not really. I came here because real-life wayfarer, Chris McCandless, aka Alex Supertramp, spent time here, as was featured in the Jon Krakauer book and Sean Penn movie, “Into the Wild”. And, I, just like the other tourists, flock here to pretend and try to get a sense of his spirit.

So, like any good tourist, I bought a T-shirt from Tracy for $20 and wished him success in his business venture.

I made my way back to The Slabs and found a remote plot of wasteland and set up Camp T-Moose (pic related)

and toasted the end of the Last Free Place in America.

I can’t wait to see Trixie  (she got three bottles of Jameson for Xmas)

Slab City. Some say it is The Last Free Place in America. A Utopia built on all that is good in humankind. Free of restriction and regulation.

Others say it is Mos Eisley meets Thunder Dome. Nowhere will you find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Anarchists,  bandits, drug addicts, and all-purpose weirdos.

Here is what both sides agree on: Jugheaded Marines built Camp Dunlop in the godforsaken Sonoran Desert then, when done with it, abandoned it in the 50s. They tore down and hauled away the structures so that all that was left was the concrete foundations. The Slabs.

The Feds issued a quitclaim deed and ceded the land to the state. The state didn’t really have any use for it so they pretty much declared it a “No Man’s Land”.

Some enterprising capitalist paid meager wages to hard-working peasants to harvest creosote leaves that he didn’t really have any claim to. Rather than transport these workers daily to “East Jesus” (a cleaner, albeit more sacrilegious term for “West Bumfuck”) he parked trailers on the concrete slabs to house his serfs.

Soon others came. The winter months see thousands of RVers, hobos, transients, retirees, the disenfranchised, and the fed up. The homeless have made a home in Slab City.

Although there is no electricty, running water, sewage, trash pick up, taxes or rent, and the summer temperature can top 120°F,  The Slabs have about 150 permanent year-round residents.

They have built an amphitheater and a giant, living, evolving piece of concept art out of trash and junk. This mountainous piece is called, appropriately,  “East Jesus”.

Of course, that’s what they tell me, and all I ever know about anything is what I am told. Hell, even my personal experiences are dismissed by “experts” as anecdotal.

Nonetheless, I go see for myself.

I assume that my celly will be out of range. It’s a good thing I have about a thousand pics of Trixie to keep me company.

Tommy goes…off the grid.

The three most common entries on everyone’s Bucket List are:

1. Skydive
2. Visit the Pyramids
3. See the Grand Canyon

(Note how I had the class to omit:

“Be with 2 chicks”

so that readers of all ages could enjoy the story. Sure, it’s disingenuous of me, but that’s just how I was raised).

I was Airborne in the army, so…SKYDIVING: CHECK

I’ve even been to Egypt – they have Big Macs made with chicken patties there – so…CHECK

Xmas Day, 2015 I tackled the Exalted Poobah of the National Parks – THE Grand Canyon.

I have been kind of bummed for the last three days. I lost my hat. I have several hats – a black porkpie that is getting old, and, my most recent additions: a kind of a salt and pepper tweed sort of hat that I use for cold weather and a purple porkpie that I reserve for fancy dress. I lost the purple one 🙁

I turned the EM-50 Phantom Rambler inside out searching for it. Nowhere to be found. Yet, there was a nagging feeling, like a hoarse whisper in my ear. Something about a hat and Xmas.  I held out hope that it would inexplicably materialize today then I could post, with genuine emotion, “A Festivus MIRACLE!”

I was half right. Starting today, I can’t find my cold weather hat either.  It has vanished. I’m doubly bummed.

I really needed that purple one today so I could pose for pics standing on the corner in Winslow, AZ. I’m just another face in the crowd without my purple porkpie.

I went anyway. (pics)

I suspect everyone

She got out and ran for it when I approached her

There should be shoe store on this road with the slogan, “Get your kicks…”

With great anticipation, I made for…duhn Duhn DUHN!…THE Grand Canyon!

I have spoken to many people who have been there and they ALL have assured me of two things:

1. It is spectacular!
2. It will exceed my expectations – There is no way to build it up too much.

I went. Standing in line to pay $30 to access one of nature’s greatest wonders is not unlike being stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Don’t get me started – this stuff should be for everyone. Charging admission really chaps my ass!

And, I don’t even want to know what the lines are like in the summer. Untold throngs of you fuckers out there on Xmas Day. Shouldn’t you be at church or taking the kids to see their grandparents.

This Xmas actually reminded me of one several years back. Poor planning left me with no other option than to be at Columbia Mall on Xmas Eve. I vowed never to do that again. Anyway, it was easier to find a parking spot at the mall then, than it was today at…THE Grand Canyon.  I couldn’t believe it.

But, I hung in there. Kept my eyes on the payoff. Yet another “Been there;done that” to allow me to be even more insufferable.

It was snowing (Hey! My first White Xmas!) I slipped on my Yak Trax to give my feet a grip – I was parked a long way from the rim. I bundled up, and off I went.

Folks, if you are standing, you might want to sit. These pics, taken with the camera on my celly, are an actual representation of what I saw. For a moment, allow me to be your eyes… (pics related)

I swear this isn’t shopped…except for the word balloons

And, a panorama. ClIck on it to appreciate its splendor…

Amazing the level of detail my phone can capture

Another angle…

It’s hard to believe a river carved all this

I am in Arizona, the desert, where there arent supposed to be clouds, but I would swear I am back on Clingman’s Dome in The Great Smoky Mountains.  And, because it is Arizona, I have extremely limited data service.

My first thought? “Good ol’ Trixie will save the day!”

I sent her a text and asked her to Google images and describe them to me. She did.

Her exact words were…”OMG! It’s…it’s…INDESCRIBABLE!”

Man with that kind of imagery it was almost like being there myself. I got swept away.

Grand Canyon: CHECK

I’ve gotten into the habit of picking up strays – a little something I got from my wife, Trixie, sort of how we came to be together – and Xmas Eve Eve is no exception. But even a monster wouldn’t keep driving past a pregnant woman. Knowing that my MONSTER status was secure, I eased to the shoulder and let her in.

She was pretty, but disheveled  – cold, wet,  grubby, had obviously been crying and didn’t speak much (if any) English. And, very pregnant.  She looked ready to go any time.   Through some effort, I learned that her name was Maria. When I pressed for details about her destination, she would motion forward with her hand and say, “Vamos”.  I vamoosed. West, deeper into the desert.

She was silent, which was ok because I couldn’t understand her. Me? I prattled on endlessly.  I told her stories of my life just to hear myself talk. She seemed to find the droning timbre of my voice soothing, and, coupled with the heater blowing full blast, conducive to slumber. She napped.

I began to get the sense she wasn’t so much, going somewhere, as much as she was running from something or someone.

Even we hero-types get tired, and eventually I was ready to bed down for the night. Take a break from the bumpy road.

Ordinarily,  I would have just parked in the desert, but, through no benefit to myself, I somehow felt responsible for this stranger and decided that for the first time I would treat myself to a real bed at a roadside motorlodge.

Alas, this being Xmas Eve and all, there were many travelers and we were turned away. I pleaded with the person at check-in, “You can’t turn away a pregnant woman! Not at Xmas! Have a heart!”

“Sorry. We simply have no rooms available.” Came the innkeeper’s terse reply.

He told me I was welcome to park out back. And, so I did.

I apologized to Maria, “It smells like a barn, I know. I’ve been living in here. But, you take the bed. I will sleep in the cab.”

She seemed to understand. She smiled with no humor, but plenty of gratitude. She climbed in, settled and went quickly to sleep.

I wasn’t so lucky. The cab was cramped and crowded with junk. And, some festive jerk had red and green spotlights sweeping the sky to serve as some sort of holiday decoration. People go looking at Xmas lights, you know. Lord only knows what manner of folk that will attract.

Eventually, I did fall out but was awoken early in the morning by some knucklehead kid who was beating on a spaghetti pot with a wooden spoon. The racket he was making was unbelievable. How can kids stand that?

“Boy, it is way too early for you.” I grumbled groggily.

Maria was awake and, through the mercy of God, still pregnant.

We walked to Beth’s Truckstop & Diner for breakfast. She turned out her pockets to show she had no money. Through histronic gesticulation, I demonstrated that breakfast was on me.

She padded off to the ladies room to perform her morning ablutions and while she was away, I struck up a conversation with the waitress, Madge (or something) and three truckers who were seated at the counter. They introduced themselves by their CB handles: Mel Cooley (he did bear a striking resemblance to the producer on the Dick Van Dyke Show), Balls o’ Steel (oh please), and Caspar the Friendly Ghost. They rode together and, collectively were called, “The Road Kings”. It seemed a bit dramatic to me, but, what the hell. They were friendly enough. They were headed east.

I explained Maria’s situation to them. I insisted that I WAS NOT the father, in fact, had never had sexual relations with that woman (it seemed the best way to phrase it if I wanted to make my point)…yet, and that I had picked her up hitchhiking.

Maria returned and we ordered breakfast.

Madge, apparently spoke Spanish and carried on a conversation with Maria.

The three truckers disappeared into the store and when they emerged, they had some small gifts wrapped in newsprint – whatever they could find and hastily wrap.

While Maria was eating her Huevos Whatever-os, they set the gifts down.

One of them said, “Its not much but, we wanted you to have some Xmas presents”

She teared up as she tore open the packages. He was right. It wasn’t much. A bottle of cheap perfume,  a $20 bill and…an air freshener? Seriously? I looked at him and said, “Hey, I know the EM-50 Phantom Manger smells a little but…What? Are you some kind of wise guy or something?”

He just shrugged and looked sheepish.

Maria spoke rapidly to me, then dashed out of the room.

Madge explained that she had had a fight with her father and ran away.

“I talked her into calling him to come get her. She was telling you all that and thanking you for your kindness.”  She told me.

“Well, my work is done here, then. I guess I’ll take the check.” I said.

Madge winked and said, “This one’s on me, Joe.”

“Tommy. But, thanks.” I corrected her. “Merry  Christmas.”

And just like that…I rambled on.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

I stood on a corner in Winslow, Arizona all goddamn day and not one single chick in a flatbed Ford slowed down to take a look at me. Well, not in a good way.

It was an interesting couple of days leading up to that particular disappointment.  I beat a hasty retreat from the snows of Colorado and that left me kind of bummed. There is no surer sign of getting old than how much your opinion of snow changes.

Rather than ruminate all moodily and live in denial, I decided to accept my fate and embrace the passing seasons of life. (text related)

That plan didn’t really fly so I deftly changed the subject.

One of my jobs on the road is to keep Trixie updated on all things happening outside of Glen Burnie. So I showed her this…

Self. Heating. Meals.  That is some serious next level Jetsons shit.

I found it in a truck stop. I didn’t eat one. I imagine they are gross. But, I did read the box to see how it works.

I drove through the desert. It’s big. I drove for miles of vast nothingness in all directions. (pic related)

I turned onto BIA Rte 5 and saw an idiot dog just standing there. Miles and miles from everything except this…

but this is just a large rock

I was prepared for this moment. I had spent some of my meager funds on a package of rawhide chewys! But, Dixie ate them all when I was staying with the Ross’ in Albuquerque.

I pulled over, dug around beneath the driver’s seat and found a handful that had spilled! (I’m a bit untidy).

I tossed them out the window and a flock of unseen dogs, wet from the recent storm, emerged from nowhere and had at it. (pic related)

Seriously, I have no idea where they came from.

I drove on. I stopped for gas on the Navajo Reservation.  I shouldn’t have. They don’t like white guys. They told me so.  They blocked the EM-50 Millennium Phantom in. But, it is more maneuverable than it looks and I gave them the slip.

I woke this morning and drove to the Petrified Forest National Park and Painted Desert.

The Petrified Forest didn’t impress me.  The Rangers are pretty weird about visitors taking “park resources” but they will sell them to the public.

Here is a big, stone log…

But the Painted Desert was another story.

There is an area called, “The TeePees”…

because they look like wigwams

This bird landed next to me and just stared at me for about 10 minutes…

I named it DiFranco

Except for the hurricane-level winds, it was a perfect day.

The Painted Desert is the most hideously gorgeous terrain I have encountered thus far…

And, we come to the close of another day.

I’ll have a blue Xmas without Trixie 🙁

I spent the night in Pagosa Springs, CO – home of the World’s Deepest Hot Spring. People will measure anything.

Apparently,  it is also a ski resort. But, I didn’t know that.

When I parked for the evening, I was still 111 miles west of my destination, The Jack Dempsey Museum in Manassa, CO. I didn’t make it.

I am back in Durango, trying to find a route south…maybe Mexico.

I rolled out of the Millennium Phantom this morning to discover I had woken up on the planet, Hoth. (pic related)

It snowed

This caught me by surprise, since when I had passed Chimney Rock, 10 miles west, there was no indication of a storm (pic related)

Except for those ominous looking clouds

I burst from the Phantom like a waterside had just given birth to me, and discovered that I had neighbors. Two twenty-something  snowbunnies had parked next to me and we’re cleaning the accumulation off of their car.

1st snow bunny: Ooh! I hope we didn’t wake you.

Me: No, I always look like this.

2nd SB: So, you gonna SHRED it this morning?

Me: Thanks. It’s tempting. But, I’m a married man.

1st SB: What?

Me: What?

2nd SB: I’m talking about hitting the slopes. They are gnarly.

Me: Rad. But, I’m pretty sure that’s a hate crime. And,  I don’t care for that word.

1st SB: You don’t ski, do you?

Me: Hell, I’m just glad my wife made me pack a winter coat. (pic related)

2nd SB: So, if you don’t ski, why are you here?

Me: I am on my way to Manassa.

1st SB: Hmm. Don’t know where that is, but if it is east of here, I wouldn’t go. Big storm moving across the pass.

Me (looking around wondering why this didn’t qualify as a BIG storm):Yeah, it is east.

1st SB: Yikes. Well, good luck.

And, off they sped.

It took me all of about TWO seconds to decide that if the storm was too much for these folks, then I should be smarter about it and head for lower ground.

An uneventful day.

As always, Trixie is in my thoughts.

There’s a lot going on – let’s get to it.

It was cold this morning when I woke in whatever town I was in. Not too far from Aztec, NM.  Aztec isn’t famous, mostly because of what it would be famous for got hushed up. But, what that was, was little green men. Yep, we all kid about those aliens being little green men from Mars. Guess what.

In 1950 hundreds of eyewitnesses spotted dozens of flying saucers in the skies over northwestern New Mexico for 3 straight days. It made the local paper.

Farmington Daily Something

But, that is nothing compared to what happened a couple of years earlier in nearby Aztec. One of them sumbitches crashed in a theretofore empty field just outside of town. Several 12″ to 16″ tall little green aliens corpses were recovered.

The Aztec Visitors Center downplays the event, but hands out detailed maps of how to find the crash site for those interested.  I was interested. I mapped up.

I drove north on state hwy 550, then turned right on County “road” 2770. I was supposed to continue for 10.6 miles. I did not.

2770 is pieced together out of what skiers call “moguls” loosely covered with gravel.

Driving down this road is the transportational equivalent of riding the bastard offspring of a Home Depot paint mixing machine and an Orgasmatron while simultaneously  being kicked in the nads by a kangaroo on meth.

Being an intrepid investigator of all things otherworldly,  I was prepared to make the necessary sacrifice to bring you an on-the-spot report, a scant 67 years after the fact.  But, since the EM-50 Phantom Rambler has approximately the same miles as Apollo 11, I decided to turn around and make for Colorado.

I passed through Durango! …but, I didn’t stop.

I did stop in historic Mancos, Colorado!

Cards on the table…I had never heard of it, but they have these signs every 100 feet…

So, I got out to investigate…and pee.

Eventually I found this brass plaque…

It was like being there!

They move at a slower pace. It’s the wa-ay….of the west.

My true destination was Mesa Verde National Park, high in the Rockies.

Mesa Verde, which is Spanish for “Ping Pong Table”, was home to the Anasazi cliff-dwellers – a Native American tribe who is believed to have invented the Rec Room.

I reported to the park HQ and Visitor’s Center to read about these fascinating people. To my delight, I discovered the Department of the Interior had constructed life-sized dioramas depicting the daily life of the Anasazi.  (pic related)

To my disappointment, I discovered that anytime the figure was a chick (pic related)

Still counts

…they posed her in such a way that you didn’t get a clear shot of any boobage (I have been on the road a very long time).

Then I made my way to the top of the Mesa (pic).

That’s racist Indian talk for, “this is my destination”

The road leading to the table land is shaped in a pattern that we oenologists (wine enthusists) call a “whirl”. You low-brow, Schlitz-swilling, steerage-traveling, Riff Raff call it a “corkscrew”…and you probably belch when you say it.

The perilous ascent is fraught with death-defying, spectacular views that allow for you to slide right off the mountain and plummet several thousand feet should you take your eyes off the road for a split second to appreciate them (pic related).

Check out that elevation!

Oh yeah, and some of the views…

When I finally reached the top I had enough time to see the Cliff Palace…

And behold the majesty of nature by gazing in wonder at the coniferous evergreens…

Staring straight DOWN at the tops of these trees far off in the distance can make your knees go rubbery (just like when I gaze into Trixie’s eyes).

Then I stood witness to a sunset that literally brought  tears to my eyes…

Because I realized I would now have to descend that icy corkscrew road in the dark.  I could have really used a beer first.

Listening to: John Denver’s, “Rocky Mountain High”