Day 8: Raising the Bar
Natural Selection
Yesterday, the section of Hwy 285 just north of I40 had signs posted warning of crossing deer. A couple of Bambies, clearly poor decision makers, lay bloated on the median as fine examples of the power of natural selection.
[I’ve always wondered why Bambi is used as a woman’s name. Isn’t that silly when Bambi is clearly a big ol’ stag? (At least he is by the end of Felix Salten’s book.) Of course, the one exception to this definition of silly is its use as a song title on side two of Prince’s second album. If Prince did it, it must be right.]
Although I thought I might end up wet and bloated on the median, my risk taking seems to have been forgiven today. I saw the storm hovering over the mountains from the time I crossed the Arizona state line. When I got to Winslow, I thought it might be prudent to pull over, but I wanted to at least make it to Flagstaff, even if the rain kept me from the Grand Canyon. Three miles from the Flagstaff exit, the deluge and the lightening struck. Lots of lightening.
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Mother Nature is a Drag Queen
The drive from Albuquerque to Flagstaff along I40 has to contain some of the most striking countryside I have ever seen. There is just too much visual drama going on for this to be the work of an earth mother. These visuals cannot be the work of anything other than a full-time drama queen. The eye candy more than made up for the paucity of same in Texas.
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Homes in the Painted Desert
Lots of reservations along the road: Hopi, Pueblo, Navaho, Zuni. They seem to be rather sad and lost places containing sad and lost souls. I can’t imagine they are helping anyone.
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Route 66
Seems as if most of the Route does not exist anymore. I drove on bits and pieces of the road that were marked, but they always seemed to merge back into I40. Argh.