Leaving Gila Bend on the day’s trip to Tucson was a bit of a challenge. My intent was to travel south on highway 85 until it too a left hand bend at Why, eventually turning north onto highway 15 into Tucson. The roads, intersections and signage at Gila Bend resulted in my starting off with a few loops because of missing the correct road, turning back, missing it yet again, until finally settling down into what I hoped was highway 85 heading south toward the border. My first encounter with “Border Control” was about 40 miles north of the border when I passed an “inspection station” with a line of north heading cars being stopped and inspected by the Border Control “services.” The location of this station surprised me because it seemed to imply that everyone living closer than 40 miles from Mexico is suspect, they can’t just drive anywhere in Arizona, they have to stop and explain themselves to the police. We have created a 40 mile wide “no-mans-land” of semi-free space where you have to keep proving you are acceptable. I suppose it is a minor inconvenience to have to sit in line waiting for them to interrogate those in front of you – but it also seems oddly placed. Luckily I was traveling south so there were no restrictions for my travel (until I turn the corner heading back north in my effort to escape this zone of semi-freedom).

The trip was beautiful and uneventful for the first 30 miles or so until I came to the town of Ajo. (I wonder how this is spoken? Is it “A Ho” as my native friends say in agreement? I chose to believe it is and that makes me smile.) My car’s navigation system had a bit of a melt down in Ajo, it took me on a big loop through town, and then headed me back north toward Gila Bend. If I hadn’t been paying attention to the tiny compass on the display I would probably have driven back to the inspection station before I noticed I was going the wrong direction. I am glad my car made me loop through town, it took me on a tour of many large “Spanish” style churches and through neighborhoods of the local folks, which from what little evidence I could see appeared to be mostly of Mexican or Native descent. The town was spotless, well maintained and showed a lot of pride. It felt good to me. I would have liked to have stopped, but I pushed on to meet my scheduled arrival time in Tucson.

The N-S highway 85 interested with W-E highway 86 at Why, thereafter going almost due east for 40 miles. This part of the road goes through rugged cactus filled desert. The quantity and variety of cacti was astounding, huge, saguaro cactus dominating the lower tiered cacti of my descriptions, set in fields of bright green and yellow palo verde trees. Everything seemed to be in full bloom! Bright yellows, greens, white, reds and more filled the vistas. It felt like I was driving through a artist’s palette. I considered attempting to take a photo of the vast fields of vibrant colors but realized that it was very difficult to do because I was down in the colors, kind of like an ant walking across the colors of that artist’s palette, the colors were bright wherever I was, but an aerial view would be necessary to capture the mix and profusion, any single photograph would just capture one color, one tree or cactus bloom. I elected to just drive on by and enjoy the experience.

At one point I was passed by a group of 20 to 30 border control pickups, vans and cars heading east. The were at high speeds far in excess of the posted speed limits, but without lights or sirens. I guessed that they were closing in on yet another “kill” or perhaps that call it an intervention. The speeds, with a lack of the use of warning lights, made me feel like they probably rule the roost in this part of the world, they have special privileges and powers because “they are the man.” This part of my trip took me past many large, sparkling new border control facilities including their stations, administration offices, detention centers topped with rolling loops of cocertina wire. The entire area feels very much under siege, perhaps it feels like living in a war zone – I felt constantly under surveillance and suspicion, even though I had no direct evidence of that. It was just the constant presence of externally imposed power and police that made me feel that way. The border control forces were obviously a foreign military force imposing order on a separate country (the band of no-mans-land 40 miles north of the border). They felt like an invading force imposing control.

with a long line of small rooms with parking in front of the doors. Nice, but not what I think of as “hotel” at hotel prices of over $150 a night.

It appears to have had a period of time of distress, but recently “fixed up” with new paint, some murals on the walls, and perhaps a new layer on the parking lot. They hotel guide describes a number of special “extra” features such as “privacy in your room” (meaning nobody to change towels, make beds, empty trash or replace consumables), no provisions to hang up or lay out your cloths, no coffee maker in the room, no comfortable chairs to clutter up the space along with a free “healthy” breakfast (meaning a cup of rolled oats dispensed by the server to make sure you don’t accidentally take a cup and a half), and as Asian food truck for the restaurant. But it is clean, comfortable and is here. Actually, it is all just fine – but expensive for what you get.

At first I just chuckled at the advertisements promoting the lack of typical services and amenities as “benefits” – somehow you get something special by not getting room service because you get privacy! Really? That only works if you actually don’t need those services. As I ponder the situation I am starting to see that there are real benefits to the high prices, tiny rooms, silly little breakfasts – it serves to keep “those others” out. It works great for us well-to-do ex-hippies that like the funky digs, like the murals, and are happy with a cup of “healthy” mush for breakfast. It is totally unworkable for families with children, hence the pool has no kids and the adults can comfortable float around drinking their beers or wine and chatting. The high prices keep out the riff raff. The reason that the place feels quiet and comfortable in the face of what would normally be considered unacceptable service and amenities is that it become the exclusive playground for those that are not price driven and don’t have children or other distractions. It is an “adult” upper middle class community without having to say so. There high prices mean that they don’t fill as many rooms, so the profits are profits are probably similar to, or less than, what they would be with prices appropriate for the services, but it allows them to better select their clientele. Recently I read that many businesses do something similar. They set prices not upon their need or costs, but upon a desire to select their customers. For example, perhaps Target sets the prices a bit higher than Walmart not for cost reasons, but to keep Walmart customers out. I wonder how often this sort of logic applies to the setting of prices. Another example might be the hotels in places like Palmdale where the big hotels run with less than 1/2 occupancy by keeping the prices as high as the government will pay their contractors to bill. They could probably make more money with 80% occupancy at a far lower price, but that would allow in the riff raff – which isn’t their target market.

On a more important note for me as I ponder what I will do in Tucson for four days with nothing special to do. I realize that while my idea of staying in small hotel/motels is laudable, it also means that the folks I meet there are all travelers – obviously. So last night I hung out in the pool for a bit. I talked to a musician from Ukiah, California (a place near my home that I am very familiar with), a truck driver from Las Angeles and a couple of women from Boston. Not exactly the “locals” I am hoping for. It is clear that if I am to meet locals it will either be the workers at these hotels, or someone someplace else. The workers are working, so don’t have time to interact more than a cursory “Hi” in passing. So I need to expand my exposure. Up until today I was traveling with the goal of getting to my hotel in Tucson at the scheduled time. That left little time to expand my search for “local” lore.

As I sit here on Monday morning thinking about my plans for the day I find I am perplexed. I could do a lot of normal “tourist” things such as visit the Biosphere, go to some museums and art galleries, or perhaps visit a botanical garden or two. Maybe I could to Congress Street for dinner and entertainment. All good choices, but with the possible exception of Congress Street, filled with tourists and travelers like myself. Probably most of whom are from California. I haven’t yet found a solution, but am beginning to identify the problem. I wish myself luck with this.

I finally made it to Gila Bend, AZ. I took “back roads” from Parker to Gila Bend. Not actually back roads, rather the old roads which have been bypassed by the freeways, leaving odd, rather depressing, little semi-ghost towns in its path. Every thirty miles or so was a wide spot on the road where someone had made their dream come true with a small business of their own out in the desert. Perhaps it was a little restaurant, or the shell of an old service station, or an forlorned laundromat with broken windows, great holes in the roof and spray painted graffiti on the walls. I couldn’t help but think of their excitement in starting a business, a few years of success, followed by utter failure – just leaving things as they were with outside furniture and once colorful signs disintegrating in the desert air. I stopped at one of these almost abandoned restaurants in the town of Hope to find that it was not abandoned at all. It was huge, with perhaps 40 or 50 dinner tables, two cocktail bars, a large outdoor barbecue party spot – and five people sitting at a table eating lunch. Obviously a party destination. They were clearly the owners and employees. The menu was huge, offering six pages of wonders. I had a pattimelt – it was very good but too big. Leaving town is a big sign saying, “You are now beyond Hope”.

My travel goal for the day was Gila Bend – for no particular reason other than the map indicated it is on a major highway and hence might offer accommodations. My route took me south under a major east-west freeway, continuing south for 30 miles or so then turning to the east in the general direction of Gila Bend. The long road south was desolate, much of it going through industrial sized farm country. No cars, no people, no buildings, just mile after mile of fields (mostly alfalfa). When I finally made it to the bend in the road, there was no bend – just a dead end! I back tracked most of the way back to the freeway, finally taking a paved road with painted lines to the east assuming it was in good enough condition to go somewhere. The road was not on my map or the car navigator, but that was how most of the day had gone. The map showed roads that weren’t there, and the navigator was unusually lost. My guess was correct, I eventually made it to Gila Bend.

Gila Bend is another once prosperous town that is now mostly ghost town. The town is a typical desert town consisting of a single strip road of businesses along the main drag, with housing and other facilities away from the highway. One side of town is backed up with the railroad, the other tapers off toward the hills to the west. There are many empty and derelict businesses, large motels, restaurants, insurance businesses, bars, etc. Now they are mostly boarded up with giant holes in the roofs and walls, a few have “For Sale” signs just in case someone might have too much money laying around.

I ordered a roast beef sandwich out of nostalgia from the days of traveling with my parents in the desert. For some reason that was one of my father’s favorites, so it was a common choice. I thought it was terrible, but I was the kid and they were paying. It turned out that the Space Age Restaurant serves the perfect RB sandwich – perfectly horrible, just like in the old days. Sliced, grizzly, roast beef on a piece of compressed and ugly white bread, a scoop of mashed potatoes, all buried under terrible gravy made from salty beef broth. It is disgusting to look at, and even worse to eat. I enjoyed my meal immensely, just like the old times. My room is comfortable, spotless, and quiet. Nothing much more to hope for.

The last time I had time to sit and write on my blog was Wednesday, the second day of my trip. It is now Saturday May 6th and I finally have a bit of time and energy to catch up. Boy, time is really spinning by in a hurry.

My plan was to spend the first night in San Juan Batista, which I did – spending an uneventful evening walking around town and having dinner in a small Mexican restaurant. The biggest “event” was when the bartender “accidentally” made two extra mango/tequila drinks which she donated to the two of us guys having dinner at the bar.

I had reservations at a little motel in Taft for Wednesday night. However, when I was looking at the map on Wednesday morning I realized that I was pretty far south and perhaps I could make a little detour to San Luis Obispo to see Cathy, an old college friend of Mary Jo and myself. I called Cathy to make sure she would be available, which she was. I then headed west instead of east. I hadn’t planned on visiting the Pacific Ocean on my way back east. I got a reservation in a Best Western near San Luis Obispo and headed out. Of course this meant that I couldn’t stay in Taft, and it was too close to my time there to get a refund – so I ended up paying for two rooms that night (luckily the room in Taft was relatively inexpensive). I take that at as a lesson, don’t book a room unless I am certain that I will be there to use it, and my wandering style of trip planning will likely change plans on the spur of the moment. Better to take the chance of not getting a room than to pay twice. I’ll see how this new plan works out.

I had a really nice time visiting with Cathy, walking around her little village on the way to dinner, driving to see the ocean and her old neighborhood, and just catching up on what has happened during the 50 or so years since we actually saw each other. It was nice, but a little awkward at first in that while it felt like we were old friends, it had been so long since actually knowing each other that it took a bit to start filling the details back in again.

I left San Luis Obispo mid-morning on Thursday in order to catch up on some lost time on my trip (and distance) toward Tucson where I booked a room on the 7th. Not wanting to take major highways, especially freeways, I opted to take a smaller road due east over the mountains to reconnect with my planned route near Bakersfield. My route would take me on a small, but well used highway over the mountains. Near what seemed like the summit I passed a sign saying that it was two miles to the Carrizo Plains National Monument. That caught my eye because before my trip several people suggested that I go there to see this year’s “superbloom” of wild flowers. Two miles seemed like a reasonable side trip, especially since I was making good time toward my evening destination of “some place near Lancaster” (without reservations this time). I found the plains, but very few flowers. There was an overabundance of “weeds” with buds ready to bloom – but very few blooms. I guess I was a little early.

When I take side trips like that I normally turn off the car’s GPS so that it doesn’t keep saying, “Route Calculation”. When I got back to the intersection, I turned it back on expecting to be instructed to turn to the left to continue on my path toward Lancaster. Instead, it told me to turn to my right. After very short distance it had me turn to my left (east) and I continued on. The road was getting pretty narrow as I kept going higher into the mountains. I assumed that my thought that I was at the summit was just a hump and the summit was still to come. The road kept getting smaller, signs appearing along the road advising that chains might be required at all times, that mud slides were possible, and to watch for falling rocks worried me a little as I kept climbing through very steep and rough terrain. After about an hour of this I realized that I had seen no signs of people, no cars, no telephone poles, no nothing – and my 77 mile total trip had passed 125 miles and I was still climbing! I was up in the clouds – at one point a huge dark cloud was just off the side of the road, it felt like it was just sitting there looming at me as I passed by. Snow was becoming common under the trees and in a few open places, as the outside temperature kept dropping. I was slightly concerned, but figured that I could always back-track if the road become impassible. At one point I stopped to see if I could figure out where I was on my paper map, but was unable to find the road on the map. I was kind of lost, but had met no intersections so knew I could find my way out if necessary.

Eventually I went over a summit and headed back down toward the San Joaquin valley. I could see the flat land of the valley off in the distance, but wasn’t sure how I would get there. I came to small farms, a few little buildings and finally a town. The town is interesting in that it is a mix of the old original homes and businesses in the mountains, mixed with many much newer, huge, ugly two story vacation “cabins”. I knew there were cabins because of the colors, frilly eves and carved animals in the front yards. They were actually just big out of place boxes with little “class” or aesthetic appeal. Apparently I had reached a region of summer homes from Las Angeles. I eventually met Interstate 5 near the summit of The Grapevine, then turning toward the east and Lancaster. My side trip took an extra hour and a half or so, and 75 miles, but took me through beautiful and rugged country I would have missed. All was well.

It was a nice was to slide into the desert. However, I eventually got to Lancaster and found it to be the armpit of the west. It is all big hotels, cookie cutter shopping malls, big industrial sized building – and freeways. I could find no indications of a people friendly town, it is just a sprawling factory. It was quite shocking following so closely upon my time in the rugged mountains and the rather magical slide into the desert. Thinking that the neighboring town of Palmdale sounded a bit “softer” and perhaps people friendly, I continued for a few miles. However, it turns out that Lancaster and Palmdale are just one continuous sprawl of ugly. I gave up and got a room at a DoubleTree hotel in Palmdale.

After settling in to my room I noticed a periodic, loud, “growling” noise, accompanied by a slight shaking of the floor. That turned out to be the elevator! It was so loud that sleep would have not been possible. I went out into the hall to investigate, finding a maintenance man to ask if that was going to continue. He said is had been fixed – it used to be NOISY. I got another room on the top floor at the end of the hall. Much better, and I had a great view of the top of a tree from my room.

After resting for a bit I went downstairs to get a glass of wine and see about getting dinner. The bar was all white inside, white walls, white bar top, white tables. There were two guys sitting at the far ends of the bar eating dinner and staring at their cellphones. A baseball game was playing on the television, but nobody was paying attention. Nobody looked up when I came in, even the bartender seemed to be too busy to respond, taking my order and then leaving the three of us sitting at the bar. There was no opportunity to start up a conversation or even make a friendly jester. Rather dejected, and a bit lonely, I decided I was exhausted and it was best to just have my wine, eat dinner, and go to my room for the night.

Before I could finish my dinner a big, good looking older (perhaps 70) black man (Whitney) came in and sat in the middle of the bar – asking our opinions of our meal choices. He ordered a drink and dinner – then sat up, leaned back and started singing! He just flat belted out a song about how to care for a woman. It blew me away because it answered the very question that I had been mulling over on my lost wanderings through the mountains earlier that day. I had been thinking about the recent unexpected loss of my wife, wondering how I would ever find another partner, and if I did find someone what should I do to treat her well as we age together into an unknown, and unknowable, future. All of a sudden here was a stranger belting out the answer to me in a most unconventional way. I have been in a lot of bars of the years, but this was the first time that I had seen anyone launch into full-throated song.

After a little it Whitney indicated that he wanted someone to sing a little backup notes. Being the quite and shy type, I took up the invitation and joined him (not well, but enthusiastically). He then paused his singing to give directions to the three of us, indicating who should take the base, who would sing the middle and who would take the high end of the backup. I was assigned the middle because I would normally take the base and he said that wouldn’t be fun. He moved us all to places that were uncomfortable – and then we all sang! It wasn’t pretty, but it was fun.

After our singing finally died down, he quizzed the guy at the right end of the bar about his background. It turns out that this guy was from Ireland, is a music producer part time and an engineer working in the aerospace industry. He said that the large presences of the aerospace industry accounts for the “industrial” nature of the area. The two of them talked to each other about the position of “producer” in the music industry. I was having a hard time understanding what they were talking about so asked them to explain what a producer is and what they do. That really ignited an interesting discussion. Apparently the producer is the one that guides all aspects of the production, from the selection of music, the performers, the details of the performance (pace, style, clothing, lighting, room details, microphone selection – everything). Whitney explained that Michael Jackson is an example of a performer that is successful because he was also the producer. He was in total control over all aspects of his productions, getting everyone to do exactly what he needed them to do to achieve his vision.

As an example of “producing” the bar experience that we were in, he “redid” the bar/lounge image. He “put” poles on a table in the middle of the room and populated them with pole dancers, he added a lap dancer to spice things up a bit, he changed the color scheme and blocked the windows so kiddies wouldn’t see in. Basically, he completely changed the vision of the place just by playing with a few ideas. Perhaps that vision isn’t exactly what the management would like in their family friendly hotel – but it was an interesting game in that moment.

Whitney said that he could “produce” me to sing. I scoffed at the possibility of this, I am not known for my musical prowess. He then asked me to sing a note. I just picked one and did so. He said to go higher, then a little lower, and a little longer – and finally said, “There, you got to my vision and you now can do that part.”

It dawned on me that is what I do when I am “teaching” newly hired engineers how to be system safety engineers. I tell them what is expected, let them try, and then come back to adjust their efforts until they “get it” – at which point I can turn my attention to other concerns. In running my engineering consulting firm I am acting at the “producer” of our services. I had been thinking in terms of being a manager – but it is much more than that. All of the parts of the “show” (our services and relationships with our customers) are important and need to be guided for best results. I also realize that is what is missing in the System Safety Society’s management, and perhaps in the management of the USA. We don’t have a President that can communicate an appropriate vision, and doesn’t not know how to help others help him achieve that vision.

By the end of the day I was totally blown away. I had started an evening of absolutely nothing, and then something happened. Something that has changed my understanding of my life, something that will stay with me far into the future. Lessons come from mysterious places if you just relax and let them happen.

The day started with a rainbow in Zamora and ended with another rainbow in San Juan Batista, where they are having record cold weather for the date. It was a pleasant trip with lots of rain squalls to keep the driving interesting.

I went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, ordering a Chili Verde meal that was far too big – I was uncomfortable all night from eating too much. I need to pay attention and just eat until I have had enough, not until the plate is clean. The guy sitting next to me at the bar having his dinner finished off a similar dinner and then ordered, and ate, a second! Drinks were on the house that night. The bartender lady, who had a ring in her nose and a second in her lip, “accidentally” made three mango drinks instead of the one ordered by a customer. Couldn’t just pour the extra down the drain, so the other guy and myself had to take care of the problem.

I had a nice chat with that guy (we didn’t exchange names so he is now known to me as Guy). He is from Roseville and working in the area with CalTrans trying to clean up the mud slides left over from the winter storms. The three of us (including the bar tender) had a pleasant time together. Afterward I walked around the mission grounds in the hopes of working some of my over-eating discomfort down.

I already changed my planned trip, now heading to Santa Barbara for the next night, instead of Taft. I am going to deviate to have lunch with an old friend from college. The hotel in Santa Barbara will undoubtedly be much nicer than in Taft, but since I had a reservation in Taft, and it is less than 24 hours before my stay, I will have to add the price of the unused Taft hotel to the night’s lodging. I think that gives me an early lesson – don’t make reservations too far in advance when you are just wandering around following your nose. Luckily the Taft hotel was only $77, it was a relatively inexpensive lesson. So much for making advanced plans.

I almost forgot, there was an earthquake last night. Not really strong, but enough to wake me up. Not an angry shaking thing, more like the earth purring – gentle and soft. I found it comforting – perhaps I have lived too many years in “earthquake country”. I consider the two rainbows and a purring earth to be great starts for my new adventure.

It is now one week before the official launch date for my upcoming travels across America. I have been getting pretty anxious to push off, but realized this morning that I have already started by spending days (actually five months) in an unfamiliar house in my home town of Sonoma that I left more than fifty years ago. My plan is to travel to get to experience new places and meet new people, perhaps getting a better idea of how deep our shared humanity goes. Partly I am just trying to get some ground under my feet by shaking myself out of my habitual points of view, but there is also a big question about the “truth” of the media’s stories about the differences between our “blue” and “red” states. I don’t believe those stories – I think we share most of our humanity, but have different ideas about how to get to the same, or almost the same, goals. I hope to explore this idea.