Yesterday was an interesting trip from Tucson to Duncan, Arizona. I was unable to find my normal “back roads” for the first hundred miles or so, traveling on Interstate 10 instead. This part of the trip was singularly boring – the background hills passing by while almost all of my attention was on integrating safely with the many trucks weaving back and forth between lanes. I find these times on the freeways to be boring, uncomfortable, and just work instead of play.

However, I finally got off the freeway and onto a smaller major highway headed north to Safford where I hoped to get lunch, an air filter for my car, and perhaps some CD music for those long stretches without radio reception. I found a music store in town, but upon entering discovered that it is a musical instrument stored, but the fellow at the counter was very helpful in pointing out that there was no place in town selling CD’s except perhaps the Goodwill store down the block. I went there are found a few baskets of very old, very worn CDs that might be useful or interesting. Nothing that I recognized, but maybe worth a try at $0.50 each. I’ll give them a try next time I am traveling though nowhere on the backroads.

Across the street from the Goodwill store is a small diner, so that seemed like as good a choice as any. Looking through the window I could see two small tables and a couple of staff. It turned out to be a meeting of perhaps 6 or 8 staff members for the tiny restaurant. It became immediately obvious that most of the staff were quite disabled, a couple of Down syndrome folks and others with speech and other problems. They were all quite eager to assist me, but were limited to bringing water and silverware. The “boss” came for my order and directed activities. I ordered 1/2 a roast beef sandwich, chips and a drink – it was fine, nothing special but met my needs. I found the experience to be a mix of sad that these folks have such difficulties, and thrilled that someone was being so kind and generous to give them a hand. I was the only customer at what should have been the “rush hour.”

Safford is situated near the center of a large, wide valley. I could see little reason for a large town in that spot, I didn’t see much agriculture and it wasn’t clear that there was a source of income, but I guessed that mining must be close by. My guess was correct, there are large copper mines in the vicinity and apparently that fuels most of the economy. I noticed quiet a few unusual things during my brief stay. I saw several people missing arms, hands and legs. Perhaps from mining accidents?? I also noticed quite a few folks in exaggerated cowboy hats, bib overalls, and a rather “down home” way of walking and talking. Not like those that I saw in Tucson. Clearly I am heading in much more rural territory. This all made me happy – finally people just being people, not putting on a show for others.

I am staying at an old, recently “renovated” (returned to something close to original). It is furnished in a way that feels like you are in the proprietor’s home (which is almost certainly the case), eclectic and charming. LOTS of paintings on the walls, comfortable chairs and couches for lounging, real books on the book shelves – and almost no contact with the owner in an official sort of way. I didn’t check in, just shown to my room. I asked about this arrangement and was told that I could just pay when I leave. So much for formality. Later in the afternoon I ventured into their backyard garden/wild space filled with plants, a running fountain, and more art. Nice. I got into a conversation with Deborah (the female half of the owners) about my background, and a tiny bit about there moving here to get out of the hustle and bustle of big cities – they certainly succeeded in that. The conversation touched on the Challenger accident – when I came in after dinner I found a book titled “Visual Explanations” with my name on it waiting on the dining room table. It was bookmarked to the section discussing how the poor visual representation of the susceptibility of the o-rings to low temperature led to the decision to launch even in the face of warnings that it was unsafe to do so. It is an interesting story to add to my understanding of how things can go wrong.

Soon after arriving in town at around 2:00 I went looking for a bar to get a nice cold beer. Turned out that the Riverfront Lounge is about 100 feet from the hotel, an easy walk. I suppose this bar is better called a saloon given the nature of the town, but “lounge” seems a bit out of place too. When I opened the door, all eyes were upon me. Four guys and a woman seated at the bar, and a lady bartender. I did my best to act nonchalant, settled at the bar and order an 805 beer (after noticing an advertisement for same on the wall). One of the guys piped up and said he had a 38 in his pickup that could sort out any questions. Great – within the first minute they are talk about guns, violence – and me. Then he continued with by saying that his 38 could solve some of the immigration problem at the border, just need to go down there and kill a few of them. Holly cow! What have I walked into.

However, things quickly settled down, we bought each other beers, and the discussion became friendly. He said he didn’t really have a 38 in his car, he keeps it at home. It was a funny sort of situation, one I have experienced on many occasions when walking uninvited into other people’s territory. There is often this kind of challenge, exaggerated threats and masculine banter. It is a kind of test. If I can withstand the test and not lose my nerve it almost always turns into a good time and friendly relationship – but it has to go through the test of fire first.

I had two beers (one of which was bought by the guy with the gun), and went up the street for dinner at the steak house. It was a nice, pleasant, place with lots of local “color” in the other customers. I had to chuckle to myself because the scene could have been taken exactly from some of those “old west” paintings – down to the giant cowboy hats and all that. It was perfect!

I finished dinner just about dusk and was headed on my way home when I heard a big; “Charlie, come on over here!” There were two people sitting at a picnic table outside of two big fifth-wheel mobil homes. One was Earl, the friendly guy sitting next to me at the “lounge,” and the pretty bar tender lady. They were sitting outside enjoying the pretty evening, chatting with their favorite drinks. They asked me to join them, which I did without hesitation. They got me a beer and started to “yarn” a bit.

Once they found out that I am being a bit of a vagabond, Earl started telling us (me, I think she had heard them all many times before) about his life as a drifter. His roots seem to be in Duncan, but they get pretty stretched out sometimes. He started hitch hiking at about the age of 13 – traveling to Florida – and never really stopped. He told about living for more than a month under a tree in the parking lot of a service organization (sorry, I can’t recall which one right now) because he got food and they offered drinks. His stories of his travels around the country hitchhiking, riding the rails and living under trees in parking lots made me think that I had perhaps come upon the real King of the Road. And then he would come back to Duncan for while, until the itchy feet got the better of him and off he would go. The bar tender nodded her head that stories are true, and that he is perhaps one of the happiest guys in the country. Not “down and out” because of necessity, but instead for choice. She was so sweet and caring about him that I wonder if perhaps she is his daughter. She told me that she looks after the group of guys that I met in the lounge earlier. The table and space between the trailers becomes a kind of gathering place for old friends on nights when the weather is good – which is most nights. Others started to drift in just about the time that I felt I had worn out my welcome and headed back to my hotel. It was an altogether heart warming, and loving, evening.

I was having so much fun in Duncan that I tried to extend my stay, but the town was booked up for the weekend – it is a destination for groups of motorcycle tourist and others. It is “on the way” and while close to being a ghost town, still has lots of “juice” provided by my new friends, the proprietors of my hotel, and others. I found it to be a real treat, perhaps it will end up being a high point on my trip. I suppose I should have found a place to park my car and try out my new bed in the Subaru. Oh well, live and learn. Now that I am five hundred miles away I realize that I should have been more determined to stay – afterall that is exactly the reason that I fixed up my car to stay in it if needed. I am positive that someone would have given me a place to park for a night or two.