Mt. Magazine and the Long Drive West

Those meteorologists weren't joking. The fabled storm came and went, leaving behind snow and ice and slick roads and a wall of cold air that never seemed to go away. Our area avoided the worst of it, thank goodness, but the lingering cold and snow reminded us that yes, it was still winter and yes, it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Cooped up inside, I began surfing the net out of boredom, searching for nothing in particular, just trying to pass the time. Well, wouldn't you know it, I found me a seasonal job that was hiring out west and by some twist of fate actually managed to get myself employed. Very exciting news indeed. So I packed up my things, said goodbye to the family and began the long drive west, heading into the unknown, setting off for a future of endless possibilities. 

I left on the 17th, a sunny, cold day filled with weak winter lighting and clouds so thin they didn't look real. I met up with good ol' Interstate 40, which would soon become my closest companion for the next four days. Travelin' on the road, passin' trucks, pullin' over at the rest stops, gettin' gas, munchin' on granola bars, all day, every day. I drove and drove and drove, traveling across the entire state of Tennessee, crossing the Mississippi, off into Arkansas, passing through Little Rock, stopping in Conway. I made it to the Hotel, dumped my bags in the room, and then walked around town to stretch the ol' getaway sticks. Walking. walking, walking. Sidewalks, blacktop, many many restaurants. I walked by the local college, walked by the track and gym, walked the road to the main campus. Sunset, faint light, orange skies, students flocking to the cafeteria. Didn't linger too long; drivin' all day had worked up quiet the appetite. Legs stretched, feet fine, arms akimbo, I got back in the car and drove to a Thai place that was actually pretty dang good. And then it was back to the hotel, off to sleep, ready to do the same thing all over again in the morning. 

I awoke at dawn and trucked on out of there, leaving my friend the I-40 for the time being to make a quick detour to Mt. Magazine. I'd seen signs for it last year when we all moved out to Tennessee and have always wondered what it was all about and whether or not there were magazines at the summit or whatever.

Russellville, Dardanelle, Chickalah, Ranger. Tiny towns in rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, houses falling apart, houses standing strong, houses with trash in the yard, houses with nothing in the yard, a pig in the mud, a peacock on the roof. I turned onto Hwy 309 and made my way deeper into the mountains, slowly ascending through a healthy pine forest, barren deciduous trees, and cool lookin' rocks. I reached an overlook and immediately checked it out. Southerly views stretched before me, the landscape completely foreign. I found me a trail and walked on it for a moment, following it along the gray cliffs and wispy pines. The views stretched on and on; these were probably much better than those on the summit. I'd done enough eastern summits to know that it's more about reaching the top than it is to see a view. Most of them peaks is forested. Mt. Magazine is no different. 

Turned around, hopped back in the car, pedal to the metal and back to driving, driving, driving. Down the road, past the visitor center. I found a place to park and then set off on the mellow summit trail, a well-maintained path barely half a mile in length. Had I more time, I would've slowed down, smelled the air, listened to the birds, twiddled my thumbs, watched the paint dry, you know, stuff like that. But I had to be in Amarillo that evening, and Amarillo was a long ways off. So I rushed through it, reaching the popular summit in great haste, signed my name, took a few pictures, and then turned around and ran the whole rest of the way back. Didn't find me no magazines at the summit either. How utterly disappointing....

Mt. Magazine Summit

I took the scenic overlook drive, stopping at the various viewpoints, stretching my legs, despairing at the long drive ahead. Here, on the north side, the views seemed a little more expansive. The skies were clear, the Ozark Plateau stretched out before me, rocks and cliffs and sticks and water rushing somewhere, audible but hidden from view. I checked out some cliffs, sat on the edge, said, "hmmm" or something like that, looked at the sun, took a few more photos, realized that this place was legit, and then got on out of there. 

Down the road, out of the mountains, down, down, down. Corley, Paris, Roseville, Ozark. Back on the I-40, my ol' friend, beautiful, amazing, totally-not-boring concrete companion, guardian of the semi truck, keeper of the potholes, host to the occasional accident. Off into Fort Smith, off into Oklahoma, driving along, going, going, gone. OKC, Weatherford, Clinton, Elk City. Flat country, not a whole lot out there to please the eye and tingle the senses. Prairie fires, smoke columns rising like miniature volcanic eruptions, the air warm and dry, the grass dead and brown. I rolled into Amarillo. Ran 6 miles on the treadmill. Ate some Tex-Mex. Went to sleep. Got up. Kept on driving. 

On the road...

It was dark. Not a lot of lights; very sleepy towns. The sun crested the horizon just as I crossed the border into New Mexico. Cold out there, 38℉ and dropping. Stopped for gas in Tucumcari, everyone there wearing hoodies and sweatpants and jeans, bundled up with their hands in their pockets, their breath visible in the faint morning light. Battled some crosswinds all the way to Santa Rosa. Trucks swaying, drivers anxious. Rolled on into Albuquerque, snow-capped mountains, cloudy skies. Off into the desert, now in the proper southwest, the rocks red, snow on the ground, 24℉ and dropping. Grants, Thoreau, Gallup. Salt on the windshield, the road slick, the cars filthy. Stopped at a gas station, 22℉ and dropping. Broke up the ice in the bucket with the squeegee and cleaned that crap off my windshield. And then it was back to the road.

Crossed into Arizona, snow disappearing, going, going, gone. Warmed up a bit, 40℉ and rising. Left my friend the I-40 once again and checked out Petrified Forest National Park. Why not? It was right there, I saw the sign, plus I had me a hankering to see some good ol' wood, petrified or not. 

Blue Mesa

Took a dump, drove around, stretched my legs, saw the sights. Stopped at Blue Mesa and walked on a paved trail, gawkin' and gazin' at all the petrified wood. I imagined what it looked like before anyone found it, before anyone took home a souvenir, before the masses came and the roads were built and the signs were posted warning those that a curse will be placed on ye who steals this wood (there are no such signs, but I believe they would be a lot more effective if they said that, don't you agree?). But there was still a good amount of old wood left and all of it was beautiful; silica, silt, and time workin' together to preserve the shape of a living thing that died hundreds of millions of years ago. 

I hiked on out of there, got back in the car, stopped at a couple more spots. Checked out the Jasper Forest. Checked out the Crystal Forest. And that was it. Left the park, made a right, drove through Holbrook, and I was back on the 40, back to the land of zooming trucks and zoomier cars and zoomiest motorcycles and the occasional RV going 55 in the fast lane and making everyone's lives all the more excitable for a brief yet excruciating moment of time. 

Drove through Winslow, saw Humphrey's Peak in the distance, its summit obscured in clouds. A winter storm warning had been issued, but the clouds didn't look too bad, at least not yet. Rolled into Flagstaff, checked into the Hotel, walked through slick snow to one of the best Indian Restaurants I know. Back in the Hotel, the room warm, the clouds a little darker outside, the bed comfy, sleepy time as imminent as the coming dawn.

Morning time, one last drive. The storm dropped a few inches of fresh powder. Everything glistening and sparkly and fresh. People out and about, brushing the snow off their cars, pushing their suitcases unsuccessfully through the powder. I got on out of there, coasting out of the mountains, my car turning into a salt-mobile. Down, down, down, out of the mountains, out of the snow. Kingman, Topock, Needles, a jump in gas prices, California at last. Nothing but Mojave desert for miles around; nice, clean, empty. And then there's Barstow and I ditched my friend the I-40 for the I-15. Goodbye, and good riddance. Victorville, Pearblossom, Acton, Santa Clarita. Hopped on Hwy 126, following it the rest of the way to Daniel's place. He was outside. I rolled down the window. We shook hands. Finally, the days of driving had come to an end. 

I had planned on stayin' in town for a week, spending the days catchin' up with friends and family and maybe go on a hike or two. The day after I made it into town, on Saturday, the 21st, my Uncle, cousin and I rode up to Rose Valley to check out the Sespe. Lots of water in that thing; flowin' nice and strong. And then the next day Ry, Liam, and I ran a half marathon. I signed up for the thing back in September and had trained on and off over the following months, nothing consistent, my legs unconditioned, my cardio unprepared. But we ran it anyway and we ran it well, talking most of the way, me making jokes, Liam commenting on the strange medal design, and Ry glad that we picked up the pace near the end which made me shut up with my vocal diarrhea, sparing him from further public embarrassment. McKenna ran the same race as well, breaking the 2 hour mark, a remarkable accomplishment. A very good race indeed.

The Sespe

Later, after a nice hot shower and a lunch at the Ojai Beverage Company, Ry, Liam, Daniel and Company drove up the 33 to a little spot I knew just the check it out. And the water was cold and Nick was gonna jump only if Liam would do it first, and Daniel tried some fishing but came up empty handed. And then we threw rocks into the water like the idiots we are and Sophia participated at first but then ended up standing there, watching our shenanigans with bemusement. And then we drove to the large dirt pullout by Dry Lakes Ridge and watched the sunset and threw more rocks and all I could think was that it was nice to be back in town, at least for a little bit.