The Turquoise Trail

It ribboned away from the Sandía Mountains.
Sandía: Spanish for watermelon.


Romantics believe the mountains were named for the green that lines their tops like a rind, and the reddish rocks underneath that resemble the meat of a watermelon.
Realists postulate that Spaniards in 1530 thought the squash grown here were watermelons.
I say it's because the terrain is dotted with green shrubby guys that look like new age hippie watermelons.


Whatever it is, it's beautiful.
And beautifully lonely.
I employed a genuine smile, free of snark or irony, for the first time in months.
And nothing funny even happened.
I just had the world all to myself.
I guess that is funny.

Kooky weather loomed above.
In the distance the wild fires blazed, choking the clouds with smoke.
The sky was making faces.


I slowed through Madrid, an old mining town.
You emphasize its first syllable.
MAD-rid!
Like you're mad.


The Kickin' Ass Ranch glared at me.
Though with its rusted corrugated roof and bowed wooden supports, it looked like it had gotten its ass kicked.





A FIRE DANGER sign's arrow pointed to the word EXTREME.
The stretch of new age shops and mining museums were all closed.
Preparing for another ass kicking.
No wonder they pronounce it that way.
I'd be mad, too.

It looked ghosty in the sunset.
I headed to the next town.