September 23

September 23

We camped in an RV campground last night, an experience. There were very few either trees or campers. Most of the people were traveling in huge gas-guzzling machines. You would think that they must have been very rich, to pay for all that gas. We broke camp as soon as we woke up, not even cooking breakfast. Soon, we crossed the border into Arizona.

About an hour later we arrived in a one-street town named Golden Shores, on Route 66. If you ever pass through Golden Shores, you should eat at Linda’s café. The walls are plastered in useful sayings, like “we have not been standing idle, we have been building the world’s largest shopping mall!” quoting George Bush. Where there weren’t witty sayings, there were Elvis and Marylyn Monroe pictures. Outside, welcoming us was a two-meter tall pink panther cutout. The food was a mix of typical diner food and Mexican items. I ordered a Mexican version of scrambled eggs, and it was the best thing that we ordered.

Between Golden Shores and Oatman, the next town, was a land of scrub brush and red mountains. The mountains were worthy of Vancouver, but there were no trees, in fact, nothing taller than cacti. The most common plant looked like they were several pipe cleaners attached to a thick central pipe cleaner. The bunch of springy bits at the top were a chalky yellow, and the lower bits were gray, kind of like the way the lower leaves on palm trees are dead.

In the Oatman suburbs (two houses and old tin shed), Rout 66 was blocked by a herd of wild Burros ( also known as donkeys). They didn’t move for anyone, so if a car came along, you had to drive around them. There were several Burros without a baby, and three with babies. One of the Burros looked only a couple days old. It had big knees, and weaved back and forth with each step. The other babies were older and covered in a gray fluff. While we were gaping at the Burros, they started ambling towards us. Our windows were down, to keep us cool, and we got our faces full of Burro noses. To get rid of them you had to reach out, as if you were going to touch their noses. They shied away and we were able to drive on into Oatman itself.

Oatman is a one street town (the highway) and is lined with shops for the tourists that pass through. Oatman’s claim to fame is that it is a ghost town that refuses to die. At noon, there was a “shoot out”. The townsfolk put on a show to raise money for their “transport children to the hospital fund”. The two “cowboys” were firing with blanks and the whole play was about them killing each other. It was very funny.

We got to our campground just out side of the Grand Canyon National Park just as the sun was setting. We set up our sleeping bags and sleep screens, like little tiny tents of mosquito netting, but just for our upper bodies. After a deluxe camping dinner we fell into bed, looking forward to seeing the Grand Canyon the next day. Our sleep was punctuated by the coyotes. They were two groups of them, so we were surrounded by sound. Coyotes sound like the worst soprano opera singer, low yips, and then letting the sound carry into a high whine. They sing a combination off barking and howling. They sound like they are laughing. It was the first time I had heard Coyotes.