THE LONG WAY
by Tom Jenz
I was cruising through ranch country along Arizona 191, the two-lane blacktop that splits the old Apache land where the Indian chief Cochise made his last fight against the U.S. Cavalry in the 1870s before the Reservation captured his spirit. In the distance, a train came downcountry, the pale yellow cone of the headlight boring slowly along the high desert. Beyond, a fat white cloud leaned over the purple mountains, unfolding like a flower. On the radio, the Sons of the Pioneers were singing Happy Trails To You. A tumbleweed rolled across the road. I had my eye on a few smalltowns, tiny dots on the map, places the interstates long ago forgot. By dark, I was aiming for Willcox, the county seat, where I hoped to find a motel. But now it was late afternoon, and the yellow light slanted with photographic possibilities. I intended to take the roundabout route there.
I decided to stop in the next town, Sunsites, which I assumed was a fading little cowtown with some dusty buildings and weathered people who liked their pictures taken. Instead, I found a failed retirement community of worn-out RV parks and treeless ranch homes where zoning was a foreign word. Anchoring the town was a little strip mall, a gas station connected to a grocery store, a beauty parlor and a realty office. I drove around back to the VFW hall, a white stone-block building on a stretch of sand. The main room loomed dark and large and smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. An American flag covered a wall, the inscription, ‘These Colors Do Not Run.’ Beyond the pool table ran a long bar, where an oldtimer in a baseball cap sat on a stool, a bottle of Budweiser between his elbows. He was talking to a lady bartender with a parched smoker’s complexion and thick eyeglasses.
“I’m a stranger here,” I told them, my voice echoing. “I’m lookin’ for directions.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” the oldtimer said, turning to me. His face appeared to have been rebuilt, with a triangle nose and grafted skin, the texture mottled, the color white. I took him for a burn victim out of WWII or the Korean War.
I introduced myself. The Vet’s name was Fritz, the bartender’s Wanda. I laid the map out on the bar and explained my predicament. With my finger, I traced my intended route, a tiny gray stripe just above the Mexican border connecting 191 and 186. “We’re here on 191. I wanna get to this road that goes north through Kansas Settlement, then go north up to 186, then into Willcox.”
Fritz sipped his beer, wiped his mouth. “That’s the wrong way, Son. You wanna take Beard Road. It’s just up the street.”
“No, I wanna take this other road here on the map, but I need to know where to pick it up.”
“But that’s the long way,” said Wanda, lighting a cigarette.
“The long way to what?” I asked.
“To Willcox,” said Fritz. “Take Beard Road and you’ll still get to Kansas Settlement.”
“I don’t need to get to Kansas Settlement,” I said.
“Then, why the hell do you keep pointin’ to that road?”
“Because it’s the long way to Willcox.”
Wanda blew a patch of smoke, smiled, shook her head. “You’d save thirty miles the short way.”
“Jesus Christ,” Fritz said, “you’re not makin’ any sense. You don’t want to get to Kansas Settlement, yet you want to take some bullshit route to get there.”
I tried a new tactic. “I might like the scenery. I’m a photographer.”
“Not much scenery on that road,” he said. “Bunch of lizards and cactus.”
“I like lizards and cactus. They move slow. I’m in no hurry. You don’t look like you’re in a hurry either. Lemmee buy you another beer.”
“Thanks, but I better get home. The wife’ll have supper on soon.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of eyeglasses, put them on, and stared at the map. “Oh, hell, lemmee have a look at this. Okay, you go down 191 past Pearce, then it’s maybe another five miles. Watch for the road sign, says Kansas Settlement Road. It’s paved.”
I stopped in Pearce, and found three fading buildings, a pickup truck, a few scattered houses and trailers, and a lot of wind. The Pottery Store’s door was open. I stepped inside, found no one, heard the sounds of a chainsaw, went to the back, yelled for a clerk. A dog barked. I waited. Nobody showed.
I found the Kansas Settlement Road just like Fritz said I would. A few miles up, I photographed a lonely stone house, and behind it, a dirt road that trailed off into high country. The dry land took on a tan hue, with deep umber tones that clothed the mountains in shades as varied as the skins of all the races. I moved on, the landscape evolving into irrigated crops. Kansas Settlement itself proved to be no settlement, just a convenience store where an old lady sat behind the counter and answered “cotton and beans” to my question, “What’s grown around here?”
Many miles later, the light richer, I came to the end of the road. I had a choice. I could go left on 186, take the easy way into Willcox, and settle in for the night. Or I could go right and climb the road up to the tiny town of Dos Cobezas, take a chance on finding that amazing photograph lying in wait. I went right, and, ten miles later, regretted my decision. I saw only scrub country, the mountains ahead, the valley behind. About ready to quit my journey, my stomach suddenly jumped when I spotted a field of tombstones in a patch of yellow sun. I pulled off the road and looked at the sign above the gate, reading Pioneer Cemetery in silver metal lettering. I grabbed my cameras and moved up the hill, the wind swirling like a hand about to swat me.
I’d come across Arizona, across the desert and over the mountains, through the mining towns, the tourist stops, ghost towns, rich and poor towns, and the Indian Reservations, heading toward the New Mexico border, the 4-lane road my enemy, always on the lookout for what happens next, glad that I did not know. Now I unearthed a cinematic mural, a settlers’ cemetery, the tombstones and wooden crosses leaning east off a hundred and some years of west wind and changing in the changing light, going from blue to yellow and back again.
The desolation of the cemetery was a thing exquisite, and I shot wide angle pictures, the tombstones always large in the foreground. Giant clouds crowded the eastern sky tinted a tranquil turquoise above the indigo outlines of the mountains. The western horizon lay yellow around the sun.
It was cold out, but I left there with a warm feeling. I felt as substantial and soothing as the blue range of mountains surrounding me. I’d been fishing for photographs, and I’d caught a big one. Zen and the art of photography, I thought -- be in the moment, never look forward or look back. Stay with what you can see, concentrate, be mindful. A picture may be just around the next corner.
THE END
