Dec. 13th.09 - Florence, AZ 10:30pm

Got a tiny bit closer to nature today, or possibly just as close as retired folks tend to get outside of a golf course.

We went out to the Theodore Roosevelt dam, which lies at the base of a startlingly enormous lake a ways north of my folks' place. It's up in the mountains, like right up there in and around what seems to be copper mining country. We passed through a mining town or two, one of which was quite affecting. I believe it was Globe, or possibly Miami. Either way it was quite jarring; it seemed kind of like a more modern version of an Old West ghost town. The buildings are newer, as is the infrastructure obviously, but at least 70% of the buildings are just as boarded up along the main road through town. The streets were all but empty (until you drove past the Wal*Mart at least, which is quite obviously the one commercial enterprise in the entire god-forsaken place that is actually flourishing, aside from the local coffee shop), which I would assume has more than a little to do with the fact that it's post-church Sunday football hours. The houses I could see from the road were dilapidated at best with rusted out vehicles and crumbling fences their only borders. I would have loved to wander around for an hour and take photos, but what's one more wasted opportunity? Some out-of-work miner probably would have beaten me up anyway.


As we completed the drive to the dam you could see the mountain ranges where the mining had occurred in years past, the steps down from level to level clearly delineated. While there was only a few ranges amongst literally dozens of others, if not hundreds, it's still kind of shocking to see that kind of willful destruction marring an otherwise breathtaking natural landscape. Of course, I was also en route to a dam that had been constructed by First Nations labourers out of chunks of one of those mountains that had been exploded for that express purpose so...


I got some decent photos at and around the dam site. It's quite impressive: there's a huge blue bridge that was put up to handle the traffic that used to pass directly over top of the dam itself. The overlooks at the dam site say the bridge was originally put together by stonemasons that crafted the dam at the site of a mountain they blew up to provide the raw materials. It's the biggest ever hand-built in the US, with labourers pulling tools and materials dozens of miles through the mountain ranges using teams of mules.


More than 40 people died during the construction, which is a statistic people always trot out for large-scale, old-timey projects like this. But it lacks context. People were making $2.50 a day to labour on it but there probably wasn't a lot else going on. Maybe they got bored and drunk and jumped off the site. Is that more or less noteworthy than the guy who was riding up the Apache Trail behind a burro that dropped a boulder because it wasn't securely fastened and it knocked him down to the riverbed below? I don't know.


Anyway, the dam was extended some 30 years after construction because the flood plain calculations originally done were way off the potential water levels. Right now the lake sits pretty much on that original build line for most of the year, but in times of heavy rain/snow in the state it can go higher. I guess someone forgot to carry a two somewhere in the calculation process. I believe a certain Michael Bolton would call that a, "Monday detail."


So the dam was pretty impressive, but it pales significantly in comparison to the incredible wonder that lies directly behind it. See, the water from the dam supplies a series of three lakes that lie on the low side. They travel for about 25 miles or so, probably less, travelling with pretty good speed South and West from the Roosevelt. They wind in and around numerous hills and mountains; the dam typically only allows enough water through at any given time to keep them around their optimum levels. Following along with them, and eventually past them, is the Apache Trail, which shows up on a GPS unit as "Highway 88." But the "highway" is almost entirely unpavedand often shrinks to little more than the width of a large car of SUV.


The trail, apparently one of Roosevelt's favourite things in the world, originated with "marauding" Indian bands, according to some tourist info found at Tortilla Flats (basically a diner on the opposite end of the trail from the dam). It was the worn path the First Nations tribes used to make their way through the area's precarious mountain passages before the white man showed up. It proved to be the most efficient means to facilitate the dam construction and Teddy decided it should be kept intact because it combined the best parts of the Grand Canyon and other noteworthy American park features, adding its own ineffible quality (I'd call it the constant sens of potential bloody catastrophe). Since then the trail has been mostly maintained, graded intermittently after flash floods that are common in the hills. It serves as an incredibly scenic, slow-moving, and precarious driving route through the mountains. The 24 mile route takes roughly an hour and a half to complete. I wouldn't recommend running out of gas at any point.


It was a terrifying but spectacular experience. Kind of like driving the Crow's Nest Pass in BC at midnight but more dangerous. This dusty trail has no guard rails at any point, save for a few hundred metres of ascending mountainside towards the end. However, what is there is too flimsy and too high up to really offer any kind of protection. Top speed is about 12 mph due to the constant blind corners and ever-narrowing road surface. At a few points you come to spaces with signs that warn of "Flash Flood Zone" -- not at all unsettling on a cloudy day with intermittent drizzling. There are also numerous one-lane bridge passings. The road is constantly rutted and loose rocks of varying sizes and sharpness are littered throughout.


But that's just the driving surface. While one side of you is constantly an arm's length away from the hillside the other overlooks a chasm of hundreds of yards, an expansive lake that moves more like a river lying either far below or not so far below. As you progress you climb and descend six or seven degree inclines, which is a lot steeper than it sounds. We started out from the dam side, which plummets to the lowest point possible early on. That also meant that the further we went the higher we climbed. As the lakes below dried up we went high and higher, climbing and climbing up ever-changing rock faces and formations, looking down on several diverging mountainous valleys. We saw large cave mouths directly above us and thousands upon thousands of tall cactus plants dotted the hillsides. They flourish living so close to the water, growing up to two dozen feet tall and sporting as many as half a dozen appendages. Many of them had been attacked by cactus grouses, birds that hollow out a part of the sturdy plants to live inside of them.


I would've given anything today to kayak down those lakes, to let the current carry me as I stared up at the mountain peaks. I want to have every fleeting feeling of total insignificance I've ever had confirmed by that environment. I want to be nothing to a landscape that has taken hundreds of lives before I ever came along. I want to twist in the wind and have nothing but hope and sweat going for me. Maybe that's all I've got now but I want something tangible to fight against, be it the wind or the water or the current, instead of my usual boring insecurities and emotions.


I'm dreading going home.

Dec. 12th.09 - Florence, AZ before midnight

Mercifully little to think about today.


We drove into Mesa today for the giant flea market, a long-standing relic from my childhood and yet another thing that wasn't quite the same as I remembered it, another memory distorted by time, age, and distance.


I don't think it's aimed primarily at tourists, so I'm inclined to believe that consumerism and the bastardization of Native American art and lifestyle are what passes for culture among the locals. The closest thing to art in the whole place was some kind of burned/brushed steel; there were enough booths offering them that I guess the technique must be pretty well-known in AZ. They were basically metal sheets cut to a circle, then cut and burned into desert scenes with roadrunners, coyotes, cowboys, geckos, horses, "Indians", Aztecs playing pipes, or, somewhat inexplicably, people golfing. Sunsets also came frequently into play. Other than that, it was various cactuses grown for sale, carved or ceramic dogs/coyotes/desert animals/etc, printed t-shirts with the same. There were socks festooned with "USA" and various patterns of stars and stripes. A hundred or so stands in the middle of the rows boasted cooke-cutter leather goods including (but of course not limited to) fanny packs designed to hold YOUR PISTOL. Seriously.


Without exaggerating, there were hundreds of vendors at this thing. It spans a space equivalent to dozens of city blocks. Booths are co-ordinated by quadrant, like a massive parking lot. Which it basically is.

The food provided no further insight into local customs of cuisine. It consisted mostly of salsa, popcorn, nuts, hot dogs, and pretzels with plastic liquid cheese and giant rocks of salt draped over them.


It's like this place is strapped somewhere between a foreigner's vision of middle America, Texas, and Mexico and nothing else really belongs here. It's where people from elsewhere come to settle down in an inoffensive place with no discernible climate and no local customs or traditions to be forced upon them. Even the Native Americans that seem to influence some of the culture (undoubtedly in the most stereotypical way possible) rarely stayed here. Before white settlers came they followed food and water through the state, leaving behind the structures and sensibilities that served them while they were here.

Arizona today is new, indistinct, directionless, and absolutely fleeting, vague and non-descript and overwhelmingly white.

My memories of the flea market 20-some years ago were more colourful but likely represent the exact same thing, possibly in an outdoor setting. Aside from a few tasty/humorous brands of salsa and hot sauce there was little redeeming it for the adult me. The world doesn't need 200 more water features in rich people's backyards or another thousand cut-price off-brand golf clubs. Almost got a sweet faux-snakeskin belt though, so I guess it can't be all bad.

Not much else happening today though, which isn't a bad thing on a vacation. Dinner with other retired couples at G & S', delicious but way too much food. I'm so tired of overeating. The book B lent me is already helping though. Sixty pages in and I've already learned eating fatty/salty/sugary foods only leads to more of the same, something that should be obvious but I think I definitely try not to think about the addictive aspect of my often-horrible diet. I have to start considering it more actively. Sixteen-hundred calories a day should be achievable. It's been years since I was more than halfways satisfied with my appearance. Maybe Kate Moss is right and nothing tastes as good as skinny feels (no, she isn't).

I had a nap this afternoon; the last vestiges of my dream involved me having dozens, maybe hundreds of dimes in my mouth. Disconcerting, to say the least.

A moment of total regression followed: after waking from the nap I found everyone gone to G & S' for dinner. I saddled up Pa's bike and headed over. A slight decline in the grade of the sidewalk had me picking up speed so I downshifted as fast as I could and pushed for top speed the whole way there. I flashed back to thousands of summer days I was left to race home at dinner time for grits while the sun waned behind me, pushing myself to squeeze the last bit of excitement and joy I could out of the daytime. Nothing as an adult makes me that happy, not even the re-creation of those moments.

Where does that leave me? Drunk and lonely, evidence would suggest. Dad told the dinner guests about how my brother J and I, at about four months old, managed to somehow shift our separated cribs from opposite sides of the bedroom to the point where we could reach through the bars for each other. We were never so happy, he said, as when we could be in contact with one another. We even used to literally sleep on top of each other, stacked like Lego pieces. One on the bottom watching TV at like 3 years old, the other in the same position, lying on his stomach, literally on top of the other.

Where is that today? Is that need for a symbiotic relationship something I'm inadvertently looking for in a partner? Do I want too much, to be too close? Something tells me that's something that can't be replaced.

Dec. 12th.09 - Florence AZ, past midnight

Had a good day with my ol' father. It started with a tiny flashback to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Loreburn, a place I miss dearly. See, he made waffles and we pretty much only ever had waffles at Grandma and Grandpa's when I was a kid. I kind of love that, that something so common can hold a genuinely special and meaningful memory. Because it started with waffles but Grandpa and Grandma's was also the place we were most constantly awash in extended family, it was the only time we went to the beach, the only time we went fishing, the only time I remember my Grandpa being vital and mobile. After being around him as a child I would never have expected to see someone's body betray them so badly, as it did in his later years. I'll always be afraid of aging because of that. I miss him and I hate myself for ever taking him for granted.

We went for a great round of golf later in the morning and it turned out to be pretty much the most beautiful day ever in all of time. I only played well on maybe a third of the holes, but the actual performance is inconsequential when it comes to golf. For me, anyway.

We had lunch and some mid-day beer at the house and then took a short drive into the country to get some supplies for dinner. The first stop was a family-run pork farm/shop. They raise and butcher their own animals, offering pretty much anything a pig has ever been turned into in their little storefront. We got some pepper bacon and some chops for tomorrow's breakfast and dinner respectively. We also stopped at a very cool olive farm and mill, which is apparently a pretty big deal. They make all sorts of different olive oils, some infused with citrus and garlic and hot peppers and whatnot. I recognize the label; I think they have distribution into Canada, which is pretty cool for an independent farm/company that does everything locally. They also have a variety of crafty things made out of olive wood, fresh-baked artisan breads, a diner with a full menu, and a viewing window where you can see the olives being pressed. You could probably spend a fairly interesting afternoon there taking it all in. We also stopped at San Tan Flats for a beer before heading home. I think they want to come back for dinner before we leave, but it was interesting even just to see. The restaurant side isn't that large, but the bar side is huge and open-air; most of it is outdoors, centered around a dance floor placed directly under the night sky. The only problem was when they opened it was technically illegal to dance outdoors in Arizona. I know that sounds like something you would read in a bullshit email forward, but it's quite true. They got cited and fought it, eventually going to court. The case was thrown out and the law was repealed, I believe. Either way, dancing is now both allowed and encouraged.

I liked our little commerce trip. It seemed kind of like the antithesis of what my cynical Canadian self has come to expect from America, the land where convenience and size are the greatest concerns, where chains and brands rule with an iron fist. To see these family-run businesses doing industrious, multi-faceted work on their own, without name or brand recognition behind them, is always encouraging but somehow more so in this environment. It speaks to what used to be the overriding virtue in the States, back when hard work and desire made anything possible.

Anyway, it was kind of cool to hear my Costo-shopping dad talk about how he feels it's important to go a little bit out of your way once in a while to support the little guy who's doing something unique and wonderful. I don't really remember that being a priority for him at any other point in my life.

I am very sleepy right now, even though I feel like I've been sleeping better than I have in months. I actually nodded off in the car this afternoon while in the midst of a conversation with dad. Travelling through the countryside and seeing all the agricultural work in the region led to some other good chats, the importance of agriculture versus civic development being chief amongst them. Maybe I'll outline that a bit more later.

Dec. 11.09 - near Florence, AZ, midnight

More consumerism and excess today, but only after a little bonding time. After breakfast Dad and I went on a bike ride to literally every corner of both sides of the development. The scope of this goddamn thing keeps surprising me. They put up dozens of homes in a couple of weeks, just an astounding building pace. And it's happening in the middle of nowhere. Retail prices and groceries are at rock-bottm but someone is prepping to make a mint of Sun City Anthem. The community center/gyms/gathering places and parks alone are very daunting and no doubt pricey. The kind of things public money could never even envision, let alone execute.

We stopped at the historical monument at "Casa Grande," both an incredible site and an incredible sight. It's basically the remains of a community, an ancient town built and lived in by the Hohokam, a whole people that seem to have vanished into thin air. Historians suspect some other Native American tribes are descendants but there is no definitive physical evidence to confirm those suspicions.

The ruins at Casa Grande are incredible for so many reasons, the least of which is that some aspect of it has survived this long. It was discovered in the early 1900's, about 500 years after it was likely abandoned by the Hohokam. The centerpiece of the community is the "great house" the name hints at. Lying in the center of the community it stands at least 80 feet tall, constructed more or less out of materials gathered from the desert floor, the rudimentary building products forming a base wall that stands four feet thick and is more or less solid concrete. The building itself is just four degrees from lining up with true north. The building has windows that line up perfectly with the sun and moon during the winter and summer solstices. Another skylight lines up with the moon on some obscure 18 year cycle, a very rare and uncommon part of its rotation apparently. The Hohokam were apparently some kind of astronomers but no one can figure out where that knowledge came from or what the true significance of those events was to them.


The "great house" is the centerpiece of the ruins and the community that once existed around it but a lot of outlying infrastructure also remains and shows the ingenuity they had in planning and forming their home. They even built large "ball courts" as a space for social games and gatherings, shaped like an early version of a hockey rink. There were four or five different designs for outlying buildings, each with its own drainage system for the rainy season. The pots and bowls they constructed were fired by burning mesquite trees and, over time, they grew more and more intricately patterned and decorated.


I dropped $30 on a book about the tribe and the ruins, a collection of essays by archaeologists that worked on the site or studied the Hohokam. Its quite fascinating because this site is really the last vestige of the tribe, the last evidence they even existed. Scientists are really clueless as to what might have happened to them; an entire people just up and disappeared. We know that they abandoned most of their settlements along the Salt River and relocated to the Gila River area and it has been postulated that as their canals dried up they were simply unable to survive the conditions of the desert. But the lack of any kind of concrete history is both troubling and fascinating. They have these sites that people can visit and learn about their history, how they lived and what their lives were like, but the ultimate ending remains a mystery. Even something as simple as their pots and bowls raises more questions than can be answered. There are enough pristine examples preserved by the desert that we know they went through several different styles and practices during different periods, but we don't know what lead them to discover how to create such smoothly finished surfaces and create a functional glaze. When did functionality cease to be their primary concern, giving way to the constantly-evolving and complex decoration and painting? Is there a correlation between the increase in contact with other tribes, the subsequent increase in trading, and the importance of what we would today consider pleasing aesthetics?


Their agricultural prowess is also worth noting. They harvested rivers and tributaries that have since long gone dry for their survival, carving out an incredible series of canals to draw water to their communities for irrigation and a sustainable drinking water supply. This is, of course, done with tools made from stone and bone long before white settlers arrived in the area. The scope of the work is beyond comprehension in a lot of ways.

So it is very compelling stuff, but I have to admit to feeling a bit of guilt about it considering its been years since I did this kind of reading about Canadian First Nations. Probably since University. Whoops. Might have to correct that.


In the interest of keeping a consistent theme we spent most of the rest of the day shopping. Shoes, pants, sweaters, all half or sometimes a third of what I would normally expect them to cost. Apparently people are so desperate to make any sale at all they'll give you a drastically-reduced price on an item that isn't even on sale as long as you tell them you thought it was. So Sarah Mills will get her wish; I will come home with three new pairs of shoes, new work slacks, and hopefully a fresh and healthy new outlook on life to go along with them.

To that end: I don't think I thought about my relationships back home for more than two minutes today. I'm calling that a victory.

Take me to sleep, Legs McNeil and Polar Bear Club.

Dec. 10/09, midnight, Phoenix AZ

Quiet day, but it passed. Thankfully with minimal brain activity.

Woke up this morning in the midst of one of the most vivid dreams I've had in years. It began with a couple of short scenes I've since forgotten about but the main thrust was that I ended up at a comic/record/candy/ice cream shop run by the girlfriend of a high school friend. I don't remember if that friend was around at all, I think not, but I showed up in the morning before it was even open and went inside to hang out with this girl for a spell. It was odd and interesting, like we had some kind of familiarity we probably don't and may never have in real life. Eventually the store filled with her friends and family, all employees, and they got ready to open. Terry Fucking Hincks dropped by for some reason to congratulate her on the opening, which is probably one of the least likely scenarios I can think of.

Golfing was interesting today. I played terrible up until the last couple of holes. I'm pretty sure I was trying to work out some pent-up aggression by swinging way too hard way too often. I mean I swung so hard I started getting some pretty distinct pain in my shoulder blade area by the time I calmed down some. It was also kind of self-perpetuating because it just made me more frustrated that I was performing badly and compounded everything. I need to learn to deal with that better, not let that kind of aggression build up.

Getting a better view of the class divide down here. Grounds staff and day labourers in this community are almost uniformly Mexican, many speaking no English at all. Dad said the crew he hired to landscape their yard was technically the same that Gerry and Sherri used, but the personnel was very different; apparently a few of the guys got picked up by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and deported. The other workers say they'll be back in a few weeks, so apparently they know something the U.S. government doesn't. Kind of shows you the futility of the war against illegal immigrants.

Perhaps the Canadians can see it because they aren't so close to the situation, but there seems to be a consensus amongst these retirees that the economy, at least in the southern states, would grind to an absolute halt without illegal workers. They seem to be doing all the work in Arizona, anyway. When they work, that is; they clearly have a different mindset about urgency and the length of the work day. Gerry and Sherri are getting their back yard re-done and the workers didn't show up until 11;30am (they were expected before 10:00). While waiting for the porch bricks to be delivered they sat in the back yard, ate their bagged luches, even had naps in the sun since it took longer for the truck to show up than they expected.

Dad and Gerry talked with a hint of amazement in their voices about how much more they could get done if they worked harder for the full day and were better planned and organized (they ran out of bricks on two consecutive days before getting the porch finished). But the Canadian retirees don't seem to consider that there might be cultural differences at play, or at least a different mentality about work. Maybe (obviously) they aren't there to work 12 hour days and make more than they need, maybe they take on a job to cover their expenses and that's enough for them. Maybe they have a more austere lifestyle that doesn't necessarily call for all the comforts and conveniences we seek. Maybe its worth it to make a little less if your hours are a little less gruelling, if you're a little more relaxed, if you spend a little more time with your family, a little less time being stressed out. They likely couldn't even maintain the level they work at for a full eight hours; they have to use a pickaxe just to break into the desert soil to dig. They dig all day long with a goddamn pick axe and tamp dirt and bricks with a hand-made wooden pile driver. I would probably need a nap too.

You certainly don't need to make much money here though. Looking through the newspaper today and seeing the flyers for groceries and electronics was downright shocking. I know we have to import an awful lot of produce and other products to Saskatchewan but the price differences are immense nonetheless. The exchange rate alone can't explain it, that's for sure. Dad says they've seen gallons of milk on sale at times for 75 cents. That's astounding. I haven't seen a single cow since I got here! Where's all this cheap milk coming from? There are cows all over our province; how does this make sense? Meat is a stark example as well, literally a fraction of the price charged back home. The per-pound price for chicken and beef here is roughly equivalent to some of the 100 gram prices for fancy deli meat in Regina.

Pa says Part of the reason is that the state lacks the marketing boards/councils that dictate prices. For example, Christmas-sized turkeys, the 30 pounders, can be purchased for five dollars or less depending on how close to the holiday you get. Back home the Saskatchewan Turkey Producers' Marketing Board would set a higher price so that every producer gets a more even slice of the market. There's no regulatory body working for producers here, so they get into their own little price wars and things get super-cheap. It makes a big difference.

Price points follow the same trend for clothing, electronics, and other consumer goods as well. Big-name brand shoes are a third the price I'm used to; I got a brand new pair of New Balance running shoes for $39. I saw a 52" plasma hi-def TV on sale for $600; my dad got a smaller plasma screen a couple of years ago for $2,800 and it was a steal. Blu-ray DVDs sell for half or better of what they are at home.


It might seem a stereotype to us Canadians but excess definitely seems to be the call to arms here, especially when it comes to two of the most stereotypical American recreational aides: liquor and guns. We stopped at the Cabella's shop in Phoenix, a massive "outdoor outfitter" that older gentleman are quite fond of. The building is the size of entire shopping malls at home, large enough to include dozens of taxidermied animals posed on a faux-mountainside that reaches two floors from floor to ceiling. There's even a "museum" of sorts in the back of all the different animals that inhabit the region. That someone has killed. Anyway, we passed by the firearms area and the number of rifles on display was astounding. But that wasn't the half of it; meandering through the footwear section I glanced at a flyer left open on a bench and saw the big sale item this month: handguns! There was a full two-page spread of different pistols available for purchase just steps from where I was standing. I was agog. They were just there, all different styles, price ranges, and "stopping power." They were in Wal*Mart and in small, independent sporting goods stores. It reminded me that, while there is some loose regulation, that shit could be lying within arm's length of any home or person down here. I can't believe with the kind of availability there is anyone actually commits crime; I'm afraid just to look at people funny after seeing that. There's no way I could commit a crime and risk someone "defending themselves" against me.


Liqour is the other big one, as I mentioned. It isn't like some Alberta cities where they're overcompensating by having a thousand "beer stores" on every big street. Its just everywhere; advertised on TV, in grocery flyers, even drug stores carry booze. Its in every kind of store and in every advertisement. The first thing I saw when we went into Costco yesterday (yeah, my folks still shop at Costco, even though its just the two of them) was huge pallets of booze stacked at least 20 feet high. The prices seem insane, 1.75 litre bottles of tequila for $20. Sales are evidently so high at Costco the company has expanded their own in-store brand (Kirkland, I believe they call it) to cover booze. They have Kirkland "French gourmet" vodka, Kirkland 10 year-old Tawny Port, even several varieties of wine. And its littered throughout the store, not just in one back corner of the store where there was at least a dozen tables of product. There was an incredible juxtaposition in one aisle: all the floor-level products were sporting goods, balls, bats, weights, etc. But the entire aisle on the upper levels of those shelves, from eye-level up, was even more alcohol. Mostly beer. I'm not saying there isn't a tangential connection there, but they seem to be at odds.

But we didn't really venture outside the walls of "Sun City" today so there isn't much else to analyze. I think we'll probably end up going to Casa Grande tomorrow for a little shopping and a look at the Hohokam national monument the town is named after. Should be good to do a little learning during this adventure.

Dec. 8.09 10:00 pm Arizona time

Like I told the Twitter, I just don't get monolithic cities. I can't understand the mentality that one enormous, sprawling land mass encompassing the territory that was once divided into a half-dozen cities is a superior concept. Maybe it works for NYC but I don't get it in this context.

That being said there is a sort of twisted, masochistic beauty to the constantly intermingling, arching, curving levels of highways that converge in some areas of the city. The infrastructure here is both technically impressive and possessed of a certain austere loveliness. Everything is very terra cotta, uniform in its tans and browns and greys but there's also a subtle aesthetic value to the constant barrage of over- and under-passes and sound walls. There is also quite a number of active agricultural sections of land here, interspersed with all the concrete and desert. I'm sure it can't be easy or cheap to produce things that are actually green in this environment (besides cactus), but seeing a large patch of produce lying in the midst of a university campus or adjacent to a highway next to an industrial site is almost reminiscent of home. I can get why Saskatchewanians flock here; its like home in reverse, a climate that is at times inhospitable but they persevere in spite of it.

There's a lot more duality in the state than I remember. I was talking to Dad about it and a spin through the evening news illustrated it: the northern "high country" is basically the Banff to the southern region's Vancouver. There were areas in the north that saw up to 3 FEET of snow in a 24 hour period a day or two ago. The pictures on the newscast were incredible. It was like the blizzard up in Saskatoon a year or two ago except it started melting quicker. But there's a distinct line where the elevation plummets and all those southern regions like Phoenix get rain instead of snow. Quite a bit of rain actually, the first rain in 90 days, but still just rain. That's likely why things are looking so green right now, my old man says. I don't really remember a lot of green aside from the less-friendly shades of aloe and cactus plants.

I'm split on the location of Mom and Dad's new dwelling. It lies a full hour's drive south-east of Phoenix, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. Florence reminds me of the fictional Agrestic, from that Weeds program. Its a community apart from the greater society, an oasis of well-to-do development in the midst of inhospitable lands and mountains. It is highly suburban. Everything, down to the sidewalks and the waterpark and the goddamn pickleball courts (?) is brand new. The homes are tightly-packed with no walls or fences to divide the yards. The fuse boxes for each house are placed on the outside walls, recessed into the outer wall of the home, unsecured. Any hoodlum that can hitch a ride out here could disable the power and alarm systems (which most probably don't even have) with barely a thought. But I guess that's the point of a place like this, that the lowest common denominator is nowhere to be found.

Its a very lovely place though and stone-quiet so far removed from any city. Standing outside on the back porch barbecuing tonight the silence was prevalent. Not even the neighbours made a sound. Apparently the closest thing they get to a disturbance in these parts is the howling of coyotes at night and the occasional tuft of feathers that are left behind in the cold light of morning to signify something has been killed and eaten during the night. It makes sense for those prairie kids from Canada who made their fortunes (or as close as they're able) to seek out a place like this, one that sits comfort within that sense of pastoral serenity we see in Saskatchewan's countryside.

The drive out illustrates the difference between locales. The horizon, both far and near, is dotted with Arizona's "mountains." They are a treacherous-looking yin to the Rockies' gently fir-covered yang. Not only are they covered with dozens, sometimes hundreds of cacti but each formation seems to be the result of a surfeit of jagged, loose rocks that seem to have been dumped on top of each other from high above. They look as though a raindrop in the wrong spot would result in the whole precarious Jenga pile crashing down. They lie for miles incalculable in the distance, painting a vaguely menacing yet familiarly-beautiful backdrop into the state's canvas, a darker counterpart to its disarmingly beautiful (and very familiar) blue sky. If not for the ranges in the distance you really feel like you'd be in the Canadian prairies (except for Phoenix itself, which -- I'm sorry to belabour the point -- has like 15 Costco's).

The constant cacti is different though. We have nothing as distinctive and evocative as the cactus. I tried to get photos of some during the drive (thanks for nothing, automated shutter speed) but I'm hoping to carve out some time during the golden hour this week to shoot some more of them. The ones along the highway, which lies mostly on Native American reserve land, are astounding. Most have more than the stereotypically-familiar three-pronged body with arms, their gnarly fingers developed at a snail's pace, sometimes over as much as several hundred years. Some have more than a dozen arms stretching in each direction, branching off in a way that defies logic or consistency. Each has its own character. Some look to be at least 15 to 20 feet tall. Its truly incredible, especially amongst the rest of the sparse vegetation, which seems to be little more than more-evolved tumbleweed at first glance. The only indication of their potential danger comes when a loose plastic bag or other piece of trash that has been carelessly dumped by the roadside (and there was a lot of it; this area of the state lacks recycling facilities of any kind) gets pierced and trapped by their needles.

My Dad's cousin Gerald, who lives a few blocks over from my folks, was along for the ride with my old man. The three of us couldn't decide why there was a fence lining the inter-state and regional highways. It likely has something to do with the reserve status of the surrounding land, as there was no livestock to be seen. The only cattle in the southern part of the state seems to be at dairy farms where there isn't a lot of room to roam. Perhaps it serves to protect some less-aware travellers from running themselves into a cactus and getting jabbed.

So there's a stark contrast between the unyielding and untouched natural surroundings and the incredibly engineered farmlands and the suburb I find myself writing this from. For instance, local farmers go to great lengths to capture what little precipitation falls here just to irrigate their crops; we passed some green fields bordered by culverts that are constructed slightly above the level of the produce so the producers can run tubes down to the fields, allowing gravity to flood the field in controlled sections. They have to work very hard to get as much natural moisture as possible to their crops. Meanwhile, a five-minute drive away in the odd little community my folks live in outside Florence visitors are greeted by a large brick sign complete with a massive, cascading waterfall spilling out of it. In fact its one of several inside the "town," although the apparent laissez-faire attitude towards what is usually considered a valued commodity in desert climates is not localized there by any stretch of the imagination. Phoenix boasts numerous questionable uses of what should be considered a pretty precious resource in a year-round desert climate (including a professional football stadium with a real grass playing field that literally rolls out of the side of the building and needs to be constantly watered). My parents' little community also boasts a full-sized waterpark for residents, numerous indoor and outdoor pools, and an 18-hole golf course. This is, I assume, only feasible because homeowners are required to xeriscape their yards and are outfitted with brand new, Energy Star compliant appliances.

The largesse of the development isn't necessarily a bad thing, I suppose. This isn't a real town, its a collection of homes with a basic service or two located nearby. The closest thing it has to local flavour or culture seems to be a Chinese restaurant. Its kind of a nebulous thing; homeowners answer to the developer, while I suppose in theory the developer answers to the county. But the company made sure to get all the infrastructure in place ahead of time and provide for every possible want or need their customers might have. Its the exact sort of thing people like my parents want and deserve. They have little to no stress and after 35 years and four kids who too often took them and their hard work and sacrifice for granted it is exactly what they should have. A life of absolute leisure for as long as they can afford to sustain it. It may not be an ideal situation as far as my liberal guilt is concerned but it could probably be worse. At least they aren't driving all over the hemisphere in a huge RV, constantly on the move and clogging highways and rest stops, blowing out CO2 and making people angry. The sustainability of what they've chosen could be better but it could also be worse.

And they're so happy. Maybe they're just happy to see me but it seems like there's far less pointless bickering and far more togetherness and getting along. My impression of retired life is that it has absolutely everything to do with planning for dinner, night in and night out. They plan meals with Gerry and Sherri and other folks in the neighbourhood days in advance, sometimes a week or more. They share a freezer with G&S and they plan their dinners out in advance for each night. They seem to be eating less, reducing their carbs, and getting more exercise. They ride their bikes everywhere, every day almost. I can't even remember the last time I saw them on bikes. They're also golfing more here than they have back home the last couple years combined. The development's "activity center" or whatever they call it also has a satellite campus for the University of Arizona so my mom is taking a genealogy class there. Yeah, my mother is now a student at America's #1 party school. Maybe not the highest reaches of academia, but she's advancing her education! How cool is that?

Conversely, however, I've also rarely seen so much liquor in one private residence before (that includes their Regina home, which has always been hugely stocked). That's probably because they still shop at the Costco, which in America carries every kind of booze imaginable at prices roughly a third of what they are at home. They sell so much liquor the company has their own brand of wine, vodka, and other products. Dad insists they drink less than they do at home, despite the volume present in their pantry. He insisted they have a one-bottle limit for each colour of wine at dinner. I think he was joking.

I think me being here right now might actually be more for them than for me. Obviously I do need this right now, of course, maybe more than I will any other time in the short to medium term. But while they have had visitors in the time they've been here I know they're missing the kids a lot. Its pretty evident I need to do a much better job of staying in touch once they return after Christmas. But I think having one of us kids come down and see what they've done with the place, how proud they are of it, really means a lot to them.

I guess on some level I'd hoped this trip might help me restore my faith in relationships. I don't know if that's happening though. I love mom and dad and they're obviously my most immediate touchpoint for long, successful unions but it may not be what I need in a more immediate context. There's still a huge part of me that's feeling lonely and desperate, like I might never get to that point or even the point I thought I was at before it all ended. Regardless of the past or what the various women in my life I still have functional relationships with tell me I've never had a ton of success in tracking down eligible ladies and figuring out when they're interested. I'm still trying to figure out how to completely shut this all out of my mind, at least until I have a sex drive or even a desire for human connection and interaction again. There will be plenty of worrying about that once I get home.

I sat for the better part of 16 hours today. My knee is totally pissed at me and I need some sleep. Vacation, do your thing.

Dec. 8.09 11:45ish in some time zone somewhere

It looks like we're flying over the Arctic or something. All I see is just fluffy white clouds. The blanket of puffy white is breaking up ahead, I guess. Might see some ground today.

Baby got quiet at some point; I think we both drifted off for a spell. I woke up while they were passing out drinks. I foolishly asked for a Coke, forgetting all soda here is high-fructose corn syrup-based. Tastes like anus.

Dec 8.09 11:25 Mountain time, still en route to Phoenix

Word of advice: don't sit anywhere you can see the wing of your plane while it is taking off from Denver International Airport unless you have a total disregard for how ludicrous and insane flying really is.

See, I'm aware of how ludicrous it is that man actually flies. It goes against all of nature. It is an abomination for land-dwelling mammals to reach 35,000 feet, regardless of what anyone tells you.

The pilot warned us that take-off would be a little choppy. He failed to mention those seated on the wing would be watching it shake in the breeze like a sheet of tin being used to create thunder claps in a stage production of King Lear.

Oh well. Seeing the first blue sky of the day now that we're above Denver's snowy cloud-cover. A spot of turbulence has the plane heaving and yawing like a kite in a stiff breeze.

If someone doesn't shut that baby up, incidentally, they'll be arresting me when this fucking thing touches down.

Just kidding. Babies rule.

Dec. 8.09 11:00 Mountain time, en route to Phoenix from DEN

"Thanks for your compliance."

That's what they say on these flights. Compliance. Like you aren't a paying customer, rather a potentially troublesome complainer waiting to happen. Wasn't flying once a gentleman's pursuit? Didn't they once treat passengers with courtesy, not curtness? Sure, you may have had to pay an arm and a leg to fly back in the day, but by god it kept the riff-raff out!

There are at least two toddlers and an infant on this plane, a Boeing 757. There is already crying happening. Not to be excessively snooty or anti-child, but I don't want to hear kissy noises, crying, or little feet running up and down the aisle of my plane. Not ever.

I ate some American McDonald's for a quick lunch BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU DO IN AMERICA. As the Romans do. Or something. I barely finished half of the mess. I'd rather not get fatter, especially when I've been losing weight lately. We'll see how well I stick to that once I'm eating red meat for every single meal. That's how my family rolls.

More crying baby. iPod is coming out for the rest of this leg.

The person next to me either didn't show or they didn't sell the seat. I've got a buffer. It's a relief.

Dude is saying "peek-a-boo" to that infant now. Louder than necessary. I'm irritable.

My heart feels strange after that McDonald's. I should probably start seeing a doctor. I guess I'm getting old.

I've got a wing-adjacent window seat. I'll be among the first to see the engines flare out if we have a catastrophic disaster. That sure would simplify things, wouldn't it? Blah. Let's get this over with.

Dec. 8.09 10:00 Mountain time, at DEN

Arrived at Denver International Airport. It is big.

I really would've loved to get some photos of the massive tunnels leading from the jet bridge through to the security gates. I wish I would've stopped even though the signs insisted that photographs were prohibited in that area, but I'm a nervous traveller. Heaven forfend I break a rule. The tunnels were incredible, all arching and desolate once my fellow passengers had raced away in front of me. There are several connected hallways, all of them a significant incline so that you cannot look ahead, you have to look up to move forward. The floors are wide and arched, leaving the middle a fair bit higher than the sloped sides. It was a very lonely kind of beautiful, very grey and institutional, but the arch and elevation imbues the suprisingly long journey with a sense of hope. Like salvation or companionship is just on the other side. What a perfect metaphor for life, considering the multiple Customs and Border Services/security areas are all that lie immediately ahead.

The scope of the rest of the buliding is just as massive. After the customs checkpoints you pass through a "great hall" where the TSA security gates are set up. There had to be a dozen diffent screening lines and numerous shops lining the walls, all underneath a giant fabric/fibreglass canopy roof. The atrium is 900 feet by 210 feet. The fibreglass ceiling lets light in during the day time. An acquaintance of my father's tells me that when they first built it the roof actually collapsed because the heft of accumulating snowfall wasn't taken into account; there was no effort undertaken to combat the city's natural climate. From there passengers take an honest-to-goodness subway train to the three departure concourses. It spans a lot of distance and they're moving a lot of people through here. The number of passengers is remarkable, considering this is likely a lower-traffic day and time of day. The concourses even have big ol' shoe-shining stands.

I'm nearly the only person waiting at our terminal that isn't on their laptop or cell phone right now. It is crazy. What did people do to kill 45 minutes before technology? I guess write in their notebooks. I am officially an anachronism in this moment.

The number of restaurants and shops here is a little overwhelming as well, considering this is only one floor of one concourse at one airport. There are probably more stores here than in most Regina shopping malls. Good thing, considering I need to find one selling memory cards since I forgot to throw one in my camera before I left.

Should see if I can text mom and dad to let them know I'm on schedule. Maybe get some food. As has been the case for the last month and a half I'm not hungry now, but it might make the next plane ride easier.