Wow, this was not at all what I expected. Dave, Stewbert, and I were now cruising through a mountainous pine forest, the air cool, damp, and fresh - the unmistakable sign of spring. I had not expected to run through such terrain in Arizona.
One would think, that after experiencing the Grand Canyon, all else would seem anticlimactic. To the contrary, our circuitous route through Arizona proved to be just the opposite. Approximately 50,000 years ago, a chunk of asteroid 54 yards across impacted the earth at about 26,000 mph. The site, known as Meteor Crater, is the "Best preserved meteorite crater on earth." When the object slammed into present-day eastern Arizona it gouged a crater a mile across and 550 feet deep: sufficient power to ruin anyone's day, should they have found themselves in close proximity.
Stewbert, Dave, and I rolled in to have a look, and were mortified. The site was closed, padlocked shut. We looked at each other and shrugged, "How do you close a crater?" After much deliberation we decided not to jump the fence and pressed on, to Petrified Forest National Park.
I had envisioned Arizona to be flat and dusty, the ground punctuated with saguaro cacti. Petrified Forest took me totally by surprise. Here, centuries of erosion have exposed colorful and precise sedimentary layers, much like the Badlands of the Dakotas. Far from colorless, the hillsides ranged in vibrancy to an ocean blue, to fire-red. And, far from being an uninhabited wasteland, we passed several archeological sites where large numbers of indigenous Americans had once thrived. Building foundations and ancient petroglyphs are all that remain, a silent reminder that this land has never been lonely. By now the sun was high, the air dry and hot; typical desert, right? We dismounted at Jasper Forest, climbed a bluff, and looked across the valley. About 220 million years ago, the site I beheld would have been a lush forest, with streams and rivers, and huge conifer trees reaching 200 feet in height and nine feet in diameter. Over time the continents drifted apart, climates changed, and the trees fell. They were buried in the sediment, covered with volcanic ash, and over time, crystallized. Finally, over the course of millions of years, erosion re-exposed the fossilized logs.
I looked across the valley. A handful of petrified logs were strewn haphazardly about. It was fascinating to think that they once constituted a grand forest, right here where I now stood. Still, I felt disappointed - I thought there might be more.
A National Park placard answered my question. The valley I gazed across used to be strewn with petrified logs. Literally, one could walk across the valley and never touch the ground, there were so many. Then, white settlers and the railroad arrived. After hundreds of millions of years, the one thing these magnificent conifer trees could not survive, was human expansion. Cloth-covered wagons carted the fossilized wood away as souvenirs. People dynamited the bigger chucks, and railroad cars were loaded with hundreds of tons of the material.
People destroyed the site, with happiness and glee. A journal entry, written in 1917 by Grace Spadling and smacking of arrogance reads, "Oh such a time as we did have, deciding which part of the forest to leave and which part to pack out."
Dave, Stewbert, and I rode away with disgust. I would like to think that people have come a long way since then, in their stewardship and respect, but they have not. Outside the protected park we passed junky and embarrassing souvenir shops, advertising petrified wood for sale. The larger chunks had been bulldozed to create a decorative border for the parking lots.
From Petrified Forest we rode south, via scenic 191. We stopped for lunch in Springerville, at a place called Booga Red's. Perhaps I had been away from home for too long, but I couldn't help but think that there was something very, very good in the water at Springerville. Oh, the food was great, too. As we rode out of town, I noticed a billboard outside a private business. The sign read, "Congrats Seal Team 6". This was the day, as Dave, Stewbert and I rode through Arizona, that we got Osama bin Laden.
We would ride as far south as Tombstone, before heading west toward California. During this ride, the land continued to morph into unexpected and surreal landscapes. The desert was nothing like I had predicted; during one stretch we rode through rocky scrubland, like in old Western movies. Then, the hillsides erupted with color, with the vibrancy of a rainbow. Another day we found ourselves riding though mountains covered with pine forests. Within an afternoon's ride, these gradually melted away into undulating grasslands, like an African Savannah. Arizona was nothing like I expected.
Best of all, we were saving the finest stretch for last. Our concluding push through Arizona would take us into Apache Junction, just when the desert was in bloom. From there, San Diego was an easy day's ride. We stopped at a hotel, and switched on the news. Only twelve hours after bin Laden's demise, the 24-hour "news" networks had already over-analyzed the scenario to death. Thank goodness for them.
I grabbed a beer, washed the dust down my throat, looked at Dave and Stewbert and cracked a timely joke, "You know, Obama only did this to take the attention away from his birth certificate."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
One would think, that after experiencing the Grand Canyon, all else would seem anticlimactic. To the contrary, our circuitous route through Arizona proved to be just the opposite. Approximately 50,000 years ago, a chunk of asteroid 54 yards across impacted the earth at about 26,000 mph. The site, known as Meteor Crater, is the "Best preserved meteorite crater on earth." When the object slammed into present-day eastern Arizona it gouged a crater a mile across and 550 feet deep: sufficient power to ruin anyone's day, should they have found themselves in close proximity.
Stewbert, Dave, and I rolled in to have a look, and were mortified. The site was closed, padlocked shut. We looked at each other and shrugged, "How do you close a crater?" After much deliberation we decided not to jump the fence and pressed on, to Petrified Forest National Park.
I had envisioned Arizona to be flat and dusty, the ground punctuated with saguaro cacti. Petrified Forest took me totally by surprise. Here, centuries of erosion have exposed colorful and precise sedimentary layers, much like the Badlands of the Dakotas. Far from colorless, the hillsides ranged in vibrancy to an ocean blue, to fire-red. And, far from being an uninhabited wasteland, we passed several archeological sites where large numbers of indigenous Americans had once thrived. Building foundations and ancient petroglyphs are all that remain, a silent reminder that this land has never been lonely. By now the sun was high, the air dry and hot; typical desert, right? We dismounted at Jasper Forest, climbed a bluff, and looked across the valley. About 220 million years ago, the site I beheld would have been a lush forest, with streams and rivers, and huge conifer trees reaching 200 feet in height and nine feet in diameter. Over time the continents drifted apart, climates changed, and the trees fell. They were buried in the sediment, covered with volcanic ash, and over time, crystallized. Finally, over the course of millions of years, erosion re-exposed the fossilized logs.
I looked across the valley. A handful of petrified logs were strewn haphazardly about. It was fascinating to think that they once constituted a grand forest, right here where I now stood. Still, I felt disappointed - I thought there might be more.
A National Park placard answered my question. The valley I gazed across used to be strewn with petrified logs. Literally, one could walk across the valley and never touch the ground, there were so many. Then, white settlers and the railroad arrived. After hundreds of millions of years, the one thing these magnificent conifer trees could not survive, was human expansion. Cloth-covered wagons carted the fossilized wood away as souvenirs. People dynamited the bigger chucks, and railroad cars were loaded with hundreds of tons of the material.
People destroyed the site, with happiness and glee. A journal entry, written in 1917 by Grace Spadling and smacking of arrogance reads, "Oh such a time as we did have, deciding which part of the forest to leave and which part to pack out."
Dave, Stewbert, and I rode away with disgust. I would like to think that people have come a long way since then, in their stewardship and respect, but they have not. Outside the protected park we passed junky and embarrassing souvenir shops, advertising petrified wood for sale. The larger chunks had been bulldozed to create a decorative border for the parking lots.
From Petrified Forest we rode south, via scenic 191. We stopped for lunch in Springerville, at a place called Booga Red's. Perhaps I had been away from home for too long, but I couldn't help but think that there was something very, very good in the water at Springerville. Oh, the food was great, too. As we rode out of town, I noticed a billboard outside a private business. The sign read, "Congrats Seal Team 6". This was the day, as Dave, Stewbert and I rode through Arizona, that we got Osama bin Laden.
We would ride as far south as Tombstone, before heading west toward California. During this ride, the land continued to morph into unexpected and surreal landscapes. The desert was nothing like I had predicted; during one stretch we rode through rocky scrubland, like in old Western movies. Then, the hillsides erupted with color, with the vibrancy of a rainbow. Another day we found ourselves riding though mountains covered with pine forests. Within an afternoon's ride, these gradually melted away into undulating grasslands, like an African Savannah. Arizona was nothing like I expected.
Best of all, we were saving the finest stretch for last. Our concluding push through Arizona would take us into Apache Junction, just when the desert was in bloom. From there, San Diego was an easy day's ride. We stopped at a hotel, and switched on the news. Only twelve hours after bin Laden's demise, the 24-hour "news" networks had already over-analyzed the scenario to death. Thank goodness for them.
I grabbed a beer, washed the dust down my throat, looked at Dave and Stewbert and cracked a timely joke, "You know, Obama only did this to take the attention away from his birth certificate."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
