The stories are coming to fast to make note of these days. There was a wondrous Sunday in a section of Sonoran desert when I could only hear an occasional rustling of the creosote and mesquite trees. Blue skies and nearby mountain ranges anchored the landscape and dwarfed my notion of the spirit. When the sun went down the coyotes began their chatter and the dry air chilled marchers to the bone by sunrise.
After a long walk to Aguila, Arizona we found a camp spot next door to Coyote Flats Cafe. Some of us older marchers escaped from tent life to stay at a bygone era motel just next door called Burro Jim’s … “A friendly place to lay your ass”. The pool tables & juke box provided a special night of revelry. How can folks walking 15 miles a day have the energy to sing, dance, hoot & holler? I don’t understand it myself, but it does happen from time to time. Today, I truly don’t know where we are. We are still walking down highway 60, and 13 miles from Wickenburg Arizona, but the place has no name or descriptive feature. It is a very windy place that is beating my tent mercilessly. If I get out of it i’m sure it would go tumbling across the desert to parts further unknown. We will reach downtown Phoenix in 5 days and lose 3 of our marchers. They are folks who have become very close members of our family. New marchers are always coming on board at major stops and new relationships will be generated. Still, its hard to let some go. Somewhere along our way the numbers will grow beyond this tight knit group that has relied so heavily on one another.