Perkinsville road

There is a twenty mile stretch of dirt road that connects Williams, Arizona to Jerome, if one is willing to make the trek, and has ample amounts of both time and patience.

I have both in spades.

I can put my hands on the abandoned railroad tracks to feel the warm steel from the heat of the morning sun. Places of such loneliness try to fill me with purpose, such as it is.

Perkinsville itself is a ghost town, or so that is the claim. The area looks abandoned, a ranch that has seen better days. The fence line is dilapidated and weather beaten, vehicles on cinder blocks and windows shutters askew. The weather out here isn’t kind to things left uncared for.

The Verde river is barely a trickle in late summer as I walk across the bridge. A bridge too far. Maybe a bridge to nowhere. Silence used to be my best friend but lately it has been enemy number one. I hope to hear a snake’s rattle just to let me know that I’m not alone.

I come to a hairpin turn, unable to see what may be approaching from the other side. It’s an all too familiar allegory.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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