The lands where Arizona, Nevada and California meet is a vast desert wasteland.

A zombie apocalypse in waiting.

A place where people come to disappear from the world, and if disturbed may very well ruin your day.

It’s desolate, lonely, and unforgiving.

My favorite place to explore.

Rumbling along the dusty back roads, I see the clouds forming over the mountains in the distance. I drive toward the nuclear winter, wondering what or who else may also be out there. I find Christmas Tree Canyon, perhaps so aptly named because one finds unique landscapes and vistas around each bend in the road like new presents for younglings under a family tree during the Holidays.

The emptiness around soothes me. The toxic clouds drop a smattering of rain that I catch on my beak, as the radiation bubbles and emanates a poison that chokes the breath out of me for a spell. No one here to save me but myself.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

I wander around slowly, letting the area seep into my pores, and maybe even into what is left of my soul. I leave the canyon feeling dark, foreboding apprehension about the coming madness.

The bermuda triangle of The West this area is, and with wonder it is that each time I enter this patch of earth, I emerge alive and able to tell another tale.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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