The sun was beginning to set and in these latitudes that meant another 20 minutes of daylight before...before…..well before we’d be groping along the barbed wire looking for a gap. We’d been cycling all day after leaving the Chiricahua National Monument, a gorgeous park in southeast Arizona with the most bizarre rock formations we’d ever seen. We had food and water but no campsite and it was getting late. Our only chance was guerilla camping but the sagebrush ranches were all barbed-wired for miles. And then we saw it, an abandoned ranch with an old metal Quonset hut and a rutted driveway leading behind. This is it! Edie did not look pleased.
Me, I can put up with beautiful scenery, quiet campfires and soft rustling of a breezes as long as I can guerilla camp. Edie prefers legitimacy. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. The world’s filled with little nooks and crannies just begging to be camped on. Better we should throw ourselves on the tender mercies and graveled pads of a brightly lighted all night RV park? We’d done that already.
We’d been traveling for over a week and adjusting to the Arizona way. No more little country roads dropping into quiet streams and climbing winding hills. The roads were mostly wide, the scenery grand. Everything was on a big scale. Mountains in the distance might be a few hours’ ride away…or a few days. A pee break didn’t take place comfortably deep in the nearest forest, but furtively behind a spindley cactus.
Towns were far apart too. This was nearly our downfall our first day out. A half day’s ride from Tucson Edie’s left crank arm fell off and shortly thereafter my front derailleur broke. Now I can live without a front derailleur, but Edie seemed unduly alarmed by the detached crankarm. We had to call our hosts. Our hosts were the most wonderful folks. We’d contacted them by email, listed, as they were, as the touring directors for Tucson’s bike association. We wanted to know about camping. Turns out, they’d never camped. They stayed at motels. But between the emails, we established a very nice relationship. And in no time, they’d offered to pick up our shipped bikes, pick us up at the airport and host us at their house overnight. Sight unseen. And now their hospitality was being taxed as they came to pick us up on a lonely Arizona road and haul us back to the bike shop for repairs and another night’s stay at their house.
Camping in Arizona had its delights. With the low humidity we could leave shoes, clothing and maps out at night with no moisture to affect them. We never listened to the weather forecast. It was always nice and sunny. With all the mountains around we found a mix of cycling with a few days hiking in between to be ideal. But there had always been an RV park at the end of the day.
Very reluctantly, and by the dim light of our headlamps we blundered into the sticker bushes behind the Quonset hut. We’d heard of goat-head thorns. Now we felt them. Trying to keep the bike tires clear we managed to set up camp in a thicket that offered some visual protection. Protection from what, you ask? The nearest ranch house was ½ mile off. But Edie had noticed discarded clothing and day packs along the road. And dozens of border patrol vehicles roaring past, or maybe just one guy roaring past dozens of times. Behind the Quonset hut she noticed more discarded clothing. Illegals!
The folks in Arizona, regardless of social station or political affiliation agree on one thing. They hate illegals. You don’t have to ask; they’ll strike up a conversation about it from out of the blue. Illegals steal, litter, deal in drugs and are a menace to society and a deadly threat to life and property. We tried to make light of such conversations by talking about our own illegals, Canadians sneaking across the border of Lake Erie to take advantage of a cheap U.S. dollar and make off with our merchandise. This did not go over well.
Edie kept a wary eye on the darkness beyond. Every car headlight approaching on the nearby road was followed by her gaze until it passed well by. Every scratch in the ground or scrape on a bush could be a squirrel bedding down for the night… or… illegals. She got a fitful night’s sleep. Had I been a less scrupulous person I would have been tempted to sneak outside the tent at night, bump hard against it and mutter something threatening in Spanish. Truth be told it wasn’t scruples that prevented me. I just don’t speak Spanish. And, a dozen miles from the Mexican border I didn’t think a few phrases in French would have had the same effect.
We had a fine night and a fine trip. We never did meet an illegal. But if you’re traveling down some lonely Arizona highway, and realize you’ve left some gear behind, take a gander on the side of the road. Chances are someone making a run from the border has left an item for you.
Marty Cooperman
Photo by Edie, reluctant guerrilla camper
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