I rolled into El Paso last night after a solid 11 hour drive through the barren New Mexican desert. We took I25 southbound to the edge of Colorado, and then just after surmounting Raton Pass, hopped onto a two lane US Highway (84, which later turned into 54) to avoid the western jog that I25 takes in order to service the American ghetto that is Albuquerque.
Growing up out West, there's a certain comfort I feel when I'm on a deserted highway. Towns come in somewhat reliable 50 mile intervals, and between them, nothing. Or what seems like nothing at first glance. There are actually vast cattle ranches out here, herds of antelope, and a occasional lone coyote. Driving these roads reminds me of America's enormity. It feels the same when I drive up to Montana, or through Utah, or when I head to Jackson hole. There's a feeling that this country is a far cry from its East Coast cousin. I enjoyed my travels along the eastern seaboard, but the western wilds are my home, and I'll always find my soul here.
Keep in mind, my soul will never be found within the city limits of Hell Paso, TX. This urban waste is defined by strip malls and a complete lack of planning, the concrete blocks and decaying suburban development coming together as the antithesis to art. I suppose if you were on enough acid to kill a horse, you could see this cityscape as artistic, but that would largely be the production of your own hallucinations.
Mike is renting a room from a climber who lives up in Chicago, a man I've never meet and likely never will. Mr. Chicago fancies himself a climber, and as such, rented one of the thousand of abandoned homes in the area to act as a homebase for his occasional bouldering foray into the park. It seems like Mr. Chicago won't make it here in January, and I wonder if it wouldn't be more cost effective to just get a hotel if and when he does come to town.
We shouldn't complain, though. The Colorado trio has a roof over our heads, and Mike (and his pup Johnny Utah) are our only company here. Pleasant, as he is a familiar face. So we'll stay a few more days here at the House of Doom 4. The HOD came into being a few years back, I believe, when John Wallace moved to town. I'll try to get the story from Mike while we're out climbing today and report back.
Inside this incarnation of HOD, there is no furniture. We're essentially camping indoors, but I think it's fine for our standards. Especially given that the CO troop will only be here for a long weekend. More than anything, I marvel at Mike's ability to find comfort as he lives here for what will, in the end, turn out to be two plus months with little more than a card table and some empty rooms. I suppose that's why he has his whippet. It is a sure indication of his passion for climbing, though.
More when we're back from climbing. Hopefully with a few pics.
No more weeks without posting!
1 comment:
I think I read a news story somewhere that the last book store in El Paso just closed... or maybe that was Amarillo... and could have been a viscious rumor. Anyhow, still fun to spread, west Texas sucks.
Post a Comment