Arizona the beautiful

Dear old Phoenix. We love you again. We love our Tempe at the Buttes Marriott which is nestled right in and on a splendid old butte. Was there ever a more magical place for a resort hotel? Our room opens onto the beautiful gardens and steps up to the pool. The pool winds around the butte; two large pools joined by a channel, looking up to a waterfall and cactus

-covered rocky butte slopes. The mood is easy.

My back is annoying me. A sort of rash is appearing. Hmm, says Dr Bruce. That looks suspiciously like shingles. But I had the Zoster vaccination, say I. Hmm, says Bruce. It doesn’t work on everyone.

Onwards, we must go. We are scheduled to be in Sedona and the election is tomorrow. Arizona has not been too fiercely covered in

Trump posters. It is John McCain’s comfortable electorate. But the media has been a foment of political bile of the most unprecedented ferocity. The campaigns have hit a gutter low. Trump is at home, chanting and bellowing with fire and brimstone and evangelistic fury. His speeches are tantrums. It boggles the mind that so many Americans are sucked in. But they have been on the Fox political hate diet for years now. They have been conditioned to the hatred of Clintons and heavily marketed with the concept of an evil political elite which wants to take their guns away. They are not politically savvy. They are gullible and jealous. Trump feeds these emotions. He struts the political stage like a superstar, giving speeches in front of his parked Trump plane. Hillary erudite and experienced, ripe for the role of president, has a huge burden of mistakes behind her, sexism and misogyny all around her, and now, at the 11th hour, the FBI of all things, throwing a new email scandal in her path. Everything is very stressful and dangerous. We hope there will be a good TV in Sedona for us to watch the election unfold.

It’s a big smoggy out there in Phoenix today. 91 deg F. We whoosh along the speeding 10-lane highway out of town, past schools and industry, past oil tankers queued on rail lines. Palms and eucalypts dominate the urban vegetation. We run the gauntlet of relentless commerce on the highways; big, colourful, prosperous, cheerful.

It’s a good highway. Past the University of Phoenix and towards rows of perfectly pointy volcanic mountains and basalt boulder fields.

Burbs with mesquite. Hillsides with saguaros.

We wind upwards into mountains and as we gain elevation, we gain density of cacti until they reach wow factor.

Chollas with the saguaros. Bruce is in heaven. The chollas are blooming.

Desert plants. Adobe-style housing settlements. Those lovely adobe colours.

We are at 2000ft elevation.

The road narrows. The trucks take over.

A sign identifies a mesa as Table Mesa. Bruce thinks this is hilarious. Mesa means table. It is Table Table, he laughs.

The earth has been changing colour. Now we are in sandy limestone. It’s not volcanic here. It is part of the Rocky Mountain uplift, explains Bruce.

We cross Moore’s Gulch and gasp at the spectacle of the sea of saguaros and chollas in the dry creek bed.

Now at about 3000ft, it seems to be a sweet spot for saguaros.

And we are right inside the rolls of the mountains.

More mesas and a large, widely-spread community appears. Black Canyon City. It has a real wild west look to it. One expects to see tumbleweed.

Oh, and a little town called Bumble Bee. Cute.

We keep climbing, amid trucks groaning in low gear and wanting to pass each other.

There’s Horsethief Basin Recreational Area. There’s a name that tells a story.

The saguaro cacti are suddenly gone. The slopes are covered with pretty little prickly pear cacti.

And now we are on a desert plateau. No cactus at all.

Scenic View, says a sign.

Vending Machines, says the sign beside it.

Not my sort of view, say I.

We thunder on amid our friends, the long-distance truckies, past roadside boulders Bruce identifies as a’a lava flow. See, he says, there are two kinds of basaltic lava flows: a’a and pahoehoe. The names come from Hawaiian.

Low scrub lies sparsely on the slopes as a mountain range unfolds itself softly.

We pass Bloody Basin Road. Pale boulders.

A sign to Agua Fria National Monument.

An overpass. A settlement. And back to wide open plains. Low mesquite. No cactus. Lots of a white flowering desert plant we can’t identify.

No services. No nothing.

We are on our own out here, apart from the trucks, of course.

Just vast desert landscape.

Elevation 4000ft.

Yellow dry expanse. Small hills.

A little higher and miniature prickly pears appear again and then, suddenly, a riot of desert juniper.

Green bushes all over. Even a couple of cottonwoods out there.

Signs invite trucks and caravans to pull off here and check their brakes.

And down we wind into a steep, steep valley.

Cars are hooning down like idiots.

Skunk smell. Poor little critter, probable clobbered by a car.

This seems to be Fort Verde State Park.

Red mesas stretch out far ahead across a vista of limestone hills.

This land was once under a shallow sea, says Bruce.

Dead Horse State Park, says a sign.

We take a turnoff. West 260. Oh, look at that Wendy’s Restaurant, disguised as a handsome adobe dwelling. Trees. A treescape with hints of autumn hue. Trump signs.

Sign: Guns. Buy, Sell, Trade. Rental Archery.

Mini storage.

The road goes ahead towards those limestone cliffs Bruce loves.

We can see the rich red striations of the Sedona mountains far ahead.

And here comes a town called Cottonwood. 3320ft elevation. Established 1879.

Sedona is not far away. Over the Verde River with its cottonwoods. Past the Coconino National Forest.

Black cattle. Yellow grass. Prickly pears. Junipers. Sign: Beware of deer. And suddenly a brilliant vista as the red-rock country appears, that glorious rich red rock streaking across the landscape. Yellow cottonwoods, lush vegetation, cactus… Sedona City Limits.

Two for Tucson

Now I know where Bruce’s love for cactus came from. Right here.

Now I get it. I am in love, too.

We are in the midst of the most wondrous natural cactus garden here in Tucson.

On the face of the mighty Mountain Lemmon, part of the spectacular backdrop of this low, flat desert city, we are surrounded by saguaros, tall pillar cactuses which cover the hillsides like a crazy

punk hairstyle. Very old saguaros grow arms, and even characters. They seem to salute the sky and welcome the sun. They also grow extraordinarily high over their long lives. And they become homes to assorted birds which find and make holes to build nests within the prickly defence of the plant. In spring, these cacti produce pretty and

nourishing flowers to add to the general symbiosis. They are not blooming now. But, as I keep sighing, they are blooming gorgeous. Imposing, primeval, and indomitable.

Bruce has been waiting to see them on the landscape. Now he has a surfeit. He is not complaining.

Our wonderful Loews Ventana Canyon Resort covers a lot of vertiginous Tucson real estate and much of it has been made into a cactus walk. Paths weave around the hillside through the ancient plants. A waterfall cascades down a steep cliff face into a green pond beneath, the waters weaving on down the slopes in a green, rushing stream, gathering as a lake at the back door of the hotel. The hotel pool is set

amid the cacti. One lies in the sun and gazes at this primitive beauty.

Oh, rave, rave, rave.

Of course, there are many other cacti in the mix here. And there are some lovely trees, many of the acacia family of which mesquite is one.

The hotel is huge and busy. It features a luxurious golf course and lots of people who ride golf buggies and play golf.

Our room is at the front with a view out over the valley across which the big, flat, centreless city of Tucson sprawls. Mountains, cacti, lovely night lights which twinkle. On our first night, we are advised that an astronomer is coming to give a telescope tour of the wonderful stars. Oh,

moaned an air hostess, checking out as we check in, the night sky here is the most beautiful I ever saw and I’m going to miss that.

After a couple of average margaritas at the bar and a pleasant enough dinner, we go out and find the astronomer in the dark by the pool. He is wearing a suit and tie which seems incongruous in this resort setting. Now, when I say dark, I mean moonless but not dark. There are underwater lights in the pool. There are path lights around the garden. There are lights everywhere. So the northern stars are not really star turns, so to speak. My enthusiasm is immediately dampened. But since only four of us have turned up for his presentation, I don’t feel I can just walk off. He’s a very mild, small man with an earnest agenda of stars. They don’t show up very well through his telescope. It is not a patch on stargazing at Encounter Bay or Kangaroo Island. One doesn’t want to be rude. I stay quiet. Bruce keeps the show on the road with lots of educated questions. I think the astronomer is unused to such erudition. The desert mountain night is cooler than I expected. I shrug into a jacket and wonder how to get out of this. A few more people have arrived. The original couple excuse themselves. I grab my chance. Sorry, I am too cold. I must go in. Bruce does not need encouragement. We scuttle off. I think the astronomer is used to it.

What an odd experience.

We don’t have a long time here. We toy with the idea of taking a tour. The concierge says that there are no tours as such in Tucson. There is not enough to see. Oh.

So we choose two day trips of our own.

Firstly, the Desert Museum.

It is quite a drive out of town, through staggeringly dramatic and beautiful mountain landscape and, of course, zillions of glorious cactus which continue to have us oohing and aahing with joy.

We have to cross a mountain range to find

the park. Oh, my. Here is a forest of saguaro. They seem to love mountainsides. This landscape could come from a Spielberg movie, it is so extreme and alien.

The park is designated into loops of pleasant walking trails, each emphasising different aspects of the desert environment. There are even animals. Of

course, the moment we set out to walk it, it rains.

We seek cover in an art gallery which thrills with a show of giant works on a butterfly theme.

There is quite an emphasis on butterflies in this garden - and quite a lot of them, despite it being the end of the season.

Oh, but it is the humming bird aviary which steals our hearts!

They’re bold little things and they buzz fearlessly about us,

checking in on their red feeding stations, perching on twigs and watching us, zipping down again. So fast. So cheeky. A whizz of buzzing air past the ear. They are playing, tiny pert little aerobatic stars that they are. It is impossible not to adore them.

There are other aviaries, less exciting. There are vistas of cacti and mountain. There are large enclosures for the native animals - a sad

black bear with a wounded paw, an aloof mountain lion, baying wolves, a lonely coati which is a clever racoon-like thing. I still don’t care for caged animals.

Snakes and lizards and spiders all have indoor display areas and we do get a strong feeling for the desert floor life while also staying a bit dry.

Little worm things in an aquarium caught out attention for a long time. The pop up and down like aquatic prairie dogs.

Like two big children, we nudge each other and laugh at their antics. Neither of us has seen anything like them. But why would we? Pond-diving has never been a big part of our lives.

The light is glorious as we wander off in search of the dear old olive green Rogue. The showers, the clouds, the soft glow of sun between the clouds... Everything looks so sharp and clear and bright. The assorted cactus textures are are rendered vivid. One pauses, sighs, drinks it in. What a world. What a world.

The rain gets more serious as we drive off through the cactus-lush roads and back into the mountain pass. Amazing, dazzling, glorious rainbows accompany it.

The road winds in steep S-bends. I hold my breath. There are fabulous vistas everywhere, seguaros as far as the eye can see in steep gorge and on high rock. They grow right out of the rocks, it seems. As much as I hate vertiginous roads, this is something else.

We reach the prickly top of the prickly mountains and it is as if we have driven right through the magical rainbow, for there, on the other side of the mountain, is bright sun and blue sky.

Next day we head out of town again, this time to Biosphere 2. Biosphere 1 is Planet Earth. Bruce is absolutely not the big fan for this expedition. He is humouring me. The Biosphere Project fascinated me back in the 1990s when the little team of Bionauts shut themselves in the great eco domes to see if they could sustain

themselves in a conditioned environment in a way that could be replicated for colonising Mars.

There, way out on the desert, are these bizarre structures - the great pyramid, the domes… Inside the Biosphere, they even created an ocean with tides and coral reef. The coral died. A lot failed. The whole thing, in the end

of the day, failed, and tensions reigned between the eight Bionauts . They did not make enough food or oxygen.

The University of Arizona now runs the place for its own experiments on global warming and water behaviour in desert lands. The University pushes these projects

hard and gives one a lot of repetitive information on them. One suspects the place is a bit of a white elephant and they are trying hard to justify its massive expense. It certainly is an interesting tourist experience.

We traipse over boardwalks aloft in the rainforest which now is so overgrown that it threatens to break the glass. We look at the University’s jumbo soil slabs perched on the diagonal above what used to be the Bionauts’ huge indoor kitchen garden. You might actually meet a

scientist here, says Victor, the guide.

We toddle dutifully around the self-sufficient, water-recycling eco-hydrologic mezzocosm vegetable garden - er, a tank of hapless coi who poo in the water which drips onto tiers of herbs and veggies and with the excess water running into a cinder filter box at the bottom before being pumped back to the fish who will again poo in it and so forth. Um.

Well, we love the name. It really translates as potplant, we think.

You might meet a real scientist here, says Victor.

Just as well we didn’t. Bruce was beside himself at the epic scientific folly of this project.

I am kind. I thought it was a nice exercise for

school students.

We go into the great lungs of the place where a huge bellows-like machine rises and descends to keep the air pressure balanced. It is fascinating. Victor, opens the door so we are blasted out in a gale. Fun.

We visit the kitchen and living quarters of the Bionauts and contemplate how miserable it must have been battling both malnutrition and each other. We have covered the Biosphere territory. With two promo documentaries thrown in to the mix, it has taken the entire afternoon. I am still fascinated. Bruce is beyond ho hum.

The long drive back into town produces some more rain. Bummer. But the desert is glorious every which way we look at it. In the dying light of Tucson again, the views are divine.

We reflect on how far we have come. Far. We are three quarters around the country on our map.

We order room service and hole up to watch politics on TV. The hotel can’t deliver the roast chicken. It has run out of chicken. Well, to be honest, it forgot to order chicken. Huh? Would I like the pasta, instead?

I have the pasta. It is awful. As is the Oklahoma sauvignon blanc I open. What possessed me to buy it? To see what it was like? Now I know. Ugh.

The scary road to Tucson

Back in the olive green Rogue on a mild and cloudy morning. It is 265 miles to Tucson. A pleasant drive.

We head out from Las Cruces on 10 west. It’s a 65 mph speed limit and the trucks are doing every inch of it as hard as they can. It is a heavy trucks day. Dammit.

Past cattle and horse sale yards we whizz, over the Rio Grande which looks like a trickle today and out into the world of ploughed fields and thriving pecan orchards, clearly to blame for the river being at a trickle.

Soon we mount a hill and swoop into a world of mesquite, creosote bushes and arid grasses. The trucks are shocking. So many of them. All off them wanting to be in front of the one in front.

We pass the UAS Flight Test Facility, airport and National Guard, and a sign announcing: Prison Facilities. Do not pick up hitchhikers. One can’t imagine anyone hooking a thumb in the face of these rushing trucks. The speed limit has gone up to 75mph.

It is a world of pink sandy soil sometimes with pinkish mesas in the distance, sometimes those astonishing cinder cones.

Bruce is waxing lyrical about our time in Las Cruces and White Sands. It felt good to connect with his roots, he purrs.

Here come the Indian Trade Post billboards, one after another: moccasins; blankets; fireworks; Kachina dolls; pottery; kid stuff; jewellery; Exit Now. The trading post itself is a quaint little roadside thing. It must be simply crammed with all that stuff.

Glorious yuccas polka dot the landscape amid creosote bushes and mesquite. The hills are all grassy tufts. It is a very handsome desert. We are loving it, despite the trucks.

There are pointy blue mountains here, there, and everywhere on the horizon.

Heavens, another Border Patrol. We slow down and enter past all the cameras. A sign says Dogs On Duty. We don’t see any. We pull up beside the Border Patrol officer who is all army greens and guns. Just the two of you, he asks. Yes. Have a nice day. That's it.

Off we go on the open plain with its yellow grass and spiky low shrubs.

A sign warns that Dust Storms May Occur.

Another sign says simply: The Thing. Hmm

Mountains rise again, almost serrated against a sky with sunshine and rolls of cumulus cloud behind them.

Not sunny where we are, though.

We have driven under big grey flat clouds. Low. Spots of rain hit us.

The greenish groundcover on the desert makes it look even flatter than flat.

The rain makes up its mind and splashes down hard. The drops run up the windscreen.

Heavier. Louder. Great vicious hammering splats.

We should not have washed the car last night.

Akek Flats has another Indian Trading Post. Fudge, kachinas, fireworks, Mexican imports, and opals.

We’re in the Apache Homelands.

Use extreme caution, says a sign. Zero Visibility Possible. Drive Safe.

Hmm. Are they talking about this rain?

It suddenly eases and the sun pops out. We hiss and splash past grey nomads and trucks.

Oh, hell, roadworks. Trucks are all backed up in a chain.

Green crops one side of the road. Rail lines on the other.

The town of Deming is close. There’s an overpass and signs for hotels. Rail yards spread out beside the road, commerce.

We swing in for petrol and lunch. Not much going in Deming. The petrol station looks like something from the 1940s. It does not even have a canopy. A rather gnarled old cash girl, buxom with long, well-dyed jeune fille tresses, is standing outside smoking a cigarette. She stubs it out when Bruce goes in to pay.

Since there is little choice, we drive in for a drive-in Sonic burger.

We know they’re good. Their set-up is a bit odd, though. One drives up and parks diagonally beside one of a line of big menu screens and orders food by shouting at it.

Eventually, a gorgeous young girl comes out with bagged orders on a tray. No roller skates. And no car tray. Not like the old days of drive-in burger joints. We don’t feel like unwrapping everything and eating on our laps so we take it to one of a few tables Sonic has out front. It’s a bit windy. We huddle over the burgers and squint at the the back end of Deming. I have a jalapeno

burger. It comes with pickled jalapeno chillies. What a great enhancement to a burger. A little peppy zing burger. I am surprised how much I like it.

Back on the road, there are volcanic vent mountains, cinder cones, all around us . Yuccas cover the land. Caravans and trucks cover the road.

What on earth is that big fortified facility out there in the fields? Unidentified, unidentifiable. A secret experiments set-up? We scoot past quizzically.

Bigger yuccas now spike the landscape. They stand aloft, beautiful and sculptural over the desert grasses. The shadows of the clouds partnered by blazing windows of bright light are moving across the ground bringing out the colours of yellow and green from the grasses and shrubs.. The mountains are a blue and red backdrop. It is a glorious vista. They call this desert? What I am seeing is a vast arid garden.

Here comes more rain.

This is not so nice. Big storm clouds are massing out there. Two groups. They are forming that tornado shape I have seen in so many weather documentaries. This is scary. I see Bruce glancing more and more frequently in their direction. I can see he is concerned.

I pull up my Weather Channel app.

The radar shows fierce storms moving beside us, great red and purple cores to orange and yellow

Can we beat the storm which is heading our way?

Bruce is positive. He says we can. But I know he is just telling me that. He looks worried.

I marvel that we can watch the storm on radar and in real life as we travel.

I put the radio on AM and we listen to the lightning crackling. Uh-oh.

We race to get away.

This could be serious.

Black cattle out there. Poor things. We’re at 4585 feet Continental Divide Elevation. If that matters.

The Weather Channel App shows us in the path of the storm. We are the calm little blue dot moving along the landscape. This technology is incredible.

A sign says Caution, Dust Storms, Zero Visibility Possible.

Ironic.

The plain remains green and yellow and vast outside. Trucks keep coming in a relentless stream. We seem to be beating the storms. Passing a natural gas well, a billboard for Kranberry’s Chatterbox Breakfast, a small jail, more hoardings, a cross roads, a race track, low motels, a McDonalds… it is an unglamorous settlement called Silver City. It is gone in a moment and we are back to the beautiful desert plains.

Thanks for Visiting New Mexico, says a sign.

Aww.

Hello, Arizona.

There’s a police car picking up a semi-trailer at the roadside. Yess. Then again, those full-time road users are generally pretty good. Just the odd rogue out there.

The endless straight road takes a curve. We cheer and fuss about it.

The vegetation changes again. It is now grassless with tiny stunted shrubs. We seem to be in a big basin ringed by mountains.

We reflect on the scale of this country. Mountains in all directions. A train line out there parallel with the road.

Sometimes areas with lots of yucca plants. Then none, just low dry grass.

A salt pan appears. It reminds us of our own Whyalla country.

We see willywillies out there twirling in the desert.

Water is lying at the roadside here. Big rain has just been through.

Indeed, the clouds are spectacular - grey threatening low bands and high, sunlit layers. They seem to blow in different directions. The big sky provides a big picture of extremes, of moving patterns.

Two massive goods trains are out there, also going in different directions. They have three engines each. Sulphuric acid on one. You have no idea how important sulphuric acid is to the economy, says Bruce, not for the first time.

More trains, crawling steadily through the mountains and across the plains, double deckers full of Yang Ming Chinese products.

Oh, now we wind through a mountain pass and out to a changed desert landscape. More warnings of dust storms. Pull of the road and leave your lights on, says the sign.

Another huge stack train out there.

A sign says lane changes are prohibited. We don’t change lanes.

Ah, it’s for a weigh station.

The landscape changes again, now orchards on both sides of the road. Pecans! It is an oasis of farming here. San Simon.

The sky seems huge over the ribbed form of mountains around us.

More desert.

More rain. Not hard. The clouds are catching us. Damn.

A sign advertises The Thing, 57miles ahead.

A little deserted farmhouse is in the middle of nowhere out there.Two almost-dead trees outside. Lost dreams in the desert.

Low scrub surrounds us. Ah, those bands of weather are reaching out to us again. The radio is alive with the crackle of lightning. Damn.

Yuccas are back on the landscape and in the highway median. Lovely.

We pass a truck and the radio interference is deafening. What? Refrigerator truck, moots Bruce. Interference from the electric motors of its refrigeration.

More goods trains.

More orchards, Pecans and walnuts. Huge orchards. Wow.

More interference on the radio. Yikes. That was a lightning strike right in front of us. Sign to Bowie. 100 miles to Tucson.

Green plains, low scrub, the odd yucca, mountains still out there on the horizon Sign to Safford.

A canopy of nasty grey clouds has gathered above us.

We smell the rain before it finds us.

We see the lightning flashing as we hear it crackle on the radio.

The rain starts splotting loudly on the car.

The brown landscape looks as if it needs this rain. Happy yucca. Unhappy us.

Thickening traffic warns us that we are approaching civilization. Over an overpass. Nice, it has cattle designs around it. The town of Wilcox.

The sky is a challenge of sunshine and dark clouds. I pull up the Weather app again. We are in the rain but we are skirting the core of the storm.

A Border Patrol vehicle speeds by. Cops have another car at the roadside. A sign offers 3600 acres for sale. Another sign promises Thing, Mystery of the Desert. Turn off here. We don’t. But I do Google Thing and find it to be some sort of sad mummified mother and child.

Sunshine is breaking through and illuminating the soft undulations of mountainside, dotted with low mesquite and yuccas.

We pass through Texas Canyon to be surrounded by fabulous rock formations. Huge rocks are perilously balanced one upon another like those prayer stone rock piles people like to make. We ooh and aah.

Through the pass we come upon a vast open basin, another great plain surrounded by yet more mountains.

No rain now. Just puffy big low clouds.

The town of Benson.

Another Border Patrol vehicle, this one a lockup ute. We wonder if any hapless wetback is inside.

A sign indicates The Road to Tombstone - courthouse and state historic park.

The road descends in to Benson. Huge mini storage. The San Pedro River.

Sign: Spur Western Wear.

The AM radio is still on and has sunk into right wing hate talk. They’re offering guns as prizes. Defend your family. Win elite guns.

We’re gaining height again. With a 75mph speed limit, the road is a new hell of trucks. It is an endless chain of these lumbering transporters hauling things to and fro across this immense network of roads. The trains are out there, too. So many of them, double stacked with containers.

The scale of American consumerism is demonstrated all around us.

We keep trying to find our place amid the jostling trucks. Over dry creeks, mountain passes, and great straight open roads.

The landscape changes again. Prickly pears suddenly cover the mountain slopes.

We cross a bridge and, eek, that’s a huge canyon down there. It's fabulous, says Bruce.

Done't look, just drive, says Sa stubbornly looking the other way.

House are appearing on hilltops.

Vinyards, buzzards, adobe architecture. We’re in Arizona.

More mountains, cactus. This is a whole new look. Just like that.

Cactus. Cactus. They are called Saguaros and, to my ear, it seemed to be pronounced Sa-wah-rosse.

Dense Saguaros forests reach up the hillsides. Verticals as I’ve never seen them. Like a crazy spiked hair style. Punk mountains.

We arrive at the outskirts of Tucson, passing a gobsmacking acreage of old planes . What? The US’s old air power all sealed up and immaculately parked, mothballed for ever and a day. Both sides of the road. Acre upon acre. The Davis Monthan air base, says Bruce casually.

Siri Google gets to work and leads us through to Tucson burbs towards our destination. I’m drinking it all in with the eye. This is beyond amazing. The world is all cactus. Adobe houses and cactus gardens. There is an absence of architectural vulgarity.

These are nature-loving people who have built in harmony with this incredible ecology. It is not a world of people with stunning arid gardens, it is a stunning arid garden with people.

With the Presidential Election only days away,

the people also are showing their colours. Unlike the New Mexicans, the Arizonans are leaning right - heavily, according to this sign.

Hah. The storms have been here ahead of us. Tucson is washed and

clean. Moving on, the storms are producing a massive rainbow above sparkling wet cacti.

By the time we pull into Loews Ventana Canyon Resort, a great big old almost bauhaus style hotel nestled against the face of the mountain, the sun blazes and then has gone.

The colour of the city turns pink and brown, a sky almost adobe-coloured in the late light.

What a beautiful place.

I think we need a drink.