The Mogollon ghost town was disappointing, except for the knuckle-biting moments on the one-lane five-mile drive up to the old abandoned mining town. The uphill drive is on the face of a cliff only wide enough for one vehicle over most of the drive. We hope not to have to back up the 30-foot-long RV. We should have driven the motorcycle up this bad road, but Mrs Phred hasn't been on one for thirty years and she still pounds my back to slow down on curves that I could easily take at seventy, wanting me to slow to twenty.
The evening campsite is 25 miles south of the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. They have fishing, swimming and ancient petroglyphs here. It's a state park on a 1,500 acre lake at 6,000 feet. We climb the rocks in the park looking for the Indian petroglyphs, but find none as darkness falls.
Tonight we are reading some of the bagful of used paperbacks we bought in Silver City, New Mexico, yesterday. I got three old Norman Mailers (including Tough Guys Don't Dance), a Stephen King, a Dean Koontz and a Robert Bloch. My Faithful Companion picked up a stack as well. There were no books on meditation. The cellular modem works on the picnic table outside the RV and I write about today's travel by flashlight.
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