the drive home

So, I got to see what has happened to the country I grew up in. The massive urban sprawl that has taken over all the wondrous hills of oak and pine.

In a few places you could still see a demarcation between "city" and country"

but in most, it was just an insidious blossoming of huge homes out in what used to be pastureland

or fields of winter wheat.

You have to wonder where the people in these huge houses are going to get their food, when all the prime farmland is under their yards, streets, shopping malls and events centers.

As we neared our exit off the interstate, the wife pointed out a herd of cows foraging in a field of corn.

"Better get a picture. Probably the last one, and might be gone by the time we come back."

So I did.

Got to have a sitdown dinner in University City (courtesy of the Sister and her family... thanks, Sis), and then continued on the secondary highway. Here, at least, the spread of homes has slowed to a fast trot, and there are still large expanses of open country.

Graffiti rock is still there, of course, still standing alone in the field. A cubical chunk of limestone that rolled off the cliffs probably long before humans wandered this country.

Being isolated and along the highway between two rival universities, this rock has, for at least the past three decades or more, been a signpost for whatever graffiti artist wanted to express their opinion. Usually obscenities directed at the Pokes, or the Rams, depending on who had the last home game. Or expressions of love to some amorous interest who would be expected to pass this point.

Some entity occasionally painted over the whole rock in dull brown or blaring white, but it was never long before another message was sprayed up there for all to see.

Until September 11, 2001.

And then the Stars and Stripes showed up, and has safely claimed the rock ever since.

The twin rock towers, presumably a dedication to those towers lost on the East Coast, also still stand proudly on top of that limestone ridge.

Further north we pass this stand of pinon pine.

The northern-most stand of this entire species. And beyond, we spy a small band of pronghorn, one of the few herds that survive in this part of the state.

Behind them is Red Mountain.

I hiked that mountain once, straddling alongside the steep slope facing the highway, struggling to not fall and tumble on a winter day heavy with fog. Conducting a deer drive, as one of the grunts walking the mountain to force deer either through our line, or ahead to the other counters having an easier time waiting along the county road. Fog so thick you couldn't see the drivers on your left or right, and could only hear the deer clattering through the rocks in the fog ahead of us.

Five miles from the state line, we passed the little isolated church, and its much older cemetery.

There is no community to be seen around this small white church, but it is there. Because when an arsonist torched the original church to the ground a few holiday seasons back, folks in the area rebuilt it, on the same spot, within a year.

As always, we could tell when we reached the state line. Five miles south, the temperature was 48 degrees.

Just a mile into our own state, and the air had cooled to 40 degrees. And the hillsides were covered in white.

Welcome back to winter.

Some of the open country still left in our state to the south.

Still a few miles from the state line, I was startled by a small blue sign alongside the highway.

Oh, my.

"You hadn't seen that?" the wife asks.

No, I hadn't.

"Pass with Care" the new sign said.

"In Memoriam" it said, and it listed their names

So.

That was the spot.