Travel and Terror

Adventure on Forest Service Road 318

Never trust your inner navigator when traveling in the wilderness

In New Jersey, backstreets can be rough and tumble and flat: a place to hide, make out with your Jersey girl, or a shortcut to the Shore.

Backstreets in Arizona may mean death. A squiggly line on Google maps doesn’t mean quicker — just potentially — the end of the line for your family.

Google Maps suggested two routes to Jerome

Obi-Wan, after all, whispered: “Turn off your computer! Trust your feelings!”

My X-Wing was a Kia Sorento. My co-pilot wasn’t a super-cute-super-computer-dude — just a super-cute and smart wife, Mary Jane.

Our daughter, Nancy, was also on the Northern Tour of Arizona during Christmas Break in 2018. We flew out to spend the holiday with our daughter, Madeline, then 20, finishing her seven-month engineering internship at Northrup Grumman in Phoenix.

So while Madeline and her boyfriend Brian headed east towards warm El Paso, back to Jersey, the three of us resumed our trip.

One more final day on the road — or off the road

At the Best Western Plus, just off Historic Route 66, I told Mary Jane we had two options to Jerome — a mining ghost town that Madeline raved about. “You gotta get there,” she told us.

“You’re the map guy,” my wife said. That’s true. I’ve been studying maps my whole life. I may have failed many quizzes, but I knew the Danube, the Amazon, and, of course, our own Mississippi. “Both ways are bad and long,” I said.

Then on Google maps, I spotted Rt 73. It cut through Williams and then meandered south into Jerome. Snow still covered the ground, but why not give the backstreet a try?

“You know, I said, the ‘path less traveled,’ Frost, says.”

While I scratched a C in geometry, I knew enough about the shortest path.

The day was sunny

Rt. 73 was free of snow and ice. “This is the route the locals take,” I said. Rt. I started singing, Springsteen’s “Backstreets,” “Thunder Road,” and “The Promised Land” — with that line about the “rattlesnake speedway through the Utah desert.”

That seemed appropriate.

I had a full tank,and I was wearing sunglasses. Within ten miles of paved road, the snow had vanished. The desert was opening as the ponderosa pine vanished and sagebrush appeared. What is up with this state?

Was I like Dorothy, weaving in and out of Oz, or Alice, in the topsy-turvy world of Wonderland? It was now warm. I told everyone the temp from the dashboard.

“This is so odd.”

Further on, far in the middle of nowhere, we passed a young boy helping an old man load wood into a beat-up silver truck.

The paved road ends here

Then the paved road ended. A sign read: Paved Road Ends Here. Sure? But for how long?

I was shocked. What happened? There was no one on the road. The scenery was stunning — vistas opened everywhere. I was back in the desert again, dreaming of a San Tan IPA and a hot tub.

I looked at Mary Jane. She looked at me. She couldn’t see my eyes, but if she did, she would have seen a cartoon character who gets knocked on the head and sees stars.

Then she would have said, “Well. That sucks. Let’s turn around, and go the right way on paved roads.”

But she didn’t say that. I was like, how long can the unpaved road be? What were we? Thirty miles from Jerome?

So I was like, “Well, this should be an adventure.”

“Are you sure?”

I reminded Mary Jane that I was an experienced driver, having tackled Phantom Canyon Road in Colorado with my buddies in my Nissan 200SX.

“Didn’t the sign warn that it was for experienced mountain drivers only?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re from South Jersey,” she said. “Your tallest mountain is a garbage dump in Deptford.”

How would Bruce Springsteen defend against such an accusation? I guess we could both write a follow-up song to “Badlands.”

A crow flying with a severe case of vertigo

It may have only been thirty miles: give a score of miles on the plus end, but it was as if those miles were thrown in a heap on the desert floor, all twisty and turned, like those switchback mountains that hug the terrain for dear life.

We kicked up so much dust. The beginning was fairly mild. The shock absorbers worked well, and I maintained a respectable 25 mph. The only thing I would hit would be a rattlesnake or a roadrunner.

I looked at Mary Jane. I didn’t want to, but I did and I said, “This doesn’t seem too bad.” She just looked at me with those eyes of Medusa. It was a good thing she was also wearing sunglasses or I would have turned to stone.

“Nothing like a Bowne Family Adventure,” I said. “Look at those mountains, over there! That must be Sedona on the horizon. You can see for miles and miles and miles. Like that Who song!”

The road narrowed. Then Rt 73 ended. Some other began. I checked Google maps. Yeah. Not helpful in the Middle of Nowhere. It sorta gave a general idea of location. From the van’s compass we were heading south, mostly. That was good.

I imagined my internal map. Whatever we were on now was called Fire Road 492. The road grew more narrow. And the pebbles and stones in the road — well, more like rocks and tiny boulders. We kicked up more red dust.

“You girls bring your sports bras?” I asked.

That was not funny. How was Nancy doing? She smiled and said she was greatly enjoying the experience. No irony.

“We’re not going to die, right?”

“Oh, no, Mary Jane,” I said. “We’re on vacation. You gotta take some pictures. This is God’s country out here. Look over there — Sedona!”

It must have been over one hundred miles away.

She may have mumbled something about being a Waste Land or No Man’s Land or where stupid New Jersey tourists go to die, but I knew she was worried.

Back on the Rattlesnake Speedway, I knew there was a town called “Perkinsville”

It was on Google maps back in Williams. We spotted an occasional; sign for Jerome: 25 miles, 24 miles. 20 miles. Each mile felt like an hour, but we were “getting there.”

It wasn’t like we were going to cross the border into Utah.

We then crossed a rickety, one-lane steel bridge and the Verde River. It should have been called Rio Marrón or Rio Rojo because there was no river — just a wash that flowed like madness when the snows melted or during a rainstorm.

At least the weather was gorgeous.

We passed three dune buggies. The passengers wore camo and held AK47s. This was Arizona. I had seen every episode of “Breaking Bad” and I knew bad things can happen. They must have laughed when they saw a suburban guy driving a suburban van with his suburban family through their gun range.

In fact, when Madeline later heard of this, she said her friends from Arizona, would see idiots like us, obviously having taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

The town of Perkinsville was actually one large ranch — the size of one million acres of rangeland and a water tower and a windmill.

We headed south, and I was confronted by a mountain: high and red and forbidding. It contrasted against the magnificent blue sky.

“We need to go over?” Mary Jane asked. “Over that?”

“You’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m getting us through this!”

That was one mighty, crazy drive. Another car, smaller than ours, passed us, going norte. And they looked okay. Then a Jeep, too. I thought this was getting better. We were getting closer. I pulled over for them to pass. The passenger side door almost kissed the side of the red mountain.

Deliverance from the desert and very sore hands

We were now on Forest Service Road 318.

This treacherous road had no guardrails or sightlines, with many blind curves. Red dust swirled all around.

Lurching around and over and up and down that mountain, no one spoke. I only cried, “Hallelujah!” when I spotted Gold King Mine in Jerome. We hit the paved road.

We were saved.

The road was called Rt. 73 again and Perkinsville Road. What a difference a name makes!

And better yet, I could kiss my wife, after asking for her Christian forgiveness. I think the kiss came after lunch, a bathroom, and numerous “I think I’ve learned my lesson about trusting in The Force.”

Oh, later I learned that the mountain we had faced had a name: Woodchute Mountain.

Like naming Voldemort, it’s always good to know the names of your enemies.

Thank you for reading! Safe travels, folks. Follow me on Medium at Walter Bowne. Listen to the story here.

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