Change means decline when we are talking about something we like. How do you reconcile this with the fact that Progress is one of the Idols of the Tribe, of Western Civilization? (Francis Bacon.)
My first impression this year came from the coffee shop. The senorita who worked there had the sort of skin that a gringo with northern European genes has to be in awe of. I was happy to consider this a good omen.
Indeed, not too much had changed in town, other than some troublesome new McMansions sprouting up on the hillsides.
Every year, when Tucson has its first heat wave, I move the wagon up to summer pastures near Sonoita and Patagonia. It is a seasonal idyll that lasts a couple weeks.
The worshippers of the false Idol of Chromos would not be impressed here. Despite all the winter rain the gramineae is monotonously tawny. Nothing blooms or buds. But remember it snowed lasted weekend. Patagonia is at 4100 feet.
There is some color in the rocks bearing copper ore. Red Mountain was the scene of the mining near Patagonia in olden days.
The first day I took the dogs towards the "back" side of the Santa Ritas. I've biked up the paved section of the road to the observatory, but every time I planned to finish the top-most dirt section something goes wrong. But there it is. Inviting, is it not?
There is something satisfying about seeing a mountain range from both sides. Perhaps that's why one of my favorite things is to mountain bike up to the same pass or saddle from opposite directions. As Thoreau said in "Rivers": “It is an important epoch when a man who has lived on the east side of a mountain, and seen it in the west, travels round and has seen it in the east.”
I don't know how Patagonia got its name. The only time I've ever paid any attention to the name was a book mentioned in William James's "Varieties of Religious Experience." The book was Hudson's, "Idle Days in Patagonia." He was an Argentinian of English heritage. Those who idolize Thoreau and would like to find a similar author would do well to consider this book.
By a curious coincidence I remember--maybe--once seeing a dilapidated windmill in this area that had barely legible labeling, as they always do. It was made in Argentina. I wonder if I could find it this year?
