That’s the name, anyway. When I was very young, it was far, far north Phoenix, the last exit until you decided to go to Wickenburg or Black Canyon.

Now it is in the middle of the endless suburbia, but we chose it because it was where her road crossed mine. The hotel was stellar–amazing mattress, great shower, and three free drinks from the masked barman in the early evening.

I dropped my car there because hers was a rental and we visited her new home, and office, in the north country.

I am now headed back there myself too, roughly, and sooner rather than later.

The low foghorn call of the ancestral mountain.

How I will make it there I have no idea.

But there’s a house anyway, with my name still on it.

After the return to the hotel and a night of bliss and rest, I ambled down 19th Avenue and finally tripped over Wild Horse to the south.

It was the slow searching kind of drive that feeds a body well enough, when the Peak is far.

The phone was provisionally cleared almost.