You are on a summer road trip to the dry sunny West. Eightyfive miles over the Arizona line, you exit and find yourself staying downtown at a motel that lacks one of those No Train Noise signs and is in fact right next to the tracks.

Although the accomodations are less than ideal, you find yourself staying night after night. Maybe you are hypnotized. Maybe you are somehow metaphysically trapped. Maybe it’s just time for a change.

Day after day you begin to walk the surrounding areas, carving your own paths past the blockages and around the no-trespassing signs, doggedly trying to outfox the fences of the ranchers and the city and the railroad bulls and break through to an exit from the town that is not an interstate or even a state route.

Today, this is what you providentially saw.

At the gasping end of May, this is what you literally found.