
The other sign--about the overnight parking--doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, either. Why would anyone park their car in town when it would be just as easy to park in the miles and miles of emptiness surrounding the town for free?
Speaking of which, I look south from Hachita into the desert wastes and face a gut-check moment. Do I really want to drive the 45 miles to Antelope Wells, just to get a picture that proves that I've been to the one and only town in the Boot Heel of New Mexico? I haven't told anyone that I'm going in this direction--and I said goodbye to cell phone service when I left Texas--so, if something should go wrong in between here and there, I'd be stuck out in the desert on my own. If I had any sense, I'd keep heading down the road to Tucson, where my friend Jeff and his dog Hudson are waiting for me to arrive.
But when will I ever be here again?

But the first such sign I see looks completely new. Has somebody at the New Mexico Department of Transportation been reading the National Geographic?



Once again, I think about turning around and heading back the way I came. But momentum carries me through and, before long, the dust backs off from the road, revealing a new range of ornery mountains and a vast amphitheatre encircled by the dirty shadows of the wind's fury. While the storm is pre-occupied with other things, I grit my teeth and drive all the way to Antelope Wells.
