| Cruisin' the Past |
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| Cruisin’ the Past by Ed Dooley |
Sunsets and Creosote
Memories of our high school days come to us in many forms and from many sources. A
photograph, a yellowed newspaper, an old issue of Arizona Highways, the CHS Torch, a
song, or some long-neglected souvenir have the power to produce thoughts of those days.
For the most part, such memories are images in the mind: mental snapshots, fleeting
scenes, specters from the past. There are other memories of life in Tucson, however, that
have less to do with thoughts and more with feelings and experiences. They are not
images, precisely, but lively and vividly recalled sensations, and through them, for just an
instant, we are transported to an earlier time. People speculate about the possibility of time
travel. It is possible, not by way of a time machine but from the scent of the desert after a
storm or the glow of a sunset.
Nothing brings back the experience of living in the desert with more power and more
pleasure than the scent of creosote bushes before a storm, or the fresh, clean smell of the
desert after a lightning storm. One whiff and we are transported back in time. Even if we
are thousands of miles from the desert, in tree covered landscapes, along the ocean
shore, in wind-swept prairies, or in the exhaust-filled air of great cities, just a hint of those
scents will return us to the desert. Crush the small leaves of a creosote bush between your
fingers, close your eyes, and the journey will begin.
It is impossible to forget the grandeur of a desert sunset. In the summer, late in the
afternoon or early evening, monsoon rains whip into Tucson. They are intense but of short
duration. As the storms pass, they leave clouds behind creating beautiful sunsets of
brilliant reds and yellows, framed by the dark Tucson Mountains and the deep blue or
purple of the evening sky. In our memories of those evenings, the silhouettes of Saguaro
cactus stand out against the crimson backdrop and the rugged mountains change color
with the setting sun. There are sunsets elsewhere in the world, but few equal those of the
Southwest desert. When we encounter one, say over the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
or elsewhere, the thought always returns: They were more beautiful and magnificent in
Tucson!
Arizona is a country of intense sun. Any thought of Tucson, especially before the days of
the near ubiquitous air conditioner, brings recollections of the fierce heat of the desert and
the burning sensation of the Sun’s rays on exposed skin. Anyone who arrives suddenly,
having been sheltered from the heat by the climate controls of a plane, and leaves the air
conditioned coolness of the airport, must think that he has entered an oven. The heat is
that intense. True, the heat is somewhat moderated in the shade, but it is inescapable
unless an air conditioned car or house awaits. Fifty years ago, there were few such
opportunities to escape the relentless heat, but we learned to cope with it. Quite effective
were the thick adobe walls of houses in those days and the swamp cooler on the roof that
made the air in the house cool, moist, and – when the cooler pad was getting old – smell of
dead fish. On a summer’s day, you could almost smell the heat, and you could certainly
smell the asphalt of the streets as the sun softened the surface of the pavement. The heat
on the pavement and in the desert also created mirages of distant pools of water, mirages
that fascinated us but that led many early settlers to disappointment and disaster.
Arizona is an arid country. But here and there we found cool waters flowing with a joyful
sound from the mountains into pools and streams. Sabino Canyon, Seven Falls, and other
spots provided relief from the dry, hot days. For relief closer to home, we enjoyed
swimming at Himmel Park – although the smell of chlorine stayed with us for hours
afterwards – and lying in the shade of olive and eucalyptus trees that dotted the park. For
real relief, however, there was no substitute for a drive to Mount Lemmon. As one
progressed mile by mile up the then-narrow and guardrail-less road, the temperature
dropped steadily until one had passed from a desert climate and the smell of greasewood
and sagebrush to one approaching northern Canada and the resinous air of pine woods!
The desert is hot and dry, but it is not lifeless. There is a kind of music that plays in my
mind whenever I recall days spent in the Arizona desert. The constant background sound,
primarily in the hottest part of the day, is the loud buzzing of the mating cicada.
Punctuating this chorus is the call of the mourning dove, whose repeated cooing, which
sounds like someone blowing across the top of an empty Coke bottle, provides the desert’s
most familiar sound. If you stand very still and wait patiently, some of the creatures of the
desert will show themselves briefly: a cactus wren with a grasshopper in its beak, a long-
eared jackrabbit loping across the sand, prairie dogs peeking out from their burrows, long
tailed lizards dashing madly abut, splendid chameleons perched on paloverde tree
branches, and what seems like a little pile of sand but which, when it moves, proves to be a
wonderfully camouflaged and concealed horned toad. Even the dry sand seemed to come
to life when the wind created dust devils or blew sagebrush or “tumble weed” across open
spaces. The desert is full of life and wondrously beautiful and inviting, but the invitation is a
severely qualified one. It is an aggressive wilderness: “Don’t get too close!” it seems to
say.
There were other scents that had little to do with the desert. I am speaking of the
perfume of broiling meat at Pinnacle Peak Restaurant, or the smell of spicy Mexican food at
El Charro and other restaurants. In someone’s backyard, or on picnics up in the canyons
of the Santa Catalina Mountains or the Rincons, the smell of hamburgers over an open fire
exceeded the pleasure of many a gourmet meal enjoyed years later. And as for the perfect
meal, nothing can beat the experience of lunchtime on a construction project in the summer
heat of the desert, seated in the shade of an adobe wall, a slight breeze blowing on a
sweat-soaked shirt, a thermos of lemonade and a simple sandwich in hand, the cicadas
serenading in the background, and mountain peaks against an intense blue over-arching
sky. As they say: It doesn’t get much better than that.
There are the memories of persons, places, and things, and there are the memories of
feelings and sensations. It’s possible that the latter will remain with us long after the former
have dimmed into obscurity.
Memories of our high school days come to us in many forms and from many sources. A
photograph, a yellowed newspaper, an old issue of Arizona Highways, the CHS Torch, a
song, or some long-neglected souvenir have the power to produce thoughts of those days.
For the most part, such memories are images in the mind: mental snapshots, fleeting
scenes, specters from the past. There are other memories of life in Tucson, however, that
have less to do with thoughts and more with feelings and experiences. They are not
images, precisely, but lively and vividly recalled sensations, and through them, for just an
instant, we are transported to an earlier time. People speculate about the possibility of time
travel. It is possible, not by way of a time machine but from the scent of the desert after a
storm or the glow of a sunset.
Nothing brings back the experience of living in the desert with more power and more
pleasure than the scent of creosote bushes before a storm, or the fresh, clean smell of the
desert after a lightning storm. One whiff and we are transported back in time. Even if we
are thousands of miles from the desert, in tree covered landscapes, along the ocean
shore, in wind-swept prairies, or in the exhaust-filled air of great cities, just a hint of those
scents will return us to the desert. Crush the small leaves of a creosote bush between your
fingers, close your eyes, and the journey will begin.
It is impossible to forget the grandeur of a desert sunset. In the summer, late in the
afternoon or early evening, monsoon rains whip into Tucson. They are intense but of short
duration. As the storms pass, they leave clouds behind creating beautiful sunsets of
brilliant reds and yellows, framed by the dark Tucson Mountains and the deep blue or
purple of the evening sky. In our memories of those evenings, the silhouettes of Saguaro
cactus stand out against the crimson backdrop and the rugged mountains change color
with the setting sun. There are sunsets elsewhere in the world, but few equal those of the
Southwest desert. When we encounter one, say over the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
or elsewhere, the thought always returns: They were more beautiful and magnificent in
Tucson!
Arizona is a country of intense sun. Any thought of Tucson, especially before the days of
the near ubiquitous air conditioner, brings recollections of the fierce heat of the desert and
the burning sensation of the Sun’s rays on exposed skin. Anyone who arrives suddenly,
having been sheltered from the heat by the climate controls of a plane, and leaves the air
conditioned coolness of the airport, must think that he has entered an oven. The heat is
that intense. True, the heat is somewhat moderated in the shade, but it is inescapable
unless an air conditioned car or house awaits. Fifty years ago, there were few such
opportunities to escape the relentless heat, but we learned to cope with it. Quite effective
were the thick adobe walls of houses in those days and the swamp cooler on the roof that
made the air in the house cool, moist, and – when the cooler pad was getting old – smell of
dead fish. On a summer’s day, you could almost smell the heat, and you could certainly
smell the asphalt of the streets as the sun softened the surface of the pavement. The heat
on the pavement and in the desert also created mirages of distant pools of water, mirages
that fascinated us but that led many early settlers to disappointment and disaster.
Arizona is an arid country. But here and there we found cool waters flowing with a joyful
sound from the mountains into pools and streams. Sabino Canyon, Seven Falls, and other
spots provided relief from the dry, hot days. For relief closer to home, we enjoyed
swimming at Himmel Park – although the smell of chlorine stayed with us for hours
afterwards – and lying in the shade of olive and eucalyptus trees that dotted the park. For
real relief, however, there was no substitute for a drive to Mount Lemmon. As one
progressed mile by mile up the then-narrow and guardrail-less road, the temperature
dropped steadily until one had passed from a desert climate and the smell of greasewood
and sagebrush to one approaching northern Canada and the resinous air of pine woods!
The desert is hot and dry, but it is not lifeless. There is a kind of music that plays in my
mind whenever I recall days spent in the Arizona desert. The constant background sound,
primarily in the hottest part of the day, is the loud buzzing of the mating cicada.
Punctuating this chorus is the call of the mourning dove, whose repeated cooing, which
sounds like someone blowing across the top of an empty Coke bottle, provides the desert’s
most familiar sound. If you stand very still and wait patiently, some of the creatures of the
desert will show themselves briefly: a cactus wren with a grasshopper in its beak, a long-
eared jackrabbit loping across the sand, prairie dogs peeking out from their burrows, long
tailed lizards dashing madly abut, splendid chameleons perched on paloverde tree
branches, and what seems like a little pile of sand but which, when it moves, proves to be a
wonderfully camouflaged and concealed horned toad. Even the dry sand seemed to come
to life when the wind created dust devils or blew sagebrush or “tumble weed” across open
spaces. The desert is full of life and wondrously beautiful and inviting, but the invitation is a
severely qualified one. It is an aggressive wilderness: “Don’t get too close!” it seems to
say.
There were other scents that had little to do with the desert. I am speaking of the
perfume of broiling meat at Pinnacle Peak Restaurant, or the smell of spicy Mexican food at
El Charro and other restaurants. In someone’s backyard, or on picnics up in the canyons
of the Santa Catalina Mountains or the Rincons, the smell of hamburgers over an open fire
exceeded the pleasure of many a gourmet meal enjoyed years later. And as for the perfect
meal, nothing can beat the experience of lunchtime on a construction project in the summer
heat of the desert, seated in the shade of an adobe wall, a slight breeze blowing on a
sweat-soaked shirt, a thermos of lemonade and a simple sandwich in hand, the cicadas
serenading in the background, and mountain peaks against an intense blue over-arching
sky. As they say: It doesn’t get much better than that.
There are the memories of persons, places, and things, and there are the memories of
feelings and sensations. It’s possible that the latter will remain with us long after the former
have dimmed into obscurity.
| Cactus Wren |
| Horned Toad |
| Long-eared Jackrabbit |
| Long-tailed Lizard |
| Desert Tortoise |