Frigid & Loafing in Sierra Vista, 50 miles on the Arizona trail
We were somewhere near the Mexican border when the snow started to settle on our tents.
This is a pretty good imperial stout, he thinks, setting down the paper cup next to last night’s leftover chicken and ribs, congealing in a pool of white gravy and sticky sweet barbecue sauce.
The last piece of deep fried catfish seems incongruous among the bones.
But so was the blanket of white stuff in the high desert. It was quite something, though, to witness that majesty. A wintry silence permeated the red hills, its barren manzanitas and prickly yucca plants, and a creeping chill descended upon the mountain side.
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