Fire and Brimstone, chased off a mountain by a dragon.

Shirts, Fire, and a Goat Trail Called a Highway

Nothing particularly exciting happened on the first leg of my eastward journey—unless you count forgetting every single one of my shirts in LA and racing away from a fire-breathing beast. More on the beast in a moment.

First, the dumb move.

Dumb, dumb, dumb! I was so proud of myself for mastering the art of packing light—whittling my bags down from six to three to avoid the dreaded daily car-to-motel shuffle—that I managed to outsmart myself. In my grand effort to travel lean, I decided to hang my shirts and dress slacks separately in the car, thinking I’d grab them as needed. Genius, right?

Well, not if you leave them all behind in LA.

So, tomorrow morning, I’ll be making a quick run to Prescott’s finest Wal-Mart to stock up on their legendary $5.99 short-sleeve shirts. High fashion, here I come.

The Desert and Its Warnings

A few signs tell you when you’ve really entered the heat zone:

1. The ones that remind you not to pick up hitchhikers—especially near state prisons. Always reassuring.
2. The ones that suggest you turn off your A/C to avoid cooking your engine. I ignored that one. Some comforts are non-negotiable.

As if a reminder to not stop for hitchhikers is needed

Despite the blistering heat, the desert has a beauty all its own—vast, rugged, and untamed.

A raw beauty.  Appears lifeless until you hear that ominous rattle.

Sure love their flag. Nothing is too big.

Enter the Fire-Breathing Beast

Now, about that dragon.

As I climbed up and over the Bradshaw Mountains on Highway 89, a flash forest fire erupted. Just as I was approaching the summit—a mere 8 minutes (3.7 miles) from Prescott—two state troopers came flying past me, sirens blaring, just as the flames roared into full force. Moments later, they shut down the road.

Which meant… detour time.

I had to turn back, retrace my steps (well, tire tracks), and take the long way around via Highway 93, then Highway 96—which, let me tell you, is a glorified goat trail with a thin layer of asphalt to make it “official”.

This so-called highway twisted, dipped, climbed, and plunged over flash-flood creeks—each one marked with an oh-so-helpful sign that read:

🚨 “If flooded, don’t cross.”

Gee, thanks. I’ll try to remember that while I’m dodging deer and praying my GPS isn’t leading me into the abyss.

This lovely detour added 3 hours and 120 miles to my trip, all in pitch darkness.

Retreating to the detour.  This smoke wasn't there when I started my climb.

 

The Fire’s Grand Finale

But there was one unexpected reward.

From the backside of the mountain, in the dark, I had a perfect view of the fire. It crowned the mountaintop like a molten halo, flickering and twisting in the night.

They say forest fires take on a life of their own. From where I stood, this one wasn’t just alive—it was a full-fledged monster, bleching fire and fury into the night sky.

At night the dragon looks scary. Wouldn't want to come face to face with it, day or night.

And I was just another traveler, dodging its flames, chasing the road home.

 

They say that forest fires take on a life of their own and this one looked like a real fire-breathing monster.  

More……….