Aguila was a collection of run down, boarded up homes and business' with signs advertising property FOR SALE in every direction. Faded paint, tumbleweeds blowing about, a feeling of despair in the air.
Even though the town sits on a fairly major crossroads only a mere 90 minutes from Phoenix, it reminded me of one of those towns Charles Bronson would have passed through. You know the type, bored blonde waitress slightly past her prime, bleached hair tied back in a pony tail, leaning on one elbow, chewing gum, chatting you up... pouring day old coffee from a glass decanter... itching to hitch a ride with the handsome stranger to... well, anywhere.
I only stopped to shed a piece of clothing, the temperature was rising. I left route 60 after only 1 mile east of town, heading across country to my next destination. Passing under hiway 93, my odometer was rolling over onto 5000 miles, remember this is the good ole US of A. The XT was still young.
Congress was just a few klicks, umm... miles ahead. Once I was there it reminded me of what the real Congress of these here United States may be like. Pretending to be important, signs advertising this and that, and puffing it's little chest out, but in reality just as insignificant as those fools in Washington.
I had scoped out the town via Google last night, apparently there was an Old Ghost town in these here parts. In fact, as I rode thru from west to east, I came upon a sign that stated "Old Ghost Town Road"
I took it.
Passing by a new subdivision, followed by old acreages perhaps from the sixties, I was never able to find the Old Ghost Town, I'm sure it's back there somewhere. Signs proclaiming Posted, Private Property and knowing the proliferation of shot guns, rifles and handguns about, I thought better than to just ride onto someones pride and joy.
What I did find was the Old Congress Pioneer cemetery! The gate was open and I wandered around in the mid 70 degree warmth for half an hour reading those gravestones that were still intact. Many sites were simply covered with a ring of stones gathered from the surrounding area. Lots of tiny graves and children of very young ages.
MY mind shot back to 1887, what this place must have been like. No electricity, no pumps to bring lifegiving water, no farms, no medical attention. Imagine this, barely a century ago, the South west deserts yielded an unforgiving and harsh beyond belief environment. To survive here took one hearty bunch of souls, and even then... many simply vanished from the face of the earth.
EVEN today, this was a stark reminder of what it was like outside the urban centers. Sure you could drive your Toy-hauler back there with your diesel Ram truck, but outside that comfort box, it was still the same old desert. Fools out here are not suffered gladly.
These people came here in wagons, horse or oxen dying along the way, taking months to cover ground my XT and I could do in a single day on good paved or gravel roads. No cell phones. No internet to search Google for the safest route across the Donner Pass, No campgrounds with clean restrooms and convenience stores where you could pick up a quart of milk or a candy bar. Nothing.
TO survive in those days took skill, luck, determination beyond imagination, and maybe plenty of prayer. If you didn't succumb to the Apache, a rattlesnake, hunger or thirst... maybe you could eke out a meager living for a year or two.
I wandered and sat in silence for a spell, finding some shade from a gnarly Yucca, drinking ice cold water from my canteen, and eating a ham sandwich I'd prepared that morning.
I left the old Congress Pioneer cemetary behind, bouncing along a rough dirt path down across a washed out gulley and back onto pavement, catching up with US 89 taking me to hiway 93 and back towards Wickenburg. The XT skimmed along at 55 mph, faster and farther than any horse ever to trod the deserts.
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