Yesterday my good friend Nohj Dnalor, and myself went on an adventure to Picacho Peak...
Actually, that's kind of a misnomer. A misadventure is what it really was.
Our goal: hike the sweet, challenging glory that is Picacho.
Our result? Due to Nohj's famous procrastination, we got there about an hour before sundown and found out you have to pay just to get in the place. With so little time left in the day, and a complete lack of funds we were forced to abort our Picacho mission.
So, Nohj and I did what any red-blooded, american hiker would do. We drove to the other side of the freeway, parked illegally on the shoulder of the frontage road, crawled under a barbed wire fence (clearly this fence was only intended to stop animals as it was not labeled with any signs indicating any kind of punitive action taken against trespassers. right?) and hiked the even bigger, and cheaper (cheap as free) mountain over there.
Now, sadly we didn't get very far before we realized we both have the metabolisms of hummingbirds on speed and neither of us had the foresight to bring any kind of food at all. It was also just reaching a pitch black level of darkness, but that didn't seem nearly as important to our intrepid heroes.
sigh. Flashlights or no, we were starving.
We turned back.
Luckly we found a Dairy Queen right off the frontage road to get a sugar fix, or else I don't honestly think we would have made it home. At the very least I would have passed out from low blood sugar before then.
Interlude With A Strange Humanoid Creature
Rewind to just before Nohj and myself were making our way under the barbed wire.
We stop at what I can only call a red-neck, white trash, hillbilly gas station to try and find some food before we hit the trail. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "now, Joey, don't you think that's an excessive amount of slurs? I mean, could it have been that bad?"
Just know this, all ye naysayers: if ignorance is bliss. You have no idea how blissful you are to not have been there.
In the parking lot... I'm sorry, in the dirt lot where we parked, there were five (yes I said five) soda machines all looking like they were old enough to be the first soda machines ever. I mean on that seventh day God didn't just rest; he created the miracle of coin operated beverage dispensation. These machines remember that as "the good old days."
There was no indicator of price on any of these machines. They're twelve ounce cans, so I figured I'd try my fifty cents and hope for the best. Nothing. I tried another button. Nothing. Another. Still nothing.
Now, I started walking for the front counter inside. I opened the door and saw the dirtiest, greasiest man I have ever seen. He wore one of those mechanic coveralls with the name patch sown into the breast. With his grizzled beard and obviously unwashed everything, he was the living embodiment of white trash. As I started to ask about the machines the guy cut me off with the thickest mountain bumpkin accent I have ever heard.
Artist's rendering. Artists take liberties, it's called artistic license. Deal with it.
"It works s'far as I know" he drawled with a tone that says it must be my fault. "How much money ya' got in 'er?"
"How much does it take?" I asked.
"Buck and a half." he said with a tone that said I must have been living under a rock to not know the apparent going rate for a can of soda these days.
For a split second I came within inches of telling the man "f**k you! That's the most rediculous thing I've ever heard" but the thinking part of me pointed out that we were miles from anybody else, and he looked like the NRA type. Instead I laughed a laughed with a tone that said "f**k you, that's the most rediculous thing I've ever heard" and actually said "peace out" and took my leave of the man.
It's funny to have a conversation with someone entirely in tones that do not connect with the actual words you are using.
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