The real story is the landscape, territory

GILA BEND, Ariz. -- I slowed my vehicle down enough to safely pull off the road and on to the shoulder.

A few yards away a very large coyote to my right slowly sniffed the ground in a dry creek bed. Must have been looking for mice and other snacks.

It's been many years since I traveled this road, Interstate 8, eastbound out of San Diego. It's been awhile since the high desert country beckoned my return.

I was on the way to see my grandchildren now living outside Phoenix. This time I chose to make the enticing, southeastward, overland drive from San Francisco and Los Angeles knowing full well that a cornucopia of sights and scenes awaited me.

The coyote acted with great stealth as it moved closer to what appeared to be a small hole in the desert floor. The next scene had the coyote moving off to perhaps its own sanctuary with a small rabbit in its jaws. To him, the epitome of southwestern fast food.

I had given serious consideration at one time to moving to the San Diego area because of its claim to fame as the place with the perfect climate 12 months of the year. I even dreamed about having 50 acres or so of ranch land just inside Arizona, just so I could sit on a front porch and spin tales about my days back in the Midwest. And then I woke up and got real.

In my humble opinion, for a tenderfoot, the desert lands of the southwest are great to visit but not to drive a stake in the ground. And the reason for me is nothing more than a major lack of quality drinking and recreational water.

The inhabitants here are a tough breed of sorts. They are more than just survivors. In fact, they are independent, close-to-the-vest landowners who string their fences and shoo off unwanted souls.

After consuming a bottle of high-priced water, I continued on my journey.

Some miles down the road I came to a mountain pass that literally took my breath away. The sheerness of the towering rock walls was a pure visual overload for me, even though I have personally been to mountain tops far taller than this present exhibition. But to a kid who continues to marvel at the view from atop the Sears Tower, these majestic peaks held me spellbound, so I stopped again just to see what kind of wildlife I could find.

I spotted a tiny water-filled creek (a rarity at this time of the year) on the shade side of the formation. The zoom lens on my camera showed a phalanx of small desert animals whetting their whistles. Where's a will, there's a way, I guess.

I wondered if any of the locals appreciated the mountains as much as I did. I suspect they take the terrain for granted as we accept the beauty of Lake Michigan when we pass it on the Outer Drive.

Before I left California, I spoke with a couple anglers who lived about a hundred miles north of San Francisco. They raved about the tremendous trout fishing available. They gleefully bragged about their triumphs in finding big fish.

And the bass fishermen I encountered there couldn't stop talking about their deep-water reservoirs tucked in between mountain walls that are loaded with Florida-strain largemouth big enough to tow a boat around the lakes.

And because I live in northern Illinois, the only mountains I get to see are the mega-hills called Garden of The Gods in the Shawnee National Forest.

I guess one has to be thankful for having lots of water and excellent fishing along with a touch of the tall country if we care to drive 400 miles to the south.