Chapter 22
We Hear about the Bombing on the Road to Santa Fe
Our stop in Tucson ended up a short one. David Udall – the lawyer that, back in Santa Cruz, Debbie had said would be a great political connection for doing Rumpkin organizing – had agreed to meet with us, but without Skip and Sally, and feeling deflated about the whole idea, we weren’t explaining it very well, and the meeting was brief.
“Well, good luck,” Udall said, “but I think that exposure to elite discourse about misinformation – what’s called ‘post-objectivity journalism’ – has rendered it almost impossible to form a capable government. It’s like Thomas Jefferson said, democracy depends upon a common set of information. And today, you have to add truth as an adjective to facts. ‘True Facts’. Who would have thought that?! The divisions in our country might be healed if our debates were over facts rather than fiction.”
Having kept our promise to Skip that we would stop in Tucson, we decided not to stay, and instead head out to Santa Fe. It was late that Saturday afternoon, one of the last days of October, but with a couple hours of daylight left, we chose US Hwy 191 as the scenic route through Apache National Forest. Beautiful scenery, not much traffic, but no luck finding a radio station with the Dodgers game on. We enjoyed the sunset even as the winding, mountainous road made for slow going. Good thing the Land Yacht still had its regular gas tank, there were no charging stations.
Patty said that Mari, her friend in Santa Fe, wasn’t expecting us on any certain day, so relax, let’s find a campground, and enjoy the scenery in the morning.
Waking up to a glorious northern Arizona sunrise, packing up quickly, the morning ride was as splendorous as we had hoped, but more-empty of civilization than we had figured – seventy mile stretches without a gas station or town, no charging stations for our Land Yacht, just lofty buttes and towering cliffs to take your breath away. We stopped often to take in the view. Like going back in time, we tried to imagine crossing such rough terrain in a wagon train, thankful for our Land Yacht. The high desert is barren brown, but in various shades of light, a little orange-ish, a little purplish, with occasional specs of green down in the canyons. It was like looking at a Georgia O’Keefe landscape painting: miles and miles without any sign of civilization or another person, just colors, with nothing moving, not a car, not a horse, not a person, nothing moving – a scene frozen in time.
By mid-day we still hadn’t made it to the New Mexico border and we hadn’t seen a Walmart or RV park since Tucson – so only choice, keep on driving. Finally, instead of static, we were able to tune in a radio station, and couldn’t believe we were hearing about a suspected terrorist attack at Dodger Stadium the night before.
Knowing Skip was planning on being there, Rocky called to see if he was okay, but only got voice mail. Patty called Rosie’s, but no answer. The news was confirming no deaths or injuries. The bomb had detonated outside a parking garage and the solid concrete wall had acted as a barrier, preventing anyone from being injured. There were no suspects yet; no one had claimed responsibility; and no clues as to motive. It was the kind of bomb that, had it exploded inside the stadium, hundreds, if not thousands, could have been maimed or killed.
We drove all day listening to news reports. In the late evening hours, we came around a curve, on a high plateau, and saw the lights of Albuquerque ahead of us, twinkling like a jeweled city. Santa Fe was only a couple hours away. Meanwhile, Rocky had called Skip again, left another message, this time ending with, “So what gives, man? No time to call back? You okay? Still into figuring out a Rump Session – maybe about protesting baseball’s rules changes?”