Basalt ridges stretch like charred spines, Joshua trees twist skeletal against a calcium sky. This Mojave is pure bone. I come down into Bullhead City. The sun begins to drop behind the Providence Mountains, over Devil s Playground and the Old Woman Mountains. Below me, what s left of the Colorado River gleams amber.
Housing developments metastasize into the eastern hills.
There are roads where, six months ago, there were none, and streetlights where once only cholla and mojave yucca shimmered at dusk. I cross the river into a gazillion-watt kaleidoscope, emerald, silver, bright pink and gold, Colorado Belle, Pioneer, Golden Nugget, a cowboy two stories high waves day and night, and you open the door to your room with a computerized card. The sidewalks are thronged with old couples in matching pastel jogging suits. Old women lean on walkers. Old men lean on their wives.