Sunday Bloody Sunday
There comes a time when you're alone and on the road when you think "Is it really worth driving all this way for?"
I was heading for the Rattlesnake Café, a cool eatery wedged into a cave at the bottom of a cliff face. But it was about 20 miles from any where. The only person I saw was a guy in a pick-up truck and he looked like he was a fan of banjo music.
Even my GPS was giving me the "What the Fuck" signals. Finally, I rolled up to find the place was closed on Sundays. I guess they were all at church.
Never mind I thought to myself, I'll drive another 20 miles and go to a Mexican restaurant I'd read about in the hotel the previous night.
Now to be fair, I did not go and try the front door, but from the parking lot this place looked closed as well. Perhaps inside resembled some kind of Robert Rodriguez Psychobilly juke-joint but I guess I'll never know.
25 more miles of winding single lane road later I hit the highlight of my trip.
A Coon Dog Cemetery. Holy shit this is weird.
I love that they have CC-TV out here. I'd passed a trailer home 10 miles closer to civilization that had no electricity.
So many of the colorful flowers, wreaths and bouquets were fresh and the tiny gravestones were clean and shiny. Who's driving 40 plus miles round trip just to reminisce about their dead dog?
When I die Anne's told me that she won't come and visit my grave. And I'm cool with that. I presume she'd feel the same way if she had a coon dog?