And then came the part about falling aircraft. Unlike D.E.D.s of yore, we had a mild trip plan this time, or at least I should say that Pw came up with it much to my surprise the day we left town: We were to follow El Camino del Diablo, The Devil's Highway, an ancient byway through what remains the most wild and unmolested portion of the Sonoran desert. Research into the history of the road produced conflicts about whether it was first traveled in the 1540s or the 1690s, but it's certain that the trail has been used by ancient peoples, by Spanish missionaries and California's first land-bound settlers, and by 49ers and pioneers avoiding the brutal Apache to the north. The only hope these people had to survive was to carry enough water for the 100-plus-mile trek to the Tinajas Altas from either California or Mexico. Tinajas Altas means high tanks, tanks being natural rock formations that hold up to hundreds of gallons of rainwater. At least you hoped so. Gravesites dot El Camino del Diablo and tellingly cluster at the base of the Tinajas Altas mountains. Hence, the Devil's Highway. The Yuma railroad came in 1870 and saved many lives, leaving the Camino to hardy freelance miners. Today, the fantastic desert route is traveled only by archeologists, geologists, illegal immigrants, drug runners, and we foolhardy desert rats.
El Camino del Diablo runs adjacent to the Mexican border through a former Tohono O'Odham reservation on what has been the 860,000-acre Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Reserve since Roosevelt said so in 1939. It's adjacent to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument and is subject to flyovers from the Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range, which you also pass through if you live that long. Access requires extensive permission from myriad agencies that control the area. We signed all the required papers and watched the mandated videos at the very helpful U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service office in Ajo. The gist of the warnings is "You're gonna die here-you know that. Right?" We held harmless the U.S. government for "permanent, painful, disabling, and disfiguring injury or death" due to everything from live fire, to unexploded ordinance, to venomous desert reptiles, to our own stupidity, to the aforementioned plummeting aircraft. We promised to stay on the road at all costs.
Cool. So we were off on our own accord, and armed with 15 gallons of water, into a wilderness of sands of different colors, mud, lava rock, and forests of saguaro, ocotillo, and a few organ pipes. We were queried by two rangers within 5 miles, then it was nothing but jackrabbits, lizards, and a lonely hawk. The road is almost entirely passable in two-wheel drive, though only 4x4s are allowed for safety reasons. Travelers should come in packs of at least two vehicles, but there we were in a 56-year-old Jeep that, until the previous day, hadn't run for a decade. It treated us to 140 miles of pure desert bliss, including multiple stops to suck gas and clean out the recovering fuel system. El Camino del Diablo really demands at least a three-day exploration that every desert lover must do before they die, but we did it in one 14-hour sitting, motoring into the night lit only by a nearly full moon-no headlights to ruin our night vision. We wouldn't have traded it for anything.
So the civilization of the Arizona town of Fortuna came harsh. As did the hateful realization that we'd choked hopelessly: It was hotel time. Shoulda camped. And pavement travel revealed some nasty rear-axle noise.