Talking Story with Arlo: Spirit Mountain: A Great Day Trip

Talking Story with Arlo

Spirit Mountain: A Great Day Trip

By Arlo Agogo,

Gather ‘round, my fellow cosmic cats and starry-eyed dreamers, for a tale so wild it’ll make your tie-dye spin!

I’m Arlo Agogo, your 58-year-old beatnik buddy with a heart full of joy and a dune buggy full of dreams. Today, I’m spinning a yarn about my rip-roarin’ trip to Spirit Mountain near Laughlin, Arizona—a place where the desert hums, the spirits boogie, and the multiverse throws the grooviest shindig this side of Funkadelia.

It all started at the Avi Casino, my go-to spot for a plate of chicken chow mein so divine it could make a cactus sing. I’d roll up in my yellow '68 VW Dune Buggy, shades on, ponytail flapping like a flag of freedom, ready to soak in the desert vibes.

The food court was my jam, and one day, as I was slurping noodles like a Zen master, a woman stopped dead in her tracks, stared into my soul, and said,

“There’s something special about you, man.”

Her name was Spirit—yep, Spirit—the food court manager and, as I’d soon learn, the spiritual guru of the local tribal folks who own the Avi. With her silver braids and eyes that sparkled like a meteor shower, she was a force of nature.

I swear, when she looked at me, she saw right through to the quantum groovatrons hitching a ride in my soul. You know the groovatrons, right? Those neutrino sized, dimension-dancing funksters from Funkadelia who zip through multiverses, spreading glittery good vibes?

They’re my cosmic copilots, and they love Chinese food.

Spirit and I started having these little chats—short, sweet, and full of sunshine. “What a lovely day, Arlo!” she’d say, her smile brighter than a neon cactus. “I’m glad you’re here.” I’d nod, my heart doing a little bongo solo, knowing the groovatrons were probably high-fiving in the ether.

Then one day, she plopped down at my table, leaned in close, and whispered, “I gotta know more about you, man.

Why do you glow like a spiritual lava lamp?”

Well, I laid it all out—my groovatron saga, my dune buggy desert romps, and how these funky little entities from Funkadelia picked me as their human joy-machine.

Spirit’s eyes got wide as UFOs. Turns out, she wasn’t just the food court queen; she was a tribal elder, a keeper of sacred lore, and the unofficial mayor of Spirit Mountain, a nearby peak that’s less a mountain and more a cosmic bus stop for interdimensional travelers.

The locals call it a “vortex to heaven,” a tribal burial ground where spirits throw eternal ragers. And get this: every afternoon, for exactly 15 minutes, the setting sun lights up the mountain’s peaks like a divine disco ball, leaving the rest in shadow. Far out, right?

Spirit spilled the tea about Spirit Mountain’s history.

She’d trek up there her whole life, taking her family to vibe with the ancestral spirits who call it home. She even flexed her political muscle to stop a wind farm from turning the sacred canyon into a turbine jungle, helping make it a National Monument.

“The spirits don’t dig windmills,” she said with a wink.

I was hooked, man. This woman was a desert Dalai Lama with a side of sass.Then she asked about my “spiritual aura,” and I couldn’t hold back. I told her how the groovatrons crash my dune buggy rides, blasting cosmic funk through my soul’s speakers.

One day, while munching chow mein, I texted my groovatron pals (yeah, they’ve got interdimensional Wi-Fi) and asked, “What’s the deal with Spirit Mountain?”

Their reply? “Oh, we know those spirits, Arlo! We’ve been jamming with them for centuries, hopping dimensions, playing multiversal hide-and-seek!” When I shared this with Spirit, she nearly dropped her sweet-and-sour soup.

“You’re a dimensional VIP!” she gasped. “The groovatrons and our tribal spirits are BFFs!”

That’s when Spirit hit me with a plan wilder than a coyote on a pogo stick. “Arlo,” she said, “I’m too old to drive now, and the young’uns in my tribe are more into TikTok than tribal lore. Will you take me to Spirit Mountain in that groovy buggy of yours?”

My heart did a backflip. “Lady, you had me at ‘sacred vortex,’” I said. So, we set a date for a Sunday morning pilgrimage, just me, Spirit, and a picnic basket stuffed with sandwiches and my Citrus Mint Iced Tea. I would freeze a gallon and take out frozen as I left the pad, so it will thaw in the next few hours.

The drive was a hoot—Spirit knew every backroad, pointing out rocks that “looked like her uncle’s face” and cacti that “gossiped about the weather.” We parked at her childhood picnic spot, a flat clearing with a view that screamed “multiversal hotspot.

”The air was so still, you could hear a tumbleweed hold its breath. No tourists, no noise—just us, the mountain, and a whole lotta cosmic mojo.

Then it happened. The groovatrons and the tribal spirits showed up, and let me tell you, it was a party for the ages! Picture this: tiny funkadelic groovatrons in bell-bottoms, breakdancing with glowing tribal spirits in feathered regalia, all swirling around us like a psychedelic tornado.

Spirit laughed so hard she snorted, “Your groovatrons are wild! They’re teaching our spirits the Funky Chicken!” I was grinning like a kid at a carnival, feeling the joy of two dimensions colliding. The groovatrons were doing cartwheels, the spirits were singing ancient chants with a disco beat, and Spirit and I were the VIPs at the coolest interdimensional playdate ever.

Spirit leaned over and whispered, “Arlo, this place is a vortex, alright. It’s where realities shake hands and swap mixtapes.” I nodded, feeling the truth in my bones. The stillness, the quiet—it wasn’t eerie; it was alive.

Some folks say Spirit Mountain’s haunted, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s not scary—it’s a cosmic clubhouse where spirits and groovatrons kick back and groove.
As the sun dipped low, painting the peaks in that golden glow, Spirit and I packed up, promising to do this again.

The groovatrons sent me a text later: “Epic playdate, Arlo! Those tribal spirits are funky!” I drove Spirit home, her silver braids bouncing as she hummed a tune that sounded suspiciously like “P-Funk.”

She gave me a hug and said, “You’re one of us now, Arlo. Keep spreading that joy.”

So, my friends, that’s the tale of Arlo Agogo’s Spirit Mountain shindig—a comedy of cosmic proportions, starring a beatnik, a tribal guru, and a gaggle of dimension-hopping funksters.

If you’re ever near Laughlin, swing by the Avi for some chow mein, tip your hat to Spirit Mountain, and listen for the groovatrons.

They’re out there, spreading joy, one funky vibe at a time.

Groove is inthe Heart - Arlo

Sponsered by,