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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Life Under the Mojave Desert Sun:
A Dune Buggy Odyssey in the Pizza Oven of June
Greetings, cosmic wanderers and desert rats! Buckle up for a wild ride through the Mojave Desert, where the sun reigns supreme, turning my trusty RV into a pizza oven and my dune buggy into a chariot for dawn-patrolling lunatics.
I’m your narrator, a grizzled 58-year-old beatnik businessman, part-time philosopher, and full-time sun-dodger, living out here where the cacti whisper secrets and the horizon shimmers like a mirage of a cosmic casino.
June has arrived, and with it, the Arizona sun—King Sol himself—has declared war on all things foolish enough to linger in his gaze. So grab a cold one, and let me spin you a tale of 4:00 a.m. wake-ups, dune buggy escapades, and the fine art of surviving a desert summer with a grin and a bit of cosmic comedy.
The Sun: Emperor of the Mojave, Tyrant of Thermometers
Out here in the Mojave, the sun doesn’t just rise—it ascends like a flaming overlord, ready to smite anything that dares defy its radiance.
By June, daytime temps are already kissing 110°F, and don’t be fooled by the midnight “cool-down” to a balmy 100°F. Mid-July and August?
Oh, brother, that’s when the desert turns into Satan’s skillet, with daily highs of 120°F and often spikes to 125°F—temperatures that could cook a jackrabbit in its boots or turn a wandering beatnik into a pile of ash with a paisley bandana.
How folks survived out here before air conditioning is beyond me. I picture them hiding in caves, fanning themselves with Joshua tree fronds, muttering, “Why didn’t we move to Seattle?”
My RV, bless its aluminum heart, is my fortress against this solar tyranny. But even with modern air conditioning cranked to arctic levels, the west-facing side of my rig absorbs the afternoon sun like a sponge soaking up lava.
By 3:00 p.m., the walls are radiating heat, and my home feels like the inside of a calzone. I’ve got it parked north-south to minimize the damage, but that western sun is a sneaky devil, creeping through my blinds like a cosmic paparazzi.
My electric bill? A cool hundred bucks extra a month, but worth every penny to keep from melting into a puddle of existential poetry.
The 4:00 a.m. Hustle: Coffee, Chores, and Dune Buggy Dreams
To beat the sun, you gotta outsmart it, and that means waking up at 4:00 a.m. when the desert is still cloaked in a fleeting, velvety coolness. I set my mental alarm clock—because who needs a real one when your brain’s wired to the rhythm of the cosmos?—and roll out of bed, my air-conditioned bedroom a chilly oasis.
My AC unit, a modern marvel, blasts arctic gusts right at my face, keeping things a crisp 70°F even when the thermostat fibs and says 80°F. I sip my coffee, black as the night sky, and watch the stars fade while the desert hums with the quiet anticipation of dawn.
Chores come first: checking the RV’s water tanks (the sun evaporates everything, even your dreams), securing my dune buggy’s cover (more on that beast in a sec), and making sure my solar panels aren’t caked in dust.
By 5:00 a.m., I’m itching to hit the trails.
The Mojave surrounds me like an endless playground, a labyrinth of sandy washes and rocky ridges that beg to be explored.
My dune buggy, a yellow contraption I call "Daisy" , is my ticket to freedom. It’s got knobby tires, a roll cage tougher than a biker’s attitude, and a motor that roars like a caffeinated coyote.
I fire it up, and off we go, tearing toward the Colorado River as the sky blushes pink and gold.
Sunrise Rides: Chasing the Cosmic Groove
There’s nothing like a sunrise ride in the Mojave. The trails along the river are my cathedral, where the first rays of light paint the cliffs in hues of fire and amber.
Lizards dart like tiny philosophers, pondering the meaning of life before scurrying under rocks. The air is crisp, the wind smells of sage, and for a fleeting hour, the desert feels like a secret only I’m in on.
I crank up some vintage Santana on my buggy’s speakers—because what’s a desert ride without a little “Oye Como Va” to set the vibe?—and weave through the trails, kicking up dust clouds that sparkle like cosmic glitter in the dawn.
But the clock’s ticking. By 10:00 a.m., the sun’s getting cocky, and by noon, it’s the undisputed king, ready to roast anything that lingers. I hightail it back to base, because out here, you don’t argue with the sun—you bow.
The Arizona sun always wins, like a cosmic mob boss who demands respect. Ignore it, and you’ll be a dehydrated cautionary tale by sundown.
Dodging the Heat: Casinos, Shade, and Naps
Once I’m back, it’s time to outwit the heat. One of my favorite tricks is a jaunt to the Avi Casino, just down the road. Their parking structure, built from pure, sun-defying cement, is a shady oasis where my dune buggy can nap without turning into a solar-powered toaster.
Inside, the food court is a glorious refuge of air-conditioned bliss. I grab a burger, maybe flirt with the idea of dropping a few coins in the slots—because who knows, maybe today’s the day Lady Luck winks at me.
Spoiler: she rarely does, but the AC and a cold soda are prize enough.
Back home, I park the "daisy" on the east side of my neighbor’s place, where the shade is as precious as gold. I cover it up tight, because the sun doesn’t just bake—it evaporates fuel like a vampire draining a gas tank and thins your oil until it’s basically salad dressing.
The afternoon is for old-guy naps in my chilled bedroom, where I dream of interstellar road trips and quantum-entangled roadrunners. Or I tinker with my next project: maybe a blog about the Groovatrons, those funky, soul-hopping aliens from Funkadelia who inspire my desert musings. (Check my last post for that wild tale.)
Sunset: The Desert’s Grand Finale
As the sun dips below the mountains around 7:30 p.m., the Mojave puts on a show that could make a poet weep. The sky explodes in purples and oranges, shadows stretching across the peaks like cosmic brushstrokes. If there’s a breeze, the dust swirls just right, turning the horizon into a psychedelic painting.
Some mountains glow, others sulk in shadow, and the whole scene feels like the desert’s way of saying,
“Yeah, I’m hot, but I’m also gorgeous.”
That’s when I sit outside, sipping something cool, maybe strumming my guitar or scribbling in my journal about the day’s adventures. The desert night is a different beast—alive with mystery, whispering of stars and stories yet to be told.
My neighbors, those snowbirds who fled the heat, are missing out. They’ll be back when the temps drop, but for now, it’s just me, '68 VW Dune Buggy, and the Mojave’s endless groove.
The Moral of the Mojave
Living here means dancing with the sun, respecting its power, and finding joy in the little rebellions—early-morning rides, casino shade, and naps that feel like victories.
The Mojave teaches you to move with the rhythm of the day, to laugh at the heat, and to find magic in the dust.
So here’s to the desert, where the sun is king, the dune buggy is my steed, and every sunrise is a chance to chase the cosmic groove.
Stay cool, and may your AC always blow cold.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
