The Hundredth Meridianrnbv Chilton Williamson, Jr.rnCircuit RiderrnA town witliout a saloon is like a womanrnwithout a heart. I made Blanding, Utah,rnbefore sundown, checked into the BestrnWestern Motel, and rang up the frontrndesk from m room. “Is the Elk RidgernRestaurant within walking distance fromrnhere?” “It’s just half a block away.” “Dornthev have a liquor license?” ‘”Vo sellrnliquor? I don’t think so. We’re a dryrntown.” Not as long as I’m a resident. Irnhad in m luggage a half-bottle of dry redrnwine, from which I drank a glass beforerncrossing the street to the restaurant. Itrnwas a characterless place, furnished withrntables and chairs fabricated from blondernwood and crowded with large pale familiesrngorging on fried chicken and sweetrnrolls. And a meal without wine can onlyrnbe compared to a Mass without transubstantiation.rnI ordered chili and a bottlernof pseudobccr, ate quickly, and returnedrnto the mole) to finish off the wine andrninnncrse myself, through Selina Hastings’srnsu])erb new biography of EyelynrnWaugh, in the bibulous aristocraticrnwodd of a I .ondon clubman. I was awakernbefore seven the next morning and onrnthe road b’ eight o’clock, headed southrnacross the northern boundary of thernNavajo reserxation to the town of MexicanrnWater in Arizona.rnI drove for some hours across the landrnof the Navajos, fine upland desert almostrncntircK removed from the Epoch ofrnGrowth that the Dineh alternately despisernand demand, though the folkwaysrnthcv cherish are virtually synonymousrnwith the poverty of which they eonrplain.rnCalifornians enclosed in Cadillacs,rnOhioans boxed inside Winnebagos towingrnboats and jeeps, and yuppies fromrnUtah with mountain bicycles mountedrnon the roofs of sporty four-wheel-drivesrnraced across this wholly-surroundedrnThird Wodd plot, past the stick corralsrnand trailer towns, in search of a goodrntime elsewhere and, if possible, the goodrnlife. America on the move: restless andrnmiserable without knowing why, everyonernlooking for the right place, the lastrnbest place, and never finding it; towingrntheir problems along behind them withrntheir boats and assorted wheeled toys.rnMaryland, Virginia plates: keep going.rnNew York and Illinois: don’t stop. Oregonrnand Washington: the Indians don’trnneed you out here, and neither do we.rnCalifornia: stop and I’ll shoot. The oncomingrntraffic approached like unwantedrnneighbors, blank alien faces behindrnrelueent windshields at doubled speed.rnOn the res there are few road signs, littlernof the roadside culture of the whiternsyphilization that has become an affrontrnto Creation and to the Creator. Here arnlovely alle’, an expanse of grassy plain, arnrow of hills covered by desert flowers arernnot, as they are off reservation, an invitationrnto rape, pillage, and development:rndetached from intimations of disaster,rnnatural beauty becomes once again anrnobject of delight, no longer cause for angui.rnsh. I wish the Indians owned all ofrnArizona.rnNorth to south, Arizona stretches 390rnmiles. Beyond the Painted Desert Irnstojjped for gas at Show Low on the edgernof the Fort Apache Indian Reservation, arnwilderness of blocky mountains andrngorges blackened by low forests of pinernand cedar. South from Globe, velloyvrnpuffs of blossoming palo verde eoeredrnthe cragged desert hills, and in the valleyrnof the San Pedro River the cotton woodsrnboiled on a hot wind above the flat greenrnfields overlooked l:)y armies of saguaros.rnThe sprawl of Tucson began at OrornValley, ill-made but expensive housesrncrammed into gilded subdivisions isolatedrnbehind partial adobe walls from thernperfumed vastncss of the springtimerndesert. People move 2,000 miles fromrnNorthbrook and Minneapolis to live likernthis? The great unanswered question isrnnot what women want—it is what Americansrnwant. I drove downtown throughrnthe rush-hour traffic and put up at thernCongress Hotel on State Street, wherernthe art deco lobby has been recently refurbished,rnthe rooms with their Bonniern& Clyde furniture are comfortably Spartan,rnand the radio encased in its woodenrnbox in the form of a church window hadrnconsiderately been left inoperable byrnthe management. The window facedrnState Street, directly over the marquee. Irnopened it and lay with my boots onrnacross the iron-frame bed while the hotrndry air poured in, smelling the cold wetrnsagebrush of the Wyoming steppes andrnthe yellow branding smoke, acrid withrnthe odor of scorched hair and burnt veal.rnI spent two days drinking coffee withrnGregory McNamec and a hotshot literaryrnagent whose analysis of the Americanrnliterary marketplace tempted me tornchuck my typewriter into the Santa CruzrnRiver and escape across the Mexicanrnborder in search of a better life. On thernthird day I was cramped once again behindrnthe wheel of the pickup truck, battlingrnthe powerful spring winds east ofrnBenson on Interstate 10. Each vear thisrnwandering becomes more like an obsessivernpatrol of the American Southwest,rnan assessment of the ruination accomplishedrnby “development” and an inventoryrnof the vast and better yet inhospitablernbeauty still remaining. Thernhighway climbed through Texas Canyonrnand descended to Willcox and San Simon,rnscoured by typhoons of yellow dustrnrising from the desert floor and sweepingrnacross the apple orchards toward therniron-red mountains that enclose thernvalley. It crossed the state line into Nev-rnMexico, passed Stein’s Ghost Town, andrntraversed the playas shimmering withrnheat. Erom Lordsburg it continued on tornDeming and El Paso, while I took therntwo-lane road north across the widernplain dotted with sotol and yuccarnthrough the Burro Mountains to SilverrnCity on the southern end of the Gila NationalrnEorcst. The country had emergedrnfrom the ehrysallis of spring in which itrnhad rested pleasantly when I last visited itrnin February with Jim Catron, legal counselrnto the Catron County Commissionrnnotorious nationwide for its determinationrnto force the federal government tornobey its own statutes. I had phonedrnCatron from Belen and met him at six inrnthe morning at his house in Gontreras atrnthe verge of the bosque along the RiornGrande for the 160-mile drive to therntown of Reserve, the county seat. JimrnCatron is a descendent of the pioneers ofrnSEPTEMBER 1995/49rnrnrn