Henderson

The desert is such a place of starkness, solitude, and beauty. Riding around the Eldorado dry lakebed area provided us with a treat of gnarly rock mountains, open valleys, and panoramic vistas. Roger led today, of course. I didn't want to humiliate him with my speed and skills now, would I? Recognizing certain sections, I remembered the challenges of racing the Henderson 400. Rock faces shot upward, then as we crested the hills it became hang on and look for the lowest edge to drop over. Another day of beauty and challenging riding.
We scouted West across a valley and toward the base of another range of mountains. Finding trails on the opposite side became difficult. Soon we struggled up a rock strewn wash, then we spotted it.
Amidst all the beauty and grandeur, a scar on the landscape. Looked like an Isuzu Rodeo, or a Nissan Pathfinder.
How in the world did they- whoever 'they' were- get it here?
And then they set it on fire.
Feeling like Grissom from CSI, I inspected the hulk.
Wow. That was one hot fire.
Why is the front fender missing?
Roger opined that it looked like the taillights had been removed.Or the fire was so hot, it consumed the melted plastic.
So sad.
While other desert relics such as abandoned cabins represent broken dreams, this only reflects evil.
"Someone probably stole it, joyrode it out to here, then burned it." I said.
Roger shrugged. "Maybe the owner did it. Take it out to the middle of nowhere, torch it and reported it stolen."
I looked for the VIN number. None.
Either way, it bore the scars of evil behavior.
Peering inside the rear hatch, I spotted something. It couldn't have survived the fire. I reached inside and picked it up. A magazine.
Porn.
How appropriate.