Data Analysis: Trump Has Won Re-Election and is Now Going for Popular Landslide

An interesting thing about this election cycle compared to previous ones I've lived through is the vast amount of data available, through various channels. It is a far cry from 24 years ago, in the fall of 1996, when I had to go into my office in Austin, log int the NeXT desktop machine in the Stat Mech Center and peruse the text-interface of the USENET news groups like alt.politics for poll results for Clinton and Dole coming off the wire services. It was my morning obsession when I came into campus, when I was working on my dissertation. Even then I mostly only got national results (which are not very helpful), and only a few state by state results. As everyone knows, in reality the U.S. Presidential election is 51 separate elections (the way it should it be!).

This time the entire presidential election is fought in about fourteen states at most, which is typical. That doesn't mean votes in other states don't count. They do, in a big way. For example, Trump turnout in California will determine whether he gets a popular mandate, which this time will be very important. In that sense, California voters are very important. 

Anyone jawboning about Hillary's supposed "popular vote" victory last time should be forced to reckon the huge number of California and other "blue state" Republicans who stayed home last time---arguably way more than the number of "red state" Democrats, who by contrast were encouraged to turn out and told that Hillary could sweep the Electoral College. In California, the only statewide race was for the U.S. Senate, and because of the primary system there, the election was between two Democrats running against each other! Why even bother!

This year we have lots of polls published in the news, some much better than others. Perhaps the biggest divide of information in our country is who is allowed to see "insider" poll data, or poll data of that caliber, and who is only allowed to see only "public" polls (which are mostly propaganda). The insider polls are the kind of data the campaigns actually use to allocate money. 

More importantly, now that is October, for various crucial states, we have lots of beautiful broken-down-by-demographic data for both early voting (EV) and vote-by-mail (VBM), updated and shared daily by diligent amateur journalists, who are doing the real work of news reporting. 

As of yet we don't know who people are voting for, but we can make good statistical guesses based on who these voters are.  This is hard data, not poll numbers, and one good thing about it is that one can use it to weed out "bad" polls and confirm the "good" ones. The good ones seem to be converging well.

With early voting underway for a couple days now in critical states, the picture is becoming quite clear, and more clear every day, about what to expect when the smoke clears on election evening.. 

Based on the opinion and analysis of the smart people I follow, who are pouring over EV/VBM, as well as last minute party registrations and switches, the map looks like this:

This map indicates the states Trump has already locked up. It is the lower bound on his electoral votes. Based on the last election, he will likely win most if not all of the remaining unshaded battleground states.

Trump has a solid 306 electoral votes that he is are certainly going to win at this point. This is exactly his winning map from last time. One could quibble if early trends actually make Pennsylvania so solid at this point, but each passing day makes it look better, so the trend is unmistakable. Florida, North Carolina, Georgia, and Arizona are almost certainly out of reach for Biden. Michigan is looking a solid Trump win from early data, more solid than people figured. Look for this trend to continue as other states' data comes in. Ohio and Iowa were never in doubt. Texas? Ha ha ha!

Trump is strong in Nevada and New Hampshire, and is likely to win those states, giving him at least 316. He is saying he is going to win Nevada, with great conviction, and strangely I believe that he knows more about the situation than I do.

Minnesota, Virginia, Maine, Colorado, Oregon, and New Jersey (!) are all legitimately too close to call. We don't have enough good data yet for those states (especially in Minnesota, where Trump appears to be leading). Biden is weak in all of those states. Nowhere is he close to topping 50%. Last time in 2016, undecideds broke hard for Trump at the last minute and he won every single battleground that was up for grabs. If he does that this time, and wins all the remaining true battlegrounds that are unshaded in the map above, he will go way north of 350, at least to 362, and to 377 if he wins New Jersey (the only battleground where he isn't currently tied or leading in good polls).

Another state to watch is Illinois, where Biden is leading but is weak (<50% in good polls). Trump could conceivable steal another 20 EV there if turnout breaks his way strongly. Alas even that would put him just shy of the magical 400 number!

New York, California, Washington, and Connecticut are all within about ten points in the good polls, but are longshots for him, since we are getting close to election day. Turnout there will drive up Trump's national popular vote victory, however, a result which is almost guaranteed at this point. That's why he was tweeting to voters in those states today, appealing for their voites. As anyone knows, who has been watching his rallies lately, Trump knows he has won this and is now going for the popular landslide. He will probably top 50% nationally, which will be very healing for the country, I think.  The map I made in the previous vote is not out of the question, if turnout breaks the right way.

There will be no lingering chaos for days afterward. The election will be called on election night as a Trump victory. Trump will have enough states called for him that VBM counting will not matter for late-arriving votes.

Electoral College:

Baseline for Trump: Trump 306, Biden 232 (same as 2016)

Most probable: Trump 362, Biden 176

High end for Trump: 400+

Popular vote prediction:

Trump 50.4%, Biden 44.8% 

The War is Almost Over

Virgil Caine is my name and I drove on the Danville train
'Til Stoneman's cavalry came and tore up the tracks again
In the winter of '65, we were hungry, just barely alive
I took the train to Richmond that fell
It was a time I remember, oh, so well

The night they drove old Dixie down
And all the bells were ringin'

Things are moving very fast. I made this map two weeks ago as my Electoral College prediction. But Trump is probably going to win California.

History of the U.S. Electoral College

1789 -- Washington 69 (unopposed)

1792 -- Washington 132 (unopposed)

1796 -- Adams 71, Jefferson 68

1800 -- Jefferson 73, Adams 65

1804 -- Jefferson 162, Pinckney 14

1808 -- Madison 122, Pinckney 47

1812 -- Madison 128, Clinton 89

1816 -- Monroe 183, King 34

1820 -- Monroe 231 (unopposed)

1824 -- Jackson 99, Adams 84*, Crawford 41, Clay 37

(Following provisions of the 12th Amendment, Adams elected by vote of the state delegations in the House of Representatives: Adams 13, Jackson 7, Crawford 4)

1828 -- Jackson 178, Adams 83

1832 -- Jackson 219, Clay 49, Floyd 11, Wirt 7

1836 -- Van Buren 170, Harrison 73, White 26, Webster 14, Mangum 11

1840 -- Harrison 234, Van Buren 60

1844 -- Polk 170, Clay 105

1848 -- Taylor 163, Cass 127, Van Buren 0

1852 -- Pierce 254, Scott 42

1856 -- Buchanan 174, Frémont 114, Fillmore 8

1860 -- Lincoln 180, Breckinridge 72, Bell 39, Douglas 12

1864 -- Lincoln 212, McClellan 21

1868 -- Grant 214, Seymour 80

1872 -- Grant 286, Greeley 0**

(Greeley won six states but died three weeks after election)

1876 -- Hayes 185, Tilden 184

1880 -- Garfield 214, Hancock 155

1884 -- Cleveland 219, Blaine 182

1888 -- Harrison 233,  Cleveland 168

1892 -- Cleveland 277, Harrison 145, Weaver 22

1896 -- McKinley 271, Bryan 176

1900 -- McKinley 292, Bryan 155

1904 -- Roosevelt 336, Parker 140

1908 -- Taft 321, Bryan 162

1912 -- Wilson 435, Roosevelt 88, Taft 8, Debs 0

1916 -- Wilson 277, Hughes 254

1920 -- Harding 404, Cox 127

1924 -- Coolidge 382, Davis 136, La Follette 13

1928 -- Hoover 444, Smith 87

1932 -- Roosevelt 472, Hoover 59

1936 -- Roosevelt 523, Landon 8

1940 -- Roosevelt 449, Wilkie 82

1944 -- Roosevelt 432, Dewey 99

1948 -- Truman 303, Dewey 189, Thurmond 39

1952 -- Eisenhower 442, Stevenson 89

1956 -- Eisenhower 457, Stevenson 73

1960 -- Kennedy 303, Nixon 219

1964 -- Johnson 486, Goldwater 52

1968 -- Nixon 303, Humphrey 191, Wallace 46

1972 -- Nixon 520, McGovern 17, Hospers 1

1976 -- Carter 297, Ford 240, Reagan 1

1980 --Reagan 488, Carter 49, Anderson 0

1984 --Reagan 525, Mondale 13

1988 -- Bush 426, Dukakis 111, Bentsen 1

1992 -- Clinton 370, Bush 168, Perot 0

1996 -- Clinton 379, Dole 159, Perot 0

2000 -- Bush 271, Gore 266

2004 -- Bush 286, Kerry 251, Edwards 1

2008 -- Obama 365, McCain 173

2012 -- Obama 332, Romney 206

2016 -- Trump 304, Clinton 227, Powell 3, Spotted Eagle 1, Paul 1, Kasich 1, Sanders 1, Johnson 0, Stein 0, McMullin 0

2020 -- ??

Current count of the states delegations in the House of Representative:

Republican majority: 26

Democratic majority: 23

Tied: 1

America is a Hall of Mirrors

 A key feature of the American system---its stability in its growth in freedom and prosperity over time--is due to the purposeful fracturing of the American nation into fifty separate little nations, of different size and character. To understand America is not to understand one nation but one plus fifty more, which is nearly impossible to do for any one man or woman during one lifetime. Thus America is always an illusion that disappoints, because it is different from what one can expect from any angle. That is a good thing. It is better that way. 

Welcome to 1776

I believe in nations like I believe in families. The alternative to nations is not good, just as the alternative to families is not good. 

But how do we avoid succumbing to tyranny? All good and true statements can become hardened into mere syllables of repetition that can be used to enslave. This was proven by Derrrida and others.

How do we not go too far, towards something that is even good, such that the voices of enthusiasm are not the ones which came out of an understanding from reason, but from reflexive passion, that is frigthtening, since it comes from the unvarnished masses. We see in the masses our lower instincts, and know that if they were to gain the upper hand, it mean the end of all order.

But what you see in the masses is merely a reflection of what is in you. The masses you imagine are simply you, yourself, the mirror deep inside you, but multiplied by a hundred million, ten to the power of five.

Are the masses ugly to you? Of course they are. But forgive yourself. We are all fallen souls. Can we agree on that---equally distant from God, and equally in need of repentance to achieve salvation? Nothing you do gives you a head start from that point. 

If so, we can begin to talk about a philosophy of government, and a practical system of putting it into motion in the real world, with some hope of its longterm survival and stability, and without incurring so many of the negatives of the past?

The implementation will be so incredibly imperfect. By later ages it will seem barbaric and heartless. Does that make you want to give up on the whole project?

If not, if you can accept that ghastly imperfection, we can begin to talk about practicalities. We went down this road before. It was a long time ago. 

I Pledge Allegiance

 America is but a nation. It is neither sacred nor holy, since. no nation can be so 

But the concept of nations is endorsed by God in Scripture, strongly so. It is a concept that humanity should strive to preserve, as it does the idea of the family. They are different levels on a hierarchy that is earthly, and therefore less than God, who alone is completely holy.

I love my nation as I love my family. In moth cases, it is a complex love, as all human loves are complex. Part of that love involves honor of the past, which is in effect an extension of the Fourth/Fifth Commandment. 

There is a love I was given as a child, which is a love of the tradition of the founding of the nation, and its history. This is a love that active in me despite a consciousness of the aspects of the so-called negative parts of this story.

That this is possible is something I learned how to do a long time, during a Presidential Election, when I was a lot younger. It is what I saw in Mississippi.

Red Tsunami Scorecard 2020

This year is an all-in election.  No point in holding anything back, and in that vein, I went a bit nuts with political donations, at last count giving money to 55 different candidates for national office. All fifty-five are Republicans.

Only three are incumbents (shown by an asterisk below). The other 52 are challengers, most of them in the House of Representatives. 

The strategy I use was suggested by a private pollster that I follow on Twitter, a guy who lives in Florida and who seems to very smart about elections. He posts a lot of inside poll information from his own firm, somewhat anonymously. He said something crucial about a week ago.

The purpose of polls, he said, is not to determine who is going to win. The purpose of polling is to determine where to direct money, 

Most people like to give money to winners, he said. But the best place to put money is in a race you have an underfunded candidate, usually a challenger, who has some growing strength but needs a boost of funding to make a surge. In these races, he said, even a small amount of money can make a huge difference in leverage towards the end of the campaign.

So I took him up on his offer. Of the 47 House candidates whom I donated to, all but two of them were on his list of "underfunded hot challengers" who could possibly win, given a bit of last minute cash. 

The Republicans are so strong this year that they are probably going to retake the House with a comfortable margin even if they win almost none of the races on my list.  They are already well head in other races to win back the House and send Pelosi into retirement. The most probably Republican pick-ups in the House are not on my list, since they don't need my money. The candidates I have backed, if they were all to win, would make for a "red super tsunami" unseen in many decades, if ever. So I don't expect them all to win. Some of them I am rooting for especially, including places where I've lived, such as Oregon's 5th and New York's 11th.

I should add that my own House District, Arizona 6th district (north Scottsdale), is safe Republican, so I didn't give the Republican any money, saving it for others. But don't tell that to the Democrats. The few times I've turned on broadcast television lately, I've seen PAC money ads against him. Good. Please waste your money.

As for the Senate, I donated to the incumbents McSally and Gardener mostly so I could go on public record with name on their donation lists. I think both will win. The others are looking good. Not out of the question that I could go seven-for-seven in my Senate donation list.

One consequence of this is that I'm getting about twenty texts a day asking for folow-ups. Interesting to see who is most persistent.

One expected side effect of this I got to learn a LOT about the state of political donation web portals. As someone who does this for a living, I felt like the money I spent seeking out these candidates and following the donation links, and going through the process, was a massive education in this sub-field of the industry. Lots of insights. I might have to go into the business next time.

Donations Made

President 

Donald Trump* (heck yes, I want my name on THAT list of donors)

U.S. Senate

AZ -- Martha McSally* CO -- Corey Gardener* MI -- John James NH -- Corky Messner NJ -- Rik Mehta OR -- Jo Rae Perkins VA -- David Gade

U.S. House of Representatives

AZ 1 -- Tiffany Shedd (monster district, wrapping from south of Phoenix along east side of state to Indian Co.) AZ 7 -- Josh Barnett (central Phoenix) AZ 9 -- Dave Giles (south Scottsdale, Mesa, Chandler) CA 7 -- Buzz Patterson (e. suburbs of Sacramento) CA 36 -- Erin Cruz (Riverside County) CA 49 -- Brian Maryott (Carlsbad, coast north of San Diego) CT 3 -- Margaret Streicker (New Haven, Stratford, Middletown) CT 5 -- David X. Sullivan (Meriden, Housatonic Valley) FL 7 -- Leo Valentin (Winter Park) FL 9 -- Bill Olson (Kissimmee, St. Cloud) FL 13 -- Anna Paulina Luna (St. Petersburg, Clearwater) FL 14 -- Christine Quinn (Tampa) FL 21 -- Laura Loomer (W. Palm Beach, Trump's home district) FL 23 -- Carla Spalding (north suburbs of Miami, parts of Broward County) IL 17 -- Esther Joy King (Peoria and the NW part of the state along Mississippi River) IA 2 -- Marianette Miller-Meeks (se quadrant of the state) ME 2 -- Dale Crafts (most of the state outside the Portland and the nearby coast) MD 7 -- Kim Klacik (urban Baltimore and Columbia) MN 3 -- Kendall Qualls (Eden Prairie, w. suburbs of Twin Cities) MN 7 -- Michelle Fishbach (most of the western side of the state) NV 3 -- Dan Rodimer (southern tip of the state south of Las Vegas) NV 4 -- Jim Marchant (central part of state north of Nevada) NH 1 -- Matt Mowers (Manchester and se part of the state) NH 2 -- Steve Negron (western part of state) NJ 3 -- David Richter (central state, Burlington, Ocean counties) NJ 5 --Frank Pallotta (northern, nw edge of state) NJ 11 -- Rosemary Becchi (Morrison and Boonton Lakes) NM 2 -- Yvette Herrel (southern half of the state, south of Alb.) NY 11 -- Nicole Malliotakis (Staten Island and Bay Ridge, Brooklyn) NY 19 -- Kyle Van De Water (Catskills, mid Hudson valley) NY 22 --Claudia Tenney (Utica, Rome, Binghampton) NY 25 --George Mitris (Rochester) OR 4 -- Alek Skarlato (Eugene, Corvallis, Roseburg, Gold Beach) OR 5 -- Amy Ryan Courser (Salem, Clackamas Co., Lincoln City) PA 6 -- John Emmons (Reading, Chester Co.) PA 7 -- Lisa Scheller (Allentown, E. Stroudsburg) PA 8 -- Jim Bognet (Scranton, Wilkes-Barre) PA 17 -- Sean Parnell (suburbs of Pittsburgh to Ohio state line) TX 7 -- Wesley Hunt (w. edge of Houston metro area) TX 32 -- Genevieve Collins (n. Dallas, Garland) UT 4 -- Burgess Owens (s. Salt Lake City and nearby valley) VA 2 -- Scott Taylor (Virginia Beach, Williamsburg) VA 7 -- Nick Freitas (Culpeper, parts of greater Richmond) VA 10 -- Aliscia Andrews (Loudon County, Manassas) WA 1 -- Jeffrey Beeler (e. King County to the Canandian border inland) WA 8 -- Jesse Jensen (exurban Tacoma, Ellensburg) WI 3 -- Derrick Van Orden (Stevens Point, Eau Claire, Lacrosse)

As Seen in Nogales

Throughout my life, I've been a fascinated observer of the quadrennial phenomenon of American presidential elections, going back to when I was seven years old, in the summer of 1972. Whenever the presidential election rolls around, I feel a pull towards understanding the psyche of the American electorate in the way in fits into the long patterns of history since the 18th century. The morphings of the Electoral College over the decades is particular fascinating to me.

Since those early days in my youth, I've been keenly aware that the reality of the American electorate is often very different from the Pop Culture of America that ones sees on television. At times this has resulted in "surprise" results on election day, as the national media is caught off guard. 

At various times in my adult life, I've made a habit of getting out into the country. of traveling the back roads and visiting the forgotten suburbs, and the inner cities, and everywhere I could to see what was really happening. In 2004 I drove across the country over six weeks, coast to coast, almost entirely on two-lane back roads and small highways, to see what I could see, and feel what I could feel, camping at state parks and private campgrounds, and staying with guests. In 2008 I did much the same, except going east.  

These trips, and others like them, were highly revealing. I am almost never surprised by what happens on election day. I remember the moment in 2004 when I knew Kerry would lose. I wanted him to win so badly, but after detouring through central Ohio, somehow I was given a vision by happenstance that made a huge impression on me. Holmes County, Ohio told me Bush was going to win. But I didn't realize at the time. That whole trip in 2004 ended up in personal disaster from refusing to realize the truth of what was being presented to me, so the personal mirrored the political. That's very typical of me.

In 2008, going back through Ohio, up along the river this time (and going right past J's house as it happened), I could tell Obama was going to win big, as he did. At the time I was very happy about that.

In 2012, after going to Burning Man, fittingly I spent the entire election in California, traveling the state. I spent election night in Fresno during a long stay there visiting a friend. On election night the bicycle my father had given me to go to the aforementioned desert festival was stolen off my car in the well-lit parking lot of the Holiday Inn. By then I had ceased to care who really won the election. As I had told a super-leftist friend in Oakland, "I have no problem with Romney losing."

Four years ago we didn't much. We had just moved to Arizona and were holed up in our beautiful hilltop retreat in Fountain Hills. We were refugees from Portland, a city we gladly left behind. We didn't need to travel. Being in Fortress Arizona felt perfect. My most vivid memory is trying to get the coals lit in the Weber grill on our patio beside the porch. It was just past six o'clock and the light was dark. I was pulling up the early returns from the Drudge Report (a site I no longer use). Drudge was useful back then. He would post all the states in bold.  The coals were going but they seemed like they were dying. I kept going back to help them, and the fire was burning my face. Hillary was way ahead in Ohio in early returns. The heat on my face felt like the fires of hell. Within three hours, Trump had blown out Hillary in Ohio in a way that no one expected, except me and the Ohioans I had come to know, despite that momentary lack of faith by the grill.

This year it is still a novelty to be in Fortress Arizona, but we ventured out on this birthday trip, to check out the state and what the "signs" are saying about this noble state, where I still feel like a guest, as we were at the ranch, and where I cast my vote with great appreciation of being able to live here for a while.

So far the most vivid moment from this election season occurred on our first night at the Guevavi Ranch. We took up our host's suggestion for the best restaurant in Nogales, a place called Tito's that serves Italian food. He told us the special directions to find it, and to look for the obscure sign on the wall, to find the parking lot. 

We got there a little after dark. It was a lively place with a patio with lights. We asked for an outdoor table. As we stood waiting at the door, we had to make room for a party filing out. It was a large party of multiple children of various ages, intermixed with adults---multiple families. Like the staff at the restaurant, they were all manifestly Mexican in ethnicity.  There were probably twenty people in all who came past us single file. Over half of them were wearing t-shirts of various colors, pink, blue, and black, saying "Latinos for Trump" and "Women for Trump."

Prediction: Trump easily clears 330 Electoral Votes. I am going to go further and predict he wins north of 350.

Shocker: Trump wins Oregon.

Oceanfront Arizona

Despite the offbeat name, or maybe because of it, the Hacienda Corona just off I-19 was a splendid place to spend my birthday. Just a few miles north of Nogales, and thus the international border, it is the "main" hilltop house on the sprawling still mostly intact Guevavi Ranch, which dates to the Spanish exploration in the 19th Century, when it was founded as the first cattle ranch in present-day Arizona by Juan Anza, who led the famous overland expedition north into California, eventually founding San Francisco. Anza left behind his mother and family at the ranch, so as to spare them the harrowing journey ahead.

Surprisingly it feels less like a desert than than the Phoenix Valley, or even Tucson. It is higher in altitude. The ground climbs as one goes toward the border. It feels like the Texas Hill Country to me. The best par was feeling like one was miles from anywhere. The Interstate---and the freeway-exist community of Rio Rico---is just a few miles away, but it is hidden by a line of low mountains, and even beside the freeway, one has the feeling of being disconnected from the rest of the country somehow. South of Tucson it is like its own state.

One has the feeling of being near the ocean somehow, the way one does in the dry hills of Central California. And of course you are near the ocean here. The Sea of Cortez---the Gulf of California--is close by. Actually it to the west of that location. The north of the sea is farther north than the ranch. Tucson is actually closer to the sea.

The Mexican State of Sonora, which is comparable in area to New Mexico and Arizona, is just across the border. J and I both are in favor of admitting Sonora to the Union as the 51st state, on the condition that they cede a small portion of their territory to Arizona, so as to give Arizona a coast.

We can't say enough good things about our host, a Connecticut-born man who wound up "marrying into" property when it was run by his in-laws, who have passed away, leaving him with his hands full keeping the place going. They survive mostly on pool parties and weddings, but these take huge toll on the property.

He is a former bar manager, so we took him up on his offer of a bottle of wine, which he opened for us in the small dining nook with shelves full of their random collection, and a framed single 45 record from his late father-in-law, who was briefly a musician, with a contract in LA, but gave it up to have family.

We were the only guests and stayed in the best room in the house, that had been furnished by his late mother-in-law, who hand made the throw pillows. There was a screen door directly out onto the shaded portico which surrounds the house.  The sunsets were spectacular. 

Destination: House of Corona

In the late afternoon we came to our destination. Just a few miles north of the border, followed the small backroads from kilometer marker 12, up into the hills. Feels lush. Not like the low desert.  I am liking this.

We find the entrance to the ranch, through overhead sign, immediately onto a dirt road that tests the powers of the little Ford Focus. A very steep sudden incline takes us down into the bed of the Santa Cruz River. In times of flowing water, it is difficult to get to the ranch, as it was for John Wayne in the old days visiting here, but he liked the challenge in those old cars.

On the other side of the waterless river bed we see cows among the trees on either side, protected on one side in pasture by a fence with large gaps at a crossroad, allowing the animals to roam at will, A half mile more we see the sign for the ranch, on a metal car rood. There are several more crossroads, with roads leading to various parts in the giant property, to subdivided parcels where the former owner, who hosted John Waybne now lives in a newer house on top of the tallest hill, having sold the main ranch, including the Hacienda house, where we are going, to the current owners. 

The directions say to go past the "Jeep Garden". What does that mean. It turns out to mean an classic jeep chassis beside the rocky drive path with flower planted inside of it. 

We go up the hill, past a barn, and another barn, to the house. There are many cars in front. It looks like a small cottage among a clump of trees that give more than the usual shade for this terrain. It's pleasant and shady. The owner comes out to meet us. He is tiny-pony-tailed, in his forties, with a beard gathering patches of grey. He smiles in friendly welcome. Says to not fear the small dog, who greets us at hour feet.

He tells us he wrapping up hosting a pool party (while pointing through the trees), but to drive around to the front of the house and just go inside. He will meet us there at the main entrance. We drive around on the driveway past the cars of the pool party goers into the circular driveway. Through the line cedars you can see, and realize you on the crown of a majestic hill affording a view for many miles to the west over unbroken ranch land, with the mountains in the background.

It is shaded. There is a breeze. The entrance is low and shaded. The owner is there and takes us inside, past the murals painted in the mid twentieth century by a man named Corona, whom the original innkeeper owner honored by naming the hacienda after him---Hacienda Corona. 

Kindred Spirits in Contact with the Past

Heading south on I-19 we got off at the exit for Tubac, a tiny artists hamlet just off the freeway about fifteen miles north of the border. It was our first time there for both of us. I hadn't even heard of it before J read about it and made it the centerpiece of my birthday road trip this year.

It reminded me of a tiny Santa Fe, much more rustic and accessible than Sedona, for example, with no grand hotels or chain restaurants, just a narrow grid of small boutiques. Historically it was the location of the first Spanish fort in the area, as the Spanish came up from the south when they first came to modern day Arizona. We visited the presidio museum of town, run by the state historical society. The museum was delightful, including the introductory video, which had been made several decades ago by the state historical society, before the days of Wokeness. So there was nothing about how America and colonialism was awful and racist. Instead it was refreshingly informative. 

We were the only people in the main building. Tours were suspended because of the extended shutdown. We were given laminated brochures that would guide us around the grounds. The friendly woman behind the counter told us we could take off masks when touring the grounds, even indoors in the other buildings, if no one was there who objected. 

The rest of the museum was like the video---informative in the old way, paying homage to the past without lecturing. I hope they never renovate or change that museum. I have a special affection for folks who tend this little museums in small towns. The older I get, the more significant it seems to me to take care of the past, and what remains of it. 

That actually includes me. Mostly I feel like my utility in the years remaining in my life will be a living witness to a past that no longer exists, a civilization that was behind destroyed almost from the moment I was born. Looking back at my life, I think I understood this from my earliest days of childhood, which is why I was both fascinated by the past, and yet excited about every new thing that came along, and so future oriented.  I knew I was different than my grandparents and wanted to embrace every new thing, as a new creature of the new world that had begun.

That future-oriented part, at least for earthly things, has mostly faded away, with most of my days no doubt behind me (I have no desire to live to twice my current age). 

And I feel in league with all those who understand this too, including the woman at the state museum in Tubac.

Happy Columbus Day

For some reason, I'm really into Columbus Day this year. Been liking all the tweets with Columbus' picture that show up in my feed.

You might think October is all about Halloween, but to me, that only kicks in later in the month. October is a much more nuanced month that that.

It seems like this year, after many years in decline, Columbus Day is back.  After what happened over summer, year it feels like the Grinch That Stole Christmas version of Columbus Day. 

"It came without statues..."

The Ups and Downs of Tucson

We followed the frontage road along I-10 south until we were across from Picacho Peak itself, and the state park that sits on its flank. Here in the park, on the flank of the peak, one sees saguaros for the first since since the Phoenix area. It's impossible to follow any paved roads south of here except for the Interstate and its frontage road, unless you swing far west out through the res, which we didn't want to do. So we got on I-10. 

By that time you are coming near the northern fringes of the sprawl of Tucson, and we didn't want to linger there. We both like Tucson to a degree, but it was not the focus of this trip. We wanted to whip right through it. It's sad in a way because my uncle and aunt live there, and we've been guests at their house. I love them both very much. But it would be almost impossible to visit right now because of politics. If they didn't already know my politics by now, they would be shocked to know who I'm voting for, and it would not be a good shock. I pray them for regularly in any case. 

Tucson overall is a bit overrated in my opinion. It seems like a good balance to Phoenix, without all the downsides of Phoenix. It's much smaller, more compact, more deserty immediately. My uncle and aunt like in the deserr like area with roads that go up and down through dry washes that flood in rainstorms, as the constant parade of signs tell you. Past them is Saguaro National Park, the name of which tells you what you need to know about. The concept of Tucson is perfect, but like Portland, it's a bit different once you see the reality.

Today we went right through the city on the Interstate, until it forked and became another Interstate I-19. Almost immediately the pavement felt rougher. The mile markers are in kilometers---the only road in the U.S. where one finds this, a fun fact that one learns at every opportunity possible in rest areas and on maps. Once you are past the airport, the road is flanked by a curious "town" that stretches for twenty miles but is only half mile deep away from the freeway. It is mostly newer construction, with modern looking strip malls and grocery stores at the interchanges, as one sees everywhere in America.

You begin to have the feeling that you are going somewhere different, and of course you are. You are going to the border.

Walnuts for my Birthday

Had a great birthday road trip last weekend. Accomodations were organized by J, but I chose the rambling route we took. It was an opportunity to explore bad roads and towns of Arizona I haven't seen yet.

We hied our way through Phoenix metro area on Saturday morning, but just on the south side of the urban area, where it stops abruptly and gives way to the reservation, we got off on the side road, which took us past the casino complex and south across the flats of the Sonoran Desert to the town of Maricopa, where I expected to have the quality of the res, but instead is simply the newly built Phoenix southern suburbs picking up again where they legally can do so. It looks just like Scottsdale or Gilbert.

South from there, however, it gets more rustic quickly. One finds oneself among endless cotton fields, and then cattle lots where the animals are crammed together, and the workers live in little shacks that receive the pelting of dust raised in the crop fields nearby as they the irrigation devices swing in their big arcs.

The town of Casa Grande looks interesting on the map, halfway betweeen Phoenix and Tucson, but inevitably to become part of Phoenix over the coming decades. For now it is still very rustic. Old cars and pick up trucks. An interesting downtown with a closely hemmed-in traditional mainstream with shade giving trees. Mostly shuttered storefronts, including the used book store, where I might have made us stop. Is the virus or just the way of the world? Interesting museum was closed.

South from there we took the back-back county road that crossed I-8 with no interchange, trailing behind a pick up truck looking to deliver glass to a housing site, and then were out on the last bit of populated area that is not part of the gigantic Oodham reservation that goes all the way south to the border.

Arizona City---what is the town like that bears the state name? In this case it is tract home for penny-pinching white retirees and Mexican workers. No downtown in the traditional sense. Interesting tiny library built decades ago. South of there, the road goes up in the mountains and becomes gravel as it crosses into Ironwood National Monument, so at the south edge of town, we turned around and headed back to the main highway, and went east, zigzagging across I-10 to rustic one-saloon, two car-repair garage towns of trailers and sagging little houses in the cotton area east of the freeway, Eloy being the biggest of the towns.

We got delightfully lost on a backroad that went past cotton plantations where the patron lives in a nice bungalow while the workers live a rows of shacks with Rube Goldberg-looking electrical connections, and with the obvious foreman living in the nice shack (with a fence and small yard) at the end of the row.

I was hoping to solve the mystery of what those trees are, in the gigantic orchard-plantation on either side of I-10 and one passes through this area. The trees are tall. What is grown out here in such trees, so bizarrely in the middle of the desert.  J suggested pecans. I wanted them to be pistachios, because of the nearby distinct Picacho Peak. I tried looking up the names of the agricultural compaines on the water towers of the processing facilities as we drove by them, with the trees in the background, but my efforts pointed me to cotton processors. I finally found one travel web site that suggested they are walnut trees.

We will go with that---walnuts.

edit: other sources claim pecans, but the trees seem too large for that, from my limited experience with pecan trees.

The Reunion Cabin

 Our cabin this year was quite different from last year, when we all three of us had cabin in the old section of the camp. This year ours is located outside the original camp, up above the camp the flank of the mountain, among the network of gravel roads where there are also many private cabins, and groups of camp cabins built among them.. 

Ours turns out to be brand new cabin, built in 2020, donated to the camp by a couple from Kansas, and located on the crest of a small rise allowing a view out both directions, towards the Trail Ridge to the north from the bedroom, and towards Teddy's Teeth to the south from the front porch. 

It was a magnificent week. I went hiking every day in the morning, using the networks of trails that that connect around the camp property, that follow the creeks, and allow one to directly access Rocky Mountain National Park in at least six different places.

I love the sound of rushing water. I love to sit and hear it coming down on the rocks and feel that air currents that are carried with it. 

J did the cooking. We ate very well. 

Big thing this year was the bears. Lots of bear activity, according to the signs posted in the parking lot of the main lodge, and also on notices on the refrigerator in the cabin. We were warned to take precaution. We neither saw nor heard any bear evidence during the week.

The private cabins around Sunflower were scenic in their own rustic ways. I wondered who lived in them. I was glad there were still many private cabins on the mountain, above the camp.

 Just above us along the dead end gravel road going uphill was another camp cabin, a big five-bedroom reunion cabin, as they call it, with its own parking lot. It's quite a spiffy mountain lodge. It was occupied when we moved in,. The people came and went in multiple cars, and played horseshoes int the horseshoe pit across the gravel road from our cabin.

Those folks moved out in mid week and it was quiet after that. The cleaning crew came and went but no one moved in. One late afternoon in the last part of the week I walked up and sat outside of the empty reunion empty in one of the big wooden chairs that are like the ones that are normally in the main lodge. It was a beautiful view through the shelter of the screen of the pines there with the sunlight coming through the trees, and a peek at nearby cabins on the next road over.

Hardly Anyone There

 Soon we were out north of Boulder on the golden flanks of the last foothills before the mountains give way to the plains, and then up into the canyon, through Lyons, where there was little evidence of the floods that destroyed it seven years ago. Then we went  up the winding road, many switchbacks, int eh valley of the St. Vrain River, until you come over the divide and began descending into Estes Park.

We take the shortcut back way, avoiding the town, which in a normal year would be a mess during the first week of August---the peak of the tourist season--but this year it would certainly be calmer. We take the short cut nevertheless, using the St. Mary's Lake Road, and go out onto U.S. 36 on the west edge of town by the country store and gas station that serves the campers and cabin residences like an informal town center.

The directions from the camp had said to call from town before coming into register. Check in will be curb side. We are not supposed to go inside the main building. So we call, and we are told simply to come up to the camp and go inside the building.

We follow the familiar road, and then turn into the camp on Association Drive, and make our way up to the parking lot of the main building. There are perhaps half a dozen cars there. Everything is sunny and bright but there is little activity. There are no groups this year. Only cabin dwellers.

My sisters' vehicles are not in the parking lot. I go inside, making sure to take my mask. As expected, there are signs mandating them at the front door. The front porch has been cleared off the nice wooden chairs. Inside the part of the main hall which was an informal lounge with chairs and tables has been cleared out. The floor is shiny and bare. The cafeteria is still in operation.

There is no one in line, but I have to ring the bell to get attention. There is plexiglass between me and the the attendant. Check in goes smoothly and quickly. I am given the keys---this year they are key cards instead of metal keys. 

I am shunted out by the side door, even though there is plenty of room to exit the front. The procedure must be followed. I walk past the cafeteria and the little general store, which is open but does not accept cash this year. 

Outside the building it is a wonderful day. It is a perfect summer. I can see the high ridge of the Rockies in Rocky Mountain National Park. There is hardly anyone there.

Boulder at its Boulderiest

 On the last segment of the driving portion of the trip, we stopped to buy groceries for the week. We detoured into Boulder and went to the Whole Foods that is part of the giant lifestyle center complex that replaced the demolished Crossroads Mall. Last year we went to Costco, but we deemed it better to avoid it this year, as we would not be preparing meals for the whole group on scheduled nights, as we had done in the past in agreement with my sisters. This year by mutual concession we were on our own.

The parking lot of the Whole Foods in Boulder was crowded. We got out in the hot sun. Everyone in the parking lot was wearing a mask. I kept my off until we reached the door, as I always do. There was a marked out to allow limited entrance, but fortunately the store was not too crowded and we were allowed to go directly inside and out of the sun. On the outside of the glass door, and on the glass windows next to the door was a quilt of at least twenty signs and announcements in various type faces, sizes, and colors. I barely had time to notice and read a single one of them before we went inside.

Later J told me one of the signs had advised the use of gloves while inside the store. We had seen a few customers wearing them in the aisles. 

"Boulder at its Boulderiest," I said, in the car, as we drove north out of the city past Iris and Jay Rd. 

The Haunted Pass

 After three nights we left Crested Butte and drove south out of the valley back to the main highway at Gunnison, then headed east on US 50 and it slowly climbs up the top towards the high Rockies. It was a busy day on the road. Many folks heading the same direction. We stopped and let them pass us while getting gas just before the ascent over Monarch Pass, then went up the road into the high meadows and then along the mountainsides as you approach the summit of the ridge.

We stopped at the top of course. How can one not stop, at least going once a year, just to keep abreast of the changes.  The parking lot was mostly empty. 

This year the tacky throwback souvenir shop and hot dog cateteria, the kind one pines to discover on the archetypal roadtrip, was mostly unchanged. The cafeteria was rearranged. J said the book section was mostly gone. The maps were still there. 

Otherwise it was deserted but for a few people and us. It felt a little haunted, as if from a Colorado that never took off and prospered.

I saw no hikers coming in after reaching the pass, as one does in a normal year. 

Bribery in Crested Butte

 We stayed three nights in the Elevation Resort hotel in Mount Crested Butte, descending down into town for most of our meals. We quickly learned to navigate the side streets to find a parking spot near the restaurants on Elk Avenue. The town became to seem familiar after a day or two. On our last morning, we got recognized by the local owners of the bagel place in the alleyway. "It's the opposite of Scottsdale," I said to J, as we ate our bagels on chairs outside the little hut in the alley.

My main accomplishment during the stay was climbing to the top of the Crested Butte ski area, at least to the top of the main chair lift, which was about a two thousand foot climb up to around eleven thousand feet. I hadn't started off that morning thinking I'd climb to the top, but after meandering halfway up the mountain on the dirt roads, and consulting the map, and I decided to push onward. I had to ration my water. Towards the top each step seemed to take all my effort. The last chair lift down from the top was at two o'clock, and as I came within view of it, I looked at my phone and saw it was ten minutes to one. I became convinced that the phone was still on Arizona time, even though I knew that was absurd, and thus I had only ten minutes to get to the chair lift, if I didn't want to walk down the mountain. Ten minutes seemed like not enough time to go the last quarter mile. It turns out of course I had an hour to spare.

The next question was whether I had to buy a ticket at the bottom to ride the chair lift down. That would be awful. Thinking about all this I got flashbacks to climbing in the Transylvanian Alps in 1985. Those were the great adventure times of my youth, so it was good flashbacks, even though it was caused by lack of water and fatigue.

I was prepared to bribe the guy at the ski lift to let me ride the chair lift down without a ticket. I had a twenty dollar bill folded up and ready to go. In Romania it would have worked in the old days. It turns out I didn't need to bribe him. No ticket checking going down the mountain. It was wonderfully steep and gave a great view down along Gothic Road towards the Elk Mountains, the high peaks nearby, which are among the great snow ranges of the Rockies. Aspen is on the other side. I managed to make it down the mountain without fumbling my iPhone trying to take a picture. The picture turned out to be blurry. Foolishness to try. Who cares about photos. I don't have any from mountain climbing in Romania. The memories are better.

The Miracle of Durango

 In the morning in Cortex, no breakfast service at the motel. The breakfast room was cleaned out and empty. No coffee service either. Snack bags available, one per guest, with granola bars and water.  To check out I had to drop my room key into a bucket of water that presumably had bleach or something in it. I forget something in our room, and have to go back and fish the keyt our of the bucket, grabbing four incorrect keys before I find the one to room 1956.

We went downtown for breakfast at a drive-up/walk-up coffee shop in an Airstream trailer that advertises "second best coffee" in the West. We go inside with our masks, into the tiny trailer and order breakfast burritos and hot drinks and pay with a swiped card on the terminal, where they turn around you have to sign with your finger tip and indicate the tip. Tipping is less pleasant this way.

We ate outside on the table. A couple other cards drove up and ordered too. Then we get on the road and head over to Durango, which is about an hour's drive. We park in downtown in the metered spaces in the alley while I go inside to Jean Pierre's bakery on College Street. I stand in line with my mask at the bakery counter. Lots of people waiting for a sit-down table, inside and out. At the counter I order the usual selection to go---a couple plain croissants, plus pain au raisin, and some filled croissants. 

We eat the pain au raisin. I pick at mine while driving north through downtown Durango and heading up the old glacial valley, so lush and green, first with ranches in the valley, and then giving way to forests as you climb to the first of several passes you have to cross in the San Juans. Now I feel like I'm truly in Colorado, when I get up to a high pass.

We come down into Ouray, where we stayed a couple years ago, but this time we just drive through It seems to be lively. Lots of tourists on the streets in the late morning. Then we descend out of the mountains down into the western slope and go up through Ridgway, then Montrose, where we turn east on Highway 50 and drive an hour or so up the sloping valley to Gunnison.

Then we turn off US 50 and head north on the road to Crested Butte, where I have never had occasion to visit before, as it is down a dead end in the mountains about thirty miles off highway 50. Our hotel that I booked online is not in the town of Crested Butte itself---the old mining and cattle ranching town in the floor of the valley, but up on the side of the mountains in the ski village, which only dates from the late 20th century---Mount Crested Butte, it is called. 

The ski village there is a plainer, more accessible version of the ski villages around places like Aspen and Telluride---"new" towns built next to older ones. But somehow I like it a lot more, because Crested Butte is so sleepy and less glamorous than those other places, and so the ski village feels oddly like a throwback to the Colorado of the 1970s---lower key and more no-frills family-oriented.

Our room is in the main ski lodge at the bottom of the ski slope. Of course it is out of the winter season. It was easy to book. But everything feels especially shut down. There is no food service a tall. Housekeeping is an extra charge now. We agree that this is the wave of the future, like the way airlines started charging for bags. Now hotels will always charge for housekeeping.

Our room isn't ready at the ski lodge, so we have to kill time going into town. We park near the main street of old Crusted Butte. The main street---Elk Avenue--- is partially blocked off because of the shutdown so the restaurants can put their tables outside. The main street is swarming with tourists. From the license plates it seems like almost everyone is from Texas. 

We eat dinner indoors at a pizza place that J finds online, right on Elk Avenue. They put us in a seat by the window. It is a relief to pull off our masks when we sit down. We eat pizza and look out at the Texans walking up and down the street. Masks mandatory in the car-free outdoor section of Elk Avenue. Almost everyone in compliance with the signs.

The next morning we eat the croissants from Durango and discover to our horror that they are not real croissants. The baker who worked there, who knew how to make real croissants, must have left. They are simply the kind you get in most of America. I feel sad for this and then realize how amazing it was to have found real croissants in the middle of the Colorado Rockies, and that one cannot really expect to fin them in a place like Durango. It was a miracle that was short-lived.

In the Rebel Capital of Colorado

Scottsdale. Left later than planned. New neighbors threw a party, keeping us up. Out the door by 8. Get on the 101 and head north on the Interstate.

Flagstaff. Stopped for gas and drive through Starbucks.

National Forest Road north of Flagstaff. Visited J's folks while they were RV camping in the National Forest

We love crossing the Navajo Reservation  It's an amazing drive. Very special this year because of events. 

Entire res seems shut down. Signs along side roads for visitors to keep out.

Kayenta. Biggest town on the res. Hotels there were taking bookings.No bathrooms open in the entire Navajo Reservation. People using the side of the road. No food apparently available. Guests being told to eat at the deli in the gas station? Total breakdown of the system.

Four Corners. Shuttered with a tribal police car at the gate to keep people out. We have a conspiracy theory that the real intersection between the states is not at the top of this fine flat bluff overlooking the San Juan River but on the side of one of the steep cliffs, and they happened to relocate it for convenience sake long ago.

Ute Nation. The land itself is the barest in the lower forty-eight. By the time you get to the Ute Casino you feel like you are approaching civilization again. You come into the valley and there are farms. Colorado is well run.

Cortez. The first real civilization since Flagstaff. We check into our favorite motel, which is a renovated old motel on the good edge of town (towards Mesa Verde). The motel has a theme of years from the late Twentieth Century. We got the room 1956, which had a picture of Elvis Presley above the bed.

That night we eat a park-around-the-edge drive-in burger place. Very crowded. Hardly anyone wearing masks except person of undetermined gender with purple dyed hair in an Subarus with California plates. Everyone else acting in defiance of the state order, grabbing some normalcy. Who knew that Cortez was the rebel capital?

Quail Season, Little Rain

This year the heat is hardly giving us a break. The monsoon arrived, as a technicality, even before we left for Colorado in early in August, but it gave no rain to many parts of the Valley, including here, until after we got back in mid August. Last week it poured for a good hour straight after dark, but still early enough to enjoy it. The aroma and the wind were marvelous.  For a couple mornings the smell of rain greets you as you come onto the porch. But that has been the sum of the rain. The heat is unabated. It is perhaps one of those years that people talk about, when the heat stays long into the autumn.

The ironwood is unmoved in the creek bed. I see no rabbits now, but rather the flocks of Gambel's quail, and occasionally a road runner, which makes the day feel special to see one.