BACK ROAD ADVENTURE

Use Caution When Applying DRY HEAT to Sticky Situations

IN THE SUMMERTIME, PARTS OF ARIZONA can get warm. Warm-that's a euphemism for "Yesterday, all the lizards who live in our yard hijacked the family car and drove to Idaho." Warm is when even the sidewinders in the desert lather on a coat or two of sunscreen. Warm is when the Fahrenheit scale reaches triple digits. As I said, in the summertime, parts of Arizona can get warm. The residents, though, rationalize the heat away. They do it beautifully. They simply say, "Yeah, but it's a dry heat."

I love the simplicity of that logicand the effectiveness of it. The sun is tossing its blistering rays, like scorching spears, toward the 48th state. Your tongue is hanging out so far that passersby think you're wearing a necktie. Your clothes stick to your body like Saran Wrap on a leftover ham hock while buzzards circle above you, hoping that the next water cooler will be two or three steps beyond your survival limit, but you simply utter, "Yeah, but it's a dry heat," and everything is all right.

The words are magical, like a mother's kiss on a boo-boo, a bad pitch shot that hits the flagstick and drops gently into the cup, an unexpected refund check from your insurance company. They calm troubled waters and make the world right again.

Let the East Coast swelter in its own juices during the summer's heat waves. Let Florida simmer in her own humidity when the temperatures splurge upward. Let Beverly Hills bake as Rodeo Drive's sidewalks sizzle. Arizonans are comfortable because it's a dry heat.

It's beautiful. In fact, I've adopted the philosophy and suggest that you try it, too. This is just too powerful a panacea to be reserved only for weather applications. It can be used universally, almost promiscuously.

Let me give you a for instance. The other day I was driving along in my usual cautious way. I was observing the speed limit, and all other traffic regulations, religiously. Another driver, who was not so responsible, zoomed past me, drifting over and edging me out of my lane.

Naturally I speeded up and tried to catch up to this road hog, just so I could be a good citizen and remind him that driving is a privilege and a responsibility and that he should exercise more caution on the nation's highways.

I honked my horn and threw some hand signals at him, but he was oblivious to my advice. He was busy concentrating on his phone call.

Well, after several miles of this, one or the other of us did something unexpected. Brakes squealed, tires skidded, vehicles swerved and we both came to a stop on the road's shoulder. My fellow citizen stormed out of his car, slammed the door behind him and marched toward me. He pointed a threatening finger at me and used it throughout his speech to emphasize salient points.

"What kind of idiotic tricks are you trying to pull here?" he asked me. "Your wacky driving could have gotten both of us killed. Have you ever thought of using your brain while you're behind the wheel of a car? You numbskull, idiot, moron. I don't know what you think you're doing, but that's about the stupidest thing I've ever seen on the highway."

I rolled down my window and said, "Yeah, but it's a dry stupidity."

It worked beautifully.

Another time, my spouse went on a girlsonly trip. I was left to care for the house-not my strong suit. When she returned, several of the plants I was supposed to have watered and fed had gone to flower heaven. Dishes I was supposed to have washed went nowhere. They stayed stubbornly in the sink. Things I was supposed to have put away or cleaned remained un-put away and uncleaned. My wife hit the roof, probably because there was no room on the floor. She said, "You were supposed to take care of things here. I left you a detailed list of what to do and how to do it. But you did nothing. This place is a disaster. It's a total mess."

I said, "Yeah, but it's a dry mess."

That one didn't work so beautifully.

I've been in the doghouse ever since. But it's a dry doghouse. AH In the book Retirement: Twice the Time, Half the Money, author Gene Perret notes, "Retirement is not for sissies. Only us older folks are strong enough to endure it." To order this book ($6.95 plus shipping and handling) or other Perret humor books, call toll-free (800) 543-5432. In Phoenix call (602) 712-2000. Or use arizonahighways.com. WRITER'S WORKSHOP For the past 18 years, Gene Perret has conducted a Comedy Writer's Convention where humor writers of all skill levels come to hone their craft. This year's sessions will be July 18, 19 and 20 in Agoura Hills, CA. For information, call (818) 865-7833.

of the month Watch for Javelinas Along LITTLE WOLF CREEK TRAIL in the BRADSHAW MOUNTAINS

"WHERE THERE'S ONE, THERE'S more," says Bill Cook, Prescott National Forest ranger in charge of recreation, trails and special uses. Cook and I scope the area for more javelinas, but don't see any besides the straggler that dashed across our path as we started hiking on the Little Wolf Creek Trail in central Arizona's Bradshaw Mountains. Scattered with remnants of the past, the remote 2.7-mile trail with an elevation gain of about 800 feet offers hikers glimpses of wildlife and opportunities to speculate about what might have occurred along its route during the last century.

Beginning on a road that has relinquished its definition to the forces of nature, shaded the drainage disappear as the trail reaches a sunbaked ridgeline. Manzanita bushes cover the Bradshaw Mountains' rounded slopes like a nappy blanket.

After another half-mile, the trail passes a ramshackle corral as it heads toward Little Wolf Creek again. Violet and Ken from Prescott call out from the creek bed, where they've been surveying the area. After introducing themselves, they tell us that near the beginning of the trail they saw six javelinas-the rest of the clan to the straggler we'd seen. Putting our route-finding skills to work, we locate the trail continuing north on a sketchy transition into the drainage, where it embarks on a wavering course back and forth across the rocky creek bed. Along the way, we find the remains of a small stone shack with a fireplace.

"Looks like a throw-down shack," Cook says, inspecting the roofless stone and mud walls. "Look, here's a metal pan used for cooking. I wonder what he did for the roof?"

"I saw a mangled piece of tin in the creek bed back by the corral," Violet offers, helping piece together a bit of history.

Just past the shack, the vegetation becomes unusually thick, hinting at a nearby spring. Grapevines drape from alder trees, and pines tower 100 feet. The atmosphere takes on a cozy loneliness.

"That's a beautiful pine," Cook says, leaning his head back to view its treetop. "It's at least 500 years old."

Within a mile from the corral, the trail ducks under an old cow gate as it starts to climb out of the drainage and back into the sun-drenched manzanitas. The path quickly heads into an oak forest and then fades to a nuance as it parallels a rusty barbed-wire fence Cook estimates at 50 to 100 years old. The trail ends in less than a mile at a working corral.

Although Centuries-old pines, relics from bygone days and a curious remoteness lend a nostalgic feel to a trail that appears not to have changed much since prospectors combed the creek for gold or copper ore and cowboys sang lonely ballads while tending their stock.