EXPERIENCE ARIZONA

Witstop Never Getting a Busy Signal and Other Advantages of SMOKE SIGNALS

OFTEN, I CAN SEE INTO THE PAST, ESPECIALLY when traveling across a state as panoramic as Arizona. Here, as the cliche says, one can see miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. At the end of those miles, there's always a mountain range defining the horizon.

Like in the B-Westerns I watched as a child, I can visualize tiny puffs of smoke rising from distant peaks, recalling the days when Indian tribes roamed freely across the hills. Some tribes communicated with smoke signals.

It wasn't a bad way to send messages. They could transmit from anywhere, the messages could be read for miles and there was no such thing back then as a cell-smoke signal. Smoke-signal technology hadn't advanced to the point where you could buy a mobile model that would hook onto the band of your loincloth so you could annoy your fellow braves by calling someone right in the middle of a buffalo hunt. Smoke signaling may seem like a primitive communications tool, but in many ways it's appealing, especially when weighed against our modern methods.

Indians worked hard for their food. They either had to hunt for their game, or plant, nurture and grow their groceries. They had to clean and dress the meat, grind grains for their bread. It was grueling, demanding work. They ate not only for sustenance, but also to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Mealtime was a few peaceful moments with their family or tribal friends. It was, for them, respite from the treacherous battles they constantly fought against enemy tribes, preying animals and the harsh elements. When they took their food, they didn't want the guy at the next table whipping out some mobile device to start sending smoke signals in the middle of their Elk bourguignonne. They would have told this brave, "Hey, pal, if you've got to talk to someone that badly, invite the guy to dinner."

Most Indians, too, prided themselves on their horsemanship. They rode hard, they rode fast and they rode in total control of their steed. But when they rode, they rode. They concentrated on where they were going and were always aware of the riders around them. When they wanted to send a smoke signal, they had the decency to pull off the road, dismount, tie their pony to a tree and build the signal fire. That's common sense. You never saw an Indian galloping along, steering his mount with one hand and trying to send a smoke signal with the other.

Music and ritual were important to Indians. The frenzied rhythm of the drums would mentally prepare them for the ferocity of battle. Drums and song formed part of their religious ceremonies, too. However, imagine a rain dance with the cadence of the drums gathering momentum, chanters adding their voices to the rhythm, dancers augmenting the fervor of the ceremony with their exuberant leaps and gyrations, only to have the mood destroyed by the chirp-chirp-chirp of someone's cell-smoke signal receiving a call.

And, finally, when an Indian sent a smoke signal, it was sent. That was it. The smoke billowed up to the heavens. Those who saw the message saw it. They didn't have some irritating robot at the other end of their transmission saying, "Your smoke signal is very important to us, but all of our warriors are busy at the moment. Please continue sending your message, and your puffs of smoke will be read in the order in which they were received. Thank you."

So, I daydream about these things as I drive along Arizona's highways, guarding against the driver up ahead who keeps drifting into my lane because he's busy dialing someone-maybe the lady in the car behind me who's tailgating me because she's focusing more on her phone call than her driving. I ponder as I stop for a relaxing lunch break, only to listen to the guy two booths away, on his cell phone, closing some business deal with such a booming voice that he doesn't really need the phone anyway.

And I think to myself, why do we think we're the civilized ones? And

Harvey Green the Eating Machine

Gene Perret's latest book is the humorous children's story, Harvey Green, the Eating Machine. It takes a fun, rhyming look at one little boy's prodigious appetite. To order this book ($14.95 plus shipping and handling) or any of the Perret humor books, call toll-free (800) 543-5432. In Phoenix, call (602) 712-2000. Or use arizonahighways.com.