Sometimes the road can be a bastard

When all you need is a quiet place to pull over

A picnic bench in a sunny spot

Take a break

Eat a sandwich

Pee behind a tree in peaceful solitude


But all you get are shit loads of people

Men in camouflage

Holiday weekend hunters

Mad Maxing it out in their black

Fume spewing monster trucks

Nothing with Providence


All you solar powered meat free

Save the planet tree hugging

Veggie growing hippies

Won’t stand a chance come the day

When, for whatever reason

We have to survive for a living


Those redneck gun toting

white trash hoodlums

Will break down your doors

Steal your carefully preserved stash

And leave you to starve out the nuclear winter

For sure


Endless traffic

I thought this road would be quiet

Seems like all of humanity and their dogs

Are emptying out down each side

Of the Continental Divide

I can’t leave Colorado quick enough


I’ve nothing against your ruddy rocks

You’re just too damn busy

I want my Wyoming back

Or forgotten small towns on Route 66

This is not the place for a solo traveller

I’m just passing through


Everyone has their pre-booked itineraries

And then there’s me in my rental car

On a journey with no real start or finish

Making notes for a story that might never happen

A poem that might never be written

Or perhaps already has.




Wyoming Wanderings

Your mind can wander out here

That’s not always a good thing

And time can be a distraction

I try to leave my windows open

Allow the scenery to breeze right in

Absorption without discussion


A while back

My speed touched 70

I wandered out into the scrub

Clambered down into a dried up river bed

It twists and turns alongside the road

Meandering like my thoughts

I wondered what it would be like in winter

Or during a flash flood

In full spate


I imagined being bitten by a snake

Should I keep my leg up or down?

Would I make it to a hospital?

How far is the nearest town?


I stop to photograph a graffitied boulder

Two Dogs Was Here

Imagine one of those tumbling down

Crushing my car

Futile attempts to steer out the way

Two seconds of panic



When you start to wander you see things

Nature’s sidewalk secrets revealed

A fox disturbed from his shady nook

Signs of wild animals

Tracks, scrapes

Holes, faeces

Tread carefully

Broken glass



See how the rain shapes the land

Makes the plants bloom

And the sun cracks the sand

It’s alive and dead


Lived in



This place makes you feel alive

The wind and the potential

Danger lurking

I have to move on but I am drawn

To the contorted pock marked boulders

The dried grasses

Pale straw yellow

The sound of their seed heads

A solitary purple flower



I’m standing near to where I saw the fox

But he’s long gone or well hidden

Perhaps keeping an eye on me

Mistrustful beings both

Hunters and murderers

Wary wanderers


I turn with a smile

Take one last photograph

I found what I came looking for

A bend in the road

Sweetwater County

Wyoming State Highway 430

Rock Springs to the Colorado border


But now it’s time to move on.




cutting across Wyoming

the mountains appear just far enough away

to hold back the storm clouds


over Cottonwood Creek

past Cottonwood Ranch

the fence leaping deer make light work

of this rolling, undulating land


sudden outcrops of red rock

elephant footed in appearance

the wind gusting

nothing to stop it


you could get lost out here

in a ravine or gulch

befriend the black crows

the mighty eagles


become the next wilderness man

as far away as you want

just follow the telegraph poles

back in time to Daniel…


I took a chance

headed out west from Chicago

joined the Emigrant Trail

supplies loaded in a covered wagon

spades, picks, long handled axes

enough wire to demarcate what was mine

a thousand acre plot of sagebrush

hard truths and honest labour

a new way of living





this is my story

part truth

part myth


I wasn’t the first man to brave this frontier

there were others before me




government forces


go plant the Stars and Stripes

they told us

find water

a hollow for your cattle

trees for stakes



shelter from the summer heat

the ingredients for success


the first year was the hardest

some never made it through

dust driven droughts turned

to winter snows

the big sky our canvas canopy

our kingdom




god given


we fixed

we made good

sharpened our tools

honed our skills

saw out that first harsh winter

with prayers



we scrimped and saved

every dime and dollar counted

for in the spring

the cattle men came

our chance to pick the finest

barter prices

share whiskey




to have a herd

was to be a herdsman

some might say a cowboy

a rancher

a dream believer


with the first calves

some cash to reinvest

a proper cabin

long, dark days planning

cleaning gun barrels

stoking fires

flaming our faces

fortune telling


and maybe in a year or two

a wife and family

the privilege to provide

for town and country


the old Pony Express route

well that’s long gone

the telegraph poles came

and you can still find me

just follow them down through time

find the town that bears my name



Population 150

Elevation 7192





(this is a reimagining of history. Daniel, Wyoming is a real enough place. I drove through it today. There’s not much to see but, as with most places, history is never far behind us. I’ve just mixed it around a bit that’s all)



We are all driving around on this fragile caldera

Aware yet ignoring our apocalypse awaiting

She’s a brewing, bubbling, scenic wonder

Unpredictably natural with wanderlust beauty

Laughing deep within her magma filled belly

Sending warnings out vents and geyser breasts

There to entertain us, fumaroles and mudpots

Hissing, belching, stinking fumes of sulphur

Her colourful pools tempt with innocent eyes

Grand Prismatic Spring and Morning Glory

Clearest boiling blues, cooler orange browns

Either way, her hot tubs are not an invitation

With acidic spit her kisses will dissolve you

The Continental Divide she partly straddles

But one day she will wrench herself apart

Blow asunder, cause havoc, global winters

And all the souvenirs, postcards and trinkets

Will be but reminders as we struggle for survival


I’ve been here a few days so I can honestly say

That I’m Yellowstoned out, I’m super volcanoed

It’s time to leave before the next deadly eruption

Hopefully make it back home to relative safety

Just one more night with fading torch batteries

Blood pressure pills and scary late night reading

You can worry about bears, stampeding bison

But underground there is a helluva commotion

The devil’s own Armageddon of vengeance

Today, tomorrow or a thousand years hence

We simply don’t know, we simply don’t care

So let’s keep driving around on this fragile caldera.



On our campground sign

There was written this line:

Please: BE BEAR AWARE !!

But where was the bear?


We asked the old elk

But she was of no help

And the big bison too

Stepping over his poo


We peered round the trees

And up through their leaves

But all that we saw

Were chipmunks galore


So we made us a plan

Asked National Park Man

But all he that he said

Was the ranger was dead!


Oh, how come he died?

Did a bear kill this guy?

Oh no, said our friend

But he met a bad end


He fell into Old Faithful

A geyser most ungrateful

His tubes became blocked

All the tourists were shocked


We gave up on our bear

Forgetting: BE BEAR AWARE !!

And back at our tent

With a look of content


Guess what we found

Spread all over the ground

A broken camp chair

And a big hairy bear


He’d eaten our grub

Was asleep on our rug

So what can we say

Now we’ve spent the whole day


They are out there you know

But not always on show

So if you search for a bear

Remember: BE BEAR AWARE !!


(My attempt at writing a poem for children! I saw lots of animals in Yellowstone – bison, elk, pronghorn, bighorn sheep, white pelicans, ground squirrels – but sadly no bears!)


lying in my tent



sounds outside

night creatures



curious eyes

waiting to pounce

rip me apart


turn on my phone

a bright light


Google logo

my portal

my contacts

web of wonders

safety in numbers

take me anywhere

away from here


unzip the door

shine the torch outside

see nothing

zip it closed

rest assured

for a little while

a car drives past

headlights casting

shadows thrown

what are they doing?


need a pee

unzip again

step out

behind a tree

and there above

the Milky Way

from left to right

jaw dropping




back inside

temperature dropping

zip up

blanket over

try to find comfort


shouldn’t be afraid

it’s only nature

doing its thing

turn off phone




but what was that?














Zabriskie Point

The approach to Death Valley from the south was a motoring challenge in itself
Unpaved roads and windblown sands tinkled and teased my rental car’s frame
In the neighbouring Searles Valley my attention was grabbed by some painted rocks
Just another piece of Cali desert graffiti to entertain the travellers
Or so some might have thought.

I rounded the corner, braked and pulled onto the sloping gravel shoulder
Blast furnace heat sucked the air from my lungs, made me gasp
The side of the hill on my right was green and crumbled to the touch
Just another colour in this spilt pallet of a painter’s landscape dream
Or a geologist’s psychedelic field trip.

Beyond the bend in a dried out wash a roadside memorial caught my eye
Superhero figures and a cross of axes amongst beer cans to quench the thirst
Captain Travis Flores-Lee had come to California from Hawaii in 2001
Just another firefighter whose life ended too soon to be remembered
Or so he may have thought.

Later in an overpriced Las Vegas motel I found his story on Google
His car had left the road on his way to work at the Searles Valley Mineral Fire Department
His colleagues must cross themselves in remembrance every time they pass the spot
Just another tragedy in this Dante’s inferno of a lunatic landscape
Or a statistic on a road sign.

Antonioni directed his cult classic which divides opinion to this day
Love or hate it there’s no doubt he left his mark somewhere along the movie time line
The painted plane, the love scene, the exploding house finale
Just another contribution to the existential road movies of late sixties counter culture
Or a work of genius to some.

At Zabriskie Point a couple from Iceland took a picture of me and the view
Perhaps it was sacrilege to take those photographs of Dolores-Lee’s shrine
As the old Navajo woman had shaken her head and frowned at me for asking
Just another tourist buying her trinkets but not allowed to remove her soul
Or perhaps for a few dollars more.

There’s only ever been one thing on my bucket list of things to do before I die
And yes, I have seen the movie several times and own a copy of the soundtrack
I even played it on the way into Death Valley to put me in the mood
Just another of the weird and wonderful things that demand my attention
Or not as the case may be when it wanders.

My mind turns once more to the unfortunate case of Dolores-Lee
I wonder how he would have felt knowing he’d become part of the valley folklore
My bucket list is empty now like his firefighting superhero dreams
Just another reason to turn off the air-con to prevent overheating
Or play the soundtrack one more time.



they were the explorers

pathfinders and land cruisers

range roving defenders

of prairie frontiers

from Colorado

to Silverado

surf to tundra

the rebel wagon rams

on the edge of

Yukon escalades

Comanche commandos

the canyon pilots of

Navara ridgelines

terrain wranglers

titans of the suburban scene

defenders of the Sierras

Tacoma mountain toppers

Dakota rogues

dodging the avalanches

evoking the Cherokees

traversing the highland escapes

with a Sante Fe forester

or a tornado discovery

hummers and forerunners

they were the offroad journeymen

and patriots all.


in buckskin hide

through red rock canyons

he came on stolen mustang

bareback riding mesas, buttes

dried out washes

and in this wilderness silence

he left no lasting trace

but a wake of grasshopper flights

hoofmarks on silver grass plains

hunted buffalo bones

campfire spoken story tales

of creation, birth, human survival


now under barbed wire fences

he sneaks a peek at once

his land of riches

mostly under new ownership

largely mismanaged

railroaded and crisscrossed

with interstates, strip malls

gaudy neon diners

crumbling, decaying, sun beaten


for all the wrong reasons

preoccupied, never pausing to listen


voices call from the past

echoes caught on overlooks

rock strewn escarpments

scanning the distance

his hand shields his eyes

a false new wealth

of reservation compensations

cash dollar tourist casinos

trading post trinkets

a commercialised culture

his voice calls out for the sunset

one last time