We’d started the day early, planning to walk more of the historic turquoise trail, heading towards our next night-stop, the old mining town of Madrid where Anne’s parents had a small store that they’d run for the past 25 years or so. Typical hippie stuff of course, some jewellery, some ‘native Indian’ stuff and the rest mainly tat if truth be told but she was a good kid and we needed a place to stay, so we went easy on her and her parents.
The weather had been immaculate; blue skies, cloudless, balmy even. We’d cooked a breakfast of beans, country ham and coffee over the small wood fire we’d built the night before, then packed everything back into our packs, doused the fire and set off.
We knew we would take about 5 or 6 hours to reach the town (village really I guess, so few people and houses) so had started before the heat came up but by early afternoon, we were grateful for the water canteens and the bivvie sheets we dozed under for siesta.
The town appeared almost by surprise as we rounded the last bend. Classic ‘spaghetti Western’ buildings. And, of course, a tramp, fast asleep just off the trackside.
