Well, it looks like summer time is upon us here in old Patagonia. Winter folks who are not as tough as the rest wander back to their eastern homes to ride out the heat that would surely kill them. The few, the proud stay here and wait out the inevitable high temperatures, and for those at the store (Red Mountain Foods) the summer of stupid questions begins.
When the winter tourists all leave, the lake goers arrive. You can always see them coming, ill-fitting bikini tops perched atop abundant pasty Tucson skin waiting for its first sunburn of the season. They are looking for Hershey bars and marshmallows and, more important—the lake. “Where is the lake?” “How do we get to the lake?” “How far is the lake?” For some reason, most folks think that upon arriving in Patagonia you’ll drive right into the lake if you don’t make a sharp left/right. They always look bewildered when we tell them that they must keep going—“It’s only eight more miles.” For our sake, they should have waited to put on their Speedos.
The summer also brings rewards. You almost feel like you can stretch out a little more. I’ve always felt like summer belongs to the locals. The rain, thunder, and lightning are our reward for a year of hard work. We earn the smell of wet dirt and green grass. The summer brings the nightly concerts of crickets and bull frogs and the promise of those cool summer nights.
I met my husband, Zach, in the summer, here in Patagonia. He was rolling down the road in his beat-up GMC truck. We enjoyed moonshine in a Mason jar and a cruise in the hills. Our kind of paradise. (I just realized I might be a redneck—this might need further study.)
Overall, Patagonia’s summer is magic. It’s like no other place I know, and it’s ours, so get out and enjoy. Make your own memories. Go to your secret swimming holes, build bonfires, and have BBQs. I can’t guarantee there’ll be moonshine, but I’m sure you can improvise.