It was an old dirt road, not much wider than any one car passing over it. After school, my friends and I would pile into Dinky’s mom’s shiny green Chrysler and head to Monster Road. From the back seat, I could only see the sky ahead, a rugged mountain nearly scraping the passenger window on the right, and sky to the left. Just a few inches of space allowed clearance between the car and the edge of the road that dropped off to a highway far below. 

We had no legitimate reason to take Monster Road other than the thrill and adventure of doing something our parents would absolutely forbid. We laughed hysterically throughout the ride, especially when we reached a dead end, and Dinky had to back up all the way along that narrow, winding road, to where it started. 

Monster Road is only one unique memory of living in Morenci, a small mining community. Families leaving the company and relocating tend to stay connected, sharing endless stories about a special place that was thriving back in the day. 

As teenagers, we created our own fun with picnics at the cemetery or driving “up the trail” along a zigzagging road called the “666.” A typical Friday night on the town was attending a high school football or basketball game, then cruising the bowling alley to meet up with friends under “the shed” to learn where the party was. Our options included “Cow Palace,” a section of horse corrals on the side of a road leading down to the river, or the “Backstop,” an old structure that once stood upon a baseball field that later became a cemetery. But the best place to party was the San Francisco River. I never understood why it was called that, since it ran through a small town in Arizona and nowhere near San Francisco, California. 

Parties at the river meant enormous bon fires, 70’s music, kegs of beer, and climbing up the side of a crag to swing across a canyon over the river below. We’d lift each other up, one at a time, to grab hold of a wrought iron, triangular contraption attached to a cable suspended from what, I don’t know. We trusted the process. A friend hoisted us up by our legs until we could grip the metal bar, and then with a slight push, we’d swing high above the river to a mountain on the other side, then push off with our feet to swing back across the river hoping to be caught by the next person in line. 

After high school, life there for me was like reaching the mountain but not pushing off, and dangling…lingering over the river with nowhere to go. I wanted to live in the city, rushing through crowded streets among skyscrapers, living the fast life, wearing business suits and spiked heels, carrying a shiny briefcase, and earning everyone’s approval. But that life didn’t give me the freedom and peace I craved. In the end, I found peace inside myself, right here at home, near a mountain, or on an old dirt trail, just like the one we called Monster Road. 

Growing up in Morenci provided an opportunity for life-long friendships, principled values, and a rich bank of memories. So many memories…and stories we’ll never forget.