Clovis via The Road to Nowhere

There is a very important turn everyone must take at some point in their lives. Some people find it after college, after they turn 40, or after a cocktail. Some people know there’s a turn you absolutely have to take in Roswell. It is a very important turn, and one that has nothing to do with aliens. Last week, I missed that turn.

And this is where I ended up. This is the road to nowhere, and you’re certain to end up on it if you don’t take that very imperative left in Roswell. It’s a terrible photo, taken with my Blackberry from the passenger seat of a rented Saturn SUV that I was in last week when I went to the sunny Eastern New Mexico town of Clovis. Clovis. Say it to yourself a few times and you’ll understand why the population there has not seen any real spikes in over four decades.

But before we reached the city limits of Clovis, we put many miles on this little forgotten highway. It’s actually got a name – U.S. Route 380. But I like The Road to Nowhere better. It really tells it like it is. After the trip got kinda quiet, my boss wrinkled his nose and offered a quiet question.

“Do you think…maybe…we missed a turn?”

“No,” I said. “It’s just Clovis. You go through Ruidoso, up to Roswell, and on to Clovis. It’s a straight shot.”

And that’s when it happened. That rush of heat that flushes my neck with hives. I was wrong, and if I didn’t turn this ship around pronto, we were going to fall off the edge of the earth.

Lucky for me, I’ve always been able to think fast on my feet. And lucky for me, I’ve always kept a large inventory of friends who can come to my rescue when I find myself in precarious positions. I remembered one in particular who grew up in Dora, NM. Dora, I learned, isn’t even big enough to deserve a solid dot on a map. It’s just a hollow little hole. I found his number in my phone, prayed for cell service, and hit “SEND”. He answered.

“Hello, Craig? I know it’s been awhile. It’s Kelly. Kelly Jameson….from the magazine? Hey, listen…I’m on my way to Clovis and I think I took a wrong turn. We just passed a sign that says ‘Tatum’. Am I going the right way?”

Silence.

I checked my phone to see if I dropped the call. Nope, he was still connected.
He responded.

“So…exactly how far out of Roswell are you?”

“I dunno. An hour, maybe.”

“Oh, Kelly. You missed that turn.”

THAT DAMN TURN. I knew it. Someone please contact the Clovis Chamber of Commerce and tell them to immediately allocate some funds to post a sign in Roswell that says, “Hey, moron. Clovis is this-a-way. If you don’t take the turn this-a-way, you’re screwed. Don’t go that-a-way because you’ll end up going to Tatum and Tatum sucks balls.” Is that too much to ask? Fine. If that’s too much to fit on a sign, how about simply, “CLOVIS, LEFT.” After my adventure, I would even pay for the sucker. Consider it my gift to future dumbasses like myself who risk missing The Turn.
But Craig came to my rescue.

“You’re ok. Just keep going to Tatum, and then take a left.”

“Which left?”

“Oh, you’ll know. There’s only one. It’s at the flashing light.”

He was right. We didn’t fall off the edge of the earth after all. We got to Tatum, drove up to the flashing light and turned left. About a quarter of a mile up the road, we saw a sign of hope: CLOVIS, 89 MILES.

We made it to Dora and I witnessed first-hand why this hollow little hole never made it to solid-dot status with Rand McNally.

And then we got stuck behind this guy.

Apparently New Mexico’s fine Department of Transportation decided the road between Tatum and Portales needed some new black top. And I can see why, with all 3 cars we saw in nearly 90 miles. I love the sign, don’t you? PILOT CAR, FOLLOW ME. I guess New Mexico is the only state where we have to be painfully obvious.

After an hour’s delay thanks to That Turn, we arrived at our destination.

Clovis is home to three things: the railroad, Cannon Air Force Base, and dairy farms. And (like Clovis) dairy farms are home to three things as well: cows, manure, and some mighty fine people.

The first dairy we visited was where Randy Vander Dussen (say it with me: VANder DOOzehn) and his wife Jenice raised their six boys after relocating from California 20 years ago. They must have missed that turn in Roswell, too. Lucky for Clovis, this is where they ended up and they’ve been an important part of the local economy ever since. The second dairy was Albin Smith’s. He and his wife Sandra founded SAS Dairy, which rightfully stands for Sandra and Albin Smith. Sadly, Sandra died about 10 years ago. Happily, Albin found another Sandra a year later and married her. Now that’s what you call business efficiency.

Every dairy in Clovis looks like this:

If I stepped on a tuna can I could probably see my house back in Las Cruces. And if I got in my car and drove to work in El Paso, along the way I would see many of the same things I saw in Clovis.

Cows. Lots and lots of cows. But what you don’t see every day on your way to El Paso are these things - giant C130s were flying overhead, taking off and landing at Cannon. The farmers – and the cows – were used to it. Every time one would fly over, all us city mice would stop everything and stare up at the sky.

There was a lot to unload when we got to each dairy. There was video equipment, tripods, cables and lights.

Carlos was the poor guy who got shafted unloading most of the equipment. I helped him a lot. I don’t think he was used to having an Assistant’s Assistant.

Really, Kelly. I can get all this stuff. I have six arms. You can’t tell, but I do.

(By the way, this was June 3, 2010, not the 30^th of June as my camera would like you to believe.)

We got a lot of these shots – guys on tractors, driving around. I had to laugh at the ones who were proud to be American farmers, producing wholesome, nutritious, American-made milk with Kubota tractors and Nissan trucks. Henry Ford and John Deere must have been turning in their graves.

But they were pretty proud farmers.

I’m a proud farmer, too. See what I can grow?