When hunting photographs by automobile my mind numbs over the initial distances, across territory made sterile for me by repeated exposures. In that mode I passed the sign pointing to Pancho’s Place. The oddness of the scene must have triggered unwitting thoughts — taking some time to surface — because gradually over the next half mile a pattern showed itself to me, and I whipped the car around.

This part of the Sonoran Desert consists of sand, supporting the scrubbiest vegetation on Earth, where emaciated cows roam forlornly seeking a meal. Rough-sawn humans — scattered widely — call this desolate patch their home too, keeping company with burrowing animals. It seems to me Pancho plays no part in any of that; he remains aloof, his rationale impenetrable, inhabiting a semi-fictional reality.

The mound in our background looks perfectly shaped to give Pancho’s silly police car better vantage to surveil the property. His cartoonish vehicle carries in the rear an over-sized propane cylinder, whose function and potential symbolic meaning remain unknown. There is a four-wheeler in the foreground suitable for a six-year-old; in its driver’s seat we find a metal abstraction with a long neck and a head fronted by two dark eyes. Next to it atop a signpost we discover diamonds, three reflectors positioned (one assumes) to beckon and slow down passing traffic.

Our motif abuts a rudimentary driveway a hundred feet long. Beyond that, the drive becomes more like trail, speed limit: 5MPH. Assume that you obey this posting. On a primitive track over raw desert it will take just under three hours inhaling dust to reach Pancho’s domain. And then what will you find?

We are not told. I would not expect a cozy bed and breakfast with ice-cold air-conditioning, featuring Pancho’s gourmet Mexican cooking in an ecologically-friendly desert environment. On the contrary, you will probably be starving when you get back to the highway, and will give thanks to the God of Your Understanding for helping you survive your ill-advised detour.