Discover a unexpected riparian respite with Julie in Yuma by the Colorado River, then go back in time with Lisa to a Patagonia Lake adventure with a high school sweetheart…sort of.
Mug:Shamrock Dairy
From Arizona Friend Trips, Patagonia Chapter
Copyright, 2025 University of Arizona Press (Printed with Permission)
by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger
Even in midsummer, the four-thousand-foot elevation gives us a sense of cool breezes. While some visit to see hummingbirds in nearby canyons, fewer than a thousand souls live in the metropolitan area. If you’re here, it’s on purpose. It’s a town in miniature, with several tree-lined streets in both directions and some tourist-based commerce. Patagonia doesn’t offer many remarkable reasons to visit, but the one it has attracts international attention.
Thanks to media, the Velvet Elvis has a circle of devotees far more widespread than most local restaurants can boast. The passion and brainchild of Cecilia San Miguel, this Italian eating establishment is named as a homage to paintings on velvet so prevalent across the border.
Julile and I can’t stay at our table after ordering, we have to prowl the place and take everything in. everything is saturated with jewel tones. Elaborately carved wooden posts support huge beams. I yearn to move in and spend the rest of my life here. I’m sure I would be happy every day.
Even well sated, we can’t pass up vanilla rose ice cream with pistachio and saffron: how could you be under the same roof as a creation with so many lyric ingredients and not partake?
Stop? Rest.
by Julie Morrison
When I am inundated,
I seek water,
wanting to pond
or seep slowly
into lake lounge.
I don’t want to river,
have not mastered
running without hurry
sure of my speed
shortening nothing
but patience.
Whereas I resent them,
rivers adapt to cycles
swelling then easing with seasons—
never seeking to stop—
rather, taking a stretch,
or sitting for a spell
without settling,
because, as creatures of flow,
rivers verb —
again, again, always, endlessly—
that’s what we do as beings—
but I want to noun now. Period.
A river would laugh at this,
has certainly snickered at me
as I’ve wobbled, grumbling,
spilling my worries
hunched on a rock
as current slides by.
Rivers are a living reminder:
journeys must be made lightly—
leave the leaden
to molder, moss—
find rest
in its own resistance—
you, trip forward,
chuckling on.
Copyright 2025 Julie Morrison, All rights reserved
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