We were greeted upon arriving in Arizona with mounds of rusty rover parts piled up; we were looking at tetnus itself. Loading it all was work more suitable for a backhoe than 3 people. We arrived at night and partly from exaustion, partly from a fear of falling negotiating the jumbled heaps we decided to get some sleep before digging in. It was very peaceful camping out in the middle of a junkyard, in the middle of a desert, in the middle of nowhere. Despite the rucus of coyotes, braying of wild donkeys and breif 20 minute intervals between trains at a nearby switching yard, we slept quite well.

The junkyard itself was a story worth relaying. An amazing amalgam of 50 and 60s foreign cars. Stuff you have never seen was in this yard. Citroens, Austins, Simcas, Fiats, Renaults, Peugots and a host of others slumbered in this massive post apocalyptic car show. The owners of the yard had sold the property and supposedly all of these early, rare cars will be scrapped. Amazed and saddened by this wholly seperate collection we wondered around in constant stupifaction for 20 minutes, snapping pictures of only a few of the interesting cars.

Loading is now somewhat of a blur. The dust from the desert clung to our perspiring hides in a thick paste but not before we had been severely redened by the oppressive sun. We loaded dozens of axles, body panels, engines and other components as well as several hulks of former land rovers onto the trailers and into the trucks. After some 13 hours of loading we hosed off at a nearby spigot and piled into the trucks for 8 hours of driving.

The return trip was punctuated at intervals with excitement. A freak desert rainstorm inundated the roadway and reduced vision to mere feet as a stampede of tumbleweeds blew accross the road. Aging parts, straps, and tires gaveway and were variously replaced, patched bodged and lashed with rope, tied with bailing wire and frequently cursed.

At first I couldnt respect or relate to Marks choice of lifestyle. Chronic failures, hours of repair and a epic stuggle against the effects of age, wear and the elements on machinery are the trademarks of his chosen profession. Lifetimes of accumulated detritous closing in around him smothering him in a misery of never to be finished projects. His demenor when he tells you he can salvage that broken, seized or otherwised ruined part as he stands amongst several dozen identical components is surreal. How can anyone want to save that? you ask yourself. Then you realize he is the curator of his own museum of curiosities. Saving all of these things for the few people who can appreciate its value or see the rare hard to find item amongst the clutter. Cost prohibitiveness is a foriegn concept, if it can only be saved, it will eventually become needed or useful. His ingenuity and resourcefullness is as inexaustable as his supply of raw materials from which he draws on. He is the junk man.