The massive RV lumbered toward us at a precarious list. Nothing but a thin yellow line and a few feet of asphalt separated the family funwagon from the Dutch Star, as it closed in at an uncomfortably wobbly warp speed. I couldn’t help but think of how the name reminded me of the Death Star, and envisioned us as the fledgling renegades in the Millennium Falcon, trying to hold her steady as the temporary void created by the massive wind block threatened to suck us into a giant black hole. I let out a low, torturous howl, probably not unlike firstmate Chewbacca, as the massive 30-footer pushed the limits of automotive aerodynamics. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was Charles Bronson behind the wheel as the behemoth rattled by like a runaway freight train, tossing us like a dingy on the high desert seas.

And so went the next several hours as the family unit made one of its annual pilgrimages to the Grand Canyon state for the kind of relaxation and perspective that only comes from spending time with young children in a prefab retirement community. And while the route through the northern part of our catty-Four Corner neighbor is notorious for its sandstorms, this particular trip saw us buffeted, door to door, with 65mph crosswinds that would’ve sent Dorothy running for the root cellar.

And of course, what high wind event is complete without several tons of the Arizona-Utah desert sandblasting everything as far as the eye can see in a telltale hue of pinkish-brown Navajo sandstone? Now let me just say, I’ve driven under some deplorable conditions in my day – including pea soup fog through the badlands of Nevada, whiteouts on Red Mountain Pass and even rush hour L.A. traffic on the 405. But this was perhaps the most unsettling, sort of like driving through a Martian dustbowl in a minivan rover. I was thankful, at least, for my hermetically sealed climate controlled comfort. I couldn’t help but feel the pain of the young couple heroically making the trek in a beat up old Volvo with the windows rolled down, looking like Deadhead refugees from a Mad Max movie.  

Suffice to say, I learned a lot that day – aside from the painful reminder to never, ever, sit down on a toilet seat in a dirty gas station, no matter how road-weary you are or how bad you have to go (thank you, hippie Volvo girl for the parting gift.) For starters, the desert is a dusty place. And secondly, there are a lot of RVs out there on the open road. Additionally, seven hours of sheer G-force winds can give you a mean case of vertigo, not to mention road rage; and nothing tastes better after a long day of white-knuckled two-lane passing than a cold beer (thank you, Ska Brewing.)

But aside from all that, there were uncanny similarities to Armageddon: blinding sand storms, smoky haze from raging wildfires, dried river beds, dust devils, $3.89 gallons of gas and convoys of shiny new RVs. Downright disconcerting, I tell you.

But even more disconcerting is that this is not just some overembellished tale of an otherwise boring road trip. (Ok, maybe just a little.) See, barring a meteor cashing into Earth and blotting out the sun, plunging us into instant ice age, by today, the spring of 2012 will go down as the United States’ warmest in 117 years of record-keeping, with an average temp of 57.4 degrees. The National Climatic Data Center doesn’t release its official numbers until June, but based on March and April data, University of Maryland professor and weather blogger Steve Scolnik (capitalclimate.blogspot.com), says May is on target to smash the 102-year-old record set in 1910.

Scolnik estimates this May will average 3.6 degrees warmer than the historical average and 2.3 degrees above the 1910 average. For the meteorologically challenged, 2.3 degrees is nothing to poo poo as statistically insignificant. In order for this spring to be cooler than 1910, we would need a “supernatural ‘Day After Tomorrow’ event,” according to Scolnik.

See? Armageddon, just like I told you.

Of course, as anyone who lives in the Rocky Mountains knows, one day’s Armageddon is tomorrow’s Great Flood. And more likely than not, the summer monsoons will be here soon enough to sooth our dusty, furrowed brows. But just how long they’ll stay is anyone’s guess. I suspect the answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind.

– Missy Votel