these were built for purposes of land speculation, but their presence seems too random for that. What was it about these pieces of barren desert, miles from anything, which required the protection of formal masonry?
The sand obligingly drifts all around and into them whenever possible. It’s as if the compounds stand in as bookmarks, meant to start new chapters, to be detailed and expanded upon as the future permits.

The road’s second concrete girdle is unremarkable—it passes under the wheels after some further distance—but the third, arriving shortly thereafter, is distinguished by four squat white posts, marking a small bridge. The bluff’s edge, staked out by a pair of tall red and white aerials in the distance, begins to seem more of an attainable distance at around this point. Its remainder can even be counted off on the telephone poles after a while—the road out averages slightly uphill, and the prevailing winds tend to oppose, so there comes temptation to measure progress. But we keep going back, to take in the magnificent views waiting for us at the end of the ride, to coast back in to town with the wind more or less at our backs, to celebrate the possibilities of individual exercise in a place where they’re not often appreciated.

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