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You need to follow the course of the Santa Rosa Wash for only half a mile before you find an ideal place to cross. It is close to the town of Cucklebur, a settlement that was home to the Papago Indians before ‘The Day’. As you drive through the town, the beginnings of a hot, northwesterly wind sweep across the land, and you notice a dark storm cloud streaking the sky. You pray that it is the prelude to a rainstorm, for it has not rained in these parts for more than a year, but your experience and your senses tell you otherwise.

‘There’s a dust storm brewin’. Daresay it’s blowin’ down from the Nevada desert,’ you say, motioning to the north.

‘Looks like it could be a mean ’un,’ replies Rickenbacker, as he stares thoughtfully at the gathering cloud. ‘A real mean ’un.’

By the time you rejoin Interstate 8, the weather has greatly deteriorated. Carried on a high wind come swirling, stinging eddies of rust-red sand, some as tall as five-storey buildings. They move across the landscape like spinning tops, sucking in and spewing out tons of dust, rock, and debris every second of their short but violent lives. So great has the dust saturation become that even though it is still only late afternoon, you are forced to switch on your headlights in order to make out the road ahead.

Out of this wall of dust a mileage sign appears, which says:

It is nearly an hour before you see another sign. This one announces a rest stop one mile ahead on the freeway.

If you wish to stop at this freeway service area, turn to 56.

If you decide to continue driving through the dust storm towards Gila Bend, turn to 13.