Consider Arizona, on a motorcycle, in the middle of a grim Canadian winter.
I certainly do, every time the cold murk of an approaching February gets me down.
What better time to take a daydream detour back to those glorious days, just weeks ago, when the only thing separating this writer from Arizona was the tires of a 2009 BMW R1200 GS.
It was a rental: My own bike, like so many north of the border, is a prisoner to icy streets and foul weather.
A rotten summer followed by an early winter was all the convincing needed for migration south, seeking a motorcycle holiday at a time when Harleys and Hondas are in cold storage back home.
Twenty-five minutes and one twisty road out of Phoenix later and I must have looked like a complete madman on the big Beemer, laughing out loud with glee.
The daunting task of finding the bike rental place, then navigating freeways out of the city turned out to be easy indeed. Now, all that remained was a week of sun, warmth and adventure.
I was laughing then and it still brings a smile to my face now -- it's probably a nice place by car, but from the saddle of a bike, southern Arizona is a paradise.
Sweet, fresh air opens your eyes to scenery rich with copper-stained cliffs and cactus straight from a Hollywood western. The rugged landscape is laced with perfect roads -- smooth, serpentine and virtually empty.
Those who've ridden great asphalt know the feeling. Every corner brings a new thrill at the adventure ahead, but every road holds a hint of regret because it will soon be in the past.
One could wax poetic for days about the soul-stirring aura of excellent roads, warm weather and a willing bike -- but eventually, the ride has to end somewhere.
In southern Arizona, those somewheres happen to be pretty impressive, too.
You could do a lot worse than following my lead south, to the same Tucson hotel where Public Enemy No. 1, bank bandit John Dillinger, was arrested in 1934.
Until that fateful January night, the Hotel Congress had three floors -- but a fire forced Dillinger to evacuate and a bribe to firefighters to rescue his guns soon attracted the law.
Now just two storeys tall, the Congress makes up for it by being larger than life with period-acurate rooms and a boisterous music club billed as the hippest bar in Tucson.
One very late night later, it was south towards the Mexican border and Bisbee, a once-booming copper town somehow overlooked by the wrecking ball of progress.
It seemed Bisbee could never compete with the splendour of the highway, but with the town in sight, views of hazy desert and majestic mountains were forgotten.
Here was a tiny city, caught in the 1800s -- but an 1800s where Dr. Seuss was the civic planner and no hill was an obstacle to his vision.
From a winding main street caught in a 150-year-old time warp to homes clinging to impossibly steep cliffs, Bisbee is an artsy clutter linked by a maze of stairs and tiny roads.
You can easily lose a day here browsing strange antique stores, museums and shops such as the Killer Bee Guy, who sells honey made by the nastiest of bees.
Restaurants, saloons and cafes pepper Bisbee, while the streets buzz with a relaxed population of artists, old hippies and young student types.
After checking into the plush Copper City Inn, a blend of historic decor and modern luxury, I hiked over to the Queen Mine Tour, which leads head-lamped tourists 1,500 feet underground.
If you're claustrophobic, steer clear.
But those who can stomach utter darkness and a mountain of rock overhead are in for a fascinating glimpse of life in the mines.
Copper fuelled Bisbee's boom, just as silver was responsible for the birth of neighbouring Tombstone, a place I rode into with a mix-t ure of anticipation and dread.
Loving real history, I feared this most legendary of Old West towns would be looted of any actual past in the name of a cheesy, over-the-top tourism industry.
Such a relief then to find a place embracing tourism, without surrendering the soul of its bloody past.
There's some cheese, such as the animatronic cowboys at the OK Corral -- but a balance is found in sites like the Bird Cage Theatre, a ragged and bullet-riddled time capsule of rowdy history.
From Earp-era graffiti to the actual faro table used by Doc Holliday, the theatre was shut down in 1889 and not reopened for 50 years when it was found to be untouched.
Boothill Cemetery is another must-see, full of grim reminders this was a real frontier town where folk died in droves, often with a bullet in the guts or a rope around the neck.
Of course, that's all modern history, compared to the ancient past Arizona offers.
To the north, Tonto National Monument features cliff dwellings established by Salado Indians about 700 years ago.
A trek to the remote eastern edge of the state brings the BMW to Chiricahua National Monument, a Native spiritual site full of surreal volcanic hoodoos.
It's about 600 years newer, but a similar sense of peace can be found nearby at the Dos Cabezas Spirit and Nature Retreat, where you are greeted like family, bike and all.
Guests at the handsome and isolated acreage stay in an adobe guest house built of mud in the 1800s -- and in the morning, owner Charmayne cooks possibly the tastiest breakfast in Arizona.
A full stomach and a head full of motorcycling memories for the trip home.
Arizona dreaming -- it's where I'll be this winter.
michael.platt@sunmedia.ca
Teeing off in Vegas
