My Phoenix Sunburn Chronicles: A 1970 Disaster

My Phoenix Sunburn Chronicles: A 1970 Desert Disaster

Phoenix in August 1970 was like walking into an oven that someone forgot to turn off. The desert sun hung in the sky like a vicious spotlight, and the pavement could have fried an egg or, in my case, a tourist from cooler climates who thought they understood what “hot” meant.

I walked out to the pool at the Hotel Valley Ho in Scottsdale confidently, as if I’d never felt 115-degree heat. The water looked so tempting, sparkling like liquid diamonds under the relentless Arizona sun. I figured a little poolside lounging would give me that perfect vacation tan I’d been dreaming of. What could possibly go wrong?

I must have dozed off on that pool deck, lulled by the desert silence and the gentle lapping of the chlorinated water. When I finally stirred, I looked down at my body and realized I’d been turned into a human lobster. My skin had gone from pale tourist white to a striking shade of crimson that would make a fire truck jealous. The pain hit about 30 seconds later, a searing, relentless reminder that the desert sun doesn’t mess around.

That’s when I took on my new role as a professional bed lounger. I treated my status as a recovering burn victim very seriously, seeing it as a full-time job that required dedication and commitment. The hotel room became my sanctuary, the air conditioning my savior, and those crisp white hotel sheets my uniform.

Wrapped in those sheets like a queen, I found unexpected joy in daytime television. KPHO(channel 5) had the best lineup of shows. Rita Davenport’s cheerful southern drawl drifted through the room while I lay there like a mummy. Her humor was just what I needed to lift my spirits. Wallace and Ladmo became my daily fix of zany local characters, offering the perfect distraction from my self-imposed solar punishment.

I’d discovered my calling as a horizontal vacation expert. From my reclined position, I watched the desert heat shimmer outside the window while I remained safely cocooned in my climate-controlled recovery chamber. Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of other hotel guests heading out to brave the pool, and I’d want to warn them, but who was I to interfere with their own learning journey into the ways of the desert sun?

By the end of that trip, I had fully accepted reality. If I wanted a golden glow in the future, I‘d get a spray tan in a cool, comfortable room—no more lying in the desert sun like a piece of bacon about to get crispy. 

Looking back, some of my favorite memories from that trip are of being wrapped in those hotel sheets, laughing at the local TV shows. Sometimes the worst ideas make the best stories.

Bobbie Bennett