My meanderings have occasionally taken me past Pompano Beach’s most impressive topographical feature, Mount Trashmore — officially known to almost no one as the Monarch Hill Renewable Energy Park.
When the crepuscular light is just right, and you are filling up at the cut-rate gas station on Powerline Road opposite Trashmore’s imposing bulk, you can imagine yourself in the Rocky Mountain foothills, or cresting Wyoming’s Togwotee Pass to behold the sudden magnificence of the Grand Tetons.
OK, maybe you can’t manage that without assistance from mind-altering substances, but when the wind is right you can certainly, without enhancement, appreciate the heady scent of civilization on the march.
What puzzles me about north Broward’s Sierra Basura and its environs is the development that has sprung up within its aromatic sphere of influence. There’s a complex of rental units nearby that I like to call Mountain View Village, and it’s possible that this is one of the sources of recent complaints about the potency of Trashmore’s olfactory signature.
It’s a similar issue to when people choose to live near an airport. Palm Beach resident Donald Trump, for example, demanded — after buying his Mar-A-Lago estate — that the approach path to Palm Beach International be changed so that he could get some peace in his new digs. You should know what you’re getting into. Airports are loud. Landfills reek. If you’re going to have a problem with an existing feature of the urban landscape, live somewhere else.
Meanwhile, I don’t think Trashmore’s commercial potential has been fully tapped. If you charge admission and advertise on enough billboards along the southbound side of Florida’s Turnpike, you’re likely to snag a few clueless tourists who operate on the principle that if you have to pay to see something, it must be worth visiting.
Come to think of it, that ought to be the tourism slogan for the entire state of Florida.