Okki still lived in the same mobile home trailer as last year. I had no problem finding it again in Boulder, at the end of Valmont Road, not far from our old workplace.
I saw his Subaru parked in his driveway and he was standing right there. I got out of the car and gave him a big bear hug.
We went inside the trailer and had a few beers and relaxed, at times going out to the wooden deck in back, overlooking the creek, so Okki could smoke a cigarette.
He said he could cook some steaks for dinner on the grill. We talked for hours. We wanted to know the details of my big long trip, the "After Burn," as they call it. As I talked, the experiences of the last few months just started pouring out, and I realized what an awesomely wild trip it had actually been.
He was particularly interested in hearing my experiences with gun training in Nevada. I demonstrated some of the techniques for him while we were outside. It turns out he and Stefan had been to Las Vegas and had paid to fire a 357 Magnum and a couple other guns. I told him how at the training camp at lunchtime you could fire an assortment of automatic weapons and just pay for the ammo.
At one point he accused me of being "gun crazy." I told him he might be right.
After dinner his friend Melanie came over and we hung out until late in the evening, playing Jenga and drinking. I made the tower fall both times. I was the new guy, after all.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Loop the Loop Comes Home
I stayed at my sister's place for two weeks, much longer than I thought I would. It was a very fun visit. The time went by very fast. Ironically I forgot to give her that Dunkin Donuts coffee until the next-to-last day.
On Saturday I finally packed up my car and said good-bye to them for now. My sister's oldest son was about to leave on a class trip to Washington, D.C. and New York. Her daughters were taking music lessons.
After leaving their place, I drove over to the same Starbucks I'd been using, by U.S. 36, and worked there a couple more hours on some personal projects. Then in the late afternoon, I put away my laptop. Out in my car, I took out my cellphone and I scrolled down my list of contact until I found a name.
I dialed the number. The voice mail picked up.
"Okki! Its Matt! I finally got back from Burning Man!"
On Saturday I finally packed up my car and said good-bye to them for now. My sister's oldest son was about to leave on a class trip to Washington, D.C. and New York. Her daughters were taking music lessons.
After leaving their place, I drove over to the same Starbucks I'd been using, by U.S. 36, and worked there a couple more hours on some personal projects. Then in the late afternoon, I put away my laptop. Out in my car, I took out my cellphone and I scrolled down my list of contact until I found a name.
I dialed the number. The voice mail picked up.
"Okki! Its Matt! I finally got back from Burning Man!"
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The True Meaning of a Vacation
Easter dinner at my sister's place was marvelous. It was great to see the whole family, and to play with the kids again after so many months.
I wasn't sure what they thought of all the postcards I'd sent, but it turns out they were collecting them all. It has been part of my life mission to allow my nieces and nephews to experience the sensation and event of receiving physical mail, with handwritten address, canceled postage.
I wound up staying at her place much longer than I thought, but the time passed very quickly. I even got into a little routine of walking over to the Walnut Creek shops to work at the Starbuck's there.
The biggest pitfall was all that Easter candy, which I was helpless to resist. But after so many months of various new health regimens, I was curious to see what happened if I went off for a couple weeks and gorged on sugar, as I used to.
It's a dangerous game, letting yourself go just long enough to see the effect. But if you have in your head, "that's the way I used to be," and see that self almost as someone else, then it feels a lot easier to pick up where you left off before the break.
I wasn't sure what they thought of all the postcards I'd sent, but it turns out they were collecting them all. It has been part of my life mission to allow my nieces and nephews to experience the sensation and event of receiving physical mail, with handwritten address, canceled postage.
I wound up staying at her place much longer than I thought, but the time passed very quickly. I even got into a little routine of walking over to the Walnut Creek shops to work at the Starbuck's there.
The biggest pitfall was all that Easter candy, which I was helpless to resist. But after so many months of various new health regimens, I was curious to see what happened if I went off for a couple weeks and gorged on sugar, as I used to.
It's a dangerous game, letting yourself go just long enough to see the effect. But if you have in your head, "that's the way I used to be," and see that self almost as someone else, then it feels a lot easier to pick up where you left off before the break.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Day of Multi-Colored Surprises
After a couple nights in Manitou Springs, suffering through the almost unusable Wi-Fi, I checked out and headed down into Colorado Springs, through the charming little Old Colorado City district. When I passed a Dunkin' Donuts, the only one in Colorado, I stopped and bought some of their brand of coffee for my sister, as an Easter present, and sort of as a gag gift about her years in Boston.
With a little time to spare, I afforded myself a drive through central Colorado Springs, from downtown north on Cascade. The north-south streets of the grid are named after mountains and mountain ranges of the West and Northwest. The east-west streets are named for rivers of the same regions.
Before I got on the Interstate, I stopped at a chain party store and stocked up on some Easter decorations that would make the kids laugh, I thought, including some bunny ears, and plastic eggs for the gifts I'd bought them.
In a little over an hour, up on I-25 then on C-470, up along Morrison to Golden, then onto I-76 heading back towards I-25. I exited in Wheat Ridge, went past old Lakeside Amusement Park looking for a coin store that turned out to have just closed for the day. Then up on Wadsworth north into Westminster.
I got to my sister's house at just about the time she said dinner would be starting. I parked a few houses down, just to make it a surprise, then put on the bunny ears and a Mardi Gras mask and walked up to the front door with a basket full of eggs of different colors and patterns, and other stuff in the basket.
With a little time to spare, I afforded myself a drive through central Colorado Springs, from downtown north on Cascade. The north-south streets of the grid are named after mountains and mountain ranges of the West and Northwest. The east-west streets are named for rivers of the same regions.
Before I got on the Interstate, I stopped at a chain party store and stocked up on some Easter decorations that would make the kids laugh, I thought, including some bunny ears, and plastic eggs for the gifts I'd bought them.
In a little over an hour, up on I-25 then on C-470, up along Morrison to Golden, then onto I-76 heading back towards I-25. I exited in Wheat Ridge, went past old Lakeside Amusement Park looking for a coin store that turned out to have just closed for the day. Then up on Wadsworth north into Westminster.
I got to my sister's house at just about the time she said dinner would be starting. I parked a few houses down, just to make it a surprise, then put on the bunny ears and a Mardi Gras mask and walked up to the front door with a basket full of eggs of different colors and patterns, and other stuff in the basket.
Up the Flank of the Great Mountain
In Manitou Springs I had Saturday breakfast at a vintage pancake house, called Uncle Sam's, in an old a-frame building.
It was a beautiful day. Feeling adventurous, I walked from the pancake house into downtown, with a glorious view of the mountain the whole way. Then I followed the winding narrow streets up the ravine to the cog railway station.
From the hiking trails begin their ascent. Scores of people were going up down the long line of the Incline Trail, which goes straight up the mountain with old wooden planks as steps. Had I brought along my water bottle, I would have tied my down jacket to my waist and started up the trail.
It was a beautiful day. Feeling adventurous, I walked from the pancake house into downtown, with a glorious view of the mountain the whole way. Then I followed the winding narrow streets up the ravine to the cog railway station.
From the hiking trails begin their ascent. Scores of people were going up down the long line of the Incline Trail, which goes straight up the mountain with old wooden planks as steps. Had I brought along my water bottle, I would have tied my down jacket to my waist and started up the trail.
Then Down into Manitou
Then in the late afternoon, with the light still good, I descended the from Cripple Creek and found the wide U.S. Highway that descends steeply from Woodland Park, the perfect surburbia, and got off in swift traffic onto the exit for Manitou Springs.
There was a lot of construction in the old part of town. Most of Manitou Springs is old, in fact. It's a preserve of the Colorado mid 20th Century tourism boom, probably the best such preserve of this culture remaining in the West.
Even within Colorado, it has protected status. If you're from the northern Front Range, like me, the area around Colorado Springs was sort of a no-go area, to be shunned. It makes it all the more fascinating to me now.
There was a lot of construction in the old part of town. Most of Manitou Springs is old, in fact. It's a preserve of the Colorado mid 20th Century tourism boom, probably the best such preserve of this culture remaining in the West.
Even within Colorado, it has protected status. If you're from the northern Front Range, like me, the area around Colorado Springs was sort of a no-go area, to be shunned. It makes it all the more fascinating to me now.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Happy Treasure Hunting!
North of there, the main state highway creeps up the floor of the valley. The mountains coverge to a narrowing but still wide approach to the pass. Five miles of gentle winding take you to the summit of Poncha Pass, as you head straight towards some of the highest mountains in the state.
On the other side, the highway drops down much quicker, in tighter curves, and in less than twenty minutes you are down in the valley of the Arkansas, near its headquarters.
There at Salida I intersected with the course of my 2009 trip, when I'd followed the Arkanasas upstream from near its mouth. I ate at the same Sonic Drive-In for fun, then took the road downstream this time in ghte tight canyon, all the way to Canyon City, where I needed to fill up with gas, at the first station I saw, right next to the prison.
Then with a new full tank I went back up the canyon a few miles, past the cutoff to Royal Gorge, and took State Highway 9 north, and then took the little couinty road cutoff through the hills to Cripple Creek.
I got into town in the late afternoon. The sky was menacing and looked of snow. Nasty clouds roiled above me.
I walked the main street for a half hour in the chill fresh air. There wasn't much to do there if you didn't want to go inside and gamble in any of the casinos. But the outside was a decient architectural tour of buildings from the 1890s, mostly, when the town was most active in the early days of its Gold Rush.
The gold field itself is amazing. It was one of the largest in North America. Ironically it was discovered during the first Colorado Gold Rush, that produced most of the early lore of the state during its territorial days. It came decades later, but turned out to be a much larger field. It sustained the coffers of the state for many decades around the turn of the Twentieth Century.
There is a still an active gold mine nearby. One passes it on the way to Victor, the small town just south of Cripple Creek, on a spur of the highway, going down the mountains along the gulch. It's evidently still a working class town, where some of the gold miners live. It had a forlorn ghostly feel. My kind of place.
The only road out of Victor is back through Cripple Creek. It gave me a chance to inspect the gold mining operation there a second time.
I've thought it funny how the first explorations by Europens of the New World, at least the round that started at the end of the Middle Ages, was inspired initially in large part by a search for gold. Ironically one could have given simple directions that any of the early explorers from the days of Columbus could have used to find the massive Cripple Creek gold field.
It would have gone something like this: Follow the Great Water northward many days, past its wide tributary, to the Muddy River. Follow it upstream westward for many days until you reach the Great Flat River. Follow it west across the arid plains. Take its southern fork to the base of the High Mountains. From the base of these mountains you will see the Great Peak. The gold you seek is behind this peak, about fifteen miles to the southwest, in rolling pastures at the top of a gulch that drains to the south.
I'm pretty sure LaSalle could have followed those directions.
On the other side, the highway drops down much quicker, in tighter curves, and in less than twenty minutes you are down in the valley of the Arkansas, near its headquarters.
There at Salida I intersected with the course of my 2009 trip, when I'd followed the Arkanasas upstream from near its mouth. I ate at the same Sonic Drive-In for fun, then took the road downstream this time in ghte tight canyon, all the way to Canyon City, where I needed to fill up with gas, at the first station I saw, right next to the prison.
Then with a new full tank I went back up the canyon a few miles, past the cutoff to Royal Gorge, and took State Highway 9 north, and then took the little couinty road cutoff through the hills to Cripple Creek.
I got into town in the late afternoon. The sky was menacing and looked of snow. Nasty clouds roiled above me.
I walked the main street for a half hour in the chill fresh air. There wasn't much to do there if you didn't want to go inside and gamble in any of the casinos. But the outside was a decient architectural tour of buildings from the 1890s, mostly, when the town was most active in the early days of its Gold Rush.
The gold field itself is amazing. It was one of the largest in North America. Ironically it was discovered during the first Colorado Gold Rush, that produced most of the early lore of the state during its territorial days. It came decades later, but turned out to be a much larger field. It sustained the coffers of the state for many decades around the turn of the Twentieth Century.
There is a still an active gold mine nearby. One passes it on the way to Victor, the small town just south of Cripple Creek, on a spur of the highway, going down the mountains along the gulch. It's evidently still a working class town, where some of the gold miners live. It had a forlorn ghostly feel. My kind of place.
The only road out of Victor is back through Cripple Creek. It gave me a chance to inspect the gold mining operation there a second time.
I've thought it funny how the first explorations by Europens of the New World, at least the round that started at the end of the Middle Ages, was inspired initially in large part by a search for gold. Ironically one could have given simple directions that any of the early explorers from the days of Columbus could have used to find the massive Cripple Creek gold field.
It would have gone something like this: Follow the Great Water northward many days, past its wide tributary, to the Muddy River. Follow it upstream westward for many days until you reach the Great Flat River. Follow it west across the arid plains. Take its southern fork to the base of the High Mountains. From the base of these mountains you will see the Great Peak. The gold you seek is behind this peak, about fifteen miles to the southwest, in rolling pastures at the top of a gulch that drains to the south.
I'm pretty sure LaSalle could have followed those directions.
Mining for Honey Gold in Crestone
The Super 8 in Alamosa turned out to be a gem. Not only did they have TCM--the first time I'd seen it since Flagstaff, but in the morning breakfast buffet included scrambled eggs and sausages, a rarity for the budget Wyndham flags like Super 8.
After a small tour of the Adams State campus, I drove north, not on the main U.S. highway that goes up the west side of the San Luis Valley, but on State Highway 17, which skirts along the Sangre de Cristos in all their snowy glory.
After an hour of excellent road, I cut eastward on a side road, up to the base of the range itself, to the little town of Crestone. Suddenly it was eight years before, and I was in Aspen, exploring the old mining towns as I liked to do on my day off. I love the history of mining, and the towns themselves, like Crestone, have evolved into their own personalities.
I took a foot tour of the town. At the teahosue I bought a jar of raw honey, since the one I'd bought in Flagstaff had nearly run out. I inspected the "world famous" free second-hand store. I coined the phrase "more hippies than Crestone" for future use.
On the wau out town I paid closer attention to the signs related to the Property Owners Association of the Baca Ranch, the old Mexican landgrant that later became an informal utopian compound. Where you find hippies, you generally find the archeology of attempts at great planed societies.
After a small tour of the Adams State campus, I drove north, not on the main U.S. highway that goes up the west side of the San Luis Valley, but on State Highway 17, which skirts along the Sangre de Cristos in all their snowy glory.
After an hour of excellent road, I cut eastward on a side road, up to the base of the range itself, to the little town of Crestone. Suddenly it was eight years before, and I was in Aspen, exploring the old mining towns as I liked to do on my day off. I love the history of mining, and the towns themselves, like Crestone, have evolved into their own personalities.
I took a foot tour of the town. At the teahosue I bought a jar of raw honey, since the one I'd bought in Flagstaff had nearly run out. I inspected the "world famous" free second-hand store. I coined the phrase "more hippies than Crestone" for future use.
On the wau out town I paid closer attention to the signs related to the Property Owners Association of the Baca Ranch, the old Mexican landgrant that later became an informal utopian compound. Where you find hippies, you generally find the archeology of attempts at great planed societies.
Remembering My Alamosa Girl
After three days in Taos, and with a new battery in the Bimmer, I took the road again, heading north along the gorgeous wide valley of the Rio Grande. After a couple hours I approached the Colorado border, and when I finally saw the sign I felt a welling up of emotion to be back after so many months on the road.
On the horizon in multiple directions were snow-capped peaks. It brings to mind how unique Colorado is. Other states have mountains, but no place seems to have such a surplus of towering ranges like Colorado does.
I followed the highway north to the little town of San Luis, which I learned is the oldest town in Colorado, having been founded in 1851 by settlers coming up from New Mexico. How ignorant I was not to know this fact. On the hill above the town was a beautiful church. I parked at the foot of the hill and inspected the sign. A path led up the mesa to the church, passed a series of Stations of the Cross. It was a nice hike for an afternoon, being that it was Holy Week.
After this, I headed westward, across rolling green hills that felt like being in heaven, crossing the Rio Grande again, and rolling into the little town of Manassa, where a statue of Jack Dempsey, the most famous town native, sits along the main street. Then for the last leg of the day I drove northward on the main highway into Alamosa, where I had reservations at the Super 8.
It was the first time I'd ever been in Alamosa in my life. In fact it was only the second time in my life I'd ever been in the San Luis Valley as a whole. But as I came into town, and drove past the campus of Adams State University, my thoughts were carried back to an old friend of mine, was a native of Alamosa.
C.V.--She was almost literally the "girl next door. " Her father was an art professor at CSU. Their house was only a hundred yards from ours.
I met her in high school, when were seventeen. I can still picture her in her letter jacket holding her clarinet. She was my date for the junior prom. Among my possessions in storage is a photograph of the two of us, taken during the dance. I'm a rented burgundy tux, and she in a white dress with red flowers on it, and wearing the corsage I had just bought for her.
I was so sweet on her, and so full of desire for her. We had a turbulent time together, as people do at that age. Then she went away at the end of high school, when her family moved to Idaho.
But that wasn't the last chapter of our story. We met up again in Austin when I was in graduate school. Then a couple years ago, after my divorce, she helped me through a rough emotional patch.
I can't say anything more about her without betraying a trust, so I'll leave it at that. Suffice it to say we drifted apart again, and I don't know where she is anymore. Probably our story together is over, but if our paths ever cross again by chance, it wouldn't be unwelcome on my part. For all I know, she is reading this blog of mine.
If you're out there, my dear, your Dark Star wants you to know that he found his way again, just like you said he would.
P.S. Wanted to warn you that the reunion committee is looking for you.
On the horizon in multiple directions were snow-capped peaks. It brings to mind how unique Colorado is. Other states have mountains, but no place seems to have such a surplus of towering ranges like Colorado does.
I followed the highway north to the little town of San Luis, which I learned is the oldest town in Colorado, having been founded in 1851 by settlers coming up from New Mexico. How ignorant I was not to know this fact. On the hill above the town was a beautiful church. I parked at the foot of the hill and inspected the sign. A path led up the mesa to the church, passed a series of Stations of the Cross. It was a nice hike for an afternoon, being that it was Holy Week.
After this, I headed westward, across rolling green hills that felt like being in heaven, crossing the Rio Grande again, and rolling into the little town of Manassa, where a statue of Jack Dempsey, the most famous town native, sits along the main street. Then for the last leg of the day I drove northward on the main highway into Alamosa, where I had reservations at the Super 8.
It was the first time I'd ever been in Alamosa in my life. In fact it was only the second time in my life I'd ever been in the San Luis Valley as a whole. But as I came into town, and drove past the campus of Adams State University, my thoughts were carried back to an old friend of mine, was a native of Alamosa.
C.V.--She was almost literally the "girl next door. " Her father was an art professor at CSU. Their house was only a hundred yards from ours.
I met her in high school, when were seventeen. I can still picture her in her letter jacket holding her clarinet. She was my date for the junior prom. Among my possessions in storage is a photograph of the two of us, taken during the dance. I'm a rented burgundy tux, and she in a white dress with red flowers on it, and wearing the corsage I had just bought for her.
I was so sweet on her, and so full of desire for her. We had a turbulent time together, as people do at that age. Then she went away at the end of high school, when her family moved to Idaho.
But that wasn't the last chapter of our story. We met up again in Austin when I was in graduate school. Then a couple years ago, after my divorce, she helped me through a rough emotional patch.
I can't say anything more about her without betraying a trust, so I'll leave it at that. Suffice it to say we drifted apart again, and I don't know where she is anymore. Probably our story together is over, but if our paths ever cross again by chance, it wouldn't be unwelcome on my part. For all I know, she is reading this blog of mine.
If you're out there, my dear, your Dark Star wants you to know that he found his way again, just like you said he would.
P.S. Wanted to warn you that the reunion committee is looking for you.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The Other Side of Taos
I wound up spending three nights at the Super 8 in Taos. It was a nice cheap motel, and thankfully had decent wi-fi, breaking the losing streak I'd been on.
The battery situation on the Bimmer turned out to be more complicated than I thought. I'd bought the battery new in Santa Barabra at an AutoZone only three months before, and I figured it would regenerate enough to start it, if I left it sitting for a entire day. But I tried to start it again, it was just as dead as before. After another night, I realized it needed some additional help.
I have AAA, but I'd used it a couple times recently and didn't want to get on any informal "bad lists" of customers who use it too much. Besides, there was an O'Reilly auto parts store right across the highway. So I got out my wrenches and took out the battery, then toted it across traffic to O'Reilly. They told me they could charge it up without problem.
But when I came back that afternoon, they told me the battery was completely dead. It wouldn't take a charge. Somehow my new battery was a dud. It was still under warranty, but the nearest AutoZone was a couple miles away downtown.
That gave an excuse to use the Taos bus system again. Thankfully the nearest stop was only a couple hundred feet from my motel. I've been in situations like this enough to anticipate that toting a battery onto a bus may or may not be kosher. So I wrapped it in paper bag and lugged it down to the stop and waited a couple minutes until the bus came.
The guys at AutoZone replaced it without any issues. I wrapped the new one in the same paper bag and rode the bus back to my hotel. When I put it in the Bimmer, it started right up and I was good to go.
The good side of all this was that I got plenty of work out walking around Taos and using the bus system for a couple days. It was refreshing to get to see the place from a pedestrian point-of-view.
For the couple days I was there, I'd been going to a coffee shop about half a mile away that I'd found online, and that I'd somehow walked past on the first day. It seemed like the best choice of the ones online. There was another one nearby called "Wired: A cyber cafe," but from the name it didn't sound appealing.
The place was a small and commodious place with good wi-fi. It was easy to work there. Yet I kept feeling like I was missing out on the "real Taos" that I'd heard so many talk about. Supposedly it was a big counter culture epicenter, but I didn't really see much evidence of that.
But things changed on the last day I was in town. I finally managed to get a hold of a friend of mine who lives there, a guy named Jim who is a sculptor. Actually he is more of an acquaintance. I met him once in Silver Spring, Maryland a couple years back when he was visiting and working with my good friend Howard, who is also a sculptor. At the time, Jim invited me to Taos rather enthusiastically, and it had been on my list to visit him ever since then.
But it turns out my phone doesn't work in Taos, so I put off contacting him. Also from his response to my message on Facebook I wasn't sure if he even remembered who I was.
But when I was finally able to talk to him on the phone, he readily agreed to meet up. The place he suggested to meet surprised me. "I like to go to a place called Wired," he said. "Oh yeah," I said. "I saw it online."
That afternoon, with the Bimmer now in running condition, I drove down the side street to the address of Wired. When I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately realized that I'd made a huge mistake about my perceptions of the place. From the name, I expected something sterile, with a row of desktops in cubicles.
But it wasn't that kind of place at all. It looked more like one of the sprawling camps from Burning Man. It was built in a haphazard funky way, from several buildings linked together by a portico. It had fountains and zen gardens inside, and wooden board floors.
This is the real Taos, I realized immediately. I should have been here the entire time.
Jim showed up a couple minutes later. We barely recognized each other, and I had to ask if it was him. We sat together drinking tea for a couple hours while we discussed his art, and our mutual friend Howard, whom we knew would be pleased that we finally met up with each other. Jim clued me into some other "real Taos" places to check out before I left town as well.
The next morning before leaving town I made sure to go to Wired, instead of my other coffee shop. I wanted to be as "Taos" as possible during my time there. If you want the experience, I suggest Wired as well. It's where the locals go to hang out.
The battery situation on the Bimmer turned out to be more complicated than I thought. I'd bought the battery new in Santa Barabra at an AutoZone only three months before, and I figured it would regenerate enough to start it, if I left it sitting for a entire day. But I tried to start it again, it was just as dead as before. After another night, I realized it needed some additional help.
I have AAA, but I'd used it a couple times recently and didn't want to get on any informal "bad lists" of customers who use it too much. Besides, there was an O'Reilly auto parts store right across the highway. So I got out my wrenches and took out the battery, then toted it across traffic to O'Reilly. They told me they could charge it up without problem.
But when I came back that afternoon, they told me the battery was completely dead. It wouldn't take a charge. Somehow my new battery was a dud. It was still under warranty, but the nearest AutoZone was a couple miles away downtown.
That gave an excuse to use the Taos bus system again. Thankfully the nearest stop was only a couple hundred feet from my motel. I've been in situations like this enough to anticipate that toting a battery onto a bus may or may not be kosher. So I wrapped it in paper bag and lugged it down to the stop and waited a couple minutes until the bus came.
The guys at AutoZone replaced it without any issues. I wrapped the new one in the same paper bag and rode the bus back to my hotel. When I put it in the Bimmer, it started right up and I was good to go.
The good side of all this was that I got plenty of work out walking around Taos and using the bus system for a couple days. It was refreshing to get to see the place from a pedestrian point-of-view.
For the couple days I was there, I'd been going to a coffee shop about half a mile away that I'd found online, and that I'd somehow walked past on the first day. It seemed like the best choice of the ones online. There was another one nearby called "Wired: A cyber cafe," but from the name it didn't sound appealing.
The place was a small and commodious place with good wi-fi. It was easy to work there. Yet I kept feeling like I was missing out on the "real Taos" that I'd heard so many talk about. Supposedly it was a big counter culture epicenter, but I didn't really see much evidence of that.
But things changed on the last day I was in town. I finally managed to get a hold of a friend of mine who lives there, a guy named Jim who is a sculptor. Actually he is more of an acquaintance. I met him once in Silver Spring, Maryland a couple years back when he was visiting and working with my good friend Howard, who is also a sculptor. At the time, Jim invited me to Taos rather enthusiastically, and it had been on my list to visit him ever since then.
But it turns out my phone doesn't work in Taos, so I put off contacting him. Also from his response to my message on Facebook I wasn't sure if he even remembered who I was.
But when I was finally able to talk to him on the phone, he readily agreed to meet up. The place he suggested to meet surprised me. "I like to go to a place called Wired," he said. "Oh yeah," I said. "I saw it online."
That afternoon, with the Bimmer now in running condition, I drove down the side street to the address of Wired. When I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately realized that I'd made a huge mistake about my perceptions of the place. From the name, I expected something sterile, with a row of desktops in cubicles.
But it wasn't that kind of place at all. It looked more like one of the sprawling camps from Burning Man. It was built in a haphazard funky way, from several buildings linked together by a portico. It had fountains and zen gardens inside, and wooden board floors.
This is the real Taos, I realized immediately. I should have been here the entire time.
Jim showed up a couple minutes later. We barely recognized each other, and I had to ask if it was him. We sat together drinking tea for a couple hours while we discussed his art, and our mutual friend Howard, whom we knew would be pleased that we finally met up with each other. Jim clued me into some other "real Taos" places to check out before I left town as well.
The next morning before leaving town I made sure to go to Wired, instead of my other coffee shop. I wanted to be as "Taos" as possible during my time there. If you want the experience, I suggest Wired as well. It's where the locals go to hang out.
Monday, April 8, 2013
How I Stumbled into the Taos Pueblo
After a night in Los Alamos, I had a rather busy Sunday for my day off. I drove up through the laboratory grounds to the remnants of the Valles Caldera nearby. It is the remnants of what once was a giant volcanic mountain that exploded a couple million years ago. The mesa of Los Alamos is actually on the ancient flanks of this explosion (ironic considering the purpose of Los Alamos). I parked and marveled at the size, only later finding out that I was seeing only the a small quadrant of the entire crater.
View Larger Map Around noon I descended down the flanks to Bandelier National Monument, my first visit there. I'd bought National Geographic Trails map over a year ago, and I was pleased to finally get to use it for a couple hours of hiking on the cliffs, and inspecting the picturesque Anasazi ruins.
In the late afternoon I headed up the Rio Grande Valley in the Bimmer. I didn't realize how scenic it was, how the river cuts a snaking gorge amidst a pristine wide valley visible from the highway. It felt a bit like being in heaven.
View Larger Map When I got to Taos I checked into the Super 8, where I had reservations. I'd passed through Taos on a road trip, but had never stopped, so I was looking forward to exploring the town for a few days.
In the morning, I went out to my car and discovered I'd left my lights on overnight. The battery was dead. I decided it was an excuse to leave the Bimmer in the parking lot and explore the town by foot.
I walked all the way downtown looking for a coffee shop to put int some work. It was harder than I thought to find one, and I wound working at a tiny little place inside the swanky La Fonda Hotel in the historic plaza. There were no power outlets in the place, so I could only work as long as my battery held out.
Afterwards I decided to take public transportation back to my hotel, but I wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes. So instead I headed the other direction on foot. I kept going a couple miles out into the country, all the way up the road to the Taos Pueblo, the historic settlement on the Indian reservation. I knew there was a bus stop there, so I figured on riding it all the way back.
When I got there, I found out that technically I wasn't supposed to walk on that road at all. "Too late," I told the young Indian guy in the orange vest directing traffic. He told me I'd have to take the bus back. "Good, that's what I wanted to do anyway," I told him. It was one of the awkward moments where a person in authority wanted me to feel bad and inconvenienced somehow, yet I refused to feel that way, and it clearly irked him a little that I was feeling the way he wanted me to feel.
Until I got there, I didn't realize what a big deal the Taos Pueblo is. It is one of the few remaining places where people still live in the classic adobe structures with ladders (which visitors are prohibited from climbing, as advised in large signs at the entrance). I had to pay ten bucks admission. The woman at the window asked if I had any cameras. It cost six bucks for a camera permit. I didn't want to use my cellphone camera. She told me to leave it my car. I decided not to tell I didn't bring a car.
I wandered around the buildings for about a half hour, and went inside one of the gift shops in the old buildings. The woman there, whose name was Flower Basket, chatted me up a while, and I wound up buying one of her "peace doves" as a gift for my parents, since my mother likes southwestern stuff like that.
She told me that the Pueblo had actually been closed for visitors for six weeks for tribal ceremonies. It had opened up only that very day. I had actually been one of the very first visitors in over two months. This kind of random timing seems to happen to me a lot when I travel in the way I do. I rarely get surprised by it anymore.
View Larger Map Around noon I descended down the flanks to Bandelier National Monument, my first visit there. I'd bought National Geographic Trails map over a year ago, and I was pleased to finally get to use it for a couple hours of hiking on the cliffs, and inspecting the picturesque Anasazi ruins.
In the late afternoon I headed up the Rio Grande Valley in the Bimmer. I didn't realize how scenic it was, how the river cuts a snaking gorge amidst a pristine wide valley visible from the highway. It felt a bit like being in heaven.
View Larger Map When I got to Taos I checked into the Super 8, where I had reservations. I'd passed through Taos on a road trip, but had never stopped, so I was looking forward to exploring the town for a few days.
In the morning, I went out to my car and discovered I'd left my lights on overnight. The battery was dead. I decided it was an excuse to leave the Bimmer in the parking lot and explore the town by foot.
I walked all the way downtown looking for a coffee shop to put int some work. It was harder than I thought to find one, and I wound working at a tiny little place inside the swanky La Fonda Hotel in the historic plaza. There were no power outlets in the place, so I could only work as long as my battery held out.
Afterwards I decided to take public transportation back to my hotel, but I wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes. So instead I headed the other direction on foot. I kept going a couple miles out into the country, all the way up the road to the Taos Pueblo, the historic settlement on the Indian reservation. I knew there was a bus stop there, so I figured on riding it all the way back.
When I got there, I found out that technically I wasn't supposed to walk on that road at all. "Too late," I told the young Indian guy in the orange vest directing traffic. He told me I'd have to take the bus back. "Good, that's what I wanted to do anyway," I told him. It was one of the awkward moments where a person in authority wanted me to feel bad and inconvenienced somehow, yet I refused to feel that way, and it clearly irked him a little that I was feeling the way he wanted me to feel.
Until I got there, I didn't realize what a big deal the Taos Pueblo is. It is one of the few remaining places where people still live in the classic adobe structures with ladders (which visitors are prohibited from climbing, as advised in large signs at the entrance). I had to pay ten bucks admission. The woman at the window asked if I had any cameras. It cost six bucks for a camera permit. I didn't want to use my cellphone camera. She told me to leave it my car. I decided not to tell I didn't bring a car.
I wandered around the buildings for about a half hour, and went inside one of the gift shops in the old buildings. The woman there, whose name was Flower Basket, chatted me up a while, and I wound up buying one of her "peace doves" as a gift for my parents, since my mother likes southwestern stuff like that.
She told me that the Pueblo had actually been closed for visitors for six weeks for tribal ceremonies. It had opened up only that very day. I had actually been one of the very first visitors in over two months. This kind of random timing seems to happen to me a lot when I travel in the way I do. I rarely get surprised by it anymore.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Fr Vf Vf c Fr
I just saw this post. It is result of my niece using my smart phone. I decided to leave it up just for fun.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
My Alternate Self Visits Los Alamos
After the ugly incident in the auto parts store, I was more than eager to hit the road and put Santa Fe behind me. I headed north on a beautiful day, up the wide highway northward in the Rio Grande Valley, detouring past a couple of the Indian pueblos until I got to the cut-off westward towards Los Alamos.
About a half later I was up on top of the mesa, visiting the famous "Atomic City" for the first time in my life. For a physicist like me, it was somewhat of a pilgrimage to go there. I'd read the history of the Manhattan Project in college and was familiar with most of the famous scientists who worked on the project. I spent the first couple hours at the nice museum in the middle of town, then strolled around some of the historic buildings nearby, the ones that had been part of the original boy's camp in the 1930s, and had been converted to the living quarters and the mess hall for the scientists during the war.
Of course the lab is still in operation, bigger and more extensive than ever. Back in Austin, a visit to Los Alamos was a common junket for many of the scientists and graduate students in the physics department.
It was easy for me to imagine some alternate universe where I wound up working there. In another time, if I'd been born a little bit earlier, I might have pursued something like that quite happily. But by the time I was in graduate school, I'd lost my desire to that kind of physics. I'd already worked in a federal government lab outside Chicago and had no idea to do any more of that kind of work. I knew it wasn't for me.
Besides it would have cut into my nomadic experiences. You can't have it all, as they say.
View Larger Map
About a half later I was up on top of the mesa, visiting the famous "Atomic City" for the first time in my life. For a physicist like me, it was somewhat of a pilgrimage to go there. I'd read the history of the Manhattan Project in college and was familiar with most of the famous scientists who worked on the project. I spent the first couple hours at the nice museum in the middle of town, then strolled around some of the historic buildings nearby, the ones that had been part of the original boy's camp in the 1930s, and had been converted to the living quarters and the mess hall for the scientists during the war.
Of course the lab is still in operation, bigger and more extensive than ever. Back in Austin, a visit to Los Alamos was a common junket for many of the scientists and graduate students in the physics department.
It was easy for me to imagine some alternate universe where I wound up working there. In another time, if I'd been born a little bit earlier, I might have pursued something like that quite happily. But by the time I was in graduate school, I'd lost my desire to that kind of physics. I'd already worked in a federal government lab outside Chicago and had no idea to do any more of that kind of work. I knew it wasn't for me.
Besides it would have cut into my nomadic experiences. You can't have it all, as they say.
View Larger Map
A Stupid Gringo Comes To Santa Fe
Three days in Santa Fe was enough to feel like I'd visited the place. The wi-fi at the America's Best Value Inn was beyond terrible---four routers, none of which worked reliably. Fortunately there were a couple Starbucks nearby so working wasn't a big deal. But it I was bored when in my room.
I had a chance to explore the historic downtown a couple times and reminisce about the last time I was through there, twenty-five years ago on a cross-country road trip with my friend Charles. I tried to remember the exact restaurant that his aunt and uncle took us to. I remember being impressed by the waiter, who refused to let me hand him my plate. "My day on, your day off," he said. It obviously made an impression on me.
I went into the cathedral a couple times--the one Willa Cather wrote about in Death Comes for the Archbishop. I'd read that novel back in high school because my mother is from Nebraska and loved Willa Cather.
I also managed to get verbally assaulted by a hideous woman in an auto parts store while buying transmission fluid. When I first walked in, a male customer was complaining about a part. He was upset. The woman came in later with a friend and told him to "chill out and take it easy." He didn't respond to that well. She proceeded to start insulting all the other men in the store. She called me a "gringo pendejo" (stupid gringo). That was a trap, since I was the only non-Hispanic person in the store.
I replied, in my most sarcastic tone, "Oooh. Ethnic slurs---classy!"
That only enraged her and she proceeded with all manner sexual insults, the kind that women hurl at men to demean and humiliate them. First off, I evidently just needed to "get laid." Then she escalated by saying all manner of disgusting things about "my wife," none of which propriety allows me to repeat here.
Truth be told, I could have avoided the whole thing, but I chose to confront her. I knew it was pointless, all in all, but I wantd to test myself. In the past I would have let the emotion get to me. But this time I kept my cool composure, with an inner calmness. But afterwards I felt icky. I went back to the cathedral again to meditate, and to repent of my wretched pride.
I had a chance to explore the historic downtown a couple times and reminisce about the last time I was through there, twenty-five years ago on a cross-country road trip with my friend Charles. I tried to remember the exact restaurant that his aunt and uncle took us to. I remember being impressed by the waiter, who refused to let me hand him my plate. "My day on, your day off," he said. It obviously made an impression on me.
I went into the cathedral a couple times--the one Willa Cather wrote about in Death Comes for the Archbishop. I'd read that novel back in high school because my mother is from Nebraska and loved Willa Cather.
I also managed to get verbally assaulted by a hideous woman in an auto parts store while buying transmission fluid. When I first walked in, a male customer was complaining about a part. He was upset. The woman came in later with a friend and told him to "chill out and take it easy." He didn't respond to that well. She proceeded to start insulting all the other men in the store. She called me a "gringo pendejo" (stupid gringo). That was a trap, since I was the only non-Hispanic person in the store.
I replied, in my most sarcastic tone, "Oooh. Ethnic slurs---classy!"
That only enraged her and she proceeded with all manner sexual insults, the kind that women hurl at men to demean and humiliate them. First off, I evidently just needed to "get laid." Then she escalated by saying all manner of disgusting things about "my wife," none of which propriety allows me to repeat here.
Truth be told, I could have avoided the whole thing, but I chose to confront her. I knew it was pointless, all in all, but I wantd to test myself. In the past I would have let the emotion get to me. But this time I kept my cool composure, with an inner calmness. But afterwards I felt icky. I went back to the cathedral again to meditate, and to repent of my wretched pride.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
A Day of Madness and Heartbreak in New Mexico
After three nights at the Candlewood I checked out in mid-morning and prepared to leave Albuquerque. Albuquerque is a college town---the home of the University of New Mexico, and I wanted to explore the campus a little, so I scheduled some just to wander around in leisure.
It's one of the pleasures I afford myself on my travels, giving myself tours of university campuses. Each one tends to be distinct and interesting, as are the surrounding commercial areas that cater to students. UNM has one of the more interesting campuses. The buildings had a common southwestern theme that I hadn't seen anywhere else.
As it happens, it was the opening day of the NCAA College Basketball tournament. I don't follow college basketball much, but the hype of "March Madness" is hard to escape in the media. This year UNM had a very good season. They had won the Mountain West and were highly seeded in the bracket. There was much anticipation in the Albuquerque media about the chances for the team this year. The rival team New Mexico State was also in the tournament, although with a lower seed.
It was around noon when I walked through the Student Union. The common area on the ground floor was filled with chairs in front of a big screen television that was turned on. A dozen students were sitting in the chairs already watching a pre-game telecast for the tournament. Nearby were large signs cheering on the team, and a smaller one saying that New Mexico State would be playing at 1:00 PM, and that UNM would be playing at 7:00 PM. I could imagine that the chairs would be quite full by then. Their opponent for the first game was Harvard, a low seed. The game was considered to be a shoo-in for New Mexico by most in the media.
After a brief and pleasant campus tour I drove out of town, heading Eastward on Central Avenue, which is old Route 66. If there is one stretch along that old highway that preserves the feel of old Roadside America, it is Central Avenue on the east side of Albuquerque. For several miles, the road was lined with old but still functioning motels with interesting unique signs. It felt like driving through a museum.
My destination for the day was Santa Fe. The direct route was on the Interstate northward, but I wanted to take the backroads. I skirted the east side of the Sandia Mountains, along what is known as the "Turquoise Trail," and took a side road detour about a dozen miles into the National Forest to the top of Sandia Peak.
The parking lot at the top was cold and empty, except for one other car---a young Hispanic or Indian couple with an infant. It felt like winter again. The gift shop was still closed for the winter. I stood for several minutes in the wind looking down westward over the city and to the distant mountains. When I went to my car, I saw the young couple standing outside their vehicle. The woman was holding the bundled infant.
The man asked me if I had a device for unlocking a car. It turns out they had locked their keys inside. It was a heartbreaking moment. I offered the use of my cell phone, but he had one already. There was little I could do for them.
I told them that on the way down the mountain I would look for a ranger, who might be able to help them. About halfway down, I passed a white truck with the NFS emblem on the side heading up the mountain, but it was moving too quickly for me to flag down. I hoped that it was heading to the top.
In the late afternoon I rolled into the south edge of Santa Fe and checked into the America's Best Value Inn, where I'd made reservations. The front desk seemed to be run by slacker twenty-somethings who were half clueless about what they were doing.
The room itself turned out to be decent, but unfortunately the wi-fi was abysmal. By abysmal, I mean really bad to the point of being unusable. The motel had four different routers, yet it is nearly impossible to connect to any of them. During the first evening I was able to get online for about twenty minutes total. This a real deal-breaker for me. It makes it impossible for me to do my job.
I was reduced to flipping through the channels on television. The tournament was in full swing, with games on four different channels. NMSU had already lost their game and was out of the tournament. The UNM game against Harvard was just starting.
I watched much of the game. UNM fell behind early and trailed throughout the first half. At half time the analysts were puzzled as to why they couldn't put lowly Harvard down. Surely they would surge in the second half.
But they didn't. Harvard kept the lead throughout the entire game. In the first big shock of the tournament, UNM was out.
I imagined the scene back at the Student Union. It was supposed to be their year. Instead it was over after one game. Such is life when you stake your happiness on sports teams over which you have no control. It's forgivable for college students---part of the experience.
It's one of the pleasures I afford myself on my travels, giving myself tours of university campuses. Each one tends to be distinct and interesting, as are the surrounding commercial areas that cater to students. UNM has one of the more interesting campuses. The buildings had a common southwestern theme that I hadn't seen anywhere else.
As it happens, it was the opening day of the NCAA College Basketball tournament. I don't follow college basketball much, but the hype of "March Madness" is hard to escape in the media. This year UNM had a very good season. They had won the Mountain West and were highly seeded in the bracket. There was much anticipation in the Albuquerque media about the chances for the team this year. The rival team New Mexico State was also in the tournament, although with a lower seed.
It was around noon when I walked through the Student Union. The common area on the ground floor was filled with chairs in front of a big screen television that was turned on. A dozen students were sitting in the chairs already watching a pre-game telecast for the tournament. Nearby were large signs cheering on the team, and a smaller one saying that New Mexico State would be playing at 1:00 PM, and that UNM would be playing at 7:00 PM. I could imagine that the chairs would be quite full by then. Their opponent for the first game was Harvard, a low seed. The game was considered to be a shoo-in for New Mexico by most in the media.
After a brief and pleasant campus tour I drove out of town, heading Eastward on Central Avenue, which is old Route 66. If there is one stretch along that old highway that preserves the feel of old Roadside America, it is Central Avenue on the east side of Albuquerque. For several miles, the road was lined with old but still functioning motels with interesting unique signs. It felt like driving through a museum.
My destination for the day was Santa Fe. The direct route was on the Interstate northward, but I wanted to take the backroads. I skirted the east side of the Sandia Mountains, along what is known as the "Turquoise Trail," and took a side road detour about a dozen miles into the National Forest to the top of Sandia Peak.
The parking lot at the top was cold and empty, except for one other car---a young Hispanic or Indian couple with an infant. It felt like winter again. The gift shop was still closed for the winter. I stood for several minutes in the wind looking down westward over the city and to the distant mountains. When I went to my car, I saw the young couple standing outside their vehicle. The woman was holding the bundled infant.
The man asked me if I had a device for unlocking a car. It turns out they had locked their keys inside. It was a heartbreaking moment. I offered the use of my cell phone, but he had one already. There was little I could do for them.
I told them that on the way down the mountain I would look for a ranger, who might be able to help them. About halfway down, I passed a white truck with the NFS emblem on the side heading up the mountain, but it was moving too quickly for me to flag down. I hoped that it was heading to the top.
In the late afternoon I rolled into the south edge of Santa Fe and checked into the America's Best Value Inn, where I'd made reservations. The front desk seemed to be run by slacker twenty-somethings who were half clueless about what they were doing.
The room itself turned out to be decent, but unfortunately the wi-fi was abysmal. By abysmal, I mean really bad to the point of being unusable. The motel had four different routers, yet it is nearly impossible to connect to any of them. During the first evening I was able to get online for about twenty minutes total. This a real deal-breaker for me. It makes it impossible for me to do my job.
I was reduced to flipping through the channels on television. The tournament was in full swing, with games on four different channels. NMSU had already lost their game and was out of the tournament. The UNM game against Harvard was just starting.
I watched much of the game. UNM fell behind early and trailed throughout the first half. At half time the analysts were puzzled as to why they couldn't put lowly Harvard down. Surely they would surge in the second half.
But they didn't. Harvard kept the lead throughout the entire game. In the first big shock of the tournament, UNM was out.
I imagined the scene back at the Student Union. It was supposed to be their year. Instead it was over after one game. Such is life when you stake your happiness on sports teams over which you have no control. It's forgivable for college students---part of the experience.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
My Encounter with an Alburquerque Paramedic
As I mentioned a couple posts ago, one of the purposes of my visit to Albuquerque was to look up my long-lost friend Eric, whom I hadn't seen in many years.
I'd been Facebook friends with him for a couple years, but he is one of those saner souls who rarely posts or interacts with the site. When I was still in Arizona, I sent him a message through the Facebook interface, telling him when I'd be in town and that I hoped to see him, but I wasn't sure how long it would take before he responded.
I got a message back from him about an hour after I checked into the Candlewood Suites on Monday afternoon. He told me that Tuesday night would work for him, since he had to work the other nights I was going to be in town. He left his phone number, and I called him back immediately, leaving an enthusiastic message about getting together.
It turns out he was just heading off to work, so I didn't hear back from him again until the next day. I saw the New Mexico area code in the caller id and immediately answered. I recognized his familiar jovial voice immediately. It was the same old Eric.
He suggested we meet that evening at a Mexican restaurant he knew called Sadie's. He gave me detailed directions, although I didn't really need them.
After spending a productive day working at a nearby Starbucks, I drove up Fourth Street and found the place. I could tell by the size of the parking lot that it was popular, and it turned out to be a local institution of sorts, run by the same family for years.
I sat in the waiting area inside, and the hour of our meeting came and went. I kept scrutinizing everyone who came in. It had been a long time. Would I recognize him?
Finally I saw the person I was sure was Eric. He had put on a few pounds since the old days, so I wasn't one hundred sure. I called out his name and he turned and greeted me with great enthusiasm.
It was a splendid reunion. We spent the meal catching up on our lives---I didn't know that he had been married and divorced. We got into heated but friendly debates about politics and social issues, just like the old days, sometimes agreeing and sometimes disagreeing. Personally I'm completely comfortable being friends with anyone, even if I disagree with them on various issues. People see the world differently, all of us imperfectly and partially, and we must defend our views and positions and we see fit. I try to learn something form everyone I cross paths with.
At one point, during a discussion about the history of the banking system, after each of us had drunk about three beers, the waiter overheard us and joined in the discussion. I was somewhat taken aback at first, but took it in stride. I got the impression that he has to overhear a lot of inane conversations, and found ours to be a refreshing change of pace.
We talked about guns quite a bit, as he has quite a collection, although he claimed not to be a big "Second Amendment Guy." He was interested in the weapons training course I had taken in Nevada, as he had seen my Facebook photos about it. It turns out he was a fan of a rival weapons training facility in Texas. He called the founder of Front Sight a "con man" who overcharged for his courses. I told him I was pleased and that I had only paid a hundred bucks for a four-day course. That seemed to catch is attention.
Towards the end of the evening I finally got around to asking him about his job. For the eighteen years, he has been a paramedic for various agencies in central New Mexico. He recently changed from working from Albuquerque Ambulance to having on-site paramedic position in a local hospital.
I was very curious about the nature of his work, and was hungry for interesting anecdotes. He told me that by far the majority of the ambulance calls he had been on were associated with alcohol. Without irony, with a beer in his hand, he told me that it made him think that Prohibition had perhaps been a good idea after all (but he claimed to support marijuana legalization without reservation).
It was an awesome evening, and over way too soon. He excused himself by saying he had to get some sleep for work tomorrow. Despite my interesting in his work, I didn't envy him at all.
We parted with a warm embrace, and photo taken by the restaurant host. "Next time, we'll go out shooting together," he said.
"It would be an honor," I told him.
I'd been Facebook friends with him for a couple years, but he is one of those saner souls who rarely posts or interacts with the site. When I was still in Arizona, I sent him a message through the Facebook interface, telling him when I'd be in town and that I hoped to see him, but I wasn't sure how long it would take before he responded.
I got a message back from him about an hour after I checked into the Candlewood Suites on Monday afternoon. He told me that Tuesday night would work for him, since he had to work the other nights I was going to be in town. He left his phone number, and I called him back immediately, leaving an enthusiastic message about getting together.
It turns out he was just heading off to work, so I didn't hear back from him again until the next day. I saw the New Mexico area code in the caller id and immediately answered. I recognized his familiar jovial voice immediately. It was the same old Eric.
He suggested we meet that evening at a Mexican restaurant he knew called Sadie's. He gave me detailed directions, although I didn't really need them.
After spending a productive day working at a nearby Starbucks, I drove up Fourth Street and found the place. I could tell by the size of the parking lot that it was popular, and it turned out to be a local institution of sorts, run by the same family for years.
I sat in the waiting area inside, and the hour of our meeting came and went. I kept scrutinizing everyone who came in. It had been a long time. Would I recognize him?
Finally I saw the person I was sure was Eric. He had put on a few pounds since the old days, so I wasn't one hundred sure. I called out his name and he turned and greeted me with great enthusiasm.
It was a splendid reunion. We spent the meal catching up on our lives---I didn't know that he had been married and divorced. We got into heated but friendly debates about politics and social issues, just like the old days, sometimes agreeing and sometimes disagreeing. Personally I'm completely comfortable being friends with anyone, even if I disagree with them on various issues. People see the world differently, all of us imperfectly and partially, and we must defend our views and positions and we see fit. I try to learn something form everyone I cross paths with.
At one point, during a discussion about the history of the banking system, after each of us had drunk about three beers, the waiter overheard us and joined in the discussion. I was somewhat taken aback at first, but took it in stride. I got the impression that he has to overhear a lot of inane conversations, and found ours to be a refreshing change of pace.
We talked about guns quite a bit, as he has quite a collection, although he claimed not to be a big "Second Amendment Guy." He was interested in the weapons training course I had taken in Nevada, as he had seen my Facebook photos about it. It turns out he was a fan of a rival weapons training facility in Texas. He called the founder of Front Sight a "con man" who overcharged for his courses. I told him I was pleased and that I had only paid a hundred bucks for a four-day course. That seemed to catch is attention.
Towards the end of the evening I finally got around to asking him about his job. For the eighteen years, he has been a paramedic for various agencies in central New Mexico. He recently changed from working from Albuquerque Ambulance to having on-site paramedic position in a local hospital.
I was very curious about the nature of his work, and was hungry for interesting anecdotes. He told me that by far the majority of the ambulance calls he had been on were associated with alcohol. Without irony, with a beer in his hand, he told me that it made him think that Prohibition had perhaps been a good idea after all (but he claimed to support marijuana legalization without reservation).
It was an awesome evening, and over way too soon. He excused himself by saying he had to get some sleep for work tomorrow. Despite my interesting in his work, I didn't envy him at all.
We parted with a warm embrace, and photo taken by the restaurant host. "Next time, we'll go out shooting together," he said.
"It would be an honor," I told him.
Monday, March 25, 2013
All Hail the Man Behind the Curtain
The Candlewood Suites in Albuquerque turned out to be an interesting experience. It was my first time on my travels staying at an InterContinental Hotels Group (IHG). Their most well-known flag is Holiday Inn. I'd joined their frequent stay club months ago and finally had a chance to accumulate some points.
Upon check-in, the pleasant young woman at the reception asked me if I'd ever stayed at a Candlewood Suites before. The question caught me off guard. I said no. She explained the rules, about reduced housekeeping. They don't come in your room at all, except for once a week. They leave you totally alone. If I needed new towels or linens before then, I'd need to bring the old ones down to the desk and ask for new ones.
That wasn't a big deal, of course. I was going to be there three nights. I was perfectly capable of making my own bed, and conserving my towel usage until then.
Yet there was something about it that made me feel a bit wistful. One of the reasons I enjoy my lifestyle, over say, having an apartment, is that I get to interact with people on a daily basis---the people at the front desk, and housekeeping. Candlewood Suites was the kind of place designed to minimize that interaction. It was actually something I didn't really want to minimize.
The room was nice, of course. The television was a nice large screen model that displayed Bloomberg financial news whenever one turned it on, no matter what channel one had been watching when one turned it off. I wound up leaving it on Bloomberg quite a bit and listening to talking heads explaining why the Cypriot banking crisis wasn't a big deal, and that all was well. Go about your business. Suckers!!!
The television was equiped with a DVD machine. Behind the front desk at reception was bank of shelves with DVDs on them for free rental by guests. I looked over the list one evening but was uninspired by the selection.
It's part of the philosophy of Candlewood Suites to make one feel as if one is staying at an apartment complex for long-term. One can "check out" bar-b-que tools to use the outdoor grill for cooking. In the laundry room (free machines) there is a bulletin board with notices that guests and management post for each other about events. While I stayed there they had a bake sale in the lobby. Too bad I don't eat sweets much anyone.
Another fun thing about the Candlewood was the "pantry" on the ground floor. It was a room that contained a selection of sundries, snacks and microwavable meals on shelves and in a freezer. It was available twenty-four hours a day. Payment was on the honor system, either by depositing cash in the slot or by filling out a form with one's room number on it.
I made a single purchase at the pantry while I was there, a Klondike ice cream bar one evening when I came home late. It was a dollar. I took a bill out of my wallet and pushed it into the slot.
That's one more dollar than they get out of their banks in Cyprus right now.
Upon check-in, the pleasant young woman at the reception asked me if I'd ever stayed at a Candlewood Suites before. The question caught me off guard. I said no. She explained the rules, about reduced housekeeping. They don't come in your room at all, except for once a week. They leave you totally alone. If I needed new towels or linens before then, I'd need to bring the old ones down to the desk and ask for new ones.
That wasn't a big deal, of course. I was going to be there three nights. I was perfectly capable of making my own bed, and conserving my towel usage until then.
Yet there was something about it that made me feel a bit wistful. One of the reasons I enjoy my lifestyle, over say, having an apartment, is that I get to interact with people on a daily basis---the people at the front desk, and housekeeping. Candlewood Suites was the kind of place designed to minimize that interaction. It was actually something I didn't really want to minimize.
The room was nice, of course. The television was a nice large screen model that displayed Bloomberg financial news whenever one turned it on, no matter what channel one had been watching when one turned it off. I wound up leaving it on Bloomberg quite a bit and listening to talking heads explaining why the Cypriot banking crisis wasn't a big deal, and that all was well. Go about your business. Suckers!!!
The television was equiped with a DVD machine. Behind the front desk at reception was bank of shelves with DVDs on them for free rental by guests. I looked over the list one evening but was uninspired by the selection.
It's part of the philosophy of Candlewood Suites to make one feel as if one is staying at an apartment complex for long-term. One can "check out" bar-b-que tools to use the outdoor grill for cooking. In the laundry room (free machines) there is a bulletin board with notices that guests and management post for each other about events. While I stayed there they had a bake sale in the lobby. Too bad I don't eat sweets much anyone.
Another fun thing about the Candlewood was the "pantry" on the ground floor. It was a room that contained a selection of sundries, snacks and microwavable meals on shelves and in a freezer. It was available twenty-four hours a day. Payment was on the honor system, either by depositing cash in the slot or by filling out a form with one's room number on it.
I made a single purchase at the pantry while I was there, a Klondike ice cream bar one evening when I came home late. It was a dollar. I took a bill out of my wallet and pushed it into the slot.
That's one more dollar than they get out of their banks in Cyprus right now.
Bacon and Eggs from Yesteryear in Cuba
I had reserved two nights at the Quality Inn in Farmington, thinking that after a week of constantly changing motels, thinking that I might want to rest for a day. But one look at the town made me realize that despite the presence of a Starbucks allowing me to work, there was really no point in staying there more than overnight. I had momentum I wanted to keep going.
I was so close to the Colorado border. I could almost feel the pull of gravity of home, or what passes for "home" lately. But I wanted to give New Mexico its due as part of this long phase of my journeys. I'd spent only one night in the state, twenty five years ago, and passed through briefly only a couple other times. Moreover there was a friend I was hoping to see in Albuquerque, where I'd already booked three nights at the Candlewood Suites.
So after one pleasant night at the QI (still no TCM since Sedona), and having put in some early morning work, I checked out, gassed up, and took the highway south across the undulating scrub plateau of northwest New Mexico.
After three hours of mid-day drive listening to podcasts on my smartphone, I arrived in the little town of Cuba at the base of the low mountains just to the east. After a standard bacon-and-egg lunch in a little cafe that looked like it hadn't changed since the Great Depression, I was ready to continue on, but I was ahead of schedule and didn't feel like getting to Albuquerque so soon in the day.
According to the map, there was a paved road from Cuba that ran up into the mountains, into the Santa Fe National Forest. I decided a side trip was in order. Twenty minutes drive on switchbacks found me several thousand feet higher, with snow beside the road. I drove onward until the road turned into dirt and gravel. Almost immediately I hit mud patches and decided it was time to turn around.
At the point of my turnaround, a side road into the national forest was covered with snow. I decided some snowshoeing was in order, so I parked, strapped on the MSRs and headed up the road into the woods for about twenty minutes, passing shuttered vacation cottages. It was nice walk, in shorts but with gloves (an odd combination), and I would have kept going, but there were too many already-melted mud patched on the road that made it less than fun. Nevertheless it was a pleasant way to kill forty-five minutes.
And it let me add New Mexico to the list of places where I'd snowshoed. My life seems to be driven partly by these lists that have meaning only to me.
I was so close to the Colorado border. I could almost feel the pull of gravity of home, or what passes for "home" lately. But I wanted to give New Mexico its due as part of this long phase of my journeys. I'd spent only one night in the state, twenty five years ago, and passed through briefly only a couple other times. Moreover there was a friend I was hoping to see in Albuquerque, where I'd already booked three nights at the Candlewood Suites.
So after one pleasant night at the QI (still no TCM since Sedona), and having put in some early morning work, I checked out, gassed up, and took the highway south across the undulating scrub plateau of northwest New Mexico.
After three hours of mid-day drive listening to podcasts on my smartphone, I arrived in the little town of Cuba at the base of the low mountains just to the east. After a standard bacon-and-egg lunch in a little cafe that looked like it hadn't changed since the Great Depression, I was ready to continue on, but I was ahead of schedule and didn't feel like getting to Albuquerque so soon in the day.
According to the map, there was a paved road from Cuba that ran up into the mountains, into the Santa Fe National Forest. I decided a side trip was in order. Twenty minutes drive on switchbacks found me several thousand feet higher, with snow beside the road. I drove onward until the road turned into dirt and gravel. Almost immediately I hit mud patches and decided it was time to turn around.
At the point of my turnaround, a side road into the national forest was covered with snow. I decided some snowshoeing was in order, so I parked, strapped on the MSRs and headed up the road into the woods for about twenty minutes, passing shuttered vacation cottages. It was nice walk, in shorts but with gloves (an odd combination), and I would have kept going, but there were too many already-melted mud patched on the road that made it less than fun. Nevertheless it was a pleasant way to kill forty-five minutes.
And it let me add New Mexico to the list of places where I'd snowshoed. My life seems to be driven partly by these lists that have meaning only to me.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
New Mexico Makes 47 for the Bimmer
After Monument Valley I drove back to Kayenta, then headed east on the main U.S. highway across the plateau towards the Four Corners. I got there in late afternoon---it was on my must see list, since I'd never been there.
I gave it as much time as it was worth, considering it was simply a geographical anomaly. Of course I made sure to stand caddy-corner to be in both Arizona and Colorado at once. I grabbed lunch from one of the Navajo Fry Bread stands alongside the parking lot. I bought another mutton-filled one, and it was far inferior to the one in Window Rock for the reason that it contained more mutton bone than mutton meat. Moreover it was more expensive. But that's what I get for buying from a tourist-oriented stand.
Leaving the Four Corners going eastward, I was still in the Navajo Nation but no longer in Arizona. In New Mexico, the speed limit on the same highway was suddenly ten miles per hour slower. The state highway road signs no longer looked like an angular version of Arizona but were a stylized version of the sun symbol on the New Mexico flag.
"47!" I said to myself outloud, once I was over the border. Arizona had been the forty-sixth state I had visited in the BMW since acquiring it in 2007. Now there were only three more to go---Alaska, Hawaii, and Florida. Given the unlikelihood of driving the old vehicle to the first two, it seems 48 will be the highest I'll get. But Florida seems pretty unlikely too at this point.
Going eastward on the highway I passed through the gritty, grimy town of Shiprock, then exited the Navajo Nation. Almost immediately the pre-fab houses seemed kept up more neatly, in the way that they are across most of rural America. It must be hard to grow up on an Indian reservation.
I spent the night at the Quality Inn in Farmington, where I had reservations. I had decided to switch from Wyndham to Choice Hotels for a night at least, since they were having a promo for the frequent-stay members. That evening I dined at the local Golden Corral, a budget buffet-steakhouse that my late grandfather particularly liked during the last years of his life. He grew up in the Great Depression, I can hardly blame him for liking a place in which you can go back for as many refills on sirloin as you choose.
The table next to me was filled with a long row of at least a dozen Japanese tourists who seemed to appreciate the place in the same manner.
I gave it as much time as it was worth, considering it was simply a geographical anomaly. Of course I made sure to stand caddy-corner to be in both Arizona and Colorado at once. I grabbed lunch from one of the Navajo Fry Bread stands alongside the parking lot. I bought another mutton-filled one, and it was far inferior to the one in Window Rock for the reason that it contained more mutton bone than mutton meat. Moreover it was more expensive. But that's what I get for buying from a tourist-oriented stand.
Leaving the Four Corners going eastward, I was still in the Navajo Nation but no longer in Arizona. In New Mexico, the speed limit on the same highway was suddenly ten miles per hour slower. The state highway road signs no longer looked like an angular version of Arizona but were a stylized version of the sun symbol on the New Mexico flag.
"47!" I said to myself outloud, once I was over the border. Arizona had been the forty-sixth state I had visited in the BMW since acquiring it in 2007. Now there were only three more to go---Alaska, Hawaii, and Florida. Given the unlikelihood of driving the old vehicle to the first two, it seems 48 will be the highest I'll get. But Florida seems pretty unlikely too at this point.
Going eastward on the highway I passed through the gritty, grimy town of Shiprock, then exited the Navajo Nation. Almost immediately the pre-fab houses seemed kept up more neatly, in the way that they are across most of rural America. It must be hard to grow up on an Indian reservation.
I spent the night at the Quality Inn in Farmington, where I had reservations. I had decided to switch from Wyndham to Choice Hotels for a night at least, since they were having a promo for the frequent-stay members. That evening I dined at the local Golden Corral, a budget buffet-steakhouse that my late grandfather particularly liked during the last years of his life. He grew up in the Great Depression, I can hardly blame him for liking a place in which you can go back for as many refills on sirloin as you choose.
The table next to me was filled with a long row of at least a dozen Japanese tourists who seemed to appreciate the place in the same manner.
My Own Personal Stagecoach
About an hour and half after leaving Canyon de Chelly, I got to Kayenta, one of the largest towns in the Navajo Nation, around sundown. The strip along the main highway was lined with gas stations and fast food outlets. I decided a bacon cheeseburger at Sonic was in order. Whenever I'm at a Sonic I flash back to being at the one in Wilsonville, Oregon, where I was surprised by a man wearing a tie who poked his head in my window while I was eating outside. He was the manager, making the rounds to see if his customers were happy. I nearly spilled my cherry limeade at the time. Now I'm always on the watch out for roving managers interrupting my meal there. None appeared this time.
He would have been an Indian of course. All the employees of all the businesses in the Navajo Nation are Indians. This was true at the Wetherill Inn, the motel where I stayed that night. Across much of America, the division of labor in motels is that the management is either white or Indian-from-India, and the housekeeping is Hispanic. On the Indian reservation, both the management and housekeeping was Indian, as in Native America. A novelty to see it this way.
The room at the Wetherill was small but decent. In the morning I drove north out of town, up through the rock formations, towards the Utah state line.
My destination for the day was Monument Valley. I've visited plenty of John Wayne oriented sites during my travels, including taking the Quiet Man Tour in Ireland with my friends in Galway. With all the John Wayne imagery I'd see in southeastern Arizona, it seemed like a side trip to Monument Valley, where John Ford shot so many of his westerns featuring Wayne, was an absolute must for this trip.
It was less an hour's drive to entrance to the Navajo Tribal Park that contains the most famous locales. To get into the entrance, I had to detour into Utah for about twenty seconds, the first time I'd been outside Arizona in a month.
The beautiful visitor's center was about a mile back into Arizona. I parked and bought some souvenirs, including a shot glass for Agnes and Thor, who would appreciate the John Ford-themed gesture. A shot glass seemed the appropriate thing in this case.
From the visitor center, one could see eastward towards several of the most famous formations, including the two Mitten Buttes that are probably the most iconic natural images of the southwestern part of the country. Inside the center was a room with a small sporadic collection of posters and plagues commemorating Ford's movie shots in the valley, the first one of which was famously Stagecoach in 1939, the movie that made John Wayne a legitimate star.
One of the plaques mentioned that Ford's movie company brought many temporary jobs for local Navajos, and a boost to the local economy. But in the last sentence it added that the movie company brought many of its own supplies, implying that somehow the economic boost wasn't as big as it could have been.
It almost seems stereotypical now, when I travel the country. Anything historical about the Indians and white settlers has to take great pains to emphasize the point of view that no matter how else you spin things, whites oppressed Indians, plain and simple.
This kind of viewpoint is so much the norm right now, not just on Indian reservations (where it actually seems much less heavy-handed, ironically). The ones outside Indian reservations sometimes seem to be written to say that nothing good came from white settlement.
It really shows you who is in charge of creating such things. The universities are churning outsuch historians with the "correct" political point of view based on a Marxist version of American history.
I'm convinced that it some future epoch all of this will itself seem outdated, when postmodernity is itself a distant memory. Wow, these people were really ashamed of things that they themselves never did!
The visitor center also had a large room dedicated to the Navajo codetalkers from World War II. I read on the web that there were virtually no commemorations of the codetalkers on the Navajo Nation, but this is clearly outdated. Half the building seemed dedicated to the codetalkers.
Yet I was somewhat disappointed in these exhibits. They dwelled mostly on the personnel, the men who actually served, which is fine of course. But they only briefly mentioned how the Navajo language is unique in a way that made it very hard for the Japanese to break the code. I've always heard this about the Navajo language, and I wanted some examples of just how the language is so different. Yet there were no examples of this to be found. The only thing about the Navajo language I found on the entire reservation were expensive school textbooks in the Hubbel trading post visitor center.
One big negative about the visitor's center: the smashed penny machine required four quarters to operate! This is the first time I've seen it cost a dollar anywhere in the country. Although I realize that the Navajo, despite (or perhaps because of) the federal subsidies, are not a wealthy tribe, and that fifty extra cents is not a lot to contribute in this case, I must state emphatically that I do not like this precedent!
After going back to the counter to get more quarters and satisfy my collector needs for the penny, I went back outside with the resolve to drive the seventeen mile road that went back into the rock formations, in order to get the full experience, and to see the buttes from the sunlit side during the morning.
The man at the gate had warned me the road was rough, and he was right. It snaked down a long hill from the visitor center to the valley floor, over jagged rocks and ruts. After a couple miles of my car bouncing up and down, and my worrying about low clearance on the rocks, I realized that I was torturing the old Bimmer's suspension way too much, so I pulled over and turned around.
But at least it was far enough to see the Mitten Buttes in fill sunlight, and get a good view of some of the other rock formations further into the valley. I'd have to explore further in some other car, at some other time. But for now it was far enough, I decided, to check it off the list of my John Wayne sites.
Included this short clip of the Duke from The American West of John Ford (1971), which I saw in my hotel room after writing this post:
He would have been an Indian of course. All the employees of all the businesses in the Navajo Nation are Indians. This was true at the Wetherill Inn, the motel where I stayed that night. Across much of America, the division of labor in motels is that the management is either white or Indian-from-India, and the housekeeping is Hispanic. On the Indian reservation, both the management and housekeeping was Indian, as in Native America. A novelty to see it this way.
The room at the Wetherill was small but decent. In the morning I drove north out of town, up through the rock formations, towards the Utah state line.
My destination for the day was Monument Valley. I've visited plenty of John Wayne oriented sites during my travels, including taking the Quiet Man Tour in Ireland with my friends in Galway. With all the John Wayne imagery I'd see in southeastern Arizona, it seemed like a side trip to Monument Valley, where John Ford shot so many of his westerns featuring Wayne, was an absolute must for this trip.
It was less an hour's drive to entrance to the Navajo Tribal Park that contains the most famous locales. To get into the entrance, I had to detour into Utah for about twenty seconds, the first time I'd been outside Arizona in a month.
The beautiful visitor's center was about a mile back into Arizona. I parked and bought some souvenirs, including a shot glass for Agnes and Thor, who would appreciate the John Ford-themed gesture. A shot glass seemed the appropriate thing in this case.
From the visitor center, one could see eastward towards several of the most famous formations, including the two Mitten Buttes that are probably the most iconic natural images of the southwestern part of the country. Inside the center was a room with a small sporadic collection of posters and plagues commemorating Ford's movie shots in the valley, the first one of which was famously Stagecoach in 1939, the movie that made John Wayne a legitimate star.
One of the plaques mentioned that Ford's movie company brought many temporary jobs for local Navajos, and a boost to the local economy. But in the last sentence it added that the movie company brought many of its own supplies, implying that somehow the economic boost wasn't as big as it could have been.
It almost seems stereotypical now, when I travel the country. Anything historical about the Indians and white settlers has to take great pains to emphasize the point of view that no matter how else you spin things, whites oppressed Indians, plain and simple.
This kind of viewpoint is so much the norm right now, not just on Indian reservations (where it actually seems much less heavy-handed, ironically). The ones outside Indian reservations sometimes seem to be written to say that nothing good came from white settlement.
It really shows you who is in charge of creating such things. The universities are churning outsuch historians with the "correct" political point of view based on a Marxist version of American history.
I'm convinced that it some future epoch all of this will itself seem outdated, when postmodernity is itself a distant memory. Wow, these people were really ashamed of things that they themselves never did!
The visitor center also had a large room dedicated to the Navajo codetalkers from World War II. I read on the web that there were virtually no commemorations of the codetalkers on the Navajo Nation, but this is clearly outdated. Half the building seemed dedicated to the codetalkers.
Yet I was somewhat disappointed in these exhibits. They dwelled mostly on the personnel, the men who actually served, which is fine of course. But they only briefly mentioned how the Navajo language is unique in a way that made it very hard for the Japanese to break the code. I've always heard this about the Navajo language, and I wanted some examples of just how the language is so different. Yet there were no examples of this to be found. The only thing about the Navajo language I found on the entire reservation were expensive school textbooks in the Hubbel trading post visitor center.
One big negative about the visitor's center: the smashed penny machine required four quarters to operate! This is the first time I've seen it cost a dollar anywhere in the country. Although I realize that the Navajo, despite (or perhaps because of) the federal subsidies, are not a wealthy tribe, and that fifty extra cents is not a lot to contribute in this case, I must state emphatically that I do not like this precedent!
After going back to the counter to get more quarters and satisfy my collector needs for the penny, I went back outside with the resolve to drive the seventeen mile road that went back into the rock formations, in order to get the full experience, and to see the buttes from the sunlit side during the morning.
The man at the gate had warned me the road was rough, and he was right. It snaked down a long hill from the visitor center to the valley floor, over jagged rocks and ruts. After a couple miles of my car bouncing up and down, and my worrying about low clearance on the rocks, I realized that I was torturing the old Bimmer's suspension way too much, so I pulled over and turned around.
But at least it was far enough to see the Mitten Buttes in fill sunlight, and get a good view of some of the other rock formations further into the valley. I'd have to explore further in some other car, at some other time. But for now it was far enough, I decided, to check it off the list of my John Wayne sites.
Included this short clip of the Duke from The American West of John Ford (1971), which I saw in my hotel room after writing this post:
Friday, March 22, 2013
Through the Window to the Land of the Empty Mind
After lunch, I drove to the nearby Navajo Tribal Park to inspect the actual "Window Rock" that the town is named after. The formation is located in a natural amphitheater. It's easy to see why the tribal capital was placed here. It was obviously the focus of ceremonial activity over the centuries.
Then I drove back west, away from the state line. I spent a half hour at the historic Hubbel Trading Post National Historic Site. I always stop at such places. As I drive into the parking lot, I joke to myself whether there will another big telescope here.
But the joke is on me. In the visitor center I learn that the Hubbel who ran the trading post is from the same family as the famous scientist after whom the Hubble Space Telescope is named.
Inside the trading post is an actual store, run by Indians, selling modern goods, such as snacks and crafts. I buy some Navajo tea as a gift for my parents, since I'm going to see them in a few weeks. I always save gift buying until late in the trip, since I don't want things to break or spoil, or simply take up space for months on end.
West of there I gas up at a convenience store. I go inside to buy a bottle of protein drink to mix with the powdered vitamin supplements that I take. There are no such drinks in the refrigerator case. The shelves are half empty. It's not as bad as the place I saw in the Omaha Indian Reservation in Nebraska, where the shelves were more bare than full, but there are still plenty of empty spaces for goods that aren't stocked. I can't help compare it unfavorably to the general store at the historic site.
In the late afternoon, I reach my main destination for the day---the Canyon de Chelly National Monument. I drive along the rim road along the south side of the canyon, stopping for several views, including the most prominent one at Spider Rock.
It's a nice view, although it can't compare to the Grand Canyon. One could compare it to the innermost gorge of the Grand Canyon---the gorge within a canyon within a canyon.
I had thought about doing some hiking there, but it turns out that since this on Indian land, and considered sacred, that there is no hiking permitted except on organized tours. This is partly to protect the ruins of the Anasazi, the ancient cliff dwellers who had abandoned the site even before the Navajo arrived.
I also consider camping at the private Navajo campground on the canyon rim, since it is the weekend and I don't need the Wi-Fi until Monday, but it the sun is still high in the sky and I am not ready to call it a day.
Besides the campground looks unappealing. Moreover there is a huge bank of storm clouds off to the west. There is a Best Western and a Holiday Inn the town nearby, but I decide to drive onward to take advantage of the extended daylight of Spring.
About a half hour north on the main U.S. highway, a smaller road cuts off to the west, through the mesa country. I follow it. The afternoon sun is golden on the red rock formations on the open range. It is Good Road like I have not had in a while. The only interruption is a heard of cattle that decide to cross in front of me, forcing me to wait for a couple minutes until they are done.
My mind is emptied with each passing mile. That feeling I had when I first came to Arizona a month before, the beautiful high of newness and pristine adventure, is long gone. Like I said, I didn't expect it to last. It never does.
Instead I simply feel a peaceful calm of perfect equilibrium, with no thoughts of the future or the past. Troubles of all kind seem a million miles away. Maybe this is the real goal of travel, this kind of mind balance.
Then I drove back west, away from the state line. I spent a half hour at the historic Hubbel Trading Post National Historic Site. I always stop at such places. As I drive into the parking lot, I joke to myself whether there will another big telescope here.
But the joke is on me. In the visitor center I learn that the Hubbel who ran the trading post is from the same family as the famous scientist after whom the Hubble Space Telescope is named.
Inside the trading post is an actual store, run by Indians, selling modern goods, such as snacks and crafts. I buy some Navajo tea as a gift for my parents, since I'm going to see them in a few weeks. I always save gift buying until late in the trip, since I don't want things to break or spoil, or simply take up space for months on end.
West of there I gas up at a convenience store. I go inside to buy a bottle of protein drink to mix with the powdered vitamin supplements that I take. There are no such drinks in the refrigerator case. The shelves are half empty. It's not as bad as the place I saw in the Omaha Indian Reservation in Nebraska, where the shelves were more bare than full, but there are still plenty of empty spaces for goods that aren't stocked. I can't help compare it unfavorably to the general store at the historic site.
In the late afternoon, I reach my main destination for the day---the Canyon de Chelly National Monument. I drive along the rim road along the south side of the canyon, stopping for several views, including the most prominent one at Spider Rock.
It's a nice view, although it can't compare to the Grand Canyon. One could compare it to the innermost gorge of the Grand Canyon---the gorge within a canyon within a canyon.
I had thought about doing some hiking there, but it turns out that since this on Indian land, and considered sacred, that there is no hiking permitted except on organized tours. This is partly to protect the ruins of the Anasazi, the ancient cliff dwellers who had abandoned the site even before the Navajo arrived.
I also consider camping at the private Navajo campground on the canyon rim, since it is the weekend and I don't need the Wi-Fi until Monday, but it the sun is still high in the sky and I am not ready to call it a day.
Besides the campground looks unappealing. Moreover there is a huge bank of storm clouds off to the west. There is a Best Western and a Holiday Inn the town nearby, but I decide to drive onward to take advantage of the extended daylight of Spring.
About a half hour north on the main U.S. highway, a smaller road cuts off to the west, through the mesa country. I follow it. The afternoon sun is golden on the red rock formations on the open range. It is Good Road like I have not had in a while. The only interruption is a heard of cattle that decide to cross in front of me, forcing me to wait for a couple minutes until they are done.
My mind is emptied with each passing mile. That feeling I had when I first came to Arizona a month before, the beautiful high of newness and pristine adventure, is long gone. Like I said, I didn't expect it to last. It never does.
Instead I simply feel a peaceful calm of perfect equilibrium, with no thoughts of the future or the past. Troubles of all kind seem a million miles away. Maybe this is the real goal of travel, this kind of mind balance.
Navajo Saturday
Escaping from the less-than-ideal motel in Pinetop, the next morning I head north, down out of the wooded foothills along the great mountainous rim that cuts through Arizona. A half hour later I'm in the gritty town of Show Low, then heading east across the flat undulating plateau of northern Arizona, the view interrupted only by sporadic mountains far in the distance.
St. John's is another gritty little town of trailers and chain link fences in front yards. North of there, along the eastern fringe of Arizona, the road is empty and lonely, perfect for a morning drive. The road is always better in the morning, something I've learned from years of road trips. Traffic tends to build up during the day until reaching a peak in the late afternoon.
After another hour, almost two quickly, I reach the great ribbon of civilization called Interstate 40. One sees the trucks from miles away, as if approaching a great city.
I got on the Interstate heading east, towards the nearby state line, but I get off at the very last exit before the border. The road heads north through a picturesque canyon into the sprawling Navajo Nation, the largest Indian reservation in the country.
I can tell I'm on an Indian reservation. There is no mistaking the look of the houses, which are often trailers or pre-fab. There are also stray dogs here and there, in a way you wouldn't see elsewhere. And stray horses as well.
I stopped at a roadside rest area. There is no restroom facilities. There are beer bottles and trash everywhere.
A half hour later I reach the little town of Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation. As I come to the main highway crossroads, I see a large outdoor festival in progress. I pull into the gravel parking lot and get out to explore. It turns out to be a Saturday flea market, with tables set up selling various second hand items beside parked trucks and cars. There most organized table seems to be selling bingo cards.
The air is filled with loud music from a band that is playing. I walk over and watch them. They are of young Navajo men playing old rock standards, such as Credence Clearwater Revival. Behind them are a row of small businesses in a plain brick structure, a more permanent version of the kind of impromptu business stalls that one sees everywhere on the reservation.
Most of those structures beside the road cater to tourists, selling trinkets to motorists. But the ones here in Window Rock all serve various versions of Navajo fry bread and stews. Mutton seems to be the most common meat offered.
I go inside one. It's tiny with a few tables. At a small window in the back wall I order a mutton fry bread and pay with as close to exact change as possible, as per the request of the hand-lettered sign. I sit next to an old Navajo man in the next booth, looking out the window at the band outside.
The mutton is as tough as shoe leather. It takes an enormous amount of chewing to finish the small portion. The chiles are hotter than expected. There is no water visible. I tough it out, letting my mouth burn.
St. John's is another gritty little town of trailers and chain link fences in front yards. North of there, along the eastern fringe of Arizona, the road is empty and lonely, perfect for a morning drive. The road is always better in the morning, something I've learned from years of road trips. Traffic tends to build up during the day until reaching a peak in the late afternoon.
After another hour, almost two quickly, I reach the great ribbon of civilization called Interstate 40. One sees the trucks from miles away, as if approaching a great city.
I got on the Interstate heading east, towards the nearby state line, but I get off at the very last exit before the border. The road heads north through a picturesque canyon into the sprawling Navajo Nation, the largest Indian reservation in the country.
I can tell I'm on an Indian reservation. There is no mistaking the look of the houses, which are often trailers or pre-fab. There are also stray dogs here and there, in a way you wouldn't see elsewhere. And stray horses as well.
I stopped at a roadside rest area. There is no restroom facilities. There are beer bottles and trash everywhere.
A half hour later I reach the little town of Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation. As I come to the main highway crossroads, I see a large outdoor festival in progress. I pull into the gravel parking lot and get out to explore. It turns out to be a Saturday flea market, with tables set up selling various second hand items beside parked trucks and cars. There most organized table seems to be selling bingo cards.
The air is filled with loud music from a band that is playing. I walk over and watch them. They are of young Navajo men playing old rock standards, such as Credence Clearwater Revival. Behind them are a row of small businesses in a plain brick structure, a more permanent version of the kind of impromptu business stalls that one sees everywhere on the reservation.
Most of those structures beside the road cater to tourists, selling trinkets to motorists. But the ones here in Window Rock all serve various versions of Navajo fry bread and stews. Mutton seems to be the most common meat offered.
I go inside one. It's tiny with a few tables. At a small window in the back wall I order a mutton fry bread and pay with as close to exact change as possible, as per the request of the hand-lettered sign. I sit next to an old Navajo man in the next booth, looking out the window at the band outside.
The mutton is as tough as shoe leather. It takes an enormous amount of chewing to finish the small portion. The chiles are hotter than expected. There is no water visible. I tough it out, letting my mouth burn.
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