Gallup Tucumcari

Waning Crescent Moon

This was supposed to be the day I finally went to Chaco Canyon in northwestern New Mexico. I have always wanted to visit this famous culture center, but it seems like every chance I get, there is some sort of obstacle.

This trip, the obstacle was a cold front ripping down the Continental Divide toward northern New Mexico. High winds and temps in the low 20s were forecast. So I babied out. In my gut, I was confident in my decision, even though it's a big disappointment. How many more chances will I get to see it?

So today turned out to be simply drive across NM day. I made one stop for breakfast at Gordo's in Gallup - the chili verde is so good it is alarming. Fiery good. I thought my lips had burned off after the first bite. What would I do for the rest of my life without lips? Everybody else I know has lips. I'll be a freak, driving around lipless in a truck without paint!

Of course, that didn't stop me from cleaning my plate. I left beating my chest and breathing fire like a happy go lucky cartoon dragon. Lips are okay, no permanent damage.

Next year will be Gordo's 50th anniversary.

I also stopped in Albuquerque for a picnic-lunch-in-my-truck at the Bataan Memorial Park near U. of M. The memorial to New Mexico's fallen soldiers, like all war memorials, is sad and sobering. At the same time, it was beautifully and respectfully arranged. A quick walk around the park loosened me up for the rest of the windy way along I-40 to Tucumcari.

Part of the Bataan Memorial

I had one goal in mind for Tucumcari. That was to stop at the Palomino Motel and get out of the cold wind overnight. I have several photos of this place from previous trips and friends have sent me a few more. It was high time I sampled this regal establishment's hospitality. As you can see, this joint was custom made to showcase the bold lines of a Spectacularly Ugly 1987 Mazda B2200.

Blam!

Loli the proprietress has been doing business here on Route 66 since Hector was a pup. Originally from Maine, she grew up on Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. When telling this story, Loli hints that teenhood at the beach may have been a little too much fun haha. A trip west settled all that out, I guess.

You may be wondering about my accommodations. The Palomino Motel is nothing if not classy.

A touch of Hampton Beach perhaps?

As the Sun was setting, the neon lights came on. This could be any decade of the last seven - time makes no difference when that sign gets lit.

Dean Moriarty might have slept here.

Peace, Love, and Neon Palomino,
Jim

Five Star Weekend

Third Quarter Moon

Saturday and today were absolutely awesome. A cold, but beautiful sunrise at Homol-ovi Ruins State Park was followed by a hot cup of Peets Major Dickison and a warm bowl of Bob's Red Mill muesli to kick things off. Then it was time to rumble.

The Homol-ovi ruins are split into two locations, with trails that lead from spot to spot to highlight their history. The Homol-ovi folks (the Hisat'sinom, aka Anasazi) lived next to the Little Colorado River in the 14th century. They built two and three story dwellings with ~ 2,000 rooms mostly from sandstone and clay to house a good sized population, considered by the Hopi to be their ancestors. Repeated flooding from the Little Colorado pushed them north. 

Pottery sherds still evident at the site (don't even think about stealing them, Jethro) show the people's artistry and resourcefulness. Aside from the washout problems, this was a successful, civilized band of people for thousands of years.

After exploring the ruins, I stopped to hike a short trail between two small buttes. There are some pretty cool petroglyphs up there, but watch out for rattlesnakes. I got to see some wild burros kicking up dust, too, which just might be the most fun there is in a desert.

Next was the obligatory tourist stop in Winslow, Standing on a Corner Park. Sorry, no selfie. A nearby bar was blasting "Desperado" at 11:30 a.m. and oddball, weekend Harley Davidson folks were singing (yelling) along, already (or still?) toasted. This was both sad and funny. The Roaring of the Sheeple.

It's only about 50 miles from Winslow to Petrified Forest National Park. I stopped at the Rainbow Visitor Center and fell temporarily in love with yet another cutie pie Park Rangerette. She issued me a free backcountry pass which allowed me to park at milepost 24. The deal is that as long as you hike at least a mile away from the road, you can pitch your tiny tent anywhere you please. This park is the only one I know that allows this option. Five stars for certain.

I shook off Cupid's silly little arrows and picked my way cross country through littered bits of petrified wood and occasional biggo logs for about forty minutes. Then I camped in a wash at the head of a deep, dramatic arroyo and ate a cold-soaked dinner, enjoying absolute, perfect silence. No Harleys, no drunks, no desperation for miles.

I was awake at first light today and packed up for the quick hike back to milepost 24. Oh yeah, did I mention there was petrified wood all over the place?

The last time I was in this park was in 1955 when I was knee-high to Lanky Leo (my Dad). I remember how happy he was that day and how excited he was to tell me how petrified wood came to be. He had no idea what seeds he was planting on those trips back then. Or maybe he did?

I made a few more stops this morning on the way out to I-40. My favorite was Puerco Pueblo. There is a magically scientific petroglyph here. On the Summer Solstice at dawn (only then), a ray of sunlight strikes like a dagger of light right in the center of a solar glyph - a precise little celebratory calendar in the middle of the desert. The site is carefully roped off so you can't get too close, but this next picture is the rock. The ruins of the pueblo and the chunks of colorful petrified wood here were cool, too, but that Solstice thing and the other petroglyphs really captured me.

After that, it was on to Gallup, NM and a cheap room with WiFi. The cell signal was pretty weak in the park, about the only thing I experienced that wasn't absolutely awesome.

What a great, blessed, happy couple of days. 

Peace, Love, and The Ancient Ones,

Jim

Must See AZ

Waning Gibbous Moon

Getting out of Las Vegas in the daylight wasn't half as weird as last night's unplanned adventure on Dean Martin Drive. Lucky for me, I bailed off the highway quite by accident a few blocks down Deano's namesake service road from a not very cheap any more Motel 6. Sometimes being old and unusual works in my favor.  None of the strung-out, inebriated, deadend, um, self-employed uncitizens in the parking lot paid me any mind.

In today's morning light, I figured out I was right across the freeway from the Thomas and Mack Center, for what that is worth. I got the heck outta there asap. Soon I crossed Boulder Dam, and soon after that, I was in Arizona. I keep saying "soon" because the freaking speed limit is 75 mph, so Spugly was "sooning" all day.

Soon it was lunchtime and I stopped to "eat and get gas" in Seligman on old Route 66. The first place I saw was The Roadkill Cafe, which was busy and friendly, but not so authentic. At the east end of town, though, is the real deal - Delgadillo's Sno Cap Drive-In, a mystical little hobo burger joint magic trick junk art depot time warp celebrating its 66th funky chic birthday. This place is all fun all day all year long. You must go. I won't try to describe it any further. I'll just show you some hasty pictures and say you have to trust me. You really gotta go.

Thusly fueled and inspired, I continued to Exit 257 at Winslow, AZ. Yes, THAT Winslow, AZ. They even have a corner called "A Corner" for your very own selfieness and billboards saying, yes, "Take It Easy" just like you predicted they would.

So let's skip that part, okay? What is really cool is just outside of town - Homolovi State Park, where, for a measly eighteen bucks, I got a cozy campsite with a table, a clean restroom with a shower (!), a kickass sunset, and Hopi ruins to explore in the morning. It's going to be 35 degrees Fuh-fuh-fuh Farenheit overnight, but let's skip that part, too. Puffy jacket on, bag liner in, I'm snug as a bug.

Peace, Love, and Take It Freezy,
Jim

Outwash

Waning Gibbous Moon

Today had a certain flow to it, beginning north of Bishop, tumbling through Big Pine, Independence, and Lone Pine, sweeping up past Keeler and down into Panamint Valley, up and over the Panamint Range, gushing into and out of Death Valley, rushing past Pahrump, squeezing up over the nightmarish pass and down into Las Vegas. It was a good day, but I felt like someone other than me was in control. I just kind of went along for the ride.

Maybe the best part was the homemade 7-grain toast I ate with my eggs at Jack's Cafe in Bishop. Wow, it was good. A clear and close second was the Eastern California Museum in Independence. What a great resource for all things Paiute (the indigenous people of Owens Valley), all things Norman Clyde (perhaps the most famous Sierra Nevada mountaineer), and all things Manzanar (the WWII Japanese internment camp between Independence and Lone Pine).

I managed a short but beautiful trail walk from the museum to Dehy Park and back before the museum opened (lots of deer and coyote tracks in the desert sand).

Then I spent about 45 minutes looking through the exhibits and the selection of books. One thing I have been studying lately is trade routes between the different bands of native peoples. How did desert folks get sea shells from the coast over two massive mountain ranges? One book at this museum caught my eye. When I get home, I will try to get my hands on a copy.

I couldn't get comfortable with things in Death Valley this trip. I guess it is transition season in the parks right now. Lots of the best campgrounds are closed and it feels like the humble tent campers are being shut out in favor of the RV crowd and the resort folks.

I get it. Those people are way less likely to get themselves into trouble and to require dangerous, expensive rescues. But sheesh, Death Valley has become a drive-to-the-overlook-and-take-a-selfie exercise. Herded sheep. Helicopter shepherds. At least the scenery is still pretty cool.

Anyway, I didn't want to pitch my tent in the RV parking lot, so I kept going to Death Valley Junction and took a new (for me) route over the state line to Pahrump, NV. Somewhere in there it got dark and as fate would have it, I found myself and Spugly leading a long line of travelers through a nasty, convoluted construction zone on State Route 160.

Up and over a mountain pass we crawled against a constant flow of headlights from oncoming traffic and frequent, aggressive troopers screaming around with lights and si-reens. I did my best St. Christopher impression and guided the impatient pack of compact SUVs safely to the other side. Not one single Kiasubhondaravhyunduru waved thank you when it was over. Wussup widdat?

I drove too many miles today (obviously) and consequently,  the flow chewed me up and spit me out. I hope I learned my lesson.

What about Spugly, you ask? A whopping 29.6 mpg is a pretty good day's work for a thirty-two year old mini-truck.

Peace, Love, and 4 Cylinders,
Jim

Mosey Through Yosey

Waning Gibbous Moon

The drive to the Yosemite entrance gate, 166 miles from home, was quick and easy. Spugly purred the whole way,  chalking up 26 mpg and running solid. So far, so good.

My hopes of scoring a campsite on the valley floor, though, were not realized. All the sites were booked, there were no cancellations, and every campground on the way to Tioga Pass was closed for the season. No big deal, keep going, it was a great day for a cruise.

I was treated to a grey fox sighting just before reaching the marker that read "Elevation: 8,000 feet." His or her bushy-bushy long fox tail was the last thing I saw when she or he slinked into the deep green forest.

I never get tired of the long views from Olmstead Point - the endless trees, the glacier-carved valleys, the muscular, soaring, exfoliated granite domes - I wish I could park up there sometime and camp just off the road when the Moon is big and bright. I don't think I would do much sleeping. Enchantment.

There was one open campground at Ellery Lake shortly after I passed the park boundary, but at 9,000+ feet, I chose not to shiver all night next to the water. Instead, I continued east down to Mono Lake and turned south along the Eastern Sierra on Hwy 395.

By this time, the Sun was fading a little bit, but no matter what time of day, that stretch of mountains between Mono Lake and Tom's Place is absolutely thrilling.

I may or may not have snuck up into some National Forest timber near here to pitch my roomy, classic Half Dome truck camping tent and to scarf up some yummy-tasty Mountain House freeze dried lasagna. Stealth-scarfing in the woodsy woods woodsy can be delicious for sure. I may or may not also be waiting here on guard to see if that furry grey fox might follow me to my sneaky little camp, hoping for a bite. No lasagna for you, slinky grey fox. Go catch a vole!

Peace, Love, and Bundle Up,
Jim

Biggo Road Trip (Thoughts and Prayers)

Full Moon

Oh my goodness, here we go again. On Wednesday, I will load up my truck-camping gear and some camp-stove vittles into the cargo holds of Spugly the Spectacularly Ugly Palomino Transporter and vroom off toward the sunrise. With luck, I intend to make a long journey around the southwestern Divided States of America, visiting amap national parks and monuments, state and county parks and monuments, random town gazebos, artsy-fartsy bike racks, and of course, my highly esteemed friends and family.

Primary among the family list is P.S. I Love You, whose personality and residence in Plano, Texas are arguably famous in contemporary American literature. Arguably. The day before Halloween happens to be the end of her 77th orbit around the Sun, which warrants a celebration or two, if not a full-blown, life-risking, spine-jarring careen over mountains and deserts and plains in a 1987 Mazda B2200 pickup. Such is the nature of true brotherly love.

This is what people will see when they pass me on the highway, moving just a little bit faster.

Phase One of this trip (please don't call it "epic" for Chrissakes) will take me up and over Pacheco Pass into the Great Valley, up and over the Sierra Nevada via Yosemite National Park, down past Mono Lake along the Eastern Sierra, through Death Valley, past Lost Wages, over the hump through Flagstaff to Petrified National Park, through Gallup and up to Chaco Canyon, winding around the Sangre de Cristo (scary name) mountains to the ruins of the Pecos Pueblo, possibly to the Billy the Kid Museum in Fort Sumner, straight across the Great Plains to Lake Texoma, and due south to Plano (thoughts and prayers appreciated).

Biggo b-day party ensues here.

Phase Two will loop south and west through Lago Vista to the Guadalupe Mountains, Silver City, Chiricahua National Monument, Tombstone, Yuma, the Pacific Crest Trail southern terminus at Campo, Warner Springs, Cabazon, Agua Dulce, Santa Barbara, Big Sur, and back home (keep those thoughts and prayers coming).

This will be an old-fashioned, low budget, cheap-ass, sleep-in-the-dirt, rice-and-beans, no frills road trip. If I can pull this off, it will take a month or so and I will be immensely, intensely happy.

Peace, Love, and "Boondocking",
Jim
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Wheel Spin

Waxing Crescent Moon

Tomorrow marks three years since I splashed my poor tired feet into the Pacific Ocean at Limantour Beach on the Point Reyes National Seashore, ending my crazyass coast to coast walk across America. In some ways it seems like a lifetime ago, in others it was just yesterday. (You should read my book. Or re-read it - it's pretty good!)

The overarching purpose of the walk, as some of you may remember, was to raise money and awareness for a recreation trail, the San Benito River Parkway, in my home county. Progress has been glacially slow, with a one-mile section (out of the designated eighteen miles) complete and another three miles or so kinda sorta in the works. The problem seems to be that this rural county has such a small tax base from which to fund a long list of broken things that need to be fixed.

Just to the north of us is Santa Clara County, home of San Jose, Silicon Valley, and the San Francisco Forty-Niners. There is no tax base problem there - just a gargantuan, nearly constant traffic jam and obscene, skyrocketing housing costs. One of the perks of having money for Santa Clara County Public Works is their Coyote Creek Parkway, a hiking/biking trail that goes from the outskirts of Morgan Hill to the ankle socks of San Jose along nicely preserved Coyote Creek. That is where I went today with the Dream Machine to spin my wheels in the sunshine for an hour and a half. On the way, I went through gentrified downtown Morgan Hill, where they just installed a bunch of artsy bike racks. I love artsy bike racks! Check out my Just Bike Racks blog some time.

The trail was smooth and clean and mostly far-removed from the freeway, with cool rest areas near the creek and great cloud-graced bright blue skies in every direction.

I saw lots of other cyclists enjoying the trail, mostly solo riders, with a few couples. I always wave and smile, whether I am walking or riding, not because I want to stop and converse or anything like that. It is more like a personal effort to shine light into the other person/people. I don't care what they do with the light. I just want them to know they are not alone in the dark. It's an act of personal revolution, a peaceful statement from my insides against the machines of darkness and war. It makes me feel good.

My favorite parts of the trail were the sections near the water. There were lots of trees, tule reeds, cattails, and water fowl there. Wildlife abounds, making you wonder how it must have looked before the Missions and the Gold Rush. 

Peace, Love, and Rec Trails,

Jim