Into the West: Oklahoma to Arizona

Santa Rosa Lake, New Mexico

As we awoke in our camp in Red Rock Canyon, the sun stretched a warm arm down our canyon, reflecting hot off the red walls and coaxing the first scent of the sycamore into the air. While my skin would later be plagued by the arid high desert, on this morning the dryness was welcome after the humidity of the south. Several campsites had been vacated before breakfast and I let Harry out for a quick untethered run in one of the grassy vacant sites before we broke camp. Like a homing beacon he shot away as I unclipped the leash---I had a moment of pleasure watching him run---straight as an arrow to a discarded pile of hotdog buns. "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Harreeeeeeeeee!" No dog can gobble forbidden food quite like my beagle, and the buns were gone in seconds. I didn't even have time to count. I was grateful they didn't reemerge in the car once we were on the road.

Today we would pass through Texas into New Mexico. Steinbeck famously wrote of the passion of Texans (for Texas) in Travels with Charley, but what I remember from my last reading of the book is despair at the sheer expanse of the state. Our new itinerary dealt with the latter by crossing at the narrowest part---the Panhandle. As far as the pride of Texans, we got a taste of that at the most epic rest stop of the journey, just across the Oklahoma/Texas border.

Monument to Texas Passion overlooks overgrazed rangeland. Seems right.

Aside from the rest stop of Texan Passion, my only stop in the Panhandle was Amarillo, the single smelliest armpit of a city I've encountered. Admittedly, my travels likely took me through the worst the city has to offer. Neither of my road trip guides noted the Cadillac Ranch, and somehow I missed it on the side of I-40. I'd probably have enjoyed spray painting some old cars. As it was, the best thing I found in Amarillo was a thick 10 pack of freshly made tortillas (for $2.99!), that redeemed the otherwise dismal Fiesta Foods market. Maybe it was because their arrival in my pantry was unexpected, but those were the best tortillas I've ever had. When the last of them turned up moldy, I shed a tear. Here's the Yelp review that steered me there---the claim regarding the freshness of the produce is highly questionable but you can see pictures of the tortilleria.

Searching for the best campsite for each night on the road throughout my journey has been a challenge and a pleasure. I planned very little more than a few days in advance. By the time I reached New Mexico, I had taken the search to a place of high art. Some discoveries seemed miraculous in that had many of the elements that I look for (natural features, beauty, wildlife viewing, nearby trails, uncrowded, etc...) in a location where one might not expect to find such things. A road weary Pagoo and crew arrived at one such place at Santa Rosa Lake, in the middle of the New Mexico desert off I-40. The camp host ushered us into a cushy spot with electricity (exciting only because I could charge my laptop and use my sorely neglected toaster oven), near the access point to a trail down to the lake (and the camp host's site, I would later realize). The view of the moon rising over the lake provided extra motivation to get camp set up and hit the trail before the light waned. 

Moonrise over Santa Rosa Lake

My neighbors at the next site were a friendly couple my age who fawned over Harry and lamented leaving their dog at home. Many, many campers I encountered in my travels had left their dogs at home. Perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that I find this incomprehensible. As Harry and I took our leave and headed for the trailhead, the camp host (toothless I should add, why are they always toothless?) intercepted us.

"I'm having a fire later. Folks might stop by.You're welcome to come too."

"OK, maybe."

"I have beer..."

"We'll see."

Dammit. I hadn't had liquor since leaving New Jersey. How much company is a beer worth?

The trail through pinon pines and shrubby cedars wiped all consideration of campfire social time out of my head. Some late season wildflowers were still blooming. Birds and butterflies were strangely scarce, but beetles were plentiful.

Epicauta sp. beetle on unknown Asteraceae

Pencil cactus, Cylindropuntia leptocaulis with
bordered plant bug, Largus sp. 

Not a great picture, but these big carrot beetles (Tomarus gibbosus) were abundant and charming 

 Lakeside, we found a warm rock ledge from which to meditate on the poetry of twig and water. There is perfect quiet but for the bump and click of a quarter-sized carrot beetle that collides with my leg and drops to the rock. He's up and away after a stunned instant. I sometimes envy the simplicity of that primitive tangle of ganglia, designed to navigate the most basic tasks of survival: live, eat, mate. But were that my unencumbered brain, I would not be now contemplating the utter masterpiece of that glossy brown elytra. Perhaps none are fit to comment on the capacity of a beetle to recognize beauty?

Harry is game for a good ponder

Refreshed, our route back to camp took us past the camp host, who was quick to point out his fire and hold a cold beer aloft. I looked up the road to my campsite and saw my neighbors, sitting in their camp chairs, grinning. 

"I'm afraid I'm quite exhausted, but thank-you," I declined.

When I got within earshot, Mrs. Neighbor whispered, "Good choice. No one else was invited..."
There would be no beer for Gena that night.

The next morning, I was lured by abundant road signs to this spot, an odd natural well known as the the Blue Hole. It's a draw for tourists but we arrived at 8:00 AM to find it empty.

Apparently a diving destination

I had not really intended to swim, but the water was so blue and inviting and I was so dry and dusty. The quiet and solitude so bewitched me that morning, I gave more than a passing thought to just stripping down and jumping in. When the tourists started arriving just minutes after I dove in (in my swimsuit), I was heartily glad I had been prudent, although it would have made a much more interesting story had I not. Being the only swimmer, I was apparently assigned the role of Blue Hole expert by the crowd who peppered me with questions as I emerged. If you plan to visit and prefer privacy, consider arriving at 7.

Only 80 feet in diameter at the surface, the pool fans out to
130 feet at the bottom. It is over 80 feet deep in places.

Blue water beckons

Risking an iPhone dunking for a selfie

I was feeling cheerful and optimistic as I left the cleansing artesian waters of the Blue Hole for Arizona. A free campsite (I know, I do go on about the campsites) was awaiting exploration at the Naval Observatory near Flagstaff. But I knew my travels today would take me heartbreakingly close to the Grand Canyon, one of the most desired destinations on my original route. I wrestled with the notion of veering off the current course just to stand for the first time on the rim. I told myself then, as I still tell myself today, I will be back when I can do it unburdened. This road trip will remain unfinished until that day.

Near dark I arrive at the observatory unofficial campground in a grove of ponderosa pines. It's dispersed camping and we may park wherever we choose. There are two other campers, but they are dark and seemingly unoccupied. As we set up Pagoo for the night in the pines, I am tired and saddened by the cross county rush. But even as I plod the path to Acceptance, I know one good thing about myself: even in my darkest moments, I look for beauty. And I find it. Everywhere.

Ponderosa pine woods, northwest of Flagstaff

Toadflax, Linaria dalmatica

Wooly mullein heart

The full moon in the pines

I call my sister, Lisa, that night---I will be in Tonopah, and her Eden, tomorrow. The moon is rising. The universe shines it's spotlight in my window but I am only a speck. I will need to pass through this tomorrow:

Photograph by Bob Krist/Corbis

...and it seems like a final test of my endurance.