5.11.2010
5.10.2010
Avalanche Zone
To be fair, so far Southern Oregon has had the best weather we've seen. But knowing that this is Oregon and it does have a propensity to rain here, we were prepared for and even expecting some nominal amount of precipitation. We are such n00bs; who would have thought that 'roads closed for snow' in mid-May still meant actively snowing with banks topping 10 feet abutting the roadside? I was unfortunately naïve enough to make sure my snow boots were buried completely inaccessibly last time we re-packed the car (somewhere in New Mexico), not expecting to need them. This is yet more (unnecessary) proof that I am terrible at packing.
On the bright side, I learned some important facts. Crater Lake gets an average of over 40 feet of snow per year. When it's foggy and snowing, you can't really see the lake. I am far better at snowball-throwing than Dan is. (This is, by far, the most important new piece of knowledge.)
It has also been decided that any future trip to Crater Lake must take place either in the summer or, if during inclement (read: snowy) weather, fully equipped with recreational snow gear (i.e. snowshoes and cross country skis and avalanche gear). It should further be acknowledged that we are really terrible at finding good weather. Upon retrospection, the barista at the coffee shop in Santa Fe had the right idea; go to Arizona, pretend to be foreign, and get deported to somewhere nice and sunny, like the Caribbean.
On the bright side, I learned some important facts. Crater Lake gets an average of over 40 feet of snow per year. When it's foggy and snowing, you can't really see the lake. I am far better at snowball-throwing than Dan is. (This is, by far, the most important new piece of knowledge.)
It has also been decided that any future trip to Crater Lake must take place either in the summer or, if during inclement (read: snowy) weather, fully equipped with recreational snow gear (i.e. snowshoes and cross country skis and avalanche gear). It should further be acknowledged that we are really terrible at finding good weather. Upon retrospection, the barista at the coffee shop in Santa Fe had the right idea; go to Arizona, pretend to be foreign, and get deported to somewhere nice and sunny, like the Caribbean.
5.09.2010
5.08.2010
This Rock Slide Is Pathetic: Or, The New Theory of Relativity
I've become very skeptical of road signs. Rock Slide Area, Falling Rocks, Road Damage, Uneven Road Surface, 35 M.P.H. Curve, ICY, Speed Enforced By Radar, and Narrow Road - to name a few - have all lost some of their urgency.
Your Road Damage is a crack. I think. I can't really find any. Where's the two-inch gap between lanes from snow melting and freezing for months, making even the most innocent of lane changes a lesson in disaster avoidance? Your Uneven Road Surface is repaving over old yet perfectly smooth asphalt. Where are the potholes and loose rocks? This 35 M.P.H. Curve is built for bumbling RVs, not nimble hatchbacks. 50 mph, easy. I haven't seen a single cop in your desolate wastelands, and to me narrow means "space for two, only if mirrors are scraping", not an imperceptible decrease in shoulder width. And where's all the ice? It's been sunny and above 50 for days - and to top it all off, none of these so called "passes" are above 7500 feet.
Your rock slide is a gently sloping if possibly somewhat chunky hill subtly approaching the roadside, not overhanging cliffs of loose sandstone. Semi-truck sized hole possible? I think not.
If you don't mind - this is our road trip, DOT - we've seen worse and more precarious roads than your RV-driving, fanny-pack-wearing, upside-down-map-toting, slow-and-cautious target audience will ever hope to.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Your Road Damage is a crack. I think. I can't really find any. Where's the two-inch gap between lanes from snow melting and freezing for months, making even the most innocent of lane changes a lesson in disaster avoidance? Your Uneven Road Surface is repaving over old yet perfectly smooth asphalt. Where are the potholes and loose rocks? This 35 M.P.H. Curve is built for bumbling RVs, not nimble hatchbacks. 50 mph, easy. I haven't seen a single cop in your desolate wastelands, and to me narrow means "space for two, only if mirrors are scraping", not an imperceptible decrease in shoulder width. And where's all the ice? It's been sunny and above 50 for days - and to top it all off, none of these so called "passes" are above 7500 feet.
Your rock slide is a gently sloping if possibly somewhat chunky hill subtly approaching the roadside, not overhanging cliffs of loose sandstone. Semi-truck sized hole possible? I think not.
If you don't mind - this is our road trip, DOT - we've seen worse and more precarious roads than your RV-driving, fanny-pack-wearing, upside-down-map-toting, slow-and-cautious target audience will ever hope to.
Thanks, but no thanks.
5.07.2010
Cuincy, Qalifornia
7 May
My chamomile tea and pumpkin bread was just proffered to me in the most quaint and ecologically sound of manners; a small ceramic pot of tea, a glass mug, plate and fork on a wooden tray.
That about describes this coffee shop and this town; taste and kitsch meet in the walls of the coffee shop - covered with cuttings from canvas coffee bean sacks and an endless collection of coffee pots of various shapes and sizes and vintages - and in the streets of the town, with its opposing one-way streets which collectively make up Main Street, small cafés, and more consignment, vintage, and thrift than is strictly necessary for a town of 5,000.
Quincy has been the seat of Plumas County since the county was officially established around the turn of the 19th century, and as such is steeped in the West Coast stylings of history. Chinese, Native Americans, the White Man, and a freedman named Jim Beckwourth all came together in various roles to develop a rich culture of basketry, beading, mining, logging, transportation, and agriculture.1
Aside from being the closest "real town" to our free campsite, it provides the indispensable benefit of providing free wi-fi in cutesy coffee shops, as well as excellent eavesdropping involving cow health and blurriness.
1All this information thanks to the $2 admission-fee Plumas County Museum, which has more pictures of people in the old days than anyone should ever care to see, but also has extensive collections of heavy instruments for agriculture, mining, trains, blacksmithing, of Maidu baskets, of porcelain dolls, of Boy Scout patches through the ages, and of empty one-quart whiskey and bourbon bottles presumably guzzled by grizzly miners during the gold rush. Unfortunately for those drunk bastards, Plumas County was only lucky to have copper, quartz, and the like.
My chamomile tea and pumpkin bread was just proffered to me in the most quaint and ecologically sound of manners; a small ceramic pot of tea, a glass mug, plate and fork on a wooden tray.
That about describes this coffee shop and this town; taste and kitsch meet in the walls of the coffee shop - covered with cuttings from canvas coffee bean sacks and an endless collection of coffee pots of various shapes and sizes and vintages - and in the streets of the town, with its opposing one-way streets which collectively make up Main Street, small cafés, and more consignment, vintage, and thrift than is strictly necessary for a town of 5,000.
Quincy has been the seat of Plumas County since the county was officially established around the turn of the 19th century, and as such is steeped in the West Coast stylings of history. Chinese, Native Americans, the White Man, and a freedman named Jim Beckwourth all came together in various roles to develop a rich culture of basketry, beading, mining, logging, transportation, and agriculture.1
Aside from being the closest "real town" to our free campsite, it provides the indispensable benefit of providing free wi-fi in cutesy coffee shops, as well as excellent eavesdropping involving cow health and blurriness.
1All this information thanks to the $2 admission-fee Plumas County Museum, which has more pictures of people in the old days than anyone should ever care to see, but also has extensive collections of heavy instruments for agriculture, mining, trains, blacksmithing, of Maidu baskets, of porcelain dolls, of Boy Scout patches through the ages, and of empty one-quart whiskey and bourbon bottles presumably guzzled by grizzly miners during the gold rush. Unfortunately for those drunk bastards, Plumas County was only lucky to have copper, quartz, and the like.
Little House in the Big Woods
6/7 May
The square root of 41 miles (as the crow flies) southwest of Quincy, CA on a gravel Forest Service road, a small group of campgrounds are nestled around a waterfall and rushing stream. The sites are not maintained (and therefore free), save for fallen trees being cut to make roads just barely passable. Abandoned picnic tables and fire puts dot the clearing, and an aged sign warns of rotten tree dangers. The restrooms - rather, outhouses - are decorated with cobwebs and tree crumblings. No other cars pass on the road, if it can indeed be seen from here. The stream cuts a deep gash through the wooded landscape, providing a just-accessible source of fresh water, if you're willing to brave the narrow path trodden into the 75˚ hillside.
These trees are tall, and sporadically drop pine cones as big as my face. The air is of dust and pine needles and is swollen with the cleanliness of a fresh breeze.
Part horror-movie opening, part pristine solitude. It instills a sense of wonderment at the vastness of lands yet to be seen. This is a place where you realize important things: the value of company and the value of solitude.
(Two ducks - male and female - mallards - just came swimming downstream - saw me - paused - and through their wordless lover's communication took off in a flurry of splashing and feathers. This is not my stream.)
The sense of life, sustenance, and survival. The influence of and on one person. Encounters. Observation. Wonder and why.
The square root of 41 miles (as the crow flies) southwest of Quincy, CA on a gravel Forest Service road, a small group of campgrounds are nestled around a waterfall and rushing stream. The sites are not maintained (and therefore free), save for fallen trees being cut to make roads just barely passable. Abandoned picnic tables and fire puts dot the clearing, and an aged sign warns of rotten tree dangers. The restrooms - rather, outhouses - are decorated with cobwebs and tree crumblings. No other cars pass on the road, if it can indeed be seen from here. The stream cuts a deep gash through the wooded landscape, providing a just-accessible source of fresh water, if you're willing to brave the narrow path trodden into the 75˚ hillside.
These trees are tall, and sporadically drop pine cones as big as my face. The air is of dust and pine needles and is swollen with the cleanliness of a fresh breeze.
Part horror-movie opening, part pristine solitude. It instills a sense of wonderment at the vastness of lands yet to be seen. This is a place where you realize important things: the value of company and the value of solitude.
(Two ducks - male and female - mallards - just came swimming downstream - saw me - paused - and through their wordless lover's communication took off in a flurry of splashing and feathers. This is not my stream.)
The sense of life, sustenance, and survival. The influence of and on one person. Encounters. Observation. Wonder and why.
A Tale of Irony, Greed, and Betrayal
6 May
Ma and Pa Donner set out for the West sometime in the 1860s. They were accompanied by 25 of their nearest and dearest.
Sometime in the spring, they stopped to fix their wagons (presumably their oxen did not successfully cross the Snake River - FAIL) in the mountains on the west side of what was someday to be called Lake Tahoe. Evidently, they also neglected to sufficiently stock up on spare axles and wheels and, frankly, whoever it was really sucked at Oregon Trail. In any case, their wagons became mired in the ungodly marshes of the Sierra Nevadas (damned mud puddles). Without spare wagon parts they proceeded to fell trees to build their own. Several party members forgot to move and got squashed. During this feat, which took a good while since they had chosen the ubiquitously useless careers of teachers and lawyers, a snowstorm befell them.
Woe unto the Donner Party! Stuck in a bog on a mountain in a snowstorm, they slowly began to get very hungry and cold. Here, the story becomes a tad sketchy (I swear to this point it's the truth). Common knowledge asserts that they all turned to cannibalism and went up in pillars of smoke and flame. Ish. Alternate renderings suggest some profound sacrifices on the part of the mothers, all to save their children.* Hopefully, this sacrifice involved their own blood and flesh because that's the only good part of the story anyway. Only eleven members survived.
In any case, the "Donner Camp Picnic Ground" (oh, it hurts) graces the side of CA Rte. 89 somewhere north of Truckee. Its plaques commemorate the bravery and pioneering spirit that made California what it is today: the land of saintly cannibals.
*This is the National Park version of the story. Wimps.
Ma and Pa Donner set out for the West sometime in the 1860s. They were accompanied by 25 of their nearest and dearest.
Sometime in the spring, they stopped to fix their wagons (presumably their oxen did not successfully cross the Snake River - FAIL) in the mountains on the west side of what was someday to be called Lake Tahoe. Evidently, they also neglected to sufficiently stock up on spare axles and wheels and, frankly, whoever it was really sucked at Oregon Trail. In any case, their wagons became mired in the ungodly marshes of the Sierra Nevadas (damned mud puddles). Without spare wagon parts they proceeded to fell trees to build their own. Several party members forgot to move and got squashed. During this feat, which took a good while since they had chosen the ubiquitously useless careers of teachers and lawyers, a snowstorm befell them.
Woe unto the Donner Party! Stuck in a bog on a mountain in a snowstorm, they slowly began to get very hungry and cold. Here, the story becomes a tad sketchy (I swear to this point it's the truth). Common knowledge asserts that they all turned to cannibalism and went up in pillars of smoke and flame. Ish. Alternate renderings suggest some profound sacrifices on the part of the mothers, all to save their children.* Hopefully, this sacrifice involved their own blood and flesh because that's the only good part of the story anyway. Only eleven members survived.
In any case, the "Donner Camp Picnic Ground" (oh, it hurts) graces the side of CA Rte. 89 somewhere north of Truckee. Its plaques commemorate the bravery and pioneering spirit that made California what it is today: the land of saintly cannibals.
*This is the National Park version of the story. Wimps.
5.06.2010
The Roadblocks to Progress
I thought we were finding sunshine, warmth, and happiness. Instead all we seem to be able to find is more snow and closed campgrounds. Not to be a Negative Nancy - Tahoe is absolutely drop dead gorgeous. Dan likens it to Geneva, and even though I've never been to Geneva, the accuracy of the analogy seems probable. Now I want to go to Geneva. Damn it. Sidetracked.
The previously sort-of-tried-and-kind-of-true method of driving around and finding somewhere to sleep failed - utterly and almost completely - last night. Everything in Nevada was hot and dry, and eminently camp-able. Lake Tahoe is not frozen, the city of South Lake Tahoe is not ice-covered and there is no snow in sight. Assuming this trend would carry over into the peaks surrounding the lake - which are also necessary to cross to get anywhere else - several wild goose chases ensued. Silly us, lakes surrounded by somewhere in the neighborhood of eight ski resorts which obviously still have snow on them probably do not have open campgrounds nearby. It's practically winter - mud season - here, too. Luckily the city of SLT operates a recreation area which includes a library, ice arena, lake shore access, and a campground (with running water! and trees! and shade!) for the whopping fee of $26/night. But this, being the only option, was the only option.
Henceforth, today's project has involved five hours in a coffee shop updating the world on our progress and actually planning (for a change) the next couple of nights. As much as nights spent camping in national forests and wilderness areas can be planned. Unfortunately, we have also realized that mountains in the rest of the country behave much like mountains in the Front Range in Colorado in that they are still snow-covered with roads and campgrounds closed for the season, in some cases until early June. Again, whoops. Woe unto us and our youthful naïveté.
The previously sort-of-tried-and-kind-of-true method of driving around and finding somewhere to sleep failed - utterly and almost completely - last night. Everything in Nevada was hot and dry, and eminently camp-able. Lake Tahoe is not frozen, the city of South Lake Tahoe is not ice-covered and there is no snow in sight. Assuming this trend would carry over into the peaks surrounding the lake - which are also necessary to cross to get anywhere else - several wild goose chases ensued. Silly us, lakes surrounded by somewhere in the neighborhood of eight ski resorts which obviously still have snow on them probably do not have open campgrounds nearby. It's practically winter - mud season - here, too. Luckily the city of SLT operates a recreation area which includes a library, ice arena, lake shore access, and a campground (with running water! and trees! and shade!) for the whopping fee of $26/night. But this, being the only option, was the only option.
Henceforth, today's project has involved five hours in a coffee shop updating the world on our progress and actually planning (for a change) the next couple of nights. As much as nights spent camping in national forests and wilderness areas can be planned. Unfortunately, we have also realized that mountains in the rest of the country behave much like mountains in the Front Range in Colorado in that they are still snow-covered with roads and campgrounds closed for the season, in some cases until early June. Again, whoops. Woe unto us and our youthful naïveté.
The Loneliest Road
5 May
Highway 50 follows for some time the Pony Express Trail. I can envision messengers riding through in the days of the Wild West. The trail is very straight - riding west, into the setting sun. Until, of course, you run into these hills...mountains? And the endless range of peaks ahead must have been daunting. To be honest, I can't imagine riding this trail. Long, straight, dry, hot, spliced at intervals by 10,000 foot ranges. No easy feat, it seems. Dried lakes brew into dust storms with standing pillars of sand clouds. These valleys should be more fertile given the prolific snowfall still evident in mid-May. As lonely as this road is today at least there's a promise of something to come - thanks to a map, or simply the infinite extension of asphalt ahead of you. But to be a pony express rider with only a dusty trail ahead of you, mountains ahead and behind, flatness all around, and a pack of messages, must have been unforgiving and never-ending.
Highway 50 follows for some time the Pony Express Trail. I can envision messengers riding through in the days of the Wild West. The trail is very straight - riding west, into the setting sun. Until, of course, you run into these hills...mountains? And the endless range of peaks ahead must have been daunting. To be honest, I can't imagine riding this trail. Long, straight, dry, hot, spliced at intervals by 10,000 foot ranges. No easy feat, it seems. Dried lakes brew into dust storms with standing pillars of sand clouds. These valleys should be more fertile given the prolific snowfall still evident in mid-May. As lonely as this road is today at least there's a promise of something to come - thanks to a map, or simply the infinite extension of asphalt ahead of you. But to be a pony express rider with only a dusty trail ahead of you, mountains ahead and behind, flatness all around, and a pack of messages, must have been unforgiving and never-ending.
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| From RoadTrip10 |
Another World
5 May
It's always bizarre to wake up somewhere so completely different from where you went to sleep. The shock of snow covered peaks in the near distance was a welcome surprise and much appreciated by my newly clean hair and body. Sayonara dusty desert sand! Unfortunately this haven in the middle of nowhere (at the junction of highways 93 and 50) is nothing if not smotheringly Republican: "Elect Anyone BUTT Harry Reid." (He is evidently blamed for the recent demise of Ely's coal mining industry. I still don't get it.) A couple steps out of their oversized Ford pickup: he in a "You Need Jesus" t-shirt, lighting a Marlboro - oh, the all-American boy - she in too-small jeans, flip flops, and a pink camo tank top. Pink. Camo. Tank top.
Our waitress at the Big Apple Restaurant? Diner? Eatery? was eboulliantly cheerful in a Midwest meets Pacific Northwest kind of way. Her infectious cheery earnestness went even farther when she told me I had beautiful hair. (See discourse on curly hair - it's in particularly fine form today.)
Departing the Big Apple establishment we discover Dan left laptop, cord, and sandals on top of car. Oops. That;s what happens when low blood sugar kicks in. Discovering this faux pas with a delectable mix of incredulity and hilarity - it's a miracle the laptop stayed during the quarter mile drive - and one sandal was missing, easily recovered in the Motel 6 parking lot. All errors rectified, back on the road. None other than Hwy 50, the infamous Loneliest Road. More never-ending scrubby sandstone desert. Impatiently awaiting the granite - and water! - of Tahoe.
It's always bizarre to wake up somewhere so completely different from where you went to sleep. The shock of snow covered peaks in the near distance was a welcome surprise and much appreciated by my newly clean hair and body. Sayonara dusty desert sand! Unfortunately this haven in the middle of nowhere (at the junction of highways 93 and 50) is nothing if not smotheringly Republican: "Elect Anyone BUTT Harry Reid." (He is evidently blamed for the recent demise of Ely's coal mining industry. I still don't get it.) A couple steps out of their oversized Ford pickup: he in a "You Need Jesus" t-shirt, lighting a Marlboro - oh, the all-American boy - she in too-small jeans, flip flops, and a pink camo tank top. Pink. Camo. Tank top.
Our waitress at the Big Apple Restaurant? Diner? Eatery? was eboulliantly cheerful in a Midwest meets Pacific Northwest kind of way. Her infectious cheery earnestness went even farther when she told me I had beautiful hair. (See discourse on curly hair - it's in particularly fine form today.)
Departing the Big Apple establishment we discover Dan left laptop, cord, and sandals on top of car. Oops. That;s what happens when low blood sugar kicks in. Discovering this faux pas with a delectable mix of incredulity and hilarity - it's a miracle the laptop stayed during the quarter mile drive - and one sandal was missing, easily recovered in the Motel 6 parking lot. All errors rectified, back on the road. None other than Hwy 50, the infamous Loneliest Road. More never-ending scrubby sandstone desert. Impatiently awaiting the granite - and water! - of Tahoe.
The Loneliest States
4 May
Jeff got wilderness permits for Coyote Buttes, the site of "the Wave," an impressive sandstone feature lost in the no-man's land between Utah and Arizona. Unfortunately, having a fever gets in the way of being a happy hiker, as does a distinct lack of iron and protein. Whoops. Also, crab-walking down desperately steep sandstone almost-cliffs means you get tons of sand in your underwear and then all you want to do is get the hell out of the desert.
Zion NP: Very pretty. Fun road, except for the idiot ahead of me trying to take pictures out his window while driving. A river! Flowing water! Hallelujah! And the National Park pass comes in handy because you have to pay the entry fee to drive through the park on UT 9.
St. George, UT: evidently one of the fastest growing metropolitan areas in the country. All because of cotton. Which failed. This led to lots of wikipedia searches on Mormonism and Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, all leading to the conclusion that it's insanity. However, dinner was delicious: cupcake bakery slash restaurant. REALLY good cupcakes: sorry Daddy. Continuing the hunt for better weather, or at least less harsh terrain, here we are in Ely, Nevada - just a place to lay the head in the midst of elk-hunting territory. Ah, the life of a nomad. Cheap hotel rooms and extra long showers but the shower head is shorter than I am. Searching for greener pastures. The sunset was pretty but as far as I can tell all these states look the same as each other.
Jeff got wilderness permits for Coyote Buttes, the site of "the Wave," an impressive sandstone feature lost in the no-man's land between Utah and Arizona. Unfortunately, having a fever gets in the way of being a happy hiker, as does a distinct lack of iron and protein. Whoops. Also, crab-walking down desperately steep sandstone almost-cliffs means you get tons of sand in your underwear and then all you want to do is get the hell out of the desert.
Zion NP: Very pretty. Fun road, except for the idiot ahead of me trying to take pictures out his window while driving. A river! Flowing water! Hallelujah! And the National Park pass comes in handy because you have to pay the entry fee to drive through the park on UT 9.
St. George, UT: evidently one of the fastest growing metropolitan areas in the country. All because of cotton. Which failed. This led to lots of wikipedia searches on Mormonism and Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, all leading to the conclusion that it's insanity. However, dinner was delicious: cupcake bakery slash restaurant. REALLY good cupcakes: sorry Daddy. Continuing the hunt for better weather, or at least less harsh terrain, here we are in Ely, Nevada - just a place to lay the head in the midst of elk-hunting territory. Ah, the life of a nomad. Cheap hotel rooms and extra long showers but the shower head is shorter than I am. Searching for greener pastures. The sunset was pretty but as far as I can tell all these states look the same as each other.
The Hunt for Better Weather
2 May
Chaco: HailSnowSleetSlushRain. We woke up with accumulation - ACCUMULATION - on the tent. Driving in clay = not easy. Bloomfield, NM: Sonya's Cookin' USA; Truckers Welcome!: this is what happens when you forget to pack food. Oops. Learned that lesson. Farmington, NM: Republican Headquarters of San Juan County.
State Border: AZ. Navajo Nation to Page. Alfonso's burritos: cheap and delicious, hiding near Safeway somewhere. Finding Jeff on a random side road in Southern Utah, camping on Bureau of Land Management lands for free. Wind and dust. Dust and wind.
Chaco: HailSnowSleetSlushRain. We woke up with accumulation - ACCUMULATION - on the tent. Driving in clay = not easy. Bloomfield, NM: Sonya's Cookin' USA; Truckers Welcome!: this is what happens when you forget to pack food. Oops. Learned that lesson. Farmington, NM: Republican Headquarters of San Juan County.
State Border: AZ. Navajo Nation to Page. Alfonso's burritos: cheap and delicious, hiding near Safeway somewhere. Finding Jeff on a random side road in Southern Utah, camping on Bureau of Land Management lands for free. Wind and dust. Dust and wind.
A Past
1 May
May Day! And no maypoles in sight.
Chaco Canyon
Once upon a time, about 12 years ago (a lifetime), I was here. Not necessarily here exactly, but pretty close.
When I was 10, I committed the number 41 (or was it 37?) to memory. Although it seems like everything here has changed in the last 12 years (how can ancient preservation sites change?) here I am again nestled in the fallen boulders against the cliff above campsite 41. I glanced around for the teardrop shaped rock behind which hides the secret cave in which I lost my Lion King watch. It was purple. I can't find it. Maybe a rock fell on it, or a pile of dirt in a torrential downpour. (Highly unlikely in such a desert.) I hate to think my 10-year-old's memory and the years since have become warped in some way.
This is a rediscovery, it seems, of parts of me, and I've already realized how much I've changed in 12 years. I've developed a sense of fear, and I've become a bit more jaded.
What happened to the little girl I was when I was 10? Maybe I'll find her here, where I left her.
May Day! And no maypoles in sight.
Chaco Canyon
Once upon a time, about 12 years ago (a lifetime), I was here. Not necessarily here exactly, but pretty close.
When I was 10, I committed the number 41 (or was it 37?) to memory. Although it seems like everything here has changed in the last 12 years (how can ancient preservation sites change?) here I am again nestled in the fallen boulders against the cliff above campsite 41. I glanced around for the teardrop shaped rock behind which hides the secret cave in which I lost my Lion King watch. It was purple. I can't find it. Maybe a rock fell on it, or a pile of dirt in a torrential downpour. (Highly unlikely in such a desert.) I hate to think my 10-year-old's memory and the years since have become warped in some way.
This is a rediscovery, it seems, of parts of me, and I've already realized how much I've changed in 12 years. I've developed a sense of fear, and I've become a bit more jaded.
What happened to the little girl I was when I was 10? Maybe I'll find her here, where I left her.
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| From RoadTrip10 |
New New Mexico
30 April
Santa Fe -> Los Alamos -> Jemez Valley
Santa Fe: Est. 1608-ish (memory hardly serves) and is therefore about the same age as Jamestown. Wow! History outside the East Coast! Since 1610 it's been the capital. Of whatever. It has lots of old buildings, like "the oldest house," which has also been standing since 1610. Middle-aged white women like Santa Fe. They're the only thing to see there other than fake adobe architecture and lots of silver, turquoise, and tacky western stuff. Vaguely redeeming quality is that I actually like turquoise, and there are a good number of non-western themed art galleries and boutiques. Positive points: cheap burritos and cheap hostel and a Whole Foods and Trader Joe's within a block of each other, Frito pie.
Los Alamos: National Laboratory, atomic bomb, very confusing road through town.
Jemez Mountains/Valley/NF: River oasis nestled between big hills. Bright green trees turn to scrubbiness, boulders, rockslides, and parched desert clay. The earth is red. Clear skies make for excellent stargazing but excessively layered sleeping arrangements.
Santa Fe -> Los Alamos -> Jemez Valley
Santa Fe: Est. 1608-ish (memory hardly serves) and is therefore about the same age as Jamestown. Wow! History outside the East Coast! Since 1610 it's been the capital. Of whatever. It has lots of old buildings, like "the oldest house," which has also been standing since 1610. Middle-aged white women like Santa Fe. They're the only thing to see there other than fake adobe architecture and lots of silver, turquoise, and tacky western stuff. Vaguely redeeming quality is that I actually like turquoise, and there are a good number of non-western themed art galleries and boutiques. Positive points: cheap burritos and cheap hostel and a Whole Foods and Trader Joe's within a block of each other, Frito pie.
Los Alamos: National Laboratory, atomic bomb, very confusing road through town.
Jemez Mountains/Valley/NF: River oasis nestled between big hills. Bright green trees turn to scrubbiness, boulders, rockslides, and parched desert clay. The earth is red. Clear skies make for excellent stargazing but excessively layered sleeping arrangements.
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