The title of this post is a line from a Bill Bryson book, and it's amazing how often it applies. I went to New Mexico on Sunday. It first struck me that it isn't Colorado any more when I was driving along the highway to Aztec through parched and scrubby land, but the mountains near Durango were just on the horizon. Aztec & Durango are maybe 40 miles apart, but they might as well be opposite ends of the country. Initially, I wasn't too impressed with Aztec and its mobile home-inspired architecture, but after visiting the stellar ruins and driving down adobe-ful Main Street, I could concede that it might be acceptable to live there.
Aztec Ruins National Monument has nothing to do with Aztecs, but the misconception of a century ago has never been officially corrected. For a place that accepts my Park Pass, it's improbably tiny, but provides the best bang for your buck of any of the Ancestral Puebloan sites. The building is massive, and you're actually allowed inside in spots, to stand in the room where they found dozens of bodies, and to appreciate the original roof and 800-year old willow door. It's also interesting to note the clues of the stones--where they've been re-mortared, where a door used to be, where certain features don't match the typical style. The Great Kiva is also huge (they think it was a central one, like a cathedral as opposed to a church) and it's been rebuilt, so you can go inside and see what it would have been like to be in there with the Puebloans. There was a really old Parks volunteer in there answering questions, and he was impressively knowledgeable. The one thing he didn't know was why the people ultimately left (nobody has come up with a conclusive explanation for this). There was a guy from Illinois who really wanted to know, and asked the question several times, evidently hoping the answer would change. Did it have anything to do with the Longbodies the Parks guy had mentioned? (The following day, I heard a voice across the canyon at Hovenweep talking about supernovae. I looked across and there was a familiar figure saying, "and then there's the Longbodies...")
A flock of Canada geese flew over while I was walking around there. Talk about juxtaposition! Such a familiar noise...but there? There also were a lot of sirens, and copious black smoke over yonder. I forgot to go check it out, though.
The other thing I learned at Aztec was that the Chaco Canyon campground is closed. Interesting. Twice (at least) this summer, I have had plans to go to New Mexico, and twice I have changed my mind at the very last minute. The original itinerary was to bypass Aztec entirely and spend the night at Chaco, which is at the end of a very long dirt road. I'm very grateful to whatever subliminal message kept me from driving many miles & hours only to find that what I wanted to do wasn't available. And I loved Aztec & Bisti anyway.
Before Bisti, though, was Farmington. Definitely bigger than Cortez, and maybe even bigger than Durango. There was a mall. When I asked our marketing guy, Richard, what there was to do in Farmington, he said it's a good place to shop. Where I'm from, that means it's full of boutiques and fudge shops and art galleries. Here in Nowhere, that means it has a Sears and a JC Penney and is a good place to procure socks & underwear. Farmington is also full of interesting junkyards, some of which are actually car dealers. I guess it's officially the Southwest--the preponderance of impossibly old vehicles is rather delightful. Farmington's other arresting detail is that it's sandwiched between two mesas. Look north or south down any street and you see a typical assortment of houses, traffic lights, shops, etc, and a rock wall at the end.
Leaving Farmington entails a swift, steep, climb, after which you arrive in a landscape that's even more featureless than Illinois. Illinois has a farm or two, and occasional rivers marked by a strip of lush vegetation. New Mexico has scrub and electric wires. After 30 miles of this, you crest a ridge and are suddenly in badlands. The Bisti Wilderness is one of the USA's great wacky places. It's got black lava mounds. It's got odd green hilly things. It's got red & white rock spires. It's got dust. Petrified wood chips. And it's got a really astounding array of little rock sculptures littered all over the floor. It's like walking into a Dali painting.
And walk it I did. Lonely Planet said the best formations are 2 miles east of the parking lot. They put it that way because there's no trail. When a woman who arrived just after I did started questioning my lack of map or GPS, I started questioning it too. Is wandering into the desert alone really the smartest thing to do? Even though it's flat as can be, I took the one of my hiking poles with a compass in it and checked it frequently. I followed the fence for some distance, then when it veered off in the wrong direction, I walked the rest of the way in a wash. It wound this way and that, but at least I'd be able to trace it back. Finally I got to some pretty cool stuff, at a distance that was believable at 2 miles. I turned and looked west. I could still see the rocks I parked next to. I was emboldened to wander a bit, and was rewarded for my efforts. It was Lilliputian Utah. At one point, I surprised a very tiny rabbit. I don't know if it was a baby, or whether that's the growth limit for that limited assortment of vegetation. I have no idea where it gets its water. There were some places where I walked on cracked, rock-hard sand; in some places, the surface was ashy; and then there were spots where it looked as though pebbles and wood chips were laying about, but if you tried to pick one up, you'd find it stuck fast in the dirt, like the quarters you see in road tar. It's one of the most unusual places I've ever been.
Next time, I'd like to hike farther and camp in the middle of it, but I was set for car camping, so I found a quiet spot (not difficult--this place is spectacularly untrafficked) and set up the tent. It was nearly sunset, and the almost total absence of bugs made it pleasant to sit in the dust and skywatch. Mountains were visible in the far distance, and so was rain--I had been expecting to get doused for hours at this point, and was realizing it wasn't going to happen. Out here, I've always lived next to the mountains, where the rain always falls. Get far enough out, though, and you have the privilege of just watching it. One of the rangers at Mesa Verde said it's a treat to see rain in the desert, and he's right, especially if it's not hitting you. I later realized I'd set up the tent under power lines (of all things, way out there), which thrummed and twanged all night, but I didnt' get electrocuted, so all's well that ends well.
No comments:
Post a Comment