exit 286 (latest take)

[mnaz]

Your new powers of rain cut a wide swath over magnificent desolation. Strange, considering the utter parchment you first encountered. Only weeks earlier, on your first New Mexico veer, an exalted vision literally pulled you off the road from Cuba to Bernalillo, into the paltry, brittle sagebrush. Not a thin etching to some silent site this time, but a great vertical peak. Cabezon, the "big head," a massive volcanic plug. And toward Rio Puerco, other such peaks, great charcoal gloves thrust high over the skeletal scrub. There was no movement except for leftover strings of snow that carved up the gloves, threatened to undercut a sandstone ledge, set it adrift. Mesa Chivato rose sharply in the south to unseen pine heights, made of massive basaltic flows, the congealed blood of a giant slain atop nearby Mount Taylor in Navajo myth, a scene worthy of some time.

Chocolate chips proliferate in New Mexico, familiar scatterings of juniper and pinon on saffron dough, mixed with New Mexico light, a painter's light, unmatched. How so? Thin air and sprinkled juniper abound in the high desert. Maybe it's in contrast. The canvas is too thin, too barren and reflective, and results were stunning in a low angle sunbeam freeze barely a mile from winter solstice, though nothing but starved sagebrush and fossilized bits of snow on the frost-gold dough at Cabezon, dry as crumbled wisdom in the parched cold.

The horizon made no move. You acquired immovable ground, a foundation that gave its word. Then, a stretching shadow, a finger of pink, and your foundation can't be trusted. You suffered the earth rotation; it accelerated and you held on, sensed its axis wobble and tenuous tether that keeps the poles from leaning. The moon crept up from behind while you were distracted by sienna sunfire. The moon is a pale excuse, never the same face or place, and it raised adobe ruins from sagebrush tombs. But mainly it was the pure, dry cold, a biting, inviting cold that ran in and out. Bless the cold, give it a voice, let it take on remorseless fire.

In Gallup you forgot to lock the door, and at ten or so it opened, and angry Navajo woman walked in. Her eyes were a-flame, and her presence, darkly righteous, and she sat on the bed next to you, railed against white man's injustice, ran a check on you the whole time, almost like the cops. So you made conversation, with a few beers in you. White folks have contributed some wonderful things to the race, but you were in no mood to defend nor indict any particular race within the race, so you agreed in principle, which threw her off. The track record is pretty sketchy lately. Not sure what she was after, maybe looking for a fight, or a trick, and she left quickly. The road seemed a lot longer in the morning.

New Mexico was filled with diverse history and culture, from the intimate network of tradition-rich native pueblos, to ruins of Spanish conquest five hundred years ago, to kivas and cliff dwellings, ghosts of the Anasazi, to vestiges of the old vaquero way of life. The oldest buildings in continuous use in the U.S. are in New Mexico, some four hundred plus years. And the land was a sublime theater of rock turmoil, filled with rock temples and mystic canyons, extinct volcanos and giant lava flows, and sheer sandstone on the faults, in humbler shades than the red madness of Utah. In truth New Mexico was a whole other story, a higher matter than your short turn might address. But you missed the great Nevada curves, the defeated mountains of Mojave, more at ease on the wide alluvial arcs, on the great deposits of eroded rock than rock itself. So it seemed. So you went west again.

You reached impasse on a red-tinged plateau, probably Arizona, and the painted earth went gray in a fog. Real fog, as in London. Another three hundred miles and you'd be rid of the interstate, but you ran low just when hills had melted into a brick stream. So you took a clue from that pitiless flat, found a broken motel on old 66 on the edge of Navajo land by the tracks, with a king-size bed and singing pipes for $18 cash, where it was once possible to contemplate tail fins on American cars. You were an overdue bill, still stricken by possibility.

Go east into walled canyons, north into the pines, or south and west into the arid center. Still looking for its heart. You wanted to round up road-weary ushers in a tri-county radius and storm the nearest white steeple on Sunday, tell of forgotten exits, with envy. The congregation is home; they have what you gave up. You live in cheap motels and the back of your truck and spend nothing, yet the money goes, and even if bankrolled to roll indefinitely, indefinite roll might get you, but it was the only way here, and you needed to be here, verging on aimless.

[dadio]

You can write so well and do so. Love this prose.

[mnaz]

thanks, dadio. i traveled off-and-on (mostly "on") for a good four years or so, stopping to work an odd job or two (rarely, thankfully). what's strange about the overall wander are these strange occurrences along the way. this woman really did walk into my room one night, as if no big deal. no knock, or anything. she wasn't even upset at first, then suddenly she was denouncing injustice! true story.

a lot of strange things. the day i left on the main trip (with the intent to move to the nevada desert) was sept. 10th, 2001. true story. and yes, i really did get caught in a shootout in the absolute middle of nowhere. true story. bizarre... stranger than fiction? anyway, thanks.

--latest...

Your new powers of rain cut a wide swath over fantastic desolation. Strange, given the original parchment you found. An exalted vision pulled you off the road from Cuba to Bernalillo into brittle sagebrush on your first New Mexico veer. A vertical peak. Cabezon, the "big head," a massive volcanic plug. And toward Rio Puerco you found other such peaks, great charcoal gloves thrust high over the skeletal scrub. There was no movement except for leftover strings of snow that carved up the gloves, threatened to undercut a pale ledge, set it adrift. Mesa Chivato rose in the south to unseen pine heights, made of massive basaltic flows, the congealed blood of a giant slain atop nearby Mount Taylor in Navajo myth.

Chocolate chips proliferate here, familiar scatterings of juniper and pinon on saffron dough, mixed with New Mexico light, a painter's light. Maybe it's in contrast, canvas too thin and reflective. And results were stunning in a low angle sunbeam freeze barely a mile from winter solstice, though only starved sagebrush and fossilized bits of snow on frost-gold dough at Cabezon, dry as crumbled wisdom in parched cold. The horizon made no move. You had immovable ground, a foundation that gave its word.

Then, a stretching shadow, a finger of pink, and your foundation drifted. You suffered earth's rotation and held on, sensed its axis wobble and tenuous tether that keeps the poles from rolling, and moon raised adobe ruins from sage tombs. Moon is a pale excuse, never the same face or place. Crept up from behind while you were distracted by sienna sunfire. It was pure, dry cold, ran in and out, biting and inviting. Bless the cold, give it a voice, let it take on remorseless fire.

In Gallup you forgot to lock the door. At ten or so it opened, and Navajo woman walked in like she'd known you forever, sat beside you on the bed and ran a check, almost like the cops. You asked why she stopped by, and she began to rail against white man's injustice. She was darkly righteous, so you made conversation, with a few beers in you. White folks have given us many important things, but you were in no mood to defend nor indict any particular race within the race, so you agreed in principle, which threw her off. The track record is sketchy lately. Not sure what she was after, maybe a fight, or a trick, and she left quickly. The road seemed longer in the morning.

New Mexico is filled with culture, from tradition-rich pueblos, to vestiges of the old vaquero way of life, to ruins of Spanish conquest five hundred years ago, to kivas and cliff dwellings, ghosts of the Anasazi. In Old Albuquerque are buildings that have seen over four hundred years of unbroken use. And the land is a sublime theater of rock turmoil, filled with rock temples and mystic canyons, ex-volcanoes and giant lava flows, sheer sandstone on the faultlines, in humbler shades than the red madness of Utah. In truth, New Mexico is a much greater story than your short turn might address. But you missed the great Nevada arcs and defeated mountains of Mojave, more at ease on those wide alluvial arcs, on great deposits of eroded rock than rock itself, so it seemed. So you went west.

You reached impasse on a red-tinged plateau, probably Arizona, and the painted earth went gray in a fog. Real fog, as in London. Another three hundred miles and you'd be rid of the interstate, but you ran low just when hills had melted into a brick stream, an overdue bill still stricken by possibility. So you took a clue from a pitiless flat and found a fine broken motel on old 66 by the tracks, with a king-size bed and singing pipes for $18 cash, where tailfins on American cars once stayed. North into the pines, east into walled canyons, or southwest into the arid heart. Round up the road-weary and storm the nearest white steeple on Sunday, tell of forgotten exits. The congregation is home; they have what you gave up. You live in the back of your truck and cheap motels and spend nothing, yet the money goes, but indefinite roll might get you even if bankrolled to roll indefinitely. But it was the only way here, and you needed to be here, verging on aimless.