Awesome picture of the day:



It was probably a good thing that I went to bed early last night. I woke feeling refreshed, uploaded photos, took a shower, wrote my entry, and by the time Errol was ready to go, it was posted and I was ready to hit the road.

We got gas and got back on 160, winding our way toward Mesa Verde. The morning started cool, but as we drove, I could feel heat building around us.

The entrance to Mesa Verde is less than an hour from Durango, but you have to drive some 20 miles into the park - up twisty, mountainside roads that Beatrice was straining to climb - to get to the cliff dwellings. Deer bounding across the road periodically, and I drove very, very slowly.















It got hotter and hotter as we drove, and by the time we reached Spruce Tree House, it was easily in the mid-80s. We packed some drinking water and made the hike down the cliffside.









Even as a child, I loved sightseeing in places like historical villages because my imagination would go nuts. I would have these intense fantasies that I was living during that time period (coincidentally, in these fantasies I was always a feisty feminist that the patriarchal establishment was trying to suppress. Oh, and I always had a horse) and I would wander around, eyes glazed over, occasionally breaking from my daydream to hear the guide make some relevant point about knitting needles and tanning animal hides.

It was like that. The cliff dwellings are so well-preserved and so distinct that I had this moment of visualization that I was there when they were occupied by their original tenants.

We wandered around and took pictures. I listened to a large group chatter away in French. I grilled a park ranger about how one becomes a park ranger (I did this for you, Amanda - I can just see you wearing one of those hats). I climbed down into a dark pit, and climbed back out again. I touched the very, very old structures with the palm of my hand.













We hiked back up. It was intense. We downed all the water and collapsed into Beatrice, hungry and thirsty. I found another water bottle and as we drove back down the twisty, windy mountain hills, I smothered rice cakes in peanut butter and we feasted.

We left Mesa Verde a little before noon and continued on 160 West. We dipped down into the Ute Reservation, where we stopped for gas, and one of the guys at the station showed us how the mountain is supposed to be a sleeping Ute.



We went through Cortez, a town whose sign told us that it was the "gate to the Southwest."

And that's when I realized that the landscape was changing. The air was heavier, the ground was redder and full of scrubby, small vegetation. The Rocky Mountains were further and further behind us.



We hit the Four Corners.

I put my hands and legs in all four states at once, and it was exciting (and added two extra states to our trip: New Mexico and Utah).



As I went to get back in Beatrice, I noticed a couple about my parents' age checking out her bumper stickers.

"I love your bumper stickers," the woman said, smiling. "And you're from Pennsylvania! We're from Doylestown!"

"I'm from Allentown," I said. I explained about my move.

They wished me the best of luck with my travels. We drove into Arizona.

The funny thing about visiting new states is the immediate impressions they make upon you. I mean, you hear about states from other people - people who have lived there, for example - and you have ideas about what it's like, but there's nothing like actually experiencing it.

Arizona is hot. It's desolate. We drove through the Navajo Nation and it was beautiful and sad at the same time. Men sitting on suitcases jut their thumbs toward the brilliant blue sky, and the earth is so red it's almost disconcerting. The road was lined with lovely coral and yellow flowers. Horses galloped over the desert. I had the impression of hugeness, of heat and light.

We drove. And drove. And drove.





















We even drove past a truck hauling amusement park rides.



We turned off 160 W and went south. We got onto 64 and headed toward the Grand Canyon National Park.

As we drove, I noticed something. The earth was splitting open - slightly at first, and then suddenly, as we turned a corner, I saw that the the ground was huge and yawning. We pulled over and stepped out of the car.

This might not mean much to people who have never met me in person, but to those of you who do know me in real life, know this: I didn't speak. I couldn't. For all of my words, there were none in any combination that could adequately describe the feeling I had when I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time. I tightened the string on my hat to keep it from blowing away as the wind whipped around. And I didn't speak.









We drove through the park. It was strange - we'd descend into some trees, and begin to chat idly, and then the trees would clear and there it was, huge and gorgeous and gaping and spectacular and I'd stop mid-sentence with a "my god" and we'd fall silent.

We went through the entire park and came out the other side. We took our luggage to the hotel, had dinner, and then hung out in the room for a bit before heading back to the park for sunset.

We stood against the railing, Errol and I, staring out over the canyon as the setting sun bled color over the crags and formations and valleys. Errol pointed to one formation that looked like a pyramid, and we began to create a story about a king who lived there. "There," Errol said, pointing to another structure, "that's the land of the gods."

"And over there," I said, pointing to a high tower far away from the king's palace, "that's where the king's rebellious daughter ran away to. She lives there with high priestesses who worship her visage." I leaned my head against his shoulder. "I'm glad there's someone here experiencing this with me, or I don't think I'd believe that it happened."

The sun dipped down, and everything turned blue. I swallowed, hard. I thought about America, and her ugliness and her beauty, and was reminded of a line from a poem by Judy Grahn.

When she is cruel, she is very, very
cruel and when she is kind she is lavish.

Lavish, indeed.







































As the sun set, the full moon began to rise on the other side. I wish I'd had the lenses to adequately capture the beauty of the orange moon rising over the canyon.





We drove back in the dark, headlights catching the trees and signs imploring us not the feed the wildlife.

Sleep soon. Tomorrow, Las Vegas.

Love you.