It was a rare autumn monsoon, pounding the dry desert earth for hours. There was lightning and thunder, but no sign of the Milky Way, which we glimpsed our first night in Portal. The locals welcomed the rain, which had been teasing them for days.

The storm left a world rinsed clean, pockets of blue sky, the Chiricahuas sharp-edged against it. I looked, snapped a photo, sighed. This is why they call it the Yosemite of Arizona.

I snapped this shot before climbing in the rental car, punching the gate code, bumping over the cattle guard, and heading first east and north on Historic Highway 80, then west on I-10 to Tucson.

It was a short trip but a powerful one. The American West is like another country. So much so that I expected to queue up for passport control when I returned to Dulles. Luckily, that was not required. It was a quick return home to the muted colors of a mid-Atlantic November.