A Walker in the Suburbs

When I think of the western states we just visited, I imagine the gas giant planets — Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune. 

Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona (we didn’t stop in the latter, though we were within miles of it) have the same heft and proportions. Their landscapes are bare, alien, even dangerous at times (see yesterday’s post). 

Yes, they have an atmosphere, so I won’t take the metaphor too far, but there are similarities. They are near the outer edge of this continent, and are some of the last-explored places in the country. Their terrain can be hostile. Human effort appears puny in their vastness. 

Returning from a trip out west, then, is more like falling back to Earth, finding one’s self again on safe, familiar ground. 

There are two routes from Taos to Albuquerque. The first is via State Road 68, a straightforward approach through the valley.  It’s known as the Low Road or River Road because it parallels the Rio Grande. 

The second is a patchwork of lanes that weave through forests and hillsides, past small farms, galleries and old churches. Like any “blue highway,” you feel the lay of the land when you drive it. And if you’re prone to motion sickness, as I am, you’d best be behind the wheel.

At first we seemed destined for Route 68. We had a schedule to keep, after all, a flight leaving at 3. But the more I thought about it, the more the High Road called out to me. We wouldn’t have time to stop much, but we’d have time to absorb the scenery as we drove through it. 

I’m hoping that those sights, sounds and smells, like all the sensory riches of the last 12 days, will become a part of us. 

Utah has five national parks. There is Bryce with its hoodoos, Zion with its waterfalls, Arches with its, well, arches, and Capitol Reef with its domes. And then there is Canyonlands, the park we visited yesterday. 

I expected fewer people and a longer drive from Moab. What I wasn’t expecting was grandeur to rival the Grand Canyon. There were mesas and buttes and the Colorado River. There were rim walks and steep drops. There were vistas beyond vistas, and a view called Grand. Maybe not the Grand Canyon, but pretty darn close.

I told myself I wouldn’t take many photos yesterday when we toured Arches National Park. I’d visited five years ago, on a blue-sky May Monday, and snapped plenty of pictures then. Surely I didn’t need anymore.

But the index finger gets peckish in the presence of great natural beauty,. It wants to preserve the vistas. It hovers and snaps, almost without my permission.

I’m telling myself that every photo was justified. Yesterday’s weather was more dramatic. Dark thunderheads, lightning, and a driving rain (conveniently timed for our drive out of the park). But I took sunny shots, too. 

We arrived yesterday in red rock country, Utah, USA,  Moab to be exact. 

The drive from Pagosa Springs took us through passes and canyons, mountains on the horizon.When we arrived I could almost hear the collective sighs escaping from visitors to this magical place. 

It’s grandeur on a galactic scale. It reminds me of what our youngest daughter used to ask us on her first trip out west. “What country are we in?”

Can it possibly be the same one that includes Virginia? Doesn’t seem possible. 

We reached the Lobo Pass overlook on our way home from Creede, a quick detour. We piled out of the truck and into the pure air, dark clouds building and rain visible miles away. 

Once again, I tried taking a panoramic photo of the view in front of me, and once again I failed. Instead I tried to memorize what I saw from the pass: the never-endingness of it, dark forested hills in the foreground and sunlit peaks behind. A parfait of mountains, sky and clouds. 

We took turns guessing the elevation. I low-balled it at 8,800 feet, a rookie move since we’re staying above 7,000 and this was much higher. Others estimated 9,000 or 10,000. Then we looked it up: 11,700. Almost 12,000 feet above sea level. No wonder it felt like we were on top of the world.