Looking Back - Notes on Quest to the Southwest

So I think that was the end of the story. Just a few comments about my Quest. In writing about my trip in the story form I did have lots of practice. I also realized how much editing and changing takes place when writing. The opportunity for doing this was lost in the method of posting chapters as I went along. In my actual writing I made giant leaps on this trip. I discovered that when something happens in Chapter Two, later on in Chapter Ten, I had to go back and make changes so the story would fit together. I also found out that when writing about a trip it is pretty boring! So, of course, Martha's adventures had to be much more dramatic than my own. While all the things that happened to Martha were spins off of real experiences on the trip, my trip was far less dramatic and actually more fun and happier than poor Martha.

Some highlights:

The sky! You cannot believe the sky, which doesn't reflect it's drama in photos. The clouds, snow storms, fog, thunder and lightning, cliffs, blues, these were unbelievable. I would park and sit for hours just watching. Anyone who has not driven through the southwest should make the trip. The geology is endless, each curve in the road presenting new things to look at.

The town of Tierra Amarilla. This is the small town in Northern New Mexico I stayed at, the town where my father was born and my grandparents grew up. It is a very depressed area, although still the county seat, with the courthouse and jail in town (not much else). This town is surrounded by other very small towns. These towns are so close together that in the 1940's the young men played a game which was kind of an extended field hockey. The object was to get the ball back to your own town, running through pasture, over creeks etc. Each of these small towns has it's own "flavor", Los Ojos, Ensenada, La Puente, Chama, Tierra Amarilla. All of the people were so welcoming and friendly. When they heard I was researching the history of the area for my book they invited me into their homes, spoke with me, showed me maps, photos and other materials, there was no end to the hospitality. What a wonderful place.

The writing. I most definitely work best in isolation. Attending the Women Writing the West conference and then going to the casita moved my writing to a new level. I was amazed that the characters took over and wrote the stories. It is a great feeling to know that I really can do this, it's not just a fantasy, but an actual dream come true. I wrote the entire first draft of one story and made substantial progress on the second while I was on this trip.

Thanks to my husband, Dan, for his support on my quest, not only for the six week journey, but for all time.

xx Robin Martinez Rice

PS: What comes next on the Blog? I think some short stories, so that the entire tale is told in one post.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Eighteen - Home

Martha had been home a week, surviving the final day of driving. Pushing for home in two days, rather than the planned three, had resulted in the final stretch over Donner Summit happening at night, a snow storm in progress, chains required. She was happy for her 4WD, passing the hundreds of trucks parked along the highway in Truckee, all putting on the heavy chains. She was driven to get home, unwilling to stop, heart beating a little wildly at pushing herself when she wasn't sure it was the best idea, happy when she pulled down the driveway of the house, feeling she had made the right choice.

"Don't come home early, you'll be sorry ten minutes after you get here." Her sister's emailed warning had come too late, she was already on the road, half way home when the message floated through cyber space.

She wasn't sorry. It had felt right. It had been a good six weeks, not everything she had expected or planned, but many things she had not. She couldn't decide if she was changed, if the quest had led her to some vision which was new, enlightening, mind boggling. There were some changes. She had felt the huge leap in her ability to write, her production was ten times what it had been. The words flowed much more freely, she didn't have to focus, to struggle to get them out. If she simply sat in front of the computer and placed her fingers upon the keys the words flowed.

She had also settled into retirement with more ease. Gone was the frantic making of lists and setting time lines. With endless days stretched ahead

she let herself wake up and fall back to sleep, not leaping out of bed, trying to fit so much into each day. It was nice to wait until the house was warm before slipping out from between the sheets. She cleaned, wrote, read, walked, trying to bring back the relaxed feelings she had gained in New Mexico.

Two weeks passed.

Martha was eating sugar again, hiding the chocolate here and there around the house. The headaches were back and she wasn't sleeping well. She felt listless, lethargic. She tried to plan events, things which would inspire her, things she could look forward to, but nothing held her interest. She lost her calendar daily, the sheet printed off of Google ending up stacked with newspapers to be recycled or folded up inside a book, marking the place she had tired of reading. She spread out flannel to make herself a new nightshirt, got out her beads, folded all the linens in the hall closet, designed half of the family Christmas card . She pulled some fuzzy plants that had appeared in the yard, rolled up some hoses, washed the car.

Why couldn't she pretend that this place, this house, her home, held the same magic as New Mexico?

Maybe changes weren't huge. Maybe life wasn't like the movies, the books, the expectations. She knew she didn't want to be alone, yet she didn't want to be with other people. These rules which she lived by, these mental pictures of what things should be, what impact? If she could discard them, live for each minute, quit caring so much, stressing so much, what would she be giving up? Why did she hold onto these things with so much passion, energy, obsession? There must be a payoff. She realized that in her quest she had hoped to simply replace these emotions with something new, something better. But covering them up didn't erase them. They were lurking, hovering, creeping up on her. She needed to get rid of them once and for all.

Pain, I must be hiding from some pain. Or is it gain? I must be gaining something from maintaining this life, this way of being. But what pain, where did the pain come from? Her childhood? Blame it on the mother? That didn't work in her case. She had a great mother, everyone who met her wanted this woman for their own mother. Gain? Was there some sort of recognition, status, image she was after? She always said she didn't care what anyone else thought, and she felt this was basically true.

She recalled a reinforcement inventory, something psychologists and behaviorists use to figure out how they can increase the likelihood of an individual behaving a certain way. Then she realized that just by thinking in this way, thinking of systematically changing herself, she was doing the very thing she hoped to eliminate. By looking so hard for an answer she was driving the answer further from her, to something unreachable, a way of being which she was further from than ever. It was a vortex, a spinning and reaching. Like fighting against a whirlpool.

What was it about New Mexico that had made this different? What had led to the temporary abandonment of those internal drives, ways of being that kept her in this turmoil?

"I do believe in magic." She thought, even as she tried not to have any more thoughts.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Seventeen - Going Back

Martha kept her eyes closed, listening to the flutter of the tiny birds perching on the edge of the flatbed trailer. She had moved the old chaise up onto the trailer after spotting the brown fuzzy tarantula making her way up the driveway, each long furry arm reaching out and finding a place on the round rocks and hoisting forward to the next. Not wanting to have this little creature as a bed mate, she decided to bask from a higher level.

The mornings were chilly, twenty degrees the thermometer on the porch claimed, yet even with frost covering the trailer and the hood of her car, she brought her coffee out, walking down the driveway to watch the brilliant sunrise. By afternoon it was warm enough to nap out here in the sun, although she kept her sweatshirt on and propped a hat over her face to avoid sunburn.

"Are you the same bird I saw standing on the back of that horse?" Talking to animals, the trees, the car, the sky, this appeared to be one side effect of this time alone. She had discovered a natural pattern, three days alone was productive, but the fourth day her legs were restless, her mind wouldn't focus on whatever she had decided to read that day, and her writing was

such that she would have to be heavy on the delete button the next day. She had explored Durango, Taos, Bandelier, driving miles and miles, leaving for hours and hours. She seemed to be poor at planning for these adventures, forgetting to bring a coat, water, her camera, but in the long run it really didn't matter. These details, which would have haunted her in the past, were now easily dismissed, only a fleeting thought as her car flew over the winding roads, past the towering peaks, grazing cattle, winding rivers.

"Whatever." She had taken to saying these words aloud to herself, a smug smile crossing her lips when she spoke. This was good practice.

This morning when she awoke, stretching, rising, peeing, brewing her morning coffee, something had changed. She had driven to Taos and Ojo Caliente yesterday, never really stopping to walk around, just looking, looking, looking. Today she should be settled, ready to work, read, meditate, relax. She wasn't settled. She ruffled through papers, straightened stacks, sorted a few of her photographs on her laptop, walked around outside, washed her few dishes.

"I think it's time for me to go home." She tried these words on for size. She had paid for the casita through Thursday, but a storm was coming this week. If she left now she could take more time on her drive home. Stop in Santa Fe at a museum, shop for fabric in Albuquerque. Yes, the words felt right. Today she would pack, visit her cousins to say good-bye, take one final look around.

She didn't drive leisurely and she didn't take her time. She got up at four am, struggling to fasten the straps of the luggage bag on the icy roof of the car, digging out her fingerless gloves in hopes that her fingers would start working again. Impatient already, things taking too long, wanting to get on with this. She drove out in the dark, whispering goodbye to everything, her river, the cattle, the gate, the coffee house. She pulled off the road for a view of the bluffs where her father's ashes had been scattered, hoping for some cosmic event or emotion, but there was nothing. The bluffs stood as they always had, no bird flying above them, no sunlight highlighting the special spot where the rocks had been piled in a primitive altar, no strong emotions invading her heart.

And so she drove. And drove. She buzzed through Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Grants, Gallup, pulling over for some food, water, brief naps. In Flagstaff the rain started. The scattered white clouds lit up from the late afternoon sun dropping in the west. When they opened to let out the rain each drop was lit, producing a phosphorescent rain, like driving through some curtain to another world. The sunset was brilliant, the rain stopped, the clouds now pink, the moon appearing just under them. She found she hadn't planned well, darkness creeping up and taking over the sky.

She was tired, her eyes burning, but there was only the long highway, no towns, no campgrounds, so she drove on. She drove over the new bridge at Hoover Dam, the one she had studied on pictures, hoping to cross. Black holes surrounded her on all sides, no view, no real sense of where she was. Remembering a campground at Lake Mead, she pulled in. The self pay required driving around and finding a numbered camp site, then returning to pay, filling in the boxes on the small yellow envelope. She stuffed ten dollars in the envelope, wrote her name in big letters across it and pushed it through the slot of the cast iron tube. If anyone asked her she would say she paid, but she was too tired to follow the directions. In the past the rules would have governed her, no matter the bowel cramps, the need for a toilet and some sleep, she would have filled in each box carefully.

Sleeping in the car was now routine. She used her toes to push out of each shoe, nudging the smelly sneakers to one side with her foot, nearly asleep before her feet were under the edge of the long zippered side of the sleeping bag.

Awake early, unsure of the time because she was now in Nevada, not remembering if she had ever changed the clock in the car, daylight savings time in New Mexico and California, but not Arizona, she used the bathroom once more, brushing her teeth in the cold night air. It was still dark, three am or four am, time to drive again. Pulling on a sweatshirt and gloves she kept her lights off as she drove out through the campground, realizing she didn't really know what it looked like. Las Vegas stayed open all night, she was able to get some coffee with ease, no matter the time. She reached Death Valley as the sun came up, reflecting another type of geology. She thought back on the whole trip, the vast deserts, high mesas, red hoo doos, smooth lava flows, chunky sharp cliffs, white and grey layers. The earth here had a salty texture, mountains which looked soft, changing, like piles of sand, but upon closer inspection were solid hard rocks.

Martha had been to Death Valley before, once as a four year old, traveling with her indulgent Nanna and Grandpa. Her memory included placing her grandfather's favorite BBQ potato chips on the seat of the small canvas camp stool, peeking around the edge of the tent to watch the blue jays swoop down and grab them. She didn't really know if this had occurred in Death Valley, the trip had included Yosemite and other campgrounds, these memories a blur, still in her mind, but blended and changed with the passing of time. The second trip was two years ago, arriving in April when the thought had been it would be cool enough to hike around, only to find that it was hot even then. She had read about a hike, Mosaic Canyon, and when driving past the sign pointing off up a gravel road to the trail head she had been struck with a strong desire to make this hike. The trail had appeared to her in some of her dreams, calling to her, telling her there was something here for her.

Now, with the early morning arrival, the cool November day, no time line so to speak of, the hike was hers.

Driving up the gravel road to the base of the mountain was when Martha first discovered that there was a strange depth issue in this valley. What looked to be a short drive across a field of prickly plants was actually a steep two mile climb. She drove slowly, the gravel uneven in places, the dust pluming up behind her.

The hike was worth it, amazing, fantastic. The marble rocks looked like they had just hardened, oozing around other rocks, pebbled river beds frozen in time. She had hoped to reach the end of the two mile trek, but her knee hurt after forty-five minutes, so she turned back, never reaching the promised dry waterfall at the end of the canyon, everything being just out of reach, farther than it looked.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Sixteen - Raven

Alone, I wanted to be alone. Martha paced the small room. She grabbed her coffee and headed outside, pacing down the driveway, looking at the view. One ear was poised listening for the mountain lion. She wanted to see the big cat again, but not up close and personal. This was the third day of staying in the little house. She had gone for long walks each day, sticking to the road. There was lots to see, the gravel crunching under her feet, walking past the river with the spawning coho, the pastures of the various breeds of cattle, the ponds with ducks and water birds unlike those back home. The writing was going well, but there was only so much time she could spend at the awkward library table, a little too high for comfort, each day, fingers flying over the key board, ideas filling her head like the swirling fog creeping up from the hidden river.

Time for some meditation, something spirital, this is a quest after all. Martha found her ipod, her drum and her folding chair, slinging the black strap over her shoulder and heading up the hill. She didn't change out of her slippers, if she stepped carefully the ground was firm.

Amazing how it could rain torrents and then be dry so soon.

She set up the chair near a stone, this would do for a foot rest. She found the songs she wanted, drumming, but meditative.

"Gar, glack." The raven perched on the branch of a dead tree, tipping his head as he asked his croaking question.

"Hey, you're back." Martha greeted the black shiny bird, his eye like a onyx bead, sparkling in his face. She closed her eyes, listening to the music, consciously relaxing the muscles in her face, those areas around her mouth and eyes which clenched so tightly when she wasn't paying attention. It didn't seem right, that things would be tense when you weren't thinking about it,

that one should have to consciously relax them.

Alone, you wanted to be alone. The next day Martha awoke with the same thoughts in her head. If only the dog were with her, or there was some reception so she could watch the morning news. Martha stared at the laptop, the chapters already written spread out on various surfaces of the room. Not today. I need something different. She picked up the black computer pack, with all it's special pockets for hard drives and discs, stuffed the laptop into the special padded compartment, grabbed her purse and headed for the car. I'll check out that coffee shop in town. She had spotted the small sign when driving through town on her way in. "Three Ravens Coffee House". The sign was mounted on a stick, stuck in the soft earth between two stones near the road. The huge old house was dark, unpainted, sagging wooden porch. It didn't look inhabited, in spite of the "open" sign nailed

beside an ancient wooden door. The sign was up permanently, something she was becoming used to in the small towns she had crept through, Utah, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico. Open had some alternate meaning in these places, a permanent greeting which meant, yes, come try the door, we are here sometimes.

Today she wouldn't be alone, she would seek company. If this coffee house wasn't open she would drive to the next one, twenty, thirty miles up the road.

The Three Ravens was open, and it was extremely pleasant. Once through that wooden door, pulling it closed three times before the latch clicked and held, there was a pleasant coffee

house atmosphere. The barista was a young girl, pleasant smile, chatting with a friend across the tall counter, glass case filled with pasteries. The painted wooden tables and chair were decorated with ravens in various poses, curious, hungry, puzzled. The shelves along the wall held white glazed plates and bowls, decorated with black, small bits of red for emphasis. The

general theme of these dishes seemed to be ravens, chickens and skeletons.

"Do you have wireless?"

"Yes, the password is three ravens, all one word, no capitals."

She was happy in the coffee house, conversations with strangers, she could be whoever she wanted to be for awhile. And she wasn't alone.

Later that afternoon, as she sat on what was now her hill, eyes closed, listening to the call of the birds, her mind was free to wander where it may.

Ravens. They had popped up everywhere.

The first was at Bryce, hopping close and bumping her leg, causing her to jump at the unexpected contact. "Hey, you scared me," she had said to him.

The ravens at Zion had chatted to her along the trail as she hiked the wrong direction. Maybe they were trying to tell her something. "Wrong way, wrong way." She just didn't

translate or listen.

At the Grand Canyon they had circled below, small black specks in the vast canyon.

In Prescott she had picked up an old issue of the Sun, one of her favorite magazines, althoughshe had let her subscription lapse. Interesting article about crows and ravens, how smart they were, made tools, banded together and dropped rocks to scare away unwanted humans, we should have respect for this bird.

At Canyon de Chelly there had been hundreds of the birds, profiles of black standing out on the smooth red walls. Circling on the drafts of wind, she had been enchanted by two who stayed together, as if they were the Blue Angels, banking and turning in perfect unison.

Then there was the poster, placed on the back of the stall door, so that when she sat on the cold toilet in Chaco she couldn't help but read it. "Help us train our raven." The poster had advised that the campground ravens would rip and destroy tents in an effort to find food, advising that tents be flattened when campers were out hiking.

Today she had found wireless only eight miles away, a business thriving in a town which was dead. Three Ravens.

Is it bad if the raven is my spirit animal? Ill tidings? Black cat? Sign that death is to come?

It didn't feel bad, it felt right. She decided that the raven was a good spirit animal, he could travel great distances and see a long way. He could stand alone or fly with his friends.

He was resourceful and funny.

"Garkle gack." Her friend was back.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Fifteen - Big Cat

Martha carried the last of her things into the casita, piling them on the floor. She was tired, the drive which had started with the crossing of the wash had not been long, but she had used up a lot of energy producing adrenaline. It's strange, some sort of self fullfilling thing. I've made this same drive, over the continental divide and down into Dulce three times in my life. Why am I always just about to run out of gas? This time wouldn't be as close as the coast downhill on fumes the year she had come to New Mexico in the RV, but close enough so that she couldn't keep her eyes from wandering to the gas gage every few minutes. New cars, with all the bells and whistles. This one told you how many miles you had left on this tank of gas, the numbers jumping by thirds when you headed down a hill, winding through long curves with pinon pines and sage growing along the edges. Punch it for the next incline and suddenly you weren't going to travel ninety miles anymore, your gas would run out in fifty. I just need a nap, I'm almost there.

The stop in Chama went quickly. She ordered lunch off the short menu in the cafe which

offered wifi. The burger was overcooked, the bun stale and cold. The fries had been left in a vat of oil just a little too long, all crunch with no flavor. If she came here to use the wifi in the future she would stick to a cup of coffee.

Now she was here, pleasantly surprised by how isolated the casita was. The long gravel road, looping through pastures filled with funny cattle, long red hair and large horns, turning to stare as she made her way past. There had been other cars on the road, brown waves of dust flowing out behind them. It seemed wise to roll up the windows until there was enough distance between her and these unknown neighbors to keep the dust from filling her car. The gravel was thick, the car slid as she rounded a corner, dropping her speed from the slow creep of twenty miles per hour to ten. She stopped to take pictures, focusing on the view, the mountains, the clouds, the cattle, the road itself. My road, she snapped the pic. She pulled over a rise with a view of the bridge, odometer showing that she was approaching the specified two and a half mile mark. This was her house. The smaller of two pink buildings in the distance, green metal roof glinting in the sun, this was it, she was sure.

She had stopped to unlock one gate already, using the key that Barbara, the owner of this little vacation rental, had mailed, the card with the directions for getting into the house sitting on the seat beside her. There was another gate now, looping chain and padlock keeping out danger. She stopped the car and swung open the date, then pulled into the gravel drive. This won't be much fun in the rain. But the gate made her feel secure, safe here in this temporary haven.

I love it, I love it, I love it. My home.

Everything was perfect, better than the pictures. The house was warm and stuffy, she opened windows to let the soft New Mexico breeze blow through. All thoughts of a nap were gone now, the nesting instinct took over instead. Martha placed clothes on hangers in the large closet, unpacked the ice chest, placing food on the various shelves of the refrigerator and set her bag of dirty laundry on top of the washer. She studied the living room, pushing the lone library table to one side, unfolding the card table and

setting up her work space. There were lots of plugs, that was great, all these electronics she had with her. She plugged in the printer, the ipod player, the extra laptop battery. Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, which was particularly comfortable, and fell asleep.

The next morning Martha started her routine. She had opened the front door and stood on the tiny porch, chilly. Walking would come later, after she had worked for awhile. Flute practice, meditation, downloading photos, all those things could be used as breaks from writing.

Martha was busy at the laptop, words flowing when something caused her to look up. Leaping from her chair she whispered "Oh my god, oh my god" repeatedly as she groped for her camera, unwilling to take her eyes off the big cat which sauntered up the driveway and past the window. The cat never looked her way, slipping like a shadow into the trees as she finally laid

hands on her camera. She pressed her nose against the glass of the door, wanting to see more of the cougar, but fearful of stepping outside.

She was truly in the wilderness.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapt Fourteen - Wash

"So you think I can drive out?" Martha had been awake for hours. She watched several cars take the gravel road out of the park, but she wanted to wait for the ranger station to open before she ventured out.

"There is water in the wash, but we drove through it this morning. What kind of car do you have?"

"It's a little Honda CRV, it's 4WD but not very high off the ground."

"No problem, the rule of thumb is water no higher than half way up the tires."

"I've never driven in water before. I'm pretty scared." Martha didn't say I'm terrified, but this is what she felt.

"Just take it slow. Don't panic and go fast, that's when you'll hydroplane."

"Will you drive out there tonight and see if I am still parked there, afraid to go across?" Maybe joking would make her feel better.

As Martha took her fear in hand and headed out she tried to think about how great this visit to Chaco had been, take her mind off the road. For the most part the gravel road was fine, occasional patches of slippery red mud, kind of like driving in mushy snow. A white sedan was coming the other way, toward her. It slowed and a woman poked her head out, waving her arm. Martha rolled down the window.

"You can't get out, the wash is full of water."

"I talked with the ranger, she said I probably could get out."

"I watched a couple trucks go through, there was an RV parked, they were deciding if they should try it. Is there any other way out?"

"No, no other way, the other way is worse. The ranger said usually if you wait the water goes down, but judging by those clouds I think it's still raining up stream. I'm going to try it."

Martha was committed now. Three trucks passed her on the road, they zipped by at double her speed. Hopefully she would get to watch someone cross, maybe this would build up her courage.

It wasn't long before Martha arrived at the wash, passing the three signs which warned of driving through if any amount of water was present, no one patrolled this road and other dire events. There were no other cars or trucks in sight. The RV must have made it.

Martha stopped the car and stared at the water flowing down. How did someone judge how deep it was? How would she know if it was half way up her tires? She looked down stream. If she was washed down she would be stuck in mud, not a giant pool or anything. She unfastened her seatbelt, put her cell phone into her pocket, slung her purse over her shoulder. No, if she was drowning it might strangle her. She took it off and placed it next to her.

Well, I said I wanted adventure, didn't I?

She crept forward, putting the car in low gear, although she had no idea if that made any difference. She kept to the center of the concrete, awaiting any sign of the car floating. The trip across the short passage took hours, her life flashed before her eyes, she prayed, told all her family members she loved them and repented all her sins.

Twenty seconds later Martha was on the other side of the wash.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Thirteen - Lightning

Martha was wiping out her dishes with paper towels examining the rock formation which surrounded her cosy little campsite, when the white government truck pulled up in front a campsite a few doors down. There was no potable water here at Chaco, she would wash the dishes at her next stop. The truck moved forward, stopping in front of her parked car.

“Going to be a storm tonight.

It’s real windy before the storm hits, just want to make sure you have everything tied down.

“Really? A storm, but the sky is so clear.”

“You’re going to be one of the lucky ones. In about fifteen minutes you're going to see a full moon, stars and lightening. Enjoy.” Smiling, the ranger pulled forward to the next camp site.

The campground was in a tight little canyon. Martha could see the sun still shining on the tops of the clouds, the moon already bright. She turned around slowly, three hundred and sixty degrees, studying the sky all around. Off to the west, just over the top of the steep canyon wall she could see some dark clouds. As she watched they lit up briefly.

Yes, there was lightning. No crash of thunder followed, so the storm must be far away.

Martha set up her laptop on the picnic table, lantern by her side. She had been inspired by the day and wanted to sort through her pictures. Taking the walk at 3:30 had been a good idea, also picking the trail that was away from roads and people. Seeing the elk was fun, and now that she was back at camp even the brief encounter with the rattlesnake wasn’t so bad anymore. She was

glad she had met up with that couple who told her to visit Chaco. They road hadn’t been that bad, just that one spot where it dipped down into the wash, signs warning not to cross if any water was

present. The wash had been dry and driving across the concrete had been a relief after the washboard of the gravel road.

The sun had disappeared completely now, and Martha shivered as the cold took over. It was amazing how much variation there was in temperature, her face was hot with sunburn from the pleasant day. Once the sun set the temperature dropped rapidly, a sweatshirt wasn’t enough. Martha packed up her things and put them in the car. Might as well get ready for this storm the ranger had predicted.

As Martha walked across the camp ground to the restroom she saw clouds creeping up from all directions, but the sky was still clear just above her. Blasts of lightening flashed in front of her, lighting up the entire cliff and canyon. These were followed by rapid flashes on her right and left. Still no thunder. Martha walked on to the entrance of the campground. From here she could see the vast Chaco mesa, with the huge Fajada Butte rising up. Each flash of lightning lit up the mesa and the butte. She could see the actual streaks now, not just the clouds flashing white. Three,

sometimes four streaks stretched from the sky to the valley floor. Her attempts to photograph and video were unsuccessful, so she sat on a picnic table and just enjoyed the show.

Martha watched for an hour, then she began to hear booms of thunder follow the flashes. The storm was moving closer. She returned to her camp site and packed up the last of her things, tucking herself into the car. The car was parked in the perfect spot to lay and watch as the storm rolled in, thunder moving closer until it shook the car, and then the massive downpour that followed.

Martha awoke in the night to winds which rocked the car, but the lightning, thunder and rain had passed. That storm had been amazing, she was glad she made the choice to come to Chaco.

Suddenly Martha sat up. The road. What about the road?

Martha was trapped in Chaco.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Twelve - Detours

Petrified Forest, next exit. Martha felt she had been driving through the twilight zone for the last two hours, completely straight highway and nothing, nothing at all to see but prairie grass on either side of the road. The sign caught her interest and she needed a pit stop, so she pulled off the highway. There were more signs directing her, turning her and there, but no sign telling her how far this might be. From experience she knew that many parks were miles off the road, even fifty miles. It was then she spotted the sign for the visitor center, yes a good place to stop and surely they had a bathroom.

Physcially relieved and armed with information Martha headed off to the Petrified Forest.

It was eighteen miles off the the highway, but it was a loop road, bringing her back ten miles up the road. Shouldn’t be too much of a variation. The funny thing was, Martha didn’t really care all that much about seeing the Petrified Forest, she just wanted to get another point for using

the eighty dollar unlimited park pass.

Martha was getting sleepy, the drive to Canyon de Chelly was farther than she thought, the detour adding over an hour to her trip. The road was smooth, newly paved and straight. Should she stop for a nap? She was just a little bit worried about finding a camping space, having snatched the last space several times on this trip she should try to arrive early. She opened the window and cranked up the radio, only an hour more to go.

At last Martha reached the town which marked the turn into the park. The speed limit was reduced, buildings appeared by the sides of the highway, four lanes instead of two and a sidewalk. Martha suddenly braked, laughing. A large steer was walking down the sidewalk, up ahead two horses crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways. Apparently here on the Navajo reservation there were a lot of range animals, even in town.

Martha found the perfect campsite, newly blacktopped and near the bathroom. She placed

a few items to mark her spot, there didn’t seem to be a check in system because camping was free here. She set off to see what this place was all about.

Twenty minutes later Martha was amazed. This was one of the most beautiful places she had ever been. The road wound along the upper edge of the canyon, with occasional view points. It was soon apparent that she did need to take on of the canyon tours. As this was Navajo land, you could only enter with a guide. She turned back and drove to the lodge, where she had seen the trips advertised.

While Martha was tucking her wallet into her purse and turning to leave the scowling woman who booked the tours remarked “Don’t forget to come at the right time.”

“Oh. What time is it?” Martha had driven in and out of so many time zones, some states with daylight savings, some not, that she really didn’t know what time it was.

“It’s 4:30. This is the Navajo reservation you know. We do have daylight savings here.”

“Thanks, I did have the wrong time.” Martha smiled as she reset her watch, but the woman continued to ignore her. Sucks to be white, Martha thought to herself. You didn’t seem to unhappy to take my money.

But Martha was wrong in feeling that the Navajo people weren’t friendly. Over the next two days she spoke with many artists and young people selling fry bread and jewelry to the tourists. She met a flute player who was friends with Mary Youngblood, the talented musician from whom Martha had taken a flute lesson herself. One rock carver even discussed local politics, the issue about all the animals running free. There were Navajo animal rights activists who felt that animals should not be caged, but should be allowed freedom, no matter that they would soon be butchered for meat. These animals were causing property destruction and car

accidents, and most people felt they should be fenced. There was also a large feral population of pigs, cattle, horses and sheep which lived in the surrounding areas. Navajo did not build fences, as land ownership was somewhat different here on the nation.

Martha was planning on spending another day here. She was fearful of visiting Chaco Cultural Center, because of the over twenty mile entrance road, gravel and subject to problems in severe weather. But she talked with a couple who had just been there. You must go, it’s wonderful, don’t worry about the road at all, they

insisted.

Packing up her car she set out. She would spend a night in a motel half way there and head there tomorrow.

Roughing it was impressive to her friends, and she was actually really enjoying living out of her car, but a shower, TV and the internet would be nice at this point.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Eleven - Writers

Martha down shifted, creeping down the narrow winding road. Her sinuses had cleared, elevation changes no longer signaled by the pressure in her ears. She drove slowly not out of caution, her head swiveled rapidly from the view of the expansive valley to the strange rock formation which made up the mountain. She felt like an ant in a pile of pea gravel, the many round stones heaped together to make the terrain. But these stones were pea gravel times a million, giant round boulders, through which the narrow winding road had been cut.

Early for the workshop in Wickenburg, Martha took the time to drive through town. It was a typical tourist down town, with old buildings, a rail road, t-shirt shops and Native jewelry. Stores weren’t open yet, but that didn’t matter to Martha, she had no desire to actually enter

the stores, she liked the drive through tour. Viewing town killed about twenty minutes, she headed out to the conference center. Maybe they would let her check in early, a nap would be nice before the conference started after lunch.

This area was desolate, but filled with houses. She had met people who liked desert living but she could never relate to the draw. Just divine through was depressing, she craved mountains, liked the feeling of being on top of everything, having an endless view.

Her room wouldn’t be ready for hours, no luck there. At 10:00 in the morning it was already sweltering, and this was October. Unseasonable hot, everyone kept repeating. Not usually this hot. Martha was worried about the things in her car, she cracked windows and brought her camera and laptop inside with her, there was no shade, no trees for that matter.

The conference center was beautiful, decorated in a a traditional southwest mode, with big leather couches and navajo print overstuffed chairs, surround a huge stone fireplace. After checking in Martha sat on one of these couches, checking email and Facebook, making sure the automatic bills had all paid. Soon other women joined her, everyone chatting in a friendly way.

It was fun to be at a conference where the first question after the usual “where are you from?” was “what do you write?”

The thing about leather couches is they are slippery. When large and overstuffed are added to the equation, sitting upright for very long becomes work. Martha soon pulled her feet up beside her, knees bent and leaned onto the arm. The warm air and the drone of the women’s voices reminded her of one of her most wonderful memories. She had gone with her grandparents and her great-grandma Thompson to visit relatives in Napa. The ride had done the usual, car sick and headache, she didn’t travel well at that age, although she loved road trips anyway. After a pony ride and playing in the cul-de-sac with newly met distant cousins, the headache had become unbearable. She had gone inside and laid on the couch her head in Grandma Thompson’s lap, the soft wrinkled hand stroking her forehead. There was a ceiling fan she watched go round and round, as the voices of the two old women, Grandma Thompson and some elderly aunt, droned on and on. She had completely relaxed, cooling down, the headache diminishing. When she thought about that moment she always felt completely loved, no strings attached, only comfort and security present.

This moment was enough like that, bringing back the memory, to lull her into a doze, not quite asleep, awake enough to keep herself from snoring, although an occasional snort might be likely to creep out. She found her self stretched out on the couch, not caring that this place was a little snooty, they probably frowned upon guests sleeping in public areas. Maybe they will get my room ready faster.

With that thought she fell asleep.