Out of Austin I came upon scenery straight out of Red Dead Redemption (one of the recent fuels of my video game addiction). Prickly pear cactus dotted the landscape along the route, and tumbleweeds strayed onto the highways. Every now and again a town would be encircled with nodding donkeys and a faint waft of black gold would drift into the van. My intended route lay, firstly, northwesterly, towards Armadillo, and then more or less directly west through New Mexico and Albuquerque, into Arizona to the meteor crater and then for a rendezvous with the region around Flagstaff. Hopefully in time for Christmas.
The morning I left Austin, a blizzard drifted onto the panhandle of Texas (the square bit at the top), bringing massive disruption and closing down all classes of roads. That region, however, was still two days drive away, so I kept to the plan of my first overnight stop - in the city of Abilene. There was a chance the main arteries would open in time for me to keep to my intended route.
The second day brought me to the city of Lubbock, at the southern end of the panhandle. Temperatures were low - just above freezing - but the snow hadn't reached this far south so I was unhindered in reaching the birthplace of Buddy Holly and visiting the museum curated there in his honour. It included some incredibly intimate memorabilia, perhaps most moving of all being the frames of his famous spectacles - the very pair recovered from the crash site where he, Ritchie Valens and J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson met their fate that February evening in 1959 (the day the music died...).
I spent the evening poring over weather forecasts, city climate and altitude data and campground listings for New Mexico and Arizona. A second blizzard weather warning had been issued for the northwest of New Mexico, spreading southeasterly through the state on the Thursday and Friday - just 24hrs away and precisely when I had intended to travel that way. It might mean missing out on the meteor crater later in the week, but I plumped for heading south, nearer to the Mexican border, and trying to steer clear of the bad weather.
Although what lay to the north may have been spectacular, it would have to go some to rival my revised route the next day. Starting out across the Texan plains, with their red raw, paint pigment-like fields, I crossed into New Mexico following the daunting sat nav directions of: "In 249 miles, keep right."
The desert extended so far that every horizon, at every point of the three hundred and sixty degrees about me, appeared to be at the same elevation - the first time I think I have ever seen such a sight.
Eventually the hazy outline of a mountain became visible ahead, and the desert floor suddenly opened up; the road darting down a gully to reveal a slightly lower plateau housing the famous city of Roswell. Disappointingly, there were no inverted onion-headed beings looking for a lift, and all the townsfolk seemed to be at least of this planet, if not entirely human. From Roswell, the desert floor started to undulate, until I found myself in the mountains of central New Mexico with the road - which remained clear - just barely touching the snow-line.
As I came down out of the mountains I was greeted by the sight of the White Sands valley - home of the US missile program, amongst other things - lit up by a single long sheet of sunlight, lasering through the clouds for scores of miles to the north and to the south. My encampment for the night was on the west side of the central mountain range, directly overlooking White Sands and the descending sun beyond, and, I have to say, was probably the most beautiful place I have ever had the pleasure of spending a night.
Next day saw me cross the White Sands before I had the unenviable task of crossing the Rio Grande. Past the missile test bases and the alternative shuttle landing strip, through the city of Las Cruces and to the great river. Which was completely dry. Not a drop of water to be seen. Drought out here has an altogether different meaning to times of hosepipe bans back in the UK.
Onwards towards the Arizona border, through the desert. There are signs at the side of the freeway: "Caution: Dust Storms May Exist". There is no doubt in my mind. I've seen 'em on the telly.
The next day proves to be a landscape revelation. The hand dealt me by the blizzards in the north has proven to be a Royal Flush. In spades. My night was spent by Roper Lake in eastern Arizona, and today's drive is relatively short - just two-and-a-half hours following the round ten put in over the last couple of days. The route follows highway 70 - the 'Old West Way' - and takes me through settlements dating back to the 1870's. The 'wild' days. A lot of the land around here is home to the renowned Apache tribe, and I pass through the town named after its' most famous son: Geronimo.
It is here, passing through the small towns in the deserts of eastern Arizona, that I feel a true sense of time and of history, more so than anywhere else on this long journey. Geronimo houses the Apache Veterans graveyard, there are one or two ghost towns and, sadly, I get the sense that living here must still be something of a struggle: I haven't seen any running rivers or lakes for hundreds of miles.
This is all set against a backdrop of the most stunning scenery. Mountain ranges separated by desert foothills with long-dried river basins cutting through them. A spectacular mountain pass with weather-worn cliffs and rock formations. Vast plains with cactus forests as far as the eye can see.
Being here, getting to see this, is an unbelievable privilege. Today, the ipod A->Z bizarrely threw up an entire day of Lemon Jelly; having pressed [Play All] in San Francisco, my collection somehow fitted it perfectly to the drive today. And, as "The Staunton Lick" came on, and I looked out the window at the view, I felt so happy that I cried.
As if that wasn't enough, my campsite tonight is directly below 'Superstition Rock', a great looming feature at the edge of the town of Apache Junction. And it is here, on the plateau overlooking the vast sprawl of Phoenix, that I watch the sun set - from yellow to orange to red to pink to purple and to blue - on Christmas Eve eve.
Merry Christmas everyone. Hope yours is as wonderful as mine is proving to be.
Big love, Markyx
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