counting off the miles to vegas

Posted on May 18, 2012 by shannon

It’s a long road from Big Sur to Las Vegas, requiring many stops, including the requisite morning coffee. By the time we got to that coffee, we’d already put in a good day’s work: packing up the campsite and lugging it the .3 miles to the car in the parking lot. This is a good walk, not onerous by any means, at least not on the way in. When you pack to go in, you only, by definition, take in what you can carry in one trip. But if you’re camping for any length of time, you’re always back to the car, picking up a pair of wool socks, a heavier sweater, the guitar, so by the last morning, when it’s time to pack up, you feel like a pack mule walking to the car, and you really wish it was .1 miles.

Then, if you’re us, there’s the cramming it all back into the car. It has become an art, how we are able to get our stuff in and still see out the back window. The passenger seat floor area is now a storage bin. We have serious talks about downsizing. Not that it does any good, but we know we must do better the next time.

With Dexy ready to roll one more time, it’s out to Hwy 1, heading 25 miles north to Carmel, our last stop on Hwy 1. It turns out there is nothing, in terms of coffee, or anything else loosely considered a convenience, between Big Sur and Carmel. And so it is that we find ourselves in Carmel at one of those chic California plazas with their boutique shops and boutique coffee. Boutique coffee with boutique pastries. Indulgence.

And then we’re on the road again, heading east to Salinas to catch up with Hwy 101 heading south. If we stayed on 101 long enough, we’d head straight into Los Angeles. When we were driving up the coast from LA along Hwy 1, there were a few places where 1 and 101 were as one, where the former jogged inland, but today we’re not heading near the coast – we said our goodbyes to the Pacific Ocean in Carmel, with the falsetto lyrics of “See You In September” by The Happenings running in the part of my brain that does the music tracks, giving me an ear worm for the rest of the morning (and because you too can have an earworm, here it is on YouTube). I’m not wishing my life away, but I’ll be glad to be back to the coast when we get here the next time – September, if things work out right.

On the stretch of Hwy 101 we’re on, it runs more or less parallel to the ocean, about 30 miles inland, big open ranch country. We’re on El Camino Real (Spanish for “The Royal Road”), otherwise known as the California Mission Trail, a 600-mile road that connects the 21 missions set up by the Spanish during the 1700s. Before California was the state of California, USA, it was the province of Alta California, which together with Baha California comprised Las Californias, all under Spanish rule. It became an outlier territory of Mexico when that country won independence from Spain in 1821, but it was theirs to lose in what Americans call the Mexican-American War, and so they did in 1848, when the Americans got California (along with Texas and New Mexico) for financial considerations. But back when the Spanish were running the show, they sent Catholic missionaries throughout the province to set up shop where the Natives were congregating, in order to convert them to Catholicism. The Spaniards needed as many converts as they could get, saddle them up, and send them off to fight the Russians, who were making invading noises to the north.

The network of missions runs from San Diego in the south to Sonoma in northern California, and in our 100-mile stretch from Salinas to Paso Robles, there are two – in Soledad (perhaps better known as the home of Soledad Prison) and San Miguel. El Camino Real is marked by roadside bells, each hanging on an 11-foot-high pole shaped like a shepherd’s crook called a Franciscan walking stick, in honor of the Spanish Franciscan missionaries. The original bells were placed long after California became an American state, so there are no romantic stories here of 18th-century monks clanging coded messages to their brethren up and down the trail – alas, they are simply decoration.

It’s not just bells on the side of El Camino Real. It’s a veritable road show of this and that and skeletons too …

We pull off in Paso Robles for gas and coffee refills, and you know, we’re never looking for him, but there’s Elvis, sitting pretty in McDonald’s, getting his mojo working. He ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.

West from Paso Robles along Hwy 198 and then south on I-5 into Bakersfield, we’ve headed into real desert country – the San Joaquin Valley. Not a lot of picture postcard views here, but we do see our first mega-gigantic producing oil field – a Chevron interest – called the Kern River Oil Field, with its many wells pumping up and down, trucks kicking up the dust, and we, along with life, move on. Further on up the road to Barstow, we pass Edwards Air Force Base, where American military aircraft are tested. I’m sure it has many claims to fame, but the one that stands out in my mind as we drive by is Chuck Yeager’s flight that broke the sound barrier back in 1947. I wasn’t even born yet.

We call it quits for the day when we get to Barstow – we need to get our kicks on Route 66 before we head up to Vegas.

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big sur

Posted on May 15, 2012 by shannon

As we drove through Big Sur on our way to Andrew Molera State Park a few miles to the north, where we were hoping to pitch our tent for two nights, I was surprised to see that Big Sur is not a town at all, but instead, like Coney Island in co. Down in Northern Ireland, it is merely a spot on the map, and before you know it, you’ve passed right through it. A store here, an inn there and a few restaurants scattered along Highway 1 and that’s it, except for signs for campgrounds along the way. That’s what we’re here for – a couple of nights of camping and checking out the vistas here by the ocean in Central California.

Andrew Molera is another first-come, first-served campground, with only 24 tent sites, so we had our fingers crossed we’d have better luck here than we did at Faria Beach Park in Ventura. Everyone we’d met who’d been to Big Sur had highly recommended Andrew Molera State Park as the place to stay, so of course it was our first choice. I’d made notes about the other campgrounds in Big Sur, filed under Back-Up Plan, and as we drove by Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, with its 204 camp sites, with a big sign at its entrance saying FULL, I figured we’d be totally out of luck at the puny 24-site Andrew Molera. Ever so wrong, again.

I don’t think there were more than two or three other tents pitched for the night when we arrived. A few people were in the middle of deconstructing their weekend campsites and heading home on a Sunday afternoon … Sunday is a time for leaving, not arriving, except in our case, when every day is like any other – it could be Tuesday, it could be Friday – they’re all the same to us – the sun comes out (or in the case of Big Sur, the fog rolls in), the birds are singing, the flowers are in bloom, the trees tower above us, the ocean is doing its thing – it’s not that time stands still, it’s simply irrelevant (although I do have the good grace to realize it is perhaps totally relevant when you’re looking for a campsite and that a Sunday arrival is a far sight better than a Saturday one).

Once we’d pitched our tent …

and gone to the general store for provisions …

… we were ready to explore the trails in Andrew Molera State Park. The park attracts day visitors (a day pass goes for $10) as well as overnighters ($25 per car per night), and we saw a number of hikers heading through the campground field in a westerly direction. Figuring they must know something, we followed along in their path. As we were to find out over the course of our two days, if you stick to the trails (which we are strongly encouraged to do, both to avoid the plentiful poison oak and to prevent cliffside erosion), it’s all an easy walk – just my speed.

As we head down the trail, the first thing we come across is a cabin in the woods …

… and I am instantly reminded of classic cabins in other woods – Thoreau’s cabin retreat on Walden Pond and Ferlinghetti’s cabin in the cliffs of Big Sur, the latter featured prominently in Kerouac’s “Big Sur,” which, as it happens, I am in the midst of reading, adding some literary color to my already multihued Big Sur experience.

It turns out this cabin was built in 1861 and is the oldest building on the Big Sur coast. At the time, the surrounding land was a ranch owned by one JBR Cooper, a local sea merchant, and this cabin served as the ranch hands’ quarters. It looks to be the only surviving building from the ranch days, now nestled within the woods of Andrew Molera State Park.

Beyond the cabin, the trail forks – one fork heads to the beach cove …


… and the other fork leads up to the cliffs …

… in plenty of time for sunset

Back at our tent site, we did our caledonia campfire girls thing, putting our feet up to the fire and eating our PB&J sandwiches out under the stars.

The fog rolled in overnight and blanketed Big Sur much of the next day, but like a restless child tossing his blankets this way and that in a feverish pitch, the fog would creep up the cliffs one moment only to fly away the next to reveal the coastal vistas. If you’ve got a day in Big Sur to do nothing but sit and take it all in, it’s fascinating to watch the fog roll in and roll out. We didn’t have all day to sit, but we had a fair chunk of it to do just that while waiting for a table to open up for lunch at Nepenthe restaurant, sitting high up on a cliff on the ocean side of the highway.


Lunch at Nepenthe had been preceded by a late morning coffee, purchased at the River Inn Bus and leisurely consumed while we relaxed and read our books in chairs placed at the water’s edge of the Big Sur River, which flowed behind the bus up on Highway 1.


Big feet in the Big Sur

South of Nepenthe on the east side of the highway, the Henry Miller Memorial Library sits among the redwood trees.

The clearing around the building has some funky sculptures, and up on the front deck you can enjoy a cup of coffee and sit a spell, perhaps reading your newly purchased book from inside …

… or simply take in the views …

A few miles south of Big Sur lies the former home and property of the late Julia Pfeiffer Burns, which has since become a state park, named in her honor. We ventured forth on one of many trails in the park, this one leading to an overlook of McWay Falls, where the water seemingly spurts forth from rock. We’d seen the same phenomena in the mountains leading down to the ocean on the west coast of Ireland, but those we saw there were mere trickles compared to this one here in California.

By late afternoon, we were back at our campground and back on another one of its trails that led to the southern end of the beach, this one requiring us to ford the mighty Big Sur …

… through the open fields …




… and down to the beach




We were reluctant to leave … Big Sur, the coast, the cliffs, and Highway 1, but so the road goes, sometimes leading from the sublime to the ridiculous. Next stop: Las Vegas.

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along the pacific coast

Posted on May 11, 2012 by shannon

Saturday afternoon at the beach, but first, lunch at the Lazy Daisy in Santa Monica with Bridget’s college friend Katie and her boyfriend, Eli. Katie works at Live Funny or Die and Eli has a job at NBC Studios and they’re both loving the good life in Santa Monica. The only downside of living in Santa Monica is having a job not in Santa Monica, unless of course you enjoy rush hours on the freeways in and out of LA five days a week. And if you can’t get enough congestion in your life, head down to the beach on the weekend, where the cars inch along from one stoplight to the next. We are just two among thousands who all have beach on their minds this beautiful Saturday in April – and most of them, it seems, are heading to Venice Beach in their cars. We simply follow the crowd, heading south from Santa Monica along Ocean Ave. until we hit Venice and then the hunt is on for a parking spot in a town with a conglomeration of one-way streets that serve only to confuse … you know how it goes, right? Driving along, you see what could be a spot on the street to your right, but you can’t turn right because it’s one way the wrong way, so you go around, hoping to circle the block and come in from the other side; you take the first right you can, and another right, and by your third right, you’re 14 blocks away on a side street going nowhere … but it has an open spot, so we grab it and follow the sun in a westerly direction to the beach.

Venice has its beach …


and its boardwalk …

and its canals …

Venice has summertime fun written all over it – bars, restaurants, stalls chock-a-block along the boardwalk with 2/$10 items you don’t need, all filled on a Saturday afternoon with people out for a good time, spilling out onto the beach. The beach, too, is full of sunbathers, Bridget and me included, and I wonder if come July and August, Venice beach is standing room only. But it’s still April, and there is plenty of room to get prone, take a break and catch a few rays to mark the starting point of our journey north along the California coast.

Soon enough, though, we had to get a move on, find the car and point it in the direction of Highway 1. We picked it up at the southern edge of Santa Monica, and off we went.

Our plan was to drive through Malibu and go as far as Ventura, about an hour north of Santa Monica, where we were going to camp out at Faria Beach Park. The tantalizing photos of the park on their website showed tents perched on the sand with the ocean in the background. I had my heart set on camping on the beach and falling asleep under the stars with the sounds of the waves crashing onto the shore a few feet from my head. We pulled into the park shortly after 6 p.m., and the place was packed with tents and campers, not an open spot to be had. Faria Beach Park is first-come, first served, no reservations, and it turns out that if you want to camp on the beach in Ventura, you should plan on arriving long before dinnertime to assure yourself of a spot. Tent sites are cheek by jowl, and while they’re close to the beach, they’re not exactly on the beach; as we drove away in search of an alternate place to lay our heads for the night, I didn’t feel so bad – I imagined that the sounds at Faria Beach that night would have been more the human kind, less the nature kind.

North of Ventura, the coastline runs more west than north, through Santa Barbara and on to Las Cruces, where Highway 1 turns north and moves inland, changing its name to Cabrillo Highway. The sun has long since set. We’re inland about 10 miles with no chance to hear waves anywhere but in my dreams, so we pull into the town of Lompoc to find a room at the inn. In the end, it turns out, we’re lucky to find one. We’re not sure why – maybe a convention in town – but No Vacancy signs abound. We do get a room finally at what must have been the last motel in town … and 10 minutes later, as we were walking over to McDonald’s for our last coffee of the day and to use their Wi-Fi, the no vacancy sign was up on our motel too. We never saw more than a half dozen people while we were out and about … it must have been a very quiet convention.

Heading north out of Lompoc in the morning, we passed by workers in the strawberry fields in the miles leading us through towns with names like Guadalupe and Callender before Highway 1 finally met up with the coast at Pismo Beach before jogging back inland to San Luis Obispo then back to the coast through Morro Bay and Cayucos and north to San Simeon. More than a few people had told us that Hearst Castle in San Simeon was a must-see, but we took a pass on it, vowing to return another day. Instead, we stopped at Piedras Blancas – a viewing point on the side of the highway a few miles north of the castle entrance and home to a colony of elephant seals, where they come to breed, molt and rest. Today they were working on the resting part big time, so much so that when I first looked at them lying about, I thought they were dead. But after several minutes, for a change of pace, a few of them flopped around a bit in the sand – that was it, just another day at the beach.


The drive along the Pacific coast through Central California is nothing short of spectacular. Winding roads that rival the steep climbs of Ireland’s Dingle Peninsula had us laughing on some of the curves and holding our collective breath on others in awe of the picture-postcard views at every turn. And so it was all the way to Big Sur – at once exhilarating and humbling, impossible to do anything but soak it all in – the magnificent cliffs that reach up to the sky and sink down beneath the pounding surf below – this is it! Magnificent.



Big Sur(f) indeed!

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los angeles, california

Posted on May 5, 2012 by shannon

As we were driving up the ribbons of concrete into Los Angeles late on a Wednesday afternoon, my mind wandered back to the last time I was here – November 2008 to see Van perform Astral Weeks Live at the Hollywood Bowl. Throngs of us had descended upon Hollywood for the weekend and the party was on. It was those two shows that gave me the impetus to put down the whole Astral Weeks Live experience in words and ultimately led to this glorious book tour I’m on, so in a way it feels like I’ve come full circle to where it all began.

Bridget’s behind the wheel, loving the no-holds-barred California driving that takes you across four lanes of traffic in five seconds flat, off this highway and onto the next, in a series of moves that gets us onto Hwy 101 into West Hollywood and our Super 8 home for three nights. We’re in Hollywood, baby! First thing on our agenda is to head out to Hollywood and Vine to meet up with an old friend from my Toronto days, Chris Sorensen, who’s since moved to LA to seek his fortune. After 22 years, there’s a lot to catch up on, and we do just that over dinner at a nice little Italian place just off Hollywood Blvd., followed by a stroll along the boulevard among the stars embedded in the sidewalk.

Next morning we were up bright and early and off to Burbank and the NBC Studios to get tickets for the Tonight Show. Diane Keaton was the guest and Moby the musical guest, so we were looking forward to a good show. We were there shortly after 7 a.m. – the first two in line – the only two people in line – which of course had us wondering if we were even in the right place. We waited there alone for a good half hour before being joined by one more ticket seeker – Don, who regaled us with stories of his travels until the door opened at 8 and tickets were handed out. Off we headed back to the hotel in plenty of time for the free breakfast and loads of time for a morning nap. We’d been advised to be back at the studio by 2 to get in line for the show, which begins taping around 4:30 – no guarantees of getting in, but we were hopeful. We were assigned numbers 191 and 192, and things looked good, given that there is in excess of 300 seats in the studio. The only time we got worried was when they started letting in these long lines of people who didn’t appear to have any numbers at all. At long last we were ushered in – the last two in a group of eight; the first six were directed to follow that person to find their seats, while Bridget and I were assigned to follow this person who took us to ours. The waiting had been worth it – we were taken to seats that were being reserved for who knows whom, but they must have been somebody well-connected, because these had to be the best seats in the house – a half dozen rows up, directly in front of Jay, so we could see over the tops of the cameras as they wheeled back and forth across the floor, obstructing the view for many, I’m sure. We were well-entertained from the get go, including the fellow who warms up the audience beforehand. Diane Keaton is a rescuer of dogs and her spot, which included a pitch for her new book and her new movie, also included her bringing a dog onto the set in the hopes of finding it a home with someone from the audience. That worked out well – after the taping, a couple went up on stage and claimed the dog … it was that easy. Moby is best known as a techno DJ, but tonight he came on with a band, playing guitar and leaving most of the vocals to one of the female singers, performing “Poison Tree” from his new box set Music That Changes the World.

Chris had suggested that Pershing Square was as good a place as any in downtown LA to scope out as far as busking opportunities for Bridget, so that’s where we headed the next day. Incredible as it seems, we found a parking lot nearby that charges $5 a day and from there headed out on foot into the jewelry district … amazing – block after block after block in every direction filled with nothing but jewelry stores. Bridget found herself a good corner to play on and I wandered off to see what I could see (mostly jewelry) for an hour or so. On the non-jewelry side of Pershing Square, I came across one of those rarities – a funicular called Angels Flight.


This little cable railway had its maiden “flight” on New Year’s Eve 1901 and has been operating since, transporting people up and down the 325-foot hill. The historical marker at the bottom of the incline talks of the society matrons living in the wealthy neighborhood at the top of the hill taking the car down with their butlers who carried the day’s shopping back up from Grand Central Market at the foot of the hill. I don’t know who lives at the top of the hill nowadays, but the market continues to flourish – a thriving indoor market with stands of everything from fruit to fish.

Downtown LA doesn’t seem to be a place for a lot of open spaces and greenery, so I was pleased to find a bit of both as I wandered around the Pershing Square neighborhood.




From downtown LA, it was back up to Hollywood for a quick visit with my friend Mark Watt, before he headed into town to see his second Bruce Springsteen show in as many nights. Mark and I have known each other since we both discovered the Van Morrison list on the Internet more years ago than I can remember – but when you live on opposite sides of the continent, friendships sometimes are formed and forever remain out in the ether. But it looks like all that’s going to change soon, with Mark’s imminent move to Ithaca, New York, in a few months. Now all we need is for Van to come back to New York for a few shows so all the local fans can welcome Mark to the East Coast fold. In the meantime, here in Hollywood, we’ve arranged to meet up on Sunset Blvd across from Amoeba Records. Wow! As anyone will tell you who has been to Amoeba, this has to be one of the finest record stores in the country. Bins and bins full of a vast repertoire of music, including a huge selection of vinyl and used music. I’m not against shopping for music online, but I still get a thrill flipping through the goods in the racks. You never know what goodies you’ll find. Today I struck gold … for years I have been searching for the Ray Charles song “What Would I Do Without You?” in every record store I go into. But my search is over. Amoeba Records to the rescue! What a treasure for the locals and a must-see if you’re ever in LA.

And what better time to pop in my new Ray CD than the next morning, as Bridget and I said goodbye to Hollywood and steered Dexy over to Santa Monica Blvd., taking the final leg of old Route 66 out to Santa Monica and a day at the beach – the starting point of our trip up the coast along the Pacific Highway.

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in and around san diego, california

Posted on April 29, 2012 by shannon

San Diego has a great rep – and it’s easy to see why. Beautiful weather, on the ocean, what’s not to love? Location, location, location – and it works for me. I’m not sure why it is, but the West Coast has always had me under its spell. I was born in the east and have lived in the east all my life, so it could simply be a case of thinking the grass is greener here in the west; but I think it must go deeper than that. Lately I’ve been thinking that it might have to do with me being a sunset person. It’s not that I don’t like sunrises; it’s just that I’m never up in time to see them. If I was, I imagine I’d enjoy sitting on the beach somewhere in Maine or the Carolinas and watching the sun come up, with the light playing on the water. At least I think I would, but it’s not like I really know, never having had the experience.

I don’t think I would ever tire of watching the sun set over the ocean. To test that theory, we’re going to spend a lot of time on the West Coast, from California up to Vancouver Island in British Columbia. The first leg of that trip begins with a few weeks here in San Diego at the southernmost tip of California before we head north as far as Big Sur. We’ll be back in the fall to complete the second half of our Pacific Coast journey. But for now, it’s all about sunny southern California.

We arrived in San Diego on April Fool’s Day and made our way to Pacific Beach, where Bridget’s best friend since childhood, Natalie, and her boyfriend, Eric, have an apartment two and a half blocks from the ocean. We set up camp and made it our home for the next three-plus weeks, and I can’t thank them enough for making us feel so welcome. The last time I saw Natalie and Eric was the day before they set out for California from New Hampshire almost a year ago. They love it here, and I don’t blame them. I love it here too, and I just got here

Within an hour of our arrival, we headed down to the beach to enjoy our first of many sunsets. A picture-perfect evening, cool breezes coming in off the ocean and the waves crashing into shore.


The waves were unusually high – vestiges of a recent storm. The surfers must have loved it, but they had to make do in the days that followed as peace was restored to the ocean. And sunny days they were. When we weren’t otherwise occupied, Bridget and I headed down to the beach most days, soaking up the rays, taking afternoon naps and catching up on our reading. I never got in swimming – the water was far too cold at 59 degrees – but I did see a few brave souls venturing in, mostly those younger kids who don’t know from cold. And the surfers, but of course they had on their wet suits. I discovered a new sport – actually, it looks more like hard exercise than sport: standing on a surfboard and paddling along with an oar, sort of a combination of surfing and rowing. Only in California, you say?

We arrived in town just in time for baseball season. The San Diego Padres had their season opener at home on April 5 against the LA Dodgers, and Natalie, Bridget and I were lucky enough to get handed tickets for the game, thanks to Eric’s boss’s husband, who couldn’t make use of them.

The Padres made a valiant effort, but they were not the best team on the field. It’s hard to judge based on one game, but it looks like they have a hard year ahead of them.

The following night, I headed back into town, this time to Little Italy, with fellow Van fan Colleen Aller and her husband, Barry, to see Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, who were playing at Anthology. Dinner first, though, at, you guessed it, an Italian restaurant down the street. Dinner was good, but Martha was even better. She’s still got a lot of oomph in her voice and put on a good show, complete with her hits “Nowhere to Run,” “Heat Wave,” “Jimmy Mack,” and ending with a powerhouse version of “Dancing in the Street,” which had the entire audience up on their feet dancing.

Two weeks later, all three of us were back at Anthology to catch Jon Cleary & The Philthy Phew. Jon is something else on piano and after catching him a couple of times solo in New Orleans, I was glad to be in the right place at the right time to see him with his band.

There’s no point in going to Little Italy if you’re not going to eat, and tonight Barry and Colleen treated me to dinner again, this time at Buon Appetito. It was April 20, and if this is San Diego, be prepared for a night of plastering the town with Kony posters. I’m not sure how it played out in the rest of the city, but the throngs didn’t descend on Little Italy, although a couple of young gals did come down the street, putting up posters wherever they could. I have no idea how the Kony campaign is doing, but I suspect interest in it peaked a while ago, and the negative publicity and the hilarious sendup on an episode of “South Park” couldn’t have helped much in the credibility department.

Although my stay in San Diego was very Pacific Beach-centric, Colleen and Barry invited me to their lovely home up in the hills in Escondito to spend the weekends. They treated me like royalty, and I was the perfect princess, being doted on the whole time. Colleen had bought out half the grocery store and we feasted like kings and queens – caledonia weekends of food and drink, music and laughter, and talking till our ears fell off and it was time for bed. When we weren’t watching music videos from Colleen’s collection, we spent hours out on the patio surrounded by her beautiful garden – a perfect place to relax and compare our notes on the ways of the world. And lest you think it was all just idle chit chat about nothing at all, we discovered a lot about ourselves, including a mutual interest in spirituality, gardening, and rock and roll. All grist for the mill. We were shining up there in the hills.



Look what’s hiding up there in the tree …

About an hour north of San Diego is the town of Carlsbad – a lovely little town on the coast. Lovely doesn’t quite describe Carlsbad, spectacular is more like it. I took a day trip up there to visit fellow ProofreadNow.com proofreader Jane Allen. ProofreadNow’s proofreaders live all over the world, and for most of us, the only place we meet is on our computer screens, so I’m glad when my travels let me put a face to a name … it makes a big world a little smaller, and that works for me. Jane took me to her favorite fish taco “shack” for lunch and a drive down main street on the way to Encinitas just south of Carlsbad. I must have told Jane how much I enjoyed gardens, or maybe it’s simply that she loves them too; whatever the reason, our destination was the Self-Realization Fellowship Retreat and Hermitage on San Rafael Avenue in Encinitas. Founded in 1937 by Paramahansa Yogananda, author of “Autobiography of a Yogi,” the retreat and hermitage served as both the yogi’s home and a place where he could hold classes with serious students interested in his teachings on spirituality. The meditation gardens on the property were designed by the yogi and are full of flowering shrubs, trees and a series of ponds full of exotic fish, all of which can be enjoyed by the public. And so we did, wandering along the walkways leading up to the top of the cliff that overlooks the ocean, stopping to enjoy the flowers in bloom. Benches are placed around the gardens, where you can sit and take it all in, and the tranquility of the surroundings easily lends itself as a place of meditation.




Heading back to Pacific Beach from Carlsbad, I took the coastal road, which took me through the beach towns of Solana Beach and Del Mar before coming to upscale La Jolla, which used to be separate from but, like Pacific Beach and Escondito, is now part of San Diego. A case of urban sprawl if you ever did see one. It’s the new Los Angeles, just with less smog. A lot less smog.

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route 66 in arizona

Posted on April 25, 2012 by shannon

We gave Arizona short shrift, although some might say that by taking in the Grand Canyon, we’d seen the best the state has to offer. Tucson and Tombstone will have to wait for another day. Texas is dry, New Mexico is dry and Arizona is drier still … our bodies needed to get out of the dry and get quenched, and the best way we knew how to do that was head to the ocean – on the other side of Arizona and across California. A stop for the Grand Canyon, and then we were off.

Our visit to the canyon put us in Flagstaff for two nights and Williams for one, and in each case we arrived in town well after dark with no other plans than to rest our weary bodies after a long day. Mornings were for getting on the road, but first breakfast. We could see the sign for the Galaxy Diner from our hotel parking lot in Flagstaff and made a beeline for it on foot. We opened the door and were transported back to the ’50s: photos plastered on the wall, Elvis coming over the sound system and a jukebox up front beneath a Route 66 sign. We’d found Route 66 again – we weren’t looking for it, but there it was.

And Elvis! No question about it, this guy gets around. Posters up near the ceiling, prints of him in the bathroom, and his picture interspersed among other oldies but goodies on the walls. We plunked ourselves into a booth and ate hearty at the Galaxy both mornings we were in town. We didn’t see anything else in Flagstaff, but we did see Elvis.


Further along the Arizona road is Williams, where we laid our heads after our final day at the canyon. Again, it was too dark to see a thing, although to be fair, Williams is a small town, so there isn’t a whole lot to see. But there it was in the morning …

… and Elvis swiveling his hips on main street …

From Williams, we head west as far as Kingman, where we say goodbye to Route 66, at least for now, and make a beeline for San Diego and the ocean!

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grand canyon

Posted on April 24, 2012 by shannon

In my lifetime, I must have seen hundreds of pictures of the Grand Canyon, each different from the last, each quintessential. If a picture does indeed speak a thousand words, I’ve read volumes on this place. And yet I knew nothing of it. The more pictures I saw, the more mysterious this place became. It was as though with each picture, the canyon dimensions grew, so that after all these years, the Grand Canyon in my mind had grown to inestimable size. Just when I thought it couldn’t grow any bigger, there would be another batch of someone’s Grand Canyon vacation pictures to look at – all of them different from anything I’d seen before, and the canyon would bulge out some more. So, yes, I wanted to see the grandeur, but more important, I wanted to stop its incessant growth. I needed to get a handle on it.

We spent two days exploring the south rim (we’d also hoped to do the north rim on this trip, but it doesn’t open until mid-May). Because we stayed way offsite in Flagstaff – about an hour and a half drive from the south canyon entrance – there was no hope of being there for sunrise, but we had two glorious sunsets to end both days. We split the rim in half, taking the Desert View Drive along the eastern side the first day, ending up at Navajo Point for sunset. Our intention on Day 2 was to explore the western side exclusively and get in a bit of hiking down into the canyon. However, when we stopped in at the Grand Canyon Visitor Center to begin our second day and get some suggestions as to best hikes down, the ranger there strongly encouraged us to head back to the east side and do the South Kaibab trail. And so we did.

To do the eastern side adequately, you need a car … drive a ways, park, get out and explore, get in car, go a ways, get out and explore, repeat to the end. There are a couple of places – South Kaibab and Yaki Point – that can only be accessed by shuttle bus, so we did that too. And without further ado, and in keeping with pictures being worth a thousand words, here are some photos I took of the eastern side. It was a beautiful day, not too hot but certainly dry enough to require many trips to the water spigots for bottle refills; and the scattered clouds made for a spectacular sunset at the end of the day.










Colorado River

Canyon wildlife





Our second day began with our hike down into the canyon on the South Kaibab trail. Although it is advised not to go down to the bottom, especially at this time of year when it goes below freezing at night, at best (which we are not), it’s a 12-hour return trip. We did the 45-minute version. Going down is fine; it’s the coming back up that’s the killer.

From the South Kaibab Trailhead we took the bus back to the Visitor Center and hopped on another bus that took us through Grand Canyon Village with stops at various hubs of activity, including the lodge and campground and the market plaza, and on to the village’s western edge, where we debarked for a third bus that travels the western rim. The free shuttle bus service is the only way to get to the west side – no private cars allowed. A great way to travel, and its hop-on, hop-off stops along the route gives way for a day of walking the rim trails from one point to another, ultimately ending up at Hopi Point to watch the sunset. No clouds in the sky today, so the effects of the setting sun were a little less spectacular, but no less satisfying.









It was a glorious couple of days – everywhere we turned there was something new and magnificent to look at. As one person who had spent the last four days hiking around the canyon said to me, “You could spend weeks here and never see the same thing twice.” He’s right. With every new vista, it meant another photo op, and it was hard to cull it down here to just a couple of dozen.

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taos, new mexico

Posted on April 23, 2012 by shannon

At some point back in Albuquerque, we’d made a change of travel plans. Plan A had been to carve our way north through New Mexico from White Sands to ABQ, on to Santa Fe and Taos, then head up to Four Corners, where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah meet at one point. Apparently there’s nothing there to see – it’s just lines on a map – but we want to see that for ourselves. Four Corners has the added advantage of being en route to the Grand Canyon, which is where we’re heading next. It is en route, but to the Grand Canyon’s North Rim, which as it turns out is not open during the winter months. March tourists must go to the South Rim. Different road. Plan B nixed Four Corners and turned Santa Fe and Taos into a three-day side trip: two days in Santa Fe with a trip to Taos sandwiched in between. Taos is very close – about an hour-and-a-half drive from Santa Fe.

Which is to say we’re off to Taos today. The woman at the Santa Fe Visitor Center had given me a map – a very detailed one – that showed the two routes to Taos – the low road and the high road. Any of the literature I’d read so far said to take the high road to Taos (for the views), clearly indicated on the map. As is the low road, the faster route, which hugs the Rio Grande. To be fair, I imagined there would be a sign saying “High Road, turn right,” but if there was, I missed it, and it was the low road for us up to Taos.

Rio Grande

Taos is cute. Small and cute. Like Santa Fe, it has a plaza, the Guadalupe Plaza, with the town radiating out from there. We went to the plaza and radiated from there, mostly in and out of shops and galleries in the compact historic downtown area. Not too many people about on this midweek day in late March. We’re too late for ski season and too early for summer art classes, when the town is probably abuzz with visitors; but today, we have lots of elbow room as we stroll around and pretend we’re shopping. (Actually, I bought a blouse at Michelle’s, so it wasn’t all pretend.)





Taos skyline

I knew that D.H. Lawrence had moved to Taos in the early 1920s and had purchased a home some miles north of town, where he and Frieda lived for a couple of years, but there simply wasn’t enough time for us to visit. What I didn’t know is that his “Forbidden Art” collection is housed in the Hotel la Fonda, on the south size of Guadalupe Plaza. Big miss. Lawrence had 13 of these paintings (of which nine make up the Taos collection), which were banned from London in the late ’20s. Apparently they’re still banned! I won’t miss it the next time I’m in town. In the meantime, though, instead of being enthralled with Lawrence’s erotic art, I was beguiled by some shunga at G. Robinson Old Prints & Maps, a little shop in among the shops and galleries off the plaza. I think these shunga were woodblock prints dating from the early 1800s, but don’t quote me on that. I bet these would have been banned in London too. This is the first time I’d even heard of shunga, let alone seen this Japanese erotic art – I’ve since learned that it reached the height of its popularity during the 260-year Edo period, which ended in 1867, but with the introduction of photography, in particular erotic photography, this graphic Japanese art form couldn’t compete and died out. During its time, many of the shunga artists had their regular day jobs creating “reputable” art but dabbled in shunga because it paid better. A little like Anaïs Nin, who wrote pornography on the side to pay the bills.

Our stay in Taos was shorter than short – just a couple of hours to see the town and then it was back to Santa Fe in time for Bridget to sign up for open mic night at Sol. We were determined to find the high road, but like on the way up, there are no signs indicating the way – you simply have to know. Well, we do know this time, we turn left on the right road. At least we think we know, but about a half mile along Route 518, there’s a sign – the first sign we’ve seen all day for the high road – with the words “High Road to Taos” on it. Wait a second – how can that be? – we’re on the high road FROM Taos … are we going the wrong way? And that’s when it dawns on me. The name of the road is the “High Road to Taos,” so when folks were telling me to take the high road to Taos, they didn’t literally mean to take it on the way to Taos, they simply meant “Take it!” And so we did. And it does have some spectacular views as it winds through the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the first of which is snow – little piles on the side of the road where the snowplow has dumped it, on the forested hills, and off in the distance on the mountaintops.


And look at all the green trees …

As we pass through the small farming communities of Vadito and Peñasco and on through Las Trampas, Truchas, Cordova and Cundiyo, we don’t have time to get out and explore the pottery shops and other artisan galleries that dot the landscape – we are car sightseers today, just enjoying the scenery. As the road moves further west and away from the mountains, we move from greens to the familiar browns as we get closer to Santa Fe.


One day in Taos is not nearly enough. We barely scraped the surface, just enough to get a glimpse of what draws people to the area. I’d like to see more, dig a little deeper. And next time I’m here, I’ll take the drive north of town to the Taos Pueblo. The pueblo was not open to the public this week – supposedly this is the week when their artisans come to Taos and set up their stalls and blankets, displaying their wares. I didn’t see them in town, so I don’t know what that was all about, but no matter. Next time I’ll time my visit when they’re at home. The Taos Pueblo is just one of many Native American pueblos throughout New Mexico, but I saw nary a one … I did see a fair number of their casinos, though, with neon lights and cars in the parking lots, but it’s not quite the same thing.

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santa fe, new mexico

Posted on April 20, 2012 by shannon

Santa Fe – the mecca of the southwest. Given its history, it’s amazing that Santa Fe didn’t turn into a ghost town, let alone become a mecca.

Nine hundred years ago, what is now Santa Fe was the site of a number of Indian pueblos situated on the Santa Fe River. The Spaniards arrived at the end of the 16th century, taking over the place and imposing Roman Catholicism, which, as it turned out, didn’t sit well with many of the locals. In a revolt in 1680, the Pueblo Indians retook the town, but before the century was out, it was back in Spanish hands, where it remained until the mid-19th century, when the Spanish lost all their southwest territories to the United States, who won that war. In terms of catches, Santa Fe wasn’t much of one – the Santa Fe River had all but dried up years before – it was a town sitting on a pile of dust and getting dustier. In the 1880s, when it was decided not to build a railroad to Santa Fe, it looked like the final nail in the coffin. A lot of people left … but then a different set of people began to trickle in, attracted by the landscape and the rich native culture.

Santa Fe River, 2012

If you attract enough like-minded people to one spot, there is bound to be a couple of city planners in the bunch. In 1912, the city imposed a strict building code that declared all structures had to be built in the Spanish Pueblo style – flat-roofed, adobe buildings. The town had been laid out by the Spaniards, its key feature being a plaza in the center of town, with the Palace of the Governors on the north side and the Cathedral Basilica of St Francis of Assisi on the east. Over the years, they had to tear down a lot of buildings in order to get the uniformity of style they were looking for, but those two buildings remain as early examples of the pueblo/adobe style.

Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi

Later on, they relaxed the rules to allow buildings in the Territorial Revival style, whose key feature is white pillars, so now there are these two types of buildings in Santa Fe and that’s it. Of course the city has stretched way out to the burbs since then, and it’s peculiar to the eye to see miles and miles of communities all wearing the same uniform.


“Build it and they will come.” And so they have. Art and artistry oozes from every nook and cranny, at least in the downtown area, which radiates out from the plaza.

Bridget and I rarely go into museums when we show up in town – it’s strictly a budget thing – but Santa Fe is one of the exceptions. We were both keen to see the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, and it was our No. 1 destination on our first morning in town. Right after scoping out the town for busking opportunities for Bridget. We were somewhat surprised to find no music, live or otherwise, out on the plaza. But there were lots of people out selling their jewelry. Native, turquoise jewelry – destination No. 2. But it was off to the museum first. I’ve never been a big fan of O’Keeffe’s overall body of work – with the exception of her flower pictures, the colors she loved always seemed washed out to me. I wanted to see her paintings up close, here in New Mexico, to see if I could discover what it was she saw, so that I might see too.

It didn’t work. But I did enjoy my time in the gift shop flipping through the flower prints. And I did learn something: The museum shows two short films about O’Keeffe, and in one of them she says how she hated it when she was living on Lake George, New York. “All I see is green” she said, or words to that effect. I, on the other hand, would give my eye teeth to live on Lake George. That’s when it hit me. We are irresistibly drawn to a place because we see ourselves reflected in what we see, at one with our surroundings. When I look out on New Mexico, I see those same washed-out colors that O’Keeffe saw; the only difference between O’Keeffe and me (other than the fact that I can’t paint) is those colors resonate with her, while I toss them aside as an empty canvas. Put us on Lake George and our roles would be reversed. Beauty is certainly in the eye of the beholder, and beauty is certainly part of it, but it’s the being at one that is more the key.

It intrigued me a few days later, walking down the chic Canyon Road – an enclave of art galleries and a few eateries – to see how some modern artists have depicted the same scenes O’Keeffe painted, only theirs are filled with vibrant colors. Such contrast. I thoroughly enjoyed my walk along Canyon Road – although it is still winter in these parts, spring is making itself known, and I can only imagine how nature and art must commingle in the summer months.


The first gallery I popped into belongs to Ernesto Mayans – and I suspect his story mimics other artists along the street. When I ask him how he came to Santa Fe, he quickly credits his wife for knowing he needed to come here from New York 30 years ago. I don’t know what the art scene is like in New York, and I wouldn’t presume to know what it’s like here in New Mexico, but it sure seems there’s more room to move and create down here. So what there’s no water. I wandered around the gallery, enjoying the colors, and came across a clipping on display about the time photographer Andre Kertesz visited Santa Cruz and had a showing at Ernesto Mayans Gallery, in what turns out to be his final showing before he died not many months later. According to the article, Kertesz was quite taken with Santa Fe – he could feel that pull.

And look at this very, very cool piece from Avilio Jemenez called “Day of the Dead” I found on the wall in Dancing Ladies.

The pieces are made from boiled potatoes and plaster and then hand-painted. Absolutely delightful. Almost whimsical.

Famished before dinner, I made my last stop the Mirador Gallery, which appeared to have a kitchen. What an entrance … a collection of Tibetan contemporary masters on the way to the restaurant. I didn’t spend too much time looking at the art – I’m afraid my rumbling stomach hurried me through to the Dish n’ Spoon in the back, where Sancho was happy to sell me a Haagan Dazs ice cream bar to take on my way. A few minutes down the road I found some early tulips in bloom outside the Pushkin Gallery and went to take a picture, only to realize I’d left my camera back with the Tibetans. I had been standing at the counter in the Mirador, talking with Daniel, when he moved to the side and I got this wonderful view out the gallery’s front window and had to take a shot.

I must have left the camera on the counter when I went digging in my purse for a card I could give to Daniel (yes, I carry around a “business” card – on one side is the cover of “Astral Weeks Live: A Fan’s Notes” and on the other side is my blog address, for just such an occasion) … I always want the people I talk to to know they’re going to show up in my blog one day. It gives them a chance to say no, they’d prefer not to be mentioned. But most of the time, folks are perfectly happy to be included in my road trip storylog.

Art definitely is Santa Fe’s strong suit. It’s not just the galleries. Shop windows are beautifully decorated, picture-perfect sidewalk displays at every turn, craftsmen and women displaying their wares in the park, and sculptures everywhere, including these fascinating Lyman Whitaker wind sculptures outside the Loretto Chapel on Old Santa Fe Trail …


Inside the Loretto Chapel is no slouch either. The beautiful altar and stained glass windows are just the half of it. The chapel’s staircase is the main attraction. As the brochure says, “this ‘miraculous staircase’ contains 33 steps in two full 360-degree turns … no center support, nor is it held from its sides.” It’s a remarkable feat.

A little farther down the Santa Fe Trail is the San Miguel Mission – built in 1610, it is the oldest church in the United States. Not surprisingly, during the 1680 Pueblo Revolt in Santa Fe, this Spanish church was a key target and was pretty much destroyed, but was rebuilt in 1692 when the Spanish reclaimed the town. An interesting twist on the site of the church: Beneath its foundation they’ve discovered evidence of Native Americans living there as early as 1300. I wonder if the Pueblo Indians doing the revolting 300 years later knew that bit of information? You’d almost have to think they would. Among the artifacts inside the church, including a bell inscribed in 1356, are the 12 stations of the cross hanging on the church’s walls. I am reminded of the stations of the cross in Lowell, Massachusetts, as Jack Kerouac described them in “Dr. Sax”:

mad, vast, religious, the Twelve Stations of the Cross, little individual twelve altars set in, you go in front, kneel, everything but incense in the air (the roar of the river, mysteries of nature, fireflies in the night flickering to the waxy stare of statues, I knew Doctor Sax was there flowing in the back darks with his wild and hincty cape).

From church to gift shop and then into the Santa Fe Store, where I meet Nina, who is working behind the counter today. Like so many in Santa Fe, Nina is an import, arriving with her family from Poland years ago. She loves it here. When I ask her what it’s like looking at the same adobe architecture all the time and whether the saminess gets a bit boring, Nina said that boring was the furthest thing from her mind, that she loves the architecture here, it makes her feel fine. Who can argue with that?

outside San Miguel Mission

While I had been out soaking up the atmosphere about town, Bridget was busking on the plaza … She had met two guys playing outside a restaurant near the plaza on our first afternoon in town, and with one thing leading to another, she was invited to play with them when they set up on the plaza two days later. They sounded great, and when I walked by (on my way to buying a lovely turquoise ring made by a local artisan), there was a large throng of people gathered around them enjoying the music. It’s a strange scene in Santa Fe – overflowing with art, but with the exception of Andre, Michael and Bridget, no music, at least not out on the streets. Andre did know about an open mic night at Santa Fe Sol out on the Turquoise Trail just south of town, so we headed over there our second night, straight from a day on the road up to Taos and back. More about Taos later, but for right now, we were glad to see the Santa Fe Brewery just across the parking lot from Santa Fe Sol. With plenty of time on our hands, we opted for a sampler tray before settling in for their Tuesday night $2 pints.


Then it was over to the Sol to get Bridget signed up. When it was her turn, Bridget warmed them up with a few songs on her violin and ended her set with a song she’s written on mandolin. I know what it was like for me watching her perform her own song for the first time in public, but for this and her own take on Santa Fe, it’s best to check out her blog post.

sunset outside Santa Fe Sol

Time to call it a day and head back to the campsite. We’re roughing it in Santa Fe, staying at Rancheros de Santa Fe Campground south of town, out on Old Las Vegas Highway, part of the old Route 66. We’re getting our kicks again. Sleeping out under the stars on Route 66. It’s chilly out there at night.

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along the turquoise trail, new mexico

Posted on April 13, 2012 by shannon

You know how it is when you book into a hotel, especially the kind we book ourselves into, there’s a rack of stuff to do in the area: DINOSAUR MUSEUM! THE LOUVRE! bus tours, skydiving, ballooning – you know the stuff. That rack is like a babe magnet to me. I take all the maps I can get – I love maps, especially the kind I can hold in my hands, and I’m always up for ideas that don’t charge admission. EconoLodge always has a full rack of this stuff, and as is my want, I was rummaging through it when I found something that scored on both counts: a map and no charge for admission. The map is for the Turquoise Trail, a back road that takes you from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and if you don’t stop to shop on the way, you can get by with nothing more than the price of gas.

The trail starts a little southeast of Albuquerque in Tijeras and heads north through rolling hills and forest to Santa Fe, following a 58-mile stretch of road with an ignominious past. Between 1863 and 1866, the Navajo were forced by agents of the U.S. government to leave their lands in northeastern Arizona and march 400 miles on foot to their incarceration at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. “The Long March,” as the Navajo refer to it, followed four different routes, and one of them, led by Kit Carson, took this one, now designated a national scenic byway. Ah, the ways of men. The dead are long gone, replaced by a paved road that winds through magnificent, albeit dry-looking, vistas.

Although our little map pinpoints 72 “items of interest” along the trail, a closer examination shows that a good number of those interesting things are existing or planned communities and real estate agents who’ll help you find the home of your dreams out here in the land of open spaces. We spot a couple of cafes and bed-and-breakfasts as we drive along, but for long stretches it is just wide-open expanses, waiting for someone to build on. Home on the range.

Points 25 to 49 are in the town of Madrid (pronounced MAH-drid), about halfway up the trail. It’s a good place to stop for lunch. In the late 1800s, Madrid was a company town – a coal mining operation was set up in the nearby Ortiz Mountains and by 1899, about 2,500 company men and their families lived here in wood-framed cabins. The mine shut down in 1954 and when everyone left, all that was left standing were the emptied buildings – a veritable ghost town. Today it is anything but.

We pull into a spot in front of Chumani Gallery at the south end of town. Chumani Gallery’s proprietor, Jesse Shakespeare, is sitting on the bench out front playing his guitar and talking with his wife, Pam Ellsworth, who owns the shop just up the way. The gallery has some lovely jewelry, paintings and sculptures, and among them are a few book titles sitting in short stacks – three copies of this title, a half dozen of that – and of course they pique my interest. I soon find out that Jesse is an author, as well as typesetter, printer and publisher, of three books, and that just scratches the surface of what Jesse does. He’s also an avid music fan, and soon enough we’re talking about Van Morrison and my book “Astral Weeks Live: A Fan’s Notes,” and gall-darned if he doesn’t want to buy a copy. He can add it to his expanding collection of books from authors he’s met along the way. He just likes to collect books. I know the type. And yes, William S. is in his family tree.

Chumani Gallery

When I step outside to find Bridget, she’s there by the car, talking with Albert, who’s driven up with his two daughters and has offered to help her maneuver our two big suitcases back into the trunk. I’d forgotten I’d left her with that job. I keep copies of my book in a box crammed in the back area of the trunk, behind the two big suitcases that feel like they’re full of lead. There’s a lot of heaving and ho-ing every time I go in for a copy and I am sure Bridget was glad of Albert’s help. In the meantime, his two girls, Alana and Laney, have scampered on ahead to Pam’s shop, and we follow suit.

up to Pam’s shop, Dream Gallery


Alana and Laney have Pam’s attention. which lets Bridget and me wander about the store. So many beautiful things. I wish my budget (and the space in my car) allowed me to shop for all the things I love to look at and touch and would love to look at and touch again, but it doesn’t, so I just try to make it as big a moment as I can and then move on. The framed art hanging on the wall was more than enough to fill my senses.

Pam came to New Mexico with Jesse in 2005, relocating from California, and says she knew she was home from the moment she got here. Her kinship with Madrid is echoed around town – like in New Orleans, when so many would say they came for a two-week vacation seven years ago and never left. There is a home for everyone, and it’s a good feeling to be in a town where so many people are here by decided choice, and they dig it.

Albert’s there to collect his girls and, as we wander outside, Jesse meets us in Pam’s (winter) garden …

When Bridget and I mention we’re going to head farther into town to get lunch, Jesse and Albert echo what Pam has suggested: Go to Mama Lisa’s. With that recommend, we head off to get Dexy while Albert and the girls head off to do something work-related that will take them out of town for a while, and when they get back, we’re going to drive over to their house on the mountaintop. Take in the views. But first, take in the views in town.



From the board, Bridget chooses a chicken curry dish that is delish and I get the squash soup that comes with some homemade bread and a side salad. Look at all the chunks of squash! Fabulous.

Our prix fixe lunch comes with dessert and while I’m digging into my strawberry shortcake, Albert, Laney and Alana arrive and order a shortcake for themselves. The girls take Bridget to see the chickens, just down the alley …

… and when they get back, we all climb into Albert’s truck and head off to his home on the mountain. I’d offered to follow him out from town in Dexy, to save him from having to return us to town, but Albert said, “Oh, we can just take my truck.” Farther on down the road, when we pull into his driveway, I realize why we’re in his truck, not my car. The drive up makes me laugh and laugh and laugh. It felt like driving in a bumper car on a skyward trajectory. Bump and jostle all the way. Too much fun!

Inside their house we get to meet the rest of the family …

Little Lady

… and Miley

Miley really knows how to put on a smile!

Laney, Alana and Little Lady

Laney

Alana

Albert gives us a tour of the house he’s built – lots of open space and easy to be in, and, as he points out, it’s a work in progress. His contract work doesn’t give him much time to work on his own place – he’s always busy putting up homes for others. The conversation turns to the people moving to Madrid – how the town is changing from the ’70s, when basically a bunch of hippies put what little money down they had and bought up some of the homes that had been abandoned during the ’50s when the mining company closed up shop. Madrid attracted a certain kind of person – free-thinking artistic folks looking to live off the grid. Everyone just doing their own thing. This is a very attractive concept, and that’s the double-edged sword. It seems that among the latest influx of Madrid movers are those who want change, want the government to take charge of things the townsfolk have been taking care of on their own up to this point. They’re attracted by the freedom, but then they want to quash it. It sure makes you wonder. And here I was thinking the water supply, not the people, would be the major issue in town. But no; Albert says that some people get water hauled in, but he’s built a rainwater system that has more than served his needs.

Talk of water makes me thirsty. I’m always thirsty these days. This is dry country. I’ve been blowing a bloody nose for weeks, and I know I’ve got to get some skin lotion before I brittle up altogether. But for now a glass of water, and we’re off to climb to the top of the mountain, where we’re rewarded with 360-degree views. This is what Georgia O’Keeffe fell in love with.





We’ve got to get a move on – we’d like to get to our campsite outside of Santa Fe before the sun goes down, so we can see what we’re doing. Down the driveway we go, with the girls singing “The Bumpy Road Song,” a little ditty that hits on the key features of the drive down (or up) their very fun driveway. In two shakes we’re back in town. Hugs all around, Albert extends an invitation to stay overnight with them if we’re back this way, and we promise to take him up on his offer should our travels bring us to Madrid again.

Left to our own devices, Bridget and I take turns nipping into shops and taking photos of this picturesque town. Unfortunately, in a hasty moment, I deleted whatever photos I took in Madrid, but very fortunately, Bridget took all the photos we’d need, so everything you see in this post is her eye on the subject.

Oh, look – up ahead there is another roadside attraction; someone is a fan of Tom Robbins, I see.

And with turquoise on my brain, you know where I’m heading …


A retail opportunity awaits this little fixer-upper in town …



Madrid – far from the madding crowd – one little town off the beaten track. For some it is a designation for lunch or a bit of shopping for local arts and crafts, and for others, it is a magnet that calls them home. People, places and things are constantly changing, and there’s no stopping it, but as I stand there taking it all in, I wish for half a second that things would never change here in this treasure of a place nestled in the mountains of New Mexico.

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