The morning's drive began about 200 miles away from the big one, so I spent the first few hours scanning the nearly spotless Texas landscape, particularly amused by the legions of wind turbines receding over the horizon. Take that, BOB. I have Tyson's back.
I crossed the border into New Mexico sooner than I expected, realized my time zone error, and then focused on the increasing odometer. I wanted to pull over for a picture once she hit 45,000 and given the 75 mph speed limits, it could be easy to click to 45,001 while looking for a suitable spot. Thankfully, the shoulders were bare and I was able to cruise to a dusty stop shortly after CJ celebrated her 45,000th birthday. Hard to believe I got her at around 6,000 in November 2013, but I took her in for a pre-cross-country check-up and she got full marks.
In New Mexico, rock formations began punctuating the run-on flats, with ridges and mesas punched from the horizon every few miles or so. As has become familiar in the west, there were no signs of civilization between the far-flung towns. I think I could count the outposts over the 200 miles from the border to Albuquerque on one hand.
At one point, I passed a sign that said "Carlsbad Caverns: Next Right," which came as a surprise. Mom and I went to Carlsbad when I was 10 and I remembered it being pretty far south. Sure enough, beneath that sign, it said "240 miles" or so. My first, snarky thought was "it's a little more to get there than taking the next right, wouldn't you say?" Then, I realized that, given the thin spider web of western highways, if someone traveling I-40 misses that right turn, they aren't going to Carlsbad Caverns.
I pulled into Albuquerque at quarter to eleven and sought out the coffee shop Kat recommended. GPS guided me into the parking lot of a shopping center cobbled together from old shipping containers. The quirky aesthetic had a post-apocalyptic feel to it until I walked into Epiphany Espresso to be greeted by its two friendly owners. I sat with a Lobo Latte (not a Loco Latte as I first though, which makes sense given the college team nearby) and blogged in bliss.
After finishing the blog, I ordered another coffee, put on some sunscreen, and took General Washington up to one of the rooftop patios. The views were stunning, as the desert opened up beyond the city limits and the Sandia crest loomed to the northeast.
Kat arrived shortly afterwards and I followed her lead in ordering at Amore Neapolitan Pizzeria. We took our table flag up to another patio and began catching up about the complexities of our last few years, our sentiments on where we live or will be living, and general news. Happenstance has provided the backbone of our ongoing friendship since college, with an unplanned overlap in Vegas and now this breeze through on my way across the continent. Despite the randomness, the conversation always picks up easily and flows naturally. I think we even gathered our empty pizza plates in the same moment.
From Albuquerque, I forged west, facing my largest single GPS direction yet, 460 miles on I-40 until turning into Kingman to stop for the night. I lined up podcasts and spent the next few hours swerving around the brilliant red rock formations that took me through New Mexico.
In the mid-afternoon, I saw a sign for Acoma Pueblo, a Native American pueblo fixed upon a towered mesa. Dad had taken me there during our rambling road trip in 1997 and I could still remember the intensity of the ascent. I had just talked with Kat about how I haven't been south of Albuquerque, into what mentally qualifies as "Dad country" since a year or two after his death in 1998. Now, despite a cautiously wide berth, I had stumbled back into old memories. I contemplated driving to Acoma, to willfully reconnect with that trip, but the detour was 30 minutes each way and I would already be arriving after dark. After considering the choice along the dusty shoulder of the original route 66 (alongside I-40), I continued on, passing snow-dusted ridges on all sides as I entered Arizona.
Luckily, another chance presented itself around sunset. As the sky split into rainbow bands, I saw a sign for the Arizona Meteor Crater. The words hit me square in the chest. Dad took me to the meteor crater, too, on the same trip, several days before Acoma Pueblo. I remember standing beside him, awestruck at the yawning hole 3/4 of a mile across. It was stunning and it made me and the Earth beneath my feet feel so very, very small. That feeling and the feeling of loss when Dad died gave me the name of my now-set-aside book about our travels: Crater.
The sign said the exit was only a few miles ahead and a quick GPS hit showed me the crater was less than 10 miles off the exit. That detour I could afford. Even as I chose the crater as my new destination, however, Google Maps warned me that the park was closed. I didn't care. I had to get as far as I could.
I took the exit for Meteor Crater Road after the sun had slipped below the horizon. Dusk lit my way down the thin, empty road, past a gas station with a helpful sign advising once more that the landmark was closed up for the night.
I passed only one car along the way, wondering if it was a park ranger, but a cloud of dust from the next dirt road revealed they had come from even farther off in the countryside. I thought about rangers, whether any might still be there almost an hour after closing. I thought about the serendipity of Joplin, how I took a chance that paid off so well. Maybe someone would still be there, someone I could tell about my vacation almost two decades ago, who might take a little pity so that I could just see over the edge quickly.
No such luck, unfortunately. As I neared the curved ridge around the crater, I saw the parking lot gated off entirely, with only an abandoned park vehicle up near the visitor center. I had hoped that the road might have a view into the depths, but that prehistoric impact lifted the land all around it, curtaining me off. I felt a little disappointed, but then let it pass. I had tried and I had come. It was the closest I have been in decades to any of the ground we covered back then. I had mentally roped the area off for so long that I couldn't have imagined driving down the same road as Dad had, behind the wheel of that black Jeep Wrangler he called Das Jeep. Now I had, and though I couldn't put to words the closure or the ease that brought, I drove back out to I-40 glad I had added that little bit onto the day's travels.
Several hours later, I pulled to a stop in Kingman, checked into my room, and eventually fell into a deep sleep.
Today, LA begins.
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