Escape to the Arizona Alps

 

7/31

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A benefit to not slogging out a ludicrously long drive (or a shorter drive and minor but time-consuming breakdown) on the first day of the trip is that you don’t wake up feeling like you’ve been run over by a bus (or your own hot rod) the next morning! I like that.

Because I wasn’t feeling like I had been run over, I actually made it up and out the door at a pretty respectable time for me. I’m a night owl, you know, and mornings are not for me.

The problem that I encountered was that I was in need of breakfast, but Van Horn is a small town, and it was Monday to boot. Many restaurants are closed on Mondays now – kind of a nice thing for the workers, but biting me in the butt today!

Of the three breakfast places available in Van Horn, only one advertised being open: Mom’s Kitchen. Yep, that’s the name of the place. When I arrived, they were closed and an elderly Latino cowboy was pulling away in a minivan – but when he saw me pull into the lot, he reversed and hollered something out the window at me. “What???” I said, struggling to hear over the V8 grumpily waking up under Jane’s hood. We went back and forth several times, at which point he seemed to conclude that there was just something wrong with me so he waved me towards the building.

He came around the side, unlocked the front door to let me in, and shuffled around waking the kitchen up – and it truly was a home-style kitchen, just like the one you’d see in any house in America. I only know this because you could see over the counter. Shortly, “Mom” herself showed up and started cooking, and a few minutes later I was served a pile of great diner-style eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon. I felt a bit bad about making them open the place up just to make 8 bucks off me, but fortunately a number of other people showed up to eat once it became clear the place was open. I struck up a conversation with a friendly couple – also out-of-towners, but headed in the opposite direction from me. I (correctly) guessed that they were from El Paso, and they wanted to know how I knew. What I said was, mysteriously, “Oh, you can just tell El Pasoans from their vibe”, but the truth is that there’s only one city west of Van Horn, and it’s El Paso. Ha. We chatted hot rods for a while and swapped recommendations for food along the long El Paso-to-Austin route – not that there’s that many options, so it was a bit more commiserating than recommending – and then I got on my way. I had a lot of driving to do today, again! Day Two: the Mountain Day. The day where I would cleverly cut up into the mountains of New Mexico and Arizona to avoid the horrendous heat gripping the lowlands of the Southwest, hopefully.

We had a bit to go before the mountain part, so Jane and I hopped back onto I-10 and got to running. Sometimes in the early morning runs like this, I consider the discrepancies in how different people take care of their cars. Many people I know like to crank their vintage cars up and let them idle there in the driveway for 10-15 minutes or so, or until they’re up to operating temperature. Then, they might gently putter out into the street, and run the car lightly for a bit before starting to get on it.

Then there’s jackasses like me, who will crank the motor up, peel out of the parking spot in less than 30 seconds, and immediately turn right out of the parking lot onto the on ramp leading to a major interstate with a posted speed well over 75MPH. Run ‘em hard right out the gates, that’s what I always say. Or I would, if anyone asked me. Probably you shouldn’t take my advice though.

Regardless, Jane has never complained about this treatment before, and she didn’t today either. The scenery in this pointy little corner of Texas is pretty sublime, actually, contrary to what many people envision when they think of Texas. Sure, there’s the traditional “Texas-style” flat scrubby plains where the highway runs, but just a little further out into the ranchland they are succeeded by low rolling hills, which jaunt along merrily in the long shadows of distant flat-topped cliffy mountains.

 

And you know what, considering how incredibly crispy and dead things are in Austin (courtesy this year’s drought and heat dome), that flat scrubland looks pretty dang refreshingly green.

 

A couple of pleasant hours passed before we descended into El Paso to brave whatever traffic it might send my way. But instead of traffic, I got… rain?

 

Hmm, that’s a novelty. Hasn’t rained in Austin since the beginning of June. I left my window down and let my arm hang out, relishing the feel of the raindrops on my skin and the cool wind twisting its way through the city. Oh, man. That’s the good stuff.

The rain cleared as I left El Paso, and I hit New Mexico in good time.

I like going this way to New Mexico because it has the fanciest entry sign

As we struck out across southern New Mexico, I began to see some familiar signs.

 

And that was puzzling to me. Because on every past road trip I’ve taken, I’ve run along the northern route towards Albuquerque. I’ve never driven this way before. But these billboards… they were nearly the exact same as the billboards that I always see advertising for Flying C Ranch on the northern route. “GUY STUFF!” “GIRL STUFF!” “KNIVES!!” “SNAKE STUFF!” “PONCHOS!” – I find those signs hilarious and always snap a pic. But here they were, the same signs, different location! Well, I looked it up and it turns out that a company called Bowlin Travel Centers actually runs like eight of these weird gift shop travel center things, mostly spread across New Mexico. Huh. Well, it’s not as special now, but I guess I’m still entertained.

Jane and I continued our northwesterly strike through the plains, winding our way up towards the mountains and the haven of the Colorado Plateau. The closer we got, the more clouds gathered over the mountains – at first, just the usual fluffy New Mexican summer clouds, but eventually coalescing into a more ominous variety. Out in the plains as we were, we mostly got to enjoy the cloud cover and the cooler winds without any of the drama (well, beyond visual drama). Perfection!

 

Boy that is some perfect black asphalt

But finally, our path ascended into the mountains, and we found ourselves beneath those clouds. Very fortunately, these summer storms were not inclined to be vicious – not like the massive Texas monsoons I’ve encountered in past years. Instead, I got a nice normal drenching rain.

 

Satisfying, if less picturesque than usual.

 

That is a great windshield wiper though I guess

Little did I know, but those storms would set the tone for the entire rest of the day. Jane and I threaded our way through the mountains on a little two-lane highway, perfectly content to hang out and take it easy for once. Intermittently the rain would slacken to drizzle, then clear for a bit, then proceed back into drizzle and then heavier rains, never constituting a deluge, just enough to keep the moody rainy-day feel to the afternoon.

For hours, we rumbled quietly through pine forests and farmland and little farming towns, letting the serenity of a rare rainy day seep into our bones. The radio crackled out some fuzzy tunes, barely loud enough to reach above the whishing of tires on wet asphalt and the reedy whistle of the wispy remnants of storm winds. Deep breaths brought me nothing but the smell of rain, the earthy scent of wet soil and the subtle rubbery aroma of wet asphalt and the sweet fragrance of wet grass and the sharp tinge of wet pine all wrapped up in one. Temperatures dropped into the 60’s, prompting me to snug my flip-flop-adorned feet further under the dash and to drag a bandana across my lap for a little bit of extra warmth. And through it all, the gloomy landscape just kept going and going and going. What a glorious, glorious rainy day.

 

Drove past some cool rocks too which was an added bonus

I was wondering why I smelled hay for a while until we went around a bend and I saw the guy two cars ahead of me. This guy then proceeded to drive at 15 MPH up a very, very long stretch of a mountain, presumably due to the fact that he was dragging a billion pounds of sodden hay behind him, or because he was a massive asshole. Either way, I hated him.

Oooooh that is some Grade-AA fog! Very spooky.

Some very heavy-duty snow fences on the flat, windswept top of one of the mountains.

But all days must end, and eventually I reached my destination for the night: Pinetop, AZ. Nestled deep within the White Mountains, which are sometimes affectionately espoused as the “Arizona Alps”, it’s just a little mountain resort town. Not fancy like Vail, but more of an honest vacation town. There’s a little strip of hotels and restaurants and not too much else in the way of town infrastructure, which is just fine by me. I booked myself a hotel for the night and headed out to have a nice Italian dinner, feeling thoroughly pleased with the day. I could not have asked for better weather to take me through New Mexico and half of Arizona – it’s exceedingly rare for me to get a “pleasant rain” day, and I certainly didn’t expect to get one here! A good omen for the rest of the trip, I hope.

Kelly signing out.

A Hot Rodder's Call

7/30 

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Hello friends. It’s been a while! It is now 2023. Jane and I have been taking road trips for nine years now. Mostly in the summer, although last year I did deviate from the norm and go somewhere when it wasn’t a billion degrees outside.

Nine years is a long time to be doing these trips. In fact, when I did my first trip in 2014, many called it a “trip of a lifetime”. The problem with a “trip of a lifetime” is that it indicates that you only do it once. Alas, I missed that connotation, and I’ve just kind of kept doing them. And I’ve kept dragging you all along with me via this little blog, which now houses many years of memories.

So here we are. Nine years down the road. This year, I was hoping to take Jane out on an in-depth loop around Arizona sometime in October. But sometime back in March, my Californian hot rodder friends sent out the call: all of us, Hot August Nights, August 1^st to 5^th, Reno, Nevada, one last time. Why one last time? Well, we’re all getting older (not so much a concern for me, but certainly for others), attending the show is getting more expensive (WAYYY more expensive), people are moving, family obligations are increasing. The usual "life” things.

Well, I’m a sucker for “one last times” and always a sucker for my friends, so I abandoned my ideas of a nice leisurely Arizona cruise in favor of one last screaming long-haul up the axis of the hottest parts of America in a bid to spend a few days with my friends at the coolest hot rod show west of the Mississippi. 

I immediately found a bit of a problem though: I had already planned a nice Canadian vacation with my parents to occur in the latter part of July. I was coming back the 27^th. Hot August Nights starts on the 1^st. That’s a pretty quick turnaround time for me to get home and then immediately have to drive 1800 miles in the opposite direction. And being a real person with a real job, I also was looking at a pretty huge chunk of vacation to spend all in one go… a dicey proposition.

But I am the master of “turn and burn”, and Jane is the master of getting me where I need to be, when I need to be there. So, I began to plan.

Ultimately, I decided that I would make this trip all about Hot August Nights, with only a few side forays into parks for hiking and camping. Instead, I would take a winding route up through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada, doing my best to stick to mountain ranges wherever possible. This summer has been extraordinarily brutal – our hottest one yet, although probably not the hottest one to come – and long driving days through the blistering sun wear me down like nothing else. Better to do less driving, and do it in cooler climates. Knowing I would have just spent two weeks hiking around the Canadian Rockies, I was not too sad to miss out on all of my usual park stops – I figure I’ll hit them next year, or whenever I finally do succeed in my autumn tour of the Southwest!

I planned to take four days to drive the 1800 miles to Reno, including a day stop in Flagstaff to see a park. Then I would be in Reno for three days, and then do the drive in reverse, including a day stop in Flagstaff and a two-day stop in Chiricahua National Monument, landing me back at home only twelve days after initial departure. A quick sprint, with little to no margin for error. My specialty!

The plan sketched together, and hinging on a perfectly operational car and a perfectly operational me, I proceeded to… dink around like usual, obviously. I went to the Canadian Rockies. I came home on the 27^th. I laid on the couch for a day. And then I went into the garage and took stock of my darling Jane, who was 0% packed and had had a grand total of fifteen miles put on her in the past two months due to the excessive Texas temps. Does this sound stressful? Because it was, but not stressful enough for me to resolve to do anything about it beforehand, apparently. Hmm, this should be a familiar tale by now.

Fortunately I’ve done this so many times that I’ve got the packing list all but memorized. And Jane has done this so many times by now that I think we’ve just kind of got an understanding. So, I packed her up on the 29^th, made some minor tweaks, made my peace with the rest that I should have fixed months ago (hello, world’s squeakiest brake pedal), and went to bed.

On the 30^th, I got up, had some eggs for breakfast, then plopped in Jane. We swanned out of the garage around 10AM to already-scorching temperatures in the high 90’s, scraping a muffler on a high spot on my driveway and departing somewhat ignobly with a few sparks and a grumpy clatter of the sleepy motor. We were ready to make our first sprint of the trip. Hopefully.

I opted to take a route along a couple of smaller highways to start. It’s always nice to get to putter along on empty roads and through small towns to get warmed up, you know? So, Jane and I cruised westward through the Hill Country along a series of two-lane blacktops, enjoying the chance to get reacquainted with each other.

I always love this part. These old motors weren’t really made to do heavy city traffic. Over time they get kind of boogered up, a little lumpy feeling, weighed down by excess carbon deposits sitting around where they shouldn’t. But when you hit the open road, all those deposits get cleared out, all the lumps get leveled, and over time the engine just begins to sing. A practiced ear – such as that possessed by someone who’s been daily driving a vintage Mustang and periodically dragging it out on wild road trips for many years – can hear the difference clear as day. It’s a shift in the tone, a new depth to the power, a smoothing of the exhaust note into a perfectly regular rhythm. Oh, but it is satisfying.

Unfortunately, as you all know, on the first day of any trip I tend to be plagued by issues that Jane feels suddenly worthy of attention. And yes, they are almost always related to something I’ve been neglecting, so that’s on me. I’m mentioning this because you all should appreciate exactly how much practice it takes to enjoy this part, not a care in the world, head fully embedded in the sand with a complete lack of acknowledgement that things are very likely to go south at any point in time.

But here’s the thing, I am real real good at doing that. Partly because the song of a perfectly-tuned Ford 289 is enough to cause me to forget my worries. And partly because there’s not really a point in trying to anticipate what will be thrown at me, or when, because Jane is nothing if not inventive. But mostly because I have been scared to death of driving this car every minute of every hour since the wreck back in 2013 – more than ten years ago now - and at some point you just learn to get over the fear and get on with things. So here I am. Driving my rapidly-aging, rapidly-appreciating, completely irreplaceable hot rod halfway across the country, again.

Anyways, I can’t tell if Jane is mellowing in her old (older??) age, or if she was feeling merciful due to my own increasing age and impending frailty (I’m 32 now! 32! Positively ancient!), but that 289 kept running like a sewing machine all day.

We puttered through interesting little towns with distinctly European architecture.

 

 

We rumbled past sprawling ranches, ranchhouses snugged up against hills to avoid the winds of the prairies.

 

We roared up through a myriad of roadcuts, each appearing an odd slit shaved out of the landscape.

 

We howled through vast open scrubby plains cut only by the interstate, fencepoles and telephone poles whipping past impossibly quickly.

 

We raced under the wide blue sky, pursuing the clouds towards the distant blue mountains.

 

And by the end of the day those mountains had grown near, resolving into the numerous low ranges hidden in the depths of West Texas.

 

Our 470-mile run completed, we pulled into Van Horn, Texas, with plenty of time to spare. I half expected Jane to chuck some parts out the side of the engine a block away from the hotel. But miraculously, for what may be the first time ever, we made it to our destination on the first day completely without incident, all in one piece, Jane arguably in better condition than she had been when we left Austin. A visit to the local steakhouse and four glasses of water later, I was feeling pretty good about things. Could it be that we’ve finally made peace with each other? Or have I just discovered a route that Jane likes more than the awful haul through Lubbock and the worst of West Texas? Who knows! But I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And so, we’ve finished Day 1 of our long haul up to Reno. Pretty peaceful. I guess that doesn’t make for much of a story, but I’m happy for it. We’ve got enough stories around here anyways.

Tomorrow, we’ll get up and do it again.

Kelly signing out.