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.