We eat breakfast in Cortez, then stop at an Indian Trading Post for an hour. Then off to the southeast. We’d looked at the map last night and found the shortest distance to Los Alamos. “Looks like it goes over some mountains, but it cuts off a hundred miles or so,” I said. That turned out to be a major understatement. When we arrive in La Junta we miss the sign for the shortcut road and drive 15 miles before we realize our mistake. We backtrack and finally find a tiny sign that reading Rt. 156. ..and a second sign offering: “Warning, this road is undeveloped and under construction.” That, too, turns out to be an understatement. The first 10 miles are almost straight up a winding two lane blacktop. It slows us down a little, but I’m thinking, hey, it’s nothing to someone who’s driven Pike’s Peak and Mesa Verde. Then the turns become switchbacks and we travel little slower. And then the road turns to dirt. Literally. We continue to climb, twist, and turn. The Taurus bumps along, over rocks and ridges that are as solid as mummified ribs. Just as I’m thinking it can’t get worse, the road narrows to one-and-a-half lanes filled with six inch ruts. I grew up on dirt roads so I’m not panicking, but I am driving still slower as I weave in and around the ruts and navigate the curves. There is not a straight stretch on this road. Whoever built it didn’t have a sober day in his life. Huge sandstone rocks peer out like sullen ghosts from the big, solemn ponderosa pines that strive in vain to cover them. There are a few small ranches here and there, small cabins and trailers with dead, rusted cars and pickups littering the rough shod yards. These houses don’t look neighborly. While I’ve been concentrating on path navigation, Leigh has been eyeing the rocks along the road. Unfortunately, we’re going slow enough for her to really study them. “That’s it! That’s the one I want!” She says. “Stop!” She’s done this before and most of the time I’ve been able to say there’s someone behind us or there’s too much traffic, or we’ve gone too far past it. Not here. A total of two cars have passed us, going the other way, and no one is behind us. I pull off the dirt lane. “Which one?” We get out. “This one!” I look at it in disbelief. “My God, that thing must weigh 50 pounds!” “We both can lift it.” I shake my head, open the trunk, and stare in total disbelief. “Oh my God!” I guess I haven’t been paying attention. The trunk is full of rocks! “Where did all these come from?” “Oh, I’ve been picking them up here and there,” she says, admiring the rock she wants to take. “We don’t have room for more rocks!” This is a very dumb thing to say. I’ve said it many times over the years and it hasn’t worked yet. Without a word she shuffles packages, boxes and suitcases. She steps back and points to a hole. “Put it right here.” I lift the rock – slowly, it weighs more than 50 pounds --and place it carefully in the trunk. The back end settles down a full inch. I go around and look at the car. I can feel its weariness. “You’ve got so many rocks in the trunk that you can barely see the top of the back tire,” I say. “We’re going to break the springs!” She studies the car. “We’ll put some of the rocks on the floor of the back seat.” “You’ve already got rocks in the back!” She shrugs. “We’ll just make room.” I give up, take a few paper pictures, and we resume the drive. It feels like we’ve finally reached the top of whatever mountain this is, and the drive is fairly level –not straight – but level. Four hours after we began climbing the mountain, we finally start the descent with the same kind of hairpin turns and breathtaking views of the New Mexico Mountains. I guess it’s New Mexico. I’ve never driven for such a long period at such slow speeds with no clue where I am. It’s near dusk. A sign at the bottom lets me know that we’ve crossed the San Pedro Mountains . . .on a dirt road. If Pedro’s the one responsible for that winding patch of mud, someone better take away his tequila. That idiot had no business building a road. * * * Click here to
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