Changing Perspectives

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Carlos Guerrero and John Wise leaving Arizona

These strange fellows are about to cross a vast delta of time between them as this 20-year-old guy and a nearly 60-year-old man leave Phoenix, Arizona, on a road trip that will be all about getting out of routine and expectations. Curiosity is the bridge that connects Carlos and me. When I first spoke with him, he was carrying a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire that I’d read around the time I was his age. This commonality opened a door, and soon we were talking about literature, philosophy, and art. After some months of the occasional chat during his breaks at Starbucks or even while on shift, he quit to take another job, and I was certain our connection would be lost.

Highway 60 in Arizona

As Carlos was about to move on down the proverbial road, he asked for my number which I thought was quaint though a bit silly because we live in America, disconnected, not just from one another but from ourselves. I entertained him by giving him my number and wished him good luck. Obviously, he reached out, which I found peculiar considering I’m three times his age, which would imply a chasm of cultural distance between us. Ah, this must be a one-time anomaly to satisfy his curiosity about cameras (he had spoken about his interest in photography before). When we met, he asked about must-visit places in Los Angeles and enquired about a restaurant recommendation in Phoenix where he might try something out of the ordinary. I sent him to a local Peruvian restaurant, told him of Kinokuniya bookstore in Little Tokyo over in L.A., and suggested he temper his expectations of what he thinks he needs regarding camera gear until he knows if he has a real interest or if it’s a passing fancy.

Carlos Guerrero off Highway 60 in Arizona

After a few of these kinds of meetings, I gave Carlos an old Canon camera body I knew I would never use again and lent him a lens for him to try his hand at capturing his world. Over some weeks, I’d swap out lenses with him so he could experiment with different perspectives. We talked of possibly heading out for a day of photography, maybe even a weekend in Los Angeles. A week or maybe two would pass before I got another text message asking if we could meet up as he had questions about something or other. This continued until a little more than a week ago when he asked if my offer to travel was still open. Five consecutive days had opened up in his work schedule, but I had to let him know that there was no way I was going to L.A. for that period of time: I’d lose my mind – those days in Southern California with the traffic I’ve grown to abhor would pummel me. However, I told him if he were open to somewhere random, we might be able to work something out. His answer surprised me; it was a simple and concise “sure!”

Little Colorado River near Springerville, Arizona

Here we are on the first day of that five-day outing, hoping we might fall into some flow or else we’ll be doomed to end this expedition shortly after its beginning. This inkling of doubt nagged at the back of my head because how in god’s green earth (black & white in this instance) would a 20-year-old deal with hanging out with a potentially grumpy old man stricken with ugly fixed habits and a general intolerance for bullshit? On the other hand, how would I deal with an impatient and possibly petulant young man I only knew from brief encounters at a nearby Starbucks? About the path we’re taking, it was just a dozen hours prior to our departure that I fixed on one of two potential directions: north or east. We are heading east, and at this juncture in our trip, we are crossing the Little Colorado River near Springerville, Arizona, on U.S. Highway 60.

Near Springerville, Arizona

How appropriate, a young buck in nature and a young buck in my car venturing into nature. This deer is looking over his harem, which is off to the right and out of view in this photo; I have no way of knowing what he’s thinking. In one of the images above this, Carlos is walking through tall grass; it was here that he shared his first epiphany of sorts with me: he was struck by the rolling hills, the winds driving the grasses in patterns reflective of the air currents, and how far the horizon stretching beyond his purview. He voiced his wish that he could see what was beyond the hilltops, so I pulled over to a gate without a “No Trespassing” sign, and off he went to the other side. When he returned from looking into the mystery, he expressed a sense of awe. Maybe this guy won’t annoy me into taking him home as soon as tomorrow morning, after all.

Carlos Guerrero at the New Mexico State Line

With his display of potential, we entered into another state, quite literally. Carlos was about to visit New Mexico for the first time and put on a face of excitement. I guess it’s part of the generation gap and will contribute to my own learning experience regarding what modern youth is about. While a polite smile would have sufficed, anyone could wear that, and now this moment will forever be frozen into the story of Carlos as he crossed a barrier to finding himself elsewhere and that this was the appropriate gesture for entering new territory, physically, experientially, and intellectually.

Quemado, New Mexico

His enthusiasm quickly came crashing back to earth when I explained that we were going to squat in this abandoned motel in Quemado, New Mexico, because not only was it free, but there were still a few amenities that would make our stay comfortable.

Quemado, New Mexico

I chose this room for my young companion because I felt the eagle above the bed best represented his potential to lead a life free to soar over the world he’s yet to create for himself. Yet it appeared that Carlos may not really be ready for true adventure because I found it impossible to convince him to enter this liminal space. Was it the threat of what might be hiding around the corner in a bathroom of unknown surprises? Come on, Carlos, I plead, it is this sense of liminality that will have you finding another essential part of who you are. For those who would like to understand this idea without interrupting my riveting tale of personal growth by consulting a search engine, I offer the following:

In anthropology, liminality (from the Latin word for threshold) is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the rite is complete. During a rite’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold” between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community and a new way (which completing the rite establishes). — from Wikipedia.

Quemado, New Mexico

Hey Carlos, is that the sound of panic creeping into your voice as you ask if I’m really going to take these Dollar Store Christmas Mugs? Of course, I’m going to take these great souvenirs; the alternative is to visit some sickly bright gift shop somewhere and buy stuff neither of us needs. Might as well collect some free things to mark the first day of our adventure together. Hey, you wondering, too what’s through that doorway in the background on the right?

Quemado, New Mexico

There was no phone signal out here, and racing over to the payphone to call home for a rescue proved futile for him. In what crazy universe does one believe payphones are still a thing?

Quemado, New Mexico

Oh drats, the local diner is closed, too! I guess we’ll just have to bag a dog or something for dinner, but don’t worry, Carlos, I know how to prepare just about anything. Heck, I got you out here, didn’t I?

Quemado, New Mexico

With his vacation quickly turning dark and the worries of his mom possibly coming true, Carlos felt he needed to reconnect with the god he’s been neglecting, so off we went to the 24/7 local Catholic Church. Appropriately enough, it was Sunday, and he was able to pray and beg for his salvation. I don’t exactly know where his imagination was going, but he asked me to share the following with his mother:

May this Communion, O Lord, cleanse us of wrongdoing and make us heirs to the joy of heaven through Christ our Lord.

Dead Coyote on Highway 60 in New Mexico

Oh look, we’ve found dinner without having to lift a finger trying to capture something fresh.

Pie Town, New Mexico

We left the alternative dimension of Quemado (translation: burnt) and Carlos’s nightmares behind and headed to Pie Town. Certain that winter spelled NO PIE for us, I was surprised to find the Pie-O-Neer Cafe open. Seriously surprised because I had been certain this place was shuttered after being up for sale for quite some time. Alrighty then, we need to step right in as they were “Open For Our Pleasure.”

Carlos Guerrero in Pie Town, New Mexico

Carlos explained, “Yes, this is, in fact, my face of pleasure. Do you have a problem?”

Datil, New Mexico

It was now time to remind my young travel companion that he had foolishly entered New Mexico with me, the home of Roswell where the aliens be. Just behind that large dark cloud is the mothership about to whisk him away for the kind of probing that will defy his worse fears, even those he was entertaining back in Quemado when he thought I might be serious about staying in an abandoned motel. Strangely, he was calm about the whole thing, telling me he felt nearly complete after enjoying that apple/green chile pie with homemade vanilla ice cream back in Pie Town.

Datil, New Mexico

All that was left was for me to tap into the VLA (Very Large Array) here in Datil to inform my overlords that the initiate was ready and happy to join the aliens for whatever adventure awaited him. Hours earlier I had been thinking I may not get along with Carlos in the long run, but now I’m almost sad to see him go.

Datil, New Mexico

This may not have been a Great Story, but it’s the one I mustered all these days after our road trip into unknown territories. At least as far as Carlos is concerned. Had I been taking notes during our outing, I might have had some factual details that didn’t veer into absurdity, but this is all I have.

Carlos Guerrero in Socorro, New Mexico

Hopefully, dinner at El Camino Restaurant in Socorro will be the elixir to revive me and allow color to return to our world. We’ve driven 376 miles to arrive in the middle of nowhere, which seemed like a great idea to me when planning this trip, but looking at Carlos here holding his head in despair, I have to question my thinking about this itinerary. Maybe it’s just an age-gap thing?

Cold With a Side of Fangs

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

The Gadsden Hotel in Douglas, Arizona

When in love and loving what you are doing, there’s an element of joy that seems to continuously make itself known. We wake with that sense and never fail to exchange an affectionate word and snuggle before stepping into the day. Getting things together feels mostly effortless as the routines are well-known and not fraught with tensions. Next up, verify that the world is the same one you went to sleep in. Are things where they should be? We’ll likely try to send ourselves out for a walk, if possible, prior to getting something to eat because it feels right and helps bring the senses and body to full wakefulness. If the first meal of the day is suboptimal, that’s okay, as it’s just food, and something else will come along that’s certain to delight us. I’m not only describing the routine when traveling, but this is also our average day.

This is the lobby of the Gadsden Hotel and the same spot on the balcony from where I shot a photo I shared last year during our previous stay. Well, there are subtle differences between the images, but nothing glaring.

Art Car World in Douglas, Arizona

There are days that we don’t really know what comes next. We may have a loose idea, but ideas are not locked in stone; they are suggestions. Take this morning, we had three potentialities but with rain in the forecast, the first option of a long walk in Bisbee was stricken from the list. We could have opted to drive northeast towards Rodeo, New Mexico, and Lordsburg past that before heading towards Duncan, Arizona, holding the promise of taking us to Miami for yet another encounter with my favorite carne asada at Guayo’s El Rey Mexican restaurant or we could head straight north for a return visit to Fort Bowie National Historic Site. We opted for the northern trek because it’s been 20 years since we were last at the fort.

Art Car World in Douglas, Arizona

First, though, we have to complete our pre-breakfast walk around the downtown area, where window shopping is not much of an option because while there are windows, only a few have things behind them that are of any interest. Just off the main street is Art Car World, which we visited twice last year on the same weekend. Today, we’ll simply peer into the place as we won’t be sticking around until 11:00, when they open.

Mural in Douglas, Arizona

There’s an art shop on the main street that might hold promise with its modern facade, but there’s not a thing to be seen beyond the opaque front end. Behind this mural is a small Mexican joint we considered having breakfast at, but there was no menu in the window, so we kept on going. We are those people who, once inside and sensing the owners are struggling, we’ll eat there just to help them out, even if what’s on the menu isn’t what we really want. Instead, we walked back to the hotel to eat there before collecting our bags to hit the road.

Road out of Douglas, Arizona

Beautiful clouds and deep blue skies were overhead; what was on the horizon was another story. We may have driven 15 miles before we decided that things were looking so grim ahead that there was no chance we’d be driving the short dirt road out to Fort Bowie, and we’d likely not enjoy walking in the mud either, so we turned around.

Option number 2, driving northeast, became our new choice; plus, it allowed us to go back and inspect just what kind of bird I spotted lying dead next to the road: hawk or owl. It was an owl, a beautiful barn owl with awesome feathers. A number of them joined us in the car for the drive home. Sadly, before getting back to Douglas to take the other road, I spotted another dead barn owl; seems like these roads are dangerous for their species.

Geronimo Monument on Highway 80 in Arizona

Yep, I’m gonna go there…this rather phallic-looking Geronimo Surrender Monument could only have been designed by a white guy because not only does it represent an embarrassment to the Apache people, but it’s in the shape of either a penis or a middle finger, which in my opinion curses the Apache nation and reminds them of how they were conquered and subdued. This thing should be demolished and replaced with something that honors the Apache people.

Highway 80 in Arizona

We are at the southern end of the Chiricahua Mountains and just a few miles away from entering New Mexico. While we won’t be heading into the Chiricahuas today, we’ve always meant to return to the crossroads in the mountains called Portal, so we might spend a weekend and go hiking up there someday.

Caroline Wise and John Wise at the New Mexico State Line

Twenty-three years is a good long time to accumulate so much gray hair; I’m referencing this because I just went looking for the last time we crossed through this way, and it appears to have been back in 2000, or maybe that was the first time and I just missed noting this location in the intervening posts. I was wondering if Caroline and I had taken a selfie at this state line before. What I came up with was a photo I had taken of her and her mom. While countless adventures have happened since those days, there’s also something “blink of an eye” about the time; I can’t imagine what time feels like to those who’ve not taken advantage of the rare commodity.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

Just as we were about to pass the turnoff for Portal, Arizona, while driving through Rodeo, New Mexico, we spotted the Chiricahua Desert Museum (there’s no missing it). No matter what was in this small outpost, we’d pay the entry fee to support such an endeavor out in the middle of nowhere. Well, it turns out that they have an incredible exhibit featuring venomous creatures, primarily snakes.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

I can’t say I’ve ever had a more intimate encounter with these fascinating-looking serpents, but I’m also a bit saddened by the idea that they don’t get to live the life of the creature they are because they are on display for me. While I certainly don’t want to come into close proximity with one of them where they might be within striking distance, I do like knowing they are out in the wild, fulfilling their role of being a snake.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

I don’t think we consider the lowly snakes very often, though they are nearly everywhere on our earth. They are enigmatic compared to gorillas, dolphins, or polar bears, and yet they are distributed to almost every corner. ChatGPT via Bing informs me that about 1/3 of all people have a phobia of these slithery reptiles, which places them just behind people’s fear of spiders, which is the number one phobia of people. As I stop to think about what I know regarding snakes, I realize I know more about weaving, fermentation, salt, and the behavior of grumpy old men than I do about snakes. A cursory overview at Amazon about titles that could enlighten this dark corner of knowledge doesn’t look very promising.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

Sitting under its head is this snake’s rattle. I just learned that it’s made of keratin, the same stuff that makes up our fingernails. Also, the number of rattles is not a precise indicator of its age because a snake can shed its skin more than once a year.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

There are other parts of the museum, though the largest part of the exhibit is regarding snakes and, strangely enough, beers that have a venomous theme.

Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico

While there are a few artifacts from the nearby indigenous people, this shouldn’t be anyone’s principal reason for stopping in.

State Highway 9 in western New Mexico

It was still partly sunny when we stepped out of the museum, but it was super windy. We turned on Highway 9 going east in order to avoid a few miles of Interstate 10 as those major roads only offer expediency in exchange for dealing with serious aggression, while out here, we have this.

Animas, New Mexico

This is about all that’s left of Animas, New Mexico, with its shrinking population dwindling down to a lowly 180 people.

Lordsburg, New Mexico

We are nearing the outskirts of Lordsburg, New Mexico, at this point, and while this is at a distance from the downtown area, it is indicative of everything we drove past. This desert outpost has been mostly declining for the past 70 years. Its claim to fame is peculiar: first, it once held a Japanese American internment camp, and secondly, it was one of the very few places with a motel in the southwest that would accept black guests prior to the end of segregation.

Duncan Highway north of Lordsburg, New Mexico

As we weren’t inclined to eat at McDonald’s back in Lordsburg, and the only other restaurant we might have considered is closed on Sunday, we decided on heading into Duncan for lunch at the Ranch House we knew we could count on having a pretty decent patty melt.

Duncan Highway north of Lordsburg, New Mexico

By the time we stopped, the clouds had shifted yet again. We’d already tried getting a shot of these mountains with shadows speckled across them, but those moments of perfection only lasted seconds.

Arizona State Line on the Duncan Highway

Our time out of state was brief but well worth the detour.

Mt Graham from Safford, Arizona

After our quick lunch in Duncan, we were soon passing through Safford in the shadow of Mt. Graham. We have a reservation this summer to visit the International Observatory that’s perched up there.

Sun over San Carlos Indian Reservation in Arizona

There’s an extraordinary amount of snow on this landscape today, but the drama being played out in the sky was worth capturing, too.

Mountain Breeze Memorial Gardens in Miami, Arizona

We had to stop at Mountain Breeze Memorial Gardens in Miami because we couldn’t believe that it snowed up here and didn’t think we’d be in the snowline much longer.

Caroline Wise at Top Of The World, Arizona

I suppose it only makes sense that here at Top-of-the-World west of Miami, there should be snow; still, we were surprised, though maybe more so, by the Nigerian dwarf goats that ran over to say hi or to look for food. Being at the edge of another country, hiking, birds, great food, snow, snakes, and goats all make for yet another perfect weekend in the ongoing adventure that is our lives.

Leaving That Place

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

The impressions of a place have a lot to compete with as we grow older should we have collected a lot of memories that we wish to hold on to. The obvious fix to that dilemma is to grab permanent reference points along the way that allow you to return when physically doing so is not possible. So, in leaving a place, we take out a kind of insurance guaranteeing at least some access to memories that will likely fade with the passage of time.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

The door to the right leads to the room Caroline and I have stayed in before, and it’s also where we are staying on this visit. It is the Library Room and if you are interested in seeing it, you can visit this breadcrumb from January 2020 I left on my blog so we revisit it from time to time. This works out great because maybe I failed to capture an image I’m satisfied with on this visit to the Simpson Hotel here in Duncan, Arizona.

As per the routine that seems impossible to break free of, we are up with the sun and out the front door before anyone else has begun to move, including the cats.

Duncan, Arizona

Yesterday, we went north; today, our walk turned south out of the hotel door. Maybe because it’s Sunday, it feels quieter than on other days, though this could just be a layer of my desire to create a more romanticized moment. Walking away from the Gila River, our path took us past some of Duncan’s churches on Main Street. We’re not looking to attend services, our goal is to continue our aimless wander through life.

This meander into the unknown might have lasted 5 minutes before a sign caught Caroline’s attention; it told of a nearby jetplane. Up the hill with million-dollar views occupied by the poorest residents of Duncan, we aim to go see that airplane monument that, I already know from a previous visit sans Caroline, is sitting on the ground decaying.

Duncan, Arizona

Like the old Air Force fighter jet in the background, the park is run down, and the community pool between this swingset and the plane is dry and as neglected as everything else up this hill. While you can’t see it from here, the fighter is on blocks with its wings tossed to the side; somehow, this all feels appropriate for the neighborhood.

Duncan, Arizona

Having grown tired of the dogs barking viciously at us as we tried exploring the area, we were quickly back on Main Street, seeing the churches from the other side. Typically, this shouldn’t matter as it’s not like we were looking from the perspective of hell, but it was what was on the backside of the sign of the First Baptist Church of Duncan that perked up our senses. As it may be difficult to make out in my photo, it reads, “Discerning of Spirits, Speaking in Tongues, Interpretation of Tongues.” All of a sudden, the idea of attending service feels intriguing, though we’d both be reluctant to step in as we’d be certain that the parishioners would see right through us, identifying the interlopers as the Satanic tourists we are.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

It’s rare that I feature photos of food on these pages as they never really capture the charm or essence of what they represent to us; the exception is often in the form of donuts or ice cream. Breakfast from Chef Clayton was an exquisite concoction of eggs in the form of quiche, three small gluten-free corn-like griddle cakes, five radicchio petals with one wonderfully savory Kalamata olive, a small bowl of fresh fruit, and hot coffee. Breakfast here at the Simpson is consistently a standout affair that deserves commemoration. Time to leave this place.

New Mexico State Line near Duncan, Arizona

Hello, new place down the road, we are here. This is not new, like new as in the first time here, but new as in new to us today. But it’s not the same as before; things are different. An abandoned, decrepit old house that I documented here and here during different visits now has a fence around it with a No Trespassing sign posted. The adjacent fifth-wheel mobile home is now gone; for that matter, it seems like more of the Welcome to New Mexico sign is on its way out, too.

Cotton growing in Virden, New Mexico

Still sitting in the field awaiting harvesting are sporadic patches of cotton. In between this sentence and the previous one, a period of about 15 minutes passed where I was researching why cotton produces all these fibers. I suggest you read this paper about the life of the cotton plant and these bolls; you will finish it in astonishment. Those fibers grow out of the plant’s seeds and are hollow tubes that fill with cellulose as they mature; what’s behind all of this and the variables to get to good cotton blew my mind. I thought geology was extraordinary; just read about this plant that clothes us.

Caroline Wise near Virden, New Mexico

There’s a cliche that says women love flowers. Well, that cliche never met my nerd wife who’d rather be gifted a tuft of cotton, fleece shorn from a musk ox, sheep, or alpaca, or even fiber collected from a passing animal that is shedding its winter coat.

Halloween near Virden, New Mexico

Boo! Tomorrow is Halloween, and I think this farmer is ready with this great roadside treat. After this pièce de résistance, there was only one thing left to accomplish on this day, aside from picking the pecans Caroline collected around the corner, that was to race back to Miami, Arizona, for our second encounter with Guayo’s El Rey Mexican restaurant for another kind of treat. Not bad for a weekend of staying in place and accomplishing our version of doing nothing.

Petroglyphs to Phoenix

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Left Santa Fe early but late enough to allow us another opportunity to have breakfast over at the Pantry Restaurant. With that out of the way, we pointed the car toward Albuquerque. We had a mission that had us dropping in on the Petroglyph National Monument for the experience that precedes qualifying for yet another junior ranger badge.

With ample signage warning visitors not to leave ANYTHING visible in their cars at the Rinconada trailhead parking lot, we used this admonishment to go someplace else. We opted for a trail that had us backtracking a bit north to Piedras Marcadas Canyon. I didn’t have a good feeling about our hike starting off under these circumstances as I couldn’t help but think that maybe Albuquerque had started modeling itself after the TV series Breaking Bad. Not that I know a lot about that show, but I do know that gangsterism, meth, mayhem, and more meth were the central themes, using Albuquerque as its location.

Obviously, we’re walking the Piedras Marcadas Canyon trail by now, collecting petroglyphs in the camera.

Within the Petroglyph National Monument, there are an estimated 25,000 etchings that have been carved into the patina of the rocks stretching over the 12 square miles the National Park Service protects.

The oldest petroglyphs are estimated to be over 4,000 years old, but I’m guessing this one of a boy riding a snail is not one of those, though the early rendition of the Flying Spaghetti Monster to the left could predate Jesus.

This beautiful petroglyph I’m interpreting as, “Oh my god, it’s summer and there isn’t a tree anywhere to find shade under.”

From our perspective on a fenced trail, there are multiple dozens of petroglyphs etched into the rocks right in front of us. This has me wondering how many are out of view because what are the chances that consideration was made by early inhabitants to ensure their messaging would be visible to those that passed below?

The trail through here, while it’s been here a long time, wasn’t always so well defined, as evidenced by the worn side paths that are still growing over. I’m guessing that some decades ago, people were basically allowed to scramble over the boulders to see what they could see.

Seventy years ago, visitors didn’t understand the value of these sites and didn’t think anything about walking on fragile areas of Yellowstone, breaking off a chunk of stalagmite at Carlsbad Caverns, or crawling on the walls of an old pueblo. Today, it feels as though there is a wanton desire to destroy for the sake of destruction and leaving your own personal mark on something that cannot be repaired. Just as we learned that areas of Bandelier that were once visitable and likely listed in our old park brochure are no longer on maps in order to dissuade others from finding and harming these historic sites, it makes me wonder how long we’ll have access to seeing these petroglyphs with our own eyes.

Our short 2-mile hike took us about 90 minutes of walking through sand that only grew progressively warmer as we went along. Good thing Caroline had a gallon of water on her back. Time to return to the visitor center for you know what.

Yep, swearing in as a fully-fledged Junior Ranger at Petroglyph National Monument in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It’s still too early in the morning to go find Sadie’s for some of their regional eats, so we’ll get on the road as there are still 420 miles ahead of us on our way home.

This long, straight road ahead takes us to Arizona (unless we detour).

Of course, we had to detour; we are John and Caroline, and lingering is part of who we are. Taking Interstate 40 to Interstate 17 for the fastest straightest shot home sounded so incredibly boring that anyone should know that we’d never take that route. So, in Grants, we left the freeway to travel back down through El Malpais National Monument just as we did back on May 15, two months earlier.

Sixty days ago, in order to save time for the other things we wanted to do out here, we skipped the Sandstone Bluffs Overlook, but not today.

Caroline went one direction, the way of the daredevil unafraid of heights, while I took the more terrestrial path.

While she was up there somewhere on the right, I made this my viewpoint.

Until we converged again to take off for another view from the bluffs.

Maybe this looks somewhat familiar from our trip last month.

It should have, as we are right back out here at La Ventana Arch, but the lighting feels better.

Right up atop this cliffside is the Narrows Trail we’d love to revisit already, but time won’t allow it today.

Well, let’s be serious, time would allow it if I’d not set my mind on eating at Guayo’s El Rey in Miami, Arizona, meaning we would have to reach that small town before it grows too late. As it turned out, we had to go to Guayo’s on the Trail in Globe as the unreliable Google, while knowing the existence of these businesses, didn’t know that the Miami location was closed for vacation until the 22nd. Good thing I called ahead due to my growing mistrust of anything shared by Google.

For the rest of our drive home, we’d hit rain here and there, often quite heavy. While the cloud cover makes for somewhat dull landscapes regarding color and brightness, it sure does have the potential to lend drama to a sky.

What’s worse than driving mountain and canyon roads during heavy rain here in Arizona? Driving on any roads in the rain anywhere in this state.

Dinner at Guayo’s on the Trail was not at all what I was looking for and now has me wondering if the two Guayos are even related. One thing is certain: I’ll never visit the Globe location again. As you can tell from the sky over Picketpost Mountain in Superior, the rains have stayed behind while we return to the hot, dry desert of Phoenix.

Santa Fe to Bandelier National Monument

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

We are back at the International Folk Art Market (IFAM) here on Saturday morning in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Thanks are in order for Dion Terry for his breakfast recommendation of the Pantry Restaurant over on Cerrillos Road. Prepared with the experience that comes with having been operating since 1948 and mastery of green chili, our first meal of the day hit the mark.

Gasali Adeyemo operates this booth with beautiful Adire cloth from Nigeria. Nothing caught Caroline’s eye, but then she had taken a couple of workshops with Gasali a few years ago and already owns a few pieces.

The center stack of bracelets is missing one now that Caroline bought it from the ladies at Wounaan Craft Group out of Colombia.

Out of Morocco, the women representing Cherry Buttons Cooperative sold Caroline this necklace.

Fariza Sheisheyeva and Svetlana Sheisheyeva of Art Group Saima from Kyrgyzstan sold us this exact piece of felted artwork this morning, our priciest acquisition at IFAM. If budget were of no concern, the work behind Caroline to the right would have been going home with us, but we have our limits.

And finally, Marie Alexandrine Rasoanantenaina of Tahiana Creations from Madagascar and her lovely daughter, who graced the cover of the IFAM 2022 program guide, sold us our first bits of vetiver root. If you’ve never smelled this stuff, it’s impossible to describe, but then again, so is the scent of strawberries.

Lessons learned from our first visit: 1. pace ourselves better so we don’t visit all the booths in an hour. 2. plan on catching some of the entertainment. 3. we must visit the museums. 4. buy tickets for all the days as there we last-minute things Caroline wanted to return one more time but found that Sunday morning entries were sold out. [Add one more: Read the artist stories and jot down if any stand out prior to our visit. I had avoided reading the artist’s write-ups ahead of time so I would not influence myself, but when I went through them later, I realized that I missed a couple. – Caroline]

After leaving Museum Hill, we were ready for our next adventure. Competing for our attention this weekend were visits to two national monuments because as important as fiber arts-related things are to Caroline, she also has yearnings for every junior ranger badge she can earn. Here we are on the Frey Trail at Bandelier National Monument after failing to heed the signs that advised us to take the shuttle from outside the park over to the visitors center. Considering the time of day, we feared we might miss the last shuttle out and decided to head directly to the park and try our luck. At the entry gate, the ranger allowed us to continue on to the Juniper Campground parking lot and wait for the next shuttle. At the shuttle stop, we spied the sign for the Frey Trailhead, which said the visitors center was 1.5 miles away; since the shuttle was about 30 minutes away according to the schedule, we figured we could get there around the same time from the look of the trail ahead.

Oh, it’s not just a relatively flat walk to the visitor’s center?

The view from the Tyuonyi Overlook as we start our steep descent to the valley below.

What an incredible way to enter the heart of the park! Such a lucky turn of fortuitous events that had us coming in this way.

Why is nothing looking familiar? Could it be that the last time we were here was back in 2003, and we were 19 years younger than we are now, with countless adventures between then and now to cloud our memories?

I can’t say I understand the dynamic at work when this motif was painted here at that point in history long ago. Why is this inset from the wall around it? If you look to the upper left of this image, there are remnants of plaster on the wall, and in the photo above this, you can still see plaster on the back walls. So, it’s not strange that walls are adorned with some type of decoration, but this one is inset; I’m confused.

Here we are out in Bandelier National Monument, only able to gaze upon a deep geographic history and a mostly unknowable cultural history that arrived in our age without a clear narrative. Science can tell us about the natural forces at work and the composition of minerals that laid the foundation of the environment, and clues from the ancestral Puebloans help create the fragmented story of those who once lived here, but I want more. What was it like to walk here before it was named Frijoles Canyon, back when the indigenous people building homes here nearly 1,000 years ago were busy living lives?

We use ladders to climb on high, or we don’t, and then return to cars that bring us to food and hotels. We who roam far and wide using machines and electronics are as far removed from these ancestors as purse dogs are from wolves. I want to look into their world, their view of nature, their diet, and how they laughed and loved. Instead, I allow myself mere minutes to glance over the things that are able to be seen, and in some instances, such as the ladder system ahead of me, I can only go so far before my fear of heights will stymie me.

Caroline, on the other hand is better at conquering her fear and ascends the ladders to the platform above. It turns out that 19 years ago, I, too, was able to make my way up there, which allowed me to capture a photo from within a rebuilt kiva that was still visitable back then. Regarding the tilt-shift effect of the image, I took this with my DSLR and have no idea what setting I accidentally hit as I snapped off three similar photos before I recognized the mode dial was not set correctly and switched back.

Hey, National Park Service, I would pay hundreds of dollars per day to sleep in one of those rooms up there, to sit in on a ceremony in a kiva, and to eat the foods that were eaten here a thousand years ago.

It was right here back in 2003 that Caroline sat in the same spot on a similar ladder as I took her photo. Little has changed other than we are aging but our curiosity and fascination are still running hard.

With the visitor center closing soon, Caroline had the briefest of times to plow through the Junior Ranger booklet and answer enough questions to now add this badge to her ever-expanding collection from all over the United States.

Twelve miles down the road but still, in a corner of Bandelier National Monument, we find this: the Tsankawi Ruins trail. We thought we’d skip this short 1.5-mile loop as we were already tired, but the idea of not seeing the seeable when we were right here in this corner of New Mexico seemed like we would have blown an opportunity.

And so we did, up the trail and up the ladder.

An amazing trail has been carved into the soft, porous rock of volcanic ash called tuff.

Maybe I should have tried the narrow passage on the left, but I opted for the “Alternative Route” to the right. Caroline took the steeper, narrow trail.

Up the ladder, I crawled to meet with Caroline again.

Atop the volcanic mesa, we strode, looking for the unexcavated ruins that cannot be seen on the horizon.

And the reason they were not seen is that they truly are ruins collapsed and covered by time.

Along the way, others have found hints from those who once lived here and, fortunately for all who visit, have left these treasures for others to witness.

Okay then, out here at the end of the mesa, some parts of the trail are starting to feel sketchy. Not that it isn’t well constructed, but it’s that old fear of heights thing again that’s making me nervous.

Too late to turn around and, anyway, I really do want to see what is ahead if for no other reason than to admire the genius of this path.

Who knows if others only occasionally stayed here, lived here, or offered it up to visitors arriving from other lands, but today, for nearly a whole minute, it was ours.

On the trail that brought us out here, we were wondering if we’d somehow missed the promised petroglyphs, but here they are.

A close-up from the right of the panel above.

Look closely at the right and left of the slot that’s barely a boot wide, and you can see the wear of hikers who straddle the trail; there are even deeper indentations one can step into in order to not wiggle through the narrow path.

Selfie time before things get hairier, and I don’t mean the length of my beard or ponytail.

This wasn’t the first section that I had to clamp down on my resolve to hike past a gut-clenching razor’s edge of terror. Our car is just out there in the distance; I was not thrilled about really entertaining ideas of a U-turn only to face the other pressure points all over again.

From the National Park Service website regarding the Tsankawi Ruins trail: ” It is not a hike recommended for people with a great fear of heights.” I can admit that it feels great to overcome my weaknesses.

Plus, there are rainbows at the end of the hike. So, I’m lying because we were already on our way back to Santa Fe when we pulled over to snap a photo before it quickly disappeared, but had I gone with my exaggeration, I think it would have made for a slightly better story.

Dinner was at the busy underground joint called El Fogata Grill. It was raining when we arrived, but of all the peculiar luck, we were able to park maybe three doors down from the entrance to this restaurant right in the old city center of Santa Fe, believe it or not. Our food was nothing to brag about; then again, that might have to do with what it was competing with our meal from earlier in the day.

International Folk Art and Meow Wolf

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

I don’t believe I’ve ever shared so many photos featuring Caroline in a single blog post; I’ve counted 16 of them below. Having stayed in Gallup, New Mexico, last night, we had a three-hour trek northeast to Santa Fe before today’s main event got underway. This random stop on the Laguna Reservation was used to break the fast and slake our growing hunger, and so it was, right here next to a sign warning us not to trespass, that we took our first meal of the day. Not another minute was wasted as we had important stuff ahead.

Parking ambiguities out of the way (which included driving 15 minutes away from Museum Hill, where the International Folk Art Market was being held after a two-year hiatus following COVID), we were on a bus heading right back to the event up on Museum Hill in Santa Fe, New Mexico. No exaggeration; I don’t believe we were here at IFAM more than five minutes before Caroline fell in love with this piece from Academia De Rebozo Mexiquense out of Tenancingo, Mexico. What appears to be a shawl is actually a rebozo and was designed by Carlos Amador Lopez Bringas, the gentleman on Caroline’s right who is also the owner of the company.

Next up was a rather pricey item Caroline felt heaps of guilt purchasing, but with only four bags at the market, it felt like this one might not last long. While she’s flat out in love with her current purse from CTTC, the Peruvian Textile Center in Cusco co-founded by Nilda Callañaupa Álvarez (more about her shortly), I felt like this one complimented Caroline’s current wardrobe and looked like nothing I’ve ever seen in Arizona. With a quick swipe of the card for nearly $500, my wife was going home with a handmade purse from the collective of craftspeople under the guidance of Gulnora Odilova from Shakhrisabz, located in southern Uzbekistan. The young lady posing with Caroline is Sugdiyona Omonova.

Indigo might have been Caroline’s middle name in a former life because she certainly has something for this deep blue hue. I’ve never seen her able to pass clothes dyed using this plant that apparently was first used about 6,000 years ago in Huaca Prieta, Peru. Standing next to Caroline and her new blouse is Aïssata Namoko from Mali. She is the soul behind Coopérative Djiguiyaso, offering textiles inspired by ancient Dogon tie-dye patterns from her home country.

Sadly, we are rushing through here as we purchased a pass that is for a timed entry lasting but three hours. The pass doesn’t expire per se, with authorities seeking to remove us from the grounds, but we are also trying to be considerate of the conditions that were set in order for this year’s IFAM to take place. Back when I made the reservations, I bought entry for both Friday and Saturday in case our few hours here on Friday were not enough. So, on one hand, as we fly through, we are content that tomorrow, we can return bright and early.

Of course, our return must be premised on the idea that we’ll still have money to buy other things, but at least for now, the frenzy has subsided. As first-time visitors, we had no real idea of what to expect, and the conditions of our entry were not encouraging to make a day of the festivities. Should we ever return, we’ll know better. What I’m referring to are the relatively poor food options that have a feeling of being from the county fair, meh. There were a couple of vendors with ethnic offerings, but instead of best representing the diversity of craftspeople on hand for authenticity, it felt to me as though things were aimed at a bunch of boring, somewhat wealthy old people who lack a certain something for culinary experimentation.

There was also a stage featuring live performances, but we didn’t check the schedule or give it a second glance as we had 164 vendors to familiarize ourselves with. And if we thought we’d just glide by some, people like Evah Mudenda of Ilala Palm Baskets from Zimbabwe dragged us in and wanted to show us her wares. Again and tragically, we didn’t feel comfortable stopping everywhere due to this time-restricted visit. Ultimately, we did learn that those restrictions would in no way be enforced, but leaving Phoenix with these ideas, we’d made plans for a timed entry for a different event this afternoon that I’ll be sharing just below.

Peru seems well represented today; this is the stall of Olinda Silvano Inuma de Arias, who is sharing designs known as Kené, an ancient art representing nature and the living culture of the Shipibo-Konibo people of the lower Amazon.

Caroline’s attention perked right up when she immediately recognized the bag and weaving style seen here; these are the makers of the purse she’s been carrying for years now. As she’s admiring the goods, she proudly pulls her bag forward, and a woman looks at it understanding right away its provenance. Sheepishly, Caroline points out that it needs repairs and that she should have already dealt with it, but the woman tells her to hand it to her, and she’ll repair it right here. A bit embarrassed, reluctant even, Caroline lets it go, and the woman takes off her felt hat to pull a needle from under the brim, just in case something like this should present itself, right? In a minute, the loose threads are sewn back in, and other than needing a good dry-cleaning, Caroline’s hand-woven purse is in better shape than when we arrived.

Caroline is gushing about the work of this collective known as Centro De Textiles Tradicionales Del Cusco of Peru. She’s pawing ponchos, blankets, and various textiles and is obviously so enamored with their work that I know we’ll be leaving with something from these ladies. It seems it’s the poncho, but the design of the blanket is so beautiful, too… But the poncho is so much more practical, so it’s settled, or is it? Go with the first thing that really grabbed you, which was actually a purse, though she didn’t like the zipper, so it was the poncho. After paying for it, I asked the ladies if we could get a photo with them so we could capture the moment and subsequently share these things here on my blog; they obliged us, obviously. As we are saying our goodbyes and thanks, someone else walks up asking for Nilda, the woman with the felt hat that fixed Caroline’s purse was pointed to. Oh yeah, her badge says just that. My wife had an emotional celebrity/mentor moment as she was dumbstruck that it was actually Nilda Callañaupa Álvarez herself whose hands did the work on her bag and is responsible for bringing the women’s work of Peru’s weavers to the attention of the world.

And with that, it was time for us to catch the shuttle back to our car so we could make our next appointment. Good thing we’ll be back tomorrow at 9:00 as this was certainly far too rushed. I should mention that there are four individual museums here that will all have to wait for a subsequent visit for us to spend time in.

Meow, is anyone home here at this bowling alley turned something altogether different?

We have entered the peculiar world of the Meow Wolf, knowing nearly nothing of what to expect for our $45-per-person price of admission. I’ve heard great word-of-mouth reports and wild enthusiasm from those who know of it; even Caroline’s boss highly recommended it, but come on $45? This better be great.

While this wasn’t for me, Caroline jumped right in, donning the protective gloves to hunt through these uranium glass pellets, looking for a specific one that is supposed to be glowing at 553 nanometers and that, if found, can be used to open a secret passage but you only have one chance. Sadly, her myopia didn’t allow her to pick the right one, even with my loud encouragement telling her exactly where it was. The time limit is in place so players don’t suffer from radiation burns.

This fossil mammoth skull was found in the Ural Mountains near Mount Narodnaya in the Khanty–Mansi Autonomous Okrug of Tyumen Oblast, Russia, only 0.5 km to the east of the border of the Komi Republic. During the Soviet era, scientists discovered that the extinct ice-age herbivores of the area had been eating grasses that only grew over deposits of uranium, which was how they discovered the material Russia was to use in the nuclear weapons. This rare luminous fossil, now part of Meow Wolf, is of significance for solving the puzzle that has been wittily crafted here.

How is anyone supposed to figure these things out? The value of the Scrabble letters is 40; when you hold up four fingers on your left hand and make a zero with your right in front of the gray camera, the flash will blink a Morse code message that you need to get to the next clue. Seriously, Meow Wolf?

Obviously, we figured it out because Caroline’s sitting on this bench.

We interviewed nearly a dozen people passing by here trying to figure out how to swing from one of the vines to a balcony that will appear once enough weight is hanging from the vine, but I’m 59 years old and not sure I have the upper body strength to attempt Tarzan moves without a safety net so we skipped this part.

Damnit, Caroline, you’ll get E. coli poisoning or COVID trying this chicken that’s been sitting there for how long and touched or licked by how many others before you?

We stood here for close to 45 minutes while the acid had us peaking, and the entire scene was a dripping puddle of multi-colored flowing lines and throbbing fluorescence.

Be sure you know what you’re doing because once you’ve entered one door, the dimension on the other side may not allow you to pass through from whence you came; we learned this the hard way. Beware the camper.

I told you, portals don’t always go well.

I can’t tell you with any certainty that the telepathic intrusion I believe was real actually came from this rat that told me that this construct right here is the brain and utility that operates this entire facility and that with this knowledge I was given means that the co-founder of Meow Wolf Matt King was going to have to die the following day. Sure enough, Mr. King passed away on July 9th, the day after our visit; he was only 37 years old.

While I was mind-melding with a rat, Caroline claims she emerged from this lavender creature that belched her out like a whale spitting out kayakers. As she tells it, after walking through the camper, her path took her into the entrails of a moist tunnel of peculiar humming and singing that appeared to emanate from a rodent-like thing until she found herself here hugging this frog thing or whatever it was.

In the viewfinder of our Instamatic camera, we were black and white, and the background was colorful. This place is working on some kind of magic level that is nothing short of baffling.

That thing could beg all it wanted to; we were not going to crawl into its hole.

The payoff for enduring the blistering hot rays was that by waving your hands and arms; you were able to play this ethereal music. Maybe they should warn visitors not to try playing this invisible instrument with their eyes before they enter.

By now, we are growing bored; just look at how meaningless this is.

I lied; one cannot be bored after being turned into a blue midget Oompa Loompa. How’d they do that?

No, we won’t enter your holes either.

Did you forget to look in the teapot, the cupboard, or under the table?

Truth.

If you are not precisely 5 foot 6 and 1/4th inches tall (168.275 centimeters), you will not see the optical illusion here. This photo that does not represent what one would see at the right height was only allowed to be shared on the condition that I don’t post the truth.

Lost in the forest of dendrites that press out of the mind of earth, or was this another one of those moments where my camera captured the hallucination brought on by the mushroom/acid cocktail we tossed back an hour ago?

This is a holographic projection sampled using an X-ray technique that allows for the visualization of the inside of your lower intestine, sphincter, and, in this case, Caroline’s collection of hemorrhoids. Yep, that’s what it looks like up my wife’s butt.

Who is laughing now, wife?

It’s not every day one is offered the opportunity to play the ribcage of a glowing monster, but when it does happen, you must be at Meow Wolf.

We’ve entered the teleportation vehicle with its quantum wave flux elliptical centrifuge that will spit us back out into reality as; apparently, we were not tasty enough to forever remain in the belly of this former bowling alley. Fine, we certainly got our $45 of value and are ready for some fresh air and maybe food.

This, unfortunately, placed sign might be good for traffic, but the sense of admonishment it shouts at us not to enter Cafe Pasqual’s New Mexican restaurant is going to have to be ignored. Our reservation at the community table was for the second they opened. We’ve lost track of how many visits we’ve made to this Santa Fe landmark, and once again, we’ll leave satisfied.

Did we get stuffed? Is the Pope Catholic? Does he shit in the woods? Only if he’s hanging out at Meow Wolf I suppose, though who really knows? Anyway, I’m not here to talk about the bowel movements of the holy pontiff; we are out for a walk under the setting sun, trying to work off some of the gorging we inadvertently did.

Oh, look, pretty flowers.

Santa Fe is nothing if not a city of art. We are in front of Keen Contemporary, where our friend Dion Terry has pieces on display and for sale. Unfortunately, they were closed during our visit, but at least we could spot one of his works there just right of center, the bird in a white frame.

Why isn’t this stuff in Meow Wolf?

Art would be the only reason Caroline and I should have purchased a large house, so we could fill every corner with groovy things that would make us smile as we discovered other things in corners we’d forgotten we bought.

Does this look like something people who stay at Motel 6 would buy? Well, we are staying over at that $70-a-night place, and I swear that if this giant snail fit in our apartment, we’d so take it home with us, price be damned.