Iridescent

Last weekend I took a short but intense road trip to Southern Colorado. On Saturday I thought I'd be occupied all day hiking with the Colorado Mountain Club, but that outing lasted just a few hours so I decided to join a tour of Zapata Ranch, home to bison and, as it turned out, hummingbirds. I had an hour before the tour began so I sat at a picnic table near the ranch's main cluster of buildings and, while eating my hiker's lunch of PB&J, was mesmerized by the movements, colors and sheen of these hummingbirds. There must have been a dozen of them whizzing about, hovering in mid-air before dashing off in some new direction, sometimes in pairs but often alone. Their airborne behavior reminded me of that of the Golden Snitch in Harry Potter's Quidditch games, that little ball that would zip around, hover, and then zoom off again. The ranch had set up a hummingbird feeder (above) and I was lucky to grab this shot of three birds at once. They did not linger at the feeder, either, but would take a sip of nectar and then dash off, only to return for another quick pitstop.

Coincidentally, today I received a letter from the Nature Conservancy, which owns Zapata Ranch, asking me to support its efforts to protect the hummingbirds' habitats along their 2,000 mile migration route. Having witnessed how marvelous these creatures are, and how tiny - the birds are four inches, their wings 2.5 inches long - I did not hesitate a second before writing a check.

Interstate: Illuminated

I'm in Wyoming, a place that once seemed very far away, a place that I might only see in a movie. Driving through the most eastern part of the state I was struck by its lush-looking landscape. I say "looking" because the combination of prairie grasses, which are yellowish green, and darker grass make it appear as if the ground is covered in a pale chartreuse velour. It looks particularly lush when illuminated by bright afternoon sun. While the countryside I drove through was mostly flat, occasionally there were these odd mounds, bumps and cones, some whose shapes reminded me of extinct volcanos, creating a sense of otherworldliness. It was as if the earth had been undulating and then, at some point, had stopped moving, freezing these mounds in place.

Seeing the different shades of greens, yellows and browns, the textures of the grasses, the shapes of the hills, the silhouettes of cattle grazing and the bright blue sky made me think about how I might paint such a landscape, should I ever attempt to paint again. I wondered how one could capture the sweep of the sky and the seeming endlessness of the land.

Interstate: Inns and Ice Machines

This trip has given me the opportunity to sample some of America's typical roadside accommodations, the no-nonsense, not too many frills hotels that cluster around major exits on this country's interstate highways. Interestingly, the worst one (a depressing looking Holiday Inn in Milesburg, PA) was also the most expensive, even with the AAA discount. And breakfast wasn't included! I've also slept at an AmericInn (Albert Lea, Minnesota), a Days Inn (Rapid City, SD) and now a La Quinta (Cheyenne, WY). I ended up at these hotels because they happened to be in the places where I decided to stop driving on a given night; I certainly did not make these particular lodgings as my destination. With the exception of AmericInn, where I couldn't connect to the wireless, all had great WiFi and extremely mediocre coffee. And I gotta mention those ice machines! You know, the kind that dispense ice cubes into plastic buckets with a loud clunking noise. It is definitely part of the required soundtrack for a drive across the country.

Interstate: Impressions

Marketers and advertisers know that it takes a minimum of seven, if not more, impressions to convert someone into a customer. That potential customer will need to see or hear at least seven advertisements or product mentions before they will take action. The marketers in South Dakota are well acquainted with this fact, thus the Interstate is lined with billboards that announce restaurants and attractions that are hundreds of miles away.

For example, for hours before I arrived to Wall, SD, population 800 or so, I must have seen dozens of billboards with simple but tempting graphics and slogans for Wall Drug. In hindsight, I wished I had stopped to photograph each and every one of them, although that might have slowed me down quite a bit.

The theme was simple. Each billboard emphasized a different items available at Wall Drug. One sign focused on homemade donuts, and had an image of a chocolate frosted one. Another boasted 5 cent coffee. A third showed cowboy boots. A fourth had a picture of cherry pie. A fifth announced that T-Rex was at Wall Drug. A sixth said, "Only 50 miles to Wall Drug". And on and on, mile after mile, billboard after billboard, to the point that I got curious about what kind of place Wall Drug was. Yup, they totally snagged me with their clever ads.

After soaking up the Badlands I headed to Wall Drug. Leaving the park, sign after sign informed me that I was getting closer to the 5 cent coffee. I pulled up in front of what looked like an old western store front. Wall Drug is basically a small mall filled with cowboy boots, food, games, gimmicks and more. It is probably the largest employer of this tiny town, which counts on a steady stream of visitors from the national park.

If I had been less tired, I might have lingered at Wall Drug to fully absorb the kitsch, but I wanted to eat something before traveling one more hour in waning daylight to get to Rapid City, SD. I ditched over-the-top Wall Drug in favor of the unpretentious Badlands Bar, a local joint that seemed anachronistic. Both the bartender and a few of the cowboy hatted customers smoked cigarettes as ceiling fans whirred.

The man who took my order had longish gray hair, a handlebar moustache and a friendly demeanor.

I asked him if the buffalo burger came with anything on it.

"Nope, we don't have lettuce or tomato," he said, simply stating the facts without apology. This place was really about the meat and french fried potatoes.

"Could you some put onion on it?" I asked.

"Well, I can bring you some onion on the side," he replied. I hadn't yet noticed the sign on the wall that let customers know that this place was not Burger King....you don't have it your way.

He brought over a cardboard beer bottle tote filled with condiments: two squirt bottles, one with ketchup and one with mustard, and two recycled Corona bottles, one filled with pepper and another with salt. He placed a small plastic container with chopped white onions and a white plastic fork next to it.

The buffalo burger was a bit overcooked but I dumped a lot of onions and ketchup on it, washed it down with french fries and a coke, and in its own way was just fine. Just as, in its own way, even the mildly smoky air was refreshing.

Interstate: Interior, SD

My route has taken me on I-90 through Wisconsin, Minnesota and now South Dakota. The further west I travel, the higher the speed limit. In South Dakota it is 75 miles per hour, so traffic flows at about 85-90 mph. At that rate one can cover a lot of ground. Depending on one's perspective, there is either very little or quite a lot to see. The swaths of farmland are, for the most part, flat. They are slightly less green than in Wisconsin or Minnesota. There are the occasional buffalo and herds of cattle. The sky, however, is vast and filled with different patterns and textures of clouds, some of which appear to be in vertical layers, as if they were fluffy skyscrapers. In late afternoon, the landscape is bathed in gorgeous light, rendering even the flattest of plains breathtakingly beautiful and making the pain of a day sitting in the car worth it.


Today I whizzed by a sign announcing that I was entering the Mountain Time Zone, gaining an hour in less than a second. I decided to spend my extra 60 minutes of sunlight during my visit to the Badlands National Park, in Interior, SD. From the highway, dotted only with round bales of hay and, pardon the pun, corny billboards every few miles exhorting travelers to visit the Corn Palace - "You'll Be A-maized!" and "It's All Ears!" (yes, I pulled off the highway to visit it) - you can't even imagine that just a few miles away are magnificent rock formations that form the Badlands. Created over the millenia by evaporating water that left red stripes of sediment sandwiched between lighter stone, the Badlands appear to be simultaneously ancient and futuristic. From certain angles the silhouettes of the craggy rocks seem to be castles in the sky, overlooking the grassy prairie where rabbits, elk and - of course - prairie dogs wander and graze. It is otherwordly, reminding me a little bit of Turkey's Cappadocia, and I doubt that the dozens of photographs I took will do it justice. It is a place probably best experienced in a 24-hour period, seeing both sunset and sunrise amidst the astonishing topography. Having said that, I don't regret not planning to spend the night there. That most likely would have involved booking accommodations ahead of time and, therefore, seeing pictures of the park beforehand. I went not knowing what I would be seeing and enormously enjoyed the surprise.

Interstate: Intimacy, Inflate

My visit in Evanston was leisurely and relaxing. My friend, whom I've known since seventh grade, is a busy career woman and mother of three young girls and yet she pampered me to the point of embarrassment. She insisted on including my laundry in one of her many daily loads and made sure I was well fed, well rested and well sugared; we both dipped into her stash of York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps her caring for my physical needs was a way to re-establish some intimacy between us. Over the years, partly due to geographical distance but mostly to differing life choices and my reactions to those, we had grown apart. I was glad for an excuse for a brief visit and to spend some time with her daughters, ages 8, 5 and 3 1/2.

To my delight, the children took to me almost immediately and before I knew it I was being recruited to draw, do other art projects, and sing and dance to the Mamma Mia CD. It was like taking a trip back into childhood, but this time having some little sisters. I learned that the two oldest girls were absolute Hoola pros, effortlessly Hoola-ing for minutes on end while doing various tricks with the hoop. I was an enthusiastic audience and they convinced me to try it, too. I was able to keep the hoop aloft for about five seconds before it, along with my ego, crashed to the floor.

A middle child myself, I couldn't resist the charms of the middle girl, also a sensitive soul, who insisted on sitting next to me at dinner on Friday night and who invited me to watch her first soccer game on Sunday. I decided to see the game and then continue on my journey, but when I went to pack up my car late Sunday morning I noticed it had a completely flat tire. For a brief moment I experienced the same mixture of helplessness and inertia as when I left my mother's house - if I have a flat, how will I ever leave? I snapped out of it fairly quickly, realizing how lucky I was to get a flat tire while at my friend's home, rather than on a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Within 30 minutes of calling AAA, a tow truck operator arrived to change the tire, which had been punctured by a nail. I brought it into a body shop in Skokie, IL and soon enough they had patched and properly inflated it. I was good to go, if only I knew which direction to take. My mental fog still hadn't cleared enough to reveal a preferred route. My friend's husband, kindly but also a bit protectively, offered to let me borrow a GPS device for the rest of my trip, so at least I'd know where I was at all times. I declined - the AAA office in Massachusetts had loaded me up with tour books and maps for every state I was bound to traverse. And part of having an adventure is, occasionally, getting lost, pulling over and checking a map or asking for directions. Besides, I couldn't decide where to go so having the ability to type in a destination and map a route wouldn't have solved my immediate problem.

By the time I was roadworthy the soccer game had ended but it was still early enough to keep driving so I decided to head to Wisconsin. Shortly after crossing the state border I saw a huge sign for the Mars Cheese Castle. That sounded colorful, local and a bit kitschy. It was. I purchased some smoke string cheese, a sourdough roll, two chocolate bars and a half decaf, half regular coffee, poured by a sullen employee. My spirits lifted again and, on my own again, I knew that I would enjoy the rest of my trip, whichever way I ended up going.

Interstate: I.D.I.O.T.S.

On the second day of my trip I whizzed through the rest of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana before getting to Evanston, Illinois. The scenery was mostly bucolic, with the exception of stinky Gary, Indiana, but at a spotless and contemporary rest stop in Ohio I spotted a trio of wide women wearing lavender T-shirts that said on the back:

I lluminated
D aughters
I nspired
O f
T he
S pirit

On the front was a cross.

I didn't have the chutzpah to ask them why they were self-described idiots.

Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect

The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.

I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.

After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.

Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.

"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No," I said.

"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.

"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."

"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"

I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.

"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"

"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."

It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.

Incessant Imbibing

I've been in the Denver, Colorado area for a few days, drinking up a storm. Not alcohol, mind you. Water, water and more water, with an occasional soda, fruit juice, and tea or decaffeinated coffee thrown in for good measure. Proper hydration is the main way to avoid altitude sickness, the result of moving to a higher altitude too quickly. Denver is a mile high. Despite guzzling half a gallon of water beginning with my arrival Thursday morning, I spent the first afternoon mildly disoriented and nauseous, finally venturing out at around 5pm to visit the Art Students League of Denver, followed by dinner at Tacos y Salsas, one of the city’s best rated taquerias. Yup, they were good and I’m glad I finished my meal before sunset. The neighborhood would not have been so appealing in the dark.

Within one day I felt fairly well adjusted. I continued to drink. That allowed me to enjoy a full day of activity on Friday: driving to Boulder to meet a college friend for lunch, meeting with artists at one of Boulder’s largest studio buildings and getting an impromptu tour of the space, enjoying a quick stroll in the city’s pedestrian mall and chatting with the owner of Blink Gallery, and finally spending Shabbat at Flagstaff park with the Adventure Rabbi before hopping in my car and returning to Denver.

On Saturday I went northwest to Lyons, CO for their artist open studio tour. The first place I stopped had the art work – including large metal and wood sculptures, oil paintings and fused glass – strategically placed around a huge yard bordered by a river with a steep red cliff in the background. The setting was stunning and the art was able to hold its own. Further down the road, an artist had created nearly everything in her own home: contemporary wood furniture, lamps created from metal pipes, outdoor mosaic sculptures, including five enormous mosaiced eggs carefully placed atop a rocky outcrop in her back yard, and several mosaic animals in the front yard. None of them were for sale. I envied that she created them purely for her own enjoyment. Returning to Denver I made my way to an even more obscurely located taqueria outside of Denver proper. Apparently it used to be a lunch truck and has since turned into a “restaurant”. Located in a non-descript small strip mall in Denver’s exurbs, Tacos D.F. served up very authentic tacos de barbacoa (lamb). I was in heaven, in the middle of nowhere. That night I had ambitions to check out Denver’s tango scene, but even my constant hydration wasn’t enough to fend off fatigue. I called it quits in order to get up early for a hike on Sunday.

The hike, organized by Mosaic (a Jewish outdoors club), was in nearby Jefferson County Park and promised an elevation gain of 1,400 feet. I was wondering how I’d do, given that I’d only been in Denver two days, but I figured it was worth a shot. It turns out I had nothing to worry about and I was able to keep pace with the fastest folks in the group, two women from Colorado, one of whom hikes every week. We zipped ahead and even took a longer route back.

“Altitude, shmaltitude!” I thought. I could handle anything.

Fast forward to Monday, where my cocky attitude about altitude nearly killed me. Perhaps I exaggerate, or not. My college friend suggested that I drive up to Mt. Evans, elevation 14,270 feet, to get a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. I called to make sure the road was open, and, it was. The cheerful woman on the phone advised me to drink continuously to avoid altitude sickness. I loaded my car with a gallon of water, bottles of limeade and green tea, fruit, cheese, chocolate for snacks, and warm clothing for the summit, which the park employee said was a "nearly tropical" 47 degrees. En route to Mt. Evans I stopped near Idaho Springs to get a decaffeinated coffee. I figured I’d drink more if I could entertain my palate with a variety of beverages – so there I was, sipping coffee, then water, then limeade, then water, then coffee. At every rest stop and ranger station along the way up, I stopped to pee. And that is how it is supposed to be, to avoid getting altitude sickness.

I was doing fine up until Summit Lake Park, which is just four miles from the top of Mt. Evans. I got out of the car to walk to the lake and photograph it. At that point the temperature was quite cool and I noticed that the curvy mountain road that I had been slowly ascending was getting narrower and curvier, literally disappearing into thin air as it rose from the lake toward the summit. A very quiet voice in my head told me to stop there, at Summit Lake, and appreciate the spectacular views of snowy mountains, Alpine lakes, pine trees and magnificent clouds that I had already enjoyed. How much more beauty did I need to see, and was it worth starting to feel disoriented?

But I was so close to the top. Why not keep going? There were some good reasons to stay put. I’ve been at high altitude before, in Peru, and even with several days of acclimatization I had trouble hiking at such lofty heights and had to stop to catch my breath after each step. That was when I was on foot, not steering a heavy vehicle. And I was tired, so not as alert as one would want to be.

I could have stopped at Summit Lake. But instead I listened to the same chorus of voices that often urge me to go to the top, to finish what I start, to see all that there is to see, to do what others are doing. I slowly chugged up the mountain. As the air kept thinning, my head kept spinning disastrous scenarios: What if I were to get nauseous and disoriented, accidentally apply too much pressure to the gas pedal and fly over the edge, Thelma and Louise style? Or what if I got to the top, got sick, and couldn’t drive myself back down?

Making a U-turn was clearly impossible. I had to figure out how to get to the top without freaking out at every hairpin turn and, possibly, causing an accident. One helpful voice in my head tried to point out that this road, unlike the highways in New Mexico, was not decorated with crosses marking the scenes of fatal accidents. There was a good chance that I, too, would survive. If only I could stay calm.

Focus on your breath, I told myself. And don’t look at the scenery. Look only at the asphalt immediately in front of you and steer accordingly. Watching my breath wasn’t enough to stop the fearful fantasies. I started to chant my favorite Hebrew prayers, figuring that might help me keep going, or at least would land me in heaven if I were to miss a turn.

By the time I arrived to the parking lot at the top I felt in my body just how utterly terrified I had been. Luckily I made it to the toilet on time.

But the parking lot wasn’t the tippity top – one could hike up a rocky trail to see even more spectacular views. A woman I had met at one of the rest areas told me she had seen mountain goats at the top. I wanted to see the mountain goats, but I didn't want to get sick in the process. There were lots of people climbing the trail, laughing and talking, enjoying this peak experience.

“Why not give it a try?” asked the voices in my head.

“You can do it!” they urged.

This time, I told the voices, "Fuck off!"

I was not going to climb the trail.

I was not going to go to the very top.

I was not going to see the goats.

I was going to get myself to a lower altitude before I got myself in serious trouble.

I changed footgear – swapping my hiking boots for sandals, the better to feel the pedals with - got back in my car, shifted into the lowest gear, and began what I feared would be an equally harrowing descent. At the second hairpin turn I pulled over to the side of the road to let other vehicles pass. At the slightly lower altitude I felt a bit better and I decided to get out and enjoy the view. There were four mountain goats grazing nearby, their thick white coats had already started to shed. Perhaps my prayers had worked – I got my goats after all. One of them walked within a few feet of me, completely unperturbed. I asked another visitor to photograph me with the goats in the background – I barely recognized my voice, probably I still was not getting enough oxygen.

Returning to Summit Lake I pulled into the parking area there; it was time for a bathroom break. Walking toward the Alpine Potty I started to cry. I couldn’t tell if the tears were of relief at having made it back down to a safer elevation or of frustration at having put myself at risk for no good reason. Perhaps both.

With both of my feet firmly on the ground, I felt profoundly grateful to be alive. I didn’t burst into a Hallelujah but I did thank the park employee for cleaning the toilets. He looked surprised.

As I descended to the saner altitude of Idaho Springs, a mere 7,250 feet above sea level, I realized that nothing that happens next in my life – including the probability of a long distance move – will be nearly as overwhelming as the visceral fear I experienced today. And I felt extremely humbled by the consequences of not listening to the quiet voice within. In this instance, it was trying to protect my body. Usually, it is trying to safeguard my soul. And very often I ignore it.

Intense Itinerary

Travel brings out the maniac in me.

I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.

There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.

Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.

That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.

It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this

Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.

After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.

In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.

By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.

That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.

A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.

After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.

Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.

En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.

I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?