After our break at Yellowstone, the last thing any of us wanted to do was to get back in the cars. Not that I blame us. The van was ankle deep in wrappers, much as you'd expect a car to look after restraining several children for almost a week. The truck wasn't much better. At some point milk had been spilled in the back seat--in Alaska. After several days of growing concern and nausea, it was found. Even after a scrubbing in Montana, the floorboards still smelled like rotten milk with a whiff of apples. Only the kids' dedication to the second Percy Jackson series kept the truck full. The dog didn't have a choice.
However reluctant we were, the hotel was politely firm that we couldn't stay indefinitely (I blame the idiot dog). We piled back into the gross cars for the last stretch of our trip to Texas.
We had hoped to meander down through Wyoming, insistently encouraged by a delightful friend to randomly drop in on her parents' place and get some ice cream from her hometown shoppe. However, winter clings a little bit in the Tetons just like it does in Alaska, and the road from Yellowstone was still snowed shut. Sorry Becky.
Instead, we cut down through Idaho and Utah, watching the terrain get flatter, drier, and browner as we headed south, the stately pines withering into scrubby juniper. We stopped briefly for lunch in Salt Lake with one of Rick's fabulous aunts, then headed on to visit the Queen, Rick's marvelous grandmother, who lived in southern Utah with another of her daughters.
We had two great days of family, stories, and good food. One evening we ventured into the desert for a bonfire and four wheeling. The girls weren't sure how to handle the dirt or the temperature, but with enough chips and cousins and truck-beds to climb, they managed to survive.
We stayed at an eclectically decorated trilevel two bedroom with lilac trees and lawn peacocks that miaowed in the most unexpected moments. The owner lived in the basement, and we had the run of the top two floors. This wouldn't be worth mentioning except that our first night we ordered some pizza. Leah, attempting to be helpful, put the leftovers on the high ledge above the basement door to keep it away from Thura, aka our idiot dog...except it wasn't a ledge. We watched, horrified, as the box flipped through the slot and listened to the pizza squelch onto the stairs behind the door. We tried to open the door, Rick surreptitiously tried his lockpicks, and we even briefly considered heaving a kid (probably Jane, who was small enough to fit through the window but old enough to be useful on the other side) but decided against it. I finally bit the bullet and made the awkward "My kid dropped pizza behind your door" call. Our host was very gracious, but I'm also sure he was ready for us to leave.
We left Utah for the western corner of Arizona, cutting through the Navajo and Hopi reservations and finally edging into New Mexico. Hitting I-40 brought back memories, most of them not great. I don't know why, but I don't care for New Mexico. I don't find the Land of Enchantment even mildly interesting. Maybe it's because I was raised in Arizona and Arizona and New Mexico have beef. Maybe it's because for years it was just a long, terribly boring smear of a state between me and family. Maybe it's a gut feeling that New Mexico is shady as hell. Maybe it's just something broken in me. I don't know. What I do know is that I try to keep my excursions into New Mexico brief. We spent the night in Gallup, visited some good friends in Albuquerque, then pushed through to El Paso, which was blessedly just across the border.
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