After our sleepless night in the tipi, we decided to backtrack a bit and go check out a slot canyon. This was my thing, I had seen countless photographs of classic slot canyons in various magazines and on Instagram, their sculptural waves of undulating desert hues fascinated me. I had hiked in a few of these narrow, claustrophobic corridors of rock before, always a little nervously. Rangers  give plenty of warnings about paying attention to weather forecasts in the region before entering a slot. These canyons can be death traps even if a sudden thunderstorm occurs miles away, the onset of flood waters can fill a slot canyon with high swirling currents, sweeping up rocks and debris in its path, creating a killing tidal wave. This was the case with Lower Antelope Canyon in Page, Arizona back in 1997. Eleven hikers were swept to their death by a brief and violent 40 foot wall of water, the result of a thunderstorm that occurred over 15 miles away.

So it was with some degree of trepidation that  I checked and rechecked the weather. A dry forecast. Plus, since the tragedy in ’97 the Navajo Nation had taken over complete control of these tourist attractions and limited access with very structured tours led by Navajo docents. The Antelope Upper and Lower Canyons were not places you could just wander into. In fact, all of the natural attractions on Navajo land were monetized and strictly monitored. Despite the cattle call nature of the tour(groups of 12 herded into open air vehicles, driven to the mouth of the canyon across a dry wash and literally herded through the tight confines simultaneously with dozens of other groups, all vying for the perfect photo), I was pumped for the experience. Our guide Esther was no-nonsense, I appreciated that she had to do this several times a day, dealing with the imperfect and occasionally obnoxious tourist. In fact, on our tour, she had to reprimand two adult couples again and again, like children, as they kept falling behind and ignoring her instructions. I stayed close to her, and this turned out to be a boon. She was a master of every kind of camera, whether iphone, android, or SLR. Wearing latex gloves, she quickly took each person’s camera and helped them with the settings so as to get excellent photos. I actually learned a few tricks about my own phone such as placing it against the rock walls to steady my hand but to also capture gradations of shadow and light.  So while I was able to get great photos, in all honesty, the experience was an odd one. There was no serendipity or self-discovery. At some points, the narrow floor of the canyon felt like a subway car, incoming and outgoing tourists jostling shoulders.  On the way back, a few people tried to create some small talk with Esther, asking if she had kids, that sort of thing. But she was having none of it. No personal information given. Period.  Which resulted in a strange divide between Navajo and visitor. I found this to be the case in our time here. Though I had many pleasant interactions, each time I felt the invisible outstretched hand  keeping me at a distance. At times, I felt like I was being tolerated. Unfortunate, but understandable in my mind.

From Page, we drove on Hwy 163 over the Utah border through Mexican Hat, our destination being the official Four Corners Monument. The drive was a desolate one. The monument itself is in the middle of nowhere. A $10 charge gets you in for the requisite photo-op.  Being a sucker for this stuff, I had Mark snap me with an extremity placed in each corner. A single human body in four states at once,  a natural feat of surprising ease. There was a line to do this. And I stood in it. Official Tourist stamped in invisible ink on my forehead.

We arrived in Cortez, Colorado late in the day. All the campgrounds are closed for the season. Any RV parks that are still open tend to be year round residences or they are empty, thus eerie and and a bit scary.  We weren’t sure where we were going to lay our heads that night. Passing a billboard advertising the Retro Inn, our eyes lit up simultaneously. Always looking for unique and funky lodging, this certainly sounded liked it fit the bill. Sure enough, the old motel had been spruced up, each door painted a bright shade of orange, blue or green. The lobby was decorated like a 1950’s kitchen/diner complete with a life size Elvis sitting on a bench that spooked me just a little.  The rooms were tiny and clean but the bed was soft and warm. Our destination lay right outside town, our last National Park, Mesa Verde.

The next day was cloudy and blustery. The Mesa Verde Visitor’s Center is a Leeds-certified beauty, constructed of native stone and walls of glass.  Much of the park was closed for the season, but the ranger recommended driving the Mesa Top Loop Road which would still afford great views of the many incredibly preserved archeological cliff dwellings of the ancestral Puebloans, some of the best in the US.  She also suggested we do the Petroglyph Point Trail. I had no idea what to expect of this park, I’d done virtually no pre-research.

The drive in from the Visitor’s Center winds along several s- curves making its way to the top of  the Chapin Mesa. We figured we would spend a few hours here, not realizing how extensive and fascinating we would find the park. The 2.4 mile Petroglyph hike was was wonderfully constructed. The path follows a shelf cut into the mesa walls, narrowing between giant boulders, traversing rocks with built in stone steps, following sheltered alcoves with desert varnish shading the walls. The trail ends at a wind blown plateau where a detailed petroglyph panel is carved into the rock wall.  Climbing a precipitous set of stairs from there, the walk back is along the rim of the Spruce Canyon with far-reaching views.  I was excited that we included this park in our itinerary. Mesa Verde has the distinction of being the only National Park to “preserve the works of man” as Teddy Roosevelt declared in 1906.  I was astonished by the remarkable preservation of these dwellings from over 700 years ago, it was easy to imagine the thriving culture that lived and breathed among the sandstone and mud structures. The small cities were architecturally beautiful, monochromatic in the way they blended harmoniously into their setting yet intricate and inspirational in the efficiency of their design.

Our exploration of Mesa Verde took the better part of the day so we decided to spend another night in Cortez. This was another cool small city that we developed an affinity for. It was obviously an outpost for the lover of the outdoors, a biking/hiking mecca. It was only an hour from Telluride, so it was a big destination for winter sports as well. There were dozens of funky local businesses and we found a sweet place to eat that night, The Farm Bistro. With entrees like a yak burger and Moroccan lamb meatballs, we spent a happy evening devouring locally sourced comfort food and chatting up the server about life in Cortez.

It was time. Time to come off the road for a respite and much anticipated reunion with family. I had found an adobe hacienda airbnb ten minutes from downtown Santa Fe.  We would spend the next few days picking up each son one by one from the airport as they joined us from their respective locales. There would be much to be grateful for this Thanksgiving holiday. I was looking forward to staying in a house for a week, cooking in a kitchen, going to bed knowing that my three children were safely ensconced in my orbit. My yearning for the boys, my overwhelming need to hug them and lavish each one with attention and love was visceral. It was very simple.  After 10 weeks of wandering, all my needs and desires had distilled down to one primary longing. For family. The road would have to wait for a time.