MotoGP Redux: July 1st

From Brady TX to Grady NM, things look pretty similar; desert scrub stretches out into the distance, only disturbed by few small towns and fewer farms and ranches. I belt along TX-176 at the designated 75 miles per, noting the increasing density of oil and gas drills – most of them rusted and inactive. My only pause before leaving Texas comes in the town of Andrews to admire the huge sign proclaiming the town's love of God, Country, and Free Enterprise. Halleleuja!

Crossing the border into New Mexico, the world seems to fall two branches further down the ugly tree. The scrub is scrubbier, the oil drills are more numerous, and the refining / sulfer smell that started in Andrews has definitely become more prominent. Maybe I'm just ticked that the road narrows and the speed limit drops to 55. No matter, the drive to Carlsbad is easy enough.

Carlsbad is best known for a series of caverns that formed inside a fossil reef on the edge of a prehistoric inland sea. Jim White, a local rancher, explored and popularized the caverns in the early 20th century, leading up to its designation as a national park in 1930. In the intervening years, paths have been paved, elevators installed, and a gift shop added underground, but most of the interior retains a stark, primordial atmosphere.

I walk the caves for several hours, enjoying the solitude and 55 degree interior as a relief from highway droning. The formations and shapes are stunning, and the transition from claustrophobic passages to cathedral-esque chambers defies my comprehension. I remember visiting caves as a child, thinking that the "curtains" formed by water and deposits looked like bacon. I don't see it all now, but the impression persists. Eventually the crowds catch up to me, the imaginary adventure becomes a chore, and it's time to leave.

I weigh my options since the regional camping is neither enticing nor available (oh yeah, July 4th weekend), and make for Santa Fe to visit friends rather than delaying in the desolation of Southeastern New Mexico. Along the way, I stop in Roswell, of UFO fame. I didn't have high expectations, but even the alien kitsch was pretty lame. The pastiche of newspaper articles and homemade alien-ana at the UFO museum failed to shed much light on the "visitation" that has dictated the town's identity. Even the town's 4th of July festival is alien themed, with more little green men than red white and blue on display. The downtown strip is closed off for the festivities, but the sidewalks are easily passable due to the dearth of revelers. Somewhere just off the strip, a blues band plays for a crowd of none. Thankfully I find a nice coffee shop and enjoy a really GREAT chai latte that had absolutely nothing to do with aliens or UFOs.

Full of caffeine and sugar, I hump it up 285 to Santa Fe, marking the gradual elevation change and scenic beauty with appreciation. I meet Gabrelle and James for dinner, and we wander the rustic adobe of downtown. It's like being in a foreign land that has never discovered limestone walls or shingled roofs. Also, there are no Wal-Marts or Starbucks to speak of ... I'm sure they lurk nearby, but out of sight is out of mind. Seems like a good place to hole up for a couple days before traversing more big square states.