MotoGP Redux: July 3rd

The road is calling, and I'm fixin' to answer. But first, Gabrelle and I drive out to Tent Rocks and explore the beauty of natural destruction. It's hot but dry, and the same wind that inexorably sculpts the nearby canyon also keeps us comfortable during the hike. Like most formations in the West, it is nearly impossible to comprehend the scope of Tent Rocks; the forces involved dwarf our transient existence so thoroughly that any depth of understanding would surely reduce any sane man into a babbling fit of tearful insignificance.

Somehow keeping my dignity intact, we hike the easy trail through the canyon. Even with an inboard passenger, Gabrelle manages better than some of the hikers we encounter – they almost look disappointed to hear about the incline and subsequent views ahead. And the views are spectacular throughout the canyon. In its depths, we are surrounded by giant crevasces and cascades that bespeak the chaotic power of nature, marked with soothingly regular grooves that imply artistic order. How could Native Americans, or any early explorer, have found this place and not assumed a greater power crafting such exquisite beauty? It's not the last time I'll wonder this on my journey.

It's time to manifest destiny and say goodbye to both New Mexico and my friends. I make it to the Arizona border in time to catch a glorious sunset illuminating the rocky red terrain. Just after nightfall, I reach the Petrified Forest National Park. It's too dark to tell stem from stone, so it's more or less a convenient spot to fire up the grill and catch some Z's. It's federal land, which pretty much amounts to a welcome mat for the sleep-in-the-car crowd. A few other last-minute holiday travelers pull in for the night, forming an impromptu slumber chain on Uncle Sam's porch.