Day Twenty-one - Phoenix to Albuquerque

Phoenix to Flagstaff


As we left Phoenix this morning we knew it would be a long day.  Going by way of Flagstaff, it's 471 miles, but Michelle (our GPS voice, who has incurred my wrath on a number of occasions lately) insisted it was a better choice than Google's route, only 423 miles northeast through Mesa on secondary roads, and just ten minutes faster.  Well, Michelle got it right, for two reasons.  The first one is this:

Bumble Bee, Arizona.  65 years ago my bride had
her picture taken next to the sign that existed then.

Mary Frances hadn't seen a sign for Bumble Bee, Arizona, since 1949, when her family drove to the Grand Canyon State from Vermont to bring her grandfather back following his then-common asthma exile.  In the picture (which I'm sorry we don't have to publish here) she's pouting because one of her brothers gave her a bumble bee pinch as it was taken.  Sending asthmatics to dry climates was a common remedy then, and pretty much stupid, since those dry climates are primarily at high altitudes!  Damn it, dudes, we need air, like at sea level.

Still headed north toward Flagstaff we stopped at a rest area for the normal reasons, and Mary Frances took this picture of a lovely bush filled with pink flowers as we headed back to our car...

...and discovered this!  We don't know how, or even when, it happened.  The most likely possibility is a parking lot ticket stanchion that was particularly tight when leaving a restaurant the evening before, although neither of us heard anything then.  It's also possible someone hit us in the parking garage of our hotel.  In any event, our dorky little car now has scars, and we'll have to live with them for the rest of our adventure.

The first dinger on your car is kind of emotional; like losing its virginity.

Getting closer to Flagstaff meant getting higher, and greener, than Arizona had been before.

Green trees--all conifers--and horse farms on the way to Flagstaff.

And mountains!

Ah, yes.  The second reason Michelle was right in sending us through Flagstaff.  If we had taken the somewhat shorter route, we would have missed the Arizona Meteor Crater!

Entrance to the meteor crater and museum.

Here it is.  The hole in the ground caused by a meteorite some 50,000 years
ago.  Although the sign on Route 40 calls it a National Monument, in fact
it is privately owned, and not part of the National Parks system.

Mary Frances on the edge.

Down at the bottom is mining equipment, used to prove after 100 years of
controversy that the crater was indeed due to a meteorite, not volcanic activity.

The east side of the crater...

...and the west side of the crater.

 As far as the eye can see in any direction from the meteor crater, the state of Arizona is flatter than a pancake with too much milk.  And, as we have learned in our western adventures, flatness equals wind.  At the edge of the crater, the toughest thing is simply standing up.  Mary Frances went a step further and climbed additional steps (without her husband who was already in need of additional oxygen) to the topmost lookout, and took this selfie as she attempted to hang on:

Her do was done for.

And here's Mary Frances at the bottom of the crater.  Quite an
adventurer, she.  (OK, maybe this one is slightly enhanced.)

 The Petrified Forest

This was part of our plan from the beginning, to see the Petrified Forest.  But Mary Frances looked at our maps and realized that if we just sailed along US 40 we wouldn't see much, and the smartest thing would be to stay on Route 180 south to the southern entrance to the park, then drive north all the way through it.  Damn, she's smart.

100 million years ago, this was a tree.

Pieces of trees all over the place.

More pieces of trees.

The Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert are each parts of the same National Park.

Ravens waiting for handouts at a Painted Desert lookout.

This is called Newspaper Rock, because many of these stones are petroglyphs,
where ancient residents left artwork, communications, or maybe just doodles.
Don't feel bad if you can't see them; most of the park visitors couldn't, either. 

A picture doesn't do justice to the beautiful painted desert.

Getting your kicks...

Route 66 has been mostly a pretty useless road since the Interstate Highway System was constructed, but the locals take advantage of the panache as best they can.  Mary Frances spent 50 miles or so perfecting the first few stanzas of "Get Your Kicks on Route 66" as we drove.

Throughout Navajo country, Route 66 is thought to be
reason enough to earn a few bucks in souvenir sales.

 The home stretch

At last we reached New Mexico.  With still 150 miles to go, and nearly four o'clock,
we not only crossed a state line, but a time zone; in fact, it was nearly five o'clock.

The incredible flatness and dryness and barren-ness of Navajo Arizona
suddenly changed in New Mexico to a land of buttes.  And New Mexico
doesn't scallop its center lines, making lane changes much more pleasant.

A beaut of a butte.

This odd natural structure looks man-made, but in fact is just a natural butte.

Ultimately, we reached Albuquerque and our hotel.  Mary Frances learned that our friend Maureen Riendeau is also in town and we may have a chance to meet tomorrow morning.

Damn, this has been a great trip.