I ate breakfast in Terlingua, which is advertised as a ghost town. It looked more like a trailer park to me. The café was also half full, which showed two signs of life—the people and the place of business. Thoroughly unimpressed, I harrumphed back through Big Bend. It was too hot to hike, so after rehydrating at the visitor center, I kept on to the north.

In his book Blue Highways, William Least Heat-Moon takes a moment to observe the desert. He tries to observe as much as he can to refute the idea that there’s nothing out here. About two miles outside Big Bend, I did the same for a strict ten minutes. I then checked out the plants on the miraculous PictureThis app, which will identify about any plant you throw at it.

I noticed:

1. The road, paved with black and red rocks
2. The sky (duh)
3. Rows of mountains along the horizon
4. A truck with a teardrop trailer
5. Reflective roadside posts, presumably for that Texas Flood Stevie was talking about
6. A tube running through concrete under the road, for flood control
7. An obnoxiously yellow tractor
8. Gravel
9. Sand
10. Dirt
11. Large rocks
12. Dead grass
13. Buffel-grass
14. A gray moth with delicate black spots
15. Bahia flowers
16. Sumac
17. Honeysweets
18. Mock vervain
19. Verdant grass
20. A brilliant orange butterfly (not a monarch)
21. Wooden fence posts
22. Barbed wire
23. Birds, unseen, squawking away
24. Crownbeard 
25. A spiny hackberry bush
26. Whitethorn acacia
27. Old man’s beard
28. Spanish daggers
29. A large yellow butterfly with black edges
30. Creosote bushes
31. A Mallard RV with aftermarket mud flaps
32. A silver Silverado
33. Ragweed
34. Globemallows
35. Pinkladies
36. Sage
37. Heat in varying amounts (strongest on the road)
38. Metal fence posts
39. Cracked mud
40. Driftwood
41. Flies
42. Ants
43. Haze cloaking the mountains
44. Swooping, stretchy clouds
45. My car
46. Me, myself, and I

Another two hours brought me to Fort Stockton, where I set up shop. There’s nothing much to write home about here. I have to start planning ahead more, as the weather is turning cold. I might end up in more hotel rooms than I’d like, mostly for the guitar’s sake. I also haven’t decided where I’m going next. I’m leaning toward north, with a quick swoop through Kansas and Missouri. Find out next time.

I quite like Alpine, Texas. It’s small—under 6,000 people—and it still feels full. It’s also not a backwater town. There’s a reasonable library, quality restaurants, and art in public spaces. I grabbed a coffee at the hipster-lite café next to the bookstore. The staff was young and happy. Alpine is a quietly joyful town; I hope it continues to do well. 

I continued south through pure countryside. It took an hour to find Terlingua, population 58. I banged a left and found myself in Big Bend National Park, right on the Rio Grande and the Mexican Border. Big Bend is in the Chihuahuan Desert, which is the third major desert I’ve visited so far. The fourth and final desert in the US, the Sonoran, will have to wait for another trip. The land is dusty, without the onslaught of sagebrush I’ve seen in the Mojave, the Great Basin, and the plains. The jagged Chisos Mountains dominate the landscape. This is classic American desert. 

On a 90-degree day, there’s not much to do but wait out the heat. I hunkered down in the shade until an hour before sundown, then ventured toward Santa Elena Canyon. On the bank of the Rio Grande, I found my second wedding party of the trip. I thought this location much more suitable than the Washington rainforest. The Rio Grande is heavily dammed upstream, but it’s still wide and pretty. The canyon walls are high and majestic, and the trails take you through the pricker bushes along the edge of the river. It was well worth the wait.

There’s a lot more to see in the crook of Texas, but my time here may be limited due to how unbelievably hot it is. We’ll see how much more sun I can stomach tomorrow.

Hundreds of millions of years ago, the Capitan Reef was the shoreline of a gigantic sea. Time and nature took their course, drying out the region and uplifting the coastal limestone deposits. The Capitan Reef is now considered the largest reef of its kind in the world. This is how a geologist would think. I think it’s a bunch of cool mountains. The Reef includes the Guadalupe Mountains, the Carlsbad Caverns, and today’s hiking destination, McKittrick Canyon.

I learned about the canyon from the rest stop I stayed at last night. The complex had a fairly impressive exhibit detailing the area’s attractions. McKittrick stuck out as especially beautiful and especially close—a perfect combination. The park’s water pump was shut off for the season, so I wasn’t able to fill up for the full hike, but what I saw in three miles was glorious. The sheer variety of plant life is captivating. Agaves and yuccas are especially common, and while trees are few, they tend to be strange and colorful. 

I settled in for a solid chunk of southeasterly driving. Though I clocked in at close to 200 miles, I only passed through four towns: Van Horn, Valentine, Marfa, and Alpine. Lobo will show up on your map, but there’s nothing there. There are no farms or buildings on the solitary stretches, and not even cows on the ranches. It was lonely. Music, podcasts, and the radio kept me company. Eventually, in Alpine, I grabbed a late lunch. At 4pm, I was the only customer. The relleno was delicious and reasonably portioned—another success. 

I’m staying at a rest station outside town tonight; I pulled over to play some music earlier in the day. There’s no cell service there, so I won’t be rabidly checking the election results. It’s probably healthier that way. Enjoy democracy, everyone!

Quick entry today. I hung around Carlsbad, working on music and other projects. Somehow, I had completely missed that the Pecos River flows through Carlsbad (in my defense, it’s on the outskirts of town), so I checked out the other side. There’s a tiny, picturesque riverwalk, with new stucco buildings and actual shady spots. I ordered breakfast from the rustic café in the complex. Not nearly as good as El Jimador. Too many napkins.

My day snuck by me, and before I knew it, it was time to leave town. I drove south, crossing the border into Texas and yawning incessantly. I don’t know why, but I’m beat. I’m camped for the night near the Guadalupe Mountains, which I will explore more thoroughly tomorrow.

I’ve seen some noteworthy caves on my trip so far. Mammoth Cave and the lava tubes were magnificently dark and isolating. Carlsbad Caverns is much more “cave-y”. This is where the stalactites and stalagmites live. It doesn’t have the primal, visceral feeling that the other caves do; it feels like an alien enclave under the Guadalupe Mountains. The extraterrestrial conspiracy grows!

I traipsed around the Big Room for a good chunk of the morning. All the tours sold out a month in advance, so instead of delving deeper, I returned to Carlsbad proper for some lunch. I have determined three key elements that indicate a Mexican restaurant of superlative quality:

1. Bad tables
2. Bad chairs
3. Very few napkins

Check all these boxes, and you will be rewarded with a stunning meal. My carne al pastor, served with chorizo-laced beans, was gone before I could take a picture. I ate more than I should. No regrets.

I spent the next couple hours in a post-meal haze, then drove back to the desert. I found a spot with no people and many cows, unseen but very much heard. My boondocking app says they might migrate over this way in the morning. I pulled out my saxophone and kept building my chops up. Slowly but surely, they’re coming back. Tonight I’ll play the Close Encounters tune and see what happens.

Last night, two stray cats skittered around the Walmart parking lot. I named them Brian and Setzer. There are a good number of street cats in Roswell—as many as there were stray dogs up in northern Montana. It was helpful to focus on them, as my stomach was pretty rough. I blame the suspect spinach I bought Thursday afternoon. I fell asleep around midnight and woke up at eleven this morning, feeling groggy but healthy.

I immediately put my stomach back to work at Amigos, which is my kind of restaurant. Absolutely terrible ambiance: foam-stuffed chairs, like you might put out for extra guests at dinner, and plain tables that would be at home in a school cafeteria. The food had to be good, and it was. The highlight was the chile relleno, which was expertly spiced and seasoned. I got more than I could eat for just ten dollars. The chips and salsa were scrumptious as well.

I considered staying longer in Roswell, but I sensed that the Extraterrestrial Museum would be a letdown. Roswell also smells like trash. It’s that specific trash smell that almost smells like a fast food restaurant. I decided to ease on down the road, but not before a couple of commercial close encounters.

Just an hour down the road, Carlsbad was comfortingly familiar. This may be the New Mexican Derry. I spent some time in the library, beginning the painstaking process of figuring out exactly which towns I’ve visited on my trip. Spoiler alert: there’s a lot. I wrote some more lyrics as well. Slowly but surely, these songs will get done.

As I drive south, I’m munching on baby carrots and my endless supply of bananas and listening to the new black midi record. If you like anarcho-jazz post-rock, this is the record for you. If that makes no sense to you, you won’t like it. 

I woke up in New Mexico to a considerable sprinkling of snow on my car. The storm would continue off and on throughout the day. This never happened in Breaking Bad. I slogged down the interstate, in order to avoid high altitudes, and wound up in Santa Fe. 

I had high hopes for this town. My first impression of Santa Fe was favorable; despite the commercial stretches, it’s more organic by far than the Colorado suburbs. I pulled into the Santa Fe Bite, recommended by both the Food Bible and the Food Network, and ordered a plate of enchilada. They were… disappointing. I struggled to understand how the restaurant was held in such high esteem. Further reading revealed that I should have ordered the Green Chile Burger, a ten-ounce patty heaped with toppings. At least the enchiladas were healthy and, judging by taste, sodium-free.

I was still buoyant, though, because I had a ticket for another Meow Wolf installation. The Santa Fe location is the original, and was sponsored by a local bigwig named George R. R. Martin. The House of Eternal Return, in many ways, shares the DNA of Denver’s Convergence Station. Both are wild, immersive spectacles; both have fascinating levels of detail; both occasionally spiral out of control and feel disjointed. 

I think where the Denver location succeeds, and this one struggles, is in the storytelling. Convergence Station tells a grand story through large visual strokes, like crashed vehicles and stadium-style video screens. I think The House of Eternal Return has a better plot, but it’s smaller in scale and focused on the absent inhabitants of the titular house. This means that most of the story is conveyed through journals, notes, newspapers, etc. I wanted to read every word of these, but couldn’t because other people were patiently waiting to do the same.  Everyone wanted the documents, and it turned much of my time into assembly-line, slightly rushed speed-reading. This made me fairly anxious. I eventually gave up and tried to take in the installation holistically, like I had in Denver. It just didn’t work as well.

I tried to rebound in a coffee shop, but it was loud and chaotic, and the coffee was also mediocre. I was disappointed by Santa Fe, and it was cold. I set off for warmer climates. Three long hours of driving fixed my mood and brought me to Roswell. I will try not to get abducted tonight. 

I’m back. Livi and I had a relaxing, low-key few days in Denver. She flew out on Wednesday, and I took the last couple days to retrace my steps into southern Colorado. I picked up my guitar and my absentee ballot at Sam’s (thanks again!) and immediately exercised my constitutional superpower. Make sure you do too!

I tried to write melodies for some of my new lyrics yesterday, but they weren’t especially inspired. I cranked out the gunk, did some focused listening to other records for inspiration, and came back to them today. Much better. It’s a wonder what a difference a single day can make.

The Bruins are currently in a dogfight with the Rangers. After the game, I’ll try to make my way into New Mexico before I park for the night, and I should be fully back into rhythm by tomorrow.

I decided to get my daily potassium in style at the Urban Egg, which is a higher-end breakfast chain (NH readers, think Tucker’s but for hipsters). On my way over, the Low Tire Pressure light was flashing, but like any true New Englander, I know the ideal gas law. True to physics, as soon as the temperature warmed over 40 degrees, my tires were fine. It’s usually the spare that makes a fuss anyways.

The Urban Egg had an hour wait, but there was a single seat open at the bar, so I slid in like Frozone and surveyed the menu. Potatoes, avocados, spinach, tomatoes, and dairy are all on my approved foods list, which made my breakfast bowl exceedingly healthy. It looked so delicious that I forgot to take a picture. Maybe I’ll have to get another one for posterity’s sake.

Belly stuffed, I drove to a nearby park. While I am trying to stay present at all times, I did need to think ahead to the shows my band was playing in December and January. My saxophone playing is already suspect, and if I slack off too much, it’ll be altogether embarrassing. So I found a bench on a lightly traveled trail, opened up my case, and started developing a solo. Over the course of an hour, only half a dozen people passed by; all were complimentary, which was an ego boost. One was a professional photographer who took a magazine’s worth of shots. Maybe I’ll end up in a stock image.

As I drove north, growing ever closer to Denver, I realized just how uniform these Colorado suburbs are. New England suburbs are like oaks: wide, sprawling, inscrutable. Colorado suburbs are aspens: straight, logical, and, in many cases, genetically identical. These are the city-planned subdivisions that Rush sang about. There is less vitality here, but the traffic flows better.

As I sign off for the night, a quick housekeeping note. Livi is flying out to Denver and gracing Colorado with her presence, so I may or may not post while she’s out here. In either case, expect regular reporting to start back up on Thursday. See you then.

The first eleven hours of my day were ordinary. I turtled in the motel bed, then went to a neighboring cafe with a voucher that came with the stay. Thoroughly acceptable food. I made sure to escape the Rockies, then settled in for another relaxing day in Pueblo. I did more puzzles. I spent more time at the library. I listened to the Bruins again.

Then I decided to park for the night. I had appreciated the ease of rest stations in Utah, so I decided to try the Colorado version. I saw the sign, took the exit, and slammed on the brakes. Closed. Ugh. Upon further investigation, the Colorado Department of Transportation deemed the cost of plumbing too high to keep the station open. I don’t need running water, CDOT, just the lot. 

I reviewed my options. The next most promising was forest camping. I set out on the interstate, drove to Colorado Springs, and forged out toward Pikes Peak. Once again, things got weird. The road was way too nice—almost manicured. Up ahead, I saw what looked like a private property gatehouse. A guard stood at attention. I chose not to become the Most Dangerous Game and left the oligarchic complex.

Scraping lower, I retreated to Colorado Springs and checked out a truck stop. It felt safe enough, but—and I hate when this happens—the overnight parking was set up in spaces with clearly marked “No Overnight Parking” signs. Everyone was doing it. Like many socially popular things, I was too anxious to participate. I almost threw in the towel and booked a hotel again, but I made one last desperate search. At last! My savior! Bass Pro Shops!

I triumphantly drove down Bass Pro Avenue, where new “luxury apartments” were being built. I cannot think of anywhere that I would less like to live than at the Bass Pro Shop complex. I am, however, very glad to stay here tonight.