Where the streets have no name

Dad’s alarm just went off, just like it usually does on Monday at 0500, in a misguided notion that showing up at the office a bit early will allow him to “get the jump” on the week. But work always expands to fill the time allotted, that, and the ever increasing demands of today’s corporate leeches ensures that a sense of fulfillment always seemed to be juuuust out of reach.

But today is different, as they all can be. We spent yesterday crossing the mountains of northern New Mexico, Tucumcari, Taos, Tres Piedras, Chama,
Shiprock, then on up into Colorado, but as always, it was the people, not the places that hold that made the trip spectacular. We had enough unique encounters before noon to keep a blog active for a month, for example: the screamer in the night, the lights in the sky, the chantauese on the south rim, the fiesty lady who threatened to turn dad into Cinderella, the girl carrying her Yorky on her back across the country, the riders from Kansas that we would encounter again later that day at Fina’s, etc, etc…

And then we LEFT Taos, and the adventures abated not a whit. By the time we reached Cortez, Max and I were so whupped we couldn’t roll out of the car, but in the words once said to dad at the beginning of a long mountain bike race, “if you’re hurting now, you’d better dig deep”, as today we cross into Moab, the very epicenter of strange landscapes and even stranger encounters.

And how can I predict with such certainty these strange encounters? Because you always get back what you put out there; if you go through life expecting someone else to be your miraculous encounter, sure, it may happen occasionally, but with nowhere near the frequency or intensity if you put yourself “out there”. Strive to be someone else’s miracle, and yours will flood at you as if shot from a firehose.

I know that the Monday post is usually a music video to get everyone back in the saddle towards another work week, but today is not that day; why, asketh thou? As I art the Charles, and I maketh the rules. As impressive as others talents may be, I’m living my own song right now, and there will be time for plenty of other’s songs later.

Now the iridescent glow of the sun is starting to illuminate the inside of the tent, and the pull of the day cannot be ignored any longer, at least that’s how I feel. I think that the frigid temps outside the sleeping bag is influencing Max’s thoughts on the matter, and he is lobbying with mom to extend the time of repose. But I will prevail, as I have dad, and King Tut himself couldn’t sleep through an assault from the sloppy tongue of Charlie.

It’s great to be the Queen!