“Quick! Grab your camera! Snap a shot of the Colorado sign coming up! Wait………..why the hell are we in Colorado?”
More than twenty four hours earlier, we had been spray-painting Cadillacs in the middle of a dusty wasteland. After speeding out of Amarillo, Texas, we made good time in pursuit of our end destination, Santa Fe, and allowed ourselves a little detour through Tucumcari, a veritable Vegas strip of old time Route 66 motels, several of which were long since closed.
We arrived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the blaze of the early afternoon sun and after driving around several quaint motels, all which had prominent “No Pets” badges at the front door and none of which had plastic signs as cool as those in Tucumcari, we found one that looked authentically Western and which would allow the pooch a place to sleep. The Silver Saddle, as it turned out, was a great improvement on the Motel 6 of the previous evening, in that we even had a dining table and a mini kitchen area (by kitchen area, I mean a sink, a fridge and a microwave – don’t get too excited, people). We weren’t planning on using any of it, as our mouths had been salivating at the thought of dining out on New Mexican food, namely the red and green chile sauces for which they are known.
Santa Fe was a ghost town. As we wandered around the centre in the late afternoon, we were surprised by how few people were walking the streets, dining or even just selling their wares in their shops. We later found out that it was Martin Luther King Day, although I couldn’t tell you whether the eerie silence was because of the public holiday, or just the general atmosphere in Santa Fe on a Monday in January.
Although I was in awe of the architecture, I have to say that I didn’t love Santa Fe. It was much smaller than I had expected – something which I don’t often find myself saying – and if we’d been staying there longer than one night I’m not sure what we would have found to do there. The meal of chile-slathered enchiladas and the cute motel more than made up for it.
After a breakfast of yet more chile-slathered goodness, we were on the road again, much like Willie Nelson, and this time we aimed to spend the night in Arizona. We drove through the day, the temperatures increasing the further west we got in the country, and it was as we thought we were nearing the Four Corners National Monument at the top corner of Arizona that Scott uttered the immortal words you read above. Me, in the passenger seat, reading my Kindle and scoffing sweets, had been oblivious. Map reading was never my strong point.
We took a photo of the Colorado sign, which was a total cheat as we spent no time there, and then turned around and drove in the intended direction: The Four Corners.
Once there, we proudly snapped the obligatory grinning tourist pictures of us stood in all four states at once (the monument is the exact point where the corners of four state boundaries meet: Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico). The Basset even managed to get in on the action, despite there being signs warning that no pets are allowed. Apparently we would only get in trouble if the “lazy-ass police who are supposed to guard the place ever bother to come down and tell us off”. Those were the words of one of the monument’s Native American market vendors, not mine.
The sun was turning everything an impressive shade of orange as we hot-footed it back into the car and on to the next, and I have to say most impressive, detour of our road trip.
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