Out of what cash I'd started out with, I had just over 1/6th left. Satori's oil level was good. I policed the room, loaded up the car, and filled my water bottles. The motel was on a tricky intersection. I took no chances and circled around until I could head east safely. I needed to follow Highway 64 to Bloomfield, then turn south on Highway 550.

When I made the turn, a sign said the visitor center was 21 miles away. There were lots of colorful rock outcroppings that reminded me of the Painted Desert. Wildflowers lined the road. The landscape was sage and tenacious scrub brush. Life kept a stubborn grip on the land. It was just a narrow asphalt road, but four miles in lines appeared in the middle of the road. A couple of little farm houses were scattered here and there, sometimes with a traditional Navajo hogon.

The mile-long trail takes you past Una Vita and up to the stone cliffs overlooking the great house, where there are petroglyphs. I was sucking air as I climbed to the base of the cliffs, and suddenly, there they were, about 15 feet up on the cliff face. One set of pictures had a precarious ledge the artist could have maybe balanced on, but that was it. There was some nice shade up near the cliffs, but I knew it wouldn’t last. The hike down was a lot easier.

I stopped at the next parking lot and took the trail up to Chetro Ketl. Many cars were already parked there. Brochures were available for borrowing, so I read as I went. Some kind of animal scurried into the brush as I climbed the trail. Part of the house was left unexcavated. Pieces of wall material lay scattered everywhere. Some of the wall was red, and the brochure said that happens when the stones are burned. They didn’t know why. Originally it had about 140 rooms and covered three acres. Part of it is elevated, in that tons of rock were hauled in to build it higher. One south wall had a row of windows that looked like they had been bricked up.

There was a trail that ran long the canyon wall from Chetro Ketl to Pueblo Bonito. Along the way, there were petroglyphs carved into the stone. A fence keeps tourists from getting too close.  Along the way, I was impressed with a huge honking rock slab, as big as a house, balanced on its edge next to the cliff face. I wondered if anyone worried about it falling over… because it wouldn’t be the first time.  There used to be a rock just like it –called, appropriately, Threatening Rock—right behind the biggest of Chaco Canyon’s great houses, Pueblo Bonito. In 1941, the rock did indeed fall over, crushing about 60 rooms. The petroglyph trail takes you right up to where Threatening Rock fell, and gives you and overview of the massive structure.

Pueblo Bonito had about 650 rooms, and maybe as many as 800, each of them at least as big as the smallest apartment I ever lived in. There were several other tourists walking among the ruins. I came across an old man sitting in the shade of an ancient wall; he moved along with he saw me. Most of my visit, it looked like I was the only one there, my footsteps the only sound.

The trail took me down into the rooms themselves. The doorways were only waist-high in some places. Inside, I looked up at what would have been three floors of apartments above me. The place had hundreds of rooms like that. Some rooms had windows into other rooms; I imagined families using them to share food and to just sit and talk. Outside was a guy with a camera and tripod. He was already there when I arrived. I asked, “Get any good ones?” “Hope so!” he said.

I wondered about the people who lived here, and how it must have broken their hearts to leave. I wondered what did the last Chacoan think as he looked over his shoulder at the home of his fathers as it faded into the distance... As it turns out, however, that's not how it happened. Ancient peoples were not married to the land like modern people are, and when it got too hard to live in Chaco Canyon, the people moved away-- but not in a mass exodus, but slowly, groups and families at a time. There are Native American families all across the Southwest with oral histories that trace ancestors back to Chaco Canyon.

Outside, I heard a loud noise, and a big raven, as big as my forearm, stood on a nearby picnic table. An arriving park ranger said that if I waited long enough, I’d see him attacking the trash cans. “They’ve figured out how to open them,” she said. Other tourists were gathering in the parking lot, preparing to leave. I held back and let them go on ahead. It was just after 2 PM when I left the visitor’s center.  Past the campground, I noticed some cows moving along the ridge… and a lone cow following along on top of the ridge. Somehow, she’d gotten separated from the herd back where the ridge merged at ground level, and was trying to keep up, but every step just took her further into danger. I hoped she'd be all right.

Rocky, colorful hills lined the way. Twelve miles down the road, I topped a 7,000-foot summit at mile marker 102, and Satori did very well. There were several more summits for the next half hour until I crossed the Continental Divide just after 4 PM. I looked for a gas station when I got to Cuba, and settled on a Circle K store. That’s where I got $20 worth of gas. The smartphone reported “no phone network” so I couldn’t call home just yet. It was 63 miles to Bernalillo. Just outside of town, Satori clicked over 277,000 miles.

I got on Interstate 25 and headed south. It was 39 miles to Albuquerque. Minutes later, I got some sprinkles, that came and went the whole journey down I-25. The wind picked up even more. I turned onto Interstate 40, and found myself stopped in a big traffic jam. There was an accident in the inside lane up ahead, and traffic was having to be funneled around it. I took a wrong turn and ended up on Coors Avenue. I was looking for a way to turn around when.. there was a Wendy’s! When I tried to change lanes, I was almost sideswiped by a guy in a pickup more interested in his Ipod than driving, but I managed to get off the road and get my cheeseburger. Halfway through my meal, I realized I was in a much better mood. It was the first real food I’d had all day.

I picked up some beer at the drug store across the street and headed back to the interstate. I exited about 10 miles down the road and pulled in at the High Desert RV Park. The lowest rate I’d seen was $17 a night, but since I was “dry camping” with no hookups, they only charged me $10 to camp. They put me in spot 203, right in front of the office. I took a hot shower and called home. I only drove 252 miles that day; it seemed a lot longer. I uploaded a picture to Facebook just in time, because the local network connection went away after dark. It was very windy, and lightning flashed in the distance. Above, an American flag flapped straight out from the flagpole. The office had a nice lounge to sit and write, but it closed after dark, too. I had a beer in the back of the van and listened to my MP3 player, which I found in my first aid kit, of all places. I bundled up in the back and had no trouble falling asleep.