There is no sight more gratifying to me than the open road, for the open road allows the body to wander and the mind to wonder. It offers an escape for the imagination and a way of life governed by freedom and fueled by curiosity.
My name is Alexander, and I am a sophomore in Timothy Dwight College studying political science. Naturally, my day is complete with writing papers, reading research articles and attending lectures. And as much as I am a Yale student, I consider myself a student of the world with the open road as my classroom.
This travel column, On the Road, recounts several of my adventures on asphalt and all the lessons I have learned from the people, places and things I have encountered on all roads, from those well-traveled to those not taken.
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Morning broke over Gallup with clear skies. The weather was cool and comfortable, and my parents and I woke up just as the town began to wrestle itself from its slumber. After eating breakfast, we headed south toward our first stop of the day: El Morro National Monument. The drive down, compared to the drive yesterday, was noticeably more verdant. Passing through Ramah, we were greeted by rolling hills complete with green trees and horses galloping across wide pastures. In an hour, we arrived.
For hundreds of years, the sandstone bluff of El Morro has seen people come and go. In 1275, ancient Puebloans built a home atop the promontory. A century later, they left and traveled beyond, leaving behind petroglyphs and the ruins of their pueblo. El Morro then became a stop for explorers, soldiers and settlers who looked to the pool of rain-gathered water at its base to quench their thirst. It was declared a national monument by President Theodore Roosevelt in 1906.
A 0.5 mile walk, the Inscription Loop Trail was a calm start to a busy day. As we set out, I learned that my father has a penchant for finding faces and figures on rocks. As opposed to making shapes out of clouds in the sky, he took to describing animals he saw etched on El Morro’s surface. He saw an alligator and a cat. As we neared the bluff, he made out the head of a bulldog perched on a cliff edge — a sight that reminded me of Yale’s very own Handsome Dan.
The trail then brought us to the base of the bluff, where we saw inscriptions left by those who have journeyed to the rock. There were messages left by Spanish explorers, some dating as far back as the early 1600s. Others were inscriptions left by U.S. Army soldiers from the 1860s. In all, more than 2,000 inscriptions are etched on the sandstone surfaces of El Morro. A timeline of messages and memories spanning centuries was at just an arm’s length. If you love history as much as I do, you would understand completely the sense of intellectual excitement I felt at reading and translating the messages. As my eyes traced every inscription, my feet pulled me forward along the trail.
My mother, who was walking ahead of us, stopped in her tracks and squinted into the brush next to the trail. Upon reaching her, she told us that she saw, from the corner of her eye, someone in the brush just a few feet away from her. She attempted to look at this figure again with another glance, only to see it disappear behind the leaves. My dad and I stood for a while, peering through the foliage for any traces of this figure. The trees were still, and the only noise that filled the air was that of bees buzzing through the bushes. We saw nothing. We heard nothing. We had no company. We were all alone on the trail.
Continuing the walk, my mother provided us with details on the figure she saw. She described a man with long, dark hair. His face was worn and weary. He was dressed in a battered tunic that was a shade of dark gray. Perhaps it was a phantom? A spectral time traveler? Or it may have been a tree dancing in the wind — an image born out of a set of tired eyes. I suppose we will never know.
Finishing the trail at El Morro, we left and continued the day’s journey. A few minutes after leaving the national monument, the pine trees we saw along the side of the road gave way to barren lava fields. Thousands of years ago, nearby volcanoes covered the plains around us with glowing streams of red, hot lava. Time has since hardened it, leaving behind expansive fields of black and gray that have given El Malpais National Monument, Spanish for “the badlands,” its name. Despite the volcanic landscape, however, the fields nurtured a diverse variety of flora and fauna. They also became the home of the Zuni, Acoma and Laguna peoples generations later. Looks can be deceiving. To look at El Malpais is to see for oneself a testament to survival even in the bleakest of environments.
We stopped at El Malpais’ visitor center in Grants before driving through the national monument. Our first stop was at a series of sandstone cliffs. The bluffs at El Malpais are roughly 200 million years old. Remnants of a prehistoric world, they remain as majestic as they must have been many generations ago. We drove our car to an overlook and proceeded to walk alongside the cliffs. From the heights, we saw lava fields stretching across the landscape for miles until they were swallowed by mountains on the horizon. In a vast ocean of blackened rock floated shrubs of green. The plants moved, not with an igneous tide, but with the soft contours of the New Mexico wind. After wandering around the cliffs, we continued our drive through El Malpais and its mesas of green and gold. Just a few moments later, we were standing before La Ventana.
La Ventana is a natural arch just off State Route 117, one of the main roads that cross through El Malpais. It holds the distinction for being New Mexico’s second largest natural arch. From a distance, it was imposing. Up close, it was inspiring. My mother and I walked a short trail from the parking lot to catch a closer glimpse. Insects buzzed as we walked toward the arch. It was a short walk, and we made it to its base rather quickly. The arch reflected a soft gold in the late morning light. It loomed over us regally as we basked in its gaze. More than being an admirable sight, it was also a fascinating paradox. Much like its fellow arches, La Ventana is as strong as it is delicate and as sturdy as it is fragile. Arches are victims to time, nature and people. Even the strongest of arches have collapsed. While their existence is proximate to immortality, they remain mortal nonetheless. Thus, I appreciated the opportunity to see La Ventana as it was, and as we drove off, I left with a prayer that others may see it as such for a long, long time.
As we drove on the interstate for the next two hours, it grew wider and busier. Soon, we found ourselves in the shadow of the Sandia Mountains and in the streets of Albuquerque. It was the first city on our road trip with a population of well over 100,000 people. Compared to all the towns we passed through in the last two days, it seemed like a bustling metropolis.
Our main stop in the city was Old Town Albuquerque. A historic district, it is home to several shops, restaurants and museums. By our arrival in the early afternoon, the air was warm and crisp. There was a slight breeze blowing through the trees on the old plaza. Tourists walked around the square, some carrying cameras and others bags full of trinkets and tchotchkes. In the distance, I heard a saxophonist playing a jazz standard. Its melody stirred in the air like steam rising from a freshly made bowl of soup. Our day slowed to a pleasant stride, and we were all the more grateful for it.
Upon our arrival, we visited San Felipe de Neri Church. Built in 1793, it is one of the oldest buildings in Albuquerque. Its facade was a rich caramel brown, and the white spires atop its towers glistened in the desert sun. We toured the church briefly before venturing into shops in search of souvenirs for friends and family.
It must be said that people come to Albuquerque for a variety of reasons: balloons, food, art, “Breaking Bad.” I came to Albuquerque for snakes. Just off the plaza in Old Town Albuquerque is the Rattlesnake Museum. I had always wanted to see it for myself, partly due to my curiosity but also due to its novelty. Given my mother’s extreme fear of snakes, I was left alone to wander its exhibits.
The museum was composed of a handful of rooms. One room had exhibits on snake biology and desert ecosystems. Another had a panel dedicated to snakes in popular culture. The remaining rooms featured snakes of all kinds, colors and sizes behind panes of glass. Some snakes had the luxury of pools. Others rested under small trees. A majority of the snakes I saw were indifferent to my peering eyes. A few, however, glared at me intensely as I walked across their panes. Some of the snakes rested, forming neatly wrapped coils. The restless slithered across their boxes. Unlike my mother, I have no fear of snakes. However, I must admit feeling a very slight discomfort after hearing sibilant whispers and being surrounded by dozens of serpents. The museum being small, I finished my tour of the exhibits rather quickly. I made my way to the exit and was handed a souvenir “Certificate of Bravery” for viewing the snakes. I lamented then that the certificate would be too interesting of an addition to my LinkedIn. However, it has since found a special spot on my desk at home, framed and staring at me much like the snakes I saw.
Hungry from the day’s travels, we looked for a place where we could eat a belated lunch. After stopping at a nearby candy shop for drinks and chocolate-covered popcorn, we stumbled upon a neighboring Salvadoran restaurant: Gobble This. Seeking a break from the sun and for some nourishment, we entered.
It was well past the lunch rush, and the restaurant was empty save for one customer on the other end of its long dining hall. Shortly after entering it, we were greeted by a kind waitress and the chef who was hustling between the kitchen and register. We enjoyed pupusas; they were soft to the touch and rich in flavor. As someone who has eaten his fair share of pupusas, I never thought I would find some worthy of my genuine praise until now. The pupusas were complimented by a satisfying and much-needed cup of agua de tamarindo kept cool by cucumber ice and spiced on the rim with Tajín. The meal was pleasant and served as the perfect bookend to our afternoon in Old Town Albuquerque.
Thankful for my meal, I walked to the register to offer my gratitude to the chef and waitress, who were gracious and humble in their acceptance of my thanks. We engaged in a short conversation, where I learned that they were from California: the chef was an Angeleno and the waitress hailed from San Bernardino. I was happily surprised. Likewise, they were elated to know that I too was a Californian. It was just one of those curious instances where life reminds you that the world is smaller than you think, and that you can find a trace of home no matter where you may roam. We talked about California, as well as my road trip, before I went on my way.
My parents and I left for our hotel shortly after. We checked into our rooms and dropped off our bags before heading to dinner. Evening came by the time we retired to our room. We rested, then planned for our next day. The goal was to drive north to Santa Fe then head east toward Amarillo, where we would spend the next night. A long day loomed ahead, and that required a long night’s sleep. Thus, I settled into bed and bade Albuquerque good night.