After our lunch in Jemez, we faced the choice between the safe and speedy interstate highway through Albuquerque to Flagstaff, or the road less traveled across the northern parts of western New Mexico and Arizona. I favored the northern route because I had read most, if not all, of Tony Hillerman's mystery novels set in the tribal lands near the four corners. This would give me the opportunity to see the towns like Farmington, Shiprock, and Chinle that I knew vicariously.
The first few hours were majestically dull as we roared northwest on a broad four lane highway (550) through the high scruffy desert. We turned west at Bloomfield, then stopped at a Walmart in Farmington for parts to deal with a minor electrical matter. I had once lived in West Bloomfied and Farmington, Michigan. Believe me when I tell you these dusty southwestern do not have a lot in common with their northerly namesakes.
From Farmington, you can clearly see the huge geological wonder that Shiprock NM is named for ... even though it is 30 miles off. Once at Shiprock the town, we felt magnetically drawn to head south to Shiprock the rock and on through twisty roads beyond from Red Rock to Lukachukai.
This stretch was every bit as fun and even more challenging than the morning's ride between Los Alamos and Jemez. We zigzagged about 2500 feet up a pine covered butte,then down the dryer western side. Just minutes after warning Marty to use the brakes sparingly, my rear brake pedal turned to useless mush from overheating. I had experienced this before in Utah. I downshifted and let the engine do the braking the rest of the way down.
While on the butte, we passed two spots where Google maps showed pins for camping. There were pull offs or trails at these points, but no formal camping facility. We topped off 3/4 full tanks at an interesting stop in Lukachukai. I asked where I might find a six pack of beer and was told this was a dry county ... the nearest alcohol was sold 90 miles south. Back at the pump, a cheerful panhandler hit us up for 45 cents - I gave him $5 if he'd allow a photo and he was happy to pose for my camera.
We then headed south deeper into native lands. Again Google steered us to an ersatz campground about 1/2 mile down a rusted dirt trail. We decided this was better than riding another 90 minute to the true campground at Canyon de Chelly National Monument. We offroaded the tubby Harley over a berm into a sandy pasture and pitched our tents. The setting sun cast long shadows toward the east.
We weren't really that far from civilization since there was a small Indian college a mile or two north and we could see people fishing in a lake below us to the south.
Marty suggested we climb a nearby rocky ridge, so we set off. What appeared from the campsite to be 1/4 mile and a few dozen yards of climbing turned out to be at least double if not triple that. He climbed with the ease of a mountain goat while I panted and puffed my way in the thin air at our 7300 foot elevation. Darkness fell as we headed back down to our campsite. We used Marty's iPhone as a flashlight.
Back at camp, stars began filling the moonless sky. We laid under the starry sky counting satellites and shooting stars.
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