Shiny Goes Forth: Our First Long Trip in an Airstream
(About 1900 miles, at a fuel usage rate of 11.8 to 14.3 MPG)
Friday October 10, 2008
Three years ago we set out on our first RV experience as a couple. The voyage was as richly enjoyable and truly inspiring, just as satisfying as a journey could be. Six weeks of the glorious American West, after being “sprung” from our military careers, was most certainly the dream trip – with mountains, mesas, deserts, and dense green forests. Now it’s Our RV Life, Chapter Two. Is the first long trip in a while always expected to be a superlative one? Long weekends are the exchange rate for having few vacation days, and sure there’s satisfaction in two night sessions of RV enjoyment. But somehow clicking over into the same day of the week once again, on the same trip, means you’re getting your karma’s worth. We’re starting off on a nearly identical course, chewing up the many geo-zones of northwest Texas. The Hill Country is sweeping, undulating with small peaks, beaming an inspiring picture along Interstate 10 West. A swing straight northward onto Texas 277 shows the scrublands around San Angelo, liberally salted with the rocky limestone seasoning of the ancient inland sea. Seemingly with no warning, the horizon falls away into a two dimensional red dirt carpet, and we’re sailing along the prairies of the Texas Panhandle. Nothing floats in the sky but a bright scattering of blue light, the highway is barely shared with fellow Texans, and only the taught spring bars give any sign of a metal pod behind us.
In 2005, our Ford Explorer had a bit of a struggle towing “Qubie” the Trail Cruiser comfortably, plus displaying a sizable fuel appetite. Now things are quite different, as the same 4.6 liter V8 in a medium-sized SUV finds the new trailer a nearly ideal match: incredibly aerodynamic, narrower, lower center of gravity, and the classic Airstream profile. Welcome to our life, “Shiny the Sport.” Miles per gallon have gone from 9/10 to 13/14, and transmission gearsets breathe easier. So with expectations of relaxed towing, new sights to explore, and unseen trails to climb, we’re taking Shiny to New Mexico
The Lubbock KOA, despite its somewhat rural location near the railroad tracks and a drive-in theater (still going strong by appearances), looks bright and refreshed compared to our last visit. Two forlorn Airstreams sit in a storage lot just outside the KOA entry: a 1980 vintage 28 footer, and a shorter 60s-looking aluminum palace in need for some TLC. As we pull in this balmy Friday evening, the friendly owners show off some of the new greenery, fresh paint, and spotless facilities. Another Airstream, a handsome and new 23 footer, sits unoccupied one row to the north. We decide not to unhook, as this is but a waypoint, and the breeze is even cool enough for open window sleeping. Yet our rest is the unsettled sort produced by the first night on Airfoam… and by the dicey-looking bedtime forecast.
Saturday October 11, 2008
We have another shared brain cell moment as we emerge into the quiet and diffuse morning light: “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.” The nautical wisdom will be pretty accurate, as the ocean of air will become a rough sea. The Hurricane called Norbert, readying a strike on the Baja Peninsula of Mexico, reaches his long arm into the southwestern US and flings energy and moisture our direction. Nothing strikes fear into the owner of a metal-skinned trailer than “chance of damaging hail” spoken by a meteorologist. We leave in the twilight, trying to clank our metal jacks and linkages quietly, as someone is sleeping in a tent-cot outside a tiny 17-or-so footer (something in the classic Shasta or Scottie class). I silently reflect on a ¾ ton pickup pulling a tiny trailer, and without indoor beds for the whole traveling party. I wonder what their story is?
The western sky is sickly grey, boiling with downdraft bubbles and long skinny downpour tendrils dragging the ground some miles ahead and left. Maybe our early exit will help us sneak between the worst cells. Apart from a few over the road drivers playing torque tag (passing, slowing down on grades, catching up again) with us for a couple of exits, US Route 84 is quiet and empty.
I love the non-Interstate US highways. Sure you cross through many towns at creeping urban speeds, and may not find a frou-frou coffee shop, but you see the real world. The town names alone can be a source of amusement and wonder – just how tired were the settlers or passers-through that they chose “Shallowater,” “Muleshoe,” and “Bovina?” But the main streets reflect family-owned small business, a love of high school teams, and typically offer enough chain retail to provide that needed item while on the road. Yes, Sonic drive-ins are a glossy imitation of the 50s and 60s we remember, but I like ‘em. As we sail the asphalt hummocks, seemingly executed with vastly differing levels of county funds, the rain comes in bursts, then spritzes. To the south are sheets of lightning, almost cracking the bland sky dome each time the electrons race to the clouds. Somehow providence follows us, and no hailstones fall across our path. The only exciting element is 35 knots of wind blowing at a right angle to our path, though the still amazing Hensley-Arrow hitch means the trailer stays solidly in line, swayless.
We roll into Santa Fe County, finding the fine yet cozy-small KOA just southeast of the city. Our assigned spot sits amid the pines, and it what seems to be a common status, we are the smallest rig in the campground. The dark skies have drenched the city, and the Explorer wades the great sloshing gutters on the way to the plaza. After a great semi-exotic India Palace dinner (well, we get plenty of great Mexican food at home) we light the gas furnace for the first time, and our Texas-thinned blood settles in for our first chilly night in many months.
Sunday October 12, 2008
It’s been seven years since we last
trod the downtown Santa Fe “mini-plex.”
That’s not a slam, it’s just that the old plaza was
made for horse drawn wagons. Even the big municipal parking lot
is reminiscent of European car parks. The beautiful yet compact
plaza is perfect for limiting the amount of shopping, else we can
easily suffer the sensory overload of
“gallery-itis.” There is such an enormous display
of creative art, not to mention slightly hidden affluence and
wealth, that the place seems an enigma. Santa Fe feels like
an east coast big city population has settled into the beautiful
mountain valley at the Rockies’ tail end – the pace of
driving, the bustle, and the in-your-face political discourse
kinda clash with dusty trails surrounding the city. The
unusual mixture offers great diversions, and after a quick hike
on the unique urban Dale Ball trail system, we hit Museum Hill
for a few looks at Native America’s relics. The aboriginal
peoples of this region, from the ancients to the modern pueblos,
display a long if incomplete history. The videoed oral traditions
we view often reflect re-discovery, personal efforts to pick-up
where modern 
culture has bumped grandfather’s ways. But the
dozens of tribal entities have carried on a number of cultural
traditions, and the clay and woven handworks remain an insightful
example of functional expression.
Monday October 13, 2008
The trek to Taos epitomizes the easy life: we drive the speed limit, stop along the way, and take our time looking at the intricate natural spectacles that line the route.The high and low roads offer such different, yet equally exciting geology, flora and man-made creations. The Rio Grande’s path is clearly lined with an explosion of gold – the few non-pines in this region are bursting with what my biology teacher Professor Henderson called “glorious autumnal coloration.” Every shade of reddish-brown earth is highlighted with the bright glaze of a warm southern Sun.
Artwork seems to leap from the minds and hands of 80 percent of New Mexicans! At every second home along the high road, signs varying from hand-lettered cardboard to elaborate billboards offer a look at historical cottage industries. With Mary’s keen insight, we seem to have picked two really perfect galleries. The first, in the village of Cordova, in an older home just across from the woodstove dealer, is full of wood and whimsy. The owner and his wife, converted to the NM lifestyle twenty years ago, produce complimentary pieces in natural media. Large leaning metal weldings sit alongside minimalist-styled carvings of pine and cedar, depicting flocks of birds streaming from great wooden blossoms. The first sale of the day on a Monday is supposed to be a sign of a good week ahead, and I think our modest choices will look great in our place.
The second gallery, in the town of Truchas, is a coop representing over 100 artists. A warm and shining woman in bright native jewelry welcomes us in with a hot cup of Trader Joe’s coffee. We’re in a warm, slowly creaking series of rooms filled with worked iron, ceramic, wood, canvas and stone. Mary finds some nice gifts in a number of media, as we soak up the fragrant hot beverage. I stand on the gallery’s front porch, staring across the roofs and pines. Yep, the calm atop the mesa is colorfully punctuated with creative air.
The twisting pavement suddenly opens into a broad valley, and Taos appears in front of the bumper. I sure don’t remember it being so “spread out.” The downtown, like its Santa Fe neighbor to the south, was laid out in the dusty trail days. You can meander for hours. Fortunately, the hacienda of the town’s favorite son Christopher “Kit” Carson is really easy to find. Though chronicled as a bigger-than-life 1800s superhero, he was in fact just a really good frontiersman and soldier. The exceptional tour guide, a Carson descendant, is the best guide we’ve seen this week. She’s that woman-of-a-certain-age who just grabs hold of an audience, projects in a warm and expressive voice, and keeps you wrapped in living history. Mary and I can’t help but quietly snicker when our guide mentions Carson was the only illiterate man in history to reach the General Officer ranks in the Army. Yet we think we might have served under one as well, in the 20th century.
Tuesday October 14, 2008
Today is one heckuva “health day.” We sleep in a little, but Mary somehow convinces me we need to go for a hike. This would be fine, were it not for that downgraded winter storm dumping chilling-cold rain and snow showers… and will we realize this also makes great mud, mixing it up with Santa Fe’s red dirt? Oh yeah. The clouds hang across every ridgeline, emptying onto the valley floor with a steady thick drizzle. The snowflakes are fat and wet, technically snow showers, and begin the slow soak of hats and shoes as we slog Santa Fe’s urban trails. The loop around the hills is strewn with fast-running rivulets, tiny waterfalls appear at every turn. Cold rain and mud – wait, aren’t the Marines sent to march under such conditions as a form of punishment? Fortunately, the reward actions come quickly afterward.
The Ojo Caliente springs burble from an ancient healing site turned modern spa. “Taking the waters” is one of the oldest clichés, yet from our limited experience, there’s actually something beneficially healthful about mineral baths. Upon recollection, we haven’t been to such a place since the famous Baden-Baden (“bath bath”) when we were stationed in Germany 17 years ago. We investigate a very reasonable couples package, including massage and a private spa. My Licensed Massage Therapist really looks the New Mexico New Age part: 50-something, long grey hair, natural fabrics galore, and sandals. She’s of that calming, pleasant nature common to traditional healers, and is absolutely superb as a skilled massage practitioner (21 years at this spa, she notes). Mary is equally pleased with her LMT. Afterwards, we’re shown to an enclosed patio, walled on three sides like a lanai, with the third side open to a steep hillside. The reddish brown stone mountain is crossed by a small waterfall, and native plants cover much of the slope. Inside the wall is a large stone and concrete pool, fed by a natural spillway flecked with multi-hued mineral deposits. A small kiva fireplace sits in a corner, and a couple of pool lounge chairs are lined up along one wall. Unless the blooming pipestem cactus has a hidden video camera, or a pair of teenagers from the Pueblo are about to repel over that ridgeline, we have the place to ourselves. And that’s sort of the point – these courtyards are the only clothing optional spots in the spa. The 102 degree F water, charged with tiny bubbles of iron, soda, and arsenic (trust me, it’s beneficial in tiny doses), provide maximum soothing. The air temperature is barely 50F, so the steam rises from pretty much any parts not submerged. Blissful, just the two of us being together under a bright cold New Mexico sky.
Wednesday October 15, 2008
Standing in the ancient’s footfalls, looking across an entire community of North American aboriginal civilization, I feel like we’re on a sound stage. As a living relic of a vanished society, Bandolier National Monument is even more impressive than the far better known Mesa Verde National Park.
The climb carries enormous warnings of steep
climbs, vertigo-inducing drops, nausea-building ladders,
excessive flatulence, and the like. So, we go anyway.
It’s tough not to grip the smooth wooden rails tightly, and
stare down the cliff face. Unplucking our respective grips from
the rungs, we plop into an open-faced cave, big enough to
accommodate several families. Sunken into the outward lip,
staring into a green wilderness beyond, is a traditional
structure with a square hatch on top. We drop into the 
remarkably intact round house, and I childishly
chant “Ki-Va! Ki-Va!" Mary shushes me, with a quick
reminder about the being in the equivalent of a church. I try to
be culturally astute, but I’m also a big dumb male when
needed…
Yet, standing in the ancient village, one does tend to try and step into their world. What were these people like, did they have time apart from survival needs? Did they stare out from the ledges of their protective cliffs into the starry sea, like some of us do? What did they make of the universe? Were the rocks and resins arranged that way for some purpose other than necessity, or artistic expression? I’d love to know what they knew, but we must accept the few preserved elements of their civilization. And speaking of civilization-related discussions, guess what else is along this path…
Like most people of my generation, every time I hear “Los Alamos” I think of Dr. Oppenheimer and the first atomic weapons. Will the place hold many surprises, or be the incredible Department of Energy tech haven we expect? Certainly it’s got the sense of a “company town,” as most things point to a single - though many-faceted – research and applied science industry. The many outlying facilities carry simple site names like “Tech Area 19,” seemingly a leftover from the security-driven hush of 1942. NASA employs the same sparse vowel use for its high tech locations, such as “LC 34” at Kennedy Space Center. I’m surprised to see the Bradbury Museum isn’t named after science fiction author Ray Bradbury. The collection offers detailed insight, including many relics and declassified documents, some pretty recent considering they were first stamped in 1943. The hard sell is on just how many great things nuclear-related research offers: medicine, power production, understanding the fabric of the universe… yet the Manhattan Project is pretty much center stage. An Air Force cruise missile replica is suspended above mock-ups of its ancestors “Fat Man” and “Little Boy.” There’s even a period comic book titled “Dagwood Splits the Atom!"
The countryside surrounding the enormous plateau is the greatest shock. Peaks and mesas, riddled with steep drops and saturated multicolored layers, fall away on every side. We’re literally in jaw drop mode as our heads swivel-sweep the grandeur. Mary reads from the guide how many millionaires live here, drawn by top tech. Combine the stunning natural displays with cutting-edge energy schemes, and it’s no surprise everyone wants to be here. I suspect even those East-Coasters who couldn’t imagine moving “the sticks” change their minds upon arrival.
Thursday October 16, 2008
The New Mexico Park System is a large and extensive one. The Santa Fe National Forest is an immense mountainous expanse just downstream. The rentable mountain lodge looks inviting, a structured collision of timbers and shingles sitting amid the endless needle-bearing trees. The NM state park rangers give us a helpful pre-brief, and we set out along the high path. A small spur promises a waterfall view… uh, we’ll call it ‘more than a trickle.’ I wheeze as well add another 1500 feet to our baseline. Around us Jeep trails and dirt paths run off along many axes, frankly confusing us as to which way we’re supposed to be heading. The forest is alive and breathing, with just enough wind and birdsong to remind us to listen. We literally lose the trail a few times, and end up dodging Jeeps and SUVs along the park road in order to return to the lodge.
Friday October 17, 2008
With a slight creak from the weight distribution
jacks, we gently pull Shiny the Sport from her piney port.
Looks like a travel day. Our route planning suggests a long haul
the first day and a short tow for the home stretch. After
the longest break we’ve had since 2005, we’re back in
the RV groove. The unfurled Airfoam gaucho has become a
familiar, welcome sleep station, and the smooth axle thump of the
‘aluminum follower-along’ is a comforting hum.
The downhill run from 7000 ft back down to around 2000 passes
quickly, rolling straight down New Mexico. We’re half
tempted to stop in Roswell, and check out the UFO Museum, but
some online reviews suggest that newspaper clipping and
photographs can’t compete with collections offering actual
artifacts. I have to agree, so we zip on through town, and
lateral toward Texas. The border area is startlingly empty
– I mean, big old spaces where you have to squint to the
horizon just to see if those specks are cattle. The wind
begins that slow boil towards a moaning howl, and starts to
mildly buffet the streamlined rig. Yet at a fuel-conserving
88 feet per second velocity, and with the Hensley-Arrow hitch
effortlessly controlling the dynamics, there’s no impact on
our voyage.
A familiar graveled destination looms from the broad asphalt route through San Angelo. The golden illuminated signpost announces we’ve arrived at KOA of Concho Valley. Notably, this is where our very first RV destination ended. Just close enough to home, familiar in its own right, yet offering just enough of our Texas Hill Country scenery on the last three hour leg back to San Antonio to beautifully punctuate the journey. It’s a comforting, familiar wrap party for a great week.
Saturday October 18, 2008
The carwash high bay is empty, and Shiny the Sport settles beneath the swivel sprayer for a good scrub. The bug splats rinse away, and the even shinier pod backs into her port in just two tries (I get it in one try, once in a great while). The hitch points get a little grease, the battery gets the slumber switch, and the gas values a twist. Dunno where to next… but I’m sure looking forward to it.