Nothing like the smell of burnt rubber first thing in the morning.

The end is near.  Or is it..

I’m writing this from just a few miles shy of the Canadian border, savoring my final gourmet road breakfast. Where? That’s for you to guess.

Yesterday, I didn’t post. Why? Because I was too exhausted after a 16-hour marathon drive that covered 656 miles (1,056 kilometers for those of you thinking in metric). Monument Valley had me believing the rest of the trip would be mundane.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Heading north to Moab, I kept one eye on the rearview mirror (as one does in this vast, cinematic country) because the scenery is too breathtaking to ignore. You stop, you gawk, you "smell the cactus flowers"—but, you know, not too closely.

 

Though it's a desert it is teaming with life

Pushing upward these ancient beauties are real desert jewels.

Somewhere on Highway 163, I encountered a gaggle of GAP girls. No, not wildlife. These were about 20 young women on some sort of group adventure. And when I say "encountered," I mean nearly ran over.

Here’s the scene: Highway 163 stretches like a ruler for about four miles, climbing gently to a plateau with a pull-off at the top. That’s where the girls were, mid-production of an elaborate photo shoot—jumping, posing, and running towards the camera in unison. Imagine choreographed chaos set against a majestic desert backdrop.

Where else does a ribbon of asphalt add to the scene

 

At the plateau, there is a pullover and this is where 20 giggling and very excited young ladies were gathered to have their pictures taken with the majestic view in the BG.  They were turning the photo moment into a full-fledged production.  Taking their pictures in groups, jumping as a group, running towards the camera as a group and any other combinations you can imagine.  

The problem? From a driver’s perspective, you don’t have a clear line of sight of the plateau—or anything on it—until you’re nearly on top of it. 

Doing 70+ mph with an18 wheeler only meters off of my bumper, (he was pouring on the diesel to make the grade) hauling 50,000 pounds (that's 22,679 kilos) of rebar, said it best.  I crested the hill to find the entire gaggle suddenly in view. Brakes slammed, girls scattered like startled pigeons, and the 18-wheeler on my tail let loose an air horn that shattered the serene desert quiet. Blue smoke billowed from his tires as he fought to avoid joining the commotion.

Thankfully, the only casualties were some tire rubber and the trucker’s mood. The girls wisely relocated their antics further down the road, where they could see oncoming traffic. I pulled over to watch, and let me tell you, their energy was infectious. The trucker, though? He kept on climbing, likely muttering curses all the way to his next stop. The only damage was about $1,000.00 worth of rubber being left on the very hot pavement and a very annoyed "long haulier".

I'm sure the girls felt their GAP trip was just about to be terminated.  

Wisely, the girls moved further down the road so they could better see oncoming traffic.  I pulled over to watched their antics, the trucker needed what little momentum he had left to finish the climb and couldn't stop.  Great fun, unless you're the trucker.

 

The excitement

Oh to be young and carefree again.

I've said it before but it's worth repeating.  This part of the country, for all of its raw and hostile environment, is indescribably beautiful.

For all of its beauty, you have to be careful as the desert can jump up and bite you just when you least expected it.

 

Caution is needed or you too could get bitten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After surviving the GAP encounter, I rolled into Moab and hunted down Highway 128. Why? Because Don Robertson—the guy I met at the ghost mining town in Jerome—insisted, "You’ll be glad you did."

And glad I was. Highway 128 meanders beside the Colorado River, cutting through a gorge with sheer red sandstone cliffs towering overhead. It adds an hour to your day, but who’s in a rush when surrounded by jaw-dropping beauty? The traffic crawled, as everyone was too busy soaking it all in.

Don was right—skipping the monotony of Highway 163 for the magic of 128 was the call of the trip.

 

Surprised that anything crows in this heat

These things  come crashing down on a regular basis and the road signs warn you.

Colorado winding along Hwy 128 near Moab

Dead Black Trees against the backdrop of a Crystal Blue sky and Red Butte.

About to go rafting on the mighty C

 

I naively assumed the drive to Denver would be a straightforward sprint. Wrong again!

The highway became a roller coaster of massive climbs, tunnels, rivers, and valleys, winding past sleepy ski towns waiting for snow to breathe them back to life. At 11,125 feet, my car huffed and puffed, guzzling gas as it gasped for oxygen. Meanwhile, my ears popped like cheap champagne corks. Fun times.

Miss an exit? Congratulations, you’ve just added 20 minutes to your journey. Exits on American tarmac strips are unlike Canada's, they are much much further apart. But the scenery more than made up for it—until Colorado spat me out into the flat, endless expanse of Nebraska.

Check out the altitude on my GPS's altimeter. Even the GPS has desert dust on it.

About to enter the 1.7 mile (2.74 km) Johnson Tunnel

Inside the tunnel

 The transition from Colorado’s rugged peaks to Nebraska’s wide-open plains is extreme. Sublime beauty gives way to a serene simplicity. At least you can fly down the highway at 75 mph (which everyone interprets as 80+).

And then there’s Iowa. Gorgeous, rolling green fields stretch to the horizon, dotted with wind turbines as far as the eye can see. I couldn’t resist pulling off I-80 to soak it all in—and, of course, snap some photos. 

 

Rolling Green Hills of Iowa

Truck on dusty Iowa country road

IIowans take their conservation seriously; over 27% of the state’s energy comes from wind power.

Wind Turbines in Iowa

 

The photo below is a single blade from a wind turbine.  At 127 feet tall and 36 tons, you don't want this thing to topple over.  A full unit weights 171 tons.  

Single Turbine Blade as a monument at a weigh scale stop

 

The single blade stood there like a modern monolith, and my mind wandered to the original 1968 Planet of the Apes.  In a scene Charlton Heston played an astronaut who time travels into the future and witnesses apes paying homage to what they think is an image of their god.  In fact, it's an ICBM missile.

 

ICBM in scene from 1968 Planet of the Apes

 

While a wind turbine blade is far less menacing than an ICBM missile, the parallels struck me. One stands for progress and sustainability, the other for destruction. Funny how your brain takes odd detours when you’ve been alone on the road for too long.

This trip has been a journey of contrasts—raw beauty, unexpected challenges, and the occasional surreal moment. And now, as I near the Canadian border, the end feels close. Or is it just another beginning?


More to come….

Into Tse Bii' Ndzisgaii

Monument Valley

 

If you stand still long enough, squint, and gaze into the distance, you might just imagine a dust plume trailing behind a galloping stagecoach, its four horses tearing across the valley floor beneath the shadow of a towering butte. Hot on its tail, a troop of U.S. Cavalry appears, led by a familiar figure—a silhouette straight out of a Saturday afternoon matinee. Could it be? Is that…? Yes, it’s him! The man, the myth, the legend… Wait, permit me this indulgence in fantasy.

You see, I grew up watching John Ford classics like Stagecoach and Fort Apache, with their epic black-and-white panoramas of Monument Valley. This place isn’t just a pretty landscape; it’s cinematic history. Known to the Navajo as Tse Bii’ Ndzisgaii, or “Valley of the Rocks,” Monument Valley owes much of its iconic status to Ford, who not only championed this remarkable place in his films but was singularly instrumental in bringing the plight of the Navajo to the American populatioon as a whole, but also the U.S. Government. And boy, did he have good taste.

 

On the way to Monument Valley

 

Arriving here, you have two options: you can admire the buttes from the comfort of the Navajo Welcome Center (boring), or you can brave the valley floor by driving "the loop" (adventurous, foolish, or both). Naturally, I went for "the loop".

Let me warn you, the loop isn’t for the faint of heart or the faint of car. 

The first 100 yards greet you with a 45-degree slope of soft red soil that challenges even SUVs. Now imagine what your average sedan endures. Once you conquer that, the washboard road awaits—enough bumps and rattles to loosen your fillings. Luckily, the welcome center has a dentist on hand for emergency repairs, and the Navajo towing service is ready to haul away your vehicle when its suspension inevitably surrenders.

And then there’s the dust. Oh, the dust! By the end of the 1.5-hour journey, every vehicle looks like it’s been dipped in paprika. Tourists who wisely opt for open-air guided tours wear dust masks as if they’re prepping for a Martian apocalypse. The red dust infiltrates everything—your eyes, nose, ears, hair, and, worst of all, your camera. Switching lenses here? Bold move. A single lens may not cover all your photography needs, but left attached at least it won’t allow your camera’s sensor to turn into a gritty souvenir.

Did I mention the dust?

 

Dust aside, Monument Valley is absolutely worth it. The buttes are breathtaking, towering over you from all directions—front, back, left, and right. At every turn, visitors hop out of their cars to snap photos, check emails (really?), or take selfies. Some are capturing the majesty of the landscape, while others…well, who knows what they’re doing.

Typical family scene. At least this group left their vehicle, many don't.

Cars on "the loop"

The point from which John Ford shot many of his scenes

 

Buttes and a very old tree

At the famed John Ford lookout, where the director filmed many of his iconic shots, an entrepreneurial Navajo man was renting out his horse for photo ops. Nothing says “authentic Western experience” like posing in cowboy boots and jeans, perched on a horse, with the majestic buttes as your backdrop. Genius, really.

 

The tourist just eat this kind of thing up.  One more step backwards and Dad will be a goner.

I couldn’t stop photographing the place. The way the light changes, minute by minute, transforms the landscape into something entirely new. After sunset, while most people dashed back to their cars (and their iPhones, which can’t handle long exposures like a proper DSLR), I stayed behind. Shooting the buttes in the fading light was magical. The valley whispered softly in the breeze as headlights from the last vehicles snaked their way out. It was surreal, almost otherworldly. No wonder the Navajo guard this place with such passion.

"The Mittens" Before sunset

"The Mittens" After Sunset

For those interested as to how these marvels came about here is a brief explanation.  Not being a geologist I cannot vouch for the complete accuracy of my information but from what I've read it's not too far off the mark.

If nothing else moves you about this place perhaps the knowledge that you are standing at the foot of giants whose creation started 300 million years ago just might have an effect. 

300 million years ago this place was once an inland sea, then 220 million years ago it became a green forest that provided food for early dinosaurs. Sometime around 200 million years ago the climate became aired, the forests and early dinosaurs died out and the area became a desert with 200-foot high sand dunes. Around 160 million years ago the rains came back and the, by now hardened sand dunes disappeared under a lake. By 110 million years ago the early dinosaurs have all died and others replaced them. At this point, the weather here was similar to northern California, mild and wet and the first flowers appeared. About 100 million years ago an ocean slowly started to creep back in and kept rising for 10 million years until 2000 feet of water covered the region.  Around 75 million years ago the ocean started to recede and soon the sandstone buttes were above the water again.  About 65 million years ago a lake returned and the Rocky Mountains started to push up.  Around 35 million years ago the lake got pushed out and the Rocky's crew higher. Only within the past 10,000 years did the climate become what it is today. 

Monument Valley isn’t just a destination; it’s an experience. Dusty, bumpy, and maybe even a little uncomfortable, but wholly unforgettable. Just be sure to pack your sense of adventure—and a dust mask.

More to come…

Quick Exit

At first light, I skedaddled out of Prescott as quickly as possible.

Headed straight for Jerome, perched 5,000 feet up in the Black Hills of Yavapai County, Arizona.

Back in the late 19th century, Jerome struck gold—literally. Gold, silver, and copper were discovered, and overnight the town turned into a bustling mining hub. But, like most get-rich-quick stories, the wealth didn’t last. By the time they finished plundering the earth’s goodies, the mining shafts were so deep they nearly tapped into sea level. Then, in the 1940s, disaster struck when the wooden beams deep in the mine caught fire. The blaze spread through 30 miles of tunnels, burning for about a year. They eventually snuffed it out the hard way: by shutting down the mine and flooding it. Talk about a dramatic finale.

These days, Jerome is a charming tourist town filled with great eateries and artisan shops selling all kinds of creative wares.

 

Jerome High in the Mountain

 

But let me give you the inside scoop—Jerome is just the appetizer. The real gem lies about 1/8 of a mile further up the mountain in the old ghost miners’ town. It’s a collector’s paradise, packed with more rusty relics than you could shake a wrench at. I’m talking old vehicles, tools, and even the original dentist’s shack, complete with its chair and rusted dental equipment, all sprinkled with a healthy coating of Arizona dust.

 

Care for a quick check-up?

 

And then there’s the main attraction: Don Robertson.

I arrived early, paid my $4 Yankee dollars, and had the place to myself when I bumped into Don. Turns out, he owns the whole thing. Don’s not just the proprietor—he’s a racing car driver, master mechanic, and a walking history book rolled into one. Seeing I was the only guest so far, he gave me a private tour.

The place is a playground of old machinery and engines, including a WWII submarine engine he still fires up to power enormous buzz saws. Yes, you read that right—a submarine engine. Forget Jerome; Don’s ghost town is where you’ll want to spend your day getting lost in a mechanical Neverland. When you’re done, head back to Jerome for a late lunch and some window shopping.

Rusty Tanker

Gas Pump

Once a Great Ford

Population at Don's place

The Man Himself with his racing car

 

Don Robertson

Explains Don's Racer

On second thought forget Jerome, go straight to Don’s place and spend the better part of your day being lost in Neverland.  

After Jerome, I hit the road for Sedona. Let me tell you, Sedona might just be the most beautiful city in America. It makes Santa Fe look like a dusty old barracks. The red rock landscapes are breathtaking. I didn’t have much time to linger since I was racing daylight to get to Horseshoe Bend, but if you visit, plan on staying a couple of days—it’s worth it.

 

The outskirts of Sedona

 

Does Your backyards view look like this?

After Jerome, I hit the road for Sedona. Let me tell you, Sedona might just be the most beautiful city in America. It makes Santa Fe look like a dusty old barracks. The red rock landscapes are breathtaking. I didn’t have much time to linger since I was racing daylight to get to Horseshoe Bend, but if you visit, plan on staying a couple of days—it’s worth it.

 

Majestic Arizona desert, on the way to Page

 

As I approached Horseshoe Bend, my heart sank. The northern end of the Grand Canyon was cloaked in haze so thick it looked like a scene from Portland, Maine, during a foggy morning. Fortunately, Horseshoe Bend wasn’t as bad—still a bit hazy but not nearly as discouraging.

 

Horseshoe Bend

Now, if you have vertigo, this is not the spot for you. 

To really take in the Colorado River, you’ve got to get uncomfortably close to the rim. Even I was hesitant. Meanwhile, busloads of fearless tourists were gleefully teetering at the edge, snapping selfies like they were auditioning for a daredevil show. They reminded me of the Mohawk ironworkers in Quebec—fearless when it comes to heights.

One family stole the show. Dad had just picked up a shiny new Canon camera and tripod, and I mean just. How do I know? Because he didn’t even have a camera bag. His kids and wife were lugging the lenses and the boxes they came in. The kicker? His Manfrotto tripod still had the price tags and instruction labels flapping in the breeze. There he was, lying flat on his stomach at the rim, tripod extended as far as his arms could reach, with the tag dangling in every shot. I’d bet my last dollar that when he gets home, every photo of the bend will feature a cameo from that Manfrotto tag.

Honestly, the people-watching at Horseshoe Bend was almost as entertaining as the stunning view of the Colorado River.

Still, standing so close to the edge of a crumbling limestone canyon gave me the heebie-jeebies. It’s beautiful, yes—but it’s also a constant reminder that nature doesn’t mess around.

More to come…

Searing Heat

Escaping from LA 

Even on an early Sunday morning, leaving Los Angeles tests anyone's patience. I'm convinced LA has only two modes of traffic: heavy and heavier.

Eventually, I broke free from the congestion and found myself cruising down I-10, heading toward Palm Springs.

One of the most striking sights on the way to Palm Springs is the endless stretch of wind turbine farms dotting the valley. These massive structures go on for miles, harnessing the near-constant winds that rip through this area.

A word of caution if you ever visit: those turbines aren’t just for show. The wind here is intense. I forgot this fact and almost lost my car door when the wind tried to yank it clean off its hinges as I stepped out. Luckily, I caught it in time. For anyone under 100 pounds—or small children—stay buckled in unless you’re weighed down by a heavy bag or anchored to a sturdy object.

 

Wind Turbines Palm Springs, CA

Absolutely! The desert does have a captivating beauty, with its vast openness, dramatic landscapes, and those incredible sunsets—but living there is a whole different ballgame. It’s harsh, unforgiving, and relentless with that heat and dryness. Setting up an Airstream as a permanent home in that environment seems… ambitious, to say the least.

Maybe it’s the solitude or the simplicity that appeals to some. Or maybe they’re just drawn to the challenge of thriving in a place that seems determined to make it difficult. Who knows? The desert has a way of attracting unique souls who march to their own beat.

 

Airstream against the mountain. It's that tiny silver spec at the frames bottom.

This is rock falling country, why would anyone camp here?

I usually wouldn’t stop in Palm Springs, but I have a friend here: Gary Dorothy, a phenomenally talented photographer who owns Imageville. All the stunning work on display in his shop is shot and printed by Gary himself. If you ever pass through Palm Springs, drop by Imageville. It’s in the heart of town, surrounded by great bars and cafes. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll probably charge you 15% more! (On second thought, maybe don’t mention me.)

 

Gary Dorothy

Imageville

After saying goodbye to Palm Springs, I made a quick stop in Blythe, CA, for fuel and coffee. My car’s thermometer read 115°F, so I knew it was hot. But stepping outside? Searing heat is the only way to describe it. It’s the kind of heat that cooks you instantly, the kind that explains the blistered paint jobs on so many cars out here. This land doesn’t favor human beings—or much else.

 

115 Degrees F

Blistering paint

Continuing along Hwy 60, I was thrilled to stumble upon an abundance of ghost buildings and even an old pioneer cemetery on a road aptly named Ghost Town Road. There's something hauntingly beautiful about places like these—reminders of life that once thrived here, now claimed by time and the desert.

 

Ghost building

Where did all the people go?

Just had to find out what lay up this road

Wonder whatever happened to the horses that once hitched here

Pioneer Cemetery, check their spelling

Pioneer Grave

 

Reaching Prescott involved a slow, winding ascent through the Weaver and Bradshaw Mountains. The road is narrow and twisty, often limited to 25mph, which makes for slow going. Add in the irresistible need to stop for photos, and an hour-long drive easily doubles.

Prescott is a place where you’re quickly reminded that this is gun-packing country.

While checking into my motel, I found myself behind a sight I’ll not soon forget: a 5'2" bald guy wearing a “wife-beater” tank top, camouflage shorts, and flip-flops. Not so unusual for these parts—until I noticed the Glock 9mm strapped to his waist, complete with two spare clips. He was armed to the teeth, looking like he could take on the apocalypse.

Outside, his wife waited with their dog—a massive, mean-looking Boxer wearing a studded collar. The hound appeared to be gnawing on what might have been the remnants of a small animal. She was wearing a “husband-beater” shirt. The sight gave me second thoughts about asking them for a photo.

I suppose, in this part of the country, American Express’s slogan “Don’t leave home without it” might not just refer to a credit card.

More to come…