New Year - New Mexico
I didn’t think it would be wise to hike an unfamiliar trail in the dark and the rain; So my plans to hike three and a half miles to Cathedral Rock, on Mt. Charleston, to catch the sunrise — a new tradition I started last year at Joshua Tree — was spoiled by inclement weather. I’m adventurous, not dumb.
During my morning writing session on New Year’s Eve, my need to see something new for New Year’s day was still calling me and distracting me from my latest manuscript. So, I opened Google Maps and searched for national parks where I might still see the sunrise without obstruction. In every park I found, the weather seemed to have found too. It became clear to me that I needed to head further East to get away from the storm that was preparing to ruin NYE night for many. After a couple of failed searches, I thought maybe it was best to drop the idea of watching the sunrise and just find a new place to wake up in on NYD. Albuquerque, NM seemed to fit the bill. The decision was threefold. One, I haven’t been there as an adult — my family drove through in 1994 on our move to New Jersey —- Two, Old Town Albuquerque, looked historically appealing, and three, it was far enough for me to consider a trip.
Far, was an eight and half hour drive. Far was 577 miles from Las Vegas where I was currently staying. Far, was far enough for me to debate whether or not I should actually go for about an hour and a half. Bags packed, jacket and shoes on, and I was still contemplating. Paralysis by analysis was lingering in my head and the argument continued inside my thoughts. I pushed myself out the door, got in my car, and proceeded to drive out of the complex when the thought to book a hotel room came to mind. At first, I was going to wing it when I got to NM but I thought the rooms might run dry. Also, booking a room before I left gave me a concrete reason why I needed to go, in case I changed my mind while filling the car up with gas. To no avail, I still justified to myself that the hotel room was only $60 and it wouldn’t too bad of a loss if I didn’t go.
Once I was able to quiet the voices and got on the road, I felt at home. Road trips are embedded in my DNA. From my Dad to my Uncle; we have been road-tripping since I was four months old. My first road trip experience, was when my parents decided we needed to move away from the windy city of Chicago, to go live in sunny California.
Driving through the Desert South is a much different experience than driving up and down the East Coast. For one, there are barely any trees in the desert, at least what one would consider a tree. Two, there is a lot of space and big rocks. According to Google Maps, the fastest most direct route to Alburquerque was to take highway I-215 E out of Vegas onto US Route 93 S, then finally to I-40 E. I would be on I-40 for roughly the whole trip, a good six to seven hours. After some quick math, it appeared that I would not make it all the way to Albuquerque without filling up at least once on the road. With that in mind, and with the sudden urge to urinate, Ashford, Arizona would be my first stop. The gas station was also a trading post, which was part of my first sign that I was no longer in Kansas. Every car, correction, every pickup truck, and Jeep Wrangler that was there was caked in thick layers of fresh and old mud. My Jeep Grand Cherokee looked like it came off the showroom floor. It was sparkling in the damp parking lot among the mudders. At the Trading Post I was already picking up souvenirs and presents to send to my niece and nephew, four hours later, I realized I pulled the trigger too early.
1994 was the last year I‘ve been through Flagstaff. Then, I was a passenger in the furthest back corner of our Chevy Astro Van, packed full of our belongings on the way to start another life in New York, which then became New Jersey. As I approached flagstaff the highway signs read, Don’t Park Along Highway To Play In Snow. As someone who grew up driving in snow, that sign was pure comedy. Then I realized that there are probably thousands of people who travel this way from different parts of the neighboring states who have never seen snow. In the lower half of Arizona, they don’t get snow, so coming up towards Flagstaff must be an exciting site, the snow. Certainly, that was the case for me and my sister when we crossed Flagstaff many years before.
Pulling into a new city after hours on the road brings a feeling of discovery. Immediately a wave of awe and alertness to every new detail overcomes me. I notice the roads, the signs, how people drive, the buildings, and all the nuances that distinguish every city. Entering the main road to Old Town, it was evident that people are off somewhere beginning their alcohol intake into the New Year. Parking on the empty streets, I saw small groups of people sprinkled throughout, taking pictures next to holiday-lighted landmarks and monuments. The town is anchored by San Felip de Neri church, built in the early 1700s during the Spanish Colonial period.
Even though I anticipated, and knew that practically everything would be closed on New year’s Day, I didn’t expect everything to be closed early on New Year’s Eve. With it being only 8:30 pm, there was one shop open, where I picked up my first round of souvenirs (from NM) with the expectation of not being able to do so the next day.
The clouds made the night appear darker than it was. I spent a total of 30 minutes in Old Town, 20 minutes was spent gift shopping, when I decided to call it a night. My body was up past my normal sleep time, and my stomach felt neglected. San Mateo Inn was the bed for the night and thankfully it was only for the night. The outside of the motel was familiar but the rooms were far from what I thought I had booked. Clearly, my mind was confused by all the different listings I saw on Expedia. The rooms albeit not terrible, or what you would find in a horror movie, were not newly renovated and it was not exceptionally clean. Clean? Sure, but not exceptionally as I remembered reading in one of the other hotel listings. Can I really complain when I would only be in the room for a total of 9 hours, and the room only cost me $60? It was fine. Before dozing off, I saved some things I wanted to see before departing The Land of Enchantment.
Thankfully the time in Arizona is an hour ahead which allowed me to still wake up early enough to write a couple of pages in my latest manuscript. While in the middle of writing a sentence, my mind wandered a bit and I checked the weather. I saw there might be a chance to still see a New Year Sunrise after all. After a quick search, I found West Bluff Park. A park on the west side of town that overlooked the city, and sat next to The Rio Grande. The time was 6 am and sunrise was set to rise at 7:15 am. After writing one more page, I showered, packed, and checked out. I’m confident I’m not the only person on Earth who thinks to watch the sunrise on New Year's day. Just as I was not alone in Joshua Tree back in 2022. I was also not alone at west Bluff Park. In fact, a car parked just as I arrived. The people who got out of the car brought food and drinks with them. Me, I brought my camera. On the short cement path to the overlook, I saw there was a couple in each other’s arms, and the other part of the party to the people I was walking behind. Though I was not alone, there was plenty of space for us all.
The Iron and chain-linked fence was sprinkled with a variety of padlocks—- as in locks of love, as made famous by the tradition that is done in Paris, France. Past the fence is a beautiful view of Albuquerque against the snow-capped mountains of Sandia. Directly below me, The Rio Grand—- a river I only knew through movies and history books. The sun rose to break the horizon. As it continued to rise, I realized no matter how much higher it rose it would not get any brighter due to the clouds holding its ground — It was time for me to leave.
I Packed my camera gear, got in my car, and backtracked east to check out a WWII memorial in dedication to the Veterans of The US Army 200th and 515 Coast Artillery regiments from New Mexico who serviced in The Philippines. As a Filipino American, there aren’t many national historic places to visit, so it was a nice surprise to have found this while searching for quick things to do before heading out. Also on the list of saved locations I had made was a sticker wall in downtown Albuquerque that I thought to leave my Mark. I always carry around some Images by Mark Mendoza labels for this reason. I dated the label with a sharpie and smashed it on the wall, hoping it will withstand some time.
For my last stop, I went back to Old Town to say a prayer inside San Felipe Church. I wanted to attend Mass, but with it being New Year's Day, they were only offering a 9 am and 11 am service. The 9 am Service would be conducted in Spanish, and I’d hope to be long gone into Arizona by 11 am. Upon entering the 317-year-old church, I was met with the sound of the Rosemary being recited in Spanish by what appeared to be elderly women scattered throughout the front pews. I took my hat off, placed it on the pew, let the kneeling bench down, and said a prayer.
The church is not like the Italian Gothic-style Cathedrals you would find back in the North East, but appropriately designed for the region. The inside was much more narrow than I had expected. There were only two rows of pews that were separated by a brick walkway down the middle that lead to the Alter. For some reason, I remembered the walls inside being a sort of pale yellow, however, while looking at the pictures I took to help write this, they’re white. There is yellow in the church, just not how I remembered.
Doing the sign of the cross, I walked out and called my niece and nephew to show them where I was and to show them around the old town that I found appealing. The niece could care less, naturally. The nephew did his best to look interested, but deep down I could tell he really didn’t care to hear his Uncle talk about boring history. He seemed intrigued by the look of the town, but not much more than that. To spare them from any more torture from their Uncle, I told them I had to go, which I did, to pee. At the nearest Starbucks, I relieved myself and bought some food for the road.
Back on I-40 where the majority of my weekend was spent, I was trying to decide which Native American-owned gift shop to visit. In these parts the signs still read, Indian Store, Indian owned, and Real Indian Gifts. I wondered if the Native Americans didn’t really care about the name Indian, or if they even cared to update the signs. Or was it more a historical preservation, like General Lee, in the South? I pulled off at an exit that read The Continental Divide. Admittedly, the name sounded familiar but at that moment I couldn’t remember the geography of where the divide started and ended. Off the exit were two shops, I went to the one that looked less patronized. Inside I bought more souvenirs and picked a painted horse, to add to my collection of Native American Art. Little did I know this would be my last stop before an unexpected adventure.
As expected the same No Parking Along The Highway To Play In Snow sign greeted me with the same humor, except this time I was also greeted with some welcomed snow flurries. I thought to myself, “oh this is fun.” As I climbed elevation into Flagstaff the snow intensified and my knuckles started turning white, and the lighthearted fun started to dissipate. The roads were covered in white except for the spaces cleaned out by the cars and trucks' tire tracks ahead. Mile by mile, those tire tracks became less and less visible, and the snow now came down the size of cotton balls and as wet as a soaked paper towel. My speed started to slow from 85 mph to 70 mph, to 60 mph, to 40 mph, until I came upon a snow plow. Partially grateful, I now had a plow to clear my way, but painstakingly my speed now slowed to 30 mph. Ahead of the plow, the road was no longer visible. In my rear view was an 18-wheeler flashing its lights and a trail of lights behind it.
I started to settle in and my snow-driving muscle memory kicked into gear. I sped up cautiously to 50 and passed the plow. Leaving the Semi and the rest behind, I was now driving solo for the next 5 min. The Semi and a few others caught up and happily kept pace behind me. Unbeknownst to me, I’ve been selected as the Pack Leader. If you’ve never changed lanes in a snowstorm, let me tell you, at times your butthole will pucker. Then when you think you got control, there goes a little slip and the puckering of your butthole again.
As we crested I started seeing cars that have fully spun off the road. Some even managed to slide deep into the forest. One SUV I came up on appeared to have just crashed. The windows were blown out, and the people inside shook off the snow. With a Semi less than a car length behind me and no shoulder to pull off on without stranding myself, I passed the SUV feeling terrible not being able to help them. I took comfort in knowing the truck drivers would have hopefully reported the incident on their CBs. It also gave me comfort to see more plows and emergency vehicles coming through.
Not knowing where the storm was ending I was beginning to wonder how long of a delay this was setting my arrival time back. Thoughts of being stranded started creeping in when we approached a major accident involving a couple of flipped cars and a semi-truck. My Speed had now slowed to 5-10 mph. Not a good thing when driving through a couple of inches of snow in a rear-wheel drive car climbing a mountain. Any slower and I was worried about getting stuck. No cell service, and no exits in sight — not sure I would have exited anyway — I was now glad I always kept an emergency “oh shit” bag in my car.
As quickly as I thought the worst had gone, I was greeted with a 7-mile descent down the mountain. Of course, what goes up must come down, how could I have forgotten? If the picture hasn’t been painted in your head yet, going down a steeply graded mountain makes it harder to stop in the snow. These are the driving scenarios where you put your transmission into a lower gear or as most modern cars now have, a manual mode, allowing you to shift to and from the appropriate gear. The term here is engine braking. Allowing the engine to maintain a speed that is determined by the gear of the transmission you have put it in. That with the combination of the foot brakes makes slowing your vehicle much more controllable.
Finally nearing the bottom, the snow turned into rain, and the sun was shining in the distance. The temperatures rose from 30 to a warm 47. After what felt like three hours was only an hour of snow driving. Four hours later, passing boulder City, I was now descending upon Sin City. Though it’s a city I’ve driven into on many occasions, I’m still hit with nostalgia and a sense of achievement. Merging onto 215 W, I thought about the paralysis that almost won over me and prevented me from leaving in the first place. Now, writing this, I’m glad I overcame that doubt and the snowstorm, that allowed me to write and share this story.
