Gallup, New Mexico — Day 7

Odometer: 1109–1401 (292) miles

Listen to: Traveller — Chris Stapleton

The Grand Canyon is one of those places you hear about your entire life, then, by the time you actually see it, your jaw drops and you just think “ah, so this is why people keep talking about it.” One of these days, I’d like to spend more time there, hiking down to the bottom and back up. Unfortunately, I blazed through the park in about an hour today. Still, it was surreal to see such a massive thing next to my tiny little Vespa.

On the way into the park, a woman ran over to my scooter, and acted like she was going to take a picture of me riding it into the entrance. Instead of actually taking a photo, she explained that she was giving me her motorcycle park entrance permit, which still had one day left on it, and she was only taking the photo as a ruse so the park rangers wouldn’t know what she was up to. This was an incredibly kind gesture, but it was also sort of a moral dilemma. The park service doesn’t run for free, and, from talking to people in-the-know (specifically my ex-girlfriend, who knew the mechanics of conservation policy pretty damn well), they’re usually underfunded and struggling. So, while I definitely appreciated the gesture, I decided to just pay the entrance fee on my own. If the person who gave me the pass ever finds this post: it was a super nice thing to do, and I appreciate the kindness. I just couldn’t go through with it.

After following the road out of the park, it descends down a hill and runs alongside the Colorado River, where the water has cut a gorge into the desert. Though obviously much smaller than the Grand Canyon, the steep walls and tall stone towers were beautiful, and I pulled over to take some photos. On the path down to the gorge, I kept hearing this incredibly loud, almost electric noise. It sounded like an alarm going off at a factory, or a smoke detector gone haywire. Despite searching, I couldn’t find the source of it, but I assume it was some sort of cricket or bug.

At the gorge, there was a stand with a man selling some Native American jewelry. I stopped to talk with him a bit before hopping back on the Vespa, and asked him how long he had been running the stand. He told me he inherited it from his grandparents, who ran it when he was a kid. This small little jewelry stand had been sitting on the side of the road near the Grand Canyon for probably at least 50 years, maybe even longer. It’s sort of amazing to think something that looks so impermanent, so thrown together, managed to hold out longer than most shops in San Francisco.

After this, it was onwards to Tuba City, where I stopped for lunch, and to plan the next part of the trip. When I pulled into one of the few non-fast-food restaurants in the town, a guy was loading up his car, getting ready to head back out on the road. He saw my helmet, and asked what type of Bluetooth headset I had inside it (there’s a small little control panel for the headset that mounts on the side of the helmet). It turns out he had recently finished a ride up California 1, over to Tahoe, and down the Sierras, on a BMW R1200GS, and was currently going up to Utah to camp with his family. We talked about how great Highway 1 is, our mutual aversion to interstates, and the preponderance of cool rock formations in southern Utah. I’m really loving every motorcyclist’s reaction to this trip; it seems like people are always eager to wish me luck, when I expected a reaction of “why don’t you get a real motorcycle?”

After lunch (which consisted of a beef wrap, where, because I was on a Navajo reservation, the tortilla was replaced with fry bread), I stopped by an internet cafe to try and send yesterday’s newsletter. As you probably know from my tweets, this was a pretty abysmal failure. Thankfully, I could at least get Google Maps to load. My next stretch of highway was a long one, about 120 miles without any name-brand gas stations, which was right at the end of the scooter’s range. I could probably make it, but I didn’t really want to chance it. Google told me there was at least one independent gas station on the route, and I was able to verify on Facebook (of all places) that someone had been there as recently as two months ago and wrote a review, so I figured it had to still be open. Technology sleuthing is a wonderful thing.

This highway took me through a Hopi reservation, which consisted of long stretches of grasslands punctuated by the occasional small town, with names like First Mesa, Second Mesa, and Coalmine Canyon. Like the gas station in the Mojave desert, the one I pulled into here, in Keams Canyon, only had 87 octane gas. Thankfully, the pumps worked. I put less than a gallon into the tank, just enough to get me to the next station with 91, and pushed on through.

I arrived in Gallup around sunset. New Mexico is absolutely gorgeous. It’s the beauty of Arizona’s desert, but with an added diversity of scenery. Gallup, however, is a pretty standard small, western town. It’s surrounded by train tracks and everything seems on the verge of decay, though there’s enough happening economically that it hasn’t crossed over that precipice quite yet. It seems to be getting close; Wikipedia says Gallup has the highest violent crime rate in New Mexico.

Given that the town is literally named Gallup, I don’t think anyone would be surprised to hear that there was a country-western band playing at a bar and grill downtown. Naturally, I had to go see them. I pulled up to the place and parked the Vespa next to a massive Honda Gold Wing. The band’s guitarist was smoking outside, and he joked about the pretty considerable size difference between the two bikes. He seemed a little bit drunk, but he was friendly, so I talked with him a bit before heading in. It turns out he runs a music venue down the street from the bar that gets various touring bands to come in and play shows a few times a month, and he told me I should come check it out. I told him I was just visiting, but next time I was in town, I’d stop by. Given this is my second time here in as many years, it’s pretty likely I’ll be back, so stopping in doesn’t seem as unlikely as you’d otherwise expect.

The band turned out to be excellent. Maybe the guitarist was a bit drunk, but that didn’t even come close to affecting his skills; the guy could play. Though the venue was nearly empty save for a few tables, they played their whole set, and everyone seemed pretty into it. It was definitely more rock than country, but everyone had on cowboy hats, so this was an acceptable compromise.

After the show, I rode the Vespa back to what is, honestly, the finest Red Roof Inn I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying in. Tomorrow, I’m off to see ice caves (which looks like *the biggest* tourist trap, but I’m still excited) and eventually Albuquerque.

I might end up spending an extra day in Albuquerque, as I’ve got this nasty cough at night I can’t seem to shake, and it’s sorta affecting my ability to sleep. Might just go see a doctor while I’m there. Unless any of you have suggestions for dealing with a nighttime cough? Would be happy to take advice.

I’m also getting into the part of the country with sporadic thunderstorms, so this is likely to affect my travel plans as well. Hopefully won’t run into anything too bad, but I do see storms in the forecast for the next few days. Wish me luck!

Till tomorrow,

-Esten