A horse with no name...

The good news is that I got to ride the high desert again. That bad news is that I got that song stuck in my head again and STILL can't remember hardly any of the words. There is a beauty to the mountains, I'll grant that. The stark white peaks this time of year were turning. There was also a beauty to the green fields of the heartland. And, I suppose there was even a certain mechanical beauty to the skyline of the big cities.

But for me, nothing compares to the high desert. Leaving Albuquerque, heading west with the sun at our backs, the desert wass alive with colors. The colors are subtle, though, almost hidden at times. There are shades of brown, shades of red and green against a blue sky. And the horizon stretches out as far as you can see in every direction.

There is a freedom in the desert. Terry felt it. Even on the interstate there was nearly no traffic. We could ride for miles side by side, each in our own lane, each in our own world. The biggest danger for me was getting so caught up in watching Terry that I'd lose track of what I was doing. But riding the high desert comes at a price. It's windy...always... and gusty... often.

As the hours and the miles add up, the cumulative affect of the heat and the dryness and the wind take their toll. By mid-afternoon we were stopping often. To drink water, and to give our bodies some relief from the pounding. And the trip is coming to a close. I think we both sense that as well.

Off to Las Vegas tomorrow.

Stay tuned... j