We have a full tank and bellies. We're going to get to Chaco by noon for a camp site. Everything looks as bright as the baking desert around us.
Ah, the desert. Michele has told me about the rough path to Chaco, 26 miles of teeth-jarring, unpaved road that can't be crossed in the rainy season. Before the trip, I thought about this. I had visions of trundling along, pieces falling off our car, buzzards circling overhead. I kept my worries to myself.
Now, we're on the highway, looking for signs for the park turn-off. There aren't any. Our map says there's a road. Karen, our trusty GPS navigator, says there's a road. In fact, she says to turn left right here, onto this gravel road unmarked save for a sign for a fundamentalist church.
Of course. That must be it.
We set off down the road. It's not bad at first, but a few miles in, I'm fondly remembering the smooth grading of Highway 126. At Karen's urging, we make a few turns. Each time, the road dwindles, until we're brushing up against sage. The kids can see lizards scrambling away from the car. Don't worry, I'm told, this is how it's supposed to be. Chaco's not for lightweight Simpsons. But I can see Michele getting worried too.
At one point, the road dips into an arroyo, and instead of gunning it up the hill, I foolishly slow down and we're spinning wheels in the bottom. My heart races. Bad words burst from my mouth. The buzzards can't be far now. Michele and the boys get out and push. The car lurches forward, and we're free. What's going on? Where are the park signs? How did we get into an out-take for "No Country for Old Men?"Nobody is chortling about adventure now. We pass chalky formations from another planet. The kids are singing show tunes to keep everyone's morale high. I'm looking for the cow skull that usually signifies imminent demise. Eventually, Karen's assured path just ends at someone's desolate trailer house surrounded by junked cars and other debris. We come to a belated conclusion: We're defeated idiots. This isn't the road to Chaco.
The only thing to do is turn around and head back. We resign ourselves to a long, cranky retreat when rescuers arrive over the hill. It's a natural gas truck trailed by a company SUV. They look at us quizzically -- we must seem as out of place as a yacht -- and then drive on slowly, allowing us to follow them along a different and slightly less scary route. And we do, as if our bumpers were attached.
About 30 minutes later at a fork, the truck stops, and the driver and his SUV partner confer. Great: They're lost too. I take the opportunity to bound out and thank our benefactor, a grinning, balding guy in shades with a big gray mustache. The first thing he says as I approach: "You looked a little lost." Gee, was it the kids or the cargo shell that gave us away? We were trying to get to Chaco, I say. He makes it official: It's the old road, no longer used -- a fact confirmed later by park rangers who say it was abandoned 18 years ago. The real entrance lies about eight miles to the north. Don't worry, he says, one way or another they'll get us back to civilization.
They make good on their promise. We pull up next to the gas man at the highway, and he says it often happens: Maps and GPS systems still show the old road. So Michele's memory was right. Karen was right -- sort of. Of course, we could have checked a current guidebook beforehand, but he's too kind to say so.
Even more graciously, he offers to lead us to the park entrance. Something tells me he has his doubts about our directional skills. In any case, we speed along behind him -- past the huge brown signs for the park -- and he even turns with us, perhaps just to make sure we didn't veer off in some random path.
We honk as we pass, he waves, and that's it. We feel more than a bit foolish after the first few miles are paved and well-marked, suitable for any RV. The rest proves to be teeth-jarring and dusty, with long washboard stretches that threaten to shake apart the car but entice the boys to practice their yodeling. But after our first attempt, it's practically the Autobahn.
As the gas man said, now we have a good GPS story.
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