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We're home, but we still have a lot of stuff to get up here including loads of photos.

New heights

Pueblo Alto. Balcony House. Alcove House.

We're now triple crowners of lofty historical sites.

On Tuesday, we explored Bandelier's dwellings carved into the sandstone cliffs of Frijoles Canyon. Down the canyon, at the end of a peaceful trail marked by huge pines nurtured by the Frijoles Creek, we came to Alcove House.

At Chaco, we scaled a mesa to reach the Alto ruins. At Mesa Verde, we descended ladders along sheer drops to see the Balcony community.

But Alcove topped them both. To stand in the cave 140 feet above the canyon floor, we would have to negotiate three long, steep, wooden ladders -- no rails, no nets, nothing to keep you from bouncing to the bottom. The original residents likely scrambled up using scooped-out hand and foot holds, but for modern, overfed Americans, nearly upright ladders made from tree limbs present enough of a challenge.

Ladders, schmadders: Slowly but surely, we got to the top. From the cool shade, the view was glorious. A ladder dropping into a kiva provided another reward for the boys.

After a while, we made our way back down -- three points on the ladder at all time, no looking around. At the bottom, we all felt proud of ourselves. Nobody would have won gymnastics medals, but we walked away in one piece.

Compliments to the chef

Our trip blog would be remiss without praising our wizard of the two-burner propane stove.

Thanks to Michele, we've eaten well at every stop. She has whipped up breakfasts of blueberry pancakes, corn muffins, sausage biscuits, cinnamon buns, French toast, and eggs and chorizo. Dinners have included green chile stew, steak and potatoes and, prepared in the wind and dark at the evil campground, beef stroganoff.

Her diners appreciate her campground culinary touch.

Rainmakers

We saw ancient power at work that night.

Our first day at Bandelier National Park ended with a fascinating presentation about the famous cliff dwellings in the Frijoles Canyon. A young park ranger from the nearby Cochiti Pueblo talked about her ancestors living in the canyon, and her people's attempts to preserve the culture formed centuries ago.

At the end, she called her father — a Cochiti war chief and retired magistrate and Arizona highway patrol officer — and her kid brother up to the stage. Bedecked in gorgeous jewelry, they performed a dance in the Keras language, shaking instruments made from gourds and turtle shells.

They later explained they were speaking to their ancestors, asking for moisture for an extremely dry land being ravaged by wildfires, the nearest across the valley in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

It had been windy all day, and the strong breezes continued after darkness fell. We went to sleep with the tent quivering, despite the open window flaps. But we weren't worried.

That changed around midnight. Sudden gusts roaring like oncoming traffic rocked the tent. One almost caved in a corner pole. Michele and I bolted upright, shot outside and struggled to stake the rain fly even more in the intense blasts. As I pounded the last extra stakes with a rock, I felt something for the first time while in the Southwest.

Rain.

Drops spat out of the sky — no deluge, but rain where none had been predicted. Not much fell, but over the Sangre de Cristo fire, enough apparently came down to reduce a towering white smoke column to a few whispy fingers.

The ancient Frijoles people had heard.

Bandelier Father's Day

Today in Bandelier National Park, my family reminded me how lucky I am.

Worried about getting a campsite, we left Santa Fe late in the morning. By the time we found a shady spot in the Juniper Campground, it was near lunch. To celebrate Father's Day, we divided our Pie Town peach pie in quarters, and I ate under a Ponderosa pine while pulling my presents out of a bag.

John Michael gave me a cool 2012 calendar of art deco-style National Park posters. From Ted came a book about the Navajo code talkers. And, big surprise, Michele gave me a handsome silver Navajo/Hopi bracelet she bought behind my back from the Hanrahans in Pie Town. John Hanrahan, after wearing it for more than 20 years, was selling it at the flea market where we met. I liked it, but unsure of its quality, had passed.

But when Ruth Hanrahan, seeing my interest, secretly approached Michele with a Father's Day suggestion, my dear wife recognized a good deal.

I love my bracelet, calendar and book. But I love my family the most. What a great Father's Day.

Left turn at Albuquerque

We were going from one extreme to another.

After Pie Town, we planned to stay in the metropolis of Albuquerque, then drive up to Bandelier National Park in the morning. Still aglow, we drove down Highway 60, past the giant white radio telescope dishes of the Very Large Array, all pointing to the same galactic spot. We wanted to check out the visitor center but missed the turn and didn't realize it until we were miles down the road.

Approaching Albuquerque on I-25, we asked Karen to direct us to a motel in the Comfort Inn family so we could collect reward points. She obliged. Her choice sat beside an off-ramp, next to warehouses and lots fenced off in barbed wire. Few cars were in the lot. Michele and I both had a bad feeling, suddenly picturing a smashed side window in the morning. We were tired, but should we stay?

No thanks. We learned our lesson outside the Petrified Forest.

We pulled out of the motel lot, turned left and cruised up to Santa Fe, a nice Comfort Inn on Cerillos Road and excellent green chile dishes and beer at the Blue Corn Brewery.

Pie Town promenade

Unlike a piece of pie, Pie Town got better the next day.

It was tempting to sip coffee on the Toaster House deck and enjoy our surroundings, but once the kids woke, we headed over to The Daily Pie, the local breakfast spot (the Pie-O-Neer opens at 11 a.m.). It was bustling, and we enjoyed our eggs, sausages, hash browns and biscuits in sausage gravy. Of course, we each had pie -- cherry, apple and two blackberries. They were delicious, but we give the Pie-O-Neer the nod.

Just as we finished, Nita dropped by, looking for us. She wanted to give us her “25-cent tour” of Pie Town. It turned out more like the $25 version.

Crammed into her Subaru, we saw the tiny post office with the original 1930s mailboxes. Pie Town originally was a stop on the trail, where cowboys knew they could always get good pie and other refreshments. When the U.S. Postal Service wanted to set up an office, it asked what the town wished to be called. Pie Town, the residents said. Choose a more dignified name, the postal service replied. But Pie Town held fast, and the feds caved in.

Today, Pie Town still lies on the Continental Divide, at about 7,900 feet and far from everything. For groceries and supplies, residents drive more than an hour east or west. Nita told us the history of the closed gas stations, including one where she used to work. We drove by a stand of oddball windmills — a local man’s museum — and down a dirt road to something stranger. Pie Town is home to one of the huge, white radio telescopes from the Very Large Array, most of which are down Highway 60 in the Plains of San Augustin. They’re the ones in “Contact.” Pie Town’s is officially the “Pie Town Dish,” proving that scientists have a sense of humor.

Nita also showed us Pie Town’s old main road, shunted aside by Highway 60 in the 1950s. As we crept along, she gave a running history. A general store and motel used to be in that shambling house. That church was put on rollers and moved down the road. That empty lot once held so-and-so’s home. The state just closed the town dump. By the time we returned to our car at The Daily Pie, we felt like we could give the next tour.

We hugged Nita goodbye, thanked her for her hospitality and got an “Aloha” in return. But we weren’t ready to leave Pie Town -- not when Kathy at the Pie-O-Neer had a fresh batch of pies waiting.

Before that, we desperately needed clean clothes, even by camping standards. So we drove a few miles west to the Top of the World general store and its small laundromat. A small flea market was hunkered down in the wind whipping around the parking lot. John Michael bought a shower nozzle for a quarter; the easy exchanges with the vendors, John and Ruth Hanrahan, were free.

Transplanted Easterners who used to run a bed and breakfast in Raton before falling in love with Pie Town’s charms, they were the latest local residents to befriend us. The store manager gave popsicles to the boys while the clothes dried. Earlier, another resident, Tony, with a Santa white beard, offered to show us the wolves he raises on his ranch. Was everyone in Pie Town as easy to sit down with as one of Kathy’s slices? It sure seemed so. At the flea market, a woman kidded me that the town had us fooled. Then the next Oscar goes to Pie Town.

Soon, it was on to the Pie-O-Neer for lunch. We were too full for pie — just kidding. We ended up having seven more slices, including New Mexican apple (with green chilles and Pinon nuts). I gave my “Pie Fixes Everything” shirt to Kathy, who promptly had her partner, Stanley, nail it up on the wall in a place of honor. Thea stopped to chat some more. We took group photos in front of the restaurant and the pie racks. I took a picture of Kathy holding the peach crumb pie she baked for us. Kathy filmed John Michael describing what makes good food (if a 9-year-old can read the ingredients), vowing to put it on her Facebook page. We told pie stories, talked about the mystery of pie, shared pie tips — just pie freaks and soulmates bonding.

We loved the fact that Kathy once shipped pies, but no longer. If people want her pie, she said, they have to come to Pie Town.

Eventually, we had to break away or else buy our own desert plot. More hugs, and Kathy gave us her signature “Hasta,” telling us Pie Town would talk about our visit for then next week and always remember the pie family. We promised to return some day, and send people to the Pie-O-Neer with instructions to say the pie family said hello. We left with a Pie-O-Neer shirt, a Pie Town bumper sticker on our car, a Pie Town cookbook, our boxed pie and a lot of fond memories of our new favorite place.

Hasta, Kathy. Aloha, Nita.

Thanks, Pie Town.

Toaster House

We woke to a desert morning in the Toaster House, feeling like lottery winners.

The Toaster House was the opposite of the Painted Desert campground. Here was a respository of good karma. Five children had grown up in its rooms; two had been born in the living room. Upstairs, family photos peeked from behind knotholes in the wall. These days, Nita still has the maternal touch. She keeps a fridge and freezer stocked with beer, soda and food for hikers who express their appreciation in her guest book. At the front door, her sign wishes visitors a restful stay, a safe journey and an "Aloha."

Simply put, the place had soul.

It was all around inside — in the paperbacks and National Geographics lining the shelves, in the bottles, mugs and assorted bric-a-brac filling alcoves, in Nita's friendly messages posted around, and in the small library of CDs and tapes for playing on the stereo. Antique pressed tin panels painted green covered the kitchen ceiling.

It was all around outside. A rusting, battered stove, hubcaps and agate chunks created a funky garden in the dusty front yard. On a fence post sat a Mickey Mouse head. In the back, the shell of an old camper van lay buried in the ground, looking like it might have once served as a chicken coop. Two tiny gray kittens emerged from under a shed and blinked in the morning light, not far from a tattered, cushion-less wicker chair. Mysteriously, there was even an old pay phone.

Monks wouldn't have felt comfortable amidst all the stuff. But we felt right at home.

Pie Town party

We came to Pie Town for the pies and fell in love with the people.

But first, we were smitten by the scrumptious slices in The Pie-O-Neer Cafe. About mid-afternoon on June 17, we veered into the gravel parking lot, happy the place was still open but afraid no pie was left. Research had indicated the restaurant normally closed at 3 p.m., or when the pie was gone. As we scrambled in, a firefighter returning to battle the huge Wallow blaze to the southwest shouted that he had eaten the last slice.

Fortunately for him, he was kidding.

We burst in, a dirty, excited family, and immediately ordered four pieces of pie. I almost forgot my original plan and returned to the car for my Moody’s Diner “Pie Fixes Everything” shirt.

Between bites, out poured our tale: the blog, the miles, the deep affinity for pie that led to our pie-grammage. Elsewhere, people might have slowly backed away. Not in a quirky desert town friendly to the core: We made instant friends.

We were pie freaks, at home among kindred souls.

If the pie had been mediocre, fine, the stop still would have been memorable. But this was no average pie. This was all-world, 9th-degree-black-belt, grandmaster pie.

Owner and piemeister Kathy Knapp bakes no less.

We should know. That afternoon, we consumed nine of her slices. I took care of three: chocolate cream, tart cherry and coconut cream. We also sampled blueberry, peach crumb, apple and berry. Each was heavenly. Michele still rules the pie world, in our humble opinion, but she has finally met her match.

As a bonus treat, during our pie-fest, we carried with the next table if we all had known each other for years. There was Nita Larronde, originally from Hawaii and Malibu, who had moved to Pie Town more than 30 years ago and raised five children. With her were two local authors: Thea Marshall, a romance novelist, and Uncle River, a science fiction and nonfiction writer.

Nita, her laptop out, read our blog and asked about Moody’s and Maine. Thea and Uncle River talked about their writing and Pie Town, later signing books for us. In her baker’s hat and apron, Kathy told us about the cafe and her baking. All the while, we smiled crumbly grins. We were enamored with Pie Town, and it with us.

More than a hour passed that way. Michele sat down with Nita to chat. Thea sat down with John Michael, Ted and me for a great conversation about archaeo-astronomy and romance and mystery plots.

Pie Town may love pie, but it’s not a crusty place.

We had planned to eat our fill and move eastward on Highway 60. Instead, we spent the night — not in the Pie-O-Neer, as delicious as that might have been, but at the Toaster House. Perhaps charmed by our exuberant gluttony, Nita invited us to stay in her former house. She now lives elsewhere in town and runs a free hostel, taking in cross-country cyclists and hikers trekking the nearby Continental Divide Trail.

So after paying our pie check, we drove a mile over to the Toaster, so named for the old toasters decorating the front gate. There was nobody home, and we just walked right in. Next door at the Pie Town RV Park, we took free showers, courtesy of the owner. We left a bill in the donation jar anyway.

That night, we had the Toaster House to ourselves. We cooked spaghetti on the antique wood-fired stove, admired the stars from the car seats bolted to the deck and rolled out our sleeping bags on mattresses in a bedroom. Before going to sleep, the boys made card houses from decks left for hikers.

We needed to fill the toilet’s tank for each flush, thanks to burst pipes from an extremely cold winter. But we couldn’t have asked for nicer accomodations -- and a more welcoming town.

Guadalupe Cafe

Ah! Sitting in Santa Fe at my favorite restaurant in the whole world -- after the Pie-o- neer.

Chris was up late last night writing about Pie Town and the Pie-o-neer. We were camped at the Juniper Campground at Bandelier National Monument. He had the laptop plugged in to the outlet at the campground bathroom and wrote until the giant bugs drove him back to the safety of the tent. I've learned that my husband truly loves to write. He'll post those tonight. We should get all caught up in the next few days as we return to civilization. And there is no better way to return to civilization than chalupas at the Guadalupe Cafe in Santa Fe!

Push to Pie Town

This was it. Every mile drew us closer to Pie Town.

Our final push began after we crossed back into New Mexico on Highway 53 and entered the Zuni Pueblo. Michele wanted to buy some Zuni bread for lunch sandwiches, but we couldn't find the store she remembered from years ago. We drove around for a while, searching and seeing the pueblo's new-looking hospital and high school, then continued on. We couldn't afford to get to Pie Town too late in the day and find all the pie gone.

El Morro National Monument and its inscribed names? Sacrificed for Pie Town. We sped down deserted desert highway until we arrived at the hamlet of Fence Lake. Possessing neither fences nor a lake, it did have an exciting road sign at the only intersection. Pie Town. Left turn. Oh boy.


We were four happy campers, growing happier by the minute. We put on the "Guys and Dolls" soundtrack CD, and the boys sung along gustily, inserting "pie" liberally in the lyrics.

Forty miles. Thirty miles. We scooted along Highway 36, mouths salivating. Michele and I feared the town's two cafes, The Daily Pie and The Pie-O-Neer Cafe, would be closed or out of pie. Would we arrive in time? It was too dreadful to imagine otherwise.


At the village of Quemado, we pulled onto Highway 60, an interstate by comparison. Only 21 miles remained. They seemed to take forever. Then a roadside Pie-O-Ne'er sign appeared: three miles away. Great chortling erupted in the back seat. Then the official green highway sign came into view.


Pie Town. After 13 days and 3,236 miles, we had made it.

Best of all, The Pie-O-Neer was still open.

Wood

The Petrified Forest was incredible. I walked on this little asphalt path as lizards and insects ran around in the arroyos at my feet. John Michael was especially impressed with the minerals that made up the chunks of ancient logs. Red iron oxide, yellow manganese, white quartz-y stuff. It was all there.

These logs were deposited when a overflowing river in the Triassic period ripped ancient trees from their bases and carried them downstream. They passed weird animals on their way. Possibly early dinosaurs, but most likely things called therapsids. Therapsids were bizarre mammal like reptiles that flourished in the Permian and Triassic eras, but are now only fossils. The trees floating on the river became fossils too. If they sunk and got buried, minerals would very slooooooowly replace the celluose in the wood. Eventually they became only stone in the shape of a tree.

The surrounding area was beautiful too. With the whites and reds of the Painted Desert stretching off as far as the eye could see. With even more weird Triassic fossils hidden by the rock.

The Good, The Bad, and the Campground Outside the Petrified Forest

There is no camping except for back-country camping inside the Petrified Forest National Park. Too much theft of the jewel-like fossilized trees. But there's a "Free" campground right outside.

Don't stay there. It's an evil place. The energy is just bad. All the cars in the parking lot had been there a looooong time. What happened to the owners? The only person in the store belonged with the people at the Meteor Crater. The campground was full of giant petrified logs being used to mark parking and hideous fake wooden teepees with strange pseudo-Indian images on the outside and big spiders and scorpions living inside.

We couldn't decide what to do. Chris and I both lost our confidence. Ted wanted to go back to Holbrook, 20 miles away. John Michael was just scared. For the first and only time on the trip, we were all fighting and having meltdowns.

There was a foul stench in the air and the wind was howling, with strong gusts over 40 mph. The strange woman in the shop assured us it would die down at dusk. She lied. The only shelter from the wind was behind a big concrete sign up on a little rise. But both Chris and I immediately had a bad feeling, like something or someone had been buried there.

Just as the sun began to set two RVs pulled into the campground. We made a decision. We'd stay and just sleep in the car since the wind was blowing too hard to put up the tent. I tried to cook dinner in the dark, but the food just wouldn't cook. The noodles started to turn to glop. Ted and John Michael saved the day, or at least the dinner, by rigging the tarp around the picnic table with duct tape while I struggled with the camp stove and Chris rearranged the car for us to sleep in. Eventually the food was warm and edible. We ate in the dark. I tried to do dishes, and then we climbed into the car to sleep.

And that's when the place really started to get to us. John Michael couldn't settle down. Ted felt weepy. Chris, sleeping in the driver's seat, and I tried to keep spirits up by telling funny camping stories from when we were younger. But eventually we lost the battle. It was a long, long night.

Eventually the dawn came. We felt petrified ourselves. We had a quick breakfast of coffee, chorizo, potatoes and eggs, and then repacked the car and left.

It was the place because as soon as we left and went into the park, we were all happy again. It's just a bad karma place. Next time we'll go back to sleep at the Wigwam motel.

A kick out of Route 66

In downtown Flagstaff, we hit our first stretch of -- cue famous song -- Route 66.

We were on it only for a brief spell before it morphed into its replacement, I-40, which cuts through red, flat desert so bleak, empty and wind-blown that the Mars Rover would have fit right in.

Twice, though, we gladly stopped racing trucks and RVs and glimpsed reminders of a time when travellers crossing America actually passed through communities. In Winslow, Route 66 becomes the main drag. I had to stop at the famous corner immortalized by the Eagles in "Take it Easy." Apparently, so many others have felt the same impulse that there's an official sign, gift shop and statue of a unnamed 1970s, Eagles-like dude with a guitar at the intersection.

Holbrook's portion of 66 had more original, if faded, survivors -- garish 1950s motels, diners. The Wigwam Motel -- its sign asked, "Have you slept in a wigwam lately?" -- featured giant teepees for rooms, some of which had vintage cars parked in front for show. The boys decided that the town must have been the inspiration for Radiator Springs in "Cars," based on the Wig Wam and the garage across the street, where a dead ringer for the old tow truck character "Mater" was parked.

Sadly, as in the movie's bypassed town, much of the 66 stretches looked shabby and even seedy. Restaurants sat closed to hungry families. Nobody stayed in motels that seemed perfect places for drug overdoses. Roadside oasises had become faded Americana, interesting only to the curious and nostalgic.

Just plane amazin'

Just past the windswept Flintstones campground and its Fred's Diner was a real reason to stop.

For an aviation buff like myself, the Planes of Fame Grand Canyon museum could not be missed, not with the rare tri-tailed Lockheed Constellation parked out front. A satellite of the famous Chino, Calif., museum, it didn't disappoint. In fact, I bounced around inside the hangar like a kid on his third bowl of Froot Loops.

Particularly fascinating was the Me-109, one of the few flyable examples left of the famous German fighter. It was captured in late 1944 after only a few missions. Given how many were shot down at that point, and that the rest were mostly scrapped after the war, it was exciting to see one with an oil pan underneath. A museum mechanic told me it was all original except for the propellor hub, which somebody stole years ago while the plane was being transported to a show.




I also liked the 1930s Grumman biplane, the last to fly off carriers, and the replica Japanese "Val" dive-bomber made for the movie "Tora, Tora, Tora." But neither could top the Constellation outside, which required separate admission and a guided tour by Shirley, a museum manager. What was the big deal? Gen. Douglas MacArthur used it as his personal plane during the Korean War. He flew on it to his famous Wake Island meeting with President Truman, and it took him back home after he was fired. Before that, it also was among the 10 Constellations modified by the Air Force for the Berlin Airlift. On the tour, we saw MacArthur's lounge chair, where he was briefed; his private aft quarters; the overhead pullout beds for staff members; the gleaming, stainless-steel galley with its art deco toaster; and at the navigator's station. The boys took turns spinning in the swivel chair -- not nearly as fun, though, as the F-86 jet fighter cockpit simulator.

Unfortunately, we had to go after an hour. More adventure awaited, and I didn't want to strain my family's patience, although I practically had to pry John Michael from the simulator's joystick. Too bad we couldn't camp with Fred and Wilma for the night: The Chino's P-38 Lightning fighter was scheduled to fly in the next day. But the Painted Desert called.

Varmits in Pits

Arizona seems to be the place to see these. We passed a number of them. If there were people running them, they seemed....odd. Ted tells of his impression at the Meteor Crater, basically a hole in the ground, but it cost us $40 to see it. There were others, too. Very strange. One was well worth the stop, however. Chris will tell about that.

The Traveler

While Chris was in the Burger King looking at the Code Talker display, I waited in the car with the sleepy boys. Suddenly there was a knock on the window. Outside the car stood very distressed looking Navajo woman. I rolled down the window and asked what was wrong. Apparently her car had broken down and she needed to get home to Flagstaff and her family.

We looked at the map together to see how far she had to go. I said we could try to give her a ride as far as Tuba City, but also showed her how crowded the back seat was with pillows and stuffed animals. She said it was all right, but maybe we could help her out by buying some jewelry she had made.

It was a deal. The jewelry was beautiful, two pairs of earrings and a necklace. I was happy to pay her what she asked for them knowing it would help get her home and that it was much less than I would pay in a shop and yet much more than she would get from a shop owner.

Aliens

Arizona's Meteor Crater was pretty darn big and pretty darn windy. Located in the middle of absolutely nowhere, this privately owned impact crater was a bit too windy for my taste. Added to that was a rather spookily deserted Subway (Rule of thumb, if a fast-food place has zilch customers, then it is officially spooky), and the fact it seemed to have been staffed with aliens. They seemed off. They were either too slow or too fast. Sometimes they seemed like they weren't used to their skin, a la Men In Black.

Even if they were aliens, they still knew how to run a museum. It had all sorts of cool exhibits about comet Shoemaker-Levy, the 1908 Siberia blast, future missions to Mars, UFO's, and asteroids. They had this simulator in which you could pick the speed, diameter, density of an asteroid and then hurl it at a planet. I destroyed the Earth seven times.

Crowd pleaser

Both boys have impressed people on ranger talks with their knowledge, but John Michael really wowed them on our last Grand Canyon morning.

After breaking camp, we went to a geology talk. When the ranger asked if anybody knew the three main types of canyon rock, nobody answered. Then John Michael's hand shot up and he stood. "Igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary," he declared.

He got a big round of applause.

But our resident geologist and rockhound wasn't done. A later question came up. Who could name the three kinds of sedimentary rock? The ranger didn't look surprised when John Michael once again stood. "Sandstone, limestone and shale," he said as the ranger ticked off the answers on his fingers.

The crowd went crazy.

A Grand Time

We spent a day and a half and two nights appreciating the Grand Canyon's majesty for ourselves.

The highlight was a morning hike along the southern rim from Bright Angel Lodge. A few times, the trail passes a couple of yards from the edge and an initial drop-off of about 300 feet on the express route to the canyon floor. Though you would have to try hard to fall off, it still provided a thrill of danger, especially with a glance down. At one vista point, we could see a stretch of the Colorado River, its mighty rapids looking like harmless white ripples from so far away.

Past wind-twisted junipers, we hiked for about two miles until our water ran out. The sun bore down on us. We trudged along, growing thirstier -- then caught the next air-conditioned bus full of visitors back to the lodge.

John Wesley Powell and the other first canyon explorers had it slightly rougher.

History with fries

The highway sign was a bit confusing.

It advertised an exhibit about the famous World War II Navajo code talkers in Kayenta. That made sense since the dusty northern Arizona town lay in the heart of the huge Navajo Nation. But it also said the culture center was in a Burger King, not normally known for its museums, at least in the East.

Sure enough, though, the restaurant features a small but fascinating tribute to the Navajo men recruited by the Marines to convey messages in a made-up version of their language -- an unbreakable code that befuddled the Japanese. The exhibit contains Japanese army and American uniforms and weapons, several photos, and a copy of the code talker presidential commendation signed by Ronald Reagan in 1981.

Upon reading a framed copy of an article about the code talkers, the reason for the exhibit became clear. King Mike did his duty for a country that decades before had fought his people. Many years later, his son came to own three area Burger Kings. Richard Mike wanted to honor his father and his fellow Navajos, so crucial to Guadalcanal, Saipan, Iwo Jima and other Pacific battles.

And a desert Burger King, with a poster outside the bathrooms detailing Navajo medicinal plants, came to serve more than Double Whoppers.

Deja view

Heading toward the Grand Canyon, we took a detour in Kayenta, a small Arizona town in the middle of the Navajo Nation, to see one of the West's most famous landscapes.

Monument Valley's iconic red mesas rising from the desert floor are no less impressive for having serving as a back drop for many western scenes. Even from miles away on U.S Route 163, the lone way to the park in Navajo lands, they're thrilling at first sight -- maybe because they're so familiar. You're amazed they exist in real life.

We wanted to get to the Grand Canyon before sunset, so we didn't actually go into the park after crossing into Utah. We marveled for a few minutes before heading back to Kayenta. But the more than 40 mile round trip were worth it just for that valley view.

My Opinions

I have discovered on this trip that quiet places seem more attractive to me than loud noisy places. I have known that for a while now, but it really came into play this trip. Doesn't it seem more fun to explore the labyrinthine rooms of Chacoan great houses than be pushed along a cliff dwelling that seems vaguely familiar while listening to less-than-enlightened tourists babbling about how " that Quasimodo dude with the trombone is called Kokopelli," or "the Kiva thingamagig was used for water storage." I'm not saying the people I've quoted here are stupid; It just drives me bonkers to be in a tour with them.

Mystery Solved?

We had been hearing about the Balcony House tour since arriving at the park, how it was the "roller coaster," the "thrill tour," the "Indiana Jones" ride of Mesa Verde because visitor climb ladders and squeeze through narrow passages. But we had survived the Pueblo Alto hike complete with wrong turns, runaway hats and late afternoon sun, so I was confident we'd be fine. We arrived a few minutes early and met our guide, Ranger Al from Boston. Ted and John Michael were the only kids in the group.

We began our descent — stairs, ladders, ramps, with Al stopping us along the way to explain what we were seeing. The boys knew the answers to all his questions, so much so that halfway through the tour, Al began to preface each question with, "You boys don't answer this, so does anyone else know why...?"

Balcony House was amazing. Although Cliff House Palace is bigger, we saw much more at Balcony House, including original artwork on the walls, back rooms and passages, seeping springs, and, of course Kivas. This time everyone in our small group knew what they were. Ranger Al was one of the best guides we've ever met, which is saying a lot because virtually every NPS guide we have ever had has been wonderful.

Unfortunately, Balcony House did not answer our questions about the relationship between Chaco and Mesa Verde.

Our answers came on the Mesa Top tour. There we saw early pit houses developing into pueblos. At one site we saw how an earlier Kiva was modified and then expanded into a Great Kiva, complete with core-and-veneer masonry which looked like late type III to the boys. At last we arrived at Sun Temple, a mysterious structure that was built on the mesa top at just about the same time as Cliff Palace was being constructed. The rangers had told us that Sun Temple was never completed. But there it was, a Chacoan Great House, complete with the classic Bonito "D" shape with a plaza enclosed by a row of narrow rooms.

Of course, the Rosenblum family will have to do a lot more research, but now we know there was a connection between Chaco and Mesa Verde.

Breakfast boiling

On our trip, I've tried to match the appealing mellow demeanor of Southwestern people and let go of my inner Eastern impatience. But a morning encounter with a Mesa Verde park employee tested my resolve.

We were rushing to get to our Balcony House cliff dwelling tour, and figured the park's pancake breakfast would be quick and easy. We figured wrong. The line was moving awfully slowly for pancakes. What could be going on? It's not that complicated. You order X number of breakfasts and pay. As we got closer, we discovered the problem. Ellen (not her real name) was at the window.

Every order, she treated as if assigned a word problem. She laboriously checked the boxes of her order pad, crossing out mistakes, redoing her calculations.

OK. I was trying not to fidget and mutter. I really was. She looked grandmotherly. Be laid back, I told myself. When in Rome, I told myself. But it was hard. We were running out of time. So before our turn, we decided to ditch the all-you-can-eat and go with the "Family Breakfast" option -- eight pancakes, eight sausages, four drinks. It was one of five menu choices. Simple, right?

Ellen seemed confused. Family breakfast? Yes, for four. With drinks? Yes, two coffees and two hot chocolates. More pad calculations. Family breakfast without drinks? No. Two coffees. Two hot chocolates.

Eventually, she scratched out $20.67 on her pad. I handed her $21. She couldn't open the register, fluttered her hands and left for help. Sigh.

We ended up wolfing down our pancakes and made our tour on time, almost derailed by Ellen. And I almost lost my adopted Southwestern cool.

Mesa Verde Puzzles

We arrived at Mesa Verde by mid-day and wound up the long road to the mesa top. I remembered this drive from years ago. We quickly found a nice camp spot, made a classic quick lunch, and then took off to see the sites. At Mesa Verde now, one must purchase tickets for ranger led expedition to some of the most spectacular cliff houses, which is a good thing given how popular this park is.

First we checked out Spruce Tree House, which is a self-guided tour — very crowded. The boys overheard one person commenting to a friend that the round subterranean room in the courtyard was probably a cistern for water storage. What? Idiot! We all know that's a kiva, and is the most sacred place in the whole pueblo.

Later that afternoon we had our ranger-led tour of Cliff Palace. Ted and John Michael knew all the answers to the ranger's questions, as usual. John Michael even figured out that one major benefit of building in alcoves was shade during the hottest part of the summer day. Still, we were all a little discouraged by the general lack of knowledge, respect and enthusiasm of our fellow visitors.

We headed back to our campsite to make dinner and set up the tent. During dinner we talked about ways that Mesa Verde might fit with what we saw at Chaco. Was this part of the Chacoan system, a Chacoan outlier, or an unrelated system that evolved in place and to which late Chacoans came? We had many questions as we drifted off to sleep.

We woke early and hurriedly broke down our tent and packed up, skipping breakfast. Our grand plan was to eat the "all you can eat pancake breakfast" at the campground cafe and then drive about an hour to get to our 9:00 a.m. tour of Balcony House. By now we were experts at breaking down the tent and packing up. Chris, Ted and John Michael focused on the tent while I took care of packing up the camp kitchen. We were standing in line for our pancakes by 7:30. And there we were almost undermined in our quest for answers by Ellen (not her real name).

Durango langor

After viewing the pueblo ruins at Salmon and Aztec, we pulled into Durango off a mesa in desperate need of a motel room and showers. Our coating of SPF Dirt had helped protect us from the Chaco sun, but it made us less than suitable company for civilized surroundings.

A standard-issue Quality Inn in the outskirts of town did the trick.

As they always do, the boys immediately tested both bedsprings and found they had sufficient bounce. None of us could muster the energy to go out for dinner, so we ordered a pepperoni pizza from a local restaurant recommended by the desk staff. We had just sluiced off the dust layers when there was a knock on the door. Delivery: Not exactly roughing it, but we needed a change of pace.

We placed the box on a bed, folded the slices New York-style without plates, washed it all down with vending-machine Dr. Pepper's, and had a fun party watching a Max Linder silent comedy from 1921 on TMC, laughing between bites.

In the morning, we had time for some pool splashing, and then it was on to Mesa Verde and back to our tent.

Adventure is out there

Departing the Grand Canyon after an excellent geology ranger talk and a junior ranger badge ceremony. The NPS Junior Ranger program is superb!

Now we are headed south about an hour ahead of schedule. We'll spend that hour at an airplane museum between here and Flagstaff. After that we'll try to hit the Meteor Crater and then the Painted Desert, where we hope they have primitive camping. We came in through the eastern Desert View entrance to the Grand Canyon which is rarely used. Leaving through the southern main entrance is reminding Chris and me of driving home from Maine when traffic is heavy heading north, except all the license plates are California rather than New York.

Prelude to Pie Town: Stuffing our pie holes

We're driving north along Highway 44 in the northwestern New Mexico heat, coming into Bloomfield, so hungry there was talk of stooping to fast food drive-through.

Suddenly, like a desert mirage, appeared a giant wedge of pie and a cup of coffee. Was I hallucinating? No, it advertised an oasis called the Triangle Cafe.

So much for Burger King.

I feared the huge rooftop sign might be better than the real thing, but the Triangle's pie case didn't let us down. We first downed Navajo tacos, green chile tacos on fry bread for Michele and I, and huge cheeseburger platters for the boys. Michele and I also split a superb chile relleno and a dish of sopapillas.

We made a spectacle of ourselves, but we weren't through.


As full as we were, we simply had to have pie. Wandering over to the case behind the counter, we checked out the field. Just at that moment, our super-friendly waitress came out with a fresh pan of cherry pie and pointedly gave me the biggest wedge. Ted got lemon meringue, John Michael chose pumpkin, and Michele ordered chocolate cream.

We all ended up helping each other finish. It was better than auction pie, but not quite Moody's Diner. Here's hoping it's a good omen for Pie Town.

From Chaco to Mesa Verde

We reluctantly left Chaco, knowing that we would be returning as often as we could.

Our next stops were north, Salmon and then Aztec. Both are now considered part of the Chacoan system. Salmon is run by the San Juan County Historical Association. Best part of our visit there was Hal, who reminded me a desert version of Hartley, if Hartley had been an archaeologist. He showed us a barrel cactus that only blooms once in ten years. As part of the crew that worked for twenty years on the excavation, Hal could answer all our questions and then some. He told the boys about Navajo dream catchers and Hopi Kachinas. He told us we were seeing the sites in exactly the right order. And as he walked us to our car, he assured us that he'd be waiting for us to come back soon.

Next up was Aztec National Historic Park. This site was run by the NPS, so instead of Hal, we got a movie and a junior ranger program. I think the museum at Salmon was just as good.

Both sites are late Chacoans. Because Salmon was excavated with modern methods, there is a lot more information about daily lives of the people there, but both sites were cool. One of the archaeologists at Chaco theorized that people had eventually left Chaco canyon and moved to Aztec along the banks of the San Juan River. I'm not convinced.

Our next stop was Mesa Verde. But first we needed a pit stop in Durango and showers. Chris' knees have never been dirtier!

Out of order

We're blogging from a cafe across from the post office at the Grand Canyon. We found a table with an outlet to recharge and now we're catching up. One observation: We started camping in the most remote and isolated camping site at Cimarron Natl Grasslands, where we were the only campers to the Grand Canyon with thousands. We've heard French, Italian, Russian, Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, and Californian so far.

Chris is writing about our hike to Pueblo Alto. I'll cover Mesa Verde. Don't know if we'll get time to post the photos. That's time consuming and there is only so long the boys can hang out in a gift shop before I have to buy something