How the  
West  was Won-derful

There was a good flight at the beginning of the journey.

I settled back as we whizzed down the runway. The grass at the side became a green blur and in a moment the world fell away below..  

When I eventually arrived in Albuquerque in New Mexico the local time was just on Midnight, but my body clock knew, that time had long since come and gone.

Bed was never more welcome. 

Surprisingly, the next day I felt bright and fresh and after a swim in the hotel  pool I drove north

There have been Indians in the area for nigh on a thousand years and beyond Santa Fe  at Taos Pueblo I found an Indian maid selling some rather attractive  turquoise jewellery.

I had expected that she might be called Redwing or Running deer but it turned out the name was Cynthia Pemberton and she showed me around the white clay buildings. They were dazzling in the sun and the sound of an Indian flute drifted on the air. 

The sun was blazing down and yet with the gentle breeze, it seemed almost air conditioned. It’s one of the charms of touring in New Mexico, you can stay comfortable without getting hot and sweaty.

Back in town at Taos I found it was time to be quick on the draw and reaching for my trusty credit card  I raided the local K-mart and  stocked up with jeans and a reasonably priced  bright plaid shirt. Thus attired I merged, chameleon like, with the locals and  visited the flea market. (There’s nothing quite so fascinating as other peoples junk, particularly when you are abroad.) In one corner I found a marvellous appliance for producing money, or to be more exact, gold!  You just shovel the dirt in at one end and turn the handle. It was a gold panning machine. There is gold in ‘ them thar hills’ but I didn’t have time to cart it up and  start churning out the nuggets, nor would it fit in my cabin baggage. Perhaps it’s still there waiting for you.

Leaving the warm valley and passing over the Rio Grande, we drove up  into the mountains where the air was sharp and clear, we crossed the snow line and dropped down into Colorado. Another State, seeming beautiful and grand. Here and there were wooden shacks and the occasional farm. 

It was the American West as I had imagined it.  There were trails for back packing, horseback riding and a lake for the fishing with trout, bass and yellow perch. Stop off en-route  and you could wake to find deer and Elk in the back yard.

Eventually we reached Durango, 

where the traffic came to a halt as a great steaming  engine shunted a canary yellow train across a level crossing.

 A gangly  security guard with dark shades and a cowboy hat nodded me though and as the great iron monster blew steam around our feet I chatted to the guard, John Brymer and learned that

The Durango-Silverton railway was the last regularly scheduled steam railroad left in the United States.

 As it pulled out we listened to the haunting sound of the distinctive loco siren as it echoed down the canyon.

Driving between the towns you find that the distances are large and the locals recommend that you always make sure that you make sure that your gas tank is full and that you take water and blankets with you. 

At one point we pulled off the main road and trundled down a rough flint track to the Chao Canyon. An eagle soared overhead as we scrambled over the rocks and explored the remains of buildings that were constructed by the Anasazi Indians around 750 - 800 AD. There were eight major ruins and the great blocks of stone fitted so closely together that you could barely get the blade of a knife between them. 

It was obviously a civilisation that had great skills and somehow they seemed a long way removed from the  Indians featured in the cowboy movies or from the troupes who danced nightly for the tourists in the Red Rock State Park 

Which is where I watched them as decked in buckskin and eagle feathers they swooped their way through a great variety of  swirling turns and a noble looking fellow with a hooked nose chanted to the beat of a small drum. 

We spent our last evening in New Mexico in the town of  Gallop,  known as the ‘pick up’ capital of the US. (Some of our party were disappointed to learn that  it’s because more ‘pick-up trucks’ are sold there than anywhere else.)    

The setting sun traced patterns on the red rock mountains and

 for a moment 

I fancied   I saw John Wayne sitting up on the hill then I decided it was  time to put down my beer and hit the sack before I joined the riders in the sky.

 Report by Allan Rogers