A Colorado State of Mind

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Day 3- Lake Powell and Antelope Canyon

Leaving Monument Valley we continued our drive west towards Page, Arizona and Lake Powell. We left the spiritual simplicity of the reservation and entered more of a traditional resort atmosphere. Our stop for the night was Lake Powell Resort and Marina. We were again wowed by an awesome view, this time of the lake and resort’s pool and marina. We enjoyed drinks by the pool that, amazingly, we had to ourselves. The sun was warm and it felt like vacation. We dreamed about coming back and renting a boat to explore the lake. We dreamed about coming back when August was older, a full grown kid, doing cannonballs into the pool. Ahhh, the life of a vacationer!

The next day we drove to lower Antelope Canyon, back on Navajo land. What appears to be nothing more than a crevice in the ground opens up to a glowing orange gallery of narrow, sensuous, curving sandstone walls, accessed by multiple vertical ladders. It takes a little over an hour to navigate the length of the slot canyon, whose walls remain cool and protected from the desert sun. The beauty is really too much to describe or to capture in a photo, although, as it is in our nature, we try.

Lake Powell Dam

View from our hotel's balcony

The resort's pool

Sunset from our hotel's balcony.

Getting ready for another day of adventure!

Antelope Canyon, no words to describe...

Day 2- Monument Valley

We are pushing 75 down a road that is as empty as it is long. Not a tree in sight, I’m reminded of one of my favorite Dr. Seuss lines, “it’s opener there, in the wide open air”. The emptiness feels liberating to me; it’s one of the reasons the desert lures me in. Our destination for the night is Monument Valley- an over photographed and over filmed location that somehow still manages to hold mystery and wonder. We booked a room back in January at a new Navajo hotel in the heart of the valley, fittingly named “The View”. It’s expensive, there is no pool, no free happy hour or breakfast (in fact, no alcohol at all as it is on the reservation), but one thing it does offer really well is a view. Every room in the hotel includes a balcony that faces the soaring mittens of Monument Valley. There is simply no excuse not to take in the sunset, the sunrise, and the unbelievable vastness of this place. We enjoyed the sunset while dining on local cuisine such as green chilé stew, frybread with honey, and Navajo tacos. August was giddy with excitement, even putting up with the highchair for a late evening hour long dinner, smiling to anyone who caught his eye. We all went to bed that night happy and excited for the morning to come.

In the morning we suited up for the Wildcat Trail, the only hike in Monument Valley allowed without a Navajo tour guide. We were alone out there, and the trail circumnavigating the West Mitten Butte provided us with an intimate insight into the valley not offered by our hotel balcony. The sun was relentless, but the 60 degree spring temperature was forgiving. We took a moment to really take in the beauty of all of it, then headed back to our room for a quick shower before hitting the road again.

View from our room.

Gift shop at The View hotel

Sunset from our hotel.

Dinner at The View hotel- a happy occasion!

Lobby of The View hotel.

Sunrise

Heading off on the Wildcat Trail.

Name those tracks!

The beauty of the buttes

Four Corners Road Trip, Day 1- Durango and Mesa Verde NP

I hadn’t been this excited for a trip in awhile. For over a month I had been studying the map that would take us into Navajo Land- AAA’s Indian Country Guide Map. I had carefully highlighted our route- 1700 miles and roughly 26 hours of driving, while marking all of our stops. Every few days I’d pull the map out to look at it… in my head dreaming “and on day 2 we’ll be in Monument Valley…” The roads and routes that appeared the most remote on the map also held the most intrigue and mystery “when we get here, we’ll be out there, but when we get here we’ll really be out there.” The aptly named map and our route took us through the heart of Indian land, not just the massive Navajo reservation, but that of the Ute, Hopi, Laguna, Tesuque, and Ohkay Owingeh.

To prepare for our mostly desert drive, we brought a few gallons of water, a cooler containing mostly breakfast and lunch items (hard boiled eggs, yogurt, meat, cheese and bread) and more water, a bin of toys with many strung along a back seat row of links, a box full of coffee and food paraphernalia (electric teapot, cone filter, coffee, and various dried foods), roughly 30 CDs, and clothes for pretty much every type of weather extreme.

Our first overnight stop was spent in Durango, roughly a 5 hour drive from home. Our hotel was a Groupon find, a downtown Best Western with all the perks of a chain hotel- indoor pool and courtyard, free happy hour by the pool where we indulged in a few wildly delicious local brews, and mediocre breakfast buffet. Had we been up for a ride on the Durango- Silverton Narrow Gauge Train or a night of bar hopping, it would have been the perfect location.

We left Durango on a clear, cold morning and headed for Mesa Verde National Park, our last stop in Colorado. Mesa Verde NP holds some of the world’s best preserved cliff dwellings, built by the Anasazi Pueblo Indians, between 600 and 1300 AD. This is some of the oldest architecture you will find in the US. We took a short, albeit steep hike down to Spruce Tree House, the only major cliff dwelling open in the winter. While exploring the Spruce House, carved into a cliff nestled deep in the cool mountains, it was clear that the protected earthen homes provided both shelter and a spiritual oasis for the Anasazi.

Hike down to Spruce Tree House

Spruce Tree House

Kickin it at the Best Western in Durango

Sunday, July 28, 2013

From Russia with Love

We left Suzdal in a gentle snow that struggled to continue on its third day, as the sun began to overtake and make brief appearances. Waiting in the lobby of our hotel we watched as a taxi car zipped through the deep snow and pulled up to the front entrance- it was our ride to Vladimir where we would catch a 4 hour train back to Moscow. I am sure my shocked expression gave away my fear as I saw our driver get out of his car- a huge, boxy, stern-looking, young Russian with a buzz haircut, dressed head to toe in camouflage with large, black combat boots... it looked like he had just been called in from a long weekend hunting wild boar, deep in the forest. He must have sensed my apprehension, and much to my surprise, drove the 30 minute route, still icy and snow packed, quite reasonably. At our departure we tipped and he revealed a genuine smile, followed with a thickly accented "thank-you!". Clearly, even the most rough appearing Russians could soften given the right circumstances.

The train ride to Moscow was long, crowded, and stifling hot- a characteristic of Russia I was quickly becoming accustomed to. While the biting outdoors warranted huge fur coats and hats, once inside you could be guaranteed to sweat within minutes as every restaurant, train, and metro station would pump out steaming heat. On this long train ride I sought relief from the heat with the smokers, hanging out in the creaking joints of the trains, exposed to the cold winter wind. As the afternoon gave way to evening, our train pulled into Moscow's main station. We left the busy station with hoards of Russians, picking up some questionable (but delicious) meat pies from a street vendor on the way.

Moscow hit us like the pulsing, technicolor metropolis it is. A carnival of colors, smells, and sounds... it was clear we had left the solace of the Russian countryside. Onion-dome cathedrals appeared in all directions, flashy and over-the-top, seductively swirling in colors of gold, ruby, emerald, and sapphire- quite a contrast from the muted tops in Suzdal. Added to this contrast was the shift in weather- still Russian winter cold, but now with a bright blue sky and blinding sun bouncing off the fresh 2 feet of snow. We watched with intrigue as hundreds of employees worked to clear the snow from the city using bobcats, brooms, and shovels on sidewalks, roads, and rooftops. I had once read that several Muscovites were killed each year from deadly snow piles and icicles falling from the stories high buildings. Clearly this was a passionate and endless job for these seemingly tireless workers during Moscow's long winter season.

Despite my highly romanticized view of Russia and Russians in general (fancy furs, expensive caviar and vodkas, gymnasts and figure skaters, and a hearty soul capable of thriving even in the harshest of winters) I expected Moscow to be a bit more rough around the edges, perhaps even gritty, and difficult for a foreigner to infiltrate. Likely this was the Moscow of 20 years ago, and possibly one that I would have preferred, but visiting today the city has all the glamour and convenience of any major European city. There are subtle differences that set the city apart, but in general I had the same feeling experienced in Paris when walking about the city- no matter how well dressed or fancy I felt I was, I would come to the sinking conclusion that the majority of Russian women were still more glamorous. I was lucky enough to have my mom's mink fur coat, given to her as a gift in the early 1980s. Clearly this coat fit in with the best of them in Russia. In fact, this along with my freshly dyed fire red hair and make-up that became increasingly heavy with each passing day (after observing other Russian women) was enough to have me mistaken for a local more frequently than any other international trip. What I couldn't give up was my shoes- at 5 months pregnant there was no way I would be able to walk around town on icy sidewalks in the fancy 3-inch suede boots I had foolishly brought; for this trip I would only wear the soft, warm and waterproof ones that had served me well in the rugged terrain of Iceland.

Our home base in Moscow was a centrally located apartment. Now this place felt Russian. To enter there was a huge army-green steel door activated by a magnetic key, which we would inevitably have to warm with our hands before getting it to work. Past this door was a dingy, unlit hallway lined with cracked tiles and cardboard trash that took us to a sturdy-as-a-submarine Soviet era elevator that would creak and bump its way up reluctantly to the fifth floor. Leaving the elevator we were led down another hallway to another locked door that required a skillful twist and jerk of a skeleton key, then finally to our apartment door where we would enter. It felt secure. The apartment was slightly drab, and not the cleanest, but the 15 foot tall ceilings and expansive city views more than made up for it. Not to mention the fact that by going through a local we were paying a quarter of what a small hotel room in the same neighborhood would cost. We were a 10 minute walk to Red Square, and less than 5 minutes to a reasonably priced grocery store, both of which we frequented daily.

Our days were spent alternating between walking Moscow's streets and catching a ride on a steaming hot Metro, deep underground beneath the city. We visited cathedrals, the Kremlin, the State Armoury (containing all the jewels, gold, diamonds, thrones, and carriages of the princes, princesses, emperors, and tsars), Gorky Park, markets, and museums. Not able to book a ticket at the famed Bolshoi, we attended a local ballet performance in the city. After a mild struggle to find the location, we were ushered up narrow flights of stairs to a small venue with blood red velvet chairs. Our seats were in the front row, dead center. We were so close to the dancers that at one point, much to my horror, the heel of my shoe briefly got caught on one of the sheets they were using as a prop. Despite the low budget production, we were thoroughly entertained. On the walk back in the dark we followed some colorful flashing lights to find a magical winter scene- an outdoor ice-skating arena occupied by young Russian children skating to 90s American pop music.

For dinner we would frequent cafeterias- a wonderful slice of local cuisine without the confusion of interpreting a Russian menu. For me it was easy- pregnant and walking miles in the bitter cold worked up an appetite and inevitably after visiting all the food stations (salads, side dishes, main courses, and desserts) I would be struggling with a tray precariously piled high with various plates balanced on top of one another, barely getting it to my table while avoiding catastrophe. After locating a seat, like a mad woman, I would find myself shoving in my mouth spoon fulls of crepes oozing with hot raspberry puree, succulent roast chicken, bean salad, dumplings, and stuffed cabbage, washing it down with a quick swipe of borscht. It was pure heaven.

On our last day in Moscow, the sun was overtaken by thick clouds and once again the snow began to fall as we strolled around an enchanting outdoor market with babushkas selling homemade pastries (of which we bought many), local honey, and birch branches. I was smitten. The snow would last up until we left, begging me to stay, and explore deeper into the heart and soul of Russia.