Category: Road Trips Page 1 of 2

I like Calgary. It’s a nice town, but leaving is no great hardship considering the extraordinary sweep of plains and towering mountains that surround the city. I’m heading on a four day circular trip to Glacier National Park. Once on the road south, it’s not long before I enter Diamond Valley which is anything but diamond-like, and the few outlets at the intriguingly named Sheep River Crossing don’t help to enhance the area either. There is little sign of any sheep, and no crossing to distinguish either, which I take to be a judgement by most of the herd that this is a place to avoid. I guess they decided to cross somewhere else. 

I scoot out of town to my next stop, the strangely named Okotoks Erratic lying just a short detour down Route 7. Nicknamed “The Rock that Ran”, it turns out to be a large piece of split quartzite rock sitting in the middle of a huge field.

Clearly the Albertans have been taking lessons from their American neighbours on how to create a tourist attraction out of nothing. To be fair, there are two other people in the car park, but it turns out they’re sitting in their van eating what appears to be lunch with little interest in the rock sitting proudly on the grasslands in front of them. As I walk down the path towards the monolith, I learn from the various noticeboards about the great spiritual significance this rock has for the Blackfeet People. Legend tells of the story of Indian warrior Napi who sheltered by the rock and was allegedly chased by it. Not wanting to question the reliability of the story, but it does seem improbable that this 30 ton piece of mountain could have chased anyone – at least at any speed that is.

The rock is definitely interesting, but it is still only a rock, whereas the surrounding grasslands are fascinating because they are covered in prairie dog burrows, populated unsurprisingly, with hundreds of prairie dogs.

These sweet looking creatures are everywhere, popping up from their caves and then disappearing again. I could watch them for hours. Apparently, these animals support at least 136 other species through their various activities. So basically, they are the Chicken McNuggets of the grasslands. With their complex underground dog towns, their entire annual mating season is apparently only an hour long. Males, apparently jump from group to group—but the females stick together for life – mimicking humans I suppose.

As I move further down the highway toward the US border, the detritus of a broken economy litter the landscape. Not in an ugly way because there is a kind of beauty to the ageing, rusting vehicles and farm equipment that lie embedded in the fields and homesteads that appear by the roadside. Gentle reminders that people once lived, worked and sweated the land around here. These artifacts are left as little monuments, so we do not forget their toils, otherwise what was it all for? I ache for the ghosts of the past to be able tell the stories that lie behind these broken dreams.  

It’s another world out there……..

A few miles southbound on route 2, I take another detour at Nanton and travel eastwards to the alien sounding destination of Vulcan. Sadly, its name originated not from any thoughts of the universe, rather in 1910 a Canadian Pacific Railroad surveyor who had a fondness for Roman Mythology, named the town after the Roman god of fire.

However, this sleepy town has not been resting on its laurels. Awakening the entrepreneurial spirit, in November 1995 the town created a space-themed visitor centre to tap into the growing curiosity surrounding the town’s name. The idea quickly grew into a group effort between the various local bodies and the wonderfully named V.A.S.T. (the Vulcan Association for Science and Trek). The Trek Station’s official grand opening was on October 23, 1998 and was designed to look like a landed spaceship.

Apparently, thousands of people from all over the world and beyond, make the “Trek” to Vulcan to visit this unique attraction. However, some far travelled aliens (foreigners) might feel somewhat let down when they visit from a galaxy far, far away. Entry to the “museum” is by way of a donation, and I drop in five dollars thinking that is a fair price. Not even close. The dollar bills go into a slot which operates an electric door. The door opens and I step into what can only be described as a large closet stuffed with mannikin’s. I say stuffed but I think I only count ten Star Trek characters, but the place feels full. They are paraded in a small semi-circle before another door opens and I am transported immediately back to the visitor centre reception I’d left only seconds ago. I personally don’t feel cheated as it had already been on my route, but I pity the poor souls arriving from out of state expecting a Star Trek extravaganza.

However, the large replica of the Starship Enterprise sitting high on a plinth outside the visitor centre does make up for the lack of substance inside. What really makes me smile though, is all the street-lights along the centre of town are made of mini-Starships. Now that’s worth visiting for. Vulcan, may the force continue to be with you. 

Fort Macleod and Buffalo Jumping

I leave that galaxy and move on, passing through Staveley and Claresholm without even noticing, possibly because there isn’t anything to distinguish these settlements, before reaching my namesake, Fort Macleod, just in time for a late lunch. The fort was named in honour of the then Commissioner of the North-West Mounted Police, Colonel James MacLeod who was born in my homeland in Drynoch in the Isle of Skye, Scotland in 1836. Founded as the Municipality of the Town of Macleod in 1892, the name was officially changed to the already commonly used Fort Macleod in 1952. Another Scots boy done good !

I choose, quite naturally, to lunch in Macleods Restaurant behind Main Street, and then somewhat regret that decision as soon as I walk in. It is dark and dingy, with only a couple of old timers getting their daily sustenance – probably gravy and grits. I order Spaghetti Bolognese and it turns out to be very, very good. Once again, the MacLeods save the day…….

Later, I walk down the deserted main street as the silence is only broken by the muffled roar of huge trucks trundling up and down the two highways that lie on either side of town. The shops look closed but as I pass them, through the dusty windows I can see lights inside. I walk past the lawyers, the accountants and the beautiful, elegant old Empire Theatre.

Somehow, I get the impression that people are peering out from behind their curtains wondering who the stranger is walking slowly through their town. Maybe if I had a kilt on, they wouldn’t be so afraid. Two people appear from nowhere and walks towards me. They promptly cross the street, so now I’m feeling paranoid until I realise they’ve just gone into Subway for lunch. 

Fort Macleod claims it has 3,297 residents and growing according to the last census. Apart from my friends in the restaurant I’ve only seen two. Maybe it’s siesta time, although we are some distance from the Mexican border.

Apparently 19 movies have been filmed in Fort Macleod although I only recognise a few of them. Ghostbusters, Interstellar, Brokeback Mountain and In Cold Blood. More notably it’s been a location for the TV series – The Last of Us. Its other claim to fame is that Joni Mitchell the singer, was born here in 1943. 

At the east of town down an alleyway, I cross the main highway and find myself at the actual Fort Macleod. Rebuilt somewhat from those heady days of the 1800’s, when after a gruelling two-month, 1,300 km trek across the prairie from Dufferin, Manitoba, Colonel James F. Macleod and his contingent of North-West Mounted Police arrived here on the banks of the Oldman River.

The North-West Mounted Police were sent to the prairie with the purpose of stomping out the illegal liquor trade, which was wreaking immeasurable harm on the Blackfoot people of the area. Macleod and his men raced against the oncoming frost to construct a fort that would house them through the winter, effectively establishing what would one day become a thriving community, if you can call a town of 3,297 residents thriving. 
.

Fort Macleod has more surprises in store. As I turn into the car park of what looks like a huge warehouse, this is the home of the Bomber Command Museum of Canada, where the building is in fact a huge treasure trove of military aircraft and memorabilia.

So good is it, that I spend over two hours here, marvelling at a restored Lancaster bomber in all its glory. I happen to make a comment to a fellow gawper called Frank, who it turns out is a Westjet pilot on a trip to see the museum and shares so many facts and figures with me, I can’t keep up.

We wander among the warplanes and the not-so-war planes as I listen to his great stories about some of these bygone relics. I realise I am way behind schedule, so I say goodbye to my new best friend, and he disappears into a distant engine repair room. Although he obviously felt I wasn’t a big enough best friend to offer me a discount on Westjet.  

I tear myself away from this diamond in Diamond country and head out to the hinterland and my next destination of Head-Smashed-in-Buffalo-Jump World Heritage Site. This remarkable museum is built into the cliffside from where you get a real sense of the vastness of this country as the Rockies stretch majestically into the distance towards the west, and the sweep of the Great Plains is laid out for hundreds of miles to the east.  

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump is the best-preserved example of communal hunting techniques that the Plains people engaged in, thanks to the massive herds of bison that existed in North America for over five thousand years. 

When the Europeans arrived, they came with guns and ammunition which led to the bison being hunted almost to extinction. The museum is a stunning example of how a museum should be, which maybe is the wrong adjective to use when the subject matter is about killing bison by landing them on their heads.

As I head south again towards Glacier National Park, I come across a rail bridge over the road where the graffiti letters spell “Freedom” accompanied by a little hand-painted white kilted warrior Braveheart beside it. I almost feel like I’m back home…..

Waterton and Glacier National Park

I leave the main highway and take the road to Waterton entering Glacier National Park. The first building I see is the extraordinary Prince of Wales Hotel, a huge alpine-like structure on a promontory overlooking the lake. 

My own accommodation for the night is Kilmory Lodge in Waterton, which while being just a little less luxurious, nonetheless has the same spectacular views and is the perfect spot for relaxing in the bar and restaurant. My window looks onto the Prince of Wales Hotel just to keep me in my place and not to get above my station. 

I take a walk around town, but it’s a holiday so everything is shut. I say everything but there are a couple of bars open, and one restaurant. This is a quiet place and reminds me very much of Loch Lomond in Scotland. The choppy waters, the brisk wind, the snow topped mountains, the mobile ice-cream van……

Visiting the now familiar hotel on the hill, it can be seen from every vantage point in town. It’s hard to take a photo without it being in the frame. There are numerous hotels round the world named after various Prince of Wales but none I imagine have scenery surrounding them quite like this one. With water on three sides, it sits proudly like a king surveying his kingdom. The entrance hall and lounge to the hotel is breath-taking as you gaze through the huge floor to ceiling windows in the reception area, all the way along the length of Waterton Lake to the monster 10,500 foot Mt Cleveland in the distance. Snow topped mountains line the length of the lake in front of the hotel, disappearing into the far distance.

As I pass by, I wonder to myself if the Prince of Wales gets free rooms in any of these hotels. I think it’s the least they could do after pinching his title. The hotel lays claim to having the oldest working elevator in North America. A survivor from the golden age of railway construction in Canada the hotel was built in 1927 by the Great Northern Railway company and quickly became an oasis for thirsty, deprived Americans from just over border in the US, where prohibition was still enforced. Canada was a prohibition free zone as they would call it today, which is basically why the rail company didn’t build the hotel next to a railroad but situated it miles away in a beauty spot where visitors might like to stay awhile and therefore drink more. 

After a blissful night of deep sleep in Kilmore Lodge’s most comfortable of beds, I drag myself away and set off for the border, retracing my steps to the main highway and on to the USA.

Spectacular scenery abounds as I pass around Chief Mountain, a magnificent example of a great mountain, as its chunky shape with flat top suggests power and gravitas. I guess that’s why it’s called the chief.  

Flowing rivers disappear under bridges and on into deep pine forests amid some captivating valleys and mountains while the road climbs high into the hills. Due to the harsh winters and its high elevation, Chief Mountain USA border crossing only operates from May to September, and lucky for me it has just opened. Surprisingly, considering the scenery that is available, it only gets 65,000 “guests” coming through the crossing every year. This is probably why, since I am one of their first customers of the year, they want me to get out of the car, step into the office and get questioned. They probably just need someone to talk to. I opt out of asking about the effects of loneliness in this distant posting, as they may be here as a punishment or maybe, even a bonus. The questioning is gentle, but they can’t make their mind up about my UK driving licence, which doesn’t come as a surprise since my picture makes Shrek look handsome on a bad hair day. 

Just remember, if you look like your photo, you’re too ill to travel. We part on friendly terms – theirs of course, and I suddenly find myself in Montana. Now this is a big deal. I’ve wanted to come to Montana ever since I could read a map. It’s been a fascination for some considerable time. I think it’s the majestic empty spaces, the frontier spirit and the big sky. It is most definitely the big sky ! How can a sky be bigger than anywhere else on the planet, but here it most certainly is. 

America has now changed the route number on my road to 17 and it’s another hour to St Mary’s at the beginning of the Going-To-The-Sun Road across the Glacier National Park mountains to Lake McDonald. Sadly, there is no going to the sun for me as the road is still snowbound with fifteen foot drifts but it just gives me a reason to come back. I make it as far up the road as Jackson Glacier where I can still see the effects of the Reynolds Forest Fire way back in 2015 which burnt through 2,000 acres.  

With my tail between my legs, I drive back down the mountainside to St Mary’s and take the long way round the park which doubles the mileage. However, it’s a wonderful drive and I soon get over my disappointment with a healthy lunch at some wayside diner which has seen better days but they do know how to make a great French Toast with a supply of endless coffee.

Two hours later I arrive in Whitefish and drop my bags at Grouse Mountain Lodge. It doesn’t have a lot of grouse but does have a lot of golfers.

The sun streams through the window at 6am, and I make for breakfast before heading out to Lake McDonald Lodge on the shores of its namesake. Among other things the lake is famous for are the coloured stones which pepper its shores. All the pictures you see in the brochures of these pebbles are somewhat enhanced, but nonetheless it is a remarkable sight.

The surface of the lake is mirror-like while a dusty mist hovers over it this early morning. The famous red tour buses sit silently outside the doors of Lake McDonald Lodge and the stillness of the surrounding forest begs for the silence to continue for the rest of the day. Slowly at first, then with a growing hubbub, the tourists start to arrive and soon the place is awash with activity and noise spoiling an otherwise perfect scene.    

 

To escape these annoying tourists (I never count myself as one – I’m a traveller) I decide to take to the water on a guided one-hour tour on the Motor Vessel De Smet, built way back in 1930 with the wooden seating still lovingly polished. It’s easy to forgive the slightly hard benches as we glide across the water because it is a beautiful old cruiser. The commentary is entertaining and informative and as we reach the opposite shore, the full extent of the fire back in 2015 becomes apparent.

Bare, burnt trees stand at attention seemingly in black shrouds stretching way back from the bank of the lake, devoid of foliage, with the few green shoots hardly making an impact on the practically dead forest. It is an eerie scene with the mist hanging around the base of the trees. What it does do though, is give a clear line of sight to a family of eagles close to the shoreline, high up in one of the more substantial trees. We watch for a while to see if they take to the air, and while the passengers are patient, the captain is less so, as he has a timetable to run to. Wild eagles don’t do timed performances, but to see these extraordinary kings of the sky in the wild is an uplifting experience in more ways than one.

The following day I make the long run to get back across border to Canada stopping for coffee in Eureka before crossing at Roosville. I’m booked overnight at the Destination Inn in Radium Hot Springs and it turns out to be a nice upmarket motel, its best feature being its location, situated right behind a local bar that brews its own beer. After a couple of refreshments in the pub for research purposes, I set off looking for food and came across The Old Salzburg Restaurant. There doesn’t seem to be any particular reason why an Austrian restaurant has landed in this outpost, but it’s been a feature of Radium Hot Springs for over fifty years. The place is up for sale, but it is busy, busy, busy. The food is very good if a little slow in delivery.   

Morning arrives and I make an early start. I pass McLeod Meadows (spelt the correct way) and into the Kootenay Valley. I haven’t seen any wildlife since I’d left Lake McDonald. I don’t know why, but on route 93 just half a kilometre south of the Simpson River Trailhead at Vermilion crossing, I pass a pull-out, and look back to see what the view by the river is like. I decide to turn round and drive back to take a few last photos. As I park, a huge bear came out from a large plinth right in front of the car. I get a real surprise to see it standing so close. The odd vehicle passes on the highway, but none stop. For the next half hour, I have Mr Big Bear all to myself and what a joyful and exhilarating experience it is enjoying our time together – just him and me. Mind you, it could have been a her and me, but we were never introduced so I’ll never know. 

There was a plaque on the large plinth, which said it was dedicated to Sir George Simpson, a Scotsman who ran the Hudson Bay Company who ultimately became Governor of Northern Canada.

 

As I cross the Continental Divide in Kootenay National Park at an altitude of 5,382ft heading home, I amuse myself that somehow it was the ghost of my fellow Scotsman who tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look back at the pull-out, suggesting I stay awhile and have some bear-time. Another Last Flight Out moment.

Yellowstone National Park

Some places don’t just sit on your bucket list. They move into your mind, unpack and occupy your thoughts for years. Yellowstone is one of those places.

We enter the Park from the south at 12:25pm. The time is important because I’ve been waiting for this moment for over 25 years, ever since I saw a film about the introduction of wolves to the park and how they changed the course of the rivers. The science may have been romanticised but the idea stayed with me. Now I’m here, Yellowstone does not disappoint. 

Our first stop is Lewis Lake, where snow blankets the frozen water from shore to shore, blindingly white making it impossible to tell where the land ends and the lake begins. We slip and slide the hundred yards or so towards the lake from the car park in footwear clearly not designed for winter exploration. Snowshoes would have helped, however we have this wonderful scene all to ourselves, but it is cold. Not the mind-numbing cold that takes your breath away, but a fresh, crisp, clear air cold that makes you feel alive and free, thanking nature for all it has to offer. We’re under-dressed for this part of Yellowstone, so reluctantly we leave this pristine scene and move on.

We move on to civilisation and the expected comfort and warmth of Grant Village, however the small collection of deserted buildings haven’t woken up for the season yet.  There isn’t much to open here anyway but a mobile coffee van wouldn’t have gone amiss if only to be able to talk to someone. The automatic filling station allows us to top up on gas as refuelling opportunities are few and far between in the park.  At West Thumb, mud pots bubble and small geysers spout beside an ice filled lake, steam drifting upward like breath on a winter morning. However, I start worrying for the rest of the day about what happened to East Thumb? It’s nowhere to be found. Maybe it succumbed to frostbite.  

It is no surprise we find Old Faithful bustling with tourists patiently awaiting the big blow. Also waiting patiently, and with some dignity, are two bison sitting comfortably in front of the geyser offering up a classic photo opportunity. Moments later Old Faithful, true to its name, erupts with surprising force, a silver column roaring into a bright blue sky.  

The bison remain unmoved by this remarkable display of nature, no doubt having seen it show off many times before. As the great spout subsides, and knowing the show is over, the two great lumbering friends move on as the human audience drifts away, all of us with the common aim of foraging for food.

Our lunch is a little bit more accessible for us than our bison actors who graced the stage earlier as we move a few yards inside to the Old Faithful Inn to take refuge.  

This remarkable and very old hotel is seething with admirers as they gaze up at the vast timbered cathedral of a building. Beers in hand, we step onto the balcony to watch the geyser erupt again. What goes up must come down, so as the geyser goes up, our beers go down.   

Apparently only 2 per cent of visitors ever venture more than a mile from  the few roads that populate Yellowstone. That’s partly to do with available time, but there is also a sad lack of adventurous spirit around. Regrettably. time constraints put us firmly in the majority  We loop through Mid-Geyser Basin over the footbridge on the Snake River, then the two-mile one-way Firehole Canyon circle and its waterfall, through landscapes that change faster than you can process them. It advertises the opportunity for swimming, but with the snow run-off it’s hardly surprising there are no takers who are willing to experience hyperthermia as part of their tour.  

Our accommodation for the evening is Canyon Lodge, although we are delayed by a grumpy bison in the middle of the road who refuses to move, no doubt upset at losing his way to Old Faithful. In the distance a herd of elk are lifting their legs high and slow, carefully picking their way through a swamp like a marching band, so the hour-long drive seems to pass quickly.

Like all National Park hotels, the accommodation is expensive and underwhelming, the food forgettable with the sad looking chicken burger and a decidedly desperate feta pie served by the canteen, sorry – restaurant, doesn’t cut the mustard either. If only there actually was some mustard on offer to provide some bite to these bland dishes. 

We escape quickly and drive to Artist Point. The view of the Lower Falls comes into view, and it’s a showstopper. Years of anticipation crystallise in an instant as water thunders into the canyon below. A rainbow forms at the base. First, a ghostly mirage of fused colours, then crystalising into sharp focus before being seemingly washed away by the sheer force of the water. Later at the Upper Falls overlook we look down on people standing precariously close to the edge. Sleep that night, despite the uncomfortable beds and banging doors, is serene and contented.  

Skipping the delights of the canteen breakfast we drive north, past Roaring Mountain, under Grizzly Lake high up in the hills, alongside Obsidian and Sheepeater Cliffs, before falling into Mammoth Hot Springs.  The Terraces rise like a frozen cascade, white and immense shaped by heat and time. I guess the word Mammoth says it all. The 300 feet climb can be challenging, where the loop hike takes about an hour.

Our stomachs now rule again, so we invade the general store looking for lunch and are rewarded, if that’s the phrase, with Ritz Crackers, Philly Cheese and an Almond muffin. America’s National Parks are not known for their edible offerings, which I might have mentioned before. 

On the way to Tower-Roosevelt through the Blacktail Deer Plateau I’m expecting an interesting story behind the name. However, it turns out that Teddy Roosevelt merely holidayed here beside a large, tall, towering waterfall. Nothing more, nothing less. I suppose it does what it says on the tin.

As we stop at one of the numerous lookout points to enjoy the view, a van speeds into the parking area and u-turns rather quickly, stony dirt being thrown aimlessly from under the spinning tyres. The driver shouts one word – “bear” and speeds off. We follow and sure enough we spot a huge grizzly on the hillside. We use these precious minutes to take some photos before the big, bad Yellowstone ranger comes round the corner with flashing lights to moves us on so as not to create a queue.

As it happens, just round the corner, a herd of bison decide to take 20 minutes to cross the road, stopping intermittently to stare at the queue of cars as if to say – this is our road, not yours. Not much further and we get stuck again, this time by a type of animal known all over the world – the road-worker, or as they call them here – the highway operative. I assume it doesn’t get you any more pay, just a more important job description so you don’t ask for a rise. There are dozens of them laying down new tarmac so the bison can walk on the road safely to hold up more traffic in the future. It’s one vicious circle in Yellowstone, but a beautiful one !  

Entering the Lamar Valley is another truly uplifting experience. The valley stretches for miles with sweeping views of the meadows giving you a panoramic view of the wildlife on offer, filled with herds of bison and elk. 

A girl pulls up, gets out of her car and swings a camera with an extraordinarily long lens on to her shoulder. Normally I would be impressed by this, but she is looking at something in the far-distance so I follow her gaze. Without skipping a beat, she says just one word – Coyote. Now, I’ve never seen a coyote before, and at the moment I still can’t see it, so I’m very impressed that she spotted it in the bushes from her car. Apparently, many people treat them with disdain because they’re scroungers, but I think we should admire them for their tenacity, if not their good looks. It looks like a wolf that failed the audition.  

We turn at the end of the valley for the 30 minute drive back to Canyon Village and are confronted by a lRoad Closed sign. I groan as it’s 37 miles back the way we came, so no early dinner tonight. However, what’s for you, won’t go by you, as some Scottish sage once said. We come across a host of photographers standing along the side of the road staring up into a hillside, their huge telephoto lenses almost blocking the road. We find a parking space by chance amongst the dozens of cars abandoned at various angles on the grass verge, like they had been swept away in a flash flood.  Looking up at the hillside we spot what everybody is here for – a grizzly bear called “Obsidian” with her three cubs.

Watching a bear and her cubs in the wild is profoundly moving. Everyone, everywhere, should get the chance to see a bear in the wild. It’s one of life’s great experiences. We watch them for half an hour while they graze and forage along the hillside, and as they move southwards, the whole crowd moves as one. I’m not sure what a group of avid photographers is called – maybe a Frame of Photographers? A Focus of Photographers, or maybe it’s just a Negative of Photographers!

They said they had been waiting to see Obsidian with her newborn cubs in tow for a couple of weeks since she emerged from her winter slumbers. If it hadn’t been for the road closure, we wouldn’t have seen them. I’ll never shout at road-works again. As the bears disappear over the hillside, we all drift away silently, content that in the last hour or so we’ve witnessed a scene that, in reality, only the lucky few in this world get to see.   

Time was moving on and we had a reservation at Lake Yellowstone Hotel for dinner. We pass through spectacular scenery in the half-light giving the surrounding hills a mysterious and intriguing feel, as if an artist’s deft touch has added light and shade to create a moving tableau round every corner.

The evening descends into chaos. long waits, missing food, harassed waiters complaining guests and very weary staff. Nicole, the manager apologised. I told her to sit down as she looked as though she’d had just about had enough. You know it’s really bad when the tables start groaning. Those sitting at those tables were equally angry. The meal is comped and the total bill comes to $16, plus three hours of my life.

I feel sorry for the harassed waiter, so I give him a generous tip before turning round to see my partner and Nicole disappearing down the hotel corridor arm in arm, now best of pals. Nicole was very excited to learn we were from Scotland, apparently because she is a McDonald, and so the two of them swap emails. Never to be used of course. It has been an unforgettable day softened by exhaustion and shared stories.

Day three drops in and we’re all packed up at Canyon Lodge ready to leave. We return to Artist Point once more. There is no rainbow today as the sun is too low, but the emotional pull happens again, partly because we don’t want to leave. Driving East we pass ice-rimmed lakes, shimmering in the morning sun.

At Fishing Bridge, we stop to raid Pendletons General Store where once inside, we decide not to pillage but actually pay money for some snacks. 

At Mary Bay near the exit, the storm damaged forest stands as a reminder how fragile even this vast wilderness is.

We exit Yellowstone at 12:45pm, and a little bit of my heart is left behind. I make a promise to myself that I will return. It may be the sad goodbye that plays a part, but some small sliver of my soul lives in these wild open spaces where the animals roam and the waters flow. Suddenly it starts to rain. Almost the only rain we’ve had on this month-long trip through the States. By coincidence a song starts playing on the car radio by the Scottish band Runrig. The beautiful and haunting “Going Home’’.

“In the distance day was dawning,
Comes to me the early morning,
Something tells me that I’m going home

The brand-new sun shining bright
From the darkness, fields of light
Something tells me that I’m going home”

Salt Lake City’s Temple is covered in scaffolding when we visit, undergoing a four-year renovation scheduled to finish in 2026, so no doubt many other tourists will be disappointed as well by not getting the full visual impact in this magnificent square. I guess it’s a metaphor for ‘work in progress’ for both the building and the Mormon Church. Membership of the Latter-Day Saints is declining in the US but growing elsewhere. Half their 14 million members live outside the States, but the estimated net worth of the Church at over $250 billion is staggering. Members are encouraged to pay up to 10 per cent of their salary to the Church, so you have to be a big believer that the money is going to put to good use. Back home in the UK, the reader might be surprised to learn that the Mormon Church owns many thousands of acres of land in Norfolk and Suffolk.

Talking of movement, there is a lot less movement on Salt Lake’s massive freeways – six lanes of chaos. The local residents may stay true to their religion, but their choices of lane along the freeway change by the second. It’s difficult to believe there is this much traffic this far north of Los Angeles. I remember visiting Salt Lake City some 25 years ago, walking into a bar and being told we needed a sponsor before we could drink there. The only other person in the place was Sam, who was clearly a regular and – surprise, surprise he agreed to sponsor us in return for a beer. Or rather several beers as it turned out, but he was good company. Having dinner later at an upmarket restaurant in the city, we had to finish the first course white wine and the bottles removed, before we could open the red. There would be a riot if that happened in a Scottish restaurant.

Onward from Salt Lake City, we travel through Logan Valley, visiting ‘Aggies’ for ice cream in her retro cafe. We find out it is a very expensive retro café, paying for all that retro I suppose.

That sets us up nicely for our foray into the hills as the snow lies thick, and where, at a particular dramatic viewpoint we unexpectedly meet a young couple from Iran, called Payum and Myta. I love these unexpected chance meetings with people, although it is a long way from home for all of us, but we see them again later in a couple of places down the road. Meanwhile, as we’re talking, a cross country skier casually slides by us in the snow…..and this is nearly summer ! We drive on past Beirdneau Peak and through beautiful farmland into Garden City at Bear Lake. It’s very quiet and resembles a ghost town by the water.

We continue through little settlements like Fish Haven, Bloomington and Paris. The one without the Eiffel Tower obviously. There are dozens of beautiful summer homes here, but not occupied yet for the summer season and with few signs of life. 

We reach Montpellier where unfortunately, the tiny bank that Butch Cassidy robbed is sadly closed for the day. Maybe they only get robbed on four days of the week. Just because Butch and Sundance sang ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head’ doesn’t make them good guys, but we get taken in by the romance of it all. Star Valley, Smoot and Afton with the antler arch over the street slip by, then Thayne, Alpine and Swan Valley disappear behind us.

We arrive in Victor at another Air BnB and step into Irma’s Place. This is a lovely house but there is no sign of Irma, although the door is unlocked and we had been told to settle ourselves in. A happy little dog runs up the stairs to greet us. Maybe the dog is in charge of check-ins? When Emma eventually arrives back from her day job, she keeps herself to herself and we go out and eat at the Knotty Pine Restaurant. We sit outside but as the weather gets noticeably chillier, we move indoors where the cosy atmosphere is countered by the noisy crowd and even louder waitresses. 

318 miles today

We are in Victor for two nights, so leave early in the morning to drive the 40mins to Jackson. I find out that my credit card has been charged twice, so we need to go back into the Knotty Pine to query it. After a language barrier of American English versus Scottish English, we resolve the problem and take the Teton Pass Highway round Taylor Mountain to Jackson Hole. An eagle swoops over us and disappears towards the lake, reappearing with a huge catch in his claws as he soars skywards.

As we arrive, Jackson is holding the Annual Antler Auction for the Boy Scouts of America in the main square. Scouts from the Jackson District hike the 25,000 acre National Elk Refuge to pick up antlers shed from the male of the species. They must have an extraordinarily sized boy scout membership in Jackson because there are hundreds and hundreds of antlers, stacked high on pallets roped together in bundled lots and stretching down three or four streets. The square is packed with people listening to the auction from small bleachers, and we learn that these antlers are surprisingly expensive, so I resist an impulse to make a bid. We wander off looking for coffee through the displays of discarded animal jewellery. 

An upmarket, trendy place called “Persephone” provides us with a breakfast of posh coffee and trendy muffins in the sunny garden.

We leave Jackson behind and try to find the famous Mormon Barn against the backdrop of the Grand Teton’s, but Google Maps takes me down a track that says access is closed. A three-mile detour down a second dirt track gets us to the iconic view. There are quite a few people around and no wonder, as the scenery is stunning with the mountains in full majestic form and replicates the millions of images produced of this scene over the years.

An hour later we’re buying bagels at Jenny Lake in a typical American General Store, but with the added attraction of a photographic gallery where there are some stunning, and remarkable pictures of the local wildlife. I comment to the photographer my admiration on one particular picture but my interest wanes dramatically when she tells me the price. I could buy a small motorhome and still have change. Somewhere to load the antlers I suppose.

On the way back to Jackson, there are bison behind us, bison beside us and bison in front. Huge herds scatter around the vast fields as we roll down the road to do the tourist thing in Jackson by having a drink in the Millionaire Dollar Cowboy Bar, where the stools along the bar are made of saddles and for some reason are all mounted by girls.   

132 miles today

We left Irma’s in the morning, although we didn’t see her and never actually saw her husband at all. A perfectly lovely Air BnB, sadly lacking a personality in both the building and the hosts. We have to drive back through Jackson to get to our next destination of Yellowstone which is no hardship, so have breakfast in “Persephone” again – this time it is a cheese scone and then we’re on our way to visit a place that has been my dream for twenty-five years. Yellowstone.

Arriving at the Grand Canyon is like no other arrival. When I was first here in 1991 we jumped on a helicopter – I must have had money in those days – and set off about hundred feet above the trees of the Kaibab National Forest. I thought it would easy to the see the Canyon once we were airborne, but the fascination of skimming the tree-tops left me totally unprepared for the sudden lack of tops, never mind trees, being replaced by a huge chasm of nothingness. The experience was breathtaking, awe-inspiring and not a little scary all at the same time. I may have screamed a little bit but the pilot was polite enough just to offer a knowing smile. The flight was short, fast, and tested my nerves as well as my bank balance, but each second was a gift from God, albeit with a little help from Airbus.

I love being able to see the reaction of friends and family when I show them the sights and sounds where I’ve been moved by the numerous majestic views I’ve experienced. I knew this latest visit was going to be no exception, and as I walk my partner Nicky up to the viewing point looking out over the abyss, the expanse of this wonderful place showing itself bit by bit, little by little, until the sheer scale of the Canyon bares its soul. Our eyes mist over.

We walk for a couple of hours along the South Rim and experience numerous moments of wonder, eventually getting the bus back via Back End Grand Canyon Complex. 

At the car park, Elk are walking around nonchalantly between the vehicles and we steer carefully onto the road, before heading off down Desert View Drive towards Cameron. The Canyon takes on a continuing kaleidoscope of magical shapes and sounds, while in the distance black clouds roll round the North Rim, the rain cascading into the valleys and chasms. The speck of a tour helicopter in the far distance seemingly flies through the downpour with the ease of the hawks that soar and swoop in this vast bowl. 

We tear ourselves away and head to Page, some two hours away, although in truth it seems somewhat longer as we sit in silent thought, now understanding fully what the Grand in Grand Canyon means. As the night draws in, the light fades and we pass little settlements seemingly sinking into the prairie grass, lit only by one or two street-lamps. It’s quite strange and eery in the gloom.

But never fear, we are saved by the great food God in the sky as the bright and gaudy arches of Macdonalds appear on the outskirts of Page. We’re back in fast food civilisation. As we queue there are only two other people in the restaurant, a man and a woman. I hear the lady talking with a Scottish accent, so I interrupt her in mid-flow as she’s ordering a couple of Sweet Chilli Chicken wraps with full sides and a Double Cheeseburger for dessert. It turns out they come from a town only fifteen minutes from where we live in Scotland. I call Nicky over, and we sit down together for what you could euphemistically call “dinner”. We all agree that we’ll not talk of this when we get home to our respective friends and family, just in case we are run out of town or ex-communicated for having a sneaky Big Mac. I bet our new best friends were mortified at being found. I decided not to tell them about our monthly pass for Subway……..

We ultimately find our accommodation at the “Suites on 10th Street”, set in a strange area beside a commercial estate. It looks as though they were formerly offices, but the accommodation is good, clean and comfortable. I search for the washing-machine which was part of the deal, however I don’t find it until the following day. It turns out it was at the rear of the building in a storeroom. Of course it was. Silly me, why did I not think of that ? In a rash decision, I decide to keep the clothes on that I arrived with. 

201 miles today.

We leave Page at 11am even though I thought it was an hour earlier. Apparently, we’d crossed some invisible mid-western time-zone, so we drive all of four minutes to Starbucks to have a coffee to get over it. By now the sun is hot, I’m bald and Nicky’s hair goes curly in the heat, so we bravely enter Safeway and buy two hats, which I regret to say we never wore. A bargain though at ten dollars each.

We head to Lake Powell and the boat ramp at the conveniently named Lake Powell Resort and end up having a disagreement over a photograph, so I take more pictures of Nicky just to be really irritating. Turns out they are really good pictures !  

At Dixies, the guided tour company at Lower Antelope Canyon just outside town, we get the time wrong again and turn up an hour too early. The tour of the slot canyon is a revelation. We walk down some steep stairs into a fantasy world of colour. Photographs will never do it justice, but these remarkable canyons are extraordinary and one of the highlights of our trip. The experience of walking through these coloured stone walls so tightly wrapped around us is like being in a Disney movie, marvelling at how many shades of brown, yellow and gold there are in the world. Nature at its most inventive.  Our guide, whose name escapes me, mainly because I can’t pronounce it, is a Native American but seemingly has a side-line promoting Apple iPhones. He shows us how to take incredible photos with our cellphones and I learn a lot. We spend nearly an hour in the canyon, and it is spectacular. I will remember this walk for a long time. One of America’s unique and fascinating experiences.

Horseshoe Bend is next via a quick trip to Subway and Safeway once again for provisions. We walk nearly a mile in 80 degree heat to the viewing point. It’s very busy but many others are here for the sunset due in a couple of hours. There are also one or two who have left their sensible hats at home because we watch them getting very close to the cliff edge including a girl with a baby. For those who have been here and looked down at Horseshoe Bend you’ll know that the fall is not a short one. I take pictures of them just in case their family want a memento of their idiot son or daughter’s last few seconds. Luckily, none oblige, and they live to die another day. The view down to the river is dazzling, and as the tiny speck of a speedboat heads northward, its wake spreads out across the river like an arrow slicing through butter.

Another 70 miles of road disappears underneath us as spectacular rain clouds unload over the gold-coloured wheat fields, and later, a sunset sets fire to those same fields. Quail Park Lodge is one of those anonymous lodgings so beloved of the American roadside but quickly contradicts the image by being comfortable, clean and with surprisingly welcoming hosts in Austrian’s Robin and Vins. How they found themselves here from the stunning valleys and mountains of Austria was a little beyond my understanding, but they are nice people. The property is quirky rather than Quail but breakfast is great with bagels, cream cheese and coffee.

Zion National Park comes next, through the East entrance and the mile long tunnel, where we stop to make acquaintance with a group of Utah’s wild horses. They weren’t exactly wild to see us, but at least gave us a flick of their manes to acknowledge our existence.  To get to Zion, we have to park in Springdale, before boarding a shuttle to the park, which at 20 dollars a day is pretty expensive. We ride up to where the Narrows Trail starts and walk for a couple of miles along the track in the company of hundreds of others on the same mission. It turns out the river has very high water and the Narrows are disappointedly closed. This time of year, with a lot of water run-off from the mountains, it dictates what we can and can’t do, which we knew before we got here. Hiking up to Angels Landing is also off, which is probably just as well considering it’s not for the faint-hearted. 

We walk back the few miles to the visitor centre along the Virgin River and watch climbers attempt a sky-high cliff, seemingly hanging by a thread. Lunch is taken in town at Oscars Café in their covered patio, before hitting the road again along route 1-70 to Panguitch and checking into the Lamplighter Hotel, another Bates Motel look-a-like and I get horrified looks from my travelling companion. Luckily, we are given the “luxury option”.  It’s basically the same motel room, but separated from the rest of the complex, sparing us the thin wall syndrome of noisy neighbours. I pass the accommodation test again. 

585 miles over the last two days 

Leave at 8am and stop for coffee at a little roadside hut beside a fuel station, and chat to an Italian couple who were going to Goblin Valley. The fact he is stuffing his face with a pastry, their choice of destination doesn’t come as too much of a surprise. 

The entrance to the greatly anticipated Bryce Canyon comes into view. We were encouraged by others to drive to the far end of the park and work our way back stopping at the various viewing points. Rainbow Point and Yovimpa Point overlooks, then Poderosa Canyon Overlook and Agua Canyon, which has some of the best colours in the park. Natural Bridge is next, spanning 85ft and cut by the wind and rain then from Farview Viewpoint, you can see the Grand Canyon North Rim. Bryce Point has the largest amphitheater of hoodoo’s, while Inspiration Point has the best view of the silent city, the massive gold coloured edifices weathering gracefully in the wind and rain.  The combination of rain and thunder is getting serious now, and we have a moment regretting that we have to leave and not able to hike the trail far below us, wending it’s dusty way through the hoodoo’s. We walked over to the General Store, buy chilli soup and sandwiches, and sit on the porch commiserating about our basic lack of understanding about what the weather was going to do. 

We leave the park reluctantly as we have a three-hour journey in front of us, which ultimately takes four and a half hours due to the unbelievable views along Scenic Byway 12, otherwise known as The Million Dollar Road, through Capitol Reef Park. We stop twenty times or more to gawp at our surroundings. 

At Green River, we find an absolute gem of a hotel at the “River Terrace Inn” which turns out to be one of our more comfortable accommodations on the trip. It overlooks the overflowing Green River just below our window. The Tamarisk restaurant is literally twenty yards away, and as it turns out, serves pretty good food. It wasn’t a long walk home. With a great night’s sleep behind us and the sun shining on the river in the morning we could have stayed much longer.

286 miles today

A 50 minute drive towards Moab is ahead of us, and the route through prairie and mountain scenery is simple fabulous. 18 miles into the park, we ditch the car and hike to “Devil’s Garden Arch” in 84 degree heat, compensated by some awesome views. After spending a few hours in the park, we miss out Moab town, shimmering in the heat haze in the distance, which is a shame, but we have another long four hours on the tarmac to tackle.

We backtrack to Green River for fuel and eats with our friends in Subway, then head towards Salt Lake City and our ultimate destination of Sandy. I was looking forward to seeing Nicky’s face when we drew up at this Air BnB. I knew it was nice, but I didn’t know it was $12 million nice. This was a huge mansion set in the wonderful sounding Dimple Dell Road and owned by the lovely Jeannie. The super luxurious accommodation was divine, and the home, or retreat, call it what you will, has a large range of artefacts, a couple of horses in the corral and a little lake to provide some calm. It was exactly the kind of place you dream about after a long few days on the road. We are shown to a large luxurious suite with an accompanying office although I have no intention of working during our stay !

We sit on the terrace for a couple of hours enjoying the peace and quiet of our beautiful surroundings, contemplating the amazing sights and sounds of the previous few days, before falling into a deep sleep.

Sedona to the Grand Canyon

We had hardly left our accommodation in Sedona before we stop at Firecreek Coffee house for sustenance. Out on the deck I meet 77 year-old Joseph, kitted out in his cowboy trench-coat, leather hat and walking rod, even though it’s already sweltering. He looks out of place in a coffee shop but is obviously a regular which makes for an interesting conversation. We talk a lot about Sedona and Scotland before he wanders off, no doubt to tend to his sheep somewhere in the hills. He’s probably an ex-accountant for all I know, but it’s nice to speculate about what he actually does in life.  

Our first stop of the day is Montezuma’s Castle for a taste of some Pueblo cliff dwellings, which turns out to have a very peaceful and pretty riverside setting, apart from a couple of noisy families. A couple of nights in the dwellings would sort them out. The Castle was carved into the cliff somewhere around the 1100’s and is five storeys high with an astonishing 45 rooms protected from the rain above and the creek below.

On towards Cleopatra Hill situated between Prescott and Flagstaff and the historic copper mining town of Jerome. This town is impossible to describe. I can only offer the suggestion that it’s a haunted ghost-ridden ex mining village with an arty, touristy feel about it ? Founded in 1876 with a settlement of tents in a roaring mining community, known in its heyday as the wickedest city in the west, it once had over 15,000 residents. When the mine closed it had 46 people remaining in town. Back then it also just happened to be the murder capital of the State, which is nice. As we walk up and down the many stairs and slanted sidewalks, we come across some curiously named stores, such as Wicked City Brew, Haunted Hamburger, the Bordello of Jerome (a restaurant, no less), Ghost City Inn, and the oddest of them all – The Cornish Pasty Co. This place is packed with customers. 20 minutes and 23 dollars later I leave with my Cornish pasty. That’s a bit steep even for a good pasty. To be fair, it IS large but needs a little more bite to it. 

One of the reasons we’re in Jerome is to visit the Gold King Mine and Ghost Town, which sits a mile further out of town in the hills. We carry on up through Jerome onto a dirt track into what looks like a quarry and arrive at a ramshackle set of old buildings surrounded by an array of broken down, rusting vehicles. There are nearly 200 cars, trucks, motorcycles and even fire engines here. It is an astonishing place.

We wander round a variety of buildings carrying signs for dentists, plumbers, blacksmiths and so on with thousands of pieces of machinery scattered around in addition to a working sawmill.

Somewhere among this melange of vehicle heaven, we turn a corner, and are suddenly attacked by little fluffy baby chicks who, it turns out, are part of a petting zoo on the property. You couldn’t get two more wildly differing attractions – a petting zoo and a ghost town.

With gold panning as a side-line, the Gold King Mine keeps coming up with surprises. And there’s more. The lady in the little gift shop is a cheery, happy go lucky soul who, after asking where we are from tells me she been to our home town and knows it well. This place continues to astonish me. I love it. 

Our ultimate destination for the end of the day is Williams, a hop, skip and jump from the Grand Canyon but I decide to take a little detour to Prescott as I’d been there many years ago – at that time in three feet of snow ! We arrive just in time to see the Arts and Craft Fair in the main square packing up, so we take solace in Frannies Ice Cream shop for a couple of large cones. Disappointingly, Frannie wasn’t in. How come these people are never in their actual shop when you visit ? I try and find the beautiful mansion that I stayed in last time, however without the snow as a backdrop I couldn’t get my bearings. 

I’d travelled through Williams before many years ago, but it’s changed somewhat. It turns out to be a little like Blackpool in the UK on a quiet night. We’re booked into the very last motel on the strip called El Rancho with very comfortable rooms and decide to take a walk down Main Street – actually the only street – looking for somewhere to eat. Nowhere looks too enticing so we end up back in the room with a tin of soup and collapse into bed. This is what the high life is all about !  239 miles today.

The sun is up early and so are we.  It’s not my first trip to the Grand Canyon. That was in 1996 when my first look at this amazing place was from a helicopter. We had flown over the treetops for about five minutes before the forest disappeared and over the cliff edge, where there was nothing between us and the bottom of the Canyon nearly 6,000 feet below, one of the most awe-inspiring things I have ever experienced. This time after reaching Grand Canyon Village, it’s a gentle walk up the slope from the car park to the Canyon edge. The experience is no less exciting and inspiring than before. It is still one of the world’s most incredible views no matter how many times you visit.

When I was here all those years ago, Instagram wasn’t a thing, so this time there are a lot more idiots trying to get that unique photograph that they think no-one else has got. I fall into the trap of taking photos now of a series of those idiots clambering onto rocks strictly forbidden by the park authorities, just so they can have their “close to God” moment. Not so much spiritual, more like dicing with death. I’m merely trying to record their last moments so they can have a fitting finale for their Instagram account.

Disappointingly they all decide to live another day, so we move on to Devils View Watchtower to see the sun get lower in the sky. There are so many different spectacular views to discover along this trail, it’s the land of a thousand photographs. Leaving the Canyon is hard. It is a most wondrous place.

135 miles

The previous night had been a late one – that’s if you call 1130pm late in Durango. We’d managed to grab the last two seats in the bar at the Strater Hotel just as a local Country and Western band took to the stage. I say stage, but it was more like a raised pallet, just enough to give some height to the musicians so those at the back of the room who weren’t paying much attention, could hopefully see them perform. 

Built in 1881 at the peak of the silver and gold mining era, the hotel retains many of its artifacts and indeed some of the characters still seem to be caught in a time warp. However, everyone is having fun as the band stomps out another country tune, and the one doing the most stomping is the sole lady musician, clearly the leader as she is dictating which songs are sung. When they take a break we get served by a cheerful young waitress dressed as an old-time saloon girl, but she fails the test as her sparkly black tights are torn. She apologises for her carelessness, having caught them on one of the bar stools earlier. She takes our order and wanders off. Two minutes later a young cowboy is trying to unhook her tights from another pesky bar stool that attacked her. This gallant act takes some time, much to the amusement of the locals and as the band plays on, there is a surreal look to the scene as the young lad is leaning over the girl, her leg pointing towards the balcony, and pints of beer being passed over the two of them from the bar. Maybe this is exactly what it was like in the 1800’s? That is, apart from the two Ford mustangs, three Chevvies and a bunch of trucks lined up outside. Horsepower is some-what different these days. 

With heads still sore the following morning, daylight arrives with a crash or so it seems, and we leave our accommodation reluctantly despite the birds out in force, begging us to stay. Heading back into town for the day, we pass by a forest fire cloud billowing its way skywards from one of the high hills beside the main road. We decide not to alert the fire services, as we assume there are better qualified people than us to determine whether this is a serious matter or not. In the centre of Durango, we spot a branch of Subway. Now, I’ve never entered a Subway before – ever, but it’s a quick and easy meal for us adventurers on a road trip……..and expensive – with a unwarranted tip on top. We take our hard-earned sandwiches to Santa Rita Park beside the river to eat. It happens not to be the best park to lunch in. A vagrant turns up and asks us for a spliff, which I had to decline as I wouldn’t know one if the smoke went up my nose. Not knowing what to else to offer him, other than a half-eaten Subway which he would no doubt turn his nose up at anyway, we are interrupted.

His mother and father have arrived. Having driven up to the grass verge in their car, they make no attempt to get out of the vehicle to greet their son. I’m now wondering if they know something we don’t. Now they’re talking through the car door window. At least they’re on speaking terms which relaxes me a little. His father passes over a pair of pants to him through the open window, and he promptly takes off his own trousers and throws them into the trunk, noticeably not handing them to Ma and Pa. My sandwich is hanging out of my mouth as I gawp at the state of undress this unfortunate is in. He steps into his newly starched Levi’s, and with a quick wave from Mum and Dad, the car speeds off while the lad walks lazily into the distance down the river path, admittedly with a slightly easier and more definitive spring in his step. You can always rely on Mum and Dad. Only up to a point though. They clothed him, they fed him, but obviously weren’t going to go the whole nine yards and invite him home for the night.    

We leave our newly clothed riverside resident so our own adventures can continue, and we move further downstream to the white-water rafting area, a cool facility in the middle of town offering canoeing, rafting and boarding. It’s great to watch for a while, the highlight of which is the confident “expert” participants then falling into the frothing waters on a regular basis. We all admire skill, but what we really like are moments of incompetence because that brings it down to our level where we feel much more comfortable, instead of trying to impress the many onlookers on the riverbank.

I want to get a better overview of Durango, so we head up past the University and find a look out area called Lions Den, more by chance than design. Here we meet Derek, the manager of the local Ranger Station who seems to be just hanging around. It turns out he’s keeping a close eye on the hillside opposite where the fire we saw earlier today is still burning. I feel some disappointment when he tells me it’s a controlled burn and he has a team making sure it doesn’t spread. I had hoped for something more dramatic like a raging, untamed inferno chasing some wild animals and furious residents out of the forest. However, I put that thought away quickly, half wondering whether I have tendencies for being an arsonist. That’s how it all starts I suppose. Scary. This thought is interrupted by a scream from my partner, who is sitting on a wall and finds a snake squeezing its way out of a gap in the concrete between her legs. It’s harmless of course, but for a Brit it’s a surprising experience. For our fellow hillside gazers, it’s a big laugh although to be fair, Derek takes the situation seriously and explains what it is and how to deal with it. Like walk away.

We thank our Ranger friend who has spent a good deal of time with us explaining about how a Ranger’s work is never done. He obviously hasn’t heard about painting the Forth Rail Bridge back home in Scotland. We say our goodbye’s as we head back to our hosts, Walter and Jodi for a rest and re-pack again. 157 miles today

Morning breaks, and we’re on the road again, via a little trip to our new friends at Subway just so I can check out that they really are asking for a 20 per cent tip for doing not a lot. Yes they are, but I still buy a foot long tuna sandwich as they’re actually quite good. It’s only a half hour drive to the Mesa Verde Visitor Centre along route 160, but we need to drive a further 20 miles into this huge park to get to the first vantage point. We chat to a nice lady from Florida who is pulling a relatively large SUV and trailer. She seems to be on her own and having driven from the Sunshine State I offer my admiration at the long-distance excursion she’s taking. This immediately sounds patronising, but she laughs it off and said “that’s why I have a trailer”. That’s me told. Florida Lady kindly takes our picture with the spectacular view, and as we part I see a weasel sitting on the rocks, which I thought was rather appropriate in the circumstances.

As we approach the cliff houses of the Pueblo people, carved out of the rock somewhere around 1190, the view of these dwellings is incredible. We work our way from Spruce Tree house to Balcony House and on to Cliff Palace which originally had a mind blowing 150 rooms.

As we walk back up the steps, someone shouts snake ! However now being experts in this kind of animal environment, we hardly flinch. When I eventually see it, I flinch several times. It was large, striped and extremely…..well, snakey. Photos snapped, both us and the snake slide off in opposite directions.

With Mesa Verde ticked off, we move on to Monument Valley, passing through wonderful the exquisite Mexican Hat. Well, the name is wonderful, the town less so. However, the Hat itself is wondrous. Just for a minute, I’m minded to climb up and tip it over. It was only a fleeting thought……….

I’ve been in the States over 50 times, but for a variety of reasons I’ve never made it to Monument Valley, so this is a truly exciting part of the trip. So exciting, I had rashly splurged out a fortune to stay two nights at the world famous (in America) Goulding’s Lodge so we could rest within sight of the huge rocky monuments themselves. As we came over a rise in the road, the late afternoon sun was creating a raft of colours across the landscape, with rustic reds and deep purple patches sitting against the backdrop of a misty pink sky. Laid out before us lies Forrest Gump’s highway disappearing into the far distance, with one or two headlights shining like little lonely stars in the vastness beyond. Our room has the most iconic view we could wish for, and I sit on the balcony drinking beer and munching on a sandwich. We savour the setting sun and the changing shades colouring the magnificent monuments, with names like Mittens, Elephant Butte, Totem Pole and North Window. I go to bed very happy, but only when it’s pitch black and I can’t see them anymore. 212 miles today.

Woke up at 602am this morning somehow sensing I’m missing something. I am, and when I open the curtain I can see why. The magnificent sunrise over Monument Valley has to be one of the great views in the world with the pink and purple hues embracing the desert sand, then up onto the already red rocks. We sit and watch until it’s time for breakfast. Yes, food wins again.

Unusually for America, we get cold coffee in the breakfast room, send it back and get tepid coffee in return. At least it’s improving. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be hot. In full daylight, the view from the hotel towards Monument Valley is only spoiled slightly by a gas station strategically placed in the middle of the desert. We have a couple hundred miles of space around us, so I’m curious why the planning person thought this was a suitable place for their monstrosity. Maybe they felt the view was compensation for the poor cashiers stranded in the middle of nowhere. Who knows ? My curiosity wasn’t curious enough to ask anyone the question. We had better things to do.

By midday the weather turns, and a huge dust storm rolls in from afar, obliterating our precious view of the valley. Nonetheless it looks spectacular, and as it quickly as it comes, it goes. We had booked a shuttle tour rather than drive round the valley, and they suggested we would be driving 17 miles around the reservation, however we probably only do about half of that. The guide is pleasant, but pretty useless. Either that or they think there isn’t much to talk about around here. I’m sure John Wayne would have something more definitive to growl about. I would even sacrifice the air conditioned shuttle bus for a rattling old stagecoach. To be fair it didn’t distract from the sensational, and I have to say, emotional feel about the place. Dwarfed by the monolithic rock formations, you can just see all those iconic scenes from just the dozens of famous movies filmed here. Stagecoach (of course), Easy Rider, Back to the Future, Westworld and Mission Impossible to name just a very few. 

Earlier in the day we had visited John Wayne’s Cabin and the museum on Goulding’s property. It’s so small you’d be hard pressed to get John Wayne’s leg in there, never mind the rest of his body. But the museum is fascinating.

The following morning Sedona was calling, so again we reluctantly leave another iconic scene behind us and drive off through the run-down communities of Tonalea and Tsigi. Scattered with broken buildings and graffiti ridden abandoned motels, they exude a bizarrely attractive quality in their desperate and derelict state, highlighting the dying breed of small community America.

Tuba City, Cameron and Gray Mountain follow, before we arrive in Flagstaff, where the town website proudly suggests there are 21 “must do’s” in the area. Since eight of them involved bars and coffee shops it’s not difficult to see the attraction. There are a couple of could-do’s though, including Lowell Observatory, Walnut Canyon and the Flagstaff Brewery Trail which takes care of all those bars they mention. In reality though, Flagstaff is just a stop off point for the Grand Canyon some 80 odd miles away. After refreshing ourselves with a couple of local beers, waiting in vain for an old timer to strum his guitar, and the obligatory trek round the limited number of shops, it was back on the road for the 30 mile drive south to Sedona.

Our AirBNB in Sedona had been described as a “Million Dollar View” which to be fair, pretty much described the extraordinary Red Rocks of Sedona seen from the property. Our room was lovely with some nice extra touches, a cool-water dispenser, milk in the fridge and so on. The hosts, Lou-Anne and Thomas, were very hospitable but kept themselves to themselves, probably because they couldn’t understand my Scottish accent. Och well…… We were too tired to go looking for a decent restaurant, so it was tacos and salad at some forgettable eatery in town before an early night.

135 miles today