highway country

It will be Spring soon and the desert will be blooming with indian paintbrush and desert marigolds. I'm in the mood. I'm in the mood to head East across the Navajo Nation in a pick-up, chewing sunflower seeds with the shells on and listening to highway country. (or maybe even the soundtrack to Dances With Wolves.)

I know I would stop at Glen Canyon Dam, walk to the middle as my ritual demands, and stare down into the deep green water of my canyon, shut my eyes and feel the big trucks blowing up wind behind my back. From there, I would follow the electric train line along highway 98 all the way to where it picks up its coal and... keep going. Keep going... stopping only behind the Navajo school bus to count kids hopping out into the dust... one little, two little, three little indians. Dad would think that was funny.

Nearing Monument Valley, I think I'd stop at the Burger King Dad swore was the world's best. And later, past four corners, for an original breast and coleslaw at Cortez's KFC.

I'm in the mood. I'd like to see the desert blooming. I'd like to see Dad's desert- the way it was that one special spring- after the winter of the freak rainfall- like on that postcard he sent.

After crossing the Dolores river, banks overflowing, I would start to climb. I'd wind up the San Juan mountain range at sunset, brush the timberline at dusk, and descend in darkness to that pretty little horror town... the way I've done it a million times over.

I'd like some time to think about it.
And watch the sun sink like a stone.
On a long drive alone.