Moving north from the land of the Cochimi in central Baja; to the Apache in southern Arizona; Navajo and Hopi in the Four Corners and newly created Bear’s Ears, and over to old Comanche lands in southern Colorado before finally making north to the Arapahoe lands and home to Boulder. Home. I state the names as a way to remember the history, which is so apparent along the drive, especially from the naming of things – Huerfano Creek, the Spanish Peaks, The Ludlow Massacre, Santa Fe. Names of events and imaginations long past but easy to remember if their stories and meanings are told.
Crossing the border the day before the inauguration of the man with walls in his mind. Interesting, the wall already exists through much of that region. Well, maybe it’s a fence – a tall black fence with desert on the southern side and a mix of dune buggies, retiree’s RVs and aerial drones on the northern side.
Celia was insistent on knowing when we were “at the border”, and as we wound north from Ensenada to Tijuana she kept asking “is this the border?” I told her she would know when we were there. She asked “How?”
We watched the inauguration on a rainy day in San Diego at a Quality Inn and Suites. The next day we were in Phoenix in time for Shan and the kids to attend the Women’s March on Washington.
I was, unfortunately, unable to attend – pulled away by another hitch crisis. After trying to find welders or body shops to take this on on a Saturday, I decided to do some good, ol’ fashioned rigging with vice grips, webbing and c-clamps
And it worked. I made it home without, err, a hitch.
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