There's a difference between those who want to travel out to the Wild West to see the great Black Mesa of New Mexico, the Georgia O'Keefe blue skies, and seek the vortex while performing yoga in Sedona. Or there's me, the one who wants to experience the metaphysical cowboy, Mexican, and Native American dynamics in Cormac McCarthy's Crossing Border Trilogy. I know these desires only come from a crazy woman, so I'll just make sure I do those first three things mentioned just a minute of words ago.
My thirteen year-old son and I are about to embark on an adventure of a lifetime. Oh, these words always sounds so cliche. The opening of The Hobbit doesn't work, so how about, “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.” This sounds about right: Aiden screaming out of the window and me at the wheel pointing to the cacti ridiculing us with their inappropriate poses.
The fun we will have, the adventures unknown, the fights, the tears, the bad tacos and the good ones, and the friends we will get to see again after many years, all await us out west. No wolves or pretty horses to tame, at least I don't suspect, and all the fear and loathing of Las Vegas will be set aside for this mostly proper trip with planes, trains, and automobiles, minus the trains.
