Leaving Carlsbad, we headed south once again to Texas due to the snow that was making the drive north of Roswell treacherous.
Highway 62 drops across the old sea bed and follows the escarpment of the reef that forms Carlsbad before rising to skirt the Guadalupe Mountains. In what may prove to be one of the hardest decisions (and regrets) of the trip, we passed on the clear night of camping under the Texas moon for the drive to Las Cruces and another Interstate motel. We’re starting to feel a bit of pressure to get to Seattle.
The drive makes another another 80 miles of not much but abandoned road side buildings and swells, until you crest one final mountain ridge and below you the lights of El Paso fill the wide valley of the Rio Grande. We drove through town to find the Interstate heading north in the dark and called our friends to wish them Happy New Years and to hear familiar voices.
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I was born in West Texas, you know.
I had no idea! One of my good friends is from Del Rio. Her mother’s side of the family runs a goat farm there still. Every few years, she flies in from Europe to visit. As we drove through, we thought it must be an incredible “mind fuck”.
Of course, you think about those kids who leave some place like Del Rio for MIT or Harvard. That too…wow. We live in a very large country.