We were going to just head back east on I-40, but suddenly, riding across western Arizona, I knew what we had to do; and when we came to the Highway 77 exit, I said, "There's something you've got to see." And so we wound up back at good old Canyon de Chelly.

Phyllis wanted to go down into the canyon, especially when she found out there were Indian ruins you could walk up to; she'd really gotten into that.

The water was very low this time, easy to cross.

And the ruins, of course, were as wonderful and mysterious as ever.

"No, no! Sheep lie!" (Old joke.)

We stayed at the campground a couple of days, riding around the area seeing what there was to see, washing clothes at the laundromat in Chinle (Phyllis trying to strike up a conversation with a Navajo woman, and getting ignored as only Navajos can ignore you; the only time I've ever seen her strike out with a stranger) and generally screwing around. Finally, with some reluctance, we loaded up Suzie and hit the road again, up through the Four Corners and into New Mexico.

At a town with the staggeringly inappropriate name of Aztec, we paused long enough to check out yet more ruins. These were pretty heavily restored and rebuilt, but still it was worth a look; this was one of the most extensive sites we'd seen. I couldn't imagine living as they did, in those little rooms without windows or, in most cases, outside exits; to get in or out you had to go through other people's quarters. I bet their language didn't even have a word for "privacy."

They must have been damn short, too, or else very flexible; even Phyllis, at barely over five feet, hit her head negotiating the doors.

From Aztec we went on across northern New Mexico; and I wish I had some photos, because we crossed some fantastic country, especially up near the Colorado line. But I'd used up all the film I'd brought (remember film?) and there wasn't anywhere to buy more until Taos, and then I was back on familiar ground, and nothing left but the long road home.