…below the canyon

We round the bend toward Flagstaff – or so it seems – and the gorse and fur of the dessert plains suddenly rise into a trio of blue mountains. We pass through them and it is as if that little ridge has buffeted the sagebrush and behind its fortress they have learned to grow into towering pines. The alteration in the landscape is remarkable; as strange as the moment the red, clay cliffs and round green shrubs of New Mexico gave way to the pale, flat lands of “the big country” as Connie-the-injured-cowboy called it. Winding farther on we are suddenly in the midst of a full blown forest, then a clear mountain lake and then our campsite tucked far and away, so serene that when the wind bends the tall trees it makes the music of the ocean. 

2 Replies to “…below the canyon”

  1. Beautiful. I’ve been there and the countryside around Flagstaff makes me want to up and retire early there. John McPhee wrote a nifty book, The Annals of the Former World. He travels across the US along the 48th parallel and describes the changing terrain, culture and people as he goes. It’s fascinating.

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