Natural gas and gray aliens

AZTEC, NM—The approach of the Vernal Equinox brings a sense of urgency to go out and finish up all the unfinished summer business floating around out there. And this is precisely why we jumped into the car and hauled ass north for one more week of riding and fun before the onset of the pre-winter clampdown—with its early darkness and cooler-than-comfortable temperatures that force unrealized summer aspirations to be mothballed for another year.

This week we find ourselves on the road meandering toward Las Vegas, where I am endeavoring to spend a week in Clown College as a hedge against potential unemployment. The world needs more clowns. It is a lost art, and most of today's painted-faced gypsies are using their makeup to hide from law enforcement officials or leg-breakers looking to recover lost debt.

As such, I will make sure my chosen Clown Name—a moniker bestowed upon initiates by their mentors during the the sacred right of passage into Clowndom—has never been used by any former Clown felon or idler. I intend to make clowning an honest profession again. Like George W. Bush said, I will restore dignity to the Big Top.

It seemed natural that our first stop along the way would be an alleged UFO crash site. We haphazardly threw an enormous load of crap into the vehicle as we beat a hasty retreat from the Atomic City as darkness fell. It was on Highway 550 that we first noticed the headlight malfunction. An attempt to switch on the lowbeams plunged the vehicle into total darkness, never a good thing when you're out on unfamiliar, rain-slicked roads. So we endured the rest of the trip with every on-coming semi truck blasting us with high-beams that slashed their way through the veil of night and smashed into our retinas like lasers.

We arrived at the Back Off Inn in Aztec, NM, just before midnight. The victorian lace and wallpaper gave the place the feel of a haunted house and we slept fitfully between the slightly yellowed sheets. Mercifully we were not visited by silent apparitions or unexplained raps or knocks on the walls, other than an ominous torrent that chattered its way down a pipe behind the walls from the upstairs occupant's chamber pot.

The next morning we feasted on the Inn's signature hot, fresh cinnamon rolls. Our guidebook had crowed about homemade sugar-n-spice, but our breakfast consisted of microwaved Enteman's and strong Farmer Brother's coffee served on metal outdoor patio furniture that had been crammed inside the establishment's parlor (or "parlour" in the Victorian parlance that permeated the inn like an omnipresent potpourri).

Aztec, NM, is oil and gas country. You can smell it in the air, though not as obviously as in Bloomfield down the road. The air is rank with the sulphurous odor of money. Pumps are sprinkled liberally throughout the sage, bobbing up and down like giant grasshoppers, slurping valuable petrochemicals from the soft, gray Earth.

On a bluff above Hart Canyon a few miles from the edge of town, the drone of the pumps is drown out by whispers of conspiracy. Legend speaks of a flying saucer crash on this unlikely patch of ground back in 1948. The huge UFO reportedly carried more than a dozen little gray aliens in shiny silver suits. The lifeless bodies of these extraterrestrials were strewn across the crash site.

Locals say the government clandestinely cleaned up the mess using trucks disguised as oil and gas vehicles. It is rumored that the craft, among the largest ever recovered, was spirited away to Los Alamos National Laboratory for study, the alien corpses moved to Wright-Patterson in Ohio. Local folklore says the background radiation at the site is slightly higher than surrounding areas.

I don't know about all that, but what I do know, is the Alien Crash Site sure is a good place to ride a bike!

Several years ago a couple of locals, Al and Deral Saiz, scraped a trail into the forbidding landscape that heaves its way over long ledges of slickrock, twists its way through tight stands of piñon and juniper trees, and winds its way around the very site of the crash. A simple marker with a home-made plaque describes the mysterious events of 1948.

As I rode through the area, ducking low-hanging limbs and dodging around tight corners with branches that grabbed at me like alien fingers, I tried to imagine the implications of an alien crash. Well, not actually. I was concentrating really hard on the excellent trail. Round smooth rocks made navigation and control a constant challenge, and the plethora of low-hanging limbs along the route made decapitation an ever-looming possibility for a big guy like me. I have to suppose that the Saiz brothers are of short stature, else they would have trimmed these branches after getting bonked in the head for the umpteenth time along the route.

I expect that if the Aliens were chasing me in this landscape, I'd end up sporting the rectal probe. On this tight track through trees, a giant like me can only manuever so quickly. Three-foot-tall aliens could ramble through the brambles like Munchkins hopped up on methamphetamine if human prey were nearby, although the preponderance of branches might pose a hazard for their huge, staring almond-shaped eyes if the gauntlet were thrown down. Maybe I'd escape after all and the little bugggers would be left staggering around with dripping eye sockets and tender feet accustomed only to soft Martian soil bristling with cactus prickles.

After the ride we enjoyed a fine sandwich at the Main Street Bistro in downtown Aztec. The area is enjoying a resurgance. A local group is carving in a set of new trails and Main Street has been redone with period lamps to entice tourists for a weekend or an afternoon or even a short alien visit.

Hours later, after driving through some of the prettiest, lonliest country out here in the West, we ended up in Page, AZ, stepping off place for all procurers of houseboats for a week's vacation at Lake Powell. The Glen Canyon Dam made recreation possible for herds of drunks, and I celebrated this achievement with an interpretive dance on the red rocks high above the water at sunset.

Clown College grows nearer and I can already sense its energy—like flying saucer residue pulsing softly in the desert.