Santa Fe Overload
After a few days of cocktails and sunsets in Taos, we figured we’d better take a short break from civilization before diving into Santa Fe. Just east of town, a rugged mountain called our name. On the map, it had a dirt road that wound its way up a canyon — my kind of breadcrumb trail. So we turned Marcel’s nose toward it and headed off for yet another round of “Let’s See Where This Road Goes.”
Turns out, this “road” was more of a boulder collection pretending to be a trail. My off-road app optimistically rated it a 1 out of 10. I’m convinced the developer has never left their desk. Marcel crawled along at a snail’s pace, rocking and bouncing through the canyon, his cabinets clattering like a mariachi band.
Canyons, we’ve learned, are double-edged swords — scenic, sure, but not great for Starlink or sunshine. We hunted for a spot longer than planned before pulling into a humble little clearing halfway up the mountain. It wasn’t perfect, but it was quiet, and that’s worth gold. We spent the night there, then continued the crawl the next morning, nearly making it to the summit before settling into a fair-enough spot off a side road. That’s where we stayed for a few days — resting, working, and watching the light play on the canyon walls. Another pocket of mountain peace, found by accident as usual.
When we finally dropped back into civilization, we went full tourist and headed straight for the Santa Fe Plaza. We lasted about an hour. Too many people, too many hats with feathers. Marcel was waiting, faithful and quiet, ready to whisk us away to somewhere simpler. Enter: the Santa Fe Fairgrounds. Not glamorous, but practical — level parking, water, and enough space to stretch our legs. Perfect staging ground for a few days of exploration and errands. Kerri, on a quest to try every green chili burger in New Mexico, made sure our “sightseeing” was 80% restaurants.
The only place in Meow Wolf we felt some comfort
The other 20%? Meow Wolf. Now, I had no idea what I was getting into. Kerri described it as “an immersive art experience,” which sounded harmless enough. What it really is: a sensory hurricane inside a two-story house stuffed with neon lights, sound tunnels, and secret portals — all while hundreds of people (and a few dozen sugar-fueled children) wander through trying to solve the mystery of a missing family. It’s like walking through a Salvador Dalí painting while trapped in a Chuck E. Cheese.
We lasted two hours before our introvert brains short-circuited. I lost the ability to form sentences somewhere near the glowing refrigerator portal. We stumbled back to Marcel, parked at the fairgrounds, and both went down for naps like cranky toddlers.
Three nights in civilization was enough. We refueled, refilled the water tanks, and restocked the fridge, then pointed Marcel south down the Interstate. We didn’t know exactly where we’d end up — just that it would be quiet, remote, and preferably without neon lights or screaming children. Peace and quiet were calling again. And we were already answering.
