he spoke to me in a language lost. – Backworld

The road from Taos to Farmington cuts through bone-dry land and time. It begins in the shadow of Taos Mountain, where the air feels like it holds everything—war, survival, songs older than any book. The pueblo stands behind me, its adobe walls cracked but breathing, holding the stories of a thousand fires.

I leave as the sun rises low, painting the world in gold and blood. The sky stretches wide, too big to hold onto, and the Sangre de Cristo peaks glow like embers, watching as I drive, chasing my shadow. My hands grip the wheel, my heart pounding with a rhythm that matches the hum of the rough terrain tires. (a must for any desert rat)

I am heading north to see her. To cross through time and space and all the weight that lies in between.

The road curves, and the landscape shifts. Past Abiquiú, the earth opens wide, mesas rising like the backs of sleeping giants. These stones have been here longer than memory, their edges worn by the wind and the prayers of the ancianos. The ghosts of the Tewa, the Diné, the ancestors, and the spirits of this land still walk here, their voices carried in the soft susurro of the sagebrush.

The ruins of Chaco Canyon call from the west, their silence louder than any hymn. Here, the Ancestral Puebloans raised walls to touch the stars, their kivas spiraling downward like roots into the earth. They built with precision, with reverence, aligning their lives to the solstice, the equinox, the turning of the heavens.

But the ruins are quiet now, abandoned long before the Spanish came with their crosses and swords, long before America’s stars and stripes marched across this land. What drove them away? Drought, war, or something deeper?

The questions linger, but the road keeps pulling me forward.

This is New Mexico’s heartbeat—a mix of bloodlines and languages, of Spanish ballads and Navajo chants, of mariachi trumpets and country guitars. It’s a love song and a battle cry, a contradiction that wears its scars proudly.

But even here, the churches loom. The adobe walls of the missions cast long shadows, their bells still calling the faithful to kneel. I think of the frailes who came here with their gospel and their greed, offering salvation with one hand and taking land with the other.

The road grows wider as I push toward the Four Corners. The land stretches wide, barren and beautiful, dotted with the occasional hogan or trailer, the windows glowing morse codes from the sun- A sputtering of hayfields and hungry horses. I think of the Diné, their prayers whispered to the Holy People, their stories woven into the constellations. I think of Changing Woman, of the sacred mountains that define their world.

But I also think of the uranium mines that scarred their land, the poisoned water, the treaties broken and forgotten. The promises that turned to ash.

Farmington rises like a mirage, a scatter of smog against the dark haze of change. The air smells different here, tinged with oil and dust, the echoes of industry humming faintly beneath the surface.

She is waiting for me, her text lighting up my phone: Buenos dias Bonita

I park next to her car, the engine ticking as it cools. The door opens, and there she is, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, her smile soft and familiar.
.
Her arms wrap around me, and for a moment, the weight of the road, of history, of everything, fades.

Later, as we lie together in her small apartment, our bodies spent from love making with her head resting on my chest, I trace the scars of this place in my mind—the mountains carved by time, the rivers stolen and dammed, the people forced to bend and break.

But there is something else here too. Resilience. Resistance. A kind of love that holds on, even when the world tries to tear it apart.

She whispers something sweet, something soft and impermanent , and I feel it settle deep in my bones. The road between us is long, but tonight it feels small.

Outside, the stars watch, unblinking, as if they’ve seen this all before.