From Smokey the Grave to the VLA on New Mexico's Byways

Smokey the Bear – he was a real bear. Who knew? He's dead now. I saw his grave. It was big.

Smokey the Bear, real life version, apparently was found after his cartoon counterpart was created. The bear itself came from Disney not wanting to allow the United States full access to Bambi. Bambi was the first cartoon animal used to help stop the spread of forest fires, but as the license was soon going to expire people got underway creating a new creature. Smokey was the answer – unlike squirrels it was far more realistic that a bear could put out a forest fire with his shovel and well worn dungarees all by himself.

A few years later a bear cub was found, having been separated from its mother after a fire. The bear was nursed back to health, and named Smokey. He was well loved. However, as all living things do, the bear died. He was given a full funeral and now has been laid to rest in a small town you've probably never heard of, and are not likely to ever visit.

Cutting a swath through New Mexico, this day would take us through many previously un-thought-of sites. Places we would have made note to visit if only we knew they existed. Next up would be the New Mexico lava flows. While I knew that they would be long since ended, turned from red hot liquid to hard black stone, I still wanted to see something – it seems unfair to name a place The Valley of Fire and not deliver on the promise.

The area was beautiful and trails were laid out for hikers. A five dollar fee deposited into a blind box paid through the honour system allows one the use of a camp site. Had we known, we may have made this the inexpensive end of our days travels, rather than one of the earliest beats.

A mile or thirty down the highway rested a small pull off, situated in a scenic area. Most pull offs will claim to be scenic, but fail in that regard. This one? It delivered. Desert plants, tiny lizards, and places to clamber around, in search of the perfect picture. All the while listening for the telltale rattle indicating that you will need to stand perfectly still for the next few hours, under the blinding sun, or die – die a terrible, terrible, death. Snakes are no ones friends – still, I managed to bury my bear hating hatchet for the day, I can forgive snakes their desire to see me no longer in the land of the living as well – but just for now. Just until I leave New Mexico, then it's back to the game.

Passing through the town of Lincoln was like stepping backwards in time. It seemed as if every building had a historic marker out in front of it. On the hills Spanish crosses marked the highest points, reminding me of Peru. I wondered if these were erected for similar reasons – but if that was so, it would mean a class of people worshiping the earth before the spread of Christianity. Whenever I move through a town of this size, of this historical forgotten importance, it strikes me that people live here. People live their daily lives going about their business. I don't know where they get their food, where they could work, or where they would go to school, but they do.

Much like some countries may seem theme parks for the wandering eyes of the traveller, in a country this size cities and towns take on similar roles.

But then we were gone.

Through hundreds of miles of nothing, loving every moment of it – New Mexico still offering unparalleled driving experiences – we travelled. An unassuming byway poked off of our current unassuming byway, and poised to drive on by, Katherine looked up from the map giving reason to make the turn.

It seems as if just down this road, once we'd turned and rumbled over a cattle gate, we would be headed to an American military missile site. Now, one might wonder just why one would go down a small road to a missile range, and I will tell you – this is a very historical site. It may be true that we didn't get all the way, fences and patrol cars blocking out path, encouraging a U-Turn after some pictures were taken – but we got close enough to see. This was the site of the very first atomic bomb detonation. Open two days a year people can get an up close and personal look at the area, but this was not one of those days. We satisfied ourselves with a peak from beyond the fence.

Having, now, experienced yet another piece of the historical tapestry which led to the end of the second world war, and a great and terrifying cold war – not to mention the killer track 99 red balloons – I wondered what it might have been like to have seen that blast all those years ago. I also wondered just how many people were exposed to the terrible effects of radiation out of sheer ignorance.

Off into the day's heat we reached the town of Socorro checked out their mission, filled up on gas, and then headed for our next destination. The VLA.

The VLA is the Very Large Array. Think of it as 27 satellite dishes all pointed... somewhere, listening, viewing, being an Array – a very large one. If you've seen Contact, you've seen it. If we discover Aliens, pop culture has told me this is how it will happen. Two hundred miles we drove to see this beast. Work that out into gas and the price is more than I would like to admit – but it was a site to see. A sight to see. One that I do not think can be fully appreciated until it has been walked around. A free self guided tour waits for all those willing to make the trip – and a movie explains that with the VLA images can be gathered just as good as with an optical lens. Which begs the question why not just use that – but I'm sure there are very sciencey reasons.

The rain started to fall just as we ended our tour, and began our way onward.

Having finished the American History book Katherine began to read Michael Cheriton's Timeline. It takes place in New Mexico, and we were faced with a decision – drive the sketchy back roads to the towns mentioned in the novel, or take the main roads to Albuquerque. We both decided the first option would be the most fun – but as the rain poured down, it was, unfortunately, thought better of. We booth chose to head the safe route.

Which was probably for the best, as no gas stations were marked for 100 miles, and we had enough left to go 105 miles in the best conditions. It could have been scary in the rain, in the dark, on streets void of traffic. Still – we'll never know what could have happened there.

Never the less, we made it to Albuquerque safe and sound, with a brand new full tank of gas. And we found an acceptable place to sleep there too. Why stop here of all places though? I assure you it had nothing to do with all those wrong turns Bugs Bunny used to make.

Texico, New Mexico to the Roswell

Bouncing down dirt road towards Fort Sumner and the “real” grave of Billy the Kid the morning was far behind me.

The sun was directly overhead when I stepped out of the car into the hot New Mexican sun. There was no humidity in the air, it was just a good hot heat that lets you know exactly where you are. A museum stands in the middle of a dirt lot. Behind in the grave site. The museum charges a fee, and didn't seem to offer much. A small path leads you behind to the cemetery. Four or five plots sparsely populate the grass – Mr. The Kid's is obvious from first glance.

An iron cage contains two tombstones. The first, a large white stone which has deteriorated over the years stands prominently. But it's not the original. It was created in the early twentieth century. The smaller stone, in much better condition, proclaiming that, “he died as he lived,” is the original. And the reason for the cage.

The stone has been stolen and returned more than once over the years – and now stands protected. Well, kind of. The stone is close enough to the edge of the cage, and thin enough that anyone who really wanted to could still grab it with some effort. There's a lesson here – if you are famous or notorious get a bigger stone. Or – be happy that yours is one that warrants theft. There's something to that too.

Two hours out of the way, I had driven along roads – small and large – to see this stone. Some might wonder why. Do I even care about this person? Not really – I don't know that I'd have even known about him if not for the school project by Ted Theodor Logan, and William S Preston. Still – it's an important part of American culture and what's the point of being on a road trip if not to drive way off course to see one thing of little importance. The drive alone was worth it.

From the moment we entered New Mexico, crossing over at Farwell, Texas and Texico, New Mexico the country changed. We were no longer free in the country, but rather lost amongst the small towns that lined once great highways. It's strange to think of the power roads once had for determining community placement. It's the type of power that fast food chain, McDonald's now seems to wield. Most of the shops have long since closed down. There are more boarded up doors than open ones. The world is a blend of oranges and yellows and reds, except when it falls into darkness – the sun blotted out by the oppressive shadows of grain refineries – the only reason for the few thousand people still living here to stay.

One mile outside the town limits, green grass returned, a landscape unlike anything I'd seen since Africa. An hour passed along the one lane roads which split the ranches one from the other. The horizon was painted with red rock splitting the land from the sky; the view in the rear view mirror matched exactly what I saw before me. Two hundred kilometers without a gas station – the south west is no place to fool around. It wasn't until Sumner that we could replenish our dwindling supplies.

Waking up in Amarillo we made sure to fill our tank along 6th street – part of historical route 66. One time, the road to drive through the country, little authenticity still remains. What once was great, is now a ghost – and must be pieced together by travelling many streets, research required to make the journey that only a few decades back was the way to see this proud land.

Not all of Americana has abandoned the old route, however. Down on I-40 between exits 60 an 62 lies the Cadillac ranch. Even after the sun had set, last night, cars still pulled up. This morning, with the sun just rising into the sky, shadows stretching out across the barren field, there were dozens collected. Once the motorcycle club decided to move on down the road, the ranch cleared – but there would still be a continuous stream of people to check out the ten cars shoved into the ground, growing like brilliant flowers of all colours.

It's tradition to bring your own spray paint here. Everyone adds their own touch making the piece a constantly changing thing of beauty. Empty bottles an coloured caps litter the area, which leads to the question – who cleans up this area? Someone must otherwise the ten caddies would be buried in filth.

Girlfriends proclaim their love on the hoods of these beasts, while others simply splash the vibrancy around. Under the golden light of the low sun these testaments to the strength of Americana are things of beauty – but I couldn't stay forever. We were headed to Roswell New Mexico.

That was the plan, anyway – until the woman working the Texico information center pointed us out towards good ol' Billy. When we left there, hours were still required on the road. It's unfortunate that I feel the drive is beyond description, or were it to be described it would be so cliché as to take away from it. It has been one of the greatest drives I've ever had the luxury of undertaking.

Two hours – two gas station-less hours – and we entered Roswell. You'd have to be a fool to miss the fact that something had changed. It's one thing to not see the town line sign. It would be another to not notice the UFOs that cover the town. The local Wal-Mart is emblazoned with an extraterrestrial image. The loans centre has a ship on its sign. McDonald's is covered in images of space. Aliens fill shop windows, even if they're just music stores. The street lights are Martian faces. This type of nonsense I have not seen since the Dinosaur obsessed town of Drumheller Alberta.

First stop? The visitor centre to get our picture taken with little grey beings. Then down Main Street to the UFO museum and research centre. The admission is five dollars – and normally I'd not pay for the delight of coming here, but... I came to Roswell. Why was I here if not for this one museum?

Inside were sworn affidavits by witnesses and the family of witnesses. Information about UFOs around the world, and all sorts of pictures. There were a number of things worth seeing, but none that were presented any better than they would be on the internet. In fact, the gift shop sells Majestic hand books that have simply been downloaded and photocopied – and for this high quality piece they charge – twenty dollars.

But in a town with only one real thing making it stand out from the rest of the country they need to take advantage of whatever they could.

When you exit you can put your entrance sticker (that which lets you access the museum) on a metal space man. I can't imagine that this is a good thing to encourage though, as – if you know – you can just go grab one of the stickers from the street and walk on in. The only catch? They have different stickers for each day. But, just wait for someone to leave, and then all will be revealed.

Outside, back on the street, Coke machines have pictures of little green men drinking soda. and I have to wonder, do locals hate the aliens, love them, love them but pretend to hate them, or hate them while pretending to love them?

One last thing laid before us – taking the road out of town you could drive around the airport where old passenger jets lay discarded, chopped up for parts, and looking like something from a post apocalyptic era. Who knew there was more to this town than just downed space ships and ongoing tales of government conspiracies?

...There also happens to be a zoo here. A free zoo. But the less said about that, the better. It's one of those sad terrible places, where two mountain lions pace back and forth in a small cage, beside a bean wanting nothing more than to escape his small cell. Even the bald eagles, symbols of American freedom, find themselves caught, cramped, and contained. This is not a happy place – many of the visitors can be overheard remarking as such.