Magical Southwest Itinerary
Hannah Green
Dear Community,
My current theme is:
INTEGRATING WORK AND WONDER
I am enjoying integrating the lessons of 2020 into new ways of being and working. Supporting clients doing the same has been so exciting!
Below is "a therapist's travel blog." May it inspire you to bring wonder into your life and work in ways that feed your soul and replenish you.
I am a better therapist when I stay close to my sense of wonder and remember to add lots of life into the work ~ life equation.
Below are links to great places to stay and explore from my recent trip through the California, Nevada, Utah and Arizona along with some musings and reflections from the road. I hope you enjoy.
Magical Southwest Itinerary Links:
The Nest Airbnb Tahoe
Sage Room Tahoe
Suzie Kondi
Monroe Inn
Loneliest Road in America
Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon
Eureka Colonnade Hotel Airbnb
Moab Springs Ranch
Moab Airbnb near Castle Valley
Milts Stop and Eat
Goulding’s Lodge
Cottonwood Duck Pond Airbnb
Larry’s Antiques Cottonwood
Jerome AZ
Tucson Boho Camper Downtown
Hotel Congress, Cup Cafe and Tap Room
Discosaics
Object Limited Bisbee
More Object Hotel Bisbee
Object Hotel Artist Residency
Classic Rock Couture
Scorpio Rising Clothing
Patisserie Jacqui
Pioneertown Motel
Pappy and Harriet’s
Mercey Hot Springs
Native Lands App
My current remote working essentials:
Mac Book Air
Lap Top Stand
Lume Cube
Lap Top Case and Cord Organizer
We started in San Francisco driving west to Sacramento, made only slightly interesting to me by Gretta Gerwig’s movie Ladybird. Tahoe was our first stop. I had never been. For years I have been hearing about my millennial clients' ski trips. I heard Ken Wilbur lived in Tahoe and thought it must consequently have some measure of magic. As we climbed the hill the pine trees began to blossom around the winding road. Our next to vintage white Mercedes was gliding and pushing her way up the incline. We sang along with the Eurovision movie soundtrack until suddenly white smoke filled the rear view mirror. I pulled over, a little embarrassed to have been dousing the cars behind us in mysterious smoke. I run into the bushes to pee while my husband surveys the damage.
He is so loving. He not only dotes on me but on our car and on all our belongings. He listens to things and takes better care of them than I ever have. I am becoming a little more like him as I age - a little. He is empathizing with the car. I am scared we will have to go home. I am “post pandemic" ready for this road trip. I have three weeks of curated kitsch and comfort stretched out before me and I am like a rocket that's already launched...no turning back. A friendly highway patrolman has pulled over to check on us and he says, “maybe the car sucked up a plastic bag.” Apparently this is something that happens. Miraculously the car cools down and stops smoking and she quietly agrees to continue to our airbnb about 15 miles away. We make it to Tahoe easily and spoiler…this is the last of our car trouble. We arrive humbled, grateful and hugging a lot.
There are so many things I love about traveling. One is that I don’t find out what the challenges of a particular journey will be until they are unfolding in real time. I can not prepare for everything and this is why traveling is a spiritual practice. I am in God’s hands every day of my life but when I am traveling I know it. Things like prayer, presence, mindfulness and gratitude are what I eat and breathe on the road. The things I strive for in day to day life become necessity and the bread and butter of any trip.
We land in Tahoe and the next few days are all about trying to care for our car and establish her ability to make it the 2000 miles we have stretched out before us. I spend our first morning calling or visiting every mechanic in town. It is Saturday, the day before Easter. No one is around but I get an unlikely tour and taste of Tahoe in the process. Our airbnb host calls a huggable mechanic friend who ensures us we only have a small oil leak and to just be mindful. See, mindful. Necessity. In turn we are grateful for our car like never before. I start thinking of our car as a white pony that needs care and encouragement. The bond between us deepens significantly.
I want to celebrate the beginning of our vaccinated journey with a romantic and sumptuous steak dinner. We have been guided to the Sage Room through the internet and word of mouth. We are excited but dubious as it lies within the confines of a casino. We are slightly terrified of Casino’s. Besides being terrible snobs, we are both sober and no longer smoke cigarettes. Casino’s seem to be palaces erected to worship everything we deem taboo. I refuse to walk through the smoky casino and “ruin” one the Suzie Kondi velour tracksuits that became my beloved uniform in 2020. We are circling the large labyrinth of a parking lot trying to find smoke free entry to the restaurant.
This is our first time out to eat in a year.
We enter the Sage Room and we are greeted by casino celebrants and deff leopard thundering through the speakers. I don’t know if I can go on but we are driven forward by sheer curiosity and the promise of meat and fully loaded baked potatoes. This restaurant is a post pandemic rude awakening. I am judging the patrons harshly for their lack of conscientiousness thinking “who would go to a casino in April 2021?” Me, I realize. For steak. I have always been willing to go to great lengths for food. Our steak is just as promised: buttery and comforting. We pay our bill when we get our food so we can rush to safety after consuming our last bite.
The next morning we drive the winding road to Emerald bay and it is beautiful. The water is so blue it is as if the sky has taken a selfie. The lake is so pretty it is hard to believe how ancient it is. It seems like something about two million years old should be showing her age. Tahoe, despite her beauty was just a pit stop on the way to what comes next.
The Loneliest road in America, that is what they call highway 50. This incredible road stretches across the very heart and center of Nevada. To get there we wind through the last part of Tahoe until the ancient lake lies in the rear view mirror. Just before the 50, we drive past Dayton Nevada, an odd little town with quite an old west history. After Dayton begins the strange stretch of “ranches” that dot the highway this side of Reno. I wonder about how difficult the pandemic must have been for sex workers.
The loneliest road in America is the most peaceful and beautiful drive imaginable. We seldom saw another car on the road. Salt flats periodically stretched out on either side of us, giving the landscape an otherworldly and heavenly feeling. There is absolutely nothing like driving across the American West. The vastness of this land can only be comprehended by car. This pony express country. We pull over on the side of the road every chance we get to marvel. Everywhere I sense the native history and I have the distinct feeling we are trespassing, which of course we are. Last year I discovered the native lands app. I can look up whose tribal land I am on anywhere in the country which is now an indispensable part of any road trip.
The old American highways are a passion of mine. I often think about getting a fancy van but I think airbnbs are their own kind of “blue highway.” Staying in an airbnb gives me a flavor of and is a real slice of a place.
The loneliest road cuts through the ghostly and magical town of Eureka.
Here, chickens cluck as they meander the streets. As we wandered we kept running into an adorable pack of young boys on scooters, yappy dogs in tow. What a place to grow up. Eureka is a mining town with a tragic and checkered history. As in most mining town histories, racism and murder feature strongly in the narrative. The Fish creek massacre of 1879 is a tragic example. Workers here were dissatisfied with their conditions and attempted to unionize. A familiar story ensues. A “posse” was formed to “keep the peace.” Posse’s in mining towns often proved to be murderous mobs with a vested interest in maintaining the unjust status quo.
Eureka is lined with incredibly quaint and sleepily inhabited western buildings and storefronts. There is a mini casino, a drugstore, a now defunct cafe, a post office. Eureka also boasts a beautiful opera house and a courthouse with the most intricate and beautiful copper ceiling I have ever seen. I chatted there with a clerk for some time. She was the second person to tell me the story of the cafe’s most recently departed owner. The first was a kindly man who was staying in the motel across from our hotel. He like others were fascinated that my husband and I had chosen to stay in Eureka.
When I asked this gentleman why he was in Eureka he replied “Oh we’ve been here a week or so hunting squirrels in the alpha-ha fields, tryin’ to help the farmers out.” “Lovely, I said.”
He and the courthouse clerk independently explained to me that Eureka is built upon a network of apparently “haunted” underground tunnels. These tunnels were used for transporting iron from the mines, laundry and liquor during prohibition. Evidently this restaurant owner was more interested in growing marijuana in the tunnels beneath his property than he was in dishing up grub. The smell of pot plants was wafting through the sleepy town. The cafe owner had wired up to the grid to power his grow lights PG&E got wise. The local sheriff was uninterested but the feds were...and that is why there is no cafe in Eureka presently. Both these friendly locals were thrilled to share this local gossip with me.
Our hotel here in Eureka was a revelation, so much so that I was considering paying 1500 to live here for the month to work remotely and sit in the street with the chickens. This lovely couple bought the Collonade Hotel some years ago which had been a hotel for over a century. They completely renovated the inside and created a near five star suite equipped with a kitchen and stunning indoor neon sign over the bed.
As I slept I heard the wind blow and my mind kept traveling down to the tunnels. I imagined the workers running up and down the town's bowels working hard for next to nothing. I was sad to leave the next day but excited to taste more of the loneliest road in America. Eventually we crossed into Utah and the change was dramatic. Going from a landscape dotted with casino’s and brothels to one dotted with churches is surreal. I felt the Mormon history I know pouring through the names of the prophets/town namesakes. We were on our way to Monroe Utah, chosen for the hot springs less than a mile from our airbnb. At our age we like to drive no more than 3 or 4 hour stretches which is a lovely way to maximize exploring obscure locations more deeply.
Monroe Utah, another town with a checkered past. The settlers, also early members of the LDS church made their camp smack in the middle of the tribespeople’s hunting territory. The native people were accommodating at first but when threatened eventually with starvation, a standoff ensued. It did not end well.
The airbnb was hosted by another charming couple who purchased this historic home and created a homey inn/bed and breakfast. They were hurriedly filling their pond and readying themselves for some instagram influencers arriving the next day. Consequently they were not offering breakfast but gave us a little basket of fresh eggs, delicious bacon and homemade sausage. The “room” was enormous. Two queen beds, a big living room and large kitchen, vintage treasures dotted throughout. We set off to see the free hot springs close by knowing we had a reservation at the nearby and more established Mystic Hot Springs at 9 pm.
We arrived a the red earth springs to find a cute hippy couple carefully making their way down the hill in bare feet. “Up there is the hot one.” Said the young and wistful chap. Spring water was emerging from atop the little hill and cascading into various pools as it made its way down. We scurried up the slippery and red earth and carefully placed our clothing aside hoping it would not be forever stained a radiant red. We squatted inside a silty bath just big enough for two.
I placed my hands against the stones to feel the piping hot spring water slipping over the rock.
We walked back down the rocks and I had beautiful bright red feet. Later we made our way to Mystic Hot Springs in the dark. Mystic Hot Springs is a hippie hang out. There are busses you can stay in. This is not our scene anymore but curiosity, nostalgia and my deep love of spring water lured me in. We enjoyed a stolen twenty minutes without any other soakers. Their arrival was our queue to depart. Soaking in a bath with others post pandemic will take some time.
Onward to Arches National Park. The original inspiration for this trip. My darling husband said he wanted to see Arches and Monument Valley. As he is a somewhat reticent traveller I jump on his interests and inspirations. As we pulled into Moab we were horrified. Too many people. Traffic. Construction. ATV’s. The line for Arches National Park found and stretched down the road. We pulled into the Moab Springs Ranch, smack in the middle of the construction. When we finally got to our room the beautiful view was our first taste of Moab’s redemption. Red rocks. Beautiful red rocks.
My husband napped and I went into town for supplies. I was greeted by throngs of people from all corners of the globe buying tubes of protein and peanut butter for tomorrows hikes and excursions. I was terrified. I longed for the loneliest road and the sleepy clucking chickens of Eureka. I eventually returned home triumphant with bread, cheese, apples and a rotisserie chicken. The clerk at the grocery store told me it was a their busiest day this year. Spring break. It seemed that everyone in the world had thought to go to Arches as the first vaccines were being injected across the country.
We hid in our room the whole next day, going to the little meadow on the property, giving ourselves spa treatments, soaking in the big tub and sitting on our porch. We went for a tentative hike around the perimeter of the property that afforded us some more red rocks and a taste of the red energy of this place.
The following day we awoke early and decided to brave the park. We held our breath in anticipation of a long train of tourists waiting at the entrance. Instead, we coasted up to the park entrance completely unfettered. It was 7 in the morning and there was no entry fee, no other cars and nothing but a little winding road coaxing us gently into the park’s embrace. We were happily shocked.
We entered the park and were slowly enveloped by a hallowed feeling of awe. The monuments rose from the earth, truly sentient. I could see them standing, greeting the rising sun, in just this way for millions of years. Arches is known as “a portal through time” and that is exactly what it is. We passed through this portal and honestly time has felt different ever since.
We understood why our intuition had drawn us here, and the crowds and irritation of the previous day melted way.
There are some landscapes that are so sacred, simply being there is powerful ceremony.
I said a prayer to the four directions in the morning light. The Le Sal mountains or the 'dwelling place of the good spirts' were illuminated in the morning sun.
The history here is fascinating. About 700 years ago the pueblo people left. They had been here thousands of years. The reasons for their departure are somewhat mysterious. They travelled toward Arizona and New Mexico and built dwellings there. The Ute were nomadic and came into the area as these pueblo peoples left. Stunning petroglyphs line the walls of many surrounding places. Some right on the side of the road. Potash road or the lower Colorado river scenic byway is one such place. This winding road goes along the beautiful river which widens and gushes throughout. You can amble down to the river bank and watch it move. It ends at one of the potash mines where you will find two commemorative plaques. You can read about two tragic mine accidents, one that ends with an incredibly heroic rescue mission.
The Upper Colorado Scenic Byway is home to Castle Rock, in one of the most breaking valleys I have ever seen. I am reminded here of places like Tintagel in Cornwall England. Though so different, these places are alike in their mythic quality. Here the sprits have constructed their vast habitat and we can visit in wonder. We pull to the side of the road, avoiding parking lots and people. We wandered out to find the grandest vista imaginable. We set up our chairs and looked out over the ancient sea bed leading up to the castle dwelling made of rock, myth and magic. You could almost hear the dinosaurs walking the earth. We found quartz everywhere we walked.
I again said my prayer to the four directions, magnificence all around. Turns out there are some little airbnb’s in the valley and when we return, this is where we will be. For those interested, there is also a gorgeous $1000/night inn with private cabins alongside the Colorado river with an incredible farm to table restaurant.
On to Dead Horse Point. Dead Horse Point enjoys the best view of Canyonlands national park or “Utah’s Grand Canyon.” It is also home of one the saddest and spookiest stories in the west. If you are scared of cliff driving like me, park before the bottleneck and walk the last part. The narrow bottleneck opens and forms a natural paddock, sheer cliffs plummeting all around the perimeter. The story goes that some horses were trapped here and left to perish many years ago. Many ranchers used the natural paddock to keep their ponies corralled temporarily as they travelled. These unfortunate ponies were somehow left or forgotten and their spirits now circle Dead Horse Point.
Here you have a a literally breathtaking view of God’s artistry. It is an image that will never leave me: the earth carved and etched in every direction, the air circling around us as if we were suddenly transformed into eagle or hawk.
The last thing to mention about Moab is much more mundane but no less magnificent. Milt’s Stop and Eat in Moab is home to the best burger in the southwest. It was a busy evening and so we waited an hour for our food, standing in line with tourists and locals. Someone was playing John Cougar Mellencamp from their jeep in the parking lot. This place has been serving American classics since the 1950’s and we devoured cheeseburgers, wedge fires and chocolate shakes reverently in our car.
The perfect burger is a spiritual experience. The edges of the meat brown and flavorful and the bun soft and sugary, melt together and taste like home.
The fries were scalding and fluffy on the inside. A burger says “treat” but it also says “family.” You go out for a burger with people you love, not people you are trying to impress, or people whose company needs to be improved by ambiance or fanfare. Even a mediocre burger is pretty good and as Woody Allen says “even my worst one, was right on the money.” Perhaps because I would have settled for much less, Milt's splendid burger inspires deep gratitude. I will never go to Moab and not eat here. One of the terrifying ATV trails is accessed nearby. As we eat we watch a steady stream of buggies returning to civilization.
From Moab we drive south to Monument Valley. This is an unexpected and fascinating road through painted dessert and odd little towns like Mexican Hat. As we approached Monument valley from the North, the Monuments rise up like titans to greet us. This is Navaho land. Jewelry stands and hogans dot the stunning landscape. The Navajo Nation Parks are closed due to the pandemic so we admire the monuments from a respectful distance. My sister Abby told me about a little lodge that boasts the most incredible views. Gouldings Lodge is a strange and modest hotel whose rooms have not been updated in a while. Along the back of our comfortable and dowdy room is a deck with a million dollar view. Our eyes stretch out unbridled to caress the monuments.
There is a little theater for post covid times that shows western movies, all filmed in the area. The restaurant serves Navajo tacos. Some donkeys had escaped from their paddock along the highway and we were happy to see them chased in away from the sparse but rapid highway traffic. We had listened to Carlos Nikia’s album Inside Monument Valley at least ten times already and we enjoy it again as we now drive south the next day, the great Monuments behind us.
Cottonwood Arizona is a wonderful small town. It is a short twenty minute drive to the “holy land” of Sedona and after any time in Sedona, the modest and grounded Cottonwood is a welcome reprieve. Sedona of course is stunningly beautiful. The winding 179 scenic byway is a lovely way to drink in the red rocks. Sedona has changed a lot since I was in high school. Back then I remember it seeming like a strange secret known only to desert witches. Now, there is a lovely Whole Foods and every other “convenience” you can imagine. These days I prefer Cottonwood. There are wonderful antique and thrift stores in Cottonwood, Home Sweet Home and Larry's Antiques are my favorites.
We stay for a week at my new favorite Airbnb which backs onto beautiful pond filled with ducks and geese.
The air is snowy with cottonwood seeds as it is late spring. I find the cottonwood shedding magical. The air is filled with fairies that dance on the warm Arizona breeze.
We went to Jerome and walked the winding streets and ate on the patio at The Haunted Burger. We laugh about the “ghost tours” in these Arizona towns even though we know they are onto something. The Verde River dreamily winds through this part of the state. We find a lovely spot to sit one afternoon and have a local playing her little hand drum for company. Evidence of Beaver’s gnawing and sculpting the landscape surround us. More cottonwood fairies dance.
After a restful week of antiquing, exploring and working we drive south a few hours to visit our family in Phoenix. My family’s garden is one of the loveliest places on earth. It is more like a Oxfordshire garden with its high ficas border, protecting and enveloping the space in green colored privacy. White roses and lavender flourish. The crystal clear pool is beautifully rectangular and white. We rarely leave the garden when we visit. We wander into the kitchen to gather cold la Croix and sandwiches and wander back out, our bikini’s dripping moisture on the marble tiles. This garden is a portal to the halcyon days of childhood, when existing outside for long and unfettered stretches of time was fundamental. We laze in the shade and I duck into one of the spare rooms to have remote sessions with clients.
Working on the road is wonderful. Over the last year I have begun to see less clients in a day. Seeing four clients leaves ample time and emotional energy to enjoy being “on holiday.” The line between work and life has blurred - in a good way. I feel the balance between work and wonder. Work feeds life and life feeds work. My client sessions are always enlivened when I am tending my own garden and nurturing my own sense of wonder. This life of freedom to work from anywhere is a revelation that I am only beginning to digest. I love my work more than ever and feel I have found the holy grail of work life balance since going remote.
After a week here with family I realize I want keep going. Returning to San Francisco seems premature and I engage one of my favorite pastimes: planning a trip while I am on a trip. I decide to continue on to Santa Fe, via Truth or Consequences, stopping in Winslow Arizona and Tehachapi California on the way home to SF. I change my mind again and decide to wait until October to travel to New Mexico. In October the green chilies are harvested and roasting. The leaves are gold and the kiva fireplaces are glowing.
I settle excitedly on instead traveling south to Tucson, where I lived and loved for many years, then on to Bisbee, Joshua tree, Mercey Hot Springs and finally home to SF. I will be traveling solo for two weeks. Although we both enjoy our own company my husband and I are rarely apart. This is growth for us.
Tucson is a wonderful town and the surrounding desert is a blanket of magic. I eat delicious Mexican food in my old friends garden, her handmade saguaro disco ornaments dangling magically in the light of the full moon.
That night I become violently ill and experience a kind of vision quest in the quaint boho airbnb camper I have rented in Armory Park near downtown. I am up all night and I have to cancel my morning sessions. I am better and in in my friends hot tub within 24 hours. Like the car trouble at the very beginning of our journey I am again humbled and reminded that I am not in control. I recalibrate to a slow and grateful pace. I spend some time on the patio and wandering around the historic Hotel Congress reminiscing about working and playing here in my twenties.
After a few days in Tucson, before I feel ready to leave I start south to Bisbee. It is a wonderful drive. Benson Arizona, St David, Tombstone and stretches of road carpeted with desert await. I have rented a delightful place on Main street in old town Bisbee.
As I arrive a saxophone player is serenading the afternoon and the breeze is gently blowing through the lace curtains. The Object hotel in Bisbee is a true find. I want to stay for months. Vintage treasures lay effortlessly against the white walls. It is a huge building. There is a ballroom. I dream of running a desert retreat here.
There is a gorgeous rattan 70’s peacock chair from which I will see my clients in the days to follow. I relish walking around the winding staircases of Bisbee on my breaks between sessions. I shop with abandon at the many antique stores and buy a gorgeous velvet jumpsuit by Scorpio Rising at Classic Rock Couture. I find the amazing Patisserie Jacqui a few doors down and enjoy eating cakes fit for Wes Anderson for lunch. I am surprised at how much I enjoy traveling solo. There is always something to do. I follow my own thoughts and whims. I write.
I marvel at how connected to my life and commitments I feel although I am in this beautiful and obscure location doing as I please. It is a beautiful balance to have struck.
I drive to Joshua Tree, stopping at the Gallery of Dreams in Davis to browse and eat a lemon and earl grey tart from Patisserie Jacqui out of the cooler. I spend three nights at the Pioneertown Motel, lazing in the hammock and seeing clients from the quaint room filled with western decor. I read Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire because someone has left it on the night stand. There is no kitchen but I have my kettle for tea and hot water bottles. I dine on apples and ham and cheese sandwiches with lots of butter and grey poupon. I go to the famous Pappy and Harriets for a sarsaparilla and hear the locals lamenting about the post pandemic influx of city folk moving to the desert.
The drive from Joshua Tree to Mercey Hot Springs begins with another gorgeous and remote drive along Old Woman Springs Road. As the road opens into Johnson Valley I am laughing out loud, incredulous at the unexpected beauty surrounding me.
Hank Williams sings his sweet sadness into the beautiful dust.
I travel through Barstow and up the joyless Interstate 5 to the Mercey Hot Springs exit. This winding road is in stark contrast with the Interstate. It is positively pastoral. Mercey Hot Springs has wonderful hot spring water and is a bird sanctuary. There are owls here. The mornings and evenings emit a chorus of birdsong while bunnies nibble their breakfast and supper. You can stay in a small but comfortable cabin, camp, park your trailer or rent an upscale airstream. I like the cozy cabins because they are a few steps from the clothing optional cast iron tubs. I am here for only one night before reentering the city and reuniting with my love. I leave having soaked the Mercey waters deep into my bones.
I return home...feeling committed to forevermore finding, exploring and dancing in the balance between work and wonder.
