EssayMexicanHat

Mexican Hat

My youngest daughter and I recently travelled to Mexican Hat, a small town in southeastern Utah. We flew from Pennsylvania to Phoenix, drove north to see my parents, and all of us together continued the drive through some very typical Arizona-terrain—flat, wide-open desert land with Native American Indians, mostly Navajo, in residence. Its barrenness spoke of harsh living conditions, but the clear unfettered air as well as the clear unfettered energy cleansed my soul and spirit. I surmise this is why people still live there.

During the drive we navigated directly through Monument Valley, the famous landscape of the West. I had been there once as a child and my memories had it on a much grander scale. I was surprised I could view its entirety with one sweeping gaze. I was struck by the numerous Navajo hogans still in the area, clearly lived in, although many had houses built nearby. What an amazing place to live a simple, invisible life. A part of me wanted to stay.

Mexican Hat is situated on the San Juan River, and our motel sat on a cliff that overlooked the placid waterway. I imagined that a journey down the river would be sunny and dusty and quiet. Perhaps one day. The motel was clean and small, with enough television channels to keep my daughter somewhat occupied. The restaurant made well-prepared and tasty food, quite in its favor. My sister’s friends planned a birthday party for her, a “not-quite-forty” party. It was an eclectic group of people whom I’d never met prior to this, a sad commentary on the distance in my relationship with my sister. It was one reason I made an effort to attend the party. So we visited for a bit then relaxed in our room.

The following morning we all, including an uncle and aunt who’d driven in from Prescott, had breakfast together. After a quick visit to the river’s edge—you can’t be that close and not get closer—we drove north to view an odd geologic carving in the ground called the Goosenecks. The San Juan River curves back and forth, back and forth, like puzzle pieces nestled together. The sight was interesting but my vertigo forced me to move away from the edge. I think I must have fallen to my death in a previous life, the anxiety is so pervasive. After several photos we parted ways with my sister and her two dogs, and my daughter and I headed back to Arizona with my parents and my sister’s third dog, Kestrel, a wolf dog living her final days in Flagstaff. She is a sweetheart and I was happy to spend some time with her.

It was good to visit with my family and I was very glad I made the effort. It’s always easier to say that such trips are too much trouble sometimes. But I gained something else too. I found that piece of my soul that lives in the landscape of my imagination, a place I’ve longed to return to but have been unable. Without it I cannot write. I was glad to know that my searching has not been in vain. Now I know I will write again.