Gallup

Before reaching Gallup, I turned south toward El Malpais. The lava fields were harder to find than expected, but the search took me along a beautiful, perfectly straight road cutting through the open country.

At the trailhead, I met a group of German motorcyclists—one more unlikely meeting on this trip—then walked roughly a mile and a half across the black volcanic terrain. After days of white sand, adobe, and desert, the hardened lava felt like a sudden change of language.

I arrived in Gallup hungry and checked into El Rancho, the historic hotel that once hosted stars from the golden age of Western films. Its walls hold photographs and names from another version of the American West, preserved in staircases, balconies, and heavy timber.

Dinner at the hotel came quickly. Afterward, I returned to the Jeep and drove Route 66 through town, watching neon signs burn against the dark. Gallup felt shaped by the railroad, by the road, and by the cultures surrounding it—layers that could not be understood in a single night.

Eventually, I went back to El Rancho and fell asleep almost immediately. Another full day, ending under neon.