Later that first week, I left the city limits, motoring west and looping briefly through the rural stretches of Bernalillo, Cibola, and Valencia counties. In the distances I saw Sierra Ladrones to the south and Mt. Taylor to the northwest. I plunged into and out of the massive basin of the Rio Puerco. The basin contained a lone, barren hill, Cerro Colorado, its prominence─that is, its height from base to peak─roughly half that of the tallest mountain in my native New Jersey. (Now, that’s big, I thought. Imagine the number of New Jerseys I could fit in this state.) I skirted the Cañoncito Navajo Indian Reservation (today the re-named To’hajiilee Indian Reservation of Breaking Bad fame) and sliced across the Laguna Indian Reservation, although I don’t recall seeing a single Indian. I saw countless mesas, and then massive ramps of broken rock that seemed to have sprung violently from the land like pieces of warped linoleum. I saw eroded rangelands of dust―destroyed, unbeknownst to me, by overgrazing. In the extinct settlement of Correo, New Mexico, I passed the ghostly ruin of the Wild Horse Mesa Bar, likely the last stop of many a cowboy and Indian. I drove Route 6, a remnant of Route 66, to Los Lunas. The highway paralleled the main line of the Santa Fe Railroad, and I kept pace with mile-long freight trains traveling 60 miles-per-hour. Returning north to Albuquerque, I shadowed the Rio Grande.