I went to bed last night itching to go somewhere this morning.

With reports of possible snow in eastern Arizona, I heavily considered going to Canyon de Chelly near Chinle. After all, in fine weather, it is just a three and a half hour drive from Albuquerque. But then the alarm clock went off at 6, and then again at 7, and I knew I was not going to make it to that place anytime early.

My thoughts then turned to a fine runner-up- the third ruin site in the Salinas Pueblo Missions that I had not yet visited: Gran Quivira. My Map app on the iPhone said it was a measley hour and some away. The day was new and it was still quite early. It would be a pleasant morning trip for checking that destination off of my to-do list, and it wouldn’t take all day to do.

And, well, how easily I am sidetracked.

I finally got out of town around 9, and I took the now familiar route of I-40 east to NM-337 at Tijeras, which would wind me around the back of the Manzanos and drop me into the Salinas Valley and onto NM-55, headed for Mountainair. I enjoyed familiar sites along the route, and I enjoyed the bright morning light and the quiet of travel.

And I also enjoyed my erred memory, because when NM-55 teed into NM-60, I had the notion that I needed to go to Willard to get to Gran Quivira. Who needs to look at maps when you sort of think you might know where you are headed, right? Not this guy.

At the T, I saw to go to Estancia (and Willard) required a left turn, and without a thought, I took it.

It wasn’t a wholly bad decision, though.

By this time- late in the morning- a strong wind was coming through the valley, and when I made a few stops around Estancia, the wind suggested I should remain in my vehicle. I stopped and got out a few times anyways- once, to photograph wide-open ranges along the road outside of the town; another time, to photograph an Addam’s Family-looking old abandoned home (which I later learned was a Sears kit home); and another, to take a few photos of what I thought was sand lifted into the air which was obscuring some low hills east of town (sand, which I later learned was actually salt from the famed lakes that lent Salinas Valley its name).

Jerry Lee Pack, and his wife Alma, helped set me straight.

My diversion into Estancia- and then into tiny Willard after it- brought me to a point of noontime hunger, and I had remembered reading about a lone cafe in the town that had also received good reviews: The Willard Cantina. Since the main drag in town was no more than a quarter mile long, I figured I would find the place easily enough, and certainly, on the other side of the short strip, there it was.

The sizable building still had the Willard Cantina sigh up in front of it, but a vinyl banner hanging on a fence by it and a roadside sign rechristened the place as Pack’s Cafe.

I parked and entered the building. In the entry hall, a fire burning pinon danced in a fireplace, and the room smelled like rural New Mexican. A woman spoke through a doorway near me- “Hello- our dining room is in here…” I enter the room, and a short matronly woman smiled and told me to pick a table, so I did.

I sat and when she came to take a drink order, I also immediately ordered a Green Chile Cheeseburger with a Dr. Pepper. No reason to belabor things here. She introduced herself as Alma. Her husband was the cook.

Two men in motorcycling gear with groomed beards sat at a table nearby. They were passing through the area, based on snippets I heard of their conversations, and based on the fact two black BMW touring cycles sat in front of the restaurant. A Christmas tree (covered with Shamrocks for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day) sat in the center of the front wall of the room, sharing its festive qualities with other holidays. Copper dishes hung covering each wall in this room, over the green or red paint covering alternating walls (which made me think they were really into Christmas there, or, when I came to my senses, green and red chile- New Mexico Christmas).

My burger came with a nice heap of dense and finely cooked fries. I gobbled it and the fry pile down quickly. Alma asked me how my meal was. In short turn, the cook came out of the kitchen and asked me the same, and then, awaiting another customer, he sat down on a chair by the table next to me, a table by the kitchen door, and talked a few.

The cafe, a one-time center in the local community, had thrived for thirty-five or forty years under one owner. And then six or so years ago, he decided to retire, and the place was closed. Alma had parents who lived in the area, and after she and her husband, a Georgia native, closed two restaurants they had operated in neighboring town, they came to Willard to live. And Jerry saw the former cafe closed and empty. He contacted the owner to ask him what he wanted for it, but the owner didn’t want to sell it. Jerry shrugged and went on with life.

Two years later, the cafe owner came to Jerry and asked him if he was still interested in taking it. Jerry said yes, and bought the place- the first restaurant he and his wife would own.

Pack’s has been open for 2 or 3 years now, and it does okay. It will do better soon, he and Alma independently explain to me, because their liquor license came through, and they will be able to serve alcohol- which the tourist bikers and the railroad and windmill workers will all like.

Part of Pack’s success lies in the fact that they do a catfish fry every Friday night- and Jerry, being a Georgia guy, has his own special secrets for preparing a good catfish dinner. It brings them in from all over, he humbly shares. They have live music on Friday nights as well, provided by some local talent, which adds to the spirit of the evening. Nothing new. Old country. Old classics. Old Gospel gems as well.

We talk about the copper bowls his wife collects. We talk about the wind farms that have gone up in the area (75 turbines are on the ridge, another 250 are on a plain below them, and another 500 are supposed to be added out east soon). He shares he and his wife will probably keep Pack’s for only five more years or so while they build it up and they clean it up for someone younger to run and enjoy. They have other things they want to do, after all. His wife would like to retire near Logan and its lakes so she can fish.

He helps me to realize that there are actually salt lakes in the Salinas valley- just up the road two miles- which is what all the fuss about a salt source is all about. The natives considered the salt more valuable than gold, his wife tells me.

He talks about the Topeka railroad line that used to make Willard a booming little town, and once upon a time, a county seat, until the railroad car that held the county office was stolen and relocated to Estancia, to where the county seat also went.

He has seven grandkids. He has strong blue eyes and a medium length white beared and his forearms are covered with crudely drawn, simple tattoos, like I might imagine an old navy salt my have before tattoos became a mainstream accoutrement. At first assessed as plain, I see he and his wife are quietly warm. As I and her husband talk, she brings me a bonus off-the-menu cube of chocolate cake in a bowl.

Since I am a bit far away from my destination, he tells me a back route to get to Gran Quivira from Willard which involves a right at the Y – don’t go toward the turbines- and a pass by a sizable dairy after that – and a left a cattle guard. I think I have absorbed his instructions. A former employee enters the dining room with her husband and two infant twins, and his wife tells Jerry his girlfriend is here. She used to be a dishwasher for him, before she got married and then had kids. It’s time for me to go.

I pay for my meal and thank them each for a nice visit. Come back for catfish, they tell me. I tell them I’ll send my roadtrippin’ folks out for a visit as well.

Since I am in Willard, I stop at the town’s Catholic church, Our Lady of Sorrows. I take a few exterior photos, and trying a front door, find the sanctuary is open and empty. I enjoy the elevated quiet and the soft natural light filling the building for a short time.

And then I head east out of Willard- and sure enough- witness first hand there are salt lakes a short ways on down the road.

It is mid-afternoon now and the wind is cold and aggressive and I know that Gran Quivira closes at 5. Based on my experiences with Salinas Mission rangers before, that park might even close at 4:30, just because, I tell myself, and I follow Jerry’s directions out of town. Second road to the left. Over the railroad tracks. Stay right until the dairy.

I get to the dairy. I drive into the dairy, because the broad dirt road I approach it on does not change on dairy property. I continue through the diary on the wide road until it ends at a fence and a road that has No Trespassing signs announcing it.

I talk to a dairy worker who speaks mostly Spanish. He helps get me off of dairy property- make a right at that red trailer.

A driver in a Dodge Ram coming up the road I am heading down stops when I ask him to. Is this the way to Gran Quivira? He looks puzzled, and then smiles and says yes a few times. I have a feeling he didn’t understand me either. I take county roads for twenty minutes, until I remember- I have a Map app on my phone.

I am 45 minutes from Gran Quivira. I need to backtrack 15 miles, and get back on 55 toward Mountainair. Ok.

I finally arrive at Gran Quivira around 3:45 after crossing the entirety of a Chihuahuan desert, and I am greeted by a ranger standing in front of the visitor center. I recognize him from when I visited Quarai, and he was on duty there that day. He reminds me of J.K. Simmons and I remember how J.K. Simmons was in the film Whiplash and my palms get sweaty even though the wind is howling around them. He is stern but hospitable and welcoming. Best way to take the trail is to the left first; please stay on the trail and don’t wander off of it; please don’t climb on any ruin wall; you have an hour and 10 minutes.

Thank you, sir.

Gran Quivira is a little larger than Abo and Quarai, I discover. Uncovered in this location is an actual village square, which is bound not only by a sizable amount of uncovered ruins, but also by two ancient church sites.

The wind continues to race around me. I am alone on the trail. The sun sits behind a cloud bank. It is cold.

And then the sun comes out, bathing the site hill in strong afternoon light. And the sky blue deepens a little. I feel the magic of being alone among ancient ruins in aging afternoon light. I take a lot of pictures.

At ten to 5, J.K. is making his route around the trail to round up visitors- me. I am 90% done with the tour anyways, so I join him walking back to the visitor center. Golden light is pouring onto the walls of the large church beside us, inviting me to take a photo or two, but I resist.

I know J.K. just wants to go home.

And it is about time I do as well.

I make my way back to Mountainair and stop at a 7-11 for some coffee. I-25 is a nice way to head back to Albuquerque.

So I head west, past Abo, to the Rio Communities turnoff, which takes me to Belen and the freeway, and under the vault of darkness, thinking about salt and ruins and green chile cheesburgers and crazy cold wind, I make my way home.