Even before I had closed my phone, Adam had questions, mainly, "Where is Pojoque?"

"In between Santa Fe and Los Alamos, or Santa Fe and Española. Pick one."

"Isn't it a Pueblo?"

"Yep."

"What's the casino?"

"Cities of Gold." (State geography has started using Native American run casinos as landmarks)

"Ah, okay. I know where we're going. Sort of. Do you?"

Well, of course. My role in the marriage is being the Garmin GPS system. Give me a map and two addresses and I can usually get you where you're going. In this case, I didn't need a map. In my younger days, when petrol was cheap, I used to drive aimlessly around northern New Mexico and I knew where we needed to be. "I-25 to Santa Fe. Get off at St. Francis. Keep going straight until we see it."

"Oooh!"

We made more plans, like having lunch in Santa Fe, which sent Adam to Gil's Thrilling Web Site for restaurant recommendations (like we ever go to Santa Fe. Seriously. No Santa Fe). We found the neopreen wine caddy, we recharged the camera batteries and went to bed early.

The next morning we loaded up Bucky and headed north. Highlights of the drive to Santa Fe included Adam's harrowing tale of the time his cruise control got stuck between Sandia Pueblo and Bernalillo, a discussion of the best line up La Bajada, speculation of where the out-of-state-platers were from and where they were going, and the usual "uck, Santa Fe" which really isn't a knock on the nation's second oldest settlement, but more a general commentary on people (not from New Mexico) who pick the City Different for vacations, honeymoons and destination weddings or maybe just Tom Ford.

St. Francis Drive turned into Highways 285-84 and took us up past the famous Opera house, past Camel Rock (both the rock and the casino) and finally to Pojoque.

"You think we'll find it?" Adam asked.

I gave the advice that goes for anyone looking for booze in this great state of ours. "Look for the sign that says 'LIQUOR' in big letters."

I was right.

The shop was a trip. An unassuming, battered building that had seen better days on the outside and a treasure trove of the sauce on the inside. Not only did we get the coveted Sea Smoke, we were treated to a quick walk through their small wine cave, where 1995 vintage Krug Blanc de Blanc was rubbing shoulders with several Riechbourgs and La Taches and Latours. "It's like wine heaven," Adam murmured.

When we couldn't finagle a second Sea Smoke out of the propritor, we paid for our single bottle and got back in the car.

"I don't want to go back the way we came," Adam said. "Where do we go?"

"Los Alamos," I said. "And then through the Jemez mountains over to 550 and home."

"Sold."

It was a beautiful day for a drive. We climbed from the valley up to Los Alamos and stopped for lunch at a little Mom and Pop diner. After lunch, we dropped the top on Bucky and drove higher up, until we reached the magnificent Valles Grande national preserve, the caldera of an acient super volcano.

The road, seriously shapely, took a downward turn and we ran through the fantastic canyons of the Jemez mountains, talking about memorable camping trips and forced death marches lead by an overgrown boy scout named Jason. Talk drifted to our childhoods, and how beautiful the mountains are and how maybe next summer, we'll try camping again.

On the other side of Jemez Springs, we put the top up again and drove on home.

The only aggrivation of the entire trip came when Adam tried to show off the spiffy shortcut that is northern Unser Blvd. in Rio Rancho.

"Really!" he said when he took the turn off 550. "It cuts miles off the trip. Miles!"

And I believe him. I do. However, just after we passed the shiny new Santa Ana Star Arena, we hit a mile long train of stop-and-go traffic. Either we got caught in traffic of people leaving whatever Stars on Ice Spectacular matinee was booked this weekend, or we got caught in the traffic for people going to whatever Stars on Ice Spectacular was booked this weekend, I don't know. What I do know is that there was one exceedingly young Rio Rancho's Department of Public Safety member doing an awful job directing traffic at the Northern/Unser intersection and it took us an hour to go a mile.

"Not that I mind," I said. "We have each other."

"Really," Adam said. "Unser cuts miles off the trip. Miles."

"I believe you."

"Miles."

Was it worth it for a bottle of wine? Heck, yeah. Can't wait to do it again.



Of course I made a Flickr set.