The northern area of New Mexico has long been one of my favorite U.S. destinations. About 12 years ago, I attended a press trip that mostly took place in Albuquerque. Throughout several tour days, my favorite activity was to ride in a hot air balloon - for the first time ever:

A whoosh of hot air and whisper of breeze had ushered us into the early morning sky outside Albuquerque. With arm muscles bulging, Brooke deftly adjusted heavy-duty synthetic ropes that secured the rainbow-striped balloon to the passenger basket, and the burner that helps change the air pressure and balloon shape. Cameras clicked and whirred in every direction.
 
A smaller balloon to our right shimmered silver and blue against wispy clouds. The Rio Grande snaked below us, across the fall-colored landscape, and beneath a highway bridge where passing cars resemble ants. The balloon nearly skimmed the river’s surface before it rose to the treetops and traveled within several yards of upper branches.
 
Fifty-five minutes, three ground miles, and 1,700 feet in elevation later our driver, Brooke, slowly allowed hot air to escape through a vent in the balloon's crown so it could land in a field near where we started. We gently touched ground and departed the basket. Several passengers helped the crew squeeze air out of the spent balloon and then the festivities began.
 
There's nothing like bubbly and donuts after your first hot air balloon ride. Brooke offered both as he distributed flight certificates and lapel pins, and read the Irish Balloonist's Prayer aloud:
 
The winds have welcomed you with softness.
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.
You have flown so high and so well that
God has joined us together in laughter and set us
gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.

My first hot air balloon experience led to my husband Mark, and me attending the Albuquerque international Balloon Fiesta with friends from Arizona. Unbelievably gorgeous weather made our trip even better: 

My husband and I arrived several hours before our friends arrived, in time for evening festivities at the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. Flattened hot air balloons were lying beneath sun-tipped clouds and deep purple mountains. They puffed up slowly as the sun set. Hundreds of onlookers circulated amid the sea of rip stop nylon.​​

The next morning, blue skies and mountain peaks framed hundreds more balloons. We visited the launch field just after sunrise, and walked through ever-expanding corridors of brilliant hued nylon. Before long, balloons traveled skyward, like popcorn as it cooks. For the next several hours the spectacle mesmerized us as my camera ran continuously.
 
This nine-day October event celebrates the city’s status as ‘balloon capital of the world.’ Each fall, the festival draws more than 500 hot air balloons manned by 600+ pilots from across the globe, with mesmerized audiences of close to 900,000 people.

Anderson Abruzzo International Balloon Museum is a must-see spot, too. It resembles a hot air balloon laid on its side, with a two-story glass wall that overlooks 385-acre International Balloon Fiesta Park. Designed by an avid balloonist and Studio Southwest Architects/a member of the U.S. Green Building Council, the building utilizes a recycled water system, recycled paving, and methane gas extracted from landfills, and focuses on habitat reclamation. The museum showcases inflated balloons plus flight simulators, history, technology, and adventure exhibits. ​

Remember that reference to Sedona vortexes, in my last post? Individuals who are sensitive to vortex energy may feel it all along an energy line in the Earth, which some people say follows the Rio Grande River through the Rocky Mountains, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Taos, and several small towns. Add on the fact that my traveling buddy, and I, both practice Reiki, and our experience in Chimayo - about 10 years ago - may seem a bit less 'woo-woo.'

Torrential rain followed Ellen and me from Santa Fe to Chimayó, leaving six-inch puddles on the highway. Waves of water slapped against the windshield as each vehicle passed. Hillside runoff in the tiny town created deep pools stained with red mud.
 
We finally arrived at Santuario de Chimayó, a tiny antique chapel reputed for miraculous healings. Visitors prayed silently in the sanctuary. An anteroom housed several dozen discarded crutches. Religious artifacts lined the walls of a second anteroom where a dusty border of red brick encircled a hole in the floor, filled with a pile of dirt and a small trowel.
 
We next stopped for lunch at Rancho de Chimayó, a 40-year-old family-run restaurant, where we ate what Ellen called the best meal we’d eaten, during our four-day trip. For the first time since our journey began, she felt like a million bucks.

​And then the vibrations began. I felt them from touching the blade of Ellen’s knife as she held the handle. She realized she had inadvertently stepped into sacred dirt in the floor of Sanctuario de Chimayó, and the chapel’s miraculous powers seemed very real.
 
We finished lunch and headed towards Taos. Tentative sunshine pierced the clouds and gradually brightened. A magnificent rainbow arched across several miles, with the highway as midpoint, a beautiful finale to a memorable afternoon.

Let's stay in the western states for a while. Jeep tours are a great way to explore the gorgeous red rock environment of Sedona, Arizona. I enjoyed this trip with a college roommate many years ago, during a visit to her Phoenix home. It's a truly magical place. 

By 9 a.m. morning’s chill has already begun its surrender to Arizona heat. Beyond the parched earth and scrub grass, vistas of pastel rock jut into the pale spring sky. Several jet streams gradually fade, becoming indistinguishable from high cirrus clouds.
 
The aroma of wild sage filters through opened car windows. When we reach Sedona, the quaint town has not yet open for the day’s business. We sign up for a jeep tour and then wait in the quiet.
 
The tour finally begins - a bumpy ride beneath blazing sun. Deep red rocks surround us. Through a random rock window, the size of a tanker truck, we view dark green foliage. Striated ‘hoodoos’ cluster together, thrusting hundreds of feet upwards from the desert floor.
 
Heat intensifies and water bottles empty as a stunning chapel appears, its floor-to-ceiling glass wall accentuated with a full-length cross. The chapel occupies a high rock crevice as if it were a natural piece of the millennia-old landscape. A flurry of camera clicks ensues.
 
The jeep heads downward again, large pebbles clinking and popping against over-sized tires. Red rock majesty fades from view as we descend to the now bustling town, craving water, and shade.

​Sedona's four vortexes also draw many enthusiasts. These naturally occurring pockets of subtle energy that come from the earth's surface, exist across the globe. Spiritualists believe this energy also impacts each individual person who comes in contact with it, causing a positive emotional impact that may last for days after exposure.

As our three-year-old grandson asked to watch a video featuring trains - for the umpteenth time in the last month - I was reminded of one especially memorable train trip that we took with our daughters more than 20 years ago. I have no doubt that current passengers on Colorado's Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad are equally captivated by this experience:

I wanted to schedule one new and different activity during our summer vacation, particularly for the sake of our young daughters. Our neighbors had once taken  a train ride through the mountainous terrain between Durango and Silverton, Colorado. Although the trip cost more than $100 for three of them, it was the highlight of their vacation. So I ordered  tickets for the four of us, six months in advance.
 
Before we knew it, our family was on the road to New Mexico and Colorado. After we had climbed amid New Mexico cliff dwellings, bought Indian jewelry, from Santa Fe street vendors, and eaten plenty of Mexican food, my husband turned the car northward towards the tiny mountain town of Durango. We arrived at the antique train depot in mid-morning, picked up our tickets and boarded an open-air car.
 
The temperature plummeted as the elevation climbed, and we snuggled together while we traveled through impossibly deep canyons and acres of undisturbed pines. Our enormous train click-clacked upwards as thick gray-black smoke poured from the engine. The rock-strewn Animas River rushed far below us and several magnificent wooden homes grasped the hillsides on sturdy stilts.

​Suddenly, my husband pointed to a tiny figure. We followed his finger to see a grizzly bear, standing straight up from his forage. A rickety, abandoned mine shaft rose from one hillside and dilapidated wooden freight cars on the parallel track were almost close enough to touch. As our train approached flatter land, a two-seater biplane flew beside us, only a few feet above the ground.
 
It was worth every penny to ride those rails.

As I retrieved a folder from my office file cabinet, this afternoon, I bumped into some newspapers that reflected historic events - including the 9/11 attack on New York City. Seeing those reminded me of our family's later visit to the site and one post that I collected from a previous blog:

During summer 2003, my extended family celebrated my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary in Washington, D.C. Since New York City was much closer to D.C. than our hometown near Kansas City was, my own family took a side trip to the Big Apple. We shopped along 5th Avenue, checked out the theater marquees that lit up Broadway, and viewed the entire city skyline from atop the Empire State Building.
 
One afternoon we decided to visit the World Trade Center site. Thanks to a city map, we knew when it was only a few blocks away. From the moment that we glimpsed surrounding buildings, I sensed many spirits in this place. By the time we reached the site the air seemed heavy with their presence.
 
The placid hole where those magnificent buildings once stood belied the horror of 9/11. But remembrances left by family members and friends of those who died there left no doubt of the trauma suffered by so many. Amid the countless handmade memorials, one particularly stood out for me.
 
Tucked in beside heartfelt notes of loss, lovingly framed photographs and miniature American flags were 7,000 brightly colored origami cranes. The accompanying inscription read:
​
“Students from Junior High Schools in Matsue, Japan made more than 7,000 paper cranes to symbolize their sadness over the events of fall. In Japan, Sebatsuru, or 1,000 cranes, is typically a symbol of healing, but in recent times has come to also represent a wish for world peace.

​"These cranes represent over 7,000 individual wishes for this difficult yet attainable goal.”

MY history surrounding the Rosedale Memorial Arch in Kansas City, Kansas, began with a single photograph. After I saw a photo of a local resident who wore his Rosedale Arch t-shirt before Paris' Arc de Triomphe, the idea of restoring 'our' Arch sprang to life. Here is the whole story: 

The first inkling you'll have that the Rosedale Memorial Arch sits nearby is a highway sign. Once you reach Southwest Boulevard, after exiting I-35, you'll turn south and travel up a steep hillside to an almost hidden entry for the park.

When you're at the top, an amazing view unfolds. It begins with the memorial itself, a miniature replica of France's Arc de Triomphe, based on sketches by a young World War I soldier named John Leroy Marshall.
 
How did this happen? The Rosedale neighborhood was once its own small municipality. When local veterans returned from World War I, the city of Rosedale decided to commemorate their service in the form of this stunning monument. They would use Marshall's sketches. After Rosedale merged with Kansas City, Kansas, the larger municipality honored the old city's plan.
 
Sixty-five years later, the Rosedale Development Association - a local neighborhood and business group - raised more than $30,000 for a massive restoration project. As then-Executive Director for the organization, I spearheaded efforts to complete the project. Through the work of our city councilman, Richard Ruiz, Kansas City, Kansas donated $20,000.

I watched as a professional restoration company cleaned and made repairs to the structure and started additional fundraising along with other Board members. A local ironworks manufacturer donated a tall, wrought iron fence to protect the Arch from vandalism, and a local cement company donated materials and labor to rebuild viewing platforms that surrounded the Arch.
 
In subsequent years reliable spotlights, streetlights placed along the curving driveway, and a flagpole, were added to the site. Finally, in 1993, the city added a monument beneath the Arch designed to honor soldiers who fought in World War II, as well as the Korean and Vietnam wars. 
 
For a trip to Paris without the plane fare, visit the Rosedale Memorial Arch. It's open to the public and free of charge.

Resilient and determined. That was the incredible spirit I found among residents, during my brief visit to Greensburg, during 2009. Here is my original post, with a few tweaks/updates: 

I arrived in Greensburg on a September day of brilliant blue skies and strong wind. I marveled that an F-5 tornado had destroyed 95 percent of the town two years earlier. From the moment I arrived, the residents' hope, and determination to rebuild with a new focus was palpable. New construction had begun all along the town's main street, where nature had decimated most
​ downtown buildings. A lone structure from 1915 remained from the original landscape.

Much of Greensburg's re-building has had a 'green' focus. During my visit, afternoon sunlight glinted across tempered glass on an exterior wall of the nonprofit 5.4.7 Arts Center. True to the eco-friendly focus Greensburg adopted after the tornado, it employs solar panels and geothermal heating and cooling, plus reclaimed wood siding, skylights, and a 'green roof.'         

​When the town envisioned this building, it enlisted the help of graduate students from what was then the University of Kansas School of Architecture and Urban Planning's Studio 804 program. By the time the building was completed it had received a challenging, LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) Platinum rating.

Another LEED Platinum building, the Sun Chips Business Incubator employs skylights, solar panels, a heat pump, and a graywater system among other environmental features. Small businesses can get themselves established here before venturing out on their own.

At the time of my visit, Studio 54 Glass Art Studio and Gallery offered gift and household decor items here, including paperweights that featured tornado debris and bits of recycled glass…
​
After Greensburg’s reinvention began, Leonardo DiCaprio’s production company, Appian Way Productions, and Craig Piligian’s Pilgrim Media Group and Television filmed GREENSBURG, for Planet Green/the Discovery Channel. The series depicted Greensburg’s ‘green town’ rebirth. During his time in Greensburg, DiCaprio was so impressed with the town’s drive and vision that he donated $400,000 to state and federal emergency funds and corporate money, which would assist in building the $3.4 million business incubator building.
 
Greensburg residents remain committed to the city’s motto, which emerged from tornado devastation and rebirth - Greensburg: Better, Stronger, Greener. Want to learn more? Check out this 2020 update/story.                                                  

Let's stick with more of my favorite Kansas experiences for a minute. Like my previous post, this adventure took place more than a decade ago. Because this ranch no longer hosts public prairie burns, I have removed the name of the property and its owner. 

But, if you ever have a chance to see one of these prairie burns, run-don't-walk to experience an amazing and legendary prairie activity: 

With only 1/2 an hour left before I would reach my destination, a ranch west of Emporia, Kansas, I began to see wide charred fields along either side of the road. As I turned in at [a ranch in the Kansas Flint Hills] dozens of visitors crowded the driveway and open area.
 
We had gathered to watch a carefully orchestrated prairie burn, designed to help protect the land from invasion of unwanted trees and brush. Five to 10 days after a burn, the land is once again green and growing. And prairie burns leave charred fields on many farms at this time of year.
 
[The ranch owner] gave us our safety instructions. He said that, during the burn, if caught by the fire – though this is a rare occurrence – we should ‘move to black or blue.’ Black is already charred ground where there’s nothing left to burn, and blue is a pond.

Then we headed towards the field that he would burn. Some visitors volunteered to light small patches of grass which would spread these tiny fires towards each other, to get the burn started. Flames fanned across the pasture with amazing speed, engulfing vegetation as they created row after row of roaring orange blazes and a rather otherworldly landscape.
 
Finally, the burn slowed, and the show ended. Handfuls of spectators rode on a farm truck or walked back to the barn area. A trio of country musicians performed in one barn while we chowed down on an old-fashioned chuckwagon supper that began with pulled pork and ended with fresh berry cobbler.
 
As sunset approached, another blaze raced up a nearby hillside and the ranch owner that we were visiting prepared for the evening burn event on his second field. Regrettably storm clouds, and a 2-1/2 hour drive home chased me away. 

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Before I wrote my Kansas book (An Explorer's Guide: Kansas, W.W. Norton/The Countryman Press, June 2011), I explored every nook and cranny of the state by driving 13,000+ solo miles. One of my fondest memories took place in Southwest Kansas:

After months of anticipation, I was on pins and needles. Today, I would finally see Richard Duff’s massive buffalo herd of more than 400 head, grazing amid red rocks that appeared in the movie, Dances with Wolves.
 
I waited for a man I’d never met and a vehicle I’d never seen in the parking lot of a rural museum and gallery. A white truck jostled into view and crackled across the gravel parking lot. I walked up to the cab and shook hands with Duff. His quiet teenage son scurried from the cab to the pickup bed so I could sit beside Duff, who turned onto the highway and headed north. The truck then left the road again, crossing pale green grassland pock-marked with rugged rock formations.
 
I took a deep breath when he suggested sitting in the pickup bed so I could take better photographs. We neared the massive animals and Duff stopped briefly. I carefully stepped down from the cab and scurried to the rear of the truck where his son helped me hoist myself into the flatbed. Then I wedged in against the cab wall and sat down.
 
Hundreds of buffalo grazed across the arid landscape, mesmerizing me as late morning sunlight glinted off of their dark and wiry coats. Duff slowly increased the pickup’s speed and the engine roared while the massive tires navigated rocky, hilly and rough terrain.
 
When his son cast large handfuls of feed on the ground the massive creatures ran clumsily – yet with surprising speed – towards the back of the truck. Buffalo shook the ground and charged towards the food while kicking up large clouds of dust and occasionally roaring like lions. Exhilaration overpowered my momentary fear as my camera ran continuously. Every shot felt like a gift.
 
Fifteen minutes later Duff stopped the truck at a safe distance from the herd, which again stood nearly motionless against the rugged landscape. I re-entered the cab, and his son slammed the tailgate shut before returning to the pickup bed. As the truck trundled towards the highway and the herd became dark spots in the rearview mirror, I knew I’d never forget Duff’s buffalo.
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Richard Duff’s buffalo graze outside of Scott City but they weren’t the only ones that I saw throughout the state.

A wizened rancher carrying a reproduction of outlaw Bat Masterson’s gun took me to the heart of his 50-head herd in a pickup with a massive spider web of windshield cracks. I rolled down the window to take pictures but stayed in the cab. 

Other buffalo eyed me quietly from behind a surprisingly low fence along a Kansas highway. And more of the massive animals grazed amid wildflowers and native grasses while others ambled near a 100-foot-deep sinkhole.

Note: As a travel writer, I received accommodations, entry fees, etc. while visiting this area, in advance of reviews and/or profiles. I do my best to remain impartial and offer full disclosure to avoid potential conflicts of interest.