Billy Connolly's Route 66_ The Big Yin on the Ultimate American Road Trip - Billy Connolly [98]
Leaving Flagstaff the next morning, I was in the best of spirits. The mood up on the hillside had been just right, and all the crew thought we’d done a great job. And we felt proud of Flagstaff. So few places on earth would be prepared to reduce their lighting to suit the wishes of a group of astronomers. The only stain on our stay in the town had come when I’d disappeared into the bushes for a pee. It was only when I finished that I realised I’d peed right in front of a couple who were using it as a lovers’ lane. Oops.
We had a long day ahead of us, so Mike rode the trike for a couple of hours while I hitched a lift in the crew’s truck. I took over once we reached an easy stretch, and the painkillers dulled the twinges I was still feeling in my leg and rib. After stopping at a dodgy gas station for an equally dodgy burrito, we arrived at Monument Valley, 175 miles northeast of Flagstaff. At that point I forgot all about my injuries.
Monument Valley took my breath away. Eerie and haunting, it’s hugely significant for anyone who grew up watching Westerns and John Wayne – who called this remote region the place ‘where God put the West’. Its majestic landscape of vast, vivid-red sandstone buttes that rise to heights of up to a thousand feet is one of the most extraordinary, magnificent things I’ve ever seen.
Most of us have seen at least one of the seven Westerns that John Ford shot in Monument Valley, so the shadow they cast on our culture is long and pervasive. Movies like Stagecoach, Fort Apache and The Searchers created the image of the heroic, romantic West. I spent my childhood Saturday mornings at the local flicks watching those films, then running down the street in a cowboy suit with a gun holstered on my hip, so it was an absolute joy to see the place for myself. I just stood there, a tiny dot in that massive vista, trying to soak it all in and really appreciate it.
The place is almost impossible to describe in words. Awestruck by the red, pink and orange rocks, I immediately took pictures on my phone and emailed them to the whole family. Within minutes, the replies came flooding in, all of them saying they wanted to swap lives with me. But pictures cannot do it justice. You have to stand within it to understand it and feel its full force. Suddenly, in my head, I could hear some typical Western movie music – the sort that surges to a crescendo as a line of Indians appears in silhouette on the skyline – which only added to the drama of the place. Because of its prominent place in our cultural history and its uniqueness on our planet, I think Monument Valley is something we all own. We had better look after it well.
Shortly after arriving in the valley, I met Larry, an extremely friendly Navajo man who would guide us through the entire area the next day. Monument Valley is very sacred to the Navajo, so no one is allowed to go barging through it in their four-wheel drive with the radio blaring. There’s a certain protocol, and Larry was going to lead us through it. He also offered to introduce me to a medicine man, which sounded like a wonderful idea. I hoped he’d be able to sort out my sore leg and aching rib.
The medicine man was dressed in a plaid shirt and grey slacks when I met him, which didn’t really fit the image I had in my head. But at least his thick, coiled turquoise necklace and silver bracelets looked authentic. He told me I looked like Kit Carson, the American frontiersman and comic-book hero. It must have been the beard and the long hair, because I wasn’t wearing a fringed jacket and I’ve never hunted buffalo in my life. I told him about