Chicanonautica: 2025: A Road Odyssey: The Mexica Return to Mormonland

With certain archeological discoveries in recent years, the idea that Aztlán is located in Utah is getting more popular. Mexican-looking people are everywhere, mostly working, building, making a new home for themselves and the "native" Mormons. Even in Kanab, that was once where Hollywood crews would stay while making westerns because Monument Valley is prettier than Texas.

At the office of the Days Inn, a huge screen showed Fox News’ alternate universe, a world that was begging for Trump to save it.

If people just looked around, they would see all the Mexica/Aztec faces. The New Pilgrims. Future Thanksgiving feasts will become more and more . . . Mexican? . . . Native? . . . American?

Kanab doesn’t serve breakfast until 11AM. We were up way early. Luckily, Mike was raving about a restaurant in St. George. It was a bit of a drive, through towns scattered in what I call psychedelic geology. We got coffee in Hurricane.

 

The restaurant was First Watch—a chain that I hadn’t noticed because of the name. Mike had the steel-cut oatmeal. Emily had the Chile Chorizo omelette. I had the Farm Stand Breakfast Tacos. The non-traditional Mexicoid fare was delicious. We ate there several times on this trip.

After we cruised some thrift stores, I saw books by my editor/mentor/friend Ben Bova. A message from the great beyond, from a deeply materialistic hard science writer . . .

Then we hit Snow Canyon. The landscape in its fantastic glory, shining through the fading Uto/Mexica memories and crumbling Mormon/Hollywood visions. Rocks churning up cosmic truths from the center of the Earth.

Later Emily’s sister Carol caught up with us. We had dinner at a place called Los Tapatios that has a great taco plate. Mexican restaurants in Utah used to be such a joke. The times they are a-changing, amigos.

 

That night, Yamamoto led the Dodgers to a victory, sending them to the World Series. I was reminded of the words of the Firesign Theater: “The Tokyo Cubs had won the Series, and mustaches were out of style, and believe me, the dames looked better without ‘em.” 

 

Also, No Kings protests were scheduled all over Utah. Saw a sign declaring that St. George was “Utah’s Dixie.” 

We took Carol to Snow Canyon. She was wowed.

Then we went to Kanarra Falls, crisscrossing the icy river into a dazzling slot canyon. Here we go, I thought, the Senior Citizen Adventure Club. Mike had broken his toe in the hotel, but it didn’t slow him down. I took a tumble at one point, but somehow did an automatic tuck-and-roll, so there was no pain a few days later.

A dead llama was splattered across the road.

Next morning I improvised huevos rancheros with some Cholula packets and pre-cooked eggs in the Days Inn breakfast room. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative . . .

Besides, I needed to get in the mood for the Pink Coral Sand Dunes; a rock shop in the Orwellianly named Orderville served tacos (they’re everywhere), and featured dinosaurs and a Flintstone car.

Then we went to the as-usual amazing Bryce Canyon National Park. No employees during the government shutdown, so it was free, though the trash receptacles were overflowing. The magnificent hoodoos still stood tall.

 

That night we asked a local what the best Mexican restaurant in Kanab was. The name Escobar’s was offered immediately. Once again, good food and funky decor. 

A Uto-Aztecan future in the making . . .