Editor’s note: The IJ reprints some columns by the late Beth Ashley. This one is from 2015.

We had just packed our things and prepared everything for a two-week trip to Mexico City and Mazatlán when Rowland told us that we would not be coming: he discovered that his passport had just expired.

My goodness. What now?

Almost immediately I said, “Let’s go to Santa Fe.” Santa Fe was one of my favorite trips back when I traveled with my dear friend Skiddie, and I always wanted to show it to Rowland. Plus, I really wanted to go somewhere – away from the routine of doing laundry, making beds, and picking up trash off the floor.

So we hit the road, using only the car. By the time we got home, Rowland had driven 3,200 miles. Even at 90, he is a remarkable driver with great reflexes and an eye for common sense. We are grateful for his reliable Prius.

Our route took us through Nevada to Las Vegas. If I never have to drive through Nevada again, I’ll be grateful – there’s nothing there. We drove through a landscape of brown plateaus, high winds and tumbleweeds. We stopped whenever we wanted gas or something to eat. In Kingman, Arizona, we bought Route 66 T-shirts. We always associated ourselves with 66, although rarely intentionally.

When we arrived in New Mexico, fall was already in full swing. The trees in the main square in Santa Fe had turned bright yellow, the sidewalks were covered in leaves. We were immediately struck by the widespread southwestern architecture – the pale clay colors and rounded walls made everything look like a pueblo. We booked a charming hotel next to the square and immediately set out to explore the area.

We wandered through the New Mexico History Museum, which is housed in the former Governor’s Palace. Rowland took photos of a stagecoach and a covered wagon. From there we found our way to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and searched almost in vain for giant flower paintings.

We had been urged to visit the “Miracle Staircase” in the Loretto Chapel in the city center. The staircase wound from the ground floor to the choir loft above the altar. It had two 360-degree turns and went straight up, initially without a railing. How could anyone dare climb it? Legend has it that the nuns realized too late that they had no access to the choir loft and prayed for someone to build a staircase. A stranger appeared, built one and disappeared without asking for any money – a minor miracle in itself. At first the nuns climbed up hand over hand and down on their bottoms; eventually they had railings installed, but the staircase still looks terrifying. It remains a top tourist attraction.

There are dozens of art galleries all over Santa Fe; artisans perch on the sidewalks selling weavings, pottery and rings. Shops and cafes are ubiquitous, but you’ll hardly find a drugstore or grocery store – the downtown core is designed for tourists. Keep your wallet open.

We bought practically nothing and contented ourselves with strolling through the foliage or watching the world go by on the plaza.

We ate well and looked for southwestern specialties.

On our last day, we drove the main road to Taos, known for its scenery, including snow-capped mountains in the distance, and at the moment, its bright yellow groves of trees. On the way, we stopped at the Santuario de Chimayo, known as the American Lourdes. A small chapel in Chimayo displays the crutches and canes of people who were supposedly healed there.

An hour later, Taos, a bustling town isolated from the outside world and famous for its artist community, appeared out of nowhere. We had tacos for lunch and visited the Taos Pueblo, a squat adobe house that is the oldest continuously inhabited settlement in the United States. We drove down the mountain on a road that ran along the Rio Grande, glittering and sparkling in the bright sun.

We passed the outskirts of Santa Fe and drove straight to Albuquerque, the starting point of our three-day journey home.

Santa Fe was a colorful delight and we were very glad we were there. But the more miles we covered, the more we looked forward to the projects waiting for us back home. Rowland has stained glass windows in mind; I’m still working on my book. Greenbrae is a great place – even if it means doing laundry, washing dishes and making beds.

We know we are blessed. We love going away. We love coming home.