Badlands with Morgen: Walking Through Time Together

Giving thanks for the land, the lives before us, and the stories still being told

This time of year, a lot of people talk about gratitude around a table. For our family, one of the ways we feel and show thanks is by walking the land together. There is something almost sacred about stepping into the badlands at sunrise. The earth opens in layers, the sky feels endless, and the quiet asks you to listen instead of talk. These past few weekends, Morgen and I have gone back again and again to these eroded hills, trying to remember with our feet and our eyes that we live in a place with a very long memory.

We set out with simple goals: traces of old stories. On one hike, we followed a wash and found fossils of shells and oysters, reminders that this dry desert was once the floor of a living sea. On another day, we traced a black seam of coal, found fossilized wood, and read the rock layers like a slow history book. Most recently, we went looking for a fire ring and instead found pottery sherds and half of a musket ball. Each piece carried human stories: people who shaped clay, tended fires, hunted, worked, and survived on this same ground.

We explore these badlands as guests. The land is privately owned, and we are there only with the landowner’s permission and guidance. They hike alongside us, share stories, and help us see details we might otherwise miss. Out of respect for their home and for this landscape, I will not share specific locations, only our gratitude for being welcomed into it.

Part of Morgen’s story is Ojibwe. We live far from her Ojibwe family, but that history and identity sit with us when we walk. It shapes how we talk about being guests on this land, how we think about the ancestors who walked here before us, and how we try to move with care. We talk about the animals that once lived in that ancient sea, the way water and time carved these badlands, and how so many peoples carry stories of a great flood and a world made new again. We talk about the animals that walk this desert now, and the people who built lives here long before our own family came to New Mexico. Before we turn back toward the car, Morgen and I always stop for a moment. We give a quiet thank you.