Durango to Mancos, With a Stop at the Roof of the World, Named by the Spanish as Mesa Verde

Monday, October 11, 2010.

I had been told that in Durango the snow isn’t plowed to the sides of the streets, it’s plowed to the center of Main Avenue, that there remain two vehicular lanes along the curbs, in close access to the sidewalks. Pedestrians continue to use the sidewalks socially, even to the point where there are (or is a) snow pageants.

The October morning is cool, but not at all uncomfortable, and the sun is wonderfully warm. I had breakfast, part of the room fee, across the street at the Rochester Hotel. Sat with strangers, but nobody seems to be a stranger for long. Reminded me of the leisurely and congenial breakfasts that come along with hotels in Europe. I find myself wondering why, when commercial coffee is so universally bad in New Jersey that it needs flavorings or milk or whatever to make it palatable, coffee in NM and CO has been so smooth and delicious. Is it perhaps a lower brewing temperature?

After breakfast, a few photos of the Leland House. The bicycles out front are for the use of guests, and they somehow magically re-appear in front every morning, and although I must suppose that occasionally one disappears, they are neither stolen nor vandalized. I choose to walk, and although my leg still hurts, its not so much that it discourages walking.

Leland House, my room was on the top floor, at the left of this photo.











Leland House












Walking towards the train station, I approach the Strater Hotel. One of the original hotels in Durango, it had been one of my options, but I rather enjoyed staying at the fringe of the residential area rather than in the downtown. On my last two trips to Italy, in 1996 and 1999, I had stayed in Rome for a few days before my return. The first time I did so, on recommendation from a travel agent friend of mine, I stayed at a hotel in the residential Prati section a short drive from the City Center (Centrum). I so enjoyed being able to park my car next to my lodgings, and to be able to drive to the Centrum, where my car was prohibited, before walking about that wonderful city; that the next time I went, with my children, I reserved a room in the same hotel. No, you can’t walk out your hotel door and see a “sight”, but you do get a better sense of the tempo and humanity of a place. So too here in Durango, except that Durango is a lot smaller than Rome, and in Durango you can walk out your hotel door and see a "sight"!

The Strater is beautiful in the intense sunlight, and I can hear the steam engine from behind it. Walking down to the station, I wandered about it briefly, but the train had just left and no photos of it were possible. Checking out the schedule, I find (as I had been told I would) that one of the options from this terminus is a ride to Silverton, and back, which pretty much takes all day. I didn’t want to spend all day at that though, I’ve got some missions to fulfill, so I put that aside for a different trip. Back to the Leland to pick up my car, and a short drive up the mesa to Fort Lewis College. The day before I had found the main, or business, offices, and I wanted to know more about working at the school. I was kindly received, and was able to discover not only that they do hire adjuncts, but was able to get the name of the man in the physics department, which includes the engineering program, who is responsible for hiring adjuncts. Mission accomplished!


The Strater, train station to the left and behind.












Back to the hotel, check out, and a feint north towards Silverton before heading west towards Mesa Verde.

San Juan's












Some snow on a peak.

There’s nothing special about the road towards Mesa Verde, except that it more or less follows the route of the Old Spanish Trail, which had run from Los Angeles to Santa Fe. While the Spanish Trail had run through Mancos, the modern road runs right past Mancos, which is where I’m going to stay the night before heading south to Chaco Canyon. Mesa Verde becomes prominent in the southwest when descending the western extent of the San Juan mountains into the Mancos Valley, and the road ascends out of Mancos Valley towards Cortez.

Mesa Verde is a National Park, one of those established by T. R. in 1906, and there’s a small entrance fee. I’ve no idea of what to expect as I follow the road into the park. A narrow road that winds, and ascends, and winds some more, and ascends, and as I become more and more exposed to the sky, and as the earth begins to more and more drop off all around me, and I begin to feel more and more like I’m just a visitor to the top of the earth, I start to get that same sense of agoraphobia that I had first felt in Carson National Forest. Part way up the mesa, really the closest prong of the mesa, the road passes through a tunnel, and some distance ahead, there’s a scenic overlook. Stopping there, I’m able to see Mancos in the east and Sleeping Ute mountain towards the west. The tunnel is not part of the original route up the mesa. A sign, with photographs, indicates that the original road had rounded the crumbly cliff, Knife Edge @ 8290 feet) that I can see from the overlook, in fact it could be walked to from the overlook - the Knife Edge Trail - but the road had to be abandoned due to the dangers of falling off the side of the mesa!

The Knife Edge, the remnants of the road are that little shelf just below that jutting peak!











Sleeping Ute, westerly of Mesa Verde

Continuing up the mesa, which ascends to 8572 feet, there’s a turnoff for a fire watch station at that summit. Parking nearby, and walking up to the station, its possible to see well into New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. Some additional photographs reveal the degradation of visibility from fossil fuel smoke, yet the view remains amazing.

Towards Durango from the Fire Lookout












Southerly from the Fire Lookout












The road goes on and on, through burned over low forests, past a Lodge and a Visitor Center, and diverges to a choice between Weatherhill Mesa and Chapin Mesa. The top of the mesa is more or less flat, and there is a constant drying wind. The immensity of the mesa is amazing, yet, because the edges are omnipresent, it seems more like the deck of a ship than a habitable piece of land. Yet, people did live here, a lot of them.

I choose the Chapin Mesa road, wanting to go towards the Cliff Palace, and the road finally becomes a one-way loop, running along the sides of Chapin Mesa, and overlooking Cliff Canyon and then Soda Canyon. There’s some variation in the reported dates, but it seems that sometime around 600 AD people moved to the mesa, and sometime later, perhaps around 800 AD, the people living on the mesa top moved to the canyon walls, remaining there until about 1300 AD. It is those cliff dwellings that draw visitors from all over the world. This was really the first time I became aware of someplace in the Southwest being a tourist attraction, and there seem to be more foreign languages being spoken at the visitor centers and the various stops than American. (I’ll yield to American being a dialect of English, but I do insist upon the distinction).

I stopped at Cliff Palace, but although my leg allowed for walking, it would not allow for descending steps except with great difficulty, and ascending was extraordinarily difficult without severe pain. So, I did not actually tour the Cliff Palace (the Ranger cautioned the visitors, intending to tour, not only of the necessary care to preserve the ruins, but of the stairs, cliffs, and the final exit via ladder). I wasn’t disappointed however, my goal had been to be in the place where those ancient peoples lived, not necessarily to go through their ruined homes.

Met a disabled Vietnam Vet up there. He was touring about on a really nice Harley trike, and was wearing a most amazing fringed leather jacket. I commented on his jacket (I really want one) and we got to talking about all manner of things. He, however, was upset that his damaged leg wouldn’t allow for him to tour the ruins. I can understand that, I knew my leg would heal, he’d been dealing with his for over 40 years.

From Cliff Palace, the road goes past Balcony House which overlooks Soda Canyon, and then back towards the far distant park entrance. Despite drinking copious amounts of water, the sun and wind and air have dehydrated me, so I stop at the Visitor Center to replenish my water. There’s a small, and excellent, museum there, and a gift shop. It being the end of the season, the selection of T shirts is a bit limited.

Northerly end of the cave housing Cliff Palace


















Northerly end of Cliff Palace












Center to south of Cliff Palace












Southerly end of Cliff Palace












Looking southerly in Cliff Canyon. Cliff Palace is to the left and below the top of the mesa











Neighbors across the street (Cliff Canyon).












Cousins on westerly side of Cliff Canyon (Long Mesa).











Looking northerly (back towards Cliff Palace) in Cliff Canyon











Looking southerly in Cliff Canyon












Now, winding around the various promontories, I’m on the outside of the turns, not the inside. While the driver of any car is always towards the center of the roadway, I became quite conscious of the proximity of the cliffs, and the slight guardrails, on the passenger side. I’m in an understeering American car, which means that when making a turn, I’m more or less facing towards the outside of the turn, i.e. into thin air! I’m used to driving oversteering cars, where the driver faces the inside of the turn, and this new viewpoint is disconcerting. In fact, that explains my reluctance to descend the dirt road at the Rio Grande crossing at Carson - should an understeering car skid, it will plow its way to the outside of the turn, i.e. off the cliff! Even my Jeep was better balanced that this red beast I’m driving! So, I hug the double yellow.

Down, past the Knife Edge turnout, through the tunnel, and back to 160 - the Old Spanish Trail. A right turn towards Mancos, and a delightful evening!

California Dreaming, or Revisiting the Mamas and the Papas with Respect to Chris Smither

I must massage a bunch of photographs for the next posting, and that will take most of the time I would today spend researching and writing the next chapter of Java Chronicles. However, here’s a digression - I told you there would be digressions.

Drinking (alcohol that is) always depresses me, which is why I don’t drink often, and never drink very much. Forget the dehydration, it’s the loss of outlook that I consider a hangover. Its probably been this way as long as I’ve been an adult, but it really became apparent once I trained in Reiki. I found then that the slightest amount of alcohol grossly inhibited my sight, and, discovering also that the effect lasted a couple of days, I stopped drinking at all for a few months. Now, I just accept the consequences, and indulge rarely.

Anyway, I saw some excellent music last night, had a couple of beers, and felt happiness in the company of friends. That’s a special kind of happiness, the kind that nothing can ever take away, and it comes from the kind of distributed love that sustains the members of any community. But, the morning was different. I woke to a chill, grey day, and thought of “California Dreaming”.

A little cat jumped up on my bed, and snuggled up to my chest, purring and pushing his forefeet and closing his eyes - giving the kind of soft love that a cat gives so well. And I felt the emptiness that’s been residing in my heart for months now. Having let slide the denial and distractions I had applied like a compress over a pavement burn, I felt the emptiness prominently. I didn’t want to be feeling that way, but that’s not the kind of thing one really gets a choice in. Once you open yourself to another, when the options are closed off, grief is inevitable. Still, why can’t it be sunny?

Seeking optimism, I thought of collating photographs of Colorado, and the joy of re-living the experiences in order to share them with you all. And, then, I realized that I have the power to travel back to Cerrillos, or Taos, or the Rio Grande in my mind, and to dwell in the sun and adventure. And, it would be so very easy to spend the next couple of hours catatonic, but happy. But, that’s not the way forward, and the cat, Gabriel - the messenger, is insistent.

So, “California Dreaming” could not be suppressed, and I have my own version. I wondered why I had felt such a strong sense of homecoming in New Mexico, particularly in the area around Santa Fe. I recalled that although I was born in Manhattan, and I have long claimed my formative years to have been as a city kid, in truth I spent my infancy and toddlerhood (no, that’s not recognized by the spell checker) in the hills of Burbank. Yes, that’s right, my earliest experiences of the environment beyond my mother are of the sun and heat and canyons and hills of California, and those are not so very much different than the surroundings at Madrid, or Cerrillos! In that child mind that is at the core of us all, I had indeed come home to where I had been nurtured!

So my friends, I owe these thoughts to a little black and white cat, whose greatest adventures are batting a stuffed mouse around, or boxing with a Maine Coon twice his size, or some mysteries he keeps from me in his wanderings outside. I will correct the photographs today, but will wait for some sunny hours to re-visit Colorado with you.

Durango, or, How I Survive a Dip in Pagosa and Discover a True Paradise!

Saturday, October 9, 2010

The way to Colorado lies on the western side of the Carson National Forest, continuing up the Rio Chama valley towards the San Juan mountains. As I said before, the highlands (higher lands?) of the Carson National Forest are really a southern spur of the San Juan Mountains. To the west is a vast expanse of high plains. So, the San Juan’s, which already have some snow on them in October, dominate the landscape. They are magnetic!

In the town of Chama, 84 turns left towards Dulce, and NM 17 bears off to the northeast, right into the San Juan’s, through Cumbres Pass (10,022 ft) and La Managa Pass (10,230 ft), back towards the Rio Grande National Forest and the Rio Grande valley. This is very inviting, and actually had been an alternate route from Taos, but I’m intent on getting to Durango, so I postpone this trip for another time - some summertime!

Driving west on 84, the terrain is clearly wetter, there are grasslands, creekbeds and thick spruce and aspen forests. Halfway to Dulce from Chama, 84 turns northerly into the San Juan foothills, and starts to wind between lush ranches and forests. Sometime after crossing the border into Colorado, I notice a sign on the shoulder, rather like the “mowing ahead” signs we see here during the summer, but this sign says instead “Cattle Drive ahead”. Cattle Drive Ahead? I’ve got to know!!

Digressing again, at one point in that European trip from 1970, I was in Austria. Austria is a very beautiful country. They had, maybe still have, a policy that for every tree cut, two must be planted. As a result, there is no barren terrain, there are farms, towns, cities, and forests. I had gotten to Austria from Munich (ah - there’s a story for that city too), via Salzburg, to Graz. At Graz, I was able to tour an armory from the 16th - 17th centuries. The Moors had been invading Europe (I understand that Flamenco is a consequence of those invasions into Spain), and at Graz a large armory of weapons and armor had been assembled to repel the invaders. Indeed, the defenders were successful, and although there was much fighting at Graz, the taking of Vienna was thwarted, and the invaders were fought to a standoff. The armory has been preserved intact since 1551! Then, and I’m supposing that is no longer true today, on payment of a small fee, I was able to wander the five floors of weapons, arrayed as if in a warehouse - which indeed it had been - without inhibition. My strongest memory of that afternoon, other than the amazing freedom to wander about and touch pieces that would be behind glass if in NYC, was noticing one breastplate with a perfectly round, roughly 5/8 inch diameter, dent in it. I supposed that the breastplate had saved its wearer from a lead ball shot from some archaic wheellock firearm.

After Graz, I went to a campground in a small town called Langenwang, a bit closer to Vienna. There are many stories to tell about that stay, but the one that belongs here is about cattle. One day, headed I recall not where on one of the pastoral roads, I became engaged in a cattle drive. Well more of a milk drive, because they were milk cows being herded from one pasture to another, or from pasture to barn. My little white Opel became surrounded by large, thankfully docile, black cows, guided by a somewhat amused and annoyed herder with - yes - a staff! The Brothers Grimm appeared in my backseat, a white swan landed upon my hood, and I awaited a clear road, entertained Grimmly.




















But in Colorado, it seems there are no cattle on the highway! Then, just as I’ve been lulled by the exquisite valley, there in front of me is a herd of perhaps 50 steers! They’re moving downhill, on the opposite side of the road, and traffic is backed up behind them as if they were a stopped schoolbus. They’re accompanied by a half dozen riders, men and women, and three or four dogs. The riders are keeping the cattle moving downhill, and keeping them to their lane (double yellow after all!). The dogs are nipping at the strays’ heels, and the riders are directing the dogs and generally pressing the back of the herd. All wearing cowboy hats of course (except the dogs)!

84 ends in Colorado at Pagosa Springs. To the right (east), lie the San Juan mountains and Wolf Creek ski area (for those of you who like to know those kinds of things). Pagosa Springs is located on the San Juan River, which is about the size of the Musconetcong there. There’s not a lot to Pagosa Springs, its rather a main street (Pagosa Street) sort of town, with a lot of restaurants and motels on the way in. I’m heading for the resort however, and on spotting some steaming pools, I turn off the main road. Fortuitously, I’ve found the resort, called, appropriately enough, “The Springs”.

The concierge plays the silly “its Saturday, I’ll have to see if there’s anything available” game with me while she evaluates me, and finally I get a room. Access to the various pools comes with the room, and although the room is expensive, it’s a lot easier to lodge there than to go elsewhere, buy a day ticket and have to go back and forth. They provide nice heavy terrycloth bathrobes, and soft towels on demand. There are perhaps a dozen different pools, in different sizes, at different temperatures, and with different amenities (waterfalls, better looking women). There’s also a small number of “adult” pools in a segregated area. I ask what do they mean by “adult”, and the best I get is that children aren’t allowed. Duh! I saw nothing else that actually distinguished the adult pools from the others, other than a fairly elegant gas fired outdoor fire place of the circular basin sort, but maybe I just wasn’t there at the “right” time.

The air was cooling quickly as the sun was heading towards setting, and I went for the hottest pool, which at 111 degrees was pretty toasty. A bit of time in there, and I moved on to a slightly cooler, but slightly larger pool nearby. Getting bored there, I went back to the hottest pool. That pool was about waist deep, and access was via a single step at the side with a central handrail. When I had first gone in, I noticed a large chip out of the concrete plaster covered step. I wanted to avoid stepping on that loose chip when going back, so I carefully looked into the pool for the chip, and stepped down with my right foot so as to land just to the left of the chip. Unfortunately, the step was not a continuous ledge, and I kept going! An intense pain shot into my left thigh as I tried to stop my fall, and the best I was able to do was slow myself down enough that I maintained just a little bit of decorum as I kept from landing on another occupant! Ow! I still don’t know exactly what I did to that muscle or tendon, but I could barely walk and couldn’t ascend a stairway!

I soaked my leg, took some aspirin, rested a bit, and headed out for dinner, choosing an Asian restaurant listed in the resort guide. You guessed it, I tried walking instead of driving. Well, I had thought that getting my throat cut and my spine disassembled gave me some empathy with the various injured people I’ve run into over the past 30 years investigating accidents. Well, that was nothing compared to trying to walk what turned out to be about two miles (round trip) in the chilly Colorado evening, with my left leg unable to support my weight unless I had my knee locked. I thought about Gunsmoke! The worst was that every dozen or so steps, I’d lose control, my leg would flex, and the pain would stop me in mid-stride.

After dinner, I went back into one of the pools (adult) to soak my thigh, took some more aspirin (wonder drug) and Xanaflex (another wonder drug) to keep whatever was injured from spasm, and went to sleep.

Sunday, October 10, 2010.

The next morning another dip, an inept encounter with two cute women whom my pain didn’t keep me from eying up, but whom my limp kept me from being comfortable with, a walk (no, I don’t give up - I’m a stubborn German) into town looking for film, and back into the car for breakfast and then Durango!! That leg continued to give me trouble the next few days, and made some of my intended excursions impossible, but so it goes!

Oh. The sulfur. I forgot about the sulfur. The air in Pagosa smells like sulfur. The springs are sulfur water. The sulfur gets into your pores. Even clothing that you’ve put onto your dry body after showering winds up smelling of sulfur. Three washings at home and my bathing suit still smells like sulfur. I’m sure the water is healthful, some people even drink it, but everybody smells like they got seriously paranoid with some 1950's acne remedy!































The road to Durango lies through Bayfield. The terrain is hilly, and the road is mostly narrow as it winds between the various hills. No longer are there the expansive vistas of New Mexico, in fact, at some points I rather felt like I was in the southern Appalachians - perhaps Tennessee or western Virginia. Rounding a sweeping bend I saw a sign for jerky: elk jerky, deer jerky, buffalo jerky. HAD to stop. Wound up in a nice half hour discussion with the woman running the stand, and she told me that her jerky was pure (not true), and good (quite true). She used to live in Durango, until it got too crowded for her, so she moved to Bayfield. Now, I’m having a hard time conceiving that any place in the Four Corners area is too crowded for anybody, too commercial perhaps, but too crowded - no. So, I open a discussion about New Jersey, and what too crowded might mean to me. Its all in the eye of the beholder, I’m sure that somebody from Delhi thinks New Jersey really is the Garden State! She is quite cordial, assures me that I’ll like Durango, and welcomes me to move to Bayfield! The 25 or so dollars of jerky sustained me quite nicely at odd times over the next few days, along with the plentiful supply of Brach’s Harvest Mix that I had imported from New Jersey.

Finally, Durango. Unfortunately for Durango, the approach is through a modern built-up commercial area and is rather unattractive. But, again trusting to the Fates that have guided me well for many travels over many decades, I finally make an opportune but illogical right turn, and wind up on the road to Fort Lewis College! That road crosses Main Avenue, and I’ve arrived! Cruising around a bit, I locate the restaurant where I’m going to meet a friend, and then drive up to the College to get my mental map firmed up.

Durango is pretty much a Main Street city on the Animas River. There are serious ridges, mountains, and mesas on the east and west of the City. The old City is on the eastern side of the river, at the foot of the mesa on which Fort Lewis College is built. There’s a residential district starting just a block off the main street, leading up to the edge of the mesa. Mostly small homes, with front porches, landscaped lawns, trees, people out walking and bicycling - perfectly charming. I got a little lost, disoriented at least, and obtained some directions from a woman tending her garden, without getting that dose of fear that exists whenever I (as a stranger) try to communicate with a woman on the street in New Jersey. Maybe she was armed.

I’ve a little time to kill, so I park my SUV near the restaurant, Carver Brewing Company, and walk Main Avenue. It was very inviting. No closed stores. Couples, singles, children, elders, walking the street, shopping or just strolling. Real stores, a real record shop, a real camera store, some tourist establishments, a huge candy store, restaurants, whatever you could want. Really not much bigger than a good sized NJ mall, but about an order of magnitude more diverse, and infinitely more attractive!

Two PM arrives, my friend arrives (by the way, did I mention that one can find parking on the main street?), and Carver Brewing turns out to have some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted! I get some recommendations for lodging, and finally check into a small 1920's hotel, the Leland House, that was converted from an apartment house, and which is associated with the 1890's Rochester Hotel just across the street. The place is decorated in early 20th c. boxing memorabilia and historic Durango photographs. I’m loving it!

A quick shower, a brief rest, and back out onto the streets. Durango has a working, narrow gauge steam railway, with an associated museum and well equipped repair and restoration shop. The whistle blows regularly, as the train crosses many streets on its route north to Silverton, and even the sound of steam is audible at my lodgings! Wanting some photos (I didn’t bring my flash, and now was the first, and only, time I regretted that omission), I walked down to the terminal, and watched the machinations of moving engines and cars about for the next day. The light was waning however, and no photos were possible.

Dinner at a Mongolian restaurant, which was wonderful, and I’m thinking that perhaps I could call my kids up, have them ship my stuff, and that I could move to Durango the next morning.

Durango? Or, how I get Distracted again!

Saturday, October 9, 2010.

Another exquisite morning in Taos, and my goal is Durango! I’m not actually supposing that I’m going to get to Durango, but Pagosa Springs would be close enough for the day! Out of Taos by the way I had come, but now with fresh batteries in the camera. First stop is the Rio Grande canyon to get the photos that had been missed on the way in. The vendors are beginning to set up in the parking lots on the eastern side of the bridge, and the canyon is dark with the morning shadows.

A walk out onto the bridge! I’m reminded, writing here, of my 1970 trip to Europe. One of the stops there was a campground in France, on the Gard River, at the Pont du Gard. The Pont du Gard is the remains of a circa 19 BC Roman aqueduct, originally constructed as a part of the water supply system for Nimes, France. It is reputed to be the highest of the Roman aqueducts (160 feet), and one of best preserved. Camping came with the opportunity to swim in the river, at the feet of the ancient structure. The swimming was delightful! I don’t recall the entire range of opportunities, but I vividly recall standing in mid-calf deep water, and watching sizeable fish hover in the eddies a foot downstream of my legs.

People have been crossing the aqueduct for centuries, in fact it owes its preservation to its use as a toll crossing in medieval times. Seeing others on the top, I decided to see what the top was about. Access to both the conduit and to the top was an easy climb in lightly wooded terrain. The top is wide enough to drive a car across, and appears strong enough to do so.

However, walking across, along the center of this causeway that one couldn’t possibly fall off of, peripheral vision announced to me in no uncertain terms that I was walking at least at 60 MPH, and I was completely out of control of my movements. Uncanny. Not vertigo - the sensation stopped as soon as I stopped - but instead a breakdown in my visual feedback system. A sense of being unable to keep control of my balance and position while walking. I suppose I could have shut my eyes and the sensation would have gone away, but that seemed like a pretty bad idea! By focusing on the pavement, and maintaining that concentration, I was able to walk, but it was extraordinarily difficult. Makes me wonder what a child, just learning to walk, experiences!

The same experience did not occur on the Rt. 64 bridge, apparently because the guardrails - which were non-existent on the Pont du Gard - were in peripheral vision, and thus my brain was receiving familiar visual cues.

Pont du Gard, looking downstream.













Pont du Gard again, looking more or less upstream. Swimming was at the foot in the foreground, hidden by the trees on the slope. Got up to the top at the end at the far left of this photo. Some steps had been cut into the top of the second tier and the bottom of third tier, that one could ascend to the top of the third tier.



By the time I finished taking photographs, a good number of vendors had set their wares out. Right at the end of the bridge, there was an older woman with tables of jewelry out. Browsing briefly, I immediately found some lapis earrings and a lapis stone, pierced as for a pendant. I knew that lapis would look stunning with my daughter’s hair (and I’m still hoping that she’ll pierce her ears that I can buy her many more earrings), and, knowing that a dear friend of mine is enamored of cobalt glass, I thought she’d enjoy lapis also, and would be able to work the lapis stone into a necklace for herself.

It was the vendor’s birthday, and we talked of her residence in the region. For years she had to haul water, but recently a communal well was drilled (she said the well had to go to the depth of the river), and water became plentiful! Wishing her a happy day, I walked on to see what else might be around.

Nearby there was a young man with a table full of turquoise and malachite cabochons at extremely low prices. It turned out that most of the pieces were flawed in some way, which gave reason for the attractive prices. However, I rather like some types of flaws in stones - as in wood and people, it is the flaws which give the character (I better think so because I’ve got lots n’ lots of flaws). One particular piece of turquoise, which looked like Sleeping Beauty, caught my attention, and it will be worked into the headstock of the OM sized guitar I’m finishing up now. Marked at $3, but he reduced it to $2, without asking, because of the flaw. To me, the flaw looks like a star in an azure sky, perhaps Venus at dawn.

Across the highway, to a leather worker. Extraordinarily energetic individual, years ago I would have said “speed freak”, but we got into a long discussion the drug trade in NM, during which he vociferously denied using any drugs. He explained that the (more or less) center of drug trafficking in northern NM was Espanola (remember I wrote that I didn’t like the energy in Espanola?). His leather work didn’t appeal to me, but he had a photograph of the bridge and canyon, that a friend of his had taken, for sale as both a postcard (dramatic color) and a panoramic print (dramatic format). I bought both.

Back into the car, thinking the next stop would be Pagosa Springs, but that was not to be. Just a few miles along, I passed the unusual, glittering, seeming free-form buildings that I had noticed on the way in to Taos. Earthships! There is an information center and model building, and an invitation to see what they’re about. Well, they are indeed impressive, and quite self-sustaining. I’ll leave it to your interest to search them on Google, here are some passing comments.

The primary construction modules are used automotive and small truck tires. The tires are stacked in courses like bricks, and then filled with rammed earth. The technique allows for curved walls, domes, etc. Where stuccoed with adobe or cement, the walls are fairly uniform. Where not covered, they are (to my eye) ugly, and smell of tires. I can’t help but think that while a more or less beneficial use of otherwise hard to recycle waste, it can’t ultimately be healthy to breathe the outgasses over years.

Elsewhere, and in addition to tires, walls are constructed with glass bottles and jars, wine bottles seeming to be predominant. I asked, and was told that bottles are readily available from willing donors. In that system, the bottles are laid on their sides, sometimes with the necks cut off, in adobe, and adobe plastered over. Where bottles are used with their necks cut off, the cut ends facing each other and to the center of the wall, a light transmitting wall can be constructed - yielding the glittering walls I had seen from the road.

Flat roofs are covered with rubber membranes, and collect water in 10,000 gallon cisterns.. They use conventional toilets, plumbed to a more or less conventional septic system, but instead of a subterranean leach field they use effluent gardens. Those gardens are not used for edible crops. I asked about composting toilets, and was told that they had been tried but had not worked out very well.

Graywater is filtered and used to irrigate interior gardens, used for ornamentals and kitchen garden type crops. As a result, the building interiors are rather more humid than the arid exteriors, and quite pleasant.

Building costs are high.

Leaving the Earthships, 64 runs westerly towards 84. North on 84 is towards Colorado and Pagosa Springs. South on 84 is towards Ghost Ranch. Now, it being Saturday, I’m expecting to eventually encounter traffic. But no, the very few cars I encounter ascending this southern spur of the San Juan mountains are inoffensive, and there is ample time to pay attention to the beauty. I decide that I’ll head south towards Ghost Ranch when I reach the option point.

On ascent, which starts immediately after leaving Tres Piedras, the terrain changes from the mostly flat sagebrush plain to rolling, but continuously ascending hills, rather like the foothills of the Poconos here in the east. The slopes are steeper though, and the vegetation is different. Where the Poconos are mixed hardwoods and some fully shaped conifers, Carson has mostly aspen and many precisely spired spruces. It being October, the aspens are gold against the spruces, exquisite! There’s an occasional lush farm, quite remote - and quite beautiful! I’m supposing winters are difficult.

This supposition is reinforced on the westerly side of the range spine. There, multiple switchbacks yield grand vistas, and the land seems harsher, like its been exposed to many millennia of cold, wet winds. There are many places where the road has apparently been washed out, and the washes filled with asphalt. I think that I don’t want to be on that road in the kind of weather that causes such powerful streams to flow over the roadway so as to excavate it and carry it in the chasms adjacent.

On reaching 84, I turn left towards Ghost Ranch. Why Ghost Ranch? Well, I want to see what Georgia O’Keefe saw. For the most part, we don’t get to see the environments in which artists have lived. Monet’s Giverny has been preserved that we can see what he saw, and we are free to see the places Ansel Adams photographed, but we can never see what Edward Hopper saw, and the Hudson Valley has been developed even beyond what the Hudson River School artists feared. Oh, yes, I’m sure you can come up with examples I’ve missed, but regardless of what you show, you will never be able to say that it is usual to be able to see what an artist of the past saw. Thus, to me, in October, 2010, I have a rare opportunity!

On the way south, there’s a small sign, a turnoff to Echo Amphitheater. I can’t resist, even though the name is itself an echo of all those roadside attractions billboarded into notoriety elsewhere. It’s a Bureau of Land Reclamation site, and there’s a trivial user fee, payable in cash or check only. The parking lot is at the head of a canyon, and a paved path leads into the canyon. There a signs warning to stay on the path as the terrain is sensitive, and there are a few pleasant, paved picnic sites just off the main path.

The walls of the canyon rise on both sides of the path. The distance between the walls is but one or two hundred yards. To the right is an eroded promontory revealing epochs of aggregation of the seabed. The lower strata are mostly pale red iron, then there comes a slightly darker region still iron red, then a chalk white region, topped with ochre and then earth brown. I wonder how far back into time I am walking.


The promentory at the easterly end of the northern wall of the canyon. That grey layer at the very top is what we would call topsoil. Its perhaps 20 - 30 inches thick in this photo.















The northern wall, or at least the top of it!
















At the back of the canyon, there is indeed a natural amphitheater. The lower strata have eroded, and there is an enormous conchoidal fracture in the upper strata, such that a dome has formed. This is my first experience with such rock formations, and it opens my eyes to the possibility. There is even an oculus, though which running water has left a stain on the underside of the half dome. Of course, the echo must be tried!

The amphitheater itself. The above photos are to the right of this spot, and behind. There is a rocky ascent near the bottom of the amphitheater, that one can better get to the focus of the semi-dome.













Returning to my car, I see the first of many more shallow, conchoidal caves that have formed in the cliffs easterly of Echo Amphitheater. Days later, at Mesa Verde, I realize that most of the abodes there exist beneath such convenient fractures. The earths grow increasingly more colorful! Still, as beautiful as the colors of the earth at the Amphitheater are, they have not prepared me for arrival in the region of Ghost Ranch. To the west, in this arid land, is a lake! Apparently Rio Chama, which runs southeasterly from the Chama River Canyon Wilderness area, was dammed, creating a body of water called Abiquiu Lake/Reservoir.

To the east is Ghost Ranch, which extends in a semi-circle perhaps 2 miles away from the road, and to the foot of a large mesa. At the northerly and southerly ends of the ranch area, the mesa comes right up to the road. Its not startlingly high, but it is startlingly colored. While truth is that it is a limited palette, it seems that all the colors of an artist’s palette are there. No wonder Ms. O’Keefe chose to live there, she had chosen to live with her pigments! On closer examination, it is really only the iron reds that are present, tempered by occasional chalky, white strata, and occasional reduced iron greys. But, the impression is of a riot of color!


A lake! I can smell it!














There's no way a photo can do the colors justice.










I’m hot; I’m thirsty - the lake has tantalized me. And, while I was able to refill my water bottle at Echo Amphitheater, the water was so soft as to be flat and alkaline tasting and I’m wondering what it might do to my digestion; and I’m hungry - all I’ve had to eat is raisins and crystallized ginger from Albuquerque. A stop for gas finds a large convenience store, where I’m able to get water, but nothing that seems healthy to eat. So, back on the road, and more raisins on the way north to Pagosa (anybody remember Johnny Horton’s “North to Alaska”?) I wonder what he ate?

Afternoon in Taos

Friday, October 8, 2010: It’s mid-afternoon by the time I get back to Taos. The parade’s done, and there’s little traffic. I had spotted a museum, the Taos Art Museum and Fechin house, roughly opposite where I’m staying. Presuming that it, like other museums, closes early on a Friday, I’m sort of rushing to get there. I’ve no idea of what to expect, but I come upon a large, 1920's looking adobe mansion, with a large, single-story outbuilding and a small garden.

A charming, older woman sells me a ticket, and gives me a brief description of the home as she hands me a descriptive brochure. Nicolai Fechin had been born in Russia, emigrated to the United States in 1923, and moved to Taos in 1927. There had been a thriving artists' community in Taos, rather started by Mabel Luhan Dodge, and Fechin was a member of that community. He designed the home (his corrugated cardboard model of the house remains on display in his studio), and carved essentially all of the profuse woodwork in the style of his birthplace, Kazan, as tempered by his artistic bent. The house is magnificently inviting. Large rooms, with much light, and good sound, but without that isolation from the sense of ‘home’ that comes with almost every other mansion, or even grand house, I’ve been in.

There’s a large music room in the northwestern corner of the first floor, with a piano that his wife, Alexandra, played. Touching the keys, I sensed a room filled with intelligent, creative people, and a sadness that somehow Alexandra didn’t fit the group. Whatever my senses, they divorced, and she stayed in the house until her death. When they divorced, their daughter, Eya, went with her father. She didn’t return until after Fechin’s death in 1955.

It’s upstairs that the most stunning paintings are collected. The reproductions here cannot reveal the complexity and intensity of color, or the startling effects of his application of cubist (he did some of those too) techniques to figurative works. There’s even some Vermeer in the way he uses light. Perhaps my favorite in the museum was the portrait of the Balinese Girl.

The color reproduction is uncertain. The only painting of this group which I saw at Taos was the Balinese Girl. That was more colorful than the reproduction reveals.


Alexandra



















Eya in a Peasant Blouse



















Balinese Girl



















Nude (as if you couldn't tell)

Back outside, I went to the outbuilding, which had been Fechin’s studio. It is essentially bare, except for light, and the small cardboard model of the house. Standing at that model, I try to connect with the artist. Suddenly, a door opens not two feet away from me, I jump, and a woman is standing there! A brief exchange of apologies, some pleasantries, and I find that the woman is the curator. She invites me into the offices, and shows me how that part of the building had once been open to the air, a ramada. Going back inside the studio, the woman tells me of the history, the mystery, of the tension between Nicolai and Alexandra. She points out a loft bed over a bathroom in the corner of the studio, and tells me that initially Fechin had moved into his studio before actually leaving Taos. She tells me of Eya’s return, and alludes to the great unknown of why Eya left her mother, refusing even to write or talk with her. She tells me to walk in the garden, for Alexandra is buried there.

I do indeed walk, and find a peaceful grave site in a remote corner of the carefully tended, but not tightly manicured, garden. Some photographs are in order.


The garden (easterly) facade before restoration.

The garden facade after restoration.

Southerly facade, Eya's sunroom

Looking at the exterior of what had been Fechin’s daughter, Eya’s, sunroom. From inside it was absolutely charming, and part of what was really a child’s suite. Fechin had carved the furniture for Eya, and, while not diminutive, it was appropriately smaller. This in a home where all interior passages were smaller than modern. I wonder if Fechin had intended a kind of slowing and obeisance in passing from room to room, thus forcing recognition of the transition, and a visual survey of the new space as it was entered.

The curator had told me that the Fechin property had originally been much larger than the museum grounds it now occupies, and that Eya sold off a part of the property to finance restoration of the house and establishment of the museum. Now, there’s an upscale bed & breakfast behind the museum. While, alone, I’m quite satisfied with the Pueblo Lodge, it strikes me that if I’m ever to return to Taos with company, the Fechin Inn would be an excellent place to stay. And no, Fechin is not pronounced like fetching, with a dropped ‘g’, and the posh Fechin Inn does not thus inadvertently adopt the pun so well suited to all of the motels and motor lodges that sprang up along highways in the 50's. The internet tells me that there is some controversy over the pronunciation of Fechin, apparently stemming from translation from Cyrillic to American. While the “preferred” pronunciation is Fey - chin, a translator indicates that it should be Fey -shin. Its all so much easier when the artist is still alive!

The museum is closing, but the day is not over. Earlier in the day, I had stopped in a gallery near the museum, and asked if they knew of a Buddhist retreat in Taos. The proprietor knew of a stupa north of Taos, in El Rito, north of Questa. I asked for directions, and he told me to drive north to Questa, and I wouldn’t be able to miss it. Back into the SUV, and north!

New Mexico is just enough more southerly than New Jersey that the difference in day length is perceptible. Having left the museum at 4:00, the sun is getting low as I’m driving the 20 or so miles to El Rito. At the edge of the plain, but not yet into the mountains, the road need not wind about, but neither is it dead straight. Instead, the road rises and falls over the gentle mounds in this fringe area. Questa appears, and then disappears, opening up to a straight road over the sagebrush plain. Nothing is in sight, or more correctly, everything is in sight, but no small feature that might be considered to be El Rito, or a stupa. A few more miles, just enough to make me start to wonder if I’ve missed my goal, and then the low sun glints off a golden spire. Farther off the road than I anticipated, the sun has found the stupa, and except for the sun, I would not have.

A narrow dirt road leads into the scrub trees and sagebrush. There’s no sign, but the spire rises above the trees, and I’m able to follow roads, little more than tracks, through the scrub to a small parking lot. There’s nobody about. The sun is still warm, but the west wind has a chill. Except for the wind in the scrub, it is silent. I am amazed!


The stupa is a focal point for the Earth Journey community
















Returning to Taos, I stop at the Lodge for a brief rest before dinner. It is there and then that lunch, which seemed so very good when I had it, sours my stomach. Chocolate! Damn! Hungry, but not really wanting to eat, I think that I might walk back into town, check out a bar that had advertised some music, and have a beer to settle my stomach.

Indeed, the bar is about to, have music, but its not to start until 10 PM, its only 9, and the cover is steep. However, they let me in for a beer, there are few seats at the bar, and a beer is poured. The musicians start to set up, a youngish crowd starts to filter in, and before I finish my beer, one of the more interesting encounters of my life unfolds.

Into the Myth, or A Morning in Taos

Thursday, October 7, 2010: Leaving the parking area, the developed areas of Taos can be seen to the right, extending southerly along the foot of the mountains. An intersection, with a traffic light is reached, and a right turn leads towards whatever it is Taos has to offer. On reaching the outskirts, the speed limit drops to 35, various shops abound, the roadway turns more or less sharply to the right, and some lodging appears on both sides of the street (Paseo del Pueblo Norte). I could stop here, but traffic is light and my usual technique for a strange city is to go towards the center, get the feel of the organization of the place, and then find lodging. Suddenly, I see a Radio Shack! Now normally that is of little interest, but you may recall that my camera is malfunctioning, and batteries seem the problem (not so, but I don’t know that yet). I stop right in front, and go shopping.

As I try to pay for the batteries that were easily found (they are special, but are also readily available in the right place), the attendant cautions me not to trip on my shoelaces. Indeed, one is untied, and I bitch about the epidemic inability for shoe manufactures to sell shoes with appropriately sized shoe laces (New Balance, very nice hikers, big bucks, wretched laces). We also talk about altitude effects, and she tells me that there is an Oxygen bar just across the street. An Oxygen bar? Yes, and she says that I should try it out even if I’m not feeling sick! I’m starting to wonder why so many people are cautioning me about the altitude. (Later, at home, when I’m trying to reverse diagnose some ailments I was feeling, I learn that altitude sickness is a very real problem, even at 6000 - 7000 feet some 25% of people - regardless of physical health, fitness or prior experiences - are affected adversely; and I realize that many of the things I had been feeling had been the early indications of altitude sickness). What was her prescience? I should have listened!

Most importantly, the woman tells me that its less than a mile walk to the Plaza, and that people commonly walk from the lodgings nearby to the Plaza. A block or so back is the Pueblo Lodge, with a “vacancy” sign! Even looks like a large version of the types of ‘Motor Lodges’ that I used to stay in as a kid when traveling with my Mom. Now those were adventures! 1948 Pontiac. Wool seats. No A/C. Vacuum wipers. AM radio. 9 year old kid navigating with Esso (sometimes Flying A) maps, playing alphabet games with license plates, and reading Burma Shave signs! We need more Burma Shave signs, and fewer cell phones!!!

Anyway, a nice room at the back (for quiet) is available, and I check in. Shower, some telephone calls, a walk to the Plaza, a look around, and then some food and a beer at a place called Eske’s. Some Brach’s Autumn Mix (it used to be only Farley’s was made with honey. Now Farley’s isn’t available, but Brach’s notes that their candy corn is made with honey. It’s the honey!) for dessert, read a bit, and sleep.

Friday, October 8, 2010: There was a thunderstorm in the early morning, which woke me, but I interpreted it as a train. Not that I’d seen any rails since Cerrillos, but trains do get tucked away. At daylight, a visit to the very popular Michael’s Kitchen, where I get both coffee and into the middle of a conversation (sitting at a counter) between some people complaining about house prices, lack of work and foreclosures. Lot of anger about banks refusing to re-negotiate rates, in favor of foreclosing on houses they can’t re-sell. Go figure!

Breakfast was good - New Jersey diner style - and I’m not talking about those modern diners, I’m talking those 1920 - 1960 diner style breakfasts! No, I wasn’t alive in 1920, but a few of those diners were still around until the 70's and they served large quantities of wonderful high carb, high fat, great smelling foods. Just what you needed the morning after carousing in bars on Staten Island, or getting ready to go fishing or sailing!

Out of Michael’s and into town. Kit Carson house and museum - cool place. A stop at a shop next door that sells used hats and cowboy paraphernalia. There’s sun in NM, and my panama was at home. I had seen one straw cowboy hat in Madrid, but I thought I looked silly in it. There were some great looking hats in the window of this shop though, and after a brief browse I found exactly what I wanted. That is, exactly what I wanted except for fit! Lamenting that inexorable fact, the hat went back on the rack. The proprietor, a tall cowboy looking character wearing a great looking black hat, asked if he could help. I said, “Sure”, and he proceeded to give me a 45 minute lesson in hats, hat sizing, hat design, and hat wearing.

I asked him, “If I move to Taos, do I have to learn to ride?” He said no. He also sold me a great hat, which affords outstanding sun protection, but unfortunately can’t be worn in a car because of the headrest. I think if I move to Taos I too will get myself one of those 1950's - 1960's pick up trucks (an acquaintance from Dallas calls them “pick em up” trucks), that are fairly common out here. Sometimes rusting in the side yard, sometimes rolling wonderfully down the street. Might even get me a gun rack! So there! I’ll be lookin’ right sporty in my hat, checking out the young, female tourists! Might even keep an Oxygen bottle on the seat next to me.

Time to move on. I keep on walking, note that in a store on the Plaza they’re selling Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy. Now, you might not remember that stuff, but it was one of the better 50's candies. Went off the market in the early 70's. Rectangular slabs of essentially pure sugar, cooked and worked and flavored to make a sometimes sticky, sometimes brittle substance sure to delight orthodontists. I think it was 5 cents - a nickel - and one of those proud buffalo nickels - not those insipid Jefferson nickels we have now. Bring back REAL money, Walking Liberty in my pocket! Enough with living in the past, reminiscing on the busts of politicians, let’s go back to fantasies of glory and a bright future!!! Ah-h-h, the delights the vision of a bar of Bonomo’s brings!

On to a Western Store. Still looking for a straw hat, and maybe a Western yoke shirt. No hat, no shirt, but a belt for my son.

There’s a parade brewing, and the Paseo is blocked by NM State Troopers. Back to the motel, pick up my SUV, get stuck behind a car with New York plates (?), and find away around the parade route towards Ranchos de Taos. Spend some time in the only traffic jam I ever saw in NM, and certainly the best behaved traffic jam I’ve ever been in. Finally get back to the main road, looking for the San Francisco de Asis Mission church.

South of Taos is where the box stores are, and I’m very glad I didn’t approach Taos from the south, I would have had a completely different impression of the city. Looking for the Mission, I’m expecting something imposing, but it’s surrounded by commerce and not readily seen from the road. Eventually, I realize that I’ve just passed it, turn around and stop for lunch before going to the Mission.

Lunch is at a tiny, roadside New Mexican restaurant. Looks to be mostly takeout, but there are a couple of tables indoors and a picnic table outdoors. Young man is working the counter, and a woman, perhaps his mother is cooking. The place is named after her, and I can’t remember the name. There’s a simple and interesting menu, from which I order a chicken mole, with corn tortillas and a mango drink (diluted mango juice served over ice cubes - very refreshing. So much so that I wind up ordering a second to go). The mole was delicious, and I’m thinking what a great find this was, as I finish off the stack of tortillas.

The Mission is but a hundred yards away, and I park in what appears to be the appropriate lot, but which I found out was the lot serving the shops in the Ranchos Plaza. Curiously, the Mission Church does not face the road, its back does. Earlier experiences have led me to believe that churches always face their plazas, but apparently, Ranchos Plaza has been so over built that any vestiges of the original traveled ways have disappeared.

What had been a plaza in front of the church has been turned over to parking, and the lot delightfully allows stepping back from the courtyard and getting a good vista of the small complex. The church is magnificent! Massive adobe in the most intriguing peach/ochre color.

Walking around the church, photographing it, I discover that an aspen has been placed in a south window, really the only south window, and it is glowing with the sunlight shining through the Palladian arched window. I don’t think the Spanish missionaries used Palladian windows, so I’m supposing that it was a renovation, set into what I’m supposing was the original rectangular window underneath the archaic lintel. That’s OK, may not be authentic, but it looks good.

St. Francis himself is in the courtyard, and I hang out with him awhile. I’m not Catholic, but I have affinities for both St. Francis and St. Catherine, and any time I’m in a place dedicated to one or the other I take the time to meditate and connect with them. I’ve got to mention that I had a seriously powerful experience with Catherine in Siena! But, Francis was a peaceful, retiring man, and he’s not pushing me to more revelations. So, I accept the simple peace of this delightful courtyard, take some more photos, make a donation and head on back to Taos.

Epiphany at the Rio Grande

Rio Grande Gorge, about 3:00 - 4:00 PM, looking downstream at the western wall from the center of the Rt. 64 bridge

Rio Grande Gorge, same time, looking upstream at the eastern wall, from the center of the Rt. 64 bridge. San Cristobal Mountains in the background!









Looking towards Wheeler Peak from the center of the Rt. 64 bridge. Taos is towards the right, at the feet of the mountains and far out of this photo's field.

The parking lot at the easterly end of the bridge is in the foreground, just to the right of the photo.





Taos! Its become mythic, my expectations are high! The road runs east-southeast, towards the mountains, and also slightly southerly. Still no significant signs of a city, a few small homes, some outbuildings here and there, but that’s not been unusual so far. On the left appear some very modern looking structures, long, low, with glass reflecting strongly in the westerly light. I’ve no idea what they are, but they certainly appear to be some forward thinking builder’s attempt to create a land hugging solar home. A small development, spread over many acres, but nevertheless a concentration. I’m later to find out that these are the Taos Earthships, and two days later I stop for a visit on my way towards Durango. More on those later.

Suddenly, I’m driving over a highway bridge. The terrain gives no indication, no expectation of a bridge. There are people walking on the narrow walkway between the roadway curb and the guardrail, and there are cars and campers parked in a lot beyond the bridge. Perhaps because of the pedestrians, perhaps out of habit, but anyway fortunately I look to my right, and down into a chasm! Stunned, I pull over into the parking lot on the easterly end of the bridge. I should have learned back in Carson, that the Gorge gives only the slightest signal of its existence in the plain, but I had forgotten.

Grabbing my camera, and knowing now why people were walking that bridge, I head back. The designers thoughtfully put lookouts, perhaps 10 feet wide and extending another 4 feet over the gorge, on each side of the bridge, at the center of the span.

The sun is shining strongly, but it cannot penetrate to the depths of the chasm! Probably only around midday does the sun reach the river below. It is again the Rio Grande, and the sky reflects off of the water, some 800 feet below the bridge.

My camera refuses to work!

I walk back to the parking lot, and for what is likely the first time in my life, the vison of the land brings me to tears. The sensation is indescribable. Struck with the absolute realization that humans are ultimately insignificant on this enormous terrain, insignificant in time, and yet profoundly arrogant, I’m thinking how could any person assert that some deity created us in their image, or cares one whit about any individual or synthesis of human society; and simultaneously I think how right the so-called pagan religions got it, how fundamental is every living being’s connection to the planet and to each other. No deity is needed. Good people of wisdom, shamans, prophets surely, but those only to help guide us to our individual recognitions of the resonance of all life. Maybe I’ve been to such powerful places before, but never before have I experienced such. If I had to go home tomorrow, still the purpose of this trip would have been fulfilled!

In the day and a half that follows, I meet many Taos residents. When I try to explain what happened out there at the Gorge to two of them, they both look directly into my eyes, don’t let me finish, and each in their own way tell me that they too have had that epiphany, and that no words can convey the experience. When I talk with one man about living in Taos, he tells me that I must not try to commit to the place, I must try it out, for Taos accepts some, and rejects others (chews them up he said) - and there’s no way to find out until you try to live there. He’s a cowboy, about my age, perhaps a bit younger, and a merchant - about the last person I’d expect to be so spiritual - but we’ve connected on a plane that cannot be explained.

I know now why people live in Carson, or on those sparse plains on the road to Taos. For now, I turn back to my SUV, and move on towards the City of Expectations.