Written after an unexpectedly difficult navigation in Tuscany, but an amazing find well worth the difficulty. I still wish that woman had been with me! I probably wouldn’t have written the following, but....
Knowing that a Roman ruin exists is not the same as finding it, or enjoying it. Too often ruins have been so scavenged, or so overbuilt that they are scarcely recognizable as Roman, much less than having once been a part of ancient activity, or commerce, or spirit. I had heard of a particular ruined town, Carsulae, supposedly only partially excavated, and otherwise untouched. The provincial map showed it to be south of the villa where I’m staying, just off a major highway, but with no road leading to it. Perhaps that is just as good, for if there were a good road, the site would have been overrun. With knowledge that the best of maps are not accurate, but feeling adventurous, I try to choose a route, starting from the dirt road that fronts the villa. Not 50 meters from the villa drive, there is the first intersection, and I make my first unmapped choice.
Although the dirt road I choose seems to go both south, towards Carsulae, and down hill, towards the river I must cross to get there, the road soon disappoints me. Coming out of the woods, the road begins to meander through the fields, then to ascend the hill, and finally intersects with other unmapped but nearly identical, and also unmarked, dirt roads. Each intersection is a gamble, there are no signs, no names, no indicators of population centers. The land ascends or descends seeming without being directed towards a ridge or river. There is no foresight except the sun, but as the road follows the contours of the volcanic hills, any attempt to follow the sun is meaningless.
Sometimes the roads are no better than Jeep tracks, over which my rented Opel protests the ruts and rocks. Although the roads are dry, the ruts are fossils of heavy rains, which must have come in the spring, turning the narrow tracks into impassable, probably dangerous, drainage channels. But now, clouds of dust trail every vehicle that moves; clouds that take minutes to settle, clouds that cover the car with a crust of white ash, build clods on the dead air portions of the bumpers and rear window. Following another car within a hundred meters is impossible.
Where there are any relatively level places, huge potholes, half the length or width of the car, force a twisting path along the already narrow track. Where the roads slope most severely, where the waters ran the fastest, the gullies must be bridged. Every entry to the beginning of a gully is with a strain to see the end, in the usually vain hope that the it will end without needing to be crossed.
I long for my Jeep, although I would not like to feed it the $100 every tank full would cost.
There is no turning back, for there is no place to turn. The fields along each side have been plowed by great rippers behind crawler tractors, and even my Jeep would founder if but a single wheel went off the dirt track. Finally, after some interminable time in first gear, a paved road is reached, with however the same unmarked choices as the dirt tracks I just left. Now trusting in
the sun, I make a choice, and finally a significant intersection is reached. That is, one intersection that must have caused so much confusion as to have propelled erection of some signs.
Now it is important to understand the vagaries of Italian road signs. As any road can, through manifold connections, lead to any place, no sign does any more than point out a general trend. And since, at the preceding intersection some particular array of signs had been placed, at each successive intersection honor must be given to a separate set of towns, and a different roster is posted. Sometimes, the best way is determined by aiming towards some remote place, as if to say that since Milan is generally northwest of Rome, and Venice is generally northeast, if you want to go from Todi to Perugia obviously the road to Venice is superior to the road to Pisa (of course Milan is not mentioned - one must innately understand that the way to Milan lies through Pisa). However, when there is just ahead, a town that does not appear on any map, or whose name has changed since the last cartographer recorded the town’s existence, then the priority of that town supplants any guide to the place you might actually want to get to.
Regardless, in twice or thrice the time it would have taken, had I originally backtracked the known route instead to having tried to find some direct path, I reach the highway. The highway alongside which Carsulae lies. Of course there is no mention of Carsulae on the highway exits, so once the general region is reached the challenge begins again. People ask what I saw in Italy, and seem surprised at the relatively small number of significant places I’ve been, but they do not understand the incredible amount of time it takes to find your way to any particular place. I lost track of the places I passed, and wanted to return to, but could not find again for the lack of the proper mistake at the beginning of my search. But, of such is the adventure made.
Following the same process as I used to get to the highway, and after innumerable sips at my water bottle (here, in recognition of the dry heat, water is sold in two liter bottles, not those piddling 12 ounce or 16 ounce bottles we get), I reach a fenced entrance to Carsulae. The gate is open, although I must park on the public road. As I’m locking the car, what appears to have been a student video crew, three men and a woman, are packing up their car. I take this as a good sign, an indication that there are things of visual interest within the fence.
Immediately upon entering, I am walking on a pavement of roughly shaped, large basalt cobbles. A sign announces that this is the via Flaminia, which I know from a prior trip is one of the old, primary Roman roads. Thus, this ghost town, which dates from a few years B.C., had once been a major highway settlement. Following the road, I try to catch the spirits of the thousands who must have passed here, two millennia ago. The road passes a small church, a mere 900 or a 1000 years old, which nonetheless is quite charming. Having been built after the fall of the empire, but before the elaborate designs of the urban cathedrals had filtered out to the provinces, the church is very simple. The sole remaining decorations are some worn frescos, and a window behind the altar. On examining the window, I discovered that it is not stained glass, as it first appeared, but a thin, rectangular slab of stone. It appears to be agate, it has the ochre stripes, but it may be a colored form of the alabaster that is so prevalent in the area of Volterra.
A man has read my entry into the guest book. He turns to me and my children with a broad smile, and thickly accented, says “Welcome New Jersey, welcome to this place”. I smile back, thank him in English, and then realizing that he has apparently exhausted his supply of English, I switch to my meager supply of Italian and thank him thus. He seems satisfied, and rejoining his wife and children, continues his investigations of the town.
I continue to follow the via Flaminia, there are ruins on both sides, arrayed like the buildings we see clustered along the main street of any large American town. There are many signs about, all in Italian, which announce on one side that I am standing in the temple of Gemini, then in front of the civic building, then near one of the four cisterns providing water. On the other side, there is the basilica, another cistern, then the amphitheater and finally the theater itself.
The amphitheater is small, nowhere near the size of the Flavian amphitheater, mis-named Colosseum in much later years. But, walking into the field, which has only been half excavated, and looking up into the stands, it is easy to transport myself, and wonder if I had lived here, would I have been in the stands, or part of the entertainment. The hot sun, and silence except for a few flying insects, helps the fantasy.
Seeking shelter from the sun, I wander towards the old, semi-circular theater. There are alleys and passageways between the theater and amphitheater, indicating that they had some combined function. Walking around the theater, I notice a series of chambers, arrayed beneath what had once been the theater seats. There are no signs to tell me what these were, but these chambers look most like cells. I suspect that they had been the cages for the wild beasts that were slaughtered for the games in the neighboring amphitheater.
Each of the chambers is about the size of a small bedroom, the walls are diamond blocked. The ceilings, which once must have been fairly low, are long gone, as are the loose stones which must have fallen from the groined arches which supported the seats, and formed the chamber tops. Open to the sky for some millennia, the sun shines into each chamber, but as the chambers are arrayed around the half circle, one can choose a space in which the position of the light and shadow is to your preference.
Entering a few, I find one chamber which seems cooler than the rest, and I pause to collect my energy, and think upon my next adventure. There is more to be seen in Carsulae, but I have absorbed a sense of the place, and I like it much. A search for food will follow, and then a return to the villa to cool off in the pool, and rest, and write. I turn, as if to share my thoughts with someone, but there is nobody near. My children are off, Anna is pouting for being forced to walk, and Ross is thinking about being a gladiator. My mind turns to reverie, as if to satisfy my need to share.
I want to draw you into one of those little cloisters, to embrace you in this soundless place. From the sunny side, I can see your form shimmer in the shadow, and I long to press your strong body against the cool side of that chamber. Against those ancient bricks, against that ruined wall that once some Roman laborer may have pressed his love, who came to feed him as he built it. I long to feel your lips, to taste the sweat upon your neck and from between your breasts. But I turn from that empty chamber, before the love and lust splits my sanity, before I pound and claw that wall like one of those disenfranchised, doomed beasts, two millennia ago. I turn back into the safe Italian sun, and towards the meandering roads.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The illusions of New Mexico roads!
Photographs, as I noted earlier, do not - cannot - reveal the immensity of the surroundings in New Mexico, or the sense that any precipice one encounters is merely the visible part of an infinite chasm. I’ve driven on narrow, unguarded mountain roads before, but not since I was 24! Then, in Switzerland, driving on paved roads clinging precariously to the sides of the granite Alps, I thought how Darwinian those little concrete pyramids between the pavement and the precipice were, and how much the Swiss must trust the skill of their drivers! I knew then that I wasn’t going to even graze those lumpy warning devices. But, at 24 I had never experienced brake failures, or power steering hose failures, or having a little ledge at the shoulder defy my efforts to turn back onto the pavement.
Couple a more mature understanding of the frailties of motor vehicles with the omnipresent altitude effects, dehydration, the unfamiliar scale - and thus depth perception, and an unfamiliar vehicle; and those dirt roads running along sandstone cliffs often become uncertain at best. Part of the adventure.
If you want to see a truly tense, and excellent, film about roads, check out 'Wages of Fear' (1953). French, about a road trip in Central America. I guarantee you won’t ever forget the film.
Couple a more mature understanding of the frailties of motor vehicles with the omnipresent altitude effects, dehydration, the unfamiliar scale - and thus depth perception, and an unfamiliar vehicle; and those dirt roads running along sandstone cliffs often become uncertain at best. Part of the adventure.
If you want to see a truly tense, and excellent, film about roads, check out 'Wages of Fear' (1953). French, about a road trip in Central America. I guarantee you won’t ever forget the film.
Photos can not tell the story
I have been taking photographs since I was 10 (Kodak Brownie Holiday - 127 film and proud of it!) and more or less semi-professionally since the early 80's - that is, I take routinely take photographs in the practice of my profession, but I don’t sell the photographs. And no, I’m not using the Brownie anymore. And, if you think its getting hard to find 35 mm film, try finding 127!
I’m not fond of taking photographs when I’m playing, it seems entirely too much restriction on experiencing. However, I do like to look back at photographs, because, like scents and sounds, they can vividly bring back the experiences surrounding what had been happening when the photographs were taken.
Taking photographs in New Mexico is as technically challenging as anything I’ve ever shot. Not only is the dynamic range of light far greater than film is capable of recording, there is the omnipresent strong ultraviolet component from the high altitude. When spot metering the observation of interest, shadows and highlights are inevitably extreme. Some of that was compensated for by using a circular polarizer, which for most orientations to the sun corrects the sky colors to something approaching the experience, as opposed to the outpouring of UV washing out the image. If I found that digital cameras were capable of greater dynamic range than color film, that would be a reason to switch. Bruce, what’s your take on that?
BUT, nothing - NOTHING - can capture the immensity of the vision in the high desert. Even a panoramic camera could not capture but a small portion of all that is in view. I’ve experienced that before, on the water, but almost always on the water one is trying to image a specific thing, not the immensity of the water and sky. On the high desert, there simply is never one thing of visual interest - the WHOLE HEMISPHERE IS SAYING SOMETHING! That can be felt, but not really seen, and no camera - no panoramic device, no fish-eye lens - can ever capture what is experienced. It is photographically very frustrating. Quite literally, you have to be there to comprehend it.
Those of you who have been in the high desert know what I’m talking about. Those who haven’t, you must go. You must go.
I’m not fond of taking photographs when I’m playing, it seems entirely too much restriction on experiencing. However, I do like to look back at photographs, because, like scents and sounds, they can vividly bring back the experiences surrounding what had been happening when the photographs were taken.
Taking photographs in New Mexico is as technically challenging as anything I’ve ever shot. Not only is the dynamic range of light far greater than film is capable of recording, there is the omnipresent strong ultraviolet component from the high altitude. When spot metering the observation of interest, shadows and highlights are inevitably extreme. Some of that was compensated for by using a circular polarizer, which for most orientations to the sun corrects the sky colors to something approaching the experience, as opposed to the outpouring of UV washing out the image. If I found that digital cameras were capable of greater dynamic range than color film, that would be a reason to switch. Bruce, what’s your take on that?
BUT, nothing - NOTHING - can capture the immensity of the vision in the high desert. Even a panoramic camera could not capture but a small portion of all that is in view. I’ve experienced that before, on the water, but almost always on the water one is trying to image a specific thing, not the immensity of the water and sky. On the high desert, there simply is never one thing of visual interest - the WHOLE HEMISPHERE IS SAYING SOMETHING! That can be felt, but not really seen, and no camera - no panoramic device, no fish-eye lens - can ever capture what is experienced. It is photographically very frustrating. Quite literally, you have to be there to comprehend it.
Those of you who have been in the high desert know what I’m talking about. Those who haven’t, you must go. You must go.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Photos - Finally!
Looking westerly from the parking lot on the left bank of the Rio Grande, just downstream of the bridge.I've no idea what the structure is on the right (western) wall of the gorge.
My first realization that there was actually a road on the other side of the bridge.
Looking downstream from the Pilar bridge. See the fisherman? 
Looking upstream from the Pilar bridge.
Road from Pilar to Carson, looking down one of the long, gentle slopes running parallel to the side of the gorge. I wasn't stopping for photos on the switchbacks!
Carson plain. That dark line to the right of the image is the top of the Rio Grande Gorge!That red thing at the left is the "mid-size" SUV I rented.
Looking southeasterly from the General Store, towards the Rio Grande Gorge. That rusted car you see in the front yard is typical of what you see, and is apparently not a decoration!
Carson General Store! Organic lamb burrito suitable for dinner! Water! Carson Curmudgeon!
Out of Madrid and Towards Ojo Caliente!
Although invited to breakfast at the BBQ in Madrid, I was feeling time pressure (I guess I hadn’t yet escaped the NJ blight), and I was hoping to meet up with a friend in Taos on Friday. So, although I stopped at a jewelry supply house on the outskirts of Santa Fe (I had mentioned to the proprietor of Chumani that I was interested in inlaying turquoise into guitar rosettes, and he suggested an inexpensive source of ground turquoise to experiment with), I bypassed Santa Fe as a fairly large city, and I was trying to escape the urban stress. Still, I’d like to see it someday, and after finding the old district of Albuquerque much later, I realize that I made a mistake to bypass Santa Fe’s old district.
Up the road towards Taos, to Espanola. There were a lot of ristras there, and I realized that one of the peppers I had been unsuccessfully trying to grow here in NJ were the Espanola variety. A little research here at home revealed that indeed, the Espanola pepper is named for Espanola, NM. Now also that I comprehend the existence of green chili sauce, and I recall that my problem with the peppers (also Conquistador) was that the season is too short for more than a couple to ripen to red, I will again try growing Espanola (and probably Sandia), from which I can make my own New Mexico green chili sauce! I was able to get a nice crop of Cayenne peppers this year, but as they ripen when the weather is humid, it is hard to get them to dry without molding (I see a solar dryer in the future).
Anyway, at Espanola I had thought to detour towards Ojo Caliente (on recommendations). However, I missed the turn, and wound up driving along the southeastern bank of the Rio Grande directly towards Taos. Ah well, of such mistakes adventures are made, and this was to prove true again! The river is beautiful there, perhaps a little wider than the Musconetcong, perhaps a bit shallower, and potentially much, much fuller. In October, there were a few people playing in the river, fishing, rafting, wading. Not many, but enough to see that the river was being enjoyed!
On getting to Pilar, not too far from Taos, I noticed on the map that there might be a bridge across the Rio Grande, a bridge which could return me towards Ojo Caliente. I had rented a mid-size SUV (large to me, perhaps twice the size of a Jeep Wrangler, but who is to say what mid-size means to American auto marketing departments!), so that I wouldn’t be intimidated by any poor roads I might encounter. Those of you who read my account of Carsulae might recall my then longing for my Jeep as I attempted to negotiate a rutted agricultural road with my rented Opel. A quick left turn and I was on my way to Ojo Caliente!
OK, OK, I’ll post Carsulae next, as a historic reminiscence. But please recall that I was younger then!
Off the main road, quite soon I reached an open gate, and a sign announcing that I was entering a fee based, Bureau of Land Management area. I pondered the fee, decided I wasn’t intending to use the services, all I wanted to do was use the public road to pass through, and sallied forwards. I passed idyllic camping areas, more casual users of the river, and finally reached a steel truss bridge. Nice bridge, but it didn’t seem to go anyplace - just directly into the cliff on the opposite side of the Rio Grande. I parked, got out my camera, and took some photos of the gorge. While doing so, and walking onto the bridge itself, I realized that there was a dirt road on the right bank, and saw a pickup truck descending that road, slowly.
Thinking that I’ve seen worse roads, back to my SUV and upwards! Well, the road itself might not have been worse that the dirt road I once used to ascend a mountain on the Olympic Peninsula, but unlike that rainforest track, the road up the side of the Rio Grande gorge skirted crumbly cliffs of increasing height without suggestive benefit of any guardrails. Really beautiful ascending, but I quickly decided that I did NOT want to descend it in ANY weather. I felt like I might put on the brakes, and slide on the loose earth right off a cliff! Not so, as I met up with somebody towing a trailer down the road, but ....incipient anoxia again!
On getting to the top, which is now nearly 7000 feet elevation, there’s a broad sagebrush covered plain. Have I mentioned the sun? Have I mentioned that its 50 miles between gas stations? Have I mentioned that I’m on 1/4 tank of gas, out of water, and have no intention of going back DOWN that road? Trusting to the map, which had already gotten me across the Rio Grande, I enter the Carson National Forest, where I have no expectation of finding either gas or water. I had ignored the advice of a fiend who lives in Colorado, that essentially being - don’t leave the main roads without a full tank of gas and a lot of water! I was later to take that advice - and to value it!!
The land is flat. Stopping for photos, I note that the Rio Grand Gorge, which is about 650 feet (Google Earth) deep at Pilar, does not appear from the top as anything other than a darker line across the plain. At night, off the road, it would be invisible. Tough on the bison. Luckily, it is daytime, and I am on the road which is again paved. Rounding a bend, I drop into a shallow valley, and on the far side I notice two buildings. One a post office? The other looks like a farmhouse. No farm. Passing the building, it turns out to be a general store, and I wisely stop for lunch and water. Really is a general store, everything you could actually need (not want) was there. Lunch got me into a conversation with one of the old hippies who had settled there in the 70's, a sweet woman named Cricket. She showed me stones that people had collected from the area, talked about the various locals, and was generally quite welcoming, as if I had just met up with a friend I hadn’t seen in several years and there were details to be caught up on! I guess there were.
I asked the proprietor about gas, and was told that I could find it in Ojo Caliente, and before I left I was encouraged to purchase for $3 the Carson Curmudgeon. Finally reading that at home, I was struck by the tenacity that residents of that high, dry plain displayed in staying there. And, that post office? According to Ripley’s Believe it or Not - before replacement it was the smallest in the Nation - 8 feet by 12 feet! Another reason I wish I had gone west in 1972.
Driving towards Ojo Caliente, through the Carson National Forest, I got the first dose of agoraphobia I’ve ever had. There’s no shelter except the car, there’s no water except what I carry, and it’s a long - and very sunny - walk to anyplace where there might be shelter or water. I recall feeling something similar, when I first sailed out of sight of land in my ailing old sailboat, with responsibility for my passenger, and I suddenly realized that our lives were dependent on me having made sound repairs; making correct decisions about charts, wind, currents and compass direction; and avoiding other vessels. But, just as then I was committed to that salt water crossing, now I was committed to crossing the high plain, and while I was to feel the exposure again later, this first experience was quite a surprise to somebody who is fundamentally claustrophobic!
Finally, the main road! No gas, but turn left towards Ojo Caliente, and FINALLY a gas station. Gotta love those dead dinosaurs!
Up the road towards Taos, to Espanola. There were a lot of ristras there, and I realized that one of the peppers I had been unsuccessfully trying to grow here in NJ were the Espanola variety. A little research here at home revealed that indeed, the Espanola pepper is named for Espanola, NM. Now also that I comprehend the existence of green chili sauce, and I recall that my problem with the peppers (also Conquistador) was that the season is too short for more than a couple to ripen to red, I will again try growing Espanola (and probably Sandia), from which I can make my own New Mexico green chili sauce! I was able to get a nice crop of Cayenne peppers this year, but as they ripen when the weather is humid, it is hard to get them to dry without molding (I see a solar dryer in the future).
Anyway, at Espanola I had thought to detour towards Ojo Caliente (on recommendations). However, I missed the turn, and wound up driving along the southeastern bank of the Rio Grande directly towards Taos. Ah well, of such mistakes adventures are made, and this was to prove true again! The river is beautiful there, perhaps a little wider than the Musconetcong, perhaps a bit shallower, and potentially much, much fuller. In October, there were a few people playing in the river, fishing, rafting, wading. Not many, but enough to see that the river was being enjoyed!
On getting to Pilar, not too far from Taos, I noticed on the map that there might be a bridge across the Rio Grande, a bridge which could return me towards Ojo Caliente. I had rented a mid-size SUV (large to me, perhaps twice the size of a Jeep Wrangler, but who is to say what mid-size means to American auto marketing departments!), so that I wouldn’t be intimidated by any poor roads I might encounter. Those of you who read my account of Carsulae might recall my then longing for my Jeep as I attempted to negotiate a rutted agricultural road with my rented Opel. A quick left turn and I was on my way to Ojo Caliente!
OK, OK, I’ll post Carsulae next, as a historic reminiscence. But please recall that I was younger then!
Off the main road, quite soon I reached an open gate, and a sign announcing that I was entering a fee based, Bureau of Land Management area. I pondered the fee, decided I wasn’t intending to use the services, all I wanted to do was use the public road to pass through, and sallied forwards. I passed idyllic camping areas, more casual users of the river, and finally reached a steel truss bridge. Nice bridge, but it didn’t seem to go anyplace - just directly into the cliff on the opposite side of the Rio Grande. I parked, got out my camera, and took some photos of the gorge. While doing so, and walking onto the bridge itself, I realized that there was a dirt road on the right bank, and saw a pickup truck descending that road, slowly.
Thinking that I’ve seen worse roads, back to my SUV and upwards! Well, the road itself might not have been worse that the dirt road I once used to ascend a mountain on the Olympic Peninsula, but unlike that rainforest track, the road up the side of the Rio Grande gorge skirted crumbly cliffs of increasing height without suggestive benefit of any guardrails. Really beautiful ascending, but I quickly decided that I did NOT want to descend it in ANY weather. I felt like I might put on the brakes, and slide on the loose earth right off a cliff! Not so, as I met up with somebody towing a trailer down the road, but ....incipient anoxia again!
On getting to the top, which is now nearly 7000 feet elevation, there’s a broad sagebrush covered plain. Have I mentioned the sun? Have I mentioned that its 50 miles between gas stations? Have I mentioned that I’m on 1/4 tank of gas, out of water, and have no intention of going back DOWN that road? Trusting to the map, which had already gotten me across the Rio Grande, I enter the Carson National Forest, where I have no expectation of finding either gas or water. I had ignored the advice of a fiend who lives in Colorado, that essentially being - don’t leave the main roads without a full tank of gas and a lot of water! I was later to take that advice - and to value it!!
The land is flat. Stopping for photos, I note that the Rio Grand Gorge, which is about 650 feet (Google Earth) deep at Pilar, does not appear from the top as anything other than a darker line across the plain. At night, off the road, it would be invisible. Tough on the bison. Luckily, it is daytime, and I am on the road which is again paved. Rounding a bend, I drop into a shallow valley, and on the far side I notice two buildings. One a post office? The other looks like a farmhouse. No farm. Passing the building, it turns out to be a general store, and I wisely stop for lunch and water. Really is a general store, everything you could actually need (not want) was there. Lunch got me into a conversation with one of the old hippies who had settled there in the 70's, a sweet woman named Cricket. She showed me stones that people had collected from the area, talked about the various locals, and was generally quite welcoming, as if I had just met up with a friend I hadn’t seen in several years and there were details to be caught up on! I guess there were.
I asked the proprietor about gas, and was told that I could find it in Ojo Caliente, and before I left I was encouraged to purchase for $3 the Carson Curmudgeon. Finally reading that at home, I was struck by the tenacity that residents of that high, dry plain displayed in staying there. And, that post office? According to Ripley’s Believe it or Not - before replacement it was the smallest in the Nation - 8 feet by 12 feet! Another reason I wish I had gone west in 1972.
Driving towards Ojo Caliente, through the Carson National Forest, I got the first dose of agoraphobia I’ve ever had. There’s no shelter except the car, there’s no water except what I carry, and it’s a long - and very sunny - walk to anyplace where there might be shelter or water. I recall feeling something similar, when I first sailed out of sight of land in my ailing old sailboat, with responsibility for my passenger, and I suddenly realized that our lives were dependent on me having made sound repairs; making correct decisions about charts, wind, currents and compass direction; and avoiding other vessels. But, just as then I was committed to that salt water crossing, now I was committed to crossing the high plain, and while I was to feel the exposure again later, this first experience was quite a surprise to somebody who is fundamentally claustrophobic!
Finally, the main road! No gas, but turn left towards Ojo Caliente, and FINALLY a gas station. Gotta love those dead dinosaurs!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
First evening, and browsing around the Ortiz Mountains
When I awoke from an early nap I took after the massage, I thought that dinner might help. Walked to the Hollar where I had a great beer from Albuquerque, Marble IPA! Followed by dinner and more beer. Huge, thick slides of pork loin, braised in some rich, dark sauce, served over mashed potatoes, and topped with delicate, thin stalks of asparagus!
I was staying at the Java Junction, which has one delightful room, rather an efficiency apartment, available. Continental breakfast included, and the coffee is stellar! There's a deck in back of the apartment, and it gets dark and quiet at night. There are more stars than I've ever seen before - even when sailing!
Next morning, I immediately got to talk with some of the residents of Madrid. The water in Madrid is loaded with sulfur, although not nearly as much as the springs at Ojo Caliente or Pagosa. The residents claim the sulfur comes from the mining. Maybe. Anyway, drinking water is either imported, or complex filters/purifiers are used.
One of the men who were telling me tales of Madrid was one of the original settlers (squatters), who got in on the original sales of the lands. Madrid used to be a coal mining town, the museum director told me Madrid is the only place where hard coal is found overlying soft coal. For those of you who don’t understand the significance of that, hard coal (anthracite) is formed from soft coal subjected to pressure over a long period of time. Thus, if anthracite is overlying soft coal, the ground flipped upside down! Don’t ask me how that happened, but looking at those dramatic landscapes, Disney’s Land Before Time comes to mind. Anyway, about Madrid. The entire town had been owned by one man, who had inherited it, and who also allowed the squatters. Perhaps he partied with them, I didn’t ask. Despite some objections from some others, and the intervention of the Courts, he simply sold the land off to the squatters at trivial cost.
Later, on to Cerrillos! Cerrillos used to have turquoise mines, the claim is that they had been worked for at least a millennia before the Spanish started extracting turquoise, silver, and gold. The mines seem to be pretty much played out now, but stones are still mined, and I suspect that there are still traces of gold and silver to be found. However, as the mountains are now part of a preserved area, open for hiking, etc., I suspect that collecting is prohibited.
The streets are a pale ochre dirt, and surprisingly wide. While there may be a time when people are abundant, at 10:00 AM on a weekday morning I saw only the town drunk, two construction workers, and a small group of tourists looking for a particular shop. The construction workers told me that a film was about to be shot the next day. The town drunk told me that the dog, who was hanging out in the main intersection of the town (where there was actually a stop sign), and more effectively stopping me than the sign, just wanted to chase the tires.
The town is often used for films, as it has a relatively untouched Old West character about it. I easily fell into the fantasy, and could see Cisco Kid brushing the dust off his shoulders, while Gary Cooper faced him down thinking he was out to rob the bank! Poor Cisco, always misunderstood!
I met an artist there, a man who makes constructions, sort of paintings but more three dimensional, from used abrasive belts. He collects the vari-colored belts from various donors - the belts come in many widths up to about 52 inches, and all have residues of whatever had been sanded - into abstracted pictures or fully abstract patterns. They are sort of like sand paintings, and beg to be touched. He claimed to be the only person doing this work, and sells worldwide for high prices.
The man also offered to sell, or rent, me a home he had built next door to his studio for his son. Seems his son lives with his family in NJ, and doesn’t want to move to Cerrillos, so they are trying to sell the home. Nice place, and I’d like to escape NJ, but I’m thinking Cerrillos might prove to be a bit too quite for me - after all, it is officially a ghost town! I haven't yet learned that you very much must look beneath first impressions in NM - there's a LOT of substance beneath the protective coloration!
Lunch a bit farther north, and then back towards Madrid and through it towards Albuquerque to see Sandia Crest. At 10653 feet, it would be the highest altitude I’d ever been at (previously, at age 24, about 9300 feet in the Alps), so the adventure moves on. I’m already feeling the altitude in Madrid and Cerrillos, and I’m feeling a little intimidated at the extra 4000 I’m about to add, but I’m thinking breathing deeply is working, and I still have more lung capacity available. (I’m conveniently ignoring the issue - which I wasn’t to discover until I spoke with a ranger at the top of Sandia Crest - that the problem isn’t lung capacity, it’s the number of red blood cells available, and that it takes about two weeks to adapt). Of course incipient anoxia is almost as good as beer in losing inhibitions.
Sandia Crest is quite beautiful, and I recommend it highly. But, unless you’re adapted, don’t try to bike up it, or walk up it. I found just the last 50 or so feet exhausting. Not heart pounding, just exhausting. I asked a ranger I met near the summit about the geology. I was wondering how, if the area was an ancient seabed, there appeared to be volcanic formations. He explained that the formations were not volcanic at all. It seems that the plate that forms North America is moving underneath the Pacific Plate in CA (yes CA is going to drop into the sea). The plate is also sinking on the East Coast (which is why we have such a long continental shelf). The plates don’t bend to well, so in a series of cataclysms the plates fractured east of the Rockies and rose in approximately 150 foot increments, to raise the seabed more than a mile above sea level. Granite rocks, presumably from the crust underlying the seabed, were literally upended to form pinnacles. The ranger described that the cataclysms created such heat and shockwaves that life was (more or less) extinguished for hundreds of miles. Doesn’t sound like a good day!
Back down the mountain to Madrid, and a little shopping - silver and turquoise for my daughter! Madrid is a cute town, lots of shopping for all those who need more things. Some local artisans remain, and they're a delight to talk with. The redistribution of wealth away from the middle class has hit them hard.
Soon thereafter back to the Hollar for too much of that great IPA, some long and inebriated discussions with an award winning washboard bass player who claimed to play with Willie Nelson, and made the best BBQ, and a very dark walk back to Java Junction. I don’t remember dinner, but I know I enjoyed it!
I was staying at the Java Junction, which has one delightful room, rather an efficiency apartment, available. Continental breakfast included, and the coffee is stellar! There's a deck in back of the apartment, and it gets dark and quiet at night. There are more stars than I've ever seen before - even when sailing!
Next morning, I immediately got to talk with some of the residents of Madrid. The water in Madrid is loaded with sulfur, although not nearly as much as the springs at Ojo Caliente or Pagosa. The residents claim the sulfur comes from the mining. Maybe. Anyway, drinking water is either imported, or complex filters/purifiers are used.
One of the men who were telling me tales of Madrid was one of the original settlers (squatters), who got in on the original sales of the lands. Madrid used to be a coal mining town, the museum director told me Madrid is the only place where hard coal is found overlying soft coal. For those of you who don’t understand the significance of that, hard coal (anthracite) is formed from soft coal subjected to pressure over a long period of time. Thus, if anthracite is overlying soft coal, the ground flipped upside down! Don’t ask me how that happened, but looking at those dramatic landscapes, Disney’s Land Before Time comes to mind. Anyway, about Madrid. The entire town had been owned by one man, who had inherited it, and who also allowed the squatters. Perhaps he partied with them, I didn’t ask. Despite some objections from some others, and the intervention of the Courts, he simply sold the land off to the squatters at trivial cost.
Later, on to Cerrillos! Cerrillos used to have turquoise mines, the claim is that they had been worked for at least a millennia before the Spanish started extracting turquoise, silver, and gold. The mines seem to be pretty much played out now, but stones are still mined, and I suspect that there are still traces of gold and silver to be found. However, as the mountains are now part of a preserved area, open for hiking, etc., I suspect that collecting is prohibited.
The streets are a pale ochre dirt, and surprisingly wide. While there may be a time when people are abundant, at 10:00 AM on a weekday morning I saw only the town drunk, two construction workers, and a small group of tourists looking for a particular shop. The construction workers told me that a film was about to be shot the next day. The town drunk told me that the dog, who was hanging out in the main intersection of the town (where there was actually a stop sign), and more effectively stopping me than the sign, just wanted to chase the tires.
The town is often used for films, as it has a relatively untouched Old West character about it. I easily fell into the fantasy, and could see Cisco Kid brushing the dust off his shoulders, while Gary Cooper faced him down thinking he was out to rob the bank! Poor Cisco, always misunderstood!
I met an artist there, a man who makes constructions, sort of paintings but more three dimensional, from used abrasive belts. He collects the vari-colored belts from various donors - the belts come in many widths up to about 52 inches, and all have residues of whatever had been sanded - into abstracted pictures or fully abstract patterns. They are sort of like sand paintings, and beg to be touched. He claimed to be the only person doing this work, and sells worldwide for high prices.
The man also offered to sell, or rent, me a home he had built next door to his studio for his son. Seems his son lives with his family in NJ, and doesn’t want to move to Cerrillos, so they are trying to sell the home. Nice place, and I’d like to escape NJ, but I’m thinking Cerrillos might prove to be a bit too quite for me - after all, it is officially a ghost town! I haven't yet learned that you very much must look beneath first impressions in NM - there's a LOT of substance beneath the protective coloration!
Lunch a bit farther north, and then back towards Madrid and through it towards Albuquerque to see Sandia Crest. At 10653 feet, it would be the highest altitude I’d ever been at (previously, at age 24, about 9300 feet in the Alps), so the adventure moves on. I’m already feeling the altitude in Madrid and Cerrillos, and I’m feeling a little intimidated at the extra 4000 I’m about to add, but I’m thinking breathing deeply is working, and I still have more lung capacity available. (I’m conveniently ignoring the issue - which I wasn’t to discover until I spoke with a ranger at the top of Sandia Crest - that the problem isn’t lung capacity, it’s the number of red blood cells available, and that it takes about two weeks to adapt). Of course incipient anoxia is almost as good as beer in losing inhibitions.
Sandia Crest is quite beautiful, and I recommend it highly. But, unless you’re adapted, don’t try to bike up it, or walk up it. I found just the last 50 or so feet exhausting. Not heart pounding, just exhausting. I asked a ranger I met near the summit about the geology. I was wondering how, if the area was an ancient seabed, there appeared to be volcanic formations. He explained that the formations were not volcanic at all. It seems that the plate that forms North America is moving underneath the Pacific Plate in CA (yes CA is going to drop into the sea). The plate is also sinking on the East Coast (which is why we have such a long continental shelf). The plates don’t bend to well, so in a series of cataclysms the plates fractured east of the Rockies and rose in approximately 150 foot increments, to raise the seabed more than a mile above sea level. Granite rocks, presumably from the crust underlying the seabed, were literally upended to form pinnacles. The ranger described that the cataclysms created such heat and shockwaves that life was (more or less) extinguished for hundreds of miles. Doesn’t sound like a good day!
Back down the mountain to Madrid, and a little shopping - silver and turquoise for my daughter! Madrid is a cute town, lots of shopping for all those who need more things. Some local artisans remain, and they're a delight to talk with. The redistribution of wealth away from the middle class has hit them hard.
Soon thereafter back to the Hollar for too much of that great IPA, some long and inebriated discussions with an award winning washboard bass player who claimed to play with Willie Nelson, and made the best BBQ, and a very dark walk back to Java Junction. I don’t remember dinner, but I know I enjoyed it!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
October 15, 2010. Arrived home last night from the Land of Entrapment! MANY more posts to come, when I get some photos back.
Albuquerque, Madrid, Cerillos, Pilar, Ojo Caliente, Taos, Ghost Ranch, Pagosa Springs , Durango, Mancos, Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, Albuquerque, and a million places missed along the way.
Jody, the place of your land is beautiful!!
On landing in ABQ, first stop was a natural foods store to pick up vitamins and dried fruit. Why vitamins? Well, some years ago, before surveillance was as stringent as it is now, I tried to take my vitamins with me on a trip to Europe. I packed multiple bottles in my luggage, and as you may suppose, they did indeed rattle a bit. On arrival in Amsterdam, my girlfriend’s bag was there, but mine was missing! I wonder why? Curiously enough, there just happened to be an official standing nearby to help when I didn’t find my bag. No, not a porter, an official who courteously conducted us to an office where he took all my information. The bag did eventually get delivered to me in Edam, but the ty-wraps I had put on the zippers to protect against casual theft had all been cut. I wonder why?
No repeats, thank you. I’ll buy what I need when I arrive!
From the Albuquerque shopping district, on to Madrid, where I had a room reserved for two nights. I had also thought ahead to arrange a massage to dispel NJ, and hopefully to get me into a vacation frame of mind. Even a little Reiki thrown in! Between the altitude (about 6500 feet) and the massage, I felt pretty bad that evening, dizzy, headachey, disoriented. Could have had something to do with the airline food, or more exactly the lack of it. Thinking that I might not get fed, I had purchased a box of sushi rolls (protein, carbohydrates) the night before. They tasted good at 5:00 AM while waiting to board the first plane (to Chicago). But, the next food I had was a burrito at about 6:00 PM EDT. However, the next morning I woke early, got some excellent coffee and started a clear minded, ready-for-anything-that-NM-might-offer day!
The massage therapist, a delightful woman who had emigrated from NY to NM, had advised me to hydrate plentifully to assist with the altitude adaption. Separately, its very easy to ignore the dehydration following from the sun and dry air, because nobody sweats like in NJ. But, copious water is NECESSARY.
To all you bottled water decriers, bottled water is a necessity in the Southwest. As in Italy, a lot of water is not potable, and a lot of that which is potable still tastes terrible. Bottled water is as important in the Southwest as I found it to be in central Italy. And no, carrying a stainless steel bottle doesn’t work as it still depends on readily available refills in a place where many, perhaps most, people depend on bottled water for drinking.
Albuquerque, Madrid, Cerillos, Pilar, Ojo Caliente, Taos, Ghost Ranch, Pagosa Springs , Durango, Mancos, Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, Albuquerque, and a million places missed along the way.
Jody, the place of your land is beautiful!!
On landing in ABQ, first stop was a natural foods store to pick up vitamins and dried fruit. Why vitamins? Well, some years ago, before surveillance was as stringent as it is now, I tried to take my vitamins with me on a trip to Europe. I packed multiple bottles in my luggage, and as you may suppose, they did indeed rattle a bit. On arrival in Amsterdam, my girlfriend’s bag was there, but mine was missing! I wonder why? Curiously enough, there just happened to be an official standing nearby to help when I didn’t find my bag. No, not a porter, an official who courteously conducted us to an office where he took all my information. The bag did eventually get delivered to me in Edam, but the ty-wraps I had put on the zippers to protect against casual theft had all been cut. I wonder why?
No repeats, thank you. I’ll buy what I need when I arrive!
From the Albuquerque shopping district, on to Madrid, where I had a room reserved for two nights. I had also thought ahead to arrange a massage to dispel NJ, and hopefully to get me into a vacation frame of mind. Even a little Reiki thrown in! Between the altitude (about 6500 feet) and the massage, I felt pretty bad that evening, dizzy, headachey, disoriented. Could have had something to do with the airline food, or more exactly the lack of it. Thinking that I might not get fed, I had purchased a box of sushi rolls (protein, carbohydrates) the night before. They tasted good at 5:00 AM while waiting to board the first plane (to Chicago). But, the next food I had was a burrito at about 6:00 PM EDT. However, the next morning I woke early, got some excellent coffee and started a clear minded, ready-for-anything-that-NM-might-offer day!
The massage therapist, a delightful woman who had emigrated from NY to NM, had advised me to hydrate plentifully to assist with the altitude adaption. Separately, its very easy to ignore the dehydration following from the sun and dry air, because nobody sweats like in NJ. But, copious water is NECESSARY.
To all you bottled water decriers, bottled water is a necessity in the Southwest. As in Italy, a lot of water is not potable, and a lot of that which is potable still tastes terrible. Bottled water is as important in the Southwest as I found it to be in central Italy. And no, carrying a stainless steel bottle doesn’t work as it still depends on readily available refills in a place where many, perhaps most, people depend on bottled water for drinking.
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