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!
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