New Mexico 2009

New Mexico, Ho!

Well, you’ve been waiting for a long time, but just like Christmas, it’s finally arrived.  I am on the road again.  And you, lucky people, have to endure yet another dose of the Dale Travel Dump.  This time I am travelling with Christiane (CD going forward, I just can’t spell it right two times in a row… why is there not a law that all names be no more than four letters long… it’s worked well for me).  But don’t feel sad for Frank, he’s still thawing out from our Wyoming trip of the spring of 2008.  But it’s a slow process; he starts to melt whenever he gets more than four feet from the refrigerator.

As you have probably deduced from the title of this edition, the trip is to New Mexico.  We are meandering sans itinerary, our only purpose is to spend some time in the Las Vegas area (no, Las Vegas, New Mexico) looking at property; more on that later.

On the Road Again

We left home on the morning of Tuesday, June 2.  Our original plan was to depart Monday morning but one of us had stomach issues and was afraid to get too far away from a toilet.  But a day’s rest and one dose of Imodium brought order to the world.  Even my farts are as dry as the desert breeze now.  And regardless of what CD thinks, they smell just as sweet.

Our first day’s destination was Flagstaff, Arizona.  If you are not familiar with Flagstaff, read a book.  Most all of my journey’s start through that town and I’m just bored writing about it.

This is our first major outing in the camper while towing the Land Cruiser along.  I have had very little experience with towing a vehicle, so I am a bit apprehensive.  Normally, the run from home to Flagstaff takes about seven hours with lunch and gas stops.  But that is accomplished at an average travelling speed of seventy miles per hour.  With the wind resistance of the camper, the extra weight of the Land Cruiser and California’s archaic law mandating a maximum speed of fifty-five miles per hour for vehicles towing, it took a lot longer.

Now keep in mind that from home there is a total of over five-thousand feet of elevation gain to Flagstaff (approx. 7,000 ft. elev.) and over 4,000 feet from the California-Arizona state line at the Colorado River.  Some of the grades were steep enough to slow us to forty-five miles per hour.  That is chugging.

Arizona, being the progressive state that it is, has a posted speed limit of seventy-five.  That’s for everyone; even the biggest of rigs.  If you haven’t been passed by a Kenworth pulling a fifty-three foot box trailer while driving a high-profile camper at sixty, I can best describe it to you by relaying that it is probably like being a single flake of snow in the wake of a speeding snow plow.  Whoopee… steer left, steer right… breathe!

  In addition to the lessons learned about average speed, there was the shock of fuel consumption.  With the camper alone, I average twelve miles per gallon.  Dragging the Land Cruiser in combination with the elevation gain, I was getting a bit less than ten overall.  I normally make one stop for gas in Kingman, Arizona just for the comfort of knowing I won’t be rolling into Flagstaff on fumes.  This trip, I bought gas in Barstow, Kingman and was down to less than 100 miles of range when we hit the KOA Kampground at eight o’clock Tuesday night.  We had been on the road since eight A.M.  That’s five more hours than my butt is used to… and boy was it letting me know.  A final comment on Flagstaff; the KOA Kampground has the nicest showers I have experienced in camping.

Do You Know the Way to Santa Fe?

Wednesday, after a scrumptious granola breakfast, we set out for Santa Fe, New Mexico.  We didn’t think it necessary to leave too early because we had about two hundred fewer miles to cover than day one.  The route is a simple one; east on I-40, then (wait for it...) LEFT AT ALBUQUERQUE and north on I-25 to (almost) Santa Fe.  “Why almost?” you ask.

New Mexico is a very interesting state, but not right at the cutting edge of twenty-first century development.  There is one junction of interstate highways in the state; the aforementioned I-40, I-25 in Albuquerque.  In fact, there are only two interstate highways in New Mexico.  I-40 runs west to east along the general route of the fabled Route 66 (post-1937).  I-25 follows the flow of the Rio Grande River as it leaves Colorado and proceeds south to the Texas state line near El Paso.  Thus, one intersection, and Bugs Bunny’s favorite at that.

Now, one would think that the Interstate would run into Santa Fe, seeing as it is the state capital and all.  But noooo, the highway designers have built a sudden u-turn that diverts the interstate south for a few miles before another u-turn takes it back to a general northerly direction.  And thus, it just misses Santa Fe.  But this is not the only such mysterious avoidance; more on that later.

The route from Flagstaff east is generally downhill, so we were averaging a whopping eleven miles per gallon; efficiency of heretofore unknown proportions.  The landscape quickly changes from Ponderosa Pines to stubby Juniper and finally desert scrub as elevation is lost.  There are some inspiring scenes of the Painted Desert to the north and Petrified Forest National Park is along this stretch if you are so inclined to take a little detour.  We all know that one can never see too many rocks in one’s life.  There is also Meteor Crater.  But I’ve seen them all so we bypassed them on this trip. 

We lunched at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico.  The hotel is on the National Register of Historic buildings. In addition to being a landmark on Route 66, it is famous as the desert lodging to the stars.  In the Golden Age of Hollywood, many Western film location shoots were done outside Gallup.  The stars resided at the El Rancho while there.  The lobby and second floor balcony are decorated with publicity photos of all the usual suspects. It is very quaint, rustic and kitschy all at the same time.  The hotel restaurant, as you would expect, names its menu items after actors that stayed there.  I ordered the “Ronald Reagan”, a bacon-cheeseburger with a side of (wait for it…) JELLY BELLY’s.  Yes, it’s true.  CD had the Katherine Hepburn, a BLT.  I don’t really get the connection.  Are they insinuating that she was skinny because she ate lighter fare?  Or are they calling her a pig because she had a forty-year affair with a married man?  I guess it doesn’t matter because the bacon was excellent.

From Gallop, it is a pretty mind numbing desert sprint (again, creeping along at about sixty) to Albuquerque where you already know what we did.  You gain elevation as you proceed north to Santa Fe and on this particular day we ran into quite the thunderstorm.  The wind gusts were pushing us around like a piece of jetsam.  Instead of dreading being passed by another big rig, I was praying for them because I could enjoy a few seconds of calm driving.  Then they would pass and I was once again fighting the ferocity of nature.

By the time we were making our final approach, the weather had eased up and we entered the Rancheros de Santa Fe Campground about five o’clock facing nothing but a few occasional raindrops.  The campground is situated about fifteen miles southeast of Santa Fe nestled in the nook of that second u-turn I told you about earlier.  We set up camp and decided to go into town for dinner.  Now I know what you are thinking, “If they’re camping, shouldn’t they be cooking over a fire and enjoying the outdoor life?”  Well, yes we should.  But Santa Fe is known for two -things worldwide; effete artists and world class cuisine.  We did not cook one meal in the three nights we were in Santa Fe.

That first night, we ate at the Ore House (think it’s supposed to be a play on words); on their balcony overlooking the town square.  If you don’t know anything about Santa Fe let me educate you.  It is the longest continuously serving state capital in the country.  Although New Mexico wasn’t admitted as a state until 1912 (followed only by Alaska and Hawai’i), Santa Fe was the capital for the Spanish regimes beginning in the 1600s and for Mexico after they won their independence in 1821.  This square is where General Steven Watts Kearney announced to the local citizenry that they were now subjects of the United States in 1846.  There is a marker commemorating the event opposite the Palace of the Governors.  Notably, the bronze plaque has been revised from its original form; the word “savage” being chipped off in a reference to the Indian inhabitants.  Political correctness reigns supreme.  But most importantly, I had the filet mignon and it was excellent.  CD had chicken in mole sauce.

After dinner we were lost for about fifteen minutes trying to find our way out of downtown Santa Fe.  This is a very old town with very narrow streets.  They don’t widen them because it would upset the preservationists that four-hundred year old buildings that have almost no setback were destroyed for the safety and convenience of the local drivers.  We must have our priorities.  Anyway, to improve the flow of traffic, the city has designated most streets as one way.  But for some reason, every few blocks, the direction changes and you are forced into a left or right turn that you didn’t want to make, therefore sending you in a zigzag pattern of navigation that just sucks.  We finally made it out of the maze (feeling something like an enchanted prince… this is an inside joke for fans of 1950s horror movies; for the rest of you… neener, neener, neener.)

The next day, CD’s asthma was giving her trouble so we spent most of the morning at urgent care.  After a successful visit, we headed to the recommended CVS pharmacy to fill a prescription.  Interestingly enough, this CVS was in an indoor mall.  I wandered out into the mall to find a restroom and then, the most glorious thing happened.  I found a gun shop… in a mall… a G-U-N shop… IN A MALL!  This is a wonderful state, just wonderful.

After concluding our business, we had lunch at a little bar and grill off the square called Catamount.  CD had a sandwich of some sort or another and I had beef brisket tacos; a new twist on an old classic.  We went back to the campground so CD could rest.  I spent the afternoon setting up my telescope to do a little star gazing later in the evening.  And just before sunset, it clouded up.  I don’t know how I got on the list or to whom I should speak about getting my name taken off.  But there are days when I feel like I’ve been near the top for most of my life.

The next day, our last full day in Santa Fe, we decided to do a little sightseeing in and around the old city.  We started with breakfast at a restaurant on Old Las Vegas Highway (the road on which the campground is located) situated about half-way between our camp and the town.  It is named Harry’s Roadhouse and we noted that no matter what time we drove by, the parking lot was packed.  There is no better recommendation for a restaurant than turn-away business.  I had chillaquiles and CD had scrambled eggs with scrapple.  They were excellent.  If you don’t know what scrapple is, I can best describe it as home-made spam.  Yeah, I wouldn’t have ordered it either, but CD is from Canada and doesn’t know better.  She seemed to like it nonetheless.

We then went back into town and visited the Palace of the Governors (the original Spanish seat of government for New Mexico) which is accessed through the new Museum of New Mexico History.  It was interesting, but most of the original interior of the Palace was taken up by a photo exhibit.  Only two rooms represent the Palace as it was during colonial times.  We then took in the Loretto Chapel and the mysterious spiral staircase therein.  The legend of the “St. Joseph” miracle is a little overdone.  But the staircase itself is an amazing example of design and workmanship.

We then left town to pursue a couple of little towns of historic note.  Galisteo is a very old Spanish village southeast of Santa Fe about twenty miles via US-285.  There is really nothing there but a small Catholic church of ancient origin, a smattering of walled adobe homes and some standing ruins.

On the way back, we took a little side jog to Lamy.  This is where we close the circle on “Do You Know the Way to Santa Fe?”  Lamy is a very small little village named after some archbishop of past fame.  What makes this little berg interesting is, it is the closest the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad gets to Santa Fe.  Now wouldn’t you expect the railroad named for Santa Fe would at least run through it if not have it as a terminus.  But of some reason, the route from Denver to Albuquerque just passes it by, Lamy being the closest passenger depot (still operated by Amtrak).  Today, there is some entrepreneur trying to build a rail museum there.  To date there is a retired dining car on a siding that he is operating as a restaurant.  Good luck to him, you have to know where Lamy is and really want to get there to run across this little gem in the rough.

Ten years ago (or so), when CD and I travelled to New Mexico with Pam and Chris Parsons, we elected to take a train ride from Santa  Fe to Lamy (this is how we learned about it).  This excursion is offered by the Santa Fe Southern, an independent outfit operating a spur line that transfers freight cars bound for Santa Fe dropped at Lamy by ATS&F (now BNSF to their lasting shame).  As a way of adding a bit more revenue, they have attached a nineteenth-century passenger car to their train and sell tickets to nuts like me who will ride any train going anywhere.  The downside is, once in Lamy, there is a three hour layover while the train crew drops the outbound freight cars and picks up those bound for customers back in Santa Fe.  Luckily, there was a small restaurant in Lamy serving lunch to the passengers waiting for the return trip.  It is the only business in Lamy other than the Amtrak station.  We were very excited because we knew this little café boasted a very fine bar.  When we arrived, we found that the one day of the week the joint closed is Tuesday.  You guessed it, we planned our sojourn for Tuesday.  Do you remember that list I mentioned earlier?  Just another example of how long I have been suffering.  It took us about three minutes to check out the passenger depot and walk the length of the town.  I guess it does make an amusing story, when it’s happened to someone else.

New Mexico, Ha!

It is truly good to be traveling again.  This is my first road trip since the fabled adventures of Me and Frank on the road to Wyoming in the spring of 2008, otherwise known as, “The Great Refrigerator Expedition”.  Happily, this time there is no snow.  I am starting to see the merits of summer travel.  And so far, I haven’t had to kick one screaming little elementary-schooler as I feared I might; know what I mean, Heather?

History Abounds

Picking up where we left off, a delightful trip to Lamy.  The next day, we left our campsite outside of Santa Fe for the history drenched streets of Las Vegas.  For those of you new to the distribution list, I will share why you should not picture the glitz of the Strip each time you hear or read about Las Vegas.  The old veterans can skip the next paragraph if you are pressed for time… but who knows, you just might miss something funny.

You have probably guessed, as the context of this entire trip is New Mexico, that there is more than one Las Vegas and the one we are addressing here is not in Nevada.  If you haven’t, you might want to close this file and pick up something else to read, say, the Penny Saver.  I hear there is a wonderful special on Lil’ Caesar’s Pizza this week.  Okay then, Las Vegas was founded in1821 as part of a Mexican land grant to settle the area for sheep ranching.  It is nestled in the eastern foothills of a southern branch of the Rockies on the cusp of the Great Plains.  It is far more significant in the history of the west than its Sin City counterpart.  The town lies on the Santa Fe Trail and as a result hosted just about every historical notable from General Kearny (yes, of Kearny Mesa fame) to Billy the Kid.  The original plaza still looks like a typical nineteenth century business center.  The place reeks with history.  Unfortunately, Las Vegas in the twenty-first century has no real economic drivers and in places shows signs of decay.  But for a history nerd like me, it’s easy to see through the haze of age into the glorious past.

Now let’s rejoin the veterans of previous trips in the present.  The trip from Santa Fe to Las Vegas is only about sixty miles, no matter how distant culturally.  So naturally, we took advantage of the short travel day and did some little bit of exploring en route.

Oh, So Long Ago

Just a handful of miles from our Santa Fe campsite, is the town of Glorieta and the Glorieta Pass Civil War battle site.  In March 1862, a Union Volunteer group was moving south from Las Vegas to set up a defense line against Texas invasion.  They encountered a Rebel invasion force from Fort Bliss Texas commanded by General Sibley.  A skirmish ended in a draw but afterwards, two Union troopers snuck into Sibley’s camp and set torch to his supplies.  With no logistics support, Sibley was forced to withdraw from the fight (kinda sounds like my professional career) thus saving New Mexico Territory from absorption into the Confederacy.  Today, there is an easy to miss historical monument commemorating this battle (referred to by some as the Gettysburg of the west… I guess “some” have quite an imagination) on NM-50 which runs parallel to I-25.  Unfortunate timing; the ranger at Pecos National Historic Park (more about that presently) shared with us that the on weekend of June 12 they were offering a Civil War re-enactment and the opening of a new Battle of Glorieta Pass trail.  See, more proof of the list.

Historical disappointment aside, just down the road from the town of Glorieta is Pecos and the river it is named for.  It seems very nice, nestled in the hills of the Pecos River Valley.  It looks to be a possibility for future residence.  There is a Dairy Queen, one of the earmarks of true metropolitan splendor.  We are planning to back track during our stay in Las Vegas (in the Land Cruiser) to have a closer look.  I’ll report back to you in a future segment.

A few down the road from the town of Pecos, is Pecos National Historical Park.  This site offers a walking tour of the uncovered remains of the Pecos Pueblo which dates back to the 1300s.  There is also a good portion of the second Spanish Mission (the first was destroyed during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680) erected adjacent to the pueblo.  Apparently, the initial efforts to save the sight were led by actress Greer Garson who owned much of the land nearby.  Her voice is heard narrating the informational video shown at the visitor’s center.  The site also offers a self-guided mile-and-a-half walking tour of the pueblo remains and church ruin.  There are even a couple of reconstructed kivas (subterranean ritual rooms) that you can climb down into if you are so inclined.  This is a rare opportunity as many of the protected ruins in the Park system are strictly regulated and experienced only by guided tour.  I found the adobe ruins of the church and the way wild flowers grew atop the decaying walls to be the most interesting feature.  So, do you think I’m turning gay?

Back on the road it was less than an hour to our Las Vegas campsite which is actually a KOA Kampground in Romeroville, right off of I-25 just six miles south of Las Vegas proper.  After leveling everything up, we ventured into Las Vegas for lunch.  Our choice was Adelia’s Landmark Grill in the Plaza Hotel, so named for its location on the Plaza of Las Vegas.  Santa Fe and Taos are famed for their traditional Spanish Plazas.  But Las Vegas’ is different as the architectural style is Victorian rather than Spanish Colonial adobe.  Although many of the buildings are no longer in use, the original facades give one the feeling of being in the Old West.  I love this place.  After lunch, we drove around the town just taking in the sights like the old Castaneda railroad hotel built by the ATS&F now sadly in disuse and disrepair.

Eventually we wandered out Hot Springs Road past Montezuma’s Castle (intriguing name, isn’t it; well, I covered it during the spring of 2008 trip so I won’t go over it again… if you are new to the distribution list, let me know if you are interested and I’ll send you the 2008 journal) into the Gallinas River Valley.  It is a surprise as the steep canyon walls are thick with Ponderosa Pine which is in stark contrast to the juniper and scrub of Las Vegas.  The canyon winds westward, following the river ever deeper into the Santa Fe Mountains past the small communities of Gallinas and El Porvenir as it approaches the imposing monolith Hermits Peak, looming several thousand feet above the floor.  Unfortunately, we did not get any pictures.  The road is narrow and winding and it was challenging enough navigating around the two-horse drawn carriage being driven by a family of six.  You gotta love this place.  We encountered a lone hiker along the road and asked him if anyone ever sold property out this way.  He said he knows of several people that waited years for acreage to become available.  Too bad, this is beautiful country.

New Mexico, Hmm!

For our first full day in Las Vegas we decided to explore the region north of the city and peruse the area for possible future residence opportunities.  The area is made up of verdant valleys nestled in the eastern slopes of the Santa Fe and Sangre De Cristo Mountain ranges, southern branches of the Rockies. 

Las Tres Rociadas

We left Las Vegas taking NM-518 north past Storrie Lake until we made a left turn at Sapello onto NM-94.  We quickly began to ascend away from the scrubby plains and into Pinon and Ponderosa Pine covered valleys. At Tierra Monte we turned onto NM-105 and descended into the cluster of Rociada Villages.  There are three (thus the name of this segment); Upper Rociada, Rociada and Lower Rociada.  You have to give it to the guy in charge of naming towns in this part of the country, ‘cause he is one creative dude.

It may be a bit ambitious to call these towns, or villages, or communities.  They are really just clusters of small farms, ranches and the odd retirement couples who have set up housekeeping away from the modern, stress filled, convenience packed world.  These little enclaves have no amenities of civilization.  There may, if there are enough abandoned cars strewn through the total of the area, be a branch post office.  But there is probably not.  Each ;little burg usually boasts an abandoned gas station/general store.  Sometimes there is a dilapidated auto mechanics garage with faded lettering advertising long departed services and selling brands only our parents or grandparents can remember buying.  I guess today, the locals just have to trudge the twenty to thirty minutes down to the Las Vegas Wal-Mart to satisfy the needs of sustenance.

What they do have at hand, that we can only visit after hours of driving from our suburban fortresses of regular safety, is views that leave you in awe; from the imposing rock known as Hermits’ Peak (you should remember from the last installment about Gallinas… and according to a roadside history marker there really was a hermit who lived there) to the south and the peaks of the Sanger de Cristo range to the north, still showing streaks of snowpack, even in June.  It is a strange mix of modern modular or stick-built homes and ancient adobes partially hidden behind crumbling walls and clustered along grids of unpaved roads.  There are abandoned farm equipment and cars everywhere and yards are just as likely to be home to horses as dogs.

There is one modern anomaly to this otherwise anachronistic world.  Some brilliant developer (don’t we just hate them) has created a planned golf-course community adjacent to Lower Rociada.  It is Pendaries Village and I just don’t get it.  There is a guard house at the entrance but the windows are painted over and there is no guard.  Access is unlimited.  Just beyond that, sit two four-plex townhome units.  If you think happiness is a home with common walls, why would you move thirty miles away from the nearest restaurant to live that way?  Then there is a long drive across a meadow that splits at the slope.  There are two clusters of chalets and cabins designated East and West Pendaries (the planner must have been related to the guy who named the Rociadas), a resort (I can hardly keep from snickering as I type this) motel and, as promised, a golf course.  I know little of golf, but a course on a meadow, by definition, is flat… no features… grazing land for the local deer.  The day we visited, the wind was blowing briskly, at least thirty miles per hour.  And there were golfers.  They were too busy securing their hats to swing.  But they stood there, apparently waiting for a brief lull so they could attack the links.  I admit (and those of you who have worked with me recognize) that not everything I have endeavored to do has made sense.  But this seemed even to me to be the epitome of fruitless effort.

All oddities and inconvenience aside, I could live in a place like this.  Well, not Pendaries Villages, but somewhere among the three Rociadas.

Mora is Less(a)

From the Rociadas, we retraced along NM-105 back to NM-94 and through Ledoux into the Mora Valley and the town of Mora in the County of Mora, all named for the Mora River.  For all that, Mora is the only county in New Mexico that does not have an incorporated city.  The town of Mora is the business hub and it’s not much of a big wheel.  While the valley is one of the prettiest I have ever seen, the poor economic conditions and resulting decay blight what nature has offered.  Half or more of the town is boarded up and by the state of disrepair seems to have been for some time.

Mora was established in 1835 by Mexican land grant as a sheep ranching center.  In its heyday it was one of the drivers of economy in Eastern New Mexico, boasting saloons, gambling halls and gunfights.  It was the victim of Apache attacks.  It rivaled Las Vegas (the one in New Mexico… will you pay attention) for bawdiest hamlet.  But those days are gone and it seems the only people remaining are too entrenched or too poor to leave.

As we were passing through, CD remarked that she was feeling a bit peckish.  In the whole length of the town, we could find only a ramshackle pizza parlor that looked to meet the minimum requirements for satisfactory levels of sanitation. While waiting in line to order, a state employee was picking up an order of four pizzas for his work crew.  I wondered if they were going to have any pizzas left.  They did, and, to our pleasant surprise, it was good.

After lunch, we continued northward toward the end of the valley. The homes were all in a state of addition; as if for each new child another room would be added at one end or the other.  Interestingly enough, it must have been impossible for them to acquire the same color plaster during any two trips to the home center.  Perhaps they distinguish their homes by the pattern of colors, “Do you live in the grey-beige-tan?”  “Oh no, that’s my brother.  I’m the beige-white-green-beige down the road.”  I don’t remember one lot that didn’t boast an uninhabited crumbling adobe ruin.  In California, we would designate these as historic buildings and set aside public funds to preserve and restore them.  In Mora, they are just yielding to the elements.

As we drove along, I couldn’t help notice that all names on any type of sign; adopt-a-highway, business advertisement, political placard, were Spanish.  Most of them were from just a handful of examples.  It occurred to me that these people had been here for generations.  First they were Spaniards, then they were Mexicans, and now they are Americans.  But for good or bad, boom or bust, they were the people of Mora and always would be.

I have envied the population of this valley their natural surrounding for years.  It has long been one of the locations I thought would meet my needs for a New Mexico home.  But after a closer examination and a bit of introspection, I don’t think I could live here.

Another Day another Canyon

Monday (I think it was Monday… the days just run together when you don’t have any place you have to be… like work  Ha, ha, ha!) we elected to revisit the villages of Pecos and Glorieta in search of possible New Mexico homesteads.

Pecos (named for the river that runs through it… if that doesn’t locate it for you, watch more westerns) is the more developed (if you really use your imagination when picturing “developed”) of the two. It is about twenty-five minutes southeast of Santa Fe (on I-25 northbound, if you can figure that out) which puts it a little less than half-way to Las Vegas.  There are just the most basic of services there; gas, general store, Dairy Queen, but being less than half an hour from Santa Fe, conveniences are almost as close as Escondido is to where we live now.  We scouted around a bit, identifying which areas were attractive and which were, well, let’s just say, a bit too rustic.  If you own a lot with a northerly view, you can see the southern end of the Santa Fe Mountains mentioned in the description of Rociada. The land is heavily wooded with Juniper and Pinon Pine.

After our search, we drove up Pecos Canyon (same river) into the foot of the Santa Fe Mountains.  We passed a Benedictine Monastery (if you are going to dedicate your life to spiritual service, you might as well do it in a resort like setting) and several cabins that seemed to be for seasonal use.  There were lots of anglers testing their luck in the rushing waters.  As the canyon gained elevation, the walls, as you would expect, steepened significantly. The slopes were thick with Ponderosa Pine.  The land here doesn’t really offer the kind of utility we need, so we will likely focus on properties closer to town.

Upon returning to Pecos, we turned toward Glorieta.  On the way, CD announced that she needed a bit of a refueling and as we had just passed the Dairy Queen I took this opportunity to whip a quick u-turn and sate my ever present hunger for their nominal offering, the Blizzard.  CD had a salad and an iced tea.  I didn’t even know you could order a salad at DQ.  Well, at least when they presented it to us it was in a brown paper bag.  I could sense by her expression that the high-schooler working behind the counter was aware of my shame.  After licking the last of the chocolate brownie crumbs from my Blizzard cup, we returned to the KOA in Romeroville.  If the proprietors of the KOA noticed the smell of greens on CD’s breath, they were kind enough not to let on.  At any rate, we were leaving for Ruidoso and Lincoln County in the morning.

New Mexico, Howdy!

Excuse Me, but Can You Get There from Here?

From Northeastern New Mexico, home of the Santa Fe Trail, we ventured to the South Central ranchland of Lincoln County and the Village of Ruidoso.  As noted previously, Santa Fe and Las Vegas are on opposite sides of the Santa Fe Mountains.  They lie on the cusp of the Rockies and the Great Plains and as such offer very diverse landscapes depending on where you stand and in which direction you look.  The road to Ruidoso however, crosses what seem to be endless miles of grassland dotted by the occasional cattle ranch.  The particular day we made our journey happened to coincide with Mother Nature’s introduction of a nasty weather front.  The winds blew.  For reasons beyond my feeble intellect, New Mexico road engineers never built one highway that went in a reasonably straight line between any two settlements.  And every change of direction brought a new driving challenge.

First we drove southeast on US-84 until we crossed I-40 where, for no apparent reason, the highway number changed to NM-218.  This proceeded in the same general direction until it ended at no particular destination but US-54.  This took us southwest (if the word zigzag just flashed into your conscience mind, you are following along very nicely) to the three way junction of US-54, US-60 and US-285 at no identifiable location.  From there, we turned northwest on the combined US-60/285/54 for a mile into the town of Vaughn where, there was a brand-new 50’s Diner named “Penny’s”.  We were so stunned that we just had to stop and have breakfast.  Fortunately, Penny’s was at the end of town we entered because the rest of Vaughn was pretty dilapidated.

After breakfast, we resumed our southwest heading as US-54 separated from the other two, which go God knows where.  Staring at more miles of nothing but ranchland, we calculated that it must take about 1,000 acres to support a single beef steer, judging by the number of cattle we encountered.  The wind presented a different challenge each time we changed direction.  When buffeting us from either side, I had to constantly steer into it to keep from being pushed into a ditch.  If driving directly into a headwind, I had to mash the accelerator to keep us moving forward.  Overdrive had evaporated as a concept.

Finally, we turned southeast (yet again) onto US-380 at Carrizozo and after a short stint began climbing onto the eastern slopes of the Sierra Blanca Mountains.  With our gain in elevation, we escaped the windstorm of the plains.  We proceeded a long a jumble of state highways until we arrived at the Pine Ridge RV Camp on the border of Ruidoso and Ruidoso Downs. 

These villages are quaint tourist traps feeding off of the skiers in winter and the pony players in the summer.  It is typical of such communities that the business district follows the windings of the river valley while residences choke the slopes surrounding it.  I am not complaining, but if you’ve been to a mountain resort, you’ve been to Ruidoso.  We chose to visit on the chance there might be some suitable real estate offerings on the outskirts, and because it is smack dab in the middle of Lincoln County.  Yippee, ti-iyay!  I’ll share more about that later.

We stumbled across the Hubbard Museum of Western History in Ruidoso Downs.  This was a fortuitous find as the curator, David Mandel, often appears as a commentator for historical documentaries on the History Channel.  Unfortunately, there exhibits are mostly means of conveyance, e.g. a Conestoga wagon, a mountain coach and a chuck wagon.  In all, I would say we saw about twenty wheeled vehicles of the western expansion era.  Fortunately, we arrived just as a tour was beginning and the guide, John, was very informative and entertaining.  I now know more than I ever thought there was to know about Conestoga Wagons.  Go ahead, ask me. I dare you.  They did have on display a Colt Single Action Army reputed to have belonged to Billy the Kid, but more about him in tomorrow’s adventure.

We dined at a nice little restaurant, the Casa Blanca, which serves traditional Mexican food.  That can be a rarity in a tourist area, as New Mexico is renowned for Southwest Cuisine.  Southwest Cuisine is good, but the subtle difference between that and Mexican is like the difference between a Chevrolet truck and a limousine.  Elegance is nice once in a while, but most of the times we just want to haul a load.  We ended with Sopapillas with honey; yummy.

There Is So Much History It Makes My Head Hurt

The next day found us exploring the historical haunts of Lincoln County.  I know you are wondering why that name feels so familiar.  I’ll get to that in just a few lines.  On the way down to Lincoln, we encountered the Maritime Memorial Cemetery.  As odd as that seems on its face, most of the graves were marked by plain white wooden crosses with no memoriam.  At the base of most of these crosses was a small (4”x 3”) concrete block with a number molded into it.  In addition, there are several graves with traditional headstones, including a veteran of the Spanish-American War, several WWI vets and sadly, a recently interred Navy CWO who was KIA in Iraq.  But the strangest graves are four set well apart from the rest.  The headstones commemorate these as graves of the crew of the German Luxury Liner Columbus.  The names were all German and dates of death were all in 1941 or 1942.  This was a mystery.

Leaving the graveyard, we continued on to Fort Stanton, which still stands.  This Army post was established in 1855 to protect settlers along the Rio Bonito Valley from the Mescalero Apaches.  It was manned by the 9^th Cavalry and 124^th Infantry regiments; two of the famed Buffalo Soldier units of the Indian Wars.  In a three year period, eleven troopers were awarded the Medal of Honor.  Kit Carson was in command when the Mescalero were subdued and forced to move from their traditional homeland to the reservation at Bosque Redondo.  I could go on and on about this little slice of history, but I don’t want you to get bored (but I do just love it so).

Fort Stanton was abandoned by the Army in 1896.  It was converted to a tuberculosis hospital for merchant seamen in 1899.  The cross marked graves are those of the victims of TB who perished while at Fort Stanton.   This explains the presence of a Maritime Memorial Cemetery when the nearest ocean in hundreds of miles away.

But there’s more!  In 1939, the Liner Columbus was en route the Caribbean when Germany invaded Poland.  The captain of the Columbus, as were all German commercial ships, was ordered to head to a neutral port to avoid capture by the British Navy.  The Columbus achieved the Mexican port of Vera Cruz an unloaded her passengers.  The Columbus then set out for Germany but was intercepted by the British after being shadowed by a U.S. warship.  The German captain scuttled his ship as ordered by the Reich and the captured crew was held at Fort Stanton, converted to an internment camp for just this purpose, for the duration of the war.  The German graves are those sailors who died during the internment.

When we arrived at Fort Stanton, which is still used as a medical facility by the State of New Mexico, we found that there was a small museum on the grounds.  But you guessed it, the list struck again and the Museum is only open on weekends. Will this curse ever be lifted?  

Smokey, You Say?

Leaving Fort Stanton crestfallen for having missed the museum, we proceeded into the Rio Bonito Valley to the town of Capitan.  It has one claim to fame.  It is the home, and burial site of Smokey the Bear.  In 1950, forest firefighters fighting the Capitan Gap (a nearby mountain feature) Fire encountered a black bear cub clinging to a tree and badly burned.  They treated the cub and after two failed attempts to release him to the wild, he was transferred to the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. where, originally named Hot Foot Teddy, he was renamed Smokey and became the icon of forest fire prevention.  He died in 1976 and was returned to Capitan where he is buried in Smokey Bear State Park.

There is a fancy museum that chronicles the life of Smokey and addresses wild fire prevention in more ways than you would care to know.  There is an adjoining garden that displays local fauna and walks you right by Smokey’s grave.  The reverence was overwhelming (sniff).

And Now, the Climax

You will forgive my exuberance over this next section, but Lincoln, New Mexico is the quintessential icon of American West violence; even more so than the Earps vs. the Clantons in Tombstone, Arizona.  The Lincoln County War of 1878 was, have no doubts, all about the money.  As you have often heard me pontificate, all wars are about economics.  This one of small scale proves the point.  I’ll try to keep this at a level suitable for the space I have.

An ex-Major of the Army, Lawrence Murphy ran the sutler’s store at Fort Stanton.  Seeing much larger opportunity, he opened a public store in Lincoln with partner James Dolan.  They had a stranglehold monopoly on the ranches in the area and were cleaning up.

Enter John Tunstall, a wealthy English immigrant with dreams of building a successful ranching operation.  He soon learned that the Murphy-Dolan operation controlled nearly everything in Lincoln County.  So Tunstall, along with an attorney, Alexander McSween and backed by rancher John Chisum (who was the 800 pound gorilla in central New Mexico, claiming ownership of about one million acres of grazing land-not to be confused with Chisholm of the Chisholm Trail… different man, different time) opened a rival store.

I will not burden you with a blow-by-blow account of events but violence ensued in which the two factions recruited armies of gunmen.  After many months of isolated murders perpetrated on members of each faction, an all-out, five-day shooting war finale brought the story to a conclusion.  In the end, Tunstall had been murdered by a Murphy posse and McSween was killed during an attempt to surrender after his store was set afire during the climactic shootout.  Murphy and Dolan eventually went bankrupt and the name most people remember from the whole episode is Billy the Kid.

Yup, this is where the Billy the Kid legend begins and ends.  I am not going to recount his short but infamous existence.  Some consider him a folk hero.  After reading much of the history of the west, I consider him a worthless piece of flesh that, although killed by Lincoln Sheriff Pat Garret at only twenty-one years of age, had lived many years too long.  Fortunately for you, the events of his death occurred in a part of New Mexico (the Maxwell Ranch at Fort Sumner) not visited on this trip so I will save the story for another day.  Suffice it to say, the lesson of that event was shoot first and ask, “¿quien es?” later.

But let me get you back to Lincoln.  In addition to its fame as the locale of the war, Billy the Kid escaped from custody there after being convicted of the murder of Sheriff Brady and sentenced to hang.  The county had just taken over the Dolan store for use as a courthouse and Sheriff’s office.  Permanent detention cells had not been constructed.  Billy was being held there with other prisoners.  Deputy U.S. Marshal Robert Olinger had taken the other prisoners to dine at the Wortley Hotel.  Lincoln County Deputy Sheriff James Bell was left to guard Billy.  Billy convinced Bell to take him to the outhouse.  When they were returning to the second floor where prisoners were held, Billy shot Bell (as to how Billy obtained a gun is much in question, but a report after the fact by Sheriff Pat Garret, who was out of town on other business at the time, states Billy ran from Bell into the courthouse armory and got hold of a gun, which he then used on Bell).  Olinger, hearing the shot, ran to the courthouse and spotted Billy in a second floor window, aiming Olinger’s own shotgun at Olinger, and was killed on the spot.  Billy then made good his escape and was free until tracked and killed by Garret.

Today, Lincoln is protected as a historic district.  Several buildings are open for tour including the original courthouse and a nifty new museum where I picked up the facts about the history of Fort Stanton and the Maritime Memorial Cemetery.  Inside the courthouse is a memorial to Lincoln County lawmen that have died in the line of duty including Brady, Bell and Olinger.  The spots outside the courthouse where Bell and Olinger died are commemorated by concrete slabs displaying their names.  If you are ever in central New Mexico, this is a must see.  But be warned, there are no amenities in Lincoln (because of the historic district status), all services; lodging, food, etc. must be obtained at Capitan while you visit Smokey (sniff).

New Mexico, Adios! 

Into the Desert

After the historical treasure trove of Lincoln County and the sheer beauty of Northeastern New Mexico, the surrender of elevation on the first leg of our return home leaves us somewhat nonplused.  We ate lunch in Carrizozo at a coffee shop converted into a Mexican Restaurant.  The carne asada was good, CD ordered a cheeseburger (in a Mexican Restaurant, Canadians, go figure) and the salsa was jalapeno powered.

We left Carrizozo via US-380 which took us across (well, it’s actually cut through) the Malpais Lava Flow.  This is noteworthy for three reasons; one is the size… it is forty-four miles long, five miles wide and seventy feet deep.  The second is its age, only 1,000 years old making it one of the youngest in North America.  And the third is simply, there is nothing else to see as you drive across this plain.  Legend has it the Indians of the area called it the Valley of Fire, which was probably a pretty accurate description considering that they would have been there to witness the flow.  There is a state park where the highway crosses the flow, not surprisingly named Valley of Fire State Park.

Other than the constant battle with the wind, which by now was getting a little nerve wracking, the drive west to I-25 then north to Albuquerque was unremarkable. Albuquerque is not an attractive city but it does offer one a glimpse recent American history by way of its miles-long section of old Route-66.  Except for the plentiful graffiti, you could imagine yourself in the 1950s.  It is an interesting mix of old motels and restaurants that try to retain the traditional look and the head shops, music stores and used clothing outlets that cater to the students attending NMU.  The campus lies right on the route and has become the dominant economic influence since I-40 has made it easy to bypass the city altogether.

One recommendation; if you ever find yourself in Albuquerque, look for Kelly’s bar and grill.  It is in the remains of a one-time Ford dealership.  It has ample patio dining (not advised for summer, mid-day use).  You’ll know it by the old-style Texaco sign out front with a “K” replacing the “T”.  If you are not old enough to remember what and old-time Texaco sign looks like, there are at least two Sonic Drive-Ins on the street, you’d be happier there.  Anyway, the appetizers were good and they serve root beer in a frosted mug without ice, the way God intended.

The next morning, we headed west on I-40 for Flagstaff.  The only noteworthy event was the stop in Holbrook, AZ (no relation) to get gas.  I don’t know what was more surprising; the $3.33 per gallon for diesel fuel (Cap’n Jack Sparrow got nothin’ on these pirates) or the fact that actress Danica McKellar was hanging out there.  If you don’t remember her, she was Winnie in the television show The Wonder Years.  I was really tempted to ask her what she was doing in Holbrook (it is a nothing little town) but I have always disdained people who bother celebrities in their private lives.  So, it will always remain a mystery.

From Flagstaff, we made a snail’s sprint home on Saturday and the wind pushed us around until we got over the Cajon Pass and into the San Gabriel Valley.  The final leg took us about eleven hours and by the time I got the Land  Cruiser unhooked and the truck backed into its space, I was spent; always a sign of a good trip.

Some Random Thoughts

Northern New Mexico is Obama country.  Obama bumper stickers are so prevalent that they will hold those cars together for generations… and then they’ll just end up in the front yards of the owners when they can’t get them to run anymore.  I don’t know where the used car lots get there inventory, because I don’t think anybody has ever traded in a car out here.  They probably ship them out from California after they can’t pass the smog test anymore.

New Mexico is a beautiful state and I love it.  But if you travel there, beware.  It is not a prosperous place and the smudges of poverty are everywhere.  If you stay in a resort town like Santa Fe, an artist’s colony like Taos or a ski area like Angel Fire, you will probably never notice.  But if you get out into the country side where people are dependent on a closed economic cycle, you will realize that we are not one society in this country.  We who are lucky enough to live in San Diego (other parts of metropolitan Southern California) have a much different existence than many of our fellow countrymen.

Travelling with the camper and Land Cruiser is slow and expensive.  Remember, I used to do road trips like this in a Corvette.  Don’t be fooled into believing that travelling by RV is cheaper because you don’t pay for motels.  With the unit price of fuel what it is and the amount you suck up in a mega-vehicle, it evens out pretty fast.

Cost aside, I will gladly say I made the right decision though.  Sitting outside in the evening in your Camping World fold-up recliner is far better than lying on a motel bed watching reruns.  And once you are set up in a campground, it’s easy to stay a while and visit the surrounding landscape.  Having a tow vehicle that is easy to get around it just ads to the fun.

And speaking of tow vehicles, the Land Cruiser was far and away the star of the show.  We didn’t land anywhere that somebody shared a story about the one they wished they’d hung onto or had bought when they had the chance; thank you Chris Parsons for showing me the light.

Finally

That’s it for this time.  I don’t know when the next trip will be.  But you can rest assured, I’ll be writing about it… whether you’re ready or not.

IT IS NOT A JEEP!