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?
.JPG)
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 9th Cavalry
and 124th 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!
