Taos Moments
Rain over casita, Taos, NM.
The sun sets over my first day in Taos, New Mexico. Humming birds are zinging by my head as I sit in the little back patio gazing over the trees and tall grasses to golden, pink and violet piles of fluffy clouds. Perhaps I can see the sacred in moments like this.
Sunset on my patio, Taos, NM.
A majesty uncapturable by photographs. There are multiple bird feeders in my little back yard, but they seem to prefer the nectar in the real plants and flowers, caramelized by the heat of the sun. Today I found a yoga class, wandered the quaint pueblo style central plaza, got a hat with a feather in it, and tried to find some music, but the listed jazz night was just not happening. Such is life in a small town.
The evening before, I’d gotten in just as the sun set all crimson over the grasslands, and thought I’d venture out for some dinner at 8pm. Well, there was almost no place that was still serving dinner at that time on a Saturday night. After being sent from place to place to no avail, I finally wandered, starving, into the Sagebrush Inn and Cantina, that had food and a live band to boot. I was so relieved that the waitress gave me a big hug after I nearly cried with joy, and sat me down with a pint at the bar, where I had the company of an interesting character.
Don’t get too excited! Just a random truck at the Sagebrush Inn, Taos, NM.
Gerry was a nurse, a hero who not only was a vet but now was a caretaker for the elderly. She regaled me with the sordid history of this beautiful hotel. Built in 1929 along the carriage trade route with Arizona, it temporarily housed a boys school whose grounds had been taken over by the Manhattan Project to build the atomic bomb in WWII. Two Soviet spies, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg used to frequent the bar, and were arrested there before their eventual execution. Its’ catacombs housed an illegal gambling ring and brothel in the 50’s that was famously raided by the feds. And there have been accounts of it’s rooms being haunted. In the bar hangs a painting of a Native American man whose expression is like the Mona Lisa: Is it sadness or bemusement on his face? His eyes seem to follow you. Gerry thinks he may be one of the ghosts.
Williams Lake, Taos Ski Valley, NM.
Day three of my three day weekend found me up early once again to drive out to the Taos Ski Valley for a hike to an alpine lake. It was quite chilly at this altitude, and quite a change from the high desert heat I had just came from. This was a challenging, rocky trail, muddy from evening rains, and a constant climb up the mountain at 11,000 feet. The rocks were different here than Colorado, but the alpine lake was just as stunning. The clouds were skating at a rapid pace across the sky, revealing and concealing the sun from moment to moment, flashing blue and gold across the lake’s surface.
I continued past a boulder field to find “the source”: A natural spring waterfall from which the lake emerged. It was rough going but my hiking poles got me through and I followed the sound of water until I came upon a beautiful little waterfall hidden in a stand of trees. I ate and rested next to its cool, clear waters as they rushed out of the earth. I was surprised to see remnants of a campsite, complete with charred logs in a recently abandoned fire pit. There had been tents up by the lake too. The wind picked up and whipped through the trees, sending me packing and making quite a ruckus. As I made my way down, aching, tired, and hungry, a cute little chalet, the Bavarian, revealed itself like a dream, just in time. I got a golden ale and schnitzel, and was happy as a clam on the sunny patio.
Sweet nectar at the Bavarian, Taos Ski Valley.
I then descended to the Rio Grande Gorge to experience one of the highest bridges in the US at 650 feet above the river. It was so high that my vertigo kicked in hard, but I clutched onto my belongings and peered over as the wind felt likely to blow me over the edge. I saw two hats abandoned on the cliffs below, a regular sacrifice to the gods of this place, I’m sure. The great crack of land stretched out in both directions as far as the eye could see, with red rocky cliffs rising from a green snake of a river. I took what pictures I could with shaking hands and headed to the Pueblo.
Rio Grande George Bridge, Taos, NM.
Taos Pueblo is the oldest currently inhabited pueblo at about 1000 years old. The tribe sells turquoise jewelry, bead work, drums, and fry bread out of a cluster of grass and mud structures, some of which serve as homes still. The people were kind, giving history, telling stories, and commiserating over hard times brought on by COVID. One old man gave me a kiss on the cheek and a hug as I left. He gives buffalo tours and had a big buffalo head in the back of his shop. looking into the glassy eyes of that huge, sacred beast gave me pause. He slid me his number in case I wanted a tour later. Finally I headed home, hot and dirty as hell, and bought a three day pass to the the Big Barn Dance Festival, which I just so happened to be in town for next weekend.
Taos Pueblo
Instead of going the first night of the Dance, I headed to Ojo Calliente after work. I’d wrapped up a little late and felt drained and burnt out, so I jammed the 45 minutes through the winding sagebrush highway, driving straight into the blinding setting sun the whole way. The hot spring pools were half man made and half natural rock, streaked orange and yellow and surrounded by bulbous limestone formations. They were lit up dramatically against the night sky. The water was not quite as hot as I’d imagined, but I got right under the spouts of incoming hot spring, and let it beat down on my head and back like a drum, getting nice and toasty. The baths were all named for minerals and in one case, poison! Did the Arsenic pool really contain arsenic? The Lithia and Iron pools were my favorite, and their waters were supposed to aid digestion, encourage good mood, and boost immunity. Who knows if any of that is true, but it was all pretty relaxing, especially when the stars came out, twinkling clear down to the horizon, enveloping me in the total embrace of jet black sky and hot water.
Ojo Calliente, Lithia pool.
Finally the weekend of the Big Barn Dance! I barely knew how to two step, but knew it included cowboy boots, so I headed to the one vendor I saw and found a sweet simple pair of vintage boots that actually fit comfortably! The woman was from Santa Fe and gave me her card in case I needed a friend when I headed down next week. I made friends with every vendor I bought from, getting another invite from an awesome couple when I made my way to Palm Springs. They took one look at my Grandmother’s bracelet I was wearing and told me it was a pre-1950s Zuni piece, probably much older, and was worth A LOT. They had a tiny matching pin in their collection, with a broken back, that was going for $600. So that was fun to learn! Decked out in my blue vintage patio dress I’d brought just in case, new hat, boots and heirloom turquoise, I took to the floor. 90% of the people seemed to be over 70 at this event, so when I saw a woman my age looking all sassy in red cowboy boots, I just naturally gravitated towards her. Turns out she was also traveling solo, from a little town called Salida in Colorado, and also on the run from a broken heart. We became fast festival friends, bitching about man-children, trading dance partners, and meeting up for mimosas in the morning. I met several other awesome ladies, all of whom sent me the same Santa Fe dance list, and a bunch of great recommendations for my next adventure!
Turns out two-stepping is a breeze and I was the belle of the ball in no time, turquoise circle skirt flying. I was mid-twirl when I literally ran into the Nomadic Dance Machine I’d met in Denver! What a fun surprise. We had a few fantastic dances and I have a feeling this is not the last I’ll see of him throughout my travels. I danced with a bunch of old cowboys with impressive mustaches, and an old rockabilly in a bright yellow vintage western shirt with fringe, but one man knew some jitterbug and he was my favorite partner of the night.
He brought me back to meet his friends, one of which was a woman with an impressive mane of silver hair and a no nonsense way about her. We got to chatting and it turns out she had worked and trained with Don Miguel Ruiz for decades, and had shepherded his life-changing best seller, The Four Agreements (iykyk), into all of our lives in the late 90s. She was a best selling author in her own right, and had led intensives with Ruiz and now without him to sacred places around the world and was heading to Teotihuacan at the end of the month. We exchanged numbers, as she also lived in Santa Fe, and she promised to tell me more about it at her home next week. Was this to be a part of my journey toward self discovery? A crossroads perhaps? You never know when one seemingly chance meeting will change the course of your life forever.
Sagebrush sunset near my Air BnB
