9.24.17 | The Rain
Fall showed up this year like crossing some state lines, with surprising distinction. There isn’t really any difference from this mile to that, the day before the equinox to the day after, but sometimes the change happens right on the line. The day before fall was 90 degrees, sunny & clear, with a chill whisper in the morning more as a harbinger to those scouting early. By 11a it was hot like any summer day hot in shouts, not whispers. Yesterday though the storms arrived, the grey, the chill establishing itself. Today, driving from denver to santa fe was like driving through dioramas of climatic conditions in different parts of the US. Soft, rolling fogs, harsh sun beams, angles of light and shadow, hazes and plains in close proximity. Tonight on arrival the sky is a scattering of stars, clear above with lightning blasts at the horizon. There’s sage in the air, or mesquite, wood fires, wet sand.
9.26.17 | The Creek
The bank of the creek was muddier than i thought. It gives way when i plant my foot to jump across. My right foot lands right in the water of the creek. The splash spooks a snake on the other side. It’s the color of tree bark and rope and it dashes into the water to flee, hiding in the bank. The shape of its body as it crosses the water rhymes with the shape of the creek itself all s-curves. We’re nowhere unknown here but I’m nowhere in particular suddenly. I feel the urges of a previous self surfacing through my arms, my eyes. I feel the want of my hands to reach reach out for the snake, to grab at it, hold the lean writhe of its body, feel its tail curl around my hand, the tension and methods of its struggle. I’m alongside all the creeks i’ve been beside with nothing more to do. Instead i watch the end of the tail disappear into the grass and I make my way across and away.
9.26.17 | The Arroyo
I passed a dry arroyo on a bike ride through Santa Fe and bookmarked it in my mind for later adventure. Dry creek beds and irrigation ditches provided much of my exposure to the natural world as a kid. It’s where I could find solace or adventure, peaceful respite or illicit activity. And they were almost always the domain of people my age or so. You’d sometimes find other kids there, but never adults since these pathways cut behind their homes, away from standard territory or off the trail that runs along it. And so I’ve always had felt a thrill of moderate trouble and nominal danger when I glimpse one of these waterways.
The next day, we come to the boundary fence and I look for a place to climb over or sneak through, my childhood senses and instincts at full power. I grab at some fence to test its flexibility and see if I’ll squeeze through or if I can climb over. Liz then points out a build-it break in the fence line, an established entrance to the trail. My hopes of intrigue and malfeasance are diminished somewhat, then entirely destroyed when we pass plenty of retirees walking their dog packs through the creekbed. But as the idea of this place changes in my mind I start to realize what it is that attracts me to them, beyond the malfeasance.
One definition of an arroyo I came upon is: “a watercourse that conducts an intermittent or ephemeral flow.” More than many dry creeks, arroyos have an energy in them. When water is introduced to this environment in quantity these are the points of release, where that build up of energy drains through. And you can sense these quick changes of state, see where water has cut through and made new pathways quickly. This place is a slower, dryer instance of the saying that you never step into the same river twice.
9.27.17 | The Gorge
Yes, we had taken ‘the high road’ to Taos but in that area, everything’s flat until the Sangre de Christo mountain range juts up and looms above the plains. Look west and there are fields of brush forever. But it’s called the high desert and I’ve forgotten that when it’s recommended we head over and see the gorge bridge only five minutes away. There’s nothing to see anywhere ahead so what kind of gorge do they think they’re talking about? At best, I can only imagine a “gorge”, a local’s version of what everyone else calls a “pit”. But then you’re on the bridge. Suddenly I’m 800ft above this ground I thought was low. It feels like a wound, like dry, cracked skin that has opened up and shows its blood underneath.
The Bar
“Do you like figs? I have a tons of figs at my place. We could go back there and smoke some pot and eat some figs.”
Baker asks us this at a bar in the high desert outside of Taos. He and his best friend Leif, a commercial fisherman recently back from a 100-day rotation in the Bering Sea, have just beaten us at Cribbage. It’s hard to tell when the punchline to this joke we were living is going to come, but the setup’s good.
We decline the offer of figs, not because we’re afraid of the offer (we’re not exactly confident in it but it’s not why we decline) but because we’re back on the road to Denver tomorrow morning at 4:00.
