Not as Enchanted in New Mexico

1.
see all photos »

The drive to Taos is worth more than the town. I knew it's reputation. Julia Roberts has a house there and it's an artists' colony, which means that in order to stay afloat the town must be both a tourist trap and expensive. Being kind of in the middle of nowhere, although a scenic nowhere, the draw for tourists has to be pretty strong. Yet I was unimpressed. The adobe architecture was unimaginative, the lack of franchises and chains was a plus diminished by the uniformity of attractions. Every house had a sign for pottery or a gallery sign, but the artists' spirit hadn't breathed creativity into the many lodgings and restaurants adjacent to these private galleries. The roads needed a lot of work, and after Jemez and the delightful drive into the mountains, Taos didn't impress.

2.
see all photos »

The road after Jemez- the route I took was 550 to 96 to 84 to 68- was, I'll say it again, grand. First, colorful plateaus appeared to my right (1). Around the next bend, painted mountain scars sat behind pale pink hills (2). A few miles later the red earth appeared like dyke fins, short plateaus of plate shifts, below the growing mountains (3). The Blood of Christ Mountain Range, a sister of the Rockies, follows the Rio Grand Gorge (which I found later), but I can't tell you whether the mountains in these pictures belong to those or the Jemez Mountains (although judging by the Indian versus Catholic names, they may be one and the same, when it comes down to it. If I were a god-fearin' Catholic I'd call this red earth the blood of Christ. If I belonged to that land I would name it the same as my people).

The real story is in the drive there...

3.
see all photos »

The left side of my view opened after a hillside fell, and revealed perhaps a great canyon wall, the layers of history displayed in its shading (4). On my right, I was racing a storm, and watched it in the higher peaks, which were curiously mundane in comparison to the carved patterns on my other side (5). Driving through those mountains (hell yes I did), I kept wanting to tell myself this could be a road in Huntington, Massachusetts, but the elevation and something about the red snow prevented that.

4.
see all photos »

The first transition: the road angled toward the rolling green mountains and away from the dry red rock formations, and I saw my first good snow (6). Thanks to the awesome desert winds, one side of my view was far more covered with snow, throughout the entire drive. A curious effect, in places one side would be bare, opposite up to six feet of snow.

The valley opened and I saw this to my left (7). I imagined waking to that behemoth every dawn to feed my steer. (8- A closer view.) The road continued to wrap around the slopes (9), pulling me against a hillside, then a cliffside, then inside a valley. Where a great river must have been, I spotted this (10)- would you call it a mouth? A gaping wound? An eye? I distracted myself with thoughts of Sauron and the great and terrible fiery orb.

5.
see all photos »

The shorter, more carved range of the red earth was overtaken by what must be the tail-end of the Rockies moving in, after another turn (11). My camera has a flattening effect for distant peaks, but in (12) if you squint just right you can see I tried to show the snow-capped Rockies behind the Jemez, the former obscured in the storm. I hope you're getting a feel for how the roads I followed were in no way single-directional. In fact, a few started out as North, then were East because there was only one way through the mountains, and it certainly was not a straight shot.

6.
see all photos »

In (13) you can see how I got through part of the range, only to gleefully find myself heading towards the Rio Grande Gorge, driving above the spectacular Abiquiui Lake (14, 15, 16). Cutting through the mountain side I approach the town of Abiquiui (17). I began to fall deeply in love with this region. I felt a pull towards the bleak winters and powerful storms (18), a fascination with the lifestyle of the friendly truck-driving locals who smiled and waved at me, and a strong wish bubbled up against my resisting optimism- to see this town when it's lush, green, and giving.

7.
see all photos »

At this time in the drive it appears that I'm going to be a battling some ferocious weather (19). I resolve that with a nearly full tank of gas the worst that can happen is getting stuck in my car until the snow melts or I dig myself out. Neither sound too terrible, I scan my brain for the implements packed in the car, wonder whether any could be used as a shovel, and decide to continue. What I was unable to capture is that for the entirety of the drive the winter front was actually two massive white clouds presumably dumping lots of precipitation on their respective peaks, which by some polarizing porperty favored me and left a narrow passage through which I drove all day. After the gorge, or what I saw of it, the Fileted Mountains, as I call them, came into view. These were once massive, towering peaks, but in some legend or other a powerful giant had sliced from the range their proud height, leaving only their girth to remind those who set their eyes upon the filet, of what was once and is now no more. It's true (20). I drove through just a few more quiet towns (think "First Blood" here, I did), realizing how because I had included a ski community (Taos) in my itinerary, there was quite a bit more elevation ahead of me (21). After mailing a post card and nearly getting blown away, I found Orlando's, the restaurant recommended with the language you can't really ignore, specifically, 'the only place to eat New Mexican food in town.' The food really was quite good and the atmosphere was so young and casual (I listened to the host flirt with his sweetheart and hold her hand whenever he had a moment, so endearing) that I almost decided to give the town a real chance. Then I read up on Cimarron.