Column by Hal Walter
Travel – June 2003 – Colorado Central Magazine
IT’S IMPORTANT this time of year when leaving for a holiday from the Wet Mountains to take note of certain things.
For instance, before leaving for a mini-vacation to Taos, New Mexico, in early May, I noted that despite six feet of snow in March, the stock pond on the adjacent property was bone dry. The huge salamanders that had appeared in a nearby seasonal stream after the snow melted had disappeared, possibly into the bellies of mallards. Blades of green grass had just begun to sprout. The wind had been blowing a gale for days and despite the oldtimers’ mantra that this time of year it would blow and blow until it snows, the only storm cloud looming on the horizon was the haze of topsoil roiling over the Sangres from the San Luis Valley.
Something could be different when you return.
Actually, even more important than making such mental notes is to get away this time of the year. While this is springtime in most of the country, March through mid-May in the Wet Mountains can be bad for your head. Forays into nearby lower-elevation towns give a hint of blooming plants and green grass, but back home it’s quite often 38 degrees and blowing when you dare check.
If you need to get away from Central Colorado, and don’t have much money or time, or if you have lots of both, Taos is a handy get-away and there’s historical precedence to back this up. It’s where some of the more famous explorers of this region — most notably Kit Carson and John C. Frémont — sought refuge. And after the debacle of April 15 left us figuratively eyeing the mules not unlike Frémont did during his disastrous 4th expedition, we followed his direction south. It was about all we could afford.
Mary and I took a curiously circuitous route, stopping first at the bank in Westcliffe to check out the last remaining $200 in available cash for food and incidentals; we’d put any lodging on the credit card. Also in Westcliffe we filled up with coffee from Candi’s and gas from Valley Fuel, which would be the least expensive of either fuel on this trip.
We didn’t get very far before taking our first detour. A repaving project sent us out west through the Wet Mountain Valley hayfields before rejoining Highway 69 a few miles south. Then it was on to Gardner. Here we usually veer right and take the old Pass Creek Road, reputedly favored by Kit Carson, to the west side of La Veta Pass. But we wanted different scenery and drove through Gardner and took a dirt road south. A local historical society marked the way of early explorers’ routes with paper signs taped to boulders.
To keep off the beaten path, we crossed Highway 160 and drove down into La Veta, where it was greener than Oregon, circling behind the Spanish Peaks over Cordova Pass and down through the Stonewall, Cordova Plaza and on into Trinidad. Kit Carson would have been proud. We speeded along I-25 to Raton, which by the way means “mouse” in Spanish, and then over to Cimarron before crossing the Sangres in New Mexico through Eagles Nest, past Angel Fire and then down the Rio Fernando Canyon to Taos. The last few miles were winding, and the evening sun filtering through the branches of trees helped induce a sense of motion sickness which did not completely mask our hunger.
Orlando’s Restaurant on the north end of Taos was recommended to us by locals we met on a previous trip. The food is very good and also reasonable. If you go there, I recommend the shrimp enchiladas with caribe sauce, washed down with a Negra Modelo. The shredded-beef enchiladas are also quite good. These are the dishes preferred by local food snobs.
AFTER DINNER we found a cheapish motel and settled in. All was well until we were awakened in the wee hours by the couple next-door; he was apparently a Viagra addict. This made for a poor night’s sleep but was partially made up for by breakfast at the Dragonfly Cafe, just north of the old post office. Here the omelets rule. Also, the chocolate eclairs if you are into that sort of thing. Back at the motel we found the audible orgy had resumed and we checked out quickly and headed for the much quieter Rio Grande Gorge Rim where only the river sighs far below.
West of Taos the Rio Grande cuts through the basalt underlayer of the sagebrush flats and deep into the bowels of the earth. I’m not sure how deep this gorge is but I’d guess you wouldn’t want to slip off the edge unless you know how to fly. It’s not the Grand Canyon but it’s closer to home, and admission is free. We found a trailhead on the west rim that is great for running and hiking. Other trails lead to the bottom of the gorge and also to established rock-climbing routes. I won’t tell exactly how to get there because I like the fact that in several trips to this place we have never encountered other humans.
Because the sport-eating had already reached full swing, a lot of exercise was necessary. We ran and hiked for about two hours before heading through Carson and on to Ojo Caliente. On a nearby hillside, spelled out in white rocks in the manner similar to that in which residents place the initials of small towns on the landscape, were the words:
NO WAR
The hot springs were largely uncrowded. Unhappily I found the mud-bath pool closed until mid-May. We tried all the other various springs, then swam a few laps in the small swimming pool where I found my skills to be not unlike my cat’s. My skin was fully “pruned” by this point but there was one last pool in a tent behind the swimming pool, and I decided I had to get my money’s worth and try this last pool before leaving.
There was another couple in the pool, and I commented on how much hotter this water was than all the other pools. They asked where I was from and, not accustomed to being a tourist, I sheepishly told them Colorado. Curiously, they did not hold this against me and told me they were indeed Taos locals and we struck up a conversation about living in Taos. Mary joined us from another pool and the conversation went on. Before we left, fully pruned, we had an invitation to stay at their casita next to their earthship home outside of town. Given the poor night’s sleep the previous evening, we were inclined to accept.
WE CHECKED INTO Tom and Jane’s (we’ll just call them that to protect their privacy) guesthouse and got a full tour of their beautiful earthship before heading to town for more sport-eating. Tonight’s choice was Antonio’s, also located on Taos’ north end. We were greeted by Antonio himself, who introduced us to the wines before seating us, and then reseating us at a larger table after I clumsily nearly tipped over the first small table. We went for broke, ordering the guacamole appetizer, salads and full entres. The guacamole had an interesting and delicious spicy flavor. The salads could have passed for full meals. I generally avoid trendy Mexican dishes but since Antonio was indeed from Mexico, and had cooked in both his hometown of Vera Cruz and also in Cancun, I ordered the crab enchiladas. A pear and apple tart topped off the meal and ensured the need for a lot more exercise the following morning. Chef Antonio not only greeted customers but also managed the kitchen and checked on tables.
We awoke to a full view of Taos mountain from the spacious windows of Tom and Jane’s casita. We made coffee and drank it from bedside. Then we were out the door and within minutes on the trail to Manby Hot Springs. These pools are located at the bottom of the gorge right on the banks of the Rio Grande. A trail down the gorge follows the remnant of an old stage road which can also be seen climbing the wall on the other side.
THE WATER BUBBLES UP from the floor of an old rock house, and then pours over into other pools. It’s crystal clear and hot. We had the entire gorge to ourselves and spent considerable time trying to figure out how they were able to get horses and stagecoaches across the narrow and swift-flowing river. There must have been a bridge.
Back at Tom and Jane’s we chatted some more. While I was in the shower, Tom revealed to Mary that when he was a detective with the New York City Police Department he had once been called to the scene of a crime and there the Beatle John Lennon had died in his arms. We ended up spending most of the afternoon with Tom and Jane before driving back home. Sometimes chance meetings are truly a blessing.
Homeward we stuck to the more traditional routes of Carson and Frémont, up through San Luis, Fort Garland and Pass Creek to the Wet Mountain Valley.
Back in the Wet Mountains the air was still thick with the dust from the San Luis Valley. The wind was still howling and it had not rained or snowed. All those things I had taken note of before leaving had not changed, with one exception. Without the benefit of additional precipitation, a pool of water had mysteriously arisen in the previously dry stock pond. You never know what you’ll find at either end of the road.
Hal Walter cultivates donkeys and prose in the Sierra Mojada of Colorado.
