New Mexico is “Land of Enchantment” according to inspired and proud self assessment. To many that is true, but to truly engage one must love the dusty palette.
It is different here than what I am accustomed to. That is precisely what I was aiming for in my first winter wander. I had visions of warmer weather, less snow, and greater hours of the day bathed in natural light instead of lamps and headlights. All of this has played out according to plan. Although there usually is winter here, Taoseños call the snow somewhat “cosmetic”. Up where I live, there is more snow and it stays longer. And in the Ski Valley, it is supposed to accumulate and provide recreation for all. It has been a very low snow winter in Northern New Mexico, and most of the Rockies.
What I had not anticipated was the dramatic temperature differences that swing between night and day. Leaving for work in 15 degrees and returning in 50 degrees has been a normal occurrence. Bundled in the morning, and shedding layers in the afternoon I became adept at managing the temperature variations. And sometimes at the Ski Valley, the sunny days got up near 70. Spring skiing in January! In Alaskan winter there is no temperature whiplash. If it is -10 at night, it is probably -8 during the day.
The landscape to the west is flat mesa all the way to the southern Rocky Mountains. To the east are the Sangre de Christo mountains, a subrange of the Southern Rockies. The Taos Ski Valley, where I work, cuts into the eastern ridge. An afro of coniferous trees sweeps all the way up to the crest of this range, the highest mountain being Wheeler Peak at just over 13,000 feet. The mountains here, as further north, have had meager snowfall this year. My “tin can”, affectionately named Owla Fitzgerald, is nestled in Arroyo Seco, an odd little village that mimics Talkeetna or McCarthy in Alaska. This is “in between land”, neither mesa or mountain. There are streams lined with cottonwood trees and birches and grassy fields cut neatly into small square by barbed wire fences.
The cycle of the moon here is a repeated source of amazement for me. It’s mesmerizing phases rise over the mountains each night, slightly altered in size and shape both waning and waxing. The full moon sets the landscape alight like a halogen flashlight, even without the assistance of snow on the ground, as in Alaska.
The sunsets are an endless variety of riotous color, which I can comfortably view from the sofa in my trailer, glass of wine in hand. I make a game of trying to predict how the dimming of the day might progress according to the clouds that are often streaked across the sky. No big puffy ones here, just alien-like crafts of various shapes and sizes, often with a mothership among them. I only give this nightly ritual up for my weekly trip to Sabroso for happy hour.
New Mexico has waved every temptation before me like a matador flaunting his red cape. But I have yet to charge headlong into the thrill of this land and it has not grabbed my soul. And after much wandering around it finally dawned on me while crossing the Mesa in late afternoon that it is this dusty palette that holds me back.
That wide expanse between two mountainous backbones and cut down the middle by the gorge of the Rio Grande is painted with an endless variety of hues, browns, grays, and tans. Even the red dirt lacks the vibrance of the colors one would find in the crayon box. The red is really rust, likely the most dazzling of the color options, if there is anything that could be called dazzling. The shrubs on the mesa are tight gray clumps, their branches hugging each other as if to hold every drop of water offered. Everything out their seems to be praying for water. From the mesa, the trees covering the mountains do not even look green. They are the deepest shade of gray that comes before black.
Scattered willy-nilly across this dust laden space are buildings where people live, congregate, work, worship, play and carry on as humans will. The oldest continuously inhabited pueblo is here. The heart of Taos is a collection of historic buildings and shops, surrounded by an ever oozing seepage of more modern businesses and facilities. This area is growing rapidly, its cosmic draw enticing a burgeoning population of retirees, hippies, and magic seekers. I see it one day as being gross, like Santa Fe, it’s enchantment buried so deep in over exuberant “sense of place” aspirants that the pueblo will be the only place holding on to the true soul of this land.
But back to the dusty pallet concept… These blobs and blots of human inhabitation match in blush the chromatism that the land provides. Not a blue house, yellow church, or bright red school house have I seen. Perhaps it is a law, or only an unspoken rule know only to locals. “Thou shalt not color thy dwelling with anything but shades of mud.”
With this combination of nature and man-made pigmentation I feel a distinct lack of green. And even though it is not green year-around in Alaska, the snow blanket that follows shimmering Summer and soul warming Autumn seems more “right” to me. The dusty pallet is more akin to that dreaded in-between time in Alaska when the glory of Autumn color is gone and we hold our collective breath for that first snow.
All places become someone’s home, but this will not be mine. However, I have taken the time to look at and feel the land and I respect her efforts to enchant me. I have opened myself to the possibilities of Northern New Mexico and I hope to take that same chance in other places, in the very near future. I honor this place by discovering what has kept me from giving up a part of my soul here. It is the dusty palette.
