Hello Dolly

The remnants of Hurricane Dolly made their way to New Mexico on Sunday, devastating the town of Ruidoso with flash flooding sparked by six inches of rain in 24 hours. New Mexico Business Journal reports that most of the town was unaffected by floods, but other sources report 200 homes either damaged or destroyed, one person dead, 13 bridges washed out, and 70 people stranded in Upper Canyon.



Though the Ruidoso flood topped New Mexico's news for several days, there was little national coverage, which I attribute to a world so caught up in the parade of climate change catastrophes that we become jaded to these events. There is no doubt that recent midwest floods eclipse the Ruidoso flood, but I was baffled that national coverage was so dismal. I am also coming to realize that important New Mexico news is often neglected in the non-local media, as if the state isn't even part of the U.S. Sometimes I feel like I live in a third world country within U.S. borders - a country often neglected and ignored. I try not to take this personally.

While Ruidoso was being pummeled, Dolly was kinder to northern New Mexico. Storm clouds and heavy rain moved in on Sunday afternoon. An hour later the sky cleared. At sunset we went for a walk along the ridge. It's always nice to be outdoors after rain scrubs the air clean, but the sticky clay that adhered to the soles of my hiking shoes was another story. As it quickly built up, the clay added two inches to my height. Now I know what it's like to hike in platform shoes.

Monday morning we rose early, packed up, checked out, and drove to the lake for one last dog swim. Tired and happy, the damp dogs settled on their futon in the back of the minivan for the ride home.

On our way out, we stopped at the Heron Lake Dam for dramatic vistas of the silt-laden, cocoa-colored Rio Chama.


As we approached Highway 84, which would take us all the way to Santa Fe, the steep cliffs of Brazos Peak, at 11,286 feet, loomed in the distance.


Just north of Abiquiu we marveled at the multicolored sandstone formations that whispered, "Georgia O'Keeffe country."





We stopped for a picnic lunch at Echo Amphitheater, a magnificent natural sandstone formation that causes people to make weird sounds and speak strange words just to hear them echo. Telly's shrill, loud bark echoed nicely.









After lunch we drove a few miles further to Ghost Ranch, where we took in more breathtaking scenery and considered the dinosaurs that once roamed the area and the geologic significance of the ground on which we stood. Ghost Ranch was bequeathed to the Presbyterian Church a number of years ago and now serves as a non-denominational conference center that hosts retreats. (This week the Center is hosting a conference on peacemaking and non-violent communication, in an astonishingly beautiful setting.)





Heading south, Cerro Pedernal, a 9,862 foot flat-topped butte in the northern Jemez Mountains and the subject of a famous Georgia O'Keeffe painting dominated the distant horizon. Pedernal means "flint" in Spanish. Ancient Puebloans living nearby used Pedernal’s agate and stone for arrowheads, scrapers, knives, and spearpoints. Today Cerro Pedernal is one of the most recognized landmarks in north-central New Mexico.


Several hours later we were back in Albuquerque, where the temperature was close to 100, mountain breezes but a distant memory. This is the hottest time of high desert Albuquerque summer. Our inadequate, too-small swamp cooler is working hard, but the load is great at this time of year. So we sweat and remember happy, cooler times at El Vado.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
-Rumi

On our drive from Albuquerque to El Vado Lake, we hit thunderstorms and heavy rain in the mountains of Carson National Forest, once inhabited by the ancient Anasazi people. On arrival at our cozy cabin, light rain continued for a short while, but ended just before sunset. In the fading sun, gently falling raindrops glistened like diamonds. We were restless that first night, canines and humans alike -- attentive to new surroundings, unfamiliar beds, and strange sounds in the night, including an unidentified growl near the back porch. Looking out the window we saw nothing, but chose not to venture out to explore. At 4AM everyone was awake, and as our wild visitor had apparently moved on, we leashed up the dogs for a walk in the peaceful darkness. After our walk, the dogs went back to sleep, but I chose stargazing. There is something about pre-dawn that's magical, mystical. Staying awake at the window was compelling, no matter how tired my body. At that hour, the Creator is palpable.

At dawn I watched a hint of sunlight slowly peek over the hill behind our camp, as the sky celebrated the awakening with streaks of pink and orange. Magpies squawked in tall trees. At this elevation we saw no deciduous trees, and the sweet fragrance of evergreens intensified as the sun warmed the air.

After breakfast, we drove down the steep, winding dirt road that Telly soon learned led to the primitive lakeside camping area where she could run free. The dogs' exuberance was exceeded only by their sheer joy, as they chased tennis balls and sticks, excitedly dropping them at our feet, begging for one more toss in the water. They were tireless.


After our morning swim, we once again enjoyed the views from the cabin of which we never seemed to tire.




In the afternoon we let sleeping dogs lie in the cabin and drove to Heron Lake as storms loomed on the horizon. We found no swimming areas for the dogs superior to our treasured El Vado spot, but we did find vultures perched in a dead tree that seemed to resonate with the incipient bad weather.


When the storm passed, we were treated to this spectacular sky from our back door.


Though internet and phone deprived, we did find a small TV atop the refrigerator, connected to Dish Satellite. With my aging eyes, I could only watch it standing directly in front of the fridge. Viewing from the daybed across the room required binoculars to see images on the miniscule screen. Tuning into news and weather, we learned that Dolly was planning to visit New Mexico. We awaited her arrival and considered the irony of moving from Florida to New Mexico to escape hurricanes. As for me personally, I wondered what secrets the dawn breeze would tell on Sunday.

God's Country

Last Friday we traveled north some 175 miles, the van bursting at the seams with luggage, food, dog toys and dogs, for a long weekend in the Northern New Mexico Rockies. The prospect of living without cell phones and Wi-Fi for three nights was worrisome. Though I'd looked forward to this getaway for weeks, I secretly dreaded being off the grid.

Located 30 miles south of the Colorado border in Los Ojos, the Stonehouse Lodge is perched high atop a ridge overlooking El Vado Lake. We rented one of the Lodge's five cabins cozily located in a neat row on the ridge, the lake a few hundred feet below.


Though rustic in every sense of the word, the cabin was spotless. My first order of business: Determine Cell Signal Strength. Glancing at my phone with trepidation, I read, "SEARCHING FOR SERVICE." With no bars, I was officially incommunicado. I shut off my phone and stashed it in a corner, trusting that my anxiety would abate with the device out of sight. I found comfort in knowing the Stone House Cafe has a public computer with satellite internet just 300 feet from our tiny cabin. Nevertheless, I steeled myself to use it as little as possible, determined to bravely face my addiction to electronic communication devices cold turkey. I might even welcome this freedom from the outside world.

The dogs assumed their positions patrolling the cabin and, when the perimeter was secured, they languished at the back door, looking out at the lake...


and this is what they saw.




The lake is accessible a mile away, off a dirt road I would hesitate to negotiate in winter without four-wheel drive. El Vado Lake, a man-made reservoir and part of the San Juan-Chama Drinking Water Project, is home to rainbow trout, browns, and kokanee salmon. The Rio Chama connects El Vado to Heron Lake, just a few miles north. While Heron Lake is a no-wake lake, El Vado hosts water skiers, jet-skis and small boats towing inflatables ridden by squealing children. In spite of motorized craft, the lake was surprisingly tranquil and quiet. And, the fish were jumpin'.

We found a quiet, secluded swimming area where the dogs could romp freely without disturbing anyone. In fact, we saw almost no one at the lake, other than a couple from Albuquerque carrying fishing rods and a cross-legged young man who swam to shore from a pontoon boat in search of a restroom. Telly spent the first two days at our apparently private beach trying to understand the mechanics of swimming in water over her head, and by day three earned her swimming badge. It was great fun watching Murphy and his baby sister play for hours in the lake. It was also fascinating to observe Telly gradually overcoming her fear of water.







Sunset walks along the ridge with the dogs were a wonderful way to end each day.




We were treated to rainbows daily after late afternoon storms that seemed to appear from nowhere like clockwork. By Saturday, both cell phone and internet were removed from memory.