Forget about Taos. This is six miles south of town. When people say it’s beautiful here, they don’t mean Walmart, they mean this. And if they don’t, to hell with them, they only want to sell you something. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of the old adobe buildings are gorgeous, even in their frozen-in-time stucco shells adorned with neon signs behind a row of parking meters. But you could drop them all into the gorge and never even notice. This here now, this is…well, Creation.
The horizon is seventy, eighty, ninety miles away. That gorge is 800 feet deep. It’s raining between two mountain ranges. After fifteen years, it still rips me open. My rib cage is flapping in the wind.