A few days ago I was wound tighter than puke, loco, in the clutches of the Christmas monster. Fortunately, that passed, but by Saturday morning, I was overdue to take a hike. I hadn’t walked in several days, and already I could feel my knee-bones start to wander. They have their nerve.
It was a stormy hike: cloudy and windy with spitty little raindrops, then a deluge of graupel that wet the trail just enough to make that sticky mud like bubble gum. I only saw one other person on the trail at Taos Valley Overlook. There was also an older van parked weirdly in the lot, as if they’d driven in at midnight and run the vehicle into an embankment. Probably sleeping off some awful drugs or drunk. The windows were fogged up and I saw blankets. Whatever you do, don’t knock.
That afternoon it snowed, huge flakes the size of money no one recognizes any more. Most of that melted, the temperature being just above the freezing mark. A few minutes before sunset, the sun broke through in the west the way it usually does, and I could take a picture. The road of course is ghastly, and no one gives a damn.