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There was serious sandhill crane action Thursday afternoon at the Bernardo Wildlife Area south of Albuquerque. My wife’s sole objective for the trip was to see a single one, and there were thousands! Cranes in the empty fields, cranes in the corn. Cranes in the air, cranes on the road. We’ve never been anywhere where running over cranes is any kind of danger. Well, guess what.

These two were moving right along. You can see the little rocket thrusters in their wingtips and the glow from inboard power units. They landed safely, I am happy to report, and the dry grass didn’t burn.

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This isn’t about the cat, actually, but the scene fits. (That’s Callie the Wonder Cat, wondering if I’m going to let her in.)

In the photo above, you can see the towel in the windowsill for catching water whenthe ice on the inside of the glass melts in the morning sun. This is an afternoon shot, which means we’ve already dried the towels by the wood stove and put them in place for another night.The Mexican blanket makes a good curtain for the winter. At night we tuck the bottom up inside the sill to hold it in the window frame for a better seal. Like all the windows in the living room, this one consists of a large piece of plate glass mounted in a wooden frame set into the adobe wall.

Sunday morning was very cold. By the time I went out to take my usual four-mile hike just south of town, the temperature had risen to 20 °F. The sky was clear with a stiff wind. There was only one car in the parking lot when I pulled in. The occupants, a fit-looking couple half my age, had just that instant started down the trail in splendid multi-colored athletic gear. By the time I stepped out of my truck, they’d given up and were coming back. I charged off as they were getting into their car—what a great moment, but oh my God the wind. Somehow I was almost fine dressed all in black with cargo pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, and discount store hoodie, but I did have to pull the hood up over my cap. After all, this was the kind of cold that breaks your cheeks.

Within thirty seconds I was out of sight of the parking lot, all alone on the sagebrush mesa. Walking fast, I was exultant in the freezing brightness. Just being out there in that immense open space puts me in touch with a different energy. Sometimes I’m grateful for the distraction, sometimes not, and sometimes… That’s the everyday of it, usually. Sunday, though, was different.

I realize this is hard to understand unless you know more about me than I need to tell, but as I descended the trail, something finally unclenched, and I had the sense that everything would be all right. There was a falling away of fear. For an extended time I felt forgiven, loved, euphoric. And then something even stronger: I stared at the chocolate dirt, the rocks, the sagebrush, and the sky. It wasn’t anything but perfect. And then everything was. I mean everything.

This is very difficult to describe, and beyond the above, I wouldn’t want to try. But for anyone out there who’s in pain, know that I don’t hurt so much now since I stuck my finger in the socket. The awareness may recede, but I’ll remember.

(My father never put his arm around my shoulder, right? So of course I don’t remember that.)

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Saturday was when it started. A beautiful day, just tough to stay outside. The wind was ferocious, up to 40 or 50 mph in the gusts, and there was plenty of dust.

At one point I looked toward the kitchen and saw my big aluminum ladder leaning over at a crazy angle just outside the window. Oh no, I hadn’t taken it down after cleaning the chimney the day before! I ran outside into the gale and found it wobbling against a drain spout, ready to slip and smash the glass. Somehow I was just in time and laid it down safely. Talk about avoiding a disaster! I could see myself nailing a tarp over the window frame as the temperture dropped into the teens, my wife waiting for me in the nearest motel.

To reward myself for saving the day, I decided to get rid of the wood stove ashes. Not the stuff fresh from the stove, but the ashes in a metal garbage can outside, where I leave them to cool down and get safe. Usually that’s a messy procedure involving a garbage bag, but on a day with wind like this, it’s something of a treat. All you have to do is scoop them up, throw them in the air, and they disappear into the treetops in the distance. Just a little more New Mexico dust, so in a way I’m building up the place.

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Presented for your edification and amusement, at least a portion of New Mexico State Road 567 climbing the wall of the Rio Grande Gorge after crossing at the Taos Junction Bridge on the way to Carson, shot from somewhere on the Rift Valley Trail at Taos Valley Overlook. Looks straight, doesn’t it? Hahaha. I used to think this was the worst road around here until somebody drove me up the other side of the John Dunne Bridge, good God!

Meanwhile, I realized I had a video from a few years back when I was driving down SR 567—right to left looking at the photo above—so it certainly belongs here. (Longtime readers may have seen the video before.) This is a hand-held wonder shake-a-rama deal, and I also helpfully speeded up the action here and there. The soundtrack is a snippet of an old solo jam of mine on the old ES-335 12-string.

Whatever else that is, it has to be the quickest descent from the top of the gorge to the bottom not executed by base jumper or suicide victim. I’m kind of proud.

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