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Now what the hell does that mean? Different strokes for different folks, I’m sure. But how about Jupiter-in-the-sagebrush? Would that grab anyone? Well, yeah. Yet this is nothing whatsoever like what we think we’re looking for.

The house is like a little spaceship or survival capsule. There’s solar pre-heating for hot water and radiant floor heat. Warm as toast and energy efficient. Could be hot in summer. No damn place to store my junk or boxes of artifacts, either. I’d have to build a studio or garage. Totally crazy deal, but hard to let go of. It’s on a dead-end paved road close to town. There’s even a mailbox at the end of the driveway, just like God intended. It has a well. It isn’t falling down around itself.

Either salvation or my God, what have I done? Where are the goddamn trees? There isn’t any place to stick my freaking bike. We’d still need a storage unit or a couple of dead school buses. As soon as we bought this, we’d see a house with a garage come up for sale beside a stream with giant cottonwoods, you know we would. We’re still looking, but goddamn. When I drove out there last night, I didn’t want to come back. Someone else is “interested” in the place, of course. There’s always someone else.

Lunacy! Splendor! A deserted highway to go walking on! No place for all our stuff!

Stop me before I kill again, or toast us as we go completely mad.

UPDATE: Not going to happen. After all this enthusiasm, too! See my “Dear All” comment for particulars, as well as my replies to some of your comments.

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What a hellacious and bodacious last few weeks. All my amps are turned up to eleven. My fight-or-flight response is stuck on in-between. It’s like this is when I save my life, but how many dragons did you say were waiting in the lobby? My moods have been snapping back and forth like whirling bullwhips. If I were a dog, I’d bite my owner and then whine real loud so he would feed me. Just in the last week, I decided I want to stay in Taos, leave Taos, and stay again. We looked at a house to buy. It’s wonderful but small. We’d have to give up two-thirds of all the crap we own and build a studio on the lot. I told our buyer’s agent we love it, it’s too small, and then again that we love it. He’s a good man, replies to every email with “bueno.” Very Taos.

On New Year’s Eve we burned some sage and juniper and meditated in front of the crackling stove. (Let the tension melt away, asked the mountains and the spirits of the land for guidance…) You might call this prayer. And then yesterday I drove out to Taos Valley Overlook—quite near the house in question—for my usual four-mile hike. This time was different, however.

As I climbed a trail up a long hill about a mile from the parking lot, close to where I shot the photograph above, I met a tall gentleman on a big gray speckled horse. He was dressed rancher-style, with jeans and boots, tan suede jacket over a flannel shirt, and a big white hat. The saddle, stirrups, and bridle were hand-tooled leather. He had a tanned and weathered face, good teeth, and a pleasing countenance. By the time I reached him, he’d moved the horse just off the trail and was waiting for me to pass:

“Hello,” I said as I approached. “I would have moved over for a man on a horse. You didn’t need to stop for me!”

He chuckled appreciatively and gazed down at me. I looked up. The sun was coming over his shoulder and partly blocked my view.

“Beautiful animal!” I said, admiring the horse.

“Thank you,” he said. “Nice to see a young man out walking on a fine day like this,” he added.

That took me aback, of course. “Yeah, all of sixty-eight!” I told him. Doesn’t he see how old I am, I asked myself?

“You’re just a boy,” he said, but kindly, without a hint of any derision. “You’ll make it, though, just keep on walking.” He paused a moment and then added, “I’m eighty-two!”

“Goddamn,” I said.

He chuckled one more time. “My plan is to just stay vertical!”

“That’ll work,” I said, as we both laughed. “You know, I’m really glad I ran into you today!”

“Good to meet you!” he said as we parted ways in manly fashion, without exchanging names or handshakes. “Me, too,” I said, and resumed striding up the trail.

Whoa! I thought. Now what the hell was that? As I proceeded on my way, I replayed the conversation over and over to memorize his words and thought about the father figure/shaman on a horse. “You’ll make it, though, just keep on walking…”

I reached a certain spot fifteen minutes beyond and realized I’d completely missed my usual drink-and-piss stop beside a little grove of junipers. What’s more, I’d blanked out that entire stretch of trail! A short time later, I was descending a pleasant unfamiliar hill: hey, wait a minute! Where am I?!? Without a hint of fatigue or any awareness at all, I’d walked a quarter of a mile beyond the cairn of stones that marks my turnaround point for a four-mile walk. Just blew right past it, never saw a thing.

There’s something happening in these hills. It’s good to be surprised!

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The small business economy thrives along the High Road! Actually, I’m not kidding (much). This is right across from the church in Las Trampas. In the summer when the tourists and sightseeing buses stop, there’s probably a line. No idea what they serve here, but at this point you’re probably an hour from any other place to get food or drink in both directions, so I’m sure it pays to stop. When next we do, I’ll let you know!

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Behold the San Jose de Gracia Church, also known as Church of Santo Tomas Del Rio de Las Trampas! Well, at least the gate. Trampas, I’m informed, means “traps,” perhaps alluding to the early fur trade in these mountains. Then again, New Mexico is weird, and trampas also serves for “clothespins.” Take your pick!

The church was built between 1760 and 1776, and you can see the interior here. It’s not open now, but I’ve been inside, where the creaky wooden floors will set you wondering. The little paper bags you see are weighted with sand and lit with candles inside that make them glow. People call them either luminarias or farolitos, depending on which valley they grew up in. Here in Taos County, we tend to use the former term, but I should tread quite lightly on this, because luminarias also refer to bonfires made of pitch-wood that people light on Christmas Eve in front of churches and their homes.

Considering how you have to light these things one at a time with actual fire, it must involve a lot of work. On the same Christmas Day we drove by Las Trampas, we passed another tiny mountain village—sorry, I forgot the name—where luminarias lined the highway on both sides for about a mile! I don’t know how the residents ever got them lit or why the forest didn’t burn down. Impressive, either way.

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