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Heck, wouldn’t you? I mean, look at that thing. Taos Mountain is to the left and under the clouds. Everything you’re looking at is Pueblo land, by the way. No bikers, jerky vendors, or Confederate flags. No realtors, ski bums, or trust-funders playing hippies. No temples, preachers, or bleeding saints. No poetry readings, fanny packs, or country music. No Chamber of Commerce, mini-marts, or Dollar General (not that they wouldn’t want one). I don’t actually mind all those things, and I’m kind of partial to bikers—motorized and otherwise—but by God, I like wilderness better all the time. Just to know it’s there, you know?

In Maryland I could get a feel for this by being on the water. If I sailed or kayaked up the tidal Chester River to where the woods came right down to the shore, there would sometimes be a cove with a strip of sandy beach. Moving quietly past such places, I imagined they’d been that way almost forever. No doubt with bigger trees, more animals, and water you could see into, but still. It was a comfort and a thrill. It plugged me into something special. It activated dormant sensors in my brain.

Out West, you just get massacred. A couple years before we moved, we were down here on vacation in the summer. I’d driven us out to Wild Rivers north of Questa, all the way out to La Junta Overlook where the Red River flows into the Rio Grande 800 feet below. A thunderstorm had just moved past, covering the ground with hail, and now the sun was out. The air was crisp, the light was fierce, and all the wet things sparkled. There were huge dark clouds over the Sangre de Cristos mountains to the east. I could see lightning strike the peaks from where we stood because the air was crystal clear. My body started shaking. Tears ran from my eyes. I had the overwhelming feeling I was home.

It felt so wonderful. Like everything was forgiven and all would be okay. No more searching, no more guilt. Like I was touching god-stuff. I couldn’t turn my back on that. I had to pay attention.

Of course this means a spiritual home. That wasn’t clear to me at first. The power of the landscape took me to a place where there was love in cosmic measure. (Help yourself! Why yes, I think I will.) PEOPLE NEED THIS SHIT! Stop tearing up the Earth! Keep whatever we have left and show it to your kids! For those of you whose parents ate their young, especially, this is how you get back to the truth.

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Technically speaking, not much of a photo—zoomed too much, tons of noise—but as impressionistic Saturday afternoon bird shots go, I like it. This is what wet mountains feel like. And for all my bitching about what’s after all a normal life in these parts, I’d rather look out on something like this than any sort of crop or field, man-made landmark, or typical back yard. The cat is out of the bag. The horse has left the barn. I’m in the almost wilderness and hanging on with all I’ve got.

Maybe I can write some more today. Have to up my game to stay here. Someone has to tell.

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Here’s a shot from just before the heavens opened up and rained all night and most of the next day. Inside the old adobe, we just got colder and colder. When it’s damp, you really feel it. I lit the pilot lights on the two gas heaters in the house and cranked up the one in the living room for a while. That wasn’t enough of course, so tonight we had a fire in the wood stove.

That’s a typical anthill in the photo. I love the way it mimics the extinct volcanoes in the distance. The rest of this view is pure real Taos: busted slab-side fencing, never-will-be-painted bare concrete stucco, homemade solar collectors, low-hanging power lines, and all the sagebrush you can eat. No trailers in this shot, apparently. I have no idea how that happened.

We drove out Old State Road 570 this evening to spy upon a house for sale. That would be straight ahead from this shot, turn south, and drive out west toward the gorge. A major landslide blocked the road around the time we moved here, and the road gods just abandoned it. Before you reach that point, the landscape drops and twists and makes for stunning views. That’s where the house is. Straw bale and frame construction, but no portal* that I could see, and no garage. No storage or way to enjoy the out-of-doors—in New Mexico, mind you.

That’s how it often is: you pay umpteen thousand for a home and have to lean your tools against the wall and leave your car out in the snow. Rent a storage unit, keep belongings in your truck. Okay, I get it. But this place also had a too-strong whiff of owner-built without much money (the pain, the pain). I sympathize completely, God knows, and I’m fighting too. But for that and a couple acres of desert, somebody wants $230K? No way! Bargain basement for this town, I know, but just not good enough. Dreams of grandeur or escape, I guess. In Taos the stink of failure is often mistaken for sage.

* Portal (Spanish): an open, covered porch for sitting outside.

You’re looking at piece of the west side of Taos Mountain. Imagine trying to climb up that ridge! Imagining is all you can do, since this is sacred ground, and only tribal members can go there. That’s why I use a telephoto lens and walk a bridge of light.

When I look at something like this, It’s easy to place myself in the scene. To orient my spatial senses to what it would be like at the base of one of those trees, with cliffs falling away on either side and a long steep climb ahead of me on those perilous rocks. To feel how cold it is and what it smells like. To feel the terror of the heights.

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