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There it comes! I’d say the leading edge of that is roughly 40 miles away. It’s so cool the way you see the weather in New Mexico before it happens. Gives you time to batten down the hatches, call out the National Guard, or write your will.

A while ago we drove into town. Saturday morning, whatcha gonna do. There was such a strong southwest wind, it blew up a dust storm on the Paseo. All the accumulated fine clay dust from dried-up mud and whatever noxious red-brown salt crap they dump all over the roads went flying through the air. A sight to behold, all right, not what you’d expect on actual pavement! Ah, Taos. The odd thing was, I didn’t mind.

Today I’m not minding a whole lot of stuff. Sure hope the feeling lasts. I don’t even mind my brother blowing his inheritance on speed and going broke and maybe now he’ll lose the house. Live for now, hermano! Oh, right. You did.

I don’t mind the box elder bugs, either. Only in New Mexico can you have bugs inside the house when it’s 20 below outside. The damn things crawl into the rotting window sills to hibernate in the fall, we heat the house up, and they think it’s spring. Every damn day is spring. But I’m getting lots better at pulling them off the windows and washing them down the drain, so I don’t mind, really. And with a new bag in the vacuum cleaner, it was easy to suck up the crushed black bits of little bug bodies from the rug.

Remember how I was sick? I’m fine now, and I even lost more weight, so I don’t mind. I may die tomorrow, broke-dick-motherfucker, but I don’t mind. Death is like a cold front. When it comes, it’s there, and what am I supposed to do about it? And now that I’m all calm and nice, I’ll probably get rich and live forever in spite of myself.

Not that I would mind or anything.

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Halfway through the first big melt! We could have a party to celebrate the coming spring, except the guests would have to drive through shit like this. Most Taoseños would be used to it, though. Sigh. This spot is just past our “driveway” on a road that shall remain forever nameless, so I can tell a story that perfectly illustrates life in el Norte.

When I first moved to our current address, the county regularly graded and plowed the road. Sometimes it took a phone call from the now-dead landlord to make it happen, but the job got done. After he died, something changed, and now there’s zero maintenance. Those ruts you see? They’ll still be there by summer, hard as concrete, only just a little smoother from the garbage truck turning around.

I made inquiries last summer, because the road was so rough, my wife was freaking out and I worried for the car. Everyone I talked to was very cordial, but no one could help. The problem was that the county had determined that this was now a “private” road, presumably belonging to a rich lady who owned property at the bottom of the hill, and no longer in their inventory. That made a kind of sense, since beyond this point, there are no other houses. But they went even further and declared the stretch from this point back to a certain stop sign was also private and so undeserving of county maintenance.

This was news to me and my neighbors, so I persisted. Finally I had the ear of someone in authority (oh no, no names!), who informed me very politely that I had two choices: 1) I could write up a petition asking the county to reconsider and get everyone who lived on the road to sign it—with absolutely no guarantee of success—or 2), I could “make a contribution,” i.e. a political donation, which might align the gods more strongly in my favor. (In some places they’d call it something else, but you didn’t hear that from me.) I couldn’t swear to this in court, because I was having trouble hearing at that point—the voice having dropped to almost a whisper—but I did hear “contribution” very plainly.

Similar dynamics surely apply elsewhere, but here is where we are. The Chamber of Commerce wouldn’t want you to know, but you’re just as likely to have strange problems with your half-million dollar home as with an old adobe rental. The things one has to put up with for pristine air and 90-mile views!

And so it goes, and goes, and goes…

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The main thing to remember is, this isn’t Wheeler Peak. (I thought it was for years!) Almost the same height, too, over 13K ft. You can hike to it after climbing Wheeler, though. The latter is out of sight behind Taos Mountain on the left. Every year I say I’m going to get myself up there, and every year something happens. Looks like you could do it right now with snowshoes and a death wish.

But really, “Old Mike Peak”? Who decided that? It used to be San Miguel, duh. Now that makes sense. Old Mike sounds like the way my father used to smell, only his name was John. Tobacco, booze, and aftershave with hot electric razor motor scent. Crossword puzzle and a cigarette, ten goddamns before his fried eggs.

Old Mike, indeed!

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He did it again! Well, probably not the same bird, but the same behavior with the same result. Kinda like someone I know.

What would you do if someone got you a free home and more than enough money to live on until your Social Security kicks in? Spend it all on crystal and blowjobs and getting ripped off by “friends” with half a year to go?? Of course you would. Just look at that grosbeak.

At least the bird is alive (I rescued it). The human is too, for now. The difference is that aside from the feel-good thrill of rescuing any of God’s creatures who get trapped, I don’t give a shit about the bird. But the other thing will rip my heart out.

Meanwhile I proceed with rescuing myself. At this point, love and my example are all I have to give.

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