Hiking in the Snow

Hiking in the Snow post image

About 10 °F when I took this shot. Still a mile and a half back to the trailhead.

Okay, it’s damned cold, but I have to exercise. How hard can it be? As it turns out, not very. The hardest part is deciding to go in the first place.

This is Taos Valley Overlook, a BLM (Bureau of Land Management) property encompassing 2,581 acres. Right there is something to blow the mind. (Our old home in Maryland sat on 2.57 acres, plenty big in those parts.) My walking trail is the first two miles of a nine-mile loop called the Rift Valley Trail, or four miles total to the turnaround and back. When I get really good, I’ll walk the whole thing. I’ll be so skinny and tough, all my pants will fall down.

People with much more experience than I have already know about walking in the snow, and maybe I did once, when I was young or living in another land. Since I love repeating the obvious to myself and anyone who’ll listen—over and over—especially primeval banalities, here you go:

footprint in snow

My own lifted, frozen track from three days earlier

But first, there I went! See? (↑)

I’d taken this same route three days before. The snow was of a consistency that an imprint of my boot sole would stick and lift, then drop off when my foot moved on. Very fragile artifacts. But in the double-digit below zero cold, some of these froze hard enough to withstand 50 mph wind (!) and partial melting in bright sunshine long enough for me to find them again. Each one was partly out of the track, the original holes. It looked like they were walking on their own.

They’d have had an easier time of it than I did, being light. The hardest thing about walking in the snow is that your foot sinks in, the white stuff sucks you down, and your foot’s a little heavier when you pick it up. There’s also nothing like a normal stride, except perhaps in powder. Even then, you feel a little weight. Resistance. Nature telling you to take it easy. Being two miles out in stuff like this had me panicked at first, until I learned to amble, take shorter steps, and forget my stopwatch.

The other thing is the cold. One needs to be warm. At 7,000 ft. with full sunshine on the snow, you’re in a kind of magic land, so this is easier than it sounds until the wind picks up. But it turns out that 15 below overnight is a good thing when it comes to snow, because it hardens up in places! Squeaks, too. You can walk on top a little, and that makes me feel I got away with something. Hell, just being here and not dead does that.

Anyway, I did it. Four miles in the snow, and more than mentioned here. It’s January, and I have a tan.

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Three Weeks Ago

Three Weeks Ago post image

A memorable Christmas in the terrible high desert

The pros won’t like this image—barely edited Photoshop HDR toning on an originally very dark photo—but I rather do. You’re looking at the “saloon,” where we spend 90% of our time in the winter. Just one room with my office beyond, but it’s always cozy because of the wood stove. This picture says “New Mexico” to me like a club to the head. If I ever see it again, civilization just won’t be the same.

This past Christmas we sent cards and presents to friends and relatives but gave each other peace. Declared that the two of us didn’t need to exchange gifts, in other words. It was a godsend! Instead, we turned the interior of our old rented adobe into a present all by itself: the Mexican “Feliz Navidad” flags, the hanging greens and ornaments, the lights, dishes of candy and cookies…I probably have never enjoyed it more.

Someday I should write a book about our lifetime of Christmas adventures. When we lived in Maryland, we usually drove to Des Moines (Iowa), over a thousand miles away, to spend the holiday with my in-laws. The visits were fine, the trip often hair-raising. Over the years we drove a ’66 VW, a ’67 Saab, a ’65 VW bus, and an ’84 VW Jetta through freezing rain, blizzards, gales, and one mild year, sunshine. Once (?) we had to turn back in Pennsyvlania because of the snow and mailed our presents out to Iowa. It was never easy: the roads and traffic were fairly murderous on the way out until we reached western Illinois and the edge of the plains. Have you ever been to Farmer City? I remember sitting in the old VW bus there, in single-digit cold, waiting for the hardware store to open at 7:00 a.m. so I could buy a propane cylinder for the jerry-rigged open flame heater I hung from the dash. (Worked surprisingly well until my wife burned her raccoon coat…)

We used to know every rest area, gas station, motel, and McDonald’s in the darkest Midwest. There was a cafe just west of Peoria where they served pies piled high with meringue. We’d hit that place about the time the after-church crowd did, breeze in, chow down, and roar off feeling so cool and so special getting to leave Peoria. Every part of the trip was another adventure: the horror of Indianapolis, the last rest area in Illinois, crossing the Mississippi, that funny little restaurant in eastern Iowa. You wouldn’t believe all the things that went down, or maybe you would. I was always having too much fun in one way or another—quite the miracle I never had a wreck or got arrested.

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Island Light with Ducks

retreating mallards on the Rio Grande

Just outside of Orilla Verde (BLM), a hop and a skip from beautiful downtown Pilar

Mallards on the Rio Grande… What many wouldn’t realize is that this scene is down inside a canyon. Just a short way from here, the cliffs are 800 feet high! That means it’s sheltered from the wind and warmer just from being lower. The rocks hold and give off a little heat, the river adds humidity, and what we have is an ecologically unique more temperate zone along the river. A river at the bottom of a rift, where the tectonic plates are pulling apart.

We see lots of waterfowl there this time of year: Canada geese, buffleheads, mallards, and other ducks. Sometimes there are eagles, and I’ve seen a few herons. How can this not impress, in the middle of the terrible high desert?

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Colors of the Rio Grande

Colors of the Rio Grande post image

An icy backwater (not the main channel) of the Rio Grande, down in the canyon near Pilar

I shot this just before Christmas and just wanted to share. It’s one of our favorite places.

I also guess by now you’re wondering if every post will lead off with a big photo, and the answer is, I don’t know. They certainly don’t have to, but it’s so much fun. I can get away with short posts, too. There’s so much genius in this format for the likes of me, I don’t know where to start. Naked words on a big white page look more important. I feel strong. It makes me want to focus more and make stuff happen.

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New Mexico Sun

rabbit in the Taos snow

Two rabbits in a row ought to win me some kind of award, or maybe an injunction

The true secret of New Mexico is the sun. No need to tell this fellow (?) about it, obviously. The sunlight pouring down at 7,000 feet is strong and full in the clean dry air. You instantly understand those photos of skiers standing around in their shirt sleeves. The sun just changes everything. Winter is transformed.

There used to be a thing called S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder). Maybe it was real, or maybe it was one of those invented problems, an opportunistic naming of the obvious and universal. (You know, when it’s cloudy all the time, you tend to get depressed.) People love to do that, decide they have a real disease instead of going deep inside themselves and following the clues. Back in Maryland, I used to buy brighter light bulbs for the winter, and we’d leave more lights on than we needed. I wonder if it helped us more than it did the power company.

There’s something to that, though. Even here, with well over 10 months of sunshine every year, the Christmas lights we still have up make a major difference in my mood. If that’s the case, imagine how much psychic benefit all that actual sunlight brings! But it’s addictive, too. Living here has changed me. On those rare mornings when I wake up and don’t see the sun, I feel instantly disturbed. Something’s wrong! Where am I?! How do I go home?

“Home” being where the golden light is, surely.

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