Occupation of Independence

It didn't rain on the parade, yesterday, the Fourth of July. The hard rain held off until afternoon. When I got back to my trailer in the national forest I was astonished to see that it had literally snowed on the Fourth of July, in New Mexico. (Of course, the campsite was at 10400 feet.) Only a trace remained, but two hours earlier it might have been impressive. But the snow inspired us to do what we had been thinking about: walking from town proper up to the top of the ski mountain, and then riding the ski lift down. I was sure that my little poodle had never ridden a ski lift, and I couldn't even remember if I had. We stopped at the bottom to buy our ticket. Not only was there no charge for the dog, but there was no charge for me either, as long as I walked up and rode down . No chubby, motorized tourist would even consider that option; they did it the other way around.   It was a nice walk up to the top. I've never deliberately sought out ski areas in the

Overdue for a vigorous hike I chose to hike up a cell tower mountain that overlooks Red River, NM. Cell tower mountains almost guarantee you a short steep hike, with a commanding view on top. They are under-rated as hiking opportunities. The hike started in an area logged ten years ago, so there were plenty of stumps to look at, but also lush grass, flowers, and a new generation of trees. I just appreciated the open views while they lasted. Soon we were bushwhacking through a typical forest—opaque and gloomy. Plenty of strawberry vines grew there, but no berries. But the walking was still fairly easy since we walked a ridge line, where trees are less thick. We enjoyed the views at the top, and then put it in reverse. Things went 'downhill' on the way back down, in more ways than one. The GPS stopped working. Apparently it had just barely worked on the way up, but on the descent we had left the ridgeline, so the forest became too thick. What a ridiculous Catch-22: the

Before this trip I saw New Mexico as the least interesting of the Four-Corner States. Perhaps this still seems true with natural scenery. But the last couple months have convinced me that New Mexico has a more interesting culture than the other three, with its Spanish and pueblo Indian heritage, funky old buildings, artsies, etc. In New Mexico you have a better chance of feeling you're outside the USA than in the other three states. Where could you find fine old wrecks, adobe buildings with corrugated metal roofs, like in New Mexico? Certainly not in Utah, where everything is squeaky clean and modern. Arizona is just California. Colorado is full of transplanted midwesterners and Texans. That's fine, but it's boring.  On my way from Santa Fe to Taos recently, I went through small villages like Chimayo and Trunchas that reminded me of Mexico, without the hassle of a border crossing. At first you notice the poverty. Then you notice much more, because you can— the stree

Taos/Red River, NM: Yesterday I was struggling with the annual RVer problem of where to camp on the Fourth of July. No solution came to mind, so I tried to solve the problem the way a full time RVer should: I tried to drive away from the problem. I made it all of twenty miles north of Taos when I started lusting for land that was pinched between the Sangre de Cristo mountains and the Rio Grande gorge. Unaccustomed as I am to dropping into coffee shops, I did so in Questa because it advertised wireless internet. The bucolic barista said that she was shutting down, and recommended Red River, the little ski town/tourist trap of the Enchanted Circle drive. I don't spend much time in tourist traps, but Red River is the highest town in New Mexico. With a heat wave coming, that sounded pretty good. What fun it is to improvise at the dashboard--to head off with no hard and fast goal in mind, and work things out as you go. But was I really foolish enough to go to a tourist trap

Taos, NM. The other day I remarked how odd it is that I never see other mountain bikers on dirt roads in public lands. Years ago, this would have been a complaint, but now I pretty much accept it. No sooner had I written this than four mountain bikers appeared in as many days. But I did appreciate running into someone who appreciates my point: Henry David Thoreau, in  Walking. What he says about walking could apply to mountain biking or travel in general. Here are a few excerpts: “ I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understand the art of walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius for sauntering... ...but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all day may be the greatest vagrant of all. We should go forth on the shortest walk in the spirit of undying adventure. We have felt that we almost alone hereabouts practiced this noble art...” The modern image of Thoreau is that of a

The artsie towns between Santa Fe and Taos are quiet interesting. I say that even though I have no real appreciation for art of that type. But I like the decayed, funky, impoverished towns. Many houses had adobe walls and corrugated, galvanized roofs. My camera is a sucker for every one of these wrecks.   I drove the back way into Taos, through more funky towns. It was a high altitude route, through the Picuris Mountains. We had just started our descent to Taos when I got closer to a bear than at any time in my life. Glad I was in the van. How could such a large and fat animal  scramble up a steep, high embankment with such agility and speed? At the top of the embankment there was a barbed wire fence that he somehow got through with no difficulty.  By now I had stopped my RV and was looking up at him, no more than 100 feet away. He looked right at me for about four seconds, and then ran off.

We've left for a new mesa halfway between Santa Fe and and Taos. The land is excellent, spacious, breezy, and at 8100 feet, but the Verizon coverage is giving me fits. Our bike ride took us up to 9500 feet, where we turned around at a grassy knoll. I could see all the way back to the Rio Grande. Just before we left our Pecos/Santa Fe mesa I had the characteristic anxiety that precedes leaving a well-loved camp site of two weeks duration.  Do other RVers experience this? Even stranger is the tendency to be sentimental about leaving a good old campsite. I felt nothing but relief when I sold off and moved out of the only house I'll ever own. Then my RVing career began, and I was quite choked up about leaving my first campsite, as crazy as that sounds. Nearby there are a couple well-publicized trailheads for the Pecos Wilderness. Capital 'W', you know. They had a combined clientèle of one parked automobile, on a summer weekend. Perhaps so few people hike ther

Pecos Pueblo, near Pecos, NM.  A traveler in the Four Corner states has to visit a few pueblo Indian ruins, which usually come with a fine old Spanish church. I've visited a couple pueblos located far enough east to have traded with and fought with less settled tribes from the high plains to the east, like the Apaches. Imagine what it was to be a Plains Indian seeing a five-story pueblo building for the first time. It must have been similar to a pony-mounted Mongolian, in Genghis's era, riding east until he got his first look at a Chinese city. But what did the more settled and civilized Puebloans think of the Plains Indians? As a Plains Indian rode east, away from the Pueblo, perhaps some of the Puebloans looked at him wistfully and thought, Ahh, there goes a real man, living in harmony with nature. The best part of visiting the Pecos pueblo was the chance to crawl down into a restored kiva. It's surprising that the Park Service trusts the public that muc

The other day I followed up on a tip from an RVing friend about the state park and ski area northeast of Santa Fe. It's high and cool, and popular with campers and tourists. Since I normally practice dispersed-area-camping on public lands, it's been years since I set foot in a state park or a national forest campground or any place that is popular with the masses. It was perhaps a slightly perverse curiosity that drew me thither. Boondocking RVers tend to display behavior that normal campers could live without. We tend to be condescending to the hooked-up crowd. And we proselytize. I'd like to surprise the reader by doing neither.   It was amusing to walk into these campgrounds; they seemed so exotic! For me, they are over-priced and noisy. In fairness, they do 'add value' to weekend campers. It wouldn't make sense for them to buy all the equipment needed to make an RV self-contained. A worker swept the asphalt campsites with a broom. Those sites wer

East of Santa Fe, 7500--10,200 feet. Today's adventure was to see how close we could get to the top of Glorieta Baldy Mountain.  A mountain bike ride starts off well when the forest service road is smooth, packed dirt, and you are surrounded by thinned ponderosa pines. Better yet, the road followed a ridge so we gained our altitude with little waste. Finally our luck ran out as the road got steeper and rougher. It isn't just altitude and gravity that kills a rider off--it's the road texture. I groaned when the ponderosa pines yielded to spruce and birch, and then to sub-alpine fir. The blackness and bugginess of dense forests is depressing. Still, it's fun to watch for transitions as a sign of your progress. The humidity and cloud cover were gloriously moderate; and the road was shaded. Were we getting anywhere near the top? I couldn't see anything of course. And yet there was the overarching reassurance of being on a ridge. There is beauty unique to si

It is only fair that a Westerner should admit that his forests are deadly dull compared to back East. The West has other advantages; a good sport must lose on something. But at least we have ponderosa forests. Every hiker probably appreciates them: the semi-openness, most of all. (Most western forests are horribly mismanaged bark-and-needle thickets.) A mountain biker probably likes ponderosa forests even more. Because the ponderosas grow separately, enough sunlight hits the forest floor to keep it dry and warm; lots of grass grows between the ponderosas. Presumably that's the origin of rich brown soil in these forests, even when lava is close to the surface, such as on the Mogollon Rim in northern Arizona. Ahh, rich brown soil; smooth and hard-packed. I flew along on a single track trail today and felt like a kid. At times the bike launched into the air, after cresting a mogul. After this giddiness, at the end of the ride, I biked through an area with many yellow flowers . Noth