Motorhome News from North America 40

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Motorhome News from North America 40 5th April - 12th April 2007
The Big Country! New Mexico, Colorado and Utah

With time ticking by, we have stepped up our advertising to sell Winnie, our home and motorhome. The UK website has disappointingly only produced one enquiry, that from a rather dubious character we would rather avoid. It’s now also advertised on two US websites though we don’t have a lot of faith in their efficacy, as the USA is a big place - and the person who wants to look at it could be 1,000 miles away! Our best bet seems to be the ‘For Sale’ signs now on the front, sides and rear of the motorhome and we are getting enquiries almost every day - though no sale yet!

Recent visits to scenic places of interest have reminded us just how close we are to our starting point fifteen months ago. Memories of Arizona and our earlier visit to Utah last year came flooding back: the Grand Canyon, Navajo National Monument, Bryce Canyon and Monument Valley, now little more than a hundred miles away as the raven flies. The cliff dwellings at Bandelier National Monument, our next stop in New Mexico, matched the jigsaw of cliff dwellings seen before, carved high above the river in the sheer walls of brown volcanic ash by ancient peoples. The caves stretch for many hundreds of metres along the wall, some extended with outbuildings away from the canyon edge and many reached only by simple ladders. One 30m stretch exposes a block of adjoining multi-storey hand-hewn caves much like the modern apartment blocks in many of today’s cities across the world. We’ve surely gone full circle! Evidence of stone houses also remains along the valley floor, inhabited between the 12th and 16th centuries, long before the coming of the Spanish. We are fascinated by the history of earlier inhabitants and the Native American Indians, the American heritage, perhaps in much the same way as American visitors to the UK would look in awe at Stonehenge.

There may be those amongst you who will remember PO Box No 1663 and the Manhattan Project. Hi-tech Los Alamos National Laboratory, once the highly secret establishment responsible for the development of the atom bomb, is now more dedicated to matters of defence we’re told. It is difficult to believe that work in this sleepy little town so influenced the outcome of WWII. They are still somewhat sensitive when it comes to matters of security. We were stopped at a barrier just out of town and Winnie was ‘searched’ for weapons of mass destruction. Todd was a major suspect.

Our route to Taos took us north on the high road past the snow-covered 13,000ft peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, following the crowds of pilgrims walking to the Sanctuary at Chimayo, some carrying crosses and figures of Christ, families with children, babes in strollers, single folk, elderly couples and groups of youngsters. It was Good Friday and we joined a long snake of traffic travelling at walking pace for the nine miles from the highway into town. We had passed other pilgrims walking beside the main road from Santa Fe - and doubtless beyond, the previous day. Santuario de Chimayo is apparently legendary for curing sicknesses with earth rubbed on the body. A few miles on, we stopped in the tiny town of Trampas to visit one of America’s oldest churches, San Jose de Gracia, dating back to the 18th century when the Spanish set out to convert the local Indians to Catholicism. The delightful adobe church bore the signs of sincere faith in its well-trodden wooden boards and log lined ceiling, ancient paintings of the twelve Stations of the Cross, a candle encircled figure of Mary in black robes in the aisle and the church's artefacts shrouded in purple cloths as is the custom on Good Fridays. There is clearly a strong commitment to the Catholic Church within the local communities, its long Hispanic roots firmly intertwined with Native Indian culture.

Taos was truly lovely. Perhaps it would be unfair to compare it with the busy commercialism of Santa Fe, the capital city of New Mexico just 70miles to the south; it has much the same culture, but we enjoyed the more relaxed and timeless hippie atmosphere, the eclectic selection of affordable shops in a lower key and its successful partnership with the local Native people. Many fine museums have blossomed within the bond of the Taos Museum Association, following the footprint of a long tradition of artistic collaboration, wealth and culture, which blends seamlessly into the classic grey, pink and brown New Mexican landscape. Millicent Rogers’ fabulous collection of Native American art: pueblo pottery, turquoise and silver jewellery and weaving held us spell-bound for hours, and Nicolai Fechin’s art (amongst others), and his exquisite carved furniture in the house he built, sent our hearts racing. Both names were new to us, the former a talented heiress who died in 1953 aged 50, the latter a master Russian artist, but the memories of both will linger on. It surprised us to learn that D H Lawrence had visited here several times, bringing his, (and his many friends) art forms into the pea soup of 40’s and 50’s artistic influence on the local Hispanic-Indian canvas. Just out of interest, Kit Carson also lived in the town in the mid-1800’s - when he wasn’t out there trapping, hunting, scouting and soldiering - and Julia Roberts lives here with her family right now.

It was a good way to spend a day that started with a sprinkling of snow in the early hours. The local soothsayer had predicted snow in Taos for the fourth Easter in succession, sent from the heavens to carpet the upper ski slopes for the final weekend of the season. Late in the afternoon fine rays of thin sunshine lit the treetops, illuminating the mud-brown adobe houses set like tiny boats on a sea of grey-green sagebrush, their flat roofs cowering under heavy grey cloud on the mountaintops. Beyond the grassy paddocks on the plains, the mountain foothills rose abruptly, black as thunder; draped in white, a flush of snow along the ridges. The balmy days of the past few weeks left us unprepared for the cold here at 7,000 ft. The shorts so accustomed to spring in Texas and New Mexico are now hiding in the cupboard, afraid to show themselves for fear of freezing.

No story of New Mexico would be complete without a mention of the people of the Taos Pueblo, a United Nations Heritage Site to the north of Taos. The pueblo way of life is maintained throughout the village, surviving without electricity or running water. Only about fifty members of the tribe now live in the pueblo, the remainder choosing to live elsewhere, on the reservation or integrated into the local community. Many of the homes now serve as craft shops and workshops for native artisans. One such artist held our attention. Flower Basket (Jeri Samora) makes attractive pottery, in her own style - when she’s not playing bingo or watching tennis on TV. “I would love to visit Wimbledon,” she said. “Have you seen the film?”
“No,” I responded, never having heard of it.
“I’ve been wanting to meet someone from England to ask a question,” Flower Basket continued. “Do you mind? The umpire in the film makes an unpopular decision and the player marches to the net and shouts at him -‘That’s bollicks’. The crowd then begins to chant, ‘Bollicks! Bollicks! Bollicks!’ Can you tell me, what is bollicks?”
Being of stout English stock, I told her in the most polite of terms. I don’t think she’ll ask anyone else, but I’ll bet her bingo friends will hear of our meeting!


Following lessons learned on our successful raid on golf courses when the Masters was played last year, we sneaked into Taos Golf Club for a drink or two at the bar and a front seat to watch the final moments on TV - and Justin Rose’s dramatic attempt to take the green jacket for England and St George! He’s done well that lad and he’s still a young man. It was the first time we had watched TV for more than a month - and that to check the weather channel.

The time had come for a planning meeting. There is nothing so insecure as a journey without an objective -it’s a bit like a headless chicken at a barn dance. Rather than hide our precious Winnie in the campground, we chose to discuss our route on the car park at WalMart, to once again expose Winnie to the risk of being sold while we worked. An hour later the itinerary was fully outlined and one more enquiry satisfied. “Too much for me. I’m still making payments on my truck,” the guy told us. The 'For Sale' signs seem to work!
And so, we decided. Today, the Enchanted Circle, over the mountains north of Taos and back, an eighty-mile tour. Tomorrow, golf where we watched the Masters. From there we’ll move north into Colorado, into the mountains to the Great Sand Dunes, Monte Vista, Black Canyon, Mesa Verde, Canyonlands and Arches National Parks in Utah, then back into Colorado and Dinosaur National Monument. That will do for now!

By 10am we were on the road, out across the open grassland, sparse and white now, released from winter’s coat of snow, straining for the sunlight, up over the 9000ft pass to the ski resort of Angel Fire. A golden eagle soared overhead as we drove into town and bluebirds gathered in small raiding parties seeking autumn’s leftover seeds. A mile to the north, a Memorial to Vietnam Veterans stands like a giant sail on a windy hillside overlooking the valley. The sad loss of 58,000 young men and women in that pointless war is poignantly represented there in film and verse. I have no reason to be saddened by their loss - this is not my loss after all, but I left feeling as though it were my own.

We stopped further on in Red River looking for lunch. It’s another one of those long wide-open townships that empties when the last snow melts on the slopes and turns to rippling streams. Restaurants and hotels bore the same old sign, ‘Closed for the season’. They were all off south looking for the sun until Memorial Day. A truck stopped beside us as we walked and a guy in a check lumber jacket leant out of the open window. “Are you the people selling the Winnebago?” It was too much money for Jim. He was looking for something a lot cheaper - complete with all the problems that go with old age. I know all about that. Things don’t always work like they used to. The lady proprietor of the Mountain Treasures Restaurant found time to chat between customers. She told us that 30,000 Harley Davidson bikers arrive each Memorial Day, the last Monday in May, to promenade their sparkling, shining, roaring machines up and down the broad main street. Can you imagine; 30,000 grey-haired, pony-tailed, leather-jacketed, silver-studded, ear-ringed, smiling, proud, lovely characters lining the sidewalks from one end to the other in this otherwise sleepy ski-town? Fetch me my leathers woman, and be quick about it! Vroom….. I’m off!

We never did complete the Enchanted Circle. Somewhere, just before Questa, Janice threw in the spanner and we headed off north, out across the grey sagebrush plains towards Colorado! It made sense really, and saved the best part of a hundred miles of driving overall - we were heading that way anyway in a day or two. We can play golf somewhere else, some other day.
Our brief stay in friendly New Mexico had taught us much. The State is truly enigmatic, moving at a sedate pace all of its own. It demonstrates a model of multicultural integration we have not encountered before anywhere in the US and it is truly Rockefeller rich in both its dedication to art and its spectacular diverse scenery.

Our entry into Colorado greeted us with an awe inspiring spectacle of sunlit-white mountains spread thirty miles before us across the open sagebrush plains below huge, huge blue skies crowded with cumulus cloud billowing with energy, rising ever upwards into the heavens.

The grand plan had not included a diversion to the Great Sand Dunes National Park; we have, after all, seen all the sand dunes we want to see, haven’t we? But the campsite we found at Blanca was not to our liking and we hedged our bets, forging onwards, hoping to find the campsite at Great Sand Dunes National Park open that early in the season. As you might have guessed, it being a National park, these were no ordinary sand dunes, though we didn’t know it at the time. They rose ever higher on the horizon as we approached, great swathes of mud-coloured sand standing 700ft above the plains, in all some 330 square miles of desert sand deposited by the wind at the foot of the mountains. Colorado holds many such awesome secrets we’re told and hopefully we’ll get to see many of them. The camp was indeed open, and offered the most spectacular vistas. Where, oh where, in the world would you find a hotel up in the mountains at 8,200ft, (that’s 3,600ft higher than Ben Nevis to put it into perspective) with such stunning views - for the princely sum of $14 a night? That’s the delight of flexibility and motorhoming. We might have missed that little gem! There were only two others in the campsite that night and we discovered why the following morning. We woke to an inch of snow! That, we consider lucky, believe it or not. The memorable scene sprang from a Christmas card: a thrilling picture of pine trees and sagebrush sprinkled with snow spreading to the foot of the mountains lost in the morning mist - and the dunes shone in great folds of white icy lace awaiting the coming of a caravan of Christmas camels and Three Kings bearing gifts!

The Rio Grande has followed our long journey uphill for 1,685miles from the Gulf of Mexico and we were fast approaching its source in the San Juan Mountains at the foot of the Rockies. Our road from the dunes crossed the vast valley floor; a 70 by 120 mile fertile plain with huge circular fields irrigated by wheeled sprayers where wheat, root crops and potatoes flourish in the short growing season. There were mountains ahead to be climbed and prudence prompted us to call in at the Chamber of Commerce in Monte Vista to get their recommendation on the mountain route to Gunnison, a hundred miles to the northeast. Grateful for someone to talk to, she gave it her best shot. “The Spring Creek Pass (our planned direction) is incredibly beautiful in summer,” she said, “but unless you’re going on horseback, I’d take the 285 north to Saguache and then west over the 10,150ft North Pass.” We took her experienced advice, left the horse tied to the rail and drove the gun-barrel straight road north for 35 miles into a stiff headwind and sunny skies, snow-capped mountains ever on the horizon. It was not until we reached the campground at Gunnison (the only one open this early in the year) that we learned the Spring Creek Pass had been closed around midday through heavy snowfall. Lady luck rides shotgun with us once again!

But then our luck ran out. The temperature dropped to 21F (-6C) in the night and dazzling snow lay lightly around us by sunrise at 6.30am. A quick wi-fi check on the weather forecast severe snowstorms within the next 24 hours which would leave us stranded between mountain passes in every direction. Our best option seemed to be to head hotfoot west into Utah, but having come all that way, we were not going to miss the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Sunshine quickly dispersed the snow from the roads giving us an early start into aspen lined hills and wide-open mountain vistas to Black Canyon. The green Gunnison River roars fiercely through the precipitous-sided canyon more than 2,000ft below the rim, weaving its way through narrow channels and rocky waterfalls as it has for millions of years. Geologists suggest erosion continues to deepen the granite canyon by one inch every century, making our short stay on this earth little more than a pinhead in a map of the world. It was good to be heading back to the west, where such dramatic scenery lightens the heart, quickens the pace and broadens the smile. We were beginning to fall for Colorado - and there was no sign of the storm as yet.

Like all our best laid plans, we didn’t get to Utah that day; tempting stormy fate by stopping off at Colorado National Monument, seen on the horizon from afar, a high mesa, a flat topped ridge of red sandstone rising above the plains like Cape Town’s Table Mountain. The oohs! and aahs! continued non-stop until sundown, mixed with occasional shouts of horror from Janice seated in the passenger seat. The driver misses most of the fun, concentrating on the minor task of cornering our 24ft dream machine on tortuous roads. The road traverses the rim of the canyon, writhing like a serpent, with no barriers, two thousand horrifying vertical feet above the valley floor and the sprawling town of Grand Junction - on the passenger side! I know a few people who would much prefer to die than drive that road! Will the thrill of our adventure never end?

Not yet awhile, at least. Hopefully we’ll be far enough north here to miss the storm - and it won’t alter course to meet us. Our dash for freedom will now take us into Utah and back to Colorado in an anticlockwise direction, offering us new daily challenges and delights at Arches, Canyon Lands and Monte Verde, passing within a jackrabbit’s leap of this very spot once again in a week or two. We’ll be watching the weather, waiting for the storm to pass us by and keeping an eye out for buyers for our motorhome.

There’s another weather front showing on the radar now, to the north - and tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth!


Chuck and Emilou. The grey-haired-nomads

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Photos

Bandelier National Monument
Janice visiting the cliff dwellings

Bandelier
The Kiva, a ceremonial meeting place - a long haul up three flights of ladders!

Trampas
The lovely church of San Jose de Gracia

Taos Pueblo
A small selection of local crafts

Taos Pueblo
Flower Basket with some of her pots

Angel Fire
The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial

Red River
Winnie 'on the road'

The Great Sand Dunes
Winnie in the snow - the following morning

Black Canyon
From on high!