I am wondering which of these two phrases would more aptly describe my third telemark ski class. This weekend, unlike the previous two, my class - three students and two teachers - headed to the back country, meaning that there were no chairlifts to whisk us to the top of the mountain. Beginning at an elevation of 10,800 feet, we had to hoof it up ourselves, on skis, carrying heavy backpacks filled with all the supplies we'd need. In mine I stowed nearly three liters of water, chocolate, cheese, a sliced apple and a sandwich, a down jacket, extra mittens and a hat, a first aid kit, and a mini-version of my wallet. To keep the skis from slipping we adhered skins to them - long strips of fuzzy fabric with very sticky glue on them and hooks on both ends.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense
Towards the end of 2008 I joined the Colorado Mountain Club and in mid-December received my welcome packet and some printed trip listings. One of them was for the Telemark Ski School, a series of classes over four weekends in January. Something inside me stirred and said, "Sign up". I read more of the fine print and it turns out that one was supposed to have taken a pre-qualifying ski trip in late November or early December. Those dates had long passed and the registration deadline for the school was looming. I called the school's director to find out if I might be able to enroll anyway. The number I dialed rang and rang and then went dead. I phoned the Mountain Club to ask them if I could sign up without speaking to the director - that was not an option, but they thought I could reach him by e-mail. After making contact, I asked the director what the qualifying trips were all about. Turns out they were to assess stamina rather than skiing ability. I have more of the former than of the latter. He also mentioned that the classes are at high altitude - 10,000-12,000 feet - a factoid which gave me pause. I told him a bit about myself and he said I could sign up.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Intense Itinerary
Travel brings out the maniac in me.
I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.
There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.
Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.
That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.
It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this
Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.
After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.
In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.
By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.
That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.
A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.
After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.
Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.
En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.
I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?
I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.
There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.
Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.
That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.
It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this
Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.
After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.
In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.
By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.
That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.
A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.
After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.
Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.
En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.
I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Intermittent
I am still marveling at the spectacle that was yesterday's weather in the Boston area. The day began gray and moist with a light drizzle. Then the precipitation stopped, yielding to brilliant sunshine and temperatures hovering close to 70. I had plans to visit a friend, indoors, and I was lamenting that I would not be spending much time outside. But by mid afternoon dark storm clouds had rolled in, bringing thunder and torrential rain came down. The rain continued but the sun came out. We looked for a rainbow but could not spot one. However, the naked trees outside had been transformed into diamond-studded divas as fat water droplets glittered on their branches in the sunlight. Driving home, the clouds returned, dropping monsoon-like quantities of water onto the highway. The grand finale came in the form of hail. Big balls of the icy stuff banged loudly on my windshield, as if they were desperately trying to get my attention.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Invierno
Winter is unmistakably here. Tiny snowflakes float gently but unrelentingly from the heavens, like a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar gone amok. These miniscule flakes are, one by one, creating spectacular drifts. I briefly opened my skylight to dislodge the accumulated snow only to have it be quickly recoated, enveloping me in a powdery blanket. My car is nearly completely covered with a fluffy quilt of snow.
It is only 8:20 a.m., on a Sunday, when most of the world is probably asleep, but I can hear the sounds of a neighbor's shovel stubbornly scraping against the pavement. The city's plows have already made several passes down my street, a main thoroughfare. Only 30 feet of unshoveled driveway stands between me and the clean road. Earlier this morning, while meditating, the sounds of my downstair's neighbors' snores percolated into my apartment. I will wait until they stir before attempting to shovel. And my shovel is in my car so I will have to bushwhack a trail to get to it. But I am not in a rush.
It is only 8:20 a.m., on a Sunday, when most of the world is probably asleep, but I can hear the sounds of a neighbor's shovel stubbornly scraping against the pavement. The city's plows have already made several passes down my street, a main thoroughfare. Only 30 feet of unshoveled driveway stands between me and the clean road. Earlier this morning, while meditating, the sounds of my downstair's neighbors' snores percolated into my apartment. I will wait until they stir before attempting to shovel. And my shovel is in my car so I will have to bushwhack a trail to get to it. But I am not in a rush.
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