by Sue Henry
If you are outside alone in an unfamiliar place, the moan of a sharp wind sweeping in with bad weather on its back can be disquieting, even haunting. It seems somehow to hold something unfriendly and ominous that encourages seeking whatever shelter is available and leaving it to complain in solitude across wide-open spaces. When you had expected balmier conditions in late May and hoped to enjoy the area in sunshine to counteract a lingering sense of anger and disappointment over events of the previous weeks, the gathering signs of an approaching storm are even less welcome.
The clouds continued to roll in from the southwest. Lightning flashed in the distance, thunder growled, and the wind was now a constant ululation. I was thankful to crest the last dune, plunge down it to cross the creek, put my shoes back on, and hurry south on a more direct gravel road, ignoring the hiking trail. By the time I reached the campground I could see people scurrying about to collect or fasten down any loose items around their tents, campers, and motor homes that the impudent wind could snatch and gleefully carry off. The first fat drops splashed down around me as I passed the nearest tent. They rapidly increased to a wind-whipped downpour and in seconds both Stretch and I were soaked to dripping.
Reaching the motor home at a trot, I fumbled my keys from a pocket, unlocked the door to the coach, and clambered inside, in one motion setting Stretch down and reaching for a hand towel from the galley to stanch the water streaming from my face and hair. He hesitated only momentarily, then shook vigorously to rid himself of rain and sand—adding to what I had carried in—and padded off to take a long drink from his water bowl.
It was dark enough to switch on a light as I shed my wet clothing and finished toweling myself off before donning a dry pair of sweatpants and a favorite yellow sweater so well worn that its cotton fabric felt soft and soothing. Filling a cup with water and adding a teabag, I set the microwave for a couple minutes and left it to do its thing while I brushed the sand out of my hair and fastened it into the twist that I clip high on the back of my head to keep it off my neck. Adding milk and sugar to the tea, I settled comfortably at the dinette table to sip it while I listened—a bit smugly, I admit—to the wind’s vexation at our escape. I could feel the motor home shudder as it was buffeted with rhythmic gusts and hear the fingers of rain tapping disapproval on the roof overhead.
Weary Stretch curled up in his under-the-table basket and went to sleep.
I considered taking a nap myself, but knew I had too much on my mind and would just toss and turn on my bed in the back of the bus until I had come to some kind of decision concerning the threats I had run away from in Taos the day before.
The unconscious gist of that thought stopped me. Interesting choice of words—run away from. And run away seemed exactly what I had done, resulting in the guilt with which I was now contending.
There are times when I really miss my late second husband, Daniel. Solving problems is easier when you have someone to share them. He was always a good listener and sometimes had helpful advice—or at least could get closer to the crux of whatever I was mentally flailing over. When, and if, I’m wise, I try to stop and consider what he would say about whatever is bothering me, which is what I did then.
Aha—guilt! whispered his voice in my mind in familiar Aussie-speak. Well, you can’t cop it sweet all the time, can you, old girl?
At sixty-three, I have married and buried two husbands—fine men both: Joe Flanagan, my high school sweetheart, an Alaskan fisherman who drowned when his boat sank in a storm, and Australian expatriate Daniel McNabb, with whom I enjoyed six fine years and who was now, not for the first time, ready to add his two cents’ worth to the dilemma at hand. That was all right with me, as I still solicit and enjoy his good company on a pretty regular basis. He had a great sense of humor and the ability to take life lightly—and just then I knew he was right.
Sometimes it takes me a while to work things through for myself, but I knew that it was guilt tinged with remorse that I was somewhat crossly feeling, though I couldn’t decide exactly what good identifying that did, or what should be done about it. No, that isn’t quite right, for upon consideration I knew that I had spent a whole day and a half resisting the idea that I probably shouldn’t have left Taos at all, particularly when I did—that I should stop being a coward, turn around, go back, and try to do the right thing, answer questions to which I now had possible answers.
Your conscience is getting in your way again, I told myself, knowing Daniel would have agreed.
But was it? Or was I obstinately getting in its way? Whichever. It was pretty obvious that I was neither satisfied nor happy with the way things had, or had not, turned out in New Mexico. Nor was I really ready to leave them the way they were, was I?
Busybody?
Okay—so?
So you go back!
I do?
There was a long semi-stubborn pause in my thinking.
With a sigh I gave in—suddenly, unexpectedly, feeling relieved.
With a decision seemingly made, I knew it would be ridiculous to set out immediately, in a storm at the end of the day. We should stay where we were for the night as planned. Then first thing in the morning, hopefully with better weather, we could head back down the road to New Mexico. With that determined I reached for a map to find a shorter route for the return trip.
I had had no specific destination in mind when I had wheeled the Winnebago out of Taos the day before in the obscuring early-morning darkness. North, I had told myself—with Colorado Springs and Denver on my half-planned route. It’ll be cooler somewhere north in June than here anyway.
Taking the closest highway out of town from the RV park where I had been for several days, I had first driven east on a winding road through the hills and valleys of the Sangre de Cristos, pulling over once to watch the road for half an hour before going on, but no one had followed. The road took me to Cimarron, where I stopped, had breakfast, and decided to spend the day, still watching the road for a black pickup truck but seeing none. It was a small, colorful community that interested me with its early Wild West connections. I like knowing things about the places I travel, and I’d learned that the ruts of hundreds of pioneer settlers’ wagons passing along this last leg of the historic Santa Fe Trail were, supposedly, still to be seen. Sure enough, when I arrived, there they were.
Sleepily peaceful Cimarron, I found, had once been a luridly lawless place where the likes of Kit Carson, Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill Cody, Jesse James—and Bob Ford, the man who killed him—Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, and Doc Holliday were known to have stayed in its famous St. James Hotel, a short way south of town. Their presence had given rise to the establishment’s violent history, demonstrated by twenty-two bullet holes that could still be seen in the tin ceiling of what had been its saloon, but which I found, upon going inside for a look, was now the dining room. Having read that the place was reputed to be haunted, I wandered around, appreciating its antique decor and original furniture, stayed for dinner, and, tempted beyond endurance, decided to abandon my motor home for one night and check in with Stretch.
Numerous guests have evidently experienced ghostly happenings of one kind or another through the years. But though I settled comfortably in an old-fashioned bed to read Fighting Caravans—the novel Zane Grey penned while staying at the St. James—and waited patiently, I drifted off, so both Stretch and I spent a fine night, undisturbed by anything paranormal. Leaving the next morning, however, I did experience an oddly intense sensation of cold in the hallway opposite room number 18. When I mentioned it to the manager, I was told that room 18 was considered the most haunted in the hotel and no one was allowed inside, for it had long been occupied by an angry, malevolent presence, perhaps the gambler who in 1881 supposedly bled to death there of a gunshot wound after winning a high-stakes card game down the hall.
Back in the Winnebago—hoping that some restless spirit had not moved in during the night—I left Cimarron and headed for the Colorado border, following the route of the
old trail and picking up Interstate Highway 25 a few miles before passing through Raton and leaving New Mexico. Some eighty miles later, on a whim, I turned west in Walsenburg on U.S. Route 160, telling myself that I had always wanted to see the Great Sand Dunes National Monument and might as well, being this close. But, as I drove for the next hour, I found myself briefly wondering if that was the only reason for not going directly north to Colorado Springs, where I had thought earlier that I might spend the night.
Now, as I examined the map, I saw that by taking this western side trip I had all but completed three-quarters of a rough circle and was now almost directly north of Taos, where a short two hours on another road could take me back to where I had started.
So that was that—decision validated. And thank you, Daniel, very much, I thought.
I fed Stretch, who woke up rested and sassy, making me wish I recovered so quickly, made myself comfort food for dinner—a toasted cheese sandwich, which I ate with a bowl of tomato soup as I listened to the wind still wailing in frustration outside.
When the galley was clean and I had double-checked the mileage of my route for the next day, I went to bed intending to continue reading Zane Grey’s book about the early freighters and their wagons on the famous overland trails west. In less than a dozen pages I was nodding off over it again, so I switched off the light, curled up under my down comforter, and allowed my thoughts to return to the events in Taos that had caused such disquiet to my psyche.
“No more avoidance, Daniel,” I muttered sleepily.
Excellent! Knew you weren’t a ningnong. You can nick off early in the morning. Goodnight, love.
THREE
AS IF THE STORM HAD NEVER EXISTED AT ALL, THE following morning dawned calm and sunny, the wind having evidently whistled off with the rain to harass someone else, leaving us a calling card in the form of a small dune-shaped pile of sand on the doorstep. By nine o’clock we were on our way, heading for Highway 160, which we would take back eleven miles to Fort Garland. There I could turn south on State Route 159, which would lead me directly into Taos before noon.
Driving with the cab windows half open allowed in the clean after-rain scent of drying sagebrush, and there were yellow flowers in the rabbitbrush along the road, which pleased me. In my own house and car, even in the dead of Alaskan winters, I always have at least one window open a bit to let in fresh air. I have never been able to understand how people can live without ever opening a window, seeming determined to run their air conditioners constantly. Being sealed into limited spaces makes me semi-claustrophobic and is part of why I dislike airplanes, with their recycled air full of germs, and hotels with windows that will not open so much as an inch. It feels possible that one might breathe all the oxygen out of the air.
Stretch, an inveterate traveler, had allowed himself to be lifted into the Winnebago and deposited in his padded basket that hangs from the back of the passenger seat. It raises him up for a comfortable view of the scenery, which he loves, and he was riding, as usual, with his front feet on the edge and paying close attention to whatever we passed. I had a thermal mug of what was left of the breakfast coffee in the beverage holder within easy reach and was feeling more my positive self again. As I drove, however, I couldn’t help trying to once again evaluate the situation into which I was heading, by choice this time, and recalling that I had had little choice in what I had experienced during the last few days in Taos.
Late the previous September I had left Grand Junction, Colorado, having buried my oldest and best friend, Sarah, and resolved the mystery of her premature death. It had been a sad time for me, so I decided to do what usually raises my spirits—travel and visit some new places.
For a couple of weeks Stretch and I toured parts of Four Corners country, the only point in the United States where four states—southeastern Utah, southwestern Colorado, northeastern Arizona, and northwestern New Mexico—meet. Those few days of wandering canyons and deserts did as prescribed, and I was in a better frame of mind as I headed south to the Phoenix area, where I found a comfortable and quiet RV park just north of the city in which to settle for the winter months.
Winter months in Arizona, however, are not the least bit like they are in Alaska, where I have lived most of my life and am acclimated to winter weather and pleasantly cool summers. So the last week in April, when the temperature in Phoenix began to show a significant rise, I decided that any place where people felt it necessary to put cooling units in their swimming pools was soon going to be too warm for my comfort and it was time to head away from the approaching heat.
Pulling up stakes, Stretch and I took our time rambling east through Gallup, Albuquerque, and on to Santa Fe. Not a fan of large cities and traffic congestion, after a couple of days of playing tourist there, I fled happily north on the High Road to Taos, which follows the original historic trail.
Late on a sunny afternoon in early May, I rolled into town, keeping a sharp eye out for the RV park where I had a reservation. I missed it the first time through and traveled all the way from one end to the other of the main street, Paseo del Pueblo—both Sur and Norte. Halfway along, the obviously newer and wider double-lane Sur part of the street narrowed sharply and went up a small hill, creating a traffic jam where the older part of town began and continued for several blocks. Somewhere there it changed to the Norte part and, catching a glimpse of a street sign, I knew I had gone too far and paid too much attention to the casually dressed people on the street who were drifting in and out of a number of interesting-looking shops, galleries, and restaurants. Near the north end of town, spotting a BEST WESTERN sign, I pulled my thirty-foot motor home into the parking lot to ask directions, but sat for a minute appreciating the look and colors of the Kachina Lodge, a classic sort of motel built around a broad parklike area with a lawn and tall evergreen trees.
Much of the architecture of the Southwest features a traditional beautiful brown adobe. In any rainy place—Seattle, for instance—this would quickly melt down to a large puddle of mud. But in country with little rain the adobe not only works well but also attractively blends into the high-desert landscape, though I suspected that much of the modern building material was more substantial than the original adobe bricks had been. The motel lodge was no exception, its tan adobe accented with wood trim painted a lovely color of medium blue that recalled the purple-blue evening shadows of the desert country.
Leaving Stretch in the rig, I went in and found a helpful woman at the reservation counter who marked the directions I needed on a city map for me. Through windows in the back wall I noticed a few people relaxing around a swimming pool. Beyond it I could see, centered among the trees and grass of the park area, a wide sand-filled circle with a low wall and fire pit that my helpful friend told me was used nightly from May to October for Indian dancing.
“Come back some evening to see it,” she encouraged, when I told her I planned to stay for at least a couple of weeks. “Our local dancers are very good and have wonderful costumes for their traditional dances.”
In a large square around the park, with plenty of parking space, were motellike lines of individual rooms of the same adobe and blue as the main building, with covered walkways that provided shade for each section. The whole place was so appealing that I almost wished I were checking in.
“I’ll certainly come back for the dancing,” I told her, with thanks for the invitation. But my objective of the moment was to get myself and Stretch settled, which meant finding a space to park and hook up the Winnebago in the Taos Valley RV Park, then arranging for a rental car. This is my usual practice, making it easier to get around when I spend more than a day or two in any one place in my travels. Having come the length of Taos, I could tell that, spread out as it was with both older and newer sections, a rental car would be more an essential than a luxury. Walking long distances in more heat than I am used to is not, for obvious reasons that include my senior status, my cup of tea.
On my way back along Paseo del Pueblo
Norte, halfway between the Kachina Lodge and where the street narrowed, I passed a small strip mall and spotted a shop and gallery that I had on my list to visit: Weaving Southwest. Mentally marking its location, I drove two and a half miles beyond the older part of town and, following directions, easily found the Taos Valley RV Park, just a little east of the main street. I was greeted by the manager, who directed me to a space under a tree that would provide some afternoon shade for my rig.
“I thought an Alaskan might appreciate one of our cooler spaces,” she told me with a smile, marking it for me on the park map that she handed me along with a receipt and a campground pass with my site number and departure date to hang on the rearview mirror. “Though it really doesn’t get as warm here in the north, next to the mountains, as it does in other parts of New Mexico.”
Shade on the roof of my motor home during the warmest part of the day makes a difference in how much I find it necessary to run the air conditioner. It was a rather open park, and not every space had shade trees, so I felt grateful for her consideration as I drove to locate my space under a large one. By the time I had parked, hooked up my electricity, water, and sewer connections, retrieved items that I had put away for the day’s drive because they might break or rattle, and taken Stretch for a quick walk, a local dealer had showed up to deliver, for a small fee, the compact rental car, and I was ready to visit a grocery I had noted a few blocks away. On the way there I swung into the nearby Taos Visitor Center and spent a few minutes collecting some pamphlets, a detailed local map, and a phone book. After dinner that evening I settled at the dinette table with this collection and a tall glass of iced tea to acquaint myself with Taos, at least on paper. The next day would be time enough to begin the adventure in person.
