Hidalgo perked up and exclaimed, “That sounds interesting, tell me more.”
“Well for example, the carved foot holes at the swimming hole, they look like Indians made them in order to get down the shear wall.” He looked at Hidalgo and seriously said, “Someone took the time to carve them a long time ago and there are other places where an obvious route has been established.”
Hidalgo looked at Corey and Penny and said, “You know, that could make an interesting research project; ‘Ancient trade routes by Native Americans along the Canadian River’.”
Richard picked up the conversation, “So after a week of camp activities and what we thought was training, we were assigned to some pack animals that we dragged down the canyon. Thank heavens they carried most of our food and gear because our hike turned out to be much farther than fifty miles.”
“We were each allowed one candy bar per day. One day, another young man and I realized that we were dragging the mule with all the goodies packed on it. My friend wanted to get into the box with the load of candy bars.”
“They won’t miss just one or two,” he kept saying. “Yeah, but I’ll have to live with it, I thought to myself. I didn’t slip into the candy box. I’ve been glad for that all my life.”
“One of my first experiences with rattlesnakes occurred on that fifty-mile hike. We had been hiking along, leading our pack mules, when in the middle of the afternoon we decided to pull over and rest in a grove of mature cottonwoods growing next to Russian olive, quicksand, and the physical remains of the world’s most ennoble creature, the cow. Naturally, we did what all bored young teen-agers do; we got into a fight and not just your normal, everyday fight. The choice of ammunition was obvious: cow plops otherwise known as cow patties or cowslips. Dried plops, wet plops; it didn’t really matter since we would all wind up in the river afterwards.”
“The fight was on. First, just a couple of dry tosses, then like all wars, escalating into an all our frenzy of aggression until all ammunition was exhausted, a real neat way of rearranging the Bosque, and getting the trail nicely cleaned up. The scuffle lasted maybe ten minutes or so until the bullies had cleaned up on the smaller scouts. By this time I was pretty tired of war games, cow plop style, so I went over to the spreading roots of a cottonwood tree to relax until Smitty would bark for us to go.”
“Dodging cow plops is not exactly what every mother wants her child to do when away on an outing. Ka Plop! I always hated the really fresh ones. They stick to you rather than careening off. By this time everyone had noticed that I had given up and had wondered off by myself. They could see that I was in deep thought, wanting to be left alone. So, naturally they came after me, with discus sized projectiles in hand. After all, if it had been someone else, I certainly would have been one of the culprits.”
“Spat, got me good all right, time to get even! It’s time for the sweet taste of revenge, time to reach for my own anti-ballistic cow plop. I could see the circular shape of the cow plop next to my knee in my peripheral vision; however it was the attackers that I had to watch. Those cow plops can really hurt if you are hit in just the right spot. Especially by those cow plops that are half cured out, soft, wet, and heavy on the inside and hard as a rock on the outside. That’s when I finally noticed that the cow plop I was reaching for wasn’t a cow plop at all, but rather a tightly coiled, sunning rattlesnake.”
“I’ve always known that most snakes have a built in survival technique. When your see a snake traveling in its classical undulating motion, what you see isn’t necessarily what’s there. The stripes and markings on your typical snake are there for far more than just decoration. They form an optical illusion. Just try to pick one up while it’s trying to crawl away. Reach for the tail, and what you get is dirt. Reach for the head, and you actually grab six inches behind the head, perfect position for the creature to turn around and sink its fangs into your wrist. Trust me; it takes practice to pick up a rattlesnake.”
“Just because one is being bombarded by cow plops doesn’t mean you want to get in a hurry, particularly when there is an angry rattlesnake just inches from your personal parts. I froze. We just sort of stared at each other. I began thinking to myself all those funny little things that one considers when you are under stress and really don’t have time to think about anything but survival. What if the snake is hit by an errant cow plop toss? No time to ask myself dumb questions. I backed my hand away a micrometer at a time. An eternity and several cow plops passed by. Finally the other boys realized that something was wrong. I wasn’t fighting back. Even worse, I was ignoring them, which made them focus their efforts on me.”
“Determined to get my attention, Taylor, one of my best friends, picked up a huge cow plop and held it up over my head, poised to come crashing down, maggots and all. That’s when he noticed the rattlesnake, which hadn’t made a sound so far. The snake never struck nor made a sound and could have easily gotten me, yet somehow I think it sensed that I was not actually trying to harm it. The real source of the commotion was the invading Boy Scouts of America and their flying cow plops, why the rattlesnake never struck is still a mystery to me.”
“This snake never shook a rattle until after a bullet hole appeared right between his eyes. Snakes can strike completely by instinct for several minutes after they are thought to be dead. Looking up, there was Smitty with a worried look on his face. Then I moved away, at least faster than a dead rattlesnake can strike. It was nice to have the momentary respect of my fellow scouts.”
Pecos Pueblo
We finally left the Holliday home that afternoon knowing that we would not get to our destination that evening. We were able to make the drive toward Santa Fe staying on the route that turns east to Las Vegas and on to the Canadian River. Getting late in the afternoon we knew we could travel only a few miles till we could get into some back county and set up an evening camp. We drove out to Pecos Ruins and did a fast tour. Then getting dark, we took a road that ventured up into the mountains in search of a decent camping spot where we could get off the main road and out of sight and sleep.
Pecos pueblo should have been the greatest pueblo in all of New Mexico. It had everything going for it. First of all, its location put it close to several major river systems making it centralized for trade throughout the area. The namesake Pecos River flows out of the lower end of the high Sangre de Cristo Mountains, flowing through the small valley where the pueblo is located. The Pecos then travels for hundreds of miles south until it empties into the Rio Grande far away in Texas. It is close to the Rio Grande River and all the pueblos that had sprung up along it, the original inhabitants having migrated from other areas. Just west of the pueblo is Conchas River which flows east to the Canadian River that flows into the eastern plains. The pueblo, founded around 1300 A.D. is located on a rocky knoll and was built like a fort; defense was obviously a prime concern for the people who lived there. They had access to everything, mountains, rivers and lush green valleys. There was ample food to be found and grown in the surrounding lands and the pueblo grew and prospered for eons.
Pecos was one of the first North American villages to feel the impact of European contact. This was the pueblo’s downfall. Less than fifty years after Columbus first set foot in the Americas, this pueblo was visited by Coronado and his followers; He and his exhausted men had endured the hardships of a northern New Mexico winter and inspired hatred because of the deprivations they caused among Indian villages along the entire length of the Rio Grande river system. It had been here, where Coronado enlisted the guide whom the Spaniards referred to as ‘the Turk’ in their search for the seven cities of gold.
In the following years, the pueblo suffered from constant attacks and deprivations by just about every possible means. In the year1750 the pueblo’s military force was destroyed by the Comanche’s; and in 1788 its population was struck by smallpox. Pecos was caught in destructive forces totally beyond its control. Hidalgo thought to himself that, at least, he could understand why t
his pueblo had died, unlike many others.
When Robert McKnight came through Pecos pueblo on his way to Santa Fe, the pueblo was a ghost of its former self. The community was still there but the deprivations of time had left its mark. Goods and services could still be acquired there even if they had to be stolen; certainly the natives were getting very used to being stolen from. The question that was bothering the history detectives turned river runners was whether or not McKnight had visited the pueblo while making his escape out of New Mexico.
Early the next morning we loaded up our camping gear, stopping only to make coffee, and headed off to find a café for breakfast. Driving into Las Vegas they finally stopped at Ramones, had breakfast and then after two and a half hours of driving we arrived in Raton, Spanish for place of rats. There we grabbed a snack out of a truck stop while we were gassing up, and drove out to the put-in.
We discovered that there was nothing there, just a very small place to turn off the black top road. The young Canadian River meanders across the plains with no trace of a canyon. As the road crosses the river there is a barbed wire fence blocking the river. It would require the canoes and gear to be carried over the fence. Hidalgo wanted to explore taking about an hour to explore down the river, while Corey and I waited in the jeep. Returning, his report was ominous. The river could be run, but there were logjams and fences, requiring portages. They were glad they had come to the most up river section of the river, but after the twenty three portages they had performed on the San Juan trip, they decided to investigate a few miles downriver. Besides, it was highly unlikely that Robert McKnight would have ventured into this part of the Canadian. They knew that the plains could be crossed if they had loaded pack mules and arms for protection, but dangerous afoot. He would have learned from his earlier experiences and from others including the indigenous natives, easier ways to get into Texas.
Driving downriver we stopped at every access to the river. Starting at Springer, New Mexico, we drove out to where state route 56 crosses the river and is a major put in for modern day river runners. The canyon below flows through the Kiowa National Grasslands. The canyon there is wild and spectacular making it the most popular section for modern river runners who have the resources to make such a journey. There are two other access points; one at route 120 where the road crosses from Roy to Wagon Mound and again at route 65, where the road from Las Vegas crosses the river. It remains a grand sandstone canyon all the way to modern day Conchas Reservoir. But first they had to deal with their encounter at the tiny settlement of Sabinoso.
Emilio Romero
The Canadian River is usually run only after infrequent, heavy rains making it a real challenge for the die-hard river runner to find the opportunity to run the canyon. At the time of year that we were scouting the river it was obvious that the canyon is easier hiked through or horseback ridden through. Hidalgo made the point that it could certainly be a great place to find a good hole to put a fishing line in order to catch one of New Mexico’s original catfish, the blue cat. There are some huge holes in the river, where with a little work one could pull a large catfish out of the river even in the leanest and driest of years.
The tiny historical village of Sabinosa, Spanish for place of knowing or wisdom, is located just above the normal bridge takeout on Hwy 65 between Las Vegas to the west and Roy to the east. After descending into the shallow canyon there we found ourselves searching for a tiny dirt road that leads to the scattering of adobe houses which make up Sabinoso. The river emerges there from its awesome gorge and empties into a broad valley, measuring 60 to 70 miles in breadth at some points. Below the Canadian continues descending into another deep canyon with almost continuous class IV rapids followed by the extensive mud flats of Conchas Lake. That section of the river is rarely, if ever, run.
The region has always been dangerous, occupied by many warring factions of Indians who succeeded each other conquering and enslaving the former occupants or driving them out. The Spaniards continued this cycle, governing the region for three centuries, and creating large ranches from the land of the native people, who eventually drove many Spanish settlements into extinction. The vast plains are now subdivided into huge ranches, which make up personal kingdoms. Because of geographical isolation, the old timers and cowboys are weary of all outsiders.
Coming to the end of the road we finally met some people with whom we could make inquiry about the area. First there was a young man sitting on top of a horse with a 30-06 in the scabbard, a pistol strapped around his hip and a cervasa (beer) in his free hand. Stopping the truck and politely leaning out of the window, Corey attempted to talk to him. The Hispanic cowboy ignored them, turning his horse through a gate decorated with keep out signs. They followed the dirt road past the gate down to the river edge. The river that day was just a rock garden with hardly enough water to float canoes. Moments later, Emilio Romero a local rancher, drove up to their campsite in a vintage pickup truck. He ran some fast razor sharp Spanish past Corey and me. Feebly, Corey answered him with “Lo seinto, Me Espanol is un poco mal. Habla despacio por favor.”
In perfect English the rancher answered, “What are you doing here, on my ranch? This took Corey back for a second; for he was pretty sure this was a public road that for granted, went to the Romero ranch.
After a short explanation about researching a river trip Romero pointed to the river and said, “The River is just a few rapids like this, pointing to the rock garden we were looking at, then turns to sandy bottom for about twenty miles. After that all hell breaks loose.” His Nephew, who was sitting in the pickup truck with several rifles in the window rack, told of some tourist he watched from the ranch house. After putting on with an aluminum boat with no flotation, collar style life jackets, and a cooler full of cervasas; the results were predictable with the wrapped boat, lost equipment, and long cold swim, followed by the horrendous hike out.
Hidalgo who had returned from a short hike then discussed the situation in Spanish which seemed to cure the problem. Romero backed his truck up and then putting it into first gear, drove on down the road without saying another word.
Comencheros
We drove on to Conchas Reservoir stopping at the State Park Office. Again, Hidalgo took the lead by having a long conversation in Spanish which he related to Corey and me. On wet, and dam release years the river overflows the Conchas Dam spillway allowing the river runner to float down this historic section of canyon to Ute Lake, named after its contributory Ute Creek. Ute Creek should probably be called Ute Wash because it really only flows after local rains but it drains a huge area. The danger in running this section is the extreme isolation. If a problem does occur the only recourse a river runner has is self-rescue. Some parties have become marooned when the dam keeper at Conchas unexpectedly closed the release gates. They probably experienced a long walk out, dragging their canoes or rafts assuming they had enough water.
Virtually all-historic buildings along the Canadian River are in ruins; for example the historic Spanish settlements of Conchas are now under Conchas Lake providing a home for catfish. Ranchers in the area tear down all unused buildings to avoid paying taxes on them. Fort Bascom, a historic fort overlooking a bend in the river has now disappeared, literally without a trace. At one time it was a busy place with a large garrison of men stationed there to protect the area from Comencheros. Comencheros and other Indians, staged attacks and were undoubtedly a problem but the Indians, who were victims of ethnic cleansing, were not the real killers of the soldiers at Fort Bascom. As with most forts in the west, the main cause of death was disease, namely syphilis which was treated with mercury.
When water is being released from Conchas there is 50 miles of deep sandstone canyon from Conchas Lake to Ute Lake. Below Ute Lake, New Mexico to Lake Meredith, Texas it is about 70 to 80 miles flowing through Oldham County, and here the topography changes from a majestic canyon to a gradual slope to a braided riverbed, hundreds of yards across. Through this area, it could be a long an
d boring walk dragging your canoe behind you.
During high water this entire riverbed would be covered with fast moving water several feet deep. But the river would be overflowing into thousands of acres of scrub forest, each one inviting an entanglement of you and your boat. Below Logan and Ute Lake, the Canadian can theoretically be run on years when there is an overflow. Too much water and it could be a spooky and technical run, in the lower canyons, however there were no contemporary river runners that the Ranger knew about, that had run it. On most years it is too shallow. The entire topography has changed anyway due to human intervention. Historical changes occurred such as the construction of several dams, and the transformation of the surrounding prairie grasslands for a multitude of uses as a direct result of ‘mining’ the fossil water deposited though the eons in the Ollagawah basin. The ranger also pointed out that we would want to avoid the mud flats in upper Meredith Lake over in Texas.
While Hidalgo talked about what the ranger had said, Corey and I took out road maps that showed that below Meredith Lake, indeed the river showed much braiding of the riverbed until the confluence of the North Canadian south of Oklahoma City. From there, the river is navigable all the way to Lake Eufaula, Oklahoma. After taking out a pencil and doing some addition we figured the river flowed some 655 miles, including the upper canyons or a total of 2000 miles to the Gulf of Mexico.
Logan, New Mexico, ‘The Best Little Town by a Dam Site’
The Family at Serpiente Page 54
