Go, Go, Gringos!

You know you’re in New Mexico when the men in obituaries are all wearing big hats. And when the supermarkets sell vodka and there are things in the meat department you don’t recognize.

In spite of these gringo observations, every time we come back our respect for the State grows. Poverty is evident almost everywhere, yet there is a strong sense of pride in New Mexico and a maverick-ness that reminds us of Oregon.

When we visited with Marcia and Ted (Berthelote) in Placitas last month, I asked Ted why he thought there was such a difference between Arizona and New Mexico. Ted and Marcia have lived in New Mexico before and Ted said he had thought about the differences in the two border states and attributes it to a blending of three cultures: Spanish/Mexican, Indian and Anglo. Arizona’s history does not include the strong early Spanish influence.

Ted’s theory was borne out when we spent some time at New Mexico’s newest state monument, located just north of Truth or Consequences where we just spent two weeks mapping a park. El Camino Real International Heritage Center is a wonderful validation of the Hispanic roots of this area. Just celebrating its first anniversary, we found it short on artifacts but incredibly rich in photographs and sparkling in its presentation of the history of the 1,800 mile long “royal road.”

The Camino Real ran from Mexico City to Santa Fe and was the first European road in North America, and probably the most significant. It is pretty well known that the Spanish brought horses, guns, religion and other figments of civilization via the royal road, but we learned that eastern traders turned south at Santa Fe and traveled the road to where the real money was, Chihuahua, Mexico. Ships from the Orient unloaded and merchants traveled back up the road to sell their wares.

By the time the English settled at Jamestown, Virginia in 1609, the Spanish had been in the Americas for over 100 years. The English were not the first European colonists in the United States but rather it was the Spanish who created a settlement in New Mexico in 1598. As I recall my American History, taught in grade school and middle school, the chapter on the southwest and the Spanish was real short.

Highway I-25 runs north and south along roughly the same route as El Camino Real. El descanso are evident today, crosses and memorials next to the road where travelers died, a tradition dating back to the 1600s.

Near the Heritage Museum is the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge. We got there in time to celebrate the Festival of the Cranes and fortunately the Sand Hill Cranes showed up, too. Lots of them.

We went to Mexico for Thanksgiving, crossing the border at Los Palomas, a very small, dusty town south of Deming, NM. This part of southern New Mexico is in the Chihuahuan Desert, the largest desert in North America. It is sandy soil, dotted with low growing scrub and broken up occasionally with a cotton field or pecan orchard. There are mountains in the distance, long craggy stretches of mountains, dark and naked and wrinkled, no trees, no color. Scattered yuccas stand up across the desert like bent old men, the spent sticks of their bloom waving crazily. The customs people in this little town are very laid back, in contrast to places we have crossed before. Border Patrol has a check point about five miles out of town, with the usual profiling: Red car, Oregon plates, white folks, mom and pop sightseeing, wave ‘em through.

We both like Truth or Consequences. The people are warm and welcoming. It’s a little town of 6,000, populated by old, poor people who live here because it’s cheap, and new age, granola trekkies who live here because it’s cheap. Throw in some wacko artists and the folks who live at the State Veteran’s Hospital and it livens up an otherwise quiet little town. Kevin’s great grandparents are buried here. Harness horse people, they wintered in T or C, for the healthy benefits of “the waters.” The hot springs are still operating in old, low tile buildings. No sulphur smell, just a little pachouli.

The Rio Grande flows through town, an ugly little brown river. Old tattered signs boasting homesites “on the banks of the beautiful Rio Grande” didn’t fool anyone. The banks of the river, like the town, are peppered with old trailers.

We’re on our way to Santa Rosa, on Historic Route 66, and bracing ourselves for a hit of winter. Crossing the plains of north central New Mexico, at 6,500 feet elevation, we know where the phrase “high lonesome” came from. The landscape stretches out, the mountains disappear as the horizon bows and even the telephone poles go away; finally it’s just a ribbon of road and us.

After Santa Rosa, we do a park in Tucumcari, 60 miles east. We’re hoping for good weather for Christmas, so we can park the Bird somewhere and drive to Jason’s. We’re a two-day drive away, but just don’t do well in snow and ice, so are keeping our fingers crossed. After Christmas we head south and east. We’ve picked up a park in Shreveport, LA but I can’t remember whether we do it before Savannah, GA or on the way back.

We send warm wishes and holiday hugs to each and every one of you. Sam