I drove out of Tijeras revitalized and oh so ready to bring it loud with some more of those 3 R's: Ridin', Writin' and Rhymin'. Brother wanna shout, I'm gonna make noise; fools run they mouth, I'm gonna break jaws.
I had read about a great mountain bike ride northwest of Albuquerque near a town called San Ysidro. There's an unusual white mesa there and apparently it's an enjoyable excursion. Finding an appropriate trailhead to get on the mesa is not. All of the access points (from what I could tell) are on Indian reservation lands and the No Trespassing signs are quite apparent. Not wanting to deal with tribal security and having to explain myself to the chief, I moved on and headed northeast on Hwy 4 toward Santa Fe.
Within ten minutes of driving, I realized that I was just trading one New Mexican natural wonder for another. The amazing diversity of the landscape in this state creates sensory overload and trying to see it all is intimidating. Like a kid in a candy store, I constantly struggle to decide what to visit and at every change in course, I wonder what might have awaited me down the other road. I'm sure that you feel sorry for me as you read this at the work in your cell....errrrr....cube.
Hwy 4 follows the path of Jemez Creek and is surrounded by the bountiful riparian (riverbank) ecosystem that it supports. Cottonwoods sway in the highland breeze; a falcon circles round, lookin for his enemies. (Pause 2 seconds here.) And those
things aren't even the highlights. Jemez Creek also sits at the bottom of a deep gorge that it's eaten away. For an eternity, molecule by molecule, the water has stripped away the earth, revealing banded layers of red and grey rock under mesas forested with squat pine trees. I stopped the car and just stared for a while, slackjawed ala Vlade Divac.
I chose a campsite at a place called Linda Vista (Yo no habla Español but does that mean "view of Linda"?) and spent the waning hours of the evening replacing my brake cables. You gots to do it yourself to get it right. How many bike shops in the world are afforded this view anyway?
An aura of Indian history surrounds this place and adds to its mystique and beauty. Much of the gorge is within the Zia Indian Reservation and ancient pueblos can be found at the Jemez State Monument. I'd also heard that there are Indian ruins located high atop the mesas. That's all it took to pique my interest and stoke the adventurous fire. Boom or bust, I was going
to climb it.
The next morning I broke camp, crossed the stream and started picking my way up a carefully chosen section on the wall that provides somewhat of a sloped access corridor to the top. Many of the desert plants were blooming along the way and provided a display of improbable color. About midway through the slow and grinding hike, I paused to wipe off the flow of sweat piercing my eyes. I took another step or two and was jolted into intense awareness. The quick buzzing sound I heard is an inevitability of Southwest backcountry traveling but is never expected. The rattlesnake was probably three feet to my left, heard but not seen. I quickly moved to my right and whirled around. The reptile lay in the shade of
a rock, completely still save its back end, reminding me that I am the visitor here. "What sssssset you from?" asked the snake. "Westside, fool, and I ain't here to tussle." I got the photo and fled the scene.
It took about two hours total to reach the summit of Virgin Mesa. I hiked around a bit looking for ruins but found none. The view from the top surely was reward enough for my toil and I sat there, legs dangling, for an hour while I slowly chewed my lunch.
The trip back down the steep dirt and shale was more of a controlled free-fall than it was a hike but I made it without turning an ankle or meeting another one of Dr. Fang's buddies.
Firing up the
gutless V-6, I turned back onto Hwy 40 and drove the rest of the way to Santa Fe, passing Bandelier National Monument, the city of Los Alamos (aka Nuketown) and miles of pristine Indian land. Time and time again, as I've traveled through native American lands, I'm always amazed at symbiotic nature of the people and their environment which remains largely in its natural state. The American Indian knows that the value of the earth is in its ability to nurture an entire community of life, not just the wants of man. If you think I exaggerate, I invite you to visit any reservation in this area. We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. "When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect. That land is a community is the basic concept of ecology, but that land is to be loved and respected is an extension of ethics."--A. Leopold**One can argue whether or not these concepts are achievable in our society but understanding them is a step in the right direction. The top of Virgin Mesa is a good place to think about it.
Now that I've waxed morally poetic and dropped quotes on yo' ass, I'll move into the final sub-plot of this journal entry. It represents the antithesis of everything in the preceding paragraph. At about 3 p.m. on Sunday the 17th, as I was nearing Santa Fe, the alarm clock in my tiny male brain went off.
"What's going on," I thought, "the world is so pretty and I am one with nature."
"Shut up," my brain bellowed, "Game 5 of the Kings/Jazz series is on now. Get your shit to a TV. You love this game, remember?"
Panicked, I didn't know what to do. NBA promotional slogans don't lie. And there it was. A huge sign rising out of the desert just north of Santa Fe beckoning me in colored lights, "SPORTSBAR". Never question fate or divine interference, just accept it. Thirteen other local drunks and I sat through the game at the Indian casino. I hollered myself hoarse but it didn't help Webber and crew overcome their own inexperience. Surprisingly, everyone in the place was rooting for Sacto. You'd think there would be a Utah fan in the crowd around here.
It was almost 8 o'clock by the time I got around to finding a campsite. Welcome to Santa Fe.
I had read about a great mountain bike ride northwest of Albuquerque near a town called San Ysidro. There's an unusual white mesa there and apparently it's an enjoyable excursion. Finding an appropriate trailhead to get on the mesa is not. All of the access points (from what I could tell) are on Indian reservation lands and the No Trespassing signs are quite apparent. Not wanting to deal with tribal security and having to explain myself to the chief, I moved on and headed northeast on Hwy 4 toward Santa Fe.
Within ten minutes of driving, I realized that I was just trading one New Mexican natural wonder for another. The amazing diversity of the landscape in this state creates sensory overload and trying to see it all is intimidating. Like a kid in a candy store, I constantly struggle to decide what to visit and at every change in course, I wonder what might have awaited me down the other road. I'm sure that you feel sorry for me as you read this at the work in your cell....errrrr....cube.
Hwy 4 follows the path of Jemez Creek and is surrounded by the bountiful riparian (riverbank) ecosystem that it supports. Cottonwoods sway in the highland breeze; a falcon circles round, lookin for his enemies. (Pause 2 seconds here.) And those
things aren't even the highlights. Jemez Creek also sits at the bottom of a deep gorge that it's eaten away. For an eternity, molecule by molecule, the water has stripped away the earth, revealing banded layers of red and grey rock under mesas forested with squat pine trees. I stopped the car and just stared for a while, slackjawed ala Vlade Divac.I chose a campsite at a place called Linda Vista (Yo no habla Español but does that mean "view of Linda"?) and spent the waning hours of the evening replacing my brake cables. You gots to do it yourself to get it right. How many bike shops in the world are afforded this view anyway?
An aura of Indian history surrounds this place and adds to its mystique and beauty. Much of the gorge is within the Zia Indian Reservation and ancient pueblos can be found at the Jemez State Monument. I'd also heard that there are Indian ruins located high atop the mesas. That's all it took to pique my interest and stoke the adventurous fire. Boom or bust, I was going
to climb it.The next morning I broke camp, crossed the stream and started picking my way up a carefully chosen section on the wall that provides somewhat of a sloped access corridor to the top. Many of the desert plants were blooming along the way and provided a display of improbable color. About midway through the slow and grinding hike, I paused to wipe off the flow of sweat piercing my eyes. I took another step or two and was jolted into intense awareness. The quick buzzing sound I heard is an inevitability of Southwest backcountry traveling but is never expected. The rattlesnake was probably three feet to my left, heard but not seen. I quickly moved to my right and whirled around. The reptile lay in the shade of
a rock, completely still save its back end, reminding me that I am the visitor here. "What sssssset you from?" asked the snake. "Westside, fool, and I ain't here to tussle." I got the photo and fled the scene.It took about two hours total to reach the summit of Virgin Mesa. I hiked around a bit looking for ruins but found none. The view from the top surely was reward enough for my toil and I sat there, legs dangling, for an hour while I slowly chewed my lunch.
The trip back down the steep dirt and shale was more of a controlled free-fall than it was a hike but I made it without turning an ankle or meeting another one of Dr. Fang's buddies.
Firing up the
gutless V-6, I turned back onto Hwy 40 and drove the rest of the way to Santa Fe, passing Bandelier National Monument, the city of Los Alamos (aka Nuketown) and miles of pristine Indian land. Time and time again, as I've traveled through native American lands, I'm always amazed at symbiotic nature of the people and their environment which remains largely in its natural state. The American Indian knows that the value of the earth is in its ability to nurture an entire community of life, not just the wants of man. If you think I exaggerate, I invite you to visit any reservation in this area. We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. "When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect. That land is a community is the basic concept of ecology, but that land is to be loved and respected is an extension of ethics."--A. Leopold**One can argue whether or not these concepts are achievable in our society but understanding them is a step in the right direction. The top of Virgin Mesa is a good place to think about it.Now that I've waxed morally poetic and dropped quotes on yo' ass, I'll move into the final sub-plot of this journal entry. It represents the antithesis of everything in the preceding paragraph. At about 3 p.m. on Sunday the 17th, as I was nearing Santa Fe, the alarm clock in my tiny male brain went off.
"What's going on," I thought, "the world is so pretty and I am one with nature."
"Shut up," my brain bellowed, "Game 5 of the Kings/Jazz series is on now. Get your shit to a TV. You love this game, remember?"
Panicked, I didn't know what to do. NBA promotional slogans don't lie. And there it was. A huge sign rising out of the desert just north of Santa Fe beckoning me in colored lights, "SPORTSBAR". Never question fate or divine interference, just accept it. Thirteen other local drunks and I sat through the game at the Indian casino. I hollered myself hoarse but it didn't help Webber and crew overcome their own inexperience. Surprisingly, everyone in the place was rooting for Sacto. You'd think there would be a Utah fan in the crowd around here.
It was almost 8 o'clock by the time I got around to finding a campsite. Welcome to Santa Fe.
** From the book A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold, which I am currently reading.
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