The screen of the tent
is zipped but the vestibule is open. There’s very little likelihood of rain and
if I wake in the night I like to look out, see what’s happening in the dark
world. Tonight, the landscape is still and monochrome, bathed in silver moonlight.
And it is cold, I put on my fleece hat and snug the hood of my sleeping bag.
The first grey light of
dawn seeps into the canyon and birds start to chirp and sing. I check my watch,
the glowing blue-green face, the man-made-ness of the color, is jarring in the
dimness. It’s only a little past six, too early to get up. Today will be an
easy day exploring the canyon and there’s no rush. It’s much too warm in my sleeping
bag and much too cold outside so I roll over and go back to sleep. An hour or
so later a muffled voice slips out of Kathleen and Tom’s tent, they’re
stirring. So ok… no more lazing about. I unzip my bag and am greeted by a rush
of frigid air. Quickly I put on every layer of insulation I have, which is not
enough, and then put on my boots, which like me, are stiff and cold. Crawling
out of the tent is a job for the contortionist. I straighten up, feeling an
assortment of creaks and cricks, this waking up process has gotten off to much
too fast a start, so for a moment I stand there, stretch, and look around.
Years ago, a friend had
a plumb bob hanging in her bathroom window. This seemed a curious thing so I
asked what it was there for. She replied it was an aid to getting her bearings
in the morning. Without fail, the string indicated plumb. After this, she said,
everything else would fall into place. Right now, standing in the cold grey
light among boulders and tangled low cedar thicket, I wish for a plumb bob.
We convene at the table
rock, all a little bleary, chilled, and wishing for more warm clothing. Good
thing it’s calm. Tom fires up the stove, hot coffee and tea can’t come quick
enough. Soon we cradle steaming cups in our cold hands. We take sips, each a
great comfort. Kathleen and Tom move right into making oatmeal. I have
flatbread with peanut butter, a hard boiled egg, cheese, and trail mix. The sun
is taking a long time to rise over the canyon’s edge. We watch the line between
sun and shade slowly work its way down the west wall.
I go to the stream to
wash my face. Alone, squatting at the water’s edge, I dip my hands into the
cold water and bring some to my face, close my eyes and splash it on. Ice cubes!
Now I am fully awake! It is with my
eyes closed and still crouched so close to the water I become fully aware of
the sounds the stream makes, the sounds I hear in my right ear are distinctly
different from the left. This is not simply the sound of flowing water, these
are the sounds of upstream and downstream. Squatting here, I listen and meditate
on this, and smile, this could be a Zen koan in the making. Flowing water in
the desert. Like each wildflower blossom it is a remarkable effort of Nature. As
I remain here for some minutes, savoring this experience, the sun crests the
canyon and in an instant is shining fully on my back. Oh, the heat of our star
soaking into me. Sun! The world, the feeling of being in it all changes with
warmth.
On this hike, and
especially now in Capulin Canyon, I am kept company by a gentle but pervasive
feeling of déjà vu. In fact, I have been here before, but so long ago none of
it is recognizable from memory. I was a kid in college at the time and being
here made lasting impressions. The reasons to live here are many, but memories
of the stars at night and the deep quiet, these are what led me to eventually
move to New Mexico. From that hike I still have USGS topo maps and a Sierra cup.
As now, I carried these things in this place all those years ago. And so, a few
memories and these small artifacts are all that remain of a distant past.
We leave the campsite
and head down canyon in the direction of Painted Cave. Thin cloud cover moves
in and we get a few drops of rain, not enough to even think about putting on
rain gear. The old topos show small open squares denoting archeological sites,
and for this area, they’re all over the place. We hike the western slope and
find a pueblo ruin, a faint reminder of what was once a thriving community. We
quietly walk among mounds and remnants of stone walls. Flakes of obsidian and chert,
and potsherds litter the ground. Nature, ever so slowly erases the touches of
man. This ruin is well on its way to being simply a remote and quiet place. I
find some small comfort in this, that some day what we are doing to the planet
may be quietly swept away and the land will again plainly be the land. No more
fences, roads, mega-interchanges, urban sprawl, no more strip malls, or
international airports. No more Super Walmarts or Amazon fulfillment centers. What
a relief.
Kathleen and Tom and I
have done these sorts of hikes before where the focus is not on the miles but
exploring a place. We become very kid-like, getting excited about and comparing
cool rocks that we find, challenging one another to walk fallen tree balance
beams, and goofing around in general. Tom is up ahead and calls out, “Over
here, check this out!” I hike in his direction around a hillside, and just over
the ridgeline am greeted with an entire slope carpeted in blooming flocks with
higher stemmed thistles floating above; a world in shades of lavender. White
mariposa lilies appear here and there. In the bright diffuse light, I wish for
my old view camera and tripod, and a team of pack mules to carry it all. For
now though, the Nikon point and shoot will have to suffice.
We continue down canyon.
On other hikes in Bandelier we’ve found stakes, steel or aluminum bars with
numbers stamped in them, hammered in the ground, which we think indicate
historical sites. Tom has a particularly keen eye for them, but this morning he
and Kathleen cruise by one which I happen to spot. “Whoa!” We regroup and check
it out. A few feet from the stake we find what could almost be a crude headstone
with “NM2” carved in it. Perhaps it is a headstone, or an early highway marker?
Hard to tell. And then I spot a metate, sitting on the ground under some brush.
I kneel down and rub my hand over the worn surface, smooth and gently curved,
and it feels good, warm from the sun. If only it could speak of all the times
it was used and by what souls, the thoughts thought and words spoken or kept,
as the grains ground to meal. There’s a good chance the metate has been sitting
in this spot for five hundred years. And likely it is now sitting in that same
spot as I buzz around in the circles of life, as I write these words.
We are almost directly
across the canyon from Painted Cave. Looking up, it looms in the rock wall.
From this distance we get perspective on the setting and those many
pictographs, which like the metate, have simply been here all this time. Some
of the images are familiar but their meanings are a mystery. A few of the
pictures are markedly different causing us to speculate whether or not they’ve
been recently added.
I had pictures of the
cave from my previous hike here. Had. Some years ago, digging through the attic
and finding a large cardboard box of old photos, I started to get into them. Too
many old ghosts came flying out. Old photos like old memories, too many of them
are only troubling. Somewhat impulsively I put the whole thing in the trash and
they are gone. Now I reflect on my action with some regret, it would be interesting
to look at those pictures to see what, if anything, has changed in thirty-six
years. There’s a saying those who forget the past are bound to repeat it in the
future. However, lugging it around, whether in cardboard boxes or in one’s
heart, while innately human, is still a burden.
We cross the canyon to
explore around the cave, which itself is inaccessible - to us, at least.
Obviously the ancestral people found a way via natural and carved hand and foot
holds, but looking at it now… not for us. We sit in one of the lower caves and
have lunch and gaze across the canyon. This is a sublimely beautiful place. A
place to call home.
We hike at a leisurely
pace back to the campsite, finding other smaller caves with pictographs along
the way. Cloud cover is building and we hear low and distant rumbles of
thunder. Just as we get to camp it starts to rain, and rain hard. We dive for
our tents, it is a downpour that turns into a slushy mix of hail and snow.
Tents are remarkable, the one I have - the whole kit - weighs less than three
pounds and yet it is snug and secure. I love tents. Stretched out on my
sleeping bag, peering outside and wondering how long the storm will last, as
quickly as it comes it leaves and the sun breaks through. We crawl out into the
open, trees are dripping, the air is fresh and clean, and we gather at the
table rock.
Between the chill and
that we’re all feeling afternoon logyiness, the notion of hot tea appeals to everyone.
It’s the right time, we could have high tea, alas, for the fact we do not have
any crumpets. Kathleen and Tom break out jazzy snack bars, trail mix for me is
as good as it gets. Pecking around in the bag of almonds and cranberries and
what all, I realize I’m getting a wee bit tired of trail mix. Note to self:
next hike, bring crumpets for a proper high tea. Or jazzy snack bars. It’s been
a relaxed and relaxing day, the sips of tea hit the spot, and we share our
thoughts on the places seen and little discoveries made. I suggest wouldn’t it
be wonderful to come in here and camp for three or four days. Really hang out,
read a good book. It’s an attractive idea.
And wouldn’t we know it,
it’s time for dinner. Yeah! Tonight it will be mac and cheese and chicken.
Amazing what a day of fresh air will do for your appetite and when it comes to
dinner we do not hold back. The packets of freeze-dried mac and cheese are each
supposed to be two portions. We use three of them. And the two packets of
pre-cooked chicken we throw in add up to nearly a pound. So there’s plenty, and
when we’re finished, not a crumb is to be seen.
We take a walk up
canyon. The rock walls tighten, we’re in cold, deep shade and it feels good to
be moving. The freshly eroded stream banks are some eight feet tall in places,
all tumbled river rock and sand. Darkness settles on this canyon world, towering
ponderosa surround us, a lone canyon wren sings.
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