Backcountry, Part I

We are on the mesa between Frijoles and Lummis Canyons in Bandelier National Monument, two hours into a three day hike, walking at a brisk clip toward The Rio Grande. Tom is in the lead, next Kathleen, and I am bringing up the rear. There’s about thirty feet between each of us. Kathleen turns around and speaks to me and I look up. I don’t register what she says, but I see Tom beyond her, jumping and falling to the left. Under his fully loaded pack he crashes into the low scrub, twigs and dust flash up. My first thought is he’s turned an ankle, but he yells, “Snake!” And then I hear the rattle.

But where is it? Nor is it known if the beast has its fangs buried into one of Tom’s legs. The furious buzzing comes from the right, Kathleen and I dash toward Tom as he collects himself and gets up. To everyone’s relief, he did not get bitten. Tom then points to the snake, apparently it’s just off the trail. Still I do not see it, its camouflage is so effective. Then, yes, there it is, and my eyes go wide. I’ve had a number of close encounters with rattlers, but never one this big. It’s a diamondback; I never see it stretched out so cannot speak about its length, but I do get a good view of its girth. It is about five inches. Hold your hands in front of you and make a fat oval with your thumbs and forefingers that’s about five inches across. Yes Margaret, that’s a big snake.

Tom gets out his camera. I speak to him in my little used, reserved for special occasions, most stern voice, “Tom. Do not go any closer to the snake.” The reason I know not to do this? Well, years ago I disturbed a rattler one evening while out for a walk and happened to have my camera. I’d given it a wide berth, but decided to maybe get a few steps closer for a picture. The snake had been quite gracious up to this point, but in a instant it coiled and was ready to strike. This was now serious business. Slinking away while apologizing profusely for my obvious blunder, it seemed like a good idea to make note to self for future reference: Do not go any closer to the snake.

Kathleen suggests in a similar tone, “Tom, use the zoom. That’ll be good enough.” Now Tom is a common-sense guy, but at times like this it’s maybe ok to just reaffirm this a little bit. He does not move an inch closer. Kathleen ribs me later about my stern tone, I guess it came to her as a surprise I even had one. Tom however, is bleeding. We let our heart rates slow, and check him out. Luckily his wounds are superficial, in need of a little cleaning up and that’s about it.

Welcome to the backcountry. The further a person walks, the deeper a person goes.

At the mesa’s edge we are greeted with sweeping views of the rio, the banks are lush with the youthful greens of spring, this powerful river winding through the desert, el agua, es vida. We are treated to slopes covered in wildflowers. Entire hillsides, purple; others, yellow or white. Wild plants flowering in this environment, what a momentous thing, taking so much of the plant’s energy, and of course crucial to their continuation. We stop at Kiva House for a bit of shade and to have some lunch. This pueblo ruin is situated on a bluff with a commanding view of the river. The indigenous peoples sure knew how to pick a spot.

We continue along the escarpment roughly paralleling the river, then up and over another mesa. As forecast, a wind picks up. Each time we are hit with a gust - some are potent enough to nearly knock us off our feet - I think about the connection between winds and spirits. Of what might these gusts portend? Could they be warnings… or welcomes? I do not know, but the wonderment, the feelings are strong. This place, being out here… something inside of me is opening up. I’ve felt this many times in Bandelier, it is mysterious.

Hiking into Capulin Canyon, we’ve been on the trail for nine miles and we’re feeling it. Well, Kathleen and I are. Tom continues his stride, and we joke with him about being The Energizer Bunny. Like all the canyons in this area, Capulin got a good washing out in the flooding last fall. The trail is indistinct - partly from the flooding, partly from lack of use - and comes and goes. We are hiking in brush and rocks, prime rattlesnake habitat. Maybe I’m still a little… um, rattled. We visit Painted Cave, one of the gems of Bandelier, but keep it brief knowing we’ll return tomorrow.

Capulin is known to have a continuously flowing stream, which in large part is why we chose it as our destination. But arriving here, all we see is dry sand streambed. And I do mean dry. It is full-sun hot, windy, and not a drop of water is in sight. We share our concerns and discuss our options and continue up canyon, and hope. As we hike, Tom digs his toe into the sand and a few inches below the surface there is dampness, a very good sign. If push comes to shove, we could dig a pit and hope some water would accumulate. Then we see patches of dampness on the surface and bright green algae (some parts are edible, I’m told)… and then it goes away. And then a trickle, and further along more of a trickle.

Wind screams up canyon as we hike the streambed wash. At least it’s at our backs. Walking in soft sand takes considerable extra effort, and blowing sand swirls around us, but compared to the mostly non-existent trail through dense brush this is the path of least resistance. The canyon narrows and we head for a stand of ponderosa pine and the shelter it promises. In this wildness, the heat and wind, I turn to Kathleen and say, “Even though I’m exhausted, even though all of me hurts, I’m still having a great time.”

Kathleen, the eternal optimist, says in reply, “I’m glad to hear that,” and nothing more. Hang in there kid. Indeed, we all reach a point. This country can test your mettle, and we’re all looking forward to getting these packs off our backs and calling it a day.

The trickle of water turns into a bona fide stream which raises our spirits. The ponderosas stand on a slightly elevated shelf, it’s grassy, the trees provide great protection and the stream is only a stroll away. Camp! Oh, sweet heavenly camp! We nose around and pick spots to pitch our tents and set to it. In less than an hour we are comfortably ensconced around a boulder next to Kathleen and Tom’s tent site. It has a relatively flat top so we name it “the table rock.” Tom finds a big black glassy chunk of obsidian and decorates the table with it. Our water bottles are now full and we snack on hard salami and trail mix. And we’re all looking forward to dinner, the main course this evening: black bean & chicken burritos.

Tom is our executive chef. He pulls “the stove” from a tiny carry sack and holds it up for me to examine. In packed form, the thing is barely larger than a walnut. “That’s the stove?” I ask. He grins, unfolding it like a transformer toy and screws it onto the top of a fuel cylinder. And there it is, a little burner with a regulator and little supports for a pot, in other words, a stove. Amazing. Must be a NASA spin-off, and a lot more impressive than Tang. He fires up the little baby and puts some water on to boil. The sun is on its way down and pretty quick, being in the canyon, we will be in shade. As our star dips, so does the wind (a good thing), and so does the temperature (a not so good thing). Rather, the temp does not dip, it falls like a stone, so hot food is going to hit the spot. We stir all various things into the pot of now boiling water and let it sit. Patience is a virtue… a hard thing to come by at the moment, waiting for dinner when we’re famished and cold. Kathleen packed in fresh tortillas, and in a few minutes we are totally chowing down, we are happy campers.

Now (belch), where is the cheesecake? Just kidding, there is no cheesecake, but there is chocolate. Ah… the end of the day, we’re here, safe and sound in this most beautiful place and we have chocolate. So say yes to chocolate, and enjoy the good life.

We loiter a bit after dinner, sharing a few stories, but even though it’s only 7:30, with bellies full and the temp going down, with eleven miles carrying full packs through snake infested (slight exaggeration) desert behind us… there’ll be no singing ‘round the campfire. We are fading fast. Whooped. QED.

After wishing one another a good night, there is the sound of tent zippers zipping. Having spent nearly all my childhood summers living in a tent (Ok, shameless self-promotion here: please go to Amazon and buy a copy of “Summers In A Tent,” thank you very much.), this sound touches a feeling of “welcome home” in me like no other. And right now, being inside my little tent and slipping into my down bag, zipping it up snug against the cold, feels sooo good. Night descends upon the canyon like a long, relaxed, exhale. I lay awake, recounting my great good fortune to be with dear friends, in this moment and place.

Sister moon comes up, casting lazily drifting shadows of tree branches and foliage across the glowing canopy of the tent. There is no wind, a deep quiet as comforting as my sleeping bag wraps around me, only to be pierced by the sounds of jet aircraft, madly slicing the night sky to faraway places people must get to. Oh, what we bring upon ourselves.

Nonetheless I fall fast, fast asleep.

Gordon Bunker

Bread Making

A few days ago the KitchenAid mixer arrived all gleaming, and with it my visions of great golden loaves are one step closer to becoming reality. Rather than dive into using a new machine and a whole new aspect of cooking at once, I eased into it by making a gingerbread cake. Nothing to it, the machine mixed the batter in a snap. Then, faced with what to do with a whole gingerbread cake, and at the same time not wanting to see the Michelin Man take my svelte place in the mirror, I had fun giving pieces to friends. The looks on their faces after giving the gingerbread a good sniff, the smiles, the ooo’s and the ahh’s. What could be better?

But I have raisin toast on the brain.

Saturday comes around, and I’ve intentionally kept my calendar open. This will be the day of bread making, the day to put the new machine, and my aptitude for this new venture to the test. I choose an “Easy Whole Wheat Bread” recipe from the web (actually half whole wheat and half bread flour). It strikes appealing notes starting with the easy part, and moving on to including honey and buttermilk in the ingredients. Throw in some raisins and what do we have here? Voila! We have raisin bread. I hope.

With a mug of tea and the instructions for the mixer, I sit down and start reading. Well, I skip over the “IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS.” Purely the realm of fear-mongers, by now it’s pretty obvious to not use a mixer while standing in the shower. After acquainting myself with the basics I move onto the good part: “Bread Making Tips,” and learn among other handy pointers that the recipe I’m using, in terms of the number of cups of flour is just within the machine’s capacity. Good. No sense dilly-dallying around, we’re going to find out what this baby’s made of.

While the yeast is swimming around in a bowl of warm water, and getting all excited over a pinch of sugar, I start measuring and mixing and fiddling around. So far so good, the mixer seems to handle it. When I get to adding the last of the flour however, it is indeed at its capacity. Having spent a lot of time around machinery, I know the sounds it makes working at the limit and have learned exceeding those limits leads to only one thing. Trouble. Making a rahr-rahr-rahr sound, the mixer slowly kneads the dough. After about five minutes, all the while keeping a close eye on things, I end up with a thick, light brown ball speckled with raisins, clinging to the dough hook. The mass seems oddly alive.

With a tea towel draped over the bowl, I place it on the countertop where the sun streams in a nearby window. It’s time to let the yeasts feast, and no different than the rest of us, they like being warm. Imagine, billions of single cell funguses are in there, having a fine time of it, munching to their little heart’s contents and producing CO2. And lo and behold, as advertised, in about an hour the ball of dough has doubled in size. I’ve created a monstah! The best part of cooking is you get to play with your food. So I punch it down, fool around with it and shape pieces into the waiting bread pans.

But the yeasts are not hampered in the slightest by my stout punching. They rise again. This time, in a hurry. The oven is heating… now, perhaps a little late in the game I check a reference on high altitude baking. It suggests using less yeast to slow the rising. Oops. Checking back on the dough, it’s about to leap out of the pans, so in the oven with them. I set the timer and wait patiently. Sort of… Peering in the oven window, a transformation slowly takes place. These are no longer blobs of dough, these are loaves of bread, the staff of life. There is a connection here, by however fine a thread, to something ancient.

The loaves, golden as my vision, come out of the oven. They didn’t explode or collapse or burn. Turning them out of the pans onto a cooling rack I wonder, “but will they be good?”

I step out to check the mail, and coming back inside, oh… the heavenly aroma of fresh baked bread greets me. Heavenly. In an instant I remember walking in my family home, it would have been on a cold day that my mother did some baking, and while she didn’t often bake bread, when she did, coming in the door full of fresh air and being greeted by those smells… It is a feeling of being home that has no equal, and walking into my place now, these feelings come back in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Whether the bread is cool enough to cut or not, I get out the bread knife and make a slice. Steam rises from it, no need for toasting. I slather it with butter and munch, and discover there’s something better than homemade raisin toast. It’s homemade raisin bread, still hot from the oven, sliced and slathered with butter. I devour two thick slices before I know what happens.

Gordon Bunker

A Day In The Life

I have been vacillating on whether or not to buy a KitchenAid stand mixer. After recent success with making focaccia, I want to get more into baking bread. Mid-stream into that adventure however, without any question, the limitations of my hand mixer became apparent. It turned into a wrestling match, and it’s hard to say who won. Given the little machine still works and the focaccia came out pretty well, I call it a tie.

But back and forth, and back and forth I go. It’s very infrequent I splurge on something like this, and this would be a splurge - a matter of want rather than need - and a pricey one. I grab a coin to flip. Heads I get the KitchenAid and the coin comes up heads. Humph. I need to think about it some more. After breakfast I decide to go for two out of three and flip the coin again. Heads, I get the mixer. And again it comes up heads. OK, OK. When fate speaks it’s best not to question.

The local Bed Bath and Beyond store doesn’t have my first pick in color. If I’m going to spend the dough, and if I’m going to live with this thing for the rest of my days, the color is worth waiting for. The manager I speak with offers to order one, and I accept, but we learn their network is down. The folks who work at this store are really putting in the effort and are very accommodating. The manager is frustrated, he wants to make the sale and I feel for the guy. I thank him, let him know that I’ll order a mixer online and will be sure to be back.

At Pep Boys I drop off a few quarts of used motor oil for recycling. A woman is leaving her car for service. She’s very friendly and talkative. Her dad, her old boyfriend said this and that about caring for her car and we joke about solutions to idiot lights when they come on; putting a piece of electrical tape over them has worked for me.

Maybe if the woman and I continue to talk we’d go out for a coffee while her car is getting fixed and maybe agree to get together again, and, and. This is a pleasant sequence of possibilities to consider, but as much as I’d like to have a gal in my life again, the last sucker-punch I was the bag for left too-deep an impression. I thank the guy at the counter and wish the woman good luck with her car and make my exit.

I get home and order the mixer. Now I’m jazzed and looking forward to it. Full steam ahead. Visions of great golden loaves and no regrets… slices of toasted homemade raisin bread with generous slatherings of butter…

After dinner, the inclination to stay put is strong. It’s a hard sell to get myself out for a walk. Nonetheless I put on my boots for a quick lap around the plaza. Once out the door and up the driveway I know this is the right thing to do. It’s a beautiful spring evening, cool, a kiss of a breeze flits about, late sunlight comes in low.

Near the capitol, among non-descript government office buildings stands a crab apple tree, resplendent in bloom, it is a mass of rich pink blossoms. A shaft of sunlight streams in-between the buildings onto the tree. The full crown glows in warm chiaroscuro. I stop and stand and look at it for quite a few moments. The tree stands quietly and asks for nothing, it flowers because this is simply part of what it must do. The laden branches sway ever so slightly in the breeze, light and shadow flicker. Partially opened buds resemble miniature roses. Where sunlight has found its way through the maze, brilliant spots of pink burst from the dark side of the tree. Like stars, such beauty.

On the way home I make a point to stop and admire the tree again. The light is becoming less but still it is well worth standing and looking at. Continuing, I encounter a gang of boys goofing around on skateboards. Hooting, jeering one another, they are bundles of froggy, gangly energy. It does my heart good to see not one of them entranced with a phone. Before crossing the street, which is torn up for utility work, they do not simply pick up their mounts. No, they each kick the tail of their board down causing the body of it to catapult up into the air which they then catch mid-flight. Boys. They school across the street. By the time they ripen into men, the world, their world, will be quite a different place.

Gordon Bunker

The Good Stuff

Owner of The (moved and improved) Good Stuff, Ken Kordich and I have been friends for years. Lately, Ken’s been putting a tremendous effort into the store’s new location, and now offers coffee. I thought I knew the guy pretty well, but a few days ago when I stopped to say hello, he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. Who would have guessed Ken knows his way around making a cappuccino? Like, really knows his way around making a cappuccino.

So we’re sitting at one of the tables right by a window, hanging out, catching up and listening to a jazz record. Ken has a fondness for and sells vinyl records, and we get talking about the relative merits of analog and digital recordings, a subject on which I’m basically clueless. Ok, maybe that’s overdoing it. I did have a record player, no, a turntable and a collection of LP’s, but after it sat in the attic for twenty years, I gave it all to my brother-in-law. So I’ll upgrade from clueless to a skosh out of touch.

Ken points out there’s a range of sounds you get listening to a recording on vinyl that’s missing in an mp3 file. I’ve heard this before and don’t doubt it, but what’s the big deal? I’m happy with just hitting the play button. Besides, LP’s scratch and warp, and there’s dust and… He goes on to describe the indistinct middle ground between sounds, and springs the word “finesse” on me. The word settles in my mind. Finesse. It’s a quality of doing things which does seem sorely lacking in our culture.

A stream of customers come and go. Ken asks me if I’d like a coffee. It’s so nice hanging out here, sure that’d be great. So he gets up, and seeing how the record we’ve been listening to is just about finished, he picks out another one and slides it out of the cover. Ken looks it over, sprays it with some cleaning fluid and carefully wipes it with a special towel. I watch him, a little wistful, remembering the same ritual from long ago. In short order we’re listening to country.

Turns out there are choices in the coffee department. I was thinking just a cup of joe, but Ken goes through the menu. Espresso, latte, Americano, cap… oh, stop right there. A cappuccino please. That’s what I’ll have. Done well, this is my favorite. Ken mentions his espresso beans are from Danesi Caffé, a relatively small roaster in Italy. I see. Clearly, he is not fooling around.

Ken fills the little thingy (technical term) with freshly ground coffee and tamps it down. He then puts the thingy in the espresso machine, places a cup under the spout and down comes the hot dark coffee. Ken shows me the delicate crema on top. (Where he learned all this, I wonder… but that’s another story.) It’s beautiful. In the mean time he steams a small pitcher of milk, and when it’s ready, holding back the foam, he pours just the right amount of milk into the cup. Then he scoops out the finishing touch, the foam on top. The crema finds its way up around the perimeter of the foam.

Writing this, I’m beginning to salivate.

The cup is white porcelain, it is oval in profile. Looking down on the matching saucer, it is also an oval. It is an elegant ensemble. And the aroma… mm… rich. And the taste… is sublime. Ken sits down across the table. I am in heaven. He’s looking pretty satisfied, as he well should.

A woman comes in with her son, who is about ten years old. The boy immediately zeros in on the portable record player on the countertop. The record turns, the tone arm gently rises and falls as it tracks the groove. And the voice of Willie Nelson croons from the box. He is fascinated, his mom smiles and says he’s never seen one before. Studying it all for some minutes, the wheels must be turning in his head. It’s great to see him so absorbed with it.

But in with the new, and out with the old, right? Well, not so fast there Bub. I’ve been reminded there’s value beyond mere romanticism in the rituals and details. The level of care and attention Ken pays to these details in the world of cappuccino and vinyl … it’s called finesse. He’s definitely on to something you just can’t get hitting the play button.

Gordon Bunker

The Good Stuff, Established 2009

401 West San Francisco St. (on the corner of Guadalupe)

Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501

www.thegoodstuffsantafe.com

505-795-1939

Café, baked goods, records, books, sunglasses & t-shirts. Lunch options in the future.

Grounded in Local Flavor

It gives me great satisfaction to be, as Local Flavor Magazine Editor Patty Karlovitz put it, a part of, "what we can accomplish when we are at our best." I hope you'll read "Grounded" in the April issue.

Either in print or the magazine is available online here.

Many thanks and best wishes,

Gordon

Arroyo Tenorio

Sunday evening after saying my thanks and goodbyes to family and friends I am alone, walking home, and mentally exhausted. The weekend has been spent visiting, and full to the brim with activities and conversation clever privileged people gravitate to, at least in my culture. Walking through the neighborhood, I contemplate the feeling I am missing it, but also that I do not know exactly what it is.

Arroyo Tenorio is a narrow little street in Santa Fe, one of the few that’s still dirt. The arroyo is no longer. People are settling in for the evening, a lovely peacefulness settles on the town. I walk around a bend, a low shaft of warm sunlight streams in the length of the street, and there it is.

Not a breath of air moves. A mass of ivy hangs over a heavily buttressed adobe wall, smooth dark green leaves with deeply scalloped edges reflect brilliant points of sunlight. The thicket of leaves is at once chaos and order. A little flag, the type used to mark underground utilities, stands still on its rusted steel wire pole. The flag itself glows brilliant royal blue in transmitted light. The shade of blue, in counterpoint to the earth colors of the wall and ivy, is shocking to my eyes. I stand still, utterly taken by the realness of what is before me - earth, sun, air, the life of ivy, the touch of man.

In the moment, it seems my reality shifts. Perhaps, for this doubting Thomas, what I see is a glimpse into the divine? Perhaps it is a glimpse into the truth of not knowing what reality is?

Bearing witness to this mystery, I am overwhelmed. I stand in the middle of the street for some time, feeling this. And then move on, quietly.

Gordon Bunker