Adventure is a
cultivated frame of mind.
It is a cold grey winter
morning, it will be a day to hike. I get in the car not knowing where I will go,
but by the end of the driveway from my home in Santa Fe, The Upper Crossing of
Frijoles Canyon in Bandelier is my destination. It’s been too long since I last
visited the place. The Ponderosa Pine forest on the north rim of the canyon is open
enough you can see into it, and walking through it, begin to wonder what lurks
behind the tall still boles. The rolling landscape is covered in a thick carpet
of needles, the crowns of foliage float above. It is magical.
Today the land is
covered with snow and I am the only person here. A set of snowshoe tracks
follow the trail, but they were put down before the most recent snowfall. It is
silent and even the most delicate grasses poking through the snow stand
perfectly still. Hiking toward the canyon it is easy to think eyes are watching
me. On other hikes around the upper canyon, there’s been such a profusion of mountain
lion scat on the trail, it’s taken considerable concentration to avoid stepping
in it. According to a ranger some years back, five individuals were known in
the area. Thick icy clouds with indistinct edges lazily float by. It is 25
degrees F.
From the rim, looking into
the canyon it is immediately apparent the forest below was burned in last
summer’s fire. All that remains of the trees is an army of black sticks,
standing stark against the snow. With foliage gone, the land is laid bare, the brown
rock of the north slope I’m hiking, and snow cover on the south slope. Picking
my way down among jagged outcrops and perches of rock, again, I feel eyes on me.
Coming around a switchback I disturb a flock of Juncos, puffy little ground feeders,
they burst into flight, fifty or so little wings putter against the air. It is
a delightful sound. They don’t go far; I walk by and once I pass they come
right back. This must be a good place for seeds.
Frijoles Creek is
flowing. The sight and sound of running water is rare in the high desert, and worth
savoring. The water tumbles along to the Rio Grande and on to the far away Gulf
of Mexico, it makes a multitude of sounds which together form a chorus. I stand
and listen. This hike is as much about stopping as moving.
Ascending the steep
south slope is a workout. In places the trail is only a ten or twelve inch wide
cut, the footing is marginal and the thought of a fall keeps me moving with
care. About half way to the rim there is a place the wind has swept clear, with
a bare rock, it is the best place I find to sit. There is a commanding view,
both up and down canyon, so I stop to have lunch. It starts to snow, first a
few lonely flakes drift by, then a few more, it remains a light shower. The
flakes wobble and tilt on the slightest movements of air as they fall to earth.
Taken as a whole it is mesmerizing to watch. When I pull my sandwich from the
bag, the bright green edges of leaf lettuce sticking out strike my vision as a
brilliance in this world of white and black, grey and brown. I think of the
story my friend Jim told, when after having spent a week in a world of grey on
the Artic ice cap, he joined a group of locals on a seal hunt. They killed a
seal, and for Jim, having been deprived of color for so long, the rich crimson
blood flowing onto the ice as they gutted it was shocking to him. Simply the intensity
of the color, it moved him to tears.
Looking into the slopes
of the canyon and the rock outcrops I let my eyes rest on no particular detail
in hopes of detecting movement. I sit and eat and watch. It is one of my life
long desires to see a mountain lion. But not today; except for falling snow it
is completely still. In short time a chill sets into me, my hands begin to
hurt, and I decide to get moving. Cold is a curious sensation, one that’s good
to get used to, to be at peace with in the wilds in winter. Once moving however,
warmth comes quickly and it is a relief.
At the creek, again I
stop to listen but only for a moment. I continue, but in a few steps, hesitate
and return to the creek. The sound is too beautiful to rush. I stand and listen
and there are voices, sweet singsong warbles. But only a few moments of
stillness are enough for the cold to creep into me so I leave. Three steps away
from the creek the singing is lost. I remember a campsite by a waterfall on the
Moose River in the backwoods of Maine. Two days of the voices in that water
nearly drove us mad. It continues to snow as I hike out of the canyon. On the
relatively bare north slope I pick up a sweet spicy scent, just like sweet
fern. But there are no ferns. Perhaps it is the burnt Ponderosa, or something
else. It is a lovely, fleeting smell.
Out of the canyon and
onto the mesa the snowfall intensifies, visibility drops, my world is limited
to the immediate surroundings, ethereal ghosts of Ponderosas drift in and out
of sight. Suddenly a small opening in the clouds lets the sun through. The
falling snow glitters brilliant. The clouds close again and all shifts back to
dull monochrome. The movement of the flakes again mesmerizes.
Gordon Bunker
