The Savory Spice Shop

“A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”

Will Rogers

For those of us who like to cook and more importantly, eat, there’s a gem on Galisteo Street.

Good fortune visited one day by my simply being downwind of The Savory Spice Shop. The aroma greeted me well before I made it to door. Complex, rich, pungent, aromatic, it was all there, a world of smells. What is this? My sensory horizon shifted in an intriguing way. Stepping inside, I saw row upon row, jars of spices of all description. Owner Kate Wheeler greeted me in her friendly Scot manner, with a gleam suggesting she’s always on the verge of some kind of mischief.

I’d been tweaking a recipe for gingerbread cake and was looking for powdered and candied ginger with some kick. The woman helping me asked, “what will you be making with the ginger?”

“Gingerbread cake,” I said.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “you better bring some for us!”

“I might just do that,” I said.

This little tease was all I needed. A few hours later I reappeared with two big chunks of the cake, still warm, with the zest I was looking for. The expressions on everyone’s faces were priceless, and I’ve practically been family ever since. Tremendous fun! Since then I’ve had a chance to get to know Kate and the Spicettes a little bit.

Kate has a Culinary Arts degree from Johnson & Wales University, has cheffed for a number of restaurants, and one of her sidekicks, Lydia, is a chocolatier. Of particular note, for seven months Kate did the cooking at McMurdo Station in Antarctica, “In the summer,” she says, “yeah, not crazy. A little crazy, not a lot crazy.” With an average low in the mid-twenties, below zero, winter in Antarctica has to be a lot crazy.

About ten years ago, “I stumbled onto Savory on a first date with my now husband Drew,” says Kate. “I fell in love with both and a week later had the job and had the man.” Kate became employee #3 at store #1 in Denver as a Grinder and Blender which is another way of saying she started at the ground level (no pun intended), and has worked her way up. A little over a year ago, says Kate, “it was time to start my own dream.” They moved to Santa Fe and opened the current location.

Since my initial foray into gingerbread I’ve moved on to other savory treats, and found cinnamon, poppy seeds, cayenne and sage, cardamom and I can’t remember how many others, more aromatic, more flavorful, and more interesting than anything from the shelf at the grocery store. Now I’m on to making my own garam masala and curry from scratch. Like, wake up those taste buds!

Kate and crew also teach cooking classes for up to fourteen students, everything from Spice 101 to Sauce Class to Sephardic Moroccan. “It’s a demonstration class,” says Kate, “so I cook for them and feed them, because that’s one of my favorite things to do.” With Kate at the helm these classes have to be a lot of fun; one of these days I have to take one. Heck, I just want to eat.

Gordon Bunker

The Dictionary and The Pawnshop

The world is filled with things we don’t yet know we’re interested in, which for those of us with explorer mentalities is the fuel for the fire. The dictionary in my computer gives me one word at a time, and out of convenience I use it almost every day. But a printed version, of which I have a few, gives me a hundred or so words at a pop, and this why I love them.

Is a potato a tuber? I’m editing a document claiming it is, but for some reason I have rhizome stuck in my brain. I need to know which it is, but I’m out for a coffee and my phone is not a “smart” one. Not particularly dumb, but not smart. Writing in “rhizome?” will have to suffice. When I get home my curiosity has me, the laptop is shut down, so I go to the shelf and pull out my copy of The American Heritage Dictionary, blow the dust off the top and open it. The binding cracks, it’s been a while.

Looking up potato seems like a good place to start and the thumb cut for “OP” gets me pretty close. I open to the pages for “Pathan” through “pay.” As I write this, Word’s spellcheck doesn’t know what a Pathan is and gives it a red underline. Huh. Must get a note to Bill about this oversight. Fully aware I won’t find a potato here, I scan the pages anyway, thinking, “Wow, look at all these cool words!” Patisserie, patriclinous, patroon, patulous, pavid and pawnshop, to name a few. A patroon, by the way is “A landholder in New York and New Jersey who was granted certain proprietary and manorial powers under Dutch colonial rule.” Just sayin’… after all, you never know when this one might come up.

In the far right margin are black and white photos of a pawl and a pawnshop. I get out a magnifying glass for a closer look. The pawnshop is Uncle Ned’s Money To Loan. Oh, this is too good, I want to know about this place so turn on the laptop. Uncle Ned’s used to be on Washington St. in Boston. An interesting coincidence, Houghton Mifflin Company published the dictionary, and they’re a Boston institution if there ever was one…

I can see Carole, the picture editor, right up against the deadline and Jeff walks by her door. Jeff, a sweet Midwest kid, is a summer intern from Cranbrook. Pawnshop is clearly on the photo list for the dictionary, all the others are checked off, but not that one. How did this happen? “Damn it,” Carole hisses under her breath. No time now to get one from a stock agency. “Jeffery!” she shouts. Jeff does an abrupt about face. “In my office, please.” Carole is already digging through her bottom desk drawer for the camera, she beckons Jeff into the teetering stacks of contact sheets, prints and manila envelopes otherwise known as her office with a vague wave of her hand. She spies the camera underneath her lunch and yanks it out of the drawer by the neck strap, forgetting there’s a ripe peach in the paper sack along with her standby peanut butter and pickle sandwich. The sack falls to the bottom with a moist “plop.” Jeff’s standing there gawking at her, wondering if he’s in trouble.

“Jeffery, we need a picture of a pawnshop. As of yesterday.” This is before digital and she’s sweating it. She thrusts the camera in Jeff’s general direction. “And get the film to the lab before they raise the drawbridge!”

It’s 11 a.m. Everyone knows the in-house lab closes at 3, and those guys understand the meaning of punctual. (“The door locks at 3 p.m., got that?” the lab manager made quite clear to Jeffery when Carole was introducing him around on his first day.)

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Jeff, smiling, albeit meekly. “Any particular pawnshop?”

“No,” says Carole. It feels like yesterday she was an intern at HMCo., and now this one’s calling her “Ma’am.” She peers at him over her spectacles and purses her lips into a smirk. The kid’s looking a little bewildered. “Now go!” Jeff skidaddles, and she calls, “thank you…” as he vanishes down the hallway.

On his way by the copier, Jeff stashes the paperwork he was taking over to Pronunciations in his mail tray. He runs out the door with the old Pentax swinging around his neck. “This could be my lucky break,” he thinks. He stops short on the sidewalk, amid the crush of people, most in smart business attire, and the traffic. Downtown Boston traffic. “But where am I going to find a pawnshop?” he asks no one in particular. A man in a three-piece suit walking by turns and says, “Southie,” without skipping a beat. Jeff’s a smart kid and has started learning his way around, so he heads for Tufts to catch the Orange Line for the South End.

The wheels of the hard worn Pullman howl on the track, the car pitches from side to side. Lurching along, Jeff pops the cap off the camera lens. It is filthy. He pulls out one of his shirt-tails. This is not how they taught him in school, but this is no time to stand on ceremony. He blows on the lens, then breathes on it and then gently wipes it with his shirt tail. It’s an improvement. He checks the light meter and it works, then advances the film thinking he’ll take a test shot. The thumb lever cranks around too easily. He studies the camera for a minute before it dawns on him, “Oh crap! Is there film in this thing?” he says. The grizzled old-timer hunched across from him with a tattered Macy’s shopping bag between his legs looks up. Jeff cranks the rewind knob and there’s no tension. “Crap!” he repeats and stamps his foot. Now he’s on the train to Roxbury, on his first big assignment with a camera but no film. Somewhere, somewhere there has to be a place to buy film in Roxbury.

But Jeff doesn’t make it to Roxbury. From the elevated track he can see the South End is not what he’s used to. Forlorn people, seemingly without purpose walk the streets. Junk cars, places of unsavory business. As the train presses on, rather than seeing any indication things are getting better, by the minute they’re looking worse. The train stops at Northampton. This neighborhood is downright rough. Other passengers get on the train and sit down, some blankly stare at him. Jeff looks at himself. Nice button down shirt, khakis, and his favorite Top-Siders, and no, he’d tucked his shirt back in. He looks around at the people and smiles, but they do not smile back. Although one young woman is grinning, a thread of friendliness, he hopes. When Jeff makes eye contact with her he blushes. She snickers, he waves and slowly she turns to look out the window, shaking her head. “I’d like to get out of here,” Jeff thinks.

The train remains stopped for what feels like forever. He studies the storefronts, Skippy White’s Records is the one cheery place all painted up. But CD’s are in and LP’s are out; Skippy, poor guy, must be headed down the drain. Just as the train starts to move he sees next to Skippy’s, Uncle Ned’s Money… He strains his neck but the view is lost. Could that have been a pawnshop? Rolling along, Jeff feels hot and antsy, it might just be worth taking the chance. He gets off the train at Dudley Station, he’ll walk back, it’s no more than four blocks. With some luck he’ll find a place that sells film and Uncle Ned’s will save the day.

With the usual bounce in his step he runs down the stairs from the elevated platform, he’s on a mission. But now he’s on the street, and in the scene. Watching it flash by from the train was one thing; this is another. It’s dirty, there are bad smells. Trash blows around and pigeons skitter. Listless panhandlers sitting in doorways call to him for money. “Bud, spare some change… my car’s broken down and…” He shakes his head and keeps moving. A man is curled up on the sidewalk, in full sun with a newspaper draped over his head and he does not move. A stream of dark yellow urine trickles across the pavement into the gutter. Jeff’s heart is pounding, gripped in fear and pain he’s on the verge of tears. An inbound train crashes by overhead, he wishes he was on it.

He hurries on his way, scanning the storefronts for a place to buy film, and spots a sign down a side street with big red letters: CVS. Making a beeline for it, he ducks in, it’s air conditioned and a lot of people are milling about, they’ve brought their sweet and sour smells in with them. People are lined up waiting to have prescriptions filled, the pharmacists work behind steel bars and thick safety-wired glass windows. There’s a bullet hole in one of them. Red-faced men and women with their bottles wait patiently at the liquor checkout. A sign says, “WE CARD.” Jeff doesn’t see a photo section, so nervously walks up a clerk who’s stocking magazines.

The clerk gives him an gauging look. “Hey man,” he says in a voice as graveled and deep as his face is lined. A cigarette dangles from his lips.

“Excuse me, do you sell film?” asks Jeff.

“Used to.” The man mashes a dozen copies of Tiger Beat into the rack. Jeff starts to turn. “Wait a minute,” says the man, “we might have some leftovers out back.” Rubbing his hands together in a cunning way, he says, “follow me.” Jeff tags along with him to the back of the store. The man presses a sequence of numbers into a lock on the storeroom door and pulls it open. “Wait here.”

Jeff looks around. Racks of asthma inhalers, pain relievers, sleeping pills… humidifiers, bottles of bright green mouth wash, condoms, diapers, light bulbs, hair color, laundry detergent, motor oil, rows of nail polish, every color of the rainbow.

Another clerk comes out of the storeroom, a sweaty plump woman with long wavy black hair. She looks Jeff up and down, sucks her teeth, says nothing, and saunters away. The man comes back with a dusty cardboard box. “This’s what we got,” he says, holding it out for Jeff to dig through. Jeff sees a spot of green among the little yellow boxes. He grabs it, a roll of Tri-X, exactly what he’s looking for. He studies it, the film is out of date but he knows it will work.

“I’ll take this,” he says, smiling broadly, holding up the box. But a wave of apprehension fires through him. “What do I owe you?” he asks, knowing the man might gouge him.

The man looks at him, narrows his eyes but then smiles. “Take it,” he says. An ash falls off his cigarette into the box. “Put it in your pocket and get outta here.”

Jeff’s hand shakes as he stuffs the film in his pocket. “Thank you, Sir!” But as soon as he’s spoken he knows this alone has made too big a deal of it.

The man doesn’t look at him. He nods his heavy head once and starts unlocking the door again. “Kid. Just get outta here.” And he disappears.

Back on the street Jeff finds a doorway to sit in for a moment and loads the film in the Pentax. He clicks the back of the camera shut, advances a few frames and with this feels much, much better. He jumps up and is again on his way. In the midst of all this hardship and suffering he found a friendly and generous person. He has a block to go, and there is Uncle Ned’s… Money To Loan. It is a pawnshop.

A big LTD coupe is parked in the shade of the elevated. It’s gold metallic, it has lots of chrome and it is polished and dazzling. Three gold balls hang from the inside mirror, it must be Uncle Ned’s car. An outbound train grinds to a stop overhead. Jeff picks his best spot to shoot the picture. A man loiters by the door, studying the window display. Ned is inside, feather dusting the jewelry chest with mother of pearl inlay, the off-brand boom box and the prize Fender bass on display in the window. He looks out and sees a kid on the street, too clean-cut to be from here, with a camera. Slowly the kid raises it to his eye, he’s taking a picture of the store. Too young to be IRS.

Without thinking about it, Ned straightens his tie. He has class.

.   .   .

Uncle Ned’s is no longer, Skippy White’s is still in business at a new location and a potato is a tuber. I’m still thinking about rhizomes and remember visiting the Wentworth-Coolidge mansion on the New Hampshire seacoast. In a heavy morning fog stood the first lilac to come to North America, gnarled but alive and well, dripping, resplendent in the fragrance of deep amethyst bloom. At least I think lilacs have rhizomes.

And lest we forget, the Pathan: “An Afghan, especially one of Indo-Iranian stock and Moslem religion.”

Gordon Bunker

Daria's Birthday Party

The sun stares relentlessly through a shocking, high-desert blue sky, it’s turning into a hot afternoon. Anticipating it will be cooler in the mountains I decide to open the car windows and forgo the AC. The thermometer in the car reads 86º F., and making my way along Hyde Park Road to the Santa Fe Ski Basin, it’s not dropping fast enough, the interior of the car is roasting. With the heat, and every bump and curve in the road, my cupcake anxiety ratchets up a notch.

I’m bringing cupcakes and wine. Really, for any occasion, could there be a better combination? By the time I get to Black Canyon I can’t stand it any longer so pull over to check on my little carrot cake creations. With images in mind of melted frosting and cupcakes strewn in all directions, I pop the rear hatch, brace myself, and take a look. The dozen cakes stare up at me from the foil-lined box, sitting just as I had placed them. What a relief! Worries cast aside I continue, at a very relaxed pace which makes for an unusually mellow, smell-the-roses, drive.

I’ve been known to take this twisting hill climb with right foot mashed on the gas pedal and hands full of steering wheel and gear shift, as close to the limit of the tire’s adhesion as I’m willing to take it, and loving every minute. The saying, “It’s better to drive a slow car fast than a fast car slow,” is true. Given my propensity for speed, it comes as complete, sweet, poetic justice that a motorhome should storm up behind me, filling my rearview mirror. Pushy, pushy. The poor motorhome pilot’s speedy forward progress is impeded by the slow-going vehicle firmly planted before him. Tisk, tisk. With the tables so turned, I grin and take my time.

The altitude at the lower Ski Basin parking lot is over 10,000 feet, and the temperature is a refreshing 74º. Daria’s car is parked at the perimeter, and tents and camping accouterments are set up at a site right next to it, but no one is around. This is all fine and well - Daria told me she and fellow partiers would probably be out for a hike. Walking into the campsite with box of cupcakes in hand, I realize there’s nothing about the setup clearly identifying it as Daria’s. There’s a good chance I’m wandering into the unoccupied territory of some other party, which could become awkward. Boxes of artist’s brushes and paints however, are mixed in with the bottles of water, camp stove, cooking pots and paper towels on the picnic table, so figuring it’s a safe bet, I set the cupcakes on the tabletop. If it proves otherwise, I’ll give the barged-in-upon strangers a cake or three in parting. That should smooth any ruffled feathers. A small camp chair sits by the stream, so I go back to the car, get my book and set myself comfortably to reading.

Mountain air, a babbling brook, relaxation, and I didn’t sleep well last night, so nodding off is a real possibility. In fifteen or so minutes, to my relief, Daria, her dog Spike, and her friend Lisa come walking up. There are happy birthday wishes and hugs, and as they’ve just hiked Deception Peak without any lunch they are famished. Lisa carves up a watermelon, cold from sitting in the stream. We munch the sweet and juicy chunks while Daria cracks open an ice-cold Heineken tall-boy which we share, and sets to heating homemade rice pilaf on the stove. She asks me if I’d like some, and given she’s a great cook and I am a bit peckish I’m all for it.

Tall spruce trees shade the site, we sip the beer, catch up on what’s been going on, the rice pilaf steams in the pan, and so a great summer time begins. I open the wine, a Petit Sirah, and pour it around, the color a luscious and deep blueberry-red. The grapes on the vine must be beautiful. Daria serves the pilaf. She ladles some on my plate, I indicate this is enough and she adds another spoonful. Daria always does this, it’s very sweet. She could be trying to fatten me up… and she could be succeeding. Somehow I always manage to clean my plate without any trouble.

There are also the makings for shish kebab, but we have no skewers or firewood. Daria and Lisa are still hungry so Daria improvises, sautéing some of the marinated pork and slices of zucchini squash. We continue to nosh, polish off the wine and move on to the cupcakes which are met with favorable reviews. Reinforcements arrive in the nick of time, it’s Daria’s son Dave and his buddy Tom, and they, being young men are happy to crash around the forest and gather firewood. Lucy shows up with a kale salad, Dave and Tom get a fire going and we are in business.

Afternoon fades into evening as we hang out and feast. The pork cooked over the open fire, succulent and sizzling, is delicious. Daria makes use of the aluminum foil from the cupcake box (the cakes are nearly gone) to wrap potatoes for roasting in the fire. Once wrapped she places them in the coals, and after a while, with sticks and quick jabs of the fingers, Dave and Tom turn them.

With darkness the temperature plummets and we sit close to the fire. Looking up through the canopy of trees, the dark sky is a blaze of stars. The potatoes are done, Daria hands one to each of us. I unwrap mine and munch on it, steaming, the flavor is earthy, this ancient food staple is so simple and satisfying. The French call a potato, pomme de terre or “apple of the earth.” Indeed.

Daria gets her guitar and starts to play. She sings a series of Russian folk songs, in Russian, her native tongue. One song builds to a crescendo, then she slaps the body of the guitar and stops, I think this is the end, but no, in a few seconds she starts and again, quietly, slowly, the song builds. It goes through this cycle a few times, when it ends with a flourish, she identifies it as a, “Gypsy song.” The songs have been beautiful to listen to, haunting, each a connection to a place and culture largely unknown to me. Daria then becomes quiet. I look at her, she is gazing into the fire, a long distant gaze perhaps thousands of miles to home. No doubt some part of her heart still belongs to Russia.

The hour is late, I give my thanks and head for home. Here and there deer browse green thickets by the road. They are content to eat and I am content to pass slowly and without incident. Driving the twists and turns in the flood of high beam light is dynamic and engaging. Even without cupcakes or motorhomes, there are the deer, so I enjoy the drive in a slo-mo rally way.

My first glimpse of city lights through the trees I mistake for being fire. For an instant, a powerful alarm rises from deep within. Now, driving through downtown Santa Fe, the place is alive with people on the streets, it’s nice to see them out enjoying this summer night. Yet, after sharing a fire in the woods with friends, feeling if only briefly a bit of the Gypsy life, this built environment seems oddly remote from what matters. It’s warmer here, I open the car windows, air floods in, laden with a pungent mix of city smells. When I get to my place I look up to the sky. Only the brightest stars show.

Gordon Bunker

Backcountry, Part III

Snug in my sleeping bag, opening my eyes in that first moment of waking up, it’s not so much a thought as a feeling that I want to stay here. This place has a way of getting into me, of holding me in its arms, it’s a feeling of being loved.

But today, our third, is the day we leave. Kathleen and Tom are rustling, I roll over, do I have to?... I get out of my warm nest, pull on my clothes and boots, slither out of the tent and check in with the world. Parts of me, some I didn’t even know I have, hurt. The sun is shining on the very top of the west wall. It will be a while before it reaches us, but standing here, shivering in the cold greyness it’s good to know it’s on the way.

My sister once told me there are only three people she will hike with: her husband, her best friend and me. At the time this struck me as awfully exclusive, but in recent years I’ve come to appreciate her point of view. As we gather around the table rock, all a little grumbly, all, no big surprise, looking like we’ve spent a night sleeping on the ground, I can’t imagine doing this with people I don’t know. We crack a few small jokes and get to heating water. We’re in this together, standing in the chill, yearning the magic of hot coffee and tea.

We needn’t rush, but with leaving on our minds we set ourselves into motion. The hold of the place, the spell, is slowly disintegrating. After breakfast we start breaking camp and I return to the stream to wash my face. The squatting here, the icy water and the sounds are like yesterday, but it is early enough there is no sun. And so it is cold. I think about and savor the memory of the sun soaking into my back, the warmth and comfort, but what I feel is only a faint glimmer of the real thing. I pry myself away from the stream. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

I take down my tent, pulling stakes as it were, and fold the sheets of delicate fabric. Amid the faint clatter of activity I look over to where Kathleen and Tom are doing the same. Their tent is down, it seems now a great void. What was there in that space, the presence, is not. Something more profound than a tent is missing as slowly we are disappearing. Breaking camp. That word: breaking. In a small way, my heart is breaking. I get on with folding and rolling and stuffing my gear into my pack, and lug it over to where Kathleen and Tom are finishing up.

I ask if there’s any community item I can carry and Kathleen holds up the cook pot. I need some levity so take the pot which is made of titanium and weighing of a feather, but handle it as though it weighs a cement block and we all have a laugh. I stash it away, close my pack, hoist it up and put my back into it. The load is a few pounds less than when we walked in here and this is ok. The pack fits me perfectly, it actually feels good putting it on.

Time to go. I scan the surroundings one last time to be sure not the slightest little doo-dad is left behind. All that remains of our time here are some bent grasses and the chunk of obsidian on the table rock, and perhaps as the ancestral people did, we have left some part of our spirits. This makes me feel better, for our time here has been joyous and our spirits good.

Hiking, getting the blood moving, is a relief. The ancient, simple work of putting my body into the weight on my back feels good. Rewinding our hike, what was behind is now before, the morning is fresh and so is our perspective. Down canyon we stop and admire some beautifully curved vaulting in an escarpment of rock. As though formed by the careful swipe of a comb, the columns hang there in perfect order, still and quiet. None of us noticed this on the way in.

Rows of cirrus clouds march across the deep blue sky, “mare’s tails” they’re called. We’re up above the Rio Grande, I hear red wing blackbirds call and a strange plaintive hoot. Just one voice, not the honk of a goose or the quack of a duck and I never see the source. Just one odd hoot now and again, without answer, spreading out across the gorge. Coming to Kiva House we take a short break, which although welcome is dangerous for me. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, I immediately feel the same tugging of the place as earlier this morning. I sit in the shade and wonder, why can’t we just stay here? Instead, we decide to push for the mesa top between Lummis and Frijoles Canyons before we stop for lunch. And so we get moving, create momentum, there’s lead in my boots that’s slow to go away.

We walk the country, in and out of canyons, pick our way up and down rock escarpments, follow contours around hillsides. We become quiet, each in our own worlds sharing the pace. When we reach the mesa top Kathleen comments on this past section of the hike feeling like a long haul. For me, the haul is before us, even though without any big ascents it’s the long trek across the mesa. It’s about noon and calm, and suddenly hot. The sun is directly overhead and shade is hard to find. Finally we locate a large juniper on a slope providing a small cool nook, it’s lunchtime. Hungry and fatigued, it feels good to get out of the pack for a while. I eat my last hard-boiled egg and piece of cheese. I peck at the few remaining odd bits of trail mix.

With lunch in me, sitting in a shady spot with the long haul smack dab in front of me… again, can’t we just stay here? I mean after all… I don’t see Kathleen or Tom exactly jumping up and putting on their packs and chomping at the bit, so I guess I’m not alone. We hang for a few moments but inevitably begin to stir. So ok… putting on my pack, I recall a lesson from yoga: the mind gives out before the body. It will be the better part of four miles and four hundred feet elevation gain to the rim of Frijoles Canyon. We get moving, there are parts of me starting to hurt. Right now would be a good time to be four years old again, so I could get away with a few minutes of excessive pouting and whining. Instead I discipline and strengthen my mind to this walk ahead of me. We find a pace and move quietly.

We pause at the place where the big snake used to be and are relieved there is no snake, big or small, here today. We move on, we are in cruise mode, steps turn to miles.

Reaching the rim of Frijoles Canyon I am long-haul-whooped. I am having beer thoughts. Correction, make that cold beer thoughts. Standing on the rim for a moment, we are greeted by the sounds of some mindless machine laboring against a load, probably a backhoe, and a car horn tooting the two strangled little toots they give when someone is locking or unlocking the vehicle with the remote. Even when I’m fresh and perky and having a great day, those two strangled horn toots bug me. What ever happened to a simple click? Then a child cries, screams bloody murder over what? Not getting the eighteenth Tootsie Roll for the day? For a moment I consider turning around, and running, ok, hobbling, back up on the mesa, sitting myself down and staying there. This is what a few days in the back country does to me. That first exposure to the madding crowd is just so jarring.

I consider my options, which frankly are limited, as in no food or water. Like that wolf, the first one to edge close to the human, hesitate, quiver in its thought processes, the tidbit is snatched from the human’s fingers, the choice, the trade-off, the relinquishment of wildness to domesticity… the push the pull, millennia distill to the briefest instant as it all runs through my veins.

Ok, civilization has a few redeeming qualities. But only a few. Domestic hot water for instance, like, for the purpose of a hot shower. A hot shower? Ok, you got me, I am a domestic creature. Then there’s refrigeration. Sounds like a yin yang thing… hot shower / cold beer. How about a cold beer while standing in the hot shower? Ok, ok, now you really got me. I squint my eyes, steel myself for the assaults of civilization and step off the rim and into the canyon. I snatch the tidbit, and it’s a steep and quick descent from there. Turning the last bend, Kathleen and Tom stand on either side of the trail at the trailhead. They raise their hiking poles creating an arch for me to walk under. These guys are true-blues. We give each other high fives.

On the drive back to Santa Fe we get stuck in a traffic jam. It takes us and everyone else an hour to cover a quarter-mile. “Cold beer hot shower, cold beer hot shower,” becomes my mantra. And all the while images of Capulin Canyon float in my mind, simply and quietly being the exquisite place it is.

Gordon Bunker