The Gods Are Small Things

Again we begin from Ponderosa campground; perhaps it is the cacoon-like warmth of the Ranger's Chevy Jalopasaurus Rex that ferries me to the trail head that is so inviting. I also have found -- 2 hikes past this one, all starting from Ponderosa -- that I enjoy the nonstop 1.5 mile downhill bomb to get to the bottom of the canyon immensely. If breakfast was questionable, then this bombastic march to the Upper Crossing reminds me in no uncertain terms that a side trip to the poopatorium is in order.

This time, up we go the west side of Frijoles canyon and along the Frijoles Rim trail, simply following the wiggles and second thoughts of yesterdays valley trail, but several hundred feet above. As usual, I have gotten a late start, what with the bacon, eggs, and subsequent ceremony, and by then time I crawl up out of the canyon, things are beginning to stickify a bit.

I have time to inspect the earth, as it is easier to look at than the sky; today's lesson shall be about small things -- even the godlike canyons we shall view as though huddled burrowing owls.

The prickly pears are attractive in their defense, and I remembered that not a one in the wide cousinship of the cactus is harmful to eat, and thus begins the first dalliance of the day. Two are eaten, one with far better results and far fewer thorns in the lip. I find that, of the two, the younger and plumper is the more palatable, and apply inductive reasoning to make a sweeping stereotype: what looks to be old and stringy tastes old and stringy. The young one, however, has a taste and texture quite reminiscent of eggplant, and I imagine that fried in butter and judiciously salted, it would be marvelous.

Onwards, carried by my wondrous 7-league boots. They are not the most modern conveyance, but they are speedy; the miles fly by without notice. What seems to be some sort of turd in my path (this topic also seems to be cropping up remarkably fast...) gives a hiss, a blat, and makes a dash for my toes. There it rests, silly little creature, confident in its camoflage at the feet of a colossus. It is a Greater Short-Horned Lizard, Phrynosoma hernandesi, puffed up to give a hair-raising impersonation of a half-dollar piece that wishes to swallow you whole. These opportunistic gluttons are known to gorge themselves on one single kind of prey -- for the world may be barren tomorrow -- and sure enough, within feet of the little monster is an ant metropolis, the lizard a would-be Godzilla. I like his grin immensely; this seems to be his out of practice meet-and-greet face. I moved him toward the unsuspecting ants as a token of my esteem.

I choose a different way to descend back into Frijoles canyon than usual, taking me by the Frijolito ruins. I am curious about what all these beans were doing in one place to begin with, and why the canyon bears the name. The is an excavated ruin up along the distant side of the canyon, with many of the same features that have been unearthed and trod into dust along the paved, self guided loop down below. As it is only 1.5 miles from the trail head, it is not nearly as pristine as the Yapashi ruins, a good 6 mile trek from the same trail head. But you are saved the whining babies, the smudged wrappers of the constantly-eating dough-children, and the tedious "stand there honey...ooh, that's peachy!" comments that so plague the lower, more obviously fantastic ruins. There is an air of solitary peace, and I have the sense that perhaps I shouldn't be taking pictures to begin with. But I remind myself that I am worshipping at this ancient temple, if in no other way than trying to feel the passage of time rush over my skin, and I am transformed by the transposition of the ancient everyday onto the modern wonder. Passers-by leave little piles of findings; shards of pottery, bits of bone, all housing fodder for yet more ants.

-Concludes your humble narrator

Under, and Softly

I seem to be heavy-handed with the camera, thumbing off rounds before the old ones even make it on to here. These are from a few days ago, and a hike from Ponderosa Campground, up at the north border of the park, down to what the suits' like to call HQ. Its a pleasant little swing of about 6.5 miles, dipping from above Frijoles canyon down to the bottom, and then following the surprisingly busy little stream down through remaining snow fields.

Slicing through the porous red sandstone, the water has cut a silent city of overhanging gardens, and at times, were your feet numb enough, you could wade under a shambling causeway of rubble or stand in que in a naturally hollowed out hamburger drive-through.

The softness of the rock is not uniform, however, and erosion produces martian topiaries of endless variation. A rather ubiquitous result is the tent rock formation; more on that later.

Infanta Se

First things first. It is becoming increasingly clear that I am able to do only one of two things. I simply can not uphold the sparkling epitome of scrivened clarity that pervades these pages to a large degree, at least not while I am your man-on-the-ground and I still have my humble dignity.

So you will have to take your pick: would you have the worthy bard, elevating and transforming your very optic nerves by dint of descriptive voracity? Or would you prefer the to-the-quick investigative intuition that, by the glim of dripping wax candle set upon knowing green visor, illuminates and envelopes the truth in much the same way the nightly-daily enfolds a fresh flounder fillet?

One or the other, my friends, one or the other -- but stay, we shall suspend such a weighty interdiction 'til its moment comes.

In the meantime....

Friday signified Saturday, in much the same way Thursday signified Friday, and on FridaySaturday, it was off to Santa Fe; ole'! I drove down with Dale and his wife, to see the sights and poke the ruins, maybe nudge the odd celebrity rib or two.

We walked all over the old center of town, past the Palace of the Governor, past la Iglesia di San Miguel, past the seller of the seemingly plastic jewelry. My reflexes, still torpid in the brisk chill of the morning, were not what they should have been, and for the most part, you'll just have to take my word for it.

The church of San Miguel was built in 1610, with only stone buttresses added in the 1860's, a testament to the solidly smeared adobe buildings that still survive all over old Santa Fe. Directly next door squatted a humbly slung casa that was signed (next door, under the "Fine Jewelry Here and ATM") the oldest surviving home in the United States, its 3-foot thick walls dated to 1640.

From this heady history, it was onward to. . . .

the Toyota dealership. See, there was this sale going on, down at the mall, and Dale's son just turned 15, and. . .

Anyhoo, I test-drove a Scion XB, hum-ho-ing and what-what-here-ing, twiddling dials and feigning marked impress at the mighty grip of so unassuming an emergency brake, until I drove the poor lamprey with his clipboard to distraction, and then we almost ran out of gas. I am not the proud owner, although I said I would be in touch, and left him with the phone number of one Doron Taussig, my old stand-by. One keen aside; Rumsfeld's daughter looked downright shabby, haggling with the sales-eels over the trade-in value of her '87 Hyundai.

Following a brief wrestling match of the natural food variety at Trader Joe's, where I loaded up on healthy and tasteless grains to hump into the backcountry on wednesday, it was home again jiggity-jog, to Dales house and a fine dinner with his family. I stayed up until 10:30 playing basketball in the back yard with his 2 boys, 12 and 15, and their neighborhood friends. I had shaved that morning, and they were astounded and not a little perplexed to find I am not in fact 17, but. . . . It did take some of the triumph out of my thundering dunks over their whiskerless faces, but it was marvelous anyway; a wormhole back to Long Island and hot summer nights spent fiddling about under the street lamp with the whole bucktoothed group from the block.

Sabina, Dale's wife, gave me a pot of honey from her bees, and the scent of juniper and pinyon pervades the aroma. Then, laden with bruises, honey, and books, stuffed with cookies and beer, I was driven home to the dark welcoming whisper of my cabin, and without peeling the sticky shirt off my back, fell deeply, profoundly, asleep.

Contra Bon Temps

I read a piece yesterday about drunken elephants that rampage in an all-too-human way, and several of them that pushed over an electric pole and sizzled to death. So crazy and also so sad. Then I read a piece today about camels in Australia going crazy from thirst, of all things. Animals have it bad with us in charge.
I have still not gotten out to my cabino -- that will be next wednesday -- but today I went on my first long solo backcountry hike of this stay, out to another remote canyon in the park, Alamo canyon.
I hiked up out of Beans canyon, above the Long House, that series of raised dwellings, and then up over the mesa. Another hiker took my picture, but nicely cut my head off.
Alamo canyon is more abrupt and deeper than Beans; you come upon it suddenly and it is breathtaking. But what I want to show you is this. I was sitting on a rocky promontory, a finger sticking out. I looked back, and in the late afternoon sun, even small things picked up shadow and depth. Otherwise, I would never have seen the carvings on the face of the cliff about 15 feet down. They were absolutely incredible. A series of lizards, the onmipresent snake which has been described as a creation myth character, and many suns. Also a figure I have not seen before, a little like a troll head with buckwheat hair. I am sure these petroglyghs have been seen before, even tho they are off the beaten path, but I am positive that they are not seen often. After I scrambled down and was right in front of them, they were invisible. It was only in the low side-light that they picked up contrast and stood out. It was such lucky happenstance.
Then to top it off, I re-named a geologic cluster on the far wall of the canyon "The Noses", for obvious reasons. And then I went home.

Emboldening Colors

aha
i have figured out how to haggle my way onto the gubmint photo sharing device. no doubt i shall be added to the no-fly list for this one.
Some illustrative gumbo from my first week here on the ole' ranch of Ignatz and Krazy; let us delve right in to our elbows. These hark from a hike down into lower Frijoles Canyon -- which shall be hencefoth referred to in the English only -- past a waterfall or 2, to the murky and boobling rio grande, home of the nuclear catfish. Snow is still pretty deep up in the hills; earlier in the day, up on Cerro Grande -- the highest point in the park -- Dale my ranger friend and I, not content to let evil-doers rest unpunished, detected the footprints of human and .......DOG!! So we tracked the nefarious canine sympathizers up to the top of Cerro, in a merry little loop all the while through knee-thigh deep wet snow that we were postholing, or sinking up to our eyeballs in, and then back down, only to find, to Dale's chagrin and my relief and amusement, that they had cunningly been but a few steps ahead of the entire time, outwitting and outslogging two (2!) of Bandelier's Finest. I postulated that it was quite possible it had all been a daring ruse, clearing the path for increased canine activity at the base in our absence. I also don't care one way or the other, and the sight of a grown man equipped with badge and gun gallumping off into snow-drifts after a poodle makes me laugh. The story was told ad infinitum around the water cooler and donut rack back at headquarters; can you believe they had the gall, those boys?

Also featured; Dale's recount of his days with "The Special Ops", apparently a crack squadron, handpicked from the ranks of Abert squirrels and mule deer, at the beck and call of the federal government to apply ultra-super-duper security at certain events, like the fourth of July and the Annual Lower Mesa Jelly Wobble. The Brown Berets', if you like -- the kicker was the back when they had been called to the dedication of a Native American memorial at the site of Custers' memorial. The third day of the event, featuring speeches by members of the Lakota, Crow, and Sioux tribes, was shaken to its very core by the arrival of scores of jeering Custers' that converged on the spot in rusty pickup trucks, sporting all shades of moth-eaten costume and mustache. Nothing happened, but it could have.
The last 2 pictures are of a couple of petroglyphs, and my winterhome cabin, at the base of the now Anglicized mid-Beans Canyon. Yesterday Dale took me out to a teeny trail right next to the highway underneath Los Alamos. We walked out about 1/4 of a mile, and there were caves with the most incredible, UNTOUCHED cave art. There was one with an enormous depiction of a hunter with a giant erection spearing a buffalo, all across the ceiling of the cave. All the ones I have seen in the park so far are defaced to some degree, and he says these are untouched because nobody knows they are there, and that there are literally thousands like this all over. I cant wait till I get out into the backcountry to my cabin and start exploring; it will be mid next week. Sent me a post card, let me know where you are. The smell of the resurgence of living things in the spring desert sun is incredible; you can see life beating in the air.

Of softness, light, and Negro Modelo

Hello friends
I am just now today waking out the deepest and most snot-filled stupor ever, 4 days after getting here. A combination of no sleep, altitude change (this place is higher than Denver) and whirligig juniper pollen all up in mah grille, made me feel like I wanted to puke marshmallows for 3 straight days. I saw an old friend in New York, stayed at her house, and was surprised at how little I had to say to her; I went with her to some bar in Brooklyn the night before I left, and instead of attempting to talk to the artfully wrapped and clad beeyootiful people there, I bough a pack of smokes and befriended a tiny Brazilian on the stoop, whose name was Sol and could have fit in my pocket. Then, after supposedly sleeping for 1 hour to get up and take a taxi to the airport, I slept way way late, rushed out the door in my underpants, and promptly had an ATM eat my card because it was so cold, or so they told me. So I had to regroup back to a less than impressed friends house, cancel my flight, wait til the bank opened to claim my card, and take a later plane. The first 2 days here I stumbled through whatever beurocratic poop I was supposed to, and then promptly collapsed at 5pm to sleep through the night. My head is a bit light right now, but miles better than even yesterday-- the complete and utter dryness is truly amazing.
There is, as might be assumed in a Government situation, a distinct abundance of self-importance round here; the typical job humor is no different than a couple well-fed litigators: "So I said, what do you expect with a follow-up Code 14? right? right?" And the whole idea of park rangers carrying Gatling Guns in their trucks JUST IN CASE is a bit of a laugh too. This afternoon I completed an hour long training course to use the governent internet tubes. Among the soundest advice given: "If you find your computer has been attacked by a virus, Step 1: Dont Panic!" AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! And, "in choosing a password, it is best to make it difficult to crack. Do not use any words that are in a dictionary."
But the place is beautiful, I am safely tucked away for the meantime in a 1930s' CCC cabin at the foot of tawny afternoon cliffs, and I sewed the SCA patch that was sent me, meant to adorn my epaulets or forehead, on the hole that opened up on my knee. It has come to my attention that I am the proud owner of not one, but two cabins -- one is my country home, apparently-- a canyon, and a stream. And I have just this minute been handed keys to a white Ford Taurus with US GOV plates on it.
I shall withhold judgement in the meantime, but I get the distinct impression that nobody really does anything around here; many of the employees i have met have implied that they rarely set foot in the actual park grounds, and the amount of hooroar yesterday surrounding the arrival of a new ATV was reminiscent of Smithhaven Mall middleschoolers' crowding around Double Dragon II in the arcade, aka distinctly land-bound. There is also quite a number of chain-smoking older women. But hist; I shall allow them to reveal themselves afore I gets too prolix.
My address here is:
Me
27-B Entrance Road
Los Alamos, NM
87544
And in a nice surprise, I do not in fact live in Los Alamos on my off days, but in the park itself, at the visitors' center/ Center for Abundance and Noncommital Action (CANA). This means I only have to don my aluminum foil hat when I go to the library in town, among the smoking, glowing and pulsating embers of Einstein's innocent dream.

chombo to whombo, code eleventeen, out and over; pictures to follow.

Arrival in New Mexicoux

my head is full of juice, and
i feel lower than I ever have -- apparently this place is at higher elevation than denver, and that, plus the general lack of sleep and juniper fizz all in the air (I turn out to be very very allergic)
I am a walking dust broom, and cannot comprehend all these things and people.
i am going to sleep
gaaaa