We wake to a
brilliant blue sky, the weather sunny and warm.
After listening to Keith grumble for two days, the weather sends the
clouds packing, allowing him to see the top of Wheeler Mountain, Taos’ tallest
peak. He is happy. Although the clouds have all run off today,
going wherever clouds go, gathering and plotting darkness, they have not ceded
their primacy willingly as they wait upon nature’s mischief. “We’ll be back,” they say, chortling evilly.
Since our Taos
arrival, I’ve been watching the Sangre de Cristo Mountains[1],
each sunrise and sunset, waiting to see the red of Christ’s blood splashed on
the peaks. I never see it. Propaganda!
Funny how we cling
to the smallest things as cripples. I
still shower at home. My animal family
helps me into and out of the shower, but I sit on my bath chair and wash
myself. Having always done this, I am
reluctant to give up one more bit of independence. This morning I face a dilemma – should I roll
Tinky into the shower, sitting on him to bathe, soaking him? Or should I brace myself standing in the
small shower and let my fellow animals wash me?
I choose the latter. Keith soaps
me as I stand under the water for the best shower I’ve had in years. Now I’m lying down for half an hour
recovering from standing for ten minutes.
We pack up,
planning eventually to arrive in Albuquerque tonight. Bloodroot leaves a note in the casita guest
book detailing Wiccan moons, ley lines, conversations with demons culminating
in the explosion of his spleen charka.
Sighing, I realize I will be developing a new Airbnb persona.
Following my
glorious shower, we visit the Kit Carson Home and Museum. I’ve never thought much about or acknowledged
Kit Carson, the quintessential American hero, believing him to be some sort of
Indian massacring white dude. But I have
learned only of the dime novel Carson, enshrined long ago as the walking
embodiment of the myth of the West. Kit’s
ghost, ably assisted by the museum docent, teaches us otherwise.
Born in the early
1800s, Carson moved west following the shifting frontier. He married an Arapahoe woman named Singing Grass,
paying a large bride price. Together
they trapped all over the Rockies.
Singing Grass died
young and game became scarce. Carson, a
brilliant linguist (speaking at least ten languages), and a preternaturally
gifted scout, found his services much in demand. Possessing a frontiersman’s loyalty, he
formed life-long bonds with the Spanish-Americans, the Utes, Apaches, Arapahos
and Pueblo Indians. He had no use for
the Navajo, the traditional enemies of his friends. He held every position the West offered,
ranching, guiding and scouting for armies, negotiating between Indian nations,
at times also fighting various Indian nations.
Late in life, he used scorched earth tactics to tragically round up the
Navajo sending the tribe to a reservation.
He later argued successfully for their release.
Carson spent the
last twenty-five years of his life married to his third wife, Josepha, the
daughter of a prominent Spanish American family. He converted to Catholicism, fathered eight
children and spoke Spanish at home in Taos.
The obsessed
docent talks even more than I do. She’s
met each and every one of Carson’s descendants.
She loves the latest Carson biography Blood and Thunder, claiming it to be as good as the Comanche story Empire of the Summer Moon. Sold, I buy the book, which I will report
makes a good read but is NOT anywhere comparable to Empire of the Summer Moon. We
also purchase a Kokopelli covered bag (made by far eastern Indians) to hang on
Sven.
After Kit’s house,
we encounter time constraints. Should we
see D. H. Lawrence’s paintings that accompanied Lady Chatterley’s Lover, deemed obscene and banned by Scotland Yard in the 1920s OR should we visit the UNESCO
World Heritage Site Taos Pueblo?
Eschewing possible
titillation, we choose the Taos Pueblo.
Nestled under the Taos Mountains, we find an ancient traditional adobe
apartment building. Around 150 people
live in the pueblo much the same as they have for the past thousand years. People access their personal apartments via
ladders, carrying water, fuel and food.
The all-important stream runs next to the pueblo, providing water for
both the people and the crops. My soul
delights in seeing the Red Willow people sober, healthy and proud, preserving
and honoring their traditions.
One clan, men
only, dances a corn dance to bring rain, health and luck to the people. Each clan has specific dances and
responsibilities. We watch the corn
dancers weave in and out of the pueblo.
We visit the
church – the best combination of Catholicism and native religion I’ve ever
seen. Mary dominates the church,
reigning supreme, her sculpture standing in the center spot usually reserved
for Jesus. Tall verdant corn plants
sprouting abundant ears of corn frame her altar. Jesus hangs above Mary, painted about 1/4th
her size, his unmangled body attached to a cross of equal length beams.
The people dress
Mary and the Saints for each season.
Right now, they’re clothed in white for winter. Each August, the entire pueblo re-muds this
adobe church, using special mud-60% sand.
This church apse also tilts to the left.
Exiting the church, we see Mary robed in blue, shimmering beside and
blessing the Red Willow Creek, that selfsame creek that has nurtured the people
for years. Mountains rise behind her.
We buy a magnet
and some treats from a Puebloan vendor.
He tells us stories of the Red Willow people, handed down through oral
histories. “We were here to greet
Coronado. He sought gold and we sent him
on his way. A black man travelled with
him – the first we had seen. The church
tragically burned down 150 years ago.”
What the gentleman
politely doesn’t tell us I learn from reading Blood and Thunder. In 1847
during the Mexican-American war, a few young Pueblo hotheads joined the Mexican
locals in a revolt killing the new US governor of New Mexico. Carson blamed the local priests, unhappy with
their diminished role under American rule, for fomenting revolution. He could never prove his allegations, which
remain controversial to this day. In
retaliation, the US Army attacked the Pueblo.
The rebels huddled in the church, believing that God and their eight
foot thick adobe walls would protect them.
The army shelled the church, setting fire to the roof and blasting a
hole through the adobe, killing anyone trying to escape. The Puebloans rebuilt the church in 1850.
The tribe recently
repurchased a few hundred acres of their traditional land from an elderly woman
who only wanted her initial investment back - $3 million. The estimated land value topped $6
million.
As they earlier threatened,
the clouds return, bringing winter with them.
We leave the Taos Pueblo driving two and a half hours down to our next
Airbnb spot, an urban farm in Albuquerque.
With Airbnb, we always can cook.
We enjoy a nice stir-fry dinner of sausage and vegetables and crawl into
bed.
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