Monday, December 12, 2005
The adventure of adventure
…and finally, I drive my way out of Albuquerque. I took CB all the way to grandma’s and kept right on going.
The Santa Ana’s have already passed me off to the Zias and I find myself lined by red sand walls leading the way to Cuba. Apparently, just as the pioneers experienced, not all who pass this way, survive. Here I sit writing out my modern sensitivities attempting to aptly punctuate this shrubbish landscape when nothing is more apt than the double white cross watching from the side of the road, framed with colorful funereals - those flowers we only give in combination after death.
And onward I go. God only knows where I will sleep tonight.
The next sign to pull me off the main road says Walatowa pueblo and it is like another world. Hardly enough room for a car, the adobe homes criss-cross the land and the crinkly dark-skinned people look at you with suspicion. In this old fashioned paradise, you must remember the taste of the Walatowa with your heart. It is against the rules to record in any other fashion.
I spent one of the most painful nights ever in Jemez last night. Determined to prove the humans wrong, I pulled my tent out of the truck and settled the only bit of flat land that I could find in the ever encroaching darkness. I had every right to be afraid for my hands, my feet, and my safety. I was, to be frank, colder than I ever expected and regretfully, I almost paid a somber price for my ignorance.
Envisioning the perfect campsite from Spence Hot Springs as the sun was slowly swallowed by one tree lined hill after another, was not exactly the reality of my sleeping situation. It is true that the blanket of stars I was pitched under was remarkable. I counted six meteors in less than ten minutes and that might even be a record for me. It is true that the Rio Guadalupe sang a beautiful song as it rushed underneath its icy cover, and it is true that I was eager to sleep outside with the wild ones, even if it meant being slightly uncomfortable.
On the other hand, when you are sleeping, or trying to at least, on the side of a concrete barrier, ten feet from the road and it is colder than fuck regardless of the three layers of sleeping bags you find yourself buried in, the stars and the river become a secondary, rather superficial, experience.
I found the only way to truly warm up was to rejoin the truck and to drive without destination until I no longer winced with pain exuding from my hands and feet. When I returned for take two of Natanya’s winter tenting adventure in the Jemez Mountains, I added a wool sweater, long underwear, a scarf, and socks to the already overdone, in any normal place that is, stock of warming props. I began to manipulate the layers of synthetic genius around me just so, and was almost immediately rewarded An hour later however, I found my body shivering again, and this time I had no more ideas. I resigned myself to the elements and passed into a form of delirium, typical of those who place themselves in tents on mountain sides in December without the proper equipment.
I did all of this to see the canyons surrounding me glowing red first thing in the morning.
It is true that I missed the sunrise. By the time I awoke, there was no red to be found and the wind blew what looked to be snow in my eyes as I stuck my head out the zippered door.
Time to pack it up. I could not have been more eager to get out of that place. I ignored my hands as the pain began again promising myself that it was just a couple minutes more until everything was in the truck and I could relish in the internal warmth. But, I waited too long, and as I sat 1/2 mile down the road hanging from my seatbelt retching out the driver’s side door in response to the pain, I began to question my sanity.
The Santa Ana’s have already passed me off to the Zias and I find myself lined by red sand walls leading the way to Cuba. Apparently, just as the pioneers experienced, not all who pass this way, survive. Here I sit writing out my modern sensitivities attempting to aptly punctuate this shrubbish landscape when nothing is more apt than the double white cross watching from the side of the road, framed with colorful funereals - those flowers we only give in combination after death.
And onward I go. God only knows where I will sleep tonight.
The next sign to pull me off the main road says Walatowa pueblo and it is like another world. Hardly enough room for a car, the adobe homes criss-cross the land and the crinkly dark-skinned people look at you with suspicion. In this old fashioned paradise, you must remember the taste of the Walatowa with your heart. It is against the rules to record in any other fashion.
I spent one of the most painful nights ever in Jemez last night. Determined to prove the humans wrong, I pulled my tent out of the truck and settled the only bit of flat land that I could find in the ever encroaching darkness. I had every right to be afraid for my hands, my feet, and my safety. I was, to be frank, colder than I ever expected and regretfully, I almost paid a somber price for my ignorance.
Envisioning the perfect campsite from Spence Hot Springs as the sun was slowly swallowed by one tree lined hill after another, was not exactly the reality of my sleeping situation. It is true that the blanket of stars I was pitched under was remarkable. I counted six meteors in less than ten minutes and that might even be a record for me. It is true that the Rio Guadalupe sang a beautiful song as it rushed underneath its icy cover, and it is true that I was eager to sleep outside with the wild ones, even if it meant being slightly uncomfortable.
On the other hand, when you are sleeping, or trying to at least, on the side of a concrete barrier, ten feet from the road and it is colder than fuck regardless of the three layers of sleeping bags you find yourself buried in, the stars and the river become a secondary, rather superficial, experience.
I found the only way to truly warm up was to rejoin the truck and to drive without destination until I no longer winced with pain exuding from my hands and feet. When I returned for take two of Natanya’s winter tenting adventure in the Jemez Mountains, I added a wool sweater, long underwear, a scarf, and socks to the already overdone, in any normal place that is, stock of warming props. I began to manipulate the layers of synthetic genius around me just so, and was almost immediately rewarded An hour later however, I found my body shivering again, and this time I had no more ideas. I resigned myself to the elements and passed into a form of delirium, typical of those who place themselves in tents on mountain sides in December without the proper equipment.
I did all of this to see the canyons surrounding me glowing red first thing in the morning.
It is true that I missed the sunrise. By the time I awoke, there was no red to be found and the wind blew what looked to be snow in my eyes as I stuck my head out the zippered door.
Time to pack it up. I could not have been more eager to get out of that place. I ignored my hands as the pain began again promising myself that it was just a couple minutes more until everything was in the truck and I could relish in the internal warmth. But, I waited too long, and as I sat 1/2 mile down the road hanging from my seatbelt retching out the driver’s side door in response to the pain, I began to question my sanity.
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