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New Mexico: Land of Enchantment and Georgia O’Keeffe

New Mexico is known as the Land of Enchantment. Skies were bluer; rocks were redder. We flew down from the Land of 10,000 Lakes. The desert came alive and took us in.

Just beyond town, the Petroglyph National Monument quietly held the secrets of an earlier civilization. Narrow pathways led up steep, rocky cliffs to ancient Pueblo drawings etched on basalt. It takes determination to thrive on this harsh, scrubby, desert land. Signs warned of rattlesnakes. Cacti claimed the earth.



At Black Volcano we climbed back in time to explore this ancient lava flow, once a hunting and gathering area for pre-historic Native Americans. Today it stands apart from the cul-de-sacs of nearby development.















When Albuquerque was established, 300 years ago, the first building settlers erected was the Catholic Church of San Felipe de Neri. Rebuilt in 1793, it is the oldest structure still standing in Albuquerque. Its white towers gleamed against the cobalt sky in Old Town, a lively mix of cafes, shops, and street vendors. Route 66, a timepiece from 75 years ago, lies one block south.

























In the evening, the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta had an otherworldly quality. Under the dark, velvet blue sky, a massive Uncle Sam, Stagecoach, and Ice Cream Cone rose before our eyes. The emcee of the Special Shapes Glowdeo rallied the audience to count down to light up: 3, 2, 1…dozens of massive balloons were lit in unison. A green parrot mingled with a massive sun. Garfield glowed next to a Burger King hamburger. The night air lent an excitement to the proceedings; here amongst the faithful, we felt part of a unified club.



















Being a Georgia O’Keeffe buff, we headed north the next day to Abiquiu, 42 miles northwest of Santa Fe. When she first visited here in 1929, no paved roads led in. Even now, this vast, rocky, sunburned land was remote. With luck I stumbled into a tour of her home (a 6 month advance reservation is usually required) and rode a rickety bus up an impossibly narrow path to her home atop a mesa. The studio sits just as she left it: smooth rocks, white bones, paintbrushes waiting for their master to begin her magic. Large windows overlook the Chama River Valley, where distant red and purple mountains meet a wide open sky. Her New Mexico paintings never entranced me as her giant flowers did. Now, at the scene, I understood. “Winter Road I”, an abstract ribbon of black curving over a white canvas, echoes the road we drove in on, below her studio window. “Red Hills with Pedernal” locks in on the flat topped mountain, and captures its aura spot on. O’Keeffe once declared “God told me if I painted it often enough I could have it.” After her death at age 98, her ashes were, in fact, scattered atop her beloved Pedernal.

O’Keeffe first came here by train from New York City, to regain her strength following an illness. It wasn’t just the warm, dry heat that touched her heart. Indeed, she found her strength among the red rocks, and the local people who quietly welcomed her; here she found a true kinship with the land. “Wherever I go, I am always on my way back to New Mexico.” Outside, as a tall wooden ladder leaned against the smooth, adobe wall, September snowflakes descended on us like a whisper. Tucked away up here, frozen in the past, the scene was tranquil and solitary.

Next stop was Ghost Ranch where Ms. O’Keeffe lived prior to moving hilltop. A conference center today, we mused about the scrubby, rainbow- rocked landscape. The brochure relayed one of her many stories: “(We went riding) to places that we could only get the horses to go by getting off and pulling several times - places I would never dare to go alone.. perfectly mad looking country - hills and cliffs and washes too crazy to imagine all thrown up into the air by God and let tumble where they would.” Even in her nineties, the painter would hike these hills each morning with her two faithful dogs, breathing in the wild, desert air, collecting the occasional stone or cow skull.

An alternate reality thrives in nearby Santa Fe: historic hotels, adobe museums, art galleries on Canyon Road. We stayed at the cozy Adobe Star, a short stroll to the Museum of Fine Arts and the rewarding Georgia O'Keeffe Museum. Homemade rolls at breakfast with couples from Dallas and London began the day. That evening we dined outdoors on the balcony of the lively Coyote Café while overhead heaters kept the night chill at bay. These are the advantages of modern civilization.

Next day, we headed into the wilderness, following the guidebook, to climb to Nambe Falls. I’d read about the “stunning three-tier drop through a cleft in a rock face, tumbling into the Nambe Reservoir.” Who could forget it: steep edges, vertigo, red ants. There’s a fine line between scoping out possibilities and letting the guide book take the trip for you. When in doubt, mix it up a little. Take a wrong turn now and then.

Our “wrong” turn off the High Road to Taos yielded roadside goats and a wayward bull, and brought us to a rug shop in Chimayo. Seven generations have kept this weaving tradition alive since the early 1800’s. Artistry rules here at Ortega’s – this is the real thing.









At a roadside stall we bought ristras (strings of dried chilis) to hang in the doorway back home: crimson, beautiful, with a bitter odor about them, we discovered once home.

In Cordova, noted for its wood carvers, we bought a burro carved from cedar wood and aspen at Sabinita Lopez Ortiz’. Too bad my son broke a leg off of it a few years later. We may never pass this way again, indeed.


Robert Redford filmed “The Milagro Beanfield War” in Truchas, where the blue mountains sparkled in the distance as we drove along the side of a cliff. A few artists sprouted tiny shops here, testament to their ability to carve out their own path on the edge.









In Las Trampas we found the San Jose Church, built in 1760 during the Spanish colonial period. Ansel Adams had beat us here to capture its intricate wooden cutouts. See his “Old Cross” photo from 1951. It was deserted and locked; we circled it and pressed on.




















The San Francisco d'Asis Church stood in Rancho de Taos. Ansel Adams photographed it. O’Keeffe painted it. In the blindingly bright morning sunshine, it’s smooth adobe and rounded shape drew me closer. It sat upright and proud, like my tabby back home.







That night, at the Historic Taos Inn, through a quiet, secluded courtyard, we found our respite from the day's wanderings: adobe walls, wood ceiling, traditional kiva fireplace. Fortunately the only reptiles we saw were hand-stenciled on the wall.




























Taos is low key, known for its ancient Taos Pueblo and modern ski resort. In the evening, as the nearby Rio Grande winds its wild way through the golden cottonwoods, you can kick back at Doc Martin’s in the Taos Inn, and watch the neon phoenix light the night air.







In the craggy desert of New Mexico, we observed determination despite harsh conditions, a link with the past, and a free and independent spirit in the hills. We'll need them all going forward.



This post first appeared on The Road Traveler, please read the originial post: here

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New Mexico: Land of Enchantment and Georgia O’Keeffe

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