On the Road: New Mexico at Last

View from Pajarito Rest Area, New Mexico

 

The scene above, from a photograph taken today, was familiar to me from the first time the Artist and I made the trek from Northport, Michigan, to Dos Cabezas, Arizona. That cold January day in 2015, when we paused with cameras at the Pajarito Rest Area, the wind was fierce, and a worker told me with some amusement that many Northerners, somewhat to their dismay, arrive just in time for the windiest New Mexico season. In my opinion, the views more than made up for the wind. "We're someplace different," the Artist said. He liked to say that.

 

And if I say, “New Mexico at last!” you can be sure I will also say, a little way down the road, “Santa Rosa! Finally!” 

Remember when I posted a shot of this theatre last fall?

The little town in New Mexico captured my heart in April of 2015, when we stopped to explore on our way back to Michigan, and on every trip thereafter, we stopped at least for a meal in Santa Rosa and often overnight and usually found time to cruise slowly around town to visit again and again our favorite sites.

 

“We should spend a few days here sometime,” the Artist said. I agreed readily. In the spring, when the water is warm enough for swimming. Maybe find out when a rodeo might be scheduled. Try a couple more restaurants. But “when we have more time” has a way of never arriving, since every sunset subtracts a day from however many any of us may have left, and we never know how many that is to begin with.

 

Although I had gotten a motel room early on Monday, not wanting to endure any more stress on ice-covered and slippery highways, with more snow still coming down, I didn’t sleep all that well, mostly because Sunny didn’t. She would hear voices in the hall … or outside in the parking lot … and she seemed to feel called upon to bark a warning. Sigh! What a coincidence that Patricia McConnell wrote a post on that very subject on that very day (November 14)! I read the whole article, although, as you might guess, getting a dog to stop barking is a long-term project, even for Patricia McConnell.

 

The good news was that the roads were clear on Tuesday morning, despite the very cold temperature in Liberal, Kansas: 20 degrees Fahrenheit, down from 50 two days earlier. Slush in the parking lot was frozen, footing treacherous. But we were on the road by 9 o’clock (Kansas time) and knocked off the Oklahoma panhandle in less than an hour. Even Dalhart, Texas, which I had dreaded because of all the giant trucks that converge on that area from all directions, was a snap! Going through Dalhart early in the day must be the secret to making it easy. Coming in at sunset is something you definitely want to avoid. 

 

But then – back to my opening image – came New Mexico. Mountain time. High plains, then mesalands. And because I hadn’t slept well, and because fatigue must be cumulative, and also because the sun was shining and I had time, if only I was willing to take it, I decided to slow down and spend the afternoon and evening in dear little Santa Rosa.

Everywhere, wonderful buildings and walls made of lovely local stone!

The Artist and I, in our years of traveling together, often – more often than not -- explored without a plan, and that’s what I found myself doing on Tuesday afternoon. River Road. Had we ever been out River Road? Where was the river? 

 

A sign for a fish hatchery caught my eye, inviting me into a parking lot. I thought of the hatchery at Wolf Lake west of Kalamazoo and the one at Thompson in the U.P., where a friend worked before he retired. Does it sound funny to say that fish hatcheries were part of our “love world”?

(Where the fish are raised)

This one turned out to be (as many are) every bit as much education center as hatchery, and it revealed itself to me in stages. First I was drawn to a signboard illustrating birds that one could expect to see. And then to a sort of blind, with viewing windows that framed the scenes beyond to resemble paintings.

 

A more elaborate building gave information about the Pecos River watershed. No, I didn’t photograph every display, but the ones below should give you some idea of how well the education component is put together.

 

Already impressed and pleased with what I'd found, I noticed a footpath along a fence, and that called to me, as well. Sunny, wearing her new harness, was doing just fine on-leash, so we followed the path. I loved the long overland view, back toward dear little Santa Rosa.

But more awaited. Of course! The Pecos River itself! 

When we encountered a couple of Game and Fish employees clearing brush, Sunny was eager to make friends. The young woman said she had a Great Pyrenees at home, only three days younger than Sunny, and the young man told me his dog, a heeler mix, was only accustomed him and not to anyone else. Although Sunny wanted to jump on these people (we still need to work on that), she was friendly and sociable in a way the two dog-lovers seemed to find quite winsome. 

All in all, our afternoon exploring worked out very well – exercise, a social encounter, and beautiful views of a lovely little river. I only wish the Artist, a.k.a. River Rat, could have been there, because he would have loved it all! And nothing is the same without him.

On the Road: Kansas 2.1

Sunday morning dawns in Louisiana, Missouri

I really didn’t mean to drive all the way from Kalamazoo to Louisiana, Missouri, in a single day. I intended to stop for the night in Illinois, but having missed my exit, and with so much light still left in the sky as evening came on, I too went on. And while fatigue claimed me for its own that night, seeing dawn over the Mississippi River in the morning made the long drive seem worthwhile – and, of course, I was also much closer to my next travel goal: Winfield, Kansas. 

 

Those of you who accompanied me virtually last spring may recall that, despite a little tire trouble (entirely my own fault), Winfield was very good to me. Friendly motel, friendly tow truck driver, friendly and helpful tire shop guy, plus a Chinese restaurant and a terrific dog park. This time I also spotted a bookstore in downtown Winfield, but it was closed when I arrived on Sunday and would not open until Tuesday morning, so I’ll just have to plan my spring return to Michigan with Moonshadow’s schedule in mind. 

 

On the other hand, there was no problem getting to and into the dog park. Sunny would have liked a playmate, but she managed to run around and explore on her own. She is not a puppy to waste an opportunity to play! We did try one playmate, but he was too rough for my young tomboy, so we went back to the separate adjacent area for “large dogs,” leaving the bigger boy in the “small dog” park.

 

Big dogs to the left, small dogs to the right. Which is Sunny?

She jumped through the lowest and the middle ring! But the sun was setting....

We were awake ridiculously early on Monday, waiting only for dawn to grind the darkness off the morning so we could continue our westward trek (I speak for myself, of course, not for Sunny), and so as soon as it was light enough to see, eagerly and confidently I set my sights on Santa Rosa, New Mexico. It would be a long day, but we were starting out at 7 a.m., so what problem could there be? 

What was the sky trying to tell me?

 

I highly recommend the road west of Medicine Lodge. It is stunning. I stayed on U.S. 160 and did not take the scenic drive (partly over dirt back roads), but many of the Gypsum Hills’ red mesas are visible from the highway, and the ribbon of highway itself feels at times like a roller coaster for its many long ups and downs. Frustratingly for someone itching to employ a camera, there is virtually no shoulder to the road whatsoever, so if you want to see the scenery, you’ll have to follow this link. Just think, though, how much gorgeous American scenery has been provided for us by processes of erosion!

 

Now usually, when the sky grows lighter rather than darker that’s a good sign. Today, however, while angling southwest from Meade toward Liberal, Kansas, the lighter sky I saw ahead meant something else – that I was not outrunning the bad weather by going south but running right into it! So not fair! But you know when truckers have slowed down to 30 mph, driving conditions are pretty bad.

No more photos after this! Tight grip on the wheel!

 

I really wanted to reach Santa Rosa tonight, but after a white-knuckled drive from Meade to Liberal over snow both packed and swirling, slushy and in places downright icy roads, I thought of all the truck traffic always converging upon Dalhart, Texas, and had no heart for unnecessarily braving a vehicular holiday on ice. 

 

The Artist and I once spent three nights instead of the anticipated one in Hastings, Michigan, because of blizzards raging through Barry County, but I’ve never bailed out on a trip at noon and checked into a motel at 2 p.m., planning to stay the rest of the day and the night. Television (Sunny is fascinated by a program about ravens), warm socks, books, snacks. This is survivable. And I am deeply grateful that Sunny Juliet and I don’t have to live in our car!

  

Some of my things

One of hers

The “Same” Day Never Is

November 12, 2022, Alamo Township, Kalamazoo County

 

Looking back at old blog posts, I see that any date in any particular year brought very different weather and very different events and thoughts. For example, no previous November 12 in my life was, for me, in any way like this one. The image above is from this morning in Kalamazoo, and below is what greeted us at home in Leelanau Township on November 12, 2019, the day the Artist said we would be leaving earlier from now on to drive to Arizona!

November 12, 2019, Leelanau Township, Leelanau County

This year, also, November 12 was the second leg of my long solo odyssey – well, “solo” with Sunny Juliet as copilot!

Copilot Sunny Juliet

(Do you ever think about words for travel, as I do? For me, as I hear in it the French journée, ‘journey’ seems a day’s travel, whereas ‘odyssey,’ from the travels of Odysseus, I hear as long and challenging, and I also think of my challenging cross-country travel as a ‘trek,’ though I would never consider making it on foot.)

 

Garrison Keillor’s “Writer’s Almanac” brings into focus the same/different aspects of any date on the calendar from year to year. For example, the first airing of the television show “Sesame Street” occurred on November 10, 1969, the birthday of both Martin Luther (1483) and poet Vachel Lindsay (1879). What would Martin Luther have made of Sesame Street? And I was especially struck by the variousness of events on “same” dates by Keillor’s noting that November 9 was the birthday of both Anne Sexton and Carl Sagan but also the infamous anniversary of the horrible German Kristallnacht.

 

Not surprising at all, this difference in “the same,” but I often find the unsurprising as much cause for reflection and wonder as something realized for the first time. 

Where I stayed this past week

I was glad to have loaner wheels while my car was in the shop.

Spending time in a place where I once lived (for many years) also invites notice of change. Kalamazoo was my home from December of 1971 to the fall of 1987, so now, while it is lovely to be with friends and family still here, others are with me in absentia, most notably the Artist, of course, but other friends, also. Ghosts appear everywhere -- including the ghost of my own former, younger self! The past tugs at my sleeve, whispers in my ear, and distracts me from the present with the urgency of Marley’s ghosts! It can be unnerving. Nothing went wrong in Kalamazoo, however, and many things went very, very right, mostly lots of time spent with those I dearly love. And yes, three visits in four days to one of my new favorite bookstores! 

Two more new books from This Is a Bookstore

Still, it felt good to resume my travels, barely ahead of the season’s first Michigan snow, which caught up with me in Amish Indiana, where my copilot was entranced by the sight of horse-drawn buggies on the road. But you will have to imagine those sights, as my copilot can operate neither car nor camera. She just keeps me company, but that's a lot.

Her new outdoor wear makes leash-walking much easier.

On the Road: Bookman’s (not Busman’s) Holiday, Then One for Dogs

In case you had doubts....

The Bookman’s Holiday

 

The first leg of my winter odyssey south and west takes me only as far as Kalamazoo, where many family members and friends make their homes. One friend brought supper for me my first night in the ‘zoo, and in the morning when I picked my son up for breakfast, we went instead to – surprise! – a bookstore. “Do you mind?” I asked him. He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why would I mind going to a bookstore with my mother?” Okay, it was a stupid question.

 

This is a bookstore is the name of the bookstore where we found ourselves. That really is its name. It’s partnered up with the next door Book Bug, specializing in children’s books, and they share café space. 

When I visit any bookshop for the first time, I pretty much know right away if it’s going to be a memorable experience or just another ho-hum Hallmark moment. And the minute I got inside this is a bookstore I was excited. Who wouldn’t be? I should say, what booklover and bookstore lover wouldn’t be excited by such a place?

 

1) I love their counter!

 

Is this cool, or what?

“What if someone wants to buy one of those books?” I wicked-innocently asked a clerk behind the counter, pointing to the real books holding it up. He said those books were not for sale but that a “reasonable facsimile” could be provided. 

 

Here are some of other aspects of the shop I found to love:

 

2) The books are attractively displayed, categories easily identifiable, and there is an unspoken, silent invitation to venture quickly into the far reaches of the store.

 

3) A few used books, clearly marked as such, are mixed in among the new, and once I realized that I started seeking out the yellow tape on their spines, treasure-hunting.

 

        4) The café invites lingering, in much the way that the bookshelves invite browsing. If I still lived in the ‘zoo, I would be a regular. I can’t give the bagels high marks (my advice is to skip the bagel and go straight for a brownie), but the coffee was excellent.  

 

Nectar of the gods!

5) I overheard a couple of conversations, and the talk was interesting. That to me is another mark of a high-quality bookstore. And of course, at our table, my son and I were having interesting conversation.(Can you doubt it?) Our talk was of writing, as it often is when we get together.

6) Even the restroom was cool!

Doesn't everybody read in the bathroom?

 

Whenever I find myself in a really good bookstore for the first time, it takes a while for my initial giddiness to subside. Quickly I found a used book and bought it -- right away! -- but only after latte and conversation with my son could I could remember the name of a new book I wanted. Yes, they had it. Good! I bought that, too.

 

And okay, I’ll confess, with nary an apology to Jeff Deutsch, author of In Praise of Good Bookstores, that I also bought a couple pair of socks, because far be it from me to criticize a bookstore looking to enhance its slim profit margin by selling puzzles, socks, and other sidelines, as long as they are also stocking excellent books! If socks keep bookstores in business, I’m all for socks (particularly cute ones). And I am definitely not one of those people who loudly proclaims "love" of bookstores and leaves empty-handed!

My haul --

 

Holiday for Dogs

 

Sunny, having no choice in the matter, waited patiently in the car while her bookseller dog mom indulged a human love of literature. I told her that her turn would come in the afternoon. Did she believe me? Did she have any idea at all what I was saying?

I think she had doubts.

Our grandson and his wife have a 20-acre piece of property north of Kalamazoo, and grandson’s wife, her mother, and I, each bringing a dog, met there to walk trails in the woods. Motivated by a deep and abiding tick phobia, I wore a stupid-looking hat with a big, floppy brim and tucked the legs of my jeans into my socks. (You wouldn't want to see that image.) The dogs had no such worries. A malamute, an Aussie, and a Boston terrier walked into a bar – I mean, ran into the woods. Sunny’s leaps across the creek, a charming little creek with a sandy bottom, delightful turns, here and there a miniature waterfall, were stunning! If dogs ran steeplechase, she could!

 

The lovely little creek!

There is always so much to see in the woods, and every woods is different. This one had beautiful beech trees, one of the trees I love back in Leelanau County, but also different species, such as shagbark hickory, and I was told the mushrooms, both spring and fall, are plentiful and various. The fungi I saw may not have been edible (I don't know), but they were eye-catching.

Shagbark hickory

 

The dogs’ holiday in the woods, honestly, was as much a holiday for me as was the bookstore visit. The sun was shining! And tomorrow, at last, Election Day will be behind us, as is (finally) Halloween! I will be happy to see the landscape naked again, its human dressing of skeletons and political signs gone for another season.

How are you spending these fabulous, sunny, still unseasonably warm fall days? They are like windfall apples, aren’t they? Or merchants’ lagniappe. Unexpected, extra, delightful, unearned and perhaps undeserved gifts…. 

Dogs having fun!

Hills and Woods, Dogs and Caravans

At times I find myself overcome by a kind of emotional paralysis, as, moving still (physically) through the world, I wonder why. Is it really worth the bother? I felt that way on Saturday, in the late afternoon, coming home from my last bookstore day of the season, but I came home to my dog, and Sunny and I went outdoors to ramble through the sun-dappled woods, beech-gold-and-brown now at the end of October, then home to supper, and I was content for the evening, or as content as is possible for me with life as it is now, life without the Artist. The same tired Why? question waits for me in ambush when I first wake in mornings, but my dog’s presence and a comforting mug of hot coffee push it away. Empty journal pages are ready to be filled, pages of whatever book I’m reading ready to be turned, and in time another day’s light will push away the darkness, and the dog Sunny and I will go outdoors once again.

 

Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s Scots Quair will be a lifetime book for me, I’m sure, one I will re-read in coming years, either starting at the beginning of the first book, Sunset Song (as I do with Pride and Prejudice or South of Superior or A Tree Grows in Brooklyn) or opening anywhere, to any page, to read with pleasure (as I do Proust or Thoreau). For now, with Gibbon, I’m only almost to the end of the second book, Cloud Howe, for the first time, but it’s all there: the ancient land; thousands of years of struggling, striving humans; the cycle of seasons and all the beauties of the year in turn, returning again and again; farming and mining and industry and their hardships (“the Economy”) and workers always up against it; religion and politics and waves of hope and anger sweeping through the land; and always “the speak” -- gossip, that is -- eyes of neighbors on neighbors. All of life, in other words, the universal in the particular (the only place it can abide), and Gibbon seeing and showing both the horrors and the wonders, sadness and joy of it all.

 

Leelanau hills

Always Chris (who began as Chris Guthrie and was then Chris Tavendale and has now become Chris Colquohoun) liked walking up into the hills, and now she and her minister husband sometimes go together:

 

Robert was walking so fast that Chris for a while could hardly keep up with his stride, then she fell into that and found it easy, the Kaimes was past and above it the path opened out through the ragged fringe of the moor that came peering and sniffling down at Segget as a draggled cat at a dish out of doors, all the countryside begirdled with hills  and their companions the moors that crept and slept and yawned in the sun, watching the Howe at its work below. 

 

-      Lewis Grassic Gibbon, Cloud Howe

 

Isn’t that fine, though? The “ragged fringe of the moor” as “a draggled cat,” sniffing, perhaps at a saucer of milk put out on a stoop? And the hills and moors that “crept and slept and yawned in the sun”? Here on my home peninsula, water in every direction but south, my husband the Artist used to say of the islands offshore that they moved around in the night, and it’s true that the islands’ perceived location from any particular viewer depends on where that viewer stands, so that from one beach they are straight ahead, from another to the left or the right of a person standing onshore. In Cochise County, Arizona, landmark mountains similarly shift about through the landscape and perform the same orienting function there as Leelanau County’s lakes here.

Orienting by bodies of water: Suttons Bay

Orienting by bodies of water: Lake Leelanau Narrows

Blue heron hunting

Here. I am here now, and the fields and orchards and woods have taken on their late fall colors, and the apple harvest is in, and all the villages and county roads are lined with campaign signs, Election Day only a little more than a week off. And “the speak” goes ‘round and ‘round, as always, as locals keep track of one another’s doings and sayings. 

A California couple thinking of moving to Michigan visited the bookstore one day and said they felt drawn to Northport. The husband asked me, “And is this a town where everyone gets along and there are no quarrels?” “There’s no place like that,” I told him, not adding, as I could have, "except in fairy tales." People are people, anywhere they live together. It doesn’t make a place bad, only human. 

 

Chris Colquohoun’s pregnancy becomes “the speak” of Segget, many seeing it as shameful for a minister to “show plain to his parish that he did that kind of thing,” but Chris has lived with “the speak” all her life and doesn’t let it upset her.

 

Most of the gossip Chris heard of or knew, and cared little or nothing, folk were like that, she thought if you’d neither books nor God nor music nor love nor hate as stand-bys, no pillar of cloud to lead your feet, you turned as the folk of farm and toun—to telling scandal of your nearest neighbors, making of them devils and heroes and saints, to brighten your days and give you a thrill. And God knew they were welcome to get one from her, she found herself liking them as never before, kindled to new interest in every known face….

 

One of my favorite old sayings, one that applies both to small-town gossip and huge social tumult, goes like this: “The dogs bark, the caravan moves on.” Life moves on. We are all here now but for a brief moment (Gibbon himself died in his 34th year), and beyond campaign signs, autumn leaves turn and fall, and beyond rancorous voices, day brings chirps of chickadee, cries of crow, a bluejay's objections, and in the night coyotes yelp and howl.

Happy November, friends.