A Yankee Girl Visits the High Desert: Part One

Part One: Land of Enchantment

In the middle of August, I took myself west. My mind left many months earlier, however, and part of it is still there now, roaming the high desert.  Up until recently, the all great American West existed in my mind as a myth, a vast area less of a geographical reality and more as romanticized vision, which largely kept to images of covered wagons and the pioneers who walked the way beside them, with all the tales of their trials and tribulations. I keep to those stories because in truth, I love them. The stories of how the west became American are not fairy tales in the least, but I've had a love affair with them my entire life. And still, my travels have always taken me eastward-to Europe or beyond. My American life has been spent overseas or strictly in the Northeast, leaving anywhere west of the Mississippi to the domains of my imagination and historical understanding. 

But on my vacation, I only went to one place. And when I write, "one place," I mean one particular region of one state, so the 'west' of my August in the year 2014 was northern New Mexico, land of enchantment. I chose it as my destination not because I was drawn by the history of the state, but rather because I was intrigued by the history of my parents, who went in the years they were married. In fact, I knew very little about the particulars of New Mexican history, let alone geography-which brought to the surface so keenly the Northeast's preoccupation with self, not to mention New England exceptionalism. One thinks of the desert as they envision New Mexico, and he or she would be right to do so, but they do not know of the altitude. With delight I marveled at the peaks of Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos. The fact that Santa Fe is the highest state capital in the country seemed to shock everyone I mentioned it to. More often than not, people were bewildered at my choice of destination. 

Once I firmly decided to go, I wasted no time in conquering my long-serving ignorance of the area, which had only made an exception during the times I read of Georgia O'Keeffe's life there. I started with travel guides, which gave me brief overviews of history, politics and sightseeing. I scoured the web for anything to watch, including Smithsonian's 'Aerial America' episode on New Mexico; C-span's collection of short videos on Santa Fe landmarks; and multiple re-viewings of Ken Burns'  documentary"The West." One day during my lunch break, I stumbled upon the wonderfully penned,  Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell Along the Santa Fe Trail in the always reliable Brattle Book Shop. Somehow I had managed to remain unaware of this book until that moment, despite a class I once took in college called "Women's Literature on the Frontier." Marian Russell's recollections placed me right on the Santa Fe Trail in the second half of the 19th century, with all its violence and significance. From there, I was reading Mabel Dodge Luhan's memoirs of a half-century later, when she invited the creative luminaries of the age to her house in Taos, including the likes of D.H. Lawrence, Ansel Adams, Willa Cather, and scores of others. I read the essays collected in Tony Hillerman's "The Spell of New Mexico" and naturally Cather's "Death Comes to the Archbishop." I daydreamed of my future travels. A lot. I planned what I would bring with me a month before, including newly purchased items like a wide-brimmed black hat -perfect for the cowgirl I am definitely not- a Midori Traveler's Notebook, and the hiking boots I would wear in Taos Ski Valley. I savored with each and every day the steady sweetness of anticipation. My New England adventures dropped to a minimum. I was too pleasantly distracted by the planning and intellectual preparation  for my journey to fully appreciate summer's arrival in Massachusetts. And suddenly, it was time to go and actually experience all I had thought about for months on end. At least part of me wanted another week to prepare. Though I embrace spontaneity in my local travels, I strongly believe in the necessity of place preparation, but then I am a lover of history, art and literature, which collectively form so many of the reasons an area is unique unto itself. 

Let me be the first to tell you if you don't already know : New Mexico is truly unique.

*** 

One may question the practicality of a summer vacation in New Mexico, but I found the dry, mountain air just as refreshing as the New England sea breeze that I left behind. The altitude, however, was a force to be reckoned with and one that left me feeling seemingly tipsy in the middle of the night. The heat of the sun bothered me only once: on my arrival day hike at the glorious Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks Monument.  Despite the blaze of the sun, it could hardly succeed in distracting me from the majestic rock formations, the result of volcanic eruptions several million years ago. The place felt quite isolated, and because of that, all the more wild. A few other hikers were nearby, but on the whole, the site was quiet, as if to say, left to itself. At one point, a rattlesnake made his presence known on the trail, inviting us humans to watch as he feasted on his chosen prey. That seemed a natural turning point, and my travel fatigue made the better of me. I left and took off for Santa Fe.   

My temporary place of home was at the utterly charming Madeleine Inn, a rare piece of Victorian architecture in the land of the adobe structure, and  one covered with ivy like the Boston buildings I pass every day. I couldn't have chosen a better place to stay and for this particular traveler, that meant a kind staff, comfortable room and very good breakfasts. From the inn's location on E. Faithway Street, I could walk anywhere I liked in the city of Santa Fe. And so I did. 

In many ways, I was predisposed to liking Santa Fe-first by my genes and then by months of research. However, I'm certain that even without those two predetermining factors, I would have fallen for the place. It has aged remarkably well and is so comfortable with itself, like the towns and cities of Europe whose identities have long been established. We, Yankees of the North, revel in the history of our forefathers and take pride in the footprints they've left behind, all with a sort of smug satisfaction in the belief that our streets and houses are the oldest of this country. How refreshing it was to find the stamp of the Spanish on Santa Fe and the residue of the 1500s! Before it was hailed New Mexico, it was the northern capital of New Spain. And before that, it was land used by the Pueblo Indians. After the Indian revolt of 1680, Pueblo Indians held Santa Fe once more, but only until 1692, when the city was re-captured by the Spanish. So the city was Spanish, until it became Mexican, and then it became American, but not a state until 1912, which seems shockingly late given that it was a territory in 1848. Thus, New Mexico is a place where multiple traditions mingle and yet still flourish, despite the passing of time. Santa Fe is its best example. The result of this mixed history is a city so beguiling it's hard to believe it's real. There's shadow play on the Plaza and courtyards with hanging chilies; churches with spiral staircases and rows of doors painted blue. There are more museums than one has time to see and literally hundreds of art galleries, most of which live side by side on the famous Canyon Road.  People watch opera as thunderstorms roll through the valley and in the winter time, luminaries cover the streets. 

And though it is a cliche, I now know where enchantment is found: in the high, American desert.