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This story has been posted before in other forums, but I have met enough new folks in WSS to warrant posting it here as well; or so I imagine.
There was a slight chill in the dry, pre-dawn air of the Pajarito Plateau. I pulled my old van into a deserted church parking lot beside the Bandelier highway and switched off the ignition. The aged, air-cooled engine clattered to a halt leaving me alone with a jumble of thoughts. Darkness reclaimed the night. The nearby church was deep in moon shadow obscure incomprehensible. Multitudinous stars shone brilliant against the black void of space. Serenity ruled the night. Immersed in the quiet grace of impending dawn, I began assembling the gear needed for my journey.
Moments later, I hoisted a pack onto my back and set out along the deserted highway toward Bandelier National Monument. I was dressed for the heat that would come later in the day - white cotton tank top, khaki walking shorts and a wide brimmed cotton hat. The still morning air was cool against my skin, and I walked briskly to keep warm. My Vibram-soled boots crunched hypnotically on the gravel shoulder of the serpentine roadway. The journey had finally begun. It was 4:20 Saturday morning, July 2, 1994.
The first hour passed quietly. Darkness surrounded and embraced me as I left behind the scattering of street lights in White Rock, New Mexico. It was good to be under way. For five months I had been training for the trek that lay before me. Some, I knew, would think it odd that I chose to celebrate my fiftieth birthday on the road. But I much preferred my outdoor celebration to the black humor and gag gifts of traditional "five-0" parties. A fifty mile hike through some of the most beautiful country in the American southwest was sure to be more interesting than a lot of bad jokes about aging.
Dawn came slowly as I hiked easily along the dark ribbon of asphalt that marked my course. Sunrise began with a faint cold glow in the eastern sky. Soon warmer colors appeared - first a dark brooding crimson - then a lighter, more amiable rose. Finally, brilliant orange rays emerged from a point on the skyline and quickly metamorphosed to golden yellow. The sun crept over the horizon and gilded the stubby, pinon-juniper forest and low, buff-colored mesas in which I was immersed. A chorus of insects and small birds began a quiet celebration as the sun roused them from their nocturnal sanctuaries. Thirty minutes later, as though on cue, their chatter ceased abruptly, and predatory ravens, coal black feathers gleaming iridescent in the sun, swept across the sky, filling the ancient, weather-pocked canyons with loud, raucous calls.
About five miles south of White Rock I stopped for water on the north rim of Ancho Canyon. At a depth of 400 feet, Ancho was the largest canyon I would traverse on my day long walk. Aaron Goldman, a local ultra-marathoner, had warned me of the hot, dry winds that frequently whistled through the canyon, sucking desperately needed moisture from the bodies of hapless pilgrims. But, for now, the air was cool, and the tall grass on the canyon floor was troubled only by a gentle breeze. Later, on the second leg of my journey, I would cross this canyon again, and conditions would be far less hospitable.
But the first trek through Ancho was pure enjoyment. The air was still cool, and long dark shadows mixed with the yellow light, giving the canyon a texture that was unique to the hour. What a treat. I could still remember, as though it were yesterday, watching the seasons change in the Sangre de Christos through the storm windows of my house in White Rock. When I first took up my solitary vigil there, the high peaks were deep in snow. The snows eventually retreated, disappeared, only to return again before I finally stepped haltingly across the threshold of what had become more of a prison than a home. It would be four more years before I no longer needed the whirring, electric-powered, monstrosity of a bed in my living room. I appreciated every stone in Ancho Canyon as though it were a long lost friend.
Mystic Journey
by
HDW
by
HDW
There was a slight chill in the dry, pre-dawn air of the Pajarito Plateau. I pulled my old van into a deserted church parking lot beside the Bandelier highway and switched off the ignition. The aged, air-cooled engine clattered to a halt leaving me alone with a jumble of thoughts. Darkness reclaimed the night. The nearby church was deep in moon shadow obscure incomprehensible. Multitudinous stars shone brilliant against the black void of space. Serenity ruled the night. Immersed in the quiet grace of impending dawn, I began assembling the gear needed for my journey.
Moments later, I hoisted a pack onto my back and set out along the deserted highway toward Bandelier National Monument. I was dressed for the heat that would come later in the day - white cotton tank top, khaki walking shorts and a wide brimmed cotton hat. The still morning air was cool against my skin, and I walked briskly to keep warm. My Vibram-soled boots crunched hypnotically on the gravel shoulder of the serpentine roadway. The journey had finally begun. It was 4:20 Saturday morning, July 2, 1994.
The first hour passed quietly. Darkness surrounded and embraced me as I left behind the scattering of street lights in White Rock, New Mexico. It was good to be under way. For five months I had been training for the trek that lay before me. Some, I knew, would think it odd that I chose to celebrate my fiftieth birthday on the road. But I much preferred my outdoor celebration to the black humor and gag gifts of traditional "five-0" parties. A fifty mile hike through some of the most beautiful country in the American southwest was sure to be more interesting than a lot of bad jokes about aging.
Dawn came slowly as I hiked easily along the dark ribbon of asphalt that marked my course. Sunrise began with a faint cold glow in the eastern sky. Soon warmer colors appeared - first a dark brooding crimson - then a lighter, more amiable rose. Finally, brilliant orange rays emerged from a point on the skyline and quickly metamorphosed to golden yellow. The sun crept over the horizon and gilded the stubby, pinon-juniper forest and low, buff-colored mesas in which I was immersed. A chorus of insects and small birds began a quiet celebration as the sun roused them from their nocturnal sanctuaries. Thirty minutes later, as though on cue, their chatter ceased abruptly, and predatory ravens, coal black feathers gleaming iridescent in the sun, swept across the sky, filling the ancient, weather-pocked canyons with loud, raucous calls.
About five miles south of White Rock I stopped for water on the north rim of Ancho Canyon. At a depth of 400 feet, Ancho was the largest canyon I would traverse on my day long walk. Aaron Goldman, a local ultra-marathoner, had warned me of the hot, dry winds that frequently whistled through the canyon, sucking desperately needed moisture from the bodies of hapless pilgrims. But, for now, the air was cool, and the tall grass on the canyon floor was troubled only by a gentle breeze. Later, on the second leg of my journey, I would cross this canyon again, and conditions would be far less hospitable.
But the first trek through Ancho was pure enjoyment. The air was still cool, and long dark shadows mixed with the yellow light, giving the canyon a texture that was unique to the hour. What a treat. I could still remember, as though it were yesterday, watching the seasons change in the Sangre de Christos through the storm windows of my house in White Rock. When I first took up my solitary vigil there, the high peaks were deep in snow. The snows eventually retreated, disappeared, only to return again before I finally stepped haltingly across the threshold of what had become more of a prison than a home. It would be four more years before I no longer needed the whirring, electric-powered, monstrosity of a bed in my living room. I appreciated every stone in Ancho Canyon as though it were a long lost friend.
