The same full moon that blossomed over Black Mesa in Oklahoma continued to shine down on Bucket and I while we made our way west, crossing the border and diving into New Mexico.
A mentally taxing four hour drive took me through uninhabited deserts where one or two small towns stood out like islands amidst the sea. Hours into the drive my patience began reaching critically low levels. I found myself wondering how I could only have 40 or so miles left until I reached my destination (the town of Taos) and yet the GPS was saying that I was an entire two hours away. This query was quickly answered by Carson National Forest and its arduous and sheer roads. From the moment we entered the forest Bucket received quite a workout. The forest drive began as slithered through a canyon with alpine walls towering above us. We wound our way through the road, which was surely modeled after a crazy straw. From there the road carved up into the mountains. We swerved around curves and turns that severely tested Bucket’s flexibility.
In spite of the fact that I only had moonbeams and headlights to see by I found the forest and surrounding area absolutely breath-taking. Huge, white mountains loomed directly overhead while dark, green pines littered their slopes. These mountains were of the same brood as the Rockies; mountains that you almost have to see to believe. This type of imagery is not exactly the first thing that springs to mind when you picture New Mexico, at least when I pictured it anyway. Adding to the mystique, I drove past a placid group of elk grazing just off the road. I’d never seen Elk before and remain shocked at how big they are.
The drive continued on and I soaked in the sights, occasionally glancing down towards my phone, counting the minutes as they took their sweet time passing by.
Despite my awe at my surrounds I was running on fumes and had to self-motivate to get through the drive. In an ode to that old metaphor regarding the carrot and the stick, I was motivated through much of this drive with the promise that I would treat myself to a burrito for dinner. It’s worth noting here that while I was excited for the upcoming burrito, this self-motivational technique was not just a passing fancy; in fact, it’s a major driving force in my life. I get through most challenges by focusing on the next burrito. Getting my ass kicked by a tough hike? I’ll focus on having a burrito afterwards as I lunge up craggy hills. Rough day at work? Just remember, that money adds up to future burritos. In a glum mood; life getting you down? Hey man, burritos exist, chin up.
I think that rewarding myself once in a while helps motivate me. A day where I can eat whatever I want, a day where I just hang out and watch a black and white movie. Whatever. Just something to work towards and reward myself with here and there. Disclaimer: This is just something that works for me, you could be motivated by something completely different. I’m not scholar, but there’s something to be said about knowing what motivates you, it can help you get through obstacles and overcome adversity. Whether it’s a motivational book, an upbeat song, or that next burrito, it’s always nice knowing that at the end of the day, whether other people are there to motivate and encourage you or not, you’ve got your back. Just some food for thought I suppose.
Drawing close to Taos I began passing by a few ski resorts, in between these resorts I noticed a sign pointing towards “Wheeler Peak.” My brain, which had been on airplane mode, leapt awake, recalling that that was the New Mexico’s Highpoint. I had researched the peak, knowing that I would be in it’s vicinity on this westward excursion. Unfortunately in this research I also found out that the mountain was ideally climbed from May to August, leaving it out of my immediate plans, as it was February when I zipped by. I filed the sight of the sign away in my brain, knowing that I would be back to conquer the peak. A ‘burrito’ for later in my journey.
The never-ending drive came a conclusion as I entered the sleepy town of Taos. Unfortunately, for me it was a bit too sleepy, there were no restaurants open when I rolled down out of the mountains and into town. Thus, there were no burritos to be spoken of. The ‘carrot’ that had motivated me briefly turned into the ‘stick’.
I took solace in the fact that Walmart would be open, and I quickly changed plans, telling myself I would finally buy and wholeheartedly consume an entire rotisserie chicken. A feat I had eyed accomplishing more than a few times while collecting groceries during earlier Walmart trips. I went into the store and found a disconcerting lack of chickens, particularly of the coveted rotisserie variety. I was too tired and hungry to be too broken up about this and decided to grab a bag of frozen burritos as a consolation prize. Now, if you’ve never had frozen burritos and have only had the real deal let me paint a picture for you. Getting frozen burritos when you wanted a delicious, freshly made burrito is like going to a restaurant and ordering fish and instead of fish they serve you Billy Big Mouth Bass, that plastic talking Bass that had a flash-in-the-pan fandom that was positively furby-esque. Coincidentally, you can still find these ghosts of Christmas’s past on the shelves of many a Walmart, trust me on this.
Back in Bucket, while the burritos were slowly becoming less frozen, I had time to settle in and get my life in order. What I hadn’t considered was that despite the rosy cheeks and memories of sweat and toil of miles and hours before I was now spending the night thousands of feet above sea level, which lends a very different climate. This fact was heartily driven home by the low temperatures of that evening. It was the first time that I had to worry about heat exhaustion and frost bite in the same day. Quite an experience. I had my bevy of burritos and cocooned myself in my sleeping bag, leaving only my eyes, nose and a single finger exposed, the last of which was my tool for flipping through page on my kindle. I read until exhaustion won out and my vision faded as I departed for unconsciousness and the realm of dreams (which would make a hell of a band name).
My eyes cracked open before dawn. My alarm making its presence all too well-known, I dragged myself from the comfort of my adult-sized swaddle and to the front seat, muttering to myself, cursing time for not going as slowly during my slumber as it had during that cursed drive. Bucket awoke crankily, shaking off the cold of the night and trudging out of the parking lot. We were headed to the Rio Grande Gorge to hunt for photos in that soft, early morning light.
As I drove the snowcapped mountains to the north and east were gilded with a golden halo from the coming sun. It was a beautiful morning, a fact that even my brain, slap-happy from sleep, could recognize. I hopped out and took a few pictures along a particularly scenic road before pressing on to the gorge.
The overlook was set back on a dirt side road of the state highway. Fields of dirt gave way to a couple of smaller brown mountains in the distance. I had the area to myself so I explored a little bit along the rim of the gorge (I was very careful, mum, relax) watching the Rio Grande drift by lazily, far below.
After leaving the Gorge I shot down through the heart of New Mexico, gathering groceries, plans for the next twenty four hours and an $80 ticket. The preceding sentence was supposed to be how my mum found out I was bequeathed with said ticket, but unfortunately evidence of my transgression was sent back home in the form of a threat to suspend my license. So not only did New Mexico take $80, it ruined a fun surprise! The nerve.
While continuing to plunge down through the guts and marrow of New Mexico I stopped at the Bosque del Apache wild life refuge where I putzed about briefly before realizing I don’t like birds enough to spend exorbitant amounts of time looking at them.
You may be saying to yourself: “Don’t like bird!? Why, Billy, what a vague and random thing to say! Well let me explain a bit.
My repugnance for feathered creatures dates back to my time in New Zealand where, while camping out nearly every night, my friend Craig and I found ourselves harangued and harassed by all types of foul fowl. As with camping in America birds feel the need for their song to be nature’s alarm clock, much to my dismay. Yet matters were made worse in New Zealand where the local birds had grown overconfident due to an abundance of over friendly campers and a notable absence of any natural predators.
What follows is an example I use in defense of my anti-avian sentiments:
Craig and I had taken the overnight ferry traversing the Cook Strait and making our way, station wagon and all, from the North Island to the South. After a night of very little (in my case: zero) sleep we began driving into the new island. We took a nap, ran an errand for our ‘New Zealand Mom,’ dropping a package off with her friends, and then rocketed south hoping to get closer to the Island’s dark sky reserve for the new moon the following night. After a half day’s drive through rain and wind we found a campsite nestled up in the mountains in the middle of the island. The weather had cleared up and we erected our tent on the edge of a thick woods. Things were looking good, well, until we started cooking dinner anyway. I was sitting cutting vegetables when out of no where struts a couple of chickens, casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for two domesticated fowl to be inhabiting a campsite in the middle of New Zealand’s Alps. These rambunctious no-good-niks then had the audacity to stand just outside of my reach and cluck expectantly, even braving coming right up to us begging for a bite. I wouldn’t deal well with a loved one interfering with me and a meal when my stomach was empty; after the full day we had had my tolerance hit ground level and kept digging. I waved my knife around and tossed vague, violent threats towards the chickens, in what I’m certain was not an intimidating display. The obstinate creatures were not to be convinced that they weren’t entitled to at least half of our vitals. They kept on badgering and soliciting us until the food was gone. This exact scenario was repeated in many a campsite with a host of other birds species, but what sets this story apart, aside from finding chickens in such an unlikely setting, occurred at five the following morning. Craig and I had retired to our sleeping bags in the tent and passed out. I awoke briefly during the night noting that it was now pouring rain outside and the ground around the tent was now mud, which is unfortunately lacking as an alternative to memory foam. I was ripped out of my sleep later by a loud, shrill sound. *cocorico!* The sound was repeated, every three or four minutes and my eyes focused on my phone which happily let me know it was five am. *cocorico* I had to pee, but the prospect of venturing out into that cold, wet world was too tall of a task. I closed my eyes hoping to slip back into sleep. *cocorico!* My newfound enemy from the night before was somewhere in the trees behind the tent and he wouldn’t shut the hell up. (Side note: Cocorico is what French people say Roosters say rather than “Cock-a-doodle-doo” I figured it was fitting here given how many French tourists there are in New Zealand. Also if you’ve never looked up what other language’s versions of “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” “Moo,” and the sounds made by any of your typical farm animals you are doing yourself a serious injustice, check it out.) I opened my eyes frowning, my anger rising, there was an extended silence and I began to hope the rooster had seen reason. My eyes grew heavy, beginning to close… *cocorico!* I ripped open my sleeping bag and stumbled out of the tent barefoot. The rain had stopped, but the mud remained, welcoming my barefoot with open arms. I whirled around seeking my tormentor, finally noticing him, with the help of his ever-persistent cries. The rapscallion was perched in a tree of all places! What followed is, perhaps, best enjoyed from Craig’s point of view. He woke up inside the tent to the perplexing sounds of me hurling sticks and insults into the woods as I squelched around in the cold morning mud.
I continued my ongoing tour of the Land of Enchantment; which is a candidate for best state nickname if you ask me. I spent the night in Alamogordo which was a short ways off from the White Sand Dunes National Monument.
I woke up around sunrise the next day and scooted over to the dunes. The air was still crisp when I made my way into the monument and pulled into a parking lot. I found some random dunes to ascend and began taking photographs. The previous night’s moon still hung in the sky over the far-off mountains. The sand in the park lived up to it’s name, it was pale white like the smoke from a chimney stack.
After some quick research on my phone I found a nearby hiking trail in the monument. I frosted myself with sunscreen and stockpiled
water before heading out to do the five mile Alkali Flats trail that looped through the interior of the dunes. It was still early in the day so luckily I didn’t get too crispy from the sun which was still rising groggily in the sky. The hike wasn’t super challenging, however I learned that there is no easy way to walk up sand dunes. It often feels as if you are being sent back a step for every two you take forward. Add to that the feeling of having what seemed like half the sand from the damn park in my shoes and it made for a bit of a challenging stroll. After surfing the waves of dunes I followed the red markers out onto the flats themselves, which certainly lived up to their name. It was a barren land amongst the rising tides of dunes that encompassed it, I could see the mountains in the distance still and noted a few random tufts of grass, but there wasn’t much else to take in. But that was kind of cool in and of itself. The land changed so suddenly, so drastically, that it made it worth while to trek through the dunes and suddenly see, well, nothing. Although, maybe I’m just a sucker for exploring.
Looking back now, I took a bit of a strange route in driving through New Mexico. I would end up going back east a bit as I had to hit the Texas highpoint and wanted to check out Big Bend National park way down near the border. I genuinely don’t know what my thought process was, but a likely guess is that I did that drive entirely because of the hope of getting a New Mexican burrito. Should I be ashamed that I drove four hours and hundreds of miles for a burrito? Probably. Am I ashamed? Not enough to not write about it on here, apparently.
Alternatively I could have planned on checking-off Wheeler Peak, before realizing that I would freeze off my butt as well as other parts that I consider vital.
I was full of vigor and excitement after a few days of taking in the Land of Enchantment, but I had a schedule to keep. I didn’t think my sister would appreciate it if I wasn’t there to pick her up in Phoenix in a few weeks time. Besides, I was ready for the next adventure. After all, there was that next burrito to think of.
