year 2017, week 13.
Life as a seven year old in Placitas, New Mexico circa 1991.
Monday.
The surface of the hill is covered in rocks. Small round rocks that range from the size of a softball to the size of pea. Every step I take up the rocks sink into the sandy soil underneath and then slide downhill. It takes three steps to gain the elevation of one step on firm ground. But I am young and this is all happens in my peripheral. My attention is focused on the top of the hill.
As I take the last few steps the horizon falls away. Junipers stand beside me on the ridge. I turn around and see my house an easy two hour hike away. Maybe. Time, like the steepness of the hills, is of little concern to me. I had breakfast before I set out and as long as I am home before dark and supper I am good.
I turn back around and look down at the rolling desert hills that ripple away from me. A slight breeze hits the beads of sweat on my forehead and I decide to sit under the closest tree and plan my path forward. If I walked straight to my destination there two problems. #1 is that I would pass close to the ranch house. If they were looking in the right direction they would see me and they have warned me, my family, and everyone else in our valley to not come into their land. I’m not sure why. It’s not like we could possibly disturb their stubborn cattle even if we found them. #2 is the amount of hill scrambles I would end up doing take so much time. From my shade on the hill I can see which canyon connects with which. In a few minutes I have my plan.
Climb down the one below me and track it upstream. Take the first canyon I meet on the left and track it downstream. Take the next right and go upstream. This one will go up for a while. Once I get to the point where it splits into three, take the one on the far left upstream. Then I follow that one all the way up to the cottonwoods that conceal the fresh water and ruins of an old homestead.
I retrace my route several times for memory then stand up and scramble down the hill. Out of sight of the ranch. Out of sight of home. I just gotta be back by dinner. Plenty of time.
Tuesday.
Monsoon season in our little valley is my favorite. My older brother and I share a room. I am lucky enough to have the top bunk most of the time. When I do I often stare out of our second story window, the bottom of which is about even with the bed. Our room is on the south side of the house, the hill side, but the view of the stars and storm clouds is still enough to make it worth it.
Some nights when the storm is rolling in I take out the screen and crawl out onto the roof. The one story portion of the house is just a few feet below the window. The second story roof come within feet of the first’s ridge allowing easy access to the best view on the property.
Big black clouds that gathered on the Sandia and Jemez Mountains all day roll off and release their bounty. Just seeing them head your way is never a guarantee. But when you catch a whiff of damp earth, sage, and juniper you know it is coming. Then comes the cold wind as the clouds come over head.
From this viewpoint you can see the top of Cabezon peak to the west, across the Rio Grande which can be seen by the dark green cottonwoods. To the north, on a clear night, the glow of Santa Fe. To the south, the glow of Albuquerque. On quiet summer days you hear the horn of the Santa Fe Southern Railway trains making their trips along the Rio Grande valley.
Wednesday.
In our little valley there is water. Such a treat in the New Mexico desert, even at this elevation. Down in the middle of the valley, on the biggest piece of property, sits a ranch house of the original owner of the entire valley (from what I’ve been told). His property had a beautifully large pond that was fed from a little spring that bubbled out of the hill just south of the valley. The land around the ranch house and the pond are off limits.
But the spring isn’t on his property. It belongs to a couple, married for the U.S. citizenship, who are as neighborly as anyone else who decides to live out here. I don’t know if it was them who built the concrete pool next to the spring but I do know that it was them who would let us take a dip on the summer days. In return they asked to help us clean it. Every couple of years they would redirect the stream, drain the water, and we would help scrape off the algae and moss that would form. The pool, filled with cold water, is tucked away in a shady grove of cottonwoods and other shrubs. My vocabulary fails me when I try to describe it.
Thursday.
I try to eat my breakfast as quick as I can but the Malt-O-Meal is just too hot. The early morning frost swirls in mid air, caught in a little eddy of wind by the front door. Inside, the fireplace crackles with it’s welcoming warmth. But the bus drive won’t wait for me. If I miss it I will be in some serious trouble. I still have to take care of the horses too.
I grab my coat and face the bitter cold. Any exposed skin tingles. There is no snow on the ground yet, but the below freezing mornings lets us know it will be here shortly. I make my way to the barn to grab some hay and some grain. The horses are glad to see me. It might be the grain but it is more likely the fact that I will break the ice in their water. I toss the hay in the pen. Spread some grain. Then pick up the broken ax handle that is leaning up against the corner post. It only takes a few swings and the ice gives way. The horses gather around to get their fill.
I run back inside. My hands are a weird shade of pale blue. I grab my back pack and look for my gloves. My brother and sister are already halfway down the driveway when I close the door. I can see the bus turning into the valley. I yell to my brother and sister to hurry so they can hold the bus for me. They don’t respond. Just as I start down the long driveway, which is really a quarter mile decent down a hillside, the bus drives past. Not even stopping. It drives to the end of the road, picks up the other kids in the valley, then heads back to our driveway. I pick up my pace and make it, stepping aboard just behind my brother. “Why didn’t you wait?” I ask. He laughs.
Pete didn’t warm up the bus this morning and the seats are hard and cold. The ride to school is normally long, but today it will feel longer.
Friday.
A fresh snow has fallen overnight. Sitting by the fireplace in my parents room I look out through the windows into the valley. The windows span the entire width of the room and stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Can’t miss much from this vantage point. It is Saturday and I start to think of how I should spend this awesome winter day.
Sledding? Me and my brother can look for that makeshift sled we used last winter and try to dodge yuccas. Maybe build a jump? I pitch the idea the best I can. He’s not interested. I know if I ask my dad what his plans are he will take that as a sign of boredom and put me to work chopping wood or cleaning the horse corral. I ain’t falling for that.
I head back to my room and look for something that looks fun. Legos? Nah. Then I see the second hand Boy Scout handbook my mom or dad picked up for me. I flip through it and come to a part showing animal tracks. Rabbits, coyote, deer, in all different gaits (walking, running, etc.). I decide that with the fresh show I should be able to see some tracks. I put on my warm clothes, grab the book, and head out.
Not too far out I see rabbit tracks. I try following them but these rabbits must be lost or stupid because they go around and around, back and forth. I give up on them and head to the far side of our valley. The snow isn’t too deep, maybe a foot, so walking takes a bit of extra effort but not too much. Just as I begin to climb a little hill I see a coyote track heading around the hill. Now we’re talking.
I follow it around the hill and into an arroyo. I find a really clear set of tracks and stop to check the book. Yup, it is a coyote and it is walking. You can tell by the tail mark just behind the footprints. I slide the book back inside my jacket and press on up the arroyo. I know the area and this arroyo ends (or begins really) at a saddle in the hill above me. Sure enough that is where they coyote went. As I climb over the hill I see the tracks are different. He is running now. It is downhill so I pick up my speed too. I follow the hard right at a piñon tree and see something a few hundred yards ahead. It is the coyote. I stop and watch. He continues down the hill and up the next. Near the top he turns and looks at me. I wave. He watches as I start to follow his tracks.
This goes on for a few miles (and hours). When I stop, he stops. When I advance, he advances. He always stays a few hundred yards away. Always with the high ground. But I notice he is just leading me in a large circle. Or an outward spiral really. I let him go over top the next hill and once he is out of sight I make a break down the valley to the left. If I am right, he will be making a slight left in the next valley over and this valley meets the hill he will be climbing. Sure enough, as I make it into the flat area where the valleys meet he is walking up the hill, just a hundred feet away. I stop and kneel by a tree. He at first doesn’t see or hear me. But eventually my heavy breathing catches his ears and he stops. We both stay frozen. Our breaths hang in the air. My feet start to get cold so I finally stand up. He makes a hard right and bolts. I run to the top of the hill and watch him disappear.
As I am walking home I feel like I earned my tracker badge. Mission accomplished. At home the warmth of the fire thaws my fingers and toes. Once the feeling has returned I head back to my room and set the book back on the shelf. I’ve gotta read more from that thing. Maybe I can track a mountain lion next time.
