A Christian Charlie Brown

This is a story about some of my childhood friends; Jim (now a Christian minister), Rahn (an attorney) and Mike (founder and designer of Osprey backpacks) back when we were about 16 years old.

One early evening Jim, Mike, Rahn and I were walking along the shore by the Santa Cruz harbor and came to a boat crane. Mike commented that someone could hold onto the hook hanging from the crane and the others could swing him or her around over the water in a big arc, and back onto the shore. They all looked at me right away, but I suggested that Jim should do it. Jim said OH no way, he thought we'd stop the crane over the water and make him fall in. We were offended by his distrust in us. "How can you call us your friends, and yourself a CHRISTIAN at that, if you don't even trust us not to betray you?" we said. "Why would you expect and assume that we'd let you down?" Jim stood his ground and refused to do it, suggesting that maybe Rahn should try it and he'd help push with the rest of us instead.

Rahn said that not only was he disgusted by active church-goer Jim's spiritual hypocracy and lack of trust in his friends, he now felt that this had become an Exercise All about Trust.

Jim looked us each in the eye and said, "Are you all promising me right now that you will not stop the crane over the water? That you'll spin it around until I reach the ground on the other side?" We sincerely promised him, as his best friends, that he could absolutely trust us and our word.

Jim grasped the hook and the three of us pushed the crane. When he reached the farthest point from shore, without even a glance at each other, we all pulled the crane to a stop. For a moment Jim's slender body dangled, helpless and Christlike, before plunging into the water.

Ride to Corona, New Mexico - Center of the Universe

My friend Dave has specialized expertise in fixing esoteric heaters, coolers and such, so his job sends him all over the state to the most out-of-the-way, forgotten towns. When he’s in his truck traveling little-traveled routes across the state, he’s imagining riding his green Ninja under that big sky and sharing it with his biker buddies. One of his recent work trips took him to Corona, New Mexico, almost dead center of the state out on the plains, where he had a nice lunch at El Corral Café, so he posted a proposed motorcycle trip to Corona on the Duke City Fix motorcycle riders’ forum.

Nobody signed up. We didn’t know where that was or why we should go there. So Dave said fine, I’ll cancel the trip and go camping and fishing instead. Then we all signed up to ride. One guy learned about the ride from a posting on the RidingWithPride gay motorcycle group site, one heard about it word-of-mouth, one didn’t RSVP but showed up anyway, which is what he always does. I also invited two friends that ride motorcycles and don’t belong to any of these groups. Seven people met at Tramway and Central: Ninja Dave, Honda Nighthawk Dave (aka Ditching Dave), Frank on his cool white Honda Interceptor, Ken on his newly-once-again-running Savage, Dan on his blue SV650, Tom on a Harley Sportster 883 and me on my groovy Honda Hornet with the new beaded seat.

Dave was the one who posted the ride, and then we all decided to lead it and we all had different ideas. Tom wanted to change the route to include a stop at the ancient Gran Quivira ruins. Dan wanted a loop trip that didn’t trace back the same route. Ken needed a route with regular gas stops for his short cruising range and couldn’t go too fast on the old Savage. Nighthawk Dave wanted to go really fast and try to ditch us. I wanted to stop in the cemetery in Corona, because – in my online research on this town – I found a woman from Kansas on Ancestry.com who had a great grandfather buried there and wasn’t sure where this even was, so I figured I’d find the gravestone and take a picture. I also pitched in to support various other route changes, just to mix things up some more. Frank was telling a story about Fiji and tuning us out. And with that, we set out!

Ahh, we leaned into cool, pine-scented twisties and cruised by eroding adobe ranchitos in the Spanish Landgrant towns of Manzano, Tajique, and Chilili down old Hiway 14. Regrouped in Mountainair, we immediately lost Ditching Dave. Tom led us to a gas station, then disappeared to find Dave. The rest of us rode back and forth through town looking for both of them. How do people get lost in Mountainair?? (the same way people get lost in Corona, we found out later). Finally saw Dave and Tom in front of the café none of us knew about (who goes to Mountainair and stops anywhere but the Schaffer Hotel??) then we all weighed in at once on the map and route and the rest misguidedly recruited me to lead us on. I had no idea where we were going, but happily set off, missing the turn off to Willard and headed toward Ancho. Ditching Dave was already gone on the right route to Willard, so the rest stopped and waited while Tom on the Harley chased down Ditching Dave and Ninja Dave chased me down to make me turn around. Keystone Cops.

All together, we headed out onto the hot, flat plains of eastern New Mexico. The road paralleled the tracks for awhile and Dan sped by at 100 mph+ to beat the train. I caught him and Ninja Dave passed us like we were standing still.

The town of Corona hasn’t seen the population jump over 200 in a number of decades. Far away from another human settlement of any size, its only recent almost-claim-to-fame came when a rancher about 30 miles south found the wreckage of a weather balloon and brought it into Corona for others in town to examine. It was decided that the most likely explanation was that it was a UFO full of aliens, so they took it to Roswell and put Roswell on the map forever.


Expecting a ghost town, we pulled into Corona and found flags flying on the main street, lots of trucks parked around and spectators lining the sidewalks. We had missed being part of the annual city parade by half an hour! In front of El Corral Café, a veterans’ group was selling raffle tickets to raise money to spruce up the graves of veterans in the cemetery and serendipitously were familiar with the old gravestone I wanted to find. A woman pointed out the town festival “syllabus” on the café wall and urged us to stay for the dance that night. The café featured chicken fried steak with cream gravy and green chile chicken enchiladas (also with cream gravy), but no Corona (or any other beer) in the town of Corona. Probably best, as we had miles to ride and no naps were forthcoming.


In front of El Corral Cafe in Corona: sitting (front to back)me, Ditchin' Dave, Forgotten Frank, Tom. Standing: Dan with the map, Kenny standing back not wanting to get involved.


Then we lost Frank.
On the restaurant porch, we broke into two groups over maps and generated four opinions about which way to go next. I think Ninja Dave had given up any idea that he was the Boss of this ride by this time. Frank and I sat on the bench and commiserated about all the times in the past we had gotten lost. Kenny decided to find a gas station to fill up and I told the group I was headed to the graveyard, just past the gas station. I pointed out the flags over the cemetery on the hillside so nobody would get confused, and headed off. The others soon followed, but when we got the graveyard, no Frank. I figured he was waiting below, not wanting to ding up his white motorcycle on the rocky path up the hill. We roamed the graveyard till Ken found Ralph Green’s stone, nicely manicured and with a new flag from the Veterans’ group and I got some good pictures.



Back down the hill, still no Frank. We went back into town, rode up each road a little bit, but no idea which way he went. We hoped he had a nice ride home and set off again. I followed the others along the straight, rolling hills in a hot, open landscape with views of clouds and plains a hundred miles in all directions.

At one point I found myself lolling off to sleep, which is ill-advised on a motorcycle going 85 mph, so I knew I needed to stop. We found the town of Willard, where I spotted Ditching Dave’s Honda Nighthawk behind a tree next to a bar, and stopped. The others turned around and joined us. Ken had had enough of this fickle, ADHD-fueled group with no planning skills and worried that he’d end up out of gas out in the middle of nowhere while we debated about which way to go, so he headed off for Estancia alone. In the bathroom at the bar in Willard, I took off my tee shirt and soaked it in the sink and then we sat on the porch and we drank cold Cokes and chatted nostalgically, mostly about the old days (or years, in some cases) we spent stoned on pot. Good and bad memories all around.

Ditching Dave took off and we were down to four. Twisting back down through the Land Grant towns behind the Manzano mountains and into Albuquerque, where we diverged, for the final time, to home and the awaiting couches for naps.

(Frank made it home - we found out later - going south through Carrizozo (!) and I’m sure will have a much-deserved scolding for the rest of us scofflaw bikers that might even lead to a new safety protocol for motorcycle riding groups. That we’ll probably ignore. I’m sorry, Frank, and I still hope you’ll join us!)

Ride to Taos, April 19-20, 2009

(double click on the photos to enlarge them.)

The plan was to ride my motorcycle up to Taos to watch my daughter Olivia perform with her slam poetry team in the state high school competition there on Sunday. She said her performance wouldn't be until 5pm, so I had all day to meander on the way, through some of the most beautiful country in New Mexico.



Things were getting iffy when, a few days before, a big Spring storm moved in dumping heavy snow on the northern half of the state. It warmed up a lot on Saturday, but I worried about black ice on the remote route I had planned to take through Tres Piedras.

So I decided to follow the northernmost piece of El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, completed by Don Juan de Onate in 1598, connecting Mexico City to some villages north of Santa Fe. The route came up from Mexico, through El Paso, across the desert known as Jornada del Muerto, and then followed the Rio Grande river valley north.

My friend Steve, an infectious disease doctor with the Department of Health, and his partner Adam live on a big farm in Dixon, NM, near the Rio Grande south of Taos. Dixon was on the Camino Real and the acequias still used to irrigate the crops here were dug by some of the earliest Spanish settlers. It was also the scene of a battle between the U.S. Army and new Mexico rebels in 1847.

Steve still commutes to Santa Fe to work, but Adam has retired from his job as an anesthesiologist and runs the farm, living his dream (and mine!) of working the fields with a big tractor growing all manner of crops, including hops to make beer. Great timing for my visit, because it was the day of the Seed Exchange in the Dixon Community Center. Adam initiated this yearly event, where local farmers bring seeds from last year's crop - some of them heirloom local varieties of beans, squash, herbs - and swap them with others. People come from all over for this event now and it was a great mix of farmers from Dixon and neighboring villages, elderly locals out for a social event, old hippies, young families.

Farmers and would-be farmers bustled about, a guy played a guitar with a resting dog at his feet, the scent of simmering red chile was in the air, Steve and I stood outside the community center in the glorious New Mexico sun with snow frosted mountains lining the horizon, chatting about infectious diseases, I got a bag full of interesting seeds to plant, looking forward to riding the twisty road along the river up to Taos... I felt like I was going to explode with this dreamlike happiness invading all my senses.

It's hard to watch the road with the rushing river gorge on one side and views of the mountains on the other, then the distant view of the gorge carving through the plains west of Taos. It truly is one of the most beautiful scenes in the world. I got to Taos and booked a room in a hotel near the plaza. I aimed my camera at the mountains a few times, but couldn't capture them in the tiny frame, so gave up

Lots of time to kill before the poetry event, so I had lunch at a shi shi place where the waiters were visibly and audibly stressed, harried and backed up. The people at the neighboring table noticed it too and told me they felt like apologizing to the staff for being here. They had been waiting for 40 minutes for their food. On the menu it said, "Our goal is to put service back into customer service." (It's good to have a goal. My goal is to own an island.) Also on the menu: "We graciously invite you to be part of our Graham's Grill family." I quipped to my neighbors that I didn't wanna join their family. In fact these people were too much like my family and I came here to get AWAY from my family. Not really true, but got a laugh. The food was exquisite though, so I went back for dinner, which was much more relaxed.

.
Finally time for the poetry competition, so I headed over to Taos High School to find out that the event had actually been going on since 10 am and they were just wrapping up. Damn Olivia. She had already performed. On the good side, I didn't have to listen to poetry all day. And I got there in time to see her and her two buddies win first place for their group poem; a cash prize and invitation to be part of a big poetry event/workshop held by national poetry slam people in Taos this June. Olivia whispered to her friends and then motioned me outside. They lined up in the parking lot with the mountains in the background and performed their poem for me as their private audience. Wow.



Monday morning, I packed up and headed south to explore more sites along the historic Camino Real. Below Taos, I took the side road through the villages of Los Luceros, Villita and Alcalde; original settlements of Onate’s caravan. Names on mailboxes and gravestones still match the original family names that arrived in the 1500s. My friend Gary Guillen grew up in Alcalde, descended from the Guillen in one of the first Spanish expeditions.



I took some pictures of old Guillen graves in La Villita cemetery.

Unfortunately a lot of mobile homes have cropped up in these communities, but very old adobe abodes survive, some lived in; some melting back into the earth. The original Spanish acequia still waters their crops.


This section of the main road in Alcalde doesn’t look like it’s changed much in 500 years.







Onto my next goal; to find the original capital of New Mexico. Santa Fe was not the first. When Juan de Onate arrived in Ohkay Owingeh (the original name of San Juan pueblo, which they have recently reclaimed), the people were so hospitable that he renamed them after his patron saint – San Juan de los Caballeros. The Spaniards then moved on to a smaller pueblo just across the river called Yunge. They liked this place so much and the people were so friendly that the Spanish sent them packing to join San Juan across the river, and the Spanish moved into Yunge themselves, renaming it San Gabriel. Nearby they built the first capital of what is now New Mexico. I had seen this story in history books, but Yunge/San Gabriel no longer exists and you can’t find it on the map.

Some explorative wandering, some intuitive hunches, and I finally found it.

Across the river from San Juan/Ohkay Owingeh and down a dirt road, there is a grassy hillside with mounded earth that appeared to be the site of Yunge. It has not been excavated and no ruins or walls are visible. A cross and a small plaque on the hillside drew my attention so I parked the bike and walked up the hill. The plaque doesn’t specifically identify this spot, but it became obvious when I started seeing lots of ancient pueblo pottery sherds littering the hillside, a polished stone axe head and then Spanish glass and painted pottery pieces from old Europe. I spent a couple of hours on this hillside over the river, looking for artifacts and imagining what it was like for the people who lived here. I took several pictures, but the spirits apparently did not allow them to be saved on my camera.

When I got home, I read that in 1964 San Juan pueblo invited an archeologist to excavate what they thought might be the original San Gabriel capital built by the Spaniards in the 1500s. While they lived in the pueblo on the hill where I stood, the Spanish (with the help of hundreds of Indian workers) built a church, plaza, and dwellings in the valley just below, where an orchard stands today. The archeologists located the foundation of the Spanish dwellings and the footings of the church. The site is on private land and not open to the public. Next time, I want to see if I can get access to that, too. But I was happy – a mystery for me was solved.

It was after 2pm and I was famished by the time I got to Espanola, so stopped for stacked enchiladas with an egg on top and a dos equis beer at La Cocina.

It was about 80 degrees out by now, with strong, gusty winds on the freeway. At Bernalillo, I took the old road through Sandia pueblo and down 4th Street – still traveling on the old Camino Real – and home.

Presidents Day

I am wringing every bit of outdoors joy out of this unemployment thing. Wish it could last.

On Friday, I hiked with Kathy in the Ojitos Wilderness about 40 miles northwest of Albuquerque. What a fabulous, wild place. Multicolored rocks, little springs burbling up on mesas, leaving a trail of mineral deposits, views to distant mesas. Nobody there. This is where they discovered the bones of the Seismosaurus dinosaur. I can see that guy stomping around there.








Saturday, I went on a motorycycle ride with a group up to Santa Fe, back through Madrid to Tijeras Canyon and home. Cold day, but I was dressed like a sumo wrestler, so I was toasty. Looking forward to spring rides.

On Sunday, Byron, Nigel and I visited the secret "Glass Garden" down by the river in the south valley. It was the first municipal dump in Albuquerque in the 1930s, but all the trash was long ago burned away, leaving only several acres of magical glittering broken glass and antique bottles. Great place to wander and poke around. From blight/garbage/pollution to a secret, special/nutured/historic spot full of treasures. How many years have to pass for this transition in our perception to occur?

After the dump, we went to the zoo, where we made up a new game. The gorillas are amazingly entertaining. I am going back with a lawn chair this week, just to watch them all day.

Our new "One Bullet Game": While standing before the zoo exhibit, viewing a Snow Leopard, Golden Tamarin or Orangutan, you pretend that you have a gun with one bullet. You have to shoot either the animal, yourself, or one of the other spectators next to you. Guess which one I usually chose?

Wednesday

or is it Thursday today? One of those.



This morning around 10am I took the dogs for a run on the mesa, temps around 50 degrees; glabulous. Not having a job is good in every way except that pesky pay check thing. On my way to Costco, I stopped at the Moto Guzzi shop and they had a 2008 Breva 750, which is not being made anymore, so they've marked it down and it is Sweet!

While I was sitting on it, the guy suggested I go get my gear and take it for a test ride; said he could even mark it down more because they need to get it off the floor. I told him I was just some loser who got laid off last week, so he says, "well, then you have lots of time to take bikes for test rides."




Sebastian is over at our house... Olivia told me before he got here that I was not allowed to drill him with questions. Do you have any idea how hard that is for me? He's in her room right now which is such a disastrous hovel, he probably misses that cave.

Lost

Sunday evening, my 16 year old daughter is squeezing out her last evening of winter break before school starts again, vegging in front of a mindless Supermodel "Reality" show on TV and I decided to join her. The show is relaxing for her and excruciating for me, but I want to sit next to her and I'm biting my tongue till it's bleeding to keep from emitting my usual editorial stream of sarcasm and disgust at the show. I'm just bein' with Olivia now.

The phone rings and she listens, then says, "you're kidding, right?" Her eyes go wide and her face turns white. "Let me talk to the ski patrol guy." She's quiet, listening intently, very still, and then a tear quietly trickles down her cheek.

Sebastian, the boy she loves, went missing while snowboarding in northern New Mexico Sunday at 4pm. The call was from his friend, still at the Pajarito ski area, calling for help. Sebastian and his buddies spent the day snowboarding above Los Alamos, then took the last lift of the day for one final run. They decided to take the intermediate run that would lead them directly to where their car was parked. The other boys reached the bottom and waited, but Sebastian didn't show. They waited.

The ski patrol was notified and headed up to do the run and look for Sebastian. No sign of him, so more help is called. A major winter snow storm is headed in that night and the weather people on the TV news have that mindless smile when they describe the plummeting temperatures and foot or more of new snow that is expected.

Olivia has a strange, flat affect. She's gone into monotone cruise control denial. Then she knows she has to go to be with his family and her teen peer family and drives away.

Last Tuesday I was suddenly, rudely, laid off from my job and I've been spending a lot of time since then commiserating, righteously indignating, reeling, facing stumbling blocks that didn't seem fair to me. I don't know what to do next for work, except that I don't want to do what I've been doing. So I work on finances, clean up the house, make a doctor appointment to address this sinus infection that won't go away. Now, with Sebastian gone, the world is upside down.

Sunday night, when Sabastian was lost, I found the phone number for Peter Dixon, head of the Pajarito ski patrol. He described the huge rescue effort that was brewing. They would stay out all night, if they had to, to find this boy before the winter woods claimed him. He worried about the weather coming in. He made sure I wasn't a journalist before he talked to me, but I called the TV news right afterwards, thinking maybe a skier who was up there that day saw something on the last run?

It was announced on the news - a similar story to others I've listened to with vague interest in the past when they were about unknown missing persons - but this time about someone we know and care about. We didn't sleep well that night, then woke to find that Sebastian still had not been found. The storm moved in with temps close to zero and a blizzard of new snow. Mountaineers scoured the ski area on snowmobiles and snowshoes and found no sign of him. They brought in dogs who didn't detect a scent or a soul. "It's worrisome," said Peter, "I wish I could say we found him and he's here by the fireplace, but we can't say that yet."

Today I continued about the minutia of my workfree life; grocery shopping, reading, stopping by my ex-work place to sign severance documents, walking the dogs, doing laundry. But it was all from another dimension now. It's a blur of trivia. In between my errands, I talked to Peter on the phone. "We're increasingly mystified about why we can't find him. There is not a clue anywhere about what has become of him." He tells me that helicopters are standing by, but the wind and snow won't let them fly. "We'll keep looking," he says, "through tonight again, if we have to." Sebastian's mom, who migrated to this country from Colombia when Sabastian was little, drives up to the ski area to wait for word on her oldest son. I hear that his ex-step father is headed up there too, and his father is flying in from Dallas. I want Olivia to come home, but I understand that she needs to decide where she needs to be and I realize that it might not be with us.

Albuquerque High School called with their automated message that "Olivia Gatwood was truant/absent from school today." The neighbor groused that the garbage man didn't empty her bin. I called Peter; no news. I called Olivia, who is crying hard now with grief in her voice.

Peter is prepared for another night searching the mountain. Everyone waits with dread.

Twenty five hours after Olivia got that first call, I get a call from her. "HE'S BEEN FOUND AND HE IS ALIVE." She is in full-relief style crying now and we all shout and cheer.

Sebastian was snowboarding behind his friends in a blizzard and got blown off course. He began to walk as night fell and it got cold. Using his snowboard as an axe, he tried to break down tree branches to build a shelter, but couldn't keep the snow out. He came upon a cave; a cave big enough for a large animal and he wondered what kind of animal it was and if it would come back. So he climbed into the cave and set up a simple trap at the entrance as a warning if a bear were coming home. His IPod was comforting to begin with, but the batteries were getting low, so he turned it off. There was a lighter in his pocket, but leaves and sticks wouldn't burn, so he found cash in his wallet and burned that (think about this story next time you worry about the depressed economy and what priorities we have).

Sabastian ended up in a canyon beyond the ski area where nobody expected him to be. But he climbed to the top of the mountain when he heard the helicopters, that had finally risked a fly-over during a short break in the weather before the next storm hit. As darkness started to fall on the second night, he turned on his IPod, that produced a faint light. The night vision instruments on the helicopter spotted the little IPod and he was found. The copter couldn't land, so a rescuer dropped down on a line to carry him up (and had to tell Sebastian to drop the snowboard so he could hold on with both arms.) He was wisked to the hospital, and, other than a little frostbite and exposure, Sebastian is back.
http://www.wivb.com/dpp/news/offbeat/offbeat_krqe_los_alamos_ipod_saves_lost_snowboarder_2009010601352148734

http://www.krqe.com/dpp/news/environment/environment_krqe_los_alamos_ipod_saves_lost_snowboarder_200901060135

http://kob.com/article/stories/S735619.shtml?cat=500

November 26-30 Mexico via Moto

(Double click on pictures to get a close up)
Wednesday was cold with snow in the forecast when I loaded my bags on the motorcycle, dressed like a sumo astronaut, and headed south to Mexico. Got to Deming, where the Mexican restaurants don't serve beer and the hotel "didn't have no way to call long distance." In the morning, the streets in Deming were wet and there were threatening clouds as I headed toward Columbus, the border town with Palomas, Mexico.

With some guidance from a one-legged man and his chihuahua side-kick on the Mexico side, border crossing wasn't too bad (I already had my vehicle permit from the Mexican consulate in Alb.). I had been warned that the streets of Palomas would be littered with bodies from drug cartel warfare, but the only hazards I encountered were muddy, flooded streets.

I stopped in this place for a burrito, in Janos, Mexico. The woman running the place asked (in Spanish), "Are you alone? Aren't you afraid? Nobody bothers you? What do you think of Barack Obama?" She told me she saw a small group of motorcyclists - four men and three women - last year once. I saw only one motorcycle on the whole trip; a Honda CB125 being used for postal delivery in Casas Grandes. Cool little bike.

The roads in Mexico are generally very good, but there is no shoulder whatsoever and so no way to pull over and take pictures along the route. There were many fantastic shrines and descansos I wanted to record, but couldn't safely stop. Chihuahua is vast and mostly unpopulated. An hour either direction from any town, I came across this out in the middle of nowhere and risked parking on the highway to photograph it.
This is a cow carcass, propped up on a pole with a dummy riding it. I have no idea who did this or why. Fabulous.

At a fork in the road, there was a military police check point and the guys in camo mentioned to me that there was "mucha lluvia" up ahead. I looked southwest, the direction I was about to turn, and saw the curtain of black. No point in turning back, so I rode right into it; a torrential, drenching downpour that lasted most of an hour. Later I read the "Mexico driving tips" on my Mexico map: "If it begins raining, you should either stop driving or slow down to a crawl. The oil residue on the roads can mix with the rainwater, creating an almost ice-like surface." Glad I didn't see that ahead of time, because I just gripped the handlebars and continued on my merry way. The "tourist tips" also mentioned that "motorcycle riding in Mexico is not for the faint at heart." heh.

Around 4pm, I arrived in Casas Grandes. Hotel Guacamayas sits on a hillside just above the ancient ruins of Paquime. Mayte Lujan, who runs the hotel, used to be the curator for the Paquime museum and is very knowledgable about the area. The hotel was built with the same packed-earth technique as was used by the original Paquime civilization to build their settlement. These people were trading partners with the folks at Chaco Canyon until they disappeared (like all these people seemed to do) a little after 1200AD.

My room (above). This is the view from the hotel (below). It's totally silent up there at night.
I roamed the ruins (more later), then walked into Old Casas Grandes for tacos and beer in a plaza cafe and called it a night.

The next morning, I met some guys visiting from Santa Fe; Gary, Jack and Kim, and little Jose, age 5 (Jack and Kim are Jose's dads). Turned out we had many friends in common currently and historically (even from 20 years before, when Jack was in Peace Corps Guatemala and Byron & I were in Peace Corps Jamaica). I managed to invite myself to tour the area with them on Friday in their little SUV.

We had arranged ahead of time through Mayte (owner of Guacamayas) to have lunch and a tour of Hacienda San Diego on the way to the next village, Mata Ortiz. This huge, mostly ruined hacienda was built by Luis Terrazas at the turn of the century when he was the richest, most powerful man in Chihuahua (there is also a wikipedia entry about Terrazas in Spanish). The family who still lives in the livable part of the spread are descended from a worker for Senor Terrazas. Sara made us a wonderful lunch and afterwards her 19 year old daughter Diana Acosta Ramirez, who grew up there, gave us a full tour of the hacienda in perfect English, which she learned in a bilingual school in the nearby, isolated Mormon settlement of Colonia Juarez. Her goal is to preserve the hacienda and to develop a tourguide service for the area; it's heartening to see a young Mexican woman who is so knowledgable and proud, and wanting to share her heritage with visitors.

Next trip, I'd like to check out that little Mormon settlement and also the nearby German Mennonite colonia. The Mennonites, who have been in Chihuahua since the 1920s, speak German and wear traditional clothing (women: bonnets and long dresses, men: overalls and straw hats), but use modern machinery to produce the famous cheese, Queso Menonita, that is popular all over Mexico.

Hacienda San Diego



An outbuilding that was used as a granary

Sara, la senora (y concinera) de San Diego



One long wing of the Hacienda was used as horse stables around an open ring. While the adobes were melting away and it appeared to be mostly ruined, it was still being used the way it had for over 100 years. As we watched, cattle were being rounded up into the ring and a horseman threw a lasso over a cow to bring it down. Little Jose was very impressed with this image.

We went to Mata Ortiz, a town that historically processed lumber and would have disappeared by now if not for the inspiration of local potter, Juan Quezada. Many years ago in his youth, Juan found some pieces of ancient Paquime pottery in a nearby cave and set about to teach himself to recreate it. After much trial and error, he began to produce beautiful, authentic pots in the old way and with old materials (local clays and pigments, firing them over an open flame). He decorated them intricately, painting designs with human hairs. Juan is now 72 years old and has taught about a third of the village to make beautiful pottery, which has become world famous. You wouldn't know it from looking at the modest town.
Jack, Kim and Gary bought a few pieces and I got one small bird-shaped pot.

Back to Casas Grandes... many guidebooks don't even mention this area in Chihuahua, which has lots of interesting sites and history. The Casas Grandes ruin, which Byron and I visited 20 years ago, is now a UNESCO site, with a very good museum and preservation efforts. Here are some pictures.


The light wasn't good, but look closely and you can see a jack rabbit in the doorway here.

These are pens where macaws (those big red parrots) were raised, their feathers collected and traded with tribes all over this part of the world. These feathers, along with shells from the coast and precious stones from this area were also found at Chaco in New Mexico. Macaw in Spanish is "Guacamayas," hence the name of our hotel.

Jack, Kim and Jose at Hacienda San Diego


Back at the hotel, Gabriel, 10 yr. old son of the housekeeper and cook, was very fond of my motorcycle. He taught me the name of every part of the engine in Spanish and perched his constant companion, Carmelita, on the seat. I could hear him walking around the bike and slapping the sides of it that night and I waited to hear it fall and hit the gravel (if he'd decided to climb aboard), but fortunately that didn't happen.

Saturday morning I had breakfast at the hotel and said goodbye to the boys and the hotel staff. Back through Casas Grandes, up to Janos and through La Ascension, where I stopped for gas and men gathered around to admire my "moto." While they chatted about the bike, I pulled off my helmet and shook out my hair and they cried: "Es una senora!" My Katherine Hepburn moment.

Made it as far as Truth or Consequences, NM, where I stopped for the night. The next day, north to Albuquerque from T or C (about 2 hours) was the hairiest part of the whole trip. Sharp gusty winds smacked the bike from one side and then the other, making handling very squirrely. I leaned to one side, then would suddenly be tipped the other way. Big trucks, also battling the wind, whipped by me, swirling up a sudden wake when they passed. I passed through a sandstorm that reduced visibility and got in my eyes. Finally, at Bernardo, I pulled off on side roads where there was slightly less wind, but debris littering the way and I had to dodge huge tumbleweeds.

But I made it home all in one piece with a very muddy motorcycle. Everybody seemed happy to see me, and Byron and I went out for Indian food.

ps - Note to other bikers headed to Mexico... you must get Mexican motorcycle insurance to ride in Mexico. I checked around but did not find a company that would provide comprehensive insurance for my particular bike model. So I contacted Adventure Mexican Insurance and they graciously added my Honda 599 to the list for full coverage. I was able to print out my policy from the computer and they sent me a map of Mexico in the mail. Great insurance company for motorcyclists.